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

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT



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

Mescalero Indian Reservation





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

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

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

"I should have," Brivari agreed.

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

"Eddie."

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

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

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

"Yeah, right," Eddie muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" Brivari asked, puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And...was I?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




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

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

"Plastic cups," Topolsky murmured, scribbling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kathleen? Pamela. They're here!"

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

"Agent Topolsky? What are you doing here?"

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

"Oh you did, did you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm fine," Topolsky insisted.

"I insist," Agent Price insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No idea," Price added.

"Valenti," Topolsky said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"School kids?" Topolsky said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And why is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your point, agent?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir, I—"

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

"But sir—"

"Dismissed, agent."

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

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

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

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

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

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




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




Artesia, New Mexico




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

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

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

"No," Jaddo answered.

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

"That can be arranged," Jaddo said.

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

"I wasn't."

"You...you weren't?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" 'No'...what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get out."

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

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

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



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


I'll post Chapter 59 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

There will be fist-i-cuff's,yes?....please..even with Marquess of Queensbury rules..

No doubt Jaddo deserves it. If any of the other Warders had survived, I'm willing to bet he wouldn't have lasted this long.

Love your signature, BTW. Reminds me of Max...

Yes, I think everyone was surprised that Michael could heal....maybe even Michael himself.

I've often wondered where TPTB were going with the idea of powers. Were they all supposed to have all of them, or were they supposed to specialize? Michael never really got a unique power unless you count blowing things up.



CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE



January 24, 2000, 3 p.m.

Artesia, New Mexico




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" Brivari asked warily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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




Eagle Rock Military Base





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

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

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

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

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

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

"Congrats, Danny."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It should be. What about the agents?"

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

"Meaning?" Pierce demanded.

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

"None of them? Not one of them?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Got anyone in mind?"

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

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

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

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

Brian hesitated. "Kathleen Topolsky."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the rest?"

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

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

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




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




Tucson, Arizona




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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



The Haven Living Center




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

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

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

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

"Looking for someone?"

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

"Try the Town Square," she suggested.

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

"Can I help you?"

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

"And you are?"

Valenti hesitated. "I'm his son."

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

"Thank you," Valenti said.

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

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

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

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



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


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

[Kathy W]

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

Interesting......the guys didn't "cotton" to female agents.

Come to think of it, I don't think it's just women Pierce doesn't like. I don't think he likes anyone!






CHAPTER SIXTY




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


UFO Center





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shit," another muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do aliens pee?" a bookworm said suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Max?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought of something," Michael announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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




Crashdown Cafe




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

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

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

"The tourists seemed serious," Julio noted.

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

"Nutcases," Agnes said flatly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Kind of," Liz admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

"Maybe," Liz allowed.

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

"I guess," Liz said.

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

"Max said he erased it—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're from Roswell?" Liz asked.

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

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

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

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

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




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On what grounds?" Hanson asked, bewildered.

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

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

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

"That's good news," Hanson noted.

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

"Not good news," Hanson said.

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

"Great," Owen muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Boss?"

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

"Because we need to," Valenti said shortly.

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

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

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

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

"I just don't want any trouble," Valenti said. "I've been talking about the more serious type of alien enthusiast we're likely to see this weekend, but the fact remains that we're also likely to see plenty of the usual type, the type that gets drunk or high and loses their marbles. I'm concerned that when the serious go tramping in the woods, the 'party hardy' type will follow and the results won't be pretty, especially since the woods are so close to the reservation. Like I said, I don't want any trouble, not here, not in the woods, not on the reservation. If Roswell is going to host these to-do's, the least we can do is make every reasonable effort to control them."

Valenti's eyes swept the faces in front of him to see if his explanation had been sufficient, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw heads nodding. Is this what his father had had to do? He must have been pretty good at it because he'd been sheriff for well over a decade when it had all gone bad.

"So we're off," Valenti said, anxious to change the subject. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah, what about all the questions about the sighting?" Owen asked. "Are we still doing the dry lightning bit?"

"We are," Valenti confirmed. "For all we know, that's what it was. Dismissed."

The group dispersed as Valenti headed into the station with Hanson on his heels. "I'm not sure how much longer we can head people off with that explanation, sir," he said. "The phones are ringing off the hook, and the lines at the desk are three deep."

"I know that," Valenti said. "Why do you think we met out here instead of inside? You can't think straight in there."

"Tell me about it," Hanson lamented. "Fourteen calls this morning, Sheriff, and all about the sighting last week."

"Dry lightning, deputy."

"I keep telling them that, but they keep calling," Hanson said.

"I don't have time to talk to anybody about unfounded or unsubstantiated rumors, and it is your job to explain that to them."

"Yes, sir," Hanson agreed.

"Thank you, deputy," Valenti said, hoping that "unfounded" and "unsubstantiated" bit would be repeated to the rest of the staff as he continued on into the station, hurrying past the crowd already there. Jesus, the convention didn't officially start until this afternoon, and they were already piling up. He was still pondering the cliff edge on which he found himself, officially denying the sighting while continuing to investigate it, when he opened his office door...and stopped dead in his tracks.

A man sat at his desk, an impossible man, a man who should not be there. The face was older, its stubble grayer, but nothing else had changed. It was as though the clock had suddenly been wound back twenty-eight years.

"Been a while, junior," Hubble said.

"How'd you get past the front desk?" Valenti demanded.

The answering smirk was infuriating, small but satisfied, having lost none of its swagger, if it were possible to swagger while sitting. "Better beef up security," Hubble said dryly. "Heard you had a boy. Bachelor myself, no kids for me."

"You're not welcome here, Hub," Valenti declared.

"Oh, junior," Hubble said with mock disappointment, "I expect more from you than dumbass small town threats. Well, just wanted to stop by. Regards to your dad. From what I hear, you're starting to come around to his way of thinking." He donned his hat. "See ya, junior."

It was all Valenti could do not to use the fist he'd clenched at his side as Hubble strolled out, past him, past Hanson, who had appeared in the hallway. He walked at a leisurely pace, no doubt aware that the man he'd come to visit would love to pummel him, but positive he wouldn't. Would that he were wrong.

"Who was that?" Hanson asked, watching Hubble leave.

"That, deputy, was a bona fide alien hunter," Valenti answered.

"You mean one of those serious ones you were talking about?" Hanson asked.

"Worse. This one is downright dangerous."

"You want us to tail him, sir?" Hanson asked. "I could send someone—"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "I've got this one."

"You sure, sir? If he's really dangerous—"

"I'm sure," Valenti said in a deadly voice. "This one's mine."




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


I'll post Chapter 61 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE


January 28, 2000, 11:00 a.m.

Silo, New Mexico



The sun was high in the sky as Everett Hubble stashed his half empty styrofoam coffee cup in the cupholder and climbed out. His car was a bit of a mess what with his being on the road so much, but looked right at home in its present surroundings, that being the outskirts of a trailer park. Looming over both was one of New Mexico's missile silos, a relic of the cold war and a stark reminder of when this country had the balls to stand up to its enemies. Built in the early 60's and decommissioned less than a decade later, the ring of missile silos around Roswell had either been abandoned or sold into private hands. A movie producer bought one; someone else turned one into a house. This particular specimen was empty, but the makeshift town which had sprouted nearby had earned the unofficial name of "Silo" along with an official reputation for harboring the lower rungs of society, the silo itself being a favorite haunt for the homeless, runaways, drug dealers, and so forth. Officially the US government still owned the property, and they officially chased everyone out on a regular basis, replacing the locks all nice and neat. That never lasted long, and less than week later the itinerant population had moved right back in, protected by the silence of the townspeople because they brought a bizarre sort of commerce to the place, even if most of the cash they spent had either been stolen or acquired from stolen goods.

Not a soul was in sight as Hubble closed the car door and walked toward the silo, his memory of that night back in '72 still crystal clear. He'd spent the previous two years tracking his wife's killer, finally tailing him to Roswell, where he'd found a kindred spirit in its sheriff. The condition of his wife's body had made it clear this was no ordinary murderer, but no one would listen to him or even look at the photograph he'd taken of her body with hands that had shaken so badly, it was a wonder the shot came out clear. But Jim Valenti had not only listened, he'd produced a photo of his own showing another silver handprint from more than a decade earlier and confirming what Hubble already suspected; Sheila's killer was not of this world. With a new ally and the resources of the sheriff's department at his disposal, he'd finally seen justice served that night back in '72, and for a few precious hours, he'd been at peace.

But his peace hadn't lasted long. The killer's autopsy showed nothing unusual, merely a somewhat malnourished human male in his mid-thirties. Impossible, he'd thought at the time. He was certain this was the man who'd killed Sheila; those features had been burned into his mind. Jim Valenti's sudden attack of conscience had only made things worse as the vultures had circled and Jim had refused to play ball. We killed an innocent man! he'd wailed over and over. It was an honest mistake, Hubble had argued, and an easy one to fix. They'd been alone; there were no other witnesses save for a dead man. Just say the vagrant got violent, and case closed. As his friend's chest-beating intensified, Hubble had become more and more impatient. He still couldn't figure out why the corpse was human and was seriously questioning his memory of the awful night Sheila died when a ray of light had pierced the darkness.

'Pierced', Hubble thought, shaking his head at the irony. Talk about a play on words. That ray of light had come in the form of a phone call from one Daniel Pierce, a member of a secret government unit devoted to chasing...aliens. That unit was interested in retaining his services, Pierce had said. Was he interested in hearing their offer?

Hubble began a slow circuit of the missile silo, his hat dangling from one hand. That was the best thing to come out of this mess, his employment with the Special Unit, which offered a steady stream of income, access to resources previously only dreamed of, such as case files on handprints left on other victims, and something else: The answer to the vagrant problem. It was Pierce who had told him what the United States government had known since the '47 crash, that aliens could take the shape of humans. Triumphant, Hubble had wasted no time sharing this information with Valenti, who, astonishingly, admitted that he'd suspected as much for years. Why didn't you tell me? Hubble had demanded. Because I wasn't sure, Valenti had answered, proving once again that you never really knew who your friends were until the chips were down. "They were down that night, Jim," Hubble murmured as he stood before the door to the silo. "And you let me down. I'll never forgive you for that."

His phone rang. Hubble pulled it from his coat pocket, checked the caller ID, grimaced. That was fast; he'd called the lackey only half an hour ago. But as he was back on the payroll, he had to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Everett," Pierce's deeply satisfied voice came over the line. "I see you decided to take me up on my offer."

"Yeah, well, a man's gotta eat. Where's my money?"

"In your account, right where I said it would be. So what made you come around to my way of thinking?"

"Let's be clear, Danny," Hubble said, resuming his circuit of the silo. "I have about as much faith in this garbage about benevolent aliens as I do in the notion that you'll pull off this 'shadow Unit'. Which is to say none."

"Then why are you there, Hub?"

"Money," Hubble said bluntly. "You're paying me, and I may as well enjoy that until you get your ass kicked. And don't call me Hub."

"You have to earn that paycheck," Pierce reminded him. "I don't care what your personal opinion is so long as you investigate."

"I'm investigatin'," Hubble said. "Met your so-called gunshot victim in the cafe this morning, and her so-called savior at the convention."

"You mean the UFO convention?" Pierce chuckled. "That must be a hoot. So what'd you think?"

"I think you seen one circus, you've seen'em all."

"About the suspect," Pierce clarified. "Did you even read the reports I sent you?"

" 'Course I read'em. What about'em? All those witnesses, and only two people say they saw somethin'? This was in public, Danny. This should be easy. This should be a slam dunk, and it isn't. Besides, aliens don't heal people, and they sure as hell don't do it in public. And why look like a kid? No one who's spotted this monster ever saw it looking like a kid."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that, Everett, because you said you were chasing a 'kid'. Something about a Ouija board?"

"That one's different," Hubble insisted. "Arrogant. Heedless. Obvious. This one, this Evans kid, he's milquetoast. Never raised an eyebrow until now. That doesn't square."

"It does if he's one crafty alien," Pierce argued. "And being a kid is the perfect disguise precisely because no one expects it. Not even you."

"Hmpf," Hubble muttered.

"And then there's Jimmy," Pierce went on. "He believes it. He's the one who called us. You know how Jimmy viewed his dad. He must be pretty darn convinced to do such an about face. You could use that, Everett. You were smart to enlist Valenti in your cause with his resources and his clout. Whatever you think of my 'kid', here's a chance to do it again."

"Unlikely," Hubble said. "Jimmy told me point blank I wasn't welcome here, and I know why; I went to the nursing home. His daddy's just taking up space. Man's a shell, an empty shell."

"Then maybe now's your chance to make amends and get something out of it at the same time," Pierce suggested.

"Amends for what?" Hubble demanded. "I haven't got any 'amends' to make. I'm not responsible for what happened to Jim. He didn't have to go down like that. I told him to say anything, and I'd back him up. He could have made up anything, anything at all, with no one to naysay it, but he wouldn't. Just kept goin' on about 'taking responsibility' and 'sacred duty'. 'Sacred' my ass. What's 'sacred' about throwing yourself in front of a bus?"

"And you along with him," Pierce noted dryly. "I'm guessing the element of self preservation loomed larger than a misguided friend."

"Of course it did," Hubble said sharply. "He would've brought both of us down if I'd let him. If he wanted to hang himself, fine and dandy, but I wasn't going to let him hang me. We just made a mistake, is all. That happens when you're chasin' monsters. Collateral damage, nothin' more."

"And that's what we like about you, Everett," Pierce said. "Your willingness to pull the trigger. Your instinctive grasp of the fact that ordinary people will never understand and need to be shielded from the sacrifices we make for their safety. You get it. Valenti never did."

"Don't patronize me," Hubble snapped. "You wanted to use me every bit as much as I wanted to use you."

"Of course we did," Pierce said without missing a beat. "I'd say it was a mutually valuable association, wouldn't you?" He paused, waiting for an answer. "Look, however Jimmy views you, you're going to have to suck up to him," Pierce went on when Hubble maintained a stubborn silence. "He's the key to all of this. He reported it, he's been pursuing the suspect, he outed Kathleen Topolsky. You need to know what Jimmy knows, so make nice and find out."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that when he thinks I addled his father?"

"How the hell should I know?" Pierce said cheerfully. "That's your job. That's what we pay you for. Think of something, because if you're going after Evans, you need him on your side."



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



Crashdown Cafe




"Have I waited long enough yet?"

Liz Parker whirled around from the shake machine expecting to find a customer impatient for their meal, not a rarity in a diner as busy as this one. When she saw who it was, she smiled.

"Hold that thought," she said. "I'll be right back."

Shakes delivered, two more orders taken, and four more tables checked on, Liz returned to the counter. "It's been a week!" Alex wailed before she could say anything. "A week should be long enough, shouldn't it?"

"We came back from the camping trip on Sunday," Liz reminded him. "It's Friday. That makes it five days."

"Ah, but the infraction occurred on Friday night!" Alex said triumphantly. "That makes it a week...at about 11 p.m. or so."

"Right, but since the 'infraction' happened on the camping trip, it clouded the whole weekend," Liz explained patiently. "So you have to count from the end of the trip. Don't ask why," she advised. "It's a girl thing."

"So...it's like I put my foot in my mouth not only on Friday, but Saturday and Sunday as well? Great," Alex muttered when she nodded. "Just great. God, why did I do this to myself? Everything was just fantastic, and then I went and ruined it with the "D" word."

"I know the feeling," Liz sympathized, recalling how everything had been great with Max, and then suddenly it hadn't been. "But all you can do now is be friendly and back off. And for God's sake, don't say the word 'date'—"

"Don't," Alex ordered, holding up a hand. "I don't ever want to hear that word again as long as I live. Honestly, Liz, you should have seen Isabel's face. It was like I'd slapped her."

"I'm sure she was just...taken aback," Liz suggested.

" 'Taken aback'?" Alex frowned. "Who uses that one any more?"

"People who read. Look, it's not like she hates you," Liz went on. "You said she's said hello every time you've said hello this week, right?"

"Hesitantly," Alex reminded her. "Reluctantly. Like she's not sure she should."

"Which means that a part of her is considering that you didn't mean it the way it came out," Liz said. "And that a part of her still wants to be friends with you. So now that you know what sets her off, just stay away from that, and you should be fine."

"I'm not fine!" Alex exclaimed. "I'm wallowing in guilt! I had a...I was going to a movie with the most beautiful girl in world, hell, maybe even the universe—and you know that's not just a token expression with Isabel—and then I went and blew it!"

"And you're blowing it again," Liz pointed out, lowering her voice. "Because another thing that sets Isabel off is referring to...'that'...in public."

Alex's eyes popped. "Oh, God, I just did it again, didn't I?" he whispered. "Man, what is wrong with me?"

"You're upset," Liz said soothingly. "And you have a big secret, and you're talking to one of the few people who shares that secret. I know how that feels, Alex, but you have to be really careful about what you say and who's listening when you say it. And you can't even refer to it obliquely with Isabel because she's so sensitive to it. Remember, stay away from anything that sets her off."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem," Alex grumbled. "You and Maria told me to stay away from her except for saying 'Hi', so how can I set her off?"

"You just need to give her some time to calm down about it," Liz advised. "They're very jumpy. They've got people chasing them, people sending them messages—"

"Almost dying," Alex added.

"That too," Liz agreed. "You need to prove to her that you're not a threat, or a burden, or anyone who's going to ask more of her than she can give. And that takes time."

"How much time?" Alex moaned.

The clank of plates behind her told Liz that orders were up. "Look, maybe you can use the convention this weekend to say 'Hi' a few more times," she suggested. "Most of the town will be there, and Isabel probably will too. So breeze by, say hello, make absolutely no, and I mean no reference to any relation she might have to what's going on, and...see what happens."

Alex's face slowly brightened. "Hey...yeah! The convention is a great excuse! Thanks, Liz."

"No problem," Liz assured him. "I've got orders. Be right back."

Fives minutes later, Liz smiled as "Zinaplox" blinked at the notion of starting out with a nice hearty breakfast before destroying humanity. Actually he was the weirdest customer so far, although the day, and certainly the weekend, was still young. From that courtly gentleman first thing this morning all the way up till now, neither she nor Maria had seen anything too awfully odd, mostly just people dressed up in costumes. If "Zinaplox" was the worst to come down the pike, they'd be...

...lucky, Liz finished, feeling anything but when she looked up and saw none other than Larry and Jen coming through the door. The Larry and Jen who were here the day of the shooting. The Larry and Jen who had watched Max heal her. The Larry and Jen who had spilled their guts to Valenti. The Larry and Jen who had hung around for weeks, hunting for a bullet she knew no one would ever find. They stood there in the doorway, silent, expectant, and Liz suddenly realized that she and Maria had wished for deliverance from the wrong sort. It wasn't the Zinaploxes and costumed enthusiasts they should have been afraid of, it was the plain vanilla persistent sort who had seen something they shouldn't have and knew it. And she was on hostess duty. Great. Just great.

"Hi, welcome to the Crashdown," Liz said, eager to get this over with. "Can I show you to a table?"

Any hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd forgotten about the whole thing disappeared when Jen's eyes widened and Larry's fastened on her. "Table, yes...table would be lovely," he said with false enthusiasm. "Jen, table?"

"Yeah, thanks," Jen said nervously.

"Great," Larry said, wearing a completely unconvincing smile.

"Here you go," Liz said, showing them to the nearest table at hand. "Ah, so, can I get you a beverage to start?"

"Beverage would be lovely," Larry declared. "Jen, beverage?"

"I'll have a Coke," Jen said quickly.

"Yeah, you know what?" Larry said in a worrisome tone. "I would love to try one of those, uh, delicious shakes that you guys have. Let's see," he continued, plucking a menu from the holder, "which one...oh, this one looks interesting. Alien Encounter?"

Liz stared at the menu Larry had turned toward her. "Yeah, okay, so we've got one Coke and one...Alien Encounter. I'll just be right back."

"Thanks," Larry said. "Actually," he went on after she'd turned away and allowed herself a way too early sigh of relief, "you know what? There is just one more thing. Why don't you tell me," he said deliberately, "what really happened in September?"

The voice was one of authority, of someone who felt they had a right to know, to question her, to demand an answer, and Liz felt herself bristling. It had been so long since anyone had asked her about the shooting and so much water had flowed under that bridge that it now seemed presumptuous, an imposition, an invasion of privacy, making Larry's avid stare even more annoying. Jen froze as Liz returned that stare with one of her own, but Larry held his ground, his expression and posture making it clear he wasn't going to let this one go.

"Well, look who's back," said a voice behind her.

Jen's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, Larry shrank back, and Liz breathed a private sigh of relief as her father joined the stand-off. "Hi, Mr. Parker," Jen blurted before anyone else could say anything. "We're just here for the convention, and you have such great food, we thought we'd....we're just here for food, not to, you know...not to..."

"Cause trouble?" Jeff suggested when Jen's babbling trailed off.

"Yeah," Jen said, flushing. "That."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that," Jeff said. "There isn't any trouble, is there?" he added when Liz gave him a meaningful look.

Liz glanced at Larry, the look of terror in his eyes making it clear that he knew what would happen if she blew him in. "No, Dad," Liz said sweetly. "No trouble. I was just taking their drink orders."

Jeff looked back and forth from the terrified Larry to his daughter, clearly unconvinced. "Uh huh," he said doubtfully. "Well, let's hope so. Because if I hear one word about...you know...or find anyone hunting for bullets or debriefing customers, I will show that person the door so fast, they won't know what hit them. And I'll be sure to spread the word to other establishments in this small town where everyone knows everyone else so that whoever is stupid enough to get on my bad side will wind up eating out of dumpsters. Are we clear?"

"Clear, Mr. Parker," Jen said quickly. "We're just here for the convention. That's all."

"That's all," Larry parroted, nodding vigorously. "The convention."

"Glad to hear it," Jeff smiled. "Have a great time."

Liz waited until her father had moved on before squatting down next to Larry, who leaned back against Jen as though afraid she was radioactive. "So, to answer your question," she said in a low voice, "you know, the question I didn't tell my dad you asked? The one that could have you thrown out of here? To answer that question," she went on when Larry nodded stiffly, "what happened in September was that everyone in this diner...and I mean everyone, including me, you, Jen...got really, really lucky because a gun went off, and no one got hurt. You're right that a miracle happened that day, Larry, but it's not the miracle you think it was, and it's kind of strange that you keep beating that horse. It's like you want me to get hurt, or something. Which I'm hoping you don't," she continued as Larry's head started wagging furiously from side to side, "but I gotta tell you, that's what it looks like. It looks bizarre. It looks creepy, Larry. And no one likes it when creepy men go after teenaged girls."

Larry paled and glanced at Jen, who looked every bit as terrified as he was. "So now that I've explained—again—what happened in September, and given you a heads up as to what you look like when you keep asking about it, I hope that's the last I hear about it," Liz said. "Because if I hear about it again, I'm telling my dad. This is a freebie. You won't get another one."

Liz stood up, smoothed her uniform, and left the two of them frozen to their booth. "What was that all about?" Alex asked when she returned to the counter.

"Just clarifying a few things for a customer," Liz said airily.

Alex gave her a dubious look. "I know I'm not exactly Dr. Phil when it comes to relationships, but that looked like way more than a discussion about the menu. More like a—"

"Zinaplox requires jelly for his toast."

"I'm sorry," Liz said to Zinaplox as Alex stopped and stared at the apparition standing next to him. "Let me get you some."

"I am Zinaplox," Zinaplox announced to the gaping Alex. "I come to destroy humanity."

"Uh...why?" Alex asked.

Zinaplox's heavily made-up features suddenly went blank as he struggled for an answer, ultimately snatching the jelly basket out of Liz's hand and returning to his table without another word.

"Okay, that is one weird dude," Alex declared. "And what is it with destroying humanity? Why is destroying humanity on every alien's bucket list? Why is..."

Alex's rant faded as Liz glanced across the restaurant, where Larry and Jen were still looking shell shocked. Yes, it wasn't the costumed weirdoes who were the most dangerous, but the ordinary looking people who just wouldn't let it go. Good thing she and her father had put Larry in his place. He shouldn't be any more trouble.




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



8:15 p.m.

UFO Center, Roswell




"Where are the cadavers? I've been looking forward to those all week."

Max blinked at the little old lady at the head of the line at the information booth, the very last person he would have expected to be "looking forward to cadavers". "Uh...over on the left. Third exhibit down."

She eagerly scurried off, replaced by a harried looking young mother with three young children hanging off her at precarious angles. "Bathrooms!" she practically shouted at him. "Quick!"

"Uh...Men's or Ladies'?"

"Either!"

Max's right arm shot out. "Ladies' Room is straight to your left."

"Come on kids," the mom ordered, wrestling her brood away. "Peter! I told you to hold it! Hold it!"

"Good evening, sir."

Max tore his eyes away from the accident waiting to happen to find a reserved looking gentleman wearing an alien costume not unlike the one he'd worn earlier, much to Isabel's dismay. "Can I help you?"

"You may," the man answered in a plummy British accent which contrasted oddly with the huge costume head parked beneath one arm. "I am in dire need of a drycleaner, having spilt upon my fur. Perhaps you would be so kind as to point me in the right direction."

Max blinked at the indicated mustard stain on the purple fur. "Uh...sure. Out the main door, turn left, down about three blocks. But they're probably closed until tomorrow morning."

"Not a problem," Mr. Purple Fur assured him. "Cheers, mate."

"Uh...yeah. Cheers."

Three bathrooms, two exhibits, and one first aid station referral later had Max eagerly checking his watch. The Information Booth closed at 8:30, and that couldn't come fast enough for him. He'd almost rather be handing out leaflets in that ridiculous sweaty costume than standing here waiting for people to ask him all sorts of questions, most of which had nothing to do with the convention. He was up to the last person in line, and he had good mind to close a few minutes early...

"Why do they all think we're out to kill them?"

Startled, Max glanced behind Michael, but he was truly the last one in line. "Keep your voice down," Max said urgently, slipping out of the booth and pulling Michael away. "What is it this time?"

"I've talked to at least a dozen different people who call themselves 'experts', Maxwell, and they all think we're vicious killers who are out to destroy the human race," Michael huffed. "What is it with these people?"

"Obviously they're not 'experts'," Max said dryly. "You've gotta take everything in this place with a grain of salt, Michael, or maybe an entire shaker. It's just not...okay, why is Maria's mom giving you the evil eye?" he finished, spotting Mrs. DeLuca a few yards away.

Michael twisted around. "Oh. Her. She's mad at me."

"And...why is she mad at you?" Max prodded.

"Because I didn't like her 'Alien Takedown'."

"And...what's wrong with the Alien Takedown?"

"What's wrong with it is that it makes us look like vicious bloodsuckers out to destroy humanity," Michael retorted. "Which seems to be the collective opinion around here."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. And wrestling doesn't involve bloodsucking; that's vampires. Look, Michael, none of this is about us," Max continued. "This is just what people think aliens are because they've never seen any, and for all we know, they may be right. We really don't know what they're like either."

"Which is not the point," Michael said firmly. "If they don't know, how'd they come up with that one? You've listened to them all day, Mr. Information Booth; why do they all have such bad ideas about us?"

"Probably because they fear the unknown," Max said. "So do we. And don't get me started about the Information Booth. I've spent most of my time answering questions that have nothing to do with this place."

"Then let me ask another that does have to do with this place," Michael said. "What did Liz want?"

"She...just wanted to talk about the luncheon the Crashdown is catering tomorrow."

"No, what did she really want," Michael clarified. "She wasn't wearing a 'catering' face."

"Hello, boys!"

Max and Michael turned around. "Grandma!" Max said, grateful for having been spared having to tell Michael that Larry and Jennifer were back. "I didn't know you did UFO conventions."

"Sure do," Grandma Dee answered. "Have ever since they started. They were more low tech in my day, but some things never change. Like this," she went on, picking up a piece of silvery material off a nearby vendor's table. "There are so many 'alien ship pieces' out there, you'd think they'd crashed an entire fleet."

"Don't bother with that one," Michael said. "It's fake."

"I have to finish up," Max said quickly when the vendor's nostrils flared. "Catch you later, Grandma." He pulled Michael away just as the vendor was launching into an impassioned authenticity speech. "Do you really have to go around annoying everyone?" he hissed at Michael. "We know we came on a ship, so at least that guy got that much right."

"I wasn't trying to annoy anyone," Michael said. "I was just telling her the truth. It was fake."

"How do you know that?" Max demanded.

Michael looked back toward the table where Grandma and another man were inspecting the merchandise. "Couldn't tell you. I just do."



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




*So do you think he really meant that?* Dee asked.

*I think he may have just been yanking the vendor's chain,* Brivari answered. Or not, he added silently. As Zan's second, Rath had overseen the construction of Antar's fleet. He would certainly know what his own ships were made of.

Dee nodded absently as the vendor went on and on about how these "alien ship pieces" were the only authentic ones out there, the same thing every other vendor of "alien ship pieces" would say, oblivious to the fact that a second, telepathic conversation was being carried on right in front of him. *Are there any pieces of your ship out there?* she asked Brivari. *Real ones, I mean. There were so many people at the crash site, there must be.*

*I'm sure there are,* Brivari replied. *But those who have them wouldn't bring them to a place like this, or sell them, or even let on they owned them. The U.S. military would frown on that.*

*No doubt,* Dee agreed as the two of them left the disappointed vendor and moved out into the crowd. *There goes Alex,* Dee murmured, gazing across the room. *My, but he's sweet on Isabel.*

*Young men chasing Vilandra,* Brivari said dryly. *How unique.*

*What's unique is her reaction. From what I understand, she and Alex had arranged to go to a movie together, and then he called it a 'date'.*

*So?*

*So that scared her,* Dee answered. *From what you tell me of Vilandra, that would be unique.*

*'Scared' her? Why?*

*Because she's afraid of getting too close to anyone,* Dee said. *Because she disapproves of Max's feelings for Liz. Because...oh dear,* she amended. *It looks like Max and Michael are having an argument.*

*Like Warders, like Wards,* Brivari muttered.

*Have you spoken to Jaddo since the blow-up?* Dee asked.

*Of course not. If I did anything, I wouldn't speak to him, I'd throttle him.*

*Well, maybe you should,* Dee said. *Speak to him, that is, not throttle him.*

*And why would I do that?* Brivari demanded. *If I recall correctly, you were ready to throttle him yourself.*

*I was,* Dee admitted. *To think that I sent my son and his kids off on that camping trip with no idea Jaddo was behind it...but I won't start on that again. When I calmed down, I realized he had a point—you do completely shut him out, and that just aggravates the problem.*

*He posed as me!* Brivari exclaimed. *He lied to an ally! He—*

*And he was completely wrong to do so,* Dee agreed. *No argument there. But as far as him being angry at you not telling him about Michael's near miss...on that, he has a point. You know what he's like,* she went on as Brivari gave a snort of derision. *You must have known he'd find out and how he'd react. Since you know what he's like, shouldn't you keep him closer? You'll still disagree with each other, but at least you might get a heads up before he goes and does something dramatic. And who knows? If you meet him halfway, maybe he'll tone it down a bit.*

*There is no 'halfway' with Jaddo,* Brivari grumbled. *You know that.*

*I also know your way isn't working,* Dee said firmly. *So why not try another way? I know it won't be perfect, but it might be better. Isn't that better than worse?*

*So what exactly are you suggesting?* Brivari said irritably. *How am I supposed to 'keep him closer'? And why should I? I only have a few more months before he and Ava move here and he's in my face around the clock. He started all this by running off with Ava, so I'm absolutely entitled to those last few months of peace.*

*But there isn't any peace,* Dee said patiently. *That's my point. He may not be here yet, but he's still acting up, and that's making everything more dangerous for everyone. Isn't safety more important than your sense of entitlement? Consider this,* she went on when Brivari flashed her a look of pure annoyance. *Jaddo is a military man, so you have to out-maneuver him. The best way to get him to keep his distance, or as much distance as he's willing to keep, for your 'few more months' is to make him feel like he isn't missing anything. So tell him more. Keep him in the loop. Drown him with mundane reports of what they ate for breakfast and how much homework they have. Tell him anything at all about Isabel, and he'll tune out. Play your cards right, and maybe he'll get bored and leave you—and them—alone.*

Unlikely, Brivari thought, thoroughly disgruntled as he always was when Jaddo entered the discussion. A week after the sighting drama he was still smarting from the affront to River Dog and what he continued to perceive as Jaddo crossing the line. He'd watched all three hybrids like a hawk this past week, so of course they hadn't done a thing; no, that would wait for when he wasn't looking. *I'm going outside for some air,* Brivari told Dee. *These shindigs give me a headache.*

*Think about what I said,* Dee advised. *You can't out-argue him. You'll have to outwit him.*

Brivari wended his way through the crowds toward a side door, privately noting that throttling would be quicker and more effective than outwitting. It was bad enough that only two Warders remained, but why did the second have to be Jaddo? Things would have been so much easier if it had been Valeris or Urza. Although he had to admit that Jaddo hadn't always been this unstable. His imprisonment had broken him, had made his tendencies toward anger and knee-jerk reactions much more than tendencies. Perhaps he was blaming the victim. Perhaps it was Jaddo's captors who had made him so deeply suspicious of everything and everyone that he was unable to recover.

"Hello?" Jaddo's deeply suspicious voice said a moment later.

"Hello," Brivari answered. "How are you this evening?"

There was a pause. "What are you doing, Brivari?" Jaddo demanded. "You never call me, and you certainly don't call to ask how I am."

"Per our recent...'discussion', I've decided to turn over a new leaf," Brivari answered. "I'll still wring your neck if you ever go near River Dog again, but perhaps you had a point that I was wrong to withhold Rath's near miss from you."

"I see no 'perhaps' about it, but progress is progress, no matter how small. Dare I ask what you mean by 'a new leaf'?"

"I thought I'd give you an update on the fallout from your latest stupidity," Brivari said cheerfully. "The hybrids have spent the week going to school, doing homework, and taking out the trash. They're currently at the UFO Center for its convention, where Rath is busily shaking down one charlatan after another in an attempt to figure out your 'message'."

"I'm glad to hear he's trying," Jaddo said, "although I'm perplexed at his methods. What does he think he's going to learn at a place like that?"

"No idea," Brivari said, "although Zan said as much, when he wasn't manning the information booth, that is. Vilandra is being pursued by a young man whose affections she apparently accepted, then rejected when she felt he was getting 'too serious'."

"And who probably has no idea what a narrow miss he just enjoyed," Jaddo said dryly. "But I thought it was Valenti you were worried about, not Vilandra's love life. What's he up to?"

"He hasn't made a move toward them all week," Brivari reported, "although he still has deputies stationed at the crash site. I'm told they'll be pulled after the convention."

"Let him sit there as long as he wants," Jaddo said. "There's absolutely nothing there to see."

As if on cue, the side door through which Brivari had just exited opened, and Valenti appeared. He looked around for a moment, then crossed the parking lot toward a man leaning against a car.

"Hmm," Brivari said thoughtfully. "Valenti's arguing with someone."

"Really?" Jaddo said, perking up; conflict always fascinated him. "Who?"

"Don't know," Brivari said. "A man in a bolo tie and cowboy hat."

"Which describes half the men in the southwest," Jaddo chuckled. "Valenti probably has his hands full with the types who show up for conventions like that, and there's nothing to find in the woods. I doubt he'll be causing any trouble."

Perhaps not, Brivari thought as Valenti stalked away from his target, clearly angry. But far more interesting than Valenti was Jaddo's tone, which had changed from the typical sulky and skeptical to downright chatty. Perhaps Dee was onto something after all.



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

I'll post Chapter 62 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Gotta Love that Dee. The two shifters need to leave town and leave things in her capable hands

Great idea! How much differently things might have turned out.

It really was difficult for Hubble to make nice with Valenti to find out what he knows.

And now Valenti's considering making nice with Hubble to find out what he knows...

I confess that, every now and then, I feel a smidgen of sympathy for Hubble. Murdered wife, handprint disappeared, no one believes him, etc., etc.,...and then I wise up. He became the monster he was determined to capture.




CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO


January 29, 2000, 11 a.m.

Hanson residence, Roswell




Jim Valenti stood on the porch, hesitating, his hand in mid-air only inches from the door, ready to knock but unwilling to do so as he wrestled with the current question of the day: Was he crazy? It wasn't lost on him that the "he" in that query had now changed from father to son, that the clouds which had once rained on his father were now firmly parked over his own head. He'd been up most of last night, spending a sleepless hour tossing and turning before finally giving up and camping out first on the couch, then in the car. There were times when it was a pain in the ass to live with a teenager, nocturnal by nature and all too likely to notice their parents padding around in the wee small. Avoiding Kyle had been no easy feat, but necessary as he'd only been in the mood to brood, not chat. Brood and read, that is, and he'd done both, pawing through the box of his father's things which had caused so much trouble years ago and brooding on the words of a man who, as much as he hated him, might have something he needed.

"But I'll bet you still have a lot of questions, about your father, about that Silo murder and why he was arrested. I'm the only person in the world that has the answers to those questions. I was there. I saw it all. I'm your link, Junior."

Could be, Valenti thought sadly. His visit to his father this morning, an admittedly shaky effort to speak with the only other person who could make that claim in the hopes that his father would have one of his rare lucid moments, had ended with his dad insisting that Hubble had a wife and kid which Valenti knew he didn't have. Which had left him right back where he'd started, with an enemy the only source of information, until he'd had an epiphany: His father and Hubble may be the only two who "saw it all", but there was someone else who saw a lot. Which is how he came to be standing on this porch, one hesitant hand in the air, wondering if his dredging all this up again was the right thing to do.

A moment later, he knocked.

For one almost hopeful moment, it appeared no one was home. He fidgeted on the porch, waffling between gratitude and disappointment that the decision appeared to have been made for him when footsteps sounded inside. A few seconds later, the door opened.

"Jim!" Hanson Sr. said, breaking into a wide smile. "What a surprise!"

"Hey...hey," Valenti finished awkwardly, uncertain of how to address his father's former chief deputy and parent of his own. "It's been a while."

"Sure, has," Hanson agreed. "What brings you my way?"

"Just wanted to bend your ear for a bit," Valenti said. "You go back a ways, and I thought you might have some advice for me."

"Gladly," Hanson said, holding the front door open. "Anything for Jim's kid, and the town sheriff. Shoulda called you 'sheriff'," he added as Valenti stepped inside.

" 'Jim's' fine," Valenti assured him.

"And I'm Don," Hanson said. "No 'buts'," he added firmly when Valenti looked doubtful. "You can't call me 'Hanson'; that's my kid's moniker now, and I was all too grateful to pass it on. I loved the station, but it does eat your life."

"Tell me about it," Valenti said with feeling. "Although 'Don' doesn't sound right. Even my dad didn't call you 'Don'."

"All the more reason for you to start," Don said cheerfully. "Adele! Look who's here! It's Jimbo!"

"I said 'Jim' was fine," Valenti cautioned. "Not 'Jimbo'. Please, anything but 'Jimbo' or 'Junior', or I might have to start calling you Donald Duck."

"There you go," Hanson chuckled. "I like a man who hits back. Here's my lovely bride," he added when his wife appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Remember this one?"

"Of course I remember him," Adele scolded, warmly taking Valenti's hand. "Although he might not remember me."

"Yes, ma'am, I do," Valenti smiled. "My father had nothing but the highest regard for both of you."

"A wonderful man, your father," Adele declared. "How is he?"

Valenti's eyes dropped. "About the same, ma'am. About the same."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Adele said gently. "And I'm not 'ma'am', I'm 'Adele'. You're not ten any more, Jim."

"Go get the pictures," Hanson suggested. "Our grandkids," he explained to Valenti. "Just got back from seeing them, and we had such a great time, we're making plans for the next trip. Pull up a chair, Jim. I'll grab you a beer. Just one," he insisted when Valenti began to protest. "You've got a convention in town. Believe me, you're gonna need it."

I need it already, Valenti thought, setting his hat on the table as he took the proffered chair. Half an hour later he was feeling worse than ever after leafing through dozens of pictures of smiling children of various ages and hearing the Hansons talk about their adventures with vacations, grandkids, golf, and gardening. This was what his father's retirement should have been, not four walls in a nursing home, and the reason for that was the reason he was here.

"About bending your ear," Valenti said when Adele produced a fresh mound of pictures.

"Sure, thing, Jim," Hanson said. "What's up?"

Valenti looked back and forth from one to the other. "It's about Silo," he said finally.

Hanson and Adele exchanged glances. "Sweetheart, would you excuse us, please?" Hanson said softly.

"Of course," Adele answered, gathering up the photos, pausing beside Valenti's chair on the way out. "Your daddy was a good man. Don't you ever let anyone tell you anything different."

"Yes, ma'am," Valenti said. "I appreciate that."

She left, leaving them alone in the kitchen. "And here I thought you'd showed up because of the convention," Hanson said. "God knows they always gave us a pain in our collective asses back in the day, excuse my French."

"I wish it was just the convention," Valenti said. "I wish it were that easy."

"Mmm." Hanson was quiet for a moment. "So," he said finally. "Silo. What did you want to know?"

Valenti leaned forward in his chair. "You were the first one on the scene," he said quietly, "the only one who saw the immediate aftermath. What did you see? What was my father doing? What was Hubble doing? Was the drifter dead already? Was anyone else around? What did you see, Hanson?" he added, reverting to a familiar name. "I grew up hearing what the townspeople thought, what my mother thought, what the newspapers thought, but my father would never talk about it, and Hubble disappeared. What did you see?"

Hanson kept his eyes on the table. "I gave my statements in the report. You could have read that."

"I did," Valenti said, "and you and I both know how much doesn't make it into official reports. This is off the record. I need to know what you saw."

Hanson clasped his hands in front of him a little too tightly. "Okay. Your father called it in. I knew there was trouble right away. I'd worked for your dad long enough, I could hear it in his voice. I took the call, and I went out alone."

"Yeah, I saw that," Valenti noted.

"When I got there, the drifter was dead," Hanson went on. "Your dad was in shock. He couldn't answer me when I asked him what happened, just pointed. I'd never seen him like that."

"And Hubble?" Valenti demanded. "What was Hubble doing?"

Hanson's eyes hardened. "Hubble? Hubble was ecstatic, Jim. Hubble was celebrating. Hubble was crowing. 'We got'im!' he was yelling. 'We got the bastard! Now they'll believe us! They'll have to!' "

Valenti closed his eyes briefly. "And then what?"

"And then I asked Hubble what in the hell he was talking about," Hanson said. "He kept going on about justice, and saving the Earth, and lots of other bullshit, but never did answer my question. And all the while your daddy just stood there and stared. I had one silent sheriff and one madman on my hands."

"So what'd you do?"

"I told Hubble to shut the hell up and tried to talk to your daddy. I asked him what happened, but Hubble kept interrupting, hollering that they'd 'won' and so forth. Finally I told Hubble that if he didn't zip it, I'd cuff him for disturbing the peace, or hindering an investigation, or whatever I could think of."

"Too bad you didn't," Valenti muttered.

"I was this close," Hanson said, holding up a thumb and forefinger. "But Hubble finally got the message and left us alone, sort of. He went over to the body and....well, the best way I can describe it is he did a kind of victory dance around it, prancing around it, and swearing at it, and yelling at it, yelling, 'I got you, you bastard!' and so on."

"Jesus," Valenti whispered.

"Yeah," Hanson agreed, "tell me about it. But it bought me a few precious minutes alone with your daddy, and with Hubble out of the way, he finally said something: He said the man was dead."

"Oh, that's helpful," Valenti sighed.

"I told him I already knew that, that I needed to know why he was dead, that people would be asking," Hanson went on. "And that's when Hubble reappeared. He pulled your daddy away, and the two of them got into an argument."

"About what?"

"Not sure," Hanson admitted. "Whatever had tied your daddy's tongue, Hubble untied it, and your daddy ordered me to stay out of it. I set about documenting the scene while the two of them went at it."

"What'd you find?"

"A single gunshot to the chest," Hanson answered. "No weapons. No sign of a struggle. Shot had been fired from a distance. It wasn't looking good, and then about fifteen minutes later, Hubble comes over and announces that the body is going straight to the coroner's office for an immediate autopsy. No crime scene work-up, no documentation, nothing."

"What'd you tell him?"

Hanson's expression darkened. "I told'im to buzz off, Jim. Hubble was always trying to order us around, acting like he owned the station. He had your daddy wrapped around his little finger, but the rest of us couldn't stand him. I told him I didn't take orders from him and kept doing what I was doing. He shouted, and threatened, and then he went back to your daddy. A minute later your daddy came over and ordered me to take the body to the coroner's office straight away. We weren't even going to wait for the van."

An awkward silence descended over the kitchen. Valenti kept his eyes on the Formica tabletop, a 50's era pattern that was strangely comforting. "Now, I don't need to tell you how out of order that was," Hanson went on. "There's procedure, and your daddy usually followed it to the letter. That night he didn't, and it was Hubble who talked him out of it."

"So what did you do?" Valenti asked.

Now it was Hanson's turn to look away. "Anyone else, I would have told'em to go to hell. But this was your daddy, so I did what he asked. The two of us bundled the body into the trunk of my cruiser and we went off to the coroner. Hubble went in your daddy's car."

"And you didn't call it in," Valenti murmured.

Hanson shook his head. "I still wasn't sure what was going on. Your daddy was usually a stickler for doing things by the book, but he wasn't naive; he knew that didn't always work. I kept hoping he had a reason for what he was doing, and that reason would come to light."

"So what happened with the coroner?"

"We waited half an hour for the coroner to show up," Hanson went on, looking faintly ill. "Half an hour with some poor bastard's body in my trunk. I ditched that car after that. Anyway, it took him about three hours to do the autopsy. Nobody left. I still didn't know what we were waiting for. What was the rush? Why all the secrecy? Hubble paced back and forth like a lion in a cage, still all happy, but a different kind of happy now, an expectant kind. Your daddy wasn't speechless any more, just really quiet except for the three or four times Hubble tried to go into the back, and then he practically threw him into a chair and ordered him to stay put. I'd never heard your daddy talk to Hubble like that, and Hubble hadn't either; fortunately he listened." Don paused. "And then, finally, the coroner comes out, looking all confused, kind of like I was. And he says the man died of a single gunshot wound to the chest."

"And then what?" Valenti pressed, knowing he was close. "Did you find out what all the secrecy was about?"

"Yeah, I found out. After the coroner had his say, your father pulled him aside and talked to him alone for several minutes. And then he and Hubble went out into the parking lot, and says...I still can't believe this...he says, 'Was it human? It wasn't, was it? It wasn't human! I knew it!' " Hanson's face contorted. "He thought...Jesus, I can barely say it with a straight face, but he thought that poor bastard was an alien. An alien! Can you believe it? That's why all the celebrating, and yack about 'justice', and that's why the beeline to the coroner's. He wanted confirmation that the body belonged to an alien. Only it didn't. Which meant that guy was shot for no reason, no reason at all. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, square in the path of one deluded man's fantasies. I couldn't believe it. Just couldn't believe it."

I can, Valenti thought, having always suspected something like this. "So how'd it end?"

"Badly, Jim. It ended badly. Hubble was madder than a hornet. And your daddy, he told me to go home, and he'd handle it. Said he'd take full responsibility for everything."

"Did you?"

"Yeah," Hanson said heavily. "I did. Just walked away. No report, no nothing. Just left the body and walked away. Left your daddy and Hubble fighting in the parking lot."

Valenti looked down at his empty beer glass. "Bet you didn't sleep that night."

"No sir, I did not," Hanson agreed, "and not for many nights after that. The next day when I got to the station, I found out your daddy had owned up to the whole thing, hook line and sinker. Reports had been filed—"

"Were they accurate?" Valenti broke in.

"Kind of had to be," Hanson replied. "He couldn't very well buy off the coroner, and he wouldn't do that anyway. He'd called the whole thing an accident, and the only thing he'd left out was Hubble's weird behavior. When I asked him about it, all he said was, 'It was my fault. I'm responsible.' "

"But it wasn't just him," Valenti argued. "Hubble had something to do with it."

"I know," Hanson said bitterly. "And I told him I was going to hold Hubble upside down and shake him until I made him own up to that. But your daddy said he'd 'taken care of Hubble', which turned out to mean he'd told him to leave town. I went by the motel where he stayed, and he'd checked out...but not before giving a deposition to the town council."

"So that's why he 'disappeared'," Valenti murmured.

"At the inquest, I was gonna tell everybody how Hubble behaved," Hanson went on. "But I was the only one who'd seen it, I knew your daddy wouldn't back me up, and Hubble was gone. The town didn't really know Hubble; it was us deputies who realized how far he'd weaseled into your father's life. I would have sounded like the sheriff's right hand man, saying whatever I could think of to protect my boss, and I'm not sure it would have helped anyway. I think it would have just made everything worse if everyone realized your daddy had taken a man like Hubble seriously."

Hanson rose, fetched another beer, popped the cap, took a swig. "In the end, it didn't matter because they had what they needed. Your father had confessed and there was a corroborating witness. He wouldn't tell anyone how he'd come upon the man, or why he'd rushed the body to the coroner's, or why he'd waited until the next day to file a report. I think the fact that he broke all that protocol and wouldn't say why bugged everyone more than the dead drifter. He just sat there with his head down and his hands in his lap and never offered a syllable in his own defense, so his fate was sealed. The council decided there wasn't enough evidence to charge him with a crime, so they just stripped him of his badge. I say 'just' like it was a good thing, but it could have been so much worse."

"And then you cleaned out his office," Valenti said, "took the things you gave me when I got the badge."

"Got there before the council did," Hanson nodded. "I knew how this looked. Everyone knew your daddy had certain...beliefs...but I also knew he didn't just go around shooting people because he thought they were aliens. Hubble must have gotten to him, told him some kind of twisted story, but I could never prove it, your father would never had admitted it, and Hubble wasn't around to shake down. So I cleaned out a few things I thought might be...misinterpreted."

"And I'm grateful for that," Valenti said quietly. "I'll always be grateful for that."

"You're welcome," Hanson said uncomfortably, "but I don't think it did much good. The damage had been done, and the worst part of it was the way your daddy just took it. I know he screwed up, but I also know there's something he's not telling about that night. I know Hubble had more to do with it than your daddy let on, and if I ever see his sorry face again, I swear to God, I'll beat it out of him."

Silence fell over the kitchen as Valenti shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He'd never heard this tale, or any tale other than the official one. He and his father had been largely estranged when this had happened, his mother long gone, and it had all added up to one mighty embarrassing episode. And as much as he blamed Hubble for it, he knew deep down that wasn't entirely true. Hubble may have taken advantage of his father, but the fact remained that his father had believed in aliens long before Hubble showed up. And for all that he'd like to 'beat it out of' Hubble too, there was the uncomfortable fact that he now believed his father may have been right, which meant that Hubble may have been right. That complicated things.

"Hanson, I'm going to tell you something," Valenti said carefully, "and I want you to promise me you won't do anything stupid."

Hanson paused mid-sip. "I'm retired now, Jim. The stupidest thing I do now is eat spicy food right before bed."

Valenti smiled faintly. "Right. Okay. Well...the way this all came up—"

"Is the convention," Hanson finished. "Yeah, I figured. There's this big mystery with UFO kooks about why Hubble 'vanished', but there's no real mystery; your daddy ran him out of—"

"He's here, Hanson," Valenti said. "Hubble's here."

Hanson's eyes widened. "Here? Now? Why?"

"Supposedly for the convention," Valenti answered. "I've seen him. I've spoken to him."

Hanson's beer lowered slowly to the table. "You...you've spoken to him?"

"Not cordially, mind you," Valenti amended. "I had the same reaction you did...but I know there's more to this. At first I told him to leave, but then he offered to answer any questions I had about Silo. And it got me thinking...this might be my one chance. Hubble and my father were the only witnesses, and my father's not all there. And that's why I wanted to hear what you had to say, wanted to hear it from you first before I decide whether to listen to Hubble."

"Take him up on it."

Valenti blinked. "What?"

"I said take him up on it," Hanson repeated. "He'd never talk to me because he knows I hate him, but it's different with you—he'll think he can snow you, and he'll be wrong about that. You've got a good nose, Jim, just like your dad. If the jackass wants to talk, let'im talk. Give him a noose, and let him hang himself. He'll spin a tale, I'm sure, but he's bound to let something slip. He's too vain to be that careful."

"And here I thought I was going to have to nail your feet to the floor," Valenti said dryly.

"And you will," Hanson promised, "just as soon as you've bled that bastard dry. Get everything you can get out of him, and then you'll have to nail my feet to the floor. That's a promise."

"Duly noted," Valenti nodded. "Thanks, Hanson—Don. For everything."

"Good luck, Jim. And be careful."

"Believe me, I will." Valenti said, donning his hat. "Oh...one more thing. Do you know if Hubble had a wife and kid?"

Hanson shook his head. "Hubble? No way. Who'd marry him?"

"So he never mentioned it, or my father never mentioned it?"

"I never heard a word about any member of his family," Hanson said. "Don't think he had one."




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





UFO Center,

Roswell





Shelia would have loved this.

Everett Hubble surveyed the plethora of desserts on the laden table, noting an alarming incidence of chocolate. Shelia had loved chocolate. If that blasted nutrition pyramid had existed back then, she'd have insisted that chocolate be given its own food group. He'd never cared for it much himself until after she'd died, when chocolate had suddenly become a way to remember her. Now he reached for a fork and a thick slice of mud pie, which looked like it was made out of enough chocolate to cause a heart attack. Which would certainly have been a better way to go than the way she had.

"Mr. Hubble!"

It was Milton, all fresh faced and beaming. "Hey, there, Miltie," Hubble said. "Nice spread you got here. Sandwiches, potato salad, deviled eggs, all this chocolate. Way better than the usual pizza and tater tots."

"I run a high class operation," Milton announced, sounding like he actually believed it.

"That so?" Hubble said dryly. "Well, thanks for pointin' that out. Never would have guessed."

Milton blinked, recovered. "I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you at our panel discussion," he gushed. "I don't suppose I could interest you in Sunday's round table?"

"Like I told your shadow there, that Max kid, I'm a doer, not a talker," Hubble answered. "That one reminds me of you, Miltie."

"He's a chip off the old block, isn't he?" Milton said proudly. "Like the son I never had. And Evans is just one more reason we're not the typical UFO center and this is no typical UFO convention. We've got real believers working here, and the sighting last week has attracted the attention of UFOlogists everywhere."

"Yeah, mighty convenient how that happened right before your convention," Hubble remarked.

"I'm not sure how to take that remark," Milton bristled. "I personally surveyed the scene and spoke to the witnesses—at great personal risk to myself, you understand—and I can assure you this was no hoax. This one was genuine."

"You don't say?" Hubble murmured.

"I do—don't—do!" Milton insisted, looking mildly alarmed, like visions of his former English teacher had just flashed before his eyes. "Even the sheriff thought so. He had me arrested when I breached the area he'd cordoned off in the woods. He didn't want me finding out what he already knew and he didn't know that I already knew—that it was real. But I already knew that, even if he didn't know I knew that and didn't know he was too late."

Hubble polished off the last of the mud pie. "Not sure I followed all that, Miltie, but I think I got the gist of it. Glad they let you out of the slammer. The world's a safer place. I'm gonna go sit down now. Wouldn't want to miss the show."

Hubble tossed his paper plate and fork in the trash and left Milton by the buffet table still dithering over whether he'd just been dissed. This was a private affair, accessible only to ticket holders, which was probably supposed to give it cachet, a cachet he was certain it didn't deserve. But his dogs were tired from pounding the pavement all day, he needed a place to sit, and where better than here? Dog and pony shows like these were really just live comedy at a bargain price, and being in a public place made it less likely that Jimbo would carry out his threat and have him tossed out of town. He was willing to bet good money that the crumbs he'd dropped last night would take root, but just to be on the safe side, he'd kept a low profile today and stayed on the move, quietly amassing information on Pierce's supposed suspect, Milton's pride and joy, Max Evans. By all accounts Evans was a quiet, bookish kid who'd never raised an eyebrow for any reason, let alone any recognizable alien reason. Everyone knew about the shooting at the local diner last fall, but no one had mentioned a miraculous healing, the waitress in question being universally described as "lucky" by adults and a "bookworm" by her peers. No mention of an unusually savvy Ouija board-teen either, so his target hadn't come this way. He'd pretty much struck out on all counts, with the Jimbo count still being up in the air, so he was perfectly content to rest his tired bones on one of Milton's high-class metal chairs and listen to some bedtime stories.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," intoned a classic geek at the head table, wearing classic horn-rimmed glasses and a classic pocket protector. "Welcome to tonight's panel discussion, led by several experts in the field, myself among them. We have a long list of people eager to share their various experiences with extraterrestrial biological entities, otherwise known as 'E.B.E.'s', and we'll be calling on everyone who signed up at the information booth. Please do try to be succinct, as there are others who also wish to speak. I would also like to note," Classic Geek continued with a pained expression, "that there are likely many in attendance who are not believers, but merely curious. We welcome you to this discussion and would like to note that this is not a forum to debate the various opinions on alien visitation on this planet, but a safe place for those who have experienced such visitation to share their experiences free of the ridicule they typically encounter when they try to do so. Any arguing, derisive remarks, heckling, or other inappropriate behavior will be dealt with swiftly and unapologetically."

A ripple of approval moved through the crowd as heads nodded and murmurs of agreement rose and fell. "With that," Classic Geek continued, "I'll hand the microphone over to our host, Mr. Jonathan Frakes."

The crowd erupted in applause. Classic Geek made no effort to hide his disapproval, and Hubble watched sympathetically as the strapping Star Trek actor promptly hogged all the attention. As laughable as he found this panel of so-called "experts", at least they were believers, even if what they believed was pure, unadulterated bullshit.

To his credit, Frakes calmed the fawning crowd with remarkable speed and got right down to business. One by one men and women rose to tell their stories of encounter, abduction, torture, and death, that last being the most interesting given that the victims were very much alive. No claim was too wild, no story too implausible for the panel of "experts" who swallowed everything whole, questioned nothing, debated no one. And there was little to debate or question given that most of the accounts were basically the same story, the story told over and over since the late 40's about bulbous headed little green/grey creatures with big hands, big eyes, and big probes. After ten abductions, one pregnancy, two sexual encounters, and one sex change, Hubble's eyelids grew heavy. He had almost dozed off when Frakes moved on to the next name on his list.

"Well, there you have it. Thank you, Mr. Grabowski. Our next direct contact witness is a Lawrence Trilling."




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




"I hope this seat isn't saved," Milton whispered. "Just need to take a load off. My feet are absolutely killing me, but I wouldn't miss this for the world."

"Nor would I," Brivari answered as Zan's boss plopped down beside him in the very back row while Zan remained behind them, only feet away from his Warder as he scanned the crowd for miscreants.

"Isn't this exciting?" Milton went on. "Can you imagine this many direct contacts in one room?"

"It's quite an achievement," Brivari agreed.

"Thank you!" Milton beamed. "It's all because of the sighting. That was real, you know. I know real when I see it."

"I'm sure you do," Brivari said.

"And what about you, sir?" Milton asked. "Are you a believer or a skeptic?"

"Definitely a believer," Brivari assured him.

"Glad to hear it!" Milton enthused. "Peanut?"

Brivari's eyes dropped to the little bag of nuts Milton was holding. "No, thank you."

"Low blood sugar," Milton confessed, crunching noisily. "Haven't had time to eat. Busy, busy. I hope you don't mind my asking if you're a believer," he went on through a mouthful of nuts. "I realize that's a deeply personal question."

"Right up there with religion, politics, and sexual orientation," Brivari deadpanned.

"Worse," Milton said as the irony sailed right past him. "It's just that these conventions attract a lot of skeptics, and they can get awfully mouthy. We have to preserve a space for the true believers, a place where we know we'll be taken seriously and not subjected to the usual round of ridicule. Not that skeptics are unwelcome," he added hastily. "Many a believer started as a skeptic, so we'd be crazy to shut them out. They just have to behave themselves. That's what Evans and I are doing, watching for troublemakers. He's a chip off the old block, Evans. He's really got the bug. He's kinda quiet, though, so I hope he'll step up to the plate when the time comes."

"You needn't worry," Brivari said dryly. "He's not that quiet."

Milton stopped chewing. "Oh...have the two of you met?"

"I just meant that 'quiet' people are frequently misinterpreted," Brivari clarified. "A lack of volume doesn't indicate a lack of strength. Many a shouter has proven a coward."

Milton's eyes widened. "How true! How very true! And so beautifully put! Say....are you a writer?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "I've been many things, but not that. At least not yet."

Milton leaned in closer. "So tell me...do you have a direct contact story?"

"You could say that," Brivari answered.

"Wow!" Milton breathed, so taken that his nuts slipped to the floor. "I can just imagine what the aliens made of you! I'd love to hear it."

Brivari leaned in closer. "That would not be wise," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Were I to share what I know with you...well...let's just say they would disapprove."

"But how would they know?" Milton whispered. "I've had the room swept for bugs several times."

"Believe me," Brivari said, fastening his eyes on Milton, "they'll know."

Milton's eyes widened again, a difficult feat given how large they were already. "Oh! I...I see. Of course. I understand completely. I'm...I'm just going to go...go...maybe I'll catch you later."

Milton scurried back to Zan, completely unaware that he'd fled the company of one alien to stand beside another. Five minutes later he'd largely recovered, oohing and aahing along with the crowd at the latest tale of direct contact. What no one realized is that none of these tales could be true; virtually no one in this room was old enough to have been the subject of their human experiments decades ago. Unless they'd encountered Nicholas and company, this was all a variation on the same fairy tale which had been invented right around the time Antarians had begun visiting this planet. Fairy tales always contained a germ of truth, and these were no exception; the tales weren't true, but the events on which they were based certainly were. In his early years on Earth he'd avoided these gatherings like the plague for this very reason, that and the fact that survivors of their experiments were still to be found. Now the last of them were dying off and the tale had morphed into something less recognizable, even comical. Retrieving the bag of peanuts, Brivari polished them off while musing on the fact that one of the kings who had sanctioned those experiments stood behind him, completely unaware that the tales he was hearing were the result of both his and his father's practices. He really should contact Webster's and offer a new definition for "irony".

"Well, there you have it," announced the visiting celebrity, virtually a requirement at these functions. "Thank you, Mr. Grabowski. Our next direct contact witness is a Lawrence Trilling."

The man who rose from the crowd brought an abrupt end to Brivari's musings. So much for fairy tales, he thought grimly. Reality had just intruded, and in the worst possible way.


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


Family stuff next weekend, so I'll be back with Chapter 63 on Sunday, February 5th.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

LOL when Milton asked Brivari if he was a believer.....

If only they knew--Milton would faint! (Hmm...that might have been fun. )




CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE



January 29, 2000, 4:00 p.m.

UFO Center, Roswell




Brivari's eyes fastened on the latest "direct contact witness", an unfortunately familiar face. Lawrence Trilling, or "Larry" as the celebrity moderator was now addressing him, was one of the witnesses to Zan's monumental idiocy back in September. While currently star struck and gushing, that wouldn't last, and when it ended, there was no telling what he would say.

"You know how some people say that Clapton is God, you know?" Larry asked the politely smiling moderator. "But I say you! You are God!"

Applause ensued, followed by insincere protests from the moderator that didn't last nearly long enough. "Okay, let's go to your encounter," the moderator said.

"Yeah, right," Larry answered. "Okay. Um...it happened right here, right in Roswell, New Mexico. September 17th. I was in the Crashdown Cafe..."

Brivari felt a wave of apprehension behind him. Turning, he found Zan and Rath exchanging alarmed glances, after which Rath moved toward Larry. Great, Brivari groaned. More trouble.

"Boom! They start having an argument," Larry declared. "Boom! A gun is pulled."

But Rath merely passed the babbling witness, placing a hand briefly on his chest before continuing on by. Puzzled, Brivari's eyes darted from Zan to Rath, trying to figure out what they were up to.

"Boom! A girl is shot," Larry continued. "Boom! A seemingly normal teenage boy...now this teenage boy, Mr. Frakes, is someone who looks just like you and me...Boom! He goes up to the girl and..."

There was now no doubt where Larry was going with this, but a strange thing was happening: Larry seemed to have developed an itch, one which progressed right along with his story of the miraculous healing which had happened right across the street. By the time he'd finished, he was practically dancing.

"Ooh!" exclaimed the moderator as Larry scratched frantically. "Well, all I can say is, boom! What do you think?" he asked the panel.

Brivari's eyes swept the panel members, all of whom looked seriously unamused. Larry's tale was not typical of alien encounter stories and would hopefully be deemed suspect. It certainly helped that Rath's touch had apparently induced some kind of skin irritation which, although it hadn't stayed Larry's tongue, had produced an effect which made him appear unstable.

"I'm insulted by this ridiculous story," announced the panel's leader as the other panel members shook their heads in disbelief.

But Larry, both hands working furiously on whatever ailed him, was not to be put off. "Yeah, well he's here. He's right here! Okay, pal? He's right here! Right now! He's in this very audience!"

"That's enough, monkey man," the moderator declared.

"Listen, cool it, Frakes!" Larry retorted.

"Security?" the moderator appealed.

Watching from the back, Milton gestured to Zan, and both promptly came forward and took hold of Larry. "Hey, this is the guy right here!" Larry shouted. "This is the guy! He's the one! He's the guy!"

"Well, he may not be the best convention coordinator, but I would hardly call him an alien," the moderator chuckled, followed by nervous laughter from the crowd as Larry was removed still hollering about a missing bullet. "Who's next?" the moderator asked briskly after the doors had closed behind Larry and "security".

"A moment, please, Mr. Frakes," the panel's leader said, folding his hands in front of himself. "Ladies and gentleman, I want to apologize for that outburst. I know this is a safe place for you, a welcoming place, and that safety has just been compromised."

The doors at the back of room burst open and Milton reappeared, followed by Zan. "It's okay, everyone!" Milton called with desperate cheer. "He's gone! There's one in every crowd, hopefully only one. Back to business!"

"We shouldn't let people like that in here," declared a portly gentleman in the front row. "What kind of operation are you running, Milton?"

Milton blanched as murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. "I...I'm terribly sorry, sir. I..."

Brivari rose from his seat. "Excuse me...may I address the audience?"

The leader frowned at this breach of etiquette. "Are you on the list of witnesses, Mr...?"

"Let him speak!" Milton called. "I'd like to hear what he has to say."

The leader hesitated, glancing toward the panel, who appeared ready to protest but unwilling to contradict their host. "Thank you," Brivari said, taking advantage of the confusion. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure we're all familiar with what we just saw. Each and every one of us has a story to tell, a story which few believe. As our esteemed panel has reminded us, places like these are havens, sanctuaries where we may share our stories unmolested. Except when they're infiltrated, of course, as ours just was."

Heads nodded. The room was completely silent. The panel were now listening quietly, perhaps mollified at being referred to as "esteemed".

"To be listened to is a powerful thing," Brivari continued, "to be ignored one of the harshest punishments. No one is ignored here. All are free to tell their stories, all are welcome to listen. The price of that welcome is that sometimes we are mocked. Opening our doors to all means admitting the occasional bad seed and being prepared to deal with them. While we are under no obligation to tolerate abuse, we also mustn't allow occasions like this to sway our resolve or to serve as an excuse to shut others out, for when we do that, we shut out some who need us, who need this place every bit as much as we do."

Everyone, crowd, panel, Milton, Zan, remained perfectly still as Brivari paused, letting that sink in. "For my part," Brivari went on, "I am deeply grateful for the sanctuary Milton has provided for us, and further grateful that this interruption was anticipated and dealt with swiftly. It does our host a disservice to blame him for opinions he does not share. I am also grateful to the panel for not hesitating to call out this individual. There will always be those who refuse to believe us, some politely, most not. We waste time objecting to their existence, something we cannot control, instead of dealing with their behavior, something we can, and my compliments to Milton for having appropriate measures in place to do just that. Let this serve as a reminder to all of us that while the price of our open arms is incidents such as these, the price of their withdrawal is that others like us, misunderstood, vilified, even criminalized, remain homeless and ignored. This is their home, and we are their family. The needs of our brethren who have not yet found their way to this safe haven must take precedence over any discomfort we may feel when we encounter the skepticism and mockery we just witnessed and are all too familiar with. We are, in a sense, the older brothers and sisters of those who come after us, accustomed to the world if weary of it, and responsible for providing guidance as to how to behave when it inevitably confronts us. We are their teachers. It is a huge responsibility I am confident we are all capable of," he finished, nodding toward the panel, Milton, and the audience, in that order. "Thank you."

Brivari resumed his seat. There was a pause of about five seconds before the panel began to clap, followed by the audience, followed by Milton, ultimately producing a thunderous applause. Hugs were exchanged, people wept, and Milton was pulled into the crowd for embraces and handshakes. The celebrity moderator stood off to one side, clapping half-heartedly, no doubt miffed that attention was no longer focused on him. Eventually, the panel's speaker called for order.

"On behalf of my esteemed colleagues," the speaker began, appropriating Brivari's phrasing, "I would also like to thank our gracious host for coming quickly to our defense. Now, if we could return to the discussion. There are many more who have stories to tell, and as we've just been reminded, that is far more important than any disruption. Mr. Frakes? Who's next on the list?"

People settled. The next witness told a standard tale of little grey/green men, as did the next and the next. Five standard tales later, Brivari slipped into the parking lot and pulled out his phone.

"Let me guess," Jaddo said in a bored tone. "We're all monsters, and we're out to destroy humanity and take over the planet."

"Of course," Brivari said. "Aren't we always? But that's not why I'm calling. One of the witnesses to Zan's healing episode showed up at the convention."

"My goodness," Jaddo deadpanned. "Do you mean to tell me that something of interest happened and you actually notified me immediately?"

"Shocking, isn't it?" Brivari said dryly. "I expect you to return the favor."

"Tess is holed up in her room reading up on some college test called the 'PSAT'," Jaddo reported. "Not as earth shattering as your news, but it's the best I've got. Given your tone, I'm assuming you silenced this 'witness'?"

"Not at all," Brivari answered. "He told his tale, but fortunately for us, orthodoxy, narcissism, and Rath took care of it. With a little help, of course."

"Good Lord, Brivari, could you be any more cryptic?" Jaddo complained. "What did Rath do?"

"He touched the 'witness', resulting in some kind of skin irritation that had him scratching himself furiously."

"Inventive," Jaddo allowed. "But I've seen these types. Nothing shuts them up."

"Oh, it didn't," Brivari said, "but it did have the effect of making him look sufficiently deranged. And then I used lots of religious imagery to remind the audience of how they like to feel they're special and important and unfairly persecuted, and now they're all in there holding hands and singing 'Kumbyah'. Add to that the fact that he told a story which casts an alien as something other than a monster bent on destroying humanity and taking over the planet, and he basically discredited himself."

"Good. Where is he now?"

"I'm looking," Brivari said, making a circuit of the building. "Zan and his employer threw him out."

"He won't go quietly," Jaddo warned. "Those types never do. Get rid of him."

"I doubt I'll need to," Brivari answered, rounding a corner. "Oh...there he is."

"Where?"

"Hmm," Brivari murmured. "That's interesting."

"What's interesting?" Jaddo demanded. "Honestly, I think I liked it better when you never called."

"He's getting into a car with the man Valenti was arguing with last night," Brivari reported. "And he's still scratching."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You should find out who Valenti was arguing with," Jaddo said.

"Why?"

"Just find out."

"But why?"

"For heaven's sake, Brivari, all I want is a name. Is that too much for a Royal Warder?"

"But why are you so big on a name? Who are you looking for?"

"Get me the name," Jaddo said, "and I'll let you know."




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




Walgreens Drug Store




By the time the double doors slid open and Larry Trilling stumbled inside, he'd already managed to draw blood. Horrified, he stared at the hand he'd just been using to scratch his left shoulder, then tentatively raised his other hand, probing the same place. Holy shit, Larry thought when that hand also came back red. This entire afternoon had been nothing but a nightmare, with his much-looked-forward-to chance to tell his story resulting in him being mocked and thrown out of the UFO center by the very guy who had prompted the story in the first place, followed by an interminable lurch down Roswell's Main Street in desperate search of a pharmacy so he could find something to quiet whatever had set his skin on fire. Because on fire it was, both red hot and visibly red, and so itchy that even now, with blood on his hands, he was losing the fight to stop scratching. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he headed straight for the counter in the back. It was something of a miracle that he was here at all, with several people he'd asked for help finding a drugstore backing away in alarm, whether from his rash or his mad scratching or both. Best not to scare the pharmacist.

But there was no pharmacist manning the back counter where prescriptions were dispensed, only a teenaged girl with three earrings in each ear, a nose ring, numerous tattoos, and enough black eyeliner to draw a line around the crash site on Pohlman Ranch. "Name?" she asked in a bored tone without looking up from the magazine she was reading, or rather, looking at. It appeared to be all pictures.

"My name's not important," Larry answered, both hands clenched in fists to keep from scratching.

"It is if you want to pick up your prescription," she answered, still not looking up.

"I'm not here for a prescription. I'm here for something for itching."

"Like what?" Nose Ring asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Larry said peevishly. "This is a pharmacy, isn't it? Where's the pharmacist?"

"Probably screwing his wife," chuckled Nose Ring. "Or maybe someone else's. It is a Saturday night, you know."

"Well, who's on call, then?" Larry said desperately, his bitten-down fingernails digging into his palms, he was clenching his fists so hard. "I know these places always have a pharmacist on call."

"For emergencies," Nose Ring said, flipping a page. "Itching's not an emergency."

"Like hell it isn't!" Larry exclaimed, losing his temper and his wherewithal at the same time. Out came the hands, which went to work in a flurry of scratching which finally managed to capture the attention of Nose Ring, who looked up from her magazine in alarm.

"Dude!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed. "What happened to you?"

"I don't know," Larry said in exasperation. "All I know is that everything from the waist up itches like mad. I'm scratching myself so hard, I'm bleeding. See? So don't act like it isn't an emergency," he went on when Nose Ring recoiled from his crimson-striped hand. "I need something for itching, and I need it fast. Call the pharmacist."

"Okay," Nose Ring agreed, nodding vigorously. She fumbled for the telephone, punching buttons, never taking her eyes off him while Larry scratched miserably. What the hell was going on here? He wasn't allergic to anything, and anyway, what could he possibly have been exposed to inside the UFO Center?

"He's not answering," Nose Ring announced.

"Then try another one!" Larry exclaimed. "Who's on call?"

"I called the one on call," Nose Ring said. "If he can't be reached, you're supposed to go to the hospital. I can call an ambulance—"

"No hospitals," Larry insisted. "Call another pharmacist. Now. Call him right now."

"It's a her."

"Fine, call her," Larry corrected impatiently.

Larry continued scratching while Nose Ring punched numbers and waited. And waited. And waited.

"She's not answering either," she announced fearfully. "Look, mister, maybe I should call 911—"

"No!" Larry said. "Just...just show me what you've got for itching. I'll take it from there."

"I...I don't know what we've got for itching," Nose Ring said, flustered. "I'm not a pharmacist; I just work the counter."

"Fine, what do people buy when they have itching?" Larry said, wondering how he'd managed to wind up in a pharmacy staffed by no one but a pimple-faced teenager at the one time in this life when he needed someone knowledgeable.

"I don't know!" Nose Ring wailed. "I've never seen anyone like this! How should I...hey!" she said suddenly. "I know! I'll call Mom."

"Mom?"

"Yeah, my mom," Nose Ring said, punching telephone buttons again. "She'll know what to do. Moms do that sort of thing." She waited, her face brightening a moment later. "Mom? It's Beverly."

" 'Beverly'?" Larry muttered.

"Yeah, 'Beverly'," Beverly said crossly. "What's it to you? No, not you, Mom. I've got this guy here with a really bad rash, and he wants something to put on it. What should I give him?" She listened briefly, flipped her magazine over, grabbed a pencil. "Okay, how do you spell that? C-a-l-a-m-i-n-e. And what? A-v-e-e-n-o. And what was the other one? B-e-n-a-d-r-y-l. And where do I find those here?" More listening, more scritching. "Okay, thanks, Mom."

Beverly hung up and tucked the pencil behind her ear. "Come with me," she said briskly, as though she'd suddenly become an expert on itching. Hoping she had, Larry followed her to the lotion aisle, where she plucked a couple of things off a shelf. "Aveeno oatmeal bath," she informed him, holding a box aloft. "You soak in it. And then you put on Calamine lotion with these cotton balls. And then," she continued, striding into the cold medicine aisle, "you take something called 'Benadryl'...here it is," she said, grabbing a bottle of pills. "Or would you rather have the children's syrup? Cherry or Grape."

"Grape," Larry said. "Hey—is that Tiger Beat?"

Beverly flushed, rolling up the magazine she'd been reading her list off of. "Of course not. Tiger Beat is for tweens. Come on back, and I'll ring you up."

Larry followed her back to the counter where she punched more buttons, on the cash register this time. "$30.56," she announced.

"For three things? Never mind," Larry amended, practically dancing from one foot to another as he fetched his wallet. "Here's $35.00. Keep the change."

Beverly's eyes widened. "Really? Wow! No one's ever tipped me before."

"Congratulations," Larry said. "Can I have my stuff?"

"Oh...sure," Beverly said happily, fetching a bag. "You know, mister, I think you may have shown me some hidden talents."

" 'Hidden talents'?"

"Yeah! I never knew I could do stuff like this."

"Stuff like what? Call your mom and write stuff down?"

"No, help people," Beverly corrected. "Maybe I should become a nurse!"

Larry managed to take the bag she held out without noting that people like her becoming nurses was exactly why he didn't like hospitals. "Yeah. Sure. Thanks."

"Good luck!" she called as he sailed out the door. The dry air was agonizing on his skin, but he held himself together long enough to make it halfway down the street before he realized he couldn't go back to his motel. If Jen saw him like this, she'd think he was crazy; she pretty much did anyway. He'd need a tub for the oatmeal stuff, but he could use the rest of it right here, a good thing given that he was ready to tear all of his skin off.

The UFO Center loomed to his right. No one was around, probably because they were all still at the panel discussion, and as he opened the bottle of lotion, he wondered if anyone else had been evicted. Prior to this he would have sworn on his mother's grave that he'd seen what he'd seen back in September, but now he wasn't so sure. How bad was it when a bunch of people who believed in aliens didn't believe you? This should be the easiest place to tell his story, and they'd just thrown him out. What did that mean? Did that mean he hadn't seen what he thought he'd seen? Did that mean he was nuts? Had he been pounding the pavement for the past several months, penniless and close to losing his fiancee, for nothing?

There was a brief moment of peace as Larry pressed the first cotton ball full of Calamine lotion on his sore skin. Ahhhh. That was better, even if only marginally, and given how he felt, even marginal improvement was welcome. He'd no sooner begun to enjoy the reprieve when he heard footsteps approaching. Great, Larry thought sourly when he spied a man in a cowboy hat heading toward him. Jesus, wasn't it enough that they'd run him out of the building?

"I know how it feels not to be listened to," Cowboy Hat declared. "I believe you, kid. Tell me everything. Tell me about Max Evans. Tell me what you saw."

Larry blinked, blinked again. "Who the hell are you?"

"An interested party. And like I said, one who believes you."

"Oh, yeah?" Larry muttered, rummaging in his bag for the Benadryl. "Well, I'm not so sure I believe it any more. I mean, if those people in there didn't believe it, who will?"

"Those people in there are idiots," Cowboy Hat said calmly. "They wouldn't know an alien if it bit'em on the ass."

"Oh, and you would?" Larry challenged, squinting at the dosage directions printed in infinitesimal print. "Why? Did one bite you on the ass?"

"Wish that's all they did," Cowboy Hat answered. "Might be fewer dead bodies. Careful with that," he advised as Larry gave up trying to read the label and took a swig directly from the bottle. "You don't want to OD on it."

"Actually, I think I do," Larry said, taking another swig only to have the bottle snatched out of his hand. "Hey! That's mine!"

"Listen to me, son," Cowboy Hat said firmly. "I've been hunting aliens for years. Years and years. I know they don't look like domed-head little kids, they look exactly like us, like you, or me, or that kid you were talkin' about."

Larry's eyes widened. "Really? They do? I mean, don't? I mean—"

"I know what you mean, and yeah, really," Cowboy Hat replied, holding out a hand for the Benadryl cap, which Larry gave him without hesitation. "They look like us. That's how they hide. This whole business about little green men, or grey, or whatever, it's a load of crap. It's false advertising. It's misdirection. It makes us look for one thing when what we're really looking for is standing right in front of us."

"That's the part everyone always has a problem with," Larry said, nodding vigorously, "the fact that it was just a kid who looked like any other kid. That and the fact that he saved that girl. Guess they're not supposed to do things like that."

"I gotta admit, I have problems with that part too," Cowboy Hat allowed. "But I still want to hear it. All of it."

"Why?" Larry asked suspiciously. "No one in there believed it. Why would you?"

"Because I've spent my life chasing aliens, son, and if there's one thing I've learned better than any other, it's how to tell when someone's lyin'. And you're not lyin'. You believe you saw what you say you saw, and that gets you an audience with me. Where are you staying?"

Audience? Larry thought. Who did this guy think he was, the king of England? But hubris aside, this was the first person, the very first person, who'd believed him, everyone else having tripped over the twin roadblocks of compassionate aliens and aliens who look human. Even Jen was a doubter, had been ever since last September. Was he really going to walk away from the one person who thought he wasn't crazy?

"I...I can't go back to the motel," Larry said. "I don't want my girlfriend to see me like this."

"Then how about my place?" Cowboy Hat suggested. "I'm just down the street. Lay low, put some more of that stuff on, and tell me your story. Maybe you'll clear up before you see your lady friend again."

Larry hesitated, still uncertain. It was nice to be believed, but this guy was giving him the creeps. This should be easy. This should be a no-brainer. This should be a relief to pour out his story to a willing listener, so why did he almost feel like he was being...abducted?

Then the UFO Center's back doors opened, and people began to emerge. "Okay," Larry said quickly. "I'll go."

"I'll pull the car around lickety split, before that lot has a chance to get their teeth in you," Cowboy Hat promised. "Back in a jiffy."

It was a "jiffy" all right, no more than a minute before an ancient Oldsmobile pulled up alongside him, but to Larry, his back turned to the crowd now streaming out of the UFO Center, it felt more like an hour. Cowboy Hat may be creepy, but those people in there had been nasty, and when he finally climbed into the passenger side, clutching his little bag of pharmaceuticals, he felt less like he was being abducted and more like he was being saved.




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




Crashdown Cafe



"So how am I doing? Am I doing good?"

Liz turned from the window where she was waiting for the latest round of orders to find Jen waiting hopefully for an answer, deely boppers practically quivering with anticipation. "You're doing good," Liz confirmed. "So good, in fact, that I think it's time for a promotion. I've got orders up in a minute. What say we have you deliver some?"

Jen's eyes popped. "Really? Do you think I'm ready? I mean, I've only been bussing tables for a couple of hours, so...do you really think I'm ready?"

"You're ready," Liz assured her. "I'll go with you," she added when Jen began to look worried. "The next tables I have are right next to each other, so you'll go to one, and I'll go to the other, and I'll be right there if you need me."

"Oh, God," Jen fretted. "What if I give the wrong person the wrong food? What if I..." She stopped, eyes widening at the horror of it all. "Oh, God, what if I drop a plate? What if—"

"If you give someone the wrong order, they'll notice, and then you switch it," Liz broke in before Jen's imagination could run away with her. "Happens all the time, especially when we get busy. And if you drop it, the kitchen will make another one. No big deal."

Some of the terror went out of Jen's eyes. "No big deal," she repeated, as though trying to convince herself. "Right. No big deal. I'm...I'm just gonna step over here and get myself in the right frame of mind."

Liz stifled a smile as Jen retreated to a corner, pacing and muttering to herself like a star athlete at the Olympics. Initially skeptical when Jen had offered to help during the last rush, she'd wound up grateful for the extra pair of hands. The fact that those hands had been tasked with grunt work didn't bother their owner; Jen had dived right in, donning deely boppers in lieu of a uniform and clearing tables, refilling the coffee grinder, fetching napkins, and anything else they needed her to do. Having a willing helper who was also a fast learner was a real plus, and judging from the crowd who had just begun pouring through the Crashdown's doors, that had just moved from a plus to a necessity.

"Yikes," Maria grumbled, joining her at the window. "We just got mobbed. Again."

"I think there was a panel discussion tonight," Liz said. "It must be over."

"And so of course they all run over here," Maria sighed. "Great for your mom and dad, I know, I'm just tired. It's been non-stop..." She paused, looking past Liz. "Okay, what...what's she doing?"

"She's 'getting herself in the right frame of mind'," Liz said dryly. "To deliver orders with me, that is, not climb Everest."

"You're gonna let her deliver orders?" Maria said doubtfully. "Is that a good idea?"

"Maria, turn around," Liz instructed. "What do you see?"

Maria's head spun. "I see a cafe bursting at the seams with alien-hunting hordes seeking sustenance," she announced. "You're right; it's a great idea. It's not only a great idea, it's a fabulous idea. It's not only a fabulous idea, it's a—"

"Absolutely," Liz said. "Oh...here they are. Jen! Time to go."

Jen joined them, shaking both hands as though limbering up for a piano concerto and breathing deeply. "Okay! I'm ready! Lay'em on me!"

"We're just delivering plates," Liz said patiently, "not lifting weights. You'll start with two, one in each hand. Here you go."

Jen took the plates, then watched, goggle-eyed, as Liz and Maria loaded up both arms with three plates each. "How do you do that?" she hissed. "I want to learn that!"

"All in good time," Maria said serenely. "Trade secrets aren't given lightly. We ready?"

"Hang on," Jen said suddenly as the gravy on the crater potatoes sloshed dangerously. "I just wanted to tell you both how grateful I am for this opportunity. I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to do something useful, something besides riding and sitting and reading tour guides. I haven't felt needed like this since...gosh, since I don't know when."

Liz and Maria stared at her. "You're welcome," Liz said finally. "Now...you're the second table on the right. Only two customers, and the guy gets the burger."

"Second table on the right, guy, burger," Jen repeated. "Got it." She took a deep breath. "Here I go."

"Smile!" Liz called. Jen pulled up short, produced a fake smile, and headed out again.

"That is one seriously messed up woman," Maria muttered. "Imagine waiting tables being the pinnacle of your existence. It's depressing."

"Yeah, well, life with Larry hasn't exactly been a bed of roses," Liz said. "Let's go."

Maria went right, Liz went left. Jen was in the middle and had delivered both plates safely and correctly by the time Liz reached her table with her load of six. "Okay, I have a Pluto Pancake..."

"Hey, that's Mark," she heard the woman at Jen's table say behind her. "Mark! Over here! Can he order?" she asked Jen.

Liz nodded at Jen, who looked terrified, but held it together. "Uh...sure. What can I..I mean, can I get you something to drink to start?"

"A Coke," Mark said shortly, pulling up a chair. "Guys, you will never believe what happened at the panel discussion! Some guy was going on and on about an alien encounter he had right here in this very cafe back in September. Something about a girl getting shot and some kid healing her just by touching her. Say, honey, do you know anything about this?" he asked Jen.

Liz's sixth plate clunked noisily to the table. Jen had frozen in place, as had Maria a few tables over. "I...I..." Jen stammered.

"Can I get you anything else?" Liz asked her table, forcing a smile. "No? Then I'll be back in a few minutes." She turned around. "I know about it," she told Mark and company, "and there was no 'alien encounter'. Some guys were fighting, and one of them fired a gun, and in all the confusion I slipped and fell and broke a bottle of ketchup all over myself. And one of my friends, a guy from school, helped me up. That's all. Not very exciting, huh?"

Mark shrugged. "Pretty much what I expected. Nobody believed him. They threw him out."

"I can see why," Liz said. "I'll get your Coke, and be back to take your order."

Liz pulled Jen, now practically catatonic, back behind the counter with Maria on their heels. "Liz, I am so sorry," Jen said miserably. "I know that was Larry, and I—"

"Don't worry about it," Liz said soothingly. "It's okay."

"No, it's not okay!" Jen wailed. "If your father finds out about this, he'll throw me out of here, and then I'll have nowhere to go and nothing to do and—"

"Calm down," Liz said, one hand on her arm. "I won't tell Dad. And if he finds out, I'll make sure he knows it wasn't you. If anyone else asks, just come get me, and I'll talk to them, okay? Now," she went on as Jen marginally started breathing again, "take another plate, to the guy in the blue jacket at the end of the counter. Go on," she coaxed, handing Jen the plate. "Use both hands. You'll be fine."

"Fantastic," Maria sighed after Jen headed off, a bit wobbly, to deliver a Celestial Salad. "Just what we needed; Larry running off at the mouth about the shooting. I swear if I get my hands on him, I'll—"

"Liz?"

"Max!" Liz exclaimed, making a beeline for the kitchen when she saw Max peeking through the kitchen door. "What happened? People are asking about the shooting."

"And blaming Larry for bringing it up," Maria added.

"Yeah, he tried to use it as a 'direct contact' story," Max said. "But nobody believed him, and Milton kicked him out. Michael's looking for him now. What'd you hear?"

"A guy just asked," Liz answered. "Jen got all upset, but I told the standard story."

The back door opened, and Michael slipped inside. "Can't find him," he reported. "He's nowhere around the UFO center. Is he here?"

"Hadn't better be," Maria said darkly. "I'll put arsenic in his Coke."

"Just keep your eyes open," Max advised, "and call me if he turns up."




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




Saucer Motel




"Come right in," Hubble said magnanimously. "Make yourself at home."

His guest, the still itching, bespectacled geek from the UFO Center, hesitated on the threshold, eyes raking the unmade bed, the take-out containers, the unfolded clothes. "Bit of a mess," Hubble admitted. "I'm on the go a lot. All the time, actually."

"All the time?" Geek repeated. "Where do you live?"

"Here!" Hubble smiled with a sweep of his hand. "Anywhere. Everywhere. I live on the road, kid. That's what you do when you're hunting aliens. Their address is planet Earth, and so is mine. Stop hovering in the doorway and get in here. You'll let the ants in."

Geek looked down in alarm, then stepped inside, if only just. "So...how long have you been living on the road?" he asked as Hubble closed the door behind him.

"Damn near thirty years," Hubble answered.

Geek's eyes goggled. "I...uh...I don't think my girlfriend...I mean, fiancée...would like that."

"Ditch the girl, kid," Hubble advised. "And don't even think about making her a wife. This is a job best done solo. Let me guess: Your girl doesn't get it, does she? She doesn't understand why you're driven to do what you do."

"I...I guess not," Geek admitted.

"See, that's why we go it alone," Hubble counseled. "And why we need to stick together. There are so few of us true believers; we need to support one another. Ain't that right?"

"I...guess so," Geek answered doubtfully.

Hubble's phone rang. The display read "private number", meaning it was probably Pierce or one of his lackeys. "S'cuse me a minute, kid. I gotta take this. Make yourself at home. Grab some tissues if you want to put more of your lotion on."

Geek moved tentatively toward a box of Kleenex as Hubble stepped outside. "Hello?"

"Hubble? Jim Valenti."

Hubble raised an eyebrow. "Junior? How'd you get this number?"

"That's 'sheriff' to you, and being sheriff has its privileges," Valenti answered.

"Even illegal ones, apparently," Hubble observed.

"Don't even think about lecturing me about what's legal," Valenti said sharply. "You said you had answers for me. You got any proof to go with those 'answers', or was that just you running off at the mouth about how special you are?"

"Down, boy," Hubble said dryly. "I've got proof. You wanna see it?"

There was a pause. "Yeah. Tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll be at the station," Hubble said. "What time?"

"3 p.m. And not at the station. Come to my house. I'm sure you already know where it is."

"That I do," Hubble nodded. "And I can certainly see how being seen with me in any official capacity might put a damper on—"

Click.

Hubble pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Well, well, he thought, smiling faintly. Junior appeared to have grown a pair his father never had. Good for him. And great for himself because this was just the chink in the armor he'd been looking for. The photos he had would serve as one wedge to pry it open. Time to get a second.

"So how's it goin'?" Hubble asked when he went back inside. "Any better?"

"A little," Geek allowed, shiny with fresh lotion.

"I just realized we've never been properly introduced," Hubble said. "I'm Everett Hubble. You?"

"Larry," Geek said warily.

"Nice to meet you, Larry. Now...tell me everything you saw and heard that day back in September. Start before the beginning, and don't leave anything out."

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


I'll post Chapter 64 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

LOL - "nose ring"...

How many times have I encountered just such an individual in a pharmacy? Too many to count!

So bad we never got to see anything else from Larry and Jenny... Every time I see the actors in other series -usually playing cool types- I have to do a double take!

I remember seeing Maria's mom in Desperate Housewives playing a really nasty character (very well, I might add). I saw Bill Sadler in "Three Rivers" while it was running, and he was very good. I've seen the actors who play Diane and Philip Evans and have a hard time seeing anyone but Diane and Philip Evans. Hmm. We should do a "where they are now"...

And, yeah, I'd want Brivari on my side in a pinch. All those powers, and what does he do? He talks his way out of it.




CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR



January 30, 2000, 2:45 p.m.

Valenti residence



Jim Valenti stood in front of the mirror, dithering. That alone was enough to throw him off his game because he never dithered, and certainly not about what he was dithering over now—clothing. He shrugged his uniform jacket off, studied the results, then put it back on. Then off. Then on. On, he decided. The more official he looked, the more likely he was to drive home the point that he was an authority figure. Too bad he didn't feel like one. Jackets and badges aside, no costume could hide the fact that what he felt like now was an angry little kid who had watched his father slip away until he'd disappeared into a haze of dishonor and dementia. Part of him said he shouldn't be bringing this up again, dragging all this mud back into the light of day, while part of him agreed with Hanson, Sr. that he might not get another chance. The second part was winning, but only just, which was probably why he'd skipped both breakfast and lunch and why his stomach was tied in knots. At least there was nothing in it to throw up.

His clothes settled at last, Valenti headed for the living room. He'd already tidied up the place, but now he rearranged some magazines, plucked a stray sock from the floor beside the sofa, and gazed at the side table for several long minutes before reconsidering and replacing the framed photo of his father which usually sat there; let him see it and remember what he'd destroyed. Last was the problem of food. It was certainly customary to offer refreshments to guests, but Hubble hardly counted as a guest. No, under the circumstances, the usual laws of hospitality would need to be expanded to include not throttling someone, which was exactly what he'd wanted to do every single time he'd seen Hubble in the past two days. Easy, there, Valenti advised himself. Hanson Sr.'s advice to play along, to act like he was listening was a good idea, and given Hubble's vanity, it just might work if he could pull it off. So he'd listen through gritted teeth, but no nibbles for Hubble. I could use a beer, though, he thought, heading for the kitchen. Even a few swigs would help.

"Expecting someone?"

Valenti nearly jumped out of his uniform. "Kyle! What the hell are you doing here?"

Seated at the kitchen table in a tee shirt and boxers, one hand on the spoon in his bowl of cereal, Kyle blinked. "I...live here?"

"I know that," Valenti said, exasperated. "What I meant was, what are you doing here now? It's Sunday afternoon."

"Yeah. So?"

"So you're usually long gone by this time on a Sunday afternoon. I thought you'd be out with your friends, maybe at the convention."

"And why would I want to spend so much as minute of my precious time around people who think little green men are real?"

"I don't care where you spend your precious time as long as you don't spend it here," Valenti said crossly. "I've got someone coming over."

Kyle's eyes lit up. "Oh, I get it! This must be the mysterious lady friend you took out before Christmas."

"You mean the one I never got to finish dinner with because of some hare-brained party?" Valenti said tartly. "No, it's not her. Don't I wish."

Kyle studied him for a moment. "You're upset," he said finally. "And not just upset, really upset. Who's coming over that has you really upset?"

"I'm not upset," Valenti said.

"More to the point, who's coming to the house that has you really upset?" Kyle went on, ignoring him. "The station, yeah, but the house? Wait...is Mom coming over?"

"I'm not upset," Valenti insisted. "And no, it's not your mother, but even she would be preferable."

"Wow," Kyle said dryly. "Now I know you're upset."

"I am not upset!" Valenti exclaimed. "Would you please just finish your cereal and scram?"

Kyle's eyes hardened. "Why is so hard to be honest with me? I'm sitting right here, you're practically frothing at the mouth and ordering me out of my own kitchen, and then you tell me with a perfectly straight face that you're not upset. Just exactly how stupid do you think I am?"

Some of the wind went out of Valenti's sails. "I don't think you're stupid, Kyle. And I...I know you would have liked to see your mother. I'm sorry it's not her."

"Then who?" Kyle demanded. "Can you be straight with me for just once? Please?"

Valenti glanced at his watch, then at his son, at the morning stubble on his boy's face, the muscular arms, the hair on his chest peeking through his tee shirt. Kyle hadn't been a little boy for a long time now. Why was he still treating him like one?

"Okay," he said, pulling up a chair. "Okay. There's...there's a man coming over, a man I don't like. A man I really don't like. But he knows something about...about my family that I want to know, so I'm going to put up with him in the hopes that I can learn what he knows. A big part of me doesn't want to hear what he has to say because I'm afraid he's going to tell me something I don't want to hear. And even though I can't take anything he says at face value, part of me is afraid that if he tells me something I don't want to hear, he'll be telling the truth. So I don't want any distractions while I try to sort this out, and I don't want you in this guy's path. Which is why I asked him to come over at a time I thought you'd already be up and long gone."

Silence. Kyle started at him over his sogging cereal without comment, or blinking, or seemingly even breathing. Great, Valenti thought heavily. He was five minutes away from being judged by Hubble, and here he was being judged by his own kid.

"Okay," Kyle said suddenly, rising from his chair. "I'm gone in five."

"You're...what?"

"Gone," Kyle repeated. "In five minutes. Just let me throw some clothes on. What?" he went on when Valenti gaped at him. "You want me gone, I'm gone. I get it. I just wanted to know why." He paused. "Thanks for being honest with me."

"Yeah," Valenti said faintly. "Sure."

"So...are you sure you're okay? Because I could hang around and beat this sucker up if you needed me to."

Kyle's expression was deadly serious for a split second, followed by a smile which had Valenti smarting that he'd almost just taken the bait. "That's okay," he assured him. "I'm not happy about this, but I've got it."

"Okay. Just checking. I'll go out the back. Mystery man won't be coming in that way, will he?"

Valenti shook his head. "No. He'll use the front door. Assuming I let him in, of course."

"Yeah," Kyle nodded. "Right. Well...maybe you should go for that beer."

"Beer?"

"The beer you were muttering about just before you came into the kitchen and were startled by the sight of your son in his skivvies eating Fruit Loops. Looks like you need it."

"You still eat Fruit Loops?"

"Arguably a better breakfast than beer," Kyle noted. "And Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"You know that you can talk to me, right? I mean, if you ever need to talk? You say that to me all the time, but just so we're clear, it goes both ways."

"Yeah," Valenti said quietly. "I know that, Kyle."

"Good," Kyle said. "Good. Okay, well...good luck. With whatever. And whomever."

Kyle disappeared down the hall. Valenti rose from the table and contemplated a beer in the fridge before deciding to finish Kyle's Fruit Loops instead. The back door closed a couple of minutes later, and ten minutes after that, the doorbell rang.

Give it your worst, Hub, Valenti thought as he headed for the door. Whatever you did to my father, I've got one of the best kids in the world.




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



Evans residence




"You really think this is going to fit in the basement?" Dee asked doubtfully, staring at the heap on the garage floor.

"Well, it's going to have to," Diane said, pushing up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "I can barely fit the car in here after Philip went on that buying spree for last weekend's woodland adventure."

"Why not just get rid of it?" Dee suggested. "You could always sell it, maybe on eBay. It's barely used."

" 'eBay'?" Diane said, puzzled. "What's that?"

"It's an online auction site," Dee explained.

"Goodness, I don't know anything about those computer places," Diane said, "and I'm surprised you do. Anyway, Philip wants to keep it. I think he's secretly hoping the kids will want to do it again."

Over my dead body—or Jaddo's, Dee thought darkly, surveying the pile of camping gear. While her initial desire to strangle Jaddo had waned somewhat after learning what Brivari had kept from him, "somewhat" was the operative word there; she still wasn't thrilled that he'd dangled a "sighting" in front of her grandchildren just to see if they'd jump. Regardless, Philip and Diane were left with the results of his shopping spree which did indeed take up quite a bit of space.

"So basement it is," Diane said briskly. "I appreciate you coming over to help, Mom. Max is busy with the convention this weekend, and Philip's working on a case. Although Isabel is home today, so I suppose we could ask her to help."

"Isabel's home? She's not at the convention?"

"She went the first day, but not after that," Diane said, wrinkling her nose as she picked through the sleeping bags. "I thought Philip said he washed these. I beg to differ."

"So why didn't she go back?" Dee persisted. "They even let school off for that."

"I don't know for sure," Diane said, "although..." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think it may have something to do with the young man I saw coming to the house. Maybe she finally has a real boyfriend!"

Unlikely, Dee thought, excusing herself into the house on the pretense of using the bathroom. Still smarting from having waved goodbye to her grandkids last weekend with nary a clue what was really going on, she had resolved to pay closer attention, especially to things that didn't make sense, like Isabel volunteering to go camping. Isabel wasn't in her room, but she heard voices in the kitchen...and one of them was male.

"...I wanna be your friend, but every time I turn around, you're there, and...and it's suffocating me. So...I'm sorry."

"No, no," the male voice answered. "I got you. No problem. Um...I wouldn't want to...'suffocate' anybody. So I'll just, uh...I'll...I'll see you later."

Footsteps. A door closed. Dee looked out the living room window as Alex Whitman walked away with the heavy tread of the rejected. A moment later she went into the kitchen, where she found a subdued Isabel staring at a book on the counter which boasted drawings of constellations on its jacket.

"Hi," Dee said.

"Oh...hi, Grandma. I didn't hear you come in."

"So...it sounded like you had company," Dee ventured.

"Oh. Yeah. Um...not really," Isabel said quietly.

"I'm surprised you're not at the convention," Dee went on. "Seems the whole town is there."

"So I've heard," Isabel sighed.

"Sorry?"

Isabel shook her head. "Nothing. It's just that the convention is a joke. I don't know how Max stands it."

"Did he get this at the convention?" Dee asked, plucking the book off the counter.

"No, that's from..." Isabel stopped, the end of that sentence hanging in the air.

"Anything wrong?" Dee asked gently.

"Yeah. Me." Isabel said dejectedly, sinking into a chair with the air of one who had given up. "I just don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Tell a guy I don't want to date him."

"I would think you'd be a pro at that," Dee said. "You must have done that before."

"But I like this guy," Isabel said. "He's a nice guy, a good guy, someone I can...someone I can really talk to, in a way I can't talk to anyone else."

Dee took a seat at the kitchen table. "Okay, now I'm confused. If you like him that much, why not go on a date with him? You go on dates all the time."

"I know," Isabel said, "but those are just for fun. They're not...serious."

"This doesn't have to be 'serious' either," Dee said. "Just make it clear to him ahead of time where he stands so there are no surprises."

Isabel shook her head. "It's not that simple. It's not just him, it's...never mind," she finished. "It won't make any sense."

Dee was quiet for a moment. "Here's a thought," she said finally. "You like this boy, and he's someone you can 'talk to in a way you can't talk to anyone else', so...maybe he's not the only one you're afraid is going to get serious?"

Isabel kept her eyes on the table. "I can't. I can't risk it."

"Why not'?" Dee asked. "It's not a bad thing to let someone close to you, Isabel. That might be just what you need right now, someone to talk to who isn't so close to...whatever it is you're going through."

"I'd love to," Isabel said wistfully. "You have no idea how great that would be, but...no. I can't let that happen to me like...I just can't let that happen to me."

I can't let that happen to me like...Max, Dee finished silently, knowing full well what the unspoken end of that sentence was. "Boys do come with the whole romantic entanglement thing, so how about some else?" Dee suggested. "Like me, for example. I'm a pretty good listener, I can keep a secret, and I promise I won't try to date you."

That last line got a wan smile, and then Isabel raised eyes to Dee's that were so filled with longing that, for a moment, Dee thought she was going to spill. Do it, Dee coaxed silently, more concerned than ever about the effect all the secrecy and stress was having on her grandchildren. They desperately needed adult guidance, and there was no question in her mind that she was the best one to provide it.

But the moment passed; Isabel's eyes dropped, and the veil descended. "I can't," she said miserably, rising from her chair. "I've got homework to do, Grandma. I'll see you later."




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




Valenti residence




Jim Valenti stared at the pictures in front of him, unable to believe his eyes. Ten minutes ago he'd braced himself as he'd answered his front door, ready for battle. It had indeed been Hubble at the door, but a different Hubble, polite, almost deferential, a far cry from the attitude he'd exhibited earlier. Valenti had invited him in and braced himself all over again, assuming that once Hubble had crossed the threshold, he would revert to his former self. But all he'd done was produce a stack of photographs which he'd handed over with a mere, "Here you go" and taken a seat without another word, waiting in patient silence for Valenti to look them over.

And look them over he had, once, twice, three times, four, leafing through them again and again and again because he couldn't believe what he was seeing. There was a young woman, a guy in a plaid shirt, several police officers, a couple of businessmen in suits, an old lady, people from all walks of life who shared two glaring characteristics: They were all dead, and they all bore the silver handprint which had mesmerized his father for so long. All of these photographs, these incredible, impossible photographs, were of people just like that corpse back in '59 which his father had insisted had fallen at the hands of an alien. While the handprint was undoubtedly weird, he'd always secretly wondered if it hadn't just been some hoax or other, or maybe a murderer's signature, and he'd continued to wonder that even after Kyle had confided that he thought he'd seen a similar handprint on Liz Parker. Although he had no idea how Kyle would have come up with something like that himself, the fact remained that Valenti hadn't seen it himself and there was simply no other corroborating evidence, no other victims who had suffered a similar fate besides the one in his father's photograph...until now. Now all the doubts and suspicions fell away, replaced by a cold dread that smothered the anger he felt toward Hubble like a wet blanket over a fire.

"Are these yours?" Valenti asked, breaking the silence.

"I didn't steal them, if that's what you're thinking," Hubble answered. "Let's just say I have...connections."

"What kind of connections?"

"Connections which don't want me blathering about them," Hubble answered. "The powers that be don't want this getting out. It'd cause a public panic."

"So...you're saying you think an alien killed these people?"

Hubble shook his head. "No, I'm saying I know an alien killed these people. And the people who took those pictures know that too."

"How? How does a handprint kill you?"

"It cooks your insides," Hubble explained. "All of the victims were cooked from the inside out. No wounds, no point of entry, no external damage of any kind except the handprint. The print is always the same size, and the MO is always the same. They're all the work of the same killer." He paused. "This is the proof I was telling you about. So what'dya think? You want me to go on? Because if you don't, I'll be on my way, no harm, no foul."

Except the harm you've done already, Valenti thought. But even that observation couldn't blot out the bodies swimming in front of him or the sight of the humbled Hubble, hat in hand, waiting for a verdict.

"Go on," Valenti said finally.

"Thanks for hearing me out, Jimmy," Hubble said sounding sincere. "This guy's been leaving carnage all over the southwest for the past forty years. No reason to believe he's about to stop. Handprints are the only trail he leaves. It only lasts for a day or so, and then it disappears, so I'm always around with a camera."

And there's another piece of the puzzle, Valenti thought, so addled that Hubble's use of his childhood name wasn't producing the outrage it should have. His father had insisted the handprints disappeared, which was just way too convenient for those wishing to do their own investigating. "Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"I know you've been investigatin', but you're a weekend enthusiast. It's been full time for me. One of them's my own work. The girl."

"Who is she?

"It's not important," Hubble said. "The others I procured. Like I said, I have connections."

"Who are they?" Valenti asked. "The victims?"

"They're just people," Hubble answered. "People with bad luck. In the wrong place at the wrong time." He paused, his expression softening. "Jimmy, your father may have made a mistake that night, pulled the trigger on the wrong man...but he wasn't crazy. You already know that, don't you? You knew that when I showed up here. It was in your eyes."

Valenti didn't respond, but his eyes fastened on Hubble. "All your father wanted to do was to help this world out," Hubble went on, "and they hung him on a cross for it. This isn't just some happy-go-lucky alien we're looking at. This is a killer, Jimmy. If you know something about it, it's our duty to team together now, do something." He paused. "What about this kid, Max Evans? He have something to do with all this?"

Valenti's eyes dropped to the photographs. "Maybe."

"I spent some time last night talkin' to one of the witnesses," Hubble said. "He said a gun went off in that cafe, but you never found the bullet. That true?"

"You mean Larry? There were only two witnesses," Valenti pointed out when Hubble blinked, "and only one of them was a man. And there's the problem. There were over a dozen people in that cafe that morning, but only two are telling this story, and the two who are telling it aren't exactly paragons of credibility. Far from it."

"Never mind that," Hubble advised. "I don't care if they dress up in chicken suits and cluck, what about the bullet? Bullets don't lie. When bullets are fired they have to go somewhere. Where'd this one go?"

Valenti looked away. "I don't know."

"So you didn't find it. Well, doesn't that tell you something right there?" Hubble said. "It's a physical object. It had to at least leave a hole, but this one didn't. It can't just disappear, but this one did."

"Or seemed to," Valenti allowed.

"Jimmy, I know I don't know you well," Hubble said, "but I'm willing to bet you're your father's boy. Your father was one of the best investigators I've ever worked with, and I've worked with a few in my time. I can't imagine that you didn't turn that cafe upside down looking for that bullet. If it'd been there, you'd have found it. Am I right?"

Yes, Valenti thought, his hatred of Hubble wobbling further. He'd looked everywhere for that bullet, including unlikely places like the second floor, impossible places like the buildings next door. Bullets couldn't disappear, but this one had.

"We need to do something about this," Hubble went on, "before it happens again. You and I, we know. Most people don't, wouldn't believe it even if we told'em, but we know better. That means we have a responsibility others don't have to make sure this never happens again."

Valenti tossed the photos down on the coffee table. "To make sure what doesn't happen again? I have a live body, not a dead one. Have you ever run into something like that?"

"No," Hubble admitted. "But the handprint gives it away. You saw it."

"No," Valenti said quickly. "My son...he said he saw something that kind of sounded like a handprint, but I never saw it; when I looked, there was nothing there."

"Which means nothing," Hubble said firmly, "because they disappear. Maybe it disappeared."

"Or maybe it was never there to begin with," Valenti countered. "You've never seen a handprint that saved someone."

"That's not important," Hubble insisted. "What's important is that we catch this monster."

Valenti shook his head. "I'm not convinced this is your monster, Hub. You said this guy always had the same MO—"

"Right, that's the handprint."

"—but why would he suddenly save someone's life when he's never done that before? That doesn't make sense."

" 'Course it doesn't make sense," Hubble said stubbornly. "It's an alien. Doesn't have to make sense. Who knows why he did it? Hell, he coulda done it because he knew I was close and wanted to throw me off his trail. I've been hunting him long enough, he's bound to know about me." He paused. "Let me see the case file, Jimmy. The one about this shooting. Not the official one, the real one. Your work."

"I can't do that, Hub. You know that's confidential—"

"Confidential, smomfidiential," Hubble said dismissively. "You got my cell number, so I know you're willing to walk on the wild side. You can stay with me, make sure I don't make any paper airplanes out of anything. I just want to see if anything else about this rings any bells. What harm could it do?" he coaxed when Valenti didn't answer. "Keep in mind no one's been as lucky as your young lady. When he strikes again, his next victim will be just that—a victim. And I know you wouldn't want that on your conscience."

Valenti looked down at the photographs again. "I'll think about it. Can I keep these for a while?"

"Sure can," Hubble said. "Take your time. They're copies. Just give me a call when you want me to come back. You've got my number."

A minute later, Valenti was leaning against the door he'd opened so reluctantly, his head racing in so many directions, he didn't know where to start. Why was his "victim" not a victim? Was it really possible that what looked like an ordinary teenaged boy had killed all those people over such a long period of time? Did Hubble have any other photos? How much of the case file on the shooting at the Crashdown should he show him? There was the official file and then there was his own, much more detailed...

Stop!

Furious with himself, Valenti grabbed the photographs off the coffee table, stuffed them in his jacket, and headed for his cruiser. What was the matter with him? Had he actually just been contemplating giving Everett Hubble access to confidential information? The whole point of this little exercise had been to get Hubble to tell his version of what had happened at Silo, to lower Hubble's guard, not his own. Yet Hubble hadn't even mentioned Silo, had only alluded to it obliquely, and he'd been so besotted with the pictures he hadn't even noticed. But I got something anyway, Valenti thought darkly, thoroughly embarrassed that he'd almost drunk the Hubble Kool-Aid. At the moment, the match was a tie.

Five minutes later he parked behind the station and entered through a back door, climbing the stairs to his office carefully to make sure he wasn't seen, keeping the lights off when he got there. He spent the next fifteen minutes, poring over the photographs, finding precious little identifying information in most of them, none actually. But he got lucky when he reached the haunting photo of the young woman which Hubble claimed he'd taken. She had fallen beside a car, a car whose license plate was visible with the aid of a magnifying glass, and Valenti punched the number into the database...and blinked at the result.

"Well, now," he murmured. "How about that?"

Twenty minutes later, after more concerted digging, he was back on the road again, heading for the only other person on the planet who not only knew what had happened at Silo, but apparently a lot more besides.




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




UFO Center




Michael Guerin paused beside the mirror, vacillating. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as he feared. Perhaps he'd just built it up in his mind. Perhaps he was fretting over nothing. Perhaps he should just take a look in the mirror and get it over with because masochism really wasn't his style. Or maybe it would be better not to look? Before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped in front of the mirror.

He looked like an idiot.

That's the charitable version, Michael thought, plopping down on a nearby chair with a sigh. What was he even doing here? How had this crazy idea even occurred to him? Guilt, he thought, answering his own question, marveling at how such a foreign emotion had been dogging him all day. Why was he feeling guilty? This wasn't his fault. Not only wasn't it his fault, he hated this whole charade. It didn't help that he'd been waiting for this convention with baited breath from the moment the flyers had gone up, had been practically chomping at the bit since last weekend's forest hijinks. He hadn't needed Max to point out that this was largely a freak show, but he'd expected someone real to be here, someone who could give him a clue, a hint, a light at the end of the tunnel because for all his staring at the cave symbols, he still wasn't getting anywhere. For all his staring at the symbol they'd found on the forest floor, he wasn't getting anywhere with that either. Here he'd been all excited to have another of their kind actually reach out to them, try to communicate with them, and he had no freaking idea what they were trying to say. It was downright embarrassing. He'd been hoping someone or something this weekend would ring a bell or point the way, but...nothing. Nothing but crazy people who thought he was a monster out to destroy their planet. By the time he was done with this lot, he might not mind doing just that.

A roar swelled outside, the sound of a crowd hungry for a spectacle. It was a sound that should have filled him with disgust, but didn't, because it had finally dawned on him today that all of this, be it Christians and lions or panel discussions and crazy people with crazy stories was here because of them. The costumes, the kitsch, the Crashdown's crazy menu, the UFO Center, the Larry's of the world, all of it was here because their ship had crashed here back in '47. Maybe it had been an accident, maybe an invasion, maybe they'd run out of gas or never learned to drive a stick, but whatever the reason, that real event was the cause of everything currently giving him heartburn. This whole circus was a direct result of something they'd done, so in a weird kind of way, what was happening now was his fault...and he hated that. He hated feeling responsible. He hated knowing that, no matter how much he argued that they owed nothing to humans, he was secretly afraid that they owed them a debt they could never repay. And he hated knowing he'd made a lousy first impression with Maria's mom because deep down, he'd wanted to make a good one. Actually he hated that most of all.

The door flew open, and Milton appeared. "You're on!" he exclaimed, having no idea who was behind the ridiculous mask Michael was wearing. "The crowd is chomping at the bit for the 'Alienator'!"

Knowing his voice would give him away, Michael merely nodded and followed Milton out into the hall, going over his plan of attack once again, or rather, plan of stonewalling. He didn't have enough control of his powers to actually attack—he'd likely wind up killing the other guy if he tried that—so he was going to stick to merely deflecting blows. Bad news for anyone who'd bet on him, but then he'd heard few had. The dude in the ring began bouncing around like a beach ball and the crowd went nuts as he came into view, cheering wildly. The slits in his costume weren't huge, but he could just make out Max off to one side, and a little ways past him, the old guy with the cowboy hat he'd been so evasive about, a phone to one ear and his finger in the other. Just as soon as he made a deposit toward his debt to a society he hated to admit he owed something, he was going to check that guy out.




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




"Hubble?" Pierce's voice came over the phone. "What's happening? Did you—"

"Keep your shorts on, Danny," Hubble advised, barely able to hear over the roar of the crowd. "And stop callin' me all the time."

"Maybe I'd call you less often if you'd pick up once a while," Pierce said crossly "I haven't heard from you in two days."

"You're not my mama. Or my parole officer."

"No, I'm your employer," Pierce retorted. "Where are you? What's all the racket?"

"I'm attending the venerable 'Alien Takedown'," Hubble said, "another fine example of good taste and scholarly achievement. I spoke with Jimmy," he went on before Pierce could erupt. "Showed him some pictures of handprints, told'im we had a responsibility to track the sucker down. He listened."

"Great!" Pierce exclaimed.

"And then I asked him if he'd let me see the case file. The real case file, the one he's afraid to show anyone else."

"And?"

"And he said he'd think about it. Which means 'no'."

"You don't know that," Pierce argued. "He might—"

"I do, and he won't," Hubble interrupted. "The apple didn't fall far from the tree; he's his daddy's boy through and through, which is why I want to know what he found out. Boy's a good investigator, but he's got that blasted Valenti streak of morality. Commendable in an archbishop, maybe, but inconvenient in an alien hunter. He won't show me a damned thing. But don't you worry," Hubble went on, his eyes fastened on a dark-haired figure two rows in front of him. "I have another idea."

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


I'll post Chapter 65 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

^ For some reason, I have absolutely no problem imagining Kyle in boxers chomping Fruit Loops.





CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE



January 30, 2000, 3:45 p.m.

UFO Center, Roswell



"There you go, luv," the burly man said, handing over an enormous soda and two footlong hot dogs. "Are they out yet?"

"Not yet," his equally enormous wife answered, straining her neck eagerly as she stuffed one end of a footlong in her mouth without looking. "Any minute now!" She glanced sideways. "So who'd you bet on, mister? Raging Ray or the Alienator?"

Standing beside her outside the "arena", Brivari suppressed an eye roll and prayed for patience. "Neither. I'm not a betting man."

"We bet on the Alienator!" the burly man proclaimed proudly as his wife downed a quarter of the soda with one slurp. "We like the underdogs, don't we, luv?"

And the hot dogs, Brivari thought, reflecting once again on the odd connection between violence and gluttony. Nothing whetted the human appetite like a good fight as evidenced by the brisk business Milton was doing in snack foods just minutes before his "Alien Takedown" commenced. Normally he wouldn't dignify an event like this with his presence, but normally an event like this didn't include one of his Wards. He'd spotted Rath ducking into a dressing room and changing into the "Alienator's" costume, and when further investigation revealed a rumor that the "Alienator" had bowed out, not a bad decision under the circumstances, he'd realized that the time had come to break his non-attendance streak. He had no idea why Rath had decided to participate, but it was quite possible that intervention would be needed. Rath's control of his powers was iffy at best, and one good mental push could send "Raging Ray" to the hospital.

The murmuring crowd suddenly roared as two figures emerged on opposite sides of the makeshift ring which had been erected for the festivities. Raging Ray practically vaulted over the ropes, bouncing from one foot to another in anticipation while the "Alienator" looked notably less eager. But all things must end, as did his walk to the ring, and he climbed inside just as Milton began the requisite pep talk, hardly necessary given the crowd's enthusiasm, withdrawing just in time for Ray to launch himself at his opponent with a gusto which sent the crowd cheering wildly, a cheer which intensified when Ray appeared to merely bounce off the Alienator, leaving the former bewildered and both standing. Good, Brivari thought, breathing a bit easier. If Rath merely deflected blows, they might get out of this without incident.

"Isn't this exciting?"

It was Milton, fresh from his introduction and eager as always. "They certainly seem to think so," Brivari commented as Ray bounced off Rath again.

"This is the biggest event at the convention!" Milton said proudly. "You won't believe the money people slapped down on this!"

"Actually, I might," Brivari answered, wincing as Rath landed a blow which sent Ray staggering.

"Seriously, we could fund most of the convention on this alone," Milton enthused, "and that's after paying the promoter and the talent."

"Interesting how pummeling another human being is considered 'talent'," Brivari observed.

"Well, sure it is," Milton answered. "Do it professionally, and it's called 'the military'."

"Fair point," Brivari allowed, "although that usually involves issues of national security, not sport. This more closely resembles a dog fight."

Milton's face contorted in horror. "Good God, man! I assure you, I would never be complicit in anything that tortured poor, defenseless creatures!"

Humans, Brivari thought dryly. Pit animals against each other, and they were horrified; do the same with their own kind, and they bought popcorn and cheered. "I was merely making an analogy," he answered. "Please don't take it personally."

"Of course not," Milton said quickly, relieved to find his honor no longer in question. "I'm sorry I snapped. It's just that some of these events are so poorly run that they give the entire UFO field a bad name."

"Indeed," Brivari agreed, watching Ray throw Rath to the floor of the ring.

"I'm trying to raise our profile," Milton insisted, "to attract real scholarship like Everett Hubble over there, not just boneheads like the one yesterday. For which I owe you my thanks, by the way, for stepping in so quickly. It was starting to get a little hairy."

"Public opinion is a fickle thing," Brivari observed. "It can turn on a dime. The trick is to use that to your advantage and turn it your way."

"Which you did, and brilliantly, I might add," Milton said magnanimously, clapping Brivari on the back. "Are you a diplomat?"

"Hardly. My employer would find that notion amusing."

"So who do you work for?" Milton asked.

Your employee, Brivari thought as the crowd suddenly went wild. Rath was down, and the referee began the countdown only to have Rath rise at the last minute, which prompted a storm of cheers and a fresh round of betting. "Did you see that?" Milton exclaimed happily, watching the money fly. "That was a last minute resurrection! They eat this stuff up, I tell you. This might be cheesy, but it pays the bills. Just ask Amy."

"Amy?"

"Amy DeLuca," Milton explained. "She put this together for me."

"Any relation to Maria DeLuca?"

"That's her daughter. I'd heard something about the Alienator pulling out, but I'm glad he didn't. I would have lost a bundle, but Amy would have lost more. Where is she?" Milton went on, scanning the crowd. "I'd better find her. I don't think the Alienator is going to last much longer."

Milton disappeared into the roaring crowd just as Raging Ray hit the floor. Brivari held his breath, hoping against hope that Rath hadn't done anything truly injurious, but Ray was on his feet only half way through the countdown, and the match recommenced. Twice more Rath appeared to be down for the count, producing roars of approval and a storm of betting when he leapt to his feet with only moments to spare. But "The Alienator" was tiring, and a few minutes later he hit the floor again and stayed there.

"Three, two, one...and we have a winner!" shouted the referee as the crowd went wild and surged toward the victor. Rath remained on the floor of the ring, flat on his back, not moving, and Brivari endured a few anxious moments working through the crowd to the edge of the ring. He's breathing, he thought with relief, watching the chest rise and fall with reassuring rhythm. He hadn't really thought otherwise, but it was good to see all the same. It would have been the height of irony if Antar's Commanding Officer had died at a UFO convention on Earth while his king's Warder watched from the sidelines.

Milton reappeared, along with a few of the hybrids' human friends and a middle-aged woman who stared at the figure on the floor with amazement and no small amount of alarm. "Ernie!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "Oh, my God! Are you okay?"

Rath reached up and removed his mask, prompting gasps. "I'm just resting," he said.

Brivari remained beside the ring, watching and listening even after Rath pulled himself stiffly to his feet and shuffled off toward the dressing rooms. The crowd was still celebrating as he pulled out his phone and dialed Jaddo. Just wait until he heard not only what his Ward had been up to, but why. It might put him off field reports for good.

"Where are you?" Jaddo asked suspiciously as the crowd roared again.

"At the 'Alien Takedown'," Brivari answered. "A wrestling match, if you need a translation."

"Good grief," Jaddo said. "Don't tell me our Wards are wasting their precious time on that?"

"Zan works here, so he pretty much had to," Brivari answered. "And Rath was in it, so he pretty much had to also."

There was a long, satisfying pause. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, you heard that right," Brivari said. "Rath assumed the role of 'The Alienator', sworn enemy of 'Raging Ray', the human fighting to save humanity from...well, us, I guess. You should see the costume."

"You must be joking," Jaddo protested. "What in blazes is he doing that for?"

"Three guesses," Brivari said cheerfully. "The first two don't count."

"Brivari!"

"A female," Brivari answered before Jaddo burst a blood vessel. "It appears he did it to impress a female."

A strangled noise came over the phone. "I don't believe it!" Jaddo exclaimed. "Honestly, what's gotten into them?"

"Hormones," Brivari said. "Apparently the match was sponsored by the female's mother, who stood to lose a lot of money after the original 'Alienator' pulled out. She's beside herself with gratitude."

"Good for her," Jaddo said sourly.

"Now, Jaddo, I would think you'd approve," Brivari teased. "It was a magnanimous gesture even if he does stand to earn some of the betting pot. And he acquitted himself rather well. I was afraid he'd flatten his opponent because he certainly could have. But he merely held him off, and rather cannily too. He knows how to play a crowd."

"Whoop de do da," Jaddo grumbled. "God, but this is embarrassing."

"Now you know how I feel," Brivari said. "But at least your Ward didn't dangle his powers for all to see in public."

"Small comfort," Jaddo muttered. "Were there any repercussions from your 'witness' yesterday?"

"No. Haven't seen him. I did find out who he drove off with last night, though, the man Valenti was arguing with. His name is Everett Hubble."

The ensuing pause was so long that Brivari thought the connection had been dropped. "Jaddo? Are you there? I said—"

"I heard you," Jaddo said in a voice which had changed completely. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Milton pointed him out. Seems to think he's some kind of alien 'scholar', although there's no shortage of those—"

"Where are Zan and Rath now?" Jaddo interrupted.

Brivari paused, glancing around the room. "Rath was heading for the dressing room, and Zan...he was here for the match, but I don't see him now. Why?"

"Find them," Jaddo ordered. "You have to find them, both of them, right now. Everett Hubble works for the Special Unit."

Brivari stood stock still in the middle of the still celebrating crowd, thunderstruck. "Are you telling me the Special Unit employs civilians? That's—"

"I'll explain later," Jaddo broke in. "Suffice it to say there's a reason Hubble is there, and a reason he was talking to both Valenti and the witness to the shooting. Stay on the line, and find our Wards. Now."

Brivari's mouth set in a grim line as he shouldered his way through the crowds, moving so quickly that most never saw the one who'd pushed them aside. Only a few minutes had passed since the end of the match, and Rath was in his dressing room, looking somewhat the worse for wear.

"Do you know where I can find Max Evans?" Brivari asked.

"Who are you?" Rath asked suspiciously.

"That's my boy," Jaddo's voice murmured over the phone.

"He helped me out, and I wanted to tell his boss," Brivari answered.

"Oh. That would be Milton," Rath said. "Short guy, dark hair, high blood pressure? Check the wrestling ring. Or his office."

"Leave him," Jaddo's voice ordered as Brivari hurried down the hall. "Hubble's not there. Zan will be the target."

"And while I'm leaving, maybe you can tell me how you neglected to mention that the Special Unit was now employing civilians!" Brivari said savagely, shouldering a door open so quickly that people on the other side scattered. "Is this what you've been keeping from me? Because now's a lousy time to bring it up."

"I didn't know he was still around," Jaddo protested. "He worked for Agent Summers and disappeared after I killed him."

"And why would Summers have hired a civilian?!" Brivari demanded, stomping through the center. "That doesn't make any sense."

There was a pause before Jaddo answered. "I killed Hubble's wife. I was only trying to take the car," he went on as Brivari made a strangled noise of exasperation. "She got in the way. If she hadn't done that, she would have been fine."

"Great," Brivari said furiously. "Just great. Let me guess—you were running from the Unit. How many times do I have to tell you that your antics create more enemies? Don't we have enough already? Should we really be recruiting replacements before the first lot are used up?"

"We don't have time for this," Jaddo said impatiently. "Have you found Zan?"

"No," Brivari snapped. "And you'd better hope I do before—" He stopped, having just emerged into the parking lot from a side door. "Oh, shit."

"What?" Jaddo demanded. "What's happening?"

"What's happening?" Brivari repeated. "What's happening is that Zan just drove off in his jeep with Hubble in the passenger seat!"

"Brivari, listen to me," Jaddo said urgently. "No matter how angry you are with me, no matter how right you are to feel that way, your Ward just drove off in the company of—"

"The Unit," Brivari said in disgust. "Yeah, I get it."

"No, you don't," Jaddo insisted. "Hubble isn't Unit, he just did some dirty work for them. This is worse. The Unit would capture Zan, experiment on him; we'd have time to get him back. Hubble won't bother; he'll just try to kill him. Zan has defenses, but using them will force him to reveal himself. You have to find out where they're going and get him back any way you can. Go. Go now."




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




Michael sank wearily into a chair in the dressing room after the short, bald guy with the cellphone left, wincing as every bone in his body complained. While he'd largely managed to deflect "Raging Ray's" blows, some of them had hit home. He couldn't wait to get out of this Spandex nightmare and stand in a hot shower for several minutes at least, maybe more, and try to forget the fact that he'd just wussified himself twice over by participating in something he detested and wanting really, really badly to continue that kiss. Why was he lecturing Max when he had such a hard time following his own advice? Maybe I should make it a cold shower, he thought as he peeled off his Alienator costume, grimacing at the smell. Whoa. Spandex also made you sweat.

The door flew open suddenly, sending Michael back against the wall clutching the towel he'd only just wrapped around his waist. "There you are!" exclaimed Mrs. DeLuca, nearly invisible behind a large vase of roses. "I wanted to thank my hero!"

"As long as it doesn't involve hugging," Michael said quickly. "I was just going to—"

"These are for you!" Mrs. Deluca went on, thrusting the vase at him. "A poor token of my appreciation for saving my bacon today."

Michael glanced down at the towel currently held in place by nothing but hands. "Uh...thanks. Could you...maybe...set it down for me?"

Mrs. DeLuca glanced down. "Oh! Yes, that would be a little...awkward. I'll...set them right here for you?"

"Yeah. Good. Thanks."

"Oh, no you don't," Mrs. DeLuca said firmly as he started shuffling away. "I have something to say to you."

"Look, I was just on my way to the shower—"

"They have showers here?"

"Yeah, this used to be a fallout shelter, so it's tricked up six ways to Sunday," Michael answered.

Mrs. DeLuca blinked. "Oh. Did not know that. But whatever, the shower will be there when I'm done. So you just stand there and hold your towel while I say my piece, and don't sweat it because I'm sure you don't have anything I haven't seen already."

Michael blinked. "Is...that supposed to be comforting?"

"Maybe not," Mrs. DeLuca allowed. "But I won't take no for an answer, so just clutch a little tighter."

"Who do you remind me of?" Michael muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Can we get this over with? There's a hot shower with my name on it."

"Right," she answered, nodding vigorously. "Okay. Here goes. I...I just can't begin to explain what you did for me today. I would have literally gone out of business if that match had been canceled. I mean, I know they tell you not to put all your eggs in one basket, but the problem is that when you're as small as I am, you don't have that many baskets, so all that wonderful advice doesn't mean squat when you—right," she amended when Michael cleared his throat. "I'm rambling. My point is you saved me, and I am so grateful. And so sorry I said...what I said...earlier today when you...well...you know..."

"Yeah," Michael said, cutting her off before this became even more painful. "And I don't feel any different. Like I said, it was easy money."

But Mrs. DeLuca shook her head. "Oh, no," she said knowingly, wagging a finger at him. "I'm not buying it. People told me what you did, stretching it out, getting up at the last minute. You didn't have to do that. It could have been even easier money, but you put on a good show."

"So what?" Michael said impatiently. "I wanted to feel like I earned it."

"But you didn't have to," she persisted. "You would have been paid just for showing up even if you went down in five. You had everyone hanging, and all those extra bets were placed, and...I mean, why would you do that unless you cared?"

"I don't care," Michael said sharply. "Any resemblance between me and someone who cares is purely coincidental."

Mrs. DeLuca studied him for a moment. "You know what I think?" she said finally.

"No, but I bet I'm about to find out," Michael sighed.

"I think," she went on, ignoring him just like her daughter did, "that you care a hell of a lot more than you let on. That behind that rough exterior, there's a warm, gentle—"

"Fine, think what you like," Michael broke in. "Are we done?"

"Yeah," Mrs. DeLuca smiled. "We're done. But I'm on to you, you old softy." She set an envelope beside the flowers. "It's cash. I figured that would be better than a check."

She left, and Michael leaned against the wall for a moment before heading for the shower at last. No stand in the rain for him; he'd wasted a good deal of time fending off Maria's mother, and he wanted to talk to Max and get him to fess up to who that weird dude was. Still damp from his shower, he went back to the wrestling ring only to see Max and the weird guy heading out of the center. And watching off to the side with a guilty expression was Larry, the disgraced shooting witness who appeared to have recovered from his itch.

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" Michael demanded as Larry recoiled. "What's that guy doing with Max?"

"I don't know," Larry said quickly.

Michael grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "Tell me what he's doing with Max!"

"All right!" Larry said. "He came up to me after the panel discussion, all right? He asked me questions about Max. You know, what he did the day of the shooting."

Larry's eyes widened as Michael stepped closer, which was difficult as he was already almost on top of him. "And did you answer those questions?"

"No! I mean, maybe," Larry amended hastily as Michael's eyes bored into him. "I...I told him what I saw...what I thought I saw...look, buddy, you have nothing, I mean nothing, to worry about from me, okay?" he went on hastily. "Hubble's a nutcase. He's been hunting aliens for decades, he lives on the road, his motel room's a pit, and...and I don't want to be that. I don't want to become that. So whatever happened that day in September, whatever your friend did or didn't do, I'm staying out of it. I'm just glad the girl was okay. That's what's important, right?"

"Great, so you've had an epiphany," Michael said. "Where were they going?"

"I don't know," Larry insisted. "All I know is that the guy who owns this place has been trying to get that dude to be in some presentation or other. Maybe he finally agreed to do it? Or maybe..."

But Michael didn't hear the rest, hurrying away with a growing sense of dread. He's been hunting aliens for decades... That didn't sound good. Milton was in his office, and he looked up in alarm when Michael barged in.





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




Would you look at this haul? Milton crowed silently, the shit-eating grin on his face the only indication of his joy as he carried the pot of bets back to the office. It might be bad form to gloat over cash, but in this business, cash could be hard to come by. The "Alienator's" on-again, off-again fighting style had encouraged more bets than usual, so even after paying Amy and the winning bets, he still had a tidy chunk of change left over. Hardly able to wait to run his hands through all that money, he closed the door and had just set the box on his desk when the door banged open behind him.

"Hold on just a minute, there!" he exclaimed, hiding the box behind him as that Guerin kid marched into the office. "This was Amy DeLuca's gig. She pays you. You don't get any of this."

"Any of what?" Guerin demanded.

"The money," Milton said. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

"I'm not interested in money," Guerin said impatiently. "Besides, she already paid me. I just saw Max leave with that Hubble guy. Where were they going?"

"That's none of your business," Milton said tartly. "I certainly don't share information with thugs who break into my center."

"Oh, but you're willing to take money those 'thugs' helped you raise?"

Milton felt himself flush. "I thought you weren't interested in money."

"And I thought you objected to 'thugs' breaking into your center," Guerin retorted. "Even though that was a misunderstanding, and Max paid you back for any damage, but hey—if you still don't believe that, then just give all the money back."

Milton paled. "I...may...have been a bit...hasty...in my reaction to that...misunderstanding. But that has nothing to do with—"

"Look, I just saved everybody's bacon by taking over for no-show Ernie," Guerin interrupted. "Mrs. Deluca is grateful. How about you?"

"What is this, blackmail?" Milton said hotly. "Is that what you do, run around blackmailing people?"

"Oh, sure," Guerin deadpanned. "I go around entering alien wrestling contests so I can blackmail people. What a business plan. I just want to know where Max went, and he's not answering his phone."

"Of course he isn't," Milton said. "He's driving. And what difference does it make? He'll be back before long."

"Driving where?" Guerin demanded. "Where did they go?"

"I really don't think that's any of your—"

"Where did they go?"

Guerin leaned in closer, and Milton felt the box of cash digging into his back as he was pushed further into the desk. "To Hubble's house," he said impatiently. "Evans got Hubble to participate in the round table discussion, and he needed his slides. Quite a coup your friend pulled off there, something—"

"Where's Hubble live?"

"That's proprietary information."

"Not any more it isn't. Where's he live?"

"I can't tell you that!" Milton protested. "I can't—"

"Where does he live?"

"Bitter Lake!" Milton shouted in exasperation. "He lives in Bitter Lake! And don't tell him I told you, or I'll—"

"Where's Bitter Lake?" Guerin demanded, walking around the desk, pulling drawers open. "You got any maps?"

"No!" Milton exclaimed, swatting his hands away. "What do you think this is, a library?"

"What about this?" Guerin said, whacking the computer keyboard. "This'll have maps."

"Leave that alone!" Milton ordered, abandoning the box at last. "Get out of here, or I'll call security!"

Guerin shook his head gravely. "Can't do that, Milt. You and Max are 'security', and Max isn't here. So it's just you and me, and I'm not leaving until you tell me where Bitter Lake is. Make it easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know."

"If I show you, will you leave? Fine," Milton huffed when Michael nodded, keeping one eye on the box of money as he tapped on the keyboard. "There. See? Bitter Lake is northeast—what are you doing?"

Guerin had grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper off the desk and was making a rough sketch. A minute later he marched out of the room without a word, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

"You're welcome," Milton said in disgust, closing the door before plopping down in his chair. Honestly, what was it with kids these days? Who did that little shit think he was, barging in here like that and making demands? Maybe he should have called the sheriff. Maybe he should call him right now...

The door opened again, and Milton looked up in alarm. "Oh, thank God," he said in relief when he saw the man from the panel discussion yesterday who'd so deftly turned the tide of public opinion his way. "I thought you were someone else."

"I'm looking for Everett Hubble," the man announced. "I just saw him leave with your assistant. Where are they going?"

"Maybe you should get together with that Guerin kid," Milton said. "He was just in here looking for my assistant."

"Guerin was here?"

Milton blinked. "You know him? How?"

"By reputation."

"And that would be a bad one," Milton said sourly. "There's a poster boy for juvenile delinquency if ever I saw one. Do you know he broke into my center? Helped himself to—"

"Where were they going?" the man interrupted.

"Geez, what is it with Hubble and Evans?" Milton groused. "What do you want with Hubble?"

"What wouldn't I want with Hubble?" the man answered. "He and I have much to discuss."

Milton's eyes widened. "Ah! I see. I'll tell you, a lot of people want to talk to Hubble. He's been virtually incommunicado for decades after what everyone says was a direct encounter, one he categorically refuses to discuss, and then he suddenly turns up at my convention? Kismet, I tell you, just like I was telling Evans. But you're in luck—Evans talked him into doing our round table, so—"

"I need to speak to him before that. Where did they go?"

"They'll be back in an hour or so. If you'd just wait—"

"I can't wait. "Where did they go?"

"Look, I really shouldn't..."

Milton's next words died in his throat as the man leaned forward, hands planted on the desk, enunciating each word deliberately and firmly. "Where. Did. They. Go?"

An unsettling hush fell over the room as Milton stared into eyes which had suddenly gone hard. Previously courteous, even courtly, his benefactor now exuded an air of something which felt uncomfortably like menace. "Uh...I...here!" Milton said suddenly, realizing the map he'd pulled up for Guerin was still on the computer screen. "They're going to Hubble's house in Bitter Lake. I'll get you a pencil and..."

"Thank you," the man interrupted, spinning around and disappearing through the door after only the barest of glances at the screen. Milton stared at his office door for a moment before scrambling out of his seat and locking it, afraid of who was going to come through next. What the hell had that been about? Why had two completely disparate people barged in here and borderline threatened him unless he told them where Evans and Hubble were going?

Who cares? Milton thought a moment later as his eyes fell on the precious cash box. He had money to count. Let the weirdos give chase. Given when Evans had left, they'd never catch up with him anyway.




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




"Milton says they're heading to Hubble's home in Bitter Lake," Brivari reported to Jaddo after leaving Milton's office. "It's northeast of here."

"He doesn't have a home there, at least not any more," Jaddo said. "Hasn't lived there for years. He'll aim for a place called 'Pepper's Cafe', which is on the way."

"What's Pepper's Cafe?"

"The scene of the crime," Jaddo said in disgust. "Humans are drama queens. They love returning to the scene of the crime, all the more so because he thinks he's got the criminal with him—"

"And now would be a good time to point out that if there had been no crime, there wouldn't be a scene to return to," Brivari said sharply, banging through the center's front doors and glancing right and left for a suitable car to steal.

"No, it would not be a good time. We can't afford to lose focus."

"While we're 'focusing', I'd like you to 'focus' on something else," Brivari retorted. "After I get him back, you and I are going to have a long talk about what you're not telling me because I do not want to find myself in this position again. Have I made myself clear, or do I need to go over that with you again?"

There was a long pause. "Perhaps you're right," Jaddo said. "Perhaps it's time."

Damned straight it's time, Brivari thought darkly, thwacking his phone closed as he stood in front of a likely candidate, a mid-sized, not terribly well kept Toyota. A minute later the car had a new color, new plates, and was in markedly better shape than it had been. He'd just pulled onto the road when he spied a hitchhiker off to the side...and pulled over. Lowering the window, he leaned across the passenger seat.

"Where you headed?"

"Bitter Lake, and fast."

"What a coincidence," Brivari said. "Same way I'm going." He leaned over and opened the passenger door for Rath.

"Get in."

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


I'm away next week, so I'll post Chapter 66 on Sunday, March 4th. Then we go straight through to Easter.

[Kathy W]

^ Thank you, everyone! I really appreciate it.





CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX



January 30, 2000, 7:30 p.m.

Route 285 North, Roswell





Rath sat tensely in the passenger seat of the pilfered car, hands jammed in his pockets, eyes locked on the road ahead. Beside him Brivari made certain all the lights were in their favor as they sped through the town while wondering how to play this. He'd never been this close to a hybrid before. He'd been near them, certainly, had even interacted with them briefly, but he'd never been in a position to have an actual conversation with one of them. They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes until they passed a sign for a junction.

"I think we switch up here," Rath announced, pulling a hastily scribbled map out of his pocket, obviously copied from the computer screen in Milton's office. "East, I think."

"70 East," Brivari agreed. "That's the fastest way to get there."

"Good, 'cause I'm in a hurry."

"What's the rush?"

Rath stared straight ahead. "I need to catch up with a friend of mine."

"Can you call him?"

"He's not answering his phone," Rath said. "And he might be in trouble. Can this bucket of bolts go any faster?"

"Odd," Brivari said. "Hitchhikers usually find it counterproductive to insult the vehicle which picks them up."

"Sorry. Can this fine automobile go any faster?"

Brivari smiled faintly as he turned onto 70 East. "As a matter of fact, it can. Wait until we get a bit further from town. Nothing will go faster if we're stopped by the sheriff."

The mention of the sheriff quieted Rath for another couple of minutes, minutes he spent throwing furtive glances Brivari's way. The phone buzzed in his pocket for the umpteenth time, most likely Jaddo. He'd have to wait.

"You're that guy," Rath said finally. "The one who turned everybody against Larry when he told that story about my friend."

"Now you give me too much credit," Brivari answered. "Larry turned everyone against him all by himself. I merely picked up where he'd left off."

"Yeah," Rath said with what sounded distinctly like bitterness. "Because everyone knows an alien wouldn't save anyone's life. They're all monsters."

"That seems to be the consensus," Brivari agreed.

"So you didn't believe him either," Rath muttered.

Brivari shrugged. "Did you?"

"Hey, I know what happened," Rath said hotly. "I was there. My friend didn't do anything wrong."

Good answer, Brivari thought, one which managed to be truthful and dodge the truth at the same time. "I'm sure he didn't," he said out loud. "He doesn't seem the type. So...you were there. What really happened?"

"She just...panicked," Rath answered. "You know, when the gun went off. We all did. And my friend helped her up, that's all. And then Larry went all freaky, claiming she'd been shot and we'd done something to her. He got the sheriff all riled up, and the sheriff went after my friend. It was a real pain in the ass."

"I'll bet," Brivari murmured.

"So I just wanted to strangle him yesterday when he dragged all that up again," Rath said sourly. "Big mouth."

"Indeed," Brivari said. "Good thing he came down with that allergy attack, or whatever it was, or we'd be listening to him still."

Rath's eyes flicked sideways. "Yeah. Good thing. Can we go faster now?"

Brivari gave the engine a mental kick, and the car surged forward, producing a grunt of approval from his passenger. "Didn't know Toyota's could move like this. So why are you going to Bitter Lake?"

There was a pause while Brivari considered his answer. "I'm looking for Everett Hubble."

This announcement produced the expected result, with Rath turning sharply in his seat as though preparing to defend himself. "Why?" he demanded. "Do you know him?"

"I do not," Brivari confirmed. "But I saw him leave with the young man Larry accused just a short while ago, and I have reason to believe he may be dangerous. I'm assuming that young man is the friend you speak of?"

"How do you know where he's going?" Rath asked suspiciously, ignoring the question.

"Milton told me, as I understand he told you also."

"Hmpf," Rath muttered.

"He also referred to you as a 'juvenile delinquent' and referenced you breaking into the UFO center," Brivari went on. "Is that true?"

"Who are you? The police?"

"Heck, no," Brivari smiled. "I'm worse."

Rath glanced at him quickly, hesitating, as though trying to decide if he were joking. "It was all just a misunderstanding," he insisted. "He didn't press charges. Why do you think Hubble is dangerous?"

"I saw him leaving with Larry the other night," Brivari answered. "And given Hubble's reputation, I deduced that he may have believed Larry's story. Why do you think he's dangerous?"

"I never said I thought he was dangerous."

"No, you said you thought your friend might be in trouble. Same difference."

Rath shot him a look of such pure, unadulterated annoyance that Brivari nearly burst out laughing. How many times had he seen that look on his Warder's face? Too many to count. "You first," Rath said firmly. "Why do you think he's dangerous?"

"Age before beauty, then," Brivari said dryly as Rath raised an eyebrow. "Hubble is reputed to be somewhat unstable, and his interest in a story like Larry's only bolsters that view. I was concerned when I saw him leave with Milton's assistant. I'm not sure Milton realizes what's going on. You?"

Rath was quiet for a moment. "I talked to Larry. He said Hubble was a nutcase, that he'd been hunting aliens for decades. He creeped Larry out, and Larry's already a creep, so what does that make Hubble?"

"Interesting analysis," Brivari allowed, "although I find 'creepy' to be too ambitious a term for Larry."

"You never said if you believed him," Rath noted. "Did you?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "It almost sounds like you want me to believe him. Like you're trying to start an argument."

"No I'm not," Rath protested. "He's nuts. I just..."

"Just...?" Brivari prompted.

"I just don't understand why most people don't believe him," Rath went on. "I was there, so I know what happened. But most people don't believe him because they think an alien wouldn't save someone's life. They think all they do is kill people, or invade, or take over the Earth, or stuff like that. Why is that? I mean, is it really so unbelievable that an alien would help somebody?"

"I imagine 'most people' don't believe him because 'most people' don't believe in aliens," Brivari answered. "But for those who do, I'd say most fear them. People fear what they don't understand. They also fear anything they think is more powerful than they are. Fear tends to preclude charitable thoughts."

"But that dude was saying Max saved someone's life," Rath argued. "Isn't that a good thing? I mean, Larry's nuts, but if it were true, wouldn't that make people happy?"

"Not if it also made them afraid," Brivari said.

"So they'd rather she die?" Rath demanded. "Better a dead girl than have to give themselves a headache trying to wrap their tiny little minds around something new?"

"Pretty much," Brivari agreed.

"Well, that rots," Rath declared. "That just stinks on ice."

"Does this mean you believe in aliens?"

Rath shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know. But if they're real, I don't have a problem with the idea that they could help someone. I don't see why that's such a big deal."

"If I didn't know better," Brivari said casually, "I'd say you were taking this personally."

"I'm just saying," Rath insisted. "That's all."

Brivari merely nodded and Rath slipped into a sullen silence as they whisked through the desert for several more minutes. "So," Brivari said at length. "When we catch up to Hubble, what's the plan?"

Rath looked out the window. "I don't have one."

"You don't know what you're going to do—"

"No," Rath interrupted sharply. "I'll make it up as I go. I always do. Just stay out of my way, and—" He stopped, gazing into the rear view mirror.

"What?" Brivari asked.

Rath shook his head. "Nothing. For a minute there, I thought I saw a sheriff's cruiser behind us."

Silence fell as Brivari nudged the car faster, one eye on the rear view mirror he'd obscured only just in time. That had been close. Rath had very nearly discovered what he'd realized several minutes ago.

They weren't the only ones hunting Hubble.




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




Artesia,

New Mexico




A new track came up on the stereo, and Tess wrinkled her nose as she sat on her bed poring over various study guides for the ridiculous test she had to take tomorrow. The whole college merry-go-round was nothing but a monumental waste of time, not only for her, who certainly wouldn't be going to college, but for the rest of her human peers as well. Such a big deal was made of this, as if it were some make-or-break decision which governed the rest of their lives. Most people only spent four years in college; how could that be a make-or-break proposition? Most courses of study were available at literally hundreds of different colleges, and once one subtracted the obvious duds, one was left with the bulk of the pile, the vast majority of which would provide perfectly adequate training to do whatever one wanted to do. After that was the rest of your life, and that was up to the individual. Why get all excited about four measly years? Why not get all excited about the huge amount of time which came after? Why not prepare wildly for that? It was like brides obsessing about a wedding which lasted all of one day as compared to a marriage which hopefully lasted decades. There were wedding magazines, and wedding planners, and wedding anything-you-could-think-of, but planning things like how to handle the in-laws or whether to have children never seemed to occur to anyone. No wonder people were surprised after they got married, insisting there were so many things they'd never known about their spouse. They'd studied up on their fiancée's tastes in china patterns, but little more.

Which is kind of like this, Tess grumbled, tossing her study guide on the bed in disgust. These standardized tests were a joke, testing little more than test-taking abilities. This particular one was an even bigger joke, merely a practice for the real test which was administered next year. Next year, she sighed, leaning back against the pillow and closing her eyes. Next year she'd be in Roswell. Next year she'd be with the others, and all the PSAT's and SAT's in the world couldn't drown out the joy she felt whenever she thought of their upcoming move. Sometimes just the thought that she had a family she would be reunited with was all that got her through the day. She lived for that moment when they would see each other for the first time, and she'd been extra careful to make certain nothing jeopardized the chances of that happening. Her close encounter with someone hunting her last month had been a real wake-up call, and she'd straightened up and towed the line so well since then that Nasedo had gotten suspicious. He kept giving her strange looks like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and no wonder—peace had never reigned in their various households the way it did now. She'd bitten her tongue into tiny little pieces so many times it was a wonder she could still speak, and she'd go right on doing it as long as it kept all of them safe and their move on the calendar.

The song changed again. This particular CD had gone round one too many times, and Tess mentally flicked it off as she climbed off the bed. Time for another, and she'd plucked one out of its case when she heard the swearing.

"Pick up, damn it!" she heard Nasedo's muffled voice say. "Pick up!"

Curious, Tess cracked her door open. Hearing nothing, she padded down the hallway to find Nasedo staring pensively out the kitchen window, his phone in one hand, his head in the other. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Nasedo whirled around. "Nothing's wrong. And don't sneak up on me like that."

"I wasn't 'sneaking'. And nobody sneaks up on you."

"Then don't startle me."

Tess's eyes widened. "Nobody startles you either. Now I know something's wrong."

"Weren't you supposed to be studying?" Nasedo demanded.

"I was studying. And then I heard you swearing, and I come out here to find you so upset, you didn't even hear me coming. That's a first." She paused, her stomach tightening in knots when he didn't argue with her. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"It's not your concern. Go back to your homework."

"Is it about the others? Because—"

"I'll handle it," Nasedo broke in sharply.

"—if it is, and they're really my family, it's my concern," Tess finished. "Let me help."

"There's no way for you to help."

"So somebody needs help," Tess said as Nasedo gave a snort of annoyance at having given that away. "Okay, that's a start."

"Would you please—"

"No," Tess interrupted. "I've never seen you this way. You get angry, furious, even, but you don't get worried like this. Which means it's something really bad and makes it even less likely that I'm just going to go back to my homework like nothing happened."

"There's nothing you can do," Nasedo insisted.

"Okay, then what about you? Isn't there something you can do?"

"I have you to keep track of," Nasedo said. "There's nothing I can do either."

"Why not? I don't need 'keeping track of'. I'll behave myself if you have to go. Haven't I behaved myself since Christmas?"

Nasedo have her a penetrating stare. "Yes. And for the life of me, I haven't figured out why. Not that I've minded the lower decibel level, mind you. It's about time. But it's not that simple," he went on as Tess swallowed her standard retort. "If I go, there's no one to guard you, including against things that are beyond your control. Guarding you is my job."

"Then who guards the others?" Tess ventured.

Nasedo's eyes flickered. "I do, of course."

"Then who were you calling?"

"Someone who might know something," Nasedo sighed. "And he's not picking up his phone."

Tess's heart began to pound. One of the benefits of that "lower decibel level" Nasedo was so fond of was that it had lowered his famously high guard just a bit. No longer locked in endless conflict, she'd found him letting things slip, and if he'd done so this time, it was a big one. Of course the others would have their own guardian—why wouldn't they? How could Nasedo have kept watch on all of them? And that would be the man who was here before Christmas, she thought, pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. He might be another Nasedo, which would explain why he could block her powers, why Nasedo was afraid of him, and a host of other things. Her first inclination was to blurt out a spew of questions, but that wouldn't do. Not only would Nasedo not answer them, but that would raise the famous guard once again.

"So why isn't...whoever...picking up his phone?" she asked.

"I don't know," Nasedo said quietly. "At least I hope I don't."

Tess felt herself growing cold. Nasedo didn't look merely worried, he looked scared...and Nasedo didn't get scared. "They're in trouble, aren't they?"

Nasedo was quiet for so long, she thought he wasn't going to answer. "One of them is," he allowed finally.

"Which one?"

"Doesn't matter. When one of you is in trouble, all of you are in trouble."

"Is it the Unit?"

"Not exactly. Someone who works for the Unit, someone who disappeared months ago. God, he must be at least 70 by now, and he's still out there pounding the pavement. Humans," he added in disgust. "Why can't they just die politely when they should?"

Tess's heart nearly stopped. 70. The man who had come looking for the Ouija-board wonder had been about that age. Was this her fault? Had he not taken her advice to go west? Or had he gone west, found nothing, and then gone north?

"You should go to them," Tess said. "They need you more than I do right now. I'll be fine."

Nasedo snorted softly, and she pushed down the indignation that caused. "I mean it," she insisted. "I'm tough. You made me that way. I'll stay right here until you get back, and if anything happens, I'll hide. You taught me how, and I'm very good at it. I'll be okay."

He looked at her then with something else in his eyes she'd never seen before—indecision. He wanted to go. All he needed was one more push.

"You've spent my whole life teaching me," she said. "I've learned from the very best. What'd we do all that for if not to make use of it at a time like this?"

That did it. He was on his feet, nose to nose with her in seconds. "Stay here," he said sternly. "No going out, no having anyone over. If anything goes wrong, you don't fight, you run, and we meet at our designated spot. Understood?"

"Right," Tess nodded vigorously. "Just like we practiced. Got it."

He hesitated, and for a few seconds, she thought he'd changed his mind. Then he was gone, out the back door, and she didn't bother to follow him. She knew Nasedo. By the time she reached the door, he'd have already disappeared.




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




Route 70 East,

New Mexico





Jim Valenti stared fixedly out the windshield, his hands clamped on the steering wheel with a grip so strong, it hurt. One foot pushed the accelerator nearly to the floor while the other was jammed into the footwell as though hoping for a second accelerator which would propel the car even faster. Outside the desert sped by at dizzying speed, yet didn't come close to the speed of his thoughts. He'd spent the better part of his adult years apologizing for his father, for his role in shooting an innocent man. Even though it was universally acknowledged a mistake, it was nevertheless universally acknowledged, questioned by no one, least of all his father. To have that simple truth, that immutable fact of life suddenly upended was nothing short of stunning. To have it upended by his own father in a rare moment of startling lucidity was downright heartbreaking.

He told me he wouldn't hurt the man...

Valenti's grip tightened further, if that was possible. That bastard! He'd let that bastard into his house, listened to his song and dance, and all the while it was him who'd pulled the trigger. Funny how that never came out during the investigation. Funny how it was his father who had paid the price for what Hubble did, was still paying, would go on paying until the end of his days. Rage at that knowledge had carried him over to the UFO center, where it was replaced by horror when he'd learned that Hubble not only wasn't there, he'd left town...with Max Evans. Milton had been curiously crabby about telling him where they'd gone, whining that he was the third person to ask that question, an assertion borne out by the map of Bitter Lake already pulled up on the computer monitor which he spun impatiently toward Valenti. Who else had wanted to know where Hubble and Evans were going? Did Hubble have an accomplice?

Whatever you do, Jimmy...don't trust him.

His stomach churned, and Valenti lowered the window, producing a welcome blast of air. That Max Evans was keeping something from him was no secret, but as much as he hated being lied to, Evans wasn't Hubble's killer. Max Evans had been picked up as a small child in the desert long after Shelia Hubble had been laid to rest, and if his instincts were correct, was guilty of nothing more than saving a girl's life. How a silver handprint translated from killing to saving, he had no idea, but he had a live girl, not a dead one. He also had a known killer at large with a teenaged boy, a resident of his town, a resident he was sworn to protect...and it was his fault. Whoever or whatever that kid was, if anything happened to him, it would be on his own head.

If what he'd learned was true, that is. Fumbling for his phone, Valenti managed to dial without going off the road, no easy feat at this speed. "Hello?" Hanson Sr.'s voice said.

"Hanson? Jim Valenti."

"Jim, for the last time, it's 'Don'," Hanson said patiently. "Or I'm gonna start calling you 'sheriff'. How's it going with Hubble? Did you—"

"Hanson—Don, whatever—listen to me," Valenti broke in. "Back when Silo broke, did anyone ever check to see if the bullet which the drifter was shot with came from my father's gun?"

There was a long pause. "It was 9 mm round," Hanson said finally. "Just like your Dad's gun—"

"Yes, I know that, but did anyone ever verify that it came from my father's gun? Did ballistics ever check?"

Another pause. "No, Jim, they didn't. And I don't see why they would have. Your father said he pulled the trigger right from the get go."

"But no one checked."

"Well...no, but there didn't seem to be—"

"I want you to check," Valenti said. "My father's gun is in the cabinet near our living room. You'll find a key under a rock beside the front walk. Yeah, I know, it's not much of a security system. If Kyle's home, tell him I sent you. The bullet should be in the evidence room at the station. Have ballistics confirm whether it came from my father's gun."

"Jim, where are you going with this?" Hanson asked, bewildered. "This was settled years ago—"

"Not if ballistics didn't confirm it."

"But I'm not a deputy," Hanson protested. "I can't just waltz in there—"

"Sure you can. Your son'll let you in. I'll call him, tell him you're coming. Sunday's a good day to do it, there's no one there."

"What do you mean? The convention's in town. There's bound to be—"

"I need you to do this," Valenti insisted.

"But why? Why would you—"

"Humor me, Don. Please."

There was a much longer pause this time. "Okay," Hanson said reluctantly. "I'll keep it quiet. No sense dragging all this up again. But you're gonna tell me why first chance you get."

"I promise," Valenti said. "Thanks, Don. I owe you one."

He hung up, dialing again, speed dial this time, so it was easier. "Sir," Hanson Jr.'s voice said worriedly, "I haven't called because I don't have anything yet. I notified the Chaves County sheriff, but there's no record of an Everett Hubble as a resident—"

"Never mind that," Valenti broke in. "Your father's on the way over. He'll need access to the evidence room."

Another pause, the staple of the Hanson family today. "You mean my dad? He's coming here?"

"Yes, your dad," Valenti said impatiently. "You only have one, right? He's doing me a favor. Let him in, and leave him alone."

"Um...okay," Hanson said uncertainly. "He's not a deputy any more, though, so—"

"I don't care if he's the goddamned Easter Bunny, let him in!" Valenti snapped. "He's filing a ballistics request for me, and he'll need paperwork. See that he gets it."

"Ballistics? Sir, I can do that—"

"No, you can't. This is a case your father worked on, and he deserves a chance to finish it. Is this gonna be a problem, Hanson?"

"No, sir," Hanson said quickly. "No problem. It's just a tad...irregular."

"What isn't?" Valenti said bitterly. "What about that other thing I had you look into?"

"Well, sir, frankly it's tough to tell, what with the hordes in town for the convention and all. But so far, not a whiff." He paused. "You know, it might help if you gave me some idea what you think Hubble is up to. I know said he was possibly dangerous, but you didn't say why, or what you expected him to do—"

"Maybe nothing," Valenti broke in. "Hopefully nothing. I hope to God I'm wrong."

"See, when you say things like that, I get worried," Hanson fretted.

"You worry about breakfast," Valenti said dryly. "Just keep your eyes open. I'll be in touch."

He rung off, tossing his phone on the seat of the car and fretting far more than Hanson was. Because he'd thought of something just before he'd hit the open road, something he'd missed in the swirl of emotions Hubble and his photographs had caused. Hubble had asked him about the handprint on Liz Parker...but how did he know about that? He'd told no one but Agent Stevens about that handprint, not a soul. He couldn't afford to, couldn't take the risk of sounding like his batty old man. So how had Hubble found out about it? Try as he might, he could come up with only two possibilities: Either Liz Parker or Kyle had told him, highly improbable, or...or Hubble was working with the FBI. Which meant the Bureau might be back in town, and what better time? Having squandered their opportunity with a certain faux guidance counselor, they could slip in wearing any of the hundreds of weird costumes convention goers were sporting. Hubble himself was the perfect distraction; someone he knew, someone he had history with, bad history. He may have not only sicced a murderer on a resident of his town, he may also have sicced the FBI on him as well—again. Which made him wonder all over again where Hubble was going, if he was really heading for Bitter Lake or somewhere else entirely, if this wasn't all just a wild goose chase. And if, God forbid, Hubble had plans to administer his own form of justice, to make history repeat itself, then he would be responsible. Hubble may be the one who pulled the trigger, but he wouldn't have been there to pull it if not for a certain sheriff having wavered when he knew better. No wonder his father had kept silent. His silence was his penance.

A road sign appeared in the distance, tiny now, but growing larger. A car pulled off to one side nearby piqued Valenti's interest, and a minute later he saw the unmistakable outlines of a familiar black jeep.




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




Pepper's Cafe




"I didn't have a good time," Hubble said. "Not that night. Not any night since."

Silence. The monster that had killed his Shelia just stared at him in false confusion, still pretending it didn't know. I don't understand... Like hell it didn't. It understood perfectly. Maybe it didn't remember his Shelia; probably not, as it was no doubt difficult to keep track of all the bodies it had left behind in the subsequent three decades. But no matter; it would remember her tonight. He'd see to that.

Hubble walked forward toward the crumbling cafe, recalling how it had looked that night. Never a thing of beauty, it was even less so now, the boarded up windows something of a joke given the holes in the walls. Back then it had been drab but busy, it being the only watering hole for miles in any direction; that particular night it had looked like a palace because everything had. That's what happened when you hit the road with your lady by your side and a surprise in your pocket; even the most mundane things acquired a sheen, a glow which was a reflection of your own happiness. Maybe that also worked in reverse because the cafe in its current state was an apt metaphor for his own soul; derelict, deserted, unvisited for years. His soul had died here that night. Tonight its killer would die here also.

It was completely dark now, just like it had been back then. Through one of the many holes in the building he could see the counter where the clerk had flipped him the book of matches "on the house", and over there to the side where he'd parked was the spot where he'd found his beloved. He still went cold when he thought of the aftermath, the people who had poured out of the cafe to gawk at the body of his wife emblazoned with that garish silver handprint. That handprint had been the talk of the town until a day later when it had vanished, taking with it everyone's memory of it ever having been there. They'd all seen it, yet every single one of them would deny it later. The police had arrived, taken photographs, yet every single shot subsequently disappeared. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to drag his camera out of the car and snap one of his own or he may have fallen victim to the propensity of the human mind to dismiss that which didn't make sense. Only years later, after he'd found other handprints and learned they all disappeared, had he stopped questioning his sanity.

The monster stood off to one side, still feigning confusion as Hubble gazed at the spot where Shelia had fallen. He'd haunted this place for weeks, conducting his own investigation until he'd hit the road to find his wife's killer, and once he'd left, he'd never looked back. He'd sworn he wouldn't until he could come back here and tell her that he'd avenged her, that the bastard who'd done this would never harm another living soul. He'd never expected the chance to execute the executioner on the same spot, but that was sweet, a boon from an unforgiving universe which suggested that, perhaps at long last, it had decided he'd suffered enough.

"She never did get my surprise," Hubble said to the monster, now standing behind him. "And I never did get hers. Not until I got a copy of the coroner's report. There it was, in black ink. Three months pregnant. A little girl, it said. She was carrying our child. 'Surprise'."

"I'm sorry," it replied.

"And so am I," Hubble agreed. "Four innocent people lost their lives startin' that day. My wife, my baby...that drifter, and, uh...and me. Dead man walkin'. That's what I felt all those years. Only thing kept me alive was you."

He could almost feel it blink behind him. "Me?" it said, bewildered. "But...but I don't know you."

Hubble pulled his gun and spun around, and finally, finally, it had the grace to look alarmed.

"I know you."




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


I'll post Chapter 67 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hi everyone!

GAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I enjoyed the promo you sent me. Evil TPTB, making it look like Valenti shot Max!

Say can you just re-write this so that Tess never shows up, just gets killed before???

Aren't there tons of stories like that? Seemed to be last time I looked...


Thanks to everyone for reading, and thanks for the feedback! Let's get this show on the road. (Come to think of it, it was already "on the road". Let's get it off the road.)







CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN


January 30, 2000, 8 p.m.

Route 70 East, New Mexico




Michael Guerin's fingers tapped impatiently on the car door as he gazed out the window, scanning the road ahead for any sign of Max, something of a challenge now that it was completely dark. His chauffeur, that dude from the convention, drove calmly beside him, ostensibly looking for the same people but not suffering from the feeling that time was slipping away much too fast. The Toyota was still flying forward at an impressive speed for such a fuddy duddy car, simultaneously reassuring and worrying. They should have caught up by now.

"Where the hell are we?" Michael demanded. "There aren't even any road markers out here."

"According to the sign up ahead, we're near Bitter Lake," Convention Dude answered.

"Great," Michael muttered as they passed the battered 1950's era sign. "Where the hell are they? We should have caught up to them by now. If we reach the town, I have no idea where this nutcase lives."

"We'll catch up," Convention Dude promised.

"What makes you say that?"

"Simple calculation. Average driving speed versus our driving speed—"

"Okay, fine, I don't need one of those 'if two trains leave the station at the same time' kind of math problem," Michael said crossly.

Convention Dude shrugged. "You asked. If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked."

"I wanted a simple answer, not calculus," Michael snapped.

"It's not calculus," Convention Dude answered, "and don't we all."

Michael bit back a retort as more dark road sped by. No sense arguing with this one; he always seemed to get the short end of the stick, like when Convention Dude had pointed out that he seemed to be taking attitudes towards Max's miraculous healing personally. Of course I'm taking it personally, he thought sullenly. Everywhere he looked, he and his were portrayed as monsters. Max had risked all their lives by saving Liz, and what did he get for it? What did they get for it? Fear, innuendo, accusations, and now a possibly unstable alien hunter taking off with Max. Maybe Hubble was really harmless, just interested in the shooting story, but he wouldn't start breathing again until he knew that for sure.

A streetlight appeared ahead, then another, the first signs of civilization for miles. Michael hung his head out the window and peered down the road to the next light, which appeared to be near a building of some sort...and next to which he spied the outlines of a familiar jeep.

"It's them!" Michael exclaimed, scrabbling with his door handle. "Stop the car!"

"Let me slow down," Convention Dude insisted as Michael kept pulling at the handle. "You'll kill yourself if you jump at this speed."

"Let me out!" Michael yelled, pounding on the door. "I gotta get out!"

The car had slowed, and finally the door burst open. Michael hit the ground hard and rolled as the car went past him, coming to a halt several yards ahead. Ignoring it, he ran toward the jeep, which now appeared to be parked outside some kind of derelict restaurant in front of which two figures faced each other. What was going on? Were they just talking? Why chat in the middle of nowhere in front of a dead restaurant? Slowing, he crept closer until he could hear what they were saying.

"...just like on Shelia," Hubble was saying.

"I am not him," Max insisted, sounding genuinely scared. "Whoever you think I am, I swear I am not him."

"I know who you really are," Hubble declared, "what you're capable of, and I won't let you kill again."

Kill? Michael was directly behind Hubble, and he shifted sideways for a better look at his face...

Jesus Christ Almighty. Was that a...a gun?

"Hey!" Michael yelled.

Yep, that's a gun, Michael thought grimly as Hubble spun around, giving Max the perfect opening to knock it from Hubble's hand. The resulting scrabble in the dirt was interrupted by the arrival of a car which came screeching to a halt only feet away, the headlights blinding all of them. Finally, Michael thought, wondering where in blazes his driver had gone. For someone who'd been after Hubble, he was curiously late to the party.

And then he saw who'd climbed out of the car.

"Drop the gun!" Sheriff Valenti shouted. "Drop it!"





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





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

The gunshot was unusually loud in the deserted desert. When Valenti had fired his first gun as a child, he'd been surprised by how loud it was, how sharp the recoil. Even though his father had warned him, he still almost fell over. Even though he'd worn hearing protection, his ears had rung for an hour afterwards. He'd complained about this to his father, who had sternly told him not to. "You should hear it," he'd insisted. "You should feel it. A gun is a killing machine, Jimmy. Don't ever forget that. All those spaghetti westerns and TV cop shows don't do it justice. Never forget what a gun is capable of, and use it only as a last resort. But when you have to use it, don't hold back. Never, ever, point a gun you don't intend to use." It had been good advice, though rarely used; for all that Roswell was a hotbed of alien-hunting weirdoes, the overwhelming majority of them weren't violent. He hadn't fired his gun on the job in ages.

That streak ended here. Everyone froze as Hubble's body crumpled to the ground and lay unmoving. Valenti hesitated for only a second before hurrying over and checking his pulse. But that was another fanciful feature of TV cop shows, where everyone "shot to wound". In reality, there was no such thing—you shot to kill, period. As he just had, because Hubble had no pulse, and even if he had, help would have been much too far away.

Much closer, however, were Max Evans and Michael Guerin, both looking daggers at him. "I didn't know this was gonna happen," Valenti said. "I didn't know he was as dangerous as he was."

But Evans wasn't buying it. "What did you tell him?" he demanded. "Why did he come after me? You're the Sheriff. You're supposed to protect me, but all you've done is go after me!"

He's right, Valenti thought heavily, not bothering to defend himself because there was no defense. He was sworn to protect every resident of his town even if those residents hadn't been entirely forthcoming with him. Which this one certainly hadn't, but still...he had a live girl, not a dead one. If Max Evans really had miraculously healed Liz Parker, it would be hard to argue that he'd done something wrong.

"You believe all these crazy things," Evans went on. "You're just like Hubble! You want me? Well, here I am! Take me!"

"Max," Guerin said, "come on, just relax."

"Son..." Valenti began.

"Would you treat your son this way?" Evans demanded.

The words hit him like a slap, several slaps, all richly deserved. Valenti gazed at the angry young man in front of him for a moment before deciding there was only one way out of this. "Get outta here," he said. "The both of you. You were never here. Go on!" he added when they hesitated.

It was clear that Evans would have loved to continue his tirade, but Guerin pulled him away. Valenti waited until they'd reached the jeep before pulling out his phone. "This is Sheriff Valenti," he said wearily. "I've been involved in a Code 4. I've got one man down. My 10-20 is the abandoned Peppers Cafe at Bitter Lake."

There was a pause before Hanson's voice came on the line. "Sir? Did you say you've got a man down?"

"That's what I said. I'll need a van."

"Who's down?"

Valenti hesitated. "Everett Hubble."

"Hubble?" Hanson repeated. "Is he dead?"

"Yes, Hanson, he's dead," Valenti said sharply. "That's why I need a van, not an ambulance. That's why I said Code 4, 'no further assistance needed'."

"Right," Hanson said quickly. "We're on the way."

The line went dead. Valenti closed his eyes briefly, opened them, shivered involuntarily. It was cold out here, and dark, the lone streetlight off to one side contrasting sharply with the glare of his cruiser's headlights, the engine still running. Woodenly he walked to the cruiser, shut off the engine, pulled a flashlight and some flares out of the trunk. He spent the next several minutes setting them up, grateful for the respite, for the opportunity to move on autopilot. He was sorry when he'd finished, staring at the body several feet away, grappling with an overwhelming urge to go over there and give it a swift kick. But that would have left a mark, so he substituted banging on the cruiser's roof, pounding his fists on it like a madman until his hands hurt and he stopped, panting, leaning against the cruiser and sliding to the ground, utterly exhausted.

You did it again, Hub, he thought bitterly. Even in death, Hubble was still a royal pain in the ass. Even in death, he'd put a Valenti in a compromising position. That he'd managed to thwart Hubble's last wish was small comfort. Wherever Hubble was now, and that had damned well better be somewhere south instead of north, Valenti had no doubt he was laughing because worming out of this one was going to be tricky. His principle reason for being here had just left at his own behest with instructions to pretend he'd never been here. Which left something of an uncomfortable hole in the narrative, that being the reason for he and Hubble meeting at an abandoned cafe on the edge of nowhere. And then there was the little niggle of how to explain how Hubble had gotten here in the first place. Without Evans' jeep in the picture, what had he used for transportation? Helicopter? Roller-blades? Milton knew that Hubble and Evans had left together, adding another wrinkle, and then there was the whole question of how Guerin had managed to get here ahead of him. Milton had declared him the third person to ask where Hubble and Evans were headed; assuming Guerin was one of the remaining two, who was the other?

Valenti clambered to his feet and walked toward the road, shining his flashlight into the darkness. There had been a car parked alongside when he'd arrived, but it was gone now. Was that how Guerin had gotten here? He was known for hitchhiking, but cars that picked up hitchers usually dropped them off and left. Guerin added yet another wrinkle to this mess, as did the possibility that they would ignore his mandate and talk, putting him in the even more compromising position of having impeded an investigation. Maybe he should just come clean right away, let the chips fall where they may...

A phone rang. At first Valenti thought it was his, and then he realized it was very faint. Turning around, he stared at Hubble's body for a moment, then hurried over to it. Yep, it was coming from Hubble, and he tried not to look at the face as he rummaged in the coat pocket for the ringing cellphone which sounded preternaturally loud when he pulled it out, flipped it open, and put it to his ear.

"Everett?" a voice said.

Valenti held his breath. Any indication that it wasn't Hubble on the line might cause whoever was calling to hang up.

"Hub?" the voice said again. "Is that you?"

There was another pause before the voice spoke again, and when it did, the tone had changed. "Who is this?" it demanded in a tone of absolute authority. Valenti had stopped breathing, standing stock still and hoping against hope that whoever it was would do or say something to give themselves away.

Click.

Guess not, Valenti thought, closing the phone. Whoever it had been was too smart for that. And whoever it had been had referred to Hubble as "Hub", a nickname coined by his own father years ago when he'd become enamored of his new friend, much to the dismay of virtually everyone around him. Interesting...

A phone rang again, his this time. "Valenti," he answered.

"Sir? It's Hanson. We're almost there. Sit tight."

"Right, Hanson. Thanks."

Valenti hung up, retreating to the cruiser, sinking down into the front seat. Whatever story he was going to tell, he only had a few more minutes to come up with it.




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




"Get in," Michael ordered when they reached the jeep. "No, other side. You're not driving."

Max hesitated before giving in without a fight, climbing in the passenger side. "Keys," Michael announced, holding out his hand.

The engine started, a relief as he'd been having dark thoughts about being stranded out here with a dead body and a suspicious sheriff. Valenti's cruiser was still akimbo as they pulled out, the driver's door hanging open, the headlights shining helpfully on the crumpled body of the madman who'd just tried to gun down Max and over whom crouched the sheriff, staring at it like he just couldn't believe it.

"They knew each other," Michael said as he pulled onto the road.

"Yeah," Max said faintly.

"How? How did they know each other?"

Max shook his head once, twice. "I...I don't know. He said...he said Valenti told him about the handprint. On Liz."

"Great," Michael muttered. "And this guy thinks that's worth killing you over?"

Another head shake, more vigorous this time. "No, this wasn't about Liz. It was about his wife. His wife was killed thirty years ago at that cafe, and she had a handprint on her. She was pregnant at the time."

"Crap," Michael murmured. "Does he know why?"

"Why she was pregnant?"

"No, Maxwell, why she was killed. Snap out of it, would you? You're okay. We got there in time."

"Yeah, how'd you do that? How'd you even know where I was?"

"I saw you leave with Hubble," Michael explained. "And then I shook down Larry the Itcher, who told me Hubble was an alien-hunting nutcase, and then I shook down Milton for where you'd gone."

"So much for my job," Max muttered.

"You're welcome. And then I hitched a ride with a guy who said he was also chasing Hubble because he was afraid Hubble would hurt you."

"Who?" Max asked.

"Don't know. Didn't get his name, but he has a way with a Toyota. I had no idea they could go that fast."

"Then...what was Valenti doing there?"

"Beats me. But I have to admit when I first saw him, I didn't think he'd be on our side, never mind shoot the dude. I'm guessing Valenti figured out what he was up to and came after you for the same reason I did."

"Valenti's the reason he came after me," Max said bitterly. "I told you, Valenti told him about the handprint on Liz."

"And it sounds like he regrets that," Michael noted. "Which is good news."

"Unless he changes his mind," Max said. "What if he tells everyone we were there?"

"Then it's our word against his," Michael said.

"And who do you think they're going to believe?" Max demanded. "Two high school students, or the sheriff? And what am I going to tell Milton? He thinks Hubble's in the round table discussion, not lying dead in some parking lot."

"We'll think of something. So what exactly did this guy tell you? Do you think Nasedo killed his wife?"

"Sure sounds like him," Max said darkly. "Just follow the trail of bodies."

"Hey, we don't know what happened," Michael argued. "Maybe there was a reason for what he did."

"You could say that for Atherton, but not this time," Max said. "She was just waiting in the car for Hubble to come back from the cafe."

"So Hubble says. But he's obviously nuts, so—"

"He wasn't 'nuts'," Max insisted. "He was very clear about what he was doing and why. He thought I was the one who murdered his wife. It was revenge, pure and simple."

"Defending him," Michael said, shaking his head. "Defending the guy who just tried to kill you. Did not see that one coming."

"I'm just pointing out that his being crazy isn't the problem," Max retorted. "Our murdering relative is the problem."

"No, you being mistaken for our murdering relative is the problem," Michael corrected. "Assuming it was murder, which we don't know because we weren't there. Did he tell you anything useful about Nasedo?"

"He didn't see anything," Max said impatiently. "He just came back and found his wife's body with the handprint. That must have been why he disappeared all those years ago..." He stopped, gazing into the distance where the lights of town had just appeared as they crested a low rise.

"Yeah," Michael said heavily. "Time to figure out what to tell Milton."




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



Langley residence,

Roswell




After what seemed like hours, Jaddo finally heard the front door. He was in the hallway before Brivari even had it closed.

"What are you doing here?" Brivari demanded.

"Waiting for you," Jaddo said crossly. "Where the hell have you been? I haven't been able to find anyone. I finally came back here, and I've been cooling my heels for a couple of hours."

"I had to make certain everything settled, at least for the moment," Brivari said. "Where's Ava?"

"Home. Yes, alone, but under strict orders not to pull anything. And I don't think she will because she's been behaving herself of late. When she heard one of the others was in trouble, she insisted I come to help."

"Oh, did she, now?" Brivari snorted. "Did you tell her you're the reason he was in trouble?"

"Fine, this is my fault," Jaddo sighed. "Just throw me against the wall like you always do when you get mad so we can move on. Zan must be safe or you wouldn't be so calm, but did you find Hubble? What happened?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "You know, I was considering throwing you against the wall, but I think keeping you in the dark would be the better option. Now if you'll excuse me, I need a drink."

Jaddo blinked. "A 'drink'? As in alcohol?"

"Yes, Jaddo, as in alcohol," Brivari said, pulling a bottle out of a cabinet. "Don't look so surprised; it's the lubricant of Hollywood. Have one?"

"No, I won't 'have one'!" Jaddo retorted. "I want to know what happened. I came all the way up here—"

"Because you felt guilty," Brivari finished, recapping the bottle. "As well you should. Because for Hubble, it was all about his wife, the wife you killed."

"Yes, yes," Jaddo said impatiently. "I already said it was my fault. Where's Hubble? Did he pose a threat to Zan?"

Brivari waited an interminably long time, swirling his drink in his glass several times before finally deigning to answer. "Hubble is dead."

"You killed him?" Jaddo said eagerly.

"No."

"Zan killed him?"

"No."

"He killed himself?"

"I wish. But no."

"Well, who, then?"

Brivari waited another excruciatingly long minute before replying.

"Valenti."

Jaddo blinked. "Valenti? As in Sheriff Valenti?"

"The same."

"What in blazes was Sheriff Valenti doing there?"

"Good question. But I'm glad he was because it spared both me and Zan the necessity of intervening. Hubble, you see, had done exactly as you'd predicted—lured Zan to the scene of the crime, where he promptly pulled a gun on him."

"Zan could have easily deflected a bullet," Jaddo said. "I don't know if he knows that, but hopefully instincts would have kicked in."

"And if not, I was there in plenty of time to reverse the outcome," Brivari said. "But I didn't need to. Valenti appeared, and when Hubble wouldn't retreat, he shot him. After Hubble taunted him with something along the lines of, 'Your old man couldn't do it, and neither can you'."

"So they have unfinished business," Jaddo remarked. "Handy for us. What did Valenti do with Zan?"

Brivari stared into his glass. "Absolutely nothing. He was downright apologetic. He told Zan to leave and tell no one he was ever there."

Jaddo raised an eyebrow. "So he's lying about it? Must be some unfinished business."

"Speaking of unfinished business," Brivari said softly, "I believe we have a bit of our own."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as Jaddo eyed his partner. Prior to this night, he'd managed to convince himself that a Pierce Jr. didn't exist, that his contact ten years ago had merely overheard something which he'd later garbled. But Hubble's reappearance was odd, to say the least, as was the fact that a successor to Agent Summers had not appeared. The list of oddities was growing while the list of possible explanations was distressingly short.

"I'm waiting," Brivari prodded.

"Okay," Jaddo said, perching on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped. "Okay. Here goes."

"Good Lord, Jaddo, what is it?" Brivari demanded. "Did Khivar suddenly appear in my back yard?"

"Frankly," Jaddo said slowly, "that would be preferable. Look, I'm not sure about this," he added when Brivari's eyes widened. "Which is why I've never brought it up before. I thought I'd misheard, and I may very well have. But there are too many strange things happening, so I think it's time to make you aware of the possibility, even if it's only a possibility—"

Brivari held up a hand. "Wait. I need another drink."

"Another drink? Are you joking?"

"Not even remotely," Brivari said. "Look at it this way; the more alcohol I have in me, the less likely I'll wring your scrawny neck when I hear this momentous announcement." He poured another drink, recapped the bottle, resumed his seat. "Very well, then. What's the topic? The Unit? Nicholas? The Bogeyman?"

Jaddo hesitated. "None of the above, although the last might be closest. This concerns...Pierce."

"Pierce? What about him? He's been dead for years. You killed him yourself."

Jaddo looked at his hands. "I know. It was one of the high points of my life. And we thought that was it, given that the Unit never found his serum. But what if...what if Pierce had a son? A son who inherited exactly what the Unit had been looking for?"

Brivari stared at him in silence for a very long time before downing the rest of his drink in one gulp and setting the glass down on the table with a thunk.

"I'm listening."




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




Washington, D.C.




"Well?" Pierce asked when Brian appeared, breathless in the doorway. "Did you find Hubble?"

"I sure did," Brian said. "He's dead."

Pierce leaned slowly back in his chair. "What?"

"He's dead," Brian repeated. "And get this—Valenti shot him."

"Jim Valenti?" Pierce said in astonishment. "Sheriff Valenti shot and killed Everett Hubble."

"That's what I'm hearing," Brian answered. "Details are still coming, but the current scuttlebutt is that Hubble attacked Valenti, pulled a gun on him. When he wouldn't stand down, Valenti fired."

"Jesus," Pierce said softly. "That must have been who answered his phone. Were there witnesses?"

"To the shooting? Nope," Brian said. "They were out at the old Peppers Cafe near Bitter Lake. That place was abandoned years ago."

"Where his wife died," Pierce murmured. "What the hell was he doing there?"

"It gets better," Brian said. "According to the director of the UFO Center, Hubble had agreed to participate in some to-do for the UFO Convention and needed his slides from 'his home in Bitter Lake'."

"Hubble doesn't live in Bitter Lake any more," Pierce said. "Hasn't for ages."

Brian nodded sagely. "I know. Which makes it all the more interesting that he was headed there in the company of the director's assistant...one Max Evans."

Pierce was out of his chair so fast, it nearly flew back against the wall. "Evans was with him?"

"Not when he died, not according to Valenti," Brian answered. "But he definitely left town with Evans, supposedly to fetch his slides."

"He was trying to lure him out," Pierce said, excitement mounting in him like a wave. "He said he had something in mind, and I bet that was it. Do we have a handprint?"

Brian shook his head. "Negative. Just a gunshot."

Damn! Pierce thought. Another handprint at this critical juncture would be just what he needed; it was tough to rally the troops against monsters that weren't doing anything. "Okay," Pierce said, his mind whirling. "Okay, we can still use this. You need to get to Roswell, clean out Hubble's motel room, find out everything you can. Steer clear of Valenti, though; that damnable nose of his will sniff you out a mile away. Make sure the body is routed to Quantico; I've still got some people there who owe me favors. I'll have them take a look at the body, and then we'll trot it out. This is what we've been waiting for, Brian, a chance to link a death to an alien. This could be the pivot point where everyone we're courting decides to join up."

"Excellent," Brian smiled. "Whatever happened to him, Hubble would be pleased if we could pull that off. I'll take care of everything in Roswell, and I'll also track down Hubble's relatives. I think he's—"

"Relatives, schmelatives," Pierce interrupted. "We're not releasing that body to anyone."

Brian blinked. "I know his parents had a family plot. And I'm pretty sure he's got some cousins somewhere who—"

"Haven't seen him in decades. What about them?"

Brian regarded him levelly for a moment. "Danny, I understand you want to examine the body, but after we do, we'll have the reports, the photos...if it really is just a gunshot, why keep it? Why deny the guy a proper burial?"

" 'Proper burial'?" Pierce chuckled. "My god, you sound like some religious zealot. Are you Jewish now? Do we need someone to say Kaddish?"

"Don't be an ass," Brian said sharply. "Whatever Everett Hubble was, he's also an American citizen, and as an American citizen, he has rights, rights we're sworn to uphold unless I missed something."

"Oh, good grief!" Pierce exclaimed. "Don't tell me you, of all people, are having an attack of conscience! We're the line, Brian, the only line left between the American people and alien incursion."

"But what if this isn't alien incursion?" Brian argued. "We'll do the math, but if it turns out Valenti pulled the trigger, there's no reason to impound his body."

"On the contrary, there's every reason," Pierce retorted. "Hubble was a nobody getting nowhere until Agent Summers and I took him on. He was right back to being nobody getting nowhere after Summers's death until I contacted him and invited him back. He owes me, and if his body is what I need to convince people to come to my side of the table, then I'll use it any way I can. He won't care; he's dead. And as you said, he'd be pleased if his death wound up convincing our reluctant fellow agents to get off their reluctant backsides and do something about the garbage heap the Unit has become."

"But Danny—"

"No 'buts'," Pierce interrupted. "Alive or dead, Everett Hubble is mine. I made him, I own him...and I'll keep him."


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


I'll post Chapter 68 next Sunday.