All Too Human, Shapeshifters, TEEN, Chapters 1-69

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!







CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


August 22, 1959, 1:45 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



Valenti's stomach clutched as he took in the crowd of reporters, the scribbling pencils, and the passers-by coming to a screeching halt, their ears pricking at the word "alien". "Sheriff, we need to hear it from you," a reporter at his right elbow said. "Did you confirm that aliens killed Audrey Tate?"

"Who told you that?" Valenti demanded.

Over a dozen pairs of eyes flared suddenly, and the crowd surged forward, everyone talking at once, everyone taking his question as an answer. "Hold on!" Valenti called over the tumult. "I never said aliens killed Audrey Tate. Whoever told you that misquoted me."

"Then what did you say?" the reporter asked. "Our source was very specific—"

"My private conversations are none of your business," Valenti snapped, his already thin patience wearing even thinner. "And if people want to blow what I say out of proportion, there's not much I can do about it."

"So do you think aliens killed Audrey Tate?" another reporter pressed.

"What could you possibly have said that would have been taken that way?" another added.

"Gentlemen!" Wilcox boomed, taking Valenti's arm in a "shut the hell up" squeeze. "Sheriff Valenti and I are working together on the Tate case, and all the sheriff said was that we were keeping our options open. How someone turned that into 'aliens', I don't know, but that's not what was said."

"But what does that mean, exactly?" a reporter called from the back of the crowd. "Why do you need 'options'?"

"Because Miss Tate appears to have been hit by lightning on a sunny day," Wilcox answered. "So given the weather that day, or lack thereof, we're just double-checking. That's all."

A collective grumble of disappointment went up from the crowd, who had clearly been spoiling for juicier information. "Sorry, gentlemen," Wilcox chuckled. "I know it would have made your day, but there are still no little green men in Roswell."

"There never were," a reporter answered. "Mac Brazel said they were gray."

"I don't care if they're purple with pink spots, they're not here," Wilcox said pointedly. "Run along now, and stop scaring everybody. You'll have to look elsewhere for your next headline."

All the reporters started talking at once as Wilcox turned around and went back into the station with Valenti at his side. "Walk," Wilcox ordered as Valenti slowed when another question came flying through the air. "The last thing you want to do is have even one more word with that crowd. I wanted to talk at my place, but we'll have to do it here."

Wilcox strode through the station with a commanding air that made deputies step aside as he passed, and Valenti followed in his wake, too dazed to care that this was his station and his staff. As if it wasn't bad enough to have aliens killing people and the FBI threatening his family, now the entire town might go into a panic. Even if the papers didn't publish another "Aliens in Roswell!" headline, word would still get out. Hell, it already had.

"In," Wilcox ordered, stabbing a thumb at the doorway to Valenti's office as though it were his own. Once inside, he locked the door behind them and turned beady eyes on Valenti.

"What in the name of all that's holy is going on, Jim? Is that lot right? Did you tell someone that aliens killed Audrey Tate?"

"Of course not," Valenti said impatiently. "I said aliens 'might' have killed Audrey Tate."

Wilcox's eyebrows rose. He grabbed an empty coffee cup off Valenti's desk and gave it a deep sniff. "No alcohol," he reported. "I don't know if that's good news or bad news."

"Very funny," Valenti retorted. "Aren't you going to ask me—"

"I don't need to ask you a damned thing in order to assure you that you never, I mean never, utter the word 'alien' in front of a citizen!" Wilcox snapped.

"I have proof, George!" Valenti exclaimed. "I have—"

"I don't care if you have a delegation of Martians in your office!" Wilcox exploded. "You never, I repeat never, use the 'A' word in public! I would think you, of all people, would know that!"

"It wasn't in public, and I had to!' Valenti protested. "I had to get Steinfeld to give me access to the movie crew, and that was the only way to get his attention!"

"Wait," Wilcox ordered, holding up a hand. "You used the 'A' word with a movie producer? A movie producer who is currently producing a movie about aliens? A movie so bad that it would greatly benefit from some publicity, say, Roswell's sheriff claiming there might be real aliens running around? Jesus, Jim, why didn't you just call the papers yourself instead of waiting the few hours it took for the news to reach them?"

"You don't understand!" Valenti said desperately. "I need to find them!"

"Find who?" Wilcox demanded. "The aliens? Honestly, what's gotten into you? Since when did every weird death turn into aliens? "

"They're going to take them!" Valenti shouted. "They're going to take my wife and son!"

"Who? The aliens?"

"The FBI!"

Wilcox stared at him in amazement. "Did I hear you right?" he asked softly. "What does the FBI have to do with this?"

"Everything!" Valenti exclaimed, jamming his hands in his pockets, his voice ragged as he paced back and forth, too agitated to stand still. "They planted an agent in my office last month. I found the spy the day Tate died, tossed him in a cell, and he got out. Then the spy's boss came to me and asked for my 'help'. Claimed he had evidence that Tate's death matched alien-related deaths in the forties. And today he said if I don't have something for him by Monday morning, he's going to take my family, going to—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair, the panic he'd kept at bay by storming around town finally overtaking him. "George, what am I going to do?"

Wilcox studied him in silence for a moment before going to the office door and opening it. "You," he called, "what's your name, son? Hanson? Hanson, we're going to need a pot of coffee ASAP. Thanks." Closing the door, he heaved his bulk into the chair in front of Valenti's desk.

"Start from the beginning," he ordered. "Don't leave anything out, and I mean anything. I want to hear it all in the order it happened, right down to what you ate for breakfast and when you brushed your teeth. Go."




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




"And what about you, ma'am?" a reporter asked a worried looking woman with a small child clutching her hand. "Do you believe the sheriff's claim that he was misquoted?"

"Well....I don't know," the woman answered, flustered. "It is odd that that poor woman would be struck down like that on a sunny day. But stranger things have happened."

"But her co-star says he saw aliens," the reporter continued. "And now we have another source who says the sheriff is actively looking for aliens. Does that frighten you?"

"I....suppose," the woman replied uncertainly, looking down at her child.

"So you don't think the sheriff is telling the truth?"

"I didn't say that," the woman protested.

"But—"

"She didn't say that," another voice broke in.

Brivari hung back, and Jaddo gave a snort of annoyance as Malik confronted the reporter, many of whom were working the crowd that had gathered while the press had been talking to the enforcers, eager to drum up some sort of news. "I wasn't talking to you, pal," the reporter said to Malik. "Back off."

"Like hell I will," Malik retorted, "not when you're putting words in people's mouths. Don't let him bully you, Mrs. Hawthorne; he just wants a story, and he doesn't seem to care how he gets it."

"Well...thank you," Mrs. Hawthorne said uncertainly as the reporter scowled and started looking for a new, less well-protected target. "But how did you know my name? Have we met?"

Yes, Brivari thought, wincing inwardly at the pained expression that crossed Malik's face. Mrs. Hawthorne was a frequent customer of Malik's, but she wouldn't know that; the man she'd known as 'Carl Smith' had disappeared, his face no longer safe to wear.

"I....no," Malik said quietly. "I overheard someone call you by name."

"Oh. Well....thank you again," Mrs. Hawthorne said, scuttling away before any other reporters decided to interview her. Malik stared after her as she disappeared into the crowd, which was thinning now that the sheriff had officially disavowed a search for aliens.

*I've known her for a decade,* he said tonelessly, *and she had no idea who I was.*

*Further evidence that maintaining one identity for any length of time is inadvisable,* Jaddo declared.

*I wonder why the sheriff is taking the risk of being so open about his purpose,* Brivari remarked, hoping to forestall an argument by changing the subject. *Regardless of his claims, he must have said something about aliens to cause this latest drama. It's unlike him to be so indiscreet.*

*I've been 'Carl' for nine years with no problem whatsoever,* Malik said, ignoring Brivari. *And Brivari was 'Langley' for only a few weeks before a problem occurred, so obviously the length of time has nothing to do with it.*

*And now there is a 'problem', that being that your reluctance to abandon your shape,* Jaddo answered. *A reluctance that likely wouldn't be there if you hadn't been using it for so long.*

*The only 'problem' is your inability to control yourself,* Malik said sharply. *We're in this mess because of you and your hair trigger temper.*

*She had to die,* Jaddo insisted. *She'd seen too much.*

*You're conveniently leaving out why she'd seen too much,* Malik retorted. *Face it, Jaddo—you're bored. With no one to hunt, you have nothing to do but stir up enough trouble so that you have someone to hunt. For all your whining about Brivari's boredom, at least his didn't take such a self-destructive form.*

Brivari watched Jaddo's eyes flare as Malik stalked off through the crowd. *Leave him be,* Brivari ordered as Jaddo started after him.

*Did you hear what he said?* Jaddo demanded.

*He said nothing I haven't said already,* Brivari replied. *You're a soldier, Jaddo—you like to fight. And absent a ready fight, you tend to create one, whether you realize it or not.*

*That does not address the fact that he is too attached to a particular shape!* Jaddo protested.

*Malik had a place here, a profession, friends,* Brivari replied. *Of course he would mourn the loss of that. How would you feel if were you to encounter your Ward and discover he did not know you? Would that not upset you if Rath were unable to recognize you?*

*I would hardly equate my Ward with a 'customer',* Jaddo said.

*Since you have no friends to speak of, it was the closest approximation I could find.*

Brivari sighed as Jaddo did what he always did when he was angry—stalked away, a habit Malik appeared to be appropriating. Malik had been blunt, more blunt that he had ever dared be with either of them, but he was right: Jaddo had been at dangerously loose ends. The fact that he was now calm and content only underscored the fact that he thrived on conflict, something that had never been in short supply back home or for the first several years Earthside. The hunt for Pierce had consumed him these past nine years; absent that, he had resorted to antagonizing everyone around him until he'd created enough conflict to feed his hunger for it. His apology a few days ago proved that he was aware of this on at least some level, and he certainly wasn't to blame for the sudden appearance of the Argilians which had complicated matters even further, but there was no denying that he'd made the current situation far more complicated than it would have been under different circumstances.

And I sympathize with Malik, Brivari admitted privately, spotting Atherton in his disguise as "Mr. Anderson" across the crowd and knowing there was no way to approach his friend without wearing a face that no one must see. He missed his apartment, missed the deference with which he'd been treated on the movie set, missed the settled nature and predictability of his life these past few weeks.....and he missed Atherton. And judging from what he was able to overhear, Atherton missed him as well, plying the crowd around him with questions about "Langley" and whether anyone had seen him, sounding very worried indeed.

Several minutes passed before Atherton drifted away, looking for others to question. Brivari watched him go with an all too familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach and a fresh supply of resolve. Whatever the risk, he would find a way to approach Atherton and set his mind at ease. After losing Quanah so recently, losing yet another friend was a price he wasn't willing to pay.




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Well," Sheriff Wilcox said slowly, staring into his empty coffee cup. "You've got yourself in quite a pickle, Jim."

That must be the understatement of the year, Valenti thought wearily, leaning back in the chair he'd collapsed into from sheer exhaustion about midway through his story, a story Wilcox had listened to largely in silence punctuated only by brief, specific questions. He had hoped that after telling the entire tale from start to finish he would see something he'd missed, make a connection that hadn't been clear before, or at least gain some small amount of insight. But he had hoped in vain; the whole thing was as much a muddle now as it had been earlier, perhaps more so. It was hard to believe that all this had happened just since Wednesday; in a mere four days, all hell had broken loose in so many different ways, it was depressing to count them all.

"So what do I do?" Valenti asked.

"I'll tell you what you do," Wilcox said. "You give this 'special unit' all the information you've collected on the Tate case, you back away, and you forget you ever heard anything about it."

Valenti blinked. "Did I just hear the sound of George Wilcox throwing in the towel? Since when do you genuflect to people who threaten you? You didn't do that with the Army."

"I was on much more solid ground there," Wilcox said. "And I was going up against one officer with delusions of grandeur whose CO was a decent man with a brain. If what you've been told is true, you're going up against the head of a new FBI unit who's desperate to prove himself and whose boss is J. Edgar Hoover. My advice? Don't."

"Okay, fine, so I turn over what I've got and get out from under the FBI's thumb," Valenti said. "But then what? I can't just stop there."

"Why not?"

" 'Why not'?" Valenti echoed in disbelief. "Have you heard anything I've been telling you? I've got exploding bodies, weird deaths, missing suspects—"

"What you've got is a whole lot of nothing," Wilcox interrupted. "That exploding body, or what was left of it? Gone. At this point it doesn't matter who took it because the outcome is the same—it's gone. The actress's death? Odd, to be sure, but she wouldn't be the first person to be hit by lightning on a clear day, and she won't be the last. Your 'missing suspects'? Neither have been missing long enough to file a missing person's report, and the only evidence that makes one of them a suspect comes from a known troublemaker who was drunk at the time and spoiling for a fight. Like I said, a whole lot of nothing."

"But what about what Doctor Blake said about the weird cells in that body?" Valenti demanded. "What about that shiny football thing the FBI admitted stealing from my office? They said it killed someone! What about the fact that the way Audrey Tate died matches the deaths of several soldiers killed by aliens back in the forties? What about—"

"What about you show me some proof for any of that?" Wilcox said. "With all due respect to Raymond Blake, he's a small town doctor; I'd want his findings corroborated before I'd go off on a tear. You've got an FBI agent who lied to you claiming that whatever they stole was lethal, not exactly a credible source, and his boss saying that Tate's death matches the aliens' MO, but not producing a shred of evidence. Where are the photos? Where are the reports? Where is anything at all to back up his claims? If he really wanted your 'help', he should have shown up with every scrap of evidence in his possession in order to secure that help. Instead he dropped a crapload of innuendo in your lap, and you're falling for it hook, line, and sinker. You're smarter than this, Jim. Snap out of it!"

"I'm not an idiot!" Valenti protested. "I thought they were just using the alien angle to get my attention and cover their real motives before I started digging around myself. And as soon as I started digging, people started disappearing. Why is Langley gone? Why is Carl gone?"

"What makes you think Carl is gone?" Wilcox asked. "You just saw him last night, for Christ's sake. As for this 'Langley', I don't know, but you don't have anywhere near enough to charge him even if he were here. What are you going to haul him in for? Suspicion of being alien?"

"I can't haul him in for anything because he's gone," Valenti said crossly. "Something is going on here, George. I know it is!"

"Of course something is going on here," Wilcox agreed. "The question is what. Maybe something; maybe nothing. Maybe a combination of both. Maybe your exploding body guy really was a spy like you and Ray first thought. Maybe Langley isn't an alien, but knows something about Tate's death that he hasn't told you. Maybe aliens really did kill some people back in the forties by flash-frying them, and what you've got here is a death that's similar enough that it's caught the attention of a new FBI unit eager to justify its existence. That's just it—you don't have enough information to go on, and without that, you won't be able to unravel it. Which is why I say just give the bastards who've threatened your family what they want and get them out of your hair. You know how often I go on the attack, so if I'm sounding the retreat, it's serious. There's a time to back off, and this is one of those times."

"You left something off your list," Valenti reminded him. "What if aliens really are in Roswell, and what if they did kill Audrey Tate?"

Wilcox dropped his eyes and was quiet for a moment. "If that's the case, the best thing you can do is exactly what I just recommended—turn over what you have to the FBI and let them handle it. And forget about frisking the Proctors. Dave and Emily haven't mentioned aliens since 1950."

"So just sell out to the FBI," Valenti said. "Just act like it's not my responsibility to protect the people of this town."

"If you're convinced you're dealing with aliens, then turning over your findings to a federal agency that supposedly deals with aliens is a responsible way to protect the people of this town," Wilcox pointed out. He paused, eyeing Valenti closely. "How did the FBI wind up with an alien-hunting unit anyway? The last alien hullabaloo was in 1950. What took them so long?"

Valenti shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "According to the spy, aliens killed someone this summer somewhere north of here."

" 'Someone'?" Wilcox echoed incredulously. " 'Somewhere'? I gather this 'someone' who was killed 'somewhere' died like Audrey Tate?"

"He said they didn't," Valenti admitted, "but he wouldn't tell me how. Told me he shouldn't even have said that much."

Wilcox gave a soft snort. "Figures. How very convenient to claim possession of evidence without having to present it. Wish I could do that, but the rest of the law enforcement world doesn't work that way."

"I know," Valenti agreed, "but I believed him. Given the way Lewis is, I could see him being wary of saying too much."

" 'Lewis'?"

"Agent Lewis, the head of the special unit."

Wilcox's eyes drifted far away. "Lewis...Lewis....." He rose from his chair, wandered to the window. "I know that name. There was a 'Major Lewis' who got in trouble along with Colonel Cavitt in 1950. I remember Captain Spade mentioning him. Something about him resigning in lieu of a dishonorable discharge."

"You think it's the same Lewis?"

"Could very well be," Wilcox answered. "That would explain how he'd have access to information about how Army soldiers died. And that means you should be careful, Jim. If this is the same Lewis and he knows the role you played in bringing down Cavitt, he could be gunning for you."

Valenti sighed and leaned forward, his head in his hands. "Wonderful. I'll add that to the worry list, right alongside 'aliens in Roswell' and 'what happens if Tate's death really was just an accident, and I deliver two innocent men to the tender mercies of the FBI'."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Wilcox reminded him gently. "Look, let this be for now. Check and see if Carl or this Langley is back tomorrow. If they are, you can talk to them some more."

"And if they aren't?"

"If neither comes back, there's no one to deliver," Wilcox said. "I'll make certain to have your house protected by myself and my men on Monday morning, just until we know Lewis has left with whatever you give him. Don't mention the FBI to Andi, and certainly not to Jimmy; no sense worrying them. And for God's sake, don't use the 'A' word with anyone else, even with a qualifier like 'might'."

"The whole town is going to be in an uproar," Valenti groaned.

"Don't fret," Wilcox advised him. "I'm a little surprised Steinfeld hasn't tried something like this already. Just stick to your misquoted story. People will believe their sheriff over an ambitious movie producer any day."

"Even though the ambitious movie producer is telling the truth?"

"He shot his mouth off when you told him not to," Wilcox pointed out. "He shouldn't have done that. This is another one of those times when the truth could cause a whole lot of trouble. It's Saturday—go home, stay out of the fray, and let your staff handle it. That's one of the perks of being sheriff."

"Right," Valenti said dully. "Perks."




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



10:00 p.m.

Valenti residence



"This is all a tempest in a teapot, Mrs. Parker," Andi said into the phone. "Jim never said aliens killed Audrey Tate. He was misquoted. Yes, of course you can repeat that to your customers. I'm sure they're upset; misinformation does that. Look, I'm sorry, but it's getting late, so I have to ring off. Yes....of course. Good night, Mrs. Parker."

Andi closed her eyes wearily as she replaced the receiver in its cradle; mere seconds after she'd done so, the phone rang again. She stared at it for several seconds, the strident jangle fracturing the peace of her house like it had over and over since lunch time....and then she snapped. Lifting the receiver only barely off the cradle, she set it back down, then removed it again and set it on the table, the loud beep beep beep that announced a phone off the hook muffled by a dish towel she pulled from her apron pocket and wound around the receiver.

"Mom?"

Startled, Andi whirled around to find Jimmy standing on the bottom step, looking unusually scrawny in his shorty pajamas which were down past his knees because she'd bought them a size too big so he could grow into them. "What is it honey?" she asked, planting herself in front of the phone and stupidly hoping her son wouldn't notice the still audible beeping.

But Jimmy never so much as glanced at the phone. "Dad never came up to say good night."

"Maybe he didn't hear me when I called downstairs to tell him you were in bed," she said, knowing full well that wasn't the case as she ushered her son back upstairs. "I'll tell him again."

"Is Dad okay?" Jimmy asked as he climbed back into bed. "I was so glad when he came home early because I thought we could go fishing, but he hasn't come out of the basement."

"He's just.....preoccupied," Andi said soothingly, readjusting the fan in the sweltering bedroom. "He takes it very personally when people die on his watch, even when it's an accident."

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, his arms folded over the top of the sheet Andi had pulled over him. "Was it an accident?" he whispered. " Is it true what everyone who's calling is saying? Does Dad really think that lady was killed by aliens?"

"Of course not," Andi said lightly. "I think someone took something he said the wrong way. Maybe they just misheard, or maybe they saw some advantage in causing a ruckus."

"Like news people," Jimmy nodded knowingly.

"Exactly," Andi said, planting a kiss on his forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll send your father up."

"I haven't been asleep. The phone keeps ringing and waking me up."

"It won't ring any more," Andi told him.

"Why not?"

"Because....it's late, so people will stop calling," Andi replied. "You know it's rude to call after 9:30, and so does everyone else."

"But it just rang—"

"And I reminded that person it was too late," Andi broke in. "It won't bother you again."

A minute later Andi was descending the staircase, throwing a guilty look in the direction of the still beeping phone. Never in all her years as Jim's wife had she ever taken the phone off the hook. Not that she hadn't considered it occasionally, but that was part and parcel of being a sheriff's wife; one's husband was essentially on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Today marked the first time she had put her foot down and drawn a line in the sand between her family and the people of Roswell. Calls had started coming in late morning, and by the time Jim came home mid-afternoon, she'd been thoroughly confused and very upset. Unfortunately her husband's presence hadn't helped much; after a perfunctory explanation, he had disappeared into the basement with his boxes of records, surfacing only for a largely silent dinner and submerging again after it was over. Now she walked past the incriminating phone to the basement door and went down the stairs, peering into the dimly lit basement. To say she was worried pushed the boundaries of understatement.

"Hi."

Jim looked up from the table he was hunched over on which were stacked literally hundreds of papers in haphazard piles which presumably made some sense to him. "Hi."

"You never said good night to Jimmy."

Jim's expression became pained. "I'm sorry. Is he still waiting for me?"

"Sort of," Andi said, leaning against the stair railing. "The phone kept him up."

"I'm sorry."

"I took it off the hook."

Their eyes locked, Andi making no effort to hide the fact that she'd hit the wall for the first time after nearly a decade of marriage. "You need to talk to me before you do something like that," Jim said.

"Like hell I do," Andi retorted. "It's almost 10 o'clock at night, my son can't sleep, and you're holed up down here. I'm the one answering the phone, Jim, and I'm not the sheriff. If you want it answered, get up there and answer it yourself."

He dropped his eyes back to his precious papers, saying nothing. "They're right, aren't they?" she said tightly. "You really do believe aliens killed that actress. I thought...." She paused, trying to rein in her temper. "I thought that if I gave you some space, you'd work through this and come to your senses, but it's only getting worse."

"I already told you I was misquoted—"

"I'm your wife, Jim! Don't try to blow me off with the official line! You believe it, don't you? Misquoted or not, you believe it!"

"Andi, things just don't add up, and I'm trying to make them add up."

"By sitting down here knee deep in ten year-old records?" Andi demanded. "How does that help to 'add it up' unless you really think it's aliens?"

"That's one of the possibilities I'm considering," Jim said irritably.

" 'One' of the possibilities? Don't you mean the 'only' possibility?"

"That's not what I said," Jim objected.

"You didn't have to!" Andi exclaimed. "I have eyes; I can see. You actually believe this nonsense. You even believe that Carl Smith, of all people, is an alien! The last I checked, Carl looked decidedly human."

"I have reason to believe they can look human, or at least make us think they look human."

Andi's eyes widened. "Is that so? Okay, then, what about the fact that we've known Carl for years, and so has the rest of the town?"

"That doesn't mean he isn't an alien," Jim said stubbornly.

Andi paused, flabbergasted. " 'Doesn't mean he isn't an alien'?" she echoed in disbelief. "So.....anyone could be an alien? Even you? Even....me?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Andi, I don't think you're an alien," Jim said in disgust.

"But how do you know?" she persisted. "You met me after you met Carl; you've actually known him longer, and yet now you think he's an alien. So why couldn't I be?"

"I'm done with this ridiculous conversation," Jim announced flatly. "If you'll excuse me, I have to say good night to Jimmy."

"Oh, of course you do," Andi said bitterly, "now that it's a convenient way to shut me up. Let me tell you something, James Valenti," she continued as her husband stalked past her. "Carl Smith has been a hard worker and a good friend to everyone in Roswell for years. If that's what aliens are like, then I prefer them over a lot of humans I've met."

"Very open-minded of you, but that doesn't mean he isn't lying," Jim said as he stomped up the stairs.

"It also doesn't mean he is!" Andi protested. "Look at you! You're on a witch hunt!"

"There are things you don't know!" Jim snapped from the top of the stairs. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd refrain from passing judgment when you don't have all the facts!"

"As if you do," Andi muttered, leaning against the stair railing. Jim could certainly be intense, certainly get lost in his work sometimes, but this....this was different. This was scary.

A minute later, the phone rang.

Swearing under her breath, Andi marched up the stairs; Jim was nowhere in sight. Of course not; he'd replaced the receiver and disappeared, leaving her to deal with the fallout. "Don't you know what time it is?" she demanded of whoever was on the other end of the line. "Stop waking up my son!" Slamming the receiver down, she picked it up again and dropped it on the table, not even bothering to muffle the insistent beep beep beep.




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



August 23, 1959, 6:45 a.m.

Valenti residence




"Dad? Dad? Dad, wake up!"

Slowly, Valenti opened his eyes. He was in the basement, slumped over the records from the forties with Jimmy beside him wearing a worried expression. "What time is it?" he mumbled, his mouth feeling like cotton.

"Really early," Jimmy whispered. "I got up to go to the bathroom, and I heard the paper boy put the paper in our door, and then....."

"What?" Valenti asked, rubbing his eyes.

"And then I heard the door open again," Jimmy said. "I looked out the window, and there was this guy in a suit reading our paper on our front doorstep. He's still out there."

Valenti stared at his son stupidly for a moment before bolting up the basement stairs, now wide awake, and flinging open the front door to find......

.......Agent Lewis.

"Good morning, sheriff," Lewis said grimly, brandishing the paper. "What interesting headlines."




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


I'll post Chapter 56 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, and a big thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX


August 23, 1959, 6:45 a.m.

Valenti residence



Jimmy Valenti stood stock still, eyes darting back and forth from the man on the front porch, the same FBI agent who had been here just a few days ago, to his father, whose expression rotated through a range of emotions beginning with shock and ending with fury. It was one in between, however, fleeting but recognizable, which caught Jimmy's attention and made him break out in a cold sweat—fear. His father was scared. In all his eight years, Jimmy had never, ever seen his father scared. Whoever this man was, he must be very frightening indeed to scare someone like his dad, even for a moment.

But that moment had passed, his disheveled father now standing nose to nose with the man in the expensive looking suit and slicked back hair, looking angrier than Jimmy had ever seen him. "What are you doing here?" his father demanded. "You said I had forty-eight hours! Can't you count?"

"Can't you keep your mouth shut?" the man retorted, pushing past his father into the house and holding up the paper, the front page of which blared, Sheriff Searching for Aliens? "Is this typical of those oh-so-exemplary investigative skills you're rumored to have? If so, may God have mercy on Roswell."

"If you're that unhappy, then get the hell out of here," his father said furiously.

"If only I could," the man replied. "I'm not here because I want to be here, sheriff. I'm here because of your incompetence, your total lack of—"

"Dad?"

The FBI agent's eyes jerked toward Jimmy, who returned the angry stare with one of his own despite having been taught all his life not to interrupt grown-ups. No way was he going to stand here and listen to this nasty man pick on his father, manners be damned. "Jimmy, this is about work," his father said, his voice tight. "Go back to bed."

Jimmy hesitated, glancing back and forth from the man to his father. "Go upstairs," his father urged. "I'll handle this."

"Obey your father!" the man barked suddenly when Jimmy didn't move. "Go—"

The man stopped short as his father's finger materialized millimeters from his nose. "Don't you ever presume to speak to a member of my family, or I swear to God with my eyes wide open, I will kick your federal ass out that door so hard, you'll bounce down the front walk!"

The man's face darkened. Way to go, Dad! Jimmy thought, his chest swelling with pride....until he remembered he had an audience. "It seems you have a cheering section," the man said sourly. "How sweet."

"Take my advice, and quit while you're behind," his father snapped.

"Very well then," the man answered coldly. "Shall we continue this discussion somewhere more private, or shall we keep sparring in front of the tot?"

"If you didn't want to talk in front of my son, you should have kept your mouth closed as soon as the door opened," his father replied. "You did see him, didn't you? Or doesn't the FBI have very stringent vision requirements?"

"Sheriff, I'm sure I enjoy our repartee as much as you do, which is to say not at all, but we really don't have time for this. Get rid of him, or I will."

Jimmy kept his face carefully blank even as his stomach wrenched at the look in his father's eyes. The fear was back, and worse than before, mute evidence that the agent's threat was not an idle one. How would he 'get rid' of him? Where would he take him? Would he.....would he kill him? Is that why his father was so scared? Whatever the reason, it was absolutely imperative that the man not know that either he or his father was afraid. One of the first lessons Jimmy had learned at his father's knee was that bullies thrived on fear, and that depriving them of what they wanted most was an effective way of bringing them to heel. He tried to remember that now as his father took him by the shoulders, the FBI agent watching impatiently.

"Go back upstairs," his father said quietly, intently, his eyes boring into Jimmy's. "Be very quiet; don't wake your mother."

Jimmy stiffened as his father leaned in toward him—was he going to kiss him? Kissing was something any self-respecting boy over the age of six reserved for mothers, and then only when no one else was looking; to be kissed by his father in front of this awful man was almost too humiliating to bear. He struggled not to pull away as he felt his father's lips graze his cheek and keep going, coming to rest over his ear, lingering there.......

Seconds later, his father straightened up. "Go on," he said firmly. "I'll be up in a little while."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said, trying to sound abashed, which was difficult under the circumstances. He forced himself to walk slowly up the stairs, turning around once to look at his father, resisting the urge to turn a second time for fear of overdoing it. As soon as he was out of sight, he bolted down the upstairs hallway, slowing as he reached his parents' bedroom. Never before had his father entrusted him with a mission; the fact that he'd done so now meant that things were very bad indeed, but that didn't stop his heart from pounding with excitement...and pride. His father was counting on him. Not his mother, who was perfectly capable of handling the snotty man downstairs, but him. He mustn't let him down. Wiping his clammy hands on his pajamas, he took hold of the doorknob and turned it as quietly as he could.

His mother was still sound asleep, unaware that her home had been invaded. The telephone was on the bedside table beside his father's unslept-in side of the bed, and he mentally estimated the length of the phone cord versus the distance to the closet, going down on one knee to judge the space between the bottom of the closet door and the floor. It'll fit, he thought with relief, taking two careful steps toward the bed before stopping in his tracks when his mother sighed and rolled over. Before, she'd had her back to him; now she was facing the phone.

This wasn't going to be easy.



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




"Get in here," Valenti ordered, heading into the kitchen. "No, not the living room; that's right under my bedroom. I'm quite sure you don't want to wake my wife."

"Absolutely not," Agent Lewis said darkly as he followed him into the kitchen. "We wouldn't want to upset the little woman."

"Don't flatter yourself," Valenti retorted. "You don't want her awake for your protection, not hers. If she heard you shoot your mouth off like you did on the phone yesterday, she'd have you for lunch."

"You're hardly in a position to be accusing me of 'shooting my mouth off'," Lewis said, waving the newspaper in Valenti's face. "What is this, sheriff? What happened to 'keeping this quiet' and 'not tipping anyone off'? I'd call this 'tipping them off', wouldn't you?"

"I was misquoted by a movie producer eager to promote his movie and a press eager for a headline," Valenti said. "Unlike the lofty FBI, I actually have to deal with the public. You know, the little people that I, and supposedly you, are sworn to protect?"

"Don't presume to lecture me!" Lewis snapped. "My faith in local law enforcement may be misplaced, but I have never forgotten my duty."

"But you do seem to have forgotten how to tell time," Valenti shot back. "You said I had until tomorrow morning. What the hell are you doing here now?"

"How long would you have me wait, sheriff?" Lewis demanded, brandishing the newspaper. "Until the entire town has awakened to this charming headline? Until pastors in their pulpits entreat the good Lord to protect them from aliens like they did in '47?"

"Oh, spare me," Valenti said impatiently. "In case you haven't noticed, this is Roswell; the papers talk about aliens nearly every day."

"But it isn't every day that we're certain aliens are actually in Roswell," Lewis countered. "In Roswell after having committed murder, no less. In Roswell and reading the same headlines we are. And no longer in Roswell when they discover you're hot on their trail. Why I let myself be talked into trusting an incompetent like you, I'll never know."

"If I'm so incompetent, how can I be 'hot on their trail'?" Valenti asked.

Lewis stepped closer, his eyes burning. "Luck, Mr. Valenti. Sheer, unadulterated luck. Not skill, not intuition, not even a vague sixth sense; nothing more than blind, blundering luck. The kind that is absolutely useless in the hands of one who is too stupid to know what to do with it!"

"That's 'Sheriff Valenti' to you, 'Major' Lewis," Valenti said.

A very satisfying, albeit brief flicker of surprise crossed Lewis' features. "So you did your homework," he said sourly. "Shall I pin a medal on your chest?"

"That's the real reason you're here, isn't it?" Valenti said, ignoring the jibe. "You didn't need to 'let yourself be talked into' working with me. You've got an ulterior motive, a score to settle from your days in the Army with your buddy Cavitt."

"That's 'Colonel Cavitt' to you," Lewis said angrily.

"So you're into titles, are you? Tell me, how does 'agent' stack up against 'major'? Better? Worse?"

Valenti watched Lewis' face darken dangerously, making it abundantly clear he'd hit a very raw nerve; score another point for George Wilcox's memory and intuition. Get as mad as you want, Valenti thought. Lewis was welcome to rant, rave, and call him every name in the book as long as he stayed here, as long as he didn't try to haul his wife and son off to some dark hole in which they'd never be found. The connection Wilcox had made between Cavitt and Lewis had made Lewis' threat all the more frightening. Valenti remembered the night he and Captain Spade had chased Cavitt across the county after he'd kidnapped Emily Proctor and tried to stash her in the basement of one of the Army base's buildings, only barely catching up with him before he'd managed to do just that. Valenti had fired the tranquilizer dart which had brought Cavitt down, and he'd never forget the look in Cavitt's eyes, the fanaticism, the certainty that kidnapping a civilian woman in the middle of the night without a warrant or due process of any kind was his patriotic duty. He saw the same fire in Lewis' eyes right now, and there was no doubt in his mind that Lewis would treat his family just as Cavitt had treated Emily Proctor without so much as a shred of remorse. Which is why he needed to keep him busy, keep him talking, keep him from calling in the goons that Valenti was sure were just outside and give Jimmy a fighting chance to follow his instructions.

"However unjust my departure from the armed services may have been, at the moment I'd have to say that 'agent' is far preferable to 'major'," Lewis answered. "Would you like to know why?"

"I'm hanging on your every word," Valenti answered, privately hoping the "why" would take a good thirty minutes to explain.

"Sheridan Cavitt was a patriot," Lewis said, "a man who saw clearly what the aliens really wanted while others stuck their heads in the sand and tried to bargain with them, or reason with them, or psychoanalyze them."

"Let me guess," Valenti said in a bored tone. "No one appreciated him, no one listened to him, he was a voice crying in the wilderness, blah, blah, blah."

"Not at all," Lewis replied. "Many listened to him, many believed him. But one man—one man—stood between Sheridan and those who felt as he did: His commanding officer, a lily-livered, alien apologist who, maddeningly enough, always seemed to come out ahead as though guided by some perverse guardian angel."

"So someone injected a bit of humanity into the process," Valenti said. "And you object to that. Why am I not surprised?"

"You call it 'humanity'; I call it 'stupidity'," Lewis retorted. "Sheridan lost because he did not have support in the right places; I suffer no such handicap. I have none other than Director Hoover backing me, a man who understands hard decisions and the sacrifices that go with them. Which is why you are now going to take me to whatever suspects or witnesses you have in the Tate case so the FBI can finish what you have so completely bungled."

Damn. This had come way too fast. "You gave me until tomorrow morning!" Valenti objected, having counted on Lewis pontificating about Cavitt's heroics and how the Army had done them wrong for at least several more minutes. "Do you want accurate information or not?"

"That was before this," Lewis said, holding up the newspaper. "How it happened is irrelevant. Whether it's accurate is irrelevant. In a very short while, everyone in Roswell of any species will be reading this headline, which means we need to move now. You and I will take your car, and my men will follow at a discreet distance until the time comes to apprehend a suspect. And believe me, there will be a suspect, sheriff," he continued. "One way or another, I will have a warm body to set before Director Hoover by the time I leave today. I'd prefer that be someone who knows something about Audrey Tate's death, but in the absence of such, I'll have to settle for you. And your family, of course. I wouldn't want to deprive you of your little woman and pint-sized cheering section." He stepped closer, his eyes boring into Valenti's. "Have I made myself clear?"

Valenti's eyes flicked to the clock on the kitchen wall directly behind Lewis' head. Six minutes. That's all this little tête-à-tête had taken. He could stall a bit more getting ready to leave, give his son another minute or two, but it might not be enough. Lewis would leave his men here, and if they heard so much as a peep from upstairs.....he could only hope Jimmy would know enough to be very, very quiet.

Much as he hated it, their entire family's fate now rested in the hands of an eight year-old boy.





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



Cactus Motel, Roswell




When he heard the footsteps tap tapping toward his door, James Atherton heaved himself into a sitting position with a sigh, abandoning all pretense of sleep. And pretense it was as he hadn't slept a wink aside from the occasional doze, having spent the night staring at the ceiling, his mind working furiously. Now he grabbed a robe and made it to the door only seconds before the paper boy, who jumped a foot when the door opened just as he was laying a copy of the Daily Record on the ground outside.

"Oh, geez, mister, you startled me!" the paper boy gasped. "Sorry this is a little late; it went to press late last night. You'll see why when you see the headline."

"Mmm," Atherton murmured, closing the door on the paper boy and snapping open the paper to find the banner Sheriff Searching for Aliens? plastered across a tidy share of the front page. "Damn," he muttered, tossing the paper on the bed and sinking heavily into a chair, his insomnia due not to lack of sleep but to the subject of that headline. Having initially dismissed Sheriff Valenti's accusations against Langley, he'd had second thoughts. Is it possible? he thought for the hundredth time. Was it possible that Langley was an....an alien? Was it possible that he, James Atherton, an avid alienologist since the crash in '47, had missed a genuine alien sitting right across from him for the past two months? The sheriff's reasoning was undeniably intriguing; God knows Langley had always been a strange character. The way he commanded virtually every situation in which Atherton had seen him....the way others deferred to him without knowing why.....that strange contest the movie crew had started because no one could figure out where he lived.....the odd way he'd treated Miss Tate, and didn't seem to realize what was expected of him with regards to a lady......Mr. Dean's wild accusations, which suddenly sounded more plausible....

No, Atherton thought firmly, having been down this road many times since yesterday. Intriguing was not the same thing as damning. There were plenty of far more eccentric people than Langley—were all of them suddenly aliens? He would undoubtedly be considered eccentric himself if people were to discover his own subterfuge of masquerading under a pseudonym while wearing his own face and using his real name with a disguise—did that make him an alien? The sheriff struck Atherton as no fool, but he still couldn't bring himself to reach a similar conclusion, and in the end, his opinion was irrelevant; all that mattered was that his time here was over, and Langley was still missing. The first could not be helped; his two months in Roswell had consumed a good deal of cash which his wild-haired author persona would need to recoup with more conventions and speaking engagements at some point in the near future. And the second, it appeared, could not be helped either; no one seemed to know where Langley was, and while most believed him innocent of Dean's preposterous charges, they also believed he'd fled to avoid the sheriff. Highly unlikely, to Atherton's way of thinking, because Langley was not one to flee. But as Langley was also undeniably absent and there was no better explanation for that absence, he was not at liberty to disagree.

Time to go, Atherton thought sadly, pulling the curtain aside to gaze out at the motel's parking lot. The movie still had a few more days of filming, but there was little point in staying here any longer. What had begun as an interesting romp had become something else entirely; a pall had settled over the town after Miss Tate's death, with the crowds of onlookers disappearing as though watching would be disrespectful. Atherton shared the town's malaise, and the disappearance of his friend only made things worse. This had become a sad place to be. Time to move on. He pulled his suitcase out of the closet and started packing, his spirits rising at the thought of a change of scenery. Fifteen minutes later he set his briefcase beside his suitcase and had just picked up the phone to call a taxi when someone knocked on his door.

"Who is it?" Atherton called.

"Open the door, James," came a muffled voice.

Atherton's eyes widened as he set the phone down and flung open the door. "Langley!" he exclaimed. "Where have you.....come in here," he amended, glancing around the deserted parking lot before pulling him inside and hastily closing the door. "It's not the best idea for anyone to see you at the moment, but....oh, Langley, I was so worried about you!"

"I'm sorry about that," Langley answered, looking none the worse for wear. "I heard you'd been asking after me."

"Of course I was!" Atherton said. "You just disappeared! And everyone's saying you're avoiding the sheriff, which isn't a bad idea considering my encounter with him yesterday. He sounds a little.....unhinged. Luckily I was saved by a pack of newshounds."

"Is that why you were at the station yesterday?" Langley asked.

"You were there? But I didn't see you! Well, never mind; I was there because the sheriff insisted on it. Sounded like he was going to haul me down in chains if I didn't come willingly until I called him out on his attitude."

"He thought you'd know where I was?"

"It was more than that," Atherton said gravely. "He thinks...." he paused, dropping his voice ".....he thinks you're an alien."

"So he now believes Mr. Dean," Langley murmured.

"He seemed the most concerned about why you'd disappear the way you did," Atherton replied. "Why did you leave? Did Dean threaten you? I told the sheriff he was after you, that I was afraid he'd done you harm—"

"You think Charles Dean attacked me?" Langley asked with a touch of amusement in his voice.

"Well, not personally, of course," Atherton said. "But I wouldn't put it past him to hire it out and leave you bleeding in some dark alley, and I was worried sick he'd done just that. I've been scouring the town for the past two days trying to find you."

Langley's expression softened. "I appreciate your concern, James. I can't give you details, but I wanted you to know that nothing untoward had happened to me." He glanced down at the luggage. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes," Atherton said heavily. "No point in staying, really. The movie's almost over, already is over for all practical purposes, and you're gone. Time to go home for awhile, and then go back on the convention circuit and make some more money." He paused. "I don't suppose I could talk you into visiting."

"I would like that," Langley answered.

Atherton broke into a broad smile, the day suddenly looking better. "You would? Splendid! Why, I—"

A knock on the door cut him off. "Mr. Anderson?" called a muffled voice from the other side. "It's Sheriff Valenti. May I speak with you, please?"

Atherton looked blankly at the door. Valenti? "Why would the sheriff be here at this hour?" Langley asked in a low voice.

"I have no idea," Atherton whispered, moving to the window and looking carefully through the curtain. "But he's not alone. There's someone else in his car."

"Let me see," Langley said.

Atherton stepped back; whoever the sheriff's companion was, his face was in shadow, so he doubted Langley would be able to tell identify him. "Major Lewis," Langley said promptly, a cold edge to his voice.

Atherton peered out the window. "Major who? I can't even see—"

"Is there another exit from this room?"

Atherton blinked. "Exit? Well....there's the window in the bathroom, but.....why?"

"Because the sheriff isn't merely here to question you this time," Langley said. "Do you have a vehicle?"

"What? No," Atherton said. "A vehicle could be traced, so I never use one when I'm using my pseudonym. I travel by bus, or taxi, or—."

"Then we'll need to find a vehicle."

" 'Find'?" Atherton echoed. "What, you mean....'steal'?"

More knocking. "Mr. Anderson, are in you there?" Valenti called.

"We need to leave now," Langley insisted.

"No, you need to leave," Atherton corrected. "It's you Valenti is after, not me. You go on out the bathroom window, and I'll keep him busy."

"Listen to me," Langley commanded. "This isn't about Valenti, it's about the man in the car. Do you remember telling me about the FBI's new alien hunting unit?"

"Of course," Atherton answered, mystified.

"The man in the car is the head of that unit, a former Army officer of my acquaintance," Langley said. "I assure you that if he doesn't find me here, he will settle for you...and I don't want that on my conscience."

"Me?" Atherton said as the sheriff began a fresh round of knocking. "What possible good could I do him?"

"You don't want to know," Langley said darkly. "Gather only what you absolutely need, and I will see you safely past him."

Atherton stared at him in consternation for a moment before going to the window again. A man was emerging from the passenger side of Valenti's car, a man wearing a dark suit and an even darker expression. Beside him, another car had pulled up, and as Atherton watched in alarm, it, too, began disgorging men in dark suits.

"Mr. Anderson!" Valenti called again.

"James!" Langley whispered urgently. "There is no more time!"

Atherton reached down and picked up his briefcase. "Anything that could possibly be used to identify me is in here. Let's go."




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




"He's not here," Valenti said to Lewis.

"Then locate the owner of this fine establishment and have him open the door," Lewis ordered, his eyes raking the little motel's parking lot.

"No problem," Valenti said casually, checking his watch. "He'd be in church right now, so we can just barge up the aisle during the sermon yelling, 'FBI! Anyone seen any aliens?' That's oughta do it."

Valenti watched with satisfaction as Lewis frowned, stymied yet again. This was the third place that had turned up empty, the first two being Langley's and Carl Smith's respective apartments, each of which had been opened by a nervous landlady bullied into it by Lewis flashing his FBI credentials. Lewis and his agents had spent surprisingly little time going through either apartment. "It doesn't matter who they were when they lived here," he'd said dismissively when Valenti had made a less than complimentary observation about the FBI's investigative skills. "They are no longer those people." When pressed for details, he would only say, "That's classified", but he'd already said enough to confirm Valenti's suspicions that aliens were masters of disguise.

"Open it," Lewis ordered.

Valenti eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'open it'," Lewis repeated impatiently. "As in 'open the door'."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you 'can't?" Lewis demanded.

"It means 'I can't," Valenti repeated, "as in 'I can't open it without a warrant'. You can't either, although I notice that hasn't stopped you. What a shock."

"I don't have time for that nonsense," Lewis announced. "Open it."

Valenti broke into a laugh, prompting raised eyebrows from Lewis and horrified expressions from the agents behind him. "Did I say something funny?" Lewis asked coldly.

"You sure did," Valenti chuckled. "You and Cavitt are certainly birds of a feather. He once said exactly the same thing when he tried to get me to help him ransack a citizen's house without a warrant. I'll tell you the same thing I told him—no."

"Sheriff, the laws of this great nation—"

"Aren't worth shit if those sworn to uphold them toss them out the window on a whim," Valenti interrupted sharply. "You want to break them, I can't stop you, but I'll be damned if I'll help you do it. You want that open? Open it yourself."

"It is much more appropriate for local law enforcement to—"

"To what?" Valenti demanded. "Do your dirty work for you? No quivering landlady here, is there? Well, no problem, agent; you've got those strapping young men behind you, ready and willing to kiss your....boots," he finished as the agents flushed.

"Sheriff," Lewis said softly, stepping closer, "may I remind you that I left two of my men back at your house to ensure your cooperation?"

"And how do you plan to reach them? Are you really willing to abandon this all-important investigation of yours to tool on back to my place?"

Valenti watched the agents behind Lewis shift nervously as their boss smoldered. One of law enforcement's greatest wishes was for more rapid forms of communication, but this was one time he was grateful that hadn't yet been invented. For some reason, the agents Lewis had left behind were not in the house, but parked in a car out front and nowhere near a phone; he would have to literally drive back there in order to contact them. And as their boss was on the road, those agents would be unable to contact him either. All of which boded well for Jimmy having been able to complete his task, and raised Valenti's hopes that he and his family would make it out of this in one piece. The best thing he could do now was to keep Lewis away from them, slow him down by any means possible. The fact that needling him accomplished that task was a bonus.

"Open it," Lewis ordered one of the agents, who promptly produced a set of lock picks from his breast pocket. "I don't have time to stand here while you fuss with that!" Lewis snapped. "I said open it!"

The agent blinked, pocketed the lock picks, and slammed his shoulder into the motel room door. It took three slams to open it, by which time heads had popped out of nearby rooms bearing expressions ranging from curious to alarmed.

"Very covert," Valenti deadpanned.

"Oh, shut up," Lewis said darkly, pushing past his agents into the motel room. The bed was unmade and slept in; a single suitcase sat beside it which, when opened, revealed clothes and toiletries, but no identification.

"Sir!" an agent called from the bathroom. "The window in here is wide open."

Like a dog that had suddenly caught a scent, Lewis' head snapped up. A moment later he was heading not for the bathroom, but the motel room door, nearly knocking Valenti over in the process. He had no sooner set foot in the parking lot when a car six doors down flared to life, backed out of its parking space with a squeal of tires, and flew past them.




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




"Faster," Brivari ordered, twisting around in the passenger seat. "They're gaining on us."

"Don't you think I know that?" Atherton asked, his hands white from gripping the steering wheel as they sped down the highway with the sheriff and the FBI in close pursuit.

"Then go faster," Brivari urged.

"This is an Oldsmobile, not a Corvette," Atherton objected. "It can only go so fast."

Brivari threw another worried look out the rear window. He was already treading on dangerously thin ice, having used his abilities to unlock this particular vehicle and start its engine with Atherton too startled that he was being pursued to spend much time asking questions. Those questions were bound to come up, however, along with questions about any other "miracles" he performed....but it looked like there was nothing to be done about that. Their pursuers were coming closer and closer. He could certainly escape, but Atherton would not be so fortunate.

A moment later, Brivari reached out with his mind and pressed the car's accelerator all the way to the floor. Atherton's eyes widened as he felt the pedal move of its own accord, widened further still as the car surged forward, going faster, but not fast enough.

"What just happened?" Atherton gasped, struggling to control the car at the increased speed.

"Focus on the road," Brivari ordered.

"But—"

"The road, James. We have to get away from them."

"Look," Atherton said desperately, "why don't we pull over, you can vanish, I'll tell them you kidnapped me or some such rubbish. At least we won't wind up wrapped around a tree."

"No, you'll wind up locked in a cell for the rest of your life," Brivari said. "Not to mention your identity will be discovered, your secret out, your life ruined. I won't have that. Not because of me."

"We can't keep this up," Atherton argued. "This car isn't built to go this fast for this long. Before long we're going to blow a gasket, and then we'll need another strategy."

Indeed, Brivari thought sourly, making a mental note to chastise Malik for his love of inferior human technology. He could disable the pursuing cars, of course, but not without completely revealing himself to Atherton. Perhaps an obstacle in their path would suffice? It would have to be somewhere remote enough that it would not be handy to commandeer another vehicle....

A shot rang out, piercing the back windshield, shattering it into a shower of cascading bits of glass. "Good Lord!" Atherton sputtered, the car careening wildly from side to side as he ducked. "They're shooting at us? My God, Langley, what do we do now?"

Brivari turned in his seat, his eyes burning. They were very close now, and Lewis was hanging out the passenger side of the sheriff's vehicle, raising his gun again....no, not a gun....more of a rifle.....a very familiar rifle....

"Lean to your left!" Brivari shouted, realizing what Lewis was holding.

Too late. Atherton had spun around to see what was happening, providing Lewis with the perfect target; a second later, a soft hissing noise confirmed Brivari's worst fears. He gave it a mental shove, but the tip still grazed Atherton's neck before falling to the floor. "Something hit me!" Atherton gasped, clawing at the spot where the tranquilizer dart had nicked him just above his collarbone. "What is it? Is it a bullet? Have I been shot?"

Enough! Brivari thought furiously, catching the look of triumph on Lewis' face, that same face which had been so eager to carve Jaddo into little pieces, that had struck the Healer to the floor, that had threatened to kill General Ramey. Holding up a hand, he aimed a blast of energy at the first car, causing the engine to burst into flames. "Oh, my God!" Atherton exclaimed, gazing in the rear view mirror as Lewis' car swerved for several seconds before veering off the road. A moment later the same fate befell the second car. One more thing, Brivari thought, sending a nearby tree crashing across the road, effectively blocking access.

"What was that?" Atherton demanded in a frightened voice, his eyes darting from Langley to the road and back again. "Was that.....did you.....are you.....oh my," he added in a fainter voice as the car began to slow. "I don't.....I don't feel well."

"Let go, James," Brivari said gently, mentally taking the wheel as Atherton began to lose consciousness. "I'll drive."





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


I'll post Chapter 57 on Wednesday, December 31st.

[Kathy W 2200]

Happy New Year, everyone!





CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN



August 23, 1959, 10 a.m.

Roswell



"What the hell are you doing?" Valenti demanded as Agent Lewis unrolled the car window and hoisted himself up on the sill.

"Ending this," Lewis called sharply, pulling out a gun. Before Valenti could protest, he fired, shattering the window of the fleeing vehicle in front of them.

"Are you crazy?" Valenti shouted. "You can't just gun down American citizens!"

"The occupants of that vehicle are neither American nor citizens," Lewis retorted, pulling a rifle off the floor Valenti had never seen before. Where had that come from? He'd been so worried about his family when they'd left the house that he must have missed it.

"Put it down, agent," Valenti warned, "or I stop this car."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Lewis snapped, raising the rifle and firing.

Damn it! Valenti thought furiously as the car in front of them swerved wildly. That did it. Threats or no threats, there was no way he was going to transport a gunman who was doing his best to add to the growing pile of bodies in his town. He was just about to pull over when flames burst from the edges of the car's hood.

"Jesus!" Valenti sputtered, swerving every bit as wildly as the car ahead of them just had.

"Keep going!" Lewis shouted.

"No way!" Valenti shouted back. "We're on fire!"

"Don't stop!" Lewis roared. "That's an order!"

"Go to hell!" Valenti yelled.

The car bounced over the road's edge as Valenti slammed on the brakes, nearly hurling Lewis from the window. Don't mind if I do, he thought grimly as he jammed the brake pedal to the floor, struggling to control the bucking car. It probably only took a half minute to stop but seemed much longer and the flames much higher by the time he scrambled out, grabbed the fire extinguisher from his trunk, and sprayed the hood. The other, similarly afflicted car had come to a halt in a less graceful way, its front end buckled against a nearby tree, the flames dancing from its hood threatening to ignite it. Valenti trained the extinguisher on the second car for several seconds before returning to his, going back and forth until he was certain both fires were out. By that time all of the agents had shambled, dazed, from the wreckage.

"Everyone okay?" Valenti asked, squinting through the smoke that made it difficult to see.

"I...I think so," one of the agents answered.

"Why did you stop?" Lewis demanded, appearing out of the smoke like some awful apparition. "I gave you explicit orders not to stop!"

"Guess you're okay," Valenti said sourly. "Or as 'okay' as you'll ever be."

"I ordered you—"

"I don't take orders from you!" Valenti snapped. "And you do not shoot at people in my town without a damned good reason, a reason which you did not have, you flaming asshole!"

The agents off to the side, having just begun to recover, lapsed back into shock. "Is that what this is about?" Lewis said tersely. "You're concerned for the 'people' of your town? Sheriff, those weren't Roswell residents, they were aliens!"

"One of them was James Anderson, whom I talked to just yesterday," Valenti objected. "He was never implicated as a suspect—"

"I don't care!" Lewis exclaimed. "Has it not occurred to you that James Anderson was also an alien? Try to wrap your tiny little mind around this—they can look human. If 'Langley' could be an alien, why not Anderson? Did you take a blood sample? Do an x-ray? Without either of those, you have no way of knowing if the occupants were human."

"Without either of those, you have no way of knowing they weren't," Valenti retorted.

"There were not one, but two aliens in that car, and you just let them go!" Lewis exploded.

"The car was on fire!" Valenti shouted. "You're not going to catch anything real or imaginary if you let yourself be blown up!"

"And why did the cars catch fire?" Lewis demanded. "How very convenient that both caught fire at the same time. And where did that come from?"

The smoke had cleared somewhat, and Valenti followed Lewis' gaze. A huge tree had fallen—no, been ripped—from the earth to lie neatly on its side smack across the road, its exposed roots dangling in the wind. A tree that would have taken many men with trucks and cranes and chainsaws the better part of a day to fell had been casually tipped over like a child bumping a Lincoln Log.

"Do you believe me now?" Lewis asked. "We were pursuing aliens. This proves it! If you had just—"

"Why didn't they kill us?"

Lewis stopped. "What?"

"Why didn't they kill us?" Valenti repeated, gazing at the tree's enormous root ball. "Anything that could do that could easily have killed us, all of us. Why didn't they?"

Lewis started at him in disbelief. "What, now you want an explanation for their supposed benevolence? Has it not occurred to you that they tried to kill us and failed?"

"You were certainly trying to kill them," Valenti muttered.

"Nonsense!" Lewis protested, brandishing his odd rifle. "The bullet merely broke the window; this is a tranquilizer rifle. I was trying to capture them, not kill them."

"And you failed," Valenti noted. "The mighty FBI failed. How about that?"

Lewis' expression darkened dangerously. "If I didn't know better, sheriff, I might think you were happy about that."

"If I didn't know better, agent, I might think you actually gave a shit about someone's opinion besides your own."

Valenti held his ground while Lewis glared at him, appearing to be mere seconds from a meltdown. Then he suddenly pulled back.

"We are wasting time," he announced in a voice tight with rage. "I know I hit the driver, and we know what kind of car they were driving. I suggest we get moving before they get too far ahead of us. I will settle with you later," he added to Valenti before stalking off in the direction of the fleeing car, his men trailing behind him.




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



Mescalero Indian Reservation




A soft noise woke Atherton; he opened his eyes only to regret that a moment later when the world began spinning merrily around him. It took several minutes to halt the spinning and clear his vision, giving him a view of a sparse room with a single window. And by that window, in the room's one chair, sat a little girl of about eight or so, staring at him solemnly, so still that he wondered if she were real or he was dreaming.

"Where am I?" he whispered.

Her reaction settled that question; the girl bolted from the chair and skittered out of the room as through he had threatened her. Atherton tried to follow her with his eyes only to discover that any movement of his head restarted the visual merry-go-round. Where's the brass ring? he thought wearily, clamping his eyes closed and straining with his ears to catch the slightest sound. A few minutes later soft footsteps approached, and he risked opening his eyes again.

A young woman stood at the foot of his bed, her long, dark hair hanging straight over her shoulders. Indian, Atherton thought. The child who had just left had also been Indian; he hadn't processed that until just now. "You are awake," the young woman said to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," Atherton admitted. "Where am I?"

The woman paused, as though uncertain as to whether she should answer that. "I think it would be best if you talked to my husband."

She disappeared before he could protest or learn a blessed thing from her, leaving Atherton to wonder again if he were dreaming. How in the world did he wind up with Indians? Had he overimbibed at some establishment or other and been tossed here to sleep it off? But he didn't remember having frequented a watering hole; he only remembered packing this morning.....yes, he'd been about to leave town.....

A male Indian appeared in the doorway, much taller than his wife, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Who are you?" Atherton asked before he, too, decided to disappear. "Where am I?"

"I am River Dog," the man answered, "and you are in my house on the reservation outside Roswell."

"Your house?" Atherton repeated. "I admit there are times I've tied one on, but, how in the world did I wind up in your house?"

"You don't remember?"

Atherton paused, plucking at the strings of memory which were very faint at the moment. He'd decided to leave....packed his suitcase....called the taxi.....

"Nasedo brought you here," River Dog said, drawing his own conclusions from the silence. "He said you had been drugged but would recover, and asked me to watch over you until he returned."

Atherton blinked. What in blazes was he talking about? "Who is 'nah-say-doe'? Do I know him?"

"He is the man who was with you when you were attacked."

Langley, Atherton remembered suddenly. He had been with Langley, careening down the highway with the FBI on their tail. And they'd shot out the back windshield, something had hit him in the neck, and then......

Oh God, Atherton thought, remembering the rest of it. He sat up much too quickly, ignoring the way the room spun around him, both heart and head pounding like a kettle drum. Langley was an alien. It was the only explanation for the odd things that had happened, for the way he'd started that car they'd swiped without appearing to hotwire it, for the accelerator magically moving to the floor, for those cars behind them bursting into flames. "Good Lord!" he rasped. "The sheriff was right! He's.....he's an......"

He stopped, it suddenly occurring to him that bleating about Langley being an alien to this Indian might not be the best idea he'd ever had. But River Dog looked neither alarmed nor puzzled. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he took a seat in the chair previously occupied by the child and fixed Atherton with an appraising look that was most uncomfortable.

"You know, don't you?" Atherton whispered. "You already know he's...."

"He's....what?" River Dog asked.

"He's....different," Atherton said carefully, gambling that River Dog would merely dismiss him as mad if it turned out he didn't know.

"I have known since boyhood that Nasedo is not one of us," River Dog answered.

Not one of us. Atherton hesitated, uncertain of how to interpret that. A statement that vague could mean this River Dog knew that Langley, or nah-say-doe, or whatever he called him was an alien, or it could simply mean that he was not Indian. "And....that doesn't bother you?" he ventured.

River Dog gave a small shrug. "I owe Nasedo my life, as did my father."

Did. Past tense. Atherton stared at the young man in front of him, finally putting it all together. "It was your father who died, wasn't it? He said his friend was an Indian.....he was so broken up about it.....so very upset."

River Dog dropped his eyes. "Nasedo blames himself for my father's death."

And no wonder, Atherton thought, realizing now why his friend had been so distraught. Langley's Indian friend had died of pneumonia, if he remembered rightly, something Langley may well have had the technology to cure. It wasn't just that he hadn't been there when his friend had died, it was that he possessed the means to have prevented that death in the first place. "I can see why he might feel that way," he said to River Dog. "Given who....'nah-say-doe' is, he may have been able to cure him."

"Nasedo saved my father's life when I was a child," River Dog said, his voice devoid of even a hint of reproach. "I have no reason to doubt he could have done so again."

"You sound very philosophical about it," Atherton observed. "I imagine others would find that harder to accept."

"The Creator's will is sometimes hard to accept," River Dog agreed. "But when one is prevented from using the means available to affect something, it is all the more clear that whatever happened was the Creator's wish. That Nasedo was busy elsewhere when my father lay dying tells me it was the Creator's will that he not intervene."

"Somehow I doubt 'nah-say-doe' sees it that way," Atherton said, finding it hard to believe that Langley would accept an explanation of divine intervention.

"He does not," River Dog said heavily. "It is a burden I wish he would lay down....but that is a decision he must make."

Atherton was quiet for a minute, his head clearing as certain details fell into place. He'd imagined this moment many, many times.....but not this way. No, he'd had something much more scholarly in mind, something along the lines of aliens approaching him because he was learned, and open-minded, and eager to make their acquaintance. Never in a million years had he imagined himself in a car pursued by government agents shooting at him. And people thought it was only the aliens who were dangerous. Boy, did they have that backwards. But he has friends, he thought, excitement building as he realized that a key belief held by himself and his fellow alienologists had just been confirmed: The aliens had human allies. They had long thought they must have in order to have remained hidden for so long and to effect the escape of the one purported to have been captured. Efforts to locate those allies had been completely unsuccessful....but no one had thought of Indians. If this man had truly been a child when he had discovered Langley's secret, he must have known almost from the beginning, from the crash itself.

"So....you've known nah-say-doe since childhood?" Atherton asked casually, eager for more information. "When exactly did you meet him?"

"When I was sixteen," River Dog answered. "He sought shelter among my people when he was hunted, and befriended us."

He hid here, Atherton thought, another detail now confirmed. Although the standard tale told of an alien held captive for three years, another version had two captive aliens, with one escaping almost immediately and eluding all efforts at recapture. So Langley had escaped and hidden here, while another had been less fortunate. "Were there others?" Atherton asked. "Do you know of any more like him?"

But River Dog shook his head and rose from his chair. "It is best that he tell you his story when he returns, if he so chooses."

"He's not here? Where is he?"

"He did not say," River Dog answered, "merely asked me to give you shelter until he returned. As Nasedo's guest, you are welcome to stay as long as necessary."

"I should go," Atherton said, rising to his feet only to sink back down on the bed as his head protested. "Or maybe not," he added weakly.

"You should wait for the effects of whatever drug you were given to wear off," River Dog said as he opened the door. "And it would not be wise to return to town even if you were well. Those hunting you will no doubt be looking for you."

"What time is it?" Atherton asked.

"It is mid-afternoon," River Dog replied. "Rest. I will alert you when Nasedo returns."

Atherton laid back on the bed; it felt good, just a few minutes of conversation having taken more of a toll than he would have expected. It had been mid-morning when he'd fled with Langley; there was no telling what had happened in the intervening hours. If Langley had gone back to town, he may well have been captured. For all the irony of having spent the last two months with an alien and being none the wiser, it would be even more ironic if his first true meeting with an alien ended before it really began.




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



Valenti residence




Valenti turned the patrol car onto his street, Agent Lewis smoldering silently in the passenger seat beside him while the other agents sat tensely behind them. After hours of searching, including a nice, long trek in the hot sun, a hitched ride to the station, and an exhaustive search of the town and surrounding environs, they had predictably turned up....nothing. Not so much as a hint of the fleeing car or its occupants, nor a whisper from all the bulletins he'd put out describing same. The car containing James Anderson and whoever had been with him had simply vanished.

Which means I may be about to vanish too, Valenti thought heavily as he drove down his street. In the absence of a warm body to haul in, he was quite sure Agent Lewis would make good on his threat and haul him in instead. That was the bad news. The good news was that his family was likely safe; he'd been gone so long that Jimmy must have had time to carry out his instructions. "Call Sheriff Wilcox. And try not to wake your mother," he'd whispered into his son's ear, knowing that even an eight year-old's rendition of the morning's events would tell George all he needed to know. When he'd left with Lewis and company this morning, Valenti had thought they wouldn't be gone much more than a couple of hours; the several hours that had elapsed was a bonus. Andi and Jimmy should be long gone by now, leaving only one person for Lewis to take into custody. Not good, to be sure, but better than his entire family being marched off.

The car Lewis had left behind was right where it had been, on the street in front of his house. Valenti glanced in the window as he drove past, the two agents inside watching him pull into the driveway with apprehensive expressions. "Yes, they're still there," Lewis said sullenly. "And so is your family. They wouldn't have been allowed to leave."

Valenti said nothing, knowing full well it would have taken a lot more than a couple of FBI agents to stop George Wilcox. "You and your wife and son have fifteen minutes to gather what belongings you need," Lewis added. "Anything you don't have at that point, you'll leave without."

"How magnanimous of you," Valenti said dryly.

"Don't push your luck, sheriff," Lewis retorted, opening his door. "I have no one in custody, and your incompetence to thank for that."

" 'Incompetence'?" Valenti repeated, climbing out of the car and facing Lewis across the roof. "So that's how you're going to spin this? Well, I suppose you have to make up something. It wouldn't do to admit that you blew it."

"I'm not 'making up' a thing," Lewis said angrily. "If you had opened that motel room door when I told you to, we may have caught them!"

"So why were you asking me to open that motel room door?" Valenti demanded. "You were obviously willing to break the law and do it yourself, so why didn't you? I'll tell you why—you wanted a scapegoat. You knew you were out of line, and you wanted someone else to blame. This isn't about my 'incompetence', it's about your cowardice."

Slam! The car shook as Lewis closed his door with enough force to almost knock an exiting agent off his feet. "Your sidearm," he said through gritted teeth. "Hand it over."

"Excuse me?"

"Surrender your weapon, or I'll have it taken from you."

Valenti glanced at the three agents who had managed to climb out of the back seat, all on his side. No point fighting this; there were too many of them. "Now, inside," Lewis ordered after he'd handed over his gun. "And make it quick. I can safely say my patience with you has all but evaporated."

Ask me if I care, Valenti thought darkly as he was "escorted" up his front walk, the two agents who had been left behind joining the other three. He no longer cared what they did to him so long as his family was free.

He was halfway to the front door when Andi and Jimmy appeared in the doorway.

With a sudden rush of panic, Valenti froze in his tracks, the agents coming to a halt behind him. What in blazes were they doing here? Had Jimmy not called? Had George not been home? Certainly he would have removed them immediately if he had been, so that must be it. He had no sooner thought that when George appeared behind Andi, wearing a serene expression that suggested he had not grasped the gravity of the situation. But how could that be? He'd talked to George just yesterday about the FBI's interest in this case, and it was George who had pointed out that Lewis might have bones to pick that had nothing to do with current circumstances. So why hadn't George taken his family to safety? Why was he standing there in the doorway, calm as could be, as though absolutely nothing was wrong even though Valenti was only yards away and surrounded by dark-suited men who obviously hadn't stopped by for dinner?

A second later, the front door opened and a horde of people spilled out of his house, most bearing notepads, some bearing cameras. Reporters, Valenti thought incredulously. Wilcox had called the press. And judging from the hungry looks on their faces, he must have told them some very interesting tales.

"Sheriff, is it true that the FBI has asked for your help hunting Audrey Tate's killer?" one of the reporters asked as flashbulbs popped.

"And is that killer an alien?" another called.

Everyone started talking at once. There must have been at least a dozen reporters, most with photographers in tow, making for quite a crowd on the front lawn. The FBI agents backed up, alarmed, looking to their boss for direction. Lewis, who was standing by the car in shock, finally came to life and charged into the fray. "No pictures!" he barked as the cameras snapped away. "Don't talk to them! Don't tell them anything!"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Wilcox called, his booming voice carrying over the scrum on the front lawn. "I'd like to introduce Agent Bernard Lewis, formerly Major Bernard Lewis of the United States Army. Agent Lewis is the FBI's chief representative in this investigation, so all queries should be addressed directly to him."

There was a pause, a very pregnant pause as every gaze, every scrap of attention turned toward Lewis, then.....bedlam. Lewis was surrounded by the entire pack, flashbulbs popping away and reporters shouting questions about Audrey Tate and aliens as he vainly tried to fend them off. Valenti caught Wilcox's eye and turned around to find the noisy hubbub had attracted the neighborhood's attention; people were coming out of their houses, walking across the street, curious as to what the commotion was all about.

"No comment!" Lewis was repeating over and over as he elbowed his way through the crowd. "No pictures! This is a classified investigation! Let me through!"

But he was getting nowhere, and the more he objected, the more the press smelled blood, making the flashbulbs pop faster and the queries more insistent. The agents having formed a protective ring around their boss, or tried to, Valenti found himself alone. He walked over to Wilcox, who was placidly watching the melee as though he hadn't just averted an official government kidnapping.

"Nice," Valenti said approvingly. "Ballsy, actually."

"Wasn't my idea," Wilcox said calmly.

"Then whose was it?"

"Emily Proctor's," Wilcox answered. "She tipped off the press and called in the neighbors when Cavitt was harassing Mac Brazel right after the crash."

"Are they okay?" Valenti asked, trying to give his wife and son a reassuring look, Andi's arm protectively around Jimmy.

"I told them what I told those reporters; that the FBI had asked for your assistance on a case."

"You've got reporters here from all over the state," Valenti marveled.

"I had a good long while to rustle them up," Wilcox noted. He glanced at Valenti, then back to Lewis, who was still under siege. "I take it you didn't find anything?"

"We might have," Valenti allowed, "but they got away. Lewis wanted me to unlock a door for him so he could proceed without a warrant. Sound familiar?"

"Sheridan Cavitt come back to haunt us," Wilcox muttered, shaking his head in disgust. "So what do you think? Was there anything to this?"

Valenti hesitated. "I can't deny some weird things happened, George."

"Yeah, well, this is Roswell, capital of the weird," Wilcox answered. "And weird's a long way from guilty."

"Tell that to Lewis," Valenti said.

Wilcox was quiet for a moment. "I won't lie to you, Jim—this might not work. If that bastard's determined to fry you, he'll do it no matter what I do, find you wherever you hide, assuming you'd be willing to hide. That's why I decided to stay put and make our stand here, because leaving wouldn't really do any good. Our best bet is to take advantage of the fact that men like Lewis operate best in darkness; they can't stand the light of day or the scrutiny of the public. If anything happens to you or your family after this, the press will be on him like a duck on a June bug, and I'm betting he'll want to avoid that. Hope so, anyway. It's our best shot." He paused. "Think I should rescue him?"

"What the hell for?" Valenti asked.

Wilcox smiled. "Because there's something in it for us," he said cagily, stepping closer to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he called in that megaphone-quality voice that Valenti dearly wished he possessed, "Agent Lewis has made it clear that he's running a classified investigation, so we'd appreciate your cooperation. Rest assured that should anything—anything at all—come to light regarding this case that can be released to the public, Sheriff Valenti and I will see to it that each and every one of you is notified immediately. That's the least we can do to help out our boys at the FBI."

Lewis locked eyes with Wilcox, the latter serene, the former furious, but still savvy enough to take advantage of the brief lapse in the press's attention and make a run for his car. Reporters followed, but within a couple of minutes, both cars containing FBI agents had left.

"I'll take round one with these," George said as the reporters' attention swerved their way. "You go give your family a hug. And decide what you're going to tell these people, because you're going to have to tell them something before they'll leave you alone."

Valenti nodded mutely, leaving George to handle the sea of questions as he slipped inside the house. "Jim, are you all right?" Andi asked, concerned, but clearly unaware of what had almost just happened. Jimmy was another matter; his eyes were two pools of fear as he flung his arms around his father's waist for an uncharacteristic hug.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Jimmy whispered.

Valenti buried his face in his son's hair. "You did good, kiddo. You did good."

"What does that mean?" Andi asked. "Honestly, I woke up this morning to George Wilcox knocking on our door and you gone, and with the FBI, no less. What's going on?"

Valenti glanced behind him. "Let me go rescue George, and then I'll tell you all about it."




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




Mescalero Indian Reservation




The sun was low in the sky by the time Brivari returned to Quanah's house, having watched carefully to make certain Lewis had abandoned his search and to monitor the repercussions of the morning's events. He had changed both the color and numeric identification of the car they'd taken, and Atherton was safely hidden with River Dog, so the chances of Lewis finding anything were remote. Still, he had lingered in town, reluctant to return any sooner than necessary because he dreaded doing so. As he approached the house, the sound of wood being chopped drew him toward the back yard, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Without being able to see who was doing the chopping, it was easy to imagine it was Quanah, swinging the axe in the summer evening sun like he had so many times before......

But it wasn't Quanah, of course. It was River Dog, who had moved into Quanah's house with his family shortly after his father's death, and who looked up only briefly before resuming his chopping, the axe coming down with a whack which sounded louder than the previous strokes.

"He is inside," River Dog said by way of greeting.

"Is he awake?" Brivari asked.

Whack! "Has been for hours."

Brivari nodded, having had no idea how much of the tranquilizer Atherton had received. "Is he fit to move, do you think?"

"He is currently helping Nalin clean up after dinner, so yes, he is fit to move," River Dog answered, throwing the logs he had just split onto a pile to his left.

"Then I will relieve you of him at once," Brivari answered. "I appreciate you sheltering him."

River Dog set the axe down and fixed Brivari with a level stare. "Where have you been, Nasedo? We have not seen you since father's funeral almost two months ago."

"I did not attend your father's funeral," Brivari reminded him.

"Yes, you did," River Dog said. "However angry you may have been, however invisible.....you were there. I know you were."

Of course I was, Brivari thought. For all that it had been the son who had introduced him to these people, it had been the father who had accepted him, fought for him, taken him into his home even in the face of disapproval from his own people. In many ways, Quanah had filled the void left by Valeris' death. Now it was Atherton who at least partially filled the void left by Quanah's death....and the place where Quanah once walked had become painful to visit.

"I know you miss him," River Dog said, as if reading his thoughts. "I know you blame yourself for his death. But you would do well to remember that you are not the only one who misses him, or the only one who blames themselves. If it's hard for you to see this place without him, how much harder, then, for us? How much harder for my grandmother, who took the medicine that could have saved her son? But we do not have the luxury of just walking away," he continued with an edge to his voice. "We do not have the luxury of selfishness."

An awkward silence settled over them as Brivari found himself in a most unfamiliar position: At a loss for words. River Dog stared at him hard for a long moment, then dropped his eyes.

"I'm sorry. My tongue is quicker than my father's. He often said so....but now he is not here to remind me."

"Do not apologize," Brivari said quietly. "I can offer no excuse for my behavior because there is none to offer. I can only say that your father's death has left......" He paused, gazing out over the forest that had sheltered him for so long. ".....has left an empty space in my life larger than I would have anticipated."

River Dog's expression softened. "Then stay with us awhile. Talk. Remember. We have not only missed him, we have missed you as well. And we would hope you have missed us."

I have, Brivari thought, not having realized that until just now. The movie had been a pleasant diversion until it had all gone sour, reminding him of palace intrigues and power plays. "I have missed you," he confessed. "And I will make it up to you, to all of you. But first I must get my friend far away from here."

"What did he do?" River Dog asked.

Brivari sighed heavily. "He befriended me."

River Dog's eyebrows rose. "So it was you they were after," he said slowly. "Your hunters have returned."

"I'm afraid so," Brivari replied.

"Skinwalkers?" River Dog asked warily.

Yes. "No," Brivari answered, noting the irony that the Argilians, at least, would qualify for the term "skinwalker" in a way the Covari hunters never had. "These hunters possess no special powers, but that does not mean they cannot do you harm. I don't believe we were followed here, but in case I'm wrong, I should remove my friend at once. And after he is safely hidden, I will come back. I—" He hesitated. "I am sorry I was away so long. You are right; my grief is no excuse."

"You loved him," River Dog said gently. "I can forgive a man many things when that is his motivation."

"I am not a man," Brivari noted.

"Which made no difference to father, and makes none to me," River Dog replied. He started for the house, then paused. "About your friend....I should warn you. He knows."

"Knows.....what?"

"He, too, knows that you are no man."

"He said that?"

River Dog shook his head. "He did not need to."

Brivari followed River Dog into the house, still holding out hope that, with everything having happened so quickly, Atherton's memory would be tenuous and the various unexplainable things he had witnessed might be explained away in a less revealing fashion. A faint hope, perhaps, given Atherton's powers of observation, but then he had been drugged. That should count for something.

Atherton was in the kitchen. "You came back!" he exclaimed, his tone making it clear he hadn't expected to see Brivari again.

"Of course I came back," Brivari said. "As I was telling your husband, I appreciate your giving him shelter," he added to Nalin. "My thanks, as always."

"He has been helpful," Nalin answered with a smile. "Your friend is quite the cook."

"Oh, I'm nothing really, I just dabble," Atherton said, still staring at Brivari as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "And it was the least I could do."

"I'm sure," Brivari said dryly, imaging Atherton taking over Nalin's kitchen. "But we need to leave. I am unaware of any pursuit, but we must not take chances. I will repay your kindness when I return," he added to River Dog and his wife.

"And I as well," Atherton added, pumping River Dog's hand. "Thank you so much. I'll—"

"James?" Brivari prompted.

Atherton tore himself away from his temporary hosts and followed him out of the house. "I have procured another vehicle," Brivari said, "but we can't return to Roswell. Is there somewhere you can go where you would be safe for a few days until we're certain no one has tracked you?"

"Absolutely," Atherton answered. "My house, the one where my eccentric author persona lives. Everyone knew me as James Anderson, so no one would be looking for me there. Or you either," he added, coming to a halt behind Brivari. "We have a great deal to talk about, my friend. A great deal indeed."

Brivari turned, giving Atherton a level stare which was returned by an expression filled with....fear? Anticipation? Hope, Brivari decided, having read Atherton's moods long enough to decipher this one. He was concerned Brivari was going to deny it all, a distinctly attractive possibility because Atherton could prove nothing. Once safely deposited in his house with no pursuit, Atherton would no longer be in danger, leaving Brivari free to disappear, change his face, melt into the sea of humanity which had provided such an excellent hiding place for so long. Atherton would no doubt write another book or consult his "alienologist" friends about his suspicions, but he would never know for sure.

"Yes," Brivari said suddenly, logical argument going straight out the window. "We do have a great deal to talk about."

Atherton's face nearly split in half, his smile was so wide. "Oh, my goodness!" he exclaimed with all the fervor of a man facing his dream come true. "I have waited so long for this day......so long! But I must confess I never dreamed of it happening on an Indian Reservation after being chased by the FBI. And you're rescuing me. That's downright backwards!"

"Life rarely turns out the way we expect," Brivari replied. "On any world. Yours or mine."

Atherton froze for a moment as those words hung in the air, the first spoken testament that what he suspected was true. A second later he was back to his usual self, charging ahead, babbling at a hundred miles an hour. "We definitely need to go to my house," he said firmly. "I have so much to show you, things you need to see. I'll drive. I know the way in my sleep."

"And where exactly are we going?" Brivari asked.

"Texas," Atherton answered. "The town of Marathon, to be exact. Straight down Route 285 South."





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


I'll post Chapter 58 on Sunday, January 11, and then I'll be back to regular weekly posting.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading! I hope you all had good holidays, and that the transition back to normal life wasn't too jarring. (It usually is for me. : )







CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


August 24, 1959, 7:30 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Happy Monday, Hanson," Valenti said, stopping at the counter on the way to his office. "What have we got this morning?"

The entire station fell silent as typewriters ceased clacking, deputies stopped talking, coffee cups stopped halfway to mouths. A phone rang, sounding unusually loud in the very quiet station as Valenti eyed his staff and realized he wasn't going to get away with business as usual.

"Okay," he said, folding his hands on the counter. "I'm sure some of you have heard some pretty wild tales about what happened yesterday with me and the FBI. It's over, they're gone, and my family and I are just fine. I'd appreciate everyone waiting to hear the details from me instead of believing the first thing you hear. The best thing for all of us to do now, myself included, is to get back to the business of safeguarding this town. Are we clear?"

Eyes blinked and people stirred as though waking from a trance. "Yes, sir," Hanson said, the reassuring sounds of typewriters and chatter resuming behind him. "We were just....well...."

"Worried," Valenti finished for him. "Thank you. I appreciate the concern. Now, what have you got for me this morning?"

"A large part of the movie crew is leaving," Hanson said. "A small crew is staying behind until tomorrow to get some location shots, maybe Wednesday if it rains, but most will be gone by the end of business today."

"Hallelujah," Valenti said dryly. "What else?"

"Mr. Toland from the Cactus Motel sent over a bill for the damage to his door," Hanson continued, handing over a sheet of paper. "And the gentleman whose car was stolen filed a report. Still no sign of the car."

"Mm hmm," Valenti murmured, examining the bill and wondering if Cactus Motel room doors were made of solid gold. "Anything else?"

"Most of the tree that was blocking the road has been removed," Hanson went on. "They sawed it in half and pushed the pieces apart yesterday to allow at least a single lane of traffic through, and we've had someone directing traffic during daylight hours until this morning, when they managed to open up the road the rest of the way. Just a few branches and leaves to clean up now."

"Good. Public reaction?"

"People were pretty jumpy yesterday, but they've calmed down," Hanson replied. "The papers made a big deal about you and the FBI working on the Tate case, but only the local paper tried to connect that with the tree incident. We're spreading the word that things were blown out of proportion, and since no one actually saw anything, most of them believe that."

" 'Blown out of proportion'," Valenti muttered. "Don't I wish. That it?"

"One more thing: Dr. Blake called and said to tell you 'everything had been taken care of'. Whatever that means."

"Excellent," Valenti smiled. "I'll be in my office if you need me."

They don't know the half of it, Valenti thought as he headed down the hall to his office. Oh, they probably suspected, especially since George Wilcox had been pulled into the fray, but he had yet to tell anyone other than his wife how very, very close they had come to joining the list of those who had disappeared at the behest of J. Edgar Hoover's FBI. Andi was speaking to him again this morning, unlike yesterday, when she had been absolutely furious that he hadn't awakened her to call Wilcox instead of leaving that job to Jimmy. Attempts to explain his reasoning had fallen on deaf ears until this morning, when she'd had time to sort it all out and grudgingly admit that he had a point. As for Lewis and company, the press mob George had summoned had run him straight out of town, following him back to his office in Santa Fe and demanding explanations. And the aliens, or whoever had been in that car they'd been chasing? They had vanished, along with the car. Hanson didn't know it yet, but Valenti was certain no one would ever hear a thing about that car again. All he had left was a suitcase full of James Anderson's clothes, a whole lot of hunches, and his family, safe and sound. That last bit made the whole circus worth it.

"Sir?"

It was Hanson again, standing in the office doorway. "There was one more thing I wanted to tell you," he said, talking fast as though afraid Valenti would order him away. "I know I speak for everyone here when I say I'm glad to see you're okay."

"Thanks, Hanson; so am I," Valenti said.

"And if there's anything you need, if you want some of us to stay later, or whatever, you just let us know, sir."

"That won't be necessary, but thank you," Valenti answered.

"So....what did happen yesterday?" Hanson asked.

Valenti smiled faintly. "The only thing of note at the moment is that I'm closing the investigation on Audrey Tate's death."

"Really? So what killed her?"

"A freak lightning strike, just like Dr. Blake said."

Hanson hesitated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you really believe that, sir?"

"What I believe isn't important," Valenti answered. "There simply isn't enough evidence to pursue any other theory."

"But the FBI......"

Valenti looked up as Hanson's voice trailed off. "If the FBI feels differently, they're welcome to do their own investigating," Valenti said. "Or if they....what's wrong?"

Hanson wasn't paying attention, wasn't even looking at him. He was staring down the hallway, his mouth hanging open, and as Valenti watched, he backed into the office as though Satan himself were advancing.

A moment later, it was clear he wasn't far off as Agent Lewis rounded the corner trailed by six of his minions, all in dark suits with distinctly unfriendly expressions. "Good morning, sheriff," Lewis said stiffly. "I hope you don't mind my inviting myself in."

"Damned straight I do," Valenti retorted. "What the hell are you doing here? Weren't you busy running from a mob the last time I saw you?"

Lewis' face darkened; Hanson blanched. "I have a warrant to search these premises," Lewis announced, extending a hand into which one of his agents placed a manila envelope. "It's all nice and legal and tied up with a bow. Just the way you like it."

"Well, I'll be damned," Valenti smiled, removing the warrant from the envelope and examining it. "I must admit, agent, I'm pleasantly surprised. After yesterday, I was under the impression you didn't even know what a warrant was, never mind how to get one. I figured maybe you just missed that class in FBI school."

Lewis' eyes narrowed, his agents were looking alarmed, and Hanson was practically apoplectic. "Are you planning on giving us any trouble about searching these premises?" Lewis asked hopefully.

"Heck, no," Valenti said cheerfully. "Help yourselves. Check my lunch box if you want. Tuna salad. Homemade. Nothing better. Hanson, get back to work and let these little boys do their job."

Hanson ducked gratefully into the hallway, although Valenti was willing to bet he was still within earshot. "We'll start with the Audrey Tate file," Lewis ordered.

"Sure thing. In that file cabinet over there," Valenti said, pointing. "It's under 'T' for 'Tate'. You boys do know what a 'T' looks like, don't you?"

Valenti settled back in his chair as Lewis glowered at him. The Tate file was produced in short order, and Lewis spent a full minute leafing through it before fwapping it shut.

"Where are they?" he demanded.

"Where are what?"

"The suspects' names!" Lewis exclaimed. "You said you had suspects, but not one of them is mentioned."

"I did?" Valenti asked innocently, rubbing his chin. "No.....no, I don't recall having said that."

"Sheriff," Lewis said in a dangerous voice, "you took me to the addresses of three different suspects yesterday. Why isn't even one of them listed in this file?"

"Correction: I took you to three different people I'd interviewed about the Tate case because you threatened my family," Valenti said. "I had to take you somewhere."

Lewis leaned forward, his palms on Valenti's desk. "On the phone," he said deliberately as though talking to an idiot, "the day before yesterday, you said you had suspects. You were quite clear."

Valenti adopted a puzzled expression. "The phone, you say? Do you by any chance have a recording of that conversation so I can hear what you're referring to?"

No, Valenti thought with enormous satisfaction as Lewis turned a very satisfying shade of purple. No recording and nothing in the file meant Lewis had no way to prove a blessed thing, a fact which had obviously only just occurred to him.

"Take it," Lewis snapped, handing the Tate file to an agent. "And turn this place upside down. If there is so much as a scrap of information on Audrey Tate, I want it in my hands within the hour. Oh, and one more thing," he added to Valenti. "This warrant also gives me possession of Tate's body. Tell your resident witch doctor to have it ready." He leaned forward again, a satisfied smile on his face. "Did you really think you could keep everything from me, sheriff? You must have noticed by now that I don't like to lose."

"Oh, dear," Valenti said in mock dismay. "I wish you'd said something yesterday. I mean, what with you running off the way you did and not saying a word about that....well....I just wish I'd known sooner."

The smile slid off Lewis' face. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"Well," Valenti said heavily, "seeing as how I thought this was all over and done with, I released the body to Miss Tate's family."

Lewis' face went white. "You did what?"

"I said I—"

"Then get it back!" Lewis shouted without bothering to wait for the reprise.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Valenti said regretfully. "You see, I felt mighty bad about not being able to release Miss Tate's body right away, and her family has been very patient. So to make it up to them, I had it cremated on the town's tab. It was the least we could do after making them wait."

Silence. Lewis' agents were frozen in place, their expressions a study in pure terror. Valenti watched with interest as Lewis did a mental inventory, the list readable on his anguished features. No body, no written evidence of foul play, no suspects, no....nothing.

"But if it makes you feel any better," Valenti continued, rising from his chair, "I did notice that you don't like to lose. What I can't figure out is how you didn't notice that I don't like to let bastards like you win." He grabbed his hat, nodding to the furious Lewis and his terrified agents. "You boys have yourselves a good look, now."

Valenti stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, finding Hanson right where he knew he'd be. "Sir, do you...do you think that's wise?" he whispered, his eyes darting toward the office. "He's FBI! It's like poking a bear with a stick!"

"You're probably right," Valenti agreed as they walked down the hallway. "But God, that felt good."




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



Marathon, Texas



"Another five minutes, and we should be there," Atherton said cheerfully.

Finally, Brivari thought. The tranquilizer with which Atherton had been sedated must not have worn off completely because his energy had begun to flag last night only an hour into the drive. They had pulled off the road, parking behind one of those huge advertisement boards with the intention of Atherton having a little nap. That "little" nap had lasted for hours, with Brivari watching carefully for any signs of pursuit; although he had changed the vehicle's color and identification plate, it remained the same variety of car it had been before, and he wouldn't put it past Valenti to cast a wider net than one might initially expect. Atherton had finally awakened in the very early hours of the morning, after which they had stopped at a roadside diner for breakfast and a grocery store to procure some food. There had been no indication they were being followed, but Brivari was still relieved when they had finally hit the open road at a good clip with nothing else to stop them.

"And here we are!" Atherton announced with a flourish as they rounded a low hill.

Brivari stared through the windshield at one of the strangest sights he'd ever seen. To the right was a relatively simple dwelling, modern in style, but small. To the left was a downright odd structure, half spherical and sporting a wooden front door that looked out of place on such a bizarre building. Atherton parked the car between the two structures and climbed out, breathing deeply.

"Smell that Texas air!" he exclaimed. "I can always tell when I'm back in Texas. New Mexico air was.....different."

"Why did you choose such a remote location?" Brivari asked, being unable to either smell "Texas air" or offer an opinion on it. "I believe this qualifies for the appellation 'middle of nowhere'."

"I like my solitude," Atherton answered, closing the car door. "I spend part of my life earning my living giving speeches or attending conventions, and the other part pursuing my life's work under a false name. Here there is no subterfuge, no expectations, no neighbors, even. Just me."

Indeed, Brivari thought as Atherton headed toward the spherical structure. The last dwelling they had passed had been several miles back. If one wanted solitude, this was the place to come. "This is my pride and joy," Atherton chattered, producing a key from his pocket. "I've been fascinated with these for years. Finally made enough money to build one. Bit of a bother, really. Building materials are made for squares and rectangles, so there's a lot of waste. And the space inside is a bit fussy with the curvature and all, but I'm working on it." He slipped the key into the lock below the door's hexagonal window, opened the door, and stepped aside. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Brivari crossed the threshold, musing that "wonderful" was hardly the word he would choose. But then Atherton did have rather eclectic tastes, tastes which had not yet been satisfied, by the looks of things. Exposed beams, piles of materials, little furniture, and a general dishevelment pointed to the fact that the work continued.

"The exterior is complete, but the interior is unfinished," Atherton noted, as though reading his mind. "But the most important part is done. Follow me."

Brivari obliged as Atherton led him through frameworks which would become hallways and rooms when completed. A good deal of light came from the many windows, including several in the ceiling. There was a smattering of furniture, a sofa here, a table there, and several boxes of papers, as though the construction site were being used as a storage location. Atherton wound through the structure, coming to a halt before a stone wall.

"Is something wrong?" Brivari asked when he didn't move.

"Before I take you any further," Atherton said slowly, "I need to know something."

"Such as?"

"Such as why did you save my life? You didn't have to. One could argue you shouldn't have bothered. That in saving me, you put yourself in danger."

I did, Brivari thought privately. If that dart had hit him instead of Atherton, he would now be at the tender mercy of Major Lewis. "I am tired," he said after a moment, "of losing those I care about."

"Like your Indian friend?"

"Yes," Brivari said quietly. "And my long time friend who died shortly after we arrived here. And....and Audrey."

Atherton's eyes widened. "You killed her?" he whispered.

Brivari shook his head. "No; my companion did. She saw something she shouldn't have, and he.....reacted. Overreacted, really. I am of the opinion I could have explained things to her. He disagreed."

Atherton sank slowly onto a stack of wood nearby, kneading his hands together in front of him. "I don't know how to call that one," he confessed. "Miss Tate was certainly intelligent, but.....I don't know. I don't know how she would have reacted." He paused. "What exactly did she see?"

"My companion was having some fun at Mr. Dean's expense," Brivari sighed.

Atherton blinked, then dissolved into laughter. "I know, I know," he said when he saw the look on Brivari's face. "Given what happened, it's not funny. But the thought of that dandy being given his comeuppance.....well, let's just say I can sympathize with his tormentor."

"We were alone in an ally with no one but Mr. Dean," Brivari said soberly. "And then suddenly she was there, and she panicked. She ran, we pursued....and he got to her first. I didn't think he would go so far."

"That explains why she was found so far from where Mr. Dean said he was attacked. And he was attacked," Atherton added incredulously. "My God, that moron was telling the truth. That smarts. Why is he still alive?"

"We are not indiscriminate killers, if that's what you think," Brivari said coldly. "Mr. Dean was obnoxious and annoying, but that hardly makes his life forfeit."

"But running around blathering that you're an alien just might," Atherton noted. "Even if your friend wasn't planning on killing Dean, I'm surprised he's still alive given the way he's been shooting his mouth off."

"We couldn't afford another death," Brivari answered. "We had done enough to attract the attention of our enemies. And when those enemies came for you......" He stopped, gazing out a window. "I have personal experience with the head of the FBI's new 'special unit'. He nearly cost my companion his life while he was held captive; I have no doubt what he would have done to you had you come under his power. And I grow weary of there being a price for befriending me. You offered to shield my escape. It was the least I could do to offer the same."

"So one of you was held captive!" Atherton said triumphantly. "But it wasn't you! That explains the reports of two aliens captured, but only one being held. We'd always wondered if that meant the other one captured was one of the dead, or it was a simple miscount, or—"

" 'We'?" Brivari interrupted.

"My friend," Atherton said earnestly, "my fellow alienologists and I have been looking for you for years, literally years. And as luck would have it, I'm something of a pack rat." As he spoke, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and withdrew a cord at the end of which dangled a key. "This is much too valuable to let out of my sight. It goes with me everywhere, no matter who I'm masquerading as at the moment."

"And that opens....what?"

"Watch," Atherton said, returning to the stone wall, one finger extended as though he were counting. "This is the first thing I built once the exterior was finished. That's the main reason for this dome, other than it tickles me. I needed a suitable hiding place." As he spoke, he plucked a stone out of the middle of the wall to reveal a keyhole into which he fitted the key from around his neck.

"Trap door," Atherton explained, pulling it all the way open. Beneath was a set of stairs which they climbed down into a dimly lit room. "Damn!" Atherton muttered, pulling a lantern off the wall. "I forgot the matches. I'll be right back."

"No need," Brivari said, holding out a hand. Atherton blinked as the lantern flared to life revealing a room crammed with papers in boxes, maps, charts, and photographs.

"What is this place?" Brivari asked.

"My private library," Atherton explained, hanging the lantern on the wall. "The repository of everything I've learned about your people since I began studying you. Here," he continued, pulling one box toward him, "are eyewitness accounts of soldiers who must have been your friend's captors. And over here are documents the military tried to shred back in 1950 when he escaped. And here," he went on, scurrying to another corner, "are carbon copies of military documents pertaining to aliens after 1950. One of my alienologist friends knows someone in the service who throws in an extra carbon whenever anything that looks interesting comes across her desk. I have years worth of data here.....and it's all for you."

"For me?" Brivari echoed.

"Yes, you!" Atherton beamed. "I had this place built for you even though I'd never met you. It's a hiding place not only for this incredibly sensitive information, but also for you, any of you, if you need it. This room isn't on any of the blueprints, and I did all the work myself; no one knows about it but me. It's unconnected to any electrical or sewer systems, and there's an escape route that leads outside, several yards from the dome," he added, drawing aside a tarp which covered a circular opening. "It's a bit of a mess now, but once this place is finished, it will be much more inviting, I assure you. And this isn't the only such place. There are dozens of hidden rooms like this all over the country. My friends and I are prepared to operate our own alien underground railroad."

"And the price for this largesse is.......?"

"Is simple," Atherton said. "We want to learn. We want to know why you came here, what you want with us. We only want you to answer the question, 'Why?' "

Brivari pulled a box toward him and removed the lid. Atherton's discretion was well established, and there was a great deal of information here which could prove useful. And it was worth noting that it had been Atherton's "alienologists" who had discovered the FBI's new unit. Perhaps there was value in tapping into a network of human spies, albeit carefully.

"Thank you, James," he said as Atherton broke into a wide smile. "Where should I start?"




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Just made it," Anthony said with relief as he closed the trunk of the car on what had looked to be an impossible amount of luggage. "I was convinced we were going to have to get rid of something."

"The only reason we managed to get it all in is because Mama decided not to come," Dee answered, gazing at the back seat of her father's car, which was every bit as full as the trunk with just enough room left over for her and Philip. At the last minute, Emily had done the math and graciously stepped aside so they could haul everything up to Albuquerque in one trip.

"Is that everything?" David asked.

Dee glanced toward the house. "Give me just ten more minutes, Daddy. I want to say goodbye to Courtney before we leave."

"Take your time," her father said affably.

"Not too much," Anthony warned. "We still have to unload everything when we get there, and then Philip will need time to calm down."

"Just ten more minutes," Dee insisted. "We can spare ten more minutes. I don't want to spend all day wondering what on earth is going on."

"All right," Anthony sighed. "I'll take Philip for a walk. Maybe it'll wear him out so he'll sleep on the way up."

"Don't we wish," Dee said ruefully, watching her toddler sprint down the sidewalk surprisingly fast with his father and grandfather on his heels. Philip was so excited he could hardly stand it, so she wasn't in a big hurry to confine him to a car. And she also wasn't in a big hurry to leave without finding out everything she could about the drama this weekend. Valenti's behavior on Saturday followed by the headlines on Sunday had the whole town talking, despite the fact that all the newspapers had really said was that someone thought the sheriff was looking for aliens. His rebuttal was in the article, but no one had paid much attention to it, especially after rumors of some kind of confrontation at a local motel had made the rounds yesterday afternoon and today's papers had announced that the Roswell sheriff was working with the FBI to investigate the death of Audrey Tate. Dee had been on pins and needles with worry, not about the aliens, who could take care of themselves, but about Valenti, whose family had been targeted. For all the boxing matches she'd had with him, he didn't deserve that.

The front door to the house opened, and Courtney appeared. "What did Mrs. Bruce say?" Dee called, scurrying up the front walk. "Has she heard anything?"

"Of course she has," Courtney chuckled. "Little old ladies are gossip magnets even where I come from. Would you like one of the embellished versions of the story, which includes something that sounds like Godzilla, or just the facts?"

"Which do you think?" Dee said impatiently.

"Facts it is, then," Courtney said. "The FBI was in town yesterday, and the sheriff was with them. Along the way a door at a local motel was broken down, someone's car was stolen, and a tree fell across a road, blocking it until this morning. That's pretty much it."

"Good Lord," Dee muttered. "I can't believe this is all happening just as we're leaving town. What about Valenti? Is he okay?"

"Seems to be," Courtney answered. "He's at work, and people say it's business as usual down at the station. The whole town is calling his wife, and she's answering the phone, so no one's made off with her. Mrs. Bruce heard that a bunch of reporters was at Valenti's house yesterday afternoon along with another sheriff, and that's where he told them he was working with the FBI. No one's seen the FBI since yesterday, though, so maybe they gave up."

Sheriff Wilcox, Dee thought. So her mother's call had helped after all. And it sounded like the sheriff had taken a tip from Emily and called in the press to make the FBI back off, just like her mother had back in '47 when the Army had been harassing the Brazels. "They probably left because of all the reporters," Dee said, "but that doesn't mean they won't be back. Valenti may not be off the hook yet."

"I think everyone would notice if the FBI did anything to Valenti now," Courtney noted. "It looks like they're gone."

"And so are the Warders," Dee sighed. "You found them....and then you lost them."

"But at least I found them," Courtney reminded her. "And at least they weren't caught by any of the wrong people. And Malik knows where I am, so I'll just sit tight and wait."

"But what about Vanessa? She'll have her hearing today; Valenti won't be able to put it off any longer."

"Doesn't matter," Courtney said. "The Warders know they're being watched now, so they're not here to find." She paused, glancing back at the house. "I guess my father sending them that letter was a good idea after all. Just don't tell him I said that."

"Said what?" Dee asked innocently, being well acquainted with the ups and downs of being a strong-willed child with a strong-willed parent. "Besides, I've been careful to stay away from him after our last 'chat'. I figured he'd want it that way."

"My father's a good man, and very smart," Courtney said. "He's just a little.....rigid. Or maybe 'paranoid' would be a better word. He worries a lot."

"And no wonder," Dee said, who had secretly developed a measure of sympathy for Michael over the past several days. "He's leading a resistance within the organization of a tyrant on a war torn planet. That's enough to make anyone paranoid."

"You need to get away from all this," Courtney said crisply, taking Dee's arm and steering her toward the car. "Get in the car, go back to school, and let me handle what goes on here. You've earned a vacation."

"Law school as a vacation," Dee said dryly. "What a novel idea. You have my number, right?"

"Of course."

"And you'll call me if anything happens?"

"Of course."

"I mean anything. Big, small, important, unimportant—"

"Of course not. I'm not going to bother you with every little thing. You'll be busy."

"But—"

"Get her out of here," Courtney called to Anthony, who had just come within earshot as he trailed Philip, who was toddling back to the car. "She needs to put some distance between herself and this place."

"I couldn't agree more," Anthony said, opening the car door. "Let's go!"

"You're not in a hurry to get rid of me, are you?" Dee said sourly.

"Don't be silly," Courtney said calmly. "Goodbye, sweetheart!" she added to Philip, sweeping him up in a big hug. "Have fun in your new house!"

"House!" Philip said enthusiastically. "Car!"

"Yes, you get to ride in the car," Courtney agreed as Philip squirmed out of her grasp and clambered into the car. "Isn't that exciting?"

"It will be for the first few miles," Anthony smiled. "After that, all bets are off."

"I gave Courtney your number in case she needs anything," Dee said to her father. "You and Mama will look after her, won't you?"

"I'll be fine," Courtney insisted. "Now, go on. Git!"

Dee blinked at her. " 'Git'?"

"New word," Courtney said. "Have a good trip!" she added, waving to Philip through the window.

"So what did she say?" David asked after they'd all climbed into the car and pulled away. "Is Valenti all right?"

"Seems to be," Dee said as Philip bounced on her lap. "It looks like it's over."

"I hear a 'but' in there," Anthony noted.

"It may look like it's over, but it isn't," Dee answered. "Someone's head is going to roll for this. The only question is whose."




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




FBI Headquarters,

Washington, D.C.



In the tiny, cramped hallway outside Director Hoover's office, Agent Lewis stood at attention and waited. And waited. He'd been waiting for over an hour now, a guard having delivered his report on recent events in Roswell and bidden him wait until the Director had finished reading it, which he apparently still hadn't, a fact that weighed heavily on Lewis' mind. While he'd done his best to frame himself and his unit in the best light possible, there was no avoiding the fact they had failed, and he'd spent every minute of his time on the plane ride to Washington and in this sweaty little alcove practicing his pep talk. The plan was to shift as much of the blame as possible onto Sheriff Valenti, relieving his unit of most, if not all, of the fallout and giving him a reason to haul Valenti down here by his badge. They no longer had the element of surprise, so removing Valenti was now problematic, but no matter; everything was possible with J. Edgar Hoover.

Assuming he knows how to read, Lewis thought uncharitably as he shifted his cramped legs. The size of this hallway was so small, it was barely deserving of the name. There was no place to sit, or pace, or do much of anything but stand, which didn't seem to bother the guards outside Hoover's office door. Lewis was determined that no one know it was bothering him; the last thing he needed was for the guards to say he was whining. Still, if he didn't move soon, his legs were going to fall asleep under him.

A guard turned suddenly and for no apparent reason, as though called by one of those inaudible dog whistles. Entering the office, he emerged a moment later.

"The Director will see you now."

Thank God, Lewis thought gratefully, careful to take his first few steps slowly while his stiff legs complained. As much as he dreaded this audience, it was a relief to be moving toward getting this over with and getting back to work. Especially the part about dragging Valenti down here to account for his actions. He was looking forward to that most of all.

"Come!" Hoover barked before the door was even closed.

Lewis hastily covered the length of the office. "Stop," Hoover ordered when he was about three feet away and level with the two chairs in front of the desk, his aching legs waiting expectantly for the command to sit. But none was forthcoming. The Director took his time rearranging the various pieces of Lewis' report, which had been delivered carefully bound and had now been ripped apart and arranged in piles.

"So," Hoover said at length as Lewis cast longing glances at the chair. "They escaped on your watch. Again."

Lewis's mouth opened, then closed. He'd been expecting questions; harsh questions, perhaps, but not this bald, unfortunate truth.

"Well....yes, but as I made clear in my report, it was—"

"Agent, did you or did you not allow aliens to escape on your watch?"

"You make it sound like I let them go, sir," Lewis objected. "I clearly—"

"Did you or did you not allow aliens to escape on your watch?!" Hoover thundered.

Lewis' mouth set in a thin line. "Aliens escaped on my watch, sir, but I did not 'allow' them to escape. I was in close pursuit at the time. I would hardly refer to that as 'allowing' them to escape."

"So you like semantics, do you?" Hoover snapped. "I've noticed. This entire report is an exercise in semantics, not to mention scapegoating, buck-passing, and all manner of other related hoo-hah."

The trickles of sweat running down Lewis' back abruptly turned into torrents. "Sir, I—"

"Do you really think I made it to this side of this desk without being able to recognize a snow job when I see one?" Hoover demanded. "I specialize in snow jobs, agent! And right now, it's snowing in Washington at the end of August, and I am not happy!"

Lewis swallowed hard. "Sir, if you would—"

"Silence!" Hoover ordered. "I don't need to hear a blessed thing from you—it's all right here. You exposed yourself to the local, allowed a two-bit county sheriff to make a fool of you, lost the aliens, lost the evidence, and caused a whole lot of inconvenient questions from the press. Did I leave anything out?"

Plenty, Lewis thought darkly, recalling the rather large number of details he had deliberately omitted from the report. And thank goodness, considering that Hoover was off on a tear about the abbreviated version.

"Do you know what your single biggest mistake was, agent?" Hoover asked. "Not that you didn't make scads of them, but only one was fatal. Take a guess."

"I asked for Valenti's assistance in locating the aliens," Lewis said promptly.

"Wrong; that was the right thing to do," Hoover answered. "You had a much better chance of finding aliens posing as locals by using local law enforcement. No, your single biggest mistake was that you didn't take complete control of the situation immediately. You should have taken Valenti's family into 'protective custody' on day one. That would have made him think twice about blathering to newspapers or releasing bodies without your consent. Hell, the man wouldn't have pissed his pants without your say-so if you'd had his wife and child. Do you have the stones for this job, or don't you, agent?"

Lewis blinked....and then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, sir," he said hastily when Hoover's eyes narrowed dangerously. "It's not that you said anything funny, it's just that....well, I've never been chastised for not being ruthless enough. Quite the opposite, usually."

"This isn't the Army," Hoover said deliberately. "And these are no ordinary criminals we're chasing. Next time, no negotiating, no threats, no time wasted on warrants that don't apply to creatures from other planets. Just swift, decisive, unapologetic action."

"With pleasure, sir," Lewis answered.

"Good. One more thing. You failed, agent. Your unit failed. Someone has to pay for that, and I'll let you pick who that someone is. Choose carefully—if your choice tarnishes the reputation of the FBI or causes more interest from the press, I'll take it out of your hide. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," Lewis replied. "Very clear."




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


I'll post Chapter 59 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE


August 24, 1959, 4 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe



"Honestly, if it's not one thing, it's another," Agent Cates said to Agent Owens with a sigh as he hung up the phone. "First I had to fend off Helen Pierce whining about Agent Lewis not being around these past few days, and now I just got confirmation from the mortuary in Roswell that Audrey Tate's body was cremated last night. Can you believe that? They came in on a Sunday to do the job. Valenti must have called in a truckload of favors to pull that one off. Not to mention that it took me all day to get a hold of that blasted funeral director, and the only reason I got him at all was that I fished out his home phone number. I must have called him a dozen times today, and he just....."

Cates stopped short. Owens wasn't listening, wasn't even looking at him. He'd just hung up from a phone call of his own, but his hand was still on the receiver, his eyes far away. "Chris?" Cates said. "What's wrong? Who was that?"

It took a few seconds, but Owens finally tore his eyes away from nothing and fixed them on Cates. "Agent Lewis," he answered.

"He called from Washington? Why?"

Owens abruptly rose from his chair and marched out of the room, returning a few seconds later with a box into which he began throwing everything on his desk. "Chris?" Cates said warily. "What's going on? Why are you packing? Chris!" he repeated, grapping Owens' arm when he didn't answer. "Talk to me!"

"I'm fired."

Cates blinked. "Fired....you're fired? Lewis told you that?"

"Yes."

"Well....are you sure? Did you misunderstand? Did—"

"Have you ever known Agent Lewis to not make himself clear?" Owens interrupted.

Cates stared at him a moment before releasing him. "Oh, hell," he muttered, sinking into his chair. "So you're the scapegoat."

"Looks like. Makes sense, really. I'm the one who argued for working with Valenti."

"I suppose this wouldn't be a good time to remind you that I never thought that would work out," Cates said.

"No one knows how it would have 'worked out' because it never happened," Owens said sharply, pulling open his top left drawer and emptying the contents unceremoniously into the box. "We never 'worked' with Valenti; we ordered him, we threatened him, and we held his family hostage. I'd hardly call that 'working' with someone."

"Chris, I know you had—have—a lot of respect for Valenti, but the fact remains that he blew it," Cates argued. "He tipped them off. You saw the papers. He—"

"Lewis threatened him!" Owens exclaimed. "Valenti had suspects; he said so. He started thrashing after Lewis leaned on him. Contrary to what Lewis seems to think, threatening people isn't the best way to produce results. Frightened people don't think clearly or prioritize very well because they're too busy being frightened."

"Maybe," Cates said carefully, "but—"

"He knew," Owens insisted. "I know he did. Valenti knew exactly who the suspects were because he knows everything that goes on in his town. If we'd just let him move at his own pace, he wouldn't have tipped anybody off, and this might have ended much differently."

Cates watched Owens pack in silence for a full minute before speaking again. "Look, I know there's nothing I can say that will make this any better, so let's move on. Were you just fired from the unit, or from the FBI? Can you get another job within the Bureau?"

"Who would want me after Hoover's darling rejected me?" Owens asked bitterly. "Besides, I don't want another job with the Bureau. The Bureau is a fraud."

"I know you're upset, but isn't that a bit harsh? Lewis is a hardass, no question, but—"

"And you think the man running this circus is any less of a hardass?" Owens demanded. "I went into law enforcement because I wanted to help people by bringing the bad guys to heel. But that's not what's going on here. What's going on here is politics, and paranoia, and petty personal grudges. Lewis was gunning for Valenti right from the beginning because Valenti nailed his friend."

"And now Valenti's nailed Lewis," Cates murmured.

"Good," Owens declared. "If I'd been there, I'd have handed him the hammer."

"Which is probably why Lewis left you behind when we went to Roswell," Cates noted.

"Right," Owens said darkly. "He said he wanted agents who would think outside the box. Turns out the box he wants us to think outside of, the box of laws and courtesies and common sense, is the very box I'd like to be in."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find something that suits you better," Cates sighed. "And whatever it is, it's bound to be a safer job than this one."

"Don't bet on that," Owens warned, trying to jam the flaps of the overfilled box closed. "Given what just happened, I'd take my chances with the aliens sooner than Lewis."

"Okay, now you're just not talking sense," Cates objected. "Where'd that come from?"

"Why didn't they kill you?" Owens demanded. "You were there. Why did they just run you off the road? Why not make the entire car blow up? Why not have that tree hit somebody instead of just falling across the road? They had the chance to take out half the Special Unit and it's leader. Why didn't they?"

Cates dropped his eyes to his clasped hands, fingers tapping together. "Valenti asked that same question....and I don't have an answer. Maybe they couldn't. Maybe there was a distance problem, or an aiming problem, or they're limited in some way that prevented them from taking everyone out."

"Or maybe they're not the monsters Lewis thinks they are," Owens argued. "They've done precious little killing for cold-blooded killers, don't you think?"

"Just because they didn't kill us all doesn't mean they're angels," Cates countered.

"It also doesn't mean they're demons," Owens retorted, hefting the box under one arm. "But that's not a popular viewpoint around here, so I should be going. Say goodbye to everyone for me, will you?"

"I'm really sorry," Cates said as Owens slammed his desk chair under his desk. "I know we don't agree on some things, but.....you brought a different perspective I thought we could use. I don't want to see you go."

Owens' expression softened slightly. "Thanks."

"But take my advice and don't run off at the mouth about this," Cates warned. "Blowing off steam with me is one thing, but say this to anyone else—"

"I can't say this to anyone else," Owens reminded him. "I had to sign the non-disclosure agreement to get into the Bureau just like you did, like everyone did."

"Good," Cates said. "Go home, sleep on it, let Lewis sleep on it. Maybe he'll change his mind."

"I wouldn't come back if he did," Owens declared. "I meant what I said—I'd take my chances with the aliens instead of Lewis any day. Whoever got away in that car might be better off than we are."




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



Atherton residence,

Marathon, Texas



"I made us more coffee," Atherton said cheerfully, descending the stairs into his private "library" with great care so as not to spill the two brimming mugs he was carrying. "I also put some—oh, no!"

Brivari looked up just in time to see a cup tip sideways; after navigating the stairs successfully, Atherton had bumped the edge of a table and lost his balance, spilling coffee all over a large hand-drawn map stretched out on a table. "Oh, clumsy!" Atherton fussed, using his shirt sleeve to sop up as much coffee as he could. "This was priceless! One of the eyewitnesses to the finding of the ship drew this for me....well, not 'me', exactly....he thought I was a college professor, but...."

Brivari absent-mindedly waved a hand over the damp map and Atherton's sleeve. The coffee stains vanished as though they had never been there, and Brivari returned to his perusal of a half-shredded military document for a full minute before he realized his friend was gaping at him.

"I....how did you do that?" Atherton asked, dumbfounded.

"The same way I lit your lantern," Brivari replied. "We have certain.....talents."

"Obviously," Atherton said. "Can you put the coffee back in the cup so I don't have to trek all the way back to the house?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "Not that many talents."

"Then I'm glad the one you have worked for my map," Atherton declared. "I can always make more coffee. Here, you take this one. I have to go back in a few minutes anyway to check on the roast I put in the oven. And don't worry; I added a healthy supply of vegetables. Is your aversion to meat a moral objection, or just cultural habit?"

"More of the latter. Do you have any more of these?" Brivari added, holding up the half-shredded document.

"I do indeed," Atherton beamed. "Whole boxes of them. Someone did some dumpster diving back in 1950. Hang on."

Brivari watched as Atherton began digging through the stacks of boxes which appeared to be organized using a system only he could understand. Most of what he'd seen so far pertained to Jaddo's imprisonment, cobbled together from various sources by Atherton and his fellow "alienologists". Many of the documents had been shredded in haste and were still in at least somewhat readable condition, and while little of it was new information, it had kept him well occupied these past several hours. Mundane as it may seem, reading about Cavitt's apparent travails getting supplies he wanted or Pierce's arguments with his medical colleagues was strangley intriguing. All of it was veiled, of course, and likely to make little sense to one who didn't know what had been going on, but to one who did, it made for entertaining reading.

"Here we are!" Atherton announced, plopping yet another box next to Brivari as he took a seat across from him. "Tell me, does anyone in the military know why you're here?"

"The commander of the operation knew," Brivari answered. "My companion answered that question in exchange for the commander's efforts to keep him alive."

"Wait—I know this," Atherton said, one hand to his forehead as though thinking hard. "Ramey. William Ramey. No....Roger Ramey. Yes, that's it. He died recently, I believe. Just this summer."

"He did indeed," Brivari said. "We attended his memorial."

"My goodness," Atherton said, shaking his head. "And no one knew. What would they have thought if they'd known aliens were there?"

"Not just any aliens, but the general's own prisoner," Brivari added.

"The thinking amongst many of my set," Atherton said slowly, "is that Ramey helped the prisoner escape. And since you saw fit to attend his funeral.....may I assume this is correct?"

"You may," Brivari answered. "We would never have freed my companion without the general's assistance."

"I knew it!" Atherton exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air in a most odd gesture. "There's been a bit of a disagreement about that, you see, that and so much else. You've settled more disputes today than you can possibly know."

"So what's the score?" Brivari asked with a touch of amusement. "Were you right more often than you were wrong?"

"I've acquitted myself quite well," Atherton said proudly. "Although I must confess to a bit of disappointment that your story is more....pedestrian than I would have thought. Kings being deposed, their guards fleeing, ships malfunctioning....that's a story that could have come from virtually anywhere on Earth. I guess I was hoping for something a little more......"

"Alien?" Brivari suggested.

"Different," Atherton admitted sheepishly.

Brivari suppressed a smile as he turned his attention to the latest box. Humans were so binary when it came to their reactions to the discovery of another species; they were either too frightened to contemplate it, or surprised that this "new" species seemed to suffer from all the same problems as their own. Atherton fit squarely into the latter category and was taking all this with his typical aplomb. Of course, he hadn't heard the whole story; he'd been told only the basics, much as River Dog had, that Brivari and others like him had guarded a royal family which had fallen and, fearing retribution, had fled their world, arriving on Earth unintentionally when their ship malfunctioned. No mention of shapeshifting, or hybrids, or enemies from their own world.

"So did anyone ever come after you?" Atherton asked.

"What's the thinking amongst your set on that question?" Brivari asked.

"Many soldiers claim that Roswell's military base was attacked by aliens," Atherton answered. "There's a great deal of disagreement as to why; some say they were trying to free the prisoner, while others feel they were trying to kill him. We've never had enough information to reach any kind of consensus. Apparently the power was cut, and no one saw anything of use."

"Interesting," Brivari murmured, mentally weighing whether or not to truthfully answer the question. Even humans who could accept a crashed ship might become alarmed if they knew other aliens could come here at will.

"But the real reason I ask is because of something our waitress said to Miss Tate," Atherton continued.

"Our waitress?" Brivari echoed. "You mean the one from the diner?"

"Yes; Miss Harris, the twitchy one. Miss Tate told me the waitress said something once that struck me as strange—she said you were 'dangerous'. She apparently advised Miss Tate to stay away from you."

Brivari's hand froze around the document he was holding. "Did she, now?" he said coldly.

"And once, when I was—playfully, of course—asking Miss Harris what Miss Tate saw in you, she answered, 'You wouldn't believe me if I told you'. Just like that. Like she knew you." Atherton paused, studying Brivari closely. "Langley.....is Miss Harris one of you?"




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




Valenti residence




Jim Valenti sank into the chair in his study, exhausted. He hadn't slept a wink last night for fear the FBI would come knocking on his door at any moment. Releasing Audrey Tate's remains to her family had been a calculated risk; doing so had pissed off Lewis even more, but it had also left him bereft of any physical evidence with which to continue an investigation. Sheriff Wilcox had felt that depriving Lewis of anything he could use to pursue the Tate case was the best way to go at this point in the game, and Valenti hadn't minded concurring—the look on Lewis' face when he'd realized he had nothing had been nothing short of priceless. He and his goons had done a thorough job of ransacking the station, but they hadn't found anything; anything worth finding was right here, tucked in his cabinet along with Mark Green's file. And his body's gone too, he thought as he opened the drawer and pulled out all that remained of either case: Two folders of statements, photographs, notes, and medical reports. Dr. Blake had initially been hesitant to stand in the way of the mighty FBI, but had reluctantly cooperated when he'd heard how they'd threatened his family. And it helped that I told him I'd be taking this to the military instead, Valenti thought, privately noting that he had no intention of doing any such thing. His experience with the military was no better.

"What's that?"

Jimmy had appeared on the far side of the desk and was looking at the photograph of Audrey Tate's body. "Some work stuff," Valenti said lightly, sliding it back into the file. "Are the dinner dishes done?"

"All dried and put away. Mom's on the front porch talking to Mrs. Macklin." Jimmy paused, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "How long do you think she's going to stay mad at you?"

Valenti smiled faintly. "Don't know. A while, I guess. And I can't blame her. I specifically told you not to wake her, and I'm glad you didn't."

"Did you think she'd say something that would get us into trouble?"

Partly, Valenti thought, noting that child radar rivaled that of any military's. "I was hoping it would all be over before she even woke up," he said. "Or that if it wasn't, Sheriff Wilcox would be better off trying to explain what was happening than you would be. I'm really sorry I had to put you in that position," he added. "If there'd been any other way, anyone else to call the sheriff—"

"No!" Jimmy exclaimed. "I'm glad you asked me! I wish you'd let me do more stuff like that. You know, stuff that really matters."

"I could do with less of that particular kind of 'stuff'," Valenti said ruefully.

"I guess," Jimmy said. "But it was kind of.....exciting."

Valenti stopped just short of noting that having one's wife and son threatened didn't even begin to qualify for the term "exciting". Of course that's how this looked to an eight year-old boy, especially a boy who had complete faith in the law enforcement figures he'd been surrounded by for as long as he could remember. He and Andi hadn't elaborated on the nastier aspects of the weekend's drama, and Jimmy likely had no idea how close he'd come to being in a world of hurt. This was a perfect example of the old adage "ignorance is bliss".

"Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Bang!" Jimmy smiled, enjoying their usual joke for just a moment before he turned serious again. "That man who was so mad at you, the FBI man.....he was a bad man, wasn't he?"

"I'd say so," Valenti answered, privately noting that he may have underestimated his son's grasp of the situation.

"So....there are bad people working for the FBI?"

"There can be bad people anywhere, Jimmy," Valenti said gently. "You'll find good and bad anywhere you look."

"Does that mean there are good and bad aliens?"

The tone was matter-of-fact, curious....but it wasn't asking if aliens were real. No, that now appeared to be taken for granted. "I know the FBI said this was about aliens, but that was never proven," Valenti answered. "And assuming aliens exist, I've never met one, so I don't know if there are good and bad aliens."

"Why wouldn't there be?" Jimmy asked. "If there are good and bad people, there should be good and bad aliens."

"If you say so," Valenti replied, "but I'm not certain it's that simple. Let's talk about something more interesting. Like school! You go back next week. Are you looking forward to it?"

"I was," Jimmy said disconsolately.

"But not now? Why not?"

Jimmy was quiet for a moment. "The kids pick on me," he said finally. "I mean, some of them always did because I'm the sheriff's kid. But now they're calling you names and saying you chase aliens. They call you...." He hesitated, looking away. "They call you Sergeant Martian."

" 'Sergeant' Martian?" Valenti echoed. "Where'd that come from?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Don't know. I think it was Tommy Cook. But it's hard to tell because everyone's talking about you and aliens."

Jake, Valenti thought angrily. While it was possible that Tommy had merely changed the title in his father's "Deputy Martian" moniker, it was far more likely that his father had put him up to it. "Your friends shouldn't believe everything they read in the papers," he said. "And I've never been in the military, so I've never been a sergeant."

"I told them that, but they kept saying it," Jimmy said. "They keep telling me they're not really talking about you because they're saying 'Sergeant' Martian instead of 'Sheriff' Martian, but I know that's not true. And my friends don't read the papers, Dad. Their parents do."

"Then their parents shouldn't believe everything they read," Valenti irritably, having half a mind to go over to Jake's house and strangle him. But he couldn't be certain it was Jake who was to blame; if he made good on his threat to publicize the real reason Jake had left the sheriff's department, he could be smearing an innocent man. Innocent, my foot, Valenti thought darkly. Unfortunately the "Sergeant Martian" nickname rolled off the tongue even better than its predecessor.

"So I don't want to go back to school because everyone's going to be saying that," Jimmy continued. "I'm sick of hearing it already."

"I'm sorry," Valenti sighed. "But it's all over now, so this will die down and everyone will move on to something else." I hope, he amended silently. Alien-themed memories ran long in Roswell.

"I guess," Jimmy said, sounding similarly doubtful. "Are you going to come outside? Maybe Mom will talk to you more if Mrs. Macklin is standing there."

"Peer pressure, huh?" Valenti smiled. "Not certain that'll work with your mother, but it's worth a try. I'll be right out."

After Jimmy left, Valenti safely tucked the Tate and Green files into the file cabinet and pocketed the key, mentally noting that he'd been less than honest with his son. Andi had thawed somewhat, but there was no way she would thaw completely before she was darned good and ready even if the Pope appeared on the front porch and ordered her to back off. "Sergeant Martian" would be all over town before school started if it wasn't already, and it was unlikely to disappear any time soon. And whatever else had happened, one thing was clear: None of this was over. There were aliens in Roswell, and he was going to find them, come hell or high water.




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe



"Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yeah....yes, I....I'm still here," Agent Cates stammered, the hand holding the telephone receiver beginning to shake. "I....I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

"You were the one he talked about the most," the voice on the other end of the line said sadly. "So I thought you should know."

"Right. I appreciate that," Cates said, the trembling threatening to migrate from his hand to his voice. "Once again, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry about what?" Agent Del Bianco asked as he passed Cates' desk on his way to his own.

"Unbelievable," Cates whispered, the receiver still in his hand.

"What's unbelievable?"

Cates set the receiver back in its cradle. "Chris is dead."

"Who?"

"Chris," Cates repeated sharply. "Chris Owens. You know, the Chris Owens who used to sit at that desk? The Chris Owens we worked with up until earlier today?"

Del Bianco dropped his eyes. "Wow. What happened?"

"Hit and run," Cates said dully. "This evening, shortly after he left here."

"Wow," Del Bianco repeated. "Must have been so upset about being fired that he wasn't paying attention."

"I saw him right before he left," Cates said. "He wasn't that upset."

"Hey, man, all it takes is one second of inattention," Del Bianco sighed. "But that's awful. He was a good agent, even if he was a little soft."

" 'Soft'?"

"Yeah, you know....cozying up to the sheriff, and all. Fat lot of good that did us. Was that his family?"

"His mom. She's pretty upset."

"I'll bet," Del Bianco murmured.

Del Bianco went back to shuffling papers, and Cates studied him in silence for a moment. "But there was a witness, so they have a description of both the driver and the car that hit him," Cates continued. "His mom is hopeful there'll be an arrest."

Del Bianco's head snapped up. "A witness? Who?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I....well, there aren't usually witnesses to hit and runs, not useful ones anyhow."

"Not usually," Cates agreed. "Chris' mom got lucky." He paused, watching Del Bianco's eyes jerk toward the phone. "She gave me the description of the car and driver," he said casually, pulling out a sheet of paper. "I'll pass it on to the guys downstairs so we can all follow up on it."

"Let me see that!" Del Bianco ordered, snatching the paper out of Cates' hands, only to gape at it.

"This is blank!"

"So it is," Cates said coldly. "But I already know the driver looked just like you."

Del Bianco's face clouded as he tossed the blank sheet of paper on the desk and turned away, his face scarlet. "You did it, didn't you?" Cates said accusingly. "You just ran him over in cold blood—"

"Hey, I had orders!" Del Bianco burst out, turning around. "He was a threat!"

"How do you figure that?" Cates demanded. "He knew he couldn't talk about anything he'd seen here, even mentioned that before he left!"

"That doesn't mean he'd actually keep his mouth shut," Del Bianco argued.

"You didn't give him a chance to!" Cates said angrily.

"We couldn't afford to!" Del Bianco retorted. "He knew too much, and he was far too friendly with Valenti."

" 'We' couldn't afford to?" Cates echoed. "Who the hell is 'we'? I thought 'we' were the FBI. I thought you were an agent just like I am, just like Chris was. What, is this Lewis' special fiefdom now, with you as his duly appointed heir?"

"Don't go there," Del Bianco warned.

"Or what?" Cates demanded. "You'll kill me too? Should I hire a taster to check for poison in my ham sandwich? Oh, no, you're not that subtle, are you. You just mow people down with multi-ton machines. He predicted this," Cates continued, fuming. "He thought Lewis was capable of this, and I thought he was nuts. Good God, he was right."

"He was a threat to the American people—"

"Bullshit!" Cates exploded. "Chris was no 'threat'!"

"The people who give us orders think he was!" Del Bianco shouted.

Del Bianco braced himself as Cates came closer. "You know what the real threat is?" he said softly. "The real threat to the American people is a federal agent who thinks he's being patriotic when he obeys an 'order' to commit murder!"

"You saw what I saw," Del Bianco said tersely. "You saw what we're up against. You saw what they're capable of."

"Right," Cates said slowly. "And now I've seen what you're capable of. And I gotta tell you, I don't like what I see." He grabbed his coat off his desk chair. "I'm out of here."

"Those aliens murdered!" Del Bianco called after him. "In cold blood!"

"So did you," Cates retorted. "Your point?"

"Desperate times call for hard decisions," Del Bianco argued. "I had a reason!"

"I'll bet the aliens did, too," Cates said. "Chris was right about Lewis; maybe he was right about the aliens. Maybe we'd be better off taking our chances with them."

"Cates!" Del Bianco called as Cates stalked out of the office. "Don't do anything stupid! Cates!"



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



11:30 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"You have Mark's communicator, right?" Courtney asked.

"Yes," her father sighed. "I'll see to it that it's destroyed. Everyone will think he never returned from the mission I sent him on....and for that matter, they'll be right." He paused, his face a shadow in the darkness. "I hate leaving you here all by yourself."

"I've been all by myself from the beginning," Courtney said gently. "I'll be fine.

"This is different," Michael insisted. "All this time I thought you were with someone, and it turns out you weren't. It was bearable when I thought you were with Mark, but—"

"But I was able to accomplish so much more because I didn't have to hide my loyalties from one of our own," Courtney said. "In many ways, having Mark here would have made it more dangerous for me, not less."

"All the debating skills in the world won't change the fact that it doesn't feel right leaving you here alone," Michael said stubbornly.

"Look at it this way—I'm better off than you are," Courtney said dryly, gazing past her father to the car he and Nathaniel had arrived in. Vanessa was in the back seat, still smarting after the tongue lashing she'd just received from Ida and, to a lesser extent, Nicholas. Much of the latter's posturing had to do with his saving face in front of his troops; to have his lover mess up so spectacularly had been deeply embarrassing. Watching that three-way conversation—or rather, confrontation—had been one of Courtney's best moments so far on planet Earth.

"What will happen to her?" Courtney asked.

Michael glanced back at the car where Nathaniel was sitting uncomfortably in the passenger seat, no doubt feeling the heat from the volcano directly behind him. "I imagine there'll be a great deal of yelling and screaming," he replied. "Most of it will come from Ida, although Nicholas will be obligated to participate, to a certain extent, at least. I will enjoy it enormously and have to work very hard at pretending I don't."

"Do you think she'll be recalled?" Courtney asked eagerly, referring to one of the worst punishments an operative could receive—banishment to their ship, still hidden in the mountains, and a lengthy retraining period.

"I'm sure Ida would love to do that," Michael answered. "Vanessa is the first of us to run afoul of human law, not to mention that she was imprisoned long enough for the entire reason for her visit to become moot. If it were anyone else, they'd definitely be recalled, but I'm not certain Ida will get that far."

Drat, Courtney thought. Although she certainly wasn't complaining about the way Vanessa's arrest had dovetailed so neatly with the weekend's drama. By the time she'd gone to her hearing, been given a stern warning by the judge, and paid her fine, it was all over; the FBI had left, and the actress' body was gone. Word was that Valenti had had the body cremated to spite the FBI, and if that was true, Courtney was willing to forgive him every single pain he'd caused her because in keeping it from the FBI, he'd also kept it from Nicholas. With no reason to stay, her father, Nathaniel, and Vanessa had been called back to the base.

"Courtney, listen to me," her father said, lowering his voice. "I want you to keep your trithium generator with you at all times. I know that risks its being found, but you can concoct a suitable cover story—say it's an eclectic piece of art, or something like that."

"But—"

"No 'buts'," her father said firmly. "Given what's happened, you have no idea when you may need it. If you don't, that's wonderful, but if you do, it will do you no good under that floorboard. Promise me you'll keep it with you."

Courtney had a counter-argument on the tip of her tongue, but decided at the last minute that it was useless. "I promise," she said, crossing her fingers human-style.

"Good," Michael said. "I'm sure Malik will get in touch with you soon. Let me know how they fare."

"I will," Courtney said. "I'm sorry we lost them, but at least Nicholas doesn't have them."

"We didn't lose them," Michael answered. "You're still here, and Malik knows that. We'll find them again. We just need to be patient." He sighed, putting an arm around her shoulders. "It seems we need an endless supply of patience because we're forever waiting. Someday that will end. I hope."

Five minutes later, after a few "I love you's", several "goodbyes", and one exceptionally bad-tempered Vanessa, the car pulled away from the curb, leaving Courtney alone outside her rooming house. It was pushing midnight, and the night was very quiet, much quieter than usual after the movie crew's departure. She hadn't realized how much hustle and bustle the filming had brought to town until it was gone. And now Dee and her family were gone, Emily was no longer visiting, her father had just left.....now she was truly alone in a way she never had been before.

Shivering involuntarily, Courtney headed up the front walk and back into the house, careful to close the front door quietly so as not to bother Mrs. Bruce, who couldn't abide any noise at night. It was weird to think they were the only two people in the house. With "Langley" and Dee both gone, Mrs. Bruce had two rooms for rent, and she had prevailed upon Courtney's father to help her pound a wooden sign into the front lawn advertising this fact. A few prospective roomers had already inquired, none of them particularly inviting. Empty or full, things were certainly going to be different around here.

The steep, narrow staircase seemed steeper and narrower than usual tonight, and Courtney glanced sadly at Dee's door as she went into her own room and plopped on the bed. Recalling her promise to her father, she pulled up the floorboard in the closet and removed her generator. It probably couldn't hurt to put it in her purse. That meant it would be sitting in her locker at work, but it would be close enough that she could say she wasn't lying to her father. So what do I call it? she thought, idly wondering what her answer would be if someone were to see it. It was too small to qualify for a "work of art" as her father had suggested. Maybe a coaster? A paperweight? An exceptionally large pendant for which she had lost the chain?

Knock, knock.

Puzzled, Courtney looked at her door. Who would that be at this hour?

"Hello?"

"I'm back," her father's voice said.

Courtney threw the door open to find her father standing outside. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Did you forget something?"

"Hello?" another voice called up the stairs. "Who's there?"

It was Mrs. Bruce, climbing up the stairs in her robe and nightgown. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Harris!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry; I thought you'd left. It seems the fewer boarders I have, the more I hear each and every little noise. You'd think...."

But Courtney didn't hear the rest of it. Her eyes had strayed out the window, wondering how Vanessa was taking the delay. But there was no Vanessa, no Nathaniel, no anything.

There was no car in front of the house.

"....I'd hear more noises with more people, but it's just the opposite," Mrs. Bruce chattered on. "And then the refrigerator started making strange noises today, and the washer was acting up, and....oh, bother! Now it's the lights! Why are they red? Why.....oh!" she exclaimed, staggering back against the banister. "What was that? Something just...just...pushed me!"

A split second later, Courtney had slammed and locked the door. One tap on the trithium generator had been all that was needed to show the infrared glow around her father, or rather, around the Covari masquerading as her father. Malik would have no need to deceive her like that, so it must be a Warder, and a second tap had blocked its enhancements. It had also sent out a shock wave which had knocked poor Mrs. Bruce backwards and sent small objects flying; on the plus side, it had sent her flying as well, toward the window, her only escape route, wondering which Warder had figured out who she was. Not that it really mattered.

She hit the ground below hard, and ran for her life.







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


I'll post Chapter 60 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIXTY


Three weeks later



September 15, 1959, 7 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house



The night wind stirred the curtains at the window as Brivari sat beside the telephone, willing it to ring. It was almost completely quiet, the only sound being that of the landlady's television on the floor below, which she turned on more frequently now that all her rooms were empty. His eyes strayed toward the clock on the bedside table as he felt rather than heard someone enter the room behind him; time for a changing of the guard.

"Anything?" Jaddo asked.

"No," Brivari sighed.

"Then we are going about this the wrong way," Jaddo declared. "No one is going to call."

"They may if Malik is right," Brivari answered.

"I'd still like to know why he didn't tell us if he suspected she was an operative," Jaddo grumbled.

"Because he merely suspected," Brivari said. "But because he suspected, he struck up a friendship with her. And based on that, he feels she is likely a resistance operative, an opinion which fits events as we know them—there is now no mystery as to how they knew where to send that letter—and supported by the fact that Nicholas has not come calling. Any other operative would have reported our presence immediately."

"The resistance has also not come calling," Jaddo pointed out.

"Which is why Malik thinks she has not yet reported to her superiors. If he's right, whoever knows she was here will likely contact her, most probably by telephone. She frequently referenced phone calls at the diner."

"It's been nearly three weeks," Jaddo reminded him. "If they haven't called by now, they're not going to."

"We have no idea how frequent their communications were," Brivari answered. "If there is contact of any kind, we need to make certain one of us is here to intercept it."

Jaddo gave a soft snort and retreated to the window. After the discovery that their waitress at the diner was, in fact, an Argilian, they had begun a stake-out at her abandoned apartment, waiting for someone to appear or for the phone to ring. The Harris girl's sudden disappearance had raised eyebrows in town, but September's rent had been paid, so the landlady of this dwelling had left her apartment untouched, for the moment at least. That would only last for another week or so, however, at which time they would either have to pay the rent in her name and risk drawing attention or give up this one and only link to their enemies.

"Tell me again why you didn't pursue the vehicle carrying three of them?" Jaddo asked.

"You know why—because I couldn't go after both, and I deemed the girl the easier target," Brivari answered, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice after having been asked the same question for the hundredth time.

"Why did you think she made an easy target?" Jaddo asked. "Because she was a 'girl'? And what makes you think she's really a 'girl'? She's wearing a husk; for all we know, it could be Athenor himself."

"Whatever she was, she was young and untried," Brivari said. "That was not Athenor. Besides, do you really think Athenor would present as female?"

"I think he would do or say anything to obtain his objective, including presenting as female. You should have pursued the vehicle."

"I should not have to explain how one against one is preferable to one against three," Brivari said.

"You could have followed them," Jaddo grumbled.

"But not captured them," Brivari countered. "They were all equipped with trithium generators, including the girl."

"She still should not have escaped you," Jaddo argued. "I've felt the effects of those generators—they only block our enhanced abilities, not our ability to shift."

"The landlady was right behind me and would have witnessed anything I'd done, and my objective could not be accomplished quickly. Killing someone is easy; taking them alive is much more difficult. You know that."

"Then you should have captured the Argilian and dealt with the landlady afterwards," Jaddo insisted.

"You mean kill her?" Brivari demanded. "Have you not noticed that we attract attention when we leave a trail of bodies in our wake? We wouldn't be in this predicament had you not done just exactly that."

"We wouldn't be in this predicament if you had found Malik and me before coming here," Jaddo retorted. "The three of us could have easily apprehended all of them."

"There wasn't time!" Brivari snapped, finally losing his temper. "They were leaving just as I got here!"

"Maybe there would have been time if you hadn't been off saving yet another of your useless 'friends'!" Jaddo exclaimed. "We had no idea where you were!"

"Have we not been over this?" Brivari said sharply. "Several times?"

Both fell into a sullen silence after yet another unsuccessful resolution of the same argument they'd been having ever since the Harris girl had fled. After Atherton's remark about their waitress having branded him "dangerous", Brivari had returned to Rowell just in time to find her in the midst of saying goodbye to three 'guests'. He had waited for them to depart before following her inside and assuming the shape of the guest she had appeared closest to, only to be interrupted by the landlady. Having lived in this very building, Brivari would have had no trouble setting Mrs. Bruce's mind at ease and sending her on her way. But before he could do so, something had tipped the Harris girl off, and she had activated her trithium generator, first the infrared wash which revealed him, and then a dampening field which had momentarily sent him staggering backwards. That's all the time it had taken for her to escape out her bedroom window, and by the time he had managed to extricate himself from the landlady's fussing, she had been long gone. Subsequent inquiries had identified the guest whose shape he had taken as the Harris girl's "father", and given Athenor's propensity toward using family members against each other, it was quite possibly her real father.

The door opened again, and Malik slipped inside. "Tell me you have good news," Jaddo said darkly, "or I shall go mad sitting in this hole."

Malik looked at Brivari, who shrugged wearily. "No one's seen or heard from her," he reported. "She still hasn't returned for work, or given notice, or anything. Everyone assumes she's left town. The prevailing theory based on the landlady's account of her running away from her 'father' is that the two of them are having some kind of fight, but no one knows for sure."

"Except us," Jaddo said. "She's gone, Brivari, long gone. While we sit here twiddling our thumbs, she's probably back at her base telling tales about how she escaped a Royal Warder. We are wasting our time."

"Not if she's resistance," Malik argued. "If she is, one of them will try to contact us."

"And I thought you wanted to speak to the resistance," Brivari added.

"Of course I want to speak to the resistance," Jaddo said irritably, "but how am I going to do that by sitting here and doing nothing? We should be out looking for them, not waiting for them to come to us."

"Looking where?" Brivari asked. "We have no idea where to look. Or do you plan to spend the next decade scouring this section of the planet for them as you did with Pierce? Is this your way of making certain you have something to do for the foreseeable future?"

"Anything would be better than just sitting here," Jaddo muttered.

"I beg to differ," Brivari answered. "Monitoring this apartment for activity may not be a glamorous assignment, but is far more likely to produce results than blundering around with no direction."

"We are wasting our time!" Jaddo exclaimed.

"No, we're not," Malik insisted. "She's here; I know she is. She wouldn't have given up so easily."

"Did you know her that well?" Jaddo asked suspiciously.

Malik's eyes flicked back and forth from one Warder to another as Brivari awaited a response with interest. Malik had rarely inserted himself in their frequent conflicts, preferring to hang back and let them pummel each other. But that had changed of late. The loss of his identity had made him bolder and more argumentative, and to Brivari's chagrin, he had been finding Malik's counsel sound more often than not. It was sobering to think they'd had this counsel available to them for so long and were only now availing themselves of it.

"I knew her well enough," Malik answered. "Well enough to know that if she is a resistance member, she wouldn't have just turned tail and run. She's here, somewhere. We just have to find her."

"And what specifically did you learn about her that would make you reach that conclusion?" Jaddo asked.

"Well....she seemed very green," Malik answered. "She didn't cook. She couldn't light the stove; Mrs. Bruce called me to see if something was wrong with it. She didn't seem to understand a lot of things, like she'd just been dropped here without enough training, yet she stayed anyway. She had all kinds of reasons to leave, but she didn't."

"Why would the Argilians have sent such an untested operative?" Brivari murmured. "It makes no sense. She would have had a mentor, or......" He stopped, his eyes widening as something suddenly occurred to him. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "I'd completely forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" Jaddo asked impatiently.

"The former occupant of this very apartment was killed right before the Harris girl's arrival," Brivari replied. "The sheriff suspected her for awhile; I recall Dee sparring with him over his treatment of her. She was supposed to move in with that former occupant, which makes that occupant....."

"An Argilian," Jaddo breathed. "Which means Valenti has an alien body in his possession."

"Go," Brivari said, waving his hand toward the door before the question was even asked. "Malik and I will keep an eye on this place while you find out what you can. And Jaddo," he added sternly, "watch yourself. We can't afford to leave any more tracks."

"He's in a good mood," Malik deadpanned as Jaddo practically evaporated, he was moving so fast, faint grumbles about him knowing how to do his job hanging in the air seconds after he'd disappeared.

"He does not wait well," Brivari sighed. "This will at least give him something to do, although I doubt we will learn much of anything useful from it. An experienced operative could not be traced, at least not anywhere interesting."

"At least it's another lead," Malik said. "That and this girl are all we've got."

Wrong, Brivari thought privately. There was another angle he was working, albeit in secret. Neither Jaddo nor Malik knew that there was now another human "in the know": James Atherton. All they had been told was that the FBI had come for Atherton, and Brivari had helped him escape. That that escape had taken two days strained credulity, but given how Jaddo had reacted with Audrey, he was not confident that Atherton would survive Jaddo's discovering the truth. The only way to keep Atherton alive now was to let Jaddo think he was gone. And it was necessary to keep Atherton alive because Atherton was not only a friend, he had been useful...and was still being useful. Before Brivari had left Atherton's home in Texas three weeks ago to pursue the waitress, Atherton had proposed putting his ability to craft aliases to good use, and Brivari had readily agreed.





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



McGinnity's Pub,

Santa Fe



"There you are!" Agent Del Bianco exclaimed as he pushed his way through the smoky crowd toward the bar where Agent Cates was sitting. "I've been looking for you everywhere! Do you know what time it is?"

"My watch stopped," Cates said dully, swirling the whisky in his glass.

"You're one of the witnesses!" Del Bianco said urgently, snatching the glass out of Cates' hand. "Get up, and get going! And clean yourself up," he added, frowning at Cates' unbuttoned shirt and loosened tie. "You're a mess."

Cates half slipped, half fell off the stool; Del Bianco caught him and heaved him back on it. "Jesus, how many have you had? How many has he had?" he demanded of the bartender hovering nearby.

The bartender's eyes flicked over Cates. "That's his sixth."

Del Bianco's eyes widened; he stepped back, dismayed, looking wildly around the bar as if hoping to find a can of instant sobriety lying around. "Jesus H. Christ," he muttered. "He can't even walk. What am I going to tell him?"

"The question," Cates said in a voice thick with alcohol, "is what you're going to tell her. Or rather, if you're going to tell her the truth."

Del Bianco grabbed Cates by the collar. "How many times do I have to tell you to watch yourself?" he hissed. "You start saying things like that, and you'll end up......" He stopped, suddenly noticing the audience he'd acquired as the bartender and everyone sitting within a six foot radius listened with rapt attention.

"Like Chris?" Cates finished softly.

"Shh!" Del Bianco whispered.

"Would you do the same thing to me?" Cates continued, ignoring him. "Would you get in your car, and—"

"Quiet!" Del Bianco ordered.

"Oh, but you wouldn't have used your car, would you?" Cates said, looking puzzled. "What car did you use? Where did you ditch it?" He leaned in closer, his alcohol-laced breath flooding Del Bianco's face. "Did you see his face when you hit him? Did he know it was you? Did he look surprised? Did he—"

"Shut up!" Del Bianco exclaimed, throwing Cates' arm around his shoulders. "We need to clean you up and get you out of here before he finds out."

"Not going," Cates said, pulling his arm back and sinking down on the stool.

"Of course you're going," Del Bianco insisted, grabbing his arm again.

"Not," Cates said stubbornly, pulling away.

"You have to!" Del Bianco said desperately. "He's expecting you!"

Cates' head swung around, his eyes locked on Del Bianco's. "If I go," he said in a voice that was suddenly clearer, "I'll tell her the truth."

"Christ, you have a death wish!" Del Bianco said in exasperation. "Would you stop trying to save the world and just do your job? Just for once?"

"I'm not going," Cates repeated, returning to his whisky. "Go away."

"Mister," the bartender interjected as Del Bianco grabbed Cates again, "he said 'no'. No means no."

"Like hell it does," Del Bianco said grimly.

"We can explain it to you, if you like," the bartender said coldly.

The bar was suddenly much quieter than before. Del Bianco stepped back, taking in the numerous pairs of eyes fixed on him, and very unfriendly eyes at that. Only Cates wasn't looking at him as he slumped over his glass of whiskey, staring into its depths as though searching for something he'd lost.

"Fine," Del Bianco said angrily. "But I'm not covering for you. This is on your head."

He took off, pushing his way roughly through the crowd. The bartender gave Cates a short nod before turning to new customers at the other end of the bar. Chatter started up again slowly, the soft murmur of patrons whose attention had shifted now that the excitement was over, and Cates let out a long, slow breath. God, that had been close.

"Congratulations."

Cates' head jerked up to find an unfamiliar middle-aged man on the barstool next to him, his long white hair contrasting with his conservative suit. "For what?" Cates asked suspiciously, remembering to thicken his voice only toward the end of that sentence.

The stranger smiled and held up a hand. "No need for artifice. I know you paid the bartender to tell your colleague that was your sixth drink when it was really your first. You're not the least bit drunk. But that was a fine performance, top notch, really. Hence the congratulations."

Cates' eyes flared with alarm. "Relax," the man said soothingly. "The festivities are over, so no one's paying attention. Except me, of course. I always pay attention. Close attention."

"Who the hell are you?" Cates demanded, his eyes darting around the bar where, indeed, no one was paying him any further mind.

"James Ackerman," the man said, extending a hand which Cates ignored. "And you are.....?"

"Pissed off," Cates said in annoyance. "Who sent you? Did Lewis send you?"

"My dear boy, no one sent me," Ackerman replied. "I was wetting my whistle after a long day when I chanced upon this place and your performance, and I'm merely offering my kudos for a job well done. Your 'friend' there was completely convinced—I took the liberty of watching out the window as he drove away—so it appears you've dodged whatever you intended to dodge. Again, my compliments."

"So, what, now you want to know why?" Cates demanded. "Is that what this is about?"

"Why?" Ackerman repeated. "Heavens, no! That's none of my business. Probably wouldn't understand it anyway. No, I'm just here in the trenches cheering for a fellow trench dweller. It can get nasty out there," he sighed, draining his glass and pushing it toward the bartender. "It's been particularly nasty for me today, so I'm drowning my sorrows. Would you like to drown yours? For real, I mean."

Cates hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. This didn't look like anyone Lewis would give the time of day, but then it was hard to tell after the events of the past several weeks.

"There's a good man!" Ackerman said cheerfully when Cates finally nodded, reaching over for Cates' glass and pushing it beside his own. "Bartender! We'll each have another."

"On you, of course?" Cates asked.

"Not so fast," Ackerman said dryly. "I need to know a man for at least ten minutes before I'll pay for his drinks, and you're well under that limit."

Cates relaxed a bit as the bartender refreshed the glasses. Anyone Lewis would have sent to find him would have offered to buy him a drink, lots of drinks, as many drinks as needed to drag information out of him. Not that there was much to drag. Three weeks of pulling every string he'd been able to find had produced nothing useful about who had killed Agent Owens. With no witnesses and no evidence, the local police had merely rubber-stamped it an accident, a typical hit-and-run. Cates knew better, but he couldn't prove it, and any Herculean effort to do so would likely mean he'd join Owens at the pearly gates. It was very clear that if you ran afoul of the wrong people at the FBI, your life was forfeit.

"Thanks," Cates mumbled as the bartender delivered fresh drinks to both him and Ackerman. "So what sorrows do you have to drown? What do you do?"

Ackerman chuckled. "I'd love to answer that, I really would. But if I tell you.....I'd have to kill you."

"FBI?" Cates asked warily.

"Worse," Ackerman sighed.

Worse? At the moment, it was hard for Cates to imagine anything worse than the FBI, and he risked a sidelong glance at Ackerman, who was staring into his drink very much the way Cates had a few minutes ago. What was worse than the FBI? The military? The CIA? Did the CIA have "special units" like the FBI's, where scapegoated agents were murdered?

"You can at least tell me why you've had a particular nasty day," Cates said, his curiosity roused.

Ackerman shook his head. "No. No more than you can tell me why you think your tormentor ran over someone named 'Chris'." He smiled faintly when Cates stiffened. "Don't worry; I have no idea who you're talking about. But someone does, so you might want to needle him with fewer details next time just in case the wrong people overhear." He paused. "I do, however, know what you were talking about, which was why I offered congratulations to a kindred spirit."

"What makes you think we're 'kindred spirits'?" Cates asked.

Ackerman was silent for moment, staring into space. "I've seen it before," he said finally. "That look of disappointment....of having been duped....of betrayal, really. I entered my line of work because I believed I was doing the right thing, for my family, my country, the world, even. I thought it more calling than profession, an awesome responsibility I was glad to shoulder because....well, because someone needed to. Someone had to step up to the plate, to do what needed doing, and I was proud to be one of those someone's." He paused, staring at his glass. "What I was unprepared for was that some of my colleagues consider our line of work more monarchy than noble calling, an opportunity to throw their weight around, to make themselves powerful and important. At first I thought their numbers were few. But time has proven otherwise, and sometimes......"

Ackerman hesitated so long that Cates finally resorted to prodding. "Sometimes what?" he asked.

"This is unpatriotic of me," Ackerman said quietly. "I know that. But sometimes....I truly wonder if I'm on the right side."

So do I, Cates thought privately, the ensuing silence giving him plenty of time to reflect that Ackerman's words described him perfectly. He'd been ecstatic to be accepted for FBI training, had basked in the good will of family and friends, all of whom would feel quite differently were they to learn what the FBI had done. Chris Owens had been a good agent; Lewis would never have selected him for the unit if he hadn't been. Whatever mistakes one would like to argue he'd made, he didn't deserve to be mowed down in cold blood by his own.

"But I've bent your ear long enough," Ackerman continued, interrupting Cates' thoughts. "My thanks for your kindness to an old man with regrets. Bartender—another for both of us."

"I thought you weren't buying," Cates said as Ackerman pulled bills out of his wallet.

"Congratulations again," Ackerman smiled. "You've just passed the ten minute mark." He took the glass the bartender set in front of him and held it up. "To both of us," he said soberly, "that we may each find our way home again."

Cates hesitated only a moment before touching his glass to Ackerman's, the faint clink echoing like an "amen". Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the old man thread his way through the crowd to a secluded booth in the back corner, where he set his glass down and stared into space. Is that how I'll wind up? Cates thought uncomfortably. If he continued down this road, would he wind up an "old man with regrets"? Is that really what he wanted to be?

"I need two more drinks," Cates said suddenly to the bartender. "One for me, and another for the man who was just here."

"Keep this up, and you'll hit your sixth, no problem," the bartender commented.

"Doesn't matter," Cates said. "I'm not going anywhere else tonight."

A minute later he was standing beside the booth in the back corner, where Ackerman looked up without so much as a hint of surprise and gestured to the seat across from him.




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



Valenti residence




"Isn't it bedtime?" Valenti asked.

Jimmy's eyes shifted to the clock beside his bed. "I hate school," he grumbled, closing his comic book.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Valenti said dryly. "Everything going okay? I heard you got the teacher you wanted."

"Yeah," Jimmy said without enthusiasm as he slid beneath the covers.

"Do I sense a 'but' in there somewhere?" Valenti prompted.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling. "But everyone's still calling you Sergeant Martian," he said finally. "I even heard Mr. Oliver laughing with a teacher about it."

The principal? Valenti thought, frowning. Not very professional of him even if he hadn't realized he was overheard. "It hasn't been very long," he said gently. "Only a few weeks."

"Seems like a lot longer," Jimmy mumbled.

"I know," Valenti said. "But it'll die down. I promise."

"At least the FBI didn't come back," Jimmy said.

"Nope. And if they haven't by now, they're not going to."

"I guess not. Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Jimmy," Valenti answered, pulling his son's bedroom door almost closed as he slipped into the hallway, where he found his wife waiting for him.

"It's rough being the sheriff's son," she remarked.

"So I hear," he sighed. "But I honestly don't know what to tell him, other than to point out that these things happen and public perception can be a bitch."

"Leave that last part out, okay?" Andi suggested. She planted a kiss on his cheek, ran a hand through his hair. "It's nice to have you back, Jim. We lost you this summer, to so many different things. However it ended, I'm glad it did."

Me too, Valenti thought, following her downstairs. Summer was over, Hollywood was gone, and except for the few lingering memories driving his son nuts, Roswell was back to normal. His original vow to pursue the aliens he thought were here had faded as there had been no word from the FBI, no deaths, alien or otherwise, no weird lights, no disappearing people.... Scratch that last one, he amended as he headed into his office. Courtney Harris had disappeared, reportedly after a tiff with her father. Her landlady had told an odd story about her going out the window of her second floor apartment, which seemed a bit extreme. But with both father and daughter gone, there was little to be done about it, and it was nice to have something as pedestrian as a domestic argument after the events of late summer. Even his wife was talking to him again. Now if he could just get his son happier, they'd be back on track.

Valenti dropped a stack of mail on the desk in his study, his eyes straying toward the file cabinet which held the real story on Audrey Tate and the only story on Mark Green. He hadn't looked at either file for a couple of weeks now, wanting to put the whole thing out of his mind. If he put case files away for awhile, he often found that the next time he looked at them, something jumped out that hadn't before, something he'd missed because he'd been stewing over the details. Now he pulled the key out of his pocket and opened the drawer, wondering if he'd waited long enough.

They were gone.

Blinking, Valenti pawed through the folders. Nothing. Both Green's and Tate's files had been in the back and mislabeled so that anyone who might be looking for them would be more likely to miss them. Damn it! he thought frantically, emptying the contents of the drawer to no avail. Five minutes later the entire cabinet was on the floor with no luck; the files were gone.

Who? he thought angrily, examining the cabinet carefully. He had the only key, and there was no sign of forced entry, either on the cabinet or the window. Even if someone had gained entry by posing as a meter man or such like, they still would have had quite a time getting the cabinet open and finding what they were looking for.......unless, of course, they were very, very skilled.

Grabbing a notebook, Valenti thumbed through its pages before dialing the phone and waiting impatiently while it rang. "FBI Field Office," a voice answered. "May I help you?"

"I'm looking for Agent Christopher Owens," Valenti said, his voice tight with anger. "I know it's after hours, but this is an emergency. Do you have his home number?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry, but Agent Owens is no longer employed by the FBI."

No longer employed.... "Okay, then where'd he go?" Valenti asked. "Who's he working for now?"

Another pause, this one longer. "I'm sorry," the voice said uncertainly, "but Agent Owens is dead."

Valenti stiffened in his chair. "Dead? How?"

"A car accident, as I understand it," the voice answered.

"When?" Valenti asked. "When did this happen?"

"A few weeks ago," the voice replied.

"The date," Valenti pressed. "I need the date."

"Why?"

"What, is that a federal secret?" Valenti demanded. "What was the date?"

"Monday, August 24th," the flustered voice replied. "Who is this? Are you are member of Agent Owens' family?"

Valenti set the phone down quickly, grateful that he hadn't identified himself at the beginning of the conversation like he usually did. August 24th.... The day after the great alien chase, the very day Lewis had ransacked his station, Agent Owens had died. That couldn't be a coincidence.

"Jim?"

Andi was in the doorway, watching him with concern. "Who was that?" she asked. "You look a little.....freaked."

"I'm okay," Valenti answered even though his chest felt like lead. "Just checking on something. That's all."

She threw him that look that she always did when she knew he was fibbing, but didn't press the point. Valenti nearly sagged with relief when she walked away because he really couldn't take an interrogation right now. They killed him, he thought in disbelief. He didn't doubt for a moment who "they" were; the aliens would have taken out Lewis, if not the entire Special Unit. Owens had been no threat to them; he had only been a threat to Lewis. So who had the files—the FBI, or the aliens? Who had snuck into his house so skillfully that they had attracted no attention and left no marks?

A minute later, Valenti packed up the cabinet and locked it. The files were gone, but whoever had taken them had not harmed his family. Given what both of the available suspects had proven themselves capable of, perhaps he should be grateful for that and let it lie.

Perhaps.....but he wouldn't.




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




City Hall,

Santa Fe




"There you are!" Lewis said, struggling with his bow tie. "What took you so long?"

"Sorry, sir," Agent Del Bianco answered, his face flushed as though he'd been running. "I was looking for Agent Cates."

"So where is he?"

"He's.....well.....he's plastered, sir," Del Bianco said awkwardly. "He's not coming."

Lewis gave his tie a sudden tug which was meant to produce a nice bow and allow him to check one more thing off his "to do" list; instead it slithered into a messy heap, nearly strangling him in the process. "Oh, bother," he said irritably. "Do you know how to tie these infernal things?"

Del Bianco blinked. "Yes, sir."

"Well, get on with it, then," Lewis said impatiently. "I never could abide formal dress, and my tolerance for it diminishes with each passing.....not so tight!" he broke in suddenly. "Much as I would like to black out for this wonderful event, doing so would be inconvenient."

"Sorry, sir," Del Bianco said, hastily loosening the tie. "What did you want me to do about Cates?"

" 'Do' about him? I don't want you to 'do' anything about him. If he's drunk, then I certainly don't want him here. Fetch Stanton from the car. And a pin," Lewis added in exasperation. "This ridiculous flower keeps flopping around and.......Helen!" he exclaimed suddenly, willing his face into a smile. "You are simply beautiful!"

"I feel like a whale," Helen Pierce confided, filling the doorway every bit as much as a whale would, if not more. "I'm going to look awful next to you, Bernard. And I'm afraid people will talk. I don't want your career to suffer because of this."

"You look stunning," Lewis lied smoothly. "And no one will speak ill of you; they all know our circumstances. It is both an honor and a privilege to stand with Daniel's widow."

"Oh, Bernard," Helen whispered, close to tears. "I don't deserve you. You know that, don't you?"

And how, Lewis thought darkly. "Don't be silly," he answered. "Run along now. It's almost time."

He managed to resist pulling away as she pecked him on the cheek and lumbered off as fast as her massive frame could carry her. Del Bianco righted his boutonnière as Lewis took one last look in the mirror. "It will be a miracle," he said, "if I can see this through with a straight face."

"Yes, sir," Del Bianco said.

Ten minutes later, Lewis was wearing a benevolent smile as he stood beside Helen with Del Bianco to his left and Agent Stanton to her right. The Justice of the Peace cleared his throat.

"It is my pleasure," he intoned, "to bring light from darkness, new hope from tragedy, new life from death."

Speak for yourself, Lewis thought wearily as the sermon droned on, culminating in Helen dutifully repeating, "I, Helen, do take Bernard to be my lawfully wedded husband......."





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


I'll post Chapter 61 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!


Misha: Now there's a marriage made in heaven, right?





CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE


September 15, 1959, 9:30 p.m.

Hilton Hotel, Santa Fe




"And here we are, my dear," Lewis smiled, setting his new bride down gently. "I realize this isn't the threshold of our home, but I hope it will do."

"I'm impressed that you carried me over any threshold," Helen said gratefully. "I weigh a ton."

"Nonsense," Lewis said lightly. "You're due any day now. Your condition is perfectly natural."

"I hope so," Helen said, casting a doubtful glance in the mirror which hung on the back of the hotel room's door, a full length mirror which gave an unfortunate full length view of her bloated body. "I must weigh close to two hundred pounds."

A sparse estimate, Lewis thought, his back still shrieking in spite of the fact that he'd lifted her as carefully as possible. If this was fate's way of making him pay for his deception, so be it; the marriage license had been whisked away by Agent Del Bianco to be recorded at once. He had what he wanted, and a stiff back was a small price to pay for it.

"Bernard, I've made a decision," Helen said, easing herself onto the bed, which sank precariously low to the ground. "It's not fair that you don't get to have your wedding night just because of my....condition."

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear," Lewis answered. "I can wait."

"You're a prince for saying that, but it's still not fair," Helen answered. "Which is why I did a little....checking with my doctor," she continued, her cheeks turning pink. "And he gave me some....suggestions for how to.....fulfill my duties as a wife."

Lewis' heart nearly stopped. "Why, darling!" he sputtered. "I would never dream of doing such a thing at this juncture! It isn't safe for the baby!"

"My doctor says that's an old wives' tale," Helen insisted as Lewis made a mental note to have that doctor shot. "He says it's perfectly safe as long as my water hasn't broken. He says you can.....you can get behind me, and—"

"Helen," Lewis interrupted firmly lest he lose his dinner at the thought of what she was suggesting, "I married you to provide stability for a dear friend's family after his tragic and untimely death. I would never do anything to put that family at risk, however remote that risk may be. It's simply not appropriate to put my petty desires before the health and well being of Daniel's wife and son. I wouldn't dream of it, and I'll hear no more of this."

Helen's face contorted as she levered herself off the bed. Don't cry, Lewis thought wearily as she began to do just that, black lines of mascara creasing down her face, threatening to drip on her white dress. "Bernard, you are so selfless," she wept. "Any other man wouldn't care about my feelings, but....." She paused, having managed to stand and fling herself into his arms, causing Lewis to almost lose his balance. "I am so lucky to have you. Somewhere, somehow, Daniel must be smiling."

Doubtful, Lewis thought, patting his new wife non-committally on the back. "There, there, dear," he said soothingly. "You've had a long day and must be exhausted. Why don't you go freshen up, and then I'll tuck you in."

She did, squeezing his hand as she left. No sound that day had been sweeter than the sound of the bathroom door closing behind her. Lewis sank onto the bed, letting out a long slow breath. And here he'd thought he'd be safe from any expectations of consummation for a good long while. Fate was not only making him pay, it was laughing at him, taunting him, asking him how much he was willing to do to see this through. Too late, he thought grimly; the deed was done. As Helen's husband, he would be the legal guardian of any children she gave birth to regardless of who the real father was.

"Bernard!"

The voice was panicked, and Lewis bolted off the bed and flung open the bathroom door to find Helen seated on the toilet, clutching her massive abdomen. "What's the matter?" he demanded "What happened?"

"I......I was just....using the toilet when suddenly....it felt like a balloon popped inside me!"

"Your water broke, darling," Lewis said calmly, delighted that this meant no more talk about "wifely duties". "No need to worry. Most likely it means that labor will start very soon."

He stopped as she bent over double, or as close to double as she could get given her girth. "Ohhhhhh!" she exclaimed. "Oh my God! Is it supposed to hurt this much?"

I might have know she'd be a whiner, Lewis thought as he leaned over her....and froze in horror. Amniotic fluid was clear and sported a disgusting, fishy smell that had nearly knocked him flat in medical school. But it was an all too familiar coppery smell that flooded the tiny bathroom, and the contents of the toilet bowl were far from clear. More like red. Blood red.

"Is something wrong?" Helen asked, reading the look on his face.

"Of course not," Lewis lied. "This is the most natural process in the world. But we should get you to a hospital immediately. Don't you worry; I'm a doctor. I won't let anything happen to you."




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



Proctor residence,

Corona, New Mexico




When the doorbell rang, Emily Proctor glanced at the clock, noted the hour.....and smiled at what she'd just been thinking. It's too late to be out on a school night, was the first thing that had popped into her head; ridiculous, really, when one considered that not only had her child outgrown the local school calendar, but every other child on the block as well. After all those years of September meaning the start of school, September now meant.....nothing. With no child to ship off with a bookbag and milk money, autumn had become something else entirely; not bad, precisely, just different. Summer suffered from a similar lack of relevance now that she was less affected by the school calendar, although this summer had certainly proven an exception, marking the first time that Dee had come home for anything more than a few days. So this years' summer and September bore more of a resemblance to those of old, which was bittersweet in a way. At least it had ended better than it had started.

"Malik!" Emily said in surprise when she opened the door to find Malik on the front porch wearing his "new" face. "Has something else happened?"

"No," Malik asked stepping into the house. "But have you seen her? Have you heard anything from her at all?"

"I'm going to guess you're not talking about Dee, whom I have heard from and who's off to a good start in law school, thank you. No, it's all right," Emily added when Malik began to apologize. "I know you're worried. And no, I haven't seen Courtney. I gather you haven't found her yet either?"

"Something's wrong," Malik said earnestly. "I know she wouldn't leave, but....where is she? She left virtually everything behind but that device Amar invented: Clothes, money, everything. She can't change her identity the way I can, so how is she surviving?"

"Maybe she went home," Emily said gently. "I certainly couldn't blame her for bailing after everything she's been through."

"That's just it," Malik said. "After sticking it out through everything else, why leave now?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because she was being chased by a Royal Warder bent on killing her?" Emily said dryly.

"She wouldn't have left," Malik insisted. "She was the only link the resistance had to the Warders, and she wouldn't have severed that link; she'd worked too hard to form it in the first place. She's here. I just can't figure out where."

"Okay," Emily said slowly. "Then, if you're right, and she's still here, she'll turn up eventually. Maybe you just need to give her some time."

"Pretty soon, Mrs. Bruce is going to have to rent out her apartment," Malik warned. "When that happens, she'll have all of Courtney's things carted away."

"Things can be replaced," Emily said patiently. "And she can't very well go back to her apartment in any case. You know that."

"I know," Malik sighed. "I just....I wasn't expecting this. Here I've been fretting all summer about how to bring the Warders and the resistance together without bodies piling up, and then Brivari's friend goes and blows her cover without even realizing it."

"Is that how it happened? Last I knew, you weren't sure."

"Brivari's friend, Mr. Anderson, recalled something Courtney said, something that made Brivari suspicious," Malik replied. "That's how he figured it out."

"I see," Emily murmured. "Well....maybe you're trying too hard. Maybe they'll find each other."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Malik muttered. "What?" he asked accusingly when Emily smiled. "Did I say something funny?"

"No," Emily chuckled. "I'm just remembering how you were agonizing years ago about bringing all the various sides together. At least you only have two this time."

"Don't I wish," Malik said darkly. "Brivari and Jaddo are sometimes on their own 'side', Courtney's another, her father and the resistance yet another, and—"

"Okay, I get it," Emily broke in. "It's complicated. Isn't it always? But until you find Courtney or the resistance makes a move, there's nothing to be done but wait. Why not enjoy the calm before the storm?"

For a moment, Malik looked like he was about to protest further, but then thought better of it. "I suppose," he said grudgingly. "If you see her, would you please tell her I'm looking for her?"

"Of course," Emily promised. "I will definitely tell her."

As Emily closed the door behind Malik and leaned wearily against it, she spotted David standing in the kitchen doorway, watching sympathetically.

"Have you got any ideas about what's going through her head?" Emily asked.

"A few," David allowed.

"Then maybe you should have a go at it this time."

"You know her a lot better than I do," David pointed out.

"Maybe that's the problem," Emily said thoughtfully. "Supposedly she's a soldier. Maybe you'll have better luck."

David shrugged. "I'll give it a try."

Emily sighed as her husband disappeared up the stairs. This was by no means the first time her home had served as a way station for a fleeing alien, and it probably wouldn't be the last.




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




Curled beside the window in the Proctor's guest room, Courtney took note of the heavier tread coming up the stairs and realized she would have to do some fast talking. The Proctors had been remarkably patient with her, allowing her to stay with them and asking few questions beyond the day she had arrived following Brivari's discovery. Her flight that night had been instructive; curiously, she had felt no fear as she had half climbed, half flown out her second floor window, propelled by the dampening field from her trithium generator. A nearby tree had served to help her reach the ground, and she'd taken off as fast as her feet would carry her, her mind working methodically through the alternatives. Covari could see well in the dark, and it was late enough that she was the only one to see, so moving at night was a bad idea; she needed a place to hide and wait, when daylight and crowds would mask her. Although she couldn't remember making the decision, she'd found herself at Parker's, the only other place besides her apartment that she could call home. It was there, in the darkness of the shuttered kitchen, where she'd actually had a chance to think about what had happened and fear had set in. Brivari knew what she was; that meant she could never go back to her apartment, go back to work, or anywhere he might find her. She needed to get out of Roswell and think things through, and the only place she could think of to do that was at Dee's childhood home. Lots of delivery trucks passed through Parker's, so it hadn't been difficult to hitch a ride with one of the drivers who had stopped with an early morning delivery. She'd remembered the town where Dee lived, but not the address, and had spent several anxious hours skulking around Corona, acutely aware that anyone she saw could be a Warder. When she'd reached the Proctor's, she'd discovered that Malik had been there ahead of her, sparing Dee's parents the necessity of lying....but now he'd come back, and they'd had to lie. They'd lied to Dee also, telling her on the phone that Courtney was fine and making no mention of recent events. She couldn't blame them for not being happy about that, but she needed to sit tight a while longer.

Footsteps stopped behind her. "I'm guessing you heard that," David said.

"Most of it," Courtney answered. Including the part about how it was my fault, she added silently. Prior to this she'd had no idea how Brivari had discovered her, and now she'd just learned it was something she'd said months ago that had given her away. Who would have thought that the cheerful Mr. Anderson and his damnable memory would be her downfall. "Mr. Proctor," she continued earnestly, deciding to try a preemptive strike, "I appreciate you letting me stay here while I work things out, and I really appreciate you not telling Malik I was here. I wish Dee were still here so I didn't have to impose on you, but I'm sure she'll be glad you were willing to help."

David smiled faintly as he took a seat on the bed, obviously seeing through her attempt at manipulation by thanking him for largesse he might be on the verge of withdrawing and pointing out that his daughter would disapprove of that. "It's been three weeks, Courtney. You can't sit here forever. And if you still want to bring your resistance movement to the Warders, I'm not certain that keeping your whereabouts from Malik is a good idea."

"He could have been sent to kill me."

"I doubt that," David answered.

"But you don't know for sure."

"I don't know for sure that you weren't sent here to kill us....and yet here you are," David said. "At some point you have to trust, at least a little bit, or else you wind up stuck."

"Trust a Covari?" Courtney shook her head. "As I told Dee, here you have monsters like the bogeyman, or Bigfoot, or that sea monster in Scotland. On my world, our monsters are the shapeshifters. An Antarian's worst nightmare is being hunted by a Covari. They can see you, but you can't see them, and they can look like anyone, anyone at all....anyone you talk to, anyone you pass. Even someone you trust. Even someone you love." She shivered involuntarily, recalling the panic she'd felt on the way to Corona. "I told you when I came here that I needed to work out what to do, and I'm still doing that. I'm sorry it's taking a while, but this is a complex problem. If you want me to leave, I will."

That ought to do it, Courtney thought with satisfaction as David promptly shook his head. She had no place else to go, no one who would hide her, so tugging on a few sympathy strings could be forgiven and was probably far more likely to work with David than with Emily. She had seen Dee's father infrequently these past few months and knew little about him other than his habitual pleasant manner and his tendency to be the peacemaker in the arguments between Dee and her mother. Dee had given her the impression that her father and Brivari were close friends, but that had never made sense to her; David seemed much too mild-mannered to be of much interest to the King's Warder.

"I don't want you to leave," David said. "I want a straight answer."

"I told you, I need to think things over," Courtney said patiently. "I wasn't expecting this. If I do this wrong, I screw it up for virtually everyone on my planet."

"Fair enough," David allowed, "but the way I see it, you've already thought things over, come to a decision.....and now you're waiting. What I want to know is, what are you waiting for?"

Courtney blinked. "I'm waiting for a good idea, for a way out of this that doesn't involve dying, for—"

"Not any more," David interrupted. "You're not waiting idly, you're waiting deliberately. You're waiting for something specific, something that maybe is taking longer than you expected. And the longer it takes, the longer you stay in our house and the longer we have to lie, to Malik, to Dee, to the Warders.....to everyone. You've put us in a very awkward position with no end in sight, so the least you can do is tell me what you're waiting for. Talk to me," he added firmly. "Tell me what you're thinking."

All of Courtney's doubts about Brivari's taste in friends vanished when she saw the look in David's eyes. What had she been thinking? She should have known that neither Warder would have been interested in a mere sycophant, and that the fire Emily could generate would have consumed a timid man in short order. And to top it off, he'd hit the nail right on the head....and he knew it. There was no question in his voice, no hesitation; he knew she was stalling. She had badly misjudged this one.

"Okay," Courtney said slowly, wondering if history was going to be repeated by the Proctors tossing yet another alien out of their house. "Malik said the Warders were staking out my apartment, waiting for someone to show up or call."

"Yes. And?"

"Sooner or later, my father is going to call me," Courtney said. "I want my father to call, and a Warder to answer the phone."

"So why not call your father, tell him what happened, and have him call your apartment?" David asked. "Why wait?"

"You don't know my father," Courtney said. "If he even thinks something is wrong, he'll find some excuse to come up here....and he can't do that, not without some kind of prior contact with the Warders. They know what he looks like—Brivari took his shape to fool me—and he'd be spotted and killed in short order."

"If I understand correctly, your father is the leader of the resistance," David said. "He would never have risen to that position if he were incapable of understanding what you've just told me."

"There's no safe way to tell him," Courtney said sadly. "I can't use a communicator because that would be monitored. I can't take the risk of going into detail over the phone because both the FBI and my own people are running around out there; I could wind up giving all of us away. It turns out I gave myself away with something I said months ago, and I don't even remember what I said. No, the best way for this to happen is for my father to make one of his usual phone calls to me and have a Warder answer."

"And how often do you and your father talk on the phone?"

"It varies," Courtney answered. "At least once every two weeks."

"It's been three," David noted.

"I know," Courtney said. "But he was just up here, and he knew they ran.....he has no idea everything fell apart minutes after he left."

"You do know they could just answer the phone and pretend to be you, right?"

"We've had to deal with Covari a lot longer than you have, Mr. Proctor. My father will figure it out."

"And what if they tell him they're holding you captive, or, worse yet, have killed you?"

Courtney closed her eyes briefly at the thought of the effect such an announcement would have on her father. "They won't tell him they've killed me because then they'll have nothing to bargain with. As for the other.....look, I know this isn't perfect, but it's the best we've got."

"Okay," David sighed. "Then what are you going to do when your apartment is rented out to someone else?"

"According to the lease, Mrs. Bruce can't move my stuff out until the first of October," Courtney said. "So the phone will stay in my name until then, and I know my father will call before that. I know he will. We just have to wait a little longer. Or rather I just have to wait a little longer," she amended. "If you don't want me to stay here, I'll leave."

"Where would you go?"

"I don't know," she said sadly. "I'd have to stay out of sight because lots of people know me from working at the diner. But I'll find a way. I'll hunker down in a dumpster if that's what it takes for them to make the connection. With the Warders back in hiding, this might be our only chance."

David was quiet for so long that Courtney assumed he was working out a polite way to tell her she had to leave, and she really couldn't blame him. She had asked for only temporary asylum when she'd appeared several weeks ago, acutely aware that the Proctor's taking her in would be seen as a hostile act by the Warders if they were to get wind of it. It was only after she'd gathered her wits about her that she'd decided the best course of action was to let nature take its course, and she hadn't said anything to the Proctors for fear they'd balk at the length of time that could take. When she'd heard Malik below, she'd been hoping that he'd appeared to announce her father had called, but no such luck.

"I think you're right."

Courtney's head swung around to stare at David in surprise. "You do?"

"Weird as it sounds.....yes," David answered. "Any personal meeting between your resistance and the Warders means someone might wind up dead. A telephone is the perfect mediator because it puts enough distance between them that neither can reach the other quickly, so they'd be restricted to just.....talking. It's ironic, really, but the humble telephone could wind up being the missing link that brings the two sides together just long enough so they don't kill each other......right away, anyway. I see where you're going with this. So why didn't you say so?"

"I....I assumed you'd think I was nuts to just wait around and do nothing," Courtney said.

"Sometimes waiting is the best thing to do," David observed. "It can also be the hardest thing to do; it takes a certain amount of self control. No, I think you're doing the right thing. If it doesn't work, you can always contact your father later."

"So....you don't want me to leave?" Courtney ventured.

"On the contrary, I think this is the best place for you to be," David answered. "We have ties to Malik and the Warders, so you'll find out what's going on a lot faster if you stay—what's so funny?" he finished as Courtney started laughing.

"I was just thinking about what my father will say when he finds out about this," Courtney chuckled. "No matter how it works out, he'll be furious that I didn't call him right away."

"In that case, I'd say he was being more of a father than a leader," David said. "Maybe you have the clearer head for this. Maybe that's why it fell in your lap." He rose from the bed. "You're welcome to stay here. Just do us a favor, and talk to us. It works better if we're on the same page."

"Will do," Courtney smiled. "Oh, and Mr. Proctor?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," Courtney said softly. "And not just for a place to stay."

"For what, then?"

"For listening. For not assuming I'm some stupid child who doesn't know a thing about anything. For not acting like my father would have."

David smiled faintly. "I'm a father myself, and I can promise you, none of us are perfect.....and we're a lot less perfect when it comes to our own children. Cut him some slack. You'll be glad you did."




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



Santa Fe General Hospital




"For the last time, I need to speak to the physician in charge!" Bernard Lewis exclaimed. "Perhaps you don't understand English? Or perhaps you're just too stupid to comprehend such a simple directive?"

"Fathers aren't allowed," declared the behemoth of a nurse who was roughly the size of Mount Rushmore. "And there's no call for being nasty, Mr. Lewis. I'll let you know—"

"Doctor Lewis! For the tenth time, it's Doctor Lewis!"

"—when the doctor is ready to see you," the nurse finished without missing a beat. "Just sit down and behave yourself like these other gentlemen."

Lewis blinked as he glanced around the "Father's Waiting Room" which boasted a population of four, all of whom were watching the drama in front of them with rapt attention. Two wore dungarees and peaked over the tops of months' old magazines, one wore greasy coveralls and clutched a box of cigars for future distribution, and the last clutched a brown paper bag which most likely contained alcohol. "Madam," Lewis said through gritted teeth, having never been on the receiving end of the medical profession, "you cannot possibly be lumping me, a respected surgeon, with these....these.....riffraff! I insist you take me to my wife's attending physician at once!"

"I don't care if you're the Surgeon General, you're not an obstetrician on this floor," Mount Rushmore said stoutly. "We know how to handle pregnant women, Mr. Lewis, and this is no place for a man. You just sit tight, and we'll let you know if it's a boy or a girl when the time comes."

Mount Rushmore swept out of the waiting room with surprising speed given her bulk, leaving Lewis with his mouth hanging open in absolute astonishment. How dare she? How dare she treat a physician in this insulting manner? When this was over, he vowed there would be hell to pay, but right now, he had bigger fish to fry. Thoroughly frustrated, he sank down into a chair, feeling acutely out of place in his suit and overcoat, a magazine reader on either side of him.

"Riffraff?" muttered one.

"Hmpf," said the other.

"Cigar?" offered Greasy Coveralls.

"No, no," objected Brown Paper Bag. "You hafta wait until afterwards. Givin'em out before is bad luck."

Lord, deliver me, Lewis groaned as Greasy Coveralls snatched back the proffered cigar. Superstition was rampant at the shallow end of the gene pool, although he must admit, however grudgingly, that he could see how that would happen when one was closed off in this dingy little room with no idea of what was going on. He had just resolved to push his way past Mount Rushmore by force, if necessary, when the door opened and she reappeared.

"Good news, Mr. Buckpit!" she beamed at Greasy Coveralls, her smile producing new folds in her pudgy face. "It's a boy!"

The blue collar contents of the waiting room erupted in joy, and Greasy Coveralls immediately began dispensing cigars. But by the time he got to Lewis, Lewis wasn't there, having noticed the open and unguarded door. Five minutes later he had located a laundry room and traded his overcoat for a lab coat. Much better, he thought, nicking a stethoscope from a nearby desk before striding down the hall in full view, heads nodding deferentially as he passed. This was more like it. "Doctor!" he called to the very first one he saw. "Could you tell me where I would find Mrs. Helen Lewis's physician?"

"That would be me," the doctor answered, puzzled. "I'm Dr. Burtner. And you are....?"

"Her husband, Dr. Bernard Lewis. I'm a surgeon."

"Ah. Yes. She mentioned you," Dr. Burtner said. "She also said the two of you were married just this evening. Cutting things a little close, wouldn't you say, doctor?"

"Mrs. Lewis was widowed this summer," Lewis explained hastily. "The child is her former husband's. How is she?"

"Oh, I see," Dr. Burtner answered. "Mrs. Lewis has suffered an abruption, which is when the placenta prematurely separates from the uterine wall—"

"Yes, yes, I'm familiar with the term," Lewis interrupted. "How is the baby?"

"In a certain amount of distress," Dr. Burtner answered. "It's heart rate has slowed; given the amount of blood she's lost, it's likely that a significant portion of the placenta has detached, meaning its not getting as much oxygen as I would like. She's having regular contractions, and at this point, we're hoping she'll deliver sooner rather than later."

"You're waiting?" Lewis asked. "Why haven't you done a Cesarean section?"

"Your wife has lost a lot of blood, Dr. Lewis. As a surgeon, you know it would be dangerous to operate on her in her current condition."

"But it's dangerous for the baby to have a reduced oxygen supply," Lewis argued. "You have to save the baby."

Dr. Burtner regarded him levelly for a moment. "Doctor, believe me when I say that I consider the unborn child to be every bit as much my patient as its mother. But in situations such as these, it isn't always possible to save both. Your wife is young; you can have another child, your own child—"

"I don't want another child," Lewis insisted. "I want this child. If it comes down to the mother or the baby, you must save the baby."

"That's a cold sentiment from a man on his wedding night," Dr. Burtner said disapprovingly. "Are you Catholic? Is this the church talking? Because I'll have no pope interfering with my medical judgment."

"This has nothing to do with religion," Lewis said impatiently. "You must perform the surgery at once. It's what Helen would want; she would want her late husband's progeny to live—"

"Mrs. Lewis has already refused the surgery," Dr. Burtner said. "She apparently holds a higher opinion of herself than you do."

Lewis opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it; the direct approach clearly wasn't working. "Of course," he said, doing his best to sound conciliatory. "I'm just....overwrought. It's been a long day what with the wedding and all, and now this.....you must understand that Helen's late husband and I were friends, so the thought of his child dying......" Lewis stopped, close to choking on his own sappy story.

"No need to explain," Doctor Burtner said gently, mistaking the source of Lewis' emotion. "It's always difficult for us when it's one of our own who's suffering. We're so used to being in charge and making decisions dispassionately....I understand completely."

"Thank you," Lewis ground out. "May I see my wife?"

"Of course," Dr. Burtner said. "Right this way."

Lewis followed Burtner down the hall, his hands jammed in the pockets of the pilfered lab coat. So Helen had refused the surgery, had she? Unfortunately she had the legal right to do that....as long as she was conscious. But the minute she was unconscious, the right to make such decisions fell to her husband. The trick would be to accomplish that without compromising the baby further. No matter what happened to Helen, it was imperative that Pierce's son survive.




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



Ruth Bruce's boarding house,

Roswell




"Interesting," Jaddo murmured, sifting through the pile of photographs. "It completely and utterly disintegrated."

"And quite forcefully," Brivari added. "Useful information, that."

Both fell silent again as they sorted through the files Jaddo had removed from Sheriff Valenti's house earlier that evening. Doing so would no doubt set the sheriff off yet again, but that was a small price to pay for the removal of evidence such as this. The condition of "Mark Green's" body had been meticulously documented by a local healer with both photographs and notes, providing the Warders with the first concrete information about their enemies' shells.

"I find no mention of a seal of any kind," Jaddo noted. "Have you?"

"None," Brivari confirmed. "Yet there must be one. I would imagine the body disintegrated before the healer discovered it."

"We'll need to know where that is," Jaddo said. "Compromising the husk's seal would be the quickest way to eliminate them."

"What's this?" Brivari asked, holding up another folder.

"Details on the death of your lady friend," Jaddo answered, not looking at him. "It would appear Valenti was keeping things from the FBI. There are also a great many notes on you and Malik in there; it shows his thought processes as he slowly divined your identities. That may prove useful in the future."

Perhaps, Brivari thought, setting the file aside. What had happened to Audrey was still too raw of a subject for him to address now. He returned to the healer's notes, concentrating on the analysis of the debris remaining after the Argilian's body had disintegrated.

"It says here that the only human cells identified were skin cells," Brivari said. "And yet the husk bled. Why weren't there blood cells as well?"

"Perhaps it merely looks like human blood," Jaddo suggested.

"But it's nourishing human skin cells," Brivari said. "Wouldn't it have to be real human blood?"

"That's a question for Valeris, not me," Jaddo answered.

Indeed, Brivari thought heavily, reminded for the second time in as many minutes that his list of missing friends would only grow longer, especially if their exile were extended as it appeared it would be. And now that their enemies had found them here, the list of reasons to simply up and leave had also lengthened. Let the Argilians comb the place if they wanted to. He and the others could live anywhere, returning periodically to check on the slowly growing hybrids.

"Unfortunately Valeris is not here," Brivari said, "and we need to know as much as possible about this new physiology—"

The phone rang. Jaddo and Brivari stared at it, the former with surprise, the latter with triumph.

"Would you like to answer that," Brivari asked, "or shall I?"




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


I'll post Chapter 62 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO




September 15, 1959, 10:05 p.m.

Copper Summit, Arizona




Pick up, Michael thought impatiently as his daughter's phone rang four, five, six times. He was certainly calling late enough that she should be there, had specifically waited till this hour to make certain she would be home and he would be alone. Which had not been easy, given what had happened; he'd been on what the humans would call "pins and needles" all day even though delaying meant he had many more details for her now than he'd had earlier. Bulletins were being sent, but he wanted to reach her first; they needed to prepare themselves as quickly as possible.

"Hello?"

"Courtney!" Michael said in relief. "I was afraid you weren't there. What took you so long?"

"I was in the bathroom. What's wrong? You sound upset."

Every muscle in Michael's body suddenly went rigid. "What did you say?"

"I said you sound upset," she repeated. "Is anything wrong?"

Michael staggered backwards, sinking onto the first step of the nearby staircase, his heart beating a wild tattoo in his chest. Living on a world which housed a species capable of changing its shape induced one to take certain precautions to determine another's identity. After Zan's father had taken the throne and society had reached an uneasy truce with the Covari in its midst, most of the old defenses had fallen by the wayside while a few had been transformed into ceremony, much like the human handshake, the original purpose of which was to show that you were not holding a weapon in the right hand favored by most humans, but which remained in the form of a standard greeting, its origins obscure to most.

But the Argilian resistance, hiding within Khivar's armies and needing a way to distinguish its own operatives, had resurrected one of those old defenses in the form of a highly effective structure to the beginning of any conversation. To the unschooled listener, it would be completely invisible, and even the informed would find it impossible to understand if they didn't know the specific progression being used. It was more of a cadence, a rhythm, which syllables were stressed in a given word, the order in which subjects were introduced, or the order of the words in a question or response, and it was second nature to Argilian resistance operatives to the point where they often forgot about it. Until there was an anomaly, that is, which clanged like a gong. Like an alarm. Like was happening now, when his "daughter" had said exactly the wrong thing in the wrong way at the wrong time.

"Who are you?" Michael demanded.

There was a brief pause. "I'm Courtney," the perfect imitation of his daughter's voice answered. "Who did you think I was?"

Wrong answer, Michael thought, as any hope that his daughter had suffered a completely inexcusable but still preferable lapse in protocol evaporated. "I know you're not Courtney," he said. "What have you done with my daughter?"

The pause that followed was much longer than the first. "Impressive," a male voice answered nearly a full minute later. "I did not expect to be discovered, at least not so quickly."

"We've had plenty of experience dealing with your kind," Michael answered stiffly. "Which one are you?"

"Irrelevant," the voice answered. "What is relevant is that we have your operative."

Michael squeezed his eyes closed as though doing so could block the image of the first six emissaries sent to Rath, all felled by his Warder. "Did you kill her?" he whispered.

"I have always found the premature disposal of valuable hostages to be short-sighted," the voice answered calmly, as though it were discussing the weather.

She's alive! Michael thought, letting out a long breath. "Then she must have told you that we're resistance fighters," he said. "We are every bit as unhappy with Khivar's reign as you are."

"Doubtful," the voice replied dryly. "And as I recall, you were also unhappy with the king's reign."

Brivari. There was no way to be certain, of course, but as Brivari was likely to be the less sympathetic of the two, it would be wise to proceed as though it were Brivari he were speaking to. He'd been prepared to have this argument when he'd gone to Roswell, but hadn't had to; now he pulled it from the depths of his mind, pushing past the panic over his daughter's capture. "We felt Zan need more guidance," Michael said carefully, "and that Rath was the best choice to provide that guidance."

The voice chuckled, a cold sound that held no mirth. "So 'guidance' is the new euphemism for 'coup'? The resistance offered to help Rath take the throne. I would hardly refer to that as 'guidance'."

"We knew Rath might turn down the throne, but hoped the enormity of the offer would induce him to press harder to make his voice heard," Michael argued. "We had to make it clear how serious we felt the situation was, and in light of what happened, it would be difficult to argue we were wrong."

"The king was compromised from within, not without," the voice answered. "Khivar merely took advantage of the situation."

"An irrelevant distinction," Michael replied. "Whatever the means, he was compromised, and one we both oppose now sits on the throne. Which makes us allies, much as either of us dislikes that fact."

" 'Allies' do not seek to expose us in public places," the voice said sharply.

"No, allies warn you that exposure is possible!" Michael exclaimed. "Had I not sent you that letter, you would have been unprepared for their attempt to locate you, and may not have understood my daughter's attempt to warn you."

"We do not need you to remind us that our Wards have enemies," the voice said coldly.

"Apparently you do," Michael retorted, "or you wouldn't be leaving bodies lying around for both the humans and Nicholas to find. The death of that doctor piqued his interest, and the death of the female even more so. Do I really have to explain how that behavior draws attention?"

Michael stopped, swallowing another rebuke even as he regretted having spoken so frankly. One thing was clear—it was indeed irrelevant which Warder he was speaking to. Royal Warders were always devoted to only one Ward, some would say fanatically so, but the use of the phrase "our Wards" made it clear that the perspective of at least this Warder had broadened. He had hoped that speaking to Jaddo might give him a slight advantage given their earlier contact with Rath, but that now appeared unlikely.

"My point," Michael said when the ensuing silence became too lengthy for comfort, "is that the mission of the resistance is the protection of the Royal Four and the reestablishment of the House of Riall, a mission which is, I believe, in line with your objectives. We can provide invaluable intelligence that would facilitate the fulfillment of that objective. And it is that objective which should be paramount, not arguments over what has gone before or why. Can we agree on that, at least?"

"So you expect us to believe the mission of the resistance has changed?" the voice asked skeptically. "A tall order given that placing Rath on the throne would be much easier now than before."

"But inadvisable," Michael answered. "Given what's happened, the people would accept only Zan. And given what's happened, perhaps Zan would lend more credence to his second than he did in the past." He paused, framing his next words carefully. "I have no idea how accurate this is, but it is said that Zan's own Warder found him naïve and stubborn. When he returns in his new incarnation, perhaps this experience will have tempered that somewhat. Perhaps, in the end, all this will make him a better king. A hard way to learn the lesson...but then some only learn the hard way."

Silence. Michael held his breath, waiting for a response, planning his next move if none was forthcoming. It was well known that Brivari had been Zan's father's Warder, pressed into service for a son he found exasperating more often than not, and who reportedly eschewed his guidance on a regular basis. Touching on that was risky, as any Warder would be conditioned to feel guilty about such negative feelings concerning their Ward. But if this was Brivari he was speaking to, it was one of the few slivers of common ground available with a Warder Michael had a grudging admiration for. There was no denying that his alliance with Zan's father had literally remade Antar, much as it pained him to think a Covari could have that kind of power.

Say something! Michael thought desperately as the seconds ticked by. The use of silence to induce babbling was a common interrogation tactic, the hope being that one would babble something incriminating. He had no intention of falling into that trap, but was loathe to take this to the next level. Unfortunately he would have no choice if he wanted to make it clear that he was not to be trifled with. He would much prefer to accomplish that without his daughter's life hanging in the balance, but if there was no other way.....

"However we choose to view each other's actions, I'm afraid we have larger problems," Michael said, speaking quickly before the father in him took hold. "I called my daughter to deliver information as vital to you as to her; you will need to release her and allow her to maintain her cover if you wish to stay hidden and secure our assistance, assistance you will need badly in a very short while. I will call this number again in one hour; if you care for the safety of your Wards, you will be there, with my daughter and ready to listen. If not.....then, to adapt a human expression, may God have mercy on Antar. Because there will be no stopping Nicholas without our help."

He paused. "Think about it. One hour."

Michael set the receiver down and put his head in his hands, trembling all over. They'll kill her, he thought heavily. Just like the others.




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



Proctor residence




Courtney stood in front of the photograph in the Proctor's guest room, studying it with the kind of rapt attention usually reserved for something far less pedestrian than a primitive image. It was a picture of Dee and her parents taken when Dee had been quite young. David was wearing a suit, Emily a dress, and so was Dee, her hair pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail and a smile on her face that belied the fact that she hated dresses. If Courtney remembered human development correctly, this was right around the time when Dee had discovered the Warders' ship, and she studied the young face in the photograph carefully for any sign that this was the type of child who would consort with Royal Warders and emerge unscathed. But there was none; Dee looked a bit boyish, perhaps, but there was no hint of the fire that fueled her, nor with Emily either, who appeared pretty and benign, a far cry from reality. David looked intelligent enough, but even meeting him in person hadn't alerted her to the fact that he was a strategist, and the photograph was certainly no help. Pictures lie, she thought, or at least told far less than the whole truth. Which was likely why technology induced people everywhere to abandon still images in favor of moving images, where voice and movement and nuance all gave a clearer picture of someone's personality than any "picture" ever would. What she wouldn't give to see a hologram of Dee at this age, to see what the Warders had seen, what had caused them to stay their famously merciless hands. That information might come in useful in the future if the time came for her to confront them, something she was fervently hoping wouldn't happen. What she hadn't told David was that she was secretly crossing her fingers that her father and the Warders would make arrangements to meet and leave her out of it entirely. Probably doesn't matter, she thought, absentmindedly running a finger over David's photograph. Given how quickly David caught on, he probably already knew.

Sounds drifted from the hallway, those of David and Emily getting ready for bed. It was late, and she should probably think about getting some sleep too. Lately she'd found it difficult to sleep; after having been in shock for the first week or so after she'd fled, she'd gradually found herself fascinated with what she'd found here. The things she had learned, from the vocabulary she'd picked up, to the cooking lessons from Emily, to the reasoning behind certain human customs put her assimilation training to shame. She'd received her first ever coherent explanation of the political process used in this area of the planet from David, while Emily had cleared up some misconceptions about the origins of human holidays. Khivar and Nicholas had done their homework, but they'd gotten a lot of it wrong. There really was no substitute for learning directly from the natives.

Take, for example, the house. She had never lived in an actual human household, only an Argilian facsimile of one, and she'd found herself wandering about, taking in details she'd never seen before. Like the "kitchen witch", a talisman of sorts to prevent meals from burning which Emily professed to not believe in...yet there it was. And the photos. Argilian households were equipped with photographs, of course, but they were photographs of husks or fake human relatives. Dee's house was bursting with photos of the same people taken over a period of time, and it was fascinating—and disturbing—to see how quickly humans aged. Dee had only been a child when this photograph on the wall had been taken, but her parents looked markedly younger also even though only a short while had passed by Antarian standards. The human lifespan was less than half that of an Antarian's; it was hard to imagine living for such a short span of time. At seventy, an Antarian was only just hitting their stride, while the average human life was nearly over.

"She was nine."

Courtney whirled around to find Emily in the doorway, her slippered feet having made no sound. "Sorry?"

"Dee," Emily said. "She was nine in that picture. We had that taken shortly after her birthday....and shortly after we met the Warders. I think I wanted a record just in case.....well, just in case something happened to her. To any of us. Which seemed all too likely at the time."

"Nine," Courtney repeated, studying the photograph even more closely now that she had a number to attach to it. "About half the age she is now. Incredible."

"What's incredible?"

"That she would change so much in such a brief time," Courtney answered. "But with a lifespan so short, I guess you'd have to grow up fast or you'd never get to do anything."

"You know, you've never told me how old you really are," Emily noted, coming into the room.

"We don't measure time the same way you do," Courtney replied evasively.

"Okay, then, what's your best guestimate?"

" 'Guestimate'?" Courtney chuckled. "There's another one; I should be keeping a list." She paused, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "If I tell you, it'll sound weird," she warned.

"I'm familiar with weird," Emily assured her.

Courtney hesitated a moment before answering. "Forty-five. Give or take a couple of years."

"So you're about my age," Emily said.

"But you're more than halfway through your life," Courtney noted.

"Gee, thanks," Emily said dryly.

"I...I'm sorry," Courtney stammered, recalling the taboo about discussing age, especially with adult females. "It's just that I've never seen so many photos of the same people at different ages before. You look different now than you did in this picture even though it was only twelve years ago; you look....."

"Older?" Emily suggested helpfully.

Fierce heat rushed over Courtney's face, that awful redness that was so obvious on light-colored skin. "Damn," she muttered. "I did it again, didn't I?"

"Never mind," Emily smiled. "That's what I get for asking." She went to the closet and reached inside. "If it's photos you like, you might like this."

"What is it?" Courtney asked curiously.

"My mother's photo album," Emily answered.

Courtney sat down on the bed and spent the next five minutes leafing through it, beginning with dark, barely identifiable photos of a baby which progressed to an older child, a young woman, a woman about Emily's age, and a woman quite a bit older. The last photos showed a shocking level of physical decay; Emily's mother had shrunk to about three-quarters of her previous height, her hair had thinned and turned white, and her skin sagged in large folds from her face and arms. "What happened to her?" Courtney whispered. "Why does she look like that?"

"She was old," Emily said. "Eighty-four when she died, certainly a ripe old age by our standards. What's wrong?" she added, looking at Courtney curiously. "You have old people where you come from, don't you?"

"Of course," Courtney answered, still staring at the album. "But they don't look like that. I mean they haven't....deteriorated like that. She looks like she's in pain."

"She was," Emily said thoughtfully. "At that point she couldn't walk without a cane or sit for long periods of time. She was deaf in one ear, half deaf in the other, and her eyeglasses were so thick and heavy they cut into her nose, so she didn't wear them much. She couldn't read or knit the way she used to. She couldn't do much of anything that she'd enjoyed."

"Then.....why was she still here? If life had become so painful, why wait to die?"

"Because that's the way we do it," Emily said. "We wait until the body literally gives out."

Courtney blinked. "Even if you're in pain and life has no meaning anymore? But you don't do that with your pets. If a cat were in that kind of shape, you'd have it....what do you call it?....'put to sleep'. It would be considered the right thing to do."

"I know," Emily said gently. "But pets and people are treated differently."

"So....pets aren't left to suffer, but people are?"

"I won't pretend it makes sense," Emily admitted, "but yes, that's pretty much the way it is." She rose from the bed. "Look at that as long as you like. We can talk more about it in the morning."

Courtney curled up on the bed Indian style—yet another human term she'd learned here—and made a closer inspection of the photo album. But it was the pictures at the end which continued to draw her attention, pulling her away from the young woman Emily's mother had once been to the nearly unrecognizable woman of her last years. Antarians simply didn't show age the way humans did, and any who even approached the level of disability seen here would likely have voluntarily taken their own lives with society's blessing. She had seen elderly humans, but never anyone this old, probably because they weren't able to leave their houses. Emily could wind up this way, she thought in dismay. Dee could wind up this way, crippled, in pain, trapped inside a failing body in a society which showed no pity. No wonder humans were considered primitive. Was this yet another aspect of a short lifespan, the unwillingness to let go of it even when it was clearly over?

A faint vibration pulsed against her leg, and she pulled her trithium generator, now carried with her virtually everywhere, out of her pocket. The symbol on the button which activated the communicator was blinking, indicating that a message was incoming. She couldn't answer it without giving away her location, so she waited; a minute later, the symbol glowed steadily, meaning that a message had been left. Listening to messages was safe because it didn't involve direct contact, and she placed the generator on the bed and activated the hologram.

Five minutes later she was racing into the Proctor's bedroom, startling both of them out of a sound sleep. "I'm sorry," she panted, "but I need you to take me somewhere."




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



Santa Fe General Hospital




Bernard Lewis stood beside his new wife, her corpulence threatening to overflow the narrow hospital bed on which she lay. Helen was asleep, her mound of an abdomen rising and falling with each breath. So close, Lewis thought. Only a few inches of flesh separated him from Pierce's child, a child whose fate appeared more bleak with each passing moment. Her contractions had slowed markedly, meaning birth was not imminent and the baby would continue to be exposed to a less than optimal level of oxygen. If something were not done and done quickly, Daniel Pierce's son would very likely not survive, and the world's only hope of curtailing the alien threat would die with him.

Now what? Lewis thought, weighing his options, of which there were very few. Helen had refused to consent to the surgical removal of the child, and the only way he could override that was if she were unconscious. Nicking a sedative and administering it would be easy, but those readily available were rarely safe for both mother and baby; if either Helen or Pierce's child died en route to delivery, nothing had been gained. And if the child died....well, anything discovered once could be rediscovered, so it was theoretically possible to "discover" the serum a second time. But Pierce had been a neurologist, and he'd had two live aliens to experiment on, one of which had been conveniently hooked up to an EEG machine while it performed. He'd also taken the precaution of removing all the data he'd collected which had led to the formulation of the serum when he'd gone AWOL, which left everyone interested in containing aliens back at square one; if any were captured, they would need to be sedated until other means of control were found. And that did not suit Bernard Lewis. Captured aliens must be interrogated, made to say what they were doing here, and that required them to be conscious. Having the serum on hand would give them the maximum amount of time for interrogation; having to reinvent it would waste precious time and quite possibly couldn't be done. For all that Lewis had hated him, there was no getting around the fact that Pierce had been brilliant. Finding one as brilliant who also lacked the strangling ethics which smothered all sorts of progress would be very difficult indeed.

"Mmm....."

Helen stirred, her eyes fluttering open, widening when she saw him. "Bernard!" she whispered, reaching for his hand. "I kept asking for you, but you didn't come."

"I had to get past that mountain of a nurse," Lewis answered, resisting the urge to pull his hand away. "They kept telling me fathers couldn't come back here, and the fact that I'm a doctor didn't seem to make a difference."

"I'm glad you're here now," Helen said, her eyes welling with tears. "I think we're going to lose the baby."

"Nonsense," Bernard said soothingly. "Many births, even most, are not textbook perfect. That doesn't mean they end in tragedy."

"I think this one will," Helen said sadly, clinging harder to his hand. "And maybe that's for the best. This way I can give you a child of your own."

"I don't want a child of my own," Lewis said with absolute sincerity. "I want my dear friend Daniel's child to live when he could not. I want him to be a living remembrance of his brilliant father, and a reminder that whenever God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window."

"That is so beautiful," Helen whispered. "What could I possibly have done to deserve a man like you?"

Absolutely nothing. "Helen," Lewis said gently, "I do wish you'd reconsider the surgery Dr. Burtner discussed with you. It could save the baby."

"But he said it could kill me," Helen protested. "And then you'd be saddled with a baby and no one to care for it, and no one to give you a child of your own....no. After all you've done for me, I just couldn't do that to you, Bernard. I just couldn't."

"Darling, this isn't a time to be thinking about me," Lewis said, privately noting that he'd hire a wet nurse from Africa if necessary, and deliberately ignoring the specter of producing a child with this woman. "We should be thinking about you and Daniel's child, and...." He stopped, a new line of attack suddenly occurring to him. "Darling," he said carefully, "I'm wondering.....well, I don't even like to think this of a fellow physician, but given my conversation with him a short while ago, and now what you've said, I am wondering....."

"What?" Helen asked when he paused. "Wondering what?"

Lewis hesitated just long enough to give the illusion of dismay. "I'm wondering if Dr. Burtner was entirely honest with you," he said earnestly. "He said something to me about our being able to have a child of my own, and it sounds like he has overplayed the risks of the surgery. I'm wondering if he's one of those people who don't feel it's appropriate for a man to raise another man's child."

Helen's eyes widened. "Do you really think he would lie to me?"

"Well.....I do think there are times when one's prejudices can affect one's medical judgment," Lewis answered. "Not so much that he would deliberately harm you, but.....given the situation.....I can see him rationalizing that this is God's way of correcting an improper situation instead of outlining for you the true risks of the surgery, which I feel are much lower than he's letting on."

"Get him back here," Helen declared. "I want to talk to Dr. Burtner again."

"I'm not certain that would be wise," Lewis cautioned. "If he discovers I've pointed out discrepancies in his advice, he'll likely deny it."

"But...then how do I know what to do?" Helen asked, bewildered. "Be honest with me, Bernard. You're a doctor; do you think I should have the surgery?"

Lewis suppressed a smile. "I would never dream of telling you what to do, dear."

"But do you think I should?" Helen pressed. "I know you have only mine and the baby's best interests at heart. Tell me what you think I should do, and I'll do it."




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




Ruth Bruce's boarding house,

Roswell




"Brilliant," Jaddo said angrily as Brivari stared at the dead phone in his hand. "You lost him!"

"How was I to know that he would sever communication?" Brivari said defensively. "Especially when he thinks we have his operative."

"Daughter," Jaddo corrected.

"What may or may not be his daughter," Brivari said, replacing the receiver. "Since when have you been so gullible?"

"And since when have you failed to listen to the tone as well as the words?" Jaddo said. "We both heard him, heard what he said as well as the way he said it. The waitress is his daughter, which should come as no surprise given that Argilian military service often runs in families."

"Whoever she is, one thing is clear: She has definitely not returned," Brivari said.

"Nor has she contacted him," Jaddo noted. "He was surprised to learn she was not here."

"Why would she not have contacted him?" Brivari wondered.

"Using a communicator would give away her position," Jaddo said. "If she is truly resistance, she may not wish to do that."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Brivari warned. "It could be that she is loathe to admit she was discovered. Nicholas wouldn't take kindly to failure."

"I have no choice but to jump to conclusions," Jaddo said peevishly. "You did little but debate political theory with him."

"It's a wonder I could do even that with you yammering at me throughout the conversation," Brivari retorted.

"I was trying to learn something more specific," Jaddo argued. "Instead of pressing him for information, you let him control the encounter."

"Of course I did," Brivari said irritably. "One of the best ways to gather information is to simply sit back and let people talk. The less you say, the more they talk, and the more they talk, the more they reveal. Do I really have to explain this to you?"

"And what did he reveal other than the fact that he didn't know his daughter was missing, something that was obvious immediately?" Jaddo demanded. "I will answer the next call."

"If you'd had your way, we wouldn't have been here to receive the first," Brivari reminded him. "And there will be no second encounter if he truly expects to speak to his daughter when he calls again because we have no idea where she is."

Footsteps pounded on the stairs; a moment later a key abruptly rattled in the lock, and the waitress from the diner burst in, panting, stopping short when she saw them, her eyes widening.

Jaddo raised an eyebrow. "We do now."




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


I'll post Chapter 63 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE



September 15, 1959, 10:45 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's boarding house, Roswell



Courtney stood with her hand on the doorknob, the enormity of what she was doing reflected in the cold eyes of the two creatures on the other side of the room. Who would have thought that after months spent befriending the Warders' human allies and learning to tolerate a Covari, she would have no assistance when this juncture was reached, no one to provide an introduction, to vouch for her presence here, to tell of how she had searched for them, shielded them, fought with her own people for them. She was alone, with no allies to present her, or defend her, or simply stand with her at one of the most critical crossroads for either the resistance or Antar and the most terrifying moment of her life. Her father hadn't called, Dee was gone, the looks on the two faces in front of her told her that neither was Malik, the Proctors were not here....and that last was her doing, having insisted that David drop her off a couple of blocks away because, despite her craving for support, she had always worried about what would happen to the Proctors should the Warders learn they had been lied to. To his credit David had argued with her, stopping the car only when she threatened to get out while it was still moving. And as she stood on the sidewalk, impatient to be gone before she lost her nerve, David had leaned out the window and given her one last piece of advice.

"I know you have to do this," he'd said, her having explained the situation on the way into town, "and I know you wish the circumstances were different. Just remember one thing: The Warders respect strength. No matter how angry or threatening they may sound, they respect people who stand up for themselves and who have something to offer. You have a lot to offer, and you've already done a lot on their behalf. Don't let them forget that."

Don't want much, do you? Courtney had thought, running the two blocks to her rooming house, knowing that if she paused to think about it, to consider, she might lose her nerve. So she thought as she ran, trying to put together a coherent defense, or offense, or anything, and all she kept coming back to was that she must not give away her allies. She must not let the Warders know where she'd been staying, or that Dee knew who and what she was, or that Malik had concealed not only her presence, but that of other operatives as well. If someone died here tonight, it would be only her. So perhaps it was best that she was here alone, with no one to take down with her.

"Miss Harris? Is that you?"

Almost alone, Courtney amended. Mrs. Bruce was waddling up the stairs in her hair bonnet and fuzzy slippers, a startled look on her face. "Goodness, child, it is you! Where have you been? When you ran off like that, I didn't know what to think! But I've kept your room and all your things, and....oh!"

Now it was the landlady's turn to stare at the two strangers in Courtney's room. "It's okay," Courtney said quickly, knowing how the presence of men in a single woman's room at this hour of the night would be interpreted. "They brought me back."

Some of the alarm left Mrs. Bruce's eyes. "You must have had a doozy of an argument with your father to make you go jumping out the window like that. It's a wonder you weren't killed!"

"We're an emotional bunch," Courtney said, managing a brittle smile.

"I'll say," Mrs. Bruce said disapprovingly. "Does this mean you're staying?"

"Yes," Courtney said firmly, hoping she could manage to make it to the next morning alive. "I'm staying."

"Well, I'm glad," Mrs. Bruce said. "I was here all by myself, you know, what with the couple across the hall having moved out and that Mr. Langley gone. Can't say I mind the latter, although I never pegged him as a murderer."

"They say looks can be deceiving," Courtney replied as one of the Warders raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I suppose," Mrs. Bruce sighed. "It's good to see you're all right, dear. Let me know if you need anything. I'm up to see The Tonight Show; I've grown quite fond of that Mr. Paar."

Mrs. Bruce shuffled off downstairs, and Courtney gave her a longing look as she closed the door behind her. Although she'd never understood her landlady's fondness for the television, tonight she would have gladly joined her until the national anthem played. But there was a job to do, and, incredibly, she was the only one available to do it.....and weirdly enough, perhaps the best one to do it. It was bizarre to think of, but she actually knew more about both Warders than any of her people. And she was still alive, which meant they wanted something from her, which meant she had leverage. That was a much needed glimmer of hope, and she watched the two "men" across from her closely, waiting for either to say something so she could make a guess as to which was which.

The minutes ticked by, visible on the clock on her bedside table. No one moved; no one spoke. Courtney kept her mouth firmly closed, determined to not be the first to break the silence; she wanted to see what the opening salvo would be, and she wanted the maximum time to think. The list of things she knew about the Warders that she must not let on she knew, things that Malik or Dee had told her that would give away their involvement with her, was so long it was dismaying. She'd remembered to act surprised when she'd arrived tonight because she wasn't supposed to know they were here, but there was so much more than that, things she mustn't let slip.....

"Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there like a statue?" the taller one on the left said suddenly.

Courtney's eyes jerked toward the clock; their silent tableau had lasted almost five minutes. And he cracked first, she thought with satisfaction. "Interesting," the tall one continued when she didn't respond, walking around her, looking her up and down as though she were a lawn ornament he wished to purchase. "It's hard to tell with the clothing intact, but it appears to be an exact copy. Tell me, is it uncomfortable to wear?" He came closer, very close, his face only inches from hers. "You do speak, don't you? I can see little point in a mute operative. Or perhaps you're just trying the 'be silent and let them babble strategy'?"

"In that case, I'd have to say it's working," his companion replied dryly. "Because you're babbling."

Bingo! Courtney thought triumphantly as the tall one shot the shorter one a look of unmistakable irritation. She couldn't identify them by their faces, but she could by their behavior, a welcome element of control in a largely uncontrollable situation. Now she knew who was who, but what to do with that information? "They respect people who will stand up for themselves", David Proctor had said. "A defensive posture is a weak posture," Brivari had told Dee when she was fighting with her mother. Damn, Courtney thought heavily as she realized where that knowledge pointed. Not that it made much difference at this point. She might be dead anyway, so why not blow off some steam on the way out?

"If anyone had asked what I thought the first question from Rath's Warder would be, I would never have imagined it would be about how comfortable I find my husk."

Courtney braced herself as Jaddo's head whipped around. On Antar, Royal Warders were approached with the same supplication due their Wards, if at all; such outright insolence was unheard of. "And if I had ever given thought to what the first words from a spy would be, I would have guessed them to be something along the lines of begging for their life," he retorted.

"I'm not a spy; I'm with the resistance," Courtney shot back. "And I don't have to time to 'beg for my life' because I'm too busy trying to keep up with all the stupid things you're doing that almost cost you your own."

"How dare you!" Jaddo snapped. "Are you going to say something," he added to Brivari, "or are you just going to sit there?'

"I see no reason to interrupt such an interesting....'conversation'," Brivari replied with thinly disguised amusement.

"Oh, is that what you call it?" Jaddo said acidly, rounding on Courtney again, who braced herself for the next wave of hostility. "So you're resistance, you say. Anyone I might know?"

"Me? No. But you know my father, Kagan, the leader of the resistance. He's called 'Michael' now."

The Warders exchanged glances. "Kagan had only one daughter," Jaddo said, "and she was his youngest."

"I'm still his youngest," Courtney answered, "but not as young as I was when your Ward granted my father an audience."

"And was it your father who was here just a few weeks ago when someone was canvassing the town with a device designed to identify us?" Jaddo asked accusingly.

"That wasn't our fault!" Courtney protested. "You killed that actress, and Nicholas immediately sent operatives up here. You were just darned lucky that two of them were resistance, and that I found a way to warn you before you were spotted. Don't you realize that every time you leave a dead body, you send up a flare?"

"What makes you think I killed her?" Jaddo demanded.

Because Malik said you did, Courtney thought, falling into her first pothole. "Of course it was you," she answered, scrambling for an explanation. "Whoever killed her was impatient enough to leave a mess behind, and you.....you couldn't even hold your tongue five minutes ago!"

Jaddo's face darkened dangerously. "Why you—"

"Enough," Brivari broke in firmly.

A furious silence fell. Jaddo was fuming, but he backed off, albeit reluctantly. "Sit," Brivari commanded her, gesturing toward the bed.

It was interesting to note how one word could be delivered with so much authority that she had to resist the urge to simply plop on the bed. But resist she did, just long enough to make it look like it was her decision, settling herself slowly as she held Brivari's gaze. His new form was still bald but somewhat taller, the face a bit older, closer to Mr. Anderson's age. But even sitting casually in her chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, he'd lost none of that aura of power which had ultimately given him away months ago. Her spat with Jaddo had been mere noise. The real interrogation was about to begin.

"I'm curious," he began, "as to why you didn't run tonight. You certainly did the last time I saw you. If you're resistance, why did you run?"

"It's hard to 'resist' when you're dead," Courtney answered. "And you didn't look like you'd dropped by to chat."

"Is that why you think we're here now?" Jaddo asked. "To 'chat'?"

"You must be," Courtney retorted. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

Brivari's eyes flicked sideways, giving her the distinct impression that he'd silenced Jaddo yet again. "How did you find us?" he continued.

"By moving to Roswell," Courtney answered. "And looking. And listening. Very carefully."

"Is that what he was doing?" Brivari asked, holding up a photograph.

Courtney looked away quickly, unnerved by the sight of Mark Green with a knife in his back. "He was just stationed here, like operatives are stationed all over. He never found you."

"Were you his replacement?"

Courtney shook her head. "No. I was supposed to stay with him, and he was supposed to teach me. But he was dead when I got here."

"And why would Nicholas send such a young operative who needed 'teaching' into the field?" Jaddo asked.

"As payback," Courtney said. "He was angry at something I said."

"Imagine that," Brivari said dryly as Jaddo scowled.

"I made him angry on purpose," Courtney said. "My father has risen in the ranks since his audience with Rath; he's now Nicholas' third. So I know Nicholas, know how he thinks. I knew if I goaded him, I'd get what I wanted, and I got exactly what I wanted: He sent me here."

"Why here?" Jaddo asked sharply.

"Because we thought you'd still be here," Courtney answered. "Larak told us he'd spoken with you just before your escape from the human military, and we arrived shortly afterwards. We were betting you'd hidden the hybrids in this area, close to the crash site, and that you wouldn't have moved them because you'd been warned we were coming. Which meant you were tied to this place and bound to return, and we wanted the resistance here when you did."

Courtney paused for breath, waiting. The atmosphere in the room had changed markedly at the mention of Larak's name, and the Warders were staring at each other, no doubt engaged in a telepathic debate. Or another argument, she amended as Jaddo turned away abruptly, wearing an expression similar to the one he'd worn when he'd stalked out of the diner.

"You've managed to stay hidden for quite some time now," Brivari noted. "Why have you come back?"

"I received a message from our base with information you need to have," Courtney said. "I'm the only one who could deliver it in time."

"Is that so?" Brivari said. "Let me hear it."

"Nicholas is—"

"From the source," Brivari interrupted. "I have no reason to believe a word you say."

And you need to, Courtney thought, removing her trithium generator from her pocket, the sight of which caused the tension in the room to skyrocket.

"Give me that," Jaddo ordered.

"It's not that simple," Courtney said. "If you—"

The generator was suddenly wrenched from her hand, flying clear across the room to land neatly in Brivari's outstretched palm. "—press the wrong button and connect with our base, Nicholas will have definitive proof that you're here," Courtney finished, trying to ignore the astonishing power she'd just witnessed. "And you do not want that. Especially not now."

"And why is that?" Brivari asked.

"Let me play it, and you'll find out."

"In its earliest incarnation, this device was used to block our enhanced abilities," Jaddo said. "Why should we think you aren't trying to do that now?"

"Because it wouldn't matter," Courtney said. "There are two of you, and one of me; I couldn't escape with or without your 'enhanced abilities'. Besides, I didn't come here to escape; I came to warn you."

"Of what?" Brivari asked.

"Give it back, and I'll show you," Courtney said impatiently.

"I think not," Jaddo said.

Damn it! "I didn't come all the way to this backwater world and go through everything I've gone through just to have both of you screw things up again!" Courtney said crossly. "I shouldn't have to explain to you how dangerous it is to hide within Nicholas' troops; we risk discovery every single day, and all for the chance to put Antar back together. You've left a trail of breadcrumbs a blind man could follow, we've spent the entire summer sweeping them up, and I will not let you leave another pile for him to find! Now, give that back!"




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




Copper Summit, Arizona




Two more minutes, Michael thought as he fretted in front of the clock. This last hour had passed more slowly than any block of time in his life. He would have preferred to have left the house, but that meant risking a late return, and he simply could not afford to be late with his call to the Warders. Several times he had picked up the receiver to call early, and once he had dialed halfway before hanging up. He had said one hour, so one hour it must be. The only way to survive in the dangerous world where kings were overthrown was to make it clear that you meant what you said.

Tick. Michael hovered in front of the phone, simultaneously yearning for and dreading the passage of another minute. What would he do if his daughter wasn't there? He had deliberately not specified his next move because he had not known and still did not know what that move would be. Would he try to bargain with them? Arrange to meet them? Threaten to withdraw entirely? That last could be disastrous for both the resistance and Antar, but what other means did he have of making the gravity of the situation clear? He reviewed his options again, discarding each in turn as he had for the past hour.

Tick.

His hand shaking, Michael picked up the receiver and dialed, the dial moving with agonizing slowness. To see him now, one would never guess he was a military commander who had seen his fair share of casualties; now he was only a father about to learn if his daughter still lived. Whatever the answer to that question, he would have to abandon the role of parent and quickly if anything good were to come of this.

The dial finally crawled past its final turn, coming to a halt with a click that sounded more like a weapon firing. He waited what seemed like an eternity before the phone on the other end of the line began to ring. Be quick about it, he begged. At this point, not knowing was worse than either answer. The phone rang only twice before it was picked up, and a female voice answered.

"Hello?"

It means nothing, Michael reminded himself, still finding it difficult to withhold a response to that achingly familiar voice. "Hello, Courtney," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "This is your father."

"I know, Papa. It's me."

Michael leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor in a posture of absolute relief in which no self-respecting military commander would ever allow himself to be found. "Thank God," he breathed, borrowing a human expression. "I was afraid.....I thought....."

"I know," Courtney answered. "I'm okay."

"They haven't hurt you?"

"Not yet."

To business, Michael thought, mentally pulling himself back from the precipice no parent wished to be near. "Listen to me," he said intently. "There's been a—"

"I heard," Courtney interrupted. "I got the bulletin, and I played it for them."

"So they know?"

"Only as much as was in the bulletin."

"So they know they must leave Roswell immediately," Michael said.

A sigh floated over the phone. "They don't agree."

"They don't have much choice in the matter," Michael said.

"Believe me, Papa, I've been arguing with them for the past half hour, and they won't budge."

Arguing? Michael echoed silently. With Royal Warders? Low level operatives did not "argue" with Royal Warders any more than they argued with royalty, and even higher level operatives did so at their peril. "Put one of them on," he ordered, afraid that Courtney's temper would get her in trouble again if it hadn't already.

"Which one do you want to talk to?"

Michael blinked. "They've identified?"

"Not willingly. I've just seen enough of them that I can tell which is which by what they say and how they behave."

Incredible, Michael thought. His daughter had acquired the ability to identify Covari regardless of the form they wore. Whom should he ask for? Brivari was by far the steadier of the two, but Jaddo was more likely to listen to a resistance operative. He still wasn't certain with whom he had spoken the first time, nor had he any idea what was going on in Roswell at this moment, but one thing was clear: His daughter was alive, despite having identified the unidentifiable and argued with the inarguable. Perhaps this was a decision he wasn't qualified to make.

"Whom should I talk to, Courtney?" he asked, feeling slightly ridiculous for asking her to make this judgment call. "You're there; I'm not. Who is thinking the most clearly at the moment?"

"I'll put Brivari on," Courtney said without a moment's hesitation. There was a brief pause before another voice answered.

"Am I correct in inferring that this was the 'information' you said you would deliver in one hour's time if we produced your daughter?"

It's the same voice, Michael realized, measured and matter-of-fact to the point of being chilly. He had been speaking to the King's Warder earlier, and Brivari didn't mind him knowing that. That could not be mere oversight, and Michael took that as a hopeful sign.

"You and Jaddo need to leave Roswell immediately," he said urgently. "It's not safe for you there any longer."

"You can't really expect us to simply take the word of a faceless voice that claims to be 'the resistance'," Brivari answered. "We're not going anywhere."

"But she showed you the bulletin," Michael said. "If you didn't believe it, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I will admit your information is intriguing," Brivari allowed, "and if correct, of potential value. I will need confirmation of that before we engage further. Regardless, we will not leave."

"But you must realize the danger you'll be in," Michael protested. "If you're spotted—"

"We shall make certain we are not," Brivari answered. "Do not presume to lecture a Royal Warder about the necessity of staying hidden."

"Someone needs to because recently, you haven't been doing a very good job of 'staying hidden'," Michael answered sharply. "Do you really think Jaddo will be able to control himself? And if he isn't, do you realize what will happen?"

"Do you really think you need to remind me of what's at stake?" Brivari asked coldly. "I assure you we are far more aware of the stakes than you are. Nicholas is impatient and capricious. When results are not forthcoming, he will tire of this game and move on."

"You hope," Michael said.

"I know," Brivari corrected.

"What do you 'know'?" Michael retorted, ignoring the fact that, only a moment ago, it had been his daughter's temper he'd been worried about. "You knew Khivar. You knew his father. But this is Nicholas, and him you do not know. I'm sorry to say I do know him, having worked my way up to third in his command since Zan's death so that when this moment came, I would be in a position to provide accurate intelligence. Which is what you need now, not assumptions based on knowledge from back before the fall. A lot has changed since then, Brivari, and you're a fool if you think otherwise. And whatever else I may have thought of you, I never thought you a fool."

Silence. Michael paced back and forth in his front hall, the phone to his ear, impatient for a response. "Well?" he demanded. "Are you willing to exercise at least a modicum of common sense, or should I just assume Antar is lost?"

"We will not leave," Brivari announced, "but we will meet with you at a time and place of our choosing."

"When?" Michael demanded. "Where? This needs to happen immediately," he pressed when no answer came, "and—"

"They're gone, Papa."

"Gone? What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"They just....walked out," Courtney said. "Handed me the phone, and walked out. Didn't say a thing. Out loud, that is."

"But....how are we supposed to find them?" Michael asked, bewildered.

"Don't worry, Papa," Courtney said, sounding much calmer than he was. "You got through, and so did I, at least to a certain extent. They'll find you."




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




September 16, 1959, 6:45 a.m.

Parker's Diner



"Aw, c'mon, Pete, have a heart!" Nancy exclaimed. "Give her a chance!"

"I already did," Pete grumbled.

"Then give her another one," Nancy said severely as the other waitresses nodded in unison. "She's just a kid. You were a kid once. Did you do everything just right?"

Mr. Parker sat on one of the diner's stools, arms folded as he scowled at the sea of disapproving women clustered protectively around Courtney, who did her best to look forlorn and penitent. Not difficult, really, because she was genuinely sorry she'd disappeared on him, on all of them. Everyone had been shocked to see her this morning, crowding around her as they all talked at once, wanting to know what had happened. Mrs. Bruce's rendition of her departure had apparently been the talk of the town these past weeks, her having actually jumped out a window being the part which had stirred imaginations the most. Courtney had done her best to play down that part of the story, gently suggesting that perhaps Mrs. Bruce had sensationalized that just a bit and noting that she had merely climbed into the tree right outside, not "jumped". Naturally everyone had wanted to know what would have made her do something like that, and she'd made vague and not entirely invented references to her father having threatened to make her go back home. Everyone already thought she had a problematic relationship with her father, so no one had any trouble believing that.

Mr. Parker, however, was having trouble with the notion that she wanted her job back. They'd been at this for twenty minutes now, and he still showed no signs of budging despite the sympathetic faces surrounding his errant employee. He wanted to know how he could be certain she wouldn't have another fight with her father and disappear all over again, and Courtney assured him that wouldn't happen even though she knew perfectly well that was a promise she couldn't keep, especially now. She'd apologized profusely and offered to take a pay cut or work extra shifts to make up for her absence, all to no avail. Now her fellow waitresses were pleading her case, and that didn't look like it was having much of an effect either. She couldn't blame Mr. Parker; if it were her, she wouldn't take her back either. The problem was that she really, really needed to get her job back. She couldn't stay in her apartment without money, she couldn't make money without a job, and anywhere else she applied would soon learn that she was the "one who ran away". Her best bet for employment was here, where she'd made friends who were more likely to forgive her.

"Mr. Parker, I'm very sorry," Courtney said for the umpteenth time. "I know I threw a monkey wrench in your schedule, and like I said, I'm more than willing to make it up to you. Just, please, let me make it up to you. That's why I came back here even though I knew you'd be mad at me. I could have gone somewhere where no one knew me and gotten another job with no problem, but I came back here because I owed you a debt. And no matter how I've screwed up, I pay my debts."

"You hear that?" Nancy demanded. "She pays her debts!"

"Atta girl," Abigail added approvingly.

"Hmpf," Mr. Parker muttered, although he looked a tad less disgruntled.

"Please, Mr. Parker," Courtney pleaded. "I wouldn't be throwing myself on your mercy like this if I didn't mean it, if it wasn't really important. You have no idea how important. To me, to my father, to...."

....to an entire world, she added silently, catching herself just in time before saying that out loud. So much was riding on her being here now, on the resistance being here now, and for just a moment, the pressure of the last several hours caught up with her and she felt those damnable human tear ducts in her husk kicking into gear. Of all the uncontrollable reactions human bodies suffered from, this was the one that vexed her people the most. Unfortunately human eyes didn't function properly without working tear ducts, so attempts to leave them out or curtail their function had been unsuccessful.

"Oh, sweetheart!" Nancy exclaimed suddenly, throwing an arm around her. "Look, Pete—she's crying! You made her cry, you oaf!"

Wonderful, Courtney thought sourly as the waitresses began clucking sympathetically. If he wasn't willing to take her back before, he certainly wouldn't now. Who would want a weepy waitress? Tears produced by emotion were well known to be considered a sign of weakness for humans, so she'd probably just sealed her fate even though hers were more the product of sheer exhaustion. It had been a wild night, to say the least.

Then the clucking waitresses parted, and Courtney realized that Mr. Parker was looking deeply embarrassed. "You can stay," he mumbled, clambering off the stool amid the cheers of his employees and escaping into the kitchen, where he busied himself oiling the grill as Courtney tried to figure out what had caused his sudden change of heart.

"Brilliant!" Abigail whispered in Courtney's ear. "You should have done that right away!"

"Done what?" Courtney asked stupidly.

"Cry, silly! Works every time."

Courtney blinked. "You think I did that on purpose?"

"Don't worry; I won't tell," Abigail said. "Men can't stand it when women cry. Whenever you want something from a man, just call up the tears, and they cave. Smart girl."

"But I....I didn't...."

"Oh, of course you didn't!" Abigail winked, smiling broadly before making her way to the cash register.

"Don't mind her," Nancy said as Courtney stared after Abigail in disbelief. "She assumes that because she's a manipulator, everyone else is too. I'm just glad to have you back, honey; we were all worried about you, including Mr. Parker, even if he won't admit it."

"Is that true?" Courtney asked, following Nancy into the back. "Do men really give women anything they want if the women cry?"

"Most men hate it when women cry and will do just about anything to make them stop," Nancy confirmed, "and some women take advantage of that way too often. Me, I prefer to save it for emergencies. And in my opinion, this was an emergency, so I don't care if you did it on purpose. I'm unlocking the door in five minutes; you should get changed."

"Yeah....sure," Courtney said, a bit dazed that she'd gotten what she wanted in a way she'd never considered, and so quickly too. Ducking into the bathroom, she pulled her uniform out of her bag and changed her clothes, brushed her hair.....and stopped when she spied the hand holding her hairbrush in the mirror. It was shaking, a small tremor, almost imperceptible, really, but hard to stop even when she tried, even when she thought about it and tried to hold it steady. It was as though her body was having a delayed reaction to the peril of last night, which had ended when the Warders had left and she had found herself alone in her apartment, puzzling over what had happened and why.

Her demand that Brivari return her trithium generator so that she could play the message she'd received had produced what she could only guess was a bitter argument between the Warders. She was guessing because she'd heard nothing, of course; whatever had been said had been said telepathically, the furious looks they were throwing each other the only visible evidence of conflict. The generator changed hands several times as both Warders alternately studied it and dickered, but it had been Jaddo who had finally handed it to her, which had been unexpected given that he was the more hostile of the two at the start. But expecting the unexpected appeared to be the best way to approach the situation in which she found herself; she had always assumed either Warder would simply kill her on sight, yet she was alive. She had assumed Jaddo would be more likely to listen to a purported member of the resistance, yet it had been Brivari who had asked pertinent questions while Jaddo lost his temper. She had assumed that she would be their hostage at best, dead at worst whatever the outcome of their conversation with her father, yet they had simply walked out, leaving her alone and unfettered....and unthreatened. Their encounter had none of the emotion she had expected and little of the confrontation, bearing more of a resemblance to a business meeting than an encounter between two enemies.

And why not? she thought as she put her hairbrush away, not wanting to see those shaky hands any more. The Warders had learned all they really needed to know, and she was a bit player, beneath their notice, really. They were obviously aware that they needed to leave her in place, at least for the immediate future, and certainly could dispose of her in short order if necessary. Still, after watching both Khivar and Nicholas bluster and swagger for so long, it was strange to see such powerful creatures who didn't feel the need to behave that way. Perhaps blustering and swaggering was for those who merely pretended to power, while those who actually possessed it had no need of that.

"Door's open," Nancy announced as Courtney came out of the bathroom. "Everyone up and at'em! Don't forget your button, dear," she added to Courtney. "I have more if you lost your other one."

"I've got it," Courtney answered, pinning the button with the green, almond-eyed alien head onto her uniform collar and grabbing a coffee pot, its weight having a welcome effect on her trembling hands. She'd been concerned she'd have trouble hanging onto things, but after working her way down her half of the counter pouring cup after cup of coffee, she relaxed. Work would be good for her. The Proctors had been kind, and she'd learned a lot from them, but there had been little there to take her mind off her problems, the list of which had just expanded exponentially.

"I said 'no'," Nancy said firmly to a customer sitting alone behind a newspaper at the far end of the counter. "You're too young, and that's that!"

Courtney smiled faintly as Nancy huffed off, muttering under her breath. Children were always trying to weasel a cup of coffee out of the waitresses. For some reason, coffee was considered an adult drink, and the ability to consume it a rite of passage of sorts. She was passing the latest offender on the way back to the kitchen when she heard a familiar voice.

"What about you, doll? Will you pour me a cup of coffee?"

Courtney froze in her tracks as the newspaper lowered. "Hey there, sweetheart," Nicholas smiled. "Love the button."





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




I'll post Chapter 64 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR



September 16, 1959, 7:05 a.m.

Parker's Diner



"What are you doing here?" Courtney demanded in a fierce whisper as Nicholas peered out from behind this morning's Daily Record. "No one said you were coming up here!"

"Really, now," Nicholas said with mock sorrow. "Is that any way to greet your commander? Be a doll, and pour me a cup of coffee."

"I think they'll notice if I treat a thirteen year-old boy as a superior," Courtney said, unable to believe the bad news had just gotten much worse. "And kids don't drink coffee. You know that."

"Is he bothering you?" Nancy asked behind her, arms laden with plates.

He's always bothered me, Courtney thought privately, and likely will until the day I die. "I was just explaining why coffee wasn't good for him," she told Nancy, who turned narrow eyes on Nicholas.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" she asked suspiciously.

"It hasn't started yet," Nicholas answered with a beautific smile.

"Well, it's starting soon," Nancy declared. "Mind the clock."

"Bitch," Nicholas muttered as she walked away.

"Say that one octave louder, and you'll get yourself thrown out of here," Courtney warned. "Adults don't take kindly to children who don't respect their betters."

" 'Betters'? You must be joking! I...."

Nicholas stopped suddenly as heads turned curiously his way. "If you get yourself in trouble, your mother will have a fit," Courtney reminded him.

"Ah," Nicholas nodded. "Yes. Mom. She's one of the reasons I'm here. See, I had to leave her behind. Greer's with me, and someone had to run things. So for the first time in almost ten years, I'm free of my mother."

God help us, Courtney thought wearily. Ida was often the only thing keeping Nicholas in check.

"Of course I'm also free of Vanessa," Nicholas added wistfully. "She couldn't very well show her face here after what happened with that nosy sheriff. But I decided this situation was so important, it needed my personal oversight."

"In other words you're looking to fool around a little, and this was a good excuse," Courtney said dryly. "I guess the Warders are good for something after all."

"Tell her, and you're dead," Nicholas said severely. "And the Warders have nothing to do with it. She has to realize sooner or later that I can't be pinned down."

"Since I'm dead if I tell her, I'm guessing you're expecting her to realize that later rather than sooner," Courtney said sweetly as Nicholas scowled. "So how long is Mummy letting you stay?"

"Whatever she may think, my mother doesn't give me orders," Nicholas announced as Courtney suppressed a smile, wondering how he could utter that sentence with a straight face. "I'm here for the duration. However long it takes."

Courtney blinked. "You mean you're....you're going to be living here?"

"You bet!" Nicholas smiled. "Already got myself a room. There are lots available now that movie's over." He paused as Courtney's heart almost stopped at the thought of Nicholas living downstairs from her, or, God forbid, right across the hall. "Don't worry," he added. "I'm not in your rooming house. I thought you might be missing your family, so I put your father there."

Thank God, Courtney thought. Mrs. Bruce would no doubt raise an eyebrow at her father's presence after the jumping out the window episode, but anything was better than Nicholas. "Thank you," she said, knowing that gratitude would be expected.

"You're welcome," Nicholas said casually. "Oh, and Greer is moving in there too."

Damn! "But Greer is your second," Courtney said, trying to sound confused instead of dismayed. "Don't you want him near you?"

"I like to mix things up a bit, keep people on their toes," Nicholas replied. "I've got Nathaniel, your father's second, and he's got mine. But enough yack. I'm starving. Get me an omelet. Hash browns on the side."

Courtney moved numbly into the back, putting in the order with hands that were shaking all over again. Did Nicholas suspect? Is that why he was mixing up Greer and Nathaniel? Why would he install both his second and his third in the same location, a location removed from him? Calm down, she ordered herself, returning to the mindless bustle of waitressing. She hadn't expected to see Nicholas at all, so perhaps something else had happened. She'd have to wait until her father got here before she could find out for sure. And it wasn't necessarily a bad idea to have Nathaniel near Nicholas; they were more likely to garner useful intelligence that way, especially if he planned to stay indefinitely. Good Lord, but that threw a monkey wrench in things.

"I don't want milk," Nicholas said testily when she returned with his food and a glass of milk. "I want coffee."

"You know I can't give you coffee," Courtney said. "How about orange juice?"

"I want coffee," Nicholas said crossly. "I'm sick and tired of being treated like a child."

"If I had to guess, I'd say that was Khivar's point," Courtney reminded him.

"Point made," Nicholas snapped. "I'm your commander, and I'm ordering you to pour me a cup of coffee."

"Then under Section 284.3 of the Argilian Military Code, I respectfully refuse to comply," Courtney said placidly.

Nicholas blinked. "Section two hundred....what? What's that?"

"It says that undercover soldiers are duty bound to refuse any order which, in their judgment, will result in their being identified."

"It does? Hell, I don't care what it says!" he added irritably when Courtney arched an eyebrow at his ignorance of his own code. "I want coffee, and I want it now!"

Sighing, Courtney grabbed a pot off the warmer. Might as well give him what he wanted before he caused a scene. Nicholas was eagerly reaching for the cup and saucer when another hand snatched it out of mid-air.

"I told you, no coffee," Nancy said severely. "Don't you speak English?"

"I'll take that," said a man who had slid onto a stool right next to Nicholas.

"That's mine!" Nicholas protested as Nancy handed the coffee to the new arrival, who gave him a quizzical look.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school, kid?" he asked.

Swearing only barely under his breath, Nicholas slid off his stool. "Fine. Then I'm outa here."

"Oh, no you're not!" Nancy declared as Courtney had to literally bite her tongue to keep from laughing out loud at the sight of Khivar's famous second being verbally slapped around by a middle-aged human waitress. "You pay for your breakfast, or I swear I'll turn you upside down and shake you until enough change falls out to cover it!"

"I'd like to see you try!" Nicholas retorted.

The kitchen door swung open. "Would you like to see me try?" Pete challenged, having heard the commotion all the way in the kitchen.

There was a brief moment of tense silence before the man who had sat down next to Nicholas gestured toward his plate of breakfast. "I'll take that if you're not going to eat it. And pay for it," he added to Nancy and Pete.

Nicholas stomped off, swearing none too quietly and shoving aside other customers as he did so. "Little punk," Pete muttered. "I was looking forward to shaking him down."

So was I, Courtney thought with amusement, sliding the untouched omelet over to the new customer. Pete was big enough to dangle Nicholas by his ankles with one hand and cook with the other. What a sight that would have been. Maybe there was a silver lining to Nicholas being here after all; if he thought the absence of his mother and lover would allow him to throw his weight around and "sow his wild oats", as the humans would say, he likely had another thing coming. As much as she didn't like Khivar as a ruler, he'd shown absolute genius when he'd forced his pompous second to wear a child's husk.

"Cheeky little bastard, isn't he?" the man with the omelet said as he appropriated Nicholas' newspaper, left behind in all the fuss.

"You have no idea," Courtney murmured.

"Not directly," the man answered. "But I've always heard Nicholas was an unbearable pain."

Courtney's head jerked up. The man had opened the newspaper, blocking him from anyone else's view, and for just a moment, his features slid into a very familiar pattern.




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



Santa Fe General Hospital




"Aren't they beautiful?" the young woman whispered. "So precious! So perfect! Don't you both think they're beautiful?"

"Uh huh," her husband answered doubtfully.

"On the contrary, they're the ugliest creatures I've ever seen," Lewis announced.

The woman drew back in horror, pulling her robe more closely around her as she rounded on Lewis. "How can you say that? Which one is yours?"

"Back row, third from the left."

"A boy!" the woman exclaimed, squinting through the nursery window to the very back as massive nurses in starched uniforms and caps patrolled the rows of squalling infants. "A handsome son! How can you say he's ugly?"

"Because he is," Lewis answered impatiently. "Forgive me, madam, but despite all the fairy tales, the human infant is little more than the parasite it was in the womb. It provides nothing other than noise, filth, and endless work. It does nothing other than take food in one end and dispose of it out the other, hence the aforementioned filth and work, all the while yelling at the top of its unfortunately substantial lungs, hence the aforementioned noise. Any who doubt the theory of evolution have obviously spent little time observing the human infant and need look no further for the 'missing link'."

There was a shocked silence as the female half of Lewis' audience struggled to speak, managing only strangled sounds of outrage before she did what all women do when confronted with an unfortunate truth: She burst into tears. "You, sir, are a horrible man!" she declared indignantly. "You were a baby once too, you know!"

Don't remind me, Lewis thought sourly as the husband ushered his weeping wife away, murmuring platitudes in her ear even though he likely agreed with Lewis, as would most of the men who approached this window. He had merely voiced what they could not, said what they would be pilloried for saying, pilloried by the women in their lives who gushed sentiment and delusion like broken fire hydrants at the mere sight of an infant. Then again, if one was saddled with one of these creatures, perhaps delusion was the only way to go. Perhaps it was merely a survival instinct. Absent the flood of female hormones that birth unleashed, infants may very well not survive. Unfortunately those hormones also made them stupid, tiresome, and hopelessly emotional. Very much like these things, Lewis mused, watching the screaming newborns writhe in their cradles, mercifully muffled by the glass. Women were merely infants writ large.

A starched white whale lumbered past, pausing to look at Lewis, a smile of recognition spreading across her fat features. What is it about nurses? Lewis wondered. Was there some unwritten rule that all must weigh at least 200 pounds? Was that so they could sit on, and thus subdue, reluctant patients? Perhaps if...

No! Lewis thought suddenly when he realized the white whale had scooped up the screaming infant third from the left in the back row and was heading for the window. She must think he was here to admire his offspring, and a second later, she was holding Pierce's bellowing brat mere inches from the window as Lewis struggled to dredge up a socially acceptable smile and noted grudgingly that he was better looking than the rest, with a shock of thick, dark hair that set him apart from the typical bald or nearly bald infant. Pierce had always been thought good looking, but then what did women know? They couldn't be counted on to exercise the judgment of a housefly. Good looking or not, the only thing that mattered was that Pierce's brat was alive. And alive he was, red-faced and screaming as the nurse-whale cooed in his ear, no doubt telling him to behave for his daddy or some other such nonsense.....

A second later Lewis was barreling down the hall, having glimpsed the name band on the infant's scrawny arm. Helen was still a bit groggy from the anesthetic, but her face lit up when she saw him. "Have you seen him?" she asked anxiously. "Is he all right? Oh, I do wish they would let me see him! It's not right to be kept from your own child!"

"You have to heal, darling," Lewis said, pulling the curtain between Helen's bed and the next as the bored inhabitants of the maternity ward leaned forward eagerly to eavesdrop. "You've just had major surgery; dealing with an infant might be too taxing for you."

"Seeing my baby is just what I need to take my mind off all this," Helen protested, holding up her arms, each of which bore an intravenous drip. "You're a doctor, Bernard. Can't you do something?"

"I'll try," Lewis promised evasively. "Helen, the sign on the bassinette says 'Lewis', but the baby is wearing a wristband that reads 'Pierce'. Why is that?"

"Because I named him after his father."

"So...you named him Daniel?"

"Yes. Daniel Pierce."

"But....he's our son," Lewis protested. "He was born after our marriage, so I am his legal father. His last name should be 'Lewis'."

"Legally you're his father," Helen agreed. "But we both know you're not his real father."

"How could you...." Lewis stopped, trying to rein in his temper. "After all I've done for you, how could you do that to me?"

Helen's eyes misted over in that inevitable precursor to female tears. "Oh, Bernard, I didn't do it to hurt you! It was Daniel's wish that his son bear his name. And now that he's gone, there's no need for secrecy any more, so his little boy can have his real surname too."

"I don't care what his 'wish' was," Lewis said irritably. "That child is my child now, and I insist he be named accordingly. Keep the first name, if you must, but the surname must be changed."

"But...I can't," Helen protested.

"What do you mean, you 'can't'?" Lewis demanded.

"She means the birth certificate has already been filed," a voice said behind them.

It was Dr. Burtner, who smiled at Helen before turning cold eyes on Lewis. " 'Filed'?" Lewis echoed. "How could it be filed without my signature? I am his legal father. Helen and I were married yesterday evening and the child was born after that—"

"There's no need to review the timeline with me," Dr. Burtner interrupted. "You may be little Daniel's legal father, but you are not his biological father; this is simple fact, and uncontested by all parties. In that case, the child's mother's signature is sufficient. His father is listed as deceased."

"You filed without consulting me?" Lewis objected. "And you," he added to Helen, "did this without even asking how I felt about it?"

"Bernard, please," Helen whispered. "Don't be mad. I'll always be grateful for everything you've done for us, and will do for us. It's just that—"

"There's no need for you to explain, Mrs. Lewis," Dr. Burtner interrupted firmly. "May I speak with in the hall, doctor?" he added to Lewis.

Fuming, Lewis followed Burtner into the hall and didn't even manage to get his mouth open before Burtner took aim and fired. "Now, you listen to me, " Burtner said tersely. "I know you talked Mrs. Lewis into very risky surgery over my express objections, and I don't appreciate that. I don't care if you're a doctor, you're not an obstetrician, and you are damned lucky she survived. The least you can do after casually rolling the dice with her life is let her name her child whatever she wants, and I made sure that paperwork went in ASAP so that would happen. I don't mind telling you that I don't like what I see here, doctor," Burtner continued, his eyes burning into Lewis', who glared back at him. "I seriously question whether you have Mrs. Lewis' best interests at heart, and if I see any more evidence of you cavalierly putting her at risk, I will not hesitate to have the authorities investigate your fitness as a parent. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Lewis said coldly.

"Good. Then I trust this conversation is over. And now I need to check on your wife. At least one of us should have her welfare in mind."

Lewis resisted the urge to pound his fist on the wall as Burtner disappeared back into the ward. Having social workers snooping around would be a very bad idea given that the FBI had so far managed to keep the existence of Pierce's family from the Army. He had wanted to keep the existence of Pierce himself from his offspring, but now that would be impossible, of course. Baby Daniel's head would no doubt be filled by his mother with tales of his heroic father riding a white horse and rescuing damsels in distress. So what? he thought sourly as he headed back down the hallway. Let her call the little brat anything she wanted, and let the little brat believe anything he wanted about his late, lamented father. As long as that little brat lived, he remained the only link to the serum.




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




Parker's Diner



"Malik!" Courtney exclaimed in a whisper, delighted to see a friendly face even as it dissolved back into the features of Nicholas' tormentor, now packing away his omelet. "Am I ever glad to see you!"

"There's a switch," Malik said dryly. "Nothing like a crisis to make me look better."

And utter loneliness, Courtney added silently: Dee was gone, her father hadn't arrived yet, and she hadn't dared call David and Emily for fear she'd give them away. "It's just nice to see someone who isn't likely to kill me," she said, grabbing a rag and making a show of wiping the counter. "Unless that's why you're here, of course."

Malik paused, his fork tracing lines in the puddle of ketchup on his plate. "I'm sorry I wasn't there last night. That's not how I intended your introduction to happen."

"Me neither," Courtney agreed. "But it's just as well you weren't. It was hard trying to not to give anyone away. Being all by myself made it a little easier."

"So where have you been?" Malik asked. "Never mind," he added when she didn't answer. "I can guess."

"Guess all you want, you still didn't find me," Courtney pointed out.

"No....but I had my suspicions. I know you. Your list of contacts is very, very short."

"Then you should have been able to find me," she said crossly. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't want to," Malik said. "I was hoping your father would call."

So was I, Courtney thought as another customer sat down several seats away and she left to take care of him. Interesting how they had each avoided the other for exactly the same reason. By the time she'd made the rounds of her other customers, Nancy was setting a fresh omelet in front of Malik, who promptly doused it with ketchup.

"Why do you do that?" Courtney asked after Nancy left. "You can't taste it."

Malik gave her a puzzled look. "Everyone always asks about the ketchup. We're in the middle of a crisis, and you want to know about food. I like the color. Can we get back to business?"

"Fine," Courtney sighed. "How much did they tell you?"

"Everything....or so I thought," Malik answered, glancing at the seat recently occupied by Nicholas. "I didn't know he was coming."

"I didn't either," Courtney said. "I'm guessing he saw a chance to get away from his mother and Vanessa."

"And I'm guessing he's not going to have it any easier here," Malik replied. "He looks about twelve; there'll be a truant officer at his door if he keeps putting on a show like this morning's."

"I'm sure Greer came up with some sort of cover," Courtney said. "He's moving into my rooming house, along with my father. Lucky me."

"You'll be fine," Malik said. "Anyone who can go toe to toe with Jaddo should be more than prepared for just about anything. I understand you made quite an impression."

"I thought I was dead," she reminded him. "It's amazing what you can do when you think you're dead anyway."

"They would never have killed you outright, even before everything that happened this summer," Malik answered. "They would have wanted information. They're ruthless, not stupid."

"Wonderful," Courtney deadpanned. "I feel so much better now."

The door dingled again, and Courtney grabbed the coffee pot as a woman slid onto a stool. "I know you!" the woman exclaimed. "Aren't you the girl who jumped out the window?"

Courtney felt her husk's cheeks pinking as heads swiveled her way. "That was....overdramatized," she replied. "It was just a family feud."

"That's not what I heard," the woman declared. "I heard you went and jumped out Ruth's second floor window!"

"I climbed out, and it's all over now," Courtney corrected.

"Musta been some feud," another customer chuckled. "Good thing there's no 'lover's leap' around here."

"All right, everybody, knock it off," Nancy ordered, coming out of the kitchen. "It's nobody's business but Courtney's, so zip it up and MYOB."

"Just being friendly," someone grumbled.

"Uh huh," Nancy said, obviously unconvinced. "This was bound to happen," she added to Courtney in a low voice. "You've been the talk of the town since you left, so you're going to hear about it. Come up with a standard answer, say it once, and don't let them drag you into a discussion. It'll die down."

Courtney worked her way around the counter again, smiling through gritted teeth as they looked her up and down as though searching for evidence of fall-related injuries. "Great," she muttered when she came back to Malik. "As if there isn't enough going on, I've got the town laughing at me. You are so lucky no one knows who you are. If I...."

She stopped as Malik's eyes met hers, eyes suffused with so much longing, it was almost painful to see. "No," he said quietly. "I'm not. You're the lucky one. But I'll let you figure that out." He pulled some money out of his pocket and set it by his empty plate. "Thanks for breakfast. I'll be in touch." The bell on the door jingled softly as he left, passing another customer on the way out.

"Something wrong, hon?" Nancy asked behind her. "Was he bothering you?"

Numbly, Courtney turned to look at her, only vaguely aware that she was just standing there like a statue. "What? No! No.....he wasn't."

"Well, you let me know if anyone starts in on you," Nancy said firmly. "I won't have anyone picking on my girls, and neither will Pete. We look after our own."

Our own. It was such a ridiculous statement under the circumstances that Courtney almost laughed in spite of herself. "Nancy," she said suddenly, "was that handyman, Carl, one of your 'own' too?"

"You bet he was!" Nancy exclaimed. "God, I miss him. So nice, and such an excellent repairman too. He could fix—"

"Anything," Courtney finished. "I know. You told me."

"And such a nice man too, so kind," Nancy smiled. "Too bad you two never really hooked up. You know what I think happened? I think that idiot sheriff scared him off," she continued, not waiting for an answer. "Carl wouldn't have hurt a fly, so there's no way he could have been involved in that actress' death. But Sheriff Valenti got some harebrained notion about Carl having something to do with it, and I'll bet he figured he didn't have a prayer of defending himself. Probably couldn't afford a lawyer, although he wouldn't have needed to; I'd gladly have gone door to door and taken up a collection on his behalf, and lots of others would have too. Not that it matters," she sighed. "If I had to bet, I'd bet he's gone for good."

"Yeah," Courtney said wistfully. "Me too."




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




*There is little activity as of yet,* Jaddo reported as he joined Brivari on a bench outside Parker's. *There have been some new arrivals in town, but it's impossible to tell if any are Argilians. Where's Malik?*

*Inside,* Brivari answered, indicating the diner with a nod, *investigating the current situation of our 'waitress'. She said they would trickle in over two or three days, so I wouldn't expect much at this hour.*

Jaddo snorted softly. *So now you believe her? You didn't last night.*

*I deferred judgment,* Brivari corrected. *And you weren't too thrilled with her yourself, as I recall.*

*'Michael's' youngest was very young,* Jaddo answered, *so it's not surprising she forgot her place. It didn't help that you were obviously enjoying it so thoroughly.*

*How interesting that such a young, impertinent operative made the same observations I've been making for weeks,* Brivari said dryly. *Quanah once told me that when one hears the same advice from very different sources, one is wise to consider it.*

*You'll forgive me if I don't find Quanah to be the source of all wisdom,* Jaddo said impatiently. *And if you were so impressed, why didn't you return her device?*

*You know perfectly well why I didn't give it back to her, and you should not have done so without securing my agreement.*

*You forget I have experience with that device,* Jaddo said. *It only blocks our enhancements, not our ability to shift.*

*You have no idea what this newest model does,* Brivari argued. *It already possesses a communication function and an infrared wash, two features it did not have before. Who knows what else was added?*

*It was a risk I was willing to take,* Jaddo insisted.

*But not a decision for you to make alone,* Brivari said pointedly. *Although you did anyway.*

*And I was right,* Jaddo noted.

*Or so you think,* Brivari answered. *This could still all be an elaborate scheme to entrap us.*

*Is this what the near future holds?* Jaddo demanded. *Endless bickering over calculated risks that turned out well? Because if it is, I might well take Michael's advice and leave town.*

*We may as well both leave if you plan to continue making unilateral decisions that seriously affect both of us,* Brivari replied sharply. *If we can't—or won't—operate efficiently as a unit, we will do less damage apart than together.*

Silence. Passers-by cast curious glances at the two disgruntled men sitting at opposite ends of the bench. A boy exited the diner, swearing loudly as he took off down the street, adults recoiling as he passed. *It appears someone else has taken over your job of stalking out of the diner,* Brivari said. *Yet another example of how tradition is overrated.*

*You don't listen to me!* Jaddo said, ignoring his sarcasm. *I, alone, of the two of us have experience with the Argilian resistance, yet you refuse to take advantage of that experience. You haven't even asked me if I feel these people are legitimate. Aren't you the least bit interested in my opinion on the subject?*

*I am concerned that your view is biased by their favoring your Ward for the throne,* Brivari replied.

*But you heard him say that they have altered their perspective,* Jaddo protested.

*And you believe that?*

*Why wouldn't I?* Jaddo asked. *Have we not altered our own perspectives based on what's happened? I am no longer only Rath's Warder, and you are no longer only Zan's; we are Warders for the Royal Four out of necessity, and when they emerge, either or both us will shepherd any or all of them without hesitation. If circumstances have changed our focus, why wouldn't the focus of the resistance have changed as well?*

*Because they have an opportunity they did not have before,* Brivari answered, *an opportunity to kill Zan with impunity and install Rath in his place. Regicide is hard to hide, but no one would question the death of an untried hybrid.*

*Except Rath,* Jaddo said. *I know my Ward, Brivari. He would not betray his king, or suffer anyone else to do so either.*

*Fine,* Brivari sighed. *But can we both agree that we will do nothing but gather information before deciding on a course of action? That means we trust no one, and no one dies. No one. Even the so-called resistance has noticed that you have trouble behaving yourself.*

*And that's doubly important now,* Malik said, coming out of the diner.

*Why?* Jaddo asked sharply. *What did you learn?*

Malik glanced at Brivari, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow. *Nicholas is here.*

*Here?* Jaddo echoed. *Rath's murderer is here? Where? What does he look like?*

When Malik didn't answer, Jaddo came face to face with him, his eyes burning. *Identify him!*




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


I'll post Chapter 65 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!



CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE



September 16, 1959, 7:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner




*Have you seen him?* Jaddo demanded. *Describe him.*

*Don't answer that,* Brivari ordered privately.

Gladly, Malik thought, alarmed at the look in Jaddo's eyes. Nicholas occupied the same position with Khivar as Jaddo had with Rath, so they were naturally rivals. But this was more than rivalry; this was pure, unadulterated hatred.

*I haven't seen him,* Malik lied. *I just overheard a conversation the waitress was having with another operative while no humans were close enough to listen, and it was mentioned that Nicholas was coming.*

* 'Coming'?* Jaddo challenged. *Then why did you say 'here'? Is he here, or is he coming?*

*He's—*

*He is expected,* Brivari broke in. *Malik had no way of knowing you were going to debate semantics.*

*Wherever he is, I will find him,* Jaddo declared, *and when I do, I will—*

*Do nothing,* Brivari interrupted. *Absolutely nothing. Because anything you do would only prove to him that we're here and entice him to stay. And we don't want that....do we?*

A small amount of the fire in Jaddo's eyes died briefly, only to flare again a moment later. *It's not worth it, Jaddo,* Brivari said sharply before the other could speak. *Removing Khivar from the throne will be answer enough to his second. That should be our focus, not simple revenge. We all know what happened the last time you indulged in that.*

*I will find him!* Jaddo snapped, stalking off down the street as Malik let out a long, slow breath. Brivari waited until he was out of sight before turning to Malik.

*What does he look like?*

*Like an adolescent boy of about twelve or thirteen,* Malik answered.

Brivari blinked. *Khivar's second is costumed as a child?*

*Amar made certain Khivar knew it was his second who had ordered the deaths of the Royal Four,* Malik reminded him. *Perhaps this is his punishment?*

Now it was Malik's turn to blink as Brivari broke into a wide, completely uncharacteristic smile. *That would be fitting,* he chuckled. *Not that his followers would view him any differently, but human society would be another matter entirely. He would be handicapped in ways he's never dreamed of.* He shook his head, still smiling. *Had I the means to do so safely, I would send Khivar my congratulations. That is a punishment worthy of a ruler.*

*So glad you approve,* Malik said dryly. *Now, what was that all about? I know Jaddo and Nicholas are rivals, but this was worse. Did Nicholas really murder Rath? He's claimed credit for that from the beginning, but given the way he boasts, I'd never given it much credence.*

Brivari gazed off down the street in the direction Jaddo had taken. *Rath met Khivar's army alone as his men scrambled to follow, while Jaddo stayed behind on his Ward's order. Rath knew that if the royal family did not survive, it would fall to the Royal Warders to bring them back if such a thing were possible.* He paused. *Nicholas did indeed kill Rath, and Jaddo witnessed it. Restraining him is going to be very difficult. I don't blame him for feeling the way he does, but he must be careful to attract as little attention as possible to this place. If Jaddo wants to kill Nicholas elsewhere, he's welcome to....but not here. Absolutely not here.*

Lots of luck, Malik thought. Jaddo hadn't been doing well in the patience department, and his performance wasn't likely to improve now that his Ward's killer had appeared. *I was thinking,* he said to Brivari, *perhaps I could act as a liaison to the waitress. She might be less intimidated by a Covari who isn't a Warder.*

Brivari considered for a moment before shaking his head. *No. She is as yet unaware of your presence, and that could prove useful. Stay hidden for now.*

Damn it, Malik thought wearily. He had hoped to sidestep the inconvenient fact that he already knew plenty about Courtney, and she about him. It looked like Jaddo wasn't the only one who would have to work hard at being careful.




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



Santa Fe General Hospital




"Thank God!" Agent Lewis exclaimed when he spied Agent Del Bianco approaching. "Finally, another adult who isn't cooing or knitting little things. Please tell me you have good news for me. I'm going crazy in here."

"You're a surgeon," Del Bianco said in a puzzled tone. "Granted, you haven't been a practicing surgeon for a while now, but aren't you used to hospitals?"

"This isn't a hospital, this is an obstetrics ward," Lewis said darkly, "home of corpulent women, squalling infants, and enough cheerful idiocy to paint this building, if only it were sold by the gallon. And the stench," he added distastefully, taking a whiff of his suit lapel. "It seeps into one's very clothing. There's nothing like the odor of a dozen screaming, eliminating infants to make you long for good old disinfectant."

Del Bianco peered through the nursery window, where huge nurses patrolled rows of alternately crying or sleeping infants. "Is that him?" he asked, squinting at the back row. "Nice looking kid." He paused, taking in Lewis' glare. "Right. Well......I've been to the Hall of Records. The birth certificate for 'Daniel Pierce' has been legally filed with the county clerk. Changing his name now would take a court order."

"Damn it!" Lewis exclaimed, prompting startled looks from passers by. "How in the name of God was that filed so quickly? The little brat was born in the middle of the night, for heaven's sake, and it's still early in the morning!"

"My guess?" Del Bianco said. "This 'Dr. Burtner' knew someone in the Hall of Records who expedited the processing because he figured you might object, and he was already ticked off at you. However he did it, it's done."

"Then we must undo it," Lewis declared. "It's bad enough to have a miniature Daniel Pierce in the world, but to have to call him 'Daniel Pierce' is going too far."

Del Bianco hesitated. "Sir, I would recommend we leave this one alone. Hear me out," he added as Lewis began to erupt again. "If this goes to court, it'll be you against your own wife, and that's going to look mighty odd. Not to mention that the FBI hasn't bothered to back-pocket a judge who would hear a case like this, and any judge who isn't in our back pocket might very well sympathize with the widow of the child's natural father, just like Dr. Burtner."

"Yes, 'sympathy'," Lewis said scornfully, "the source of much of the world's problems, including this one. The last thing I need is for the Army to find out that Pierce has a son. So far I've managed to keep the fact that he had a wife from them; all of their efforts have been focused on retrieving the body and questioning the hospital staff, the vast majority of whom didn't realize Pierce was married. But if filing a birth certificate in Daniel's name trips an alarm within the Army, I could have them knocking on Helen's door in no time."

"Dragging this into court is probably the best way to draw the attention of the military," Del Bianco argued. " 'Pierce' isn't an uncommon name; there are probably plenty of 'Daniel Pierce's' nationwide, so the simple filing of a birth certificate isn't likely to trip any alarms. A court action is another matter altogether."

"So you're saying I'm stuck with this, is that it?" Lewis demanded.

"I'm saying that I don't think it's in our best interests to call attention to your new 'family' in any way," Del Bianco replied. "Keep in mind that if Burtner was serious about reporting you to Social Services if you fight this—and given what he pulled with the birth certificate, I'd hazard a guess he is—that also falls under the heading of 'attracting attention'." He paused. "And then there's the possibility that changing his name might actually fail to attract the kind of attention you want."

"Meaning?" Lewis asked.

Del Bianco glanced around and leaned in closer before continuing. "Look, we know that kid is supposed to inherit the formula for the serum at the age of thirty. But how? How will whoever is delivering it know how to find him, especially if his name is different than expected?"

"Obviously Pierce put some kind of mechanism in place to confirm his son's age and whereabouts," Lewis answered. "I intend to leave no stone unturned in finding it long before the spawn of hell gets anywhere near the age of thirty."

"Unless we can figure out what that mechanism is, we may have no choice but to wait until he's thirty," Del Bianco said.

"Then figure it out!" Lewis snapped.

"I'm trying," Del Bianco said, his voice edged with frustration. "But Pierce didn't have any siblings, his parents died a while ago, extended family members say—"

"I don't want excuses, agent. I want results."

"They're not excuses," Del Bianco objected. "They're a list of possibilities I've already investigated with no luck."

"Then lengthen your list."

"I will, but in the meantime, you shouldn't change his name," Del Bianco argued. "Mrs. Pierce's insistence that the child be named after his father tells me that Pierce had a reason for that."

"Of course he did," Lewis said sourly. "Pure, unadulterated hubris. Pierce would have wanted a little carbon copy of himself. That's the way he thought."

"But he can't do that now, sir," Del Bianco said pointedly. "So maybe now's your chance to make Pierce's son a little carbon copy of you."

"Oh, good Lord," Lewis muttered.

"Think about it," Del Bianco urged. "You want him to be loyal to the FBI so the Bureau will ultimately inherit the serum, don't you? What better way to do that then to mold him in your image?"

"Wonderful," Lewis said darkly. "First I had to put up with his insufferable father, then his mess of a mother, and now I'm supposed to play 'daddy'? I swear the universe is laughing at me, or at least Daniel is. He'd have a good laugh at the notion of my being saddled with his family."

"With all due respect, sir, you weren't 'saddled'," Del Bianco said. "You pursued them because you wanted something. And if you still want it, you'll have to keep pursuing them."

"And you need to keep pursuing an alternative," Lewis said crossly. "I want the entire unit working full time on how Pierce intends to deliver the serum to that brat at the magic age of thirty. I'll be in later today, and I want to see everyone devoting their full attention to solving this problem. What?" he added when Del Bianco looked away. "What else is wrong?"

"Agent Cates didn't report for work today, sir," Del Bianco said. "I told you he was drunk last night. He's still really upset about Owens."

Lewis snorted in annoyance and smacked the glass, setting off a round of wails from the infants on the other side and a string of glares from their keepers. "That was weeks ago. I can't have namby pambys in my unit blubbering over every little thing. He's fired."

"That could produce a backlash," Del Bianco cautioned. "Cates may be taking it harder than others, but he's not the only one upset about Owens. Look, give him the morning," he suggested. "You don't really want him showing up hung over, do you? And now's not a good time to lose an agent. We need every man we've got to hunt for that serum, right?"

Lewis huffed impatiently. "Very well, then. But not one minute more. if Cates isn't there when I get back, he's fired."

Del Bianco looked ready to protest, then apparently thought better of it. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. "I'll tell him."




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



Atherton residence

Marathon, Texas




He's late, Brivari thought, staring at the clock on the mantle which announced his friend to be over an hour past due. Normally that wouldn't bother him, but under the circumstances, he didn't want to be away from Roswell any longer than necessary. When he'd made arrangements to meet Atherton here on this date, he'd had no idea that enemies of the crown would be moving into town or that Nicholas himself would appear, threatening to send Jaddo over the edge once more. Malik had been none too happy about being left in charge of preventing yet another outburst on Jaddo's part, so if Atherton didn't show soon....

A key rattled in the lock, and a moment later the door opened. "Langley!" Atherton cried. "You're here!"

"And you weren't," Brivari pointed out. "Did something go wrong?"

"Heavens, no—something went right!" Atherton beamed, tossing his keys on a table and sinking onto the couch, throwing an arm casually along the back. "I, my friend, hit paydirt."

" 'Paydirt'?"

"In other words, I was successful. Wildly so, in fact."

"And that success hinges upon....'dirt'?"

"It's an old mining term," Atherton explained. "Miners, you see, were indeed paid for hitting the right kind of dirt. But I digress: I spent most of last night with an agent from the Special Unit."

Brivari's eyebrows rose. "You actually talked to a unit agent?"

"For several hours! Poor sot got quite drunk. Mind you, that took awhile; it was near midnight before I got enough alcohol in him to lower his guard. But lower it I did, and when he needed an escort home, I was only too happy to oblige, especially because he promptly passed out, giving me the opportunity to search his apartment."

"My goodness," Brivari said, impressed. "I'd been hoping you would learn something, but I never expected this. How did you pull that off?"

"The usual way," Atherton answered. "By being observant. I have a very good memory—that helps in my line of work—and so I recall several of the faces of those who chased us. I staked out the FBI field offices in Santa Fe until I saw some of those faces. None of them left the city, so it was easy to follow them, watching for a likely target."

"And?"

"And I found one," Atherton said with satisfaction, "a very unhappy young man from the looks of things. I followed him exclusively for two days until I chanced upon the opportunity to approach him last night at a bar, posing as a similarly unhappy national servant. I also witnessed an altercation between him and one of his colleagues which contained some very illuminating dialog. It appears that one of his fellow agents is dead, killed by his own boss according to my besotted friend, or at least on his orders."

"Quite likely," Brivari commented. "I told you the Special Unit is headed by one of my companion's former captors. He wouldn't hesitate to dispose of an employee in such fashion."

"Charming," Atherton said dryly. "The good news is that this boss has not been able to obtain something he wants, and wants badly. The fellow wouldn't say what that something was, but I'd wager you know, hmm?"

The serum, Brivari thought with satisfaction. So it continued to elude Lewis, and Brivari spared a brief, albeit grudging second of admiration for Pierce that he had managed to hide it so well. He'd done so out of vanity and revenge, of course, but whatever the reason, it worked for the crown as well.

"So you do know," Atherton said, watching him closely. "I gather you're not talking either? Well, no matter; whatever it is, the Grand Pooh Bah doesn't have it. He was also getting married last night, and this chap was supposed to attend the wedding, maybe as an usher? Or a witness? Whatever, he was so angry with his boss that he refused to attend, prompting the argument with his co-worker which gave me the opportunity to present myself as a sympathetic ear."

"I see," Brivari murmured, not the least bit interested in Lewis' matrimonial ambitions. No doubt he was trying to obtain power by marrying the right female. He certainly wouldn't be the first to do that, on Earth or Antar.

"I apologize that I don't have more for you," Atherton said. "He was remarkably circumspect even while inebriated. His apartment turned up nothing of interest."

"You 'apologize'?" Brivari echoed. "Frankly, I was skeptical about your ability to learn anything at all. But this....this is a gift. I knew you were adept at the art of disguise, but I had no idea you were adept at stalking."

"Neither did I," Atherton said cheerfully. "Although I suspected; I've had to do some mighty odd things over the years ferreting out information about you and yours. But this was different....and quite exhilarating," he added with relish. "I quite enjoy this cloak and dagger stuff, Langley. To find you was a miracle; to actually be able to assist in repelling your hunters is a privilege I had not anticipated. What's my next assignment?"

"None, for the moment," Brivari answered. "But I'll let you know if one arises."

"Come now, Langley," Atherton said disapprovingly. "Do you think I haven't noticed how you've been disappearing for chunks of time ever since you took off when I mentioned what that waitress had said about you? I haven't pried—"

"But now you're about to?" Brivari said dryly.

"You must admit I've been remarkably patient," Atherton admonished. "Out with it. Something's going on. What is it?"

Quanah would never have asked such a blunt question, Brivari thought, weighing his options as Atherton watched him eagerly, dying for an answer. Still, he had to admit that his friend had returned with far more information than expected, garnered with a finesse that had been equally unexpected. The ability to present oneself as a sympathetic compatriot and earn another's trust in such a short period of time was impressive, and because of that they now knew that the Special Unit had not located the serum, that Lewis was disposing of his own agents, and that there was trouble in the unit's ranks. Excellent news, all....and all thanks to Atherton.

"We have enemies on this planet," Brivari said as Atherton's eyes widened, "people from my world who followed us here after we fled. The death of Miss Tate has unfortunately attracted their attention and drawn them to Roswell."

"The waitress?" Atherton asked breathlessly.

"A member of their 'resistance', a group which allegedly supports us, although that remains to be seen," Brivari answered.

"More aliens!" Atherton exclaimed. "I've been talking to two aliens without even knowing it! Which makes me wonder what else I'm missing if I could miss something of that magnitude for so long," he added, sobering suddenly. "So this lot belongs to the chap who stole your king's throne?"

"And is headed by that....'chap's' second-in-command, who is personally responsible for the death of my companion's Ward, the king's highest military commander," Brivari sighed. "Which means—"

"—that you fear a repeat of what happened with Miss Tate," Atherton said thoughtfully. "Which would only confirm your presence and egg them on. That's a pickle, no doubt about it."

Brivari blinked. "An excellent analysis, but where is the relation to vegetables and poultry reproduction?"

Atherton stared at him blankly for a moment before breaking into laughter. "You know what I like about you, Langley? You have a new perspective on just about everything. You make me think of things I've never thought of, simply because I haven't had to. When you 'egg someone on', you encourage them, provoke them, even. 'Pickle' is an expression meaning 'trouble' or 'problem'. I have no idea where either came from, but there's no doubt in my mind that you're in a pickle. So....how can I help? What are my marching orders?"

"Lay low, and don't announce our presence," Brivari answered. "That's what we intend to do until they give up and move on."

"That can't be all you're planning to do," Atherton objected. "You have a golden opportunity here! Your enemy is right there, under your very noses, and while they suspect your presence, they're not certain of it. What better time to gather information on them? And who better to do it than me, a lowly human whom they would never suspect?"

"You can't return to Roswell," Brivari objected, "not after what happened."

"Correction—I cannot return as James Anderson," Atherton said. "I have many other disguises and pseudonyms to choose from; take your pick."

Brivari was silent for a moment, considering. Atherton had shown remarkable skill at both disguise and gathering information, and having one more investigator meant more time for he, Jaddo, and Malik to not only keep an eye on the various Argilian factions, but also on the Special Unit. Each enemy added to the list only thinned their resources.

"Show me your disguises," Brivari said as Atherton beamed. "If I deem one capable of fooling the sheriff, I might be persuaded, especially since we now have the Special Unit to watch."

"With any luck, we'll have some help on that one," Atherton said with satisfaction. "I planted a suggestion in that agent's mind, before he was too far over the edge, mind you. If he decides to act on it, that would work in your favor."




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




"Good," Del Bianco said, sounding relieved. "You made it. Have a seat. We're almost ready to start."

Cates nodded sullenly, stopping abruptly when the motion made his head throb. He'd had way too much to drink last night, to the point where his encounter with the white-haired man who seemed to share his disdain for government heavy-handedness was somewhat fuzzy. He did recall the man ushering him to his apartment, surprisingly lucid in spite of all he'd drunk himself, after which he'd fallen into such a deep sleep that he remembered nothing more until Del Bianco's urgent phone call awakened him as he lay face down on the bed with drool on his suit. His admonition to report for duty or be fired would have been ignored if not for the fact that Cates now knew exactly what being "fired" from the Special Unit entailed. No wonder Del Bianco was relieved to see him. He probably didn't want to have to pull off another fake hit-and-run.

"You look like shit," Agent Douglas remarked.

"You trying to chat me up?" Cates deadpanned.

"Doesn't it bother you that look like shit?" Agent Stanton asked.

"Doesn't it bother you that you participated in shit last night?" Cates retorted.

Uneasy glances were exchanged all around. "The wedding went off very well without you, thanks for asking," Del Bianco said. "And Mrs. Pierce—or rather, Mrs. Lewis—had her baby, a boy just like Pierce said. You missed a lot with your little drinking spree."

"Yeah, it's amazing what you can miss when you're not looking," Cates said acidly. "Weddings. Births. Murders."

"Cates, give it up, man," Stanton said gently. "We're all just as pissed at whoever ran down Owens as you are, but you're just going to have to accept that the bastard got away."

No he didn't, Cates thought, his eyes boring into Del Bianco, who carefully avoided looking at him. "I have new orders from Agent Lewis," Del Bianco said. "He—"

"Whoopee," Cates muttered.

"—wants all of us full time on finding out how Pierce intends for his son to receive the serum at the age of thirty. So we need to brainstorm before we head off to investigate....not that everyone's brain is capable of 'storming' at the moment," he added with a dark glance at Cates. "This is what I've come up with so far: Pierce had one sibling who died at the age of five from diphtheria, and both his parents died years ago; that counts out immediate family. All extended family I've been able to contact say he dropped from sight in the late forties. He had no friends to speak of, and the only colleague who knew his true identity was Dr. Joshua Burke at the Norwood State Mental Hospital where he was murdered. Everyone else knew him as 'Dr. Pearson', and no one wants to talk about what went on there because his research was ethically questionable—"

"They don't have to talk about 'what went on there'," Cates interrupted. "You're looking for someone Pierce would have entrusted the formula with, not a treatise on what he was doing."

"And everyone naturally thinks that will come up, hence their reluctance to talk, but thank you for setting me straight," Del Bianco said impatiently. "May I finish?"

"You will anyway, won't you?" Cates murmured.

Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Del Bianco looked like he was going to rip into Cates, then apparently thought better of it. "I've already gone through the list of likely suspects," Del Bianco continued. "We need to cast the net wider because Lewis doesn't want to wait thirty years. Suggestions?"

"What about college roommates?" Douglas asked.

"Good," Del Bianco said, scribbling on a chalk board.

"Friends of his parents?" Stanton offered.

"Unlikely to live long enough to make the delivery, but I'm not dismissing anyone at this point," Del Bianco said, the chalk scritching as he added that to the list. "What else?"

"Old girlfriends?" Douglas said.

Chuckles rippled around the room save for Cates, who wasn't in a laughing mood. The list-making continued as Cates drifted further into memories of the night before when he'd found a kindred spirit equally horrified by people who bastardized the concept of "patriotism", twisting it into something ugly and profane. Neither had revealed to the other which agency they worked for, but it was clear that both were in similar straits. They'd talked for hours, with Cates being careful to edit his comments so no one would be able to track him back here. Even edited, the enormity of what he'd witnessed chilled him to the bone, and somehow, saying it out loud made it worse, made the madness clearer. The white-haired man, for his part, hadn't even blinked. He'd obviously heard it all before.

"....high school or college teachers he was close to?" an agent was saying.

"Good, but it doesn't have to be someone he was close to," Del Bianco pointed out. "It could be someone he hired for just this purpose."

"Then it could be anyone!" Stanton complained.

"Whoever it is, it's our job to find them," Del Bianco said. "C'mon, guys. More ideas. What about you, Cates? Anything?"

"Like I care," Cates answered.

"You must have some ideas," Del Bianco pressed. "You're the only one who hasn't contributed so far."

"I contributed," Cates said. "I set you straight, remember?"

Del Bianco tossed the chalk on the table. "Outside. Now," he said tersely.

The other agents averted their eyes as Cates walked slowly out of the conference room and closed the door behind him. "You gonna beat me up?" he said to Del Bianco who was glaring at him. "Given my current condition, that would be a bit like taking candy from a baby."

"You stood me up last night," Del Bianco said angrily. "But I still stood up for you this morning when you didn't show up for work, and I rousted your sorry ass out of bed so you wouldn't wind up fired!"

"Which we both know means 'dead'," Cates retorted. "So what, you want me to hit my knees in gratitude because you 'stood up for me'? You killed Chris! Are you afraid you'll have to kill me now? What's the matter?" he added when Cates looked away. "Isn't killing sitting right with you? Good. It's nice to know you have at least a shred of decency waving in the breeze, even if it is only a shred."

"Cates," Del Bianco said, grabbing his arm as Cates turned away. "Lewis always asks who contributed what. And you do not want him to know you contributed nothing, or that you uttered the words, 'Like I care'. You should care. Please," he added, sounding desperate. "Find a way to care. For both of us."

"Del Bianco?" Cates said softly.

"What?"

"Get your hands off me."

Slowly, Del Bianco lowered his hand. "I'm just trying to steer you in the right direction," he whispered fiercely. "Don't you realize what you're doing?"

Cates locked eyes with him. "Don't you realize that you're pathetic?"

Del Bianco stared at him blankly for a moment, then dropped his eyes and went back into the conference room. Cates looked around at the empty desks, wondering if he should take this opportunity to run, run away, somewhere where Lewis would never find him. But where would that somewhere be, exactly? Where on the planet was out of reach of Hoover's FBI? If he ran, he would be constantly on the move, always just one step ahead of Lewis' hounds, unless he slipped up, of course, in which case he'd be dead. And if he stayed here.....

....it's the only way to bring the bastards down.

Cates stood stock still as a patch of fuzzy memory cleared. He had asked the white-haired man last night why he stayed in his job if he objected to it so much, and after making a joke about not having enough life insurance, the man had turned serious.

"I stay because an organization is best toppled from within. I stay because if I know what they're trying to do, I can stall them, thwart them, impede them in ways I couldn't if I weren't there. I stay because, some day, all their crap is going to catch up with them, and someone will need to give witness to what they've done....and I'm going to have one hell of a list. It's a Faustian bargain, I know, but in the end, it's the only way to bring the bastards down."

Exactly, Cates thought, feeling less inebriated than he had a moment ago. The trick was to not leave, to stay and be a thorn in Lewis' side. Take this serum, for example. What if he found it before anyone else?

Five minutes later, Cates was back in the conference room with a freshly washed face and neatly combed hair. "I apologize for my earlier remarks," he told his startled fellow agents. "And thanks for setting me straight," he added to an obviously relieved Del Bianco. "Now....where were we?"





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




County Clerk's Office, 4:45 p.m.

Santa Fe




Standing at the base of the wide staircase, the gentlemen looked to the summit and sighed. The architecture in these grand old buildings was arguably beautiful, but there was something to be said for the good old elevator. Still, he couldn't help but admire the wooden banister, polished by more than a century of hands, and the intricate panels which supported it. The staircase was tall, splitting in two at a broad landing up ahead which afforded access to both sides of the rotunda above. He chose the left branch, which was of course the wrong choice, necessitating a trek halfway around the rotunda until he finally reached the Hall of Records.

The long wooden counter inside was staffed by a lone young woman in a sweater set and pearls who was busy filing her nails and glanced up briefly when he entered. "Can I help you?" she asked in a tone which made it clear she would rather do nothing of the sort.

"Good afternoon, miss," the gentleman said cordially. "I wish to see a record of all births in this city for the last week, if I may."

"Can't," she answered. "We're closing."

The gentleman glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall behind her. "You don't close for another fifteen minutes," he noted.

"Not long enough," the young lady announced, apparently a fan of abbreviated sentences.

"I assure you I shall be quick," the gentleman answered. "The records, if you please."

"You're going to go through a week's worth of births in fifteen minutes? Mister, I'm meeting my fella after work, and I won't be late—"

"You shan't," the gentleman interrupted. "I know exactly what I'm looking for, and the sooner you procure those records, the sooner I shall find it. The records, if you please."

The young lady sighed and slapped her nail file on the counter, flouncing into the back where rows of shelves stretched seemingly into infinity. A typical civil servant, the man mused. Neither civil, nor serving. The clock on the wall ticked through a full three minutes as boxes thumped in the back, followed by muffled comments that may or may not have been civil. At length the young woman reappeared bearing a box and a ledger.

"The book has all the births which have been recorded," she announced, heaving her armload onto the counter. "The box has birth certificates from the last few days that haven't been entered in the book yet. They're alphabetical, or they're supposed to be; sometimes girls just throw them in there without paying any attention....."

And you would be one of them, the man thought, her continuing chatter fading into the background as he spun the book around and flipped it open to the appropriate dates, scanning quickly from page to page. Finding nothing, he turned to the box; still nothing. Apparently he was too early, and he was about to give up when he spied the very first birth certificate in the box, one that was obviously out of order.


Pierce, Daniel

Date of Birth: September 16, 1959, 2:52 a.m.

Place of Birth: Santa Fe General Hospital

Gender: Male

Weight: 7 pounds, 5 ounces

Mother's Maiden Name: Butcher, Helen

Father: Deceased



"Thank you," the man said abruptly, cutting off the stream of consciousness still flowing from the reluctant civil servant. "That will be all. My regards to your 'fella'."

Before he left, he glanced at the clock over the flabbergasted young lady's head. Total time elapsed: Five minutes. Her 'fella' was waiting in the rotunda, judging by the puppy dog eyes and bouquet of somewhat bedraggled flowers. He proceeded back down the stairs to the first floor, grateful he'd been able to complete his task without impeding young love.

Well....perhaps "complete" was the wrong word; in many ways, it had only just begun. "See you in thirty years, Daniel," he murmured as he left the dim coolness of the clerk's office and reemerged into the Santa Fe sunshine.




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


I'll post Chapter 66 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX


September 16, 1959, 5:15 p.m.

Parker's Diner, Roswell



"You finally going home, hon,?" Nancy asked as Courtney closed her locker door. "Listen, thanks so much for staying when Charlene couldn't come in. I don't know what we would've done without you."

"No problem," Courtney answered. "It was the least I could do after all of you stood up for me this morning."

"That's sweet of you," Nancy smiled, "and your staying went a long way toward buttering up Pete. The way you whipped around here like a tornado this afternoon, I think he's willing to forget you were ever gone."

Too bad other people aren't, Courtney thought. She had happily offered to stay later when a waitress had cancelled at the last minute because the mind-numbing rhythm of order/fetch/clean-up/repeat had been a welcome respite from what awaited her when she was finished. After Nicholas and Malik first thing this morning, she hadn't caught so much as a whiff of the coming storm, and lunch time had come and gone before she'd realized that several hours has passed without her even thinking about it. So when the opportunity had arisen to extend her time within that little bubble, she'd jumped at it, the flow of the diner and the need to do the work of two blocking unpleasant thoughts, the soft, squidgy noises her rubber soles made on the tile floor acting like a metronome as she went back and forth, her mind on nothing more pressing than turkey sandwiches, hold the mayo, or a salad with the dressing on the side. Once she left she would have to face Nicholas and Greer and her father and Royal Warders and God knows who else. Here, time seemed to have stopped.

I wish it could stay that way, she thought sadly as she stepped out into the September sunshine, slightly less fierce than the summer variety. It was starting to catch up with her now. The endless requests that she tell her "jumping out the window" story. The fact that she hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. The enormity of what had happened, of what would happen, what could happen. She walked home slowly, as much from exhaustion as from dread at what she would find there. Greer was bad enough, but this time, her father would be worse. She'd had to tell him about why she had run on the phone last night because they needed a cover story before he reached Roswell; operating in crisis mode, he hadn't said much, merely come up with a plausible excuse. But with time to think about it and the leisure to argue, she knew he would have plenty to say, and she would need to answer for her behavior. She'd stood up to him successfully once before, but that was when Dee had been here, a master at standing up to one's parents if ever there was one. Now she was alone, and tired.....and scared. Very scared. So much could go so wrong so quickly now.

She turned the corner onto her street much sooner than she usually seemed to, and was surprised to feel her spirits rise when she saw her rooming house in the distance. Weird as it was, Roswell was home now, and it felt good to come home. Malik wants to go home, she thought, recalling the look on his face this morning. He'd lived here much longer than she had, had stayed in one place with one identity longer than any Covari she'd heard of. Was it possible he was genuinely attached to this place and the people he'd known? Popular perception said that Covari didn't become attached, indeed couldn't become attached to anything other than the security of a familiar routine, much the way a dog waited at the gate for its master. That's how she would have interpreted his reaction weeks ago, how she'd tried to interpret it this morning after he'd left and she'd inexplicably felt guilty for what she'd said. Here she was fielding embarrassing questions about her behavior while he was safely hidden, yet he called her "lucky".

No one was around as Courtney quietly closed the front door behind her. The television blared faintly from a back room, meaning Mrs. Bruce was busy watching her afternoon "soap operas", and the doors to both the first floor room and the room across from her own that had belonged to Dee were closed. Good; maybe her father and Greer were closeted with Nicholas. Maybe she'd have time for a much needed nap.

Or maybe not, she thought wearily as the door to the opposite room opened just as she reached the top of the stairs. It was her father, not Greer, thank God, but he looked no happier than Greer usually did as he motioned her inside. She threw a longing look at her own room before stepping inside and waiting for the obligatory sweep, first with the infrared wash to check for Covari, then with a second device to check for what the humans would call "bugs". They couldn't be too careful about who might be listening in.

"Are you all right?" Michael asked.

"Yes," Courtney answered. "Very tired, but I'm okay."

"Are you still employed?"

"Mr. Parker wasn't thrilled, but he gave me my job back. Did Mrs. Bruce give you any trouble?"

"I assured her we had reconciled and there would be no further....incidents. She doesn't realize that Greer and I know each other; we arrived separately. And questions about your absence?"

"I played them down just like we discussed."

"Have you seen the Warders?"

"Only Malik. He knows Nicholas is here; both of them were at the diner this morning when Nicholas got lippy with a waitress for not giving him coffee. Mr. Parker almost threw him out," she added, smiling at the memory. There was a special place in her heart for anyone who stood up to Nicholas.

Her father closed his eyes briefly at this news, no doubt praying for patience. Reining in his master was going to be a problem, maybe a big enough problem that it would take some of the heat off her. "Now," Michael said, taking a seat, "explain to me why you did not contact me about your being discovered."

Or not, Courtney added with a private sigh as she relieved her own tired legs in a chair. Nicholas may be the larger problem, but her father couldn't yell at him the way he could yell at his own daughter. "I was waiting," she answered. "I knew from Malik that the Warders were staking out my room, so I was waiting for you to call and them to answer. It struck me as a safe way, perhaps the only safe way, to do the introduction."

"Let me make certain I understand you correctly," her father said, his tone a bit strained, but still calm. "You hid for three weeks—three weeks—while waiting for me to call you, knowing I would not find you here, knowing the Warders would likely claim you captive and that I would believe them, would believe your life hung in the balance when all the while, you were miles away with them having no idea how to find you?"

"Yes," Courtney answered.

Michael's eyes widened slightly at this simple answer. "I know you would have had to be cryptic, that you wouldn't have been able to provide details, but couldn't you at least have managed to notify me that something had happened and you were all right?"

"I could have," Courtney agreed. "But then you would have known they were lying when they said they were holding me hostage. You needed to believe it was real, Papa. They would have known if it wasn't."

"So you left me to think you were dead or dying because you wanted it to be 'real'?" Michael demanded. "You have a duty to report anything and everything that happens here! Do you or do you not understand that having your identity discovered by a Royal Warder constitutes something 'happening'?"

"Of course I do," Courtney replied, impatience creeping into her voice. He was once again talking to her like she was stupid or incompetent, a sure sign that he was about to lose his temper...and hers wouldn't be far behind. "I also have a duty to the resistance, and I decided—"

"You do not make decisions regarding the resistance!" her father exploded, his calm façade abruptly falling away. "I lead the resistance, and I make all decisions regarding it! You are an operative. You will report any and all developments that occur within your assigned area, especially major developments like being discovered!"

Courtney sat stone-faced and silent as her as her father thundered on about her various indiscretions. Not a word about the fact that her being alive meant they had made a major breakthrough with the Warders. No, of course not. Yet another classic case of complaining about the bad and ignoring the good.

"....have displayed a consistent disregard for the chain of command since your assignment!" Michael continued angrily, "from covering up Green's death—"

"I already explained why I did that," Courtney interjected.

"—to pretending your trithium generator was broken—"

"You praised me for that!"

"—to this latest outrage," Michael finished, ignoring her. "To think that you would deliberately leave me dangling....did you really think me incapable of letting on I believed the story about your being held captive? Have I not been an officer long enough that I should be able to play along with a simple ruse?"

"With anyone else....yes," Courtney replied. "But it wasn't anyone else, Papa, it was me, your daughter. So, no, I'm not sure you could have played along convincingly, assuming you didn't just drop everything and come up here, which is what I was afraid you'd do."

"What I do is my decision, not yours, and you have no business keeping information from me because you're trying to second guess my reaction!" her father snapped.

"Mr. Proctor thought it was a good idea," Courtney said defiantly.

Michael stopped dead, thunderstruck. "Do you mean to tell me you discussed this with a human?"

"An ally," Courtney corrected. "Dee's father, and a military commander in his own right. He thought it was a great idea. Said it might be the only way to introduce you to the Warders safely. He got it, Papa. Why can't you?"

"So his opinion is more valuable to you than mine?" Michael demanded.

"His opinion should be valuable to you too," Courtney retorted. "The Warders have a great deal of respect for Dee's father, so it would be a good idea for both of us to learn why. If—"

"Leave," her father interrupted.

"What?"

"I said leave," Michael repeated. "Go to your own apartment. We will discuss this later."

Which means he's too mad to even yell, Courtney thought. She had only rarely seen her father so angry that he was speechless, and only ever with her brothers. Too bad she couldn't call home and tell them she had now earned that honor for herself.

"While you're working up a good head of steam, just remember this," she said. " You may not like what I did, but it worked. You had your first audience, you made your pitch, and no one died. As the only operative on site, it was my call to make, and I made it. And I stand behind it, no matter how angry you are."

"Leave!" Michael ordered.

"With pleasure," Courtney said flatly. "Oh, and Papa? It's nice to see you too."




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




FBI Field Office

Santa Fe




"Flowers. Delivered. Tomorrow. Include a note. Sign my name. Here's her room number."

Agent Cates looked up as Agent Lewis slapped a piece of paper on his desk as he stalked by on the way to his own office, the door to which he promptly slammed. Such a romantic, he thought sourly. If only Helen Pierce knew just what she'd married....but then she probably wouldn't believe him even if he told her. In her eyes, Lewis was second only to the Second Coming.

"Told you he was on the warpath," Del Bianco murmured. "Aren't you glad you came to your senses?"

You have no idea, Cates thought, eyeing the names in front of him. They had divvied up the long list of Pierce's possible contacts and begun the laborious process of tracking these people down. Pierce's kid could be well past thirty by the time they reached them all, assuming they ever did.

"So why is Lewis all upset?" Cates asked, careful to keep his voice casual. "He got what he wanted: He not only convinced Pierce's widow to marry him, he managed to hold the wedding before the birth, making him an instant father. No messy adoptions or anything like that."

"Well, he did come close to losing the kid. There were complications, and I guess he had to pressure Mrs. Pierce into have surgery in order to get the baby out in time."

"But it worked," Cates pointed out. "What's he mad about now?"

"The birth certificate was submitted with the baby's name as 'Daniel Pierce'," Del Bianco answered. "That's the way Mrs. Pierce wanted it, and I gather her doctor wasn't thrilled with Lewis' objections, so he rushed the paperwork through. He even threatened to sic Social Services on him if he contested the name. Lewis was really ticked."

Good, Cates thought, struggling to keep the smile off his face. One of the hard parts of his new calling was having to hide his glee when Lewis got sucker punched. "I can't imagine Lewis would care what the kid was called as long as he survived," he said.

Del Bianco glanced at Lewis' closed office door before rolling his chair closer. "Between you and me and the fence post, I don't think it was really the name that was bugging him," he confided. "I think it was the fact that his new 'wife' went ahead and did it without consulting him. That and the fact that the enormity of what he's done, of becoming an instant husband and father, has suddenly made him realize we need to work harder to find out how that blasted formula will be delivered. He always intended to have the wedding before the birth so he could avoid having to go to court to become a legal guardian, but with everything that's been going on, the kid's due date just kind of crept on him, and now he has to play daddy. He certainly doesn't want to do that for thirty years."

"Mmm," Cates murmured tonelessly, amazed at how gullible some people could be. Here he'd been down on Del Bianco ever since learning he'd killed Owens, had sparred with him last night and this morning, but just kiss up a little and he bought it, hook, line, and sinker. If hiding his joy when Lewis was thwarted was difficult, hiding his distaste for what Lewis was doing was even more difficult. He'd have to practice his poker face.

"Better order those," Del Bianco whispered, pointing to the note with Helen Pierce's hospital room number. "Keeping up appearances at the hospital is especially important now that doctor's after him."

Oh, of course it is, Cates thought acidly, grabbing the yellow pages and thumbing through it. Ten minutes later he'd ordered a bouquet delivered with an appropriate untruthful sentiment on the card, leaving him free to return to his pursuit of Pierce's contacts. This was much more involved than a walk through the yellow pages, and he spoke to five auto license bureaus in three states without success before pushing his chair back and heading for the coffee pot. The expressions on the faces of his fellow agents told him they were having no better luck, which was good. He certainly didn't want them to find it first.

We're missing something, Cates thought, leaning against the wall with his coffee cup, eyes closed, the hangover from last night having not yet worn off. Probably a lot of something's. None of them really had any idea how Pierce would have gone about having something delivered after thirty years. They were stumbling in the dark, directionless, casting a wide net in the hopes of finding something that would point the way. They might never find it, and while stalling Lewis for three decades was an admirable achievement, Cates wanted more than that; he wanted to destroy the formula, make certain Lewis never got it, not just now, not just thirty years from now, but ever.

"Agent Cates!"

Cates' eyes flew open. Lewis was standing in his office doorway, bristling with impatience. Del Bianco threw Cates a sympathetic look as he passed his desk, and Cates had to remind himself not to be grateful to a murderer.

"Close the door," Lewis ordered. "Where were you last night, agent?"

Right, Cates thought. Last night. He and Lewis had not yet tangled over the fact that Cates had not appeared as ordered for the "wedding". "I was drunk, sir," he said bluntly.

"And why were you drunk on the eve of my wedding?"

"I wasn't thinking about the wedding, sir. I was thinking about Agent Owens."

"So you put your personal feelings ahead of your job?"

"Yes, sir. It won't happen again, sir." And it won't, Cates added silently. His new "job" took precedence over any personal feelings he might have, including the personal feeling that he'd like to throttle Lewis right here, right now.

Cates waited passively as Lewis stared at him for several long moments. It was curious how he'd been so frightened of this man only a few weeks ago. Back then he would have been sweating bullets at this point; now he just wanted to get it over with, to say whatever would end this quickly so he could get back to finding the serum and ripping the formula into tiny little unreadable pieces.

"I'm glad to hear that," Lewis said finally. "Did you order the flowers?"

"Yes, sir," Cates answered, happy to have that over with. "Two dozen long-stemmed red roses."

Lewis blinked. "Two dozen? A bit extravagant, don't you think?"

"Nothing is too good for Mrs. Lewis, sir. And just think of what the hospital staff will say about you when they see them. Especially the nurses."

Lewis considered that briefly before nodding. "Quite right. Play to the otherwise tiresome habit of sappy female sentiment. Good thought."

Bastard. "Thank you, sir," Cates said out loud.

"How goes the search?"

"Slowly, sir."

"Don't hesitate to call in help tracking down anyone you're searching for," Lewis said. "When in doubt, go to an expert."

An expert. "I'll get right back to work, sir," Cates said.

"Good. I want that serum, agent. Find it for me."

"I will, sir," Cates promised. "Believe me, I want it too."

And how, he thought, grabbing his coat and keys from his desk. "What happened?" Del Bianco asked curiously.

"Not much," Cates answered. "Just bitched a bit. I'm leaving; I have an idea."

"Great!" Del Bianco said. "What is it?"

"Tell you later; gotta run," Cates called back as he headed out of the office, Lewis' words ringing in his ears. Yes, he did have an idea, and he had Lewis to thank for that. Wouldn't it be sweet if the man himself planted the seed that would destroy what he was after.

"When in doubt, go to an expert."

He intended to do just that.




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"I was going to knock off shortly, sir, if that's all right," Hanson said from the office doorway.

Valenti looked up from his desk. "Go ahead, Hanson. The evening shift will be here shortly."

"Are.....you going home, sir?"

"Sure I am. Just not yet."

"Something wrong?"

"No. Why?"

"I can always tell when something's eating you, sir," Hanson noted. "And something's definitely eating you."

"Of course something's 'eating me'," Valenti said irritably. "Don't tell me you didn't notice all the crap this summer."

"This is different," Hanson insisted.

Valenti sighed and leaned back in his chair. Yes, it is, he thought. Because it's personal. "All right," he said, motioning Hanson inside. "Have you heard people going around calling me 'Sergeant Martian'?"

"Best to ignore name calling, sir. Sticks and stones, and all that."

"It's not me it's bothering; it's Jimmy. He says his classmates are calling me that, and he even overheard the principal laughing about it."

"That was rude," Hanson said. "Did you talk to him? The principal, I mean."

"I'm afraid that'll just draw more attention to it," Valenti replied. "So how bad is it? Is this just a school kid thing, or is it all over town?"

Hanson's face fell, dragging Valenti's spirits right along with it. "Well....a lot of times, when kids' start with something, they got it from their parents. Not always, of course, but—"

"Stop tap dancing and answer me," Valenti demanded. "How bad is it?"

Hanson hesitated, looking cornered. "Pretty bad, sir," he admitted. "It's all over. I've even had to give my own kid a talking to. I'm a little surprised you haven't heard it yourself, but then I guess people are being careful."

"All over?" Valenti echoed. "Jesus, even 'Deputy Martian' didn't get 'all' over, and that was back in the forties during a supposed alien invasion!"

"This particular moniker is catchier," Hanson said. " 'Sergeant Martian' rolls off the tongue easier than 'Deputy Martian' because both words have two syllables—"

"I wasn't looking for a semantic analysis," Valenti interrupted sharply. "I was looking for a penetration estimate."

"Sorry, sir," Hanson said hastily. "Maybe in the forties, people were more distracted by everything going on. Or maybe more of them tended to believe you then, or at least halfway believe you. This time the whole alien business just seemed to come out of the blue with no evidence."

I had evidence, Valenti thought, glancing at the file cabinet which held the "official" report on Audrey Tate's death, the much-abbreviated file he'd shown to the FBI. He'd taken the real file home for safe-keeping along with Mark Green's, only to have both stolen right out from under him. And with all of Doctor Blake's research on Mark Green's very odd body having been stolen also, there was literally nothing left. Someone—or something—had seen to that.

"Sir, if I were you, I'd advise your son to just ignore it," Hanson continued. "But you might want to have a chat with the school principal. Whether or not he's guilty of calling you that himself, he must have heard it. It's his job to teach his students to respect authority, so if he clamps down on it, that should help."

"Right," Valenti said. "Thanks. Go on home, Hanson. And don't worry—I'm right behind you. I'm not going to stay here all night and stew about it."

"Don't go home and stew about it either," Hanson advised. "They say stress isn't good for your blood pressure, and high blood pressure can make you die young."

"So can those new medicines they've got for it," Valenti said dryly. "And 'they' also said that bloodletting cured just about everything, so I'll wait for the evidence on that one. Goodnight, Hanson."

"Goodnight, sir."

Valenti shook his head as Hanson left. Hanson was an excellent deputy, but he suffered from a common affliction, that of jumping on the latest medical bandwagon, only to find that wagon tipped over by the side of the road a short time later. Doctors everywhere were touting "high blood pressure medication", which came with nasty side effects; sometimes the cure really was worse than the disease. He cleaned off his desk, locked his file cabinet, and grabbed his hat.

"Phone call for you, sir," Deputy Alvarez called as Valenti passed by on his way out.

"I'm leaving," Valenti replied. "Take a message."

"They say it's urgent," Alvarez said. "Something to do with an 'Owens'?"

Valenti stopped dead in his tracks for a moment before making a U turn back to his office and picking up the phone. "Is this Agent Lewis?" he asked tightly.

"No," an unfamiliar voice answered. "This is Agent Cates from the FBI's Special Unit."

"Have we met?" Valenti asked warily.

"Sort of," Cates answered. "I was along for the ride when the trees mysteriously fell. Look, I used to work with Agent Owens, but he's—"

"Dead," Valenti finished. "I know."

There was a pause. "You do? Well, of course you do. Chris always said you were good. Which is why I'm calling. I need your help."

"You need my help?" Valenti echoed in disbelief. "What in the name of God would possibly give you the impression that I'd be the least bit interested in helping Lewis and his merry band?"

"Because you'd be helping me thwart Lewis," Cates answered. "Lewis killed Owens."

"Nice try," Valenti said. "Lewis isn't the type to do his own dirty work."

"No, he isn't," Cates agreed. "He got someone else to do it, another member of our unit who made it look like a hit and run. But I wasn't buying it, and I dragged it out of him."

"You got any evidence?"

"Of course not," Cates said bitterly. "It was night time, there were no witnesses, and so on, and so forth. What I do have is one hell of a grudge against Lewis and a way to get payback. Lewis wants something, something he's sent us all looking for."

"Like what?"

"Doesn't matter," Cates replied. "The point is, he wants it. Badly. And I've made it my business to find it before anyone else does and make certain he never gets his hands on it."

"So what are you calling me for?"

"Because you know how to do this," Cates said. "Because you found Chris by digging your way through Lewis' backgrounds with your bare hands. Because Chris had one hell of a lot of respect for you, respect I've belatedly come to share. No one in this unit can sniff stuff out like you can, sheriff....including me. If I'm going to find what Lewis wants and keep it from him, I need some coaching."

"And why should I believe that?" Valenti demanded. "What's to say Lewis didn't put you up to this so he could use me to find his whatever-it-is without actually admitting he doesn't have the chops to do it himself?"

"Ask me something," Cates said. "I'm done keeping Lewis' secrets. What do you want to know?"

"Meet with me," Valenti countered. "You pick the place."

"Can't do that. I can't take the risk we'll be seen together."

"But you'll take the risk that your phone line isn't being tapped?"

"I don't dare have this conversation over either my business or my personal lines," Cates answered. "I'm in a phone booth."

Yes, he is, Valenti thought, having noticed the faint sounds of traffic the moment he picked up the phone. Which certainly didn't prove his sincerity, but the offer of information was certainly intriguing.....

"How did you get into my house recently without my knowing about it?" Valenti asked.

"Your house?" Cates repeated. "No one I know of has been in your house."

"Where'd you take Mark Green's body?"

"Who's 'Mark Green'? Look, sheriff, I don't know of any ops in your town since we left."

Valenti paused, thinking. Owens hadn't seemed to know about Green either, which made the disappearance of all evidence concerning him all the more interesting. "What was that gray thing Agent Owens stole from my office?"

"It was either a communication device or a weapon. Or both."

Valenti sank slowly into his chair. Finally, an answer. "So you admit taking it?"

"Chris took it," Cates answered. "We high-tailed it back here just as soon as he had it."

"And?"

"And after weeks of tinkering, one of our agents accidentally activated the thing. I wasn't here at the time, but they said some kind of face appeared in the air over it, like a TV picture without a screen."

"What kind of face?" Valenti asked sharply.

"A human face, sheriff. And then whoever was on the other end sent what appears to have been a blast of radiation through it and fried Agent Feldman."

" 'Fried'?"

"As in burned. As in smoking. As in dead. I saw him. Trust me, he was dead."

Like Audrey Tate, Valenti thought, his heart pounding in his chest. Is that how she'd died, by one of those ovalish gray things? "What about—"

"I can't talk any longer," Cates broke in. "Think about what I said. I know you're pissed at Lewis, and that makes two of us. This would be a way to settle the score."

"Wait!" Valenti exclaimed. "How do I reach you?"

"You don't. It's not safe for you to call me. I'll call you."

Click.

Valenti slowly set the phone back in its cradle and sat back in his chair, lost in thought. A minute later, he picked it up again. "Alvarez? Get me the Santa Fe Police Department."

"I thought you were going home, sir?"

"Yeah, so did I," Valenti answered. "Now get me the Santa Fe police."




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




9:15 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house



"We will do a head count first thing tomorrow morning," Greer was saying as he and Michael approached their rooming house. "That should give those arriving during the night time to settle in with those who rented space during the day. I'm glad you convinced Nicholas to have some stay in surrounding towns and villages. A force this size would draw too much notice."

"Especially given the sheriff of this town, with whom I have had experience and Nicholas has not," Michael answered. "I know he likes to keep everyone close, but that would not be wise in this case." He paused at the top of the steps on the dark front porch. "We're going to have rein him in, you know. Incidents like the one this morning at the diner cannot be repeated."

Greer was only a shape in the darkness, his expression unreadable. "And how do you intend to 'rein in' Khivar's second?"

"By reminding him that he is a second," Michael answered, "and that his behavior endangers his master's mission. Further irritating a master who is already unhappy with his second's performance is most unwise."

A deep sigh floated from Greer's silhouette. "Convincing him of that will be difficult."

"But it must be done," Michael insisted. "This is not Copper Summit where he is surrounded by subordinates. Humans will never accept his attitude coming from what they perceive as a child. And if the sheriff intervenes—"

"I see your point," Greer interrupted, his voice a degree colder. "And while pursuing it, we would both be wise to remember that on this planet, Nicholas operates not as second, but as first."

"Is that so?" Michael asked softly. "I imagine Khivar would be interested to learn that."

"Does that mean you intend to inform him?" Greer asked.

"Should I?"

The two faced off in the darkness for a moment before Greer capitulated. "I will speak with him. But this is his first time out from under his mother's thumb, and there are bound to be some repercussions."

"Then we must see to it that those 'repercussions' do not endanger all of us," Michael replied.

"We agree on that, at least. Good night, Michael."

Michael closed his eyes in relief as Greer disappeared into his room. Tonight's meeting with Nicholas had been fraught with peril, what with questions about Courtney's recent absence and Mark Green's continuing absence. The former had been attributed to her having thought she had a lead on the Warders, with the peculiar nature of her departure written off to human exaggeration, something Nicholas was all too willing to believe given his low opinion of them. The latter was raising eyebrows as Mark persisted in not answering his communications, but could become even more problematic in the future if the subject arose with the townspeople, who knew very well that "Mark Green" had been murdered. The cover story for that was weak by nature and would be used only if and when necessary. Hopefully enough time had passed and enough other exciting things had happened that the subject would not arise.

And hopefully Courtney has learned her lesson, Michael thought, glancing at his daughter's closed door as he reached the top of the stairs. She was responsible for both of those headaches. She had also gained a great deal for the resistance in the process, but it could have been done so much more neatly by an experienced operative. The question of whether such an operative would have come as far by taking fewer wild risks was another matter entirely, and one that weighed heavily on Michael's mind as he opened his own door and snapped on the light. He had been hard on Courtney today, deliberately so. Even the greatest gains could be wiped out by sloppy discipline. They had been lucky so far, but may not be in the future. Driving that point home meant downplaying her considerable achievements and watching the anger and betrayal in his own daughter's eyes. If...

Michael stopped dead in his tracks, his ruminations forgotten. Someone was in his room, rummaging in his refrigerator, hidden by the open door. Was this one of the new arrivals? Senior operatives were not assigned roommates, so someone must have gone astray. "Whoever you are, you have the wrong address," he said sternly. "Where are you supposed to be?"

The interloper straightened up, an unfamiliar man with sharp dark eyes that went suddenly, completely black. Michael flinched as the open door behind him swung closed of its own accord, the lock clicking into place untouched.

"You are mistaken," the man replied. "I am right where I want to be."




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


I'll post Chapter 67 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN



September 16, 1959, 9:30 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house, Roswell




Michael stood rooted to the spot beside the door which had closed all by itself, watching the intruder with a mixture of dread and wonder. The last time he had encountered this creature, it had stood beside Antar's second, a deadly guardian that killed six emissaries before allowing the seventh to live, paving the way for Michael. He had waited a long time for that first audience and even longer for this one, an audience with the guardian itself as its master was unavailable. A guardian that was now far more powerful and deadly than it had been before, having been enhanced by the untapped riches of the human brain, briefly illustrated by that untouched, yet locked door.

And a guardian that was currently raiding his refrigerator. The absurdity of the contrast would be amusing if not for the fact that it highlighted precisely why Covari were so deceptive. It was easy to merely trust what you saw, to take what was in front of you at face value. Indeed, without that closed door, he might be tempted to do just that. Fortunately, the thought of a being that could move objects with its mind focused Michael's own rather quickly.

"Nicholas' first is in the room below mine," he told the Warder. "We must be careful to be quiet; if he hears anything....conversation, two sets of footsteps—"

"I'm aware of that," the Warder interrupted. "I have taken precautions to ensure no one hears us."

"As you did the first time we met," Michael nodded. "After spending a good deal of time trying to talk your Ward out of meeting with me in the first place, that is."

The Warder's human eyebrows had risen at the mention of Rath, who had indeed granted Michael an audience over his Warder's objections. Michael waited, knowing he had little to offer but the details of that one encounter, details which admittedly could have been wrested from one by guile or force. It was not the perfect identifier, but it would have to do.

"As I recall, I lost that battle," the Warder noted.

"Then you lost it fairly because he listened to you," Michael answered. "He must have. You left me waiting so long, I was virtually certain my life was forfeit."

"It very nearly was," the Warder agreed as Michael's stomach tightened. "I take it there's no need for me to identify?"

"I may have only met you once, but that was more than enough." Michael answered. "Rath did not stand on ceremony, and neither did you. Zan wasn't too fond of it either, as I recall, but his Warder was another matter. Brivari would be seated quietly in a chair waiting for me, not 'stuffing his face', as the humans would say."

Jaddo smiled faintly. "That he would. Although I would be happy to identify if you harbor any doubts. A pity you cannot do the same for me."

"Neither of us can satisfy the other's curiosity in that regard," Michael said. "If I remove my husk, I die. If you change your shape, I have no way of knowing if that is your true shape. Perhaps for the first time in the history of Antar, we are in the same predicament. Now you know how the rest of us feel."

"So what do we do, then, in the fact of this uncertainty?" Jaddo asked. "Certainly the safest road for me to take would be to kill you. Do you mind?"

Michael shook his head at the displayed container of cottage cheese, mentally running over his oft-rehearsed argument for his life as Rath's Warder fished in a drawer for a spoon. "The way I see it," he began, "your mandate is not only to keep your Ward safe, but to restore him to his former position, and his king to his throne....and the resistance can help you do all of that in ways you could never manage yourself, even with all your talents. The humans say, 'A ship in the harbor is safe, but that's not what ships are for'. A ship in the harbor is also stagnant; it will never go anywhere, never take on or deliver cargo or passengers, never do....anything." He paused, weighing his words carefully. "This marks the second time you have considered killing me. Last time, it was Rath who stayed your hand. This time, the decision is yours. What kind of ship will you be?"

Seconds ticked by with Jaddo eating and Michael watching, determined to not be the one to speak next. Then a chair abruptly slid away from the table, scraping loudly on the wooden floor.

"Sit," Jaddo commanded.

Michael slowly took a seat, recalling that he'd remained standing for the last audience. But then that had taken place in a palace. This was no palace.

"If you are who you say you are," Jaddo said, "I would imagine your 'daughter' is in a fair amount of trouble for not reporting her discovery."

"What makes you think she didn't?" Michael asked.

"Of course she didn't—your fear was real," Jaddo replied casually, as though that were so obvious as to not merit discussion. "It appears she may also genuinely be your daughter, or at least someone you care about."

"I seriously doubt you came here to discuss my family tree or have a snack," Michael said. "Can we get to the point? I've had a long day doing my utmost to hide your absence, and I need my rest; my remaining sharp is in your best interests as well as mine."

"So no small talk?" Jaddo said. "Good. I would have preferred that last night, but Brivari chose to have a political debate. Which is why I'm here, to find out what he failed to.

"That being?"

"What you're really after, of course."

"I thought I made that clear," Michael answered. "The rebirth and reestablishment of the Royal Four."

"Which would happen with or without your assistance, at least Earthside," Jaddo noted. "Were you offering your assistance for a risen king to regain his throne, I would understand, but at this juncture, the best strategy is avoidance."

"In which case I'm left to wonder why you provided two deaths for Nicholas to follow," Michael said pointedly.

"Irrelevant," Jaddo said. "Your daughter arrived in town prior to anything that would lead 'Nicholas' here. If your motives are truly what you say they are, your best course of action would be to stay as far away from us as possible lest you lead others to us. Yet you were actively hunting us. Why?"

"As I said, to provide intelligence and assistance in safeguarding the Royal Four—"

"Neither intelligence nor assistance was needed," Jaddo interrupted. "The hybrids were safely hidden, our whereabouts unknown.....what assistance would we possibly need?" It paused, eyeing Michael closely. "I believe you seek something more concrete, more....specific. I wish to know what that something is."

"You think we wish to renew our offer to help Rath gain the throne?"

"Do you?" Jaddo asked softly.

"Personally? I'd love to," Michael allowed. "I have long felt Rath the better choice for a monarch. But you and I both know that wouldn't work. Not only would Rath never accept it, the people wouldn't either, especially now, after all that's happened. I am not here to make a second offer to Rath."

"Then why are you here?"

Michael hesitated, knowing what the reaction to his answer would likely be. But it was clear from the look on the Warder's face that it would not tolerate a refusal to answer, and perhaps earlier was better anyway. The idea would take time to sink in.

"How many sets of hybrids do you have?" Michael asked.

Jaddo's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Valeris would have made hundreds, maybe thousands," Michael continued. "As many as possible given the attrition rate."

"Your point?" Jaddo demanded.

"Is this," Michael answered. "Judging from what we know of the crash, the hybrids were hidden quickly, and likely all in once place. Our fear is that may still be the case, that you have, as the humans would say, 'put all your eggs in one basket'. And we fear that, wherever they are hidden, that knowledge will be lost if the only ones safeguarding it were to perish."

"I'm still waiting for the point," Jaddo reminded him.

"If they are indeed all hidden together, it is the opinion of the resistance that they should be split up for safe-keeping. That way if some are found, others will remain unaffected. We wish to assist with this dispersal if such is necessary, and to hold the knowledge of at least some of their hiding places in case the two remaining Warders do not survive to see their Wards reborn."

Silence. Michael waited while Jaddo stared at him uncomprehendingly for several long moments. "So you want us to....give you some of the hybrids?"

"Not 'give them to us'," Michael explained. "Allow the resistance to know the location of at least some of their hiding places as insurance against the possibility that both you and Brivari may die and take that knowledge to your graves."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Jaddo said, flabbergasted. "This isn't some kind of joke?"

"It will be no joke if you are both killed and no one knows how to find the Royal Four," Michael persisted. "Two of you are already dead, and we know that hybrids of this type have never before been attempted. What if no one is there when they emerge? What if they need assistance? What if—"

"What if you leave the protection of our royalty to their Warders?" Jaddo demanded. "Do you really think us that incompetent?"

"What am I to think after recent events?" Michael retorted, rising from his chair. "You could have executed either of your victims without attracting Nicholas' attention, yet you chose to leave an identifiable mark!"

"We had no evidence that your people were actually here," Jaddo argued. "I had no idea there was anyone available to identify me other than weak humans."

"Humans who nonetheless managed to hold you captive for a very long time," Michael reminded him. "Never underestimate your enemy; your Ward would agree with that sentiment, would he not? And yet you did. Twice. So forgive me if I would feel more comfortable with the fate of our planet left in a greater number of hands than merely two, one pair of which has shown poor judgment of late."

Jaddo's eyes glittered dangerously. "If I am indeed guilty of underestimating my enemy, it would appear I am not the only one."

"I haven't 'underestimated' you," Michael objected. "You could have killed me before we started this conversation, and you can kill me now, or at any time in the future. I know that. But I will not pander to your ego, not when our world hangs in the balance. Millions have a stake in the outcome of your mission, so it is imperative that you not be selfish with that mission. The odds of success increase if the hybrids are entrusted to multiple guardians."

"So do the odds of discovery," Jaddo retorted. "The more who know, the more there are to tell."

"Not if it's done right," Michael countered. "And if they are all hidden together, I need not remind you what will happen if Nicholas discovers them. All, and I mean all, will be lost."

"Nicholas is a fool," Jaddo said. "You don't know him like I do."

"Correct—I know him better," Michael insisted. "He is vain, selfish, cruel, ambitious, and a host of other unsavory adjectives....but he is no fool. Never underestimate your enemy, Jaddo. Not even that one. Perhaps especially not that one."

"Then perhaps it is time to remove that enemy once and for all," Jaddo announced.

"Reveal so much as a hint of your presence and you will have the entire Argilian contingent here in less than a day," Michael warned. "Not to mention that every sighting bolsters the theory that your continued presence here means the hybrids are hidden nearby. Don't think for a moment that the resistance alone has proposed that. So far Nicholas is actively looking for you, not the hybrids. But the more he sees of you here, the higher the likelihood he will begin a second hunt, and that is something neither of us want."

"Do you really expect me to take a demand of this nature to the King's Warder?" Jaddo said angrily. "If he were to hear of this—"

"It's not a 'demand'," Michael corrected. "The offer to provide you with intelligence and assistance regarding Argilian troop movements and objectives stands regardless of your decision on this matter. You asked me why we were looking for you, and I have answered. We hold no illusions about the favor our proposal is likely to find, but we make it anyway, knowing the time may come when you have no choice but to consider it. Better to have it already on the table if and when the need arises."

"I will hear no more of this nonsense!" Jaddo exclaimed. "And if you want to live, you will not raise this subject again!"

Michael walked closer, bracing himself against the discomfort of being so close to such a creature. "What you or I want is beside the point," he said sharply. "You are a Warder; this is about what your Ward would want. Ask yourself....what would Rath do?"

Jaddo's eyes flared dangerously, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Michael feared he had gone too far. But then it was gone, stalking through the door and onto the landing, where the sound of its footsteps abruptly died. When Michael reached the door only seconds later, there was no one outside, not on the landing, on the stairs, or in the entryway on the first floor, where the front door appeared untouched.

It had vanished.




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



Valenti residence




"Yes, I know how children are," Valenti said into the phone "but that doesn't mean we don't have a responsibility to correct inappropriate behavior. I just feel you and your staff could be a bit more aware of what's....no, of course you can't monitor every conversation your students have. But you can certainly discuss what's been heard and why it's wrong to spread rumors....well of course it's a rumor, Mr. Oliver. I didn't tell Mr. Steinfeld I was looking for an alien."

Liar, Valenti thought silently as the school principal droned on about the inevitability of childhood teasing. He had indeed told Steinfeld he was looking for an alien, along with specific orders to keep his big mouth shut, orders he had promptly ignored in an effort to garner publicity and give his grieving cast something else to think about. But since there were no witnesses to that conversation, it was Steinfeld's word against his, and one would think the word of the town sheriff would carry more weight than that of a tacky movie producer. One would think.

"Look, this isn't about me," Valenti said impatiently when the principal continued to object. "This is about Jimmy. One of your students is uncomfortable with something going on in your school, and as his father, I'd like to know what you intend to do about it."

Footsteps behind him made Valenti turn at the same time as the principal's attitude. Andi was standing in the doorway to his office holding two cups of coffee and wearing a bemused expression.

"Thank you," Valenti said after the principal finally suggested concrete action. "I'd appreciate that. Let's give it a few days, and if Jimmy tells me nothing's improved, perhaps it will be time for me to stop by and dispel the rumors in person. I'll go from class to class if I have to. Yes....you do that. Thank you."

Valenti hung up the phone as his wife handed him a cup. "Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" she asked.

"It's bothering Jimmy," Valenti answered.

"It's bothering you," Andi noted. "And right now, I'm not certain who it's bothering more."

"He shouldn't have to put up with hearing his father called names," Valenti said.

"They're kids," Andi said gently. "Kids do that."

"Then they'd better stop."

"Has it not occurred to you that the harder you try to squelch this, the more attention you'll call to it?"

"So, what, we just ignore it?" Valenti demanded. "Pretend it's not happening? Hanson said he had to give his own son a talking to about calling me 'Sergeant Martian'; it's all over the place."

"Of course it's all over the place," Andi said patiently. "Something is always 'all over', and it only happened a couple of weeks ago, so this is the newest 'something' around. Give it time, and it will be replaced by another 'something', very likely something not about you. And I really think Jimmy will survive until it does. He's the sheriff's son, and this comes with the territory."

"But you chose that territory," Valenti replied. "Jimmy didn't. He was born into it, so he's stuck with it whether he likes it or not."

"Does that mean I'm free to just walk away whenever I don't like it?" Andi chuckled, sobering when she saw the look on his face. "I came to bring you some coffee and sit with you awhile, not argue."

Valenti dropped his eyes. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Andi took a seat, staring at her cup. "You missed dinner again tonight. You're gone an awful lot, Jim. When you're not around much, it makes it harder to put up with all the little things about being part of a sheriff's family that just roll off you otherwise. I think a better way to counter all the gossip is to spend more time with your son, not shake down the principal."

"Maybe," Valenti allowed. "I'm sorry I was late. I was on my way out, and—"

"Something came up," Andi finished. "Yes, I know. It always does."

"Honest, I was on my way out," Valenti insisted. "Ask Alvarez. I had my hat on, and everything."

"Oh, I believe you. I just wish putting your hat on was all it took to get you home."

Valenti dropped his eyes, avoiding his wife's pointed gaze. He'd expected to be home on time, had expected his phone call to the Santa Fe police to be a relatively quick affair, quick enough to get him home at least in the middle of dinner. The phone call he'd received from Owens' fellow agent asking for help in frustrating Lewis was intriguing, so intriguing that he would dearly love to believe it. But Lewis had already used him once, and not only used him, but tried to use him up and throw him away along with his family; it was completely conceivable he would try to do that again. So Valenti had sent the deputy on the other end of the line scurrying for every record in their possession about the death of Agent Owens, a process which took several minutes. But as it turned out, it was the deputy's own memory which held the most valuable information.

"I remember this one," the deputy, one "Siragusa", had said after he'd read off all the pertinent facts. "It was a fed. Weird."

"What was weird?" Valenti had asked.

"Well, the Bureau asked for copies of all the paperwork, but they left the investigating to us. But a couple of days later, another fed showed up flashing a badge and basically conducted his own investigation. Went thought everything we had, checked out the body, talked to the coroner who did the autopsy, asked for some additional tests....the guy was definitely looking for something."

"Did he find anything?"

"No. Nothing to find.

"Did you get his name?"

"Hang on....he signed something......" Sounds of papers being shuffled had floated over the phone. "Looks like 'Coats'."

"Cates?"

"Maybe," Siragusa allowed. "Guy flunked penmanship, that's for sure." He'd paused. "You're not going to blow him in, are you?"

"Blow him in to whom?" Valenti had asked.

Siragusa's voice had dropped as though he were afraid of being overheard. "Look, the feds give me the creeps," he'd confessed in a low voice. "And this guy was really intense; he seemed obsessed with making certain we hadn't overlooked anything. It was almost like...well, he didn't actually say this, but I got the impression he didn't think it was an accident. And if he's right, I don't want him to end up like his buddy. I just don't think it's a good idea to spread this around. If feds are going down on other feds, I don't want to be responsible for it."

"My lips are sealed," Valenti had promised, wincing as he'd rung off and looked at the clock. He'd learned a lot, but what he'd learned had stretched that quick call into a thirty minute affair that had him arriving home just as the leftovers were being refrigerated. Andi had not been amused.

"I'm sorry, Andi," Valenti said. "Really, I am. I just....I had somebody in another city on the line, and it was closing time, past closing time, really, and—"

The phone rang. "Let me get rid of whoever this is, and then we'll talk," Valenti promised, picking it up. "Hello?"

"Sheriff," a voice said over the chink of glasses and drone of conversation in the background. "Have you given any thought to our earlier conversation?"

Cates. "A bit," Valenti said. "You didn't give me much time."

"I know," Cates answered. "But when I left a message at this number a little while ago, I forgot to tell you to ask for 'Sad Sack'. That's what they call me around here. I've had better nicknames, but it'll do."

"Message?" Valenti repeated.

"You wanted to know where you could reach me, and I realized this would be a safe place," Cates replied. "It's a bar. I gave you one of the pay phone numbers here."

"Just a minute," Valenti said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously when Andi's dropped. "Did someone leave me a message?" he whispered to her, his hand over the mouthpiece.

Andi sighed and pulled a slip of paper out of her apron, upon which was scrawled a telephone number with a Santa Fe area code and the words, It's safe to call me here, 9-11 p.m.. "Why didn't you give me this?" he demanded.

"It came in just before you got home....late, I might add," Andi said defensively. "I wanted you to spend some time with your family before you went back to work, and I'm not talking about tomorrow morning."

"Andi, this was important!" Valenti protested. "You can't keep things like this from me!"

"I really don't think the world stopped turning just because you didn't call whomever the very moment you crossed our threshold," Andi said crossly.

"How would you know?" Valenti retorted. "You have no idea what this is about!"

"Jim, you can't go on acting like every little thing needs your immediate attention," Andi argued. "Except us, of course. We never need your immediate attention."

"Oh, right, that's why I just got off the phone with Jimmy's principal!" Valenti said angrily. "That's why I beat back the FBI with sticks! Jesus, Andi, I'm the sheriff, and you're my wife! You should know better than to withhold information like this!"

"Don't presume to speak to me like I'm a five-year old!" Andi snapped. "I don't need you to remind me I'm the sheriff's wife, Jim; I'm reminded of that every time 'sheriff' comes before 'wife'. Which is every single time, by the way. But who's counting?"

Andi grabbed her coffee cup and stalked out, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor. "Sir, I'm really sorry for the way we treated your family," Cates said awkwardly on the other end of the line, having obviously overheard their altercation. "I'm.....I shouldn't have called you. I can't expect you to have any interest in helping me after what we did." He paused. "If it helps at all, please convey my apologies to your wife. She deserves to know not all of us are animals."

Click.

Valenti sank into his chair, looking back and forth from the dead phone to the doorway through which his wife had just stalked. A minute later, he dialed the number on the slip of paper.

"McGinnity's," a gruff voice answered.

"I'm looking for...'Sad Sack'," Valenti said.

"Just a minute. Hey, Sad Sack!" the voice bellowed. "It's for you!"




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




September 17, 1959, 6:45 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney sighed when she heard a knock on her door just as she was tying her apron around her waist. That would be her father, come to either continue his harangue or make nice, most likely the former. At least she'd gotten some much needed rest last night, uninterrupted by Warders or anything else. Plus she needed to be at work soon, so that would place a time limit on whatever drama was about to unfold. Wanting to make it clear that she was leaving soon, she stuffed her feet in her shoes and grabbed her purse before opening the door.

It was Greer. "Good morning," Courtney said, every nerve in her body suddenly standing at attention. What was Nicholas' first doing on her doorstep?

"Good morning," Greer answered. "Mind if I come in?"

And how. "Of course not," she answered, stepping back. "For a minute or two. I was on my way out; my shift starts at 7 a.m."

"Uh huh," Greer murmured, wandering unhurriedly around her room, looking everything up and down. What in blazes did he want? She and Greer usually avoided each other like the plague whenever possible, and tolerated each other reluctantly when not. There was no way he would actively seek her company without a reason.

"Nice place," Greer announced, eyeing her bed. "Where did you sleep before Mark left?"

"On the floor," Courtney answered, closing her mouth firmly after those three words. Everyone still thought Mark was gone on an assignment for her father, although eventually they'd figure out he wasn't coming back.

"Mmm hmm," Greer answered, moving on to the kitchen area. Chatty today, aren't we? Courtney thought, impatiently waiting for him to get to the point so she could get out of there.

"So did you and Mark ever mate?"

What?. "No," Courtney answered warily. "Why?"

Greer shrugged. "Just curious. I hear about it a lot. Unfortunately, as the second, many would just be too scared to try it with me."

But maybe not the third's daughter, Courtney thought, her eyes widening as she realized what Greer was hinting at. The thought of doing that with Greer almost made her breakfast cereal come right back up the same way it had gone down.

Fortunately, Greer didn't choose to pursue it further. "So you weren't at the meeting last night," he announced.

"I wasn't aware I was invited," Courtney answered, relieved to have left the subject of mating behind.

"And you've been gone for the past two weeks?"

"Yes."

"Your father said you thought you might have a lead on the Warders."

"But I was wrong."

"Why didn't you report it?"

"And raise Nicholas' hopes prematurely? Not a good idea."

"Mmm hmm."

What do you want?! Courtney screamed privately as Greer continued circling like a plane waiting to land. She glanced at her watch, made sure he saw it. No way could she afford to be late after begging Mr. Parker to take her back yesterday. If he didn't come to the point soon, he'd just have to follow her to work.

"What happened at the diner yesterday morning?" Greer asked.

So that's it, she thought, noting the change in tone; all the rest had been mere warm-up. "Nicholas was refused a cup of coffee by another waitress, and ordered me to get him one," she answered.

"And did you?"

"Only after reminding him that human children don't drink coffee and don't sass their elders. Or what appear to be their elders."

"Operatives don't refuse orders from their commanders either," Greer observed.

"And commanders don't typically give orders that could jeopardize their missions," Courtney countered.

"Why couldn't you have just poured him a cup of coffee? It would have saved so much trouble."

"I did," Courtney said. "But Nancy was watching him like a hawk. A bird," she clarified when Greer looked puzzled. "A very big bird of prey. Look, the point is that Nicholas behaved badly yesterday morning. He sassed Nancy, he threatened to leave without paying for his food, and Mr. Parker, the owner of the diner, actually came out of the kitchen to tell him off. You need to keep him on a shorter leash, or he'll wind up just like Vanessa."

Greer walked closer, his now very unfriendly eyes on her, not the room. "I know that Nicholas allows you a certain.....latitude in your behavior toward him. He finds your temper entertaining, although I can't imagine why. I am far less amused by your attitude, and even being Michael's daughter won't save you from a charge of insubordination should I choose to invoke it."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me," Courtney said tersely. "You still have a problem with Nicholas, who's just been let out of his cage and won't behave unless you make him, and maybe not even then. And if he doesn't—when he doesn't—you'll be on the receiving end of a very uncomfortable communication that makes what happened to Vanessa look like a picnic."

"There is little Khivar can do from this distance besides yell," Greer said.

"Who said anything about Khivar? I was talking about Ida. She'll blame you if anything happens to her baby, and you know it."

Greer hesitated, having no doubt had a ringside seat for the volcanic eruptions in Copper Summit when Vanessa had been jailed by Valenti. "We all share the responsibility for safeguarding our commander," he said after a moment. "Keep that in mind the next time you refuse a direct order. And one more thing, sweetheart: Don't presume to speak to me the way you speak to Nicholas."

"I need to get to work," Courtney said flatly. "And one more thing—don't call me 'sweetheart'."

Greer regarded her levelly for a moment before leaving, closing the door quietly behind him. Courtney waited until his footsteps had died away, then ran to the window and watched him walk down the street. She wasn't going to leave this room until he was out of sight even if she had to run all the way to Parker's.




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



Alice Wentworth's rooming house,

Roswell




"I don't want to eat breakfast here," Nicholas said peevishly. "I want to go out."

"Greer gave me specific instructions to fix you breakfast here," Nathaniel said.

Nicholas snorted. "Of course he did. He's afraid I'll go back to the diner."

"He thinks it would be best if you put some space between what happened yesterday and further public appearances," Nathaniel corrected. "And he does have a point."

"I didn't finally get out from under my mother's thumb just to be locked in this room," Nicholas complained. "Even she didn't lock me in the house."

"That's because we own half of Copper Summit," Nathaniel reminded him. "You have to be careful here. They see you as—"

"I know how they see me!" Nicholas interrupted crossly. "And I don't need to be reminded of it every time anyone opens their mouth!"

Nathaniel sighed and went back to stirring the pancake batter in silence. How had he wound up here, waiting on a spoiled and restless commander? He was Michael's second, yet he was here, while Greer and Michael, Nicholas' second and third, respectively, were clear across town. He thinks he can bully me, Nathaniel thought darkly. Nicholas wanted a chance to sow his wild oats as only Nicholas could, and he didn't want anyone standing in his way. Fat chance of that as everyone would have to stand before Ida if anything happened to her boy, and everyone was smart enough to know that.

The sound of a car brought Nathaniel to the window. "Looks like someone's early," he commented.

"What do you mean?" Nicholas asked, still sulking.

"Someone's moving into the downstairs room. You wanted Jeremy there, didn't you?"

"Jeremy isn't due until later today," Nicholas said, pushing him aside, peering down at the car. "Who is that?"

Nicholas blinked. "You mean....that's not one of ours?"

A moment later he was out the door with Nathaniel on his heels, desperately hoping their commander wasn't going to do anything stupid while in his charge. "Morning, Mrs. Wentworth," Nicholas said to the landlady, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs peering into the first floor room. "What's going on?"

"I've got a full house!" Mrs. Wentworth beamed. "Thank goodness; taxes are due soon." She looked past him to Nathaniel, hovering worriedly in the background. "Did you and your son come to help, Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes!" Nathaniel said brightly. "Yes, we came to help. What can we do?"

A man emerged from the first floor room, an older man wearing the typical work clothes of the human middle class. "These are your upstairs neighbors," Mr. Wentworth told the newcomer, "Mr. Crawford and his son, Nicholas."

"Good morning!" the newcomer beamed, extending a hand. "James Addison, at your service!"



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


I'll post Chapter 68 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT



September 17, 1959, 8 a.m.

Alice Wentworth's rooming house




Nicholas Crawford, a.k.a Athenor, second to the man perched on the edge of Antar's still technically unoccupied throne, was not having a good day. He'd awakened with every intention of prowling the town on his own only to have his subordinates practically lock him in his dingy little room, citing the confrontation with that ridiculous waitress yesterday and the fact that humans his age should be in school. He'd anticipated this kind of overzealous caution and carefully stacked the deck in his favor by installing his own second and third across town, leaving lesser subordinates to attend him who would hopefully be easier to steamroll. But his third's second had proven every bit as obstinate, and he'd been on the verge of resorting to threats that may not have worked anyway when Nathaniel had spotted an imposter moving into the downstairs apartment that Nicholas had intended for another of their operatives. The entire rooming house was supposed to belong to them, and now it didn't.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Addison," Nathaniel lied to the interloper, offering the handshake that was merely one of hundreds of primitive human customs. "Welcome to Roswell. What brings you here?"

"Work!" Mr. Addison replied cheerfully. "I hear there's a shortage of handymen in town, and I fancy myself quite handy."

"I'm delighted to have someone handy living here," Mrs. Wentworth said happily. "Every time I turn around, I find something else broken. Now all I have to do is knock on your door. Oh.....I goes the phone. I'll leave you three to get acquainted. Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Addison. I'm sure Mr. Crawford and his boy will be a great help moving in your things."

"Why, thank you!" Mr. Addison said to Nicholas and Nathaniel as Mrs. Wentworth hurried off. "I don't have much, just what I could fit in my car, but I'd be most grateful for any—"

Enough of this, Nicholas thought, giving Addison a shove that propelled him back into his still empty room, the fretting Nathaniel scrambling to follow. "My goodness," Addison bleated, wide-eyed. "Is something wrong? I.....oh my. What's that?"

The room was bathed in the pinkish glow of the trithium generator which Nicholas had just pulled out of his pocket, but no telltale infrared signature surrounded James Addison. He was distressingly, boringly human. And in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I'm terribly sorry," Nathaniel said hastily. "Nicholas, you owe Mr. Addison an apology for your behavior."

"Sorry," Nicholas said shortly, his back to Addison as he checked the rest of the room for hidden Covari.

But Mr. Addison seemed more interested in the generator's glow. "I do believe Mrs. Wentworth needs a hand with her electrical wiring," Addison said as he gazed around in wonder. "I've never seen lights that wonky. Have either of you noticed this before? Is it......there it goes! It's gone."

Nathaniel gave Nicholas a reproachful look which Nicholas ignored. "I don't know what that was, Mr. Addison, but my son and I are very willing to help you move in."

"What? Oh....yes," Mr. Addison said, still befuddled by what he'd seen. "Yes, thank you. My things are out front."

"I need to talk to you upstairs," Nicholas announced, heading out of the room without waiting for Nathaniel.

"We....need to fetch some work gloves, and then we'll be right back," he heard Nathaniel say, followed by scurrying footsteps behind him all the way up to their own rooms. "What are you doing?" Nathaniel demanded just as soon as the door had closed behind them. "You can't act like that when—"

"Get him out."

"What?"

"Get him out," Nicholas ordered. "Go to that blasted landlady, and get him out!"

Nathaniel blinked in bewilderment. "How?"

"I don't know 'how'!" Nicholas exclaimed irritably. "Are you an operative, or aren't you? Think of something! Anything! Just get him out of there. He's in the way."

"You heard Mrs. Wentworth," Nathaniel protested. "She's happy to have him, and if she finds out how you're behaving, it'll be us who'll be 'out of here'."

"I gave you a direct order!" Nicholas snapped. "Obey it, or—"

"Is there a problem here?"

Nicholas made a strangling noise in his throat as Greer loomed behind them, having come in so quietly that no one had heard him. "I'd say there's a problem," Nathaniel huffed. "Would you mind telling our commander that shoving humans around isn't the best of ways to keep our cover?"

Greer's eyebrows rose. "Is this true?" he asked Nicholas.

"It was just a little push," Nicholas protested. "Someone rented the downstairs room, and I had to make certain it wasn't a Warder."

"We're lucky the landlady didn't see it," Nathaniel said darkly. "Adult humans don't take kindly to ill-behaved children. And now he wants me to have the man thrown out even though the landlady said she's glad to have him."

"I told you, he's in the way!" Nicholas argued. "That room was meant for another operative."

"Unfortunate, but hardly critical," Greer said calmly. "There is quite a bit of turnover in these types of dwellings, so it was inevitable that humans would be renting at the same time we are. Some flexibility will be required."

"I don't want to be 'flexible'," Nicholas said crossly. "I've been so flexible these past several years, it's a wonder I'm not tied in knots."

"And whose fault is that?" Nathaniel demanded.

Nicholas' eyes flashed. "Why you—"

"Enough!" Greer said sharply. "Nathaniel, you do not speak to your commander that way."

"My ultimate commander is Khivar," Nathaniel declared. "And I don't think he'd be very happy about the way his second is behaving. Again."

"Leave us," Greer ordered.

"No way!" Nicholas protested. "I'm not done with him yet!"

"Yes, you are," Greer said pointedly. "Go," he added to Nathaniel. "I'll handle this."

"Nice work, Greer," Nicholas said sarcastically as the door closed behind the mouthy operative. "Let it get around that someone talked back to me and got away with it. Honestly, I don't know how Michael stands him. Does he speak to Michael that way? Because there's no way in hell I'm going to put up with—"

The rest of that sentence flew out of his head as Greer pushed him firmly back against the wall. "What do you think you're doing, compromising us like this?" he hissed. "You promised that if we killed the royals, all would be well; instead their Warders escaped with the bodies, and we now face the prospect of their resurrection. You promised Khivar would never find out how they died. But he did, and now those closest to you suffer banishment for your miscalculations!"

"You have me to thank that you're still alive!" Nicholas retorted. "Do you really think Khivar would have let you live if I hadn't taken you with me? And how was I supposed to know those damned Warders would be so speedy, or that one of those idiot Covari would find a way to tattle?"

"Therein lies the problem—they're not idiots," Greer said. "You should know better than to underestimate your enemy. Covari may be little better than dogs, but there's a reason Zan's father made an alliance with them; they work for him still, even after his death, even after his son's death. You should never have trusted any of them, even those who claim to be working for us, and neither should Khivar."

"Are you kidding?" Nicholas said scornfully. "Khivar is delighted that a Covari ratted me out. That's why he hasn't killed every Covari on Antar, because he knows what he'll gain if he manages to take the royal mark and force their loyalty. And even though he wouldn't say so, I think he's delighted the Warders got away because he wants Vilandra to live again. He still insists he's in love with her. And for the last time, I did not order her death!"

"No, of course you didn't," Greer said, his voice heavy with scorn. "You wanted her for yourself. Oh, don't look at me like that," he added when Nicholas' eyes narrowed. "Did you think I didn't know the real reason you didn't order her death? You weren't saving her for Khivar, you were saving her for yourself."

"So what if I was?" Nicholas said defensively. "Didn't work anyway. Someone else killed her, and I got blamed for it."

"Then let's get her back," Greer said firmly, "so we can return home and erase the humiliation you saddled us with when you were caught."

"That's what I'm trying to do!" Nicholas said in exasperation. "That's why we're here!"

"Then act like it," Greer said sharply. "Stop acting out of character for a human your husk's age and endangering our mission. In public you are subordinate to virtually every one of your operatives and any adult human. Remember that. Nathaniel is the second person to note how very unhappy Khivar would be were he to be informed of your recent behavior, and I doubt he will be the last."

Nicholas' eyes narrowed. "Who was the first?"





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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




David Proctor paused on the front porch of Courtney's rooming house and glanced back toward his car, parked at the curb. Was he doing the right thing? He and Emily had been tearing their hair out since Courtney's mad dash back to the very place she'd run from, anxious for news but afraid that approaching her would complicate matters for more than just Courtney. But a phone call from Dee this morning had them tap dancing to keep the worry out of their voices and avoid letting anything slip. Both of them knew that, at the first sign of trouble, Dee would be back in Roswell in a heartbeat, and both felt that was not wise even though neither had discussed it. It would be so much easier to continue the fiction if they at least knew that Courtney had survived. Consulting the landlady seemed innocuous enough to avoid suspicion from all parties and still settle at least some of the suspense.

He rang the door bell. Heels clacked on the hardwood floor inside, and the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Bruce, who wiped her hands on her apron as she broke into a wide smile. "Why, Mr. Proctor! So nice to see you again. How are Dee and her family?"

"They're well, thank you," David answered. "Both she and Anthony are back in school, so we should have a new lawyer and a new astronomer in a few years."

"They were such wonderful tenants," Mrs. Bruce said. "And your grandson was such a cutie. What brings you by?"

"I was looking for Courtney Harris. Does she still live here?"

"Well, she did, and then she didn't, and now she does," Mrs. Bruce chuckled. "Honestly, at my age, you think you've seen everything, but then you find out you're wrong. I watched that girl jump out her window—watched her, mind you—and then just disappear. Day before yesterday, she's back at some godawful hour of the night, and then yesterday, her father moved in right across the hall from her, the very same father she jumped out the window to get away from. And I thought my family was odd. We're positively boring by comparison."

She's here, David thought with relief, one mystery solved. "Sounds like quite a family feud," he commented.

"I'll say," Mrs. Bruce answered, "and frankly, I'm a little nervous having those two up there. If they solve their problems by jumping out windows.....well, let's just say that's bad for business. Although I am full again; someone else moved into the first floor apartment, and I'm always glad to rent that one because it's the more expensive; has it's own bathroom, you see."

"I'm glad to hear business is going well," David said. "Do you think Courtney's home?"

"She may have left for work already, but go on up and see," Mrs. Bruce replied, holding the door open for him.

"Thank you," David said, removing his hat as he stepped inside. The upstairs landing was dim, lit only by the light coming through the small window in the bathroom straight ahead. He paused again by Courtney's door, wondering if he should just take what he'd learned and go. Then again, he'd come this far, and she might need some help.

"Courtney?" he called softly when no one answered his first two knocks. "It's Mr. Proctor. Can I talk to you?"

He waited, tried again, then tried the door; it was locked. If this was fate's way of saying this was a bad idea, he could take a hint, and he had just decided to leave when the door across the hall opened to reveal a middle-aged man with thinning hair, his shirt sleeves rolled past his elbows. Was this her father, another of her race, or a shapeshifter? There was no way to tell.

"Can I help you?" the man asked in a curt tone.

"I....was looking for Miss Harris," David replied.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"My daughter is a friend of hers. I was just dropping by to say hello."

"She has left for the day," the man said. "Come back later."

"Is everything all right up there?"

It was Mrs. Bruce, hovering at the bottom of the stairway and gazing up at them with no small amount of trepidation. "Just fine, thank you, Mrs. Bruce," David replied calmly. "I gather Miss Harris has left for work already."

"But you found her father," Mrs. Bruce said. "This is Mr. Proctor, Mr. Harris. His daughter used to live in your room before she went back to school a few weeks ago. She and Miss Harris were quite close."

So it is her father, David thought. Courtney's people were not shapeshifters, so presumably they could be identified on sight. "I'll come back another time," he said, not missing the way the man's eyes had widened at the mention of his name. "Sorry to have bothered you."

Mrs. Bruce left. David was halfway down the stairs when the man said, "Wait."

David turned. "Come inside," Courtney's father said, stepping back from the door.

Hesitating, David glanced at his watch. He'd only budgeted time for a quick check, not conversation with a potential enemy alien. He had no idea who else was in that room, Emily wouldn't like it if he dragged their family any further into this than they already were, and to top it off, he'd be late for work.

"All right," David answered.

The room was empty, both of anyone and almost anything besides the furnishings that came with it. The door had barely closed behind him when the room was bathed in a pinkish glow which lasted just long enough for David to note the absence of the glowing red line which Dee had described as outlining Malik.

"I'm sorry," Courtney's father said, sounding nothing of the sort as he switched off the black device in his hand. "I had to know."

"Of course you did," David answered. "So did I."

Her father eyed him for a moment before slipping the device into his pocket. "So you are David Proctor?"

"That's right."

"The David Proctor who sheltered my daughter these past weeks?"

"That's right," David repeated cautiously.

"And what do you want with her now?"

" 'Want with her'?" David echoed, puzzled. "I don't 'want' anything, Mr. Harris. I—we, that is, my wife and I—were concerned for her. I just wanted to see if she was all right."

There was a long pause before Courtney's father dropped his eyes. "Michael," he said quietly. "Call me Michael. Please," he gestured toward one of the kitchen chairs previously used by Dee. "Have a seat. I apologize that I have nothing to offer in the way of hospitality. I have only just arrived, and so have had little time to set in stores."

"That's quite all right," David answered, noting the archaic speech pattern; it was typically farmers who "set in stores", and then usually for a long period of time like the winter. Then again, from what little he'd heard from Courtney, perhaps the phrase was more apt than it first appeared.

"My daughter has told me a great deal about you and your family," Michael continued, pulling up a chair across from him.

"Same here," David answered. "I imagine your resistance is in a bit of a scramble at the moment."

David returned the measuring stare Michael gave him, a stare which held more than a little disapproval at this bald statement. "Courtney tells me you approved of her not contacting me while she was with you," he announced, coming to what appeared to be the point.

"Not exactly," David replied. "I approved of her effort to get you and the Warders on the phone together, possibly the only neutral ground out there."

Michael studied his hands for a moment before speaking again. "Mr. Proctor, I realize you are a military commander of some renown—'

"No."

"No?"

"I was a commander—officer, rather—but not 'renowned'," David clarified. "I was only a captain, about a third of the way up the officers' ranks."

Michael blinked. "I'm sorry. I was given to understand that the king's Warder sought your counsel."

"He did. Still does."

"I see," Michael replied in a tone that made it clear this information did not square with his previous impression. "Be that as it may, you are in no position to offer my daughter military advice. I have led the resistance since its inception; there are protocols in place for what happened recently, protocols she chose to ignore. And not for the first time; this is merely the latest example of her unwillingness to follow procedure and her tendency to strike out on her own."

"Mmm hmm," David murmured. "So....did it work?"

"Did what work?"

"Did you talk to the Warders? Is your mission any further along than it was before?"

Michael's eyes flashed. "They lied to me, Mr. Proctor. They told me they had my daughter hostage, when all the while she was safe with you."

"That must have been very difficult for you—".

"Don't patronize me," Michael said sharply. "I doubt your own daughter's life has ever hung in the balance like that."

David smiled faintly. "Mr. Harris, my daughter was only eight years old when she discovered the Warders' ship. She was on board when our military found it and barely escaped before she was discovered. Hunters invaded my home, threatened my family; I killed one in my own living room. My wife was kidnapped by a military officer the night Jaddo escaped. That's the short list, so you tell me.....who's patronizing whom?"

Some of the fire went out of Michael's eyes. "My daughter has informed me of the assistance you rendered to the Royal Four and their Warders, assistance which aided my own cause even though you were unaware of it. You have the thanks of the entire resistance for any hardship you and your family have suffered at the expense of my world."

"But?" David prompted.

"But that assistance does not put you in a position to give advice to my operatives. Your approval bolstered my daughter's opinion that ignoring long-established protocol was the right thing to do. As a fellow commander, surely you can see the danger in this."

"I know the value of protocol," David agreed. "But I also know there are situations protocol doesn't address, and situations which are ill-served by following it. If you've been at this as long as you say you have, you must know that too."

"Granted, but it is the commanders who decide when to ignore it, not field operatives," Michael argued. "She should have contacted me. Her next move was my decision."

David regarded him levelly for a moment. "You never answered me. Did her idea work, or didn't it? Did the telephone prove to be the neutral territory that allowed you to make your pitch without being killed or captured?"

Michael's expression hardened. "It was nice to have met you, Mr. Proctor. In future, I would appreciate you leaving the job of advising my daughter to me, as I would leave the job of advising your daughter to you. A simple courtesy, from one father to another."

David rose from his own chair. "I have no objection to you advising my daughter, Mr. Harris. My daughter is an adult, and is welcome to seek the opinions of anyone she wishes. She's smart, she's brave, and I have the utmost confidence that she'll make intelligent decisions with whatever information she gathers." He paused. "I'd say the same thing about your daughter. Would that you could bring yourself to do the same."

Michael didn't move a muscle as David walked to the door and closed it quietly behind him without waiting for an answer, taking a moment to compose himself before heading down the stairs. He hadn't been quite fair back there; Courtney was a soldier, and her father was her commander as well as her parent. But it had been the father talking, not the commander, a commander who should have recognized that she had survived what could have been a deadly encounter and established communication between her command and their contacts. That would be worth something in any military, providing, of course, that one wasn't dealing with a parent/child relationship.

A quick check of his watch revealed that he could still make it to work on time if he hurried. David opened the car door, and climbed into the driver's seat only to find he was not alone.

"You keep strange company, David Proctor," Brivari observed.




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Good morning, sir," Hanson said, looking him up and down. "You all right?"

"Fine," Valenti said shortly. "What've we got?"

"A few messages on your desk, and an envelope that came for you this morning."

"Good. I'll be in my office."

Valenti sighed as he closed the door behind him, last night's lack of sleep catching up with him. The cold bed he'd shared with Andi after their argument had been bad enough, but the way his head went round and round about his second conversation with Agent Cates had been even worse. He was unbelievably attracted to the notion of nailing Agent Lewis to the wall, almost obscenely so. But the fact remained that it could very well be Lewis nailing him to the wall, sending Cates in with platitudes that would secure his cooperation. Cates certainly sounded sincere, and sincerely angry, but he'd been unwilling—or unable—to produce any evidence of that sincerity. Even the phone call from the Santa Fe police department last night may have been rigged. What if he'd paid that deputy off to tell that sob story? Not a nice thought about a man of the law, but then Agent Lewis was technically a man of the law, a sobering fact if ever there was one.

Tossing his hat on the corner of a chair, Valenti took a seat and sorted through the messages. One was from Mr. Oliver, the school principal he'd verbally tussled with last night; maybe a night to sleep on it, or not sleep on it, as the case may be, had made him more receptive to quieting this "Sergeant Martian" nonsense. Another was from a town council member, and another from a business group which wanted him to give a speech. And the last was from.....his wife. Call me when you get this, the masculine scrawl declared, fortunately Hanson's scrawl; Andi always knew to ask for Hanson when leaving a personal message because Hanson knew how to keep his mouth shut. He was reaching for the phone when his eyes fell on the envelope.

It was a large manila envelope, sealed, and devoid of any writing other than "Sheriff Valenti" printed in block letters near one edge. Must have been hand delivered, Valenti thought, tearing it open and pulling out a stack of documents, the top one bearing a familiar name.

Valenti, James T......

His throat constricting, Valenti pawed through the pile. These were FBI documents, originals, no less, of their pursuit of information in Roswell and their harassment of his family. There was what looked to be an early draft of an outline of Agent Owens' background cover story scribbled in pencil, a sketch of the weird object he'd stolen from Valenti's desk drawer, and a page from a report on the Special Unit's unsuccessful raid in Roswell two weeks ago. At the bottom of the pile was a plain sheet of paper with a single, typewritten paragraph:


You wanted proof. I put my ass on the line swiping these, and I need them back before the day's over. I thought of somewhere we could meet privately, the place where it all started; address is below. Be there at noon.


The address was in De Baca County. Jesus, Valenti thought, checking his watch. If he wanted to get there early and scope the place out, he'd have to leave right away.

Five minutes later, he was heading out the door. "I'll be gone for most of the day, Hanson," he told his puzzled deputy. "Leave any messages on my desk."

"Something wrong, sir?" Hanson asked.

"Just tracking something down," Valenti answered. "You didn't happen to see who delivered this envelope, did you?"

"No one did," Hanson answered. "It was on my desk when I got here, but the night shift didn't remember it coming in."

Of course they don't, Valenti thought. "Thanks," he added out loud. "I'll be back."

Hanson leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. "Did you call your wife, sir? She sounded a little.....upset."

"When I get back," Valenti said as he walked away. "I'll call her when I get back."




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Looking at Brivari sitting placidly in the passenger seat, David resisted the urge to sigh. Not that he hadn't expected this; if anything, Brivari was arriving late on the scene, a testament, no doubt, to the number of directions in which the Warders found themselves pulled at the moment. Perhaps if he hadn't tarried upstairs, he could have avoided this. Too late now.

"How long have you known?" Brivari asked.

"Less than forty-eight hours," David answered. Not precisely a lie, he added silently. Dee had told him plenty, but until Courtney had played that holographic communication for them, he personally had seen nothing to confirm the hearsay that she was an alien. A technicality, perhaps, but one he was grateful for at the moment. Thank goodness it wasn't Dee having this conversation.

"She was with you, wasn't she?"

"She was Dee's friend," David answered. "That's all we knew."

"Until?"

"Until she received a message night before last saying that a large contingent of her people was coming to town to hunt for you," David replied.

"She told you this?"

"She played it for me. Neat trick, those holograms. When we discover those, the days of answering the phone in your skivvies will come to an end."

Brivari smiled faintly. "Anyway, she begged me to bring her back here," David continued. "That's the last we saw of her. I wanted to know if she was okay."

"Does your daughter know?"

"She called this morning from college," David answered. "Asked how Courtney was doing, and I had to lie. This is not news I'd want to break over the phone."

They sat in silence for a minute, Brivari staring out the window at the rooming house as though expecting it to do something unusual. "What is your assessment of Michael Harris?" he asked at length.

Interesting, David thought. Brivari either hadn't noticed that his last question had been sidestepped, or was choosing to ignore that. "He's in father mode right now," he replied. "He's upset that she didn't tell him you'd found her, upset that he believed you when you told him you were holding her hostage, upset with me for hiding her. He feels she's young, and rash, and too likely to ignore protocol. Typical child; typical parent." He paused. "So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing," Brivari answered. "We are greatly outnumbered, so our best course of action is avoidance."

"I meant about their resistance," David clarified. "Are you going to meet with them?"

"To what purpose? Avoidance does not require their assistance."

"Really? Would you have known enough to practice avoidance if the resistance hadn't tipped you off?"

Brivari raised an eyebrow. "I will admit they have provided some useful information. That doesn't prove their stated motivations genuine, however, nor is the resistance the only source of information available to us."

"But it's the only inside source," David countered. "What if you need them in the future? Wouldn't it be better to establish some kind of dialog now, instead of waiting for the next emergency?"

"I don't recall you being this pessimistic in the past," Brivari observed. "Is this what happens to humans as they age?"

"What makes you think it only happens to humans?" David asked dryly. "Look, you're as aware as I am of how quickly things can go south. This is an opportunity you may not have again. Don't you have an obligation to pursue it?"

"I will hazard a guess that 'going south' is not a geographical reference," Brivari said. "So which one was it that convinced you to lecture me about my 'obligations'? The girl, or her father?"

"I'm not lecturing," David said patiently. "I'm just confused. This doesn't square with what's happened in the past."

"Such as?"

"Such as when Dee got her skull cracked by that bully, all of you healed her because you said that those who risk their lives in the service of the king earn the protection of their Warders."

"Your point?"

"Well.....doesn't the act of running a resistance right under the nose of the king's enemy by definition mean they're risking their lives in the king's service?"

Brivari gave him a measured stare for what seemed like a very long time before he opened the car door. "It has been a long time since we've talked David Proctor. I've enjoyed our conversation, as always. Please give my regards to your family."

David shook his head slowly as he watched Brivari walk down the street. Okay, he thought as he started the car. I'll take that as a "yes".




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




11:30 a.m.

De Baca County




Valenti shielded his eyes from the sun as he climbed out of his cruiser, checking the address on the typewritten note again. This was the place. The sign read "Norwood State Hospital", but there were no cars out front, no cars anywhere, for that matter. The place looked deserted.

He closed his car door and started forward, sand crunching beneath his feet. Norwood was built against a mountain of rock in open desert; he'd driven for miles without encountering another house or building on the way here, and he was willing to bet there wasn't anything for several miles in the opposite direction either. That sign didn't have the word "Mental" in the name, but the location said it all. This was a place for the discarded.

The front door was locked, chained shut. Valenti pulled his shirt sleeve over his fist and rubbed a clean spot on a dusty window pane; inside was a murky hallway and a barred gate, no doubt meant to keep the discarded inside. He wandered around the building, looking in windows, checking for any evidence of humanity, but there wasn't a soul in sight. Judging from the shape this place was in, it had been abandoned only recently. Why was it closed? And more importantly, why would a disgruntled FBI agent want to meet him here? Assuming, of course, that it was the disgruntled FBI agent who had sent him those documents. He really had no idea who would be waiting for him in this abandoned mental hospital out in the middle of the desert.

Back at the front door, Valenti considered his next move. He was armed, but alone, and he had no idea what he was walking into. Should he play it safe and leave, maybe come back with some of his men? Should he pull his car around back and wait? The place where it all began, the note said. What could possibly have "begun" in a place like this?

A moment later, Valenti was digging in his trunk for a pair of pliers; five minutes later, he had the chain off the front door. He hadn't come all this way just to leave without answers. A flashlight in one hand and his weapon in the other, he cautiously stepped inside.



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


I'll post Chapter 69 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE


September 17, 1959, 11:40 a.m.

Norwood State Hospital, De Baca County



Valenti paused just inside the double doors, listening. But there wasn't a sound inside the deserted hospital save for his footsteps when he began moving forward again. He passed through the gate he'd seen through the window and reached an interior hallway, dark save for the light coming from the front entry behind him, noting the thin layer of dust on the floors and a lack of the typical critter population one usually found in abandoned buildings. It hadn't been long at all since this place had been in use.

Working his way down the hallway, he opened one door after another. These were offices judging from the furniture inside, although any paperwork or personal objects had been removed as a trip through various drawers revealed. At the end of the hall was a stairway, and he climbed it slowly, his flashlight trained on the upper stairs. The floor above was straight out of a horror movie: Door after door with tiny windows, slots to slide food trays through, and bare metal beds, most of which sported leather straps with a multitude of buckles. At the end of the hall was another stairway, and he paused in the stairwell, looking up and down. The upper floors were likely more of the same, and this place gave him the creeps. Why anyone would want to meet him here was a mystery, but Valenti decided he wasn't staying; the potential for some kind of ambush was just too great. He went down, emerging at the end of the hall of offices near the gate.

"Hello, Sheriff."

Startled, Valenti nearly dropped his flashlight. A man was standing in the middle of the hallway, suit, long coat, hands in his pockets....and a face which looked vaguely familiar.

"Who are you?" Valenti demanded.

"I'm Agent Cates," the man answered, his voice echoing oddly in the empty building.

"You got ID? Slowly," Valenti ordered as Cates' hand started to leave his pocket. "And both hands where I can see them."

Cates obediently removed both hands from his pockets, one holding a leather wallet. Valenti edged closer and took it from him, inspecting the picture. "Sheriff, I understand your paranoia, but I'd appreciate it if you'd lower your weapon. I'm unarmed."

"Prove it," Valenti replied.

Cates raised both hands and turned around. A full pat down later, Valenti holstered his weapon. "You do look familiar," he said as he handed the wallet back to Cates. "You were there when we were chasing that Anderson fellow."

"Right," Cates nodded. "I see you've had a look at the place. I can wait if you're not finished."

Valenti's eyes narrowed. "How long have you been here?"

"About an hour. I knew you'd be here early."

"The door was chained shut," Valenti reminded him. "How did you get in?"

"The FBI has access to this facility," Cates explained. "I came in the back. Check the footprints in the dust."

"If you were here already, why didn't you show yourself?"

Cates smiled faintly. "Because I wanted to see what you'd do. Trespassing to get some answers. Very good. You're exactly what I hoped you'd be."

"What the hell are we doing here?" Valenti asked in exasperation. "What is this place? Why is it abandoned?"

"We're here because no one else is, and no one would think to question my coming here were they to find out about it," Cates answered. "This is the closest thing to a safe place for us to meet as we'll ever find. I'm sure you've already figured out Norwood was a mental hospital. It was closed last month because they'd piled up too many violations. And the reason they piled up too many violations has to do with the former occupant of this office." Cates opened the door to his left, ushering Valenti into an office he'd already looked at. "One Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Pierce, a medical doctor who went AWOL in June of 1950. Does that date ring a bell with you?"

"Yes," Valenti said guardedly. "But I don't remember a 'Pierce'."

"I don't believe you ever met him," Cates said. "But you met his co-commander, Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan Cavitt, whose downfall you were partially responsible for. And you've met his nemesis, Bernard Lewis, a former Army major and good friend of Cavitt's who resigned rather than face court-martial in the summer of 1950. Lewis always wanted Pierce's position, but he never got it."

"A veritable lovers' triangle," Valenti said dryly. "I know what Lewis and Cavitt are like, so I can't imagine Pierce was much better. Why did he go AWOL?"

"He lost his test subject in 1950," Cates replied, "and his methods were coming under increasing scrutiny. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say he took with him a good deal of information that the Army would like to have, along with the FBI, the CIA, and just about any government agency you can think of. He eluded capture until July of this year, when that former test subject finally tracked him down and killed him, right here in this office."

"Let me guess," Valenti said softly. "That 'former test subject' wasn't human."

"No, it wasn't," Cates agreed, leaning on the desk. "This is where it all began for me, sheriff. I was one of the agents called to the scene to take possession of Pierce's body. This was the birthplace of the Special Unit, the reason Director Hoover was willing to give Lewis the task force he wanted to hunt aliens. They resurfaced here in July, and they killed that actress in August....and I don't care."

Valenti blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I used to," Cates assured him. "I was all fired up when I started. I was going to help save the world from the big bad monsters." He paused, his expression hardening. "And then I found out we didn't have to leave the planet to find monsters, that we had monsters of our own, monsters who would kill a man just for thinking the wrong thing."

"Been there," Valenti said. "Back in the forties. It was Cavitt who explained that to me, so I'm not surprised a friend of his explained it to you."

"Believe me, Agent Lewis is well aware of the obstacles you threw in Colonel Cavitt's way," Cates replied. "He's had it in for you ever since he found out you were sheriff in Roswell. The only reason you and your family didn't go down for what happened last month is that your fellow sheriff called in the press. Hoover wasn't willing to move against you with the eyes of the media on you, but someone had to pay for our failure.....and that someone was Chris."

"I'm sorry about what happened to Agent Owens," Valenti said, "but I'm not sorry my family was spared. What do you want from me? It must be pretty important if you're willing to risk being discovered."

"It is." Cates reached into his pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper which he handed to Valenti. "This was left by Dr. Pierce. I couldn't remove the original, so that's a handwritten copy."

"Serum?" Valenti murmured, inspecting what appeared to be a copy of a letter. "What's this 'serum' for?"

"Don't know. But Lewis wants it badly. Keep reading."

"So....Pierce's kid inherits this 'serum' at the age of thirty," Valenti said, skimming through to the end. "And how old is he now?"

"Two days."

Valenti raised an eyebrow. "I gather Lewis doesn't want to wait three decades for the tot to grow up?"

"To put it mildly," Cates agreed. "He has our entire unit trying to track down the mechanism Pierce is using to transfer the serum thirty years from now.....and I don't want them to succeed. I want to find it first and make certain Lewis never does, not now, not ever."

"And I come into this.....how?"

Cates stood up, gazing at him intently. "I want you to join the hunt. Chris had the utmost respect for your investigational skills. I was late to that party, but I got there. You found that thing that killed Agent Feldman, I know you had suspects when we were pursuing Anderson....and the way you slipped the actress' body out from under Lewis and emptied your files of anything he'd want was priceless," he added with a grim smile. "And ballsy. He would have come after you for that if he could have."

"Like he'll come after you if he gets wind of this," Valenti pointed out. "How am I supposed to investigate this without Lewis finding out? If your entire unit is on the case, we're bound to run into each other, and it's not like they wouldn't notice me. I don't think I need to point out that you're running with a rough crowd."

"Chris thought so too," Cates said, looking out the window at the desert beyond. "Always claimed he'd rather take his chances with the aliens than Lewis. I thought he was exaggerating, if not just plain nuts, but now.....now I'm not so sure. What I am sure of is that there's no way out for me. No one quits the Special Unit, sheriff; if I leave, I'll wind up hunted or six feet under just like Chris. So I can effectively commit suicide, or I can stay and be a good little soldier....or I can stay and gum up the works. I want to make Lewis pay for what he did by keeping from him what he wants the most. I would think that would appeal to you given what he did to your family, not to mention what he wanted to do."

"Fine, but the logistics—"

"I'm not stupid," Cates interrupted. "I'll walk the beat, you'll be my sounding board. I won't get caught; I've been careful to call from pay phones, to use disguises, to type that letter I sent you so they couldn't trace the handwriting—"

"They can trace the typewriter," Valenti said. "You should know that."

Cates broke into a completely incongruent smile. "Of course I know that. That's why I used the typewriter that belongs to Chris' murderer, a fellow agent and Lewis' right-hand man. I was almost hoping they'd figure it out just to see the look on his face."

"You're playing a dangerous game, agent," Valenti warned.

Cates' smile dissolved. "Of course I am. Aliens are dangerous business. But then you know that already, don't you?" He paused, waiting for an answer, walking into the hallway when none came. "I couldn't remove any documents relating to Pierce, so I hand-copied those I felt most pertinent. If you'll follow me to my car, I'll get them for you."

"I haven't said I'd help you," Valenti noted.

"I'm on the clock, sheriff," Cates said urgently. "There are eight other agents actively looking for that serum. You've already shown a willingness to go out on a limb to keep Lewis from getting what he wants, and I need you to do that again. Chris took the fall for your family. I know you didn't ask him to, wouldn't have asked him to. But he wound up doing it anyway, so do this for him, if nothing else. You owe him that."




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



Pesos Diner

Route 285 South




"You sure you don't want anything, hon?"

"No, thank you," Atherton replied. "I'm still waiting for someone.

"You've been waitin' a while," the waitress observed, tucking her pencil behind her ear as she walked off. "A body could starve waitin' for whoever you're waitin' for."

'Whomever', Atherton corrected privately, craning his neck to get a better view of patrons entering the diner along the road to Marathon where he and Langley had stopped on their first visit to his house, right after escaping the FBI. Or perhaps "patrons" was too ambitious a word for the typical Pesos customer, who wore boots, smelled heavily of smoke, and was armed more often than not. Verbiage aside, he did wish Langley would hurry up and get here. He still hadn't figured out how his friend traveled, so he wasn't certain if he should look for a car, or a truck, or....

"Good afternoon."

Atherton nearly jumped out of his seat. "Langley! Where did you come from?"

"I'll assume that to be a rhetorical question," Langley said dryly. "Coffee, please," he added to the waitress, who had resurfaced. "And a grilled cheese."

"The same," Atherton added, waiting impatiently as the waitress seemed to take forever scribbling down such a simple order. "How did you get in here?" he asked after she finally left. "The last time we visited River Dog, he mentioned that you come and go on little cat's feet, but he doesn't know the half of it. I've been watching like a hawk, and I completely missed you! Never mind," he added when Langley raised an eyebrow. "I've been dying to talk to you. I'm all moved in, and I've met three of them!"

"Three?" Langley repeated. "I thought you were merely going to observe."

"I was," Atherton agreed. "But they came downstairs shortly after I arrived, and then the landlady suggested they help me move in, and that awful 'Nicholas' objected, and another one showed up and gave him what appeared to be a tongue lashing....oh, this is so exciting! Not only have I found what I've dreamed of finding all my life, I'm right in the middle of a conflict! I've never felt so energized, so full of purpose, so....alive!"

Langley sighed and shook his head. "I know your type, James. They exist in every species on every world I've ever visited: Those who laugh in the face of danger, who crave peril as a means of amusement. Be careful. As you humans say, those who play with fire are bound to get burned."

"I hope you're joking," Atherton replied in a wounded tone. "My years of successfully sporting pseudonyms should speak for themselves. Don't you even want to hear what happened?"

"Of course I do," Langley said gently. "I only wish to remind you who you're dealing with. Nicholas is not one to trifle with."

"I wasn't 'trifling'," Atherton objected. "I was minding my own business when this adolescent boy came flying down the stairs and literally shoved me into my room. And then he must have done something because the whole room went pink, some weird kind of light."

"They have a device they use to identify members of my race," Langley said. "He was checking to see if you were one of us."

"Really? It's a bit obvious. Anyway, the man staying with him, name of Nathaniel, is posing as his father, and he apologized profusely, and insisted Nicholas apologize, and—"

"Did he?"

"Reluctantly," Atherton allowed, "and with ill temper. Nicholas left, insisted his 'father' follow him, and they both retreated to one of the upstairs rooms. I tried to listen, but all I could hear were raised voices when another, older man entered the building, walked right by me up the stairs and into the same room. Shortly after, Nathaniel joined me outside and helped me move in my belongings. A nice chap, that one, though quite jumpy. He seemed very much on edge as to what his 'son' would do."

"With good reason," Langley noted. "Did you get a name on the older man?"

"No. But I did write detailed descriptions," Atherton said, pulling a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. "I'll keep notes on everyone I see going in and out of there—"

"No," Langley said firmly. "If those 'notes' are found, your life will be forfeit."

"Fine, I'll keep mental notes," Atherton sighed. "I do wish you'd stop treating me like a neophyte, Langley. I've been undercover for years now, posing as everything from a janitor to an Oxford don, and I've never been caught."

"You've also never had to deal with those who would kill you—or worse—were they to discover your true purpose," Langley noted.

"My, but you're dramatic," Atherton chuckled. "Were you always such a pessimist?"

"My pessimism has kept me alive on more occasions than I can count," Langley observed. "You should try it some time."

"If I were a pessimist, I wouldn't be doing this, now would I?" Atherton smiled. "Let's see....what else do I have for you? The layout of the rooming house is very similar to the one you lived in; Nicholas and Nathaniel have the two rooms upstairs, while I have the room downstairs. From the little I could hear, the ruckus was over the fact that I was moving in. I gather Nicholas didn't want me there."

"No doubt he planned to move another operative into that room," Langley replied. "It would be to their advantage to have the entire house to themselves."

"Then I'm delighted to have ruined his day," Atherton said cheerfully. "The older man who came later is apparently a person of some importance judging by the way he walked right in on them without knocking. He also wasn't fretting the way Nathaniel was; he looked angry, if anything."

"Most likely Nicholas' second," Langley said. "As in 'second-in-command'. He would enjoy a certain amount of largesse by virtue of his position."

"That would explain it," Atherton agreed. "And that's it, I'm afraid. The older man left while Nathaniel and I were unloading, and Nicholas was still upstairs when I left to meet you. I can't for the life of me understand why a military commander would choose to present himself as a child. I suppose posing as a child might avoid suspicion, but I would think the limitations it would place on movement within our society would outweigh that. God knows it's giving his handlers fits."

"It was not a choice," Langley said. "It was a punishment from his master for killing mine, one we hope will render him so frustrated that it clouds his judgment."

"And it appears to be working," Atherton said. "I'm mulling over how to get into their rooms—"

"You will do no such thing," Langley declared. "You will find nothing in their rooms that will be of any value. As we discussed earlier, what we need most is information."

"All right, then, I'll work on finding a way to eavesdrop," Atherton said stubbornly. "You don't really expect me to just hang around and do nothing, do you? What good will that do anyone?"

"Listen to me," Langley said intently. "The best way to get information is to earn the trust of those from whom you seek it."

"Preaching to the choir," Atherton declared. "What, pray tell, do you think I've been doing for the past several years? Earning the trust of those who have information I want, that's what."

"This is different," Langley insisted. "There are two ways to earn trust: Directly, by favorable interaction, and indirectly, by little or no interaction. By becoming so typical, so usual, so unremarkable that you fade into the background, causing people to say and do things in your presence they normally would not because they do not find your presence of any note. The direct route might work with Nathaniel; he is purportedly a remember of the resistance, and might be amenable to human contact, at least so far as he feels it necessary to maintain their cover. But you will never win the trust of Nicholas and his closest subordinates because they shun humans. For them, you want to fade as far into the background as possible to encourage them to lower their guard in your presence. Which is why I insisted you do just exactly that when I approved of your presence there, and you agreed."

"Of course, of course," Atherton said dismissively. "Child's play."

"Not for you," Langley said dryly. "Fading into the background is not one of your strong suits."

"Nonsense," Atherton scoffed. "I've 'faded' many times. I shall fade and unfade as necessary, have no fear."

"I wish to make it clear once more who you're dealing with," Langley pressed. "Do not be fooled by appearances. Nicholas commands the Army of the king's chief rival on my world, the very rival attempting to steal his throne. Watch yourself, James. Do not let your enthusiasm make you rash."

"Langley, I assure you, this is the defining moment of my life," Atherton said sincerely. "I will do whatever is necessary to assist you in staying free of either my people or yours. I will not let you down."




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




Parker's Diner



"What've you got?" Mr. Parker asked through the pass-through.

"I need two cows, one on the hoof, hold the mayo, the other a hockey puck, keep off the grass, one blue plate special, and a tube steak," Courtney answered briskly, clipping an order slip to the turntable and loading up her arms with plates of cooked food. "Back with more in a minute."

"Courtney?" Mr. Parker called as she started to walk away.

"Yes?"

"Glad to have you back."

He disappeared then, back to his grill and the grease that seemed to form a curtain in the kitchen air, but those five words put a smile on Courtney's face as she delivered the plates to one of her tables, producing a bottle of ketchup and the required number of straws from her pocket. At least someone was glad she was back. One would think her father would be among those "someone's", that bringing the Warders and the resistance together for the first time since the coup and managing to produce only dialog and no causalities would be worth something. One would think.....but one would be wrong. She'd been doing a slow burn over her father's tongue-lashing yesterday, her last encounter with her father as he hadn't been up this morning before she'd left even though she'd had to wait for Greer to leave. The previous twenty-four hours with its peril and lack of sleep had been bad enough, but the current set was proving no better, what with her being reprimanded and propositioned. Perhaps it was a good thing her father hadn't been there for the morning's excitement. He may have told her to go ahead and give Greer what he wanted.

I've been here too long, she thought as she clipped yet another order to the turntable. Argilians viewed the human act of mating as no more than recreation, playing with their husks, seeing what they could do; it certainly wasn't regarded as a personal encounter the way humans would view it. Yet she had recoiled in disgust, indeed was still recoiling in disgust at Greer's suggestion much the way any human girl her age would have, and not just because she hated Greer. Which was silly, really, given that many, if not most, of her people had tried that activity, a fact which was kept largely silent in deference to their leader's deficiencies. She could probably get Greer in trouble just by casually mentioning his suggestion to Nicholas.

"Afternoon, ladies," Courtney greeted her next table, a group of three elderly women who came in twice a week for lunch. "What can I get you?"

"There you are!" one of them exclaimed. "We've been so worried about you! We've heard the strangest things! Whatever happened?"

Courtney dutifully gave the short answer to this oft-asked question, and the women mercifully didn't press for details. "We're so glad to see you again," another of the women said, pattering her hand. "You're our favorite waitress. And don't let anyone give you a hard time over what happened, you hear? Every single one of us has someone who's likely to make us jump out a window, so no one has any business picking on you."

Beaming, Courtney took their order, checked on her other tables, and headed for the back. On the way there, Nancy tucked a bill in her pocket. "From Herman," she whispered confidentially. "I think he really missed you. You were always kind to him, which is more than I can say for the most of the girls here."

Courtney set her plates down in the dirty dish bin and pulled the bill out of her pocket. Five dollars? Five whole dollars? That was a huge sum of money coming from someone like Herman. It was as though the human world was working overtime to contest her father's impression of her, to tell her they were glad to have her and that she did a good job. And I do, she told herself proudly. She knew this place backwards and forwards now, and was capable of doing virtually any job necessary, including the cooking. She'd not only survived on her own on a strange planet, she'd actually carved a niche for herself, and she'd brought two warring factions together besides. Chew on that, Papa, she thought with satisfaction. She couldn't be a total incompetent if she'd managed to pull all that off.

Back in the diner, Courtney pulled her pad out and fetched her pencil from behind her ear as she stood before the latest customers, a man and a woman. "Can I get you something?"

"Yes—an explanation," the woman answered. "How do you manage to carry around all that flesh without gagging?" She smiled when Courtney blinked. "Hi, Courtney! Long time, no see!"

Courtney's pencil froze over her pad as she catalogued the woman's voice, which was not as unfamiliar as her face. "Angela?" she said in disbelief.

"I told you she'd remember!" Angela beamed at the man across from her. "I redid the hair," she confessed, running a hand through her husk's hairdo, "so I wasn't sure you'd recognize me."

I almost didn't, Courtney thought, recalling the frightened girl who had arrived at her father's house on tottering legs, having only just donned her husk. That had been three months ago; was this an indicator of who Nicholas was sending to Roswell? Maybe the Warders didn't have anything to worry about after all.

"Isn't this exciting?" Angela was saying, looking every bit as excited as she sounded. "Do you really think the Warders are here?"

"We'll see," Courtney said evasively. "So....how are you? I'm sorry I left right after you arrived. I was reassigned."

"We know," Angela assured her. "This is Robert," she added, nodding toward her companion. "He's kind of my teacher. You have someone teaching you, don't you?"

"Not anymore," Courtney said. "He was reassigned too."

"So you're here alone?" Angela asked, wide-eyed. "Wow! I wonder if I could ever do that. But I'm getting better," she added in a whisper. "I know things like 'long time, no see' and other human colloquialisms. But I don't think I could ever be around all that flesh. How do you stand it?"

"Honestly, I don't even notice it any more," Courtney admitted.

"Have you begun to eat flesh?" Robert asked.

His tone was casual, but they were both obviously waiting avidly for an answer. They had all been taught to eat meat, of course; refusing to do so was considered odd in the human world, at least this part of it. But in private it was shunned as the mark of a cruel, primitive society, the same opinion Courtney had held when she'd first started working here and had made a point to avoid watching Mr. Parker cut raw meat. Now she'd seen it so much, it didn't even register, although she still couldn't bring herself to consume it.

"No," she answered. "Of course not. Did you want to order, or shall I choose something suitable for you?"

"I was actually thinking of trying the flesh," Robert confided.

"No!" Angela whispered. "Don't use a field assignment as an excuse to regress! Just look at that massive woman over there. That's what happens to humans who eat too much meat; they get fat and stupid."

Courtney flinched as she followed Angela's gaze to find Nancy, who was plump by human standards and far more than that by Antarian. "It's 'meat', not 'flesh'," she said. "And Nancy eats very little meat, so that's not why she's heavy."

"You mean there are other reasons for humans being fat and stupid?"

Courtney closed her eyes briefly. "The link between weight and intelligence is a myth," she said, praying for patience. "Nancy is not even remotely stupid."

"She must be," Angela chuckled. "She's only human."

"She's been nothing but kind to me," Courtney said sharply. "I'll get you some drinks while you look over the menu. Try not to blow your cover while I'm gone."

Angela's startled face stared after her as she stalked off, seething. I should have expected this, she thought. It was inevitable that those of her people coming to town would find their way into Parker's, but frankly she'd been too busy recovering from the past couple of days and fretting over her rift with her father to give it much thought. She would soon be surrounded by operatives, some of whom would be out and about in the human world for the first time just like Angela, Copper Summit not really counting because there they could keep to their own if they chose. Many, if not most, of those operatives regarded humans as little better than cave men, so she would have to listen to their negative opinions, to the people she cared about being torn apart by those who fancied themselves "better". It was not a pleasant thought.

Behave yourself, she told herself firmly, filling two glasses with water and heading back out to the table, where Angela was blatantly staring at the elderly women in the booth across the aisle who had been so pleased to see Courtney.

"How old are they?" Angela whispered as Courtney set the glasses on the table.

"In their seventies, at least," Courtney answered.

"That's very near the end of their lifespan, isn't it?" Angela asked Robert, who nodded. "Why would they let themselves live that long? That's selfish!"

"Humans don't believe in ending life prematurely, even if their continued presence is a drain on resources," Robert explained. "I believe it has some sort of primitive religious connotations."

"It's rude to stare, and this isn't the place for a discussion like this," Courtney said bluntly when Angela opened her mouth to answer. "Keep this up, and you'll doom the mission before it starts. Still think this is 'exciting'?"

Angela flushed. "I....need to use the bathroom," she said, ducking out of the booth and scurrying away as Courtney rounded on Robert.

"What kind of a teacher are you, letting her act like this in public?" she whispered furiously.

Robert smiled faintly. "They can't hear us, so that's not it. You've gone native, haven't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Courtney demanded.

"Just making an observation," Robert said blandly.

Courtney slid into the seat Angela had vacated and fixed him with a hard stare. "Then allow me to make one of my own. Behavior that gets you noticed is bad. Our orders are to blend in, not stick out. Being rude and staring at people makes you stick out."

"So does jumping out windows," Robert observed.

"I was in the field," Courtney said acidly. "Have you ever been in the field, Robert?"

"A couple of times," Robert said defensively.

"Wow," Courtney deadpanned. "A whole couple of times. Congratulations. At least that's more than Angela, who wasn't even able to walk last time I saw her. Take it from one who's lived here for several months and save your denigrating conversations for somewhere private."

"There are plenty of operatives far more advanced than you," Robert retorted.

"And are those operatives also the third's daughter?"

Robert's eyes dropped. It worked, Courtney thought in amazement. She'd never pulled rank on anyone, never had enough experience to think she could get away with it. Now she felt like she should be the first one consulted on any subject regarding humans or human society.

"I'm sorry," Angela whispered, reappearing at the table. "It's just all so new and everything.....I'll keep my mind on the mission," she promised, sliding into the booth after Courtney slid out. "We both will."

"Good," Courtney said. "I'll get you both some salads."

Both looked suitably chastised as she made the rounds of tables again, retreating into the kitchen before she even let the truth cross her mind. Robert was right; the real rub was not the threat of being discovered, it was that people she cared about were being treated badly. Her reminding them of her parentage had worked this time, but she had to be careful not to do that too often. Throwing her familial weight around on behalf of humanity would not be taken kindly by either her father or Nicholas.

"What the hell?" Mr. Parker grumbled behind her.

Courtney pulled her head out of the fridge where she'd been rummaging for salad fixings. The lights were blinking....no, not just blinking, but changing. From white to pink, to be exact, and back again, short bursts that had every head in the diner turning this way and that. Every head but two, that is, that were dutifully scanning the entire diner for infrared signatures.

Great, Courtney thought wearily. Her little harangue had earned Parker's the honor of being the place where it all started.



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


I'll post Chapter 70 next Sunday.


Author's Note: For some reason I can't post on this thread anymore, so I've started a new one, beginning with Chapter 70:

http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=2&t=2385