Birthright *Series* (CC, TEEN, S1 COMPLETE), Epilogue, 2/2

[Kathy W]

^ I'm guessing a lot of fans feel that way about Tess. I think she was supposed to represent the conflict between their "old" lives and their new ones. Either that or she was just the typical romantic doorstop one finds in most TV shows.








CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT




January 31, 2000, 3 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Knock, knock," Hanson said, poking his head in the door. "Got a minute? Sure is a relief to have the convention over with," he went on when Valenti nodded. "Busy weekend."

"It was," Valenti agreed. "And we almost made it without major mishap. Emphasis on the 'almost'."

"Yeah," Hanson agreed ruefully. "I've got the preliminary report on Hubble here. Thought I'd show it to you before officially filing it."

"Please," Valenti said, gesturing. "Have a seat."

Valenti did his best to look unconcerned as Hanson settled into a chair. It was standard procedure that when an officer was involved in a shooting, other officers conducted the investigation. He'd given his statement when Hanson had arrived to collect Hubble's body; now he'd be hearing any other statements Hanson had collected for the first time, and he had no idea what Max Evans had told him. They really should have squared their stories before they'd parted, but hindsight was always twenty-twenty. What he'd come up with to explain his own part in this little drama should withstand scrutiny, so he could only hope that Evans had covered his own butt as well.

"Okay, first of all, I've got your statement," Hanson said. "Hubble called you, said he wanted to meet you at the cafe but didn't say why, you went to the UFO center to find him—"

"You don't have to read me my own statement, Hanson," Valenti said, fearful even now that he'd missed something, that some vital detail would leap out and give the lie away. "What about the rest of it? Did you find anything in his motel room?"

"No, sir," Hanson answered, "unless you count lots of dirty clothes, take-out containers, and ants. No papers, no cameras, nothing that would indicate what he was up to."

"Naturally," Valenti sighed. "What else?"

"I spoke with Milton first," Hanson went on. "He said that Hubble had agreed to be at the round table discussion and that he'd sent him off with his assistant to pick up his slides in Bitter Lake, which is interesting given that he hasn't lived there in decades. He confirmed you asking after them, and also said two other people had asked where they were going, an unidentified middle-aged white male and that kid who broke into the UFO center a while back, Michael Guerin.

Middle-aged white male... So that was the mystery Hubble chaser. "Did you talk to Guerin?" Valenti asked.

"Yep, and he said he hitched a ride up north. Said he was worried because a convention attendee had been talking to Hubble and identified him as a 'nutcase'. And get this—that attendee was none other than Larry Trilling."

"The witness from the Crashdown shooting," Valenti murmured.

"The same," Hanson agreed. "Apparently Trilling told the shooting story at the convention as an example of an 'alien encounter' and pissed everyone off. Hubble talked to him afterward and seemed to believe him. He was really rattled when I told him Hubble was dead. Left in a hurry, although I insisted on his contact information in case we need to find him."

"And Evans?"

"Confirmed that he left with Hubble to pick up his slides in Bitter Lake. Said they'd only been on Route 70 East a short while when Hubble suddenly said he'd changed his mind and demanded to get out of the car. Told Evans to go back and tell Milton to go to hell."

"So he left him by the side of the road?"

"Yes, sir. Must have walked to where you found him."

Okay, Valenti thought, letting out a long slow breath. So far the tale Max Evans had come up with meshed with his own. Good news, that, but they weren't out of the woods yet. "Did Hubble tell Evans why he wanted to be left in the middle of nowhere?"

"Nope," Hanson answered. "Just insisted on getting out, and insisted Evans leave. Thing I can't figure out is, Hubble had a rental car. Why'd he get some kid to drive him when he could have driven out there all by himself?"

"Who knows," Valenti said lightly. "Hubble could be a scary guy; God knows he scared me back when he had my dad wrapped around his little finger, and I was an adult. I'm not surprised Evans just did what he told him to. I would have."

To Valenti's relief, Hanson nodded. "Evans was pretty rattled about the whole thing. Nothing like Milt, though. He's gonna need analysis."

"He needed it anyway," Valenti said dryly. "What about Hubble's phone?"

"That was a bust. No numbers stored in it. No calls other than local calls. The last call that came in was a blocked number."

"Of course it was," Valenti murmured.

"You still think he was working for the FBI?"

"He knew something I only told Agent Stevens," Valenti answered. "That's the only explanation that makes sense."

Hanson hesitated before leaning forward. "If you don't mind my asking, sir," he said in a low voice, "what did he know?"

"Yes, I mind," Valenti said tartly. "There's a reason I only told Agent Stevens."

"Right," Hanson said quickly. "Right, well...that's about it. Oh...there was one more thing," he added, pulling a manila envelope from the pile of papers in his hand. "This is the ballistics report my father filed for you. Must've called in a favor or three to get it back so fast."

Valenti stared at the envelope like it was poison. "Thanks."




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




UFO Center




Max Evans trotted down the stairs into the UFO Center, his backpack so heavy it made his shoulder ache. He must have every textbook he owned in there, each weighing several pounds and each guaranteed to keep his mind off his near brush with death last night. He'd learned the hard way that the best way to avoid thinking about one thing was to focus on another, or try to anyway, and he intended to try by doing the world's best homework tonight. Prior to that he intended to scrub this entire place from top to bottom, an idea that was curiously comforting, as though he were washing Hubble's residue away. This was the danger zone, the lag time between school and work, so he hurried into the office, eager to get started before his mind wandered into places he'd rather it not go. Milton was sitting in front of the computer, and he turned around when Max walked in.

"Ah. Evans. I thought you were here."

Max blinked. "You did?"

"Of course. I walked in and found this on the screen. It wasn't me, so it must have been you."

Max's eyes scanned the text on the screen......shooting at Silo...Sheriff James Valenti...Everett Hubble... "Uh...yeah," he answered, his eyes darting around the office. "Hope you don't mind. I was just trying to...understand things a little better."

"Of course," Milton said sorrowfully. "Of course. Perfectly understandable." He rose from his seat, put both hands on Max's shoulders. "Evans, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am about all this. It's dreadful. Simply dreadful."

"You apologized last night," Max said. "No need to do it again. It wasn't your fault."

"But I feel like it was," Milton said in an anguished tone, revisiting the script from yesterday evening. "I sent you off with him with no idea how...how unhinged he was. Thank God he didn't take it out on you."

He tried, Max thought privately. "At least the sheriff is okay," he said out loud.

"And thank God for that too," Milton agreed. "I gather it was something about that business with Valenti's father, although from what I've heard, it should have been the sheriff going after Hubble, not the other way around. And to think I was so excited when I first saw him, so honored that he'd chosen me and my humble haven to make his first appearance in years. And to have it end like this...well...it's just cruel to have such a glorious weekend...implode...like that."

"It was a good weekend," Max agreed. "Lots of people, lots of cash. Don't let Hubble ruin it for you."

"I shouldn't," Milton agreed, looking close to tears. "You're right, I really shouldn't. I sincerely hope this incident doesn't wind up reflecting badly on the center."

"It won't," Max assured him. "A lot of people were gone already when it happened because they had to get home for work this morning. Only the diehards stayed for the round table discussion, and they're the most likely to understand someone like Hubble going..."

"Nuts?" Hubble suggested. "Whacko?"

"I was thinking 'dangerously unstable'," Max finished.

"That, too," Milton sighed. "Well...I suppose we should both get cracking. Lots to clean up before we reopen tomorrow." He was halfway to the door when he turned around.

"You know, they say meeting aliens can make you go mad. If 'direct contact' makes you end up like Hubble, maybe I should be careful what I wish for." He paused. "Nah. Who am I kidding? I'm never going to have a 'direct contact'."

"Then I guess you've got nothing to worry about," Max said.

"I guess not," Milton agreed. "Although it does make me wonder if I want to keep doing this in such a public way. After last night, I'm not so sure."

After he left, Max leaned against the desk and breathed a sigh of relief. "All right, Michael, you can come out now. He's gone."

There was a pause before he heard a shuffling noise in the corner. "How'd you know it was me?" Michael asked, hoisting himself onto the edge of the desk.

"Because only you would be stupid enough to break in here when you're already on Milton's shit list," Max said darkly. "And here you are."

"Hey, this was the perfect time to break in here," Michael argued. "Place is closed today. Fewer people to dodge. Besides, I had to find out what we were up against. The sheriff did something really weird last night, and we didn't know why—"

"Okay, okay," Max broke in, holding up a hand. "So did you find out why?"

"Oh, yeah," Michael said with satisfaction. "Hubble was there the night Valenti's father was arrested for shooting some unarmed guy and wound up losing his job over it."

"I vaguely remember reading something about that," Max said. "So what?"

"So didn't you hear what Hubble said last night when Valenti threatened to shoot him? He said, 'Your old man couldn't do it, and neither can you'."

"No, Michael, I didn't hear," Max said crossly. "I had a few other things on my mind, like the gun pointed at me."

"But don't you see what that means?" Michael pressed. "It means Valenti's father probably didn't shoot that dude. Hubble did, and Valenti's dad took the fall."

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record...so what?"

"So that explains why Valenti was talking to Hubble, and why he was willing to shoot him, and why he—"

"Okay, I get it," Max broke in. "They had history. We already knew that. Not the details, maybe, but the basics. How does this help us?"

"Maybe it doesn't. I just wanted to know the score in case Valenti blew us in."

"I don't think he'll blow us in, Michael. If he were going to do that, he would have done it already. Besides, we could blow him in, and after what happened to his father, he must be aware of what that could mean."

"Let's hope so," Michael agreed. "Anything happen at school?"

"Does that mean you didn't go?" Max asked, wincing when Michael shrugged. "No, nothing happened at school. No one even knew about it. No deputies either; that was all last night, thank God. The last thing I needed was someone knocking on my front door or pulling me out of math class."

"So the story worked?"

"Guess so. Nobody's questioned it, least of all Milton."

"Great," Michael said. "So we're done."

"No, we're not 'done'," Max said. "We still have to tell everyone."

" 'Everyone'?" Michael echoed. "You mean Isabel, right?"

"No, I mean everyone. Liz, Maria, Alex, everyone."

"What for?"

"Because there might be other Hubble's out there," Max said. "They need to know that because Hubble could have taken any of us in order to get to me. Nobody's safe, Michael, not us, not anyone who knows us."

"All the more reason no one should know us," Michael remarked.

"Says the guy who was necking in the janitor's closet," Max muttered.

"Not recently. And not ever again."

"Oh, that's right," Max said dryly. "You're gonna think about mud and make it all go away."

"Hey, whatever works. I say we give it the week," Michael went on. "Let it become older news before we give Isabel a reason to flip out." He hopped down off the desk. "There's one good thing about this, you know. We learned something else about Nasedo."

"Yeah," Max said tonelessly. "We learned someone else is dead because of him. Why would we want to find this person? Do we even want to know him? He left a pile of bodies a mile high."

"So they say."

"So lots of people say," Max corrected. "I know you don't want it to be true, but we've heard this from enough people now that even you have to admit the possibility."

"Fine," Michael said. "I admit the possibility. But we need to find him one way or the other, even if it's true. Maybe especially if it's true."

"We especially need to find someone who killed people?" Max said doubtfully.

"Definitely," Michael answered. "Because if it is true...we need to know why."





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




The Haven Living Center



"Dad?"

Valenti waited, his hands nervously clutching the manila envelope with the ballistics report as his father slowly turned in his wheelchair, blinking as though he'd been lost in thought as opposed to simply staring out the window.

"Jimmy?"

He knows me, Valenti thought with relief, taking a seat beside him. Given his father's condition, that was always up in the air, and today, more than ever, he needed his father to recognize him, to remember. Part of him wanted to just launch into the whole Hubble debacle because part of him needed his father like he hadn't in years. The other part of him wondered if his dad would even remember that he'd been here before and why.

"What happened?" his father asked. "Where's Hub?"

Settled that one, Valenti thought, glancing around the "town square", The Haven's optimistic name for their community room. No one was close by, or no one capable of eavesdropping, anyway. "Hub's gone, Dad," Valenti said quietly.

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Gone for good," Valenti clarified. "He's...dead."

His father gazed at him in silence for a moment. "Hub's dead?"

"Yeah. He, a...he was shot."

"Shot?" his father repeated. "Who shot him?"

His father's gaze was unrelenting now, the man who usually looked absently out the window now looking steadily at him. Valenti fidgeted with the ballistics report, the envelope twirling once, twice, three times.

"I did," he said finally, surprised by how tight his throat felt, how hard it was to speak. "I didn't mean to," he went on in a rush as his father continued to stare at him without reaction, without blinking, even. "He was threatening to shoot someone, a kid, a boy he thought was...an alien," he finished in a lower voice. "I told him to stand down, but he wouldn't. He just wouldn't."

Silence. His father stared at him for several more long, agonizing seconds before turning his gaze back to the window. Great, Valenti thought heavily. His father's clarity had lasted just long enough for him to confess, but not long enough to explain, not really. And not long enough for absolution either, although also not long enough for condemnation. There was that, at least.

A hand crept over his, patted it. "You did the right thing, Jimmy. Good boy."

There. Only eight words, yet they carried the mother lode of not only absolution, but the one thing he'd always sought from his father even as he'd hated himself for doing it: Approval. "I didn't want to," Valenti said, his voice close to breaking. "Why didn't he just put the gun down? Why do I think it's my fault even though he wouldn't put the gun down?"

"Because it's hard to kill a man," his father said. "Always is. Always should be. But at least you killed the right one."

"See, there's the thing, Dad," Valenti said, brandishing the envelope. "I had the bullet that killed that drifter checked, and it didn't come from your gun. I was right, wasn't I? Hubble shot him."

His father hesitated, nodded. "Then why in the name of all that's holy did you say it was you?" Valenti demanded, finding it difficult now to keep his voice down. "Why did you take the rap for it?"

"I never said I shot him," his father answered. "I said it was my responsibility. Guess they took that to mean I did it."

"God, Dad, don't play semantics with me!" Valenti exclaimed. "You knew they were 'taking it' wrong, so why didn't you correct them? I notice Hubble didn't, but you sure as hell could have."

" 'Cause it was my fault, Jimmy," his father said quietly. "It was all my fault. I may not have pulled the trigger, but I was the reason it was pulled."

"See, I'm not following," Valenti said, slapping the envelope down on his father's lap. "You told me that Hubble said he wouldn't hurt the drifter. So how do you figure it was your fault when he went back on his word?"

His father's eyes drifted from the envelope to the window. "Because I knew him," he said in a remarkably steady voice. "I knew how obsessed he was. I should never have believed him...but I did. I believed him, and because I did, a dangerous man got close enough to hurt someone, someone in my town, someone who was my responsibility. Didn't matter if Hub was right or not, if that drifter was alien or human. We were human, and we don't just execute people without a fair trial. Innocent till proven guilty. That's the way it works. That's the way I work." He paused, looking back at Valenti. "What about this kid? Was Hubble right? Is he an alien?"

Valenti glanced around the room, fearful that even the senile and the deaf would overhear this conversation. That it was taking place at all was nothing short of a miracle given the disdain with which he'd always treated his father's chief obsession, and he realized with a shock that he was seriously considering his answer, proof positive that he'd crossed the line.

"I don't know," Valenti said, unwilling even now to utter his suspicions out loud. "Something's weird, but...I don't know."

"What'd he do? Hurt someone?"

Valenti shook his head. "No; that's just it, he didn't hurt anyone. If he did anything, he...he saved a girl's life. How's that one for you?" he added, his voice heavy with irony. "This kid couldn't have been Hubble's alien...he wasn't even born in 1970...but he almost got killed for saving someone's life."

His father's eyes drifted back to the window. "They're not all bad, you know. She taught me that."

"Who?" Valenti asked.

"Dee. And that mother of hers, that spitfire. Hell raisers, both of them; apple didn't fall far from that tree, straight down, really."

"Dad, who are you talking about? Who's 'Dee'?"

"She came to me that night," his father went on, ignoring him. "Said Courtney was in trouble. Asked for my help. Showed me something, something...impossible."

Valenti closed his mouth, swallowing his next question. He'd heard older people remembered what happened years ago like it was yesterday, so perhaps this was accurate. Perhaps he'd better just shut up and listen, and sort out the details later.

"And I told her I couldn't," his father went on. "FBI was on my tail, and they would have followed me. Courtney wouldn't have been any better off if Lewis had gotten hold of her, worse, probably."

Valenti sat there in silence, one hand to his mouth to guard against any chance he would stop the flow of words. He had no idea who "Courtney" or "Lewis" were, and at this point, he didn't care; this blizzard of information was unprecedented.

"Courtney's father died that night," his father went on. "Dee didn't make it in time either. But she said there was a war on, and we were caught in the middle of it. Said they'd left town, maybe for good. For a long time, it looked like she was right.

And then Hub showed up," his father continued. "Maybe they'd left, but I'd know that handprint anywhere. Nobody believed him. It disappears, you know. All he had was the photo. But I believed him because I'd seen it."

His father paused, and it took every ounce of Valenti's willpower not the fill the silence with questions. "Hub shot that man because he thought he was an alien," his father went on, so quiet he was barely audible. "When he found out he was human, he was furious. He wanted me to lie and say the man had attacked us. Said it was an honest mistake. Said he'd back me up."

Sure he would have, Valenti thought sourly. Until the evidence proved otherwise, in which case he would have thrown his father to the wolves. "Dad, we need to go to the town council with this," Valenti said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. "We need to tell them what really happened."

His father's eyes swung around to rest on him. "What for?"

"What do you mean, 'what for'?" Valenti said in exasperation. "To exonerate you, that's 'what for'! I know you feel guilty about what happened to that drifter, but you were convicted of something you didn't do. That's not right either."

"Doesn't matter," his father whispered. "Hub's dead."

"You're not dead!" Valenti exclaimed. "And yes it does matter, because you're still here and people still think you did something awful, something you didn't do. Just talk to them, Dad. I can have them come here. Tell them what you told me, tell them..."

Valenti stopped, his plea dying in his throat as he saw his father's expression go blank, watched the veil descend as he turned back to the window, his fingers plucking at the afghan in his lap.

"It's freezing in here," he said tonelessly. "They're trying to kill me."

Nice going, Valenti chided himself, closing his eyes. Of course his father didn't want to relive the whole Silo affair. From his perspective, what would be the point? It's not like they could give him his job back. It's not like he'd be able to get out of this place. No, dragging this all back into the light of day wouldn't do a thing for his father but upset him; it was himself he was doing it for, himself who would reap the benefits of everyone knowing his father was innocent. Assuming they'd believe it, of course. The fact that his son had just shot one of the witnesses might put a damper on things.

"Is everything all right here, sheriff?"

An aide hovered nearby, eyes moving back and forth from him to his father with concern. "Yeah, I...we...he was just...remembering things," he finished lamely. "Guess it upset him."

"That happens sometimes," the aide said soothingly. "It's not your fault."

Yes, it is. "Yeah. Thanks," Valenti said heavily. "I...I have to go now. Dad, I'm going now," he added to his father. "Can I...have that back?"

His father didn't look at him, just continued staring out the window as though he hadn't heard a word. Valenti reached over and coaxed the manila envelope away from him, sliding it out from beneath his hands.

His father didn't seem to notice.





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




"I'm surprised to see you here," Brivari remarked as Jaddo fell in step beside him on Roswell's Main Street. "I would have thought you'd be lurking back at the house."

"Under the circumstances, I thought a public place might be more appropriate for our next meeting," Jaddo answered. "Or safer, at least. Especially after you ordered me away last night."

"I needed time to think. And while I admit it's difficult to hurl you against a wall in broad daylight in front of dozens of humans, you shouldn't worry about me. I'm creative."

"That's alarming," Jaddo said warily. "You don't sound angry, and you're actually joking."

"Is that bad?"

"It's incongruent. If I found out you'd kept the possible existence of a Pierce from me, I'd be furious."

"Can I have that in writing?"

"And there you go again," Jaddo muttered. "I think I prefer the relative simplicity of being thrown against a wall."

"Of course you do," Brivari chuckled. "Which is precisely why I'm not doing it, forcing you instead to wade through the swamp of emotion you typically avoid like the plague."

"Okay, seriously," Jaddo said impatiently, "would you please just react? Scream, yell, berate, take your pick, but do something."

"I am doing something," Brivari replied calmly. "I was checking out Hubble's motel room, or rather checking out what Valenti's deputies checked out about Hubble's motel room."

"And?"

"He left no clues to any involvement with the Unit," Brivari answered, "although if he were involved, it's unlikely he'd leave a business card."

"Hmpf," Jaddo snorted.

"There was, however, the issue of the phone call placed to Hubble's cellphone mere minutes after he died. Valenti apparently answered it, the caller asked for Hubble, then hung up. It came from a private number."

"And there's the Unit," Jaddo said in disgust.

"Interestingly, Valenti seems to agree. Apparently Hubble had information he'd only given to Agent Stevens, which led him to the same conclusion."

"Score one for Valenti," Jaddo said grudgingly.

"Two," Brivari corrected. "He killed Hubble in an effort to protect the king."

"And do we know why he did that?"

"Hubble was deeply involved in an incident nearly thirty years ago which cost a man his life and Valenti Sr. his job," Brivari replied. "Something about Hubble being after the man who'd killed his wife." He paused, letting that sink in. "I have to say, I'm impressed, Jaddo. The trail of mayhem you leave in your wake is always long, but this one spans decades. That must be a new record. Well done."

"And there's the Brivari I know," Jaddo said with satisfaction. "Thank goodness. I'll take this opportunity to point out that none of us know the future consequences of any actions we take or don't take, and leave it at that. Now will you tell me why you're not angry?"

"Coffee?" Brivari suggested, gesturing across the street.

Jaddo blinked. "Coffee? Here?"

"Why not 'here'?" Brivari asked. "No better place, if you ask me."

The Crashdown was busy with the typical after school crowd as they slid into the one remaining empty booth. They had just ordered from an exceptionally surly waitress named "Agnes" when Brivari's phone rang. He glanced briefly at the number before replacing the phone in his pocket.

"Don't you need to get that?" Jaddo asked, the faintest note of derision in his voice. "No doubt Hollywood needs you."

"It wasn't Hollywood, it was Dee."

Jaddo's eyes dropped. "Does she know?"

"That her grandson was threatened by a madman you invented? No, she doesn't," Brivari answered. "Yet."

"Zan isn't her grandson," Jaddo said.

"Go ahead and tell her that," Brivari said, holding out his phone. "I dare you."

Jaddo eyed the phone warily as though it might bite him. *I suppose he could be both king and grandson,* he allowed, switching to telepathic speech.

*Wise choice,* Brivari said dryly. *And I was. Angry, that is. But then I realized it doesn't matter.*

*What doesn't matter?*

*Whether or not Pierce left an heir,* Brivari answered, *which, by the way, I've never heard either. But if so, and if he's working for the Unit, that essentially changes nothing; the Unit remains a threat with or without a Pierce. If they've acquired the serum, that was always a possibility with or without a Pierce. The presence or absence of a Pierce really has no bearing on the threat to our Wards or our response to it, other than to make this entire mess more...personal.*

Jaddo sat in silence for a minute during which their coffee arrived along with an exceptionally harried Maria DeLuca, who promptly got into an argument with Agnes about her tardiness. *I'm surprised,* he said finally. *As I noted, I'd be angry if I were to learn you even suspected.*

*Because for you, the presence of a Pierce would be personal,* Brivari said. *I'm unclear as to why you haven't pursued the issue more forcefully than merely keeping an ear to the ground. For you, that represents uncharacteristic restraint.*

*Don't think I didn't want to,* Jaddo said darkly. *But I became a parent. That tends to restrict one's freedom. And please, let's not have any more discussion about how that came about. It was a decision I made, and I know that. Rehashing it now is a waste of time.*

*I agree,* Brivari said. *Which is why I think it's time for us to bury the hatchet.*

*Bury...what?*

Brivari smiled faintly. *It's a human expression. It basically means to stop fighting. I think it's time we abandoned our antagonism and actively worked together.*

Jaddo's eyes narrowed. *You do? Why?*

*Because we just did,* Brivari answered. *I had no idea the threat Hubble posed. Without you, I wouldn't have known to pursue him. As it happened, that would not have been a problem, but it could just as easily have turned out otherwise.*

*Hmm,* Jaddo murmured skeptically. *So this has nothing to do with the fact that we're going to have to learn how to do this when Tess and I move here this summer, so why not start now and look magnanimous in the process?*

*That too. Look, I know we've had our differences,* Brivari continued as Jaddo raised an eyebrow, *and I know that probably qualifies as the understatement of the humans' new century. But they need both of us, Jaddo, all of them. They need as many Warders as they can get, with all our attendant strengths and weaknesses. They're ranging so far afield now and attracting so much attention that I'm no longer confident that it's wise for me to do this alone. I feel like I'm herding cats, with everyone scattering in different directions and me trying to keep up with them all. I need help. I need your help.*

Brivari waited while Jaddo eyed him warily, as well he might. He wasn't lying, but what he hadn't added was that he was badly rattled by what had nearly happened yesterday. Keeping Jaddo close would not only lessen the chances of another potential catastrophe but also provide the fringe benefit of averting another incident like his *sighting*. Granted Jaddo was every bit as likely to pull something like that as he was before, but at least he'd be more likely to know about it sooner. Dee tried, but even she had missed the signs that something was amiss with the fake sighting. Left unspoken was the fact that Jaddo was one of those cats he was trying to herd.

*Would this mean I'm now welcome in Roswell?* Jaddo asked.

*Yes,* Brivari answered. *As I would be welcome to see Ava. It works both ways,* he added when Jaddo shot him a suspicious look. *If you want access to your Ward, you give me access to my Ward's mate. One for the other.*

*I suppose,* Jaddo said grudgingly. *Although neither of us will have much in the way of 'access' until they're reunited. You can't leave your three, and my one can be every bit as much trouble as the others.*

*Mine actually haven't been any trouble for a full month now, something of a record for them,* Brivari added dryly. *They brought on neither your 'sighting' nor the latest debacle. Perhaps they're learning.*

*Perhaps,* Jaddo said doubtfully.

*You don't think so?*

Jaddo was quiet for a moment. *I think,* he said slowly, *that it will be Rath.*

*What will be Rath?*

*Whatever happens next. He knows the cave symbols are a map. He's forgotten how to read them, but I know him—he'll figure it out. He won't stop until he does. And once he does...well, let's just say I fear that their previous antics will pale by comparison.*





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



Hank Whitmore's trailer




"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Michael said in a bored tone, Hank's angry voice abating somewhat as he slammed the trailer's door behind him. Hank was incredibly annoying, but somehow it was hard to get all worked up over an irate drunk when they'd just been faced with a crazy man with a gun. Nothing like a good brush with death to put things in perspective; God knows his had for him. It had also precipitated a burst of memory, and as he boosted himself up on the picnic table, he idly wondered if it would have the same effect on Max. Would he suddenly remember something, a memory jarred from its dark shelf by a fight-or-flight reaction? Would he even admit it if he did?

Nah, Michael thought as Hank's tirade dwindled to angry, largely incoherent mutters. Max didn't want to know. Even if he remembered something, he'd probably write if off to a bad dream or something like that. Still, it wouldn't hurt to ask. It might even...

Michael paused, staring at the sky where the stars twinkled overhead. A moment later, a wide smile spread across his face. Perfect. Their recent crisis had indeed jarred lose a memory, and whatever gods there were had seen fit to send it to the right person.


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


I'll post Chapter 69 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE




February 8, 2000, 5:45 a.m.

Evans residence




"I knew it was you, you bastard!"

Terrified, Max Evans froze, unable to tear his eyes away from the gun pointed straight at him, a finger on the trigger. All else was darkness with only the gun visible, hanging in mid-air, its wielder a mere shadow.

"I won't let you kill again!"

Max wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't work. It was like he was paralyzed, and panic rose in him like a wave. The finger on the trigger twitched...

"Max? Max? Max!"

Max jerked awake so quickly his head bumped the headboard. The dark wasteland was gone, replaced by the faint glow of sunlight filtering through his curtains, and no wonder; he was in his bedroom, in his bed, his mother standing over him, clutching her robe around her.

"Max, honey, are you all right?" Diane asked worriedly. "You were thrashing so hard, I was afraid you'd fall out of bed."

"I'm okay," Max said, wincing painfully as his head begged to differ. "I just...had a bad dream."

Diane sank down on the edge of the bed. "Another one? You've been having a lot of bad dreams lately."

Max blinked. "I...I have?"

"Well, yes. For at least a week or so. Is anything wrong?"

"No," Max said quickly. "No, I...I don't know what's causing it. Maybe it's school. Or maybe something I watched on TV."

"Must have been something pretty scary," Diane remarked. She started to get up, stopped. "This isn't about...you know," she whispered. "Your...condition? Did someone find out? Did—"

"Mom, no," Max lied. "It's not that. I'm okay."

Diane studied him for a moment before reluctantly nodding. "Okay. I just thought maybe the sheriff had...never mind," she finished. "You just let me know if he ever starts after you again."

"I will," Max promised. "Sorry I woke you."

"It's almost time to get up anyway," Diane said, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. "See you at breakfast."

I'm not hungry, Max thought, pulling himself to a sitting position after she left, his previously useless legs dangling over the bed. He'd had the same dream every night since Hubble died. It was always the same, with the gun appearing and him unable to run, and it always ended when the gun went off, catapulting him back to reality with a shock so intense he lay awake for hours afterward, afraid to go back to sleep lest the dream reappear. But exhaustion always won eventually and he'd succumb, and the dream never reappeared until the following night. Small comfort, that, but he'd take what he could get. Glancing at the clock, he decided his mother was right and shambled out into the kitchen, reaching into the fridge for the orange juice, closing the door to find his sister standing only inches away.

"Iz, don't do that!" he exclaimed. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"Not like your dream, I didn't," Isabel said soberly. "Mom's right; you've been having nightmares for a week now."

"You heard too?" Max sighed, slumping into a kitchen chair with the OJ carton and a glass. " I guess that's what happens when you get a gun pointed in your face."

"Well, it's no wonder she's worried," Isabel said, taking a seat across from him. "So was I, until I found out why it was happening. Thanks for waiting a whole week to tell me, by the way. Now I know how Michael feels when he's left out."

"For the record, it was his idea that we wait a week," Max said. "If it were up to him, he might not have told you at all."

"Unbelievable," Isabel muttered. "Just wait till I get a hold of him. How dare he leave me out of this?"

"Not just you," Max noted. "Everyone else too."

" 'Everyone'?" Isabel echoed. "Who's 'everyone'? Who else did you tell?"

"No one yet," Max admitted. "But I'm going to tell Liz, and she'll tell Maria and Alex. Anyone who knows us needs to know that people like Hubble are out there because he could have come after any of us to get to me."

Isabel hesitated, then nodded. "Right. You're right. But that still doesn't explain why you waited so long to tell me. I'm your sister."

Max looked away. "I know. I...I was in shock. Still am, I guess."

"I've never seen you like this," Isabel said. "Even with Valenti, or Topolsky and the FBI."

"None of them were threatening to kill me," Max said soberly. "I've never had a gun pointed at me. Never watched a man die either. I can still hear the sound his body made when it hit the ground. It was...noisy. Louder than I would have expected."

"I can't imagine what that would feel like," Isabel whispered. "It must have been terrifying."

"It was," Max admitted. "But that wasn't the worst part. If we had any doubts about what happened with Nasedo and the man River Dog saw him kill, we don't now."

"He killed someone else," Isabel said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Incredible. We finally get wind of a relative, and it turns out he's a murderer."

"More than that," Max murmured.

"What could be more than 'murderer'?"

Max hesitated for a moment. "Hubble said something, something I didn't even tell Michael," he said in a low voice. "I haven't told anyone this. I wasn't even sure how to tell anyone."

Isabel's eyes widened, and she leaned in closer. "What'd he say?"

"He said...whoever he was looking for, he called him a...a 'shapeshifter'."

Isabel blinked. " 'Shapeshifter'? What on earth is that?"

"Hubble said, 'You changed yourself into that drifter'," Max continued. "It sounds like this Nasedo can make himself look like other people."

"Wonderful," Isabel groaned. "Not only a murderer, but a murderer with the perfect disguise—virtually anyone. Are you sure that's what he said?"

"I wasn't at first," Max allowed. "But when we looked up the whole thing between Hubble and Valenti's father, it fit. They mistook the drifter for the murderer because the murderer made himself look like the drifter."

"But how is that possible?" Isabel asked. "We can't do that...can we?"

"I suppose we could," Max said. "We can manipulate molecular structure, so maybe we can manipulate our own. I just haven't had the guts to try. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to change back."

Isabel was quiet for a moment. "I don't know, Max," she said finally. "It sounds pretty out there. And Hubble wasn't exactly stable, so I think I'll just file that under 'possibilities'. Or maybe 'really unfortunate possibilities'. I'm way more concerned that this guy almost killed you."

Max shook his head. "I could have stopped him. Not sure how I would have done it, but I would have done something. It would've given me away to Valenti, but that still would've been better than being dead."

"Valenti," Isabel murmured. "I still don't get his angle in this. I mean, I know you said his father had history with Hubble, but still..."

"I think it's safe to say he wasn't planning on killing Hubble," Max remarked. "Sure didn't seem that way. He looked every bit as upset as I was."

"I wonder how he's feeling," Isabel said. "You almost got killed, but he actually killed someone."

"He's a sheriff, Isabel," Max said. "I'm sure he's fine with it."




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




Valenti residence





Jim Valenti jolted awake, staring in confusion at his dim bedroom before falling back on the pillows. Not again. Every single night for the past week, he'd relived the shooting, seen the panic in Max Evans' eyes, heard the gunshot and the sickening thump as Hubble had hit the ground. But the worst part of it wasn't any of that; it was Hubble's declaration, repeated over and over in his mind every minute of every day, waking or sleeping, a steady drumbeat of anger and regret:

"Your father couldn't do it...and neither can you."

Got that wrong, Hub, Valenti thought darkly. The one bright spot in this mess was that his oft-repeated announcement that he wasn't his father had just been proven in spades. That a man lay dead because of it put something of a damper on any resulting celebration, but at this point, he'd take any bright spot he could get. It was too late to go back to bed, so he padded out to the kitchen, grabbing the OJ container from the fridge and tipping it into his mouth.

"You always tell me to use a glass."

Valenti nearly choked on his orange juice. "Don't scare me like that!" he said crossly as Kyle raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Basketball practice," Kyle answered. "Sectionals are coming, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure," Valenti said, wiping dribbled orange juice from his chin. "Sure I do."

"Mmmhm," Kyle said skeptically. "The real question is, what are you doing up at this hour? Again?"

"Couldn't sleep. It happens."

"For a week? Dad, you've been weird ever since the UFO convention left town. You get abducted, or something? No, seriously, something's up," Kyle persisted when Valenti gave him a look. "Does this have anything to do with that guy who was coming over, the one you said knew something about your family? You never said how that turned out. Did he come?"

Valenti hesitated. "Yeah," he said finally.

"And?" Kyle pressed. "What happened? Was it what you were worried about? Did he tell you something you didn't want to hear?"

"He sure as hell did," Valenti whispered.

"So that's why you're up at all hours," Kyle said softly. "Wanna tell me what he said?"

"Not really."

Kyle regarded him levelly for a moment before shrugging. "Okay."

"Just 'okay'? What, no arguments?"

"Nope. That's what you do with me. You ask me if I want to talk, and when I say 'no', you say 'okay' and leave me alone. I'm just returning the favor."

"Oh," Valenti said faintly. "Uh...thanks."

"You're welcome. And I should have said 'most of the time', as in you leave me alone most of the time. So the next time you're tempted to push that point, I'd appreciate it if you remember I cut you a pass and cut me one too."

"Maybe," Valenti allowed. "You forgot one thing: I'm a parent, and you're not."

"You have to keep rubbing my nose in that, don't you?" Kyle said dryly, shouldering his backpack. "I need to get going."

"What about breakfast?"

"Don't have time."

"Wait," Valenti called, holding out the OJ carton. "You can finish this on the way to school. No glass. This time, anyway."

Kyle smiled faintly as he took the carton. "Still clinging to that illusion of civilization, huh?"

"I like to dream," Valenti smiled. "Have a good day."

Kyle's expression sobered. "Yeah. You too."

Valenti closed the door behind his son and leaned against it. He'd almost lied to Kyle, only belatedly remembering how well it had gone when he'd told him the truth right before Hubble was due to visit the house. He'd reflexively kept so much from Kyle during the divorce that it had become a habit, understandable when he'd been small but ill-advised now. And lo and behold, he actually did feel a tiny bit better even after just a hazy admission that something was wrong. Maybe keeping things bottled up wasn't the best way to go...

A knock sounded on the door. "Forgot your key?" he asked, throwing it open.

"Nope," Hanson Sr. replied. "Never had one."

"Don?" Valenti said. "I...you...what are you doing here at this hour?"

"You're a hard man to find, Jim. I've been calling and calling, even went down to the station once...and you've been dodging me. So I decided to try a different approach."

"To get me in my shorts?" Valenti said, attempting a chuckle.

"I don't care if you're buck naked, I just want some answers," Don said tartly. "You told me you'd bring me up to speed on Hubble and why you wanted a ballistics report on the bullet that killed that drifter, and you never did. I'm here to collect."

Valenti hesitated for a moment before stepping back. He had been dodging his deputy's father, but maybe that had been the wrong thing to do. Hanson Sr. was one of the few people, maybe the only person, he could talk to about this.

"So what happened?" Don demanded. "Hubble's gone; I figured out that much. Did you get the ballistics report back yet? I asked an old friend to rush it, so—"

"Sit down, Don," Valenti said, indicating a chair.

"I'm not doing a blessed thing until you answer me!" Don exclaimed. "You've been sitting on this for a week, Jim, hell, over a week! How long you gonna leave me dangling? If you—"

"Hubble's dead."

Don stared at him for a long moment before slowly sinking into the proffered chair. "Say what?"

"Hubble's dead," Valenti repeated. "I shot him."

"Jesus H. Christ," Don whispered. "What the hell happened?"

"He...snapped," Valenti said, weighing his words carefully. The temptation to tell Hanson Sr. the truth was huge, and he couldn't do that; he had to keep the story the same. "He asked me to meet him at some old cafe up north, and when I did, he started ranting and raving, pulled a gun on me, and threatened to shoot me...so I got there first. But not before he gave me something."

"Hubble killed the drifter," Don nodded. "Not your dad."

Valenti's eyes widened. "You knew?"

"Nope. Never even suspected, not until you asked for the ballistics report. Your daddy owned up to what happened right away, and such was his reputation for honesty that no one even questioned it."

"Fat lot of good that reputation did him," Valenti said bitterly. "He admitted it, you know. He was actually all there for a few minutes, and he sat there in that nursing home and admitted Hubble had done it and he'd taken the fall. Or the bullet, if you prefer that."

"Of course he did," Don said. "I know what he told you. I wasn't there, but I'm betting he told you that he was responsible, that it was his fault even if he hadn't actually pulled the trigger."

"Pretty much," Valenti admitted grudgingly.

"And the thing is that's what the town council would have said too. I've already been through all this," Don went on when Valenti began to protest. "I knew why you wanted ballistics. It made sense; it fit the things I saw and the people I knew. I beat myself up for not thinking of that myself for a couple of days before I realized it wouldn't have made any difference. Your daddy would still have lost his job, lost himself. Only difference is, instead of being remembered as the man who shot the drifter, he'd be remembered as the man who let another man shoot the drifter. The average citizen wouldn't see a whole lot of difference between the two."

"And Hubble?" Valenti demanded. "What about him?"

"That might have gone down differently," Don allowed. "It also might have gotten messier if two witnesses were at odds with the physical evidence. Bottom line is I don't think things would have worked out a whole lot differently than they did."

"I've never killed a man before," Valenti said quietly. "I know we train for this, but all that practice at the range...I've only ever wounded, and rarely that. Never killed."

"Then I'm glad your first was Hubble," Don said firmly. "That bastard got exactly what he had coming, and he got it from exactly who it should have come from. Couldn't have worked out better if I'd written the story myself."

The phone rang, followed by the answering machine's message...followed by a woman's voice. "Jim?" it said uncertainly. "I got your message about dinner tomorrow night. I was really looking forward to it, so I hope we can find another time to get together. Call me, okay?"

Valenti closed his eyes as the line clicked. Amy. She hadn't even left her name, God bless her. Smart woman.

"You got a date?" Don asked.

"Canceling a date," Valenti clarified. "I'm not in the mood."

"Then get in the mood," Don advised. "Dates are hard to come by once you reach a certain age."

"I've just got too much going on right now," Valenti insisted. "Some other time."

"Let me guess: You begged off because of 'work', right?" Don shook his head as Valenti's eyes dropped. "Word of advice, Jim? It's no fun getting old, but it's even less fun when you're alone. Don't keep putting work first; the people around us will be around long after the work is over. If we treat'em right, that is."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," Valenti said dryly, "but—"

"But nothing. It's over. You solved the mystery of what happened at Silo and you got justice, or as much as you're going to get. Take that and move on. Go have dinner with a beautiful woman and leave this be."

"What makes you think she's beautiful?"

Don shrugged. "Sure sounded beautiful. Is she beautiful?"

Valenti broke into a completely unexpected smile. "Yeah, she's...she's beautiful. And smart. And funny."

"Then what are you waiting for? Call her back! Set up another date! Go on with your life! What happened to your father ruined his, but it doesn't have to ruin yours. Don't let it, you hear?"

"I hear," Valenti promised.

"Good. I'll let you get going'," Don said. "Say 'hi' to my boy for me. And don't be a stranger, Jim. Let's get together more often. We're the only people who can talk about...certain things."

Exactly what I was thinking, Valenti thought, glancing at the phone after he'd waved goodbye. And Don was right; he should reschedule. Maybe he should call Amy right now, before he lost his nerve. One glance at his sweaty tee shirt and boxers had him nixing that idea; calling Amy always worked best if he dressed the part, which meant no skivvies or uniforms. Maybe tonight after work. Or this weekend. Or...well, he'd think of something. Something, anything, to keep his mind off not only the injustice done to his father, but something Hubble had said right before the end.

"I just saw it! I was right!"

"You saw what?"

"His powers!"

He had no idea what Hubble had seen or thought he'd seen, but for the moment, he pushed aside the conundrum of what to do with the boy who clearly wasn't who he said he was.




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



West Roswell High School





Maria DeLuca tossed her books in her locker and grabbed the bag lunch she'd hastily assembled this morning at some ridiculous o'clock. Honestly, why did school have to start so early? She was still unconscious for first period, barely conscious for second, half awake by third, and not all the way there until after lunch. Which meant she still wasn't all the way there yet because it was before lunch, and she slogged down the hallway, instinctively dodging clumps of teenagers, some of whom looked every bit as out of it as she was and some of whom were annoyingly awake. Larks, she thought peevishly. Morning people bugged the daylights out of her. The next time she took one of those magazine quizzes about "the perfect boyfriend", she'd be sure to add "sleeps late". One of the surest ways to divorce for her wouldn't be money or in-laws or kids; it would be a husband who was bright and chipper even when he got up with the birds. She'd just passed the office when she pulled up short...and backtracked.

Wide awake now, Maria peered through the office window. Michael was standing at the office counter looking disgruntled as usual, and she watched anxiously as he spoke to one of the secretaries, who shuffled some papers before handing one to him. He left without saying thank you, disappearing into the crowd around the front desk, reappearing a minute later just on the other side of the door which he pushed open without looking, nearly knocking her over.

"Hey!" Maria exclaimed. "Watch what you're doing!"

"I didn't see you," Michael said.

"I guess not. You almost knocked me over."

"Don't stand so close to the door," Michael said.

Maria's eyes narrowed. "I thought you didn't see me?"

"I didn't. Not until you went flying backwards. What'd you want?"

" 'Want'?" Maria echoed. "I didn't...I was just...never mind," she finished irritably. "What's that?" she added, pointing to the paper in his hand.

"This? This is a pass," Michael answered. "It's what they give you when you're late so you can get into class. Which you probably wouldn't know because you're probably never late."

"Got that right," Maria said. "I saw you in there, and I thought...well, I thought maybe..."

"That I'd been suspended? Expelled? Nope. Just late. Sorry to disappoint."

"I'm not 'disappointed', I'm just...look, I was just worried about you," Maria said crossly. "I saw you in there, and I was worried about you, okay?"

Michael gave her a level stare. "No, it's not okay. I told you, I can't get involved with anyone. So don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Maria's mouth dropped open as he walked away. I'd love to, she thought bitterly. She'd love to just stop worrying about him, stop thinking about him, stop acknowledging his existence. She'd love to "be a stone wall" with him just like he was with her, but she wasn't having much luck. Just when she was ready to throttle him, he'd go and do something hopelessly endearing like fix her napkin holder. Just as she thought she'd washed him from her mind, something like the sighting would happen and she'd fear for his life...again. Just as she wrote him off for being rude to her mother, he'd gone and saved their bank account by filling in for the missing "Alienator" and kissing her besides. No matter how hard she tried to wash Michael Guerin from her mind, he found a way to creep back in, and it was bloody annoying. Thoroughly awake and thoroughly peeved, she moved briskly through the crowds to the lunchroom, meaning to drown her sorrows with the one person who would understand because she was having detachment issues of her own. Liz was on the far side, alone at a table except for...Max? They were deep in conversation, and just as Maria approached, Max's hand reached out for Liz's...

"Hey!" Maria said brightly, her eyes hard. "What's up?"

Max's hand jerked back. "Nothing," he said quickly. "I was just leaving."

He left without another word, and Maria slid into his place. "What are you doing?" she hissed at Liz. "I thought he dumped you! I thought we agreed we were gonna—"

"Maria, someone tried to kill Max."

Maria stopped in mid-sentence. "They...what?"

"Someone at the convention," Liz went on, ashen faced. "Someone who says his wife died years ago from one of those silver handprints, and he thought Max was the one who did it."

"I...he...what?" Maria said stupidly. "Why would he think that? Why would he...wait. Larry. Larry was shooting his mouth off, and...no, Larry never saw the handprint," she went on, following the thread of her own story. "The only one who knew about the handprint was..."

"Valenti," Liz finished. "Valenti shot the guy who was trying to kill Max, and he told Max to keep quiet about it."

"Okay, that's...backwards," Maria said, thoroughly confused now. "Valenti's been on Max's tail for months now. Why would he do that?"

"Something about the guy who tried to shoot Max having something to do with Valenti's father losing his job years ago," Liz said. "I didn't get it all, but I think—"

"No," Maria broke in firmly. "No thinking. No getting. This isn't our problem. Why did he even tell you about it?"

"Because he thought I should know," Liz answered. "Because he was afraid it could be our problem, that someone like that could use anyone, like you, or me, or—"

"Okay, this is one of the many reasons we should confine ourselves to humans," Maria interrupted. "We should just forget the Czechoslovakians and—"

"Michael was there too."

Damn. Any hope Maria had nursed of writing off this latest alien debacle went right out the window as the mother bear in her reared up on its hind legs for the second time in the past five minutes. "Michael? I just saw him. He didn't say anything about this. What did he have to do with this?"

"I guess he thumbed a ride and followed Max," Liz said. "Got there just as the guy was pointing a gun at him, and Valenti got there right after that. He said—"

Maria held up a hand. "Stop. I don't want to hear any more. This is too much. Every time we turn around, there's another crisis. Someone's being chased, someone's dying, something's landing in the woods, someone's getting shot at, the sheriff is doing a 180...it's just too much!"

Liz gave her a pitying look. "If you think it's too much for us, how do you suppose it feels for them?"

"Oh, no you don't," Maria said tartly. "No guilt trips. Don't you see what's happening here? Max dumps you, then dumps on you. He doesn't get to do that. He doesn't get to break up with you and then cry on your shoulder when something goes wrong."

"For the record, he wasn't 'crying on my shoulder', and I think someone waving a gun in your face is a bit more than just 'something going wrong'," Liz remarked.

"Please, Liz," Maria begged, "I'm just saying we need a break. Let's do something this weekend, something totally unrelated to Czechoslovakians. A movie, a party, a sleepover, a bonfire, a robbery—anything. Okay, that last one was a poor choice," she added hastily when Liz gave her a reproachful look. "We just have to get our minds off them, just for a little while. Please? Please, please, please, please—"

"Okay, okay," Liz interrupted. "Go ahead and plan something. But nothing weird," she cautioned. "I won't do weird."

"Of course not," Maria promised. "That's the whole point, to do something normal, something human, something...boring. Really, really boring."

"I think Max is the one who needs something boring," Liz murmured.

"No," Maria said quickly. "Rule number one of our boring, normal weekend is no Czechoslovakians. Let them go have their own boring, normal weekend. Besides whenever they're with us, it's never boring and normal."

"I guess not," Liz said doubtfully. "I have a bio lab to work on. Catch you later."

"Wait—aren't you going to eat lunch?" Maria asked.

"I'll eat while I work. Gotta run."

Maria's eyes narrowed, recalling that Biology was a class Liz had with Max. But there was little she could do without actually trailing her, and the last thing she was in the mood for was more cloak and dagger stuff. Scanning the lunchroom, she identified the table with the most vapid, airheaded girls she could find and parked her tray next to theirs. "Hi!" she said brightly. "Mind if I join you?"

They probably did, but not possessing the brain cells to object, they merely blinked and went on with their conversations about blissfully empty subjects like nail polish, hairstyles, and who was dating whom. Maria let it all wash over her, enjoying the fantastic nothingness of it all, trying to think of something suitably normal to do this weekend. Trouble was that after you'd run around chasing Indian caves and spaceships, everything looked...well...boring. Which was supposedly the point, she scolded herself, running down mental lists of movies, malls, and whatnot until the airheads' conversation finally leaked through.

"...and they're sending her on a dream date!" one of the airheads enthused. "It'll be all over the radio, and her picture will be in the paper, and then—"

"What's this?" Maria interrupted. "Who's sending who on a dream date?"

"The radio station," one airhead explained. "You know, the blind date concert? Everyone's talking about it. Did you enter?"

A slow smile spread across Maria's face. "Uh...no. Not yet."

"Then you'd better hurry," the airhead advised. "Time's up at noon."

Maria glanced at the clock and literally ran out of the room; ten seconds later she was dialing. "KROZ," a bored voice answered.

"Hi, I want to enter the Blind Date Contest."

"Too late. Nominations closed at noon."

"You cannot be serious," Maria argued. "It's 11:59!"

"By your watch," the voice said. "Not mine."

"Then whose watch is more important?" Maria demanded. "Yours, or one of your faithful listeners? Can you just imagine the reaction when it gets out that you closed nominations a minute early? I wouldn't want to be you, buddy, when all my friends find out that—"

"Okay, okay," the voice said quickly. "Your watch. What's your name?"

"I've got two entrants," Maria announced. "Got a pencil?"

A minute later she hung up, extremely satisfied with herself. The likelihood that either she or Liz would win was low, but so what? They could always follow the winners around and go the concert. One normal, boring weekend, coming up.




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




5:30 p.m.

Proctor residence




"Is the table set?" Dee asked, tossing the oven mitts on the counter.

"It's been set for the past half hour," Anthony answered.

"What about the salads?"

"On the table."

"Where are the rolls?" Dee asked in alarm. "I put them—"

"In the baskets on the table," Anthony said patiently. "Calm down. We're not having the queen to dinner."

"Frankly, I'd rather," Dee said ruefully. "At least there'd be some protocol."

The doorbell rang. Dee and Anthony looked at each other for a moment before going to the front door, Anthony placing a hand over hers as she reached for the knob.

"You're going to be civil, right?" he asked.

Dee smiled devilishly. "I'll be as civil as he is."

"God help us all," Anthony muttered as she opened the door to reveal Brivari and Jaddo standing on the front porch, the former calm, the latter distinctly uncomfortable.

"Welcome!" Dee said. "Or perhaps I should say, welcome back?"






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


I'll post Chapter 70 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

^ Thank you! A story this long really needs regular, dependable updates. It's the least I can do for those willing to keep up with it.





CHAPTER SEVENTY



February 8, 2000, 6:30 p.m.

Proctor residence



"So then the teacher told Max that if he didn't use the prescribed folder, she'd give him a failing grade," Dee said. "And when he continued to resist, she upped the ante and said she'd fail him for the entire class, and he'd have to repeat 8th grade Social Studies."

"Unbelievable," Anthony said, shaking his head.

"Then Philip got involved," Dee went on. "He had to go through both the Vice Principal and the Principal before he got them to agree to let Max keep his binder."

Brivari blinked. "Do I understand you to mean that this was a dispute over whether to store classroom materials in a folder or a binder?"

"It was," Anthony sighed.

"So all this drama was over which storage device to use?" Brivari said incredulously. "What difference does it make? He still had all the materials and was still doing all the assignments."

"And getting straight 'A's'," Anthony noted. "That should have told them something."

"The teacher insisted it had to be the folder on the classroom supply list," Dee said. "No binders, no other folders."

"That's crazy," Brivari declared. "How does wasting everyone's precious time on such drivel further mastery of the material?"

"It doesn't," Jaddo said. "This isn't about mastery, it's about power. Everything in American education is about power, that and orthodoxy. Teacher training schools have become quasi-religious institutions where professors proselytize and pet theories are rammed down prospective teachers' throats. Anyone who thinks teachers' colleges are about teaching teachers to teach is either hopelessly naive or not paying attention. Pass the rolls?"

Anthony glanced at Dee, who gave him a bemused look before handing over the basket of rolls. This dinner was supposed to mark Jaddo's return to Roswell, Brivari having told her of their rapprochement, among other things. Jaddo had been uncharacteristically quiet for some time now; to see him finally become chatty on the subject of education was unexpected, to say the least.

"This is very different from teacher training in most of Europe," Jaddo continued, helping himself to three rolls. "Take Finland, for example, which has very high rates of academic success. Their teaching students spend over 80% of their time in classroom situations with experienced teachers, while ours spend over 80% of their time studying 'theory' and parroting back what their professors want to hear. It's no wonder that the method becomes not only more important than the obvious goal of learning the material, but the goal in and of itself, as though the method is some kind of magic. It reminds me of children taught to 'look both ways' before they cross the street who conclude that the act of looking both ways is what confers the protective effect whether or not any cars are nearby. It becomes a ritual which is merely performed but not understood...what?" he said suddenly as Dee stifled a laugh.

"It's just...listen to you," Dee chuckled. " 'American education'? 'Our teachers'? 'Finland'? Good Lord, you sound positively..."

"Domestic?" Brivari finished.

"Yes, that," Dee agreed.

"Do you disagree with my assessment?" Jaddo asked.

"I...no," Dee admitted. "I think you're spot on. I just wasn't expecting you to have the slightest interest in education."

"Of course I have an interest," Jaddo said. "Ava is being educated in this backward system."

"As are our grandchildren," Dee reminded him. "And Michael, whom we think of as our surrogate grandson."

"And I'm grateful for that," Jaddo said, turning hard eyes on Brivari. "Especially after seeing his living conditions, which were somewhat less than I'd been led to believe."

"You weren't 'led to believe' anything," Brivari said calmly. "You left with Ava, and we didn't speak for the next ten years."

"I was referring to your intentions before I left," Jaddo clarified. "I sincerely hope you didn't intend to place him with an alcoholic."

"Here we go," Anthony said under his breath.

"Michael's first foster family was wonderful," Dee said. "The Guerins were good people who unfortunately divorced at a bad time for Michael, when he was young enough to still need guardians, but old enough that few would take him."

"So I've heard," Jaddo answered, sounding unconvinced.

"As I've heard about the warning you sounded last weekend when Max was in trouble," Dee went on. "I certainly appreciate that, although I don't appreciate your causing the whole mess in the first place."

"It was an accident," Jaddo protested. "I never intended to kill anyone. I needed a car, and that one looked empty; the woman had stretched out on the seat, and I didn't see her until I opened the door."

"So you couldn't have pulled her out and taken the car?" Dee demanded.

"She was about to scream," Jaddo said impatiently, "which tends to garner attention. Which is a bad idea when you're stealing a car."

"Oh, no doubt," Dee agreed. "Although I can't speak from personal experience."

"And here I thought it was so unnaturally quiet," Anthony remarked.

"You didn't really expect that to last, did you?" Brivari asked dryly.

"While we're at it, why don't we lay all our cards on the table," Jaddo said to Dee, ignoring the others. "You're angry with me about the sighting, aren't you?"

"Angry? No," Dee answered. "More like annoyed. But that didn't involve a gun in my grandson's face."

"If I'd had any idea my actions would pan out the way they did—"

"But you didn't," Brivari broke in. "Just like I had no idea that ignoring Vilandra's infatuation with Khivar would produce such a devastating result. Or that making concessions to a king who was willing to grant us more freedom would result in an incredible power landing in the hands of a child, making it impossible for us to approach him. I think it's safe to say we all have a list entitled 'If Only I'd Known'...right?"

Dee fell silent, returning to her dinner. If she'd only known that Valenti Sr. was unable to help Courtney when she'd been in trouble, she would never have asked, never have set a trithium generator in front of him and basically admitted that aliens were real and rampaging through his town. And if she hadn't done that, he may not have gone over the edge he'd so obviously gone over, and not wound up in a state conducive to being influenced by the Hubbles of the world. Work the problem backward, and she was almost as culpable for what had happened this weekend as Jaddo.

"My point," Brivari continued when no one said anything, "is that they need all of us, every single person at this table. They're ranging farther afield with each passing day, gathering friends but also enemies, including some from long ago none of us could have anticipated. I no longer feel it safe to Ward them alone. Whatever our differences, our past disagreements, we'll have to set them aside. We'll never agree on who was 'right' or 'wrong', and it's pointless to try; that's in the past. For the future, we must agree to keep one another informed of what we learn and what we intend to do about it even if we know the rest of us will object. Perhaps especially if we know the rest of us will object," he added with a pointed look at Jaddo. "The only surprises should come from outside this circle. Are we agreed?"

"We are," Jaddo said promptly.

"Absolutely," Anthony answered.

"Of course," Dee said quietly.

An awkward silence ensued, punctuated only by the clinking of cutlery and the radio playing softly in the background. Dee kept her eyes on her plate, feeling a bit like a child who's been scolded for a tantrum she'd been determined not to throw. As willing as she'd been to give Jaddo a tiny bit of leeway on the whole camping debacle, she and Anthony had both been quite rattled when they'd learned of the latest near miss. Any relief that Brivari had heeded her advice to be more forthcoming with Jaddo, resulting in his learning of Max's peril, had been overshadowed by her dismay that this situation existed in the first place. This Hubble was an invented creature, a menace born solely of grief and loss who had taken out Valenti's father and come dreadfully close to taking out her grandson, although both Brivari and Jaddo insisted the danger had been minimal for a variety of reasons she didn't quite buy. Max being capable of stopping a bullet? Healing stones capable of bringing him back if he'd been shot? Maybe, but she wouldn't have been keen on testing either theory on her own family. Even if he isn't, she thought sadly. One of the hardest parts of this was a fact she'd always known: Her grandchildren weren't really her grandchildren. She'd pushed that inconvenient truth to the back of her mind for years now, shelving it for the day when she'd have no choice but to wrestle with it. That day was not only getting closer, it was rushing toward her at the speed of a freight train.

"So how are we going to work this?" she asked, turning to logistics to restart the conversation. "Who do I call first if I need to reach one of you?"

"Me," Brivari answered. "We've agreed we will retain our respective roles, at least until Jaddo and Ava move here this summer. The only thing which will change immediately is that he'll spend more of his time familiarizing himself with the three who live here, and we've agreed to talk on a daily basis. Should the need arise, call me first, and him if you can't reach me."

"Right. So...I take it we'll be bumping into each other?" Dee said to Jaddo. "Just like old times."

"Perhaps," Jaddo said warily.

"So how much has he filled you in on the nitty gritty of their lives here?" Dee went on. "I know you know the basics, but, for example, did you know that Michael is sweet on one of his classmates?"

"So I heard," Jaddo said in a pained tone. "That hardly matters. Whatever bonds they've formed here will be broken once they return home."

"But the bonds they form here will help to shape the people they'll be when they return home," Dee said. "So it does matter. Very much so."

"She's right," Brivari said.

"Very well, then," Jaddo sighed. "Just don't expect me to wallow in adolescent angst."

"They're all adolescents, so I'm afraid there's a certain amount of 'angst'," Anthony chuckled. "Isn't it that way with Ava?"

"Ava knows she's not human and doesn't belong here, so, no," Jaddo answered.

"Really?" Brivari murmured. "I seem to remember an argument about a Ouija board which struck me as a classic bid to 'fit in'."

"There have been some...incidents," Jaddo said uncomfortably. "But certainly no...liaisons."

"Is that what they're calling them now?" Dee chuckled.

"Listen up, everyone!" boomed a voice from the radio just as the music ended. "Goin' north on downtown Main Street, headed with my entourage toward the winner of the KROZ blind dream date. An evening of fantasy and romance for one lucky listener that ends in the most exciting concert of the year. An intimate club date with a surprise mystery band that'll put this town on the map for more than just the crash."

"Good grief," Jaddo muttered.

"Shush," Dee scolded. "I want to hear who won."

"Right here at one of our finer local establishments," the voice continued, "the Crashdown Cafe! Looking for our new Queen of Hearts, Miss Liz Parker!"

The sound of squeals and applause wafted from the radio as Brivari and Dee exchanged glances. "What?" Jaddo demanded. "What's wrong?"




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





Two days later


February 10, 2000, 3:30 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




"It sounds like we've gotta find you a serious, dark-haired, mystery man from an exotic place by Friday night! Is Liz Parker's Mr. Right listening out there?'

The DJ's smile was as broad as a barn, but Liz wasn't looking at him, or the throngs of smiling people eagerly hanging on her every word, or at Maria, who was trying, and failing, to look merely interested instead of practically drooling—she was looking at Max, currently sitting alone in a booth only a few yards away. I've already found my serious, dark-haired, mystery man from an exotic place, she thought sadly, and he doesn't want us to be together.

"Maybe not 'exotic'," she said out loud. "You said 'out of town'. 'Exotic' sounds...dangerous."

"Just an expression," the DJ assured her. "Don't worry, Liz—we know you wouldn't want to pair up with anyone dangerous."

Already did, Liz thought, her eyes on Max, who looked miserable, about as miserable as she was, the only two unhappy souls in this cheerful little throng who were so happy that she'd won what had to be the stupidest contest she'd ever heard of. Blind dates had never been her cup of tea; she was a planner, someone who liked to know exactly what was coming, or, barring that, what her options were. To be thrown together with a stranger for an entire evening was alarming; to have it happen in full view of the public was horrifying. How on earth could Maria think this was "romantic"? Dating was fraught with peril even when you knew your date; not knowing wasn't exciting, it was just plain wrong. She'd wondered if she would feel differently when the time for this interview came around, if the party atmosphere surrounding the entire enterprise would have somehow seeped into her, but if anything, she felt worse; everything about it, from the smirking DJ to the grinning crowds to her delighted, well-intentioned best friend whom she'd dearly love to throttle made her want to scream. Maybe she did need a break from Czechoslovakians, but substituting something this irritating was no break at all.

"I've got a few more questions for you, Liz," the always cheerful DJ announced. "These were sent in by our listeners to help us choose just the right guy for you. Ready?"

"I guess," Liz said doubtfully.

"Ok, here goes: Smoker or non-smoker?"

"Non," Liz said firmly. "The surgeon general found smoking to be dangerous decades ago."

"Ah, no wonder you want a brainiac!" the DJ said knowingly, as though he'd just unearthed some heretofore unknown secret about her. "Flowers or chocolates?"

"Um...chocolates."

"Romantic dinner or grab-n-go?"

"I...romantic dinner, I guess."

"Meat or vegetarian?"

"Uh...meat."

"A carnivore," the DJ murmured in a tone which may or may not have been judgmental. "Wine or beer?"

Liz's eyes narrowed. "I'm 16."

"Right," the DJ said quickly, his smile faltering for a moment. "Right, I...I'm not sure how that one slipped past. How did that one slip past?" he demanded of a nearby assistant, one hand over his mic. "Moving right along," he went on into the microphone when the assistant shrugged, "rom com or action flick?"

"Um...either."

"No, Liz, you have to pick one," the DJ lectured in an insufferably teacherish tone. "The point here is to learn more about you."

The persistent prick of annoyance which Liz had been beating back since this whole charade had started suddenly became much more persistent. "Then you can learn that it depends on the movie," she answered. "I don't like a bad movie regardless of genre."

"Feisty," the DJ chuckled as Liz stifled the urge to smack him. "Look out, boys, this one's up for a fight."

"I'm not fighting," Liz protested, "I'm just objecting to being stuffed in a box."

"Whoa there, filly, this is all in good fun!" the DJ chirped as Maria, standing behind him, made frantic gestures which Liz interpreted to mean that she was supposed to cheerfully go along with this nonsense. "Now, favorite subject: Gym or lunch?"

"Science," Liz said stonily.

"Favorite TV show: MTV or—"

"PBS's Nova," Liz answered before he could finish. "And as much as I've enjoyed this, I really do have to get back to work."

"Hang on there!" the DJ objected as she pulled off her headphones. "Our listeners have a lot more questions to ask you!"

"Like what?" Liz whispered, one hand over his mic. "What color nail polish I use? What kind of diet I'm on? Take my advice and quit while you're behind. We're done."

"Much as we'd like to continue, our Queen of Hearts has a job to do," the DJ said quickly as she walked off to applause from the assembled crowd. "Our Liz is not only drop dead brilliant, she's a working girl who takes her job very seriously..."

"Liz? Liz!" Maria hissed, following her into the back, the door mercifully cutting off the rest of the DJ's blather. "What are you doing? You can't just walk away from an interview!"

"Really?" Liz said savagely. "Because I think I just did. This is nuts, Maria! How could you do this to me? You wanted to have a 'normal' weekend, and I said 'nothing weird'. You do remember that, don't you? Nothing weird. This is not only not normal, it's about as weird as it gets."

"Really?" Maria said dryly. "Weirder than people who spontaneously sprout spider webs, and cave paintings in code, and—"

"Yes," Liz said firmly. "Weirder than that. That's real. That's relevant. That's important. This is...this is stupid. There's no other word for it. How could you possibly think this is 'normal'?"

Maria's eyes dropped. "I didn't—don't. I just...I heard about the contest and threw our names in the pot. I never thought we'd win; I figured we'd just cheer for the winner and go to the concert, and that would be our normal weekend. Look, is it really that bad?" she went on, taking Liz's hand. "So he asked you some stupid questions. So what? Is the world going to end because you answered a few stupid questions? The whole point of this was to do something fun—"

"This is not fun."

"Okay, something—"

"Or normal," Liz added.

"Something...inconsequential," Maria finished as Liz struggled to find an objection to that one. "Something that doesn't matter. Something that isn't a matter of life and death."

"Does it count if I kill the DJ?"

"You know what I mean," Maria insisted. "Something that doesn't involve people chasing you, and mysterious illnesses, and guns in your face. Something you don't have to worry about the way you worry about that stuff. All you're gonna do is go on a date with a guy for a few hours, and even if he turns out to be a total dork, who cares? You'll never be alone with him anyway, and if it turns out he's someone you want to be alone with, that can be arranged later. And for one weekend, one night, you can stop thinking about Czechoslovakian madness and just be a girl, a high school student, an Earthling. Is that really such a tragedy?"

Liz sighed and leaned against the wall. "You know, this would be a lot easier to take if you were doing it with me."

"Sorry, babe, there's only one 'Queen of Hearts'," Maria smiled.

"Dumb name," Liz groaned, rolling her eyes. "But if I have to be the 'Queen of Hearts', don't I get a lady in waiting? This almost makes me wish the concert doesn't work out for you."

Maria's eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, scrambling for her watch. "What time is it? Oh, my God!"

"What?" Liz said, startled. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, my God, they're gonna kill me!" Maria wailed, throwing open her locker. "I'm late for the audition!"

"Okay, calm down," Liz ordered. "It's close by, and you can still get there. "

Five minutes later, Maria was out the door, and Liz was facing re-entry. Peering into the cafe, she noted with satisfaction that her KROZ interrogator had moved on and Max was still seated in the same booth, but no longer alone; he was talking with an older woman, the sight of whom gave Liz a pang of longing for Grandma Claudia. Maybe this is good, she thought, hurrying to retrieve her orders. Maybe the older woman was a good excuse to stop by and say 'hi' without appearing pushy.

Five minutes later, her arms full of plates, she reentered the cafe to find that Max had left.




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




"Much as we'd like to continue, our Queen of Hearts has a job to do," KROZ's DJ intoned as Liz marched away. "Our Liz is not only drop dead brilliant, she's a working girl who takes her job very seriously, a model of both scholarship and responsibility."

Good cover, Max thought as the DJ scrambled to disguise the fact that he'd just been...well...dumped. He'd resisted the serious urge to stand up and cheer when Liz had finally revolted against the inane line of questioning and pulled the plug on the interview. Only Maria seemed to have understood what had happened, scurrying after her with an alarmed expression as everyone else clapped and cheered, probably unable to fathom the notion that their "Queen of Hearts" had just staged a walkout. Good for you, Liz, Max thought. She'd just given him one more reason to fall in love with her all over again.

"What a role model!" the DJ gushed. "What an example for young women everywhere! And what a treat one lucky guy will have tomorrow night! Tune in tomorrow to KROZ when our brilliant Queen of Hearts meets her dream guy!"

The mic clicked off, and the crowd roared their approval, apparently not noticing the disgruntled look on the DJ's face. Max allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction that things had gone sour. He'd debated avoiding the Crashdown tonight, but ultimately had been unable to stay away, promising himself that he was going to be happy for Liz even if he had spent the last two days in a funk over the notion of someone else enjoying her company without fear of pursuit, strange illnesses, or murderous relatives. Liz's obvious discomfiture with the whole thing had given him permission to be unhappy about it too, which perversely made him feel better. Whatever the subject, it appeared misery really did love company.

And now I need company for my other misery, Max thought as a waitress stopped by to retrieve Michael and Isabel's leavings. He'd hoped the encounter with Hubble would cool some of Michael's ardor to find out more about "Nasedo", but unfortunately it had had the opposite effect—presented with further proof of Nasedo's existence, Michael was now more determined than ever to locate him. Or her, Max added silently. Or it. The single, most prevalent piece of information they had concerning this fourth alien was that he had killed at least two people, probably more. Other than that, they had nothing, no idea if this person was friend or enemy, relative or stranger, or even male or female now that the notion of shapeshifting had entered the conversation. That almost total lack of information hadn't stopped Michael from turning Nasedo into a mythical savior, a long lost relative, a paragon of justifiable homicide. He must have heard at least some of what Hubble had said, but was willing to discount it all, chalking it up to the ravings of a madman while treating his "hallucination" like gospel. That experience in the cave had been eerie and certainly had sounded genuine...but so had Hubble. Hubble hadn't been crazy, he'd been angry. Big difference. Even Isabel, sympathetic though she was, hadn't been able to endorse a hunt for Nasedo. Assuming that was even necessary...

The DJ and his entourage were on their way out the door, and as Max's eyes followed them, he made a point of eyeballing everyone in the lower two-thirds of the cafe. What no one had mentioned, himself included, was that they may not need to go looking for Nasedo; Nasedo may coming looking for them, may already be here. He's back, Michael had said when they'd wondered about the sign in the grass outside the cave that night they'd trekked into the woods. Nasedo's here. That was Michael's wishful thinking talking, to be sure, but there was no denying that symbol on the ground. What if Nasedo was already here? What if something much worse than the FBI was stalking them? If he was here, what did he want, what did that mean for them, and why hadn't he shown himself yet...or had he? He wasn't certain exactly what a shapeshifter could do, but it appeared he could disguise himself as someone else, meaning Nasedo could be...anyone. He could be here right now, watching them, and they'd never know...

"Mind if I sit?"

Max's head jerked around as he shivered at that last thought. "Oh! Hi, Grandma. Sure. Sit down."

Grandma Dee slid onto the bench opposite him. "You look upset," she announced in her usual forthright way.

"Uh...yeah," Max admitted. "A little."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"Lots," Max said ruefully. "If I could. But I can't."

"I see," Grandma answered, not even bothering to try to worm it out of him as his mother would have. "Did you know I used to work here?"

"Isabel mentioned that," Max replied, grateful for the change of subject. "Something about you being...a waitress?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Grandma smiled. "It was 'Parker's' back then, just a bar in the beginning. They added the cafe later, and I worked here in the summer of '59."

'59, Max thought heavily. The year Nasedo killed that guy in the woods. How high did the pile of bodies go? "So what was it like back then? Did you wear deely-boppers too?"

"No," Grandma chuckled. "All we had were buttons. It was a regular cafe back then, none of the murals, or flashy signs, or anything like that. Guess we didn't need it; we had a wild summer that year without any of that."

"Something happen?" Max asked, wondering could possibly have been considered "wild" in 1959.

"Lots," Grandma said, "but I doubt you'd believe most of it."

"Don't be too sure about that," Max said with a small smile. "You might be surprised at what I'd believe."

"Not necessarily," Grandma said. She paused for a moment, glancing at the DJ's former table. "That was quite an interview Liz gave."

Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You heard it?"

"I certainly did. I love the way she didn't let the DJ box her into a corner."

"Yeah," Max agreed, "Liz is..."

"Special?" Grandma suggested.

"I was going to say 'smart'," Max said. "But that too."

"You know," Grandma said, lowering her voice and leaning in closer, "this contest...it's just one night. That's all. Just keep that in mind when you see things that are hard to watch."

"I hope it isn't just one night," Max said quietly. "I hope she meets someone she really likes and it turns into more than just one night."

Grandma raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

Max dropped his eyes. "I should. For her sake." He stood up. "Goodnight, Grandma. It was nice to see you."




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




Dee's heart slumped almost as much as Max's shoulders as she watched him walk away, the very picture of dejection. Isabel had told her that Max had decided to "cool things off" with Liz, an understandable decision given everything they'd been through recently and one which may not be entirely his given the satisfaction his sister had not bothered to hide. The possibility that Liz herself had opted out of the alien carnival had been put to rest by watching her tonight, the number of times she'd glanced longingly at Max a dead giveaway that this hadn't been her idea. Oh, dear, Dee thought sadly. She'd been so happy that Max had someone to talk to, and now it appeared he didn't, and when he needed it the most, no less. Talk about bad timing.

An unfamiliar man abruptly slid into the booth opposite Dee. "I'm sorry, this booth is taken," Dee said, irritation tingeing her voice.

*Which is precisely why I chose it,* Jaddo's voice answered in her mind.

"Oh, good grief," Dee muttered. "When I said I'd be 'seeing you around', I didn't mean in the next 48 hours. What happens to Ava when you keep coming up here?"

*Ava is the same age as the others and perfectly capable of being left for short periods of time,* Jaddo answered. *I've had to leave her from the beginning since it was only the two of us.*

"I remember," Dee said darkly. "And talk out loud, for heaven's sake. We'll look weird if I'm the only one talking or no one's talking. What are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are—watching the hybrids."

"No, I meant here, in this booth," Dee clarified. "You can watch the hybrids all day and night without coming near me."

Jaddo looked away as Dee marveled at the fact that, no matter what form the Warders took, they still displayed characteristic mannerisms which allowed her to read them. "Let me guess," she said before he could answer. "You came to ask me for a favor."

"How did you know that?" Jaddo demanded.

"I may not have seen you for years, but I know you very well," Dee said. "How is that you haven't needed a favor from me in decades, but suddenly need one now?"

"Because I haven't found myself in this situation before," Jaddo answered. "The time has come when we will need to take a more active roll in the hybrids' lives. I'm reasonably sure how Brivari will respond to that, so I'm seeking your support. He listens to you."

"And why, pray tell, has this time come now?" Dee asked.

"Because Rath has figured out the map," Jaddo answered. "Which means we can be certain he will use that information in the near future...and when he does, he will not do so quietly."

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


Easter is next week, so I'll post Chapter 71 on Sunday, April 15th. Happy Easter to all who celebrate it!

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE



February 10, 2000, 4:15 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




Dee glanced around the cafe, crowded at this hour with adults and kids, largely teens. No one was nearby, but the subject matter had changed enough that she reverted to telepathic speech.

*Michael figured out the map? How do you know that?*

*I thought you wanted to talk out loud?* Jaddo said.

*I changed my mind. Woman's prerogative. How do you—*

*How do you think? I've spent time watching him in that hell hole of a trailer he's forced to call 'home'. He's comparing the cave map to a map of Roswell, and accurately, I might add.*

*And...where will that lead him?*

*To the library,* Jaddo answered, *where we secreted Valeris' book.*

*The one I found?* Dee asked. *The one with their pictures?*

*Yes, that one. It also contains basic information about their history and culture along with practical information such as how to return home. Although the book is written in Antarian, so unless they remember how to read it, which is doubtful, they won't be able to simply pack up and leave. Plus they'll need the key to the Granolith.*

*The key to...what?*

*Their way home,* Jaddo explained. *You didn't think we stranded them here without a way home, did you?*

*I guess I never pondered the logistics,* Dee allowed. *What's a...what did you call it?*

*Never mind. Call it a spaceship, if you like. They'll need a key to operate it, and I have that key.*

*That's a relief,* Dee said. *Wait—you have the key? Does Brivari know that? Ah,* she added sagely when she saw the look on Jaddo's face. *He does. Bet that went over well.*

*Can we stay on topic?*

*Of course,* Dee said calmly. *Map, book, self discovery. So what do you need me for? We all knew this day was coming. Did you want me to introduce you?*

Jaddo looked momentarily startled. *Not a bad idea,* he admitted, *but we have another problem.*

*Good Lord, don't we have enough already?*

*You've been here tonight almost as long as I have,* Jaddo went on, ignoring her. *No doubt you noticed the hybrids were having a fight.*

*It did look like they were having a disagreement, but I was much too far away to tell what it was about,* Dee said. *Did your bionic ears pick up the conversation?*

Jaddo raised an eyebrow. * 'Bionic'? I'm not a robot. And I wouldn't have been able to hear much from the back anyway, not with the ambient noise level in this place.*

*Fine, then, did you hear what they were fighting about from your inferior position with your non-bionic, otherwise enhanced ears?*

*Oh, how I've missed your biting sarcasm,* Jaddo said dryly. *Funny how you can miss something like that.*

*Side-splitting,* Dee agreed. *And you haven't answered my question.*

*Me,* Jaddo sighed. *They were fighting about me.*

*You? They don't even know you exist.*

*Actually, they do,* Jaddo answered, *or rather that someone like me exists. They're focusing their efforts on the source of the 'sighting' in the woods, and they associate the name 'Nasedo' with the author of that event because that's the name Brivari's Indian ally gave them.*

*A name you're currently using,* Dee added.

*Because it came to mind,* Jaddo said, *and because I didn't wish to waste valuable time coming up with a suitable human pseudonym. My point is that they're aware of two deaths, Atherton's and Hubble's wife, both of which are attributed to me even though Brivari is solely responsible for the former.*

*A logical conclusion given how little information they have,* Dee noted. *They don't realize there are two of you.*

*Logical, perhaps, but inaccurate,* Jaddo groused.

*My goodness,* Dee said with amusement, *do you mean to tell me that you're fretting about your press?*

*I'm 'fretting' because that 'press' has given them reason to fear us,* Jaddo retorted. *That was the cause of their disagreement, whether searching for us is dangerous. One of them feels we're too dangerous to actively seek out, one wishes to find us regardless, and the last reluctantly agrees.*

*Guessing games,* Dee sighed. *Okay, I'll bite. Michael is the one who wants to find you; that's easy. Max is willing to go along with that, and Isabel wants nothing to do with it.*

*That's what I would have thought too,* Jaddo admitted. *Rath is indeed the one most eager to find us, and for that I'm grateful. But I never would have pegged Vilandra, of all people, as someone willing to give us the benefit of the doubt while her brother brands us 'murderers'.*

*Jaddo, you have to look at this from their perspective,* Dee said patiently. *They have very, very little information, only fragments, really, that and dead bodies. And Max was just attacked out of the blue; I'm sure that's coloring his opinion.*

*Hence the problem. Should the need arise to reveal ourselves, I'm afraid it would send them into a panic.*

*Should the need arise to reveal yourselves, I would, of course, be there to help the process along,* Dee said. *And the operative phrase there is 'should the need arise'. It hasn't, and we don't know when it will. Michael hasn't acted on anything he thinks he knows, and it may be quite some time before he does. I know you and Brivari disagreed about how quickly to tell them anything, but—*

*Actually, we didn't,* Jaddo said. *We both agreed that they were much too immature to know the truth. Where we parted company concerned our response to their thrashing around in their attempts to learn more. Brivari wished to wait, and while I would agree that would be preferable, I simply don't think it feasible given their behavior these past months. I'm genuinely concerned that leaving them to their own devices will land them in more trouble than simply telling them the truth, and while I'd love to keep them in the dark longer, that's impossible because they're no longer in the dark—they walked out of it on their own.*

Dee was quiet for a moment. *I've said as much to him,* she allowed. *I think he keeps hoping they'll get scared and back off, at least until next summer.*

Jaddo shook his head. *Unlikely. Rath almost died, and they still responded to my 'sighting'.*

*But that was you,* Dee reminded him in a steely tone. *They didn't cause that, nor are they responsible for Hubble. Which means the last time they instigated anything was when Michael went into the sweat, which was weeks ago. It could very well be that that close call rattled them enough to make them back off. If we get you to knock off the theatrics, we might make it to summer.*

*It's not me you need to worry about,* Jaddo said. *It's Rath. I know him. Adult or adolescent, experience tells me he will not stop until he finds what he's looking for.*

*Your 'experience' is with Rath,* Dee reminded him. *This isn't Rath, it's Michael. He's a different person who may or may not react the same way as the person you're remembering. If he does something, we'll talk. Until then, this is all speculation.*

*Very well, then,* Jaddo sighed. *I suppose that's the best I can do for the moment.* He paused. *I had one more question for you. During the...'sighting'...Brivari was out of town, but he wasn't in LA. Do you know where he was?*

*He was in LA the day they left for the camping trip,* Dee answered. *I spoke with his assistant on the phone.*

*Well, he wasn't there right before that,* Jaddo said. *And he won't say where he was.*

*Then he won't say,* Dee said impatiently. *Look, you're not going to keep putting me in the middle. If you—*

*I don't need to 'put you in the middle'. You put yourself there more often than not.*

*—have a question for him, ask him yourself,* Dee finished. *And very funny, by the way.*

*You think I was being funny?*

*I think you were being you,* Dee said crossly. *And by 'in the middle', I meant 'between you and Brivari'. Of course I'm in the middle of everything else; I've been his eyes and ears for the past ten years. I'm just not willing to referee the two of you, assuming that's even possible, which I'm betting it isn't.*

*I wasn't asking you to 'referee',* Jaddo said. *I was merely asking if you knew. The answer is of interest to you as well given that the farther away he is, the longer it would take him to return should anything go awry. And I do recognize and appreciate your contribution to our Wards' safety and well-being. I consider you a Warder in your own right.*

Dee, who had fallen into a grumpy silence, stared at him in astonishment. To hear this from Brivari would be gratifying, but expected; to hear this from Jaddo was downright astounding. *Ah...well...I learned from the best,* she said awkwardly. *Mama and Daddy taught me everything I know about dealing with both the two of you and children. Not that there's much difference.*

It was meant to be a joke, but it fell flat, and Dee silently kicked herself for sounding petty. But one thing that could be said for Jaddo is that he was nearly as good at taking it as he was at dishing it out, and he didn't react now, his eyes drifting far away. *It was odd,* he said, *to be in your house the other night without your parents there. Where are they now? Have they...*

*Died?* Dee finished. "No. They're just old. They live in an apartment complex for senior citizens here in town. Daddy is still in good shape, but Mama...well, let's just say Mama's seen better days. She forgets a lot, but seeing Brivari seems to bring a lot of things back. He's been visiting regularly since Christmas. I'm sure she'd love to see you, too.*

Jaddo's expression clouded. *No. Thank you. This is precisely why I don't get attached.* He rose from his seat. *Please keep your eyes open. More open than usual, that is.*

He walked away, marching right past the object of Max's affection, who had returned to waiting tables. Good luck with that, Dee thought sadly. As Max had already discovered, one may not want to "get attached", but sometimes one didn't have a choice.



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




The next day,

February 11, 2000, 3:30 p.m.,

Crashdown Cafe



Liz slipped inside the kitchen door and leaned against it, savoring the silence. Or the relative silence, rather, of sizzling grease, banging pots and pans, and the whirr of the dishwasher, a cafe cacophony far preferable to what had been going on out there. God, what an awful day. The past couple of days had seen a parade of people yakking about that stupid contest, but today had been the worst. Even some of the teachers had gotten in on it, making a public show of giving her an extra day to hand in her homework. Great, she'd thought as her classmates' expressions had veered away from adulation and more toward resentment. It has hard enough being a serious student among not-so-serious students, hard enough to be labeled "geek", and "bookworm", and "teacher's pet" without having it confirmed from on high. The entire school was going to that concert—why shouldn't everyone have an extra day to hand in assignments? And that's when she'd decided to use her misfortune to her advantage because, if she was going to be stuck in this ridiculous position, she should at least get something out of it. Five minutes later, after a back and forth worthy of a courtroom, she'd sweetly badgered their math teacher into granting the homework dispensation to the entire class, instantly elevating her from class suck-up to class hero. Word must have gotten around because no other teachers made a similar offer, a bummer for everyone but her; she had no intention of leaving her homework until Tuesday. She'd probably spend Saturday and Sunday locked in her room and bent over the books just to wash away the stain of Friday night. She'd fled school and hurried eagerly into work, intent on getting away from it all, only to find that the Crashdown's customers were every bit as eager to get in on her "big date" as her classmates. She'd just had to grin and bear it until her shift was over, and now that it was, she faced the debacle of what to wear, something she'd been putting off. What did one wear to an event one did not wish to attend that would be photographed and talked about by the entire town? That was a question which would have sent Dear Abby heading for the booze.

Her mother rounded the corner, laundry basket on one hip. "Liz! Dad said he was letting you off early today. You all excited about tonight?"

Liz leaned against the door, tongue-tied. A hundred million people must have asked her that question today, and each time she'd smiled and given them the answer they expected. This time, for some reason, she couldn't.

Nancy looked her up and down before setting the basket down. "Snack time," she announced. "Milkshake?"

Liz nodded mutely, following her mom into the kitchen and tossing her deely boppers on the counter before tossing herself in a chair, watching eagerly as Nancy bustled around gathering milk and chocolate ice cream, scooping them into the blender. Homemade milkshakes were one of her worst vices. They were a pain to make largely because the blender was a pain to clean, but you could make them any flavor you wanted, any size, any thickness...

"Malt?" Nancy asked.

Liz nodded eagerly. "Lots."

The blender whirred, two glasses were filled, two straws produced, and two shakes consumed in complete, blissful silence. Liz's malt was so strong it could have been mistaken for cheap whiskey, and she drank it fast, ignoring the ice cream headache it gave her. It was heaven.

"More?" Nancy suggested.

"Absolutely," Liz said.

She was most of the way through the second malt when she started to feel stuffed and slowed down, while her mother was still nursing her first. "So," Nancy said slowly, pumping her straw up and down to break up the inevitable lumps, "are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

"Isn't it obvious? This stupid contest is bothering me. I have to go on a blind date with a total stranger in front of the whole town."

"Well, the 'stranger' part comes with the 'blind date' part," Nancy said. "But the 'whole town' part is unique, I'll give you that."

"I didn't want this," Liz went on. "Maria did this. She was trying to take my mind off...things...and she thought this would be a good way to do it."

"Looks like it worked," Nancy commented.

"Yeah, but replacing one set of problems with another just gives you a new set of problems," Liz complained. "I just wish there was a way I could get out of this." She paused. "Hey!" she said suddenly, brightening a bit. "Maybe I could be sick! You could call the radio station and tell them...I don't know, tell them anything. Tell them I'm throwing up, or something desperately unromantic."

"I suppose I could," Nancy allowed. "But would that be fair?"

"To whom? It's not fair that I didn't even enter the contest, but I have to go through all this."

Nancy smiled faintly. "Remember Princess Di? Word is that she got cold feet before she married Prince Charles and asked her sisters how she could get out of it. Know what they said?"

Liz shook her head. "They said, 'It's too late, Dutch, your face is on the tea towels'," Nancy went on. "And it's the same here—your face is on the tea towels, or rather, in the paper, and on the radio, and so on. A lot of people put a lot of work into this weekend, Liz, not just the blind date business, but the concert too. Pulling out now would leave them all in the lurch. If you'd turned it down right away, right after you won, they would have had a chance to pull another name from the hat, but now...now it's a bit late."

"Diana should have pulled out," Liz muttered.

"Maybe," Nancy allowed. "But that was a marriage; this isn't. This is just one night, just a dinner and a concert. Maria's going to the concert, too, isn't she?"

"I guess," Liz sighed. "She's singing with Alex's band, or I think she is, anyway. Alex didn't seem too thrilled about it, especially when she started trying to dress them."

" 'Dress them'?"

"Yeah, she was trying to talk them into new outfits," Liz said. "Poor Alex. I told them it was just one night, and they should just work together and be themselves without trying to change each other."

Nancy raised an eyebrow. " 'Just one night'? Now where have I heard that before?"

Liz felt herself flush. "Oh...God, I just walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Pretty much," Nancy chuckled. "Sounds like Alex is looking forward to this about as much as you are, even if it is for different reasons. Did he find out what was wrong with your answering machine?"

"He said it needed to be reset after the 100th call. And that there were a lot of desperate guys out there."

"Okay," Nancy said slowly. "Might be best to not mention that to your father. I thought this was about people congratulating you, not...chasing you."

"Yeah, well, the congratulating's bad enough," Liz said. "What if I get one of those phone message guys as my blind date?"

"I wouldn't worry about that," Nancy smiled, leaning in closer. "I wasn't supposed to tell you this, but your father insisted on meeting the winner first."

Liz's eyes widened. "He did?"

"Yup. Called the radio station, said you were a minor, and that you weren't going anywhere unless he approved the date."

"And?" Liz demanded.

"He went down there this afternoon and came home satisfied. No questions," Nancy added firmly when Liz's mouth opened. "But at least you know it's someone who passed Dad's muster. That should make you feel better."

It does, Liz realized, feeling better already. One of her closet fears was that she'd get someone scary. If her father had given his blessing, whoever it was couldn't be too bad."

"So," Nancy said crisply, "on to more interesting things. What are you wearing?"

"I have no idea," Liz confessed. "I think I rebelled against the whole thing by putting it off."

"That's my daughter," Nancy said, patting her hand. "Always psychoanalyzing herself. Closet check! Follow me."

Liz trooped up the stairs behind her mother, feeling just a teensy smidge of interest in the concept of dressing up. "Now," Nancy said, throwing up Liz's closet door, "were you thinking romantic, or glamorous, or—"

"Romantic," Liz said.

"Glamorous," a voice said behind them. "Definitely glamorous."

Maria was in the doorway, decked out in a tube top and a rhinestone choker. "What?" she said when Liz stared at her. "You said to be 'me'. Well, this is me. Let the guys wear their play clothes. Just makes me look better. What'dya think, Mrs. Parker?"

"You look lovely, Maria," Nancy said. "I'm sure you'll be a great addition to Alex's band."

"Thank you," Maria smiled. "I'm glad someone's in a positive mood about tonight."

"I think Liz is feeling better," Nancy replied. "She always feels better after a milkshake."

Liz rolled her eyes as Maria's popped. "What? You're going out to dinner, and you filled up on a milkshake? What are parents always telling us about spoiling our dinner?"

"In this case I'd say it's insurance in case there's nothing on the menu that looks good," Nancy said mildly. "Or in case her stomach's off. Or just if she wants to be the traditional lady who eats like a bird. Whatever, it's all good." She pulled a dress out of the closet and handed it to Liz. "You're in good hands, so I'll leave you girls to it, but...here's a suggestion from mom. See you downstairs."

"Oh, my," Maria said, shaking her head as she inspected the plain black dress Nancy had selected. "Borrrrring. Very old ladyish, very—"

"Classy," Liz said, holding the dress up to herself in the mirror. "Simple, elegant...I like it. Maria, no," she went on firmly when Maria began to protest. "You and Alex like to dress yourselves, and I like to dress myself too. I want this one. Give me half an hour, and then you can do my hair."

Maria raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. Go hold off the hordes, or collect some phone numbers, or something."

"Okay," Maria said doubtfully. "But no climbing out the window. I'll never forgive you if you do a runner on me."

"No running," Liz promised, not bothering to mention that she'd been considering just exactly that.

"And no showing up in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers in protest against the chauvinistic male establishment's sexualization of women either."

"That's your mom talking. Scram."

Maria finally left, with a backward glance which made it clear she was none too happy about it, and Liz returned to the mirror, holding up her mother's choice. The dress was plain, but the perfect palette. Add some jewelry, maybe that necklace Grandma Claudia had given her for her last birthday, and a bright lipstick, and...listen to me, she thought dryly. Anyone who heard what she was thinking might actually believe she was looking forward to this. The irony was it had almost all the elements of the perfect romantic evening: Nice weather, pretty dress, dinner at a nice restaurant. The only thing lacking was...Max, she finished heavily. The only thing lacking was the guy. If only she were going with Max, tonight would be perfect; without him, it was nothing but a farce. She'd watched him hopefully these last few days, passing him at school, sitting next to him in Bio, watched him watch her while being interviewed, hoping all the while that he'd protest, that he'd say, "Enough, Liz, don't do it!". If he'd done that, she would have dropped this whole thing in a heartbeat. If he did it right now, as she stood here holding a dress up to herself in the mirror, she'd do the same.

But he hadn't. And he wouldn't. And as her mother and, more bluntly, Maria, had already pointed out, a lot of people were depending on her participation in said farce. Back to moping, she retreated to the bathroom, once again certain she was the only one in town not looking forward to tonight.




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




Valenti residence




"What's this?"

Flopped on the sofa in front of the TV, Kyle swung his propped feet sideways so he could see what his father was looking at. "Dinner. What's it look like?"

His father came closer. "Looks like a TV dinner."

"Yeah, well, I'm watching TV, so that fits."

"Fish sticks," Valenti said, taking inventory. "Tater tots. Corn. Where's the deep fried Twinkie?"

"You're hilarious," Kyle deadpanned. "Okay, so it's not the most nutritious TV dinner in the world. So what?"

"So you're the one who's always on my case about eating healthy," Valenti said. "Don't you practice what you preach?"

"Not on a Friday night. It's the weekend, and I'm slumming. So shoot me."

"I don't want to shoot you, I'm just confused as to why you haven't 'slummed' this way before," Valenti answered. "Or why you're slumming at all. Isn't this the weekend of the big concert?"

"Yup," Kyle said tonelessly.

"Well, aren't you going?"

"Nope."

"Why not? Whole town's going."

"No, Dad, the whole town is not going because I'm not going," Kyle said. "Why would I want to watch everyone slobber over some sappy blind date?"

"You could just go the concert and ignore the...wait a minute," Valenti said. "This is about Liz Parker, isn't it?"

"No," Kyle said defensively. "I never said anything about that."

"Yeah, you kind of did," Valenti said, sinking down on the opposite end of the couch. "I was just talking about the concert. You brought up the blind date bit."

Crap, Kyle thought sourly. His mouth runneth over; his father's nose for fibs could be a real pain. "The concert is part of the 'blind date bit', Dad. You go to the concert, you go to the 'blind date bit' whether you want to or not. Package deal."

"I thought you and Liz had called it quits?"

"We did," Kyle said patiently. "That's why this is not about Liz."

"Bet Max Evans isn't happy about this," Valenti went on. "He and Liz are an item, aren't they?"

"Not according to Max. According to Max, they 'didn't break up because they were never really together'."

"So...you talk to Max about Liz?"

Double crap. "No, Dad, I don't talk to Max about Liz," Kyle said, kicking himself for giving something else away. "I just overheard him say that."

His father gave him a skeptical look. "Wow. That's a pretty personal statement to make just anywhere. Just how close were you when you 'overheard' this?"

"Close. And stop investigating me."

"I'm not 'investigating' you," his father protested. "I'm just curious."

"It's a fine line," Kyle retorted. "You crossed it. Back off."

"Okay," Valenti said quickly, both hands raised in submission. "But if you don't mind, I'm not spending Friday night at home noshing on tater tots and watching Let's Make a Deal."

"It's Shark Attack. What the heck is Let's Make a Deal?"

"Something our mothers' watched," Valenti answered, "and what we drowned our sorrows with when we had girl trouble. I'll be back late. Don't wait up."

"Wait...where are you going?"

"Keeping an eye on things," Valenti said. "Big concert, could be problems."

"Then why aren't you wearing your uniform?"

"I want to blend in," Valenti replied. "There's no wet blanket like a uniform."

"Exactly, you always said uniforms keep people in line. Besides, everyone knows you're the sheriff whether you're in a uniform or a paper bag, so...wait," Kyle went on, peering closer. "You shaved."

"I shave every day, Kyle. It's what big boys do."

"No, you shaved again," Kyle said, ignoring the bait. "And you're wearing that smelly stuff again. What are you..." He stopped, his eyes widening. "Oh, God. Oh my freakin' God, you're cruising!"

"What?"

"Holy shmoley," Kyle said in utter disbelief. "You know the world has suddenly decided to revolve the other way when you're home on a Friday night and your father, of all people, is cruising a concert."

"I never said anything about 'cruising'," his father protested.

"Just like I never said anything about Liz?"

"So you are upset about Liz."

"So you are investigating me?"

"Sounds like you're investigating me," Valenti chuckled.

"Guess it runs in the family," Kyle muttered. "Just go. Go cruise, or work, or whatever you're doing. I'll stay here and die of embarrassment."

"Drama queen," his father rejoined.

Kyle ignored him, fastening his eyes on the television until he heard the front door close. Tater tots and trash TV might not be the healthiest thing in the world, but watching your own father troll for babes was way worse, almost as bad as watching Liz hook up with some nobody. He spent ten blissful minutes watching digital recreations of shark-chomped bodies before a horn honked somewhere close, ignoring it until it honked twice more.

"Valenti!" cheered a car full of clearly tipsy buddies when he opened the door. "Let's go!"

"No way," Kyle protested when one of them held up a fistful of tickets. "I thought we weren't going to any lame-o concert."

"There's more than one way to enjoy a concert," grinned one of them, holding up a bottle. "We're gonna have an anti concert."

Now you're talking, Kyle thought, shutting the TV off and hurrying outside. Nothing like drowning your sorrows in a bottle or two. Half an hour later he was feeling little pain and in need of someone who shared his one remaining pain. The guys were great, but he couldn't talk to them about Liz. There was only one person he could talk to about Liz.

"Hey Paulie," he called to the driver. "New driving directions."

"What?" Paulie protested when he heard where he was going. "Why there?"

" 'Cos we need a designated driver," Kyle said.

That was good enough for Paulie, apparently not drunk enough to simply obey but still having trouble keeping the car on the right side of the road. Which is how Kyle found himself in a neighborhood he'd never thought he'd visit, climbing out of the car and shouting toward the lighted house in front of him, heedless of who heard.

"Evans! Max Evans! You in there?"


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


I'll post Chapter 72 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO



February 11, 2000, 6:30 p.m.

Chez Pierre, Roswell



It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

Max Evans gazed in the window of Chez Pierre, one of those pretentious, wanna-be-highbrow restaurants which, despite high prices and costumed waiters, nevertheless failed to rise to the occasion. He'd been studying, or trying to, right before he'd succumbed to listening to the radio, and while studying had failed to take his mind off Liz, it had implanted the opening sentence to Pride and Prejudice in his head. He thought of it now as Liz and that annoying college guy bent their heads over their dinners, the boom box helpfully tuned to KROZ kept up a steady patter of information on their every utterance, and Kyle Valenti and his annoying football buddies hooted and whistled. This was all wrong on so many levels...how in blazes had he wound up here?

"Evans, Evans, Evans," Kyle sighed, one arm hanging on Max's shoulder, more for support than camaraderie given how much alcohol he'd downed just on the way here. "Would you look at that wussie? Fluffy hair, 4.0 grade point average, tweed sport coat."

"That's not a tweed sport coat, Kyle," Max noted.

"Whatever. All he needs are horn-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector, and we can nominate him for geek of the year."

"They said he was studying ancient languages," Max said. "I don't remember them saying anything about his GPA."

"Evans, Evans, Evans," Kyle said sadly, apparently needing to repeat things three times before he could be certain he had the right words, "let me clue you in on a little secret. Guys who study things like 'ancient languages' always have 4.0 GPA's. Guys who study things like 'ancient languages' get the crap beaten out of them by guys like me, who always get blown off by girls like Liz for guys who have 4.0's. So the 4.0 types congregate in useless majors to commiserate with each other."

"Commiserate over what?" Max asked. "You just said they get the girls. What have they got to commiserate over?"

Kyle blinked. "You're confusing me."

"Not hard at the moment," Max said dryly.

"My point," Kyle went on, "is that we need to set our sights lower. Smart girls like Liz are out of bounds for us. What guys like us need are airheads! What guys like us need are...wait a minute. What's your GPA?"

"Haven't checked," Max said evasively. "Don't really care."

"That's my boy!" Kyle exclaimed approvingly, thumping him hard on the back. "Who cares about all that school stuff, right guys?"

Cheers in favor of not caring about "school stuff" sounded all around as Max rolled his eyes, unable to believe he'd actually willingly climbed into a car with these people. Maybe Austen's prose needed a little revision...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man deprived of the company of the woman he loves must be in want of distraction.

Didn't work, Max thought heavily. Desperate for something to take his mind off Liz, he'd grabbed Kyle's keys and joined a bunch of boozy football players because only something that extreme would do the trick; studying certainly wasn't, and Mom, Dad, and Isabel were all gone, leaving him rattling around an empty house. Trouble was that Kyle was equally miserable, which is how they'd landed here, in the one place he absolutely didn't want to be—watching Liz go on a date with some other guy. He should be happy for her; he really should. Doug What's-His-Name looked like a clean cut academic, well dressed, polite...and human. Normal. Safe. Everything she needed. Everything she deserved.

"This place isn't Liz, don't you think?" Kyle was saying as he swayed to Max's right. "She's more of a burger and bowling kind of gal."

"Or Chinese and pool," Max said softly.

"That, too," Kyle agreed, stabbing a finger into his chest. "You, my friend, know our Liz." He paused, staring in the window. "Although she does look awfully pretty all dressed up."

Or dressed down, Max thought. Or drenched in sweat as she dragged a heavy tarp up a hillside in the forest. Or shivering with cold as she waited for an Indian who might never show up. For all the weird situations in which they'd found themselves, never once had he found Liz anything less than stunningly beautiful.

"I hate guys like that one," Kyle was saying, returning to the theme of the moment. "Puffed up little prigs, with their scholarships and their Math Club awards. They always think they're better than us jocks."

"Mmm," Max murmured, not bothering to tax Kyle's brain by pointing out that "us" included him, and he was no jock. "Like you jocks think you're better than everyone who doesn't throw a ball around?"

"Exactly," Kyle declared, apparently unaware that he'd just dissed himself.

"And torment us, and laugh at us, and beat us up?"

Kyle's expression clouded. "Hey, I'm sorry about that. That wasn't me."

"Right," Max said skeptically. "That wasn't you who stopped me in the hospital parking lot and told me to stay away from Liz."

"I was talking," Kyle protested, "not swinging. Besides, that was before she dumped you too."

"She didn't 'dump me', Kyle. I told you, we were—"

"Never together," Kyle finished. "Yeah, I remember. Just how stupid do you think I am? Don't answer that," he added warily.

"It's true," Max insisted. "We weren't—"

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle sighed. "Whatever. Is it my imagination," he went on, "or does she look like she's having a good time?" He paused, squinting in the window. "Maybe it's all an act. For the audience."

No, it's not, Max thought sadly. He knew Liz, so he knew when she was genuinely having a good time...and she was genuinely having a good time. He could see it in her smile even though her back was to him, in the way she dropped her eyes and leaned in toward Doug. Liz was truly enjoying herself despite the media circus, and that made him happy and furious at the same time.

"Love is in the air," Kyle mused, apparently deciding it wasn't an act after all. "Can you smell it?"

"I think our new valentines, Liz and Doug, look like they're ready for dessert," chirped the annoying voice of KROZ's DJ, managing to put just enough of a lilt on the word "dessert" to make it sound like something other than a banana split.

"You can walk to the club from here," Max said, having seen enough. "I'll give you your keys in the morning."

"Oh, wait!" Kyle called, following, grabbing him by the arm. "Wait, wait, wait! You can't...you can't leave now. It's just about to get interesting."

Kyle pointed toward the restaurant's window through which Max saw Liz and Doug standing side by side, looking like they were ready to leave. "Now, usually this doesn't happen till the end of the evening," said the annoying DJ, "but how about letting us in on that first kiss right now? Come on, Doug, just like we practiced."

" 'Practiced'?" Kyle smirked. "On who? Each other?"

Football buddies et al laughed at that one, but Max was watching intently. Liz no longer looked like she was having a good time; she looked uncomfortable, even alarmed, and suddenly he was basking in that discomfort, in the stiffness with which she held herself as Doug tipped her over backwards and kissed her. She didn't like it. She really didn't like it. Maybe it really was all an act, just a game for the crowd...

And then, suddenly, they took off, Doug leading Liz by the hand. "They're running!" someone squealed, follows by peals of laughter as the startled DJ and his minions stumbled after them, the bleatings coming from the boombox making it clear he'd been caught off guard. "That's not in the script!" he sputtered as the crowd cheered and Max backed away in disgust. So much for Liz not enjoying it. Why would she run off with someone whose company she wasn't enjoying?

"Hey!" Kyle called as Max walked away. "Hey! I've gotta help you out here." He held up a bottle. "Try this."

"I don't drink," Max said, watching Liz and Doug escape through the back entrance and scoot down the alley.

"Just...just take a sip," Kyle said.

"I said I don't drink," Max repeated curtly.

"Just one sip," Kyle persisted. "One sip! What's it gonna do? Kill you? No, no, it's gonna calm you down, man. It's gonna, just, you know, take the sting away. Just...try it. Just trust me, nothin' bad's gonna happen."

Max stared at the bottle in front of him, knowing that was a promise Kyle couldn't keep. Michael had thought nothing bad was going to happen, and something had, something which had almost killed him, and from something so simple, so innocuous, that no one would have expected danger from that source. This could be the same. He'd never touched alcohol, so he had no idea what it would do to him. This could be another huge mistake.

He took another look down the alley through which the love of his life had just run off with another guy, then grabbed the bottle.

It could be...but at the moment, he really didn't care.




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




"Look, I'm not saying I'm not on the team," Dee said. "I was just wondering if you'd thought this through."

"I might ask you the same question," Brivari's voice came over the phone. "This was your idea."

"I suggested you talk to him more," Dee said in exasperation, "not invite him back to town! Not yet," she amended. "I know he's coming in a few months anyway, but that would have given us time to iron out some of the trickier aspects of having you both here."

"What kind of 'tricky aspects'...wait," Brivari said. "Is that traffic I hear? Are you in the car?"

"Yes, but—"

"I'm driving," Anthony broke in as he turned onto Main Street. "You're on speaker, by the way. And the windows are up, so don't worry."

"Someone almost ran me over the other day when they were talking on their phone and trying to change lanes," Brivari groused. "How long do you think it'll be before they outlaw cellphones in cars?"

"A bit drastic, don't you think?" Dee said. "And don't change the subject."

"Which was?"

"How to handle both of you at the same time," Dee said, praying for patience. "At the risk of being a tattletale—which brings us back to the whole 'tricky aspects' part—Jaddo cornered me at the Crashdown the other day, and—"

"I know. He told me."

"Told you?" Dee echoed. "He told you what, exactly?"

"That he'd asked for your support in his quest to reveal ourselves to the hybrids earlier than planned."

Dee blinked. "He...he said that?"

"Yes. Why? Did he leave something out?"

"Well...no," Dee admitted. "That was the crux of it. He claimed Michael had figured out the map, which would lead him to the book, which would—"

"Told me that too."

"Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"Of course I'm surprised," Dee answered. "The two of you aren't exactly noted for sharing."

"Hubble gave both of us quite a scare," Brivari said. "That put many things in perspective, including our endless feuding."

"You mean you're going to stop feuding?" Anthony asked.

"Of course not," Brivari said. "We'll just do it closer together, like we used to."

"Oh, joy," Dee muttered. "So does what he's saying have any merit? Did Michael figure out the map?"

"I don't know if Rath figured out the map," Brivari answered. "I know he's been studying it, but I'm not up on his latest theories. Keep in mind I'm watching three of them, plus various allies who could turn on them at any moment; when Jaddo comes to town, he basically only watches Rath. He knows his Ward extremely well, however, so if he thinks Rath has figured it out, there's a good chance he has."

"Jaddo said the map would lead him to Valeris' book," Dee said, "but that it was written in Antarian, so he wouldn't be able to read it."

"You never know," Anthony said. "When he sees it, it may all come back."

"Possibly," Brivari allowed.

"Jaddo also said something about a 'key'," Dee went on, "a key they need to get home. He said he had it."

"My goodness, he really was sharing," Brivari said dryly. "Yes, he has it. He took it with him when he left with Ava to prevent my leaving with the rest of them."

"I'll bet that went over well," Anthony commented.

"It didn't," Brivari said darkly, "but now it's a moot point; the last thing we want them to do at the moment is return home. In the unlikely event that they get far enough to need the key, they'll be unable to go any further."

"So what is this thing they need a key for, exactly?" Anthony asked. "Is it something that calls home?"

"No, that's a communicator," Brivari answered. "This will bring them home."

"What, you mean...you mean a spaceship?" Anthony asked.

"As good a description as any," Brivari allowed.

Anthony's eyes boggled as Dee rolled her own. "You brought a spaceship in a spaceship?" he said incredulously.

"For all practical purposes...yes," Brivari answered.

"Wow!" Anthony exclaimed, eyes shining. "Did you know that?" he asked Dee. "And if you did, how could you not tell me?"

"Can we stay on the subject?" Dee said crossly. "The last thing I need right now is for you to start acting like some star struck science boy. So what do you we do?" she continued into the phone. "He said he was worried Michael was going to do something rash if he managed to get his hands on whatever the map leads them to."

"Well, Jaddo would certainly be the local authority on the subject of 'rash'," Brivari said, his voice dripping with irony. "For the moment, I'm keeping a closer eye on Rath than the other two. Although I'm having a somewhat easier time tonight as two of them are together."

"Two of them? Aren't all three of them at the concert?"

"Zan is home," Brivari answered. "Rath and Vilandra are at the hardware store."

"What on earth is Vilan—I mean Isabel doing at a hardware store?" Anthony wondered.

"I'm guessing it's Rath who went to the hardware store and Vilandra who followed, but I imagine I'll find out," Brivari said. "They only just went inside."

"So Max didn't go to the concert," Dee said softly. "I guess I don't blame him."

"What concert is this?" Anthony asked. "And why don't you blame him?"

"The concert that goes with the blind date contest," Dee explained, "the one that Liz Parker won. He was quite upset the other night when she was being interviewed, although he was trying mightily not to show it. Did you know about that?" she asked Brivari.

"No, but I don't see it as anything but an asset. If Zan is preoccupied with a female, he's less likely to be crawling around caves or deciphering maps."

"Charming," Dee deadpanned. "Jaddo also asked me where you where during his 'sighting'," she went on. "He claims you weren't in LA., and—"

"Uh—Dee?" Anthony said, peering out the window.

"—that you won't tell him where you were."

"Dee?" Anthony repeated, bringing the car to a halt.

"He said you were out of cellphone range, which I told him had never happened—"

"Dee, you need to see this," Anthony broke in.

"What is it?" Dee exclaimed in exasperation. "Why have we stopped? Why—"

"Look," Anthony said.

"I told you there's a concert tonight," Dee said impatiently as Anthony gestured out the window toward milling teenagers, "so of course there will be kids wandering around—"

"Look up," Anthony ordered.

Dee sighed and leaned over toward Anthony so she could see out his window. What she saw stopped her next sentence in its tracks.

"Is that who I think it is?" Anthony murmured.

"Dear God!" Dee exclaimed, her eyes widening. "Brivari, you're watching the wrong person. Max is on the roof."

"He's where?"

"On the roof," Dee repeated, "of a commercial building, with his legs dangling over the gutter, in full view of anyone walking by—"

A strangled sound which may have been mangled profanity came over her phone's tinny little speaker, followed by a click. "I'm guessing that means he's on his way," Anthony said.

"What do we do?" Dee fretted. "Should we try to coax him down?"

"Too late," Anthony said as another figure came loping into view. "He's got company."





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




A flash popped, and Liz blinked, then another, and another. Might as well close my eyes, she thought as she and Doug stood before the doors to Chez Pierre which were currently blocked by a small army of photographers, radio people, and whatnot. Beside her Doug gave her a mischievous smile, probably related to the reason he had leaned in toward her and suggested that they skip dessert, a line delivered with a wink and a whisper that would have been interpreted very differently in different circumstances. Or maybe she was imagining it? Was it even possible to detect mischief in the eyes of a stranger?

"Now usually this doesn't happen till the end of the evening," the smarmy DJ was saying, but how about letting us in on the first kiss right now?"

Liz's alarm at being expected to kiss a stranger in public intensified when she glanced out the window and got a glimpse of that public. Max. Max was out there, watching her through the window, and she had a sudden, mad urge to run, to burst through those doors and throw herself into his arms...

But she wasn't bursting, she was...dipping? Doug was dipping her back, planting a kiss on her lips, pulling back...

"Sorry about that," he whispered. "Out the back, through the kitchen on three. They'll never catch us."

Liz felt herself being righted as she stared at him, stunned. Was he serious?

"One..."

The paparazzi were smiling, the restaurant patrons clapping, the crowd outside cheering...except for Max. He looked miserable, and a tiny, uncharitable part of her was happy about that.

"Two..."

More camera flashes went off, and she tried to smile. Doug couldn't be serious. He wasn't really contemplating making a run for it, was he?

"Three..."

Liz's heart skipped a beat as Doug grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the media glare, prompting shouts of surprise from inside and cheers from outside, weaving deftly between startled patrons and startled waiters as she struggled to keep up; she'd always hated heels, which weren't made for walking, never mind quick getaways. Behind them she heard people bumping, equipment clanking, expletives uttered as staff and diners got in the way, and she risked a look backwards. Were they really doing this?

They were. Seconds later the kitchen door swung closed behind them, and they entered a world of heat and steam. Doug hesitated, scanning the milling bodies, unsure of where to go. He may not be familiar with restaurant kitchens, but she was.

"This way," she said firmly.

Now she was in the lead and he trailed behind, albeit in better shoes. They passed a startled cook stirring a pot of soup, another loading plates, a busboy emptying a dishwasher. The back door led into an anteroom of sorts where deliveries were left, judging from the boxes, which also gave cover to a waiter and waitress, decked out in uniform and locked in a passionate embrace.

"Don't mind us," Doug said calmly as the couple flew apart.

"Don't tell," Liz added, looking for the door which would lead them outside. "And we won't either."

"Here," Doug called.

They switched rolls again, him leading as they scuttled out the back door into an alley topped by the night sky. "We have to get away from the door," he called back, never breaking stride as he led them down the alley and up a side street, scooting between two buildings before he paused for breath.

"Are they coming?" Liz asked anxiously, her heart racing as he peered around the corner. "Did they see us?"

Shouts were heard in the distance, but after a few seconds, it was clear they were moving away. "Yes!" Doug exclaimed triumphantly. "We made it!"

"Oh, my God," Liz breathed, "did we really just do that?"

They stared at each other for a moment before both burst out laughing. "We sure did," Doug grinned. "Wasn't that great? Did you see everyone's faces as we went by? They couldn't believe it!"

"Did you hear everyone outside applauding?" Liz added. "I think that DJ was getting on their nerves too. What's his name, anyway?"

"No idea," Doug admitted. "I never asked, and he never said. He owes us, though, for driving up his ratings." He paused. "Do you think those waiters will rat us out?"

Liz shook her head. "No way. Everyone knows I'm a waitress, and there's a...call it a code of silence."

"You mean a collective dispensation for necking in the back room?"

"And escaping out the back door," Liz nodded.

"Cool," Doug said. "So...now what?"

They both glanced toward the road as a car whisked by, realizing their triumph could be short-lived; the entire town would be looking for them. "I'm guessing we stick out like sore thumbs," Doug said.

"Yeah, probably," Liz agreed.

"I don't know this town the way you do," he went on. "Is there anywhere we can go where they wouldn't look for us?"

"Actually," Liz said with a sudden burst of inspiration, "there is. The trick will be getting there without being seen."

"We need more back alleys," Doug said.

"And a certain amount of luck. And to ditch these," Liz added, pulling off her heels. "It's hard to stand in them, never mind run."

"I never understood how women put up with those things," Doug said. "They look painful."

"They are," Liz admitted.

"So...why wear them?"

"Good question," Liz said, tucking the shoes under one arm. "I usually don't. This is my first pair of really high ones. I guess I fell for fashion expectations."

Both of them suddenly jerked backwards, flattening themselves against the wall as the KROZ van sped past the mouth of the alley. "That was close," Doug breathed.

"But now's the time to go," Liz said. "They're heading in the other direction." She poked her head out, looked both ways. "Come on. Stay close."

What followed was fifteen of the weirdest minutes of her life as they slunk, skulked, and slithered their way through six blocks, avoiding the main drags, keeping close to walls, ducking into doorways, always looking ahead to find the next safe spot to pause. The KROZ van passed them twice, and each time they figured the jig was up only to have it race by. "I thought they had us that time," Doug murmured after the second close call. "Good thing you pulled us back in time. How'd you know it was coming?"

"It makes a certain noise," Liz explained. "I think it might need a new muffler."

"God, I never even noticed that," Doug said. "How'd you get so good at this?"

"Practice," Liz answered dryly.

"You practice running and hiding?" Doug chuckled.

And that was when Liz had a sudden revelation: This was fun. Creeping around town in a fancy dress with your shoes in your hand while avoiding crowds and vans and photographers was fun. It was fun because it didn't matter, because it was all a lark, because no one was in danger of dying or being caught by federal agents, and no matter how it worked out, no one was going to get hurt. Except Max, Liz thought, recalling the look on his face right before the fun began. He'd looked miserable, as miserable as she'd been in the run-up to all of this, and she allowed herself a moment's satisfaction that now, at least for a brief moment, he knew how she'd felt.

"We're here," Liz said, carefully leading Doug around a corner.

Doug looked across the street and blinked. "You're kidding."

Liz shook her head. "Nope. They won't be expecting this."

"Stands to reason," Doug said. "I wasn't expecting this."

"We can get dessert," Liz suggested. "The pie's really good. I know the pie maker personally."

"Won't someone blow us in?"

"Here? No way," Liz smiled. "I'll put them on nights for a month."




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




Brivari swore under his breath as he climbed out of the car, glancing first at the rooflines, then the road. Nothing, not his Ward or Dee and Anthony. "Shit!" he exclaimed, out loud this time and just as his phone rang.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

"At the Crashdown," Dee's voice sighed. "We followed him there."

Brivari hung up without answering and climbed back in the car. Why now? he wondered sourly, accelerating so quickly his tires squealed. What he hadn't mentioned to Dee was that the discussion he and Jaddo had had about his conversation with her and the reason for it had been less of an exchange and more of a testy standoff. He and Jaddo were in agreement that the moment they'd dreaded was fast approaching, when the hybrids' behavior would reach a point where remaining concealed would be impossible. "Fast approaching", however, was not the same as "here", and where they disagreed, as usual, was whether to wait until it actually arrived or strike preemptively. While neither had lost their tempers, their fundamentally different way of approaching problems was once again highlighted, and he was determined to keep a close watch on Rath so that if and when something happened, he would personally witness it and be in a position to make the necessary judgment call. And here he'd thought that would be easier given that his Ward was safely ensconced in his house. Not, he thought darkly as he arrived at the cafe simultaneously with a van disgorging people and various types of equipment. Dee and Anthony were off to one side.

"Before you go in," Dee said, "there's something you should know." She paused. "He's drunk."

" 'Drunk'?"

"Yes, drunk. As in inebriated, sloshed, had one too many—"

"I know what 'drunk' means," Brivari said impatiently. "I live in Hollywood. How drunk are we talking? Is he coherent? A little tipsy? Likely to say something he shouldn't?"

Dee and Anthony exchanged glances. "Well...we didn't hear all of it," Anthony allowed, "but we're guessing he may have already said something he shouldn't. And done something, given that he apparently manufactured his own ladder to climb up to the roof."

"Marvelous," Brivari muttered. "And he did this in front of whom?"

Another glance was exchanged. "Kyle Valenti," Dee answered. "Although he's drunk too, so I doubt anything he says will be given much credit—"

"Valenti?" Brivari repeated. "Do you mean to tell me that Zan is not only running around hammered, he's running around hammered with the sheriff's son? Damn it!" he swore when she nodded. "All right...do you know where he is in the building? And who are all these people?" he added irritably as the inhabitants of the van swarmed the cafe's entrance, causing a large crowd to form.

"Last we knew, he was upstairs," Dee answered. "Probably where Liz Parker lives, which is why all these people are here. They're from the radio station, the one with the blind date contest that Liz won. That's why Max is so upset—"

"I can safely assure you that I don't give a rat's ass as to why he's 'so upset'," Brivari snapped. "I had bigger fish to fry tonight, and now he goes and gets himself plastered!"

"You mean Michael and Isabel?" Dee said. "Did you find out why they were in the hardware store?"

"I did," Brivari answered, "although now that I have to rescue my lovesick Ward, I won't get to see what they do with what they bought."

"Which was?" Anthony asked.

"Gasoline," Brivari answered. "And rope."




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


I'll post Chapter 73 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Thanks for all the congratulations! I need to consult Misha, a.k.a. my technology advisor, on how to post banners to threads. I think I know, but I'm probably wrong.

I was actually surprised when I saw that "that roof" was a tiny one, between two other buildings... Everything looks SO MUCH BIGGER in Roswell than it does in Covina

I wonder how they fit all the cameras and camera operators and directors up there? If it's just 1 or 2 people I can see it, but what about the gang? Is that why the gang wasn't on the roof very often?







CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE



February 11, 2000, 8 p.m.

Crashdown Cafe




"Gasoline?" Dee repeated in astonishment. "Michael and Isabel bought gasoline? What in heavens' name for?"

"Good question," Brivari said acidly, "and one I'd hoped to answer until the king decided to go off on a bender. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll fetch him so I can get back to the more important matters at hand."

"Brivari, please don't be too hard on him," Dee begged. "Remember he's a teenager, and teenagers—"

"Not now, Dee," Anthony advised. ""Bring him down here," he said to Brivari. "We'll take him home."

If I don't kill him first, Brivari muttered to himself, noting there were times when it was convenient that he couldn't, and this would be one of them. Under different circumstances he might leave Dee to clean up, but the possibility that his Ward had said or done something he shouldn't was too great.

The cafe was packed, and not with customers; few tables were occupied, and even the staff was crowding into the back, following a conga line of radio people holding audio equipment. Marvelous, he thought sourly. Not only had his Ward gotten drunk, he'd gotten drunk in public, giving him an audience to contend with along with a lovesick adolescent. Finding the crowd impossible to penetrate, Brivari grabbed a handful of silverware from an open and unattended dishwasher and held it beneath his jacket.

"Coming through!" he called a moment later, brandishing his newly made microphone. "I'm with the station. Coming through!"

The crowd parted like the red sea, chattering excitedly as he walked past and up the back staircase. The room at the center of the action was a girl's bedroom, blocked by a knot of people sporting various audio equipment in the doorway and beyond which stood what appeared to be their boss interviewing two young men, one hammered, one pissed.

"So tell our listeners, Lyle—"

"Kyle," intoned the hammered one, not so hammered that he didn't know his own name.

"—what was going through your mind as you were going through Liz Parker's drawers?"

"Drawer," corrected Hammered. "Drawer, singular. I never had a chance to go through the rest of them because Mr. Shallow here—"

"Shellow," corrected Pissed furiously.

"—busted in on us. And would have busted in on Max and Liz if I'd let him—"

"The only one that's 'busting' is you!" exclaimed Pissed. "And where'd they go? She was my date!"

"I told you that already," Hammered explained patiently, "but one more time because you're slow: We're the ex's, and we're here to win her back."

"Do you mean to tell me that both you and the dark-haired mystery man who vanished into the night with our dream girl are both her ex-boyfriends?" the interviewer bellowed cheerfully into his mic as though this was the greatest discovery since the Rosetta Stone. "People, this is even wackier than I thought! We have a three-way shooting match for our Liz! So," he continued to Hammered as Pissed fumed beside him, "I take it 'Max' is the 'M' in that 'ME' on the balcony?"

"Whoever he is, I'm gonna kill him," Pissed muttered.

Not if I beat you to it, Brivari thought, elbowing through the knot at the door and crossing the room toward the balcony.

"Back off, Dog boy," Hammered warned. "I'm—"

"Sixty pounds of varsity Greco-Roman wrestler—yeah, I know," Pissed said derisively. "What you failed to add was drunk Greco-Roman Wrestler. The former cancels out the latter."

Hammered blinked. "I'm not sure what he just said, but I hate him for it."

Brivari stepped onto the balcony as they continued to argue. It was empty, and a brief glance over the edge showed nothing but the ladder which must have been used as an escape route. The wall, however, was another story; burned into the bricks was a heart which contained the initials "LP" and "ME", undoubtedly made without the use of a blowtorch.

"Which way did they go?" Brivari asked, poking his head back inside.

Everyone paused, staring at him. "Who the hell are you?" demanded the interviewer.

"Which way?" Brivari pressed.

"Who is that?" the interviewer barked to his acolytes. "How did he get in here? Find out how he got in here!"

"Down," Hammered said helpfully.

Great, Brivari thought, sending a burst of power in the direction of the bedroom which destroyed all electronics and instantly drew attention away from himself. His Ward could be anywhere, and it could take a while to find him, but there was nothing for it. Damn it, he swore, leaving them shaking their mics and slapping their equipment as he slipped down the ladder into the night. Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT!




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





"Do you think we should go in?" Dee asked anxiously as crowds continued to throng the Crashdown. "He should have been back by now."

"Maybe we should listen to the radio," Anthony suggested. "That's what lots of other people seem to be...wait. Here they come."

The crowd had parted, and a group of people emerged. "Get me a new mic," growled a man wearing headphones only seconds before flashing a dazzling smile. "Over here, gentlemen! Let's keep our listeners up to date on what has to be the wildest blind date ever!"

"Oh, good Lord," Dee muttered. "It's that annoying DJ."

Two young men came into view, one striding, one slouching. "Jim Valenti's boy," Anthony murmured, eyeing the sloucher.

"Kyle," Dee nodded. "And the other must be Liz's blind date."

"Nice looking fellow," Anthony commented.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed the DJ into the mic which had just been thrust into his hand. "I have here our dream girl's blind date, Doug Shellow, and Lyle—"

"Kyle," Kyle interrupted in a bored tone.

"—one of Liz's ex-boyfriends. Doug can you tell us what you and Liz were thinking when you ran off from Chez Pierre?"

"We just wanted some time to ourselves," Doug answered. "And we were having a great time until Bozo the clown and his sidekick busted in on us."

"Ouch," Anthony murmured.

"Hey, we weren't anywhere near you," Kyle protested. "We were minding our own business when you busted in on us."

"But how could you be 'minding your own business' in Liz Parker's bedroom?" the DJ asked cheerfully. "Because that's where we found them, ladies and gentlemen, all four of them: Doug, our dream girl, and not one, but two of her ex-boyfriends!"

"We went upstairs to get away from them!" Doug said, jabbing a thumb at the DJ.

"Look, I feel your pain, man," Kyle said, placing a hand on Doug's shoulder which was promptly shrugged off. "You've been rejected. I've been there. It sucks."

"I haven't been 'rejected'," Doug argued. "Liz and I were having a wonderful time before...all this. We don't really know what happened."

"We don't?" Kyle chuckled. "Well, I know 'what happened'. " 'What 'happened' is that she left with Max. I hate it to break it to you, buddy, but when the girl goes out the window with another guy, that's 'rejection'."

"Out the window?" Anthony whispered.

"You heard it, ladies and gentlemen," chirped the DJ. "Our dream girl escaped out her bedroom window with this mysterious 'Max', leaving Lyle—"

"Kyle."

"—and Doug behind! And that was after running off from Chez Pierre with Doug! Does our Liz have commitment issues? Does she have too many choices? Does she—"

"Does he have any working brain cells?" Dee grumbled. "I know there's a lot of blather on the radio, but this is ridiculous."

"Don't be too sure about that," Anthony said. "I'll bet he's got the entire town hanging on his every word."

"So what now, gentlemen?" the DJ was asking, thrusting the microphone toward Kyle and Doug. "Will you stick it out, or are you throwing in the towel?"

Kyle shrugged. "Ask Mr. 4.0 average."

"4.3," Doug corrected.

"Geeks," Kyle muttered. "Hate'em."

"What about you, Doug?" the DJ asked. "Staying or leaving?"

"Liz is out there somewhere," Doug answered, "and I say we go find her."

"The game's afoot!" cried the delighted DJ. "You heard him, people—saddle up! We've got a dream girl to find! And all of our listeners can help us out. Have you seen Liz Parker or her current dark-haired mystery man? If you have, call KROZ and give us a heads up! In you go, Doug," he continued, throwing open the van's door. " You coming, Lyle?"

" 'Kyle'. And only if I don't have to sit next to Mr. Shallow."

"Shellow," Doug fumed.

" 'Shallow'," Anthony chuckled. "Good one. But it's a bad time for jokes," he added hastily when Dee gave him a steely glare.

The van drove off. The crowd began to disperse and Dee with it, heading around the building. "So I gather Liz abandoned her date and took off with Max?" Anthony said, trotting after her.

"Sounds like it," Dee answered. "She probably realized he was drunk and what that could mean. Darn it," she went on, coming to a halt. "Where did he go?"

"Who? Brivari?" Anthony asked, gazing up the ladder they'd both watched Max and Kyle climb only a half hour ago. "I imagine he went off looking for Max. Perhaps we should do the same."

Fifteen minutes later, they were five blocks out with no sign of Max. "Do you suppose they went to the concert?" Anthony asked.

Dee shook her head. "She'd know enough not to take him anywhere public. And they're on foot because Isabel has the jeep—" She stopped, staring into space.

"What?" Anthony said.

"Go to the library," Dee said suddenly.

"The library? Why would they go to the library?"

"They wouldn't," Dee answered. "But Isabel would."

"Isabel? What does she have to do with finding Max?"

"Nothing. Look, we can't find Max," Dee said. "His Warder is looking for him, but no one is keeping an eye on Michael and Isabel. We have two grandchildren. We should help the one we can find."

"Okay," Anthony said slowly, "but what makes you think we'll find her at the library?"

"Because she's with Michael. Jaddo thinks Michael has figured out the map, and if so, it will lead him to the library."

"What's he going to do with gasoline and rope at the library?" Anthony wondered.

"That's what worries me," Dee said. "There's a back entrance. "Turn left here."

The library was only a few minutes away. They saw the glow as they turned into the parking lot.

"What on earth?" Anthony whispered.




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




What on earth?

The phone to her ear, Liz gazed in dismay at Max, who looked pleased as punch as he gestured toward the one thing she'd wanted to avoid at all costs: The KROZ van.

"Ma'am, I need your location," said a voice in her ear. "Citrus and...what?"

"Oh...oh, I...never mind," Liz sighed. "I guess we won't be needing a taxi."

She hung up, every movement feeling like lead. The KROZ crew was celebrating, with the DJ yammering into his mic about having found the "missing dream girl" and her "kidnapper". Hardly, Liz thought. It had been she who'd kidnapped Max, leading him away from that radio crew where anything he said could and would be used against him in ways too horrible to contemplate.

"Liz Parker!" bellowed the grinning DJ. "Did you think you'd lost us?"

"Actually, yeah," Liz answered. "We did lose you. You're only here because Max flagged you down."

"And why'd you do that, Max?" the DJ asked, recovering quickly after flashing a brief glint of annoyance. "Tired of her already, or just feeling guilty?"

Max shrugged. "We needed a ride."

"Then you're in luck, because a ride is something we can give you!" exclaimed the DJ, throwing open the van door. "Hop in, you two. The concert...and explanations...await."

Liz glanced up and down the street, measuring the distance to the next alley; if they ran, they might be able to lose them, a moot point, really, because Max was climbing in. Right, Liz thought heavily, walking toward the van the way the condemned head to their execution. Hopefully it was just the radio people in there. Hopefully she wouldn't have to come up with awkward explanations right this minute.

No dice. Not only Doug, but Kyle was in the van as well, sitting across from each other, the latter smirking, the former scowling. He scowled at her as well, and who could blame him? She'd left him, just up and left him with no reason or warning, and in public, no less. He must be furious, and the fact that Kyle and Max had just high-fived each other probably wasn't helping.

"Have a seat right here, Liz," the DJ was saying helpfully, patting the spot next to Doug. "Right next to your blind date."

Great, Liz thought, closing her eyes briefly. Max had taken a seat next to Kyle, and she dearly wished she could sit next to Max. But three against one wasn't fair, and she really did owe Doug an explanation. He stiffened when she sat down next to him, and moved aside a fraction.

"Well, isn't this cozy?" beamed the eternally cheerful DJ. "Now that we've rounded up our dream girl and all the various men in her life, it's off to the concert we go! We'll be there in just a few minutes, but before we get there, is there anything you'd like to say to KROZ's listeners, Liz?"

Liz recoiled as a microphone was thrust into her face. "Yes," she said firmly. "Would you please put that thing away for just one minute?"

"Yes, please," agreed Doug.

"Hear, hear," mumbled Kyle.

Max said nothing, but the DJ was momentarily nonplussed. "Sounds like our little foursome wants some alone time," he chuckled nervously as three of the "foursome" glared at him. "Maybe we should let them have it and see what...develops."

What "developed" was silence as the van pulled away from the curb and began what should have been a short journey to the concert, but seemed to take forever. Across from her Kyle continued to smirk, and Max gave her that loopy smile that had her petrified he'd do something to give himself away any moment. On her left was Doug, his very stiffness accusatory, and on her right the attentive DJ, having dropped his mic a few inches but still watching them like a hawk. All the other radio people had crowded into the front seat or very back, which was really unfortunate because she could have used someone, anyone, else to look at.

"So did you guys have fun?" Kyle boomed, breaking the silence. "Max? How'd it go, buddy?"

Buddy? Liz had no idea where that one came from, but Max not only didn't object, he grinned. "Great," he informed Kyle. "Just great."

"I held him off for you," Kyle announced, nodding toward Doug as Liz cringed. "Mr. Shallow here."

"Thank you, Kyle," Max said with the utmost seriousness.

"Shellow!" Doug hissed.

"Things are getting a bit testy!" the DJ declared, the lowered mic lowered no more. "First we had the ex-boyfriends high-fiving each other, and now they're ganging up on our dream guy!"

"You know, could you...I'd really appreciate it if you would just put that away," Liz said. "You're just making this worse."

"Worse than you made it when you climbed out your bedroom window with another guy?" chirped the DJ. "I don't think so, Liz! Frankly, I don't think there's any way little old me could do anything worse than—"

Max leaned forward and grabbed the mic. "Hey! The lady asked you to put that away."

"I second that motion," Doug muttered as the DJ pulled away from Max.

"I third it," Kyle added.

"You don't 'third' a motion," Doug said.

"Says Mr. 4.0," Kyle retorted.

"4.3," Doug corrected.

"Okay, everyone, just be quiet," Liz commanded. "No more talking."

"All well and good for you, dream girl, but our listeners want to...wait a minute," the DJ added, fiddling with his mic. "Is this thing on...oh, you've got to be kidding me! I blew another one? Darren? Darren! This one isn't working either!"

Darren, who was apparently in the front seat, leaned back to work on the busted microphone just as Liz's relief at having the DJ silenced turned to horror when she saw the self-satisfied smile on Max's face. He did it, she realized. He'd broken the mic when he'd touched it. Don't move, she told herself. Don't move, don't speak, don't do anything that will make Max do...anything. Because God knows he'd been doing plenty. Sober Max might be afraid to use his powers, but drunk Max had no such compunction. That hadn't even occurred to her when she'd hustled him off the balcony and into the night, any concern about what he'd said to Kyle having evaporated the moment the radio crew had burst into the bedroom. Even a drunk Kyle was a problem given his parentage, but public announcements were worse. She had to get him out of there, and fortunately he'd been all too eager to follow. Off the shoes had come again, dangling from her hand as they'd raced through the streets just as she and Doug had a mere hour ago with one key difference—when they'd hotfooted it out of Chez Pierre, it had been fun, a lark. This time it was deadly serious.

She'd started to slow down when it became clear they'd put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers, and calm down enough to think this through. Max still behaved as though he'd had a lot more than just "one little sip", but given Michael's reaction to sweat lodges, she couldn't discount the possibility, and in the end, it didn't matter; no matter how much he'd had, the first order of business was to get him somewhere safe, somewhere private. Questioning Max led to a lot of round-and-round conversation, but she managed to find out that no one was home at his house. If she could get him there, he'd be okay; even if the station found him, they could lock the door and pretend they weren't home. Her first attempt to call a taxi ended with Max taking off again, her racing after him...and then things had gotten really weird. Drunk Max, it turned out, was quite chatty. Drunk Max said things that made her heart sing.

As long as we're together, nothing else matters.

It's all just magic when I think about you.

You're my dream girl, Liz.

What's so great about normal?

Liz closed her eyes as the DJ and Darren continued to fight over the mic and the van rocked gently from side to side. She could still see the spinning street-light-turned-mirror-ball, still hear him saying all the things she felt, had felt from the beginning, had longed for him to feel too, and she wanted desperately to believe him, but...didn't drunk people do this all the time? Didn't they say and do things they didn't really mean? Isn't that why wedding chapels and divorce lawyers were so prevalent in Vegas? Was this the "one little sip" talking, or was it Max saying what he was too afraid to say when sober?

In the end, she decided it didn't matter; her first order of business was to get him home. The prospect of them holing up alone in his house was extremely appealing to Max, and she'd used that to gain his approval for a taxi. What she hadn't told him was that it was appealing to her too, and she'd been looking forward to watching a few more lights turn into disco balls as she probed the depths of his feelings. Too bad they were now stuck in a taxi with her petrified that he'd give himself away at any moment.

The van stopped; they'd arrived, and everyone climbed out. The DJ and Darren were arguing about the best place to snag a new mic, Max and Kyle stood off to one side, and Doug stood off to the other, alone in more ways than one, and she spared a guilty thought for him. It had been fun running away when it didn't matter, but the truth was that as soon as the excitement had died down, she'd found him...boring? Which was worrisome, really, that a nice, normal guy like Doug and a college student in an interesting major, no less, could be boring. Had she turned into an adrenaline junky? Was she no longer capable of enjoying herself with a guy unless it involved running and hiding and life-threatening illness? No, she decided. That wasn't it. There was nothing wrong with Doug except...well, except that he wasn't Max. He was a nice guy, he just wasn't the right guy. But that didn't mean he deserved to be treated the way he'd been treated tonight.

"Hey, can I...can I talk to you for a sec?" she whispered. "Before the DJ finds another mic."

Doug's expression was wary, but he smiled faintly. "I'm really sorry about what happened," Liz went on. "I had no idea they were in my room."

"I know you didn't," Doug answered. "But that didn't mean you had to run off with him."

"I know, but he was drunk," Liz said, "and—"

"So what?" Doug broke in. "The other one was drunk too." He paused. "Are they really your ex's?"

Liz glanced at Max, who was obviously still enjoying his "one little sip". "Kyle is. Max...Max has had some...problems...recently. And when the station showed up...with the way he was acting, I was afraid he'd say something that might get him into trouble again. You know, say something that the whole town would hear."

"Like the fact that he's underage, but goes out and gets plastered?"

"Max is a good guy, Doug," Liz insisted. "He's had a really rough time lately, and he's my friend. I couldn't just leave him. I couldn't do that to a friend. I'm sorry about what that meant for you, but if Max had said something he shouldn't have on the air, that would have been a lot worse for him. I had to choose, so I—"

"Chose your friend," Doug finished gently. "I get it. I'm sorry, I...I was just really enjoying our dinner, and I...never mind. Of course you had to help your friend. It's what I'd expect you to do."

"Thank you," Liz smiled, relieved that at least one thing had turned out to be easier than she'd expected. "That's really nice of you." She paused. "Maybe I could make it up to you sometime? Like, go on another date...no radio stations this time...and pick up where we left off?"

Doug shook his head. "That's very nice of you, Liz, but I don't think so."

Liz's face fell. "Oh. Oh...okay."

"I don't think so because I think Max is much more than just a friend to you," Doug went on. "And I think you're much more than just a friend to Max."

Liz flushed as Doug gave her a wan smile. "By the way, if you were concerned about what Max might say in public, this might not be the best place for him."

"Oh...yeah," Liz said, flustered, grateful to change the subject, "I'm not staying. I just wanted to clear things up with you, and then I'm taking him home."

"Then you'd better hurry," Doug said, "because he just went inside with the DJ."

Liz's head whirled around. Kyle and Max were gone, and a side door was closing. She and Doug both sprinted after it, Doug catching it just before it closed, both of them hurrying inside.

Too late.




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





"C'mon inside, gentlemen!" the DJ called. "I can't wait to see how this ends!"

Somewhere deep in the recesses of Max's mind, there was a small voice telling him not to accept that invitation. There'd been a small voice in the back of his mind all night now, warning him, scolding him, and just generally being a party pooper. He'd ignored it each time, paying it no mind when it squawked at that fantastic ladder he'd formed by making the bricks in the wall protrude, a work of art if ever there was one, or at the heart he'd left on Liz's balcony. By the time they'd left her room it had been silenced altogether, and a good thing too; he didn't want anything interfering with so much as a moment of his time with Liz. If he'd thought her beautiful before, now she was simply dazzling, the brightest star in his sky. As long as he could see her, everything was perfect.

And he couldn't. See her, that is. His vision was none too clear, hadn't been for a while now, but he couldn't find Liz anywhere. The guy with the microphone was there, and Kyle, and, inexplicably, Alex, and...was that Maria? Good grief, what was she wearing? And what was all that noise? Everything was not only fuzzy, it was louder, and it was giving him a headache. Where was Liz?

And then she was there, and he was happy again. And then he was standing in an impossibly bright spot—okay, make that fuzzy, louder, and brighter—with a sea of colorful noise in front of him. Kyle was there, and that guy she'd been eating dinner with, and Liz, looking very upset. And that wasn't good. Anything that upset Liz wasn't good. His suggestion that Dinner Guy would look better with blonde hair seemed to upset Liz, so he didn't press it. The guy with the microphone was yammering again, but Max wasn't paying much attention until he turned to him and said, "Convince her, Max."

And so he did. The only way he knew how. The noise got louder, the world got fuzzier, brighter...

...and then, all of a sudden, it wasn't. All of a sudden that nagging voice roared back with a vengeance as everything came into focus and he found himself standing on a stage in front of a cheering crowd with Liz beside him looking stunned. Behind them stood the DJ grinning wildly, Kyle looking bereft, and Liz's dinner date looking resigned. Maria was just offstage, her mouth a round "O", and if Alex's eyes got any wider, he'd need medical attention. What was he doing here? What had just happened? Had he really...had he really just kissed Liz in front of all these people?

"I'm sorry," he said, stunned. "I...I don't know what I...I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."

Max made his way down from the stage and up the aisle as people cheered all around him. Why are they cheering? he wondered desperately. What else did I do? He was almost to the back door when Liz caught up with him.

"Wait, Max. Max!" she called, grabbing his arm, turning him around. "Did you really mean everything you said when we were alone tonight?"

We were alone? Max stared at her miserably, trying to recall what had happened. He remembered grumping by the radio, Kyle calling to him, the drive to the restaurant, watching Liz through the window, and then...nothing. Just one big giant blank.

"I don't...remember," he said haltingly. "What did I say?" Behind them the band began to play, Maria began to sing, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Liz's date walking off the stage...and had a flash.

Liz's bedroom...

...a heart on a wall...

...running through the streets...

Oh, God, he thought heavily. What had he done?

"I didn't mean to ruin your night," he added numbly, walking away before she could answer because he was pretty sure that if she did, she'd bite his head off, and with good reason.

It was dark when he hit the open air, the music fading behind him. He'd just resigned himself to walking home when a cab pulled up beside him.

"Need a ride?" the driver asked.

"No, thanks," Max said.

"I think you do," the driver said.

"I think I don't," Max replied. "I need a walk."

The driver gave him a skeptical look. "Turn around."

Max did. The radio's DJ and his posse had just emerged from the building, ever-present microphone in hand, looking this way and that. Looking for him.

"Get in," the cab driver said.

Max didn't protest, didn't think, just climbed inside. The cab took off just as the DJ realized he'd missed his target. That was close...

"Rough night?" the cabbie asked.

Max slumped in the back seat and closed his eyes. "You could say that."

"Sounds like maybe you've had a few," the cabbie commented.

Great, Max thought wearily. Even cab drivers were following the saga on the radio. "I didn't have a 'few'," he corrected. "I didn't even have one."

"Really?"

"Really. I only had a sip. Just one little sip. And it tasted like crap, so I didn't have any more, but—" Max stopped, realizing how ridiculous this sounded. No one got as drunk as he must have been from one sip.

But the cabbie didn't react. "Well, you know what they say," he replied calmly. "Alcohol affects everyone differently. I've seen people throw back ten beers and still be coherent while someone else has half a drink and can't walk straight."

"I didn't have a half a drink," Max reminded him.

The cabbie shrugged. "Maybe you're...different."

Max's eyes flew open. Different. Yes, that was it. In a supreme example of irony, he'd just gone and done a Michael by running into something innocuous which had affected him in ways no one could have anticipated. Thank God it hadn't killed him.

"This your house?"

Startled, Max looked out the window. "Uh...yeah." The cab stopped, and he climbed out, digging in his pocket.

"No problem," the cabbie said. "This one's on me."

"I've got money—"

"I know you do. And you had a rough night. Happy Birthday. Whenever it is."

"Oh. Uh...thanks."

"You're welcome. And stay away from the booze. Any amount of booze."

Max managed a sad smile. "Yeah. Good idea."

He was all the way in the house before he heard the cab drive away, and it wasn't until ten minutes later that he realized something.

He'd never given the cab driver his address.




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




Brivari watched his Ward trudge up the driveway, fumble with the door. The radio station had located Zan before he had, so he'd headed to the concert and watched as Zan's first brush with alcohol wore off in full public view, the rapidity of the change making it clear why events had unfolded the way they had tonight. New species, new problems. Couldn't be helped. At least not any other way than he just had, by delivering him safely home, where he'd hopefully stay this time, at least for tonight.

The lights in the house popped on, and Brivari took off. New species, he thought wearily. Next problem.


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


I'll post Chapter 74 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR



February 11, 2000, 11 p.m.

Roswell Community Library




Brivari pulled into the library's parking lot, scanning the grounds; no one was in sight, and there were no lights on in the building. Parking the car, he circled the building, coming to a halt as he rounded a corner. Dee and Anthony were leaning on their own car, parked on the grass behind the library.

"What are you doing here?" Brivari said in astonishment.

"Nice to see you too," Dee said dryly. "You never showed after you went into the Crashdown, so we were left to our own devices."

"Meaning?"

"Oh, no you don't," Dee said, wagging a finger. "My turn. Where's my grandson?"

Brivari gave a snort of impatience. "Oh, for the days when no one would have dared approach, never mind wag a finger, at the King's Warder."

"We're not on Antar, and that 'king' is my grandson," Dee said tartly. "I repeat: Where is he?"

"I'd like to know that myself," Anthony added.

"He's home," Brivari answered. "Happy?"

"Are you sure?" Dee asked skeptically. "He was home before."

"I hand delivered him," Brivari said, "and after the night he had, I doubt he'll be going out again. No, no, he's all right," he continued as Dee's eyes widened. "We just learned another hybrid limitation—alcohol.

"That's hardly just a hybrid limitation," Anthony observed.

"In this case, it is," Brivari said. "Zan claims he took only a small taste of alcohol."

" 'Claims' would be the operative word there," Anthony chuckled. "We saw him. He'd had more than just a 'taste'."

Brivari shook his head. "I don't think so. I can usually tell when Zan's lying, and he wasn't lying; what you saw was the result of that 'taste'. It appears that Antarian-Human hybrids don't hold their liquor well."

"Oh, my goodness," Dee said in dismay. "What did he do? He didn't go and get himself arrested, did he? Or say something on the air, or—"

"Negative," Brivari broke in. "The only thing hurt was his pride. Now will you tell me why you're here?"

"You were off chasing Max, so we decided to try and find Michael and Isabel," Anthony explained. "You'd mentioned the library, so we started here. And here they were."

"And?" Brivari said sharply. "What did they do with rope and a can of gasoline? The building's still here, so I gather they didn't burn it down."

"No, they burned the grass," Dee said. "Or rather, burned the rope on the grass. After laying it out in a familiar pattern."

"Which pattern?" Brivari demanded. "What did it look like?"

"Circles," Anthony answered, waving a finger in the air. "Circles in circles."

"The galaxy symbol?" Brivari said. "He drew the galaxy symbol on the grass?"

Dee shook her head. "No, it wasn't that one. It was more circular than that, without the tails..."

Brivari raised a hand, traced a swirl of light in the air. "Yep, that was it," Anthony said. "What is that?"

"The symbol for the library," Brivari answered, "and the symbol Jaddo left during his 'sighting'. Which means Rath correctly translated it."

"And came here to answer the call," Dee added. "You should have seen it. It's a good thing so much of the town was looking elsewhere tonight."

"So where was it?" Brivari asked. "I didn't see any scorch marks when I came in."

"That's because they removed it," Anthony answered. "Let it burn itself out, and then cleaned it all up. They only left about fifteen minutes ago."

"Did they go in the library?" Brivari asked.

"No. Why?"

Brivari was quiet for a moment. "Interesting," he said finally. "Rath apparently translated enough of the map to learn that the symbol pointed here, but didn't translate the rest of it, which would have led him inside."

"Where the book is hidden," Dee nodded. "And thank goodness. Finding that would not have been a good idea."

"Agreed," Brivari sighed. "But he's close. Very close. Where did he leave his artwork?"

"Around front," Anthony said, leading him down the walk. "We came in the back way, and we could see it burning all the way down by the driveway."

"The driveway?" Brivari said puzzled, gauging the distance between the front lawn they had just reached and the back driveway. "How large was this, exactly?"

"Pretty darned big," Anthony replied.

"And bright," Dee added. "It looked..."

She stopped as Brivari held up a hand. Someone had just emerged from the trees on the far side of the lawn. As they all watched, whoever it was marched toward the center of the lawn, bent down, held out a hand...and the lawn erupted in flames, flames laid out in an unmistakable circular pattern. No one spoke as the figure straightened up and walked straight through the flames, pausing only briefly on the other side of the yard to turn and look at them before vanishing into the trees.

"...like that," Dee finished in a whisper.

Good Lord, Brivari thought heavily, gazing at the conflagration. It was huge, much bigger than the symbol Jaddo had left in the forest, and so bright it would cause someone to summon the fire department. He ran toward it, throwing power at it, dousing the flames just as lights popped on in a nearby house. After a minute or so, they popped off.

"Let me guess," Dee said, she and Anthony puffing up behind him, "That was—"

"Jaddo," Brivari nodded grimly. "Dramatic, as always."

"What's this?" Anthony asked, retrieving something from the grass. "It looks..." He glanced at Dee. "It looks like Max and Isabel."

"And Michael," Dee added wonderingly, passing it to Brivari. "Where did he get this?"

Brivari glanced at the charred photograph she handed him. "He took it," he replied, "to show Ava 'the others', as she knows them. He's used the prospect of reuniting them all as a means to keep her in line since he took her."

"Okay," Anthony said slowly, "but what's the point of dropping it in a fire?"

"I think his point is obvious, if a bit florid," Dee said. "Jaddo was afraid Michael would do something like this, and stunts like this put them all in danger."

"Except that he deliberately replicated the symbol Jaddo left in the woods at the place it pointed to on the map," Brivari said, "and he carefully timed it to coincide with something that had the town looking elsewhere." He paused. "This isn't like Rath's previous efforts, breaking into buildings, gate crashing a sweat. This was different—thought out, crafted. This wasn't a stunt; it was a message."

He dropped the photo; it floated toward the ground, disintegrating by the time it arrived. "Very well, then," he said softly. "Message received."




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




February 12, 2000, 12:10 p.m.,

Crashdown Cafe




"Liz?"

Liz Parker jerked awake, blinking rapidly, the room swimming in front of her. "Sorry," her mother said gently, sitting down on the side of the bed. "I didn't mean to startle you. I just thought you might like something to eat."

"I...what time is it?" Liz mumbled, rolling over. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbows. "It's noon? You let me sleep till noon?"

"You had a big night last night," Nancy said lightly. "I thought you could use the rest. And toast," she added, nodding toward the plate she'd set on the nightstand.

Last night? For a few seconds, Liz couldn't for the life of her remember what had happened last night. A glance around the room fixed that; the cast off dress, those hated heels, the millions of hair pins Maria had used, Grandma Claudia's necklace carefully laid out. At least she'd had the sense to take care of that.

"Uh...yeah," Liz said self-consciously. "Thanks. And thanks for the toast."

"I wasn't sure what your stomach was up for," Nancy went on. "Your father and I were listening to the radio, and...well, it seemed like things didn't exactly go as planned."

Liz closed her eyes briefly. She'd completely forgotten that last night's antics had been broadcast to the entire town, or at least enough of them to cause some really embarrassing encounters. Like the one she was having now, as her mother looked at her searchingly, no doubt wondering if her daughter had taken leave of her senses.

"Look, Mom, I don't know what you heard, but just keep in mind that radio is like television," Liz began. "It's all about ratings. So everything is magnified, sensationalized, overblown—"

"Wait a minute," Nancy said dryly. "Isn't this the same lecture we gave you when you were younger? Never mind," she went on, cutting off Liz's next volley. "I'm familiar with the fact that you can't believe everything you hear. But when what you hear involves your daughter running off with a guy, then running off with another guy who was purported to be drunk...well...that just leaves me wondering how much of that is true."

"Okay, for starters, I wasn't drunk," Liz said, answering her mother's unspoken question. "Max was...drunk, and I was afraid he'd say something he shouldn't on live radio, so I pulled him away to prevent that from happening. I was just trying to help out a friend."

"The same friend who purportedly 'vandalized your home'?"

"Pure fiction," Liz said firmly. "There was no vandalizing. Or kidnapping," she added, recalling that damned DJ's witterings. "That was all made up."

"So...you're okay?" Nancy ventured.

"Perfectly okay," Liz assured her.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Nancy studied her carefully. "All right," she said after a moment. "That's all we needed to know." She stood up, went to the window. "Certainly doesn't look vandalized," she remarked as she threw the curtains open. "Maybe I should have a word with that DJ about false accusations—"

"No," Liz said quickly. "I mean, just...just drop it, Mom, please? It's not true. That's all that matters."

"Well, no, I don't agree that's 'all' that matters," Nancy said. "But I'll at least wait for the full story." She gave her a tired smile as she planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Enjoy your toast."

Liz fell back on the pillows after her mother left the room, relieved that she hadn't looked out on the balcony where Max had left that giant heart; that's what the DJ had been referring to by "vandalism", and that's what he'd bring up if her parents pressed the issue. She couldn't really blame them for being concerned. It must have sounded like quite the lurid tale with her and Doug running off, then three men and a contest winner in a bedroom, then her and Max running off, then all of them paraded onstage at the concert, followed by...that heart-stopping kiss she finished. That kiss had been more than just completely unexpected, more than just profoundly public, more than just a kiss. She would have sworn her eyes had been closed, but...she'd seen things. Not her immediate surroundings, but other things, some familiar, some not. It was the weirdest experience she'd ever had, and it made her wonder if Max's drunken state was somehow catching. Except that she hadn't felt drunk, assuming that she knew what drunk felt like because she'd never been drunk, never wanted to get drunk, never even... Never mind that, she thought, getting back to the important part. If only Max had kissed her like that when they'd been alone together, it would have been perfect.

A knock sounded on the door. "Really, Mom, I'm okay," Liz called. "See, I'm getting out of bed."

The door cracked open. "That's great, babe," Maria said, poking her head in the door. "After last night, I'm guessing getting out bed calls for congratulations."

"Maria!" Liz flew off the bed, pulled her inside. "When did you get here?"

"Just now. Ah," Maria smiled, looking at the nightstand. "Dry toast. The breakfast of champions."

"Never mind that," Liz said impatiently. "Did my parents say anything to you?"

"No," Maria allowed. "But I'm betting they're going to. God knows I heard enough from my mom. She didn't even ask how my night went. All she wanted to hear about was you."

Liz's throat constricted. "Oh...oh, God, Maria, I didn't even think about the concert! I am so sorry—"

"No," Maria said quickly, holding up both hands. "It's okay. I saw. At least what happened at the concert, that is. You had a few other things on your mind. And never fear, the concert went great. After I made a fool out of myself, that is. But Alex is still speaking to me, so that's a good sign. Now," she went on, lowering herself slowly onto the bed. "Max. You. And that kiss...wow. Just...wow."

"Oh, my God," Liz groaned, sinking down beside her on the bed. "The entire town heard all that, didn't they?"

" 'All that'?" Maria said. "No, not 'all that'. Only the part about you running away from Chez Pierre with your blind date, then running away from your house with Max, then showing up at the concert with your blind date, Max, and Kyle, and Max giving you a kiss that was probably illegal given that you're both underage. Just those parts."

"Great," Liz sighed. "Just great."

"So are you gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

Liz was quiet for a moment, wondering where to start. "Doug and I came here after we left Chez Pierre," she began. "Running away was his idea...we just wanted to get away from all the microphones and everybody commenting on every single thing we said or did."

"Encouraging," Maria said. "Your wanting alone time with another guy, that is."

"But then the radio found us," Liz went on, "and I brought him up here and found Max and Kyle going through my room."

Maria blinked. "What, that really happened? I thought the radio just made that up."

"No, it happened," Liz answered. "Kyle said they were both drunk, and it certainly looked that way. Kyle was going through my top dresser drawer when we walked in."

Maria's eyes popped. "Your underwear drawer? Kyle Valenti was going through your underwear drawer?"

"He was...wait. How did you know that was my underwear drawer?"

"Honey, everyone's top drawer is their underwear drawer," Maria said impatiently. "Even guys. Get back to the part where Kyle was rooting through your skivvies."

"Like I said, they were drunk," Liz continued. "And Kyle started saying things about 'keeping Max's secret', and 'your secret is safe with me', and I just got scared wondering what Max had said."

"What did he say?" Maria asked worriedly.

"I don't know. The radio arrived right after that, just walked upstairs like they owned the place. I was afraid Max was going to say something he shouldn't, so I took him over the balcony and out of harm's way. And then..."

Maria's eyebrows rose. "And then?" she prompted.

"And then...well...you know how Max is so...cautious? Quiet?"

"Inhibited?" Maria contributed. "Repressed? Anal retentive?"

"Pretty much all that," Liz admitted. "Well...he wasn't. Not at all. He used his powers right out there on the street...set the street lights spinning, and turned parking meters into sparklers, and...he said things."

Maria curled her legs beneath her, eyes shining. "Like what 'things'?"

"Like...like I was the most special girl in the world. And that nothing was right unless I was with him. And that...that I was his dream girl."

"Wow," Maria said softly. "Everything you wanted to hear. So how'd you wind up back in the radio's clutches?"

"I was trying to call a cab to bring Max home," Liz explained. "I was terrified someone would see all the things he was doing. And then he flagged down the KROZ van. He was really proud of himself too, like he'd just single-handedly solved our transportation problem."

"Sounds drunk," Maria commented.

"Doug was in the van," Liz went on, "and Kyle, and Max and Kyle were calling each other 'buddy' and high-fiving each other—"

"Definitely drunk," Maria muttered.

"—and they drove us to the concert, and...and you saw the rest."

"I sure did," Maria said. "I have to give him credit for making me overcome my stage fright, but what happened out there? He was all loopy one minute, and all embarrassed the next."

Liz hesitated. "I asked him how much he'd drunk, and he said he'd only had a sip."

"A sip?" Maria echoed. "No way. That was way more than a sip."

Liz shook her head. "No, it wasn't. Kyle said the same thing afterward. He said he couldn't believe how drunk Max got from just that little taste." She paused. "I think it's the same thing that happened to Michael, where something we'd never guess would affect them really, really affected them. I think that's why it wore off so fast. It sounds like it took affect really fast and wore off just as fast."

Maria was quiet for a moment. "Wow," she said finally. "Guess I don't have to worry about Space Boy tying one on after he hears that. Not that I worry about that," she added quickly. "Or him. So," she went on brightly, "enough about old boyfriends. You haven't told me about Doug."

"Doug is...nice," Liz said, searching for the right words. "I had a...nice time with him."

"Oh, dear," Maria sighed. "The 'N' word. That bad?"

Liz shook her head. "Not bad. Not at all. He was really understanding about the whole running away thing after I explained it to him."

"You explained that Max is an alien?"

"No," Liz said patiently, "I explained that Max was drunk and I was afraid he'd get in trouble. He understood that I was just trying to help out a friend. He was really nice about it."

"Ouch," Maria winced. "Third time."

"Look, Doug is a...lovely person," Liz finished, deliberately steering around the "N" word. "He's just..."

"Not Max?" Maria suggested.

"Yeah," Liz agreed. "That."

Maria slid closer, took her hand.. "Look, babe...I know it was probably wonderful to hear all that stuff he said, but...he was drunk. People say all kinds of things when they're drunk. Doesn't mean they mean it."

"I told myself that too, at first," Liz said. "But now I think he means it."

"Did you ask him?" Maria said. "I saw you talking to him just as I started singing. What?" she went on when Liz raised an eyebrow. "If I'd looked at that crowd, I wouldn't have sung a note."

"He...he said he didn't remember," Liz admitted. "But I think he did. I think it's not that he doesn't feel that way, it's that he thinks it's too dangerous for us to be together."

"And I'd say he's right about that," Maria said. "Sad, but true."

"But why?" Liz demanded. "I mean, isn't it up to me to decide what kinds of risks I want to take? And aren't I in danger anyway just because I know? Like I was last night?"

"Yes," Maria allowed, "but—"

"Come with me," Liz said suddenly, grabbing her hand. "Look at what he left on the balcony."

"The balcony?"

"Yeah, the balcony. I told you what he said, but you can see this for yourself," Liz went on, climbing out the window, Maria following. " A big heart with our initials in it. He showed it to me right before we ran and made it glow. I was afraid the others would see. It's around to the right..."

She stopped, gaping. The wall was completely blank.

"Whoops," Maria sighed. "Looks like someone remembered."

"It was here," Liz insisted, sinking down on a chair. "I even looked at it again last night before I went to bed."

Maria sat down beside her, put an arm around her. "Look at it this way. However miserable you are right now, however miserable Max is, there's one person who's even more miserable."

"Doug?" Liz said dully.

"No, not Doug," Maria answered. "He's fine; he collected a whole bunch of sympathy phone numbers before he left last night. No, our local winner for most miserable would be Kyle."

"Kyle?"

"Yes, Kyle. Can you imagine being the sheriff's underage son and being drunk on live radio?"




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




Valenti residence




Kyle Valenti cautiously cracked open his bedroom door, ears pricked for the slightest sound. He'd heard his father get up earlier, much earlier, when his head had been throbbing and his tongue thick with fur. Which was still the case, truth be told, but he couldn't hide in his room any longer—he had to pee. Badly. The kind of "badly" which defined one of the few phrases he remembered from his grandfather, the one about "having to pee so bad, my back teeth are floating". His back teeth were definitely floating, so the father-son talk/sermon/argument which would occur one way or another would have to wait, preferable anyway because he needed to be in better shape to engage in the inevitable thrust and parry. Encouraged by the absolute quiet outside, he scurried to the bathroom and stood there for so long that he sat down to finish the job. You knew the hangover was bad when you couldn't stand up to pee. Feeling marginally better, he shambled out to the kitchen.

"Morning."

Kyle nearly jumped out of his boxers. "Dad," he exclaimed angrily, "don't do that! You scared the piss out of me!"

"Just returning the favor," Valenti said blandly. "And I doubt it, given that you were just peeing like a race horse. Can't have much left."

"Great," Kyle muttered. "You're lurking and eavesdropping at bathroom doors. Don't you have something better to do?"

"Can you 'lurk' in your own kitchen?" Valenti wondered. "I'm not sure you can."

"If you don't mind, I'm really not up for a semantics discussion," Kyle said, dragging a cereal box out of a cupboard."

"Then you're in luck," Valenti said cheerfully, "because that's not the type of discussion I was looking to have."

Kyle sighed heavily as he sank into a chair. "Can't we do this later?"

"No, Kyle, we can't. I'm the law in this town, and when my son is caught rifling through a girl's bedroom and showing up drunk to town events, it reflects on me. Sorry, make that my 'underage' son," Valenti corrected. "It'd reflect on me either way, but the 'underage' part—"

"Okay, okay," Kyle broke in, privately noting that he had absolutely no memory of the "rifling" part, or of most of last night, for that matter. "I get it. So, what, you gonna arrest me?"

"So you were drunk?"

"Haven't you figured that out already?"

"I wanna hear it from you."

"Yes, dad, I was drunk," Kyle said impatiently. "Happy?"

"Nope. The radio said you were with Max Evans."

"So?"

"So that's an odd choice of drinking buddies if ever there was one."

"Not when—" Kyle stopped, having been about to say not when you've both been dumped by the same girl. It was funny how Evans had morphed from enemy to friend over a shared blow-off. Maybe misery really did love company. "Look...I'm sorry," he went on. I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. You wouldn't even have known if it weren't for that damned radio station."

"Yeah, it's the 'damned radio station's' fault," Valenti said dryly. "Right."

"Can we please just put this off until some time when I can see straight?" Kyle begged, both hands cradling his head. "You're sober, and I'm hung over. It's not a fair fight."

"Who's fighting? I'm just asking some—"

"Friendly questions," Kyle mumbled. "Heard that one. Sucks when it's aimed at me."

"I'll bet it does," Valenti agreed. "Just like it sucks having to go into the station with the whole town knowing my kid broke the law."

"Hey, I wasn't the only one," Kyle protested. "And I was nowhere near as far gone as Evans, and all he had was a sip."

His father's eyebrows rose. "Really?'

"Really. And it happened all at once, too. He took a sip, was instantly drunk, and then a couple of hours later, was instantly sober. Weirdest thing I've ever seen."

"Huh," Valenti murmured. "Imagine that."




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




Evans residence




Max Evans steered the jeep onto his street, relieved he'd made it in time. He'd been absolutely truthful when he'd told Liz last night that he didn't remember what he'd done while under the influence, but that had changed early this morning when he'd awakened with the sudden realization that he had some cleaning up to do. The radio had already reported the heart he'd left on Liz's balcony, but, after allowing himself a wistful last look, it was gone now, long before last night's revelers would be rearing their heavy heads. Aside from a fitful sleep, his own head was fine, showing no signs of the typical "hangover" everyone always talked about. He had that to be thankful for, at least.

Killing the engine, Max sat for a moment in the driveway, reflecting on the curve balls life threw. He'd always dreamed of telling Liz exactly how he felt, without reservation, holding nothing back, and that kiss...he could still taste it, could still feel her in his arms. Under different circumstances, last night could have been one of the best nights of his life. What a cruel twist of fate that his dream had come true in such a way that any happiness it brought was overshadowed by panic; pouring out his heart to Liz while drunk and in public had never been part of that dream. How was he going to face her after this? How would he face anyone? It was that last thought which sent him to his bedroom window instead of the door. He really wasn't in the mood to answer questions about last night, from his parents or anyone else. He just wanted to be alone.

"Look who's back."

So much for 'alone', Max thought with a sigh when he found Michael and Isabel waiting for him, the former lounging on the bed, the latter perched on the edge, arms crossed, lips set in a thin line. "What are you two doing here?" he asked irritably.

"The more important question is why were you not here?" Michael countered.

"No, the more important question is what the hell were you thinking!" Isabel sputtered.

"Isabel? Questions go 'up' at the end," Michael said helpfully. "Like when I just said your name. It's called 'inflection'."

"Michael, don't start with me," Isabel said crossly. "I want to know what made him think he could just go out and get hammered—"

"He didn't," Michael interrupted. "Believe me, I see hammered all the time; you live with Hank, you can't avoid it. Max is too smart for that. Something else happened. Go on, Max," he continued. "Tell her what happened."

"Thank you," Max said, relieved that at least one of them got it, and surprised that one was Michael. "I wasn't trying to 'get hammered', Iz. I took a little taste from Kyle's bottle, and—"

"Yeah, how did you wind up with Kyle?" Isabel broke in. "Since when do you go cruising with him? I thought you two were enemies."

"We're not 'enemies," Max protested. "We're just...not friends. He stopped by last night with some of his football buddies—"

"Never mind that," Michael said sharply. "Did you just say all that came from a 'taste'?"

"Yes," Max said earnestly. "Kyle offered me the bottle, and I only tried a sip, and then...wham. It was just like you and the sweat."

"Oh, my God," Isabel breathed. "You mean you got that drunk from just a little bit?"

"Instantly, completely drunk," Max clarified. "And it didn't wear off for a couple of hours."

"So there's something else that trips us up," Michael said. "Something we're far more likely to run into than a sweat. Good to know."

"At least this one didn't make you deathly ill," Isabel said. "Just hopelessly, publicly stupid. Not that I want you sick," she added quickly. "I'm just...just...freaking," she finished. "I'm freaking. There's alcohol all over school, all over parties, and I've come so close to trying it. I always wondered what the big deal was because it just seemed to make everyone stupid and sick."

"And on top of that, it doesn't taste good," Max said. "It's not sweet or spicy, it's...bitter."

"Unless it's mixed with something sweet," Michael said. "There are lots of sweet drinks out there mixed with pop or juice. And no, I haven't tried them," he added when both gave him a questioning look. "I see what it does every day of my life. Hank's not the sweet drink type, but when you live with a drunk, you hear things."

"So no alcohol for any of us," Isabel said. "Ever. Even a little."

"The one good thing was that it wore off instantly," Max noted. "One minute the room was spinning, and the next, it wasn't. I just wasn't sure where I was or how I'd gotten there."

"Yeah, we heard," Isabel said wearily. "My friends left no detail unreported."

"Wait—you 'heard'?" Max said. "Didn't you see it? Weren't you at the concert?"

Isabel glanced at Michael, who looked away. "We went to the library," he answered, "because the map told me that's what the symbol Nasedo left us in the woods was pointing to."

"You figured out the map?" Max said eagerly. "What does it say?"

"Show him," Isabel said to Michael.

Michael reached into his back pocket and pulled out two sheets of paper. "Here's the map," he said, spreading them out, "with the 'V' that was in the middle of it in the cave. Superimpose that over a map of Roswell and the symbols on our map correspond to the town map. This," he went on, pointing, "is the symbol Nasedo left us in the woods."

"Which is right over the library," Max murmured.

"Exactly," Michael said. "He was pointing to the library. So we sent him a message back."

"A message?" Max said warily. "What kind of message?"

"We re-created the symbol he left in the forest," Isabel answered. "Don't worry—no one saw us, and we cleared it all up before we left."

"And?" Max prompted. "What happened?"

Isabel glanced at Michael. "Nothing."

"I was so sure," Michael said, shaking his head. "I was positive that's what it meant."

"Maybe it does," Isabel said. "Maybe he didn't see it.

"Or maybe he saw it, and is going to respond some other way," Max added. "Maybe he's just watching."

"Or maybe I've just been kidding myself," Michael said. "Maybe there's no one out there."

"There has to be," Max insisted. "You heard River Dog; that message in the woods was for us."

"Yeah? Then where is he?" Michael demanded. "Why the hide-and-seek bit? If Nasedo's back, why isn't he on your doorstep, or mine? If he's anyone worth knowing, wouldn't he come find us instead of leaving us messages in forests and ignoring our replies?" He shook his head. "Time to stop kidding myself, Maxwell. There's no one out there, or no one who gives a damn. We're alone."




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



Langley residence




Brivari wasn't the least bit surprised when he returned home and saw what awaited him in his living room. The only surprise was that it had taken so long.

"Aren't you late?" he asked. "I expected you last night."

"You were a bit busy," Jaddo answered, "or so I gathered from the radio. Sounds like Zan had quite an evening. Did you find out what happened?"

"Alcohol 'happened'," Brivari answered, reaching into his cabinet for some of his own. "Word is that just a taste made him instantly, rip-roaring drunk, which I tend to believe given that I saw it wear off. The effect was immediate."

"So he recovered?"

"He did," Brivari answered, "and had the foresight to clean up what traces he left. And we have another entry on the list of 'allergic reactions', as it were."

"A pity," Jaddo said, hoisting a glass Brivari hadn't seen. "And a curiosity. It doesn't affect us that way."

Brivari blinked. "You drink?"

"Of course I drink. I live with a teenager."

"I know that," Brivari said. "I didn't know you drank."

Jaddo gave him a level stare. "There's a good deal you don't know about me, Brivari."

"I know you have a flare for drama," Brivari said dryly. "That was a nice little show you put on last night."

"You needed to see what it looked like."

"He was more careful this time," Brivari noted.

Jaddo stared at his glass. "He was. And for that, I'm grateful. But we both know that we're past the point of merely hoping they'll 'be more careful next time'. We can't just leave them to their own devices any more."

Brivari sank down on the couch with a sigh. "I know," he said quietly. "So...how does a Warder go about introducing oneself to one's Ward?"



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


I'll post Chapter 75 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Of course Isabel's friends were available to give her a full report on the activities at the concert.

Can you just imagine the reports? I'm guessing Isabel hid under a few desks after that one. Michael probably didn't care.

When I first watched this episode on DVD, the one person I never thought of was Kyle. This conversation between the Sheriff and Kyle was really good.

Thank you! Always wondered what hell Kyle caught for that from Daddy. That was a rather public bout with alcohol for more than just Max.




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.

[Kathy W]

^ Whoever played Hank must have been a good actor because I always felt like I needed a bath after seeing him in action. Especially after that scene in ID when he goes after Isabel. "Well, hello Dolly!" Ugh.





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.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

It is good to have this story back after your time away.

Aw, thank you! Nice to be missed.

Have I told you lately how I love, love, love the way you tie things together?

*hugs Misha* Yes, but I don't mind a repeat. It salves my conscience for the times when I miss scenes and mess up the continuity!

Good luck with NaNoWriMo!






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.