Roswell Fanatics

CHAPTER EIGHT



September 28, 1999, 10:00 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station





Brivari stared incredulously at the figure sprawled on the floor of Valenti's office, the one who had just crashed through the window blinds with all the stealth of an explosion. Rath? What in blazes was Rath doing here? Granted, he'd been impressed by Rath's earlier surveillance, but watching through binoculars from across the street was a far cry from clanging up a drainpipe and crashing into a locked office. Wonderful, Brivari thought sourly. First Zan had done something incredibly stupid, and now Rath, meaning he had not one, but two adolescent knee-jerks to deal with.

Brivari melted further into the corner as the adolescent knee-jerk currently center stage proceeded to wander through the office, opening this, rattling that, clearly proceeding without any idea of what he was looking for or where to find it. His search pattern was laughably haphazard as he bounced from one file cabinet to another, spending a ridiculous amount of time on what Brivari knew was highly unlikely to contain anything of value, although he did note with grudging admiration that Rath was wearing gloves. At least he'd given some thought to not leaving fingerprints behind. Too bad his noisy climb up the drainpipe and even noisier entrance quite probably canceled out any caution he was displaying in here.

But minutes went by, and no one approached. Apparently no one had heard him, and Brivari waited in the shadows as Rath plowed through the office like a bull in a china shop, impatient for him to finish and be gone. He wasn't going to find anything this way, and his amateur presence could easily result in him being caught, but Rath continued blundering through, unaware he was being watched. Finally he took a seat at the desk and began opening and closing drawers, not checking the bottoms or even bothering to spend much time looking inside. What, did he think evidence was going to just jump out and whack him on the nose? It would be hidden, for Christ's sake, not dangling in the breeze like he had from that grating. Like that paper bag he was currently shaking, producing a rattle which seemed to intrigue Rath, causing him to reach inside with reverential slowness and withdraw.....a thermos bottle. Hidden in the dark, Brivari rolled his eyes as Rath continued shaking the thermos. The glass had probably broken inside, that was all. Then Rath unscrewed the top of the thermos....and paused.

Atherton's key.

Brivari stood still as a stone, his eyes fastened on the prize Jaddo's Ward had uncovered almost in spite of himself. He hadn't laid eyes on that key in decades, had forgotten it existed until this moment. The key to Atherton's alien stash in the hidden subterranean room of his strange house had always been worn on a chain around his neck, a fact which Brivari had completely forgotten that night he'd executed him in the woods. Atherton must have been wearing it, and Valenti Sr. must have found it and kept it all these years. And now it was in the hands of Valenti Jr., who clearly had some idea of its value, having seen fit to hide it from the FBI.

No....not Valenti's hands, Brivari amended. It was not Valenti reaching for the key now, but an Antarian-Human hybrid. While it could be argued that the latter hands were preferable to the former, his own were most preferable of all. He was working out the logistics of extracting the key without revealing himself when there was low grunt from the window, and the blinds were swept aside by another hand.

Zan?

"Michael, let's go, now!" Zan said urgently. "Valenti's back!"

Wonderful, Brivari groaned, wondering which was worse news—the sheriff's presence or having two adolescent hybrids with poor judgment in the wrong place at the wrong time. As if to prove him right, Rath completely ignored Zan, still focused on the key.

"Let's go!" Zan insisted. "Michael!

In a classic display of behavior exhibited so many times on two different planets, Rath continued to ignore him....and picked up the key.

The effect was immediate. As Zan watched in alarm, Rath pitched sideways, knocking over both himself and the desk chair in a burst of noise which far exceeded any he'd made on the way in. His expression went blank, and his eyes glazed over, seeing not the office now, but something else entirely. A connection, Brivari realized. The hybrids were still capable of forming connections, and Rath had just formed one with Atherton's key. And a long one from the looks of things, given that he remained on the floor, eyelids flicking, oblivious to the consequences. The sheriff's deputies may have missed his entrance, but they wouldn't miss this, as evidenced by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Let's go, let's go!" Zan exclaimed.

Damn it! Brivari swore silently when Rath didn't move. This was neither the time nor the place he would have chosen to reveal himself, but he couldn't let them be captured, not with what Valenti already knew, and certainly not with Atherton's key in their possession. He was just about to heave them both back out the window himself when Rath's eyes widened and he sat up with a start. He had no sooner heard the approaching footsteps then he was out the window after Zan, an admirably fast recovery, but one that left the curtains fluttering just as Valenti and one of his deputies burst into the room. There was a moment of silence as Valenti looked around the room, suspicion etched on every feature; the deputy merely looked curious, but Valenti spied the moving curtain immediately and made a beeline for the window just as Brivari's ears picked up a voice outside.

"One....two....."

They're going to jump, Brivari thought in disbelief, recalling the dumpster beneath the window. That sort of stunt worked in the movies, but would likely land them in the hospital in real life. He might be able to break their fall, but then there was the issue of the unlocked grating outside the window, a dead giveaway to an already suspicious enemy. He only had seconds, and he could only aim his energy in one direction.....

And that direction would have to be their Wards. Touching the outside wall, Brivari threw everything he had behind slowing their fall. He'd never tried this before, and he had no idea if it would work, but the hybrids' human bodies were every bit as fragile as any other human body. The sheriff could be removed if necessary, but the hybrids could not be replaced. Keeping his concentration on the other side of the wall, he tensed as Valenti whapped the blinds up and reached for the unlocked grate.

A moment later, Brivari blinked as Valenti rattled the grate. It was locked? But how could that be? Would either Zan or Rath have had the presence of mind to lock it on the way out, and the skill to do so quickly enough? More footsteps pounded toward the room, and a moment later Vilandra appeared in the doorway, panting. They planned this, Brivari realized. That was the only explanation for all three of them being in the same place at the same time, not a unique thought judging by the look on Valenti's face when he saw Vilandra, whose eyes swept the room in a textbook display of guilt and anxiety. Gracious, but that girl could never keep a secret except when it was enough to bring down a planet.

"Miss Evans?" Valenti prompted.

"I....I just...." Vilandra stammered, then appeared to pull herself together. "You both went running off," she continued. "I was just....worried."

"Were you, now," Valenti murmured.

"Nothing's out of place, sir," the deputy noted. "Must be something just fell somewhere." He paused. "What made you come in here? I couldn't tell where the noise came from other than the second floor."

"Guess I'm just jumpy, what with our 'visitors' today," Valenti said.

"Right," the deputy nodded. "Well....I'll take care of the young lady's flat tire."

"No," Valenti said quickly. "I'll do it."

"It's no trouble—"

"No trouble for me, either," Valenti said. "I'm on my way back out." He gave the office one last look before lowering the blinds. "Would you take me to your car, Miss Evans?"

Vilandra managed a beatific smile. "Absolutely. And thank you so much, sheriff. Like I said before, I am so not mechanical."

Brivari winced as the deputy smiled dutifully at the pretty girl yanking his chain, but Valenti wasn't falling for it. A minute later the office was empty, and Brivari was gazing down from the window into an empty dumpster. So at least they were still ambulatory. That was something.

Two figures appeared on the street below, one of them carrying a tire wrench, the other swinging her long hair behind her in a useless effort to look innocent. Vilandra is the weathervane. If he wanted to find his Ward and Atherton's key, the best way to do that was to follow that weathervane.




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




Hurry up, Isabel thought impatiently, resisting the urge to tap her foot as Sheriff Valenti took his sweet time changing the tire she'd deliberately blown before sashaying into the station as a damsel in distress. A routine which was going swimmingly, she might add, before someone, probably Michael, had made enough noise to be heard down in Carlsbad, drawing the sheriff upstairs mere seconds before she would have had him safely outside. Just wait until she got her hands on him. Here Michael had joined her in rightfully castigating her dear, darling brother, and now he'd gone and done something equally stupid. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn idiocy was contagious.

Squeak....squeak. The nuts, or bolts, or whatever they were, complained loudly as Valenti methodically turned the large, X-shaped wrench to tighten them, periodically glancing up at her as he did so. He'd been doing that a lot, and each time she had studiously avoided his gaze; now she returned his look with a brilliant smile which had him dropping his eyes in a hurry. He knows, she thought heavily. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew something had happened, and a large part of that was her own fault—she should have done what he'd said and waited in the lobby. But she'd lasted all of ten seconds after Valenti and his deputy had taken off for the second floor, clattering after them with a lump in her throat the size of New Mexico. What would happen to Max if he got caught? Valenti already suspected him, Michael had seen men in suits carting things out of Valenti's office.....what would they do to him? Would they lock him up and carve him into little pieces? Would they lock them all up and carve them into little pieces?

Stop it, she told herself severely. Anything Valenti thought he knew was just conjecture. He hadn't made a move toward Max since the Crash Festival when Liz's admittedly lame plan had nonetheless done its job of making him back off. All she had to do was wait for him to finish with her tire without losing her cool again, even though he seemed to be taking long enough to change every tire on the damned block. Then she could be on her way and find out what happened to Max and Michael....and knock their heads together just as soon as she was certain they were okay. She'd had no idea any of this was in the cards when Max had jingled her cell phone to tell her that Michael was on his way over to their house so he could avoid that nosy substitute teacher who seemed so eager to track him down. She'd been expecting them both to show up, and when neither had, she'd gotten worried and hitched a ride into town with a friend. She hadn't found Michael, but she had found Max, walking side by side with Liz, no less. What on earth was he doing with her after sending Michael home, especially since they both knew Michael rarely did what he was told? But she'd had to swallow her fury at least until they located Michael, and then she'd had to swallow it again when they'd discovered he was inside the sheriff's office. Now she had no idea where either of them were.

"Almost done here," Valenti announced.

Finally. Isabel practically vaulted into the driver's seat, drawing a raised eyebrow from Valenti. Too bad. She could say she had homework, or her parents would be missing her, or any other of hundreds of excuses. Finally, Valenti straightened up.

"There you go. You're all set, Miss Evans."

"Thanks," Isabel said, managing a smile. "Thanks a lot."

"Isabel, right?"

"Yeah," Isabel answered, starting the engine.

"You're out past the curfew."

Yet another reason to be in a hurry. "Well, I had a flat tire," she replied.

"Right," Valenti said, smiling faintly. "Where's Max tonight?"

Any hope that Isabel had been nursing that maybe Valenti hadn't connected the dots went right out the window, just like Max and Michael must have. "Oh, I have no idea," she said lightly, shifting into gear. "I'm just his sister, not his keeper. Thanks, again."

Isabel roared off, so eager to be out of there that she had to resist the urge to floor it. It certainly wouldn't help if she got arrested for speeding, and she kept one eye on the road and the other on Valenti in the rear view mirror, who watched her until she rounded a corner and was out of sight. Now what? Should she go home or just drive around and see if they popped up? She chose option two and was rewarded about six blocks away when two figures emerged from between buildings and waited for her to pull over.

"Get in," Isabel said grimly, wrinkling her nose as they did so. "God, what is that smell?"

"We jumped into a dumpster," Max said.

Fortunately, both her brother and Michael seemed to have acquired a few brain cells in that dumpster because both were mercifully silent on the way to Michael's trailer. She was so angry that she was ready to burst, which is exactly what she did when she finally shut off the engine and rounded on Michael.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded angrily. "Isn't it bad enough that Max goes and does something incredibly stupid, but now you have to join him? What, isn't one idiot in the family enough?"

"Hey!" Michael protested.

"Iz," Max said warningly.

"Don't you start!" Isabel exclaimed. "What were you doing with Liz when Michael was supposed to be at our house? Which he wasn't, by the way, because he was too busy trying to get himself killed breaking into the sheriff's station."

"Liz and I followed Topolsky to Michael's place," Max said defensively. "We'd just gotten back when I spotted you."

Isabel blinked. "Oh. I.....I thought....."

"You thought what?" Max asked.

"Who cares what she thought," Michael interjected. "What did Topolsky do when she got there?"

"Not much," Max answered. "She talked to Hank, or tried to. And then she left."

"That's it?"

"I think she left a card with her phone number," Max said.

Michael snorted softly. "Fat lot of good that'll do her. Hank wouldn't care if I never went to school as long as he got paid."

"So while Max was out playing detective, what were you doing?" Isabel demanded. "Oh, that's right. Trying to get yourself killed."

"Isn't repeating yourself a sure sign of old age?" Michael asked.

"She has a point, Michael," Max said. "What did you think you were doing? We barely made it out of there in one piece."

"What was I doing?" Michael echoed incredulously. "What was I doing? Not cozying up to some girl, that's for sure."

"We weren't 'cozying'," Max protested.

"Look me in the eye and tell me there wasn't cozying going on," Michael challenged.

Max pinned his eyes on Michael's. "There wasn't cozying going on," he said firmly. "Your turn. Look me in the eye and tell me what the hell you thought you were doing."

"I thought I was trying to find out more about us," Michael retorted. "You know, who we are, where we came from? Who left that handprint back in 1959? Those pesky little questions that you and Isabel don't give a damn about?"

"That is not true," Isabel objected.

"Oh, sure it isn't," Michael said. "That's why you both go green every time we learn something new about ourselves."

"Green?" Max said skeptically.

"Bad joke," Michael allowed.

"Okay, fine, you want to learn more about us; we all want to learn more about us," Isabel said impatiently. "But breaking into the sheriff's office?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Michael demanded. "Waltz in and ask if I could see that picture he showed Liz because it might be a long lost cousin? Breaking in was the only way, Isabel, and I did it at night after I'd already scoped the place out and knew there wouldn't be many people around. And no one had a clue I was there until I found this."

Michael held up his hand. Isabel glanced at Max, who shook his head ever so slightly. "A key," Isabel said in disbelief. "You found a key. Well, good for you, Michael. What's it unlock? Valenti's locker? Or maybe the shed in his back yard?"

"I have no idea," Michael said, ignoring her sarcasm. "What I do know is that the moment I touched it, I had a vision, a vision so strong that I literally blacked out."

"He did," Max confirmed. "I watched it happen."

"What happened?" Isabel asked nervously.

"He was looking at the key when I got there, and then he picked it up and just....collapsed."

"Collapsed?"

"Fell over," Max amended. "Right out of the chair."

"You were sitting in Valenti's chair?" Isabel asked incredulously. "God, could this get any worse?"

"Didn't you hear a word I said?" Michael said impatiently. "Forget about the stupid chair. I had a vision, and I never have visions. That's got to mean something. But you know that, don't you? That's why you're going on about chairs and haven't even asked me what I saw!"

Isabel fell silent, ignoring her brother's pointed look. She wouldn't admit it to God Himself, but she really didn't want to know what Michael had seen. "So tell us," Max said when she didn't say anything. "What did you see?"

"You didn't ask either," Michael said accusingly.

"I'm asking now. What did you see?"

Michael looked away. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?" Isabel echoed as Max shot her a warning look. "You're pointing fingers at me, and you're not even sure what you saw?"

"I didn't recognize it," Michael said, frustrated. "It was some kind of.....shape. A weird shape."

"Wonderful," Isabel muttered. "Now all we need to do is break into a preschool and swipe a shape sorter."

"Look, the point is, I saw something. Something huge, something so powerful, it was paralyzing."

"Big words for someone who's truant more often than not," Isabel said under her breath.

"He's right," Max said, shushing her with his eyes. "Whatever it was literally knocked him senseless for a moment. I think we should each hold the key and see if we get a vision."

"Fine," Isabel said tightly, shaking her head. "Let's all.....try," she finished, having been about to say let's all play the game. But she knew her brother, and she'd pushed him far enough. Better to go along until this all fizzled.

Max took the key, closing his eyes and holding it with an almost comical reverence, finally shaking his head. Eager to have this over with, Isabel reached for it.....and stiffened.

"What did you see?" Michael asked eagerly.

Isabel's mouth crooked in a mischievous smile. "Ricky Martin in the shower!"

Michael snatched the key out of her hand and jumped out of the jeep. Max shot her a deeply disapproving look before climbing out and going after him. Sorry, brother dear, she thought. Michael needed to be taken down a peg. He'd done something incredibly dangerous tonight and found nothing, nothing but a boring, ordinary looking key that couldn't possibly be anything interesting. But it didn't matter what it was. What mattered is what Michael believed it was, and he believed it was something. He was as guilty of reading what he wanted into that key as she was of wanting to avoid what it might have meant. Someone had to pull him back down to earth, and judging from the apologetic look on her brother's face, it looked like that someone would have to be her. She pricked her ears, trying to hear what they were saying.

"...don't really know what it's like for you," Max said.

"The thing I've realized is the fact that my life basically sucks is a good thing," Michael answered. "It's easier. We always have to be able to leave, pack a suitcase, go somewhere else. Maybe ten years from now....maybe a week from now....maybe tomorrow. So my advice? Don't get in too deep, Maximillian. It only makes us weaker."

Too late, Isabel thought. She and Max were already "in too deep". And if that made them weaker, so be it.




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



Proctor residence




"He said that?" Dee asked incredulously. "Michael said they always had to be ready to leave?"

"He said that," Brivari confirmed.

"He called him 'Maximillian'," Anthony said, shaking his head. "Thank God that was only my middle name because I hated it. Here Philip and Diane agreed to use 'Max' instead, and still it comes up anyway."

"Can we stick to what's important here?" Dee demanded with an irritated glance at her husband. "How did you even hear him? You couldn't have been too close."

"Close enough that my superior hearing worked just fine," Brivari answered. "And actually I was quite close. I can match myself to any background."

As if to prove his point, Brivari promptly disappeared. No....not disappeared. He'd changed his...skin? Clothing? Both, actually, to match the fabric of the chair on which he was sitting. Even his hands were now a subtle floral. The effect was surprisingly good at first glance, then became downright bizarre when one's brain began to take into account the 3D nature of what was supposed to be empty space. Dee blinked, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with what she knew of the laws of physics.

"Neat trick," Anthony said.

"It's handy," Brivari agreed, mercifully reappearing.

"Fine, so you....camouflaged," Dee said. "Can we get back to the important part?"

"Which one?" Anthony asked. "The part where Max healed someone in front of a crowd? Or the part where Michael broke into the sheriff's office and almost got caught? Or the part where Valenti now suspects them?"

"The part where they know more about themselves than we thought," Dee answered tartly. "That part."

"That should be the least of our worries," Anthony replied. "The other parts are downright dangerous. Them knowing more than we thought is good news, not bad news....isn't it?"

Dee swung her eyes to Brivari, and Anthony did the same, waiting for an answer. He'd shown up on their doorstep about half an hour ago after a day spent skulking around what sounded like just about everywhere, and with an incredible story to tell, complete with public healings, suspicious sheriffs, FBI agents, breaking and entering.....and all involving her grandchildren. She had a good mind to march right over to Philip's house and settle this right now, once and for all. Assuming Max and Isabel were there, of course. Judging from what Brivari said they'd been up to, they could be anywhere.

"It's both," Brivari answered finally. "If they're more aware than we thought, obviously that's good news in some ways. In others.....well....let's just say things get awkward."

"Awkward how?" Anthony asked.

"Awkward in that I still can't approach Zan directly," Brivari said, frustration evident in his voice. "He's still perfectly capable of compelling me, and still lacks the maturity to handle a power of that magnitude. And even if he could bring himself to refrain from abusing it, I guarantee you Rath would change his mind. Rath is hell bent on finding answers in ways that mirror his own Warder's behavior. Here I was impressed with his surveillance of the FBI earlier, and then he went and climbed up a drainpipe. That's classic Jaddo. And Vilandra doesn't want to know the truth. That much was very clear from their conversation tonight."

"And Max?" Dee asked.

Brivari's hands worked in front of him. "Appears to be in the middle," he answered. "He wants to know, but he's attached to his life here."

"Of course he is," Anthony murmured.

"And it doesn't really matter one way or another," Brivari went on. "They're all still basically human teenagers. I couldn't bring them back to Antar in the state they're in now even if they wanted to go....and they don't. At least not the people who need to go, the ones who matter the most."

"Max and Isabel," Anthony nodded.

"The King and his sister," Brivari corrected. "They are the only true royalty among the hybrids. Ava married into the family, and Rath was supposed to do the same—"

"And we all know how that turned out," Dee muttered.

"—but they're not royalty," Brivari finished. "And while any of them would be better than none of them, the fact remains that Zan and Vilandra are the most important of the hybrids. Without them, I'm not sure if the people would rally behind either of the other two."

"They might if things were bad enough with Khivar," Anthony commented.

"Perhaps," Brivari allowed. "But I have no idea what's happening on Antar. I haven't spoken to the resistance in years, and it's not safe to use a communicator. And even if I could, what would I say? That the hybrids are still largely useless? Unless they're ready to go back, it doesn't matter what's happening there now. What matters is what's happening when—or if—they're ready to go home."

" 'When'," Dee corrected firmly. "This is what we wanted, Brivari, what you wanted, for them to start remembering. And it could take a while, so we'll need to be patient. What's our next move?"

Brivari paused. "Nothing."

" 'Nothing'? What, you mean nothing at all?"

"Nothing overt," Brivari amended. "Nothing obvious. We watch and see what happens."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we already do that?" Dee asked. "Granted, we 'waited' because we didn't know what was going on, but in the meantime Valenti went after Max, and the Special Unit showed up."

"But the first was stonewalled, and the second is skeptical, so skeptical that they installed a rookie agent by way of going through the motions. Relax," Brivari added when Dee looked ready to erupt. "I intend to keep a close eye on things. But it's quite possible, even probable, that this will all die down on its own."

"You really think the Special Unit will 'die down on its own'?" Dee said doubtfully.

"This from the woman who just counseled patience," Anthony said dryly.

"I was referring to the process of learning about themselves," Dee said crossly, "not letting the FBI tromp all over our grandchildren."

"The FBI hasn't tromped on anyone but Valenti," Brivari reminded her. "And God, you sound like Jaddo."

"Which might explain why I'm beginning to sympathize with him," Dee retorted. "Doing nothing seems like exactly the wrong thing."

"And what would you have me do?" Brivari asked. "Knock off the Unit's local agent and give them even more ammunition?"

"You might do better knocking off Valenti," Anthony offered. "He'll be missing his key eventually."

" Gee, thanks, dear," Dee said acidly. "You're so helpful."

"So what exactly did Michael see when he held the key?" Anthony asked, ignoring her. "Some kind of 'shape', he said?"

"I believe he saw Atherton's house," Brivari answered, "the one he was building when....he died. It was a very unusual structure. He called it a 'geodesic dome'. The key opens a hidden room underground where he'd stored all the alien records he'd collected over the years. Jaddo wanted to destroy them, but they were useless, at least in terms of locating or identifying us, mostly a motley collection of alleged eyewitness accounts and documents recovered from the base where Jaddo was held captive. Interesting, but hardly damning."

"So you just left it there?" Anthony said.

Brivari looked at his hands. "It was his life's work," he said quietly. "I'd just had to destroy James. I didn't want to destroy his little treasure pile also. And then we left shortly afterward anyway."

"So what happened to the house?" Dee asked. "Did the bank reclaim the land after Atherton defaulted on the mortgage?"

"There was no mortgage. James owned the house and the land outright."

"But it would need maintenance," Anthony pointed out. "Taxes would have to be paid, at least. Did his family take it over?"

"Atherton had no family," Brivari said, "and he was never declared dead because his body was never identified. Officially, he's listed as missing. The house has been maintained by UFO enthusiasts, most of whom became his followers after his disappearance and all the tales that grew out of that. They take care of the upkeep and pay the tax bill, even took out insurance on it. It's become something of a shrine, as I understand it. Ironically, all their attention is focused on the main house, the one James was living in, a very ordinary structure. It was common practice among these people to have a hidden space where they kept all the alien records they'd been able to collect. According to James, those spaces were also supposed to function as a kind of 'underground railroad' for aliens should they need to be hidden from the authorities."

"So Atherton was a Harriet Tubman," Anthony chuckled.

"James had just such a room in his main residence," Brivari continued. "He built another in the dome and moved his records there, but no one else knew about it. After he disappeared and his followers searched his house, they found the original room all cleaned out and assumed that meant something nefarious."

"But this....this 'dome', is still there," Dee said. "Meaning the kids could find it."

"I don't see how," Brivari said. "Valenti Sr. must have taken that key off James' body back in '59, and that's how Valenti Jr. has it. Judging from what Rath said, he also has a picture of James' body, which was never identified. No one has ever connected the body or the key to James or his house. That's a cold trail to follow."

"But Michael will try to follow it," Anthony said. "Once he gets something in his head, there's no getting it out."

"Yes, Rath could be a problem," Brivari sighed. "But if they just keep quiet until the FBI gives up and leaves, they should be all right. Hopefully this incident scared all of them enough that they'll keep a lower profile."

"Oh, right," Dee said skeptically. "Like Michael's 'lower profile' tonight? Are you absolutely certain you're doing the right thing?"

"Of course not," Brivari said. "One can never be certain of that. But I do know that revealing myself to the hybrids now would be a huge mistake, as would striking out visibly at either Valenti or the Unit. If you have another idea, I'm all ears."

Dee was silent for a moment, then looked at Anthony, who shrugged. "I don't," she admitted grudgingly. "But I don't like it. I don't like it one bit."

"They are my Wards," Brivari pointed out.

"And two of them are my grandchildren," Dee reminded him. "I'd keep that in mind, if I were you."

"They're not really our grandchildren, Dee," Anthony said gently. "They never were."

"Like hell they aren't!" Dee exclaimed. "He put them with us for a reason, and that's part of the package, like it or not."

"Of course they're your grandchildren," Brivari said. "At least in part. I'm grateful for everything you've done, and I'd be further grateful if you'd both keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might be helpful. You can get closer to them than I can." He paused. "I just wish I could figure out how this happened. It all started with Zan healing that girl, and if what I'm hearing is correct, he knew what the stakes were when he did that. Zan was impulsive when he was younger, but still....it's baffling."

"Baffling?" Dee said in astonishment. "That's the only thing about this mess that isn't baffling."

Brivari blinked. "You think you know why he did it?"

"No, I know I know why he did it," Dee said. "Have you seen Liz Parker?"

"Yes. What about her?"

Anthony smiled faintly. "You said it yourself...he's a human teenager."

"A human teenaged boy, to be exact," Dee added. "With all the attendant hormones."

Brivari glanced from one to the other, bewildered. "What are you saying?"




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




Kal Langley's residence

Roswell



It was late when Brivari arrived back at the house he'd kept in Roswell ever since the hybrids' emergence, his former rooming house from 1959. He hadn't lived here for any length of time in years, and now he pulled a sheet off a chair and sank into it. Of all the disturbing things he'd learned today, of which there was quite a list, Dee's final comment was the most disturbing of all. Zan had a crush on a human? It made perfect sense, of course; he was living as a human. Unfortunately that threw yet another wrinkle in an already difficult situation. If he hadn't had evidence that the hybrids were at least beginning to remember, it wouldn't have mattered. But if they were beginning to remember, they would eventually have to leave Earth behind, including any humans they had associated with. Including pretty girls who'd been shot by wayward café customers.

"I'd ask why you're sitting in the dark, but I think I already know," a voice said.

Brivari stiffened in his chair as a figure rounded the corner from the hallway, a figure bearing a bright, infrared signature. The sheet covering the couch nearby went airborne of its own accord and settled in a heap on the floor as Jaddo settled on the couch.

"So, Brivari," he said casually, "you've made quite the rounds today. Learn anything interesting?"




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



I'll post Chapter 9 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!

PML wrote:Can I say I really enjoyed the banter between the hybrids?

Thank you! I really enjoy writing the banter between all our beloved characters. It's so much fun to finally have the pod squad here.







CHAPTER NINE



September 28, 1999, 11:30 p.m.

Kal Langley's residence, Roswell




"What are you doing here?" Brivari demanded.

"Do I need a reason to visit the only other member of my species on this planet?" Jaddo asked.

"Yes," Brivari answered bluntly.

"I see," Jaddo sighed. "Very well, then. I followed the Special Unit here. They were busy harassing Valenti the younger earlier today....but you already knew that."

"I meant what are you doing here," Brivari clarified. "Shadowing the Unit is one thing. Shadowing me is something else entirely."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Brivari, I'm not 'shadowing' you," Jaddo said impatiently. "I thought I was supposed to be the paranoid one."

"If we were meeting anywhere else but here, you might get that one past me," Brivari said severely. "Emphasis on the 'might'."

Jaddo eyed him for a moment with raised eyebrows. "Fine. I followed you here. But only because I was checking on the Proctors and discovered Dee and Anthony are now living in her childhood home. I saw you there, and followed you here, and....here we are."

"Yes, here we are," Brivari muttered.

"A strange choice of residence," Jaddo continued, ignoring him. "What could ever have induced you to return to your old boarding house?"

"It was cheap," Brivari said. "And familiar. And the owners were having trouble selling it. Seems it has a somewhat checkered past."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours. You're the one who killed Audrey."

"That I did," Jaddo agreed. "But I believe the Argilians contributed to that 'checkered past' every bit as much or more than I did." He paused. "I noticed your old apartment is still closed off. Does her death still bother you?"

"Does your memory no longer work?" Brivari retorted. "I warned you to stay away from here. Either give me a good—no, an excellent—reason why you're here, or get out."

"Correction—you warned me to stay away from the hybrids," Jaddo said. "And I haven't gone near them."

"Yet," Brivari said under his breath.

"I make it my business, however, to follow the Special Unit wherever they go," Jaddo went on, "and regardless of your pronouncements, I will follow them here if they come here. They came, and so did I. I offer no apologies for that. And I see I'm not the only one who made the journey. I'm pleased to see you saw fit to act upon the information I gave you."

"I told you I was going to act on it," Brivari said irritably.

"Too often, your 'acting' involves merely 'watching'," Jaddo said. "And no, I don't want to start that very old argument again. I'm merely expressing approval of your decision to investigate the situation for yourself. So....I'll show you mine if you show me yours. What have you learned?"

Far more than I'd ever want to tell you, Brivari thought. The last thing he wanted Jaddo to know was that the hybrids might be regaining their memories. Best to stick to Unit news. "Agent Stevens is merely going through the motions," Brivari answered. "He doesn't believe a handprint can heal, so he doesn't believe this is a real lead."

"I saw you talking with Agent Hart," Jaddo said thoughtfully. "Stevens is very skeptical, which is very good news, of course. And it certainly helps that he and the entire Unit already have such a low opinion of Valenti."

"Which is curious, given that it's been a Valenti who's been right every step of the way," Brivari said.

"Yes, well, I expect that's the root cause of the hostility," Jaddo replied. "Frankly, I don't care why they regard Valenti as a saucer chaser; the longer they hold his opinion suspect, the better off we'll be."

"Suspect or no, that didn't stop Stevens from planting an agent here."

Jaddo's eyes widened. "He did? Who?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "Don't tell me I know something about the Unit that you don't. Must be a cold day somewhere."

"Leave off the adolescent needling, and answer my question," Jaddo said sharply.

"Why? You were needling me earlier. Don't I get a turn? Simmer down, for Christ's sake," Brivari added as Jaddo's expression darkened dangerously. "You'll blow an artery."

"I don't have 'arteries', nor do I invoke deities," Jaddo retorted. "Especially Earth deities. Are you going to answer me, or do I have to—"

"What?" Brivari broke in. "Throw a tantrum? Burn the house down? Phone home? You really need to learn some manners, Jaddo. Most people ask when they want something. You should try it some time."

Brivari waited while Jaddo scowled at him. It was pointless not to answer him; not answering would merely keep him here longer while he figured it out for himself, and increased the risk he would discover a good deal more than the agent's identity. Still, a point needed to be made, and he may as well enjoy himself while making it.

"A rather unfortunate time to be playing games, don't you think?" Jaddo muttered. "Very well, then....will you 'please' tell me which agent Stevens planted here? Or is it that you don't know, and don't want to admit it?"

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" Brivari said blandly. "One 'Topolsky'. And no, you're not killing her."

"Well, not yet, anyway."

Brivari closed his eyes briefly. "Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Jaddo. The Special Unit is giving Roswell a perfunctory glance. Any hint of alien activity, especially any dead agents left lying around, will make their attention much more than perfunctory. And it's not just Roswell that has their attention, it's Zan. They have a name, Jaddo, the name of my Ward and quite possibly yours as well, Wards who can't shapeshift and have no idea of the danger hovering only inches away. Wards who would have to be made aware of some very inconvenient facts in a very abrupt and inconvenient way. It is absolutely imperative that nothing even remotely unusual happens until the Unit gets bored and leaves. Are you capable of understanding this, or do I need to find another way to drive this point home?"

Jaddo regarded him in silence for a moment before shaking his head. "You disappoint me, Brivari. Do you really think my understanding of the situation is that poor?"

"You bet your ass I do," Brivari retorted. "You're the one who's spent the last forty years turning yourself into a virtual rotary beacon by bumping off every agent you could find."

"For the purpose of leading them astray," Jaddo argued. "As usual, you miss the point, which was to keep them busy as far away from here as I could. And which worked beautifully, I might add, until your Ward became a rotary beacon in his own right. How ironic that Zan would do exactly what you've accused me of doing all these years."

"Apples and oranges," Brivari said. "Zan did it innocently. Unless you'd like to argue that you didn't know what you were doing? If so, I'm listening."

"My, but you're into the needling tonight," Jaddo said dryly. "But needling aside, do I take this to mean that you've decided he actually did heal the waitress?"

Damn it! Brivari thought furiously, having not intended to let any of his discoveries slip. "Ah," Jaddo said. "I see you did. So did I, current spin notwithstanding."

"It's not 'spin'," Brivari said. "With the exception of Valenti, everyone else genuinely believes no one was hurt. Perhaps even the waitress."

"Perhaps," Jaddo agreed. "That would account for her silence. But as for your exception, we both know how large of an 'exception' a Valenti is. If not for him, the Unit wouldn't know about this." He paused. "You know they're going to find blood on the uniform, if they haven't already."

"Which makes it all the more imperative that absolute silence be maintained," Brivari said. "Stevens has no proof there was a handprint, and he doesn't think a handprint will heal. Hopefully that, plus a generous dose of boredom, will move him along."

"Yes," Jaddo murmured. "Hopefully." He stared into space for a moment. "Stevens isn't the only one who didn't know a handprint could heal. That was quite a feat."

"Valeris said they'd be more advanced than we are," Brivari reminded him.

"Do you think they know?"

"Know what?"

"Who they are? What they are? They must know something, or how could he have healed her?"

"Instinctively," Brivari answered, anxious to steer Jaddo away from this dangerous path of reasoning. "Reflexively. He needn't know a thing to do what he did. He's never done anything like that before, so it's a safe assumption he had no idea he could do that. It must have been quite a shock."

"Yes," Jaddo agreed. "And it must be hard to be forced to sit back and watch your own Ward go through that level of confusion."

Brivari said nothing, unsure if Jaddo was fishing because he knew more than he was letting on or merely making one of his infrequent—and frequently awkward—attempts to empathize. "Well," Jaddo said briskly when the silence stretched out, "I see you have the situation in hand. I suggest we each return to our respective arenas to keep an eye on things. Where will I find you, here or LA?"

"Here," Brivari said warily. "And there's no 'suggesting'. I meant what I said, Jaddo. Stay away from them. You gave up your claim to them when you left with Ava."

"I know. I drew the line in the sand. I admit that. And I'd do it again if I had to."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Brivari sighed.

"But you drew your own line in the sand the other night when I first came to you with news of what had happened," Jaddo continued. "You said that as long as I stayed on my side of the line, you were content to let me walk this planet." He leaned forward, fastening hard eyes on Brivari. "I have my own line to draw. As long as you're doing your job, I'm content to stay on my side of the line. But the minute you neglect your responsibilities, I will have no choice but to step in and do what you will not."

"And who decides if I'm being 'neglectful'?" Brivari demanded. "We all know where this leads, Jaddo; you insist on intervening when I feel intervention is unwise. You always do. And so I repeat: If protecting our Wards involves protecting them from you, I will remove you from the equation. I won't let you compromise them all over again."

Jaddo eyed him in silence for a moment before rising to his feet. "Yes, well.....just so long as we understand each other." He walked to the door, pausing beside it. "It's good to see you again, Brivari, and good to be working with you again. Despite everything that's happened....I missed that."

"You mean you've missed the conflict. Which is the only real relationship you've ever had with anyone."

Jaddo smiled faintly. "Perhaps. Except with him." He opened the door. "I imagine the Unit will bring us back together at some point. I'll see you then."

After he left, Brivari leaned heavily against the sofa, his eyes closed. Except with him. True enough. Rath was the only one whom Jaddo had completely respected, so there had been little conflict between them. He would no doubt be delighted by his Ward's activities tonight....and that was why he must not find out about them. Somehow, some way, he had to make certain he kept their Wards' awakening from Jaddo lest he become the larger threat.




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




September 29, 1999, 6 a.m.

Valenti residence




"Dad?"

Valenti jerked awake, blinking. Kyle was standing there in his boxers and a t-shirt, watching him with concern. "You're.....on the couch," Kyle said. "Did you spend the night here?"

Guess so, Valenti thought, his muscles screaming from the contorted position he'd been in. "I must have fallen asleep here last night," he answered. "Sorry."

"No, that's okay," Kyle said. "Sleep where you want. I just.....you look like hell."

"You're not exactly fresh as a daisy yourself," Valenti muttered, running a hand over his morning stubble.

"Yeah, well....I'm not the one who fell asleep on the couch."

"I just had a really bad day yesterday," Valenti said, "and a lot on my mind."

Kyle hesitated a moment before perching on the far end of the couch. "I heard something," he confessed in a low voice. "People at the Crashdown said men were carrying stuff out of your office."

"Did they?"

"Yeah. Not men in uniform. Men in suits."

"Suits, huh? Glad they weren't naked."

"I'm sure everyone's grateful for that," Kyle deadpanned, "but what were they doing there?"

"It's just part of an investigation, that's all," Valenti said evasively.

"Uh huh." Kyle watched him for a minute, clearly not buying it. "The people in the Crashdown said they were carrying lots of stuff out of your office."

"They took a few files."

"Lots and lots of stuff."

"Okay, so maybe more than a few."

"They said they were loading boxes of stuff into two vans," Kyle persisted. "Two vans? What on earth were they taking that would fill up two vans?"

Valenti eased himself into a sitting position. "Kyle, don't give me the third degree. I don't give you the third degree about your life, do I?"

"Sometimes. Not often," Kyle amended when Valenti gave him a pointed look. "But sometimes."

"I'm your father. 'Sometimes' is my God-given right."

"Okay," Kyle said slowly. "Then....I'm your son. 'Sometimes' is my God-given right."

"No, it isn't," Valenti said in exasperation. "It only works one way."

"Yeah, why is that?" Kyle asked with mock innocence. "I've never understood that."

"And the odds of your understanding it before breakfast are nil. You do your job, I'll do mine."

"Right. Football! I mean school," Kyle corrected hastily when Valenti gave him a look. "School, absolutely. My job is school. And yours is.....watching men in suits empty your office?"

"Not now," Valenti groaned.

"Just tell me one thing," Kyle said. "Does this have anything to do with that weird handprint thing I told you I saw on Liz's stomach?"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "Why?"

"Because I....." Kyle paused, looking supremely embarrassed. "Because I think I might have dreamed the whole thing."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because I saw her in gym class yesterday, and her....her shirt came up....not that I was looking, I wasn't looking, but, you know, I just happened to notice when her shirt....well, her arms went up, and then—"

"Kyle, you're babbling," Valenti broke in. "She's a girl, you're a boy. Boys look at girls. I know this because I used to be a boy. No smart ass comments," he added when the corners of Kyle's mouth twitched. "Just get to the point."

"Well, her shirt went up, and....no handprint, no silver, no mark of any kind. No nothing."

"Double negative."

"Geez, Dad, you're a sheriff, not an English teacher," Kyle grumbled.

"And you sound like a dunderhead when you talk like that."

"I love you too," Kyle said dryly. "I just didn't see anything, and it was so bizarre that I think maybe I never really saw anything at all. Anyway, she's okay. Maybe I was just freaking out because she almost got shot."

"Yeah, maybe," Valenti agreed.

"You didn't.....you didn't say anything to her, did you, Dad? About what I thought I saw? Because I don't want her to think I'm mental, or anything."

Interesting, Valenti thought. Liz Parker was supposedly dating his son, but hadn't seen fit to disclose her meeting with his father....which is exactly what he'd expect her to do if she wanted to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible. Which is exactly what he'd expect her to do if she were protecting someone....or something.

"Why would she think you were mental?" Valenti asked, hoping Kyle wouldn't notice he was sidestepping his question. "You were just concerned, that's all. Anyway, the suits didn't have anything to do with that."

"Good," Kyle said. "I was just worried. Investigations usually mean men in uniform, not men in suits. Men in suits are just so....'Men in Black'." He jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna go get breakfast. Want anything?"

"No, thanks. I need to wake up first."

If only you knew, Valenti thought wearily as Kyle padded away, followed by the sounds of cupboards opening and cereal boxes hitting the counter. She almost got shot. No, not almost: Liz Parker had been shot. That simple fact had been pushed to the back of his mind yesterday, what with the FBI raiding the station and that weird incident last night with Isabel Evans. He hadn't had the leisure to ponder the ramifications of his hunch being verified until last night, when he'd apparently fallen asleep on this very couch from sheer exhaustion before he'd been able to do much in the way of pondering. And there was much to ponder; the FBI barging in, the only viable reason they would be doing so, what that meant about Max Evans. What if Kyle had never told him about that handprint? What if he'd written it off as something too weird for words and said nothing? At that point he probably would have written off the testimony of those Crash Festival tourists as too weird for words and gone on his merry way. His son's doubts were meaningless now, of course; the handprint always disappeared, had disappeared by the time he'd looked. It's disappearance only made it more authentic.

"Dad?" Kyle called from the kitchen doorway, cereal bowl in hand. "I forgot to tell you the nursing home called last night. Something about Grandpa having a rough day. They wanted you to call back."

"Of course they did," Valenti muttered.

"What?"

"Thanks," he said quickly. "I'll take care of it."

Kyle retreated, crunching, as Valenti sank back on the couch and closed his eyes. This thing with Max Evans meant that there was possibly—dare he even think it—an alien in town, an alien who left handprints behind, handprints that could kill as well as heal. But it also meant something else: It meant he'd have to re-evaluate the way he'd thought of his father for most of his life. If aliens were real, that changed everything. If handprints were real, that changed everything. It meant his father had been right all that time when everyone, his own family included, had considered him obsessed and unstable and untrustworthy and...crazy. Obsessed, yes; unstable, maybe. One could be right and still be obsessed and unstable. But untrustworthy? No. Crazy? Well....if his father was crazy, it looked like his son was crazy too. Because that son now had his own handprint to deal with, albeit a happier one than his father's given that it was on a living, breathing girl instead of a dead man. Maybe he should go visit dear old dad. Heck, maybe he should ask some pointed questions now that he had a reason to.

Later, Valenti thought, making a beeline for the bathroom when he heard the dishwasher open. Once Kyle got in there, there'd be no getting him out. He had no idea what in blazes his son did in here, but it always involved emptying the hot water tank while he drummed his fingers outside, hoping he wouldn't be late for work. He'd taken to rising earlier just as soon as Kyle had turned into a bathroom diva, but this morning they had a traffic jam, and there was an audible groan from the direction of the kitchen just as soon as he turned the water on. Too bad, buddy, he thought, stepping into the warm rain. He'd perfected the art of the two minute shower years ago, so Kyle would have plenty of time to take his before school. If the situation were reversed, however, he'd be here till lunchtime waiting for the hot water tank to refill.

The shower felt wonderful. He stood with one hand against the wall, letting the water cascade over him, pondering last night's incident with Max Evans' sister. Or perhaps 'incident' was too strong of a word; on the surface, at least, it was just a flat tire. But such a conveniently timed flat tire, coming just as a crash from the second floor had sent he and Deputy Blackwood scurrying upstairs. He really had no idea why he'd headed for his office first; it had been impossible to tell exactly where the crash had come from or what had caused it. His office had been untouched when he got there, nothing out of place, the outside grate locked, and besides, who would be trying to get into his office? There wasn't much there to take, not after the FBI had cleaned him out. He wouldn't have given it a second thought if not for the lovely Miss Evans appearing in the doorway, panic etched on every feature, her eyes darting around the room as if she were looking for something. It wasn't until that moment that he'd properly registered the fact that she was Max Evans' sister. And what did that mean, exactly? Did she know that her "brother" was an alien. Was she an alien? How would two human parents wind up with alien children? Or maybe the parents weren't human either? Maybe they were all aliens, a la the Coneheads?

The thought of the pointy-headed aliens from Saturday Night Live gave Valenti a welcome chuckle as he reached for the soap. At least his aliens were better looking. And perhaps their parents merited some investigation, but he already knew how they could have wound up with an alien child; both Max and Isabel were adopted, found wandering in the desert if the school registrar was to be believed. They may have no idea who those kids were or where they'd come from, and there was no way for even a sheriff to find out; adoption records were sealed. And as far as last night went, he really shouldn't be obsessing about it. The stylish Miss Evans could hardly be expected to break a nail changing a tire, Max hadn't even been there, nothing had been disturbed or taken, and he'd checked thoroughly.....

Valenti turned off the water, having just finished rinsing. There had been precious little of value in his office after the Bureau's vacuum cleaner had run through it, but there was something the Bureau didn't know about. Something he'd forgotten to check.

Someone pounded on the door. "Could you hurry up?" Kyle's voice said in exasperation. "I'll be late for school!"

"Like you've almost made me late for work several times?" Valenti called. "Keep your pants on. I'm almost through."

He scrambled out and raced through shaving. That had been more than a two minute shower, but then he'd needed it to wake up. When he opened the bathroom door Kyle was practically invisible, he blew by him so fast, and he only got a grunt a few minutes later when he said goodbye through the door. But niceties weren't big on his agenda this morning, including those involving his own staff when his foot finally crossed the station's threshold.

"Good morning, sir," Hanson called as Valenti breezed past every bit as quickly as Kyle had. "You're early this morning."

"Lots to do," Valenti called back, taking the stairs two at a time, unlocking his office and examining the scene one more time. Nope; nothing out of place. No drawers open, nothing askew, the chair right where he'd left it. He sat down in the chair and slowly opened his left desk drawer. The paper bag was still there, as it had been last night, but he'd neglected to touch it, to make certain the thermos was still inside....

It was. Valenti slipped the thermos out of the bag, chagrined. For a moment there, he'd been having the wildest thoughts. Granted, he still had the Max Evans problem of shot waitresses and silver handprints, but at least last night appeared to be no more than it had been at face value. It had been a busy week that had made him paranoid, especially yesterday, what with the Bureau and all....

It wasn't rattling.

Valenti paused. He'd slid the thermos back into its paper bag and had been just about to replace it in the drawer when he realized it hadn't made any noise. It had yesterday when he'd carried it out right past the confiscatory Agent Stevens, so loudly, in fact, that he'd been afraid it had been audible even through the crackling of the bag. Now it was dead silent. Holding his breath, Valenti slid the thermos out of the bag and unscrewed the lid.

The key was gone.

Valenti stared stupidly at the empty place where the key had been for several long seconds before unscrewing the inner lid and checking inside, checking the bag, the inside of the drawer, the floor. No nothing, as his son would have said. The key which had belonged to his father's John Doe was gone.




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



Hank Whitmore's trailer




"Micky!"

Lost somewhere in a land of weird shapes, Michael Guerin stirred only slightly, the voice seeming to come from far away.

"Micky"

The voice was closer this time, but Michael ignored it. He wanted to know more about wherever he was, what he was looking at. People were always yelling at him; he'd learned how to tune it out at an early age.

But that tuning didn't include the rough shove which nearly knocked him off his bed. "Hey!" Michael protested, shielding his eyes with one hand as he squinted at his tormentor. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Waking you up," Hank said. "You'll be late for school."

Michael blinked, not from the light, but from the fact that his foster father had actually used the word "school" in a sentence. "And since when do you care if I go to school?"

"Since truant officers started callin' at my front door." Hank answered, a regal sweep of his arm indicating the trailer's door as though it were the gates of Buckingham Palace. "But I gotta say, that was one hell of a truant officer," he added with a chuckle. "If they keep sending blondes with legs that go all the way up to there, maybe I'll keep you home."

Michael fell back on the bed, closing his eyes. He'd forgotten all about Topolsky's visit last night. By the time he'd gotten home, Hank had already passed out on the couch, and Michael had fallen asleep looking at his prize, the key which had given him a vision.

"C'mon—up!" Hank ordered, tugging the blanket off. "Legs or no legs, I don't want no trouble."

"Yeah, sure you don't," Michael muttered, heaving himself into a sitting position. "So what'd she threaten to do if I didn't show up? Something nasty like make you bathe?"

"Very funny," Hank said, never a pretty sight even on a good day, and an even worse one first thing in the morning. "She said you may be expelled. And if you're expelled, that calls my fitness as a foster parent into question. Don't want them puttin' you someplace else."

"What a tragedy," Michael deadpanned.

"You could do a lot worse than here," Hank retorted.

"Really? Like where? The caldera of a volcano?"

Hank stalked over, stuck his nose in Michael's face. "Let me make myself a bit clearer: 'Here' could be a lot worse than you think it is now."

Michael rose from the bed. "Is that a threat?"

"Just an observation," Hank answered.

"My, but you're full of ten dollar words today," Michael said. "Have you been going to school in my place? Nah, that can't be it. They'd smell the alcohol on you at twenty feet."

Hank's face reddened. "Why, you little—"

"Save your unbelievably bad breath," Michael said. "All I have to do is squeak to Social Services about what goes on here, and you can kiss your monthly check goodbye. So you wanna add to the list of things I have to tell them? Go right ahead."

Michael held Hank's furious gaze as they stood toe to toe. This was their classic little dance, and the choreography was always the same: Hank made non-specific threats, and Michael followed with a specific one, namely ratting him out to Social Services. Despite the fact that neither of them had yet made good on those threats, Michael had no doubt that day would eventually come.

But not today. Hank glared at him a moment longer before retreating, muttering expletives under his breath, and Michael escaped into the bathroom, roughly as large as an airplane lavatory if you didn't count the shower. Outside the door he heard cupboards opening and closing as Hank searched for a bottle that had something left in it. Good. Hank was a mean bastard when he was sober, so he was actually a bit easier to deal with when he was drunk. And despite the crappy trailer and constant "dancing", he had to admit there were some advantages to living with Hank. Another foster home might make him go to school, do his homework, join a sports team, keep a curfew. Hank couldn't care less unless his income was threatened, and that limited level of interest carried the perk of independence. Michael was on his own the vast majority of the time, and that suited him just fine. Of course Hank's income had just been threatened, and so had that independence. But in a way, he should thank Miss Topolsky, whoever she was. Her little visit last night had occupied Max and Isabel long enough for him to sneak into Valenti's office. He hadn't said anything to Max, but it grated on him that Liz Parker had been the first to learn more about them. Somehow it just didn't sit right that a human had seen something about them that they hadn't. He'd been hoping to find the photograph Valenti had shown Liz, but this.....this was even better.

Michael held up the key, its imprint on the hand which had held it tightly while he slept. This key would go everywhere with him from now on; he wouldn't let it out of his sight. It had been hard to let Max and Isabel touch it last night, and as much as he'd wanted them to have visions if only to prove that he wasn't nuts, he'd been secretly glad when they hadn't. The key had revealed itself only to him, the images it had shown him invading even his dreams. For someone who usually wound up on the shitty end of things, that was pretty cool. Granted he had no idea what it was trying to say, but he'd figure it out. Hank or no Hank, school or no school, Max or no Max, his mission in life from now on was to find out where that key had come from and what it was trying to say.

The hand which held the key faltered as it occurred to him that he'd actually have more thank you notes to write if he were into that Emily Post kind of thing. None of this would have happened if Max hadn't healed Liz. As crazy as it sounded, his best friend's indescribably stupid and very public act had led them to their first real information about themselves, information they never would have had if Liz had chosen not to share it. Was it possible that isolating themselves was counterproductive? Would they actually learn more by letting humans in rather than shutting them out?

Nah, Michael thought, tucking the key into the pocket of his jeans. One random act of usefulness did not an ally make. Isabel was right to insist Max stay away from Liz, and he planned to reinforce that at his earliest opportunity.




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




Agent Stevens tucked his newspaper under one arm and grabbed his briefcase before climbing out of his car, punching the button on his key fob, barely noticing the familiar beep beep as his door locks snapped shut. He'd taken no more than a half dozen steps before something blocked his way.

"Agent Pierce," Stevens sighed. "To what do I owe the honor of such an early morning call?"

Pierce held up a manila envelope. "I just couldn't wait for this to reach you through the usual channels, so I decided to hand deliver it."

"Really? You shouldn't have," Stevens said.

"No problem," Pierce said.

"No, I mean it. You shouldn't have."

Pierce's features darkened. "Read it," he ordered.

"Of course. As soon as I get to my office."

"Where you'll toss it in your "In" basket and ignore it for the rest of the morning, if not the entire day," Pierce said. "Read it now. As in right now."

"So now you're lurking in parking lots and you're paranoid," Stevens said blandly. "Bad combination. Do I really need to remind you about the hazards of conducting classified business in public?

"Do I really need to remind you about the hazards of ignoring evidence and placing rookie agents on important details?" Pierce retorted. "You said you were waiting for the full report on that uniform. Here it is. Don't you want to know what it says?"

"In a parking lot? No."

Pierce slapped the envelope against Stevens' chest. "Then allow me to summarize. There's not only ketchup on that dress, there's blood on that dress. If one were given to hypothesis, one might actually speculate that the waitress wearing it was, I don't know....shot?"





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


I'll post Chapter 10 next Sunday.

CHAPTER TEN



September 29, 1999, 7:00 a.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe



Agent Stevens kept one eye on Pierce as he snatched the manila envelope from his hands and pulled out the papers inside. "Read it and weep," Pierce said with satisfaction. "You should have moved sooner, Stevens. You might have just cost yourself your chair."

Did I, now? Stevens thought, scanning Pierce's 'evidence' with a practiced eye. Interesting? Yes. Costly? Not quite.

"Fascinating," he said calmly, returning the papers to the envelope and closing the clasp. "Thank you for the special delivery, although it was certainly unnecessary and certainly stupid. You should have thought that through. You might have just cost yourself the chair."

Pierce blinked, once, twice. He always seemed surprised when anyone opposed him, this one, as though he believed himself bulletproof. Stevens had no idea what possible justification there could be for that, but then that was the problem with belief; it frequently defied logic.

"You didn't read it," Pierce said accusingly. "I told you to read it."

"And when are you going to get it through your thick skull that you don't 'tell' me to do a damned thing," Stevens said curtly. "You are not the head of the Unit, you merely want to be. Which means that not only do you not have authority over me, but that I, as regional director, have authority over you while you're on my turf. If you'd like, I can produce my job description so you can read it and weep."

"This isn't the way it was supposed to be!" Pierce fumed. "Agent Summers wanted me to succeed him, and Director Sessions agreed."

"And Director Freeh didn't," Stevens reminded him. "So Summers cut a deal with a director who had left when the time came to call in that deal. Happens all the time, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Pierce retorted.

"Then stop acting like one," Stevens said bluntly. "You're constantly behaving like some snot-nosed teacher's pet who thinks he should be the new teacher's pet because of seniority. The Grand Pooh Bah you made your 'deal' with is gone. Get over it and suck up to the new Grand Pooh Bah if you want any kind of future with this Unit."

"Fine," Pierce said impatiently. "We can debate politics later, but would you please read that lab report? Pretty please?"

"Already did."

"What do you mean you 'already did'? You barely looked at it."

"This is where it's helpful to have way more experience than you," Stevens said. "I've learned to skim. And what I skimmed tells me this book is far from closed."

"They found blood!" Pierce sputtered. "This wasn't just some little one inch sample; they tested the entire dress—"

"And found blood, yes, but not enough to indicate a gunshot wound."

"Because the alien got to her!" Pierce exclaimed. "She would have bled more if he hadn't gotten to her."

"She would have 'bled more'?" Stevens echoed. "Listen to yourself, agent. You're saying the lack of evidence constitutes evidence, and it doesn't work that way. Honestly, do you know how anything works? Anything at all? Look," he continued when Pierce reddened, "the Unit gets bogus alien reports all the time. All the time. This one came from a town sheriff whose family has a history of mental instability and is based on the 'testimony', and I use the term loosely, of a couple of Crash Festival tourists and his own teenager. No one else saw what they claim to have seen. No one."

"But the blood—"

"Isn't confirmatory," Stevens broke in firmly. "There still isn't enough blood on the dress to indicate a massive injury like a gunshot wound. The waitress said she broke the ketchup bottle, and that could easily have led to cuts that caused her to bleed on the uniform."

"She didn't have any 'cuts'," Pierce argued. "She didn't—"

"She didn't have a medical exam," Stevens pointed out, "so we don't know what she did or didn't have. We don't even know that this blood belongs to the waitress because we don't have a sample of her blood, nor would any judge possessed of sound mind grant us a court order to obtain one when he or she hears why we want it."

"That would never have stopped my stepfather," Pierce muttered.

"Yes, well, this isn't J. Edgar Hoover's world, is it?" Stevens retorted. "Freeh actually prefers that we cover our asses whenever possible by following the law. Imagine that."

"Why should we?" Pierce demanded. "Do you think aliens follow the law?"

"We don't have a shred of proof there's any alien involvement here," Stevens said. "The blood on the uniform is human blood, there's not enough of it to prove a gunshot wound, the witnesses who offered testimony aren't credible, and, oh, by the way, just one more small thing—there's no body."

"Yes, there is," Pierce insisted. "A body with a silver handprint."

"Wrong," Stevens said. "We have a live body with an alleged handprint that no one but a junior Valenti saw. Even the sheriff didn't see it himself. And let's not forget the 'live' part. Aliens don't save people, they kill people. Always. All the time. No exceptions."

"But—"

"There are no, I repeat, no documented cases of aliens saving a human life," Stevens interrupted, "and I'm willing to bet the rent there are no undocumented cases either because aliens don't do that. This case simply doesn't fit the aliens' MO."

"Then why did you send in surveillance?" Pierce asked. "You must think there's some merit to it, or you wouldn't have done that."

"See, here's the reason I have a chair and you don't," Stevens said. "It's my job to follow up on all leads even if I think they're bogus, which means I'd have an agent in Roswell even without any blood on the dress. I follow up everything, agent, but that doesn't mean I find everything credible or have to believe it. That's the responsibility that comes with the position, a position you don't yet have."

"Then let me help you follow up," Pierce said. "Topolsky's there, fine; let me go too. Give me the names of the suspects, and I can—"

"No."

"Why not?" Pierce demanded.

"Because you've already made up your mind. I need someone objective on the ground, someone with an open mind. Yours is closed. You've already decided, and you've shown you'll interpret anything you see in light of what you want it to mean. Like that lab report."

"But—"

"I'm done here, agent. Thank you for the ill-advised hand delivery, and don't ever pull a stunt like that again."

"You can't just walk away from me!" Pierce exclaimed.

"If you'll observe me closely, you'll notice that's exactly what I'm doing," Stevens called as he walked away. "If you've got a problem with that, take it up with my immediate superior: Director Freeh."

Stevens maintained a casual pace until he was inside the building, when he made a beeline for his office. His assistant was already there, gazing out the window toward the parking lot.

"You heard?" Stevens asked, tossing his briefcase and Pierce's precious lab report on his desk.

"I saw," Pamela corrected. "Can't hear much from 300 yards, but I'm going to bet you two weren't discussing last night's game."

"And you'd win," Stevens said. "Get me Agent Topolsky on the phone."

Pamela gave him an appraising look. "He got to you, didn't he? Which means he's got something," she murmured, gazing curiously at the manila envelope. "Why else would you be all nervous and jerky? I doubt it's because of his rugged good looks."

"Not one word about him being 'handsome'," Stevens said severely. "I'd like to keep my breakfast down, if you don't mind. And of course he's got something; he's got an over-developed sense of superiority and an entitlement complex, and that's all he needs to have. Make enough noise in the right quarters, and you can turn nothing into something, and he knows that. So I have to up my game and make certain all my bases are covered and then some. Get me Topolsky before school starts."

Fortunately Pamela wisely hushed up and picked up the phone. A minute later, Kathleen Topolsky was on the other end of the line.

"What have you got for me, agent?" Stevens asked.

There was a pause. " 'Got', sir?" Topolsky echoed. "This is only my third day, so I haven't 'got' much."

"Then step it up," Stevens ordered. "I want everything you can find on the alleged healer, the alleged 'healee', and any alleged accomplices, and I want it today."

"Today? I—"

"It isn't necessary to repeat everything I say, agent. I know what I said, and once should be enough for you too. Yes, 'today'. Three days is more than enough time to have learned something useful. For an experienced agent, that is."

Stevens waited while that last comment sank in. "Well....I have sensed a kind of.....romantic relationship between our suspect and our gunshot victim," Topolsky stammered.

"And how does that help us?"

"I....well....sir, I don't know what you want me to do," Topolsky said in frustration. "I was assigned to observe, and I'm observing."

"Then find more to observe, or more ways to observe," Stevens said.

"How?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know 'how'?" Stevens demanded. "You're under cover as a guidance counselor, so do what guidance counselors do. Do some guiding. Do some counseling. Guide some counseling, or counsel some guiding. Make sure you start with our suspects, and make sure you guide and counsel them more. Exactly how is up to you. I want a report this evening."

"This evening? But—"

"You're repeating again, agent," Stevens warned. "Are you up to this detail, or aren't you? Because if you're not, I can have another agent there in one hour."

"I'm up to it, sir," Topolsky said without so much as a moment's hesitation. "In fact, I just had a thought. Maybe I should encourage that romantic connection between our suspect and victim. Love makes people do and say things they normally wouldn't, especially when those people are teenagers."

"That's the spirit, agent! I need more thinking like that."

"I'll get you what you want, sir. Just leave it to me."

"That's my girl," Stevens said approvingly. "Don't let me down, agent."

"I won't, sir."

"I'll be in touch later this evening."

"I'll be ready, sir."

Pamela reappeared just as Stevens tossed the phone down and sighed. "Think she'll pull it off?" she asked.

"She'd damned well better," Stevens muttered. "It needs to at least look good."

"If you're so worried, then why not replace her?"

"Because I'd hate to waste experienced agents on this report when I have a half dozen others that are far more likely to produce something of value," Stevens said. "All I need her to do is a credible job so if Pierce goes whining to Freeh, it's clear I've done mine."

Pamela eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. "You're worried about him, aren't you? Pierce, I mean. People don't usually get under your skin like this."

"Of course I'm worried about him," Stevens said. "He's a little shit. No, he's worse than that—he's a big shit." He paused, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Get me Director Freeh on the phone. I'm doing an end run around Pierce before he does one around me."




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




West Roswell High School





"Where have you been?" Max demanded when he saw his sister coming toward him. "First period just ended.

"Don't start with me," Isabel said severely, grabbing her combination lock so hard that the locker door rattled. "I've had the worst morning ever."

"Hey, Isabel," Michael said, coming up behind Max. "You're late."

"And you're here," Isabel retorted. "Imagine that."

"Hank insisted," Michael shrugged.

"Hank insisted?" Isabel repeated incredulously. "Honestly, Michael, if you're going to rag me about being late, the least you could do is come up with a plausible tale about why you're in school at all."

"Never mind him," Max interjected. "Why did you have the 'worst morning ever'?"

"Worse than the morning after Max blew our cover?" Michael asked. "That is bad."

"Okay, the worst since that," Isabel muttered as Max gave Michael a look. "First the jeep broke down. It was all hissing and sputtering, and then it just wouldn't go."

" 'Wouldn't go'?" Michael chuckled. "What a girly description."

"So I'm not mechanical; so sue me," Isabel said, savagely pulling books out of her locker. "I don't know what's wrong with it. I was just about to call a tow truck, and then who should drive up but Miss Freak Out."

"Who?" Max asked.

"Maria DeLuca," Isabel answered. "She offered me a ride."

"That was nice of her," Max said.

"And it looks like you took her up on it," Michael added.

"And I wish I hadn't," Isabel sighed. "Because she got all freaked out and rear-ended a car in front of us. And not just any car—the sheriff's car."

Max blinked. "Maria ran into the sheriff's car?"

"Right into it," Isabel said. "And he comes over and gives me this look like he was expecting horns to sprout from my head."

"More likely antennae," Michael offered.

"Thanks a heap," Isabel said acidly. "You're so helpful."

"Isabel, the sheriff doesn't suspect you," Max said gently. "And it was Maria who hit his car, not you, so he can't blame you for that."

"It's not just that," Isabel said. "It's Maria. She's just....spastic. She won't be able to keep her mouth shut about us, I just know it!"

"Calm down," Max advised, pulling her further into the shadow of her locker door as students swarmed by in the crowded hallway. "Maria knows how important it is to keep our secret. Liz explained it to her."

"Oh, Liz explained it, did she?" Michael said. "Well, that settles everything for me. Doesn't it for you, Isabel?"

"Very funny," Max said darkly.

"Michael's right," Isabel said. "You shouldn't have told her, Max. She turned right around and told someone else. If she did that once, she'll do it again, and we have no control over who she tells. Do you have any idea how nerve-wracking it is to come here every day wondering who knows about us now?"

"You're overreacting," Max said. "Liz hasn't told anyone else—"

"Yet," Michael murmured.

"—and she won't," Max finished firmly.

"She already did," Michael reminded him.

"And she won't do it again," Max insisted. "She saw what happened with Maria, and she won't do it again."

"The point is, she shouldn't have done it in the first place!" Isabel hissed. "God, why are you defending her?"

Max stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Because I know what it's like to want to tell someone. To need to tell someone. And so do you, Isabel. You've always wanted to tell Mom."

"But I haven't," Isabel said. "There's the difference; I know how to keep my mouth shut, and you and Liz don't. And if neither of you can keep quiet, how can we expect Miss Freak Out to do any better?"

"You're going about this all wrong," Max argued. "Calling her names and assuming she's going to crumble will only make things worse. We need to make friends with the people who know about us so they're less likely to slip and say something they shouldn't."

"Make friends?" Isabel said with a bitter laugh. "With Maria? You're crazy."

"I know I'd never be friends with her," Michael commented.

"Maybe you're not the best example," Max said dryly. "But we should all look for something we have in common with both Liz and Maria to make it clear we're not a threat."

"So you're admitting they think we're a threat?" Michael asked innocently.

"No, I...." Max paused in frustration. "I'm just saying that the best way to keep them quiet is to befriend them."

"Oh, sure," Isabel said. "And then you get to snuggle with Liz. How convenient."

Max pinked. "I didn't say that!"

"It all depends on what you meant by 'befriend'," Michael said blandly.

"Don't twist this," Max warned.

"I'd love to stay and duke it out, but I'm late," Isabel said. "If I miss study hall, I won't get a chance to study for my math test."

"No study hall," Michael said. "Our new guidance counselor wants to talk to all of us."

"About what?" Isabel groaned.

"Career counseling," Max answered. "She's using our free periods and our lunch hour to talk to each of us individually."

"Great," Isabel muttered, slamming her locker door closed. "Now I get no time to study. What kind of a 'career' am I going to have if I fail math?"

"I'm not going," Michael announced. "I already know my career—finding out what this means."

Max's eyes widened when Michael held up something small and golden. "What's that doing here?"

"It's staying with me," Michael said. "You didn't expect me to leave it with Hank, did you? It goes wherever I go, the bathroom, the shower, wherever."

Isabel closed her eyes. "That's a visual I didn't need."

"You shouldn't be waving that around," Max protested. "What if Valenti sees it? If he went to all that trouble to keep it from whoever was emptying his office yesterday, he's bound to miss it."

"You know, it's odd that you'd be worried about anyone seeing this key because you weren't worried about who saw you healing Liz," Michael said. "But I think a bit further ahead, and I already checked. Valenti's not here."

"Except that one," Isabel said, eyeing a group of students coming toward them with Kyle Valenti in the middle.

Michael snorted softly. "As if some dumb jock has any idea what's what with anything besides football scores."

"He's not dumb," Max said.

"No, he's just Liz's boyfriend," Michael said.

"Would you two stop it?" Isabel begged. "Enough already with the key. Max is right; just put it away."

"A minute ago, you said I was right," Michael reminded her.

"Yeah, well, you each have your moments, but don't get all excited about it," Isabel retorted just as the bell rang. "Great," she added darkly. "I still have to sign in, and they'll give me the third degree about why I was late."

"Don't fret," Michael said. "The sheriff will back you up."

"Remind them about the guidance counselor's pow wow," Max advised as Isabel threw Michael a murderous look. "Then they won't keep you as long." He paused, waiting until she was out of earshot before rounding on Michael. "Is it really necessary to needle her like that? She had a rough morning anyway."

"Yes, Maxwell, it's absolutely necessary for me to needle both of you," Michael answered. "You know why? Because you both take all of this much too seriously. This isn't real. This isn't us. This isn't who we are or what we were meant for."

"And what exactly were we 'meant for'?" Max asked.

"I'm not sure," Michael admitted. "But not this, I can tell you that much. You and Isabel are just too invested in this happy little life of yours, which is gonna make it all the harder when you have to let it go."

Max was quiet for a moment. "Maybe," he allowed. "Or maybe if we never learn what it means to 'invest', we'll never be able to do what we were 'meant for'. Ever think of that?"

Michael eyed him beadily as he started down the hallway. "You coming?" Max asked.

"No, thanks," Michael said. "Go get counseled without me."




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




9 p.m.

Evans residence




"It was awfully nice of you to offer to stay here tonight," Diane said as Dee shrugged off her coat, "but it's not really necessary. We'll be back tomorrow."

"I know," Dee said lightly. "But I also know how much you fret when the kids are here alone."

"Mmm," Diane murmured. "And I know you've always thought I was overreacting."

"True," Dee admitted. "But I overheard someone talking about her kids going off to college, and it suddenly dawned on me that none of us have much longer together. Before you know it, Max and Isabel will be off....somewhere else. So I guess I'm trying to enjoy them while I can."

Diane's skeptical expression evaporated, and she enveloped Dee in a massive hug. "Oh, I know, Mom!" she whispered, suddenly close to tears. "I try not to think about it, hate to think about it....but it's coming. I know it's coming. I don't know how I'll manage, but....I guess I'll just have to." She let go, swiping a hand across her face. "Philip's waiting, so I should go. I've already said goodbye to the kids. Just as well, really, because they'd be mortified if they find me crying over college. Thanks again for staying. I really appreciate it."

College, Dee mused as she watched her son's car back out of the driveway. If only Diane knew how very much further her children were likely going some day, that what was "coming" was something she'd never dreamed of. She'd always dreaded the day her emotional daughter-in-law would have to say goodbye to what she thought were her children because she'd expected them to remember long before now. Maybe it was better that they be older when it happened. It would make more sense to Diane because she would have been saying goodbye to them anyway, albeit not across a galaxy. And not just Diane, she admitted ruefully. Embarrassing as it was to admit, she would have an equally difficult time saying goodbye. She of all people should have known not to get too attached, but so much time had gone by with barely a hint of memory....

Which is why you're here now, she reminded herself firmly. She was here on a mission, not because she'd suddenly decided Diane's fretting was justified. Although, given what the three musketeers had been up to recently, maybe that fretting was more justified than ever.

"Grandma?"

It was Isabel, gorgeous as usual, even in her pajamas. "What are you doing here?" Isabel asked after a hug and a kiss.

"Staying with you, of course."

"We're not little kids anymore," Isabel smiled. "We can handle a night by ourselves."

"Tell me about it," Dee said lightly. "Or rather, tell your mother. I'm just trying to set her mind at ease. I'll stay out of your hair, I promise."

"You never get in our hair," Isabel said. "And we're always glad to see you. Aren't we, Max?"

Max, who had just appeared on his way to the kitchen, stopped. "Hey, Grandma. Mom and Dad just left."

"She knows. She's babysitting," Isabel said.

Max smiled faintly. "Oh. Okay. I'll try to behave myself."

"You'd darn well better, young man," Dee said with mock seriousness, pulling her bag toward her and emptying the contents. "Or you won't get to see these."

"What's that?" Isabel asked.

"Photo albums," Dee answered. "We found some old photos of when your father was very little. I thought he'd like to see them. We all like to know where we come from."

She'd been careful to keep that last sentence casual, but it had the desired effect; Max and Isabel exchanged glances before Max abandoned his trek toward the kitchen and Isabel flipped open the top album curiously.

"Wow," Max said. "Dad wasn't just little, he was really, really little."

"This looks like Roswell," Isabel commented.

"It is," Dee said. "Your grandfather and I were visiting your great-grandparents, and we got an apartment here in town. After your great-grandmother and I had a fight, that is."

Isabel's eyes widened. "Over what?"

"Your great-grandmother didn't approve of the way I continued going to school after I had your father," Dee explained. "It got a little tense."

"Geez, lots of mothers work today," Isabel said, flipping pages. "I haven't seen great-grandma in ages; I'll have to rib her about that when I....oh, God," she said suddenly, coming upon a quintessential 'naked-in-the-bathtub' picture. "I so did not need to see that."

"That's a classic," Dee chuckled. "But don't worry. We don't have any pictures of you two that young. You were both much older than that when you came into our lives."

Max looked at his sister, then back at the album. "You were there that night, weren't you, Grandma? The night they found us?"

"Yes. Why?"

There was a pause, just a moment's hesitation….and then the floodgates burst. "What were we like?" Max asked eagerly. "What did we look like? What were we doing when you found us?"

Two pairs of eyes fastened on Dee, eyes full of fear, and longing, and....more fear. They wanted to know, but it scared the hell out of them.

"Well," she said carefully, "what do you remember?"

"Practically nothing," Isabel said quietly.

"Okay," Dee said. "You were both walking hand in hand—"

"Naked," Isabel whispered.

"Yes, naked," Dee agreed. "Neither of you would say anything, so we packed you in the car, drove you back to your great-grandparents' house and gave you a bath. Guess we missed our chance for a photo like your dad's."

"That's okay," Max assured her. "And then we went to the orphanage?"

"Yes," Dee answered, leaving out all the shenanigans at the sheriff's station and the hospital. "Your mother and father kept track of you, and offered to foster you until they found your real parents. And then they adopted you when they never found them."

No one said anything for a minute. Dee waited while Isabel stared into space and Max looked at the table, finally breaking the spell by grabbing the second album and opening it.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "This picture's labeled '1959'. You were here in 1959?"

"This was the summer of '59," Dee said. "Why?"

"Did anything....happen that summer?" Max asked.

Dee could have sworn she saw Isabel give her brother a kick beneath the table. "Lots of things happened," she answered, privately noting that what happened in the summer of '59 could easily fill a book. "Anything in particular you were looking for?"

"No," Isabel said quickly. "Nothing in particular. We should get to bed," she told Max. "Tomorrow's a school day. Goodnight, Grandma."

"Goodnight," Dee said. "If you need me, I'll be out here walking down memory lane."

Interesting, Dee thought as she watched Isabel hustle her brother away from the photos and temptation. It had been a short conversation, but it had served its purpose; they were unquestionably interested in 1959 and unquestionably looking for answers, even if Isabel was actively trying to shut that investigation down. Maybe she should go say goodnight to them. Maybe Max would ask more questions if his sister wasn't there to shush him.

Too late, she thought as she rounded the corner just in time to see Isabel slipping into Max's bedroom. The door was open, and Dee hovered outside. She'd been an expert eavesdropper in her youth, but she never thought she'd still be doing it all these years later.

"Looking for something?" Isabel's voice said.

Dee peeked around the corner. Max was gazing out the window at the sky, Isabel peering over his shoulder. "What if there is someone out there somewhere, waiting for us to come home, you know?" Max said. "Another mom and dad?" He paused, glancing up at Isabel, who hadn't answered. "I know we never really talk about this stuff. Do you? Wonder about it at all?"

Dee pulled back quickly as Isabel took a seat on the bed. "Every day."

"Well...what if we could find out?" Max asked. "What if someone had the answers for us? Would you want to know?"

"I think I'd be really scared," Isabel admitted. "What is this about, Max? Is this about the key Michael found? Because you know we can't do anything about it."

"We're always being so....cautious, you know?" Max said wistfully. "Always watching behind our backs. Never getting too involved. But we're never moving forward either. We're just kinda stuck, Isabel. I'm not sure I want to be stuck anymore."

Dee leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, the urge to run in there, to tell him everything she knew so powerful, it was almost overwhelming. I have the answers for you! she wanted to shout. And I'm not the only one.

"....took a really big risk just telling them, and I don't like where it's headed," Isabel was saying.

"I trust them, Isabel."

"You want to trust them," Isabel corrected.

So they did tell someone, Dee thought, her head swirling at the contrast between "we remember practically nothing" and the conversation going on right now. Someone else knew, more than just one person if the plural "them" was taken literally. Others were now keeping the secret also, a terrifying thought if ever there was one.

"....can't just go around walking into people's dreams," Max was saying. "Remember when you did it with Mom? She wouldn't go back to sleep for a week."

"Just to check things out, you know?" Isabel said. "Preventive measures."

"Isabel...."

"Max? Just a short visit. Goodnight."

Dee scrambled down the hallway as Isabel exited Max's room and entered her own. Retreating to the living room, she pulled out her cell phone, then thought better of it and retreated further to the garage before dialing Brivari's number. Don't you dare let it go to voice mail, she thought fiercely as it rang six times before he answered.

"It's Dee," she said breathlessly, feeling almost like she'd just chased someone. Goodness, but she was out of practice at this cloak and dagger stuff. "Are you absolutely sure these phones are safe?"

"I have altered every single phone any of us has had for the past ten years," Brivari said with exaggerated patience. "No one can intercept our conversations, including Nicholas. What happened?"

"They know," Dee said.

"Know what?"

"That they're not from around here," Dee said. "Max actually said, 'What if there's another mom and dad out there waiting for us?' "

"He said that to you?"

"No, I was eavesdropping," Dee said impatiently. "I showed them the photos of Philip just like you suggested, and Max picked up on the date right away, only to have Isabel shush him. She's scared to know."

"She should be," Brivari said, his voice heavy with irony. "She won't be happy when she finds out why they're here."

"None of them will," Dee pointed out. "And Isabel can go into people's dreams like Urza did."

"Interesting," Brivari murmured. "Has she gone into yours?"

"I don't think so," Dee allowed, "although I'd imagine any teenaged girl who could do that would have far more exciting dreams to visit than her grandmother's. Oh, and someone else knows about them. Isabel referenced 'telling them', and she's none too happy about it."

"The girl Zan healed," Brivari said, "and her friend, a waitress at the Crashdown."

Dee blinked. "You knew about that?"

"I suspected."

"And you're not worried?"

"I'm always worried. But the waitress appears to be loyal, and it appears the shooting victim is also, especially since the sheriff pulled her in for questioning and didn't get anywhere. The photo of Atherton that Rath referenced was shown to the victim, probably because of the handprint, and she presumably told Zan and the others about it."

"And when were you going to tell me this?" Dee demanded.

"When it became necessary to do so. Which it just did."

Dee opened her mouth, then closed it, pushing back a torrent of protest about being left out of the loop. "Okay, what do we do now? God, it's so hard to listen to this, hearing them....or him, anyway....want to know, and not saying anything! I just wanted to run right in and tell them...."

"You can't."

"Why ever not?" Dee asked in astonishment. "They already know, Brivari! They want answers, or at least Max does."

"I'm aware of that, just as I'm also aware of what those answers could do to them."

"We won't have the problem we had when they were little," Dee argued. "Their brains aren't tiny any more, they're nearly finished growing. They're not children—"

"No, they're not," Brivari interrupted. "They're adolescents, with all the impulsiveness and poor judgment which comes with that age, if recent behavior is any indication."

"But Max isn't like that," Dee protested. "He—"

"Just healed a human in full public view. Hardly a model of self control and good judgment."

"He saved someone's life," Dee said severely. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"Not if it means he loses his own."

"Then what?" Dee demanded in exasperation. "What do we do?"

"Exactly what we've been doing: We watch, we wait, and we hope the interest from Valenti and the FBI fades into obscurity and the hybrids go back to being careful. They've been cautious all this time, so it's clear they're smart enough to know they have to be. With any luck they'll keep their heads down from here on out and give themselves a while longer to mature. Zan is absolutely not ready to responsibly handle the power which will be his if I approach him, and none of them are ready to go home. It's too soon."

"But how can you know that?" Dee argued. "If you told him the truth, he might be very different."

"I already lived through his adolescence once," Brivari said. "I have a very good idea of what form it will take on the second go round, and I can assure you he's not ready. I can't afford to be wrong about this; I have an entire planet to think of, not to mention my own people, who will be at his mercy when he returns. I can't surrender them to a boy with a soft heart and poor judgment."

"So you're just going to leave them with all these questions?" Dee protested. "They want to know! You can't really expect me to—"

"Listen to me," Brivari broke in firmly. "This is the most dangerous time for them, when they know just enough to be aware, but lack the maturity to fully process anything they learn or carry the expectations of a planet. It is absolutely imperative that we not heap too much upon them too soon lest we break them in the process. My job is to keep them alive until they're prepared to shoulder their birthright."

"And how will we know when that happens?" Dee asked in bewilderment.

There was a pause. "I'm Zan's Warder," Brivari said. "I know him better than he knows himself. I'll know."




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


I'll post Chapter 11 next Sunday.

CHAPTER ELEVEN



Three weeks later



October 19, 1999, 10 p.m.

Crashdown Café, Roswell



"Sorry, son, we're closing," Mr. Parker said. "Can I get you a box, or anything to go?"

"No, thanks," Max said quickly. "I already ate too much."

"Just bring your check up to the register," Mr. Parker said. "Lizzie will cash you out."

Which is what I was hoping, Max thought as he pulled on his coat. He'd been sitting here for a couple of hours while nibbling slowly on his food, the ordering of which marked the one time he'd actually spoken to Liz tonight. Aside from that brief, shining moment, he'd had to settle for watching her carry plate after plate of food to ravenous orthodontists, most of whom looked like they could stand to lose a few pounds, if not more than a few. Watching them scarf down piles of greasy food during those interminable stretches of time when she'd been out of sight had led his mind down idle paths, such as wondering if having teeth as your business made you use your teeth more. Were orthodontists more likely to be overweight than average people? What about dentists? What about those who made those models that were used to fit braces, the ones with that goopy glop that everyone said made them choke? What about those who made the shiny metal brackets everyone said hurt like hell and were a pain to brush? He'd spent most of his life regretting that he was different, that he had to be so careful, but watching his classmates go through orthodontia had made him grateful for his alien teeth. Even if they hadn't been naturally straight, he could have straightened them himself.

"Hi," Max said awkwardly when he reached the register.

"Hi," Liz smiled. "You were here a long time."

"Yeah...well...I was....waiting for you to be on the register so I could talk to you one last time before I left.....busy," he finished lamely. "School. You know."

"No books?" Liz asked innocently.

Damn. "Geometry proofs," Max said. "Have to memorize them. I'll find out when I get home if I did."

"Yeah, I hate those," Liz said, closing the cash drawer. "Here's your change."

"Thanks."

"Is....something wrong?" Liz asked when he didn't move. "Did I get your change wrong?"

"No," Max said quickly. "I just....goodnight, Liz."

"Goodnight, Max."

They both left slowly, she back to clearing tables, he out the door and into the night, the Crashdown's sign going dark above him. He shouldn't even be here; Isabel would kill him if she found out he'd spent hours mooning over Liz. But mooning was all he had, watching her his only outlet save for ordering the occasional Alien Blast. He couldn't be with her; he knew that. So all he had left with watching, listening, and dreaming of a day when he didn't have to be afraid to talk to someone just because of who he was, what he was. Maybe someday, but not today. And in the meantime, he ought to be able to watch because watching was as far as it could go. He walked past the employee putting chairs up on tables, feeling jealous when he finished and went back inside. Lucky guy. He'd get to see Liz for at least a few more minutes.

Max crossed the street, hung a right. Up ahead, two jocks in football jackets lounged against a dumpster. Until he got closer, that is, when they abruptly stopped lounging and blocked his path.

"What's going on, guys?" Max asked.

"Evans, right?" one of them asked.

"Yeah," Max said warily.

"Stay away from her," the jock ordered.

"Who?" Max demanded.

He heard them before he saw them, the soft tread of rubber-soled sneakers behind him as two more jocks materialized out of the darkness and grabbed his arms just before the first punch landed. Pain exploded through his jaw, radiated through his head. A moment later a blow to his gut left him doubled over, hanging on the arms of the two so helpfully holding him at just the right angle for yet another punch to the face. As the blows fell, shock dissipated, and rage took its place. They couldn't hold him, not if he didn't want them to. Hell, get him mad enough, and none of them would make it out of here alive.....

And then, abruptly, the blows stopped hurting. Max saw the fists keep coming, then the feet when the jocks holding him let him fall to the ground, but even the fall didn't hurt, nor did the kicks aimed at his midsection. Everything was connecting if his eyes were to be believed, but he didn't feel a thing, no impact, no pain, nothing. It was as if he'd been enveloped in an invisible cushion which absorbed everything you threw at it. His attackers noticed it too, their brows furrowing in consternation as they picked up the pace, kicking harder, faster, confused that it didn't seem to be working. They weren't the only ones.

"What the hell?" one of them muttered.

"Wait," another one said. "What's that?"

The blows stopped, the attackers' heads lifted to the wind like they'd caught a scent. All were looking in the same direction, and all started backing away at the same time.

"What is that?" one of them whispered.

"I'm not sticking around to find out," declared another.

As one, the hit squad vanished, their sneakers making dull thumps on the pavement. Max lay on the ground, not moving, his eyes closed, wondering what had just happened. He had no idea what had rattled the jocks, just like he had no idea what had rendered their attack ineffective. Had he done that? He'd had no idea he could heal something like a gunshot wound until Liz had been shot. Was this another power he'd suddenly discovered in a time of need?

Not that it mattered. What mattered now was getting up and getting home. No, he thought quickly, not home. The pain which exploded through his gut when he tried to move made it clear he'd have some explaining to do if he went home like this. Maybe Michael's place? His trailer park probably saw more than its fair share of people in rough shape, so he might go unnoticed. He tried again to move, changing tactics immediately. Even if he had suddenly developed a new power, it hadn't kicked in soon enough to stop those first few blows, which had hit true and hard. Maybe he should start with just opening his eyes. That alone hurt like hell, and he winced against the stinging as his eyelids peeled away from his eyes.

Someone was standing right in front of him.

Max scrambled backwards, as well as he could given the nausea that gripped his mid-section. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded in a ragged voice.

"A friend," a voice answered, a man's voice, not a teenager's, so it wasn't a jock. "You're safe now. They won't be back. Don't try to move."

Like I have much choice, Max thought. His gut hurt so much that he was certain he was going to throw up any second, his jaw ached so much that it was hard to talk, and his vision was so blurry that he couldn't see whoever it was squatting beside him, holding something small and glowing......

"What's that?" Max mumbled.

"Hold still," the voice instructed.

"Who are you?" Max asked, his mouth suddenly feeling better.

"Irrelevant. Lie still."

Something about the voice began to bother Max. Why wouldn't this stranger identify himself? And what was that weird glowing thing? "What are you doing?" Max demanded, trying to move away.

"Helping you," the voice answered with just the slightest tinge of annoyance. "They'd already started on you before I was able to stop them. Lie still."

The commanding tone in which those last two words were delivered....or rather, re-delivered....sent Max over the edge. "Get away from me," he said tersely.

"You've been significantly injured," the voice argued. "Let me—"

"No," Max said, backing away, finding his limbs suddenly working, the nausea in his gut suddenly gone. "Get away."

"I'm not finished," the voice pressed. "You still have—"

"No!" Max exclaimed, holding up a hand. "Go away! Go away!"

There was a pause, followed by an almost palpable sense of intense frustration. Finally the glow stopped, and the shoes only just barely visible at Max's eye level walked away, making not the slightest sound on the pavement. My ears aren't working either, Max thought, watching the dark shape whose posture screamed reluctance even as it retreated. Alone on the street, he cautiously tried moving again and found himself stiff, but mobile. One eye still wasn't working too well, but no matter. He didn't need both eyes to run.




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




11:00 p.m.

Evans residence



"Enough already," Anthony said firmly, rising from the couch. "It's time to go home. Honestly, your mother is still an owl," he added to Philip, who chuckled. "If she had her way, she wouldn't go to bed until 3 a.m., and she'd sleep till noon."

"You know, you could have just said you wanted to go home," Dee said tartly. "Let me get my purse. I left it in the kitchen."

"I'll grab our coats," Anthony said helpfully.

Pushy, Dee grumbled privately as she made her way out to the kitchen. No doubt this was her husband's not-so-subtle way of telling her they'd overstayed their welcome. She'd been spending more and more time at her son's house, alarmed as she was at what they'd learned about how much their grandchildren knew, and hoping to learn more. But all had been quiet these past few weeks, with nary a peep from Max, Isabel, Michael, the FBI, Valenti....anyone. Maybe Brivari had been right. Maybe the thing to do was to lay low and let everything settle, even if that did go against every instinct she had.

Her purse was on the floor by the table. She'd just picked it up when the door to the garage opened quietly, stealthily, pausing for several long seconds before opening the rest of the way. A figure slipped inside.

"Max?" Dee whispered.

The figure froze. "Grandma?" came Max's voice, tense, surprised. "What are you doing out here in the dark?"

"I was getting my purse, and I didn't need light for that," Dee said, coming closer, Max shrinking back against the door. "Why are you sneaking in in the dark? Did you...." She stopped, having come close enough to get a look at him. "Oh, God, you're bleeding!"

"Shhh!" Max raised a finger to his lips. "Mom will hear you. Or even worse, Dad will."

"Maybe they should," Dee said, raising a hand to his battered eye. "What on earth happened to you? And don't you dare say 'nothing'," she added severely. "Out with it, or I yell."

"I....was in a fight," Max said, stuffing his hands in his pockets like he always did when he was uncomfortable.

"What kind of fight?"

"The kind that gets you kicked around."

"What's taking so long?" came Anthony's voice from the doorway. He snapped on the light, his eyes widening at about the same time Max's snapped closed, causing a gasp of pain.

"Whoops," Anthony said, snapping the light back off. "Sorry. Didn't know I was interrupting."

"Max was in a fight," Dee announced.

"I can see that," Anthony said, coming closer. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Max insisted. "Can I go now? I don't want Mom and Dad to find out about this. Mom will get all upset, and Dad will give me the third degree."

Anthony and Dee exchanged glances. "He has a point," Anthony said.

"But that eye needs attention," Dee argued.

"Just let me get to the bathroom, and I'll take care of it," Max said.

"How about this—I'll go with you to the bathroom and help you take care of it," Dee offered.

"And I'll keep your parents busy," Anthony added. "I'll say your grandmother had to use the bathroom. That way you can take weeks, and they'll never know."

"You're hilarious," Dee muttered.

"Promise you won't say anything?" Max said.

"My lips are sealed," Anthony assured him. "No one knows better than we do how our son can get. Go on, now. Go with your grandmother."

Anthony disappeared back into the living room as Dee and Max slipped quietly into the hallway. "Is Isabel home?" Max asked in a worried whisper.

"Not yet. I believe she's on a date. Another date, that is. Here, sit on the toilet seat; I need to turn the light on," Dee warned as she closed the bathroom door, enveloping them in darkness.

There was a pause. "Okay. Go ahead."

Dee clicked the light on. Max had his eyes closed, and that, plus the unforgiving glare of the overhead fluorescents made his eye look very bad indeed. "Good Lord," she muttered, taking hold of his chin and turning his head so she could get a better look. "They got you good. Can you see all right?"

"Yeah. It looks worse than it is."

"What about the rest of you? Let's have a look," Dee said briskly. "Take your shirt off."

"I'm fine," Max said quickly. "It's just my face."

"Glad to hear it. Off with your shirt. Or would you rather your mother did this?" Dee added when he didn't move.

Reluctantly, Max shrugged off his coat and pulled his shirt over his head carefully, lest it brush his battered eye. His chest had some bruising, but it didn't look too bad. "All right," she said finally after she'd looked him up and down. "You can put your shirt back on. The eye is the worst of it. Where does your mother keep the Mercurochrome?"

"The what?"

"Antiseptic," Dee explained, rummaging through the medicine cabinet as Max hastily pulled his shirt on, wincing as it touched his eye on the way down. "For cuts and suchlike."

Max shook his head. "Never heard of it."

" 'Benzoyl peroxide'," Dee muttered, reading the label of a bottle she found beneath the sink amidst other first aid paraphernalia. " 'Topical antiseptic'. This must be the modern version. At least it's not orange. Now for some cotton balls....."

A minute later she was gently swabbing Max's eyelid. "That hurt?"

"No," he murmured.

"Good. I was afraid it might sting like Mercurochrome used to. So....are you going to tell me what this was about?"

Max's eyes dropped. "Do I have to?"

"Yes," Dee said firmly. "Let's start with who did this."

"Some guys from school," Max mumbled.

"What kind of guys from school?"

"The sports kind."

"Jocks. Yes, we had them in my day," Dee added when Max looked surprised. "It comes from the 'jockstrap' worn by athletes, and it started as a derogatory term directed at those with a superior attitude. So what did jocks want with you?"

"Guess we just had a disagreement."

"Over what?"

"The usual."

"Hmm....that would be money or girls."

Max looked away. "Girls," he said quietly.

Dee's hand paused mid-swipe. "So you're hitting on a jock's girlfriend?"

"No; they think I'm hitting on a jock's girlfriend," Max answered. "Their team captain's girlfriend, to be precise."

"I see," Dee murmured. "Are you?"

"No."

"Do you want to?" Dee asked softly.

Max's eyes flew upward, dropped again when they met hers. "Doesn't matter," he said dully. "I'm not."

"So why do they think you are?"

"I don't know. They probably got the wrong idea."

"Or the right one," Dee said, capping the bottle of peroxide.

"I am not hitting on Kyle's girlfriend," Max said firmly.

"Okay," Dee said, "then let me ask you this: Is she hitting on you?"

Max gazed at her steadily for a moment before rising to his feet. "Thanks for cleaning me up, Grandma. And for not telling Mom and Dad. I really appreciate it."

"Max," Dee said gently, taking him by the arm, "remember something for me, would you? 'Kyle's girlfriend' is just that—a girlfriend. She's not his wife, or his slave, or his property. If she wants to be with you, she can be. It's not his call."

Max looked at the floor. "I don't think he sees it that way."

"I don't care how he sees it," Dee said. "That's just the way it is. If this.....wait. 'Kyle'....is this Kyle Valenti? As in Sheriff Valenti's son?"

"Yeah," Max said warily. "Goodnight, Grandma."

Wonderful, Dee thought heavily as Max disappeared down the hallway toward his room. That's all Max needed, one more reason to attract the attention of a Valenti, any Valenti. She removed all traces of nursing from the bathroom, cleaning out the sink and wrapping the dirty cotton balls in tissues before stuffing them in her purse and going out to the living room.

"There she is," Philip said. "Are you sick, Mom?"

"No, no," Dee said lightly. "Just making a pit stop. You get to my age, it can take a while. Ready?" she added to Anthony.

Fortunately Diane and Philip walked them no further than the front door. "So what happened?" Anthony asked as they climbed into the car. "Is he—"

"Is he all right?" another voice finished urgently behind them.

It was Brivari, in the back seat directly behind Anthony, and it took Dee a moment to start breathing again. "Don't scare me like that!" she said severely. "My old heart can't take it any more. And where were you when this happened?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, I can't be everywhere at once," Brivari said crossly. "I'm a Warder, not a genie."

"Then how do you know about it?" Dee demanded. "You must have seen something—"

"I have three hybrids to keep an eye on," Brivari reminded her, "although tonight I could have done without Rath's argument with his foster father or Vilandra's intense discussion regarding the relative merits of various brands of nail polish. By the time I returned to Zan, they'd already started on him. I'll ask you again—is he all right?"

"I'm sorry," Dee sighed. "I just got rattled seeing blood all over my grandson."

"I was no happier finding it all over my Ward," Brivari said pointedly. "Are you going to tell me if he's all right, or aren't you?"

"Oh....sorry. He's all right," Dee said. "He's got a shiner, along with assorted bruises. Nothing serious, though."

"Thank goodness," Brivari said, leaning back against the seat. "It was certainly serious when I found him, but they had a head start."

"You mentioned that before," Anthony said. "Who's 'they'?"

"Four males about his age."

"Four against one," Anthony murmured. "Brave of them."

"I scared them off and used a healing stone on him," Brivari said. "Fortunately I started with his most severe injuries because he ordered me away."

"Of course he did," Dee said. "If I'd just been in a fight and some strange man came at me with a glowing rock, I'd order him away too. And don't try to turn this into a litmus test for 'maturity'," she added. "He had no idea you were obliged to obey him, and until he does, you can't read anything into any 'orders' he gives you."

"Interpret it as you wish, but given his condition, he would have wound up hospitalized," Brivari said. "I can't let that happen."

"I know," Dee sighed. "I know. I just....I just can't get over why this is happening. Here we're worried about the FBI breathing down his neck, and he almost gets discovered because of a girl."

"What girl?" Anthony asked.

"He didn't say," Dee replied.

"The waitress," Brivari said. "The one he healed."

"Liz Parker?"

"She was working tonight," Brivari said. "Zan was in the Crashdown when I left to check on Rath and Vilandra, and he was attacked nearby right after it closed. He must have stayed there the entire time I was gone."

"The entire time?" Anthony echoed. "He's got a crush, all right. You called that one, dear."

"Whoopee," Dee muttered. "But it gets worse. It would appear that Liz is Kyle Valenti's girlfriend. And Kyle is captain of the football team—"

"The members of which are defending their captain's honor," Brivari muttered. "Human love triangles are annoyingly primitive, but this one is downright dangerous. Landing in the hospital would be bad enough, but landing there under the nose of a Valenti—"

"I get it," Dee interrupted. "I understand the problem. I just don't know what to do about it. He's a teenager, Brivari, a human teenaged boy, and he's in love with a girl. It's the most natural thing in the world. Our world, at least. You can't control his feelings—"

"Do you really think I don't know that?" Brivari retorted. "This is exactly what I meant when I said this is the most dangerous time for them. It wouldn't have to be something massive, like the shooting. Something entirely typical like a tussle over a girl could wind up getting him discovered, and he would wind up just as dead." He opened the car door. "Please let me know if you learn anything else. I'm off to see if the others have also decided to do something stupid. Or perhaps I should say 'something else'."

"I don't suppose this would be a good time to point out that Isabel is the only one who hasn't done something stupid?" Dee ventured.

The car door slammed. "Guess not," Anthony said, peering at the now vacant back seat. "Of course, you could argue that she, or rather her predecessor, already outdid all of them in the 'something stupid' department—"

"Not now," Dee groaned, leaning her head against the head rest. "It's worse than I let on. I actually encouraged Max to go after Liz."

Anthony blinked. "You did? Why?"

"I didn't know!" Dee said in exasperation. "I had no idea a Valenti was involved until it was too late."

"What were the odds?" Anthony said, shaking his head. "He's got an entire town to pick from…..and he falls for Kyle Valenti's girlfriend."




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



The next evening,

October 20, 1999, 9:30 p.m.

Evans residence




Max Evans pulled his jeep into his driveway, shut off the engine, and leaned his head on the steering wheel, wondering if he could mess things up any more than he already had. Day after day he kept falling into proverbial potholes, and the harder he tried not to, the more it seemed to happen. He'd broken a lifetime's worth of silence by healing Liz, something he still did not regret and would do again in a heartbeat, but ironically that massive act was not the cause of his most recent problems. Weeks had gone by with no repercussions, with Maria holding her ground, with Valenti backing off....and then, just in the last twenty-four hours, all hell had broken loose. Those friends of Kyle's had jumped him last night, prompting retaliation from Michael and pointed questions from Isabel, and now he'd gone and whacked the bee's nest again by going to the hospital, prompting yet another go-round with Kyle. Why did he keep doing this? Why did he keep walking into ambush after ambush? He knew he had to stay away from Liz, had told Isabel that earlier today....and then he'd up and trotted off to the hospital after she'd called about her grandmother as though he'd never made that resolution at all. And of course he'd walked right into Kyle, who had seen right through his lame story and called him on it. And of course he hadn't had the sense to stick to the story—after all, Kyle couldn't prove whether he had a cousin there or not—and had passively listened to the resulting lecture like some dog being hit with a rolled up newspaper.

Pathetic, Max thought as he climbed out, savagely closing the door. He couldn't stay away from Liz, couldn't defend himself even when that should be easy, couldn't seem to do anything right. Maybe if he just holed up in his room and never came out except for school, he could stop this downward spiral before it landed him in trouble again. He slipped quietly in the kitchen door, the noise from the TV covering his footsteps as he crept toward his room. The last thing he wanted right now was to run into anyone else, even someone sympathetic like Grandma. Whoever said misery loved company got that wrong. He'd just snapped on the light in his bedroom when he realized he was in trouble. Again.

"Where have you been?" Isabel demanded from her seat on his bed, arms crossed, legs crossed, virtually bristling with disapproval.

"Out," Max said shortly.

"Out where?"

"Just out. What are you doing in my room sitting in the dark?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"And you haven't answered mine," Max noted. "I thought you told Valenti you were my sister, not my keeper. When did that change?"

"When I listened to your answering machine," Isabel said in a clipped tone.

Max's eyes narrowed. He'd been beaten up last night, harangued tonight, and now he'd had it. "And what were you doing listening to my messages?" he demanded. "If I camped out in your room and went through your stuff, you'd have a fit."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one who just ran off to Liz's side after her boyfriend's buddies beat me up last night," Isabel said severely. "Honestly, Max, what were you thinking? That just happened....just happened....and off you go again! Don't you learn?"

"If you listened, then you know why I went," Max retorted. "Her grandmother—"

"Had an accident, or something. Yeah I got that."

"She didn't have an accident. She had a stroke."

Isabel's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh, I'm.....I'm sorry."

"Really? You could have fooled me."

Isabel's eyes closed briefly. "Max, I'm not trying to wish anything bad on anyone, certainly not Liz's grandmother, or Liz, for that matter. I just....I just can't believe you went to her after what happened last night. I mean, you just told me this afternoon that you were going to stay away from her, and then you—"

"I know," Max broke in wearily. "I know. She just sounded so scared, so....alone."

"Alone? She told you not to come, said everyone else was there—"

"Yeah, well, she got that right." Max muttered.

Isabel blinked. "Got what right? Who....oh, no. No," she repeated, shaking her head vigorously. "Tell me that Kyle wasn't there."

Max's eyes dropped. Isabel swore under her breath. "And?"

"And he warned me to stay away from Liz. No surprise there."

"What, you told him why you were really there? Couldn't you say you were visiting someone else, or—"

"I did," Max interrupted. "Turns out Kyle is just a football player, not stupid."

Isabel rose from the bed, her arms still crossed. "Okay....okay. So he knew why you were there. Did he say anything about last night?"

"No."

"No? No reference at all to the fact that his friends beat the crap out of you?"

"Why would he bring that up? He wasn't there, so he obviously doesn't want his name on it. Bringing it up makes him look guilty. Remember the 'not stupid' part?"

"So now what?" Isabel sighed, flopping back down on the bed. "They beat you up again because you went to the hospital?"

"No one's beating me up again, Isabel," Max said.

Isabel eyed him worriedly for a moment. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not going to be anyone's punching bag. I'm ready for them now. If I'd been ready for them before, things would have gone a lot differently."

"Max, don't—"

"Don't worry," Max said. "I'm not going to hurt anybody. All I need to do is scare them, like whoever it was that scared them off last night."

"You never told me about this," Isabel said reproachfully. "Who scared them off?"

Max took a seat on the bed beside his sister. "I don't know. It was a man's voice, but I couldn't see his face. I thought it was another jock come back to finish me off, and I told him to go away."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. But afterwards I put it all together, and I think whoever it was scared them off. He said he was trying to help me, but I didn't believe him."

"Well, whoever it was, thank God he was there," Isabel said, "even if it was just some random passerby."

"Yeah," Max agreed. "Probably was."





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


Next week is my son's birthday, so I'll post Chapter 12 on Sunday, October 17.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

keepsmiling7 wrote:Max was lucky to have help when the jocks beat him up, and to have Dee when he got home.

It always looked to me like Max was getting a nasty beating. I suppose he could have healed himself, but it never hurts to have help from your Warder and your grandmother.




CHAPTER TWELVE



Two days later,

October 22, 1999, 3:45 p.m.

Roswell




"Let me out here," Isabel said.

"Here?" Claire called from the driver's seat. "Don't tell me you're going back to that awful UFO Museum."

"Major gruesomeness," Carly agreed.

"I only went there because my brother works there, and I'd heard he'd had an accident," Isabel reminded them. "Wouldn't you if your brother had been hurt?"

"No way," Carly declared. "No sense in having us both hurt."

"I wouldn't be caught dead there," Claire agreed.

"Well, I'm not going there today, so you can both start breathing again," Isabel said sweetly. "Thanks for the ride."

Isabel closed the car door and watched her friends drive away with an uncomfortable sense of relief. For some reason, ever since the shooting, so much of her life that she'd used to enjoy now seemed....shallow. Petty. Useless. The usual endless chatter about mascara brands, skirt lengths, and who was hooking up with whom just didn't have the same appeal when your very existence was hanging in the balance. She'd felt herself changing since the shooting, changing in ways she would never have expected, and in ways that she didn't necessarily like. Which is why she was here now...well, that, and what her grandmother had said to her this morning, something which had gnawed at her all day so much that she was actually poised to do the very thing she'd said she wouldn't just last night, the very thing she would never, ever have seen herself doing.

Waiting for a break in traffic, Isabel crossed the street. She'd had Claire let her off at a nearby corner because she hadn't wanted her friends to get even an inkling of what she had in mind. Not that they wouldn't find out, of course—they would. But hopefully it would all be over and done with by then, and besides, it might not even happen at all. That's why she was here, to find out if it was even necessary.

The little bell on the Crashdown's door jingled as she entered. It was busy in here, busier than usual for this time in the afternoon. This wasn't looking good.

"Mr. Parker?"

It was Liz's father behind the counter, looking harried as he spoke with an employee. "I...I'm Isabel Evans," Isabel stammered. "I'm a friend of Liz's. Sort of. Not really," she went on in a rush. "We....go to school together."

"Oh. Glad to meet you," Mr. Parker said distractedly.

"I was just stopping by to see if....I mean, Maria DeLuca asked me last night if I could fill in for Liz, waiting tables, you know, and I was just stopping by to see if you needed—"

"Could you?" Mr. Parker broke in eagerly, no longer the least bit distracted. "That would be great. That would be huge."

Isabel blinked. "Really?"

"Oh, God, yes," Mr. Parker said. "We're up to our molars here in orthodontists, and it only gets worse at night when they have nothing else to do but eat."

"The UFO Center is offering half off a second admission just for them," Isabel said helpfully.

"Yeah, but then they wind up crossing the street," Mr. Parker said. "Not that I mind the business—I don't. It's just this isn't a good time. My mother's ill, and she's getting worse."

"Worse? I....I thought things were looking better."

"They were," Mr. Parker sighed. "Until they weren't. She coded last night. Stopped breathing. They got her breathing again, but she's still unconscious, and it doesn't look good."

"Oh," Isabel said faintly. "I'm so sorry."

Mr. Parker gazed at her in surprise for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I'm sorry," he said gently. "Here you're offering to help, and I'm dumping all this in your lap. I really appreciate the offer; this means more than any casserole or card ever could. What say you come by around 6 p.m.? That's when Maria's shift starts, and if last night was any indication, she'll be working virtually alone. She had a pretty rough time last night."

"Yeah," Isabel said awkwardly. "I heard."

"Well, I'm sure she'll be delighted to have an extra pair of hands," Mr. Parker smiled. "And I'll pay you the going hourly rate, of course. Let me get you a uniform. Back in a sec."

"Don't you need my size?"

"I'm good with sizes," Mr. Parker winked. "I'll get it right the first time, I promise."

Isabel leaned uncomfortably against the counter as Mr. Parker disappeared into the back, watching nearby orthodontists shovel handfuls of greasy food into mouths full of what looked like surprisingly crooked teeth. And here she'd been hoping they wouldn't need her. She'd been hoping she could come by and ask, and they would say thanks, but no thanks, and then she could look Grandma Dee in the eye and say with absolute conviction that she'd tried. But now she was actually going to have to do it; she was actually going to have to wear that awful uniform, and in public, no less. And here she'd called Max's job undignified. The deely boppers alone put that to shame. If only she'd just kept her mouth shut this morning. If only.

It had started out innocently enough with yet another ride to school from her grandmother. Isabel loved riding to school with Grandma Dee. Her grandmother didn't freak out over the slightest little thing the way her mother did, or get all judgmental and nosy like her father. It was that feeling of peace, of closeness, as the car had thrummed alone with the two of them sitting in companionable silence that had ultimately left Isabel feeling uneasy. Did Liz feel this way about her grandmother? What would she do if she died? Granted, Liz's grandmother didn't live nearby like Grandma Dee, but still.....

"Dollar for your thoughts?" Grandma had said.

"Isn't it supposed to be 'penny for your thoughts?" Isabel had asked.

"A penny's not worth much these days," Grandma had laughed. "It must be up to at least a dollar by now, if not more than that. Everything's gone up, even the Tooth Fairy. Your father thought it was a big deal if he got a quarter instead of a dime."

"Now it's at least a buck," Isabel agreed as they drove past the Crashdown, crowded at that hour with orthodontists foraging for breakfast. "One of my friends had to have teeth pulled for her braces, and she got ten bucks a tooth."

"Good grief," Grandma said. "Nobody had braces when I was growing up. Your teeth landed where they landed." She paused. "So are you going to tell me why you and your brother aren't speaking to each other, or do I have to dig?"

"We're speaking," Isabel said. "We just...."

"Had a fight?"

"A discussion," Isabel corrected. "And he's not happy. I know why he's not happy, and I feel bad for him, but it is what it is. So I'm just giving him some space."

"This have anything to do with him being beaten up?"

Isabel's eyes widened. "How did you know about that?"

"I was there when he came in," Grandma said. "I cleaned him up in the bathroom while your grandfather kept your parents busy in the living room."

Isabel felt a lump in her throat. This was why she loved her grandparents so much, because they would do things like that. "Yeah, it's....kind of related to that," she admitted. "He just has to deal with the reason it happened."

"From what I heard, the reason it happened is that the girl who likes Max is dating a football player whose friends don't like the fact that she likes Max."

"He told you that?" Isabel demanded.

"Pretty much."

"Great," Isabel muttered. "He was all ready to give me a line, but you he just tells the truth."

"I'm more intimidating," Grandma said dryly. "Mind you, you're good, but I'm better. So....what's the argument?"

"The argument is over him staying away from her," Isabel said. "Or rather, his inability to stay away from her. He gets beaten up one night, and runs to her side the next."

"He did? Why?"

"Because her grandmother had a stroke, and she called him," Isabel said. "Which I totally understand, but she said not to come, and he went anyway. And then he ran into the boyfriend, who was there too, and they had words. And then her friend asked me to take her shift last night at the Crashdown—"

"Did you?"

"No, of course not!" Isabel exclaimed. "I don't do....service. Besides, we just keep getting sucked into this, and the more our family is around hers, the more trouble there's going to be."

The car came to a halt at a red light, and so did the conversation. No one said anything until the light turned green and traffic moved again.

"Are you sure that's the reason you said 'no'?" Grandma asked.

"Why? What other reason would there be?"

"Are you sure you're not....punishing her?"

Isabel blinked. " 'Punishing'....punishing her for what?"

"Maybe for liking your brother?" Grandma suggested. "Maybe for him liking her? Maybe.... for something else?"

Maybe for being the reason I constantly feel like I'm standing in front of a firing squad, Isabel thought silently, fighting the notion even though she knew it was the truth. If Liz Parker had just politely died last month, none of this would be happening. Valenti wouldn't be after them. No one else would know their secret. There would be no fight with the sheriff's son because there would be no girlfriend to fight over. How awful a person was she to wish someone dead for her own benefit?

"Is that what you think of me?" Isabel whispered, voicing her fear. "That I'm such an awful person that I'd do that to someone?"

"Of course not," Grandma said gently. "Of course you're not an awful person. Sometimes we just don't realize why we do what we do, like refusing to help someone, or trying to keep two people apart."

"So you're saying he should just go be with her even though it's causing trouble? And I should just let him, even though he just got beaten up?"

Grandma shook her head. "All I'm saying is, what if you were in that girl's shoes? What if what's happening to her was happening to you? What would you need? How would you like to be treated? That's the 'golden rule', right? And it's not called 'golden' for nothing." She pulled up beside the school and shifted into park. "Maybe I'll wait tables at the Crashdown tonight."

"You? But—"

"But what? I used to work there, back when it was Parker's. In the summer of '59."

" '59," Isabel murmured.

"And I waited tables before that when your grandfather and I were in college," Grandma went on. "I can handle one shift. Maybe only one shift," she added ruefully, "but even one would help."

"I think those deely boppers would look kind of silly on you," Isabel said doubtfully.

"Those deely boppers look silly on everyone," Grandma declared. "We just had buttons in my day. But since everyone's wearing them, it spreads out the misery. And what's a little silliness compared to a relative in the hospital?"

"You're serious," Isabel said incredulously.

"Of course I'm serious. Am I ever not serious?"

"You don't have to do that, Grandma," Isabel said quickly. "I'll do it. I'll take her shift tonight."

Grandma shrugged. "That's up to you. You do what you think best...and I'll do what I think best." She paused. "You'd better run along. Have a good day."

Like I could after that, Isabel had thought, moping into school and through the entire day. Punishing Liz was exactly what she was doing, although her grandmother couldn't possibly know just what she was punishing her for. And even though it pained her to admit it, it wasn't fair. Liz hadn't asked to be either shot or healed, and with the exception of Maria, she had kept their secret. Both had helped throw Valenti off their trail, apparently successfully. As bad as things were, they could be a lot worse.

"Here you go!" Mr. Parker said cheerfully, handing over a neat bundle topped with a pair of deely boppers as though it were a special gift with a bizarre bow. "You'll look stunning, I'm sure. Oh, and you'll need your hair tied back. Health regulations."

"Right," Isabel said heavily. "Thanks."

She waited until she was outside before stuffing the bundle into her backpack, avoiding the black, almond-shaped eyes on the apron and trying not to wince as glitter from the deely boppers coated her textbooks. What had she just been thinking about how things could be worse?




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




October 23, 1999, 4 p.m.

Valenti residence



Jim Valenti set the rifle down gently, running a hand over the freshly polished wood. His gun collection was a particular source of pride, and maintaining it one of the few aspects of cleaning that didn't leave him feeling reluctant and resentful. Not so for the rest of the house, however, as evidenced by the mounds of laundry near the washer, the overflowing dishwasher, and the deep lines of dust around the edges of the carpet. One of these years he'd invest in a sweeper that had that "edge cleaning" thingie, or whatever they called it. Until then, his father's old Hoover would have to do. The only reason it was still running was probably because it didn't get used that much.

Slam!

For one heart-stopping moment, Valenti thought his gun had gone off. It took a reality check that nothing was loaded plus the sound of pounding footsteps to get him breathing again.

"Kyle?" he called. "Is that you?"

More slamming, this time from the kitchen. Valenti set his polishing rag down and wiped his hands on his jeans as he made his way through the living room. Kyle was just slamming the refrigerator door when he arrived, followed by the microwave door a moment later.

"Hi," Valenti said.

"Hi," Kyle said shortly.

"Something wrong?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're beating the crap out of my house?"

Kyle winced, watching the microwave's light blink on and off. " 'Beat the crap' out of your house. Ironic."

"What is?"

"Nothing."

" 'Nothing' is ironic? The same 'nothing' that's making you beat the crap out of my house?"

"Dad—"

"Is this something else I 'wouldn't understand'? Like the girl troubles?"

"Yeah, well, you were certainly a mother lode of information on that subject," Kyle muttered.

Touché, Valenti thought. He had kind of gone off on a tangent just as soon as he'd discovered Max Evans had something to do with it. "I got a little distracted," he admitted. "Won't happen again. Shoot."

"Very funny."

"I'm serious," Valenti said, boosting himself up onto the counter. "What could possibly have you this upset on a Saturday afternoon after football practice? That's usually your favorite time of the week."

"Yeah, well that was before my friends told me they...."

"Told you they.....what?"

The microwave beeped. Kyle ignored it, staring at the floor. "Before I answer that....promise me you won't arrest anyone."

"I will if they've broken the law."

"See, this is why I can't talk to you!" Kyle exclaimed.

"I had no idea you spent that much time in the company of people who break the law," Valenti said dryly.

"Speak for yourself," Kyle shot back.

"That's different," Valenti said. "That's my job."

"Yeah, well, my job is not to have my friends think that everything they say and do is going to be reported to my father," Kyle retorted.

Valenti was quiet for a moment. Sometimes he forgot that being a sheriff's kid could put a real damper on your social life. He should know. "Scout's honor, I won't arrest anyone," he promised. "Now....what's going on?"

The microwave beeped again. Kyle opened the door and retrieved his bowl of Beefaroni, which was probably destined to be cold by the time he finished, from the looks of things. "Okay. Remember I told you that Max Evans was all over Liz?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's really been bugging me. Everyone sees it. The way they look at each other. The way she lights up whenever he's around." He paused. "I've been talking to my friends about it."

"Sure you have."

"Turns out maybe that wasn't such a good idea."

"Why not?"

Kyle sighed the sigh of the put upon. "Because they beat him up, Dad. Tommy and Paulie and a few others, they said they 'beat the crap out of him'."

"When?"

"A few days ago. His face was all messed up, and he was saying that he fell—"

"So he lied?"

"Apparently. Look, I'm not happy about him being around Liz, and I've made that very clear to him," Kyle continued. "But I never meant for that to happen."

"And you didn't do it," Valenti said gently. "They did. Mad at Max or not, that doesn't make you responsible."

"Yeah, but....now I'm wondering if that explains some of the weird stuff that's been happening this week."

"What kind of 'weird stuff'?"

Kyle sank into a chair, his lunch forgotten. "First Tommy gets this really weird rash that's basically invisible, but makes him itch like crazy. The school nurse couldn't figure it out. His doctor couldn't figure it out. Nothing they gave him helped. It finally died down a day later, but he couldn't even sleep that night, it was so bad."

"Okay, well, medical mysteries do happen," Valenti allowed.

"And then yesterday, Paulie got a test back...and he failed. He said every single answer on the test paper was different from the ones he'd put down the day before."

"So somebody switched tests?"

Kyle shook his head. "They were all in his handwriting, and his name was at the top in his handwriting. It was his paper, all right."

"As I recall, Paulie wasn't exactly a Rhodes scholar," Valenti chuckled.

"He's also not an idiot," Kyle said. "He wouldn't have missed all of them."

"Right," Valenti said quickly. "Of course not."

"And then two days ago, I couldn't get my locker open," Kyle continued. "Nobody could get it open, not even the janitor. I had to go to class without my books, and borrow stuff off people until he got some big ass tools and pried it open. He said....he said it had melted shut."

" 'Melted'?"

"Yeah. From the inside. How the hell does a locker melt shut, even from the outside?"

Valenti considered that a moment. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think," Kyle said slowly, "that's it's no coincidence that right after Max Evans gets worked over, the very people who did it start having weird things happen to them."

"But you didn't do it."

"But he knows why they did it," Kyle said. "He must know. He's a nobody, but he's not stupid."

"I see," Valenti said. "So you think Max Evans made Tommy itch, changed Paulie's answers in his own handwriting, and melted your locker from the inside?"

Kyle sighed and plunked his spoon down in his bowl, sending a spray of tomato sauce droplets over his hand. "When you say it like that, it sounds crazy. Hell, it is crazy. It's like he got Liz's attention, and now I think he's Superman."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "Pretty talented for a 'nobody'."

"I....never mind," Kyle said. "I'm just weirded out by all these bizarre things, and my mind's going in equally weird directions. And I'm talking to you again. More weirdness."

"For sure," Valenti agreed.

"The worst part of it is, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to tell Liz."

"You think he told her?"

"Of course he told her," Kyle said. "Why wouldn't he have told her?"

"Because he didn't tell anyone else?" Valenti suggested.

"No," Kyle said, shaking his head firmly. "I'm sure he told her. It would get him sympathy points, and those are hard to get with girls. He could even tell her I was there, and I wouldn't have any way to prove I wasn't. It'll be my word against his."

"And you think Liz will take his word over yours?"

Kyle snorted softly. "If he's the one bruised and bleeding? Sure."

Valenti was silent as Kyle tasted his lunch, grimaced, and put the bowl back in the microwave. "Have you talked to Liz about this?" he asked finally.

"No. I just found out, remember?"

"Then you should."

"And say what?" Kyle asked, bewildered.

"Say exactly what you just said to me. Say what you learned and how you learned it. Say you don't like Max hanging around her, but you never expected your friends to react that way. Say you didn't have anything to do with it."

"Like she'll believe that," Kyle muttered.

"You can't make people believe you, son. All you can do is tell them the truth, and hope that your reputation for doing just that makes them give what you said some serious thought."

The microwave beeped. Kyle removed his bowl, stirred, took a bite. "I guess," he said finally. "I'll be seeing her tonight." He paused. "You remember you promised not to arrest anyone, right?"

"No one's filed a complaint," Valenti reminded him. "And since this happened several days ago, I don't think anyone's going to."

"Right. Okay....well....I'm gonna eat."

Kyle left the kitchen as Valenti mused on how very odd exchanges with a teenager could be. It was like they hated talking to their parents, but just couldn't help themselves. It didn't help that the subject was once again Max Evans. He hadn't given Evans much thought since a couple of weeks ago when he'd thought he'd had Maria DeLuca right where he wanted her. She'd been acting so strangely, and he'd actually managed to get her to agree to meet him in his office where, within minutes of arrival, she'd been literally on the verge of telling him something....and then she'd pulled back. He'd seen the wariness rise, the moment of decision in her eyes, watched the curtain descend. Maybe he'd gotten just a little too eager, and she'd sensed that. Maybe she'd never had anything truly earth-shattering to tell him in the first place because there wasn't anything earth-shattering to tell. Maybe it was all in his head. And now I think he's Superman. Maybe he was suffering from the same thing Kyle was, the same thing his father had, blowing things out of proportion. Here he'd suspected Evans of healing Liz Parker, and now he was wondering if he was capable of causing itching, wrong tests answers, and melted lockers.....

A minute later, Valenti was in his study with the door locked behind him and the file on his father's John Doe spread out on his desk. The silver handprint gleamed brightly as always, but it was the autopsy report he was looking for this time, from one Raymond Blake, M.D., Valenti's own childhood doctor, now long since deceased. It had been common practice in his father's day for town doctors to serve as coroners, so Dr. Blake would have been the first stop for any dead body passing through, and, tellingly, Dr. Blake's notes were handwritten, meaning no secretary had been handed these to type. He ran a finger down first one page, then another, searching for something that tugged at his memory.

".....the victim's internal organs nearest the handprint appear to have been heated to a very high temperature despite a lack of burn marks or entry wounds."

Valenti sank into a chair as all his suspicions about Max Evans came rushing back. "High temperature"? So if handprints caused high temperatures, could they cause high enough temperatures to melt the metal in his son's locker? But if so, then what happened to Liz Parker? Her internal organs certainly hadn't been cooked. If those tourists were to be believed, she was alive today because of what Max Evans did. And yet, if his father was to be believed, this John Doe was dead because of what an alien did.

You can't make people believe you, son. All you can do is tell them the truth.

"Is that what you did, Dad?" Valenti whispered, gazing at the autopsy report. "Did you tell them the truth, but couldn't make them believe you?"

Someone pounded on his study door. "Dad?" Kyle's voice called. "Telephone."

Valenti hastily shoved the file back together and locked it up safe and sound. More and more now he seemed to be going down his father's path, like now, when he'd been so engrossed in thought, he hadn't even heard the phone ring. He remembered his father being distracted like that, distant, on another planet….no pun intended. The similarities bothered him. No, not bothered; they scared the ever-loving shit out of him. But I'm smarter, he thought fiercely. His father had talked about his beliefs, or let them slip on far too many occasions. Right or not, he'd put himself in a position where he was making fantastic claims without any evidence to back them up. His son, having watched that train wreck, knew enough to keep his mouth firmly shut. He intended to get to the bottom of the whole Max Evans thing, but he would do so quietly, privately, and keep his suspicions and opinions to himself until he had so much evidence, everyone would have no choice but to listen.





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



7 p.m.

Crashdown Café



"How's it going?" Dee whispered as Isabel approached her table.

"Much better," Isabel said, replacing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm so glad you told me to memorize the menu. That saves all kinds of time."

"It's like multiplication tables," Dee nodded. "A pain to memorize, but oh so helpful when you do."

"Oh, I'm good at memorizing," Isabel said airily. "Always have been. And I thought I'd be good at waiting tables, but it turns out I'm not. Last night was an absolute nightmare, and I so wasn't expecting that. Even with all your suggestions, I'm still way behind on half a dozen tables. This is ridiculous! I mean, how hard can it be?"

"Don't let a waitress hear you say that," Dee said dryly. "They'll spit in your food. Let me see your order pad." She leafed through it quickly, eyeballing the circular order spindle in the kitchen window. "Your cook's backed up, so no point putting these up right away. Start the milkshake—they take longer—get all the coffees and sodas, then put the order slips up, then go back for the desserts. By then, some of your meals should be up."

"You hope," Isabel said wearily, shifting from one foot to the other. "God, my feet are killing me."

"Would you like me to help?" Dee asked.

"No," Isabel said quickly. "I'm fine. Really."

"I won't drop dead on you," Dee said. "And another pair of hands would—"

"I'm not worried you'll drop dead on me," Isabel said, her face pinking. "I'm worried you'll make me look bad. I'm going to figure this out if it kills me." She glanced at her order pad before tucking it back in her pocket. "Off I go. Wish me luck."

Dee smiled faintly as Isabel did a perfect imitation of Emily, squared shoulders and all, as she headed off with the determined look a soldier wears when going to battle. And battle was an apt metaphor for the Crashdown tonight, this being a Saturday and the last day of the orthodontist's convention, many of whom had apparently decided to celebrate by spending lots of time right here. The place was packed, there was a line at the door, and it was all Dee could do not to dive into the fray. She'd actually stopped by last night and looked through the window, smiling when she'd seen that Isabel had decided to help out after all. She hadn't gone in, though, and had regretted that decision when her granddaughter had come to her this morning, frazzled and frustrated, with a long list of mistakes she'd made on her maiden voyage as a waitress. They'd spent an hour or so going over some waitressing basics, and Dee had been sitting here since today's shift had started, serving as a guide and sounding board.

"What on earth is she doing?"

"What's it look like she's doing?" Dee asked Brivari, who had just slid into the chair next to her. "She's waiting tables. I'm providing professional advice."

"This can't have been her idea," Brivari said. "I take it you put her up to this?"

"She's helping out a friend," Dee said. "And I appealed to her better nature."

"She has a better nature?"

Dee's eyes narrowed. "Yes, Isabel has a better nature. I have no idea if I'd say the same about the person you're referring to because I don't know that person. Just like you obviously don't know Isabel. They're two different people."

"If you say so," Brivari said blandly.

"Are you here for some reason besides issuing random insults?" Dee asked tartly. "I deliberately took a table for four knowing that would keep three more people out of this restaurant."

"I'm sure the proprietors appreciate that."

Dee was on the verge of a retort when Isabel swept by, her eyes widening. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were meeting someone. Can I get you anything?"

Dee could have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile cross Brivari's face before he said, "No, thank you", and waited until Isabel sailed away before continuing. "I'm making my rounds. It's taking longer than usual because none of them are in any of their usual places, although I never would have guessed I'd find Vilandra playing waitress. Do you have any idea why Zan went to the hospital?"

"Probably to see Liz," Dee said.

"Why? Is she ill?"

"No, her grandmother is. Had a stroke, from what I understand. That's why Isabel's here tonight. She's covering for Liz."

Brivari sat stock still for a split second before springing to his feet so quickly, he nearly knocked the chair over. "What is it?" Dee called after him as he took off, pushing past the never-ending line of people waiting to get in. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that," Brivari said tersely. "Excuse me. I have to stop him before he does something stupid."

"What are you talking about?" Dee demanded.

Brivari pulled up short outside the café. "Zan didn't go to see the girl. He's going to try and heal the grandmother."



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


I'll post Chapter 13 next Sunday.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN




October 23, 1999, 7:30 p.m.

Roswell Memorial Hospital



"Sir?" a nurse called. "You can't go back there. Sir? Stop!" she barked, leaving her desk and giving chase. "You need to sign in! You need to...." She paused. "Where'd he go?" she asked a passing aide. "The man in the blue shirt?"

"Didn't see one," the aide shrugged, whisking by with an armful of sheets.

No, you didn't, Brivari thought, already halfway down the hall. Behind him the jilted nurse began a floor to ceiling search for what he knew she would not find, him having changed both his face and his clothing upon rounding the corner. There was no time for niceties when he was certain that Zan was on the verge of doing something profoundly stupid all over again.

The proprietor of the Crashdown and his wife were asleep in two of the room's three chairs while the grandmother lay unconscious on the bed, attached to the various machines humans used to keep their frail bodies alive even past the point of no return. His footsteps made no sound on the tile floor as he approached, keeping to the far side of the bed where he could fade away if necessary. The healing stone glowed as he held it in his hand, reaching out with his mind, probing for any sign of life, any energy at all.

But there was none. Whether or not her family knew it, the woman was now kept alive only by the hissing and beeping machines. There was nothing to grab on to, nothing to repair. If Zan tried, he'd exhaust himself and risk discovery; if he'd already tried, he'd failed. The fact that all was calm here was a good sign; maybe he'd seen sense and gone home. Or maybe Dee was right and he wasn't foolish enough to try something like that anyway. Maybe he wasn't giving him enough credit. Maybe I should flap my arms and fly to the moon, he thought darkly as he pocketed the healing stone, moved away from the bed, and opened the door.

A young woman stood in front of him, dark hair, brown eyes, a cup of coffee in each hand. "Oh," she said, taken aback. "Is something wrong? Is she all right?"

No. "She's fine," Brivari answered. "Just making my rounds."

Her features relaxed. She walked past him, bent over the two sleeping adults. "Mom? Dad? Hi, guys. I got you a cup....."

Brivari closed the door, standing off to the side, watching through the window. So this was the object of Zan's affection, the cause of their current peril....and the first to be healed without the aid of a healing stone. What exactly would that do to her? He knew that the energy they used to kill caused changes at a molecular level, but had never bothered investigating; who cared when the one changed was dead anyway? Now there was a living, breathing, human being walking around who had been changed at the molecular level, possibly in ways no one could fathom. Zan and the others thought they had escaped notice, but when whatever was going to happen to Liz Parker began to happen, he had a strong suspicion it would be impossible to miss.

"There you are!" Dee exclaimed, puffing up beside him. "You couldn't even wait until I parked the car?"

"He's either been here and gone, or he hasn't been here yet," Brivari said.

"Then I'm so glad we rushed," Dee said dryly. "Although I admit it was kind of fun to have all the traffic lights turn green right on cue."

"I can't let him do this," Brivari said tersely. "This isn't a simple gunshot wound. This is much more complex."

" 'Simple' gunshot wound? Isn't that an oxymoron? Look," Dee continued when he gave her an annoyed glance, "what makes you think he'd try something like that? They're already all twitchy, so...." She stopped, both of them backing further down the hall as the girl's parents left the room, coffee in hands. "....so he wouldn't do anything else to compromise them," she finished in a whisper.

"Of course he would," Brivari said. "Because she asked him."

"Who asked him what?"

"Her," Brivari said, nodding toward the girl now seated at her grandmother's bedside. "She asked him to come and heal her grandmother."

"And you know this because......?"

"Because how could she not? After what he did for her, do you really think she'd pass up the opportunity for a second miracle?"

Dee sighed. "Well, what if she did? Look, she didn't ask for what happened to her, either the gunshot or the healing. And then to have all this dumped in her lap right afterwards....I sympathize. I had aliens burst into my life at the tender age of eight."

"Oh, is that what happened? And here I thought you burst into ours."

Dee arched an eyebrow. "Is that a complaint?"

"Of course not," Brivari said gently. "It was a bad attempt at humor. And I wouldn't blame the girl for asking for Zan's help; it would be a natural response. The problem is he's likely to try, and that woman is way too far gone to bring back....."

He trailed off, his eyes behind her. Dee twisted around just in time to see Zan enter the hospital room.

"Oh, dear," she said faintly.

"Damn it!" Brivari exclaimed, moving to the window. "What did I tell you? Didn't I tell you he wouldn't be able to say no?"

"He hasn't done anything yet," Dee argued. "Maybe he's just visiting. Or maybe...." She stopped as Zan took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and placed his hands on the woman's arm. "Or maybe you're right, and I should just shut up," she finished wearily.

Brivari barely heard her, so focused was he on his idiotic Ward, who was once again placing himself in harms' way. There was no one immediately nearby, but this was a hospital, and that could change at any moment, not to mention that careless electrical discharges might affect the machinery, setting off alarms that would bring people running even sooner. He sensed power building, and he probed the edges of it with his own, testing its strength and direction....

"I think we're okay," he said finally.

" 'Okay'? A minute ago you were all worked up, and now you think we're okay?"

"He doesn't know what he's doing," Brivari said. "He's just throwing what he's got at the target without any real knowledge of how to use it, not that it would work even if he knew. Chalk one up for ignorance."

"So.....if he's 'ignorant', and it won't work," Dee said slowly, "then....what's that?"

Brivari blinked. A third person had appeared inside the hospital room even though no one else had entered. "Isn't that the grandmother?" Dee asked.

"Can't be," Brivari declared. "She's right there in the bed."

"She's also right there talking to Liz," Dee noted, "hospital gown and all."

"That can't be," Brivari said, stunned. "That's impossible."

"Apparently not," Dee murmured.

"What the hell is he doing?" Brivari whispered.

"I have no idea," Dee said. "And judging from the look on his face....neither does he."

She was right. Zan looked every bit as surprised and befuddled as they were. Only the girl had simply accepted what was in front of her at face value, launching into a tearful conversation with the apparition. And it was just as well that she hadn't wasted precious time pondering how it could be, because a moment later....it wasn't. He caught the faint sound of the mechanical drone that denoted the lack of a heartbeat mere seconds before the image vanished.

"Over here," Brivari ordered, pulling Dee down the hall as footsteps pounded toward the room, the flatline having registered at the nurse's station. Zan and the girl were promptly evicted while even more paraphernalia was brought into play, but he knew it wouldn't work. The girl stood with one hand to her mouth, watching through the window, finally leaning her head on Zan's shoulder as he put an awkward arm around her.

"Let's go," Dee whispered.

"Why?"

"Give them their privacy. He can't do anything else for her, so there's no reason to stay here and spy on them."

"I don't 'spy'," Brivari protested. "I protect."

"You were protecting before," Dee said firmly. "Now you're spying. Let's go."

Reluctantly, Brivari followed her around the corner and down a set of stairs to the next floor, where they took the elevator to the first floor. "Do you want a ride back?" she asked, pausing to study him when he nodded mutely. "Relax, Brivari. Nothing happened. They're no less safe than they were before. Whatever he managed to do, it didn't attract attention."

"I know."

Dee was mercifully silent as he followed her out to her car. Zan had not attracted attention, but it was hardly accurate to say that "nothing happened". What in the name of God had he done back there? Incredible as it sounded, it had looked like body and spirit were separate entities, a sobering through given his low opinion of religions and their articles of faith, that being one of them. Or had that only been a facsimile created by Zan, a doppelganger constructed from his memory? They had known their Wards would be able to do things they could not, things no one had ever been able to do, but this example was downright frightening. And the power used to produce it, though untrained and unfocused, had been massive, far larger than anything Brivari had ever encountered before. If it ever came to a showdown between him and his Ward, he may not be able to oppose him.

"Where do you want to go?" Dee asked as she started the car.

"Back to the Crashdown. That's where I left both Rath and Vilandra."

"Rath?" Dee echoed. "I didn't see Michael."

"He was there. That's why I wound up there. I was following him."

"Where was he?" Dee asked bewildered.

"Just drive," Brivari said, not wanting to answer that question.

Because the last time he'd seen Rath, he'd been breaking into Liz Parker's bedroom.




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




Three days later,

October 26, 1999, 5:00 a.m.

Washington, D.C.




BeepBeepBeep! BeepBeepBeep!


His eyes still closed, Daniel Pierce flung a hand in the general direction of the alarm clock and whacked it. Jesus, but morning was coming faster and faster these days.

BeepBeepBeep! BeepBeepBeep!

Annoyed, Pierce fumbled with the clock again, making certain he located the snooze button, pressing it several times for good measure just in case the first few attempts didn't register.

BeepBeepBeep! BeepBeepBeep!

Thoroughly disgusted now, Pierce cracked an eye. It was way too early for an alarm, way too early for God, even. Something else was going off. He spent a few bleary-eyed seconds scanning the array of devices on his bedside table and endured two more rounds of beeping before locating the source.

" 'lo?" he mumbled into his cell phone.

"Danny?" a tentative voice said.

"Brian? Do you know what time it is?"

"Of course I know what time it is. I'm the one who's awake. Can you talk?"

Pierce glanced down at the tousled head on his shoulder. "Not yet. Hang on a sec."

Slowly, Pierce slid out of bed, careful to cradle the woman's head with a pillow. A minute later he'd closed the bedroom door behind him and sunk into a chair, one hand rubbing his eyes. "Okay, what was so all-fired important that it couldn't wait till a sane hour?"

"Kathleen Topolsky called for back-up."

Pierce sat up straight, instantly wide awake. "What? When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Why?"

"That I couldn't find out," Brian sighed. "But apparently Stevens isn't impressed with the reason. He's not sending anyone till the day after tomorrow."

"Idiot," Pierce muttered.

"Maybe. Consider the source. Look, Danny, don't do anything stupid. I agreed to funnel information to you on the grounds that you don't do anything stupid."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?" Pierce demanded. "It wasn't supposed to be this way! I was Summers' successor! Everyone knew that!"

"Director Sessions knew that," Brian corrected. "Director Freeh didn't even know the Unit existed until Summers died."

"Because we missed an opportunity to put one of our own in the chair," Pierce said. "How on earth did we let that one get by us?"

"The same way anyone loses anything in this town—politics," Brian said dryly. "But you can hardly blame Freeh for being miffed that no one ever mentioned us. Frankly, I think his stalling in picking a Unit head is just him reminding everyone who's boss."

"And in the meantime, the Unit has no boss," Pierce said angrily. "Which means dweebs like Stevens get to run amok and let the suspects get away."

"Calm down," Brian advised. "No one's 'getting away'. And I happen to think Stevens has a point in thinking this is a dead lead. Aliens don't heal people. We know that."

"Don't go quoting him to me," Pierce grumbled. "It's bad enough I had to listen to him once." He paused, leaning his head against the chair. "I can't believe this. That job is mine. Mine. I have the serum. My father left it to me. Summers groomed me for a decade before they caught up with him, and now I find myself fighting for what's mine."

"So the best thing you can do is give Freeh some space while at the same time reminding him of how valuable you are," Brian said soothingly. "I think he'll come around. He's just flexing his muscles. Let him get it out of his system, and then you'll be where you should be and free to do what you want."

"So I'm supposed to wait—"

"Piss him off, and you won't get there," Brian interrupted firmly. "You want him to see you as invaluable, not a pain in the ass. So lie. Like a rug."

"Very funny," Pierce said sourly. "You missed your calling as a stand-up comedian."

"And you'll miss your calling completely if you tick him off to the point where he picks someone else just to prove he can," Brian noted. "The whole point of this dog and pony show is that he's in control of the entire Bureau, including the Unit. Which he isn't, of course, but he doesn't have to know that, and it wouldn't be wise to point that out right now. Just let him think he's big man on campus until you get the job."

"Great," Pierce grumbled. "So we all sit around while the gorilla beats his chest?"

"Cheer up," Brian said. "Once you get the job, you'll be the gorilla, and we can all sit around and watch you beat your chest. You're meeting the gorilla later today, right? So do lots of ass kissing while reminding him who you are. Daniel Pierce's son. Bernard Lewis's stepson. You've got big names to drop, Danny. Drop'em from a high altitude so they put a hole in the guy's floor big enough for a spaceship to land. Remind him that when the time comes that we actually catch one of these monsters, it'll be your legacy that allows us to get any information out of them. But do it in a way that makes you sound excited to help, not resentful that you have to suck up to him in the first place."

"But I am resentful that I have to suck up to him in the first place."

"That's where the 'lying' comes in. Look, I gotta go. No one's figured out I'm the one feeding you info, but if I'm not careful, they will. Promise you'll take it easy this afternoon?"

"Yeah," Pierce muttered.

"Was that a 'yes'?"

"Yes!" Pierce said in exasperation. "Let me know if Stevens actually decides to do something worthwhile."

"I will. Go back to bed. You sound like you need it."

As if I could sleep, Pierce thought, closing his phone with an angry thwack!. Agent Daniel Summers had been found with a silver handprint on his chest back in May of this year, and as angry as Pierce had been, another part of him had been elated. Finally. Finally the post of Special Unit Head was his. Too bad it had to be like this, but then Summers had always predicted that, always said the only way any Unit Head left was feet first. But not me, Pierce had thought when he'd identified Summers' body. He would swear on the graves of every single one of the alien's victims that he would not fall to those monsters. Things would be different this time because, now, at long last, a Pierce was back in control.

Only he wasn't. It turned out that Agent Summers had never exactly come clean with Director Sessions' successor, Director Freeh, about the Unit's existence, and Freeh had been none too pleased when he'd learned of it. He'd refused to rubber stamp Pierce or anyone else as Summers' successor, throwing both Pierce and the Unit into a state of limbo. Pierce had always been Summers' right-hand man; without Summers, he was adrift, with no specific post in the Unit and few reporting to him. The rest of the Unit had always resented him for his legacy and his proximity to Summers, and they promptly took the opportunity to exploit that, keeping him out of the loop whenever possible. Only a few remained loyal, including long time friends like Brian and Summers' next closest confidantes. And now, to make matters even worse, the aliens had shown up. It couldn't possibly be a mistake that they'd chosen to rear their ugly heads when the Unit was leaderless, still functioning on a basic level, but lacking direction, focus, or will. It was almost like they were taunting him, daring him to come after them.....

It was 5:20 a.m. now, still much too early to get up. Pierce crawled back into bed, staring at the ceiling, still wide awake, wondering what could have made Topolsky call for back-up. Given her record, or lack thereof, it could've been anything, including what the cafeteria was serving for breakfast. On the other hand, even if she had a photo of herself shaking hands with a little green man, Stevens was unlikely to do anything about it. If Pierce didn't know better, he would have sworn Stevens was working with the aliens.

"Do you always take your phone calls stark naked?"

"I woke you," Pierce sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Watching that cute little butt of yours wagging through the door isn't a bad way to wake up." She ran a finger lightly up his arm. "You haven't answered my question."

"No, I don't always take my phone calls naked. Only when I happen to be naked when the phone rings."

"Darn," she pouted. "And here I was hoping I could imagine you just like you are now every single time I call."

"What? Frustrated and pissed off?"

"Why are you frustrated and pissed off?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Right. Because I'm just a bimbo."

The tone was light, but Pierce knew he was on shaky ground. He normally didn't pick strong-willed women, finding them unbearably tiresome, but this one....this one was different. And possibly useful. Some day, it might actually be to his advantage to be screwing a U.S. Congresswoman.

"It's complicated," Pierce said, pulling her closer. "And no, that doesn't mean I think you're stupid. It means I'm not interested in going into it right now."

"Mmm. I get it. FBI business. Very hush hush."

"Very classified," Pierce corrected.

"I see. So....let me get this straight. Your former boss died, and you were supposed to get his job, but someone isn't letting you have it. How am I doing?" She paused, giving him a dazzling smile when he stared at her. "Honestly, Danny, do you think I don't hear things? You're on the phone yelling at someone or other every single day. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Don't worry," she continued, snuggling closer. "I still don't know exactly what you do. But I do know what you should do."

"Oh, really?" Pierce said, amused. "And what's that?"

She propped herself up on one elbow, suddenly serious. "You should take what's yours. That's how it's done where I come from. You don't ask. You don't beg. You don't plead, and cajole, and kiss up to people who don't get it and never will. You take what belongs to you. It's as simple as that."

"Don't you think I've considered that? There aren't enough people supporting me to pull off a coup and make it stick."

She shrugged. "And why should that stop you? Pulling off the coup is one thing; making it stick is another. All you need are enough people to seize power. Once you have power...once you've shown you have what it takes....more will flock to your side. And that's what makes it stick."

"And you know all about this...how?"

"Oh, I'm an expert on coups," she assured him. "Among other things." Her hand drifted south, wonderfully so. "You've just got it backwards," she whispered. "First you take over, and then you muster support from your new position of power. Do that, and they'll all stand at attention....just like you are."

Pierce groaned at the bad joke and pushed her busy hands away. Normally he was always up for a morning tumble, but she'd piqued his interest. He had precious few under his banner, but they were strategically placed in all arms of the Unit. It was theoretically possible to seize the reins for a short time, at least, and quite possible to do so quietly, postponing the inevitable tattling to Freeh. He'd need to choose his moment carefully, though; this would only work if something substantial came of it, something that justified his actions so strongly that Freeh would have no choice but to give him what was rightfully his.....

"So what do you think?"

"About what?" Pierce asked. "Your advice that I take over the world, or the fact that I'm so hard now, it's painful?"

"I say we do something about that," she purred. "In reverse order."

She climbed on top of him as his back arched with pleasure. He always loved it when she did all the work. "Vanessa," he murmured. "What in the world did I ever do without you?"





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




Somewhere in New Mexico




"All set," Kara said, blowing out the match as the last candle flickered to life. "Close the curtains, and we'll be ready."

Tammy obliged, plunging the room into a flickering darkness even though it was the middle of the day. A moment later, all four of them were huddled around the table with the Ouija board in the middle.

"Who goes first?" Amanda asked.

"I'll go first," Kara announced.

"I think Tessie should go first," Amanda said. "It was her idea."

Kara frowned. "It was my idea to light the candles."

"But it's Tessie's board," Amanda pointed out. "And her house."

Tess stifled a smile as Kara's frown deepened. The Kara's of the world were so used to getting their way that they got confused, often comically so, when the time inevitably came that they didn't. "But....but...." Kara sputtered, trying vainly to come up with a suitable rebuttal. We may be here a while, Tess thought dryly. Girls like Kara weren't known for their brain power.

"I think we should vote," Amanda said stoutly.

Kara's eyes flashed; Tammy looked downright petrified. Every group of girls had pretty bullies like Kara, and one either lived in fear of them, like Tammy, or challenged them, like Amanda. Tess watched the stand-off with interest, privately wishing for a third choice.....

"It's all right," she said suddenly. "Kara can go first."

Amanda blinked. Tammy almost collapsed, so relieved was she not to have to actually voice an opinion and be held accountable for it. Kara broke into a wide smile. "Great!" she said with obvious satisfaction, apparently taking Tess's acquiescence as further proof of her superiority. "Now....everyone place your fingers on the platen, close your eyes, and I'll ask my question."

Fingers were placed, eyes closed, and Kara's pompous voice boomed across the room. "Spirits, tell me if Chris DeVincentis is going to ask me to the Christmas Formal."

Tess resisted the urge to snort. Girls were always asking such useless questions. If only these silly boards really worked; what questions she'd have for it then! Who am I? What am I? Why am I here? What am I supposed to do? When do I get to do it?

Tess could feel Kara's fingers pushing the platen toward "yes". Oh, no, you don't sweetie, she thought. She'd let Kara go first for a reason—to bring her down a notch. All it took was a mental nudge, and the platen went flying to "no".

"No!" Amanda exclaimed. "It said 'no'! Did you feel that? It moved all by itself!"

Kara's jaw had dropped so far, it was hovering over her lap. This was the second time in as many minutes that she'd been thwarted, probably a new record. Tammy leaned away from her, perhaps afraid she'd explode. Which she probably would, when she regained consciousness, that is.

"My turn," Tess said briskly. "Fingers everyone. Close your eyes. Kara?" she added. "You, too."

Kara, who was still struggling with rejection, numbly put her fingers on the platen. Tess waited a suitable length of time to make sure she had everyone's complete attention before asking her question.

"Spirits....who will Chris DeVincentis take to the dance?"

She waited a couple of seconds before sending the platen moving. It sped toward the letters, gliding with authority, absolutely sure of itself. A..M...A...N...D...A....

"Amanda," Tammy breathed.

"Me?" Amanda squeaked.

"Her?" Kara exclaimed, coming to at last. "Okay, everyone, this isn't funny. Which one of you did that?"

"I didn't do a thing!" Amanda protested.

"It moved all by itself," Tammy said. "I even picked my fingers up, and it kept moving."

"So did I," Amanda said, nodding vigorously.

"Me, too," Tess chimed in.

"Well, one of you must have," Kara said in disgust. "I'm sure you all think it's a wonderful joke, but it isn't. It stinks."

"But Kara," Tess said innocently, "if someone did it on purpose, and we all took our fingers off the platen....then that means you made it spell out 'Amanda'."

"Of course I didn't," Kara retorted.

"No, you didn't," Tess said sweetly. "Because you took your fingers off the platen too. I looked."

All eyes swung Kara's way as she glared at Tess, apparently having planned to keep that little tidbit to herself. "But....then it really moved all by itself?" Tammy quavered.

"Cool!" Amanda declared.

"Stupid," Kara declared, pushing the board roughly away. "I don't believe it."

"But it m-m-moved!" Tammy stuttered. "Just like it did the last time!"

"The spirits spoke!" Amanda said in awe.

"Oh, yeah?" Kara challenged. "Well, if that's a spirit speaking, it's one crazy spirit if it thinks Chris DeVincentis is going to ask anyone other than yours truly to the dance. And especially not Amanda."

"What's wrong with him taking Amanda?" Tess asked innocently.

"Oh, good Lord, where should I start?" Kara snorted. "No offence, dear, but you're not his type."

Amanda deflated. Tammy was staring at the platen like it might bite her. Kara crossed her arms and glared at them all defiantly, daring anyone to oppose her. Don't mind if I do, Tess thought. She couldn't change the way people felt, but she could place some well-crafted images in Chris's mind which may very well influence him. And in the meantime....

"If the spirit says Chris is going to ask Amanda to the dance, the spirit should know," Tess pointed out. "It is a spirit, after all. Isn't that why we're consulting it?"

"Right," Tammy said eagerly. "The spirit would know."

"Oh, screw the 'spirit'," Kara said angrily. "There are no spirits. And if there are, they're too stupid to bother with."

The platen on the Ouija board abruptly began to tremble. "Wh-what's happening?" Tammy squeaked.

"I don't know," Amanda whispered.

"You made it angry!" Tammy exclaimed to Kara, who stared at the shaking platen uncertainly. "Say you're sorry!"

"No!" Kara said. "I'm not sorry!"

The candles blew out, plunging the room into a shadowy darkness. The table began to shake, it's rumbling outdone only by the yelps of the girls as they backed away in terror. Or rather, Tammy and Amanda backed away. Kara remained defiantly in her seat, obviously scared, but unwilling to yield. And Tess stayed there too, eyeing her target eagerly. She did so love teaching the Kara's of the world a lesson.

Then the door flew open, startling them all, the shaft of light from the hall making them blink. "What's going on in here?" a male voice demanded.

Damn it, Tess thought wearily as footsteps crossed the room and flung back the curtains. The table had moved a good four feet, the Ouija board was on the floor, Tammy and Amanda were plastered against the far wall, and Kara was still glued to her seat, breathing heavily.

"I said, what's going on in here?"

"Who are you?" Kara asked with all the haughtiness she could muster.

"Everyone, this is my father," Tess said quietly.

"We were just playing with the Ouija board," Amanda said faintly.

"And the spirits spoke to us!" Tammy added.

"Like hell they did," Kara muttered.

"But they did!" Tammy exclaimed. "You saw it! The pointer moved all by itself, and then when you said the spirits were stupid, the table shook, and the candles blew out, and...."

Tammy stopped, overcome with the horror of it all. Tess kept her eyes on the floor.

"All right, everyone," her father said briskly. "Time to go home. Go on," he added when no one moved. "Play time's over for today. Out you go."

Tammy and Amanda peeled themselves off the wall and shouldered their backpacks, but Kara didn't budge. "You, too," he said firmly. "Out. Now."

Tess felt a sliver of sympathy as Kara glared at him, but complied. Kara didn't like anyone telling her what to do, but then again, neither did Tess. And no one was better at telling you what to do than her father.

A couple of minutes later, the house was quiet, the girls gone. Tess watched as the offending Ouija board was plopped on the table, felt a pair of eyes burning into her.

"You have two minutes," Nasedo said severely. "Start talking."




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


I'll post Chapter 14 next Sunday.

^ The Ouija board is a great place for an Antarian-Human hybrid to hide their powers.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


October 26, 1999, 4:00 p.m.

Somewhere in New Mexico




Tess's eyes drifted across her bedroom, from the unmade bed, to the messy clothes closet, to her backpack dumped carelessly on the floor, to her latest Ouija board, no doubt soon to become dust. Same script, different set; this had happened so many times before, she'd lost count. Talk about déjà vu.

"Well?" Nasedo demanded. "I said you have two minutes. Say something."

"What for?" Tess retorted. "You'll just get pissed and tell me I'm too good for this, and I'll ask you why, and you won't say, and I'll get mad, and you'll get madder, and then you'll fry the Ouija board, and I'll go out and get another one. Do we really have to go through this all over again? Let's not, and say we did."

"How many Ouija boards does that make?" Nasedo said in exasperation. "Four? Five?"

"Six," Tess sighed. "But who's counting?"

"I am! You persist in playing this dangerous game regardless of the risks!"

"What 'risks'?" Tess demanded. "Honestly, do you think I have absolutely no brains? The Ouija board is the cover. If anything weird happens, everyone thinks it's ghosts or their own imagination. No one thinks it's me."

"Until you overdo it," Nasedo said.

"Which I never have," Tess countered.

"Because I've always taken it away from you before that happens."

"Well, you'll never know, will you, because you took it away before I could prove that I know where to stop. You always do."

"For your own protection," Nasedo argued.

"Because you don't trust me," Tess shot back.

"Because you're special—"

"Here we go," Tess muttered.

"—and important," Nasedo said. "Because we can't afford to lose you."

"Who can't afford to lose me?" Tess demanded. "Who is 'we'? And why am I supposedly so special? You keep saying that, but you never tell me why!"

"If I've told you once, I've told you a million times, it's not safe to tell you why!" Nasedo thundered.

"Then that makes a million times you haven't told me why it's not safe to tell me why!" Tess exploded.

The two of them squared off, furious. Boy, did I call that one, Tess thought darkly. Pissed/special/ask why/won't say/get mad/get madder....the only thing left was the ritual destruction of the Ouija board, after which she would get another. She always did. "Go ahead," she said flatly. "There's no point in dancing this dance for the umpteenth time because it won't do me any good. I'll wind up just as clueless as I started with a pile of dust which used to be my Ouija board. Go on. Get it over with."

"Tess—"

"Just do it," Tess insisted. "I've got homework to do."

"If you would just listen—"

"Lots of homework," Tess clarified. "More than usual since you up and dumped me in yet another new school just as I was finally—finally—getting used to the old one. You want to know why I keep doing this?" she went on, her voice rising as she pointed to the Ouija board. "Because it stinks having to constantly walk into a new group. Human girls are so paranoid and tribal that having something like that lowers their guard. And then word gets out that using a Ouija board with me is really cool, and then all of a sudden, everyone wants to talk to me. Even bullies don't bother me because they think I might know voodoo, or something. It works every single time, and that's why I keep doing it, and will keep doing it just as long as you keep dragging me from here to there, and back to here!"

She stopped, panting, as Nasedo glared at her in consternation. Trying to explain things to him was pointless. He didn't understand, never would. He was a solitary unit, with no friends, no confidantes, no one at all. What would he know about trying to fit in? What would he care?

"Why must you sensationalize everything?" Nasedo complained. "You say human girls are paranoid, but you sound every bit as paranoid as they are. It's my job to keep you—"

"Oh, no, you don't!" Tess broke in. "You're not writing this one off to my 'safety'. I have spent my entire life running from the FBI. I know the drill. I know perfectly well that they aren't anywhere near us. There's some other reason you moved this time, and of course you won't tell me what it is. I just get dragged along like some piece of furniture!"

Tess plopped down on the bed, bolt upright, arms crossed, the very picture of disgust. Nasedo watched her in silence for a moment.

"You're wrong," he said finally. "They are close to you, and it is for your safety. And before you deny that," he added when she opened her mouth to light into him again, "I'd like to point out that 'you' is not always singular."

Whatever Tess had been going to say went right out of her mind. "What? You mean...." She paused, glancing around, suddenly afraid of being overheard. "You mean they're close to....them? The others?"

"For the first time," Nasedo nodded.

"Is that why we moved? So you could protect them?"

Another nod. Two answers, Tess thought, staring at him in shock. That must be some kind of record. Nasedo never, ever volunteered information about the others since he'd told her there were others like her when she was very little, something he probably regretted doing because she'd hounded him about it ever since. Not that it did any good; to this day she had no idea who the others were, or how many there were, or where they were. Or she hadn't, at least....until now.

"So they're nearby!" Tess exclaimed, so excited she was almost shaking. "They must be, because you're never gone for very long. Where are they? When do I get to meet them? Answer me!" she added when Nasedo said nothing. "If the others are in trouble, I need to know."

"I'll decide what you need to know," Nasedo answered, whatever had momentarily softened his attitude disappearing as quickly as it had come.

Tess's heart was pounding as she stood up. "No."

"No? 'No' what?"

"There are other people on this planet like me, and you won't tell me about them?" Tess said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Why not? I want to see them! I need to know!"

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do," Tess insisted. "And if you won't tell me where they are, I'll....I'll find out myself."

"Wonderful," Nasedo said in disgust. "Why don't you just save everyone a whole bunch of time, and trot into the Special Unit and give yourself up."

"Because that won't lead me to the others," Tess said, ignoring his sarcasm. "But you will. I'll follow you."

Nasedo walked directly up to her, standing very close, like he always did when he wanted to assert his authority. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," she said defiantly.

"You'd put all of us in danger just so you could have your way?" Nasedo demanded. "Selfish, much?"

"We wouldn't be in any danger, and you know it," she retorted. "Because you know I can do it, and without being caught. You know that because you taught me how."

She waited while that sank in. And sink in it did, because he knew she was right. He'd taught her to track and to hide ever since she could remember, and she was very, very good at it. Tracking him would be the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she could do it. It might take awhile, but she knew she could.

And so did he. Nasedo's expression had changed to one more closely resembling someone who's just lost a long and hard-played game of poker. "Very well, then," he said coldly. "I'll show them to you. But it will happen at a time and place of my choosing."

"Within the next month," Tess corrected. "Because otherwise, you'll choose no time and no place. Deal?"

Nasedo sighed the sigh of the put-upon. "Deal. And if I catch you following me, the deal is off."

"Fair enough. And because I'm willing to wait, but you haven't given me anything, you'll answer one question for me, right here, right now. As a show of good faith," Tess added when he gave a soft snort. "To show me that you mean to keep your word."

"And when have I ever not kept my word?"

"Hard to say. You've never given me your word."

"Yes, well, you've never threatened to do something ineffably stupid."

"Just one question," Tess pressed. "One question. How dangerous can one question be? I have waited so long to learn anything! Is one question really going to bring down the whole house of cards?"

Nasedo's eyes snapped to hers, and for just a moment, he looked startled....haunted, even. "It might," he said quietly, all malice suddenly gone from his voice. "It did once." He stared at the floor while she bit her lip, struggling not to ask about that "once". She only had one question, and she had a better one than that.

"Fine," Nasedo sighed. "What's your question?"

Tess closed her eyes briefly. "Who am I?"

"That's it? That's your one question?"

"I have to start somewhere," Tess whispered. "Seems as good a place as any."

Nasedo nodded slowly. "Right. I suppose it is." He paused. "You're a queen."

Tess blinked. "A...what?"

"A queen."

"So...does that mean—"

"One question," Nasedo broke in sternly. "That was it."

A phone rang. Nasedo dug his cell phone out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, answered it. "I'm here. What is it?"

Tess watched his eyes widen as he listened. "What? When?" he said sharply. "How many agents are they sending?" He paused. "Then let me know the moment you hear."

"What is it?" Tess asked when he snapped the phone shut. "Where are they sending agents? To the others? Are they in trouble?"

"This isn't your concern," Nasedo said. "One month," he added severely when she started to protest. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"Good," Tess said in a brittle voice. "Because I'm going to hold you to your end of the bargain too."

She stood in the center of her bedroom for a long time after he left. It took her a minute before she realized that, for the first time, the Ouija board had escaped its usual fate.





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



FBI Headquarters,

Washington, D.C.




"Excuse me," Agent Pierce said to the battle axe behind the desk, "but could you tell me how much longer it's going to be? My appointment with the Director was for—"

"3:00 p.m.," Battle Axe interrupted primly. "I can tell time, Agent Pierce."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Or perhaps it's the director who's time challenged? But then you're the one responsible for his schedule...aren't you?"

Director Louis Freeh's administrative assistant lowered her narrow black spectacles and fixed Pierce with a stare that made the polar ice caps look warm. "The director is an extremely busy man," she said coldly, "but then you might find that difficult to understand."

"What I understand," Pierce retorted, "is that I've been cooling my heels for over an hour. See, I can tell time."

"Congratulations," Battle Axe said stonily. "Take a seat. I'll let you know when he's ready to see you."

"So that's it," Pierce said grimly. "It's not about my appointment time or your inability to read a clock. It's that he's not 'ready to see me'."

Battle Axe gave him a smile which held no mirth. "If you need to reschedule, I'd be happy to assist," she said sweetly, one hand tap tapping her pencil on her appointment book.

Which is exactly what he wants, Pierce fumed, walking away from the desk before he said something really pithy. Freeh wasn't busy, he was just dicking around with the little people. Or more likely just dicking around with a Pierce, his very favorite kind of dicking around. He'd keep him waiting out here forever and a day in the hopes that Pierce would give up and go away, and his asshole admin would help him every step of the way, including needling him about the fact that, at the moment, he held no official position in the Unit. He'd spent the last five months treading carefully around Freeh, following Brian's strategy of giving him time to get used to the idea of the Unit, but now that admittedly sound advice was being drowned out by Vanessa's very different take on the subject.

"You should take what's yours. That's how it's done where I come from. You don't ask. You don't beg. You don't plead, and cajole, and kiss up to people who don't get it and never will. You take what belongs to you. It's as simple as that."

Take what belongs to you, Pierce thought, gazing out the window on the top floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. That's what his father would have done. That's what his father had done. His father wouldn't have been caught dead sucking up to someone like Freeh. Granted, his father had wound up murdered, but it hadn't been the Freeh's of the world who'd killed him. Maybe Vanessa was right. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way.

The office door opened and another agent entered, a nebbishy fellow sporting a bow tie. This one apparently knew who was really in charge because he lost no time displaying the appropriate obeisance to the real authority.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Grant. May I say how lovely you look today. I'm here for my 4:15."

"Of course, Agent Barlow," Ms. Grant, a.k.a. Battle Axe smiled. "The director will be right with you. Please have a seat."

"Thank you," Agent Barlow intoned with something that looked suspiciously like a bow. He had just sunk obediently into a chair when Battle Axe's phone rang.

"I need to step out," she informed Agent Barlow after a brief conversation, "but you can go right in." She swept out with nary a glance in Pierce's direction as Barlow rose from his chair, took two steps toward the door, and got no further.

"Hi," Pierce said, extending a hand which Barlow shook hesitantly. "I'm Agent Pierce, and I need you to get lost."

Barlow blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Get lost," Pierce repeated. "Go away. Make yourself scarce. Leave the premises. Take a powder."

When Barlow didn't move, Pierce sighed and reached into his back pocket. "There," he said, pressing a $50 bill into Barlow's hand. "Now do you get it?"

It took another fifty before he did. Pierce tucked his wallet back in his pocket, grateful all over again for his dead father's advice to keep plenty of cash on hand. It had come in handy more times than he could count.

Director Freeh was on the phone when the door opened, and he paused when he saw who was crossing his threshold. "Something came up," he said into the phone. "I'll call you back." He replaced the receiver, eyeing Pierce warily. "Did Lois let you in?"

"Heck, no," Pierce said cheerfully, settling into a chair. "Lois left me unattended. She should know better."

"That she should," Freeh said dryly. "Well....since you're here....what can I do for you, Agent Pierce?"

"What you can do, Director, is get off your ass and give me the job I should have had last May."

Freeh smiled faintly. "What's this? No carefully worded speech? No mention that Bernard Lewis was your stepfather? No polite reminders that the fate of the planet lies in my hands?"

"No," Pierce said bluntly. "Carefully worded speeches are wasted on the deaf, everyone knows Bernard Lewis was my stepfather, and the fate of the planet doesn't lie in your hands, it lies in the hands of the Special Unit. The Special Unit which currently lacks leadership and is failing to follow up on the best alien lead we've had in decades."

"You mean the Roswell nibble? Yes, I do keep myself apprised of what's going on," Freeh added when Pierce failed to squelch a surprised look in time. "I feel a special need to keep my ear to the ground, especially since I found a black ops unit running right under my nose in my very own bureau."

"We're the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Pierce reminded him. "We are black ops."

"And I'm the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Freeh said pointedly, "which means I'm in charge of those black ops. Although I can't very well be in charge of those I don't know about. Which, I suppose, was the point, especially given that six years—six years, agent—had elapsed from the time I took office to the time Agent Summers died, and he never breathed a word about the Unit to me."

"So this is about punishing a dead man?" Pierce said. "Funny. I would have thought that someone in a position such as yours would be able to put the good of the nation ahead of his own personal pettiness."

Freeh's jaw twitched. "Funny. I would have thought someone in a position such as yours, which is to say, no position at all, would be able to see that pissing me off is a very bad idea."

"Why?" Pierce asked. "As you've noted, I have no position, therefore I have nothing to lose. It's hard to threaten a man who has nothing to lose."

"You're still an agent," Freeh pointed out, "an agent with top level security clearance. I haven't changed that....but I could."

"Threaten me all you want," Pierce offered. "But the real point is that the one who loses the most if you don't correct this situation immediately is the United States of America, if not planet Earth entirely. Sure, you could demote me, fire me, frame me, or all three. But I'm willing to take that chance because I am capable of setting my personal desires aside for the good of the nation."

"And I suppose it's merely unbearably convenient that the 'good of the nation' involves you getting exactly what you want?"

"And involves everyone getting a safer country and a safer planet," Pierce said. "So it also involves you getting exactly what you want....assuming you actually want that."

"Setting aside for the moment this string of insults to my integrity and professionalism, explain to me why making you the head of the Special Unit nets me a safer anything," Freeh said.

Pierce leaned forward in his chair. "That's easy. Look at Roswell. Agent Stevens is doing precisely nothing."

"He has an agent on site. I'd hardly call that 'nothing'."

"An untested rookie who doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground," Pierce corrected, "and who's likely to tip our hand, give them time to get away, and probably get herself killed in the process. Stevens isn't cut out for this. Making these kinds of decisions was never his job. Our state branches are funnels. They collect information and funnel it to the top, which is where the real analysis takes place."

"And that 'top' consisted of two men," Freeh said. "Agent Summers....and you."

"Among others," Pierce answered. "State branches collected information, but someone had to put it all together, compare it to what we already knew, and choose a course of action, and those someone's were Summers and his team. Now no one's doing it. I don't even know where intel is going. When you gave the state branches the authority to act on their own, you created fifty little departments all working independently of each other. They don't collaborate because they never have, and now no one is collecting and collating all the data, and state supervisors are making policy and deciding follow-up when they've never done that before. That's why Roswell is being botched."

"Wrong on both counts, agent," Freeh said. "Someone is 'collecting and collating'."

"They are? Who?"

"Why me, of course. Don't look so surprised," Freeh added. "I am the Director of the FBI. Is it really so surprising that its blackest of black ops would report to me?"

Pierce paused. "Don't take this the wrong way, but—"

"Since when are you the least bit interested in the way I take anything you say?"

"—you're hardly qualified to make those decisions on your own," Pierce finished.

"Ah," Freeh said with satisfaction. "So you're haven't developed a sudden interest in how I interpret you. Your consistency is noted, if misplaced."

"You only learned aliens were still on this planet in May of this year," Pierce plowed on, ignoring him. "You need to be talking to someone who isn't so late to the party—"

"And whose fault is it, agent, that I'm 'late to the party'?" Freeh broke in tersely. "Agent Summers' fault, that's whose. I don't trust you," he went on, talking over Pierce's next objection. "I don't trust you as the confidante of the man who duped me for years, and I don't trust the Unit to keep me in the loop. Therefore I took over the function of Unit head, and I will hold that post as long as I see fit. Every state branch will report to me until I'm confident that I understand the Unit's inner workings and have made it clear that I am never—never—to be left out of the loop again."

"For how long?" Pierce demanded.

"For as long as it takes, agent. For as long as it works, which it is, by the way, and which is why you're wrong again. Roswell is not being 'botched'. The so-called 'evidence' hasn't been substantiated, isn't coming from credible witnesses, and doesn't fit the aliens' long known MO. I knew that even before I spent week after weary week going through every single file in the Special Unit's vault. It's not like I didn't know aliens existed. Everyone whose anyone in the intelligence community knows the '47 crash was real. They just don't know there was more to it."

"And here's the part where you fire me," Pierce muttered.

"Wrong again," Freeh said. "You're batting zero today. Oh, I'd love to kick your annoying ass out my door, but the fact remains that you are the only man left with a deep knowledge of the Unit's past decade, not to mention Bernard Lewis' stepson, so I'm stuck with you whether I like it or not. See, I can set aside my petty personal preferences when I need to. You'll be assigned to a state branch—not New Mexico—where you'll make yourself useful unless and until I need you. And for that, you should thank me."

"Thank you?" Pierce echoed incredulously. "What the hell for?"

"For saving your life, agent. See, what struck me the most when I was going through all the Unit's records was that Unit heads serve as lightning rods for the aliens. Unit heads always die by alien hands. You know that. And now I'm taking that risk upon myself instead of dumping it in your lap. Positively directorial of me, wouldn't you say?"

Pierce shook his head in disbelief. "You're just going to let them get away, aren't you? You couldn't let the Unit actually do anything useful. That would imply you need us, and you don't want to admit that."

"I'm not the least bit convinced there's anything in Roswell to 'get away'," Freeh said. "I'm monitoring the situation, and should my information change, so will my tactics."

"You mean when someone else dies," Pierce said. "Summers isn't on your conscience, but the next one will be."

"Then we'll be even, Agent Pierce. Because Summers is on yours." Freeh picked up his phone. "Let yourself out. I have business to attend to."

Fuming, Pierce did so, stalking past the startled Lois, who had been convinced Agent Barlow was in her boss's office. It was now clear what Freeh was doing and why Brian's conservative approach wasn't working, would never work. Freeh had no intention of appointing anyone to head the Unit, and was probably looking to disband it and fold its work back into the Bureau at large. He'd play fearless leader for just long enough to learn what the Unit knew, then flush it down the toilet, and Pierce along with it. After all, the Bureau had the serum, so what was the point of keeping him around? Especially if he'd only be a rival, a rallying point for those who wanted the old way.

Not so fast, buddy, Pierce thought, angrily punching buttons on his cell phone. The Bureau had the formula for the serum, but they didn't have everything they needed to use it to their best advantage. He still had some clout in the Unit, and would have even more when word spread that Freeh was looking to make it go away.

"Brian? Danny. I need you to do something for me."

A heavy sigh floated over the cell network. "What'd you do?" Brian said resignedly. "Are you even still employed?"

"Apparently I'm too valuable to fire," Pierce said. "At the moment, anyway. So if a moment's all we've got, let's use it."

"Danny, how many times have I told you—"

"Freeh wants to disband the Unit."

"What?" Brian said in astonishment. "He'd shut us down after Summers was murdered? He said that?"

"Not in so many words, but that's where he's heading."

"Jesus," Brian muttered. "That's....that's...."

"Unacceptable," Pierce finished. "So is the idea of letting whatever is currently on the loose in Roswell slip away just because Freeh doesn't know what he's doing. So back to my original question: I need you to do something for me." He paused.

"I need you to find Everett Hubble."




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



October 27, 1999, 9:30 p.m.

Valenti residence




Boring, Brivari thought as he flipped idly through last month's copy of Field and Stream. Nothing but boats, fishing rods, and debates about bait, plus the requisite photos of smiling fisherman displaying their prizes. Of all the activities humans pursued for leisure, fishing had to number among the least attractive. Sitting in a boat on a body of water, frequently alone, holding a stick with a string attached and hoping something below the surface would find it had to rank as the most pointless of activities. Perfectly understandable if survival was at stake or one craved fish, but that was hardly the case. Many of these fishing fanatics didn't even eat fish; a large number proudly characterized themselves as "fly fisherman", denoting an even stranger group of people who caught fish only to release them. Which meant it was not the result, but the activity itself which was the driving force, the sitting-alone-in-a-boat part. Weren't there easier, less expensive ways to acquire solitude?

A noise in the other room made him look up. The FBI's finest were hard at work once again, and none too subtle about it; that was the third large noise he'd heard in the past twenty minutes. Granted, neither the sheriff nor his son were home, but they could return at any moment. One was always wise to keep not only one's current circumstances in mind, but the many ways in which they could change, frequently without warning. This had been a very strange day, so perhaps it was fitting that it should culminate in him sitting here in the Valenti's dark and empty living room, flipping through month-old magazines while a hapless FBI agent tore apart Kyle Valenti's bedroom.

It had started very much the way most of his days began now, with him checking on his various charges. He'd been off by one when he'd told Dee that he had three to keep an eye on; it was really four, that fourth being Kathleen Topolsky, Agent Stevens' token effort to make it look like he was doing something about the shooting at the Crashdown. Agent Topolsky kept regular hours, ate bland food, and with the exception of her brief pursuit of Rath, had done little to pique his interest. Until today, that is, when a lunchtime run found her in the company of two other agents, agents she had apparently summoned. Initially alarmed, Brivari had relaxed when he'd discovered the reason why: Liz Parker had lost her diary, and Topolsky wanted to track it down. Her colleagues were quite rightly put out at being summoned for such a ridiculous reason despite Topolsky's bleatings about straight "A" students and science club treasurers. If this is what she considered a "compelling lead", the hybrids truly had nothing to fear.

Nevertheless, there were now two more FBI agents in Roswell, which added two more individuals he needed to surveil. The hybrids had been left to their own devices as Topolsky had returned to school and Brivari had kept a close eye on the newcomers. To little effect, as it turned out, because they did nothing but purchase some pornography and return to their motel room, not emerging until after dark. While Topolsky had advised checking the Valenti's house, it said something about her reputation that an entire day had been wasted with no effort made to check other obvious places like the Parker residence, the café, etc. The agents clearly didn't place much stock in Topolsky's "compelling lead", and the casual way in which the agent currently in Kyle Valenti's room meandered around only emphasized that. Hopefully they would return to Santa Fe with tales of this useless side trip that would have Stevens pulling his agent even sooner than he normally would have.

Voices outside caught Brivari's ear. Ah. So either the sheriff, or his son, or both had returned. Too bad for the Bureau. Topolsky's dog would return empty-handed, assuming the sheriff didn't nab him, of course, in which case he wouldn't return. Perhaps he should facilitate that by locking a few doors and windows, increasing the chances of the agent being caught. He'd just retreated to a convenient corner from which to watch the festivities when the front doorknob turned, and the door slowly creaked open.

"Kyle? Sheriff Valenti?"

Brivari's eyebrows rose. The voice belonged not to the sheriff or his son, but to Liz Parker, she of the gunshot wound and missing diary, which was undoubtedly why she was here, having likely reached the same conclusion about its whereabouts as Topolsky. She hesitated outside the door, obviously reluctant to enter the dark house....but the figure who barged past her was not.

"Someone should tell the sheriff that deadbolts don't work as well when you leave your door open."

Brivari stiffened. Zan? What in blazes was he doing here? Honestly, he couldn't leave them alone for five minutes without at least one of them doing something reckless.

"Max, we shouldn't be in here," Liz whispered, still hanging back.

"You're right," Zan said, "So let's make this quick. Which way is Kyle's room?"

"Max...."

"Look, we'll get in, we'll grab your journal, and we'll get out," Zan argued. "And in the process, we'll save my life. So which way is Kyle's room?"

A shadow moved down the hall. The agent had overheard their conversation and left the bedroom, which was just as well because the girl had relented and was heading that way. What next? Brivari thought sourly. This behavior was more like something he would expect from Rath, had already observed from Rath when he'd broken into the sheriff's office. Now Zan was doing it too? At this rate he wouldn't have to worry about making a decision on the right time to tell them who they were or bring them home. At this rate, they wouldn't live that long.

The FBI agent hovered near the end of the hallway, and Brivari hovered outside the bedroom as Zan and the girl started going through it, with Zan instructing the girl to check the closet while he rifled under the bed. Both did a thoroughly unthorough job of looking, and both gave up way too easily.

"It's not in here, Max," Liz said. "Look, maybe Kyle doesn't have it."

"You mean, maybe Kyle doesn't have it any more," Zan corrected.

The agent moved abruptly, passing directly in front of Brivari and Kyle's bedroom doorway. Zan came to the door just in time to see the agent dart across the end of the hallway.

"Wait here," Zan ordered the girl.

Don't tell me he's giving chase! Brivari thought in exasperation. Suspecting someone else there should be reason to get out and get out fast, not play Dirty Harry. But before Zan could follow, headlights glared outside, a car engine shut off, and a car door closed. The sheriff's son had arrived home, just in time to restore sanity to the situation.

"Max, it's Kyle," the girl said tightly.

"Come on, let's go," Zan said.

The sheriff's son was entering as Brivari exited the house, just in time to see that Zan and the girl had mercifully given up their chase, vanishing into the night. The last thing they should do was give Valenti even one more reason to suspect either of them. Now to find the agent.....

*Don't bother. He's gone. And satisfyingly frustrated.*

Brivari eyes darted around the area, searching for the infrared signature. He found it about twenty yards away, walking toward him. *Good Lord,* he said in disgust. *This house is like Grand Central Station tonight.*

*I see what you mean,* Jaddo answered. *A Valenti, an FBI agent, a king, and a concubine. Quite a party.*

*I doubt the girl would appreciate you referring to her as a 'concubine',* Brivari noted dryly.

*I really don't care if she'd appreciate it or not. I gather you know about the diary?*

*Topolsky pulled two more agents in to look for it,* Brivari said. *How did you find out about it?*

*My usual contact within the Unit.*

*I wonder what the Unit would think if they knew they had a mole,* Brivari said, shaking his head. *And here I thought they were all chosen for their impeccable discretion.*

*They are,* Jaddo said. *This one believes he's talking to a CIA operative, an agency he'd like an 'in' with.*

*Ah,* Brivari nodded. *Power. That ultimate driver of all things.*

*And it's good friend, money,* Jaddo added. *I pay him well. Not sure the power would be enough.*

*Whatever the impetus, they're wasting their time,* Brivari said. *The sheriff's son doesn't have the girl's diary.*

*If that's true, we'd best find out who does,* Jaddo said. *There's no telling what she wrote in it. Females are so tiresomely chatty.*

*Chatty or no, it's just a schoolgirl's diary. It represents no threat.*

*We can't be sure of that,* Jaddo protested. *And even if you're right, what about the threat of more Unit agents in town? Or the threat represented by your Ward and his latest squeeze rifling through dark houses? What if the sheriff had caught them?*

*He didn't,* Brivari said, biting back a retort that would have clued Jaddo in to what his own Ward had been up to recently. *Let the FBI focus on something useless. It'll give them something to do.*

*And how would you know it's 'useless'?* Jaddo paused, his eyes narrowing. *Do you know where the diary is?*

Wonderful, Brivari groaned inwardly. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, he always, always, found himself between a rock and a hard place with Jaddo. If he said 'no', Jaddo would tear the town apart looking for the diary. If he said 'yes', he'd want to know where it was....and that would be problematic as well.

*It's safe,* Brivari said evasively.

* 'Safe' where?* Jaddo demanded.

*What difference does it make? It's not in the wrong hands. That's all that matters.*

*Like hell it is,* Jaddo retorted. *Tell me where it is, or I'll assume it's in the wrong hands and proceed accordingly.*

Meaning you'll tear the town apart, Brivari thought. Time to bargain. *Fine. But first, remember your promise.*

*I made no promises regarding a diary.*

*No, you made promises regarding your Ward.*

Jaddo's eyes widened. *Do you....do you mean.....*

*Yes,* Brivari sighed. *Rath took it.*



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


I'll post Chapter 15 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



October 27, 1999, 10:00 p.m.

Valenti residence



Headlights shone behind Jaddo, illuminating his surprised features. Sheriff Valenti had returned home, unaware of the drama he'd missed by only minutes. He climbed out of his car and entered the house, snapping on lights one after the other.

"Rath took the diary?" Jaddo repeated, as though he couldn't quite believe it. "You know this for a fact?"

"I saw him take it," Brivari answered.

"So....he's worried the girl is a threat," Jaddo said, sounding enormously pleased. "And is acting to confirm or deny that. Excellent! Just outstanding! But....if Rath has the diary, why was Zan here with the girl looking for it? I mean, the girl I could understand, but why would Zan be with her? Is he covering for Rath?"

"Given what I overheard tonight, my impression is that Zan doesn't know where the diary is. He thought the sheriff's son may have it."

Jaddo frowned. "Which means Rath didn't tell him. He's withholding information from his king. That's unacceptable."

"That's understandable," Brivari corrected. "The hybrids have no idea what their relationship is to each other."

"But they know they're likely related because they all have extra-human abilities," Jaddo said. "And they must have some idea of what that could mean for them, or they wouldn't be hunting the diary."

"Having extra-human abilities makes them unique," Brivari allowed, "but doesn't tell them what they are or what's expected of them."

"Or what's hunting them," Jaddo added. "Or why. Maybe that's why they use their abilities so cavalierly, with no thought as to the consequences."

For one heart-stopping moment, Brivari feared that Jaddo knew far more than he should about what their Wards had been up to recently. But Jaddo's gaze was far away, his tone one of uncharacteristic concern. It took him a moment to figure out why.

"What is it, Jaddo? Is Ava acting out too?"

Jaddo's eyes dropped; he looked almost embarrassed, such a foreign emotion for him that Brivari grew alarmed. "What happened?" he demanded sharply. "Tell me."

"Ava has a habit of using her abilities for....recreation," Jaddo answered uncomfortably.

"And what does that mean, exactly?"

"For social purposes," Jaddo clarified. "For social acceptance." He paused. "In public."

"Public?" Brivari echoed. "What, you mean in full view of others?"

"She's developed the habit of using Ouija boards," Jaddo sighed. "You know, that game where humans think they're contacting the spirit world, or some such rot? It involves a board containing the alphabet—"

"I'm familiar with the game," Brivari interrupted. "Get to the 'public' part."

"She makes the pointer move, makes it spell out answers that cause interesting reactions in her social set," Jaddo said, his tone laced with disgust. "She claims everyone writes it off to 'spirits', and my attempts to argue otherwise continually fall on deaf ears." He sank onto the curb, his feet splayed out in the street. "And the worst part is, she knows better. We've avoided the Special Unit all her life. She doesn't realize that, much of that time, it was actually me leading them, not them chasing us, but I've allowed her to think the latter to instill an appropriate sense of respect for the peril she would face were she ever to lower her guard. And then what does she do? She goes and does just that! What if word of these 'spirit sessions' reached the wrong ears? Granted, we're on the move a lot, but she can't change her shape like we can. She would be recognized. Her behavior is childish and downright reckless, and I can't for the life of me figure out how to alter it." He glanced at Brivari, looked away. "Go ahead; say 'I told you so'. This is one case where I believe I have it coming."

Jaddo fell into a frustrated silence as Brivari struggled with a reply. On the one hand, this would indeed be a perfect opportunity to point out the folly of trying to raise a hybrid alone. On the other, Ava's behavior mirrored those of her human-reared counterparts, and he sympathized with Jaddo's frustration because he felt exactly the same way. The desire to share that frustration was literally overpowering. He'd just have to be careful not to share too much along the way.

"Believe me, I'd love to say 'I told you so'," Brivari said at length. "And I still believe you'll have plenty of those coming. But not now."

"I gather you're in a good mood?" Jaddo said dryly.

Brivari sat down beside him on the curb. "Actually, I'm in a lousy mood. And a similar predicament."

"Oh? How?"

"You saw. Zan basically breaking into the sheriff's house. Rath stealing diaries. The way this all started, with Zan doing an inexplicable and totally inexcusable public healing. And then...."

"And then….what?" Jaddo demanded. "What else has he done?"

Brivari hesitated; while he couldn't tell Jaddo about the hybrids breaking into the sheriff's office or their interest in Atherton's key, the grandmother was probably a safe subject. "He tried to heal the girl's grandmother," he answered.

"What was wrong with her?"

"She had a stroke. Basically a brain injury—"

"I know what a stroke is. Did he succeed?"

Brivari shook his head. "She was too far gone. I used a healing stone only minutes before Zan arrived, and there was too little left to work with."

"Did anyone see him?"

"No. Zan and the girl were alone in the room."

"That's a massive improvement over his last effort," Jaddo noted. "At least he's being more careful." He paused, eyeing Brivari closely. "What aren't you telling me?"

Now it was Brivari's turn to look away, wrestling with the impossible thing he'd seen and its implications. He'd pushed it to the back of his mind these past few days, unwilling to face what it could mean. But here, in the dark, sitting on the curb with the one person on the planet who would understand....

"He....did something," Brivari began.

"Did what?" Jaddo asked.

"Something I wasn't expecting. Something impossible."

"If he did it, then obviously it wasn't impossible. And could you be any less specific?"

"I don't know how to describe it," Brivari said crossly.

"Try words."

"God, you're helpful," Brivari muttered. "I must be out of my mind to think that you, of all people—"

"Just tell me what you saw," Jaddo interrupted. "Don't analyze it. Just spit it out."

"Fine. He made the grandmother's....spirit.....materialize."

Jaddo blinked at him. "Her 'spirit'? And here I thought Ava was bad with her Ouija boards."

"I don't know what else to call it!" Brivari exclaimed. "The grandmother was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and then Zan tried to heal her....just threw what he had at her without really knowing what he was doing....and then all of a sudden, she was standing there in a hospital gown.....but she was still in the bed."

"So....there were two of her?"

"I...well...."

"It's a simple question, Brivari," Jaddo said impatiently. "You know how to count. Were there two of her, or not?"

"Yes, there were two of her," Brivari sighed.

"And was this....copy....visible to anyone but you?"

"Not only visible, but sentient. Zan saw it. Dee saw it. And the girl had a whole conversation with it, and it with her."

"And what happened to it?"

"It disappeared when the body died," Brivari answered.

"So Zan didn't make it disappear?"

"It would seem not. It would seem he only made it appear, although 'only' is perhaps the wrong word in this case."

"I see," Jaddo murmured. He was quiet for a very long time, his hands working in front of him. "What do you think it was?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," Brivari replied. "It would appear to have been some kind of apparition of the woman's consciousness....but how is that possible?"

"One school of thought says it's entirely possible," Jaddo answered. "Isn't that what we transfer when we create hybrid bodies? We know how to make people wake up in entirely new bodies, so it's clear that one's consciousness is something separate, something moveable. Perhaps removable."

"That's different," Brivari argued. "That's going from one body to another, one brain to another. This would appear to be extracting a consciousness and suspending it in....nothing." He stared at the ground, pondering the question which had haunted him for the past several days before deciding to voice it. "What have we done, Jaddo? What have we created? What else can these hybrids do? And what if they're stronger than we are? We always knew they would have abilities we didn't, but we thought we'd be able to rein them in while they learned to use them....but what if we can't? I haven't the faintest idea what Zan did, or the faintest idea how I would have stopped it had that been necessary. I would have wound up doing exactly what he did, throwing power at it without really knowing what I was doing."

"Which is what we did right after we were altered," Jaddo reminded him. "The hybrids are merely going through what we went through, stretching their mental muscles, as it were, learning what they can do and how to control it."

"And if they can't control it? What then? Because I'm not the least bit certain we could control them. Has anything like this ever happened with Ava?"

"Nothing that....odd," Jaddo allowed. "But there's no question she doesn't know her own strength, and I've made quite an effort to keep her in the dark on that subject because I noticed the same thing. She's extremely powerful; I can feel it when she uses it, especially when she mindwarps."

"When she what?"

"Mindwarps," Jaddo repeated. "That's what she calls it. She can insert false images into people's minds like Valeris could."

"And Vilandra can enter other's dreams," Brivari murmured. "Like Urza could."

"And Zan heals," Jaddo added. "You were always best at healing."

"I needed stones. Still do."

"Like you said, they're more powerful," Jaddo reminded him. "And if Ava is any example, also willful, stubborn, reckless, and self-centered."

"Adolescents," Brivari sighed. "They're adolescents. Adolescents we may not be able to subdue." He paused. "Do we really have any business taking them back to Antar?"

"Now? No," Jaddo answered. "Even if they suddenly remembered, they're not ready. And we're not ready because we don't know exactly what we'd be taking back there. But perhaps we should consider when we're going to start the process of telling them who they are. Perhaps one of the best ways to 'rein them in' is to make it clear what's at stake, and what's expected of them. That could be the leash we're looking for."

"Or the whip that breaks their backs," Brivari cautioned. "You do remember what happened the last time we shared?"

"Obviously we'd have to develop a way to control the flow of information. But they're not children any more, Brivari. They're not suffering from immature brains—"

"Looks to me like they are," Brivari muttered.

"I meant physically. Their emotional immaturity is a different subject."

"And if we drop this in their laps, how do we know their 'emotional immaturity' won't cause the whole thing to end in tragedy?"

"We don't," Jaddo sighed. "It's just something to think about. I know I have." He rose from the curb, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm glad to know the journal is in safe hands, and further glad to know you're still on top of things. And it was good to see you. Just on general principles."

"I do believe this is the first time in ages that we've had a conversation which hasn't devolved into an argument," Brivari said dryly. "We sound like a couple of parents on school night."

"Yes, well.... no one ever said being a Warder was easy," Jaddo replied. "Our jobs are just tougher than most. I'll see you the next time the Unit brings us together."

"Let's hope it doesn't," Brivari said soberly. "Oh, and Jaddo?"

"What?"

"What's the camera for?"

Jaddo tucked the camera hanging around his neck further into his jacket. "Just taking a few pictures. For future reference."




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



Copper Summit, Arizona




"I'm back," Vanessa Whittaker called wearily, kicking the door closed with her foot as she lowered the handle on her suitcase. "Miss me?"

"You're three hours late," Nicholas answered from his seat at the desk in the living room.

"Blame the lovely airline system," Vanessa said, plopping into a chair. "My flight was delayed. As usual."

"I keep telling you to get a private plane."

Vanessa snorted softly. "And how would that look to my blue-collar constituents, who can barely afford their next meal? Don't get me wrong, I'd love one," she went on. "But these ridiculous notions of 'democracy' and 'equality' mean that my hopping a private plane wouldn't go over well with the voting public."

"Screw the voting public," Nicholas muttered.

"I'd love to," Vanessa sighed, wincing as she removed her heels. "But they are the 'voting' public. Which doesn't mean I can't screw them, it just means I have to be a bit more artful about how I do it. Private planes are just a titch too big to hide. I kept telling John that, and he finally listened."

"Just in time for you to kill him and take his seat."

"Win his seat," Vanessa corrected. "I won that seat from the great unwashed human public, and I won it on the strength of the wonderfully frugal image I'd worked so hard to convince him to project."

"Bullshit," Nicholas said flatly. "You 'won' it over his dead body. Which was the plan, if I recall, to build him up so that the all-powerful voting public would throw you a sympathy vote, and it worked beautifully. But don't forget that it only worked because he was removed. They loved him, not you."

"And now they love me," Vanessa said in a steely tone. "I take it that bothers you?"

"What bothers me is that you're not only taking credit for my idea, you're acting like you actually crave the approval of that 'voting public'," Nicholas said sharply. "So you fulfilled your mission. Good for you, but enough crowing, already. You have a new mission, one I haven't heard nearly enough about because you never call. Report."

Vanessa's lips pursed. "You didn't used to talk to me like this."

"Yeah, well, you didn't used to go around boinking humans."

"Is that what this is about?" Vanessa demanded. "You're the one who insisted I marry John. What did you expect me to do?"

"I expected you to not like it so much," Nicholas retorted. "Or to add his aides and security detail to the list."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, they're now my aides and security detail," Vanessa said impatiently. "Most of which are men. And the best way—sometimes the only way—to control a human male is to 'boink' him. They're like puppies; show them a little tail, and they wag their own."

"Do you have any progress to report, or don't you?" Nicholas demanded.

Vanessa eyed him beadily. "Yes. He's close. Really close."

" 'Close'?" Nicholas echoed. " 'Close' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. What the hell does 'close' mean?"

"It means that Pierce is a harder mark than John was," Vanessa said. "This one's....cold. Hard. Ruthless. You'd like him."

"I'm in love already," Nicholas deadpanned. "Stop stalling and answer my question."

"Would you please stop talking to me like I'm—"

"What?" Nicholas broke in. "A soldier? Check. My subordinate? Check. A subject of the crown? Triple check. So stop bitching, and report."

Vanessa's eyes flashed angrily. "I think he's Special Unit; I'm more convinced of that now than ever. But—"

"You 'think'?" Nicholas interrupted. "What, you mean you still don't know?"

"The Special Unit is the blackest of black ops in this country!" Vanessa exclaimed. "So, no, I don't know!"

"You said he was Summers' right-hand man—"

"I said I thought he was Summers' right-hand man," Vanessa corrected. "We weren't even sure about Summers until a Warder executed him. It's easy to find the Unit's state branches, but nearly impossible to find the hierarchy, and that's the whole point. If they're ever outed, everyone will think it's Washington pulling the strings when it's really a few men in a room who can vanish at the first sign of trouble, leaving the Bureau and the rest of the Unit swinging in the breeze."

"So is he Summers' toady, or isn't he?" Nicholas demanded.

Vanessa climbed out of her chair and poured herself a glass of wine from a bottle in a nearby cabinet. "He's Unit; I'm nearly certain of that. And I thought he was Summers' protégé....but now I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

"Because he should be in charge now. Everything we know about the Unit shows that it functions like a monarchy, with power concentrated in one man and handed down to his hand-picked successor. But that means Pierce should have been anointed last spring, and he hasn't been. On the other hand, he's pissed off because he hasn't been given something he believes is rightfully his."

"Which could very well be the position of Unit head," Nicholas said.

"Which would mean that the Bureau at large is intervening," Vanessa noted. "Which is bad news for us." She paused. "I still say we're going about this the wrong way."

"Don't start that again."

"Counting on humans to lead us anywhere is no different than bumbling around in the dark," Vanessa argued. "They don't know what the hell they're doing. We should be hunting the resistance."

"I said, don't start," Nicholas warned.

"The resistance knows where some of the hybrids are," Vanessa pressed. "There must be dozens of Vilandra hybrids, and they're interchangeable; all we need is one. That plus the Granolith, and we're out of here."

"I have no idea where the resistance is, and I don't care," Nicholas said flatly.

"You mean you don't want to be reminded of how they were right on top of you with you none the wiser," Vanessa retorted. "Get over it, Nicholas. You were had. It happens."

The lights flickered abruptly. Pictures on the wall started swinging on their nails, furniture began to rattle....and Vanessa's glass burst into a shower of fragments that covered her stockinged feet and splattered all over her suit. "Not to me!" Nicholas exploded, standing up so fast that his desk chair toppled over. "I don't get 'had'! Nobody gets the better of me. Nobody!"

"Am I.....interrupting something?"

Vanessa rolled her eyes when she spied Greer hovering in the doorway, trying to pretend he'd just arrived. "Yes, you're interrupting something," Nicholas said furiously. "You're interrupting me telling her to get on with the orders I gave her, and stop trying to do my job!"

Nicholas stormed out of the room, stomping up the stairs and slamming doors just in case anyone hadn't noticed how angry he was. "Is it absolutely necessary for you to provoke him like that?" Greer asked.

"Yes, it's absolutely necessary for me to provoke him like that. Is it absolutely necessary for him to show off like that?"

"He had all of our husks altered—"

"But none more so than his own," Vanessa said darkly. "We can't do a fraction of what he can."

"Well, he is the commander," Greer reminded her.

"Then it's time he started acting like one," Vanessa snapped. "Oh, don't look at me like that! And don't pretend you weren't listening. You know as well as I do that following the humans around is like the blind leading the blind."

"And you know as well as I do that we have no idea where the resistance has holed up. So looking for them doesn't net us a whole lot either."

"We could find them if we really looked," Vanessa insisted. "He doesn't want to find them, which makes absolutely no sense because we know they were given hybrids. Give me a day with one of those traitors, and I'd get it out of them—"

"Don't you think I've been looking?" Greer interrupted. "He may not be, but I have been. There hasn't been so much as a whisper of any resistance operative for the past forty years. Virtually the only leads we have come from the handprints left by the Warders—"

"Which are clearly designed to lead whoever finds them in circles," Vanessa finished. "Jaddo's work, no doubt. That's not Brivari's style. I don't expect the humans to realize that, but we should know better."

"We do know better," Greer argued. "We know something's not right. The hybrids should have appeared years ago. Where the hell are they?"

Vanessa was quiet for a moment, stepping gingerly around the glass. "I don't know," she said finally. "But I need look no further than Summers' dead body to know that their Warders are still here. And if the Warders are still here, the Royal Four are still here, which means the Granolith is still here. I still say all we need is a Vilandra hybrid and the Granolith."

"But the royal mark—"

"Forget the mark," Vanessa interrupted. "Forget Zan. We don't need him. Khivar has ruled for decades now with no mark, no crown. Give him his sweetie back, something to tie him to the old regime, and he'll be just fine. And we'll be off this rock before these husks give out," she added, scratching at her neck. "It would be the height of irony for us to have finally killed Zan only to have him retaliate simply by waiting long enough for us to explode."

"The harvest isn't far off," Greer reminded her. "We'll make it."

"Barely," Vanessa corrected. "And here we put off adapting husk technology to this backward rock because some of us thought the hybrids would show up long before we'd need new ones. Add that to the list of things we got wrong."

She bent over the pile of glass, holding her hand over it; the shards began to shiver, then skitter toward each other. A few seconds later, she lifted the glass in her hand, albeit minus the wine.

"But you should listen to me, Greer. All his titles and shiny new powers won't help Nicholas on this one because he's too close to it. Chase the Special Unit, we'll get nowhere. Chase the resistance, we'll get somewhere. I'm right....and you know it."

"Mmm," Greer murmured, looking at the repaired glass. "Now who's showing off?"




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



Two weeks later


November 11, 1999, 4 a.m.

Roswell Air Field




"All set, Mr. Langley," the pilot called back.

"Thank you, Bruce," Brivari said, unbuckling his seat belt.

"Bet it was nice to get home for a few days," Bruce went on. "Will we be seeing you again soon?"

"I'll be busy here for some time yet," Brivari answered. "I'll call you when I need you."

It was still dark as he descended the small staircase rolled up to the plane. Private aviation was a vastly more comfortable way to travel than the usual cattle car variety, and his position afforded him the means to charter private flights, private cars, private everything. As a Covari among humans, privacy was king.

"Your car, sir," the helpful attendant smiled, holding the door open. "Are you sure you don't require a driver?"

"I'm sure," Brivari replied, climbing in. "Thank you."

Roswell's airport was located south of town, and he pulled out onto the main road, deserted at this hour. After the diary debacle had been resolved when Rath returned it, he'd taken the risk of returning to LA for a few days to mop up the mountain of work which had accumulated in his absence. Able assistants and cell phones had certainly helped, but there was no denying that being away for weeks had been trying, in more ways than one. He'd forgotten how exhausting Warding could be, having not had to engage like this since the hybrids had emerged. It had almost been a relief to return to the comparatively piddling concerns of Hollywood, like tiffs over dressing room footage, top billing, and residuals. He'd insisted Dee report in daily even if nothing happened, and mercifully, nothing had. Now to check up on his charges, all of whom should be tucked in bed at this hour and easily located.

Only they weren't. Rath wasn't home, not surprising given the inebriated lump in the room at the other end of his trailer which was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He often slept at Zan's, but none of them were at Zan's house either. Alarmed now, Brivari returned to the main part of town and had a sudden thought when he spied the Crashdown. Five minutes later he emerged from Liz Parker's bedroom window onto her balcony—she was gone too. Was this good news, or bad news? Perhaps he was overreacting? Perhaps there was some kind of school or social event Dee had been unaware of? The sheriff, he thought. A social event would likely include his son.

And that son was home, asleep in the bedroom he had no idea had been recently ransacked by three different people....but his father wasn't. Brivari headed for the station, hoping the sheriff had just gone to work early.

"....let the sheriff know when he gets back," the lone deputy at the front desk said into the phone. "No, I can't wake him; he's out on a call." Pause. "Later on today, I expect. Right. I'll leave him a note."

Brivari slid like a ghost through the station, climbing the stairs to the second floor and Valenti's office. Valenti was gone too? That couldn't be good. He cautioned himself to wait, to not jump to conclusions, but one glance at the desk told him he was in trouble.

The desk was a mess, the sheriff having apparently left in a hurry. Square in the middle of it was a copy of one of Atherton's books, Among Us, a photograph of Atherton's body and a printout from a UFO Hunters' website about Atherton, showing both a picture of the odd little house he'd been building and James.....and James wasn't in disguise. He vaguely remembered James saying something about having to convince his publisher to go along with the dual identity scheme and suppress any previous photos he'd had taken; this one must have slipped through after his death. The text mostly concerned Among Us, that ridiculous tome which had nonetheless netted him enough cash to do the real alien hunting on the side. And it worked, Brivari thought wistfully, tracing his friend's name with his finger. Atherton had found his alien, and, for a while, Brivari had found a confidante, something he'd been craving after Quanah's death. He smiled faintly, recalling James' ever cheerful demeanor, their frequent discussions about human behavior, his earnest lessons on how Brivari should treat Audrey, and his endless eagerness to help, the very same eagerness which had been his downfall. Atherton had been his last friend. Much as he hated to admit it, Jaddo had been right; it was simply too risky to confide in anyone, too risky for him, and too risky for the confidante. Yet another reason to hold his privacy so dear.

But this was no time for a walk down memory lane. The real questions were, what was this information doing in Valenti's office, and where exactly had he gotten these printouts? The website printouts weren't originals, but copies. Who had the originals? Who else was investigating James?

Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer. Topolsky, Brivari thought grimly, finding her absent from both her apartment and her office. Truly alarmed now, he rifled through both. Her last correspondence with the Unit was an e-mail saying she was "waiting for them to slip up", something which looked increasingly like it had happened. Her office at the school was largely uninformative, although it appeared she'd been encouraging other teachers to engage in learning exercises which would allow her to pry without appearing to be prying, including one in History where Vilandra was paired with the Parker girl and Rath with her aggressive friend. There was no evidence of anything dire having happened, but the absence of so many at the same time was plenty of reason to worry. Where to now? Atherton's home in Marathon was several hours away by car, and he'd only managed to link Valenti to it. Granted, Rath had James' key, which he seemed to always carry with him, but so far he hadn't....

Brivari stopped in the school hallway, gazing through a window. A moment later he'd flung it open, striding inside toward a painting which had been facing the hallway and which bore a striking resemblance to Atherton's odd domed house. On the back was scrawled "Guerin", along with a large red "A".

He knows, Brivari thought with mounting panic. Somehow, some way, Rath had made the leap from the key to Atherton, just like Valenti had made the same leap with the body. Whether Valenti was following them or they were following Valenti, he couldn't tell, but he was willing to bet Topolsky wasn't far behind. He pulled out his phone, pacing impatiently until someone picked up.

"Bruce? Are you still at the airport? Good. Listen, I'm going to need a helicopter in ten minutes."



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


I'll post Chapter 16 next Sunday.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN


November 11, 1999, 4 a.m.

Atherton residence, Marathon, Texas



Dust.

The first thing Valenti noticed was dust, the acrid smelling kind full of age and decay. It filled his nostrils, overwhelmed his senses, and he tried to move away from it and failed. Something was moving, however, something huge, and black, and menacing, and far more worrisome than the dust.....

Several dust- and anxiety-filled seconds later, he finally managed to focus. The huge black thing was an ant, skittering through piles of dust on a wooden floor which was pressing uncomfortably into his cheek. He blinked a few times, watching the ant crawl up and over his outstretched hand, trying to figure out how in blazes he'd gotten here, wherever it turned out "here" was.

ClickClick

Valenti lifted his head slightly, looked toward the sound. There was a blonde woman in a leather jacket and fashion forward boots using lock picks on a stone wall, and he momentarily dismissed this ridiculous apparition as just that. Why would a nattily dressed blonde be trying to unlock a stone wall? Not that blondes and lock picks couldn't go together, but it usually involved something kinky, not real estate. He must be dreaming, either that or delusional. If the former, he had to admit this was an incredibly vivid dream, complete with a pounding headache reminiscent of college pledge week; if the latter, that begged the question of what had happened to leave him in such a state that he'd be having utilitarian visions of blondes with lock picks. He tried to remember the very last thing he'd been doing and came up with nothing more than driving, which wasn't helpful considering that he spent a large portion of every day doing just that. But he seemed to remember having been driving at night, which was an interesting twist, and being very anxious to get somewhere, to catch up with someone....

ClickClick

The woman turned slightly, making her face visible for the first time, and in a rush resembling a tidal wave, it all came back. Jesus, but this just kept twisting and twisting. Never a dull moment in Roswell. Valenti quickly lowered his head, feigning an unconsciousness that threatened to return anyway what with that pounding headache, what he'd just remembered, and what he'd just learned. She thought he was unconscious and hadn't seen her, and he'd have to let her keep thinking that, at least until he figured out why Kathleen Topolsky, guidance counselor at Roswell High, had just wound up in the same obscure location as he was, beaned him on the head, and was now prowling around with a flashlight and a set of lock picks. He knew modern guidance counselors had larger job descriptions than when he'd been in high school, but this one was really branching out.

A loud noise to his right startled him; something brushed his right hand, followed by a draft of stale air. Fortunately Topolsky didn't catch the twitch he'd been unable to stifle in the split second it took her head to swing around. He couldn't see what had made the sound, but whatever it was had kicked up quite a bit of dust, and it was all he could do to remain motionless while Topolsky inspected whatever it was that threatened to make him sneeze.

A moment later he heard footsteps, descending footsteps. Topolsky's fashionable boots were treading down what sounded like a set of wooden stairs, growing fainter and fainter. He listened hard, waiting until her footsteps left wood and touched stone before he dared utter that sneeze, and even then, he had to stifle it. He swiped at his nose, shaking the power-walking ant off his hand before trying to get as much of the dust out as possible, trying to move as little as possible because too much movement would bring her right back up here. He could move his head silently, though, and swinging it to the right revealed what had fascinated Roswell High's latest employee—a trapdoor had opened in the floor only inches away. Thank goodness he'd had the foresight to fall where he had, or it might have hoisted him into the air, something he was pretty certain he wouldn't have been able to ignore. He could hear her treading softly below, faint footsteps barely audible, and a minute later, an engine roared to life somewhere outside. They got away, Valenti thought, impressed in spite of himself. He would have dearly loved to run to the door to see what was going on, but he couldn't risk moving before Topolsky left and wasn't sure he could move well enough to be effective anyway. Until he had full possession of his faculties, it wasn't safe to budge, and while he was busy not budging, he might learn more about what he was up against.

Unfortunately, the list of what he was up against seemed to be growing. Last night, he'd thought he was up against a bunch of teenaged kids, one of whom might be something he'd never wanted to admit existed, and the odds of that being the case had just increased given their presence here. Whoever James Atherton was, two things were certain: He had odd taste in houses, and he was an alien hunter. There it was again, that forbidden word, the one word which could send his mother into fits and his father into sullen silence: Aliens. What Max Evans had allegedly done to Liz Parker had been unexplainable, and now Evans and his merry band were road-tripping hundreds of miles away to investigate an alien hunter. That couldn't be a coincidence. And neither is my road trip, he added guiltily. He'd had a good long while to think about that on the road to Marathon last night, that he was doing exactly what his father had done for years—taken off in search of aliens. He vividly remembered the way it had started, with his father disappearing in the family car for hours at a time and his mother's resulting accusations when she noticed the mileage. Their arguments had been long and loud, and being only eight years-old, he hadn't really understood them, but a few things were clear; his father was keeping things from his mother, his mother was incredibly angry about that, and with the hours his father spent at work and doing whatever secret things he was doing, they rarely saw him anymore. A few weeks ago, he would have sworn up and down that he would never be foolish enough to repeat his father's mistakes, and yet here he was, face down on the floor of a deserted house which had belonged to a man who had hunted aliens, chasing someone who might be what that man had been looking for and inexplicably attacked by a high school guidance counselor, all while his own child had been left alone. At this rate, he'd not only emulate his father, he'd top him.

Faint tones came from below, followed by an expression of disgust. Don't imagine you'd get good reception down there, Valenti thought, quickly turning his head the other way as Topolsky's footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hopefully she'd make her call where he could eavesdrop.

Boots trod the floor near his head, and a moment later he heard the trap door lowered into place. It went unwillingly, its creaking and groaning accompanied by muttered expletives from Topolsky, who was no doubt worried the noise would awaken him. He was careful not to move a muscle, not then or when she made a circuit of his body, and was rewarded when the musical tones sounded again.

"73290," Topolsky said softly, sounding like she'd moved just outside the door, but was still audible. "I've got something big here, really big. They led me right to it." Pause. "No, they got away. No!" she added quickly. "We can't move in right away. I've got....something to finish up. I'm aware of Bureau protocol," she added in a sharper tone. "It'll all be in my report. We just need to wait until the area is completely clear before we move in. Make sure you're ready. I'll be in touch."

A phone clicked closed, and Valenti allowed himself a faint smile. Bureau. It appeared Agent Stevens wasn't as uninterested as he'd let on. The lovely Miss Topolsky would no doubt be in some hot water with her superiors if they learned why she was waiting to claim their prize, on the floor of which lay an inconvenient sheriff.

Footsteps crunched away outside, and Valenti waited at least another five minutes before pushing himself stiffly into a sitting position, gingerly touching the back of his head. There was little blood, which was good, but not conclusive, and he wasn't seeing double or feeling sleepy, which was better. The headache was still a bitch, though, and it hurt to move his head, so he stayed on the floor, considering the two main possibilities here: Either Topolsky was waiting for him to regain consciousness so she could take him into custody, or she was hoping he'd wake up, find nothing and no one, and be on his way. Based on her phone conversation, he was guessing the latter, and as that suited him better, he was happy to oblige.

After several minutes had passed with nothing dire happening, Valenti climbed carefully to his feet, bracing himself against the wall when he got there. His head was still throbbing, but not so badly that he was going to pass up the chance to investigate, and besides, it would have looked weird if he hadn't. He took his sweet time wandering the house, which curiously appeared to be both unfinished and ransacked. The place had something of a reputation judging by the reaction of the locals at a diner he'd passed and who had promptly pointed him right to it, one even drawing a map on the back of a napkin. It was clear he was hardly the first to come looking, and there appeared to be nothing of interest here now, at least not on the main floor. The trap door Topolsky had closed was now invisible, and whatever mechanism had unlocked it had been covered, the stone wall now appearing to be just a stone wall.

Certain he was being watched and unable to investigate further without giving away that he'd seen things he shouldn't have, Valenti finally exited the house. His car was the only vehicle outside, but he knew she was there somewhere. The odd dome had been built behind a conventional house, and he tried the door, but it was locked. Normally that wouldn't have stopped him, but the feds were watching. Best to be on his way while he had the chance. It was always better to live to fight another day, especially when one had just discovered one was fighting on two fronts instead of one.




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




C'mon, c'mon, Topolsky thought impatiently, checking her watch for the second time in five minutes from her position behind the house which stood in front of the dome. Here she was, about to get credit for what could very well be one of the biggest discoveries in the history of the Special Unit, and she couldn't get to it because Roswell's sheriff was stretched out on the floor right beside the secret door she needed to go through. What in blazes was Valenti doing here, anyway? He should be back in his little town doing his little town's work, not out here prowling around her territory. Maybe getting conked out would convince him not to poke his nose—or his head—where it didn't belong, although given his father's track record, that wasn't likely. Valenti's had been annoying the Unit since its inception, and it appeared this particular Valenti was keeping the family tradition alive.

Topolsky checked her watch again; nearly an hour had gone by with no sign of the sheriff, and she was beginning to worry that perhaps she'd hit him harder than she thought. But I had to, she thought defensively. The last thing she needed was for Valenti to find the kids here, or worse yet, to find her here. Thankfully she'd had the foresight to park her car about a quarter mile north, meaning he hadn't seen it. He must have seen the jeep, but when he woke up and found no vehicles and no people, he wouldn't be able to prove a thing.

When she'd first rounded the corner and seen the empty jeep parked outside, Topolsky hadn't expected there would be anything to disprove. She knew this place; this was the residence of James Atherton, long revered as a UFO hunter and author of several ridiculous books on the subject. Ridiculous, yes....except when one factored in that his body had turned up in 1959 bearing a silver handprint. Atherton had been murdered by the very creatures he'd sought, and the body removed from the custody of Roswell's then sheriff, James Valenti Sr. It had taken the Unit a few years and a good deal of investigation to identify the body, but once they had, they'd performed a thorough search of both of Atherton's houses, finding little more than notes for future books, each more ridiculous than the last. Nevertheless, Atherton's memory had been kept alive by dedicated UFO hunters, and the Unit had been content to let his cult continue. It always helped to know what the faithful were looking at, and to have them looking at something you knew would get them nowhere.

Or thought would get them nowhere. Why had Max Evans chosen to come here, of all places? Had he killed Atherton? Was he returning to the scene of the crime? Whatever the reason, he'd left Roswell in a big hurry if Agent Butler's report was accurate, and the flat tire he'd subsequently experienced while tailing them was way too convenient. She'd already been on the road when Butler had reported he'd been sidelined, and she'd caught up with the kids just as they'd been leaving a seedy roadside motel, careful to keep her distance. She'd waited until they'd entered the dome before creeping in herself, but she'd arrived too late; they'd disappeared, and she'd only just begun to look for them when the sheriff had turned up. The resulting noise is likely what had alerted them that they were not alone and made them run. Damn you, Valenti, Topolsky thought darkly. If not for him, she would have found that keyhole, opened the trap door, and been down those stairs before they'd had a chance to crawl out that pipe and drive off. She'd missed them by mere minutes, even seconds, maybe, and she was thoroughly pissed about that. Given the way they'd left town, it was quite possible that even their parents didn't know where they were; this would have been the perfect place to apprehend all of them, far from home and anyone who could have intervened. Anyone but a Valenti, of course. History had proven that Valenti's always intervened.

A sound made her ears prick. Valenti had finally emerged from the dome, looking a bit worse for wear. She waited while he inspected the exterior, tried the door on the main house, and wandered around the property, looking in windows but not making any attempt to enter, probably because he didn't have a warrant. Silly man. The Unit had learned a long time ago that nothing got done when one slavishly followed the rules. But she certainly wouldn't have wanted to wait around for him to break into the house and nose around, and she was so grateful when he finally gave up and drove away that she practically sprinted toward the dome.

Light filtered through the doorway as she cautiously stepped back inside. Almost afraid that the trap door wouldn't open again, she was relieved when it did. She'd been on such a tear to catch the kids on her first pass through here that she'd managed to do nothing more than glance at everything, but she'd gotten the gist of it; there were piles of information down there, and judging from some of the maps she'd seen on the wall, this hidden room no one had ever found wasn't where Atherton had kept his recipes. This was a huge discovery, and she'd made it. She'd be sure to point that out to her superiors first chance she got.

BrringBrrring

Damn it! Topolsky thought fiercely. She was on the third step down; a few more, and she probably would have been out of range. Swearing under her breath, she pulled out her phone to check the caller...and flipped it open.

"Agent Stevens," Topolsky said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Good, morning, Agent Topolsky," Stevens replied in a clipped tone. "I hear you have something for me?"

"Yes, sir. I'm at James Atherton's residence in Marathon, Texas, and—"

"James Atherton?"

"Yes, sir. I know we've searched this place six ways to Sunday, but it turned out his stash was in a hidden room beneath the floor of the dome which stands behind his main residence."

"And you learned this....how?"

"I followed the suspects, sir. They all left town last night in a big hurry, and I had them tailed."

"So you have them in custody?"

Topolsky hesitated. "No, sir. They got away."

"They got away," Stevens repeated coldly.

"But I almost had them," Topolsky said quickly.

" 'Almost' had them, agent? The three of you 'almost' had them?"

"I'm by myself, sir."

"Where's Agent Butler?"

"He was tailing the suspect when he developed a flat tire. He thinks the suspect did it."

"And Agent Moss?"

"I left him back in Roswell in case they returned while I set out after them."

"Wonderful," Stevens said acidly. "I have three agents in Roswell, none of whom managed to apprehend a group of kids."

"Sir, with all due respect, we're spread pretty thin," Topolsky protested. "If you want better results, I need more people."

"I gave you people," Stevens said sharply. "Two more people, neither of whom were present for this momentous occasion. And it would seem to me, Agent Topolsky, that all you really needed was your gun. I'd wager that would have caught the attention of a bunch of teenagers."

"It probably would have if I'd managed to get close enough," Topolsky said. "But I was interrupted by Sheriff Valenti, and while I was....making certain he didn't see me, the suspects got away."

"Valenti? As in Roswell's Sheriff Valenti?"

Topolsky felt her cheeks burning. "Yes, sir."

"What in the name of God was Valenti doing there at the same time you were? Did he follow you?"

"No! He.....I.....I don't know how he got here, sir, but I imagine he was doing the same thing I was—pursuing the suspects," Topolsky answered, beginning to perspire. "He's the one who called them in, so it stands to reason he's keeping an eye on them as well."

"So let me get this straight," Stevens said in a tone so calm, it was frightening. "You followed the suspects to James Atherton's residence, watched them enter a previously undiscovered hidden room, were interrupted by Sheriff Valenti, and lost the suspects. That about sum it up?"

"The sheriff didn't see me, sir," Topolsky added quickly. "I'm certain of it."

"Yes, well, thank God for that," Stevens deadpanned. "Did the suspects see you?"

"No, sir."

"Did they take anything from the premises?"

"I.....I don't know, sir."

"You 'don't know', agent?"

"I...I never actually saw them," Topolsky said, flustered. "I saw the suspect's jeep parked outside, and I saw it driving away, but....look, sir, we did locate Atherton's stash," she went on. "And the fact that the suspect is the one who led us here is very telling. I was just about to go back down and check it out—"

"Negative. You're to return to Roswell immediately and prepare a detailed report on this incident. Call the school, and tell them you're sick and taking the day off."

"If I'm taking the day off, there's no reason I can't check this out before going back," Topolsky said desperately. "It would just take—"

"Agent Topolsky, do you or do you not understand the instructions I just gave you?"

Topolsky felt her throat constrict. "Yes, sir."

"Repeat them. Repeat my instructions."

Topolsky closed her eyes briefly. "I'm to return to Roswell, call in sick, and prepare a detailed report."

"You're forgetting something, agent: 'Immediately'. You're to return to Roswell 'immediately'. I'm not the least bit persuaded that you have what it takes to evaluate whatever you've found, so you will leave it alone."

"Sir, that's not fair—"

" 'Fair'?" Stevens echoed. "Since when does 'fair' have anything to do with being an agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, never mind its Special Unit?"

"I found it!" Topolsky said in exasperation. "I should at least be able to—"

"No, agent, you didn't find it. They found it. All you managed to do was tail them, something a first year trainee should be able to pull off, and then lose them. So from where I'm sitting, your track record isn't stellar, and I don't want you anywhere near Atherton's treasure chest. Go home. Write that report. Have I made myself clear?"

Topolsky hesitated, resisting the urge to shout into the phone. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl. I want it by noon."

The line went dead. Don't call me 'girl', Topolsky thought furiously as she thwacked her phone shut and stared helplessly into the room below. Stevens was going to take the credit for this, she just knew it. He was sitting there in Santa Fe with his ass in his cushy little chair while she was out here with her ass on the line, but he'd take the credit for this and not even let her see it. One of the biggest discoveries the Unit had made in ages, and he was going to swipe it right out from under her. Whether this was punishment for not nabbing the kids, pure greed, or both, she couldn't say, and it didn't matter. She'd effectively been dismissed, and she stared longingly down the stairs. It would only take a few minutes, and she could say she'd been delayed on the way back......





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




Leave, Brivari thought as Topolsky hesitated on the steps to James's hideaway, clearly on the verge of disobeying a direct order. He'd spotted Zan's vehicle from the air on the way here, so he knew the hybrids were long gone, and he'd heard enough to know they were not being pursued....at the moment. But that wouldn't last long, especially now that the Unit's prime suspect had lead them directly to the home of a known alien hunter who had died by alien hands. And so he fretted as she dithered, waiting impatiently and invisibly in an adjacent room as the drama continued to unfold in James's odd little house. If it didn't start unfolding faster, he would have to make it unfold because he had some mopping up to do here before he could return to town.

Topolsky continued to vacillate, gazing hungrily down into James's underground room the way a starving person stares at food. Under different circumstances, it might be interesting to watch how the inept spiraled downward, making mistake after mistake, although he had to admit this one's mistakes had served him well. She had come alone. She had apparently assaulted the sheriff, whom Brivari had found face down on the floor when he'd arrived, and her doing so seemed to have alerted the hybrids to their peril and given them time to escape. Happy mistakes, all, but they had a downside: Her conversation had made it clear she was in trouble, which meant she was in danger of being replaced…and that could be problematic. Topolsky was green, so inexperienced that she was easy to work around; any replacement would not be and would prove a bigger threat, quite possibly a threat which required removal. However slow Agent Stevens had been to respond to the shooting at the Crashdown, however unwilling to believe it real, even he would not be able to overlook a missing or dead agent. Now that the lovely Miss Topolsky had shot herself in the proverbial foot, he was in the ironic position of mentally searching for ways to improve her reputation. It was now in his best interests to keep her on the job.

Footsteps sounded in the other room, and Brivari allowed himself a moment of relief. Topolsky had apparently seen sense and decided to trot home and write her report. But she was clearly still harboring a grudge, as evidenced by the grim smile she wore as she carefully closed the trap door, replaced the rock that hid the keyhole which opened it, and used her lock picks to lock the door behind her on the way out. He hadn't heard her mention how to access the Unit's new treasure, so Steven's men would have to consult her when they got here and found nothing but a decaying, empty building. It would be a sweet moment for her, and he was inclined to let her have it. He waited until he heard the sound of her car driving away before passing a hand over the trap door. He had no need of a key.

The staircase was covered with dust only recently disturbed by several pairs of feet. The room below was just as he'd left it forty years ago when he and Jaddo had searched it after James's death. They had found nothing of value; for all his overzealous enthusiasm, Atherton had been no fool and had not kept any written records of his success in finding what he was looking for. Brivari had been content to leave it, reasonably certain that no one would ever find it unless the house was dismantled, and he'd been half right; no human had found it. In a spectacular burst of irony, it had been their own hybrids who had led the Special Unit right to James's door.

Footprints dotted the dust on the floor of the room below, including a set indicating Agent Topolsky's heels. They led in all directions, but a hasty muddle rushed toward the large drainpipe James had been working on as an escape hatch from this stop on what he had dubbed the "alien underground railroad". Yet another irony, that a friend he'd had need to dispose of had saved them once again. It served its purpose, James, Brivari thought sadly. You'd be so pleased.

But he digressed. The only thing of value in this place had been left not by James, but by himself. Replacing the oil paper over the drainpipe, he headed straight for Vilandra's necklace, which he'd left here after removing it from the dead body of the man he'd given it to as a gift.

It was gone.

Brivari stood stock still, examining the footprints in the dust. Five minutes later he was back outside and on his phone, having carefully left the house just the way Topolsky had.

"ETA five minutes."

"Where to, sir?" Bruce asked.

"Back to Roswell, ASAP."

Brivari snapped his phone shut and took one last look at the dome before he left. It was hard to tell with all the overlapping footprints, but if his analysis was correct, the necklace wasn't with Topolsky.

It was back in the hands of its original owner.




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




1 p.m.

Topolsky residence, Roswell





Inhale, two, three, four.

Exhale, two, three, four.

Kathleen Topolsky felt the tension drain from her body as she moved through the practiced poses of Tai Chi, her favorite form of relaxation. Yoga was fine, if a bit trendy, and being a federal agent meant plenty of strength and cardio training, including weightlifting, kickboxing, and the required classes in self defense. Tai Chi was positively somnolent by comparison, being slow, deliberate, measured. Dismissed by many in the Bureau as "too soft", it was nevertheless a true martial art whose strength came from the mental discipline needed to achieve each form with fluidity, grace, and the appropriate amount of speed. Self control was the goal of Tai Chi, control of one's body, breathing, and mind. Recent events having left her feeling horribly out of control, it was good to have complete control over something.

The phone rang. Topolsky forced herself to complete her form before answering even though what she really wanted to do was lunge for it. Agent Stevens must have read her extremely detailed report by now and concluded that she had done everything possible under the circumstances. Since he'd insisted she call in sick, she had the rest of the day at her disposal. Perhaps he'd let her return to Marathon and finally get a look at what she'd found.

"Hello?" she said, hooking her earpiece over her ear.

"Hello," a male voice responded.

"73290."

"Please hold for Agent Stevens," the voice instructed.

Seconds ticked by, and the longer she waited, the more she felt all that tension seeping right back in. She was halfway through another form when Stevens answered.

"Agent Topolsky," he said, his voice flat, emotionless, unreadable. "You've had a busy day."

"Yes, sir," Topolsky answered. "Did you find the secret room?"

"We did, although I understand my agents had to call you for instructions on how to find it."

Topolsky allowed herself a small smile. "I couldn't very well leave it open, sir. What if the suspects had returned?"

"Yes, well, we don't know what the suspects are doing, do we, because no one seems to be able to keep them in their sights for longer than five minutes."

"But we do know what the suspects are doing," Topolsky answered. " They're in school. I checked—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. What kind of agent hits the road without a spare tire?"

"Agent Butler has a rental car, sir. It's the rental agency's fault for not outfitting their vehicle properly."

"Wrong, agent. It's Agent Butler's fault for not checking his vehicle properly, and I'll be sure to make that clear to him when I speak with him."

"Yes, sir," Topolsky said, with a sudden pang of sympathy for Butler, who would no doubt be getting an earful, if he hadn't already. Still, it was only natural for Stevens to be tweaked that they had missed opportunities here, and she was just going to have to let him vent in order to get what she wanted. She began another form, one of her very favorites, as she prepared to argue her case.

"Sir, now that you have my report, I'd like to return to Marathon to inspect—"

"No need. We already have."

"And?" Topolsky said eagerly. "What was down there?"

"What was down there? What was down there, agent, was nothing. Heaps and heaps of nothing. James Atherton was a crackpot, and what was down there was bits and pieces he'd collected over the years that tell us absolutely nothing we didn't already know, with the possible exception of who it was that was leaking classified information all the way back in the forties."

"Atherton may have been a crackpot, sir, but the aliens didn't think so. Why would they have killed him if he was no threat?"

"How the hell should I know?" Stevens said. "I'm not an alien psychologist. Maybe Atherton stumbled onto something by accident. Once in a while, even a blind hog finds an acorn. The point is there was nothing of interest there other than the fact that the suspects chose to go there."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Topolsky said, trying hard to mask her disappointment.

"So am I. And now I have some questions for you, agent. Did you touch anything when you were there?"

"No, sir," Topolsky said quickly.

"But you were down there?"

"Only to pursue the suspects. I walked straight through to the drainpipe, and when I realized they were gone, I walked straight back. I didn't touch anything."

"Interesting. Because our agents found papers recently disturbed, knocked on the floor, left in a heap, things like that. And what do you think that means, agent?"

Topolsky's eyes closed briefly. "That the suspects took something with them."

"The same conclusion I reached. And might the suspects' escape have something to do with the fact that you knocked Roswell's sheriff flat on his face? Perhaps the sound of a body hitting the floor attracted their attention?"

"I would imagine our footsteps accomplished the same thing, sir," Topolsky countered, "including the sheriff's footsteps."

"Yes, well, let's leave the realm of conjecture and look at the facts. You and your agents failed to tail the suspects in a timely manner. The suspects not only escaped, they absconded with some of the contents of that room, perhaps the only valuable contents of that room. To make matters worse, the local sheriff—and not just any local sheriff, but a Valenti, no less—somehow got wind of what was going on and wound up in exactly the same place, whereupon you saw fit to bash his brains out. Now, I would like to know, agent, just exactly how things got so out of control."

"Things are very much under control, sir," Topolsky said, biting back a retort. Of course he'd made a list of what had gone wrong and completely ignored the several things which had gone right.

"Agent Topolsky do you understand the assignment that was given to you?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Repeat it."

"I’m sorry?"

"Your assignment. Repeat it to me."

"The assignment is to observe the subjects and determine whether or not the theories about them are substantiated."

"You're forgetting something, agent. The word 'covertly'. To covertly observe the subjects to determine whether or not the theories about them are substantiated. Covertly!"

"I've been acting covertly," Topolsky said firmly.

"Drop-kicking the sheriff? You call that 'covertly'?"

"The sheriff was endangering my operation."

"Your operation?!" Stevens echoed incredulously.

"Our operation," Topolsky corrected quickly.

"Wrong again, agent," Stevens snapped. "Not 'your' operation, my operation! Mine!"

Topolsky's form abruptly fell apart as Stevens' voice shrieked over the headset, then paused, coughing. "I think I have a piece of my bagel permanently lodged in my esophagus. New orders, Agent Topolsky. See if you can follow'em this time. Whatever those kids took from that house, I want it! Get it! Whatever those kids are doing right now, I want to know about it! Do you understand, Agent Topolsky?"

"I understand," Topolsky said tightly.

"By any means necessary, agent!"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't waste my time, agent!"

"I'm all over it."

The line clicked dead. Damn it! Topolsky swore as she dialed another number, wondering if "by any means necessary" would include drop-kicking the sheriff, something Stevens had just told her she shouldn't have done. She paced the room, waiting impatiently while the phone rang and rang and rang.

"C'mon, Moss," she muttered. "Pick up."





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



3:45 p.m.

Evans residence




"Let me get those for you, Mom," Diane said, reaching for the bags in Dee's hands. "Towels are heavy."

"Goodness, Diane, I can handle these," Dee chided, looping the bags over her arms. "You have to unlock the door."

"Let me take one," Diane insisted. "I feel bad not carrying anything."

Fine, Dee thought wearily, handing over a bag. They'd been shopping for new bath towels, taking advantage of a nearby store's sale, as towels for a family of four could be expensive. Normally Dee wouldn't be able to stomach Diane for a day's worth of shopping, but she'd had to learn to stomach her lately. Not only did it give her greater access to Max and Isabel, it also allowed her to keep her ear to the ground in case Diane and Philip noticed anything unusual. If they ever did, she was pretty sure she'd hear about it first from her daughter-in-law, not her son.

"That's odd," Diane said, twisting her key in the lock. "I could have sworn I locked the door before we left."

"You did," Dee said. "I saw you."

"I did? Maybe I turned the key the wrong way," Diane said as the door swung open. "Just drop the bags right there; I'll have to wash them before we use them, you know how much fuzz new towels leave......" Her voice trailed off and, coming in behind her, Dee could see why.

"Oh, my," Dee said faintly. "You've been robbed."





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


I'll post Chapter 17 next Sunday.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN




November 11, 1999, 4:45 p.m.

Evans residence





"Thanks for the ride, Mom," Philip said, opening his door even before the car stopped. "Figures today would be the day I'd have the car in the shop."

"No problem," Dee answered. "I wouldn't worry. It didn't look serious."

"My house was broken into," Philip answered. "Of course it's serious."

"Philip, please don't overreact. Diane was very nearly over the edge when I left, so you charging in there like a bull in a china shop isn't going to help."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Philip deadpanned. "Are you coming in?"

"I think you've got a big enough circus in there already," Dee replied, eyeing the crowd gathered on her son's front lawn. "Why don't I wait here for a little while in case you need me."

"Suit yourself," Philip said, closing the door and loping toward his violated house with the determined stride of a lawyer heading into court to argue a big case. Only there wouldn't be much to argue; from what Dee could tell when she hadn't been trying to soothe the distraught Diane, this was a run-of-the-mill, grab-n-go robbery of high ticket items like stereos and televisions. Nothing insurance wouldn't cover, and no one hurt, whoever did it having obviously chosen a window of time where no one was home. While it was never comforting to find one's house had been cased, it was good to know they were after your stuff and not you.

Philip disappeared inside the house and reappeared a moment later with the real reason Dee didn't want to come inside. She'd placed the call to the sheriff's station herself, Diane having been too upset and too busy running from room to room cataloging missing items, but the last thing she wanted to do was run into Jim Valenti. She'd kept a careful distance from Valenti since their last encounter back in '89 when he'd put his father away, which hadn't been difficult given that she and Anthony had settled in her hometown of Corona, nearby but under a different sheriff. A decade had passed without her ever encountering Roswell's sheriff, and she'd like to keep that record unbroken.

Her car door opened. Dee glanced sideways, then returned her eyes to her son, who was still talking with the sheriff on his front lawn.

"I thought you were due back this morning."

"And I got back this morning," Brivari answered. "Very early this morning, which turned out to be a plus. Did your daughter-in-law happen to notice her children weren't home last night?"

"She said they got in late because they'd been studying for some test or other," Dee said. "What is it with all the tests? Seems like all kids do these days is take tests. It's a miracle they have time to learn anything to be tested on."

" 'Getting in late' is something of a stretch. They got in about 7:00 this morning."

"Pulled an all-nighter?" Dee chuckled. "We used to save those for college, or finals at least."

"They weren't studying for any test," Brivari said. "At least that's not what I'd call a field trip to James Atherton's house with both the sheriff and the FBI in pursuit."

Dee's head whipped around. "What?"

"You heard me."

Dee's mouth worked for a moment before she managed to speak. "But....isn't that in another state?"

"Texas."

"They were in Texas last night?" Dee said in astonishment. "But why? How could they possibly know anything about Atherton?"

"From James' key, the one Rath took from Valenti's office," Brivari replied. "When Rath claimed he had a 'vision' while holding the key, I largely dismissed it, especially when Zan and Vilandra didn't say the same. We have the ability to connect with people, not objects."

"But....they do?" Dee ventured.

"So it would appear," Brivari sighed. "Add that to the list of what our hybrids can do that we cannot. At any rate, Rath obtained information from an inanimate object and started painting—"

"Painting?"

"Yes, painting. Painting pictures of Atherton's odd domed house. Somehow he made the connection to James because I found printouts of web pages about James on Valenti's desk. He'd taken them from Rath."

"Wait," Dee ordered. "Just wait. This isn't making sense. How could Valenti have taken anything from Ra—I mean Michael? And where does the FBI come into this?"

"From what I can piece together, Rath somehow connected the key to Atherton and broke into the UFO center to obtain information about him. He was apprehended and taken to the sheriff's station, where the sheriff found the printouts he'd made."

"He broke into the UFO center?" Dee groaned. "Good God."

"I gather Zan bailed him out," Brivari said. "But the damage had been done. The hybrids set off for Marathon, along with the Parker girl and her friend, and Valenti guessed where they were going because he had the printouts."

"And the FBI?"

"Saw them leave. And tailed them."

"Holy shit," Dee muttered, one hand to her forehead. "Let's skip to the end for a minute before I have a heart attack. They're here, so I gather they're okay? At least for the moment?"

"For the moment," Brivari agreed, gazing out the window at Philip's house. "The Unit should leave them alone for a short while, at least, now that they have what they want."

"What....you mean....this?" Dee demanded, pointing to Philip, who was still talking to the sheriff. "This wasn't just a robbery?"

"No. This was Unit."

"You're sure?"

"I should be. I'm the one who let them in."

"You did what?!"

"I wanted them in and out as fast as possible, and when Zan and Vilandra weren't here," Brivari said. "So I made sure the door was unlocked."

"Jesus!" Dee breathed. "Diane thought she'd locked the door. But what were they after?"

"What the hybrids took from James' house," Brivari answered. "Which was nothing of value," he added quickly when Dee's eyes widened, "because there was nothing there of value to take. But the Unit doesn't know that, of course, so they'll be treating anything from that house as possible gold."

"So….what happened out there?" Dee asked, bewildered. "Why would the kids come back after something like that and just go to school like nothing's happened? Did they know they were being tailed?"

"I arrived too late to have seen exactly what happened," Brivari replied, "but the hybrids were already on their way home; I passed them in the helicopter. From what I can tell, they heard footsteps and ran, apparently before they could see who was there. Topolsky knocked out Valenti, and had to wait until he regained consciousness and left before the Unit could move in."

"This just gets better and better," Dee said incredulously. "And does Valenti know who ko'd him?"

"Topolsky thinks he doesn't."

"But you don't agree."

"I'm not sure," Brivari admitted. "He was still out when I arrived, so I saw him wake up. He recovered much too quickly, in my opinion. It's possible he regained consciousness long before Topolsky thinks he did."

"Which means it's possible the sheriff knows the FBI is in town," Dee said wearily.

"Quite possible," Brivari agreed.

Dee was quiet for a moment, trying to assimilate what she'd just been told. "It's happening, isn't it?" she said at length. "It's finally happening. They're remembering."

"They're not remembering because none of them could have remembered this," Brivari answered. "None of them ever knew James, or were ever at his house. But they're definitely curious, willing to take risks to find out what they want to know, and capable of acquiring information in ways I hadn't anticipated. And now that they've led the Unit straight to the home of a known alien hunter, the stakes have changed."

"Great," Dee sighed. "So what do we do now?"

"What we've been doing."

Dee blinked. "What, you mean.....nothing? How could you possibly do nothing after this?"

"Topolsky is in trouble for not capturing them and for assaulting the sheriff, and the Unit still has nothing definite on them. If they did, they would have picked them up already. Total silence is still the best option."

"But we at least have to say something to the kids," Dee protested.

"Of course we don't. 'Total' silence includes them. They're not ready."

"But they can't be allowed to go blundering around like this!" Dee protested. "They'll get themselves killed! It's a wonder they haven't already. If they knew—"

"If they knew, it could be even worse," Brivari insisted. "They're young, impetuous adolescents, not to mention that I still can't risk getting anywhere near Zan. Telling them should be a last resort. But there is one thing that needs doing….and you're the best one to do it."

"Please tell me it involves more than just watching," Dee grumbled.

"It might," Brivari said. "When I said there was nothing of value at Atherton's house....I wasn't entirely correct."




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




"Is he gone?" Isabel asked.

"Not yet," Max reported, peering out the window. "He's still talking to Dad."

"What's taking so long?" Isabel fussed, nervously sliding the pendant she'd picked up at Atherton's house back and forth on its chain. "They've been gabbing for what seems like an hour."

"More like fifteen minutes," Max corrected.

"And grown-ups say kids never shut up," Isabel muttered.

"Give him a break, Isabel. His house was just robbed."

"Our house was just robbed," Isabel reminded him. "Why, oh why, did you have to put the files under the bed? That has got to be the lamest place to hide anything, and the first place anyone would look."

"I didn't have a lot of time," Max protested. "We were barely home before Mom came in, and then we had to go to school. And besides, with the way they tore this place up, they would have found them no matter where I hid them."

"We should have looked at them on the way back," Isabel said. "I wanted to, but you were afraid they'd blow away in the jeep. God, Max, we don't even know what we had!"

"We had something somebody else wanted," Max said soberly. "We know that much. Don't flash that around," he added, watching Isabel twirl the pendant. "That's the one thing we took that we still have. We don't anyone to know about it."

Someone already does, Isabel thought. She hadn't yet told Max what the deputy had said about the nearby Indian reservation, and now didn't seem like the right time. "Why did you take that, anyway?" Max asked as she tucked it back into her shirt. "Did you recognize the symbol?"

"No," Isabel replied, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed. "At least not until we got home. That's when I went looking for the pictures and asked you to draw it."

"We clearly knew the symbol, at least when we were kids," Max agreed. "And I drew it this morning, so it's in me somewhere. But I would never have thought to take that. Whatever it's touching in me is buried so deep that I feel nothing when I look at it. So I was just wondering why you took it."

"It's jewelry. Girls like jewelry."

"Maybe that's it," Max allowed.

That's not it, Isabel thought privately. She loved jewelry as much as the next girl, but this piece wasn't her style. No, this had spoken to her, reached out and grabbed her in a way that was hard to define. For some weird reason, it felt right to have it around her neck. Like it belonged there. Like it was hers.

"Kids?"

Isabel flew off the bed so fast, she nearly lost her balance. "Easy, there, sweetheart," Philip said gently. "I was just checking to make sure you guys were okay."

"We're fine, Dad," Max said. "There doesn't seem to be anything missing from either of our rooms even though they're a mess."

"Probably nothing of any real value in here," Philip said, completely unaware of the irony of that statement. "The TV, the stereo, and a couple of old clocks are missing, along with your mother's pearls. That's all we've got so far."

"Grandma's pearls?" Isabel said.

"Yeah," Philip sighed. "They were her wedding present to your mom."

"What did the sheriff say?" Max asked.

"He was just giving me a rundown on what they'd found so far. No sign of forced entry, but then your mother said the door was open when she got home. Guess she forgot to lock it. The sheriff wants photos and any info we've got on whatever's missing so he can keep an eye out for it in pawn shops and such."

"That's it?" Isabel demanded. "That's all he's going to do?"

"That's about all he can do, honey," Philip answered.

"That's okay, Dad," Max said quickly. "We understand."

"Okay, well....I'll be with your mom. She's still pretty upset."

Max waited until Philip was out of earshot before rounding on Isabel. "What was all that about?"

"I just think it's interesting that Valenti isn't doing much," Isabel said.

"We don't want him to do much," Max said pointedly. "We don't want him around here, and we don't want him to find whoever did this because—"

"Because maybe he did this," Isabel whispered fiercely. "Ever think of that? Who was chasing us, Max? We don't know. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was Valenti, and he broke in here and took the files."

Max was quiet for a moment. "Maybe," he said finally. "But like you said, we don't know."

"But that would explain why he came right in here and started needling us," Isabel persisted. "And that comment about your room being more torn up than the rest of the house? And about me checking your room first? If he did it, that all makes sense."

"Yeah, I guess it would," Max agreed. "But we still can't prove it."

"But Dad might be able to," Isabel said. She paused, gazing out the door after their father. "We should tell him."

"No, we shouldn't," Max said deliberately. "We shouldn't tell anyone anything."

"Oh, right," Isabel deadpanned. "Which is why you didn't tell Liz, and she didn't tell Maria."

"Both of which you objected to, so you should be the first one agreeing to not tell anyone else," Max noted.

"Well, maybe you've opened the floodgates," Isabel argued. "And besides, this is different. Someone broke into our house! What if Mom or Dad had been here? What if they'd gotten hurt? This is dangerous now, so they should know."

"It's dangerous either way, but it'll be a lot less dangerous if they don't know," Max said. "Whoever did this wasn't after Mom and Dad, or even me—they were careful to do it when no one was home, and careful to make it look like an ordinary robbery."

"All the more reason I think it was Valenti," Isabel insisted. "And I think Mom and Dad should know that the sheriff in this town does stuff like this."

"We're not telling them, Isabel," Max said firmly. "I know you hate lying to Mom—"

"I hate lying to both of them, Max."

"Well, hate it or not, we're not telling them, and that's final."

Isabel gave a snort of annoyance and stalked out of her brother's room. He could be so pig-headed sometimes. It was one thing to keep something from your parents when it didn't affect them, but this did affect them—their house had just been robbed, even if the robbers hadn't been looking for what her parents thought they were. She thought the safety argument had been a good one, but Max, of course, had shot it down. Fine for him to tell Miss Bookworm and her Freaky Friend, but he didn't even want to tell their own parents. Talk about backwards. Still fuming, she rounded the corner into her bedroom and nearly collided with someone.

"Grandma! When did you get here?"

"I brought your father home from work," Grandma Dee said, hastily closing a dresser drawer. "His car was in the shop today. I was just....helping him make a list of what's been taken. Did you lose anything?"

"Not unless you count my marbles," Isabel sighed, sinking down on the bed. "No, no, I'm fine," she added when her Grandmother sat down beside her with a worried look on her face. "I'm just....rattled. And nothing was taken. At least not in here."

"You look exhausted, honey," Grandma said, patting her hand. "Your mother said you were up late studying, but looking at you now, I'd swear you were up all night."

Without warning, Isabel's eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She was so on edge, so tired, and now this. It was too much. "I'm sorry," she said, swiping at her eyes. "You're right, I'm tired, and....it's just been a long day. A really long day. God, it seems like all my days are long now, every single one of them. I just want to go back to......to....."

"The way it was before?" Grandma finished gently.

Isabel nodded wordlessly, certain that if she tried to speak, she'd burst into tears. Grandma pulled her down gently, and Isabel stretched out on the bed with her head in her grandmother's lap, her eyes squeezed shut. The way it was before. If only Grandma knew how very much she'd hit the nail right on the head. Right now she'd give anything to go back to the way it was before, when no one knew what they were, no one was following them, and no one was breaking into their house.

"Just let it go for a minute," Grandma said softly, one hand stroking Isabel's hair. "Your father's list can wait. He's not even giving it to the sheriff until tomorrow."

Isabel's eyes flew open. "Grandma?" she whispered. "Can I ask you something really strange?"

"You can ask me anything, Isabel. You know that."

"But this is really weird. Really, really weird."

" 'Anything' includes both 'weird' and 'really really weird'."

"Promise you won't tell?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

Isabel closed her eyes briefly; maybe this would be easier to say that way. "Okay. What if....what if it was the sheriff who broke into our house?"

"Then the sheriff would be breaking the very laws he's sworn to uphold," Grandma said. "And it would be difficult to prove because he'd be very good at covering his tracks, not to mention that he's the one heading up the investigation into the break-in."

A cloud lifted as Isabel was suddenly overcome with a wave of affection for her Grandmother. No protests, no exclamations of dismay, no announcements that she was nuts. Just simple, forthright answers. That was Grandma.

"Is there a reason you would think the sheriff was behind this?" Grandma asked.

Isabel shook her head quickly. "No. I just....it just popped into my head. You know, something along the lines of, 'who watches the watchers'. Maybe it was something I saw on TV."

"Well, whatever it was, I can tell you this," Grandma said. "I knew Sheriff Valenti's father pretty well because I grew up here. I don't know his son as well, but I'd bet the rent that neither of them would do something like this. They're persistent, and stubborn, and absolutely determined to get to the bottom of things...but not like this. I doubt Sheriff Valenti did this, but I'd imagine he wants to know who did every bit as much as we do."

"Right," Isabel nodded. "You're right. It was a stupid idea."

"Of course it wasn't," Grandma declared. "It was just an idea, that's all." She paused, the hand that had been stroking Isabel's hair dipping lower. "What's this?"

Isabel sat up quickly. She hadn't realized that Atherton's pendant had fallen out of her shirt when she'd laid down. "Just something I got at the mall," she said, tucking it back inside.

"It's pretty," Grandma said. "May I see it?"

Unable to come up with a good reason to say 'no', Isabel pulled the pendant out. "That's very unique," Grandma commented. "How did it break?"

"I....don't know," Isabel stammered. "Maybe I hit it on something."

"Or maybe it was broken when you bought it," Grandma said. "This is why I always save my receipts for at least a month after I buy anything."

"I couldn't take this back even if I wanted to," Isabel murmured.

"Sorry?"

"I....I said I don't want to take it back," Isabel said. "I like it anyway."

"I can see why," Grandma said thoughtfully. "It looks good on you." She stood up. "I should get back to work before your father fires me," she said dryly. "And I thought I was officious." She bent over Isabel, one hand on her shoulder. "Here's hoping life will be quieter in the future. And if it isn't, you always know where to find me."

"Thanks, Grandma," Isabel whispered.

"You're very welcome, dear. Oh, hello, Max," she added when Max appeared in the doorway. "You've both had quite a day."

"Yeah," Max agreed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"If either of you find anything missing, let me know before your mother, would you? She's not doing so well."

"Sure thing," Max nodded.

Isabel tucked the necklace back into her shirt before Max noticed it. "I was wrong before," she said after Grandma had left. "About telling Mom and Dad. We shouldn't tell them."

"Glad you see it my way," Max said.

"We should tell Grandma."

Max blinked. "What?"

"You heard me, Max," Isabel said firmly. "Grandma's a rock. She's practical like Dad, but not so strict, and she doesn't fall apart like Mom does. And she can keep her mouth shut. Like when Kyle's friends beat you up. She just cleaned you up and kept your secret. She's the one to tell."

Max shook his head. "Weren't you the one all worried about safety? And now you want to tell an old lady. I meant what I said; we're not telling anyone." He glanced down the hallway. "I told Michael we'd meet him at the Crashdown. Let's give Dad a few more minutes before we leave."




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




The Crater Motel,

Roswell




After what seemed like forever, the door finally opened, and Kathleen Topolsky pushed her way past a bemused Agent Moss into the room. "Where the hell were you?" she demanded. "I've been knocking for five straight minutes."

"I was in the can," Moss said.

"For that long?"

"You wanted to watch me pee?"

"Very funny. Did you get it?"

"Yeah, we got it," Moss answered. "Wasn't much to get."

"Please tell me you covered your tracks."

"Like you did when you whacked the sheriff?"

"Yes, like I did when I 'whacked' the sheriff," Topolsky retorted. "My 'whacking' him prevented him from seeing me or apprehending the suspects. If I'd only 'whacked' him a little faster, I might have apprehended them myself."

"Okay, okay," Moss said, holding up a hand. "Just yanking your chain a bit. Don't worry, we made it look like a run-of-the-mill break-in."

Topolsky's eyes bulged. "You....what? They know you were there?"

"Look, we didn't know exactly what we were looking for, and we didn't have a lot of time," Moss argued. "We had to move fast, so we couldn't be neat. Turns out the boy had it all under his bed, if only we'd looked there first. But hey, we got a nice TV, and some pretty pearls—"

"Where is it?" Topolsky interrupted.

Moss gestured. "Over there."

Topolsky glanced at the bed, which held a foot high stack of papers. "Is that it?"

"All we found."

"Have you looked them over?"

"Not yet."

"Get me a chair."

Topolsky's heart began to pound as she sank into the chair and pulled the stack toward her. She'd been denied her right to go through Atherton's secret room, but she would not be denied this little piece of it. Stevens probably didn't want her to, but he hadn't ordered her not to. His bad.

Forty-five minutes later, she pushed them away and put her head in her hands. Nothing. That was all she'd found: Nothing. The kids had taken a mishmashed handful of carbon copies and cast-offs that dated from the late forties to the mid-fifties, most of which were supply requisitions, pay stubs, and other office detritus. Some of this might be fascinating to those searching for an alien conspiracy, but absolutely none of it was news to a Unit agent already familiar with the alien conspiracy. If this small pile was representative of the rest of Atherton's stash, Stevens was right; it was useless.

"Coffee?"

A cup appeared at her right elbow. Wordlessly, Topolsky took the cup from Moss, who sat down on the bed next to her.

"I'm sorry about the chain yanking bit," he said at length.

"Yeah, right," Topolsky said, unconvinced. "I just love being the Unit's only female agent. I received the same training as you did. I passed the same tests as you did. What would you have done if Valenti had walked in on you?"

"I would have knocked him senseless."

"Oh, I see. It's okay if a man does it."

Moss shrugged. "Pretty much."

"Great," Topolsky muttered. "Just great."

"Look, Kathy—"

"Agent Topolsky. That's agent to you."

"Right. Agent Topolsky....whatever's in that pile or not in that pile, it doesn't matter. Those kids went there, and you tracked them. Stevens is gonna forget that unless you remind him. You got us closer, but don't expect him to pat you on the back for that because he didn't get everything he wanted. He's a guy; that's how he works. You're gonna have to drive the point home that he's still closer than he was before, and he has you to thank for it. You gals, you talk and collaborate and all that happy stuff. Guys, we yell. That's what we do."

Topolsky smiled faintly. "Is that your guy-to-guy advice?"

"No. That's my agent-to-agent advice."

Topolsky dropped her eyes. "Thanks."

"No problem. And don't you worry. We're getting closer, and they're getting sloppier. It won't be long now."




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Glad to see you back, sir," Hanson said as Valenti walked by. "I've got quite a pile for you. There's—"

"Later," Valenti said shortly. "Yes, I know I've been out all day. And since I've been out all day, what's another half hour, right?"

Valenti didn't bother to wait for a reply, taking the stairs as quickly as he dared, one hand on the banister. The dizziness had largely abated unless he moved too quickly; the long drive home from Marathon had been advantageous if only because it had kept him in one position for a prolonged period of time. The headache, however, was still pounding away, and as Valenti neared his office, he felt the goose egg on the back of his head, pulled his hand away, and held his breath. No blood. There had never been any blood, but given the way his head was pounding, it always felt like there should be. Blood or no blood, he was mighty grateful to sink into his chair, and not just because he was about to fall over. Blackwood had knocked on his door with news of the Evans break-in only seconds after he'd done something his father had never managed to do : ID the body of the man with the silver handprint. The book he'd borrowed from the UFO center was still on his desk, and he positioned the photo of the corpse beside it once more, holding his breath. Had he been dreaming?

He hadn't. The copies found on Michael Guerin had been fuzzy, but the photograph of James Atherton on the book's dust jacket was anything but. I did it, Dad, Valenti thought wistfully. That corpse had haunted his father for years, and his efforts to identify it had been unsuccessful, databases not being as robust in '59 as they were in '99. The irony was that it had been mainly good old-fashioned police work seasoned with a dash of guessing and a pinch of luck which had enabled him to do what his father could not. And just like with his father, the FBI had interfered, leaving him with only these photos and a whole lot of questions.

Not this time, Valenti thought grimly. This time the Bureau was messing with a different Valenti, so this time things were going to be different. Just as soon as he could see straight, it was time to pay a visit to the lovely Miss Topolsky and make that very, very clear.



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


Here's wishing everyone who celebrates Thanksgiving a happy Turkey Day, and I'll be back in 2 weeks on Sunday, December 5, with Chapter 18.