Fan Fic and More

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE



February 16, 2000, 9:30 p.m.

Hank Whitmore's trailer




"Mickey!" Hank bellowed. "Where are you?"

Stretched out on his bed, Michael ignored him. He'd already dodged when Hank had checked in here earlier, merely glancing before retreating and never realizing his quarry was standing right behind the door. One of these days Hank was going to figure out that trick, but until he did, life was good.

"Mickey!"

Michael smiled faintly as a dull thud was followed by a wave of profanity. Hank was outside now, his footsteps crunching away. He'd spend the next half hour at least wandering the trailer park looking for him. He was good and drunk tonight, and no doubt not seeing too well; bumping into things was typically followed by falling, a pattern which would repeat itself until finally he wouldn't bother to get up. With any luck he'd pass out somewhere before he made it back. That happened a lot and was damned convenient, resulting in a much better atmosphere at home.

Hank's bellowing faded as Michael returned his attention to what had occupied his every waking moment since last weekend. His working copy of the cave map was becoming dog-eared from all the handling, and the map of Roswell he was using for reference wasn't faring much better given all the folding and unfolding that was necessary to hide it from prying eyes. He hadn't said anything to Max and Isabel, but he'd visited the library every night since they'd returned Nasedo's "message" last weekend, hoping to see some sign of a response, even venturing inside and wandering the aisles just in case "library" meant "in" instead of "at" the library. He'd circled the building inside and out looking for anything even vaguely unusual, but not really expecting to find anything. Whoever this Nasedo was, he seemed to like grand gestures, not hidden messages. And was piss poor at returning messages given that days had gone by with nary a whiff of a response.

And that's when Michael had begun to wonder...did I get it wrong? He'd been so sure he'd interpreted the map correctly that his initial response had been anger at the lack of an answer, followed by despair that anyone was out there listening. But, in an uncharacteristic switcheroo, Max had pointed out that there must be. Someone had left that symbol in the woods. River Dog had declared that he'd seen it before and that it was the work of Nasedo, someone he'd personally known. There was little doubt that Nasedo had returned and that he'd sent them a message, so why wasn't he responding? The most likely answer to that question was that he'd read the map wrong and the symbol wasn't pointing to the library at all. Armed with that thought, he'd raced home from the library to try again, and now he pivoted both maps this way and that looking for something, anything, that would point him in a new direction.

Twenty minutes later he fell back on the bed, frustrated and alarmed. Regarding the map on the cave wall, there was only one way to read that; the "V" was in a very specific place relative to the symbols. But comparing the cave map to the Roswell map wasn't so simple. He'd initially used north as "up" and assumed that was right because several symbols fell on key sites in town: The library, government offices, and the hospital, to name a few. He could certainly be wrong about that, and the town map could be twisted any which way, but when he did, the symbols didn't line up with anything the least bit interesting. The only way it made sense was the way he'd done it the first time. Which meant the symbol Nasedo had left for them in the woods did indeed mean the library and something else was missing, something he'd failed to note or do. Grabbing both maps, he tried again, rotating the town map slowly and noting where the symbols fell, if anywhere, then rotating the cave map...

No.

With a certainty borne of instinct, Michael rotated both maps to their original positions. Yes. That was it. That was the way both were supposed to be. He had no idea why he was so certain of that, but something deep inside was telling him that was right. He'd felt that certainty the first time he'd aligned them this way, then pushed it aside when he'd assumed he was wrong, but...there it was again. He'd had it right the first time, read it right the first time. He didn't know how he knew that, but he knew. The satisfaction which flooded him whenever he had the pair in this orientation was profound, as was the unease when he moved them. His experience after the sweat had proven the existence of a voice within calling from wherever he'd come from; it was there still, and always the loudest when he wasn't trying to find it. It seemed to work best if he closed his eyes and ignored it, something foreign to Michael and most unsettling. Maybe he was trying too hard to find the missing link. Maybe he should just stare at the maps and hope something popped out...

A knock sounded on the door. Cursing under his breath, Michael went to answer it. What now? Had Hank passed out somewhere? He could safely say he didn't care, but it might be nice to know if he wasn't coming back for a while. He threw open the door...and blinked.

"Thought you could lose me, huh?" Hank said, wearing a maniacal grin as he pushed his way inside. "Ding dong! You're wrong!"

"What the hell are you doing knocking on your own door?" Michael demanded.

"Couldn't find ya," Hank answered. "Figured you were hiding. Figured you'd answer the door. Figured right!"

"Congratulations," Michael said sourly, annoyed at having been flushed. If only being drunk made Hank stupid as well as mean. If only.

"I need you to get more beer," Hank announced, pulling out his wallet. "A case. No...make that two."

Michael glanced down at the bills Hank held out to him. "No."

"I wasn't asking," Hank said warningly. "I was telling."

"So am I," Michael answered. "I'm telling you I'm not going."

"Have to," Hank declared. "They won't sell to me."

"Can't imagine why," Michael muttered.

Hank grabbed his arm, spun him around. "You're going," he said deliberately, thrusting the bills at him. "Now."

"No, I'm not," Michael said, wrenching his arm away. "Don't you think they're going to figure out that I'm underage? That last fake ID you gave me almost didn't work. Besides, I've got homework."

"Homework," Hank said derisively. "Homework! What is it with all the homework? You never gave a rat's ass about homework before."

"Just be glad I do because it's keeping the school off your doorstep," Michael said, heading back into the bedroom. "Go get your own beer."

Michael went back to his room and his maps. A minute later, Hank's hot breath was hovering over him. "Let me see this 'homework'," he demanded, snatching the Roswell map out of his hands. "What kind of 'homework' is this? What, you're too stupid to know what town you live in?"

"It's geography," Michael said impatiently. "Give it back."

"And what's this?" Hank went on, reaching for the cave map. "Indian geography? Art class?"

Michael felt something snap inside him at the very idea that Hank's filthy hands would touch one of the few things he had that might lead him home. "Leave that alone," he said sharply, snatching it away. "Leave me alone."

Mistake. Drunk or not, Hank smelled his desperation, and a smile slid across his face. "Give me that," he demanded.

"No."

"I said, give me that."

"Get lost," Michael retorted.

Hank reached around him, narrowly missing the cave map, his feral grin making it clear he was enjoying this game. "Hand it over, Mickey," Hank chanted in singsong, "or things will get sticky!"

"What, are you the poet laureate?" Michael said furiously, pushing him away. If Hank were more drunk, this would have been easy, but he was only drunk enough to be infuriating, not to throw off balance. "Knock if off! Or I'll blow you in at school for messing up my stuff!"

Hank stopped scrambling for the map, his eyes hardening. Shit, Michael thought wearily. He should have known better than to threaten the monthly check when Hank was that close to him. The blow, when it came, was harder than any Hank had landed before. Pain exploded on the left side of his face as Michael's head snapped to one side, and out of the corner of his good eye he could see Hank's hand reaching for the map...

And then suddenly Hank was across the room, crashing into the wall, crumbling to the floor as a vicious shove tinged with raw power hit home. Michael gaped at him, having only intended to push him, not throw him; it had just leaped out of him like an angry animal, unbidden and uncontrolled. Kind of like the drunk on the floor, who hadn't been hurt and was currently climbing to his feet, spoiling for worse.

Grabbing the maps, Michael ran out of the bedroom, out of the trailer, Hank bellowing behind him. Lights popped on in other trailers and voices shouted at them to be quiet as Michael ran past and Hank tried to follow. But he was no match for younger, sober legs, and the footsteps behind him died out quickly as Michael kept running, mindful of the fact that Hank had already tricked him once tonight. He couldn't afford to let him catch up because, if he did, Michael was certain he wouldn't be able to stop himself. Which meant Hank wouldn't wind up merely tossed against a wall.

He'd wind up dead.




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





February 17, 2000, 9:30 a.m.

West Roswell High School




Liz Parker entered the Biology classroom and nearly sagged with relief. Finally. This was the one class she had with Max where he couldn't dodge her, it being difficult to dodge a lab partner sitting right next to you. And so of course the teacher had decided to spend the early part of this week on demos with everyone gathered around in a circle, giving Max the perfect opportunity to avoid her in the one place he usually couldn't. But there was no demo set up today and other classmates were in their regular seats. At long last she might be able to address what had happened last weekend.

Last weekend had been the last thing she'd wanted to talk about on Monday morning, the first day back after the whole blind date debacle. Max was awkward and uncomfortable, mumbling hello and rushing past whenever he saw her, and who could blame him? So many of their classmates had been at that concert and seen that kiss; there was bound to be a reaction. The form it had taken caught her by surprise: She, Liz Parker, quintessential bookworm and suspected teacher's pet was now something of a folk hero, and the end result was a surprised, if silent, respect.

"Hey, Parker."

Liz blinked. The tattooed, gel-haired vision sitting in front of her had rarely acknowledged her existence, never mind greeted her. "Hey," she said uncertainly.

"Parker," nodded a letter-jacketed jock on the way past.

Scratch the 'silent', Liz thought, still looking for the one person she wanted to see, the one person she wanted to greet her. He showed up at last, hovering in the doorway as he surveyed the altered landscape and realized he couldn't put this off any longer.

"Evans," Tattoo nodded as he walked past.

"Hey, Evans," added the jock.

Max sank into his seat, smiling awkwardly at his greeters and avoiding her gaze. She waited until he had his books settled before leaning in closer.

"Okay, want to tell me why we're both suddenly so popular?"

"What do you mean?" Max asked.

"Well, Monday morning I could see, but now?" Liz said, relieved he was willing to talk to her. "It's Thursday. They didn't talk to us on Monday, so why now?"

Max smiled faintly. "Maybe they were still in shock?"

"Yeah, I guess they had to re-evaluate the whole 'goody-two-shoes' bit," Liz said dryly.

"They probably never thought you'd have the guts to run out on a radio station and a date," Max said.

"Or that you'd have the guts to go out drinking with football players," Liz added.

Max's face clouded. "I didn't...I wasn't trying...I mean..."

"I know you weren't," Liz said quickly. "I saw what happened. I just...I'm just relieved it wasn't something like, you know, like what happened with Michael. Something really bad."

Max was quiet for a moment. "It could have been bad," he said finally. "I've got you to thank that it wasn't."

The teacher came in. Turned out there was a demo today after all, but they would watch it from their seats, followed by a write-up with lab partners. Liz sat in uncomfortable silence as equipment was set up, kicking herself for bringing up the drinking. Not that it wouldn't have come up anyway—it was, after all, the reason for the evening—but she could have been more careful with what was obviously a sensitive subject. She'd have to do better next time, and she barely watched the demo, so busy was she formulating what to say and how to say it.

Finally it ended; papers shuffled and chairs scraped as tired teenagers jolted awake and worksheets were passed out. Liz had finished her speech in her head and on her hand, where she'd scribbled key talking points in the proper order. Now all she had to do was deliver it.

"Liz?"

Liz's eyes flitted sideways, to where Max had propped an open textbook in a meager attempt at privacy. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to...to apologize for Friday night. I never meant to mess up your evening."

Liz's speech went right out her head. "You didn't—"

"Yes, I did," Max interrupted, his eyes straight ahead as though afraid to look at her. "You were having a good time at the restaurant. I...I saw you. And then I busted in, and—"

"No, Max," Liz broke in. "I wasn't having a good time at the restaurant, and neither was Doug. It's hard to talk or even eat your meal when you've got someone reporting every word you say. That's why we left."

Now Max did look at her. "You were having a good time. I know you were. I could tell."

Liz flushed so quickly, she was afraid her face would burst into flames. "No, it's okay," Max said quickly, confirming the embarrassing fact that the flushing was visible. "You deserved to have a good time. I...I'm glad you were having a good time."

Red faces were promptly forgotten as Liz cocked an eyebrow. "You were?"

Max kept his eyes on their worksheet. "Of course."

"Uh huh," Liz said, nodding slowly. "Okay, Max...I have an idea. Now that we've both tried lying through our teeth, what say we both start telling the truth?"

"I wasn't lying," Max said quickly. "I'm glad you were having a good time."

"And I wasn't lying either," Liz said, "or not entirely. It was hard to enjoy ourselves while the world was watching...but aside from that, yeah, in some ways, I was having a good time. And part of you is probably glad I was, but...I'm guessing part of you isn't."

Max's eyes flicked her way, then back to the worksheet, his silence so painful it was almost palpable. Liz glanced at her graffitied hand and decided to take a leap of faith.

"Okay, I'm just gonna talk, and you...you can just listen," she said as classmates bent heads over their write-ups. The teacher was mercifully busy cleaning equipment, which included running water and clanking glassware that provided wonderful cover for whispers. "You keep apologizing for wrecking my evening, but here's the thing, Max—you didn't wreck it. You made it. Being with you made my evening."

Max's eyes closed briefly as though weathering a stab of pain, and she rushed on. "Sure, I'll admit that some of the dinner part was fun. Doug turned out to be a nice guy, and it was a lot of fun to run away from the restaurant. It was fun to shake them, and it was fun to be sneaking around without it really meaning anything. But then...then it started to get boring. Because as nice as Doug is...he isn't you." She leaned in closer. "I know you remember at least some of what happened," she went on. "If you didn't, you wouldn't have taken the heart away—"

"I had to," Max broke in, his voice strained. "I remembered it later, and I had to get rid of it because—"

"I know," Liz broke in. "I get it. I'm talking about the fact that it was there in the first place. I know you feel the same way about me as I feel about you."

"It doesn't matter how I feel," Max said sadly. "I wish it did."

"Well, then, what about me? Does it matter how I feel?"

"Of course it does," Max said quickly.

"Then this is how I feel: I want you," Liz declared. "Not Doug, or anyone else. You."

"And you can't," Max said in an anguished tone. "I'm just not safe. You saw me. I could have been in a world of hurt, and I never saw it coming; I had no idea alcohol would affect me that way."

"So it's good that I was there," Liz argued. "It's good that you had me because I could get you out of harm's way."

"Yeah," Max said soberly, 'it's good that I have you. It's just not good that you have me."

"Max, how can you say that?" Liz demanded. "I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you! If you hadn't saved me—"

"Liz, you can't go on paying for that for the rest of your life," Max said. "You didn't ask me to save you; that was my decision. It shouldn't mean you're beholden to me, or responsible for me, or—"

"It doesn't," Liz said firmly. "And I'm not. I'm here because I want to be here. I get to decide what I want to do. I get to decide what risks I want to take. I get to decide who I want to be with, and I want to be with you, no matter what that means, no matter how much baggage you bring with you."

"You sure about that?" Max said. "Because in my case, we're talking an entire luggage factory."

Their was a brief pause before both of them dissolved in chuckles, drawing stares from nearby classmates which made them duck behind their book and quiet immediately. But the ice had been broken, and they both felt it, giving each other small smiles as they waited for everyone to go back to what they'd been doing.

"I don't care about your baggage," Liz whispered when it looked safe to start talking again. "I want you even with the baggage."

"You say that now," Max said, "and I'm sure you mean it. But I don't think you've thought through just how bad this could go."

"You mean I'm not obsessing about every nasty possibility out there, most of which, if any, will never happen?" Liz translated. "If it's my 'safety' you're worried about, it's too late. I mean, look at what happened to us this past weekend. We've been staying away from each other, trying to pretend we don't care when we really do, and then I saw you in danger and there was no way I was just going to ignore that."

"Exactly," Max said. "Knowing me, being around me, isn't safe. What happened last weekend just proves my point."

Liz hesitated, kicking herself for shooting her own argument in the foot. "Tell me something," she said slowly. "If the shooting happened again, or something like the shooting...if my life was in danger again...would you do what you did before? Would you try to save me, knowing what you know now about what could happen because of it?"

Max gave her a look of sheer disbelief. "Of course I would. In a second."

"So...it sounds like it's dangerous for you to know me too," Liz mused. "So what now? Do we both have to move to opposite ends of the Earth to stay away from each other?"

Max shook his head. "Can't. The Earth is round. It doesn't have 'ends'."

Liz landed a good natured swat which produced a fleeting, but genuine smile. "Okay, since we can't move to opposite 'sides' of the Earth, why try to stay away from each other? What are we accomplishing other than making ourselves miserable? And not just miserable, but maybe even more vulnerable? Aren't we stronger—and safer—when we're together?"

"Maybe," Max allowed. "We'd better finish this before the period ends."

Liz glanced at the clock; had that much time really gone by? Startled, she grabbed the worksheet and pulled it toward her only to find Max's hand over hers.

"I'll think about it," he said softly. "I promise."

She squeezed his hand, and just for a moment, the eyes she looked into weren't the eyes of perpetually worried Max, but the eyes of honest Max, the one who'd sent street lights spinning in her honor. He'll come around, she told herself. Come hell or high water, she was going to make him come around.

"One more thing," she whispered just before Max's pencil hit the paper. "When we kissed, did you...see things?"

"I was so drunk, I'm sure I saw all kinds of things," Max sighed.

"No, I don't mean that. Remember when you told me you got...what did you call them...'flashes'? Of things that had already happened? That's how you knew Kyle had been in my room when my journal went missing."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Well...when we kissed, I thought I saw...something," Liz finished, struggling for the right words. "Some of them were things we'd done that night, but...not all of them."

"Ten minutes, class," the teacher called. "You should be finishing up now."

Liz and Max looked down at their blank worksheet. "Meet me after next period," he whispered, "and we'll talk more then. But I'm sure it was nothing."

"You're probably right," she nodded. "We'd better do this before..."

"What's wrong?" Max asked when her voice trailed off as she stared out the window.

"What?" Liz said quickly, averting her gaze. "Oh...nothing."

Ten minutes was plenty of time for someone good at Biology, and Liz had no trouble getting them finished before the end of the period. By that time she'd decided not to mention who she thought she'd seen climbing the front steps to the school. She really couldn't be certain anyway as she'd only ever laid eyes on the man once, and that had been more than enough.

For just a second there, she thought she'd seen Michael's stepfather.




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




Hank Whitmore swallowed hard as he dug a finger between his Adam's apple and his tie. He hated neckties, which more closely resembled torture devices than fashion items. If you asked him, whoever had invented neckties ought to be shot, and he'd be only too happy to do the honors. But the sad fact was that when you wanted to appear confident and competent, there was nothing which sent that message like a necktie. A shirt and tie even trumped a suit with an open collared shirt, although a suit and tie was at the top of that heap. Which is how he'd found himself digging around his closet, looking for the suit he'd last worn several years ago. He'd found the coat and a presentable pair of pants, but seemed to have lost the all important ingredient: The necktie. A quick stop at Goodwill had solved that problem for $1.95, although it had taken several tries and a good deal of cursing in an Exxon Station's filthy bathroom to re-learn how to tie the damned thing. Now, as it threatened to cut off his breathing, he remembered feeling exactly the same way the last time he'd had to dress like this, when he'd gone for his final interview with Social Services. Of course it could be that he just tied his ties too tight, but he liked to think it was a omen of how much trouble his foster child could be.

When Hank had come to this morning and gotten a glimpse of Mickey on the way out of the trailer, he'd known he was in trouble. The purple shiner he'd landed on the kid's face was richly deserved, but problematic. Mickey was always threatening to turn him in to Social, and while it wasn't an entirely empty threat, he'd never made the call. Social made infrequent visits to the trailer which were always scheduled and easy to finesse; just clean the place up, stock the fridge, and lose the booze. Even if he missed something, his trump card was that Mickey was a teenager; teenagers were hard to place, so social workers turned a blind eye to all but the most egregious violations. And if Mickey made good on his threat, it would be his word against Hank's as long as Hank managed to lose the evidence fast enough, which is why there was a hidey-hole under a rug in his bedroom for just such emergencies.

But the shiner changed things. The shiner was physical evidence, not "he said/he said". All was not lost, as Mickey was hardly an angel; the black eye could be passed off to a fight. He'd considered waiting to see if anything came of it, but ultimately decided that this was a serious enough threat to his checkbook that it needed to be tackled head on. After all, the money he got for that kid paid for at least half his booze.

Climbing the school's front steps, Hank tugged again at his tie and winced as his hated dress shoes, pointy-toed and at least a size too small, pinched his feet. He'd also washed his hair, brushed his teeth, and gargled, all of which probably accounted for the fact that his scalp itched, his teeth squeaked like nails on a chalkboard, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He'd forgotten to trim his nails, but other than that, he was tricked out fancy enough to meet the goddamned Queen of England. If this didn't make a good impression, nothing would.

Hordes of teenagers hurried to and fro in the school's main hallway, and Hank squinted at signs until he located the one pointing to the school office. An official looking dame in a tight shirt sat typing at a computer as he approached, her hands flying over the keys.

"Hey, there, dolly," Hank said cheerfully. "I'm here to see The Man."

The hands stopped. An eyebrow rose. "Excuse me?" was the frosty reply.

"Eh, don't apologize," Hank said magnanimously. "You haven't done anything wrong. I'm here to see the big cheese about my kid, name's Guerin. Foster kid, that is. He ain't my kid."

Computer Dame leaned back in her chair, eyeing him up and down as though he wasn't all tricked out six ways to Sunday. "The 'big cheese'?" she repeated. "The 'man'? Are you referring to the school principal?"

"Course I am," Hank said. "Who'd you think I was talking about? Jesus Christ?"

"Unlikely," Computer Dame sniffed, "as this is not a house of worship."

"You're tellin' me," Hank chuckled. "Only thing I ever worshipped here was Johnny Walker."

The other eyebrow rose. Other dames in the office were now eavesdropping, their mouths set in thin lines. "Can we get on with this?" Hank said. "I'm a working man, you know."

"No doubt," Computer Dame said doubtfully. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Course I don't," Hank said, leaning over the counter, trying to see into the principal's office. "Why? Isn't he in there?"

Computer Dame gave him a look that could kill as she clattered keys. "I'm sorry, but his schedule is full today," she announced, sounding anything but sorry. "Would you like to make an appointment? I could get you in next week. Wednesday, 4 o'clock."

"Next week?" Hank repeated. "Jesus, what do you do in an emergency?"

"Is this an emergency?" Computer Dame inquired.

"No," Hank said quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was make Mickey's shiner sound worse than it was. "No, I just...ah, hell. Make it for Wednesday, then."

"Done. Anything else?"

"Don't you want my name?"

Computer Dame wrinkled her nose. ""No need, Mr. Whitmore. I remember you. I'd remember you anywhere."

"Ah," Hank said, flashing her a smile. "Thanks, doll. And thanks for the appointment." He leaned in closer, gave her a wink. "See you next week."

Well, whatdya know, Hank thought after he'd left the flabbergasted dame behind and was back outside, tugging the hated necktie off as he walked. Say what you want about him, but there was no denying it—Hank Whitmore certainly had a way with the ladies.




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




4 p.m.

Proctor residence




"Are you joking?" Dee said in disbelief. "He really said that?"

"He really said that," Brivari confirmed, reaching for the lemon as Dee set two glasses of iced tea on the table. "For the record, Jaddo has always claimed to agree with me in principle that the hybrids would be better off not knowing until they'd matured. He just didn't think that was feasible."

"And I take it you've come to agree with him?" Dee asked.

"It's been getting harder and harder to make a case for staying away," Brivari sighed, "and after last weekend...well, let's just say that such a public display raised the stakes."

"They could have been arrested for vandalism," Dee agreed. "We were just lucky they weren't."

"It's worse than that," Brivari said. "They used an Antarian symbol which would be perfectly recognizable to any Antarian. Like a Skin."

" 'Skin'?"

"The Argilians," Brivari clarified. "Courtney's people, although I'm not talking about the rebels."

"I'm sure you're not," Dee said quietly, the fate of Courtney's father still being a sore point with her. "I'd forgotten all about them."

"Don't," Brivari warned. "They're stranded here, courtesy of Khivar, and mad as hell about it."

"Don't you mean courtesy of you?" Dee said. "You and Jaddo destroyed their ship."

"Khivar could send another," Brivari shrugged. "He didn't as punishment, and as a means to spur them to action. They don't know the hybrids have emerged earlier than anticipated, and should a news feed get wind of an Antarian symbol, you can be certain they'd be here pronto."

"How do you know they don't know?" Dee asked eagerly. "Have you been in touch with Courtney?"

"The rebels went into hiding," Brivari answered, "anticipating a long wait and with the understanding that they would contact us should Nicholas ever learn anything worrisome. They haven't, so he hasn't."

"Oh," Dee said, disappointed. "I was hoping you'd heard from her." She paused. "Wait a minute. Weren't their husks supposed to give out around now?"

"Rumor has it they found a way to adapt Earth's technology to create more," Brivari said. "But it took them a while, so I don't know if they'll be ready in time."

Dee's eyebrows rose. " 'Rumor' has it? Where does one go for rumors about Argilians?"

"Back to the subject at hand," Brivari said pointedly. "Jaddo and I agree that direct contact would initially be unwise—"

"I still can't believe he said that," Dee muttered.

"—but some kind of contact is required," Brivari went on. "We were thinking of a message urging the hybrids to lay low and promising direct contact in the future. You know them far better than we do. What do you think?"

"In other words, stop leaving flaming symbols on public lawns?" Dee said dryly. "Honestly, Brivari, I don't know. Saying something might make them more reckless than saying nothing. Isn't no answer still an answer?"

" 'No answer' is what we've been doing," Brivari replied, "and doesn't seem to be working. We were hoping to douse the flames, no pun intended, for long enough to get us into summer, when Jaddo and Ava will be arriving anyway."

"You could certainly try it," Dee allowed. "But it seems to me that the best alternative to saying nothing is saying everything."

" 'Everything' as in...'everything'?"

"Yes, everything," Dee answered. "Half-baked contact, tidbits, cryptic messages...all that's going to do is make them more curious. If you've decided you can't stay away entirely, I'd vote for actually telling them what's what. They're far more likely to lay low if you give them some real explanations."

"They're also far more likely to demand explanations they shouldn't have," Brivari noted. "Have you forgotten that Zan remains able to compel us?"

"Of course not," Dee said, "which is why I think Anthony and I should be the ones to do the telling. They trust us, and I'd like to just see him try to give me an order."

"As would I," Brivari agreed, "but as for trusting you...will they still trust you when they learn what you've been keeping from them all these years?"

"I hadn't thought about that," Dee admitted. "But I still think they'd trust me more than a total stranger who—"

The front door opened. "Grandma!" a voice called. "Are you home?"

"Isabel?" Dee said, vaulting out of her chair, startled. "Um...I'm in the—"

"Hi," Isabel said breathlessly, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

"—kitchen," Dee finished, glancing hastily at Brivari who was now wearing a completely different face. The ease and speed with which he did that was still a little unnerving, even after all these years.

"Grandma, I have to talk to you," Isabel declared urgently, not even registering that someone else was in the room. "Michael's in trouble!"



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

Memorial Day weekend is next weekend, so I'll post Chapter 76 on Sunday, June 3rd.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX



February 17, 2000, 4:10 p.m.

Proctor residence




Vilandra stood in the kitchen doorway, bristling with worry and a fierce determination Brivari had seen in her before. Dee was fond of insisting that "Isabel" was different from her predecessor, a point he recognized as fiction but had long since ceased to argue, it being difficult to explain that level of science to a human. It was at times like these, with her take-no-prisoners attitude and sporting a face which could stop traffic, albeit by the standards of a different species, that it was easiest to see the princess shining through.

*My, my,* he said dryly. *It appears her highness is on a tear.*

*No, she's really upset,* Dee protested. *Hear her out.* "Michael's in trouble?" she echoed out loud. "What kind of trouble?"

*Probably truant,* Brivari murmured.

"He told Max, and Max wasn't supposed to tell me, but of course he did," Vilandra said, oblivious to her question. "And then Michael got mad because I knew, but somebody has to do something!"

"Isabel?" Dee said. "You're obviously upset, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. Is Michael in trouble at school?"

Vilandra shook her head. "No. I wish he was. That would be easier."

A prickle of unease stirred in Brivari. Vilandra might be Vilandra on any planet, but she was still a useful bellwether, one he had famously failed to heed. "What do you mean?" Dee asked. "Is Michael all right?"

"Yes. Well...yes and no. He's okay," Vilandra went on in a rush when Dee looked alarmed, "but...oh," she broke off, finally noticing Brivari. "I didn't know you had company. I—I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Brivari said smoothly, long familiar with the princess's penchant for tunnel vision. "I used to be in social work. Depending on what kind of 'trouble' this is, perhaps I could be of assistance?"

Vilandra's eyes widened. "Social work!" she exclaimed. "You're just the person I need!"

*You have no idea,* Dee said dryly.

"How so?" Brivari asked, ignoring her.

"See, I have this friend," Vilandra said eagerly, pulling up a chair next to him. "He's 16, and he lives in a—" She stopped suddenly. "I'm interrupting. Gosh, I'm sorry, Grandma. I was just—"

"No, no, that's all right," Dee said, resuming her seat. "If my...friend can help, that would be wonderful."

"Wait...haven't I seen you before?" Vilandra asked, staring at Brivari. "That day I was waiting tables at the Crashdown, and you were there with Grandma?"

*You've used this face before?* Dee said.

*I have so many, it's hard to keep track,* Brivari answered. "You did," he confirmed out loud. "I'm a friend of your grandmother's from the days when she practiced law."

"Great!" Vilandra enthused. "I came to Grandma because she's a lawyer. And because she knows my mom."

"Your father is also a lawyer, dear," Dee pointed out. "And I daresay he knows your mom too."

Vilandra's face clouded. "I know. But I can't bring this to him, not yet. And I need some help figuring out what to tell Mom, and how to help Michael, and—"

"Why don't you start at the beginning," Dee suggested. "You still haven't said what kind of trouble Michael is in."

"Right," Vilandra nodded. "Right. Well...like I said, I have this friend named Michael. Grandma knows him. Anyway, he's 16, and he lives with a foster parent, and...it's not working out."

*Uh oh,* Dee said heavily. *Hank did something.*

"Could you be a bit more specific?" Brivari prompted. " 'Not working out'...how?"

"Well...his foster father drinks a lot, and yells at him, and...they just don't get along," Vilandra finished. "So he needs a new foster parent. Can he do that?"

"Unlikely," Brivari answered. "Foster placements for children that age are extremely difficult to find."

"Yeah, I was afraid of that," Vilandra sighed. "I'd heard that the older you got, the harder it was."

" 'Older' is perhaps a misleading term," Brivari said. "Children are considered highly adoptable until the age of 2. By 3, their chances plummet. The year in between is something of a gray area."

"Three?" Vilandra said in disbelief. " But a three year-old is still little!"

"But not a baby," Brivari pointed out. "Or a toddler. By 3 a child is walking and talking, with a distinct personality and habits. Adoptive parents want babies most of all, 1 and 2 year-olds next. After that it becomes more difficult with each passing year."

Vilandra turned huge eyes on Dee. "We were 6," she said faintly.

"I know," Dee answered. "Which is why the orphanage was so happy to see your parents show up."

Vilandra was quiet for a moment. "I always knew we were lucky," she said finally. "I just never knew how lucky. Remind me to give Mom and Dad an extra hug tonight."

Brivari raised an eyebrow. There were uncharacteristic notes of humility and gratitude in her voice, traits he'd never associated with Vilandra. "Okay, so...finding him a new foster parent would be hard," she went on, recovering from her brief foray into new emotions. "But what if they had to? What if he had to leave? Where would he go?"

"Why would he have to leave?" Brivari asked.

"I don't know," Vilandra said doubtfully. "Maybe...maybe because his foster father kicked him out?"

"Oh, dear," Dee sighed.

"In that case," Brivari answered, "if a new foster parent could not be found, he would be sent to one of the youth homes run by the state, the nearest of which is in Santa Fe."

Vilandra blinked. "Youth home? No. No, no, no. Even if it were here, just...no."

Agreed, Brivari thought privately. If Rath's foster parent was indeed withdrawing, something else would have to be done, a bit of a problem given that he was considered a minor by human standards.

"So this is where I need you, Grandma," Vilandra went on. "I remember my dad talking about some way for you to live on your own before you turn 18. Do you know anything about that?"

"Emancipation," Dee nodded. "It's possible. Rare, but possible."

*How rare?* Brivari asked.

"Why rare?" Vilandra said simultaneously.

Dee smiled faintly. "An emancipated minor is responsible for supporting themselves, educating themselves, making all their own financial and medical decisions...that's a lot of responsibility, and it's not given lightly. The odds that a teenager could manage a job, find somewhere to live, and make all the other myriad decisions adults make are pretty slim unless they're close to 18 anyway."

"Michael's 16," Vilandra said. "Is that close enough?"

"Frankly? No," Dee answered. "And then there's the issue of suitability. Michael's track record...school attendance, grades, brushes with the law, that sort of thing...is less than stellar, and his support system, meaning family and friends, isn't much better."

"He's got Max and me," Vilandra said hopefully.

"And both of you are also minors," Dee reminded her. "He'll need adults who support him for a petition like that to be successful. As it stands right now, a judge is highly unlikely to deem him capable of handling his own affairs."

Vilandra's face fell. "Oh. Well...okay. Anyway...I needed your help with one more thing. I invited Michael to stay with us, at least until Hank calms down, and...well, you know how Mom is about Michael. Can you talk to her? He's coming over at dinner time."

"Of course," Dee said. "That's best done in person. Let me get my purse."

"I'll ride back with you," Vilandra said. "Max dropped me off and went to find Michael. I think he's afraid something else will happen." She paused. "Would it make a difference to a judge if...if Hank was hurting Michael?"

"What?" Dee said sharply.

"Don't tell him I told you," Vilandra begged. "Please don't tell him. He's already mad because Max told me and he wasn't supposed to—"

"Never mind all that," Dee interrupted. "What do you mean? How is Hank hurting him?"

"He...he gave him a black eye," Vilandra said. "Michael says it's happened before, but it hasn't left a mark. But I'm worried because Hank just seems more unstable than he was before, so I'm afraid he'll do it again, and then Michael will...I'm just afraid he'll do something he shouldn't. Something that'll get him in even more trouble."

Brivari and Dee exchanged glances. "In that case," Dee said, "Michael would be removed from the home. But the same problems apply, namely a lack of foster homes, and he'd likely wind up in the youth home. And none of that would have any bearing on a petition for emancipation. That's a completely separate subject. If anything, evidence of physical abuse would argue against turning a minor lose without some kind of adult support."

Vilandra paled. "I shouldn't have said anything," she said worriedly. "Promise you won't say anything? To anyone, not Michael, or Max, or Mom and Dad?"

"I promise," Dee said soothingly. "Wait for me in the car. I'll be right out." She reached out, took Vilandra's hand. "We'll sort this out," she promised, "one way or another."

"Thanks, Grandma," Vilandra said gratefully, rising from her chair. "It was nice to meet you," she added to Brivari. "Thank you for listening."

"You're most welcome," Brivari replied. "Good luck."

Dee waited until she'd left before letting out a long sigh. "Wonderful," she said darkly. "Now what? We can't let him go to a youth home, and no judge in his right mind would grant him emancipation. I'd foster him myself, but I'm considered too old, so we'll have to find—"

"We can't," Brivari said. "One of the first things Jaddo and I did after reconciling was look into a new placement for Rath; there are none, or at least none in Roswell. He'd have to leave town for certain, and we can't have that. The best option is what you're calling emancipation."

"Weren't you listening?" Dee said. "No judge will accept a petition for a child with his track record."

"They might if he had the support of a couple of lawyers," Brivari pointed out.

"A 'couple'?" Dee repeated blankly. "Me, and who else?"

"Your son," Brivari answered.

"Philip?" Dee said incredulously. "You expect Philip to support Michael's emancipation?"

"He's our best bet," Brivari said. "He's currently practicing, with contacts in the community. Look, do you have a better idea?" he continued when Dee gave a snort of derision. "Short of me posing as a long lost uncle, that is."

"It might come to that," Dee said, "especially if you're relying on Philip to get you out of this. Not that he can't, mind you. If he put his mind to it, he could sell ice to Eskimos. I just don't see him signing on."

"Then we need to find out what it would take to get him to sign on," Brivari said. "Because the alternatives are either having an abrupt 'coming out' party or leaving Rath in a situation where he's likely to use his considerable, and considerably uncontrolled, skills in ways that could land him in front of a judge for something other than a 'petition'."

"You think he'd kill Hank?" Dee asked.

"He wouldn't have to," Brivari answered. "All he'd have to do is hurt him, and we'd have a much bigger problem. You know your son. Find out his price."




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



Evans residence



"Good Lord, Mom," Diane said in dismay. "How can you even ask such a thing of us?"

"It's a few days, Diane," Dee answered, struggling to keep her voice even. "It's just a few days. Stop over-dramatizing it."

"Mom has a point," Philip said. "She's not asking us to take him in indefinitely."

"Well, I should hope not," Diane said tartly. "Not after what he did to Izzie—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, that was ages ago!" Dee exclaimed. "They were small children, they don't even remember it—"

"I remember it," Diane broke in.

"So do I," Philip said. "But I hardly think a few nights is going to be a problem."

"But why does he need to stay here?" Diane asked. "Max and Isabel are plenty old enough to look after themselves for a few days. Why can't he?"

Dee hesitated. "That's not the issue," she said finally. "His foster father is being abusive. Physically abusive."

"Oh, God," Philip sighed.

Diane's eyes widened. "Oh, my goodness," she said faintly. "I...I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"And they can't know that you know," Dee said. "Please don't tell them I gave you the details. I promised I wouldn't, but given the circumstances, I felt you should know there's more going on than whatever excuse they'll conjure for his being here."

"Then that settles it," Philip said. "We have a responsibility to help if we can, if only because this is important to Max and Isabel."

"Yes," Diane nodded. "Yes, of course. I didn't realize...I mean, I never cared much for Michael, but I certainly don't want to see him abused. What happened when he reported it?"

"He didn't," Dee said. "He doesn't want anyone to know."

"Why not?" Diane said in astonishment.

"Embarrassment, partly," Dee answered.

"And because that wouldn't necessarily make it any better," Philip added. "He's in a tough place, Diane. As bad as his current home is, where they'd likely send him if Social gets wind of this could be worse. Foster placements are extremely hard to find for teenagers, if not downright impossible."

"Which brings me to the next part," Dee said. "What about emancipation?"

Philip blinked. "Are you serious?"

"No, I'm joking," Dee deadpanned. "Of course I'm serious! It was your daughter who suggested it, just in case you didn't realize she listened when you went on about your cases."

"Actually, I didn't," Philip said, bewildered.

"What's 'emancipation'?" Diane asked.

"It would make render Michael a legal adult before he actually comes of age," Philip explained. "That means he wouldn't need a foster home."

"Exactly," Dee said.

"But he would need a job," Philip went on, "and a place to live. It's a rare landlord who would rent to an emancipated minor, and a rare employer who would hire someone who didn't even have a high school diploma for anything close to a living wage."

"What about school?" Diane asked. "He's 16, so he can legally drop out."

"But he shouldn't," Dee said. "A judge wouldn't like that."

"And the odds are good he will," Philip added. "A lot of judges don't like to approve these petitions because they essentially sentence the petitioner to low income jobs if they never finish their education."

"And how does that compare with sentencing them to abusive foster parents?" Dee asked. "Or a Social Services system which doesn't know what to do with them? How are they supposed to finish their education in circumstances like that?"

"I see what you're saying, Mom, but this would be a hard sell," Philip said. "The only kind of 'record' kids like these have is a school record, and from what I understand, Michael's isn't the best. He doesn't have any family to support him, or—"

"He has you," Dee said. "And me."

"Um...okay," Philip said uncertainly as Diane's eyes widened in alarm. "I'd consider supporting him, but in order to do that, I'd have to know he was really ready for it. I won't make a petition I don't think is wise, even if a judge will grant it."

"Fair enough," Dee agreed. "If you let him stay with you, you'll have plenty of opportunity to size him up. And you could look into it on the side, talk to the school—"

"No," Philip said firmly. "I won't do that. Not unless he talks to me directly and gives me permission."

" 'Permission'? He's an abused child, Philip, one who—"

"One whom you think could become emancipated," Philip interrupted. "I know he's in a rotten situation, Mom; I don't dispute that. But being an adult means dealing with rotten situations, and the way you do that is to look for help. If he wants me to intervene on his behalf, I'm happy to do that, but only if he wants me to and only if he's willing to work with me. This 'don't tell anyone' bit is the mark of a child. It's exactly what he can't do if he's to become emancipated because once he's emancipated, there's no one looking over his shoulder to fix things like this. You have to fix it yourself."

"There's no one looking over his shoulder now," Dee protested. "You know that as well as I do."

"I know," Philip allowed. "But you know as well as I do what emancipation means. And you know as well as I do that any judge who hears his petition is going to look for straight, honest answers from him. If he wants to be declared an adult, he's going to have to act like one, and soliciting the services of a lawyer would be the first step."

"All right," Dee sighed. "Let's just see how it unfolds tonight. But please don't be too hard on him. He's been through a rough few years."

"Don't worry about me," Diane promised. "I give you my word I'll be on my very best behavior."




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





"Well, I don't want to play any more."

Diane saw the look on her daughter's face as Michael rose from the table and walked away; this wasn't going to end well. "Michael, wait!" she called.

"Michael!" Isabel exclaimed, going—storming, rather—after him.

Max gave her and Philip an apologetic look. "Go on," Philip said. "I think she's going to need some help."

Raised voices were heard in the distance as Max retreated and Diane stared at Monopoly board. "You know, I told your mother I'd be on my best behavior because I thought I'd be the one to worry about. I never dreamed it would be you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Philip asked.

"Well, geeze, honey, did you have to go making a federal case out of a game of Monopoly?" Diane demanded. "What's the big deal if he pays you later, or Izzie gives him a loan? It's a game!"

Philip tidied his substantial stash of Monopoly money into a neat pile. "Yes," he agreed, "this is a game. But what Mom wants me to do for Michael is no game, Diane. That's the law, and if he does that, he's going to have to play by the rules. No judge will look at him twice if he doesn't."

"So you're using a Monopoly game as a test of character?" Diane said doubtfully. "God help us all."

"Not character," Philip protested. "He wasn't cheating. It was a test of resolve, and not just the Monopoly game. Notice he didn't tell us the real reason he was here tonight."

"Neither did our children," Diane pointed out. "And who wants to discuss something like that with strangers over dinner?"

"The point is, he doesn't want to discuss it at all," Philip said. "And he'll have to, with lots of different people if he petitions for emancipation. Assuming that's what he wants, that is. So far we've only heard that from my mother, and she heard it from Isabel. That doesn't mean Michael's the least bit interested."

"Well, then, why not ask him?" Diane said. "Would it be so difficult for you to make the first move?"

"And what do I say?" Philip asked. "That my mother gave me personal information she learned from Isabel, who wasn't supposed to tell anyone in the first place? How well do you think that will go over?" He shook his head. "No, this has to come from Michael. He has to want it, he has to articulate why he wants it, and he has to be willing to meet the court's requirements in order for it to be granted. Not all by himself, of course; I'd be happy to help him, and I know Mom would too. But he has to be willing to do the work involved, and that involves jumping through a lot of hoops." He paused, smiling faintly. "Did you notice we're backwards? I'm usually the one willing to cut him some slack, and you're not. What changed?"

"God knows your mother has been championing his cause for years," Diane said. "But I could never get the sight of him attacking Izzie out of my mind."

"Eh, I never put the stock in that that you did," Philip said. "They were all so upset that night. Something happened that set them all off, just in different ways. Remember how Izzie wouldn't stop screaming? And Max was practically shell-shocked?"

"It was the stuff of nightmares," Diane agreed.

"And Michael was angry," Philip went on. "They all reacted in their own way, and they all got over it. Michael certainly doesn't go around attacking people now."

"No, now he's being attacked," Diane sighed. "Your mother likes to point out that his foster father is no prize, but she never said anything about abuse."

"Probably because she didn't know," Philip said. "Sounds like Izzie didn't either."

"And now I feel awful," Diane said ruefully. "Here the kid's getting knocked around, and I didn't want him over for pizza."

"He's a difficult personality," Philip said. "Always was. Remember when he first showed up at the orphanage? I hear Max and Izzie convinced him to come inside."

"And then they were inseparable," Diane murmured. "Until we separated them."

"And then they found each other again and became just as inseparable," Philip said thoughtfully. "I wonder why that is? That's twice those three have stuck together like glue. It's almost like there's something else there, some other bond we're missing."

Diane tossed her pile of properties on the board and leaned back in her chair. "Why don't you just say it?"

"Say what?"

"What I've long suspected, but never wanted to contemplate: That they're siblings."

"You mean Max and Izzie and Michael?" Philip said, puzzled. "What makes you think they're siblings? They're all about the same age. What, are they triplets?"

"We don't know exactly how old they are," Diane pointed out. "And they were all abandoned at the same time in the same place—"

"Same place? We didn't find Michael."

"He was covered with sand," Diane said. "Head to toe, just like Max and Izzie. Mrs. Melbourne always thought he'd been in the desert too."

"You mean head-of-the-orphanage Mrs. Melbourne?" Philip said skeptically. "Given that Roswell sits in the desert, I'd say that was a safe guess. But then she was one for safe guesses."

"Don't tell me you didn't like her either," Diane admonished. "Your mother couldn't stand her. Those two used to claw each other's eyes out."

"I can see why," Philip chuckled. "Not that she was incompetent, and she was always nice to you. She was just...officious. Full of herself. I can see why she and mom clashed."

"You know, you and your mother are a lot alike," Diane said dryly. "Who woulda thunk?"

A door slammed. A moment later, Isabel stalked across the living room without so much as a backward glance, Max trailing in after her.

"I'm sorry tonight didn't go so well, honey," Diane said.

"That's okay, Mom," Max said, waving away her apology. "It's not your fault. Like I told Isabel, Michael's never been easy."

"Your mother thinks I was too hard on him," Philip remarked.

Max blinked. "Wait...Mom thinks you were too hard on him?"

"Hell froze over when you weren't looking," Philip said cheerfully.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Diane muttered.

"Max, I'm going to make a wild guess that things aren't going so well for Michael," Philip went on. "And if that's the case, I might be able to help him...but he has to want it. He has to be willing to talk to me about it, and willing to follow a whole lot more rules than he'll ever find in Monopoly."

"I know," Max said quickly. "I get it. I...thanks. Just, thanks for putting up with, you know, the table manners, or lack thereof, and the tantrum, and...just thanks."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Diane said.

Isabel appeared, coat in hand. "We're leaving," she announced to Max.

" 'We'?" Max echoed. "Where?"

"Where do you think?"

"Oh," Max said. "Okay. Well...catch you guys later."

"Not too much later," Philip warned. "It's a school night."

"I know," Max nodded. "We'll be home. I promise."

Outside, the jeep roared to life. Diane looked at the messy game board, then glanced at the phone.

"So who's the lucky one who gets to tell your mother?"





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




Hank Whitmore's trailer





"You got my messages?" Brivari asked.

"Both of them," Jaddo answered, coming up beside him outside Rath's trailer. "Why is he back here?"

"According to Dee, he objected to her son's insistence on following the rules of a board game," Brivari answered.

"And he thought this was better?" Jaddo said with a dark glance at the trailer. "Ah, well. He never was much of one for following the rules."

"Sometimes an admirable trait in a First," Brivari allowed, "but never in a human teenager in the social services system."

"I gather Dee's son isn't willing to help him achieve...whatever it was you called it?"

" 'Emancipation'," Brivari answered. "He is, but he fears Rath won't have the required patience for the process."

"And he'd be right about that," Jaddo sighed. "Which is unfortunate because he can't stay here." He paused. "How bad was it?"

"I never saw it, so I don't know," Brivari said. "I'm guessing one of them healed whatever marks were left."

"Probably Zan," Jaddo said. "Rath's control of his powers leaves much to be desired—" He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "What are they doing here?"

Zan and Vilandra had appeared outside the trailer, parking the jeep right beside it. "Keeping vigil, I imagine," Brivari answered. "Just as we are." He was quiet for a moment as four people watched the trailer, two of them unaware of the other two. "So...which one of us gets to play the long lost uncle?"

"I do," Jaddo said. "And not because he's my Ward. I'd say the same if it were Zan. One of us needs to stay in the background," he explained when Brivari gave him a questioning look. "They only know of one of us, so only one needs to be revealed...and one of us needs to stay free. Directly raising a Ward ties you down; no one knows that better than I do. I'm already in that position. It wouldn't be wise to have both of us shackled."

" 'Shackled'," Brivari murmured. "Interesting word."

Jaddo shook his head. "No regrets, Brivari. I stand by my reasons for raising Ava myself. It just didn't work out the way I'd hoped."

"Like a great many things," Brivari said quietly.

"Indeed," Jaddo agreed.

Raised voices sounded inside the trailer. Zan and Vilandra scrambled out of the jeep and ran inside as Brivari and Jaddo drew closer. "Give them a minute," Brivari advised. "They might talk Rath into coming home with them."

But after a few moments of silence, the trailer suddenly began to rock as though a mighty hand were pushing it to and fro. Alarmed, both Warders rushed forward.

And then the gun went off.


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



I'll post Chapter 77 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!







CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN



February 17, 2000, 11:30 p.m.

Hank Whitmore's trailer




Hank Whitmore was very much aware that he hadn't been good at anything in his life. He'd never mastered the art of getting to the food before his seven older brothers and sisters. He'd never managed to duck fast enough to avoid his father's fist. He'd never done enough schoolwork to keep the school off his back, and he'd dropped out just as soon as it was legal, although, truth be told, he hadn't gone much before that anyway. He loved his liquor, but wasn't much good at holding it. He hated working and drifted from job to job. No, the list of things Hank was good at was depressingly short. But one thing he was good at, even excelled at, was finding kindred spirits. Hank had an indisputable knack for finding similarly unskilled individuals, some of whom had provided companionship in various shelters or cells, some of whom had screwed him over...and some of whom had proven to be lucrative. It had been a fellow lowlife who had cued him in to the financial benefits of fostering a child.

You're kidding, he'd said as they'd lounged in whatever bar he'd been in that time. Take in a kid? Why in God's name would he do a stupid thing like that? The answer to that question found him in the local Goodwill picking up a suit and tie, followed by a visit to a barber, followed by a series of lessons from his muse as to what to say and what not to say. The approval process was annoying and not a little nerve-wracking, but the bottom line, as his muse had pointed out, was this: Social Services was hard up for homes for older foster kids, especially boys. Which meant that if you could walk and talk, you were basically in, even if you weren't much to write home about. He'd been right; Social had rubber-stamped his application in record time and duly delivered the first of his foster children, one old enough that he aged out of the system in a reasonably short period of time and damaged enough that he neither expected nor needed much in the way of attention. After the first had left, a second arrived, very similar to the first, then a third. It was a tidy arrangement which produced a steady income divorced from the ups and downs of the job market and little of which needed to be spent on the child in question. Provide basic food, basic clothes, keep the school off your back, and you were golden.

But things had gone downhill after number three had moved out. Social had been fresh out of boys, plying him with girls instead, which Hank could not abide. Girls were mouthy space hogs, what with their make-up and jewelry and curling irons, and they tattled; his three older sisters had taught him that. What about a younger boy, they'd asked? No, he wanted someone self sufficient who wasn't going to be there very long. If fish and relatives stank after three days, foster kids stank after three years; fifteen was the lowest he'd go. He'd lived for six miserable months without the support checks before caving in to economic necessity and lowering his standards. And that was how he'd wound up with his current charge, the youngest Hank had fostered, but also the most world weary. Michael Guerin was one for sullen retorts and dark looks; he had a way of looking at you which insinuated that he knew much more about you than you thought he did and much more than he should. But the one good thing about a younger boy was that he was also a smaller boy and therefore easier to knock around when he got out of hand...or so Hank had thought. For some odd reason, his attempts to discipline Mickey never seemed to hit home. Whenever he'd try, something weird would happen, like a glass would suddenly shatter, or a jar would walk itself off a shelf. One time a door flew open into Hank's balled fist, and another time someone knocked on the door just at the critical moment, but there was no one there. Even without the distractions, the kid could move preternaturally fast, slipping away from him with a maddening agility that probably wasn't helped by his alcohol-laden reflexes. Every now and then he'd connect, but it quickly became apparent that smacking the kid was so much work, it just wasn't worth the effort. That he'd managed to do so only yesterday had been more a product of the kid's preoccupation with those weird pictures he'd been looking at than any skill on his part. But last night the long history of strange happenings whenever he raised his hand to the kid had continued, only this time it wasn't a glass or a jar that went flying—it was him. He still had a goose egg on the back of his head, and he still wasn't sure what exactly had happened; it had felt like he'd been flying through the air before he hit the wall, but even he had to admit he could have tripped over something. Or that's what he'd told himself after Mickey had run off.

But not this time, Hank thought grimly, stepping over the chair Mickey had smashed just by pointing at it, tossing his gun on the couch as he scrambled for the phone. This time it was clear that his instincts had been right from the start—the kid was a freak, and a dangerous freak at that. He wanted him out of his house, pronto, and he wanted another, less freaky kid in here just as pronto. No reason he should suffer financially because the kid was a freak. He'd punched in the emergency number for Mickey's caseworker, stabbing at the buttons so hard the phone skittered left, then right, before he realized there was no dial tone. "Damn it!" he swore, hurling the receiver down with a bang. Had the little bastard cut the phone lines?

"Hank?"

It was Jeb from a few doors down, poking his head quizzically in the trailer's door. Jeb was a kindred spirit with a foster kid of his own, albeit one who probably didn't hurl things without touching them. There were lots of kindred spirits in this park, where fostering a kid was part of the local economy.

"Get in here!" Hank whispered, pulling Jeb inside, looking fearfully out the door. "Is he out there? Did you see Mickey on the way in?"

"No," Jeb said uncertainly. "Why?"

"I'll tell you why," Hank said, stabbing the air with a finger. "He's a freak! A freak, I tell you! I knew it! I always knew there was something funny about that kid, but I could never prove it."

"And...now you can?" Jeb ventured.

"Wait till Social hears about this," Hank went on. "His caseworker told me to report anything 'unusual' that happened. I always wondered what that meant, 'unusual'. Maybe they already know. Maybe that's what they meant by 'unusual'."

"Are you okay?" Jeb asked. "I heard shouting, and then a gun went off."

"I'm okay, but that kid ain't gonna be," Hank said darkly. "Would you believe he raised a hand to me?"

Jeb blinked. "He hit you?"

"No, he...we were arguing, see," Hank went on, guessing this might sound better, or at least a bit less mental, if he started from the beginning. "And then a couple of strangers busted in one us, a boy and a girl. And she was a real looker," he added admiringly. "Haven't the faintest why she'd be wasting her time on Mickey, but she threw the drink I offered her right back in my face."

"No!" Jeb exclaimed.

"Yes!" Hank confirmed. "And threatened to kill me, the little bitch. And that's when Mickey gave himself away."

"How?" Jeb asked eagerly, perching on the kitchen table.

"He held his hand up," Hank answered, demonstrating, "and...things happened. See that chair? He broke it without touching it. See that fridge? The doors opened and closed without anybody touching it. I'd grabbed my gun when Miss Bitchy said she was gonna kill me, but all of a sudden, it had a mind of it's own. It started bucking in my hand, waving all over the place, fighting me...and that's when it went off. And then they all ran out, Mickey too."

"Jesus," Jeb whispered.

"I knew it," Hank said, nodding furiously. "I knew it! This isn't the first time, you know. I've known for a while that something was up with that kid, but it was always little things. This time, he really put his foot in it."

"So what are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna call Social and tell them what a freak they've got on their hands," Hank declared. "My phone's dead. Can I use yours?"

"You sure you want to do that?" Jeb asked doubtfully.

" 'Course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be sure?"

"Well...you're kind of drunk, Hank," Jeb confessed. "Are you sure this isn't the drink talkin'? Hell, why not have another?" he went on, pulling a bottle from his coat pocket. "Wouldn't mind a nip myself. Had one already, mind you, although I ain't seen pretty girls and flying chairs yet—"

Hank grabbed Jeb by the collar. "You listen to me," he hissed as Jeb's eyes widened. "I am not drunk. Been drinking, sure, but I'm not drunk. When I'm drunk, I'm not doing laundry, offering drinks to dames, and grabbing guns. When I'm drunk, I'm not even vertical. I know what I saw, and I'm gonna shout it from the rooftops if I have to. Now gimme your phone."

Jeb reached into his pocket for his cell, a handsome Nokia that must have been stolen. It hovered in the air, inches out of reach as Jeb eyed him carefully.

"You sure about this, Hank? He's just gonna go to someone else, so someone else'll get the money. Maybe you can get another kid, but isn't it better to stick with the one you have? Better the devil you know, that's what I always say."

"Give me that!" Hank said savagely, snatching the phone out of his hand. "Nobody else'll get a dime off that kid because when I get through with him, nobody else'll want him. If I can't have him, I'll make damn sure no one else does either."

Jeb sighed, a sound full of resignation and regret. "I was afraid you'd feel that way. Most unfortunate."

"But hardly unexpected," another voice said.

Hank whirled around. Another man, a total stranger, stood behind him, having entered so quietly, he hadn't even heard. "Who the hell are you?" Hank demanded. "How did you get in here?"

"The door," the stranger answered in a bored tone. "My, but this one's thick."

"For the record, this isn't who I left him with," Jeb said.

Hank's head swung around. "You know him?" he demanded of Jeb. "Who's this bozo? Get rid of him! I've got a phone call to make."

The phone flew out of Hank's hand, gliding smoothly through the air to land in Jeb's with a soft thwack. "Afraid not," Jeb said softly.

"Thick...and mine," the stranger said hungrily. "I want this one."

"Fine by me," Jeb agreed as Hank's eyes widened. "He's all yours."




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




February 18, 2000, 2:30 p.m.

Proctor residence




" 'Dead'?" Dee echoed blankly. "As in 'dead' dead?"

"In my experience, one 'dead' usually suffices," Brivari said.

"No great loss," Anthony commented. "Inconvenient, though."

" 'Inconvenient'?" Dee said incredulously. "That's your contribution?"

"You want met to shed tears over Hank?" Anthony said. "You'll have a long wait for that one."

"No, I don't want you to shed tears over Hank," Dee said impatiently. "I'm referring to the ramifications of Michael being tossed back into the Social Services scrum, not to mention the fact that dead bodies cause all kinds of problems."

"A fact of which I am very much aware," Brivari replied, "and have been saying as much to Jaddo for ages now. But in this case, we had no choice. Hank was hell bent on calling Rath's caseworker, and if he'd managed to bring Rath's actions to their attention, things could have become far more 'inconvenient' than they are now."

"Okay, back up," Dee said. "How did this even happen?"

"It appears that after last night's aborted attempt to integrate Rath into your son's family, Zan and Vilandra stationed themselves outside his trailer," Brivari answered. "They heard an argument and went inside."

"Oh, dear," Anthony murmured.

"What happened next is open to some debate," Brivari continued, "but it appears that Rath used his powers in front of Hank when he turned a gun on them after Vilandra threatened to kill him."

"Isabel?" Anthony chuckled. "Good for her."

"Shush," Dee said severely. "Used his powers how, exactly?"

"It sounds like it was mostly telekinetic," Brivari answered. "Chairs flying, doors opening and closing, that sort of thing. But it also made the gun go off, at which point the hybrids beat a rather hasty exit."

"And Hank had seen all he needed to see," Dee said sadly.

"Exactly," Brivari agreed. "He was drunk, as usual, and I tried to talk him down by pointing that out and disabled his phone to gain more time to accomplish that. I was hoping to get him even more drunk, but he was adamant. Even reminding him of the monthly check got me nowhere."

"Wow," Anthony said. "That is adamant. For him, I mean."

"Wait a minute...you tried to talk him down?" Dee said. "How did you manage that?"

"I posed as a neighbor whose company he frequents," Brivari answered.

Dee blinked. "You know Hank's neighbors?"

"Of course. As I know yours, your son's, the sheriff's, and those of the hybrids' allies, along with enough personal information to pose as them at least briefly, if necessary. At any rate, he wouldn't have another drink, and he wouldn't back down. He'd seen too much. He needed to be disposed of."

" 'Disposed of'," Dee said faintly. "So this is what you would have done to Diane if she'd gone the wrong way on the videotape?"

"In that case, I would of course have given you the opportunity to explain the situation," Brivari answered. "But if she had threatened to expose my Ward the way Hank did, then yes, I would have." He paused. "Are you concerned about your daughter-in-law for some reason?"

"No," Dee said quickly. "No, I..." I was just chiding myself for putting Philip in such a dangerous position without his knowledge, she added silently. It was certainly no secret to her that Warders would kill to protect their Wards, but she hadn't been reminded of that for a while now.

"I see the chances of that happening as virtually nil," Brivari said gently. "Your daughter-in-law was quite the tiger when her son was threatened."

"Diane?" Anthony said. "A tiger? That's not a word we usually associate with Diane."

"You didn't see her with Valenti," Brivari said. "She made herself exceptionally clear. So much so that whenever he sees her in town, he actively avoids her."

"So what happens to Michael now?" Dee asked, anxious to change the subject. "Will he be sent somewhere, like a youth home?"

"That would be the next order of business," Brivari answered. "He didn't return to the trailer last night, and we thought he'd spent the night with Zan, but he hadn't. We don't know where he was, but he did show up for school today. I'm anticipating he'll be at your son's house tonight, if only because Vilandra will drag him there by the hair. Will that be a problem?"

"Surprisingly, no," Dee said. "Diane is now firmly in his camp. She heard the word 'abuse' and completely changed her tune."

"What about your son?" Brivari asked. "The need to pursue the emancipation option is now pressing."

"He won't do it unless Michael initiates it," Dee said. "And frankly, he shouldn't. Unless Michael is really committed, he won't make it through the process, and starting it only to abandon it partway through would look very bad for him."

"Maybe we've got some time," Anthony suggested. "It'll take a while for Hank to be declared missing, won't it? An alcoholic like him could easily go off on a bender, disappear for a bit. If Michael doesn't say anything, he might have a little while, or at least until the rent comes due."

"Hello?" a voice called from the front of the house. "Grandma? Grandpa?"

Dee and Anthony exchanged startled glances. "Max?" Dee said. "Is that you?"

It was. Max appeared in the doorway, his eyes clouded with worry as Dee's fleeting thought about how to introduce Brivari proved unnecessary; he had disappeared. "Is Michael here?" Max asked.

"No," Dee answered. "Why would he be here?"

"I can't find him anywhere," Max answered. "He was pulled out of class, and he never came back."

"Pulled out by whom?" Anthony asked.

Max shook his head. "Don't know. Guys in suits. And now we can't find him. Isabel's asking around too, but I know he likes you, so I thought he might..."

A phone rang, and Max dug in his pocket for his cell. "Hello? Michael? Where are you?" He paused, his eyes widening. "What? But how...never mind. I'll be right there."

"What's wrong?" Dee asked worriedly. "Where is he?"

"The sheriff brought him in," Max said. "Hank is missing, and they think Michael knows why."




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Got anything new?"

Hanson leafed through the papers in his hand as he entered Valenti's office. "No, sir, I don't," he answered. "Neighbors in that trailer park aren't much on talking, especially when it concerns one of their own. They see it as tattling."

"They talked before," Valenti noted. "That's how we found out about the gunshots."

"It was actually a passing motorist who made the report," Hanson noted. "A couple of neighbors reluctantly corroborated that and gave us the few other details we have, but they were pretty quickly shushed up. Second time around, no one said a thing."

"Great," Valenti sighed. "What about the trailer?"

"Searched it stem to stern; no blood, no signs of a struggle. Whitmore was a little light on the hygiene—frankly, the kid's room was the cleanest part—but other than that, nothing looked amiss. There was still plenty of booze in the cupboards, and we found a stash of about $200 in a coffee can."

"Wonder what kind of interest rate that gets," Valenti said dryly. "So this wasn't a robbery. Did you find a gun?"

"Yep, leaning up against the wall all tidy like. There was a bullet hole in the ceiling."

"Hallelujah, we have a bullet hole," Valenti murmured.

"What's that, sir?"

"Nothing," Valenti said quickly. "Our Mr. Guerin says Hank was there when he left the trailer last night, but he won't say where he spent the night. I wonder what he was up to."

"Not stirring up trouble," Hanson answered. "I checked the logs—no robberies, no disturbing the peace, no domestic assaults, not even any traffic tickets. Last night was quiet as a church mouse." He paused. "You know, Hank could just be out on a bender. Wouldn't be the first time."

"I know," Valenti said. "But all those other times didn't involve arguments and gunshots or not showing up for work. Hank usually shows up for work even if he can't walk a straight line. Something else is going on here."

"And you think the kid knows what?"

Valenti was quiet for a moment. "No. No, I don't. I saw the look in his eyes when I told him Hank was missing. He really didn't know."

"So...why are we holding him?"

"Because I've got nothing, deputy, except a gunshot, a missing man, and a kid who won't talk. All he has to do is tell me where he was. Is that so hard?"

"Don't you mean 'missing lowlife'?" Hanson chuckled.

"We're not here to sit in judgment over the people we're sworn to serve," Valenti said firmly. "People aren't born like Hank Whitmore—they're made. Even so-called 'good' people, people you and I would be proud to associate with, can sink that low because shit happens. Every single person if this town deserves the law's protection, even a 'lowlife', and not a single person is above the law, even the elite. That's how it works."

"Yes, sir," Hanson said quickly. "I didn't...I didn't mean..."

"Sure you did," Valenti said in a softer tone, "and for what it's worth, you're right. It's human nature to feel that way, so we've got to regularly remind ourselves that we're here for everyone, even those we don't like. If I learned nothing else from my father, I learned that."

"Right," Hanson said, nodding. "Of course. I'll let you know if I hear anything else. Oh, and about 'is that so hard'...in my admittedly short experience, sir, when a young man won't say where he was, he was either up to no good—"

"Thought of that one already."

"—or with a girl," Hanson finished. "Or, these days, maybe a guy."

Valenti blinked. "I'll...keep that in mind."

Hanson left, and Valenti leaned back in his chair and sighed. So many questions, so many conundrums. No, he didn't think Guerin had anything to do with Hank's disappearance, but his gut told him this wasn't just another bender, and that old truism that they were here for everyone took on new meaning when "everyone" included another species. The nightmares following Hubble's death had largely faded, but every so often, his dreams gave him another good look at the fanatical Hubble seconds away from shooting a teenaged boy...or what looked like a teenaged boy. Did "everyone" really mean everyone? If "everyone" included the illegal alien from Mexico, did it also include the one from outer space? Did he have a responsibility to serve and protect only the human residents of his town, or the non-human residents as well?

As if that moral dilemma weren't headache-inducing enough, Valenti's eyes strayed to his hat, currently hanging from a hook and slightly misshapen from having been sat on in one of the most embarrassing moments of his life. Was he really so old that he hadn't considered the girl angle himself? He should have, given what he'd been "up to" last night. The looks on Liz Parker's and Maria DeLuca's faces had been painful, but not as painful as the realization that he'd catapulted himself into the kitchen only half dressed. Why on earth had he done that? Why not get everything zipped and buttoned and stroll out there nonchalantly like nothing had happened? Because something did happen, he thought, allowing himself a small smile. Because the last time he'd found himself in that position, he'd been a horny teenager discovered by his mother. Last night he'd reacted just exactly the way he had when he'd been fifteen, only he wasn't fifteen, he was the sheriff; commanding respect could be difficult on a good day and was well nigh impossible with your shirt tail out and your fly unzipped. The only saving grace was that the girls had been so horrified, they might actually keep their mouths shut about it.

"Knock, knock," a voice said.

"Amy!" Valenti exclaimed, vaulting out of his chair so quickly, it skidded backwards. "I was just thinking of you."

"Good thoughts, I hope," Amy smiled, closing the office door behind her. "Of last night, maybe?"

Valenti felt the shit-eating grin on his face falter as he sank back into his chair. "Yeah, about that...I'm really sorry we got...interrupted."

"My fault," Amy said firmly. "Totally my fault. I know what time Maria gets home; I just wasn't paying attention. And no wonder." She moved to the desk, took a seat on the edge. "I had a really nice time last night, Jim. A really nice time."

"So did I," Valenti said, feeling the rest of his body gearing up for another really nice time. "Can't wait for the next one. But not here. We really need to keep this away from work."

Amy blinked. "What? Oh...you think I'm here for some nookie? No, no, Jim, I'm here on business."

"Of course you are," Valenti said quickly, silently kicking himself. "What's up?"

"Maria tells me you have my little wrestler in here for questioning," Amy said. "Something about not knowing where he was last night."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Well, I might be able to help you out there," Amy said. "I hate to say this, but...he was at my house last night."

"All night?"

"From about midnight on," Amy nodded.

"Midnight," Valenti murmured, rifling through the reports Hanson had left him. "Yep, that gets him off the hook."

"With you, anyway," Amy said darkly. "Look, I found him in bed with my daughter this morning," she went on when Valenti's eyebrows rose. "Asleep," she added quickly, "and Maria swears that's all they did. Which didn't stop me from throwing him out, mind you."

"Course not," Valenti said. "And that explains why he wouldn't say where he was." He paused. "You said you found him this morning...how do you know he was there at midnight?"

"Maria told me."

"But you didn't see him at midnight?"

"No, Jim, I didn't 'see him' at midnight," Amy answered. "Maria told me when he got there. She was in so much trouble, there was no way she was going to say he was there longer than he actually was. If anything, she would have short-changed it, not lengthened it."

"Uh huh," Valenti murmured.

" 'Uh huh'?" Amy echoed. "You don't believe me?"

" 'Course I do," Valenti said quickly. "For what it's worth, he wouldn't tell me where he was. Kept his mouth shut even when I locked the cell door behind him."

Amy was quiet for a moment. "Hmm," she murmured finally. "Maria said as much. Okay, so maybe I won't kill him today. Maybe I'll kill him tomorrow."

"Never tell your sheriff you're planning a murder," Valenti said dryly.

"Oh, sheriff," Amy said innocently. "Are you going to arrest me?"

"Did you want me to?" Valenti asked, the shit-eating grin having made a reappearance.

"Maybe," Amy allowed with a smile of her own. She leaned in toward him, and for a few seconds, no one spoke...

"I'll keep that in mind," Valenti said suddenly, fighting a sudden urge to lock the door and clear the desk. "I'll just...I'll just go...let me go get him."

"Right!" Amy said, flushing. "Right. I...send Maria up, will you? I told her to wait for me downstairs."

That was close, Valenti thought on the way downstairs, still smiling. God, but he liked Amy; she was cute, and smart, and sassy, and...Down, boy! he told himself sternly. There would be plenty of time to see Amy again, behind locked doors and booby traps this time. He spied Maria and told her to join her mother in his office, which she did promptly after seeing the keys in his hand. Michael Guerin was stretched out on the cell's bunk when the key rattled in the lock.

"What's this?" Guerin asked when Valenti opened the door.

"I just talked to Maria DeLuca's mother," Valenti said. "You're free to go."

Guerin sat up slowly. "She told you."

"She did," Valenti confirmed.

"We didn't do anything," Guerin said defiantly. "We just slept."

"Told me that too."

"Suppose she still wants to kill me, though."

"You're three for three," Valenti said cheerfully. "Maybe you should use that winning streak on something substantial."

"Yeah," Guerin said, grabbing his jacket. "Maybe." He paused just outside the cell. "I really don't know where Hank is."

"I know you don't," Valenti said.

"Then why'd you lock me up?" Guerin demanded.

"Because I also know you're keeping something from me, son, and not just your whereabouts last night. I get that; it was mighty noble of you to protect her reputation. But there's something else you're not telling me, and I don't like it when people aren't straight with me."

"Guess we all have things we don't like," Guerin shrugged. "Some more than others."

He's good, Valenti thought, noting the straight face, the eye contact, the complete lack of nervousness. "True," he agreed. "Listen, I'll get in touch with Social Services so they can find you a new foster situation—"

"Don't bother. I'll be fine on my own."

Valenti shook his head. "Sorry, can't do that. You're under age; I have to report this. I'll personally follow up," he added when Guerin gave a snort of disgust. "I won't just call. I'll keep calling, I'll go down there, I'll bring my considerable influence to bear. I'll find you something. I promise."

"And why would you do that? Is this payback for keeping our mouths shut about Hubble?"

"The reason I told you to say nothing about Hubble has nothing to do with me," Valenti answered. "I did nothing wrong."

"Neither did Max," Guerin said.

"No, he didn't. But his presence at the death of a man like Everett Hubble could wind up attracting attention, maybe the wrong kind of attention. And I really don't think your friend Max wants to attract the wrong kind of attention."

They had reached the hallway. Guerin paused in the doorway, giving him an appraising stare before looking away. "There's my ride."

Valenti glanced down the hall, where Max and Isabel Evans waited hopefully. "They'll have to wait. You're going upstairs first to thank Mrs. DeLuca for saving your bacon."

Guerin blinked. "Wait...she's here? I thought she called."

"She and Maria are here," Valenti answered. "In my office. March."

Valenti registered the anguished looks on the Evans kids' faces as Guerin reluctantly hung a left toward the stairs. Everett Hubble's death still haunted him, but not as much as it could haunt Max Evans if the wrong people found out he had anything to do with it. He was still convinced Hubble had been working for the FBI, and the less they knew about it, the better. And to think he'd seriously considered taking Kathleen Topolsky up on her generous offer to share information.

Conflicted or not, he was now protecting the very thing she'd been chasing.




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




FBI Field Office

Santa Fe




Kathleen Topolsky sank down on the bench outside the Bureau's Field Office, her Starbucks balanced carefully in one hand. Her daily afternoon break was one of the ways she'd made peace with her boring desk job fact-checking other agents, agents who hadn't yet been yanked from the field because they'd screwed up. It was now approaching three months since her exile, but it felt like thirty, and her daily dose of complicated coffee helped her forget. The few minutes on this bench watching the world go by were a few minutes she didn't have to stare at her computer screen or answer phone calls from agents who hadn't been banished. It was small comfort, but she'd take it.

"Hello, Kathleen."

Topolsky stared at the stranger who'd sat down next to her. "I'm...sorry, do I know you?"

"You don't," the stranger confirmed. "But I know you."

Topolsky looked him up and down, noting the suit and tie, the pricey trench coat, the spit-shined shoes. "And...what exactly do you think you know?"

"I know you went to Roswell," the man said. "I know you looked into a certain shooting. I know you felt there was something there the Bureau should pursue, both with the shooting and the recent sighting. I know the sheriff threatened to blow your cover. I know you're chafing to get out of the dead end job Stevens dropped you in." He stopped, eyes straight ahead, watching the afternoon crowds go past. "How am I doing?"

"Who are you?" Topolsky demanded.

"Someone who believes you," the man answered. "I believe there's something to the shooting in Roswell. I believe the recent sighting there was real. I believe the Bureau is failing to do its job of protecting the American people from a very real threat, and I believe that needs to change. I'm looking for people who feel the same way, who can help us bring about that change...and I believe you're one of those people."

He turned his head to look at her, a deep, penetrating stare.

"Am I right?"


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


I'll post Chapter 78 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT


February 18, 2000, 4 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




During the weeks Kathleen Topolsky had sat at her desk taking phone calls from agents luckier than her, she'd had occasion to dream. Having thought she'd given up daydreaming in junior high, she'd been surprised to find herself drifting away, lost in thought until a phone would ring with yet another call from yet another agent with yet another problem or need or request. Those daydreams always had one consistent highlight: Her vindication. Perhaps something would be found in Roswell and her earlier calls for caution would be noted. Perhaps her superiors found themselves in need of her expert advice on people she knew better than anyone else. One of her favorites involved her quitting the Bureau only to have them beg her to come back. Another involved the aliens making contact and demanding her as their liaison because they knew her. All involved her reinstatement as a field agent and exoneration on all charges, real or perceived. All left her smiling and feeling marginally better until the next phone call came in, reminding her once again that she'd been relegated to a desk job doing essentially nothing and making her reach for another daydream. This cycle of reality and fantasy had served her well through long, boring days that made her wonder if she needed a new job. What was the point of being an FBI agent if the sum total of one's duties was answering phones?

Sitting on the bench outside the Bureau's Field Office with her venti soy half fat double shot latte balanced on her lap and a stranger who knew an awful lot about her, it appeared her vindication had come at last. Finally, she thought with an inward mental sigh. Finally, someone had listened. Finally, someone was coming to her for input. Finally, finally, finally...but first things first.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Topolsky said. "You know who I am, but you are...?"

The nattily dressed man held out a hand. "Brian Samuels. Agent Brian Samuels."

"From this office?" Topolsky asked.

"From the Special Unit," Samuels answered. "Just like you."

"But which branch?" Topolsky persisted. "I've never heard of you, so I'm guessing not this one."

"Washington," Samuels answered.

Topolsky's eyes widened. Only the very top of the Unit food chain were in Washington, which was not regarded as a branch; Washington was Mount Olympus. "Wow," she said, her hand faltering ever so slightly on her latte before she steadied it. "Washington calling on little old me? Who would have thought."

"We're calling on a number of people who appear to share our concern that the alien threat isn't being taken seriously," Samuels said. "The Unit hasn't been itself since Agent Summers died. Too many things are falling through the cracks."

"Tell me about it," Topolsky said ruefully. "There are days I forget I even work for the Unit. Most days it feels like I'm working for any old FBI branch."

"Exactly," Samuels agreed. "You and I, all of us, joined the Unit for two reasons: We were the best of the best, and we wanted the best. None of us are interested in being ordinary agents, but that's largely what we've become. And no wonder—the plan is to fold the Unit back into the Bureau, making us ordinary agents in more than name only."

"So...what are you saying? Is the Unit getting smaller? Are we looking at layoffs?"

"Word is we're being disbanded," Samuels answered.

"Disbanded?" Topolsky exclaimed. "Why? We held a live alien once, for God's sake. Why would they disband us?"

"Ask Director Freeh."

"The director?" Topolsky said in astonishment. "No. No, there's no way the director would be in favor of that, not with the records at his disposal. He knows the alien threat is real, assuming he can read, that is. Why would he disband our last, best hope to fight it?"

"Why, indeed?" Samuels agreed. "What I meant was, ask Director Freeh because he talks to the congressmen and senators who give us our mandates and pay our bills. The Unit is expensive, and with no obvious threats for a while now, or at least none they acknowledge..."

"They don't want to fork over the money," Topolsky finished in disgust. "Unbelievable. Unbelievable."

"We'd like to show the people signing the checks that there's no need to disband us, that we can work smaller and smarter," Samuels went on. "We're gathering our best and brightest in Washington...and we'd like to extend an invitation for you to join us there."

"You mean a transfer?" Topolsky said. "I'm not sure Agent Stevens would approve of that."

"He wouldn't have to," Samuels said. "Orders would come from Washington."

Topolsky hesitated, incredibly tempted but still skeptical. "And what would I be doing in this new job, Agent Samuels? Because even if I do think I had a raw deal in Roswell, I know I'm not one of the Unit's 'best and brightest'. Why me?"

"Because you were the one who went to Roswell," Samuels answered. "You have intimate knowledge of the suspects. You felt there was something to the recent sighting, and so do we. We'd like to distill the Unit down to those who are still able to recognize alien activity when they see it."

"And those who can't?" Topolsky said. "What happens to them?"

Samuels smiled faintly. "Your concern is admirable, Agent, but the Unit is fighting for its very existence. We need to both downsize and prove our relevance if we're going to survive. The latter involves convincing a Congress who hasn't seen irrefutable evidence like the '47 crash that aliens are still here. The former involves the careful selection of a core group of agents who know what they're looking for. Anyone left over can always take a job within the Bureau, and if they truly don't believe aliens are still among us or are incapable of recognizing the signs of their presence, perhaps they should. Perhaps they'd be better off."

Topolsky eyes dropped to her cooling coffee. "The first time I knew aliens were real was when Agent Summers was murdered. I'd read all the reports, of course, looked at all the photographs...but that was the first time it really hit home. That it became personal." She paused. "He hired me, you know. Right from my graduation ceremony at Quantico. Totally out of the blue."

Samuels nodded. "We know. Agent Summers didn't do a lot of his own recruiting, so we made a point of looking up those he'd handpicked. Yet another reason I'm here now."

A church bell clanged, and Topolsky glanced at her watch. "I have to go. I'll give what you said some thought. Where can I reach you?"

Samuels handed her a business card. "Call me. Any time of the day or night. This would be an official transfer, so pay and benefits remain the same and you'd get the standard relocation allowance in addition to a group of people who'll take you seriously. You're wasting your time in a desk job, Kathleen. Everything you know, everything you learned out there is wasted. Please don't let yourself go to waste."

Exactly how I've been feeling, Topolsky thought as she took the card from him. "Oh, and one more thing," Samuels added. "Don't mention this to Agent Stevens. It might not surprise you to learn that he wasn't considered one of our best and brightest."

"Agent Stevens is a good agent," Topolsky allowed, feeling a moral obligation to at least make a show of defending her boss.

"That he is," Samuels agreed. "But being a good agent doesn't make one a good Unit agent. We're a different breed altogether, which is why you haven't been able to get through to him. You'd have better luck in Washington." He gave her a small, almost courtly bow. "It's been nice talking to you, Agent Topolsky. I hope to hear from you soon."

Topolsky took her time walking back into the building, tossing her now cold latte into a trash can on the way. It was not uncommon for one branch of the Bureau to poach an agent from another, and not uncommon for that to cause hard feelings, so not saying anything to Stevens made sense. Relocation allowances were standard, covering the cost of finding an apartment and moving one's belongings. One frequently transferred at a higher rate of pay, but if the concern was that the Unit was being disbanded for budgetary reasons, they couldn't very well offer her any more money. And none of this even began to touch the sheer enormity of transferring to Washington, of all places. She felt like Cinderella being asked to the ball...and that bothered her. There was something a little off about this offer, a niggling feeling that all was not right. It followed her all the way back to her desk, where she ignored her ringing phone and the rapidly blinking message light on her answering machine and did a little due diligence. Agent Brian Samuels, it turned out, was totally legit, having joined the Bureau in 1989 with Washington his first and only posting. She lingered over his photo, wondering if Summers had handpicked him too given that Washington was a rare destination for any agent, never mind one fresh out of Quantico. Naturally that information wasn't available in the Bureau's database because, officially, the Special Unit didn't exist.

"Agent Topolsky?"

Topolsky jumped, managing to clear her computer screen before Stevens rounded the cubicle corner with his assistant, Pamela, on his heels. "Agent Stevens! I was just..."

"Not answering your phone, that's what you were 'just'," Stevens said testily. "Agent Bering has been trying to reach you for some time now. He said he left several messages...which I gather is true," he added with a pointed look at her frantically blinking answering machine.

"Sorry, sir," Topolsky said quickly. "I just got back from my break, and—"

"I don't care if you just got back from Mars," Stevens interrupted. "Agents in the field should not be left hanging. Get on it."

A flicker of defiance stirred in Topolsky. Agent Bering was one of the agents assigned to last month's sighting who had been completely unaware of the relevance of the evidence he'd collected and disdainful of her input, yet she was supposed to drop everything when he snapped his fingers. Agent Bering didn't have any friggin' idea what was going on out there and no interest in listening to someone who did, but he took precedence while she had to fight for the right to take a break.

"Sir, we're going to be late for the meeting," Pamela prompted with a sympathetic look at Topolsky.

"Yes, yes, I'm going," Stevens said crossly, heading for the elevator.

Topolsky watched the elevator door close behind him before removing Agent Samuels' card from her pocket.

"You know what?" she said softly. "So am I."




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




"Well?" Pierce's voice demanded.

"She's interested," Brian reported, his phone to his ear as he walked rapidly down the street about a block from the field office. "Wary, but interested."

"Wary about what? You just offered her Washington. What more could she want?"

"She's loyal to the Bureau," Brian noted. "When I felt her out on the subject of the director wanting to shut us down, she didn't believe it. She thinks Freeh would never do that."

"Oh, of course she does," Pierce said disdainfully.

"In fairness, many of our recruits felt the same way," Brian said. "I shifted the blame to pencil pushers in Congress, and that she bought."

"Good."

"She's also loyal to Stevens," Brian went on. "She called him a 'good agent'."

"I can't believe I let you talk me into going after this airhead," Pierce complained. "Tell me again what she brings to the table except a modest rack and a decent pair of legs?"

"You know perfectly well what she brings to the table," Brian said patiently. "Information. She can tell us who to go after in Roswell better than anyone can. Hubble's death brought a couple of dozen agents to the party, but all the agents in the world are meaningless if we don't know what we're doing."

"I still say we can collect this information ourselves," Pierce argued.

"Not fast enough," Brian said. "Not quietly enough. No one can know we're there, Danny, and the longer we're there, the more likely someone will know. Going into Roswell with Kathleen Topolsky in our back pocket saves us one hell of a lot of time. With what she knows, we might be able to make this a surgical extraction, or damned close to it. We don't even have far to bring them; Eagle Rock's a stone's throw away."

"If she's loyal to the Bureau and Stevens, what makes you think she'll play ball?"

"Once we know what she knows, she won't have to," Brian said. "Look, she's in a crap job now, and she knows it. Bring her to Washington, butter her up, treat her like she's important, hang on her every word, and she'll eat it up. By the time she figures out where we're headed, if she objects—if she objects—it'll be too late to do anything about it."

"You'd better be right about that," Pierce said darkly. "I wouldn't be surprised if she blew you in just for having that conversation."

"Blew me in to whom?" Brian said innocently. "Blew me in for what? For telling her the Unit faces disbandment? Everyone knows that, or they should if they're paying attention. We just had a friendly conversation about the state of the Unit and our mutual desire to see it thrive, and if she remembers it differently...well...it's her word against mine."

"That's what I like about you, Brian," Pierce laughed. "Sometimes you're almost as devious as I am."

"Thank you," Brian smiled. "By the way, speaking of devious...were you ever going to mention that Summers hand-picked her?"

"Oh, she told you that, did she? Well, of course she did. Yeah, Summers recruited her. Call it a moment of weakness. He wanted to 'expand our horizons', or something like that."

"Summers was no fool," Brian noted. "He must have seen something in her."

"Sure he did. A 'C' cup and legs that go all the way up to there."

"Wow," Brian deadpanned. "Cynical, much?"

"I'm serious," Pierce insisted.

"Which is odd for someone who idolized Summers," Brian commented.

"I didn't idolize him," Pierce protested. "I had a great deal of respect for him, but even he had his weaknesses."

"Perhaps," Brian allowed. "Although choosing agents would not appear to be one of them."

"Everyone gets at least one clinker," Pierce said. "I'm just afraid she'll wind up mine. That's assuming she takes the bait, that is."

"She'll take it," Brian promised. "I'm sure of it."






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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Wait for me outside," Mrs. DeLuca said.

Michael gave the woman who had just saved his ass a tentative smile which she did not return, not that he blamed her. He'd followed Valenti up here like a man on his way to his own execution, desperately wishing she'd simply picked up the phone. God knows he did awkward, but this was too awkward even for him. This was the second time today he'd had to face her, although this time he had his pants on, no small relief. It was something of a miracle that she was here at all; granted he'd helped her out with that Alien Takedown bit, but after the way she'd freaked out this morning without even bothering to ask a single question, he was pretty certain that all the wrestling matches in the world wouldn't have dragged her down here to bail him out of jail, even if bail was set at her word. Whatever the reason for her largesse, this instant dismissal meant he didn't have to use the lame "thank you" speech he'd hastily thrown together on the way up here, and he slipped into the hallway, grateful to have avoided yet another scene...only to find himself alone with Maria. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Hey," he said uncomfortably.

"Hey, yourself," Maria answered. She waited a painfully long moment before speaking again. "So...where do you think Hank is?"

"No clue," Michael said. "He was there when I left last night, and that's the God's honest truth."

"Of course it is," Maria said. "I believe you."

Her tone was quiet and reassuring, and Michael instantly felt guilty for getting defensive. "Listen, I...I really appreciate this," he went on, nodding toward the office door. "I know I didn't exactly give your mom a reason to help me. Although it might have been nice if she'd kept the screaming to a minimum and given me a chance to put my pants on."

Maria made a sound somewhere between a wince and a chuckle. "You blithering idiot," she said, shaking her head. "Why didn't you just tell Valenti where you were? I mean, it was really noble of you not to say anything, but jail? Jail is when you stop being noble."

"And what would have happened if I'd told him?" Michael asked. "He would have called your mom for verification, who would have said...what?"

"I'm not sure," Maria admitted. "Probably nothing good."

"Exactly. Besides, you know what he would have thought. We didn't do anything, but he would have thought we did. Just like she did."

"I told her we just slept," Maria said quickly. "I made that very clear."

"Yeah, and how'd that go over?" Michael asked.

Maria sighed and leaned against the wall. "Not well. Look, she was totally out of line. She just lost it, probably because I walked in on her and Valenti making out last night."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Your mom and Valenti? You're kidding."

"I wish I were," Maria said darkly. "I can just imagine why he's developed a sudden interest in my mother, of all people."

"So that's why he believed her," Michael said. "Whatever. Works for me."

"I make no excuses for the way she acted this morning," Maria said. "But I got her to change her mind this afternoon."

"You did this?" Michael said. "How'd you pull that one off?"

"I begged," Maria admitted. "A lot. It's okay," she added when she saw the look on his face. "You didn't ask me to; I decided to. And it was worth it. The begging, her blowing up...all of it."

Michael looked away, suddenly self-conscious. If life as a non-human foster child had taught him anything, it was that it wasn't wise to become indebted to anyone or depend on anyone but yourself, and yet here he was, indebted all over again and to the same person, no less. Trouble was, all the alarms which normally went off in situations like these weren't going off this time. Trouble was, he kind of liked it.

"I didn't think you were going to let me in last night," he said suddenly.

"That's because I wasn't," Maria said. "I figured 'stone walls' would be just fine out in the rain."

"So why did you?"

Her eyes dropped. "Because I knew that if you were coming to me, something must be wrong. Really wrong. And based on what Isabel told me, I was right."

"Isabel," Michael muttered. "She told you."

"I made her," Maria said quickly. "She couldn't find you, and I wouldn't tell her I'd seen you until she told me why she was looking. What did he do to you, Michael?"

Michael kept his eyes on a crack on the opposite wall. "Not much. A black eye. Max fixed it."

" 'Not much'?" she repeated incredulously. "Michael, a black eye isn't 'not much'. A black eye is assault!"

"See, this is why I didn't want anyone to know," Michael said, "because I knew they'd feel sorry for me, and blow it all out of proportion, and make it sound worse than it really was."

"No it isn't," Maria insisted. "You didn't want anyone to know because you hate needing help, and you hate it because you're always afraid you're not going to get any."

Michael kept his eyes on the wall crack, marveling at the fact that he wasn't feeling angry. That statement should have pissed him off, but it didn't. She didn't sound angry, or accusatory, or even vaguely annoyed, just...sad. And worried. About him.

"Maybe," he allowed. "But there's another reason. Like I told Isabel, Hank's a jerk, but that was all I had. There aren't a lot of places for a kid my age to go, and I don't want to wind up in one of those homes. As long as I could handle it, as long as it wasn't too bad...well, let's just say it could get worse. A lot worse."

"Then we need to make certain that doesn't happen," Maria said firmly. "Isabel was talking about something her dad arranged, about a kid our age living on his own."

"Her dad hates me," Michael said. "He made that clear last night."

"I heard you weren't exactly a paragon of virtue yourself," Maria said dryly. "And I thought it was her mom who hated you."

"Her too."

"Really? Cause it didn't sound like it to me."

"Okay, so maybe she wasn't as bad as she usually is," Michael admitted, reflecting privately that Diane Evans had displayed none of her usual annoyance last night, had even been friendly. "And that was weird. I would rather she'd been her usually pissy self."

"Oh, right," Maria nodded. "Because that way you're the victim, and it's someone else's fault." She paused, waiting for that to sink in. "Michael, in some ways, you are a victim. But sometimes you make yourself a victim. You make it harder than it has to be."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say," Michael answered. "There's value in the preemptive strike."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's easier for me to reject people before they have a chance to reject me."

He was staring at the floor now, the crack being uncomfortably level with her face...but that didn't stop him feeling the hand which slipped into his. "I didn't reject you," she said softly.

"Yeah, I...I know," Michael said, still carefully keeping his eyes averted. "And, a...thanks for letting me in. I didn't know where else to go, and...and I haven't slept that well in a long time. Maybe ever."

She took his face in her hands, raised it to hers. "Me neither," she smiled.

The door to Valenti's office opened abruptly. First out was Mrs. DeLuca, of course, whose eyes narrowed when she saw them.

"Mrs. DeLuca," Michael said before she could erupt. "I...appreciate you coming all the way down here, and...well...you know."

"Mmm hmm," she murmured skeptically.

"Where were you planning on staying, son?" Valenti asked him, ignoring the layer of frost building up on the woman beside him.

"At the trailer," Michael answered. "Where else?"

"Will you be all right there by yourself?"

"Sure," Michael shrugged. "I'm by myself a lot anyway. Hank'll show up eventually. Last time this happened, some cop from another town brought him back."

"You let me know the minute you see him," Valenti ordered as Mrs. DeLuca's eyes widened. "And I meant what I said earlier. I'll see to it that they find you another—"

" 'Situation'," Michael finished. "Yeah. You mentioned that."

"Uh...we should be going," Mrs. DeLuca said, gazing at him curiously.

"I'll walk you out, Amy," Valenti smiled.

They walked away, Maria bringing up the rear, but not before mouthing Amy? and sticking her fingers down her throat. Michael waited until he could be certain they'd left the building before going downstairs. Three encounters with Maria's mother in one day was too many.

"Michael!" Isabel exclaimed when she caught sight of him. "What happened? Maria and her mom just left, but she couldn't talk because her mother rushed her out of here—"

"Slow down, Isabel," Max broke in. "Give him a minute."

Isabel blinked. "Right. Right, I was just...I mean, we were just worried."

"So what happened?" Max asked.

So much for a minute, Michael thought. "Hank's gone, don't know where. Valenti thought I knew something about it, but I don't. End of story."

"But why didn't you tell him where you were?" Isabel protested. "And why were you with her, anyway? Why didn't you come to us?"

"Do I really need to answer that? Isabel...not here," Michael added, pushing past her when she opened her mouth. "Let's go. I've seen enough of the Sheriff's Station to last me a lifetime."




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





"So it looks like we just got unlucky," Brivari said. "God knows much worse has happened in that trailer park and no one reported it, so we certainly didn't expect anyone to report anything this time."

"And no one did," Dee's voice said over the phone. "The residents there probably see enough of the police. If that gun hadn't gone off, that motorist wouldn't have heard it and called it in."

"It would appear Valenti's concern stemmed from the fact that Rath wouldn't tell him where he spent the night," Brivari went on. "Once that was settled, he let him go.

"I wish he'd come here," Dee said sadly, "but I imagine my house is too far away, especially on foot in the rain."

"Valenti apparently told Rath he'd contact Social Services for him," Brivari said. "How much time do we have?"

"Not much," Dee said. "Michael's a minor, which means they'll have to act quickly. Someone isn't officially missing until forty-eight hours have passed, so they'll probably wait that long, but no longer."

"Damn it," Brivari muttered. "I could strangle whoever made that call. If not for that, we could have arranged to have Hank missing for weeks with none the wiser."

"Or none that mattered," Dee added. "But I'm afraid that ship has sailed. I told Isabel as much when she asked me again to intervene with Philip on Michael's behalf. I told her I'd love to, but Michael had to cooperate. Even she knew that wasn't likely to happen. She's afraid he'll leave town."

"Rath?" Brivari said. "Leave his king? Unlikely. If he...wait. That's my other line. I'll call you back."

Brivari rung off with Dee and connected his other line. "Jaddo? Where are you?"

"At the trailer," Jaddo's voice said, heavy with concern. "He's...he's leaving, Brivari."

"Jesus," Brivari muttered, "I always said she was a weather vane, but this is ridiculous. Dee just told me Vilandra was worried Rath would leave town, and I thought she was nuts."

"Would that she were," Jaddo said. "Zan was here, and he tried to stop him, but..."

"Well, go get him," Brivari said impatiently. "We can't very well have the King's Second wandering around God knows where."

"This isn't like him," Jaddo said worriedly. "He doesn't just give up like this. Soldiers don't simply walk away from a fight."

"Of course they do," Brivari said. "It's called 'retreat'. He's retreating from the near certainty that he'll wind up in an institution, but there's already a fix for that, this emancipation Dee's been talking about. But he'll have to ask for help and be willing to accept it."

"He was never good at accepting help," Jaddo admitted, "although he would when he had to. This definitely meets the criteria for 'have to'."

"He's not himself, Jaddo," Brivari reminded him. "At the moment he's still a child, a proud, stubborn, frightened child. Go get him and bring him back. Reveal yourself if you have to. This is that important."

"I'd rather not," Jaddo said, sounding genuinely troubled. "Given his behavior, he's not ready to know."

"Then get him back here some other way," Brivari said. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"It's not that simple," Jaddo protested. "If I bring him back, what's to stop him from leaving tomorrow? He needs to not only come back, he needs to fix the problem. He needs to go to Zan's guardian and accept his help, and I...I don't know how to make that happen. You're much better at this than I am. Could I...could you..."

His voice trailed off, and Brivari sighed heavily. Like Ward, like Warder; if Rath had difficulty asking for help, his Warder wasn't much better.

"I'll bring him back," Brivari promised. "One way or another."



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


Vacation starts next week, so I'll post Chapter 79 on Sunday, July 8.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!



SEVENTY-NINE



February 18, 2000, 10:00 p.m.

Outskirts of Roswell



"Ain't no aliens in that town. Let me ask you something—if you were an alien, you can go anywhere in the world...would you pick Roswell?"

His hands caressing the healing stones, Michael looked at the truck driver who had responded to his thumb. He wasn't the least bit certain anyone had "picked" Roswell; more likely they'd just crashed there by pure chance, and he and Max and Isabel were the only survivors. Or at least that's what he liked to tell himself because it was a better story than the one where there had been other survivors who had left them behind, even though that was a more fitting tale for his current mood.

"Trust me, there ain't nothin' in that town," the trucker declared.

Not even Hank, Michael thought. The trailer had been oddly quiet when he'd returned to find Hank was indeed missing. Nothing appeared to have been stolen, and although Hank wasn't exactly a model of predictable behavior, he was in one regard: Paid employment. The fact that he hadn't shown up for work was weird because Hank loved nothing more than the money which bought his precious booze. Still, he wasn't missing him, and it was just too damned bad that the sheriff had gotten wind of this so quickly. He could have lived for at least another month all alone in the trailer, especially with the money from the coffee can which Hank thought was a big secret and which he'd nicked. Hank owed him that.

"So you a resident or a tourist?"

It was the trucker again, still warm to his subject. "A resident," Michael answered. "Who's leaving."

"Smart boy," the trucker nodded. "Like I said, ain't—"

"Nothing in that town," Michael finished tonelessly. "Yeah. I heard."

"You got somethin' there?" the trucker asked curiously.

Nothing but the only people I call family, Michael thought sadly. And trouble. He hadn't told Max about the message on Hank's answering machine from his case worker at Social Services. She was planning a visit tomorrow, which meant the merry-go-round would begin all over again. He vividly remembered what had happened when the Guerins had split, how the relatively stable home he'd enjoyed had disappeared overnight, replaced by a dormitory full of bunk beds and similarly displaced boys where life bore a striking resemblance to Lord of the Flies. It was fend for yourself and it stayed that way during the long search for a new "situation", a task made difficult by the fact that he'd become too old for most foster parents to be bothered with. If that was true then, it was even more true now, so there was no way in hell he was going back to that. No, he needed to make himself scarce until he was 18. Then it would be safe to come back.

"I said, you got somethin' there?" the trucker repeated.

"Not any more," Michael answered, his eyes out the window.

"So you did have somethin' there," the trucker deduced.

"Brilliant," Michael deadpanned. "But none of your business."

"Down, boy," the trucker warned. "Don't have to be a jackass about it."

"Who's being a jackass?" Michael demanded. "You're the one who—"

A loud bang sounded, and the truck lurched sideways. Cursing, the trucker pulled off to the side of the road, where they both jumped out.

"Jesus Christ Almighty!" the trucker swore when he saw the blown tire. "They said they fixed it! That garage ain't worth jack shit! It'll take the company service weenies a month of Sundays to get out here in the middle of nowhere!"

The tirade continued as Michael looked up and down the road. This hardly qualified as "the middle of nowhere", but it was certainly inconvenient, and it was starting to rain. He was considering attempting a repair when lights appeared in the distance. A minute later, another truck pulled up.

"Trouble?" the driver called.

"Blew a tire," Michael's driver said in disgust.

"Need a lift?"

"Gotta stay with my rig," Michael's driver said. "But the kid might want one."

"Goin' north," the driver said to Michael. "Santa Fe, but I'm stopping first at the truck stop coupla miles from here for a bite."

"Sounds good," Michael said, grabbing his stuff. He climbed into the other cab and the truck pulled away, leaving the first driver on his cellphone.

"Where you headed?" the new driver asked.

"Anywhere," Michael answered.

"Interesting. What state is 'anywhere' in?"

"Very funny."

"Thanks. I do comedy."

Irritated, Michael glanced sideways. What stroke of luck had landed him with two chatty truck drivers? Hitching rides was always something of a crap shoot, from getting the ride in the first place, to how far the driver was going, to how friendly the driver was, but he really wasn't in the mood to talk right now. Judging by the look on this one's face, he wasn't going to get that lucky, so he may as well steer the conversation himself."

"So the last guy hated Roswell," Michael said. "Said he only went through here because it's on his route. What about you?"




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




Brivari smiled faintly as he steered the truck down the dark road. The tone was irritated, challenging, and confrontational even though the question was quite bland. A young Rath, it seemed, had Jaddo's gift for picking a fight about even the mundane.

"I don't see as I have an opinion one way or another," he answered. "I don't 'hate' Roswell, I don't love it; it's just there. It's where I landed."

"Yeah?" Rath said. "Me too."

"So why are you leaving?"

"I'm looking for someone. Someone who's apparently not too keen on being found."

"Why do you say that?"

"He keeps leaving hints," Rath said, "but he won't show himself. It's damned annoying."

"Mmm. And what will you do when you find him?"

"Nail him to the wall," Rath said darkly, "and make him talk."

Only if I get to watch, Brivari thought dryly. "So if this guy is leaving you 'hints', shouldn't you stay where he's leaving the hints? What makes you think you'll find him some place else?"

Rath's face clouded. "There's other stuff."

"There always is," Brivari agreed.

"Can we not talk about this? I'm really not in the mood for a pep talk."

"Good," Brivari said, "because I'm not in the mood to give one."

Rath shot him a look worthy of his Warder and fell into a sullen silence which lasted all the way to the truck stop, a ramshackle affair which was surprisingly busy at this time of night. "Gonna grab a bite," Brivari said, climbing down from the cab. "Meet me in half an hour. If you're not here, I won't come looking."

"Fair enough," Rath muttered, sliding out his own door and stalking inside behind Brivari, who joined the line at the counter.

"Michael?" a voice said.

Brivari's eyes flicked sideways. *He's all yours. Convince him to turn around, or I'll have to throw him over my shoulder and carry him back.*




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




"Grandma?" Michael said. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Dee smiled, indicating the bench across from her. "Can you join me?"

Michael glanced at the truck driver he'd entered with, a.k.a. Brivari, then back to her. "I've got half an hour," he allowed, sliding into the booth, "so I guess so."

"Hungry?" Dee asked.

"Not really. Okay...maybe a little," Michael amended when Dee gave him a skeptical look. "It's been a day."

"I see," Dee answered, signaling their waitress. "Order anything you want; it's on me. No, I insist," she went on when he began to protest. "Call it a..." She paused, looking pointedly at his bulging backpack. "Well, it looks like it'll be a going away present."

Michael kept his eyes on the table, although he did manage to give the waitress an order for a three egg omelet with everything, toast, hash browns, bacon, sausage, and coffee. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here," he said when the waitress had left.

"Neither have you," Dee noted.

"Ladies first."

"That only counts if you're being genuinely chivalrous," Dee said dryly. "You're merely wondering if I've been sent to fetch you."

"Were you?" Michael asked bluntly.

"I'm on my way back from Santa Fe," Dee answered. "Truck stops aren't pretty, but they have some of the best food out there at the cheapest prices."

"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said.

"Although I do know a bit about your 'day'," Dee went on. "Isabel came to me yesterday asking about how one becomes an emancipated minor."

"Isabel," Michael sighed. "She's probably told the newspapers by now. Why'd she come to you? Did she want you to twist her father's arm?"

"No. She came to me because I'm a lawyer."

Michael blinked. "You're a lawyer? I mean...I didn't mean it like...really?" he finished, unable to contain his surprise even in the face of her raised eyebrows.

"Yes, really," Dee answered. "I was a lawyer back when women didn't become lawyers."

Michael stared at her for a good long while, all the way through the delivery of his coffee. "That makes sense," he said finally. "That makes total sense. I just never thought..."

"That I'd had a job?" Dee finished. "A life? A career? I may be getting older, Michael, but I'm not dead yet."

"I know that," Michael said quickly. "I just meant...it fits. You being a lawyer, that is. I bet you were a good one."

"Why, thank you, Michael. I do like to argue."

"Hey...if you're a lawyer, do you think you could do this emancipating thing for me?" Michael said suddenly. "Isabel's father hates me, but you could do it, couldn't you?"

Got him, Dee thought, her eyes on her sandwich. This was the hook, the link to Philip that Max and Isabel had been unable to provide. If Michael had come to her house last night, she would have been able to do this then, but she could hardly blame him for preferring Maria over an old lady.

"I retired years ago," Dee answered, "and 'Isabel's father' who 'hates you' is my son."

Michael's eyes dropped. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"And he doesn't 'hate you'," Dee went on. "He simply realizes that if you go before a court to request emancipation, you'll need to have your ducks in a row."

"Wait...Isabel said something to him?" Michael demanded. "About me?"

"No, Isabel said something to me, and I said something to Mr. Evans," Dee clarified. "I don't believe Isabel has said a word to her father about you."

"You mean she kept her mouth shut?" Michael said skeptically. "Imagine that. So what'd he...wait. You mean he knows? He knows about this whole emancipating thing, but he didn't say anything to me?"

"No, Michael, he didn't," Dee said patiently. "You're going to have to say something to him."

"See, this is what I can't stand about him," Michael said angrily. "He's into games, that guy. He likes to make people jump through hoops. It's all 'play by the rules' or you're out. So I guess one of his 'rules' is that I have to talk first? Are these written down somewhere so I can find out what they are, or do I just have to guess?"

"Why?" Dee asked. "If you knew what they were, would that make you any more likely to follow them? Because I'm guessing it wouldn't."

Michael opened his mouth, closed it, and stabbed his fork into his newly arrived omelet. "I can answer those questions," Dee went on as he furiously shoveled food into his mouth, "but I'm only willing to do that if you're listening. If not, we'll just drop the whole subject because I don't do business with angry, rude individuals now any more than I did when I was practicing. I'll talk, but only if you're willing to hear me out. I've earned that from you...haven't I?"

The shoveling slowed, as did the stabbing. "Sorry," Michael mumbled after a moment. "I...I'm upset."

"Understandably," Dee allowed. "But what happened to you is not my fault, so don't take it out on me."

"I know, I know, I...go on," Michael finished. "I'm listening. Really listening."

"Good. Now...Mr. Evans didn't say anything to you because he did not believe he had the right to. Isabel told me your problem in confidence, and I admit I broke that confidence to speak to him about it. Mr. Evans felt I was wrong to do so and that it was wrong for his daughter to do so. To raise such a private subject which you had no idea he even knew about and had made clear you didn't want anyone to know about would be a breach of ethics. It was, simply put, none of his business unless you chose to make it his business...and you did not."

Michael's fork paused, and he gave her a fleeting, disconcerted glance. "As for 'following the rules'," Dee went on, "he's a lawyer, Michael. That's what lawyers do—they follow the rules we call laws. If you want the law to recognize you as an adult before you're 18, you'll have to follow the rules to make that happen. If you're not willing to do that, no judge will look twice at you, and Mr. Evans knows this. It would be a waste of time for him to bring you before the court unless he was certain you were willing to do what needs to be done, not to mention personally dangerous; bringing an uncooperative applicant who's clearly not ready to be emancipated would make him look foolish and make people question his judgment, including the judges who hear his cases. Needless to say, that's bad for business."

"Yeah," Michael said, abashed. "I get it."

"As for whether I could take your case, you wouldn't want me to. I haven't practiced law in years, and the judges who would hear your case know Mr. Evans, not me. You want a lawyer they're familiar with and one who's familiar with current law. That would not be me."

Michael chewed on that and his food in silence for several minutes before abruptly pushing his plate away. "Okay, so, what are these rules? What do I have to do?"

"For starters, drop the attitude," Dee replied. "Judges don't like attitude, they have sole discretion to grant or deny a petition for emancipation, and historically they don't like granting them. Learn how to grovel, if only to get what you want."

"Okay," Michael said doubtfully. "What else?"

"They'll want a medical exam, and they'll want you to talk to a psychologist," Dee went on as Michael winced. "And you'll need to show proof of employment and find a place to live."

"How do I hold down a job and go to school?"

"The same way everyone else does," Dee said. "With difficulty. Did I say this would be easy?" she went on when Michael gave a snort of disgust. "Because I don't recall saying that, and if I did, I need to retract that at once. You'll have a job just like the rest of the world, and school on top of it. You're 16 and can legally quit, but the school issue is one of the top reasons judges get queasy about these petitions, so smart applicants submit a plan for finishing high school, at least, even if they don't intend to follow it."

"And what happens to me in the meantime? Where do I live? Can I stay in the trailer?"

"This is where it gets murky," Dee admitted. "Technically speaking, you're a minor, so Social Services should find you another guardian if Hank remains missing. Practically speaking, finding you another guardian would be extremely difficult, and if you're petitioning for emancipation, they'll probably not bother. As for the trailer, that belongs to Hank. Hank's possessions will sit there until he either returns or time runs out on something like rent or a mortgage. As his foster child, I think you could continue to live there. It would involve several people looking the other way...your case worker, the sheriff...but if—if—you had a petition for emancipation filed, I'm betting they'll do just that."

"But petitions can be turned down," Michael said. "So I could go through this song and dance routine only to be tossed back into a home."

"Yes, you could," Dee agreed. "So make it a good one. Don't give anyone even one good reason to turn you down. You're already 16, too old to legally keep in school, so that's in your favor. The judge will know that Social isn't exactly flush with foster parents for your age group, and that will work in your favor too."

"But it still might not work," Michael said. "Why go through all that when it might not work anyway? I mean, if I leave now, I'll have to find work, find a place to live, but I know I'll get to do that."

" 'Places to live' are scarce for 16 year-olds on the run," Dee remarked. "So are jobs that pay a living wage to someone without a high school diploma."

"Which means they're scarce in Roswell too," Michael argued.

"But there are people who know you in Roswell, " Dee said, "or know people who know you, like me, like Mr. Evans. Your chances of finding both are far higher here, where people know you."

"Yeah," Michael said glumly. "Right. They know I have a police record and that I missed a lot of school."

"And that you lived in rough circumstances," Dee added. "They'll give you a chance if you make it clear you're trying to turn yourself around precisely because they know you." She paused as he shook his head slowly, still not buying it. "Let me ask you something. If you could choose what to do, have your pick of the options knowing it was a done deal...which would you choose?"

"I'd stay in Roswell and live on my own," Michael said promptly.

"Well, there you go, then," Dee said. "That's what you really want, so go for it! Go to my son and tell him you want to make this happen. If it doesn't work, you can always skip town later."

"Yeah. I guess," Michael said tonelessly. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get going. Thanks for dinner, Grandma, and...well...just thanks."

"I could bring you back," Dee said gently. "You could spend the night at my house, and I could take you over to Max's tomorrow morning."

She could see he was tempted, turning the offer over in his mind, and for a moment there, she thought he'd accept. "No," he said finally. "Thanks, but...maybe some other time."

"There won't be another time," Dee said. "This is the only chance you'll get to do this. If you run now, no judge will grant an emancipation petition, and frankly, you'll have given them every reason not to."

He hesitated again, but even that wasn't enough. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised. "Take care, Grandma. And don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Oh, but I will worry about you," Dee said sadly. "Every day."

"Well, don't," Michael said. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can," Dee agreed. "So can I. But I'd rather have some help, or at least some company, because it can be a bitch of a job."

He smiled faintly, no doubt finding the mix of age and profanity odd. But it still wasn't enough, and he stood up, shouldering his bag, briefly looking like he was going to say something else before apparently thinking better of it and slouching off without another word.

"Dessert?" the waitress chirped at her elbow.

"Yes, please," Dee sighed. "Your largest chocolate whatever, and a beer. No...make that a whiskey. Straight up."




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




"You're back," the truck driver said.

Michael grunted a reply as he swung his bag, then himself into the cab. He'd never been this conflicted in his life, not even over Maria, which was more conflicted than he'd ever wanted to be. Was he making a huge mistake? Was he giving up his one chance to be free of Hank or any other foster parent for the next two years? If it doesn't work, you can always skip town later. Lot of truth to that. Skipping town was always an option, as long as he wasn't in jail.

"So," the driver said, "still heading to 'anywhere'?"

"I'm really not in the mood right now," Michael grumbled.

"Are you ever?" the driver asked as the engine chugged to life. "Needs to warm up, so we'll be sitting for a spell, but I'm guessing 'anywhere' can wait a few more minutes."

Michael bit back a retort as the driver laughed at his latest joke. Was he really going to sit next to this chucklehead for the next God knows how long? And where was he going, anyway? He had no idea. Hadn't better say that to the driver or he'd be going on about "North No Idea" and "South No Idea". And he'd have to come up with a fake ID with a fake birth date in order to get work, plus a fake diploma and a fake...well...everything. What a pain. Jumping through illegal hoops was almost as much of a pain as jumping through legal hoops.

"Can we get going?" Michael said impatiently.

"Patience, your highness," the driver said. "I told you, the engine needs to—"

"Warm up," Michael finished. "Yeah, you said that. Thing is, modern engines don't need to warm up."

"Who said this was modern? Old engine, old methods. You want a hovercraft, try Back To The Future."

"Who said anything about a hovercraft?" Michael demanded. "All I wanted—"

There was a sudden bang, followed by the cab listing slightly to the right. Michael and the driver climbed out of the cab to find one of the tires blown.

"What, again?" Michael exclaimed. "That's two in one night!"

"I know," the driver agreed, staring at his ruined tire. "And you in both trucks. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had something to do with this."

Michael, who had been on the verge of another rant, stopped short. "Wait...you think I blew out the tires?"

"I was just noticing that you were the common denominator," the driver shrugged. "But you couldn't have blown out this one because you were in the cab. Not unless you're one of those mind benders," he added with a chuckle, wiggling his fingers near his temples.

Oh, God, Michael thought with an uneasy feeling. Had he blown the tires out? It was certainly the kind of thing his powers would do, especially when he got upset, and...and it was even the exact same tire which had blown on the other truck, the one right beneath where he'd been sitting...and both times he'd been angry right before it happened. What did that mean? Did something bad happen if he left Roswell? Were his powers going all whonky? Or maybe he was losing even the little control he had over them? He glanced at his pack, wondering if the healing stones would fix him if something was wrong with him...and then realized there was no one to use them. And that he had all of them, so there was nothing for Max and Isabel to use if either of them ever got sick.

"Good news is, we're at a truck stop," the driver was saying. "Shouldn't take more than a coupla hours to fix. You could go back inside and talk to that old lady friend of yours while you're waiting."

Michael shouldered his pack. "Actually, she offered me a ride...and I think I'm gonna take her up on it."

The truck driver shrugged. "Suit yourself."




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




Two days later

February 21, 2000, 10 a.m.

Office of Social Services, Roswell



The ticking of the clock sounded extremely loud as Dee sat in the waiting room with Michael to her left, one hand drumming on his leg which in turn was drumming on the floor, each in a unique staccato rhythm which didn't gel with the other and was giving her a headache. They'd been sitting here for a good half hour, him drumming and her trying to ignore it, but enough was enough. She reached out and touched his knee.

"Michael? Please...that's getting annoying."

He stopped. "Sorry. I'm just..."

"Worried. I know."

"He's been in there a long time," Michael said. "That can't be good."

"He's been in there for about thirty minutes," Dee corrected. "That's not long at all."

"Seems long," Michael muttered.

"I know it does, but these things take time, and Mr. Evans is very thorough. Ducks in a row, remember?"

He nodded, went back to drumming, then thought better of it when he saw the look on her face. Philip was meeting with Michael's caseworker to iron out the details of how he would live in Hank's absence while his emancipation petition worked its way through the system. Brivari had offered to have Hank reappear and pull out of the foster parent program, but Dee had advised against that—while the agency held out hope that Hank might reappear, they'd be less likely to go through the painful process of relocating his charge. Better to leave Hank safely missing until this was settled.

"Here he comes," Michael whispered.

The office door had opened. Philip emerged and shook the caseworker's hand, who scuttled down the hall while Philip came out to meet them. "She has another meeting," he said, explaining the disappearing caseworker. "They just don't have enough people to do all that needs doing here."

"So what happened?" Michael demanded. "I mean...how did everything work out, sir?" he amended quickly when Dee gave him a pointed glance.

"Very well, Michael, very well," Philip answered, ignoring his initial brusqueness. "Your caseworker is willing to let you stay in Hank's trailer by yourself as long as you have someone to keep an eye on you. She's supposedly going to be making weekly visits, but I wouldn't be too surprised if that didn't happen."

" 'Keep an eye on me'?" Michael said doubtfully. "Who's going to do that? You?"

"No, I'm your lawyer," Philip answered. "I recommended my mother for that job, and your caseworker was only too glad to agree."

"Great!" Michael said.

"It is if Mrs. Evans agrees," Philip said. "I can't speak for her, I merely recommended her. It's a commitment because these petitions can take time, so you need to ask Mrs. Evans if she's willing to shoulder that responsibility."

Dee stifled a smile as Michael's mouth twitched in protest. This was quintessential Philip: Formalities, procedures, and courtesies, otherwise known as "hoop jumping". They'd had several long talks about the necessities of hoop jumping, and so far he'd gotten the message.

"Mrs. Evans, would you agree to...'keep an eye on me' while my petition is in the works?" Michael asked, sounding deeply uncomfortable.

"I would, and gladly," Dee answered. "Thank you, Philip. You did a wonderful job."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Evans," Michael added. "I really appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet," Philip warned. "My mother can be a taskmaster; I should know."

"Oh, hush," Dee said dryly.

"Your first hearing is in a week," Philip went on. "We'll need to show some progress on finding you a job and a place of your own to live."

"I might be able to help out with that," another voice said.

"Diane!" Philip exclaimed, giving her a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"I had an early housewarming present for Michael," Diane said as Dee's eyebrows rose. "I was thinking this morning about that lovely breakfast you cooked for us, and I had an idea. And a chat, with Jeff Parker, who I know is looking for another cook." She handed Michael a slip of paper. "He'll interview you tomorrow afternoon at 4 p.m. It's largely a formality because he agreed to give you a trial period, at least. Keep your nose clean in the interview, and everything should be fine."

"My goodness, Diane, that's wonderful!" Dee said. "That's positively inspired."

"Honey, that's great," Philip said. "With a job in his pocket, finding an apartment will be much easier. Michael? What do you think? Would you like being a cook?"

Michael was staring at the tiny slip of paper like he couldn't believe it. "I...well...yeah," he finished, flabbergasted. "I guess I just assumed I'd be hauling lumber, or mowing lawns, or...thanks, Mrs. Evans. I know I'm not exactly your favorite person, so...thanks."

Dee struggled to keep a neutral expression as Diane flushed, probably having not expected to have her dislike of Michael referenced so bluntly. "Ah, well, I know I wasn't always...I mean, I know I could be...but that was before," she went on crisply. "My children adore you; they always have. It was the least I could do." She gave Philip a quick peck on the cheek. "See you at dinner. Gotta run!"

"I've got to go too, so I'll walk you out," Philip said. "Mom, Michael...we'll keep in touch."

"Well," Dee said after they'd left, "things are working out after all, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Michael said faintly. "And to think I was all ready to leave...I was in the truck. I was going. I'm just not lucky enough to have things work out for me. And then the tire blew, and...I guess that gave me a little more time to think."

"Yes," Dee said blandly, "that tire blew just when you needed it to."




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




Kathleen Topolsky sat stiffly in one of Agent Stevens' two chairs, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, eyes focused on the shiny gold watch on her left wrist, the smallest men's watch she'd been able to find on her celebratory shopping trip this weekend. She'd dressed carefully for this encounter: Black pantsuit, sensible heels, no jewelry save for the watch. She'd wanted to appear as professional and un-feminine as she could manage, and she was glad she'd made the effort. God willing, this was the last time she'd be in this office, and she forced herself to sit quietly and not twitch. She must have been here at least fifteen minutes already, but she'd sit here all day if she had to.

Finally Agent Stevens looked up from his third read-through of the papers in front of him. "So, Agent," he said, tossing his glasses on the desk. "You're transferring."

"Yes, sir," Topolsky beamed. "To Washington."



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


I'll post Chapter 80 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER EIGHTY




February 21, 2000 10:15 a.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe



It was safe to say that the last few months had been the most tumultuous of Kathleen Topolsky's life, even more so than the period when she'd first joined the Unit. She'd landed her first undercover assignment, getting close enough to the target to smell it only to find herself discovered and leaving in disgrace. That disgrace had been largely whitewashed to save her boss's face, if not her own, but the dead end job he'd dumped her in supporting other, less capable agents in the field had been almost as bad. With no light at the end of the tunnel for the last three months, it was now somewhat disorienting to find herself not only out of the tunnel but on top of the mountain, in a place she'd never expected to find herself anywhere but in her wildest dreams. Disorienting, maybe...but oh so delicious. Washington. The word hung in the air, the FBI equivalent of "heaven" as she and Agent Stevens eyed one another across his desk and she waited for his response. And waited. And waited.

"I said I'm going to Washington," she repeated, the words sending a shiver through her spine even though he hadn't reacted yet. And he should have; Washington meant a promotion. He must know that.

"I see that, agent," Stevens said calmly. "What I don't see is what exactly you'll be doing in Washington."

Topolsky paused, savoring this moment. Truth be told, she was looking forward to this particular part of the conversation every bit as much her transfer. God, she wished she had a video camera because she was absolutely certain she would want to replay this over and over for as long as she lived.

"Well, sir," she said with as straight a face as she could muster, "I'd tell you, but...I'm afraid you don't have the necessary security clearance."

Stevens laughed then, an easy, infuriating laugh that made her want to pick up the paperweight on his desk and hurl it at him. " 'Security clearance'? Surely you're not suggesting that you've been granted a higher security clearance than mine."

"No, sir, I'm telling you that I've been granted a higher security clearance than yours."

Stevens blinked. "Overnight? Just like that. Like magic?"

Topolsky's straight face faltered slightly. "Like a 'promotion', sir."

"A promotion," Stevens repeated in a you've-got-to-be-kidding voice. "To what? Are you going to be some big shot's personal secretary?"

"Like I said, sir," Topolsky answered, bristling at his tone, "I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of my posting."

"Uh huh," Stevens said, sounding unconvinced. "I called the agent who approved your transfer, and he said you were being assigned to 'unspecified clerical duties'. That's apparently the 'nature of your posting'."

Topolsky sank down a little further in the chair as all the wind went out of her sails. She'd been strictly admonished to keep the true nature of her new position a secret and had assumed her new superiors would do the same. Which they had, of course, and in the usual way, by pretending she was being assigned to some nondescript, unimportant position unworthy of anyone's interest. It wouldn't do to wave the fact that Stevens hadn't been invited to this party in his face; much better for him to think she'd been siphoned off to mop floors and fetch coffee. Much better, that is, except for the fact that she no longer had the means to enjoy this moment without spilling the beans.

"I was told not to discuss it, sir," Topolsky said in a brittle voice.

Stevens shrugged. "Yes, well...why would you want to?" He sighed as she fumed, unperturbed by her obvious annoyance. "I'm very much afraid, agent, that my efforts to keep the way your last assignment ended quiet have been unsuccessful."

"My last assignment, sir, was as a resource for agents in the field," Topolsky reminded him coldly, "an assignment you dumped me in to cover yourself as much as me. Is that the 'assignment' to which you're referring?"

To her surprise, Stevens didn't get angry, didn't react at all. "Is that what you think?" he asked, completely serious.

"Well...yes," she said, taken aback. "What else would I think?"

"Hmm," Stevens murmured, one finger tapping on his armrest. "I see." He was quiet for a moment. "Agent Topolsky, I was not trying to 'dump you' anywhere. Roswell was your first undercover assignment and, as such, there were bound to be some mistakes. Yours were rather spectacular in nature...beaning the local sheriff, and all...but the fact remained that that sheriff was a Valenti. An inexperienced agent and a Valenti? In many ways, that wasn't a fair fight. I felt badly about what happened, and I wanted to keep it quiet; yes, for me, but also for you. I didn't want it to tarnish your chances in the Bureau. I kept you here because if I hadn't, that would have sent the message that I no longer believed in you, no longer wanted you around. That's not true, and not the message I wanted to send."

He paused as she stared at him in disbelief. "What I fear," he went on, "is that someone learned what happened in Roswell and is now punishing you for it in my stead. Which would be interesting, not to mention alarming, because I worked my tail off keeping that quiet, Kathleen. Anyone who found out about it must have very deep tendrils indeed. That's the part which gives me pause."

That niggling feeling Topolsky had had right after meeting Agent Samuels abruptly resurfaced, the feeling that something was not quite right here, that something was off. Actually, it had never left; she'd merely pushed it to the back of her mind, heady with the excitement of accepting the offer, of hearing her first set of instructions about where to go and what to do after leaving Santa Fe. Damn it! she thought angrily. This was supposed to be her moment of triumph, and it had just been reduced to "unspecified clerical duties" and a suddenly sympathetic boss.

"I'm a big girl, sir," she told Stevens. "I'll be fine."

"Right," Stevens murmured, nodding. "Right. Well...who am I to stand in the way of a 'promotion'? I hope you're right. And if you're not..." He stripped a post-it note off a nearby cube, scribbled on it. "This is my personal home number. It's a landline, regularly checked for bugs. No one has this number but God and my wife. You make it three. Call me any time."

"I won't need it, sir," Topolsky said, rising from her seat. "Like I said, I'll be—"

She stopped as he reached across the desk, pressed the paper into her hand. "Take it, Kathleen. Just in case I'm right."

There followed a long, awkward moment before he released her hand and sat back in his chair, eyes on his desk. "Congratulations, agent, and good luck."

Topolsky stared at the blue post-it in her hand for much too long before exciting the office, leaning against the door as she closed it. Well, she thought wearily. That hadn't exactly gone as planned. Some big triumph.

"Kathleen?"

It was Pamela, Stevens' administrative assistant and all-around life saver whose job description probably read something like "unspecified clerical duties". "Pam," she said brightly. "I—"

"Did he tell you?" Pam broke in. "Did he tell you what he thinks of this 'new job' of yours?"

"Uh...tell me what?" Topolsky asked carefully.

"That this smells wrong," Pam said. "This whole thing about Washington calling you just reeks of trouble."

"And why exactly is it so unthinkable that Washington would want me?" Topolsky asked, exasperated. "Honestly, Pam, I expected better from you. Do you really think so little of me that—"

She stopped as Pam grabbed her by the arm and propelled her toward her desk. "Don't be ridiculous," Pam protested. "That's not it at all, not for me and not for him. I see things," she went on, sounding like the FBI's version of The Sixth Sense. "Jobs in the pipeline, looming retirements, you name it. There's nothing there; the Unit isn't hiring, isn't promoting, isn't doing much of anything these days except sitting there. For Washington to just suddenly up and pluck anyone out of anywhere is...weird."

"This isn't 'hiring'," Topolsky said patiently. "It's 'promoting from within'."

" 'Unspecified clerical duties'?" Pam said as Topolsky seriously contemplated throttling whoever had come up with that one. "You call that a promotion? Horse hockey! Something else is going on here, and he's worried you're walking right into the middle of it."

Topolsky's eyes burned. "You mean he's worried I can't handle it."

"I mean he's worried you don't have the experience to handle it," Pam corrected. "Don't bristle at me, Kathleen. You're not experienced, and you know it. It's not something to be ashamed of, it's just a statement of fact. You haven't developed the nose for trouble that Stevens has, and his nose is smelling a rat."

"What kind of rat?" Topolsky demanded. "You're making all these vague allegations without really saying a damned thing!"

Pam pulled her further behind the desk. "Rumor is," she whispered "that a dark unit is forming."

Topolsky blinked. " 'Dark Unit'? Is that like Darth Vader? Darth Maul?"

"I'm serious," Pam insisted. "It's no secret that there are a lot of unhappy campers in the Unit right now what with the director essentially sitting on it. Maybe some have decided to take matters into their own hands and go rogue."

"So what if they have?" Topolsky asked. "Would that be a bad thing?"

Wrong answer, she thought as Pam's eyes widened. "Look, I don't know anything about that," Topolsky said quickly. "All I know is that I've been stuck in a boring, go-nowhere job for several months now, and I've got the chance to get out. So I'm going to try this. If it doesn't work out, I'll let you know."

"That's just it," Pam said. "If you fall in with the wrong crowd, you may not be able to."

"He's really got you going, hasn't he?" Topolsky remarked.

"This isn't him, it's me," Pam insisted. "It's me talking now. Please, be careful. Just watch your back."

Pam looked so worried and so earnest that Topolsky put a hand on her shoulder. "I'll be fine," she said soothingly, "but you've got my cell number. Just call me if you get worried."

Topolsky walked away, that niggling feeling much quieter now. The "Mission Impossible" tone of Pam's voice sounded over the top, so much so that it was almost comical. Although it was worth noting that the "dark unit" rumor was true; another group was forming, a group that wanted her input, that found her to be a valuable asset, and not just at a desk with a phone attached to her ear. Niggling feeling or not, she'd never forgive herself if she let this one pass. And if it all went bad...well, then maybe she'd give them reason to regret having ever approached Kathleen Topolsky.




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




One week later,

February 29, 2000, 3 p.m.

Roswell





"It's open," Michael called when a knock sounded on the door.

The door opened slowly. "Wow," Max said, eyes sweeping everywhere as he stepped inside. "So this is it?"

"This is it," Michael answered. "My own place. Can you believe it?"

"It sure happened fast," Max agreed, circling the apartment. "Nice kitchen, for a studio."

"It's only one room, but it was all I could afford," Michael said. "Actually, I couldn't afford this until they gave me a price break."

"I'll bet Dad had something to do with that," Max said.

"No, I think it was your grandmother. She could put the fear of God into God."

"She could," Max agreed.

"Brought my stuff over yesterday after school, right after I signed on the dotted line," Michael went on. "Don't even think the ink was dry. I couldn't wait to get out of that trailer."

"Is that all of it?" Max asked, gazing at the duffle bag Michael had indicated.

"Yep. All my worldly possessions. You know that. You saw me pack right before I..."

"Ran away?" Max finished. "Yeah, I saw you pack, but I didn't really think that was it. I thought you were just traveling light. You must have had something else in the trailer."

Michael shook his head. "Nothing else I wanted. That's a period in my life I'd just as soon forget."

"And now you can," Max said.

"Almost," Michael qualified. "I still don't know what happened to Hank."

"Do you care?"

"In the sense that I want it settled, yeah, I care," Michael answered. "It might have been a lot quieter at the trailer without him, but there wasn't a night that went by where I didn't listen for the sound of the door banging, for him coming back. Until I find out what happened to him, I think a part of me will always be listening for that no matter where I am."

"Knock, knock?"

Michael watched Max stiffen as Sheriff Valenti appeared in the doorway. "Afternoon, boys," Valenti said with that faux folksy smile. "May I come in?"

"It's Michael's place," Max answered. "Ask him."

Valenti looked at Michael, who looked at Max. "Sure, come on in," Michael said.

Michael stayed where he was, but Max took a wary step backward as Valenti stepped inside. "Nice place," Valenti commented, looking around. "Congratulations, by the way. Heard your petition was granted."

"Thank you," Michael said.

"So you all moved in?" Valenti went on. "Got everything out of the trailer?"

"Why?" Michael asked bluntly. "Are you planning on arresting me again?"

"We didn't 'arrest' you, Mr. Guerin," Valenti corrected. "We held you for questioning because you wouldn't explain your whereabouts. The law allows me to do that. I understand why you didn't want to explain it, but that doesn't change the fact that I had a missing man and no whereabouts for you."

"Funny, I thought someone had to be gone for at least 48 hours before they could be declared 'missing'," Michael said. "But whatever. Is there a point to this visit?"

Valenti glanced down at the hat in his hand. "Hank turned up last night."

Michael and Max exchanged glances. "What?" Michael demanded. "Where?"

"At the station. Said he'd been down in Carlsbad and met some woman at a bar."

"I knew it," Michael muttered.

"Anyway, he said he got an offer from a plant in Las Cruces, and he was pulling up stakes."

"Wait—he's moving?" Michael said. "What was he going to do with me?"

"Said he was going alone," Valenti answered. "Offered to sign off on you. I told him that wasn't necessary."

" 'Sign off'?" Michael repeated incredulously. "What, he didn't even care about the money?" He paused, shaking his head in disbelief. "So he dumped me. He just dumped me."

Valenti shrugged slightly. "That's one way of looking at it. The other is that you dodged a bullet. I'm pulling for that one."

Michael and Valenti locked eyes. "You're right," Michael said finally. "That's the way to look at it."

"Just thought you should know," Valenti said. "You need anything, anything at all, you let me know."

"Somehow I don't think I'll be going to the sheriff with my problems," Michael said.

"Doesn't have to be a problem," Valenti said. "Could be just a question, and it doesn't have to have anything to do with me being sheriff. I'm here for everyone in this town. That's my job."

" 'Everyone', sheriff?" Max asked softly.

Valenti looked him directly in the eye. "Yes, Mr. Evans, 'everyone'. I've sworn to serve and protect every single resident of this town, no matter who they are...or how they got here." He donned his hat. "Good luck, Mr. Guerin, Mr. Evans. I'll see myself out."

Michael snorted softly after he'd left. " 'See myself out'...sounds like he's in Buckingham Palace."

"Michael, don't waste a split second on Hank," Max said. "He didn't abandon you, he did you a favor."

"See, that's the thing, Maxwell—Hank doesn't do favors, and he was deeply in love with the steady income I provided. This doesn't make sense."

"Maybe that 'woman' he met has a foster kid of her own," Max suggested. "We know it's a business for some people."

"Maybe," Michael said. "At least I don't have to listen for the door anymore." He looked around his new place with satisfaction. "I'm finally free."




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



9 p.m.

Ronald Reagan International Airport, Washington, D.C.




Pulling her roll-aboard behind her, Kathleen Topolsky stepped off the plane and headed down the jetway with a mounting sense of excitement. She was here! Reagan International was only steps away, the former Washington International rechristened by President Clinton in honor of his predecessor. The trip had gone smoothly, having been arranged by Agent Samuels. Virtually everything had been arranged by Agent Samuels, from the disposition of her apartment in Santa Fe—she'd been told to simply leave it, and he'd settle things with her landlord—to her first class ticket, to the car that was scheduled to meet her. She'd never flown first class before, and now that she had, she doubted she'd ever be content with coach again; huge seats, free wine, large bathrooms, and actual food served on linen could do that to you. Unlike most flights, she'd emerged from this one clean, fed, and rested. She was truly flying high.

Reagan was busy, which only added to her excitement as she navigated the path to the baggage claim. She'd packed light, assured by Agent Samuels that the rest of her things would arrive within a couple of days. Now she looked forward to a nice dinner at her hotel and a hot bath, all the better to prepare herself for her new position, which most certainly was not "unspecified clerical duties". The moving sidewalk seemed to whisk a little faster and even the escalators seemed speedy as she practically floated to the baggage claim where her bag, miraculously, was the first off the plane. That simply never happened, and she took it as a good omen as she trundled her suitcase through the sliding doors to the arrivals area, scanning the various people holding signs for one with her name on it.

"Agent Topolsky?"

Topolsky whirled around. "Agent Samuels! I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you'd send a driver."

"We're a small group," Agent Samuels answered. "I'm the driver. Follow me."

They threaded through the crowds, dodging harried businessmen, soldiers, and the odd child or two. "Did you have a good trip?" Samuels asked.

"Fantastic!" Topolsky said enthusiastically. "Flying First Class is...first class. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Samuels replied. "And thank you for agreeing to lend a hand. We really appreciate it."

"I can't tell you what a relief it is that someone is actually going to take this seriously," Topolsky said. "I thought it would never happen."

"It almost didn't," Samuels allowed. "But events occurred which convinced a number of people to join us."

"Such as?"

Samuels sidestepped a double wide stroller holding two screaming babies. "Are you familiar with Everett Hubble, agent?"

"No. Who is he?"

"Who 'was' he," Samuels corrected. "He's dead. Sheriff Valenti shot him."

Topolsky stopped in her tracks. "You mean Jim Valenti?"

"I do."

Topolsky slowly resumed walking. "Why?"

"Everett Hubble has worked for us for years," Samuels went on. "An alien killed his wife decades ago, left a handprint behind. He's been hunting it ever since, and we've found his enthusiasm and tracking skills useful. He could go places we couldn't."

"Of course," Topolsky agreed. "What happened?"

"Hubble went to Roswell back in January," Samuels continued. "He was following up on your work there...and he came back in a body bag."

"But why?" Topolsky asked doubtfully. "Jim Valenti doesn't run around randomly shooting people. He must have had a reason."

"Valenti blames Hubble for the downfall of his father," Samuels answered. "He claims Hubble lured him to the site of his wife's murder and pulled a gun on him."

" 'Claims'?"

Samuels paused beside the revolving door which led outside the terminal. "Hubble was with Max Evans only minutes before he was killed."

Topolsky's eyes widened. "Max? Max was with him?"

"Why, agent," Samuels said blandly, "I had no idea you were on a first name basis with the subject."

"Oh," Topolsky said, taken aback. "Well...I knew him. As a guidance counselor, of course, but that involves a certain level of...access."

"Precisely why you're here. This way."

Topolsky stepped through the revolving door...and gasped. A stretch limo awaited them, a small one by limo standards, but still... "Oh, my," she said faintly. "First class, and now this?"

"Only the best for the best," Samuels smiled, holding the door for her. "Leave the luggage. I'll get it."

As if in a trance, Topolsky left her suitcases and climbed inside. Good Lord, she thought, running her hand over the leather seats. Tinted windows, a wet bar, a tiny TV in the corner...what next?

The door in the partition lowered. "All set?" Agent Samuels asked.

"Oh, yes," Topolsky breathed.

"Good. Enjoy the ride."

The limo slid forward, gliding so smoothly it barely felt like it was moving, and Topolsky nearly dissolved in giggles as she recalled an old Saturday Night Live sketch of a TV commercial which advertised a car's smooth ride by performing a bris in the back seat. She had no idea which hotel she'd be staying at, but it was unlikely to be far, which was entirely too bad. She really should enjoy this while she had it. The windows were dark, blocking most of the lights, and leaning back, she closed her eyes, the gentle rocking motion incredibly soothing...

...only to jerk awake. Momentarily disoriented, she righted herself, smoothed her hair. Had she fallen asleep? For how long? Couldn't have been long because they were still on the road, and she checked her watch.

An hour had gone by.

That can't be right, Topolsky thought. She tapped her watch, checked the date; it appeared to be working, but they couldn't have been on the road for an hour. Rummaging in her purse, she pulled out her cellphone.

There was no reception.

Curious now, she pressed her face to the tinted window. When that didn't work, she fumbled with the buttons on the car door until she found one which lowered the window, certain she'd see the lights of downtown Washington. Instead she saw only blackness and dark countryside as the limo sped along an unlit road in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.

"Excuse me?" Topolsky said, knocking on the partition which separated her from Agent Samuels.

The partition lowered. "Need something?" Agent Samuels asked.

"Where are we?" Topolsky asked. "It looks like we've been on the road for an hour."

"Because we have," Samuels confirmed.

"But...I thought I'd be at a hotel while I looked at apartments."

"No need. Your new residence is only a few miles away."

Topolsky blinked. "New residence? My 'new residence' is over an hour away from Washington?"

"Sit tight. We'll be there soon."

The partition rose, leaving Topolsky confused and alone in the back seat. She left the window down, watching the dark countryside glide by as they continued to who knew where. She'd been promised the Bureau's usual relocation assistance, but that typically meant choosing one's own housing, not having it assigned. This hadn't been in the contract.

Ten minutes later, the car came to a halt. Topolsky was out before Agent Samuels, gaping at the huge house in front of her, a looming shadow in the night.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Samuels said. "Hubble's death attracted many people to our cause, including several with the means to fund our efforts."

"You mean, I'm...living here?" Topolsky asked faintly.

"It's a period house," Samuels replied, as though that settled it. "Early 18th century. Come inside; I'm sure you'll like it."

A single light clicked on by the front door, which was unlocked. Samuels ushered her into a beautiful foyer, all paneled wood and oil paintings. A man in a suit appeared out of nowhere.

"Mr. Bates, this is Agent Topolsky," Samuels said. "Agent, this is Mr. Bates. He sees to the house."

"Glad to meet you, Agent Topolsky," Bates said with a little bow.

"Uh...glad to meet you, too," Topolsky answered, thoroughly confused now. "Agent Samuels, I still don't understand—"

"This way, agent," Bates interrupted. "Your room has been prepared."

Bates took off up the magnificent stairway and Samuels gestured after him, leaving Topolsky with no choice but to follow. Bates led them up the stairs and down a hallway to a set of double doors behind which was a suite which would do the Savoy proud. Bedroom, sitting room, large bathroom, all beautifully furnished in what looked like period furniture.

"Do you like it?" Bates asked.

"Um...it's beautiful," Topolsky answered. "I'm just confused. What am I doing all the way out here?"

"Bates, would you excuse us?" Samuels said.

Bates gave a little bow and left immediately, Samuels closing the door behind him. "We can't do this in the capital, agent. It's imperative that no one find out about our movement, not until we have the evidence we need."

Topolsky thought for a moment. "Ah. You want to have your ducks in a row before you bring it to Director Freeh."

"Precisely," Samuels agreed. "If he were to find out about this too early, he'd shut us down for sure."

"But surely we could manage this somewhere less...remote," Topolsky objected. "I have no idea where I even am. Where's the nearest grocery store? Where do I find—"

"You don't need a grocery store, agent. Bates will have your meals ready at the times you request, anything you want. Just pull this..." Samuels indicated a black pull cord beside the door "...whenever you need him. It's period," he added.

I'm not here for a goddamned history lesson, Topolsky thought irritably. "That's very nice, agent, but I'm accustomed to living on my own," she said firmly. "You never mentioned any of this when we spoke. Why not?"

"Didn't I?" Samuels looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "I know I mentioned the secrecy needed, but the details must have slipped my mind. I do apologize. Ah—your luggage," he went on as Bates wheeled the suitcases to the doorway and promptly left again. "Ring Bates if you're hungry, and have a good night's sleep. We'll get started tomorrow."

"But—"

But he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Topolsky in the middle of her magnificent room with her mouth hanging open. What in heaven's name was going on here? But then her eyes fell on her suitcases and she went to work, pulling out her laptop. There must be some way to find out where she was. Ten frustrating minutes later, she'd learned that "period house" meant no internet connection. A map program she had installed indicated that an hour's drive from Washington could be anywhere within a ring of rural countryside. Exasperated, she pulled out her cellphone. Still no reception.

A sudden wave of panic sent her running to the door. Throwing it open, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Bates standing directly on the other side.

"Do you require anything, agent?" he inquired.

"No," Topolsky said faintly. "No...thank you."

She closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply to calm herself. It could be nothing. It could just be her imagination. She had agreed to join a covert operation, after all, something of a hilarity as the Special Unit was a covert operation in its own right. Black ops within black ops...and that gave her an idea.

Fishing in her suitcase, she pulled out a box of floppy discs and shoved one into her laptop. An hour later, she'd transferred all sensitive data on her laptop to the floppies and set about wiping it from her hard drive. Searching for a safe hiding place, she discovered yet another feature of "period houses", that being loose boards. The discs were safely ensconced beneath a board she pried lose with her penknife, a gift from her father she'd never had occasion to use. A chair was shoved beneath the doorknob, and several small, loud objects placed on the floor near the doors and the windows should anyone try to enter the room while she slept. Feeling marginally prepared for the worst, she took a long bath which was a far cry from the triumphant soak in a hotel she'd been looking forward to and climbed into bed, determined to get at least some sleep despite the gun she'd placed beneath her pillow. She was, after all, an FBI agent. She'd trained for this.

If worst came to worst, they'd picked a fight with the wrong girl.




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




"What took you so long?" Pierce's voice demanded.

"I had to get far enough away that I had reception," Brian answered. "You know that."

"Well? Did she show?"

"She's did," Brian confirmed. "But she's suspicious."

"Already?" Pierce said dryly. "Didn't think she had it in her."

"I'm serious, Danny. You may not like her, but she's still a trained Bureau agent, and a Special Unit agent to boot. Remember that, even if you still think she's Summers' one screw-up."

"Okay, fine, she's a credit to the nation," Pierce said impatiently. "Did you learn anything?"

"I learned she feels quite an affinity for the suspects," Brian said. "She was shocked that Valenti killed Hubble, said he 'didn't go around randomly shooting people'. And she called Evans by his first name."

"So?"

"So she sounded...familiar," Brian answered. "Like she cared about them. Sympathized with them."

"Wonderful," Pierce deadpanned. "Stockholm Syndrome with Aliens. Just what I needed. If there's even a chance that she feels that way, we need to be extra careful and move extra fast. Get as much as you can out of her as quickly as possible."

"One more thing," Brian went on. "She thinks we're gathering evidence to present to Director Freeh so he'll re-start the Unit."

"Dead wrong, but whatever," Pierce said. "Lean on that. It's a nice, law-abiding explanation that will work in our favor. And if it doesn't, then she goes the same route as the other agents who went to Roswell with her."

"Neither of whom worked out so well," Brian noted.

"Moss didn't," Pierce allowed. "But Butler responded to the drugs better. We got something out of him, but not nearly enough. She was closest to the suspects, so she'll know the most. Or so you keep telling me."

"But if she—"

"Brian, for heaven's sake, will you stop fidgeting?" Pierce demanded. "She has no means of transportation, no communication with the outside world...seriously, what's she going to do? Even if she takes off on foot, we'll catch her long before she gets much of anywhere."

"True," Brian agreed. "Lucky for us we bagged some donors with deep pockets and nice summer homes."

"Everett would be proud," Pierce laughed. "You know, I think dying was the best thing Hubble ever did for the Unit. If I'd known that, I would have killed him myself a long time ago. Look, don't worry," he went on. "No matter how smart you think she is, she's still just a girl. Flatter her, stroke her ego, and she'll do anything for you. Just find out what she knows. By any means necessary."


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


I'll post Chapter 81 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE



March 1, 2000, 10:30 a.m.

West Roswell High School




Liz Parker pushed open the door to the rest room, barely registering the stream of students she rushed past on her way to the nearest empty sink. Once there she turned on the cold water full blast and splashed her face, ran her wet hands up and down her arms and inside her collar. Only then did she notice the strange looks other people were giving her, and she tried to act nonchalant as she grabbed a paper towel and dried herself off, escaping to a nearby stall where she held the wet paper towels against her face and neck until the bell had rung and she'd heard everyone leave. Emerging from the stall, she splashed again, letting the water evaporate this time...and then, finally, it was over.

What's wrong with me? Liz thought, leaning over the sink as the heat left her body just as quickly as it had come. For the last few days she'd been having these mini "heat waves" where heat suddenly boiled up from the middle of her body, spreading through her arms, her legs, her neck, her face. It always came on suddenly, going from 0 to 60 in mere seconds with a pounding heart and profuse sweating along for the ride. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it would leave and she'd be chilly. It was the weirdest sensation, and at first she'd thought she was coming down with something. But as the days had gone by with no sniffles, coughs, stomach aches, or whatnot, she'd finally consulted her mother.

"Hmm," Nancy had said. "You know, what you just described is the spitting image of a hot flash."

"A what?"

"Hot flashes," Nancy had answered. "Women get them when they're going through menopause, you know, when our periods stop? The hormones are all whonky, and all sorts of strange things happen. That's one of them."

"But...my periods aren't stopping," Liz had said. "I just got mine four years ago."

"I know," Nancy had agreed. "But adolescence is also a time for lots of changes in your body. Maybe you can get them at your age too?"

"You don't sound very sure about that," Liz had said dubiously.

"Because I'm not," Nancy agreed. "We can call the doctor, see what he says—"

"No," Liz said quickly. "I'm sure it's nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anything about it."

"Well, I do, but only because I'm a middle-aged woman," Nancy had chuckled. "If it's bothering you, we should—"

"It's not bothering me," Liz had lied. "Not really. I was just curious."

"Okay," Nancy had said. "But let me know if it doesn't go away in a few days, okay?"

Liz had promised and headed straight for her computer. Hot flashes were indeed associated with menopause, not adolescence, so why was she having them? And then there was the part she hadn't told her mother, about the ones she got at night which were always accompanied by the most vivid dreams. It was certainly no surprise why she awoke from those sweating and breathing hard, but that wasn't a topic for her mother.

The bathroom door opened, and Maria appeared. "There you are! I know it's just a study hall, but Mr. Soames is looking for you. I told him I'd look."

"Yeah, I know, I just needed a minute," Liz said, reaching for another paper towel.

"So did you hear?" Maria went on, oblivious to the fact that Liz was practically dripping. "Michael got an apartment!"

"Wow," Liz said. "That was fast."

"He says he got a price break on it," Maria went on. "I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if mom had something to do with that."

"Your mom? I thought she wanted to roast him alive."

"That was before she found out why he spent the night at our place," Maria said. "Sheriff Valenti was just over—"

"Wait—they're still seeing each other?"

"Well, I don't know if they're 'seeing' seeing each other," Maria answered, drawing virtual quotation marks in the air. "I certainly didn't catch him with his fly down, if that's what you're asking. No, they were just sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, and I heard a bit before they saw me. She was asking about something he said when we got Michael out of jail, about his foster father. Then after he left, she asked me about it because apparently the sheriff wouldn't tell her—said it was 'confidential'. So I told her about the whole foster-father-smacking-him-around-thing, and you should have seen her, Liz; she looked absolutely mortified. And that was the day before Michael got that great deal on his apartment. So put two and two together, and..." Maria stopped, staring at her. "Uh...is there a reason you're all wet?"

"Yeah, I was just...feeling a little warm," Liz said.

"You got a fever?"

"Maybe. Look, I should get back—"

"You look a bit flushed," Maria went on, putting a hand to her forehead, which had cooled by now. "You sure you're all right?"

Liz glanced around the empty restroom. "Maria, do you...have you ever...do you get 'hot flashes'?"

"Hot flashes?" Maria repeated blankly. "No, no, sweetie, it's our moms who get those, not us."

"Yeah, that's what my mom said," Liz admitted. "But I'm getting them. Or something like them."

"What do you mean? What do they feel like?"

"Like this wave of heat that just creeps across my whole body," Liz said. "It lasts for a minute or so, and then it's gone, but it's so intense when it happens."

"And you just had one?" Maria asked, looking at the wet paper towel in her hand. "Do you get them all day, or just at certain times?"

"Well, I get them at night, but I know why those are happening," Liz said. "They always come with the dreams..." She felt herself flushing, normally this time, not because of temperature. "You know...those kinds of dreams."

"Ah," Maria said knowingly. "The kind with Max in them."

"Maria, I don't know where these are coming from," Liz said. "I literally wake up embarrassed at what we've been doing in them."

"You 'don't know where they're coming from'?" Maria repeated skeptically. "Well, I do. Want me to elaborate?"

"No, you don't understand," Liz insisted. "I'm doing things in these dreams I've never even thought of doing. And when I wake up...well, I think it's like when a guy has a wet dream."

"Gross!" Maria declared. "That is definitely 'TMI'. 'Too Much Information'," she clarified when Liz looked blank. "And, yes, I know I just offered to elaborate, but I wasn't going to elaborate that much. Is this really the first time you've had dreams like that? I have them all the time."

Liz raised an eyebrow. "About Michael?"

"Well...yes, about Michael," Maria allowed. "Among others."

"With 'others' meaning 'Michael'," Liz said dryly. "You know, you never told me what exactly happened to 'no'."

"I think it started evaporating when I found him standing outside my window in the rain looking like a lost puppy," Maria sighed. "And then it evaporated the rest of the way when he was standing in my bedroom crying. I guess I decided I feel the same way you do: It's not that I can't give him up, it's that I don't want to."

"So...you and Michael are together again?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Maria admitted. "But he invited me over to see his new place today, so we'll see. What about you and Max?"

"I guess we'll see about that too," Liz said.

"We should get back," Maria said briskly. "Oh, and I wouldn't worry about your 'hot flashes', babe. With dreams like that, I'm surprised you don't spontaneously combust."

Liz tossed the wet paper towels in the trash as she followed Maria out the door. Her racy dreams explained her night sweats, but not those during the day like the one she'd just had. She'd been working on math when that had started, not daydreaming about...whatever. And she couldn't get something else her mom had said out of her mind, another comment about menopause.

"They call it 'the change'."





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




Proctor residence





"Coming!" Dee called as the doorbell sounded again, almost spilling her coffee in her haste to set it down. She was halfway to the front door before she realized it had been a while since she'd heard the doorbell ring. No one came to the door any more, not with voice mail and e-mail and encyclopedias on CD, making the classic Britannica salesman obsolete. These days a ringing doorbell meant the UPS truck had left something on your doorstep or someone was campaigning for election. But it wasn't November or Christmas, so she opened the door with a good deal of curiosity...

...and found herself eye to eye with a huge floral arrangement which appeared to be hovering in mid-air. Correction, she amended, glancing down; the floral arrangement had legs. Having not received flowers recently, she'd completely forgotten that even in the age of phone and internet orders, the actual flowers still had to be delivered in person. Perhaps the doorbell wasn't dead yet.

"My goodness!" she said, bewildered by the size of the thing, which completely blocked her view of its bearer. "This is...impressive."

A head appeared around the side of the floating garden. "Flowers are customary as a 'thank you' gift, are they not?"

Dee blinked, flabbergasted for the second time in mere seconds. "Of...course they are. Please...come in."

The flowers floated in, borne by one she would never have seen as gifting flowers, and duly deposited on the dining room table with a plunk far more reminiscent of the giver than the gift. An awkward silence ensued.

"Well," Dee said after a moment. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"I wanted to thank you," Jaddo said, "for talking Rath into coming back."

"Ah! Yes. Well...that wasn't all me. Brivari had something to do with it too."

"So I hear," Jaddo answered. "But you did most of the heavy lifting. Rath trusts you, and I appreciate the support you've offered him even though he falls outside the parameters of 'family', as well as the intervention with your son."

"That last one was Michael's doing," Dee said. "Philip didn't help because I asked him to, he helped because Michael asked him to." She paused. "One thing I was never clear on was why it was Brivari and not you who went after Michael."

Jaddo's expression clouded. "I'm not the persuasive type. That's Brivari's department."

"I see what you mean," Dee allowed, "but I'm still surprised. He's your Ward, after all."

"It was best left to others," Jaddo said. "Making myself clear without getting angry is not my strong suit."

"Odd," Dee mused, "because you just did a bang up job of 'making yourself clear'. And you're welcome, by the way."

Even after all these years, Dee had no idea if Covari could officially blush, but if so, this one did. "It would have been difficult to make myself clear to Rath," Jaddo said, looking deeply uncomfortable, "when what I really wanted to do was grab him by the hair and haul him back here. His behavior was deeply embarrassing."

" 'Embarrassing'?" Dee echoed. "How so?"

"He ran away!" Jaddo exclaimed. "The leader of the King's armies ran away! Do you have any idea how unlike him that is? Rath didn't run from a fight even when doing so was arguably advisable. Like at the end, when I begged him not to go out there, and he..."

Oh dear, Dee thought heavily as the sentence dangled in mid-air. Michael had apparently touched a very raw nerve in more than just Max and Isabel. "Come sit down," she said gently. "I've made coffee. Have some?"

Jaddo nodded mutely, and Dee retreated to the kitchen, returning minutes later to find him sitting stiffly on the living room sofa. "As I recall, you like lots of sugar," she said, setting the sugar bowl beside his cup.

"For energy," he nodded. "Shifting takes a great deal of energy, hence the sugar."

Interesting, Dee thought, noting that Brivari had done the same until '89, when the hybrids had emerged and she'd noticed he took his coffee black. "I've said this many times before, and I'll say it again," she went on. "You can't expect them to behave the way they did in their previous lives. They're different people this time around, similar, perhaps, but still different, and still children, I might add. Michael is behaving very much like any other human adolescent—"

"Which is exactly the point," Jaddo interrupted. "He's not a human adolescent."

"Of course he is," Dee objected. "What else would he be? He doesn't remember his previous life, so you can hardly expect him to behave like some seasoned military man when he's neither military nor man."

"But running away?" Jaddo demanded. "That's completely unlike him. The one time I needed him to run away, he didn't!"

"He was afraid he'd be put in an orphanage," Dee said, sidestepping the issue of what had happened on Antar. "And frankly, he may have been. There was no guarantee that his petition for emancipation would work. I recall pointing out to him that if it didn't, he could always run away then. What?" she said when Jaddo gave her a look. "It's perfectly true. Short of tying him to a chair, we can't keep him here."

"Don't tempt me," Jaddo muttered.

"You're right; you shouldn't have gone after him," Dee said dryly. "That attitude would have had him running for the hills even faster than he already was. So," she continued briskly, changing the subject, "I hear the two of you have come to some sort of understanding on how to present yourselves to the kids."

" 'Kids'?"

"Hybrids," Dee corrected. "Forgive me, in my mind, they're kids. Whatever you call them, they all know Anthony and me, so where do we fit into the business of introductions?"

"You don't," Jaddo said. "At least not yet. I'm going to recommend we hold off on approaching them."

Dee blinked. "You're what?"

"I'm going to—"

"I heard you," Dee interrupted. "What I meant was, why would you do that? Weren't you the one hell bent on letting the cat out of the bag?"

"Cats," Jaddo frowned. "Ghastly creatures. To clarify, I was hell bent on giving them a reason to keep their mouths shut and their heads down, especially since they sometimes seem hell bent on getting themselves killed. But given what's recently happened to Rath, this would be a poor time to drop something else in his lap. We should let him get used to his new situation before burdening him with another, and with Brivari's predilection toward doing nothing, I'm confident he'll agree it's just not a good time. And we have time. The Unit has pulled back, Hubble is dead...there are no threats near to hand. Perhaps now more than ever, we can afford to wait."




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






Kathleen Topolsky stepped back from the mirror and gave herself a long look. It was mid-morning, and she was about to test the boundaries of her new existence. She'd awakened surprisingly late, having been more exhausted than she'd thought. The chair she'd shoved under the door was still there, the windows undisturbed, and her gun still under the pillow, all untouched. It appeared no one had approached her during the night, a good sign, and she'd taken her time getting dressed, wanting to be in top shape for whatever she might encounter. Now she checked the rounds in her weapon, tucked it into the holster under her jacket, pulled the chair away, and cautiously tried the door.

It opened. She was so relieved that she nearly sagged against it, half expecting to have been locked in. The hallway outside was empty, all its door closed, and she walked toward the stairs, her sneakers making no sound on the plush carpet. She was halfway down the magnificent stairway when Bates appeared.

"Good morning, agent," he said pleasantly, looking far less menacing than he had last night when he'd been lurking outside her door. "Agent Samuels is waiting for you in the dining room."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

Bates promptly left, leaving her unsupervised and unsure of where to find the dining room. Should she go left or right? She went left, and after locating a library, a home theater, and what looked like a living room, all gleaming in oak and brass, she returned to the foyer and tried the front door.

It opened. The front porch ran the length of the house, a stately old-fashioned veranda that looked out on a snow covered valley. Wherever this was, it was beautiful country...and isolated. There wasn't a house in sight, or a vehicle, or a telephone pole, or any other sign of civilization, for that matter. She walked down the front steps and made a circuit of the house, exhaling little clouds of fog as she noted a barn and what looked like an old outhouse, but no electrical or telephone wires that she could see. Returning to the house, she stomped snow off her shoes, took the hallway on the right, and finally found the dining room. Agent Samuels was on one side of a surprisingly large table, and he stood up when he saw her.

"Kathleen! Did you sleep well?"

"You mean after being misled about the circumstances of my 'relocation' and dumped in the middle of nowhere without an internet or cell connection? Yeah, I slept surprisingly well in spite of that, thanks for asking."

"Oh...yes," Samuels said, looking downright abashed. "Forgive me, I was tired last night and didn't explain myself well. If you'll sit down—"

"Last night had nothing to do with it," Topolsky broke in, not budging from the doorway. "You didn't 'explain yourself' when you first approached me, or when I took the job, or when you sent me travel instructions. Were you 'tired' then too?"

"Agent Topolsky," Samuels said placatingly, "you have to understand—"

"No," Topolsky said bluntly. "I don't have to understand, agent, you have to explain. This is what you call 'relocation assistance'? What the hell is going on here?"

"I'm trying to explain," Samuels said soothingly. "Please...sit down."

"I'll take your explanation standing up, thank you, and I should note that I'm armed."

"Of course you are," Samuels said. "You're an FBI agent—you'd be remiss not to be. Where would you like me to start?"

Topolsky paused, a bit taken aback; she hadn't expected him to cave so quickly. "Where is this place?" she demanded, deciding to begin with the basics.

"We're about an hour northwest of Washington," Samuels answered. "Technically speaking we're in the city of Frederick, although the city proper is quite a ways away—"

"Frederick? You mean Frederick, Maryland?"

"I do. A lovely city dating back to the pre-Revolutionary War period—"

"I'm familiar with Frederick, agent. How does this house come into it?"

"This house belongs to a wealthy advocate of the Special Unit who graciously lent it to us for the privacy it offers along with relatively fast access to the capital," Samuels answered. "It's 18th century, Revolutionary War era—"

"Oh, right! That would explain the home theater."

Samuels smiled faintly. "Updated, of course. Although all the original woodwork and most of the furnishings are still in place. This table, for example, is—"

"Gorgeous," Topolsky finished. "Get to the part where I'm stranded here."

"You're not 'stranded', agent," Samuels said. "You're merely here for a few days for debriefing, and then you'll be in Washington. We can't discuss what we have to discuss within earshot of any other Bureau agent, so we certainly can't take the risk of discussing it anywhere in Washington."

"How does this place get electricity?" Topolsky asked. "I didn't see any wires."

"This house was never hooked up to the grid. They have their own generator and a mass of solar panels on the roof—"

"Solar panels? In the northeast?"

"I'll grant they're not as effective here as in the south, but every little bit helps," Samuels said. "Especially when you're off grid."

"Which means no phones," Topolsky said. "What happens if there's an emergency?"

"We have a landline," Samuels said, pointing. "Carefully checked for taps, of course. We could set up a portable cell tower, but frankly, a cellular connection is just too insecure. Anyone could be listening."

Topolsky almost missed that last part, her eyes having followed Samuel's finger to where a telephone sat on the nearby sideboard, sleek and black and very old fashioned, with a dial instead of buttons. "Is that...does that work?" she asked. "I didn't see any phone connections outside."

Samuels smiled again, broadly this time. "My, but you have done your due diligence. Yes, it works. See for yourself."

Topolsky hesitated, then cautiously moved the few feet to the sideboard. The reassuring hum of a dial tone greeted her when she hefted the surprisingly heavy receiver to her ear. "I need to make a call," she announced.

"Go right ahead," Samuels said. "There are only so many ways of tapping a landline, and we know them all. That phone is clean."

Topolsky stared at the retro dial for a moment, mulling over whom to call. Dialing took a long time, it being necessary to wait for the dial to spin back to "0" after each number, but it worked—the other end rang three times before it was answered.

"Agent Stevens' office," Pamela's voice said.

"Pam," Topolsky said, suppressing a sigh of relief. "It's Kathleen Topolsky."

"Kathleen? Where are you?" Pam demanded. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Topolsky answered, running a weary hand through her hair. "Yes, I'm..." She stopped, suddenly feeling monumentally silly. Had she really just spent the last several minutes grilling her new boss? Hadn't he made it clear this was a clandestine endeavor? Hadn't she known that from the get-go? He certainly didn't sound like she was a prisoner, nor was anyone acting like she was, leaving her alone to wander the house and grounds, letting her use the phone...

"I'm good," Topolsky said. "Just a little homesick, I guess. So how are things back at the old grindstone?"

"Same old, same old," Pam answered. "Kathy, are you sure you're all right? You sound...off."

"I'm just tired," Topolsky replied. "Last night was a late night. You take care, Pam. Say hello to Agent Stevens for me."

"You haven't told me where you are" Pam protested.

"In Washington, right where I said I'd be," Topolsky answered. "I'll tell you more when I get settled. Bye, Pam."

Topolsky glanced uncertainly at Agent Samuels, afraid he'd disapprove of her calling her old office. But he was merely watching her blandly and sipping his coffee, not appearing the least bit perturbed.

"So," he said after she'd hung up, "what other questions do you have?"

"Uh...what's for breakfast? I'm starving."

Samuels laughed, an easy laugh that washed away any of her remaining qualms. "I'll bet you are. Bates!" he called. "We're ready for the food!"

"Very good, sir," floated a voice from the hallway, its owner appearing minutes later with laden trays. There was toast, eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, coffee, tea, orange juice in crystal wine glasses, and it just kept coming.

"My goodness," Topolsky said. "I think this is what you call a 'heart attack on a plate'."

"Only if you eat it all the time," Samuels said, helping himself to several strips of bacon. "Which I don't. I love this place," he continued conversationally. "We can talk freely here, but we have to be so careful at the office. Director Freeh is determined to shut down the Unit, and any hint that one disagrees will earn you a black mark. We need solid, incontrovertible evidence to present so that if he still turns us down, we can take it directly to the President."

"Of course," Topolsky said.

"I apologize that I didn't explain this sooner," Samuels went on. "You're here for a safe debriefing, of course, but also to make you aware of just how careful you'll need to be when you move to the capital. Without a thorough knowledge of the lay of the land, it would be very easy to walk into a trap without even realizing it."

"I understand."

"Still, I never stopped to think about what this must have looked like from your perspective," Samuels continued. "I'm terribly sorry, but I must say I'm impressed by the way you responded. We chose well, Kathleen. You'll be a huge asset to the team. Did you have any other questions for me? I really want to put your mind at ease."

Topolsky felt herself flushing as she dug into her scrambled eggs. "Well...I didn't see a car outside. How do you get here? Helicopter?"

"Don't I wish," Samuels chuckled, "but no; too noticeable. My car is in the barn. I don't want it parked outside in case someone notices it and realizes this place is occupied. It's largely a summer home, so no one would be here at this time of year except caretakers. This area is remote, but it seems the more remote a place is, the more the few neighbors you have want to know all your business."

"Mm," Topolsky said, having tucked into the sausage. "And there's no internet?"

"No internet, no cell coverage," Samuels confirmed. "Cell towers haven't gotten out this far yet. I'm sure they will someday, but not yet. And like I said, a cellular connection is far too insecure. Here," he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket and handing it to her. "Mine won't work either."

Topolsky took the Nokia she was handed just as Bates appeared in the doorway. "How is everything?" he asked.

"Just wonderful, Bates, thank you," Samuels told him. "I always look forward to your cooking when I come here."

"Thank you, agent," Bates said with a little bow.

"Yep," Topolsky said lightly, handing back the phone. "No signal."

"You'll need to learn how to use your cellphone safely," Samuels went on. "We can't just chatter over a cell in the capital. We use codes and pseudonyms; you'll learn all those here. I have some things to do today, but I'll be back this evening. Take the day to get settled, and we'll get started right after dinner."

"I'll look forward to it," Topolsky smiled, raising her glass of orange juice in a toast.

Samuels raised his own, and Topolsky desperately hoped he didn't see her hand wobble as she replaced her glass on the table and returned to her breakfast as though nothing had happened. During the few seconds Samuels had been busy complimenting Bates, she'd hit the "contacts" button. She hadn't had time to scroll through the list, but then again, she hadn't needed to. The top name told her everything she needed to know.

Pierce


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


I'll post Chapter 82 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO




March 1, 2000, 4:00 p.m.

Frederick, Maryland




Her hands gloved, Kathleen Topolsky tried the doorknob; it turned, just like every other knob on this floor. Inside was yet another bedroom, ornately furnished, immaculately clean. Working quickly, she began pulling out drawers and opening closets. She only had a few hours to reach a decision about what, if anything, she was going to tell these people.

After waiting impatiently for Agent Samuels to leave this morning, she'd set to work before his car, which had indeed been stashed in the barn, had reached the end of the very long driveway. Her finding a contact named "Pierce" on Samuels' phone, initially so jarring, now struck her as perhaps something of a coincidence; it was a common enough name, after all. It seemed a bit paranoid to jump to the conclusion that Samuels' Pierce was the same jackass she'd encountered in Agent Stevens' office shortly after her return from Roswell, not to mention the fact that the arrogant, dismissive man she'd told off a few months ago had obviously possessed a singularly poor opinion of her, so poor it beggared belief that he would seek her out for anything other than a Starbucks run. But how many Pierce's can there be? she wondered, opening a wardrobe which proved empty. The Special Unit was small compared to the entire Bureau, so the likelihood of repeated surnames was smaller. Add in the fact that she truly possessed unique information about events in Roswell which may have been enough to override Pierce's opinion of her and that explained the knot in her stomach which had been there since breakfast. She could call Pamela and have her do some due diligence, but that would make her look like a schoolgirl, not a special agent. No, she needed to settle this herself and to that end she'd spent the day combing the house from top to bottom, encountering no resistance along the way. By the time she'd finished with the first floor and started on the second, she was beginning to feel a little foolish, and by the time she'd worked her way through the fifth bedroom, she was feeling more than a little foolish; this was the sixth, and she'd still found nothing to indicate that anything was amiss when she pulled open the bottom dresser drawer and saw something glinting in the back corner. Reaching back with a gloved hand, she pulled out a small, shiny object.

A cufflink, Topolsky thought, examining it beneath a lamp. Slightly dated but not antique, black onyx edged in silver, with the initials "PM". She stared at it, turning it over and over in her hand, wondering why it looked so familiar...

Moss, she thought suddenly. "PM" was "Peter Moss", as in Agent Moss, one of her agents in Roswell who had worn these cufflinks nearly every day. "Family heirloom", he'd said when she asked about them. "A little showy for me, but hey, they were Dad's." Which explained the somewhat 50's look about them, but didn't explain why one of them was way in the back of an old dresser in an even older house in Frederick, Maryland. Had Moss been recruited by Agent Samuels? If so, why hadn't Samuels mentioned that? And what would a cufflink be doing in the back corner of a bottom drawer? Cufflinks were things that lived on top of dressers or on bedside tables...

A moment later, Topolsky had pulled the drawer completely out of the bureau, shining her flashlight around the space it had vacated. Nothing. She tapped the bottom of the drawer, measured the depth of its bottom panel; 1/8" wood, so no concealed compartment. She was lifting the drawer back into the dresser when it slipped from her hands and upended...and that was when she saw the brown envelope taped to the underside, right in the middle between two supporting struts where no stray fingers would find it. Topolsky set the flashlight down and tore the envelope off, turning it over to find familiar handwriting. Agent Moss's handwriting.

Don't trust them, Kathleen.

Barely breathing, Topolsky opened the envelope; inside was a single diskette with no label or markings of any kind. She stared at it for a moment in astonishment before sliding it back into its envelope and replacing the drawer with shaking hands. After double-checking that the room was in perfect order, she made a beeline for her room, locked the door, pulled out her laptop, and slid the disc into the drive. At first she couldn't make heads or tails of what she was looking at—it appeared to be crammed full of documents on the aliens who were held captive in the late forties, a subject on which she was very well versed, or so she thought; upon closer inspection, it appeared there were several things in this stash she'd never seen before. Tales of psychological experiments, a "living autopsy", a horrifying account of attempts to impregnate a human nurse with alien cells...it just got worse and worse. She started skimming, clicking rapidly from one page to the next until she came upon one that was very different—a single-spaced, double-columned list in small type. Names, Topolsky realized, skimming this page also. These were all names, some of which were crossed out or followed by question marks, some of which were unadorned. She slowed down, actually reading them...

Max Evans.

Elizabeth Parker

Isabel Evans

Michael Guerin

Maria DeLuca

Alex Whitman

James Valenti Jr.

What the hell? Topolsky read faster, finding a veritable who's who of Roswell; everyone she'd ever met there seemed to be listed, including the school principal, the office secretaries, Valenti's deputies. Then she reached a more familiar pile of names...

John Stevens

Adam Butler

Peter Moss

Topolsky's stomach lurched. Agent Moss's name had a question mark after it; Agent Butler's was crossed out. What did that mean? She knew what the next name would be before she even reached it.

Kathleen Topolsky

Her name also had a question mark.

Topolsky looked at the names swimming in front of her for several more minutes before she finally sat back, breathing hard. Now what? It was clear that Moss had been here and managed to get his hands on this information. What was truly terrifying is that he'd somehow known she would follow him, known she would have the niggling feeling that something was wrong, known she'd search the house. She'd asked him about those cufflinks; he'd left one behind to mark his hiding place, been so certain of who would discover it that he'd addressed a note to her. That he was not here now did not bode well, and she looked outside to where the sky was growing dark. Samuels would be here soon...

A moment later, Topolsky was prying up the board beneath which she'd hidden the contents of her laptop. The disc safely stashed, she went downstairs; Bates was in the kitchen, humming over a steaming pot of something or other, and the dining room was empty, the phone still sporting a reassuring dial tone. She'd considered this a last resort, but it was time for last resorts. The dial moved with agonizing slowness as she dialed the number she'd committed to memory.

"Hello?" Agent Stevens' voice answered warily.

"Agent Stevens," Topolsky said, nearly collapsing with relief. "It's...it's Kathleen Topolsky."

"Agent Topolsky? Pam said you called earlier. Where are you?"

"I'm in Frederick, Maryland," Topolsky answered. "I—"

"Frederick? I thought you were going to Washington?"

"I was. Some other things happened, and I...sir, I need to know where Agents Moss and Butler are. Are they still in Santa Fe?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know where Agent Moss is," Stevens answered. "Agent Moss went missing three weeks ago. Do you know where he is, agent?"

" 'Is'?" Topolsky echoed. "No, but I know where he was; he was here, in the same house I'm in now, some Revolutionary War relic out in the country near Frederick. And he left me a message, a diskette with records on the aliens we held captive in the forties. It was hidden beneath a dresser drawer in an envelope which said, 'Don't trust them, Kathleen'. He knew I was coming."

"Jesus Christ," Stevens muttered.

"There's more," Topolsky said. "There's a list on that disc, a list of just about everyone I ever encountered in Roswell...and some of us. Agents Moss and Butler are on that list, sir. So am I. So are you."

"Well, I always hated being left out," Stevens deadpanned. "Please tell me you're not on a cell."

"No, sir," Topolsky said, drawing strength from the fact that Stevens not only hadn't panicked, he was actually joking. "Landline, untapped. There's no cell coverage out here, or internet."

"How convenient. How'd you get there?"

"I was brought here straight from Regan International for 'debriefing'," Topolsky went on. "I was promised housing assistance, but when I—"

" 'Brought there' by whom?"

"Agent Samuels, the man who recruited me."

"Brian Samuels?" Stevens said sharply.

"Yes," Topolsky said slowly. "Why?"

"Brian Samuels was one of Agent Summers' lieutenants," Stevens answered. "He was one of those left adrift when Summers wasn't replaced, and he dropped off the map a couple of months ago. I wish you'd told me this. It's extremely odd that he'd be recruiting for anything."

"Marvelous," Topolsky said wearily. "I got a hold of his phone, and the first contact on his list was a 'Pierce'."

Dead silence followed this announcement, and the dread which had briefly subsided in Topolsky's gut flared again. "Sir?" she said desperately. "Are you still there? Did you hear me?"

"Yes, agent, I'm still here, and I heard you," Stevens said, his voice preternaturally calm. "Are you alone?"

"Except for the housekeeper, sir. But Agent Samuels said he'd be back around dinner time."

"Which will be very soon, then," Stevens said. "I want you to listen to me very carefully. You have to get out of there now, as in, right now. Don't stop to get your luggage, pass go, or collect $200. Leave now, before he gets back."

"But leave for where, sir? I told you, I'm in the country about an hour from the capital. There are no vehicles available, there's only one road, everything's covered with snow, I—"

"We all had survival training," Stevens broke in. "You'll need it now. Wear the warmest, darkest clothes you have. Get your hands on some food, and make sure you take your cellphone; eventually you'll run into someplace that has coverage. Stay off the road; that'll be the easiest place to find you."

Topolsky glanced around the empty dining room, then out the window. "I'm not so sure that's the best course of action, sir. I'd have to walk for miles, and this is the northeast, not New Mexico—it's well below freezing out there. I'm supposedly being debriefed before being settled in Washington. I think I should stay and tell them something they want to hear, and then make a run for it when I'm in the city."

"You're never going to be in the city," Stevens argued. "This is Pierce we're talking about; you met him once, but I've had the pleasure a lot more often. He's a ruthless bastard with a God complex who will pick your brain and dispose of you long before you get a chance to 'make a run for it'. Obviously Agent Moss didn't manage to 'make a run for it'."

"Maybe because he fought back," Topolsky said. "We both know what Pierce thinks of me, sir; he'll think I'm too stupid to expose him, never mind fight him. Why not capitalize on that? And in the process I might learn more that will help bring him down."

"Negative, agent," Stevens said firmly. "Your best bet is to get out of there as fast as your feet can carry you anywhere that's as far from Pierce as you can get. Bundle up and run. That's an order. And before you tell me I'm not your boss any more, you might want to give a passing thought to the alternative."

"Honey?" floated a woman's voice in the background. "Who's that on the phone?"

"That's my wife," Stevens said, lowering his voice. "I don't give out this number. Get going, agent. You don't want to end up like Agent Moss."

The line went dead. Topolsky stared at the receiver for a moment before realizing he hadn't said anything about Agent Butler. Moss's name had a question mark just like hers, but Butler's had been crossed out...

Uncomfortably aware of what that could mean, Topolsky retreated to her room and piled on as many layers of clothing as she could. She hadn't lived in the northeast for a while, but memories of its long winters had fortunately spurred her to come prepared; she had boots, gloves, a parka. She had to wait for Bates to step out of the kitchen before she managed to raid it of a few portable foodstuffs, but half an hour later, she emerged from a back door into the bitter cold, meaning to set off across the fields before she realized the problem: Footprints. Snow meant tracks. She'd be laughably easy to follow.

Topolsky gazed across the snowy field, pondering her next move and wondering if this was what it felt like to be an alien. Max Evans. His name had been at the top of that list, and no wonder; he was well known within the Unit as Suspect Number One. If they were right about him, this was the life he led, hiding, running, lying, and judging from her experience, he was pretty good at it; he'd thrown three Unit agents off his trail more than once and his allies had made things so complicated, she'd had to withdraw. Too bad he wasn't here to give advice; he'd probably been in tighter situations than this one and lived to tell of it.

The sound of a car approaching made her turn. There was nowhere to hide and she was too far from the house to make it back; it screeched to a halt in front of her, the passenger door opened, and a dark, silhouetted figure stepped out, taller than Agent Samuels.

"Agent Topolsky," a familiar voice said. "Now, where would you be going this fine evening?"




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



Wal Mart,

Roswell




"Max? Max, are you listening?"

Max jerked back to the present, which happened to be a rather disheveled aisle in the local Wal Mart. "Sure," he said quickly as Isabel gave him a dubious look. "Sure I'm listening."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say half their stock is on the floor," Isabel groused. "Tell me again why we couldn't have gone to a department store?"

"Because this is cheaper," Max said as Isabel cast a baleful eye on a nearby shopper who had knocked a box off a shelf and left it there. "Same stuff, less money. Did you make up your mind yet?"

"I was trying to," Isabel said. "And since you were listening, which one?"

"Which one what?"

"See, I knew you weren't listening," Isabel sighed. "Mom and Dad are counting on us to pick a good housewarming present for Michael, and there are eight models here."

"Yeah, why is that?" Max wondered. "It's a toaster, Isabel. All it needs to do is toast bread. How could there possibly be eight different ways to do that?"

"Men," Isabel muttered. "Of course there aren't eight different ways to toast bread. It's all in the features. This model, for instance has an eight point darkness setting while this one only has five. This one toasts two slices, and that one toasts four. This one—"

" 'Darkness setting'? What the heck is a 'darkness setting'?"

"How dark you like your toast," Isabel explained with exaggerated patience. "Moving along...this one is chrome, while this one is black. This one—"

"I get it," Max broke in. "What I don't get is why you're making this so complicated. I don't even know if Michael eats toast."

Isabel blinked. "Oh. Oh, I...okay. Maybe we should get him something else, maybe something more versatile like a...like a waffle iron."

"I'm not sure he eats waffles either," Max said.

"Waffle irons aren't just for waffles," Isabel replied.

"They aren't?"

"No, brother dear, they aren't," Isabel said, pulling him around the corner into the next aisle and pointing to what must be a waffle iron. "See? They have plates which are...waffley on one side and flat on the other, so you can use them to make pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Must make an awfully thin pancake," Max said skeptically.

"No, no, you don't squish a pancake," Isabel said impatiently. "You leave it open and cook on the flat plate, like a frying pan, or...wait. Why am I wasting my time? You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Not really," Max admitted.

"Yes, well, what can I expect from someone who can only make sandwiches or heat up Beefaroni in the microwave," Isabel huffed.

"Which is pretty much all Michael does too," Max pointed out.

"Men," Isabel snorted for the second time in as many minutes. "All the culinary skills of an aardvark."

"Is that why most chefs are men?" Max asked innocently.

If looks could kill, the one Isabel shot him would have done the job nicely. Then her gaze swept the new aisle and her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Hey! What about a panini maker? I never thought of that!"

Max opened his mouth to ask what a panini was and mention that Michael probably didn't know either, then thought better of it. "Great idea," he said. "I'm sure Michael doesn't have one."

Isabel happily began a close and lengthy inspection of every panini maker Wal Mart had to offer as Max rolled his eyes and prayed for patience. His sister was a veteran shopper who loved to spend hours picking just the right this or that, but the effort was lost on Michael, who would have been perfectly happy with the donations he'd received from their parents, their grandparents, Maria's mom, Liz's parents...pretty much everyone. This gift was more for her than Michael, for her need to punctuate her happiness with his finally being free of Hank with some brand new, shiny something or other. Which was fine with him, but didn't explain why she'd had to drag him along to watch while she inspected every single appliance in the store. God knows he had nothing to contribute.

"How about this?" Isabel asked, holding up a brightly colored box which screamed, "New!", "Improved!", "Fast!" and "Easy!", all on one side. "It does waffles, paninis, and has flat plates for grilling."

"Sold," Max said briskly. "Let's go."

"But...don't you want to compare it to all the others? This one's nice too—"

"I trust your judgment. Besides, versatile is good, right? Let's go."

Max grabbed the box and took off through the crowded store, reaching a check-out crucial seconds before his sister. "What's the rush?" Isabel asked peevishly when she caught up with him. "You got a hot date?"

"No, Michael does," Max said absently, not realizing his mistake until he saw her raised eyebrows.

"Michael has a date?" she demanded. "Oh...with Maria, I suppose."

"Yes, Isabel, with Maria," Max said. "You know, the one who convinced her mother to get him out of jail? That Maria."

Isabel looked away. "Yeah, I know. I'm just not used to them being together."

"Now that he has his own place, I'm sure they'll be more together than ever," Max remarked.

There was a long pause. "Good," Isabel said finally.

Max was so surprised that he momentarily forgot to take the bag the clerk was handing him. "Good?" he said as they left the store. "You mean you're not going to pitch a fit?"

"No, Max, I'm not going to pitch a fit. Michael doesn't have family, not the way we do. He needs friends, lots of them, so if that means he and Maria...you know...then I say, good."

Max climbed into the jeep and stared at her. "If this is what shopping does to you, I swear I'll take you shopping every day for the rest of my life."

"Very funny," Isabel said dryly. "It's just that what happened to Michael made me realize how much we need friends. All of our friends. All the friends we can get. In any species they come in."

Max pulled up at a red light, digesting that incredible statement. "So this means that if Liz and I...I mean, if we..."

"Go ahead," Isabel sighed. "You can't stay away from each other anyway, and I've gotta admit that's worked out well for us sometimes. Except for the first time, of course, which started it all. But that's old news."

Max was so flabbergasted that he missed the green light until someone behind him honked. Coming to, he zipped around the corner and down one side street, then another. "Where are we going?" Isabel said. "This isn't the way home. Why are you—"

She stopped, groaning, as Max pulled up outside the Crashdown. "Here you go," he said, tossing her the keys. "I'll find another way home."

"You can't be serious!" Isabel called after him. "I didn't mean right this second! Max? Max! What do you think you're going to do? Make out in the kitchen?"





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




Frederick, Maryland




"Sit," Pierce ordered.

Woof, Topolsky thought as she was roughly shoved into a chair. Samuels stood off to one side holding her gun, his face a study in worry. Exactly what he was worried about became clear just as soon as Pierce opened his mouth.

"You said you had this," Pierce fumed at him, pacing back in forth in front of her. "You said she was on board. You said—"

"I did, Danny," Samuels interrupted. "And she was. Or so I thought."

"You 'thought'?" Pierce echoed. "You thought?" He grabbed her backpack, jerked the top open, tipped it upside down; the contents splayed to the dining room floor, canned goods, a can opener, extra clothes, matches. "Does this look like 'on board' to you, Brian? Does it?"

Samuels didn't answer, his eyes on the pile. Topolsky watched their interaction with interest and a curious lack of panic; Agent Stevens knew exactly where she was and would lose no time rallying the troops. In the meantime she needed to learn as much as she could, and she'd just discovered a key piece of information—Samuels and Pierce had history, enough that they were on a first name basis, enough that Samuels was now smarting like a younger brother caught with his pants down by his older brother. Pierce looked no different than he had when she'd first seen him, with the same dark hair and dark good looks, impeccable suit, and haughty attitude. A pity, she thought sadly. Why did the handsome ones always turn out to be assholes?

"She was on board," Samuels insisted. "I allayed her concerns. I know I did."

"Oh, really?" Pierce said sarcastically. "Okay, then, tell us, Agent Topolsky, what you were doing outside with all this. Go ahead, tell us."

Topolsky eyed the two men in front of her, trying to decide how to play this. It was said that the best defense was a good offence; that wasn't likely to work in this case, but it was worth a shot. It might at least string things out and give Stevens more time to get to her.

"I know him," Topolsky said, addressing Samuels. "He's Pierce, the one Agent Stevens and I slapped upside the head right after Thanksgiving. What's he doing here?"

"He's your new boss," Samuels said as Pierce flushed.

"Can't be," Topolsky said, shaking her head briskly. "He made it very clear how little he thought of me, and I must say, the feeling's mutual. Why would he want to hire me?"

"Why, indeed?" Pierce said acidly. "For what it's worth, this wasn't my idea. And you still haven't told us where you were going or why."

Topolsky shrugged. "I like to take walks."

"Walks that require a food stash?"

"Low blood sugar," Topolsky said sweetly. "Family trait."

"And extra clothes?"

"In these temperatures, it's important to have a change of clothes in case you get wet," Topolsky said with due seriousness. "You must not be from a winter climate."

"Excuse me...sir?"

It was Bates, hovering in the doorway. Pierce disappeared into the hall, returning a moment later with a familiar object in his hand.

"Forget something?" he asked her, holding her laptop aloft. "How remiss of you to leave this behind, Agent."

"And why would I take a computer with me on a simple walk, Agent Pierce?" she asked innocently.

Pierce's expression darkened, and he snapped the laptop open so sharply, she was surprised he didn't break the hinge. There was in interminable wait while it booted during which Topolsky mentally ticked down her list of options. If she supplied him with the password, he'd see immediately that she'd removed anything of interest; if she demurred, if would take time to decrypt, but he'd get there eventually.

"There," he said, spinning the laptop around. "Put in your password."

"No."

Pierce looked at Samuels, who looked alarmed. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, agent," Pierce said deliberately. "I said, put in your password."

"It appears I'm the one who didn't make myself clear," Topolsky replied in a steely tone. "I said 'no'. It's a single syllable, two letter word. Even you should be able to handle it."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Agent Samuels which coincided with the appearance of satisfyingly red veins in Pierce's neck. "I don't believe this!" Pierce exclaimed in exasperation. "Brian, tell her to unlock it."

"Agent Topolsky," Samuels began, "it would be in your best interest to—"

"Don't ask her, tell her!" Pierce thundered.

"Don't bother," Topolsky snapped. "I'm not unlocking a damned thing until I get some answers. Like where are Agents Moss and Butler? They're missing. I know Moss was here. Where is he?"

The effect of his question was immediate and electric. Both men froze, staring first at her, then each other with shock and suspicion. "What makes you think Moss was here?" Pierce demanded. "Where did you hear that?"

"Oh, c'mon, Danny, you know where!" Samuels exclaimed. "I told you we were going about this the wrong way—"

"And I let you do it your way!" Pierce interrupted furiously. "You said you'd handle it. You said you had it under control, and this is the second time you bungled it!"

Topolsky lurched sideways as the chair she was sitting in was jerked around to face Pierce, who knelt in front of her, his handsome features a mask of fury. "You said, 'I know Moss was here'. How did you know that?"

"I didn't," she lied. "I was just testing you. Thanks for sorting that out."

Pierce's features contorted as Samuels gave a bitter laugh. "And you thought she was stupid," he said, shaking his head. "I was right about that, at least."

"That's a damned short list of things to be right about," Pierce retorted. "And she still hasn't told us why she would need to test that theory. What have you heard," he said menacingly, leaning in so close she could smell the coffee on his breath, "that would make you even suspect that?"

Topolsky held his gaze as she sorted through her options. She couldn't very well tell him that Moss had left a message for her; if he wasn't dead yet, he would be soon after Pierce learned that. He obviously prided himself on keeping things secret...

"There's talk," she said slowly, "of a dark unit forming."

Pierce sat back on his haunches, thunderstruck. Samuels stopped breathing. No one spoke for what seemed like a very long time.

"A...'dark unit'?" Pierce said finally. "What exactly does that mean?"

"A rogue unit," Topolsky clarified, using Pamela's definition. "Unauthorized. Lawless. In other words...you. To a 'T'."

Pierce looked at Samuels, who shook his head, slowly at first, then faster. "Do not look at me, Danny," he said firmly. "I have been so careful every step of the way."

"Then pray tell how did this rumor get started?" Pierce said in a voice so soft, it was deadly.

"I don't know!" Samuels wailed. "Maybe something to do with your screw-up?"

"As opposed to your two screw-ups?" Pierce retorted. "Congratulations, Brian, because you're one up on me. But that's all you're getting. Bates!" he bellowed, rising to his feet. "Bates!"

Bates appeared in the doorway so suddenly, he must have been lurking just outside. "Turn off the scrambler," Pierce ordered. "Now."

Bates disappeared as Pierce pulled his cellphone from his pocket and stared at it. A few seconds later, he started punching buttons. "It's me," he said tersely into the phone as he retreated to the hallway. "We have a situation..."

Topolsky turned hard eyes on Samuels. "So this is 'too remote' to have cell coverage?"

"We had to know if we could trust you," Samuels said. "We can't have moles, Agent Topolsky, or traitors."

"So how much of what you told me can I trust?" Topolsky demanded. "What am I even doing here? He hates me, and I'm not exactly fond of him either."

"You're here because I argued we needed you. I didn't lie, Kathleen—we do believe there's something in Roswell, and you're the one who knows the most about that." Samuels paused, glancing at the doorway before coming in closer. "What gave it away?" he whispered. "I know you were okay with this. What made you change your mind?"

"You did," Topolsky told him. "You handed me your phone to prove you couldn't get a signal, and I checked your contacts. Guess who came up first?" Samuels' eyes widened in horror as she watched him intently. "How do you think Pierce will take that? How do you think he'll react when he finds out you screwed up again? Let me go, Samuels, and I'll keep that little tidbit to myself. You'll still have the rest of the Bureau nipping at your heels, but I'm betting that's a damned sight better than having that one mad at you."

Footsteps sounded, and Samuels backed away as Pierce reentered the room. "It gets worse," Pierce said grimly. "Seems our guest made a phone call not long before she left. Bates says it was about 4:30 p.m."

"That phone's not tapped," Topolsky said. "I checked."

"No, agent, it isn't," Pierce said sarcastically. "Because someone said it needed to be clear so you'd 'trust us', and we all know how well that worked. Clean this up," he barked at Samuels. "And do it right this time. I want to know what she knows."

So they're not going to kill me, Topolsky thought with a private sigh of relief. She only had to hold them off as long as it took Agent Stevens to get to her, which shouldn't be long. Pierce could certainly find out who she'd called, but that would take time, and...

A sharp pain erupted in her arm. Gasping, she looked down to find Samuels withdrawing a hypodermic needle.

"Nighty-nite," Pierce's voice said as everything went black.




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

Vacation next week (last one), so I'll be posting Chapter 83 on Sunday, August 12.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE



March 2, 2000, 1 p.m.

West Roswell High School




"Wait...I'm a little lost," Diane said. "You mean Liz and Max were cleaning erasers when they created this disturbance?"

"No," the school principal said with just the hint of a smile. "They were what we used to call 'making out'. We're talking sexual activity here, not erasers."

Diane glanced at Nancy Parker, seated nearby and looking every bit as bewildered and embarrassed as she was. Gracious, but Nancy must be taking this hard, especially after she'd primed her for something much different. Diane's phone had rung in the middle of a meeting, and she'd almost ignored it. Well, actually she had ignored it, letting it go to voicemail but noting that it was the school's number, which was odd. She'd called back only minutes later, reaching one of the school's admins who told her the principal wanted to see her. Was she available today? She was, Diane had answered, but what was this about? The admin had demurred, saying she'd best leave explanations to the principal.

Diane had set off immediately, her head spinning over what this could possibly be about. By the time she'd reached the school, she'd decided—it must be an award. When one of Isabel's classmates had received a prestigious national award, her parents had been summoned in just such a hasty and enigmatic fashion. She and Philip had been very lucky in that they'd avoided many of the pitfalls of raising adoptive children, including poor school performance; both Isabel and Max were exemplary students, excelling in virtually all their academic subjects. It would not be surprising if one or both of them had garnered national attention, and she'd hurried into school eager to solve the mystery, even leaving Philip a voicemail on the way in, spying Nancy Parker just as she hung up.

"Nancy! I haven't seen you in a while."

"You shouldn't be seeing me today," Nancy said, sounding faintly annoyed. "I hate being interrupted in the middle of taxes; I just know I'm going to screw something up."

"What interrupted you?" Diane asked.

"I got a phone call from the principal's office to come down here right away," Nancy answered, "and they wouldn't say why."

Diane's eyes widened. Nancy's daughter, Liz, was also a stellar student, bolstering the award theory which she lost no time sharing.

"You really think so?" Nancy said dubiously. "The woman who called me didn't sound like she was calling about an award, or anything good, for that matter."

"Well, of course she didn't," Diane said sagely. "It's a surprise! They wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. Besides, our kids are all candidates for valedictorian. What else could it be?"

The first sign that something was wrong had been the sight of Liz and Max seated outside the principal's office. "See, there they are," Diane had said, assuming this confirmed her theory.

"They don't look very happy," Nancy had observed.

Upon closer inspection, Diane realized Nancy was right—they did not. The reason they didn't unfolded over the next fifteen minutes as the principal outlined why they'd been summoned, complete with a blow-by-blow report from the teacher who'd made the "arrest". Diane had felt first her face, then her body growing warmer, followed by a mortifying dripping sensation inside her jacket which meant her antiperspirant had failed her. Beside her, Nancy sat still as a stone, absorbing the tale in silence. It was safe to say that both of them were flabbergasted. Their children simply did not get in trouble.

"Why don't we go talk to them?" the principal suggested.

Everyone rose. Max and Liz were still outside, and Nancy and Liz promptly got into a heated mother-daughter exchange. She's good, Diane thought, watching Nancy parry her daughter's thrusts with a calm she didn't think she could pull off. Max, by contrast, was quiet and abashed, refusing to look her in the eye.

"Mom, it's just a mix-up," Liz insisted as the confrontation continued.

"They also cut two academic classes," the principal interjected. "Now, Liz and Max are honor students. I think we'd all like to keep it that way."

"I'm sure there's an explanation for it," Diane broke in. "I'm certain that Max wouldn't miss any of his classes unless there was a good reason. Max?"

The silence which followed was deafening. Max looked at Liz, then at the floor. The arresting teacher cleared his throat.

"I think I've made my point," the principal said finally, "so I'll leave the settlement of this matter in your expert hands. Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Evans...thank you for coming in so quickly."

The principal retreated to his office. The arresting teacher left. The admins tried to look busy, but there was no avoiding those not-so-furtive glances. Diane hadn't felt so completely at a loss for what to say or do since the day she'd been told she couldn't have children. It was Nancy who finally took charge.

"Wait for us in the hallway," she told Liz.

"Mom—"

"Liz—don't," Nancy said flatly. "Just don't. You'll get your chance, and so will I. Keep that in mind while you're taking your chance. Out in the hallway. Both of you," she added when she saw the bewildered look on Diane's face.

"Yes," Diane said quickly, "yes, you too, Max. I'll be right out."

They left, her furious, him hangdog. "Well," Nancy sighed, giving her a wan smile. " 'Surprise'."

"Not exactly the surprise I was expecting," Diane said, deeply embarrassed. "Good Lord, Nancy, I'm sorry. You can be certain I'll have a talk with Max about—"

But Nancy held up a hand. "Don't worry. One thing I'm certain of here is that it's not all Max."

"Maybe not," Diane said, "but still, I'm just out in left field here. Max has never, ever done anything like this, never mind landed in the principal's office."

"Neither has Liz," Nancy agreed. "Guess there's a first time for everything."

"I guess I just thought things would always go on as they have," Diane admitted. "Not exactly realistic of me. They're growing up, after all."

"Yeah," Nancy sighed, "that's what happens when we keep feeding and watering them."

There was a brief moment of silence before they both started laughing. "Oh, dear," Diane chuckled, catching the startled looks on the admins' faces. "They probably think we're nuts."

"Under the circumstances, they probably weren't expecting us to bust up," Nancy said. "So...how do you plan on handling this?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Diane said.

"I think...we're gonna talk," Nancy said. "About appropriate behavior. And appropriate places to do certain things."

"Good idea," Diane agreed.

"And birth control. I know it wasn't going that far in the 'eraser room'," Nancy added quickly when Diane's eyes widened. "God knows we would have heard about it if it had. I just think I need to remind Liz of a few things, like how to keep from making new people. What about Max? Does he know how to use a condom, and where to get them, and stuff like that?"

Diane felt her face growing warm, followed by a wave of mortification. "I...I don't know," she stammered, feeling like the world's worst parent. "I...guess I never asked. I think Philip would be the best one to have...'that' talk with him."

"Right," Nancy nodded. "The dads do the boys, and we get the girls. Which means Jeff is off the hook, for which I'm certain he'll be eternally grateful. Well...it was nice to see you, Diane, even if the circumstances weren't the best. Good luck with Max."

"Oh, you too," Diane said. "And please let me know how it works out for you. Philip may tackle this with Max, but I'll get Izzie."

"True," Nancy agreed. "Back into the trenches. Wish me luck?"

"You might need it," Diane murmured, glancing into the hallway where Liz looked like a storm cloud and Max stared at the floor. "She should be on the debate team."

"She is," Nancy said wearily. "See ya."

Nancy walked into the hallway, had the briefest of exchanges with her daughter, then walked away, her furious offspring trailing her. Diane hesitated before following, Max's eyes turning to her only for a second before dropping again. She really had no idea what to say to him.

"Well," she said after a long, awkward silence. "This is...different."

"Mom, I'm really sorry," Max said, still staring at the floor.

"Okay, just...just don't cut any more classes, okay? We'll talk about this after school. I want you to come right home."

"I have detention," Max mumbled.

Diane blinked. "Detention?"

"I'll be home right after that," Max said. "I promise. Look, I should go. I'm missing Social Studies."

"Go on, then," Diane sighed.

He fled, and Diane briefly closed her eyes. Don't cut any more classes? That was her motherly advice? And detention? Was that related to the eraser room fiasco or something else entirely? At a loss for what to do, Diane pulled out her phone.

"Honey!" Philip's voice said. "So what did Max or Izzie win? Or was it both of them?"

"Neither," Diane replied. "We've had a first—I was called to the principal's office because Max 'created a disturbance'."

"Max?" Philip said, puzzled. "That doesn't sound like him. What kind of 'disturbance'?"

"The kind you get with a boy and a girl all alone in a room."

"Wait," Philip said. "Do you mean Max was..."

"Necking," Diane finished. "He was necking, Philip, with Liz Parker in a storeroom, or closet, or something like that. And not only necking, but noisily, enough that a teacher heard them. He even cut two classes."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line followed by the last thing Diane had expected to hear: Laughter. It started out as a low chuckle, progressed to a louder one, then graduated to a bona fide chortle. "What are you laughing at?" Diane demanded. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?"

"Probably not as embarrassing as being caught in the middle of tonsil hockey," Philip chuckled.

"Philip, be serious," Diane said crossly. "This is sexual activity we're talking about."

" 'Sexual activity'?" Philip said doubtfully. "I know things change, but last I checked, necking is kissing, and kissing isn't sexual activity. A precursor, maybe, but not necessarily, and definitely not always. What, is every little peck on the cheek 'sexual activity'?"

"Would you stop it with the legalese," Diane snapped. "This wasn't a 'peck on the cheek'! Do you know what it feels like to be hauled into the principal's office because of your kid? It's worse than being hauled in because of yourself."

"Oh, please, Diane, you were never hauled into the principal's office."

"Well...no, but what's that got to do with anything? The point is—"

"The point is that this is your first time and you're mortified," Philip said. "I get it. It's not my first time, so it looks different to me."

"What, you mean...you mean you were hauled into the principal's office?"

"Constantly," Philip said cheerfully. "So was my mother, no big surprise there. Yup, we Evans aren't good at keeping our opinions to ourselves. They had a chair with my name on it."

"You got hauled in more than once?" Diane said in astonishment.

"Put it this way," Philip said, "if it had existed back then, they would have had my mother's number on speed dial."

"I didn't know this!" Diane exclaimed. "You never mentioned it!"

"Does this mean you're giving back your engagement ring?"

"Oh, stop it!" Diane said in exasperation. "Fine, so you're an outlaw and proud of it, but what about Max? He's not like that."

"No, Max is just a red-blooded American male, and he likes a pretty girl. It's that simple."

"It is not that simple!" Diane protested. "What was he doing in a closet making out with a girl?"

"Oh, c'mon," Philip said. "I know we adopted, but do you really expect me to believe you don't know where babies come from?"

"I don't believe this," Diane said furiously.

"That much is clear," Philip agreed, "but what you really can't believe is that your own son is doing it. He's 16, for heaven's sake, not 6. What did you expect?"

"I know he's 16," Diane said peevishly. "And I'm not surprised he'd be making out with a girl, I'm just surprised he'd be doing it in a closet, of all places."

"Believe me when I say that teenaged boys will do it anywhere," Philip teased as Diane rolled her eyes. "And girls, for that matter, because obviously the boys are doing it with somebody. Didn't you ever make out with someone when you were in high school? Duck under the bleachers, grab an empty classroom, meet out by the dumpster?"

"No," Diane said flatly. "For some strange reason, making out next to a trash heap was less than appealing."

"Okay, maybe not a dumpster, but somewhere else? No? Wow," Philip said when his query met with stony silence. "Too bad. Good times, good times."

"Good Lord, you sound almost proud of him," Diane grumbled.

"Well, I am...a little," Philip amended when she gave a snort of disbelief. "It's just that Max is so quiet that sometimes I worry about him. He doesn't seem to have many friends, doesn't date...it's kind of nice to see him doing something normal."

"Necking in a closet is 'normal'?"

"For a teenaged boy? You bet."

"So, what, we're just going to ignore this?" Diane demanded. "Just say 'boys will be boys' and pretend it didn't happen?"

"What makes you think that?" Philip said. "I never said that. We'll obviously have to clarify that there's a time and place for certain things. And that cutting class is unacceptable."

"That's it?" Diane protested. "You make it sound like there is a time and a place for 'certain things'. What about what happens after the 'certain things'? Does he understand he could get a girl pregnant?"

"I believe he does, but I'll go over all that," Philip said.

"And what about birth control?" Diane went on. "Nancy Parker asked me if Max knows how to use a condom and where to get them."

"Of course she did. It's her daughter who would get pregnant."

"Philip Evans, I insist you take this seriously!" Diane thundered. "You didn't have to look a woman in the eye knowing your son was just caught chewing on her daughter!"

"I'm guessing her daughter was doing some chewing of her own, but whatever," Philip said. "And I am taking it seriously; I see unwed teenaged mothers all the time. I'll make certain Max understands his responsibilities to both women and school. Maybe I'll come home early so we can—"

"Don't bother," Diane broke in. "He's got detention. But after dinner, I want you to make sure he realizes where the line is."

"I'll paint the line on the floor," Philip promised. "We still have some of that paint left over that we used after the kitchen fire, right?"

Diane gave a snort of exasperation as she rung off. Honestly, what had gotten into her usually straight-laced, law-abiding husband? Well...not entirely straight-laced, she amended. She and Philip had met in college and enjoyed their own "moments", although they were over 18 and none of them occurred in a closet, theirs or anyone else's. And what was this about him living in the principal's office? Why did she suddenly feel she didn't know the man she married? She was all the way out to her car before it occurred to her that she may not know everything about her husband, but there was someone who did.

"Mom?" Diane said when Dee answered the phone. "I have a few questions for you that may sound odd..."




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




Alex Whitman rounded a corner and spied Liz and her mother in the middle of the hallway, obviously having some kind of discussion. Liz's back was to him, so he couldn't see her face, but judging from the look on her mother's, it was a safe bet her daughter wasn't any happier than she was. Then Mrs. Parker left, Liz turned around...and he saw he'd gotten that wrong.

"Oh!" Liz said happily when she saw him.

"Liz, what's going on?" Alex asked.

"Alex, the most incredible thing is happening to me," Liz said excitedly, "but I...I don't even know what it is!"

Alex blinked. It was completely unlike the studious Liz Parker to not know what something was, or to not at least have a million theories. "What?" he said, confused.

By way of answer, Liz grabbed him by the arm and propelled him down the hallway. "Wait a minute," Alex protested. "Where have you been? I didn't see you in Math, I didn't see you in Health—"

"In here," Liz said, giving him a shove.

"—but I did see you in Bio, or rather, hear you, while you and Max were making out on the floor," Alex went on as she flipped on a light. "Which is so completely unlike you that I...wait. Where are we?"

"The Eraser Room."

"We...what?" Alex sputtered. "Why are we in the Eraser Room?"

"Because it's the last place anyone would think to look for me," Liz answered. "Look, I've just got to tell someone about this, Alex, and, as you know, my supply of people I can talk to is limited due to the whole alien thing—"

"Did your mom get called down here because of the Bio thing?" Alex interrupted.

"No, that was just detention," Liz said, oblivious to the spectacle of herself uttering the unfathomable phrase "just detention". "She was here because of the Eraser Room thing. But never mind that, I've got to tell you—"

"What 'Eraser Room' thing?" Alex asked, looking around warily. "What, did someone puke in here, or something?"

"No, Max and I were in here, and some teacher busted in on us, and the principal blew it all out of proportion and called our parents," Liz said. "Never mind that. What I wanted to tell you—"

" 'Never mind that'?" Alex echoed incredulously. "Is that where you've been? Since when do you get dragged into the principal's office at all, never mind have your parents called? What were you and Max doing?"

"Kissing," Liz said impatiently. "We were just kissing."

"I'm pretty sure it would have had to have been more than 'just kissing' to drag parents in on it," Alex said.

"No, no, that was just because of the noise—"

"Noise? What 'noise'? Since when does kissing involve noise? What else were you and Max doing?"

"Nothing!" Liz insisted. "We were just—"

"I'm not completely stupid, you know," Alex said stoutly. "I know what goes on in here. Sounds like Health class is the one class you shouldn't have skipped. And if you just got in trouble for being here, why are we in here now?"

"Alex, would you just chill?" Liz demanded. "It was just kissing, and I already told you, it's the last place anyone would look for me precisely because I've already gotten in trouble once today for being here."

"I don't believe this!" Alex said, flabbergasted. "Liz, what's gotten into you?"

"That's what I keep trying to tell you," Liz said in exasperation. "And I can't tell you just anywhere because it's an 'alien' answer, so we had to go someplace private."

"Not sure how 'private' this is if teachers are busting in, but whatever," Alex said doubtfully. "Okay, what's the big secret? Or revelation? Or...oh, God. You're not pregnant with an alien baby, are you?"

"Alex!"

"Okay, okay!" Alex protested. "I'm just trying to think of what would turn one of my best friends into someone I've never seen before. I know you like Max—believe me, I got that with the whole blood sample thing—but this is ridiculous."

"No, it's incredible," Liz said excitedly, giving him a little push. "Sit down."

"If you say so," Alex muttered.

"Okay," Liz said once he was reluctantly seated atop a copier box, "did I ever tell you about the connection thing?"

"No, you never told me about the 'connection thing'. What's that?"

"It's how Max can see what I'm thinking, or what I thought before, how he—"

"Wait," Alex broke in. "He reads minds?"

"No, it's not like that. He can see things that happened before—"

"Sounds like mind reading."

"—or see how they made you feel—"

"Still sounds like mind reading."

"—even things from a long time ago—"

"So how is this not mind reading?"

"It's not mind reading!" Liz insisted. "It's like...he described it as a bunch of images going by, like a slide show on fast forward. It's like...like if you dropped a bunch of pictures on the floor and he reached down and picked up a few at random. But the rest all stay on the floor."

"Okay," Alex said slowly. "So that's ever so slightly less creepy."

"The first time it happened was when he healed me," Liz went on. "Apparently he 'connected' with me when he did that, and he saw me as a little girl when I wore this horrible dress my mother had made with cupcakes all over it when I was in kindergarten."

"Definitely creepy," Alex confirmed.

"But then afterwards, after I...found out about him, he reversed the connection so I could do the same thing with him," Liz continued. "And it worked. It was just like he said—random images, but I could also tell how he felt about things."

"Yikes," Alex murmured. "So this is the wonderful, miraculous, fantastic thing that happened?"

"No, this happened months ago," Liz said. "What's happening now is that I'm seeing things from him again, but he's not doing it."

"So...you're 'connecting' with Max, but he's not driving it?" Alex said, puzzled. "So who is?"

For the first time since this incredible conversation had begun, Liz looked a bit less sure of herself. "I...I think it's me."

"You?" Alex echoed. "Why do you think it's you?"

"Well, it has to be one of us, and it's not Max. And it happens when we're, you know, kissing, so of course there's only the two of us—"

"Of course," Alex said quickly. "So is this why you've been making out anywhere and everywhere? So you can do this 'connection' thing?"

"No, that isn't why we've been...you know," Liz said. "It's just happening when we do. And the things I've been seeing are pretty incredible."

"I'm afraid to ask," Alex sighed. "Okay...I'll bite. Things like what, exactly?"

Liz sat down next to him, eyes shining. "At first it was stars and nebulae and galaxies. But then it was soldiers and jeeps and wreckage, and...Alex...I think I saw the crash."

Alex blinked. "The crash? What crash?"

"The crash," Liz answered. "The one Max was in. The one that brought him and Michael and Isabel here."

Alex was quiet for a moment. "Wow," he said finally. "If that's true, that is incredible. Especially since Max doesn't remember it."

"Well, maybe he does," Liz said, "somewhere deep down where he can't reach it. Maybe I tapped into something, some deeply buried memory or traumatic past."

"Or maybe you're just horny?" Alex suggested.

Liz gave him a playful swat. "No! I mean, yes...oh never mind," she finished when his eyebrows rose. "That's not why this is happening. We've kissed before, and I didn't see anything."

"Mmm," Alex murmured. "But have you ever kissed like this before? You know, this...passionately?"

Liz's eyes widened. "You know, you might be on to something! There does seem to be a link between me seeing things and when I...I mean, when we..."

"I get it," Alex said quickly.

"You're a genius!" Liz exclaimed, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Later!"

"Wait, Liz...Liz!" Alex called as she threw the door open and bolted into the hallway. Geez, what was with her? After her earlier adventures he would have expected her to crack the door open, peek through, and venture out only when she was certain she wouldn't be spotted. But then Liz clearly wasn't herself today, he reminded himself as he used the crack-n-peek method to extricate himself. Not only that, he appeared to have just handed her a golden excuse to lose her virginity. "Proper job, Alex," he groaned on his way to lunch. "Nice going."




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




Proctor residence




" 'Sexual activity'?" Dee said, plopping grocery bags on the kitchen table. "That's going a bit far, don't you think?"

"That's what I said," Philip's voice answered, coming over the phone cradled precariously between her ear and her shoulder. Oh, for the days of the old-fashioned telephone which could easily be propped hands free; today's tiny cellphones must be a boon for chiropractors, at least for those with patients old enough to remember when you could secure a phone that way. "I mean, kissing? C'mon! Granted they shouldn't have been doing it in a storeroom during classes, but to hear the rhetoric, they were making babies."

"Because they're afraid that's what's next," Dee pointed out, pulling groceries out of bags and handing them to Anthony. "These days it's all about 'prevention', which is code for 'make everything sound worse than it is out of fear it will become so'. Today's society thrives on exaggeration, and schools are no exception."

"See, I knew you'd understand," Philip said. "Diane was just horrified."

"Actually, she was horrified that you weren't horrified," Dee said dryly. "And further horrified that she'd married such an anarchist, not to mention surprised, given how much you complain about your anarchist mother. Is there a reason you never told her about your escapades in school? Which I confirmed, by the way, so no weasling out of that one."

"It wasn't deliberate," Philip protested. "It just never came up."

"Mmmhmm," Dee murmured, unconvinced. "Either that or you were afraid she'd dump you if she realized how little the apple rolled after it fell from the tree."

"Now who's exaggerating?"

"Not I," Dee said innocently. "So...what are you going to do with Max?"

"I told her I'd talk to him," Philip sighed. "You know, 'the' talk."

"Philip, he's 16," Dee said in disbelief. "Do you mean you've never talked to him about sex?"

"It just never seemed necessary," Philip said. "He's so quiet, and he was never interested in girls...I even thought he might be gay."

"Would it make a difference if he was?"

"No," Philip said quickly. "It just makes life easier if he isn't. Why?"

"Just wondering," Dee answered. "I know you're a stickler for rules and conformity, at least in some ways, so I wasn't sure what you'd do with a child who was...different."

There followed a long moment of shocked silence. "Mom," Philip said finally in a wounded tone, "do you really mean to tell me that you think I'd disown my own son over something like that?"

"I mean to tell you that I wasn't sure," Dee clarified.

"Well, then, let me settle that once and for all," Philip said firmly. "I would never think less of either of my children over sexual orientation, or hair color, or how tall they are, or anything they have no control over. Are we clear now?"

What about species? Dee thought. "Of course," she replied. "Calm down, Philip. You're exaggerating."

"I don't think so," Philip argued. "If you really thought—"

"What I think is that you should save your energy for 'the talk'," Dee broke in. "Go get him now, before you lose your nerve. You can always spar with me later."

She rung off, setting the phone down before handing the last loaf of bread to her husband. "Wow," Anthony said lightly. "That was...direct."

"We were on the subject," Dee said, "so I was just curious as to how he'd react."

"And I'm curious as to how he's going to react," Anthony remarked, looking past her.

Dee turned around...and sighed. "Look, I called you so you wouldn't be surprised," she told Brivari, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway. "He's not in trouble—"

"I beg to differ," Brivari interrupted.

Dee rolled her eyes. "Is this the part where I remind you that Max is an adolescent, with all an adolescent's hormones?"

"No, this is the part where I inform you that hormones are the least of our problems," Brivari answered. "We have a new problem—Elizabeth Parker."



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


I'll post Chapter 84 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR



March 2, 2000, 4 p.m.

Proctor residence





Dee paused beside the counter full of groceries, looked at Brivari blankly, than at Anthony, who shrugged. "Liz?" Dee repeated. "Why is Liz a problem? Other than the corresponding cart load of hormones, that is."

"Would you stop with the hormones?" Brivari said irritably. "This goes way beyond getting caught in a closet with a girl."

"Okay, so they were kissing," Dee said wearily. "You're starting to sound like Diane. Like I said, I only called you so you wouldn't worry, not because there was any kind of real problem. As long as they weren't—"

"There is a 'real problem'," Brivari interrupted. "They're not just kissing, they're connecting."

" 'Connecting'?" Anthony chuckled. "Is that what they're calling it now? I guess every generation has it's euphemisms—oh," he amended when he saw the look on Dee's face. "You mean the other kind of connecting. The mind reading kind."

"It's not mind reading," Brivari answered. "It's nowhere near that precise. But we can definitely share feelings, memories, and images."

"I gather Max is sharing something he's not supposed to?" Anthony said.

"That we already know," Dee said dryly.

"This is not a joke," Brivari said sharply. "This is serious."

"Look, I can understand how this would upset you, but why?" Dee said. "Liz already knows Max isn't human. What could she possibly see that would have you all up in arms?"

"Things Zan doesn't know. Things he couldn't know."

"And now you've lost me," Dee said, emptying the last of the grocery bags. "How could she see something that Max doesn't know?"

"The same way he drew a picture for the Healer depicting something he never saw," Brivari answered.

Dee paused, a jar of spaghetti sauce in one hand. "The picture," she said after a moment. "The one of Earth from space. He never saw that, but he drew an incredibly detailed picture."

"Because I saw it," Brivari said. "And inadvertently transferred that memory to him when we first attempted a connection. The same type of thing could be happening with the Parker girl. I've spent a great deal of time listening to her babble because this has enthralled her to the point where she won't stop talking about it, and what she's describing disturbs me. Stars racing by. A ship crashing. Soldiers."

Dee and Anthony exchanged glances. "That...sounds like the crash," Anthony said.

"Uh oh," Dee said quietly.

"Exactly," Brivari sighed.

Anthony looked back and forth from one to the other. "What 'uh oh'?"

"Oh, dear," Dee whispered, sinking down into a kitchen chair. "We're lucky if all she's seeing are stars and soldiers."

"Exactly," Brivari said heavily.

"Exactly what?" Anthony demanded. "I don't recall Max drawing pictures of soldiers when he....oh," he said suddenly, his eyes widening. "You're not thinking about that first time, are you? You're thinking about the night he made you tell them how they got here."

"When they all wound up having screaming fits and breakdowns," Dee added. "And forgetting pretty much everything, although that also means they forgot those breakdowns."

"Sounds like Liz might wind up remembering for him," Anthony said.

Silence. Everyone looked at everyone else as the possibilities loomed, and the implications from those possibilities loomed larger. "Okay," Dee said briskly, breaking the trance. "One thing at a time. Anthony, get us some coffee, will you, please? Sit down," she said to Brivari, "and let's think about this. First of all, are you absolutely certain she isn't coming up with this all by herself? Roswell natives hear crash stories from the day they're born, and when you know your boyfriend is an alien...well...it's easy to see how one's imagination could run away with you, especially in the heat of passion."

"That's possible," Brivari allowed, "but her recollections are quite vivid."

"How vivid?"

"She asked one of her teachers about a 'red star'," Brivari answered. "Antar's sun is a red star."

"And that's not in any of the alien stories," Anthony remarked.

"True," Dee agreed, "but it's still very basic and harmless information. We know the children have memories they stopped accessing; back at the orphanage, Isabel told Yvonne our sun was 'wrong'. Surely on some level, Max knows what his own sun looks like."

"Most likely," Brivari agreed. "But there's another wrinkle—I'm not convinced he's initiating these connections. I know he did once before because the Parker girl explained it in some detail to her friend, but that was different; Zan initiated that connection. We can connect with humans, but we have to drive the process, and it takes some effort. Zan appears as bewildered by this as she is."

"Then perhaps it's just the heat of the moment," Anthony suggested. "Maybe he's letting his guard down while they're...you know. Wouldn't be the first time someone's uttered something they shouldn't in that kind of situation, although with us, it's usually something audible."

"Like another woman's name," Dee chuckled.

"Perhaps," Brivari said doubtfully. "But this isn't something you have to block access to, not with humans. You have to actively pursue it, and he's not."

"Well, what other explanation is there?" Dee said. "It has to be coming from him somehow, right?"

Brivari's eyes dropped, and Dee's narrowed. "Is this the part where you tell us what you haven't been telling us?"

Brivari sighed, staring into the coffee cup Anthony had handed him. "I've been concerned about something for some time now. It's only a possibility, and I'd convinced myself it hadn't happened because I'd seen no evidence of it...until now."

"Evidence of what?" Dee said impatiently. "Is something wrong with Max?"

"No. But something might be wrong with Liz Parker. Well, not 'wrong', exactly, just...different."

Anthony shook his head. "I'm lost."

"That makes two of us," Dee agreed. "English, please?"

Brivari hesitated. "I think she might be initiating the connection herself."

Dee blinked. "Who? Liz? I thought humans couldn't do that."

"They can't," Brivari agreed, "...unless they've been healed by an Antarian-Human hybrid."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Dee said. "That was months ago."

"These changes can take months, if not years," Brivari said.

"What 'changes'?" Anthony said. "You sound like you have experience with this."

"I do," Brivari allowed, "albeit in a different way. You may recall that our people were here for years before our ship crashed. We were exploring the potential of the human brain—"

"Of course I 'recall'," Dee interrupted. "I believe that by 'exploring the potential', you mean 'experiments on humans'. It's why Mama threw you out of the house years ago. I'm not going to throw you out of the house, but let's be clear—I understand why my mother did. Call it what it is."

"Very well, then, 'experiments'," Brivari corrected with a touch of impatience. "Call it what you like, it's why I suspect that when Zan healed this girl, he did more than just heal her. The human brain has enormous potential, much more than current humans realize. We were able to awaken unused or underused parts of the brain in our test subjects with a concentrated dose of power."

"Which is what Liz likely got when Max healed her," Anthony said thoughtfully.

"Oh, no," Brivari said gravely. "What she got was much more than that. Our hybrids are more powerful than their Warders, although they aren't aware of that, thank God, nor are they adept at using their skills, the extent of which I don't even know. What she received was an unfocused blast from a panicky king, the equivalent of turning a fire hose on a match. It worked, but I've always been concerned it did more than merely heal her wound."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what would 'more' look like?" Dee said.

"Like me," Brivari said soberly. "Like Jaddo, like Zan, like all the rest. Depending on how it affected her, she could develop extra-human abilities...like forming connections."

"So you think she's causing these 'connections'," Anthony said. "But why would she do that?"

"It's not a question of 'why'," Brivari explained. "In the beginning, she wouldn't be able to control herself, likely wouldn't even know what was happening. It would just happen, just flare, like...like..."

"Like the kids did when they were little, when we first found them," Dee finished. "They used their powers, like when Isabel changed Yvonne's drawing. Sometimes they did something dangerous, like when Max overheated the bath water the night we found them and didn't seem to understand why."

"Exactly," Brivari said. "It would be reflexive and largely uncontrollable."

"But why would she be seeing things like stars and crashes?" Anthony wondered. "I would think she'd be seeing things like what he had for breakfast or something that happened at school. You know, everyday stuff."

"That's another reason I think it might be her," Brivari said. "If she's doing this, she doesn't know she's doing it and certainly doesn't understand how to control it. Back to the fire hose on the match analogy; it would be a blast of power which could easily reach Zan's deepest memories, including those he got from me."

"Including how they died," Anthony said faintly.

Brivari shook his head. "Including a lot more than that."

No one said anything for a moment. "So," Dee said at length, "if it is her...or even if it isn't...I don't see as there's anything we can do about it. I don't see a way to make them stop."

"Wow," Anthony murmured. "I think I liked it better when all we had to fret over was the birds and the bees."




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




7 p.m.

Evans residence




Max threw an anxious look at his bedroom door as he threw the last few things into a duffle bag. His parents were still cleaning up after dinner, but it was only a matter of time before his father showed up. That it would be his father and not his mother was a foregone conclusion; matters of discipline in the Evans household always fell to his father, and having both a detention and a trip to the principal's office in one day definitely fell under the heading of "discipline". He'd already prepared the requisite speech which would hopefully put his parents' qualms to rest, but didn't even touch his own. What had started as a joy had now taken on shades of a burden. Even when he tried to forget he was alien, he never seemed to be able to.

When Isabel had given her blessing to Michael and Maria dating and, by extension, he and Liz, Max had felt like he'd suddenly been released from a cage. All the pent up emotion he'd kept so carefully under control, all the longing, all the pining for the friendship and honesty he'd enjoyed with Liz only to have to set it aside had come surging forward. The way it had surged, however, had taken him by surprise, as had Liz's prompt and in-kind response. Not that he'd never had..."those"...feelings about her; he'd just never thought he'd get the chance to act on them, not like they had at the Crashdown anyway, sending crockery flying and drawing enough attention that he'd fled, although without a shred of guilt, both his and Liz's eyes still shining with a longing they'd fully intended to satisfy at the earliest opportunity. Which they had, only to be rudely interrupted by not one, but two teachers, the first of whom prescribed detention while the second went a bit further. Having their mothers called to the scene had been embarrassing, but only emphasized the importance of discretion; he'd resolved to be more careful and looked forward to their next meeting.

Which is where things had gotten complicated. If Liz was to be believed, and there was no reason she shouldn't be, she was "seeing things" when they were...together. The trouble was, he wasn't connecting with her, or at least wasn't trying to. He would have written the whole thing off to an accidental connection in the midst of a previously untried passionate embrace if not for the fact that what Liz said she was seeing was impossible. Soldiers? Crashed ships? Galaxies? She'd seemed to actually recognize that galaxy on the poster in the classroom where they'd done detention, and he'd stared at it for a long time, hoping for some kind of spark, but...nothing. It meant something to her, but not to him. How could that be? How could she be seeing things he didn't remember? What did this mean for future encounters? All of a sudden, passion meant much more than frustrated desire or embarrassing encounters with adults; it meant learning things he wasn't in the mood to learn. As much as he wanted to kiss her, he didn't want her to suddenly pull back and announce she knew the name of his home planet. What was supposed to be a blissful vacation from anything alien had once again been interrupted by just that.

A sound directly behind him made him whirl around so suddenly, he dropped his bag. Isabel raised an eyebrow.

"Little jumpy there, big brother?"

"Don't do that, Iz," Max said reproachfully. "I thought you were Dad."

"You mean he hasn't been in here yet? Well, don't fret," Isabel said breezily, plopping on the bed. "It's only a matter of time. We both know it'll be Dad."

"Did you come to gloat because I got in trouble?"

"No, Max, I came to ask you if you've lost your mind," Isabel replied tartly. "The Eraser Room? I mean, really...the Eraser Room? What the hell were you thinking?"

"Precisely," Max said crossly. "Very little 'thinking' goes on in the Eraser Room. Don't tell me those friends of yours I see going in there all the time didn't mention that."

"Stay on the subject," Isabel ordered. "Yes, other people use the Eraser Room, but I never have, and you never have until today. What's gotten into you?"

"Why are you acting so surprised? You were the one who told me to 'go for it'."

"For the record, 'go for it' does not mean 'screw each other's lights out'," Isabel retorted. "I didn't think I needed to clarify that, but maybe I do."

"We weren't 'screwing'," Max protested. "We were just kissing."

"Loud enough that a teacher heard you?"

"Okay, kissing loudly," Max amended. "Actually, it was Liz who was making the noise, probably because—"

"Stop!" Isabel commanded, holding up a hand. "The last thing I need so soon after a meal is to hear about my own brother doing...that."

"I wasn't going into detail," Max protested. "I was just trying to tell you what was happening when Liz and I...you know."

"What was 'happening'?" Isabel echoed incredulously. "Good Lord, Max, I know perfectly well what 'happens' when girls and boys...'you know'. Granted, I've never been stupid enough to get caught in the Eraser Room, of all places, but—"

"So that means you've done...'you know'...but just not in the Eraser Room?"

"I didn't say that," Isabel protested.

"No, you implied it," Max said with a small smile. "Just checking."

"You're hardly in a position to be making insinuations," Isabel said imperiously.

"Who's insinuating?" Max asked innocently. "If anyone is, you are. Anyway, I was trying to tell you what's been happening to Liz when she—"

"I do not want to hear this!" Isabel exclaimed. "Why would I be the least bit interested in how your girlfriend moaned, or groaned, or wet herself? It's disgusting!"

"And none of your business," Max agreed. "But that's not it. She's seeing things."

"Oh, I'm sure," Isabel muttered.

"Not like that," Max said. "Like...stars."

"And fireworks, and sunbeams, and big fluffy clouds shaped like hearts," Isabel said scornfully. "Anything else? Prince Charming, maybe? Oh, no, that would be you, gag me with a spoon. A fairy castle? Maybe a dwarf or two?"

"How about soldiers?" Max said. "How about the crash? Do your friends see that?"

"What?" Isabel said sharply. "What crash? What soldiers?"

"Soldiers in old-fashioned uniforms," Max answered. "And the crash. Our crash."

Isabel stared at him for a moment. "Wait—you're serious!" she exclaimed. "You actually believe she saw something from the crash?"

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Isabel echoed. "Good God, where do I start? Okay, let's start with the obvious, which would be that we don't remember anything about that."

"Don't we?"

"Of course we don't. We never saw that."

"Didn't we? How do we know we didn't?"

"Because we don't remember," Isabel said impatiently. "Look, you already explained the whole 'see-inside-your-head' thing, which I'm not sure I totally buy and is really creepy, by the way, but—"

"Creepier than when you dreamwalk? How is your dreamwalking any different than me seeing things she's thinking, or vice versa? I just do it when we're awake. And we all get flashes from objects, so why not people?"

"Okay, fine," Isabel sighed. "But we can't see things that aren't there, and neither can she."

"So you're saying she's lying."

"No, I'm saying she's horny," Isabel corrected. "Look, Max, I have lots of friends who regale me with the particulars, and I can assure you that she's not the first girl to see stars when she...you know. And when you've got a girl who knows her boyfriend is an alien, and she grew up in a place where there are all these stories, it's not hard to figure out how she could go there without meaning to. Passion can do strange things to a girl."

May smiled faintly. "Is that personal experience talking?"

Isabel's eyes narrowed. "None of your business."

A knock sounded on the door. "Max?" their dad called. "Got a minute? Oh...hi, Izzy. Could you give me a moment with your brother?"

"Sure, Dad," Isabel said with a wide smile. "See you at Michael's, big brother."

Isabel left, and Philip looked at Max questioningly. "You're going out tonight?"

"Yeah, we're helping Michael set up his apartment," Max said, hefting the duffle bag. "I've got some old clothes Mom said he could have."

"Don't you have homework?" Philip asked. "Especially since I hear you cut a couple of classes today."

"Already did it," Max said crisply, this conversation going exactly as he'd anticipated. "And just let me say again how sorry I am that I was so irresponsible today. It won't happen again."

"Glad to hear it," Philip answered, "although I want to stress that it's not so much what you were doing as your choice of locations that bothers us."

"Right," Max nodded vigorously. "You're absolutely right. I made a mistake, and I won't repeat it."

"What also bothers us is the possible downstream ramifications," Philip went on. "Have you decided what birth control method you'll be using?"

Max blinked as the conversation took a sudden fork in the road. "I...what?"

"Birth control, Max. It's every bit as much your responsibility as your partner's."

"I...know that," Max said, flushing. "But we were just kissing, Dad. You don't get pregnant from kissing."

"I'm aware of that," Philip said patiently, "but I'm also aware of what kissing can lead to. We can't stop you from having sex, but your mother and I feel the need to remind you that if you do, you need to take precautions so you don't accidentally father a child."

"Is that even possible?" Max muttered.

"Of course it's possible," Philip said, misreading that statement entirely. "You and Liz are plenty old enough, and a pregnancy could be devastating to both of you."

"I know," Max said, supremely uncomfortable now. "I get all this in Health Class."

"And now you're getting it at home," Philip said calmly, ignoring his discomfiture. "So—what birth control method will you be using?"

"Dad, we're not having sex."

"Glad to hear it. Whenever you do have sex, what birth control method will you be using?"

"With Liz, or anyone else," Max clarified.

"Good to know. Whenever you have sex, whomever you have it with, what birth control method will you be using?"

"Dad, I've really gotta go—"

"I've got all night," Philip interrupted, "but I gather you don't. This will take just as long as you make it. Once again: What birth control method will you be using?"

"I...um...condoms, I guess," Max stammered.

"You 'guess'? Don't 'guess', Max. Pregnancy isn't a 'guess'."

"Condoms," Max said, desperately wishing this encounter was over. "I'll use condoms."

"And do you know where to get condoms?"

"The drug store. Or the health aisle in the grocery store."

"And do you know how to use a condom?"

Max closed his eyes. "Yes, Dad. Health class, remember?"

There was a long pause where Max was certain he was going to be asked to demonstrate. "Okay," Philip said finally. "Just so long as you realize you have a responsibility to avoid bringing another human being into this world before you're ready."

"You have my solemn promise that I won't bring another human being into this world," Max said. "Ever."

" 'Ever'?" Philip repeated. "That's a bit much, but...good. Glad we talked. I'll go set your mother's mind at ease."

Max leaned against the wall and let out a long slow breath. Philip hadn't even been gone a full minute before Isabel appeared.

"Well?" she demanded in a whisper. "How'd it go?"

"Mom and Dad want me to know that it's my responsibility not to bring another human being into this world," Max announced.

Isabel eyes dropped. "Ironic, don't you think?" she said after a moment. "What they're worried about, I mean. We can't 'bring another human being into this world'. We're not human."

"Precisely," Max sighed. "Let's go."




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




A distant humming filled Kathleen Topolsky's ears, becoming louder and louder. It was a Christmas tune, familiar, but with the name just out of reach, and she hummed along with it for a moment, trying to remember, to recall...

"You like that one, do you?"

Topolsky opened her eyes. The ceiling was white, the walls were white, but the smock the woman beside her was wearing was a cheerful blue. "One of my favorites," the woman declared with a smile. "Always reminds me of when I was a kid. Course it's past Christmas, but that don't stop me. I'll be singing carols till Easter!"

That last line was delivered with a defiant laugh which somehow managed to be friendly, which was fortunate because Topolsky was becoming alarmed. Nothing about the room in which she found herself was the least bit familiar.

"Where am I?" she whispered, surprised to find her throat so dry and sore, she could barely talk.

"You're safe," the woman said soothingly, producing a cup of water, holding her head so she could drink, which she did; it was cold, and wet, and tasted wonderful. "But...where am I?" Topolsky tried again in between gulps.

"You're safe," the woman repeated, refilling the glass from a pitcher on the bedside table. "Get your bearings, and then we'll talk."

She handed her the refilled cup, patted her on the shoulder and left. Topolsky gazed around the strange room, noting the white walls, the tile floor, the industrial light fixture overhead, the bathroom with no door. No door... What was familiar about that?

It took another cup of water before she could sit up, before she realized she was wearing unfamiliar clothes—sweatpants, a tee shirt, thick athletic socks. Sneakers peaked out from under the bed, and when she climbed off, stiff and woozy, and fished them out, she realized they had no laces. No laces? How was she supposed to keep them on her feet? And why did this look both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time? How did she even get here? What had she been doing...

With a start that had her staggering back onto the bed, she remembered: Pierce. The new job, that house in the middle of nowhere, the message Agent Moss had left her, being discovered...and that sharp prick in the back of her arm. Her hand flew up, and when she felt nothing, could see nothing, she went in search of a mirror, but there wasn't one, not in the room, not in the bathroom, the bathroom with no door.

Where the hell was she?

Shaking now, Topolsky shoved her feet into the lace-less sneakers and cautiously peered out into the hallway. There was a name card on her door lettered "Kathleen" in cheerful pink script. A couple of people shambled by, dressed as she was in floppy sweats, their sneakers also lacking laces...and it was the expressions on their faces which tripped the switch. She knew where she was now. She'd been here before, with her father, when he'd suffered from a depression so crippling, he'd threatened to harm himself.

She was in a psych ward.




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


I'll post Chapter 85 next Sunday.

Thanks to everyone reading!







CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE





March 2, 2000, 7:30 p.m.




With a growing sense of horror, Kathleen Topolsky crept down the hallway, her sneakers making a soft squish on the tile floor. Doors opened off either side, the interiors she could see carbon copies of her own room. She passed a few somber, sweatsuit-clad people before reaching a more populated area, a hub of sorts with a workstation on one side and a large room on the other. The latter was equipped with several televisions, tables, and chairs; the former was staffed by people in those cheerful blue smocks bustling back and forth with charts, answering telephones, tapping on keyboards. A large calendar on the wall read, "March 2, 2000" in bold black letters. March 2... She'd tangled with Pierce yesterday, so she'd been here about twenty-four hours...

Bzzzzz!

Topolsky felt her stomach clench. She knew that sound. She'd heard that every single time she'd gone to visit her father, the sound of the locked door being opened from the inside. There were always two doors so that if a patient managed to get through the first, they'd face another barrier; you had to identify yourself at both, be buzzed in at both. The sound of the buzzer invariably drew attention, which meant that when you finally got inside, you were greeted by a circle of patients eager for a visitor.

Bzzzzz!

"Okay, everybody, step back," commanded a nurse, her nurse, as it turned out. "Give'em some room, people, give'em some room!"

Topolsky craned her neck around the corner of the hallway. She could see them now, the visitors standing in the airlock, trapped between two locked doors and eyeing the crowd of patients with alarm, enough so that they didn't open the door soon enough. There was always a timer; miss your window, and you'd have to be buzzed in again. "Hit it again, would you?" her nurse asked another behind the counter.

The sickening buzz sounded again, and this time the nurse opened the door. "Come in, come in!" she urged, hustling the wide-eyed visitors inside. "Don't be shy. It's just a precaution. Bit of a nuisance, really, but you get used to it."

I didn't, Topolsky thought sadly. She'd never gotten used to it, not the locked doors, the buzzers, or any of the other oddities of her father's existence in that place. Many of the patients had been suicidal, which meant the removal of anything they could use to hurt themselves: No shoelaces, drawstrings, razors, glass mirrors, breakable dishes or glassware, no tubs where they could drown themselves, no doors on the bathrooms so they couldn't lock themselves inside. She'd never been able to bring herself to use her father's bathroom when she'd visited. He'd always offered to leave the room, but she'd held it until she was on the first floor with the visitors' bathroom and doors that closed.

"Right in here," the helpful nurse was saying, ushering the reluctant visitors into the large room nearby. Her father had had one of those too; they called it the "common room", a kind of all purpose cafeteria/living room/activity room which was the social hub of the ward, the only place to watch TV, and the place visitors congregated. Visitors were the main attraction, the highlight of everyone's day even if they weren't yours; you could always watch everyone else's visitors even if you didn't get any of your own. They were the lucky ones, the ones who could come and go as they pleased even if they did have to wait for that infernal buzzer.

"There we are!" the nurse said with that forced cheerfulness which seemed to infect every member of the medical profession. "Everyone have a seat, and we'll get started with introductions. Jenny's been very excited to see you all!"

"Jenny" was a skinny young girl in a sweatsuit at least two sizes too large who appeared more bewildered than excited. Her visitors regarded her in horror, there apparently being some difference between the Jenny they remembered and the one they saw now, desperately trying to hold up her pants. Elastic worked, but get the size wrong and you needed a drawstring. No drawstrings here.

"All right then," Cheerful Nurse said brightly, pulling up a seat for herself. "I'm Kate, Jenny's nurse, and I'd like to welcome you to the Institute."

"Institute"? Great, Topolsky thought. A generic name like that told her nothing.

"This is the living room for our residents," Kate went on, "where they receive visitors, watch TV, and eat meals. Here at the Institute, we take a family approach to therapy."

Bullshit, Topolsky thought darkly. If there was anything she hated more than forced cheerfulness, it was the fiction that these places were "family". This wasn't a family, it was a locked inpatient unit and the residents were prisoners. For their own good, so the story went, but watching those who'd been locked in with her father, she hadn't always been so sure.

"I'm off," Topolsky heard one of the nurses at the station say. "Make sure they get the parking pass, would you?"

"Sure thing," another nurse answered.

Topolsky's eyes fasted on the square of paper which had just changed hands. Parking passes were the one perk of having a relative in psych, a get-out-of-jail-free card which typically bore the name and address of the hospital. One way or another, she had to get a look at that pass. The nurse who was staying buzzed out the nurse who was leaving, picked up the pass, and headed for the common room.

"Here you go," Pass Nurse said to one of the still horrified relatives.

"What...what's this?" Horrified stammered, gazing at the piece of paper like it was contagious.

"A parking pass," Cheerful Nurse explained. "Visitors to this unit park free.

"Just hand it to the attendant on the way out," instructed Pass Nurse, "and he'll...oof!"

Pass Nurse lurched sideways as Topolsky collided with her, sending the parking pass in her outstretched hand fluttering to the floor. Everyone leaped from their chairs in alarm with the exception of Jenny, who likely hadn't seen anything this interesting all day.

"Kathleen?" Cheerful Nurse said. "Are you all right?"

No, Topolsky thought as hands hauled her upright. Running on adrenaline, she'd finally run out of steam just after her fake stumble, dropping to her knees as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over her. Unable to stand without assistance, she was helped to a chair, watching the Jenny group with half-open eyes and blurry vision, their expressions of horror growing worse by the minute. Cheerful Nurse rose from her seat and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder as she took her pulse.

"She shouldn't be up yet," Pass Nurse chided.

"Yes, well, it's different for everyone," Cheerful Nurse said sympathetically. "I apologize for the interruption, everyone; Kathleen has had a rough night. Back to bed with you," she added briskly to Topolsky. "You still need your rest."

Topolsky was helped to her feet and back to her room, fighting another wave of nausea on the way which refused to abate even after she was stretched on her bed. The good news was that she now knew where she was—according to the parking pass, the "Institute" was the Bethesda Psychiatric Institute in Bethesda, Maryland, about halfway between Frederick and Washington. The bad news was that she'd caught a glimpse of herself in the glass of the common room doors. It was funny how little you knew without a mirror; she'd imagined herself as she usually looked, with combed hair and neat make-up. What she'd seen had been a disheveled woman with unkempt, dirty hair and dark circles under her eyes. That, combined with the regulation sweatsuit, had made it very clear why the Jenny group was staring at her in shock.

She was the spitting image of a psych patient.




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




March 3, 2000, 11:30 a.m.

Nurse's Office, West Roswell High School




"I want to see her," Mrs. Pilato declared.

"I told you, she's lying down," the nurse replied.

"I want to see her anyway," Pilato insisted.

"I take it you don't believe me?" the nurse's voice asked archly.

Curled in a fetal position on a cot in the back room, Liz Parker squeezed her eyes closed and did her best to think sick thoughts. After Max had left the locker room, she knew she wouldn't be able to just wander back into class, especially since Pilato had come looking for her. What would she have said? That she was crouched in a shower stall with her boyfriend discussing visions and glowing hickies? That her boyfriend had seen a fantasy so personal, it was personally painful to contemplate? Nope, the only thing that would save her at that point was illness, so she had hotfooted it to the nurse and pleaded dizziness, remembering at the last minute not to attribute it to having her period. Every girl in school cited her period as a reason to get out of gym class, and it drove the gym teachers crazy. Say she had her period, and Pilato would probably insist on going into the bathroom with her to make her prove it.

"Of course I believe you," Pilato said, the voice drifting into the back room sounding less than convincing. "I'm just concerned, is all. She was there, and then she wasn't. I couldn't find her anywhere."

"And now you have," the nurse said. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem is she just disappeared. If she's ill when she's in my class, she needs to come to me first."

"She mentioned that," the nurse said. "You'd already started class and she didn't want to bother you."

"So she just leaves me out on a limb wondering what in the hell happened to her?" Pilato demanded. "I mean, her friend said something to me about her being queasy—"

"Then there you have it," the nurse said briskly. "You were told. You must have been. How else would you have known to come here?"

Go, Maria! Liz thought with relief. Maria had just said she'd cover for her, but she hadn't said how. Illness was the standard answer that could get you out of just about anything, for a little while, at least, so it had been a safe bet that was the excuse given. She hadn't been sure, though, and she hadn't mentioned being queasy. Better add that to the list.

"I don't like it when my students vanish on me," Pilato said in a steely tone. "I at least need to talk to her and make it clear that behavior is unacceptable."

"You can yell at her...sorry, talk to her when she's feeling better," the nurse said stoutly. "Students shouldn't feel they have to genuflect in order to come here."

"I just want to make sure she's okay—"

"No, you don't," the nurse interrupted. "This isn't about the student, this is about your wounded pride. I swear all PE teachers are control freaks."

"I could say the same thing about nurses," Pilato shot back.

"Not in my office, you can't," the nurse retorted. "This is my turf. You don't like it, tell it to the principal."

Good grief, Liz thought as a slammed door announced her gym teacher's departure. She'd had no idea the adults in school had turf wars. If she hadn't already known who these people were, she could easily have mistaken them for a couple of teenagers having a fight.

"Okay, then," the nurse said cheerfully, bustling into the room as though she hadn't just locked horns with a teacher, "how are we doing, dear?"

"Okay, I guess," Liz whispered, willing to overlook the hated "royal we" given that the nurse had just gone to bat for her. "Still really dizzy. And a minute ago I thought I was going to throw up."

"Ah, yes," the nurse said, making it sound more like "Ah ha!" "I'd heard you had an upset stomach. I'll get the bucket so you won't have to get up."

Not the bucket, Liz groaned, screwing her eyes shut. The bucket was famous, or rather, infamous; if you had to throw up during the school day, the bucket was where you did it, or at least where everyone preferred you do it. They said it was sanitized between uses, but just the thought of all those kids barfing in it was enough to make you barf even if you hadn't already. Alex Whitman had famously lost his lunch at the mere sight of it, and even the jocks hadn't picked on him. They'd been there.

A scraping noise heralded the arrival of the bucket, right near the head of the cot, of course. "Am I in trouble?" Liz asked, careful not to look down.

The nurse looked startled. "What makes you say that?"

"I thought I heard Mrs. Pilato," Liz said. "She sounded...angry."

"Oh, that," the nurse said, obviously relieved to think that Liz hadn't heard anything specific. "She was just...worried...about you. I told her you weren't feeling well."

"I sent my friend with a message," Liz went on. "Did she get it?"

"She did," the nurse confirmed darkly, "for all the good it did. Honestly, these PE teachers parade around in their track suits like they're the Gestapo. Next thing you know, they'll want us all to salute—"

The nurse stopped, having apparently registered Liz's wide eyes. A moment later the phone rang and she fled, probably glad to escape a conversation where she'd compared a fellow employee to a Nazi. She heard the nurse answer the phone, closed her eyes...

"Liz?"

Liz's eyes flew open. Max was leaning over her, and she sat up quickly, so quickly that, for a moment, she really was dizzy. "Max, what are you doing here?" she whispered frantically.

"I had to see you," he answered. "I wanted to make certain you didn't get in trouble."

"I didn't, but you will if they find you here," Liz said, looking past him toward the outer room where the nurse's voice droned on. "How'd you get past her?"

"She's busy," Max smiled. "And I can walk really softly when I need to."

"You shouldn't be here," Liz insisted. "You almost got nailed in the locker room, now the nurse's office?"

Max reached out, took her hand. "I had to see you," he whispered. "I had to."

Liz felt a tingle creep up her arm, and when she reached for Max's other hand, the same thing happened to the other arm. Max must have felt it too, or at least been aware of it; he ran his hand up and down her arms as though following the path of the buzz.

"Does it hurt?" he murmured.

Liz shook her head; what was hurting wasn't the tingling, it was the effort it took not to hurl herself at him, probably not the best of ideas after yesterday. "Max, you should go," she told him. "You'll get in trouble. We'll get in trouble. Again."

"Okay," he said reluctantly, his hands still running lightly up and down her arms, making her shiver. "Can I see you later?"

"After school," Liz nodded, the shivering becoming deliciously intense. "Call me."

For one heart-stopping moment, she was afraid he was going to kiss her, not because she didn't want him to, but because she was afraid that if she started, she wouldn't be able to stop. But he didn't, dropping his hands, backing away, checking the outside room carefully, where the nurse was still talking. She held her breath for what must have been a full minute, deciding at that point that he must be gone. A couple of minutes later, a phone hung up and the nurse returned.

"Let's just check a few things," the nurse said lightly, producing a thermometer. "Open?"

A thermometer slipped under her tongue. "Don't bite," the nurse instructed. "It'll only take a minute."

They always say that, Liz thought, noting that it was closer to the truth now that electronic thermometers had replaced the mercury variety. "Sorry about the interruption," she apologized. "Some parents, I tell you. Look, I...I didn't want you to get the wrong idea about what I said earlier," she went on in a light tone tinged with worry. "About Mrs. Pilato, I mean. I just get frustrated when the gym teachers second guess every single student who feels ill. I know some of them are faking it, but...say, honey, are you all right? You look flushed. How are you feeling?"

Hot, Liz thought. A sudden wave of heat had washed over her, just like before, only faster, speeding from her torso down her arms to her hands, down her legs to her toes. The thermometer slipped from her mouth just as it beeped, and Liz watched in apprehension as the nurse read it, pursed her lips, shook her head.

"See, this is why pushy PE teachers annoy me. I've been a nurse for 25 years, and I know a faker when I see one. I knew right away something was up with you, and this proves it." She waved the thermometer. "102 degrees. Definitely a fever."

Liz blinked. "What, is that...is that high?"

"High enough," the nurse answered. "Let me get you some Tylenol, and then I'll call your parents—"

"No!" Liz said, struggling to sit up. "No, they're...busy."

"Okay, okay," the nurse said soothingly, pushing her back down. "I'll wait a bit if you like. You were fine a minute ago, so maybe this is just a passing spell. Did anything happen while I was gone?"

"No," Liz said faintly.

"Well, you rest then, and we'll see how you feel in a few minutes. I'll get the Tylenol."

The nurse left, and Liz closed her eyes, feeling the heat beginning to subside. Nothing happened, she thought, except Max touched me.




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




Bethesda Psychiatric Institute

Bethesda, Maryland



"There you go," the nurse said, setting a bowl of soup on the table. "This will help calm your stomach."

Topolsky reached for the spoon she set beside it with hands that shook despite her best efforts to stop. She was steadier today but still very weak, no surprise given that her last meal had been lunch two days ago. No wonder she felt so shaky. That didn't explain the punched-in-the-gut feeling, but one thing at a time.

The common room was uncommonly quiet as plastic cutlery scraped against plastic plates, and Topolsky eyed the patients, all dressed in the requisite sweatsuit sans drawstrings and sneakers sans shoelaces. Most wore blank expressions, probably because they were drugged. She'd almost wound up in the same boat when she'd awakened to the sound of rubber soles on the floor near her bed, heard the rattle of pills in a cup and a soft voice calling her name. She'd feigned sleep, and the rubber soles had moved around the room for a minute before leaving; when she'd sat up, she'd spied the little plastic medication cup hospitals used to dispense meds. Antidepressants were the new miracle drugs, passed out like candy, so it wasn't surprising they were passing them out to her, but what really got her attention was the name on the cup: Kathleen Topolsky. The name card on her door bore her first name, but she'd assumed her last would have been changed. Pierce was so certain of his footing that he'd actually used her real name. Not a good sign.

"Good?"

It was the nurse, watching her closely. "Mm...yeah," Topolsky said, or rather, croaked. Her throat was still sore, dry and scratchy and all around upset. The hot soup felt good.

"Your doctor wanted me to do your intake interview," the nurse said, pulling up a chair beside her. "Do you feel up to it?"

Barely, Topolsky thought, nodding as she spooned her soup. The interview was a staple of psych wards, where they assessed how aware you were of your surroundings and what had happened to put you here in the first place. In her case it was fraught with peril; Pierce and company had likely not fessed up to kidnapping and drugging her, and she had no idea what fairy tail they'd invented. Getting the details wrong would brand her unstable, which would greatly impede her efforts to escape. The most stable patients had the most freedom, and freedom would be essential to getting out of here. The trick would be to get the nurse to do most of the talking.

"Okay," the nurse said, penciling on the standard intake form which didn't appear to have changed since her father's day. "I'm Kate, by the way. And you are?"

"Kathleen," Topolsky answered. "Kathleen Marie Topolsky."

"Good," Kate said approvingly. "And do you know where you are?"

"In Bethesda Psychiatric," Topolsky said, grateful she'd pursued that parking pass.

"Good!" Kate repeated with that annoying false cheerfulness. "And do you know why you're here, Kathleen?"

"I don't...remember."

The nurse smiled sympathetically at hearing the most oft-repeated phrase in a psych ward. "Understandable, dear. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was...getting ready for dinner," Topolsky said, adopting a faraway look in her eyes.

"And?" Kate prompted.

"And...nothing."

"So you don't remember swallowing the pills?"

Topolsky kept her eyes on her soup. "No."

"You don't remember your brother trying to wake you up?"

I don't have a brother. "No."

"What about the ride to the hospital? Do you remember that?"

"No," Topolsky repeated. "My stomach hurts."

"Because we had to pump it," Kate said gently. "I'm sorry."

Topolsky's hand gripped the spoon harder. Pierce had branded her a suicide attempt. Of course he had; suicidal patients were the most watched, the most restricted. He could have just reported finding her with razor blades or pills or whatever and produced the same result, but what would be the fun in that? Pumping the stomach was a violent procedure which perfectly fitted Pierce's sadistic MO.

"I understand you had a previous suicide attempt with carbon monoxide," Kate said.

Topolsky closed her eyes briefly. Dad. Her father had tried to kill himself twice, once by turning on the car in their closed garage, once by take a handful of pills. Pierce had done his homework. "The good thing about these attempts," Kate went on when Topolsky didn't say anything, "is that you're clearly looking for a painless way out, and that usually means some part of you doesn't want to go. We can work with this, Kathleen. We can get you back to your life, to your job as a file clerk. Would you like that? Will you work with me to get better?"

Topolsky winced even as she nodded. File clerk? Well, of course; that's all Pierce thought she was anyway. "Good," Kate went on. "Then the first step is taking these."

She pushed a small plastic cup toward Topolsky containing two capsules, half white, half black. "Go on," Kate urged. "Take them."

Topolsky took the cup without hesitation and dumped the pills in her mouth, drank from the glass of water Kate handed her. "There's a good girl," Kate said approvingly.

Topolsky set the glass down. "I'm not a 'girl'. I'm a woman."

"Of course you are," Kate said quickly. "I'm sorry." She reached for her pencil, scribbled on the intake form. "Finish your soup," she said, patting the bowl. "Later on, we'll try some solid food. You're going to get better, Kathleen. I'm sure of it."

Topolsky waited until she'd left the room before sneezing violently and wiping her nose with a tissue she'd grabbed for just this occasion. Tucking the tissue inside the wristband of her sweatshirt—no pockets on these sweats, so it was hard to hide something—she finished her soup and took her dishes to the cart, making certain Kate saw her moving slowly. It was a good 15 minutes before she made it to a bathroom, deliberately choosing a fortunately empty communal toilet instead of the one in her room to flush away the capsules she'd tucked inside her cheek and spit out soon after. Thank goodness they were capsules instead of tablets, which dissolved quickly, or liquids, which were almost impossible to avoid. She had no idea what it was or what it would do to her; Pierce wanted information, so it was unlikely he'd kill her while he still felt he might get it, but for all she knew it was some kind of truth serum. Cooperation and compliance were the currency in these places, never more so than on the subject of meds, so it was very important that she appear willing to take them, and take them in the right way; dumping them into her hand instead of taking them directly from the cup would be interpreted as an effort to palm them, while hurrying away afterwards would be considered an attempt to spit them out. The last thing she needed was a head fuzzy from medication or another flash of temper like the "woman/girl" objection, likely recorded on her intake form as evidence of defiance. She waited until the toilet stopped running before leaving.

Pierce was outside.

"Kathleen," he said, shaking his head sadly as she stopped dead in her tracks. "You didn't spit out your medicine, did you? Bad girl."

Something boiled over in Topolsky, something primal and savage and completely uninterested in the consequences as she grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the wall. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, gratified at the surprise on his face. "Do you actually think you're going to get away with this? Because you're not, buster, you're not. Freeh will have your ass in a sling before you can—"

The rest of that sentence was cut off as Pierce recovered and threw a hand over her mouth, dragging her down the empty hallway, the smell of his aftershave making her nauseous. "Yes, sweetheart, I do think I'm going to get away with this," he hissed in her ear. "Want to know why? Let me show you."

They stopped in front of a door which Pierce opened with one hand and shoved her through with the other. She stumbled into the room...and gasped.

Agent Stevens was there, tied to a chair and much the worse for wear. There was blood all over his shirt, one eye was swollen shut, and he appeared to have lost a tooth, possibly more than one. Oh, God, Topolsky thought frantically. Had she done this? Had she led them right to him? But she'd checked that phone for bugs...

"The phone wasn't bugged," she insisted, shaking her head in dismay. "I checked. It wasn't bugged. It wasn't."

"No, it wasn't," Pierce agreed. "But his was."

"How terribly law-abiding of you," Stevens said thickly, his swollen lips slurring his speech.

Pierce shrugged. " 'Law-abiding' is a relative term when you're chasing monsters."

"Sir, I am so sorry," Topolsky whispered. "I had no idea—"

"Come here," Stevens interrupted, his voice ragged. "Now!" he barked when she kept protesting, wincing as the effort spilled blood from his mouth.

"I think he wants a word with you," Pierce remarked cheerfully. "I figured he would. Might want to get closer; I do believe he's feeling poorly. Go on," he coaxed when she glared at him. "The sooner we get this over with, the better for all of us."

Topolsky crept closer. Stevens' head hung down on his chest as though the effort to say what little he'd said had left him spent. She bent over, putting her ear close to his mouth, half afraid he'd passed out. But he began to speak, in a whisper so faint she could only barely hear it...

"Enough!" Pierce snapped, pulling her away after nearly a full minute of this. "As I explained to your former employer, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Please tell me he impressed upon you the importance of doing it the easy way."

Topolsky looked at Stevens, who nodded. "We have only three words for you," she answered in the steadiest voice she could muster. "Go to hell."

Pierce's expression darkened. "All right, then. Hard way." He gave her a rough push, and she landed in a chair facing Stevens as Pierce leaned over, now wearing a smile that would have frightened Jesus. "And you get to watch. Lucky you."





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




Roswell




"You got my message?"

Jaddo gave a snort of disgust as he climbed into the passenger seat opposite Brivari. "Yes, I got your message. Are they in there?"

"All three of them," Brivari answered as he gazed out the window at Rath's apartment building. "For the moment."

"So, tell me," Jaddo said, "Valeris being so clever and all, why couldn't he invent a hybrid without a sex drive?"

"A monarch without a sex drive," Brivari said dryly. "Rather counterproductive, don't you think?"

"Who said anything about the monarch? Rath is every bit as involved in this 'search for information'. It's only a matter of time before he's caught in some closet or other."

"That's not the problem," Brivari said. "The first problem is what these females are seeing."

"Which so far doesn't seem to be much of anything specific," Jaddo said. "So I'm a bit lost as to why you're taking this so seriously, other than the obvious risk should they follow this through to the logical conclusion. We could terminate any resulting pregnancy."

"I know that," Brivari said, dropping his coffee cup in the cup holder. "I'm concerned about how the females are seeing what they're seeing. Or, rather, 'female' singular. Only one is actually connecting."

"Tell that to my Ward," Jaddo muttered.

"She did. 'Maria', that is. She made it up."

"What?"

"You need to lurk in more closets," Brivari advised. "Maria lied about her encounters with Rath. He was not amused."

"I should say not," Jaddo declared. "Women," he added sourly. "What ever made him think he wanted one in his life?"

"Which leaves the Parker girl," Brivari went on, "and brings us to the second problem; I'm afraid Zan isn't the one initiating their connections."

"He has to be," Jaddo said. "She's human."

"Is she?" Brivari said softly.

Jaddo's head swung around. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"If I'm right," Brivari said slowly, "—and I hope to God I'm not—we may have not one, but two brand new species on our hands."

Jaddo stared at him a moment. "What in blazes are you talking about?" he demanded. "How could she—"

He stopped, staring out the window, and Brivari followed his gaze to find Liz Parker approaching Rath's apartment building. "Never mind," Jaddo said, his eyes narrowing. "I'll find out myself."

"Wait," Brivari ordered as Jaddo opened the car door. "Jaddo, wait!"

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


Labor Day weekend next week, so I'll post Chapter 86 on Sunday, September 9th.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX



March 3, 2000, 8 p.m.,

Crashdown Cafe





"Honey," Jeff Parker called. "What's this?"

Nancy Parker closed her eyes briefly and prayed for patience. The restaurant business certainly demanded much in the way of patience, but never more so than at tax time. Granted they had an accountant who did most of the heavy lifting, but the fact remained that someone had to go through the receipts, categorize expenses, and assemble some kind of coherent pile of information for that accountant to use. That this task fell to her was a result of personality differences; Jeff was the "throw the receipts in a folder and worry about it later" type of business owner, while she preferred meticulously detailed records. She preferred to prepare for an audit, while he resented having to prepare for something he found unlikely; she felt safer having done the heavy lifting, while he complained that he was wasting his time. Arguments between them had drawn chuckles from their accountant, who had announced they would never see eye to eye; no one ever did, he assured them, not on this subject. It appeared that careful book keepers and casual receipt tossers rarely changed their stripes. That meant she got the job, and also meant she resented any interruption which derailed her already reluctant concentration.

"What's what?" Nancy called, hoping it was something which could be settled by hollering from another room.

"This message on the answering machine," Jeff answered. "Something about the school wanting to talk to you?"

Crap, Nancy thought, tossing her pencil on the desk. Hadn't she erased that? Apparently not. "Oh, that," she said dismissively, turning around in her chair. "They just...wanted to double check something."

There was a brief pause before Jeff appeared in the doorway. "Oh? What?"

"Something about...Liz's schedule. That's all."

"What about her schedule? I thought that was all settled in September."

"Well, that was...last semester," Nancy said, struggling for an explanation. "This was something about this semester."

Jeff looked puzzled. "Didn't the second semester start in January?"

"Maybe. I don't know," Nancy said in exasperation. "Look, I took care of it, okay? Whatever it was."

" 'Whatever it was'?" Jeff repeated in amazement. "You mean you don't know?"

"I'm in the middle of taxes," Nancy said crossly. "Do you mind?"

"Right," Jeff said quickly. "Sorry. I'll leave you to it."

Nancy sank back in her chair with a sigh as her husband practically ran out of the room. Their ongoing inability to make peace over how to genuflect to the government meant that all she had to do was mention the word "taxes" and Jeff would overlook practically anything, up to and maybe including a dead body in the freezer. The taxes card was her equivalent of a "get out of jail free" card, and her playing it now was convenient...and unfair. Lizzie was Jeff's daughter too. He really should know what she'd been up to. So why was she bending over backwards to make certain he didn't?

Because he'd freak, Nancy thought. If she was struggling with the notion that Liz was no longer a little girl, Jeff was struggling much harder. It might be difficult to swallow the thought of her straight "A" daughter being caught snogging in a school closet, but at least she had memories of what it was like to be a teenaged girl, distant though they were. Jeff, unfortunately, had memories of being a teenaged boy, memories which he would no doubt feel justified locking up their daughter until she was at least thirty. If Claudia were here, she might have been able to talk him down. Jeff's mother had always been good at that, at being the one who pacified everyone; Liz had trusted her, Jeff had listened to her, and Nancy had used that more than once. But Claudia wasn't here, and she felt her absence now more than ever, when she needed a liaison to both her husband and her child. All alone with a completely unexpected problem, she found silence her best option, if a lonely one.

Pushing back from the desk, Nancy went to the answering machine and deleted the incriminating message, glancing upstairs as she did so. Yesterday's encounter with Liz, which could only loosely be described as a "conversation", had not exactly gone satisfactorily. Perhaps she should give it another shot, if only under the pretense of telling Lizzie that her father had been asking questions so she'd know what to say. And it wouldn't hurt to remind her that dear old mom was actively keeping this quiet. It reeked of blackmail, but maybe she'd be more forthcoming if she knew that doing so would keep her father out of this.

"Liz?" Nancy called softly, knocking on her bedroom door. "It's Mom. Can I come in?"

No answer. "Liz?" Nancy called again.

Nothing. Nancy cracked the door open, peeked inside, saw the bathroom door closed. "Lizzie?" she called. "I wanted to talk to you. I'll just wait out here."

There was no answer, but then this was a teenager she was dealing with. Nancy wandered the room, smiling at the reminders of days gone by when things had seemed so much simpler. There was the pile of pogs, those little inserts in milk container caps emblazoned with cartoon characters and such, collected by children everywhere back when Liz was in grade school. There were spelling trophies and citizenship awards and certificates of merit for just about everything you could think of. There were stuffed animals, some worn, some not, all dusty and all of which made her smile. There were yearbooks dating back to kindergarten, the early ones not much more than booklets, while last year's was a proper, hardcover book...

Curious, Nancy pulled out the kindergarten book and leafed through it, spending the first five minutes smiling at the fresh young faces. There was Maria DeLuca, a fashionista even at five. There was Kyle Valenti, stocky and wary, not unlike his father. There was Alex Whitman, thin as a chopstick with that same endearing smile. But the one face she was looking for was missing, and she tried first grade and then second with similar results. It wasn't until third grade that she found him, a young Max Evans, dark-haired and serious looking even then. Had Lizzie really known him that long? Where had he been before third grade? Had Philip and Diane not moved here yet? She couldn't recall Max ever being in her daughter's orbit before this year, but then that's how this worked—little boys and girls grew up into teens who skipped class in closets. Even hers. She went through the rest of the yearbooks one by one, tracking Max's still serious face all the way up to last year. The book was riddled with autographs, but Max's picture was untouched.

A noise made her jump, and it took Nancy a minute to realize it had come from downstairs. Startled, she looked at her watch; she'd been sitting here for fifteen minutes? "Lizzie?" she called, hastily piling the books back onto the shelf lest her daughter burst out and frown upon her snooping mother. "Lizzie, are you okay? You've been in there a long time."

No answer. "Liz," Nancy called again, annoyance creeping into her voice, "at least answer me so I know you're alive."

Still nothing. Oh, for heaven's sake, Nancy muttered privately. "Elizabeth Parker, if you don't at least grunt, I'm coming in there," she said severely. "Even if you're sitting on the toilet."

In the deafening silence which followed, every magazine article about teenage suicide Nancy had ever read or even given a passing glance raced before her eyes as she threw open the bathroom door, almost afraid to look. A moment later she leaned against the sink, breathing heavily: Empty. Liz wasn't in here, and relief at having not found a body in the bathtub quickly morphed to annoyance at having not found anyone. She'd been strictly forbidden to leave the house after school until next week at the earliest; so much for that. Where the hell was she?

Her lips set in a thin line, Nancy parked herself on the bed and waited.




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





Guerin residence



Brivari scrambled out of the car after Jaddo, the one person he hadn't yet told of his suspicions because he knew that when he did, he would have only one suggestion: Remove Liz Parker. Her appearing at this moment was damnably inconvenient. If he'd known she was going to be here now, he would never have broached the subject.

"What are you doing?" Brivari asked in alarm.

"Settling this," Jaddo answered grimly as the Parker girl continued toward Rath's apartment building.

"Settling what? I haven't even explained yet."

"You've explained enough," Jaddo said, hard eyes on his target. "Enough to know she's a threat."

"Jaddo, get back in the car," Brivari ordered.

A slammed door was the response. The noise caught the Parker girl's attention and she stopped, watching the two men across the street. "I said, get back in the car," Brivari repeated.

More pedestrians rounded a nearby corner while a car snaked down the road, looking for a parking place. "I will not have a repeat of Audrey," Brivari said severely when Jaddo didn't move. "Get back in the car. Now."

For one long moment, Brivari thought he wouldn't. But then he capitulated, slamming the door so hard the entire vehicle shook. Brivari climbed in after him as the Parker girl went into the building.

"What the hell was that?" Brivari demanded.

"That was me, sick and tired of these random threats popping up," Jaddo retorted. "Here we thought we were in the clear when the Unit left, and then we had Hubble, and alcohol, and Rath's foster father. And now this. Only it sounds like you saw this one coming."

"Suspected the possibility," Brivari corrected. "And never saw any evidence of it until—"

"You said you'd explain. Now would be a good time."

Brivari briefly considered pointing out that Jaddo had kept plenty from him over the years and decided to save that card for a later round. "You know about the research we conducted on this planet prior to the coup, how we—"

"Yes, of course I know," Jaddo said impatiently. "That's why we have hybrids. Get to the point."

"I believe that when Zan healed the Parker girl, he initiated a process by which she will develop extra-human powers similar to theirs."

Jaddo blinked at him. "And how in blazes could that happen?"

"I was attempting to explain that when you demanded a summary."

"Fine, now I'm demanding details. What would lead you to suspect that?"

"Because the energy Zan used is not unlike the energy used to stimulate development in dormant areas of the human brain," Brivari answered. "In our case that energy was controlled, measured, and precisely aimed to produce a particular result. There was little controlled about what Zan threw at her."

"So?"

"So there's no telling how it affected her," Brivari replied. "The only corollary would be when we conduct an execution. We use a similar amount of energy which is more focused but still leaves traces in the human body. A moot point when the subject is dead, perhaps...but this subject isn't dead."

A door opened across the street; Rath and Vilandra appeared, climbed into a car, left. "So they're in there alone," Jaddo muttered. "Wonderful."

"Yesterday I was merely suspicious," Brivari went on. "Today I kept a closer watch on her...and today I'm more suspicious. She's experiencing fevers which come on suddenly and leave just as quickly, a symptom our test subjects also exhibited. In her case, a fever can be triggered by touch."

"Touch?" Jaddo repeated. "Touching what?"

Brivari hesitated. "Zan's touch. So far it only flows one way; I haven't seen any signs of her affecting him—"

"But she could," Jaddo interrupted. "It could happen. Anything could happen. We're in uncharted waters here."

"We are," Brivari admitted. "The good news is that it might be self-limiting. Our test subjects evolved in fits and spurts, sometimes with long stretches in between. An ability which suddenly surfaced could disappear as quickly as it came, especially if not practiced."

"Practicing seems to be their strong point," Jaddo said sourly. "Surely you can see that we have to get rid of her. Your Ward is in there alone with a type of hybrid we know nothing about."

"We know precious little about our own hybrids," Brivari reminded him, "and even less about this one."

"All the more reason not to find out," Jaddo argued. "The last thing we need is to blindsided by yet another problem."

"We already have been," Brivari said. "And you know perfectly well we're not at liberty to 'get rid of her'. She's risked her own life in the service of the king."

Jaddo stared at him in disbelief. "Do you mean to tell me that you're going to hold us to a standard from another world?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole point is to restore that world, is it not? And if not, then why are we here? What are we even doing here?"

"Trying to restore our world," Jaddo said impatiently. "But the rules are different now; we weren't dealing with deposed monarchs and never-before-seen hybrids back then."

"No, we were dealing with a young king with grand plans who moved too quickly and with too little grace, with older rivals who sought to take advantage of his youth, with our first chance at a hereditary monarchy and the fragile compromise which breathed life into it. And unbeknownst to us, we were dealing with a king who continued his father's practice of persecuting our people in secret against all the promises made to win their support."

"So, what, this is payback?" Jaddo said. "If she harms him, you'll figure he had it coming?"

Brivari shook his head. " 'Payback'? No. Call it justice. Riall began the experiments on this world, and his son continued them. His existence is a testament to their success...and the reason that girl is very likely now something more than human. He made her, Jaddo, in two separate lifetimes. He should see the results of his behavior."

"A pointless exercise given that he doesn't remember that behavior," Jaddo noted.

"Then he should at least realize that his behavior has consequences," Brivari said. "If he learns nothing else from this exile, I will see to it he learns that."

"What the hell?" Jaddo muttered, gazing out the window. "Are they having a party in there?"

It was the DeLuca girl, the Parker girl's friend, who parked and went into the building. Several tense minutes later she emerged with the Parker girl, who looked none too happy as they sped off.

"You stay here," Brivari said. "I'll go after her. I'd like her to live through the night."

"Why? Because of codes of conduct from another world, or because you want to teach him a lesson?"

"Not 'another' world, our world," Brivari corrected, "the one we're standing on our heads trying to restore. And if we're successful, I want some things to be different. I won't tolerate a king who behaves the way this one did."

Jaddo looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before climbing out. "If we're successful," he said slowly, leaning on the open windowsill, "we won't have a choice."





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





Evans residence




"That's it?" Diane said in astonishment. "That's all you talked about? That's all you said?"

"What?" Philip protested. "I got it all in there. I told him our concerns. I asked him what birth control method he would use when the time came. I pointed out how important it was to be careful, and he gave me his solemn promise that he wouldn't bring another human being into this world."

The tea Dee was drinking suddenly went down the wrong way, leaving her coughing and gasping, and temporarily interrupting her son's and daughter-in-law's argument. "You okay, Mom?" Philip asked, handing her a napkin. "You look...upset."

More like trying not to laugh, Dee thought, shaking her head by way of answer. Max's "solemn promise" looked a whole lot different when one took into account the fact that he was incapable of bringing another human being into this world, at least the plain vanilla variety. Tough to do that when you weren't human yourself.

"I'm just coughing, is all," Dee said when she could speak again. "I think you've got us confused, dear. Your wife is the one who's upset."

"Got that right," Diane declared. "You were in there all of five minutes, Philip! How could you possibly have settled this in five minutes?"

"I didn't know there was a meter running," Philip said irritably. "And if you were so concerned I wouldn't perform to your satisfaction, you could have, no should have, come with me."

"Phillip, don't make this about you," Diane said sternly. "You know perfectly well what this is about, and it's not you."

"No, it isn't, and like I said, I covered all your bitching...I mean 'talking'...points," Philip retorted as Diane's eyes narrowed and Dee rolled hers. "I told him we were concerned about downstream problems—"

" 'Downstream problems'?" Diane said. "That's a new euphemism for teenage pregnancy."

"—and I explained what that meant," Philip went on, "that bringing another person into this world was a huge responsibility that shouldn't happen before both parents are ready, and that both are responsible for making sure that doesn't happen. And then I asked him what birth control method he was using."

"And what did he say?" Dee asked.

"That he wasn't having sex. That they were just kissing, and that kissing didn't cause pregnancy. And I said I knew that, but when that changed, whenever that changed, what would he use? And he said condoms."

"So he's thought about it," Dee said.

"No, Mom, he hasn't 'thought about it'," Diane groaned. "He just said condoms because that's all they talk about in school health classes. That would be the first thing that came to mind."

"Perhaps," Dee allowed. "It would also be the easiest and most readily available thing to use, so I don't see as how that proves he hasn't thought about it."

"Did you talk about STD's?" Diane asked Philip. "It's not just syphilis and gonorrhea out there now, you know."

"You never mentioned that," Philip protested.

"So you didn't," Diane said in exasperation. "Great. Because even if he doesn't get someone pregnant, he could still catch something fatal."

"I stuck to the script," Philip insisted. "Pregnancy was what you were upset about, so that's what I talked about."

"And the vast majority of STD's aren't fatal," Dee said gently. "Annoying, maybe, but treatable, if not curable. It's only AIDS—'

"Mom, please," Diane interrupted, holding up a hand. "You didn't raise a child when there were piles of different bugs to catch."

"No, I raised a child when there was a different pile of bugs to catch," Dee noted. "Many modern vaccines were only just appearing, remember? Philip got most of them when he was older, but he went through his early childhood without them. Diane, every generation of parents has its worries," she went on when Diane huffed impatiently. "Mine was no different, and neither is yours. You can't prevent everything."

"But we can try," Diane argued. "And I would hardly call a five minute conversation 'trying'."

"Honey, honestly, I think you're blowing this out of proportion," Philip said. "I don't think Max is there yet; I really think they were just kissing. When I first brought up the prospect of pregnancy, he even asked me if that was possible."

Good question, Dee thought. Yvonne had determined the hybrids' bodies were human, but it was a safe bet she hadn't investigated the prospect of reproduction. Was it even possible for them to produce a child with an ordinary human, and if so, what would the result be?

But Diane, of course, knew none of this, and was taking Max's very practical question entirely the wrong way. "Oh, God," she said, eyes wide and hands to her mouth. "Do you think...Philip, do you think he actually doesn't know how a girl gets pregnant? I mean, we've never actually sat them down and gone through it—"

"Of course he knows," Philip interrupted. "Health class, remember? Either that or the school bus," he added with a chuckle which faded abruptly when his wife glared at him. "He knows," he insisted. "I know he knows."

"But what if he doesn't?" Diane demanded. "What if we're just assuming...oh, who is that?" she sputtered when the phone rang. "Probably telemarketing. Where's the handset? Philip, do you know where the handset is?"

"No, I don't," Philip answered wearily. "Use the speakerphone."

Dee held her tongue as Diane scrabbled through piles on the kitchen table before taking Philip's suggestion, stabbing at the button as though she'd like to murder it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Diane?" a worried voice said. "It's Nancy Parker. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh...Nancy...no," Diane said, the anger melting from her face. "I mean, yes, this is a good time. Is something wrong?"

"I was just wondering if Max was there."

Philip and Diane exchanged glances. "Max? Uh...no," Diane answered. "He's..."

"Helping Michael move into his apartment," Philip finished, "he and Izzie both. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I...I've had a bit of a night, and I...I was just wondering."

Now Diane glanced at Dee, who raised an eyebrow. "Nancy, what's wrong?" Diane asked. "You sound upset. Is everything all right?"

There was a chuffing sound, as though someone was trying to hold back tears. "Liz and I, we...had a fight," Nancy said haltingly. "She was grounded after...you know, and I found her missing from her room after supper, so I waited for her. She crawled back in through her window."

"Windows," Philip muttered. "What is it with kids and windows? I saw Michael climbing in through Max's window once. Doesn't anyone know how to use a door?"

"He was probably afraid one of you would answer it," Dee commented.

"And?" Diane prompted Nancy, ignoring them. "What did she say? Did she say where she'd been?"

"No, but...she was sick," Nancy answered. "Her face was flushed, and her forehead was hot...she was burning up."

"Oh, my," Diane said faintly.

"And then she got all mad at me and stomped into the bathroom, and told me to go away when I tried to talk to her. But I know who she was with."

"Actually, you don't," Philip noted. "Well, she doesn't," he argued in a whisper as Diane looked daggers at him. "She's making an assumption which may or may not prove to be correct. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

"Lawyers," Diane said in disgust. "Nancy, I'm so sorry. We'll call Max and see what's what."

"Why?" Philip asked. "I told you, he's at—"

"Call him anyway," Diane broke in. "Nancy, we're calling Max. Just hang on."

Philip sighed and pulled out his phone, but Dee's mind was elsewhere. She was burning up... She hadn't give much credence to Brivari's worry that Liz was initiating the flashes of memory she was seeing from Max, but now she wasn't so sure. Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, she pulled out her own cell.

"Brivari, Nancy Parker is on the phone" she said when she reached his voicemail. "She was saying some interesting things about Liz, and..."

She stopped as a sound suspiciously close to a wail came from the kitchen. "What do you mean he's not answering?" Diane's voice said. "Why wouldn't he answer? Call him again," she insisted as Philip tried to soothe her. "Call him again right now! No, I'll call him. Where's my purse?"

"...and it appears that Max and Liz were together tonight against their parents wishes," Dee continued. "Do you know anything about this?"




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




"Is that yours or mine?"

Liz stared out the window as the ringtone sounded again. "Yours. I left my phone in my room."

Max glanced at her quickly before reaching one hand into his pocket, the other on the wheel of the jeep as it sped along into the desert. "It's my dad," he announced, the phone's screen glowing in the dark car. "He never calls me."

"Which means they know something's up," Liz said.

The ringing continued, loud and insistent. "I should answer it," Max said, "so they won't worry—"

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because somehow or other, it'll get back to my mom," Liz answered. "And because my mother doesn't get to know every single thing about me. Because I deserve some privacy. Because I'm not stupid, and she should give me the benefit of the doubt."

The phone stopped ringing, removing the immediate need for action. Max returned his eyes to the road, glancing at her every now and then with puzzled eyes she could feel without looking at him. "She's just worried about you," he said gently. "So was I when you told me she thought you had a fever, that you—"

"But I don't, okay? No fever. I'm fine."

"But you weren't earlier. Not at school, not in Michael's apartment. What if something's happening to you—"

"What if something is?" Liz broke in. "If it is, it's happening to me, right? So I get to decide if I do anything about it, and I've decided what I'm doing—we're doing it right now."

The phone rang again. Max tore his eyes away from her and pulled it out. "My mom this time. Look, if I don't tell them something, they'll drag your mom into this for sure—"

He stopped as Liz grabbed the phone from his hand and typed in a message. "What'd you say?" he asked when she handed the phone back to him."

"That you're still helping Michael with his apartment and you'll be home late. That was the story, right?"

Max hesitated before nodding, a troubled look on his face. "What's gotten into you? You sound...angry."

"Because I am angry," Liz declared. "All my life, I've been the 'good girl', the responsible girl, the one with straight A's and piles of awards. And just this once something happens to me that is so incredible, and I need a little slack, and no one will give me any! Not teachers, or my mom, or Maria, or anyone. And I think I've earned it, Max. I think I've earned some slack because I've always been a logical person before, so why wouldn't I be now? Why is everybody treating me like I'm a truant and a slut and problem child when I've never, ever been any of those things?"

"Probably because you've never been any of those things," Max said dryly. "And now you're skipping classes, and making out with your boyfriend, and sneaking out of the house. Just a guess, but I'll bet that's it. Look," he continued when she glared at him, "you can't blame them. They don't know what's going on. They don't know I'm an alien, they don't know you're...seeing things, and we can't tell them. It looks different to them."

"Maybe it does, but I still say I've earned the right to an explanation," Liz insisted.

"Okay, so, what would you tell them? If they asked you to explain. What would you say?"

Liz's mouth worked for a moment. "I don't know," she admitted, "but I do know that whatever's happening, I'm not afraid of it. I want it to happen. I feel like whatever's happening is a good thing. So if something's happening, I say just let it happen, because nothing has ever felt so right in my life as what we're doing right now." She paused. "Do you feel that way? Do you feel like this is the right thing to do?"

Max's hands tightened on the wheel. "Honestly? I don't know. I don't know what's happening to you, Liz. I don't know what you're seeing, or why you're seeing anything, or what it all means, or what this will end up doing to you. I don't even know where we're going—"

"There!" Liz said suddenly, leaning forward as she peered through the windshield. "That's the tower I saw!"




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




The phone rang. "Not again," Jaddo groaned. "Can't you turn that thing off?"

"I gather someone has discovered they're missing children," Brivari said, pulling it out of his pocket as Dee's number glowed from the screen. "Either that or her legendary Spidey sense is tingling."

"I wish ours was," Jaddo grumbled. "What would make them up and take off to the desert? Where the hell are they going?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Jaddo's head swung around to look at him. "Do you think they're—"

"I don't 'think', I 'know'," Brivari answered. "They're heading for the crash site."




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


I'll post Chapter 87 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN



March 4, 2000, 6:00 a.m.

Crashdown Cafe



Nancy Parker startled awake, took a moment to register the dark bedroom with the morning sky just beginning to peep through the shades, then sank back on the pillows with a sigh. What an awful dream, a dream she hadn't had in years. Every parent had their nightmares, and this was one of her worst, born of an incident in a local department store where she'd briefly lost her then 3 year-old daughter. Five grueling minutes had passed as she searched frantically up and down the aisles, calling to her, asking other shoppers if they'd seen her. She'd been seconds away from notifying the staff when Lizzie had emerged, giggling, from within a circular rack of clothing where she'd been hiding, listening to her distraught mother hunt for her as though they were playing some kind of demented hide and seek. Several tearful minutes and many admonishments later, she'd managed to impress upon her daughter the importance of never, ever, worrying Mommy like that again, and Liz being Liz, she hadn't.

Until now. That department store episode had occurred over a dozen years ago, but the feelings of helplessness and panic were all too familiar...only this time Lizzie wasn't hiding in a clothes rack, she was right in front of her, angry and defiant. She'd barely recognized the child who had shouted at her last night, who had curtly told her to go away several times after she'd trekked back to her room to make amends. Bewildered and smarting, Nancy had backed off, resisting the urge to unburden herself to Jeff because what, after all, would she tell him? That their daughter had been replaced by a doppelganger? That their exemplary student was skipping classes, necking noisily in closets, and sneaking out of the house after she'd been grounded? No, as much as she was struggling with this changeling, this completely unrecognizable person, Jeff would take it far harder than she would. Better to keep it to herself until she had no other options...and pray that day never came.

A truck roared outside. Pots clanged in the kitchen. The cafe door dingled downstairs as it did most Saturday mornings, rattled by tourists who somehow missed the "Open at 7:00 a.m." sign in big letters at eye level. It was her day to sleep in, but sleep eluded her, just as well as she had no desire to slide back into that nightmare. Liz was starting a shift at 9:00; maybe she could catch her beforehand. Maybe she could rustle up some of those pancakes her daughter—that is, her real daughter—had always loved, and they could hash this out like women, over heaping plates of fat and sugar. The thought of food and detente got her moving, and a half hour later, she knocked on Liz's bedroom door.

"Liz?" she called hopefully. "I made pancakes."

No answer. "Liz, I know we...disagreed last night," Nancy went on, noting that her feelings of foolishness for talking to a closed door had diminished somewhat with practice. "But it's a new day, and that's behind us. Can I come in?"

Still no answer. At least she's not snapping at me, Nancy thought, although her final attempt last night had met with a similar silence. She'd assumed Liz had just fallen asleep, which she probably was now, and which was why it was probably premature to be grateful for anything. But silence also meant she hadn't been told to stay out, and Nancy's hand closed on the doorknob, fully prepared to use either that or the "Gee, I thought you were asleep" excuse if she found herself in front of a firing squad.

"Liz?" she called, opening the door.

The room was bright and airy, the curtains wide open...and the bed empty. Nancy's eyes flew to the bathroom, also empty, as was the balcony. The bed was unrumpled and unslept in, the telltale pile of yesterday's clothes absent. Bewildered, Nancy went back downstairs and combed the lower level, hoping she'd find her daughter up early for her shift, but not really expecting to. Five tense minutes later, after searching everywhere including the diner and the kitchen, she slumped down in the living room, absolutely furious with herself. How could she have been so stupid? What had made her think that, having defied her once, her child would be reluctant to defy her again? Because she's never done this before, Nancy admitted. Because she never would have done this before. Because I thought she was always going to be that way.

"You okay?"

It was Jeff, poking his head around the doorway. "Uh...yeah," Nancy stammered. "Yeah, I'm just...tired."

"You're up early," Jeff noted. "It's your day to sleep in."

Nancy gave him a wan smile, certain she'd never sleep soundly again. "I know."

"Saw you made pancakes," Jeff went on. "Lizzie'll love that."

She might if she were here, Nancy thought as he mercifully disappeared back into the kitchen, the urge to confide in him so strong that she nearly ran after him. Instead she pulled out her phone and punched in Liz's number, pacing impatiently as it rang, wondering why she could have sworn she was hearing it ring in both ears...

Pulling the phone away from her ear, Nancy froze. The ringing continued, softer, but there, and she climbed the stairs on legs that grew heavier by the second until she stood in the bedroom doorway and confirmed her suspicions—Liz's phone was on her nightstand, ringing cheerfully away. She'd left her phone? Why would she do that? Because she didn't want me to be able to find her, Nancy thought despairingly. And it worked. For several long moments, she leaned against the wall and breathed the breath of the terrified as that awful day she'd lost her daughter came rushing back, with all its attendant feelings of helplessness and fear. Should she tell Jeff? This wasn't just a noisy necking session in a closet, this was serious. Noisy or not, at least she'd known where she was. Now she had no idea.

Nancy glanced down at her phone. She may not know where Liz was...but she was willing to bet good money on who she was with.




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




Evans residence




The phone jolted Diane awake, and her hand went out without thinking, knocking her bedside glass of water to the floor. Muttering language she'd never use in front of her children, she finally located the receiver and managed to get it to her ear without further incident.

" 'lo?"

"Diane, it's Nancy Parker," a strained voice said. "Sorry to wake you so early, but is Liz at your house?"

Diane blinked. "Say again?"

"I said, is Liz at your house," Nancy repeated. "Because she's not here."

Oh, good Lord, Diane groaned, rolling over on the pillow, one hand to her forehead as sun peeped through the shades and Philip snored softly beside her. Honestly, this was just too much. She'd admired how Nancy had jousted with her daughter the other day, but this was approaching paranoia. "No, Liz isn't here," she answered in what she hoped was a level voice.

"But...how do you know that?" Nancy asked. "I mean, I can tell I woke you...and again, I'm sorry about that...but if you're in bed, how can you know if Liz is there or not?"

"Because the children don't have guests of the opposite sex over for sleepovers," Diane said patiently. "They know that."

"Yeah, well, there were lots of things I thought Liz knew," Nancy said ruefully. "Would you just check, please?"

"Nancy, I know you and Liz had...words last night," Diane said carefully, "and I'm sorry about that. This has been difficult for all of us. But—"

"Diane, I just want to know if Liz and Max are together," Nancy broke in. "Please check."

"We called Max last night, and he said he'd be home late," Diane reminded her. "We've been over this—"

"Yes, I know," Nancy interrupted again. "But I'd still like you to check because I don't know where Liz is."

"Did you try her phone?"

"Yes," Nancy replied in a brittle voice, "and it rang in her room. She left it here. Wherever she went, she left her phone here."

"She...what?" Diane said, confused. "Why would she do that?"

"Isn't it obvious? She didn't want me to find her," Nancy said bitterly. "And it worked—I can't. I can't find her, Diane. My daughter is missing."

Missing. That last word caught Diane's attention, sending her up on her elbows, putting her feet on the floor. Losing a child was every parent's worst nightmare, and even when it happened to some other parent, it still felt like it was happening to you precisely because it was so terrifying. "Let me see if Max or Izzie knows anything," she said soothingly. "Hang on a minute."

"Thank you," Nancy said weakly.

Diane set the phone on the nightstand and slid her feet into her slippers. "You okay?" Philip mumbled when she reached their bedroom door.

"Just going to the bathroom," Diane whispered. "Go back to sleep."

He did, Philip never needing much persuasion to sleep, just as well as she wasn't in the mood for another lecture about how Max's behavior was normal and she was overreacting, etc., etc. Padding along the hallway, she reached Max's room and knocked on the door. "Max? It's Mom. Can I talk to you?"

No answer, although she really hadn't expected one; it was the crack of dawn on a Saturday, after all. Pushing the door open, she walked silently through the gloom of the darkened bedroom and quietly opened the curtains.

The bed was empty.

It took Diane a moment to register what that meant, to put it together with what Nancy had told her. Then she was off, out the door and around the corner, where she barreled into Isabel's room with none of the stealth she'd displayed in her son's. "Isabel!" she exclaimed, throwing the curtains open. "Izzie, wake up!"

Isabel startled awake, blinked, squinted. "Mom?"

"Wake up," Diane repeated urgently. "Your brother's not here. Do you know where he is?"

Isabel stared at her uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"Max is gone," Diane clarified. "He said he'd be home late, but his bed isn't even turned down."

"Gone?" Isabel repeated thickly. "Are you...are you sure?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, of course I'm sure!" Diane exclaimed. "I know an empty bed when I see one! Where is he?"

"I...I don't know," Isabel stammered.

"Then where was he?" Diane pressed. "How did you get home last night? Did he bring you home?"

"I..I...are you absolutely sure he's not here?" Isabel asked. "Maybe he's having breakfast, or out running, or—"

"The jeep is gone," Diane broke in. "He's gone. And Liz Parker's mother is on the phone telling me Liz is gone too."

Isabel's eyes widened, and then she was out of bed, bolting along the hallway to her brother's bedroom as though she had to see the empty bed for herself. "You never told me how you got home," Diane persisted. "Did Max drop you off?"

"I...no," Isabel said, dazed. "Michael has a car now, and he dropped me off."

"But was Max at Michael's last night? Was he helping set up his apartment like he said he was?"

"Of course," Isabel said defensively. "What, are you saying he lied?"

"I'm saying he told us he'd be home, and he's not here," Diane countered. "Unless you see him, and I don't."

"Well, you go to bed a lot earlier than we do," Isabel argued. "Maybe he came home and went out again."

"Good Lord, Isabel, I'm not that stupid," Diane groaned. "Max is missing, Liz is missing...do you really think I can't put that together?"

"Who's missing?"

It was Philip, yawning and scratching in the hallway. "What's all the commotion?" he asked as his wife and daughter stared at him. "Did you say someone was missing?"

"Mom's jumping to conclusions," Isabel said quickly. "We don't really know anyone's missing."

"Thank you very much, I can speak for myself," Diane said tartly as Isabel flushed. "Nancy Parker is on the line, Philip, because Liz is missing. And lo and behold, our son is missing also."

Now wide awake, Philip made a quick circuit of the bedroom, then the house, ending with a glance out the front window. "He's not here," Diane insisted. "Would you like to check the basement too? Maybe comb the backyard? The jeep is gone—"

"I noticed," Philip said curtly.

"Yes, well, perhaps you've also 'noticed' that this situation is growing worse by the day," Diane retorted. "We can't just keep ignoring this, Philip. We can't just keep saying 'boys will be boys'. This requires—"

"I agree," Philip said. "Let's go."

Diane blinked. "Go? Go where?"

"To speak with Nancy and Jeff," Philip answered. "You said Nancy was on the line? Tell her we'll be there in thirty minutes."

Finally, Diane thought gratefully, although the look on Isabel's face suggested rather different emotions. "Nancy?" Diane said after returning to the phone. "Liz isn't here, but..."

"Neither is Max," Nancy finished for her. "I figured as much."

"We'd like to come over, if that's all right," Diane said, grateful all over again that Nancy couldn't see her mortified face.

"Of course," Nancy said quietly. "I'll be here."

Thirty minutes later on the dot, Philip shut the car off in front of the Crashdown. Only the hardiest of tourists were there at this hour on a Saturday, and the dread in the pit of her stomach contrasted sharply with the cheerily jingling bell on the door and the wide smile with which Jeff greeted them. "Philip! Diane! Didn't expect to see you here on a weekend. What has you up at this hour?"

Philip and Diane exchanged startled glances, but were spared having to answer that question by Nancy, who emerged from the kitchen as pale as a ghost. "Honey?" she said tentatively. "There's something I have to tell you."

"Uh oh," Philip murmured as Nancy drew her husband aside, speaking in hushed tones. After several minutes and a considerable amount of back and forth, Jeff's smile had evaporated.

"Listen up, everyone," he called grimly to the munching crowd. "We're closing. Family emergency. The staff will box up your food, which is on the house."

This announcement was met with stunned silence from virtually everyone in the cafe including the staff. "I said, we're closing," Jeff repeated testily. "Everybody out!"

That did it. Chairs scraped, staff scrambled, and Philip pulled Diane aside to avoid the fray. "God, I feel terrible," she whispered miserably as the staff hurriedly distributed carryout containers. "Not only did our son abscond with their daughter, now Jeff is losing his weekend business."

"We don't know anything for sure at this point," Philip said. "Yes, yes, I know what it looks like, but we still don't know for sure. And there's someone I haven't checked with who might know something," he continued, pulling out his phone. "It's worth a try."

"Make sure you let it ring," Diane advised. "The only phone is at the base of the stairs."




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



Proctor residence




A distant jingling woke Dee, a faint sound initially hard to identify. Phone, she thought after a moment of bleary-eyed thought. Her beside clock read 7:40, way too early for God or man, so she let it ring. This was precisely what voicemail was for.

Only it didn't stop. Several rings later, she shot an annoyed hand toward her nightstand, scrabbling for her phone. Only then did she realize that the phone ringing was not her cell, but the ancient land line on the telephone table at the base of the stairs, circa 1940, a relic of a time when telephones were so revered, they were deemed worthy of furniture named in their honor. No wonder it hadn't gone to voicemail, which certainly hadn't been around in 1940. Her parents had never installed an answering machine, nor had she and Anthony, having relegated the land line to emergency use after switching day-to-day calls to their cells. So who hadn't gotten the message? Probably a wrong number, she decided. It would stop soon.

It didn't. Muttering phrases which would have made a sailor blush, Dee climbed into her robe and slippers and padded downstairs, leaving Anthony blissfully sleeping through the entire episode much the way he'd slept through Philip's loudest infant wails. Whoever this was, it had better be good, and she was in a mood by the time she picked up the handset and tried to keep the irritation out of her voice as she said, "Hello?"

"Mom!" Philip's voice said. "Did I wake you?"

"No, I'm always up at the crack of dawn on a weekend," Dee deadpanned. "Of course you woke me! Haven't we told you to call our cellphones?"

There was a pause. "Oh. Yeah," Philip allowed. "You did. Guess I just don't associate you with modern technology."

"I love you too," Dee said darkly. "Did you want something, or are you just spreading early morning cheer?"

"Yeah, is Max at your house?"

Dee glanced around the dark living room. "No. Why would he be at my house?"

"No reason, I guess," Philip said. "He's just not at mine."

"Philip, for heaven's sake, would you just spit it out?" Dee said in exasperation. "I'm only half awake and not in the mood for riddles!"

"Max is missing," Philip clarified.

" 'Missing'? As in not home, or as in 'missing' missing?"

"As in he didn't come home last night, and we don't know where he is," Philip answered. "Ditto for Liz Parker. We're at the Crashdown now with her parents."

Oh dear, Dee thought heavily, sinking down on the chair which always accompanied a telephone table, a necessity back when all phones had short cords. "Have you called the sheriff?"

"Not yet," Philip answered as Dee breathed a sigh of relief that they didn't have to deal with Valenti...yet. "Although we're getting there."

"Well, do you know for sure they're together?" Dee asked.

"See, that's what I said, and Diane got all mad at me," Philip complained. "She seems to think this is my fault for not riding him harder about the whole kissing-in-the-closet bit. And no, we don't know that for sure, but I admit that's the logical conclusion. Do you know anything about this? Max and Izzie sometimes tell you things they don't tell us."

"He hasn't told me a thing about this," Dee said truthfully, sidestepping the question of whether or not she "knew anything", which would have required one hell of a lie. "How are Jeff and Nancy taking it?"

"Nancy's worried, but Jeff...Jeff isn't in a very good mood," Philip admitted. "Seems Nancy didn't tell him about the incident at school, and now he's looking at me like my son abducted his daughter...Mom? Are you laughing? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Dee said quickly, privately noting that they'd achieved a whole new meaning for "alien abduction". "I was just clearing my throat. Look, we know neither of them are stupid, so I doubt they've gone and done anything drastic. They'll turn up. Give them a little time."

"I hope so," Philip said. "Call me if you hear anything?"

"Of course," Dee promised.

I'd better hear something, she thought darkly, climbing the stairs back to the bedroom to retrieve her cellphone. Brivari's number again brought her to voicemail, and she sat there, smarting, for several long minutes before she remembered something Isabel had taught her about sending messages via telephone numbers. It took a while, what with three or four letters assigned to each number key, but she'd never been anything but persistent.

Max and Liz missing. You'd better be keeping an eye on them, or I swear to God, there'll be 1 less Warder on this planet.




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



Pohlman Ranch





"She's up," Jaddo said as Brivari's phone rang. "Isn't this early for her?"

"It is," Brivari said as he glanced at his phone. "I'm guessing they've discovered a few things aren't where they should be."

"They're not the only ones," Jaddo muttered, gazing through the windshield into the distance where two figures lay huddled on a blanket on the desert sand. "Where the hell did that come from, Brivari?"

"Wal Mart," Brivari deadpanned. "What do you mean, 'where did it come from'? It came from our ship, of course."

"But we removed all the communicators."

"Obviously we didn't. And based on the girl's reports of seeing it buried, it appears this one was removed by a soldier, probably hoping for a souvenir."

"What I don't understand," Jaddo said slowly, "is how she could have seen that. I don't remember seeing that buried. Do you?"

No, Brivari thought, privately noting that there were several things about this latest situation which had him concerned. "It was a tumultuous time," he answered. "The ship crashed, the hybrids were compromised, then captured, Urza and Valeris died...we could have seen all sorts of things we later forgot."

"You neglected to mention that we were captured," Jaddo murmured.

"I figured you already knew that."

His answer was a soft snort which Brivari tactfully ignored. The one subject which remained off limits between them was that of Jaddo's captivity, a three year ordeal which had left a black hole in an already murky psyche. Jaddo never spoke of it. That he'd mentioned it now was highly unusual.

The phone rang again, a series of beeps this time. "Haven't heard that one," Jaddo commented. "New ringer?"

"It's Dee," Brivari said, looking at the screen. "Text message. Hasn't really caught on yet. Just wait until teenagers realize you can do this instead of calling."

"What does it say?"

Brivari clicked his phone shut. "It's a death threat."

Jaddo burst out laughing, causing the whole car to shake. "Oh, my," he said through spasms as Brivari stared at him in surprise. "That's my girl."

"I haven't heard you laugh like that in ages," Brivari said. "Maybe never."

"You may be right," Jaddo allowed, still laughing.

"I should have her threaten to kill you more often," Brivari said dryly. "Why should I have all the fun?"

"Why, indeed?" Jaddo chuckled. "You'd better answer her before she makes good on it. Knowing her, she's got a satellite armed with nuclear warheads aimed straight at us."

Brivari smiled faintly as he typed They're OK and sent it off into the ether. "Wouldn't surprise me in the least. If there really is a deity, he or she must have been in a good mood the day they sent Deanna Proctor across the path of our ship."

"No argument there," Jaddo agreed. He was quiet for a moment. "Did you hear what the girl said about hearing the communicator in her 'vision'?"

"Yes."

"But...how could she have heard that? It didn't start sounding until we were all out here. Or is that part of the memory? Was it sounding when that soldier buried it?"

"It could have sounded at any time," Brivari answered. "Someone on Antar has no doubt been calling for decades now, if not someone on each of the five planets."

Jaddo considered that for a moment before nodding. "I suppose you're right. Did you notice how she kind of collapsed after they found it? Like she was exhausted?"

"I noticed. Much like anyone unaccustomed to the expenditure of power."

"At least it kept us from the pregnancy question," Jaddo sighed. "For the moment, at least." He checked his watch. "They're still asleep. Should we hurry them along now that the cavalry has been saddled?"

"Probably," Brivari said. "Do you want the honors, or shall I?"

"I'll do it. Should I take the communicator?"

Brivari considered that for a moment. "No," he said finally. "That will give away that someone's watching and make them paranoid, and we both know how they handle paranoia. It's unlikely they'll activate it. We can always grab it later if need be."

Jaddo nodded and climbed out of the car. Brivari watched as he approached Zan and the girl, kicked some rocks, woke them. What he hadn't said was that he, too, had noticed how the girl had referenced hearing the communicator before it had actually sounded. While it was possible that was part of a memory she'd gleaned from Zan, there was another, less attractive possibility. The human brain was an incredibly complex organ, the depths of which had only barely been tapped by present-day humans. Antarian experiments had proven that prodding it could produce startling and unexpected results.

Just what we needed, he thought heavily. A prescient human.




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



Gazing up at a canopy of night stars, Liz Parker sighed. The sky was beautiful, the air was warm, the silence was intoxicating. It was peaceful here, and peace had been in short supply of late. She could have lain here forever.

A noise nearby intruded and the night sky receded, vanishing along with the warmth. Suddenly she was cold and blinking, bright sun making her squint, hard ground beneath her...and an odd grey object in front of her. A second later it all came flooding back, the visions, the digging, why she was lying on sand under a desert sun. She must have been dreaming just now, and pleasant as that dream had been, what lay behind her was better. Max. He stirred when she propped herself up, smiled, stroked her face...then looked past her with an expression of alarm.

Liz turned. A strange man stood off to one side, several yards away, watching them. After a moment, he walked toward them.

"This is private property," the stranger announced. "You two better get home."

Max never took his eyes off the stranger as they scrambled to their feet, cramming the strange rock they'd found into his backpack and hurrying away. "Who is that?" Liz whispered, glancing back at the stranger who stood unmoving, watching them go.

"Don't know," Max said in a clipped tone. "Keep moving."

They reached the jeep, climbed inside, took off, Max's eyes on the rear view mirror. Liz's hand slipped inside the backpack, closed on the smooth, gray stone that felt oddly warm to the touch. "Max, what is this?"

"I don't know," Max answered, "and right now, I don't care."

"Is he following us?"

"No. Are you all right?"

Liz blinked. "Me? Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Don't you remember last night?" Max asked, giving her a worried glance. "Right after we found that?"

Liz looked down at the rock, recalling the beeping which had led them to it, beeping she'd heard before in those visions she'd had. What she hadn't said was that she'd known what they were going to find, having glimpsed it moments before they'd uncovered it, seeing it lying in its hole as though through the eyes of the one who'd buried it. It had been a weird, almost out of body experience, and after it was over, when the shaft of light which had shot from the strange rock had vanished, she'd suddenly felt exhausted, drained, completely wiped out. She'd staggered, Max had caught her, laid her down, wrapped his arms around her mere moments before everything went black.

"Uh...a little," she admitted. "I remember a little."

"You collapsed," Max said, the terror that had caused evident in his voice. "Just kind of crumpled. You couldn't even talk to me. But you were breathing okay, and there didn't seem to be anything to heal, so I..." His voice trailed away, his face stricken.

"I'm okay," Liz said gently, putting a hand on his arm. "I feel fine now. I was just a little...disoriented, that's all."

Max reached out, put a hand on her forehead in a gesture eerily reminiscent of her mother. "You're not warm," he reported. "Not like you were yesterday."

"I'm good," Liz assured him. "Just drive."

His hand fell away, dropped to hers, squeezed it. They rode in silence through the desert as more details of last night and this morning came back to her. By far the most troubling was the moment right after she'd awakened to find the stranger staring at them. For just a second she'd felt something building within her, and she'd braced herself, poised to strike...but strike with what? She clearly remembered feeling seconds away from hurling something at the stranger, but what could she possibly have hurled? Sand? Her shoe? It's not like she carried pepper spray with her or any kind of weapon, and yet she'd been convinced she had a weapon, a powerful weapon, and if the stranger had taken so much as a step toward them, she would have unleashed whatever it was. And then what? What would have happened? What could possibly have happened?

Now, whisking through the desert with Max at her side and a weird, alien rock in one hand, she was deeply grateful she didn't know the answer.


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

I'll post Chapter 88 next Sunday.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT



March 4, 2000, 4:30 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




Liz was stretched out on her bed when the knock came, completely unexpected this early in the game. Wow, she thought dryly. That hadn't taken long; they'd caved fast. Unfortunately for them, she hadn't. The knock sounded twice more before she answered.

"I'm busy," she called curtly, which she ostensibly was; when the door was thrown open, as it inevitably would be, they would find her poring over a biology textbook. So what if it was the same textbook she'd been staring at for the last half hour without comprehending a word? So what if biology was one of her favorite subjects? Irrelevant all, especially since her new rallying cry was that her parents didn't deserve to know everything about her.

"Liz?" a completely unexpected voice called. "It's Maria."

Curious, Liz put down her pencil and went to the door. "Maria?" she said skeptically. "Is that you?"

"Of course it's me," Maria's testy voice answered. "There's only one 'me', or at least I hope so. Or at least my mother does. Just open the door, would you?"

Still wary, Liz cracked the door open. Maria was indeed standing in the hallway, and Liz widened the crack, craning her neck around the corner. "Who's with you?"

Maria blinked. " 'With me'? No one's 'with me'. Would you just let me in, please? Before they change their minds?"

Liz considered a moment before stepping back. "So how'd you get past the wardens?"

"I didn't," Maria answered, slipping inside. "I said I wanted to talk to you, and they let me."

"So, what, this is visiting hours?"

"Half an hour, actually," Maria allowed. "Which is better than nothing."

"But they wouldn't have just let you come up here," Liz argued. "They must have sent you with a message, or some kind of task to perform in exchange for letting you see the prisoner."

Maria closed her eyes briefly. "Liz, you're not a 'prisoner'," she said wearily. "You're just a kid in trouble with her parents."

"Easy for you to say," Liz muttered.

"Yeah, actually, it is," Maria retorted. "Look, I know you. You've never been in trouble before, never been dragged down to the principal's office, never been grounded, never even had a proper scream fest with your parents...but I have. My mother and I do this all the time. All the time. You're new to this, but I'm not, and this is what it looks like. So just drop the prison drama queen bit, would you? It makes you look like an idiot to every other teenager out there who's been grounded, which is basically everyone. Everyone but you."

"And Max," Liz added. "He's never been grounded either."

"Great, so there's two of you," Maria deadpanned. "Whoop de do."

"But at least Max doesn't have a friend who ratted him out," Liz went on. "That's some consolation, at least."

Maria's eyes popped. "Excuse me? Did you...do you...are you trying to say this is my fault? Explain to me how you going off the rails is my fault!"

"You could have covered for me, Maria," Liz said, flopping back down on the bed. "Mom called you, and you could have said I was over there."

"Okay, first of all, your mother didn't call 'me'," Maria protested. "She called my house."

"Same difference."

"Big difference," Maria corrected. "It was the wee small, remember? Or the Saturday equivalent, at least. Mom got the phone, and then she knocked on my door and asked if you were with me."

"And you should have said 'yes'," Liz said stoutly. "And Michael should have too. Max's parents called him, and if he'd said Max was there, we both would have been covered."

"Oh, sure," Maria said sarcastically. "If only Michael and I had somehow magically known that you and Max had disappeared into the night, we could have simultaneously lied through our teeth and saved you both the trouble of explaining yourselves. How thoughtless of us."

"My point is that if you'd both said 'yes', they would never have known," Liz argued. "And it all started with my mother. Max's parents only knew because my mother called them; if she'd been shut down, it would have stopped right there. We came back early enough that we could have easily slipped in without anyone being the wiser."

"Are you forgetting your shift this morning?" Maria demanded. "Don't you think your parents would have gone looking for you when you didn't show up for work?"

"Well...yes," Liz admitted, some of the bravado leaving her voice. "But I still could have handled it."

"You mean lied," Maria said accusingly. "Which is what you wanted me to do."

"I'm just saying it would have been nice if you'd covered for me," Liz said stubbornly. "That's what friends do, right?"

"Friends?" Maria echoed. "Let me tell you what 'friends' do, Liz. 'Friends' tell you what's going on with them. 'Friends' give you a heads up before doing something off the wall, something completely unlike them, and then expecting you to bail them out. And friends who don't give fair warning don't engage in a Monday morning quarterback routine by flaming their friends for their own stupidity."

"Oh, so now I'm stupid?" Liz challenged.

"Yes!" Maria answered hotly. "I mean...no. Maybe," she amended, flustered. "I'm not sure what you are because I'm not sure who you are. It's been so weird, Liz...the fevers, the glowing hickeys, the visions, you and Max making out anywhere and everywhere, and then running away for no reason...I don't know what it all means." She came forward, took Liz's hands. "I could have lied to my mom. She didn't come into my room, so she wouldn't have known if I had. But I'm glad I didn't. Because when she told me why she was asking, I was scared for you. I don't know what's happening to you, Liz. It's not that you're stupid, you're...you're scary."

Liz had been working up a good head of steam, but it evaporated at the plaintive tone of Maria's voice. "I don't know what's happening either," she confided. "But I do know that it doesn't frighten me. Whatever it is, it's good. It feels good. That's why it's so frustrating. I have the most amazing things happening, and there are just a few people I can share it with, so it's really frustrating when those people act like it's some kind of tragedy."

"Uh, because it is?" Maria said. "You haven't been acting 'amazing', Liz, you've been acting weird. Weird and sick."

"I'm not sick," Liz said firmly. "Even when I had the fevers, I didn't feel sick. I'm not sure what I felt, but I've been sick before and it didn't feel like that. I almost felt..."

"What? Felt what?"

"Strong," Liz finished. "Powerful."

"Really?" Maria said skeptically. "Because you didn't look 'strong' and 'powerful' when you were almost passing out in gym class. And where on earth were you last night? You were already in trouble for sneaking out the first time."

"We had to," Liz insisted. "We had to go while we could."

"Go where?" Maria demanded. "Where did you go?"

Liz pulled her hands from Maria's and fished out her sketch pad. "Here," she answered, brandishing the drawing of the radio tower. "I saw this in one of my visions, and I saw a soldier burying something nearby. I showed this to Max when he came over last night after you drove me home, and he recognized it; he said it was the old radio tower by Highway 42, right near the crash site."

Maria's eyes widened. "Do you mean to tell me that you and Max snuck off to the crash site last night? That's private property!"

"We heard," Liz noted.

"People get arrested there, like, constantly!" Maria wailed. "It's always in the papers!"

"You don't read newspapers, Maria."

"She's not only sneaking around, she's trespassing," Maria groaned. "Holy Mother Mary!"

"You're not Catholic either."

"Don't change the subject!" Maria retorted. "What could possibly have made you trespass on private property in the middle of the night?"

"If you ask me, that's the best time to go," Liz said as Maria made a strangled sound of disbelief. "But we went because we had to. Everything I've been seeing pointed to that place. We had to find out what it meant."

"And...did you?" Maria ventured.

"Oh, yeah," Liz whispered. "We found something."

The silence was suddenly so thick, you could have cut it with a knife. "Found...'something'," Maria repeated, looking terrified. "Found what, exactly? Another painting? Another symbol?"

Liz shook her head, opened her mouth...and stopped. How should she describe what they'd found? I shouldn't, she decided, grabbing her sketch pad and a pencil. A minute later, she turned it around. Maria took the pad and stared at it for a full minute before speaking.

"What is it?"




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




Evans residence





"What is it?"

The alien rock lay on Max's bed as Michael and Isabel gazed at it, the former avidly, the latter with terror. This was the first time in this very long, very trying day that he'd had a chance to show it to them.

"I don't know," Max said, answering Isabel's fearful question. "It was buried—"

"In the sand," Michael finished, his voice heavy with excitement. "You said that. You also said it made a noise?"

"Yeah, a beeping noise," Max nodded. "Liz recognized it; she'd heard it in one of her visions. So we followed it, and dug it up, and—"

"And?" Michael broke in impatiently. "And?"

"And he's getting to it," Isabel said crossly. "Don't interrupt."

"And as soon as we cleared the sand away, this shaft of light shot out of the ground," Max continued to his wide-eyed audience. "The beeping stopped, but there was this...this column of light, shooting into the sky."

"Awesome," Michael whispered.

"Oh, my God," Isabel murmured, her eyes round.

"And then the light went out," Max went on. "And Liz got really, really tired really suddenly, like she was going to faint. So we laid down and went to sleep, and when we woke up, it was morning. Some guy was there, and he told us it was private property and we should go home."

"Who?" Michael asked suspiciously.

Max shrugged. "Don't know. Looked like a ranch hand."

"Thank God it wasn't a cop," Isabel muttered.

"Who cares if it was?" Michael said. "Max could have handled him."

" 'Handled him'?" Isabel echoed. "Max is in enough trouble as it is, Michael!"

"Who cares?" Michael repeated, his eyes shining as he gazed at their newest treasure. "This is the single most exciting thing we've found so far, and whatever it cost to get it, it was worth it."

"Easy for you to say," Isabel retorted. "You're not in trouble with two sets of parents."

"They're not your parents—"

"Oh, not this again!" Isabel broke in furiously. "Who cares if they're not our 'real' parents? They were worried! He scared the daylights out of them!"

"You should care," Michael answered. "The only reason he's in trouble is because he can't tell them what he was really doing. If they were your real parents, he wouldn't have to go skulking around."

"Enough," Max said firmly before Isabel completely lost her temper. "That's not true, Michael. Liz's parents are her 'real' parents, and she can't tell them either. Unless you'd like her to, of course."

Michael shook his head. "Not gonna work, Maxwell. I haven't been fond of Liz in the past, but I'll go down on one knee if she helps us find things like this."

"Things like what?" Isabel demanded. "We still don't know what it is."

"We know it's ours," Max said thoughtfully. "We know that symbol on the top."

"And that's all we know," Michael said as he reached out a tentative hand, stopped, looked at Max. "Can I?"

"Go ahead," Max answered. "I've touched it several times and nothing happened."

Isabel stiffened as Michael reached out again, hesitated, then touched the shiny grey object on the bed gingerly, as though afraid it might bite. It didn't, of course, and he spent the next several minutes examining it, turning it over and over in his hands, running his fingers over every inch of it, a look of rapture on his face.

"I couldn't find anything," Max said. "Nothing but the symbol on top, that is. No writing, no hinges—"

"No battery door?" Isabel said. "No instruction manual?"

"It's heavy," Michael said, ignoring her as he hefted it from one hand to another. "And what's it made of? It's not metal. It's not plastic."

Max shook his head. "No idea."

"But we should know," Michael said. "I'll bet good money we should know."

"But we don't," Isabel said. "So put it down."

"Why?" Michael said. "Because you don't want to learn something you'd rather not know?"

"Because it gives me the creeps," Isabel corrected. "We have no idea what that is. For all we know, it's a bomb."

"It was beeping," Max noted.

"If it was a bomb, it would have gone off already," Michael said.

"Wow, that's makes me feel so much better," Isabel muttered.

"Good," Michael said. "It should." He held out a hand. "Let's do what we did with the symbol in the woods."

"Michael, no!" Isabel exclaimed, grabbing his hand. "You don't know what could happen!"

"Which is exactly the point, Isabel," Michael said in the tone one uses with a three year-old. "The whole point is to see what happens."

"Maybe she's right," Max said.

Michael blinked. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"I'm not kidding," Max said as Michael gave a snort of disbelief. "Look, this isn't a painting on a wall or a symbol on the ground. It's a physical object. There's no telling what could happen."

"Which includes nothing," Michael argued. "For all we know, it's an alien paperweight."

Max shook his head. "You don't believe that. If you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"No, I don't believe that," Michael admitted. "I think this does something, and I want to know what. And I don't think it's a bomb, or a grenade, or alien pepper spray."

"So, what, you're saying you remember what it is?" Isabel demanded.

"No," Michael allowed, "but if it's not dangerous, what's the harm in throwing a little power at it? What if it sends a message home, or something like that?"

"What if it does?" Isabel said. "What would it tell them? That we're grasping at straws? That we're clueless?"

"That we're listening," Michael corrected. "That we're here."

"If they don't know that already, I'm not sure I care," Isabel declared.

"Why?" Michael asked. "They may have no idea we're here. We may have gotten lost from some expedition, or—"

"We can speculate till we're blue in the face, but it won't get us anywhere," Max interrupted.

"No, it won't," Michael agreed. "What might get us somewhere is trying to wake this thing up."

"And then what?" Isabel wailed. "Suppose it sends an e-mail. What do we tell them? That we don't remember a thing? That you remembered once, when you almost killed yourself, but then forgot everything you remembered? That we're willy nilly throwing power at something when we don't even know what it does? Are you really that eager to look like a nincompoop in front of our relatives?"

Michael hesitated, and Max took advantage of the lull. "Let's think about it," he suggested. "We can always try to get it to do something later. There's no harm in studying it for a while."

"I guess," Michael said reluctantly. "But in the meantime, I'm keeping this."

"No, I'm keeping it," Max said.

"I won't do anything to it without you," Michael promised. "And my apartment is the safest place to hide it because I'm the only one there."

"Oh, let him have it, Max," Isabel said in disgust. "And when he gets impatient and tries something and it bursts into flames, we'll know why the fire trucks are rolling in that direction."

"Very funny," Michael said, cradling his prize. "We need to call it something."

"Liz and I called it a rock," Max said.

Michael shook his head. "It's not a rock. It lit up and beeped, remember? It's not natural. It was made for something."

"How do you know what their rocks do?" Isabel asked. "We don't know thing one about where we come from. For all we know, it's a loaf of bread. Or a football. Or an alien Tamagotchi."

"Or...an orb," Michael suggested.

"Looks like a football," Isabel muttered.

"Fine, it's an orb," Max said. "And remember, you promised."

"I'll remember," Michael said, tucking the orb in his pocket. "Later."

He climbed out the window as Isabel shook her head in disgust. " An 'orb', Max? Really?"

"Let him call it whatever he wants, Iz," Max said. "This is really important to him. It's important to us, too; it's the first...'thing' we've found from our home, our real home. Besides your necklace, that is."

"This is our real home," Isabel insisted. "I know we didn't come from here, but it's where we are now, and the only place we know. Until we know some other place, this is home."

"For us," Max said soberly. "But not for Michael."

There was a soft knock on the door. "Max?" Grandma Dee's voice came. "Are you in there?"

Max glanced at Isabel before unlocking the door. "Don't worry," Grandma whispered. "I'm not here to read you the riot act; I'm sure you've had enough of that. Just wanted to give you a heads up that your mother is headed this way."

"Look, it's inevitable," Isabel said as Grandma disappeared back into the hallway. "Dad had a go at you, and Mom will have her turn. She was really freaked out this morning. Just keep repeating the story; it was a good one. I'll be in my room when you're done."

She reached the doorway just as Diane appeared. "Oh...hi, Mom," Isabel said, looking appropriately surprised.

"Isabel, would you give us some privacy please?" Diane asked.

Max sank heavily into a chair as his sister shot him a sympathetic glance before leaving. Diane looked distinctly unhappy, her arms folded in front of her, her expression troubled. "Uh...would you like the chair?" Max asked, half rising.

"No," Diane said quickly, holding up a hand. "No, thank you. I'll stand."

Not good, Max thought as his mother seemed to pull herself together for an announcement. "I'd just like to know why you did it," she began. "I mean, you'd have to know there would be consequences. What made those consequences worth it?"

"I told you," Max said patiently, "it was an accident. We fell asleep. We didn't mean to stay out all night."

"Yes, but what possessed you to not bring her straight home?" Diane persisted. "Especially when you knew she was already in trouble with her parents."

"She's my friend," Max said. "She was upset. I told you, I had just left Michael's when I saw her walking on the street, and I picked her up, and we got to talking..."




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



Crashdown Cafe




"...and then we fell asleep," Liz finished. "It was a Friday night, we were tired, and we just fell asleep. It's that simple."

Across the table, Nancy and Jeff exchanged glances. " 'Simple'," Jeff repeated. "That's what you call staying out all night without telling us. 'Simple'."

"Dad, it was a mistake. I didn't plan on staying out all night. I was mad, and I went walking, and Max saw me, and—"

"Yeah, we got that part," Jeff broke in. "Although I'm still a little fuzzy on the part where you fell asleep in a jeep with no blankets or heater running."

"We were wearing coats," Liz said. "We were fine. We were right close by while you were obsessing—"

"We didn't know that," Jeff pointed out. "I would hardly call it 'obsessing' when we had no idea what was going on."

"I know that," Liz said impatiently. "I told you, we just fell asleep, and when we woke up, we came straight back. I don't know what else we could have done."

"Here's a thought," Jeff said. "How about not stalk out in a huff?"

"Well, if Mom hadn't gotten mad at me—"

"Oh, no you don't, young lady," Jeff said firmly. "You're not pinning this on your mother—"

"—and if you both didn't expect me to be this perfect child all the time, I wouldn't have," Liz retorted.

"—and you're not changing the subject, either," Jeff finished. "Nobody said you couldn't get mad; the problem is what you did with that, leaving the house for a second time when you'd been told not to and then scarring the daylights out of us by not coming back. Whether or not that was your intention is not the point. It's what you did, and it was rude and inconsiderate. And I have yet to hear you apologize for it."

Liz's mouth set in a thin line. "I'm sorry I worried you. I'm not sorry I left, but I'm sorry I worried you. I didn't mean to."

"So you're sorry we were worried, but you're not sorry you left, even though your leaving is what worried us," Jeff said, ticking off the "sorry's" on his fingers. "How does that work, exactly?"

"Look, I don't know what you want me to say!" Liz said in exasperation. "I have a right to my own feelings, you know."

Jeff's eyebrows rose. "Did we say you didn't?"

"Just about, yeah," Liz retorted, pushing away from the table. "I'm done. I'll be in my room, although I'm sure you'll know that because you'll be checking every hour on the hour, if not more than that."

"And there's the point," Nancy said, having held her tongue until now. "I didn't check on you last night because after you went out the first time, I assumed you wouldn't try it again. It's like you said, Liz—we just take it for granted that we know you, that we know how you'll behave, and that you'll always be that way. Another way of putting that is that we trusted you. And now..." She paused, more to collect herself than for dramatic effect. "And now we don't. I don't. I don't trust you any more."

"I see," Liz said tightly. "So does this mean you'll be putting an alarm on the window?"

Nancy shrugged. "What for? You're smart enough to outwit it. If you want to leave, we can't stop you. No, if you do that again, I'm not going to close the cafe and sit around drinking coffee with Max's parents. We'll just go straight to Sheriff Valenti and let him sort it out."

"And I can just imagine how Diane Evans would take that," Jeff added. "She was fit to be tied."

But Nancy was watching Liz, who had blanched at the mention of the sheriff, her combative attitude completing evaporating. "Okay," Liz said, stricken. "Good to know. Well...I'll be upstairs. All night. Go ahead and check."

She had barely left the room when Jeff pushed his plate away in disgust. "What in blazes has gotten into her? I don't even recognize my own daughter!"

"I know," Nancy said quietly.

"I think it's best she and Max don't see each other for a while," Jeff declared, "at least until we know we've gotten our point across."

"That won't work," Nancy said. "No, listen to me, Jeff, it won't," she insisted when he began to protest. "I was a teenaged girl once. You can forbid anything you want, but if they want to see each other, they will. We can't keep them apart."

"Like hell I can't," Jeff retorted. "Just watch me."

"You'll have to remove her," Nancy said, "send her away from Roswell, and even then I'm not sure it'll work. Are you ready to do that?" She waited while her husband looked down at his unfinished plate of food in sullen silence. "Look, it's probably just a crush," she said soothingly, "that and a bunch of hormones. Let's just let it lie for a while and not overreact, okay? Max seems like a nice kid, he has nice parents. It's not like he's dangerous, or anything...right?"




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



Washington, D.C.



"Brian," Pierce said, his phone balanced on his shoulder as he chopped celery. "How's our newest patient?"

"Compliant," Brian answered. "Not rocking the boat."

"Really? So she isn't trying to tell everyone she was kidnapped, or shouldn't be there, or whatever?"

"Apparently she isn't trying to tell anyone anything," Brian replied. "They told her the story we gave them, about her attempting suicide, and she didn't refute it. What's that noise?"

"Chopping," Pierce answered. "I'm cooking tonight. So she's given up," he added with satisfaction. "That didn't take long."

"Or she's done nothing of the sort," Brian noted. "I keep telling you Kathleen is a lot smarter than you give her credit for."

" 'Kathleen'," Pierce chuckled. "There you go again with that first name basis. And refresh my memory, but who's the one locked up here? Forgive me if I take capture as a lack of evidence for 'smarts'."

"She wiped her computer," Brian said. "She figured us out."

"Yeah, how'd she do that, exactly?" Pierce asked. "What'd you screw up, Brian?"

"Nothing," Brian said hotly. "And she wasn't the only one. This isn't going well, Danny. I still say we should try a different recruitment method."

"Noted. Let her rot there for a week or two, and she'll be plenty recruited. Just keep an eye on her."

Pierce clacked the phone shut and tossed it on the kitchen counter, annoyed. Brian was right; efforts to extract information from various sources had proven futile so far. They couldn't afford to just storm into Roswell and start blundering around, not with Valenti in town and Freeh on his ass. Their strike had to be surgical, targeted, and very covert, and in order to accomplish that, they needed information, needed to know exactly who to go for. There was never only one alien; his father had taught him that.

"Who was that?"

Vanessa was in the doorway, her business suit accentuating her curves, her stilettos doing wonders for her legs, which needed little in the way of help. "Nobody," he answered.

Vanessa gave a soft snort as she set her briefcase on a chair. "You expect me to believe you talk on phones to 'nobody'?"

"I expect you to believe my work is classified," Pierce corrected. "Did you get the argula?"

"No, Daniel, I was walking the halls of Congress all day," Vanessa answered dryly. "Just let me toss on an apron and I'll nip out to Whole Foods and do your grocery shopping for you. It's what I live for."

"Funny," Pierce said, pulling her towards him. "I wasn't trying to make you out as the maid. I'm just...frustrated."

"A frustrated chef, or a frustrated FBI agent?" Vanessa asked.

"Why are you always bugging me about my work?" Pierce demanded. "You're a congresswoman; you should understand the concept of 'classified'."

"Oh, Daniel," Vanessa sighed, "I do. Believe me, I do. What you need to understand is that there's 'classified' and then there's 'classified'. Nothing's classified with those who could help you."

"You think you could help me," Pierce said, amused. "And why is that?"

Vanessa reached up, caressed his cheek. "Because the odds are good that we're after the same thing," she said softly.

Pierce smiled faintly. "Sorry, dear. Not a chance."



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


I'll post Chapter 89 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE




One month later,

April 3, 2000, 12:30 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe



Diane Evans paused in front of the Crashdown's door, peering through the window where the cafe's lunch crowd was in full swing as evidenced by the dearth of empty tables and the waitresses flying by. Good—that was exactly what she wanted. The busier, the better.

"Are you going in?"

Diane whirled around, stepped back. "Oh...sorry. Nope."

Not that way, she amended privately as the man who brushed past her into the cafe gave her an odd look. Working her way around the building to the side entrance, she was stymied by a waitress stationed just outside wearing nothing but her uniform, a cigarette, and a scowl. Diane, who couldn't abide cigarette smoke, wrinkled her nose at the faint tendrils the wind blew in her direction, waiting impatiently for the waitress to finish or run out of time and go back inside, probably the latter given the length of her cigarette. Finally, about five minutes later, the side door opened and what looked like testy words were exchanged with another waitress, after which the cigarette was tossed on the ground and stomped out with the angry stab of a rubber-soled shoe. No wonder, Diane thought, waiting an appropriate length of time before slipping in the side door after her. Anyone who took a break in the middle of the lunch rush just didn't get it. It was deserted inside, and quiet, although a good deal of noise could be heard in the kitchen, which she wanted to steer clear of. Which way to try first? Up the stairs, maybe, or further in? Or perhaps—

"Diane?"

Diane nearly jumped out of her skin. "Nancy!" she exclaimed. "I...didn't expect to see you there."

"Yeah, well, I live here," Nancy said lightly. "I didn't expect to see you either. Did you need something?"

"I...was looking for you," Diane said.

"And that's why you didn't expect to see me?"

God, I sound demented, Diane thought wearily. "I wanted to talk to you," she explained. "About the kids. Oh, no, no, no!" she added hastily when Nancy's eyes widened. "Nothing's happened. I meant 'talk' in general, that's all. We haven't talked since...well...you know...and I came in the back because I didn't want to...I mean, I thought Jeff might...I was just afraid he'd..." She stopped, unable to find a way to politely complete that sentence, and certain she sounded like a complete idiot.

"Diane, Jeff isn't mad at you," Nancy said gently. "Or Philip. He doesn't blame either one of you for anything." She held out a hand. "C'mon. I've got coffee on, and Jeff will be busy for a while yet."

Ten minutes later Diane was seated in the family kitchen in front of a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of cookies. "You bake?" Diane said, impressed. "I used to love to bake. I just don't have the time any more."

"I bake for the cafe, but actually Liz made those," Nancy said.

"How is she?" Diane asked.

Nancy took a seat across from her. "Better. Not so strident. How's Max?"

"He's...Max," Diane said with a shrug. "Truth be told, I never noticed anything different about him, before or since."

"So what did he say after you took him home?" Nancy asked.

"He said it was an accident, and apologized profusely, and promised it would never happen again," Diane said. "Did you get his note?"

Nancy nodded. "Was that his idea? Wow," she murmured when Diane nodded. "I'll be sure to tell Jeff. He assumed you and Philip put him up to it the same way we make our kids write thank you notes for birthdays and Christmas."

Diane shook her head. "No. His idea. What about Liz? What did she say?"

"She called it an accident too," Nancy answered. "And went on about how we don't really see her, and how we always expect her to be perfect. I guess she's right; she never got into trouble before, so it seems so wrong now."

"Tell me about it," Diane muttered.

"I had to talk Jeff down from the ledge," Nancy continued. "He wanted to forbid her from seeing Max, but you and I both know that won't work. So instead we told her that if something like that ever happened again, we'd just call the sheriff right away. And that really took the wind out of her sails. She changed her tune pronto. I guess being in trouble with the law is different than being in trouble with Mom and Dad."

"Nancy?"

Diane, who had stiffened at the mention of the sheriff, stiffened all over again when she saw Jeff poking his head in the kitchen door. "Oh...hi, Diane," Jeff said uncertainly. "Is...anything wrong?"

"No, nothing," Diane said quickly. "Nancy and I were just...talking."

"Is there something you wanted, honey?" Nancy asked.

"Just looking for the pies you made," Jeff answered.

"Excuse me," Nancy said, patting Diane's hand. "I'll be right back."

Alone in the kitchen, Diane leaned her head on her hands. I guess being in trouble with the law is different than being in trouble with Mom and Dad. While that might be the reason Liz Parker had decided to straighten up and fly right, there was another explanation. She'd had a similar reaction when her "boys will be boys" husband had realized the kids were truly missing and defaulted straight to the sheriff, or would have if she hadn't physically taken the phone out of his hands. She and Sheriff Valenti had never spoken of their conflict over Max and the way he'd put out that kitchen fire, hadn't really spoken at all since then unless you counted hasty, uncomfortable nods in the grocery store as they whisked past, anxious to be away from each other. The last thing she'd wanted was to invite the sheriff back into her son's life, so she'd held off even as Philip, late to the party, had grown more and more concerned and more and more confused as to why she was reluctant to avail herself of the sheriff's resources. Apparently she wasn't the only one wary of involving Valenti. It appeared Liz Parker might know there was something different about Max too.

Nancy reappeared. "There!" she said, settling herself back down at the table. "Jeff was afraid something else had happened, so I was glad to tell him otherwise."

"I think we all put the fear of God into them," Diane said, fervently hoping that was so. "I think they got the message."




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




West Roswell High School





"Finally," Maria groaned, slamming her locker shut. "Why do they make lunch so darned late? I needed calories an hour ago, preferably fat laden and chocolate."

"It's only 12:30," Liz said, stuffing textbooks for afternoon classes in her backpack. "What'd you have for breakfast?"

"Well...not much, but lunch still shouldn't be so late," Maria protested.

Liz raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I had a glass of beet juice," Maria said. "So what? That's healthy. It's not like a bowl of Honey Smacks."

"Beet juice?" Liz said skeptically. "That's sugar water. You might do better with the Honey Smacks. At least they've got vitamins, and you'd put milk on them."

"Whatever, I'm wilting," Maria complained. "Hurry up!"

"You go ahead," Liz said. "I'll be a few minutes. Don't wait for me," she added when Maria looked alarmed. "Get in line, get your food. I'll find you."

Maria took off surprisingly fast for someone dying of starvation, and Liz glanced at her watch. Ten minutes. That was about all she could spare, but it would do. Positioning herself at the end of their row of lockers, she fastened her eyes on the tiny AV room. She didn't have long to wait; less than a minute later, a dark-haired figure sidled up to the door, looked carefully around and slipped inside. Precisely one minute later, so did she.

"Miss Parker," Max smiled.

"Mr. Evans," Liz breathed.

"Long time, no see," Max said, taking her in his arms. "It's been, what...a whole period?"

"Way too long," Liz said, dropping her backpack unceremoniously on the floor. "Let's skip the chitchat."

She grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him toward her. He didn't resist, and in seconds they'd settled into the daily blur of lips and tongues and hands, the most glorious part of her day. She lived for this moment and so did he, a carefully constructed interlude designed to foil detection and serve as a bulwark against the unthinkable, the day their parents ordered them to stop seeing each other.

A few weeks ago that day had seemed a whole lot closer. Their nighttime desert excursion had caused quite a stir, with that plus their "Eraser Room Interruptus" putting quite a damper on any festivities. Although the expected order to stop seeing each other had not materialized, it remained a possibility, lurking in the background like a storm cloud, coloring every conversation with either set of parents. It had been her idea to employ subterfuge at school, the one place their parents couldn't keep them apart unless they physically picked up and moved. The Eraser Room was out, it now being closely monitored, but there was no shortage of closets, empty classrooms, and various nooks and crannies in which to meet. The trick would be to rotate locations, make sure no one saw them entering or leaving said locations, keep it short, and of course quiet, all of which lessened the chances of detection. Max had had a good laugh at the clinical way she'd approached this, but she was determined to create a space for them in the one place their parents couldn't touch.

Max pulled away briefly. "Any visions?" he panted.

"Nope," Liz said, pulling him toward her, sinking back into her favorite place to be, Max's arms...and hands, and mouth, and just about anywhere else you could name. Well, not anywhere, not yet. Maybe soon.

A couple of minutes later, he pulled away again. "We should go," he said reluctantly. "Time's up."

"It is?" Liz said, glancing at her watch. Damn. Five minutes. Time always flew when you were having fun.

"I'll be out front after school," Max whispered, giving her another kiss.

"I can't wait," Liz said, giving him a couple more.

"We should go," Max murmured mid-kiss.

"We really should," Liz agreed.

Finally they managed to pull away, check the hallway. As glorious as these liaisons were, the hardest part was stopping them. She could have spent the afternoon here without even blinking.

"You go first," Liz said.

"Bye," Max whispered, sneaking in one more kiss.

He slipped out, and she felt suddenly lonely. They always left one at a time, just like they'd entered, and she could never bring herself to leave first; watching him leave was torture, but walking away was worse. They'd met all over the school in at least a dozen locations, choosing a different one each day via coded notes slipped into each other's lockers; it wouldn't do to be communicating publicly about anything other than schoolwork, not with both parents and teachers watching them like hawks. Knowing she had these moments with him made it easier to feign aloofness at other times, and so far there was no sign of anyone having figured out what they were up to. She hadn't even told Maria.

No one would ever have known if we hadn't been caught the first time, Liz mused as she waited the required number of minutes before leaving. If only they hadn't been caught in the Eraser Room, they would never have wound up under the microscope, wouldn't have had anyone watching for what had come after. Any visions? Max had asked. Nope, not a one, not since they'd dug up that whatever-it-was in the desert. Finding that had been the turning point; afterward, all the heat and rebelliousness and euphoria had simply melted away along with the visions, leaving simple lust and adolescent anger. The hot flashes were gone too, along with the fevers, the glowing skin, and the feeling of invincibility, of being able to touch the sky. What had all that been, anyway? Had it all been about finding the orb? Would it ever happen again? In some ways she missed it, with its heightened feelings; in other ways she didn't, those same heightened feelings having resulted in her losing control at inconvenient moments. For now she was content to have it gone as they couldn't afford any inconvenient moments at this point in time.

"What happened to you?" Maria asked when Liz caught up with her in the lunch line.

"What, what happened to me?" Liz asked, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"You look...flushed," Maria said suspiciously. "Like you used to. Like..." Liz stiffened as she put a hand to her forehead. "Nope," Maria reported. "Not hot."

"Of course not," Liz said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"So where were you?" Maria persisted.

"Miss Parker?"

It was Mr. Sommers, their history teacher. "I just wanted to congratulate you on your recent test grade," Sommers said. "Highest in the class, and the only one to get the bonus question. Nice to see you applying yourself again."

"Uh...thank you," Liz said.

"Figures," Maria muttered after he left. "The ones who get the bonus question are always the ones who don't need the bonus points."

"We'll study together more for the next test," Liz said, privately noting Sommers' veiled reference to her Eraser Room dust-up even though he hadn't had any part in it. Apparently word traveled among teachers as among teenagers.

"You didn't answer me," Maria noted as they reached the cashier. "About where you were?"

"Oh, you know me," Liz smiled. "I was applying myself."




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




Max allowed himself a small smile which masked a broad private grin as he left the AV closet, the kind of smile which Isabel would take as meaning he was up to something. Already been up to it, he thought, weaving through the crowds heading for the cafeteria. So far their carefully developed strategy of meeting in a rotating list of places had paid off handsomely, with no one the wiser. While his parents had shown admirable restraint in not trying to prevent him from seeing Liz, something he strongly suspected Grandma Dee had a hand in, there was no doubt in his mind that being busted a second time for any reason would make that restraint evaporate. This called for subterfuge, something he was naturally adept at and had had a good deal of practice with lately. If you asked him, applying those skills to spending private time with Liz instead of tailing FBI agents and tramping through woods was a much better use of said skills.

"Is she seeing anything?"

Max pulled up short. "Keep your voice down!" he ordered in a whisper. "No one's supposed to know about..."

"About you and Liz necking all around the school?" Michael finished, leaning against the wall beside the water fountain. "Relax—no one does. No one who matters, anyway. Except me, of course, and maybe Isabel, who's probably so mortified that you can count on her keeping her mouth shut. So...is she seeing anything?"

Max pulled Michael further off the beaten path. "We can't discuss this here. You know that."

"Of course we can discuss this here," Michael said. "No one's paying any attention; they're too busy tripping over each other before the cafeteria runs out of tater tots. So is she seeing anything, or not?"

Max glanced around the hallway, but Michael was right; no one was paying them any mind. "No," he admitted.

"Nothing?" Michael pressed. "Nothing at all?"

"Nothing at all," Max confirmed.

"Not even fragments? Or something weird? Because it doesn't have to be as detailed as the soldier visions, and it doesn't have to be something she recognizes; even if she doesn't, we might—"

"I know that," Max interrupted. "She says she isn't seeing anything now, hasn't seen anything since we found..."

"The orb," Michael finished.

"The whatever," Max amended. "She hasn't had a single vision since then."

"And you believe her?"

Max's eyes narrowed. "Of course I believe her. Why wouldn't I believe her? She would know."

"Yeah, yeah, don't get all huffy," Michael said. "I wasn't trying to say she was lying."

"Then what were you trying to say?" Max demanded.

"That she didn't recognize the visions when she first had them, so she might be seeing something that she didn't realize...oh, never mind," Michael sighed. "Take it the wrong way if you want to. Whatever blows your skirt up." He paused. "I wonder why they stopped."

"No idea," Max answered, deciding to ignore that last remark.

"Then maybe you should jump start her."

Max blinked. " 'Jump start her'? She's not a car, Michael. She doesn't have a dead battery."

"You know what I mean," Michael said. "Just...'connect' with her, or whatever you call it. Send her a picture of you eating your Wheaties when you were 5, or something like that."

"It doesn't work that way, and why would I want to do that?" Max said. "I'm glad the visions stopped."

Michael snorted softly. "Of course you are. Just like Isabel."

"No, not 'just like Isabel'," Max retorted. "Liz wasn't just seeing things, she was getting sick, running fevers, and getting faint, and acting...different. I'm glad the visions stopped because I didn't like what they were doing to her. They could be dangerous."

"She didn't seem to think so," Michael noted.

"Yeah, well, she couldn't see what they were doing to her the way we did," Max said. "Maybe she's not the best person to ask."

"So much for 'Liz would know'," Michael murmured.

"Is there something you wanted?" Max asked crossly. "Because if there isn't, I've got better things to do then listen to you accuse my girlfriend of lying—"

"Whoa," Michael said, holding up a hand. "Down, boy. I'm just not convinced she was 'sick'. She's fine now—"

"Because they stopped," Max broke in.

"—and maybe she would have been fine if they hadn't," Michael continued. "We don't know what happened. For all we know, she was coming down with a very human case of the flu at the same time she had the visions, and the visions got blamed for the flu."

"It wasn't the flu," Max said firmly. "And what about the way she was acting? She had her parents in an uproar. She said she felt 'invincible'. The flu doesn't make you feel 'invincible', it knocks you flat."

"Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell, let me tell you something," Michael said, throwing an arm around Max's shoulders. "The over-achievers, the straight "A" students, the ones who always fly straight...when they fall, they fall hard. When they decide to rebel, they do it big time. People like me who've rebelled since they could draw breath, we're a lot more casual about it. For us, it's a way of life, not a weekend jaunt to the dark side."

"Very funny," Max said darkly.

"Who's being funny? Not me," Michael declared. "Personally, I like that Liz showed some backbone. We already knew she had guts, and now her parents know. What's so bad about that? Besides, her little trip to the dark side found this. Which makes it totally worth it."

Michael's hand slipped into his jacket pocket, and Max's eyes widened. "What are you doing bringing that here?" he hissed, shoving the hand holding the orb back into the pocket. "Are you crazy? What if someone sees it?"

"They'll have no idea what it is," Michael answered calmly. "And they won't see it. It's the only thing we have from our real home, and I'm guarding it with my life."

"I wouldn't be so quick to lay down your life for it," Max cautioned. "We don't even know what it is. And it's not the only thing from our 'real home'; Isabel's necklace is from there too."

"That's a necklace," Michael said in faint tones of disgust. "Jewelry...pffft. This is obviously a lot more than jewelry."

"I'd like to see the look on your face if we find out the necklace activates the orb," Max said dryly.

"I'll be first to take back any disparaging jewelry remarks if and when that happens," Michael said. "Which it won't. The necklace is a necklace. This is something else, something important. We just have to figure out what."

"And that's why you're parading it around school," Max said skeptically.

"I'm not 'parading it'," Michael protested. "I'm examining it. I don't have as much time as I used to between school and work, so I'm—"

"Parading it around school," Max finished. "It shouldn't be here, Michael. If you can't take care of it, I will."

"Max, I'm not home that much," Michael argued. "And we have to figure out what this thing is. We can't just leave it sitting on a shelf."

"You know, you're right," Max said, holding out a hand. "Hand it over."

Michael pulled away. "You're not taking this," he warned.

"It's my turn," Max said firmly. "You've had it for weeks. Or are you saying it only belongs to you? That the rest of us have no claim on it? Is that what you're saying? Hadn't better be," he went on as Michael's expression darkened dangerously, "because I found it. Maybe it'll do something for me it didn't do for you...or is that what you're afraid of?"

There was a long pause before Michael capitulated, slapping the orb into Max's hand so hard, it hurt. "All right, but only for tonight. Bring it back to school tomorrow."

"This isn't going anywhere near school," Max retorted, "or the Crashdown, or anywhere else. It's not a toy, Michael, and it's not a pet rock. The only place I'll 'bring it back to' is your apartment."

"When?" Michael demanded.

"When I'm done with it," Max said.

"And when will that be?"

"When I'm done with it," Max repeated.

Max held Michael's gaze while Michael stared him down. "All right," Michael said finally, "but you're not keeping it."

"Don't give me a reason to," Max warned. "Whatever it is, it's way too important to take chances with. Keep it home, or I'll find it a new one. Permanently."

"Yes, sir," Michael said savagely. "And now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for class."

It's lunch time, Max thought, not bothering to challenge Michael's claim. Ever since they'd found the "orb", as he called it, Michael had been obsessed with the shiny gray "football", as everyone else called it...privately, that is, so as not to upset him. Perhaps I'd be the same way, Max thought. Under different circumstances, without the home he and Isabel had, perhaps he'd grow every bit as attached to something that came from wherever they'd come from. Still, it was hard to grow attached to something he found frightening. Every time he was near it, the orb scared him, the memory of that beeping and that huge shaft of light having seared itself into his brain. What had it all meant? It hadn't beeped or glowed since then, so whatever it was, it didn't appear to be dangerous...

Of course it is, Max thought as he hurried on, not to the cafeteria but to the parking lot. The orb had to go home. They had no idea what its purpose was or what it could do, and that alone made it dangerous.




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





Crashdown Cafe




"So tell me again why you're letting them keep it?" Dee asked. "I remember you using communicators, but I never understood how they worked, and having one in my grandchildren's hands doesn't exactly instill confidence. What if it just...goes off?"

"It's not a grenade," Brivari said, adding sugar to his second cup of coffee. "And it won't 'go off', nor will they activate it. We—"

"Disabled it," Dee finished. "You said that. I'm just not certain that's going to stick. Can't they fix what you've disabled?"

"Only if they know what to fix. Remember, they have no idea what it does or how it does it."

"And neither does Liz," Dee said. "How on earth did she know where to look for it, Brivari? If you and Jaddo don't remember it being buried, how could you have transferred that to Max? How can you transfer a memory you don't have?"

Good question, Brivari thought. This was the sticking point, the one keeping he and Jaddo awake at night, and the two most likely answers fell into diametrically opposed camps: The simple, and the dreadfully complicated. "It's quite possible we saw it and simply forgot," he said lightly, voicing the simple explanation. "An awful lot was going on back then. Perhaps we did and just have no conscious memory of it. But we've disconnected the communicator from the network, if you will, so no one can call it, nor can it be used to contact anyone, deliberately or inadvertently. It's effectively a tchatchke."

Dee raised an eyebrow. "I had no idea you knew Yiddish. But why was someone calling it in the first place? It was enough to find it, but to have it...'ringing'? What if Max had answered it? I imagine that would have caused a good deal of scurrying on Antar."

"More than scurrying," Brivari agreed. "If Khivar were to get the king 'on the phone', as it were, he'd be able to trace his location. That's precisely the point of sending out a mass signal, something I'm sure both Khivar and Nicholas do on a regular basis in the hopes that not only a hybrid might answer, but that a rebel might also. Nicholas especially would want the latter. The rebels are the reason he's trapped here."

"Courtney," Dee said softly. "I haven't heard from her since she left in '59. Have you?"

"Communication with the Argilian rebels is a bad idea for both of us," Brivari said. "Neither wants Nicholas to find us."

"As I recall, it wasn't just Courtney's rebels who grounded him," Dee pointed out. "You had a hand in that."

"It was my pleasure," Brivari said dryly.

Their food arrived. Just in time, Brivari thought, grateful that the interruption distracted Dee from the fact that he hadn't precisely answered her last question and from the puzzle of how the Parker girl had managed to lead Antar's king to a buried communicator. While it was possible he or Jaddo had transferred an unconscious memory during that disastrous connection shortly after the hybrids' emergence, the more likely explanation was more eerie. The Parker girl had been exhibiting many of same symptoms as their test subjects from decades ago which included fevers, mood swings, and the sudden emergence of new abilities, but for all that he'd been expecting something like this to happen ever since the shooting, he never would have expected the ability which appeared to be unfolding in her. "I could see us finding it," she'd told Zan. Though very rare, this was not unheard of; prescience had been suspected in their test subjects, although those subjects being children made it difficult to confirm. Still, there had been enough evidence of it to make it into the scientific literature, along with a good deal of consternation. Telekinesis was explainable. Heightened senses were explainable. A host of extra-human abilities were explainable, but prescience was not one of them. The ability to see the future, or rather, a possible future, as the future was never really the future until it actually happened, had been unexpected and poorly understood, puzzling even Valeris. None of the hybrids had demonstrated that skill, which was fortunate as it was probably the most dangerous extra-human ability Antarian scientists had witnessed; the tendency to misinterpret what one "saw", or thought one saw, could be disastrous. The only saving grace was that the process appeared to have stopped; the Parker girl, to all appearances, had returned to normal. This had also happened with their test subjects, who had gone through bouts of change interspersed with long periods of dormancy during which developing abilities frequently disappeared, a dormancy which sometimes proved permanent. One could only hope that was what was happening now, especially given that Zan and the girl continued their romance. If physical contact with Zan had set this off, it appeared to no longer have that effect, a welcome development if ever there was one given that they were still engaging in plenty of physical contact.

"So did your son and daughter-in-law recover from the fright my Ward gave them?" Brivari asked, moving on to another subject.

"I think so," Dee answered, spreading copious quantities of ketchup on her fries. "Philip finally got peeved with the whole out-all-night bit, but I convinced them that trying to keep Max and Liz away from each other was pointless..."

*I need to talk to you. Now.*

Brivari glanced up; Jaddo was outside the Crashdown, just visible through the window. "Hold that thought," Brivari said to Dee when she reached a break in her story. "I drank a bit too much coffee."

When he reached the restroom, Jaddo was already there and bristling with anxiety. "Please don't tell me they found another communicator," Brivari sighed. "Or that the Parker girl is acting up again."

"They didn't, and she isn't," Jaddo answered. "I wish that's all it was."

Brivari stared at him. "What happened?"

Jaddo hesitated. "Good Lord, Jaddo," Brivari said in exasperation, "out with it! What's worse than communicators and flashing humans?"

"Topolsky is missing," Jaddo said.

Brivari blinked. "Kathleen Topolsky? That Topolsky? So what?" he continued when Jaddo nodded. "Who cares?"

"Because Agent Moss is missing. And Agent Butler. Ring any bells?"

"They were Topolsky's agents when she was assigned here," Brivari said, uneasiness growing in him. "But what are you getting at?"

"Agent Stevens is also missing," Jaddo said. "Notice the pattern?"

"Everyone connected with the Unit's last investigation," Brivari murmured.

"Exactly," Jaddo said grimly. "If this is what I think it is, then soon—very soon—we could be under attack."




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



FBI Headquarters,

J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.





"I'm off," June sighed, plucking her handbag from the floor. "Wish me luck."

"It's a crap job, but someone's gotta do it," Mary agreed. "I did it last time. Thought I'd go nuts down there. How long is it for?"

"Only this afternoon," June answered "Thank God for small favors. See you tomorrow."

June tucked her purse under her arm as she stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the basement. Cataloging evidence was one of the most boring jobs in the Bureau, one she was glad she didn't have, but whenever Evidence was short of staff, they pulled from her department as they'd done now. Fortunately she was only replacing someone who'd gone home sick. Less fortunate co-workers had replaced those on one or two week vacations or, in a single, shudderingly memorable instance, a three month leave of absence. That one still gave all of them nightmares.

The elevator stopped. Everyone else got off, and a lone woman got on. She was a bit disheveled, but she smiled at June, and June returned the smile, sliding back into polite elevator oblivion as the woman took up a spot behind her. The doors closed. The elevator began to move. And that was when June felt a sharp pain in her hip. Startled, she turned around...

...only to suddenly feel so dizzy that she slumped to the floor of the still moving elevator, her purse landing beside her. "Sorry," the disheveled woman said as a hand slipped toward her purse. "But for the next few hours, I need to be you."

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


I'll be gone over Columbus Day weekend next week, so I'll post Chapter 90 on Sunday, October 14.

Hello to everyone reading!



CHAPTER NINETY




April 3, 2000, 1 p.m.


Bethesda Psychiatric Institute




Daniel Pierce whirled his BMW into a space in the parking garage, tires squealing. Slamming into park, he shut off the engine and climbed out, closing the door so hard the entire car shook. Good thing his mechanic wasn't here to scold him about how he was treating his extremely expensive car, but then his mechanic only had to work with dumb machines. If only.

The elevator door in the parking garage wouldn't open. Pierce angrily jabbed the button several times before resorting to the stairs, blowing through doors until he reached the Institute's main entrance, thundering down the hallway like a horseman of the apocalypse. Several people waiting for the elevator wisely backed away when he approached, and many of those exiting blinked in surprise as he jostled them unrepentantly on his way into the car. Those remaining crept toward the back as the floors ticked by with agonizing slowness, mercifully not stopping on the way up. He was out before the doors were fully open, coming to an impatient halt before yet another obstacle.

"Pierce!" he barked into the speaker. "Open up!"

The resulting silence was infuriating, and he prowled the utilitarian waiting area with its stained sofa and months-old magazines for a full minute before jabbing the button again. "Pierce!" he bellowed. "Open this goddamned door!"

Click. The latch released, and he was through and striding down the next hallway, one hand outstretched as he neared the inner door which led right onto the floor...only to bounce off the locked door like an errant projectile, pain exploding up his arm to his shoulder and not exactly improving his mood. "Bloody hell!" he shouted, massaging his angry shoulder. "Why the hell isn't this door open? It's not like you didn't know I was here! Open it! Now!"

Click. The second latch released and Pierce exploded through the double doorway onto the floor. To his left was the nurses' station, empty but for a terrified woman in cheerful pastel pink who backed away as he stormed toward the desk. "How did she get out?" he demanded. "How?"

"Danny?"

It was Samuels, who was promptly grabbed by the arm and hauled out of earshot of Pastel Pink. "Don't," Pierce hissed, "ever refer to me that way in public. If there's so much as one other life form present, it's 'Agent Pierce'. I don't care if it's a cockroach, it's 'Agent Pierce'. Understood?"

"Right," Brian said tonelessly. "Sorry."

"And 'cockroach' might not be far off," Pierce said furiously as the Pastel Pink fled, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking furiously. "All we need are the skittering noises. Where the hell is everyone? Or did they let them all loose with Topolsky?"

"I imagine they're avoiding you," Brian noted. "And for the record, they didn't 'let her loose'. She escaped."

"You don't 'escape' from a place like this," Pierce said impatiently.

"You do if you're an FBI agent," Brian said. "Especially a Special Unit agent with an intimate knowledge of how psych wards work."

Pierce stepped closer. "Do you mean to tell me," he said in a deadly voice, "that an unarmed, drugged woman on a suicide watch managed to escape a locked mental ward?"

"Yeah," Brian answered, holding his ground as Pierce hovered millimeters from his face. "That pretty much sums it up."

Pierce made a strangled sound of disbelief. "Fine," he ground out. "There are dozens of cameras. Find her."

"We tried. She doesn't show up on any of the cameras, not on this floor, not on any floor."

Pierce gave a snort of disbelief. "So this unarmed, drugged woman on a suicide watch managed to escape not only a locked mental ward, but the entire hospital complex as well? Just exactly how stupid do you think I am?"

"It's not about me thinking you're stupid," Brian said. "It's about you thinking she's stupid. She's not, Danny. She never was. And you underestimated her. Again."

"What did I just say about calling me 'Danny'?"

"There's no one around," Brian said pointedly. "Even cockroaches. And you're dodging. Again."

Pierce gave him a level stare, and Brian held his gaze. "Am I imaging things," Pierce said softly, "or are you actually challenging me? "Challenging me, and on the heels of such a spectacular failure?"

"Your failure," Brian retorted. "It was your idea to put her here. I said it was risky from the start, but as usual, you didn't listen. You listening now?"

"We tried it your way!" Pierce exploded. "We wooed them, and feted them, and dropped them in the lap of luxury, and for what? They all screwed us! Every one of them! Why is that?"

"They're smart," Brian answered. "They figured it out."

"No, you're stupid!" Pierce snapped. "She told me about the phone."

For the first time, Brian faltered. "What phone?"

"Your phone. Your cell phone, the one you handed her, remember? The one she used to check your contacts and found my name on the list? That phone."

"And what about the first two?" Brian demanded, recovering. "The ones who found the tap on the land line and figured it out that way? Whose fault was that? Not to mention that the whole reason I handed her my phone was to reassure her that I wasn't getting cell service either, a stipulation you insisted on—"

"Of course I insisted on it!" Pierce shouted. "They would have been on the phone to grandma if I hadn't! Hell, they were anyway! You've botched this from the beginning—"

"Wrong!" Brian shot back. "We never did it my way. You were always meddling, tapping lines and blocking signals and doing something that tripped their alarms. They're agents, for Christ's sake! Maybe they're not God's gift to the Bureau like you're convinced you are, but they're plenty smart enough to spot an ambush when you leave hints the size of Rhode Island!"

Pierce opened his mouth to retort and found himself tongue-tied, resorting instead to a strangled sound of fury as he turned away, pounding his fists on the counter so hard that something cracked. How could you start a revolution when you were surrounded by incompetents? How could you save the planet when everyone around you seemed to be working against you? Is this how his father had felt? His notes had made it clear how frustrated he'd been with his rival, one "Cavitt", and his dogooder commanding officer, General Ramey. Was this the province of all great men, to seethe with frustration at the lesser minds around them?

"We can't afford this, Danny," Brian said behind him. "Being at each other's throats, it won't work. We've already got agents asking what our next move is, and what am I supposed to tell them? They flocked to your side after Hubble's death, but we haven't learned a thing from any of the Roswell agents, and now this. The last thing they need is to see is us fighting about it. Morale hasn't suffered yet, but it will when this gets out, so let's not make things worse by pointing fingers. Let's just solve the problem."

Even if that's you, Pierce thought darkly, resolving to revisit this issue another day. "Right," he said out loud, nodding savagely. "Right. Okay. So...how'd she do it?"

"She knocked out a nurse," Brian answered. "Used a whopping dose of sedative, switched clothes with her, and used her swipe card and security code to get out. We found the nurse in Topolsky's PJ's in Topolsky's room. She last thing she remembers is going into Topolsky's room in the middle of the night to check on her. She never saw it coming."

"So why isn't she on tape?" Pierce demanded. "There are enough cameras here to run a reality show!"

"We're working on that," Brian promised, "but in the meantime we found the nurse's purse in a hospital trash bin with the key card inside. The only thing missing was cash. Her car is right where she left it."

"She's on foot," Pierce muttered.

"Or public transport," Brian said. "Either way, she's off grid."

"Great," Pierce said savagely. "Just great. Find her."





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




3:30 p.m.

June Robson's residence, Washington, D.C.




Kathleen Topolsky's hands shook as she fitted the key into the lock outside the apartment building, nearly collapsing in relief when a click told her she'd unlocked the door. She slipped inside, ducking her head as the elevator door nearby opened and someone stepped out, certain she had the word Imposter tattooed on her forehead, but whoever it was hurried on, not even sparing her a passing glance. The elevator was mercifully empty, and she reached the fifth floor and made her way down the long hallway to Room 535 without incident. Holding her breath, she knocked on the door.

Nothing. She knocked again. Seconds ticked by, became a minute as she glanced fearfully up and down the hall. How long to wait? The longer she waited, the more likely someone would go in or out of their apartment and see her, and no one could see anyone anywhere near June Robson's apartment. Deciding to chance it, she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. The interior was dark, and grew darker still after she closed the door.

"Hello?" she called tentatively. "Anyone home?"

No answer. Running her hand along the wall, she found a switch, turned it on; the shaded floor lamp which responded bathed the little apartment in a soft glow. To her right was a bathroom, a storage closet, and a single small bedroom; to her left was a surprisingly well-equipped kitchen for such a tiny apartment, beyond which was a tiny living room and what looked like a balcony, all with curtains drawn against the afternoon sun.

"Hello?" she called again, moving from room to room.

Nothing. The gamble she'd made in picking a recent divorcee when choosing her target had paid off—the place was empty. Her hands shaking, Topolsky locked the door, leaned against it for a moment, then slid to the floor, closing her eyes with relief, exhilaration, exhaustion...all of the above. She was alone. For the first time in four interminable, terrifying weeks, she was alone and safe, or as safe as she was going to be, with the ticket to her freedom in her pocket and the owner of this apartment not coming back any time soon. Overcome by emotion, Topolsky dissolved in tears which became great, wracking sobs which caused her to move further inside lest someone in the hallway hear her.

A few shuddering minutes later, she found herself on the little couch, gazing out the window toward the capital skyline. It was hard to believe she'd actually been happy about her "promotion", about coming to Washington, about getting the Special Unit back on track. That she wasn't the only one who'd taken the bait was small comfort given that she was the only one who'd made it out alive, and truth be told, that was part of what kept her going. She needed to be a witness. She needed to tell what she'd seen, what she'd learned, but she had to do it carefully or they'd kill her before she had the chance. The bulge in her pocket was her only hope they wouldn't kill her after.

But first things first. Topolsky stood up, her eyes darting from the kitchen to the bathroom like a kid in a candy store, wondering where to start. The bathroom won, and five minutes later she was stripped and standing in the warm rain which pulsed from June's massaging shower head. June's shower gel smelled heavenly, unlike the industrial soap furnished by the hospital, and her thick, soft bath towels were a far cry from the thin postage stamps of fabric she'd been using for the past month. Her senses were nearly overwhelmed as she moved from one luxury to another, from the fuzzy bath mat beside the shower, to the razor which used up a blade shaving the hair off her legs, to the hair dryer, to the nail clippers. Washed, shaved, clipped, dried, and wrapped in a bathrobe she found on the back of the door, she padded out to the next garden of delight, the kitchen, were she held the refrigerator door open for a very long time without so much as a pang of guilt, vacillating over which rare delicacy to consume first.

Microwave meals? she debated, pondering the divorcee's typical trove of prepared foods. Left over takeout? Lunch meat? Her stomach grumbled as she pawed through fridge, freezer, and cupboards, almost quivering with anticipation. She'd had little to eat since her escape; being on the run didn't exactly lend itself to three squares, especially when obtaining them meant a public restaurant or grocery store. But here all was private, and her choices made her laugh: A can of good old Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, steaming from the microwave, a glass of chocolate milk, and a Hostess cupcake, all childhood comfort foods. Not exactly packed with nutrition, but this was just the first course, and she tucked in with relish, marveling at how the Chef's pasty 1950's era tomato sauce could taste so good. Mmmmm.....

Someone knocked on the door.

In a matter of seconds, Topolsky was across the room to where she'd dropped her coat, the gun she'd stolen from the Bureau trembling in her hand as she pointed it at the door. They'd found her. How the hell had they found her so fast? She'd taken every precaution, plugged every loophole, erased every footprint. Had someone found Robson? She shouldn't be awake for hours yet. Had they found her on the security tapes? But she'd been disguised, and she'd changed that disguise several times. Whatever, she thought grimly, gun pointed at the door. However they'd found her, she wasn't going down without a fight.

The knock sounded again.

Puzzled, Topolsky listened. Voices floated through the doorway, faint, barely audible. It took her a moment to realize that the knocking and the voices were coming from the apartment across the hall.

A door closed. The voices receded. Drained, Topolsky lowered her gun, breathing heavily. God, but every nerve was on edge, every emotion frayed beyond belief. That's what happened when you found yourself at the mercy of a monster...no, she thought, closing her eyes as tears slipped through. No, worse than that happened when you found yourself at the mercy of a monster. At least she was alive, courtesy of the man who wasn't, the man who had whispered salvation in her ear with some of the last strength he had left. 68493. That's what Agent Stevens had whispered in her ear when he'd beckoned her to lean over. It was a code to get past the ward's alarmed doors, one he must have snagged on the way in. It had taken her a month to figure out whose it was and how to use it without being caught, and she would be damned if it all went to hell now. The price had been too high.

Slowly, Topolsky pushed to her feet and set the gun on the table now spattered with Beefaroni, righting the bowl and retrieving the spoon. The food was wonderful, and she carefully rinsed the dishes after finishing before combing the cupboards for portable foodstuffs and heading for the bedroom, where she stood in front of June's closet and frowned. June was a good deal larger than she was from the looks of things, not to mention that she'd lost several pounds; the drugs Pierce had pumped into her suppressed the appetite, which had the welcome side effect—for him—of making her weak. She'd had to force herself to eat to build up the strength she'd needed to make a break for it, but even that hadn't put much weight on her now stick-thin frame, not that the security guy who'd agreed to doctor the tapes in exchange for sex had minded. Digging deeper into the closet, she pawed through the far ends and the upper shelves, knowing that most women kept some of their smaller clothes from their younger days in spite of the fact that they'd never wear them again. One blousy shirt and serviceable pair of pants later, she'd packed food into the pockets of a high quality coat she found in the hall closet, her gun in the inside pocket and a scarf around her neck. She'd love to stay, but it wasn't safe, and June Robson had already donated enough.

The last thing she did before she left was put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.




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




9 p.m.

J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.





Rounding the corner at mach ten, Pierce nearly collided with a group of people, who jumped aside to avoid him. Ignoring their scowls, he plowed on, quickening his pace when he spotted Brian at the end of the hallway.

"Where is she?"

Brian pointed toward an office. "Right here."

Pierce nearly tripped over himself, so eager was he to claim his prize. I win! he thought with supreme satisfaction. Kathleen had pulled a fast one on him, something few managed and indescribably maddening, but he'd caught up with her in less than twenty-four hours, and in the last place he'd expected. Bureau headquarters, he thought with just the smallest twinge of admiration. Here she was on the run, and she'd marched into FBI headquarters. She had balls, he'd give her that, but so much for her grand attempt at freedom. Rounding the corner, he pulled up short.

"Where is she?" he demanded again, eyes sweeping the room.

"Right there," Brian repeated, pointing to a portly, middle-aged woman surrounded by medical personnel while she half sat, half sprawled, in a rolling office chair, not the best choice for someone who looked punch drunk.

Pierce blinked. "Who the hell is that?"

"June Robson," Brian answered, reading off a pad. "Age 56, Bureau admin for 17 years—"

"Who cares?" Pierce interrupted. "Where's Topolsky? You said you found her."

"I meant I'd found where she went," Brian corrected. "I never meant I'd found 'her'."

"What, you mean she's not here?" Pierce said in astonishment. "You dragged me all the way down here just to tell me this was a stop on the Underground Railroad?"

"A stop which might give us some idea of what she's up to," Brian said patiently, "or—"

"We know what's she's 'up to'!" Pierce exclaimed. "She's trying to bring me down! And good luck with that, because if she breathes so much as a word about me, I've got a hundred people who'll shoot her where she stands."

"Of course you do," Brian said soothingly. "Stay with me here, Danny; you'll want to hear this. Now...June Robson. Showed up for work this morning—"

"Why the hell should I care about some fat admin?" Pierce demanded.

"Did you notice the shape that 'fat admin' is in?"

"Looks drunk. So what?"

"Not drunk; drugged," Brian corrected. "Remember the nurse at the hospital?"

Pierce looked back through the office door where the fat admin was looking much the worse for wear. "You mean Topolsky drugged her?"

"Looks that way. I checked with the hospital, and they confirmed a couple of syringes containing sedatives were missing..."

Obviously, Pierce thought, shoving into the office, leaving Brian chattering into his pad. He suffered from an inability to condense, that one, insisting on reporting every little detail instead of the ones that mattered. "What happened?" he barked at the startled admin.

"I...I..." the admin stammered.

"Ms. Robson was assaulted," intoned one of the medical weenies. "She was apparently injected with—"

"Never mind that," Pierce interrupted impatiently. "Where? Where in the building?"

"In...the elevator," Fat Admin sat haltingly. "This woman got on, and—"

"What do you do here?" Pierce cut her off.

"I...I'm an admin in accounting," she replied, bewildered, as the medical weenies frowned at him disapprovingly. "I'm—"

"This doesn't make any sense," Pierce called to Brian. "Why would she want anything from accounting? What, is she trying to rustle up a paycheck?"

"Ms. Robson wasn't working in Accounting today," Brian answered. "She was on temporary assignment—"

"Where?" Pierce demanded as Fat Admin's eyes widened. "Temporary assignment where?"

"In Evidence," she answered fearfully.

Evidence. Pierce leaned over, one hand on either side of the desk as the terrified woman recoiled. "Where were you? Where were you when she dropped you?"

"I told you, I—"

"Where?" Pierce demanded. "What part of Evidence were you in?"

"I was in the elevator!" the woman wailed. "I never made it to Evidence!"

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to back off," a medical weenie insisted. "Ms. Robson is in no condition to—"

But Pierce never heard the rest, striding out of the office and down the hall with Brian on his heels. "Could you at least try not to stick out like a sore thumb?" Brian complained as Pierce savagely punched the button for the basement. "The last thing we need is the Director on your ass."

"The Director hasn't given me so much as a passing thought for months now," Pierce retorted, "a decision I imagine he'll regret in the future. In the meantime I intend to take advantage of the fact that he's simply ignoring me by using the pass codes which still work everywhere I go."

"Which might be why he's ignoring you," Brian said mildly. "So you'll use those pass codes and make yourself trackable."

Oh, shut it, Pierce thought darkly, although he made Brian use his code when they reached Evidence, which had a lone employee on duty whose offer of help was ignored by him and politely declined by Brian. "Any idea where we're going?" Brian asked when the vast vault stretched before them. "This is the epitome of a needle in a haystack."

Not exactly, Pierce thought, striding down one of the long aisles, knowing exactly where he was going. Much to the army's displeasure, the vast majority of the alien artifacts collected by the government were housed here despite the fact that it had been the U.S. Army, not the FBI, which had initially overseen all alien investigation. All the Army had retained in the power struggle which had resulted in the creation of the Unit was the aliens' ship, now housed somewhere in Utah, if he remembered correctly, and supposedly repaired by none other than the alien prisoner itself. The Army still had the ship largely because the Bureau didn't have anywhere better to put it, but they wielded access to it like an iron club, something which sent Bureau nerds into spasms and bothered Pierce not at all. He wasn't the least bit interested in the toys; he wanted the monsters who had killed his father, and the nerds should too, if only because finding the monsters meant basically finding the instruction manuals to the toys, something the nerds didn't get because they thought they should be smart enough to figure it all out on their own, and it annoyed them no end that they weren't. Kind of like it annoyed him that Topolsky had slipped through his fingers once again.

"How did you find out about the admin?" Pierce asked on their way down a mile long aisle.

"I had my ear to the ground for anything unusual," Brian answered, scurrying to keep up with him. "Robson swiped in, but never swiped out, and her carpool couldn't find her. It sounded interesting, so I checked it out."

"Oh," Pierce said, taken aback because he never would have flagged that story as Topolsky when it sounded like a Bureau grunt who wanted some time off on the Bureau's dime. "I don't suppose we have her on camera anywhere?"

"I haven't had time to go through the footage at the main entrance," Brian said. "I imagine she came in with some tour group or other, and then peeled off from the group. But there's no video down here, so there's no way to tell where she went once she reached Evidence."

"No, of course not," Pierce said darkly. "It's only the most secure building in the country, so of course there's no video."

"She managed to stay off the video at the hospital," Brian reminded him. "And isn't the Pentagon the most secure building in the country?"

Brian's eyes dropped as Pierce threw him a look and came to a halt. "Here," he said, gesturing toward the walls of boxes in front of him. "Here is where all the alien artifacts are kept."

Brian pulled a box toward him and leafed through the plastic bags containing artifacts. "Wow!" he breathed holding up a bag, scrunching it his hand. "It really does unfold, just like they said!"

"Stop playing," Pierce ordered, snatching the bag out of his hands and plopping it back in the box. "Topolsky wanted something from here, and we need to find out what."

"Going through every box will take weeks," Brian said, "and we don't have weeks. And that's assuming she wanted something alien. What makes you think that?"

Pierce ignored him, his eyes raking the shelves. "She wouldn't have known where to look," he murmured, looking for signs of tampering. "so she would have had to hunt for whatever she was after. I don't see how..." He stopped, suddenly remembering something.

"Don't see how...wait!" Brian called as Pierce took off down the aisle. "Where are you going?"

Pierce ignored him, heading for the section where the earliest artifacts were stored. He didn't believe for one second that Topolsky had gone to all the trouble of breaking in here just to nose around and see if she could find anything useful; the risk of capture was too great. No, she'd wanted something specific, and what he'd just remembered was as good a place to start as any. "Here," he said, screeching to a halt, Brian almost bumping into him. "It's in one of the earliest boxes, up there. Get the ladder."

"What are you looking for?" Brian asked, pushing the rolly ladder toward him. "And how would you know where it is?"

"I've spent weeks here going through all this stuff," Pierce answered, climbing quickly, his coat flapping around him. "Name anything, and I can probably tell you where to find it. Like that bendy metal you were playing with; Section D, second shelf, first box on the left."

Brian glanced back toward where they'd been and raised an eyebrow. "Is this like those eggheads who memorize all the sports statistics?"

"No," Pierce retorted. "This is useful. This one," he went on, yanking a box off a high shelf, pawing through it, once, twice.

"It's gone," he said faintly.

"What's gone?" Brian demanded.

Ignoring him, Pierce climbed down the ladder and dumped the contents of the box unceremoniously on the floor, bringing a gasp of disbelief from Brian. At the very bottom of the box, beneath all the other bags, was one empty one.

"Gotcha!" Pierce said triumphantly.

"You know what she took?" Brian asked.

"Not only that," Pierce said. "I know where she's going."

"You do? I mean...good!" Brian said. "I can have men anywhere in the country in less than—"

"No."

"No? No, what?"

"Let her go," Pierce said.

"Let her...go?" Brian repeated doubtfully.

"Yes," Pierce said firmly. "Let her go, and we'll follow. She wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know, but now she's going to do better—she's going to show me."




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




1 a.m.

Artesia, New Mexico




A light snapped on. Tess scrunched her eyes closed, held up a hand. "What?" she said irritably.

"Get up," Nasedo ordered.

"Why?" Tess muttered, falling back on her pillow.

"Pack your things," Nasedo said. "We're leaving."

Tess eyes flew open just as he plopped her suitcase on the foot of the bed, her little red suitcase, one of the few constants in her itinerant life. A moment later she was out of bed and cramming her clothes inside, pausing only to exchange her PJ's for regular clothes as the familiar refrain sounded over and over in her mind: They found us. That was the only thing this late night scramble could mean, the only thing it had ever meant. Many times they had fled one place or another in the dead of night, usually with the Special Unit close on their heels. Was it the Unit again this time, or had her cowboy-hatted pursuer found them at last? Not that it mattered; either way, they had to run.

Tess paused, glancing from her brimming suitcase to the many things still left in her room. It had been longer than usual since their last midnight escape, meaning she'd had time to accumulate more stuff. They always left things behind, but the pile this time was going to be larger than usual...

Nasedo appeared in the bedroom doorway. "Need this?" he asked, hefting another suitcase. "And these," he added, dropping a couple of cardboard boxes beside it. "Hurry up."

He left. Tess blinked, listened, then crept to the doorway where she could hear Nasedo in the kitchen packing up their paltry collection of kitchenware, purchased here because their last set hadn't made the cut when they'd had to leave in a big hurry. Things couldn't be too bad if Nasedo was packing silverware and giving her extra boxes, but then why the middle of the night packing party?

"Are you done?" Nasedo called.

Fifteen minutes later, she was. Even their larger pile of worldly possessions managed to fit in the car, and it helped that Nasedo didn't have worldly possessions, at least not the way most people did. All he had was a small wooden box that came with him everywhere they went and that she'd never seen inside of; every time they'd move, she'd look for it, but it disappeared after every upheaval, reappearing only upon the next. They pulled out of the driveway as they always did at times like these, with all the car's lights off; no lights meant no attention. And no coat, Tess thought with a shiver, glancing toward the back when she realized she'd neglected to set aside a coat or sweater. She couldn't see in the dark the way Nasedo could, so she'd have to wait until it was safe to turn a light on before she could find the right box.

"Here."

A coat appeared in front of her face. "Uh...thanks," Tess said uncertainly as Nasedo returned his hand to the wheel. "I forgot."

"I figured you would."

It was a statement, not an accusation, and Tess found herself further confused; this wasn't like any of their other migrations. "Why did you give me the extra suitcase?" she asked suspiciously.

"Because you had more things this time," Nasedo answered, his eyes on the road.

"Since when do you care about that?"

"Since The Healer advised me to do so."

The nurse, Tess thought. "Did she tell you to make sure I wore a coat too?"

"Not in so many words, but I managed to extrapolate."

Tess rolled her eyes as the car sped along the road, its lights still off. Honestly, sometimes Nasedo sounded like a robot, very often more than sometimes. She'd have to look up that nurse some day and give her a great big thank you because no way would he have thought of a simple kindness like a coat without help, and lots of it. "So who found us?" she asked.

"No one."

"No one? Then where are we going?"

"Roswell."

Tess's head swung around to stare at him as she went cold all over. The running didn't scare her; she'd been doing this ever since she could remember, and they had it down to a science. The fear that washed over her now was for someone else entirely. "What happened?" she demanded. "Did they find them?"

"Maybe," Nasedo said.

" 'Maybe'?" Tess echoed. "What does 'maybe' mean? Did they find them, or not? Are they all right? Answer me!" she exclaimed when he said nothing. "Is my husband all right?"

"Former husband," Nasedo corrected, "and yes, they're all right. For the moment. After that, I'm not so sure, which is why we're moving now; I need to stay close."

"And what about me?" Tess asked. "What do I do?"

"You'll start at their school next week," Nasedo answered.

Tess leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Finally. Finally, after years of teasing and wondering and hoping, she was going to meet The Others. She could safely say that a part of her had feared this day would never come.

"Is it the Unit?" she asked, aware that this day had come earlier for a very bad reason. "Did the Unit find them?"

"Maybe," Nasedo repeated. "I don't know for sure," he added impatiently when she began to protest, "but it's a distinct possibility, distinct enough that we're moving early. And if they have..." he paused, his eyes still on the road. "If they have, I'm going to need you in ways I never have before. They know nothing, and if they've been discovered, they'll need to learn a great deal in a very short time. That's where you come in. You'll need to guide them, to be their link between their present and the past they don't know they have."

"You mean the same past I don't know I have?" she asked dryly.

"You know more than they do," Nasedo said, ignoring her sarcasm, "which will tell you how little they know. This is not the time for debate. I need to know I can count on you. Can I?"

"Of course," she said quickly. "I'd do anything for them. Anything at all."



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


I'll post Chapter 91 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER NINETY-ONE



April 10, 2000, 6:25 a.m.,

Crashdown Cafe




"You okay, Michael?"

Michael jerked his head off the locker he'd been leaning on. "Sure," he said quickly. "I'm just..."

"Tired?" suggested Mr. Parker. "You look tired," he explained when Michael raised an eyebrow. "That's all."

"Most people look tired at this hour of the morning," Michael said. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" Mr. Parker asked. "Look, the idea of this 'mini-shift' before school was just that—an idea. I know you have to be at school in just a few hours, and then you're back here after that, so if it's too much—"

"It's not," Michael said. "I'm good. And still really grateful for the job. No worries."

Mr. Parker gave him a long look before clapping him on the shoulder. "All right, then. But you let me know if it's too much, you hear?"

"I hear," Michael promised.

He walked away, and Michael waited until the footsteps had faded before resuming his lean on the locker. And I'm tired, he added silently. He'd gotten off at 11 p.m. last night, and now here he was first thing in the morning, followed by school at 10:15 a.m., otherwise known as third period, followed by a brief respite before landing back here. Somewhere in there he got his homework done, never difficult, just annoying because it was one more thing that had to be done. His life was a blur of work, classes, work, and more work, followed by bed, followed by more work and classes. Apart from the odd day off, he had precious little time to himself these days, so much so that he occasionally found himself missing Hank.

Can't believe that, Michael thought in disgust, throwing the locker door open and chucking his coat inside. It wasn't Hank he missed, it was the fact that Hank had been the breadwinner, even if he had spent a large portion of that "bread" on booze instead of bread. Money was the one thing Hank had valued because it funded his beer habit, so whatever else he'd done, he'd been careful to keep his job, the main source of that beer money and an absolute necessity for hanging on to the foster child who brought in even more money. Michael had never fully appreciated just how much work it was to work for a living, but emancipation had taken care of that; as grateful as he was to finally be the master of his own fate, it turned out that working for a living sucked. The daily monotony of school was nothing compared to the daily monotony of greasy food and greasy kitchens, and he couldn't just ditch work the way he could ditch school; he'd lose his job, and there were bills to pay. Rent, electricity, and telephone bills rolled in monthly like clockwork, and then there were groceries to buy and the occasional household item or piece of clothing, not to mention that fact that groceries had to be fetched, food didn't cook itself, and clothes didn't hop into the washer unbidden. Living with Hank had made him familiar with all of those chores, but the truth was that Hank had done some of them, and Michael had been free to blow off school when more pressing matters intervened. Now he had full responsibility for all the bills and chores, plus work, plus school, not so easy to blow off any more; Mr. Evans had made it clear that the court would keep a close eye on him for the first year following emancipation and would feel free to rescind it if it judged him to be failing. No way was he going to let that happen, which meant keeping his grades up and attending classes, albeit on the trimmed down schedule the school had agreed to, allowing him to trade study halls for work shifts. The money was welcome, but more work wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. He'd been so busy he almost hadn't had time to mourn the loss of the orb Max had so unceremoniously taken from him.

"Damn customers," Agnes muttered as she walked by. "Why in blazes to do they come in so early?"

"Maybe because we're open so early?" Michael suggested.

Agnes gave him a withering look which he ignored as slipped his apron over his head and started the grill heating. The Crashdown officially opened at 7 a.m. on weekdays, but Mr. Parker unlocked the door at 6:30 and served coffee to those interested, a practice Agnes hated as it interrupted her morning cigarette, probably not her first. Curious as to who was here that early today, he peeked through the pass-through.

"Relax," Michael said to Agnes, who was still fuming. "I'll get this one."

He pushed through the swinging door and grabbed a coffee cup. "So how do you take it, Grandma? Black?"

"Heck, no," Grandma Dee said cheerfully, setting down her newspaper. "Sugar, tons of it."

"Not worried about your waistline?" Michael teased, setting a mug in front of her and pushing the sugar canister her way.

"Not at my age," Grandma answered, sending a stream of sugar into her cup, not even bothering to measure it. "It's one of the few good things about getting older; you care less about what you look like."

"You don't strike me as someone who ever cared much about..." Michael stopped, suddenly self-conscious. "Uh...I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

But Grandma just laughed. "I know how you meant it," she chuckled, "and you're right. I guess that means I just care less than usual. So what brings you out here? You waiting tables now?"

"Just waiting for the grill to heat up," Michael said, grateful there was at least one woman on the planet who didn't misinterpret every single thing he said. "And then I saw you out here, and..."

"And decided to give Agnes a pass," Grandma said dryly. "That one has attitude problems."

"True," Michael allowed. "Guess I just wanted to say 'hi'."

"Ah," Grandma said thoughtfully. "So...how's the single life treating you?"

"It's...busy," Michael finished.

"It's tough working for a living, isn't it?" Grandma said softly.

"Yeah," Michael admitted.

"Although, to be fair, you're not just working for a living," she went on. "You're working for a living and going to school. That's the equivalent of two full time jobs."

"One of which I'd dearly love to ditch," Michael muttered.

"I know," Grandma said sympathetically, "but if you did, the court would be all over you like a rash. Give it a—"

"Year," Michael finished. "Mr. Evans told me. After that, I guess they stop looking."

"Just make sure you're passing," Grandma advised. "You don't have to get straight 'A's."

"I never have," Michael pointed out.

"But not because you couldn't," Grandma said. "Because you wouldn't."

Michael smiled faintly. "How do you know what I can do?"

"Not to scare you, but I'm betting I know way more about you than you think I do," Grandma said.

"That doesn't scare me," Michael said. "If there was anyone who knew a lot about me, I'd love it to be you." He glanced back toward the kitchen. "My grill's probably ready. What are you having?"

"A ham and cheese omelet, please. White toast, hash browns, bacon."

"The works," Michael nodded. "Comin' right up. I'll tell Agnes she can finish her cigarette." He started back for the kitchen, stopped. "Why are you here so early? I thought you were a late sleeper."

"I am," Grandma sighed. "I'm meeting someone. He'll be here soon. I'll be having that breakfast in a booth, if you don't mind, dear."

"No problem," Michael said. "Is...everything okay, Grandma?"

Grandma was quiet for a moment. "I'm not sure," she said finally. "I certainly hope so."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Not at the moment," Grandma said, "but I appreciate the offer. Oh, and Michael? Do be careful. What with you so new to being on your own, I'm concerned there are those who would...take advantage of you."

"Don't worry about me," Michael said. "I don't trust anybody."





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




7:30 a.m.

West Roswell High School




"Have you considered an accelerated track for your daughter, Mr. Harding?" the principal asked. "Given her test scores, I should think you'd want to."

"Tessie and I were talking about how many AP courses would be too many," Nasedo answered. "We will of course abide by your professional opinion. "

"A wise decision," the principal said with satisfaction. "In my experience..."

Blah, blah, blabidi blah, Tess groaned silently, doing her best to look interested as the principal, who had noticeably puffed at the praise, droned on. For all that he was an expert at ruffling feathers, Nasedo also knew how to stroke them; he could lay it on so thick that people became virtually blind to what was right in front of them. Like now, for instance, as her eyelids momentarily drooped and she jerked awake, something the principal missed entirely, being completely wrapped up in a string of tales of his professional experience with AP classes. Nasedo, however did not; his eyes remained on the principal, but she felt him stiffen beside her, one finger tap-tapping on the arm of his chair, a kind of sign language for shape up! Her eyes wandered the room, looking for something, anything, that would hold her interest, but found nothing; she'd been in dozens of principals' offices over the years, and this one was no different: Vinyl chairs, dirty ashtrays, lots of framed awards and diplomas on the walls, the requisite potted plant, the smudged telephone, the faint odor of sweat and copier ink. This was her umpteenth school and her umpteenth principal...but this transfer was different from all the others.

Just how different had been driven home by their very first stop when they'd reached town in the middle of the night a full week ago. Tess had moved more times than she could remember, so she was prepared for the motel, the sudden need for groceries and sundries, the need to get used to Nasedo's new face and their new alias, mercifully similar to the last one this time. But nothing had prepared her for when he'd driven straight through town into the desert, pulling off the road in a place which called to her in a way no other ever had.

"I know this," she'd whispered.

"Of course you do," he'd said.

She'd climbed out of the car, leaned against it, the breathtaking New Mexico night sky lending a backdrop of stars against the huge rock formation which jutted into the sky like a missile launcher. This was one of her earliest memories of the night Nasedo had taken her hand and led her away, this monument to a brand new world. She'd asked him about it from time to time, and he'd always said they'd come back some day. After a while she'd stopped asking, but apparently "some day" was now.

"Go on," he'd urged when she'd hesitated. "Don't wait for me."

She'd run then, her feet pounding on the soft sand, scrambling up the incline, looking for...well, for what, exactly? Did she even know what she was looking for? It turned out she did as came to a halt on a little plateau about a third of the way up, staring at the rock wall in front of her, certain this was the place. But this was where memory failed her, so it was fortunate that Nasedo came up behind her and held his hand up to the rock.

"What is that?' she'd exclaimed when a silver handprint flared to life, glowing like a neon sign in the darkness.

"A handprint lock," he'd answered.

"I don't remember that," she'd said doubtfully.

"You were a bit...overwhelmed," he'd said, pressing his hand to the print.

But I remember that! she'd thought joyfully when the door rumbled open; she may not have seen how to open it, but she remembered the sound it made when it did. The interior was another story. While she remembered the sensation of coming out of the pod, remembered finding Nasedo there when her vision had cleared, she had little memory of the interior of the chamber. She had stood and stared at the four ruined pods for a very long time, wondering why she hadn't noticed them the first time.

"I never even looked at these back then," she'd said to Nasedo, who had come up behind her. "But I remember this place. You told me we'd come back one day."

"And here we are," he'd said. "And you found it all by yourself, with no prompting from me."

"Why?" she'd demanded. "Why did we come back now?"

"Because this is a safe place," he'd answered. "Only you and the others can access it, and me, of course. If any of you need to hide, this is the one safe place on Earth where no one else can touch you."

"At least this is one thing the Others and I will have in common," Tess said.

"I'm afraid not," Nasedo had said. "They don't remember this place. It will be your job to help them remember."

"Well, that's simple," Tess had said. "Just bring them here—"

"No," Nasedo had interrupted. "This is a safe house, to be used only in case of emergency. There will be four of you now; we can't take the risk that the group of you will be noticed or followed."

"Then how am I supposed to 'help them remember'?" she'd asked, bewildered.

"You'll think of something," Nasedo had said.

They'd left shortly after, him briskly, her grudgingly, expecting to learn more in due time, to find out the circumstances which had brought them to Roswell earlier than expected or brainstorm ways to "help them remember". But they never had, caught up in the usual rigmarole which always surrounded moving and Nasedo's frequent absences, an anomaly which had caught her by surprise. He'd sent her alone to the grocery store, the hardware store, the post office, and so forth, where she'd taken to scanning every face she saw for one of the Others, to no avail. Waiting for the first day of school had been excruciating, and now here she was waiting for this blowhard to shut up.

Finally, he did. "I appreciate your guidance," Nasedo schmoozed, pumping the principal's hand as she resisted the urge to gag. "I only want the best for my Tessie."

" 'Your Tessie' would like to go to class now," she announced as the principal opened his mouth to offer even more "guidance". "Are we done?"

Nasedo scowled at her, but the principal beamed. "Of course, Miss Harding," he smiled as she resisted the urge to smack him. "You have your schedule, and the room numbers—"

"...are listed next to the courses," she finished helpfully. "Yes, I know. Sorry," she added hastily as Nasedo's expression darkened dangerously. "I've just moved a lot. I know the drill."

"Of course you do," the principal said soothingly as she ducked away from the arm he attempted to put around her shoulder. "I'm sure you're eager for everything to go back to normal. Left out the door, down the hallway—"

"Then a right, fifth door down on the left," Tess finished. "Got it. I...memorized the floor plan," she added when the principal blinked.

"My goodness, what a prodigy you have here!" the principal enthused. "You've got your hands full, Mr. Harding!"

"You have no idea," Nasedo said, smiling through gritted teeth. "Thank you so much. I'll be in touch."

Tess winced as the hand he put on her arm fastened like a vise which pulled her out into the hallway. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed at her. "Showing off like that? You're supposed to be inconspicuous!"

"I just want to get this show on the road!" she exclaimed, wrenching her arm away. "I've been hanging around for a week while you disappeared off to God knows where without telling me anything."

"I was always close," Nasedo protested, "and when there's something to tell, I'll tell you."

Tess snorted softly. "Oh, that's helpful. I've seen so little of you that I didn't even know which face you settled on until I saw you this morning. You've been through at least five since we got here, but I never thought you'd pick that one."

"It was a last minute decision," Nasedo said irritably. "I was going for 'middle-aged male, non-threatening'."

"Well, you managed the first two, but I don't think 'non-threatening' is in your repertoire," Tess said dryly.

"Is there a particular reason you decided to act up at this horribly inconvenient time?" Nasedo demanded. "Have I not impressed upon you the gravity of our situation?"

"No," she retorted, "you haven't. You still haven't told me a thing. You said the Others may have been found, and you dropped everything and dragged both of us up here, and then you disappeared over and over, leaving me all by myself with no explanations, no instructions, no nothing!"

"Your 'instructions' are the same as they've always been," Nasedo said. "Keep your eyes open, and run and hide if you have to."

"That's just it, I've been 'keeping my eyes open'," Tess argued, "and that's how I know something's weird. I've run from the Unit my whole life, but this feels different."

"Of course it feels different," Nasedo said impatiently. "We're not running from the Unit this time, we're running toward it."

"I...well...okay, but it's still weird," Tess insisted, struggling to hide her annoyance that he was right. "How am I supposed to—"

Nasedo's phone rang. Tess stared at him suspiciously as he took it out of his pocket. "What?" he said curtly. "When?" He consulted his watch. "I'm on my way."

"Who was that?" Tess demanded after he hung up.

"Go to class," Nasedo said. "And do try not to draw attention to yourself."

"But—"

"Later," Nasedo ordered. "I'll do my job, and you do yours, which right now is being a high school student. Go!"

He left her then, standing in the middle of the hallway with an armful of notebooks, a crumpled class schedule, and a full head of steam. What was he thinking, leaving her out of the loop like this? Didn't he know it was dangerous not to tell her the full extent of their peril? She was still fuming when she reached her first class and walked in, late, of course. She marched up to the teacher and handed over her schedule, ignoring the inevitable stares of her new classmates as the teacher made the typical welcoming speech. "Why don't you take a seat," the teacher suggested. "I'll send a textbook along in a moment."

That's an improvement, Tess thought. Teachers usually left you standing in the front of the room while they rummaged for a textbook, all the better for your new classmates to give you the evil eye. At least that part of this oh-so-familiar ritual would be truncated this time, and she slid into an empty desk toward the back of the room near the window, another oddity given that empty desks were usually up front. The teacher must have made everyone move up.

And then she spied the girl two seats away to the right.

The teacher was talking, papers were shuffling, but Tess wasn't listening. Her eyes were fastened on the blonde head two rows over, now bent over a folder, unaware she was being watched. Isabel. She'd know her anywhere; she'd studied those pictures Nasedo had taken until she could practically draw them by heart. She hadn't expected to see any of the Others until at least third period. This was an unexpected gift.

"Miss Harding?"

It was the teacher with the promised textbook. "Oh," Tess said, flustered. "Thank you."

"You okay?" the teacher asked.

"Yeah," Tess said quickly. "Sure. Fine, thanks."

The teacher leaned in. "I know it's hard starting a new school," she whispered. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Right," Tess smiled. "Thanks."

That was nice, Tess thought as she left, but wrong. It wasn't hard starting a new school, not this time, because this time there was someone else here just like her. For the first time in her life, she was sharing a room with someone just like her, even if that someone had no idea who she was. She was smiling, basking in the warm glow of a kindred soul, when she glanced out the window.

Nasedo was descending the front steps at speed, hurrying in the direction of downtown.




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




Crashdown Cafe




The cafe door's bell dingled, and Dee looked up from the remains of her breakfast. "Where is he?" Jaddo demanded, marching up to her booth.

"Good morning to you, too," Dee answered. "He's not here yet."

"He just called me," Jaddo said, sliding into the booth. "He said he was on his way."

"Then he's on his way. But you're here, so tell me—are my grandchildren in danger?"

Jaddo glanced around, but Dee had chosen the very back booth, not a popular place with customers, most of whom were crowded toward the front. "The Unit isn't here," he reported, "at least not yet."

"Oh, thank God," Dee breathed.

"Don't thank him yet."

Dee blinked as Brivari slid in beside Jaddo. "Where did you come from?" she demanded.

"Antar," Brivari deadpanned. "But I thought you knew that."

"No, I mean I didn't hear the bell," Dee said in exasperation.

"I've hated that bell since the fifties," Brivari answered. "One of these days, I'll silence it for good. Did you say the Unit wasn't here?"

"I did. Yes, I'm sure," Jaddo added. "They're not here. Yet."

"And 'yet' would be the operative word there," Brivari said. "What I found was...disturbing."

"Where did you go again, exactly?" Dee interjected.

"Into the bowels of the FBI," Brivari answered.

"And he got out alive," Jaddo added. "That's something."

"Try not to sound so surprised," Brivari said dryly.

"Why wouldn't he get out alive?" Dee asked. "He's a shapeshifter. He can look like anybody."

"It's not that simple," Jaddo answered. "The military figured out how to identify us years ago, and the technology has only improved since then."

"You mean those shoe fitters?" Dee said.

"I mean modern scanners peppered all over the Bureau," Brivari replied. "All high security areas have a hand scanner which most agents associate with fingerprints, but which also have a secondary purpose."

"To check their bone structure," Dee said faintly. "To check for...you."

"Exactly," Jaddo said. "There was a very real risk of being caught. That's why neither of us have attempted this before. The risk was too great when there was no need. This time, there was a need."

"Oh, dear," Dee said sadly. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"You're in good company," Brivari said. "Word is there's a so-called 'shadow Unit' forming, supposedly a response to Freeh's emasculating the Unit and folding it back into the Bureau."

"Louis Freeh?" Dee said. "The FBI director knows about the Special Unit?"

"Only belatedly," Brivari answered, "and he was none too pleased to find a covert Unit operating under his nose. It was Freeh who failed to replace Agent Summers, the last Unit head Jaddo removed. Rendering it leaderless was reportedly a precursor to disbanding it altogether."

"And somebody's not happy with that," Dee said. "So they're taking matters into their own hands. Could this just be speculation?"

"I wish," Brivari said darkly. "I found plenty of evidence that it's true. Supplies are being ordered which then go missing, agents are disappearing on fake assignments, equipment is being appropriated, then disappears."

"Someone is stockpiling," Jaddo muttered.

Brivari nodded. "Exactly. And it works because the supervisors turn a blind eye. Someone is stockpiling not only supplies, but converts, in high enough places that this is allowed to continue. The few who notice and ask questions are politely misled."

"Isn't anyone suspicious?" Dee asked.

Brivari and Jaddo exchanged glances. "That would be Agent Stevens," Brivari said, "and the agents he sent to Roswell. They all went missing, which is what tipped us off. But they're not all missing anymore; Stevens and two of the agents he sent here are dead. Kathleen Topolsky is the only one still unaccounted for."

"Dead?" Dee echoed incredulously. "Someone killed them?"

"They didn't just kill Stevens," Brivari said. "It was made to look like a gang execution. His body was found in pieces. Several of them."

"Good God," Dee said despairingly. "That's downright sadistic."

"And familiar," Jaddo said. "Are you going where I think you're going?"

The tension in the booth had soared, and Dee looked back and forth from one Warder to another in confusion as Brivari hesitated and Jaddo stared at him intently. "Your source was correct," Brivari said finally. "Pierce did have a wife who was pregnant when we executed him. His son was raised by...Bernard Lewis."

Jaddo abruptly rose from his seat just as the salt and pepper shakers began to rattle, followed by the building shaking enough to cause startled looks from customers and staff alike. It didn't stop until he'd stalked out, not bothering to silence the wildly ringing bell.

"Wow!" Mr. Parker called to his wide-eyed patrons, having appeared from the back. "Don't get ones like that very often, do we?"

Much chuckling ensued about New Mexico's experience with earthquakes as Dee eyed Brivari with alarm, well aware that had been no earthquake. "What on earth was that about?" she whispered.

"Daniel Pierce," Brivari explained. "one of Jaddo's captors. He had a son we were unaware of, born just after Pierce's execution and raised by Major Bernard Lewis, the one who wanted to perform a 'living autopsy' on Jaddo because our bodies have the unfortunate habit of turning to dust following our death."

Memories of Urza's treatment at the hands of the military flooded back as Dee pushed her plate away, the smell now making her nauseous. "A psychopath and an animal," she muttered. "Talk about unfortunate parentage. But what does this have to do with the current problem?"

"Jaddo has long suspected that Pierce had a son, and that son is the most likely leader of this 'shadow Unit'," Brivari answered.

"But...so what?" Dee said. "What matters is that it exists, not who's heading it, right? Even if someone else were heading it, it would still be there and still be a threat, right?"

"A point I've already made," Brivari said. "But what really matters is that now this is personal. And we all know what happens when it gets personal for Jaddo."

"Wonderful," Dee sighed. "But it's still speculation. Any way of confirming it? What about Topolsky? You said she was still missing. Can you find her? Any idea where she is?"

Brivari shook his head. "None."




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




Stevens residence,

Santa Fe, New Mexico





"Okay, what was that again?" Miriam Stevens asked, one hand to her forehead. "A 'W-9'? So I need to fill that out and attach the death certificate, and...what? No, I have no idea if he filed Schedule C. I don't even know what that is."

The accountant's voice droned on, and Miriam closed her eyes in despair. As if it wasn't bad enough to suddenly lose her husband, she now had to handle all the myriad details he always had, like taxes, due next month and Greek to her. How was she supposed to handle all this? She couldn't do it. She just couldn't.

"Look, I'm sorry I can't be more helpful," she said in a brittle voice that was close to tears, but I..." She stopped as a knock sounded on the door. "I have to go. I'll call you back."

Miriam hung up quickly before the accountant could protest. It was probably just another flower delivery, but anything would be better right now than trying to think. Accepting a flower arrangement was about the most she could handle at the moment.

But the young woman who stood on her doorstep wasn't holding flowers. "Hi," she said uncertainly. "Is this the home of John Stevens?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Miriam said irritably, "why don't they just tell everyone? What's the big secret? My husband is—"

"Dead," the young woman finished softly. "Yes, I know. May I...come in?"

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


I'll post Chapter 92 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER NINETY-TWO



April 10, 2000, 10 a.m.

Stevens residence, Santa Fe




"Take your coat off and make yourself at home while I get us some coffee," Mrs. Stevens urged. "Do you take cream or sugar?"

"Neither, thank you," Kathleen Topolsky replied, shrugging off her coat as Agent Stevens' widow, a petite, dark-haired woman who looked like she hadn't slept well disappeared into the kitchen. The little living room was cluttered, every flat surface hidden by piles of papers, as was the table in the nearby dining room. The fireplace mantle was covered with photographs, and she lingered in front of them, noting the progression of a young couple from their wedding to their 25th anniversary, and two boys and a girl from toddlers to adults. Not long ago she would have burst into tears at the sight of these pictures. Now she just felt numb, numb and...exposed. Along with her coat, she'd stripped off her scarf and sunglasses, and it was startling how naked she felt in the morning sun streaming through the front window, how much better she felt when she'd closed the curtains. It only felt safe in the dark.

"Here we are," Mrs. Stevens said, emerging from the kitchen and pushing aside stacks of papers to set a steaming mug of coffee on the crowded table in front of the sofa. "Are you sure you don't want...my goodness," she finished uncertainly, looking around. "It's so dark in here."

"Sorry," Topolsky said, gesturing toward her eyes. "I...just had an eye exam. The light hurts."

"Oh, I hate those drops," Mrs. Stevens said. "They tell you it wears off in a couple of hours, but it was always several for me. I'm surprised you could get an appointment this early, Miss...I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Agent Topolsky. I used to work for Agent Stevens."

"Miriam Stevens," Mrs. Stevens smiled. "Nice to meet you, agent. I apologize for the way I answered the door. For some reason the Bureau hasn't told everyone what happened, and every time I get a call or an e-mail and have to explain...well..." She stopped, closing her eyes briefly. "It's like losing him all over again," she finished in a brittle voice. "Over and over."

"That must be awful for you," Topolsky said gently.

"It is," Mrs. Stevens agreed. "I...I'm sorry. I still find that I just...I just..."

"Cry at the drop of a hat?" Topolsky finished. "I know," she went on. "I did the same thing after my father died. Something would remind me of him, and I couldn't stop it. And that was my father. I can't imagine what it must be like with a husband."

"It's...overwhelming," Mrs. Stevens admitted, glancing at the piles of papers nearby. "I took care of the bills, but John took care of the taxes, the investments, the house, the yard, the cars. I'm trying to sort it all out, but it's a steep learning curve."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Stevens," Topolsky said. "Your husband, he...he saved me. There's no other way to put it."

Mrs. Stevens leaned forward, studying her closely. "Were you working on the same case that John was?"

"Not...exactly," Topolsky lied. "I just meant that...he was a good boss. Supportive, you know. That's important when you're a woman in a man's world like the Bureau."

Mrs. Stevens' face fell. "I was hoping you could tell me something," she said, disappointed. "They won't tell me anything, the Bureau. He'd was missing for three weeks, and they wouldn't tell me a blessed thing. They just told me when he was dead. Guess I should be grateful they bothered."

The tone was bitter, and Topolsky kept her eyes on her coffee cup. The Bureau had known Stevens was in trouble, of course. Pierce had seen to that.

"What I can't understand is how John got involved with gangs," Mrs. Stevens went on. "He was a supervisor, for heaven's sake. He had a desk job." She paused, smiling faintly. "I remember how worried I was when we first married, how scared I was that the day would come when he wouldn't come home. He was a field agent when our kids were young, and then he moved up the chain, and I was so relieved. I thought I didn't need to worry any more. What was he doing out chasing drug cartels?"

"Is that what they told you?" Topolsky asked.

"Something about the way he died being the signature move of a particular cartel the Bureau was after, like a branch of the Mafia or something," Mrs. Stevens said. "I gather they..." She stopped, the color draining from her face. "I gather they leave a very recognizable calling card, a...a..."

"Finger," Topolsky finished for her.

Mrs. Stevens stared at her. "How did you know it was his finger?"

"I...heard some rumors," Topolsky answered quickly. "The...cartel in question always starts with the index finger."

"So you do know something!" Mrs. Stevens exclaimed eagerly. "Can you tell me anything, agent? Anything at all? Even if it's..." She paused, one hand to her mouth. "Even if it's horrible," she finished in a shaky voice. "I never thought I'd say this, but not knowing is more horrible than knowing. Even knowing...that."

Don't count on it, Topolsky thought, overcome with guilt as Stevens' widow fought back a fresh round of tears. Agent Stevens had been captured because of her, because of the call she'd placed in her own desperate effort to run from Pierce. The phone she'd used in Pierce's rural mansion hadn't been bugged, but Agent Stevens' phone had been, and when he'd come looking for her, Pierce had been ready. Turns out Stevens had reached the psych floor at Bethesda only hours after she had, and when he wouldn't cooperate, Pierce had made his point at the end of a scalpel—literally. She knew the first finger to go had been his index finger because she'd been there when Pierce had amputated it. It sounded like Mrs. Stevens didn't know about the rest of the body parts which had made their way to FBI headquarters. Probably best if she didn't.

"Please," Mrs. Stevens begged when she didn't say anything, "anything you could tell me would be a Godsend. I promise I won't tell anyone I spoke with you. I won't get you in trouble."

You couldn't possibly get me in any more trouble than I'm in already, Topolsky thought heavily, torn between wanting to help a grieving widow and not wanting to say anything that would inflame her further. Stevens' family had already been dealt a huge blow; to infer that the Bureau was somehow responsible would only make things worse. But something didn't add up, hadn't added up for the last month as she'd watched in horror as Pierce mutilated her boss piece by piece, keeping him alive as long as he could even though that boss ordered her over and over to give Pierce nothing. Pierce had wanted something from Stevens, something he couldn't get any other way, not even from her, whom he'd been content to drug and plop in front of Stevens' "interrogations" in an effort to scare her into cooperating. And he might very well have succeeded had Stevens not finally succumbed just as she'd managed to line up all the pieces necessary for her escape, his death making the case that she needed to go and go now before she faced a similar fate.

"Mrs. Stevens," Topolsky said carefully, both hands working in front of her, "I'm...looking into the circumstances surrounding your husband's death. I desperately want to catch these people. I can't tell you how much I want to catch these people. I give you my word that I will devote the rest of my life to bringing them down if that's what it takes. But I need your help."

"Anything," Mrs. Stevens said immediately. "Name it."

"The last night you saw your husband," Topolsky said, "he received a phone call from an agent."

"Yes, on the home line," Mrs. Stevens nodded. "That was very unusual. He was very protective of our home number, rarely gave it out."

"And then what?" Topolsky asked, working hard to keep the urgency out of her voice. "What happened after that?"

Mrs. Stevens stared into her empty coffee cup for a moment. "I knew something was wrong," she said after a moment. "I could always tell, you know. When you're married to someone that long, it almost becomes a reflex. But he wouldn't say what it was; he never could, of course. But I knew it was big, especially when he called Pamela."

"His assistant?" Topolsky said in surprise. "He called Pam?"

"Yes. He told her she needed to go back to the office right away. She was on her way home, and he told her to turn around, to get off the interstate and go back to the office. He didn't say why."

He didn't need to, Topolsky thought. Given Stevens' concern about her "new job", he likely had an exit strategy planned with Pam. Pierce would have raided Stevens' office after his capture, but Stevens had seen to it that there had been nothing to find. "And then what?"

"He told Pam he wouldn't be in the office the next day because he had 'something to mop up'," Mrs. Stevens went on. "Said he'd be 'silent' for a few hours. I didn't know what that means. Do you know what that means?"

It means he went in alone, Topolsky thought sadly, with no back up, no trail, no way to follow him. She'd suspected as much, but she'd never been able to figure out why. Had it been a desire to spare the Bureau embarrassment? A feeling of personal responsibility? Whatever it had been, it had cost him his life.

"I'm not sure," Topolsky answered. "What did the Bureau think it meant?"

"The people who talked to me didn't seem to know what was going on," Mrs. Stevens said in disgust. "Those who would talk to me, that is. Most of them wouldn't, but those who did seemed every bit as lost as I was."

Because they are, Topolsky thought. The Bureau likely had no idea why Stevens did what he did, and Pierce had indeed copied the barbaric actions of a known drug cartel the Bureau was currently chasing. Anyone looking at this would be spending all their time trying to connect Stevens to the cartel, completely bypassing the real culprit. Which was, of course, the point.

"So what happened after he called Pam?" Topolsky asked.

"He spent a few minutes changing clothes, and then...he left," Mrs. Stevens whispered. "I asked him where he was going, but he wouldn't tell me. He made it sound like it was no big deal by saying he'd be home the next day, but I knew better; after he left I found out he took two of his guns. Not just one, but two." She paused, swiped a hand under one eye. "Find them, agent. Find the animals who killed my husband. I'm not even looking for the details any more. I just want them to pay."

"So do I, Mrs. Stevens," Topolsky assured her. "You have no idea how much I want that." She rose from the sofa. "I appreciate the coffee. And the candor. You've cleared up some things I didn't understand."

"Maybe Pam could help too?" Mrs. Stevens suggested. "I'm not quite sure where she is—"

"No," Topolsky said quickly. "I mean, that's not necessary. Pam already gave her statements, but nobody seemed to have talked to you. I wanted to know what you'd seen."

"Well," Mrs. Stevens said, looking pleased, "that's refreshing. The Bureau seems to have spent most of its time avoiding me."

Topolsky reached over, took one of Mrs. Stevens' hands in her own. "You have my deepest sympathy for your loss, Mrs. Stevens. I'll do my best to put things right."

Mrs. Stevens' eyes brimmed with tears. "Thank you. If you need me for anything else, you can reach me at our home in Alexandria. I'm done with this place. Too many memories."

Emerging into a rainy gray day, Topolsky pulled up her hood and headed for her rental car. She'd love to talk to Pam, but doing so was problematic. Given Pierce's low opinion of women, it was doubtful he'd considered that Pam might have had a hand in thwarting him, but visiting Stevens' admin might put that thought in his head, whereas visiting Stevens' wife would not. Assuming Pierce knew where she was, that is. She'd seen no sign of Pierce in the previous week she'd spent hopscotching across the country, trying to throw him off her trail...and that was puzzling. She'd covered her tracks well, but Pierce was smart; that would only slow him down, not stop him indefinitely. If she really had managed to stymie him, that wouldn't last forever. She started the car, glanced in the rear view mirror...and froze.

A dark car was parked down the street, and as she watched, it began to move. It slid toward her at a leisurely pace, behind her, then past her, slowing as it passed, it's tinted windows obscuring the occupants. Topolsky broke into a cold sweat, watching until it was out of sight, her hands shaking. What the hell was that? Was that Pierce, or one of his minions?

Breathe! she ordered herself, finding it difficult to do so. If that had been Pierce, he wouldn't have merely driven by. It took a good five minutes for her to calm down enough to drive, and when she did, she drove with a such a vengeance that she had to remind herself to slow down, that getting a ticket would be a disaster. It was a hard lesson to keep in mind because this had always been a race against the clock. She couldn't go to anyone about Pierce or approach the Bureau in any way; his tendrils now reached so deep that one of his spies would intercept any message long before it reached its target. Even some of the Director's staff had been compromised. No, the only hope would be from someone bigger than the Bureau, someone with technology and power greater than Pierce's. The sooner she reached them, the better.




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



Saucer Motel,

Roswell





"Did you get the Mallomars?" Pierce asked, his eyes on his magazine when Brian entered the room. "I'm starving."

"Yeah, I got'em," Brian said in disgust, dropping the candies on the hunk of wood which passed for a table. "Seriously, Danny, I think this is a mistake."

"Nonsense," Pierce said, flipping a page in his latest copy of Penthouse. "My cholesterol isn't anywhere near 200."

"Not the candy bars, the stakeout!" Brian retorted. "You shouldn't be here. If someone spots you in Roswell—"

"Then what?" Pierce interrupted. "Stevens isn't exactly in any position to oppose me, report me, or do anything to me; that's what happens when you wind up face down in the ground. And who else would know? The Bureau isn't here, and even if they were, one of ours would stop any report on the way up the food chain before they could reach me."

"Then can we at least get a real motel?" Brian grumbled, shying away from a stain on the bedspread. "Does hiding out mean we have to hide in the most flea-bitten place in town?"

"This is where Hubble was staying when he was so unceremoniously gunned down," Pierce said. "I asked for his room."

Brian stared at him. "Okay, that's...creepy. Even for you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Pierce chuckled. "Relax, Brian, he didn't die here."

"But why would you want to stay in the same room?"

Pierce shrugged. "Maybe I'm trying to channel my 'inner Everett'."

"That's a disturbing thought if ever there was one," Brian muttered. "And besides, you hated that guy."

" 'Hated'?" Pierce said. "That's harsh. I only 'hate' aliens. And their allies, of course. Everett could be a pain in the ass, but he and I had that in common, along with one other thing—we were both one of a kind."

"Past tense," Brian said dryly. "Makes sense for Hubble, but what about you? Does this mean you're not 'one of a kind' any more?"

"Very funny," Pierce said. "Toss me a Mallomar."

Brian sighed as he sent a candy bar sailing through the air, which Pierce caught one-handed. "How long are we going to sit here and cool our heels? It's been almost a week."

"She'll be here," Pierce said. "Give her time."

"I'm still not clear on why you think she's headed here," Brian said, "or why we haven't lifted a finger to find her all week. What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not," Pierce said. "What she took from Evidence can only be used here."

"Here?" Brian repeated. "What she took from Evidence can only be used in Roswell? What, did she steal the key to the ship?"

"The ship is in Utah," Pierce answered. "Don't believe they ever found the key; I gather it was quite the scandal when the compound at Eagle Rock broke up. No, Topolsky took a communicator."

Brian's eyes widened. "A communicator? An alien communicator?"

"No, a Russian communicator," Pierce deadpanned. "Of course an alien communicator. Try to keep up."

"But what would she want that for?" Brian asked, bewildered. "She risked recapture to take something we've never gotten to work? Does that mean she knows how to work it?"

"It might," Pierce said thoughtfully. "There are several possibilities, but we do know one thing: They only work in pairs. We learned that from the alien prisoner back in the '40's."

"And...we believe the alien prisoner?"

"Put it this way—we never got the one we found to work, and we never found another one," Pierce replied. "They even left the communicator in the alien's cell, and it never touched it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that lent credence to its claims," Pierce said. "Why would it have passed up a chance to use it? Wouldn't it have called home, or called for help, or something? If it needed two, one would have been useless."

"Seems weird it'd need two," Brian said doubtfully. "I mean, one on each end, sure, but two in one place? Why would a technologically advanced race do something stupid like that?"

"Same reason they'd do 'something stupid' like try to invade our planet," Pierce said. "Who knows? Who cares? The point is that if it's true, she'll need another one, and what better place to find that than here?"

"But why?" Brian persisted. "Who would..." He stopped, staring off into space. "She's trying to contact the aliens, isn't she?"

"Ten points to Agent Samuels," Pierce said dryly. "Our lovely Agent Topolsky has apparently decided to do a Ramey. As in General Ramey, commander of the Eagle Rock compound during my father's tenure. The feeling at the time was that he was working with the aliens and that's how we lost the prisoner."

"Jesus," Brian muttered. "Traitor."

"Exactly. And so, it seems, is Topolsky."

"I wonder what they offered," Brian said. "I don't suppose alien governments deal in greenbacks."

Pierce shrugged. "Power? A position in their own culture? Whatever they offered, I'm sure it was a lie. In some ways, I'd like to just leave Topolsky to her fate."

"So what was Ramey's fate? What happened to him?"

Pierce dropped his eyes. "He served in Korea."

"And got killed?"

"No. Came home more decorated than when he left."

"And then he died?"

"No. He lived well into his eighties and retirement."

"So...no repercussions from being a traitor?"

"None we could see," Pierce said crossly. "Your point?"

"I'm just trying to find the downside," Brian said. "Seems like for Ramey there wasn't one. And if I noticed that, Topolsky might have noticed it too."

"Yes, because she's so wise and intuitive and all those other nice things you're always saying about her," Pierce said sarcastically. "Honestly, Brian, I'd think you were sweet on her if I didn't know better."

"She slipped past you, Danny."

Pierce's expression darkened. "Once. A lucky break. It won't happen again."

Brian raised an eyebrow. "Hasn't it already? You don't know where she is, do you? You think you know where she's going, but as each day passes without her here, it's looking less and less likely that you're right."

Pierce's eyes flashed, and he'd opened his mouth to retort when his phone rang. "Hold that thought," he ordered, answering it. A moment later, his face broke into a wide smile. "Excellent! Right on schedule. Where did you say this was? Really? An odd place to visit. Did she see you?" Pause. "Good. It was very important that she see you. Keep in touch."

Pierce hung up, grinning. "Oh ye of little faith!" he crowed. "Topolsky was spotted leaving Miriam Stevens' house in Santa Fe."

"Agent Stevens' wife?" Brian said. "What would she go there for?"

"No idea," Pierce said cheerfully. "Guess she's more sentimental than we thought. Probably feels guilty, or some other such rot. Whatever, she's headed down 285 South in a green Camry. And oh, by the way...I was right. You were saying?"

Brian held up both hands in supplication. "You were right. But I still don't get why it took her so long."

"God, but you fret over the stupidest things," Pierce said, climbing briskly off the bed. "She's here, or will be very soon, and we'll need to watch her carefully, where she goes, who she talks to. With a little luck, she'll lead us right to the people she wouldn't tell us about. Like my stepfather used to say, just hand them the noose and let them hang themselves. Saves all kinds of time."

"Why did you tell the tail that it was important for her to see him?" Brian asked, grabbing his coat.

"For effect," Pierce answered. "I've left her completely alone this past week, let her get complacent, lulled her into a false sense of security. Now she sees a tail so close to her goal, she'll wonder if she just missed us or if I somehow knew where she was going. She'll start to doubt herself. Most importantly, she'll get rattled. Rattled people make mistakes. I intend to rattle her until she's shaking so hard, she can't stand up. Head games, Brian," Pierce said, tapping his temple. "The military runs around with guns and bombs, but so much can be achieved without ever firing a single shot. Remember that." He held up the car keys, rattled them. "Shall we?"




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




Crashdown Cafe




"Maria, would you mind?" Liz asked.

"Go ahead," Maria sighed, a sound so full of despair that it almost made Liz feel guilty.

"Thank you," Liz smiled.

"Live the life I so desperately want," Maria added despondently as Liz walked away.

Okay, it does make me feel guilty, Liz amended, walking past the indignant Isabel to where Max was waiting for her, wrapping her arms around him. She knew Maria was miserable watching her and Max together, but she just couldn't help herself; she'd waited too long for this, through too many obstacles, from FBI agents to Indian sweats to murderous convention goers to their own misgivings and fears for the future. And our parents, she added, pulling Max up short when she spied her mom just outside the cafe's side door as they headed for the jeep, putting a finger to her lips.

"They'll find out you're gone," Max whispered as they scooted past the moment her mother went back inside.

"But it's a light night tonight, and Maria's covering for me," Liz said. "I cover for her, she covers for me. It's always worked that way, so why not now?"

"Sure you don't want to change?" Max asked when they reached the jeep.

"No way," Liz answered. "They'll give me the third degree for sure."

"We're just going to a movie," Max said.

"Try telling them that," Liz said dryly.

"So you are worried," Max teased.

Liz leaned over, pulled him toward her, planting a kiss on his lips. "Just drive," she whispered.

"Yes, ma'am," Max smiled.

The jeep pulled out, and Liz breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was worried about what her parents reaction would be, worried enough that she had her phone on and planned to answer it should they call. But it had been a month, for heaven's sake, with her and Max scrupulously behaving themselves, or at least appearing to. Surely they'd earned a movie. Surely her parents couldn't object to a simple movie.

"You cold?" Max asked when she shivered. "I've got a shirt in the back."

Liz reached back, pulled the dark, heavy shirt on, grateful for the warmth. Polyester uniforms weren't noted for offering much protection from the elements. Then again, this gave them an excellent excuse to snuggle, and between the shirt, Max's arm, and the blasting heater, she was snug as could be when they pulled over across from the movie theater.

"Looks dead," Max said.

"Maybe it's closed?" Liz said hopefully.

"It's a Monday night," Max noted. "Not exactly a busy movie night."

"We might be all alone in there," Liz said, trying to sound nonchalant instead of eager.

"Yeah," Max said, gazing into her eyes. "We might have the theater all to ourselves."

The thought of a dark, empty room all to themselves was enough to prod Liz out of the warm jeep. Then she saw the couple who reached the box office just ahead of them, hanging on each others' arms and buying tickets for the same movie, one they obviously had no plans to watch.

"Next!" the clerk called.

Liz and Max exchanged glances. "You know, I heard this got bad reviews," Liz said suddenly.

"Really?" Max said. "Then it would be a waste of money to see it."

"Yeah," Liz agreed. "But that leaves us with a couple of hours and nothing to do."

"Don't worry," Max advised with a sly smile. "I can think of something."




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



285 South




Brian checked his watch, glanced out the window. "Hmm. Suppose she took a different route?"

Beside him Pierce grunted, managing to make even a grunt sound petulant and annoyed. Danny was brilliant, to be sure, but sometimes that made him miss things. Sometimes he seemed to think that anyone who wasn't as brilliant as he was, which would be pretty much everyone, was just the opposite, as in drop dead stupid. Sometimes he missed the fact that there was a whole spectrum of intelligence, and his being on one end of it didn't mean that spectrum didn't exist. Sometimes he was so focused on one thing that he didn't notice other, equally important things, or so determined to get what he wanted that he refused to even consider the possibility of defeat, a mistake, that, as considering it could lead one to take steps to avoid it. A mistake he was making now.

"Where the hell is she?" Pierce demanded angrily.

"No idea," Brian admitted. "Why don't you call her tail?"

"Why? He would have called if anything had changed."

"Maybe not," Brian said. "You're pretty intimidating."

Pierce stared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said," Brian answered. "People are scared of you."

"They damned well better be," Pierce muttered.

"Which I know is what you're going for," Brian continued, ignoring him. "But the price of that is that they may not keep you as well informed as you'd like because they're afraid you're going to eat them alive."

"Jesus, I don't believe this," Pierce declared. "So why would calling them work? If I've got everyone crapping their pants, why bother asking?"

Brian held out his hand. "Give me the number. I'll call him."

"Oh, so they'll tell you?" Pierce demanded.

"Do you want to know where she is, or not?"

Muttering expletives under his breath, Pierce slapped his cell into Brian's hand, and Brian punched the number into his own phone. "Agent Pierce would like an update," he announced to the cautious voice which answered.

"Well?" Pierce pressed when he hung up.

"He lost her," Brian said.

"He what?"

"Lost her," Brian repeated. "He followed her into an outlet mall, and she dodged him. Left the green Camry behind and presumably took off in another car."

Pierce stared at him in disbelief for a moment before pounding his fist on the dashboard. "Shit! Do you mean she could have whizzed right past us with us none the wiser? Shit!"

"She's an FBI agent, Danny," Brian said. "Don't forget that. She was trained to be a tail and to lose one."

"Shut up and take us back to town," Pierce snapped. "And get some more people down here. We're going to need them."




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




Buckley Point




Max Evans came up for air, cold air, to be sure, but he didn't care. How wonderful, how blissfully wonderful to have absolutely nothing else on his mind but the girl in his arms. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been so completely focused on something happy without dark thoughts wandering around his head demanding attention, lurking in the background. To feel safe, even if only relatively, was a rare gift. To have nothing more to worry about then getting enough oxygen was nothing short of heaven.

"What's wrong?" Liz asked.

"Absolutely nothing," Max said.

"Do you mind missing the movie?" she whispered.

"I heard it got bad reviews," Max answered with a perfectly straight face before diving back in.

A minute later, a hand rocked the jeep sideways, and that newfound feeling of safety evaporated.

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


I'll post Chapter 93 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!




CHAPTER NINETY-THREE



April 10, 2000, 8:30 p.m.

Roswell





"Max, slow down," Liz said fearfully as he took a corner at top speed. "Slow down. You're scaring me!"

Reluctantly Max eased his foot off the accelerator, slowing the jeep slightly, enough so that Liz started breathing again as they sped toward town. That was the best he could do given that his heart was pounding, his adrenaline was pumping, and his fragile little bubble of peace had popped loudly enough to be heard on his home planet, wherever that was. Of all the people he may have expected to see at Buckley Point, Kathleen Topolsky wasn't one of them. Hell, of all the people he would never have expected to see at Buckley Point, Kathleen Topolsky wasn't one of them either, so to have her appear out of nowhere, looming out of the darkness like a wraith, was every bit as startling as her message. You're in danger, all of you, an odd announcement from a former source of danger. Don't trust anyone. A good axiom, that, and one he usually followed, but did that not include not trusting the crazy woman banging on his window?

"Isabel's gonna kill me," Max muttered.

"Why?" Liz asked, one hand braced against the dashboard as Max cornered another turn a bit too sharply. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"No, just reassure her time and again that Topolsky's gone. That they haven't sent anyone else. That we're safe."

"Max, we don't know anything for sure," Liz argued. "Are we even sure that was Topolsky?"

"Sure sounded like her."

"Yeah, I know, but it was dark, and we were...busy, and...and, you know, it might not have—"

"Liz, do you think it was Topolsky?" Max interrupted.

Liz's mouth opened, closed. "Um...yeah."

"So do I," Max agreed. "And this was—is—Isabel's worst nightmare, that Topolsky or the FBI would come back."

Liz shook her head. "They wouldn't send Topolsky. The way she just picked up and left when we figured out who she was, that means they'd want someone we don't know, and we know her."

"Which means they'll send someone we don't know," Max said grimly, "someone we'd never suspect. Which is exactly what Isabel was afraid of. Like I said, she's gonna kill me."

"I still don't see how this is your fault," Liz objected. "How is this your fault? I mean, you...you didn't..."

She stopped, no doubt having arrived at the same conclusion he had; if he hadn't healed her, none of this would have happened. "I don't regret it," he said softly, reaching for her hand. "Not for a minute. For all we know, they would have found us anyway some other way."

She nodded mutely, put her hand over his. "You'd better slow down some more, or you'll get a ticket."

"She said to 'act like normal kids'," Max noted. "Driving fast would be normal."

"I'm pretty sure that's not what she meant."

"So now we're taking advice from the not-Topolsky banging on the window?"

"No, we're avoiding the not-falling-for-it sheriff who'll give you the ticket," Liz corrected.

Max was quiet for a moment. "I was really enjoying the not-movie," he said finally.

"Yeah," Liz said softly. "So was I."

They drove on in silence, hands clasped, Max having slowed further now that he had only one hand on the wheel and they'd reached the outskirts of town. He hadn't been exaggerating; Isabel would have a field day with this one. She'd been looking over her shoulder for months now, and the bogeyman had finally arrived. But I have someone to lean on, he thought, glancing at Liz. So did Michael, even though he'd resent any suggestion that he needed to lean on anyone. But Isabel didn't have a Liz or a Maria, although it was clear to anyone with working eyeballs that Alex would gladly fill that role if she'd let him.

Liz squeezed his hand as they turned a corner and the Crashdown's wildly blinking sign came into view. "Remember, we don't know anything for sure yet. For all we know, this is just the FBI's next attempt to scare us."

Max turned off the jeep, pulled out the key. "Then I'd say it worked."

Liz stared at him a moment before looking away. "Let's go in."

"What if your parents see us?"

"What if they do?" Liz said, climbing out. "Right now, I don't care."

But Liz's parents weren't in the diner when they went inside, the gaily tingling bell contrasting sharply with their nerves. No one was in the diner save for a couple in a back booth who were doing more necking than eating, and a single individual at the counter who turned around when he heard the bell.

"The prodigals return," Alex said.

"Where is everybody?" Liz said. "It wasn't this empty when I left."

"Is now," Alex noted, rather unnecessarily.

"Where's Maria?" Liz asked, pushing open the kitchen door. "Wait...where's Michael?"

"Gone," Alex said.

"Then who's cooking?"

Alex shrugged. "No one. And since there's no one to cook for, that kind of works out."

"Alex, what happened?" Max demanded, fearful that the FBI had beaten them back to town. "Who did this?"

" 'Did this'?" Alex repeated. "Well, it started with Liz taking off early to go with you to a movie. Which must have been a short movie," he added, glancing at his watch. "What was it, a cartoon?"

"It got bad reviews," Liz said impatiently. "Where's Maria?"

"Michael and Maria decided to 'close early', which I'm guessing is another euphemism for 'go to a movie'," Alex continued as Liz flushed scarlet. "Which left one grumpy waitress to take care of everyone already eating and cash them out."

"Agnes," Liz sighed. "She's probably out taking her break even though there's no one else here."

"Probably," Alex agreed. "But we're all that's left, so you can hardly blame her."

"I left Isabel here," Max said. "Where is she?"

"Yes, Max. you did leave Isabel here," Alex agreed. "She was quite vocal about that."

"Well, where'd she go?" Max demanded.

"I heard her asking someone for a ride home," Alex answered.

"Where are my parents?" Liz wondered, glancing up the stairs. "I can't believe they didn't notice."

"Never mind that," Max said. "We have to find Isabel before Topolsky does."

Alex blinked. "Wait...who? Find her before who does?"

Liz and Max exchanged glances. "Come with us, Alex," Liz said. "This concerns you too."




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




Evans residence




"I suppose we could allow them to see each other a little bit," Diane said uncertainly. "You know, maybe just on Fridays and Saturdays. Not school nights. And not too late. Something like that."

"We should start slow," Philip added, "and build up as they rebuild our trust. What do you think, Mom?"

Dee glanced at Anthony, who gave her one of his patented try-not-to-set-the-house-on-fire looks. "I think you're probably late to the party," she answered. "Don't they already see each other every day at school?"

"Well, yes," Diane allowed.

"And after school?"

Diane shot a startled look at Philip, who shrugged. "Don't tell me you think they're not seeing each other after school," Dee said incredulously. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: If Max and Liz want to see other, they will find a way with or without your approval. If you want to stay in the loop, make certain it's 'with'."

"Which is why we're setting ground rules," Philip said. "How about if we..."

Annoyed, Dee tuned out the rest of it. Drop it, her husband's expression warned, and she had to agree that was best. Philip and Diane continued to fret over Max's nocturnal adventure last month, and she was growing tired of it. Granted, she knew details they didn't; things looked much different when you factored in alien healings and chirping communicators. But their continuing to fret even though there had been no more noisy groping in closets or desert sleepovers seemed like overkill to her as the threat of the FBI loomed over them like a cloud. Brivari's report this morning had not been encouraging, nor was the lack of evidence of the Bureau's presence in town reassuring. She'd spent the day scrutinizing everyone she saw everywhere she went because virtually anyone could be an undercover agent. It was a return to the old paranoia, all the more so because a Pierce was possibly back in the picture. She remembered that name. It had been a Pierce who had impregnated Yvonne White with a half alien fetus which would have killed her had an alien not agreed to end the pregnancy. Dee shuddered involuntarily at the memory of her mother and Yvonne in her old bedroom, of how Brivari had shown up after months of banishment at her mother's hand and been allowed back inside their house to save Yvonne's life. That had not been her first lesson in how inhumane humans could be, but it was definitely one of the most memorable.

"Mom?"

"What?" Dee said, startling back to the present.

"You're pale," Diane said. "Are you all right?"

"Of course," Dee said, brushing aside their concern with a wave of her hand. "I was just...remembering something."

"Not something nice, from the looks of it," Philip noted.

"No," Dee agreed. "Probably one of the worst memories I have."

"What made you think of something like that now?" Philip wondered.

"Hush, sweetheart," Diane whispered, giving her a pitying look. "Your mother is..."

The sentence hung in the air, Diane having apparently thought better of finishing it. What had she been about to say? Old? Senile? Off her rocker? Dee felt a flash of anger and a sudden sympathy for her mother, who endured looks like that all the time. No wonder her mother was so grumpy.

A door slammed. Heads turned, and a moment later, Isabel appeared in the living room looking none too pleased.

"Hi, honey," Diane said. "I didn't expect you home so early."

"Yeah, you and me both," Isabel said tartly.

"Where's Max?" Philip asked.

"Not here," Isabel answered.

"But...didn't the two of you leave together?" Philip said.

"Yes, Dad, we did."

"So...where is he?" Philip pressed.

"Ask him," Isabel said with an edge to her voice.

Philip and Diane exchanged glances. "I can't ask him," Philip said patiently. "He's not here. You are, so I'm asking you—where's Max?"

"What am I, a Max-wrangler now?" Isabel said irritably. "When did that happen? Because I missed that family meeting."

Oh, dear, Dee thought wearily. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where Max was, and Isabel was working up a good head of steam.

"Sweetheart, I just asked you where he was," Philip said reasonably. "Is that such a terrible question?"

"You want to know where he is?" Isabel demanded. "Fine. He's with Liz."

"What?" Diane said in alarm. "They can't be! They wouldn't!" Not after—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Mom, get real!" Isabel snapped. "They're necking all over school, all over town, even. Have been for weeks."

Diane shook her head vigorously. "No. The principal would have called us, or one of the teachers."

"Yeah, well, the principal and the teachers seem to be the only ones who don't know," Isabel said sourly. "And you and Dad, of course."

"Okay, let's just leave the subject of who knows what for the moment and focus on the important part," Philip said as Diane blanched. "Do you know where they are?"

"No, and why should I?" Isabel huffed.

"Well, did they say anything about where they were going?" Philip asked, shushing Diane.

Isabel folded her arms in front of herself. "They 'said' to a movie."

"Which movie?" Diane pressed.

"Who cares?" Isabel exclaimed, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "We went to the Crashdown together, and he ditched me and took off with Liz. And then Michael and Maria took off, and I couldn't even get anything to eat, and I had to get a friend to drive me home. You want Max? Go find him yourself."

Isabel stalked off toward her bedroom. Diane started to follow her, but Philip held her back. "Mom, you go," Philip urged. "She listens to you. Maybe you can get something out of her."

"Of course," Dee said, grateful for the escape.

She found Isabel flopped on her bed. "I know, I know," she sighed when Dee poked her head in the door. "Blowing them in was petty, and mean, and whatever else you want to call it."

"Pretty much," Dee agreed, taking a seat on the end of the bed. "But I can certainly see how being dumped wouldn't be any fun."

"They're just everywhere," Isabel complained. "It seems like everywhere I go, I see my brother sucking face, and it's just disgusting!"

"Mmm," Dee murmured.

"And then Maria's mooning over Michael," Isabel went on, "and Michael's trying to act like he's ignoring her because...well, because he's Michael. And sometimes it seems like..."

"Like you're the only one without someone?" Dee suggested.

Isabel stared at the ceiling for a moment in silence. "Yeah," she said finally. "That." She twisted her head around, looked at Dee. "Did Dad and Mom ever act like that?"

"I wouldn't know," Dee answered. "They met in college. And I was his mother, not his sister; sisters see far more than mothers ever will."

"What about you and Grandpa?" Isabel asked, propping herself up on one elbow. "Did you do that?"

"Grandpa and I were never crazy in love that way," Dee admitted. "We met very young and grew up together. Our relationship was more...pragmatic. Kind of had to be, with all the running and hiding and..." She stopped, noting the look of surprise on her granddaughter's face. "Let's just say we had some stressful times when we were younger," she amended. "And PDA's just aren't our style."

"I would never have thought they were Max's style," Isabel grumbled.

"Guess you don't know till you get there," Dee allowed.

"So are Mom and Dad going to go ballistic?" Isabel continued. "Put Max under house arrest, and call the Parkers, and all that?"

"I doubt it," Dee said. "They just got really worried when Max and Liz stayed out all night. We all did."

"That wasn't...what they thought," Isabel said. "They won't do it again."

"I know," Dee answered. "I mean, I'm sure they wouldn't do anything to upset your parents again," she clarified. "Or set off their teachers. Not after what happened the last time." She leaned in closer. "So," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "are they really necking all over school?"

"Oh, God, yes," Isabel groaned. "Everyone knows it but the grown-ups. They don't skip classes, and they think they're being so clever, but it's the worst kept secret at school."

"And no one's told on them?"

"I think everyone's secretly enjoying watching them do it right under the teachers' noses," Isabel admitted. "Or maybe not so secretly. I think..." She stopped, her ears pricking. "Wait...is that the jeep?" She climbed off the bed, looked out the window. "It's Max," she reported. "And Liz. And...Alex? Why is Alex with them?"

Why indeed? Dee wondered, following Isabel out to the living room just as Max came into the house. "Max!" Diane called. "You're back!"

Max glanced from his obviously agitated parents to his sister and grandmother, and back. "Yeah. So?"

"Well...we thought...we heard..."

"Isabel said you and Liz went to a movie," Philip finished when Diane became tongue-tied.

Max looked at Isabel, who looked at the floor. "Yeah, we did," he admitted. "But it got bad reviews. I need to talk to you," he said to Isabel. "My room."

Max gave Dee a cursory smile as he headed down the hallway, but she'd seen that look before; something was wrong. Isabel saw it too, trailing her brother with a concerned look on her face, unaware that her grandmother was trailing her.

"...so I'm sorry," Isabel was saying, her voice coming faintly as Dee lurked in the hallway. "I wasn't trying to get you in trouble, I was just...well, you ditched me, so—"

"Never mind that," Max broke in. "I need you to come with us."

"What's going on?" Isabel asked. "Alex is out there, and...what are you doing with that?"

"It's not safe to keep it here any more," Max answered. "We need to talk to Michael. Now."

"Max, you're scaring me," Isabel said, her voice strained. "What's wrong?"

"I'll tell you on the way," Max replied. "Let's go."

They left so quickly that Dee hadn't made it back to the living room when they hit the hallway, but if either thought it odd, they didn't show it, so preoccupied were they in rushing away. "Max, we need to talk to you," Diane began when Max and Isabel zipped past the living room.

"I'll be home later," Max said.

"But we—"

"Sorry, Mom, I have to go now," Max interrupted. "I'll be home later; we'll talk then."

Diane looked at Philip and Dee as the door closed behind their children. "That went well," she sighed.

"You were going to let them see each other again," Dee reminded her. "And it's not a school night."

"But I wanted to talk to him about it first," Diane complained. "Philip, go tell them to come back."

"Just leave it, Diane," Philip said. "He didn't do anything wrong. We can talk later."

Dee left them bickering and retired to the bathroom, where the number she dialed went to voicemail. "Never thought I'd say this," she muttered as she dialed a different number, "but maybe it's a good thing we have two Warders again."




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




Tumbleweed Inn




The phone rang, an unfamiliar, strangely muffled sound. Startled, Tess looked around the messy motel room which the Tumbleweed euphemistically referred to as a "suite" and finally located the phone buried beneath a pile of clothing. "Hello?"

"I'm calling for Ed Harding?" a doubtful voice said.

"Uh...he's not here now," Tess said, taking a second to recognize Nasedo's new alias. "Can I take a message?"

"Yeah, tell him this is Pete from ChemLawn. We're gonna seed the yard a week from tomorrow. That okay?"

"A week?" Tess repeated, grabbing a pencil. "I'm...sure it is. I'll tell him."

She set the phone down with a sigh, dropping it back into its cradle with a thunk. She'd moved dozens of times in her life, and it was always disorienting. New house, new name, new face for Nasedo, new school, new everything, and as if that wasn't bad enough, he was gone again; she'd come home to an empty motel room, and it was still empty. The last time she'd seen Nasedo had been this morning when they'd parted on less than stellar terms at school, and she was getting worried.

"Who was that?"

Tess nearly jumped a foot. "God, you scared me!" she admonished as Nasedo appeared behind her holding bags of groceries. "Where have you been?"

"Out," he said shortly. "I bought dinner."

"I've already eaten," Tess said sullenly.

"Oh. Well, maybe breakfast then," Nasedo said, setting the bags on the counter in the makeshift kitchen. "Who was on the phone?"

"ChemLawn. They're seeding the lawn a week from tomorrow."

"Good; right about the time the movers should be arriving. How was school?"

"It was school," Tess said. "Just like the millions of other schools I've been in."

Nasedo raised an eyebrow. " 'Millions'? They do teach you to count, don't they?"

"You know what I mean," Tess said crossly. "New teachers, new books, new schedule, blah, blah."

"That's nice," Nasedo said.

Tess stared at him. Nice? Did he have any idea how hard it was to change schools as often as she did? The only thing that made this particular move bearable was the fact that she would finally get to be with the Others. Which reminded her...

"I met one of them today."

That got his attention. Nasedo paused, a gallon of milk in his hand. "Who? Max?"

Don't I wish, Tess thought privately. She'd scoured the school for any sign of the boy who would be her husband, but hadn't been able to find him, caught up as she'd been with first-day minutiae. "Isabel," she corrected. "She was in my first period."

Nasedo's expression soured. "Oh. Her."

"Yes, 'her'," Tess said. "Why don't you like her?"

"I never said I didn't like her."

"You don't have to," Tess noted. "It's obvious."

"You're imagining things," Nasedo said. "She just wouldn't have been my first choice."

"That's not it, and you know it," Tess said stubbornly. "More to the point, I know it. What did she ever do to you?"

Nasedo slammed the refrigerator door shut. "I'd be up all night answering that one," he said darkly.

"Fine," Tess said. "I've got all night."

"No, you don't. You've got school tomorrow."

"And what have you got?" Tess demanded. "Are you ever going to tell me anything about what's going on here? You keep telling me to 'do my job' and help protect them, but then you don't tell me anything. How am I supposed to do my job if you don't tell me anything?"

This is pointless, Tess thought as Nasedo's eyes flashed. These arguments never went anywhere, and given how many they had, she would know. So she was nothing short of flabbergasted when, after staring at her hard for what seemed like forever, he gestured to the room's one table. "Sit down."

Tess blinked. "What?"

"I said, 'sit down," Nasedo repeated. "Or do they not teach you that in school either?"

Surprised enough to eschew a retort, Tess sat down, sending up a blast of vinyl-scented air from the cheap chair cushion. "You remember Agent Summers, the head of the Special Unit?" Nasedo said, taking a seat across from her.

"Yeah...sure," Tess said. "But I thought you said he quit."

"He did. And then the FBI's director retired and a new one took his place, one who didn't know about the Special Unit and was not pleased to learn of it. This new director didn't replace Agent Summers. Word was that he planned to disband the Unit."

"Good!" Tess said.

"Bad," Nasedo corrected. "Certain elements within the Unit objected. They've apparently begun operating illicitly within the Bureau without the director's knowledge."

"Oh," Tess said faintly. "That's...not good."

"An understatement, if ever I heard one," Nasedo said dryly. "This 'shadow Unit' is on the move. Agents previously assigned here have gone missing. Several have turned up dead. Do you know what this means?"

Tess swallowed hard. "It means they're coming."

"Exactly," Nasedo agreed. "The only question now is who will come and when. And this time, we don't run; we stay and fight."

"Of course," Tess nodded vigorously.

"I've got four of you to look after now," Nasedo continued, "plus the Unit to watch for. I can't be around as much as I normally am, so I need your help, the skills you've honed over a lifetime of being hunted. This 'shadow Unit' is comprised of Unit agents, so we'll likely recognize them. If you see one, or see anything that looks the least bit suspicious, you're to call me immediately."

"I will," Tess promised. "What about the other one?"

"What 'other one'?"

"The other...alien," Tess finished, for lack of a better term. "The one who came to visit and blocked my powers. The one who isn't afraid of you."

"You're mistaken," Nasedo said. "There's only me."

"No, there's—"

"There's only me," Nasedo repeated firmly. "Whatever you think you saw, however you interpreted it, you're wrong."

"What, you mean he's...he's human? He can't be! No human would..." Tess stopped, having been about to say "no human would ever dare talk to you like that". But that wasn't true. The woman was human, Nasedo's former nurse from his days as a captive, and she wasn't afraid to challenge him either. Had she just imagined that her powers had been blocked?

"I may need your help in another way," Nasedo went on, changing the subject. "It's quite possible the others will need to learn to fight, and quickly. We may need to bring them up to speed faster than I would have liked. You would be the best person to help them access their memories, the way I helped you access yours."

"Oh, so we'll have to fight about it, and I'll say 'no' a million times, and then I'll...sorry," Tess finished when Nasedo's eyes narrowed. "I...right. I'll...do what I can. But I don't remember much myself, and you said they know so little—"

"Which means you have your work cut out for you," Nasedo said. "And you either remember or know far more than they do simply because you've been raised knowing you're not human...hang on," he said when his phone rang. "Hello?"

Tess watched Nasedo's expression darken. "When?" he demanded. "Where were they going?" Pause. "I'm on my way." He clapped the phone shut. "Stay here," he ordered. "Don't leave this room for any reason."

"What happened?" Tess said in alarm. "Is the Unit here? Is—"

But he was gone, leaving in that maddeningly fast way which was more akin to vanishing. Tess stood alone in the suddenly quiet motel room looking at the yet-to-be-unpacked groceries, the smelly vinyl chairs, the clothes piled haphazardly all over, the unfamiliar and very dark parking lot looming through the single window. Moving was always jarring, but it had always had one redeeming factor—they moved to escape the Special Unit, all the hassles of settling in a new place paling beside the relative safety of having evaded them once more. But this time, as Nasedo had so bluntly pointed out, they weren't running from the Unit, but toward it. This time there was no safety. This time there could be anything out there, and she felt herself shivering involuntarily. When she'd been very little, Nasedo had secured her cooperation when moving by telling her horror stories of what the Unit would do to her if it found her. Now those stories came flooding back, of being locked alone in a room for years, of humans staring at you through glass like you were some kind of zoo animal, of being pumped with drugs which dulled your powers, of—

Stop it! she told herself fiercely. This wasn't getting them anywhere. Everything she'd learned, every survival skill she'd gleaned from her long years on the run must now not only be put to use, but transmitted. The question was how to do that. She couldn't very well hold their hands and attempt a connection the way Nasedo had; even if they'd let her and even if it worked, she might transmit too much at once. She'd scoffed at Nasedo's concern that his disastrous first connection with the others would be repeated, but now she found herself afraid of the very same thing. No, she'd have to find another way, and she'd have to decide whom to start with.

A moment later, she smiled. Would that all of this would turn out to be so easy.

Isabel.




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




"What?" Brivari said irritably into his phone. "I told you I'd call you if I found anything, and I haven't—"

"That's because we're looking for the wrong thing," Jaddo said, "or rather, the wrong person. I'm outside Rath's apartment. Meet me here.

"What for?" Brivari demanded. "The whole point was that we'd split up. It'll be far easier to find the Unit if we're both looking."

"We don't need to split up," Jaddo said. "Finding her won't be difficult."

Brivari blinked. " 'Her'?"



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


I'll post Chapter 94 next Sunday.