Fan Fic and More

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CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX



January 22, 2000, 7:30 a.m.

Frazier Woods



"Michael, wake up. Michael!"

Michael Guerin jerked away from the hands shaking him and half opened his eyes. For a moment he didn't recognize his surroundings; wherever it was, it was dim, damp, and hard, a comedown in triplicate from even Hank's trailer. Where the hell was he?

Hands shook him again, and he groaned as his shoulders protested with a sudden and vicious ache. "Michael, wake up," a male voice commanded. "We only have a few minutes before Dad comes back."

Dad? Either he was home and dreaming, or...or what? It had to be a dream; what other option was there if someone was referencing a parent he didn't have? And since he was dreaming, he could safely ignore whoever was bugging him, so Michael closed his eyes and settled back down.

Only to have cold water splashed on him. A moment later he was bolt upright, wide awake and sputtering as Isabel huffed beside him with an empty paper cup in her hands. "What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded.

"Because you had to wake up," she said firmly, passing him a towel. "Like Max said, we don't have a lot of time."

Michael scrubbed his face and peered at his unfamiliar surroundings. "We don't have a lot of time where? Where are we?"

"In our tent," Max answered. "Dad offered to have you sleep here last night because it was so late when we got back to camp, and you said yes...remember?"

"Not really," Michael muttered. "Why'd I do that?"

"How should we know?" Isabel demanded. "We haven't had so much as a second to ourselves since Valenti found us last night, so we shouldn't waste what little time we have examining last night's motivations!"

"Okay, okay," Michael said, holding up a hand. "Just cool it. I'm awake. No more water," he added sharply when she raised an eyebrow. "Just give me a sec."

Isabel made a strangled noise of pure impatience but was shushed by Max as Michael peered around the dim interior. It was an impressive tent, a Philip Evans tent, large enough to sort of stand up in and equipped with a floor, a double zippered doorway, and some kind of skylight on the roof. "Where'd I get this sleeping bag?" he mumbled, fumbling with the zipper.

"Dad borrowed it from Coach Clay," Max answered. "He had extras."

"Extras?" Michael snorted. "Why? Is somebody not house trained?"

"Can we please get on with it?" Isabel pleaded, peering out through the partially zipped doorway. "Dad won't be gone forever. The line for the latrines is moving pretty fast."

"You mean he's taking a morning dump?" Michael yawned. "Heck, what's the rush? Hank spends ages in the can." He flopped back down on the sleeping bag, remembering too late why his whole body was achy; hard ground could do that to you. So could Isabel, who whisked the pillow out seconds before his head hit.

"Ouch!" he yelled.

"Up!" she ordered.

"Okay!" Michael exclaimed, jerking away from her. "I'm up! Jesus, whoever thought camping was fun," he muttered, pulling the sleeping bag further around him. "It's freezing in here."

"Tell me about it," Isabel said tartly. "I'm not exactly having the time of my life either, especially since my bathroom habits have become the talk of the camp. As if it wasn't bad enough to freeze out here and try to sleep on rocks, now I've got everyone expecting me to whip out a gold-plated toilet seat."

"Yeah, how is it that you used the same excuse as Liz and Maria?" Michael asked.

Isabel's eyes dropped. "I heard them talking when we were on our way to the cave about what they'd say if we got caught. It was as good an excuse as any."

"We need to talk about what happened last night," Max insisted. "Michael, what were you doing in the woods last night?"

Michael reached a hand back to massage his aching back. "What was I doing in the woods last night? What were you doing in the woods last night, Maxwell? Because I'm pretty sure I was doing the same thing you were."

"I know that," Max said patiently. "I just didn't expect to see you there, especially not with River Dog. How did you get there?"

"Same way you did. I walked."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Max said pointedly.

Isabel yelped as Michael snatched his pillow out of her hands. "I'm not going back to sleep," he told her. "There's just nothing to lean against." He propped the pillow up as best he could, then himself on it. "River Dog came back," he said, leaving out the fact that he'd known River Dog was going to come back. "He said he'd take me to the woods."

"To see Nasedo?" Isabel asked.

"He didn't say that. He said he'd take me to where the sighting was."

Isabel glanced at Max. "That's twice now that he went to Michael. Why didn't he come to us?"

"You weren't home last night, remember?" Michael said.

"We were home the night before when he came to you," Isabel reminded him.

"So?" Michael said. "What do you care? You don't care about this. I'm the only one who cares about this."

"That is not true!" Isabel said fiercely. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm in the woods, starving and cold with no shower, no decent clothes, no make-up, no jewelry, no...no anything. If that doesn't prove I care about this, nothing ever will."

"She has a point," Max said dryly as Michael shook his head in disgust. "And now that we've established that we all care, what do we do about what we found?"

"Do we even know what we found?" Isabel asked. "We didn't get much time to look at it before Valenti blundered in.

"It was one of the symbols from the cave map," Michael said. "I've been studying that map for weeks now; I could draw it right here in the dirt if I had to. I'd know it anywhere."

"So would I," Max agreed.

"Okay, so, what does it mean?" Isabel said.

"That I don't know," Michael sighed.

"Me neither," Max added.

"But we know it means something," Michael went on. "We've been sent a message. We don't know what it means, but we do know it's a message, and we know who sent it. Just think," he went on, suddenly more awake. "Our first message from someone else like us. Pretty cool, huh?"

The looks Max and Isabel exchanged betrayed emotions that fell somewhat short of "cool". "No, of course you don't think it's cool," Michael said sourly. "It might mean no more camping trips with daddy."

"Don't start," Max ordered. "You know perfectly well that a message from Nasedo is a mixed blessing. According to River Dog, he murdered someone."

"Yeah, well, according to River Dog, he knows who we are and why we're here, so I really don't care," Michael said. "We can go all Columbo later."

"What happened to River Dog?" Isabel asked. "Do you think Valenti caught him?"

Michael shook his head. "No way. That guy can walk so quietly, he's virtually silent. He probably just melted back into the forest. Speaking of which, when do we go back?"

"Back?" Max echoed. "You mean to the cave?"

"No, to school. Yes, of course I mean to the cave, Maxwell. Where else?"

"Why go back?" Isabel asked nervously. "Max erased the symbol. There's nothing there now."

"We don't know that," Michael protested. "We didn't get the chance to check if there was anything else there last night, not to mention that something could turn up today, or tomorrow, or the middle of next week. We have to go back."

"Well, we can't go back this weekend," Max said. "After last night, Valenti's going to be doing a lot more than just following us. I'm surprised he wasn't here when we woke up."

"Valenti's just one person," Michael scoffed. "We can lose him."

"No, we can't," Max said. "Or even if we did, we couldn't lose him and all those deputies he has in the woods."

"We didn't last night," Isabel said soberly. "I hate to say it, but we never would have found what we did if not for Liz and Maria. They kept the dogs at bay just long enough. Literally."

"If there's one thing we've gotten good at, it's the old bait and switch," Michael said. "One of us can be the decoy—"

"That won't work this time," Max said. "There are too many of them, too few of us, and we're out of excuses; they're not going to fall for the 'I can't stand the latrines' line again.

"Maxwell—"

"Do you realize how close Valenti was to the cave last night?" Max demanded. "The last thing we want to do is lead him back there."

"Then he might find the cave," Isabel said. "And the map."

"The cave isn't that obvious," Michael argued. "We could—"

"Michael, no," Max said firmly. "He already knows the general direction and about how far away we were, and we're just damned lucky I was able to blow his radio before he was able to get actual coordinates. We're not taking any chances. The cave will be there after this weekend."

"So you took out the radio," Michael murmured.

"Yeah. Why?"

Michael shook his head. "Nothing," he said shortly, swallowing his envy that Max had that kind of control. If he'd tried to "blow" the radio, it probably would have literally blown, as in blown up. All he knew how to do was aim and blast; raising and lowering the temperature wasn't in his repertoire. Fortunately he did know how to shut it off, or River Dog's ankle might have wound up fused to the ground.

"You know, if you practiced more...really practiced...you'd get better at it," Isabel said gently. "That might be more productive than reading some obscure map."

Michael's eyes snapped to hers. "We were just sent a message from that 'obscure map', so how is learning to read it not productive?"

"I just meant—"

"I know what you meant," Michael interrupted. "You'd rather I spend my time short-circuiting radios instead of learning what the map and the message mean because then you might actually have to do something about it. Got it."

"Michael, stop it," Isabel groaned.

"You know what? I think I will." Michael stood up, as best he could in the cramped confines of the tent. "I'm leaving."

"What?" Max said. "Why?"

"Why?" Michael echoed. "Why not? Why do you think I stayed here last night, Maxwell? Because I suddenly had a hankering to have a pretend daddy? No, the only reason I stayed was because I thought something else might happen, and I thought we'd be going back. Nothing happened, and we're not going back. So I'm leaving."

"Leaving how?" Isabel asked. "You can't exactly catch a bus...no," she finished when Michael brandished a thumb. "You are not hitchhiking."

"I most certainly am," Michael said, shrugging off the sleeping bag and reaching for his shoes. "Best way to travel; it's cheap, and fast, and—"

"Dangerous," Isabel broke in, "and cold, and—"

"And he's done it before," Max finished. "Michael hitches rides all the time, Iz. It's broad daylight on a Saturday morning, and it's not too far into town. He'll be fine."

"Nice to know you care," Isabel said stiffly.

"I do care," Max sighed. "I'm just being realistic."

"About time someone did," Michael muttered, going to the tent flap and peering out the small opening. Valenti was just a few yards away, talking on his cell phone and ostensibly paying them no mind.

"Don't worry; I'm not buying it," Michael said as the three of them peered out the flap. "All I need is a little distraction, and I can slip away."

"We could do that," Isabel suggested. "We could—"

"Never mind," Michael said. "There's my distraction."





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




Valenti waited impatiently with the phone to his ear and one eye on the tent several yards away. It was still early, but people were starting to stir, mostly parents. He'd seen Philip Evans leave his tent a few minutes ago, but no one else had come out, neither his two kids nor Guerin, who had accepted Philip's invitation to spend the night with them. It was safe to assume that all were present and accounted for or Philip wouldn't have merely stretched and headed for one of the long latrine lines, and his absence made this a prime time to slip away, so if those kids so much as twitched, Valenti wanted to know about it. He was sorely in need of information.

C'mon, c'mon, Valenti thought as the silence over the phone line threatened to become deafening. He'd called Hanson instead of using the radio because he didn't want his other deputies overhearing this conversation, a conversation which could land him squarely in his father's shoes in their eyes. Hanson had claimed everyone was applauding how seriously he was taking the sighting, but he'd never confirmed that, and things had moved way past "serious".

"Sir?" a voice came over the phone.

"What took you so long?" Valenti demanded. "I've been on hold for five minutes!"

"The last of the teams was coming back, and I wanted to check with them," Hanson explained. "No one found anything unusual."

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"No, sir.

"You're sure?"

"We followed your instructions to the letter, sir," Hanson said. "We all went out at first light and canvassed the entire area in sections. There's nothing out there."

"What about the section I told you about?" Valenti said, frustrated. "The one where I was last night."

"Sir, it would be helpful if we had a better idea of where to look other than just 'one or two miles west'," Hanson answered. "I'm sorry the radios went out on us, but since we weren't able to triangulate your position, we're stuck with guessing."

"I know," Valenti sighed.

"It would also be helpful if you could give us some idea of what we're supposed to be looking for," Hanson went on. "You never really said."

"Because I'm not really sure," Valenti said crossly. "It was awfully dark out there, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Yes, sir, I did notice," Hanson said. "I was here all night too. And may I respectfully suggest that, given how dark it was, perhaps you just think you saw something. That would be perfectly understandable."

Valenti's next words died in his throat as he recognized Hanson's tone, that hopeful tone people used to use with his father when pleading with him to be reasonable, to be logical, to abandon his wild notion of invading aliens and make everyone feel better. "You're right," he said, strangling on the words. "Maybe it was a trick of the light, or the dark, rather. But I had to be sure."

"Of course you did, sir," Hanson said, sounding relieved. "And we didn't find a thing, so now you're sure." He paused. "By the way, sir, if you don't mind my asking, how did you happen to find the Evans kids last night? They were quite a ways away. What brought you out there?"

"Philip mentioned he couldn't find his kids, so I went looking," Valenti said. "Must have gone further than I thought."

"Huh. He didn't mention that when he came to us last night."

"Because I didn't tell him I'd gone looking," Valenti said. "I thought it was going to be a quick dive into the woods, not a mile long trek. Look, Hanson, ask the men one more thing, would you? Ask them if they saw any Indians when they were out this morning."

There was a pause. "Indians, sir? You mean, like..."

"Like Indians," Valenti clarified. "As in native Americans. I could have sworn I saw an old Indian man in the woods last night, but he slipped away before I could talk to him. Just go ask. Just in case."

Another pause, longer this time. "Okay," Hanson said finally. "Hang on."

Valenti closed his eyes and prayed for patience as Hanson hit the mute button. This was risky, but their proximity to the Indian reservation should give him some cover, and it was the last lead he had. He'd been so close last night, it was practically killing him. The Evans kids had gone into those woods for a reason that had nothing to do with personal hygiene, and he'd caught them in the act of looking at something, something on the ground, something that wasn't there when he'd inspected it as closely as he could with the aid of a flashlight. The light of day might prove a different story, but the problem was finding out where he'd been. He'd been so engrossed in following them, so careful to keep just within sight and not make any noise that he hadn't paid much attention to where they were going. He knew it was due west and somewhere between one and two miles away, but that's as close as he could get. What was interesting is that the Evans kids' destination fell outside the sighting area, meaning they'd never had to cross the line his deputies had formed around the perimeter. It was sheer luck that the dogs had picked up their scent, bad luck, that is. Unbeknownst to his deputies, their boss had been watching as the dogs had closed in, cursing his bad luck and hoping the Parker and DeLuca girls' ruse worked because he wanted to see where the rest of them were going. And then there's Kyle, he thought with a guilty glance at their tent. Kyle had eluded virtually everyone.

"Sir?" Hanson's voice came over the line. "I asked everyone. No Indians."

"Okay," Valenti said heavily. "Thanks, Hanson."

"But Owen Blackwood did say that if you think an Indian was in the woods, that could explain anything weird that you saw," Hanson went on. "He said these woods are used by the people on the reservation for all sorts of things at all times of the day and night. I gather it wouldn't be at all unusual to find an Indian out here in the wee small, so it looks like this wasn't just your imagination."

"That's comforting. Good to know I'm not cracking up."

"Of course not, sir," Hanson said soothingly. "Between you and me and the fence post, no one thought you were. They were just getting a little frustrated at the lack of direction, that's all. Anything else?"

"No, that's it for now," Valenti said. "Stay in touch."

"Sure thing, sir."

Valenti clicked his phone off and gazed at the tent across the cold campfire. He could have sworn he'd seen the tent flap move, but nothing was moving now. What had those kids been looking at? If that Guerin hulk hadn't blocked his way, he might have been able to see something, which was obviously why Guerin had blocked him in the first place, to give Max Evans time to...well, to what? Hide the evidence? Destroy the evidence? He'd only had seconds; what kind of evidence could be hidden or destroyed that quickly? There had been absolutely nothing there when he'd looked at the ground they'd been hunched over, no marks or holes or flattened grass—nothing. Maybe there was a reason for that? Maybe there'd been nothing there all along? Maybe they were just looking, but hadn't found anything? Maybe they failed, he thought, watching the tent with new eyes. If so, they'd try again, and that would give him another chance to follow them. It could happen any time, day or night, so he'd have to find a way to keep them within sight at all times without drawing suspicion.

"Nice view, huh?"

Valenti whirled around to find Kyle right behind him. "Kyle, for God's sake, you've gotta stop sneaking up on me like that!" he sputtered.

" 'Sneaking up on you'? We're right outside our tent, Dad. How is that 'sneaking up on you'?"

"I just didn't hear you," Valenti said irritably. "That's all."

"Right, well, I'll be sure to bang a spoon on a pot before I 'sneak up on you' staring at Max Evans' tent."

"Kyle, would you drop it?" Valenti demanded. "You heard what Isabel said; she didn't want to use the latrine. Stop trying to make it into something else."

"Then why didn't you just say that when I caught up with you the first time?" Kyle asked.

"Because I didn't want to embarrass her," Valenti answered. "You saw how she acted last night. I was trying to keep it from becoming the talk of the camp."

"Besides the fact that you failed miserably in that regard, there's another thing to consider," Kyle said with maddening calm. "I was following you last night, so I saw you following them...and you weren't acting like you were following some princess in the pea. You were keeping your distance, staying real quiet, hiding behind trees. You weren't looking for lost kids, you were trying to see where they were going. I want to know why, and don't you dare give me that crap about 'confidential information' or the 'demands of the job'."

Shit. Kyle stared at him defiantly, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatshirt, eyes boring into him. Never mind avoiding other people's suspicions; if he was going to keep an eye on the Evans kids, the worst suspicions he'd have to avoid came from his own kid. Another time he might be proud of his son's deductive reasoning. Not this time.

"You're right," Valenti said finally. "I was following them. I saw them go into the woods, and I wanted to know why. If I'd stopped them, I wouldn't have found out."

"But what were you looking for?" Kyle persisted. "What's this all about? And what was Guerin doing out there? He wasn't part of the original convoy. Where'd he come from?"

Valenti stared at his son in consternation. It was like looking in a mirror; the pit bull determination, the nose for lies, the attention to detail. If Kyle followed the family tradition, he wasn't going away without an answer, so he'd better come up with something, and fast.

"Don't spread this around," Valenti said in a low voice, "but word is there's a drug ring in your school. Some of the suspected suppliers are on this trip, and it occurred to me that this would be a good place to do some dealing. When I saw those kids going into the woods, I thought they might be involved."

"Mmm," Kyle murmured, sounding unconvinced. "And here I thought you came on this trip for me."

"I did come on this trip for you," Valenti insisted. "We go on this trip every single year, and this year I noticed something that fit information I've received as sheriff, so I checked it out. You never would have even known about it if you hadn't followed me."

"See, that's the thing, Dad—I did follow you. So that's how I know that Isabel and Max weren't the only ones out there. Liz and Maria were out there too. We had a veritable Conga line going!" Kyle said cheerfully as Valenti scowled. "But the point is that Liz is no druggie. Frankly the others aren't either, but Liz especially would never be mixed up in that."

"So you think," Valenti said. "We really don't know people, Kyle. We think we do, but we don't."

Kyle gazed at him a moment in uncomfortable silence before nodding slowly. "Yeah. Tell me about it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm going to look elsewhere for answers," Kyle said. "And maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll find someone who isn't lying to me."




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




"Okay, you know it's bad when we're not even close and it's still making me gag," Maria said, wrinkling her nose. "If it's this bad back here, what are we gonna do when we get up there?"

"Mmm," Liz murmured, her eyes somewhere other than on the latrines up ahead, the line for which they'd just joined.

"Ixnay on the aring stay," Maria ordered. "I thought we agreed we'd stay away from Max and Isabel?"

"I am," Liz protested as the line inched forward. "I was just watching their tent. Their dad's up, but I haven't seen them."

"Yeah, well, most of us don't get up before noon on a Saturday if we can help it," Maria said. "And that goes double for those of us who take moonlit hikes. Look, we have to be careful. No one else knows we were out there with Max and Isabel, and we have to keep it that way."

"I know," Liz sighed. "But it's killing me not knowing what happened. Don't you want to know if they found anything? Or what Michael was doing out there? Or—"

"Of course I want to know," Maria broke in. "In the worst way. But we can't just go running up to them the moment they stick their heads out of the tent. We did what we could," she added gently. "We bought them some time. We'll find out later if it did any good." She stared past Liz, blinked. "I take that back. Maybe we'll find out now."

Liz turned around. Isabel was walking toward them, and a moment later, she'd queued behind them. "Please tell me you brought a nose plug," she said, wincing at the smell, "and that you'll loan it to me when you're done."

"Actually I was gonna breathe through my mouth, but should you be here?" Maria whispered as the line inched forward again. "Liz and I thought we shouldn't all be seen together."

Isabel shrugged. "Why not? We're all on the same camping trip. Frankly, I think it would look more weird if we avoided each other."

"So what happened?" Liz asked eagerly before Maria could stop her. "Did you find anything?"

"Should we be talking about this here?" Maria asked nervously.

"This is the best place to be talking about it," Isabel said. "Early in the morning, in line for the latrine with people who are half awake and starving for breakfast? Works for me." Nevertheless, she glanced around before continuing. "We walked to the cave. Michael and River Dog were there. Michael said River Dog came to get him last night and offered to take him there."

"And?" Maria asked breathlessly, her previous objections forgotten.

"And...we found something," Isabel said, her voice so low it was barely audible. "A symbol from the cave map had been...I don't know, burned or etched or marked somehow on the ground."

"Oh, my God," Maria whispered.

"So it was real," Liz said faintly.

"River Dog said it was a message," Isabel went on. "A message meant for us. Michael thinks it means Nasedo's back."

"Or someone is," Liz added.

"A message," Maria said, shaking her head. "Michael must be going nuts."

"He is," Isabel confirmed. "He just left. He wanted to go back today, but we can't risk it, not with Valenti watching."

"Oooh, my ears are burning," a voice said.

Maria and Liz exchanged startled glances. Kyle Valenti had joined the line, wearing a smile like a cat that had caught the canary. "Heard my name," he said cheerfully. "Hope it wasn't being taken in vain."

"Actually, it was your dad's name," Isabel said, not missing a beat.

"Ah," Kyle nodded. "Yes. I can understand that. Truly, I can. So, ladies...I take it we're trying the modern facilities this morning instead of trekking into the woods?"

"If you call a hole in the ground a 'modern facility'," Maria retorted.

"Certainly more modern than what you all were heading for last night," Kyle said. "See, the board with the hole in it is your friend; it keeps the poison ivy off your backsides."

"Is there a point to this conversation?" Isabel demanded.

"Yes," Kyle answered, "yes, there is. See, I don't think you were looking to do number one, or two or three or four, in the woods last night. I asked my dad what was going on, and he told me some story about a drug ring at school that he was afraid you were in on. I don't believe that for a minute, so...you wanna talk?"

"I 'talked' last night," Isabel said in a frosty tone. "But I never heard your story, Kyle. What were you doing out there?"

"Wait—Kyle was in the woods last night too?" Maria asked.

"He showed up right after Sheriff Valenti found us," Isabel answered. "I got the impression the two of them were having some kind of fight."

"Mmm," Kyle murmured. "I guess that's personal."

Isabel's eyebrows rose. "So you don't want to 'talk'. Imagine that."

A door banged; they'd arrived at the head of the line. "Next!" declared a fat father swathed in denim and flannel, helpfully holding the latrine door open from which wafted a powerful odor.

"You go," Maria said to Isabel, hoping to cut Kyle off at the pass and avoid that awful smell for just a few minutes longer.

"Yes, do go," Kyle advised. "Hold your breath! Stay strong! Hover, don't shit! Sit!" he amended hastily. "I meant 'sit'."

"Kyle?" Liz said. "Go away."

After a long look at each of them, he did. Isabel glanced at the open door in front of her like it was the doorway to hell, then at the growing line behind them. More people, it seemed, were waking up. Okay, I'm going in," she said, sounding like a soldier on her way into battle. "Wish me luck."

Isabel disappeared inside. "Whoever would have thought we'd be glad to reach the latrine," Maria whispered. "And whoever would have thought Kyle was out there too?"

"Yeah," Liz agreed. "Kind of makes you wonder who else was out there."




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



12 noon

Artesia, New Mexico




"No, I don't mind if you stay longer," Jaddo said.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Are you sure?" Tess said doubtfully.

"I'm sure. Stay as long as you'd like."

"Really?"

"Yes, really," Jaddo answered impatiently. "Why the third degree?"

"Gee, I don't know," Tess said. "Maybe because you've never, ever let me go on a sleepover before? And now, all of a sudden, it's okay?"

"Because of your error," Jaddo said in a steely tone. "Because you let it slip we were moving. We needed to correct that—"

"We did correct that."

"—and forming closer social ties is one way to quiet any lingering rumors. So stay as long as you like."

There was another pause, longer this time. "Why are you being so nice to me?" Tess asked suspiciously. "It's not like you. Are you sick?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Jaddo said in exasperation. "Where does this persecution complex come from? Never mind," he added when she started to reply. "I answered your question, now get out there and play human. It's what you want; take advantage of the fact that it's also what we need."

Jaddo hung up without waiting for a reply. He hadn't been prevaricating—it was important that they dispel any lingering rumors that they were leaving town. The fact that there didn't seem to be any lingering rumors was irrelevant, as was the fact that Tess's latest request for the human social ritual known as a "sleepover", paradoxically labeled given that little sleeping actually occurred, had come at a convenient time for him. Staying away as long as he had this weekend would have been problematic without it.

"She knows you well, doesn't she?"

Jaddo whirled around. "My, but you're distracted," Brivari observed. "Didn't even hear me. That's not like you, Jaddo. But no matter; I'll make absolutely certain that nothing distracts you while you explain to me what the hell you thought you were doing last night."




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

Thanksgiving's coming! Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it, and I'll be back on Sunday, December 4th with Chapter 57.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN


January 22, 2000, 12:15 p.m.

Artesia, New Mexico




Brivari sat calmly at the kitchen table as Jaddo slammed the refrigerator door followed by the cupboard door after retrieving a glass. Remaining calm was always of paramount importance when dealing with Jaddo because Jaddo rarely did. Especially when he knew he was in trouble, as he did now.

"I never caught up with you afterwards," Brivari said. "You disappeared after Valenti broke up the party, so I never found out what you intended to do when they arrived."

"I intended to do exactly what I did," Jaddo said. "It just ended a lot faster than I expected."

"Do you really expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe. Believe whatever you like."

"Then I don't believe it. Why stage that entire drama for a mark in the grass?"

"Look, you already ruined it," Jaddo said bitterly. "You got your 'sighting interruptus' last night courtesy of the mob scene in the woods."

"What, you think I caused that?" Brivari said in astonishment.

"Who set the dogs on them?" Jaddo demanded.

"The dogs caught the wrong people," Brivari argued. "And the rest of them would have been there regardless. No, that little party was your doing."

"Fine, it was my fault," Jaddo said flatly. "Everything usually is. Are we done now?"

Brivari's expression hardened. "No, we're not. Why did you put the hybrids at risk?"

"I didn't put them 'at risk'. Those woods are public property."

"You haven't answered my question."

"How could they be 'at risk' on public property?"

"Tell that to the man the sheriff arrested last night," Brivari retorted. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"Yes, well, how was I supposed to know the humans were going to go off half cocked? There are sightings around Roswell every day of the week, and no one reacts like that. What were the odds?"

"With you? Distressingly high," Brivari said darkly. "Are you ever going to answer my question?"

"Not while I'm refuting the 'at risk' part. I never put them in danger."

The glass Jaddo was holding suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces. "Oh, stop it!" Brivari exploded, unable to maintain the calm facade any longer. "You deliberately lured them out there, and I want to know why!"

"Wonderful," Jaddo said sourly. "Since when was breaking crockery a way to get answers about anything?"

"Why, Jaddo?" Brivari persisted. "Why did you drag them out there?"

"And what if I don't want to tell you? Would you like to throw some more dishes? Would that help?"

"Jaddo—"

"I already answered your question!" Jaddo exclaimed. "They saw exactly what I meant them to see!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Brivari said angrily. "A symbol from the map? They already have the map, and they can't read it!"

"Which is exactly the point," Jaddo said. "That map points to Valeris's book, which is in the library, which is—"

"Depicted by the symbol you so helpfully flattened into the grass," Brivari finished impatiently. "Yes, yes, I get it. What I can't figure out is why you expected them to get it."

"I didn't expect them to 'get it', not then," Jaddo said. "I was only trying to move the process along. Rath just had a flash of memory where he was able to read the map. Yes, I know he forgot," he went on when Brivari began to interrupt, "but the fact remains, he remembered. Now is the best time to nudge that memory again, right after it's surfaced. They've been studying the map for weeks, but they're not getting anywhere. I was merely providing the next piece of the puzzle. Now that they know that symbol means something, they will concentrate on it, and they just might figure it out."

"So you decided to provide a 'piece of the puzzle' in a glaringly public way, a way that circumvents your earlier promise to stay away from them by bringing them to you."

Jaddo's eyebrows rose. "Is that all you think this is? Some elaborate scheme to get around your strictures? Haven't I already made it clear that I'll flush those strictures right down the toilet if need be? All I did was provide something which I hoped would pique their interest. There was never any guarantee it would do so, nor that they would choose to pursue it if it did, and it was important that they decide to pursue it, that they have to hunt for it. That they all showed up was more than I'd hoped for. One would have been enough."

"I'd say you got way more than one judging by the convention in the woods last night," Brivari retorted. "Couldn't you provide a 'piece of the puzzle' the way puzzle pieces usually come, that being on paper?"

"No," Jaddo said firmly. "It had to be something they would believe, something they felt was real, and something which required action on their part, not merely reaction to something dropped in their laps. What better than a 'sighting' to fit that bill? This is Roswell; sightings occur all the time. What's one more? I never expected the circus mine caused, but so what? There's nothing there. Valenti can tear those woods apart, and he won't find a thing. I didn't place the symbol until the hybrids actually arrived, and I would have erased it if they hadn't. What was he going to arrest them for? Getting lost in the woods? His disappointment over finding nothing?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Brivari said in disbelief. "Very well, then, let me spell it out for you. The more you place them in Valenti's path, the greater the danger he'll find out something he shouldn't know."

"But they are in Valenti's path," Jaddo said. "The only way to change that would be to remove them from Roswell, and even I would argue that's premature. We can't let Valenti be an excuse for not moving them forward, Brivari. He'll continue to pursue them, and we'll just have to find ways of working around him or remove him from the equation. Yes, I know that's not optimal, but it's still on the list."

"So that's it? That's your explanation, that this whole fiasco was a means to provide them with a 'piece of the puzzle'?"

"And why do you sound so surprised?" Jaddo demanded. "Rath's burst of memory and subsequent struggle to read the map demanded some kind of intervention on our part. You weren't around, so I intervened."

"Oh, so this is my fault," Brivari said savagely. "Never mind that you could have consulted me before I left or after I came back, especially given that I was gone for a whopping three days!"

"Never mind that you didn't bother to tell me my Ward almost died," Jaddo said darkly. "Or that he'd remembered, however briefly. Did you not think that pertinent information, Brivari? How long did you plan to keep that from me?"

As long as I possibly could, Brivari thought wearily, backed against the wall by his own omission. It was tough to claim the moral high ground when the ground on which one stood was shaking badly, but he'd feared Jaddo would do something just like this when he learned of Rath's near miss. "When I'd figured out what the fallout was," he answered. "When I'd figured out what it meant. When I had more information than simply, 'this happened'."

"Hmpf," Jaddo muttered, unconvinced. "You mean, 'when you got around to it', which might very well be never. You know, I might be more inclined to trust you if you weren't so enamored of keeping things from me."

"Says the one with a laundry list of things he's keeping from me," Brivari accused. "Your turn. If I hadn't been alerted to your forest party by Vilandra's willingness to go camping, when would you have told me about it?"

Jaddo's eyes flashed. "Never. You would have found out anyway, the same way I found out about Rath, by overhearing them talking about it. Then we'd be even."

Brivari shook his head. "I don't know if I should be grateful for your honesty or concerned that getting even is on your 'to do' list. Now you'll have to excuse me. I can't simply do something dramatic and then run off and leave them by themselves."

"They're not 'by themselves'," Jaddo said. "You're in charge of them. Or so you keep telling me."

"Then don't make that job any harder than it is already," Brivari retorted. "And we're not done here."

"No," Jaddo said sourly. "I imagine we're not."




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




January 23, 2000, 2:30 p.m.

West Roswell High School




"Isabel! Max! Over here!"

Isabel peered through the crowd thronging the bus as she and Max came down the steps. "Is that Mom?"

"I thought Grandma was supposed to meet us," Max said.

"Looks like your mother came instead," Philip said behind them. "Probably couldn't wait. I don't think you mother's been alone in the house since....well, since ever."

"What, she couldn't wait the twenty minutes it'll take us to pack up and drive home?" Isabel muttered as they made their way through the crowd. "Great. Just great."

Max gave her a quizzical look. "What's wrong? So what if Mom comes to get us?"

The "so what" became evident the moment Diane threw her arms around Isabel, only to wrinkle her nose and recoil. "Whew!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "Someone needs a shower."

"Thanks, Mom," Isabel deadpanned. "And thanks for announcing that at the top of your lungs in the parking lot."

"Eh, I wouldn't worry about it," Philip said. "Everyone else needs a shower too. I'll go get the gear."

"I didn't mean anything by it, honey," Diane said. "Did you have a good time? Were you too cold? Was the food horrible? Your shoes are filthy," she added to Isabel, who rolled her eyes. "Did you—"

"It was fine, Mom," Max broke in. "We had a great time."

"Yeah, great," Isabel said tonelessly.

"Honey, why don't you go get your car," Philip suggested. "You'll be able to get a closer spot once some of these people leave, and then we can divvy up the gear and the kids."

"The kids can go in your car," Diane chuckled. "I'm not sure I want mine smelling like that for the rest of the week."

The car next to theirs backed out, full of weary campers and dirty clothes. "Fine, my car," Philip agreed when he saw Isabel's pained expression. " Pull up right next to me. Kids, hold this spot for your mother, would you?"

Philip headed for the luggage while Diane headed for her car, still chuckling. "You stay here," Isabel said savagely as Max started after Philip. "If I have to be a doorstop, I won't do it alone."

"I don't think it takes two of us to stand in a parking space, Iz," Max said dryly. "Don't you think you're overreacting just a bit?"

"No, Max, I do not think I'm 'overreacting'," Isabel said fiercely. "Have you smelled me? Because I have, and if you can smell yourself, you know it's bad. I knew Mom was going to say something, and I just wanted her to say it in the privacy of our own home, not in public. Is that too much to ask?"

"I really don't think anyone's listening," Max noted, gazing around the rapidly emptying parking lot where exhausted parents and children made a beeline for home. "I think everyone's had enough camping to last them at least until next year's outing."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I've had enough to last me the rest of my life," Isabel declared. "If I hear one more verse to 'I Saw A Bear', I swear to God I'll scream, the next person who hands me a s'more is going to find it stuffed down their throats, and don't get me started on the impossibility of personal hygiene. And that's not even counting our own little adventure."

"Which is why this was all worth it," Max reminded her. "We didn't go to camp. We went to find out if the sighting was real."

"And now Valenti suspects us more than ever," Isabel said. "He never took his eyes off us, not once, not even when I was in that awful pit toilet. Maybe it's just as well there weren't any showers because if there had been, I swear he would have climbed in with us."

"And there's the overreacting again," Max said. "We didn't do anything wrong, Isabel. We walked in the woods. So what? We didn't hurt anything, or take anything, or even do anything, so there's nothing Valenti can do about it. Just ignore him."

"I can't ignore him," Isabel argued, "not when he's measuring every breath we take. It was bad before, but now it's worse. Was it really worth it?"

"Yes," Max said firmly. "Because not only was the sighting real, there was a message for us. Valenti was on our case before, so nothing's changed. We can't use him as an excuse to avoid what's right in front of us."

"But was it? I've been thinking...it was dark, and we were all creeped out, and...well...did we imagine it? Did we just think we saw something?"

"You tell me; you saw it first," Max said. "You pointed out it was a symbol from the cave."

"Yes, but why a symbol from the cave?" Isabel persisted. "Why something we've already seen? Why not something different?"

"Maybe so we'd recognize it?" Max suggested.

"Maybe," Isabel said doubtfully. "Although that just makes it look more like we imagined it. If it was something we'd never seen before, we couldn't do that, but since it's something we all knew—"

"It glowed, Iz," Max reminded her. "We all threw power at it, and it glowed. And no, we didn't create it," he went on, anticipating her next argument. "We just threw power at what was there, and what was there lit up. We didn't put it there; it was there already. Like River Dog said, it was a message for us."

"Okay, fine," Isabel sighed. "Let's say it was. Then what does it mean? You and Michael have been staring at that map for ages now, and nothing's jumped out at you."

"Maybe that was the point," Max said. "Something just did."

"Max!" a voice called. "A little help here?"

Isabel's stomach felt like lead as Max went to help their father with the gear. The thought that someone was watching them was frightening. The thought that someone not human was watching them was downright terrifying. The thought that someone not human was leaving messages for them was beyond terrifying. What if it kept happening? Would they all be in the woods? If the people they came from had mastered space travel, hadn't they also mastered e-mail? Snail mail? Telephones? Something, anything, besides hiking through the woods?

"Thanks, Max," Philip said as he lifted the trunk lid. "Say, where's your mother?"

"Not back yet," Isabel answered.

"Probably talking to someone," Philip said. "I'll go back for the rest of the stuff."

"I'll get it," Max offered.

"No, that's okay," Philip said. "You pack this up. I want to stop by and thank the sheriff one more time for finding you."




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




Jim Valenti pulled away from the crowd in the parking lot and pulled out his phone. "Hanson?" he said when his deputy answered. "You didn't check in after lunch. Anything to report?"

A minute later Valenti hung up, disappointed. Hanson had nothing to report, nothing at all. He'd had nothing to report all weekend unless you counted one spastic UFO museum director, a handful of rubberneckers, and five lost kids. Scratch the kids, Valenti thought darkly, eyeing the Evans clan across the parking lot. Their foray into the woods in the dead of night was the only real "report" there was, although proving that was a problem. He'd attached himself like glue to those kids for the rest of the weekend, even sleeping outside last night and keeping one eye cracked, but there had been no more night walking, or day walking, or any walking, for that matter. Guerin had disappeared yesterday morning after spending the night with the Evans family, but as he wasn't supposed to be there anyway, getting anyone interested in his absence had proven difficult. The other four had spent the rest of the trip as happy little campers, singing songs, building fires, cooking camp chow, and waiting dutifully in the lines for the latrines they'd supposedly hiked miles to avoid. Sometimes he caught them looking at him, as though daring him to acknowledge that he was watching, and he'd obliged by not bothering to look away. Who cared if they saw him? They already knew he was onto them. The trick now would be to catch them in the act, and he very nearly had. Just not nearly enough.

"Sheriff?"

Valenti blinked. Philip Evans was beside him, watching him with a puzzled expression. "Philip!" Valenti said with false cheerfulness. "We made it, huh? Two nights in the woods with our kids, and we're still alive to tell about it."

"Uh...yeah," Philip said. "I just wanted to thank you again for finding my kids. Is anything wrong?" he added curiously. "You seemed to be staring at them just now."

"My Dad's been keeping an eye on them all weekend," a voice said behind them.

Valenti closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience as Kyle came up beside them. "You know Dad," Kyle said to Philip. "Always looking out for everyone! He was afraid Isabel was going to bolt into the woods again, so he kept a close eye on her, didn't you, Dad?"

"Did you get all our gear, Kyle?" Valenti ground out. "Wouldn't want to lose that nice new tent I bought."

"Heck, Dad, was so worried that he actually slept outside last night," Kyle went on. "Can you believe it? As cold as it was, and he bunked down beside the fire in full view of your tent just in case your daughter decided to take another midnight ramble. Now, that's dedication!"

"Is that true?" Philip asked as Valenti resisted the urge to strangle his son.

"It's not just your kids, Philip," Valenti reminded him. "Liz Parker and Maria DeLuca were picked up by my deputies after pulling the same stunt. I was worried about all of them."

" 'Stunt'?" Philip said doubtfully. "I realize it was an inconvenience, sheriff, but I don't think any of those girls meant to pull a 'stunt'. I think they'd just never been camping before, that's all."

"Of course," Valenti said soothingly, trying to ignore the little smile on Kyle's face. "I just meant that I didn't want any of them to try that again, or anyone else to try it either. Which is why I was outside."

"That's my Dad!" Kyle said cheerfully. "Always working! Works days. Works nights. Works weekends. Works forests—"

"What Kyle means," Valenti interrupted, "is that it was my pleasure to be of service. Say hello to your wife for me, if you would."

"Sure thing," Philip said with a curious glance at Kyle. "Thanks again, Jim."

Valenti barely managed to wait the few seconds it took for Philip to walk out of earshot before rounding on his son. "All right, Kyle, I've had enough," he said severely. "Just drop it, would you?"

"You know, Dad, if I didn't know you better, I'd be worried at constantly catching you staring at a beautiful teenaged girl," Kyle said blandly. "Granted, we all stare at her...I'm sure you can see why...but seeing you staring at her, at least as much as you've been staring this weekend, well...some might find that unsettling."

"Stop it," Valenti ordered. "That's uncalled for."

"There's the problem, Dad," Kyle said sadly. "I don't know what's 'called for' because I don't know what you're up to. You won't tell me."

"I already told you—"

"Nothing," Kyle finished. "You told me nothing, or nothing truthful, anyway. Everybody knows that none of the kids who went into the woods are druggies. Heck, the druggies didn't even go on this trip because there's no safe place to get high. Try again."

"Kyle, I don't know where you got the idea that you can just demand confidential investigative information, but you can't. And you certainly have no business making filthy accusations—"

"Hey!" Kyle broke in, raising his hands in supplication. "I'm not making accusations, I'm just callin' it like I see it, like I'm afraid other people might see it, and if I've called it wrong, please, feel free to correct me." He paused, waiting, while Valenti fumed. "Hmm. Not now, huh? Well, if you change your mind, let me know. Any time of the day or night because I know you take your work so seriously that you work all day and all night. Until then...well, I guess I'll just have to draw whatever conclusions I can."




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




"Oh, God, is he still doing it?" Maria groaned as they waited for Mr. Parker to drag their bags out of the bus's innards. "We're in the parking lot, for heaven's sake. What does he think they're gonna do in the parking lot? Sprout antennae and start phoning home?"

Liz followed her gaze to Sheriff Valenti, who was openly staring at Max and Isabel. "Couldn't he at least make an effort to hide it?" Maria went on. "Like, maybe look, but pretend he's not looking? Like we all do when we're checking out a guy? If we can pull that off, why can't he? He's supposed to be a professional."

"Maria, he knows something's up," Liz said. "That's why he followed us into the woods."

"I know, and that's really bugging me," Maria said crossly. "How did we not hear him? How did we not see him? Are we really that out of it that we didn't hear or see someone coming after us? I mean, he must have been close enough to see us or he would have lost us."

"You've been obsessing about this all weekend," Liz said. "Just let it go, would you? We had no idea anyone was following us. We just weren't paying attention."

"But Max and Isabel knew you were following them," Maria protested. "Why did they know, and we didn't?"

"They have alien hearing," Liz answered. "It's not exactly a level playing field."

"And there's the other entrant in the staring contest," Maria went on, gazing across the parking lot. "Poor Isabel; she had two people watching her every move all weekend."

Liz blinked. "I'm sorry, did you...did you just say the words 'poor Isabel'?"

Maria considered that. "It was a moment of weakness," she said finally. "It won't happen again. Oh, God," she added, turning around suddenly. "Here he comes again."

Liz's heart sank when she saw Alex walking toward them, a hopeful expression on his face. Poor Alex. One slip of the tongue, and it had all been over.

"Hey, ladies," Alex said with forced cheerfulness when he reached them. "So, do you think now is a safe time to apologize? I mean, I know you suggested I stay away after the whole 'pee in the woods' bit because she was embarrassed, but the trip's over. Can I talk to her now?"

Liz and Maria exchanged glances. "We should tell him," Liz said finally.

"No," Maria said, shaking her head vigorously.

"Tell me what?" Alex asked.

"No, Maria, we should tell him," Liz said firmly. "I didn't tell him before, and look what happened." She turned to Alex, who was wearing an alarmed expression. "Alex, there isn't going to be a good time to talk to Isabel for a while because she's kind of distracted. You know the sighting?"

"Um...yeah," Alex said uncertainly. "What about it?"

Maria sighed heavily. "It was real."

Alex's eyes bulged. "Real as in...really real?"

"Yes, really real," Liz answered. "That's why we were all in the woods Friday night. They were looking to see if they could find something...and they did."

"Something like...what?" Alex asked nervously. "Spaceships? Alien luggage? Extra-terrestrial credit cards?"

"No," Liz said patiently as Maria rolled her eyes. "Like a symbol from that map in the cave. On the ground."

"On...the ground?" Alex echoed. "You mean it was outside the cave? Okay, that's...creepy," he went on when Liz nodded. "Wait...you said that's why you were 'all' in the woods? That includes you two?"

"I saw them leave," Liz confessed. "So I followed them."

"And I saw her leave," Maria added. "So I followed her. And Valenti saw all of us leave, and...well, you get the idea."

"Geez," Alex said, wide-eyed. "I had no idea. And to think I was wide awake most of that night, kicking myself because I'd screwed up."

"As we've already told you a million times, you didn't 'screw up'," Maria said patiently. "You merely suffered a slip of the tongue, and these Czechoslovakians are skittish creatures, not to mention heartbreakers. Believe me, I know. And so does Miss I-don't-want-to-let-go-of-him-even-though-I-know-he's-bad-for-me Parker."

"Leave me out of this, Maria," Liz ordered. "You don't want to let Michael go either. That's why you never went near him when he came back with Max and Isabel."

"Wait—Michael was there?" Alex said, confused. "When was he there? I didn't see him on this trip."

"Because he didn't come on the trip," Maria explained. "He was only in the woods. And I've already let go of him," she continued to Liz. "Haven't I made that clear?"

"Look, I'm not interested in the 411 on who's letting go of whom," Alex broke in before Liz could answer. "Although I guess I'm on that list because I'm not letting go of Isabel or the possibility that I could one day spend some time with her without saying something stupid, something I seem to have a knack for. I just—"

"Want to apologize," Liz finished. "We know. Wait a week."

"A week?"

"At least," Maria added. "Give her some time to get her head around...other stuff. And doing it sooner makes you look needy."

"I am needy," Alex said.

"Yes, but you don't want her to know that," Maria explained.

"Stop fretting, Alex," Liz advised. "You're just trying too hard. Ease up a little, that's all."

Alex nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Right. Well...I gotta find my dad."

"How'd he do?" Liz asked.

"Not bad. A few bug bites and a bear scare; that's all. Oh, hi, Mr. Parker," Alex added when Jeff appeared, laden with luggage. "I could have helped you with that."

"Nah, you were getting your own," Jeff answered. "You should get your dad home. He didn't look too good this morning."

"Yeah; weak digestion," Alex said apologetically. "Sorry about that. Pancakes don't usually make him throw up. I thought they were really good. Nothing personal."

"Of course not," Jeff said. "Later, Alex."

Liz blinked. "Wait...Mr. Whitman threw up your pancakes?"

"Well, we were in the woods, so there were lots of places to throw up," Jeff said lightly. "You guys ready to go? If you each grab a couple of things, we can do this in one trip. Oh, dear," he added, looking across the parking lot. "That doesn't look good."

Liz glanced across the lot to where Sheriff Valenti and Kyle appeared to be having some kind of fight. "Guess it wasn't a happy weekend for everyone," Jeff commented as Liz and Maria exchanged glances. "Kind of brings back memories. Bad ones."

"What do you mean?" Liz asked.

"Sheriff Valenti and his own father are estranged," Jeff explained as they headed for the car. "Have been for years."

"Why?" Maria asked.

"Well," Jeff said, "supposedly the sheriff's father believed in aliens."

Maria nearly dropped her bags. "Um...aliens? Really?"

"Yep. Lost his job years back, and word is that's why."

"Because he...believed in aliens," Liz said.

"They said it compromised his judgment," Jeff nodded. "There was a lot of talk when they gave his son the badge. Some folks were concerned history was going to repeat itself." He unlocked the trunk. "I'm sure that's not it," he said, noticing their stricken faces as he started piling gear in the trunk. "Fathers and sons have fought since time began. I'm sure it's just a run-of-the-mill fight."

Liz and Maria exchanged glances. "Yeah," Liz said faintly. "I'm sure that's all it is."




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



January 24, 2000, 10:30 a.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation





"Have you seen your grandfather?" Eddie's mother asked.

"He's taking a nap," Eddie answered.

"A nap? He got up late."

"So I guess he's really tired."

"Goodness, I hope he's not ill," his mother said. "This isn't like him."

Actually, it's just like him, Eddie thought as mother hurried off, no doubt to look in on River Dog. His grandfather wasn't sick, but he was exhausted after their hijinks in the woods this weekend. There was a pattern here, repeated often enough now to be visible; he'd respond to the latest "visitor call" with energy and enthusiasm, but afterward he'd be spent for an increasingly long time. Nasedo's reappearance may have invigorated River Dog, but his body was having a hard time keeping up. Take, for example, the appearance of the sheriff during their recent late night hike. His grandfather had melted into the forest and away from the sheriff but had faltered on the way back to the village, making Eddie grateful he'd ignored the order not to follow. His grandfather wouldn't be doing anything like that again without him, not if he had anything to say about it.

"Good afternoon."

Eddie nearly jumped out of his seat, so startled was he to find Nasedo standing only feet away from him. "How the hell did you get in here?" he sputtered. "I didn't even hear you!"

"Few do," Nasedo observed. "I'm here to see your grandfather."

"My mother—"

"Just left," Nasedo said. "Didn't you hear that either?"

The sound of a car starting brought Eddie to the window, where his mother was driving away. "No, I didn't," he said flatly. "But then we've been a bit distracted lately, with all you've had us doing."

Nasedo blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Marvelous, Eddie thought sourly. First he had his grandfather running around like crazy, and now he acted like he didn't remember that. Given how powerful River Dog said Nasedo was, it wouldn't be a good idea to let Nasedo know just how angry that made him. Given how angry he was, Eddie didn't care.

"Let me tell you something," Eddie said furiously, throwing caution to the winds and a pointed finger in Nasedo's face. "My grandfather may feel beholden to you, but I don't. You pull a stunt like this again, you do it yourself and leave us out of it, you hear?"



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


I'll post Chapter 58 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT



January 24, 2000, 10:30 a.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation





Brivari blinked at the young man smoldering in front of him, and it took him a moment to figure out why River Dog's grandson would be bristling with anger. Of course, he thought heavily. Of course they would think the business this weekend was his doing. It certainly looked that way.

"By 'stunt', I presume you mean the 'sighting'," Brivari said.

"Of course I mean the 'sighting'," Eddie retorted. "But what I really mean is the way you roped him into it. I don't care what you do with your kids, but River Dog's too old to be leading them around on a leash. Stop asking him to put himself out there for you and do it yourself, for a change."

"I should have," Brivari agreed.

"You're darned right you should have," Eddie said hotly, not the least bit appeased by agreement. "He says he offered, and you took him up on it, but frankly, I don't see the difference. You know how old he is. He's done and done for you, he's kept his promises, kept his word. He doesn't owe you a thing. Just leave him alone, and stop dragging him—"

"Eddie."

Eddie's tirade came to an abrupt halt as River Dog appeared behind him. "Grandfather...I'm sorry," he said stiffly, sounding anything but. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You did a good enough job of it for someone not meaning to," River Dog said dryly. "Leave us."

"You have my word I will not ask anything of him," Brivari said quickly when Eddie's eyes flashed toward him. "Not a thing."

"Yeah, right," Eddie muttered.

"Enough," River Dog said firmly. "You act like I was pressed into service. I wasn't. And I'm not going to argue this with you again," he continued when Eddie began to do just that. "Not now. Don't you have work to do outside?"

Eddie hesitated for a moment before throwing a furious look Brivari's way and stalking out of the house, banging the door behind him for good measure. "I apologize for his temper," River Dog said, easing himself slowly onto a chair. "He is young and impetuous."

"He's also right," Brivari said. "You've done enough for me, far more than you ever agreed to."

"I fulfilled my promise," River Dog said. "And helped save a life."

"And I'm eternally grateful for both," Brivari said, taking a seat across from him. "But what happened this weekend didn't involve your promise and wasn't an emergency. I'm sorry you got involved."

"I'm not," River Dog shrugged, "despite my grandson's temper. I'm not as bad off as he believes."

But you're worse off than you think, Brivari thought sadly, noting the stiffness in his friend's legs, his hunched posture, the fatigue in his face. River Dog had spent far too much time lately hiking through the woods, and his body was showing the strain. That this latest trip was courtesy of Jaddo was maddening, and it smarted to have to take responsibility for that.

"So," River Dog said, "that was quite a gathering. I was expecting only Michael and myself, not the others, and certainly not the sheriff. What was he doing there?"

"He suspects my Wards are...'different'," Brivari said. "He followed them into the woods."

"As my grandson followed me," River Dog nodded, "despite my telling him not to. He's improving; I never heard him. The young these days, they tromp around in 'sneakers', making enough noise to wake the dead. It's a good thing they no longer have to hunt for food, or they'd starve."

Brivari smiled faintly. "The older generation always says things like that about the younger generation. Even where I come from."

"So some things are constants," River Dog noted. "Did the sheriff pose a problem?"

Brivari shook his head. "By the time he arrived, there was nothing to see."

"And did they recognize what you left them? They didn't seem to when I was there."

"They knew it was from the cave," Brivari said. "But they don't know what it means."

"And yet he did," River Dog murmured. "Michael, I mean, after he recovered from his illness. He seemed to know what your cave painting meant. I gather you were trying to jog his memory?"

In a damned stupid way, Brivari thought privately. "Yes," he said out loud. "Or at least to point him toward one part of the painting in the hopes they would focus on it. Whether that actually occurs remains to be seen."

"So we were successful," River Dog said, "at least as far as them seeing what you wanted them to." He glanced back toward the door his grandson had just stormed through. "You have a difficult job ahead of you, Nasedo. Teaching the young is exhausting. That's why I offered to help you. When it comes to parenting, it appears you could use some guidance."

" 'Parenting'," Brivari said ironically. "I never claimed to be a parent."

" 'Teacher', then," River Dog amended. "Regardless, you seem to be in as much of a quandary as your charges. Take Michael, for example. He is eager and frightened at the same time, and angry too, although that might have something to do with the man who was bellowing at him the first night I visited his home."

"His foster father," Brivari nodded. "His first foster home was stable, his second not so much. The other two fared much better."

"I can see that," River Dog said. "Michael has a need for a father. He thought I might be his father, or that I might be...you."

"A logical conclusion, given how much you know."

"I broke my ankle on the walk to the cave," River Dog continued, "or sprained it, at least. He healed it."

Brivari, who had winced at the announcement that River Dog had injured himself, blinked. "He...you mean 'Michael'? Michael healed your ankle?"

"Yes," River Dog answered. "He just reached down and put his hand on it, and...then it was better." He paused. "You sound surprised."

"Well...yes," Brivari admitted. "I didn't know he could do that."

"He had no healing stones," River Dog said thoughtfully. "But the injury was much less severe than my father's, or your illness, or his own, so I assumed he didn't need them."

Apparently not, Brivari thought. Only Zan had shown evidence of being able to heal, but certainly all of them technically should be able to. "I'm sorry you were injured," Brivari said, "and I'm glad he was able to help you. How is that the other two weren't with you?"

"I wasn't expecting the others," River Dog said. "I only approached Michael."

"Why?" Brivari asked, puzzled.

River Dog stared at him a moment. "Because you asked me to."

"I asked you to?" Brivari echoed. "How so?"

"At the cave," River Dog answered. "When I offered to help."

Oh, dear, Brivari thought heavily. River Dog had indeed offered to help, and many times over, but at no point had Brivari expressed a preference for Rath. Was this the beginnings of what the humans termed "senility", the path Emily Proctor had started down, where memory dimmed or disappeared altogether? "I see," he said gently, not wanting to call attention to the fact that his friend appeared to be slipping.

"You were quite explicit," River Dog said, as though sensing his doubt. "You told me to bring only Michael, because he was the one who remembered...didn't you?"

"That was a long night for all of us," Brivari said, sidestepping the fact that he had never said anything of the sort. "Michael's illness, coupled with—"

"No, no," River Dog said. "Not then. I'm talking about the last time we spoke at the cave, just last week."

Brivari's mouth opened, then closed. "Last...week?"

"Yes," River Dog nodded. "The morning after the sighting. I knew it was real because I'd seen it before, and went up to the cave to see if you were there."

"And...was I?"

"Of course you were," River Dog said, sounding suspiciously like he'd reached the same conclusion about Brivari that Brivari had just reached about him. "You were staring at the cave painting, so lost in thought that you didn't even hear me coming. That's not like you."

Because it wasn't me, Brivari thought as several odd details suddenly clicked into place. "I should say not," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I must have been in quite a state."

"You were certainly preoccupied," River Dog allowed. "The children were not responding to your signal. That's when I offered to fetch them, and you told me to bring only Michael and to come alone, a request I didn't comply with completely. I hope that did not cause a problem. I told Eddie to stay in the truck, but—"

"No, no, that's all right," Brivari said quickly, a cold fury burning in his stomach. "He was right to accompany you, and right to follow you into the woods. I...I should not have asked that of you. I apologize." He rose suddenly. "I must be going, but I'll return soon. I'm sorry I put you in that position. It won't happen again."

"You didn't put me in that position, Nasedo," River Dog said gently. "I offered to help. You merely took me up on my offer."

"I certainly did," Brivari said darkly. "Please, get some rest. I'll be back."

Brivari hurried outside, the cold fury inside now twice the heat of the stare River Dog's grandson gave him on the way past. He hadn't been anywhere near the cave right after the sighting, had not even been in the state. There was going to be hell to pay.




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




"So that's two sheet cakes, one white, one marble, and two bowls of punch," Kathleen Topolsky said, scribbling on a pad. "Plus paper plates, cups, and napkins, forks for the cake...anything I forgot?"

"I think we should have plastic cups for the punch," Donna suggested. "Those paper ones look like they came from the bathroom."

"Plastic cups," Topolsky murmured, scribbling.

"I think the party should have a theme," Lisa announced.

"It has a theme," Topolsky said. "It's a birthday."

"No, I mean a real theme," Lisa said, "like maybe Mexican? We could get some sombreros, maybe a burro—"

"A burro?" Topolsky echoed. "In an FBI office?"

"Not a real burro, of course," Lisa clarified. "I meant one of those cardboard cutouts."

"And we could put up Mexican themed decorations!" Donna added, warming to the idea. "Maybe even have a piñata!"

Topolsky blinked. "A piñata? At an FBI agent's birthday party?"

"Sure!" Donna enthused. "We could fill it with little plastic squirt guns, and then run around squirting each other..."

The image of FBI agents in suits squirting each other with tiny squirt guns caused Topolsky to tune out entirely. How had a simple birthday party for another agent turned into a fiasco? An even better question was how had a birthday party for another agent turned into her problem? Donna and Lisa were secretaries, or rather "administrative assistants", the new term for "secretary", which was considered old-fashioned and sexist even though their actual duties had not changed. It was an admin's job to plan social events like this one, so why had they come to her?

"I'm sorry, I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing here," Topolsky interrupted as the proposed piñata ballooned to one the size of a burro now stuffed with squirt guns and candy. "The two of you seem to have this in hand, so I really don't think I'm adding anything to the process."

"I...oh," Donna faltered. "Well...we just thought you might have...."

"Some ideas," Lisa finished. "See, we usually plan agents' parties all by ourselves, and this time we thought it might be nice to get another agent's input."

Because "this time" the agent in question is a woman, Topolsky thought sourly. That was how she had wound up sucked into a discussion of buttercream versus whipped cream frosting and piñatas. "I see," she said, seeing far more than she wanted to. "Then my 'input' is that I sincerely doubt Agent Darrow would enjoy the kind of party you're proposing. I think cake and punch would be just fine."

"But that's what we always do!" Lisa protested. "We wanted to do something different this time, you know, kind of mix it up a bit."

"We've tried before, but no one seemed to like it," Donna admitted. "We were hoping you could help."

In other words, you were hoping I'd agree with you because I'm a woman. "Love to," Topolsky smiled. "Here's my two cents' worth. Agent Darrow is a 54 year-old man without a trace of Mexican ancestry who wouldn't appreciate a birthday party which involves attacking a paper animal hanging from the ceiling with sticks and dousing other agents with water, not to mention that water would ruin anything on anyone's desk, drycleanable suits, the carpet, and just about anything else in sight. Stick to the cake and punch."

"That's not very helpful," Donna said doubtfully.

"Yes, well, the definition of 'helpful' is not 'anything you want', now is it?" Topolsky handed her scribbled list to the wide-eyed Donna and smiled at the scowling Lisa. "Now, if you ladies would excuse me, I have work to do."

Topolsky walked away with as much dignity as she could muster, doing her best to ignore the mutterings which accompanied her exit. It was nice to be liked, but it was better to be respected, and sometimes you had to choose between the two. She was an agent, not an admin; respect had to come first. She had to fight the fact that people didn't see her as an agent every single day, so she'd just have to keep hammering away at the immoveable object of people's expectations of a woman, keep drawing the line between agent and other and making it clear she was agent, and that her work consisted of more than frosting and piñatas. One of these days, they'd get it. Maybe not in her lifetime, but they'd get it.

Back at her cubicle, Topolsky sank into her chair and surveyed her "to do" list. I have work to do. That statement was something of a joke. While Stevens' decision to declare that the assignment in Roswell had revealed nothing of interest had benefited her, there was no getting around the fact that he knew what had actually happened. He couldn't come down too hard on her without giving away the fiction, so while she hadn't been banished to a filing room, she had been assigned desk duty, which meant lots of fact-checking and follow-up which agents in the field didn't have time for. It was slow, boring work which she rationalized by telling herself that someone had done this for her during those few glorious weeks she'd been in the field. It helped that no one seemed to know the circumstances behind her exit from Roswell, something of a miracle in a world where news traveled fast and a testament to Stevens' ability to keep his mouth shut. Granted that discretion was necessary to cover his own ass, but she was grateful for it all the same. It was much easier to endure her current circumstances when everyone thought she had merely been recalled.

Her phone rang. Topolsky sighed as she picked it up; probably a source returning a call or another agent with more for her "to do". "Agent Topolsky," she said crisply, with a slight emphasis on the word "agent" just in case the caller allowed the female voice to cancel out the title.

"Kathleen? Pamela. They're here!"

Topolsky's heart clutched. "Be right there." A second later she bolted out of her chair, only to return and fumble in her top desk drawer for a mirror. It wouldn't do to go charging up there looking disheveled, and she doubled-checked her hair clasp and hastily added another coat of lipstick before scurrying to the elevator, punching the buttons impatiently and praying no one else would join her. They didn't, and she used the six floor ride to smooth both her skirt and her mind. By the time the door opened on the seventh floor, she was as ready as she was ever going to be. Agent Stevens' admin, Pamela, was standing in the doorway to Stevens' office when she darted out of the elevator, and Stevens looked up from his desk and paused.

"Agent Topolsky? What are you doing here?"

"I sent for her," Pamela said. "I figured you'd want her here."

"Oh you did, did you?"

"Of course, sir," Pamela said with a perfectly straight face. "She has the most in depth knowledge of the area."

Stevens raised an eyebrow while the two other agents in his office exchanged glances and Topolsky crossed her fingers that she'd be allowed to stay. Finally Stevens beckoned with one hand.

"Come. Hurry up. We're late."

Topolsky threw Pamela a look of sheer gratitude. Pam had gone out of her way to keep her updated on the latest sighting in Roswell which had everyone so excited, and she'd called this morning to let her know the agents assigned to investigate were being debriefed. "Come up when they're here," she'd said. "I'll get you in." Now she winked at Topolsky before sauntering back to her desk in triumph as Topolsky reflected that her being a woman had finally worked to her advantage. The door closed behind her, and she faced Stevens at his desk, two skeptical looking agents, and no chairs.

"Agent Topolsky, these are Agents Price and Bering," Stevens said. "Agent Price, would you be so kind as to give Agent Topolsky your chair?"

"Oh, no, sir," Topolsky said quickly. "I'll stand."

"No, no," Agent Price objected, rising. "Here, take my seat."

"I'm fine," Topolsky insisted.

"I insist," Agent Price insisted.

The door opened behind them. "Need another chair?" Pam asked brightly, hefting a spare.

A minute later Topolsky was seated between the other two agents and eager to move past her gender, which always seemed to wind up at the top of the agenda. "So, agents," Agent Stevens said to Price and Bering, "what did you find?"

"A whole lot of nothing, sir," Bering answered.

Topolsky folded her hands in her lap and bit her tongue into tiny little pieces as the details slowly emerged. It had never been entirely clear why this sighting, one among dozens, had generated so much interest, and as Bering and Price described hours spent combing miles of forest and interviewing witnesses, it became clear to Topolsky why this one was different. Everyone else, however, had yet to catch up.

"So what caused all the furor?" Stevens asked.

"Don't know, sir," Bering shrugged. "Maybe because one of the witnesses sold his story to Dateline?"

"The press did pick it up quickly, sir," Price added. "Might have just been the media blitz."

Stevens shook his head. "I had the Governor of New Mexico on my tail, gentlemen. The governor doesn't bother with just any old sighting, especially with so many to choose from. What gives?"

"Roswell's mayor was all worked up about it," Price noted.

"But why?" Stevens said. "Roswell's mayor should know better than anyone how often this happens and how little it means. What was different about this one?"

"Don't know, sir," Bering admitted.

"No idea," Price added.

"Valenti," Topolsky said.

All heads turned her way. "Agent Topolsky?" Stevens said.

Topolsky felt Bering's and Price's eyes on her as she looked directly at Stevens. "Valenti was different, sir. His response as described by Agents Bering and Price far exceeds the usual response to reports of "sightings", which typically includes taking a report and filing it away, or maybe sending a deputy to take a cursory look around just so you can say you did. Valenti launched a full scale investigation, blocking off a section of woods and combing it several times over three days. I'm sure the mayor noticed. When the mayor noticed, I'm sure the governor noticed. And when Dateline noticed, I'm sure everyone noticed."

"He was pretty rabid about it, come to think of it," Price allowed. "Word is he ran out there lickety split so he could get there before we did. If I hear the phrase 'feebie goon' one more time, I'm gonna get testy."

"Guy's probably still smarting from that business last fall," Bering added. "Heck, maybe he's a believer now. God knows his old man was."

Topolsky looked at Stevens, who looked away. "So did you find anything around the site?" Stevens asked. "Anything at all?"

"Nothing alien," Price replied. "Nothing but woods, snotty sheriff's deputies, and school kids."

"School kids?" Topolsky said.

"Yeah, they were having some kind of camping trip not too far from the site," Bering answered, shaking his head. "In January, no less. Are they nuts?"

"Guess they caused a stir one night when the dogs thought they'd found something," Price added. "Turned out to be just a few girls who got lost trying to take a leak in the forest. Word is they didn't like outhouses."

"Yeah, I didn't get that," Bering said, shaking his head. "I mean, isn't an outhouse better than squatting over a log? At least an outhouse has a seat."

"That's easy for you to say," Topolsky said. "You can pee standing up."

Bering and Price both flushed as though they'd forgotten she was a she, which would be just fine with Topolsky. "Do you have the names of the students who got lost?" she asked.

Price recovered first. "Yeah, right here," he said, handing her a folder. "We got copies of all the police reports for that area and a list of all the students on the camping trip. Lot of people were picked up for rubbernecking, including the curator of the local UFO museum. Man, that was one weird dude. He was picked up twice, on Friday night and then again on Saturday. Doesn't give up easily, that one."

"And did you see that get-up?" Bering chuckled. "He was wearing so much gear, some people thought he was an alien."

The conversation faded as Topolsky absorbed herself in the police reports. Five minutes later she snapped the folder shut.

"Sir, may I have a word in private?"

There was a moment of confused silence before Stevens answered. "Agents, if there's nothing more, would you please excuse us?"

Bering and Price straggled out, throwing puzzled glances her way and no doubt wondering what she'd found that they'd missed. But of course they'd missed it. They didn't know these people the way she did.

"Agent Topolsky?" Stevens said when the other two had left. "Something on your mind?"

"Sir, I think we need to take another look at this sighting."

"And why is that?"

"Look who was picked up in the woods Friday night," she said, brandishing police reports. "Max and Isabel Evans. Liz Parker. Maria DeLuca."

Stevens took the reports from her and studied them. "Okay," he said finally. "It appears our former suspect followed his sister into the woods. So?"

"So why them?" Topolsky said. "Why Max and Isabel, why Liz and Maria? They're the core group, sir. Why were those four in the woods at the same time?"

"They weren't in the woods at the same time," Stevens said, rifling through the reports. "Parker and DeLuca were picked up over an hour earlier than the Evans kids."

"But look who picked up the Evans kids," Topolsky persisted.

"Sheriff Valenti," Stevens said. "Unsurprising, given that his name is on the school list along with his son's."

"If he was there with Kyle, what was he doing out in the forest picking up the Evans kids?" Topolsky asked.

Stevens smiled faintly. " 'Kyle'? I had no idea you were on a first name basis with Valenti's kid."

"I know all those kids," Topolsky said. "I know a lot of their parents. What was Alex Whitman doing there? I'm willing to bet good money his father hasn't camped a day in his life. Same thing with Isabel Evans; the only place she'd go camping is outside Filene's for the 'Running of the Brides'."

"Your point, agent?"

"Is that there are kids on that list who shouldn't be there, who normally wouldn't be there," Topolsky argued. "So why are they there?"

"Gee, I don't know," Stevens shrugged. "Maybe because they all go to the same school? Because they're friends? Because their dads talked them into a 'Father's Camping Weekend'?"

"Or maybe there's something to this sighting," Topolsky said. "Maybe that's why Max Evans was 'lost' in the woods in the middle of the night, and why Sheriff Valenti was the one who found him. I'll bet he was following Max."

"Okay, now we've entered the land of conjecture," Stevens said, tossing the reports on his desk. "There is absolutely no evidence to suggest that Valenti was 'following' anyone."

"Then why was he out there?" Topolsky demanded.

"Maybe because a Philip Evans reported his kids missing?" Stevens suggested.

"And another thing," Topolsky said, leaning forward and plucking a report out of the stack. "Liz Parker and Maria DeLuca were picked up over a half mile away from the camp site. Why would they have gone so far away just to avoid an outhouse?"

"They got lost, agent," Stevens said patiently. "In the woods. At night. People do that, you know, even big people like us, and that goes double for kids. They get all turned around and wind up further away than they thought."

"It doesn't say how far away Max and Isabel were when Valenti found them," Topolsky persisted. "Why not? That's a detail Valenti's deputies would never have left out, but lo and behold, look who wrote this report—Valenti himself. That's a detail Valenti wouldn't leave out either."

"So what are you getting at, agent? What do you think happened?"

"I think all of those kids went into the woods for reasons that had nothing to do with shy bladders," Topolsky said. "And I think Valenti followed them because Valenti suspects Max too." She hesitated, finally deciding to go for it. "Sir, I think we should take another look at this. I think there are things here Agents Bering and Price didn't see, couldn't see because they didn't know who they were dealing with. I...I think this might very well be a real sighting."

Silence. Topolsky clamped her mouth shut and waited, knowing what the reaction would likely be, but also knowing in her bones she was right. Stevens gave her a measured stare that lasted so long, it was hard not to fidget.

"So," Stevens said, "I send two experienced agents to investigate this, and they found nothing...but you disagree with that."

"Sir, I don't doubt their experience," Topolsky said carefully. "I'm sure they did a thorough job investigating this as far as they were able. But I'm equally sure this doesn't smell right. I know these people. I spent months with them; I know their habits, their quirks, their prejudices. I know them the way only someone who's lived with them can know them, and that's why I know something's off here. There's a reason that particular collection of people were in the woods that night, a reason that has nothing to do with camping trips or sheer proximity."

"I see," Stevens said, nodding slowly. "Would you like to know what I think, agent? I think you're too close to this. I think you're so close to this that you're reading things into it that aren't there. And if I'm wrong...and I admit I've been known to be wrong...there remains the fact that nothing, I repeat, nothing, was found in those woods, not by my agents, not by Valenti, not by anyone. So even if you're right, there's nothing there to investigate. And for the record, I don't think you're right."

"I respectfully disagree, sir," Topolsky said stiffly.

"And that's your prerogative. Thank you for your input. You can go now."

"Sir, I—"

"That will be all, Agent Topolsky. Your opinions have been noted."

"But sir—"

"Dismissed, agent."

Topolsky's swallowed her next objection before rising from her chair. "I appreciate you hearing me out, sir. Thank you."

"You're very welcome, agent," Stevens said. "I'll see you at the birthday party."

Topolsky left the office to find an eager Pamela waiting for her. "Well?" Pam said gleefully. "Did they have anything?"

"Yes," Topolsky said dully. "But they didn't know they had anything. And he didn't believe me when I told him they had something."

"Bummer," Pam remarked. "Hey, all you can do is throw it out there. Sometimes they run with it, sometimes they don't."

"Yeah," Topolsky said heavily. "Thanks for getting me in there, Pam. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a burro to order."




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




Artesia, New Mexico




"This room is rather small," Mr. Pritchard said primly, peering over top of his glasses. "But with some extra seating, I think it will do."

"I could bring the kitchen chairs in here," Jaddo suggested. "How many people are you expecting, exactly?"

" 'Exactly'?" Mr. Pritchard sighed, resettling his glasses on his nose. " 'Exactly' is such a difficult concept these days. I asked for R.S.V.P.'s, but do people do that any more? No, they do not. I'm telling you, Mr. Hartman, civility has taken a nosedive. My mother would have killed me if I'd failed to respond promptly to an invitation. Wouldn't yours?"

"No," Jaddo answered.

Mr. Pritchard blinked. "Oh. Well...the fact remains that people these days think nothing of waiting until the last minute, or saying they're coming and then changing their minds, or simply not saying anything at all. All of which creates sheer havoc for those of us like me, like you, who work diligently to plan these important occasions by providing enough space, refreshments, and all the other minutiae which goes into holding a successful event. I'm telling you, I have a good mind to bar entrance to anyone who hasn't responded."

"That can be arranged," Jaddo said.

Mr. Pritchard blinked again. "Oh. Well...I was only joking."

"I wasn't."

"You...you weren't?"

"Of course not. You're absolutely right; no one should be admitted unless they've responded."

Mr. Pritchard blinked several times. "Oh. Well...that would require some kind of door cop, or something—"

"And I'd be happy to volunteer. So," Jaddo continued, "extra seats and a bouncer. Anything else?"

Jaddo suppressed a smile as Mr. Pritchard gaped satisfyingly at his unexpected success. Pritchard was an officious little twit, but word was that he was the "it" parent at school, the one with a seat on every committee, the ear of every administrator, and his nose in everyone's business. Still alert for rumors that he and Tess were moving, the quickest way to quell those rumors was to monitor the man who did the monitoring. To that end he had offered his living room for a parents' meeting concerning that monumental waste of human schoolchildren's time, the "SAT", a lengthy, long-winded exam which supposedly predicted the likelihood of eventual success in college but really only predicted the size of one's bank account given the fees for taking the test, the multiple number of times each student took it, and the cost of preparatory material. No human test posed an obstacle for Tess, of course, whose only problem with the SAT was making certain she didn't ace the practice tests they were given, something she could have done with ease and which would have caused undue attention. She had to be careful to do well enough to evade calls for remedial action, but not so well as to call attention to herself.

"I think that will be all for now," Pritchard was saying, still struggling with the notion of having a bouncer at the door. "I must say, Mr. Hartman, that I appreciate your offer to help me with this. Our children's future is so important, and not only do they not realize that...understandable, I suppose, given that they are, after all, just children...but most parents don't realize it either. I can't tell you how refreshing it is to find a parent who takes his child's future so very seriously."

"Tessie's future is practically all I think about," Jaddo assured him. "And all she thinks about."

"Really?" Pritchard said, surprised. "Well, now, you are blessed. Most teenagers can't think past their next date. Is your daughter dating yet, Mr. Hartman?"

She hadn't better be. "Tess prefers to concentrate on her schoolwork," Jaddo answered. "There'll be time for all that later."

"Oh, my, but you're fortunate!" Pritchard exclaimed. "I can't seem to get Kara interested in anything but boys, and certainly not in her future. Sometimes I simply don't know what to do."

"That's easy," Jaddo said. "Tell her 'no'."

" 'No'...what?"

" 'No' boyfriends," Jaddo said. " 'No' television until her homework is done. 'No' sleepovers, 'no' school dances, 'no' whatever is getting in the way."

Pritchard blinked for the umpteenth time. "Oh. Well...I..."

"It's a single syllable, two letter word," Jaddo said dryly. "Shouldn't be too difficult to say."

"Then it is entirely too bad you didn't follow your own advice."

Jaddo sighed as Pritchard whirled around in surprise at the new voice. Brivari was standing in the front hallway, and he did not look happy.

"Oh!" Pritchard exclaimed. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company. Allow me to introduce myself; I am—"

"Get out."

Pritchard blanched at Brivari's blunt order, considered the expression on his face, then wisely decided to comply. "We'll...talk later," he stammered to Jaddo, grabbing his briefcase and edging past Brivari, who didn't budge so much as an inch to let him pass.

"Very smooth," Jaddo said after Pritchard had gone. "And rumor has it I'm the one with no manners. Honestly, Brivari, couldn't you at least have waited until he'd left? I was—"

"No," Brivari interrupted severely. "You know, that 'simple, two-letter word' you just referenced? The 'simple two-letter' word that should have occurred to you the very moment you contemplated using one of our allies and my friend to do your dirty work!"



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


I'll post Chapter 59 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE



January 24, 2000, 3 p.m.

Artesia, New Mexico




"Oh," Jaddo sighed. "You found out about that?"

Typical, Brivari thought furiously. When one angered all and sundry as often as Jaddo did, encountering that anger probably became routine. "That's it?" he demanded. " 'You found out about that'? You used a friend of mine, and that's your defense?"

"It 's not a defense," Jaddo said. "I did nothing wrong. And before you go off half cocked, he came to me. I never approached him."

"Oh, stop it!" Brivari exclaimed. "You deceived him! You pretended to be me! You took my shape and pretended to be me, something Covari never do!"

"Correction: We never take another's native shape," Jaddo said. "And I didn't, which is just as well as I'm guessing your Indian friend has never seen it. Does he even know you're a shapeshifter?"

Brivari's next salvo died in his throat. "No, of course not," Jaddo said with satisfaction. "These so-called 'friends' of yours, how can you call them 'friends' when there's so much they don't know? I've heard the Indian stories of 'skinwalkers' and how feared they are, so when he came upon me, I used a form I knew you'd worn for him in the past, betting that was the only form he'd ever seen you in."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Brivari said in exasperation. "You could have just walked away!"

"Actually, I couldn't. I was in the cave looking at the map, and those Indians are bloody quiet."

"Good Lord," Brivari said in disgust. "Don't tell me one who prides himself on being a shapeshifter couldn't have shifted himself out of the way."

"He'd already seen me," Jaddo argued. "Only from the back, but he'd seen someone right in front of the map. I knew he'd been designated its guardian, so it would have only upset him to find some stranger there."

"So you expect me to believe he snuck up on you?" Brivari said incredulously. "In a cave?"

"I didn't hear him," Jaddo insisted. "Did I mention he was incredibly quiet? Most humans have no idea how to move so soundlessly, not to mention I was a bit preoccupied having only just learned that you'd kept my Ward's near death from me, among other things."

"Like you kept your 'sighting' from me?" Brivari demanded.

"As I already told you, I was trying to jog their memories—"

"Skip to the part you didn't tell me," Brivari interrupted. "Like how you told River Dog to bring only Rath to the cave."

"Fine, I was trying to prompt Rath's memory," Jaddo said impatiently, "the memory you failed to tell me about. Although I didn't have a lot of hope for it, given that almost a month had passed—"

"Bullshit," Brivari said severely. "You wanted to get him out there so that he would come to you, so you could get around the line I drew when you left without him years ago. That's why you told River Dog to only bring him, why you said it was so important that Rath come to you. You weren't going to wait in the bushes. You were going to jump out of them."

Jaddo glared at him in silence for a moment. "That was a possibility," he admitted. "But only a possibility. I had every intention of leaving the library symbol right where it was in the hopes something would come of it, and if so...I'd be there."

"I don't believe this," Brivari fumed. "After everything we'd planned, everything the Healer recommended and you agreed to—"

"That didn't include almost getting himself killed or almost becoming himself again," Jaddo argued. "My chat with your Indian was very revealing. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to learn that he knew more about my Ward than I did. Or that he's being giving you 'parenting' advice—"

" 'My' Indian?" Brivari broke in furiously. "He's not 'my' Indian, he's our ally, an ally that saved Rath's life! You, on the other hand, gave up on Rath. You, the one going on and on about his 'memory', said he had no memory, that there was nothing left to save, and took off with Ava. Am I the only one who remembers that? Am I the only one who sees the irony in that?"

Jaddo's eyes dropped, such an uncharacteristic response that it momentarily caught Brivari off guard. "No," Jaddo said quietly. "I remember. And I was wrong. There—I said it. I was wrong. Happy?"

"No, I'm not 'happy'!" Brivari thundered. "You still dragged our Wards right under Valenti's nose, and for what? You caused a public commotion, and for what? You sent a friend of mine on a wild goose chase under false pretenses, and for what? Yes, I know you claim to be trying to 'jog memories', but there are far less conspicuous ways to do that. If you were willing to introduce yourself in the middle of the woods, why not somewhere else, somewhere that didn't involve teams of sheriff's deputies and the eyes of the entire state?"

"Because that would have been too easy," Jaddo answered.

Brivari blinked. "Oh, I see. Now there's virtue in difficulty? You wanted him to climb a mountain in order to be worthy of you?"

"I wanted them to notice," Jaddo corrected, "to pay attention, to come looking because they wanted to. You may not like it, but I have some experience with this with Tess. Showing her a memory often prompts another, one she accesses all on her own. My intention was to show the hybrids something which I hoped would pique their interest—"

"What made you think they'd even see it?" Brivari demanded. "They'd have to be in just the right place at the right time. And since the odds of that are practically nil, that means they'd be getting their information from news reports—"

"I know that," Jaddo said impatiently. "This is Roswell; the press and the UFO nuts jump on every sighting like it was the very first. I'd assumed someone would notice the symbol I'd placed in the sky, but only your Indian...sorry, 'our ally'...did so. The humans who reported it just went on about a 'bright light' and didn't even mention the symbol."

"Incredible," Brivari said in disbelief. "All this, and you're bitching that they didn't appreciate your artwork."

"And then 'our ally' appeared and offered to help," Jaddo went on, ignoring him. "He offered, Brivari; I didn't ask. I sent him to Rath because Rath was the one who had remembered, the one who was most likely to recognize me if it came to that. He only led him there, nothing more."

"Nothing more?" Brivari said in astonishment. "He's an old man, Jaddo! Your 'nothing more' was a multi-mile hike through a forest!"

"Which he'd already undertaken several times at your behest."

"All the more reason not to ask one more of him," Brivari retorted. "If you'd only waited, they were coming anyway."

"You mean Zan and Vilandra were coming," Jaddo corrected. "Why wasn't Rath on that camping trip? Wasn't a foster father considered 'father' enough to qualify?"

Not the one he has, Brivari thought privately. He'd neglected to intervene in Rath's housing situation more out of apathy than anything else, but that would have to change. Jaddo was getting much too close to let that situation continue any longer.

"I have no idea why Rath wasn't on the camping trip," Brivari lied, "although I do know that plenty of students didn't go. And I know that's not the point. The point is that you crossed a line in trying to lure them to you, and in using an ally—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Brivari, allies are meant to be used! You use them all the time, use that one all the time. And I told you, he offered—"

"He offered to help me," Brivari corrected, "or what he thought was me. Which is the other line you crossed. You pretended to be me. We never do that, native form or not, so don't play semantics with me. Parse it any way you want, but you pretended to be me. You broke the spirit of the law if not the letter."

" 'Spirit of the law'?" Jaddo muttered. "Is that Dee I hear talking? And do you really intend to hold me to standards from a world in another part of the galaxy?"

"Stay away from him," Brivari ordered severely. "I don't ever want you going near River Dog again, not as me, not as you, or Khivar, or Santa, or the Easter Bunny, or anyone else you can name. Do you understand me?"

Jaddo regarded him levelly for a moment. "So," he said at length. "We're back to 'orders'. And 'lines'. I don't suppose it would do any good to point out that I had no intention of going anywhere near him? No, of course not," he went on when Brivari gave him a look. "It never does. But then I've been doing all the talking, Brivari. Why not have a go at it yourself? You can start by telling me where you were this weekend."

"What do you mean?" Brivari asked warily.

"You lied to me. You weren't in LA."

"Like hell I did. I never said I was in LA. You just assumed that."

Jaddo snorted softly. "Now who's playing semantics? But I didn't assume that. Not only were you not in LA, your cellphone wasn't even in range. Where did you go that your phone was out of range of any tower?"

"That's none of your business," Brivari said flatly.

"Perhaps," Jaddo allowed. "As long as you keep our Wards properly guarded. Which you didn't, as evidenced by the way I slipped in."

"Why, Jaddo," Brivari said softly. "Are you saying I need to guard them from you?"

Jaddo smiled faintly. "What I'm saying is that when you're away doing...whatever it is you're doing...anything can happen. And just might. And that any line you draw disappears the moment you leave them vulnerable. Don't forget that."

"They were not 'vulnerable," Brivari said in a steely tone, "until you made them vulnerable."

Jaddo shook his head. "Public land, already suspicious sheriff, nothing to find, me there if anything went south...do I really need to go over all that again? Nothing would have happened, but my point is that something could have. In the future, when you...'step out'...you should let me know so I can do the job you're walking away from for what I'm sure you'll claim are very good reasons."

"Oh, of course," Brivari said caustically. "And I'll expect you to do the same whenever you 'step out' on Ava. Who was guarding her while you were drawing pictures in the grass? Something could have happened."

"But my phone was working," Jaddo said. "And don't write off that 'picture in the grass' just yet. They may not have responded as quickly as I'd hoped, but we know it's in there somewhere. They may very well figure it out."




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




Eagle Rock Military Base





Daniel Pierce paused outside the compound's doors, gazing around the deserted Army base. He loved coming here. This was where he felt closest to the father he'd never met, the father who had worked so tirelessly to safeguard his inheritance. Sometimes when he visited he would close his eyes and stand very still, trying to imagine what this place must have been like in its heyday, bustling with soldiers, vehicles, with life itself. He did so now, trying to feel the presence of those who had come before him, of those who had walked this very ground, many completely unaware that something inhuman was so close.

A minute later, Pierce opened his eyes. Much as he enjoyed it, he didn't have time for this exercise today. Today he had work to do, and he pushed open the compound's doors, stepping into the empty hallway. This was his father's building, the place where he'd worked for three years studying a captive alien. The base outside was as derelict as ever, but the compound itself was another story. The Unit had spared no expense upgrading it, installing only the latest medical and research equipment in preparation for the happy day when it would be once again used to house an alien prisoner. Pierce had personally overseen the reconstruction along with Agent Summers, and the result was a gleaming, modern facility unlike any other on the planet, built expressly to both contain and repel aliens based on classified information, much of it obtained by his own father in the late forties. If one wanted to study aliens, this was Mecca.

It was also empty. Pierce frowned as he made his way down the long main hallway, finding the silence disturbing. He and Summers had had this place hopping, but after Summers' death, all personnel stationed here had been reassigned and the place had gone dark. That abandonment had stuck in his craw until a few weeks ago when it had suddenly become a huge asset. This compound was his, resurrected by his tenacity and the information his father had provided. With no one here to oppose him, it was time to take it back.

No one, but not nothing, Pierce thought, eyeing the scanner up ahead. The compound boasted state-of-the-art equipment in every realm, including security. His father had discovered that alien bone structure was visibly different from that of humans even if the alien appeared human at the time, and that generation had been obliged to rely on the once popular shoe fitting x-ray machines to screen entrants to the compound. The tech had advanced considerably since the late forties; the hand scanner looming ahead wouldn't irradiate you or burn your skin like the now outlawed shoe fitters, but it could determine if you were human. The door which opened if it decided you were was constructed of depleted uranium, an element too heavy for alien powers to easily move. The entire inner ring of the compound had also been reinforced with depleted uranium, no small feat given how difficult it was to work with, but worth it for the extra level of security. His father's notes on previous alien infiltrations of this very building had been helpful...and chilling.

Pierce stepped up to the scanner, his hand hovering over it. The scanner used a hand's bone structure to identify species and fingerprints to identify its owner, so the question now was whether it had been reprogrammed to refuse him entrance, something he hadn't checked before promising this place to his recruits. Time to find out. Bracing himself, he placed his hand on the scanner and held his breath. His fingerprints were read, his name flashed on the screen...

...and the door opened. "Yes!" Pierce exclaimed.

"Congrats, Danny."

Pierce whirled around. "Jesus, Brian! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Guess I could've said something, but you looked like you were having a moment," Brian said dryly. "I didn't want to interrupt."

"I was just wondering if our illustrious director had downgraded my access," Pierce said, pushing the heavy door open. "Maybe he should have."

"Maybe he did," Brian said. "But to downgrade you here, he'd have to send someone all the way out here."

"Don't I know it," Pierce said with satisfaction. "Summers and I made sure this place functioned independently. We have our own water, power, communications, food...everything we'd need to provide a base that could withstand an alien invasion, including a separate computer system. I had no idea that would come in so handy in quite this way."

"Freeh probably forgot all about this place," Brian said. "Did you have any trouble restoring power?"

Pierce shook his head. "All the access codes were the same. Looks like after Summers died, everyone just left everything and walked away. What an incredible waste." He paused. "Please tell me you've got good news for me."

Brian broke into a smile. "I've got good news for you. Three doctors and two scientists signed on. You've got your staff!"

"Finally!" Pierce exclaimed. "Any trouble getting them to sign up?"

"Not a bit. Turns out an offer to work on a live alien is quite the recruiting tool."

"It should be. What about the agents?"

Brian's smile faltered. "Well, that's the not as good news. Not bad, exactly," he added when Pierce's expression clouded. "Just not good."

"Meaning?" Pierce demanded.

"Meaning I haven't heart from any of them yet," Brian sighed.

"None of them? Not one of them?"

"No, but given we only talked to a handful of agents, even one would be a huge percentage. Look, Danny," Brian went on, "you're asking a lot of them. Going behind everyone's back, taking supplies—"

"Using supplies," Pierce corrected. "Using. We're not talking about lifting stamps to mail your family birthday cards or joyriding in a Bureau car. We're using Unit supplies for Unit work."

"I know that," Brian said patiently. "But you're also effectively creating a shadow unit, which means anyone in that unit is putting their careers on the line. That's a big step. I'm not surprised no one's taken it yet."

"But they all know the Unit is coasting," Pierce argued. "They've all seen it. That's why this is even doable, because no one's at the helm overseeing anything. With every state division doing it's own thing, it'll be easy to siphon off what we need without anyone the wiser."

"I agree," Brian said. "But the fact remains that if we're caught, we're going down, and anyone associated with us is going down too. Which doesn't bother me," he added quickly. "But I can see how that would bother others, especially since there's no clear threat to galvanize them."

"No threat?" Pierce echoed. "What about Roswell? What about the bloody uniform? What about the bullet holes?"

"What about them?" Brian asked. "By and large, no one's buying that. They tend to agree with Stevens that aliens don't heal. Him sending Topolsky just reinforced the notion that he didn't find it to be a credible lead, and pulling her out, or saying he did, just made it worse. The fact that the tip came from a Valenti sealed the deal."

"Incredible," Pierce said sourly. "I've got hard evidence like blood and bullet holes, and people ignore it. Guess I shouldn't blame Stevens for that if there's a crowd behind him doing the same thing."

"I think that's the main problem," Brian said. "No one disagrees that the Unit isn't functioning properly, and they all feel you should have been handed the reins. But you weren't, which means they need a very good reason to cross that line now, to make the risk worth it. Roswell just isn't a good enough reason."

"Great," Pierce muttered. "Just great."

"Maybe we need to change our tactics a bit," Brian suggested. "We aimed the pitch at agents who were the most loyal to Summers, which made sense at the time. But we need more than that—we also need agents who recognize the threat in Roswell is real."

"Got anyone in mind?"

"Yeah," Brian allowed. "But don't laugh."

"Why would I laugh?" Pierce demanded. "Who is it?"

"Don't laugh, and don't go ballistic," Brian added. "It's just an idea. Let's just play with it a bit."

"Brian, for God's sake, who?"

Brian hesitated. "Kathleen Topolsky."

Pierce stared at him. "You can't be serious."

"She showed up this morning," Brian said, "for a briefing with the agents Stevens sent out to investigate the 'sighting' which has everyone up in arms. The agents said they didn't find anything. Word is Topolsky looked over their stuff and thought they had."

"Gracious, what pulled her away from her filing duties?" Pierce chuckled.

"He's got her fact-checking, not filing, but what interested me is why she felt they had something," Brian went on. "She said she knew the people involved and that's how she knew the agents were onto something. She has a point, Danny. I know you don't cotton to female agents, but gals tune in to people more than guys do. Stevens ignored her...but maybe we shouldn't."

"My God, you are serious," Pierce said incredulously. "What good would she be? I can't go to Roswell because I can't take the chance of anyone seeing me there and blathering to the wrong people, so I need people who can go in my place. Topolsky can't; she'd be recognized, and that's not even touching the fact that she's drop dead incompetent."

"She may not be the best undercover agent, but that doesn't mean she's not useful," Brian argued. "She knows the suspects. She has intimate knowledge of their schedules, their habits, everything about them. She's also in a position to get us supplies and do some grunt work for us, which is nothing to sneeze at. You not only can't go to Roswell, you can't requisition so much as a pack of pencils without tripping at least a dozen alarms."

"I don't need a secretary," Pierce insisted. "And if I did, I wouldn't want that one. What makes you think she'd even go along with this?"

"Because she's itching to get back in the game," Brian said. "She weaseled her way into that briefing. She talked Stevens into letting her look over the sighting investigation reports. Like her or hate her, the fact remains that Kathleen insists there's something worth investigating in Roswell, and she's one of the few agents who do."

Pierce raised an eyebrow. " 'Kathleen'? What, you're on a first name basis with her now?"

"I don't think we can afford to pass up any opportunity to get this off the ground," Brian insisted, ignoring him. "We need all the help we can get. Would you just consider it? Please?"

"Okay, fine, I'll consider it." Pierce paused briefly, closing his eyes. "There; I'm done. Kidding!" he added when Brian's eyes narrowed. "I'm kidding. There's just one problem. I ran into...'Kathleen' when Stevens was briefing her after she left Roswell, and...well, let's just say we didn't hit it off."

"Meaning you were your usual charming self," Brian said dryly. "Meaning you insulted her. How do you manage to keep that congresswoman girlfriend of yours around?"

"Vanessa? I don't insult her, at least not too often. My point is that when Topolsky hears I'm running this show, that'll be the end of it."

"So we don't tell her," Brian said. "I could be the liaison; she needn't ever hear your name. Sounds like she shouldn't anyway. Just give the idea some thought before you nix it. At least she's a believer."

"All right," Pierce sighed. "What'd you come up with on our other 'believer'?"

Brian held up a slip of paper. "Got it. Wasn't easy to find. He switched carriers, and breaking into their databases took some time."

"And the rest?"

"$500," Brian said, handing him an envelope. "Straight out of petty cash."

"Excellent," Pierce said, pulling out his phone. "I'm going outside; this place wasn't built for cell reception."

"Mention Topolsky," Brian called after him. "And better tell him not to hang up. When he finds out it's you, he's likely to do just that."




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




Tucson, Arizona




Everett Hubble closed the motel room door behind him and tossed the key on the desk. He'd spent the past month canvassing this city with nary a whiff of the Ouija Board whiz, no small feat given the size of the place. This was his fifth seedy motel room in as many weeks, the worst of the lot ironically being the most expensive, coming as it did over Christmas. It had been somewhat therapeutic to spend the hated holiday holed up in his ramshackle room, eating Pringles and watching television. Probably should have used the time to do more investigating, but he just couldn't stomach the sight of happy people, packages, and carolers. He dimly remembered a time when Christmas had been joyful, when life had stopped for all the lights and excitement. But then her life had stopped and so had his, along with virtually anything and everything he had ever enjoyed. Now he sank down on the bed and pulled a boot off, stretching his aching toes on the stained carpet. God, but his feet hurt. Time for new Dr. Scholl's.

His phone beeped. Puzzled, Hubble pulled it out of his pocket. Voice mail? Few had this number, but maybe someone had some information for him. He could sure use some right now.

"Everett, this is Daniel Pierce. Don't hang up."

Hubble frowned at the familiar tone which was no less commanding delivered via cell network than in person. Little twat, he thought darkly. Who the hell did Pierce think he was? If he hadn't had a boot in one hand, he would have deleted the little twat's message. That and if he'd remembered which button to press.

"How does the prospect of an immediate payment of $500 and being back on the Unit's payroll grab you?"

Hubble paused, the boot in mid-air. He didn't do what he did for money, but the fact remained that he couldn't do what he did without it. The Special Unit had provided a steady flow of both information and cash, two essential ingredients for a man with no job and an axe to grind; losing their custom had been most unfortunate. Curious now, he let the twat continue. He could always delete him later.

"When last we spoke, I told you how the Unit was floundering," Pierce's voice went on. "I'm happy to tell you I've decided to rectify that situation, which is news you'll want to keep to yourself. Breathing a word of this to the Bureau means I'm fried and you're fired. Again."

"Well, I'll be damned," Hubble muttered. "Danny, old boy, I didn't think you had the 'nads."

"Your first assignment, should you choose to accept it, will be to go to Roswell to look into the matter of the cafe shooting we previously discussed," Pierce's voice continued. "You'll be interested to know that the Unit agent stationed there was smoked out by Jim Valenti's son. She thinks there's something to the recent sighting in the area, and apparently Jimmy agrees with her given how fast he cordoned off the section of woods where it was reported. Agent Stevens disagrees, meaning the Bureau has no presence there. The place is all yours."

There was a pause before Pierce continued. "I have $500 cash in my hand, Everett. As soon as you file your first report from Roswell, I'll have one of my agents deliver it. Make sure you let me know where to find you. If you choose to remain in my employ, regular payments will resume via the usual method. If not...well...you and I both know there isn't going to be an 'if not', don't we?"

Oh, shut it, Hubble thought darkly, clicking the phone off without bothering to see if Pierce had finished. What a drama queen, going all "Mission Impossible" with his "should you choose to accept it" shtick. He didn't know whether to be glad or sad that Pierce had decided to take over, and he certainly didn't want to waste his time chasing this so-called "healing alien", a dumbass idea if ever he heard one. Then again, the bank account was getting mighty low and the pickings here hadn't been merely slim, but absent. He hated to admit it, but he had no good leads for Ouija girl. Which left him with two options: Go back to Artesia and nose around some more or take Pierce's generous, if annoying, offer. He was still musing on which to choose when he opened the newspaper he'd bought at the corner store. Roswell UFO Convention! announced a small headline on the front page. Check out the home of the recent sighting!

Five minutes later, Hubble dropped the paper on the bed and padded across the dirty carpet toward the sink. It must be a slow news day in Tucson if something that idiotic made the front page, but there was no denying that dog and pony shows like UFO conventions could be downright amusing, providing one had time to waste. He had zero faith that there was anything the least bit interesting in Roswell, but he could use both the money and a break. And then there was the matter of Jimmy Jr., who appeared to be following in his daddy's footsteps.

If he played his cards right, he might be able to recruit yet another Valenti to the cause.




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



The Haven Living Center




"Sir? Sir! You need to sign in."

Jim Valenti stopped reluctantly, turned around, and approached the front desk with the air of a kid called to the principal's office. "Oh. Right. Sorry," he said, picking up a pencil and studying the grid-lined sign-in sheet, waiting hopefully for the receptionist or whatever she was to get the phone, disappear into the inner office, help someone else, anything so he could slip away without having to sign in. No such luck. The desk was deserted, and she was watching him like a hawk. Name of Resident the sheet demanded. Visitor Name. Room Number. Time In. Time Out.

"Thank you," the receptionist called as he scurried away before she realized he had no idea what his father's room number was. Halfway down the main hall he wasn't even certain he knew where it was. The Haven had been at the forefront of nursing home rehabilitation back in '89 when he'd moved his father in here, adopting the title "Living Center" and giving its pedestrian facilities monikers like "villages" and "town squares". It appeared they still hadn't bothered to put their money where their nomenclature was; everything looked as drab as he remembered, cute names aside. It took him a few minutes to locate his father's room, which looked no different than had before and was...empty.

Valenti paused in the doorway, embarrassed at how relieved he felt. He hadn't been here in ages, not even at Christmas, and truth be told, he wasn't exactly sure why he was here now. Despite bloody uniforms and crazy Crash Festival tourists, undercover FBI agents and near concussions, bright lights and night-walking kids, he still wondered...was any of it real? Was he chasing shadows? Was he doing exactly what his old man had done for years? Was this room a harbinger of where he'd end up if he kept chasing Max Evans?

"Looking for someone?"

"Uh...yeah," Valenti told the quizzical aide who looked no older than twenty. "Jim Valenti?"

"Try the Town Square," she suggested.

Backtracking, Valenti headed for the common room dubbed the "Town Square", wrinkling his nose at the most defining element of places like these: The smell, a unique bouquet of antiseptic and body odor, bad breath and urine. He reached the doorway of the so-called "Town Square" and paused, facing a sea of patients.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Valenti told the latest helpful employee. "I'm here to see James Valenti Sr."

"And you are?"

Valenti hesitated. "I'm his son."

The employee didn't bat an eyelash, no doubt inured to long absent children. "That's him," he said pointing.

"Thank you," Valenti said.

"You know, he's on the young side," the aide commented. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"It's not 'what' happened," Valenti said. "It's 'who'."

"You mean someone did something that put him here?" the aide said, surprised.

Valenti nodded grimly. "I could never prove it, but I know. And if he's ever stupid enough to cross my path again, I'm gonna wring it out of him."



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


A very Merry Christmas to all of you and yours! I'll be back on January 8th with Chapter 60.

Hello to everyone reading! I hope everyone had a nice Christmas. We still have to take our tree down, it's dropping needles like crazy...





CHAPTER SIXTY




January 28, 2000, 9:30 a.m.


UFO Center





"All right, everyone, settle down!" Milton called. "I know each and every one of you is every bit as excited as I am, but we still have a few things to finish up before the big moment arrives."

Max glanced around the semi-circle of somnolent teenagers, all of whom had staggered in this Friday morning on a day off from school for the promise of a handsome paycheck for a weekend's work. It was a standard high school stew of computer nerds, bookworms, and jocks, all of whom were having varying amounts of trouble keeping their eyes open. Milt must not be looking very closely because none of them looked awake, never mind excited.

"In just a few minutes, I will throw open those doors to the world," Milton said dramatically, "ushering in a new era of...oh," he said as a ring sounded. "That's my cell. Just a sec."

Milton fished his phone out of his pocket. "Hello? Yes, this is him." Pause. "What do you mean, you're out of toilet paper? How can you be out of something as basic as that? No, I can't wait until next Tuesday! The convention ends on Sunday, and there'll be thousands of asses to wipe before then!"

Milton looked up when he heard barely stifled laughter, flushed when he saw the smirks flying around his temporary workforce, then glanced at Max, who shrugged. At least this little drama was waking everyone up.

"Well, then get some from another store," Milton ordered. "I can't wait till Tuesday." He hung up, pocketing the phone. "Sorry about that. Where was I...?"

"You—we—were ushering in a 'new era'," Max said helpfully.

"Oh. Yes. In just a few minutes, I'll throw open those doors and usher in a new era of—"

The phone rang again, and more laughter echoed as Milton took the call. "Hello? Yes, this is him." Pause. "Late?" he said, his voice rising. "How late?" Another pause. "All right then," Milton sighed. "We can keep everyone busy until then. As long as he's still coming. He is still coming, isn't he? All right, all right, don't get huffy," he added. "Just checking."

He hung up, pocketing the phone. "Now," he said, flustered. "Where was I?"

"You were still ushering in a new era of something or other," a nerd answered.

"Maybe a new era of interruptions?" suggested a jock when Milton's phone rang again.

"Dude, why don't you just leave that out?" said another when Milton removed the phone from his pocket for the third time in as many minutes.

"Give him a break," Max said. "It's been crazy around here."

"Oh, God," Milt said urgently after answering the phone. "It's Shatner's press agent! Evans, I have to take this. Take over for me."

Milt slapped a stack of papers into Max's hands and disappeared behind a display, talking rapidly as all eyes turned to Max, who slowly rose from his seat. "So, Evans," one of the jocks said. "What's this 'new era' we're ushering in?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Max admitted. "But he was going to hand out the work assignments, so I guess I'll do that. Take one and pass it on," he continued, starting half of the papers to the right, the other half to the left. "All the various tasks this weekend have been broken down into categories. We'll all rotate through them so no one person gets stuck with—"

"Bathroom duty?" one of the jocks said in disbelief. "I'm scrubbing toilets?"

"Shit," another muttered.

"Guess the toilet paper shortage affects you first," a bookworm said cheerfully, only to cringe when the jock gave him a withering look.

"It affects all of us," Max corrected. "Like I said, we're rotating; there's things like clean-up duty all over the museum, including the bathrooms, and there's manning the information booth, passing out leaflets, selling chances on the Alien Takedown—"

A nerd's hand shot up. "Is gambling legal in New Mexico?"

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't be caught dead in that get-up," a jock declared, glaring at the costume sprawled on a bench nearby complete with a huge rubber head.

"Why not?" a bookworm asked. "You wear your football get-up all the time, and that's every bit as bizarre."

"Can we stay on topic?" Max asked as the bookworm and jock exchanged glares. "We're all rotating through all the jobs. So look down the list right now, and if there's one you know you won't do, take your badge off and get out of here. Now."

A sullen silence ensued. "Okay, then," Max went on, keeping to himself his fear that everyone was going to bolt, leaving him alone with Milton for the rest of the weekend. "We were hired to keep this place humming, and that means clean toilets, and costumes, and giving directions, and everything else that goes with it. We're all responsible for it, and we'll all take turns. And, yes, that includes scrubbing toilets."

"Do aliens pee?" a bookworm said suddenly.

Every head swung his way. "Dork," intoned a jock.

"No, seriously, do you think they pee?" the bookworm asked again, likely long inured to jock insults. "I was just looking at the schedule here, and—"

"And that terribly important question just popped into your empty head," another jock chuckled.

" 'Empty'?" the nerd retorted. "Look who's talking."

"Okay!" Max exclaimed, stepping between the two factions as the tension in the room skyrocketed. "I've got costume duty, Ralph is on the information booth, Alan is—"

"Yeah, okay, Evans, we can read," jock interrupted.

"Coulda fooled me," a nerd said not quite under his breath, bringing titters from those nearby.

"Nobody's answered my question," the bookworm pouted. "Do you guys think aliens pee?"

"Yes, they pee!" Max said in exasperation, desperate to avoid a fight mere minutes before the doors opened. "And so do humans, which is the bigger concern right now. Everyone go to your first rotation and—"

"Wait a sec," one of the jocks ordered. "Evans, how do you know aliens pee?"

The rest of Max's sentence died in his throat as he felt nearly a dozen pairs of eyes on him. They don't know, he told himself. It's just a stupid question.

"It's just...logic," he said haltingly. "I mean...biologically...every living thing has to, you know...get rid of waste. So, scientifically speaking...they'd have to pee."

Several long seconds of blank stares later, the bookworm broke into a smile. "Good answer!" he said approvingly. "Guess you really were paying attention in Bio. And here I thought you were just ogling Liz Parker."

Max felt a flush creeping up his face, and the jocks' expressions soured; they still hadn't forgotten the whole incident with Kyle and Liz. "Okay, everyone!" called a cheerful voice as Milton reappeared, providing a welcome distraction. "Frakes is on his way! Can you believe it, people? We're going to have Captain Picard's Number One himself right here, right in front of us! How exciting is that? I know you're all so worked up that it's hard to concentrate, but focus, people! Does everyone have their assignments?" Milt went on, oblivious to the fact that no one looked the least bit worked up. "Then off you go!"

Max breathed a sigh of relief as everyone shambled off, many casting dark looks at their adversaries. "Thanks for covering for me, Evans," Milt said. "Oh, by the way...when I was in my office, I looked out the window and saw that kid hanging around, the one who broke in here last fall. He's not going to be a problem, is he?"

"No," Max said quickly. "That was all a big mistake. Michael's not a bad guy, he just...misunderstood me."

"Uh huh," Milton said, unconvinced. "As long as there's no trouble. Oops, there I go again," he said as his phone went off. "Get into your costume while I take this..."

Max climbed into the previously maligned alien costume, secretly grateful for the opportunity to hide for a while. That comment about Liz and Bio had been jarring. Here he'd thought he'd been so careful to keep his feelings to himself, but they were apparently hanging out there for the class to see, a disturbing thought if ever there was one...

"Max?"

Max's eyes widened. "Michael?" he said in disbelief. "How did you get in here? All the doors are locked."

"Not for me, they're not," Michael shrugged.

"You shouldn't be here," Max insisted, pulling Michael behind a display. "Milt saw you out there."

"Yeah, well, he's gonna see me in here too," Michael said. "We've gotta figure out what that symbol means, and here's as good a place to start as any."

"Fine, but after the convention officially starts," Max said. "Go back outside and wait for the doors to open."

"I thought of something," Michael announced.

"Congratulations," Max deadpanned. "Did you not hear a word I just said?"

"I thought, what if Nasedo comes here?" Michael went on, ignoring him. "What if he comes to the convention?"

Max blinked. "What if he...what, here?"

"Yes, 'here'. Why not 'here'?"

"After leaving a message in the middle of a deserted forest?" Max said doubtfully. "Somehow I don't think conventions are his style. And frankly, I'd think less of him if they were. If it's possible to think less of a murderer, that is."

"We don't know that," Michael argued. "We don't really know what happened, so we shouldn't—"

"We shouldn't be talking about this in here," Max said firmly. "Get out of here before Milt finds you and throws you out. I'll see you in a few minutes."

Michael scowled at him, but left, and Max pulled the heavy rubber head over his own, which fortunately concealed his own anxiety at what Michael had just said. He'd never even considered that Nasedo might use the convention to try and make contact with them. Walking to the door, he peered out the alien mouth through the window. The crowd outside was small, but growing, it would only get bigger...and God only knew who would be in it.




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




Crashdown Cafe




"Morning, everyone!" Jeff Parker called. "Thank you all for stopping in before your shift starts. "This is crunch time, and I wanted to go over some basics and point out a few things you may not know before I throw you to the wolves."

"I thought the Crash Festival was crunch time," Agnes muttered.

"Not even close," Jeff said. "The Crash Festival was a bunch of tourists. These people are serious."

"The tourists seemed serious," Julio noted.

Jeff shook his head. "Not like these folks. Some of them will be tourists, gawkers, and such like, but some of them consider themselves actual scholars on the subject. A lot of them have abduction stories. Some of them may even think they're aliens."

"Nutcases," Agnes said flatly.

"Maybe," Jeff allowed. "But nutcases with money to spend, and in any case, it's not our job to play social worker. Our job is to serve people food and drink and collect their money. Period. Which is why I wanted to go over some ground rules about how to deal with the weirder types. Rule Number One: Never argue with a customer over non-diner issues. If they insist they grew up on Tatooine, don't tell them Tatooine doesn't exist; ask them if they had a pet Bantha. Play along. Smile into your pad, if you have to, but play along. Rule Number Two...wait. Liz? Where's Maria?"

Mentally dozing at the back of the group, Liz stirred at the sound of her name. "In the bathroom," she said quickly.

Jeff frowned. "Couldn't she have gone beforehand?"

"She's...not feeling well," Liz answered. "It's that...you know...time of the month."

"Ah," Jeff said, immediately withdrawing the way all men did when confronted by the mystery of female physiology. "Got it. Okay, Rule Number Two—"

"Excuse me," Agnes interrupted with an imperious raise of her hand. "Is it really a good idea to play along with this kind of psychosis? What if we get someone who's truly unstable? What if the Bantha owner thinks he's here to kill us?"

"What makes you think the Bantha owner is a 'he'?" Julio asked.

"Because everyone knows sci fi geeks are men," Agnes announced.

"Hmpf," Julio snorted. "Just like 'everyone knows' woman are stupid?"

"Watch it, buddy, or I'll put cayenne pepper in your Kleenex," Agnes warned.

"And maybe I just won't bother putting your orders up," Julio sniffed. "No tips for you."

"Okay!" Jeff broke in brightly. "We're here to serve greasy, fattening food, not kill each other. Back on topic—"

"The topic, before Mr. High-And-Mighty interrupted, was whether or not we should play into these delusions," Agnes said with a dark look at the cook.

"Oh, so I'm high and mighty?" Julio demanded. "Who started this? Not me!"

The ensuing argument knocked Jeff's carefully planned speech entirely off course, and Liz shot her father a sympathetic look before glancing at the back door. Still no Maria. She hated to see her dad in this position, but it was proving to be a useful distraction. Agnes and Julio were both out of their seats and Jeff was stepping between them when the back door finally opened.

"Finally!" Liz whispered, pulling Maria to the side where no one could see them. "You're late!"

"What?" Maria exclaimed. "How could I be late? Our shift doesn't start for another twenty minutes."

"Dad was giving a pep talk today, remember? For the convention?"

Maria's eyes widened. "Oh, my God, I completely forgot about that! Wait...this means my New Year's resolution is toast, doesn't it? Damn," she muttered when Liz nodded. "I didn't even make it a month."

"Almost," Liz said soothingly. "February starts next week."

"And I was doing so well!" Maria wailed. "Wait, does this even count? I mean, technically I'm here on time for my shift, just not for the pep talk, and...what is the pep talk about, anyway?" she asked, peering around Liz. "That sounds like a riot, not a pep talk."

"That's just Agnes and Julio trying to kill each other," Liz said casually. "Again. The pep talk is about how to deal with serious alien believers with a straight face."

"Oh," Maria said with a dismissive wave. "That. Totally unnecessary, babe. You and I are experts when it comes to Czechoslovakians."

"Only real 'Czechoslovakians', not fake ones," Liz said. "Get your stuff out. And when he asks, I said you were in the bathroom with 'that time of the month' troubles."

"Gee, thanks," Maria said dryly. "Anything else I should know?"

"Well..." Liz followed Maria to her locker. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

Maria's eyes narrowed. "This doesn't involve foliage, does it?"

Liz blinked. "What? Oh. No, no foliage."

"Good," Maria said severely, "because if I never want to see another forest as long as I live. Between Michael almost dying and then last weekend, I've had enough hiking for a lifetime. What is it with aliens and forests, anyway? My idea of 'being outdoors' is passing a tree on the way to the mailbox. I still can't get the smell out of my coat, and I swear I had mud in places you don't even want to know about—"

"You're right," Liz said quickly. "I don't. And this has nothing to do with woods. The Crashdown is catering lunch at the UFO center tomorrow, and I'm supposed to be in charge of it, and...I was wondering if you'd do it instead."

"Why?" Maria asked. "It's just crazy old Milton. And with some of the people I saw on my way in, Milton's looking a lot less crazy." She paused. "But it's not Milton you have to talk to, is it? It's Max."

"Kind of," Liz admitted.

"Well, then, 'kind of' talk to him."

"Maria, I can't," Liz confessed. "Not after last weekend. I feel so bad—"

"Wait," Maria broke in. "You feel bad? About what, exactly?"

"I just keep thinking I led Valenti right to them," Liz said. "If I hadn't followed them, he may never have found them."

"What makes you think you led Valenti right to them?" Maria said. "I followed you; he could just as well have been following me. Or neither of us. He might have been following them, and we had nothing to do with it."

"Maybe," Liz allowed.

"However it happened, they never would have found what they found if we hadn't bought them some time," Maria said stoutly. "So you have nothing to feel guilty about and no reason at all not to talk to Max. You said you didn't want to let go of him, didn't you? Then don't," she added when Liz nodded mutely. "Don't let go of him. Don't let him shut you out. Like you said, he made you part of this."

"I guess," Liz said.

"And besides, what did they find anyway?" Maria went on, closing her locker door. "A picture in the grass? A picture that Valenti couldn't see?"

"Max said he erased it—"

"He also said they made it glow," Maria pointed out. "How do we know they didn't create it in the first place? How do we know this isn't just some hopeful product of their imaginations? I'm just saying," she added defensively when Liz began to protest. "Michael's had his nose in that map all week expecting something to jump out at him, and I'm just...I'm just afraid he's going to get his heart broken all over again. That's all."

"Oh, I see," Liz said, nodding sagely. " 'That's all'. Which really means that you can't let go of Michael any more than I can let go of Max."

"No, it does not mean that," Maria said crossly. "I'm just...observing. That's all. As in all all. We should get in there before your father thinks I fell in."

Liz stifled a smile as she followed Maria into the next room. Maria put up a good front, talked the good talk, tried her best to make it look like she didn't care...but she did. Michael had broken her heart, but she still didn't want to see his broken, which had to be one of the many definitions of love, even if she wouldn't admit it.

"So are we all psyched?" her father was saying enthusiastically when they reached the "pep talk", Agnes and Julio having retired, scowling, to their respective corners. "Remember, service with a smile and no arguing. Even if the customer is Professor Xargle."

Jeff broke into a wide grin, and Liz burst out laughing. Everyone else blinked, stared...and blinked again. "Okay, well...most of the convention attendees are arriving as we speak, and the diner's already filling up," Jeff went on. "Yours is the first shift that'll see real crowds, so go out there and knock'em dead. Hypothetically, I mean," he added hastily when Agnes raised her eyebrows. "Figure of speech."

Everyone rose and dispersed, Agnes and Julio looking daggers at each other. "Okay, so, who or what is a 'Professor Xargle'?" Maria asked.

"The Professor Xargle books?" Liz said. "You know, the children's picture books? Professor Xargle is an alien professor who teaches a class about Earth, and he sends his students here on field trips wearing human suits to study us, and...and you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Wow," Maria deadpanned. "There we were tromping through the woods, and the reason for their existence was in book form all along. I wish you'd told me this because I ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes."

"They're children's picture books," Liz explained patiently. "And they're hilarious because the aliens don't understand what they're looking at, and the stuff they come up with to explain...oh, never mind," she added when Maria continued to stare at her, arms crossed. "I guess only my dad and I got the joke."

"My mom read me The Cat in the Hat," Maria sniffed.

"Well, so did mine, but Professor Xargle is funnier," Liz insisted.

"If you say so," Maria murmured, parking a pencil behind one ear and heading for the front. Liz followed, fielding strange looks from other staff and once again feeling like a dork. She knew her co-workers were dreading this convention, but she secretly suspected it might be a relief to talk to some true believers, as long as they weren't FBI agents and even if they'd gotten it all wrong.

Her first customer, as it turned out, was disappointingly ordinary. "Afternoon, lil' lady," the man said with something that looked suspiciously like a bow, his bolo tie shining, his Stetson parked on the table. "Quite a crowd you've got here. I feel a little out of place."

Liz glanced around at the diner, which was indeed filling up with some odd looking types. "Yeah, there's this UFO convention in town," she said apologetically. "It's not usually this bad."

"No need to apologize," the man assured her. "I'm from the area, so I know how it goes around here."

"You're from Roswell?" Liz asked.

"Up north," he answered. "Bitter Lake. Just coffee, if you please."

A minute later, Maria sidled in beside her at the coffee machine. "Okay, I'm only on my first table and I've got two people who think we're being invaded, an abductee, and a doomsday type who thinks the aliens planted a bomb in the center of the earth that's set to go off in 2012. Why 2012?"

"Maybe because they thought the world would end in 2000, but nothing happened," Liz said dryly. "Either that, or the whole Mayan calendar thing."

"What Mayan calendar...never mind," Maria said impatiently. "Do they not realize how ridiculous this is? Michael can't even set an alarm clock to get him to school on time, never mind set a bomb to go off years from now. How are you doing?"

"Just fine," Liz smiled, glancing at the polite, almost courtly gentleman currently reading the local newspaper. "He seems totally normal."




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"All right, everybody, listen up!" Valenti called to the group of deputies gathered outside the station. "This is a different crowd than we're used to, and we need to be aware of that. There's both a greater and a lesser chance of trouble for various reasons, so we'll need to target our resources accordingly."

"Why is this so different?" Owen Blackwood asked. "I've lived here my whole life. Seen dozens of Crash Festivals, UFO conventions, UFO love-in's, UFO everything-you-can-name. Doesn't seem any different to me."

"And that's where you'd be wrong," Valenti answered. "Crash Festivals are just excuses to get drunk and party. Previous conventions were hosted by the previous owner of the UFO Center, who made no secret of the fact that he didn't believe in aliens and was just in it for the money. This time we've got a believer in charge and a highly publicized sighting only last week. That's gonna be one hell of a combination."

"I'm guessing it'll just be more of the same," Hanson shrugged.

"It will be, to a certain extent," Valenti agreed. "But we'll also get some of the hard core types, the ones who not only believe but consider themselves experts on the subject. 'UFOlogists', they call themselves, and they take themselves very, very seriously."

" 'UFOlogists'?" Hanson muttered. "Is there such a thing as a professor of alien studies?"

"Don't laugh," Owen warned. "Some colleges are talking about adding a major in Nintendo."

"So why haven't we seen these professor types before?" someone asked.

"Because most of them avoid Roswell like the plague," Valenti answered. "They believe in the '47 crash, they just don't like the freak show it's become, and they don't want to support the alien tourist industry. If they come here, they tend to keep their heads down and stay real quiet about it because they don't want to be mistaken for amateurs. My father ran into these people while they were filming a movie here back in the '50's. The 'UFOlogists' actually protested during the filming and asked him to shut it down."

"On what grounds?" Hanson asked, bewildered.

"On the grounds that it wasn't factual," Valenti answered as a ripple of mirth spread through the group. "They thought it made them look bad."

"I'm guessing they can do that all by themselves," Owen chuckled.

"No doubt," Valenti allowed. "Although the ultra serious are less likely to get into the usual kinds of trouble, like drinking, speeding, and soliciting prostitutes."

"That's good news," Hanson noted.

"What they're more likely to be arrested for is causing public disturbances, breaking and entering, and larceny."

"Not good news," Hanson said.

"They're sneaky, these types," Valenti went on. "They seem to think anything concerning aliens rightfully belongs to them, the consecrated elite who know what to do with it, so they feel justified in lifting 'artifacts', trespassing, you name it. They're well known for coming to blows with those who challenge them, and some of them are armed, especially the ones who think aliens are invading. All in all, I'd say they're a smarter bunch and more dangerous because of it."

"Great," Owen muttered.

"Just remember Milton in the woods last weekend, and you'll see the type, albeit one on the more harmless end of the spectrum," Valenti continued. "He felt he had a right to trespass, and he was fully prepared to do so."

"I'll say," Hanson remarked. "Never saw a guy so tricked out, not even hunters. Looked like he was fixing for Armageddon."

"If he ever kicks me in the shins again, I'll show him Armageddon," Owen promised darkly.

"Easy there," Valenti cautioned. "We have to pace ourselves, gentlemen, because these kinds of people are trying all by themselves, and all the more so in packs. We'll all be working longer shifts this weekend, myself included. Just thank your lucky stars it's a weekend and not a week; if Milt had had enough lead time, I'll bet he would have made his convention longer."

"He shoulda consulted the aliens," another deputy suggested with a perfectly straight face, drawing titters.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad he didn't," Valenti said. "The last thing we need on top of everything else is real aliens."

The group erupted in laughter, and Valenti joined in with his fingers mentally crossed behind his back. If only they knew, he thought as jokes were exchanged all around. If only they knew there likely were real aliens in Roswell right at this very moment. The thought of what he'd so very closely missed last weekend in the woods haunted him, disturbing his sleep throughout the week. His son's coolness toward him didn't help, nor did the fact that his father had been haunted by those very woods, had stood in these same shoes thinking the same thing: If only they knew. But the worst of it was the guilt, the knowledge that he'd written his father off as crazy when it now appeared he wasn't. That guilt had driven him to visit earlier this week for the first time in a long time, a first painful step in coming to terms with this new world, this world where aliens were real, his father was right...and he needed to hide.

"Boss?"

Startled, Valenti jerked back to the present. "I was talking about the schedule," Owen said. "Given the need for extra personnel, I don't understand why we're keeping the perimeter in Fraser Woods staffed."

"Because we need to," Valenti said shortly.

"But why?" Owen pressed. "There's nothing out there. We've been over those woods with a fine-toothed comb, and if there was something there, it's gone now. Why waste valuable manpower on nothing?"

Because it wasn't 'nothing'. "Remember those 'hard core' types I was talking about?" Valenti said. "They're the most likely to go tramping through the woods this weekend in search of, which is why we need people out there."

"Why?" Hanson asked. "Like Owen said, there's nothing out there, so they won't find anything. If they really want to waste their time going 'in search of', I say let'em. It's not our job to babysit."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, and Valenti felt the noose tighten. His employees had applauded his taking the sighting seriously back when it first happened, but now that they'd convinced themselves it was nothing, any sign that he thought it something would make him look unstable. He couldn't very well tell them he still held out hope that the very people he was disparaging would indeed go 'in search of' and find something, and if they did, he wanted to be there when they found it. It was funny how people you'd disdained suddenly looked useful. The UFO crowds he typically found to be an annoying if unavoidable fact of life in Roswell now looked quite different.

"I just don't want any trouble," Valenti said. "I've been talking about the more serious type of alien enthusiast we're likely to see this weekend, but the fact remains that we're also likely to see plenty of the usual type, the type that gets drunk or high and loses their marbles. I'm concerned that when the serious go tramping in the woods, the 'party hardy' type will follow and the results won't be pretty, especially since the woods are so close to the reservation. Like I said, I don't want any trouble, not here, not in the woods, not on the reservation. If Roswell is going to host these to-do's, the least we can do is make every reasonable effort to control them."

Valenti's eyes swept the faces in front of him to see if his explanation had been sufficient, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw heads nodding. Is this what his father had had to do? He must have been pretty good at it because he'd been sheriff for well over a decade when it had all gone bad.

"So we're off," Valenti said, anxious to change the subject. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah, what about all the questions about the sighting?" Owen asked. "Are we still doing the dry lightning bit?"

"We are," Valenti confirmed. "For all we know, that's what it was. Dismissed."

The group dispersed as Valenti headed into the station with Hanson on his heels. "I'm not sure how much longer we can head people off with that explanation, sir," he said. "The phones are ringing off the hook, and the lines at the desk are three deep."

"I know that," Valenti said. "Why do you think we met out here instead of inside? You can't think straight in there."

"Tell me about it," Hanson lamented. "Fourteen calls this morning, Sheriff, and all about the sighting last week."

"Dry lightning, deputy."

"I keep telling them that, but they keep calling," Hanson said.

"I don't have time to talk to anybody about unfounded or unsubstantiated rumors, and it is your job to explain that to them."

"Yes, sir," Hanson agreed.

"Thank you, deputy," Valenti said, hoping that "unfounded" and "unsubstantiated" bit would be repeated to the rest of the staff as he continued on into the station, hurrying past the crowd already there. Jesus, the convention didn't officially start until this afternoon, and they were already piling up. He was still pondering the cliff edge on which he found himself, officially denying the sighting while continuing to investigate it, when he opened his office door...and stopped dead in his tracks.

A man sat at his desk, an impossible man, a man who should not be there. The face was older, its stubble grayer, but nothing else had changed. It was as though the clock had suddenly been wound back twenty-eight years.

"Been a while, junior," Hubble said.

"How'd you get past the front desk?" Valenti demanded.

The answering smirk was infuriating, small but satisfied, having lost none of its swagger, if it were possible to swagger while sitting. "Better beef up security," Hubble said dryly. "Heard you had a boy. Bachelor myself, no kids for me."

"You're not welcome here, Hub," Valenti declared.

"Oh, junior," Hubble said with mock disappointment, "I expect more from you than dumbass small town threats. Well, just wanted to stop by. Regards to your dad. From what I hear, you're starting to come around to his way of thinking." He donned his hat. "See ya, junior."

It was all Valenti could do not to use the fist he'd clenched at his side as Hubble strolled out, past him, past Hanson, who had appeared in the hallway. He walked at a leisurely pace, no doubt aware that the man he'd come to visit would love to pummel him, but positive he wouldn't. Would that he were wrong.

"Who was that?" Hanson asked, watching Hubble leave.

"That, deputy, was a bona fide alien hunter," Valenti answered.

"You mean one of those serious ones you were talking about?" Hanson asked.

"Worse. This one is downright dangerous."

"You want us to tail him, sir?" Hanson asked. "I could send someone—"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "I've got this one."

"You sure, sir? If he's really dangerous—"

"I'm sure," Valenti said in a deadly voice. "This one's mine."




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


I'll post Chapter 61 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE


January 28, 2000, 11:00 a.m.

Silo, New Mexico



The sun was high in the sky as Everett Hubble stashed his half empty styrofoam coffee cup in the cupholder and climbed out. His car was a bit of a mess what with his being on the road so much, but looked right at home in its present surroundings, that being the outskirts of a trailer park. Looming over both was one of New Mexico's missile silos, a relic of the cold war and a stark reminder of when this country had the balls to stand up to its enemies. Built in the early 60's and decommissioned less than a decade later, the ring of missile silos around Roswell had either been abandoned or sold into private hands. A movie producer bought one; someone else turned one into a house. This particular specimen was empty, but the makeshift town which had sprouted nearby had earned the unofficial name of "Silo" along with an official reputation for harboring the lower rungs of society, the silo itself being a favorite haunt for the homeless, runaways, drug dealers, and so forth. Officially the US government still owned the property, and they officially chased everyone out on a regular basis, replacing the locks all nice and neat. That never lasted long, and less than week later the itinerant population had moved right back in, protected by the silence of the townspeople because they brought a bizarre sort of commerce to the place, even if most of the cash they spent had either been stolen or acquired from stolen goods.

Not a soul was in sight as Hubble closed the car door and walked toward the silo, his memory of that night back in '72 still crystal clear. He'd spent the previous two years tracking his wife's killer, finally tailing him to Roswell, where he'd found a kindred spirit in its sheriff. The condition of his wife's body had made it clear this was no ordinary murderer, but no one would listen to him or even look at the photograph he'd taken of her body with hands that had shaken so badly, it was a wonder the shot came out clear. But Jim Valenti had not only listened, he'd produced a photo of his own showing another silver handprint from more than a decade earlier and confirming what Hubble already suspected; Sheila's killer was not of this world. With a new ally and the resources of the sheriff's department at his disposal, he'd finally seen justice served that night back in '72, and for a few precious hours, he'd been at peace.

But his peace hadn't lasted long. The killer's autopsy showed nothing unusual, merely a somewhat malnourished human male in his mid-thirties. Impossible, he'd thought at the time. He was certain this was the man who'd killed Sheila; those features had been burned into his mind. Jim Valenti's sudden attack of conscience had only made things worse as the vultures had circled and Jim had refused to play ball. We killed an innocent man! he'd wailed over and over. It was an honest mistake, Hubble had argued, and an easy one to fix. They'd been alone; there were no other witnesses save for a dead man. Just say the vagrant got violent, and case closed. As his friend's chest-beating intensified, Hubble had become more and more impatient. He still couldn't figure out why the corpse was human and was seriously questioning his memory of the awful night Sheila died when a ray of light had pierced the darkness.

'Pierced', Hubble thought, shaking his head at the irony. Talk about a play on words. That ray of light had come in the form of a phone call from one Daniel Pierce, a member of a secret government unit devoted to chasing...aliens. That unit was interested in retaining his services, Pierce had said. Was he interested in hearing their offer?

Hubble began a slow circuit of the missile silo, his hat dangling from one hand. That was the best thing to come out of this mess, his employment with the Special Unit, which offered a steady stream of income, access to resources previously only dreamed of, such as case files on handprints left on other victims, and something else: The answer to the vagrant problem. It was Pierce who had told him what the United States government had known since the '47 crash, that aliens could take the shape of humans. Triumphant, Hubble had wasted no time sharing this information with Valenti, who, astonishingly, admitted that he'd suspected as much for years. Why didn't you tell me? Hubble had demanded. Because I wasn't sure, Valenti had answered, proving once again that you never really knew who your friends were until the chips were down. "They were down that night, Jim," Hubble murmured as he stood before the door to the silo. "And you let me down. I'll never forgive you for that."

His phone rang. Hubble pulled it from his coat pocket, checked the caller ID, grimaced. That was fast; he'd called the lackey only half an hour ago. But as he was back on the payroll, he had to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Everett," Pierce's deeply satisfied voice came over the line. "I see you decided to take me up on my offer."

"Yeah, well, a man's gotta eat. Where's my money?"

"In your account, right where I said it would be. So what made you come around to my way of thinking?"

"Let's be clear, Danny," Hubble said, resuming his circuit of the silo. "I have about as much faith in this garbage about benevolent aliens as I do in the notion that you'll pull off this 'shadow Unit'. Which is to say none."

"Then why are you there, Hub?"

"Money," Hubble said bluntly. "You're paying me, and I may as well enjoy that until you get your ass kicked. And don't call me Hub."

"You have to earn that paycheck," Pierce reminded him. "I don't care what your personal opinion is so long as you investigate."

"I'm investigatin'," Hubble said. "Met your so-called gunshot victim in the cafe this morning, and her so-called savior at the convention."

"You mean the UFO convention?" Pierce chuckled. "That must be a hoot. So what'd you think?"

"I think you seen one circus, you've seen'em all."

"About the suspect," Pierce clarified. "Did you even read the reports I sent you?"

" 'Course I read'em. What about'em? All those witnesses, and only two people say they saw somethin'? This was in public, Danny. This should be easy. This should be a slam dunk, and it isn't. Besides, aliens don't heal people, and they sure as hell don't do it in public. And why look like a kid? No one who's spotted this monster ever saw it looking like a kid."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that, Everett, because you said you were chasing a 'kid'. Something about a Ouija board?"

"That one's different," Hubble insisted. "Arrogant. Heedless. Obvious. This one, this Evans kid, he's milquetoast. Never raised an eyebrow until now. That doesn't square."

"It does if he's one crafty alien," Pierce argued. "And being a kid is the perfect disguise precisely because no one expects it. Not even you."

"Hmpf," Hubble muttered.

"And then there's Jimmy," Pierce went on. "He believes it. He's the one who called us. You know how Jimmy viewed his dad. He must be pretty darn convinced to do such an about face. You could use that, Everett. You were smart to enlist Valenti in your cause with his resources and his clout. Whatever you think of my 'kid', here's a chance to do it again."

"Unlikely," Hubble said. "Jimmy told me point blank I wasn't welcome here, and I know why; I went to the nursing home. His daddy's just taking up space. Man's a shell, an empty shell."

"Then maybe now's your chance to make amends and get something out of it at the same time," Pierce suggested.

"Amends for what?" Hubble demanded. "I haven't got any 'amends' to make. I'm not responsible for what happened to Jim. He didn't have to go down like that. I told him to say anything, and I'd back him up. He could have made up anything, anything at all, with no one to naysay it, but he wouldn't. Just kept goin' on about 'taking responsibility' and 'sacred duty'. 'Sacred' my ass. What's 'sacred' about throwing yourself in front of a bus?"

"And you along with him," Pierce noted dryly. "I'm guessing the element of self preservation loomed larger than a misguided friend."

"Of course it did," Hubble said sharply. "He would've brought both of us down if I'd let him. If he wanted to hang himself, fine and dandy, but I wasn't going to let him hang me. We just made a mistake, is all. That happens when you're chasin' monsters. Collateral damage, nothin' more."

"And that's what we like about you, Everett," Pierce said. "Your willingness to pull the trigger. Your instinctive grasp of the fact that ordinary people will never understand and need to be shielded from the sacrifices we make for their safety. You get it. Valenti never did."

"Don't patronize me," Hubble snapped. "You wanted to use me every bit as much as I wanted to use you."

"Of course we did," Pierce said without missing a beat. "I'd say it was a mutually valuable association, wouldn't you?" He paused, waiting for an answer. "Look, however Jimmy views you, you're going to have to suck up to him," Pierce went on when Hubble maintained a stubborn silence. "He's the key to all of this. He reported it, he's been pursuing the suspect, he outed Kathleen Topolsky. You need to know what Jimmy knows, so make nice and find out."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that when he thinks I addled his father?"

"How the hell should I know?" Pierce said cheerfully. "That's your job. That's what we pay you for. Think of something, because if you're going after Evans, you need him on your side."



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



Crashdown Cafe




"Have I waited long enough yet?"

Liz Parker whirled around from the shake machine expecting to find a customer impatient for their meal, not a rarity in a diner as busy as this one. When she saw who it was, she smiled.

"Hold that thought," she said. "I'll be right back."

Shakes delivered, two more orders taken, and four more tables checked on, Liz returned to the counter. "It's been a week!" Alex wailed before she could say anything. "A week should be long enough, shouldn't it?"

"We came back from the camping trip on Sunday," Liz reminded him. "It's Friday. That makes it five days."

"Ah, but the infraction occurred on Friday night!" Alex said triumphantly. "That makes it a week...at about 11 p.m. or so."

"Right, but since the 'infraction' happened on the camping trip, it clouded the whole weekend," Liz explained patiently. "So you have to count from the end of the trip. Don't ask why," she advised. "It's a girl thing."

"So...it's like I put my foot in my mouth not only on Friday, but Saturday and Sunday as well? Great," Alex muttered when she nodded. "Just great. God, why did I do this to myself? Everything was just fantastic, and then I went and ruined it with the "D" word."

"I know the feeling," Liz sympathized, recalling how everything had been great with Max, and then suddenly it hadn't been. "But all you can do now is be friendly and back off. And for God's sake, don't say the word 'date'—"

"Don't," Alex ordered, holding up a hand. "I don't ever want to hear that word again as long as I live. Honestly, Liz, you should have seen Isabel's face. It was like I'd slapped her."

"I'm sure she was just...taken aback," Liz suggested.

" 'Taken aback'?" Alex frowned. "Who uses that one any more?"

"People who read. Look, it's not like she hates you," Liz went on. "You said she's said hello every time you've said hello this week, right?"

"Hesitantly," Alex reminded her. "Reluctantly. Like she's not sure she should."

"Which means that a part of her is considering that you didn't mean it the way it came out," Liz said. "And that a part of her still wants to be friends with you. So now that you know what sets her off, just stay away from that, and you should be fine."

"I'm not fine!" Alex exclaimed. "I'm wallowing in guilt! I had a...I was going to a movie with the most beautiful girl in world, hell, maybe even the universe—and you know that's not just a token expression with Isabel—and then I went and blew it!"

"And you're blowing it again," Liz pointed out, lowering her voice. "Because another thing that sets Isabel off is referring to...'that'...in public."

Alex's eyes popped. "Oh, God, I just did it again, didn't I?" he whispered. "Man, what is wrong with me?"

"You're upset," Liz said soothingly. "And you have a big secret, and you're talking to one of the few people who shares that secret. I know how that feels, Alex, but you have to be really careful about what you say and who's listening when you say it. And you can't even refer to it obliquely with Isabel because she's so sensitive to it. Remember, stay away from anything that sets her off."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem," Alex grumbled. "You and Maria told me to stay away from her except for saying 'Hi', so how can I set her off?"

"You just need to give her some time to calm down about it," Liz advised. "They're very jumpy. They've got people chasing them, people sending them messages—"

"Almost dying," Alex added.

"That too," Liz agreed. "You need to prove to her that you're not a threat, or a burden, or anyone who's going to ask more of her than she can give. And that takes time."

"How much time?" Alex moaned.

The clank of plates behind her told Liz that orders were up. "Look, maybe you can use the convention this weekend to say 'Hi' a few more times," she suggested. "Most of the town will be there, and Isabel probably will too. So breeze by, say hello, make absolutely no, and I mean no reference to any relation she might have to what's going on, and...see what happens."

Alex's face slowly brightened. "Hey...yeah! The convention is a great excuse! Thanks, Liz."

"No problem," Liz assured him. "I've got orders. Be right back."

Fives minutes later, Liz smiled as "Zinaplox" blinked at the notion of starting out with a nice hearty breakfast before destroying humanity. Actually he was the weirdest customer so far, although the day, and certainly the weekend, was still young. From that courtly gentleman first thing this morning all the way up till now, neither she nor Maria had seen anything too awfully odd, mostly just people dressed up in costumes. If "Zinaplox" was the worst to come down the pike, they'd be...

...lucky, Liz finished, feeling anything but when she looked up and saw none other than Larry and Jen coming through the door. The Larry and Jen who were here the day of the shooting. The Larry and Jen who had watched Max heal her. The Larry and Jen who had spilled their guts to Valenti. The Larry and Jen who had hung around for weeks, hunting for a bullet she knew no one would ever find. They stood there in the doorway, silent, expectant, and Liz suddenly realized that she and Maria had wished for deliverance from the wrong sort. It wasn't the Zinaploxes and costumed enthusiasts they should have been afraid of, it was the plain vanilla persistent sort who had seen something they shouldn't have and knew it. And she was on hostess duty. Great. Just great.

"Hi, welcome to the Crashdown," Liz said, eager to get this over with. "Can I show you to a table?"

Any hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd forgotten about the whole thing disappeared when Jen's eyes widened and Larry's fastened on her. "Table, yes...table would be lovely," he said with false enthusiasm. "Jen, table?"

"Yeah, thanks," Jen said nervously.

"Great," Larry said, wearing a completely unconvincing smile.

"Here you go," Liz said, showing them to the nearest table at hand. "Ah, so, can I get you a beverage to start?"

"Beverage would be lovely," Larry declared. "Jen, beverage?"

"I'll have a Coke," Jen said quickly.

"Yeah, you know what?" Larry said in a worrisome tone. "I would love to try one of those, uh, delicious shakes that you guys have. Let's see," he continued, plucking a menu from the holder, "which one...oh, this one looks interesting. Alien Encounter?"

Liz stared at the menu Larry had turned toward her. "Yeah, okay, so we've got one Coke and one...Alien Encounter. I'll just be right back."

"Thanks," Larry said. "Actually," he went on after she'd turned away and allowed herself a way too early sigh of relief, "you know what? There is just one more thing. Why don't you tell me," he said deliberately, "what really happened in September?"

The voice was one of authority, of someone who felt they had a right to know, to question her, to demand an answer, and Liz felt herself bristling. It had been so long since anyone had asked her about the shooting and so much water had flowed under that bridge that it now seemed presumptuous, an imposition, an invasion of privacy, making Larry's avid stare even more annoying. Jen froze as Liz returned that stare with one of her own, but Larry held his ground, his expression and posture making it clear he wasn't going to let this one go.

"Well, look who's back," said a voice behind her.

Jen's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, Larry shrank back, and Liz breathed a private sigh of relief as her father joined the stand-off. "Hi, Mr. Parker," Jen blurted before anyone else could say anything. "We're just here for the convention, and you have such great food, we thought we'd....we're just here for food, not to, you know...not to..."

"Cause trouble?" Jeff suggested when Jen's babbling trailed off.

"Yeah," Jen said, flushing. "That."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," Jeff said. "There isn't any trouble, is there?" he added when Liz gave him a meaningful look.

Liz glanced at Larry, the look of terror in his eyes making it clear that he knew what would happen if she blew him in. "No, Dad," Liz said sweetly. "No trouble. I was just taking their drink orders."

Jeff looked back and forth from the terrified Larry to his daughter, clearly unconvinced. "Uh huh," he said doubtfully. "Well, let's hope so. Because if I hear one word about...you know...or find anyone hunting for bullets or debriefing customers, I will show that person the door so fast, they won't know what hit them. And I'll be sure to spread the word to other establishments in this small town where everyone knows everyone else so that whoever is stupid enough to get on my bad side will wind up eating out of dumpsters. Are we clear?"

"Clear, Mr. Parker," Jen said quickly. "We're just here for the convention. That's all."

"That's all," Larry parroted, nodding vigorously. "The convention."

"Glad to hear it," Jeff smiled. "Have a great time."

Liz waited until her father had moved on before squatting down next to Larry, who leaned back against Jen as though afraid she was radioactive. "So, to answer your question," she said in a low voice, "you know, the question I didn't tell my dad you asked? The one that could have you thrown out of here? To answer that question," she went on when Larry nodded stiffly, "what happened in September was that everyone in this diner...and I mean everyone, including me, you, Jen...got really, really lucky because a gun went off, and no one got hurt. You're right that a miracle happened that day, Larry, but it's not the miracle you think it was, and it's kind of strange that you keep beating that horse. It's like you want me to get hurt, or something. Which I'm hoping you don't," she continued as Larry's head started wagging furiously from side to side, "but I gotta tell you, that's what it looks like. It looks bizarre. It looks creepy, Larry. And no one likes it when creepy men go after teenaged girls."

Larry paled and glanced at Jen, who looked every bit as terrified as he was. "So now that I've explained—again—what happened in September, and given you a heads up as to what you look like when you keep asking about it, I hope that's the last I hear about it," Liz said. "Because if I hear about it again, I'm telling my dad. This is a freebie. You won't get another one."

Liz stood up, smoothed her uniform, and left the two of them frozen to their booth. "What was that all about?" Alex asked when she returned to the counter.

"Just clarifying a few things for a customer," Liz said airily.

Alex gave her a dubious look. "I know I'm not exactly Dr. Phil when it comes to relationships, but that looked like way more than a discussion about the menu. More like a—"

"Zinaplox requires jelly for his toast."

"I'm sorry," Liz said to Zinaplox as Alex stopped and stared at the apparition standing next to him. "Let me get you some."

"I am Zinaplox," Zinaplox announced to the gaping Alex. "I come to destroy humanity."

"Uh...why?" Alex asked.

Zinaplox's heavily made-up features suddenly went blank as he struggled for an answer, ultimately snatching the jelly basket out of Liz's hand and returning to his table without another word.

"Okay, that is one weird dude," Alex declared. "And what is it with destroying humanity? Why is destroying humanity on every alien's bucket list? Why is..."

Alex's rant faded as Liz glanced across the restaurant, where Larry and Jen were still looking shell shocked. Yes, it wasn't the costumed weirdoes who were the most dangerous, but the ordinary looking people who just wouldn't let it go. Good thing she and her father had put Larry in his place. He shouldn't be any more trouble.




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



8:15 p.m.

UFO Center, Roswell




"Where are the cadavers? I've been looking forward to those all week."

Max blinked at the little old lady at the head of the line at the information booth, the very last person he would have expected to be "looking forward to cadavers". "Uh...over on the left. Third exhibit down."

She eagerly scurried off, replaced by a harried looking young mother with three young children hanging off her at precarious angles. "Bathrooms!" she practically shouted at him. "Quick!"

"Uh...Men's or Ladies'?"

"Either!"

Max's right arm shot out. "Ladies' Room is straight to your left."

"Come on kids," the mom ordered, wrestling her brood away. "Peter! I told you to hold it! Hold it!"

"Good evening, sir."

Max tore his eyes away from the accident waiting to happen to find a reserved looking gentleman wearing an alien costume not unlike the one he'd worn earlier, much to Isabel's dismay. "Can I help you?"

"You may," the man answered in a plummy British accent which contrasted oddly with the huge costume head parked beneath one arm. "I am in dire need of a drycleaner, having spilt upon my fur. Perhaps you would be so kind as to point me in the right direction."

Max blinked at the indicated mustard stain on the purple fur. "Uh...sure. Out the main door, turn left, down about three blocks. But they're probably closed until tomorrow morning."

"Not a problem," Mr. Purple Fur assured him. "Cheers, mate."

"Uh...yeah. Cheers."

Three bathrooms, two exhibits, and one first aid station referral later had Max eagerly checking his watch. The Information Booth closed at 8:30, and that couldn't come fast enough for him. He'd almost rather be handing out leaflets in that ridiculous sweaty costume than standing here waiting for people to ask him all sorts of questions, most of which had nothing to do with the convention. He was up to the last person in line, and he had good mind to close a few minutes early...

"Why do they all think we're out to kill them?"

Startled, Max glanced behind Michael, but he was truly the last one in line. "Keep your voice down," Max said urgently, slipping out of the booth and pulling Michael away. "What is it this time?"

"I've talked to at least a dozen different people who call themselves 'experts', Maxwell, and they all think we're vicious killers who are out to destroy the human race," Michael huffed. "What is it with these people?"

"Obviously they're not 'experts'," Max said dryly. "You've gotta take everything in this place with a grain of salt, Michael, or maybe an entire shaker. It's just not...okay, why is Maria's mom giving you the evil eye?" he finished, spotting Mrs. DeLuca a few yards away.

Michael twisted around. "Oh. Her. She's mad at me."

"And...why is she mad at you?" Max prodded.

"Because I didn't like her 'Alien Takedown'."

"And...what's wrong with the Alien Takedown?"

"What's wrong with it is that it makes us look like vicious bloodsuckers out to destroy humanity," Michael retorted. "Which seems to be the collective opinion around here."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. And wrestling doesn't involve bloodsucking; that's vampires. Look, Michael, none of this is about us," Max continued. "This is just what people think aliens are because they've never seen any, and for all we know, they may be right. We really don't know what they're like either."

"Which is not the point," Michael said firmly. "If they don't know, how'd they come up with that one? You've listened to them all day, Mr. Information Booth; why do they all have such bad ideas about us?"

"Probably because they fear the unknown," Max said. "So do we. And don't get me started about the Information Booth. I've spent most of my time answering questions that have nothing to do with this place."

"Then let me ask another that does have to do with this place," Michael said. "What did Liz want?"

"She...just wanted to talk about the luncheon the Crashdown is catering tomorrow."

"No, what did she really want," Michael clarified. "She wasn't wearing a 'catering' face."

"Hello, boys!"

Max and Michael turned around. "Grandma!" Max said, grateful for having been spared having to tell Michael that Larry and Jennifer were back. "I didn't know you did UFO conventions."

"Sure do," Grandma Dee answered. "Have ever since they started. They were more low tech in my day, but some things never change. Like this," she went on, picking up a piece of silvery material off a nearby vendor's table. "There are so many 'alien ship pieces' out there, you'd think they'd crashed an entire fleet."

"Don't bother with that one," Michael said. "It's fake."

"I have to finish up," Max said quickly when the vendor's nostrils flared. "Catch you later, Grandma." He pulled Michael away just as the vendor was launching into an impassioned authenticity speech. "Do you really have to go around annoying everyone?" he hissed at Michael. "We know we came on a ship, so at least that guy got that much right."

"I wasn't trying to annoy anyone," Michael said. "I was just telling her the truth. It was fake."

"How do you know that?" Max demanded.

Michael looked back toward the table where Grandma and another man were inspecting the merchandise. "Couldn't tell you. I just do."



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




*So do you think he really meant that?* Dee asked.

*I think he may have just been yanking the vendor's chain,* Brivari answered. Or not, he added silently. As Zan's second, Rath had overseen the construction of Antar's fleet. He would certainly know what his own ships were made of.

Dee nodded absently as the vendor went on and on about how these "alien ship pieces" were the only authentic ones out there, the same thing every other vendor of "alien ship pieces" would say, oblivious to the fact that a second, telepathic conversation was being carried on right in front of him. *Are there any pieces of your ship out there?* she asked Brivari. *Real ones, I mean. There were so many people at the crash site, there must be.*

*I'm sure there are,* Brivari replied. *But those who have them wouldn't bring them to a place like this, or sell them, or even let on they owned them. The U.S. military would frown on that.*

*No doubt,* Dee agreed as the two of them left the disappointed vendor and moved out into the crowd. *There goes Alex,* Dee murmured, gazing across the room. *My, but he's sweet on Isabel.*

*Young men chasing Vilandra,* Brivari said dryly. *How unique.*

*What's unique is her reaction. From what I understand, she and Alex had arranged to go to a movie together, and then he called it a 'date'.*

*So?*

*So that scared her,* Dee answered. *From what you tell me of Vilandra, that would be unique.*

*'Scared' her? Why?*

*Because she's afraid of getting too close to anyone,* Dee said. *Because she disapproves of Max's feelings for Liz. Because...oh dear,* she amended. *It looks like Max and Michael are having an argument.*

*Like Warders, like Wards,* Brivari muttered.

*Have you spoken to Jaddo since the blow-up?* Dee asked.

*Of course not. If I did anything, I wouldn't speak to him, I'd throttle him.*

*Well, maybe you should,* Dee said. *Speak to him, that is, not throttle him.*

*And why would I do that?* Brivari demanded. *If I recall correctly, you were ready to throttle him yourself.*

*I was,* Dee admitted. *To think that I sent my son and his kids off on that camping trip with no idea Jaddo was behind it...but I won't start on that again. When I calmed down, I realized he had a point—you do completely shut him out, and that just aggravates the problem.*

*He posed as me!* Brivari exclaimed. *He lied to an ally! He—*

*And he was completely wrong to do so,* Dee agreed. *No argument there. But as far as him being angry at you not telling him about Michael's near miss...on that, he has a point. You know what he's like,* she went on as Brivari gave a snort of derision. *You must have known he'd find out and how he'd react. Since you know what he's like, shouldn't you keep him closer? You'll still disagree with each other, but at least you might get a heads up before he goes and does something dramatic. And who knows? If you meet him halfway, maybe he'll tone it down a bit.*

*There is no 'halfway' with Jaddo,* Brivari grumbled. *You know that.*

*I also know your way isn't working,* Dee said firmly. *So why not try another way? I know it won't be perfect, but it might be better. Isn't that better than worse?*

*So what exactly are you suggesting?* Brivari said irritably. *How am I supposed to 'keep him closer'? And why should I? I only have a few more months before he and Ava move here and he's in my face around the clock. He started all this by running off with Ava, so I'm absolutely entitled to those last few months of peace.*

*But there isn't any peace,* Dee said patiently. *That's my point. He may not be here yet, but he's still acting up, and that's making everything more dangerous for everyone. Isn't safety more important than your sense of entitlement? Consider this,* she went on when Brivari flashed her a look of pure annoyance. *Jaddo is a military man, so you have to out-maneuver him. The best way to get him to keep his distance, or as much distance as he's willing to keep, for your 'few more months' is to make him feel like he isn't missing anything. So tell him more. Keep him in the loop. Drown him with mundane reports of what they ate for breakfast and how much homework they have. Tell him anything at all about Isabel, and he'll tune out. Play your cards right, and maybe he'll get bored and leave you—and them—alone.*

Unlikely, Brivari thought, thoroughly disgruntled as he always was when Jaddo entered the discussion. A week after the sighting drama he was still smarting from the affront to River Dog and what he continued to perceive as Jaddo crossing the line. He'd watched all three hybrids like a hawk this past week, so of course they hadn't done a thing; no, that would wait for when he wasn't looking. *I'm going outside for some air,* Brivari told Dee. *These shindigs give me a headache.*

*Think about what I said,* Dee advised. *You can't out-argue him. You'll have to outwit him.*

Brivari wended his way through the crowds toward a side door, privately noting that throttling would be quicker and more effective than outwitting. It was bad enough that only two Warders remained, but why did the second have to be Jaddo? Things would have been so much easier if it had been Valeris or Urza. Although he had to admit that Jaddo hadn't always been this unstable. His imprisonment had broken him, had made his tendencies toward anger and knee-jerk reactions much more than tendencies. Perhaps he was blaming the victim. Perhaps it was Jaddo's captors who had made him so deeply suspicious of everything and everyone that he was unable to recover.

"Hello?" Jaddo's deeply suspicious voice said a moment later.

"Hello," Brivari answered. "How are you this evening?"

There was a pause. "What are you doing, Brivari?" Jaddo demanded. "You never call me, and you certainly don't call to ask how I am."

"Per our recent...'discussion', I've decided to turn over a new leaf," Brivari answered. "I'll still wring your neck if you ever go near River Dog again, but perhaps you had a point that I was wrong to withhold Rath's near miss from you."

"I see no 'perhaps' about it, but progress is progress, no matter how small. Dare I ask what you mean by 'a new leaf'?"

"I thought I'd give you an update on the fallout from your latest stupidity," Brivari said cheerfully. "The hybrids have spent the week going to school, doing homework, and taking out the trash. They're currently at the UFO Center for its convention, where Rath is busily shaking down one charlatan after another in an attempt to figure out your 'message'."

"I'm glad to hear he's trying," Jaddo said, "although I'm perplexed at his methods. What does he think he's going to learn at a place like that?"

"No idea," Brivari said, "although Zan said as much, when he wasn't manning the information booth, that is. Vilandra is being pursued by a young man whose affections she apparently accepted, then rejected when she felt he was getting 'too serious'."

"And who probably has no idea what a narrow miss he just enjoyed," Jaddo said dryly. "But I thought it was Valenti you were worried about, not Vilandra's love life. What's he up to?"

"He hasn't made a move toward them all week," Brivari reported, "although he still has deputies stationed at the crash site. I'm told they'll be pulled after the convention."

"Let him sit there as long as he wants," Jaddo said. "There's absolutely nothing there to see."

As if on cue, the side door through which Brivari had just exited opened, and Valenti appeared. He looked around for a moment, then crossed the parking lot toward a man leaning against a car.

"Hmm," Brivari said thoughtfully. "Valenti's arguing with someone."

"Really?" Jaddo said, perking up; conflict always fascinated him. "Who?"

"Don't know," Brivari said. "A man in a bolo tie and cowboy hat."

"Which describes half the men in the southwest," Jaddo chuckled. "Valenti probably has his hands full with the types who show up for conventions like that, and there's nothing to find in the woods. I doubt he'll be causing any trouble."

Perhaps not, Brivari thought as Valenti stalked away from his target, clearly angry. But far more interesting than Valenti was Jaddo's tone, which had changed from the typical sulky and skeptical to downright chatty. Perhaps Dee was onto something after all.



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

I'll post Chapter 62 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO


January 29, 2000, 11 a.m.

Hanson residence, Roswell




Jim Valenti stood on the porch, hesitating, his hand in mid-air only inches from the door, ready to knock but unwilling to do so as he wrestled with the current question of the day: Was he crazy? It wasn't lost on him that the "he" in that query had now changed from father to son, that the clouds which had once rained on his father were now firmly parked over his own head. He'd been up most of last night, spending a sleepless hour tossing and turning before finally giving up and camping out first on the couch, then in the car. There were times when it was a pain in the ass to live with a teenager, nocturnal by nature and all too likely to notice their parents padding around in the wee small. Avoiding Kyle had been no easy feat, but necessary as he'd only been in the mood to brood, not chat. Brood and read, that is, and he'd done both, pawing through the box of his father's things which had caused so much trouble years ago and brooding on the words of a man who, as much as he hated him, might have something he needed.

"But I'll bet you still have a lot of questions, about your father, about that Silo murder and why he was arrested. I'm the only person in the world that has the answers to those questions. I was there. I saw it all. I'm your link, Junior."

Could be, Valenti thought sadly. His visit to his father this morning, an admittedly shaky effort to speak with the only other person who could make that claim in the hopes that his father would have one of his rare lucid moments, had ended with his dad insisting that Hubble had a wife and kid which Valenti knew he didn't have. Which had left him right back where he'd started, with an enemy the only source of information, until he'd had an epiphany: His father and Hubble may be the only two who "saw it all", but there was someone else who saw a lot. Which is how he came to be standing on this porch, one hesitant hand in the air, wondering if his dredging all this up again was the right thing to do.

A moment later, he knocked.

For one almost hopeful moment, it appeared no one was home. He fidgeted on the porch, waffling between gratitude and disappointment that the decision appeared to have been made for him when footsteps sounded inside. A few seconds later, the door opened.

"Jim!" Hanson Sr. said, breaking into a wide smile. "What a surprise!"

"Hey...hey," Valenti finished awkwardly, uncertain of how to address his father's former chief deputy and parent of his own. "It's been a while."

"Sure, has," Hanson agreed. "What brings you my way?"

"Just wanted to bend your ear for a bit," Valenti said. "You go back a ways, and I thought you might have some advice for me."

"Gladly," Hanson said, holding the front door open. "Anything for Jim's kid, and the town sheriff. Shoulda called you 'sheriff'," he added as Valenti stepped inside.

" 'Jim's' fine," Valenti assured him.

"And I'm Don," Hanson said. "No 'buts'," he added firmly when Valenti looked doubtful. "You can't call me 'Hanson'; that's my kid's moniker now, and I was all too grateful to pass it on. I loved the station, but it does eat your life."

"Tell me about it," Valenti said with feeling. "Although 'Don' doesn't sound right. Even my dad didn't call you 'Don'."

"All the more reason for you to start," Don said cheerfully. "Adele! Look who's here! It's Jimbo!"

"I said 'Jim' was fine," Valenti cautioned. "Not 'Jimbo'. Please, anything but 'Jimbo' or 'Junior', or I might have to start calling you Donald Duck."

"There you go," Hanson chuckled. "I like a man who hits back. Here's my lovely bride," he added when his wife appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Remember this one?"

"Of course I remember him," Adele scolded, warmly taking Valenti's hand. "Although he might not remember me."

"Yes, ma'am, I do," Valenti smiled. "My father had nothing but the highest regard for both of you."

"A wonderful man, your father," Adele declared. "How is he?"

Valenti's eyes dropped. "About the same, ma'am. About the same."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Adele said gently. "And I'm not 'ma'am', I'm 'Adele'. You're not ten any more, Jim."

"Go get the pictures," Hanson suggested. "Our grandkids," he explained to Valenti. "Just got back from seeing them, and we had such a great time, we're making plans for the next trip. Pull up a chair, Jim. I'll grab you a beer. Just one," he insisted when Valenti began to protest. "You've got a convention in town. Believe me, you're gonna need it."

I need it already, Valenti thought, setting his hat on the table as he took the proffered chair. Half an hour later he was feeling worse than ever after leafing through dozens of pictures of smiling children of various ages and hearing the Hansons talk about their adventures with vacations, grandkids, golf, and gardening. This was what his father's retirement should have been, not four walls in a nursing home, and the reason for that was the reason he was here.

"About bending your ear," Valenti said when Adele produced a fresh mound of pictures.

"Sure, thing, Jim," Hanson said. "What's up?"

Valenti looked back and forth from one to the other. "It's about Silo," he said finally.

Hanson and Adele exchanged glances. "Sweetheart, would you excuse us, please?" Hanson said softly.

"Of course," Adele answered, gathering up the photos, pausing beside Valenti's chair on the way out. "Your daddy was a good man. Don't you ever let anyone tell you anything different."

"Yes, ma'am," Valenti said. "I appreciate that."

She left, leaving them alone in the kitchen. "And here I thought you'd showed up because of the convention," Hanson said. "God knows they always gave us a pain in our collective asses back in the day, excuse my French."

"I wish it was just the convention," Valenti said. "I wish it were that easy."

"Mmm." Hanson was quiet for a moment. "So," he said finally. "Silo. What did you want to know?"

Valenti leaned forward in his chair. "You were the first one on the scene," he said quietly, "the only one who saw the immediate aftermath. What did you see? What was my father doing? What was Hubble doing? Was the drifter dead already? Was anyone else around? What did you see, Hanson?" he added, reverting to a familiar name. "I grew up hearing what the townspeople thought, what my mother thought, what the newspapers thought, but my father would never talk about it, and Hubble disappeared. What did you see?"

Hanson kept his eyes on the table. "I gave my statements in the report. You could have read that."

"I did," Valenti said, "and you and I both know how much doesn't make it into official reports. This is off the record. I need to know what you saw."

Hanson clasped his hands in front of him a little too tightly. "Okay. Your father called it in. I knew there was trouble right away. I'd worked for your dad long enough, I could hear it in his voice. I took the call, and I went out alone."

"Yeah, I saw that," Valenti noted.

"When I got there, the drifter was dead," Hanson went on. "Your dad was in shock. He couldn't answer me when I asked him what happened, just pointed. I'd never seen him like that."

"And Hubble?" Valenti demanded. "What was Hubble doing?"

Hanson's eyes hardened. "Hubble? Hubble was ecstatic, Jim. Hubble was celebrating. Hubble was crowing. 'We got'im!' he was yelling. 'We got the bastard! Now they'll believe us! They'll have to!' "

Valenti closed his eyes briefly. "And then what?"

"And then I asked Hubble what in the hell he was talking about," Hanson said. "He kept going on about justice, and saving the Earth, and lots of other bullshit, but never did answer my question. And all the while your daddy just stood there and stared. I had one silent sheriff and one madman on my hands."

"So what'd you do?"

"I told Hubble to shut the hell up and tried to talk to your daddy. I asked him what happened, but Hubble kept interrupting, hollering that they'd 'won' and so forth. Finally I told Hubble that if he didn't zip it, I'd cuff him for disturbing the peace, or hindering an investigation, or whatever I could think of."

"Too bad you didn't," Valenti muttered.

"I was this close," Hanson said, holding up a thumb and forefinger. "But Hubble finally got the message and left us alone, sort of. He went over to the body and....well, the best way I can describe it is he did a kind of victory dance around it, prancing around it, and swearing at it, and yelling at it, yelling, 'I got you, you bastard!' and so on."

"Jesus," Valenti whispered.

"Yeah," Hanson agreed, "tell me about it. But it bought me a few precious minutes alone with your daddy, and with Hubble out of the way, he finally said something: He said the man was dead."

"Oh, that's helpful," Valenti sighed.

"I told him I already knew that, that I needed to know why he was dead, that people would be asking," Hanson went on. "And that's when Hubble reappeared. He pulled your daddy away, and the two of them got into an argument."

"About what?"

"Not sure," Hanson admitted. "Whatever had tied your daddy's tongue, Hubble untied it, and your daddy ordered me to stay out of it. I set about documenting the scene while the two of them went at it."

"What'd you find?"

"A single gunshot to the chest," Hanson answered. "No weapons. No sign of a struggle. Shot had been fired from a distance. It wasn't looking good, and then about fifteen minutes later, Hubble comes over and announces that the body is going straight to the coroner's office for an immediate autopsy. No crime scene work-up, no documentation, nothing."

"What'd you tell him?"

Hanson's expression darkened. "I told'im to buzz off, Jim. Hubble was always trying to order us around, acting like he owned the station. He had your daddy wrapped around his little finger, but the rest of us couldn't stand him. I told him I didn't take orders from him and kept doing what I was doing. He shouted, and threatened, and then he went back to your daddy. A minute later your daddy came over and ordered me to take the body to the coroner's office straight away. We weren't even going to wait for the van."

An awkward silence descended over the kitchen. Valenti kept his eyes on the Formica tabletop, a 50's era pattern that was strangely comforting. "Now, I don't need to tell you how out of order that was," Hanson went on. "There's procedure, and your daddy usually followed it to the letter. That night he didn't, and it was Hubble who talked him out of it."

"So what did you do?" Valenti asked.

Now it was Hanson's turn to look away. "Anyone else, I would have told'em to go to hell. But this was your daddy, so I did what he asked. The two of us bundled the body into the trunk of my cruiser and we went off to the coroner. Hubble went in your daddy's car."

"And you didn't call it in," Valenti murmured.

Hanson shook his head. "I still wasn't sure what was going on. Your daddy was usually a stickler for doing things by the book, but he wasn't naive; he knew that didn't always work. I kept hoping he had a reason for what he was doing, and that reason would come to light."

"So what happened with the coroner?"

"We waited half an hour for the coroner to show up," Hanson went on, looking faintly ill. "Half an hour with some poor bastard's body in my trunk. I ditched that car after that. Anyway, it took him about three hours to do the autopsy. Nobody left. I still didn't know what we were waiting for. What was the rush? Why all the secrecy? Hubble paced back and forth like a lion in a cage, still all happy, but a different kind of happy now, an expectant kind. Your daddy wasn't speechless any more, just really quiet except for the three or four times Hubble tried to go into the back, and then he practically threw him into a chair and ordered him to stay put. I'd never heard your daddy talk to Hubble like that, and Hubble hadn't either; fortunately he listened." Don paused. "And then, finally, the coroner comes out, looking all confused, kind of like I was. And he says the man died of a single gunshot wound to the chest."

"And then what?" Valenti pressed, knowing he was close. "Did you find out what all the secrecy was about?"

"Yeah, I found out. After the coroner had his say, your father pulled him aside and talked to him alone for several minutes. And then he and Hubble went out into the parking lot, and says...I still can't believe this...he says, 'Was it human? It wasn't, was it? It wasn't human! I knew it!' " Hanson's face contorted. "He thought...Jesus, I can barely say it with a straight face, but he thought that poor bastard was an alien. An alien! Can you believe it? That's why all the celebrating, and yack about 'justice', and that's why the beeline to the coroner's. He wanted confirmation that the body belonged to an alien. Only it didn't. Which meant that guy was shot for no reason, no reason at all. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, square in the path of one deluded man's fantasies. I couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe it."

I can, Valenti thought, having always suspected something like this. "So how'd it end?"

"Badly, Jim. It ended badly. Hubble was madder than a hornet. And your daddy, he told me to go home, and he'd handle it. Said he'd take full responsibility for everything."

"Did you?"

"Yeah," Hanson said heavily. "I did. Just walked away. No report, no nothing. Just left the body and walked away. Left your daddy and Hubble fighting in the parking lot."

Valenti looked down at his empty beer glass. "Bet you didn't sleep that night."

"No sir, I did not," Hanson agreed, "and not for many nights after that. The next day when I got to the station, I found out your daddy had owned up to the whole thing, hook line and sinker. Reports had been filed—"

"Were they accurate?" Valenti broke in.

"Kind of had to be," Hanson replied. "He couldn't very well buy off the coroner, and he wouldn't do that anyway. He'd called the whole thing an accident, and the only thing he'd left out was Hubble's weird behavior. When I asked him about it, all he said was, 'It was my fault. I'm responsible.' "

"But it wasn't just him," Valenti argued. "Hubble had something to do with it."

"I know," Hanson said bitterly. "And I told him I was going to hold Hubble upside down and shake him until I made him own up to that. But your daddy said he'd 'taken care of Hubble', which turned out to mean he'd told him to leave town. I went by the motel where he stayed, and he'd checked out...but not before giving a deposition to the town council."

"So that's why he 'disappeared'," Valenti murmured.

"At the inquest, I was gonna tell everybody how Hubble behaved," Hanson went on. "But I was the only one who'd seen it, I knew your daddy wouldn't back me up, and Hubble was gone. The town didn't really know Hubble; it was us deputies who realized how far he'd weaseled into your father's life. I would have sounded like the sheriff's right hand man, saying whatever I could think of to protect my boss, and I'm not sure it would have helped anyway. I think it would have just made everything worse if everyone realized your daddy had taken a man like Hubble seriously."

Hanson rose, fetched another beer, popped the cap, took a swig. "In the end, it didn't matter because they had what they needed. Your father had confessed and there was a corroborating witness. He wouldn't tell anyone how he'd come upon the man, or why he'd rushed the body to the coroner's, or why he'd waited until the next day to file a report. I think the fact that he broke all that protocol and wouldn't say why bugged everyone more than the dead drifter. He just sat there with his head down and his hands in his lap and never offered a syllable in his own defense, so his fate was sealed. The council decided there wasn't enough evidence to charge him with a crime, so they just stripped him of his badge. I say 'just' like it was a good thing, but it could have been so much worse."

"And then you cleaned out his office," Valenti said, "took the things you gave me when I got the badge."

"Got there before the council did," Hanson nodded. "I knew how this looked. Everyone knew your daddy had certain...beliefs...but I also knew he didn't just go around shooting people because he thought they were aliens. Hubble must have gotten to him, told him some kind of twisted story, but I could never prove it, your father would never had admitted it, and Hubble wasn't around to shake down. So I cleaned out a few things I thought might be...misinterpreted."

"And I'm grateful for that," Valenti said quietly. "I'll always be grateful for that."

"You're welcome," Hanson said uncomfortably, "but I don't think it did much good. The damage had been done, and the worst part of it was the way your daddy just took it. I know he screwed up, but I also know there's something he's not telling about that night. I know Hubble had more to do with it than your daddy let on, and if I ever see his sorry face again, I swear to God, I'll beat it out of him."

Silence fell over the kitchen as Valenti shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He'd never heard this tale, or any tale other than the official one. He and his father had been largely estranged when this had happened, his mother long gone, and it had all added up to one mighty embarrassing episode. And as much as he blamed Hubble for it, he knew deep down that wasn't entirely true. Hubble may have taken advantage of his father, but the fact remained that his father had believed in aliens long before Hubble showed up. And for all that he'd like to 'beat it out of' Hubble too, there was the uncomfortable fact that he now believed his father may have been right, which meant that Hubble may have been right. That complicated things.

"Hanson, I'm going to tell you something," Valenti said carefully, "and I want you to promise me you won't do anything stupid."

Hanson paused mid-sip. "I'm retired now, Jim. The stupidest thing I do now is eat spicy food right before bed."

Valenti smiled faintly. "Right. Okay. Well...the way this all came up—"

"Is the convention," Hanson finished. "Yeah, I figured. There's this big mystery with UFO kooks about why Hubble 'vanished', but there's no real mystery; your daddy ran him out of—"

"He's here, Hanson," Valenti said. "Hubble's here."

Hanson's eyes widened. "Here? Now? Why?"

"Supposedly for the convention," Valenti answered. "I've seen him. I've spoken to him."

Hanson's beer lowered slowly to the table. "You...you've spoken to him?"

"Not cordially, mind you," Valenti amended. "I had the same reaction you did...but I know there's more to this. At first I told him to leave, but then he offered to answer any questions I had about Silo. And it got me thinking...this might be my one chance. Hubble and my father were the only witnesses, and my father's not all there. And that's why I wanted to hear what you had to say, wanted to hear it from you first before I decide whether to listen to Hubble."

"Take him up on it."

Valenti blinked. "What?"

"I said take him up on it," Hanson repeated. "He'd never talk to me because he knows I hate him, but it's different with you—he'll think he can snow you, and he'll be wrong about that. You've got a good nose, Jim, just like your dad. If the jackass wants to talk, let'im talk. Give him a noose, and let him hang himself. He'll spin a tale, I'm sure, but he's bound to let something slip. He's too vain to be that careful."

"And here I thought I was going to have to nail your feet to the floor," Valenti said dryly.

"And you will," Hanson promised, "just as soon as you've bled that bastard dry. Get everything you can get out of him, and then you'll have to nail my feet to the floor. That's a promise."

"Duly noted," Valenti nodded. "Thanks, Hanson—Don. For everything."

"Good luck, Jim. And be careful."

"Believe me, I will." Valenti said, donning his hat. "Oh...one more thing. Do you know if Hubble had a wife and kid?"

Hanson shook his head. "Hubble? No way. Who'd marry him?"

"So he never mentioned it, or my father never mentioned it?"

"I never heard a word about any member of his family," Hanson said. "Don't think he had one."




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





UFO Center,

Roswell





Shelia would have loved this.

Everett Hubble surveyed the plethora of desserts on the laden table, noting an alarming incidence of chocolate. Shelia had loved chocolate. If that blasted nutrition pyramid had existed back then, she'd have insisted that chocolate be given its own food group. He'd never cared for it much himself until after she'd died, when chocolate had suddenly become a way to remember her. Now he reached for a fork and a thick slice of mud pie, which looked like it was made out of enough chocolate to cause a heart attack. Which would certainly have been a better way to go than the way she had.

"Mr. Hubble!"

It was Milton, all fresh faced and beaming. "Hey, there, Miltie," Hubble said. "Nice spread you got here. Sandwiches, potato salad, deviled eggs, all this chocolate. Way better than the usual pizza and tater tots."

"I run a high class operation," Milton announced, sounding like he actually believed it.

"That so?" Hubble said dryly. "Well, thanks for pointin' that out. Never would have guessed."

Milton blinked, recovered. "I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you at our panel discussion," he gushed. "I don't suppose I could interest you in Sunday's round table?"

"Like I told your shadow there, that Max kid, I'm a doer, not a talker," Hubble answered. "That one reminds me of you, Miltie."

"He's a chip off the old block, isn't he?" Milton said proudly. "Like the son I never had. And Evans is just one more reason we're not the typical UFO center and this is no typical UFO convention. We've got real believers working here, and the sighting last week has attracted the attention of UFOlogists everywhere."

"Yeah, mighty convenient how that happened right before your convention," Hubble remarked.

"I'm not sure how to take that remark," Milton bristled. "I personally surveyed the scene and spoke to the witnesses—at great personal risk to myself, you understand—and I can assure you this was no hoax. This one was genuine."

"You don't say?" Hubble murmured.

"I do—don't—do!" Milton insisted, looking mildly alarmed, like visions of his former English teacher had just flashed before his eyes. "Even the sheriff thought so. He had me arrested when I breached the area he'd cordoned off in the woods. He didn't want me finding out what he already knew and he didn't know that I already knew—that it was real. But I already knew that, even if he didn't know I knew that and didn't know he was too late."

Hubble polished off the last of the mud pie. "Not sure I followed all that, Miltie, but I think I got the gist of it. Glad they let you out of the slammer. The world's a safer place. I'm gonna go sit down now. Wouldn't want to miss the show."

Hubble tossed his paper plate and fork in the trash and left Milton by the buffet table still dithering over whether he'd just been dissed. This was a private affair, accessible only to ticket holders, which was probably supposed to give it cachet, a cachet he was certain it didn't deserve. But his dogs were tired from pounding the pavement all day, he needed a place to sit, and where better than here? Dog and pony shows like these were really just live comedy at a bargain price, and being in a public place made it less likely that Jimbo would carry out his threat and have him tossed out of town. He was willing to bet good money that the crumbs he'd dropped last night would take root, but just to be on the safe side, he'd kept a low profile today and stayed on the move, quietly amassing information on Pierce's supposed suspect, Milton's pride and joy, Max Evans. By all accounts Evans was a quiet, bookish kid who'd never raised an eyebrow for any reason, let alone any recognizable alien reason. Everyone knew about the shooting at the local diner last fall, but no one had mentioned a miraculous healing, the waitress in question being universally described as "lucky" by adults and a "bookworm" by her peers. No mention of an unusually savvy Ouija board-teen either, so his target hadn't come this way. He'd pretty much struck out on all counts, with the Jimbo count still being up in the air, so he was perfectly content to rest his tired bones on one of Milton's high-class metal chairs and listen to some bedtime stories.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," intoned a classic geek at the head table, wearing classic horn-rimmed glasses and a classic pocket protector. "Welcome to tonight's panel discussion, led by several experts in the field, myself among them. We have a long list of people eager to share their various experiences with extraterrestrial biological entities, otherwise known as 'E.B.E.'s', and we'll be calling on everyone who signed up at the information booth. Please do try to be succinct, as there are others who also wish to speak. I would also like to note," Classic Geek continued with a pained expression, "that there are likely many in attendance who are not believers, but merely curious. We welcome you to this discussion and would like to note that this is not a forum to debate the various opinions on alien visitation on this planet, but a safe place for those who have experienced such visitation to share their experiences free of the ridicule they typically encounter when they try to do so. Any arguing, derisive remarks, heckling, or other inappropriate behavior will be dealt with swiftly and unapologetically."

A ripple of approval moved through the crowd as heads nodded and murmurs of agreement rose and fell. "With that," Classic Geek continued, "I'll hand the microphone over to our host, Mr. Jonathan Frakes."

The crowd erupted in applause. Classic Geek made no effort to hide his disapproval, and Hubble watched sympathetically as the strapping Star Trek actor promptly hogged all the attention. As laughable as he found this panel of so-called "experts", at least they were believers, even if what they believed was pure, unadulterated bullshit.

To his credit, Frakes calmed the fawning crowd with remarkable speed and got right down to business. One by one men and women rose to tell their stories of encounter, abduction, torture, and death, that last being the most interesting given that the victims were very much alive. No claim was too wild, no story too implausible for the panel of "experts" who swallowed everything whole, questioned nothing, debated no one. And there was little to debate or question given that most of the accounts were basically the same story, the story told over and over since the late 40's about bulbous headed little green/grey creatures with big hands, big eyes, and big probes. After ten abductions, one pregnancy, two sexual encounters, and one sex change, Hubble's eyelids grew heavy. He had almost dozed off when Frakes moved on to the next name on his list.

"Well, there you have it. Thank you, Mr. Grabowski. Our next direct contact witness is a Lawrence Trilling."




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




"I hope this seat isn't saved," Milton whispered. "Just need to take a load off. My feet are absolutely killing me, but I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Nor would I," Brivari answered as Zan's boss plopped down beside him in the very back row while Zan remained behind them, only feet away from his Warder as he scanned the crowd for miscreants.

"Isn't this exciting?" Milton went on. "Can you imagine this many direct contacts in one room?"

"It's quite an achievement," Brivari agreed.

"Thank you!" Milton beamed. "It's all because of the sighting. That was real, you know. I know real when I see it."

"I'm sure you do," Brivari said.

"And what about you, sir?" Milton asked. "Are you a believer or a skeptic?"

"Definitely a believer," Brivari assured him.

"Glad to hear it!" Milton enthused. "Peanut?"

Brivari's eyes dropped to the little bag of nuts Milton was holding. "No, thank you."

"Low blood sugar," Milton confessed, crunching noisily. "Haven't had time to eat. Busy, busy. I hope you don't mind my asking if you're a believer," he went on through a mouthful of nuts. "I realize that's a deeply personal question."

"Right up there with religion, politics, and sexual orientation," Brivari deadpanned.

"Worse," Milton said as the irony sailed right past him. "It's just that these conventions attract a lot of skeptics, and they can get awfully mouthy. We have to preserve a space for the true believers, a place where we know we'll be taken seriously and not subjected to the usual round of ridicule. Not that skeptics are unwelcome," he added hastily. "Many a believer started as a skeptic, so we'd be crazy to shut them out. They just have to behave themselves. That's what Evans and I are doing, watching for troublemakers. He's a chip off the old block, Evans. He's really got the bug. He's kinda quiet, though, so I hope he'll step up to the plate when the time comes."

"You needn't worry," Brivari said dryly. "He's not that quiet."

Milton stopped chewing. "Oh...have the two of you met?"

"I just meant that 'quiet' people are frequently misinterpreted," Brivari clarified. "A lack of volume doesn't indicate a lack of strength. Many a shouter has proven a coward."

Milton's eyes widened. "How true! How very true! And so beautifully put! Say....are you a writer?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "I've been many things, but not that. At least not yet."

Milton leaned in closer. "So tell me...do you have a direct contact story?"

"You could say that," Brivari answered.

"Wow!" Milton breathed, so taken that his nuts slipped to the floor. "I can just imagine what the aliens made of you! I'd love to hear it."

Brivari leaned in closer. "That would not be wise," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Were I to share what I know with you...well...let's just say they would disapprove."

"But how would they know?" Milton whispered. "I've had the room swept for bugs several times."

"Believe me," Brivari said, fastening his eyes on Milton, "they'll know."

Milton's eyes widened again, a difficult feat given how large they were already. "Oh! I...I see. Of course. I understand completely. I'm...I'm just going to go...go...maybe I'll catch you later."

Milton scurried back to Zan, completely unaware that he'd fled the company of one alien to stand beside another. Five minutes later he'd largely recovered, oohing and aahing along with the crowd at the latest tale of direct contact. What no one realized is that none of these tales could be true; virtually no one in this room was old enough to have been the subject of their human experiments decades ago. Unless they'd encountered Nicholas and company, this was all a variation on the same fairy tale which had been invented right around the time Antarians had begun visiting this planet. Fairy tales always contained a germ of truth, and these were no exception; the tales weren't true, but the events on which they were based certainly were. In his early years on Earth he'd avoided these gatherings like the plague for this very reason, that and the fact that survivors of their experiments were still to be found. Now the last of them were dying off and the tale had morphed into something less recognizable, even comical. Retrieving the bag of peanuts, Brivari polished them off while musing on the fact that one of the kings who had sanctioned those experiments stood behind him, completely unaware that the tales he was hearing were the result of both his and his father's practices. He really should contact Webster's and offer a new definition for "irony".

"Well, there you have it," announced the visiting celebrity, virtually a requirement at these functions. "Thank you, Mr. Grabowski. Our next direct contact witness is a Lawrence Trilling."

The man who rose from the crowd brought an abrupt end to Brivari's musings. So much for fairy tales, he thought grimly. Reality had just intruded, and in the worst possible way.


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


Family stuff next weekend, so I'll be back with Chapter 63 on Sunday, February 5th.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE



January 29, 2000, 4:00 p.m.

UFO Center, Roswell




Brivari's eyes fastened on the latest "direct contact witness", an unfortunately familiar face. Lawrence Trilling, or "Larry" as the celebrity moderator was now addressing him, was one of the witnesses to Zan's monumental idiocy back in September. While currently star struck and gushing, that wouldn't last, and when it ended, there was no telling what he would say.

"You know how some people say that Clapton is God, you know?" Larry asked the politely smiling moderator. "But I say you! You are God!"

Applause ensued, followed by insincere protests from the moderator that didn't last nearly long enough. "Okay, let's go to your encounter," the moderator said.

"Yeah, right," Larry answered. "Okay. Um...it happened right here, right in Roswell, New Mexico. September 17th. I was in the Crashdown Cafe..."

Brivari felt a wave of apprehension behind him. Turning, he found Zan and Rath exchanging alarmed glances, after which Rath moved toward Larry. Great, Brivari groaned. More trouble.

"Boom! They start having an argument," Larry declared. "Boom! A gun is pulled."

But Rath merely passed the babbling witness, placing a hand briefly on his chest before continuing on by. Puzzled, Brivari's eyes darted from Zan to Rath, trying to figure out what they were up to.

"Boom! A girl is shot," Larry continued. "Boom! A seemingly normal teenage boy...now this teenage boy, Mr. Frakes, is someone who looks just like you and me...Boom! He goes up to the girl and..."

There was now no doubt where Larry was going with this, but a strange thing was happening: Larry seemed to have developed an itch, one which progressed right along with his story of the miraculous healing which had happened right across the street. By the time he'd finished, he was practically dancing.

"Ooh!" exclaimed the moderator as Larry scratched frantically. "Well, all I can say is, boom! What do you think?" he asked the panel.

Brivari's eyes swept the panel members, all of whom looked seriously unamused. Larry's tale was not typical of alien encounter stories and would hopefully be deemed suspect. It certainly helped that Rath's touch had apparently induced some kind of skin irritation which, although it hadn't stayed Larry's tongue, had produced an effect which made him appear unstable.

"I'm insulted by this ridiculous story," announced the panel's leader as the other panel members shook their heads in disbelief.

But Larry, both hands working furiously on whatever ailed him, was not to be put off. "Yeah, well he's here. He's right here! Okay, pal? He's right here! Right now! He's in this very audience!"

"That's enough, monkey man," the moderator declared.

"Listen, cool it, Frakes!" Larry retorted.

"Security?" the moderator appealed.

Watching from the back, Milton gestured to Zan, and both promptly came forward and took hold of Larry. "Hey, this is the guy right here!" Larry shouted. "This is the guy! He's the one! He's the guy!"

"Well, he may not be the best convention coordinator, but I would hardly call him an alien," the moderator chuckled, followed by nervous laughter from the crowd as Larry was removed still hollering about a missing bullet. "Who's next?" the moderator asked briskly after the doors had closed behind Larry and "security".

"A moment, please, Mr. Frakes," the panel's leader said, folding his hands in front of himself. "Ladies and gentleman, I want to apologize for that outburst. I know this is a safe place for you, a welcoming place, and that safety has just been compromised."

The doors at the back of room burst open and Milton reappeared, followed by Zan. "It's okay, everyone!" Milton called with desperate cheer. "He's gone! There's one in every crowd, hopefully only one. Back to business!"

"We shouldn't let people like that in here," declared a portly gentleman in the front row. "What kind of operation are you running, Milton?"

Milton blanched as murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. "I...I'm terribly sorry, sir. I..."

Brivari rose from his seat. "Excuse me...may I address the audience?"

The leader frowned at this breach of etiquette. "Are you on the list of witnesses, Mr...?"

"Let him speak!" Milton called. "I'd like to hear what he has to say."

The leader hesitated, glancing toward the panel, who appeared ready to protest but unwilling to contradict their host. "Thank you," Brivari said, taking advantage of the confusion. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure we're all familiar with what we just saw. Each and every one of us has a story to tell, a story which few believe. As our esteemed panel has reminded us, places like these are havens, sanctuaries where we may share our stories unmolested. Except when they're infiltrated, of course, as ours just was."

Heads nodded. The room was completely silent. The panel were now listening quietly, perhaps mollified at being referred to as "esteemed".

"To be listened to is a powerful thing," Brivari continued, "to be ignored one of the harshest punishments. No one is ignored here. All are free to tell their stories, all are welcome to listen. The price of that welcome is that sometimes we are mocked. Opening our doors to all means admitting the occasional bad seed and being prepared to deal with them. While we are under no obligation to tolerate abuse, we also mustn't allow occasions like this to sway our resolve or to serve as an excuse to shut others out, for when we do that, we shut out some who need us, who need this place every bit as much as we do."

Everyone, crowd, panel, Milton, Zan, remained perfectly still as Brivari paused, letting that sink in. "For my part," Brivari went on, "I am deeply grateful for the sanctuary Milton has provided for us, and further grateful that this interruption was anticipated and dealt with swiftly. It does our host a disservice to blame him for opinions he does not share. I am also grateful to the panel for not hesitating to call out this individual. There will always be those who refuse to believe us, some politely, most not. We waste time objecting to their existence, something we cannot control, instead of dealing with their behavior, something we can, and my compliments to Milton for having appropriate measures in place to do just that. Let this serve as a reminder to all of us that while the price of our open arms is incidents such as these, the price of their withdrawal is that others like us, misunderstood, vilified, even criminalized, remain homeless and ignored. This is their home, and we are their family. The needs of our brethren who have not yet found their way to this safe haven must take precedence over any discomfort we may feel when we encounter the skepticism and mockery we just witnessed and are all too familiar with. We are, in a sense, the older brothers and sisters of those who come after us, accustomed to the world if weary of it, and responsible for providing guidance as to how to behave when it inevitably confronts us. We are their teachers. It is a huge responsibility I am confident we are all capable of," he finished, nodding toward the panel, Milton, and the audience, in that order. "Thank you."

Brivari resumed his seat. There was a pause of about five seconds before the panel began to clap, followed by the audience, followed by Milton, ultimately producing a thunderous applause. Hugs were exchanged, people wept, and Milton was pulled into the crowd for embraces and handshakes. The celebrity moderator stood off to one side, clapping half-heartedly, no doubt miffed that attention was no longer focused on him. Eventually, the panel's speaker called for order.

"On behalf of my esteemed colleagues," the speaker began, appropriating Brivari's phrasing, "I would also like to thank our gracious host for coming quickly to our defense. Now, if we could return to the discussion. There are many more who have stories to tell, and as we've just been reminded, that is far more important than any disruption. Mr. Frakes? Who's next on the list?"

People settled. The next witness told a standard tale of little grey/green men, as did the next and the next. Five standard tales later, Brivari slipped into the parking lot and pulled out his phone.

"Let me guess," Jaddo said in a bored tone. "We're all monsters, and we're out to destroy humanity and take over the planet."

"Of course," Brivari said. "Aren't we always? But that's not why I'm calling. One of the witnesses to Zan's healing episode showed up at the convention."

"My goodness," Jaddo deadpanned. "Do you mean to tell me that something of interest happened and you actually notified me immediately?"

"Shocking, isn't it?" Brivari said dryly. "I expect you to return the favor."

"Tess is holed up in her room reading up on some college test called the 'PSAT'," Jaddo reported. "Not as earth shattering as your news, but it's the best I've got. Given your tone, I'm assuming you silenced this 'witness'?"

"Not at all," Brivari answered. "He told his tale, but fortunately for us, orthodoxy, narcissism, and Rath took care of it. With a little help, of course."

"Good Lord, Brivari, could you be any more cryptic?" Jaddo complained. "What did Rath do?"

"He touched the 'witness', resulting in some kind of skin irritation that had him scratching himself furiously."

"Inventive," Jaddo allowed. "But I've seen these types. Nothing shuts them up."

"Oh, it didn't," Brivari said, "but it did have the effect of making him look sufficiently deranged. And then I used lots of religious imagery to remind the audience of how they like to feel they're special and important and unfairly persecuted, and now they're all in there holding hands and singing 'Kumbyah'. Add to that the fact that he told a story which casts an alien as something other than a monster bent on destroying humanity and taking over the planet, and he basically discredited himself."

"Good. Where is he now?"

"I'm looking," Brivari said, making a circuit of the building. "Zan and his employer threw him out."

"He won't go quietly," Jaddo warned. "Those types never do. Get rid of him."

"I doubt I'll need to," Brivari answered, rounding a corner. "Oh...there he is."

"Where?"

"Hmm," Brivari murmured. "That's interesting."

"What's interesting?" Jaddo demanded. "Honestly, I think I liked it better when you never called."

"He's getting into a car with the man Valenti was arguing with last night," Brivari reported. "And he's still scratching."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You should find out who Valenti was arguing with," Jaddo said.

"Why?"

"Just find out."

"But why?"

"For heaven's sake, Brivari, all I want is a name. Is that too much for a Royal Warder?"

"But why are you so big on a name? Who are you looking for?"

"Get me the name," Jaddo said, "and I'll let you know."




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




Walgreens Drug Store




By the time the double doors slid open and Larry Trilling stumbled inside, he'd already managed to draw blood. Horrified, he stared at the hand he'd just been using to scratch his left shoulder, then tentatively raised his other hand, probing the same place. Holy shit, Larry thought when that hand also came back red. This entire afternoon had been nothing but a nightmare, with his much-looked-forward-to chance to tell his story resulting in him being mocked and thrown out of the UFO center by the very guy who had prompted the story in the first place, followed by an interminable lurch down Roswell's Main Street in desperate search of a pharmacy so he could find something to quiet whatever had set his skin on fire. Because on fire it was, both red hot and visibly red, and so itchy that even now, with blood on his hands, he was losing the fight to stop scratching. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he headed straight for the counter in the back. It was something of a miracle that he was here at all, with several people he'd asked for help finding a drugstore backing away in alarm, whether from his rash or his mad scratching or both. Best not to scare the pharmacist.

But there was no pharmacist manning the back counter where prescriptions were dispensed, only a teenaged girl with three earrings in each ear, a nose ring, numerous tattoos, and enough black eyeliner to draw a line around the crash site on Pohlman Ranch. "Name?" she asked in a bored tone without looking up from the magazine she was reading, or rather, looking at. It appeared to be all pictures.

"My name's not important," Larry answered, both hands clenched in fists to keep from scratching.

"It is if you want to pick up your prescription," she answered, still not looking up.

"I'm not here for a prescription. I'm here for something for itching."

"Like what?" Nose Ring asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Larry said peevishly. "This is a pharmacy, isn't it? Where's the pharmacist?"

"Probably screwing his wife," chuckled Nose Ring. "Or maybe someone else's. It is a Saturday night, you know."

"Well, who's on call, then?" Larry said desperately, his bitten-down fingernails digging into his palms, he was clenching his fists so hard. "I know these places always have a pharmacist on call."

"For emergencies," Nose Ring said, flipping a page. "Itching's not an emergency."

"Like hell it isn't!" Larry exclaimed, losing his temper and his wherewithal at the same time. Out came the hands, which went to work in a flurry of scratching which finally managed to capture the attention of Nose Ring, who looked up from her magazine in alarm.

"Dude!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know," Larry said in exasperation. "All I know is that everything from the waist up itches like mad. I'm scratching myself so hard, I'm bleeding. See? So don't act like it isn't an emergency," he went on when Nose Ring recoiled from his crimson-striped hand. "I need something for itching, and I need it fast. Call the pharmacist."

"Okay," Nose Ring agreed, nodding vigorously. She fumbled for the telephone, punching buttons, never taking her eyes off him while Larry scratched miserably. What the hell was going on here? He wasn't allergic to anything, and anyway, what could he possibly have been exposed to inside the UFO Center?

"He's not answering," Nose Ring announced.

"Then try another one!" Larry exclaimed. "Who's on call?"

"I called the one on call," Nose Ring said. "If he can't be reached, you're supposed to go to the hospital. I can call an ambulance—"

"No hospitals," Larry insisted. "Call another pharmacist. Now. Call him right now."

"It's a her."

"Fine, call her," Larry corrected impatiently.

Larry continued scratching while Nose Ring punched numbers and waited. And waited. And waited.

"She's not answering either," she announced fearfully. "Look, mister, maybe I should call 911—"

"No!" Larry said. "Just...just show me what you've got for itching. I'll take it from there."

"I...I don't know what we've got for itching," Nose Ring said, flustered. "I'm not a pharmacist; I just work the counter."

"Fine, what do people buy when they have itching?" Larry said, wondering how he'd managed to wind up in a pharmacy staffed by no one but a pimple-faced teenager at the one time in this life when he needed someone knowledgeable.

"I don't know!" Nose Ring wailed. "I've never seen anyone like this! How should I...hey!" she said suddenly. "I know! I'll call Mom."

"Mom?"

"Yeah, my mom," Nose Ring said, punching telephone buttons again. "She'll know what to do. Moms do that sort of thing." She waited, her face brightening a moment later. "Mom? It's Beverly."

" 'Beverly'?" Larry muttered.

"Yeah, 'Beverly'," Beverly said crossly. "What's it to you? No, not you, Mom. I've got this guy here with a really bad rash, and he wants something to put on it. What should I give him?" She listened briefly, flipped her magazine over, grabbed a pencil. "Okay, how do you spell that? C-a-l-a-m-i-n-e. And what? A-v-e-e-n-o. And what was the other one? B-e-n-a-d-r-y-l. And where do I find those here?" More listening, more scritching. "Okay, thanks, Mom."

Beverly hung up and tucked the pencil behind her ear. "Come with me," she said briskly, as though she'd suddenly become an expert on itching. Hoping she had, Larry followed her to the lotion aisle, where she plucked a couple of things off a shelf. "Aveeno oatmeal bath," she informed him, holding a box aloft. "You soak in it. And then you put on Calamine lotion with these cotton balls. And then," she continued, striding into the cold medicine aisle, "you take something called 'Benadryl'...here it is," she said, grabbing a bottle of pills. "Or would you rather have the children's syrup? Cherry or Grape."

"Grape," Larry said. "Hey—is that Tiger Beat?"

Beverly flushed, rolling up the magazine she'd been reading her list off of. "Of course not. Tiger Beat is for tweens. Come on back, and I'll ring you up."

Larry followed her back to the counter where she punched more buttons, on the cash register this time. "$30.56," she announced.

"For three things? Never mind," Larry amended, practically dancing from one foot to another as he fetched his wallet. "Here's $35.00. Keep the change."

Beverly's eyes widened. "Really? Wow! No one's ever tipped me before."

"Congratulations," Larry said. "Can I have my stuff?"

"Oh...sure," Beverly said happily, fetching a bag. "You know, mister, I think you may have shown me some hidden talents."

" 'Hidden talents'?"

"Yeah! I never knew I could do stuff like this."

"Stuff like what? Call your mom and write stuff down?"

"No, help people," Beverly corrected. "Maybe I should become a nurse!"

Larry managed to take the bag she held out without noting that people like her becoming nurses was exactly why he didn't like hospitals. "Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

"Good luck!" she called as he sailed out the door. The dry air was agonizing on his skin, but he held himself together long enough to make it halfway down the street before he realized he couldn't go back to his motel. If Jen saw him like this, she'd think he was crazy; she pretty much did anyway. He'd need a tub for the oatmeal stuff, but he could use the rest of it right here, a good thing given that he was ready to tear all of his skin off.

The UFO Center loomed to his right. No one was around, probably because they were all still at the panel discussion, and as he opened the bottle of lotion, he wondered if anyone else had been evicted. Prior to this he would have sworn on his mother's grave that he'd seen what he'd seen back in September, but now he wasn't so sure. How bad was it when a bunch of people who believed in aliens didn't believe you? This should be the easiest place to tell his story, and they'd just thrown him out. What did that mean? Did that mean he hadn't seen what he thought he'd seen? Did that mean he was nuts? Had he been pounding the pavement for the past several months, penniless and close to losing his fiancee, for nothing?

There was a brief moment of peace as Larry pressed the first cotton ball full of Calamine lotion on his sore skin. Ahhhh. That was better, even if only marginally, and given how he felt, even marginal improvement was welcome. He'd no sooner begun to enjoy the reprieve when he heard footsteps approaching. Great, Larry thought sourly when he spied a man in a cowboy hat heading toward him. Jesus, wasn't it enough that they'd run him out of the building?

"I know how it feels not to be listened to," Cowboy Hat declared. "I believe you, kid. Tell me everything. Tell me about Max Evans. Tell me what you saw."

Larry blinked, blinked again. "Who the hell are you?"

"An interested party. And like I said, one who believes you."

"Oh, yeah?" Larry muttered, rummaging in his bag for the Benadryl. "Well, I'm not so sure I believe it any more. I mean, if those people in there didn't believe it, who will?"

"Those people in there are idiots," Cowboy Hat said calmly. "They wouldn't know an alien if it bit'em on the ass."

"Oh, and you would?" Larry challenged, squinting at the dosage directions printed in infinitesimal print. "Why? Did one bite you on the ass?"

"Wish that's all they did," Cowboy Hat answered. "Might be fewer dead bodies. Careful with that," he advised as Larry gave up trying to read the label and took a swig directly from the bottle. "You don't want to OD on it."

"Actually, I think I do," Larry said, taking another swig only to have the bottle snatched out of his hand. "Hey! That's mine!"

"Listen to me, son," Cowboy Hat said firmly. "I've been hunting aliens for years. Years and years. I know they don't look like domed-head little kids, they look exactly like us, like you, or me, or that kid you were talkin' about."

Larry's eyes widened. "Really? They do? I mean, don't? I mean—"

"I know what you mean, and yeah, really," Cowboy Hat replied, holding out a hand for the Benadryl cap, which Larry gave him without hesitation. "They look like us. That's how they hide. This whole business about little green men, or grey, or whatever, it's a load of crap. It's false advertising. It's misdirection. It makes us look for one thing when what we're really looking for is standing right in front of us."

"That's the part everyone always has a problem with," Larry said, nodding vigorously, "the fact that it was just a kid who looked like any other kid. That and the fact that he saved that girl. Guess they're not supposed to do things like that."

"I gotta admit, I have problems with that part too," Cowboy Hat allowed. "But I still want to hear it. All of it."

"Why?" Larry asked suspiciously. "No one in there believed it. Why would you?"

"Because I've spent my life chasing aliens, son, and if there's one thing I've learned better than any other, it's how to tell when someone's lyin'. And you're not lyin'. You believe you saw what you say you saw, and that gets you an audience with me. Where are you staying?"

Audience? Larry thought. Who did this guy think he was, the king of England? But hubris aside, this was the first person, the very first person, who'd believed him, everyone else having tripped over the twin roadblocks of compassionate aliens and aliens who look human. Even Jen was a doubter, had been ever since last September. Was he really going to walk away from the one person who thought he wasn't crazy?

"I...I can't go back to the motel," Larry said. "I don't want my girlfriend to see me like this."

"Then how about my place?" Cowboy Hat suggested. "I'm just down the street. Lay low, put some more of that stuff on, and tell me your story. Maybe you'll clear up before you see your lady friend again."

Larry hesitated, still uncertain. It was nice to be believed, but this guy was giving him the creeps. This should be easy. This should be a no-brainer. This should be a relief to pour out his story to a willing listener, so why did he almost feel like he was being...abducted?

Then the UFO Center's back doors opened, and people began to emerge. "Okay," Larry said quickly. "I'll go."

"I'll pull the car around lickety split, before that lot has a chance to get their teeth in you," Cowboy Hat promised. "Back in a jiffy."

It was a "jiffy" all right, no more than a minute before an ancient Oldsmobile pulled up alongside him, but to Larry, his back turned to the crowd now streaming out of the UFO Center, it felt more like an hour. Cowboy Hat may be creepy, but those people in there had been nasty, and when he finally climbed into the passenger side, clutching his little bag of pharmaceuticals, he felt less like he was being abducted and more like he was being saved.




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




Crashdown Cafe



"So how am I doing? Am I doing good?"

Liz turned from the window where she was waiting for the latest round of orders to find Jen waiting hopefully for an answer, deely boppers practically quivering with anticipation. "You're doing good," Liz confirmed. "So good, in fact, that I think it's time for a promotion. I've got orders up in a minute. What say we have you deliver some?"

Jen's eyes popped. "Really? Do you think I'm ready? I mean, I've only been bussing tables for a couple of hours, so...do you really think I'm ready?"

"You're ready," Liz assured her. "I'll go with you," she added when Jen began to look worried. "The next tables I have are right next to each other, so you'll go to one, and I'll go to the other, and I'll be right there if you need me."

"Oh, God," Jen fretted. "What if I give the wrong person the wrong food? What if I..." She stopped, eyes widening at the horror of it all. "Oh, God, what if I drop a plate? What if—"

"If you give someone the wrong order, they'll notice, and then you switch it," Liz broke in before Jen's imagination could run away with her. "Happens all the time, especially when we get busy. And if you drop it, the kitchen will make another one. No big deal."

Some of the terror went out of Jen's eyes. "No big deal," she repeated, as though trying to convince herself. "Right. No big deal. I'm...I'm just gonna step over here and get myself in the right frame of mind."

Liz stifled a smile as Jen retreated to a corner, pacing and muttering to herself like a star athlete at the Olympics. Initially skeptical when Jen had offered to help during the last rush, she'd wound up grateful for the extra pair of hands. The fact that those hands had been tasked with grunt work didn't bother their owner; Jen had dived right in, donning deely boppers in lieu of a uniform and clearing tables, refilling the coffee grinder, fetching napkins, and anything else they needed her to do. Having a willing helper who was also a fast learner was a real plus, and judging from the crowd who had just begun pouring through the Crashdown's doors, that had just moved from a plus to a necessity.

"Yikes," Maria grumbled, joining her at the window. "We just got mobbed. Again."

"I think there was a panel discussion tonight," Liz said. "It must be over."

"And so of course they all run over here," Maria sighed. "Great for your mom and dad, I know, I'm just tired. It's been non-stop..." She paused, looking past Liz. "Okay, what...what's she doing?"

"She's 'getting herself in the right frame of mind'," Liz said dryly. "To deliver orders with me, that is, not climb Everest."

"You're gonna let her deliver orders?" Maria said doubtfully. "Is that a good idea?"

"Maria, turn around," Liz instructed. "What do you see?"

Maria's head spun. "I see a cafe bursting at the seams with alien-hunting hordes seeking sustenance," she announced. "You're right; it's a great idea. It's not only a great idea, it's a fabulous idea. It's not only a fabulous idea, it's a—"

"Absolutely," Liz said. "Oh...here they are. Jen! Time to go."

Jen joined them, shaking both hands as though limbering up for a piano concerto and breathing deeply. "Okay! I'm ready! Lay'em on me!"

"We're just delivering plates," Liz said patiently, "not lifting weights. You'll start with two, one in each hand. Here you go."

Jen took the plates, then watched, goggle-eyed, as Liz and Maria loaded up both arms with three plates each. "How do you do that?" she hissed. "I want to learn that!"

"All in good time," Maria said serenely. "Trade secrets aren't given lightly. We ready?"

"Hang on," Jen said suddenly as the gravy on the crater potatoes sloshed dangerously. "I just wanted to tell you both how grateful I am for this opportunity. I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to do something useful, something besides riding and sitting and reading tour guides. I haven't felt needed like this since...gosh, since I don't know when."

Liz and Maria stared at her. "You're welcome," Liz said finally. "Now...you're the second table on the right. Only two customers, and the guy gets the burger."

"Second table on the right, guy, burger," Jen repeated. "Got it." She took a deep breath. "Here I go."

"Smile!" Liz called. Jen pulled up short, produced a fake smile, and headed out again.

"That is one seriously messed up woman," Maria muttered. "Imagine waiting tables being the pinnacle of your existence. It's depressing."

"Yeah, well, life with Larry hasn't exactly been a bed of roses," Liz said. "Let's go."

Maria went right, Liz went left. Jen was in the middle and had delivered both plates safely and correctly by the time Liz reached her table with her load of six. "Okay, I have a Pluto Pancake..."

"Hey, that's Mark," she heard the woman at Jen's table say behind her. "Mark! Over here! Can he order?" she asked Jen.

Liz nodded at Jen, who looked terrified, but held it together. "Uh...sure. What can I..I mean, can I get you something to drink to start?"

"A Coke," Mark said shortly, pulling up a chair. "Guys, you will never believe what happened at the panel discussion! Some guy was going on and on about an alien encounter he had right here in this very cafe back in September. Something about a girl getting shot and some kid healing her just by touching her. Say, honey, do you know anything about this?" he asked Jen.

Liz's sixth plate clunked noisily to the table. Jen had frozen in place, as had Maria a few tables over. "I...I..." Jen stammered.

"Can I get you anything else?" Liz asked her table, forcing a smile. "No? Then I'll be back in a few minutes." She turned around. "I know about it," she told Mark and company, "and there was no 'alien encounter'. Some guys were fighting, and one of them fired a gun, and in all the confusion I slipped and fell and broke a bottle of ketchup all over myself. And one of my friends, a guy from school, helped me up. That's all. Not very exciting, huh?"

Mark shrugged. "Pretty much what I expected. Nobody believed him. They threw him out."

"I can see why," Liz said. "I'll get your Coke, and be back to take your order."

Liz pulled Jen, now practically catatonic, back behind the counter with Maria on their heels. "Liz, I am so sorry," Jen said miserably. "I know that was Larry, and I—"

"Don't worry about it," Liz said soothingly. "It's okay."

"No, it's not okay!" Jen wailed. "If your father finds out about this, he'll throw me out of here, and then I'll have nowhere to go and nothing to do and—"

"Calm down," Liz said, one hand on her arm. "I won't tell Dad. And if he finds out, I'll make sure he knows it wasn't you. If anyone else asks, just come get me, and I'll talk to them, okay? Now," she went on as Jen marginally started breathing again, "take another plate, to the guy in the blue jacket at the end of the counter. Go on," she coaxed, handing Jen the plate. "Use both hands. You'll be fine."

"Fantastic," Maria sighed after Jen headed off, a bit wobbly, to deliver a Celestial Salad. "Just what we needed; Larry running off at the mouth about the shooting. I swear if I get my hands on him, I'll—"

"Liz?"

"Max!" Liz exclaimed, making a beeline for the kitchen when she saw Max peeking through the kitchen door. "What happened? People are asking about the shooting."

"And blaming Larry for bringing it up," Maria added.

"Yeah, he tried to use it as a 'direct contact' story," Max said. "But nobody believed him, and Milton kicked him out. Michael's looking for him now. What'd you hear?"

"A guy just asked," Liz answered. "Jen got all upset, but I told the standard story."

The back door opened, and Michael slipped inside. "Can't find him," he reported. "He's nowhere around the UFO center. Is he here?"

"Hadn't better be," Maria said darkly. "I'll put arsenic in his Coke."

"Just keep your eyes open," Max advised, "and call me if he turns up."




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




Saucer Motel




"Come right in," Hubble said magnanimously. "Make yourself at home."

His guest, the still itching, bespectacled geek from the UFO Center, hesitated on the threshold, eyes raking the unmade bed, the take-out containers, the unfolded clothes. "Bit of a mess," Hubble admitted. "I'm on the go a lot. All the time, actually."

"All the time?" Geek repeated. "Where do you live?"

"Here!" Hubble smiled with a sweep of his hand. "Anywhere. Everywhere. I live on the road, kid. That's what you do when you're hunting aliens. Their address is planet Earth, and so is mine. Stop hovering in the doorway and get in here. You'll let the ants in."

Geek looked down in alarm, then stepped inside, if only just. "So...how long have you been living on the road?" he asked as Hubble closed the door behind him.

"Damn near thirty years," Hubble answered.

Geek's eyes goggled. "I...uh...I don't think my girlfriend...I mean, fiancée...would like that."

"Ditch the girl, kid," Hubble advised. "And don't even think about making her a wife. This is a job best done solo. Let me guess: Your girl doesn't get it, does she? She doesn't understand why you're driven to do what you do."

"I...I guess not," Geek admitted.

"See, that's why we go it alone," Hubble counseled. "And why we need to stick together. There are so few of us true believers; we need to support one another. Ain't that right?"

"I...guess so," Geek answered doubtfully.

Hubble's phone rang. The display read "private number", meaning it was probably Pierce or one of his lackeys. "S'cuse me a minute, kid. I gotta take this. Make yourself at home. Grab some tissues if you want to put more of your lotion on."

Geek moved tentatively toward a box of Kleenex as Hubble stepped outside. "Hello?"

"Hubble? Jim Valenti."

Hubble raised an eyebrow. "Junior? How'd you get this number?"

"That's 'sheriff' to you, and being sheriff has its privileges," Valenti answered.

"Even illegal ones, apparently," Hubble observed.

"Don't even think about lecturing me about what's legal," Valenti said sharply. "You said you had answers for me. You got any proof to go with those 'answers', or was that just you running off at the mouth about how special you are?"

"Down, boy," Hubble said dryly. "I've got proof. You wanna see it?"

There was a pause. "Yeah. Tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll be at the station," Hubble said. "What time?"

"3 p.m. And not at the station. Come to my house. I'm sure you already know where it is."

"That I do," Hubble nodded. "And I can certainly see how being seen with me in any official capacity might put a damper on—"

Click.

Hubble pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Well, well, he thought, smiling faintly. Junior appeared to have grown a pair his father never had. Good for him. And great for himself because this was just the chink in the armor he'd been looking for. The photos he had would serve as one wedge to pry it open. Time to get a second.

"So how's it goin'?" Hubble asked when he went back inside. "Any better?"

"A little," Geek allowed, shiny with fresh lotion.

"I just realized we've never been properly introduced," Hubble said. "I'm Everett Hubble. You?"

"Larry," Geek said warily.

"Nice to meet you, Larry. Now...tell me everything you saw and heard that day back in September. Start before the beginning, and don't leave anything out."

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


I'll post Chapter 64 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR



January 30, 2000, 2:45 p.m.

Valenti residence



Jim Valenti stood in front of the mirror, dithering. That alone was enough to throw him off his game because he never dithered, and certainly not about what he was dithering over now—clothing. He shrugged his uniform jacket off, studied the results, then put it back on. Then off. Then on. On, he decided. The more official he looked, the more likely he was to drive home the point that he was an authority figure. Too bad he didn't feel like one. Jackets and badges aside, no costume could hide the fact that what he felt like now was an angry little kid who had watched his father slip away until he'd disappeared into a haze of dishonor and dementia. Part of him said he shouldn't be bringing this up again, dragging all this mud back into the light of day, while part of him agreed with Hanson, Sr. that he might not get another chance. The second part was winning, but only just, which was probably why he'd skipped both breakfast and lunch and why his stomach was tied in knots. At least there was nothing in it to throw up.

His clothes settled at last, Valenti headed for the living room. He'd already tidied up the place, but now he rearranged some magazines, plucked a stray sock from the floor beside the sofa, and gazed at the side table for several long minutes before reconsidering and replacing the framed photo of his father which usually sat there; let him see it and remember what he'd destroyed. Last was the problem of food. It was certainly customary to offer refreshments to guests, but Hubble hardly counted as a guest. No, under the circumstances, the usual laws of hospitality would need to be expanded to include not throttling someone, which was exactly what he'd wanted to do every single time he'd seen Hubble in the past two days. Easy, there, Valenti advised himself. Hanson Sr.'s advice to play along, to act like he was listening was a good idea, and given Hubble's vanity, it just might work if he could pull it off. So he'd listen through gritted teeth, but no nibbles for Hubble. I could use a beer, though, he thought, heading for the kitchen. Even a few swigs would help.

"Expecting someone?"

Valenti nearly jumped out of his uniform. "Kyle! What the hell are you doing here?"

Seated at the kitchen table in a tee shirt and boxers, one hand on the spoon in his bowl of cereal, Kyle blinked. "I...live here?"

"I know that," Valenti said, exasperated. "What I meant was, what are you doing here now? It's Sunday afternoon."

"Yeah. So?"

"So you're usually long gone by this time on a Sunday afternoon. I thought you'd be out with your friends, maybe at the convention."

"And why would I want to spend so much as minute of my precious time around people who think little green men are real?"

"I don't care where you spend your precious time as long as you don't spend it here," Valenti said crossly. "I've got someone coming over."

Kyle's eyes lit up. "Oh, I get it! This must be the mysterious lady friend you took out before Christmas."

"You mean the one I never got to finish dinner with because of some hare-brained party?" Valenti said tartly. "No, it's not her. Don't I wish."

Kyle studied him for a moment. "You're upset," he said finally. "And not just upset, really upset. Who's coming over that has you really upset?"

"I'm not upset," Valenti said.

"More to the point, who's coming to the house that has you really upset?" Kyle went on, ignoring him. "The station, yeah, but the house? Wait...is Mom coming over?"

"I'm not upset," Valenti insisted. "And no, it's not your mother, but even she would be preferable."

"Wow," Kyle said dryly. "Now I know you're upset."

"I am not upset!" Valenti exclaimed. "Would you please just finish your cereal and scram?"

Kyle's eyes hardened. "Why is so hard to be honest with me? I'm sitting right here, you're practically frothing at the mouth and ordering me out of my own kitchen, and then you tell me with a perfectly straight face that you're not upset. Just exactly how stupid do you think I am?"

Some of the wind went out of Valenti's sails. "I don't think you're stupid, Kyle. And I...I know you would have liked to see your mother. I'm sorry it's not her."

"Then who?" Kyle demanded. "Can you be straight with me for just once? Please?"

Valenti glanced at his watch, then at his son, at the morning stubble on his boy's face, the muscular arms, the hair on his chest peeking through his tee shirt. Kyle hadn't been a little boy for a long time now. Why was he still treating him like one?

"Okay," he said, pulling up a chair. "Okay. There's...there's a man coming over, a man I don't like. A man I really don't like. But he knows something about...about my family that I want to know, so I'm going to put up with him in the hopes that I can learn what he knows. A big part of me doesn't want to hear what he has to say because I'm afraid he's going to tell me something I don't want to hear. And even though I can't take anything he says at face value, part of me is afraid that if he tells me something I don't want to hear, he'll be telling the truth. So I don't want any distractions while I try to sort this out, and I don't want you in this guy's path. Which is why I asked him to come over at a time I thought you'd already be up and long gone."

Silence. Kyle started at him over his sogging cereal without comment, or blinking, or seemingly even breathing. Great, Valenti thought heavily. He was five minutes away from being judged by Hubble, and here he was being judged by his own kid.

"Okay," Kyle said suddenly, rising from his chair. "I'm gone in five."

"You're...what?"

"Gone," Kyle repeated. "In five minutes. Just let me throw some clothes on. What?" he went on when Valenti gaped at him. "You want me gone, I'm gone. I get it. I just wanted to know why." He paused. "Thanks for being honest with me."

"Yeah," Valenti said faintly. "Sure."

"So...are you sure you're okay? Because I could hang around and beat this sucker up if you needed me to."

Kyle's expression was deadly serious for a split second, followed by a smile which had Valenti smarting that he'd almost just taken the bait. "That's okay," he assured him. "I'm not happy about this, but I've got it."

"Okay. Just checking. I'll go out the back. Mystery man won't be coming in that way, will he?"

Valenti shook his head. "No. He'll use the front door. Assuming I let him in, of course."

"Yeah," Kyle nodded. "Right. Well...maybe you should go for that beer."

"Beer?"

"The beer you were muttering about just before you came into the kitchen and were startled by the sight of your son in his skivvies eating Fruit Loops. Looks like you need it."

"You still eat Fruit Loops?"

"Arguably a better breakfast than beer," Kyle noted. "And Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"You know that you can talk to me, right? I mean, if you ever need to talk? You say that to me all the time, but just so we're clear, it goes both ways."

"Yeah," Valenti said quietly. "I know that, Kyle."

"Good," Kyle said. "Good. Okay, well...good luck. With whatever. And whomever."

Kyle disappeared down the hall. Valenti rose from the table and contemplated a beer in the fridge before deciding to finish Kyle's Fruit Loops instead. The back door closed a couple of minutes later, and ten minutes after that, the doorbell rang.

Give it your worst, Hub, Valenti thought as he headed for the door. Whatever you did to my father, I've got one of the best kids in the world.




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



Evans residence




"You really think this is going to fit in the basement?" Dee asked doubtfully, staring at the heap on the garage floor.

"Well, it's going to have to," Diane said, pushing up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "I can barely fit the car in here after Philip went on that buying spree for last weekend's woodland adventure."

"Why not just get rid of it?" Dee suggested. "You could always sell it, maybe on eBay. It's barely used."

" 'eBay'?" Diane said, puzzled. "What's that?"

"It's an online auction site," Dee explained.

"Goodness, I don't know anything about those computer places," Diane said, "and I'm surprised you do. Anyway, Philip wants to keep it. I think he's secretly hoping the kids will want to do it again."

Over my dead body—or Jaddo's, Dee thought darkly, surveying the pile of camping gear. While her initial desire to strangle Jaddo had waned somewhat after learning what Brivari had kept from him, "somewhat" was the operative word there; she still wasn't thrilled that he'd dangled a "sighting" in front of her grandchildren just to see if they'd jump. Regardless, Philip and Diane were left with the results of his shopping spree which did indeed take up quite a bit of space.

"So basement it is," Diane said briskly. "I appreciate you coming over to help, Mom. Max is busy with the convention this weekend, and Philip's working on a case. Although Isabel is home today, so I suppose we could ask her to help."

"Isabel's home? She's not at the convention?"

"She went the first day, but not after that," Diane said, wrinkling her nose as she picked through the sleeping bags. "I thought Philip said he washed these. I beg to differ."

"So why didn't she go back?" Dee persisted. "They even let school off for that."

"I don't know for sure," Diane said, "although..." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think it may have something to do with the young man I saw coming to the house. Maybe she finally has a real boyfriend!"

Unlikely, Dee thought, excusing herself into the house on the pretense of using the bathroom. Still smarting from having waved goodbye to her grandkids last weekend with nary a clue what was really going on, she had resolved to pay closer attention, especially to things that didn't make sense, like Isabel volunteering to go camping. Isabel wasn't in her room, but she heard voices in the kitchen...and one of them was male.

"...I wanna be your friend, but every time I turn around, you're there, and...and it's suffocating me. So...I'm sorry."

"No, no," the male voice answered. "I got you. No problem. Um...I wouldn't want to...'suffocate' anybody. So I'll just, uh...I'll...I'll see you later."

Footsteps. A door closed. Dee looked out the living room window as Alex Whitman walked away with the heavy tread of the rejected. A moment later she went into the kitchen, where she found a subdued Isabel staring at a book on the counter which boasted drawings of constellations on its jacket.

"Hi," Dee said.

"Oh...hi, Grandma. I didn't hear you come in."

"So...it sounded like you had company," Dee ventured.

"Oh. Yeah. Um...not really," Isabel said quietly.

"I'm surprised you're not at the convention," Dee went on. "Seems the whole town is there."

"So I've heard," Isabel sighed.

"Sorry?"

Isabel shook her head. "Nothing. It's just that the convention is a joke. I don't know how Max stands it."

"Did he get this at the convention?" Dee asked, plucking the book off the counter.

"No, that's from..." Isabel stopped, the end of that sentence hanging in the air.

"Anything wrong?" Dee asked gently.

"Yeah. Me." Isabel said dejectedly, sinking into a chair with the air of one who had given up. "I just don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Tell a guy I don't want to date him."

"I would think you'd be a pro at that," Dee said. "You must have done that before."

"But I like this guy," Isabel said. "He's a nice guy, a good guy, someone I can...someone I can really talk to, in a way I can't talk to anyone else."

Dee took a seat at the kitchen table. "Okay, now I'm confused. If you like him that much, why not go on a date with him? You go on dates all the time."

"I know," Isabel said, "but those are just for fun. They're not...serious."

"This doesn't have to be 'serious' either," Dee said. "Just make it clear to him ahead of time where he stands so there are no surprises."

Isabel shook her head. "It's not that simple. It's not just him, it's...never mind," she finished. "It won't make any sense."

Dee was quiet for a moment. "Here's a thought," she said finally. "You like this boy, and he's someone you can 'talk to in a way you can't talk to anyone else', so...maybe he's not the only one you're afraid is going to get serious?"

Isabel kept her eyes on the table. "I can't. I can't risk it."

"Why not'?" Dee asked. "It's not a bad thing to let someone close to you, Isabel. That might be just what you need right now, someone to talk to who isn't so close to...whatever it is you're going through."

"I'd love to," Isabel said wistfully. "You have no idea how great that would be, but...no. I can't let that happen to me like...I just can't let that happen to me."

I can't let that happen to me like...Max, Dee finished silently, knowing full well what the unspoken end of that sentence was. "Boys do come with the whole romantic entanglement thing, so how about some else?" Dee suggested. "Like me, for example. I'm a pretty good listener, I can keep a secret, and I promise I won't try to date you."

That last line got a wan smile, and then Isabel raised eyes to Dee's that were so filled with longing that, for a moment, Dee thought she was going to spill. Do it, Dee coaxed silently, more concerned than ever about the effect all the secrecy and stress was having on her grandchildren. They desperately needed adult guidance, and there was no question in her mind that she was the best one to provide it.

But the moment passed; Isabel's eyes dropped, and the veil descended. "I can't," she said miserably, rising from her chair. "I've got homework to do, Grandma. I'll see you later."




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




Valenti residence




Jim Valenti stared at the pictures in front of him, unable to believe his eyes. Ten minutes ago he'd braced himself as he'd answered his front door, ready for battle. It had indeed been Hubble at the door, but a different Hubble, polite, almost deferential, a far cry from the attitude he'd exhibited earlier. Valenti had invited him in and braced himself all over again, assuming that once Hubble had crossed the threshold, he would revert to his former self. But all he'd done was produce a stack of photographs which he'd handed over with a mere, "Here you go" and taken a seat without another word, waiting in patient silence for Valenti to look them over.

And look them over he had, once, twice, three times, four, leafing through them again and again and again because he couldn't believe what he was seeing. There was a young woman, a guy in a plaid shirt, several police officers, a couple of businessmen in suits, an old lady, people from all walks of life who shared two glaring characteristics: They were all dead, and they all bore the silver handprint which had mesmerized his father for so long. All of these photographs, these incredible, impossible photographs, were of people just like that corpse back in '59 which his father had insisted had fallen at the hands of an alien. While the handprint was undoubtedly weird, he'd always secretly wondered if it hadn't just been some hoax or other, or maybe a murderer's signature, and he'd continued to wonder that even after Kyle had confided that he thought he'd seen a similar handprint on Liz Parker. Although he had no idea how Kyle would have come up with something like that himself, the fact remained that Valenti hadn't seen it himself and there was simply no other corroborating evidence, no other victims who had suffered a similar fate besides the one in his father's photograph...until now. Now all the doubts and suspicions fell away, replaced by a cold dread that smothered the anger he felt toward Hubble like a wet blanket over a fire.

"Are these yours?" Valenti asked, breaking the silence.

"I didn't steal them, if that's what you're thinking," Hubble answered. "Let's just say I have...connections."

"What kind of connections?"

"Connections which don't want me blathering about them," Hubble answered. "The powers that be don't want this getting out. It'd cause a public panic."

"So...you're saying you think an alien killed these people?"

Hubble shook his head. "No, I'm saying I know an alien killed these people. And the people who took those pictures know that too."

"How? How does a handprint kill you?"

"It cooks your insides," Hubble explained. "All of the victims were cooked from the inside out. No wounds, no point of entry, no external damage of any kind except the handprint. The print is always the same size, and the MO is always the same. They're all the work of the same killer." He paused. "This is the proof I was telling you about. So what'dya think? You want me to go on? Because if you don't, I'll be on my way, no harm, no foul."

Except the harm you've done already, Valenti thought. But even that observation couldn't blot out the bodies swimming in front of him or the sight of the humbled Hubble, hat in hand, waiting for a verdict.

"Go on," Valenti said finally.

"Thanks for hearing me out, Jimmy," Hubble said sounding sincere. "This guy's been leaving carnage all over the southwest for the past forty years. No reason to believe he's about to stop. Handprints are the only trail he leaves. It only lasts for a day or so, and then it disappears, so I'm always around with a camera."

And there's another piece of the puzzle, Valenti thought, so addled that Hubble's use of his childhood name wasn't producing the outrage it should have. His father had insisted the handprints disappeared, which was just way too convenient for those wishing to do their own investigating. "Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"I know you've been investigatin', but you're a weekend enthusiast. It's been full time for me. One of them's my own work. The girl."

"Who is she?

"It's not important," Hubble said. "The others I procured. Like I said, I have connections."

"Who are they?" Valenti asked. "The victims?"

"They're just people," Hubble answered. "People with bad luck. In the wrong place at the wrong time." He paused, his expression softening. "Jimmy, your father may have made a mistake that night, pulled the trigger on the wrong man...but he wasn't crazy. You already know that, don't you? You knew that when I showed up here. It was in your eyes."

Valenti didn't respond, but his eyes fastened on Hubble. "All your father wanted to do was to help this world out," Hubble went on, "and they hung him on a cross for it. This isn't just some happy-go-lucky alien we're looking at. This is a killer, Jimmy. If you know something about it, it's our duty to team together now, do something." He paused. "What about this kid, Max Evans? He have something to do with all this?"

Valenti's eyes dropped to the photographs. "Maybe."

"I spent some time last night talkin' to one of the witnesses," Hubble said. "He said a gun went off in that cafe, but you never found the bullet. That true?"

"You mean Larry? There were only two witnesses," Valenti pointed out when Hubble blinked, "and only one of them was a man. And there's the problem. There were over a dozen people in that cafe that morning, but only two are telling this story, and the two who are telling it aren't exactly paragons of credibility. Far from it."

"Never mind that," Hubble advised. "I don't care if they dress up in chicken suits and cluck, what about the bullet? Bullets don't lie. When bullets are fired they have to go somewhere. Where'd this one go?"

Valenti looked away. "I don't know."

"So you didn't find it. Well, doesn't that tell you something right there?" Hubble said. "It's a physical object. It had to at least leave a hole, but this one didn't. It can't just disappear, but this one did."

"Or seemed to," Valenti allowed.

"Jimmy, I know I don't know you well," Hubble said, "but I'm willing to bet you're your father's boy. Your father was one of the best investigators I've ever worked with, and I've worked with a few in my time. I can't imagine that you didn't turn that cafe upside down looking for that bullet. If it'd been there, you'd have found it. Am I right?"

Yes, Valenti thought, his hatred of Hubble wobbling further. He'd looked everywhere for that bullet, including unlikely places like the second floor, impossible places like the buildings next door. Bullets couldn't disappear, but this one had.

"We need to do something about this," Hubble went on, "before it happens again. You and I, we know. Most people don't, wouldn't believe it even if we told'em, but we know better. That means we have a responsibility others don't have to make sure this never happens again."

Valenti tossed the photos down on the coffee table. "To make sure what doesn't happen again? I have a live body, not a dead one. Have you ever run into something like that?"

"No," Hubble admitted. "But the handprint gives it away. You saw it."

"No," Valenti said quickly. "My son...he said he saw something that kind of sounded like a handprint, but I never saw it; when I looked, there was nothing there."

"Which means nothing," Hubble said firmly, "because they disappear. Maybe it disappeared."

"Or maybe it was never there to begin with," Valenti countered. "You've never seen a handprint that saved someone."

"That's not important," Hubble insisted. "What's important is that we catch this monster."

Valenti shook his head. "I'm not convinced this is your monster, Hub. You said this guy always had the same MO—"

"Right, that's the handprint."

"—but why would he suddenly save someone's life when he's never done that before? That doesn't make sense."

" 'Course it doesn't make sense," Hubble said stubbornly. "It's an alien. Doesn't have to make sense. Who knows why he did it? Hell, he coulda done it because he knew I was close and wanted to throw me off his trail. I've been hunting him long enough, he's bound to know about me." He paused. "Let me see the case file, Jimmy. The one about this shooting. Not the official one, the real one. Your work."

"I can't do that, Hub. You know that's confidential—"

"Confidential, smomfidiential," Hubble said dismissively. "You got my cell number, so I know you're willing to walk on the wild side. You can stay with me, make sure I don't make any paper airplanes out of anything. I just want to see if anything else about this rings any bells. What harm could it do?" he coaxed when Valenti didn't answer. "Keep in mind no one's been as lucky as your young lady. When he strikes again, his next victim will be just that—a victim. And I know you wouldn't want that on your conscience."

Valenti looked down at the photographs again. "I'll think about it. Can I keep these for a while?"

"Sure can," Hubble said. "Take your time. They're copies. Just give me a call when you want me to come back. You've got my number."

A minute later, Valenti was leaning against the door he'd opened so reluctantly, his head racing in so many directions, he didn't know where to start. Why was his "victim" not a victim? Was it really possible that what looked like an ordinary teenaged boy had killed all those people over such a long period of time? Did Hubble have any other photos? How much of the case file on the shooting at the Crashdown should he show him? There was the official file and then there was his own, much more detailed...

Stop!

Furious with himself, Valenti grabbed the photographs off the coffee table, stuffed them in his jacket, and headed for his cruiser. What was the matter with him? Had he actually just been contemplating giving Everett Hubble access to confidential information? The whole point of this little exercise had been to get Hubble to tell his version of what had happened at Silo, to lower Hubble's guard, not his own. Yet Hubble hadn't even mentioned Silo, had only alluded to it obliquely, and he'd been so besotted with the pictures he hadn't even noticed. But I got something anyway, Valenti thought darkly, thoroughly embarrassed that he'd almost drunk the Hubble Kool-Aid. At the moment, the match was a tie.

Five minutes later he parked behind the station and entered through a back door, climbing the stairs to his office carefully to make sure he wasn't seen, keeping the lights off when he got there. He spent the next fifteen minutes, poring over the photographs, finding precious little identifying information in most of them, none actually. But he got lucky when he reached the haunting photo of the young woman which Hubble claimed he'd taken. She had fallen beside a car, a car whose license plate was visible with the aid of a magnifying glass, and Valenti punched the number into the database...and blinked at the result.

"Well, now," he murmured. "How about that?"

Twenty minutes later, after more concerted digging, he was back on the road again, heading for the only other person on the planet who not only knew what had happened at Silo, but apparently a lot more besides.




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




UFO Center




Michael Guerin paused beside the mirror, vacillating. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as he feared. Perhaps he'd just built it up in his mind. Perhaps he was fretting over nothing. Perhaps he should just take a look in the mirror and get it over with because masochism really wasn't his style. Or maybe it would be better not to look? Before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped in front of the mirror.

He looked like an idiot.

That's the charitable version, Michael thought, plopping down on a nearby chair with a sigh. What was he even doing here? How had this crazy idea even occurred to him? Guilt, he thought, answering his own question, marveling at how such a foreign emotion had been dogging him all day. Why was he feeling guilty? This wasn't his fault. Not only wasn't it his fault, he hated this whole charade. It didn't help that he'd been waiting for this convention with baited breath from the moment the flyers had gone up, had been practically chomping at the bit since last weekend's forest hijinks. He hadn't needed Max to point out that this was largely a freak show, but he'd expected someone real to be here, someone who could give him a clue, a hint, a light at the end of the tunnel because for all his staring at the cave symbols, he still wasn't getting anywhere. For all his staring at the symbol they'd found on the forest floor, he wasn't getting anywhere with that either. Here he'd been all excited to have another of their kind actually reach out to them, try to communicate with them, and he had no freaking idea what they were trying to say. It was downright embarrassing. He'd been hoping someone or something this weekend would ring a bell or point the way, but...nothing. Nothing but crazy people who thought he was a monster out to destroy their planet. By the time he was done with this lot, he might not mind doing just that.

A roar swelled outside, the sound of a crowd hungry for a spectacle. It was a sound that should have filled him with disgust, but didn't, because it had finally dawned on him today that all of this, be it Christians and lions or panel discussions and crazy people with crazy stories was here because of them. The costumes, the kitsch, the Crashdown's crazy menu, the UFO Center, the Larry's of the world, all of it was here because their ship had crashed here back in '47. Maybe it had been an accident, maybe an invasion, maybe they'd run out of gas or never learned to drive a stick, but whatever the reason, that real event was the cause of everything currently giving him heartburn. This whole circus was a direct result of something they'd done, so in a weird kind of way, what was happening now was his fault...and he hated that. He hated feeling responsible. He hated knowing that, no matter how much he argued that they owed nothing to humans, he was secretly afraid that they owed them a debt they could never repay. And he hated knowing he'd made a lousy first impression with Maria's mom because deep down, he'd wanted to make a good one. Actually he hated that most of all.

The door flew open, and Milton appeared. "You're on!" he exclaimed, having no idea who was behind the ridiculous mask Michael was wearing. "The crowd is chomping at the bit for the 'Alienator'!"

Knowing his voice would give him away, Michael merely nodded and followed Milton out into the hall, going over his plan of attack once again, or rather, plan of stonewalling. He didn't have enough control of his powers to actually attack—he'd likely wind up killing the other guy if he tried that—so he was going to stick to merely deflecting blows. Bad news for anyone who'd bet on him, but then he'd heard few had. The dude in the ring began bouncing around like a beach ball and the crowd went nuts as he came into view, cheering wildly. The slits in his costume weren't huge, but he could just make out Max off to one side, and a little ways past him, the old guy with the cowboy hat he'd been so evasive about, a phone to one ear and his finger in the other. Just as soon as he made a deposit toward his debt to a society he hated to admit he owed something, he was going to check that guy out.




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




"Hubble?" Pierce's voice came over the phone. "What's happening? Did you—"

"Keep your shorts on, Danny," Hubble advised, barely able to hear over the roar of the crowd. "And stop callin' me all the time."

"Maybe I'd call you less often if you'd pick up once a while," Pierce said crossly "I haven't heard from you in two days."

"You're not my mama. Or my parole officer."

"No, I'm your employer," Pierce retorted. "Where are you? What's all the racket?"

"I'm attending the venerable 'Alien Takedown'," Hubble said, "another fine example of good taste and scholarly achievement. I spoke with Jimmy," he went on before Pierce could erupt. "Showed him some pictures of handprints, told'im we had a responsibility to track the sucker down. He listened."

"Great!" Pierce exclaimed.

"And then I asked him if he'd let me see the case file. The real case file, the one he's afraid to show anyone else."

"And?"

"And he said he'd think about it. Which means 'no'."

"You don't know that," Pierce argued. "He might—"

"I do, and he won't," Hubble interrupted. "The apple didn't fall far from the tree; he's his daddy's boy through and through, which is why I want to know what he found out. Boy's a good investigator, but he's got that blasted Valenti streak of morality. Commendable in an archbishop, maybe, but inconvenient in an alien hunter. He won't show me a damned thing. But don't you worry," Hubble went on, his eyes fastened on a dark-haired figure two rows in front of him. "I have another idea."

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


I'll post Chapter 65 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE



January 30, 2000, 3:45 p.m.

UFO Center, Roswell



"There you go, luv," the burly man said, handing over an enormous soda and two footlong hot dogs. "Are they out yet?"

"Not yet," his equally enormous wife answered, straining her neck eagerly as she stuffed one end of a footlong in her mouth without looking. "Any minute now!" She glanced sideways. "So who'd you bet on, mister? Raging Ray or the Alienator?"

Standing beside her outside the "arena", Brivari suppressed an eye roll and prayed for patience. "Neither. I'm not a betting man."

"We bet on the Alienator!" the burly man proclaimed proudly as his wife downed a quarter of the soda with one slurp. "We like the underdogs, don't we, luv?"

And the hot dogs, Brivari thought, reflecting once again on the odd connection between violence and gluttony. Nothing whetted the human appetite like a good fight as evidenced by the brisk business Milton was doing in snack foods just minutes before his "Alien Takedown" commenced. Normally he wouldn't dignify an event like this with his presence, but normally an event like this didn't include one of his Wards. He'd spotted Rath ducking into a dressing room and changing into the "Alienator's" costume, and when further investigation revealed a rumor that the "Alienator" had bowed out, not a bad decision under the circumstances, he'd realized that the time had come to break his non-attendance streak. He had no idea why Rath had decided to participate, but it was quite possible that intervention would be needed. Rath's control of his powers was iffy at best, and one good mental push could send "Raging Ray" to the hospital.

The murmuring crowd suddenly roared as two figures emerged on opposite sides of the makeshift ring which had been erected for the festivities. Raging Ray practically vaulted over the ropes, bouncing from one foot to another in anticipation while the "Alienator" looked notably less eager. But all things must end, as did his walk to the ring, and he climbed inside just as Milton began the requisite pep talk, hardly necessary given the crowd's enthusiasm, withdrawing just in time for Ray to launch himself at his opponent with a gusto which sent the crowd cheering wildly, a cheer which intensified when Ray appeared to merely bounce off the Alienator, leaving the former bewildered and both standing. Good, Brivari thought, breathing a bit easier. If Rath merely deflected blows, they might get out of this without incident.

"Isn't this exciting?"

It was Milton, fresh from his introduction and eager as always. "They certainly seem to think so," Brivari commented as Ray bounced off Rath again.

"This is the biggest event at the convention!" Milton said proudly. "You won't believe the money people slapped down on this!"

"Actually, I might," Brivari answered, wincing as Rath landed a blow which sent Ray staggering.

"Seriously, we could fund most of the convention on this alone," Milton enthused, "and that's after paying the promoter and the talent."

"Interesting how pummeling another human being is considered 'talent'," Brivari observed.

"Well, sure it is," Milton answered. "Do it professionally, and it's called 'the military'."

"Fair point," Brivari allowed, "although that usually involves issues of national security, not sport. This more closely resembles a dog fight."

Milton's face contorted in horror. "Good God, man! I assure you, I would never be complicit in anything that tortured poor, defenseless creatures!"

Humans, Brivari thought dryly. Pit animals against each other, and they were horrified; do the same with their own kind, and they bought popcorn and cheered. "I was merely making an analogy," he answered. "Please don't take it personally."

"Of course not," Milton said quickly, relieved to find his honor no longer in question. "I'm sorry I snapped. It's just that some of these events are so poorly run that they give the entire UFO field a bad name."

"Indeed," Brivari agreed, watching Ray throw Rath to the floor of the ring.

"I'm trying to raise our profile," Milton insisted, "to attract real scholarship like Everett Hubble over there, not just boneheads like the one yesterday. For which I owe you my thanks, by the way, for stepping in so quickly. It was starting to get a little hairy."

"Public opinion is a fickle thing," Brivari observed. "It can turn on a dime. The trick is to use that to your advantage and turn it your way."

"Which you did, and brilliantly, I might add," Milton said magnanimously, clapping Brivari on the back. "Are you a diplomat?"

"Hardly. My employer would find that notion amusing."

"So who do you work for?" Milton asked.

Your employee, Brivari thought as the crowd suddenly went wild. Rath was down, and the referee began the countdown only to have Rath rise at the last minute, which prompted a storm of cheers and a fresh round of betting. "Did you see that?" Milton exclaimed happily, watching the money fly. "That was a last minute resurrection! They eat this stuff up, I tell you. This might be cheesy, but it pays the bills. Just ask Amy."

"Amy?"

"Amy DeLuca," Milton explained. "She put this together for me."

"Any relation to Maria DeLuca?"

"That's her daughter. I'd heard something about the Alienator pulling out, but I'm glad he didn't. I would have lost a bundle, but Amy would have lost more. Where is she?" Milton went on, scanning the crowd. "I'd better find her. I don't think the Alienator is going to last much longer."

Milton disappeared into the roaring crowd just as Raging Ray hit the floor. Brivari held his breath, hoping against hope that Rath hadn't done anything truly injurious, but Ray was on his feet only half way through the countdown, and the match recommenced. Twice more Rath appeared to be down for the count, producing roars of approval and a storm of betting when he leapt to his feet with only moments to spare. But "The Alienator" was tiring, and a few minutes later he hit the floor again and stayed there.

"Three, two, one...and we have a winner!" shouted the referee as the crowd went wild and surged toward the victor. Rath remained on the floor of the ring, flat on his back, not moving, and Brivari endured a few anxious moments working through the crowd to the edge of the ring. He's breathing, he thought with relief, watching the chest rise and fall with reassuring rhythm. He hadn't really thought otherwise, but it was good to see all the same. It would have been the height of irony if Antar's Commanding Officer had died at a UFO convention on Earth while his king's Warder watched from the sidelines.

Milton reappeared, along with a few of the hybrids' human friends and a middle-aged woman who stared at the figure on the floor with amazement and no small amount of alarm. "Ernie!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "Oh, my God! Are you okay?"

Rath reached up and removed his mask, prompting gasps. "I'm just resting," he said.

Brivari remained beside the ring, watching and listening even after Rath pulled himself stiffly to his feet and shuffled off toward the dressing rooms. The crowd was still celebrating as he pulled out his phone and dialed Jaddo. Just wait until he heard not only what his Ward had been up to, but why. It might put him off field reports for good.

"Where are you?" Jaddo asked suspiciously as the crowd roared again.

"At the 'Alien Takedown'," Brivari answered. "A wrestling match, if you need a translation."

"Good grief," Jaddo said. "Don't tell me our Wards are wasting their precious time on that?"

"Zan works here, so he pretty much had to," Brivari answered. "And Rath was in it, so he pretty much had to also."

There was a long, satisfying pause. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, you heard that right," Brivari said. "Rath assumed the role of 'The Alienator', sworn enemy of 'Raging Ray', the human fighting to save humanity from...well, us, I guess. You should see the costume."

"You must be joking," Jaddo protested. "What in blazes is he doing that for?"

"Three guesses," Brivari said cheerfully. "The first two don't count."

"Brivari!"

"A female," Brivari answered before Jaddo burst a blood vessel. "It appears he did it to impress a female."

A strangled noise came over the phone. "I don't believe it!" Jaddo exclaimed. "Honestly, what's gotten into them?"

"Hormones," Brivari said. "Apparently the match was sponsored by the female's mother, who stood to lose a lot of money after the original 'Alienator' pulled out. She's beside herself with gratitude."

"Good for her," Jaddo said sourly.

"Now, Jaddo, I would think you'd approve," Brivari teased. "It was a magnanimous gesture even if he does stand to earn some of the betting pot. And he acquitted himself rather well. I was afraid he'd flatten his opponent because he certainly could have. But he merely held him off, and rather cannily too. He knows how to play a crowd."

"Whoop de do da," Jaddo grumbled. "God, but this is embarrassing."

"Now you know how I feel," Brivari said. "But at least your Ward didn't dangle his powers for all to see in public."

"Small comfort," Jaddo muttered. "Were there any repercussions from your 'witness' yesterday?"

"No. Haven't seen him. I did find out who he drove off with last night, though, the man Valenti was arguing with. His name is Everett Hubble."

The ensuing pause was so long that Brivari thought the connection had been dropped. "Jaddo? Are you there? I said—"

"I heard you," Jaddo said in a voice which had changed completely. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Milton pointed him out. Seems to think he's some kind of alien 'scholar', although there's no shortage of those—"

"Where are Zan and Rath now?" Jaddo interrupted.

Brivari paused, glancing around the room. "Rath was heading for the dressing room, and Zan...he was here for the match, but I don't see him now. Why?"

"Find them," Jaddo ordered. "You have to find them, both of them, right now. Everett Hubble works for the Special Unit."

Brivari stood stock still in the middle of the still celebrating crowd, thunderstruck. "Are you telling me the Special Unit employs civilians? That's—"

"I'll explain later," Jaddo broke in. "Suffice it to say there's a reason Hubble is there, and a reason he was talking to both Valenti and the witness to the shooting. Stay on the line, and find our Wards. Now."

Brivari's mouth set in a grim line as he shouldered his way through the crowds, moving so quickly that most never saw the one who'd pushed them aside. Only a few minutes had passed since the end of the match, and Rath was in his dressing room, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

"Do you know where I can find Max Evans?" Brivari asked.

"Who are you?" Rath asked suspiciously.

"That's my boy," Jaddo's voice murmured over the phone.

"He helped me out, and I wanted to tell his boss," Brivari answered.

"Oh. That would be Milton," Rath said. "Short guy, dark hair, high blood pressure? Check the wrestling ring. Or his office."

"Leave him," Jaddo's voice ordered as Brivari hurried down the hall. "Hubble's not there. Zan will be the target."

"And while I'm leaving, maybe you can tell me how you neglected to mention that the Special Unit was now employing civilians!" Brivari said savagely, shouldering a door open so quickly that people on the other side scattered. "Is this what you've been keeping from me? Because now's a lousy time to bring it up."

"I didn't know he was still around," Jaddo protested. "He worked for Agent Summers and disappeared after I killed him."

"And why would Summers have hired a civilian?!" Brivari demanded, stomping through the center. "That doesn't make any sense."

There was a pause before Jaddo answered. "I killed Hubble's wife. I was only trying to take the car," he went on as Brivari made a strangled noise of exasperation. "She got in the way. If she hadn't done that, she would have been fine."

"Great," Brivari said furiously. "Just great. Let me guess—you were running from the Unit. How many times do I have to tell you that your antics create more enemies? Don't we have enough already? Should we really be recruiting replacements before the first lot are used up?"

"We don't have time for this," Jaddo said impatiently. "Have you found Zan?"

"No," Brivari snapped. "And you'd better hope I do before—" He stopped, having just emerged into the parking lot from a side door. "Oh, shit."

"What?" Jaddo demanded. "What's happening?"

"What's happening?" Brivari repeated. "What's happening is that Zan just drove off in his jeep with Hubble in the passenger seat!"

"Brivari, listen to me," Jaddo said urgently. "No matter how angry you are with me, no matter how right you are to feel that way, your Ward just drove off in the company of—"

"The Unit," Brivari said in disgust. "Yeah, I get it."

"No, you don't," Jaddo insisted. "Hubble isn't Unit, he just did some dirty work for them. This is worse. The Unit would capture Zan, experiment on him; we'd have time to get him back. Hubble won't bother; he'll just try to kill him. Zan has defenses, but using them will force him to reveal himself. You have to find out where they're going and get him back any way you can. Go. Go now."




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




Michael sank wearily into a chair in the dressing room after the short, bald guy with the cellphone left, wincing as every bone in his body complained. While he'd largely managed to deflect "Raging Ray's" blows, some of them had hit home. He couldn't wait to get out of this Spandex nightmare and stand in a hot shower for several minutes at least, maybe more, and try to forget the fact that he'd just wussified himself twice over by participating in something he detested and wanting really, really badly to continue that kiss. Why was he lecturing Max when he had such a hard time following his own advice? Maybe I should make it a cold shower, he thought as he peeled off his Alienator costume, grimacing at the smell. Whoa. Spandex also made you sweat.

The door flew open suddenly, sending Michael back against the wall clutching the towel he'd only just wrapped around his waist. "There you are!" exclaimed Mrs. DeLuca, nearly invisible behind a large vase of roses. "I wanted to thank my hero!"

"As long as it doesn't involve hugging," Michael said quickly. "I was just going to—"

"These are for you!" Mrs. Deluca went on, thrusting the vase at him. "A poor token of my appreciation for saving my bacon today."

Michael glanced down at the towel currently held in place by nothing but hands. "Uh...thanks. Could you...maybe...set it down for me?"

Mrs. DeLuca glanced down. "Oh! Yes, that would be a little...awkward. I'll...set them right here for you?"

"Yeah. Good. Thanks."

"Oh, no you don't," Mrs. DeLuca said firmly as he started shuffling away. "I have something to say to you."

"Look, I was just on my way to the shower—"

"They have showers here?"

"Yeah, this used to be a fallout shelter, so it's tricked up six ways to Sunday," Michael answered.

Mrs. DeLuca blinked. "Oh. Did not know that. But whatever, the shower will be there when I'm done. So you just stand there and hold your towel while I say my piece, and don't sweat it because I'm sure you don't have anything I haven't seen already."

Michael blinked. "Is...that supposed to be comforting?"

"Maybe not," Mrs. DeLuca allowed. "But I won't take no for an answer, so just clutch a little tighter."

"Who do you remind me of?" Michael muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Can we get this over with? There's a hot shower with my name on it."

"Right," she answered, nodding vigorously. "Okay. Here goes. I...I just can't begin to explain what you did for me today. I would have literally gone out of business if that match had been canceled. I mean, I know they tell you not to put all your eggs in one basket, but the problem is that when you're as small as I am, you don't have that many baskets, so all that wonderful advice doesn't mean squat when you—right," she amended when Michael cleared his throat. "I'm rambling. My point is you saved me, and I am so grateful. And so sorry I said...what I said...earlier today when you...well...you know..."

"Yeah," Michael said, cutting her off before this became even more painful. "And I don't feel any different. Like I said, it was easy money."

But Mrs. DeLuca shook her head. "Oh, no," she said knowingly, wagging a finger at him. "I'm not buying it. People told me what you did, stretching it out, getting up at the last minute. You didn't have to do that. It could have been even easier money, but you put on a good show."

"So what?" Michael said impatiently. "I wanted to feel like I earned it."

"But you didn't have to," she persisted. "You would have been paid just for showing up even if you went down in five. You had everyone hanging, and all those extra bets were placed, and...I mean, why would you do that unless you cared?"

"I don't care," Michael said sharply. "Any resemblance between me and someone who cares is purely coincidental."

Mrs. DeLuca studied him for a moment. "You know what I think?" she said finally.

"No, but I bet I'm about to find out," Michael sighed.

"I think," she went on, ignoring him just like her daughter did, "that you care a hell of a lot more than you let on. That behind that rough exterior, there's a warm, gentle—"

"Fine, think what you like," Michael broke in. "Are we done?"

"Yeah," Mrs. DeLuca smiled. "We're done. But I'm on to you, you old softy." She set an envelope beside the flowers. "It's cash. I figured that would be better than a check."

She left, and Michael leaned against the wall for a moment before heading for the shower at last. No stand in the rain for him; he'd wasted a good deal of time fending off Maria's mother, and he wanted to talk to Max and get him to fess up to who that weird dude was. Still damp from his shower, he went back to the wrestling ring only to see Max and the weird guy heading out of the center. And watching off to the side with a guilty expression was Larry, the disgraced shooting witness who appeared to have recovered from his itch.

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" Michael demanded as Larry recoiled. "What's that guy doing with Max?"

"I don't know," Larry said quickly.

Michael grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "Tell me what he's doing with Max!"

"All right!" Larry said. "He came up to me after the panel discussion, all right? He asked me questions about Max. You know, what he did the day of the shooting."

Larry's eyes widened as Michael stepped closer, which was difficult as he was already almost on top of him. "And did you answer those questions?"

"No! I mean, maybe," Larry amended hastily as Michael's eyes bored into him. "I...I told him what I saw...what I thought I saw...look, buddy, you have nothing, I mean nothing, to worry about from me, okay?" he went on hastily. "Hubble's a nutcase. He's been hunting aliens for decades, he lives on the road, his motel room's a pit, and...and I don't want to be that. I don't want to become that. So whatever happened that day in September, whatever your friend did or didn't do, I'm staying out of it. I'm just glad the girl was okay. That's what's important, right?"

"Great, so you've had an epiphany," Michael said. "Where were they going?"

"I don't know," Larry insisted. "All I know is that the guy who owns this place has been trying to get that dude to be in some presentation or other. Maybe he finally agreed to do it? Or maybe..."

But Michael didn't hear the rest, hurrying away with a growing sense of dread. He's been hunting aliens for decades... That didn't sound good. Milton was in his office, and he looked up in alarm when Michael barged in.





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




Would you look at this haul? Milton crowed silently, the shit-eating grin on his face the only indication of his joy as he carried the pot of bets back to the office. It might be bad form to gloat over cash, but in this business, cash could be hard to come by. The "Alienator's" on-again, off-again fighting style had encouraged more bets than usual, so even after paying Amy and the winning bets, he still had a tidy chunk of change left over. Hardly able to wait to run his hands through all that money, he closed the door and had just set the box on his desk when the door banged open behind him.

"Hold on just a minute, there!" he exclaimed, hiding the box behind him as that Guerin kid marched into the office. "This was Amy DeLuca's gig. She pays you. You don't get any of this."

"Any of what?" Guerin demanded.

"The money," Milton said. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

"I'm not interested in money," Guerin said impatiently. "Besides, she already paid me. I just saw Max leave with that Hubble guy. Where were they going?"

"That's none of your business," Milton said tartly. "I certainly don't share information with thugs who break into my center."

"Oh, but you're willing to take money those 'thugs' helped you raise?"

Milton felt himself flush. "I thought you weren't interested in money."

"And I thought you objected to 'thugs' breaking into your center," Guerin retorted. "Even though that was a misunderstanding, and Max paid you back for any damage, but hey—if you still don't believe that, then just give all the money back."

Milton paled. "I...may...have been a bit...hasty...in my reaction to that...misunderstanding. But that has nothing to do with—"

"Look, I just saved everybody's bacon by taking over for no-show Ernie," Guerin interrupted. "Mrs. Deluca is grateful. How about you?"

"What is this, blackmail?" Milton said hotly. "Is that what you do, run around blackmailing people?"

"Oh, sure," Guerin deadpanned. "I go around entering alien wrestling contests so I can blackmail people. What a business plan. I just want to know where Max went, and he's not answering his phone."

"Of course he isn't," Milton said. "He's driving. And what difference does it make? He'll be back before long."

"Driving where?" Guerin demanded. "Where did they go?"

"I really don't think that's any of your—"

"Where did they go?"

Guerin leaned in closer, and Milton felt the box of cash digging into his back as he was pushed further into the desk. "To Hubble's house," he said impatiently. "Evans got Hubble to participate in the round table discussion, and he needed his slides. Quite a coup your friend pulled off there, something—"

"Where's Hubble live?"

"That's proprietary information."

"Not any more it isn't. Where's he live?"

"I can't tell you that!" Milton protested. "I can't—"

"Where does he live?"

"Bitter Lake!" Milton shouted in exasperation. "He lives in Bitter Lake! And don't tell him I told you, or I'll—"

"Where's Bitter Lake?" Guerin demanded, walking around the desk, pulling drawers open. "You got any maps?"

"No!" Milton exclaimed, swatting his hands away. "What do you think this is, a library?"

"What about this?" Guerin said, whacking the computer keyboard. "This'll have maps."

"Leave that alone!" Milton ordered, abandoning the box at last. "Get out of here, or I'll call security!"

Guerin shook his head gravely. "Can't do that, Milt. You and Max are 'security', and Max isn't here. So it's just you and me, and I'm not leaving until you tell me where Bitter Lake is. Make it easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know."

"If I show you, will you leave? Fine," Milton huffed when Michael nodded, keeping one eye on the box of money as he tapped on the keyboard. "There. See? Bitter Lake is northeast—what are you doing?"

Guerin had grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper off the desk and was making a rough sketch. A minute later he marched out of the room without a word, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

"You're welcome," Milton said in disgust, closing the door before plopping down in his chair. Honestly, what was it with kids these days? Who did that little shit think he was, barging in here like that and making demands? Maybe he should have called the sheriff. Maybe he should call him right now...

The door opened again, and Milton looked up in alarm. "Oh, thank God," he said in relief when he saw the man from the panel discussion yesterday who'd so deftly turned the tide of public opinion his way. "I thought you were someone else."

"I'm looking for Everett Hubble," the man announced. "I just saw him leave with your assistant. Where are they going?"

"Maybe you should get together with that Guerin kid," Milton said. "He was just in here looking for my assistant."

"Guerin was here?"

Milton blinked. "You know him? How?"

"By reputation."

"And that would be a bad one," Milton said sourly. "There's a poster boy for juvenile delinquency if ever I saw one. Do you know he broke into my center? Helped himself to—"

"Where were they going?" the man interrupted.

"Geez, what is it with Hubble and Evans?" Milton groused. "What do you want with Hubble?"

"What wouldn't I want with Hubble?" the man answered. "He and I have much to discuss."

Milton's eyes widened. "Ah! I see. I'll tell you, a lot of people want to talk to Hubble. He's been virtually incommunicado for decades after what everyone says was a direct encounter, one he categorically refuses to discuss, and then he suddenly turns up at my convention? Kismet, I tell you, just like I was telling Evans. But you're in luck—Evans talked him into doing our round table, so—"

"I need to speak to him before that. Where did they go?"

"They'll be back in an hour or so. If you'd just wait—"

"I can't wait. "Where did they go?"

"Look, I really shouldn't..."

Milton's next words died in his throat as the man leaned forward, hands planted on the desk, enunciating each word deliberately and firmly. "Where. Did. They. Go?"

An unsettling hush fell over the room as Milton stared into eyes which had suddenly gone hard. Previously courteous, even courtly, his benefactor now exuded an air of something which felt uncomfortably like menace. "Uh...I...here!" Milton said suddenly, realizing the map he'd pulled up for Guerin was still on the computer screen. "They're going to Hubble's house in Bitter Lake. I'll get you a pencil and..."

"Thank you," the man interrupted, spinning around and disappearing through the door after only the barest of glances at the screen. Milton stared at his office door for a moment before scrambling out of his seat and locking it, afraid of who was going to come through next. What the hell had that been about? Why had two completely disparate people barged in here and borderline threatened him unless he told them where Evans and Hubble were going?

Who cares? Milton thought a moment later as his eyes fell on the precious cash box. He had money to count. Let the weirdos give chase. Given when Evans had left, they'd never catch up with him anyway.




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




"Milton says they're heading to Hubble's home in Bitter Lake," Brivari reported to Jaddo after leaving Milton's office. "It's northeast of here."

"He doesn't have a home there, at least not any more," Jaddo said. "Hasn't lived there for years. He'll aim for a place called 'Pepper's Cafe', which is on the way."

"What's Pepper's Cafe?"

"The scene of the crime," Jaddo said in disgust. "Humans are drama queens. They love returning to the scene of the crime, all the more so because he thinks he's got the criminal with him—"

"And now would be a good time to point out that if there had been no crime, there wouldn't be a scene to return to," Brivari said sharply, banging through the center's front doors and glancing right and left for a suitable car to steal.

"No, it would not be a good time. We can't afford to lose focus."

"While we're 'focusing', I'd like you to 'focus' on something else," Brivari retorted. "After I get him back, you and I are going to have a long talk about what you're not telling me because I do not want to find myself in this position again. Have I made myself clear, or do I need to go over that with you again?"

There was a long pause. "Perhaps you're right," Jaddo said. "Perhaps it's time."

Damned straight it's time, Brivari thought darkly, thwacking his phone closed as he stood in front of a likely candidate, a mid-sized, not terribly well kept Toyota. A minute later the car had a new color, new plates, and was in markedly better shape than it had been. He'd just pulled onto the road when he spied a hitchhiker off to the side...and pulled over. Lowering the window, he leaned across the passenger seat.

"Where you headed?"

"Bitter Lake, and fast."

"What a coincidence," Brivari said. "Same way I'm going." He leaned over and opened the passenger door for Rath.

"Get in."

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


I'm away next week, so I'll post Chapter 66 on Sunday, March 4th. Then we go straight through to Easter.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX



January 30, 2000, 7:30 p.m.

Route 285 North, Roswell





Rath sat tensely in the passenger seat of the pilfered car, hands jammed in his pockets, eyes locked on the road ahead. Beside him Brivari made certain all the lights were in their favor as they sped through the town while wondering how to play this. He'd never been this close to a hybrid before. He'd been near them, certainly, had even interacted with them briefly, but he'd never been in a position to have an actual conversation with one of them. They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes until they passed a sign for a junction.

"I think we switch up here," Rath announced, pulling a hastily scribbled map out of his pocket, obviously copied from the computer screen in Milton's office. "East, I think."

"70 East," Brivari agreed. "That's the fastest way to get there."

"Good, 'cause I'm in a hurry."

"What's the rush?"

Rath stared straight ahead. "I need to catch up with a friend of mine."

"Can you call him?"

"He's not answering his phone," Rath said. "And he might be in trouble. Can this bucket of bolts go any faster?"

"Odd," Brivari said. "Hitchhikers usually find it counterproductive to insult the vehicle which picks them up."

"Sorry. Can this fine automobile go any faster?"

Brivari smiled faintly as he turned onto 70 East. "As a matter of fact, it can. Wait until we get a bit further from town. Nothing will go faster if we're stopped by the sheriff."

The mention of the sheriff quieted Rath for another couple of minutes, minutes he spent throwing furtive glances Brivari's way. The phone buzzed in his pocket for the umpteenth time, most likely Jaddo. He'd have to wait.

"You're that guy," Rath said finally. "The one who turned everybody against Larry when he told that story about my friend."

"Now you give me too much credit," Brivari answered. "Larry turned everyone against him all by himself. I merely picked up where he'd left off."

"Yeah," Rath said with what sounded distinctly like bitterness. "Because everyone knows an alien wouldn't save anyone's life. They're all monsters."

"That seems to be the consensus," Brivari agreed.

"So you didn't believe him either," Rath muttered.

Brivari shrugged. "Did you?"

"Hey, I know what happened," Rath said hotly. "I was there. My friend didn't do anything wrong."

Good answer, Brivari thought, one which managed to be truthful and dodge the truth at the same time. "I'm sure he didn't," he said out loud. "He doesn't seem the type. So...you were there. What really happened?"

"She just...panicked," Rath answered. "You know, when the gun went off. We all did. And my friend helped her up, that's all. And then Larry went all freaky, claiming she'd been shot and we'd done something to her. He got the sheriff all riled up, and the sheriff went after my friend. It was a real pain in the ass."

"I'll bet," Brivari murmured.

"So I just wanted to strangle him yesterday when he dragged all that up again," Rath said sourly. "Big mouth."

"Indeed," Brivari said. "Good thing he came down with that allergy attack, or whatever it was, or we'd be listening to him still."

Rath's eyes flicked sideways. "Yeah. Good thing. Can we go faster now?"

Brivari gave the engine a mental kick, and the car surged forward, producing a grunt of approval from his passenger. "Didn't know Toyota's could move like this. So why are you going to Bitter Lake?"

There was a pause while Brivari considered his answer. "I'm looking for Everett Hubble."

This announcement produced the expected result, with Rath turning sharply in his seat as though preparing to defend himself. "Why?" he demanded. "Do you know him?"

"I do not," Brivari confirmed. "But I saw him leave with the young man Larry accused just a short while ago, and I have reason to believe he may be dangerous. I'm assuming that young man is the friend you speak of?"

"How do you know where he's going?" Rath asked suspiciously, ignoring the question.

"Milton told me, as I understand he told you also."

"Hmpf," Rath muttered.

"He also referred to you as a 'juvenile delinquent' and referenced you breaking into the UFO center," Brivari went on. "Is that true?"

"Who are you? The police?"

"Heck, no," Brivari smiled. "I'm worse."

Rath glanced at him quickly, hesitating, as though trying to decide if he were joking. "It was all just a misunderstanding," he insisted. "He didn't press charges. Why do you think Hubble is dangerous?"

"I saw him leaving with Larry the other night," Brivari answered. "And given Hubble's reputation, I deduced that he may have believed Larry's story. Why do you think he's dangerous?"

"I never said I thought he was dangerous."

"No, you said you thought your friend might be in trouble. Same difference."

Rath shot him a look of such pure, unadulterated annoyance that Brivari nearly burst out laughing. How many times had he seen that look on his Warder's face? Too many to count. "You first," Rath said firmly. "Why do you think he's dangerous?"

"Age before beauty, then," Brivari said dryly as Rath raised an eyebrow. "Hubble is reputed to be somewhat unstable, and his interest in a story like Larry's only bolsters that view. I was concerned when I saw him leave with Milton's assistant. I'm not sure Milton realizes what's going on. You?"

Rath was quiet for a moment. "I talked to Larry. He said Hubble was a nutcase, that he'd been hunting aliens for decades. He creeped Larry out, and Larry's already a creep, so what does that make Hubble?"

"Interesting analysis," Brivari allowed, "although I find 'creepy' to be too ambitious a term for Larry."

"You never said if you believed him," Rath noted. "Did you?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "It almost sounds like you want me to believe him. Like you're trying to start an argument."

"No I'm not," Rath protested. "He's nuts. I just..."

"Just...?" Brivari prompted.

"I just don't understand why most people don't believe him," Rath went on. "I was there, so I know what happened. But most people don't believe him because they think an alien wouldn't save someone's life. They think all they do is kill people, or invade, or take over the Earth, or stuff like that. Why is that? I mean, is it really so unbelievable that an alien would help somebody?"

"I imagine 'most people' don't believe him because 'most people' don't believe in aliens," Brivari answered. "But for those who do, I'd say most fear them. People fear what they don't understand. They also fear anything they think is more powerful than they are. Fear tends to preclude charitable thoughts."

"But that dude was saying Max saved someone's life," Rath argued. "Isn't that a good thing? I mean, Larry's nuts, but if it were true, wouldn't that make people happy?"

"Not if it also made them afraid," Brivari said.

"So they'd rather she die?" Rath demanded. "Better a dead girl than have to give themselves a headache trying to wrap their tiny little minds around something new?"

"Pretty much," Brivari agreed.

"Well, that rots," Rath declared. "That just stinks on ice."

"Does this mean you believe in aliens?"

Rath shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know. But if they're real, I don't have a problem with the idea that they could help someone. I don't see why that's such a big deal."

"If I didn't know better," Brivari said casually, "I'd say you were taking this personally."

"I'm just saying," Rath insisted. "That's all."

Brivari merely nodded and Rath slipped into a sullen silence as they whisked through the desert for several more minutes. "So," Brivari said at length. "When we catch up to Hubble, what's the plan?"

Rath looked out the window. "I don't have one."

"You don't know what you're going to do—"

"No," Rath interrupted sharply. "I'll make it up as I go. I always do. Just stay out of my way, and—" He stopped, gazing into the rear view mirror.

"What?" Brivari asked.

Rath shook his head. "Nothing. For a minute there, I thought I saw a sheriff's cruiser behind us."

Silence fell as Brivari nudged the car faster, one eye on the rear view mirror he'd obscured only just in time. That had been close. Rath had very nearly discovered what he'd realized several minutes ago.

They weren't the only ones hunting Hubble.




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




Artesia,

New Mexico




A new track came up on the stereo, and Tess wrinkled her nose as she sat on her bed poring over various study guides for the ridiculous test she had to take tomorrow. The whole college merry-go-round was nothing but a monumental waste of time, not only for her, who certainly wouldn't be going to college, but for the rest of her human peers as well. Such a big deal was made of this, as if it were some make-or-break decision which governed the rest of their lives. Most people only spent four years in college; how could that be a make-or-break proposition? Most courses of study were available at literally hundreds of different colleges, and once one subtracted the obvious duds, one was left with the bulk of the pile, the vast majority of which would provide perfectly adequate training to do whatever one wanted to do. After that was the rest of your life, and that was up to the individual. Why get all excited about four measly years? Why not get all excited about the huge amount of time which came after? Why not prepare wildly for that? It was like brides obsessing about a wedding which lasted all of one day as compared to a marriage which hopefully lasted decades. There were wedding magazines, and wedding planners, and wedding anything-you-could-think-of, but planning things like how to handle the in-laws or whether to have children never seemed to occur to anyone. No wonder people were surprised after they got married, insisting there were so many things they'd never known about their spouse. They'd studied up on their fiancée's tastes in china patterns, but little more.

Which is kind of like this, Tess grumbled, tossing her study guide on the bed in disgust. These standardized tests were a joke, testing little more than test-taking abilities. This particular one was an even bigger joke, merely a practice for the real test which was administered next year. Next year, she sighed, leaning back against the pillow and closing her eyes. Next year she'd be in Roswell. Next year she'd be with the others, and all the PSAT's and SAT's in the world couldn't drown out the joy she felt whenever she thought of their upcoming move. Sometimes just the thought that she had a family she would be reunited with was all that got her through the day. She lived for that moment when they would see each other for the first time, and she'd been extra careful to make certain nothing jeopardized the chances of that happening. Her close encounter with someone hunting her last month had been a real wake-up call, and she'd straightened up and towed the line so well since then that Nasedo had gotten suspicious. He kept giving her strange looks like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and no wonder—peace had never reigned in their various households the way it did now. She'd bitten her tongue into tiny little pieces so many times it was a wonder she could still speak, and she'd go right on doing it as long as it kept all of them safe and their move on the calendar.

The song changed again. This particular CD had gone round one too many times, and Tess mentally flicked it off as she climbed off the bed. Time for another, and she'd plucked one out of its case when she heard the swearing.

"Pick up, damn it!" she heard Nasedo's muffled voice say. "Pick up!"

Curious, Tess cracked her door open. Hearing nothing, she padded down the hallway to find Nasedo staring pensively out the kitchen window, his phone in one hand, his head in the other. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Nasedo whirled around. "Nothing's wrong. And don't sneak up on me like that."

"I wasn't 'sneaking'. And nobody sneaks up on you."

"Then don't startle me."

Tess's eyes widened. "Nobody startles you either. Now I know something's wrong."

"Weren't you supposed to be studying?" Nasedo demanded.

"I was studying. And then I heard you swearing, and I come out here to find you so upset, you didn't even hear me coming. That's a first." She paused, her stomach tightening in knots when he didn't argue with her. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"It's not your concern. Go back to your homework."

"Is it about the others? Because—"

"I'll handle it," Nasedo broke in sharply.

"—if it is, and they're really my family, it's my concern," Tess finished. "Let me help."

"There's no way for you to help."

"So somebody needs help," Tess said as Nasedo gave a snort of annoyance at having given that away. "Okay, that's a start."

"Would you please—"

"No," Tess interrupted. "I've never seen you this way. You get angry, furious, even, but you don't get worried like this. Which means it's something really bad and makes it even less likely that I'm just going to go back to my homework like nothing happened."

"There's nothing you can do," Nasedo insisted.

"Okay, then what about you? Isn't there something you can do?"

"I have you to keep track of," Nasedo said. "There's nothing I can do either."

"Why not? I don't need 'keeping track of'. I'll behave myself if you have to go. Haven't I behaved myself since Christmas?"

Nasedo have her a penetrating stare. "Yes. And for the life of me, I haven't figured out why. Not that I've minded the lower decibel level, mind you. It's about time. But it's not that simple," he went on as Tess swallowed her standard retort. "If I go, there's no one to guard you, including against things that are beyond your control. Guarding you is my job."

"Then who guards the others?" Tess ventured.

Nasedo's eyes flickered. "I do, of course."

"Then who were you calling?"

"Someone who might know something," Nasedo sighed. "And he's not picking up his phone."

Tess's heart began to pound. One of the benefits of that "lower decibel level" Nasedo was so fond of was that it had lowered his famously high guard just a bit. No longer locked in endless conflict, she'd found him letting things slip, and if he'd done so this time, it was a big one. Of course the others would have their own guardian—why wouldn't they? How could Nasedo have kept watch on all of them? And that would be the man who was here before Christmas, she thought, pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. He might be another Nasedo, which would explain why he could block her powers, why Nasedo was afraid of him, and a host of other things. Her first inclination was to blurt out a spew of questions, but that wouldn't do. Not only would Nasedo not answer them, but that would raise the famous guard once again.

"So why isn't...whoever...picking up his phone?" she asked.

"I don't know," Nasedo said quietly. "At least I hope I don't."

Tess felt herself growing cold. Nasedo didn't look merely worried, he looked scared...and Nasedo didn't get scared. "They're in trouble, aren't they?"

Nasedo was quiet for so long, she thought he wasn't going to answer. "One of them is," he allowed finally.

"Which one?"

"Doesn't matter. When one of you is in trouble, all of you are in trouble."

"Is it the Unit?"

"Not exactly. Someone who works for the Unit, someone who disappeared months ago. God, he must be at least 70 by now, and he's still out there pounding the pavement. Humans," he added in disgust. "Why can't they just die politely when they should?"

Tess's heart nearly stopped. 70. The man who had come looking for the Ouija-board wonder had been about that age. Was this her fault? Had he not taken her advice to go west? Or had he gone west, found nothing, and then gone north?

"You should go to them," Tess said. "They need you more than I do right now. I'll be fine."

Nasedo snorted softly, and she pushed down the indignation that caused. "I mean it," she insisted. "I'm tough. You made me that way. I'll stay right here until you get back, and if anything happens, I'll hide. You taught me how, and I'm very good at it. I'll be okay."

He looked at her then with something else in his eyes she'd never seen before—indecision. He wanted to go. All he needed was one more push.

"You've spent my whole life teaching me," she said. "I've learned from the very best. What'd we do all that for if not to make use of it at a time like this?"

That did it. He was on his feet, nose to nose with her in seconds. "Stay here," he said sternly. "No going out, no having anyone over. If anything goes wrong, you don't fight, you run, and we meet at our designated spot. Understood?"

"Right," Tess nodded vigorously. "Just like we practiced. Got it."

He hesitated, and for a few seconds, she thought he'd changed his mind. Then he was gone, out the back door, and she didn't bother to follow him. She knew Nasedo. By the time she reached the door, he'd have already disappeared.




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




Route 70 East,

New Mexico





Jim Valenti stared fixedly out the windshield, his hands clamped on the steering wheel with a grip so strong, it hurt. One foot pushed the accelerator nearly to the floor while the other was jammed into the footwell as though hoping for a second accelerator which would propel the car even faster. Outside the desert sped by at dizzying speed, yet didn't come close to the speed of his thoughts. He'd spent the better part of his adult years apologizing for his father, for his role in shooting an innocent man. Even though it was universally acknowledged a mistake, it was nevertheless universally acknowledged, questioned by no one, least of all his father. To have that simple truth, that immutable fact of life suddenly upended was nothing short of stunning. To have it upended by his own father in a rare moment of startling lucidity was downright heartbreaking.

He told me he wouldn't hurt the man...

Valenti's grip tightened further, if that was possible. That bastard! He'd let that bastard into his house, listened to his song and dance, and all the while it was him who'd pulled the trigger. Funny how that never came out during the investigation. Funny how it was his father who had paid the price for what Hubble did, was still paying, would go on paying until the end of his days. Rage at that knowledge had carried him over to the UFO center, where it was replaced by horror when he'd learned that Hubble not only wasn't there, he'd left town...with Max Evans. Milton had been curiously crabby about telling him where they'd gone, whining that he was the third person to ask that question, an assertion borne out by the map of Bitter Lake already pulled up on the computer monitor which he spun impatiently toward Valenti. Who else had wanted to know where Hubble and Evans were going? Did Hubble have an accomplice?

Whatever you do, Jimmy...don't trust him.

His stomach churned, and Valenti lowered the window, producing a welcome blast of air. That Max Evans was keeping something from him was no secret, but as much as he hated being lied to, Evans wasn't Hubble's killer. Max Evans had been picked up as a small child in the desert long after Shelia Hubble had been laid to rest, and if his instincts were correct, was guilty of nothing more than saving a girl's life. How a silver handprint translated from killing to saving, he had no idea, but he had a live girl, not a dead one. He also had a known killer at large with a teenaged boy, a resident of his town, a resident he was sworn to protect...and it was his fault. Whoever or whatever that kid was, if anything happened to him, it would be on his own head.

If what he'd learned was true, that is. Fumbling for his phone, Valenti managed to dial without going off the road, no easy feat at this speed. "Hello?" Hanson Sr.'s voice said.

"Hanson? Jim Valenti."

"Jim, for the last time, it's 'Don'," Hanson said patiently. "Or I'm gonna start calling you 'sheriff'. How's it going with Hubble? Did you—"

"Hanson—Don, whatever—listen to me," Valenti broke in. "Back when Silo broke, did anyone ever check to see if the bullet which the drifter was shot with came from my father's gun?"

There was a long pause. "It was 9 mm round," Hanson said finally. "Just like your Dad's gun—"

"Yes, I know that, but did anyone ever verify that it came from my father's gun? Did ballistics ever check?"

Another pause. "No, Jim, they didn't. And I don't see why they would have. Your father said he pulled the trigger right from the get go."

"But no one checked."

"Well...no, but there didn't seem to be—"

"I want you to check," Valenti said. "My father's gun is in the cabinet near our living room. You'll find a key under a rock beside the front walk. Yeah, I know, it's not much of a security system. If Kyle's home, tell him I sent you. The bullet should be in the evidence room at the station. Have ballistics confirm whether it came from my father's gun."

"Jim, where are you going with this?" Hanson asked, bewildered. "This was settled years ago—"

"Not if ballistics didn't confirm it."

"But I'm not a deputy," Hanson protested. "I can't just waltz in there—"

"Sure you can. Your son'll let you in. I'll call him, tell him you're coming. Sunday's a good day to do it, there's no one there."

"What do you mean? The convention's in town. There's bound to be—"

"I need you to do this," Valenti insisted.

"But why? Why would you—"

"Humor me, Don. Please."

There was a much longer pause this time. "Okay," Hanson said reluctantly. "I'll keep it quiet. No sense dragging all this up again. But you're gonna tell me why first chance you get."

"I promise," Valenti said. "Thanks, Don. I owe you one."

He hung up, dialing again, speed dial this time, so it was easier. "Sir," Hanson Jr.'s voice said worriedly, "I haven't called because I don't have anything yet. I notified the Chaves County sheriff, but there's no record of an Everett Hubble as a resident—"

"Never mind that," Valenti broke in. "Your father's on the way over. He'll need access to the evidence room."

Another pause, the staple of the Hanson family today. "You mean my dad? He's coming here?"

"Yes, your dad," Valenti said impatiently. "You only have one, right? He's doing me a favor. Let him in, and leave him alone."

"Um...okay," Hanson said uncertainly. "He's not a deputy any more, though, so—"

"I don't care if he's the goddamned Easter Bunny, let him in!" Valenti snapped. "He's filing a ballistics request for me, and he'll need paperwork. See that he gets it."

"Ballistics? Sir, I can do that—"

"No, you can't. This is a case your father worked on, and he deserves a chance to finish it. Is this gonna be a problem, Hanson?"

"No, sir," Hanson said quickly. "No problem. It's just a tad...irregular."

"What isn't?" Valenti said bitterly. "What about that other thing I had you look into?"

"Well, sir, frankly it's tough to tell, what with the hordes in town for the convention and all. But so far, not a whiff." He paused. "You know, it might help if you gave me some idea what you think Hubble is up to. I know said he was possibly dangerous, but you didn't say why, or what you expected him to do—"

"Maybe nothing," Valenti broke in. "Hopefully nothing. I hope to God I'm wrong."

"See, when you say things like that, I get worried," Hanson fretted.

"You worry about breakfast," Valenti said dryly. "Just keep your eyes open. I'll be in touch."

He rung off, tossing his phone on the seat of the car and fretting far more than Hanson was. Because he'd thought of something just before he'd hit the open road, something he'd missed in the swirl of emotions Hubble and his photographs had caused. Hubble had asked him about the handprint on Liz Parker...but how did he know about that? He'd told no one but Agent Stevens about that handprint, not a soul. He couldn't afford to, couldn't take the risk of sounding like his batty old man. So how had Hubble found out about it? Try as he might, he could come up with only two possibilities: Either Liz Parker or Kyle had told him, highly improbable, or...or Hubble was working with the FBI. Which meant the Bureau might be back in town, and what better time? Having squandered their opportunity with a certain faux guidance counselor, they could slip in wearing any of the hundreds of weird costumes convention goers were sporting. Hubble himself was the perfect distraction; someone he knew, someone he had history with, bad history. He may have not only sicced a murderer on a resident of his town, he may also have sicced the FBI on him as well—again. Which made him wonder all over again where Hubble was going, if he was really heading for Bitter Lake or somewhere else entirely, if this wasn't all just a wild goose chase. And if, God forbid, Hubble had plans to administer his own form of justice, to make history repeat itself, then he would be responsible. Hubble may be the one who pulled the trigger, but he wouldn't have been there to pull it if not for a certain sheriff having wavered when he knew better. No wonder his father had kept silent. His silence was his penance.

A road sign appeared in the distance, tiny now, but growing larger. A car pulled off to one side nearby piqued Valenti's interest, and a minute later he saw the unmistakable outlines of a familiar black jeep.




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




Pepper's Cafe




"I didn't have a good time," Hubble said. "Not that night. Not any night since."

Silence. The monster that had killed his Shelia just stared at him in false confusion, still pretending it didn't know. I don't understand... Like hell it didn't. It understood perfectly. Maybe it didn't remember his Shelia; probably not, as it was no doubt difficult to keep track of all the bodies it had left behind in the subsequent three decades. But no matter; it would remember her tonight. He'd see to that.

Hubble walked forward toward the crumbling cafe, recalling how it had looked that night. Never a thing of beauty, it was even less so now, the boarded up windows something of a joke given the holes in the walls. Back then it had been drab but busy, it being the only watering hole for miles in any direction; that particular night it had looked like a palace because everything had. That's what happened when you hit the road with your lady by your side and a surprise in your pocket; even the most mundane things acquired a sheen, a glow which was a reflection of your own happiness. Maybe that also worked in reverse because the cafe in its current state was an apt metaphor for his own soul; derelict, deserted, unvisited for years. His soul had died here that night. Tonight its killer would die here also.

It was completely dark now, just like it had been back then. Through one of the many holes in the building he could see the counter where the clerk had flipped him the book of matches "on the house", and over there to the side where he'd parked was the spot where he'd found his beloved. He still went cold when he thought of the aftermath, the people who had poured out of the cafe to gawk at the body of his wife emblazoned with that garish silver handprint. That handprint had been the talk of the town until a day later when it had vanished, taking with it everyone's memory of it ever having been there. They'd all seen it, yet every single one of them would deny it later. The police had arrived, taken photographs, yet every single shot subsequently disappeared. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to drag his camera out of the car and snap one of his own or he may have fallen victim to the propensity of the human mind to dismiss that which didn't make sense. Only years later, after he'd found other handprints and learned they all disappeared, had he stopped questioning his sanity.

The monster stood off to one side, still feigning confusion as Hubble gazed at the spot where Shelia had fallen. He'd haunted this place for weeks, conducting his own investigation until he'd hit the road to find his wife's killer, and once he'd left, he'd never looked back. He'd sworn he wouldn't until he could come back here and tell her that he'd avenged her, that the bastard who'd done this would never harm another living soul. He'd never expected the chance to execute the executioner on the same spot, but that was sweet, a boon from an unforgiving universe which suggested that, perhaps at long last, it had decided he'd suffered enough.

"She never did get my surprise," Hubble said to the monster, now standing behind him. "And I never did get hers. Not until I got a copy of the coroner's report. There it was, in black ink. Three months pregnant. A little girl, it said. She was carrying our child. 'Surprise'."

"I'm sorry," it replied.

"And so am I," Hubble agreed. "Four innocent people lost their lives startin' that day. My wife, my baby...that drifter, and, uh...and me. Dead man walkin'. That's what I felt all those years. Only thing kept me alive was you."

He could almost feel it blink behind him. "Me?" it said, bewildered. "But...but I don't know you."

Hubble pulled his gun and spun around, and finally, finally, it had the grace to look alarmed.

"I know you."




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


I'll post Chapter 67 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN


January 30, 2000, 8 p.m.

Route 70 East, New Mexico




Michael Guerin's fingers tapped impatiently on the car door as he gazed out the window, scanning the road ahead for any sign of Max, something of a challenge now that it was completely dark. His chauffeur, that dude from the convention, drove calmly beside him, ostensibly looking for the same people but not suffering from the feeling that time was slipping away much too fast. The Toyota was still flying forward at an impressive speed for such a fuddy duddy car, simultaneously reassuring and worrying. They should have caught up by now.

"Where the hell are we?" Michael demanded. "There aren't even any road markers out here."

"According to the sign up ahead, we're near Bitter Lake," Convention Dude answered.

"Great," Michael muttered as they passed the battered 1950's era sign. "Where the hell are they? We should have caught up to them by now. If we reach the town, I have no idea where this nutcase lives."

"We'll catch up," Convention Dude promised.

"What makes you say that?"

"Simple calculation. Average driving speed versus our driving speed—"

"Okay, fine, I don't need one of those 'if two trains leave the station at the same time' kind of math problem," Michael said crossly.

Convention Dude shrugged. "You asked. If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked."

"I wanted a simple answer, not calculus," Michael snapped.

"It's not calculus," Convention Dude answered, "and don't we all."

Michael bit back a retort as more dark road sped by. No sense arguing with this one; he always seemed to get the short end of the stick, like when Convention Dude had pointed out that he seemed to be taking attitudes towards Max's miraculous healing personally. Of course I'm taking it personally, he thought sullenly. Everywhere he looked, he and his were portrayed as monsters. Max had risked all their lives by saving Liz, and what did he get for it? What did they get for it? Fear, innuendo, accusations, and now a possibly unstable alien hunter taking off with Max. Maybe Hubble was really harmless, just interested in the shooting story, but he wouldn't start breathing again until he knew that for sure.

A streetlight appeared ahead, then another, the first signs of civilization for miles. Michael hung his head out the window and peered down the road to the next light, which appeared to be near a building of some sort...and next to which he spied the outlines of a familiar jeep.

"It's them!" Michael exclaimed, scrabbling with his door handle. "Stop the car!"

"Let me slow down," Convention Dude insisted as Michael kept pulling at the handle. "You'll kill yourself if you jump at this speed."

"Let me out!" Michael yelled, pounding on the door. "I gotta get out!"

The car had slowed, and finally the door burst open. Michael hit the ground hard and rolled as the car went past him, coming to a halt several yards ahead. Ignoring it, he ran toward the jeep, which now appeared to be parked outside some kind of derelict restaurant in front of which two figures faced each other. What was going on? Were they just talking? Why chat in the middle of nowhere in front of a dead restaurant? Slowing, he crept closer until he could hear what they were saying.

"...just like on Shelia," Hubble was saying.

"I am not him," Max insisted, sounding genuinely scared. "Whoever you think I am, I swear I am not him."

"I know who you really are," Hubble declared, "what you're capable of, and I won't let you kill again."

Kill? Michael was directly behind Hubble, and he shifted sideways for a better look at his face...

Jesus Christ Almighty. Was that a...a gun?

"Hey!" Michael yelled.

Yep, that's a gun, Michael thought grimly as Hubble spun around, giving Max the perfect opening to knock it from Hubble's hand. The resulting scrabble in the dirt was interrupted by the arrival of a car which came screeching to a halt only feet away, the headlights blinding all of them. Finally, Michael thought, wondering where in blazes his driver had gone. For someone who'd been after Hubble, he was curiously late to the party.

And then he saw who'd climbed out of the car.

"Drop the gun!" Sheriff Valenti shouted. "Drop it!"





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





Your father couldn't do it...and neither can you.

The gunshot was unusually loud in the deserted desert. When Valenti had fired his first gun as a child, he'd been surprised by how loud it was, how sharp the recoil. Even though his father had warned him, he still almost fell over. Even though he'd worn hearing protection, his ears had rung for an hour afterwards. He'd complained about this to his father, who had sternly told him not to. "You should hear it," he'd insisted. "You should feel it. A gun is a killing machine, Jimmy. Don't ever forget that. All those spaghetti westerns and TV cop shows don't do it justice. Never forget what a gun is capable of, and use it only as a last resort. But when you have to use it, don't hold back. Never, ever, point a gun you don't intend to use." It had been good advice, though rarely used; for all that Roswell was a hotbed of alien-hunting weirdoes, the overwhelming majority of them weren't violent. He hadn't fired his gun on the job in ages.

That streak ended here. Everyone froze as Hubble's body crumpled to the ground and lay unmoving. Valenti hesitated for only a second before hurrying over and checking his pulse. But that was another fanciful feature of TV cop shows, where everyone "shot to wound". In reality, there was no such thing—you shot to kill, period. As he just had, because Hubble had no pulse, and even if he had, help would have been much too far away.

Much closer, however, were Max Evans and Michael Guerin, both looking daggers at him. "I didn't know this was gonna happen," Valenti said. "I didn't know he was as dangerous as he was."

But Evans wasn't buying it. "What did you tell him?" he demanded. "Why did he come after me? You're the Sheriff. You're supposed to protect me, but all you've done is go after me!"

He's right, Valenti thought heavily, not bothering to defend himself because there was no defense. He was sworn to protect every resident of his town even if those residents hadn't been entirely forthcoming with him. Which this one certainly hadn't, but still...he had a live girl, not a dead one. If Max Evans really had miraculously healed Liz Parker, it would be hard to argue that he'd done something wrong.

"You believe all these crazy things," Evans went on. "You're just like Hubble! You want me? Well, here I am! Take me!"

"Max," Guerin said, "come on, just relax."

"Son..." Valenti began.

"Would you treat your son this way?" Evans demanded.

The words hit him like a slap, several slaps, all richly deserved. Valenti gazed at the angry young man in front of him for a moment before deciding there was only one way out of this. "Get outta here," he said. "The both of you. You were never here. Go on!" he added when they hesitated.

It was clear that Evans would have loved to continue his tirade, but Guerin pulled him away. Valenti waited until they'd reached the jeep before pulling out his phone. "This is Sheriff Valenti," he said wearily. "I've been involved in a Code 4. I've got one man down. My 10-20 is the abandoned Peppers Cafe at Bitter Lake."

There was a pause before Hanson's voice came on the line. "Sir? Did you say you've got a man down?"

"That's what I said. I'll need a van."

"Who's down?"

Valenti hesitated. "Everett Hubble."

"Hubble?" Hanson repeated. "Is he dead?"

"Yes, Hanson, he's dead," Valenti said sharply. "That's why I need a van, not an ambulance. That's why I said Code 4, 'no further assistance needed'."

"Right," Hanson said quickly. "We're on the way."

The line went dead. Valenti closed his eyes briefly, opened them, shivered involuntarily. It was cold out here, and dark, the lone streetlight off to one side contrasting sharply with the glare of his cruiser's headlights, the engine still running. Woodenly he walked to the cruiser, shut off the engine, pulled a flashlight and some flares out of the trunk. He spent the next several minutes setting them up, grateful for the respite, for the opportunity to move on autopilot. He was sorry when he'd finished, staring at the body several feet away, grappling with an overwhelming urge to go over there and give it a swift kick. But that would have left a mark, so he substituted banging on the cruiser's roof, pounding his fists on it like a madman until his hands hurt and he stopped, panting, leaning against the cruiser and sliding to the ground, utterly exhausted.

You did it again, Hub, he thought bitterly. Even in death, Hubble was still a royal pain in the ass. Even in death, he'd put a Valenti in a compromising position. That he'd managed to thwart Hubble's last wish was small comfort. Wherever Hubble was now, and that had damned well better be somewhere south instead of north, Valenti had no doubt he was laughing because worming out of this one was going to be tricky. His principle reason for being here had just left at his own behest with instructions to pretend he'd never been here. Which left something of an uncomfortable hole in the narrative, that being the reason for he and Hubble meeting at an abandoned cafe on the edge of nowhere. And then there was the little niggle of how to explain how Hubble had gotten here in the first place. Without Evans' jeep in the picture, what had he used for transportation? Helicopter? Roller-blades? Milton knew that Hubble and Evans had left together, adding another wrinkle, and then there was the whole question of how Guerin had managed to get here ahead of him. Milton had declared him the third person to ask where Hubble and Evans were headed; assuming Guerin was one of the remaining two, who was the other?

Valenti clambered to his feet and walked toward the road, shining his flashlight into the darkness. There had been a car parked alongside when he'd arrived, but it was gone now. Was that how Guerin had gotten here? He was known for hitchhiking, but cars that picked up hitchers usually dropped them off and left. Guerin added yet another wrinkle to this mess, as did the possibility that they would ignore his mandate and talk, putting him in the even more compromising position of having impeded an investigation. Maybe he should just come clean right away, let the chips fall where they may...

A phone rang. At first Valenti thought it was his, and then he realized it was very faint. Turning around, he stared at Hubble's body for a moment, then hurried over to it. Yep, it was coming from Hubble, and he tried not to look at the face as he rummaged in the coat pocket for the ringing cellphone which sounded preternaturally loud when he pulled it out, flipped it open, and put it to his ear.

"Everett?" a voice said.

Valenti held his breath. Any indication that it wasn't Hubble on the line might cause whoever was calling to hang up.

"Hub?" the voice said again. "Is that you?"

There was another pause before the voice spoke again, and when it did, the tone had changed. "Who is this?" it demanded in a tone of absolute authority. Valenti had stopped breathing, standing stock still and hoping against hope that whoever it was would do or say something to give themselves away.

Click.

Guess not, Valenti thought, closing the phone. Whoever it had been was too smart for that. And whoever it had been had referred to Hubble as "Hub", a nickname coined by his own father years ago when he'd become enamored of his new friend, much to the dismay of virtually everyone around him. Interesting...

A phone rang again, his this time. "Valenti," he answered.

"Sir? It's Hanson. We're almost there. Sit tight."

"Right, Hanson. Thanks."

Valenti hung up, retreating to the cruiser, sinking down into the front seat. Whatever story he was going to tell, he only had a few more minutes to come up with it.




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




"Get in," Michael ordered when they reached the jeep. "No, other side. You're not driving."

Max hesitated before giving in without a fight, climbing in the passenger side. "Keys," Michael announced, holding out his hand.

The engine started, a relief as he'd been having dark thoughts about being stranded out here with a dead body and a suspicious sheriff. Valenti's cruiser was still akimbo as they pulled out, the driver's door hanging open, the headlights shining helpfully on the crumpled body of the madman who'd just tried to gun down Max and over whom crouched the sheriff, staring at it like he just couldn't believe it.

"They knew each other," Michael said as he pulled onto the road.

"Yeah," Max said faintly.

"How? How did they know each other?"

Max shook his head once, twice. "I...I don't know. He said...he said Valenti told him about the handprint. On Liz."

"Great," Michael muttered. "And this guy thinks that's worth killing you over?"

Another head shake, more vigorous this time. "No, this wasn't about Liz. It was about his wife. His wife was killed thirty years ago at that cafe, and she had a handprint on her. She was pregnant at the time."

"Crap," Michael murmured. "Does he know why?"

"Why she was pregnant?"

"No, Maxwell, why she was killed. Snap out of it, would you? You're okay. We got there in time."

"Yeah, how'd you do that? How'd you even know where I was?"

"I saw you leave with Hubble," Michael explained. "And then I shook down Larry the Itcher, who told me Hubble was an alien-hunting nutcase, and then I shook down Milton for where you'd gone."

"So much for my job," Max muttered.

"You're welcome. And then I hitched a ride with a guy who said he was also chasing Hubble because he was afraid Hubble would hurt you."

"Who?" Max asked.

"Don't know. Didn't get his name, but he has a way with a Toyota. I had no idea they could go that fast."

"Then...what was Valenti doing there?"

"Beats me. But I have to admit when I first saw him, I didn't think he'd be on our side, never mind shoot the dude. I'm guessing Valenti figured out what he was up to and came after you for the same reason I did."

"Valenti's the reason he came after me," Max said bitterly. "I told you, Valenti told him about the handprint on Liz."

"And it sounds like he regrets that," Michael noted. "Which is good news."

"Unless he changes his mind," Max said. "What if he tells everyone we were there?"

"Then it's our word against his," Michael said.

"And who do you think they're going to believe?" Max demanded. "Two high school students, or the sheriff? And what am I going to tell Milton? He thinks Hubble's in the round table discussion, not lying dead in some parking lot."

"We'll think of something. So what exactly did this guy tell you? Do you think Nasedo killed his wife?"

"Sure sounds like him," Max said darkly. "Just follow the trail of bodies."

"Hey, we don't know what happened," Michael argued. "Maybe there was a reason for what he did."

"You could say that for Atherton, but not this time," Max said. "She was just waiting in the car for Hubble to come back from the cafe."

"So Hubble says. But he's obviously nuts, so—"

"He wasn't 'nuts'," Max insisted. "He was very clear about what he was doing and why. He thought I was the one who murdered his wife. It was revenge, pure and simple."

"Defending him," Michael said, shaking his head. "Defending the guy who just tried to kill you. Did not see that one coming."

"I'm just pointing out that his being crazy isn't the problem," Max retorted. "Our murdering relative is the problem."

"No, you being mistaken for our murdering relative is the problem," Michael corrected. "Assuming it was murder, which we don't know because we weren't there. Did he tell you anything useful about Nasedo?"

"He didn't see anything," Max said impatiently. "He just came back and found his wife's body with the handprint. That must have been why he disappeared all those years ago..." He stopped, gazing into the distance where the lights of town had just appeared as they crested a low rise.

"Yeah," Michael said heavily. "Time to figure out what to tell Milton."




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



Langley residence,

Roswell




After what seemed like hours, Jaddo finally heard the front door. He was in the hallway before Brivari even had it closed.

"What are you doing here?" Brivari demanded.

"Waiting for you," Jaddo said crossly. "Where the hell have you been? I haven't been able to find anyone. I finally came back here, and I've been cooling my heels for a couple of hours."

"I had to make certain everything settled, at least for the moment," Brivari said. "Where's Ava?"

"Home. Yes, alone, but under strict orders not to pull anything. And I don't think she will because she's been behaving herself of late. When she heard one of the others was in trouble, she insisted I come to help."

"Oh, did she, now?" Brivari snorted. "Did you tell her you're the reason he was in trouble?"

"Fine, this is my fault," Jaddo sighed. "Just throw me against the wall like you always do when you get mad so we can move on. Zan must be safe or you wouldn't be so calm, but did you find Hubble? What happened?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "You know, I was considering throwing you against the wall, but I think keeping you in the dark would be the better option. Now if you'll excuse me, I need a drink."

Jaddo blinked. "A 'drink'? As in alcohol?"

"Yes, Jaddo, as in alcohol," Brivari said, pulling a bottle out of a cabinet. "Don't look so surprised; it's the lubricant of Hollywood. Have one?"

"No, I won't 'have one'!" Jaddo retorted. "I want to know what happened. I came all the way up here—"

"Because you felt guilty," Brivari finished, recapping the bottle. "As well you should. Because for Hubble, it was all about his wife, the wife you killed."

"Yes, yes," Jaddo said impatiently. "I already said it was my fault. Where's Hubble? Did he pose a threat to Zan?"

Brivari waited an interminably long time, swirling his drink in his glass several times before finally deigning to answer. "Hubble is dead."

"You killed him?" Jaddo said eagerly.

"No."

"Zan killed him?"

"No."

"He killed himself?"

"I wish. But no."

"Well, who, then?"

Brivari waited another excruciatingly long minute before replying.

"Valenti."

Jaddo blinked. "Valenti? As in Sheriff Valenti?"

"The same."

"What in blazes was Sheriff Valenti doing there?"

"Good question. But I'm glad he was because it spared both me and Zan the necessity of intervening. Hubble, you see, had done exactly as you'd predicted—lured Zan to the scene of the crime, where he promptly pulled a gun on him."

"Zan could have easily deflected a bullet," Jaddo said. "I don't know if he knows that, but hopefully instincts would have kicked in."

"And if not, I was there in plenty of time to reverse the outcome," Brivari said. "But I didn't need to. Valenti appeared, and when Hubble wouldn't retreat, he shot him. After Hubble taunted him with something along the lines of, 'Your old man couldn't do it, and neither can you'."

"So they have unfinished business," Jaddo remarked. "Handy for us. What did Valenti do with Zan?"

Brivari stared into his glass. "Absolutely nothing. He was downright apologetic. He told Zan to leave and tell no one he was ever there."

Jaddo raised an eyebrow. "So he's lying about it? Must be some unfinished business."

"Speaking of unfinished business," Brivari said softly, "I believe we have a bit of our own."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as Jaddo eyed his partner. Prior to this night, he'd managed to convince himself that a Pierce Jr. didn't exist, that his contact ten years ago had merely overheard something which he'd later garbled. But Hubble's reappearance was odd, to say the least, as was the fact that a successor to Agent Summers had not appeared. The list of oddities was growing while the list of possible explanations was distressingly short.

"I'm waiting," Brivari prodded.

"Okay," Jaddo said, perching on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped. "Okay. Here goes."

"Good Lord, Jaddo, what is it?" Brivari demanded. "Did Khivar suddenly appear in my back yard?"

"Frankly," Jaddo said slowly, "that would be preferable. Look, I'm not sure about this," he added when Brivari's eyes widened. "Which is why I've never brought it up before. I thought I'd misheard, and I may very well have. But there are too many strange things happening, so I think it's time to make you aware of the possibility, even if it's only a possibility—"

Brivari held up a hand. "Wait. I need another drink."

"Another drink? Are you joking?"

"Not even remotely," Brivari said. "Look at it this way; the more alcohol I have in me, the less likely I'll wring your scrawny neck when I hear this momentous announcement." He poured another drink, recapped the bottle, resumed his seat. "Very well, then. What's the topic? The Unit? Nicholas? The Bogeyman?"

Jaddo hesitated. "None of the above, although the last might be closest. This concerns...Pierce."

"Pierce? What about him? He's been dead for years. You killed him yourself."

Jaddo looked at his hands. "I know. It was one of the high points of my life. And we thought that was it, given that the Unit never found his serum. But what if...what if Pierce had a son? A son who inherited exactly what the Unit had been looking for?"

Brivari stared at him in silence for a very long time before downing the rest of his drink in one gulp and setting the glass down on the table with a thunk.

"I'm listening."




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




Washington, D.C.




"Well?" Pierce asked when Brian appeared, breathless in the doorway. "Did you find Hubble?"

"I sure did," Brian said. "He's dead."

Pierce leaned slowly back in his chair. "What?"

"He's dead," Brian repeated. "And get this—Valenti shot him."

"Jim Valenti?" Pierce said in astonishment. "Sheriff Valenti shot and killed Everett Hubble."

"That's what I'm hearing," Brian answered. "Details are still coming, but the current scuttlebutt is that Hubble attacked Valenti, pulled a gun on him. When he wouldn't stand down, Valenti fired."

"Jesus," Pierce said softly. "That must have been who answered his phone. Were there witnesses?"

"To the shooting? Nope," Brian said. "They were out at the old Peppers Cafe near Bitter Lake. That place was abandoned years ago."

"Where his wife died," Pierce murmured. "What the hell was he doing there?"

"It gets better," Brian said. "According to the director of the UFO Center, Hubble had agreed to participate in some to-do for the UFO Convention and needed his slides from 'his home in Bitter Lake'."

"Hubble doesn't live in Bitter Lake any more," Pierce said. "Hasn't for ages."

Brian nodded sagely. "I know. Which makes it all the more interesting that he was headed there in the company of the director's assistant...one Max Evans."

Pierce was out of his chair so fast, it nearly flew back against the wall. "Evans was with him?"

"Not when he died, not according to Valenti," Brian answered. "But he definitely left town with Evans, supposedly to fetch his slides."

"He was trying to lure him out," Pierce said, excitement mounting in him like a wave. "He said he had something in mind, and I bet that was it. Do we have a handprint?"

Brian shook his head. "Negative. Just a gunshot."

Damn! Pierce thought. Another handprint at this critical juncture would be just what he needed; it was tough to rally the troops against monsters that weren't doing anything. "Okay," Pierce said, his mind whirling. "Okay, we can still use this. You need to get to Roswell, clean out Hubble's motel room, find out everything you can. Steer clear of Valenti, though; that damnable nose of his will sniff you out a mile away. Make sure the body is routed to Quantico; I've still got some people there who owe me favors. I'll have them take a look at the body, and then we'll trot it out. This is what we've been waiting for, Brian, a chance to link a death to an alien. This could be the pivot point where everyone we're courting decides to join up."

"Excellent," Brian smiled. "Whatever happened to him, Hubble would be pleased if we could pull that off. I'll take care of everything in Roswell, and I'll also track down Hubble's relatives. I think he's—"

"Relatives, schmelatives," Pierce interrupted. "We're not releasing that body to anyone."

Brian blinked. "I know his parents had a family plot. And I'm pretty sure he's got some cousins somewhere who—"

"Haven't seen him in decades. What about them?"

Brian regarded him levelly for a moment. "Danny, I understand you want to examine the body, but after we do, we'll have the reports, the photos...if it really is just a gunshot, why keep it? Why deny the guy a proper burial?"

" 'Proper burial'?" Pierce chuckled. "My god, you sound like some religious zealot. Are you Jewish now? Do we need someone to say Kaddish?"

"Don't be an ass," Brian said sharply. "Whatever Everett Hubble was, he's also an American citizen, and as an American citizen, he has rights, rights we're sworn to uphold unless I missed something."

"Oh, good grief!" Pierce exclaimed. "Don't tell me you, of all people, are having an attack of conscience! We're the line, Brian, the only line left between the American people and alien incursion."

"But what if this isn't alien incursion?" Brian argued. "We'll do the math, but if it turns out Valenti pulled the trigger, there's no reason to impound his body."

"On the contrary, there's every reason," Pierce retorted. "Hubble was a nobody getting nowhere until Agent Summers and I took him on. He was right back to being nobody getting nowhere after Summers's death until I contacted him and invited him back. He owes me, and if his body is what I need to convince people to come to my side of the table, then I'll use it any way I can. He won't care; he's dead. And as you said, he'd be pleased if his death wound up convincing our reluctant fellow agents to get off their reluctant backsides and do something about the garbage heap the Unit has become."

"But Danny—"

"No 'buts'," Pierce interrupted. "Alive or dead, Everett Hubble is mine. I made him, I own him...and I'll keep him."


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


I'll post Chapter 68 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT




January 31, 2000, 3 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Knock, knock," Hanson said, poking his head in the door. "Got a minute? Sure is a relief to have the convention over with," he went on when Valenti nodded. "Busy weekend."

"It was," Valenti agreed. "And we almost made it without major mishap. Emphasis on the 'almost'."

"Yeah," Hanson agreed ruefully. "I've got the preliminary report on Hubble here. Thought I'd show it to you before officially filing it."

"Please," Valenti said, gesturing. "Have a seat."

Valenti did his best to look unconcerned as Hanson settled into a chair. It was standard procedure that when an officer was involved in a shooting, other officers conducted the investigation. He'd given his statement when Hanson had arrived to collect Hubble's body; now he'd be hearing any other statements Hanson had collected for the first time, and he had no idea what Max Evans had told him. They really should have squared their stories before they'd parted, but hindsight was always twenty-twenty. What he'd come up with to explain his own part in this little drama should withstand scrutiny, so he could only hope that Evans had covered his own butt as well.

"Okay, first of all, I've got your statement," Hanson said. "Hubble called you, said he wanted to meet you at the cafe but didn't say why, you went to the UFO center to find him—"

"You don't have to read me my own statement, Hanson," Valenti said, fearful even now that he'd missed something, that some vital detail would leap out and give the lie away. "What about the rest of it? Did you find anything in his motel room?"

"No, sir," Hanson answered, "unless you count lots of dirty clothes, take-out containers, and ants. No papers, no cameras, nothing that would indicate what he was up to."

"Naturally," Valenti sighed. "What else?"

"I spoke with Milton first," Hanson went on. "He said that Hubble had agreed to be at the round table discussion and that he'd sent him off with his assistant to pick up his slides in Bitter Lake, which is interesting given that he hasn't lived there in decades. He confirmed you asking after them, and also said two other people had asked where they were going, an unidentified middle-aged white male and that kid who broke into the UFO center a while back, Michael Guerin.

Middle-aged white male... So that was the mystery Hubble chaser. "Did you talk to Guerin?" Valenti asked.

"Yep, and he said he hitched a ride up north. Said he was worried because a convention attendee had been talking to Hubble and identified him as a 'nutcase'. And get this—that attendee was none other than Larry Trilling."

"The witness from the Crashdown shooting," Valenti murmured.

"The same," Hanson agreed. "Apparently Trilling told the shooting story at the convention as an example of an 'alien encounter' and pissed everyone off. Hubble talked to him afterward and seemed to believe him. He was really rattled when I told him Hubble was dead. Left in a hurry, although I insisted on his contact information in case we need to find him."

"And Evans?"

"Confirmed that he left with Hubble to pick up his slides in Bitter Lake. Said they'd only been on Route 70 East a short while when Hubble suddenly said he'd changed his mind and demanded to get out of the car. Told Evans to go back and tell Milton to go to hell."

"So he left him by the side of the road?"

"Yes, sir. Must have walked to where you found him."

Okay, Valenti thought, letting out a long slow breath. So far the tale Max Evans had come up with meshed with his own. Good news, that, but they weren't out of the woods yet. "Did Hubble tell Evans why he wanted to be left in the middle of nowhere?"

"Nope," Hanson answered. "Just insisted on getting out, and insisted Evans leave. Thing I can't figure out is, Hubble had a rental car. Why'd he get some kid to drive him when he could have driven out there all by himself?"

"Who knows," Valenti said lightly. "Hubble could be a scary guy; God knows he scared me back when he had my dad wrapped around his little finger, and I was an adult. I'm not surprised Evans just did what he told him to. I would have."

To Valenti's relief, Hanson nodded. "Evans was pretty rattled about the whole thing. Nothing like Milt, though. He's gonna need analysis."

"He needed it anyway," Valenti said dryly. "What about Hubble's phone?"

"That was a bust. No numbers stored in it. No calls other than local calls. The last call that came in was a blocked number."

"Of course it was," Valenti murmured.

"You still think he was working for the FBI?"

"He knew something I only told Agent Stevens," Valenti answered. "That's the only explanation that makes sense."

Hanson hesitated before leaning forward. "If you don't mind my asking, sir," he said in a low voice, "what did he know?"

"Yes, I mind," Valenti said tartly. "There's a reason I only told Agent Stevens."

"Right," Hanson said quickly. "Right, well...that's about it. Oh...there was one more thing," he added, pulling a manila envelope from the pile of papers in his hand. "This is the ballistics report my father filed for you. Must've called in a favor or three to get it back so fast."

Valenti stared at the envelope like it was poison. "Thanks."




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




UFO Center




Max Evans trotted down the stairs into the UFO Center, his backpack so heavy it made his shoulder ache. He must have every textbook he owned in there, each weighing several pounds and each guaranteed to keep his mind off his near brush with death last night. He'd learned the hard way that the best way to avoid thinking about one thing was to focus on another, or try to anyway, and he intended to try by doing the world's best homework tonight. Prior to that he intended to scrub this entire place from top to bottom, an idea that was curiously comforting, as though he were washing Hubble's residue away. This was the danger zone, the lag time between school and work, so he hurried into the office, eager to get started before his mind wandered into places he'd rather it not go. Milton was sitting in front of the computer, and he turned around when Max walked in.

"Ah. Evans. I thought you were here."

Max blinked. "You did?"

"Of course. I walked in and found this on the screen. It wasn't me, so it must have been you."

Max's eyes scanned the text on the screen......shooting at Silo...Sheriff James Valenti...Everett Hubble... "Uh...yeah," he answered, his eyes darting around the office. "Hope you don't mind. I was just trying to...understand things a little better."

"Of course," Milton said sorrowfully. "Of course. Perfectly understandable." He rose from his seat, put both hands on Max's shoulders. "Evans, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am about all this. It's dreadful. Simply dreadful."

"You apologized last night," Max said. "No need to do it again. It wasn't your fault."

"But I feel like it was," Milton said in an anguished tone, revisiting the script from yesterday evening. "I sent you off with him with no idea how...how unhinged he was. Thank God he didn't take it out on you."

He tried, Max thought privately. "At least the sheriff is okay," he said out loud.

"And thank God for that too," Milton agreed. "I gather it was something about that business with Valenti's father, although from what I've heard, it should have been the sheriff going after Hubble, not the other way around. And to think I was so excited when I first saw him, so honored that he'd chosen me and my humble haven to make his first appearance in years. And to have it end like this...well...it's just cruel to have such a glorious weekend...implode...like that."

"It was a good weekend," Max agreed. "Lots of people, lots of cash. Don't let Hubble ruin it for you."

"I shouldn't," Milton agreed, looking close to tears. "You're right, I really shouldn't. I sincerely hope this incident doesn't wind up reflecting badly on the center."

"It won't," Max assured him. "A lot of people were gone already when it happened because they had to get home for work this morning. Only the diehards stayed for the round table discussion, and they're the most likely to understand someone like Hubble going..."

"Nuts?" Hubble suggested. "Whacko?"

"I was thinking 'dangerously unstable'," Max finished.

"That, too," Milton sighed. "Well...I suppose we should both get cracking. Lots to clean up before we reopen tomorrow." He was halfway to the door when he turned around.

"You know, they say meeting aliens can make you go mad. If 'direct contact' makes you end up like Hubble, maybe I should be careful what I wish for." He paused. "Nah. Who am I kidding? I'm never going to have a 'direct contact'."

"Then I guess you've got nothing to worry about," Max said.

"I guess not," Milton agreed. "Although it does make me wonder if I want to keep doing this in such a public way. After last night, I'm not so sure."

After he left, Max leaned against the desk and breathed a sigh of relief. "All right, Michael, you can come out now. He's gone."

There was a pause before he heard a shuffling noise in the corner. "How'd you know it was me?" Michael asked, hoisting himself onto the edge of the desk.

"Because only you would be stupid enough to break in here when you're already on Milton's shit list," Max said darkly. "And here you are."

"Hey, this was the perfect time to break in here," Michael argued. "Place is closed today. Fewer people to dodge. Besides, I had to find out what we were up against. The sheriff did something really weird last night, and we didn't know why—"

"Okay, okay," Max broke in, holding up a hand. "So did you find out why?"

"Oh, yeah," Michael said with satisfaction. "Hubble was there the night Valenti's father was arrested for shooting some unarmed guy and wound up losing his job over it."

"I vaguely remember reading something about that," Max said. "So what?"

"So didn't you hear what Hubble said last night when Valenti threatened to shoot him? He said, 'Your old man couldn't do it, and neither can you'."

"No, Michael, I didn't hear," Max said crossly. "I had a few other things on my mind, like the gun pointed at me."

"But don't you see what that means?" Michael pressed. "It means Valenti's father probably didn't shoot that dude. Hubble did, and Valenti's dad took the fall."

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record...so what?"

"So that explains why Valenti was talking to Hubble, and why he was willing to shoot him, and why he—"

"Okay, I get it," Max broke in. "They had history. We already knew that. Not the details, maybe, but the basics. How does this help us?"

"Maybe it doesn't. I just wanted to know the score in case Valenti blew us in."

"I don't think he'll blow us in, Michael. If he were going to do that, he would have done it already. Besides, we could blow him in, and after what happened to his father, he must be aware of what that could mean."

"Let's hope so," Michael agreed. "Anything happen at school?"

"Does that mean you didn't go?" Max asked, wincing when Michael shrugged. "No, nothing happened at school. No one even knew about it. No deputies either; that was all last night, thank God. The last thing I needed was someone knocking on my front door or pulling me out of math class."

"So the story worked?"

"Guess so. Nobody's questioned it, least of all Milton."

"Great," Michael said. "So we're done."

"No, we're not 'done'," Max said. "We still have to tell everyone."

" 'Everyone'?" Michael echoed. "You mean Isabel, right?"

"No, I mean everyone. Liz, Maria, Alex, everyone."

"What for?"

"Because there might be other Hubble's out there," Max said. "They need to know that because Hubble could have taken any of us in order to get to me. Nobody's safe, Michael, not us, not anyone who knows us."

"All the more reason no one should know us," Michael remarked.

"Says the guy who was necking in the janitor's closet," Max muttered.

"Not recently. And not ever again."

"Oh, that's right," Max said dryly. "You're gonna think about mud and make it all go away."

"Hey, whatever works. I say we give it the week," Michael went on. "Let it become older news before we give Isabel a reason to flip out." He hopped down off the desk. "There's one good thing about this, you know. We learned something else about Nasedo."

"Yeah," Max said tonelessly. "We learned someone else is dead because of him. Why would we want to find this person? Do we even want to know him? He left a pile of bodies a mile high."

"So they say."

"So lots of people say," Max corrected. "I know you don't want it to be true, but we've heard this from enough people now that even you have to admit the possibility."

"Fine," Michael said. "I admit the possibility. But we need to find him one way or the other, even if it's true. Maybe especially if it's true."

"We especially need to find someone who killed people?" Max said doubtfully.

"Definitely," Michael answered. "Because if it is true...we need to know why."





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




The Haven Living Center



"Dad?"

Valenti waited, his hands nervously clutching the manila envelope with the ballistics report as his father slowly turned in his wheelchair, blinking as though he'd been lost in thought as opposed to simply staring out the window.

"Jimmy?"

He knows me, Valenti thought with relief, taking a seat beside him. Given his father's condition, that was always up in the air, and today, more than ever, he needed his father to recognize him, to remember. Part of him wanted to just launch into the whole Hubble debacle because part of him needed his father like he hadn't in years. The other part of him wondered if his dad would even remember that he'd been here before and why.

"What happened?" his father asked. "Where's Hub?"

Settled that one, Valenti thought, glancing around the "town square", The Haven's optimistic name for their community room. No one was close by, or no one capable of eavesdropping, anyway. "Hub's gone, Dad," Valenti said quietly.

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Gone for good," Valenti clarified. "He's...dead."

His father gazed at him in silence for a moment. "Hub's dead?"

"Yeah. He, a...he was shot."

"Shot?" his father repeated. "Who shot him?"

His father's gaze was unrelenting now, the man who usually looked absently out the window now looking steadily at him. Valenti fidgeted with the ballistics report, the envelope twirling once, twice, three times.

"I did," he said finally, surprised by how tight his throat felt, how hard it was to speak. "I didn't mean to," he went on in a rush as his father continued to stare at him without reaction, without blinking, even. "He was threatening to shoot someone, a kid, a boy he thought was...an alien," he finished in a lower voice. "I told him to stand down, but he wouldn't. He just wouldn't."

Silence. His father stared at him for several more long, agonizing seconds before turning his gaze back to the window. Great, Valenti thought heavily. His father's clarity had lasted just long enough for him to confess, but not long enough to explain, not really. And not long enough for absolution either, although also not long enough for condemnation. There was that, at least.

A hand crept over his, patted it. "You did the right thing, Jimmy. Good boy."

There. Only eight words, yet they carried the mother lode of not only absolution, but the one thing he'd always sought from his father even as he'd hated himself for doing it: Approval. "I didn't want to," Valenti said, his voice close to breaking. "Why didn't he just put the gun down? Why do I think it's my fault even though he wouldn't put the gun down?"

"Because it's hard to kill a man," his father said. "Always is. Always should be. But at least you killed the right one."

"See, there's the thing, Dad," Valenti said, brandishing the envelope. "I had the bullet that killed that drifter checked, and it didn't come from your gun. I was right, wasn't I? Hubble shot him."

His father hesitated, nodded. "Then why in the name of all that's holy did you say it was you?" Valenti demanded, finding it difficult now to keep his voice down. "Why did you take the rap for it?"

"I never said I shot him," his father answered. "I said it was my responsibility. Guess they took that to mean I did it."

"God, Dad, don't play semantics with me!" Valenti exclaimed. "You knew they were 'taking it' wrong, so why didn't you correct them? I notice Hubble didn't, but you sure as hell could have."

" 'Cause it was my fault, Jimmy," his father said quietly. "It was all my fault. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I was the reason it was pulled."

"See, I'm not following," Valenti said, slapping the envelope down on his father's lap. "You told me that Hubble said he wouldn't hurt the drifter. So how do you figure it was your fault when he went back on his word?"

His father's eyes drifted from the envelope to the window. "Because I knew him," he said in a remarkably steady voice. "I knew how obsessed he was. I should never have believed him...but I did. I believed him, and because I did, a dangerous man got close enough to hurt someone, someone in my town, someone who was my responsibility. Didn't matter if Hub was right or not, if that drifter was alien or human. We were human, and we don't just execute people without a fair trial. Innocent till proven guilty. That's the way it works. That's the way I work." He paused, looking back at Valenti. "What about this kid? Was Hubble right? Is he an alien?"

Valenti glanced around the room, fearful that even the senile and the deaf would overhear this conversation. That it was taking place at all was nothing short of a miracle given the disdain with which he'd always treated his father's chief obsession, and he realized with a shock that he was seriously considering his answer, proof positive that he'd crossed the line.

"I don't know," Valenti said, unwilling even now to utter his suspicions out loud. "Something's weird, but...I don't know."

"What'd he do? Hurt someone?"

Valenti shook his head. "No; that's just it, he didn't hurt anyone. If he did anything, he...he saved a girl's life. How's that one for you?" he added, his voice heavy with irony. "This kid couldn't have been Hubble's alien...he wasn't even born in 1970...but he almost got killed for saving someone's life."

His father's eyes drifted back to the window. "They're not all bad, you know. She taught me that."

"Who?" Valenti asked.

"Dee. And that mother of hers, that spitfire. Hell raisers, both of them; apple didn't fall far from that tree, straight down, really."

"Dad, who are you talking about? Who's 'Dee'?"

"She came to me that night," his father went on, ignoring him. "Said Courtney was in trouble. Asked for my help. Showed me something, something...impossible."

Valenti closed his mouth, swallowing his next question. He'd heard older people remembered what happened years ago like it was yesterday, so perhaps this was accurate. Perhaps he'd better just shut up and listen, and sort out the details later.

"And I told her I couldn't," his father went on. "FBI was on my tail, and they would have followed me. Courtney wouldn't have been any better off if Lewis had gotten hold of her, worse, probably."

Valenti sat there in silence, one hand to his mouth to guard against any chance he would stop the flow of words. He had no idea who "Courtney" or "Lewis" were, and at this point, he didn't care; this blizzard of information was unprecedented.

"Courtney's father died that night," his father went on. "Dee didn't make it in time either. But she said there was a war on, and we were caught in the middle of it. Said they'd left town, maybe for good. For a long time, it looked like she was right.

And then Hub showed up," his father continued. "Maybe they'd left, but I'd know that handprint anywhere. Nobody believed him. It disappears, you know. All he had was the photo. But I believed him because I'd seen it."

His father paused, and it took every ounce of Valenti's willpower not the fill the silence with questions. "Hub shot that man because he thought he was an alien," his father went on, so quiet he was barely audible. "When he found out he was human, he was furious. He wanted me to lie and say the man had attacked us. Said it was an honest mistake. Said he'd back me up."

Sure he would have, Valenti thought sourly. Until the evidence proved otherwise, in which case he would have thrown his father to the wolves. "Dad, we need to go to the town council with this," Valenti said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. "We need to tell them what really happened."

His father's eyes swung around to rest on him. "What for?"

"What do you mean, 'what for'?" Valenti said in exasperation. "To exonerate you, that's 'what for'! I know you feel guilty about what happened to that drifter, but you were convicted of something you didn't do. That's not right either."

"Doesn't matter," his father whispered. "Hub's dead."

"You're not dead!" Valenti exclaimed. "And yes it does matter, because you're still here and people still think you did something awful, something you didn't do. Just talk to them, Dad. I can have them come here. Tell them what you told me, tell them..."

Valenti stopped, his plea dying in his throat as he saw his father's expression go blank, watched the veil descend as he turned back to the window, his fingers plucking at the afghan in his lap.

"It's freezing in here," he said tonelessly. "They're trying to kill me."

Nice going, Valenti chided himself, closing his eyes. Of course his father didn't want to relive the whole Silo affair. From his perspective, what would be the point? It's not like they could give him his job back. It's not like he'd be able to get out of this place. No, dragging this all back into the light of day wouldn't do a thing for his father but upset him; it was himself he was doing it for, himself who would reap the benefits of everyone knowing his father was innocent. Assuming they'd believe it, of course. The fact that his son had just shot one of the witnesses might put a damper on things.

"Is everything all right here, sheriff?"

An aide hovered nearby, eyes moving back and forth from him to his father with concern. "Yeah, I...we...he was just...remembering things," he finished lamely. "Guess it upset him."

"That happens sometimes," the aide said soothingly. "It's not your fault."

Yes, it is. "Yeah. Thanks," Valenti said heavily. "I...I have to go now. Dad, I'm going now," he added to his father. "Can I...have that back?"

His father didn't look at him, just continued staring out the window as though he hadn't heard a word. Valenti reached over and coaxed the manila envelope away from him, sliding it out from beneath his hands.

His father didn't seem to notice.





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




"I'm surprised to see you here," Brivari remarked as Jaddo fell in step beside him on Roswell's Main Street. "I would have thought you'd be lurking back at the house."

"Under the circumstances, I thought a public place might be more appropriate for our next meeting," Jaddo answered. "Or safer, at least. Especially after you ordered me away last night."

"I needed time to think. And while I admit it's difficult to hurl you against a wall in broad daylight in front of dozens of humans, you shouldn't worry about me. I'm creative."

"That's alarming," Jaddo said warily. "You don't sound angry, and you're actually joking."

"Is that bad?"

"It's incongruent. If I found out you'd kept the possible existence of a Pierce from me, I'd be furious."

"Can I have that in writing?"

"And there you go again," Jaddo muttered. "I think I prefer the relative simplicity of being thrown against a wall."

"Of course you do," Brivari chuckled. "Which is precisely why I'm not doing it, forcing you instead to wade through the swamp of emotion you typically avoid like the plague."

"Okay, seriously," Jaddo said impatiently, "would you please just react? Scream, yell, berate, take your pick, but do something."

"I am doing something," Brivari replied calmly. "I was checking out Hubble's motel room, or rather checking out what Valenti's deputies checked out about Hubble's motel room."

"And?"

"He left no clues to any involvement with the Unit," Brivari answered, "although if he were involved, it's unlikely he'd leave a business card."

"Hmpf," Jaddo snorted.

"There was, however, the issue of the phone call placed to Hubble's cellphone mere minutes after he died. Valenti apparently answered it, the caller asked for Hubble, then hung up. It came from a private number."

"And there's the Unit," Jaddo said in disgust.

"Interestingly, Valenti seems to agree. Apparently Hubble had information he'd only given to Agent Stevens, which led him to the same conclusion."

"Score one for Valenti," Jaddo said grudgingly.

"Two," Brivari corrected. "He killed Hubble in an effort to protect the king."

"And do we know why he did that?"

"Hubble was deeply involved in an incident nearly thirty years ago which cost a man his life and Valenti Sr. his job," Brivari replied. "Something about Hubble being after the man who'd killed his wife." He paused, letting that sink in. "I have to say, I'm impressed, Jaddo. The trail of mayhem you leave in your wake is always long, but this one spans decades. That must be a new record. Well done."

"And there's the Brivari I know," Jaddo said with satisfaction. "Thank goodness. I'll take this opportunity to point out that none of us know the future consequences of any actions we take or don't take, and leave it at that. Now will you tell me why you're not angry?"

"Coffee?" Brivari suggested, gesturing across the street.

Jaddo blinked. "Coffee? Here?"

"Why not 'here'?" Brivari asked. "No better place, if you ask me."

The Crashdown was busy with the typical after school crowd as they slid into the one remaining empty booth. They had just ordered from an exceptionally surly waitress named "Agnes" when Brivari's phone rang. He glanced briefly at the number before replacing the phone in his pocket.

"Don't you need to get that?" Jaddo asked, the faintest note of derision in his voice. "No doubt Hollywood needs you."

"It wasn't Hollywood, it was Dee."

Jaddo's eyes dropped. "Does she know?"

"That her grandson was threatened by a madman you invented? No, she doesn't," Brivari answered. "Yet."

"Zan isn't her grandson," Jaddo said.

"Go ahead and tell her that," Brivari said, holding out his phone. "I dare you."

Jaddo eyed the phone warily as though it might bite him. *I suppose he could be both king and grandson,* he allowed, switching to telepathic speech.

*Wise choice,* Brivari said dryly. *And I was. Angry, that is. But then I realized it doesn't matter.*

*What doesn't matter?*

*Whether or not Pierce left an heir,* Brivari answered, *which, by the way, I've never heard either. But if so, and if he's working for the Unit, that essentially changes nothing; the Unit remains a threat with or without a Pierce. If they've acquired the serum, that was always a possibility with or without a Pierce. The presence or absence of a Pierce really has no bearing on the threat to our Wards or our response to it, other than to make this entire mess more...personal.*

Jaddo sat in silence for a minute during which their coffee arrived along with an exceptionally harried Maria DeLuca, who promptly got into an argument with Agnes about her tardiness. *I'm surprised,* he said finally. *As I noted, I'd be angry if I were to learn you even suspected.*

*Because for you, the presence of a Pierce would be personal,* Brivari said. *I'm unclear as to why you haven't pursued the issue more forcefully than merely keeping an ear to the ground. For you, that represents uncharacteristic restraint.*

*Don't think I didn't want to,* Jaddo said darkly. *But I became a parent. That tends to restrict one's freedom. And please, let's not have any more discussion about how that came about. It was a decision I made, and I know that. Rehashing it now is a waste of time.*

*I agree,* Brivari said. *Which is why I think it's time for us to bury the hatchet.*

*Bury...what?*

Brivari smiled faintly. *It's a human expression. It basically means to stop fighting. I think it's time we abandoned our antagonism and actively worked together.*

Jaddo's eyes narrowed. *You do? Why?*

*Because we just did,* Brivari answered. *I had no idea the threat Hubble posed. Without you, I wouldn't have known to pursue him. As it happened, that would not have been a problem, but it could just as easily have turned out otherwise.*

*Hmm,* Jaddo murmured skeptically. *So this has nothing to do with the fact that we're going to have to learn how to do this when Tess and I move here this summer, so why not start now and look magnanimous in the process?*

*That too. Look, I know we've had our differences,* Brivari continued as Jaddo raised an eyebrow, *and I know that probably qualifies as the understatement of the humans' new century. But they need both of us, Jaddo, all of them. They need as many Warders as they can get, with all our attendant strengths and weaknesses. They're ranging so far afield now and attracting so much attention that I'm no longer confident that it's wise for me to do this alone. I feel like I'm herding cats, with everyone scattering in different directions and me trying to keep up with them all. I need help. I need your help.*

Brivari waited while Jaddo eyed him warily, as well he might. He wasn't lying, but what he hadn't added was that he was badly rattled by what had nearly happened yesterday. Keeping Jaddo close would not only lessen the chances of another potential catastrophe but also provide the fringe benefit of averting another incident like his *sighting*. Granted Jaddo was every bit as likely to pull something like that as he was before, but at least he'd be more likely to know about it sooner. Dee tried, but even she had missed the signs that something was amiss with the fake sighting. Left unspoken was the fact that Jaddo was one of those cats he was trying to herd.

*Would this mean I'm now welcome in Roswell?* Jaddo asked.

*Yes,* Brivari answered. *As I would be welcome to see Ava. It works both ways,* he added when Jaddo shot him a suspicious look. *If you want access to your Ward, you give me access to my Ward's mate. One for the other.*

*I suppose,* Jaddo said grudgingly. *Although neither of us will have much in the way of 'access' until they're reunited. You can't leave your three, and my one can be every bit as much trouble as the others.*

*Mine actually haven't been any trouble for a full month now, something of a record for them,* Brivari added dryly. *They brought on neither your 'sighting' nor the latest debacle. Perhaps they're learning.*

*Perhaps,* Jaddo said doubtfully.

*You don't think so?*

Jaddo was quiet for a moment. *I think,* he said slowly, *that it will be Rath.*

*What will be Rath?*

*Whatever happens next. He knows the cave symbols are a map. He's forgotten how to read them, but I know him—he'll figure it out. He won't stop until he does. And once he does...well, let's just say I fear that their previous antics will pale by comparison.*





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



Hank Whitmore's trailer




"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Michael said in a bored tone, Hank's angry voice abating somewhat as he slammed the trailer's door behind him. Hank was incredibly annoying, but somehow it was hard to get all worked up over an irate drunk when they'd just been faced with a crazy man with a gun. Nothing like a good brush with death to put things in perspective; God knows his had for him. It had also precipitated a burst of memory, and as he boosted himself up on the picnic table, he idly wondered if it would have the same effect on Max. Would he suddenly remember something, a memory jarred from its dark shelf by a fight-or-flight reaction? Would he even admit it if he did?

Nah, Michael thought as Hank's tirade dwindled to angry, largely incoherent mutters. Max didn't want to know. Even if he remembered something, he'd probably write if off to a bad dream or something like that. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask. It might even...

Michael paused, staring at the sky where the stars twinkled overhead. A moment later, a wide smile spread across his face. Perfect. Their recent crisis had indeed jarred lose a memory, and whatever gods there were had seen fit to send it to the right person.


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


I'll post Chapter 69 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE




February 8, 2000, 5:45 a.m.

Evans residence




"I knew it was you, you bastard!"

Terrified, Max Evans froze, unable to tear his eyes away from the gun pointed straight at him, a finger on the trigger. All else was darkness with only the gun visible, hanging in mid-air, its wielder a mere shadow.

"I won't let you kill again!"

Max wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't work. It was like he was paralyzed, and panic rose in him like a wave. The finger on the trigger twitched...

"Max? Max? Max!"

Max jerked awake so quickly his head bumped the headboard. The dark wasteland was gone, replaced by the faint glow of sunlight filtering through his curtains, and no wonder; he was in his bedroom, in his bed, his mother standing over him, clutching her robe around her.

"Max, honey, are you all right?" Diane asked worriedly. "You were thrashing so hard, I was afraid you'd fall out of bed."

"I'm okay," Max said, wincing painfully as his head begged to differ. "I just...had a bad dream."

Diane sank down on the edge of the bed. "Another one? You've been having a lot of bad dreams lately."

Max blinked. "I...I have?"

"Well, yes. For at least a week or so. Is anything wrong?"

"No," Max said quickly. "No, I...I don't know what's causing it. Maybe it's school. Or maybe something I watched on TV."

"Must have been something pretty scary," Diane remarked. She started to get up, stopped. "This isn't about...you know," she whispered. "Your...condition? Did someone find out? Did—"

"Mom, no," Max lied. "It's not that. I'm okay."

Diane studied him for a moment before reluctantly nodding. "Okay. I just thought maybe the sheriff had...never mind," she finished. "You just let me know if he ever starts after you again."

"I will," Max promised. "Sorry I woke you."

"It's almost time to get up anyway," Diane said, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. "See you at breakfast."

I'm not hungry, Max thought, pulling himself to a sitting position after she left, his previously useless legs dangling over the bed. He'd had the same dream every night since Hubble died. It was always the same, with the gun appearing and him unable to run, and it always ended when the gun went off, catapulting him back to reality with a shock so intense he lay awake for hours afterward, afraid to go back to sleep lest the dream reappear. But exhaustion always won eventually and he'd succumb, and the dream never reappeared until the following night. Small comfort, that, but he'd take what he could get. Glancing at the clock, he decided his mother was right and shambled out into the kitchen, reaching into the fridge for the orange juice, closing the door to find his sister standing only inches away.

"Iz, don't do that!" he exclaimed. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"Not like your dream, I didn't," Isabel said soberly. "Mom's right; you've been having nightmares for a week now."

"You heard too?" Max sighed, slumping into a kitchen chair with the OJ carton and a glass. " I guess that's what happens when you get a gun pointed in your face."

"Well, it's no wonder she's worried," Isabel said, taking a seat across from him. "So was I, until I found out why it was happening. Thanks for waiting a whole week to tell me, by the way. Now I know how Michael feels when he's left out."

"For the record, it was his idea that we wait a week," Max said. "If it were up to him, he might not have told you at all."

"Unbelievable," Isabel muttered. "Just wait till I get a hold of him. How dare he leave me out of this?"

"Not just you," Max noted. "Everyone else too."

" 'Everyone'?" Isabel echoed. "Who's 'everyone'? Who else did you tell?"

"No one yet," Max admitted. "But I'm going to tell Liz, and she'll tell Maria and Alex. Anyone who knows us needs to know that people like Hubble are out there because he could have come after any of us to get to me."

Isabel hesitated, then nodded. "Right. You're right. But that still doesn't explain why you waited so long to tell me. I'm your sister."

Max looked away. "I know. I...I was in shock. Still am, I guess."

"I've never seen you like this," Isabel said. "Even with Valenti, or Topolsky and the FBI."

"None of them were threatening to kill me," Max said soberly. "I've never had a gun pointed at me. Never watched a man die either. I can still hear the sound his body made when it hit the ground. It was...noisy. Louder than I would have expected."

"I can't imagine what that would feel like," Isabel whispered. "It must have been terrifying."

"It was," Max admitted. "But that wasn't the worst part. If we had any doubts about what happened with Nasedo and the man River Dog saw him kill, we don't now."

"He killed someone else," Isabel said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Incredible. We finally get wind of a relative, and it turns out he's a murderer."

"More than that," Max murmured.

"What could be more than 'murderer'?"

Max hesitated for a moment. "Hubble said something, something I didn't even tell Michael," he said in a low voice. "I haven't told anyone this. I wasn't even sure how to tell anyone."

Isabel's eyes widened, and she leaned in closer. "What'd he say?"

"He said...whoever he was looking for, he called him a...a 'shapeshifter'."

Isabel blinked. " 'Shapeshifter'? What on earth is that?"

"Hubble said, 'You changed yourself into that drifter'," Max continued. "It sounds like this Nasedo can make himself look like other people."

"Wonderful," Isabel groaned. "Not only a murderer, but a murderer with the perfect disguise—virtually anyone. Are you sure that's what he said?"

"I wasn't at first," Max allowed. "But when we looked up the whole thing between Hubble and Valenti's father, it fit. They mistook the drifter for the murderer because the murderer made himself look like the drifter."

"But how is that possible?" Isabel asked. "We can't do that...can we?"

"I suppose we could," Max said. "We can manipulate molecular structure, so maybe we can manipulate our own. I just haven't had the guts to try. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to change back."

Isabel was quiet for a moment. "I don't know, Max," she said finally. "It sounds pretty out there. And Hubble wasn't exactly stable, so I think I'll just file that under 'possibilities'. Or maybe 'really unfortunate possibilities'. I'm way more concerned that this guy almost killed you."

Max shook his head. "I could have stopped him. Not sure how I would have done it, but I would have done something. It would've given me away to Valenti, but that still would've been better than being dead."

"Valenti," Isabel murmured. "I still don't get his angle in this. I mean, I know you said his father had history with Hubble, but still..."

"I think it's safe to say he wasn't planning on killing Hubble," Max remarked. "Sure didn't seem that way. He looked every bit as upset as I was."

"I wonder how he's feeling," Isabel said. "You almost got killed, but he actually killed someone."

"He's a sheriff, Isabel," Max said. "I'm sure he's fine with it."




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




Valenti residence





Jim Valenti jolted awake, staring in confusion at his dim bedroom before falling back on the pillows. Not again. Every single night for the past week, he'd relived the shooting, seen the panic in Max Evans' eyes, heard the gunshot and the sickening thump as Hubble had hit the ground. But the worst part of it wasn't any of that; it was Hubble's declaration, repeated over and over in his mind every minute of every day, waking or sleeping, a steady drumbeat of anger and regret:

"Your father couldn't do it...and neither can you."

Got that wrong, Hub, Valenti thought darkly. The one bright spot in this mess was that his oft-repeated announcement that he wasn't his father had just been proven in spades. That a man lay dead because of it put something of a damper on any resulting celebration, but at this point, he'd take any bright spot he could get. It was too late to go back to bed, so he padded out to the kitchen, grabbing the OJ container from the fridge and tipping it into his mouth.

"You always tell me to use a glass."

Valenti nearly choked on his orange juice. "Don't scare me like that!" he said crossly as Kyle raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Basketball practice," Kyle answered. "Sectionals are coming, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Valenti said, wiping dribbled orange juice from his chin. "Sure I do."

"Mmmhm," Kyle said skeptically. "The real question is, what are you doing up at this hour? Again?"

"Couldn't sleep. It happens."

"For a week? Dad, you've been weird ever since the UFO convention left town. You get abducted, or something? No, seriously, something's up," Kyle persisted when Valenti gave him a look. "Does this have anything to do with that guy who was coming over, the one you said knew something about your family? You never said how that turned out. Did he come?"

Valenti hesitated. "Yeah," he said finally.

"And?" Kyle pressed. "What happened? Was it what you were worried about? Did he tell you something you didn't want to hear?"

"He sure as hell did," Valenti whispered.

"So that's why you're up at all hours," Kyle said softly. "Wanna tell me what he said?"

"Not really."

Kyle regarded him levelly for a moment before shrugging. "Okay."

"Just 'okay'? What, no arguments?"

"Nope. That's what you do with me. You ask me if I want to talk, and when I say 'no', you say 'okay' and leave me alone. I'm just returning the favor."

"Oh," Valenti said faintly. "Uh...thanks."

"You're welcome. And I should have said 'most of the time', as in you leave me alone most of the time. So the next time you're tempted to push that point, I'd appreciate it if you remember I cut you a pass and cut me one too."

"Maybe," Valenti allowed. "You forgot one thing: I'm a parent, and you're not."

"You have to keep rubbing my nose in that, don't you?" Kyle said dryly, shouldering his backpack. "I need to get going."

"What about breakfast?"

"Don't have time."

"Wait," Valenti called, holding out the OJ carton. "You can finish this on the way to school. No glass. This time, anyway."

Kyle smiled faintly as he took the carton. "Still clinging to that illusion of civilization, huh?"

"I like to dream," Valenti smiled. "Have a good day."

Kyle's expression sobered. "Yeah. You too."

Valenti closed the door behind his son and leaned against it. He'd almost lied to Kyle, only belatedly remembering how well it had gone when he'd told him the truth right before Hubble was due to visit the house. He'd reflexively kept so much from Kyle during the divorce that it had become a habit, understandable when he'd been small but ill-advised now. And lo and behold, he actually did feel a tiny bit better even after just a hazy admission that something was wrong. Maybe keeping things bottled up wasn't the best way to go...

A knock sounded on the door. "Forgot your key?" he asked, throwing it open.

"Nope," Hanson Sr. replied. "Never had one."

"Don?" Valenti said. "I...you...what are you doing here at this hour?"

"You're a hard man to find, Jim. I've been calling and calling, even went down to the station once...and you've been dodging me. So I decided to try a different approach."

"To get me in my shorts?" Valenti said, attempting a chuckle.

"I don't care if you're buck naked, I just want some answers," Don said tartly. "You told me you'd bring me up to speed on Hubble and why you wanted a ballistics report on the bullet that killed that drifter, and you never did. I'm here to collect."

Valenti hesitated for a moment before stepping back. He had been dodging his deputy's father, but maybe that had been the wrong thing to do. Hanson Sr. was one of the few people, maybe the only person, he could talk to about this.

"So what happened?" Don demanded. "Hubble's gone; I figured out that much. Did you get the ballistics report back yet? I asked an old friend to rush it, so—"

"Sit down, Don," Valenti said, indicating a chair.

"I'm not doing a blessed thing until you answer me!" Don exclaimed. "You've been sitting on this for a week, Jim, hell, over a week! How long you gonna leave me dangling? If you—"

"Hubble's dead."

Don stared at him for a long moment before slowly sinking into the proffered chair. "Say what?"

"Hubble's dead," Valenti repeated. "I shot him."

"Jesus H. Christ," Don whispered. "What the hell happened?"

"He...snapped," Valenti said, weighing his words carefully. The temptation to tell Hanson Sr. the truth was huge, and he couldn't do that; he had to keep the story the same. "He asked me to meet him at some old cafe up north, and when I did, he started ranting and raving, pulled a gun on me, and threatened to shoot me...so I got there first. But not before he gave me something."

"Hubble killed the drifter," Don nodded. "Not your dad."

Valenti's eyes widened. "You knew?"

"Nope. Never even suspected, not until you asked for the ballistics report. Your daddy owned up to what happened right away, and such was his reputation for honesty that no one even questioned it."

"Fat lot of good that reputation did him," Valenti said bitterly. "He admitted it, you know. He was actually all there for a few minutes, and he sat there in that nursing home and admitted Hubble had done it and he'd taken the fall. Or the bullet, if you prefer that."

"Of course he did," Don said. "I know what he told you. I wasn't there, but I'm betting he told you that he was responsible, that it was his fault even if he hadn't actually pulled the trigger."

"Pretty much," Valenti admitted grudgingly.

"And the thing is that's what the town council would have said too. I've already been through all this," Don went on when Valenti began to protest. "I knew why you wanted ballistics. It made sense; it fit the things I saw and the people I knew. I beat myself up for not thinking of that myself for a couple of days before I realized it wouldn't have made any difference. Your daddy would still have lost his job, lost himself. Only difference is, instead of being remembered as the man who shot the drifter, he'd be remembered as the man who let another man shoot the drifter. The average citizen wouldn't see a whole lot of difference between the two."

"And Hubble?" Valenti demanded. "What about him?"

"That might have gone down differently," Don allowed. "It also might have gotten messier if two witnesses were at odds with the physical evidence. Bottom line is I don't think things would have worked out a whole lot differently than they did."

"I've never killed a man before," Valenti said quietly. "I know we train for this, but all that practice at the range...I've only ever wounded, and rarely that. Never killed."

"Then I'm glad your first was Hubble," Don said firmly. "That bastard got exactly what he had coming, and he got it from exactly who it should have come from. Couldn't have worked out better if I'd written the story myself."

The phone rang, followed by the answering machine's message...followed by a woman's voice. "Jim?" it said uncertainly. "I got your message about dinner tomorrow night. I was really looking forward to it, so I hope we can find another time to get together. Call me, okay?"

Valenti closed his eyes as the line clicked. Amy. She hadn't even left her name, God bless her. Smart woman.

"You got a date?" Don asked.

"Canceling a date," Valenti clarified. "I'm not in the mood."

"Then get in the mood," Don advised. "Dates are hard to come by once you reach a certain age."

"I've just got too much going on right now," Valenti insisted. "Some other time."

"Let me guess: You begged off because of 'work', right?" Don shook his head as Valenti's eyes dropped. "Word of advice, Jim? It's no fun getting old, but it's even less fun when you're alone. Don't keep putting work first; the people around us will be around long after the work is over. If we treat'em right, that is."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," Valenti said dryly, "but—"

"But nothing. It's over. You solved the mystery of what happened at Silo and you got justice, or as much as you're going to get. Take that and move on. Go have dinner with a beautiful woman and leave this be."

"What makes you think she's beautiful?"

Don shrugged. "Sure sounded beautiful. Is she beautiful?"

Valenti broke into a completely unexpected smile. "Yeah, she's...she's beautiful. And smart. And funny."

"Then what are you waiting for? Call her back! Set up another date! Go on with your life! What happened to your father ruined his, but it doesn't have to ruin yours. Don't let it, you hear?"

"I hear," Valenti promised.

"Good. I'll let you get going'," Don said. "Say 'hi' to my boy for me. And don't be a stranger, Jim. Let's get together more often. We're the only people who can talk about...certain things."

Exactly what I was thinking, Valenti thought, glancing at the phone after he'd waved goodbye. And Don was right; he should reschedule. Maybe he should call Amy right now, before he lost his nerve. One glance at his sweaty tee shirt and boxers had him nixing that idea; calling Amy always worked best if he dressed the part, which meant no skivvies or uniforms. Maybe tonight after work. Or this weekend. Or...well, he'd think of something. Something, anything, to keep his mind off not only the injustice done to his father, but something Hubble had said right before the end.

"I just saw it! I was right!"

"You saw what?"

"His powers!"

He had no idea what Hubble had seen or thought he'd seen, but for the moment, he pushed aside the conundrum of what to do with the boy who clearly wasn't who he said he was.




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



West Roswell High School





Maria DeLuca tossed her books in her locker and grabbed the bag lunch she'd hastily assembled this morning at some ridiculous o'clock. Honestly, why did school have to start so early? She was still unconscious for first period, barely conscious for second, half awake by third, and not all the way there until after lunch. Which meant she still wasn't all the way there yet because it was before lunch, and she slogged down the hallway, instinctively dodging clumps of teenagers, some of whom looked every bit as out of it as she was and some of whom were annoyingly awake. Larks, she thought peevishly. Morning people bugged the daylights out of her. The next time she took one of those magazine quizzes about "the perfect boyfriend", she'd be sure to add "sleeps late". One of the surest ways to divorce for her wouldn't be money or in-laws or kids; it would be a husband who was bright and chipper even when he got up with the birds. She'd just passed the office when she pulled up short...and backtracked.

Wide awake now, Maria peered through the office window. Michael was standing at the office counter looking disgruntled as usual, and she watched anxiously as he spoke to one of the secretaries, who shuffled some papers before handing one to him. He left without saying thank you, disappearing into the crowd around the front desk, reappearing a minute later just on the other side of the door which he pushed open without looking, nearly knocking her over.

"Hey!" Maria exclaimed. "Watch what you're doing!"

"I didn't see you," Michael said.

"I guess not. You almost knocked me over."

"Don't stand so close to the door," Michael said.

Maria's eyes narrowed. "I thought you didn't see me?"

"I didn't. Not until you went flying backwards. What'd you want?"

" 'Want'?" Maria echoed. "I didn't...I was just...never mind," she finished irritably. "What's that?" she added, pointing to the paper in his hand.

"This? This is a pass," Michael answered. "It's what they give you when you're late so you can get into class. Which you probably wouldn't know because you're probably never late."

"Got that right," Maria said. "I saw you in there, and I thought...well, I thought maybe..."

"That I'd been suspended? Expelled? Nope. Just late. Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm not 'disappointed', I'm just...look, I was just worried about you," Maria said crossly. "I saw you in there, and I was worried about you, okay?"

Michael gave her a level stare. "No, it's not okay. I told you, I can't get involved with anyone. So don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Maria's mouth dropped open as he walked away. I'd love to, she thought bitterly. She'd love to just stop worrying about him, stop thinking about him, stop acknowledging his existence. She'd love to "be a stone wall" with him just like he was with her, but she wasn't having much luck. Just when she was ready to throttle him, he'd go and do something hopelessly endearing like fix her napkin holder. Just as she thought she'd washed him from her mind, something like the sighting would happen and she'd fear for his life...again. Just as she wrote him off for being rude to her mother, he'd gone and saved their bank account by filling in for the missing "Alienator" and kissing her besides. No matter how hard she tried to wash Michael Guerin from her mind, he found a way to creep back in, and it was bloody annoying. Thoroughly awake and thoroughly peeved, she moved briskly through the crowds to the lunchroom, meaning to drown her sorrows with the one person who would understand because she was having detachment issues of her own. Liz was on the far side, alone at a table except for...Max? They were deep in conversation, and just as Maria approached, Max's hand reached out for Liz's...

"Hey!" Maria said brightly, her eyes hard. "What's up?"

Max's hand jerked back. "Nothing," he said quickly. "I was just leaving."

He left without another word, and Maria slid into his place. "What are you doing?" she hissed at Liz. "I thought he dumped you! I thought we agreed we were gonna—"

"Maria, someone tried to kill Max."

Maria stopped in mid-sentence. "They...what?"

"Someone at the convention," Liz went on, ashen faced. "Someone who says his wife died years ago from one of those silver handprints, and he thought Max was the one who did it."

"I...he...what?" Maria said stupidly. "Why would he think that? Why would he...wait. Larry. Larry was shooting his mouth off, and...no, Larry never saw the handprint," she went on, following the thread of her own story. "The only one who knew about the handprint was..."

"Valenti," Liz finished. "Valenti shot the guy who was trying to kill Max, and he told Max to keep quiet about it."

"Okay, that's...backwards," Maria said, thoroughly confused now. "Valenti's been on Max's tail for months now. Why would he do that?"

"Something about the guy who tried to shoot Max having something to do with Valenti's father losing his job years ago," Liz said. "I didn't get it all, but I think—"

"No," Maria broke in firmly. "No thinking. No getting. This isn't our problem. Why did he even tell you about it?"

"Because he thought I should know," Liz answered. "Because he was afraid it could be our problem, that someone like that could use anyone, like you, or me, or—"

"Okay, this is one of the many reasons we should confine ourselves to humans," Maria interrupted. "We should just forget the Czechoslovakians and—"

"Michael was there too."

Damn. Any hope Maria had nursed of writing off this latest alien debacle went right out the window as the mother bear in her reared up on its hind legs for the second time in the past five minutes. "Michael? I just saw him. He didn't say anything about this. What did he have to do with this?"

"I guess he thumbed a ride and followed Max," Liz said. "Got there just as the guy was pointing a gun at him, and Valenti got there right after that. He said—"

Maria held up a hand. "Stop. I don't want to hear any more. This is too much. Every time we turn around, there's another crisis. Someone's being chased, someone's dying, something's landing in the woods, someone's getting shot at, the sheriff is doing a 180...it's just too much!"

Liz gave her a pitying look. "If you think it's too much for us, how do you suppose it feels for them?"

"Oh, no you don't," Maria said tartly. "No guilt trips. Don't you see what's happening here? Max dumps you, then dumps on you. He doesn't get to do that. He doesn't get to break up with you and then cry on your shoulder when something goes wrong."

"For the record, he wasn't 'crying on my shoulder', and I think someone waving a gun in your face is a bit more than just 'something going wrong'," Liz remarked.

"Please, Liz," Maria begged, "I'm just saying we need a break. Let's do something this weekend, something totally unrelated to Czechoslovakians. A movie, a party, a sleepover, a bonfire, a robbery—anything. Okay, that last one was a poor choice," she added hastily when Liz gave her a reproachful look. "We just have to get our minds off them, just for a little while. Please? Please, please, please, please—"

"Okay, okay," Liz interrupted. "Go ahead and plan something. But nothing weird," she cautioned. "I won't do weird."

"Of course not," Maria promised. "That's the whole point, to do something normal, something human, something...boring. Really, really boring."

"I think Max is the one who needs something boring," Liz murmured.

"No," Maria said quickly. "Rule number one of our boring, normal weekend is no Czechoslovakians. Let them go have their own boring, normal weekend. Besides whenever they're with us, it's never boring and normal."

"I guess not," Liz said doubtfully. "I have a bio lab to work on. Catch you later."

"Wait—aren't you going to eat lunch?" Maria asked.

"I'll eat while I work. Gotta run."

Maria's eyes narrowed, recalling that Biology was a class Liz had with Max. But there was little she could do without actually trailing her, and the last thing she was in the mood for was more cloak and dagger stuff. Scanning the lunchroom, she identified the table with the most vapid, airheaded girls she could find and parked her tray next to theirs. "Hi!" she said brightly. "Mind if I join you?"

They probably did, but not possessing the brain cells to object, they merely blinked and went on with their conversations about blissfully empty subjects like nail polish, hairstyles, and who was dating whom. Maria let it all wash over her, enjoying the fantastic nothingness of it all, trying to think of something suitably normal to do this weekend. Trouble was that after you'd run around chasing Indian caves and spaceships, everything looked...well...boring. Which was supposedly the point, she scolded herself, running down mental lists of movies, malls, and whatnot until the airheads' conversation finally leaked through.

"...and they're sending her on a dream date!" one of the airheads enthused. "It'll be all over the radio, and her picture will be in the paper, and then—"

"What's this?" Maria interrupted. "Who's sending who on a dream date?"

"The radio station," one airhead explained. "You know, the blind date concert? Everyone's talking about it. Did you enter?"

A slow smile spread across Maria's face. "Uh...no. Not yet."

"Then you'd better hurry," the airhead advised. "Time's up at noon."

Maria glanced at the clock and literally ran out of the room; ten seconds later she was dialing. "KROZ," a bored voice answered.

"Hi, I want to enter the Blind Date Contest."

"Too late. Nominations closed at noon."

"You cannot be serious," Maria argued. "It's 11:59!"

"By your watch," the voice said. "Not mine."

"Then whose watch is more important?" Maria demanded. "Yours, or one of your faithful listeners? Can you just imagine the reaction when it gets out that you closed nominations a minute early? I wouldn't want to be you, buddy, when all my friends find out that—"

"Okay, okay," the voice said quickly. "Your watch. What's your name?"

"I've got two entrants," Maria announced. "Got a pencil?"

A minute later she hung up, extremely satisfied with herself. The likelihood that either she or Liz would win was low, but so what? They could always follow the winners around and go the concert. One normal, boring weekend, coming up.




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




5:30 p.m.

Proctor residence




"Is the table set?" Dee asked, tossing the oven mitts on the counter.

"It's been set for the past half hour," Anthony answered.

"What about the salads?"

"On the table."

"Where are the rolls?" Dee asked in alarm. "I put them—"

"In the baskets on the table," Anthony said patiently. "Calm down. We're not having the queen to dinner."

"Frankly, I'd rather," Dee said ruefully. "At least there'd be some protocol."

The doorbell rang. Dee and Anthony looked at each other for a moment before going to the front door, Anthony placing a hand over hers as she reached for the knob.

"You're going to be civil, right?" he asked.

Dee smiled devilishly. "I'll be as civil as he is."

"God help us all," Anthony muttered as she opened the door to reveal Brivari and Jaddo standing on the front porch, the former calm, the latter distinctly uncomfortable.

"Welcome!" Dee said. "Or perhaps I should say, welcome back?"






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


I'll post Chapter 70 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!



CHAPTER SEVENTY



February 8, 2000, 6:30 p.m.

Proctor residence



"So then the teacher told Max that if he didn't use the prescribed folder, she'd give him a failing grade," Dee said. "And when he continued to resist, she upped the ante and said she'd fail him for the entire class, and he'd have to repeat 8th grade Social Studies."

"Unbelievable," Anthony said, shaking his head.

"Then Philip got involved," Dee went on. "He had to go through both the Vice Principal and the Principal before he got them to agree to let Max keep his binder."

Brivari blinked. "Do I understand you to mean that this was a dispute over whether to store classroom materials in a folder or a binder?"

"It was," Anthony sighed.

"So all this drama was over which storage device to use?" Brivari said incredulously. "What difference does it make? He still had all the materials and was still doing all the assignments."

"And getting straight 'A's'," Anthony noted. "That should have told them something."

"The teacher insisted it had to be the folder on the classroom supply list," Dee said. "No binders, no other folders."

"That's crazy," Brivari declared. "How does wasting everyone's precious time on such drivel further mastery of the material?"

"It doesn't," Jaddo said. "This isn't about mastery, it's about power. Everything in American education is about power, that and orthodoxy. Teacher training schools have become quasi-religious institutions where professors proselytize and pet theories are rammed down prospective teachers' throats. Anyone who thinks teachers' colleges are about teaching teachers to teach is either hopelessly naive or not paying attention. Pass the rolls?"

Anthony glanced at Dee, who gave him a bemused look before handing over the basket of rolls. This dinner was supposed to mark Jaddo's return to Roswell, Brivari having told her of their rapprochement, among other things. Jaddo had been uncharacteristically quiet for some time now; to see him finally become chatty on the subject of education was unexpected, to say the least.

"This is very different from teacher training in most of Europe," Jaddo continued, helping himself to three rolls. "Take Finland, for example, which has very high rates of academic success. Their teaching students spend over 80% of their time in classroom situations with experienced teachers, while ours spend over 80% of their time studying 'theory' and parroting back what their professors want to hear. It's no wonder that the method becomes not only more important than the obvious goal of learning the material, but the goal in and of itself, as though the method is some kind of magic. It reminds me of children taught to 'look both ways' before they cross the street who conclude that the act of looking both ways is what confers the protective effect whether or not any cars are nearby. It becomes a ritual which is merely performed but not understood...what?" he said suddenly as Dee stifled a laugh.

"It's just...listen to you," Dee chuckled. " 'American education'? 'Our teachers'? 'Finland'? Good Lord, you sound positively..."

"Domestic?" Brivari finished.

"Yes, that," Dee agreed.

"Do you disagree with my assessment?" Jaddo asked.

"I...no," Dee admitted. "I think you're spot on. I just wasn't expecting you to have the slightest interest in education."

"Of course I have an interest," Jaddo said. "Ava is being educated in this backward system."

"As are our grandchildren," Dee reminded him. "And Michael, whom we think of as our surrogate grandson."

"And I'm grateful for that," Jaddo said, turning hard eyes on Brivari. "Especially after seeing his living conditions, which were somewhat less than I'd been led to believe."

"You weren't 'led to believe' anything," Brivari said calmly. "You left with Ava, and we didn't speak for the next ten years."

"I was referring to your intentions before I left," Jaddo clarified. "I sincerely hope you didn't intend to place him with an alcoholic."

"Here we go," Anthony said under his breath.

"Michael's first foster family was wonderful," Dee said. "The Guerins were good people who unfortunately divorced at a bad time for Michael, when he was young enough to still need guardians, but old enough that few would take him."

"So I've heard," Jaddo answered, sounding unconvinced.

"As I've heard about the warning you sounded last weekend when Max was in trouble," Dee went on. "I certainly appreciate that, although I don't appreciate your causing the whole mess in the first place."

"It was an accident," Jaddo protested. "I never intended to kill anyone. I needed a car, and that one looked empty; the woman had stretched out on the seat, and I didn't see her until I opened the door."

"So you couldn't have pulled her out and taken the car?" Dee demanded.

"She was about to scream," Jaddo said impatiently, "which tends to garner attention. Which is a bad idea when you're stealing a car."

"Oh, no doubt," Dee agreed. "Although I can't speak from personal experience."

"And here I thought it was so unnaturally quiet," Anthony remarked.

"You didn't really expect that to last, did you?" Brivari asked dryly.

"While we're at it, why don't we lay all our cards on the table," Jaddo said to Dee, ignoring the others. "You're angry with me about the sighting, aren't you?"

"Angry? No," Dee answered. "More like annoyed. But that didn't involve a gun in my grandson's face."

"If I'd had any idea my actions would pan out the way they did—"

"But you didn't," Brivari broke in. "Just like I had no idea that ignoring Vilandra's infatuation with Khivar would produce such a devastating result. Or that making concessions to a king who was willing to grant us more freedom would result in an incredible power landing in the hands of a child, making it impossible for us to approach him. I think it's safe to say we all have a list entitled 'If Only I'd Known'...right?"

Dee fell silent, returning to her dinner. If she'd only known that Valenti Sr. was unable to help Courtney when she'd been in trouble, she would never have asked, never have set a trithium generator in front of him and basically admitted that aliens were real and rampaging through his town. And if she hadn't done that, he may not have gone over the edge he'd so obviously gone over, and not wound up in a state conducive to being influenced by the Hubbles of the world. Work the problem backward, and she was almost as culpable for what had happened this weekend as Jaddo.

"My point," Brivari continued when no one said anything, "is that they need all of us, every single person at this table. They're ranging farther afield with each passing day, gathering friends but also enemies, including some from long ago none of us could have anticipated. I no longer feel it safe to Ward them alone. Whatever our differences, our past disagreements, we'll have to set them aside. We'll never agree on who was 'right' or 'wrong', and it's pointless to try; that's in the past. For the future, we must agree to keep one another informed of what we learn and what we intend to do about it even if we know the rest of us will object. Perhaps especially if we know the rest of us will object," he added with a pointed look at Jaddo. "The only surprises should come from outside this circle. Are we agreed?"

"We are," Jaddo said promptly.

"Absolutely," Anthony answered.

"Of course," Dee said quietly.

An awkward silence ensued, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the radio playing softly in the background. Dee kept her eyes on her plate, feeling a bit like a child who's been scolded for a tantrum she'd been determined not to throw. As willing as she'd been to give Jaddo a tiny bit of leeway on the whole camping debacle, she and Anthony had both been quite rattled when they'd learned of the latest near miss. Any relief that Brivari had heeded her advice to be more forthcoming with Jaddo, resulting in his learning of Max's peril, had been overshadowed by her dismay that this situation existed in the first place. This Hubble was an invented creature, a menace born solely of grief and loss who had taken out Valenti's father and come dreadfully close to taking out her grandson, although both Brivari and Jaddo insisted the danger had been minimal for a variety of reasons she didn't quite buy. Max being capable of stopping a bullet? Healing stones capable of bringing him back if he'd been shot? Maybe, but she wouldn't have been keen on testing either theory on her own family. Even if he isn't, she thought sadly. One of the hardest parts of this was a fact she'd always known: Her grandchildren weren't really her grandchildren. She'd pushed that inconvenient truth to the back of her mind for years now, shelving it for the day when she'd have no choice but to wrestle with it. That day was not only getting closer, it was rushing toward her at the speed of a freight train.

"So how are we going to work this?" she asked, turning to logistics to restart the conversation. "Who do I call first if I need to reach one of you?"

"Me," Brivari answered. "We've agreed we will retain our respective roles, at least until Jaddo and Ava move here this summer. The only thing which will change immediately is that he'll spend more of his time familiarizing himself with the three who live here, and we've agreed to talk on a daily basis. Should the need arise, call me first, and him if you can't reach me."

"Right. So...I take it we'll be bumping into each other?" Dee said to Jaddo. "Just like old times."

"Perhaps," Jaddo said warily.

"So how much has he filled you in on the nitty gritty of their lives here?" Dee went on. "I know you know the basics, but, for example, did you know that Michael is sweet on one of his classmates?"

"So I heard," Jaddo said in a pained tone. "That hardly matters. Whatever bonds they've formed here will be broken once they return home."

"But the bonds they form here will help to shape the people they'll be when they return home," Dee said. "So it does matter. Very much so."

"She's right," Brivari said.

"Very well, then," Jaddo sighed. "Just don't expect me to wallow in adolescent angst."

"They're all adolescents, so I'm afraid there's a certain amount of 'angst'," Anthony chuckled. "Isn't it that way with Ava?"

"Ava knows she's not human and doesn't belong here, so, no," Jaddo answered.

"Really?" Brivari murmured. "I seem to remember an argument about a Ouija board which struck me as a classic bid to 'fit in'."

"There have been some...incidents," Jaddo said uncomfortably. "But certainly no...liaisons."

"Is that what they're calling them now?" Dee chuckled.

"Listen up, everyone!" boomed a voice from the radio just as the music ended. "Goin' north on downtown Main Street, headed with my entourage toward the winner of the KROZ blind dream date. An evening of fantasy and romance for one lucky listener that ends in the most exciting concert of the year. An intimate club date with a surprise mystery band that'll put this town on the map for more than just the crash."

"Good grief," Jaddo muttered.

"Shush," Dee scolded. "I want to hear who won."

"Right here at one of our finer local establishments," the voice continued, "the Crashdown Cafe! Looking for our new Queen of Hearts, Miss Liz Parker!"

The sound of squeals and applause wafted from the radio as Brivari and Dee exchanged glances. "What?" Jaddo demanded. "What's wrong?"




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





Two days later


February 10, 2000, 3:30 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




"It sounds like we've gotta find you a serious, dark-haired, mystery man from an exotic place by Friday night! Is Liz Parker's Mr. Right listening out there?'

The DJ's smile was as broad as a barn, but Liz wasn't looking at him, or the throngs of smiling people eagerly hanging on her every word, or at Maria, who was trying, and failing, to look merely interested instead of practically drooling—she was looking at Max, currently sitting alone in a booth only a few yards away. I've already found my serious, dark-haired, mystery man from an exotic place, she thought sadly, and he doesn't want us to be together.

"Maybe not 'exotic'," she said out loud. "You said 'out of town'. 'Exotic' sounds...dangerous."

"Just an expression," the DJ assured her. "Don't worry, Liz—we know you wouldn't want to pair up with anyone dangerous."

Already did, Liz thought, her eyes on Max, who looked miserable, about as miserable as she was, the only two unhappy souls in this cheerful little throng who were so happy that she'd won what had to be the stupidest contest she'd ever heard of. Blind dates had never been her cup of tea; she was a planner, someone who liked to know exactly what was coming, or, barring that, what her options were. To be thrown together with a stranger for an entire evening was alarming; to have it happen in full view of the public was horrifying. How on earth could Maria think this was "romantic"? Dating was fraught with peril even when you knew your date; not knowing wasn't exciting, it was just plain wrong. She'd wondered if she would feel differently when the time for this interview came around, if the party atmosphere surrounding the entire enterprise would have somehow seeped into her, but if anything, she felt worse; everything about it, from the smirking DJ to the grinning crowds to her delighted, well-intentioned best friend whom she'd dearly love to throttle made her want to scream. Maybe she did need a break from Czechoslovakians, but substituting something this irritating was no break at all.

"I've got a few more questions for you, Liz," the always cheerful DJ announced. "These were sent in by our listeners to help us choose just the right guy for you. Ready?"

"I guess," Liz said doubtfully.

"Ok, here goes: Smoker or non-smoker?"

"Non," Liz said firmly. "The surgeon general found smoking to be dangerous decades ago."

"Ah, no wonder you want a brainiac!" the DJ said knowingly, as though he'd just unearthed some heretofore unknown secret about her. "Flowers or chocolates?"

"Um...chocolates."

"Romantic dinner or grab-n-go?"

"I...romantic dinner, I guess."

"Meat or vegetarian?"

"Uh...meat."

"A carnivore," the DJ murmured in a tone which may or may not have been judgmental. "Wine or beer?"

Liz's eyes narrowed. "I'm 16."

"Right," the DJ said quickly, his smile faltering for a moment. "Right, I...I'm not sure how that one slipped past. How did that one slip past?" he demanded of a nearby assistant, one hand over his mic. "Moving right along," he went on into the microphone when the assistant shrugged, "rom com or action flick?"

"Um...either."

"No, Liz, you have to pick one," the DJ lectured in an insufferably teacherish tone. "The point here is to learn more about you."

The persistent prick of annoyance which Liz had been beating back since this whole charade had started suddenly became much more persistent. "Then you can learn that it depends on the movie," she answered. "I don't like a bad movie regardless of genre."

"Feisty," the DJ chuckled as Liz stifled the urge to smack him. "Look out, boys, this one's up for a fight."

"I'm not fighting," Liz protested, "I'm just objecting to being stuffed in a box."

"Whoa there, filly, this is all in good fun!" the DJ chirped as Maria, standing behind him, made frantic gestures which Liz interpreted to mean that she was supposed to cheerfully go along with this nonsense. "Now, favorite subject: Gym or lunch?"

"Science," Liz said stonily.

"Favorite TV show: MTV or—"

"PBS's Nova," Liz answered before he could finish. "And as much as I've enjoyed this, I really do have to get back to work."

"Hang on there!" the DJ objected as she pulled off her headphones. "Our listeners have a lot more questions to ask you!"

"Like what?" Liz whispered, one hand over his mic. "What color nail polish I use? What kind of diet I'm on? Take my advice and quit while you're behind. We're done."

"Much as we'd like to continue, our Queen of Hearts has a job to do," the DJ said quickly as she walked off to applause from the assembled crowd. "Our Liz is not only drop dead brilliant, she's a working girl who takes her job very seriously..."

"Liz? Liz!" Maria hissed, following her into the back, the door mercifully cutting off the rest of the DJ's blather. "What are you doing? You can't just walk away from an interview!"

"Really?" Liz said savagely. "Because I think I just did. This is nuts, Maria! How could you do this to me? You wanted to have a 'normal' weekend, and I said 'nothing weird'. You do remember that, don't you? Nothing weird. This is not only not normal, it's about as weird as it gets."

"Really?" Maria said dryly. "Weirder than people who spontaneously sprout spider webs, and cave paintings in code, and—"

"Yes," Liz said firmly. "Weirder than that. That's real. That's relevant. That's important. This is...this is stupid. There's no other word for it. How could you possibly think this is 'normal'?"

Maria's eyes dropped. "I didn't—don't. I just...I heard about the contest and threw our names in the pot. I never thought we'd win; I figured we'd just cheer for the winner and go to the concert, and that would be our normal weekend. Look, is it really that bad?" she went on, taking Liz's hand. "So he asked you some stupid questions. So what? Is the world going to end because you answered a few stupid questions? The whole point of this was to do something fun—"

"This is not fun."

"Okay, something—"

"Or normal," Liz added.

"Something...inconsequential," Maria finished as Liz struggled to find an objection to that one. "Something that doesn't matter. Something that isn't a matter of life and death."

"Does it count if I kill the DJ?"

"You know what I mean," Maria insisted. "Something that doesn't involve people chasing you, and mysterious illnesses, and guns in your face. Something you don't have to worry about the way you worry about that stuff. All you're gonna do is go on a date with a guy for a few hours, and even if he turns out to be a total dork, who cares? You'll never be alone with him anyway, and if it turns out he's someone you want to be alone with, that can be arranged later. And for one weekend, one night, you can stop thinking about Czechoslovakian madness and just be a girl, a high school student, an Earthling. Is that really such a tragedy?"

Liz sighed and leaned against the wall. "You know, this would be a lot easier to take if you were doing it with me."

"Sorry, babe, there's only one 'Queen of Hearts'," Maria smiled.

"Dumb name," Liz groaned, rolling her eyes. "But if I have to be the 'Queen of Hearts', don't I get a lady in waiting? This almost makes me wish the concert doesn't work out for you."

Maria's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, scrambling for her watch. "What time is it? Oh, my God!"

"What?" Liz said, startled. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, my God, they're gonna kill me!" Maria wailed, throwing open her locker. "I'm late for the audition!"

"Okay, calm down," Liz ordered. "It's close by, and you can still get there. "

Five minutes later, Maria was out the door, and Liz was facing re-entry. Peering into the cafe, she noted with satisfaction that her KROZ interrogator had moved on and Max was still seated in the same booth, but no longer alone; he was talking with an older woman, the sight of whom gave Liz a pang of longing for Grandma Claudia. Maybe this is good, she thought, hurrying to retrieve her orders. Maybe the older woman was a good excuse to stop by and say 'hi' without appearing pushy.

Five minutes later, her arms full of plates, she reentered the cafe to find that Max had left.




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




"Much as we'd like to continue, our Queen of Hearts has a job to do," KROZ's DJ intoned as Liz marched away. "Our Liz is not only drop dead brilliant, she's a working girl who takes her job very seriously, a model of both scholarship and responsibility."

Good cover, Max thought as the DJ scrambled to disguise the fact that he'd just been...well...dumped. He'd resisted the serious urge to stand up and cheer when Liz had finally revolted against the inane line of questioning and pulled the plug on the interview. Only Maria seemed to have understood what had happened, scurrying after her with an alarmed expression as everyone else clapped and cheered, probably unable to fathom the notion that their "Queen of Hearts" had just staged a walkout. Good for you, Liz, Max thought. She'd just given him one more reason to fall in love with her all over again.

"What a role model!" the DJ gushed. "What an example for young women everywhere! And what a treat one lucky guy will have tomorrow night! Tune in tomorrow to KROZ when our brilliant Queen of Hearts meets her dream guy!"

The mic clicked off, and the crowd roared their approval, apparently not noticing the disgruntled look on the DJ's face. Max allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction that things had gone sour. He'd debated avoiding the Crashdown tonight, but ultimately had been unable to stay away, promising himself that he was going to be happy for Liz even if he had spent the last two days in a funk over the notion of someone else enjoying her company without fear of pursuit, strange illnesses, or murderous relatives. Liz's obvious discomfiture with the whole thing had given him permission to be unhappy about it too, which perversely made him feel better. Whatever the subject, it appeared misery really did love company.

And now I need company for my other misery, Max thought as a waitress stopped by to retrieve Michael and Isabel's leavings. He'd hoped the encounter with Hubble would cool some of Michael's ardor to find out more about "Nasedo", but unfortunately it had had the opposite effect—presented with further proof of Nasedo's existence, Michael was now more determined than ever to locate him. Or her, Max added silently. Or it. The single, most prevalent piece of information they had concerning this fourth alien was that he had killed at least two people, probably more. Other than that, they had nothing, no idea if this person was friend or enemy, relative or stranger, or even male or female now that the notion of shapeshifting had entered the conversation. That almost total lack of information hadn't stopped Michael from turning Nasedo into a mythical savior, a long lost relative, a paragon of justifiable homicide. He must have heard at least some of what Hubble had said, but was willing to discount it all, chalking it up to the ravings of a madman while treating his "hallucination" like gospel. That experience in the cave had been eerie and certainly had sounded genuine...but so had Hubble. Hubble hadn't been crazy, he'd been angry. Big difference. Even Isabel, sympathetic though she was, hadn't been able to endorse a hunt for Nasedo. Assuming that was even necessary...

The DJ and his entourage were on their way out the door, and as Max's eyes followed them, he made a point of eyeballing everyone in the lower two-thirds of the cafe. What no one had mentioned, himself included, was that they may not need to go looking for Nasedo; Nasedo may coming looking for them, may already be here. He's back, Michael had said when they'd wondered about the sign in the grass outside the cave that night they'd trekked into the woods. Nasedo's here. That was Michael's wishful thinking talking, to be sure, but there was no denying that symbol on the ground. What if Nasedo was already here? What if something much worse than the FBI was stalking them? If he was here, what did he want, what did that mean for them, and why hadn't he shown himself yet...or had he? He wasn't certain exactly what a shapeshifter could do, but it appeared he could disguise himself as someone else, meaning Nasedo could be...anyone. He could be here right now, watching them, and they'd never know...

"Mind if I sit?"

Max's head jerked around as he shivered at that last thought. "Oh! Hi, Grandma. Sure. Sit down."

Grandma Dee slid onto the bench opposite him. "You look upset," she announced in her usual forthright way.

"Uh...yeah," Max admitted. "A little."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Lots," Max said ruefully. "If I could. But I can't."

"I see," Grandma answered, not even bothering to try to worm it out of him as his mother would have. "Did you know I used to work here?"

"Isabel mentioned that," Max replied, grateful for the change of subject. "Something about you being...a waitress?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Grandma smiled. "It was 'Parker's' back then, just a bar in the beginning. They added the cafe later, and I worked here in the summer of '59."

'59, Max thought heavily. The year Nasedo killed that guy in the woods. How high did the pile of bodies go? "So what was it like back then? Did you wear deely-boppers too?"

"No," Grandma chuckled. "All we had were buttons. It was a regular cafe back then, none of the murals, or flashy signs, or anything like that. Guess we didn't need it; we had a wild summer that year without any of that."

"Something happen?" Max asked, wondering could possibly have been considered "wild" in 1959.

"Lots," Grandma said, "but I doubt you'd believe most of it."

"Don't be too sure about that," Max said with a small smile. "You might be surprised at what I'd believe."

"Not necessarily," Grandma said. She paused for a moment, glancing at the DJ's former table. "That was quite an interview Liz gave."

Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You heard it?"

"I certainly did. I love the way she didn't let the DJ box her into a corner."

"Yeah," Max agreed, "Liz is..."

"Special?" Grandma suggested.

"I was going to say 'smart'," Max said. "But that too."

"You know," Grandma said, lowering her voice and leaning in closer, "this contest...it's just one night. That's all. Just keep that in mind when you see things that are hard to watch."

"I hope it isn't just one night," Max said quietly. "I hope she meets someone she really likes and it turns into more than just one night."

Grandma raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

Max dropped his eyes. "I should. For her sake." He stood up. "Goodnight, Grandma. It was nice to see you."




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




Dee's heart slumped almost as much as Max's shoulders as she watched him walk away, the very picture of dejection. Isabel had told her that Max had decided to "cool things off" with Liz, an understandable decision given everything they'd been through recently and one which may not be entirely his given the satisfaction his sister had not bothered to hide. The possibility that Liz herself had opted out of the alien carnival had been put to rest by watching her tonight, the number of times she'd glanced longingly at Max a dead giveaway that this hadn't been her idea. Oh, dear, Dee thought sadly. She'd been so happy that Max had someone to talk to, and now it appeared he didn't, and when he needed it the most, no less. Talk about bad timing.

An unfamiliar man abruptly slid into the booth opposite Dee. "I'm sorry, this booth is taken," Dee said, irritation tingeing her voice.

*Which is precisely why I chose it,* Jaddo's voice answered in her mind.

"Oh, good grief," Dee muttered. "When I said I'd be 'seeing you around', I didn't mean in the next 48 hours. What happens to Ava when you keep coming up here?"

*Ava is the same age as the others and perfectly capable of being left for short periods of time,* Jaddo answered. *I've had to leave her from the beginning since it was only the two of us.*

"I remember," Dee said darkly. "And talk out loud, for heaven's sake. We'll look weird if I'm the only one talking or no one's talking. What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are—watching the hybrids."

"No, I meant here, in this booth," Dee clarified. "You can watch the hybrids all day and night without coming near me."

Jaddo looked away as Dee marveled at the fact that, no matter what form the Warders took, they still displayed characteristic mannerisms which allowed her to read them. "Let me guess," she said before he could answer. "You came to ask me for a favor."

"How did you know that?" Jaddo demanded.

"I may not have seen you for years, but I know you very well," Dee said. "How is that you haven't needed a favor from me in decades, but suddenly need one now?"

"Because I haven't found myself in this situation before," Jaddo answered. "The time has come when we will need to take a more active roll in the hybrids' lives. I'm reasonably sure how Brivari will respond to that, so I'm seeking your support. He listens to you."

"And why, pray tell, has this time come now?" Dee asked.

"Because Rath has figured out the map," Jaddo answered. "Which means we can be certain he will use that information in the near future...and when he does, he will not do so quietly."

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


Easter is next week, so I'll post Chapter 71 on Sunday, April 15th. Happy Easter to all who celebrate it!

Whoops!

I gave the wrong date for the next chapter. I was all focused on Easter, and I completely forgot about Easter and Spring Break running concurrently this year (at least in my neck of the woods). It'll be next Sunday, April 22 that I'm back. Sorry about that! I appreciate the feedback, and I'll be sure and respond after I get back from my trip.

I'm back! Thanks to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE



February 10, 2000, 4:15 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




Dee glanced around the cafe, crowded at this hour with adults and kids, largely teens. No one was nearby, but the subject matter had changed enough that she reverted to telepathic speech.

*Michael figured out the map? How do you know that?*

*I thought you wanted to talk out loud?* Jaddo said.

*I changed my mind. Woman's prerogative. How do you—*

*How do you think? I've spent time watching him in that hell hole of a trailer he's forced to call 'home'. He's comparing the cave map to a map of Roswell, and accurately, I might add.*

*And...where will that lead him?*

*To the library,* Jaddo answered, *where we secreted Valeris' book.*

*The one I found?* Dee asked. *The one with their pictures?*

*Yes, that one. It also contains basic information about their history and culture along with practical information such as how to return home. Although the book is written in Antarian, so unless they remember how to read it, which is doubtful, they won't be able to simply pack up and leave. Plus they'll need the key to the Granolith.*

*The key to...what?*

*Their way home,* Jaddo explained. *You didn't think we stranded them here without a way home, did you?*

*I guess I never pondered the logistics,* Dee allowed. *What's a...what did you call it?*

*Never mind. Call it a spaceship, if you like. They'll need a key to operate it, and I have that key.*

*That's a relief,* Dee said. *Wait—you have the key? Does Brivari know that? Ah,* she added sagely when she saw the look on Jaddo's face. *He does. Bet that went over well.*

*Can we stay on topic?*

*Of course,* Dee said calmly. *Map, book, self discovery. So what do you need me for? We all knew this day was coming. Did you want me to introduce you?*

Jaddo looked momentarily startled. *Not a bad idea,* he admitted, *but we have another problem.*

*Good Lord, don't we have enough already?*

*You've been here tonight almost as long as I have,* Jaddo went on, ignoring her. *No doubt you noticed the hybrids were having a fight.*

*It did look like they were having a disagreement, but I was much too far away to tell what it was about,* Dee said. *Did your bionic ears pick up the conversation?*

Jaddo raised an eyebrow. * 'Bionic'? I'm not a robot. And I wouldn't have been able to hear much from the back anyway, not with the ambient noise level in this place.*

*Fine, then, did you hear what they were fighting about from your inferior position with your non-bionic, otherwise enhanced ears?*

*Oh, how I've missed your biting sarcasm,* Jaddo said dryly. *Funny how you can miss something like that.*

*Side-splitting,* Dee agreed. *And you haven't answered my question.*

*Me,* Jaddo sighed. *They were fighting about me.*

*You? They don't even know you exist.*

*Actually, they do,* Jaddo answered, *or rather that someone like me exists. They're focusing their efforts on the source of the 'sighting' in the woods, and they associate the name 'Nasedo' with the author of that event because that's the name Brivari's Indian ally gave them.*

*A name you're currently using,* Dee added.

*Because it came to mind,* Jaddo said, *and because I didn't wish to waste valuable time coming up with a suitable human pseudonym. My point is that they're aware of two deaths, Atherton's and Hubble's wife, both of which are attributed to me even though Brivari is solely responsible for the former.*

*A logical conclusion given how little information they have,* Dee noted. *They don't realize there are two of you.*

*Logical, perhaps, but inaccurate,* Jaddo groused.

*My goodness,* Dee said with amusement, *do you mean to tell me that you're fretting about your press?*

*I'm 'fretting' because that 'press' has given them reason to fear us,* Jaddo retorted. *That was the cause of their disagreement, whether searching for us is dangerous. One of them feels we're too dangerous to actively seek out, one wishes to find us regardless, and the last reluctantly agrees.*

*Guessing games,* Dee sighed. *Okay, I'll bite. Michael is the one who wants to find you; that's easy. Max is willing to go along with that, and Isabel wants nothing to do with it.*

*That's what I would have thought too,* Jaddo admitted. *Rath is indeed the one most eager to find us, and for that I'm grateful. But I never would have pegged Vilandra, of all people, as someone willing to give us the benefit of the doubt while her brother brands us 'murderers'.*

*Jaddo, you have to look at this from their perspective,* Dee said patiently. *They have very, very little information, only fragments, really, that and dead bodies. And Max was just attacked out of the blue; I'm sure that's coloring his opinion.*

*Hence the problem. Should the need arise to reveal ourselves, I'm afraid it would send them into a panic.*

*Should the need arise to reveal yourselves, I would, of course, be there to help the process along,* Dee said. *And the operative phrase there is 'should the need arise'. It hasn't, and we don't know when it will. Michael hasn't acted on anything he thinks he knows, and it may be quite some time before he does. I know you and Brivari disagreed about how quickly to tell them anything, but—*

*Actually, we didn't,* Jaddo said. *We both agreed that they were much too immature to know the truth. Where we parted company concerned our response to their thrashing around in their attempts to learn more. Brivari wished to wait, and while I would agree that would be preferable, I simply don't think it feasible given their behavior these past months. I'm genuinely concerned that leaving them to their own devices will land them in more trouble than simply telling them the truth, and while I'd love to keep them in the dark longer, that's impossible because they're no longer in the dark—they walked out of it on their own.*

Dee was quiet for a moment. *I've said as much to him,* she allowed. *I think he keeps hoping they'll get scared and back off, at least until next summer.*

Jaddo shook his head. *Unlikely. Rath almost died, and they still responded to my 'sighting'.*

*But that was you,* Dee reminded him in a steely tone. *They didn't cause that, nor are they responsible for Hubble. Which means the last time they instigated anything was when Michael went into the sweat, which was weeks ago. It could very well be that that close call rattled them enough to make them back off. If we get you to knock off the theatrics, we might make it to summer.*

*It's not me you need to worry about,* Jaddo said. *It's Rath. I know him. Adult or adolescent, experience tells me he will not stop until he finds what he's looking for.*

*Your 'experience' is with Rath,* Dee reminded him. *This isn't Rath, it's Michael. He's a different person who may or may not react the same way as the person you're remembering. If he does something, we'll talk. Until then, this is all speculation.*

*Very well, then,* Jaddo sighed. *I suppose that's the best I can do for the moment.* He paused. *I had one more question for you. During the...'sighting'...Brivari was out of town, but he wasn't in LA. Do you know where he was?*

*He was in LA the day they left for the camping trip,* Dee answered. *I spoke with his assistant on the phone.*

*Well, he wasn't there right before that,* Jaddo said. *And he won't say where he was.*

*Then he won't say,* Dee said impatiently. *Look, you're not going to keep putting me in the middle. If you—*

*I don't need to 'put you in the middle'. You put yourself there more often than not.*

*—have a question for him, ask him yourself,* Dee finished. *And very funny, by the way.*

*You think I was being funny?*

*I think you were being you,* Dee said crossly. *And by 'in the middle', I meant 'between you and Brivari'. Of course I'm in the middle of everything else; I've been his eyes and ears for the past ten years. I'm just not willing to referee the two of you, assuming that's even possible, which I'm betting it isn't.*

*I wasn't asking you to 'referee',* Jaddo said. *I was merely asking if you knew. The answer is of interest to you as well given that the farther away he is, the longer it would take him to return should anything go awry. And I do recognize and appreciate your contribution to our Wards' safety and well-being. I consider you a Warder in your own right.*

Dee, who had fallen into a grumpy silence, stared at him in astonishment. To hear this from Brivari would be gratifying, but expected; to hear this from Jaddo was downright astounding. *Ah...well...I learned from the best,* she said awkwardly. *Mama and Daddy taught me everything I know about dealing with both the two of you and children. Not that there's much difference.*

It was meant to be a joke, but it fell flat, and Dee silently kicked herself for sounding petty. But one thing that could be said for Jaddo is that he was nearly as good at taking it as he was at dishing it out, and he didn't react now, his eyes drifting far away. *It was odd,* he said, *to be in your house the other night without your parents there. Where are they now? Have they...*

*Died?* Dee finished. "No. They're just old. They live in an apartment complex for senior citizens here in town. Daddy is still in good shape, but Mama...well, let's just say Mama's seen better days. She forgets a lot, but seeing Brivari seems to bring a lot of things back. He's been visiting regularly since Christmas. I'm sure she'd love to see you, too.*

Jaddo's expression clouded. *No. Thank you. This is precisely why I don't get attached.* He rose from his seat. *Please keep your eyes open. More open than usual, that is.*

He walked away, marching right past the object of Max's affection, who had returned to waiting tables. Good luck with that, Dee thought sadly. As Max had already discovered, one may not want to "get attached", but sometimes one didn't have a choice.



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




The next day,

February 11, 2000, 3:30 p.m.,

Crashdown Cafe



Liz slipped inside the kitchen door and leaned against it, savoring the silence. Or the relative silence, rather, of sizzling grease, banging pots and pans, and the whirr of the dishwasher, a cafe cacophony far preferable to what had been going on out there. God, what an awful day. The past couple of days had seen a parade of people yakking about that stupid contest, but today had been the worst. Even some of the teachers had gotten in on it, making a public show of giving her an extra day to hand in her homework. Great, she'd thought as her classmates' expressions had veered away from adulation and more toward resentment. It has hard enough being a serious student among not-so-serious students, hard enough to be labeled "geek", and "bookworm", and "teacher's pet" without having it confirmed from on high. The entire school was going to that concert—why shouldn't everyone have an extra day to hand in assignments? And that's when she'd decided to use her misfortune to her advantage because, if she was going to be stuck in this ridiculous position, she should at least get something out of it. Five minutes later, after a back and forth worthy of a courtroom, she'd sweetly badgered their math teacher into granting the homework dispensation to the entire class, instantly elevating her from class suck-up to class hero. Word must have gotten around because no other teachers made a similar offer, a bummer for everyone but her; she had no intention of leaving her homework until Tuesday. She'd probably spend Saturday and Sunday locked in her room and bent over the books just to wash away the stain of Friday night. She'd fled school and hurried eagerly into work, intent on getting away from it all, only to find that the Crashdown's customers were every bit as eager to get in on her "big date" as her classmates. She'd just had to grin and bear it until her shift was over, and now that it was, she faced the debacle of what to wear, something she'd been putting off. What did one wear to an event one did not wish to attend that would be photographed and talked about by the entire town? That was a question which would have sent Dear Abby heading for the booze.

Her mother rounded the corner, laundry basket on one hip. "Liz! Dad said he was letting you off early today. You all excited about tonight?"

Liz leaned against the door, tongue-tied. A hundred million people must have asked her that question today, and each time she'd smiled and given them the answer they expected. This time, for some reason, she couldn't.

Nancy looked her up and down before setting the basket down. "Snack time," she announced. "Milkshake?"

Liz nodded mutely, following her mom into the kitchen and tossing her deely boppers on the counter before tossing herself in a chair, watching eagerly as Nancy bustled around gathering milk and chocolate ice cream, scooping them into the blender. Homemade milkshakes were one of her worst vices. They were a pain to make largely because the blender was a pain to clean, but you could make them any flavor you wanted, any size, any thickness...

"Malt?" Nancy asked.

Liz nodded eagerly. "Lots."

The blender whirred, two glasses were filled, two straws produced, and two shakes consumed in complete, blissful silence. Liz's malt was so strong it could have been mistaken for cheap whiskey, and she drank it fast, ignoring the ice cream headache it gave her. It was heaven.

"More?" Nancy suggested.

"Absolutely," Liz said.

She was most of the way through the second malt when she started to feel stuffed and slowed down, while her mother was still nursing her first. "So," Nancy said slowly, pumping her straw up and down to break up the inevitable lumps, "are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

"Isn't it obvious? This stupid contest is bothering me. I have to go on a blind date with a total stranger in front of the whole town."

"Well, the 'stranger' part comes with the 'blind date' part," Nancy said. "But the 'whole town' part is unique, I'll give you that."

"I didn't want this," Liz went on. "Maria did this. She was trying to take my mind off...things...and she thought this would be a good way to do it."

"Looks like it worked," Nancy commented.

"Yeah, but replacing one set of problems with another just gives you a new set of problems," Liz complained. "I just wish there was a way I could get out of this." She paused. "Hey!" she said suddenly, brightening a bit. "Maybe I could be sick! You could call the radio station and tell them...I don't know, tell them anything. Tell them I'm throwing up, or something desperately unromantic."

"I suppose I could," Nancy allowed. "But would that be fair?"

"To whom? It's not fair that I didn't even enter the contest, but I have to go through all this."

Nancy smiled faintly. "Remember Princess Di? Word is that she got cold feet before she married Prince Charles and asked her sisters how she could get out of it. Know what they said?"

Liz shook her head. "They said, 'It's too late, Dutch, your face is on the tea towels'," Nancy went on. "And it's the same here—your face is on the tea towels, or rather, in the paper, and on the radio, and so on. A lot of people put a lot of work into this weekend, Liz, not just the blind date business, but the concert too. Pulling out now would leave them all in the lurch. If you'd turned it down right away, right after you won, they would have had a chance to pull another name from the hat, but now...now it's a bit late."

"Diana should have pulled out," Liz muttered.

"Maybe," Nancy allowed. "But that was a marriage; this isn't. This is just one night, just a dinner and a concert. Maria's going to the concert, too, isn't she?"

"I guess," Liz sighed. "She's singing with Alex's band, or I think she is, anyway. Alex didn't seem too thrilled about it, especially when she started trying to dress them."

" 'Dress them'?"

"Yeah, she was trying to talk them into new outfits," Liz said. "Poor Alex. I told them it was just one night, and they should just work together and be themselves without trying to change each other."

Nancy raised an eyebrow. " 'Just one night'? Now where have I heard that before?"

Liz felt herself flush. "Oh...God, I just walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Pretty much," Nancy chuckled. "Sounds like Alex is looking forward to this about as much as you are, even if it is for different reasons. Did he find out what was wrong with your answering machine?"

"He said it needed to be reset after the 100th call. And that there were a lot of desperate guys out there."

"Okay," Nancy said slowly. "Might be best to not mention that to your father. I thought this was about people congratulating you, not...chasing you."

"Yeah, well, the congratulating's bad enough," Liz said. "What if I get one of those phone message guys as my blind date?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," Nancy smiled, leaning in closer. "I wasn't supposed to tell you this, but your father insisted on meeting the winner first."

Liz's eyes widened. "He did?"

"Yup. Called the radio station, said you were a minor, and that you weren't going anywhere unless he approved the date."

"And?" Liz demanded.

"He went down there this afternoon and came home satisfied. No questions," Nancy added firmly when Liz's mouth opened. "But at least you know it's someone who passed Dad's muster. That should make you feel better."

It does, Liz realized, feeling better already. One of her closet fears was that she'd get someone scary. If her father had given his blessing, whoever it was couldn't be too bad."

"So," Nancy said crisply, "on to more interesting things. What are you wearing?"

"I have no idea," Liz confessed. "I think I rebelled against the whole thing by putting it off."

"That's my daughter," Nancy said, patting her hand. "Always psychoanalyzing herself. Closet check! Follow me."

Liz trooped up the stairs behind her mother, feeling just a teensy smidge of interest in the concept of dressing up. "Now," Nancy said, throwing up Liz's closet door, "were you thinking romantic, or glamorous, or—"

"Romantic," Liz said.

"Glamorous," a voice said behind them. "Definitely glamorous."

Maria was in the doorway, decked out in a tube top and a rhinestone choker. "What?" she said when Liz stared at her. "You said to be 'me'. Well, this is me. Let the guys wear their play clothes. Just makes me look better. What'dya think, Mrs. Parker?"

"You look lovely, Maria," Nancy said. "I'm sure you'll be a great addition to Alex's band."

"Thank you," Maria smiled. "I'm glad someone's in a positive mood about tonight."

"I think Liz is feeling better," Nancy replied. "She always feels better after a milkshake."

Liz rolled her eyes as Maria's popped. "What? You're going out to dinner, and you filled up on a milkshake? What are parents always telling us about spoiling our dinner?"

"In this case I'd say it's insurance in case there's nothing on the menu that looks good," Nancy said mildly. "Or in case her stomach's off. Or just if she wants to be the traditional lady who eats like a bird. Whatever, it's all good." She pulled a dress out of the closet and handed it to Liz. "You're in good hands, so I'll leave you girls to it, but...here's a suggestion from mom. See you downstairs."

"Oh, my," Maria said, shaking her head as she inspected the plain black dress Nancy had selected. "Borrrrring. Very old ladyish, very—"

"Classy," Liz said, holding the dress up to herself in the mirror. "Simple, elegant...I like it. Maria, no," she went on firmly when Maria began to protest. "You and Alex like to dress yourselves, and I like to dress myself too. I want this one. Give me half an hour, and then you can do my hair."

Maria raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. Go hold off the hordes, or collect some phone numbers, or something."

"Okay," Maria said doubtfully. "But no climbing out the window. I'll never forgive you if you do a runner on me."

"No running," Liz promised, not bothering to mention that she'd been considering just exactly that.

"And no showing up in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers in protest against the chauvinistic male establishment's sexualization of women either."

"That's your mom talking. Scram."

Maria finally left, with a backward glance which made it clear she was none too happy about it, and Liz returned to the mirror, holding up her mother's choice. The dress was plain, but the perfect palette. Add some jewelry, maybe that necklace Grandma Claudia had given her for her last birthday, and a bright lipstick, and...listen to me, she thought dryly. Anyone who heard what she was thinking might actually believe she was looking forward to this. The irony was it had almost all the elements of the perfect romantic evening: Nice weather, pretty dress, dinner at a nice restaurant. The only thing lacking was...Max, she finished heavily. The only thing lacking was the guy. If only she were going with Max, tonight would be perfect; without him, it was nothing but a farce. She'd watched him hopefully these last few days, passing him at school, sitting next to him in Bio, watched him watch her while being interviewed, hoping all the while that he'd protest, that he'd say, "Enough, Liz, don't do it!". If he'd done that, she would have dropped this whole thing in a heartbeat. If he did it right now, as she stood here holding a dress up to herself in the mirror, she'd do the same.

But he hadn't. And he wouldn't. And as her mother and, more bluntly, Maria, had already pointed out, a lot of people were depending on her participation in said farce. Back to moping, she retreated to the bathroom, once again certain she was the only one in town not looking forward to tonight.




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




Valenti residence




"What's this?"

Flopped on the sofa in front of the TV, Kyle swung his propped feet sideways so he could see what his father was looking at. "Dinner. What's it look like?"

His father came closer. "Looks like a TV dinner."

"Yeah, well, I'm watching TV, so that fits."

"Fish sticks," Valenti said, taking inventory. "Tater tots. Corn. Where's the deep fried Twinkie?"

"You're hilarious," Kyle deadpanned. "Okay, so it's not the most nutritious TV dinner in the world. So what?"

"So you're the one who's always on my case about eating healthy," Valenti said. "Don't you practice what you preach?"

"Not on a Friday night. It's the weekend, and I'm slumming. So shoot me."

"I don't want to shoot you, I'm just confused as to why you haven't 'slummed' this way before," Valenti answered. "Or why you're slumming at all. Isn't this the weekend of the big concert?"

"Yup," Kyle said tonelessly.

"Well, aren't you going?"

"Nope."

"Why not? Whole town's going."

"No, Dad, the whole town is not going because I'm not going," Kyle said. "Why would I want to watch everyone slobber over some sappy blind date?"

"You could just go the concert and ignore the...wait a minute," Valenti said. "This is about Liz Parker, isn't it?"

"No," Kyle said defensively. "I never said anything about that."

"Yeah, you kind of did," Valenti said, sinking down on the opposite end of the couch. "I was just talking about the concert. You brought up the blind date bit."

Crap, Kyle thought sourly. His mouth runneth over; his father's nose for fibs could be a real pain. "The concert is part of the 'blind date bit', Dad. You go to the concert, you go to the 'blind date bit' whether you want to or not. Package deal."

"I thought you and Liz had called it quits?"

"We did," Kyle said patiently. "That's why this is not about Liz."

"Bet Max Evans isn't happy about this," Valenti went on. "He and Liz are an item, aren't they?"

"Not according to Max. According to Max, they 'didn't break up because they were never really together'."

"So...you talk to Max about Liz?"

Double crap. "No, Dad, I don't talk to Max about Liz," Kyle said, kicking himself for giving something else away. "I just overheard him say that."

His father gave him a skeptical look. "Wow. That's a pretty personal statement to make just anywhere. Just how close were you when you 'overheard' this?"

"Close. And stop investigating me."

"I'm not 'investigating' you," his father protested. "I'm just curious."

"It's a fine line," Kyle retorted. "You crossed it. Back off."

"Okay," Valenti said quickly, both hands raised in submission. "But if you don't mind, I'm not spending Friday night at home noshing on tater tots and watching Let's Make a Deal."

"It's Shark Attack. What the heck is Let's Make a Deal?"

"Something our mothers' watched," Valenti answered, "and what we drowned our sorrows with when we had girl trouble. I'll be back late. Don't wait up."

"Wait...where are you going?"

"Keeping an eye on things," Valenti said. "Big concert, could be problems."

"Then why aren't you wearing your uniform?"

"I want to blend in," Valenti replied. "There's no wet blanket like a uniform."

"Exactly, you always said uniforms keep people in line. Besides, everyone knows you're the sheriff whether you're in a uniform or a paper bag, so...wait," Kyle went on, peering closer. "You shaved."

"I shave every day, Kyle. It's what big boys do."

"No, you shaved again," Kyle said, ignoring the bait. "And you're wearing that smelly stuff again. What are you..." He stopped, his eyes widening. "Oh, God. Oh my freakin' God, you're cruising!"

"What?"

"Holy shmoley," Kyle said in utter disbelief. "You know the world has suddenly decided to revolve the other way when you're home on a Friday night and your father, of all people, is cruising a concert."

"I never said anything about 'cruising'," his father protested.

"Just like I never said anything about Liz?"

"So you are upset about Liz."

"So you are investigating me?"

"Sounds like you're investigating me," Valenti chuckled.

"Guess it runs in the family," Kyle muttered. "Just go. Go cruise, or work, or whatever you're doing. I'll stay here and die of embarrassment."

"Drama queen," his father rejoined.

Kyle ignored him, fastening his eyes on the television until he heard the front door close. Tater tots and trash TV might not be the healthiest thing in the world, but watching your own father troll for babes was way worse, almost as bad as watching Liz hook up with some nobody. He spent ten blissful minutes watching digital recreations of shark-chomped bodies before a horn honked somewhere close, ignoring it until it honked twice more.

"Valenti!" cheered a car full of clearly tipsy buddies when he opened the door. "Let's go!"

"No way," Kyle protested when one of them held up a fistful of tickets. "I thought we weren't going to any lame-o concert."

"There's more than one way to enjoy a concert," grinned one of them, holding up a bottle. "We're gonna have an anti concert."

Now you're talking, Kyle thought, shutting the TV off and hurrying outside. Nothing like drowning your sorrows in a bottle or two. Half an hour later he was feeling little pain and in need of someone who shared his one remaining pain. The guys were great, but he couldn't talk to them about Liz. There was only one person he could talk to about Liz.

"Hey Paulie," he called to the driver. "New driving directions."

"What?" Paulie protested when he heard where he was going. "Why there?"

" 'Cos we need a designated driver," Kyle said.

That was good enough for Paulie, apparently not drunk enough to simply obey but still having trouble keeping the car on the right side of the road. Which is how Kyle found himself in a neighborhood he'd never thought he'd visit, climbing out of the car and shouting toward the lighted house in front of him, heedless of who heard.

"Evans! Max Evans! You in there?"


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


I'll post Chapter 72 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO



February 11, 2000, 6:30 p.m.

Chez Pierre, Roswell



It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

Max Evans gazed in the window of Chez Pierre, one of those pretentious, wanna-be-highbrow restaurants which, despite high prices and costumed waiters, nevertheless failed to rise to the occasion. He'd been studying, or trying to, right before he'd succumbed to listening to the radio, and while studying had failed to take his mind off Liz, it had implanted the opening sentence to Pride and Prejudice in his head. He thought of it now as Liz and that annoying college guy bent their heads over their dinners, the boom box helpfully tuned to KROZ kept up a steady patter of information on their every utterance, and Kyle Valenti and his annoying football buddies hooted and whistled. This was all wrong on so many levels...how in blazes had he wound up here?

"Evans, Evans, Evans," Kyle sighed, one arm hanging on Max's shoulder, more for support than camaraderie given how much alcohol he'd downed just on the way here. "Would you look at that wussie? Fluffy hair, 4.0 grade point average, tweed sport coat."

"That's not a tweed sport coat, Kyle," Max noted.

"Whatever. All he needs are horn-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector, and we can nominate him for geek of the year."

"They said he was studying ancient languages," Max said. "I don't remember them saying anything about his GPA."

"Evans, Evans, Evans," Kyle said sadly, apparently needing to repeat things three times before he could be certain he had the right words, "let me clue you in on a little secret. Guys who study things like 'ancient languages' always have 4.0 GPA's. Guys who study things like 'ancient languages' get the crap beaten out of them by guys like me, who always get blown off by girls like Liz for guys who have 4.0's. So the 4.0 types congregate in useless majors to commiserate with each other."

"Commiserate over what?" Max asked. "You just said they get the girls. What have they got to commiserate over?"

Kyle blinked. "You're confusing me."

"Not hard at the moment," Max said dryly.

"My point," Kyle went on, "is that we need to set our sights lower. Smart girls like Liz are out of bounds for us. What guys like us need are airheads! What guys like us need are...wait a minute. What's your GPA?"

"Haven't checked," Max said evasively. "Don't really care."

"That's my boy!" Kyle exclaimed approvingly, thumping him hard on the back. "Who cares about all that school stuff, right guys?"

Cheers in favor of not caring about "school stuff" sounded all around as Max rolled his eyes, unable to believe he'd actually willingly climbed into a car with these people. Maybe Austen's prose needed a little revision...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man deprived of the company of the woman he loves must be in want of distraction.

Didn't work, Max thought heavily. Desperate for something to take his mind off Liz, he'd grabbed Kyle's keys and joined a bunch of boozy football players because only something that extreme would do the trick; studying certainly wasn't, and Mom, Dad, and Isabel were all gone, leaving him rattling around an empty house. Trouble was that Kyle was equally miserable, which is how they'd landed here, in the one place he absolutely didn't want to be—watching Liz go on a date with some other guy. He should be happy for her; he really should. Doug What's-His-Name looked like a clean cut academic, well dressed, polite...and human. Normal. Safe. Everything she needed. Everything she deserved.

"This place isn't Liz, don't you think?" Kyle was saying as he swayed to Max's right. "She's more of a burger and bowling kind of gal."

"Or Chinese and pool," Max said softly.

"That, too," Kyle agreed, stabbing a finger into his chest. "You, my friend, know our Liz." He paused, staring in the window. "Although she does look awfully pretty all dressed up."

Or dressed down, Max thought. Or drenched in sweat as she dragged a heavy tarp up a hillside in the forest. Or shivering with cold as she waited for an Indian who might never show up. For all the weird situations in which they'd found themselves, never once had he found Liz anything less than stunningly beautiful.

"I hate guys like that one," Kyle was saying, returning to the theme of the moment. "Puffed up little prigs, with their scholarships and their Math Club awards. They always think they're better than us jocks."

"Mmm," Max murmured, not bothering to tax Kyle's brain by pointing out that "us" included him, and he was no jock. "Like you jocks think you're better than everyone who doesn't throw a ball around?"

"Exactly," Kyle declared, apparently unaware that he'd just dissed himself.

"And torment us, and laugh at us, and beat us up?"

Kyle's expression clouded. "Hey, I'm sorry about that. That wasn't me."

"Right," Max said skeptically. "That wasn't you who stopped me in the hospital parking lot and told me to stay away from Liz."

"I was talking," Kyle protested, "not swinging. Besides, that was before she dumped you too."

"She didn't 'dump me', Kyle. I told you, we were—"

"Never together," Kyle finished. "Yeah, I remember. Just how stupid do you think I am? Don't answer that," he added warily.

"It's true," Max insisted. "We weren't—"

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle sighed. "Whatever. Is it my imagination," he went on, "or does she look like she's having a good time?" He paused, squinting in the window. "Maybe it's all an act. For the audience."

No, it's not, Max thought sadly. He knew Liz, so he knew when she was genuinely having a good time...and she was genuinely having a good time. He could see it in her smile even though her back was to him, in the way she dropped her eyes and leaned in toward Doug. Liz was truly enjoying herself despite the media circus, and that made him happy and furious at the same time.

"Love is in the air," Kyle mused, apparently deciding it wasn't an act after all. "Can you smell it?"

"I think our new valentines, Liz and Doug, look like they're ready for dessert," chirped the annoying voice of KROZ's DJ, managing to put just enough of a lilt on the word "dessert" to make it sound like something other than a banana split.

"You can walk to the club from here," Max said, having seen enough. "I'll give you your keys in the morning."

"Oh, wait!" Kyle called, following, grabbing him by the arm. "Wait, wait, wait! You can't...you can't leave now. It's just about to get interesting."

Kyle pointed toward the restaurant's window through which Max saw Liz and Doug standing side by side, looking like they were ready to leave. "Now, usually this doesn't happen till the end of the evening," said the annoying DJ, "but how about letting us in on that first kiss right now? Come on, Doug, just like we practiced."

" 'Practiced'?" Kyle smirked. "On who? Each other?"

Football buddies et al laughed at that one, but Max was watching intently. Liz no longer looked like she was having a good time; she looked uncomfortable, even alarmed, and suddenly he was basking in that discomfort, in the stiffness with which she held herself as Doug tipped her over backwards and kissed her. She didn't like it. She really didn't like it. Maybe it really was all an act, just a game for the crowd...

And then, suddenly, they took off, Doug leading Liz by the hand. "They're running!" someone squealed, follows by peals of laughter as the startled DJ and his minions stumbled after them, the bleatings coming from the boombox making it clear he'd been caught off guard. "That's not in the script!" he sputtered as the crowd cheered and Max backed away in disgust. So much for Liz not enjoying it. Why would she run off with someone whose company she wasn't enjoying?

"Hey!" Kyle called as Max walked away. "Hey! I've gotta help you out here." He held up a bottle. "Try this."

"I don't drink," Max said, watching Liz and Doug escape through the back entrance and scoot down the alley.

"Just...just take a sip," Kyle said.

"I said I don't drink," Max repeated curtly.

"Just one sip," Kyle persisted. "One sip! What's it gonna do? Kill you? No, no, it's gonna calm you down, man. It's gonna, just, you know, take the sting away. Just...try it. Just trust me, nothin' bad's gonna happen."

Max stared at the bottle in front of him, knowing that was a promise Kyle couldn't keep. Michael had thought nothing bad was going to happen, and something had, something which had almost killed him, and from something so simple, so innocuous, that no one would have expected danger from that source. This could be the same. He'd never touched alcohol, so he had no idea what it would do to him. This could be another huge mistake.

He took another look down the alley through which the love of his life had just run off with another guy, then grabbed the bottle.

It could be...but at the moment, he really didn't care.




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




"Look, I'm not saying I'm not on the team," Dee said. "I was just wondering if you'd thought this through."

"I might ask you the same question," Brivari's voice came over the phone. "This was your idea."

"I suggested you talk to him more," Dee said in exasperation, "not invite him back to town! Not yet," she amended. "I know he's coming in a few months anyway, but that would have given us time to iron out some of the trickier aspects of having you both here."

"What kind of 'tricky aspects'...wait," Brivari said. "Is that traffic I hear? Are you in the car?"

"Yes, but—"

"I'm driving," Anthony broke in as he turned onto Main Street. "You're on speaker, by the way. And the windows are up, so don't worry."

"Someone almost ran me over the other day when they were talking on their phone and trying to change lanes," Brivari groused. "How long do you think it'll be before they outlaw cellphones in cars?"

"A bit drastic, don't you think?" Dee said. "And don't change the subject."

"Which was?"

"How to handle both of you at the same time," Dee said, praying for patience. "At the risk of being a tattletale—which brings us back to the whole 'tricky aspects' part—Jaddo cornered me at the Crashdown the other day, and—"

"I know. He told me."

"Told you?" Dee echoed. "He told you what, exactly?"

"That he'd asked for your support in his quest to reveal ourselves to the hybrids earlier than planned."

Dee blinked. "He...he said that?"

"Yes. Why? Did he leave something out?"

"Well...no," Dee admitted. "That was the crux of it. He claimed Michael had figured out the map, which would lead him to the book, which would—"

"Told me that too."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"Of course I'm surprised," Dee answered. "The two of you aren't exactly noted for sharing."

"Hubble gave both of us quite a scare," Brivari said. "That put many things in perspective, including our endless feuding."

"You mean you're going to stop feuding?" Anthony asked.

"Of course not," Brivari said. "We'll just do it closer together, like we used to."

"Oh, joy," Dee muttered. "So does what he's saying have any merit? Did Michael figure out the map?"

"I don't know if Rath figured out the map," Brivari answered. "I know he's been studying it, but I'm not up on his latest theories. Keep in mind I'm watching three of them, plus various allies who could turn on them at any moment; when Jaddo comes to town, he basically only watches Rath. He knows his Ward extremely well, however, so if he thinks Rath has figured it out, there's a good chance he has."

"Jaddo said the map would lead him to Valeris' book," Dee said, "but that it was written in Antarian, so he wouldn't be able to read it."

"You never know," Anthony said. "When he sees it, it may all come back."

"Possibly," Brivari allowed.

"Jaddo also said something about a 'key'," Dee went on, "a key they need to get home. He said he had it."

"My goodness, he really was sharing," Brivari said dryly. "Yes, he has it. He took it with him when he left with Ava to prevent my leaving with the rest of them."

"I'll bet that went over well," Anthony commented.

"It didn't," Brivari said darkly, "but now it's a moot point; the last thing we want them to do at the moment is return home. In the unlikely event that they get far enough to need the key, they'll be unable to go any further."

"So what is this thing they need a key for, exactly?" Anthony asked. "Is it something that calls home?"

"No, that's a communicator," Brivari answered. "This will bring them home."

"What, you mean...you mean a spaceship?" Anthony asked.

"As good a description as any," Brivari allowed.

Anthony's eyes boggled as Dee rolled her own. "You brought a spaceship in a spaceship?" he said incredulously.

"For all practical purposes...yes," Brivari answered.

"Wow!" Anthony exclaimed, eyes shining. "Did you know that?" he asked Dee. "And if you did, how could you not tell me?"

"Can we stay on the subject?" Dee said crossly. "The last thing I need right now is for you to start acting like some star struck science boy. So what do you we do?" she continued into the phone. "He said he was worried Michael was going to do something rash if he managed to get his hands on whatever the map leads them to."

"Well, Jaddo would certainly be the local authority on the subject of 'rash'," Brivari said, his voice dripping with irony. "For the moment, I'm keeping a closer eye on Rath than the other two. Although I'm having a somewhat easier time tonight as two of them are together."

"Two of them? Aren't all three of them at the concert?"

"Zan is home," Brivari answered. "Rath and Vilandra are at the hardware store."

"What on earth is Vilan—I mean Isabel doing at a hardware store?" Anthony wondered.

"I'm guessing it's Rath who went to the hardware store and Vilandra who followed, but I imagine I'll find out," Brivari said. "They only just went inside."

"So Max didn't go to the concert," Dee said softly. "I guess I don't blame him."

"What concert is this?" Anthony asked. "And why don't you blame him?"

"The concert that goes with the blind date contest," Dee explained, "the one that Liz Parker won. He was quite upset the other night when she was being interviewed, although he was trying mightily not to show it. Did you know about that?" she asked Brivari.

"No, but I don't see it as anything but an asset. If Zan is preoccupied with a female, he's less likely to be crawling around caves or deciphering maps."

"Charming," Dee deadpanned. "Jaddo also asked me where you where during his 'sighting'," she went on. "He claims you weren't in LA., and—"

"Uh—Dee?" Anthony said, peering out the window.

"—that you won't tell him where you were."

"Dee?" Anthony repeated, bringing the car to a halt.

"He said you were out of cellphone range, which I told him had never happened—"

"Dee, you need to see this," Anthony broke in.

"What is it?" Dee exclaimed in exasperation. "Why have we stopped? Why—"

"Look," Anthony said.

"I told you there's a concert tonight," Dee said impatiently as Anthony gestured out the window toward milling teenagers, "so of course there will be kids wandering around—"

"Look up," Anthony ordered.

Dee sighed and leaned over toward Anthony so she could see out his window. What she saw stopped her next sentence in its tracks.

"Is that who I think it is?" Anthony murmured.

"Dear God!" Dee exclaimed, her eyes widening. "Brivari, you're watching the wrong person. Max is on the roof."

"He's where?"

"On the roof," Dee repeated, "of a commercial building, with his legs dangling over the gutter, in full view of anyone walking by—"

A strangled sound which may have been mangled profanity came over her phone's tinny little speaker, followed by a click. "I'm guessing that means he's on his way," Anthony said.

"What do we do?" Dee fretted. "Should we try to coax him down?"

"Too late," Anthony said as another figure came loping into view. "He's got company."





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




A flash popped, and Liz blinked, then another, and another. Might as well close my eyes, she thought as she and Doug stood before the doors to Chez Pierre which were currently blocked by a small army of photographers, radio people, and whatnot. Beside her Doug gave her a mischievous smile, probably related to the reason he had leaned in toward her and suggested that they skip dessert, a line delivered with a wink and a whisper that would have been interpreted very differently in different circumstances. Or maybe she was imagining it? Was it even possible to detect mischief in the eyes of a stranger?

"Now usually this doesn't happen till the end of the evening," the smarmy DJ was saying, but how about letting us in on the first kiss right now?"

Liz's alarm at being expected to kiss a stranger in public intensified when she glanced out the window and got a glimpse of that public. Max. Max was out there, watching her through the window, and she had a sudden, mad urge to run, to burst through those doors and throw herself into his arms...

But she wasn't bursting, she was...dipping? Doug was dipping her back, planting a kiss on her lips, pulling back...

"Sorry about that," he whispered. "Out the back, through the kitchen on three. They'll never catch us."

Liz felt herself being righted as she stared at him, stunned. Was he serious?

"One..."

The paparazzi were smiling, the restaurant patrons clapping, the crowd outside cheering...except for Max. He looked miserable, and a tiny, uncharitable part of her was happy about that.

"Two..."

More camera flashes went off, and she tried to smile. Doug couldn't be serious. He wasn't really contemplating making a run for it, was he?

"Three..."

Liz's heart skipped a beat as Doug grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the media glare, prompting shouts of surprise from inside and cheers from outside, weaving deftly between startled patrons and startled waiters as she struggled to keep up; she'd always hated heels, which weren't made for walking, never mind quick getaways. Behind them she heard people bumping, equipment clanking, expletives uttered as staff and diners got in the way, and she risked a look backwards. Were they really doing this?

They were. Seconds later the kitchen door swung closed behind them, and they entered a world of heat and steam. Doug hesitated, scanning the milling bodies, unsure of where to go. He may not be familiar with restaurant kitchens, but she was.

"This way," she said firmly.

Now she was in the lead and he trailed behind, albeit in better shoes. They passed a startled cook stirring a pot of soup, another loading plates, a busboy emptying a dishwasher. The back door led into an anteroom of sorts where deliveries were left, judging from the boxes, which also gave cover to a waiter and waitress, decked out in uniform and locked in a passionate embrace.

"Don't mind us," Doug said calmly as the couple flew apart.

"Don't tell," Liz added, looking for the door which would lead them outside. "And we won't either."

"Here," Doug called.

They switched rolls again, him leading as they scuttled out the back door into an alley topped by the night sky. "We have to get away from the door," he called back, never breaking stride as he led them down the alley and up a side street, scooting between two buildings before he paused for breath.

"Are they coming?" Liz asked anxiously, her heart racing as he peered around the corner. "Did they see us?"

Shouts were heard in the distance, but after a few seconds, it was clear they were moving away. "Yes!" Doug exclaimed triumphantly. "We made it!"

"Oh, my God," Liz breathed, "did we really just do that?"

They stared at each other for a moment before both burst out laughing. "We sure did," Doug grinned. "Wasn't that great? Did you see everyone's faces as we went by? They couldn't believe it!"

"Did you hear everyone outside applauding?" Liz added. "I think that DJ was getting on their nerves too. What's his name, anyway?"

"No idea," Doug admitted. "I never asked, and he never said. He owes us, though, for driving up his ratings." He paused. "Do you think those waiters will rat us out?"

Liz shook her head. "No way. Everyone knows I'm a waitress, and there's a...call it a code of silence."

"You mean a collective dispensation for necking in the back room?"

"And escaping out the back door," Liz nodded.

"Cool," Doug said. "So...now what?"

They both glanced toward the road as a car whisked by, realizing their triumph could be short-lived; the entire town would be looking for them. "I'm guessing we stick out like sore thumbs," Doug said.

"Yeah, probably," Liz agreed.

"I don't know this town the way you do," he went on. "Is there anywhere we can go where they wouldn't look for us?"

"Actually," Liz said with a sudden burst of inspiration, "there is. The trick will be getting there without being seen."

"We need more back alleys," Doug said.

"And a certain amount of luck. And to ditch these," Liz added, pulling off her heels. "It's hard to stand in them, never mind run."

"I never understood how women put up with those things," Doug said. "They look painful."

"They are," Liz admitted.

"So...why wear them?"

"Good question," Liz said, tucking the shoes under one arm. "I usually don't. This is my first pair of really high ones. I guess I fell for fashion expectations."

Both of them suddenly jerked backwards, flattening themselves against the wall as the KROZ van sped past the mouth of the alley. "That was close," Doug breathed.

"But now's the time to go," Liz said. "They're heading in the other direction." She poked her head out, looked both ways. "Come on. Stay close."

What followed was fifteen of the weirdest minutes of her life as they slunk, skulked, and slithered their way through six blocks, avoiding the main drags, keeping close to walls, ducking into doorways, always looking ahead to find the next safe spot to pause. The KROZ van passed them twice, and each time they figured the jig was up only to have it race by. "I thought they had us that time," Doug murmured after the second close call. "Good thing you pulled us back in time. How'd you know it was coming?"

"It makes a certain noise," Liz explained. "I think it might need a new muffler."

"God, I never even noticed that," Doug said. "How'd you get so good at this?"

"Practice," Liz answered dryly.

"You practice running and hiding?" Doug chuckled.

And that was when Liz had a sudden revelation: This was fun. Creeping around town in a fancy dress with your shoes in your hand while avoiding crowds and vans and photographers was fun. It was fun because it didn't matter, because it was all a lark, because no one was in danger of dying or being caught by federal agents, and no matter how it worked out, no one was going to get hurt. Except Max, Liz thought, recalling the look on his face right before the fun began. He'd looked miserable, as miserable as she'd been in the run-up to all of this, and she allowed herself a moment's satisfaction that now, at least for a brief moment, he knew how she'd felt.

"We're here," Liz said, carefully leading Doug around a corner.

Doug looked across the street and blinked. "You're kidding."

Liz shook her head. "Nope. They won't be expecting this."

"Stands to reason," Doug said. "I wasn't expecting this."

"We can get dessert," Liz suggested. "The pie's really good. I know the pie maker personally."

"Won't someone blow us in?"

"Here? No way," Liz smiled. "I'll put them on nights for a month."




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




Brivari swore under his breath as he climbed out of the car, glancing first at the rooflines, then the road. Nothing, not his Ward or Dee and Anthony. "Shit!" he exclaimed, out loud this time and just as his phone rang.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

"At the Crashdown," Dee's voice sighed. "We followed him there."

Brivari hung up without answering and climbed back in the car. Why now? he wondered sourly, accelerating so quickly his tires squealed. What he hadn't mentioned to Dee was that the discussion he and Jaddo had had about his conversation with her and the reason for it had been less of an exchange and more of a testy standoff. He and Jaddo were in agreement that the moment they'd dreaded was fast approaching, when the hybrids' behavior would reach a point where remaining concealed would be impossible. "Fast approaching", however, was not the same as "here", and where they disagreed, as usual, was whether to wait until it actually arrived or strike preemptively. While neither had lost their tempers, their fundamentally different way of approaching problems was once again highlighted, and he was determined to keep a close watch on Rath so that if and when something happened, he would personally witness it and be in a position to make the necessary judgment call. And here he'd thought that would be easier given that his Ward was safely ensconced in his house. Not, he thought darkly as he arrived at the cafe simultaneously with a van disgorging people and various types of equipment. Dee and Anthony were off to one side.

"Before you go in," Dee said, "there's something you should know." She paused. "He's drunk."

" 'Drunk'?"

"Yes, drunk. As in inebriated, sloshed, had one too many—"

"I know what 'drunk' means," Brivari said impatiently. "I live in Hollywood. How drunk are we talking? Is he coherent? A little tipsy? Likely to say something he shouldn't?"

Dee and Anthony exchanged glances. "Well...we didn't hear all of it," Anthony allowed, "but we're guessing he may have already said something he shouldn't. And done something, given that he apparently manufactured his own ladder to climb up to the roof."

"Marvelous," Brivari muttered. "And he did this in front of whom?"

Another glance was exchanged. "Kyle Valenti," Dee answered. "Although he's drunk too, so I doubt anything he says will be given much credit—"

"Valenti?" Brivari repeated. "Do you mean to tell me that Zan is not only running around hammered, he's running around hammered with the sheriff's son? Damn it!" he swore when she nodded. "All right...do you know where he is in the building? And who are all these people?" he added irritably as the inhabitants of the van swarmed the cafe's entrance, causing a large crowd to form.

"Last we knew, he was upstairs," Dee answered. "Probably where Liz Parker lives, which is why all these people are here. They're from the radio station, the one with the blind date contest that Liz won. That's why Max is so upset—"

"I can safely assure you that I don't give a rat's ass as to why he's 'so upset'," Brivari snapped. "I had bigger fish to fry tonight, and now he goes and gets himself plastered!"

"You mean Michael and Isabel?" Dee said. "Did you find out why they were in the hardware store?"

"I did," Brivari answered, "although now that I have to rescue my lovesick Ward, I won't get to see what they do with what they bought."

"Which was?" Anthony asked.

"Gasoline," Brivari answered. "And rope."




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


I'll post Chapter 73 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE



February 11, 2000, 8 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




"Gasoline?" Dee repeated in astonishment. "Michael and Isabel bought gasoline? What in heavens' name for?"

"Good question," Brivari said acidly, "and one I'd hoped to answer until the king decided to go off on a bender. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll fetch him so I can get back to the more important matters at hand."

"Brivari, please don't be too hard on him," Dee begged. "Remember he's a teenager, and teenagers—"

"Not now, Dee," Anthony advised. ""Bring him down here," he said to Brivari. "We'll take him home."

If I don't kill him first, Brivari muttered to himself, noting there were times when it was convenient that he couldn't, and this would be one of them. Under different circumstances he might leave Dee to clean up, but the possibility that his Ward had said or done something he shouldn't was too great.

The cafe was packed, and not with customers; few tables were occupied, and even the staff was crowding into the back, following a conga line of radio people holding audio equipment. Marvelous, he thought sourly. Not only had his Ward gotten drunk, he'd gotten drunk in public, giving him an audience to contend with along with a lovesick adolescent. Finding the crowd impossible to penetrate, Brivari grabbed a handful of silverware from an open and unattended dishwasher and held it beneath his jacket.

"Coming through!" he called a moment later, brandishing his newly made microphone. "I'm with the station. Coming through!"

The crowd parted like the red sea, chattering excitedly as he walked past and up the back staircase. The room at the center of the action was a girl's bedroom, blocked by a knot of people sporting various audio equipment in the doorway and beyond which stood what appeared to be their boss interviewing two young men, one hammered, one pissed.

"So tell our listeners, Lyle—"

"Kyle," intoned the hammered one, not so hammered that he didn't know his own name.

"—what was going through your mind as you were going through Liz Parker's drawers?"

"Drawer," corrected Hammered. "Drawer, singular. I never had a chance to go through the rest of them because Mr. Shallow here—"

"Shellow," corrected Pissed furiously.

"—busted in on us. And would have busted in on Max and Liz if I'd let him—"

"The only one that's 'busting' is you!" exclaimed Pissed. "And where'd they go? She was my date!"

"I told you that already," Hammered explained patiently, "but one more time because you're slow: We're the ex's, and we're here to win her back."

"Do you mean to tell me that both you and the dark-haired mystery man who vanished into the night with our dream girl are both her ex-boyfriends?" the interviewer bellowed cheerfully into his mic as though this was the greatest discovery since the Rosetta Stone. "People, this is even wackier than I thought! We have a three-way shooting match for our Liz! So," he continued to Hammered as Pissed fumed beside him, "I take it 'Max' is the 'M' in that 'ME' on the balcony?"

"Whoever he is, I'm gonna kill him," Pissed muttered.

Not if I beat you to it, Brivari thought, elbowing through the knot at the door and crossing the room toward the balcony.

"Back off, Dog boy," Hammered warned. "I'm—"

"Sixty pounds of varsity Greco-Roman wrestler—yeah, I know," Pissed said derisively. "What you failed to add was drunk Greco-Roman Wrestler. The former cancels out the latter."

Hammered blinked. "I'm not sure what he just said, but I hate him for it."

Brivari stepped onto the balcony as they continued to argue. It was empty, and a brief glance over the edge showed nothing but the ladder which must have been used as an escape route. The wall, however, was another story; burned into the bricks was a heart which contained the initials "LP" and "ME", undoubtedly made without the use of a blowtorch.

"Which way did they go?" Brivari asked, poking his head back inside.

Everyone paused, staring at him. "Who the hell are you?" demanded the interviewer.

"Which way?" Brivari pressed.

"Who is that?" the interviewer barked to his acolytes. "How did he get in here? Find out how he got in here!"

"Down," Hammered said helpfully.

Great, Brivari thought, sending a burst of power in the direction of the bedroom which destroyed all electronics and instantly drew attention away from himself. His Ward could be anywhere, and it could take a while to find him, but there was nothing for it. Damn it, he swore, leaving them shaking their mics and slapping their equipment as he slipped down the ladder into the night. Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!




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





"Do you think we should go in?" Dee asked anxiously as crowds continued to throng the Crashdown. "He should have been back by now."

"Maybe we should listen to the radio," Anthony suggested. "That's what lots of other people seem to be...wait. Here they come."

The crowd had parted, and a group of people emerged. "Get me a new mic," growled a man wearing headphones only seconds before flashing a dazzling smile. "Over here, gentlemen! Let's keep our listeners up to date on what has to be the wildest blind date ever!"

"Oh, good Lord," Dee muttered. "It's that annoying DJ."

Two young men came into view, one striding, one slouching. "Jim Valenti's boy," Anthony murmured, eyeing the sloucher.

"Kyle," Dee nodded. "And the other must be Liz's blind date."

"Nice looking fellow," Anthony commented.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed the DJ into the mic which had just been thrust into his hand. "I have here our dream girl's blind date, Doug Shellow, and Lyle—"

"Kyle," Kyle interrupted in a bored tone.

"—one of Liz's ex-boyfriends. Doug can you tell us what you and Liz were thinking when you ran off from Chez Pierre?"

"We just wanted some time to ourselves," Doug answered. "And we were having a great time until Bozo the clown and his sidekick busted in on us."

"Ouch," Anthony murmured.

"Hey, we weren't anywhere near you," Kyle protested. "We were minding our own business when you busted in on us."

"But how could you be 'minding your own business' in Liz Parker's bedroom?" the DJ asked cheerfully. "Because that's where we found them, ladies and gentlemen, all four of them: Doug, our dream girl, and not one, but two of her ex-boyfriends!"

"We went upstairs to get away from them!" Doug said, jabbing a thumb at the DJ.

"Look, I feel your pain, man," Kyle said, placing a hand on Doug's shoulder which was promptly shrugged off. "You've been rejected. I've been there. It sucks."

"I haven't been 'rejected'," Doug argued. "Liz and I were having a wonderful time before...all this. We don't really know what happened."

"We don't?" Kyle chuckled. "Well, I know 'what happened'. " 'What 'happened' is that she left with Max. I hate it to break it to you, buddy, but when the girl goes out the window with another guy, that's 'rejection'."

"Out the window?" Anthony whispered.

"You heard it, ladies and gentlemen," chirped the DJ. "Our dream girl escaped out her bedroom window with this mysterious 'Max', leaving Lyle—"

"Kyle."

"—and Doug behind! And that was after running off from Chez Pierre with Doug! Does our Liz have commitment issues? Does she have too many choices? Does she—"

"Does he have any working brain cells?" Dee grumbled. "I know there's a lot of blather on the radio, but this is ridiculous."

"Don't be too sure about that," Anthony said. "I'll bet he's got the entire town hanging on his every word."

"So what now, gentlemen?" the DJ was asking, thrusting the microphone toward Kyle and Doug. "Will you stick it out, or are you throwing in the towel?"

Kyle shrugged. "Ask Mr. 4.0 average."

"4.3," Doug corrected.

"Geeks," Kyle muttered. "Hate'em."

"What about you, Doug?" the DJ asked. "Staying or leaving?"

"Liz is out there somewhere," Doug answered, "and I say we go find her."

"The game's afoot!" cried the delighted DJ. "You heard him, people—saddle up! We've got a dream girl to find! And all of our listeners can help us out. Have you seen Liz Parker or her current dark-haired mystery man? If you have, call KROZ and give us a heads up! In you go, Doug," he continued, throwing open the van's door. " You coming, Lyle?"

" 'Kyle'. And only if I don't have to sit next to Mr. Shallow."

"Shellow," Doug fumed.

" 'Shallow'," Anthony chuckled. "Good one. But it's a bad time for jokes," he added hastily when Dee gave him a steely glare.

The van drove off. The crowd began to disperse and Dee with it, heading around the building. "So I gather Liz abandoned her date and took off with Max?" Anthony said, trotting after her.

"Sounds like it," Dee answered. "She probably realized he was drunk and what that could mean. Darn it," she went on, coming to a halt. "Where did he go?"

"Who? Brivari?" Anthony asked, gazing up the ladder they'd both watched Max and Kyle climb only a half hour ago. "I imagine he went off looking for Max. Perhaps we should do the same."

Fifteen minutes later, they were five blocks out with no sign of Max. "Do you suppose they went to the concert?" Anthony asked.

Dee shook her head. "She'd know enough not to take him anywhere public. And they're on foot because Isabel has the jeep—" She stopped, staring into space.

"What?" Anthony said.

"Go to the library," Dee said suddenly.

"The library? Why would they go to the library?"

"They wouldn't," Dee answered. "But Isabel would."

"Isabel? What does she have to do with finding Max?"

"Nothing. Look, we can't find Max," Dee said. "His Warder is looking for him, but no one is keeping an eye on Michael and Isabel. We have two grandchildren. We should help the one we can find."

"Okay," Anthony said slowly, "but what makes you think we'll find her at the library?"

"Because she's with Michael. Jaddo thinks Michael has figured out the map, and if so, it will lead him to the library."

"What's he going to do with gasoline and rope at the library?" Anthony wondered.

"That's what worries me," Dee said. "There's a back entrance. "Turn left here."

The library was only a few minutes away. They saw the glow as they turned into the parking lot.

"What on earth?" Anthony whispered.




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




What on earth?

The phone to her ear, Liz gazed in dismay at Max, who looked pleased as punch as he gestured toward the one thing she'd wanted to avoid at all costs: The KROZ van.

"Ma'am, I need your location," said a voice in her ear. "Citrus and...what?"

"Oh...oh, I...never mind," Liz sighed. "I guess we won't be needing a taxi."

She hung up, every movement feeling like lead. The KROZ crew was celebrating, with the DJ yammering into his mic about having found the "missing dream girl" and her "kidnapper". Hardly, Liz thought. It had been she who'd kidnapped Max, leading him away from that radio crew where anything he said could and would be used against him in ways too horrible to contemplate.

"Liz Parker!" bellowed the grinning DJ. "Did you think you'd lost us?"

"Actually, yeah," Liz answered. "We did lose you. You're only here because Max flagged you down."

"And why'd you do that, Max?" the DJ asked, recovering quickly after flashing a brief glint of annoyance. "Tired of her already, or just feeling guilty?"

Max shrugged. "We needed a ride."

"Then you're in luck, because a ride is something we can give you!" exclaimed the DJ, throwing open the van door. "Hop in, you two. The concert...and explanations...await."

Liz glanced up and down the street, measuring the distance to the next alley; if they ran, they might be able to lose them, a moot point, really, because Max was climbing in. Right, Liz thought heavily, walking toward the van the way the condemned head to their execution. Hopefully it was just the radio people in there. Hopefully she wouldn't have to come up with awkward explanations right this minute.

No dice. Not only Doug, but Kyle was in the van as well, sitting across from each other, the latter smirking, the former scowling. He scowled at her as well, and who could blame him? She'd left him, just up and left him with no reason or warning, and in public, no less. He must be furious, and the fact that Kyle and Max had just high-fived each other probably wasn't helping.

"Have a seat right here, Liz," the DJ was saying helpfully, patting the spot next to Doug. "Right next to your blind date."

Great, Liz thought, closing her eyes briefly. Max had taken a seat next to Kyle, and she dearly wished she could sit next to Max. But three against one wasn't fair, and she really did owe Doug an explanation. He stiffened when she sat down next to him, and moved aside a fraction.

"Well, isn't this cozy?" beamed the eternally cheerful DJ. "Now that we've rounded up our dream girl and all the various men in her life, it's off to the concert we go! We'll be there in just a few minutes, but before we get there, is there anything you'd like to say to KROZ's listeners, Liz?"

Liz recoiled as a microphone was thrust into her face. "Yes," she said firmly. "Would you please put that thing away for just one minute?"

"Yes, please," agreed Doug.

"Hear, hear," mumbled Kyle.

Max said nothing, but the DJ was momentarily nonplussed. "Sounds like our little foursome wants some alone time," he chuckled nervously as three of the "foursome" glared at him. "Maybe we should let them have it and see what...develops."

What "developed" was silence as the van pulled away from the curb and began what should have been a short journey to the concert, but seemed to take forever. Across from her Kyle continued to smirk, and Max gave her that loopy smile that had her petrified he'd do something to give himself away any moment. On her left was Doug, his very stiffness accusatory, and on her right the attentive DJ, having dropped his mic a few inches but still watching them like a hawk. All the other radio people had crowded into the front seat or very back, which was really unfortunate because she could have used someone, anyone, else to look at.

"So did you guys have fun?" Kyle boomed, breaking the silence. "Max? How'd it go, buddy?"

Buddy? Liz had no idea where that one came from, but Max not only didn't object, he grinned. "Great," he informed Kyle. "Just great."

"I held him off for you," Kyle announced, nodding toward Doug as Liz cringed. "Mr. Shallow here."

"Thank you, Kyle," Max said with the utmost seriousness.

"Shellow!" Doug hissed.

"Things are getting a bit testy!" the DJ declared, the lowered mic lowered no more. "First we had the ex-boyfriends high-fiving each other, and now they're ganging up on our dream guy!"

"You know, could you...I'd really appreciate it if you would just put that away," Liz said. "You're just making this worse."

"Worse than you made it when you climbed out your bedroom window with another guy?" chirped the DJ. "I don't think so, Liz! Frankly, I don't think there's any way little old me could do anything worse than—"

Max leaned forward and grabbed the mic. "Hey! The lady asked you to put that away."

"I second that motion," Doug muttered as the DJ pulled away from Max.

"I third it," Kyle added.

"You don't 'third' a motion," Doug said.

"Says Mr. 4.0," Kyle retorted.

"4.3," Doug corrected.

"Okay, everyone, just be quiet," Liz commanded. "No more talking."

"All well and good for you, dream girl, but our listeners want to...wait a minute," the DJ added, fiddling with his mic. "Is this thing on...oh, you've got to be kidding me! I blew another one? Darren? Darren! This one isn't working either!"

Darren, who was apparently in the front seat, leaned back to work on the busted microphone just as Liz's relief at having the DJ silenced turned to horror when she saw the self-satisfied smile on Max's face. He did it, she realized. He'd broken the mic when he'd touched it. Don't move, she told herself. Don't move, don't speak, don't do anything that will make Max do...anything. Because God knows he'd been doing plenty. Sober Max might be afraid to use his powers, but drunk Max had no such compunction. That hadn't even occurred to her when she'd hustled him off the balcony and into the night, any concern about what he'd said to Kyle having evaporated the moment the radio crew had burst into the bedroom. Even a drunk Kyle was a problem given his parentage, but public announcements were worse. She had to get him out of there, and fortunately he'd been all too eager to follow. Off the shoes had come again, dangling from her hand as they'd raced through the streets just as she and Doug had a mere hour ago with one key difference—when they'd hotfooted it out of Chez Pierre, it had been fun, a lark. This time it was deadly serious.

She'd started to slow down when it became clear they'd put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers, and calm down enough to think this through. Max still behaved as though he'd had a lot more than just "one little sip", but given Michael's reaction to sweat lodges, she couldn't discount the possibility, and in the end, it didn't matter; no matter how much he'd had, the first order of business was to get him somewhere safe, somewhere private. Questioning Max led to a lot of round-and-round conversation, but she managed to find out that no one was home at his house. If she could get him there, he'd be okay; even if the station found him, they could lock the door and pretend they weren't home. Her first attempt to call a taxi ended with Max taking off again, her racing after him...and then things had gotten really weird. Drunk Max, it turned out, was quite chatty. Drunk Max said things that made her heart sing.

As long as we're together, nothing else matters.

It's all just magic when I think about you.

You're my dream girl, Liz.

What's so great about normal?

Liz closed her eyes as the DJ and Darren continued to fight over the mic and the van rocked gently from side to side. She could still see the spinning street-light-turned-mirror-ball, still hear him saying all the things she felt, had felt from the beginning, had longed for him to feel too, and she wanted desperately to believe him, but...didn't drunk people do this all the time? Didn't they say and do things they didn't really mean? Isn't that why wedding chapels and divorce lawyers were so prevalent in Vegas? Was this the "one little sip" talking, or was it Max saying what he was too afraid to say when sober?

In the end, she decided it didn't matter; her first order of business was to get him home. The prospect of them holing up alone in his house was extremely appealing to Max, and she'd used that to gain his approval for a taxi. What she hadn't told him was that it was appealing to her too, and she'd been looking forward to watching a few more lights turn into disco balls as she probed the depths of his feelings. Too bad they were now stuck in a taxi with her petrified that he'd give himself away at any moment.

The van stopped; they'd arrived, and everyone climbed out. The DJ and Darren were arguing about the best place to snag a new mic, Max and Kyle stood off to one side, and Doug stood off to the other, alone in more ways than one, and she spared a guilty thought for him. It had been fun running away when it didn't matter, but the truth was that as soon as the excitement had died down, she'd found him...boring? Which was worrisome, really, that a nice, normal guy like Doug and a college student in an interesting major, no less, could be boring. Had she turned into an adrenaline junky? Was she no longer capable of enjoying herself with a guy unless it involved running and hiding and life-threatening illness? No, she decided. That wasn't it. There was nothing wrong with Doug except...well, except that he wasn't Max. He was a nice guy, he just wasn't the right guy. But that didn't mean he deserved to be treated the way he'd been treated tonight.

"Hey, can I...can I talk to you for a sec?" she whispered. "Before the DJ finds another mic."

Doug's expression was wary, but he smiled faintly. "I'm really sorry about what happened," Liz went on. "I had no idea they were in my room."

"I know you didn't," Doug answered. "But that didn't mean you had to run off with him."

"I know, but he was drunk," Liz said, "and—"

"So what?" Doug broke in. "The other one was drunk too." He paused. "Are they really your ex's?"

Liz glanced at Max, who was obviously still enjoying his "one little sip". "Kyle is. Max...Max has had some...problems...recently. And when the station showed up...with the way he was acting, I was afraid he'd say something that might get him into trouble again. You know, say something that the whole town would hear."

"Like the fact that he's underage, but goes out and gets plastered?"

"Max is a good guy, Doug," Liz insisted. "He's had a really rough time lately, and he's my friend. I couldn't just leave him. I couldn't do that to a friend. I'm sorry about what that meant for you, but if Max had said something he shouldn't have on the air, that would have been a lot worse for him. I had to choose, so I—"

"Chose your friend," Doug finished gently. "I get it. I'm sorry, I...I was just really enjoying our dinner, and I...never mind. Of course you had to help your friend. It's what I'd expect you to do."

"Thank you," Liz smiled, relieved that at least one thing had turned out to be easier than she'd expected. "That's really nice of you." She paused. "Maybe I could make it up to you sometime? Like, go on another date...no radio stations this time...and pick up where we left off?"

Doug shook his head. "That's very nice of you, Liz, but I don't think so."

Liz's face fell. "Oh. Oh...okay."

"I don't think so because I think Max is much more than just a friend to you," Doug went on. "And I think you're much more than just a friend to Max."

Liz flushed as Doug gave her a wan smile. "By the way, if you were concerned about what Max might say in public, this might not be the best place for him."

"Oh...yeah," Liz said, flustered, grateful to change the subject, "I'm not staying. I just wanted to clear things up with you, and then I'm taking him home."

"Then you'd better hurry," Doug said, "because he just went inside with the DJ."

Liz's head whirled around. Kyle and Max were gone, and a side door was closing. She and Doug both sprinted after it, Doug catching it just before it closed, both of them hurrying inside.

Too late.




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





"C'mon inside, gentlemen!" the DJ called. "I can't wait to see how this ends!"

Somewhere deep in the recesses of Max's mind, there was a small voice telling him not to accept that invitation. There'd been a small voice in the back of his mind all night now, warning him, scolding him, and just generally being a party pooper. He'd ignored it each time, paying it no mind when it squawked at that fantastic ladder he'd formed by making the bricks in the wall protrude, a work of art if ever there was one, or at the heart he'd left on Liz's balcony. By the time they'd left her room it had been silenced altogether, and a good thing too; he didn't want anything interfering with so much as a moment of his time with Liz. If he'd thought her beautiful before, now she was simply dazzling, the brightest star in his sky. As long as he could see her, everything was perfect.

And he couldn't. See her, that is. His vision was none too clear, hadn't been for a while now, but he couldn't find Liz anywhere. The guy with the microphone was there, and Kyle, and, inexplicably, Alex, and...was that Maria? Good grief, what was she wearing? And what was all that noise? Everything was not only fuzzy, it was louder, and it was giving him a headache. Where was Liz?

And then she was there, and he was happy again. And then he was standing in an impossibly bright spot—okay, make that fuzzy, louder, and brighter—with a sea of colorful noise in front of him. Kyle was there, and that guy she'd been eating dinner with, and Liz, looking very upset. And that wasn't good. Anything that upset Liz wasn't good. His suggestion that Dinner Guy would look better with blonde hair seemed to upset Liz, so he didn't press it. The guy with the microphone was yammering again, but Max wasn't paying much attention until he turned to him and said, "Convince her, Max."

And so he did. The only way he knew how. The noise got louder, the world got fuzzier, brighter...

...and then, all of a sudden, it wasn't. All of a sudden that nagging voice roared back with a vengeance as everything came into focus and he found himself standing on a stage in front of a cheering crowd with Liz beside him looking stunned. Behind them stood the DJ grinning wildly, Kyle looking bereft, and Liz's dinner date looking resigned. Maria was just offstage, her mouth a round "O", and if Alex's eyes got any wider, he'd need medical attention. What was he doing here? What had just happened? Had he really...had he really just kissed Liz in front of all these people?

"I'm sorry," he said, stunned. "I...I don't know what I...I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

Max made his way down from the stage and up the aisle as people cheered all around him. Why are they cheering? he wondered desperately. What else did I do? He was almost to the back door when Liz caught up with him.

"Wait, Max. Max!" she called, grabbing his arm, turning him around. "Did you really mean everything you said when we were alone tonight?"

We were alone? Max stared at her miserably, trying to recall what had happened. He remembered grumping by the radio, Kyle calling to him, the drive to the restaurant, watching Liz through the window, and then...nothing. Just one big giant blank.

"I don't...remember," he said haltingly. "What did I say?" Behind them the band began to play, Maria began to sing, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Liz's date walking off the stage...and had a flash.

Liz's bedroom...

...a heart on a wall...

...running through the streets...

Oh, God, he thought heavily. What had he done?

"I didn't mean to ruin your night," he added numbly, walking away before she could answer because he was pretty sure that if she did, she'd bite his head off, and with good reason.

It was dark when he hit the open air, the music fading behind him. He'd just resigned himself to walking home when a cab pulled up beside him.

"Need a ride?" the driver asked.

"No, thanks," Max said.

"I think you do," the driver said.

"I think I don't," Max replied. "I need a walk."

The driver gave him a skeptical look. "Turn around."

Max did. The radio's DJ and his posse had just emerged from the building, ever-present microphone in hand, looking this way and that. Looking for him.

"Get in," the cab driver said.

Max didn't protest, didn't think, just climbed inside. The cab took off just as the DJ realized he'd missed his target. That was close...

"Rough night?" the cabbie asked.

Max slumped in the back seat and closed his eyes. "You could say that."

"Sounds like maybe you've had a few," the cabbie commented.

Great, Max thought wearily. Even cab drivers were following the saga on the radio. "I didn't have a 'few'," he corrected. "I didn't even have one."

"Really?"

"Really. I only had a sip. Just one little sip. And it tasted like crap, so I didn't have any more, but—" Max stopped, realizing how ridiculous this sounded. No one got as drunk as he must have been from one sip.

But the cabbie didn't react. "Well, you know what they say," he replied calmly. "Alcohol affects everyone differently. I've seen people throw back ten beers and still be coherent while someone else has half a drink and can't walk straight."

"I didn't have a half a drink," Max reminded him.

The cabbie shrugged. "Maybe you're...different."

Max's eyes flew open. Different. Yes, that was it. In a supreme example of irony, he'd just gone and done a Michael by running into something innocuous which had affected him in ways no one could have anticipated. Thank God it hadn't killed him.

"This your house?"

Startled, Max looked out the window. "Uh...yeah." The cab stopped, and he climbed out, digging in his pocket.

"No problem," the cabbie said. "This one's on me."

"I've got money—"

"I know you do. And you had a rough night. Happy Birthday. Whenever it is."

"Oh. Uh...thanks."

"You're welcome. And stay away from the booze. Any amount of booze."

Max managed a sad smile. "Yeah. Good idea."

He was all the way in the house before he heard the cab drive away, and it wasn't until ten minutes later that he realized something.

He'd never given the cab driver his address.




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




Brivari watched his Ward trudge up the driveway, fumble with the door. The radio station had located Zan before he had, so he'd headed to the concert and watched as Zan's first brush with alcohol wore off in full public view, the rapidity of the change making it clear why events had unfolded the way they had tonight. New species, new problems. Couldn't be helped. At least not any other way than he just had, by delivering him safely home, where he'd hopefully stay this time, at least for tonight.

The lights in the house popped on, and Brivari took off. New species, he thought wearily. Next problem.


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I'll post Chapter 74 next Sunday.