Fan Fic and More

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


July 22, 1950, 11:45 p.m.

The desert outside Roswell




It was surprisingly cold. Courtney climbed out of the car Dee had borrowed from her parents, rubbing her arms and shivering. She'd wondered why Dee had brought a sweater and now watched enviously as she climbed out of the driver's seat and rummaged in the trunk, emerging a moment later with the bag containing Crist's remains....and another sweater.

"I thought you might want this," Dee said. "A lot of people aren't prepared for how cold the desert can be at night."

"Where are we going?" Courtney asked, gratefully slipping the sweater on as they walked away from the main road.. "Is there a sacred place where you do this?"

"Nothing sacred about this place," Dee chuckled. "No, we're just looking for solitude and wind. Have to have wind."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

They walked for several minutes in silence. The night was clear and chilly, the stars unbelievably bright; earth's single moon didn't block the starlight the way Antar's trio did. "This looks good," Dee announced when they had arrived at what looked to be the middle of nowhere. "We can't see the road anymore, so no one can see us. Now we just have to wait for some wind. Would you like the honors?"

"No," Courtney said quickly, shaking her head. "This is a human funeral rite, so I wouldn't know what to do."

Dee gave her an inexplicable smile, but didn't object, opening the bag and waiting. A minute later a gust of wind blew by, whipping Courtney's hair around her shoulders, and Dee chose that moment to empty the contents of the bag right into the gust. The skin flakes flew away on the breeze, forming a long, pale stream, even paler in the moonlight, and Courtney felt her hand rising involuntarily to her back where her husk's seal was hidden, all that stood between her and a similar fate. Never conscious of it before, she was acutely so now; she'd probably even avoid sleeping on her back tonight. Ridiculous, of course, since it would take a lot more than that to break the seal, but now that she'd actually seen one broken, she was feeling especially vulnerable. Dee was probably wondering why an Argilian operative was being so squeamish about death, but it wasn't death that bothered Courtney; there had been plenty of that on Antar since Zan had fallen. No, it wasn't death that was bothering her, but the manner of this death. To think that could happen to her.....

"Okay," Dee said, pulling Courtney back to the present. "We're done."

Courtney blinked. "That's it? Don't you say anything, or sing something, or do.....something? Something else?"

"Nope."

"Oh," Courtney said, disappointed. "So you just dump and leave?"

"I didn't 'dump'," Dee replied. "The remains have to be released into a wind strong enough that they can fly for at least a short while before falling to the ground. It represents freedom."

"That's nice," Courtney said, having missed that particular aspect of this rite when she'd been discussing it earlier with her landlady in order to prepare herself. "Thank you for doing this. I know he was an enemy, but still......this is a lot better than what he would've gotten from my own people."

"What would they have done?"

"Nothing," Courtney said soberly. "Anyone who wound up like Crist would be considered a failure and an embarrassment, a soldier who failed to complete his mission. Someone to be forgotten, not remembered, even briefly."

"That's harsh," Dee murmured.

"Oh, his family would've done something for him," Courtney continued. "But it would have had to be private, and anyone attending would have had to consider the backlash if Nicholas found out about it. Our military is very strict, and his branch is even more so. In many ways, the symbolism about freedom is appropriate."

"Right," Dee nodded. "For both of you."

"Both of whom?"

Dee smiled faintly, her face only just visible in the darkness. "This isn't a human funeral rite, Courtney—it's a Covari rite. They let their dust fly on the wind because that's the only way they'll ever truly be free."

"But.....I know this is a human rite," Courtney said. "I talked to Mrs. Bruce about it earlier today. Although yours uses ashes," she added distastefully, still unable to believe that humans actually burned the bodies of their loved ones. How revolting. No wonder Dee had feared she would find this objectionable.

"We have something similar," Dee agreed. "If a body is cremated, the ashes are usually kept in some kind of container or spread somewhere that meant something to the deceased, like a favorite park, or lake, or something like that. But the bit about the wind, that's Covari."

"Dee," Courtney said gently, "Covari don't have funeral rites. Their bodies collapse into dust, and then—"

"They let that dust fly on the wind," Dee broke in. "Jaddo gave us specific instructions on how to dispose of Urza's dust in case he couldn't, and my parents and I did just that after he was captured. I know Malik disposed of Amar's dust this way after Amar saved his life. This is the way they do it. Just like 'real' people."

"Well.....real people somewhere," Courtney said. "They must have copied the practice from someplace."

"Does anyone else on your planet do that?"

"Well......no, but—"

"Then where could they 'copy' it from?"

"Lots of places," Courtney answered. "I know you're not used to this, but there are plenty of other worlds. Antar is part of a coalition of five planets....or we were," she added ruefully. "That's largely fallen apart. But there are plenty of other inhabited planets with societies they could have copied from."

"And why does that change anything?" Dee asked. "If I copy one of your funeral rites, does that make me less of a 'real person'? If you copy one of mine, what happens to you?"

"Of course you're a real person, and nothing would happen to me," Courtney said patiently. "Covari are bred to mimic, so you can expect them to mirror whatever society in which they find themselves, at least to some extent. That doesn't...." She stopped, having been about to finish that sentence with that doesn't make them real, but thought better of it when the moonlight showed her a dangerous glint in Dee's eye. "Look, I thought we agreed to disagree about this. I live with how you see them, and you live with how I see them.....right?"

Dee was silent for a moment before turning abruptly and heading back toward the car. "Right. I'm wasting my time."

Courtney sighed heavily, giving the starry sky one last look before trudging after her.




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




July 23, 1959, 7:15 a.m.

Parker's Diner



She's late, Brivari thought, checking the clock which hung on the wall behind the diner's counter. Actually, they were both late—Audrey rarely arrived much past 7 a.m., and Atherton usually arrived even earlier, not wanting to miss even a moment with what he termed a "bombshell". Humans certainly had odd ways of referring to women; he would be hard pressed to name another culture in which females were addressed as infants or ordnance. But however anyone addressed her, Audrey was not here, nor had she shown last night for the usual late night gathering at his apartment. When asked where she was, other attendees had merely smiled and replied, "Charlie's got her" as though she were the actor's personal possession. Which would not have bothered him had she seemed happy with that arrangement....but she hadn't. And no wonder; "Charlie" might not be as dramatic as their famously temperamental director, but he seemed every bit as manipulative, and Audrey was intelligent enough to realize that.

"Would you like to order now?"

It was the young waitress, she of the emotional outbursts and oddly hesitant manner around him. She had calmed of late, although she still had a wary air about her. He had no idea what had happened to make her feel that way, but Atherton had written off her behavior to youth and family difficulties, and he was probably right. "I'll wait for my companions, thank you," Brivari said to her.

"Here's Mr. Anderson now," she answered.

And it was, breathless and beaming as he let the door bang closed behind him and headed straight for the table. "Good morning, Miss Harris!" he sang as he slid into the seat opposite Brivari. "Coffee, please, and the usual. Where is Miss Tate?" he added, only just noticing her absence.

"The usual for me as well," Brivari told the waitress, who retreated. "She is late," he continued to Atherton, "and what could possibly have happened that would have you taking so long to note that?"

"Oh, please, I don't drool over her that much," Atherton chuckled as Brivari raised an eyebrow. "But to answer your question, there's been a breakthrough! The first solid information we've had in years!"

" 'We'?"

"The group of alienologists I've been spending so much time with while you've been gallivanting about a movie set with a gorgeous woman," Atherton said blandly. "There's been no credible information regarding the aliens since 1950, when the last one held by the U.S. military supposedly escaped....until now." He leaned in closer. "There was a death some ways north of here, in a neighboring county," he confided in a whisper. "Word is the victim's body bore the same silver hand print that was found on several soldiers' bodies back in the forties. It's them!"

My goodness, but that took a while, Brivari thought. Pierce had been dead almost three weeks now. "Silver hand print?" he echoed. "What is that, exactly?"

"No one knows for certain," Atherton continued in his conspiratorial whisper, "but that is a documented method by which the aliens kill. Rather showy, don't you think? Not to mention a giant neon sign that they've been there."

But quick, Brivari thought privately. There were plenty of ways to kill without leaving a "giant neon sign", but those required time, energy, and total concentration, traits often in short supply in a crisis. Both the energy flare and the handprint method were crude, but fast and foolproof, the latter having the advantage of fading after a time, although not fast enough to shield their presence at Pierce's death. "Perhaps they were in a hurry," Brivari said casually. "So what does your group plan to do with this information?"

"We've already done something," Atherton replied. "These are scholars, you know, and businessmen, some quite wealthy. Just the sort who would rather die than consort with the likes of James Atherton," he added with a chuckle.

"You're talking about yourself in the third person again," Brivari reminded him.

"But I'm not..." Atherton paused as their food arrived. "But I'm not James Atherton now," he continued after the waitress had left. "I'm James Anderson, who is welcomed with open arms into this exalted circle. A circle which has contacts. Contacts which have heard of a secret organization only recently formed within a government agency for the sole purpose of—you guessed it—hunting aliens."

"The military?"

Atherton shook his head. "No, not the military. According to our sources, there are people out there who are very impatient with what they feel is the military's foot-dragging over this most recent alien sighting, hence the formation of this new group. Word is it's the FBI that's entered the ring now with a special unit sanctioned by J. Edgar Hoover himself and led by an ex-Army officer."

Lewis, Brivari thought. Agent Lewis, once Major Lewis, he of the "living autopsy" fame when Jaddo was captive, and one of the few people left with first-hand knowledge about them. If he had managed to attain a position of power denied him by the Army......

Brivari's musings stopped short as the door to the diner opened and a crowd of cast members spilled through, among them Audrey and Charles Dean, the latter with his arm protectively—or perhaps possessively—around Audrey's shoulders as though afraid she might escape. Audrey wasn't wearing her usual smile, but neither did she look terribly unhappy. Atherton stopped attacking his omelet and swiveled in his seat. "My, my," he murmured. "So that's why she's not here." He glanced at Brivari and then back at Audrey before turning around again. "You must have known this would happen, Langley" he said gently. "That chap is much more her type."

"Is he?" Brivari murmured.

"Well, of course he is. Don't take this the wrong way, my friend, but there's no way you're going to beat that dandy. And don't feel bad—neither would I. We're neither young enough nor good-looking enough."

"You think this is a competition?" Brivari asked, puzzled.

"Is it ever anything but?" Atherton smiled, waggling an eyebrow up and down.

"You misunderstand," Brivari said. "Miss Tate and I do not have a romantic relationship."

"I'm sure you don't," Atherton chuckled. "Just like I'm sure they do. Mind you, Langley, I'm deeply grateful for the proximity to beauty you've afforded me these last weeks, but I can't imagine you expected it to last."

*Neither can I,* said a sardonic voice as Atherton returned to his breakfast.

Brivari's eyes raked the room to find Jaddo seated at the counter. *For someone who supposedly has a such a busy schedule, you do seem to spend a great deal of time following me about,* Brivari said irritably.

*And a good thing, too,* Jaddo replied. *Would you have remembered to mention that a new threat has just arisen, or would you have been too wrapped up in your lady friend?*

*So you didn't know about this 'special unit'?* Brivari asked with no small amount satisfaction as a wave of mental resentment rolled his way. *How very interesting that we should learn of it through a contact of mine. A contact you objected to.*

*I would have discovered it sooner or later on my own,* Jaddo said peevishly.

*But you've discovered it sooner thanks to my relationship with an 'alienologist',* Brivari noted. *There is more than one way to gather intelligence, Jaddo. Obsessive pursuit is one; forming the right relationships is another. You have the former covered, and then some. Leave the latter to me.*

*We're wasting our time,* Jaddo said, annoyed as usual that Brivari was right. *This 'special unit' must be removed at once.*

*That is exactly what we must not do,* Brivari said firmly. *Retaliating will only provide more evidence of our presence and another lead to follow. The best approach is to ignore them.*

*I won't leave a hand print this time,* Jaddo said.

*That's what you told me the last time,* Brivari said darkly, *and your lack of self control is the very reason there is a 'special unit' to ignore. And if Major Lewis is involved, the two of you have history, so I have every reason to believe your self control will desert you again. Stay away from them.*

*So you'd just let this go unchallenged?* Jaddo said in astonishment.

*Absolutely,* Brivari answered. *Let them hunt all they want; they won't find anything. Or so you keep telling me.*

*This is different,* Jaddo insisted. *The Army has lost it's will to hunt for us, but I would wager Lewis has not.*

*And how would he find us?* Brivari asked. *The only way the humans have ever had of identifying us is through x-rays and blood tests, both of which it should be no trouble to avoid.*

*We have to end this threat now,* Jaddo argued. *Fine, we can't leave a trail, but we have to remove—*

*Any move made against any member of this 'special unit' will be perceived as coming from us whether or not there is any evidence to support that,* Brivari interrupted. *I will not have you handing them more evidence of our presence than you already have. Leave it alone.*

*But—*

*I said leave it alone.*

Jaddo pushed his coffee cup away, rose angrily from his seat and stalked out as every head in the diner turned his way. "My goodness," Atherton said, glancing behind him. "Is everyone here so high strung?*




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




Behind the counter, Courtney stared in surprise as the man Nancy had only recently handed a cup of coffee shoved it away and marched out of the diner, the door closing behind him somewhat louder than it usually did. What was up with that? He hadn't been talking to anyone, as evidenced by the startled expressions of those sitting on either side of him. Or...... Her head swung around to Langley, whose hard eyes were trained on the door through which the angry man had just left. Jaddo. The angry man must have been Jaddo; he and Brivari must have been having a telepathic argument. What did he look like? she thought frantically, only to mentally castigate herself a moment later. He was Covari; it didn't matter what he looked like. Didn't it just figure that the Warder who chose to wear a consistent shape would be the one she wasn't looking for?

"What was all that about?" Nancy muttered beside her.

"Don't know," Courtney said lightly, surprised to find that such close proximity to yet another Warder wasn't bothering her. Now that one of her own people had accosted her, the Warders didn't look quite as frightening as they had before. Having enemies from three different species must be some kind of local record. And friends, she reminded herself silently. Dee seemed to not be holding a grudge after yesterday's funeral rite, she had all her fellow resistance members, and.....Courtney paused as she realized she had been about to label Malik a friend. Good heavens but she was getting addled. No wonder Dee felt the way she did.

"Morning, Miss Harris," a voice said behind her.

"Good morning," Courtney answered automatically without looking at the speaker.

"Mind telling me what you did to Deputy Crist?"

Courtney turned around...and nearly dropped the plates she'd just retrieved from under the warmer. "Relax," Sheriff Valenti said with a wide smile. "I was just joking. Crist quit yesterday, not long after you showed up with your birth certificate. Which checked out, by the way. You're of legal age."

"Thanks, I already knew that," Courtney said tartly, trying to calm her pounding heart as she delivered her orders. For a moment there, she'd thought Valenti knew something he shouldn't. "So what happened to Deputy Crist?" she asked casually when she returned to the counter.

"Turned in a letter of resignation late yesterday afternoon," Valenti said, reaching for the sugar. "Family emergency."

And how, Courtney thought. "I'm glad he gave you the information," she said, relieved that Valenti didn't suspect a thing. "For awhile there he wouldn't write anything down until I'd told him why you wanted it."

"Why not?" Valenti asked sharply. "What did he say?"

Courtney blinked. "Well....I didn't want to leave my birth certificate because I was afraid it would get lost, so I asked him to copy—"

"Yes, yes," Valenti said impatiently. "But what's this about him wanting to know why I wanted it?"

"He....he wanted to know," Courtney stammered. "He said he wouldn't copy anything until I told him."

Valenti leaned forward intently. "And what did you say?"

"I said you thought I might be a runaway, so you wanted to check my age. And then he copied everything, and I left."

Valenti relaxed a bit....but only a bit. "Okay. Okay," he repeated, as though trying to convince himself it was really okay. "If that's all......" He paused, staring into space. "No," he said firmly, reaching for his hat with one hand while another fished coins out of his pocket. "Thank you for telling me that, Miss Harris. You have a good day, now."

Courtney sagged against the counter as Valenti hurried out of the diner, mentally kicking herself. Damn it! When, oh when, was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut? Never offer information when you don't have to; that was rule number one in the book entitled "How Not To Get Caught". Here she'd been feeling all safe and cozy, and now she'd tripped some kind of alarm with Valenti. The fact that it didn't appear to be an alarm about her didn't necessarily make her feel any better. She grabbed a coffee pot and began making the rounds of her tables, needing something mindless to calm herself. Which would have been a good idea if not for the fact that one of her tables was occupied by a Royal Warder.

"Miss Harris!" Mr. Anderson boomed when she appeared. "Langley and I were just discussing a subject that may be of interest to you seeing as you said you believed in aliens. It appears the FBI has formed it's own alien-hunting unit."

"Oh?" Courtney said politely, resisting the urge to hurl the coffee pot across the room. She'd just gotten rid of one enemy, and now here was another. "What's this?" she added when Langley pushed some coins across the table toward her.

"Payment for the man who left a few minutes ago. I believe he did not pay his bill."

No, he didn't, Courtney thought, pocketing the money and doing a quick mental inventory. Valenti was off her back but on the warpath about Crist, a new group of alien hunters had just formed, and Zan's Warder was paying the bill for Rath's, even though he could easily have ignored it. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet, and already this was shaping up to be a mighty weird day.



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



9 a.m.

Dexter, New Mexico




Malik closed the door to Deputy Crist's apartment behind him, careful to lock it. He'd been in this little town just south of Roswell only yesterday, packing up Crist's things and settling his business to make it look like he'd left town. That had turned out to be more work than expected as Crist had apparently had a passion for human mechanical objects; his apartment had been filled with music boxes, tools, and sundry other things, all of which had been packed into his car and donated to a local Salvation Army post. He'd used the wad of cash he'd found stashed in a cookie jar to pay off the rent, and sold the Ford to a car dealer. Clothes were trickier; Crist would've taken those with him, so they had to be disposed of, along with the personal papers he'd found, including, ironically, a birth certificate. Malik had shaken his head when he'd found that, marveling how it had been a birth certificate that had led to this whole mess.

Now he stood in the cleaned out apartment, eyes sweeping the single large room and the bathroom beyond for what he'd missed. Because the one thing he hadn't found, and the one thing he must find, was the communicator he was certain Crist had in his possession. He'd been so intent on being Crist yesterday that he hadn't made a conscious effort to find it, expecting he'd run across it. But he hadn't, and now that he'd established the myth that Crist had left town, he could focus solely on finding that communicator.

Forty-five minutes later, Malik plopped on the sofa, stumped. Where could it be? Was it possible he didn't have one? No, Nicholas would never have sent an operative into the field without a communicator, a point reinforced by Crist himself when he'd demanded Courtney's. He'd carefully checked Crist's desks and lockers at both the Roswell sheriff's station and his home station of Chaves County, found nothing, and wasn't surprised; a workplace wouldn't be a safe place to hide something so obviously alien. He'd practically disassembled the car and nearly done the same to the apartment with no luck. It's here, Malik thought. The safest and most logical place for something like a communicator was a private residence, so it had to be here. Obviously he'd missed something; he'd just have to keep looking, and quickly, too, as an apartment this spacious with a private bath would be rented out soon.

Malik had begun the search anew when he heard footsteps approaching, accompanied by voices. The landlord must be showing the apartment; hopefully they wouldn't stay long. Retreating to the bathroom, he left the door ajar and watched as a key jangled in the lock and the front door opened.

"When did you say he left?" a familiar voice asked.

"Yesterday evening," came the landlord's voice as he crossed the threshold, followed by the last person Malik had expected to see—Sheriff Valenti.

"So he broke his lease?"

"Yep. Didn't give me a hard time about it. Paid the next month's rent and said I could keep the security deposit."

Malik's jaw tightened as Valenti slowly circled the apartment, eyes roving everywhere. What was he doing here? Valenti was noted for being thorough, but checking up on an employee who'd simply given notice and left to see to a family emergency was way beyond thorough.

"Did he say where he was going?" Valenti asked.

"Nope. Said he had a family emergency and had to leave right away."

"Yeah, that's what he told me too," Valenti murmured as he continued his sweep. "Was he a good tenant?"

"Never gave me any trouble. Wasn't loud. Paid his rent on time. No complaints here."

"And how long did he live here?"

" 'Bout a year and a half. Almost two."

Valenti nodded as though that information matched his own. "Mind if I take a look around?"

"Mind tellin' me what you're lookin' for?" the landlord asked. "Is this guy in trouble, or something?"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "I just....well, to be honest, I'm not sure what I'm looking for."

And that's bad, Malik thought heavily as the landlord left. If whatever Valenti wasn't sure he was looking for was bothering him enough to make him leave the crowds in Roswell and spend his precious time scouring Crist's apartment, things were very bad indeed. Malik waited impatiently as Valenti took his time wandering around, pulling the cushions off furniture, opening drawers, and generally being much less thorough than Malik had been. At length he reached the bathroom, and Malik melted out of sight, certain he wouldn't be in here long. Valenti glanced at the tub, checked the toilet and the toilet tank, opened and closed the medicine cabinet.....and paused. He opened it again, gently shaking the open door. The cabinet moved slightly in the wall, and further inspection revealed that one of the two screws which held the cabinet in place was a bit loose.

That's it! Malik thought excitedly. The medicine cabinet was set into an opening in the bathroom wall; it was quite possible there was a space behind it large enough to hold a communicator. He waited with growing impatience as Valenti jiggled the cabinet some more. Come on, come on, he thought irritably. Leave. Even if Valenti just stepped out for a screwdriver, that would still give him enough time to check.

Then to his horror, Valenti reached into his back pocket and withdrew.....a screwdriver? What the hell kind of sheriff walked around with a screwdriver in his pocket? The screws were out in seconds, and Malik held his breath as Valenti pulled the cabinet from the wall and balanced it on the edge of the sink. There was nothing visible behind it but a couple of wooden studs, and Malik gave a private sigh of relief as Valenti replaced the cabinet and reached for one of the screws.....

.....only to change his mind and remove it again. This time he set it on the floor and reached inside the opening, feeling all around, up and down; a moment later he withdrew his arm, and in his hand was a gray Antarian communicator. Damn it! Malik ordered himself to stay calm as Valenti turned the communicator over and over in his hands. What should he do? Valenti now knew that "Deputy Crist" had something very strange indeed in his possession, something he had inexplicably left behind.

"You about done in here?" the landlord's voice called. "I need to lock up."

"Yep, be right out," Valenti called lightly. He pocketed the communicator, set the cabinet back in its hole, and left the screws inside. "I appreciate your cooperation," he told the landlord. "I'll let you know if I need any more information."

Malik had to wait while the landlord took a perfunctory look around the apartment before leaving; by that time, as he raced to the front window, Valenti's car was already pulling away. It was clear from the look on Valenti's face that he hadn't recognized what he'd discovered, but that meant nothing. "Great," he muttered angrily. In addition to an Argilian rebel and a dead Argilian operative, now he also had a nosy human sheriff in possession of a piece of alien technology on his hands.




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


I'll post Chapter 35 on Sunday, July 27 as I'll be on vacation for the next couple of weeks. This should be the last skip until we hit the holidays!

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


July 23, 1959, 4:00 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house



"Make certain you deliver the message," Michael warned sternly from the hologram which hovered over the trithium generator. "Nicholas is not in a good mood.

"Is he ever? Yes, yes, I'll deliver it," Courtney added quickly as her father scowled.

"I mean it, Courtney. Before midnight."

"I heard you the first three times," Courtney said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

Michael's expression softened. "I know this isn't your fault, and you're not being blamed. Just make certain you tell him."

But it is my fault, Courtney thought, flopping back on the bed after her father's image faded away, only to pull herself up again when someone knocked on her door, carefully pocketing the generator.

It was Malik. "Can I come in?" he said by way of greeting.

"Wow," Courtney deadpanned. "Knocking and asking permission to come in. That's different."

"We have a problem," Malik said, ignoring her. "Valenti found Crist's communicator."

Courtney's mouth dropped open. "Are you crazy saying something like that?" she demanded, pulling him inside. "Anyone could have heard you!"

"I take it I can come in now?" Malik said dryly. "You know, I think I've established that I don't like your attitude any better than you like me, so the odds of my dropping by for anything other than a very good reason are low. You might want to keep that in mind the next time you leave me standing in the hallway."

"I didn't have the choice of leaving you in the hallway yesterday," Courtney retorted.

"So in the future, you expect me to knock before I save your life?"

"I don't want to get into this again," Courtney muttered.

"No, I'm sure you don't," Malik said. "Most people don't like to start arguments they know they're bound to lose."

"Why are you here?" Courtney demanded crossly. "If Valenti has Crist's communicator, then get it back!"

"I considered that," Malik said, helping himself to a seat. "I'll find out where he stashed it. But he obviously doesn't know what it is, and I'm afraid that by stealing it, I'll just be drawing attention to it."

"Wait," Courtney said, holding up a hand. "How did Valenti find Crist's communicator? What, was he using it as a paperweight on his desk?"

"No; he had it hidden behind the medicine cabinet in the bathroom of his apartment. I did have Crist quit his job yesterday, but that usually doesn't trigger one's temporary boss dismantling one's apartment."

Courtney's heart sank even further than the chair she sank into. "He went there because of me, because of something I said. Valenti showed up at the diner this morning and told me my birth certificate had checked out, and that I was off the hook. I was so relieved that I started chattering....and unfortunately I mentioned how Crist wanted to know why Valenti wanted my birth certificate. And then he got all suspicious and left. Probably straight for Crist's apartment."

"I gather your training didn't cover the art of not babbling?"

"Of course it did," Courtney said irritably. "I just....slipped. Are you perfect? Haven't you ever slipped?"

Malik gazed at her steadily for a moment. "The sheriff's son is working at the station," he said, "and while I was typing Crist's resignation letter, he came to me and said he'd asked his father 'about the aliens' just like 'I' had wanted him to. Apparently Crist was milking Valenti Jr. for information, and that alone could have tripped Valenti's alarms. It might not have been you."

"Or what I said could have been the—how do they put it?—the straw that broke the camel's back," Courtney sighed.

"More like 'what tipped the scale in the opposite direction'," Malik corrected.

"Fine, so you're better at human metaphors," Courtney said impatiently. "It doesn't matter now anyway because—here's another one for you—my goose is cooked."

"Why?"

"I just got a communication from my father. Mark Green has been ordered to report by midnight tonight or face recall."

"I thought you said operatives didn't report in very often unless they had news?"

"That was before a Royal Warder left a hand print for the first time in years. Now everyone's supposed to report in regularly, and Mark hasn't been. Apparently several messages have been sent to his communicator, and no one's listened to them, of course."

"So all Mark has to do is report in via communicator?"

"Yes, that's 'all' a dead man has to do," Courtney said. "And before you ask if I've forgotten that you're a shapeshifter, let me assure you that, one, I'll never forget that, and two, that won't help. I have no idea what Mark looked or sounded like, no pictures of him, nothing you can copy. Hence the goose dinner I mentioned before."

"Maybe not," Malik said calmly. "Can I see his communicator?"

"What?"

"His communicator," Malik repeated. "You know, grey, oval, galaxy symbol on top?"

Courtney gave him a withering look before rising from her chair and going to the closet. Mark's more traditional communicator was hidden under the same loose floor board as her trithium generator; it had just been dumb luck that little Philip Evans had grabbed the generator, probably because it was smaller. "What good is this going to do?" she asked as she handed it to Malik.

"I learned a thing or two from Amar about accessing communication logs," Malik said, pulling a tool out of his pocket. "Just give me a sec.....I need the outgoing messages, not the incoming......."

A minute later, a holographic beam rose above the communicator. In that beam was the image of a man Courtney had never seen before, on the shorter side for a human like most Argilians because that made it easier to adapt to their husks, dark hair, hazel eyes. Malik ticked through only three messages, all of the "nothing to report" variety. "Got it," he said as the image disappeared.

"Wait," Courtney said quickly. "If you're going to....I'm leaving," she finished abruptly.

"No, you're not," Malik said firmly. "What if they ask me something I can't answer, or I need a translation? You have to be here. Unless, of course, you'd like to be dragged back to wherever when they find out Mark's dead and you never told them."

"Then don't make me watch," Courtney said, turning her back to him. "Let me know when I can turn around."

"You can turn around."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

Courtney risked a peek behind her. Mark Green stood where Malik had only a second before, dressed in similar but not identical clothes and sporting those same hazel eyes. "Good Lord," she whispered. "I didn't know you could do it that fast."

"I suspect there are a great many things you don't know about me," Malik said. "Shall we get this over with?"

Courtney nodded numbly, and Malik held his hand over the communicator. The galaxy symbol glowed, and mere seconds later, a hologram formed. "There you are," said the answering operative in an annoyed tone. "We were beginning to think you'd skipped town."

"All's quiet; nothing to report," Malik replied in Mark's voice, quoting his earlier reports. "With nothing happening, I guess I got distracted by....other things."

The other operative's face split into a wide grin. "Wish I could do that," he lamented. "What I wouldn't give to be assigned to a city!"

"Roswell's not very big," Malik said.

"It's bigger than here," the operative answered. "Anything's bigger than Copper Summit."

Courtney winced as her efforts to keep the location of their base a secret went right down the drain. "Right," Malik said, keeping his face carefully blank. "Do I have any further orders?"

"Nope. Just keep your eyes open, and let us know if you even suspect a Warder might be close by. And don't take so long to report in next time. It makes Nicholas grumpy, and we're the ones who have to deal with him when he's grumpy."

The hologram faded. Courtney's stomach clutched as Malik melted into his former shape right in front of her, a seething mass of flesh that was bearable to look at only because it happened so quickly. "You're in Copper Summit?" he demanded. "You're right where Amar and I were! Hell, you're probably in our house!"

"That's Nicholas' house," Courtney said, "or rather, the Crawfords. I was next door."

"Who the hell are the Crawfords?"

"Nicholas' parents," Courtney answered. "They go by Walt and Ida Crawford. And his 'sister', Vanessa, is really his lover. Or his latest one, anyway. I gather he had several."

"When?" Malik demanded. "When did they move in?"

"In the summer of 1950," Courtney answered.

"My God, he must have moved in right after we left," Malik said in disbelief. "All this time, and they're right where we were!"

"It doesn't matter—you can't go there," Courtney said. "You know that, don't you? According to my father, they have those trithium generators everywhere now. You'd be caught long before you reached Nicholas."

"You're awfully protective of someone you supposedly hate," Malik remarked.

"I couldn't care less what happens to Nicholas, but I do care what happens to the rest of my people," Courtney insisted. "There are resistance fighters there, and people who came because they had to, not because they had any say in the matter. If the Warders got loose in Copper Summit, they'd just kill everybody."

"And would you blame them? You know as well as I do that the vast majority of your people would kill both Warders and every single hybrid without a second thought if they had the chance."

"They want to kill the Warders, not the hybrids," Courtney clarified. "The hybrids go back to Antar."

"Where they'll be publicly executed, or dissected, or both," Malik argued. "And the difference is....what, exactly?"

"The point is that Copper Summit isn't safe for any Covari," Courtney said, "and if that means innocent people don't die, that's fine with me."

"I highly doubt Nicholas brought any 'innocent people' with him," Malik said darkly. "Here," he added, handing the communicator back to her. "Hang on to this for the next time Mark needs to report in. I need to figure out how to get Crist's communicator back without setting off Valenti. Any other stupid moves you'd like to report while I'm here?"

Courtney flushed. "No."

"Then I'll let you get back to hating my guts. Have a nice day."

"Wait."

Malik stopped as Courtney braced herself, deliberately looking at a point over his shoulder so she wouldn't have to look him in the eye. "I'm.....sorry I said what I did earlier. I'm grateful for what you've done, I just....." She fell silent, uncertain of how to continue without putting her foot in her mouth. Again.

"You just can't stand me anyway," Malik finished for her, "no matter how much I help, or how many times I save your life."

"So what about you?" Courtney said crossly. "Why are you here? You said you didn't like me either. Why are you helping me if you can't stand me?"

"I said I didn't like your attitude," Malik corrected. "And to specifically answer your question, this isn't about what you or I like; it's bigger than that. I don't want Khivar on the throne, I sure as hell don't want Nicholas on the throne, and if Zan's on the throne, I want him to change his ways. In order to accomplish that, he has to survive, and if some of your people are willing to help make that happen, I'll work with them even if I loathe every last one of them and they loathe me. Because it's about our world, about Antar, not about our petty little problems and prejudices. While we're on the subject, why are you here?"

Courtney's voice stuck in her throat. "Same reason," she whispered.

"Then we have that in common, at least," Malik said. "Oh, and one more thing—apology accepted. And you're welcome."




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



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




Audrey stiffened as hands came from behind, taking hold of her arms. "I'll miss you tonight," Charlie's voice whispered in her ear. "Will you miss me?"

"I'm not feeling well enough to miss anyone," Audrey said lightly. "Don't take it personally."

"So how long do I have to wait, doll?"

"Oh, a week or ten days," Audrey said. "It varies."

"That long?" Charlie protested. "I—"

He was cut off as the director called for places. Fortunately Charlie's place was all the way across the road from her and the marauding "aliens", so she was spared his further whinings....for the moment, anyway. The requisite gymnastics last night had been of the standard "Slam Bam, Thank You Ma'am" variety, minus the thanks, of course, because it was all considered part of the service. The juxtaposition was telling; two nights ago, she'd had the best sex of her life—no, the only good sex of her life—with a man who had cared about nothing but her and what she wanted. Last night it had been all about Charlie, who had shot his load in the predictable two minutes, rolled over, and gone to sleep. But in this case, brevity was mercy; those two minutes had seemed like two hours as he had parked himself on top of her and pleased himself, not seeming to know or care that there was a live, thinking person beneath him.

Which is where he likes everyone, Audrey thought sourly as an assistant director struggled to get a large group of extras on their marks. Beneath him. The resentment she'd felt at his behavior had surprised her, and she'd begged off repeats by using a woman's all-purpose excuse: Her period. Some women called it a curse while others considered it a blessing, and tonight, it would be a blessing for her. Or the notion of it, anyway; she didn't really have her period, just an aversion to being with a man who regarded her as some sort of poodle. She'd lain awake for hours last night, wishing desperately that she could join the get-together at Langley's without her attendance being reported to Charlie, and then had to put up with him again this morning at breakfast, where she'd spent the meal sneaking peeks at Langley and Mr. Anderson, dying to know why the latter seemed so excited. Something interesting, no doubt; they were given to discussing politics, social policy, and the mysteries of human behavior, while the stultifying "guy talk" at her table had consisted of cars, guns, and women, peppered with a generous dose of horn-blowing from Charlie and fawning from everyone else. Normally she had to tear herself away from breakfast in order to get to the set on time; today she'd eaten quickly and gotten to the set early. Five more weeks, she told herself. She'd have to put up with this nonsense for another five long weeks. Granted, Charlie wasn't any different than he usually was, but this time, it grated on her nerves. This time, her standards had risen. This time, she wanted more.

"We missed you last night," a voice said beside her.

Langley had come up beside her, clapboard in hand. "Believe me, I missed you all too," Audrey replied, sotto voiced. "Especially you."

"Then why not come tonight? Mr. Dean is welcome to attend also."

"God, no," Audrey groaned. "Then it would be all about his Mustang and his glorious career. I thought he would never shut up this morning! What was Mr. Anderson so cheerful about, by the way?"

"Join us for breakfast tomorrow, and find out," Langley said.

"I'd love to....but I can't," Audrey sighed.

"Surely you can join us occasionally," Langley said. "I'm familiar with the concept of fraternization being necessary for one's career, but this bears more of a resemblance to bondage."

You don't know the half of it, Audrey thought sadly. She had half a mind to spell it out for him since he honestly didn't seem to know, but the minute she did that, Langley would confront Charlie, Charlie would march in to Morty, and not only this job, but any future jobs would be in jeopardy. When one was female, this was just the way it worked in this industry. Even Langley couldn't change that.

"Places!" the director bellowed again.

Audrey had the few seconds it took Langley to clap the clapboard to remember what she was supposed to be doing before the director called, "Action!" Fortunately her role consisted mostly of yelling, "No! No!" as "aliens" dragged her away. Silly, yes, but it was a job, and any job that didn't involve waiting tables was nothing to sneeze at. She dutifully yelled as she was dragged to the middle of the road, where Charlie's character was supposed to attempt a rescue. But he missed his cue, resulting in the director yelling, "Cut!" before the scene ended.

"Dean, would you stop daydreaming and do your damned job?" Larry demanded. "We're going again, everybody! Places!"

"I could do my job a lot better if you didn't mess me up," Charlie grumbled as Audrey picked herself up off the ground.

"Me?" she said in disbelief. "What, now it's my fault that you were late?"

"I saw you talking to him," Charlie whispered, jerking his head in Langley's direction.

"So?"

"So he's the guy who threw me, me, Charles Dean, out of the make-up trailer yesterday."

"Because you wouldn't leave when I asked you to," Audrey reminded him. "He's just the clapper loader."

"He's a lot more than that, from what I hear," Charlie said darkly. "I hear the two of you were an item. Don't know if I believe that—ugliest git I've seen in a long time—but that's what everyone's saying."

"You should stop listening to 'everyone' and tend to business," Audrey said sharply. "You're regaling 'everyone' with your wonderful career, but I know better; if you were doing as well as you say you are, you wouldn't be in this crappy little movie."

Charlie took hold of her arm. "Stay away from him," he ordered.

"You have no business telling me not to talk to the crew," Audrey retorted, wrenching her arm away and stalking back to her place.

"Dean!" Larry bellowed. "What are you waiting for—an engraved invitation? Get the hell on your mark!"

Audrey was smoldering as she faced Charlie across the road. She was used to Charlie's jealousy and possessiveness off the set, but now she had to put up with it on the set? This bears more of a resemblance to bondage. It did indeed, and she was becoming more resentful by the minute. No one should have to put up with this garbage, but rejecting him outright would be career suicide. Unless......

The clouds parted and the sun came out as Audrey thought of a way around this. It was crazy, of course. If anyone found out, there would be hell to pay. She'd have to be very, very careful. But if she could pull it off, she could keep her sanity and her job while letting Charlie think the sun still rose and set because he told it to. Heck, she was an actress; she could think of it as just another role. And if she played that role well, Charlie would never know.

"Places!" Larry called. "Ready.....set....Audrey!" he snapped, startling her. "You're about to be kidnapped! Why the hell are you smiling?"

Audrey's eyes drifted to Langley. "No reason," she answered. "Sorry."




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Good to see you, sir," Hanson said when he spotted Valenti. "I have—"

"I'll look at it later," Valenti interrupted. "Hold all my calls."

"But—"

"No but's, Hanson. Do it."

Valenti ignored Hanson's protests as he whisked into his office and locked the door behind him. This was the first chance he'd had all day to inspect the strange object he'd found in Deputy Crist's apartment which he'd carried in his pocket until now, an odd lump that was surprisingly lightweight and had served to tear his mind away from all the myriad things he should have been focusing on. Now he plopped into his chair and withdrew it, setting it on the desk in front of him, turning it over and over. It was approximately six inches long, gray, vaguely football shaped, and perfectly smooth expect for a strange symbol etched into one side. He touched it gingerly with his finger, tracing the swirls, looking for buttons or switches or some indication of what this thing did, but came up with nothing.

Sitting back in his chair, Valenti mentally examined the path which had landed this gizmo in his office as he dialed the phone. Dr. Blake thought Mark Green was an alien......Deputy Crist had been caught near the drawer which contained Green's file, the contents of which only he and the doctor were aware of.......the Harris girl's story had checked out, but Crist had grilled her regarding Valenti's interest in her.......Crist had a weird something-or-other hidden behind the medicine cabinet in his apartment. Crist had definitely quit his job yesterday, sold his car, and emptied his apartment of his personal belongings; numerous witnesses attested to these facts. But why leave this? If it was important enough to hide so well, wouldn't it be important enough to take? And why was Crist so interested in Mark Green? Or maybe he wasn't—maybe he hadn't really been going through his desk; maybe Jimmy had that wrong. Maybe his interest in Miss Harris had been little more than misplaced flirting. Maybe....

Someone picked up. "This is Sheriff Valenti," he told the answering deputy. "I need to speak to Sheriff Wilcox." A minute later, Wilcox's voice boomed over the phone.

"Jim! What can I do for you?"

"It's about Ben Crist," Valenti answered. "He quit yesterday.

"I know," Wilcox answered. "Something about a family emergency. Up and left town, the way I hear it. Must have been serious to make him leave so fast."

"Did he say what the emergency was?"

"No. Why?"

"He just left awfully fast," Valenti said. "Even sold his car."

"Maybe he needed the money," Wilcox suggested.

"Then how'd he leave? He didn't buy a bus ticket."

There was a pause before Wilcox spoke again. "Are you going somewhere with this, Jim?"

Valenti hesitated a moment. "I found something odd in Crist's apartment. Former apartment, rather."

"His apartment?" Wilcox echoed. "Why were you in his apartment?"

"Because I had that niggling feeling I get when I know something's off," Valenti answered. "So I went and checked out his apartment. He'd already moved out, of course, but I....I found something hidden there, behind the medicine cabinet. Something very weird."

"And this 'something weird' is.....what exactly?"

"It's.....hard to describe," Valenti replied. "And the phone might not be the best place. A couple of weeks ago, I could have sworn my phone was bugged."

"Did you find a bug?"

"No," Valenti admitted. "And it hasn't happened again. I'd just feel safer not going into detail over the phone."

"Then don't. But without more to go on, I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about."

Valenti hesitated, then decided to try a different tack. "Do you have any contacts for Crist, any phone numbers or addresses of next of kin? There must be something in his personnel file."

"I'm sure there is," Wilcox said, "but before I sic you on him, I want a damned good reason. So far, you haven't given me one."

"I just want to follow up on a hunch," Valenti said.

"Right," Wilcox deadpanned. "Like the time your hunch resulted in you pulling a gun on a priest? You're going to have to do better than that, Jim. So far, all you've got is 'something weird' that you won't describe because you think your phone may be bugged, which makes me wonder why you called me in the first place."

"Look, I was just—"

"You were just investigating a man for reasons you won't give, to the point of dismantling his apartment," Wilcox interrupted. "I get worried when you start pulling medicine cabinets off the wall, but you won't say why. You're starting to sound a little paranoid. This is me you're talking to. Cough it up."

"Okay," Valenti said, beginning to sweat, "I'm working on something, something I'm keeping quiet."

"Fair enough," Wilcox allowed. "God knows I've done that. But what does this have to do with Crist?"

Valenti paused, struggling to parse his words. "Crist was needling someone I was watching in regards to that investigation. And when he was caught at my desk, there was some evidence that he was in the drawer which held the file about this something I'm working on."

"You left that part out," Wilcox noted. "Anything else?"

"While I was discussing that something over the phone, I got the distinct impression someone was listening in."

"Was Crist there at the time?"

"No," Valenti admitted. "He'd left."

A heavy sigh floated over the phone. "Jim, you know I have the utmost respect for your investigative skills, but you're not there yet. You don't have any evidence that he was going through your files. You didn't find a bug in your phone, and since Crist wasn't there, he couldn't have picked up an extension. You can't even prove that this 'weird' whatever you found in his apartment belonged to him. I'm not saying you're wrong—can't anyway, because I haven't the faintest idea what the hell you're talking about—but nothing you've told me would make me crack open a personnel file. Keep looking, and maybe that'll change."

"That's why I need you to crack open the personnel file," Valenti said irritably. "So I can keep looking."

"Pish," Wilcox said dismissively. "The Jim Valenti I know wouldn't stop an investigation just because Easy Street was closed. This must be important if it's tearing you away from the glow of Hollywood, and if you want to know badly enough, you'll find a way. But take my advice and don't pull any guns on any more priests."

Thanks for nothing, Valenti thought darkly as he hung up the phone and stared at the enigmatic gray blob in front of him. He didn't have time to go chasing Crist around, which is why he'd wanted that personnel file. Now it would have to wait until the Hollywood circus had left town.

There was a knock on the door. "Sir?" came Hanson's hesitant voice. "I know you're busy, but.....we really need you out here."

Muttering under his breath, Valenti buried the gray football in his locked lower drawer until he could safely hide it at home, and went to rescue Hanson. Fifteen minutes later he returned to his office and unlocked the desk drawer, meaning to examine it further.

It was gone.



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



FBI Field Office

Santa Fe




"Of course, Helen," Agent Lewis said into the phone, "I miss you too."

Agent Del Bianco appeared in the office doorway, and Lewis motioned for him to wait. "Yes, of course I'll be there. I promised to accompany you to all future appointments, and I fully intend to keep that promise. Absolutely," he added as Del Bianco's eyebrows rose. "I'll see you then. Sleep well."

"You're taking her to the doctor?" Del Bianco said in amusement as Lewis hung up the phone. "That's definitely what my mother would have called 'moving too fast'."

"Very funny," Lewis said crisply. "You know perfectly well that we have a huge stake in the health and welfare of Pierce's child, so I'd thank you to keep your jests to yourself."

"Sure, boss," Del Bianco said, still smiling. "I just know how much you hate pregnant women."

"Then my willingness to sit for hours in a waiting room full of them should be instructive," Lewis said. "Have all agents reported in?"

"Yes, sir," Del Bianco, his smile fading. "No word."

"Nothing?" Lewis exclaimed. "Still?"

"It's only been a couple of weeks, sir—"

"It's been nine years!" Lewis said in exasperation. "Someone must have seen something in all that time. Have they looked everywhere? Every locked file, every dusty cardboard box, every scrap of information?"

"All agents report having gained full access," Del Bianco answered. "They found lots of stuff we already knew about the aliens back in the late forties, but nothing since 1950."

Lewis sat back in his chair, deflated. "Thank you, agent. That will be all."

After Del Bianco left, Lewis rose from his chair and gazed out the window at the Santa Fe skyline, awash in afternoon sunlight. It was true that his unit had been operating for only two weeks, but he'd had several agents probing the Roswell area's local law enforcement, so certain had he been of finding documented cases of alien involvement, whether or not they'd been recognized as such when recorded. Then again, it would have been easy for the aliens to have operated under the radar for almost a decade—they could look like anyone, sound like anyone, and no one without benefit of an x-ray or blood test would be the wiser. If anything, this complete and utter silence was only further proof of how dangerous they were, of why they must not be allowed to live. At least that was how he intended to word it to The Director when the time came for his first report. That wasn't for another two weeks, but with all agents having gained access and found nothing, it was highly unlikely anything would change in that length of time. Nothing except Helen Pierce's girth he thought in disgust. The closer she came to delivery, the more dependant she became upon him. Good news, that, but he'd never suffered a more distasteful mission in his life.

"Sir?" Del Bianco had reappeared. "Agent Owens on the phone for you. He sounds.....tense."

Probably got caught, Lewis thought with a sigh as he resumed his seat and reached for the phone. "What is it, agent?"

"Sir, you won't believe what I've just found," Owens' voice said, not only tense but deeply excited.

"Try me," Lewis offered.

"It's.....well, I'm not sure what it is, but it's something I've never seen before. It was locked in Valenti's desk; I had to do some mighty complicated gymnastics to get at it before he—"

"Yes, yes, you'll get a pat on the back later," Lewis interrupted impatiently. "But what is it? Is it...." He paused, hardly daring to hope. "Is it alien?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Owens said confidently. "It's definitely alien."





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



I'll post Chapter 37 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!


The very end of this chapter is dedicated to Misha, who suggested the same explanation for Langley's name that I'd already written months before. It was hard not to tell her I'd had the same thought! Great minds think alike. (Either that, or Roswell/science fiction-obsessed minds think alike. : )





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN



July 23, 1959, 5:30 p.m.

Valenti residence




Andi Valenti looked out the kitchen window in surprise when she heard a car pull up, then broke into a smile. "Hi, stranger," she called as she opened the front door. "Nice to have you home for dinner for a change. I'll call Jimmy...."

But her husband pushed right past her, wearing that set expression that meant he was off on a tear. "Don't waste any precious time on pleasantries," Andi said dryly, following him into his office. "I'm only your wife."

"Not now, Andi," Jim said sharply.

Andi blinked. "Excuse me?"

But her husband ignored her. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked one of his file drawers and rifled through the contents as though his life depended on it.

"It's still here," he announced.

"What's still there?"

"Mark Green's file," Jim replied, pulling a fat file out of the drawer. "It's still here."

"I can see that," Andi said patiently. "Is there some reason whatever that is wouldn't still be here?"

"What time did you get home?"

"Around 2:30 p.m. Why?"

"Did anyone stop by after you got home?"

"No. And I repeat—why?"

"Think," Jim ordered. "Anyone at all.....the mail man, an encyclopedia salesman, the meter man.....anyone?"

"When I said 'no', I meant 'no'," Andi answered, not bothering to hide her annoyance. "I'm familiar with your penchant for detail, so I would have mentioned anyone who'd stopped by, however innocuous. No one was here but me and Jimmy. Now, are you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

Her husband paused, clutching the file as though he feared she might try to wrest it from him. "Someone stole something from my desk at the station today," he said finally.

"Stole something?" Andi echoed. "Like what?"

"Something I found in the apartment of one of George Wilcox's deputies who had just quit. Something weird, weird enough that I took it back to the station and locked it in my desk. Only when I went back just a few minutes later, it was gone."

"Good Lord," Andi said in dismay. No wonder he was so upset. "And you think this deputy who quit had something to do with Mark Green?"

Jim hesitated. "No."

"Then he'd failed to perform his duties, or broken the law, or something?"

"No."

"Then....why were you at his apartment?"

"Because something's not right," Jim said, tossing the file back in the drawer. "So I went to check out his story. He'd already moved out."

"Wait," Andi said. "The deputy had moved out, but this 'weird' thing was still there?"

"Yeah."

"Then how do you know it was his? Wouldn't he have taken it with him?"

"I wondered that too," Jim admitted. "Especially since I found it in the wall behind the medicine cabinet."

"You unscrewed the cabinet from the wall?" Andi said in disbelief. "Whatever for?"

"It was loose."

"So's ours," Andi said pointedly. "And no, I don't have anything hidden behind it, weird or otherwise. Why would you go around unscrewing fixtures if this guy hasn't done anything wrong?"

"I put what I found today exactly in the same place I'd stashed this file," Jim replied, tapping the Green file, "until I decided to bring it home for safekeeping. If I hadn't done that, I'll bet this would be gone too."

"Honey, you're not making any sense," Andi protested. "You just told me that you didn't think this deputy had anything to do with whatever case that is, but now you're saying they're connected."

"Something is wrong," Jim insisted. "I know it is."

"Okay, fine, something's wrong," Andi sighed. "You just look a little crazed, that's all. Did you find any fingerprints?"

"Of course not," Jim said impatiently. "Someone who can get into a locked desk with seconds to spare is also smart enough to wear gloves."

"Okay, then what did everyone say when you questioned them? Did anyone see anything?"

"I haven't questioned anyone yet."

"Why not?" Andi asked. "You're the sheriff. Shouldn't you be investigating?"

"Don't you get it?" Jim snapped. "Someone robbed a locked desk drawer in my office only minutes after I stashed something there! Someone's watching me! The last thing I want to do is tip them off that I'm on to them!"

Andi opened her mouth to launch into a retort, and caught herself just in time. One of the first rules of living with a high strung person like Jim was to pick your battles, and this wasn't a battle she was willing to waste her time on. "Okay," she said carefully. "This isn't making sense to me, but hopefully it does to you. I just wish you'd slow down. You can get a little paranoid sometimes. Since you're home, will you at least stay for dinner?"

"I thought you just told me I should be investigating?" Jim said curtly.

"What I said was that I was surprised you hadn't already," Andi corrected. "But I gather that's a 'no'?"

Jim closed the file drawer, locked it, and walked out without another word. "Where are you going?" Andi called, but he ignored her, letting the door slam behind him as she stood there in astonishment. A moment later, the car engine started.

"What happened?"

Andi turned around to find Jimmy sitting on the stairs, staring through the window at his father's retreating car. "How long have you been there?" she asked.

Her son turned sober eyes on her. "Guess Dad's not staying for dinner, is he?"

Andi looked out the window, where her husband's car had just roared off in a cloud of dust. "No," she said wearily. "I guess not."




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Up you go!" Courtney said, releasing Philip's hand as he attacked the staircase that led up to the second floor and his parents' apartment. Philip loved stairs, but he tended to go a bit too fast, which made it prudent to have someone behind him in case he wound up pitching himself backwards in his zeal to conquer the summit. Maybe he'll be a mountain climber some day, Courtney chuckled inwardly as he clambered up, using all four appendages liberally. She'd offered to take him out for a walk after he'd woken up early from his nap, and Dee had gratefully accepted; Philip could get awfully cranky cooped up in their one room, and walking with him was tedious at best as he stopped roughly every thirty seconds to examine something or other. Courtney didn't mind. Ironically, she was more comfortable with this toddler than with anyone else. He simply accepted her for who she was, meaning there was no need to worry about blowing her cover, no philosophical differences, no expectations of any kind other than to play. It was a refreshing change from the rest of her life.

"Up!" Philip declared upon climbing the last step, both chubby arms raised in triumph.

"Yes, you made it all the way up," Courtney smiled.

"Fall down," Philip announced solemnly, no doubt remembering his last efforts on this steep, narrow staircase that had resulted in her catching him just in time.

"Not this time," Courtney said. "You did it all by yourself."

"Self," Philip nodded confidently, toddling to his door and banging on it. Dee appeared, and Philip dutifully gave her a report. "Up! he said enthusiastically, pointing to the stairs. "Self!"

"Wow!" Dee exclaimed, needing no translation as she scooped up her son. "That's wonderful! Thank you so much for taking him," she added to Courtney. "I told Mr. Parker I'd finish looking over these contracts by tomorrow, and I wouldn't have been able to do anything with Philip around."

"No problem," Courtney said. "Hi, Anthony."

"Hi there," Anthony called. "I set you a place for dinner if you'd like to join us."

"I'd love to," Courtney said. "Can I help?"

"You already have," Dee said, setting a stack of papers aside. "I not only finished the contracts, I actually got dinner made. It's amazing what you can do when you don't have a whirling dervish around."

"What are these?" Courtney asked, leafing through the papers.

"Mr. Parker offered me a raise if I acted as a legal consultant," Dee explained. "This way he has his ducks in a row when he visits his lawyer, so he spends less time and money on legal fees, and I get lots of valuable experience."

Courtney nodded, still not having really processed the fact that Dee and Anthony would be leaving at the end of August to return to college. Then she would be truly alone here except for Malik, who didn't count.....and she didn't like to think about that. As much as she and Dee butted heads about how to view Covari, knowing her had made this whole situation bearable. She couldn't imagine living here without her.

"Everyone come sit down," Dee called, setting a big bowl of salad on the table. They had only just settled around the table when someone knocked on the door.

"Now what?" Dee sighed, tossing down her napkin and going to the door. "Malik!" Courtney heard her say in surprise. "Would you like to stay for dinner? We have plenty."

Courtney dropped her eyes, not wanting anyone to see how very much she wished he'd say no. She still hadn't gotten used to being around a Covari, never mind eating with one.

But Malik didn't have food on his mind. He stepped past Dee, his eyes fastened on Courtney. "What?" she said in alarm.

"Someone took the communicator," Malik said.

Dee closed the door. "What communicator?"

"Crist's communicator," Courtney explained. "But you already told me this. Valenti found it."

Anthony's eyes widened. "Valenti has a communicator? That's not good."

"How on earth did he find it?" Dee asked.

"He found it in Crist's apartment," Malik answered. "I was looking all over for it, and he beat me to it. I saw where he hid it, but when I went to retrieve it, it was gone."

"Maybe he moved it," Anthony suggested.

Malik shook his head. "Valenti is on the warpath right now trying to figure out who took it. Someone's keeping an eye on him, and now they've found something."

"But who would be doing that?" Dee asked. "The military?"

"I doubt it," Malik replied. "Jaddo says the Army hasn't demonstrated any interest in pursuing them."

"The FBI," Courtney said suddenly.

Three pairs of eyes fastened on her, everyone except Philip, who was digging into his applesauce. "What about the FBI?" Malik asked suspiciously.

"Mr. Anderson said something this morning," Courtney said faintly. "You know, the man who hangs out with....with 'Langley'? He said the 'FBI' had formed a new alien hunting unit. What is the 'FBI', anyway?"

"The 'Federal Bureau of Investigation'," Dee answered as Malik swore softly under his breath. "Police who work for the United States, not any local sheriff," she clarified when Courtney looked blank. "But why would the FBI be involved in this? Pierce was killed up north in another county."

"Do you remember Major Lewis?" Malik asked.

Dee frowned. "I think so. Wasn't he an Army friend of Cavitt's?"

"He got a dishonorable discharge, if I remember correctly," Anthony added.

"Right. And then he went to work for the FBI."

"Uh oh," Anthony murmured.

"Damn," Dee muttered.

"What?" Courtney said, her voice more shrill than she'd expected. "What does that mean?"

"It means that the former Major Lewis, now Agent Lewis, probably has Valenti under surveillance because he remembers him from back in the forties," Malik said grimly. "And if I'm right, he's just found his first piece of genuine alien technology."

"Great," Dee said with a sigh, sinking into her chair. "Just what we needed. The FBI in Roswell."




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



11 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




"In here," Lewis ordered. "Quickly."

Agent Del Bianco held the door open as the two agents assigned to Roswell, Agents Cates and Owens, slipped inside Lewis' office. The curtains were tightly drawn, and Lewis locked the door and pocketed the key as soon as everyone was inside. "Let's see it," he ordered, taking a seat at his desk.

Cates and Owens exchanged glances before Owens reached into his pocket and withdrew an oval gray object which he placed on the desk for inspection. "I have no idea what it is," Owens said, "but it certainly had the sheriff all worked up."

"Would you look at that," Lewis breathed, staring at the swirling symbol on top of the object, the only mark it bore. "I know that! That was the symbol on the aliens' ship!"

"So it is alien?" Cates ventured.

"Most definitely," Lewis agreed. "As to what it's for...." he pulled a fat, loose-leaf binder off a shelf ".....let me consult my notes from my time in the Army. Colonel Cavitt kept a detailed inventory of everything salvaged from the aliens' ship, and he gave me a copy. This may take awhile."

Lewis withdrew to a table in the corner to pore over his binder, while the other three agents clustered around the strange object. "What do you think it is?" Del Bianco murmured.

"No idea," Owens said.

"Looks like an ostrich egg," Cates commented.

"Do you think the sheriff knows what it is?" Del Bianco asked.

"Hard to say," Cates answered. "Valenti is incredibly tight-lipped about his experiences in the forties. He may know exactly what this is, or he may have no idea."

"Why don't we ask him?" Owens suggested.

Cates blinked. "So you want to march up to him, admit we lifted something from his office, and ask politely if he knows what it is?"

Owens glanced sideways, where Agent Lewis was still immersed in his binder. "I just think we're going about this all wrong. Valenti's law enforcement, we're law enforcement; we should be working together, not against each other."

"Meaning?" Cates asked.

"Meaning we shouldn't be swiping things from fellow officers of the law," Owens said. "I've never felt like a thief before when I've done my job, but I did today."

"We weren't 'stealing', we were 'investigating'," Cates objected. "And if you don't like investigating, then why did you join the Federal Bureau of 'Investigation'?"

"Because I wanted to catch criminals, not be one," Owens retorted. "Valenti's not a criminal, but you'd never know it from the way we're treating him."

"Valenti would never play ball with us," Cates insisted.

Owens shook his head. "And how do we know that if we don't ask? Valenti has experience with aliens, obviously recognizes alien artifacts, and found something we probably wouldn't have. Valenti has resources, the FBI has resources....shouldn't we pool those resources? Isn't that the fastest way to figure out what this is and what the aliens are up to? Wouldn't that be the best way to protect the American people?"

"Whoever said this is about 'protecting the American people'?" Del Bianco chuckled.

"If you feel that way, then what the hell are you doing here?" Owens demanded.

"Easy," Cates said as Del Bianco flushed. "Of course we're all here to protect the American people.....but that doesn't prevent some from having side agendas," he added, glancing in Lewis' direction. "Valenti thwarted Colonel Cavitt back in the day, and Lewis is itching for payback. So even though you make a good point, Owens, it's not going to happen."

"So we have to do less than our best because he has personal problems?" Owens demanded, jerking his head toward Lewis. "Then he's not doing his job, and ought to be removed."

Del Bianco and Cates exchanged glances. "If I were you, I'd keep those opinions to yourself," Del Bianco warned. "Lewis' stock must have risen pretty high to get this unit, and it's bound to rise higher now that he's found something."

"And it's bound to drop if The Director finds out he's off on some personal vendetta," Owens said. "If—"

"If Lewis gets so much as a whiff of this, you'll be in a very bad way," Del Bianco interrupted.

"Is that a threat?" Owens demanded.

"Just drop it," Del Bianco insisted.

"I asked you if that was a threat—"

"I said drop it," Del Bianco ordered.

"I found it!" Lewis exclaimed, reappearing with his binder, oblivious to the tension amongst his agents. "The alien prisoner identified a similar object as a 'communicator', and claimed they only work in pairs."

"You mean we need another one?" Cates asked.

"Not to worry, gentlemen," Lewis said crisply. "It's quite possible the creature was lying. Besides, even it wasn't, the Army still has the twin to this object. I merely need to obtain it."

"Do you really think the Army will just hand it over?" Del Bianco said doubtfully.

"To me? No," Lewis admitted. "But J. Edgar Hoover is another matter entirely." He picked up the phone, a wide smile on his face. "This is Agent Bernard Lewis. Get me The Director. Yes, you heard me correctly, The Director. I know it's late!" he snapped impatiently. "Tell him his special unit has something to report."

"Maybe we should wait till morning, sir," Del Bianco said nervously. "This thing isn't going anywhere, so there's no reason to bother The Director—"

"There is every reason to inform The Director immediately," Lewis interrupted. "You've seen what these monsters can do, agent, and now we find yet more proof that they have the means to communicate with each other, perhaps even with their planet. What for? What are they planning? We must move," he added firmly, "because there's no telling what perfidy they're up to even as we speak."




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



12 midnight

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Absolutely," the key grip said confidently.

"No way," the gaffer countered.

"I don't see why not," one of the seamstresses offered.

"I'd call it a definite maybe," added the script coordinator.

Brivari smiled faintly as the group gathered in his apartment commenced good-natured bickering. Given the the movie they were working on, it was something of a surprise this subject hadn't arisen before. Of course, given the movie they were working on, it was something of a surprise that anyone was able to address that subject with anything even resembling a straight face.

"What about you, Langley?" the gaffer spoke up. "Do you think aliens are real?"

Brivari's eyes strayed over the faces looking expectantly his way, noting how many expressions didn't match their owners' earlier assertions; the key grip who believed in aliens was afraid he might be right, while the gaffer who did not was hoping he was wrong. Antar had reached this juncture a long time ago; had it been the same for them, this mixture of longing and fear? Likely so, although he couldn't say for sure, having never had much interest in ancient anthropology. Until now, that is, when he saw it playing out in front of him, a world on the brink of escaping their own planet's gravity for the first time. He would likely be here for that moment, would witness a civilization's first halting steps into a larger universe. Perhaps Dee Proctor was right; perhaps his exile here was also an opportunity that few, if any, would ever have.

"With all those stars out there, it only stands to reason there must be more inhabitable planets," Brivari replied. "I would imagine we're not alone in the universe."

"Maybe we don't even need to go all the way to another planet," the seamstress said in a hushed voice. "They say there are things living on the moon."

"Aww, that's bunk," the gaffer scoffed.

"And how would you know?" the seamstress challenged. "You been there?"

"They'll be able to see for themselves soon," Brivari commented. "The first moon landing is not far off."

"What makes you say that?" the key grip asked.

"The Soviet Union launched the Lunik probe early this year," Brivari answered, "and rumor has it they plan to launch another soon. America will respond by stepping up its efforts at moon exploration, and the usual one-upsmanship will result in either one country or the other reaching the moon within, say, the next twenty years."

"Yikes," the seamstress murmured. "You keep up with all that stuff?"

"It's a hobby of mine," Brivari said casually.

"But we'll win, right?" the gaffer said. "America will beat Russia?"

"Hard to say," Brivari replied. "I can see it going either way."

Another debate ensued, this time over whether America or the Soviet Union would prove dominant in the quest for the moon. On Antar, it was separate races which vied for power; Earth also had its various races, but most rivalries were between separate territories known as "countries", the majority of which were composed predominantly of a single race, America being an exception. This particular debate ended rather quickly, however, given that all the participants were American and predisposed to favor their own "country". "What do you think aliens look like?" the seamstress asked, changing the subject. "Do you really think they could hold up those huge heads on such a skinny neck?"

"That must have been a fake," scoffed the key grip. "That whole bit about the weather balloon was fake, so it makes sense that the sketch was fake."

"But why would the Army put out fake alien pictures if they were trying to cover up an alien crash?" the gaffer wondered.

"Because they were so ridiculous, no one would believe them," the key grip said.

"I hate to break up this fascinating discussion, but it's after midnight," Brivari broke in, having grown weary of this particular aspect of alien speculation. For some odd reason, Antarians' native form seemed to bother humans more than the prospect of their existence. Apparently it was acceptable to have other species in the universe as long as they looked exactly like you.

"Oh, geez, I didn't realize it was so late!" the seamstress exclaimed as everyone rose. "Thanks for having us over, Langley. I know it's not the same for you without Audrey. I miss her too."

"I have invited Miss Tate to bring Mr. Dean along, but she declined," Brivari answered.

"Well, sure," the gaffer chuckled. "They're cast, we're crew. And the two don't mingle except on the set."

"Indeed?" Brivari murmured. "Then why did she attend in the first place?"

"Audrey Tate's not like other cast members," the seamstress explained. "She doesn't think she's better than us because she's acting instead of sewing costumes or patching in the lights. But Dean.....well, he's another matter. Bit of a fat head if you ask me."

"A 'bit'?" the key grip said skeptically. "You just never noticed," he added to Langley, "because Audrey and Charlie are really the only 'cast' we have; the rest are just extras. Keeps the costs down."

Brivari ushered his guests to the door, holding it open as each one passed quietly so as not to wake the landlady. He was familiar with hierarchies, of course, but he hadn't recognized much of a caste system on the set other than the usual between employer and employed....or not until Dean had arrived. Come to think of it, there had been less banter and a generally stiffer attitude since his arrival; Audrey, for example, who had previously joked and chatted with all and sundry was now silent and strained, not to mention watched carefully by Dean. It was not a change for the better.

"I thought they'd never leave," a voice whispered

Brivari halted in his doorway as a shape emerged from the dark living room across the hall. "Surprise!" Audrey said, wearing that dazzling smile that had such an effect on the male of the species. "It's funny how time passes differently. I used to think these get-togethers went so fast, and tonight it was like torture waiting for it to end." She paused, standing awkwardly in the hallway. "Can I....come in?"

"Of course," Brivari said, stepping aside so she could enter. "But I thought you said you couldn't attend without Mr. Dean."

"Well....I can't let anyone see me come without Charlie because he can't know," Audrey said. "But if no one sees me, I'm okay. So I snuck out of the hotel and waited for everyone to leave, and I'll sneak back before they all get up tomorrow morning. Simple!"

"It doesn't sound 'simple'," Brivari observed.

Audrey's smile evaporated. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am," Brivari answered. "I'm just questioning the lengths to which you feel you need to go to escape Mr. Dean's wrath. You are not his wife and he is not your employer, yet he seems to feel he owns you. And you're much too intelligent to allow yourself to be owned."

Audrey's face softened. "You know, Langley, I don't think you have a romantic bone in your body, and yet you say the nicest things I've ever heard." She took a seat on the couch, patting the space beside her. "You're right—I wouldn't let him own me," she said as Brivari took a seat beside her. "Unless I had a good reason."

"Which is?"

"I want to work," Audrey said. "And for a woman to work in Hollywood, she has to make herself available to men. Charlie is considered a rising star in some circles, so Morty was happy to get him for a crappy little movie like this....and part of Charlie's price was me."

" 'Price'?" Brivari echoed. "Do you mean he purchased you?"

"No, of course not, silly!" Audrey laughed. "You can't buy and sell people here. Well....not officially," she amended. "See, my job isn't just to run away from fake aliens; my job is also to keep Charlie happy. If I don't, he'll badmouth me, the whole film community will hear about it, and I'll have a hard time getting work because I'll be branded a troublemaker. So if I want to work, I have to put up with him. It's only for the length of the shoot, and normally that's not so bad. But this time he's really cramping my style, so I decided he doesn't have to know everything I do. I'll visit when no one else is looking, and he'll never be the wiser. That way I keep my job, and I keep you. Like I said....simple."

"The illusion of compliance," Brivari murmured.

"I'm an actress," Audrey said. "Illusion is my business." She paused. "Are you mad at me? You're not going to tell him, are you?"

"I'm quite familiar with the use of illusion," Brivari assured her. "And no, of course I'm not going to tell him."

"I didn't think you would," Audrey said with satisfaction. "Oh, it's so good to see you, Langley! You don't know what it's been like listening to that empty-headed, self-aggrandizing pratt!"

"I might," Brivari said calmly. "Although I usually experienced them in groups."

Audrey smiled slyly. "You mean in your palace?"

"Believe it or not, there is no shortage of those types in any line of work," Brivari replied.

"Certainly not in Hollywood," Audrey sighed, leaning back on the couch and closing her eyes. "I know it's late. I won't stay long, I promise. But I just had to have an intelligent conversation with someone, or I was going to scream."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," Brivari said.

Audrey's eyes flew open. "Do you mean that?"

"I never say things I don't mean."

"No, you don't," Audrey agreed. "Yet another reason you're unlike any other man I've ever met." She sidled closer, looping her arm through his, resting her chin on his shoulder. "What's your name, Langley? Your real name, I mean."

"It was my understanding that it is common for those in show business to use a 'stage name'," Brivari replied.

"Sure it is," Audrey said. "But why no first name?"

"I was never able to come up with a suitable one," Brivari shrugged. "And I found a single name created a certain air of....mystery."

"It sure does," Audrey laughed. "So it was a business decision? Very smart. But you can tell me your real name—I won't tell anyone, I promise. C'mon—what is it?"

Brivari sighed inwardly, knowing that once Audrey latched onto a subject, she was unlikely to abandon it unless satisfied. "Perhaps you would like to suggest a first name should I choose to take one in the future?"

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?" Audrey said, giving him a playful poke. "Oh, all right. Let me think for a minute." She thought for a lot longer than that, her head resting on his shoulder, before sitting bolt upright. "Got it!" she exclaimed taking him by the shoulders. "You're 'Kal'."

" 'Kal'?"

"Like Superman," Audrey explained. "You know, the guy with the cape? Oh, but you don't read comic books, do you?" she said when Langley looked blank. "Superman is an alien from another planet whose ship crashed here when he was a baby. He runs around helping people with his superpowers."

"Interesting," Langley murmured.

"Well, he was technically 'Kal-El'," Audrey amended, "but that's a bit of a mouthful, and 'Kal-El Langley' doesn't sound right. But 'Kal Langley'.....that just rolls off the tongue. And besides," she added softly, settling back on his shoulder, "you're my Superman. So it fits every way you look at it."

Better than you know, Brivari thought privately. "Very well then," he agreed. "Should the opportunity present itself.....'Kal' it is."





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




Next week, Chapter 38 jumps ahead by a month. I'll post it next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!




CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


Four weeks later



August 18, 1959, 4:30 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Here you go, sir," Hanson said, setting a stack of folders on Valenti's desk. "Not too many today. We actually have room in the cells."

"Thanks," Valenti said shortly.

"Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"I'm fine, Hanson. Go on home and see your kid. One of us should."

Idiot, Valenti thought, mentally kicking himself for having said that out loud, and wincing at the look of sympathy on Hanson's face. "Sir," Hanson said, "if I may.....I know firsthand how difficult these past couple of months have been for you. The logistical problems, the crime, the extra employees, the personal sacrifices you've made....and you've done a wonderful job, if I do say so myself, sir. You've held the town together, kept order, kept the town council happy, kept Morton Steinfeld happy. I don't know how you did it. I know I wouldn't have been able to. My hat's off to you."

"You bucking for a promotion?" Valenti asked dryly. "I'm kidding," he added when Hanson looked alarmed. "I appreciate the compliments, but you know as well as I do that I couldn't have done it alone. There's strength in numbers."

"Of course there is, sir," Hanson replied. "And those numbers include your wife and son. They were a huge help to us while they were here. I hope they know that."

"I'll be sure to pass that along," Valenti said.

Hanson nodded briefly, pausing on his way out. "One more week, sir. One more week, and it'll all be over. I bet you can't wait."

I can now, Valenti sighed with a glance at his desk drawer. The "one more week" Hollywood would remain in Roswell meant only one more week for him to find the thief. The hunt for whoever had lifted the whatever he'd found hidden in Deputy Crist's apartment had consumed him, stealing his concentration at all hours of the day and interfering with his sleep at night. He no longer felt safe in his own station, and after four weeks of searching, he was no closer to finding the culprit.

Not that he hadn't tried. He'd dusted for fingerprints immediately, but as he'd told Andi, anyone slick enough to sneak into his office, unlock and relock his desk drawer, and escape undetected in a short amount of time was also slick enough to wear gloves, so he wasn't surprised when the only fingerprints he'd found were his own. He'd made a list of those on duty at the time, but frankly, the station was so busy that it wouldn't have been difficult for anyone with the right skills to slip back there unnoticed. He'd made general inquiries amongst his staff, but had been reluctant to reveal the theft because doing so would both tip off the thief and invite inconvenient questions about what had been taken. Nothing else in the drawer was missing, suggesting that either the thief knew exactly what he was looking for or hadn't had time to hunt further, most likely the former because he hadn't returned. Valenti had watched carefully for a second attempt, slipping a tiny sliver of paper between the lower edge of the drawer and the desk frame; had anyone opened the drawer, it would have fallen out. But the paper had remained undisturbed, meaning whoever had been here had what they wanted and hadn't come back for more.

One thing was certain: The speed and precision of the hit suggested an inside job, someone with access to his office and a good set of lock picks. His staff had nearly tripled while Hollywood was in town, with extra deputies coming from several surrounding counties. Asking for personnel files was tricky, as his conversation with Sheriff Wilcox had proven; the sheriffs would want to know the reason for the requests, and there was no way in hell he was going to tell anyone what he'd found. So he'd resorted to doing it the hard way, gathering what paperwork he could and driving to the surrounding towns and counties to check up on his temporary staff. His time being severely limited, he'd only worked his way through about half of those in question, and even that had involved many late nights and some questionable absences from Roswell. The irony was that, even though he'd have much more time after Hollywood left, Hollywood's leaving meant that the thief was likely leaving too. That left him with just a few more days to find out who it was, a few more days with not enough time to do the research he needed. Someone was here who shouldn't be. If he didn't find them, they'd walk, and he'd be damned if he'd let that happen.

Sighing, Valenti pulled Hanson's stack of folders toward him, a very small stack compared to several weeks ago. Hanson was right—Roswell's brush with Hollywood was an unqualified success, at least if one was willing to discount the actual quality of the movie being produced. The take-plenty-of-prisoners attitude he'd demonstrated from day one had registered with the worst offenders, and they'd moved on to more hospitable places. Steinfeld and company had behaved themselves, the shut-down of Main Street had gone off without a hitch, and even the protestors who called themselves "alienologists" had kept it down to a dull roar. He shouldn't let the theft of whatever weird gizmo he'd found overshadow all the successes of the past weeks. Hell, he wasn't even certain that gizmo belonged to Crist, or that Crist had anything to do with any of this.

And if I really believed that, I'd be skipping down the yellow brick road, Valenti thought. He couldn't prove it, but that gizmo was Crist's, and Crist knew something about Mark Green. Now if he could just figure out why he'd skipped town so quickly and hadn't taken it with him. Or who else knew enough about this that they could pick the lock on his desk drawer at just the right time with only minutes to spare. Probably the same someone who had been listening in on his conversation with Doctor Blake, who was still only reluctantly holding his tongue. The race to find that someone had made him distracted, irritable, and absent....and not only from work. Andi and Jimmy no longer worked at the station, it having become apparent a couple of weeks ago that their services were no longer needed, and between his job and his thief hunt, he hadn't been home much. Jimmy had been heartbroken even as Valenti had tried to cheer him up by pointing out that there was still some summer left to enjoy, all the while secretly grateful his family wasn't there anymore. If Andi had seen the way he was at work now, she would have been on him like a duck on a June bug.

"Sir?"

It was Hanson again, poking his head in the door. "Mrs. Valenti is on line one."

Valenti hesitated a minute before picking up the receiver. "Hi."

"Hi, stranger," Andi said. "Will we have the honor of seeing you tonight?"

Her tone was light, but Valenti knew better. She hadn't raised the subject of his behavior that day he'd discovered the theft or asked him anything more about it. Still, she didn't need to say a single word to telegraph her opinion that he was going overboard. Andi excelled at nonverbal communication.

"I guess so," Valenti answered before he could catch himself.

"You 'guess so'?" Andi repeated, and he could just see the arched eyebrow. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"A definite maybe," Valenti replied. "I'm not done here yet, so I'm not sure."

A deep sigh floated over the phone. "Jim, I'm not stupid; I know things are nowhere near as wild as they were at the beginning. I know you're not gone all this time because of official sheriff's business. You're chasing whoever took your whatever, aren't you?"

"What, now you're objecting to my investigation of a crime?"

"No, I'm objecting to you trying to do it all yourself," Andi said. "I know you, James Valenti. You wouldn't tell me what it was you lost, and I'll bet very good money you don't want to tell anyone else either. So despite the fact that you're sheriff in Roswell, sitting on a huge pile of manpower and resources, you're skulking around all by yourself so you won't have to give anyone any details. There's strength in numbers, Jim. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

"You don't have to tell me that," Valenti said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. "Hell, I just told Hanson that. But some things have to be done alone, and this is one of these things."

"Even if it means you never see your family?"

"Look, I don't have much longer!" Valenti exclaimed, frustration lacing his voice. "I know it was one of the temporary deputies, so I only have until the movie is finished shooting. You and Jimmy will be here in another week, but the temporary staff won't."

There was a prolonged silence on the other end of the phone. "Right," Andi said finally, her voice a study in irony. "We're always here, so we're safe to ignore."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Valenti retorted.

"Oh, I think it is," Andi said. "Just—"

"Just....wait," Valenti interrupted, immediately sorry he'd spit at her. "I'll make it up to you, to both of you. I promise. I just need to do this myself. Please try to understand."

"Of course," Andi said. "As long as you try to understand what it's like to be a single parent."

"Sir?" called a voice from the door.

"What?" Valenti snapped.

Hanson blanched. "Uh.....the Roosevelt County sheriff is on line two."

Of course he is, Valenti thought wearily. It never rains but it pours. "Andi, can you hold on a minute? I've been trying to get this sheriff for a week now, and this is the first time we've managed to connect."

"I've been trying to 'connect' with you for a lot longer than that," Andi remarked.

"Please don't be difficult," Valenti pleaded. "If—"

"Fine," Andi said flatly. "I'll make it easy for you."

*Click*

Valenti closed his eyes and leaned his forehead on the hand holding the receiver for a moment before punching the button for line two. "Sheriff Franklin? Jim Valenti. Thanks for returning my call. I had a question about a deputy from your station who's here on loan."




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




Eagle Rock Military Base




Malik perched on a rooftop with an excellent aerial view of the base, watching as the former Major Lewis climbed out of a car below, the best evidence yet that the FBI he now worked for was indeed in possession of the communicator stolen from Sheriff Valenti's office. Malik had spent the last month alternately kicking himself for not having lifted it himself before anyone else had a chance to, and trying to figure out exactly who had beat him to it. Given the staff the Roswell sheriff currently employed, that was no easy task; sheer numbers made it impossible to follow everyone as often as needed to discover the mole. His task had been made somewhat easier by Valenti himself, who was aware of the theft even though he hadn't announced it, and who had obviously reached the same conclusion as Malik, namely that the thief was likely a temporary employee. He'd encountered Valenti several times already as they each pursued the same basic objective, always withdrawing and seeking another target whenever he did so. Valenti had already proven his mettle as an investigator by finding the communicator in the first place, so having both of them pursuing the same suspect was a waste of precious time and resources.

There wouldn't have been any waste if I'd just taken it right away, Malik thought heavily as Lewis disappeared into the base's main building. Valenti would still have lost his treasure, of course, and would still be trying to find out who took it, but the communicator itself would be safe in Antarian hands. Now it was not only in human hands, but an alien hunter's hands, and even though it could not be used to track them, the fact that the FBI had managed to find something, anything, would only egg them on. Coming so close on the heels of the handprint Jaddo had left behind, this was a huge setback, and Malik had begun to have his doubts about how much longer he could safely conceal Courtney's identity. A rebel operative who supposedly wanted an alliance was one thing; more of her race who did not, and who were leaving inconvenient souvenirs behind for others to find, was another matter entirely. The time may come when safety demanded that he reveal the presence of Argilians in Roswell, which meant Courtney might very well wind up dead.

*What are you doing here?*

Malik started, so lost in thought that he'd missed Jaddo's approach. Then again, this was a Royal Warder, so perhaps he would have missed his approach anyway. *What do you think I'm doing?* he answered, catching the glance Jaddo threw toward Lewis' car. *That was Major Lewis, wasn't it?*

Jaddo regarded him levelly for a moment. *I was not aware that you had been assigned to surveil the base.*

*I wasn't.*

*But you are.*

*Occasionally,* Malik replied. *Good thing, too. Lewis being back here can't be good.*

*I am here on a regular basis,* Jaddo announced. *I've already noted his comings and goings.*

* 'Comings and goings' plural?*

Jaddo smiled faintly, clearly pleased to have information Malik didn't have....or so he thought. *The former Major Lewis, now Agent Lewis of the 'FBI', has made multiple visits to this base in the past several weeks.*

*Why?*

*I have it on good authority that Lewis has overseen the formation of a new alien hunting unit within the FBI,* Jaddo answered. *I would imagine his visits have something to do with that.*

*An alien hunting unit?* Malik echoed, keeping his voice carefully surprised. He couldn't very well tell Jaddo that an Argilian operative had already told him this, and that Jaddo was wrong: Lewis' current trips to the base were no doubt the result of his coming into possession of an Antarian communicator.

*He will get nowhere, of course,* Jaddo continued. *Lewis has probably resumed his efforts to rejoin the military. All his previous attempts have failed.*

*If he has his own unit now, why would he want to go back to the Army?*

*Once a military man, always a military man,* Jaddo said confidently. *Plus he feels he was wronged by the Army earlier, that it owes him redress. He will be wanting vindication.* He paused, studying Malik for a moment. *I'm glad to see you here. I can't be everywhere, and I seem to be the only one taking an interest in our safety these days.*

Malik blinked; that statement was the equivalent of hugs and kisses from a man who gave neither. *Does Brivari know about this new unit?* he asked casually.

*Brivari learned of it at the same time I did, through his so-called 'friend' Mr. Anderson. So yes, he knows.*

*Is he worried?*

*Hardly,* Jaddo said darkly. *He expressly forbade me to dispose of Lewis despite the obvious threat he poses.*

Because doing so would prove once again that we're here, Malik through privately. Jaddo was the type to shoot first and ask questions later, as the humans would say, while Brivari hung back, waiting to see if action was needed; both approaches had their merits, depending on the situation. *Perhaps he's concerned about the effect another death would have,* he said diplomatically. *The less they have to hunt, the shorter the lifespan this new 'alien-hunting' unit will have.*

Predictably, Jaddo shook his head. *I disagree. We should send a strong message that pursuit will not be tolerated.*

*I doubt that would work,* Malik replied. *Humans are stubborn and not entirely logical, much like children. An aggressive approach would only galvanize them further.*

*Even humans should be smart enough to back off when their lives are at stake,* Jaddo said. *If we make it a point to remove anyone tasked with hunting us, soon no one will want the job.*

*That would be logical,* Malik agreed, *but like I just said, humans aren't logical. The more people we kill, the more they will fear us, and that fear will justify their pursuit.*

Jaddo turned hard eyes on him. *So you also disagree with Rath's Warder? Refresh my memory—where exactly did you obtain your military experience?*

*You know perfectly well I don't have any military experience,* Malik said calmly, *and I've never claimed to. But this isn't a military situation; this is a question of human behavior. I've had a lot of experience with humans, so I have a good idea of how they would respond to various situations, and they're not going to react the way you think they will.*

There followed a long silence. *Then it appears I am outvoted,* Jaddo said in a sullen voice.

*I can understand if you're not interested in my opinion,* Malik answered, surprised that he appeared to have a vote. *But I would think you would be interested in the opinion of the King's Warder.*

*Under normal circumstances, I would be,* Jaddo said. *But as it stands, Brivari doesn't seem to be interested in anything these days aside from the affections of a certain female.*




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




On the set of "They Are Among Us",

Roswell




"Take two!" the director called. "Places."

Brivari clapped the clapboard, the director called, "Action!", and the cameras rolled for a only few seconds before he yelled, "Cut! No, no, no! I told you....."

Brivari waited patiently as the director once again struggled to rein in his extras, a process Audrey referred to as "herding cats". While Steinfeld had long ago solved the problem of extras not showing up for work, the fact remained that those who did show up were unskilled and inexperienced. What was simple in theory—the "aliens" chased the damsel and either did or did not catch her, depending on which scene was being filmed—was much harder in practice given the propensity of unschooled extras to mug for the camera, overact, or do just the opposite and simply freeze, overwhelmed at the notion of being filmed. The humans' love/hate relationship with their recording devices, primitive though they were, was alternately amusing and tedious.

"Take three!" the director hollered as the chastened extras took their places, and Brivari readied his clapboard.

"C'mon, Langley—smile!" Audrey admonished from her position at his feet.

Brivari resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Another human obsession was the insistence that one had to smile for recording devices, which was interesting given that the earliest examples of photography rarely showed anyone looking even vaguely happy, never mind smiling. "I'm not a member of the cast," he reminded her. "My expression is irrelevant."

"Aw heck, you always look so serious," Audrey said. "Why not smile for once?"

"The only one who will ever see it is whoever edits the movie," Brivari replied.

"Then take pity on the poor sap who has to edit this drivel, and smile!" Audrey coaxed. "Besides, you never know....maybe this will become a classic someday, and someone besides the editor will see that smile."

Doubtful on either count, Brivari thought, obliging her nevertheless just to move things along. The smile held a magical place in human society, being the single, most effective way of winning someone's trust, redirecting an argument, or influencing human behavior in almost any way. Odd, really, how turning up the corners of one's mouth and baring one's teeth could have such an effect. Ironically, although the Antarian head was much larger than a human's, the mouth was much smaller, meaning that the smile held little value in Antarian society. A human's wider mouth and large teeth produced a much more vivid effect, which might be why the gesture had gained such importance.

"That's better," Audrey said approvingly after the clapboard swung closed. Several feet away, Dean scowled at her, dutifully replacing the scowl with a frantic expression seconds after the director called, "Action!" Dean continued to object to any interaction between Audrey and the male crew members, somewhat less so to her consorting with females, a classic case of the gender dominance so common to primitive species.

"Finally!" the director said in exasperation after the next take produced useable film. "Dinner break! Be back here in one hour. We have to finish before we lose the light."

Everyone scattered, one hour being barely enough time to eat and return. But Audrey lingered, waiting until he'd stowed his clapboard.

"Wanna join us for a bite to eat?" she asked.

Brivari glanced over her shoulder at Dean, who was visibly fuming. "That would not be wise," he answered.

"I don't mean just the two of us.....although I'd like that," Audrey said, moving closer. "We're going as a group, so Charlie has no reason to complain."

"But he will....and you know he will," Brivari replied.

"So what? I've only got a week left to listen to him complain. Besides, I'm tired of kow-towing to him."

The defiance in her voice was palpable....and disturbing. Audrey had been visiting him almost every night for a month now, always in the early hours of the morning when the rest of the human world was asleep, while fawning over Dean by day as expected. No one was the wiser, but Brivari feared her success at circumventing Dean's controlling behavior had made her reckless. Or perhaps she was indeed merely weary of "kow-towing", a term with which Brivari was unfamiliar, but whose meaning he could guess.

"I fear my presence would only make things worse," he said gently. "And as you noted, you only have one week remaining to....'kow-tow'. You've kept him at bay this long; surely you can handle one more week."

Audrey sighed dramatically. "We'll be at Parker's if you change your mind. And I hope you do because he has no business bitching at me if a whole group of us are together."

Your Mr. Dean is not a group person, Brivari thought as Audrey walked away. Dean had a select group of confidantes, members of the crew by necessity, albeit hand-picked, but he rarely socialized or even deigned to speak to anyone else, especially the rank and file among the crew. Brivari's job of clapper load rendered him one of the rankest of the rank and file, a position he found interesting given that he was accustomed to being at the top of the food chain, so to speak.

*Is there trouble in paradise?* a deeply sarcastic voice asked.

*If you're here, there must be,* Brivari answered. *You never show up unless there's trouble or you wish to invent some. What is it this time?*

*Major Lewis visited the base again,* Jaddo replied, falling in step beside him as they walked across the set. *That makes his fourth visit in as many weeks.*

* Of course he's visiting the base,* Brivari said. *He wants the military's resources available to his new team, not to mention vindication for his dismissal, neither of which he is likely to get. Let him thrash all he wants. It makes no difference to us.*

*You hope,* Jaddo said.

*Of course I hope,* Brivari replied. *Don't you? Or are you looking for trouble?*

*I thought it was our job to look for trouble,* Jaddo retorted. *Only you don't seem to be doing much looking lately.*

*I am well aware of the human response to your indiscretion with Pierce,* Brivari said pointedly. *For the moment, they pose no threat. Any action beyond surveillance would needlessly expose us, which means we would be causing the very trouble we're supposed to avoid.*

*You might join me at the base occasionally and at least give the appearance of being interested,* Jaddo grumbled. *Malik did.*

*What was Malik doing at the base?*

*The same thing I'm doing, and the same thing you just recommended—surveillance. And like I said, it would be nice if you would join us.*

*Why should I when I have you to obsess over it?* Brivari asked dryly. *You'll be pleased to know that the movie is nearly over,* he added when Jaddo scowled at him, *after which I will join you if you really feel Lewis deserves to command the attention of all three of us.*

*So our Wards need to wait until your 'movie' has finished?* Jaddo asked sharply. *Your priorities are even more seriously misplaced than I'd feared.*

*Our Wards are perfectly safe, and my priorities have never wavered,* Brivari said firmly. *The worst thing we could do for our Wards is expose ourselves, which calls your priorities into question, not mine.*

*You expect me to believe that while you engage in your 'romantic triangle', or whatever humans call it?*

*I am not involved in a 'romantic triangle',* Brivari said flatly. *And furthermore—*

"Hold it right there," a male voice commanded.

Brivari and Jaddo stopped. Charles Dean was standing a few feet away, obviously angry.

"Stay away from her," he announced.

" 'Her'?" Jaddo repeated quizzically.

"Was I talking to you?" Dean said acidly. "I meant Mr. Clapper Loader there, Mr. Ugly-As-Sin who takes advantage of girls who don't know what's good for them. I've seen the way she looks at you. She's mine, not yours. Stay away from her—or else."

Dean stalked off, deliberately attempting to elbow Brivari as he passed, looking back briefly in confusion when Brivari shifted slightly to make that impossible. *Tell me you're not going to let him get away with that!* Jaddo said in disbelief.

*He's a fool, Jaddo,* Brivari said. *He is worth neither the time nor the effort.*

*He's the fool?* Jaddo asked skeptically. *You may not think yourself involved in a romantic triangle, Brivari, but it appears that Mr. Neanderthal disagrees.*




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




FBI field office

Santa Fe




"Well?" Agent Del Bianco said, spying Agent Lewis coming through the door. "Did they make a decision? Did they—"

Del Bianco fell silent, Lewis' expression making it abundantly clear that a decision had been made, and what that decision had been. " How could they?" he exclaimed as Lewis stormed past. "How could they pass up an opportunity to see how these things really work?"

"Easily," Lewis said acidly. "The Army is interested in progress only in the sense that they wish to prevent me from making any. By refusing to work with us—and taking an entire month to say so—they accomplish that nicely. Or so they think."

"Sir?"

"The only reason they believe that two communicators are required is because the prisoner told them that," Lewis said, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking an office door, "and I, for one, don't trust a word that monster said. Anything?" he barked, throwing the door open.

Agent Feldman, who was working on the alien device at a table filled with various tools, looked up in surprise, then glanced at Del Bianco, who gave him a sympathetic shrug. "Uh....not really, sir."

" 'Not really'?" Lewis echoed. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Feldman swallowed. "It means 'no', sir."

" 'No'?" Lewis repeated menacingly as the agent's eyes widened in alarm. "You've had a month, a full month to play with this thing, and you've learned nothing?"

"Well," Feldman said, obviously flustered, "we've learned a few things. We've learned that we don't know what it's made of, that it doesn't have any visible power source or any buttons, knobs, or dials that would make it work. We can't cut it, burn it, scratch it, or mark it in any way. We can't—"

"I don't want to hear what you don't know!" Lewis exploded as the two agents recoiled. "Would you like to know what I don't know, agent? I don't know what I'm going to tell the Director when I give him my next report, which is due in mere days. After appearing in triumph with the first alien artifact discovered since the crash, and the only alien artifact discovered by this unit, I must now slink back in defeat having neither secured the cooperation of the military nor discovered anything at all about this....this thing except what we don't know about it! And that is unacceptable! Totally unacceptable! Do you hear me?"

Feldman had gone white. "Yes, sir. Loud and clear."

Lewis bent over the table, planting his hands on it, his face only inches from that of his subordinate. "Then give me something to take to the Director, agent. Tell me something we do know, something we didn't know before, something that validates the formation of this unit. Can you do that, agent?"

"Well.....I......"

Without warning, the swirling symbol on the artifact flared. Three heads looked down in astonishment.

"Tell the Director," Feldman said faintly, "that it lights up."






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


I'll post Chapter 39 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE



August 18, 1959, 6:30 p.m.

FBI field office, Santa Fe





"What is that?" Agent Lewis demanded as the swirling symbol carved into the surface of the alien device continued to shine, pulsing from a dim glow to a brilliant glare. "What's it doing?"

"No idea," Agent Feldman said, bewildered. "It's never done this before, never done anything before—"

"Then what did you do to it?"

"I didn't so anything to it, sir. I was just sitting here talking to you, and it started glowing. You saw it."

"But why is it glowing?" Lewis demanded.

"Hell if I know!" Feldman exclaimed. "Sir," he added hastily when Lewis' eyebrows rose. "I don't even know how it's glowing. This thing doesn't have any battery door that I can see, or a light bulb."

"Do you think it's dangerous?" Agent Del Bianco asked worriedly. "Maybe it's not a communicator at all; maybe it's some kind of bomb, or grenade."

"And maybe that's why the prisoner told us they only work in pairs," Lewis added, his eyes widening. "Maybe it wanted to increase the level of damage. Agent Feldman, you have spent more time with this than anyone. In your professional opinion, what is happening?"

" 'Professional opinion'?" Feldman echoed incredulously. "How can any of us have a 'professional opinion' about something none of us has ever.....seen before," he trailed off as Lewis looked daggers at him.

The device abruptly stopped glowing. "Why did it stop?" Lewis demanded. "Make it start again! We need to know what this thing is!"

"Sir, I don't know how to!" Feldman said in frustration. "I don't know why it started in the first place, so I certainly can't make it happen again."

"At least you have something to take to the Director," Del Bianco said. "We know it's in working order, at least to a certain extent."

"But we still don't know what it is," Lewis said irritably, pacing around the office. "What if it is an explosive device?"

"I doubt that, sir," Feldman said. "If it were meant to explode, why didn't it?"

"A minute ago you claimed you couldn't be expected to know anything about a device you've been working on for a month, and now you have an opinion?" Lewis said acidly. "Make up your mind, agent."

"Sir, I just—"

The device flared to life again. Feldman's hand, which he had been moving as he spoke, passed over the glowing symbol, and as it did, the symbol beamed more brilliantly than ever, fading back to a soft, pulsing glow when Feldman jerked his hand away.

"Do that again," Lewis commanded. "Hold your hand over it."

"But—"

"Do it!" Lewis ordered.

Del Bianco shot Feldman a sympathetic glance as the latter held a shaky hand over the glowing symbol. It flared again; when Feldman withdrew his hand, it softened. He repeated the same movement three more times with the same result.

"Analysis," Lewis demanded.

"Well.....it doesn't appear to be a weapon," Del Bianco said hesitantly. "It's not behaving like a weapon."

"No, it's behaving like exactly what we were told it was," Feldman said. "A communication device."

"Explain," Lewis ordered.

"If this is a communication device, there must be some way to let whoever has it know that a message is coming in," Feldman said. "Perhaps the glow is like a telephone ring, or the blinking line light on an office phone."

"And holding your hand over it could be like answering that phone," Del Bianco suggested. "Maybe that's why it glows more brightly when your hand passes over it, because it senses someone there."

"It's a thought," Lewis agreed. "Agent Feldman—answer the phone."

Feldman blinked. "Sir?"

"Hold your hand over it," Lewis said impatiently. "I want to see what happens."

Feldman and Del Bianco exchanged startled glances. "But....sir, we don't know what would happen."

"Of course we don't know what would happen!" Lewis exclaimed. "Isn't that why you'd do it, to find out what would happen? Isn't that the point? Yes, that is the point," he added, answering his own question. "Hold your hand over it, and keep it there. That's an order."

Feldman shot a pleading look at Del Bianco, who shrugged helplessly. Slowly, he moved a shaking hand over the glowing symbol, stiffening when it flared brilliantly again. Ten long seconds passed.

"Nothing's happening, sir," Feldman whispered.

"Don't move," Lewis ordered.

"But sir—"

"It's still glowing more brightly than before, so whatever has started is continuing," Lewis said. "Don't move."

"But—"

"I said don't move!"

Feldman reluctantly remained still. The symbol continued to flare. "It's been a full minute, sir," Del Bianco said uncomfortably after what seemed like a lot longer than a full minute later. "Maybe it doesn't work with humans."

"Maybe not," Feldman agreed, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as his hand began to wobble unsteadily.

"Or maybe my agents give up too easily," Lewis said severely. "If—"

Suddenly a beam of light shot from the symbol on the device, rising toward the ceiling as Feldman snatched his hand away. A moment later, an image formed within the beam, a three dimensional image of a face. A man's face.

A human face.

"Who are you?" the face demanded, its voice as clear as if its owner were right there in front of them.

"I.....I.....," Feldman stuttered.

"Where did you get this communicator? Where is the operative who owns it?"

Lewis, who was behind the image and had been walking from side to side, studying it carefully, suddenly stopped. "Answer him," he whispered.

"How?" Feldman asked desperately.

"Make something up!" Lewis hissed. "Think on your feet!"

"Where did you get this communicator?" the face demanded again, showing no sign of having heard Lewis.

"I......we....found it," Feldman stammered. "We didn't know what it was. We were just......curious." He paused, visibly pulling himself together. "Who are you?"

The image was silent for a moment, glaring at him. "Sir, you need to see this," it said, apparently talking to someone else the agents couldn't see.

Another voice answered, the speaker unseen. "Well, well," it drawled, heavy with sarcasm. "Someone's where they shouldn't be."

Lewis began to back up; Del Bianco tore his eyes away from the communicator and looked at him in amazement.

"You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?" the voice continued. "They say it killed the cat." It paused as all three agents held their breath. "Guess you're not a cat, but you still should have thought of that before you messed with something you shouldn't have."

Del Bianco felt himself jerked backwards as Lewis grabbed his arm and all but hauled him out of the room, slamming the door behind them only seconds after an immensely bright light flared in the office, followed by a scream.




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



Ruth Bruce's boarding house




"Daddy?" Philip asked.

"Daddy will be home soon, sweetheart," Emily Proctor said as her grandson looked hopefully at the door. "Mama too. Would you like a snack before dinner?"

Philip nodded eagerly and clambered into a kitchen chair, perching on his knees and happily diving into the pile of sliced grapes Emily laid on the table. Dee was working tonight, which meant that dinner would be late. That usually entailed a snack for Philip so he could last until the later dinner time, and Dee had hit upon the brilliant strategy of making that "snack" a fruit or vegetable, which looked more inviting all by itself instead of surrounded by other, more interesting foods. In Emily's day, giving a child a snack right before dinner was considered a cardinal sin; Dee had turned it into an advantage. Having meals on a variable schedule had also been considered verboten, but Philip never seemed to mind. Perhaps we were too stuck on schedules, Emily thought. To think of all the times she'd adhered to her "schedule" even when she hadn't wanted to just because the experts told her she should have.

"Good?" Emily asked her grandson.

"Good," Philip replied, a fistful of grapes in one hand as he pointed with the other. "Go bye-bye?"

Emily's expression softened as she glanced toward the suitcases lined up along the nearby wall. "Yes, sweetheart, you and Mama and Daddy are going bye-bye soon. Back to school."

"School," Philip nodded, as though he already knew that.

"Grandma will miss you," Emily said. "All of you."

"Um," Philip answered, munching on grapes.

And I'm glad I didn't have to miss you sooner, Emily added privately. If not for the verbal slap her son-in-law had given her, she might have spent a summer with no children or grandchildren. Thank God Anthony had knocked some sense into her, or she wouldn't have had all these wonderful afternoons with her only grandchild to enjoy. And thank God for Courtney, if only in a twisted way. Courtney's presence had made Dee long for Emily's experience and counsel, something Emily had been all too happy to provide when it had just been Courtney. Recent revelations that more of her people were in town, however, had made Emily glad that Dee and her family were going back to Albuquerque. She had been in the middle of an alien war before, and although this hadn't reached that level and never may, there was always the possibility that it would. And if it did, she wanted her daughter and her family as far away from here as they could get.

A knock sounded on the door. "Daddy!" Philip exclaimed.

"Daddy doesn't knock," Emily reminded him, hesitating before she reached for the doorknob, it having occurred to her who it might be. She'd heard nothing from Valenti since their last conversation, and she wasn't eager to see him again. Not that she'd tell him anything, of course, but she did feel bad keeping him in the dark. Then again, maybe the dark was the best place to be under the circumstances. The deeper one delved into alien territory, the more dangerous life became.

Emily opened the door......and blinked. Not Valenti, but someone else she hadn't seen lately, someone else she'd been keeping things from. "Well," she said in surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here, despite the fact that you live downstairs. Sort of."

"It is good to see you, Emily Proctor," Brivari said. "It has been awhile, has it not?"

"It has," Emily agreed, stepping back. "Would you like to come in? Anthony should be home shortly, and Dee a little after that."

"Thank you," Brivari replied, stepping inside.

"Iced tea?"

"Do you have coffee?"

"In this heat? You're crazy," Emily said good naturedly, pouring two glasses of tea. "Stir a bunch of sugar into this, and you'll never know the difference."

"I gather you have—what is the expression?—'mended fences' with your daughter," Brivari said, taking a seat across from her as she set two glasses on the table.

"For the moment," Emily said. "You know how it is with Dee. And me," she added ruefully. "We're both stubborn as oxen. Fortunately, Anthony got through to me. And I must admit Dee handled this particular fight differently than I would have expected. She was much calmer this time, much more in control. That got my attention."

"I told her as much," Brivari said.

Emily's eyebrows rose. "You were coaching her?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "I merely noted the finer points of power struggles, something I have a great deal of experience with."

"So I hear," Emily said. "I gather you're the big man on the movie set now, advising Hollywood bigwigs and getting them to behave."

"An exaggeration," Brivari said. "And the movie will soon end."

"And then what?"

"I am not sure," Brivari admitted. "Jaddo feels my time has been wasted, and my attention needlessly diverted."

"He would," Emily chuckled. "But diverted from what?"

"Activity at the base," Brivari answered. "The formation of a new unit within your 'FBI' tasked with hunting us down."

Emily dropped her eyes to her glass, hopefully concealing that she already knew about that. "That doesn't sound good," she said.

"There will always be attempts to locate us," Brivari said, sounding completely unperturbed. "They should be monitored, but other than that, ignoring them is our best option." His gaze fell on Philip, who regarded him briefly before returning to his grapes. "Your grandson has grown."

"Yes, he has," Emily said fondly.

"I was not aware that human children grew so quickly," Brivari said, a touch of wistfulness in his voice.

Emily was quiet for a moment, recalling what Dee had said about the hybrids not growing as fast as they should be. Brivari had never raised that subject with her, so it would be indiscreet to bring it up now. "We don't live as long as your people do, so I guess we have to get our growing done faster," she said lightly.

Brivari's eyes clouded. "Believe me, I am more aware than ever that humans have shorter lifespans."

"If you're referring to your friend that died, that was an illness," Emily said gently. "Anyone can get sick."

"Indeed," Brivari murmured. "And I could have stopped it."

"Had you known," Emily added. "But you didn't. You couldn't have."

"You're not going to tell me there's some divine reason why Quanah had to die, are you?" Brivari said, a touch of irritation in his voice. "His people believe his death holds a purpose in their deity's plan."

"Maybe it does," Emily allowed. "But since I have no way of knowing that, no, I wasn't going to say that. I am going to say that blaming yourself doesn't help. David and I blamed ourselves for years after his brother killed himself. We knew James was depressed, and we tried to get help for him, but in the end he took his own life. We berated ourselves for not trying harder, for not being with him to prevent it, until we realized that we couldn't have been with him every minute. There's only so much you can do."

"But what does one do when one knows one has not done as much as one could have?" Brivari asked, staring into his tea.

Emily closed her eyes briefly, that familiar ache stirring again. "You realize that when you're dealing with the death of someone you were close to, nothing you did will ever seem like enough. The fact that they died makes any effort feel inadequate."

"Perhaps," Brivari agreed quietly. "But that will not stop me from wishing I had made a greater effort."

"Same here," Emily sighed. "How is Quanah's family doing?"

"I have not returned since his death," Brivari admitted.

"Too hard to go back?" Emily asked sympathetically.

Brivari was silent for a long time. "I would appreciate it if you would not repeat this," he said at length, "but I am considering leaving this area, for a time at least."

" 'Leaving'?" Emily repeated blankly. "Where would you go?"

"I don't know. I do know this place holds painful memories for me for a variety of reasons. I believe I might dwell less on the past if I spent less time here."

"How is Jaddo going to feel about that?"

"He will loathe the idea, of course," Brivari answered. "But if he wishes to stay here and fret over every possible developing threat, he is welcome to. Those threats are hardly confined to this place, and could safely be monitored from a distance."

"But won't you miss him?" Emily asked. "Wherever you go, you'd be the only one of your kind unless one of the other two went with you."

"I believe Jaddo and I might actually benefit from a period of separation," Brivari replied. "We were always only colleagues, thrown closer together by tragedy. We work well together in a crisis, but seem to tolerate each other less in the absence of a threat. The only real threat to our safety lies not with your people, but with mine, the king's enemies, who have never shown themselves and may not ever have arrived."

"Down," Philip announced, having finished his snack.

But they did, Emily thought, more conflicted now than ever as she wiped the sticky grape juice from her grandson's hands and picked up his plate. The "king's enemies" had found them here, albeit a rebel subset, making this a very bad time for Brivari to be taking off for parts unknown. Should she tell him? Was it ethical to withhold that information in light of what she knew? And if she did tell him, what would happen to the girl across the hall? Stupid question; she knew exactly what would happen to her....and she would be responsible for it.

"So have you definitely decided to leave, or are you just mulling it over?" Emily asked.

"I am....'mulling', as you put it," Brivari answered. "I imagine things will come into sharper focus after the movie is completed and my employment has ended."

Then I have that much time to figure this out, Emily thought heavily. Because whatever might happen to Courtney, she couldn't in good conscience let Brivari leave town without telling him what he would be leaving behind.




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




Copper Summit, Arizona




"What the hell was that?" Nicholas demanded.

Michael shot a sympathetic glance at the trembling operative trapped in front of Nicholas. "It....it appears a human came into possession of Crist's communicator," the operative answered.

"Did you get a trace?"

"Yes. Whoever has it is in Santa Fe, New Mexico, hundreds of miles north of where it should be."

Not Roswell, Michael thought with relief. Thank God.

"And where does Crist live?"

"A little town called Dexter, just south of Roswell."

"Then what was his communicator doing in Santa Fe?" Nicholas exclaimed in frustration. "And how did a human get a hold of it? Start from the beginning," he ordered.

The operative's terrified gaze swept the multitude of eyes boring into his own as everyone leaned in closer, not wanting to miss any details. "Well....I was following up with anyone who hadn't checked in on schedule," he said. "The first time I signaled Crist, no one answered, so I sent a second signal, intending to leave a message. But then I got an answer....sort of. It was intermittent, never quite connecting. I thought Crist was messing with me, and I was all ready to chew him out when the signal suddenly steadied, and that human appeared in the hologram."

"How do we know it wasn't a Warder pretending to be a human?" Greer asked.

"Because a Warder wouldn't have bothered to pretend," Nicholas said impatiently. "What exactly did the human say?"

"That they'd found it, and they didn't know what it was. That they were just curious. You heard that part."

" 'Found it'?" Nicholas grumbled. "They're supposed to hide these things, for Christ's sake, not leave them lying around for humans to pick up."

"The bigger question," Greer said, "is what happened to Crist? Why hasn't he reported in?"

Michael shifted uneasily as a heavy silence permeated the room in the hidden chamber beneath Nicholas' house. While he agreed with Greer that the human in the hologram was not a Warder in disguise, he still felt Covari had something to do with this. It was too coincidental that his daughter would locate the Warders, their allies, and the one rogue Covari left only to have an operative go missing and his communicator fall into human hands. Nicholas was a cruel master, but he was also no fool; he may very well discern that there was more to this than met the eye, and the results would not be good for either Courtney or their mission despite the fact that the errant communicator wasn't in Roswell. It was time to intervene.

"We can't afford to leave that communicator in human hands," Michael said.

"We didn't," Nicholas said with a nasty smile. "Every communicator is equipped with a little gift from that rogue Covari who blew me in; give it the right code, and I can kill whoever's on the other end. A neat trick, even if it did come from a Covari."

Michael paled. "You mean every communicator can do that? Even the trithium generators?"

"You bet," Nicholas said. "With everyone scattered the way they are, I have to have a way to dispose of undesirables from a distance."

"Of course," Michael said faintly. So much for the notion that Courtney was safely out of Nicholas' reach. "Whether or not the thief survived, someone still has to find out who acquired the communicator and how, and what happened to Crist. Someone needs to go up there. I volunteer."

"No," Nicholas said. "I need you here. Greer will go. Take a team."

"With all due respect, Greer is far more important to you than I am," Michael said quickly when Greer looked distinctly unhappy.

"He's right," Greer agreed readily. "He should go."

"I would suggest taking just one operative with me," Michael ploughed on before Nicholas could reply. "Two can move more quickly than a full team, and are less likely to attract suspicion. We can always send more later if the situation warrants."

There was a long pause while Nicholas considered, both Michael and Greer uneasy, albeit for different reasons—Greer didn't want to go, and Michael was terrified a full team would go charging into the Roswell area and ruin any chance of contacting the Warders, not to mention put his daughter's life in danger. At least if he were with the team, he could monitor and hopefully affect its movements; even better would be if he was allowed to go with an operative of his choosing. That was probably too much to ask for, so he mentally prepared arguments that would at least get him on the team.

"All right," Nicholas said suddenly. "Michael, you go. Take one man, someone you trust implicitly. Find out what happened to Crist, and who had that communicator. And while you're up there, stop in and see Courtney. Maybe she knows something. Crist was temporarily assigned to the Roswell sheriff's station this summer."

"I.....thank you, Nicholas," Michael stammered, flabbergasted to have gotten everything he wanted, and more. "I'll begin preparations at once."

"Don't screw up," Nicholas said casually. "I can always do to you what I did to that stupid human. Kidding," he added when Michael's eyes widened. "Just kidding. Get going."

Fifteen minutes later, Michael was back in his house with the telephone pressed impatiently to his ear. It took several tries and more than an hour before Courtney picked up.

"Where have you been?" Michael demanded. "Did Mark get his message?"

"Did....what?" Courtney stammered. "Uh.....no. He's not home."

"Why is he never home?" Michael wondered. "But then perhaps I should be grateful for that. Everything will be easier if he's gone a lot."

"What will be easier?" Courtney asked warily.

"There's been an incident in Santa Fe," Michael replied. "Nicholas has ordered me to investigate, and I'm to stop in Roswell on the way there. We have much to talk about, Courtney, and we'll have to be careful to avoid Mark."

There was a very long pause before Courtney spoke again. "That's okay, Papa," she said faintly. "I don't think avoiding Mark will be a problem."




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


I'll post Chapter 40 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY


August 18, 1959, 7:00 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




"This drive gets longer every week," Agent Owens grumbled as he climbed out of the car and stretched.

"Only four hours," Agent Cates said. "We used to drive eight, ten, even twelve hours when I went on vacation as a kid. My Dad didn't like to stop, not even to let us pee."

"Four hours is my limit," Owens said firmly. "After that, I start to petrify."

"I'm glad we were the ones who found something," Cates said as they walked into the building. "Lewis isn't too happy with everyone else."

"Maybe there was nothing to find," Owens said. "Lewis acts like they're incompetent or lazy, but no one can find anything if there's nothing to find."

"I don't think it's occurred to Lewis that there might be nothing to find," Cates answered. "Like with Feldman. What's he supposed to do with that alien football? It doesn't have an 'on' switch, a power cord, or anything else that looks like it would make it work, but he's catching hell for not making it sing and dance."

"That's because Lewis will have to do a song and dance if they haven't figured out how to make it work by the time he meets with J. Edgar," Owen said, pulling out his key for the door to the section that Lewis' unit had been allotted. "I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall for that vaudeville act. We should sell tickets—" He stopped short, then gave the door a gentle push. It swung open, having not only not been locked, but not even latched.

"Wow," Cates said faintly. "Whoever left that open is going to catch hell."

"Sounds like someone already has," Owens muttered, hurrying toward the back, where the sounds of a commotion grew louder as they approached. Rounding a corner, they discovered three agents not assigned to the unit gathered around the door to Agent Feldman's office, which was guarded by an obviously flustered Del Bianco.

"You have to let us in!" one of the agents exclaimed.

"I'm under strict orders not to let anyone inside this room but Agent Bernard Lewis, head of this unit," Del Bianco said hotly. "You shouldn't be here; you don't have clearance. I'd leave if I were you. You don't want Lewis finding you here."

"What happened?" Owens demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Something exploded down here," one of the agents said, "and choir boy here won't let us in."

"You don't belong here!" Del Bianco insisted.

"And explosions don't belong in field offices," the agent retorted, "but that doesn't seem to bother you, does it?"

"C'mon, guys, back off," Cates said. "He's only following orders, just like we all do. If you don't like it, take it up with Lewis or his supervisor. Don't take it out on Del Bianco."

The three agents left reluctantly, muttering under their breaths about doing just that. "Wait till they find out Hoover is Lewis' supervisor," Owens said. "Jesus, Del Bianco, what happened?"

"Yeah, you look like you've seen a ghost," Cates added.

For a second, it looked like Del Bianco was going to answer them; then his mouth closed in a thin line. "I can't tell you. Lewis' orders."

" 'Can't tell us'?" Owens echoed. "We're Special Unit! What do you mean you 'can't tell us'?"

"Like I said, Lewis' orders," Del Bianco said stoutly.

"Fine, then let us in," Owens said impatiently, trying to push past Del Bianco.

"No," Del Bianco said firmly. "No one goes in there."

"Into Feldman's office? Why not?" Cates asked. "Did he get that alien thingamajig working?"

"Shhhh!" Del Bianco whispered fiercely. "Don't say that out loud!"

"So he did get it working?" Cates said. "Then what's wrong? What's this about an explosion?"

Cates and Owens exchanged glances as Del Bianco's face drained of color. "Did something happen to Feldman?" Owens asked sharply.

Del Bianco paled further. "Lewis' orders," he repeated in a hollow voice. "No one goes in there."

"Out of my way," Owens said firmly.

"No!" Del Bianco shouted. But Owens grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him aside as Cates reached for the doorknob and flung the door open. All three stood gaping in the doorway.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Owens breathed. "What happened here?"

Del Bianco was looking at the floor, the ceiling, the window, anywhere but at the table in the middle of the room. "I said, what happened here?" Owens repeated.

"Like they said," Del Bianco whispered. "There was an explosion."

Owens and Cates looked at each other, then at the center of the room. There had indeed been an explosion in Feldman's office, an explosion which had taken out.....Feldman. His charred and blackened body was still smoking in the remains of his chair next to the remains of his work table, while the rest of the office remained untouched. "My God!" Cates exclaimed. "What did this? Was it that....that thing?" he asked, indicating the burned remains of the alien device sitting directly in front of what had once been Agent Feldman.

"Talk," Owens demanded, backing Del Bianco against the wall.

"I was ordered not to," Del Bianco said stubbornly. "If Lewis finds out—"

"If you don't talk, you'll never get to the part where Lewis finds out," Owens warned. "Now, talk!"

"Don't you think we deserve to know?" Cates added. "We found it."

"This isn't about who 'deserves to know'," Del Bianco objected. "It's about orders! I have orders—"

"To hell with your orders!" Owens said angrily, grabbing Del Bianco by the collar. "One of our own is dead, and you won't tell us why? Talk, Del Bianco!"

"Cough it up," Cates added angrily, "or I not only won't hold him back, I'll beat him to it."

Del Bianco's eyes flickered defiantly from one to the other before apparently deciding that his personal safety outweighed any orders he had received. "He....he got it working," he said, nodding toward what was left of Feldman without actually looking at him. "Or it started working. He claimed he hadn't done anything, that it started working on its own."

"Working how?" Owens demanded.

"That swirly thing on the top was glowing," Del Bianco said, "and Feldman discovered that every time his hand passed over it, it glowed brighter. So we thought, since it was supposedly a communication device, maybe that's the way you answer it. So Lewis told him to hold his hand over it."

"And?" Cates pressed.

Del Bianco swallowed. "And this picture formed in the air over top of it. Like TV, but without a screen, and 3D too. It was a human face, a man's face, and he asked Feldman who he was and what had happened to the 'operative' who owned the device. And then...."

"And then what?" Owens asked when Del Bianco hesitated. "What?"

"He screamed," Del Bianco whispered. "God, I've never heard a sound like that. There was this bright flash of light and a kind of sonic boom, and he screamed. I covered my ears. Even the door couldn't block it."

"Wait," Cates said. "The door? Do you mean you were outside the office when this happened? Why?" he continued when Del Bianco nodded. "If Feldman was making such a momentous discovery, why were you outside?"

Owens suddenly exploded, hauling Del Bianco off the wall and shaking him. "You left him, didn't you? You ran like a dog with your tail between your legs and let him get fried!"

"No!" Del Bianco exclaimed. "I didn't! Lewis pulled me out! He grabbed me and pulled me out!"

"You both left him!" Owens raged as Cates tried to pull him off. "You—"

"And what would you have had us do?" a sharp voice interrupted. "Stay with him so all three of us could be killed?"

Owens whirled around to find Agent Lewis in the doorway. "Unhand him," Lewis ordered. "Agent Del Bianco was only doing his job, which is to follow my orders as the leader of this unit."

"Is it true?" Owens demanded. "Did you really cut and run, and—"

"Chris," Cates warned.

"—let Feldman get blown to smithereens? Is that what you call leadership? What the hell kind of dictionary are you using?"

A stunned silence fell over the room. Owens was panting, Del Bianco and Cates were wide-eyed with shock, and Lewis regarded Owens in stony silence for what seemed like a very long time indeed.

"The dictionary I am using, agent, is the one that defines leaders as those who make hard decisions," Lewis answered. "Often unpopular decisions. Decisions others love to second guess. Especially those who weren't there and are in no position to be passing judgment on something they didn't see. Am I making myself clear, agent?"

Owens held Lewis' gaze, but said nothing. "I understand this is a shock," Lewis continued, "so I will overlook this....indiscretion. Once. Take my advice and don't overstep your bounds again. We have more important things to deal with than your self-righteous indignation."

"Like a dead colleague," Owens said grimly.

"Exactly," Lewis agreed. "And do you know why he's dead, agent? He's dead because aliens killed him. Aliens who didn't want him tampering with their technology. Aliens who are obviously still using devices just like the one we found. Aliens who have 'operatives', meaning that they have infiltrated our society, possibly in ways undreamed of. Aliens who look exactly like us, are virtually indistinguishable from us. Aliens who are still here, who have not gone home after some unfortunate accident as they would have had us believe back in the forties. I always knew that was a lie, and this proves it. Why are they still here after all this time? Why do they need 'operatives'? And what do we make of creatures who can do that—" he nodded toward what remained of Feldman as the others studiously looked away "—who would do that to someone who had merely stumbled upon their phone number?"

Lewis was quiet for a moment, as though waiting for an answer. "In regards to your specific question," he continued when none came, "what I did was not 'cut and run', but 'cut our losses'. If Agent Del Bianco and I had been in this room when that thing went off, all three of us would likely be dead. Surely one dead agent is better than three?"

"And zero dead agents are better than one!" Owens said harshly, not the least bit cowed by Lewis' diatribe. "The point is that you didn't even try to save Feldman!"

"The point is, he couldn't have," Del Bianco broke in. "We barely made it out ourselves. If we'd tried to haul Feldman out with us, none of us would have made it."

"There are losses in every war," Lewis added. "Real soldiers know this, and accept it as a regrettable but necessary price to pay for our freedom and safety. Be grateful our losses were as low as they were."

"I'm not a soldier, and you're a little too willing to shrug this off," Owens retorted. "But I suppose one dead agent is a small price to pay for having something to drop in the Director's lap in a few days, isn't it?"

"Okay, that's enough," Cates said briskly as Lewis' eyes flashed dangerously. "Sir, please forgive him; this has been a tremendous shock. Why don't I take him out and get him a beer or three, and let him cool off."

"An excellent suggestion," Lewis said frostily. "Our ballistics experts should have a preliminary report for us within the hour. Make certain he 'cools off' by then."

"Yes, sir. One hour. Shut up," Cates added in a stern whisper as he propelled Owens toward the door. "One more word out of you, and you'll lose your job."

"That'd be preferable to losing it the way Feldman did," Owens snapped, wrenching himself out of Cates' grasp and stalking on ahead.




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney set the phone down in shock, her grocery bag of frozen vegetables thawing at her feet. All the possible repercussions from this latest chat with her father, including the fact that her own equipment could be used against her, paled beside the fact that she would have to face him at last. She'd kept it from him for two months now, but if her father was coming to Roswell, he was bound to notice a few things, or more specifically, the absence of a few things. Like the fact that she obviously wasn't sharing a room with anyone, never mind the operative who was supposed to be chaperoning her. And while it was certainly a relief that it was her father who was coming and not Greer or, God forbid, Nicholas himself, the fact remained that her father was perfectly capable of ordering her back to Copper Summit. Back to that house next door to Nicholas and his minions, back to endless scrutiny, back to confinement, back to.....boredom. As inexperienced as she was, she had accomplished much more than she'd been sent here to do, plus made friends and learned to support herself besides. She had learned enough, albeit the hard way, that she could survive on her own in the human world. No wonder Nicholas had been reluctant to put everyone in the field.

I need advice, Courtney thought, emptying her soggy paper grocery bag into the freezer and hurrying across the hall. Dee was at the diner tonight which meant that Mrs. Proctor should be babysitting Philip; perhaps a human parent would be a good sounding board for how to break her news to an Antarian parent. "Mrs. Proctor?" she called, knocking on Dee's door. "Are you there?"

"Come in," Emily's voice answered.

Thank God, Courtney thought, relief washing over her as she threw the door open. "I'm so glad you're here," she said even before she was inside. "I just got a call from my father, and he's coming to see me! I—"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Philip was building yet another block tower in the corner, Emily was sitting at the kitchen table, and across from her was none other than "Mr. Langley", otherwise known as Brivari.

"I.....I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't know you had.....company."

"Does a visit from your father constitute bad news?" Brivari asked.

Courtney swallowed hard, stupefied that she had almost blurted out her secret right in front of the king's Warder. "Courtney has a somewhat....problematic relationship with her father," Emily said smoothly, covering her silence. "Perhaps you could come back later, dear, and we can talk then."

"Right," Courtney whispered, barely registering the sympathetic look Emily was giving her. "Later. Sorry."

"Twitchy little thing, isn't she?" Brivari said casually as she left the apartment and skipped down the stairs, not slowing until she reached the end of the front walk. That had been close, so close...... Too close, she thought grimly as she hurried toward Parker's, the evening sun only marginally less torrid than earlier. She'd lived so long now with people who knew who she was, what she was, that she'd grown careless. Even if it was only her father coming this time, others would follow; she could not afford that level of carelessness, not if she wanted to stay alive.

"Didn't get enough of the place earlier?" Nancy asked when she arrived at Parker's.

"I.....forgot something in my locker," Courtney said.

Nancy nodded and hurried off, her arms laden with plates. Courtney found Dee in the back, having just deposited a load of dirty dishes to be washed. "What are you doing here?" Dee asked when Courtney hooked an arm through hers and propelled her back toward the little hall where the lockers were. "Is something wrong with Philip?"

"Philip's fine," Courtney said, opening the door to her locker so they could use it as a shield from prying eyes. "My father just called. Someone activated that communicator Valenti found, and now he's coming up here! What am I going to do? What am I going to tell him about Mark?"

"Slow down," Dee ordered. " 'Someone' activated the communicator? Who?"

"Whoever took it from Valenti," Courtney explained. "And—"

"You mean the FBI? A human activated it? How could a human activate one of your communicators?"

"Humans emit large amounts of bioelectric energy," Courtney explained. "You just don't know how to use it....and that particular human will never use it again. The point is—"

"What do you mean?" Dee asked. "What happened to whoever activated it?"

"Nicholas killed him, of course. What else?"

"Killed him how? Has he already sent someone up here?"

"He used the communicator," Courtney said. "Look, the point is that Nicholas knows that humans are in possession of Crist's communicator, and—"

"No, the point is that a man just died," Dee interrupted sharply. "And not only that, but if Nicholas can kill someone with a communicator, he can also kill you with yours."

"Don't you think I've figured that out?" Courtney said impatiently. "We all live under Nicholas' thumb, so the idea that he has a way to kill us by remote control isn't surprising. And whoever activated that communicator is supposedly hunting not only me, but the Warders besides, so forgive me if I'm not shedding any tears for him. They're messing with stuff they don't understand, and they'll have to fight their own battles; I have to figure out what I'm going to tell my father about why Mark and Crist aren't here."

"Okay," Dee sighed. "Crist is easy. Malik made it look like he quit and left town, and that's what everyone thinks, so you just stick to the story. As for Mark....I'm afraid you're going to have to tell him the truth."

"What, that I lied to him?" Courtney exclaimed. "That the sheriff had the body, that he knows Mark was an alien, and I kept that all quiet?"

"What other—" Dee stopped as another waitress walked to her locker, opened it, and chucked something inside, giving them curious looks before returning to the kitchen. "What other choice do you have?" she continued in a whisper. "Lots of people know Mark was killed, so if you tell your father otherwise, he'll find out eventually anyway."

"Oh, God," Courtney said, leaning back against the adjacent locker. "He'll be so mad. He'll make me go back, he'll—"

"How?" Dee asked. "How will he make you go back? What can he do to you to make you go back?"

With a start, Courtney realized Dee was right: There wasn't any way to force her return to Copper Summit. Nicholas was unlikely to be interested in fatherly pleas for a daughter's return in the current climate, so short of exposing her, which her father would never do, he could bluster and order all he wanted, but she could still refuse.

"Look, you made the decision to stay here for a reason," Dee went on, "presumably a good enough reason that you'd go so far as to cover up Mark's death. It looks like it's time to tell your father what those reasons are and stand behind them. He doesn't have to like them, or agree with them....but that doesn't mean you're wrong. It just means you disagree. My mother and I have been doing that for years." She paused, giving Courtney a sympathetic look similar to Emily's. "When's he getting in?"

"Tonight," Courtney said miserably. "In the middle of the night. With another resistance operative."

"Then you have a few hours to come up with what you're going to say," Dee said gently. " If you really feel that what you did was best for your cause, you're going to have to argue that point. Remember, you're an adult and a Level III operative. I would imagine you don't get to Level III by knuckling under every time someone disagrees with you. "

"It's different when that someone is your own father," Courtney muttered.

"Or mother," Dee agreed. "Tell me about it." She reached over and closed the locker. "I have to finish my shift. I'll be off before long, and then we can all talk about it. Maybe Malik will have some ideas."

"No!" Courtney said in alarm. "We can't tell him! Not yet."

"We have to," Dee objected. "If there are more of your people coming, whether it's your father or anyone else, he needs to know that."

"If he finds out there are more of my people coming, he'll tell the Warders," Courtney insisted.

"Maybe it's time to tell the Warders," Dee said. "Maybe this has gone too far. It was one thing when we were the only ones who knew your people were here, but now the FBI knows.....and the Warders don't."

"But—"

"You're not stupid, Courtney," Dee said firmly. "You knew it would come to this eventually. We held off as long as we could, but there's too much at stake now, including the people you're supposedly here to save. We have to tell them."

"Okay, compromise," Courtney said desperately. "I'll tell Malik myself....and then we'll let him decide what to do. Deal?"

Dee eyed her for a moment while Courtney held her breath. "Deal," she said finally. "But make sure you tell him. Because if you don't, I will."




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



FBI Field Office

Santa Fe




"You're going to behave yourself, right?" Del Bianco asked when he spied Cates and Owens approaching.

"He will," Cates promised with a pointed look at Owens. "Won't you?"

"No promises," Owens said darkly, nodding toward Feldman's office. "What's going on?"

Del Bianco shook his head. "Not sure. Lewis has been closeted in there since shortly after you two left. I should have gone out with you for that beer."

"No, you shouldn't have," Owens said flatly.

"Hey, you're not blaming me for this, are you?" Del Bianco protested. "I told you Lewis grabbed me and pulled me out of there."

"Which begs the question why didn't he grab Feldman and pull him out of there too," Owens said. "But we both know the answer to that, don't we? Lewis was heading out the door even before things got ugly."

"Look, we barely made it out in time," Del Bianco argued. "If we hadn't been right near the door, all three of us might be dead. Is that what you want? Would that make you feel better?"

"Don't be an asshole," Owens said sharply.

"You're the asshole if you expect me to apologize for being alive!" Del Bianco retorted.

"Guys....guys," Cates interrupted, stepping between them. "We're all upset that Feldman's dead, but going at each other's throats isn't going to change that. You," he said to Del Bianco, "have to realize that we weren't here when this happened, so naturally we have questions about what went down and why, and you," he added to Owens, "need to acknowledge that it was Lewis' quick assessment of the risk that saved two agents' lives. Otherwise we would have had three fried bodies, and no idea what happened. One is bad, but it's better than three any day....and we all knew the risks when we signed on. Even Feldman."

Feldman's office door opened, and Agent Lewis appeared. "You're back," he said with a pointed look at Owens. "Have you reacquired your perspective, Agent Owens?"

"Yes, sir," Owens said tonelessly.

"Good. Step inside, gentlemen. You need to hear this."

Cates, Owens, and Del Bianco walked cautiously inside Feldman's office, keeping toward the door, their eyes averted from his charred body. Across the room was a flustered looking man with thick glasses who was taking copious notes on a legal pad. "Gentlemen, this is Dr. Mosher," Agent Lewis said, "a ballistics expert. Tell my agents your findings, if you would, please."

"You understand this is completely preliminary," Dr. Mosher cautioned. "I'll need weeks to analyze all this."

"Yes, yes," Lewis said with exaggerated patience. "We understand. Proceed."

"All right," Dr. Mosher said, removing his glasses. "This....individual appears to have died from a blast of radiation."

" 'Radiation'?" Cates repeated blankly. "Like an x-ray?"

"More like an atomic bomb," Mosher corrected, "although nothing like our atomic bombs. An effect like this could only be produced with a very tightly controlled, precisely aimed blast, the likes of which are far beyond our capabilities. Anyone's capabilities," he added. "Including Russia's. If my colleagues could see this—"

"Doctor, I believe I made it quite clear that you can't discuss the origins of this particular....'effect' with anyone outside this unit," Lewis broke in.

"Right," Mosher said with obvious disappointment. "The blast appears to have been limited to a three foot radius," he continued, settling his glasses on his nose as he peered at his pad, "which might be a limitation imposed by the size of the delivery device itself, or a deliberate attempt to minimize the damage. It's hard to say without being able to examine the delivery device, which was mostly destroyed in the explosion. That's all I've managed to come up with so far."

"Thank you, doctor," Lewis said briskly. "Finish collecting your samples. I want a written report within twenty-four hours." He ushered the agents outside, closing the door behind him and fixing them with a steady stare. "There you have it, gentlemen. Proof that the alien prisoner lied to us. That device wasn't for communication. It's a weapon, or to be more precise, a miniature atomic bomb."

"But.....it seemed to be a communication device when that face first appeared," Del Bianco said. "The alien said it belonged to an 'operative'—"

"Of course it did," Lewis said, "the same way a gun or a grenade 'belongs' to a soldier. If anyone had any lingering doubts about the threat we're dealing with, they will have them no longer. These are murderous creatures who could have planted these devices virtually anywhere. In light of this, I'm quite certain the Director will give us all the latitude we need to pursue them."

"It's a weird kind of bomb, sir," Cates noted. "You said Feldman had to activate it first. Doesn't that seem kind of counterproductive?"

"Not at all," Lewis answered. "What better way to target more precisely?"

"Guess the Army's lucky theirs never killed anyone," Del Bianco remarked.

"We should warn them not to 'activate' their device," Owens said.

"We will do no such thing," Lewis said firmly.

Three pairs of eyes blinked. "But....the same thing could happen to them, sir," Cates protested. "Don't you think—"

"I do not," Lewis interrupted. "I have given the military every opportunity to cooperate with the Bureau in the pursuit of intelligence regarding these so-called 'communicators', and they have consistently refused. In refusing to share their intelligence, they have simultaneously declined receipt of ours."

"But someone could die, sir!" Owens protested.

"They could indeed, agent," Lewis agreed. "And that will be the Army's fault, not the FBI's. The Army currently suffers from a disturbing inertia regarding alien infiltration, an inertia I have been powerless to counteract. Perhaps the death of one of their own would rouse them from their lethargy."

"Sir, you can't be serious!" Owens protested. "If—" He stopped short when he saw the look in Lewis' eye.

"Agent Owens, you have already lost perspective once this evening," Lewis said coldly. "Take my advice, and do not do so again. Agent Del Bianco," he continued, "the coroner will be here shortly to retrieve Feldman's body, after which I want you to draft a letter to his parents informing them that their son died in the line of duty. Have it on my desk before you leave tonight. No details, of course. Agents Cates and Owens, you will continue your duties in Roswell. Keep an eye out for any more treasures the sheriff may discover. He found one of these devices; he may well find another. Dismissed."

"Jesus Christ Almighty," Owens muttered in disgust after Lewis left. "So he doesn't care if he offs a soldier, and he wants you to lie to Feldman's parents. I wonder if the aliens treat each other this way."



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



August 19, 1959, 4 a.m.

Roswell




"Is this it?" Michael asked, squinting at the street sign as Nathaniel drove slowly down Roswell's dark Main Street. "Confound these tiny human eyes! After all this time, I'm still not used to the reduced field of vision."

"They'll do," Nathaniel said calmly, turning down a side street. "I believe this is her street. And I believe this is her house," he added, bringing the car to a halt in front of a rather large, two-story human dwelling. "Nice place. She's done well for herself, Michael."

"She's with Mark," Michael reminded him. "It's not like she's all by herself."

"Still, it was awfully gutsy of her to offer to come up here," Nathaniel said. "Is she going to Santa Fe with us?"

Michael hesitated, having not explained the full extent of their situation even to his most trusted deputy. "We're not going to Santa Fe," he answered.

"But the signal came from Santa Fe—"

"And I'm afraid I know why," Michael broke in. "Courtney has located the Warders."

Nathaniel's eyes widened. "She found them?" he whispered. "Do they know this?"

"Not yet," Michael answered. "Although the one Covari who remained alive from the rogues who once assisted us is aware of her, as are the Warders' human allies. She has apparently befriended them. After several lectures on the fine art of diplomacy," he added. "The human allies regard Covari as equals, and convincing Courtney to play along with that nonsensical notion took some time."

Nathaniel was quiet for a moment before speaking again. "How long?"

"Six weeks," Michael answered.

"And you said nothing? Not to any of us?"

"I didn't dare," Michael insisted. "It was frightening enough to talk to my daughter on that infernal 'telephone'. Even though Nicholas pays no attention to that mode of communication, I lived in constant fear that someone would suddenly develop an interest in it. I had planned to come up here if she found them, but then the Warders killed one of their former captors, and I couldn't leave; none of us could. I had to entrust our mission to her."

"So that was why you volunteered to go to Santa Fe," Nathaniel said. "It was the only way to reach Roswell without rousing Nicholas' suspicions. But how will we answer communications? The minute we respond, they'll know we're not in Santa Fe."

"Nicholas knows we're stopping here," Michael said, climbing out of the car. "We're fine for a day or so. After that....." He paused, staring at the house in front of him. "After that, we'll just have to 'play it by ear', as the humans say. Be careful with Mark," he added as the headed up the front walk, lit brightly by the moon. "Officially we're just stopping here on our way north. We'll have to at least make a pretense of leaving just to keep him quiet, and then make certain he doesn't see us after that."

"Right," Nathaniel murmured as they carefully opened the front door. The house was dark and silent, it being the middle of the night for humans. "She's on the second floor, as I recall."

Michael nodded, making an effort to keep his footsteps light and measured as they walked up the stairs, so eager was he to see his daughter. It had been two months since she'd left, and he hadn't slept well since. She was effectively alone here, living with a hostile operative and surrounded by Covari and their allies. The potential for disaster was enormous.

"This is it," Michael whispered, knocking softly on her door.

Faint footsteps approached, and the door opened to reveal his weary daughter. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him even before he was all the way inside. "It's so good to see you! You too, Nathaniel. How is everyone? Has anyone been discovered?"

"Shhhh!" Michael admonished with a frown, displeased that she was being so indiscreet. "Where is Mark?"

Courtney's smile faded, and she closed the door behind them before answering.

"He's not here."

"At this hour?" Michael said. "Where is he?"

Courtney hesitated a moment. "Why don't you both sit down," she said gently. "There's something I need to tell you."




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


I'll post Chapter 41 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE



August 19, 1959, 6 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house





"Irresponsible, inconsiderate, deceitful....no, downright dangerous!" Michael exclaimed. "Whatever possessed you to keep this from me? Did you really think you were going to get away with it?"

"I have for two months—"

"Silence!" Michael thundered. "I'm the one talking now! You've said quite enough, thank you! Or not enough, actually," he added darkly.

Courtney sat bolt upright on her bed, resisting the urge to bow her head at her father's anger which crashed over her like a wave as he paced back and forth in front of her, too agitated to hold still. Across from her, Nathaniel sat in one of her two chairs, silent and unhelpful. Not that she had expected assistance from him; quite the opposite. He would, of course, side with her father. He really had no other choice.

"Do you have any idea how this jeopardizes my position?" Michael continued furiously. "An operative is dead, a human has possession of his husk, you've been lying about his presence here, and.....oh, God," he whispered, coming to a halt in front of her. "Mark supposedly reported in just recently. How did you manage that?"

Courtney squeezed her hands into fists, willing her voice to remain steady. "Malik took his shape."

Michael's eyes widened; behind him, she saw Nathaniel stiffen. "Malik took his......you let a Covari communicate with our base?"

"You told me to be nice to him—"

"I told you to avoid angering the Warders' human allies by being disparaging toward Covari!" Michael interrupted. "That doesn't mean you allow it to contact our base! If I thought you reckless and irresponsible before, I didn't know the half of it! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking of our mission," Courtney answered, "and—"

"That was a rhetorical question," Michael snapped. "Nothing you were thinking justifies this behavior!"

"If you don't want answers, then I would recommend you stop asking questions," Courtney said sharply.

Her father paused, fixing her with a hard stare that she returned with surprisingly little effort. Even though she had dreaded this confrontation, seeing herself summarily dismissed as some immature child after everything she'd been through, everything she'd accomplished, had raised her hackles. Her fear was subsiding, replaced by a head of steam that threatened to rival her father's.

That transformation had begun the night before, when Courtney had returned from the diner to find Anthony home and Emily gone. The hour long wait for Dee to come home had seemed interminable, but proven useful as she'd mulled over what Dee had said. She had had excellent reasons for what she'd done; the problem would be convincing her father of that.

"You might not be able to," Dee had said when she and Courtney had sat down to draft a strategy. "Your goal shouldn't be to convince him, but to explain and support your position whether or not he winds up agreeing with you, which he very well might not. You may just have to agree to disagree."

"Doesn't that sound familiar," Anthony said dryly. "Dee has a lot of experience arguing with her mother; heck, just plain arguing," he added as Dee gave him a withering look. "I think they live in a permanent state of 'agreeing to disagree'."

"I don't see how my father and I can 'agree to disagree' about my keeping Mark's death from him," Courtney said doubtfully.

"But what difference did that make?" Dee asked. "Mark was dead before you even got here. Valenti had his body before you even got here. All of that—Mark's murder, Valenti finding out something was weird with his body—would have happened whether or not you came, whether or not you stayed. Your coming didn't cause it, and your leaving wouldn't have fixed it. You could even argue that leaving would have been unwise because staying allowed you to keep an eye on the situation."

Courtney had blinked. "You're right," she'd said after a moment. "I never thought of it that way."

"The best defense is a good offence," Dee announced, pulling out a pad of paper. "You know your father—what's he going to say? You need to be prepared with rebuttals for any objections he has."

"Spoken like a true trial lawyer-to-be," Anthony had chuckled.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, Dee had methodically laid out on paper a list of arguments and counterarguments with the skill of that "trial lawyer" she wanted to be. "It all sounds so logical when you say it," Courtney sighed, leaning back in her chair when they'd finished, "but somehow, I don't think my father will buy it."

"He doesn't have to," Dee reminded her. "You have to. You have to believe that you did the right thing. That doesn't mean your decisions were perfect, only that, on balance, they were the best of several imperfect choices. And whatever you do, stay calm. If you get angry, that just reinforces your father's view of you as a child throwing a tantrum. And don't get too defensive; that sounds like you're unsure of yourself."

"You don't want much, do you?" Courtney had said irritably. "How do I 'explain' without being 'defensive'?"

"You explain two or three times, and then you say, 'I've already explained that. It's a waste of time to go over it again.' Don't let him keep you in a round and round argument. That's the advice I was given when my mother and I were at each other's throats earlier this summer, and it worked."

"Who gave you that advice?" Courtney asked wearily. "Another 'trial lawyer'?"

Dee and Anthony had exchanged glances. "No. Brivari."

Courtney had nearly laughed out loud at that, so ludicrous was the notion of the King's Warder giving a human advice on domestic disputes. But as the night wore on and her father's arrival drew closer, she had reconsidered. Zan's father was the most successful king Antar had ever known, with a bloodless takeover of the throne, a long reign, and an unprecedented peaceful succession.....and it was widely acknowledged, even by those who loathed Covari, that the principal architect behind that long and peaceful reign had been none other than Brivari. If anyone knew how to handle conflict of this nature, it would be him. How ironic that she was now using the advice of one hated and hunted as she rose from the bed to face her father.

"I have spent the past hour going over this with you," she said, keeping her voice level. "I told you why I did what I did. Mark was dead when I got here, the sheriff had his body, and my leaving town would have accomplished nothing except to ruin the best chance we've had, or may ever have, of accomplishing our mission. I knew there were risks, but I thought it was worth it. And it was. I found the Warders, and I befriended their allies. They're willing to function as intermediaries on our behalf, an advantage we never dreamed of having. We are closer now than we've ever been—"

"You're missing the point," Michael interrupted, "which is—"

"Which is that I'm not finished," Courtney said flatly. "I was taught not to interrupt, Papa. You taught me that. Does this mean I can interrupt you now?"

Michael's expression darkened. "Pack your bags," he ordered. "You're coming home with me."

Courtney resumed her seat on the bed, arms folded in front of herself. "No."

" 'No'?" Michael repeated blankly. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

" 'No' means I'm not leaving," Courtney said calmly.

"You are my daughter, and you will do as I say!" Michael exclaimed.

"I am your adult daughter, not to mention an operative in my own right, and I don't appreciate being treated like a child," Courtney retorted.

"You're acting like a child!" Michael snapped.

"Am I? And which one of us is throwing the tantrum?"

Michael's mouth opened and closed several times before he went off on a tear, with Nathaniel reminding him to keep his voice down. It was liberating, really, to watch your own parent letting their anger get the better of them and refuse to let it affect you. Liberating.....and annoying.

"I've had enough," Courtney announced after about a minute's worth of his tirade. "Papa, you're being unreasonable; you need some sleep, and I need to get to work. You're both welcome to stay here. I should be back around three in the afternoon."

"You're not going anywhere but back to Copper Summit!" Michael exclaimed.

"Wrong," Courtney said firmly. "I'm staying right here to finish what I started."

"You're coming home!" Michael insisted angrily.

"No, I'm not," Courtney said, "and you can't force me to. What are you going to do? Throw me over your shoulder and carry me off? Are you really willing to let your anger with me get in the way of our mission? A mission which is closer to success than it's ever been?"

Courtney braced herself, knowing the look in her father's eyes meant he was ready to explode, her own anger and frustration nearly overriding her efforts to remain calm. Logical arguments were all well and good, but all the logic in the world wasn't going to change his mind. Nothing would.

"She's right, Michael."

Okay.....maybe something would, Courtney amended as both she and her father stared at Nathaniel in shock. "Excuse me?" Michael said blankly.

"She's right," Nathaniel repeated. "I know you're angry that she lied to you, to all of us, but what she's accomplished outweighs that. She has single-handedly put us closer to our goal than any operative in the history of the resistance. I would think that would make you proud, not angry."

Michael gaped at Nathaniel in disbelief, with Courtney not far behind. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected support from any of her people. With all the effort to convince her father, she'd missed the fact that she'd managed to convince his own second.

"Our first step should be to remove any evidence the local sheriff has collected," Nathaniel continued. "If—"

"You can't be serious!" Michael protested. "Our 'first step' should be to remove Courtney from this place as fast as possible and come up with a credible explanation as to why this wasn't reported!"

"I disagree," Nathaniel replied. "The smartest thing we can do is to continue the deception Courtney has begun, and strengthen it, if possible."

"If you think for one minute that I—" Michael began.

"This is all fascinating," Courtney interrupted, "but I really need to get ready for work. Why don't the two of you duke it out, and I'll talk to whoever's left standing when I get off work. Assuming whoever's left is willing to work with me, that is. Because whatever happens, I'm going to finish what I started, with or without you. And I'd rather finish it with you," she added gently. "We have a much greater chance of success that way, don't you think?"

Her father stared at her as she fetched a towel and washcloth and left the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, letting out a long, slow breath. Usually she had to steel herself to go to work, knowing that she'd likely encounter a Warder or two. Now she couldn't wait to get there.





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




7:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner




"So it's goodbye to Roswell next week," Atherton said cheerfully, spreading jam on his toast. "I'll go home for a few weeks, take care of some business, then head out for a book signing. That second reprinting is nearly ready."

"Home?" Brivari repeated, having never heard Atherton mention any of the multiple places he seemed to have been as "home". "And where is that, exactly?"

"A ways south of here," Atherton answered. "I have a very avant grade house, befitting the crackpot I'm supposed to be. Actually, I had it built before I did the crackpot thing, so I really like it. Don't get to spend much time there, though. I'm on the road most of the time."

"Then why have the house at all?"

"To receive my checks, for one," Atherton answered. "It's my 'real' self that makes the money, remember, and allows me to travel as much as I do. And as much as I love to travel, it's comforting to know I have a base, something familiar to return to, even if I spend little actual time there."

Interesting, Brivari thought. If he did indeed leave this area as he had proposed to Emily Proctor, he would likely wind up emulating Atherton; Roswell would be his "base", the hybrids' hiding place and home of their closest allies, something he returned to periodically. An attractive idea, especially since he found himself dreading the completion of the movie. Long days with nothing to do loomed ahead of him, a bleak notion if ever there was one. He might wind up joining Jaddo at the base to watch Lewis come and go out of sheer boredom.

"Ah—there is your Miss Tate," Atherton said. "A pity she no longer joins us."

"She is not 'my' Miss Tate," Brivari said, "and—"

"And she's coming this way," Atherton said.

Brivari turned in his seat to find Audrey approaching. "Long time, no see!" she smiled. "May I join you?"

"My dear, I thought you'd never ask!" Atherton beamed, sliding further into the booth to make room for her. "I think I speak for both of us when I say we have deeply missed your delightful company. Haven't we, Langley?"

"Of course," Brivari answered, locking eyes briefly with Audrey before going back to his breakfast.

"Miss Harris!" Atherton called to the famously jumpy waitress. "We have another member of our party. What will you be having this morning, dear?"

"Just coffee, for the moment," Audrey told Courtney, who obliged. "So, gentlemen, what's the topic this morning? The Cold War? World peace?"

"Nothing so weighty, I'm afraid," Atherton chuckled. "Langley and I were just discussing what we'd be doing after the movie is finished filming. I'll be returning to my home briefly before setting off on business. And you?"

"The same, actually," Audrey answered. "I have a new film that starts production in three weeks. I met with the producers and signed the contract last night."

Ah, Brivari thought. So that was why Audrey had been much more cavalier regarding the grasping Mr. Dean. "Congratulations!" Atherton exclaimed. "It must be nice to have another project all lined up. I understand it's difficult for those in your profession, never knowing where the next job is coming from."

"Or where you'll be living next," Audrey agreed. "It's a nomad's life, that's for sure."

"Much like mine," Atherton nodded, "but then I'm not the type for the steady job, same old, same old, day after day; I'd die of boredom. So what about you, Langley? Where will you be going?"

"I have not yet decided," Brivari admitted. "Perhaps—"

"What are you doing here?" a sharp voice demanded.

Three heads turned. Charles Dean stood at the end of the table, his eyes boring into Audrey, who returned his stare without blinking. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, a touch of frost in her voice. "I'm having breakfast. Like I do every morning."

"Not with them, you don't," Dean said, his opinion of Brivari and Atherton evident in his tone. "You sit with me. I'm over there."

"You weren't here when I arrived, so I joined these two gentlemen," Audrey answered.

"Well, I'm here now, so you're joining me," Dean declared.

"You're welcome to join us," Atherton suggested.

"Why would I want to join you?" Dean said disdainfully.

"Don't be rude, Charlie," Audrey admonished.

"Don't tell me what to do," Dean snapped. "Do you know what this looks like?"

"Of course I do," Audrey retorted. "It looks like I'm having breakfast with two gentlemen in a diner, one of whom is a crew member. That's all it looks like."

"You're not suggesting there's something improper going on, are you?" Atherton asked. "There hardly could be in a public place—"

"I'm not talking to you," Dean interrupted. "C'mon, Audrey—we're leaving." He grabbed her arm, his eyes widening when she wrenched it from his grasp.

"For your information, I don't like being told what to do either," Audrey said angrily.

"My dear Mr. Dean," Atherton said coldly, "while I might—emphasis on 'might'—be willing to excuse your rudeness toward me, I will never excuse your rudeness toward a lady. Adjust your tone, or leave us."

"You shut up, and you get up!" Dean snapped to Atherton and Audrey in turn, once more reaching for her arm and missing as she snatched it away. "I mean it, Audrey! If you don't—"

"Are you ready to order yet, Miss Tate?" a voice broke in. "Oh....I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

Dean whirled around to find Courtney giving him a level stare, pad and pencil in hand. Her eyes flicked sideways, and Dean's followed, taking in the startled expressions that filled the diner as other patrons watched the drama unfolding in the back corner. Flushing, he stalked out, pushing the door open so violently that the little bell rang several times before it closed.

"What a charmer," Courtney remarked.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Audrey said. "You've got good timing, that's for sure."

"He sounded like he needed a little perspective," Courtney noted. "Besides, he's the second angry male I've dealt with this morning, so I'm on a roll. Did you want some breakfast?"

Audrey glanced around; everyone was still staring. "I don't think so," she said, sliding out of the booth. "I should get to the set. Sorry to.....I'm sorry," she finished. "I didn't think he'd go off like that in public."

"My dear, you've done nothing wrong," Atherton said gently. "Please don't let that cad scare you away."

"Thanks, but I'll have to catch you later," Audrey said, her eyes on Brivari. "Bye."

"My goodness," Atherton murmured as she walked away with that swinging gait so common to human women wearing high-heeled footwear. "I had no idea. Why haven't you dealt with that bully, Langley?"

"She asked me not to," Brivari answered. "Something about her employment could suffer if she didn't humor him."

"Ah, yes," Atherton sighed. "The 'casting couch'. I've heard of that. Were I her, I think I'd look for another line of work."

"Now that she has subsequent employment, I believe she is less willing to tolerate his behavior," Brivari observed.

"Good," Atherton declared. "I hate bullies."

*So do I,* a dry voice said in Brivari's mind. *And so do you, if I remember correctly.*

Not again, Brivari sighed. Jaddo was back at the counter, eavesdropping once more. *How is it that you manage to show up for the most dramatic moments?* Brivari asked irritably.

*Don't blame me,* Jaddo answered. *You're having so many 'dramatic moments', they're becoming hard to miss. Would you like me to silence him for you? I'll make certain no one traces it back to you.*

*He's an idiot,* Brivari said, *an idiot who's leaving soon. He's not worth your time.*

*He's trouble, Brivari,* Jaddo said seriously. *You can't always hang back and do nothing. Sometimes you have to handle the situation before it handles you.*

*And sometimes there is no 'situation' until you create one by attempting to handle it,* Brivari said pointedly. *Mr. Dean is Audrey's problem, not mine.*

*Are you quite sure about that?*

*Very,* Brivari said firmly.

*Nevertheless, I think I should keep an eye on him just the same.*

*Jaddo, do not make this any worse than it is already!* Brivari admonished. *Go back to the base and fret over Lewis if you want something to do.*

*I thought you were concerned about me spending so much time at the base,* Jaddo said.

*I am concerned about you spending time anywhere given your propensity to act first and think later,* Brivari said impatiently. *You really need employment.*

Jaddo snorted softly. *Like your 'movie'? Spare me. I'd watch Lewis brush his teeth before I'd waste my time on something like that.*

"So Langley," Atherton said, unaware that he was interrupting a conversation, "you were talking about what you'd be doing after filming wrapped when that oaf showed up. You were saying?"

Brivari hesitated a moment, sensing an opportunity. "I still have some time to myself. Perhaps I'll move on and see a bit more of the world."

*What did you say?* Jaddo demanded.

That got your attention, Brivari thought grimly. Perhaps now Jaddo would be focused on him, not Dean.

"Why don't you come and stay at my house for a little while?" Atherton suggested. "We could each have a bit of a layover until we move on."

*You can't be serious!* Jaddo exclaimed. *Would you really leave our Wards?*

*Our Wards are safely hidden,* Brivari reminded him, *and as I will likely spend the rest of my life in exile on this planet, I have no intention of spending it in one place, never mind this place.* "A gracious invitation," he said out loud to Atherton. "I accept."

"Excellent!" Atherton beamed.

*You can't!* Jaddo objected.

*This from the one who spent the last decade scouring the country for an enemy, gone for days or weeks at a time,* Brivari replied acidly.

*This is different,* Jaddo insisted.

*Of course it is,* Brivari replied dryly. *This is about the prospect of a lifetime with you being enough to make me take leave of my senses.*

There was a clatter as Jaddo rose abruptly and stalked out of the diner much the same way Dean had. "You know, it's the strangest thing," Atherton said, gazing after Jaddo's retreating form. "Several times these past few weeks, a man at the counter has just suddenly up and left like he's angry.....but he hasn't been speaking to anyone. And it's a different man every time. Why is that, do you suppose?" he asked, addressing Courtney, who had appeared to clear the table and was the only one in the diner not watching Jaddo's retreat. "Is the food at the counter different somehow?"

"Same food you get here," she answered lightly.

"Yes," Atherton murmured. "And I suppose if it were the food, they'd complain about it, not just stalk off in a huff. So I gather they just stiff the waitresses?"

"Mr. Langley paid for one of them," Courtney said.

Atherton blinked. "You did? Whatever for?"

Because I'm a fool, Brivari thought. Covering for Jaddo's outbursts was attracting attention. "I felt sorry for his server," he answered, "but given the frequency with which this occurs, I'm afraid I can't make that largesse permanent."

"Of course not," Atherton agreed. "It was kind of you to do it once. Besides, the proprietor will have to deal with this behavior on his own after you leave."

"You're leaving?" Courtney asked.

"We both are," Atherton answered, "just as soon as the movie is finished. I'd bet you'll be delighted to have your town back."

"But where are you going?" Courtney persisted, her arms full of dirty plates.

"Langley has accepted an invitation to visit my home," Atherton said cheerfully.

"Where?" Courtney pressed.

But Atherton merely smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid I keep that private, dear. But I appreciate the thought. I've enjoyed your company too."

That's not it, Brivari thought as the waitress' eyes lingered for a moment on him, and him alone. She was concerned about him leaving, and unsurprised at Jaddo's tantrum. Curious.




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






"Miss Tate, can I have your autograph?"

"Not now," Audrey said sharply, brushing past the pad and pen thrust at her as she marched down Main Street. She never turned down an autograph, not being nearly a big enough star to cop the attitude that her fans didn't matter; the fact that she was doing so now was a testament to how angry she was with Charlie for humiliating her in front of all those people.

"Miss Tate? Miss Tate!" called another voice.

"No autographs now, please," Audrey said tersely.

"I'm not looking for an autograph; I'm with the National Enquirer."

Audrey whirled around to find a greasy looking man with a camera around his neck that had seen better days. "How's about a picture?" he asked, whipping up the camera and snapping a shot before she could protest. "Now, what was all that about between you and Charles Dean? Is he having an affair? Are you? Is there trouble on the set of "They Are Among Us"?"

Audrey opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and kept walking. "Hey doll, you know I'm going to print something," the reporter persisted, trotting along beside her. "Why not make certain I say what you want me to say? You don't want to make me make something up, do you?"

Oh sure, Audrey thought bitterly, make it sound like it's my fault. The Enquirer was nothing more than a tabloid, noted for ridiculous stories like "Aliens Ate My Mother!!!!" and the payment of sources for information, a practice much frowned upon in the world of real journalism. Whatever story was printed would be "made up" no matter what she said. Further reason why Charlie's behavior was absolutely unacceptable and must be dealt with immediately. Flipping out when she paid attention to other men was one thing, but objecting to her even speaking to another member of the crew was out of line. She had tolerated this increasingly controlling behavior this past month only by seeing Langley secretly at night, her one chance to get out from under Charlie's thumb and have a private conversation. But her patience was wearing thin, even more so now that she had another picture lined up with a signed contract that he couldn't easily derail. His performance at the diner threatened to start a tabloid frenzy that could hurt both of them, so it was time to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.

She'd shaken the reporter and made up her mind by the time she reached the set. "Miss Tate!" one of the dressers sputtered, pointing to the sign on the door as she marched past. "This is the men's dressing room!"

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry—I never learned how to read," Audrey said scornfully. "I know it's the men's dressing room!" she exclaimed to the wide-eyed dresser. "I sincerely doubt anyone in here has anything I haven't seen before, and if I'm wrong, please, whip it out! Now, out of my way!"

The dresser stumbled backwards as she pushed past. Charlie was stripped to the waist and in the process of donning his costume; others were stripped a lot further than that. There were yelps of surprise at her appearance, followed by frantic scrambling to grab something, anything, to cover themselves. "Just exactly who the hell do you think you are?" Audrey demanded, hands on hips. "There I am, eating breakfast with a co-worker and a friend of his in full public view, and you come charging in like a mad dog! How dare you?"

"You eat with me!" Charlie retorted. "You sit with me, you sleep with me, you belong to me!"

"Mr. Anderson offered to have you join us, and you insulted him!" Audrey said angrily. "Where do you get off insulting my friends?"

"Why would I want to join that moron?" Charlie demanded. "Besides, I don't 'join' people—people join me."

"Oh, so you wouldn't have minded if they'd gotten up and moved to your table?" Audrey said. "Somehow I think you would have. Do you realize what your little temper tantrum could cost us? I was just stopped by a reporter from the Enquirer! Do you want our faces plastered all over that rag? What do you think that would do to your illustrious career?"

"If you're so worried about it, then make certain you behave yourself," Charlie growled.

"You're the one who needs to worry about it," Audrey retorted. "I have another picture lined up already. Do you?"

Slap! Audrey's head whipped sideways from the force of the blow. A moment later, Charlie's did the same as she planted a returning slap on his own cheek. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then....bedlam. Charlie lunged for her as every other man in the dressing room threw modesty to the wind and dropped whatever they were holding to stop him. "Simmer down, buddy!" one of the men said as they held him back.

"Just like the director," another muttered. "Beats people up."

"Let me go!" Charlie thundered, struggling in their grasp. "Let go of me!"

Audrey glared at him, one hand to her cheek. "If you ever lay a hand on me again," she said in a voice ragged with anger, "I swear to God I will see to it that you never touch me again."

"Oh, yeah?" Charlie challenged. "And how are you gonna do that?"

"Langley," someone whispered.

Silence. Charlie heard it, his eyes hardening. "That clapper loader? Is that it? Are you gonna sic him on me, Audrey? Go ahead! I can take him! He's just a weasly little bald guy with a stupid hat! I don't know why everyone's so damned afraid of him—he's nothing! Do you hear me, nothing!"

Audrey swung on her heel and marched away without another word, past the flabbergasted dresser, past everyone peering toward the dressing room as Charlie hollered after her. "Let me at him, Audrey! Bring him on! That stupid clapper loader doesn't scare me!"



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



I'll post Chapter 42 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!







CHAPTER FORTY-TWO



August 19, 1959, 10:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner



"Courtney, are you ever going to take your break?" Nancy asked as she flew by, arms laden with plates.

"Of course," Courtney assured her, "I'm just....in the middle of something."

"That's what you said fifteen minutes ago, dear," Nancy noted. "Take it soon, or it will be time for Doris' break, and you'll be out of luck."

"Right. I will," Courtney promised. Just as soon as he gets here, she added silently, looking longingly at the door. He was late today. Didn't it just figure; she'd been waiting all morning on pins and needles, and today was the day he picked to be late.

The bell jingled, and she turned. "Off to take my break!" she called to Nancy, sailing out from behind the counter and sliding into a booth opposite a wary Malik.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Do I look like something's wrong?" Courtney asked.

Malik set his menu down. "Every day, I come here for lunch and every day, I'm careful to choose a booth or a seat you're not serving because neither of us would like that. So if you're voluntarily seeking me out, that means trouble."

"So that's who you've been waiting for!" Nancy exclaimed, appearing with a pot of coffee. "Why didn't you say so, dear? I didn't know Carl was your young man."

Courtney bit her tongue as Malik smiled faintly and Nancy poured them cups of coffee with a big smile on her face. Any woman on Antar would have jumped off a cliff rather than have her "young man" be a Covari.

"You're doing better in the blurting-things-out department," Malik remarked dryly. "I know your stomach must be turning at the notion of romance with the likes of me."

"Never mind that," Courtney said, dodging the fact that he was right. "My father's here."

Malik's spoon stopped stirring. " 'Here'? As in here, here?"

"Where else 'here'?" Courtney said impatiently. "I had to tell him about Mark, and he's not very happy with me."

"Of course not," Malik said, "but why is he here? Why would Nicholas send someone else up here?"

Courtney hesitated, knowing how Malik was going to take the answer to that question. "Something happened," she began. "Whoever had Crist's communicator managed to activate it when a signal came through."

" 'Had' the communicator?" Malik echoed sharply. "I'm assuming there's a reason for the use of the past tense?"

"Nicholas has booby-trapped the communicators," Courtney explained. "He used it to kill whoever activated it. The signal was traced to Santa Fe."

Nancy reappeared. "Ready to order?" she chirped, giving Courtney a wink.

"Just toast, please," Malik said.

"Nothing, thank you," Courtney said, trying to ignore the smiles everyone was sending her way. Good Lord, but there would be no living this down. "So Nicholas wanted someone to come up here and check it out," she continued after Nancy left, "and my father managed to get elected. He arrived this morning with his second, Nathaniel."

"They used Amar's work," Malik said tonelessly.

"What?"

"Amar," Malik repeated. "My friend and fellow rogue. He rigged a communicator to kill Orlon and Marana when they returned to the house after killing him and trying to kill me. Brivari said he amplified the radiation that the imager uses to produce a hologram so that it killed anyone close enough."

"How would Nicholas know about that?" Courtney asked. "We weren't here then."

"Brivari sealed the door shut, and I sold the house," Malik said, "but we left everything; we figured no human would ever find it unless the house was literally torn down, and entombing it there made it less likely to ever be found. But Nicholas bought the house, so he would have found their dust and the ruined communicator when he broke through the wall. We should have taken it," he added, anger lacing his voice. "If we'd just taken it, they would never have known. And if I'd just taken Crist's communicator, this would never have happened."

"You would have had to take the dust too," Courtney said gently. "Analyzing that might have told them how they died. And you had no way of knowing that someone would swipe Crist's communicator right out from under Valenti's nose." She paused. "It's too late for that now. We have to focus on other things. My father's here, and—"

"We have to tell the Warders."

You and Dee both, Courtney thought wearily. "Let's take this one step at a time," she countered. "It'll be hard enough for my father and Nathaniel to meet you, never mind deal with Warders."

"No, we have to tell them," Malik insisted. "The FBI has one of our communicators, and now one of their agents is dead because of it. That's going to validate the formation of their new unit, strengthen their resolve, and just generally piss everyone off. This is a new level of threat to the king."

"We're here more for Rath than the king," Courtney said, "or in his absence, his Warder."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "What difference does that make? It's the 'Royal Four', not the 'Royal One'; a threat to one is a threat to all. Besides, Rath already made his position clear; your people offered him the throne, and he turned them down. He probably could have had it if he'd wanted it, but he didn't; his loyalty to the king held him back. How do you think he'll feel if he finds out that you and yours put that king in danger?"

"I'm not sure now's a good time to be dropping this in the Warders' laps," Courtney said, desperate to buy her father just a little more time. "They had another tiff this morning, and Jaddo walked out again. Brivari said something about leaving town. He accepted an invitation from Mr. Anderson to visit his house."

"Okay, now I know we have to tell them," Malik said firmly. "He can't leave, not now. And the only reason he's thinking of leaving is because he thinks the coast is clear when it's not."

Damn! Courtney thought, kicking herself for opening her mouth. "If you just march in and tell them who we are, they'll kill us," she said urgently, "especially if you tell them about the FBI at the same time. We have to plan for this. We can't help Rath, or Zan, or any of them if we're dead."

Malik considered this in silence for a minute, during which time his toast arrived and Courtney endured more knowing smiles from Nancy as her father's life hung in the balance. "All right," he said finally. "I agree it's a process, but I have to start the process. Where's your father?"

"Safely hidden. I'll take you there when I get off work."

"This can't wait. Where is he?"

"It'll have to wait," Courtney insisted. "I can't just send a Covari after him. Do you have any idea what that would look like?"

"I don't care what it would 'look like'," Malik retorted. "Your people knew you'd have to work with Covari in order to accomplish your objectives."

"That's a lot different than pulling them out of a sound sleep to find you hovering over them!" Courtney exclaimed, flushing as a handful of heads turned. "I have to prepare him," she insisted, lowering her voice. "He's all mad at me about Mark, and now this."

"If he's who you say he is, then he's already prepared for this," Malik argued. "He's been prepared for this for a very long time."

"Fine, but you have to let me—"

Malik rose abruptly and pulled a few coins out of his pocket, tossing them on the table before leaving without another word. Courtney sighed and pulled his uneaten plate of toast toward her. She'd missed breakfast, and the smell of food had been nauseating her all morning; now she was suddenly hungry. He wouldn't find them, of course. She'd cautioned her father to be very quiet and to not answer the door. The question now was what Malik would do when he couldn't find them. If he went straight to the Warders.....

"Lovers' quarrel, dear?"

It was Nancy, wearing a sympathetic expression. "Let me make something perfectly clear," Courtney said irritably. "Carl is not, nor will he ever be, my 'lover'."

"Oh, of course not," Nancy said, nodding so hard her earrings waggled. "Lovers' quarrel," she whispered to another waitress as she walked away.




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




A knock startled Michael Harris awake, assuming one could refer to the state he'd been in as "sleep", that is. It was oppressively warm in the apartment, the faint breeze coming from the open windows doing little to alleviate the heat. He glanced across the room at Nathaniel, asleep in a chair, then at the clock. It was late morning, long before Courtney was due home.

"Mr. Harris?" a voice called, female judging by the timbre. "I'm Dee Evans; I live across the hall. I brought you something to eat."

Goodness, does it think I'm stupid? Michael thought irritably, reaching into his pocket for his trithium generator. If this was who...or rather, what.....he thought it was, it really should know better. He rose from the bed almost eagerly, secretly relieved that his anger had a target other than his daughter, and threw the door open.

A young woman stood in the hallway holding a dish of steaming food. She was wearing trousers instead of the dresses most human women favored, and her hair was pulled back in a completely utilitarian fashion. "Hi. I'm Dee Evans," she repeated. "Are you Mr. Harris?"

Michael remained silent, nodding almost imperceptibly. "Then welcome to Roswell," the woman said, holding out the dish. "Last I knew, Courtney's family didn't like meat, so I made you some macaroni and cheese. I thought you might get hungry before she gets back."

Michael stared at the proffered dish without touching it. "I was hoping," he said stiffly, "that you would come up with something more original. Or at least something that didn't insult my intelligence."

The woman blinked. "Should I take that to mean you don't like macaroni and cheese?"

"You may take that to mean that posing as an ally is the oldest trick in the book," Michael retorted. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

There was a pause while the woman regarded him blankly. "Oh, I see," she said after a moment. "You think I'm a shapeshifter."

Michael flinched, glancing quickly around the upstairs hallway for anyone who might have overheard. "Courtney and I have the only two apartments up here, so there's no one else to hear," the woman said. "But you can settle this, can't you? You must have one of those pentagonal gizmos. Use it. Quickly," she added. "Even with potholders, this casserole dish is getting hotter by the minute."

Now it was Michael's turn to blink. He'd been certain the woman was a Covari....but would a Covari offer to undergo an identification test? Slowly, he removed his generator from his pocket and pressed the correct button, bathing the hallway in the revealing wash. There was no infrared signature surrounding the woman in front of him, none in the hallway, on the stairs, or anywhere the eye could see. He snapped it off feeling exceptionally foolish and more than a little embarrassed. He'd likely just offended one of their greatest allies.

"Now that you know I'm human, do you want this or not?" the woman said bluntly.

"I......of course," Michael stammered, reaching for the casserole dish.

"Keep the pot holders," the woman said. "Courtney can get them back to me. So nice to have met you," she added with a touch of sarcasm.

"Wait," Michael said, wanting desperately to apologize. "I—"

But she was gone, back across the hall into her own apartment. Cursing under his breath, Michael kicked the door closed with his foot and set the dish on his daughter's kitchen table.

"For one who has to lecture his daughter on the finer points of diplomacy, you seem to have forgotten how to employ it yourself," a dry voice said.

"I thought you were sleeping," Michael said crossly.

Nathaniel sat up, yawning. "Like you were sleeping?"

"I had to know," Michael insisted.

"And the only way to 'know' was to insult an ally?"

"She couldn't have been too insulted," Michael grumbled. "She left the food."

"Thank goodness," Nathaniel sighed. "I'm starving." He reached into a cupboard, fished out a bowl, and helped himself to the "macaroni and cheese". "This is good," he announced. "And no meat. Very thoughtful."

"So I not only insulted an ally, I insulted a thoughtful ally," Michael said bitterly. "Are there any other helpful observations you'd like to make?"

"As a matter of fact, there are," Nathaniel answered, giving him a level stare. "You're going to have to forgive her in order for us to get anything done here. You know that, don't you?"

"She lied to me!" Michael exclaimed.

"And you lied to me, to the entire resistance," Nathaniel noted, "yet you don't find me holding that against you, and no one else will either. You had your reasons, and Courtney had hers."

"This is different," Michael argued. "I've headed the resistance since its inception. Courtney is merely a child, my child. She shouldn't even be here, wouldn't have been here if she hadn't shot her mouth off to Nicholas."

"Maybe that's what we need; more young blood shooting its mouth off. Look what she's accomplished," Nathaniel continued when Michael tried to object. "She positioned herself in the most advantageous place, found the Warders, and befriended their allies, even a Covari ally. That 'child' has brought us closer than we've ever been, and she's still alive to tell of it. That's nothing short of astounding."

"She won't be alive much longer at the rate she's going," Michael said. "When Nicholas finds out—"

"And how will Nicholas find out?" Nathaniel asked. "Will you tell him? Will I? Of course not. Besides, look at what would have happened had she reported Green's death: She would have been recalled, and Nicholas would have sent his henchman to remove any traces of our presence. That would very likely have alerted the Warders, or at the very least ruined a golden opportunity to contact them. This is a risky business, Michael, always has been. We know that. And so does Courtney. As I recall, she enlisted voluntarily."

Michael sank into a kitchen chair, the exhaustion of the past two days overwhelming him. "Yes, she did," he answered. "Nicholas insisted on bringing family members to use as leverage, and she knew that volunteering would add one more member of the resistance to the expedition. Four children," he added wearily. "I have three sons, all of whom joined the military, but only my daughter embraced the cause. It isn't fair."

"What isn't fair?" Nathaniel asked. "Many of us had none of our children join the resistance and had to hide our endeavors from all of them. You, at least, had a child you could talk to."

"Yes," Michael murmured. "One to send into harm's way."

"Courtney hasn't been harmed," Nathaniel reminded him.

"Yet," Michael countered. "The Warders do not yet know of her presence here."

"And they need never know. You needn't tell them your daughter is here.

Michael was quiet for a moment, gazing into space. "If they kill me, she'll effectively be an orphan. Look after her for me, will you?"

"Good Lord, Michael, no one is dead yet!" Nathaniel said in exasperation. "Yes, I know Jaddo killed the first several couriers years ago, but things were different then: Zan's throne was secure, Khivar was in his rightful place, and Rath had no reason to suspect that would change. Now the Royal Four are fugitives. Jaddo would be crazy not to listen to you."

"And what about Brivari?" Michael asked.

"What about him? The Warders don't always work as a set. From what I've heard, Brivari and Jaddo didn't always get along. Besides, the Covari Courtney made contact with reported that Jaddo would be willing to listen to a resistance member he'd worked with in the past....and that would be you. "

"Assuming that Covari wasn't lying," Michael muttered.

"I wasn't."

Michael and Nathaniel flew out of their chairs, the latter's bowl of food clattering to the floor as both backed away from a shape emerging from the wall on the far side of the room. A moment later that shape had coalesced into that of a young man, casually dressed and regarding them with interest.

"Covari," Nathaniel whispered.

"How did you get in here?" Michael thundered. "Have you been here all long? Did my daughter—"

"Your daughter has no idea I'm here," the Covari said calmly. "I'm Malik, by the way. And you are...."

"Why are you asking when you know perfectly well who I am!" Michael snapped.

"You do seem to have a problem greeting people," Malik sighed. "And I'm asking because it's considered polite to introduce oneself."

"It is also considered polite to request permission to enter private quarters, but you seem willing to let that particular courtesy fall by the wayside," Michael said angrily.

"And for the same reason you voiced earlier," Malik said. "I had to know."

"Know what?" Michael demanded.

"If we really were members of the resistance," Nathaniel said. "To make certain we weren't Nicholas' spies."

"Exactly," Malik agreed. "And now that's been settled, we can get down to business."

"I do not do 'business' with those who sneak up on me," Michael said tersely. "Leave."

"Michael, we need it," Nathaniel protested. "It would be far better to let it approach Jaddo on our behalf rather than trying to do so directly."

"He's right," Malik said. "If you're as worried as you say you are about your daughter becoming an orphan, you'll do everything in your power to make certain that doesn't happen."

Michael's eyes flashed, and he stalked toward Malik, pulling up short halfway across the room when there came faint sounds of a commotion outside. Malik went to the window and looked through the curtain.

"What is it?" Michael demanded. "What's happened?"

"I don't know," Malik answered, "but a number of people are running toward Main Street. Maybe there's been an accident. Stay here," it ordered, heading for the door. "I'll be back later. And this time, I'll knock."

The Covari was no sooner out the door than Michael was reaching for his shoes. "Where are you going?" Nathaniel asked. "It said to stay here."

"I don't take orders from shapeshifters," Michael said testily, "and neither do you. You take orders from me. Get dressed. If something's wrong in the town where my daughter is living near two Royal Warders, I want to see for myself."




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



12:00 p.m.

On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"Places!" the director called. "C'mon, everybody, places."

Brivari reached down for the clapboard he'd placed at his feet, and his fingers closed on.....nothing. Faint snickers sounded behind him, inaudible to human ears but perfectly audible to his own. Crew members looked away uncomfortably when Brivari turned around, but Charles Dean didn't bother, returning Brivari's stare with a nasty smile that made it clear he didn't care that his prank had been discovered.

Brivari sighed as he scanned the area for a suitable object to transform into a clapboard. This was the fourth time this had happened, although the other three had involved merely damaging the clapboard, not removing it. Each time Brivari had surreptitiously mended it, much to Dean's dismay. He'll be even more unhappy this time, Brivari thought as he stepped into the shadows with an ordinary clipboard, the molecules of which dissolved and reformed into a clapboard in a matter of seconds.

"Langley, where the hell are you?" the director hollered, always eager to catch Brivari in the wrong.

"Right here," Brivari replied, clapping the clapper sharply in front of the camera and enjoying the shocked look on Dean's face. Stop it, he told himself severely. If Dean's antics were childish, then taking too much pleasure in foiling them was even more so. It was all too easy to get caught up in a child's game, and Dean was little more than a very tall child. It was well worth remembering that idiocy could be contagious.

"Ready.....action!" the director called.

The scene was cut short as Dean flubbed his lines, no doubt distracted by how Brivari had acquired a clapboard on such short notice. He stomped off amidst an argument with the director; this "butting heads", as Audrey referred to it, was becoming a tiresome daily ritual as the two resident bullies vied for dominance. This particular episode was on the short-lived side, lasting only a couple of minutes or so before both reappeared, red-faced and swearing under their respective breaths. Scowling, Dean resumed his seat in the chair that was his starting position for this scene.....only to have it collapse beneath him. Chuckles erupted as Dean flushed.

"Oh, now what?" the director exclaimed in exasperation. "Jesus H. Christ, if it isn't defective talent, it's defective set pieces! Somebody get another chair! Let's go, now, on the double!"

Another chair was procured and places called for again.....only to have the chair collapse again. This time the chuckles turned into howls of laughter, and Dean angrily kicked the second broken chair aside, glaring at everyone in turn.

"Too many doughnuts, Charlie?" someone called.

"Can't be that," another voice added. "He skipped breakfast this morning."

More laughter. Brivari hadn't missed the veiled reference to this morning's altercation, but he was busy scanning the crowd for infrared signatures. One chair he could dismiss, but two? The odds of two collapsing of their own volition were extremely low. *Jaddo,* he called, *this isn't helping. Provoking a temperamental animal is never wise.*

Silence. If Jaddo was out there, he was choosing to remain hidden, although he could hardly expect to continue that if he kept this up. A third chair was produced, and Dean sat down gingerly as the crew struggled to control their mirth. Nothing happened. The director called for places, and the scene began to film. Just in case, Brivari concentrated on holding the chair's molecules intact, only to run smack into a competing effort to tear them apart.

*Jaddo, stop it!* Brivari exclaimed, momentarily losing his concentration. The third chair collapsed, more violently this time as the force shoring it up abruptly disappeared, sending Dean to the ground in an ungainly sprawl. No one even tried to mask their laughter this time, with some actually doubling over. Another produced a camera and snapped a picture.

"Get that thing out of my face!" Dean bellowed, that face now beet red with rage. "Give me that film!"

"All right, everybody, can it," the director ordered, taking on the unprecedented roll of peacemaker. "Break for lunch. Props, find me a chair that won't break, or I'll break you."

The cast and crew scattered, still laughing. Dean stormed off toward the costume trailer while Brivari, almost as angry as Dean, scanned the area for Jaddo. But Jaddo had hidden himself well, and was probably long gone by now.

"Did you do that?"

Brivari turned to find Audrey behind him. "Look, I know he's been needling you today," she continued, "and I know he's a jackass, and I admit he deserves it. It's just that, with someone like Charlie, this only winds him up more and makes him even more irrational than he is already."

"Believe me, I am very familiar with people like your Mr. Dean," Brivari answered. "I assure you I have done nothing to sabotage him. I gave you my word I would stay out of this."

" 'My' Mr. Dean?" Audrey repeated sourly. "If he's 'mine', can I send him back?" She sighed heavily as she leaned against a nearby set piece. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have suspected you. It could have been anyone. Charlie's been blathering all morning that he's going to get you in trouble, although he doesn't seem to have come up with a way to do that yet."

Nothing successful, at any rate, Brivari thought. "I wouldn't worry about me," he said out loud. "I would be more concerned about you."

Audrey smiled as she reached up to caress his cheek. "That's so sweet, Langley. You're always worrying about me. It's like you're the direct opposite of Charlie. But this is all my fault. I knew he wouldn't like it if I tried to have breakfast with you, but I never thought he'd go off half cocked. I'm just sick of living in this bubble. Charlie's always been the jealous type, but he's never been this bad. I thought if I really laid it on thick, he'd ease up, but it never worked. Seems like the more I tried to reassure him, the more suspicious he got."

"Perhaps because you didn't really mean it," Brivari answered. "Mr. Dean is immature and selfish, but that did not render him incapable of sensing the insincerity of your.....'performance'."

"Guess I'm not as good an actress as I thought, huh?" Audrey said ruefully. "I don't even think the rest of the crew bought it."

"Of course they didn't," Brivari said. "They know what he's like; he treats them little better than he treats you. Why do you think they were laughing at him?"

"Which is going to make him even angrier," Audrey said. "Do you have any idea who's doing this? Because they're not helping."

Brivari's eyes swept the area again without success. "Let me see what I can find out."

Audrey's expression softened. "Thanks. That's going above and beyond the call of duty, especially after how he's treated you."

*I'm glad to hear she realizes that, even if you don't,* said a deeply skeptical voice in Brivari's mind.

"I suppose we shouldn't try to have lunch together," Audrey continued, missing the way Brivari's eyes had clouded. "Let me know if you find out anything, okay?"

Brivari stowed his clapboard away, certain it would not be there when he returned, and left the set alone, heading away from the town eateries where the rest of the crew would be going. *Do I have to restrain you?* he demanded of Jaddo, certain he was following. *I continue to ponder why you would waste your time on a situation which you claim is a waste of mine."

Jaddo fell in step beside him. *I'm only doing what you should be doing, Brivari. Honestly, how could you let that oaf torment you like he has this morning? Throwing a tantrum in a restaurant is one thing, but this was multiple times over several hours.*

*And how does one qualify multiple tantrums in said restaurant over several days? People in Parker's are starting to notice your frequent tantrums, Jaddo. Why do I let you torment me like that? Do you have an answer for that one?*

*So now you're comparing me to the oaf? You really have lost all sense of perspective.*

*My 'perspective' is that you are engaging in the exact behavior you purport to deplore,* Brivari retorted. *If we really are in danger from Major Lewis trotting back and forth to the base, I can't imagine why you'd be out here, providing a textbook example of immaturity and childish behavior.*

*He started it,* Jaddo objected. *I was merely giving the fool a taste of his own medicine. Besides, what's really bothering you is how that child's temper will affect your lover.*

Brivari came to an abrupt halt, pulling Jaddo into a narrow alley. *She is not my lover.*

Jaddo's eyebrows rose. *So you haven't been mating with her?*

*You must be more bored than I thought if you're surveiling me,* Brivari snapped. *She is an interesting companion, nothing more.*

*If you say so,* Jaddo said blandly.

*Stay out of this Jaddo!* Brivari exclaimed.

"There you are!" an angry voice called.

Brivari swallowed an epithet when he spied Dean standing at the far end of the alley. *Wonderful,* he muttered. *Now I have two children to deal with.*

*You should have realized he would seek an altercation with you,* Jaddo said. *I'm sure he blames you for his humiliation today. Only logical, given that he tried to humiliate you numerous times.*

*And failed,* Brivari said. *I didn't let him get away with it.*

*Obviously, that wasn't enough,* Jaddo noted.

*We'll never know if it was 'enough' because, as usual, you interfered!* Brivari said angrily.

"Did you think I was gonna let you get away with that?" Dean continued, advancing part way down the alley, the look in his eyes making it clear he wasn't paying a social call. "Nobody messes with me! I'm a star!"

"Is that what you call yourself?" Jaddo asked. "I find 'fool' a more accurate term."

Dean's eyes darkened, and he reached into his pocket. "So there are two of you who don't know how to behave, is that it? Is this your accomplice, Langley? Is this the doofus who switched the chairs around while you stood where everyone could see you and made them think you were innocent?" The hand left his pocket, revealing a metal handle from which snapped a knife blade.

"I've had enough of this," Brivari said sharply, "from both of you."

"So have I," Jaddo agreed. "So have I."

Jaddo's hand shot out and Dean's retort died in his throat, his own hands clawing at his neck as though he couldn't breathe, his weapon falling to the ground. A moment later, he rose into the air, his feet pedaling wildly, his eyes bulging as the ground receded. *Stop it!* Brivari ordered, his own hand rising, pulling Dean back down.

*You do realize we'll have to kill him now, don't you?* Jaddo asked casually as Dean continued to hang, pedal, and claw, his body rising and falling while the pressure on his neck alternately eased and strengthened as two sets of powers clashed. *Either that, or you'll have to change your face.....and leave your movie behind.*

*Is that what this is about?* Brivari demanded. *The movie is finished soon anyway. Put him down! If you—*

A stifled gasp interrupted him. Audrey was near the mouth of the alley, watching Dean as he dipped and soared and struggled for breath, both hands over her mouth, both eyes very wide. "What are you doing?" she asked. "What's wrong with him?"

*Where do I start?* Jaddo said dryly.

*Put him down!* Brivari ordered angrily.

Jaddo's eyes flashed, but he abruptly released Dean, who would have crashed to the ground had Brivari not mentally caught him and slowed his descent. He lay unmoving, apparently unconscious, as Audrey cautiously walked closer. "Is he....dead?" she whispered.

*Unfortunately not,* Jaddo said sourly.

"No," Brivari said, shooting Jaddo a warning look. "He attacked us. His weapon is on the ground."

"Christ, it's a switchblade," Audrey said, her voice shaking. "I followed him because I was afraid he was going to cause trouble, but I never thought he'd....." She stopped, looking at Brivari. "What were you doing to him? How did you get him to hang in the air like that?"

*Tell her, Brivari,* Jaddo said sharply. *If she's so special to you, tell her the truth.*

"I'll explain everything later," Brivari said, having no idea how he was going to do that. "But first, I think we should—"

*Tell her!* Jaddo thundered.

*Don't you think you've done enough damage for one day?* Brivari retorted. *Now, get out of here before you create even more of a mess for me to mop up!*

A hand shot up, gleaming and sharp. Dean had recovered both his wits and his weapon. The knife was heading straight for Brivari before he reached out with his mind and caught the hand which held it, twisting it, Dean crying out in pain until the knife clattered to the ground again and he clattered with it, another mental blow causing his head to connect with the pavement hard enough to render him unconscious again.

"Oh, my God," Audrey breathed, wild-eyed. "That can't be! How did you do that? How did you.....what are you?" she demanded, backing away. "What the hell are you?"

"I can explain," Brivari said gently. "But not here. We should bring Mr. Dean back to the set."

Audrey's eyes darted back and forth from Dean to Brivari to Jaddo. "Okay," she said after a moment, nodding vigorously, some of the alarm leaving her expression. "Right. Okay. We'll take him back, and then you'll tell me what's going on."

Brivari breathed a sigh of relief. Audrey was intelligent; she would control her emotions to get answers. "Good," he said. "We will—"

"No," Jaddo said firmly, his eyes flashing. "We won't."

Audrey took one look at him and read his expression all too clearly. "Wait!" Brivari called as she took off, kicking those ridiculous shoes off and tearing up the alley with surprising speed with Jaddo in hot pursuit.

*Stop!* Brivari roared as he tore after them. *Jaddo, NO!*



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



I'll post Chapter 43 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


August 19, 1959, 12:15 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"So what did they find out?" Agent Owens whispered into the phone. "Anything new?"

"You shouldn't be calling me from the station," Agent Cates said. "You're gonna blow your cover."

"No way am I waiting until tomorrow evening to find out what's going on!" Owens retorted. "Are you going to answer me, or do I have to ask Valenti for time off?"

Cates heaved a sigh that was almost audible from Santa Fe without the aid of Ma Bell. "It's just what that ballistics guru said it was—a massive, but extremely focused burst of radiation. That's the bad news. The good news is that Feldman was killed instantly, so he likely never felt a thing."

Thank God, Owens thought, sinking back into his chair as the hubbub of the Roswell station swirled around him. He'd been on pins and needles all morning waiting for Feldman's autopsy report, and when he hadn't heard anything by lunch time, he'd called Cates' private number, much to the latter's dismay. "I have to tell Valenti what happened," Owens insisted. "What if he's got more of those things?"

"That's his problem," Cates said. "Lewis' orders were very clear."

"I thought we were supposed to be protecting people," Owens argued. "Seems to me like all Lewis is protecting is his job."

"He just doesn't want this spread all over," Cates said, "and besides, his job is safer now than it's ever been because he's got a bona fide alien threat to report."

"And a dead agent," Owens muttered.

"Which makes that threat all the more real," Cates pointed out, "which means Lewis' job is completely safe. He's protecting the secret, not his job."

"So the secret's more important than human life?"

"Chris, if this gets out, the resulting riots will definitely mean loss of life," Cates said.

"Sanchez?"

Owens whirled around in his seat at the sound of his alias; Hanson, Valenti's right-hand-man, was at his elbow. "What's up?" Owens asked.

"Sheriff wants to see you in his office."

"Why?"

Hanson shrugged. "Didn't say. Maybe he's saying goodbye to everyone leaving next week. Or maybe he's going to offer you a job here."

"Offer you a job?" Cates whispered on the other end of the line as Hanson walked away. "That would be hilarious. But like I said, we keep talking like this, and you're going to blow your cover. Which is a bad thing even if you don't need it much longer. Now get off the phone. We might know more when you come in tomorrow night."

Cates hung up without waiting for an answer, and Owens heaved the phone back into its cradle with a sigh and rose from his chair. He still felt that lying to Valenti was a very bad idea. It was Valenti who had had experience with aliens in the forties and who had found the alien device. And even though that might have been sheer dumb luck, Owens was willing to bet that it hadn't been, that Valenti had sniffed out a trail and followed it. The FBI should be working with men like that, not against them. When it came to aliens, one needed all the help one could get.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Owens asked.

"Sanchez!" Valenti smiled. "Close the door and have a seat. So....it's almost over," he continued cheerfully as Owens obliged. "Hollywood pulls out next week, and we're still standing.....and we have you, among others, to thank for it."

"It was a pleasure, sir," Owens said sincerely.

"You've done a good job while you were here," Valenti continued. "I wouldn't mind having you back, if you're amenable."

"I'd love to, sir, but that would be up to Sheriff Franklin," Owens answered, giving the name of his fictional employer.

"Of course," Valenti nodded. "Well....I'm sure you're eager to have more time with your wife and children."

"Child, sir," Owens corrected. "A boy. He's five."

"Three years younger than mine," Valenti noted. "What was his name again?"

"Albert, sir."

"Albert....right. Sorry," Valenti said, shaking his head. "I have trouble keeping my own employees straight, never mind my temps. Are you and Maddy planning on having more? My wife and I get that question all the time."

A prickle of unease crept up Owens' spine. "It's 'Patty', sir, and we thought we'd stop at one. You?"

"Same here," Valenti replied. "It's hard enough to find time for one. So I imagine you're looking forward to Albert starting school. Which school will he be going to?"

The prickle of unease grew stronger as Owens hesitated. His alias' backstory hadn't contained details that precise. "My wife handles all that, sir," he said smoothly. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. We were talking about private school at one point."

"So you're looking to move?"

Owens hesitated again. "I suppose that would be a factor in our decision."

"It'd have to be," Valenti agreed, "because there are no private schools in Roosevelt County. You'd pretty much have to move."

Owens' nodded noncommittally, working hard to keep his expression neutral as all his alarms went off. Valenti's tone was casual, but he was definitely fishing and had definitely done his homework. Which means I've been made, he thought heavily, wondering how he'd given himself away. Lewis was going to give him hell for this.

"So you and Patty married in 1956?" Valenti continued.

Owens smiled faintly. "1952, sir. Albert is 5, and I know we didn't have him out of wedlock."

"Right, right," Valenti nodded. "Of course not. And where does Patty hail from?"

Beats me, Owens thought, weighing his options. He could feign anger at the prying, go on being evasive on undeveloped details, which would be something of a dead giveaway, or he could develop those details right now, which would mean he'd have to keep close track of them because Valenti surely would. Or.......well.....there was another option. One he'd been promoting for awhile now.

"Sir, I'd appreciate it if you'd just cut to the chase."

"Sorry?"

"You're obviously fishing, sir," Owens said, looking Valenti straight in the eye. "I'd be grateful for some candor."

Valenti's eyebrows rose. "All right, then. Candor, it is." He leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my station posing as someone you're not?"

" 'Someone I'm not'?" Owens repeated, fishing himself now, for just exactly how much Valenti know.

"There is no Christopher Sanchez in the employ of Sheriff Franklin in Roosevelt County," Valenti said. "At least not according to Sheriff Franklin, who's never heard of you and couldn't identify a photograph of you."

"I see," Owens murmured.

"Curious, though, that Franklin did find a personnel file on you," Valenti continued. "I suppose if I hadn't gone straight to the top, if I'd just called and spoken with anybody who answered, they would have pulled the file and said you were legit. But I didn't. And they didn't. So I repeat—who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my station?"

Valenti and Owens eyed each other across the desk, the former tweaked, the latter in a quandary. Any information he divulged would make its way back to Lewis, which meant his job was forfeit, if it wasn't already. At the same time, he still believed Valenti deserved to know what was going on. The line between those two positions was so thin as to be invisible, assuming it existed at all.

"You don't want to know the answer to that, sir," Owens replied.

"Like hell I don't," Valenti said sharply. "Who are you working for?"

"It's best if I don't answer that, sir. You don't want to mess with that crowd."

"I'll mess with anyone from anywhere who messes with my station!" Valenti snapped. "Did you listen in on one of my phone conversations? Did you steal something from my desk on the afternoon of July 23rd?"

"Was there something in your desk worth stealing?"

"Don't play games with me!" Valenti exclaimed angrily. "Are you a thief as well as here under false pretenses? I'll ask you again—who are you working for?"

"Sir, I already told you—"

"What did you do with what you took from my desk?"

"I never said I took anything from your desk, sir."

"Who did you give it to?" Valenti persisted, rising from his chair and planting his hands on the desk. "Who are you working for?"

"Sir, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong tack—"

"Funny how everyone thinks they've gotten off on the wrong tack once their cover's been blown," Valenti said acidly. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Some local moron with a badge that you can just bulldoze any time you want!"

"Far from it," Owens said firmly. "But—"

"Who are you working for?"

"Sir—"

"Answer me!"

"Sir, please!" Owens exclaimed, springing out of his own chair in desperation. God, Valenti could be just as bad as Lewis when he set his mind to it. They stood face to face for several long seconds, each measuring the other.

"Can I say something?" Owens asked after a moment. "Without you interrupting?" He waited until Valenti gave him a barely perceptible nod. "Sir, in the weeks that I've been here, I've developed a great deal of respect for you. Please believe that I have your best interests at heart when I advise you to let this one go. It's over your head. It's a battle you won't be able to win. And I don't want to see you go down, sir. So do yourself a favor, and stay out of it."

"May I take this as an admission that you stole from me?" Valenti demanded.

"Take it as a warning," Owens recommended, "both to not leave anything of value in your office, and to be very careful about picking up things you find lying around. You never know how dangerous those things could be."

"I didn't find anything 'lying around'," Valenti said coldly. "I found it the old fashioned way, with good police work. The same way I found you, by checking out every single temporary deputy, one at a time. Whoever covered your tracks did a very thorough job, and obviously has enough friends in high places to pull that off. So what are you? Military? CIA? FBI?"

So I didn't blow my cover after all, Owens thought, his admiration for Valenti growing exponentially. It would have taken a good deal of time to get past Lewis' carefully planted backgrounds. The difficulty in getting away from town plus the sheer number of temporary deputies to check out added up to one hell of a tough task and one very stubborn sheriff.

"I'm...." Owens began, then stopped.

"You're what?" Valenti prodded.

"I'm....leaving, sir," Owens finished. "Obviously I can't stay here any longer, so I think that would be best."

"You're not going anywhere," Valenti assured him, "except to a holding cell where you will cool your heels until whoever is holding the other end of your leash realizes you're missing."

"You're going to lock me up?" Owens said incredulously.

"Why not?" Valenti challenged. "Someone will come looking for you, 'Deputy Sanchez'. And when they do, I'll be waiting."

"I'm afraid that doesn't work for me, sir," Owens said gently. "And although you don't know it, it wouldn't work for you either. So I'm just going to go now, for both our sakes, and unless you want to make a scene in your own station and tell everyone what you think was stolen, you'll have to—"

Owens' words died in his throat as Valenti pulled his gun. "Would you really....shoot me, sir?"

"Try me," Valenti said darkly, coming around the desk, stripping Owens of his weapon, pressing the business end of the pistol into his back. "March."

"But....what if I'm an alien?" Owens asked as Valenti steered him out of the office.

"Nice try," Valenti answered. "An alien would've been out of here by now. An alien wouldn't have had to infiltrate for weeks. I'm not stupid, you know."

I know, Owens thought, beginning to sweat as Valenti maneuvered him through the station, deputies looking up in surprise at the sight of their boss holding a gun on what they thought was one of their own. He'd been counting on Valenti not wanting him to reveal the nature of the theft, but then Valenti could always deny anything he said, and point to the fact that he had the Roosevelt County sheriff's word that "Deputy Sanchez" was a fraud. He'd admired Valenti's smarts, but now those smarts were getting in the way.

"What's going on?" Baker asked as a trail of incredulous deputies followed them to a holding cell.

"I think the sheriff's a little overworked, guys...." Owens began.

"Shut it!" Valenti ordered as everyone recoiled. " 'Deputy Sanchez' doesn't exist, gentlemen. I don't know who this imposter is, but I'm putting him on ice until I find out." As he spoke, Valenti shoved Owens into a cell and locked the door behind him. Owens turned to find several shocked faces staring at him with expressions ranging from disbelief to anger. Once Valenti told his side of the story, he was willing to bet there'd be a lot more anger than disbelief. This was not good.

"Sheriff!"

It was Hanson, alarmed and breathless, pushing through the crowd of deputies without so much as a glance at Owens. "Sir, we just got a call. Something's happened."




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



Roswell




Valenti pulled his cruiser over to the side of Main Street, shut it off, and climbed out. He'd been expecting this, but they were so close to the end that he'd hoped this particular comet would pass Roswell. To have it not only hit, but hit at the exact moment he'd uncovered a mole from God knew where in his own station after a month's worth of digging was doubly upsetting. It was almost unseemly how little concern he felt for whoever the victim was as he marched up the little alley with Hanson on his heels. It was probably a larceny or alcohol intoxication, and he just wanted to get everything tagged and bagged so he could get back to the real business at hand.

"What've you got?" he called to the deputies already on the scene.

The looks on their faces told him he was going to be here awhile. "It's Miss Tate, sir," one of the deputies answered. "From the movie."

"Audrey Tate? The actress?"

"Yes, sir. She's.....well.....see for yourself."

Valenti pushed through the crowd. Audrey Tate was lying face down on the ground, Doctor Blake bending over her, his hands shaking as he gingerly lifted an arm. Tendrils of smoke rose from her blackened flesh, her long blonde hair mostly gone, her clothing charred rags. She'd been burned to a crisp.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," Valenti whispered, kneeling down beside the body.

"It must have been," Ray agreed. "I can't imagine what else could have done this but an act of God. Never seen anything like it."

"I have," Valenti said faintly.

"You have? When?"

"Back in '47," Valenti said, wincing as Ray moved the arm further and a scrap of burned clothing fell off. "It was a truck driver. Burned just like this, but worse. We had to identify him from a wedding ring and dental records."

"What did they decide caused it?"

"I don't think they did. What do you think it is?"

"Only thing I can think of is a lightning strike," Ray answered.

Valenti glanced upward. "Doc, there's not a cloud in that sunny sky."

"I know that," Ray said, "but do you have a better idea?"

"I might. Get the body back to your office and look for traces of accelerant, injuries, and so forth."

"Of course," Ray said, "but even if you dunked her in gasoline and lit her on fire, she wouldn't have burned like this."

"Sir?" It was Hanson, looking worried. "We've got quite a crowd gathering, including reporters from the Daily Record."

Valenti looked up to find about twice as many onlookers as had been there only minutes ago. Word spread fast, especially when news was bad. "Cover her," he ordered Hanson. "All right, everybody, back up!" he called to the crowd. "Until we know otherwise, this is a crime scene, so I'm going to have to ask everyone to clear the alley."

There was a jostling in the crowd nearby, and flashbulbs popped. "Sheriff, is that Audrey Tate?" a reporter asked, elbowing his way to the front.

"We haven't yet identified the victim," Valenti said. "Now if you'd just—"

"Was she murdered?"

"Someone said she burned to death. Is that true?"

"What will happen to the movie now that she's dead?"

Valenti held up a hand for silence as more flashbulbs popped, doing his best to block a clear shot of the body. "I said we haven't yet identified the victim," he reminded them. "When we have definitive information, we'll release it."

"But you called it a crime scene," a reporter persisted. "That means there was a crime."

"I also said 'until we know otherwise'," Valenti corrected. "Any death is treated as suspicious until a cause is determined. "Now if you'd all please—"

"Should the public be concerned?" another reporter demanded. "Is there a murderer loose in Roswell?"

Damn it, Valenti swore, feeling the temperature of the crowd rise as the notion of a roving murderer began to spread through the crowd like wildfire. Leave it to a reporter to shout the "M" word at the top of his lungs. "As I said, we'll release more information as we have it," he answered patiently. "Wild speculation will get us nowhere, and I'm trusting everyone's good judgment to sit tight and not panic—or cause anyone else to panic," he added with a pointed look at the reporters. "I don't have enough information at the moment to answer everyone's questions, and the best way for me to get that information is for everyone to clear the alley and let us do our jobs. I'd appreciate your cooperation. Thank you."

The tension began to subside as the crowd obediently began backing up, including the reporters, who were looking distinctly embarrassed. Good, Valenti thought. He'd come this far without major mishap, so to have this happen at the next to last minute was bad enough without adding mass hysteria to the mix. Hopefully Ray was right. Hopefully this was just a freak act of nature, although how a bolt of lightning strong enough to fry a woman could have come out of that cloudless sky was beyond him. But perhaps he was doing the same thing as his citizens, jumping to conclusions without sufficient information. Perhaps someone had heard it and not attributed the sound to lightning because of the sunny weather. That must be it. A little investigation, and this would all become clear, allowing him to refocus on the imposter in his jail cell.

"Let me through!" a male voice shouted. "Outa my way! Let me through!"

The crowd heaved and parted to reveal an extremely disheveled, wild-eyed young man. "That's Charles Dean, from the movie!" a woman in the crowd called. "Mr. Dean, can I have your autograph?"

But Dean wasn't interested in his adoring public. He pushed past the inner edge of the crowd and would have barreled right past Valenti if Valenti hadn't caught him by the shoulders. "Let go of me!" Dean shouted, wrenching himself free. Valenti caught him again, but not before Dean had gotten an eyeful.

"She's dead isn't she," Dean demanded. "Isn't she?"

"Calm down, sir," Valenti ordered. "Deputy Hanson, would you escort this man—"

"I know who did it!" Dean shouted in a voice that could have carried all the way to the back row of the largest theater in the world. "I know who murdered Audrey Tate!"




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




"You had to kill her, didn't you?" Brivari raged. "You had to go and leave yet another trail for Lewis to follow!"

"I left no handprint, and she'd seen too much," Jaddo argued.

"And why had she seen too much?" Brivari snapped. "Because you once again displayed your trademark dismal judgment! There wouldn't have been anything to see if you'd behaved yourself!"

"Irrelevant," Jaddo said stonily. "She saw what she saw, and that made her a risk."

"I could have explained it to her," Brivari argued.

"Nonsense," Jaddo scoffed. "Look at the way she ran."

"She ran because she knew what you were going to do!" Brivari exclaimed. "She's not stupid!"

"Don't you mean 'wasn't' stupid?"

Brivari's eyes narrowed dangerously as he stalked up to Jaddo. "You killed her because of me, didn't you? As payment for my not doing exactly what you wanted me to."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jaddo said sharply. "I killed her because she represented an unacceptable threat."

"But you didn't kill Dean," Brivari reminded him. "He saw your antics also, but him you didn't kill—"

"Because he wasn't there when we went back, and we were unable to locate him," Jaddo said. "I will deal with him later."

"You will do no such thing!" Brivari ordered. "One death is bad enough; two will—"

"Hold on a minute," Malik broke in. "Would you two just back off and tell me what happened? You can always kill each other later. God knows it would be a lot quieter if there was only one of you."

Two heads snapped Malik's way as both Warders glared at him. Malik returned their stares, making no attempt to hide his own frustration and alarm. The commotion he'd heard while talking with Courtney's father had turned out to herald the discovery of a completely burned body in an alley nearby. Malik hadn't been able to get close enough to identify the victim, but no matter; a body in that condition was clearly the work of Royal Warders, and, worse yet, out in the open for all to see. By the time he'd arrived, there had been far too many onlookers to intervene.

"Start at the beginning," Malik commanded. "Why were you in that alley with Audrey Tate to begin with?"

The Warders separated, glowering at each other from across Malik's apartment. "We weren't," Jaddo said darkly. "We were in a neighboring alley minding our own business when Miss Tate's paramour accosted us."

"Because you were antagonizing him on the set," Brivari added angrily. "Didn't I tell you that you'd only stir up trouble with those antics?"

"I stirred up nothing that wasn't already there!" Jaddo retorted. "If you'd have taken off your rose-colored glasses, you would have seen that."

"Okay, so Dean confronted you, and then what?" Malik asked.

"Jaddo hung him in the air in full view of anyone who might happen to walk by," Brivari said. "Which is exactly what Audrey did."

"You used your powers in public?" Malik asked incredulously.

"Hardly," Jaddo said scathingly. "There was no one else around until she blundered in."

"But Dean must have noticed that he was levitating," Malik protested. "Why would you do that, and then leave him alive?"

"Because he chose to kill Audrey instead," Brivari said acidly. "Even though she calmed down when I told her I'd explain, Jaddo elected to pursue her instead of Dean. We had no time to remove her body before it was discovered, and by the time we went back for Dean, he was gone, and has no doubt told his story already, making it impossible to remove him without causing further suspicion."

"Of course I pursued your lover first," Jaddo said. "Dean was unconscious, but she was running as fast as she could—"

Brivari's hand shot out, and Jaddo flew against the wall, pinned there. "She was not my 'lover', but that term betrays your true intentions," Brivari said angrily. "You killed her because she was my friend. You can't stand the fact that I have friends while you have nothing and no one, no purpose in life save for watching Lewis come and go. You're so bored, you probably follow him into the lavatory—"

Brivari recoiled slightly as Jaddo pushed back, freeing himself. "I have no purpose?" he echoed. "I am monitoring threats to our Wards while you fritter away your time with this brainless 'movie'—"

"We're getting off the subject," Malik interrupted, stepping between them. "Whatever anyone's reasons, the humans now have a body killed by alien means, and there's someone running around out there who saw you use your powers. What are we going to do about that?"

The Warders glared at one another, each looking ready to do serious damage to the other. "Nothing," Jaddo said finally. "The female is dead, and the male has no witnesses to what will sound like impossible things. No one will believe him."

"That is where you're wrong," Brivari countered. "The military is familiar with our abilities. Word of this will get back to them and to Lewis, the very person you claim represents such a threat, and who you supposedly sought to avoid!"

"And who is easily avoided," Jaddo said, "by simply changing our faces. We change our faces and disappear, and this will all disappear with us."

"No, it won't," Malik argued. He usually made it a point not to take sides when the Warders squabbled, but this time, he couldn't help himself. "Even if they can't find you, the fact that you left evidence of your presence, and by killing someone, no less, will only spur them on. The goal is to be invisible in more than just the conventional sense, and you just ruined that. Again."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Jaddo said coldly.

"Lucky you; you got it anyway," Malik retorted. "Consider it a free gift. You just put us all in danger, and I shouldn't have to point out to you that putting us in danger also puts the hybrids in danger."

"Finally," Brivari huffed. "Someone with a brain."

"If it's danger you're worried about, talk to him!" Jaddo said angrily. "Brivari is the one consorting with everyone and their mother—"

"Brivari is not the one who just alerted the human military to our presence!" Malik exclaimed. "All his 'consorting' hasn't attracted the attention of even one of our enemies, but you can be certain this will."

Jaddo's eyes narrowed, and Malik braced himself, hoping Brivari would intervene. As it turned out, he didn't have to; Jaddo abruptly turned and stalked out as Brivari turned away in disgust. Wonderful, Malik thought heavily. Jaddo had needed to hear that from someone other than Brivari, but the timing couldn't be worse. Just as the Argilian resistance rode into town and he needed the good graces of Rath's Warder more than ever, he'd managed to squelch any chance of that before he'd even tried.




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



Parker's Diner




"I wish we could go out there," Nancy fretted, her nose pressed to the window. "It's not like we have anything to do in here."

"Tell me about it," Abigail said. "I haven't seen this place so empty since....well, since ever. Since it opened."

Neither have I, Courtney thought, even though she hadn't been here when it opened. The diner was literally empty, unheard of at this hour of the afternoon. Not a single Roswell resident, movie crew member, or tourist was in Parker's because everyone seemed to be several streets up in the middle of some kind of melee that involved the sheriff and an ambulance. Nancy had stopped several passers-by who had unfortunately been uninformative due to the fact that they were hurrying toward, not away from, whatever was happening. Until the excitement died down and patrons returned with news, the waitresses in Parker's could do nothing more than watch and wait.

"Where's Mr. Parker?" another waitress asked.

"Went over to the bar," Nancy said. "At least there's a few customers over there."

"I bet it's a fight," Abigail offered, still peering out the window.

"I bet it's an accident," Nancy said. "It's nothing short of a miracle that there haven't been any accidents yet. We're overdue, especially with all these extra people in town."

Not to mention Royal Warders, Courtney added silently. She had no idea what had happened and no reason to suspect the Warders had a hand in whatever it was, but she still couldn't shake a vague feeling of unease. Proximity to Warders was very much like playing with fire; play with it long enough, and one was bound to get burned.

"Here comes somebody!" Abigail said excitedly. "Maybe they know something!"

All eyes swung south, and one pair widened in alarm. It was Michael and Nathaniel, heading straight for the diner even though Courtney had given them strict instructions to wait at her apartment. Either her father had chosen to ignore her or something very bad indeed had happened, hopefully the former. She watched them closely, expecting them to walk past.....but they didn't. Instead, they walked straight into the diner.

"I'll trade you free coffee for information," Nancy said as Courtney stared at them, flabbergasted. "What on earth's going on out there?"

Courtney watched Nathaniel's lips twitch, Argilians finding the popular phrase "what on earth" to be a humorous reminder that humans considered themselves the only sentient life in existence. "I believe there's been an accident of some sort, although I confess I don't know the details, madam," Michael answered.

"I told you it was an accident!" Nancy said confidently. "And now I owe you some free coffee. Have a seat, any seat. God knows we're not crowded."

"You're very kind, but I'm not here to eat," Michael answered. "I'm here to see my daughter. Privately, if possible."

All eyes followed his gaze to Courtney. "Everyone, this is my father, Mr. Harris," Courtney said brightly. "He's....visiting. With a friend."

"Why didn't you tell us it was your father?" Nancy admonished, grabbing Michael's hand and shaking it. "Welcome to Roswell, Mr. Harris! You've got a quite a kid here. Held herself together even though that guy she was going to stay with was killed right before she arrived. That took guts."

"So I hear," Michael said. "And now if you'd excuse us....."

Courtney steered the two men through the kitchen and into the locker area, barely able to hold her tongue until they were out of earshot. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "I told you not to come here, and protocol demands—"

"You're a fine one to be talking about protocol," her father said sternly.

"And you're a fine one to be ignoring it," Courtney retorted. "You know perfectly well that you should have walked past and waited for me to join you. And what's with telling them who you are? Do you realize how stupid that made me look? Now I'll have to come up with a reason why I didn't say anything in the first place. Why didn't you stay home like I told you to?"

"For the same reason you didn't go home when I told you to," her father replied testily. "It was my judgment that we should speak with you immediately."

"The Covari also told us not to leave the apartment," Nathaniel said.

"I told you, I don't take orders from Covari," Michael retorted.

Courtney blinked. "Covari....you mean Malik? You've met him?"

"If you call infiltrating your apartment 'meeting him', yes," Michael answered darkly. "Your neighbor, the Warder's ally, brought us something to eat. We believe it slipped inside then, despite the fact that we examined her with the generator. It eavesdropped for several minutes before revealing itself."

Most likely with Dee's blessing, Courtney thought wearily. Malik had probably headed for her apartment right after leaving the diner, and Dee wouldn't have hesitated to help him get in there undetected. The whole thing had probably been a set up.

"But it did reveal itself after ascertaining that we were indeed with the resistance," Nathaniel countered. "I understand its need to be sure."

"Nathaniel has spent a good deal of time apologizing for the Covari's behavior, a perspective I do not share," Michael said coldly. "But we can debate this later. There has been a death. From what we hear, it was an 'actress' in whatever film is being made here, and the manner of her death is somewhat.....odd."

Courtney swallowed. Miss Tate. God knows she'd warned her to stay away from "Langley", for the all good it had done. "What do you mean by 'odd'?" she asked out loud.

"Our hearing is superior to that of a human, so we were able to glean certain details," Nathaniel answered. "It appears this female was completely incinerated."

"Incinerated as in....burned?" Courtney asked. "On the outside? I thought the Warders burned from the inside and left a handprint behind. Is this something they could do?"

"We don't know," Michael admitted. "But we do know that the explanation currently favored is unlikely. The humans think she was struck by lightning."

Courtney glanced toward the nearest window. "It hasn't rained for days, and certainly not today."

"We know," her father sighed. "And whether or not we are familiar with this mode of execution, it certainly falls within the Warders' abilities. Do you know of any reason why they would want to execute this female?"

Courtney leaned back against a locker and closed her eyes. "Brivari," she whispered.

"What?"

"Brivari," she repeated as the morning's events came back to her. "Brivari and Jaddo quarreled this morning.....again."

"They've been quarreling?" Michael asked.

"Brivari took a job on the movie set," Courtney explained, "and he developed some sort of relationship with that actress. I saw them in here lots of times. And just this morning, Brivari was talking about leaving town. That's when they quarreled again, telepathically, of course. I can tell because Jaddo usually storms out and doesn't pay his bill."

"How many times has this happened?"

"Two or three," Courtney answered. "Maybe four. It's been going on since I got here."

"We have to warn them," Nathaniel said as Michael looked distinctly worried. "It would be nice to wait for the introductions and the pleasantries, but we don't have that luxury any more."

"Warn them about what?" Courtney asked in alarm, not missing the irony of having fought off Dee and then Malik only to have her own people propose exactly what they'd wanted to do in the first place. "If the Warders killed her, they must have known what would happen. They don't need your help—"

"I'm not talking about the human enforcers," her father interrupted. "I know they can handle those. But when word of this gets back to Nicholas, he may very well send more operatives, all equipped with trithium generators. And if the Warders are behaving as you say they are, even shapeshifting might not shield them. You figured it out; other operatives might too. The Warders think they're safe. We need to inform them otherwise."





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



I'll post Chapter 44 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR



August 19, 1959, 3 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Get him inside," Valenti said to Hanson as he pulled the cruiser up to the back door of the station. "And you," he said severely, pointing a finger in Dean's sullen face, "I hear so much as a word out of you, and I'll slap you in a holding cell so fast, your head will spin."

"You can't treat me like this!" Dean protested. "I'm Charles Dean! I'm a star! I'm—"

"Can't you count?" Valenti interrupted sharply. "I said one word. You're way over your limit. Go ahead, try me," he added when Dean opened his mouth. "After what you pulled, I am not in the mood."

Dean glowered at him but held his tongue as Hanson pulled him out of the car and steered him into the station via the back door. "Straight to my office," Valenti ordered as they passed curious deputies on the way in.

"Sir?" Hanson said, his eyes up ahead.

"I see them. Keep going. Don't make eye contact, and don't stop."

Damn it, Valenti muttered silently, eyeing the crowd up ahead, the cameras held aloft, the pencils poised over pads of paper, his deputies struggling to corral everyone. The last thing he'd wanted was a media circus, and thanks to the loudmouth in tow, that's exactly what he now had. He'd just succeeded in calming everyone down, and then it had all gone to hell.

"Sheriff!" a reporter called. "Is Mr. Dean right? Was Audrey Tate murdered?"

"Should the citizens of Roswell stay indoors?"

"What do you have to say about the strange condition of Miss Tate's body?"

Valenti walked right past, ignoring all of them. Stopping would only embroil him in a quagmire from which there was no escape because he had no information. That simple fact wouldn't stop the press, however, so it was best to just ignore them. His deputies knew the drill, and as he reached his office, he heard Deputy Alvarez giving the, "We have insufficient information with which to comment at this time" speech, which his men were trained to keep repeating until the reporters got tired of asking and went in search of other targets. They'd be back, of course, and much too soon, but hopefully he'd know more by then. Hopefully.

"Inside," Valenti said, giving Dean a little shove as he closed and locked the door behind him. "Sit. Down," he clarified, indicating a chair when Dean appeared to need directional guidance.

"Why are getting all pissy with me?" Dean demanded, still standing. "I know who killed her! I know who did it! You should be thanking me for—"

"For yelling "fire" in a crowded theater?" Valenti snapped. "Because that's what you did, Mr. Dean. You just riled up an entire town, so now I not only have a dead woman, I've got a panicked populace. Panicky people are not rational, so I'm going to have one hell of a time keeping order thanks to you and your big mouth!"

"So you don't want to know who killed her? You don't want to know what I saw? And you call yourself a sheriff—"

Valenti grabbed Dean by the collar and pushed him into the chair. "If you have allegations, you bring them to me quietly," he said sternly. "You may run the show on the movie set, but I'm glad to say the real world operates a bit differently. I need evidence to accuse someone of anything, and as much as it may come as a shock to you, your word alone doesn't qualify. So you keep your voice down until I see if there's anything to back up your claims, or I swear to God, I'll gag you. Got that?"

Dean's eyes flashed, but he nodded sullenly. Valenti took a seat behind his desk while Hanson took up a position directly behind Dean. "Now....in the privacy of this office.....what did you see?"

"It was the clapper loader," Dean announced.

"The clapper loader," Valenti repeated as Hanson rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, the clapper loader, that Langley guy. He killed her!"

"And you base this on.....what?"

"They attacked me," Dean said with satisfaction.

" 'They'?"

"The clapper loader and that smart ass friend of his," Dean nodded. "They attacked me because they knew I was onto him."

"Onto whom?" Hanson asked. "The clapper loader or the smart ass friend?"

"The clapper loader!" Dean said impatiently, as though they should already know that. "He was sweet on her, and she thought she was sweet on him. You know dames. They never know what's best for them. Audrey was mine—mine. And he knew it. That short, bald little nobody knew it. He wanted to take me out of the picture, see, so he could have her to himself."

"Seems to have done one hell of a crappy job," Hanson observed dryly. "She's dead, and you're not."

"Yes, could you explain that?" Valenti said. "If this is a love triangle, you should be dead, not her."

"He tried," Dean said, nodding vigorously. "He attacked me, and then Audrey showed up, and then he attacked her. I saw it!"

"If you saw it, then where were you?" Valenti asked. "You weren't the one who called in the discovery of the body, and there was no one else on site when it was discovered."

"They attacked me in a different place. And then Audrey came, and they knocked me out, and they must have chased her and killed her because she caught'em in the act."

"So you didn't actually 'see' anything," Valenti pointed out.

Dean's face clouded. "Look, my watch stopped when they knocked me out," he said, holding out his arm. "So you know exactly what time it happened."

Hanson bent over and examined the watch. "It has stopped, sir, but it's reading only minutes before the body was discovered."

"So?" Dean demanded. "What does that mean?"

It means there's no way someone could have burned Audrey Tate to a crisp in such a short amount of time, Valenti thought. "Mr. Dean, if you'd be kind enough to give my deputy the location where this alleged attack took place, I'll have them investigate. As for Miss Tate, I'm waiting for an autopsy report—"

"You don't need an autopsy!" Dean exclaimed. "He killed her! I know he did!"

"—because early indications are that Miss Tate died of natural causes," Valenti finished. "I need evidence of foul play for an accusation of murder—"

"I just gave you evidence!"

"—which an autopsy may or may not provide. I assure you I will pursue any evidence to the fullest extent of the law. Absent that evidence, we'll just have to wait."

"Wait?" Dean sputtered in disbelief. "Wait for what? For him to finish the job? I'm in danger, sheriff, can't you see that?"

"If this clapper loader knocked you out, then pursued and killed Miss Tate, why didn't he go back and finish you off while you were unconscious?" Hanson asked.

"I....I.....what the hell difference does that make?" Dean said in exasperation, obviously annoyed with inconvenient facts. "Do your job, and go arrest that clapper loader!"

"Mr. Dean, I can't make an arrest without cause," Valenti said patiently. "I need the autopsy report—"

"If you don't take care of him, I will!" Dean declared. "I'll go out there and tell everyone what he did, get people together, and we'll take care of him ourselves!"

"You mean a lynching?" Valenti said. "Thanks so much for the heads up, Mr. Dean. Hanson, book this man on charges of disturbing the peace, and lock him up."

Dean vaulted out of his chair. "You can't do that!"

"Watch me," Valenti said flatly.

"But he killed her!" Dean exclaimed, wrenching himself free of Hanson's grip. "And that's not all. They were weird, those two. They did weird things no one should be able to do! They choked me without touching me. They grabbed my knife right out of my hand without touching it—"

"You had a knife?" Valenti broke in. "Refresh my memory—who was attacking whom?"

"I have a right to defend myself!" Dean insisted. "Especially against weirdoes like that, like.....like....." He stopped, his eyes widening. "Maybe," he breathed, ".....maybe they're aliens! No, wait!" he went on when Valenti sank back into his chair with a sigh and Hanson shook his head in disgust. "It makes sense! Aliens would want to know what we know about them, so of course they'd be interested in my movie!"

"Any alien interested in your movie needs to have its big head examined," Valenti said sharply. "And I can't help but notice that you didn't mention these 'weird things' right away. Why not? Someone choked you without touching you, and you neglected to mention that until after I threatened to toss you in a holding cell? And while we're on the subject of what I can't help noticing, let's add your breath to the list. You've been drinking, haven't you?"

Dean flushed. "I had a beer. So what?"

" 'A' beer?" Valenti repeated. "Try several. Lock him up until we have some answers, and he sobers up," he said to Hanson, "and have somebody check out the alley where all this drama supposedly happened. Oh, and bring 'Deputy Sanchez', or whoever he really is, up here. I have more important things to do than listen to this nonsense."

"No!" Dean shouted. "Wait! I didn't say anything before because I thought you'd think I was crazy!"

"Imagine that," Hanson muttered, hauling him out of the chair.

"But they did all those things!" Dean insisted, struggling in Hanson's grasp. "They never laid a hand on me, but they choked me, and hung me in the air, and—"

"And I'm Judy Garland," Hanson said impatiently, shoving Dean toward the door. "Honestly, mister, your story has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. C'mon....let's go."

Dean shouted all the way through the station with Hanson doing damage control by announcing he'd had too much to drink. Not exactly true, but it should keep the worst of the rumors at bay until they had some real answers from real sources, not some lovesick megalomaniac who had a score to settle with a fellow crew member. Whoever this clapper loader was, it wasn't hard to see why Audrey Tate or anyone else would prefer him to a control freak like Dean who announced ownership of another human being. Good thing Andi wasn't here; had she heard that, at least Dean's ears would be burning, if not other body parts.

Andi. He hadn't had time to think about her all day, but tonight he had something to tell her. Tonight when he got home, whenever that was, he could tell her that he'd been right, that there had been a spy in his station....if, that is, he was willing to tell her why a spy would be there in the first place. Perhaps it was time to do that. Now that he had proof, he could—

"Sir?"

Valenti sighed. "What is it, Hanson? Did Mr. Movie Star pee his pants on the way to his cell?"

"No, sir. It's Sanchez, or whoever he was."

Valenti's eyes narrowed. " 'Was'?"

Hanson's eyes dropped. "He's gone, sir."




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




"Jesus, you got here fast," Agent Cates said when he spied Owens striding briskly down the hall. "What'd you do, floor it all the way from Roswell?"

"Pretty much," Owens answered. ""Did you tell him anything?"

"Are you kidding?" Cates said, trotting to keep up with him. "Did you really expect me to deliver the news that one of his agents had been made? No way. I don't want to die young."

"You won't, and neither will I."

Cates shook his head. "Ordinarily I'd say it was lucky that you kept those lock picks on you, but when you told me what happened, my first thought was that you would have been better off taking your chances with Valenti."

"And under other circumstances, you might have been right," Owens agreed.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning however pissed Lewis may be that one of his agents has been exposed, I've got one hell of a consolation prize for him."

"Sorry, Chris, but the only consolation prize big enough to save your ass would be an alien on a platter."

"Nope," Owens declared. "All he needs is irrefutable evidence of aliens that he can plop in front of J. Edgar, thereby justifying his Special Unit."

"And.....you have that?" Cates ventured.

Owens gave him a wide smile. "I don't need to save my ass. Because Lewis is about to pucker up and kiss my ass."




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"All right, thanks, Ray," Valenti said. "Are you comfortable with me going to the press with this, or would you rather I wait?"

A knock sounded on the door. "Come in," Valenti called, holding up a hand to tell Hanson to wait. "That's great. This'll take a lot of the pressure off. Let me know when you're finished. Right. Goodbye."

"That Dr. Blake?" Hanson asked when Valenti hung up the phone. "What'd he say?"

"That his preliminary findings show no traces of accelerant on Tate's body," Valenti replied. "The position of her body seems to indicate she was struck from behind, but there are no obvious signs of blunt trauma, or any trauma, for that matter. He's sticking with his original idea of a freak lightning strike, for the moment, at least."

"Lightning," Hanson said, shaking his head. "There's no lightning for miles around."

"It appears there was for just a moment this afternoon, and Tate was unlucky enough to get right in its way. What have you got?"

Hanson hesitated, staring at his shoes. "Before I give you my report, sir, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Sanchez escaping. I know I—"

"Stop right there," Valenti ordered. "I put him in the cell, I locked it. And if Sanchez is working for the military or the government, he probably sleeps with a lock pick under his pillow."

"You think he got himself out?"

"There was no damage to the lock," Valenti noted. "You have another theory?"

"What about another mole, sir? I mean, if there's one, there could be more....right?"

Valenti fell silent, struggling to push back the wave of anger that had threatened to overtake him since he'd learned of Sanchez's escape. Here he'd just found an imposter in his station, and he'd promptly lost him. It was quite possible there were more where Sanchez came from, and only the recent death of Audrey Tate had kept him from tearing the station apart to find out if that was true. If Sanchez had an accomplice.....

"Maybe there is," Valenti admitted, "but at the moment, I don't have the luxury of looking for them. It took me a month to ferret out Sanchez; whoever planted his false background did a good enough job that it took some digging to break through the façade. And digging takes time, something I've had precious little of, and even less now. It'll have to wait. What'd you find?"

Hanson pulled out an evidence bag. "There were no signs of struggle in the alley, no blood, no evidence of a fight....but we did find this."

"Prints?" Valenti asked, inspecting the open switchblade.

"Only Dean's," Hanson answered. "No other prints, no blood, nothing."

"You found more than I did," Valenti sighed. "There was no blood in or around the alley where we found the body, no signs of a struggle, no weapons. Dr. Blake stopped by to look at Dean, and he found no evidence that anyone had attacked him other than a bump on the back of his head, which he could easily have gotten from merely falling down. So far, this knife is the only thing that corroborates a word of what he's said."

"Well, he did say the aliens didn't touch him," Hanson said with a chuckle. "So there wouldn't have been any marks, would there? Honestly, sir, I think he just made the whole thing up."

"But why? Why invent an elaborate story like that?"

"Who knows?" Hanson shrugged. "Maybe it's the beer talking. Maybe he wants to get this clapper loader in trouble and saw a chance to do that. Or maybe he's just nuts."

"Maybe," Valenti agreed, rising from his chair. "I'm going to interview the crew of the movie, see what I can find out. Hold down the fort, will you?"

"Of course. Oh, and sir.....since you're busy.....would you mind if I did a little digging on our temporary staff? I know anything I'd be told over the phone probably wouldn't be trustworthy, but I could at least do round one for you. Save you some work."

"Hanson, I already told you it's not your fault—"

"I know it isn't, sir, but....well.....I ate a lot of lunches with that liar, and I'd really like to know if I'm working with any more of them."

Valenti hesitated for only a moment before pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling some names. "These are the ones I haven't gotten to yet," he said, handing the paper to Hanson. "Make sure you're discreet."

"Of course," Hanson said. "Good luck with your own digging, sir."

I'd rather the luck go to you, Valenti thought as he reached for his hat. It was unlikely he'd find anything on the set except tales of a jealous actor, but there could very well be another spy in his office. The big question was why. It couldn't be just the stolen artifact because Sanchez had arrived a good month prior to that. No, someone had other reasons for placing a mole in the Roswell station, and Valenti couldn't help but wonder what those reasons might be. Did it have something to do with Mark Green and the strange way his body had disintegrated? But he'd kept that so quiet....was it possible that Raymond Blake had talked? Maybe the tests he'd run had been discovered? And if it wasn't Green, then what?

I'll probably never find out, Valenti thought as he left the station. Whoever Sanchez was, whatever the reason he'd been there, it was extremely doubtful he'd ever see him again.




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



FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe



"What are you doing here at this hour?" Agent Lewis asked sharply when he spied Owens, trailed by a tense Cates. "You shouldn't be off duty for another hour at least."

"Sir, Sheriff Valenti has discovered that I'm not who I say I am," Owens announced without preamble. "He doesn't know where I'm coming from, but he does know that there's no such person as 'Christopher Sanchez'."

Owens waited as the impact of this news spread across Lewis' features. Don't lose your nerve, he ordered himself severely. If he'd learned nothing else from his brief time on the Special Unit, it was that this was not a game for the faint of heart.

"Did I understand you correctly, agent?" Lewis said in a deadly voice. "Did you just tell me that you've been exposed?"

"Half exposed, sir," Owens replied. "Like I said—"

" 'Half exposed' Is that like being 'a little pregnant'?"

"—Valenti doesn't know who I am, or that the FBI is involved," Owens finished.

"And you think that matters?" Lewis exclaimed. "I don't care what that idiot sheriff thinks he knows, and I have no room in my unit for agents who are exposed, either completely or 'halfway'! You're fired. Pack your things and leave."

"I understand, sir," Owens said smoothly. "And when I leave, I'll take the evidence of the latest incident in Roswell with me. I gather you don't want it."

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "What incident?"

"It happened just as Valenti and I were.....'talking'," Owens said. "Ironically, if I hadn't been discovered, I wouldn't have been able to obtain the photographs I did; instead, I would have been assigned to corral the public, or something like that. As it was, I was free to use the roof of a nearby building to get some very good shots of the body."

Owens kept a neutral expression as Lewis' eyebrows shot skyward at the word "body". "What happened?" he demanded. "Who died?"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I no longer work for the FBI."

Owens' eyes flicked toward Cates, who was goggle-eyed. "Excuse me?" Lewis said in a strangled voice, the beginnings of a right royal tantrum tugging at the edges of his voice. "What did you say?"

"I'm sorry; was I unclear?" Owens said calmly. "What I meant was, 'Give me my job back, and I'll tell you'."

Owens remained stock still as Lewis came around the desk and planted himself directly in front of him. "Agent, I'm ordering you to hand over any information collected in the performance of your duties."

"But I'm not an agent any more," Owens said regretfully. "You just fired me, remember?"

"You were an agent when you collected that information!" Lewis snapped.

"Then perhaps you fired me a bit....prematurely," Owens suggested, looking Lewis directly in the eye. "As it stands now, I do not work for the FBI, and you are not in a position to give me orders."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Owens held his ground as Cates wisely took a step backwards and Lewis came even closer, no easy task given that they were already nearly toe to toe. "How dare you," he breathed, the odor of whatever he'd had for lunch surrounding every word. "How dare you expose yourself to the local and then act like you deserve to—"

"I didn't 'expose myself to the local'," Owens interrupted. "You did."

"Oh, so now this is my fault?" Lewis said incredulously. "I can't wait to hear this fairy tale."

"No fairy tale, sir," Owens said. "Just a sheriff doing his job. Valenti told me I hadn't done a thing to tip him off. He was digging into the backgrounds of his temporary deputies because of that alien whatsis we stole from him, and mine didn't hold up. That would be the background you planted, sir. I had nothing to do with it."

"My covers are impeccable," Lewis insisted.

"Apparently not impeccable enough for that 'idiot sheriff'," Owens said softly.

"Irrelevant," Lewis declared. "You were exposed. It doesn't matter how."

"Like hell it doesn't," Owens retorted. "I took a potentially catastrophic situation and turned it to our advantage. Valenti tossed me in a holding cell when he got word about the body, but I picked the lock, obtained valuable information, and brought it directly to you. Give me an hour to develop the film and print the pictures, and you'll be on the phone to the Director and handing him another discovery. You'd be a fool to pass that up."

Silence. Lewis' eyes bored into Owens', and he returned the stare unblinking. After what seemed like a lifetime but was probably only a minute, Lewis broke into a wide smile.

"Quite so," he said briskly, returning to his seat.

Owens looked at Cates, who gave him a baffled shrug. "Does that mean I have my job back, sir?"

"Of course you do," Lewis said. "I don't want wimps in my unit, agent. I want men who can think on their feet and who are interested enough to fight for their positions. You have just demonstrated both. What do you have for me?"

"A dead actress sir," Owens said, carefully keeping the elation out of his voice. "She was discovered burned to a crisp in an alley in Roswell. The local doctor thought it might be a lightning strike even though the weather was clear. I recall you referencing similar deaths from your time in the military."

Lewis tapped his pencil on his desk for a moment before rising from his chair and heading for a file cabinet. A minute later, he produced several photographs which he arrayed on his desk. Cates glanced at them briefly before looking away.

"Do you mean like this?"

"Exactly like this, sir," Owens said. "It's them. It's the aliens."

"And you have photographs of this latest murder?"

"Close-ups," Owens answered. "I keep a telephoto lens in my car."

"Outstanding," Lewis said approvingly. "I had my doubts about you, agent, but no more. I want those prints ASAP."

"I'll get the film right away, sir," Owens said, waiting until he was all the way out into the parking lot before pumping his fist in the air.




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



On the set of "They Are Among Us",

Roswell




"All right, everyone, just calm down!" Morty Steinfeld exclaimed. "Getting all hysterical isn't going to help one bit. We still have a movie to finish—"

"How can you think about the movie at a time like this?" one of the costumers demanded tearfully. "Audrey's dead! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Of course it does, Brivari thought. It means his production schedule is now in jeopardy. That Steinfeld didn't have a sentimental bone in his body was underscored by the fact that the news of Audrey's death had left him more annoyed than shocked. The director predictably shared this viewpoint, although the rest of the cast and crew did not judging by the tearful faces ringing the producer. To Steinfeld, Audrey was nothing more than a tool, and a misplaced tool at that.

"They said she was burned," one of the make-up artists whispered.

"How could she have burned?" another asked. "Did someone set her on fire?"

"Charlie said someone killed her," a crew member offered.

"Please, please!" Steinfeld broke in. "We don't know what's going on. Mr. Dean is still speaking with the sheriff, who tells me that Miss Tate's body is being autopsied. We don't know what happened, and until we do, we should continue with our work—"

"You expect us to just go on like nothing's happened?" one of the women wailed. "We can't do that!"

*Emotional, aren't they?*

Brivari had to make an effort to stifle his anger before answering. *I gather you have a problem with that?* he said coldly.

*It's their greatest weakness,* Jaddo observed as though he were taking notes on rats in a maze. *Emotion clouds judgment.*

*An interesting observation given that emotion has impaired your judgment twice now. Stop sounding like Pierce with one of his experiments, and report.*

There was a pause. *Dean is indeed with the enforcer,* Jaddo said, apparently deciding to forego another verbal sparring match for the moment. *No doubt he has already told his tale.*

Then we are too late, Brivari thought heavily. If they had managed to reach Dean before he spoke to anyone, they could have silenced him; doing so now would only arouse further suspicion. *The enforcer will undoubtedly come looking for you,* Jaddo continued. *We should be certain not to show the faces we were wearing at the time. You need to leave at once.*

*No.*

Another pause. *No?* Jaddo echoed. *What do you mean, 'no'? If you are recognizable, the enforcer will interrogate you.*

*I am aware of that.*

*If you are aware of that, then you are also aware of the need for invisibility,* Jaddo said impatiently.

*Odd that you would be lecturing me about invisibility after killing a woman in broad daylight by what the humans will consider suspicious means,* Brivari said acidly. *But then you do seem to be having trouble thinking beyond the moment these days.*

*This is no time for argument,* Jaddo said severely. *If this is some kind of retaliation for removing your lover—*

*For the third time, she was not my lover, and any retaliation I would employ would be unmistakable,* Brivari retorted. *This is simple strategy, something that escapes you of late. If Dean has fingered 'Langley', then having 'Langley' disappear would immediately start the humans thinking of foul play. Only Langley's exoneration will steer them toward more pedestrian explanations.*

*You can't be serious!* Jaddo exclaimed. *Brivari, we have to leave—*

"Correction—we have to minimize the trail we leave,* Brivari interrupted. *What's happened to you, Jaddo? When did you lose the ability to think several moves ahead of your opponent?*

*I haven't,* Jaddo retorted. *They can't identify us, so any 'trail' is useless to them.*

*Is that why you've had Lewis under surveillance these past weeks? Because any trail is useless to them?*

*What does Lewis have to do with this?* Jaddo demanded. *You need to leave at once and abandon that face—*

"There's the sheriff!" someone called.

It was indeed the sheriff, holding up his hands for silence as the crew crowded around him, begging for information. "I'm sorry I don't have anything to tell you at this time," Valenti said. "I know you've all had a big shock, and you want answers. I'll see that you get them just as soon as I have any to give. We're still investigating what happened, and that's why I'm here. I need to speak to a number of different people, and I'd like to start with a clapper loader, someone named 'Langley'. Anyone know where he is?"




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



I'll post Chapter 45 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE




August 19, 1959, 5:30 p.m.,

On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"So you maintain that you never had an altercation with Mr. Dean?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "On the contrary, I gave you a detailed account of an altercation with Mr. Dean just this morning at a local diner. It is the alleged events of this afternoon that did not take place."

"Right," Valenti said slowly, rifling through pages of scribbled notes in his little notebook. "I have that here. My mistake."

Unlikely, Brivari thought even as he nodded cordially. Roswell's sheriff was very adept at the classic investigator's gambit of repeating one's words with slight alterations and waiting to see if you corrected them. A useful tactic for ferreting our lies, if a tricky one, since too many alleged memory lapses could make one appear incompetent.

"So this confrontation in the alley, you attacking him.....that never happened?"

"No."

"Are you saying he made it up?"

"It's quite possible that Mr. Dean did have an altercation with someone, just not me," Brivari answered. "He has been known to....imbibe.....somewhat earlier in the day than most."

Valenti said nothing, but nodded almost imperceptibly. Brivari had already learned from chatter on the set that Dean had been drinking quite heavily that morning, and it was highly unlikely the sheriff had missed that.

"Do you have any witnesses to your whereabouts at the time of the attack?" Valenti asked.

"I was with Carl Smith."

"The handyman? I'll need to talk to him."

"Of course."

Brivari waited patiently while Valenti continued scribbling in silence, casting the occasional surreptitious glance Brivari's way. Or what he thought was a surreptitious glance. Another investigative tactic was to allow long stretches of silence in the hopes that the less than truthful would lose their nerve and babble, giving themselves away in the process. And it was working, if not on the intended target.

*Explain to me again why you're doing this?* Jaddo said impatiently.

*Congratulations,* Brivari deadpanned. *He's trying to break me with his silence, but he broke you instead.*

*I am no stranger to silence,* Jaddo retorted. *I simply do not understand why you would endanger us like this.*

*Says the one who just endangered us,* Brivari noted.

*Even if you could have 'explained' it to her, the movie is almost finished and she would have been leaving soon,* Jaddo said. *Would you really have been willing to let her go, knowing what she knew?*

*What makes you think I would have told her the truth?* Brivari demanded. *There are so many other ways this could have been handled. Once again, I am left to mop up your messes.*

*There would be no mess if you would just change your face and leave this place,* Jaddo argued.

*Dean has already told his tale,* Brivari reminded him. *My leaving now would lend credence to his claims. Our best course of action is to discredit him, and I can only do that if I remain.*

*You do realize that he's going to be telling his story to more than just the sheriff the very moment they release him, don't you?*

*And there is not a shred of evidence to back him up,* Brivari answered. *No witnesses, no physical evidence of any kind. We all agreed it was best to simply say it never happened and allow the lack of evidence to bolster our story instead of his. The sheriff is familiar with Malik, so he will accept the alibi he provides.*

*I never agreed it was 'best' to say anything,* Jaddo objected. *Dean's story will still point the finger at you, so if the military does come calling, they will investigate you. Assuming you're still foolish enough to be here, that is.*

*Which I won't be as soon as the movie is finished,* Brivari said. * 'Langley' will leave with the rest of the crew, and that will be the end of that. And if you're worried about what the military will find, perhaps you should think about that before you dispose of a human in broad daylight.*

*I would have had no need to dispose of anyone if you had not involved yourself with them in the first place!* Jaddo exclaimed. *Stop blaming this entirely on me.*

*Why are you here, Jaddo?* Brivari demanded. *Shouldn't you be at the base, watching for Lewis to get wind of this latest of your indiscretions?*

*So now you want me at the base?*

*Anywhere but here would be preferable,* Brivari said sourly.

"You okay?"

Brivari's attention snapped back to Valenti, who was watching him curiously. He couldn't hear their telepathic conversation, of course, but his sharp eyes hadn't missed the look on Brivari's face. "Not entirely," Brivari replied, hoping that confirming at least some of Valenti's suspicions would mollify him. "How could I be when Miss Tate is dead and Mr. Dean is pointing the finger at me?"

Valenti tucked his notebook back in his pocket. "Did you have a....relationship with Miss Tate, Mr. Langley?"

"We were colleagues. Friendly colleagues."

"I meant a romantic relationship," Valenti clarified.

"No," Brivari replied, "although I'd wager Mr. Dean feels otherwise. He never liked it when she spoke to anyone else, especially other men, nor did he approve of her spending time with anyone besides him, even female companions."

"Like when she joined you for breakfast this morning?"

"Exactly. He refused an offer to join us, and insisted Audrey leave our table."

" 'Audrey'," Valenti echoed. "You were on a first name basis with Miss Tate?"

"Only in private," Brivari said smoothly. "I would never have addressed her that way in public."

"So you had a.....'private' relationship with her?"

*Oh, wonderful, Brivari,* Jaddo said acidly. *Nicely done.*

*Perhaps if you would stop harassing me in the midst of an interrogation, these missteps wouldn't occur!* Brivari snapped, careful to keep his expression neutral. "If you are referring to a romantic relationship, I've already answered that question," he continued out loud to the sheriff. "I was merely pointing out that the way one behaves in public with one's colleagues is frequently different than the way one behaves in private. I would never refer to Mr. Steinfeld by his first name in public, for example, whereas in private is another matter entirely."

"I see," Valenti nodded, rising from his seat. "Well.....I think I have everything I need for now. Where will I find you if I have any further questions?"

"I have an apartment in town until filming is finished," Brivari answered. "With a Mrs. Bruce."

Valenti's eyes widened slightly for just a moment....and then the moment was gone. "Mrs. Bruce," he repeated. "I know her. Nice lady."

"Very nice," Brivari agreed.

"Thank you for your time, and I'll be in touch if I need anything else," Valenti said, tipping his hat. "Good day to you."

"To you as well," Brivari replied. He watched the sheriff approach Steinfeld, saw the camera crew being assembled. They must be next on the list.

*Did you see that?* Jaddo asked quietly.

*Of course I saw that,* Brivari answered. *I have no idea why the location of my apartment would give the sheriff pause.*

*Has anything happened there recently?*

*Not that I know of.*

*Well, something set him off,* Jaddo said warily. *And we'd best find out what.*




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



Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"We shouldn't be doing this," Courtney argued. "Not yet."

"It's not up for discussion," Michael answered.

"We should talk to Malik first," Courtney insisted. "Doing anything without him is a mistake."

"I don't need a Covari babysitter," Michael said coldly.

"I was thinking more along the lines of getting his opinion," Courtney said pointedly. "And wasn't it you, Papa, who told me to get close to him and avoid offending him?"

"I told you to avoid offending the Warders' human allies, who understandably don't realize the true nature of Covari," Michael corrected. "That's a long way from taking orders from them."

"Who said anything about taking orders?" Courtney said crossly. "He knows the Warders, so I just want to know what he thinks."

"I don't care what it thinks," Michael announced.

"Don't let Dee hear you call him 'it'," Courtney warned. "That's looked on as demeaning in human culture. They consider Covari to be the same as them or us, remember?"

"And when I am in the presence of human allies, I will, of course, follow their conventions," Michael answered. "I notice you're following them even outside of their presence. Watch yourself, daughter. You sound like you're buying into the illusion, especially when you place the opinion of a Covari over that of your own father."

Courtney felt her face growing warm. "I didn't say that. I just said I wanted to know what...it.....thought. I don't even know what that is, so you can't say I'm taking that opinion over yours."

"We're digressing," Nathaniel said as Michael opened his mouth to continue the argument. "We all know Nicholas, so we all know there is value in the preemptive strike. We shouldn't wait any longer. We need to get there first."

Courtney sighed as her father and Nathaniel positioned themselves in front of her father's trithium generator. She'd been living here for two months now and was in the best position to know exactly how much Malik's advice was worth, but her father just swept her aside like some wet-behind-the-ears recruit. And if that wasn't irritating enough, she was surprised and not a little disturbed to find his attitude toward Malik equally irritating. Granted, Malik was Covari, but that was merely reason for caution, not license to simply dismiss him, a foolish attitude given that he was closer to the Warders than anyone. And—

And I'm doing it again, she thought with a start as her father activated his communicator. Even in the privacy of her own thoughts, she was labeling Malik a "he" though she knew perfectly well that "he" was no such thing. Perhaps she'd been around Dee too long. Perhaps she was losing sight of some basic truths.

A hologram of Nicholas' face formed over the generator. "Michael! What have you got for me?"

"News," Michael replied. "We're in Roswell, and....there has been a death."

Nicholas leaned forward eagerly. "The Warders?"

Or perhaps my system of measurement has been recalibrated, Courtney amended silently, disgusted by the avid look in Nicholas' eyes. Some people thrived on violence, were invigorated by it, and this was one of them. She would never say this out loud, but Nicholas was far more deserving of the human designation "it" than Malik.

"We're not sure," Nathaniel answered. "There is no handprint as there was with Pierce, but the circumstances are apparently under discussion."

"We'd like to stay in Roswell and investigate before continuing north," Michael added. "If there's any chance this is the work of a Warder, we shouldn't waste time chasing stolen communicators."

"Agreed," Nicholas said. "What about Crist? Have you found him?"

Courtney felt rather than saw her father stiffen slightly. "Not yet, but we've only just arrived. We plan to visit his apartment today."

"Let me know as soon as you talk to him," Nicholas said. "I don't like it when my operatives leave their equipment around for humans to find." He cocked his head sideways. "You're looking good, Courtney. Miss me?"

"Not even remotely," Courtney said promptly.

"Such a tough customer," Nicholas sighed. "Most women love me. But I have to hand it to you—you were right. They're somewhere up there, just like you said they were. That makes putting up with your mouth worth it. Let me know as soon as you have further information."

The hologram faded, and Michael rounded on her. "Must you antagonize him?" he snapped. "After the mess you've gotten me into, the last thing I need is to have you anger the very person we're trying to deceive!"

"Do you think I'm some sort of idiot?" Courtney protested. "I always antagonize him, Papa. He expects it. He even enjoys it. If I came off any differently, he'd notice. I thought the point was to not attract attention."

"Antagonizing Nicholas is attracting attention," her father retorted. "Don't do that again. Honestly, what is the matter with you? Two months of independence, and you're reckless and argumentative."

"That two months of independence is two months of experience," Courtney countered, "experience with both Covari and their allies. We shouldn't be doing this without consulting Malik."

"I've led the resistance since its inception, so forgive me if your two months of experience fail to impress me," Michael said sharply. "You know perfectly well that if Nicholas had heard of the death here from some other source, he would want to know why we hadn't reported it. He has now heard it from us first, and we've secured permission to stay here longer, which gives us more breathing room for our real task. For your information, I'm not an 'idiot' either."

"I never said you were," Courtney said impatiently, "but this should stop here. The rest of it is a mistake."

"I disagree. And since I am the senior officer here, not to mention your father, it's my decision to make."

Courtney threw a pleading look Nathaniel's way, but Nathaniel only shook his head. "They must be warned," he said gently. "Surely you can see that."

"Then let Malik decide how to warn them," Courtney pleaded.

"If Malik does the warning, has it not occurred to you that he might not survive?" Nathaniel pointed out. "This protects him as well as us."

"If you disagree, you are welcome to not participate," Michael added. "Given the way you're behaving, I'd rather you didn't."

Courtney's lips set in a thin line. "Fine. But I want it on record that I felt that proceeding without further counsel was a mistake."

"Noted," her father said flatly. "Goodbye."

Courtney closed her eyes and leaned against the door as her father and Nathaniel left the apartment, the latter giving her a sympathetic look on the way out. If only she knew where to find Malik, but she had no idea where he'd be in the middle of a crisis. Perhaps Emily would know? Would it be prudent to interrupt Dee in the middle of a shift when she'd done so only yesterday? Would Dee even care after her father had been so rude to her earlier? Was it fair to drag the Proctors into what was really a private dispute? Perhaps she could just wander around and hope to find "Carl", or maybe someone could tell her where he was.

Startled, Courtney's eyes flew open. Had she really just considered betraying her father's intentions to a Covari?



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



Roswell Sheriff's Station





"Thanks for your time, Carl," Valenti said. "If I need to talk to you again, I'll let you know."

"Glad to help," Carl replied, nodding to Hanson on his way out of the office.

"How's the press behaving?" Valenti asked.

"They've backed off, for the moment at least," Hanson replied. "What'd Carl have to say?"

"He says our clapper loader was with him after the movie set broke for lunch," Valenti answered. "No surprise there. What have you got?"

"The names of the waitresses who were at the diner this morning," Hanson said, handing over a sheet of paper. "Everyone there now is "B" shift. Want me to interview them?"

Valenti glanced over the names before shaking his head. "I'll do it."

"Let me, sir," Hanson urged. "You've had a rough day, and I'm sure Andi would like to see you for dinner at least one day this week, not to mention Jimmy."

"Relax, Hanson," Valenti said. "I'm on my way home. I'll talk to the diner employees tomorrow morning. It's no big deal because I'm pretty sure I've heard the story already from the movie crew. A number of them saw Dean go after Miss Tate this morning, and those accounts match, so I can't imagine the story will change much."

"Jesus, Dean must have been more drunk than he looked," Hanson said in disgust. "Did he really think anyone was going to believe a tall tale like that?"

Valenti sat back in his chair, tapping his pencil on the desk. "Part of it's true. There was something going on between the clapper loader and Miss Tate. Oh, he says there wasn't, but plenty of other crew members tell a different story."

"You mean an affair?"

"I'm not sure," Valenti admitted. "People said they spent a lot of time together prior to Dean's arrival, although all of them stopped short of calling it an affair."

"Maybe Langley just doesn't want to tarnish her reputation," Hanson said. "Or his. If there was something going on, it would go a long way toward explaining why Dean's trying to blame him for Miss Tate's death, even if he is doing an awful job of it. And in the end, it doesn't matter if there was hanky panky; that's not illegal. There's no evidence to support Dean's story that he was attacked, and the clapper loader has an alibi, so we're done."

"Not quite," Valenti said. "We still have a woman dead by mysterious means."

"Doc said it was lightning," Hanson reminded him. "What else could it have been?"

"On a sunny day, and no one heard it? How's that work, exactly?"

"Not sure," Hanson admitted, "but stranger things have happened. Turn it around—how could someone have pulled off a murder like that?"

Valenti was quiet for a moment, the pencil tap tapping against the desk. "I don't know," he said finally. "I really don't. But I'd still like the autopsy report before I write it off to some freak accident."

"Suit yourself, sir. What do you want me to do with Dean?"

"Hold him until morning," Valenti said. "That way I can deal with the resulting antics in daylight."

"Will do. Need anything else before I go?"

Valenti shook his head. "Go on home. I'm right behind you." And not convinced, he added silently, fingering the list of names as Hanson left. Courtney Harris' name was on that list, the same Courtney Harris who also lived in Ruth Bruce's rooming house along with Langley. The very same rooming house where Mark Green used to live, he of the exploding body and weird cells that still had Dr. Blake on the edge of his seat, kept at bay only by the promise that Valenti would give the Green case his full attention just as soon as Hollywood pulled up stakes. But why would he think there was a connection there? Miss Harris' reticence to talk had turned out to be nothing more than her running from her father, and there was no denying that Langley had an airtight alibi; Carl Smith was well respected in town, had been since he'd arrived back in 1950.

.......1950....... The year the military had lost an alien prisoner, and both Roswell and the surrounding area had come under siege as they tried to find him. But they never had......

Stop it, Valenti ordered himself severely as he reached for his hat. This was ridiculous. He usually excelled at connecting the dots, but these dots were so faint, they were almost invisible. He had far more important dots to connect, and he practiced his speech all the way home, still working on the last nuances as he pulled into his driveway, only to have the whole thing fly right out of his head when he saw his wife standing in the front doorway. But she didn't look mad, thank God; just worried.

"I didn't think we'd be seeing you for a while," Andi said. "Is it true what I've been hearing, that someone was killed downtown today? What happened?"

"Looks like a freak lightning strike," Valenti answered.

"How could it be a lightning strike? Was it raining over by you?"

"Never mind that now," Valenti said, pulling her into the kitchen. "Andi, I....I found a spy in my station today."

"A 'spy'?" Andi echoed. "What kind of spy?"

"A deputy who wasn't a deputy, who didn't even exist," Valenti answered. "Whoever laid his cover did a good enough job that it took some doing to peel off the varnish. That's what I've been doing all this time, why I haven't been home much. I've been checking on all those temporary deputies I have, and this one came up bad."

"Oh, my God!" Andi exclaimed. "What was he doing there? Where did he come from?"

"He wouldn't tell me," Valenti said. "Said I didn't want to know. I locked him up, but he escaped while we were all out on the lightning strike call."

"Good Lord," Andi breathed, sinking into a kitchen chair. "Do you think he's the one who stole from your office?"

"He wouldn't admit it, but I'm sure of it," Valenti said.

"But why would someone be spying on you? What's so all-fired important in Roswell that someone would go to all that trouble to plant a fake deputy?" Andi paused, eyeing him closely. "Jim—what was it that was stolen?"

"I'm not sure what it was," Valenti admitted, "but I have my suspicions. And if I'm right, that explains the fake deputy."

"What suspicions?" Andi persisted. "Look, I know I'm not supposed to pry, but this is serious. A month ago you came home asking if anyone strange had been to the house, but you never said why, never explained—"

The doorbell rang. "Don't move," Andi ordered. "I'll get rid of them." She disappeared, returning a minute later with a puzzled look. "It's for you. Someone named 'Sanchez'. He says it can't wait."

Valenti stood stock still for a moment before vaulting out of the kitchen with Andi on his heels. It was indeed "Sanchez" on his doorstep, now dressed in a dark suit instead of a uniform. "Sheriff," he nodded. "I apologize for the intrusion, but—"

"Which one?" Valenti interrupted sharply. "The current variety, or the six weeks you spent at my station impersonating a deputy?"

Andi's eyes widened as Sanchez's dropped. "Is this true?" she demanded. "Are you the spy?"

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here," Valenti said angrily.

"Sheriff, I understand you're angry, and you have a right to be," Sanchez said, "but if you'd just let me explain—"

"The only thing I'll 'just let you explain' is who the hell you're working for!" Valenti exclaimed.

As if on cue, a figure appeared behind Sanchez, another man in a dark suit who stepped in from the side. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance," the man said smoothly, presenting identification. "I am Agent Bernard Lewis of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you've met Agent Owens, albeit by a different name. We have much to discuss, sheriff. May we come inside?"




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"What happened?" Brivari asked when Malik arrived at the apartment.

"He believed me," Malik answered. "I hung around the station for a while longer. Dean accused you and an accomplice of attacking him, and then going after the actress. They found his knife, but since there were no prints on it and no signs of a struggle, his story's been discounted."

"Did his story include some of the more unusual things he saw?" Brivari asked.

"I don't know," Malik said, taking a seat. "No one mentioned that. They did mention that Dean had been drinking, so if he did say anything about you using your abilities, it was probably written off to his being drunk. They're holding him overnight, presumably because he threatened you."

"I told you he'd be a problem," Jaddo said from his position beside the window, peering out as though expecting an invasion. "No doubt he'll be spouting his tale at the top of his lungs when he's released. What did the sheriff ask you about how you know Brivari?"

"Not much," Malik replied. "I told him we met at Parker's, where he already knows we both eat."

"Did he ask you if you knew where Brivari lived?"

"No. Why?"

Brivari and Jaddo exchanged glances. "When he questioned me earlier, the sheriff appeared to hesitate upon learning of my address," Brivari said. "Do you have any idea why he would consider this place suspect?"

Plenty, Malik thought wearily. Every time he thought they were getting on top of this latest disaster, he was wrong. Valenti knew that Mark Green's body had disintegrated in a very odd way, and the town's doctor had told him point blank that body had alien cells. And Green's apartment was now occupied by Courtney, whom Valenti supposedly no longer suspected, but had at one time. He now had a dead body with alien cells in an upstairs apartment and a man accused of fantastic power in a downstairs apartment at the same address. Knowing Valenti, there was no way he would miss that confluence of events. This whole situation was rapidly sliding downhill.

"No," Malik said, careful to keep his expression puzzled. "I have no idea why he'd be interested in where you're living."

"It was probably nothing," Brivari said.

"But we don't know that," Jaddo persisted, "and I, for one, don't wish to linger to find out. Our hands are tied with Dean; removing him now is much too risky. Have your 'Langley' quit his job, change your face, and disappear."

Malik shook his head. "That would be even worse than having something happen to Dean. What would it look like if Brivari is fingered and then immediately vanishes? Even without evidence, that would be the worst thing he could do. His disappearance would become evidence."

"Finally, someone with vision," Brivari said darkly. " 'Langley' will stay put and give the lie to anything Dean says until the movie has finished filming, at which point he will logically disappear along with the rest of the cast and crew. And if you don't like that, Jaddo, perhaps you should consider the ramifications of your temper the next time you decide to have an outburst."

Malik heaved a private sigh of relief as Jaddo gave a disgruntled snort, but didn't argue. He would never have breathed a word of this, but he was surprised at how unwilling he was to entertain the notion of changing his own face. If 'Langley' came under any real suspicion, it was likely that the alibi 'Carl' had provided would come under similar suspicion, and it wasn't a giant leap from that point to where 'Carl' would have to disappear as well....and he didn't want to. He'd been so comfortable here for the past ten years with friends, a thriving business, and a level of peace and acceptance unavailable to him at home. The thought of losing that had made his encounter with Valenti most uncomfortable....and that discomfort made him even more uncomfortable. Shifting was a Covari's stock in trade, the ability to change one's identity whenever one wished or the occasion called for it. Emotional investment in an adopted identity was unwise for the very reason he was now conflicted; the prospect of leaving it behind became difficult to bear.

But I might have to, Malik thought sadly. The peace of the last decade had been shattered this summer, first by Pierce's death, then Courtney's arrival, and now this. And soon, very soon, he would need to find a way to tell the Warders that the Argilian resistance was here. That would cause fireworks which might well make "Carl Smith's" existence untenable, however much he might wish to hang onto that. And then there was that little matter of what he'd just witnessed at Valenti's house. This day was getting worse by the minute.

Someone knocked on the door. Everyone exchanged wary glances before Brivari answered it.

"Good evening, Mr. Langley," Mrs. Bruce smiled. "Leroy delivered this for you."

"Leroy?"

"Our postman," Mrs. Bruce explained, handing him an envelope. "Someone brought this to the post office just as it was closing, and he goes by here on his way home, so he dropped it off. I said I'd make sure you got it. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not," Brivari said. "Thank you kindly."

"What is that?" Jaddo asked suspiciously when the landlady had left.

"I have no idea," Brivari said, tearing open the letter, scanning the contents. "I don't get 'mail'."

A moment later he went rigid, his eyes widening. "What is it?" Jaddo demanded as Malik rose from his chair in alarm. "Who sent it?"

Brivari said nothing, merely handed the letter to Jaddo and walked away, gazing out the window in what appeared to be a state of shock. Worried, Malik leaned in closer to read.....


To the Royal Warders,


We are members of the Argilian resistance. We share common cause in that we also wish to remove Khivar from the throne and restore peace and prosperity to Antar. Recent events have convinced us that you should be made aware that we have learned of your presence here. Athenor, who goes by the name of Nicholas, is not yet aware of it, but he suspects. We have misled him as best we can, but if you continue to draw attention to yourselves, it will only be a matter of time before he locates you.

Be advised that all Argilians wear husks, a bioengineered life form that mimics human skin and renders us unidentifiable on sight. We are also equipped with devices capable of both identifying you and disabling your enhancements. It is imperative that you do nothing further to give away your position or attract the attention of the many Argilian operatives stationed in this area of the planet.

It is our fervent hope that reports of the Royal Four's impending resurrection are true, and we stand ready to assist in their protection in any way we can. We will contact you when it is safe to arrange a meeting.



Malik looked up at the Warders in shock, his worst fears confirmed.

"And so it begins," Brivari whispered.




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



I'll post Chapter 46 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


August 19, 1959, 7:15 p.m.

Valenti residence



Flabbergasted, Jim Valenti stood at his front door with his wife beside him no less flabbergasted than he was. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI had planted an agent in his station with nary a word to him, and now they had the gall to stand on his doorstep and try to make nice.

"Let me make certain I understand you correctly," Valenti said, struggling to control his temper. "You snuck an agent into my station—my station—under false pretenses, and now you expect me to let you into my house? Why in the name of all that's holy would I do that?"

"Please, sheriff," Lewis said placatingly. "You're law enforcement, we're law enforcement. We're on the same side."

"You could've fooled me!" Valenti exclaimed. "People who are 'on the same side' don't typically lie to each other."

"I am not of the opinion that I 'lied'," Lewis said. "Agent Owens is with the Federal Bureau of Investigation; in other words, federal police. That makes him the equivalent of one of your deputies, which was how he presented to you, and is the office he's filled these past six weeks. Would you rate his performance in that office as satisfactory?"

Yes, Valenti admitted silently, the word sticking in his craw even though it remained unspoken. Owens, or "Sanchez", had been an exemplary deputy: Calm, astute, punctual, and always willing to fill in for others when necessary. In light of recent information, that last was perhaps not as praiseworthy as it would have seemed; the more "Sanchez" worked, the more he was likely to have learned.

"Nice try," Valenti said, "but a lie is a lie, and jurisdiction is jurisdiction....and the FBI doesn't have jurisdiction in Roswell. Why did you put him here?"

"To gather information," Lewis replied. "He was not to interfere with your jurisdiction in any way."

"Oh, really? So stealing from a locked desk drawer in my office doesn't constitute 'interference'?"

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about," Lewis answered calmly.

"Like hell you don't," Valenti retorted. "I wonder if your memory will improve when I file a complaint with your superiors."

Lewis smiled faintly. "Sheriff, believe me when I say that would be a very bad idea."

"Is that a threat?" Valenti demanded.

"An observation," Lewis corrected, "but you're certainly free to take it any way you like. Just remember, I warned you."

"Thanks a heap," Valenti said sourly. "Now, get off my doorstep."

"Sheriff, please," Owens broke in as Valenti began to close the door. "I convinced Agent Lewis to approach you because I have a great deal of respect for your investigational skills....and we need your help."

"Of course you do," Valenti said sarcastically. "His man's been made, and now he 'needs my help'. How convenient."

"This concerns the citizens of your jurisdiction, sheriff," Lewis said. "Surely you can set your personal disappointments aside for the safety of those with whom you were entrusted when you took your oath of office?"

Valenti's eyes narrowed as he stepped onto the porch, nose to nose with Lewis. "How dare you stand here and lecture me about oaths when you're the one lying through your teeth. I'm not the only one who took an oath, agent, and you don't seem to have had any trouble ignoring yours. Were you always this much of a hypocrite, or is that something you had to learn to join the FBI?"

Valenti felt Andi stiffen beside him as Owens paled and Lewis' face darkened. "I'm not interested in a philosophical discussion," Lewis said coldly, "and spare me the grade school theatrics. Do you really mean to tell me that you've always been forthcoming during an investigation? That you've never kept anything to yourself, never bent the rules even slightly to find out what you needed to know? But of course you have. If not, you wouldn't have those excellent investigational skills Agent Owens speaks so highly of. Stop posturing as some sort of law enforcement saint, and hear us out."

"Get lost," Valenti answered.

Lewis' eyes flashed. "Would you prefer we do this the hard way?"

"Why, you piece of shit!" Valenti snapped. "You—"

"Jim," Andi warned.

"—lie to me, you steal from me, and now you have the nerve to stand on my doorstep and threaten me? I should throw you both in a cell—"

"Jim!"

"—stark naked so you won't have anywhere to hide a lock pick. Nowhere comfortable, that is."

"Jim!"

Andi jerked his arm for emphasis this time, turning him halfway around. Jimmy was halfway down the stairs, watching the angry grown-ups in front of him with wide eyes. How long had he been standing there? Didn't matter. Any length of time was too long.

"This is work business, son," Valenti said, his voice a study in barely suppressed rage. "Go back upstairs."

"But—"

"Your father's right, honey," Andi said. "Go back upstairs."

Jimmy cast a longing look at the two men at the door before reluctantly retreating. "Get off my property," Valenti said just as soon as his son was out of sight, "and out of my town."

"If you insist," Lewis said. "But you won't like the result."

"No!" Owens exclaimed. "This isn't the way to do it! Sheriff, you need to listen to us. I'm sorry we went behind your back, but—"

"Out," Valenti ordered.

"—we need to work together. Yes, I know that sounds hypocritical, but it's the truth. If—"

"Out!"

"—we don't work together, you'd be letting a potentially dangerous situation go unaddressed—"

"OUT!"

"Sheriff, the death in town today was not a natural death," Owens blurted out.

Four startled faces stared at Owens, especially Lewis, who looked fit to be tied. "What do you mean not 'natural'?" Valenti demanded.

"Don't answer that," Lewis ordered.

"We have to," Owens insisted. "He needs to know."

"He doesn't want to know!" Lewis snapped.

"Know what?" Valenti asked suspiciously.

"Sir, he needs information in order to trust us," Owens argued. "You have to admit that he doesn't have much reason to."

"I don't care what he has 'reasons' for," Lewis retorted. "You will hold your tongue, do you hear me? That's an order!"

"Wait a minute," Valenti said. "Do you mean that now you don't want him to talk to me?"

"Did I not just ask several times for an audience?" Lewis said impatiently. "What upsets me is my agent blurting classified information on a public doorstep. That was indiscreet," he added with a dark look at Owens, "and I will deal with it later."

"Is stealing from my husband's office also considered 'indiscreet'?" Andi demanded.

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "Refresh my memory, sheriff—who is it that holds 'jurisdiction' in Roswell? You, or the little missus?"

"I apologize for Agent Lewis, Mrs. Valenti," Owens broke in before Andi could respond. "It's been a long day, and we're all a little on edge. I'm sure that several of the Bureau's actions appear....disconcerting. If you'd be so kind as to let us come in, we'll tell your husband why we found them necessary."

"No," Andi said firmly. "Take them down to the station, Jim. Take formal statements, have witnesses, make it official."

"That won't be possible," Lewis interjected. "It is imperative that the perpetrators not know of the FBI's interest in them. That's another reason my man was under cover, something you'd know already if you'd bothered to listen to us in the first place. We should leave," he added to Owens. "This was a mistake."

"Sheriff, please," Owens pleaded as Valenti hesitated.

"Jim, don't," Andi said fiercely. "They lie to you, they steal from you, and now you're actually considering letting them in our house? What makes you think you can trust anything they say?"

"Give me some credit, Andi," Valenti replied. "I know I can't trust them. I can't trust most of the people I arrest, either, but I still hear them out."

"How very kind of you to compare us to common criminals," Lewis said acidly. "And yet another reason we should leave as requested."

Valenti's eyes swept the faces in front of him, weighing his options. "I apologize," he said to Lewis, stepping back from the door. "I was hasty. Please, gentlemen.....come right in. I can't wait to hear what you have to say."

Owens didn't wait for a second invitation, vaulting past Valenti into the house, forcing a scowling Lewis to follow him. "I can't believe you did that," Andi breathed. "Tell me why you did that."

"Keep you friends close, and your enemies closer," Valenti murmured. "Strategy 101. Besides, it pisses him off. That alone is worth the price of admission."

"Just be careful," Andi sighed. "He makes my skin crawl."

"I will be," Valenti promised, kissing her lightly on the forehead. "Besides, what do I have to worry about? You'll have the guy in a half-Nelson if he tries anything."

She smiled ruefully as Valenti headed for the agents hovering in the living room. Neither noticed Jimmy peering around the corner of the upstairs hallway, listening intently.




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Explain to me why you would even consider contacting the Warders without checking with me first," Malik demanded.

"I have no need to 'explain' myself to you," Michael said coldly. "Be that as it may, I already have. Twice. For the third time, they needed to know they were being watched. The last time you gave 'advice', you advised my daughter to delay warning them of their peril because it wasn't a 'good time', and now look what's happened. There will never be a 'good time'. They would have been more careful had they known."

"You obviously don't know Jaddo very well," Malik argued. "Couldn't you have waited a few days until this died down?"

"A few days may have been too long," Michael insisted. "Nicholas may have—"

"Nicholas may never have known about it if you hadn't gone out of your way to tell him!" Malik exclaimed. "You didn't even know if the death was related to the Warders in the first place!"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying it wasn't?"

Malik's furious silence provided the answer. Curled in a chair by her window, Courtney shivered involuntarily as the anger in the room washed over her. She was feeling especially sorry for Malik at the moment; he was truly caught in the middle between two opposing factions with no clear path ahead, a situation with which she was unfortunately familiar. She hadn't necessarily been against warning the Warders of the danger they didn't know was there, but she had been very much against doing so without at least telling Malik about it. Not that that had stopped her father. Her opinion didn't count for much with him these days.

"You would do well to remember that I am Nicholas' third, making me one of his most trusted advisors," her father continued. "He has contacts everywhere. I assure you he would have found out about the female's death with or without me. Telling him myself allowed me to control the situation."

"We told him we weren't sure of the details, and we will be certain to downplay the whole thing when we contact him again," Nathaniel added, standing off to the side and, like Courtney, largely avoiding the fray. "Hopefully he won't send any more operatives."

"And had he learned of this through other channels, he would have sent others immediately," Michael said. "I have headed the resistance since its inception, and have had to work around Nicholas for a very long time. Do keep that in mind before you spout off about things you know nothing about."

"Strange advice from someone who takes action on a subject he knows nothing about," Malik retorted. "Do you have any idea what havoc this is causing with the Warders? And what possessed you to include Brivari in your contact? Did you think he'd forget that your faction wanted Rath on the throne?"

"Involving Brivari would not have been my first choice, but he was the only one with an address," Michael countered. "The human postal system is so wonderfully anonymous. And they both need to refrain from calling attention to themselves because they are both in danger, and by extension so are their Wards. All their fates are linked."

"Papa," Courtney broke in before anyone else could say anything, "I believe Malik's principal objection is that you didn't tell him. You could still have gone through with it if he'd objected, but you blindsided him with it."

"And thereby saved his life," Michael argued. "If he had known, he would have had to keep that knowledge from them; this way he was every bit as surprised as they were, not to mention that I have relieved him of the burden of telling the Warders about us, a revelation he may very well not have survived. Now he need never admit to prior contact with any of us. I challenge anyone to argue that isn't better."

Malik sank down on Courtney's bed. "I'm right back where I was years ago," he said sadly. "Everyone at each other's throats, and me trying to keep you all alive. And we all know how well that worked out the last time."

Courtney glanced at Nathaniel, then her father. "Actually, we don't," she said, swinging around in her chair. "Not for certain. We know that Khivar received a transmission from a Covari operative on Earth that revealed Nicholas as the one who ordered the deaths of the royal family and implied he was trying to gain the throne. But when we got here, you were all gone. You told me the others died, but you didn't say how, or why you split from them in the first place."

Malik was quiet for a long time. Twice Michael opened his mouth, and twice Courtney threw him warning glances to silence him. The fate of Khivar's Covari operatives was largely a mystery to the Argilians. All they knew for certain was that the dust of two of them had been found on the floor of the basement chamber in their base at Copper Summit, now Nicholas' house. Which two, and exactly what had happened to the other two, remained unknown.

"Amar and I and three others went rogue because Zan and his father had broken faith with our people," Malik said at length, his hands working in front of him. "We put Riall on the throne, and in exchange he promised our people would not be used in research against their will. But they were. Not just criminals or defectives, but those he wanted to get rid of for one reason or another. His son continued that practice, and we had reason to believe we were being targeted as well. So we left. Or stayed behind, rather, on a visit here.

"We went to work for Khivar," Malik continued. "He sent a scientist, and we assisted him in the construction of seals for the husks you now wear. I felt like I was evening the score, providing a counterpoint to Zan's power. And then...." He paused, shaking his head. "Then the royal family was murdered, Khivar seized control....and everything changed. His paranoid behavior threatened all the five planets, and the news that his second was angling for the throne was even worse. But the last straw was Orlon murdering the emergents."

" 'Emergents'?" Michael echoed. "What 'emergents'?"

"Our payment for helping Khivar," Malik answered. "Covari born free of the genetic coding which impelled them to obey the king. Orlon felt they were tying us down, so he killed them and blamed it on Brivari. But we saw him, Marana and I, and discovered he was actually working for Nicholas. We had to run."

Courtney looked away, saw her father and Nathaniel do the same. The only reason Covari had been even slightly bearable was the assurance that the king could command them, could rein them in if necessary. The thought of unrestrained Covari running around anywhere was positively nauseating.

"If Orlon was working for Nicholas, why would he have sent a message which fingered his master as the Royal Four's assassin?" Nathaniel asked. "Did they have a falling out?"

"Amar sent that message," Malik said. "Or rather, he rigged a communicator to send it in Orlon's name should anyone besides Amar activate it. He was afraid Orlon would try to kill him. And he was right."

"But what happened to Orlon?" Michael asked.

"The communicator was set to emit a brief, but powerful blast of radiation," Malik answered. "It killed Orlon and Marana."

"That's what happened to Crist's communicator," Nathaniel murmured. "Nicholas learned that from a Covari."

"And Amar?" Courtney prodded.

Malik's eyes dropped. "Marana tried to get me to abandon Jaddo, who had only just escaped and was still vulnerable. When I wouldn't, she sided with Orlon, and she shot me, or tried to. Amar.....he jumped in front of the gun."

An uncomfortable silence followed before Michael finally spoke. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly.

"Like hell you are," Malik whispered.

Courtney threw her father yet another warning glance which shushed him just in time. Malik was right, of course. Anyone would rejoice at the notion of one less Covari in the universe. Anyone but her, perhaps, who found herself responding to the glaze of pain in Malik's eyes. God, but that looked like real sorrow.....

Stop it, she ordered herself severely. Here she was, getting caught up in the illusion again, and she felt another pang of sympathy for Dee having fallen for that illusion so completely. "So what's our next step?" she asked, changing the subject. "They know we're here, but they don't know who we are."

"And they shouldn't," Malik insisted. "They're already at each other's throats over the dead actress, and now this. Identify yourselves to them now, and you will not survive. And there will be nothing I can do to change that."

"I'm guessing this means they didn't exactly jump for joy at the news that the resistance is in town?" Courtney asked.

Malik leaned his head wearily against the wall. "Unfortunately, the resistance isn't the only one who's just come to town."



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




Valenti residence




"You're joking, right?"

"Do I look like I'm joking, sheriff?" Lewis asked.

Seated across from them, Valenti eyed Lewis warily, trying to decide if he was sincere or merely testing him. This was the second time today that someone had attributed Audrey Tate's death to an alien, although he was willing to grant that the accusation carried more heft when delivered by an FBI agent instead of an inebriated lovesick actor.

"So you expect me to believe that Tate's death was caused by an.....alien?" Valenti asked, infusing that last word with a large dose of skepticism. Multiple bad experiences had taught him to never admit belief in aliens. It had been hard enough to admit it to Raymond Blake, and he'd only done so because the doctor had gone out on that limb first.

"Sheriff, I would be deeply grateful if you would refrain from wasting any more of our mutually valuable time by pretending you aren't familiar with aliens," Lewis said. "I know better. And I know you know better."

"And what is it, exactly, that you think you...or rather, 'we'.....know?"

"July, 1947," Lewis said, pulling out a folder. "A truck driver was found burned to a crisp in a dumpster behind a truck stop, his truck missing. The truck was later found, along with the cargo, which had been removed. You were the deputy of record."

"Where did you get that—" Valenti began, only to fall silent when Agent Owens dropped his eyes. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. Your spy."

"I have a great deal more than that," Lewis said calmly. "The FBI has a file on every American, sheriff. Even you. Even me."

"Bet yours would be interesting reading," Valenti deadpanned. "But what does that have to do with aliens?"

"In July of '47, an alien ship crashed on Pohlman Ranch," Lewis answered. "Several soldiers were killed in the ensuing confrontations, some by being completely burned.....just like that truck driver. Just like Audrey Tate."

"You have documentation of this?" Valenti asked.

"I do not," Lewis answered. "Or none I can share."

"So I'm just supposed to take your word for it?"

"The point is that this is one of the ways aliens kill," Lewis said. "They've killed several people in this fashion, and now here's one more. You have an alien loose in your town, sheriff, quite possibly more than one. Doesn't that interest you?"

"What interests me is the length of time between these alleged alien murders," Valenti answered. "1947 was twelve years ago. Why'd they wait so long?"

Lewis and Owens exchanged glances. "We have reason to believe the aliens showed themselves elsewhere recently," Owens said.

"How?" Valenti asked.

"That's classified," Lewis answered.

"Classified," Valenti repeated slowly. "So.....after planting an agent in my station, you now want me to help you find an alleged alien murderer based on information which you cannot—or will not—share. For someone who wants my 'help', you're not being very forthcoming."

"I've already been more forthcoming than I should have been," Lewis said. "I didn't have leave to point out the true nature of Audrey Tate's death."

"Then why did you?" Valenti asked. "What does the mighty FBI want from me?"

"Your investigative skills," Owens answered, "and your familiarity. If we were to start asking questions, it would tip off the aliens. But if you do it, you're just the Roswell sheriff investigating a death in his town. You're much less likely to attract attention."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "You know, it's too bad I found out about you when I did, Agent Owens. As a Roswell deputy, you could have done a good bit of investigating yourself without attracting attention, isn't that right?" He watched with satisfaction as Owens flushed and Lewis' face clouded. "I'm still unclear as to why you want me to find your 'alien'," he continued. "It shouldn't be that hard to find a little green man wandering around Roswell."

"They don't look like 'little green men'," Lewis said. "Most of the time they look exactly like us, indistinguishable except by blood test or x-ray. They are masters of disguise; the alien is very likely hiding in plain sight. You may have already talked to him....or her."

A cold tendril of unease crept up Valenti's spine. He had long suspected that the aliens could disguise themselves as humans, but he'd never managed to confirm that. "And what do I do when I find this alien? Pull out my ray gun and take it down?"

"Absolutely not," Lewis said. "You notify us of who you suspect, and you back off. Completely. It is of paramount importance that you not engage the creature because if you kill it, we will have nothing left to study."

"Let me guess," Valenti said. "They explode into tiny little pieces?"

"You've been reading too many comic books, sheriff," Lewis said dryly. "Within twenty-four hours of death, their bodies disintegrate, rendering them useless."

Valenti stiffened involuntarily, hoping Lewis didn't notice. That's exactly what had happened to the alien he'd killed in the Proctor's house back in the forties—it had collapsed into a pile of what looked like soot. He hadn't gotten a good look at it before Emily Proctor had vacuumed it up, but there was no denying that Lewis had that particular nugget of information correct. And he didn't seem to know anything about exploding aliens, which meant Ray was wrong about Mark Green.

"Sheriff, I've already told you far more than I should have," Lewis said, impatience creeping around the edges of his voice. "All we want is for you to do the digging you do so well and give us a target."

"I haven't heard anything so far that would make me believe Audrey Tate's death was anything more than a weird and tragic accident," Valenti said.

"You didn't know what you were looking for," Lewis countered. "Now you do. Try again."

Valenti hesitated, torn between wanting to know and not wanting to do a single thing to help these people. He'd assumed they were using aliens just to get his attention and cover up ulterior motives, but the details Lewis had provided matched his own experiences. And if there was a murdering alien loose in his town, wasn't it his responsibility to stop them regardless of his personal feelings?

"I'll check around, and let you know if I find anything."

"Excellent," Lewis said with satisfaction. "We'll be taking possession of Miss Tate's body to run tests—"

"No, you won't."

Lewis blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no, you won't," Valenti repeated. "Our town coroner is doing an autopsy."

"Your 'town coroner'?" Lewis said derisively. "You meant that antique of a doctor? You can't be serious."

"I'm perfectly serious," Valenti replied. "Audrey Tate died in my town, so the autopsy will be done in my town. Period. End of discussion."

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "Sheriff, did you, or did you not just agree to assist us?"

"I agreed to do some checking," Valenti corrected. "We never discussed turning over evidence, and I certainly never agreed to that."

Lewis sighed in exasperation. "Fine. Do be so kind as to notify us when your country bumpkin of a doctor finishes his witchcraft, and I'll have the body picked up."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Lewis demanded.

"You do seem to have trouble with that word, don't you?" Valenti said casually, glancing at Owens. "Maybe those around you should use it more often." Owens looked away, and Valenti could have sworn he was suppressing a smile. " 'No', for your information, agent, means 'no, you can't have the body unless the results of my investigation show that's warranted'."

"Of course it's warranted!" Lewis snapped. "Audrey Tate was killed by an alien, a ruthless killer who—"

"I have no proof of that," Valenti interrupted. "And until I do, Miss Tate's body belongs to her next of kin."

Lewis rose from the couch abruptly. "I have a mandate from Director Hoover himself to stamp out the alien presence on this planet. You will turn that body over to me!"

"Only if I find evidence of alien involvement," Valenti said firmly. "Absent that, it's my job to protect anyone in Roswell, be they citizen or visitor. Even from the FBI."

"Then I'll take it myself," Lewis declared.

Valenti rose from his chair as did Agent Owens, hovering nervously beside them. "Go right ahead," Valenti said. "March in there with your agents and telegraph to the entire town, no, the country, that the FBI is in Roswell, and why. I'll be certain to have the newspaper down there, and the radio station, and anyone else I can find. They're hungry for news. They'd love it if you gave them some."

Valenti waited while Lewis smoldered, having given away his one weakness—he didn't want publicity. He couldn't barge in and take what he wanted without sacrificing the anonymity he wanted badly enough to be willing to deal with the local in the first place.

"Fine," Lewis ground out. "You are to report to me—"

"Let's get one thing straight right now," Valenti said sharply, his voice rising. "I don't report to you. He reports to you," he continued, indicating Owens, "and for that, he has my deepest sympathy, but I don't report to you. I'm working with you, not for you. Keep that in mind before you open your mouth again and piss me off."

Lewis' eyes flared, and for a moment, Valenti was certain he was going to call his bluff. Owens must have thought so too because he took a step back, his own eyes widening with alarm. A full minute must have passed before Lewis deflated slightly. "Of course," he said, sounding mollified. "I apologize for my....exuberance."

"Not the word I would have used, but it'll do," Valenti said. "How do I contact you?"

Lewis pulled a pad and pencil from his suit pocket. "Agent Owens will be your contact," he said, scribbling on a sheet and tearing it off. "This is his number. I look forward to hearing from you soon."

"Don't hold your breath," Valenti said. "If there is a killer out there, whether 'natural' or not, I seriously doubt he's just going to turn himself in."

"I have the utmost confidence in your abilities, sheriff," Lewis said.

"Do you, now?" Valenti said in mock puzzlement. "And why is that? Oh, that's right. I found something your agent thought worthy of stealing from me. I found it. That must have stung."

Anger flickered across Lewis' face for just a moment; it was there, and then it was gone. "As I said before, sheriff, I don't know what you're talking about. You'll have to look elsewhere for whatever it is you think you're missing. We should be off," he continued briskly, pausing at the front door with Owens behind him. "I've enjoyed our 'chat', sheriff. Your reputation preceded you.....and was richly deserved."

Whatever that means, Valenti thought uneasily as Lewis and Owens disappeared down the street, having probably parked their car out of sight of the house. Should he know him? Lewis.....Lewis..... Nope. He didn't remember anyone named Lewis from the forties, either civilian or military. Captain Spade had never mentioned a Lewis, nor had Lieutenant White or Captain Dodie. No, Lewis must be referring to whatever apparently glowing assessment Owens had given him, although it sounded like it was more than that.

"Are they gone, Dad?"

Valenti whirled around to find his son perched on the second stair from the top. "Jimmy!" he exclaimed. "How long have you been there?"



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


I'll post Chapter 47 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


August 19, 1959, 9:15 p.m.

Valenti residence




"How long?" Valenti demanded sharply when his son didn't answer him. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"

Jimmy looked at his feet. "I didn't hear much," he said, abashed. "Just the part before you went into the living room. And that bit at the end." He looked up, his face suddenly shining. "You were boss, Dad!"

" 'Boss'?"

"You know....cool," Jimmy clarified. "Really cool. I didn't think you could talk that way to the FBI."

"Why not?"

"Well....they're the FBI," Jimmy said uncertainly. "Isn't that more important than town sheriff?"

Valenti climbed the stairs and sat down next to his son, who slid sideways to make room for him. "Don't ever let anyone tell you that one branch of law enforcement is more important than another, Jimmy. We're all here to protect the people, and we all have our patch of ground to watch over. No one of us can do it all, so every single one of us is important, and each of us provides checks and balances for the other. You remember that."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said solemnly. "So....Deputy Sanchez is really working for the FBI?"

"Looks that way," Valenti sighed.

"I really liked him," Jimmy said wistfully. "He didn't seem like a spy."

"Good spies rarely do," Valenti observed.

"So was Deputy Crist an FBI agent too?" Jimmy asked. "Is that why he was going through your desk?"

Crist. Valenti hadn't considered that possibility, but it made sense. Perhaps what he'd found in Crist's apartment actually belonged to the FBI, and by "stealing" it, the FBI was merely reappropriating its own property. "I don't know," he admitted, "but I suppose that's a possibility."

"I head about the lady who died," Jimmy said. "What did they mean about it being 'unnatural'?"

"I'm not sure," Valenti answered.

"You mean they didn't tell you?"

"I mean I'm not sure I believe what they said," Valenti clarified. "These people have already lied to me once. They might say anything to get my attention, get me to help them, or throw me off whatever they're really after." Like exploding bodies, he added silently. It was Crist who had displayed interest in the drawer which held Green's file, and Crist who had inexplicably cross-examined Courtney Harris, Green's future roommate who never got to room with him. If Crist was working for the FBI, it all made sense now.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment. "Deputy Crist wanted me to ask you what you knew about aliens," he said abruptly.

Valenti's eyebrows rose. "He did?"

"Yeah. He promised me he'd....." Jimmy stopped, flushing. "He promised me he'd let me help take mug shots if I found out what you know about aliens and what you'd seen back when they landed. Or when everyone thinks they landed," he amended quickly.

"Is that so," Valenti said slowly as his son squirmed. "And as I recall, you did ask me."

"But you didn't tell me anything," Jimmy said quickly. "And I never got to do the mug shots because Crist left. And before he left, he told me he shouldn't have asked me to do that. I'm really sorry, Dad. I know I shouldn't have listened to him."

Valenti leaned back against the staircase, his son's apology lost amidst this new information. If Crist had gone AWOL from the FBI, maybe it was Crist they were after. He had removed that weird and very well hidden whatever-it-was from Crist's apartment, and, despite protests to the contrary, Valenti was certain Agent Owens had then removed it from his office. Crist had certainly gone to some lengths to disappear, quitting his job, leaving his apartment, selling his car, and leaving no forwarding address. Was this alien business just a cover for the FBI having lost an agent? Maybe he'd changed allegiances, switching to the CIA or the military?

"Dad?"

"What? Oh....sorry," Valenti said, coming back to the present as his son peered at him curiously. "I'm sorry you got mixed up in this, Jimmy. This is exactly what I was afraid of when you came to work at the station—that you'd run into some of the nastier things in life a lot earlier than I'd like. Although I must admit I was thinking along the lines of drunks, not spies." He shook his head. "I should have sent you fishing instead."

Jimmy blinked slowly, once, then twice. "You're kidding, right?"

"About what?"

"Dad, I loved working at the station," Jimmy insisted. "That was the coolest thing I've ever done, way better than fishing will ever be. Just think of all the stories I've got to tell when I go back to school! Everyone else did all the normal stuff, but not me."

"That's just it," Valenti said gently. "You can't tell. When you're the sheriff, or a deputy, or working at the station in any capacity, you can't discuss what went on there. And you certainly can't go running around telling everyone that the FBI is in Roswell."

Jimmy's face fell. "Oh," he said dejectedly. "But that's okay," he added, perking up again. "It was still the coolest thing I've ever done. I just wish Mom and I could have stayed all the way to the end of the movie."

"I'm glad you didn't," Valenti said with feeling.

"I'm eight years old," Jimmy said stoutly. "I can take it."

Valenti broke into a smile and ruffled his son's hair. Spoken like a true child, when whatever age you were at the moment seemed like the top of the world, the pinnacle of wisdom. "I need to find your mom," he said, heading back down the stairs. "I won't tell her you were eavesdropping.....this time. But don't try that again, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said quickly, knowing full well that Andi would be furious if she discovered he'd been snooping. "And Dad?"

"Hmm?" Valenti said, turning around at the bottom of the stairs.

"I was wondering....I mean....don't get mad, but....."

"But what?"

"Well....sometimes, when you're investigating, don't you have to...you know....lie? At least a little? To find out what you need to know?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Well.... how is that different than what the FBI did? I mean, if you need to lie sometimes, then wouldn't they too?"

"They don't need to lie to other law enforcement," Valenti explained. "That's where they crossed the line."

"So....it's okay to lie to regular people, but not to you?"

Valenti put one foot on the bottom stair, willing himself to take his time, to phrase his answer carefully. "I know what that sounds like....but it's not what it sounds like. There's a code of ethics in law enforcement. Remember how I said all of us have our own little patch of ground to watch over? That's called 'jurisdiction', a fancy name for the area you're responsible for. My jurisdiction is Roswell. If law enforcement from another jurisdiction wants to come into my jurisdiction, they're supposed to let me know."

"So what's the FBI's 'jurisdiction'?"

Valenti closed his eyes briefly, seeing where this was going. "The FBI is the 'Federal Bureau of Investigation'. Federal means the whole country, all of America. And before you remind me that Roswell is in America, that's not enough for them to plant someone in my station without telling me. There are rules, and they're supposed to follow them. And they didn't."

"Do you always follow the rules?" Jimmy asked solemnly.

"I do my very best to follow the rules because the rules are there for a reason," Valenti answered. "If everyone could just ignore the rules when it suited them, there wouldn't be much sense in having rules, now would there?"

Jimmy considered that a moment before shaking his head. "I guess not. It wouldn't work in school, I know that for sure."

"No, it wouldn't," Valenti agreed, glancing at his watch. "You'd better go on back to your room before your mother finds you out here past your bedtime."

Jimmy obediently trooped back to his room as Valenti breathed a silent prayer of thanks that he wasn't related to Pinocchio. Not that he'd precisely lied, of course; he did try to follow the rules because he truly did believe those rules were there for a reason. But then there were those times when you had to break the rules, maybe because someone else was breaking them and efforts to counter that required you to do the same. Or maybe because you needed more information, which is why Mark Green's case file was locked up tight in his home office instead of at the station. Or because telling the truth would only panic the public or hurt someone, like back in the forties with the Proctors. But if it was okay for him to lie, to make that judgment call that being less than truthful was in everyone's best interests, why wasn't it okay when the FBI did that? How did one explain those very gray areas to a child?

You don't, Valenti thought darkly, heading downstairs toward a no doubt emotional exchange with his wife. This is why children didn't belong at the station, and why he would never allow his son there again for a very long time.




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





First Presbyterian Church,

Roswell




"There you go, Leroy," Evelyn said, smiling as she handed him several foil wrapped packages. "That should do you for a couple of days at least."

"Time was when there were never any leftovers at our potlucks," Leroy sighed. "Now we're all taking food home."

"It's only temporary," Evelyn said soothingly. "Because of the movie, you know. Everyone's busy with that now. They'll be back, and we'll be scraping the dishes clean again. Just you wait."

I don't want to wait, Leroy thought glumly, gazing at the nearly empty church basement. First Presbyterian's monthly potluck dinner was usually a standing room only affair with at least two long tables brimming with food, dozens of children underfoot, and a decent supply of eligible women. Those last were what Leroy missed the most, being unmarried. His job as one of Roswell's handful of postmen gave him daily access to plenty of eligible women, but left him little time to actually court those women. The potlucks gave him that time and the opportunity to eat something other than his own rather poor cooking. He'd been very disappointed when July's dinner had been cancelled due to lack of interest, and tonight's hadn't been much better. The leftovers Evelyn had just given him were a consolation prize, but only a small one. Even the best food lost a good deal of its flavor when eaten alone.

"Leroy?"

"Mrs. Bruce!" Leroy exclaimed, spying Ruth Bruce across the unfortunately uncrowded church hall, one of those eligible women he'd been craving. Not only eligible, but self-employed; Ruth ran her own boarding house, left to her by her late husband. Most eligible women in his age bracket were widows by definition. "What brings you here?" he asked. "I've never seen you here before."

"I'd heard your dinners were a good time, so I thought I'd see for myself," Ruth answered. "But I got held up, and now it looks like I've missed it."

"There's always next month," Leroy assured her with a smile. "All you need to bring is yourself and a dish to pass."

"Are you sure?" Ruth asked uncertainly. "I'm a Catholic, you know."

"Everyone's welcome," Leroy assured her. "We usually have a lot more people than this. It's that dam—darned movie," he amended, flushing. Goodness, but his mother would have washed his mouth out with soap for saying something like that in the presence of a lady.

"Well, the movie's almost over," Ruth said, tactfully ignoring his breach of courtesy. "I imagine everyone will be back next month." She paused. "I should thank you for taking the trouble to drop that letter by to my boarder. He was so pleased."

"No trouble at all," Leroy said. "It was on my way home, and the gentlemen didn't seem too happy when they found out it wouldn't be delivered until tomorrow."

"Gentlemen?"

"The ones who dropped off the letter. Two of them. Caught me right before closing."

"Well, it was certainly appreciated," Ruth assured him. "I should let you go," she added, laying her hand gently on his arm. "Sorry I missed the festivities."

Leroy smiled and gave a small shrug. "Like I said, there's always...."

A house on a quiet street.....

Running for his life, dragging a body behind him.....

A camp fire with an Indian sitting across from him....

Earth against a field of stars, bright lights in black velvet.....

....next month," Leroy finished faintly, suddenly dazed. What had just happened? What were all those things he'd just seen?

"Is something wrong?" Ruth asked.

"No," Leroy said quickly. It would never do to have tongues wagging about him being wonky. Nothing hurt one's romantic prospects faster than having the ladies think one odd or sickly. "No, not at all. Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. Bruce. I really hope you come back next month."

What just happened? Leroy thought, sinking gratefully into a chair the very moment she was out of sight. He felt light-headed, as though he'd just done something strenuous when all he'd done was exchange a few words with an attractive woman. And what were all those things he'd seen? That view of Earth.....he'd seen paintings, but this had been much more vivid. Like he was actually hanging in space and looking right at it......

I'm going crazy, Leroy thought in disgust as he grabbed his pile of leftovers with shaking hands. No one had ever been in outer space to see what the Earth looked like, so that was impossible. He must have been reading too much about that silly observatory Roswell was talking about building to have come up with something strange like that. Why anyone would waste all that time and money staring at the sky when there were so many problems on the ground was beyond him. And the rest of it, Indians and bloody bodies and all......perhaps he just need to stop reading the newspaper, period.




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




*Did you see anything?* Jaddo asked.

*Very little,* Brivari answered as they walked down the street side by side. *Two males, one whose face was mostly obscured by a hat, and another in the background whose face he never saw clearly. Or didn't remember clearly.*

*That's it?*

*At least we know they're male,* Brivari said.

*Of course they're male,* Jaddo said. *Females are devalued in this culture, so why would the Argilians have sent a female?*

*Perhaps because they would expect us to expect otherwise. We cannot afford to make assumptions.*

*I can't believe you came away with nothing more than gender,* Jaddo grumbled.

*I had very little time,* Brivari argued. *A connection is reciprocal, so—*

*I am aware of how a connection works,* Jaddo interrupted. *He would not have understood anything he saw from you, so I fail to see why you couldn't have continued it long enough to learn something of use.*

*Just like you 'fail' to see why your temper tantrums have put us in danger,* Brivari retorted. *My goodness, but you're failing a lot these days, Jaddo. That's not like you.*

Both fell into a frustrated silence as they continued down the street. Dusk was falling, the shadows mounting, edges blurring, making everything seem suddenly tentative....and dangerous. The turmoil produced by the letter from alleged members of the Argilian resistance had magnified in the few hours since they'd received it, sending both Warders into a near panic as they tried to discover who had sent it. A conversation with Mrs. Bruce had led to the postman's name and address, and further inquiries had brought them to the church and a risky course of action. A verbal description would be essentially useless, so the subject of the letter and those who had mailed it must be raised and a connection initiated immediately while it was in the forefront of the postman's mind. Brivari had tried very hard to avoid anything that might alarm his target when he saw, as he inevitably would, whatever was in the forefront of Brivari's own mind, but judging by the look on the man's face, he had been unsuccessful, and he had terminated the connection just as soon as he'd realized that he wasn't going to get a good view of their enemies' faces. Leroy would have vivid dreams tonight.

*I'm sorry.*

Brivari stopped. *Did I hear what I think I just heard?*

*Don't make this any harder than it already is,* Jaddo said stiffly, not looking at him. *I had no idea the Argilians were here. If I had....* His voice trailed off.

*Go on,* Brivari said after a long pause.

*If I had, then I would have still killed Pierce,* Jaddo said defiantly. *But I wouldn't have left a handprint, nor would I have...* He sighed as though he'd rather not continue. *Nor would I have let your penchant for human company affect me the way it did.*

Brivari resumed walking, somewhat mollified that Jaddo had at least acknowledged the danger he'd placed them in. *Well?* Jaddo said. *Don't you have something to say?*

*Such as?*

*Such as how your taking a job and forming 'friendships' also placed us in danger.*

*I fail to see how either did anything of the sort.*

*Then how did they know where to find you? They sent the letter to you because you have an address to which to send it.*

*So does Malik,* Brivari noted. *He has been hiding in plain sight with both employment and numerous relationships for years now, yet they don't appear to have located him. Why is that?*

*I don't know,* Jaddo admitted. *But something is odd here. I admit that my actions would draw their attention, but that doesn't explain how they located you.*

No, it doesn't, Brivari agreed privately, every bit as curious as Jaddo as to how his identity had been discovered. Taking employment and forming relationships would not have been enough to tip off the Argilians. *However they managed it, the point is they succeeded,* he said. *Now the problem becomes identifying and removing them.*

*Are you sure that's wise?*

Brivari stopped again. *And why wouldn't it be?*

*What if they really are members of the resistance?* Jaddo asked. *We'd be passing up a golden opportunity to gather intelligence about Athenor, or Nicholas, or whatever it is he's calling himself now.*

*Yes,* Brivari said dryly. *And a golden opportunity to reunite with those who wanted your Ward on the throne.*

Jaddo's eyes narrowed. *You think I'm trying to elevate Rath to the throne?*

*The thought had crossed my mind.*

*Do we really need to have this discussion again?* Jaddo demanded. *I already told you Rath's response when the resistance approached him before the fall.*

*And now Rath is not here,* Brivari noted, *so response falls to you. And what will that response be, Jaddo?*

Jaddo was silent for so long that passers-by slowed and stared at them. *You disappoint me,* he said flatly. *For all our differences, I thought I'd convinced you long ago that I was not a traitor.*

Brivari dropped his eyes and resumed walking; Jaddo followed, even his footsteps sounding sullen. They had indeed already been over this, on their ship on the way to Earth, where Brivari had learned of the Argilian's offer to Rath and briefly suspected him of treason. Their resulting 'discussion' had been less of a conversation and more of a coming to blows, softened only by Valeris' recollection of both the offer and Rath's rejection of it. Valeris, Brivari thought sadly. And Quanah. Two people whose counsel he could very much use at the moment, and would never have again.

*I don't think you're a traitor,* Brivari said. *I was merely seeking to clarify your position on the issue. If this is truly the resistance, they will no doubt view Zan's fall as evidence that they were right, that he wasn't fit to rule, and press all the harder for some sort of accommodation from you.*

*Then they're off to a poor start,* Jaddo answered. *If that is their intent, informing the king's Warder of their presence here is a very bad idea. The mere fact that they were willing to approach you, knowing you would view them as the enemy because of their earlier offer to Rath, is instructive. They must be very worried indeed to risk a parlay with you.*

*Either that, or they aren't members of the resistance at all,* Brivari suggested.

*Granted,* Jaddo allowed. *But I'm inclined to believe they are. Argilians masquerading as resistance members are far more likely to have approached not you, but me, most likely with another offer they would have hoped would sound too good to refuse, not valuable details such those they provided.*

*Once again, assuming those details are valid,* Brivari said.

*I believe they are,* Jaddo answered. *We already know that Amar had developed a device capable of blocking our powers. It also compromised the humans' power systems, but the Argilians have had a decade to improve it. And the fact that they located you lends credence to the claim that they have the means by which to identify us.*

They walked along in silence, each brooding privately. Brivari found himself scanning the faces of those they passed, looking for a glimmer of recognition, of surprise, of fear. He hadn't felt this exposed for a very long time, not since the hunters had been here. *One thing is for certain,* Jaddo continued. *You must leave the apartment and change your face immediately. They must not have a location where they know they can find one of us.*

*Agreed on the first, but not the second,* Brivari replied. *I will of course not be staying in the apartment, but as I indicated earlier, I will continue as Langley until the movie crew leaves town. Disappearing is a last resort.*

*Disappearing is what we do!* Jaddo protested. *We no longer have only humans chasing us—*

*But we still have humans chasing us,* Brivari remind him, *and we would be unwise to forget that. Did you not hear what Malik told us? Lewis has gone to Valenti, and Lewis knows we kill the way Audrey was killed. You led him right to us, Jaddo, and the best way to get rid of him is to make him think we've moved on.*

*Remain 'Langley', and we risk the Argilians finding us,* Jaddo argued.

*They have already found us,* Brivari countered. *But Lewis has not, not yet. Abandon 'Langley', and we bolster Lewis' claims and confirm our presence here. The movie ends in a few days, 'Langley' will move on, and hopefully we will have given the humans no further reason to pursue him. Which will leave one enemy down, one to go.*

*Back to my original point: It was a bad idea for you to take employment and assume a known identity,* Jaddo said darkly.

*You have still not explained why you've never minded that Malik did just exactly that,* Brivari said irritably.

*Malik is not a Royal Warder,* Jaddo retorted. *Are you?*

Brivari stopped abruptly. *And what exactly does that mean?*

*Nothing personal,* Jaddo said softly. *I was merely seeking to clarify your position.*

Brivari stepped closer, biting back a flood of anger. *My position is this—once again we agree on the ends, but not the means. And since it was your actions that led our enemies right to our doorstep, you are in no position to dictate those means. Obviously more is needed than just changing one's face. Like self control, for example. You should try it, Jaddo; we would all benefit, most of all our Wards. We will do this my way. Is that understood?*

Jaddo's eyes flared, and he looked about to stalk away like he usually did. But he restricted himself to a curt nod, falling in step beside Brivari until they reached the next cross street where he veered off alone without a word. An improvement, Brivari thought, scanning the street for anyone who appeared to be watching them, but not good enough. He was not wearing Langley's face, and would do so only as necessary from now until the end of the movie shoot, but as they weren't certain what mechanism the Argilians were using to identify them, that may or may not help. It would be extremely disconcerting to return to work knowing that someone besides their allies knew who and what he was. His employment may not have caused their current predicament, but it was certainly proving inconvenient now.

He paused as he came abreast of the street which housed his apartment. He couldn't go back there, a fact he found troubling....and the fact that he found it troubling was troubling in itself. He had liked having a personal space, having the crew over, playing the host much like he had done back home. How did they find me? he wondered again, passing the street by regretfully. How on Earth did they find me?




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Are we all clear on what our story is?" Michael asked as he set his trithium generator on Courtney's kitchen table.

"I'm clear on the story," Nathaniel answered. "What I'm not clear on is whether or not this is wise. We both know he's not going to like it. This will be the first clear failure, or what appears to be a failure."

"That can't be helped," Michael answered. "We're already pretending one dead operative is alive; we can't possibly pull off two. Hopefully everyone will be much too preoccupied with the Warders to investigate further."

Nathaniel nodded reluctantly, and Courtney with more enthusiasm, being already familiar with the difficulties inherent in keeping a dead man alive. A moment later her stomach turned as Nicholas' face hovered over the generator. Just the sight of him made her nauseous.

"I have news regarding Crist," Michael announced, coming right to the point.

"What happened?" Nicholas asked. "Did you find him?"

"No," Michael replied. "But we did find out what happened to him."

" 'Happened'?" Nicholas echoed sharply. "What do you mean, 'happened'?"

Courtney felt rather than saw her father steady himself, knowing what was coming. "It appears he has left town," Michael answered. "He left his employment, vacated his dwelling, sold his vehicle. Those who witnessed this said he told them he was leaving due to a 'family emergency'." He paused. "Is that code for an assignment he's on, perhaps one I am not privy to?"

Nicholas' face had frozen in an expression of utter disbelief. "He left? Just like that? No other explanation, or communication, or anything?"

"None we're aware of," Michael replied.

Courtney struggled to keep her face somber as Nicholas' face twisted. The freedoms and pleasures Earth afforded had tempted many, but none had actually 'gone AWOL', as the human military would phrase it....until now. Crist hadn't really left, of course, but there were plenty of others whom Courtney knew were this close to doing exactly what Crist had supposedly done. When they heard of this—and they would, despite what she knew would be Nicholas' Herculean efforts to keep it quiet—they would be emboldened to do the same.

"He left," Nicholas repeated, his voice rising as he stalked to the imager, his face growing alarmingly large. "He abandoned his post! He defected! He committed treason! He's a traitor!"

"At the moment, it would appear so," Michael said gravely. "That would also explain why he would leave his communicator behind."

"Who else knows about this?" Nicholas demanded.

"Only the three of us," Michael answered, indicating Nathaniel and Courtney.

"And that's the way it stays," Nicholas ordered. "I don't want anyone to know, not even Greer. Understood?"

Three heads nodded. Wow, Courtney thought blandly. Greer got a three page report every time Nicholas so much as went to the bathroom. To think she'd just been entrusted with information the mighty Greer didn't have. It was a pity she wouldn't be able to rub his nose in it.

"This gets out, and I'll have people leaving right and left," Nicholas continued angrily. "I can't afford that right now."

"Of course not," Michael said smoothly, the undercurrent of satisfaction audible to his daughter if no one else. They had all been worried that telling Nicholas of Crist's "disappearance" would cause him to send more operatives to find out what happened. His desire to keep Crist's apparent defection a secret had taken care of that.

"Regarding the recent death in town," Michael continued, "it does not appear to be related to the Warders."

"Is that so? The FBI appears to feel differently."

Michael blinked. "The FBI?"

"With you staying in Roswell, I diverted other operatives to Santa Fe," Nicholas said. "They traced the communicator signal to the FBI Field Office there and followed two of their agents from Santa Fe to Roswell this evening. They went directly to the sheriff's private residence."

Courtney closed her eyes briefly. The FBI being in Roswell was bad news. Nicholas knowing about it was even worse.

"That was most likely concerning the communicator," her father said, not missing a beat. "We have not been able to confirm this, but we have heard that it was the Roswell sheriff who found Crist's communicator in his vacated apartment, only to have it stolen from his office. Since we know it wound up in the FBI's possession, it is reasonable to assume it was the FBI who stole it."

Courtney watched Nathaniel shift uneasily from one foot to another. They hadn't been planning on sharing that particular bit of information because Nicholas' knowing the communicator had passed through the sheriff's hands could place Valenti's life in danger. It was always a game of adjusting what Nicholas was told based on what one thought his response would be and what response you wanted. In Mr. Parker's lexicon, her father had just had to "punt".

"It might be about the communicator, or it might not be," Nicholas answered. "I'm not taking any chances. With Crist gone, you're down by one. I'm sending another operative. Expect them by tomorrow evening. I hope your apartment is big enough for five, Courtney. It'll have to be."

The hologram winked out as Courtney, her father, and Nathaniel exchanged panicked looks. That had definitely not been the response they'd wanted.




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


I'll post Chapter 48 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT


August 20, 1959, 6:30 a.m.

Dr. Raymond Blake's office




Valenti watched as a car pulled alongside his cruiser in the tiny parking lot beside the doctor's office, the driver hesitating a moment before climbing out and looking at him expectantly.

"Get in," Valenti said through the window, nodding toward his passenger seat.

Raymond Blake heaved a sigh and obliged, parking his briefcase in his lap and raising an eyebrow when Valenti rolled up his window. "Let me guess," Ray said dryly. "You're trying to suffocate me because I know too much?"

"Very funny," Valenti said.

"Well, it can't be good if you're skulking around at this hour," Ray noted.

"Who's 'skulking'?" Valenti protested. "I'm in uniform, I'm in my patrol car, and besides, skulking wouldn't help. Not with the FBI on my tail."

Ray blinked. "FBI?" he murmured in tones of awe. "My goodness!"

"Steady, Doc. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us."

"But it's the FBI!" Ray exclaimed. "To think that they're here, right here in Roswell....it just gives me the shivers, that's all."

"Gee, no one gets the shivers when I show up," Valenti said.

"Well of course not; you're just the town sheriff. No offense," Ray added hastily when Valenti's face darkened. "But you've got to admit—"

"Admit what?" Valenti interrupted. "Look, I'm law enforcement, they're law enforcement. We've both got badges and uniforms and oaths. We both watch over our own jurisdictions, and neither of us can just mosey into the other's, which is why I'm mighty pissed that they planted one of their agents in my station without telling me. They crossed a line. So pardon me if I'm not all gooey-eyed over the mighty FBI. What have they got that I don't? Except for a lack of professional courtesy, of course."

"They've got J. Edgar Hoover," Ray replied. "I seriously doubt you're keeping tabs on the American public the way he's said to."

"And I'm not wearing dresses like he's said to either," Valenti said crossly. "Enough already with the genuflecting. You're not even Catholic."

"Touchy, aren't we?" Ray said. "Are you going to tell me what they want, or are you just going to whine? No, don't bother, I already know. They're here about Mark Green."

Valenti shook his head. "Nope. They don't seem to know a thing about exploding bodies. They're here for Audrey Tate. Claim she was killed by an alien."

"Tate?" Ray echoed. "Are you sure?"

"I cleaned my ears recently, so I know the difference between 'Tate' and 'Green'. I'm sure."

"So I was right!" Ray said triumphantly. "There are aliens here!"

"If you believe them," Valenti cautioned, "and I'm not sure I do. They may just be using that to get my attention, or to keep me quiet because repeating anything about aliens would make me look loopy. And you told me yesterday that you hadn't found anything weird about Tate's death. You still sticking to that?"

Ray hesitated long enough that Valenti grew uneasy. "Well....."

"Well, what?" Valenti demanded. "You said you found no accelerant, no evidence of a physical confrontation or foul play of any kind."

"Not yet," Ray qualified.

"Not 'yet'?"

"Look, I'm not done yet, okay? And you must admit it's damned peculiar. There wasn't a speck of lightning that day, Jim. You know that."

"But that doesn't mean she was killed by an alien. Were there any similarities between her body and Green's?"

"No," Ray admitted. "None of those weird cells, and she certainly didn't explode. Audrey Tate was definitely human. But I do see one similarity: The FBI told you Tate was killed by an alien....and I have what I think are the remains of an alien in my office. And even though Green's a bit past the point where he could have killed her, another one like him could have." He paused. "You know we have to tell them about Green, don't you?"

"Absolutely not," Valenti said firmly. "I still don't know what they really want. No way am I coughing up information they don't know I have."

"Jim, we have to!" Ray protested. "Here I think I have an alien, and now the FBI shows up looking for aliens? Do I really need to draw a dotted line between those two points?"

"I already told you I ran it by them surreptitiously, and they didn't bite," Valenti reminded him. "They don't know about Green."

"You mean they don't know his body could explode the way it did," Ray corrected. "Maybe they haven't gotten that far yet. Maybe I'm the first one to figure it out."

"Or maybe Green wasn't an alien, but some kind of spy with new technology," Valenti argued.

"Isn't that all the more reason to tell the FBI? You've been sitting on this for weeks now—"

"And we're going to sit on it a while longer," Valenti said firmly. "I'm not letting go of anything until I have a better idea of what's going on. As it is, I had to stand on my head and scream to keep them from taking Tate's body right out from under your nose."

Ray looked away. "Maybe you shouldn't have. Maybe we should give it to them."

"You're the coroner in Roswell, so you get the first look," Valenti insisted.

"Jim, you must know I have very limited resources compared to them," Ray said. "If you won't turn over Green, at least turn over Tate and see if they come up with something else."

Valenti shook his head stubbornly. "No. I'm not done yet either."

Ray abruptly opened the door and climbed out of the car. "Well, I am," he said testily as Valenti climbed out across from him. "At least with this part of it. You've been waiting on this for weeks, and you keep telling me to wait longer. How long am I supposed to wait?"

"Keep your voice down!" Valenti admonished. "And what makes you think turning it over will do any good? What makes you think they'll be willing to share 'something else'? The minute we let that body go, it's gone, as in completely gone. We'll never learn a thing!"

"Maybe we shouldn't," Ray said as he unlocked the door to his office. "Maybe this one is out of our league."

"It's not of my league," Valenti retorted. "If there's something weird going down here, I have a right to know because it's my job to protect the people in this town. Do you really think the FBI's going to tell me after they didn't even bother to let me know they were planting an agent in my station?"

"I thought they just did 'tell you'," Ray said. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"They came to me because their man had been outed," Valenti argued, following Ray down the hall and into his surgery. "They had no choice; they'd lost their access. If they'd had it their way, I never would have known they were there." Valenti paused, trying to rein himself in. "Look," he continued in a more conciliatory tone, "I know what you gave me yesterday was just a preliminary report. Finish the job, do it thoroughly, get everything you can out it, and then we'll turn over Tate's body to the FBI. I just....I value your opinion, so I that's all I want. Your opinion. Nothing more."

Ray hesitated a moment before nodding reluctantly. "All right. I'll go over her, or what's left of her, with a fine-toothed comb. But when I'm done, I'm signing off, you hear?"

"Absolutely," Valenti agreed. "Make sure you keep the body under lock and key. I don't trust them."

"If they want to get in, they'll get in," Ray said. "It's not like this is Fort Knox."

"Speaking of which, where are Green's remains?" Valenti asked. "We should relocate those."

"To where?"

"I was thinking my house," Valenti said.

"You want to keep his remains in your house?"

"Why not? There's not much of him left anyway."

"I thought you just told me the FBI wasn't interested in Green."

"They aren't," Valenti said impatiently. "I'm just being cautious. Don't you want to be cautious? That's your only evidence so far of genuine alien involvement."

Ray eyed him skeptically. "All right. But you can't have all of it; some of it needs to be refrigerated, and I seriously doubt Andi would appreciate having any of this next to the tuna casserole. Why don't you take—" He stopped, staring into the refrigerator he'd just opened, dumbfounded.

"What?" Valenti demanded. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong," Ray said with a sigh, "is that we're too late."




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




Parker's Diner




"Just coffee? No toast? Eggs? Pancakes?"

Heads shook around the table. "We're not hungry," one of the men explained, his arm around a shaken woman, her head resting on his shoulder. "Just coffee. And keep it coming."

Courtney slipped her pad into her apron pocket and headed for the back, passing tables filled with similarly upset people. The town appeared to be in a state of shock over the death of the actress, none more so than the movie crew. Her shift had ended yesterday before people had started piling into Parker's, and word was that when they had, they had done nothing but drink, both alcohol at the bar and coffee in the diner. Pete hadn't had much to do in the way of cooking, and today looked like it would be more of the same. At least it made her life a little easier, not having to lug heavy plates back and forth. Now she was only lugging coffee pots back and forth, and she'd made four trips for refills and extra cream and sugar before she'd finally reached all the mourners. If this is what it was like at this hour, it was going to be a very long day.

"Is there any left for me?" a voice asked.

Courtney turned around to find her father sliding into a seat at the counter. The bell had been jingling on the diner's door so often that she hadn't bothered to check who was coming and going. "It's done," Michael said quietly as she placed a cup and saucer in front of him. "The locks were trivial. We were not detected."

"Yet," Courtney corrected, draining her fifth pot. "I can't believe you actually went ahead and did something else without consulting Malik."

"It was our decision to make," Michael replied.

"I didn't say it wasn't," Courtney answered. "I said 'consult'. That means 'discuss'."

"I am aware of the definition, thank you."

"Then you know that consulting with him doesn't mean you're bound by his opinion," Courtney pointed out. "But at least he would have known. You've got to stop blindsiding him, Papa."

"I am not required to discuss anything with it," her father said frostily.

"Aren't you at least going to tell him after the fact?" Courtney demanded.

"When I am ready to do so," Michael answered. "Not a moment before."

"Let's hope that moment arrives before the other operative does," Courtney muttered.

Her father's eyes flickered in annoyance. "I would appreciate it if you would give me credit for at least some intelligence."

Same here, Courtney thought darkly, taking the next several minutes to refill the coffee urn and calm down. She and her father had already had this argument twice since his arrival, so there was no sense in repeating it. Once again she found herself disagreeing not with the course of action, but the way in which it had been undertaken, irritated at the way her father referred to Malik as "it", and further irritated that she found that irritating. The only thing that softened this particular episode was the realization of what was coming and the knowledge that they were all worried sick about the outcome. With another operative coming to town, keeping Mark's death a secret from Nicholas had just become a lot harder.

"Who do you think they're sending?" she asked when the urn was settled.

"I've already told you I don't know," Michael answered. "Given the way everyone is deployed, Nicholas will either have to pull someone from another location or send in a novice."

"A novice would be better," Courtney said.

"Not necessarily. They might be more married to procedure or extremely thorough in their anxiety to do a good job."

"But easier to fool," Courtney murmured.

"Hopefully that won't be necessary."

"That's an awfully big 'hopefully'," she said glumly.

"Steady, daughter," Michael said. "The resistance is not for the faint of heart. We've agreed on a cover story for what happened to Mark, and we will stick to it. Is that understood?"

"Is it really necessary to talk to me like I'm a small child?" Courtney demanded. "If—"

"Miss Harris!" a booming voice called. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm looking for Langley. Have you seen him?"

It was Mr. Anderson, scanning the diner worriedly as he waited for her answer. Michael kept his eyes on his coffee cup as Courtney shook her head. "Nope. Not today. Why?"

"I'm worried about him," Mr. Anderson answered. "I haven't been able to find him since yesterday morning's altercation with Mr. Dean. He hasn't even come back to his apartment."

And he won't, Courtney thought sadly. Having been fingered, it would not do for Brivari to maintain that shape any longer. "Langley" had no doubt vanished back into the ether from which he'd come, having never really existed in the first place.

"There you are!" Mr. Anderson exclaimed suddenly, darting toward the door. "Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!"

Courtney blinked. There stood Brivari wearing Langley's face and Langley's cap on Langley's trademark bald head. "I was detained," Brivari answered as various members of the movie crew called for him to join them. "Yesterday was a difficult day."

"I know that," Anderson said, following Brivari to a nearby booth, the inhabitants of which slid over to make room for them. "Does anyone know any more than the official story? I've heard all sorts of crazy things, from....."

Voices dropped, and the conversation became too difficult to hear from the counter. "Is that him?" Michael whispered. "Amazing," he added when Courtney nodded. "Never in a million years would I have expected him to show a known face again."

"Me neither," Courtney murmured. They weren't sitting at one of her booths, but she grabbed a pot of coffee and hurried over before anyone else did, anxious to hear what they were talking about.

"....grilled me for a good half hour," one of the crew was complaining. "I thought he was going to arrest me."

"Well, you have to admit it was weird," someone else said. "You can't blame the sheriff for looking into it."

"I don't mean this to sound indelicate," Mr. Anderson said, "but what will happen to the movie now that Miss Tate is...."

"Fried?" someone suggested.

"Deceased," Mr. Anderson corrected with a pained expression. "Will she be replaced?"

"Principle filming is done," one of the camera operators answered. "All we're doing now is pick-up shots and stuff like that. Any stand-in with the right hair could pass muster. Fill'er up," he added to Courtney, who complied just as the bell on the diner's door jingled again.

"You!" a voice called harshly.

Courtney started, nearly spilling the coffee. Charles Dean had just entered the diner, wild-eyed, disheveled, and looking like he'd slept in his clothes, not to mention glaring at Langley with a murderous expression that was not encouraging. "You!" Dean repeated. "You killed her!"

Silence. One could have heard a pin drop in the diner. All eyes were on Dean, including Michael's, who looked every bit as surprised as everyone else.

"Charlie, what the hell are you talking about?" one of the crew members finally asked.

"He killed her!" Dean answered, stabbing a finger at Langley. "I said she was murdered, I told that idiot sheriff, but he doesn't believe me!"

Startled faces swiveled between the actor and the Warder. "Mr. Dean is of the opinion that I am somehow responsible for Miss Tate's death," Langley explained.

"I'm not 'of the opinion', I saw you!" Dean said angrily. "You and that freaky friend of yours doing freaky stuff! You killed Audrey!"

Courtney nearly dropped the coffee pot. There was a witness? That was bad, very bad. It was one thing to have an odd death, but to have a witness to "freaky stuff"? Several feet away her father had stiffened, no doubt reaching the same conclusion she had. Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been withholding information.

But the crew was having none of it. "Jesus, Charlie, have you been drinking already at this hour?" one of them said in disgust.

"He was well oiled yesterday afternoon," someone else observed. "That's why the sheriff locked him up overnight, so he could sober up."

"Didn't work," another said dryly.

Dean stared at the crew members in disbelief, as though he just couldn't process that no one was buying it. "But he did it!" he protested. "He killed her!"

"Charlie, stop it," the camera operator ordered severely. "Just stop it. It's bad enough that Audrey's dead, and you're just making it worse. We all know you were sore at Langley yesterday, but this is too much."

"He killed her because she saw!" Dean exclaimed. "She saw them pick me up and choke me without touching me, and then he killed her, he burned her, he—"

"Enough!" the camera operator ordered as the woman sitting next to him stifled a sob. "You're a mess. Go clean yourself up and stop flinging wild accusations around. You're upsetting the ladies."

"I told the sheriff," Dean reminded them, nodding vigorously. "I told them what he did!"

"And yet he didn't lock up Langley," Mr. Anderson noted. "He locked up you."

"Exactly," the camera operator added. "I've heard enough. Get out of here."

Dean hesitated for only a moment before launching himself at Langley, shoving Courtney aside in the process, hot coffee spilling all over her. And all for naught—he never reached his target, at least half a dozen crew members springing from their seats and planting themselves between Dean and their clapper loader, who hadn't moved a muscle. Courtney saw her father twist around as both watched the incredible sight of fragile humans protecting one of the most dangerous creatures on any planet. If only they knew how little he needed it.

"What's going on out here?" Mr. Parker barked, flying out of the kitchen with Nancy on his heels. "Just so you know, the brawls happen over in the bar, folks. And they don't happen over there either because I won't have it."

"Charlie was just leaving, weren't you, Charlie?" the camera operator said deliberately.

Dean glared at everyone in turn before abruptly turning and leaving the diner, nearly knocking over someone on their way in. "Geez Louise," a crew member muttered. "I knew he was mad at you, Langley, but I never would have guessed he'd go off half cocked. He looked like he was ready to kill you."

"I appreciate your support, but I assure you he would not have harmed me," Langley said. "I'm quite capable of defending myself."

And how, Courtney thought, squatting down to mop up the spilled coffee with the rag she always kept in her pocket, her eyes widening when she saw her right hand. She rose quickly, slipping her hand into her pocket....and bumped right into Langley.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"No," Courtney said quickly, her fingers clenching and unclenching in her pocket, hoping she'd been fast enough that he hadn't seen. "I'm fine."

"Are you certain?" Mr. Anderson added as Courtney prayed for him to shut up. "That coffee was steaming."

"Most of it missed me," Courtney lied. "It's just a little....pink."

"You're lucky if that's all it is," Nancy fussed, rescuing her from the scrutiny of Zan's Warder as she steered her toward the back. "Let's have a look, honey. And get you a new uniform."

Courtney caught her father's concerned expression as she went by, and tried to send him a reassuring smile even though she did have what looked to be a nasty burn on her right hand. But husks healed quickly; the burn had been fading even as she'd discovered it, the redness fading to pink.....and it would not have done for the most dangerous creature on any planet to have noticed that.




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



Route 285 South




Agent Owens pulled his car off the road south of Roswell and shut off the engine, looking expectantly out the window. He'd had such faith in Valenti that he'd put his job on the line to bring him on board, and the effort had paid off in spades with a phone call just this morning from the sheriff, saying he had information for them. Told you, Owens thought with satisfaction, recalling Agent Lewis' reluctance to involve Valenti, a reluctance overcome only by the fact that it would be impossible to send anyone into the Roswell station under cover. And that reluctance paled by comparison to the tongue-lashing he'd endured last night after blurting out to Valenti that the movie actress's death had not been "natural". The fact that doing so had secured the sheriff's cooperation had been the only thing that saved most of Owens' ass, and whatever Valenti had for them today would only make it safer to sit down.

A car appeared on the horizon, and a minute later, Valenti's cruiser pulled over behind Owens. Both men climbed out, Owens eagerly anticipating Agent Lewis' expression when he brought back intel less than twenty-four hours after initiating a risky and controversial contact. After everything Lewis had put him through, it would be very satisfying indeed to rub his nose in this.

"Sheriff!" Owens smiled as Valenti approached. "It's good to hear from you. What—"

Owens' back exploded in pain as Valenti grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into his car. "You lie to me," Valenti said furiously, "you steal from me, you come crawling to my house with your tail between your legs and beg for my help....and then you steal from me again!"

"What the hell?" Owens sputtered, struggling in Valenti's grip. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about what you and yours took from Dr. Blake's office!" Valenti snapped. "As if you didn't know!"

"Sheriff, I'm not aware of our having taken anything from a doctor's office—"

"Oh, of course not," Valenti said angrily.

"—and whatever you're missing, it couldn't have been us," Owens insisted. "We were all called in from the field last night, and the entire unit was together, including Agent Lewis."

"Like he couldn't have found other goons to do his bidding," Valenti said darkly. "You already stole from me once. Why not twice?"

"Agent Lewis told you we didn't—"

"Don't lie to me again!" Valenti shouted. "The least you could do after sneaking into my station and stealing from me is to quit lying to me!"

"I'm not—" Owens began, then stopped. He was lying, not about whatever the sheriff was missing this time, but about what he'd stolen from Valenti's desk. "Deny, deny, deny," Lewis had chanted when they'd been discussing that inconvenient fact, and much as it had pained Owens, he'd had to agree; admitting to the man they were asking for help that they'd pilfered from his office had seemed counterproductive.

But that was before said man had decided to slam him into a car. "Okay—okay!" Owens said frantically as Valenti hauled him off the car again. "I took it! I went into your office and I took it out of your drawer."

Valenti paused and Owens held his breath, suspended inches away from the car. "Why?" Valenti demanded.

"Because....because that was my job," Owens stammered, racking his brain for explanations the sheriff would accept. "Because....because I feared for your safety, for your—"

"You thought I was too stupid to figure out what it was, didn't you?" Valenti interrupted, pushing, rather than slamming him into the car, a marginal improvement. "I wasn't too stupid to find it, was I? I wasn't too stupid to know enough to bring it in."

"Sheriff, the last thing I'd call you is stupid," Owens said, his back complaining as it made uncomfortable contact with the side view mirror. "That's why I'm here, why you're here, why we're having this conversation in the first place. Agent Lewis almost busted my balls when I told him we should talk to you. Believe me, he didn't want to."

Valenti loosened his grip slightly. "What was it?"

Owens' eyes flicked over the roadway, empty as far as the eye could see. "We're not sure," he answered, "but it was alien. And it killed a fellow agent."

"How?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me," Valenti insisted, his grip tightening again.

"Look, I've already said too much!" Owens protested, bracing himself for another slam. "That thing killed a colleague of mine, and it could have killed you or one of your staff the same way if you'd kept it. But you're right, you found it....and that's precisely why I told Agent Lewis a long time ago that we should bring you into our investigation. That and the fact that it was your digging that led you past the cover he'd constructed for me, further evidence that we'd be better off with you than without you."

"With you outed, he didn't have much of a choice," Valenti noted.

"He had a choice," Owens insisted. "I had a choice. I could have disappeared. He could have gotten a warrant and emptied your station. But he didn't. We didn't. We came back and 'fessed up."

"Which doesn't count now that he's stolen from me again!" Valenti exclaimed. "No fingerprints, no sign of forced entry; whoever did it knew what they were doing. If you want my help, Agent, you need to tell me everything, and oh, by the way, you need to stop stealing evidence!"

"I told you we were all together last night!" Owens said desperately as Valenti readied another slam. "There's no way we could have taken her body! Maybe the aliens took it to hide the evidence."

Valenti's grip loosened again. "Body?"

"The actress's body," Owens clarified, sweating profusely as he realized what this meant; if the body was gone, he was in big trouble. "That is what you're talking about, isn't it?"

Valenti stared at him hard for a long minute before releasing him. "No. It isn't."

Owens ran a hand over the back of his neck where his jacket had been cutting into it. "So...you still have her body?"

"Yes," Valenti said guardedly.

"Then what are you talking about?" Owens demanded. "What else do you think we took?"

Valenti turned his back to him, hands on hips, lost in thought. "The FBI is investigating the death of Audrey Tate, but you were here weeks before that. Why? What brought you here in the first place?"

Owens dropped his eyes. "I really shouldn't.....okay!" he exclaimed as Valenti advanced on him again. "All right! We were tipped off by another death."

"Whose death?"

"I can't say," Owens insisted. "But it was an alien-related death," he added hastily as Valenti's expression darkened dangerously. "That's how we knew they were in the area."

"In Roswell?"

Owens shook his head. "No. North, in another county."

"Did they die the same way Miss Tate did?"

"No, but—"

"How, then?"

"I can't say—"

"Did they burn, or blow up, or—"

"Neither," Owens broke in. "I can't tell you everything you want to know, sheriff. I've already told you too much. The previous death fits the patterns established by the aliens in the forties, and so does Miss Tate's. That's why we're here, to find out who's killing people. I would think you'd want to know that too....don't you?"

Valenti stared at him a moment before turning abruptly and heading back for his car. "Wait!" Owens called after him. "You never told me what you lost!"

"I can't tell you everything you want to know, agent," Valenti replied curtly, still walking.

"Well, whatever it was, we didn't take it," Owens said. "So you'll need to look elsewhere for your thief."

Valenti paused beside his open car door. "For once, we agree, Agent Owens. And that's exactly what I intend to do."



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



I'll post Chapter 49 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-NINE



August 20, 1959, 3 p.m.

Valenti residence




"Damn!" Valenti exclaimed as the box he was tugging off a high shelf tumbled out of his hands and hit the floor hard, papers spewing everywhere, clouds of dust puffing from the basement floor where the box landed. He really should keep it cleaner down here even if he hadn't darkened the doorway of this particular closet in nearly five years. Bending over, he gathered an armload of papers and stuffed them back into the box before carrying it out into the basement proper and setting it down on an old kitchen table. Everything was out of order now. Wonderful. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, flipping through the contents, hoping he'd get lucky.

"Dad? You're home early. What are you doing?"

His son was on the basement stairs, gazing at him curiously. "I'm busy," Valenti said shortly.

"Does this mean you'll be here for dinner?" Jimmy asked hopefully.

"I doubt it," Valenti said, setting down a handful of folders and reaching for another.

"Oh," Jimmy said, disappointed. "Well...can I help with whatever you're doing?"

"No. Go back upstairs."

"But...it looks like you're looking for something," Jimmy said coming the rest of the way down the stairs. "I could help you find it faster."

"Thanks for offering, but no, you couldn't," Valenti said.

"I could if you told me what you were looking for," Jimmy said, peering into the box. "I found lots of stuff for your deputies."

"And I'm sure they appreciated that," Valenti said struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice. "But I only have a little while, and I need to look myself. Go back upstairs."

"What's this?" Jimmy asked, picking up a folder labeled "July, 1947".

"Put that down!"

Jimmy was so startled that he dropped the folder. "I already told you, I'm pressed for time and I need to do this myself," Valenti said firmly. "Now, go back upstairs and stop slowing me down."

"Yes sir," Jimmy said faintly, retreating up the stairs, his heavy footsteps sounding like a rebuke. Valenti sighed and retrieved the folder his son had been holding, by some mysterious stroke of luck the very one he'd been looking for. He flipped through the pages only to discover that what he wanted was missing, probably having fallen out when he dropped the box. He started rummaging through the loose papers, flinging them sideways as he pawed through them. He only had a little while before he had to be back at the station, and he was so close......

Valenti had spent every minute since his morning encounter with Agent Owens in a state of growing tension, living for the gaps in his duties that would allow him to pursue what he suspected. Not that he trusted Owens, or that he wasn't aware that the FBI could have stolen Mark Green's remains without Owens knowing. The only problem was that Audrey Tate's body had not been touched. If the FBI had gone to the trouble of breaking into Raymond Blake's office, wouldn't they have taken the body that Agent Lewis had wanted so badly only last night? Add to that the fact that both Lewis and Owens seemed to know nothing of exploding bodies, and he was left with two choices—either the FBI was lying through their collective teeth, or aliens were indeed in Roswell and had stolen Green's remains because, according to Ray, those remains showed evidence of non-human cells. Green's remains were damning. Audrey Tate's were not.

Whatever the explanation, the problem was one of how to find a needle in a haystack. Roswell was currently loaded with out-of-towners, the perfect place for an FBI agent—or an alien—to hide. The various rooming houses and inns in the area had little information about their temporary guests, even less than he had about his temporary deputies, and there was always the chance that another agent or agents was hidden in his town. The sheer plethora of possibilities had distracted him all day until the discharge report on Charles Dean had crossed his desk. Seen in writing, Dean's allegations about the clapper loader's allegedly odd behavior had looked very familiar.....

And so the first chance he'd had, Valenti had sped home and made a beeline for the basement. The incident he was recalling had happened in Chaves County, not Roswell, so the records of it were inaccessible without answering a whole lot of inconvenient questions. But Valenti had spent three years working for Chaves County, and he'd had the foresight to keep his own notes on any and all alien sightings, alien encounters, alien anything. Based on what he'd learned later, most of those notes had been worthless. But some were not, and it was one of those he was looking for, one that sounded suspiciously like what Dean had described. Here! he thought triumphantly, plucking a paper out of the mess and scanning it eagerly. Trey Osborn....

"Hi."

Valenti looked up to find Andi peering over the stair railing at him. "Hi," he said briefly, returning to his notes.

"Mind telling me why our son is up in his bedroom crying?"

Valenti closed his eyes briefly. "Maybe I was a little....short with him."

" 'Short' doesn't usually produce tears," Andi observed, coming down the stairs and raking her eyes over the mess on the table. "What's this?"

"Records."

"What kind of records?"

"Old records. Can we talk about this later?"

Big mistake. Andi raised an eyebrow and glanced at the folder in front of him. " '1947'? Why are you looking at stuff from 1947?"

"It's for work," Valenti said. "And I'm pressed for time. So if you don't mind....."

Andi folded her arms in front of herself and leaned against the table. "Actually, I do. Mind, that is. This is about the FBI, isn't it?"

"I didn't say that," Valenti protested.

"You didn't have to. They plant someone in your station, bully their way into our house, and now you're actually thinking of buying whatever they were selling last night, aren't you?"

"I never said I was buying it—"

"But you must be," Andi insisted. "Yesterday afternoon that actress's death was an unfortunate accident. Last night the FBI claimed otherwise, and now you're off on a tear that has our son in tears. And for what? You told me Agent Lewis didn't even give you his number. Don't you get it, Jim? He doesn't want any of this traced back to him. That's why he came here instead of the station where others would have seen him, why he's having you contact someone other than him. I'm telling you, that man is bad news!"

"Something else happened," Valenti broke in before she could continue.

"Like what?" Andi demanded. "And don't you dare tell me you can't say, James Valenti! I've seen and heard enough now that 'I can't tell you' isn't going to cut it."

Valenti eyed his angry wife, trying to decide how little he could say and still satisfy her curiosity. But maybe that wasn't the way to go. Maybe getting another opinion from someone he trusted was the wiser course of action.

"Two months ago, a man was killed in town in what looked like a robbery," he began, choosing his words carefully. "When Doctor Blake was doing an autopsy, the body just.....exploded."

" 'Exploded'?" Andi repeated. "As in, blew up?"

"Sort of. It exploded into little skin flakes, like lots and lots of dry skin. But that's all it was; no blood, no bones, nothing else. Ray ran some tests on what was left and said he found two different kinds of cells, both human and....non-human."

Andi blinked. " 'Non-human'? Do you mean this guy was....an alien?"

"That's what Ray thinks," Valenti answered. "I've been sitting on the case trying to dig up more information, but I've been a little busy. And then this morning, he found out this guy's remains were gone."

"Gone?"

"Stolen," Valenti clarified. "Everything. Every scrap of evidence. No sign of a break-in, no broken locks, no fingerprints...nothing. Whoever did it knew their stuff."

"Like the FBI?"

Valenti shot her an annoyed look. "Do you really believe I didn't think of that? Problem is, I dropped the idea of exploding bodies last night, and Agent Lewis didn't blink. Same thing with Agent Owens when I spoke with him this morning. He claimed they didn't take anything, and he didn't react when I brought up the exploding bodies bit."

"And it never occurred to you they could be lying?" Andi asked in a deeply skeptical voice.

Valenti tossed the report he'd been reading onto the table. "I don't know what to believe. But you've got to admit it's weird that Audrey Tate's body wasn't taken. If the FBI went to all that trouble to break into Ray's office, why didn't they take Tate? Lewis nearly had a fit last night when I wouldn't let him have her until Ray was finished."

"So you think aliens took whoever—or whatever—is missing from Ray's office?"

Valenti hesitated. "I think I'm not sure what happened," he answered. "And I want to find out. Which is why I'm down here digging through old notes from a decade ago."

"Jim," Andi said slowly, "why would aliens take these....'remains' now? It's been weeks. Wouldn't they have taken them right away? Like before Ray had a chance to figure out there was something strange about them?"

"Maybe they didn't know I had them," Valenti suggested. "Or maybe they didn't care until the FBI showed up."

"Or maybe the FBI is after something other than what they told you they're after," Andi said pointedly. "Which is why Audrey Tate wasn't touched. What would she have to do with this? She didn't 'explode'."

"No. But the FBI thinks her death was—"

"Unnatural?" Andi suggested. "As in killed by aliens?" When he didn't answer, she glanced at some of the other folders on the table. "These are all from the late forties," she noted. "You believe them, don't you? You believe aliens killed Audrey Tate."

"Like I said," Valenti answered carefully, "I don't know what to believe. I'm trying to separate fact from fiction and figure out what the FBI really wants. And in order to do that, I need to go through these."

Andi studied him for a moment before capitulating. "All right. I know you're not stupid, so I'll leave you to your digging. Just try not to bulldoze our son in the process, would you? It's hard enough that he doesn't see you much, so yelling at him when you do doesn't help."

"I know," Valenti admitted with a sigh. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to."

"Right. I'll apologize to Jimmy. I promise."

Andi's expression softened, and she leaned in close to kiss him on the cheek. "Try not to get so caught up in this that you can't see straight, okay? I don't trust Lewis."

"Neither do I," Valenti assured her. "I'll be careful."

She left, her skirt swishing up the stairs, and Valenti returned to his notes, the deposition of one Trey Osborn, teenage thug extraordinaire and member of Denny Miltnor's gang. That gang had been disturbing the peace at the Independence Day parade in the town of Corona in 1947 and had run afoul of an odd handyman supposedly in the employ of Chambers grocery. A handyman accompanied by none other than Dee Proctor. A handyman no one had ever seen again. And a handyman who had reportedly displayed some unusual behaviors.

He held me up against the wall several feet off the ground, without touching me....

Choked all of us without touching us....

Knocked us to the ground without touching us.....

Jesus, Valenti thought, a chill running down his spine. The allegations Osborn had made against the man Valenti had long suspected was an alien matched Dean's description of what the clapper loader and his friend had done to him just yesterday.




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"I cannot believe that you went ahead without consulting me again!" Malik exclaimed. "Do you want my help, or don't you?"

"This has nothing to do with your 'help'," Michael answered. "This was an internal affair that concerned my people, not yours, not to mention that we had information you did not."

"And I had information you didn't have," Malik reminded him. "You just made things ten times worse, and they were bad enough already!"

"Consulting you would have been pointless," Michael argued. "We didn't know where to find you, and your objections would not have changed my mind."

"You didn't even try to find me, and you haven't even heard my objections," Malik retorted. "This is not how allies behave, Michael. If you want me to smooth the way to contact with the Warders, you have to work with me, not without me."

"I am trying to keep us alive," Michael said impatiently. "Since being alive is a prerequisite to contact with the Warders, you should be able to appreciate that."

"What I appreciate is that you've blown me off twice now," Malik said angrily. "Pull that again, and you're on your own. Consider yourself warned."

Michael flushed. "How dare you...."

"Michael," Nathaniel warned.

"Okay, time out!" Dee ordered. "Everybody just step back and calm down. I said everybody," she added sternly when Malik and Michael began to protest. "Back off. Now."

Seated on the floor beneath the window, Courtney suppressed a completely inappropriate smile as both Malik and her furious father reluctantly complied, each prowling as far away from each other as they could get in Courtney's tiny apartment. Mr. Parker had cancelled Dee's shift today because no one was doing much eating in the wake of the actress's death, and that had proven a blessing. Upon returning to her apartment after her own shift, Courtney had found Malik blazing mad over what her father and Nathaniel had done earlier today. Her own efforts to act as referee had gone nowhere; her father held little stock in her opinion these days, and Malik still regarded her as a potential enemy. Dee was a different story; Malik trusted her implicitly, and in her presence, Michael was on if not good, at least better, behavior, unwilling to offend a valuable human ally. Unable to soothe everyone's ragged emotions, Courtney had crossed the hall and solicited help. The resulting confrontation had been instructive. Dee didn't give a hoot about anyone's emotions, barking orders like a drill sergeant to establish order and drilling inconvenient facts out of both parties before retreating and letting them at each other's throats. This was the first time out, and a much needed one at that.

"There's little point in rehashing what happened," Dee said, "so the focus of this discussion should be on how you're going to handle these situations in the future."

"I'll tell you how," Malik said curtly. "He's going to tell me before he does something stupid that gives us away, not after."

"I fail to see how recovering our operative's remains will attract undue attention," Michael retorted. "No one knows who took them."

"Which is why this needs rehashing," Malik answered, drowning out Dee's protest that they'd already been over this. "Valenti will figure out who took it and be right back on the warpath. Here we'd just about dodged that bullet, and now it's speeding right for us again. Nice work, Michael."

"The man we saw at the diner this morning had obviously already been to the sheriff with tales of strange happenings," Michael argued.

"Which Valenti didn't believe," Malik said. "Now that evidence has been stolen, he'll rethink that."

"Why wouldn't he suspect the FBI of taking that evidence?" Michael asked. "And while we're on the subject, why were we not informed that the FBI was in town? Why did I need to hear that from Nicholas?"

"I've been a little busy!" Malik said furiously. "And while we're on the subject, did it not occur to you that Valenti might tell the FBI about that strange guy whose body blew up? He's been keeping that to himself, but he might not now. You may have just informed the FBI's new alien hunting unit that there is yet another race of aliens on this planet. Was that your intention?"

Courtney watched her father's eyes drop, only for a second, but long enough to tell her that, no, he hadn't considered that possibility. Not that that would make a difference. She knew her father, and he wouldn't back down for anyone. "If that occurs, it would be an unwelcome but unavoidable side effect of a necessary operation," Michael said. "There is another operative coming to town, and we needed to remove any evidence of Green's death. And there is nothing more to be said on the matter," he added firmly. "The subject is closed."

"Like hell it is," Dee announced. "You blew it."

Michael's eyes narrowed. " 'Blew' it?"

"Screwed up," Dee clarified. "Made a bad decision. Did something wrong. In other words, blew it."

Silence. Courtney had to clench her jaw to keep her mouth from dropping open, Nathaniel's eyes nearly popped out of his head, and her father...well, he was clearly struggling between puzzlement and outrage. The former was dominating at the moment, but the latter would be along in short order.

"I beg your pardon!" Michael exclaimed. "I—"

"Don't beg my pardon—beg his," Dee interrupted. "You should never have moved a muscle without consulting Malik, especially when the Warders are in the middle of a crisis. You're lucky he's willing to give you one more chance. I wouldn't."

The tension in the room, already high, soared to stratospheric levels as Dee and Michael faced off in the center of the room. To interrupt her father, give him an order, reprimand him, and dismiss him in a mere four sentences displayed an abundance of both efficiency and nerve that made Courtney downright jealous. Nathaniel was throwing her a glance that said stop her!, but Courtney was too interested in how this would play out. Besides, you couldn't stop Dee any more than you could stop any other force of nature.

"The crisis was of their own making," Michael said angrily. "It's not my fault they chose to execute someone."

"They killed to protect their identity," Dee said. "Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have done the same."

Michael glared at her a moment longer before looking away. "That is entirely beside the point."

"You're right," Dee agreed. "The point is that no matter what the circumstances or how you feel about Covari, you can't keep acting unilaterally—it's stupid, it's dishonest, and it endangers your own mission. Assuming you've been honest about that mission, that is."

"Young lady," Michael began, using the same tone he used when Courtney was being obstinate, "I don't believe you understand, or are capable of understanding, the gravity of the situation. If—"

"If your new operative finds out you've been lying about Mark Green, you'll all be dead, likely in a very slow, very nasty way," Dee said impatiently. "That about sum it up?"

"I would appreciate it if you would let me finish my sentences," Michael said sharply. "I was given to understand that interrupting was considered rude in your culture."

"So is blowing off an ally," Dee retorted. "So is talking to me like I'm an idiot and couldn't possibly know what time of day it is. I met the Warders when I was eight years old. I was on their ship when the Army found it, I've watched two of them die, my father killed a hunter, my mother was kidnapped because of the help we gave them. I've already been in enough 'situations' that I could be one of your operatives, and that goes triple for Malik. You owe him an apology."

"Thank you," Malik muttered as Courtney nearly stopped breathing, Nathaniel being way ahead of her—he looked like he'd stopped a while ago. Her father certainly didn't rule with Nicholas' iron fist, but she could safely say that no one would ever talk to him this way. Politely disagree, perhaps, even argue a point if one was close enough to him, but to scold him like this....no, that was unthinkable. Almost as unthinkable as offering an apology to a Covari, which was mighty unthinkable indeed.

"I regret that this matter has caused an impasse between us," Michael said coldly, clearly trying to find a middle ground between the equally unattractive options of apologizing to a shapeshifter and offending a needed ally, "but I stand by the decision we made."

" 'We'?" Dee challenged, looking at Courtney. "Is that true? Did you buy into this?"

Courtney's eyes flicked from one face to another as everyone's attention settled on her. She really shouldn't fan the flames. She really should attempt to calm this situation for the good of everyone involved. She really should take the high road and not point out that her father was lying.

"No," Courtney answered, throwing all those "really should's" to the wind. "I told him he should talk to Malik first, both this time and when he decided to send that letter to the Warders. And make no mistake about it—he decides. Nathaniel and I have nothing to say about anything."

"Wonderful," Malik said darkly. "You put an operative here, and then you ignore her? Isn't she the one who's been living here? Shouldn't her opinion count for something?"

"Do not presume to insert yourself between me and my daughter!" Michael snapped, turning hard eyes on Courtney before stalking out of the apartment, followed a moment later by Nathaniel, who kept his eyes on the ground. Boy, was she going to get it later.

"I don't have time for this," Malik muttered, following on their heels. "I'll catch up with you later."

Dee gave a heavy sigh as the door banged shut behind them before plopping down beside Courtney.

"So....that went well."

"Better than it was going before you got here," Courtney replied. "When did you find out about the actress?"

"Last night," Dee answered. "I suspected as soon as I heard who had died, but I wasn't sure until Malik confirmed it." She paused. "Is your father always like that?"

Courtney hesitated. "We've never fought like this before. But I've never seen him with a problem like this before."

"He can't keep doing this," Dee said. "He can't keep going off on his own as though what he does doesn't affect everyone else."

"I know," Courtney said quietly.

"So who keeps him in line? Who knocks him upside the head when he needs it?"

"Here? No one," Courtney answered. "Nathaniel is his second, but he doesn't have any real power. At home the resistance is much larger, and so is the number of people he'd have to answer to. But this is really more about Covari and how they're viewed than anything else. We're up against centuries of preconceptions that we're asking him to abandon. Convincing him to do that won't be easy, and frankly, I'm not sure anyone is up to that task."

"You're wrong," Dee said bluntly. "You are."

Courtney blinked. "Me? Dee, I can't—"

"You have to. I'm going back to school next week, so I can't run over whenever daddy gets stupid."

Don't remind me, Courtney thought, not even wanting to contemplate the fact that Dee and her family would be gone in just a few short days. "I'll talk to Nathaniel," she said. "Maybe he—"

"No," Dee said firmly. "Nathaniel didn't so much as squeak, and no wonder—you said he doesn't have any real power. He also doesn't know Malik like you do and how important he is in all of this. You're the one who's been living here for weeks, you're the one who knew the right thing to do, so you're the one who's going to have to be the brains."

"Dee, I can't make my father work with Malik," Courtney protested. "I can argue all I want, but I can't force him to do that any more than he could force me to come home with him."

"Then you'll have to work with Malik yourself. You knew your father was going to write that letter and break into the doctor's office. You could have warned him."

Courtney drew her knees up closer and wrapped her arms around them. "I thought about it," she admitted, "but if I defy him, that will only happen once; from then on, he'll never tell me anything, and what good will that do?"

"Well, what you're doing now certainly isn't doing any good," Dee said.

"No," Courtney said quietly. "It isn't." She paused. "Do you really think it's as bad as Malik says it is? Will Valenti figure it out?"

"Knowing him, he already has," Dee sighed. "Look, just think about it. You're hanging in the middle now, but you might not be able to stay there; you might be forced to pick a side like Malik was." She climbed to her feet, looking out the window. "Who's that?"

Courtney stood up. Her father and Nathaniel were standing on the curb beside a taxi cab. "Is that the new operative?" Dee asked.

"Must be," Courtney murmured. "They took a cab? The bus station's not that far away. When I came into town, I walked here in about twenty minutes—"

She stopped, the figure which emerged from the cab making it all too clear why they hadn't walked.

"Wow," Dee commented.

"Oh, shit," Courtney muttered.




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Sir?"

Valenti slammed his desk drawer shut with an exasperated sigh, this being the third time in the past fifteen minutes he'd been interrupted. "What is it, Hanson?"

"There's someone here to see you about the Tate case."

" 'Someone'? Could you be any less specific?"

Hanson glanced back toward the waiting room as though concerned he was being pursued before slipping into the office. "It's....kind of a reporter, sir."

" 'Kind of' a reporter? Is that like being 'kind of' pregnant?"

Hanson pinked. "She calls herself an 'independent contributor'."

"I don't care if she's an independent goddess," Valenti snapped. "I have no comment on the Tate case until Dr. Blake finishes his independent autopsy. Get rid of her."

"You might not want to do that, sir," Hanson ventured. "She claims she sells to several newspapers and magazines, so whatever she writes will....well....."

Get all over hell's half acre, Valenti finished. "I can't tell her anything," he said impatiently. "I don't have anything to say other than what I've already said."

"She only just got into town, so she wasn't here when you said it, so....maybe if you tell her personally?" Hanson suggested. "If you won't talk to her, she'll probably just make something up."

Crap, Valenti thought sourly. The local press had calmed after Dr. Blake's initial finding that Tate wasn't murdered and news of Dean's inebriation had been helpfully leaked, but all it would take was one denied 'independent contributor' to start it all up again. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Send her in."

Hanson broke into a wide smile, grateful to be relieved of the burden of delivering a refusal. "Thank you, sir. She's easy on the eyes, if that's any consolation."

Ask me if I care, Valenti thought, sweeping the contents of his desk into various drawers so prying eyes wouldn't have anything to look at save for pencil cups, staplers, and other headline producing artifacts. A minute later, Hanson ushered a tall, stately woman into his office smartly dressed in a suit, her heels click, clicking on the tile floor.

"Ma'am," Valenti said cordially, rising from his chair and wearing his best public relations face, or the best he could dredge up at the moment. "I'm Sheriff Valenti. How can I help you?"

"So nice to meet you, Sheriff," the woman smiled, "and thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'm Vanessa Crawford."




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


I'll post Chapter 50 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER FIFTY



August 20, 1959, 6:30 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's boarding house




"God, it's roasting in here!" Vanessa complained, stripping off her jacket and sinking into Courtney's one chair. "Don't you have a fan? Well, what are you waiting for? Fetch it! Before I melt!"

Like the wicked witch? Courtney thought hopefully, taking her sweet time to retrieve the fan from the other side of the room. A pity they couldn't rid themselves of this latest problem as easily as throwing a bucket of water at it. Why, oh why, did Nicholas have to send Vanessa? Not that Greer or any other of his other cronies would have been welcome, but at least they wouldn't have been such big babies. Vanessa had done nothing but bitch from the moment her foot had hit the pavement. Nothing was right, from the taxi cab, to the size of Courtney's apartment, to the heat which no one could control and which was no worse than the heat in Arizona. It's not fair, Courtney thought sourly. She'd escaped Nicholas, but his family had followed her, and that family could be every bit as bad as he was. Granted his father was largely inert, happy to wear his paunchy husk, smoke those disgusting cigars, and stay out of everyone's way. But his mother was a hellion, as bad as her son on a good day, worse on a bad one, and Vanessa....Vanessa was usually smart enough to be quiet around Ida, although enough of her true colors came through to make it clear what they all could expect should she ever be given free rein.

As she had been now. Relieved of Ida's presence, Vanessa was every bit as haughty and demanding as her future mother-in-law. She had always been proud of her husk, decorating it with the finest clothing, the latest hairstyles, and various shades of paint, right down to the perfectly manicured nails which were, in Courtney's opinion, entirely the wrong color; they should not be pink, but red, human blood red, as befitted the predator who wore them. Fingernail paint was fragile, and one of those wrongly colored nails was now chipped; Courtney smiled faintly, watching Vanessa fret over it as she set up the fan. The nail wasn't her only problem; after arriving beautifully dressed and coifed as usual, there were now large perspiration stains beneath the arms of her blouse, her hair hung in damp hanks, the curls wilting, and probably unbeknownst to her, her mascara was running, producing a gratifying raccoon effect. She really was melting. If only.

"Finally!" Vanessa sighed as Courtney plugged in the fan and reached for the switch. "I was beginning to wonder if—turn it off! Turn it off!"

"Sorry," Courtney said tonelessly, having turned the fan on "high" and nearly blasted Vanessa out of her chair, earning her a stern look from her father. Behind him, Nathaniel suppressed a smile.

"Place it further away from me," Vanessa ordered. "Honestly, do I have to think of everything myself?"

Courtney obediently moved the fan backwards, not bothering to note that it also had a "low" setting. Vanessa closed her eyes and basked in the breeze for a full minute as the three of them awaited her pleasure. Time for a nap, Courtney thought. If they were awaiting her pleasure, they'd probably be here awhile.

"I understood you had a report?" Michael ventured.

Vanessa's eyes flew open, and so did Courtney's; apparently not everyone was content to simply sit and wait. "Of course I do," Vanessa said imperiously. "I'm just very hot. These husks are damnably lifelike. I don't know how humans tolerate this leakage. It's disgusting."

"I'm sorry you are indisposed," Michael answered calmly. "If your health is at risk, it is my duty as Nicholas' third to apprise him of the situation before you come to harm."

His tone betrayed nothing but concern, but his meaning was not lost on anyone, especially Vanessa, whose expression adopted an unmistakable tinge of worry. Never mind Nicholas; any hint of weakness, and Ida would yank her home in a second. For her father to not only threaten to have her recalled but also remind her that he outranked her was a huge slap, and Courtney watched with interest to see how Vanessa would take it.

Seriously, it turned out. "Don't be ridiculous," Vanessa said, a brittle edge to her voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. "I'm just a little warm, that's all." She straightened in the chair, running a hand through her damp hair, plucking at the front of her damp blouse. "The sheriff doesn't appear to know a blessed thing about how the female died, nor does he seem the least bit interested in learning. A curious viewpoint for a so-called 'public servant', but then he's obviously a dimwit. At least we know he doesn't possess the intellect to be an obstacle."

Incredible, Courtney thought, trying to decide whether Vanessa's stunningly incorrect assessment of the sheriff was a testament to the former's hubris or the latter's heretofore unknown acting skills. Could be either. Could be both.

"Then we will proceed with our original plan," Michael said, accepting Vanessa's verdict without debate. "We will begin canvassing the town—"

"The entire town?" Vanessa interrupted. "That could take ages! Haven't you gathered any intelligence as to where the Warders could be?"

"We only arrived last night," Michael answered, "and have spent the little time we've been here searching for answers regarding Crist's disappearance."

"I would think finding the Warders would be more important than one missing operative," Vanessa said impatiently.

"I was following orders," Michael replied. "Nicholas is most unhappy that Crist appears to have left voluntarily. I set Mark on the trail of one of the few leads we managed to obtain. He may be gone for several days."

"Fine, but he was here for ages before that," Vanessa interrupted, the lie about Mark's whereabouts sliding right past her as they had intended. "And Courtney's been here for a couple of months now. Haven't either of them learned anything? How can that be? Just how incompetent are they?"

"Probably as incompetent as all the other operatives stationed in this area who also haven't learned a thing," Courtney said blandly.

"Our operatives have obviously produced results as evidenced by our presence here," Michael said, throwing Courtney another warning look. "Once again, if you are indisposed, you need not participate, indeed should not participate. I like my operatives to be one hundred percent."

"My" operatives. Vanessa stiffened at yet another subtle dig at her complaining and yet another reminder that Michael was in charge. "I am always 'one hundred percent'," she said coldly, looking decidedly less than that in her sweaty clothes, "and of course I will participate. Someone has to get something done around here. Have you examined the victim's body yet? No, of course not," she added with disgust. "How silly of me to expect anyone to actually do their jobs."

"If you find my service unacceptable, you are welcome to address the matter with the one who issued my orders in the first place," Michael said.

Vanessa glared at Michael, who gazed back at her unperturbed, everyone knowing full well she would do nothing of the sort. For all of Nicholas' delusions of grandeur, it was ultimately Ida who ruled the roost, and Ida would never choose Vanessa over Michael.

"I'm certain Nicholas has his reasons for giving you this assignment," Vanessa said, the ice in her voice making it clear that she couldn't imagine what those reasons could be.

"We should be ready to go as soon as soon as it's dark," Michael said, ignoring her. "And you might want to.....freshen up," he added, waving a hand vaguely toward his face.

Vanessa looked startled, then dug a small mirror out of her handbag. "Why didn't you tell me I looked a fright?" she wailed at Courtney. "Where's your bathroom?"

"Down the hall to your right," Courtney answered, hoping it was occupied.

"You mean you don't have your own bathroom? No, of course you don't," Vanessa grumbled, grabbing her purse. "Thank goodness I'm staying at a hotel instead of this hovel."

Yes, thank goodness, Courtney echoed in disgust as the peacock strutted out of the room. It was bad enough to be anywhere near her; sleeping with her would have been downright impossible.

"You have to stop antagonizing her," Michael ordered as soon as Vanessa was out of earshot.

"You should talk," Courtney retorted. "You 'antagonized' her way more than I did."

"That's different; I am her superior, even if she doesn't want to admit it," Michael answered. "You enjoy no such position, and are only making things worse when I think you'll agree they are bad enough already. Be ready at nightfall, and behave yourself."

"Are you going to warn them that we're coming after them?" Courtney asked.

Her father and Nathaniel exchanged glances. "We can't," Michael answered. "The mail has already been delivered today. I'll do the best I can, but beyond that, I'm afraid the Warders are on their own."




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



10:30 p.m.

On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"No, no, no!" the director erupted angrily. "Can't anybody walk and talk at the same time? Do it again, and this time, do it right! Move!"

Brivari waited as cast and crew shambled to their places for take seventeen of what should have been a very simple scene, their expressions alternately confused and vacant as though they couldn't quite remember why they were there. It was curious, really, how the death of an ordinary person such as Audrey could have such an effect on so many, even those who didn't really know her. That effect was understandable following the death of a king or other important personage, but the absence of the average individual rarely cast such a wide shadow. Everyone from the cast, including the sullen Dean, silent now that news of his inebriation had become common knowledge, to the camera crew, to the wardrobe mistress, to the make-up people, to the extras were seriously affected, none more so than the extra Steinfeld had hastily chosen to replace Audrey because of her similar physical characteristics. She seemed downright frightened, as though taking the place of a dead woman conveyed bad luck in some fashion. Perhaps a similar primitive concern drove everyone to avoid the chair Audrey had used in the make-up trailer, to leave her name on the call sheets even though everyone knew she would not appear, and to leave the personal belongings she had left behind on the set right where she had left them. Curious. He wasn't familiar with human superstitions about death, but he hadn't noticed similar fears among Quanah's people. Not that he'd actually attended the funeral, hanging back as he had because he'd been so angry......

Whack! Brivari clapped the clapper after everyone had finally, laboriously taken their places. "At least someone still knows how to do his job," the director grumbled, paying Brivari a rare compliment. "Let's get it right this time, shall we, people?"

The scene began and promptly fell apart. More scolding ensued, and the weeping stand-in for Audrey fled the set as Brivari watched with unexpected sympathy. He would never admit this to Jaddo, but the truth was that he was more affected by Audrey's death than he would have anticipated; the set seemed less interesting, the world an overall bleaker place without her. Here he'd taken this job to take his mind off a death, and now he was dealing with another, not to mention another round of regrets. Because once again, it is my fault, he thought heavily. He could have saved Quanah had he known he was ill, and he arguably could have saved Audrey if he'd managed to restrain Jaddo in time, if he'd realized how far he would go just a few seconds earlier.....

"Finally!" the director exclaimed as the shaky stand-in reappeared with Steinfeld's arm around her shoulder. "Do you think we can get this done in my lifetime? Places!"

Steinfeld pulled the director aside as everyone moved into their places again. "Simmer down, Larry," Brivari heard Steinfeld whisper. "We've all just suffered a tremendous loss—"

"Speak for yourself," Larry declared. "She wasn't a 'loss', she was a pain in the ass, always stirring everyone up. And you should know better than anyone that we need to finish this on time!"

"Of course we do, but in order to do that, we need their cooperation," Steinfeld said, nodding toward the set. "Keep your opinions to yourself, show a little empathy, and we might get what we want."

"I didn't see 'empathy' in my job description," Larry grumbled. "If....." He stopped, glancing around the set. "Now what?"

Every head including Brivari's turned this way and that. The lights were blinking for some reason, or....no, upon closer inspection, the lights were unaffected. It was another light in addition to the regular complement that was blinking on and off and had an odd, pinkish cast to it, very unlike the humans' usual yellow-tinged lights. "What is that?" Larry barked. "Find out!" he added when no one moved. "The last thing I need is more problems!"

Larry paced back and forth, muttering under his breath as the crew scrambled around in utter confusion, trying to find the strange light's source. But this was not the confusion of a few moments ago; this was genuine befuddlement. They honestly didn't know what was causing the strange pink glow that continued to flicker every few seconds, on and off, on and off.

A camera man wheeled his camera out of the way for a technician, and as he did so, Brivari caught a glimpse of his reflection as the odd light pulsed again. A reflection wreathed by a reddish glow, the infrared signature bred into all Covari which made them recognizable to each other, but not to anyone else, because most species couldn't see in the infrared spectrum.....

"They are also equipped with devices capable of both identifying you and disabling your enhancements....."

A second later Brivari had disappeared beneath the camera dolly, no longer wearing a form anyone would recognize. And not a moment too soon; he was barely there before more pink lights appeared, steady now, unblinking, and blanketing large areas of the set. He heard Larry swear loudly, heard the techs argue that they had no idea what was going on, heard Steinfeld attempting to make peace.....and then suddenly, it was over. The lights disappeared, and Larry didn't wait for an explanation.

"Get going before it happens again!" he ordered everyone. "Places! Where's the clapper loader?"

Cautiously, Brivari reappeared. "Get over here!" Larry said irritably when he saw him. " Where were you?"

"Attempting to locate the problem," Brivari answered, every nerve taut as he clapped the clapper and stepped back, into the shadows where there was a margin of safety in case the lights reappeared. Which they might not, of course.

It might already be too late.




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



August 21, 1959, 1 a.m.

Valenti residence




A jangling phone jarred Andrea Valenti out of a sound sleep. She felt her husband stir beside her, heard him pull the receiver off the cradle, clamped her eyes shut as he turned on the light. What now? she thought wearily. Andi was no fool—she knew what had been in store for her when she'd agreed to marry a deputy with his heart set on becoming sheriff, and resolved to not let the job come between them. That resolve had never been so severely tested as it was this summer when her occasionally absent husband had turned into a regularly absent husband and the occasional late night phone call had turned into a regular occurrence. The calls had eased as the movie neared completion although Jim's absences had not, and now she knew why—he had been pursuing a spy in his office, a spy now known to be an FBI agent. As usual, her husband's instincts had been correct, even if his single-minded pursuit of them had been troubling. And hard on Jimmy, she added silently, recalling her tearful son earlier today. Sometimes Jim just didn't realize how harsh he sounded.

"Lights?" her husband said, puzzled. "What kind of lights?"

Andi rolled over, squinting at the clock. Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pajama bottoms, hair askew, stubble on his chin. "Where.....slow down. Where were they reported?" he asked, scribbling on the pad of paper he always kept on his bedside table. "What was the order? The order in which the calls came in." More scribbling. "All right. Thanks."

"What is it?" Andi asked.

"There've been several reports of reddish lights coming on at various places around town for just a few seconds, then disappearing," Jim said, still scribbling.

"So what? Lights aren't usually fatal."

"That's weird," Jim murmured, staring at the pad.

"What's weird?" Andi asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

"If you look at the order in which the calls came in...." he paused, drawing a circle on his pad ".......it's a circle. The locations, I mean. It's like someone's making a circuit of the town."

" 'Someone'?" Andi echoed skeptically. "Maybe it's just an electrical problem. Why did the station call you with this, anyway? It's not like it's an emergency."

"I told them to call any time of the day or night if something unusual was reported," Jim answered.

"Right," Andi sighed, sinking back on her pillow. "Of course you did. Now that you know it's nothing serious, we can go back to sleep, and you can call the electric company in the morning."

There was a long pause while Jim stared at his pad, tapping the pencil against it, lost in thought. Suddenly, he stood up.

"I'm going in."

"In the middle of the night?" Andi protested. "Over some lights? What for?"

"Because it's weird that the lights were reported in a pattern," Jim answered, pulling socks out of his dresser drawer. "Like it was deliberate."

"Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?" Andi asked. "It's probably just an electrical problem that's spreading through town."

"Maybe," Jim answered, sounding unconvinced.

"Jim, it's one o'clock in the morning! What do you expect to learn at this hour? Almost everything is closed, or will be very soon. Even the bars are closed by 2 a.m."

"That gives me an hour," Jim replied, buckling his belt.

"Fifty-four minutes," Andi corrected, glancing at the clock.

"All the more reason to stop arguing with me and let me do my job," Jim said, closing the closet door with a bang.

Andi's eyes narrowed. So this was how he wanted to play it, was it? "Tell me something," she said stiffly. "Does your job still include your being 'Deputy Martian'?"

Jim stopped buttoning his shirt. "Where did you hear that?"

Andi sat up, wide awake now. "From Cathy Cook. You know, Jake Cook's wife? The Jake Cook you used to work with? The Jake Cook whose son, Tommy, dropped off the map after he started repeating stuff about you to Jimmy? She had some very interesting stories of her husband's to tell. Very interesting indeed. You led quite the life back in the forties."

"So you're worried I believe the FBI, but you're willing to buy the first thing out of Jake's mouth?" Jim demanded. "Now who's being gullible?"

"Is it true?" Andi persisted. "Do you really believe you were chased by aliens?"

"How should I know what story he told his wife?" Jim asked crossly. "I don't have time for this now."

"And you never will," Andi said severely. "You think this is aliens, don't you? Why in the name of God would aliens be blinking red lights all over town?"

"I never said it was aliens!" Jim snapped. "All I said was it looked deliberate, and by my standards, that's reason enough to deserve my personal attention, especially with all the other bizarre stuff that's been happening here lately."

"Like exploding bodies?" Andi said skeptically.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Jim demanded. "Are you saying you don't believe me? I was there, Andi!"

"I know," Andi sighed. "I just.....you dumped a lot of information on me today, and I don't know what to believe."

"Neither do I," Jim muttered, tucking his shirt into his pants in quick, sharp jabs. "Congratulations. Now you know how I feel."

"Jim, wait....I'm sorry.....wait!"

But he was gone, pounding down the stairs, the front door closing behind him, the car starting in the driveway. Andi leaned wearily against the bedroom window frame, wishing she'd never brought it up. The age-old advice about not going to bed mad was hard enough to follow without starting an argument in the wee small.

"Mom?"

It was Jimmy, his eyes wide, his shorty pajamas looking large on his wiry frame. "We woke you," Andi said, giving him a hug. "I'm sorry, honey. We didn't mean to."

"Where's Dad going?" Jimmy asked, his voice muffled against her arm.

"Into work."

"Why?"

Andi hesitated. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "And I don't think he is either."




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



2:15 a.m.

Roswell




"I'm not impressed with the range of these devices," Vanessa announced as they climbed into Michael's car. "I can't believe our technicians designed something so inefficient."

"I thought they performed well," Michael answered as he started the engine.

"I found them adequate at best," Vanessa sniffed. "And then there's operator error," she added, throwing a dark look at Courtney.

"I told you, it just went on by itself," Courtney protested. "And when I tried to turn it off, it just popped back on. I had to smack it on the ground to get it to turn off. That's 'device error', not operator error."

"Entirely possible," Michael added. "This is the first time the generators have been field tested. We should keep track of any malfunctions in case they turn out to be widespread."

Nice cover, Papa, Courtney thought with satisfaction as Vanessa looked out the window, lips pursed in disapproval but unable to come up with a suitable retort. They had left her apartment shortly after dark and headed straight for the movie set at Vanessa's insistence because she felt—correctly—that that would be the best place for a Covari to hide. Courtney had given her father a pleading look, but he had shaken his head, there being no way to argue with that logic without arousing suspicion. It hardly mattered anyway; they would reach the movie set eventually, and Brivari would be there, making any argument about exactly when they arrived academic. Unable to cover such a wide area with only one generator, they had slipped onto the set, not difficult given everyone's disposition following the actress' death, and positioned themselves in various locations so as to cover the most people. She had spotted Brivari and allowed herself to be briefly distracted by the ridiculous sight of the king's warder clapping that silly sign for a movie camera before the feeling of defeat that had been dogging her all the way here had settled over her like a wet blanket. She knew from her experience with Malik that "Langley" was going to glow like a Christmas tree. He'd get away, of course; only Vanessa would seriously pursue him, although the rest of them would put on a good show. But word would get back to Nicholas that a Warder had been spotted for the first time since their arrival, and the thought of the excitement that would produce back in Copper Summit was unbearable; the thought that Vanessa would get the credit for it was even worse.

But worst of all was the thought that it would happen at all. We found them, she'd thought fiercely. The resistance had found the Warders first, and now they were about to lose that advantage. The area would swarm with operatives, the Warders would have to flee, and the resistance would be right back where it had started. Of course Nicholas would be too, but the mere fact that a Warder had been spotted would be enough to carry him for a very long time. After everything she'd been through, it was all about to go down the drain.

Or maybe not. What if I can warn him? she'd thought, watching Brivari while the director yelled at the emotionally spent crew. But how to accomplish that? She could hardly write a note and fold it into a paper airplane. Causing a disturbance on the set would only distract the humans, not Vanessa. She'd fretted for a good five minutes as she'd repeatedly checked her watch, watching the hands tick toward the appointed hour to set off the generators. There had to be a way......

That way, it turned out, was the generator itself. With less than a minute to go, she had remembered something her father had said to Vanessa on the way there. "We'll only have the element of surprise once. It won't take them long to figure out what it is." Her finger had hit the button even as she remembered, but only for a second, causing a brief patch of infrared that puzzled the humans and was no doubt causing consternation in her own circles. Brivari was in range, so she was taking a risk, but hopefully the wash would be on so briefly that only those who knew right where to look would notice anything. She'd blinked the wash on and off over and over again as the director yelled and the crew scrambled to find the cause. You don't have much time! she'd yelled silently to Brivari, who was gazing at the flickering light in wary puzzlement, clearly suspicious, but not there yet. Figure it out!

Miraculously, he had. Just as time had run out and most of the set was blanketed in the wash, Brivari had.....disappeared. There was no other word for it; she'd been looking right at him, desperate for him to realize what was what, and then suddenly, he was gone. She'd searched frantically for the full minute they'd agreed to leave the wash on, afraid she'd see him somewhere, but she hadn't. A minute after the wash was turned off, he had reappeared from seemingly nowhere, the expression on his face making it very clear that he knew what a close call he'd just had.

Courtney had been so elated that she'd pulled it off that Vanessa's ensuing tirade had fallen on deaf ears. She'd placed the blame on a faulty switch and stuck doggedly to that, making certain she replicated the "malfunction" at least a couple more times to drive the point home. She'd even offered to switch generators with Vanessa so she could see for herself, knowing full well Vanessa would never risk being stuck with a faulty device. After that Vanessa had piped down, resorting to occasional sharp remarks which Courtney never left unanswered. She'd hear about that from her father, no doubt, but she didn't care. She'd not only found the Warders, she'd just saved them from discovery. That was well worth a lecture from her father.

"Where are we?" Courtney asked as Michael pulled the car over.

"About a block away from the physician's office where the actress's body is being stored," Michael answered.

And where Mark's body was stored, Courtney thought as they piled out of the car. It was dark and silent in the early hours of the morning, and still surprisingly hot as they walked around the corner and down the street to the doctor's office. Human locks were ridiculously easy to defeat, and Nathaniel made short work of this one for the second time in as many days. They were inside within moments.

"The body is in the room at the end of the hall," Michael said quietly. "Nathaniel will keep watch."

"All of you stay here," Vanessa ordered. "I'll examine the body myself. I seriously doubt any of you have any idea what you're looking for. Besides, why would I want little Miss Screw Up with me?"

Michael appeared about to protest when he suddenly stopped, gazing out the window. "If you wish," he said.

Vanessa stalked up the long center hallway alone, pausing briefly as she picked the lock on the door at the end of the hall. Courtney stared at her father in consternation; here he'd consistently exerted his authority, and now he was just passively letting her run things? "Why did you do that?" she hissed. "You can't let her go in there alone!"

"I know what I'm doing," Michael murmured.

"But we need to contradict her findings," Nathaniel argued. "Nicholas might listen only to her, but you know Ida won't."

"There won't be any findings," Michael whispered, backing away, pulling them with him. "We have to go. Now."

Courtney glanced at Nathaniel, who appeared as befuddled as she was. What was her father talking about? They had another opportunity here to deflect suspicion, and he was just letting it slip away.

Suddenly the light snapped on in the room at the end of the hall, many yards away but alarmingly bright because it was wrong, very wrong. No way would Vanessa have turned on that light. Who else was down there? A second later she had her answer as a very familiar voice floated up the hallway.

"Good evening, Miss Crawford," Sheriff Valenti said. "Or perhaps I should say 'good morning'?"





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


I'll post Chapter 51 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE



August 21, 1959, 7:30 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Good morning, Hanson!" Valenti said cheerfully as he breezed into the station. "Any more strange lights?"

"Good morning, sir," Hanson replied. "No, we haven't heard of any."

"Good," Valenti said. "Maybe Andi was right, and I should just call the electric company. Anything to report?"

Hanson shook his head. "All's quiet for the moment." He paused. "You're looking better than I've seen you in a long time, sir. It's good to see you that way."

"Why, thank you," Valenti smiled, heading for the coffee pot. "I must say I'm in an unusually good mood this morning."

"Mind sharing why?" Hanson asked, as though hoping he could replicate the cause in the future.

"Just enjoy it while you can," Valenti advised, stirring sugar into his coffee. "I'll be in the back if you need me."

"I heard you brought someone in last night," Hanson called after him. "What happened?"

"Just a simple breaking and entering," Valenti answered, privately noting that that simple breaking and entering was the reason for his good mood. While following the path of the strange lights last night, his last stop had been very close to Doctor Blake's office, so he'd decided to take a look....and hit paydirt. After the frustrations of ferreting out spies, weird gadgets that wound up stolen, and a couple of weird deaths, it had been enormously satisfying to actually catch someone in the act, slap on a pair of cuffs, and haul them off to jail. Granted he'd tossed Owens in the clink upon discovery, but the actress's death soon after and Owens' subsequent escape had robbed him of the opportunity to truly savor that moment. He intended to savor this one to the hilt.

He found "independent contributor" Vanessa Crawford perched ramrod straight on the edge of her bunk, her impeccable suit unrumpled, legs and arms crossed, face set. She'd been persistent, but not annoyingly so yesterday afternoon when she'd questioned him about Audrey Tate, yet there had been an undercurrent that had piqued Valenti's interest and left him not entirely surprised when he'd snapped on the light in Doc's surgery to find her there. He'd gotten the distinct impression that she'd wanted to throttle him last night, which had made arresting her all the more delicious. She was a connoisseur of the intimidating glare, this one, her mug shot having caught a very impressive version, almost as impressive as the one she wore now. Still, the fact that she was behind bars tended to take some of the oomph out of it.

"Good morning again, Miss Crawford," Valenti said cordially. "Did you sleep well?"

"No," she replied flatly.

"Ah. Well, in the future, when you want to get a good night's sleep, I'd recommend a glass of warm milk instead of theft."

"I didn't steal anything," Miss Crawford objected.

"So if I hadn't been there, you would have just looked around and tiptoed out?"

"Just exactly what were you doing there?" Miss Crawford demanded. "Do you always lurk in doctor's offices in the middle of the night?"

"Only when I have a hunch they'll be broken into," Valenti replied, pulling up a chair. "And my hunches are pretty good. But you already know that."

"I could use one of those," Miss Crawford said, eyeing his coffee.

"Hanson will be along shortly with your breakfast. So....how long have you worked for the FBI?"

Miss Crawford blinked. "You think I work for the FBI?" A slow smile spread across her face. "If I were you, sheriff, I'd reassess the validity of those 'hunches'. I don't work for the FBI. I already told you—I'm an independent contributor to several news publications."

"Bullshit," Valenti said calmly. "I heard you come down that hall. You never hesitated, never checked any other doors, looked around, nothing. Not only did you know exactly where you were going, you also picked your way expertly past two locks, left no fingerprints, and managed to ditch your lock picks. Where do they teach that? Reporter school?"

"How very condescending of you," Miss Crawford replied coldly. "Has it not occurred to you that since the job of a reporter is to gather information, I may have gathered information on how to pick locks and not leave a trail?"

"So you did break into the doctor's office."

"It's hardly worth wasting my time disputing it," Miss Crawford said impatiently. "And why should I? The people have a right to know."

"What the people have a right to know, Miss Crawford, are the facts, facts which haven't been determined because I haven't finished my investigation. Prior to the conclusion of that investigation, any so-called 'facts' are nothing more than suppositions, and publishing those suppositions is called irresponsible reporting. In case you were wondering."

"Sheriff, you could have a vicious killer on the loose, and you don't even seem to care," Miss Crawford retorted. "Failing to protect the public is called 'irresponsible law enforcement'. In case you were wondering."

"No argument there," Valenti replied. "Which is why I 'protected the public' from a thief last night by locking you up. Apprehending those who break the law is an example of responsible law enforcement, wouldn't you say?"

Miss Crawford promptly turned a very satisfying shade of purple, fastening those flint eyes on the far wall. "As for your concern that there could be a 'vicious killer' on the loose, the operative word in that sentence is 'could'," Valenti continued. "Absent a thorough investigation, we don't know if we have a murder or a freak accident. I have no intention of alarming the people of this town based on unfounded or emotional accusations, and I'll be mighty ticked off with anyone who does. And ticking me off is a very bad idea. In case you were wondering."

Miss Crawford's eyes swung his way; a moment later, she rose from her bunk and came to the bars, gazing at him steadily. "So you think you're good at threatening people, do you, sheriff? I'm sorry to tell you that's not the case. I've been threatened by the best, and you don't even come close."

"I'm crushed," Valenti deadpanned. "Do you have a lawyer you wish to contact, or shall I arrange for your representation?"

"Neither," Miss Crawford replied. "I'm pleading guilty. Tell me what the fine is, and let me out of here."

Damn, Valenti thought. He'd been looking forward to dragging more out of this woman during a back and forth in front of a judge. "I gather you don't want your employer to know you were caught? Although I seriously doubt you can keep this from Lewis."

"I have no idea who 'Louis' is, and I don't have an employer; that's why I'm called an 'independent' contributor. Shall I get you a dictionary?"

"Please do, but I think you should keep it," Valenti replied pleasantly. "Look up the word 'criminal'; you appear to have forgotten what it means, assuming you ever knew in the first place. I've enjoyed our chat, Miss Crawford. I'll see you again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But I just said I'm pleading guilty! That means I don't need a lawyer, and—"

"And the law allows me to hold you for twenty-four hours without formally charging you," Valenti broke in. "And since I don't think you've been entirely forthcoming with me, I'm going to give you the rest of those twenty-four hours to contemplate how very ticked off I will be when I find out you've been lying to me."

"Twenty-four hours?" Miss Crawford sputtered in disbelief. "You must be joking! I have no intention of sitting in this hell hole until the middle of the night!"

"Tomorrow morning, actually," Valenti corrected. "I get in around 7 a.m., so I'll be back to see if you've suddenly thought of anything else you'd like to tell me. And then there's the fact that tomorrow's Saturday, and there's no guarantee the judge will be available."

"You can't do that!" Miss Crawford exclaimed. "That's more than twenty-four hours!"

"Why, so it is," Valenti said with mock surprise. "Good for you! You can count!" He paused while she smoldered, enjoying every minute of it. "Keep in mind the twenty-four hour mark is when I have to charge you," he reminded her. "After that the court schedules a hearing, where you'll make your plea. And who knows how long that will take?"

"What about bail?" she asked, a tinge of desperation in her voice.

"If I were you, I'd save your money for your fine," Valenti advised. "Now, if you like, you could always file a complaint with the judge. Mind you, he wouldn't entertain a petition for a hearing in the wee small, and filing a complaint would mean being grilled about things like who you work for and what you were planning to do in Doctor Blake's office. I'm guessing that's not going to work for you since you seem to be keen on avoiding that. But what do I know. That's just a hunch. Oh," he added in mock surprise. "That's right. I seem to remember my hunches being pretty good."

If looks could kill, Miss Vanessa Crawford was now wearing one that could bring the Soviet Union to its knees. Interestingly, she didn't argue with him, just stood there wearing a glare that threatened to ignite the station. Yes, the lovely Miss Crawford was definitely worried that someone would find out she'd been nabbed. The question was.....who? Given how quickly she was likely to get her hearing, he probably had less than seventy-two hours to find out.

"Well, I'm off," Valenti said cheerfully. "Busy, busy. If there's anything you'd like to share, just let one of my deputies know."

"You can't leave me here!" she protested, both hands on the bars now, projecting a very satisfying picture indeed. "Look at this place! Do you actually expect me to relieve myself in full view of world?"

Valenti glanced at the clearly visible toilet and sink, then turned around and scanned the room. "I don't see anyone else here, never mind the world."

"You know what I mean!" she snapped. "What if I'm.....indisposed....when someone walks back here? I demand appropriate accommodations!"

Valenti came closer to the bars. "I see your point," he said gently, "and I understand completely. I have two suggestions. First, if you don't like your 'accommodations', don't ever let me catch you breaking the law in my town again. And second..." he paused, leaning in closer "......if you don't wish to use the available facilities, by all means.....hold it."

He stepped back and smiled as her mouth dropped open. "Do have yourself a nice day, Miss Crawford."





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




2:20 p.m.

Parker's Diner




"God, you're beautiful. Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

"Every day, Herman," Courtney replied calmly, setting a grilled cheese sandwich in front of him. "Eat your sandwich."

"Would'ja marry me?"

"I'm a little young for you," Courtney said, leaning away from the stale breath which stank of alcohol. "C'mon....eat up. It'll make you feel better."

"You make me feel better," Herman murmured, petting her arm. "Pretty girl. Pretty, pretty girl....."

"Behave yourself," Courtney said firmly, redirecting his hand toward his sandwich. "No more talking until you've finished your lunch, okay?"

"Goodness, you're patient," Nancy grumbled as Herman obediently tucked into his lunch. "Dirty old man. I'm surprised Pete lets him in here."

"I asked him to," Courtney said.

"You did? Why?"

"Because he's not a 'dirty old man', he's just lonely," Courtney answered. "Homeless and lonely."

"And broke," Nancy added. "Who's paying for that lunch?"

"I am," Courtney said. "Out of my tips."

"Whatever for?"

Courtney shut the cash register with a bang. "Maybe because I know what it's like to be homeless and lonely."

Nancy studied her a moment before shaking her head. "You look so young, but you sure don't sound young."

"Looks can be deceiving," Courtney said lightly. "Don't worry about me, Nancy. I can take care of myself."

And I'm in a good mood, Courtney added as Nancy shrugged and walked away. A very good mood, good enough to feed a hundred Herman's. After all the garbage the universe had seen fit to throw her way, it had finally tossed her a bone. Watching Vanessa hauled away in handcuffs ranked up there with the top five moments of her life, maybe even the top three. The worst thing any operative could do was to blow their cover, and being arrested was one of the fastest ways to do that. That Vanessa had broken this cardinal rule within mere hours of her arrival was very bad news for her, a point Courtney had pondered with relish from the corner of a nearby building to which she and her father had retreated as soon as they'd heard Valenti's voice, while Nathaniel had taken up a closer position in the hopes of overhearing something.

"You knew he was there?" Courtney had demanded. "How?" she'd added when her father nodded.

"When I arrived in town, I took note of the vehicle your sheriff drives," Michael had answered. "I saw that vehicle out the back window of the doctor's office, and just hoped we hadn't all been caught."

The bubble of elation Courtney had been enjoying from having successfully warned Brivari had deflated somewhat upon hearing this. Her last minute idea didn't seem so wonderful now; Brivari would have escaped even if fingered, but none of them would have escaped Valenti's notice in that office last night had her father not been so observant. To think that one little detail, a detail she still didn't know after two months in Roswell, had saved all their tails.

Make that "almost" all their tails. The door to the doctor's office had opened and she had watched, fascinated, as Valenti escorted a handcuffed and scowling Vanessa to his car, depositing her in the back seat before driving away. A minute later, Nathaniel had appeared.

"I didn't hear much," he reported. "Obviously he's arrested her."

"That he has," Michael said with satisfaction.

"Nicholas isn't going to like this," Nathaniel added.

"No," Michael agreed, a broad smile in his voice. "He certainly isn't. But she insisted on going back alone, and who am I to argue with Vanessa?"

"This is refreshing," Courtney said dryly. "I usually see you genuflecting to all of them, and here you let her go back there, knowing she might get caught."

"I 'genuflect' because I have to in order to maintain our cover," Michael said calmly. "Times like these make it worth it. Do you have any idea how long she'll be held?"

"No, but I can ask Dee. She'll know." Courtney paused. "Papa, what made you look at Valenti's car? I've been here a couple of months, and I don't know what kind of car he drives."

"You obviously considered him a formidable adversary, and I like to keep notes on my enemies," Michael answered.

"I didn't think you put much stock in my opinion, Papa. I thought I was 'reckless and irresponsible'."

It was easier to say it in the quiet dark, when her father was little more than a silhouette and his expression unreadable. "I question some of your decisions, but I never said I didn't trust your instincts," her father replied levelly. "And I must confess there are times when recklessness is indistinguishable from inspiration. Like when you pretended your generator was faulty in order to warn Brivari. They're so new that defects are to be expected, and you prevented a positive sighting which would have made life much more difficult for all of us. That was quite simply brilliant. We have work to do," he added briskly, abruptly changing the subject. "If possible, Vanessa will have hidden her generator somewhere. We should retrieve it before someone finds it and starts pushing buttons."

Courtney had followed along behind them, in shock that her father had not only praised her, but called her brilliant. Granted she hadn't proceeded in what her father would have considered the "right" way; he would have wanted all the details worked out beforehand, while she hadn't given so much as a second's thought as to how she would explain the generator's odd behavior. But no matter. He said I was brilliant! she'd thought happily, finding it almost overwhelming to have two fantastic things happen within minutes of each other. Why couldn't fate spread out the good stuff, maybe mix it up with the bad to make life a little easier?

But fate, it turned out, was in a very good mood that night because the fun wasn't over. After retrieving Vanessa's generator, which she'd stashed behind an instrument case in the doctor's office, they had returned to Courtney's apartment and contacted Nicholas. The look on Nicholas' face when he learned his lover was in jail had been absolutely priceless.

"She got arrested?" he'd repeated in disbelief. "No one's ever been arrested! Michael, how could you let this happen?"

Oh sure, blame Papa, Courtney had thought sourly. But her father's long history with Nicholas had obviously prepared him for that. "Sir, I do apologize," Michael said sounding absolutely contrite, "but she insisted on going in herself, even over my objections. She was quite specific, even insulting about it. Since her arrival, it is clear that she considers herself my superior, and yet at times I find her judgment......" here Michael had paused, as though searching for just the right word ".....questionable," he'd finished. "I would appreciate clarification on this issue for the future."

Nicholas' image had been abruptly pushed aside, replaced by Ida's round, glowering visage. "I'll give you clarification," she growled. "You are in charge, Michael. Don't let that little tart overrule the experience of a long-time lieutenant like yourself. I told you she'd mess it up," she added severely to her son. "I told you not to send her!"

"I didn't have anyone else!" Nicholas protested. "Everyone available is assigned, and pulling them off—"

"Would have been a damned sight better that having one of us wind up in a human jail," Ida had interrupted sharply. "Did she have anything on her that would give her away, Michael?"

"No, ma'am," Michael had answered. "She managed to hide her trithium generator before she was taken away, and we have retrieved it. Unless the humans do a medical exam, she should be safe."

"Will they do that?" Nicholas had asked anxiously.

Michael had looked to Courtney, who shook her head. "I doubt it," she said. "Not for breaking and entering. I think she'll just sit in jail until she's brought before a judge."

"Serves her right," Ida had said flatly. "Michael, you don't go near her, you hear? The last thing we need is to have the sheriff connecting you with someone he's arrested. Some of our operatives have studied human law; if the ninny can't get herself out of this mess, they'll handle it."

"Yes, ma'am," Michael answered.

"And you tell her I want to talk to her just as soon as she's out," Ida ordered. "I won't have her walking over top of a third lieutenant, and he shouldn't either," she'd added, with a glare at her son which produced an argument that was still in progress when Michael deactivated the hologram.

"That is the first time I actually enjoyed a communication," Nathaniel had commented. "Perhaps the humans are right—there really is a first time for everything."

"This'll be interesting," Courtney said. "None of us has ever been arrested before."

"It will be a valuable learning experience," her father had agreed. "As more of our people branch out into human society, this was bound to happen sooner or later."

"And to have Vanessa be the first is just marvelous," Courtney said with deep satisfaction.

"Every now and then, even a setback can be turned to our advantage," her father agreed. "We should remember that for the future, especially given what else we learned this night. You all saw the body. What do you think?"

Courtney had glanced at Nathaniel, who'd looked away. They had briefly examined the body, an unrecognizable mass of burned flesh that bore no resemblance to the blonde-haired, red-lipped Audrey Tate and a blunt testimony to the Warders' "enhancements". "I think the stories we've heard are true, that they're more powerful than ever," Nathaniel had answered.

"It is said they enhanced the hybrids the same way," Michael replied. "If the Royal Four live again, they will be at least as powerful as their Warders, likely more so. We should keep that in mind as we encounter further evidence of the Warders' abilities because the hybrids may also have those abilities."

Courtney had pondered that the rest of the long night as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, too worked up to sleep. Morning brought little relief even when she told Dee about what had happened and Dee promised to pay a visit to the sheriff's station. It had been hard slogging through her shift, wondering what was going on, but the thought of the haughty Vanessa in a bare jail cell had been enough to perk her up and now, finally, the time had come. "I'm off!" she said brightly to Nancy, who was pinning up a slew of orders, the movie crew having trickled back in as hunger trumped shock. "I've already paid for Herman's lunch. He gets a slice of chocolate cake too, but only after he finishes his sandwich."

"Aren't you just the little mama," Nancy chuckled. "I wonder if Herman knows how lucky he is?"

Not half as lucky as me, Courtney thought, practically flying home, ignoring the stitch in her side as she ran up the stairs and knocked on Dee's door. It opened immediately, and Courtney spilled inside, trying to avoid looking at the suitcases and boxes splayed around, further evidence that Dee was leaving. She didn't want anything to spoil her good mood.

"Well?" she asked breathlessly, pausing briefly to hug Philip when he came running to see her. "Where is she? Is he going to keep her? God, tell me he's going to keep her and throw away the key. If he just lets her off, I swear I'll—"

"Slow down," Dee chuckled. "Did you really think Valenti, of all people, would just 'let her off'?"

"So, what then?" Courtney demanded. "Is she going on trial? Will she go to jail for a long time?"

Dee hesitated. "It looks like she'll be out soon."

"Really?" Courtney said, disappointed. "Oh. Is this that 'bail' thing, where you pay money and they let you out until your trial?"

"Not exactly," Dee said, plucking Philip out of a box of dishes and steering him toward his favorite pots and pans. "According to Hanson, your Vanessa—"

"She's not 'my Vanessa'."

"Okay, 'Vanessa' is pleading guilty to breaking and entering. That's a misdemeanor, which means it's considered minor, and this is her first offense, so she can get away with just a fine."

Courtney blinked. "That's it? She pays money, and that's the end of it? No trial? No jail?"

"I'm afraid not," Dee said. "Since she wasn't caught stealing anything, and she's willing to plead guilty, the only way Valenti can force this further is if he thinks he can prove she broke into Doctor Burke's office with the intent to commit a felony, which does carry a minimum jail sentence. But I don't think he can do that; Vanessa presented herself as a reporter, so she'll say she was just going to look at the body. There was no one else with her, so he can't very well argue she was going to steal it. I think the judge will buy her story, impose a fine, and that will be that."

"Damn!" Courtney muttered under her breath. "I was so hoping she'd go to jail."

"But the good news," Dee continued, "is that Hanson let on Valenti wasn't buying her story."

"Why not?" Courtney asked eagerly. "What did she do?"

"He wouldn't say," Dee said thoughtfully, "but my guess is that Valenti thinks she's another FBI agent."

"Doesn't she wish," Courtney said dryly. "Nicholas would love to infiltrate the FBI. Give him enough time, and he will."

"That's a sobering thought," Dee said darkly. "At any rate, Valenti can hold her for twenty-four hours without formally charging her, and it looks like that's what he's doing. Then after he charges her, they have to wait for the hearing. This is Friday, so her twenty-four hours is up on a Saturday; if we're lucky, she'll have to wait until Monday morning for a hearing. As long as she can pay the fine, she'll walk as soon as it's over. Does she have money?"

"We all have money," Courtney sighed, sinking into a chair. "The importance of currency was drummed into us over and over during our training. And if she doesn't have enough, Nicholas will get her some, you can be sure of that."

"Then she'll be back in your hair in a couple of days, tops." Dee paused. "The deputies were all talking about how good looking she is. Did she get an 'extra pretty' husk?"

Courtney snorted softly. "Probably. She's Nicholas' lover, or his primary lover, anyway; I hear he has several. She also likes to decorate her husk; she's always driving into the city for the latest clothes and make-up, or what-not."

" "Decorate'? You make it sound like it's a Christmas tree," Dee joked. "Or something separate, at least."

"Because it is," Courtney answered. "This isn't what I really look like. It's like a uniform, or a costume. It's not really me."

Dee raised an eyebrow. "All these years, and you still see it as something to 'decorate'?"

Courtney smiled faintly. "When you see rows and rows of empty husks....when you watch friends of yours disappear inside them....when you see what happens to someone like Crist when his husk was compromised.....it kind of drives the point home: This isn't me. It's just a shell. It's keeping me alive while I'm here, but it isn't me."

Dee gave a little shrug. "I guess I can see that. Well....I'm sorry I don't have better news for you. At least you managed to throw her off the track last night. What's she going to do when she gets out?"

Courtney's hands knotted together. "That's what worries me."




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




Dr. Raymond Blake's office




"Where is everyone?" Valenti asked as he walked into Ray's empty office.

"He had me cancel all of today's appointments," Maureen answered, glancing worriedly down the hallway. "He's been back there all day. I think he's scared, sheriff—we've had two break-in's in just a few days."

"I know," Valenti said soothingly. "But you didn't find anything missing this last time, right?"

"No," Maureen allowed. "But I've gotta tell you, it's weird knowing that twice now, people have just waltzed past our locks. Makes me feel unsafe in my own house."

All your thieves may not have been 'people', Valenti thought privately, giving Maureen's hand a reassuring pat before heading down the hallway toward the surgery. The nosy reporter—or FBI agent—was one thing, but the theft of Mark Green's remains still bothered him, as did the similarity of Dean's report with the reports from the forties. Much as he hated the way the FBI had behaved, he was reluctantly leaning toward agreeing that aliens were in the area. But it was all still hunches and undercurrents, not to mention a death that appeared to be nothing more than freak accident, none of which was enough to make an arrest. Lacking hard evidence, there was little he could do but keep looking. Which is why he was eager to hear what Ray had to say now that he was ready to pass judgment on the death of Audrey Tate.

"Okay, let's have it," Valenti said, walking into the surgery where Ray was bent over a microscope.

"For what it's worth," Ray sighed, straightening up.

"You said you were finished, right? Maureen told me you cancelled all your appointments today—"

"Of course I did," Ray interrupted irritably. "I've been burgled twice now, Jim. I want this done and out of my office."

"So was she murdered or not?"

"In the conventional sense? No. She definitely burned to death, but I didn't find any accelerants."

"So it was lightning."

"No."

"Well, what then?" Valenti asked in exasperation.

Ray hesitated, as though at a loss for what to say. "Let me put it this way," he said finally. "This woman burned to death as the result of a fire that could not possibly exist."

Valenti felt a cold hand squeeze his chest as one of those undercurrents came crashing to the surface. "And yet it did exist," he said warily. "I assume you're going to explain this?"

"That's just it," Ray said. "I can't." He rose from his chair and went to the body; Valenti braced himself as he pulled back the sheet. "Every fire has an ignition point, the place where the blaze begins and from which it spreads. Every fire has to start somewhere."

"And?"

"And this one didn't," Ray explained. "There is no ignition point. "Whether someone set her on fire or she was struck by lightning, there had to have been an ignition point....but there wasn't. Audrey Tate's entire body caught fire at exactly the same time and burned at exactly the same rate."

"So how could that happen?" Valenti asked.

"That's just it—it can't happen," Ray answered. "At least not in any way I know of. If lightning hit her, it would have hit a certain point on her body, not her entire body at once. If you douse someone with gasoline, the match which ignites it strikes a certain point first. If you pushed someone into a fire, part of their body would reach the fire first, clothing would shield some parts and have to burn away before the skin beneath would ignite—"

"I get the picture," Valenti said, the coffee in his stomach churning. "So what does that mean?"

Ray pulled the sheet up and leaned wearily against the counter. "It means I can't explain how this happened. And it means there's one more thing to add to the list. Last month we had a body with non-human cells. This month we've got a woman dead from a fire no one could make and the FBI announcing she was killed by an alien. At this point, Jim, having seen what I've seen, including some things the FBI hasn't seen.....I'd have to say I agree."

Valenti walked to the window, staring outside. "You said you didn't find any of those weird cells on Tate?"

"No. But that only means she's not an alien. It doesn't mean an alien didn't kill her." Ray paused, coming up behind him. "Jim, I know you kept what we knew close to the vest because you wanted more information, because you were afraid of losing control. But now we have more information, and looking at this, I'd say you've already lost control.....just not to whom you thought. A woman is dead. How much more evidence do you need? How many people have to die before you'll be willing to do something about it?"




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



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




Morton Steinfeld winced as his director threw his script on the ground and launched into another string of profanity as yet another scene fell apart. Five days, he thought desperately. They only had five more days to finish shooting. His first thought upon hearing of Audrey's death had been to thank God it hadn't happened earlier, when replacing her would have been much more difficult; now it appeared it didn't matter. At this rate, they wouldn't finish anyway.

"Damn it, can't she manage to stay on the set for ten minutes?" Larry exploded as Audrey's replacement fled in tears for the umpteenth time. Women, Steinfeld muttered to himself. Whether crying or dying, women seemed to cause more trouble then men ever did. Not that people like Dean were sterling examples of American manhood, but at least their troublemaking fell into comfortably familiar categories like drinking and fighting. Those he could deal with. Crying and drying left him at his wits' end, which is where he'd been living these past two days and which is why he was oh-so-very unhappy to spot Sheriff Valenti arriving on the other side of the set. What now? Steinfeld thought irritably. He had enough trouble without the sheriff working everyone up again looking for a murderer. Dean had been drunk; everyone knew that. Whatever he'd said about Audrey being murdered should have been instantly discounted.

"Sheriff," Steinfeld said, giving him a perfunctory nod, "I'm a bit busy now, so I hope you can make this quick."

"As a matter of fact, I can," Valenti replied. "I need two people; I'll start with your clapper loader. Where is he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Steinfeld sighed.

"What does that mean?" Valenti asked sharply.

"It means he's gone, sheriff. He didn't show up for work today, and no one's been able to find him."





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


I'll post Chapter 52 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO



August 21, 1959, 4 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"Do you mean to tell me that you have no personal information on your roomers?" Valenti asked. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, I have their names and occupations," Mrs. Bruce answered. "And their phone numbers, if they have a phone. And it's not like I don't know where they live."

"Do you get references? Ask for proof of employment? Anything?" Valenti paused, pulling back when he saw the look on the landlady's face. "Mrs. Bruce, please understand, I'm not trying to pass judgment on your business practices. Obviously they work well for you. But I need to find this Mr. Langley, and I'm running into a brick wall wherever I go. Nobody seems to know anything about him, and I find that mighty peculiar."

Mrs. Bruce's expression stiffened. "Sheriff, I have rented rooms since my husband's death ten years ago. It was the only way I could survive. I had no skills, no way to earn a living, and even if I had, who would have hired a woman in her fifties? But my point is that I've seen many people come and go, and I pride myself on being a good judge of character. Mr. Langley was an excellent tenant: Quiet, punctual with his rent, and so courtly I would have thought him British, but he didn't have an accent. I don't need references for a tenant like that. And I hardly needed proof of employment when all those people from the movie set came to his room all the time. Especially the actress, that Miss Tate, she—"

"Miss Tate visited Mr. Langley's apartment?" Valenti interrupted.

"Why, yes. All the time. Many times she spent the night and left in the very early hours of the morning. I'm up before the birds—you're young, dear, just wait till you're older and can't sleep the way you used to—so I would see her leaving. I don't think she wanted anyone to know she was here, so I never let on I knew, of course. My impression...." Mrs. Bruce hesitated, her cheeks pinking "....my impression was that they were.....having an affair," she finished, that last part coming in a stage whisper. "But that's none of my business, and I don't interfere with the private affairs of good tenants. Whatever my personal feelings may be," she added primly, her tone making it clear how she felt about unmarried women who frequented men's apartments in the dead of night.

"Did you ever hear them fighting?" Valenti asked.

"No, never. I heard very little from Mr. Langley's apartment, even when all those movie people were over."

"What about Mr. Dean, her co-star? Did you ever see him here?"

"Unfortunately, no," Mrs. Bruce sighed. "Not that I would have minded." She blinked as Valenti's eyebrows rose. "Not that I.....I mean, he's very good looking, so....." She stopped, blushing furiously. "No, I never saw him here."

"I'd like to see Mr. Langley's room," Valenti said, politely ignoring her discomfiture. "If you wouldn't mind."

"I know you said you can't find him, but that doesn't mean I can just let you into his room," Mrs. Bruce objected. "I know I let you into Mr. Green's room, but he was....deceased. Don't you need a warrant if someone's still alive?"

"Really, Mrs. Bruce," Valenti said soothingly. "We've known each other for years, so you know I'd never do anything that wasn't in the best interests of the people of this town. If I could find Mr. Langley, I wouldn't be asking, but since I can't, I'm kind of between a rock and a hard place. Help me out? You're welcome to stay with me the entire time."

Mrs. Bruce, as it turned out, was nowhere near as suspicious as Courtney Harris had been. Which was just as well because no way in hell would he have gotten a warrant out of a judge with the story he had to tell. "Well......all right," Mrs. Bruce relented. "Let me get my keys."

Valenti wandered around the flowery living room while he waited, trying to maintain at least a semblance of patience. Now that he had a genuinely unexplainable death to go with the FBI's assertion of alien involvement, he'd headed straight from Ray's office to the movie set intending to begin anew with the accuser and the accused, Mr. Dean and Mr. Langley. His interest in the former, who looked much the worse for wear as though he'd had too much to drink last night and perhaps this morning too, had evaporated upon learning that the latter was missing. Inquiries about Langley had gotten him almost nowhere because it seemed that no one knew much of anything about him, including his employer. Langley had simply appeared one day, had a verbal tussle with the director after he reportedly struck Miss Tate, and been hired on the spot by a frustrated producer who was having problems reigning in his employees.

"So you have nothing on him?" Valenti had asked in disbelief, much like he had just asked Mrs. Bruce.

"We hired a huge number of people from Roswell," Steinfeld had answered, "and we have very little information on any of them. These aren't union employees with contracts. All we have are names, addresses, and phone numbers "

"But you don't even have that on Langley," Valenti had said. "Only his last name. Did he even have a first name?"

"Many people in this industry use screen names instead of their real names, much the same way writers use pen names," Steinfeld had replied. "And many are virtual nomads, following the work from place to place. Sheriff, you must understand I had just lost my clapper loader, and I had a director whose temper was threatening production. Langley solved both problems for me. He had a....a presence that seemed to give my director pause. I'm not sure why, and I really don't care—it worked."

"But you couldn't have made out his paychecks to just 'Langley'," Valenti said in exasperation.

"Mr. Langley and I had an......arrangement," Steinfeld had replied, beginning to sweat.

"Cash, in other words. Under the table."

"Cash payments are very common in our industry," Steinfeld said defensively, "and it's ultimately the duty of every citizen to calculate and pay their taxes, not—"

"Look, I don't care if you paid this guy in wampum," Valenti had interrupted sharply. "I just want to know where he is. He must have lived around here somewhere."

"He had an apartment in town; I'm not sure where. The crew would know."

But the crew had been reluctant to divulge this information, staring at Valenti suspiciously as though they feared for a good friend. Which was apparently how they thought of Langley even though he hadn't shown up for work and had been implicated in the death of one of their own, a notion they seemed to find preposterous. Only a few crew members were willing to talk to him, albeit grudgingly. All mentioned Langley's hold over the director, some kind of get-togethers they had enjoyed at his apartment, Audrey Tate's interest in him, and Charles Dean's resentment of that interest. None seemed to know anything about him other than his last name; no first name, no background, no idea of where he'd come from, where he'd gone, or why he'd left. Whoever—or whatever—Langley was, he appeared to have vanished without ever having really existed in the first place.

"Here we are," Mrs. Bruce said, bustling back into the room. "Follow me."

Valenti obediently followed her to Mr. Langley's apartment just left of the front door and waited while she knocked, knowing there would be no answer. "Please be discreet, sheriff," Mrs. Bruce said as she unlocked the door. "I'm still not sure I should be doing this."

Mrs. Bruce kept a sharp eye on him as Valenti wandered the room, puzzling at the lack of personal effects one would expect to find even for a short-term resident. And that wasn't the only puzzling thing; the bed was nicely made, so nicely it appeared unslept in. The kitchen held only a few food items usually reserved for parties like chip dip and crackers, and none of the necessities like bread and milk. The bathroom was stocked with toilet paper, soap, and a toothbrush, but no toothpaste or razor, and nothing in the wastebasket or any of the wastebaskets, which appeared virtually unused. A nice vase of flowers sat on the kitchen table, but he found no cookware of any kind and only a small supply of plates and glasses. The sink was immaculate. There were hangers but no clothing in the closet, a couple of shirts in the dresser drawers, a nice watch on the table beside the unused bed.

"Odd," Valenti murmured.

"I told you how polite he was," Mrs. Bruce said. "Obviously he was very neat. Nothing wrong with that."

That's not it, Valenti thought uneasily. He had the strangest feeling, like this place wasn't merely neat, but.......staged. This apartment bore all the marks of a movie set, complete in some ways but not others, meant to look lived in when it hadn't been, not if you looked too closely.

"When did you say he moved in?" Valenti asked, giving the medicine cabinet a tug.

"A month ago," Mrs. Bruce answered. "Why are you pulling on that, sheriff? These rooms come furnished, so if you break that, I'll have to have Carl repair it."

"Right," Valenti said. "Sorry. I just....found something behind a medicine cabinet once, so I developed the habit of looking." He closed the cabinet, which wasn't the least bit loose. "I gather Carl Smith is your handyman?"

"Has been for years now, ever since he first came to town," Mrs. Bruce replied. "He helped Mr. Langley set the place up."

Valenti shut the drawer he'd just opened with a bang. "He did?"

"Why, yes. Carl helped him move in and get settled, and I believe Miss Tate added a few things. Like the flowers there."

"Were Mr. Langley and Carl friends?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Bruce answered. "I only saw Carl here right around the time Mr. Langley moved in, so he was probably hired to help him do that."

Valenti looked around the carefully appointed apartment that nevertheless didn't look lived in. Maybe, he thought privately. Maybe not.




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




*Where is he?* Jaddo asked, joining Brivari on the roof of Mrs. Bruce's building.

*In the apartment,* Brivari answered.

*Did you empty it?*

*I didn't dare go back there last night.*

Jaddo sighed. *I'm sorry it came to this, Brivari.*

*No you're not.*

*You misunderstand. I'm not sorry you're no longer masquerading as a human; I'm only sorry that it pains you to lose that.*

*The humans have something called a 'left-handed compliment',* Brivari said darkly. *That must qualify as a 'left-handed apology'.*

*I fail to see why one appendage would take precedence over the other, but you did what you had to do,* Jaddo said. *I was already of the opinion that it was much too dangerous for you to continue as 'Langley', and after last night, even you saw the light.*

*Yes,* Brivari answered. *Far too much of it, in fact. The 'Argilian resistance' is nothing but a fraud.*

*You think it was a trap?*

*Of course it was a trap. Why else would they claim that Athenor, or Nicholas, or whatever he's calling himself Earthside is unaware of our presence, then ambush us the very next day?*

Jaddo was quiet for a moment, the two of them staring down at the enforcer's empty car. *Perhaps because they didn't know the ambush was coming at the time they wrote the letter,* he said at length. *That's the only thing that makes sense because these are clearly not amateurs. When Rath was contacted, the resistance was headed by none other than Athenor's third lieutenant. I recall Rath being impressed that they'd managed to get so close to Athenor without him knowing. The deception required to do so bespeaks a great deal of skill.*

*Yes, we all know how impressed you are with those who offered Rath the throne,* Brivari said impatiently. *Spare me the replay.*

*My point,* Jaddo said carefully, *is that if they were unable to warn you prior to the search, the next best thing would be to warn you during the search itself, which it appears they did with the intermittent flashing.*

*You think that was an attempt to warn me?*

*You got the message, didn't you? You managed to hide before the wash stabilized.*

*Only by a matter of seconds,* Brivari reminded him, *so it would appear your 'resistance' is tardy.*

*In an emergency, seconds can mean the difference between success and failure,* Jaddo argued. *Would you rather have not been warned?*

I would rather not have felt so incredibly exposed, Brivari thought. Not since the hunters had he needed to hide like this; it was a familiar and most uncomfortable sensation knowing that discovery could come from any direction at any moment with little or no time to react. And if the initial assault had been bad, the hour spent filming afterwards had been worse, waiting for the lights to reappear, conscious of the fact that he may have to disappear abruptly at any moment. They had not returned, but he had left the set that night knowing that neither could he, not to the set or his apartment. He could no longer take the risk of being in predictable places in any form.

*For what it's worth, there were reports of similar 'lights' in several different places around town last night,* Jaddo said. *They appear to have begun with the movie set and then moved on. I would wager you were not discovered.*

*We have no way of knowing that,* Brivari said. *They could have been waiting for me back here and been disappointed when I did not appear. This would have been the perfect place to waylay me.*

*Perhaps,* Jaddo allowed. *Although with humans in such close proximity, they would have risked waking them. And then there's the matter of how they would have apprehended you.*

*Yet another small detail left unaddressed by the oh-so-helpful 'resistance',* Brivari said sourly. *We have no idea how they intend to capture us, or even what they're using to produce that wash.*

*I believe I may,* Jaddo replied, settling back against the roof railing. *The letter referenced a single device which could both block our abilities and identify us. I'd wager that's the same device Amar used against me, albeit with an upgrade, when I attempted to rescue you when you were captured right after the crash.*

*Against my express orders,* Brivari muttered.

*Bygones,* Jaddo said calmly. *I've seen that device. It's pentagonal and small, pocket-sized, really.*

*Fascinating,* Brivari deadpanned. *And this is helpful....how?*

*The reports last night referenced patches of odd light as well as the intermittent flickering you observed,* Jaddo answered, ignoring Brivari's temper. *If they're using Amar's device to produce this wash, that would explain the uneven coverage; it's too small to cover a wide area.*

*They certainly covered a wide area on the set.*

*Which suggests there are several of these devices being used in concert,* Jaddo continued. *Those wielding them would need to stay within a certain perimeter in order to avoid gaps in the wash. We could use this information to locate the devices if and when they are used again.*

*You're forgetting that in order to locate them, we'll need to be close enough to be identified,* Brivari said testily. *At which point the 'ability blocking' feature would no doubt be brought into play.*

*And that had problems,* Jaddo said. *The prototype knocked out the compound's power source, plunging it into darkness and sending the humans into a tailspin.*

*And you don't think they've improved it?*

*They can only improve it to a certain extent,* Jaddo noted. *Make it weak enough that no one would notice, and it would no longer be effective. It may still attract the attention of the humans, which would buy us precious time to escape. That and the help of our Argilian allies.*

*For heaven's sake, Jaddo, we don't have Argilian allies!* Brivari snapped. *Your so-called 'warning' was likely nothing more than a technical malfunction. The sooner you let go of this notion that the 'resistance' will be of any help to us, the safer we'll be.*

Jaddo eyed him closely for a moment. *Perhaps you don't place much stock in my opinion, but I seem to recall you held my Ward in high esteem. Rath believed the resistance to be sincere; he simply rejected their offer.*

*Rath is not here to consult, and the resistance he encountered may not bear any resemblance to this 'resistance',* Brivari retorted. *So you'll forgive me if I'm not ready to toast a new alliance just yet.*

*Still, we'd be foolish to discount them without....where are you going?* Jaddo demanded as Brivari began walking away.

*I'm following Valenti.*

*Valenti hasn't left yet.*

*He will very soon,* Brivari answered. *I know where he's going next....and so do you. The least I can do is try to soften the blow.*

*Don't coddle him!* Jaddo called after him severely. *He made his choice years ago, and he knew perfectly well this could happen, probably would happen. Brivari....wait. Brivari!*





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




"I gave Eileen a call," Anthony said, setting another empty box on top of the already towering stack, "so she knows exactly when to expect us next week. She wanted to know if she could sublet from us again next summer, and I told her I wasn't sure."

"Mmm," Dee murmured, gazing out the window.

"I think I've got enough boxes," Anthony continued. "Your parents offered to help us pack, and.....no, Philip, don't play with Daddy's briefcase. C'mon, don't...."

Anthony sighed as the briefcase spilled open and papers cascaded over the floor. "Oops!" Philip said cheerfully, his new favorite word whenever he'd done something he shouldn't have because grown-ups forgot they were mad and smiled when he said it.

"You're not getting off that easy, buddy," Anthony said dryly. "Help me pick them up. That's a good boy," he added when Philip began handing him toddler-sized fistfuls of papers. "No, don't scrunch them....Dee, could I have a little help here?"

No answer. Anthony collected the rest of the papers in silence, locked his briefcase, and found his son something else to play with before joining his wife at the window.

"He still there?" he asked, looking down at the sheriff's cruiser parked in front of the house.

"Of course he is," Dee said tonelessly. "And he knows. I know he knows. He can't prove it, he'll probably never be able to prove it, but he knows."

"He probably does," Anthony agreed. "But I don't see any way out of this. After what happened last night, Brivari couldn't stick around, and leaving meant tripping Valenti's radar."

"Which will also trip the FBI's."

"Maybe," Anthony allowed, wrapping his arms around her. "But it's easier to avoid us than their own people. They've just got too many people chasing them, Dee. They had to go to ground."

"I know," she sighed, leaning her head against his arm. "I just can't believe that with everything that's going on, we have to walk away like nothing's going on."

"We're starting graduate school in less than two weeks," Anthony reminded her.

"I know, I know. I just wish this could have happened earlier."

"There's something I never expected," Anthony chuckled. "You were so reluctant to come here, and now you're reluctant to leave. But then you never did like to miss the action."

"It's not just that," Dee protested. "What about Courtney? She'll be all alone with that dictatorial father of hers and that woman who just got here, that Vanessa."

"Personally I'd worry about those in reverse order, but suit yourself," Anthony said. "And I still say it's because you don't want to miss anything."

Dee gave him a withering look. "I'm glad we're leaving," she insisted. "I don't want Philip in the middle of all this."

"Like your mother didn't want you in the middle of it?" Anthony said innocently.

"I've already admitted that, and to Mama, no less," Dee grumbled. "Do you really have to rub my nose in it?"

"Okay, that was a low blow," Anthony admitted. "But you have to admit there's truth to the notion that once you become a parent, your own parents look a lot different." He was quiet for a moment, staring out the window. "Do you remember the day we met?"

"Hard to forget. Ernie Hutton was playing that awful 'capture the alien' game in my backyard."

"And you wouldn't play," Anthony added. "And you punched him in the nose when he got mouthy."

"He was always mouthy," Dee muttered.

"Then there was the day River Dog and his sister were attacked at school, and you tried to fight off a gang of teenaged boys," Anthony went on. "And the Independence Day festival where Amar found us in the school after we'd watched the fireworks on the roof. And let's not forget when Jaddo escaped, and we spent the night at St. Brigit's with you right smack in the middle of a warring bunch of aliens. Kind of like you are now."

"Is there a point to this recital?" Dee demanded.

"Of course," Anthony answered calmly. "You don't want to miss the action because that's who you are, who you've always been. You've always been in the thick of things. I don't know if it's that you look for trouble, or if trouble looks for you because it knows you'll be an obstacle." He smiled faintly as she twisted around to give him one of "those" looks. "If I had to pick one moment in our lives to describe you, I'd pick that night at St. Brigit's when you went charging up the aisle, yelling at the top of your lungs to warn Malik about the gun. Quintessential Deanna."

"As I recall, I wasn't the only one 'in the thick of things', " Dee reminded him. "You went charging right up that aisle with me."

"No, after you," Anthony corrected. "I was in the thick of it because I was following you." He turned her around, tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "The point is you didn't waste time being scared; you never do. You're fearless. I'm only brave when I have to be, when I can't avoid it. You....you were born that way."

"Or 'reckless', depending on your point of view," Dee said. "One of the reasons Courtney's father bugs me so much is that he reminds me of how Mama felt about me when I was a kid. And I think you're selling yourself short," she added gently. "It's a lot harder to be brave when it doesn't come naturally. Maybe it really is just recklessness, which explains why it's harder for you. You're not the reckless type."

"Semantics," Anthony said dismissively, rocking her back and forth. "Call it what you like, it's why I love you, and why I know you'll make a great lawyer. Hell, if I had to go up against you, I'd advise my client to plead guilty and skip the trial. So don't act like there's something wrong with not wanting to miss the action. It's a part of you, you're good at it, and we both know there's bound to be some."

"Pickle?"

Dee and Anthony looked down to find Philip trying to worm his way between them. He never liked it when they hugged without him, preferring to be picked up and held between them. "Do you want to be the pickle in the middle, big guy?" Anthony asked, scooping up his son, who nodded enthusiastically.

A door closed below them. Three pairs of eyes looked out the window as Valenti was headed down the front walk to his car, striding purposefully like he knew exactly where he was going.




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



5 p.m.

Malik's apartment




When the knock came on his door, Malik looked up from the repair he was in the middle of and glanced at the clock. He'd expected this much earlier; that he'd gotten an entire day's worth of work done before it happened was something of a miracle. He set down his screwdriver and wiped his hands on a rag before opening the door.

"Hi Carl," Sheriff Valenti smiled, removing his hat. "Mind if I come in?"

"Not at all," Malik said, stepping back. "Aren't you expected home for dinner?"

"I seem to be missing dinner a lot these days," Valenti lamented. "It's just been one thing after another."

Same here, Malik thought. "So I've heard," he said out loud. "What can I do for you?"

"I had a few more questions about the day Miss Tate died," Valenti answered. "If you don't mind."

"Of course not. What would you like to know?"

"You said you were with Mr. Langley at the time Miss Tate was killed. And where was that again?"

"Right here."

"Langley came to your apartment?"

"On his lunch break," Malik nodded. "He wanted to know if something could be repaired."

"And what was that?"

"Some of the microphones on the set were giving the movie crew problems," Malik answered. "He wanted to see if there was anything I could do."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "And was there?"

"I was going to visit the set that afternoon, but....well....everyone got sidetracked. You know why."

"Yes...yes, I do," Valenti answered as he wandered around the apartment, his eyes everywhere. Malik waited, knowing this was only the opening salvo. "So if I recall correctly, you said you used to meet Mr. Langley at Parker's?"

"I said I met him for the first time at Parker's," Malik corrected.

"Right, right," Valenti said. "Tell me, did Langley ever mention his first name?"

"No. He just referred to himself as 'Langley'?"

"Anyone else ever mention his first name?"

"Not that I heard, but I didn't hang around with the movie crew."

"Have you seen Langley today, Carl?"

Malik glanced at the pile of repairs he had to deliver and decided to move this along. "No, I haven't. Sheriff, is there something specific you wanted? Not that I'm in a hurry, it's just that I've already answered most of these questions, and I've got to wonder why you're asking them again."

Valenti leaned against the windowsill, his hat tap tapping against the radiator below it. "Langley is missing, Carl. He didn't show up for work today, and he's not at his apartment."

Nor will he be, Malik thought heavily. Last night's assault had made it very clear that none of them could afford to be out in public for any length of time. "I see. I gather he didn't quit his job?"

"No. And Mrs. Bruce says she hasn't heard anything about him moving out."

"Maybe he had to leave suddenly?" Malik suggested.

"Like for a family emergency?"

Malik shrugged, knowing full well that was the excuse used for "Deputy Crist's" abrupt departure. "If he'd had to leave suddenly, I would imagine he would have told his employer, don't you?" Valenti asked.

"I really didn't know him, so I have no idea what he'd do," Malik answered.

"Right," Valenti said. He was quiet for a moment as Malik waited for the next round. They had known that "Langley's" disappearance would look very suspicious to Valenti, but it couldn't be helped. At the moment, the humans presented less of a threat than the Argilians.

"Carl," Valenti said slowly, "is there anyone else that saw Langley here on the day Miss Tate died?"

Malik shook his head. "As I told you before, not that I know of. I'm afraid you have only my word to go on, sheriff. I know you want more than that, and I wish had more to give you, but I don't. I'm sorry."

"I know," Valenti answered, nodding regretfully. "And God knows I've known you for years, unlike the inebriated Mr. Dean. When did you move here? It was the summer of 1950, wasn't it? July, I think. Don't remember seeing you before then."

Valenti paused as that last sentence hung in the air like lead. And lead was exactly what Malik's heart felt like as one of his worst nightmares came to life right in front of him. Whether or not he realized it, Valenti had not only jumped to the obvious conclusion, he had marched right past it to the next. "I did move here in the summer of 1950," Malik confirmed. "You seem to have a good memory for things that happened years ago, but you get mixed up on conversations from only a couple of days ago. I hear that happens as we get older."

Valenti smiled faintly, circling Malik's workbench. "Is that a television set?"

"Yes."

"Really? You repair televisions?"

"If I can," Malik answered. "This is one of the new color models from Magnavox, and Mrs. Parker was concerned about the size of the repair bill. I told her I'd take a look at it."

"Find anything?"

"Not yet."

"You'll find it," Valenti said confidently. "You have a reputation for being able to repair virtually anything....and I mean anything." He paused. "You're very handy, Carl. Some might say......extraordinarily so."

"Thank you, sheriff," Malik said softly. "I enjoy my work."

"It shows," Valenti said sincerely. "Well....you'll let me know if you see Mr. Langley again?"

"Of course."

"I'd appreciate that. Have yourself a good evening, Carl."

Malik closed the door behind him and leaned his head against it as a crushing wave of sadness washed over him. So....after all these years, it had finally come to this. He'd always known it would sooner or later, and he supposed that nine years likely qualified as "later". Even if it felt like "sooner".

A minute later, he straightened up and went back to his workbench; he had no idea how much time he had, so he'd best be moving along. The television was the last of his outstanding repairs, a simple repair from his perspective and a perfect example of what he'd struggled with these last several years. Earth technology was so very simple that it had been very tempting to fix everything, including that which he shouldn't have been able to fix. Doing so could attract attention, just like fixing this television would. But it didn't matter now, and Mrs. Parker was a nice lady who had sent him a lot of business. Might as well save her some money.

He heard faint sounds behind him, ignored them. When one had so little time, one enjoyed the little one had to the fullest. His next visitor could wait until he'd finished.

*I'm sorry,* Brivari said after several minutes had passed. *I didn't want this to happen.*

*None of us did,* Malik answered.

*But it will affect you the most.*

*It won't be the first time I've lived like that.*

*There are just too many enemies closing in from too many sides for any of us to hold one identity, Malik. If there were any other way—*

*I know.*

*Then why are you still working?*

*I'm going to finish this,* Malik said firmly, *and then I'm going to deliver everything I've repaired. If you have a problem with that, too bad.*

Brivari walked to the other side of the workbench and watched him in silence for a minute. *What is that?*

*A cathode ray tube. Colloquially known as a 'picture tube'. It produces the image on a television set. It's the imaging equivalent of a flint knife, but it works.*

*So did the flint knife,* Brivari observed. *I wasn't aware humans possessed the ability to repair something like that.*

*They don't.*

Malik waited for the lecture about caution, about discretion, about the risk of revealing themselves. A useless lecture at this point, but he was still surprised when it wasn't forthcoming.

*I could help you make your deliveries if you like,* Brivari offered.

*I can do it.*

*Of course you can. But you shouldn't be left alone. Not now.*

*I'll handle it.*

Brivari watched as Malik replaced the thread-like filament by shifting his hand into a shape not much larger than the filament itself. *Then make your deliveries,* he said, *and I will ward you as you finish your tasks.*

Malik blinked. *You will?*

*I am a Warder, am I not?*

Malik dropped his eyes. *A bit of a come down after warding kings, isn't it?*

*Not today,* Brivari said gently. *Not today.*




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


I'll post Chapter 53 next Sunday.

Hello everyone! Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it, and an extra big thank you to all who have stayed with this series. I've recently had some questions as to whether or not I intend to finish it, and I assure everyone I do--I've finished the book you're reading, and am currently writing the next book, where the hybrids have already popped out of their pods. It's fun to have the pod squad on their feet, even if they are small feet. Barring being hit by a bus, I will absolutely see this through to when Langley and Max clash in Secrets and Lies/Control....and hopefully that clash will make much more sense. (And Misha, the bus reference is for you. : )






CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE



August 22, 1959, 7:00 a.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




Agent Owens looked up as Agent Cates set a cup of coffee on his desk in front of him. "Do I look that bad?" Owens asked dryly.

"Just thought you could use a pick-me-up," Cates shrugged. "Has he called?"

"No. But it's only been a couple of days, and coffee isn't going to help unless it's spiked."

Cates raised an eyebrow. "Drinking before eight in the morning? That's a bit much, even for me. Don't worry, he'll find something. He'll call."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll find something," Owens said. "But that doesn't mean he'll call. Valenti doesn't trust us, and I can't much blame him."

Cates pulled up a chair and sat down. "Then what can we do to change his mind? Because we both know you're toast if Valenti doesn't find something and hand it over."

Owens said nothing, tapping his pencil on his desk as he stared at his phone, willing it to ring. He hadn't told anyone about his private encounter with Valenti where the sheriff had accused the FBI of stealing something from him again. Owens had no idea what that something could have been—he could only hope it wasn't another communication device—but he thought he'd managed to convince Valenti he was wrong. The last two days had passed in tense silence as the entire Special Unit had abandoned their undercover assignments and convened in Santa Fe, waiting for Valenti to give them a target. And waiting. And waiting.

"Who's Lewis on the phone with?" Owens asked, glancing over Cates' shoulder at Lewis' closed office door. "Pierce's widow?"

"Perish the thought," Cates chuckled. "She's less than a month away from delivery and calling him every single day, sometimes multiple times a day; she's driving him crazy. But she called only half an hour ago, so that's a bit much even for her."

"Who, then?" Owens wondered. "He's been in there a while."

"I wouldn't worry," Cates said casually. "I'm sure if it was anything bad, we'd hear about it."

Lewis' door opened abruptly. "Owens!" he barked. "Come!"

"And I think we just heard about it," Cates murmured. "Sorry."

Owens sighed and rose from his chair, buttoning his jacket and straightening his tie. Might as well look put together while getting raked over the coals for whatever he was in trouble for now. Lewis' office was several yards away, but he could have sworn it was a lot closer because he reached it much too quickly.

"Sit," Lewis ordered.

Owens obeyed, knowing it couldn't be good if Lewis had been reduced to one word commands. "Do you know who that was on the phone, agent?" Lewis asked in a deadly voice.

"Mrs. Pierce?" Owens ventured.

"Don't I wish," Lewis said darkly. "That, Agent Owens, was the Director, wanting to know why we no longer have agents in Roswell despite the fact that there has just been a strange death there."

Owens opened his mouth to ask how the Director could have known that, but stopped himself just in time. That would be an exceptionally stupid question regarding J. Edgar Hoover, the man who had made it his business to compile dossiers on everyone and their mother. If he really wanted to, Hoover could find out whether you wiped from the left or the right, so it wouldn't be a stretch for him to have agents watching agents.

"What did you say, sir?" Owens asked.

Lewis gave him a withering look. "Why, I simply informed Director Hoover that one of his agents had been sniffed out by a local sheriff and tossed in a cell. And that circumstances had demanded that we go sucking up to said sheriff and beg his help, as though the resources of the FBI were insufficient. What do you think I said?" he snapped as Owens flinched. "I did the only thing I could under the circumstances—I lied. I told him we were on the brink of something big, that I found it best to minimize our presence as I prepared my entire unit to move in lest we tip off the suspects."

"Good thinking, and very true, sir," Owens said. "Sheriff Valenti—"

"Yes, yes, Valenti is brilliant, Valenti is wise, Valenti is all knowing," Lewis interrupted sharply. "And at the moment, Valenti is useless because the mighty Valenti has produced precisely nothing. Here we sit on our collective asses waiting for Valenti to point the way, and so far, the great investigator has uncovered squat!"

"We don't know that, sir," Owens protested. "It's only been a couple of days; it took him a month to find me. Just give him a little more time—"

"We don't have time, agent!" Lewis exclaimed angrily. "I have a suspicious death in Roswell and no agents there! Do you have any idea how that looks? I had an agent in the sheriff's station, perfectly positioned to gather intelligence, and now I don't! Would you like to take a stab at explaining that to the Director?"

Owens swallowed hard. "No, sir. And with all due respect, you already explained it to him. That was no lie, sir."

"Oh, wasn't it?" Lewis demanded. "Where's my 'something big', agent? Where is all the wonderful information you swore Valenti could produce? Because I need it. Now."

"Sir....I don't know what to say," Owens said desperately, perspiration trickling down his back. "I honestly believe that Valenti is the best one to lead us to the aliens. If he hadn't found me, if I were still at the station, that's what I'd be doing: Following him around. We would only know as much as he knows. He knows his town, he knows the residents, they know him....if strangers start nosing around, the aliens are bound to notice. And Valenti will notice too, which means he'll stop cooperating with us. We can't afford that."

"Oh, is that what you think?" Lewis said acidly. "Let's review—this is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. More specifically, this is a special unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the most top secret unit it has, a unit which answers only to the Director himself. While it might be convenient to have a local sheriff drop intelligence in our lap, it's hardly necessary. We are the FBI. We take what we need for the safety of the American people."

"I'm aware of the command structure, sir," Owens said carefully, "but legally—"

"There is no 'legally'," Lewis interrupted. "We are above the law."

Owens blinked. "Sir, no one is above the law."

Lewis picked up the telephone receiver and held it out to Owens. "Perhaps you'd like to call the Director and tell him he has misinterpreted the parameters of his position?"

Silence. Owens stared at the receiver hovering in mid-air, his hands clenched in his lap. "Of course I wouldn't," he answered, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I don't have a death wish. But the fact remains that our only hope of fingering the aliens is to work with Valenti, not against him. If we march into Roswell and try to take this out of Valenti's hands, we will fail. And at the end of the day, failure will be much harder to explain to the Director than why you don't have an agent there at the moment."

"You forget, I've already explained that," Lewis retorted. "I've told him we're poised to move in, and the longer I wait, the longer I sit here with all my agents recalled but not moving, the more apparent it will become that I'm lying."

"You're not lying!" Owens said desperately. "You're waiting for intel from a skilled investigator who already located an alien device! That must count for something!"

"How do you know he didn't stumble across that thing by sheer accident?" Lewis said impatiently. "So he's nosy. Or suspicious, or paranoid, or any other synonym you choose to employ. None of that makes him 'skilled'."

"My point is that 'moving' won't do us any good if we're moving blind," Owens argued. "That will just lead to the aforementioned failure, and I'm betting that's a phone call you do not want to make. We can't afford to go blundering around with no target."

"And my point is we may never acquire the information to acquire the target without agents on the scene," Lewis retorted. "I've given your wonder boy two full days. That's all I can afford."

"Sir, wait!" Owens begged, springing to his feet. "At least talk to him first. Knowing Valenti, he already suspects someone. Maybe if he hears you're at the end of your rope, he'll tell you. It couldn't hurt to ask, especially if I'm right and ripping this out of his hands means certain failure. Shouldn't we try everything we can think of before you have to place that call to Director Hoover?"

Owens held his breath as a parade of emotions marched across Lewis' face, some of which he sympathized with, some of which he'd rather not identify. "Get him on the phone," Lewis said finally as Owens nearly collapsed with relief. "And you'd better hope he's an early riser, because if he's not in yet, he's through."




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Good morning, sheriff," Hanson said, looking up in surprise. "We weren't expecting you in this morning."

"I couldn't sleep," Valenti said. "Did you reach the judge?"

"Yes, sir. He said that in light of the fact that it's Saturday and he has family plans, he could see his way clear to postponing Miss Crawford's hearing until Monday morning."

"Good," Valenti answered, wondering if that was the judge's way of giving him more time to lean on the lovely Miss Crawford, an indictment of her behavior, or simple good luck. Regardless, it was welcome. "Have you told her yet?"

"No, sir, I was leaving that honor for you."

"There's one thing to look forward to, at least," Valenti sighed. "Anything else?"

"Is....something wrong, sir?" Hanson asked.

"Why?"

"You were so happy yesterday morning, and now.....you don't look so good. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'll live," Valenti said. "I'll be in my office. Don't bother me unless it's important."

"Yes, sir."

You wouldn't look so good either if you'd been awake all night, Valenti added silently, feeling everyone's eyes on him as he headed for his office. He'd alternately tossed and turned or paced the floor last night, lost in thought until a gray morning had dawned which perfectly matched his mood. His wife and son had watched him with equal measures of curiosity and alarm; neither had actually asked him what was wrong, but both were itching to. Which is why he'd come here, where he could close a door and think in peace on what should be a relatively quiet Saturday morning. Not that thinking would help much; he'd been thinking all night with no success, no resolution. How did one resolve the niggling feeling that someone they'd known for years was not who he said he was? Instinct told him that Langley was somehow involved in the death of Audrey Tate, if not her actual killer. But if that was true, that meant that Carl Smith, long time Roswell handyman and well known upstanding citizen, was lying. And Valenti could think of no good reason that Carl would be willing to lie for an alleged visitor he'd only just met unless he followed his other instincts as well. Instincts that had led him to draw parallels between the fantastic behavior Charles Dean had described and the behavior of the aliens back in the forties. Instincts which had noted that Carl had appeared in town just after the escape of the so-called "AWOL soldier" from Eagle Rock in 1950, and that he had an uncanny knack for fixing just about anything. Neither of which proved he was an alien, of course, but it certainly justified further investigation. If only he weren't so afraid of what he'd find.

There was a knock on the door. Great; he'd been here less than ten minutes, and already he was being interrupted. "What?" he called in exasperation.

Hanson poked his head in. "Sorry, sir," he said apologetically, "but there's a phone call—"

"Take a message."

"Yes, sir, but they say it's important—"

"Isn't it always?" Valenti muttered. "Who is it?"

"Someone named 'Louis'. Wouldn't give a last name. He insisted I get you, got quite snippy about it."

Lewis. Well, well. Maybe this gloomy Saturday morning was looking up after all; perhaps Agent Lewis was calling to inquire after his lost "reporter". "I'll take it," he said to Hanson. "In private," he added pointedly when Hanson hesitated, hoping for an explanation. He waited until the door was firmly closed before picking up the receiver.

"Good morning, sheriff," Lewis' smooth voice came over the line, the patronizing undercurrent all the more noticeable in the absence of a face. "I'm glad to see you're up early."

"I thought Agent Owens was my contact," Valenti said. "What could possibly make you stoop to contacting me directly? Maybe because you've lost something? Or perhaps I should say someone."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Lewis answered coldly, "but I do wish you'd stop wasting our mutually valuable time and spit it out."

"Your 'reporter'?" Valenti prompted. "The one who broke into Doctor Blake's office to get at Tate's body? Quite the looker, or she was, anyway. She's finding personal hygiene to be a challenge in my jail."

"Did something happen to the body?" Lewis asked sharply. "I left that body in your care at your insistence, so if it has been compromised, I swear to God I'll have you charged with hindering a federal investigation."

Valenti paused; Lewis sounded genuinely worried, certainly not what would be expected if he'd sent Miss Crawford. "Relax, agent. I anticipated the break-in, and I was there when she arrived. She never got near it."

"Really?" Lewis said, the faintest note of admiration in his voice. "Commendable. I gather you think I sent this woman?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Valenti deadpanned. "I'm sure it would never occur to you to be so unprofessional as to send spies into the office of a fellow law enforcement agency."

"Sheriff, there are certain things in life that are immutable," Lewis answered, ignoring his sarcasm. "Besides the old stand-bys of death and taxes, there is also the fact that I loathe females. They pollute our thinking with their emotional baggage and ultimately serve no purpose I can think of save for breeding. I can assure you the sun will never dawn on the day when I would consent to a woman in my employ. Whoever your 'reporter' is, she has nothing to do with me. Is there anything else you'd like to accuse me of?"

"Not at the moment," Valenti said warily, making a mental note to never, ever let Andi hear what he'd just heard lest she commit murder.

"Good. I'm calling to find out if you have any leads regarding Audrey Tate's killers."

"I would have thought a 'bureau of investigation' would have realized that most investigations take longer than forty-eight hours," Valenti said dryly.

"This hardly belongs under the heading of 'most investigations', especially when I have J. Edgar Hoover breathing down my neck, wondering why I have no agents on site," Lewis answered tersely. "What do I tell him, sheriff? I've honored my end of our agreement and stayed away, but you have yet to contact us. Do you have any leads? Anything at all?"

Valenti leaned back in his chair, one hand tapping on the desk. "I might have a lead," he said slowly, "but—"

"Excellent! Who?"

"—I'm still working on it. It's too early to name names."

"And it's too late for me to wait any longer," Lewis insisted. "If you've identified a suspect, we'll take it from there."

"The moment that 'suspect' sees you coming, he'll vanish," Valenti argued, privately noting that one suspect already had. "The easiest way to scare him off is to have you and yours come charging in here—"

"Let us worry about that," Lewis interrupted. "Who is it?"

"—which means none of us will learn anything," Valenti finished. "Is that what you want?"

"Sheriff, you agreed to provide us with leads," Lewis said. "Now you say you have a lead, and you're withholding it. Which means you're willingly breaking our agreement, a fact I find amusing given that you just accused me of being the one to break it. Tell me what you know, or I'll have my agents there in a matter of hours."

"Do that, and I'll tell you nothing," Valenti retorted, "and you'll be stuck blundering around town while your target gets away. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when you explain that to Hoover."

A heavy silence followed punctuated only by the sound of Valenti's own breathing. For a moment, he wondered if Lewis had hung up, but there was no dial tone. He clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to leave the ball in Lewis' court. He'd sit here all day if he had to.....

"You have forty-eight hours," Lewis said finally. "If we haven't heard from you by then, I will send in my agents and you will give us whatever information you have on possible suspects."

"Assuming I have any information," Valenti countered. "Our 'agreement' was that I would investigate in a field where you'd been compromised. There was never any guarantee that investigation would produce anything useful."

"It already has," Lewis answered. "You said you had a suspect."

"I said I might have a suspect," Valenti corrected. "If it doesn't pan out—"

"I don't care if it 'pans out' or not," Lewis said sharply. "If you have not contacted my unit by Monday morning, the FBI will take over this investigation, and you will turn over all information regarding it to me, including hunches, suppositions, and suspects that didn't 'pan out'. Given that I already have your admission that there is at least one name on that list, announcing there are no suspects is not an option. Do that, and I will take you up on your generous offer and have not only you arrested, but your opinionated wife and nosy son as well."

Valenti's heart nearly stopped. "Are you threatening me?" he demanded. "Are you threatening my family?"

"You need to ask?" Lewis said. "You may be cavalier about your own freedom, but I'll wager you feel differently about your family's. There are times when people need some....incentive."

"How dare you!" Valenti shouted into the phone. "You bastard! You can't—"

"Of course I can," Lewis broke in. "I have the resources of the FBI behind me, as well as Director Hoover, who wouldn't give you an additional forty-eight hours, by the way, and who likely would have never given you the first forty-eight. Consider yourself fortunate."

Fortunate? Valenti's heart raced as he realized Lewis had him in a stranglehold. Hoover was well known as a bastard in his own right, every bit as bad as Joe McCarthy. They could indeed arrest his entire family, make up some charges, deny them due process; it certainly wouldn't be the first time Hoover would have pulled a stunt like that. "If you so much as go near my family," Valenti said angrily, "I'll—"

"Spare me the schoolboy bleatings," Lewis said coldly. "I have it on good authority that you know how the game is played, so you know as well as I do that it does not do to make idle threats. And this is no idle threat. Remember that while you're 'investigating'. I'll see you Monday morning. One way or another."

The line went dead. Valenti stared at the phone for a second before slamming the receiver down. No time for introspection now, no time for pondering how to handle this. Lewis wanted blood, and if he didn't get some, he'd take Andi's and Jimmy's. What if there's no blood to give him? Valenti thought as he hurried out of the office. What if he wound up fingering innocent blood in order to save his wife and son?

"Sir?" Hanson called as Valenti sailed past the front desk. "Where are you—"

"Out. I'll get back to you."

"But....Miss Crawford....you were going to speak to her...."

"You'll have to do it," Valenti said. "Keep your distance. That one's got claws."

Valenti had to resist the urge to speed in his own town as he whisked down Main Street. Fortunately Carl's rooming house wasn't far away, and he'd barely turned off the engine before he was jogging up the stairs and knocking on Carl's door. "Carl, it's Sheriff Valenti," he called. "I need to talk to you right away."

No answer. Valenti checked his watch; it was unlikely that Carl would be out and about at this hour. "Carl!" he called again, knocking harder. "I'm sorry to bother you so early, but it's really important. Open up."

Still nothing. A roomer exited the room next door with a towel over his shoulder, eyeing Valenti warily before heading for the bathroom. Valenti waited until he was inside before pulling a lock pick out of his pocket; a few seconds later, Carl's door swung open. "Carl? Are you here?"

He wasn't. The bed was neatly made, the workbench littered with tools, clothes were in the closet, and laundry in the hamper...but no Carl. "Hey!" Valenti called, spying the roomer across the hall retrieving his newspaper. "Do you know Carl? Do you know where he is?"

"Haven't seen him since yesterday," the roomer answered.

"Damn it!" Valenti muttered, heading back to his car. "Damn it!"




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Rose said you could keep anything she gave you," Emily said as she opened a cupboard door, "and the same goes for me. If there's anything you can use, you're welcome to it."

"We'll just have to be careful to leave room for us in the car," Dee said. "Whatever we take has to fit in the trunk because Anthony, Philip, and me will fill up the back seat."

Dee stood amid piles of boxes as she and her mother packed up the contents of the apartment. They weren't actually leaving until early next week, but packing took time, and Dee hated packing, so she'd taken Emily up on her offer to help while Anthony kept Philip busy in town where he couldn't unpack what they were packing. "You can have whatever perishables are left," Dee said, peering into the fridge. "I doubt anything would be edible by the time we reached Albuquerque."

"Pity there isn't a way to get it there," Emily said. "It would save you money. Are you and Anthony keeping your part-time jobs from last year?"

"Yup," Dee replied, not elaborating. Things may be much better between her and her mother, but some subjects were still best not discussed.

"I honestly don't know how you do it," Emily sighed. "Working, going to school, raising a child. Where do you find the time to do all that?"

"I'm talented," Dee said lightly. "Pass me another box?"

"But does Philip even get to see you?" Emily pressed. "How could he between classes and homework and 'work work'?"

"Mama—"

"And I can't imagine Anthony's schedule is any better, so—"

"Mama!"

Emily stopped. "Sorry. I just—sorry," she finished, flushing. "Old habits die hard. Well.....if everything you want won't fit, you could set things aside and take them back some other time. Is this our year for Thanksgiving or Christmas?"

"Thanksgiving," Dee answered. "We'll be with Anthony's parents for Christmas."

"Oh, they'll love that," Emily smiled. "Philip will be just old enough to appreciate the decorations." She paused, fitting towels into a box. "I was hoping you'd at least consider staying at the house for Thanksgiving. Assuming I didn't just ruin my chances, that is."

Dee smiled faintly. "I won't expect you to be perfect if you won't expect me to be perfect either."

"Was that a 'yes'?"

"More like a 'probably'," Dee admitted. "It's not you; I just can't think that far ahead, not with everything else that's going on. It's hard enough with Anthony and me both going back to school, but then there's everything I'm leaving behind here. All hell is breaking loose, and I'll be walking out right in the middle of it."

"You mean Courtney?" Emily asked, glancing toward Courtney's apartment across the hall. "This fight was going on long before we ever heard of it, and I'm betting it'll go on long after we're out of the picture. They'll just have to hash it out on their own."

"That's what Anthony said," Dee sighed.

"Then you should listen," Emily advised. "Anthony was always smart. Even when he was young."

"But it's not just the aliens," Dee said. "What about the actress, and the FBI, and all that?"

"What about it?" Emily asked. " 'Langley' has disappeared, which means anyone looking will find nothing, it'll all come to a dead end, and they'll all go home."

"You hope," Dee muttered.

There was a knock on the door. "Dee, are you in there?" a voice called.

Dee stood stock still, the look on her mother's face making it clear that she, too, had recognized the voice. "He never calls me by my first name," she said worriedly.

More knocking. "I need to talk to you," the voice insisted. "It's important."

"Three guesses what that's about," Dee sighed.

"You can't blame him, Deanna," Emily said quietly. "A woman is dead in his town; he's just doing his job." She paused. "Well? Aren't you going to let him in?"

"Can't we just sit here real quiet like and pretend we're not here?" Dee asked hopefully, rolling her eyes when her mother gave her a withering look, wiping her dusty hands on a towel before opening the door to find a clearly agitated sheriff.

"Hi," Dee said. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that," Valenti answered, his voice tense as he nodded to Emily. "I'm looking for somebody, somebody I just can't seem to find."

"Oh. Right. Mrs. Bruce mentioned something about you looking for Mr. Langley," Dee said. "Sorry, I never knew him. Only saw him once or twice."

"Not him," Valenti said. "I'm looking for Langley too, but at the moment, I can't find Carl Smith. Have you seen him?"

Dee and Emily exchanged glances. Malik? Why would Valenti be looking for Malik? "Not today," Dee hedged. "Why?"

"I can't find him anywhere!" Valenti exclaimed. "He made some deliveries last night, but no one seems to have seen him since then. Everyone knows Carl, someone should have seen him. His apartment doesn't look like he's left, so—"

"Wait," Dee broke in. "How could you be in his apartment if you can't find him?"

"With this," Valenti said severely, removing a lock pick from his pocket. "And before you give me chapter and verse about warrants, you might like to know that the FBI is breathing down my neck looking for leads in the Audrey Tate case. And since the man accused of killing her has apparently disappeared, the next logical step is the one who gave that man an alibi. I need to get to Carl before the FBI does."

"You think Carl is lying?" Emily asked.

"I don't know what to think," Valenti said in exasperation, pacing back and forth in front of them as though he just couldn't bear to be still. "I'd hate to throw an innocent man to Hoover's dogs, but...." He paused, glancing around the apartment. "Are we alone?"

"Yes," Dee said slowly. "But why—"

"Is Carl Smith an alien?" Valenti demanded.

Dee watched her mother's eyes widen as her own heart began to race. Valenti must be desperate indeed to ask such a bald question, a question she couldn't answer, not truthfully at any rate. And yet Emily was right—Valenti was just doing his job. And she was impeding that job. She, a future lawyer, was standing in the way of the law she was about to study. It was not a pleasant thought.

"So....you not only think Carl is lying, you think he's an alien?" Emily asked carefully.

"Why not?" Valenti asked. "He arrived here in July of 1950, right after the alien the Army captured escaped. He can fix virtually anything mechanical, including things no one thought repairable. This 'Langley' has up and vanished, which is mighty suspicious, Carl says Langley was with him when Audrey Tate died, yet no one else saw them, so no one can back them up. I talked to Carl just last night, and now he's gone. Why would they both run unless they both had something to hide?"

Oh my God. Dee leaned against the chair behind her as the implications of what Valenti was saying sank in. Obviously Malik had realized that the sheriff was getting too close and vanished right along with Brivari....and that was going to kill him. Malik loved living here, loved his little fix-it business, his friends, everything. To lose that, to have to start over somewhere else, would be a huge blow.

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?" Emily suggested. "I'm certain Carl wasn't the only one who arrived in town at that time, plenty of people are handy with machinery, and there's no reason to think he's run away just because you haven't found him yet."

"Did you hear me?" Valenti demanded. "The FBI is sniffing around here! They planted one of their agents in my office—it was sheer luck I found out about it—and now they say they're rolling into town on Monday morning unless I give them some information."

"So let them come," Emily said. "You can't give them information you don't have."

"I wish it were that simple," Valenti said. "They threatened to arrest me and my family if I don't name names."

"Oh, dear," Emily said faintly.

"So when they find out Carl gave Langley an alibi and Langley's missing, they'll go for Carl," Valenti continued. "If Carl's not an alien, maybe he was threatened by them. Or maybe he's telling the truth, but there's no way to prove that. I could be handing over an innocent man to people who don't give a damn about his rights."

"All right, slow down," Emily said soothingly. "First of all, you need to get your family out of here, somewhere safe, somewhere the FBI can't find them."

"This is the FBI!" Valenti exclaimed. "Who knows how many other agents they have around here? There's nowhere I could put my family where they wouldn't know about it, where—"

"Sheriff!" Emily said sharply, bringing his outburst to a halt. "Jim," she added more gently. "Don't forget, I've been in your shoes. My family was threatened. I fought it, and so can you. Let us help you—"

"The only way you can help is if you can produce either Langley or Carl Smith," Valenti said. "And apparently you can't. Sorry to bother you."

"Jim, wait," Emily called after him as he headed back out into the hallway, pounding down the stairs, letting the front door slam behind him, drawing a squawk from Mrs. Bruce. "Jim!"

"Too late," Dee whispered, looking out the front window. "He's already in his car." She turned to her mother, unable to believe what she'd just heard. "Do you think they'll do that, Mama? Do you really think they'd arrest his entire family?"

"Of course they would," Emily said, picking up the phone. "You do remember what the Army did to us, don't you?"

"But we were just ordinary people," Dee protested. "Valenti is a sheriff. Law enforcement agencies should work together, should—"

"I really hate to burst your rose-colored bubble, Deanna, but why should law enforcement agencies be any different than the military?" Emily asked, the receiver to her ear. "They're all run by people, fallible people, power hungry people, people with—good morning," she finished, turning her attention to the phone. "This is Emily Proctor. I need to speak with Sheriff Wilcox. No, I do not want a deputy, I want George Wilcox. Give him my name, and tell him it's urgent."



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



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




Morton Steinfeld slapped his script down in exasperation when the sheriff appeared on the opposite side of the set. Here things had just been going right for the first time in several days, and now Roswell's resident monkey wrench on two legs was about to disrupt that fragile equilibrium. "Sheriff," Steinfeld called with his best public relations smile, intercepting Valenti before he got very far, "this isn't a good time. Perhaps you could come back later."

"I need to speak to everyone who had any contact with your clapper loader," Valenti announced.

"Good morning to you too," Steinfeld said stiffly. "And as I said, this isn't a good time. Perhaps later—"

"I don't have 'time'," Valenti broke in sharply. "I need to know everything anyone can tell me about that clapper loader, and I need to know now. Shut this all down and line everyone up. I'll use your office."

Steinfeld's mouth set in a thin line; the most useful lesson his clapper loader had taught him was how to deal with a bully. "You will do nothing of the sort," he said firmly. "I've had quite enough delays with cast members either dead, inebriated, or in shock. You've already been here several times and talked to everyone, so if you want another go-round, it will have to wait."

"I said now!" Valenti exclaimed, grabbing Steinfeld by the collar, "or I swear to God, I'll lock everyone up until I've talked to them!"

"Get your hands off me!" Steinfeld demanded, giving Valenti a hard shove. "Who the hell do you think you are, manhandling me like this? The FBI?"

Valenti blinked, abruptly releasing him. "That's better," Steinfeld said huffily, repositioning his neck tie. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

The rest of that sentence was cut off as Valenti caught his arm in a death grip and steered him toward his office. "Shut up, and listen to me," Valenti said severely as Steinfeld began to protest, closing the office door behind them. "Do you remember the day we met, Mr. Steinfeld? You asked me if I'd seen aliens back in the forties."

"And you said you hadn't," Steinfeld retorted, wrenching his arm away from Valenti. "What of it?"

"I lied," Valenti said flatly. "I did see aliens back in the forties. What would you think if I were to tell you that one of your crew members might be an alien?"





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I'll be busy over Thanksgiving weekend, so I'll be posting Chapter 54 on Sunday, December 7th.