Roswell Fanatics

Misha: Sorry I haven't replied to your e-mail--school is starting for both my kids, and it's been awfully confusing around here lately. But to answer your question about the "dozen bullet holes", Urza was indeed shot multiple times before Dee pulled him back into the ship. She didn't do any official bullet hole counts, just noted that Urza had been hit with many more bullets than the single one that initially hit Valeris when the ship was first discovered. Later that day Valeris was also shot multiple times by a panicked soldier, but you're right that Dee never saw that attack, although she did learn about it later.






CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED


May 23, 1949, 9:15 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



Brivari heard the footsteps approaching long before the appearance of his visitor. Indians were capable of almost the same level of silence as Covari, but River Dog and his father had adopted the habit of abandoning their stealth as they neared his cave, a practice which functioned much like the Proctor's "doorbell". A minute later he was able to analyze the gait, which identified his visitor.

"Greetings," Brivari said to Quanah as the latter stood just outside the cave entrance.

"To you as well, Nasedo," Quanah replied, stepping into the cave. Both he and River Dog knew that Brivari preferred to remain inside the cave at night. "I bring you urgent news from your kinsman who has passed on."

Brivari sighed inwardly and gestured to the other side of the small fire he had lit. He would have much preferred a smokeless option to provide light, but that involved the use of his abilities and would invite all sorts of inconvenient questions. Even Quanah's now frequent invitations to his table had not quelled the fears of some in the village, so it would not be wise to appear so obviously "different".

"And what is this news?" Brivari asked.

"He grows anxious for you to visit as soon as possible," Quanah announced.

And I considered it, Brivari thought. He had observed what Quanah's people referred to as the "sweat" many times since Quanah had delivered the message that could only have come from Valeris. Like many such rituals, it involved a great deal of noise, copious amounts of smoke, and the assistance of some kind of drug gleaned from local flora known as "cacti", which was both added to the fire for inhalation and ingested. A hallucinogen, Brivari had thought the first time he had observed its effects. He had no idea what effect such a substance might have on his Covari physiology, and was unwilling to take the risk of being compromised with two hunters still on the loose. Eventually it became a moot point, as he had attributed Quanah's knowledge of the message to the only rational explanation he could think of: The Proctor's child must have spoken of it to Quanah's children, a notion he admittedly found hard to accept given her usual discretion. But accept it he had, especially given the implications of the alternative—were it actually possible to speak with Valeris, it was very likely that Valeris would wind up telling him things he would rather not know. Some things were best left alone.

"There is more," Quanah said. "Danger approaches our village, a danger which envelops you as well."

"Danger?" Brivari echoed sharply. Of all the messages Quanah had delivered from "beyond", none had been warnings. "What kind of danger?"

"My grandfather did not know, but he feels your kinsman knows its source. You should contact your kinsman immediately."

"Have there been any strangers in your village recently?" Brivari asked. "Anyone from the military? Anyone asking questions?"

"No," Quanah answered. "No one. And we would certainly recognize anyone who does not belong here."

"I see," Brivari murmured, leaning back against the cave wall with resignation.

Quanah stared at him across the fire. "You know the danger of which your kinsman speaks, don't you?"

Unfortunately, Brivari thought heavily. If strangers of any variety would be noticed in the village, that left him with the disturbing option of strangers who would not be noticed, strangers capable of appearing as anyone so as not to arouse suspicion....and that was not impossible. In the months since the last hunter's death, Brivari and the two remaining hunters had played a macabre sort of tag, first one chasing the other, then reversing positions. It was a dangerous, frustrating game, made all the more difficult by the fact that the hunters now hunted as a pair, separating only rarely and for short periods of time. This made it more difficult for them to locate him because they covered less ground, but also made it more difficult for Brivari; since he couldn't handle two hunters at once, picking them off one at a time was a necessity. Several times he'd thought he had a single hunter in a compromising position only to have the second reappear, and several times the hunters had chased him, only to lose the trail. Three times he had avoided returning to the cave for several days because he was uncertain as to whether he'd managed to throw the hunters off; the last time had been only two weeks ago. I lost them, Brivari thought fiercely. I know I lost them.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need more details," Brivari answered, reminding himself that this latest prediction, like all such predictions, was vague. "Perhaps you could ask your grandfather to question my....'kinsman' further."

"He tried," Quanah answered. "Your kinsman would not elaborate. My grandfather suspects that he fears an answer would prejudice us against you."

Vague again. Brivari shook his head slightly, amazed that he had ever considered attempting to "talk" to a dead man. This information was so vague, it could have been brought on by Quanah's own fears, or the absorbed fears of his people. Certainly the medicine man still disapproved of Brivari's presence, standing outside his "wickiup" and scowling whenever Brivari visited.

"Why do you resist?" Quanah asked gently. "Do you fear what your kinsman would say? Many do."

"I fear the effects of whatever agent is added to the fire in the sweat lodge and ingested by many of the participants," Brivari answered, dodging Quanah's question.

"Peyote?" Quanah asked. "Some overdo, I admit. I suspect they soar well past the realm of our ancestors and go somewhere else entirely," he continued with a chuckle. "Myself, I find the tiny amounts in the smoke from the fire serve to place me in the right frame of mind to commune with the ancestors. I do not ingest it, and you needn't either."

"The behavior of those who do ingest it can be alarming," Brivari noted. "If you truly believe that danger approaches, it would not be wise to render me senseless."

Quanah smiled. "I was in the sweat lodge less than an hour ago, speaking with my grandfather. When I heard his message, I left immediately and came here. You know the distance I traveled. Would I have been able to do that if I were 'senseless'?" He shook his head. "The miniscule amounts of peyote in the fire will not harm you, and your kinsman's desire to speak with you is so strong that I doubt you would need to ingest it anyway. Please reconsider. I suspect he misses you terribly. He refers to you often as 'old friend'."

Old friend. Brivari worked hard to keep the shock off his face as his doubts once again suffered a direct hit. Valeris had indeed addressed him as "old friend" on a regular basis. While it was possible, however improbable, that the Proctor's child had divulged the contents of Valeris's message to Quanah's children, even she had not known how Valeris usually addressed him; only the four Warders would know that. Jaddo was captive, and Brivari sincerely doubted that Urza would dare address him as "old friend" even from the supposed beyond....which left only one explanation, fantastic as it may seem.

"Attend with me tomorrow night," Quanah coaxed. "I will accompany you, and guarantee your safety." He leaned forward, his face coming into sharper relief in the firelight. "What say you?"



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



Proctor residence



"Time for bed," David Proctor announced from the doorway to Dee's bedroom. "Want me to tuck you in?"

Dee was kneeling on the bench in front of her window, elbows propped on the windowsill, chin in hands. Now that she was ten—almost eleven, really—she'd gotten a little iffy about the whole being-tucked-in-by-a-parent bit. Once or twice a week, she declined, and those were the nights he and Emily felt the passage of time most keenly. As much as he enjoyed watching his daughter grow up, there were some things he was really going to miss.

"You know what I think is weird?" Dee asked, ignoring his earlier question.

"No," David answered, sitting down beside her on the bench. "What?"

"How something can be so important to you that it's practically all you think about....and then it isn't. And then you stop thinking about it until something suddenly reminds you of it. And then you realize you haven't thought about it in a long time....and that's weird, because it used to be all you thought about."

David smiled slightly. No-tuck-in nights were usually replaced with bedtime-discussion nights, a fair trade if you asked him. "So are you going to tell me what this 'something' is, or are you going to make me guess?" he asked.

"We stopped at Chambers today after school," Dee answered. "Mrs. Chambers had a poster up. There's going to be a 'Crash Festival' in Roswell this summer. On July 7th, the day the Army found the ship."

"I see," David murmured. "And what does one do at a 'crash festival'?"

"Mrs. Chambers told us they're going to crash a cardboard spaceship. She made alien dolls to go in the spaceship, and she wanted advice on how to make them look dead."

Ouch, David winced. His daughter had seen more than he had that day—a lot more. And this subject had indeed not come up for a very long while, all being quiet on both the alien and Army fronts. "That must have been hard to listen to," he said gently.

"It was," Dee admitted. "But I'm glad I was there with them at the end. I'm glad they weren't alone. That's worth it being hard."

David nodded, glad to hear her say that so matter-of-factly. She had made her peace with what had happened, and her part in it. Difficult as it had been and still was, she still felt it had been worth the effort. He felt the same way; going to war had been hard, hard on all of them, but stopping Hitler had made it worth it. Even Emily knew that, despite her objection to his volunteering.

But worth it or not, David still couldn't believe that his daughter had stood quietly by and said nothing. "Dee," he began, "I know it wasn't any fun to listen to that, but you really can't—"

"I know, I know," she interrupted with a sigh. "I can't blame them. They don't know what happened, can't know what happened. It's just a story to them."

"Right," David said doubtfully, "but why am I still waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

"Well....I might have made a suggestion to Mrs. Chambers," Dee said, shooting him a sideways glance. "Just a little one."

David's eyebrows rose. "What kind of suggestion?"

"That she put in lots of bullet holes and a big puddle of oil for blood."

"Good Lord," David muttered, shaking his head. "I'll bet that went over well."

"I'm sorry, Daddy, but I couldn't help it! You should have seen those dolls....they looked just like them. Except for the feet. Everybody makes the feet too big."

"I'm surprised Mrs. Chambers got that wrong," David chuckled, wrapping an arm around his daughter and ruffling her hair. "Her gossip network is pretty reliable. Look, I'm sure we won't be going to this festival, so you won't have to see whatever they're going to do. You'll just have to put up with people talking about it."

"Anthony knew I was upset, so he and I are going to do something else that night," Dee announced.

"Good," David smiled, mentally noting that Anthony was playing the same role with Dee that David played with Emily, that of the counterweight that kept the scale balanced. Dee would need someone like that when the time came for her to—no, he thought, mentally pushing the idea away. He was just getting used to not tucking her in all the time. Thoughts of marriage could wait.

"I haven't thought about that day for ages," Dee was saying from the crook of his arm. "And today, it was like it happened yesterday. I saw those dolls and it all came back, all the bullets and the blood." She paused. "Is that what it was like when you came back from the war? Like you'd forget, and then remember?"

"Very much like that," David answered, "but I think it's worse for you. You're still right here, right where everything happened. I'm not overseas anymore, so there's less to remind me. But something does come up every now and then that brings it back. I just got a letter from one of the men in my unit that made me remember a few things I'd rather not."

"The one from Tucson?"

"Tucson?" David frowned. "No. Jack is from Detroit."

"Well, you got a letter from someone in Tucson," Dee said. "I saw the postmark."

"Guess I'd better go read it then," David said lightly. "Time for bed."

"Tuck me in?"

"You bet," David smiled.

Five minutes later he was downstairs at the little table by the door where the mail was stacked. It was three envelopes down, addressed in the same chiseled handwriting as the first note had been. As he unfolded the letter inside, a photograph fell out, fluttering to the floor at his feet, and David bent to retrieve it. Charles Dupree cut quite the dashing figure in a tuxedo, and his bride was lovely. Charlie and Ada Jane, 1949 was inscribed on the back, this time in a woman's handwriting.

David read the letter three times, about how Charles had been married three weeks ago on a lovely May day. He'd inherited his family's business, his father having died recently, and come into a considerable amount of money. "I've got the business to run, and Ada Jane and I want kids, so I have to be a responsible family man now," he wrote. "No time for chasing aliens. No reason to either. I'm a lucky man."

"So you are," David murmured, staring at the photograph, noticing for the first time the large house in the background and the broad smile on Charles's face. He was delighted to see Charles so prosperous and happy; perhaps he should write back. He'd never responded to the last note, the one that had come packaged with a healing stone now hidden in a drawer upstairs and delivered at such a tumultuous time, but now....now it seemed appropriate that he reply. He turned the envelope over, but there was no return address, nor was there any mention of an address in the letter. David puzzled over that for a moment before it hit him. He doesn't want me to write back, he realized. Charles had wanted David to know that he was okay, that he was moving on with his life as he had promised, but he didn't want to hear from David. David represented a part of his life he was trying to forget. A note from him would be a reminder of how they'd met, of why Charles had felt the urge to write in the first place. And Charles didn't want to be reminded, any more than Dee had wanted to be reminded earlier today.

David carefully wrapped the photograph inside the letter and placed both back in the envelope. Back when he and Charles had been meeting at the tavern, he'd been determined to corner Brivari and demand an explanation for what had happened to Charles. Now he was glad he hadn't. He was pretty sure he wouldn't like what he heard, and what difference did it make now anyway? Charles was right—with his new wife, new home, and new business, he was a lucky man. And so was David, having returned safely from the war to a family and neighborhood he loved. Perhaps it was best to leave well enough alone. Some questions were best left unanswered.



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


Mescalero Indian Reservation



When he returned from his visit to Nasedo's cave, Quanah was surprised to find his son waiting outside their house wearing a worried expression. "What is it?" Quanah asked.

"Inside," River Dog answered, gesturing toward the front door. "They're waiting for you."

Mystified, Quanah went inside to find three members of the governing council and Itza-chu gathered around his kitchen table. "What is this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Quanah," one of the council members replied, nodding courteously. "We apologize for the late hour. We have—"

"Do you intend to invite the stranger to the sweat lodge?" Itza-chu interrupted bluntly, rising to his feet.

Quanah's eyebrows rose also. "Please," said another of the council members, all of whom were looking distinctly uneasy. "Itza-chu, sit down. We agreed we would not approach this as a confrontation."

"You 'agreed'?" Quanah echoed sharply. "So—now you have clandestine meetings behind my back?"

"You are avoiding the subject," Itza-chu snapped.

"As are you," Quanah retorted.

"Brothers," rumbled the third council member, an elderly man by the name of Kanseah. "Enmity serves no purpose. Quanah, we have concerns we would share with you. Will you hear us?"

Quanah looked around the table, his eyes resting on each face in turn. "Since there are only three council members present, I gather you do not speak for the entire council?"

"We wished to keep this private," Kanseah replied.

Quanah snorted. "More likely Itza-chu was unable to sway the remaining members, which is why you are in my house instead of council chambers. I will hear you," he added, taking a seat as Itza-chu smoldered across the table from him, "but I very much dislike being ambushed in my own home. River Dog," he added, addressing his son who stood behind them, all ears. "Leave us."

Kanseah waited until River Dog had reluctantly left the room before speaking again. "I offer my apologies for the manner of our approach," he said gravely to Quanah. "Time was of the essence. Now, I must ask that you answer Itza-chu's question: Do you intend to invite the visitor to the sweat?"

"I have already done so," Quanah answered.

Sharp intakes of breath all around. "And has he accepted your invitation?" Kanseah continued.

"He has."

"I see," Kanseah murmured, as worried glances were exchanged. "In that case, I would—"

"He must be stopped!" Itza-chu burst out. "There is no telling what will befall us if the stranger is allowed to visit the dead!"

"Please," Kanseah said soothingly, "calm yourself. We don't know—"

"We know enough!" Itza-chu interrupted angrily. "We know the stranger is dangerous, and Quanah's faith in him a product of blind gratitude."

"We know no such thing," Kanseah said firmly, "nor will I tolerate—"

"Do not trouble yourself," Quanah broke in, never taking his eyes off Itza-chu. "Let the Great Hawk speak. Perhaps he will exhaust himself with his constant screeching, and we will all enjoy a few minutes peace."

Kanseah suppressed a smile as the two other council members chuckled openly. Itza-chu glared at Quanah, who returned his stare unperturbed. It was no secret that the visitor represented a long-standing quarrel between them. Quanah's friendship with Nasedo had rankled the medicine man for months now.

"You may speak," Kanseah said to Itza-chu, "but tread carefully. This is not a trial."

Itza-chu's eyes flashed at the rebuke, but when he spoke, his voice was more measured. "Seventeen months ago," he began, "children found a stranger in our woods, a wounded stranger being hunted by we know not what. I sensed immediately that he was not of this world, that danger stalked him. We were foolish to allow him into our woods, more foolish still to allow him into our village. Allowing him to commune with the spirits is suicide."

"He wishes to contact his dead kin," Quanah said impatiently. "I fail to see how assisting him in that endeavor constitutes 'suicide'."

"What if he has some kind of influence over the spirits?" one of the council members said nervously. "Suppose he turns them against us?"

"When I first suggested that Nasedo might be a mountain spirit, you all thought me mad," Quanah noted. "I gather you have abandoned the notion that he is flesh and blood?"

"We do not know what he is," Kanseah admitted, "which is precisely why we are worried. He may be either flesh and blood, or spirit....and there are different kinds of spirits."

"You think he is an evil spirit?" Quanah asked. "On what grounds?"

An uncomfortable silence followed. Even Itza-chu said nothing, and looked decidedly unhappy at having nothing to say. "I don't follow," Quanah said, shaking his head in amazement. "In all the time he has been here, Nasedo has not raised his hand against us. He has respected our reticence and kept to himself, not to mention the fact that he saved the lives of my children."

"Yes, but how did he save your children?" asked a council member. "The story your son tells is strange indeed."

"And what of it?" Quanah demanded. "Is understanding required for gratitude? Our people do not understand how the mountain spirits perform their miracles. Does that make those miracles any less real?"

"The lives of your children are precious," Kanseah assured him. "We understand that you are grateful, and we share your joy at their good fortune. Nevertheless, the odd nature of their rescue reveals this 'Nasedo' as a being of great power. Great power can be used in many ways....not all of them good."

"He does not see," Itza-chu said stubbornly, "because he does not wish to. His gratitude blinds him."

"My gratitude guides me," Quanah countered, "as does the evidence of my own eyes. A man is known by his deeds. What deeds of Nasedo's lead you to believe he wishes us ill?"

"But what of those who pursue him?" one of the council members asked. "What if they should find him here? What if they object to our harboring him?"

"They are close," Itza-chu murmured, closing his eyes. "I can feel them."

For just a moment, Quanah's resolve faltered. "I can feel them...." For all his paranoia, Itza-chu truly did have senses others lacked. Nasedo's kin and Quanah's own grandfather had warned of danger; was the approach of those who pursued Nasedo the danger they spoke of? Did Itza-chu sense that danger too? Or perhaps he was just saying that to further his own agenda?

"If those who pursue Nasedo are indeed nearby, then we would be most unwise to alienate him now," Quanah said. "If their presence poses a danger, we may need him—along with all of his strangeness—in order to fend them off."

Murmurs of dismay sounded around the table. "We should never have allowed him to stay in our woods!" exclaimed a council member. "He is not like us! There's no telling what he does when we're not watching! What if—"

"Enough!" Quanah snapped. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves! Look at how our people are treated, how we are shunted away from 'normal people' because we are different. Look at the ridiculous stories that are told of us conducting human sacrifice and drinking the blood of infants! If anyone should know the pain of being 'other', it is us....and yet we sit here sounding just like the white man."

Silence. Kanseah appeared troubled. The council members looked abashed. Itza-chu merely scowled.

"I will hear no more of this without proof," Quanah continued, rising to his feet. "I have invited Nasedo to attend the sweat tomorrow night as my guest, and he has accepted. Those of you who disagree should not attend, lest you pollute the ceremony with your negative energy. We have too much of that already."

No one said a word as Quanah walked to the front door and opened it. "We are done here," he said firmly. "Good night."

Slowly, those seated at the table rose and left the house; Itza-chu stalked out, the two council members scurried out, their eyes on the floor, and Kanseah briefly put his hand on Quanah's shoulder and smiled before leaving.

"Father?" said a voice behind him.

"They have gone," Quanah said to his eldest son without turning around, still watching Itza-chu's progress toward his wickiup.

"Do you believe what they said about Nasedo?" River Dog asked. "Do you think he's evil?"

"No," Quanah replied, closing the door and sighing heavily as he sank into a chair. "I do not. But I do not know for certain what he is or his purpose here, or what he flees. I cannot disagree that there might be danger."

"I do not believe he is evil," River Dog said stoutly.

"I know," Quanah smiled. "And my invitation to the sweat stands. Perhaps the way to learn more about our visitor is to not keep him at such a distance."

"I will attend the sweat too," River Dog announced.

"No, you will not," Quanah said firmly, holding up a hand to stem the tide of objection. "There may be trouble, and that trouble may come from our own people. I do not want you involved. My decision is final."

"Yes, father," River Dog sulked.

"One thing I do know," Quanah added darkly, ignoring his son's disappointment. "The next time Itza-chu wishes to speak with me, he should come to me directly instead of following me into the woods and then sneaking back here for a secret meeting when he is discovered."

"Following you?" River Dog echoed. "What do you mean?"

"Itza-chu tried to follow me to Nasedo's cave," Quanah explained. "He could have just asked me about my intentions, but instead he trailed me like a thief in the night. I almost confronted him about that tonight, and then decided to do so privately, a courtesy he did not grant me."

"Father," River Dog said slowly, "I don't know who was following you, but it wasn't Itza-chu."

"How do you know that?" Quanah asked sharply.

"Because he arrived only moments after you left for the cave, and remained until you returned. You hadn't even entered the woods yet—I could still see you through the window."

"Are you certain?" Quanah asked, puzzled. "Are you absolutely certain Itza-chu was here right after I left?"

"Yes," River Dog answered. "And he never left. He sent a messenger to the council members, and they arrived shortly before you did. Is.....is anything wrong?"

"No," Quanah said quickly. "Nothing. I was just certain.....I probably imagined it," he added. "It's probably nothing."

"Probably," River Dog agreed.

Someone followed me, Quanah thought privately, a prickle of fear creeping into his bones. I heard them. And not just any someone; someone with Itza-chu's gait, something very hard to copy. Who could it have been? Was this the danger his grandfather had spoken of? Someone capable of copying another's gait that expertly would be dangerous indeed.

Quanah shook his head as he rose from his chair. He would keep this to himself for the time being. There was no telling what it meant, and fevered minds might make more of it than they should. He was now very grateful that he had not publicly accused Itza-chu of following him into the woods; the medicine man's subsequent denial would have made the others even more suspicious of Nasedo than they were already. And maybe they should be, Quanah thought uneasily as he stared out into the black night. Maybe I should be.




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

I'll post Chapter 101 next Sunday.

Hi Misha! I still owe you an e-mail. I'm getting there, I promise!

Misha wrote:And what the heck is wrong with Valeris? Couldn't he pass a criptic message and be over with it??

Well, he did pass along a very vague message that didn't say much. Maybe he's afraid detail would be a little too revealing. Or maybe he really wants to see Brivari again. Or maybe Quanah's imagining the whole thing.

Of course, there's always the possibility that when River Dog (in the show) said that Nasedo was tested he was refering that the sweating ceremony didn't exactly go as usual. So, for all Valeris knew, the sweating itself was not dangerous to Brivari... Or maybe I'm just reading waaaaaay too much into this... but it's fun

It is indeed. And you're right, River Dog was referring to both the sweat being a test, and the sweat not going well.

(From "The Balance": "The man who lived in this cave when I was a boy was not like us. Some of the elders believed he was an evil spirit, so they decided to test him. He was invited into the sweat, just like I invited your friend. His reaction was quick and severe. Within a minute, his eyes were white, and he developed a fever.

I saved his life. After the sweat, he ran out into the desert. And we were told not to follow him. But I was a boy, and I didn't listen. I found him in this cave, dying. He had to trust me with his secret so that I could heal him."

We're going to miss most of Dee's teenage years in the jump from Book 3 to Book 4. But being the precocious sort, she's going to hit adolescent behavior a wee bit on the early side, so we'll still get a good look at it. (Not that we haven't already been looking at it, at least occassionally. )



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ONE


May 24, 1949, 0645 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base



Sitting across from John, Yvonne watched him wolf down his breakfast with astonishing haste, a haste which apparently precluded coffee; a full cup sat untouched when it was usually the first of several consumed. Yet another measure of how much things had changed around here. "Hungry?" she asked.

*Late,* he corrected, using telepathic speech because his mouth was full.

Yvonne shook her head as she suppressed a smile. Stephen had never shown up to bring John to the hangar before 0730, but John was always impatient to be gone in the mornings, although this morning he was more impatient than usual. Imagine being impatient to be blindfolded, bound hand and foot, and waddled to another building. The universe certainly had a twisted sense of humor. Perhaps I'd feel the same if I'd been cooped up in one place for a year, she thought silently, picking at her own food as John inhaled his breakfast. And the work certainly agreed with him. She'd insisted all along that he needed something to do, and she'd been proven right in spades; John's temper had mitigated greatly since he'd begun work on the ship. He was more calm, more focused, more driven than she'd ever seen him. When he wasn't at the hangar, he was sketching designs for various repairs or reading one of the mountains of books he'd requested to familiarize himself with Earth's available technology, most of which he had dismissed as useless. Watching him attack the rebuilding of his ship with such single-minded ferocity, she could easily see how valuable he would be to a highly-placed military officer. She was probably seeing him as he really was for the first time since they'd met.

"Sergeant Keyser said you're making good progress, and that you hope to start work on the engine soon," Yvonne commented, well aware that the ship or something connected to it were the only topics of conversation John would tolerate these days. He rarely mentioned Brivari, having seen for himself that his friend was capable of not only surviving the hit squad, but picking them off as well. Malik still appeared occasionally, although he'd had nothing to report since last July, the last time any of them had seen Brivari.

"First we must repair the two largest hull breaches," John answered, able to speak out loud now because he was busy cutting his food. "We refined our repair techniques on the smaller breaches, so the larger ones should go quickly despite their size. Propulsion, or what you refer to as the 'engine', is another matter."

"Why?" Yvonne asked, noting that John had only recently begun referring to himself and Keyser as "we".

"The control crystals have been removed," John replied. "Keyser is trying to locate them, but so far, he has been unsuccessful. And the propulsion unit was damaged, but not by the crash; it appears someone tried to take it apart."

"They were probably trying to make it work," Yvonne said.

John glanced up briefly, some of the old familiar derision in his eyes. "I sincerely doubt they even realized its purpose. They fancied it some kind of weapon, from what I've heard. Keyser knew what it was," he added pointedly, illustrating why he now spoke of he and Keyser as a set.

"Not everyone's an engineer," Yvonne said defensively. "I wouldn't have known it was an engine, but I'm not stupid. I just know bodies, not machines."

John's eyebrows rose. "It was the so-called 'engineers' who thought it was a weapon."

Yvonne was on the verge of launching into a mini-lecture about how Earth's engineers should not be expected to be able to decipher alien technology on sight when she thought better of it. She saw John so little these days that the last thing she wanted to do was start an argument. General Ramey's surprise move of putting him to work on the ship had drastically altered her life. Most of the compound's personnel were assigned to security, so their days either went on pretty much the same when John was out of the compound, or became more interesting due to the need to move him back and forth. But her job was to spend time with John, something she obviously couldn't do when he wasn't there. The first few weeks of him spending five days a week at the hangar had been long and boring, making her long for the weekends when he'd be "home". She'd quickly abandoned that, however, when she saw how antsy and miserable he was on the days when he couldn't work. Weekends meant leisure time for most people, but confinement for John; he couldn't wait to get back to work on Monday, and he dreaded the loss of it on Friday.

So they had both compensated, John by busying himself planning on weekends, and Yvonne by taking advantage of the increased leeway her new circumstances afforded. More time meant more leave, and leaving the base was now as common as it had been before all this began. She spent two days a week working in the infirmary in the main building, and Dr. Pierce had assigned her to work on some research he was doing on the various blood and cell samples he still collected regularly from John. This involved working with Sergeant Brisson, who had proven a capable teacher, and to her great surprise, she found she enjoyed it. Laboratory work had always bored her, she being more of a people person, but this was fascinating. She knew she was hooked the day she became annoyed when the samples she was working on disintegrated, crumbling to dust like all alien cells eventually did when removed from the body.

"You know, you're supposed to chew that," Yvonne said dryly as John polished off the eggs on his plate at breakneck speed and finally reached for his coffee, only to grimace a moment later.

"What did you do to this?" he demanded.

" 'Do to it'?" Yvonne repeated. "What do you mean? What's wrong with it?"

"It's..."—John paused, as though unable to find the appropriate word—"....different."

"Different how?"

"If I knew that, I would elaborate," John said impatiently, abandoning the coffee and returning to his plate.

"It's a bit strong today," Yvonne said doubtfully, staring at her own half empty cup. "I can get another pot—"

"No. No time."

"John, you have plenty of time," Yvonne sighed. "Captain Spade is never here before 0730, and it's only—"

"I asked him to arrive at 0700 today," John interrupted. "Didn't you know? *Why not?* he continued when she shook her head, his mouth full once more. *I would imagine you and the Captain have more time to spend together now that I am gone as much as I am.*

No, we don't, Yvonne thought ruefully. Ramey's round of promotions had been good news for everyone, but it had also made spending time with Stephen dicier than ever. Before, they had both been Lieutenants, albeit of different grades. But with Stephen now a Captain and her still a Lieutenant, even a First Lieutenant, being seen spending too much time together off duty would be frowned upon even more than usual.

*We have to be careful about how much we're seen together,* Yvonne answered, *especially now that Stephen's a Captain.*

For some reason, this statement was interesting enough to tear John away from his breakfast plate. *What does rank have to do with it?* he asked, his fork pausing in midair.

*Army regulations frown on fraternization between personnel of the opposite sex,* Yvonne explained.

*'Fraternization'?* John repeated. *Do you mean mating?*

*Well....that would be the extreme end of fraternization,* Yvonne said awkwardly.

John pondered that in silence for a moment. *I suppose I can see that,* he said finally. *Given the risk of impregnation and the rather lengthy gestation period for human offspring, it would be prudent to only allow mating between soldiers of the same gender.*

*What? No!* Yvonne exclaimed. *That's not allowed either!*

*Why not?*

*Because...because....look,* Yvonne said in exasperation. *The point is that there are very few women in our military, and many people object to our being here at all because they think we'll be a distraction for the men. If Stephen and I start....something.....then we'll just be lending credence to those claims. And that's in addition to the fact that a senior officer isn't supposed to fraternize with a lower-ranking officer under his command.*

*Of either gender?*

*Of either gender,* Yvonne confirmed, closing her eyes briefly and praying for patience.

*But Dr. Pierce is your commander, not Captain Spade,* John noted. *And I still fail to see why same-gender mating is not allowed when it will never induce pregnancy in your species.*

Yvonne blinked. *Do you mean that other species could produce offspring between members of the same sex?*

*Of course.*

The door abruptly slid open and Stephen entered the room, looking back and forth from John to Yvonne, who still had a flabbergasted look on her face. "Wow," he said, smiling. "Looks like I caught you in the middle of something."

"We were just....talking," Yvonne said, flustered.

"About something interesting, I gather?"

"Mating," John answered shortly.

"I know you're in a hurry, so I'll be going," Yvonne said hastily, throwing an annoyed look in John's direction as Stephen's eyes widened. "Enjoy your day, and I'll see you later." *Thanks a heap,* she added severely to John. *I can just imagine what Stephen's thinking now.*

*You are missing my point,* John replied. *You have been captive here as long as I have. I now stand to gain something from my captivity—a working ship that could bring me home. You should not decline even the slightest chance to gain something from your own captivity. Especially something I know you both want.*

Yvonne felt her cheeks burning as she gathered up the breakfast dishes and headed out the door, leaving Stephen wearing a bemused expression. She would love to see more of Stephen, and they both certainly had enough off-duty hours now to do just that, but Cavitt was Stephen's CO, and Cavitt would never approve. Registering on Cavitt's radar wasn't a good idea even under the best of circumstances. Even though Ramey's rule remained unshaken, he wasn't here on a day-to-day basis. Cavitt was still perfectly capable of making their lives at least miserable, if not a lot more than that.

Besides, she thought, as she lugged the breakfast dishes up the stairs, I am gaining something from my captivity. Later this morning, she planned to put some of those many off-duty hours to good use in pursuit of the answer to a question that had been dogging her since her arrival.



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



His arms laden with papers, Sergeant Brisson shouldered open the door to Dr. Pierce's first floor office. Like Colonel Cavitt's office a few doors down, this was a two room affair, with Pierce in the inner office and space for a secretary in the outer office. Unlike Cavitt, Pierce employed no secretary, meaning that the bulk of the clerical duties fell to Brisson. Also unlike Cavitt, this office was merely a sham for the benefit of those not blessed with a sufficiently high security clearance to enter Pierce's real office in the basement. Unfortunately, even sham offices came well equipped with a load of busywork which Brisson counted among his least favorite duties. He had just dropped the towering stack of papers on the phantom secretary's desk when he heard voices.

"I don't know what else to tell you, Sheridan. I'm doing the best I can."

"It's been almost two years, Daniel. Two years! You keep telling me I need to be patient—how many years equals 'patient'?"

Brisson froze, noticing for the first time the sliver of light beneath the inner office door. What was Pierce doing here at this hour? Cavitt frequently arrived early, but Pierce was rarely here before 0700, if that.

"Last summer, you were all agog saying that she'd conceived," Cavitt's voice continued. "I haven't heard a thing from you since. I take it you haven't been able to replicate your stunning success?"

Lieutenant White. Brisson swallowed hard and crept closer to the door, praying they hadn't heard that stack of papers hit the desk.

"I'm trying," Pierce's voice answered. "When she conceived, I'd just switched to beta cells, so I assumed that's why it worked, but—"

"English, Daniel! What in the name of God is a 'beta cell'?"

A deep sigh. "Do you recall me telling you that we found two different types of reproductive cells in the aliens?"

"Vaguely."

"We named them 'alpha' and 'beta' cells, and introduced them to human ova. Some ova preferred the alphas, some the betas, some neither, some both. Some changed their preferences for no apparent reason."

"Sounds like a woman," Cavitt said sarcastically.

"However, there was no way to tell which type of cells Lieutenant White's ova preferred other than to simply try both. I used the alpha cells for seven months with no success, and then switched to the betas, at which point she promptly conceived. I've been using betas since then, but with no luck."

"Well, then switch back to the alpha-whatevers!" Cavitt said impatiently.

"But she never conceived with the alphas—"

"And she hasn't conceived with the 'betas' for almost a year now," Cavitt countered. "And if her....'ova'....do indeed change their little female minds without provocation, the 'alphas' may work now. This is simple strategy I shouldn't have to be explaining to you, for heaven's sake!"

Silence. "All right," Pierce said after a moment, "all right. I'll try the alphas again. But it's not as simple as just this or that cell. Each cell type thrives in a slightly different type of transport solution, so I'll need to vary the alkalinity—"

"Must you continue with the gory details?" Cavitt interrupted. "I simply want the prize! I don't care how you get it. What's more, I—"

But Brisson didn't hear the rest. He was on his way out the door, minus the hasty U-turn to snatch the telltale papers from the desk, fuming impatiently on the x-ray at the door to the basement, practically running down the basement hallway to the main lab, fumbling for the keys in his pocket. Once inside, he locked the door behind him and fumbled again for the key to the side room which held the liquid nitrogen tank and its precious contents. He lifted the lid, puffs of condensation billowing like steam, and removed two of the vials, one marked "Alpha", the other "Beta". Incredible. Even knowing exactly how he'd done it, he still couldn't tell that the labels had been switched.

When Brisson had finally started breathing again last summer after the alien had threatened him if anyone should hurt Lieutenant White, he'd realized that the creature had done him a favor. For months, he'd watched helplessly as Dr. Pierce pursued his dream of a human with alien powers and alien senses, at a loss for how to stop it. Openly defying Pierce was out of the question; Brisson would merely be removed and the work would continue in his absence. Telling Lieutenant White what was going on, either directly or indirectly, would most likely result in her removal to a "remote location" where she had no friends. Even telling General Ramey wasn't an option because he had virtually no evidence—it would be Brisson's word against Pierce's, and Pierce would, of course, deny everything. Watching Lieutenant White double over in pain had pained Brisson as well, but produced no brainstorms; that had taken the threat of death, delivered very effectively by the alien itself. By the time Pierce resumed the procedures two weeks later, Brisson had been ready.

The solution had been surprisingly simple: Since the Lieutenant had successfully conceived with only the beta cells, he merely needed to make certain she received no more of those. He'd switched the labels on all the vials of cells so that the betas Pierce thought he was using were really alphas, and nine months later, there had been no further conceptions. He had watched the Lieutenant carefully every month, perhaps more aware of when she would menstruate than she was. Nothing happened. Lieutenant White remained blissfully unaware of the monthly violations in her quarters, and satisfyingly unpregnant.

But for all his success, Brisson had held his breath every month precisely because of the unpredictability Pierce had been attempting to explain to Cavitt. Brisson himself had conducted most of the experiments with the human ova and alien reproductive cells, so he'd seen firsthand how the ova could change, suddenly accepting or rejecting a cell for no apparently reason. Some displayed a clear preference and stuck to it, however, and he could only hope that Lieutenant White's ova were that opinionated. So far, it appeared they were....but even stubborn cells might not be enough. Brisson had been able to switch the labels because Pierce had announced his intention to switch cells well ahead of time....but what if he didn't? Or what if he began an every-other-month rotation? Keeping track of which was which could become very confusing; at the moment, the alphas were betas and vice versa, but now that Pierce intended to use alphas, the alphas would have go back to really being alphas. It was enough to give one a headache.

Brisson spent the next fifteen minutes relabeling all the vials in the liquid nitrogen tank, scraping off the old labels and applying the new, carefully lettered to match the originals. Thank God he'd overheard that conversation upstairs. He and Pierce were not scheduled to cross paths today, and the next procedure would take place tonight; he didn't like to think of what would have happened had he not been prepared.



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



10 a.m.

Chaves County Sheriff's Station




"Every night, it takes the food! Every single night! It sneaks up with those glowing eyes and scratchy claws, and Fffft! The food's gone!"

Deputy Valenti blinked, his chin resting on his hands. "I see. And has it ever occurred to you, Mr. .... er....."

"Buckpit. Herkimer Buckpit. And this here's my wife, Wilhelmina," Mr. Buckpit said, both nodding vigorously as though expecting Valenti to disagree.

Herkimer? "Right. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Buckpit, has it ever occurred to you that it might be animals and not aliens taking the food from your back porch?"

"Naw," Buckpit scoffed. "Couldn't be. Animals never come near our back porch before."

"Animals have never come near your house which sits on six acres in the middle of nowhere?"

"Never," Buckpit insisted stoutly.

"Ever left raw steak on your back porch in the middle of the night before?"

The Buckpits exchanged blank glances. "Well.....no."

"Refresh my memory—why did you leave raw steak on your back porch?"

"We didn't until the aliens started comin'," answered Wilhelmina Buckpit in a quavery voice. "It all started with a knocked over bag of bird seed. You shoulda heard the commotion out there that night! We figured bird seed wouldn't hold'em off, so we left steak instead. Worked like a charm. They've never come in the house."

"I see," Valenti said slowly, wishing desperately that he were somewhere else, anywhere else. "So if the steak is working, what exactly is it you want from the Sheriff?"

"We want you to chase off the aliens!" Buckpit exclaimed as his wife nodded enthusiastically. "I don' mind sharin' a bit with the critters, but this is goin' on four weeks now! Steak's expensive!"

Valenti struggled to keep his expression neutral as he stared at the two earnest faces in front of him in disbelief. He'd heard every conceivable version of alien visitation, from spaceships landing in yards, to alien babies, to the real thing a la the Proctors, but this guy took the cake. He'd been feeding the local fauna raw prime rib for a month, so of course he'd decided that the impromptu barbeque on his back porch every night was due to aliens.

"Mr. Buckpit, Mrs. Buckpit," Valenti began carefully, "since the problem seems to be that the....'aliens'....like steak, have you ever considered just not leaving them any?"

"Oh, no!" Buckpit gasped as his wife's eyes widened in horror. "We couldn't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because then they'd want my woman!" Buckpit announced with appropriate indignation. "That's what I heard. They want our women! The steak makes them change their minds."

That's not the only thing that might change their minds, Valenti thought, mentally cataloging Mrs. Buckpit's missing front teeth and at least two hundred and fifty pound frame, dwarfed only by her husband's. "I can't imagine they'd be willing to trade steak for your....woman," he commented, working hard to keep a straight face.

"Well, eventually they won't be," Mr. Buckpit said, obviously distressed. "Eventually they'll realize what they're missing, and then.....and then...." He paused, overcome, as Mrs. Buckpit raised a handkerchief to her eye. "Deputy, you've got to help us," Buckpit continued when he'd gotten ahold of himself. "The govermint's keepin' this all secret, y'know. They don't want a panic. If I thought it would do any good, I'd march right down to that Army base and give them a big ol' piece of my mind!"

Can I watch? Valenti thought, trying to imagine Cavitt's reaction to all this. "We'll do everything we can, and we'll be in touch," he assured Mr. Buckpit, who nodded and rose with his weeping wife, their respective chairs creaking in relief as they left. No sooner were they around the corner then Valenti leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"Havin' fun?"

Groaning, Valenti cracked his eyes open. Alan McMahon was leaning against the wall, stuffing something or other in his mouth that didn't look like a donut. "What are you eating now?" Valenti asked irritably.

"Coffee cake," McMahon replied with his mouth full. "Want some?"

"Only if it works on headaches."

"So what'ya gonna do with them?" McMahon asked, dripping crumbs as he chewed.

"Stick a trap on their back porch and catch at least one of whatever's been eating the steak. That oughta shut'em up."

"Better hope the mister doesn't decide to take a whiz off the back porch in the wee small," McMahon chuckled. "Wonder what the missus would say if you 'caught' an alien that looked just like her husband."

That would be more accurate than most of the stories I've heard, Valenti thought. With all the tales swirling around about aliens, and they were legion, not a one had anything to do with the fact that the aliens could change their appearance, or at least make humans think they'd changed their appearance. Even the inevitable stories about those in league with aliens had gotten it wrong, riddled as usual with images of the rich and the powerful shaking long-fingered hands as they made lucrative deals with extra-terrestrials. No, the aliens' best friends were a quiet, unassuming family in a little town near Roswell, and the only thing that family seemed to have gained from their association was a whole heap of trouble.

"Tell ya what," McMahon was saying, licking coffee cake off his fingers. "Next normal complaint we get, I'll send it your way."

"Great," Valenti deadpanned. "That should show up about the middle of next month."

"I mean it," McMahon said. "I'm working the front desk today, so I'll vector the crazies somewhere else."

"You're a prince," Valenti said dryly. "I think you deserve another piece of coffee cake for that."

McMahon smiled broadly. "So do I."

"Bon appetit," Valenti muttered, closing his eyes again and putting his feet up on the desk as McMahon left. Too bad he couldn't do that, just lose himself in food and let the morons roll off him. Almost two years—two years—had passed since the "crash", and the stories just kept getting wilder and wilder despite the twin ironies that precious few had recognized true alien activity when they'd seen it, and there had been no true alien activity for the past year and half. He'd done the math just last week when he'd run into David Proctor in downtown Corona, who had stopped and chatted amiably. No one would ever have guessed that they'd both pulled guns on aliens, had both sat on opposite sides of a disintegrated alien body on the Proctor's dining room floor, had both tangled with one hell of a dangerous officer. That officer was the reason Valenti found himself almost grateful that he'd seen nothing of real aliens recently. His experience with Cavitt had left him with a very bad taste in his mouth.

The phone rang, the single ring indicating a call from another part of the station. Valenti picked it up without bothering to open his eyes.

"You ready?" McMahon's voice said, slightly indistinct because he was once again chewing.

"No. Go away."

"Aw, Jimbo, don't fret! I got a good one for you. A real good one."

"McMahon, what the hell are you talking about?" Valenti demanded.

"You can thank me later," McMahon said mysteriously.

"Excuse me?"

A female voice. Valenti opened his eyes.....and jerked his legs off the desk, sitting bolting upright and slapping the phone back into its cradle in one motion. Oh, my. After Wilhelmina Buckpit, this was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," the brown-eyed vision in the blue dress apologized. "The Deputy at the front desk sent me back here, and—"

"Don't mention it," Valenti said quickly. "It's been a long day. Can I help you?"

"I'm here about a car accident that happened two years ago that killed a friend of mine," the woman answered. "Only I don't think it was an accident." She paused. "I think someone murdered her."

Murder? Well, that was certainly different. McMahon had outdone himself, on both the subject matter and the messenger. "Have a seat," Valenti said, racing around the desk to hold the chair for the lady, praying that chair would hold up after being assaulted by a Buckpit. "I'm Deputy Valenti. And you would be Miss....?"

"White," the woman said. "Yvonne White."


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

I'll post Chapter 102 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading! *wave*




CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWO



May 24, 1949, 10:20 a.m.

Chaves County Sheriff's Station



"Osorio," Valenti said, dropping the file on his desk as he recalled the feisty lady reporter he'd escorted from the crash site nearly two years ago. "Elizabeth A., 28. Reporter, Fort Worth Star Telegram. Found in her car on Thursday, July 10, 1947 at approximately 5:30 a.m. off Highway 70 in a ditch. Cause of death: Blunt trauma to the head, most likely from impact with the steering wheel." He looked up. "Sounds like an accident, Miss White."

"Of course it does," she answered. "Do you know many murderers who don't do their best to cover their tracks?"

"And you think Miss Osorio was murdered....why?"

"Two days before Betty died, she and I met at a restaurant in Roswell," Miss White replied. "I gave her some sensitive information which she planned to publish. She died two days later, and most of what I told her died with her."

"What kind of sensitive information?" Valenti asked.

"I'd rather not say," Miss White said evasively.

Valenti consulted the file again. " 'Estimated time of death: Four to seven hours before discovery', so anywhere from 10:30 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. on the night of July 9th. Looks like she was heading northeast on 70, so she may have been headed back to Fort Worth."

Miss White leaned forward in her chair. "I believe Betty didn't feel safe in Roswell, and she was either on her way back home or looking for a more secure place to contact her office. And they got to her first."

" 'They'? Who's 'they'?"

Miss White stared at him a moment, as trying to decide whether or not to trust him. "I'd rather not say at this point," she said finally.

Valenti smiled faintly. "So—I've got what looks for all the world like a car accident, only you think it's murder because you gave the victim information , but you'd rather not say what. And that supposedly angered someone enough to kill her, but you'd rather not say who. I'm intrigued, Miss White, but that's an awful lot of not saying. Do better."

Valenti waited while the young woman seated in front of his desk mulled that over, admiring the brown eyes, the dark hair, the legs that seemed to go on forever. She didn't seem like an airhead, this one—far from it, actually. But she'd given him precisely nothing, so, lovely as she was, she'd have to be more forthcoming....although he must admit that he was tempted to keep her talking longer even without more information. Eye candy like this was hard to come by.

"We need to speak privately," Miss White announced, rising to her feet. "Do you have a room where I can be certain we won't be overheard?"

"Right this way," Valenti said, gesturing her down the hallway, past a grinning McMahon on his way back from collecting yet another helping of coffee cake. "All right, Miss White," Valenti said after he'd closed and locked the door to one of the interrogation rooms and watched, bemused, as she double-checked it. "I'm listening."

"For starters, I'm not 'Miss White'," she began. "I'm First Lieutenant Yvonne White, and I'm stationed at Eagle Rock Military Base."

"Okay," Valenti said slowly. "Go on."

"On the morning of July 8th, 1947, I met Betty Osorio at a restaurant in Roswell and gave her some information about the so-called crash out on Pohlman Ranch," Miss—or rather, Lieutenant—White continued. "She intended to publish the truth in the Telegram, and I think that's why she was killed."

She knows, Valenti thought, his heart pounding. The lovely Lieutenant had tactfully left out any mention of what exactly had happened on Pohlman Ranch, but she must know about the aliens—why else would she be talking to Osorio? "I don't suppose you'd like to share this 'truth' with me, would you?" Valenti asked.

"That's irrelevant, Deputy," Lieutenant White answered levelly. "The point is, Betty knew—and someone found out she knew. Besides, if I'm right, the last time I gave out that information, the recipient was murdered. You don't really want to be on that list, do you?"

"Not really," Valenti admitted. "So I gather you have a theory as to who's behind her so-called murder?"

Lieutenant White hesitated a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "Lt. Colonel Sheridan Cavitt."

"Lt. Colonel Cavitt?" Valenti exclaimed, flabbergasted. "Do you mean to tell me they actually promoted that bastard?"

"You know him?" the Lieutenant asked, every bit as surprised as he was. "How?"

Valenti fidgeted in his chair, his fingers tapping on the arm. "I'd rather not say."

The Lieutenant's eyebrows rose. "Now who's 'not saying'?"

"How I know the Maj—I mean Cavitt," Valenti amended, unwilling to gift Cavitt with a higher rank, "is every bit as irrelevant to this discussion as you claim the information you gave Miss Osorio is."

"Must have been an interesting encounter if you learned enough to call him a 'bastard' right off the bat," the Lieutenant observed.

"It was," Valenti said shortly. "What makes you suspect Cavitt?"

"The day after I met with Betty, Cavitt showed me photographs of the two of us talking. He'd had me followed," she said, bitterness lacing her voice. "He's used those photos to blackmail me twice."

"Sounds just like him," Valenti said, "but that's a long way from murder."

"Isn't there anything in the file?" the Lieutenant asked. "I know Cavitt is behind this somehow. And I have reason to believe this isn't the first time he's stooped this low, although the others were soldiers and out of your reach."

"Lieutenant, I'd love to help you—really, I would," Valenti assured her, the very notion of sticking it to Cavitt making his mouth water. "But I just don't see anything here. The blood on the steering wheel was Miss Osorio's. The impact pattern matched her head injury. Her car was locked from the inside. There was no evidence of any other vehicle or persons at the scene."

"Someone ran her off the road," Lieutenant White insisted. "She didn't just get confused and wander off. Betty was tough."

"Tell me about it," Valenti chuckled.

"You knew her too?"

"Miss Osorio and I had a run-in up at the crash site," Valenti clarified. "She wanted to keep taking pictures and asking questions, and Cavitt wanted otherwise. I was asked to escort her off the property."

"So....that's how you know Cavitt?"

Valenti stared at her a moment. "No," he admitted. "Wish it were. But my point is that there isn't a thing in this report to suggest this was anything other than a tragic accident, not to mention the fact that this trail's almost two years cold. It's not like I can trot up to Highway 70 and check the skid marks. If you had suspicions, why didn't you come to us back when this happened?"

"I couldn't," Lieutenant White said sadly. "I wasn't allowed to leave the base. Both my incoming and outgoing mail was censored, as were any telephone calls. I didn't even learn of Betty's death until several days later because newspapers were suppressed."

"That sounds just like Cavitt too," Valenti muttered. "Look....Lieutenant," he continued gently, choosing his words with care because she was looking at him hopefully, "it's not that I don't think Cavitt capable of doing what you suspect. I just don't see how we'd prove it. Men like Cavitt are very adept at covering their tracks from just a few minutes ago, never mind two years ago. He wouldn't have done the job directly, he would have farmed it out, and in the unlikely event that there's any evidence to support that, it's probably at the base and out of my reach."

"Maybe not," she countered. "If you ask around, you might find something."

"Right," Valenti said dryly. "Like my head on a platter." He shook his head. "I don't need to tell you how dangerous pursuing this would be. You've been burned by Cavitt before. You were smart enough to come here in civilian clothes and hide your rank. If Cavitt ever got wind of this........" He stopped, hoping her own imagination would take it from there.

"Couldn't you just look over the file again?" she pleaded.

"I suppose," Valenti sighed. "But it might be healthier for both of us if we just let this one go."




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


30 minutes later



Valenti drummed his fingers impatiently on the arms of his chair while Sheriff Wilcox took his time leafing through the folder on the desk in front of him. He could hear the phones ringing through the closed office door, hear the exaggerated patience in the voices that answered, and he spared a prayer of thanks that he wasn't the one answering those phones. Popular folklore held that aliens preferred summer to winter, so tales of alien this's and that's increased by leaps and bounds as the weather got warmer, and decreased in a similar fashion as autumn and then winter set in. For every Herkimer Buckpit, there were at least five others. Alan McMahon should get a medal for sending something else his way. Maybe he'd buy him a box of donuts.

"Jim?"

"Huh?" Valenti snapped out of his reverie to find Wilcox staring at him...or more precisely, at his fingers.

"Do you mind?"

"Oh. Sorry," Valenti mumbled, folding his hands in front of him. That lasted all of ten seconds before his thumbs started dancing around each other. At least this type of fidgeting was quiet.

After a further wait of what seemed like an hour, but was probably only about five minutes, Wilcox closed the file and slid it across the desk. "I've got nothing," he said.

"Nothing at all?" Valenti asked.

"Well, there is the staved in back bumper....but given the rough shape in which the car was found, that could have come from bouncing around in that ditch. The traces of blue paint found on the back bumper are harder to explain. If this had just happened, I'd say we may have a hit and run, and we should be on the lookout for damaged blue cars missing some paint. But this was two years ago, and the likelihood of finding any kind of physical evidence is practically non-existent."

"Yeah," Valenti said glumly.

"Granted, I've only read the file once," Wilcox noted. "How many times have you read it?"

"A couple," Valenti said vaguely. Wilcox shot him a skeptical look. "Okay, more than that." Wilcox's eyebrows rose. "Okay, I've got the damned thing memorized," Valenti admitted, flushing, "but I was hoping you'd see something I missed."

"Sorry, Jim," Wilcox said. "I'm afraid that Lieutenant's hunches remain just that—hunches."

"Sir," Valenti said earnestly, "I know you think I'm not being objective because of my run-in with Cavitt. And you're probably right, at least up to a point. But—"

"You're preaching to the choir," Wilcox interrupted. "I think the odds are good Cavitt did have something to do with this."

Valenti blinked. "You do?"

"Of course. With that level of disrespect for the law, a man like Cavitt probably has a lot more rattling around in his closet than old uniforms. Plus the timing is suggestive, right after the discovery on the ranch. I can see Cavitt mixed up in this, no problem. What I can't see is why you're wasting so much time with this report."

"Sir?"

"Jim, you know Cavitt wouldn't leave any footprints in a written record. If you want to find out if he had anything to do with this, you're going to have to do what you do best—put the file back in the cabinet and start digging."

"Does that mean I have your permission to dig?"

"Would it matter if I said 'no'?" Wilcox said dryly. "Never mind—rhetorical question. Look, my point is, you're an excellent investigator. Good enough that you were a huge pain in my ass when you were going after the Proctors."

"Because I was right," Valenti said defensively.

"Yes, you were," Wilcox agreed. "And I was right to sit on what I knew. Or so you must have thought, because when the shit hit the fan, you blew my way."

Valenti looked away. "I'm still not happy about that, sir."

"I know. I'm not thrilled about it either. I'm just more used to the compromises we have to make. I've learned the value of balance....and I've learned when to keep my mouth shut," he added pointedly. "And that's where you fall short, Jim. An excellent investigator isn't going to get far if he blunders around like a bull in a china shop. If you go after this, you'll need to be very quiet, and you'll need to keep Cavitt's name out of unless and until you find firm evidence. With someone like Cavitt, you'll not only need your ducks in a row, you'll need them marching in formation."

"Understood," Valenti said as he reached for the report, unsure of whether to glow at the praise or flush at the criticism.

"One more thing," Wilcox said, walking Valenti to the door. "We got lucky last time you tangled with Cavitt. A minute or two later, and you might not be here to have this conversation. Near misses like that tempt whatever fates you believe in. Watch your step, Jim. The second you start getting close to him, he'll know. And you're not likely to be that lucky twice."

"Right. I'll be careful. And quiet," Valenti added. "Very quiet."

"Good luck," Wilcox said.

"Thank you, sir," Valenti answered, closing the door behind him as he left. Cavitt's the one who needs the luck, he thought grimly as he headed down the hall to his desk. Because if I have to dig all the way to China, he's going down.



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


11:01 a.m.

Parkers Bar, Roswell



"What'll it be, sweetie?" the bartender asked.

"Whiskey on the rocks, please."

"Little early for that, isn't it?"

"You're right. I'll have a boilermaker instead."

The bartender's eyes widened. "Whiskey on the rocks it is."

Yvonne settled herself on the barstool as the bartender proceeded to pour, casting worried glances in her direction. She'd opened the place, waiting outside until the sign flipped over to "Open" precisely at 11 a.m. Parkers was a popular hangout for base personnel and civilians alike, but there wasn't another soul here at this hour. Not that it likely saw many women at any hour, never mind women who ordered whiskey with a beer chaser, otherwise known as a boilermaker.

"There you go," the bartender said, setting a glass down in front of her. "Rough morning?"

"You could say that," Yvonne answered.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I'd love to," she admitted with a smile, "but if I tell you, I'd have to kill you."

The bartender grinned. "I hear that one a lot around here."

What did you expect? Yvonne asked herself disconsolately as the bartender went back to drying glasses. Did she really think she could just waltz into the Sheriff's station, announce that Betty was murdered, and they'd run right out and arrest Cavitt? She had absolutely nothing to go on but her gut...and her guilt. Yvonne had given Betty information about the crash. If she hadn't done that, Betty might be alive right now.

The bell on the door dingled. Someone else must be having a rough morning, and Yvonne spared a sympathetic thought for whoever needed a drink at this hour just like she did. That sympathy vanished, however, when that someone plopped down on the barstool next to her, mere inches away. A male someone, by the looks of the arm. Yvonne kept her eyes on her drink and fumed silently. A man sitting this close to her when the rest of the place was completely empty had only one thing on his mind.

"What can I getcha?" the bartender asked the newcomer.

"I'll have whatever she's having," a male voice replied....a slightly amused and very familiar male voice.

"Stephen!" Yvonne exclaimed. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Stephen smiled. "After you figured out that I wasn't trying to proposition you, that is. You look nice, by the way," he added, eyeing her civilian suit appreciatively.

"Thank you," Yvonne replied, flushing.

"Whiskey on the rocks," the bartender announced, placing a glass in front of Stephen.

Stephen blinked. "You're drinking whiskey at this hour?"

"What difference does it make what I'm drinking?" Yvonne said irritably.

"Something wrong?" Stephen asked.

"If she tells you, she'll have to kill you," the bartender remarked, chuckling, only to stop abruptly when he saw the look on Stephen's face and move further away, out of earshot.

"What happened?" Stephen asked, as the bartender shot curious glances their way.

"I went to the Sheriff's office," Yvonne said quietly, "trying to convince them that the reporter I talked to back in '47 was murdered by Cavitt."

"Is that the one who died in a car crash?"

Yvonne nodded. "A very convenient car crash. I talked to her on Monday morning, the day after they found the ship. I was kidnapped that night, and Betty was killed Wednesday night as she was heading out of Roswell. But the deputy I talked to said there's nothing the least bit unusual about it, that it was just a car accident. I don't believe that. I don't," she repeated, as though convinced Stephen would argue with her.

"It was Cavitt," Stephen agreed, his hands wrapped around his glass. "Remember, he killed two of my friends that same week. Busy guy."

"At least you had fake handprints to point to."

"Which promptly disappeared along with the bodies," Stephen reminded her.

"But you saw them," Yvonne said. "I don't really have a thing on Cavitt but those pictures he took of Betty and me talking, and he used those to blackmail me. He didn't say a word about her." She twisted sideways on her stool to face him. "The irony is that the deputy I talked to actually believed me. He knew Cavitt. He must have had some sort of run-in with him because he called him a 'bastard'."

"Then he really does know him," Stephen said dryly. "So is he going to look into it?"

"He said he'd read the file over again, but that it's probably too late," Yvonne sighed. "He said men like Cavitt were good at covering their tracks, and any evidence is probably on the base and out of his reach."

Stephen was silent for a moment. "He's right," he said finally. "But it's not out of our reach."

Yvonne stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it," Stephen said, lowering his voice as the bartender listed closer. "Cavitt leaves the compound every night and goes home, but his office is still there....and ripe for the picking."

"You want to break into his office?" Yvonne said in astonishment.

"Why not? Besides, we only have to break into the inner office. The outer part where his secretary sits is always open in case we need something from the files there. And if I get caught, I can just say I heard something and investigated. As head of security, I could get away with it at least once."

"And what exactly do you think you're going to find in there?" Yvonne asked skeptically. "A memo that says 'remember to kill Betty'?"

"Probably not," Stephen admitted. "Which is why we shouldn't stop there. We both have quite a bit of time off now. We might be able to learn something just asking around town."

"The deputy said that would be dangerous."

"Dangerous for him, sure," Stephen agreed. "Everyone knows he's the law, so trotting around asking questions about Cavitt's extra-curricular activities wouldn't be wise. But nobody knows us, and we'd use assumed names and skip the uniforms, of course. We could get away with it."

"That's ambitious," Yvonne said doubtfully.

"More ambitious than trotting into the Sheriff's office in civvies and announcing your commanding officer is a murderer?" Stephen smiled as Yvonne gave him an annoyed look. "Look, this isn't just about Betty; it's about you. I know you blame yourself for her death. And I could sit here all day and remind you it wasn't your fault, and you might even agree with me......and it wouldn't help. I know it wouldn't. I've been down this road many times. Too many times."

Yvonne was quiet for a long time, nursing her drink, Stephen sitting silently beside her and letting her mull it over. She did have a lot of time off now, and Stephen had almost as much as she did. And she'd love to nail Cavitt. That's what I want to take away from this, she thought, remembering what John had said earlier. Justice. Justice for those Cavitt had swept aside because they were in his way.

"All right," she said finally, lowering her voice to a whisper even though they were still the only two people in the bar save for the bartender. "But we can't do it together all the time. We'll be fingered right away if we run around asking questions as a couple. We shouldn't even be in here together."

"Why not?" Stephen asked. "We spend time together at the base."

"That's different," Yvonne insisted. "We're colleagues there because that's our workplace, for lack of a better term. If we're seen together a lot off duty....well, can you just hear it if people think we're an 'item'?"

"There's nothing in regs to keep us from becoming an 'item'," Stephen said. "We're both officers, and you don't report to me."

"Regulations are one thing; perception is another," Yvonne argued. "Besides, if we're going all cloak and dagger, this is a bad time to be calling attention to ourselves."

"Do you really think everyone doesn't already know?"

"Know what?" Yvonne asked, looking down at her drink. "There's nothing to know."

"I want there to be something to know," Stephen said gently. "Don't you?"

Yvonne's face softened. "Yes," she whispered, "but we can't—"

"To hell with what people think," Stephen interrupted firmly. "I'm not going to let a few busybodies stop me from getting something good out of this lovely situation."

"You've been talking to John," Yvonne sighed.

"So have you," Stephen answered. "About mating, I understand."

"That wasn't what you're thinking!" Yvonne insisted, blushing furiously.

"Really?" Stephen said innocently. "What was I thinking?"

"Can we please just stick to the subject?" Yvonne said tartly as Stephen grinned broadly. "Which was Betty Osorio, in case you forgot."

"Betty Osorio, the reporter?"

Stephen and Yvonne looked up in surprise to find the bartender hovering in a nearer orbit. They'd been so engrossed in their conversation that they hadn't even noticed.

"Yes," Yvonne answered uncomfortably, uncertain of how much the bartender had heard. "Did you know her?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," the bartender said. "She used to come in here when she was in town investigatin' the crash. Before her own crash, that is."

"Did you notice anything strange around the time she died?" Stephen asked, ignoring Yvonne's warning kick.

"Lot'sa strange things around then," the bartender said. "But now that you mention it....." He leaned in closer and dropped his voice. "The day they found her body, I got a letter in the mail addressed to one of the soldiers at the base who was a regular at the time. I knew it was from Miss Osorio because I recognized her handwriting; she had to sign all those receipts for the paper, see, for everything she bought in here. When the soldier showed up, I gave him the letter and pulled his leg about charging him for mail delivery. He opened it, read the note, and ran out of the bar. Next day, I read in the paper that Miss Osorio was dead. She musta mailed that letter the very day she died. Weird, huh?"

"Any idea what it said?" Spade asked.

The bartender shook his head. "Nope. But there was something else inside besides the letter. Something solid."

"What?" Yvonne asked.

"Don't know," the bartender shrugged.

Stephen glanced at Yvonne before pulling a five dollar bill out his wallet and pushing it across the bar to the bartender. "Does this jog your memory?"

The bartender smiled and scooped the fiver into his apron. "It was a key," he confided. "And since you've been so generous, it was a Captain Carver who got that key."

"Captain Carver?" Yvonne repeated in astonishment. "I know him!"


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

I'll post Chapter 103 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THREE



May 24, 1949, 1730 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base




"Excuse me," Spade said to the officer nearest him in line, "can you tell me where the ketchup is?"

"Just ask Chef," the officer, an affable Lieutenant replied. "He'll get you some."

Chef? Today marked the first time Spade had darkened the door of the Officer's Mess at the base, so he wasn't familiar with the lingo. He'd been eligible to come here when the lockdown ended almost a year and a half ago, but then he'd only been a lowly Lieutenant, and a hastily promoted one at that. Captains weren't much higher on the totem pole, but at least they weren't at the bottom.

"Here you are, sir," the cook—or rather, the "chef"—said, apparently having overheard Spade's request. He produced a small silver cup filled with ketchup.

"Thank you," Spade said, tipping the cup to pour some ketchup on his plate.

"You can take that with you, sir," the chef said hastily. "That's a personal serving dish just for you."

"Oh. Well....thank you," Spade said, staring at the silver cup. This was definitely his first encounter with a "personal serving dish".

"You're most welcome, sir," the chef replied with a smile, perhaps unaccustomed to gratitude. Certainly no one else seemed to be expressing any.

Hefting his wooden tray helpfully equipped with handles, Spade headed toward his quarry seated halfway across the room, which was filled with a variety of tables as opposed to the long utilitarian benches in the regular mess. "Excuse me—is this seat taken?" he asked.

The table's occupant looked up. "Nope. Have a seat."

"Thanks," Spade said, settling onto the padded chair, admiring the table linens, crystal salt and pepper shakers, and fresh flowers. Rank certainly had its privileges. "Stephen Spade," he said extending his hand.

"Richard Dodie," Captain Dodie answered, accepting the handshake. "I don't think we've met."

"We haven't," Spade confirmed, "but I was told I might find you here."

"Oh? Why?"

"I'm looking for someone I hear you used to be good friends with, a Captain Hal Carver. You know him?"

Dodie stopped chewing, suspicion replacing the former friendliness in his eyes. "Sure," he said cautiously after he'd swallowed. "I knew Hal. Lots of people did."

"Where is he now?"

"He resigned," Dodie said, staring at his plate.

"So I heard," Spade said casually. "But no one seems to know why. Seems he up and left so fast that he didn't even say goodbye to all those other people who knew him, much less provide an explanation. Since you were such a good friend, I was hoping you might know more."

"Sorry," Dodie said shortly, "but I'm afraid he left me out of the loop too."

"That's too bad," Spade said. "I was hoping you could shed some light on all the rumors."

"What rumors?"

"Well," Spade said slowly, "rumor has it has Carver saw something he wasn't supposed to back in '47, just before he left. Not only saw something, but wasn't willing to keep quiet about it. Word is he may have been...."—here Spade leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper—"well, there are different versions of this, some more 'out there' than others, but word is he was flushed. As in....killed."

"People think he was murdered?" Dodie said incredulously.

Spade shrugged. "I know it sounds crazy, but how else to explain his sudden disappearance? And the fact that he hasn't contacted a soul here since, not to mention his family? You have to admit that's mighty weird."

Dodie sat there, thunderstruck, as Spade calmly buttered a roll. This was the most likely scenario he and Yvonne had been able to put together given the information at hand. Yvonne had seen Carver talking to Betty Osorio the morning after the crash, had spoken with him herself only moments before her kidnapping, and Carver had received a letter from Osorio three days later. Carver must have spilled, which explained his sudden disappearance and the fact that the sketch Yvonne had given him had made it through the media blockage. No one seemed to know where he'd gone, though, which had left Stephen and Yvonne wondering if Cavitt had yet another murder to add to his list.

"Hal's not dead," Dodie said suddenly.

"He isn't?"

"No. I told you he resigned."

"So the story goes," Spade replied. "But when people resign, they generally tell their friends, and they say why, and they say 'keep in touch' and leave some method of doing so. None of which Carver did, so forgive me if I find the foul play theory more plausible then I normally would. Unless you have something to add?"

Dodie set his fork down and glanced quickly around the room as though checking for eavesdroppers. "Hal resigned," he insisted quietly. "I was there. He was...." Dodie paused, kneading his hands together. "He had no choice."

Spade's eyebrows rose. "You mean he was forced out? Why?"

"Because he wouldn't play ball," Dodie said. "Because he shot his mouth off, and he wouldn't stop."

"Shot his mouth off about what?"

"That's classified," Dodie said firmly.

Spade leaned back in his chair and pretended to ponder that for a moment. "The aliens," he said after a moment. "Couldn't have been just the ship because most people here saw that. He must have seen the aliens, didn't he?"

"Don't go there, Captain," Dodie said warningly.

"I wonder which he saw," Spade mused, ignoring him. "One of the dead ones, or one of the live ones they captured? Do you suppose he's the one who leaked that sketch of what the aliens really look like?"

"Stop it, Captain," Dodie ordered. "Or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" Spade interrupted. "You don't outrank me, and you're not my CO. You have no business giving me an order. I want to find this Carver. I heard you were friends, so I thought you might be able to help, but I'll find him with or without your help."

"Do you have any idea who you're messing with here?" Dodie demanded. "None other than Sheridan Cavitt. Trust me, Captain, you do not want to step in this."

"Is that what Carver stepped in? Is that why he's dead?"

"He's not dead!" Dodie exclaimed in exasperation. Several heads nearby turned their way for a moment, and he paused, lowering his voice. "Cavitt was going to slap him with an unsatisfactory discharge, but I convinced Colonel Blanchard to treat Hal like one of us and let him off with a clean record....not that he thanked me for it," he added bitterly. "Cavitt was only a Captain at the time, so it was Blanchard's call, but he was mighty pissed off about it. I hear he's a Lieutenant Colonel now, so you definitely want to stay out of his way."

"You were a good friend of Carver's," Spade said. "Where would he go if he didn't go home?"

Dodie's eyes hardened. "Drop it, Spade, or I swear I'll blow you in."

"Go right ahead. My CO is Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan Cavitt."

Spade watched a parade of emotions cross Dodie's face, starting with amazement, continuing to horror, and finishing up with.....fury. "That jackass," he whispered, his hands clenching and unclenching on the table in front of him. "He sent you here, didn't he? Didn't he?"

"You might want to keep your voice down," Spade advised, as heads nearby turned again.

"He's tailing Hal, and he lost him," Dodie continued furiously, ignoring him. "And now he wants me to blow him in again. Well, I won't! Cavitt made me screw Hal over once, and I won't do it again!"

Whoa. Now this was interesting. " 'Screw him over' how?" Spade asked curiously, forgetting his objections about Dodie's decibel level.

"Cavitt used me to get the goods on Hal," Dodie said angrily. "He made me set Hal up. He claimed he was going to confront Hal with the evidence and offer him an honorable discharge, no questions asked...but he didn't. I found the paperwork for the dishonorable the next morning, but I got him back," Dodie added with satisfaction. "I raised hell with Blanchard, convinced him to offer an honorable, and then I convinced Hal to take it. And Cavitt's never forgotten that, has he? That's why he sent his little toady up here, to remind me that he still has it out for me."

Spade couldn't resist smiling at the notion that he, of all people, was Cavitt's toady. "I don't like Cavitt any more than you do, quite possibly less," he said to Dodie. "I really am just trying to find Carver. Anything you can tell me—"

Crash! Spade's next words were cut off as Dodie sprang to his feet and swept all of his dishes onto the floor. "You go back," Dodie said tersely, leaning on the table, his face inches away from Spade's, "and tell that godforsaken son of a bitch that he'll get no help from me. If Hal's slipped away, then good for him. I have no idea where he is, but even if I did, I wouldn't tell you no matter what he threatens me with. And you," he added, stabbing a finger at Spade, "stay away from me. Run home to your master and sniff around his legs like a good dog. Come near me again, and I swear to God, you won't have any legs left to run with."



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



"Ready for more, Lieutenant?" Harriet asked.

"Absolutely," Yvonne said. "And you can call me 'Yvonne'."

"Absolutely not," Harriet said firmly. "You earned your rank, and then some. One of my happiest days here was when I processed your first paycheck as a First Lieutenant."

Yvonne smiled as Cavitt's secretary handed her another stack of folders. "Thank you," she said self-consciously.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help," Harriet went on. "Cleaning out these files is a long, boring job, and you've made it shorter and much more pleasant."

"Glad I could help," Yvonne answered. "May as well put me to good use. I have lots of time on my hands." And an ulterior motive, she added silently, opening the first folder and leafing through in search of any forms more than a year old. The best place to start the process of getting into Cavitt's office was with Cavitt's neat-as-a-pin, ever cheerful secretary, Harriet. The past forty-five minutes had been fruitful: She'd learned that only Cavitt had a key to the inner office he occupied, and that key left with him when he went home for the night. She'd also learned that Cavitt handled some of his own correspondence himself, typing letters and filing copies in the filing cabinets in his office, which were locked with yet another key which Harriet also did not have. Yvonne had no trouble imagining what kinds of things Cavitt wanted no one else to see, and she was now itching to get inside his office, heedless of her earlier warnings to Stephen.

Stephen had set out on a different quest. Upon returning to the base, they'd learned that Captain Carver was not only no longer at Eagle Rock, he was no longer in the Army. Casual inquiries revealed the fact that Carver had disappeared suddenly only three days after Yvonne had sat in his car with him and handed over that sketch. He'd supposedly resigned, but no one had seen or heard from him since, including his parents, who were understandably worried sick. Stephen had immediately jumped to the conclusion that Carver had joined the parade of Cavitt's murder victims, but Yvonne wasn't so sure; the Carver she'd met would have been a hard man to bring down. So Stephen had gone in search of one Captain Dodie, said to be Carver's best friend when he was here, while Yvonne had dropped in on Harriet and offered her assistance as soon as Cavitt had gone for the day.

"How do you keep your nails so beautiful?" Yvonne asked, eyeing Harriet's flawless red nails. "I would think that polish would chip with all the typing."

"Why, thank you," Harriet beamed, reaching for another file. "I do work hard at keeping these tidy because I hate chipped polish. Sometimes I forget how nice it would be to have another woman around here to work with," she added. "I was used to having several secretaries around to chat with, so getting used to this place was hard."

"Why did you decide to work at a military base?" Yvonne asked.

"My father was career military," Harriet said. "We must have moved from one base to another almost every other year when I was growing up. This kind of life is all I know. And what about you, Lieutenant? What made you decide to join the Army?"

"After I got my nursing degree, I guess I was afraid I'd die of boredom with nothing but the next day's set of tonsillectomies to worry about," Yvonne said. "And I wanted to travel."

"I guess adventure won out, because you decided to stay here," Harriet said. "And I can certainly see why. This was where all the excitement was."

Yvonne gazed at Harriet, speechless. She hadn't asked to stay here; she'd been given orders to report to London, orders which turned out to be nothing more than a ruse to make everyone think that's where she was headed while Cavitt hustled her right back here, locked her up, and blackmailed her with those pictures of her talking to Betty. Supposedly everyone stationed here had received sham transfers elsewhere, although she doubted their arrivals had been as dramatic. The Army had obviously approved of this duplicity, which Ramey had halted in '47 when he'd ended the lockdown and informed their families of their true whereabouts. Yvonne had never given much thought to how the paperwork for such a deception would be handled. Had they "handled it" by pretending everyone stationed here had asked to be here?

"Harriet," Yvonne said carefully. "I never asked to stay here. Actually, I couldn't wait to get away."

Harriet stopped her sorting. "You didn't ask to stay?"

"No," Yvonne answered. "Who told you I did?"

"The Colonel, of course. Everyone here either agreed to or requested this posting, and like I said before, I can certainly see why. There's a certain cache to a top secret posting, even with the inevitable inconveniences, like your families not knowing where you really were for the first few months. But as an Army brat, I can assure you that's standard procedure for top secret facilities."

Yvonne closed the file in her lap and folded her hands on top. "Two summers ago, I received orders to report to London. I packed my bags and left, only to have two soldiers waylay me and knock me out just as I was about to get on the bus. I woke up locked in a room in this compound, where then Captain Cavitt told me that I had been reassigned, that my family had no idea where I was, and that I had nothing to say about it. His exact words were, 'You belong to me'."

Silence. Harriet stared at her in disbelief for several long seconds before bursting into laughter. "Oh my goodness, Lieutenant!" she gasped. "You really had me going there for a second! Oh, my! I haven't laughed this hard in ages!"

Yvonne smiled faintly as Harriet continued to chuckle. Poor woman—she really didn't know what a monster she was working for....and maybe it was better that way. She'd often noted how Cavitt treated Harriet with a courtesy usually reserved for his superiors. Whatever the reason for that deference, perhaps her ignorance really was bliss.

"I'll need to be going soon," Yvonne remarked. "John will be back any minute now, and I'm certain he'll be hungry."

" 'John'?" Harriet repeated. "You named it?"

"No," Yvonne said patiently. "General Ramey did, at his first visit here. The prisoner wouldn't give a name, so the General ordered that he be addressed as 'John Doe'."

"Oh, I do vaguely remember something about that," Harriet said, "but I didn't think anyone was actually using it." She smiled indulgently and put a hand on Yvonne's shoulder. "You've grown very fond of it, haven't you dear?"

It was meant as an affectionate gesture, Harriet being enough older to fill the role of a big sister, but that hand felt cold on Yvonne's shoulder. Only she and Pierce used John's human name, and Pierce did so only because Yvonne had shamed him into it. Everyone else referred to John as "the prisoner" or simply "it", so Harriet's sentiments were familiar....but for some reason, they sounded worse coming from a woman.

"John is a fascinating person," Yvonne said, slipping out from under Harriet's hand as she stood up. "I'm lucky to have met him."

" 'Person'?" Harriet repeated. "I'm sure it's fascinating, but do you really consider it a 'person'?"

"I consider our current definition of the word 'person' to be far too shallow," Yvonne said pointedly, "so I've expanded mine."

"Well, bless your soul," Harriet said, shaking her head in admiration. "I wonder if that thing down there knows how lucky it is to have run into such a soft heart. Oh!" she exclaimed, staring at the door. "Excuse me a moment, dear, while I sign for this delivery."

Harriet bustled into the hallway and began an animated conversation with the delivery man who had just appeared at the door, leaving Yvonne alone in the office....and looking for some way to use these few minutes to her advantage. But how? Anything of value was locked up in Cavitt's office; all she'd find out here were supply requisitions and such like. And then her eyes fell on the Rolodex, the huge, circular Rolodex that occupied one entire corner of Harriet's desk. Is it possible? she thought, circling around behind Harriet's desk. If Carver was still alive, Cavitt would probably be keeping an eye on him, assuming he knew where he was. And frankly, Cavitt was more likely to know where Carver was then Carver's own parents.

Harriet was still talking to the delivery man, but their conversation bore the unmistakable overtones of nearing completion. Feeling silly, Yvonne twirled the Rolodex around to "C", leafing quickly through the cards. There were dozens of cards under "C", hundreds in the entire Rolodex, and what idiotic notion made her think that Cavitt would have an entry for someone everyone else thought was missing? She had just about talked some sense into herself when she came upon a card whose entry consisted only of initials: "H.C." There were three addresses written on the back in a masculine scrawl, the first two of which had been crossed out.

"Lieutenant?"

Yvonne looked up guiltily at Harriet, now in possession of several boxes and standing in the doorway, staring at her curiously. Time to punt. "I'm sorry," Yvonne said hastily. "I found this Rolodex card on the floor, and I was trying to refile it, but I wasn't sure where it went because it doesn't have a name. Did I put it back in the right place?"

Harriet deposited the boxes on the floor and came around to look. "Yes, you did," she said approvingly. "I've never seen that one before. The Colonel sticks new cards in here all the time, and he doesn't always file them properly. Which certainly makes life interesting for me when he wants me to find them."

"I should be going," Yvonne said, edging toward the door while trying not to look like she was edging for the door. "I'll try to stop by some other time and help."

"Oh, you've been a lifesaver!" Harriet exclaimed. "I'm much further along now than I ever would have been all by myself. Thank you so much, Lieutenant."

"You're very welcome," Yvonne smiled, finally escaping into the hallway. And thank you, she added silently, trying to beat back her mounting excitement. She'd been hoping to learn something by visiting Harriet, but she'd never expected to score so big so fast. She couldn't wait to find Stephen. If that Rolodex entry meant what she thought it did, Carver was just a short ways south of here, in Alamogordo.



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




Spade stared at the door through which the furious Captain Dodie had just stalked, then realized he had an audience. "What was that all about?" asked a nearby Major, one of several flabbergasted officers, some with food-laden forks still hanging in midair. "Do you want to report him, Captain?"

"No, no, it's all right," Spade assured them as one of the kitchen staff began cleaning up the dishes Dodie had swept aside. "It was just a misunderstanding." And he had a right to be angry, he thought as the Major nodded skeptically and returned to his meal. It sounded like Cavitt had manipulated Dodie into cornering Carver just like he'd manipulated Spade into cornering the aliens, and Spade was very familiar with the resulting rage.

"Is this seat available now?" a voice asked.

Spade looked up, only to do a double take. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Malik said calmly, sliding into Dodie's recently—and violently—vacated seat. "You weren't in the usual mess, so I tried this one."

"But this is an—" Spade stopped, having been about to point that this was an officer's mess before he realized that "Private Johnson" had recently received a promotion. "You know, most soldiers don't go from Private to First Lieutenant that fast," he remarked.

"You did."

"Only because of you people."

"You're welcome," Malik said dryly. "Why don't you eat here more often? It's so much quieter than downstairs....or it is now," he added. "I must say, you do have a way with people. What was that all about?"

Spade glanced around the room; everyone had returned to their meals, Dodie's outburst forgotten. "Yvonne and I think our CO, which is our—"

"Commanding officer," Malik said.

"Right. We think our CO is responsible for the death of a reporter Yvonne talked to back when your ship crashed, and we're trying to find evidence to support that. The friendly fellow who just left was very informative....without realizing it, of course."

"And what do you think your superiors will do with this 'evidence' should you find it?" Malik asked.

"Arrest him," Spade said. "Put him on trial for murder."

Malik's eyebrows rose in amusement. "Still trying to right your world's wrongs?"

"Let me guess," Spade said with an ironic smile. "This is the part where you tell me I'm young, or naïve, or something like that."

"Do you really expect your commander's superiors to serve justice even if you do produce the evidence you're looking for?"

"I expect it's worth a try," Spade said. "I admit it might not work, but if I don't try, it's guaranteed to not work."

Spade fully expected Malik to laugh or at least chuckle at that last announcement, but he didn't. "I wish I knew what it's like to have that kind of optimism," Malik said thoughtfully, "that faith that the people in power will actually do the right thing."

"You sound more jaded than usual," Spade remarked. "Assuming that's possible."

Malik smiled slightly and helped himself to Spade's ketchup. "Conditions in my little corner of the galaxy continue to deteriorate," he said in a low voice. "Before he died, the king was working on a new technology, reportedly some kind of ship, but no one knows for sure. This was in violation of a treaty which mandated the sharing of new technologies among our sister worlds, really no big deal because the leaders of those worlds were all doing the same kind of thing. That technology is missing. It's rumored that the Warders brought it here." He paused. "I don't suppose your military has it, do they?"

Spade shook his head. "I was one of the first people on that ship, and there was no whiz bang gizmo there, let alone another ship. Besides if no one knows what this technology is, then how does anyone know for sure it's missing?"

"They don't," Malik admitted, "but that hasn't stopped Khivar, the King's usurper, from putting it to good use. After repeatedly insisting that the King was dead even though he couldn't produce a body to substantiate his claim, he suddenly reversed course and announced that the King still lives, and has fled with his new toy and an intention to use it against our sister worlds."

"Is that something the King would do?"

"No," Malik said. "The King's father's crowning achievement was to peacefully unite our world, and his son's was to forge close ties with our sister planets. He has never acted aggressively toward them. Quite the opposite."

"But?" Spade prompted.

"But many didn't know what to think," Malik continued. "I don't believe my world has ever been in this situation before, with a monarch not precisely dead, but missing. Since no one knew exactly what this new technology was, imaginations ran wild. Months went by as people debated what it all meant, until Khivar dropped another bombshell: He announced he had located the king's new technology, and had it in his possession."

"So—first this 'Khivar' plants the seed that something's out there and gives people reason to fear it. He lets that fester a good long while, and then announces he has it. And since everyone's now afraid of whatever 'it' is, even though they don't know what it is, they're now afraid of him too. Brilliant," Spade said, shaking his head in reluctant admiration. "Worthy of the Mob."

"The what?"

"Never mind. So then what happened?"

"His strategy failed. All that flip-flopping only made people trust him less. So he tried one more thing: He announced that he had evidence that two of our four sister planets had been secretly working with the King and planning to attack the other two."

"And now they're all fighting with each other," Spade sighed.

"Exactly. Naturally, the leaders of the accused worlds denied everything, and in fact, they know nothing. But they have no way to prove it, suspicion is contagious, and tempers are short in any case. I fear it will lead to war between all five worlds if left unchecked."

"So are you regretting your earlier decision to back this clown?"

"Had I not made that decision, I might not be alive now to regret it," Malik pointed out.

"That's not what I asked," Spade noted.

Malik eyed him across the table. "I regret what has happened," he said evenly, "although there was no way to foresee that. Do you regret aiding your commander based on how things have turned out?"

"Touché," Spade smiled. "Look—would you like a dose of my youthful optimism? How about you help the Warders bring the King back and sort it out then? Whatever problems you had with him, he still sounds better then what you've got now."

"And go back to the way things were before?"

"If the 'way things were before' is better than the way they are now—yes," Spade said. "We usually don't get exactly what we want. We have to choose from the best of limited choices. Unless you've got a third choice you haven't told me about, I only see two....and I know which one I'd throw my weight behind."

"You've been talking to Jaddo," Malik said dryly.

"Actually I haven't. He's awfully busy with the ship. Still think he can't do it?"

"As I've said before, I think the ship too badly damaged, and Jaddo no mechanic," Malik said. "But if it keeps him alive and busy, then no harm done."

"He's both alive and busy," Spade agreed. "And I know he appreciates the updates you bring, even though they're of the 'no news is good news variety'." He paused, watching Malik closely. "There's still no news....correct?"

Malik looked at his plate. "Maybe not."

Spade felt his stomach clutch. Malik had returned every month or so since Brivari's near miss last summer, ostensibly on orders from his superior to befriend Brivari's human allies in the compound. Every time, the message had been the same: No news. Brivari either hadn't been seen, or had been spotted briefly but had escaped, reassuring everyone that he was still alive. "What exactly does 'maybe not' mean?" Spade asked.

"I'm not sure," Malik allowed. "The hunters are two weeks overdue. That could mean that Brivari managed to kill them.....but the last time he did that, he sent their remains to us via your mail system."

"Lovely," Spade muttered. "I take it you haven't gotten any packages?"

"No," Malik said. "So that leaves one other possibility."

Spade nodded heavily. "They've found him."



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




Mescalero Indian Reservation



The drums had been beating for a full five minutes when Quanah and River Dog settled down outside the sweat lodge to wait for Nasedo, their vantage point affording them an excellent view of both the lodge and the woods. The night was warm and clear, and the chanting soft behind them, although it would grow louder soon. Itza-chu was already inside, presiding over the sweat as always; Quanah had deliberately come late to avoid meeting him, and even now, he sat in shadow so he could see and not be seen—the argument of last night still lingered. Another five minutes passed before River Dog spoke.

"Maybe he's not coming."

"He will come," Quanah said. "His need to hear his kinsman speak outweighs his fear."

Another five minutes passed, the chanting growing louder. "Father?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you change your mind and allow me to come tonight?"

Quanah stared off into the woods, remembering his pursuer from last night, a pursuer with someone else's footsteps. Because something is not right, he thought silently, that prickle of fear returning. Because something walks that should not be here. No one in their village could copy another's gait like whoever had tried to follow him to Nasedo's cave last night. That left two possibilities, neither of them attractive: Either someone from outside the village.....or someone from outside this realm entirely.

"I need a pair of eyes," Quanah said in answer to his son's question, "a willing pair of eyes I can trust. You must keep your eyes sharp once Nasedo and I have entered the lodge, and you must promise me that you will remain outside until I return."

"You expect some to cause trouble," River Dog said, nodding.

"I am not sure what to expect," Quanah admitted.

"Then I will expect the unexpected," River Dog said, "and I will watch for anything unusual."

Quanah turned to look at his son. "You must do more than that," he said intently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You must watch for that which appears familiar.....but is not."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," River Dog said, frowning.

"Nor do I," Quanah said quietly. "Believe me, if I knew more, I would tell you. Suffice it to say that things are not always what they appear to be."

Quanah stood up suddenly as a dark figure emerged from the woods several yards ahead, and River Dog rose beside him.

"He is here."


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

I'll post Chapter 104 next Sunday.

OH MY GOD BRIVARI STAY OUT OF THERE!!!!!!!!!!



gggaaahhhh I feel so helpless now... sighs...

Now, hellooooooo Yvonne! I could so imagine Valenti's face lighting up at the sight of our very own "Healer" And it's fun, because I do picture them as "Kyle" and "Liz"

aaannnnndddddd aaaaawwwwwwwnnnnnnnnn GO STEPHEN!!!! Well, don't go too far with the "mating" thing... but, well, that would be only fair to both of them

And girl, was it weird to see "Richie" again??!!! GREAT TIE to the show there!

Misha

Hi Misha!

Misha wrote:

OH MY GOD BRIVARI STAY OUT OF THERE!!!!!!!!!!

He can't--the writers won't let him. (The Roswell writers, not me!)

I could so imagine Valenti's face lighting up at the sight of our very own "Healer" And it's fun, because I do picture them as "Kyle" and "Liz"

So do I--I always see Grandpa Valenti as Kyle and Yvonne as Liz, as well as Dodie as Max and Carver (he's going to show up again too) as Michael. The one association I just can't make is Alex as Cavitt. My mind won't have that. I had trouble with it in Summer of '47, and it became downright impossible when I made Cavitt even worse than he was on the show. I'm afraid I've mentally typecast Colin as a sweetheart!




CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR



May 24, 1949, 9:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



The drums beat on, but every head turned as Brivari and Quanah entered the sweat lodge. Some expressions were neutral, but most betrayed a mixture of curiosity and fear. Brivari ignored them, following Quanah to a place in the circle of men surrounding the fire. Being both Covari and a Royal Warder accustomed one to both curiosity and fear.

The fire in the middle of the circle burned brightly, smoke rising skyward through the hole in the ceiling. Directly across the fire sat the medicine man, his disapproving stare sharper than usual. The heat was intense, the drums throbbed, and the chanting grew louder, spurred on, no doubt, by the hallucinogen in the cactus "buttons" being passed around in a basket. Brivari politely demurred when offered the drug, passing it on to the man next to him, who helped himself to several and chewed noisily. Across the fire the medicine man watched Brivari decline, and frowned.

Now what? Brivari thought, feeling slightly ridiculous as he sat in the circle, waiting for.....what? What was he waiting for? Would Valeris just appear out of thin air? Would anyone else be able to see him? Hopefully not, because the appearance of a short, gray-skinned creature would be something of a dead giveaway that Brivari was not human. And probably not, because nothing at all would likely happen, this being one of the most bizarre ideas he had ever granted credence, even temporarily. He had almost not attended tonight, having spent the day carefully watching for hunters and seeing nothing even the slightest bit unusual. There appeared no reason for Valeris' "warning", and the idea of contacting the dead seemed more ludicrous now than it had before, if that were possible. But the notion had been dogging him for almost a year now, and ultimately Brivari had decided to put it to rest once and for all.

The fire billowed as the medicine man threw a handful of the crushed drug-containing plant into it, and men leaned in to inhale the vapors. Quanah had seated them further from the fire than most in deference to Brivari's concerns about even the small amounts of the hallucinogen added to the flames, but even so, small gusts of wind from the hole in the ceiling sent the smoke spiraling in other directions. Brivari gently directed the smoke away from him with a thought, careful not to be too obvious. Across from him, the medicine man frowned again.

The drumming continued. The chanting grew louder. The basket was passed once again, then twice. The medicine man threw handful after handful of the plant into the fire, producing copious amounts of smoke. Quanah's eyes narrowed as he watched the medicine man stoke the fire with the drug again and again. "Perhaps we should leave," Quanah said in a low voice which nonetheless was perfectly audible amidst the drumming and chanting. "I fear—"

But Quanah did not finish his sentence. His eyes had widened, were looking past Brivari, and Brivari whirled around to find the medicine man at his elbow. The pillar of smoke was so large now that Brivari hadn't even seen him leave his seat, hadn't heard him approach over the cacophony.....and had no time to react as the medicine man blew the handful of crushed plant he was holding directly into Brivari's face.

Brivari jerked backwards, but it was too late—particles rushed up his nose, down his throat, into his lungs. He coughed and sputtered to no avail; a moment later a wave of heat washed over him and he leaned forward, gagging. Beside him, Quanah was loudly chastising the medicine man, who ignored him, instead staring at Brivari intently, almost curiously. Few others in the circle took notice, so intoxicated were they with the drug, and the drumming and chanting continued uninterrupted.

Brivari began to inch backwards, away from the fire, sweat forming on his skin too quickly for him to shift away. His body temperature was rising, his vision beginning to blur. He must not lose consciousness here, and soon he may not have the strength to leave. He pushed himself to his feet, the lodge spinning wildly around him, every nerve in his body on fire, and launched himself toward the door.



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



River Dog looped his arm around his knees and continued to wait in the shadows. The sweat lodge was to his right, smoke pouring from the top, the chanting louder now that more of the men had taken the peyote. To his left were the woods, dark and impenetrable, and behind him, open desert. Men were still arriving for the sweat; none had left as yet, it being early in the process. He had disobeyed his father's admonitions and tried to peek inside, but when he lifted a tent flap, all he could see was smoke. So he had returned here, bored and restless, to continue what could be a very long, dull wait.

Kanseah arrived, stripping to the waist before entering, and River Dog was glad to see at least one cool head besides his father's. Kanseah's words last night during the argument at their house had seemed the most measured, which is no doubt why he was chosen to lead the tribal council. Actually he was more of a moderator, a concept lost on the white man, who seemed to think there must always be only one man in charge of anything, an opinion which belied their own system of government.

More men came; many now hesitated as they pulled back the flap from the door and realized Nasedo was inside. River Dog watched in disgust as whispered conversations were held outside the lodge door, some quite animated. No one knew better than River Dog that Nasedo was a being of great power, yet he had never felt frightened in Nasedo's presence. Nasedo had never raised his hand against their people; this paranoia was unwarranted. Those currently engaged in the argument apparently agreed, because all chose to enter despite whatever misgivings they had. Several more minutes went by with no one else arriving, no sound but the drums and the chant, accented by the occasional howl of a coyote far away in the desert.

Then the door to the sweat lodge was roughly pushed aside, and River Dog leaped to his feet as a man lurched through, staggering a few yards before falling to his knees. "Nasedo!" River Dog cried, running to his side, grabbing one arm to keep him from falling down completely. "What happened? What—"

River Dog stopped, realizing that the arm he was holding was slick with sweat and very, very hot—not the kind of heat that came from the sweat itself, but the kind that came from within. Nasedo's whole body was on fire, burning with a fever which must have come on in just the last few minutes. How long had he been inside? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? How could such a high fever develop so quickly? "What happened?" River Dog repeated in alarm, easing him into a sitting position. "Why are you ill?"

Nasedo's head rolled to one side, his eyes opened....and River Dog gasped. The eyes were white, the pupil having completely slipped away, as though the fever had simply burned them out of existence.

"Stay here," River Dog ordered in a shaky voice, beginning to lower Nasedo to the ground, certain that he had passed out. "I will bring my father and—"

"No!"

The voice was raspy, but the word clear as Nasedo lurched to his feet once more and half ran, half stumbled not toward the woods, but toward the desert. "Wait!" River Dog cried, amazed that he could move so quickly after appearing to be virtually unconscious just seconds ago. "Not that way! Not—"

But he was gone, vanishing into the darkness, and no sooner had he disappeared then Itza-chu came thundering out of the lodge, his own eyes full of a very different kind of fire. "Where is he?" Itza-chu demanded. "Where did he go?"

River Dog clamped his lips shut, certain that the medicine man had something to do with this. Itza-chu's eyes narrowed. "Answer me!" he ordered River Dog, who backed away but did not speak.

"Do not answer him!" snapped Quanah, emerging from the lodge behind Itza-chu. "He does not deserve to know! How could you!" he continued, rounding on the defiant medicine man. "I bring a guest to our lodge, and you attack him?"

"I did no such thing," Itza-chu retorted. "You say he wanted to visit his dead kinsman; I merely provided the means to do so."

"By forcing the peyote on him? Many of our own people choose to forego that!" Quanah exclaimed.

"I was testing him," Itza-chu insisted. "We know how the peyote affects our bodies, but you saw the reaction he had. He is different, I tell you!"

"And that gives you the right to attack him?" Quanah demanded.

"Brothers."

Itza-chu's angry retort was cut off by a calm voice behind them. River Dog, who had been looking back and forth from his father to the medicine man in confusion and dismay, was pleased to see Kanseah had emerged from the lodge. "Silence," Kanseah said firmly, as both Quanah and Itza-chu began talking at once. "Where is the visitor?"

"The boy will not say," Itza-chu said angrily.

Kanseah turned to River Dog, who held his ground. "I will not speak in front of the Great Hawk," River Dog said stoutly as Itza-chu glared at him. "I fear he means Nasedo harm."

"And you have reason to fear," Kanseah said wearily, holding up a hand for silence again as Itza-chu began to erupt. "Whatever your feelings about the visitor, Itza-chu, the fact remains that you confronted a guest in our lodge without provocation. This reflects poorly on Quanah, who was his host, and indeed, on all of us. Go back inside."

"But someone must—" Itza-chu began to protest.

"Yes, someone must," Kanseah interrupted. "And that someone will not be you. Go back inside."

River Dog's eyes widened as Itza-chu sucked in a breath and glared at each of them in turn. He had never seen the medicine man chastised so openly or ordered anywhere, and he wondered if Itza-chu would comply. After a few seconds of fuming, he did, leaving an almost palpable trail of fury in his wake.

"Now," Kanseah said quietly, drawing River Dog further away from the lodge, "what did you see?"

River Dog glanced at his father, who nodded. "Nasedo came out of the lodge barely able to walk," he reported. "He was burning with fever, and his eyes were white. I thought he had fainted, but he ran off that way," he said, pointing.

"Toward the desert," Quanah murmured.

"Where he may not survive should the sun find him there in a few hours," Kanseah said heavily.

"I will search for him," Quanah announced.

"And I will accompany you," Kanseah replied. "Meet me back here in twenty minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, River Dog followed Quanah out the back door of their house after watching him pack. "I don't see why I can't come with you!" he protested.

"I need you here," Quanah answered, with a patience obviously stretched thin. "What if Nasedo comes back here while I am out looking for him?"

"But I can find him faster!" River Dog argued. "I know him better than any of you, so I should go with you!"

"No," Quanah said firmly. "You will stay here. It was I who invited him to the sweat, so it is I who must compensate for Itza-chu's behavior."

"But it was my life he saved!"

"And mine," said a small voice.

Both of them turned to find River Dog's younger siblings, Bright Sun and Grey Wolf, peering around the back door with wide eyes, topped by the worried face of Taklishim, River Dog's grandfather.

"What happened?" Taklishim asked.

"Itza-chu made Nasedo breathe in peyote at the sweat, and now he's sick," River Dog answered, ignoring his father's warning look. "He ran off into the desert."

"Will he die?" Bright Sun asked.

"No, daughter," Quanah said gently, kneeling down beside her. "I will find him. Go back inside with your brothers and wait for me."

"I still say I should go with you," River Dog insisted stubbornly.

"Do as your father says, grandson," Taklishim said gravely. "Come back inside."

Quanah put a hand on River Dog's shoulder as Taklishim pulled the younger children into the house. "I need you here," he said intently as River Dog scowled. "As I said before, I need a pair of eyes I can trust, and I need you to question the familiar as well as the unfamiliar."

"But what does that mean, father?" River Dog asked in frustration.

"I told you before—I am not sure," Quanah replied. "And furthermore, I suspect we are better off not knowing. If fate is kind, both of us will enjoy our ignorance a good while longer. If not—" He paused, staring off in the direction of the woods. "—if not, then I wish my eldest son to be here to deal with whatever comes."

River Dog watched sullenly as Quanah disappeared into the night, toward the sweat lodge to meet Kanseah. He was barely out of sight when the back door to the house opened quietly.

"Here," Grey Wolf whispered, holding out a small pack. River Dog opened it to find food, water, and two blankets. "One for you and one for Nasedo," Grey Wolf explained. "You will find him much faster then father. Go—go now, before Grandfather figures out what's happening. I'll tell him I don't know where you are."

River Dog shot his brother a grateful look, then lost no time shouldering the pack and heading off, not into the desert like Kanseah and his father, but into the woods.



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




"Aren't you finished yet, Grey Wolf?" Ish-keh exclaimed in exasperation. "What will your mother say if she returns and finds you up at this hour? Move along!"

"Yes, Grandmother," Grey Wolf answered, glancing at the clock in the bathroom as he rinsed out his toothbrush. Half an hour had passed since River Dog had crept away, and Grey Wolf had been torn between hopping into bed early and feigning sleep so as to be unavailable when his older brother's absence was discovered, as it inevitably would be, or stalling through the going-to-bed routine in the hopes that the resulting flurry of admonitions from his grandparents would delay that discovery. He'd opted for the latter tactic because the former was likely to arouse suspicion on its own, Grey Wolf being the typical child who considered sleep an unwelcome annoyance. So far, it was working....so far.

"Goodness, how long does it take to brush your teeth?" Ish-keh fussed, abandoning verbal admonitions in favor of physically hustling him out of the bathroom. "One would think you have as many teeth as your namesake!"

"Grown-up wolves have only forty-two teeth, Grandmother," Bright Sun said, trooping into the bathroom to brush her own teeth. "That's not so many more than Jimmy."

Ish-keh sucked in a breath as Grey Wolf bit his lip. It was a universal constant that little sisters were pains in the neck, and Bright Sun was no exception, but at least she did him the courtesy of calling him what he wanted to be called. Unfortunately, she hadn't yet mastered the art of being careful about who she was speaking in front of.

" 'Jimmy'?" Ish-keh echoed disapprovingly. "Who is this 'Jimmy'?"

"No one, Grandmother," Grey Wolf said hastily. "Bright Sun made a mistake."

But Ish-keh would have none of it. "Don't let your father hear you using that name," she said disapprovingly. "You'll never hear the end of it. We will never hear the end of it. You are the Nantan Lupan, the Grey Wolf, the name given you at birth! Why would you want a name like 'Jimmy'?"

But Grey Wolf wasn't listening to this latest harangue. Taklishim had appeared behind Ish-keh, and the look in his eyes made it clear that the stalling tactics had gone as far as they could go.

"Where is River Dog?" Taklishim asked, looking directly at Grey Wolf.

"How should he know where River Dog is?" Ish-keh asked. "He's too busy taking forever to go to bed!"

"I can't find River Dog anywhere," Taklishim continued, ignoring his wife and addressing both children. "Do you know where he is?"

"No, Grandfather," Bright Sun answered truthfully with a mouth full of toothpaste, having been left out of the loop because she might snitch.

"No, Grandfather," Grey Wolf echoed, hoping he sounded convincing. "The last time I saw him, he was arguing with Father."

"He probably went to a friend's house," Ish-keh said dismissively. "Move along, you two—it's getting later by the minute."

"Grey Wolf, do you know where your brother is?" Taklishim asked.

Yes. "No, Grandfather," Grey Wolf repeated, resisting the urge to fidget as he spoke. "I told you, the last time I saw him he was outside fighting with Father. After that I came in here to get ready for bed."

Taklishim's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

"You can be sure he was getting ready for bed," Ish-keh said in frustration, "because I have been trying to get him to finish for the last half hour!" A knock sounded on the front door, and she bustled off impatiently to answer it, grumbling, "I want you both in bed by the time I come back."

"Grandmother is angry because Bright Sun called me 'Jimmy'," Grey Wolf said, knowing his Grandfather disliked non-Indian names as much as his father, and willing to put up with a lecture if that lecture also served to change the subject.

But Taklishim was not so easily distracted. "I will ask you again," he said sternly. "Where is your brother?"

Ish-keh appeared. "Itza-chu is here," she said to Taklishim, looking worried. "He wishes to speak with you."

Itza-chu? What was he doing here? Had something else happened? Grey Wolf crept into the hallway with Bright Sun on his heels and peered around the doorway into the living room, ignoring both his grandmother's order to go to bed and his own relief at not having to lie to his grandfather a third time. The medicine man was indeed at the door, and Grey Wolf watched his grandparents usher him into the house.

"Where is your son?" Itza-chu demanded.

"Quanah? He is out looking for the stranger," Taklishim answered.

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know," Taklishim replied. "No one knows for sure where the stranger went."

"Then I will go to the stranger's hiding place and wait for him," Itza-chu announced. "Tell me where I will find it."

"I don't know where it is," Taklishim answered. "I've never been there."

"Tell me where the stranger hides," Itza-chu ordered.

Grey Wolf's eyes widened along with his grandparents'. Itza-chu commanded a great deal of respect as their medicine man, but he had never shown anything but deference to the elders, as did everyone in the village. Now his eyes were cold, his voice hard, his manner downright....menacing.

"I told you, I don't know," Taklishim repeated, looking to Ish-keh, who was as puzzled as he was. "I only know it is a cave deep in the woods. But the stranger ran off into the desert, not the woods."

"Why?" Itza-chu demanded.

"You know why," Taklishim answered, looking thoroughly confused. "He sickened at the sweat."

Something cold began to grow in the pit of Grey Wolf's stomach. Itza-chu knew what had happened tonight—he had been there. He also knew where Nasedo's cave was, having been there the night they'd found him. Why was he asking questions to which he already knew the answers? Why was he being so rude to Grandfather? Why had he not even acknowledged Grandmother's presence by greeting her? His manner was harsh and insulting, and his face....his face was a mask. Itza-chu was a man of great passion, well known for his strong opinions and fiery temper. But there was no passion in those eyes now, no anger, no frustration, only.....emptiness. A flat, frightening emptiness.

"Who does know where the stranger hides?" Itza-chu was asking.

"Quanah knows," Taklishim replied, "and River Dog. But Quanah is gone, and I can't find River Dog."

With an instinct borne of fear, Grey Wolf clamped his hand over Bright Sun's open mouth and pinned her firmly to the wall. She had been about to answer Itza-chu's question; now he shook his head firmly and put a finger to his lips before cautiously releasing her.

"But we know where Nasedo's cave is," she protested. "We should tell Itza-chu."

"No," Grey Wolf whispered, uncertain of why this was so, but certain just the same. "Something's wrong with him."

Bright Sun peered around the doorway again. "He looks okay."

"I know. But he isn't."

"Why not?" Bright Sun asked.

Grey Wolf swallowed hard. "I'm not sure."



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




Gasping, Brivari stumbled into the cave, falling to the floor on his hands and knees. His entire body felt like it was on fire, an irony for one who could touch fire and not be harmed by it. Sound alternately faded and returned, and vision did the same, dimming almost to black and then creeping back as he pushed the blackness away by sheer force of will. He was losing the battle.

For awhile it looked as though he might win. His initial symptoms had abated somewhat shortly after leaving the sweat lodge, and he had rallied, enough to realize that he was heading into the desert instead of the woods and to alter course, hoping to reach the safety of the cave before too much of his body was compromised. He tried to move steadily instead of hurriedly, knowing a rapid heart rate would spread the drug more quickly, hoping that slowing that spread would mitigate the symptoms. Initially this approach was successful; then, three quarters of the way to the cave, the scale tipped in the wrong direction and he panicked, running, knowing that would only make things worse but desperate to not lose consciousness out in the open. He only barely made it to the cave.

Now Brivari looked up, his shaky vision making it difficult to see the cleft in the rock wall where he had hidden the healing stones. He had no idea if they could help him neutralize an alien drug in his system and no one to wield them on his behalf. But the stones retained at least a small amount of energy from whoever had last used them, and that would be Emily Proctor and her child, formidable sources of power even if they didn't realize it. The residual energy might be enough to tip the scale once again if such a thing were possible.

With difficulty, Brivari began crawling toward the healing stones' hiding place. But his legs would no longer obey him, and he wound up creeping along the cave floor, propelling himself by his elbows and his will, pushing the darkness back again and again as he moved. He was almost there when the darkness prevailed. For a moment, all was black; then the black faded to a dull grey. Why? What had changed? Was he....dead?

"There you are," said a voice nearby. "I was beginning to think your legendary stubbornness would keep you away forever."

The voice was familiar—too familiar. Slowly, Brivari raised his head to see a pair of gray feet directly in his line of vision.

"Let it go, Brivari," the voice said gently. "If you keep fighting it, we'll never have a chance to talk. And we need to talk, old friend. More than that, I want to talk. I have missed you."

Brivari raised his head further and stared into a pair of very familiar eyes.

"Valeris?"


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


I'll post Chapter 105 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading! *Wave*





ONE HUNDRED FIVE


May 24, 1949, 10:15 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



Brivari gaped at the smiling figure of Valeris, unable to believe his eyes. The cave had vanished, replaced by a featureless gray landscape and this....apparition. Was this real, or was it a figment of his imagination? Was that Valeris talking, or the fever? Common sense leaned toward the latter even as Brivari desperately wished for the former.

"Where am I?" Brivari whispered.

"I am not sure," Valeris admitted, taking a seat on.....well, on nothing, for there was nothing on which to take a seat. "And leave it to you to make your very first question something I can't answer."

The voice was dry and affectionate, a perfect copy of Valeris' voice, which was no surprise; Brivari's own memories could have recreated that. Or.......

"Am I......am I dead?"

"Now there's a question I can answer," Valeris smiled. "No, Brivari, you are not dead. You are....." He paused, pondering. "The best way I can think to explain this is that your mind and your body have separated. Your mind, your consciousness, if you will, is here—wherever 'here' is—while your body is wherever you last were before you found yourself....'here'. The same is true for me, the difference being that I have no body to return to."

Nor may I, Brivari thought, noticing for the first time that his vision had stabilized, his arms and legs worked as usual, and he no longer felt like he was on fire. Either he had miraculously and instantaneously healed, or the body which had been exhibiting those symptoms was still in the cave. Whether or not that body would be habitable in the future remained to be seen.

"Are you all right?" Valeris was asking. "I must confess I didn't expect to find you face down on the floor."

"I'm fine," Brivari replied, deliberately not mentioning his current physical predicament as he pulled himself into a sitting position. If his body survived, that meant his time with Valeris was limited....assuming this actually was Valeris, that is. If his body succumbed, then it sounded like he would be joining Valeris permanently. There was nothing he could do about it now in either case.

"Would you be more comfortable somewhere else?" Valeris asked.

" 'Somewhere else'?" Brivari repeated.

"Whatever this place is, it is not the physical world. Which means we can make it look like anything we want. What would you like it to be?"

"You choose," Brivari answered, having never heard a more bizarre question in his life.

"Very well, then. How about....this?"

The grayness dissolved, and Dimaras Rock materialized beneath them. Overhead was Antar's red sun, smaller and cooler than Earth's blazing yellow variety, and three moons which reflected the light of the sun around the clock. Below was the lake, its lazy waves lapping against the shore just like they had every time the royal family had come here. "This is like a dream," Brivari muttered, less certain now than ever that any of this was real.

"This is no dream," Valeris sighed. "Would that it were. One awakens from dreams. I'm afraid the process of awakening requires a body.....and you no doubt know what happened to mine."

Brivari closed his eyes, trying—and failing—to block out the image of a bullet-ridden body lying in the basement of the human military base. Suddenly he didn't care if this was merely a vivid dream or a hallucination brought on by imminent death. He could think of no better way to spend his final moments than in the company of his oldest friend, be that company supposed or real.

"What happened on the ship, Valeris?" Brivari asked.

Valeris shrugged. "I tried to bargain for my life. I was fortunate to encounter a human capable of controlling his fear, and I believe I would have been successful had not another human arrived and panicked."

"You would have been," Brivari agreed, watching the water wash over the rocks below, finding the familiar scenery soothing, even if simulated. "That human has become one of our staunchest allies, in large part because of what happened when you......" His voice trailed off, unwilling to complete the sentence.

"Died?" Valeris offered gently. "You can say it, Brivari. I have had a good long while to come to terms with the notion, even if I don't understand it. It's a pity our people don't give more credence to all those 'primitive' tales of what happens after death. I find them sorely in need of re-evaluation. Now—what of my hybrids?"

"Safely in the pod chamber."

"How many?"

Brivari hesitated. "Only three complete sets," he said reluctantly, "plus one extra Zan hybrid."

Valeris's eyes rose, the human equivalent of raised eyebrows. " 'Only'? That is simply wonderful news, given everything we've been through. And what of the rest of us? Urza? Jaddo?"

"Urza died not long after you did," Brivari said heavily, "And Jaddo is captive. Still. And well treated, although things have been difficult from time to time. He is currently engaged in the rebuilding of our ship, which delights the humans no end."

"The humans have my sympathy," Valeris said with a faint smile. "You would have made a much more agreeable prisoner. How do they manage to hold him?"

"They developed a drug which blocks his abilities and prevents him from shifting."

"Indeed?" Valeris said in surprise. "I had not thought human technology so advanced."

"It isn't," Brivari said bitterly. "This is sheer dumb luck, bad luck, in our case. They have no idea how it works, but that ignorance renders it no less effective."

"Oh, dear," Valeris sighed. "Had I lived, his rescue would have been a simple matter."

"Perhaps not as simple as you might think," Brivari said, pushing himself to his feet and walking to the edge of the Rock, surprised to find himself full of nervous energy only minutes after being unable to move. "The humans' security procedures are every bit as much an obstacle as your absence. Humans are much more resourceful than we gave them credit for, both our enemies and our allies."

"You're pacing," Valeris said dryly. "That's never a good sign. So," he continued, ignoring the annoyed look Brivari threw his way, "did the child escape?"

"She did."

"Good," Valeris said with satisfaction. "I feared she lacked the nerve to walk through that crowd and trust that she would be undetected."

"She had the nerve for that and much more besides," Brivari said. "They all did." He paused, gazing over the water. "You don't know what you set in motion by advising me to trust David Proctor. They have all stood between our Wards and disaster more times than I can count. They have healed us, sheltered us, fed us, rescued the hybrids.....even a hunter is dead at their hands."

Valeris stared at him. "A hunter?" he repeated softly. "There are hunters on this world?"

"Four were sent," Brivari said. "Two are dead, one by David Proctor's hand, one by my own. I have not yet managed to bring down the remaining two."

Valeris was silent for a moment, staring off into space. "So that was what I sensed. I knew something was wrong, but I never dreamed....... Sit down," he said firmly, "and tell me everything that has happened."



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



A twig snapped. Annoyed with himself, River Dog slowed his pace and withdrew further into the shadows of the forest, concentrating on remaining silent as he headed as quickly as he dared toward Nasedo's cave. Haste was making him careless, but something inside kept pushing him to hurry, hurry, as though his life—or someone else's—depended on speed.

When he had first left his home after Grey Wolf had handed him the sack of provisions, River Dog had rejected his father's path in favor of the woods. Even though Nasedo had last been seen heading in the direction of the desert, it was unlikely he would be found there. Nasedo went abroad at night only when necessary, always keeping well under cover and taking different paths back to his cave. Whatever stalked him must see well in the dark, and River Dog had kept that in mind as he had melted into the darkest corners of the forest, no difficult task as the trees blotted out most of the light from the stars and the moon. It was possible, of course, that all this was for naught, that Nasedo had fainted somewhere far from here. But he was conscious and lucid, if ill, when last seen, and River Dog was certain he would have headed for the shelter of a familiar place deep in the woods if there was any way at all that he could get there. This path still offered the best hope of finding him.

The clearing lay just ahead. Impatient as he was, River Dog resisted the urge to run and paused at the edge of the clearing, alert for any sound or movement. Finding none, he cautiously crept the last few yards up to the cave opening and listened again. Still nothing. He slipped inside.

"Nasedo?"

His whisper sounded loud in the almost total blackness and remained unanswered. He moved further in.

"Nasedo?"

No answer. River Dog knelt and rummaged in his pack for matches; a moment later, a handy branch became a torch which did surprisingly little to cut the darkness. He advanced slowly, stepping carefully, his feet bumping against rocks....wait.

That was no rock.

His heart thumping, River Dog swung the torch toward the floor. Nasedo lay face down in the dirt, his right arm outstretched toward the wall. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged and shallow, and he was hot—very hot. "Oh, no," River Dog breathed, trying to shake him with one hand, ultimately scraping together a pile of rocks to hold the torch and using both hands to roll him over. "Nasedo!" he said urgently. "Wake up! Wake up!" He shook him by the shoulders, gently at first, then roughly out of sheer desperation. But Nasedo remained unconscious, his head lolling from side to side, his body limp and burning.

What do I do? River Dog thought frantically. He knew a fever this high had to be dangerous; people with fevers needed medicine. His father was unreachable, and he didn't trust Itza-chu; dare he go back to the village and summon his mother or grandmother, both skilled with healing? Perhaps they should return Nasedo to the village so they could care for him at their house?

One long agonizing minute later, River Dog removed the blankets from his pack and tucked them around the still form on the cave floor. He didn't know how to care for someone this ill, and Nasedo was too heavy to carry back to the village all by himself. He would return to the village and consult with his mother and grandparents. They would know what to do.

He was all ready to leave when a hand reached out and grasped his arm with a grip that was surprisingly strong. Gasping, River Dog watched Nasedo's head turn his way and his eyes fly open, eyes that were still completely, utterly white.



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



"My goodness," Valeris murmured when Brivari had finished his lengthy tale. "You have been busy, old friend." He rose and walked to the edge of the cliff, staring down at the water in silence.

"Now who's pacing?" Brivari asked dryly. Valeris had neither interrupted nor reacted to anything Brivari had told him until now, not Urza's revelations about Vilandra's indiscretions, not even Malik's accusations that Zan was quietly disposing of wayward Covari in his laboratories. "The irony here is that all of this, this entire cascade of disaster reaching across the galaxy, is the result of one foolish girl's crush," Brivari continued. "I had no idea."

"I did," Valeris said quietly.

"You did?" Brivari repeated in astonishment.

"Ava told me of the fights Zan and Vilandra were having over Khivar in great detail," Valeris said heavily. "Vilandra was so upset that Ava feared her sister-in-law would do something desperate.....although I daresay she had eloping in mind, not treason."

"Did everyone know about this?" Brivari exclaimed in exasperation. "Urza knew, Jaddo said he'd heard Khivar had taken up with a woman and that was dividing his followers, and now you knew? Why am I the only one who knew nothing about any of this?"

"Because your Ward did not confide in you, Brivari," Valeris said. "You were always Riall's Warder, not Zan's. You only agreed to ward him because his father asked you to, not because you wanted to."

Brivari stared at Valeris in disbelief, stunned by what sounded suspiciously like a personal attack. "I helped Riall build that world!" he said angrily, striding up to Valeris. "Without me, he never would have gained the throne, nothing would have improved for us—none of it would have happened!"

"I do not question your loyalty," Valeris said gently. "You were unfailingly loyal to Riall, the better world he made, and to the dynasty that would hopefully continue that. But you never felt the same about Zan; your personal connection was to the father, not the son. And when all is said and done, warding is always about personal connections. Which is why Zan never told you about his problems with his sister, and why you did not know."

" 'Personal connection'?" Brivari echoed. "If I had a 'personal connection' with Riall, then tell me why he betrayed me by sentencing our people to your laboratories when he promised me he would never do that!"

Argue with me, Brivari thought, as Valeris stared at him gravely. Tell me I'm wrong. But Valeris said nothing for a very long time, merely turned away, gazing out over the cliffs in complete silence.

"You know why he betrayed you," Valeris said finally. "You said it yourself: 'Sometimes what is right conflicts with what is necessary'."

Brivari felt his throat constrict with rage as his own words were used to justify a betrayal. He was all ready to launch into a blistering invective when the illusion in which he found himself suddenly began to spin. Everything went dark as the ground rushed up to meet him and his senses failed, only to reassert themselves moments later....but now everything was different. He was lying on his back on a hard surface in a very dark place, and someone was shaking him, shouting a name.....

Brivari's hands flew up and grabbed his attacker, waiting several seconds for his vision to stabalize before realizing that it was the Indian boy, River Dog, wide-eyed and frightened. "Nasedo!" he gasped with mingled relief and fear, "I'm so glad you're awake! I was afraid you were....."

Dead? Brivari thought, releasing the boy as he sank back down upon the floor of the cave in exhaustion. He was back, back in the real world, assuming he had ever left it, and given how he felt, he may very well be dead before long. His body was still on fire, his legs still ignored him, and even now, he felt himself being pulled back to wherever he had been, whether that was with Valeris or with his own fears given shape. And I don't want to go back, he thought bitterly. Be it real or illusion, he didn't want to even contemplate the thought that both Riall and Zan had betrayed him, that Malik and that insufferable Amar had been right.

"Stones," he gasped to River Dog, who leaned closer to hear.

"What?"

"Stones," Brivari repeated, louder this time, although he likely sounded anything but loud to the boy. "In....the wall. Healing....stones."

"Where?" the boy asked, looking around in confusion.

"Wall," Brivari whispered, raising an arm that felt like lead. "Stones."

"Yes, you said that," the boy said in frustration. "But how will 'stones' help? You're very sick, Nasedo. You need help. I will run back to the village and get my mother. She knows how to care for sick people, and—"

The boy stopped as Brivari reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer. "No!" he croaked with all the energy he could muster. No ordinary human medical care would help him, he was sure of that. He needed someone to wield the stones for him, and he was sure the boy was capable. "Mother.....can't help. Stones. In the....wall. Find them.....hold one......"

The boy's astonished face melted away as Brivari sank back into darkness.



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


Stones? River Dog thought wildly as Nasedo lapsed back into unconsciousness. What stones? They were in a cave full of stones, and what help could stones be anyway? When shaking failed to rouse him, River Dog sat back on the cave floor in frustration, more uncertain now than ever of just what he should do. He had been all ready to fetch his mother up here or obtain help in carrying Nasedo back home, but Nasedo had said his mother could not help. Should he waste precious time hunting for these 'stones', or go for help?

A moment later, he decided to do both. If Itza-chu was right and Nasedo was indeed "other", it was quite possible that ordinary remedies would not help him. River Dog had no idea how stones would help, but given Nasedo's vehemence, he should at least look. If he found nothing, he would follow his original plan and go for help.

River Dog tucked the blankets more firmly around Nasedo, noting as he did so that Nasedo's hand had dropped while pointing in a certain direction—the left-hand wall of the cave. Stones. In the wall. Grabbing the torch, he began to comb that wall from top to bottom, carefully examining any stone he could find. Five minutes later, he had moved several feet down the wall and found nothing but ordinary rock. "All right—I looked," he muttered, heading back toward where he'd left Nasedo. It was time to go. He bent down to retrieve his pack, taking one last look at Nasedo....and gasped.

Nasedo's face was no longer there....or no longer visible, at least. It was covered in a white, gauzy shroud that resembled a dense spider web and completely obscured his features. His hands shaking, River Dog pulled the blankets away to find that the web covered Nasedo's entire body from head to toe. There hadn't been so much as a hint of this when he'd left the body just a few minutes ago. Leaning over, he saw Nasedo's chest rise and fall ever so slightly. He was still alive.

"What is that?" River Dog whispered, gingerly touching the web. He'd never seen anything like it in his life....and neither had his mother or grandparents, he was certain. Nasedo had been right; going for help would be useless. Whatever these "stones" were, they must be found, and quickly.

Determined now, River Dog faced the left wall of the cave. "He said they were in the wall," he murmured to himself as he retraced his steps further into the cave, "and that I should 'hold them'." Whatever could reverse a strange process like that web must be powerful....so powerful that they would be hidden. Where would one hide something in a wall?

Following the wall further into the cave as it curved to the left, out of sight of the cave entrance, River Dog spied a cleft in the rock toward the bottom of the wall where it met the cave floor. Kneeling down, he brushed some dirt away and reached inside.....and his hand closed on something soft, which he pulled out into the torch light. It was a small bag containing something hard.

Setting down his torch, River Dog emptied the bag onto the dirt floor of the cave, careful not to touch the contents. Five unimpressive orange-yellow stones rolled out. Is this what Nasedo had wanted him to find? They had certainly been hidden, but there was nothing unusual about these stones. They looked vaguely like amber, certainly not like anything powerful enough to heal a dying man. Gingerly, he touched one with a finger, then picked it up, cupping it in his hand and studying it closely....only to gasp in surprise and drop it when it suddenly began to glow. The stone stopped glowing the moment it left his hand, hitting the cave floor and sending up a small plume of dust. River Dog stared at it warily for a long minute in the torch light, as though expecting it to move.

When nothing happened, he experimentally touched it again. Nothing. Screwing up his courage, he picked up the stone again, ready to drop it at a moment's notice. This time the glow began more slowly, and he was ready for it. He tried each stone in turn, each producing a glow with no warmth. River Dog sat for a long time, staring at a glowing stone and wondering what it was for. How would this save Nasedo? What exactly did it do? Would it harm the one who held it? Was skill needed to wield it? Full of questions that had no answers, he scooped all the stones back into the bag, grabbed the torch, and headed back toward Nasedo. He didn't know what the stones did, but it didn't really matter—they were obviously vessels of power. And since they had done him no obvious harm, he would 'hold one' as instructed in the hopes that might do some good, even though he couldn't see how.

Nasedo was in the same condition when River Dog reached him, still covered with that strange web, still breathing shallowly. He used his hand to scrape a circle in the dirt around Nasedo's body, then placed the stones at equal distances around the circle, drawing a line in the dirt from each stone to Nasedo's body before taking a seat by the stone at his head. The circle was a sacred figure, essential to healing, an unbroken line with no beginning and no end; it could keep things in and keep things out. Hopefully this circle would corral whatever power these stones contained and direct it toward the figure at the center.

His hands shaking slightly, River Dog settled on the ground and picked up the stone at Nasedo's head. It began to glow, faintly at first, then brighter. Closing his eyes, River Dog waited for the magic to work........




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



Brivari had resisted the pull back to the netherworld, so his return there was less than pleasant; several seconds passed before his vision cleared and he could see. He was back where he had been, lying on the ground on Dimaras Rock, Antar's red sun casting its soft glow, so different from the harsh light of Earth's star. A face hove into view—Valeris, looking worried.

"Are you all right, Brivari? You disappeared for a minute."

Valeris. A short while ago, Brivari had been delighted to see his old friend again, even if he were only a hallucination. Now, with what he had just learned, he was feeling something quite different. He couldn't ever remember being genuinely angry with Valeris. Perhaps there really was a first time for everything, even if that first time came after death.

"You knew, didn't you?" Brivari whispered. "You knew Zan and his father were ordering our people to the labs. You almost told me that day we talked in the pod chamber just before the humans came."

"Brivari, what is going on back in the real world?" Valeris asked. "My impression is that you are ill."

"Answer me!"

"Let's stay with the present, shall we? Those I met here were never clear on exactly what process is used by the living to access this place, but if that process is harming you, then—"

"Answer me!"

Sighing, Valeris gazed sadly at Brivari. "Stubborn as ever, aren't you? Very well then....yes. I knew."

"You knew my Wards had betrayed me, were betraying me, you knew Ava was pregnant—is there anything else you didn't tell me?" Brivari demanded.

"The child delivered my message, so you know why I didn't tell you about the prince," Valeris replied. "It would have served no purpose but to upset you."

"You didn't tell me at home either!" Brivari snapped.

"I had only just learned of the Queen's pregnancy," Valeris said with exaggerated patience. "Even Zan did not know. Surely you don't think you should have been informed ahead of her husband, do you?"

"But you hadn't only 'just learned' of the rest," Brivari said, his voice tight with anger. "There was no way that could have happened without your knowledge!"

Valeris looked out over the water, saying nothing. After a moment, he settled himself on the ground very deliberately, as if he knew he'd be there awhile. "It's not as bad as it sounds; only a few Covari were silenced."

"By 'silenced', I assume you mean 'dead'?" Brivari said sarcastically. "You can say it, Valeris. I'm told you've had a good long while to come to terms with the notion."

"I had that coming," Valeris admitted. "But the key word is 'few'. Riall used that method infrequently, and Zan even less so, if that makes any difference to you."

"And why should it?" Brivari demanded. "There was already a system in place to deal with criminals. That's precisely what those hunters now hunting me were created for!"

"I'm afraid this fell into a gray area, outside the realm of the 'criminal'," Valeris replied. "Given the circumstances, Riall had—"

"Don't tell me he had no choice!" Brivari exclaimed furiously. "Everyone has a choice! That's nothing but an excuse used by those seeking to escape the consequences of the choice they've already made!"

"All right," Valeris said evenly. "Riall had two choices, neither of them attractive and both potentially devastating. He chose, as the humans would say, the lesser of two evils. I believe he made the right decision."

"Of course you do," Brivari said bitterly. "That's why you kept it from me, why I had to find out from rogues I tried to execute as traitors, only to find out it was the king who was the traitor!"

"It is unfortunate that you discovered this the way you did," Valeris said, his calm contrasting sharply with Brivari's rising temper. "I considered telling you that day in the pod chamber, but decided against it. Once again, it would only have served to upset you at a time when you were already agitated, there was nothing you could do about it, and only one of the five individuals who defected years ago was actually targeted."

"Amar," Brivari whispered.

"Yes, Amar," Valeris confirmed. "Zan also had a choice to make, and he chose to follow his father's policies, something I recall you complaining that he didn't do often enough," he added, as Brivari scowled. "Given your experiences with Amar, I sincerely doubt you'd disagree that Amar was a problem."

"And I suppose it hadn't occurred to either king that by breaking their trust with our people, they were creating a problem?" Brivari asked.

"Point taken," Valeris said ruefully. "The irony is not lost on me, Brivari, but you of all people should be able to understand the position in which Riall found himself after ascending the throne. Much is made by some of our people of the price he extracted from us in exchange for his favor, but the fact remains that he took an enormous risk; Covari may have put him on the throne, but Covari alone could not keep him there. For that he needed willing subjects....the very same subjects who had always been terrified of us. We had always been on the fringes of our society, and suddenly we were everywhere, allowed places never open to us before. There were relatively few of us when Riall took the throne, but he stabilized our reproduction, greatly increasing our numbers and further increasing everyone's fear of us—"

"I am familiar with what happened after Riall was crowned," Brivari said coldly. "I was there. Make your point."

"My point," Valeris said levelly, "is that in order for this 'new order' to work, cooperation was necessary from both sides. The last thing the king needed was for people to panic over the notion of Covari running amok; that would be just the fuel his enemies needed to marshal support against him. Agitators could not be tolerated."

"But not like that," Brivari insisted. "That wasn't right."

"So now we are back to the difference between 'right' and 'necessary'," Valeris noted. "And if you define them differently, by all means, make your case when the time comes. You will all have a second chance when the hybrids emerge. Zan will know he lost his throne and why, Vilandra will realize that Khivar lied to her—"

"Rath will know that his fiancé betrayed him," Brivari broke in, "and Ava will know she lost a child. Such a pity you won't be there for that wonderful conversation."

"Yes...well...hindsight is not always pleasant," Valeris said softly. "But it is instructive, if we allow it to be. Few have the opportunity to learn from their mistakes the way all of you will. You can squander your opportunity being bitter, or you can attempt to forge a relationship with Zan that allows him to confide in you. You, too, have a choice to make."

"And what about you, Valeris?" Brivari demanded. "Did my closest friend not tell me about this charming practice because the king ordered his silence, or because he chose not to? What 'choice' did you make?"

Brivari stared hard at his friend, whose face was inscrutable....and suddenly blurry. He felt energy pouring into him, removing the drug from his system—the boy must have found the healing stones and discovered their use. "What's happening?" Valeris asked sharply, ignoring his last question. "What's wrong?"

"He's pulling me back," Brivari whispered as Valeris' face started to blur around the edges.

"Brivari, listen to me," Valeris said urgently. "Stop fretting about the past. You can settle your differences with your Ward later; first you have to make certain you'll have a Ward to argue with. Those hunters are close, much too close if I can sense them even from here. Removing them must be your first priority."

Brivari didn't answer, couldn't answer as more energy poured into him and Valeris' voice grew fainter. "Goodbye again, old friend," he was saying softly, so softly that Brivari could barely hear him. "It was good to have one last talk with you. And my earlier advice still stands—come what may, do not lose hope, and do not forget to live."

Brivari's hearing and vision failed as the scene in front of him faded and the falling began. Experience counted for something; this time he had the presence of mind to close his eyes and wait for the falling sensation to cease before cautiously opening them again to find.....white. Nothing but white. He no longer felt weak or burning hot, and his arms and legs obeyed him, so why was his vision still obscured? He reached up a hand, and the white fell away, revealing a dark, rocky ceiling overhead. Slowly, he sat up.

He was in the cave, sitting in the middle of a circle drawn in the dirt of the cave floor, around which ringed the healing stones. The only light came from a torch burning a few feet away, held erect by a pile of rocks. And covering his body was an odd white material he'd never seen before that fell away when he touched it. He could hear and see perfectly.

"Nasedo?"

Brivari whirled around; the Indian boy was sitting directly behind him, wide-eyed, a healing stone in his hand.

"Are you all right?" the boy asked. "Did the magic work?"

Magic? Ah. Yes. That would be one interpretation of the healing stones' effects. Interesting that the Proctors had not reached a similar conclusion. "It did," Brivari answered, unsurprised to find his throat dry and unwilling to speak.

"I believe you were near death," the boy was saying. "I am not certain you would have survived if you had not told me of these magic stones."

"I would not have," Brivari agreed, "and you have my thanks."

"I need more than that," the boy said gravely. "I need to know." He paused, letting the healing stone drop from his hands to the floor of the cave. "What are you?"



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

I'll post Chapter 106 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX


May 24, 1949, 11:30 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



"So," River Dog said slowly. "You live among the stars."

Brivari pulled the blanket the boy had offered him closer, it being almost cold now that the fierce heat of the drug had left him. A fire burned brightly between them, warming the mug of the beverage named "tea" the boy had handed him, a weak substitute for coffee, but better than nothing. "Not exactly," Brivari answered. "I merely come from a world which orbits a different star."

"And these stones," the boys said, nodding toward the pile of healing stones, "you said they contain energy from your world?"

"Yes," Brivari said, having not gone into detail about how the stones were really conduits for the energy of whoever held them. "When you held one, your own energy activated it."

"So you are not a mountain spirit?" the boy asked, a note of disappointment in his voice.

"No," Brivari admitted, "nor did I ever claim to be."

"No mountain spirit would," the boy said thoughtfully. "Still, Itza-chu is right and my father is wrong: You are indeed 'other', and you are no spirit."

"I am also not here to harm anyone," Brivari pointed out. "Our ship crashed. It was an accident."

"But someone hunts you," the boy countered.

"Your military found our ship and captured me for a time," Brivari answered. "I escaped."

The boy frowned. "But something hunts you that sees well in the dark. That is why you do not like to go abroad at night, is it not?"

Brivari smiled faintly. The boy had listened in total silence as Brivari had told a much simplified tale of his presence here, and accepted that explanation without the usual torrent of questions he had come to expect from humans. For River Dog's people, it seemed mystery was something to be accepted, not fought, and Brivari had attributed this trait to the Indians' more superstitious culture. Yet they were also capable of such shrewd observation, noticing details most humans wouldn't. They were a puzzle.

"I am careful whenever I go abroad," Brivari answered. "Your military would love to have a prisoner from another planet."

"I can see why," the boy said. "You are different from us. You can do things we cannot. That is how you were able to help me when I was attacked. But....that is also why the sweat made you so sick." He nodded toward the white film which had covered Brivari when he'd awakened, now lying in a heap on the ground. "What is that?"

"I am not sure," Brivari admitted. "I have never seen anything like it."

"I have never seen peyote do to anyone what it did to you, but sometimes men do take ill in the sweat," the boy commented. "The heat overcomes them. Is that what happened to you?"

"Perhaps," Brivari replied evasively. It would not be wise to confirm his susceptibility to the drug. That information could be devastating were it to fall into the wrong hands.

"What happened while you were unconscious?" the boy asked. "Did you find your kinsman on the other side?"

Did I? Brivari stared off into space, realizing that even now, he didn't know if he had really spoken to Valeris or merely given form to his own feelings and fears via the drug. Whatever it had been, it would not happen again. He could not risk a second exposure after this one had nearly killed him. "I believe I may have," he answered tonelessly.

"Did your meeting go well?"

"It did not."

River Dog nodded, unsurprised. "My father says that is often the case. He says that too often, the living waste their energy trying to discover that which the Creator long ago decided they should not know. He says secrets taken to the grave should stay there."

And perhaps he is right, Brivari thought, anger welling within him once again as he thought of Riall and Zan after him ordering Covari to the laboratories to silence them. Neither king had ever used their ability to command on him, nor on any Covari he knew of. It was an emergency measure intended to calm that nervous public Valeris had referenced, one bitterly opposed by some Covari because, in the wrong hands, it could make slaves of them. Brivari had been certain that the hands which wielded that power had been the right ones; now, he was not so sure.

"I should return home," River Dog was saying. "Will you be all right?"

"I have nearly recovered," Brivari answered, feeling nothing but a lingering fatigue from the adventures of the evening.

"I will leave the food for you, and the blankets," River Dog said, "and I will return tomorrow. I'm sure my father will want to see you also."

"He is always welcome here," Brivari replied. "There is one more thing," he added, as River Dog stood up. "No one must know what I've told you tonight. Not even your father."

The boy nodded. "I understand. The irony is that my people are accustomed to being outcast on our own world. One would think they would be sympathetic to someone like you, but I fear that would not be the case. Some would be, but others....." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. "I will say this: I know what it is to be separate, but I always have others of my kind. I have no idea what it's like to be alone the way you are. I hope I never do." He shouldered his pack. "Good night."

"Good night," Brivari answered, following the boy to the mouth of the cave and watching him walk off into the dark woods. This was the second time he had been saved by a child, the second time a child had provided intercession between him and adults. There was undoubtedly a lesson there, when he could focus enough to find it. For now, he was merely grateful that the boy had appreciated the gravity of the situation.

It would have been a shame if he'd had to kill him.



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



It was well past midnight when River Dog stepped from the forest and saw his house in the distance. The single light shining through a front window could mean that his father had not yet returned, or it could mean that his father was waiting for him. River Dog veered left, heading toward the back of the house where his brother and sister slept alongside his empty bed in their shared bedroom. With luck, he'd be able to slip inside unnoticed and save the inevitable confrontations for tomorrow. As much as Quanah would welcome the news that Nasedo was no longer ill, he would be very angry with River Dog for disobeying his order to stay home.

It doesn't matter, River Dog thought as his house drew closer. Leaving had been the right thing to do. Nasedo was exactly where he'd thought he would be, and would surely have died if not found. And might have died anyway if he'd been found by someone too frightened by the odd web that had covered him or unwilling to take the risk of wielding the magic rocks. And the rest.....the least that would happen if those in his village should learn that a man from outer space lived among them was that Nasedo would be asked to leave; the worst was something he did not want to contemplate. River Dog's own feelings on the matter were clear: Nasedo had saved his life. Where he came from, or why, was irrelevant.

River Dog reached his bedroom window, open as always to let in the night breezes. He'd just placed his hands on either side of it, praying that it wouldn't squeak loudly on the way up like it sometimes did when a tall figure stepped out from the nearby corner of the house, startling him. "Father?" he whispered, guessing from the build because he was unable to see the face. "Is that you?"

No answer. Clouds rolled away from the moon, and for the instant that its light was available, River Dog saw Quanah standing there, dressed as he had been when he'd left, his pack slung over his shoulder. He and Kanseah must have given up the search.

"I know what this looks like," River Dog said quickly, caught red-handed trying to sneak back into his own bedroom. "I can explain. Please don't get angry until I explain."

Quanah said nothing, just stood there, staring at him, his face still in shadow. For some reason, River Dog found the silence more unnerving than anger. "I know you told me to stay home, but I just couldn't," he said in a rush, one word tumbling over the next. "I knew Nasedo wouldn't stay in the desert. He hates to be out at night. I thought he would return to his cave, or at least try to. So I went into the woods to find him. And I did find him in his cave, and he was very sick," River Dog continued, coming to the part which would hopefully stay his father's hand. "He needed help. I—" River Dog paused, realizing he had yet to come up with a suitable story for exactly what he'd done for Nasedo, the truth not being usable in any case—"I built him a fire, and left him food and blankets," he finished.

More silence. River Dog shifted uncomfortably, unaccustomed to such stoicism from his father. He would have much preferred being yelled at to this endless, accusatory silence.

"Does he live?" Quanah asked in a flat voice.

"Yes," River Dog answered in relief, grateful that his father had zeroed in on the main point. "He is better now. I think he will recover."

"Take me to him," Quanah ordered.

"You...you want me to come with you?" River Dog asked uncertainly. "But you know where he is, and you wanted me to—"

"Take me to him," Quanah repeated.

"All right," River Dog answered, not willing to anger his father further by disobeying him twice. "Since we're going back, I should bring him more food. I'll be back in a minute."

Quanah neither moved nor spoke as River Dog walked past, opening the front door as quietly as possible. Only a little of the single light in the front room spilled into the kitchen, casting strange shadows as he doffed his shoes and padded into the kitchen, filling his pack with more provisions. He closed a cupboard door and nearly dropped his pack—Grey Wolf was standing behind it, a mere shadow against the window behind him.

"Don't go," Grey Wolf whispered.

"What?"

"Don't go back to Nasedo's cave with father."

"How did you—"

"The bedroom window was open, remember? I'm not deaf."

"Good," River Dog said, adding some apples to his pack. "Then you know father's not angry. So why don't you want me to go?"

Grey Wolf's head swung toward the window. "Something weird is going on."

"Weird how?" When Grey Wolf didn't answer, River Dog's eyes narrowed. "What happened after I left? How long did it take grandfather to realize I was gone?"

"Not long," Grey Wolf said, "and I didn't tell him where you went. But that's not it. Itza-chu came here not long after you left, and he was very strange."

"Itza-chu and father quarreled outside the lodge after Nasedo took ill," River Dog said dismissively.

"No," his little brother said, shaking his head vigorously, "that wasn't it. He was rude to grandfather, he ignored grandmother, and he was asking questions he already knew the answers to."

"Like what?"

"He wanted to know where father was. And he really wanted to know where Nasedo's cave was. Grandfather doesn't know, but Itza-chu does....so why was he asking?"

"Maybe he forgot," River Dog reasoned. "He only went there once, and that was a year and a half ago."

"But he was so mean!" Grey Wolf objected. "You didn't hear him! He ordered grandfather to tell him where the cave was. Itza-chu never talks to grandfather that way, whether he's quarrelled with father or not."

"Maybe he was really angry," River Dog said impatiently. "Itza-chu gets that way sometimes. Clearly, he will owe grandfather an apology tomorrow, but I don't see what that has to do with me going back to Nasedo's cave with father."

"Because father's weird too," Grey Wolf insisted. "You know father—he'd be furious that you left when he told you not to, even if you did find Nasedo. He would never just stand there and say nothing. That makes two people who are acting weird."

"Are you worried you won't get to watch me get in trouble?" River Dog asked dryly. "Well, don't. I'm sure father is just tired from hiking all over the desert, only to come home and find out I disobeyed him and found Nasedo when he did not. Let him get some rest, and he'll be yelling in no time."

"River Dog, I'm serious," Grey Wolf said urgently. "This isn't a game. Something's wrong." He paused. "I'm scared."

River Dog hesitated. His brother did sound genuinely frightened, and he had provided him with an escape route earlier, as well as kept his mouth shut about it, from the sounds of things. "Look," he said quietly, putting a hand on Grey Wolf's shoulder, "Many people objected to father inviting Nasedo to the sweat, and then he got sick there when father brought him anyway. Perhaps everyone is just upset about everything that went wrong tonight. Give it some time. Go back to bed, and I'm sure everything will look better in the morning."

"It's not 'everyone'," Grey Wolf muttered, "just Itza-chu and father."

"There. You see?" River Dog said. "Those are the two who quarrelled, so of course they would be acting strangely."

Grey Wolf considered that for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "I guess so."

"I know so," River Dog assured him, shouldering his pack. "Go back to bed. Tell mother and grandfather where father and I went if they're up before we get back."

"Be careful," Grey Wolf whispered.

"I will," River Dog promised.

A minute later he was back outside with Quanah, who hadn't moved from his position behind the house. On the way out, he turned off the light in the front room. No need for that to be on now. His father had returned.



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


"Do not be discouraged," Kanseah said gently. "We did our best. We will try again tomorrow, at first light if you wish."

"Yes," Quanah said heavily. "Will you join me?"

"Gladly," Kanseah agreed before heading toward his own home.

Quanah climbed the steps to his front door and paused, frowning. He would have expected a light to have been left on for him, but the front window was dark. He went inside, closed the door quietly behind him, snapped on the light, and sank into a chair, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Three hours of searching had turned up nothing, not so much as a hint of where Nasedo had gone, and Quanah feared the worst. And if the worst had happened, it was his fault for urging Nasedo to attend the sweat in the first place.

"Quanah?"

Quanah opened his eyes to find his wife, Leosanni, standing in the doorway to the hall that led to bedrooms. "When are you going to come to bed?" she asked. "You've been sitting out here in the dark these past twenty minutes."

"I have only just returned," Quanah replied in surprise. "The light was off when I arrived."

"You turned it off several minutes ago," Leosanni insisted. "I've been waiting for you to come to bed ever since."

"You were dreaming," Quanah said grumpily. "I told you, I only just returned home."

"If you say so," Leosanni answered with a resigned sigh. "Taklishim told me what happened. Did you find the stranger?"

"No," Quanah said.

"I am sorry to hear that. Where is River Dog?"

Quanah's eyes narrowed. "Isn't he here?"

Leosanni shook her head. "When I returned home, Taklishim told me River Dog was gone. They thought he went to join the search."

"He left?" Quanah demanded angrily. "After I specifically told him I wanted him to stay?"

Leosanni's eyes widened in alarm. "You mean....you mean he is not with you?"

"Yes, he was," a small voice answered from behind them. "He left with father almost half an hour ago."

Quanah turned in consternation to see his youngest son peering around the corner of the kitchen doorway. "Why are you back so soon?" Grey Wolf asked. "Did you change your mind about going to Nasedo's cave?"

"Change my mind—what is the matter with everyone?" Quanah exclaimed. "Why would I go to Nasedo's cave? Nasedo ran off into the desert. Besides, he was much to ill to have made it all the way through the forest to his cave."

"But....River Dog found him there," Grey Wolf said. "And then he came home just a few minutes ago and told you he'd found him, and then both of you started back for the cave."

Quanah looked at his wife, baffled. "Someone was here," Leosanni confirmed. "I heard the light go off."

"It was River Dog," Grey Wolf said. "He was getting more food for Nasedo, and you were waiting outside, and—" He stopped his eyes widening in fear. "It looked like you, father," he whispered. "It looked exactly like you."

A cold hand clutched Quanah's heart as he remembered the foosteps behind him last night, footsteps that had matched Itza-chu's perfectly but had not belonged to him. So they are real, he thought grimly. Not merely the stuff of legend that adults spoke of in whispers and kept from their children, but real. The one that stalked this village was more adept, capable of stealing a human face as well as footsteps. And it was out there now, with his unsuspecting son, who was unwittingly leading it right where it wanted to go.

"Get my hunting rifle," Quanah ordered, rising from his chair, all traces of weariness gone. "Make certain it's fully loaded. I will be leaving in the next five minutes."

"Leaving?" his wife echoed. "Where? Where are you going?"

But Quanah was already gone, vaulting out the front door straight for Itza-chu's wickiup. Their quarrel aside, he would take Itza-chu with him; he may need the medicine man's skills to bring down a menace that could disguise itself as another man, be it flesh or spirit. "Itza-chu!" he cried, flinging back the skin which served as a doorway. "You are needed! Where—"

Quanah stopped short. The fire in the corner had almost burned down, but enough remained to illuminate the still figure of a man lying on the ground, immobile. "Itza-chu!" Quanah exclaimed, running to his side. There was a large gash on the side of his head, and blood pooled on the floor beneath him. A loud gasp made Quanah turn; his wife stood in the doorway, her hand over her mouth.

"What happened?" Leosanni whispered.

"He was attacked," Quanah said grimly.

"But....who would do this?"

"I believe it is more a question of 'what'," Quanah replied. "Help me move him."

Together, they eased the medicine man onto his back, Leosanni holding his head carefully. Itza-chu's eyes fluttered open.

"Itza-chu? Are you awake? Who did this to you?" Quanah demanded.

"Leave him be!" Leosanni admonished. "This isn't the time for—"

Suddenly Itza-chu's hand reached up, grabbing Quanah's shirt and hauling him closer. "I didn't tell it," he said in a ragged whisper. "It wanted to know where the stranger dwelled. I didn't tell....wouldn't tell....I...." He stopped, his hand falling from Quanah's shirt as his eyes closed.

"Oh, no," Quanah breathed.

"What is he talking about?" Leosanni asked in a frightened whisper.

"Father?" a voice said tentatively.

Grey Wolf had entered the wickiup, wide-eyed and frightened, his father's rifle in his hands. "What happened?" he asked, his eyes locked on the medicine man's bloody body.

"Itza-chu is hurt," Quanah said, taking the rifle. "Your mother will tend him. I want you to go wake up your grandparents and send them here. But first, tell me what River Dog did after I left. And I mean everything," he added sternly. "No promise you made to hide your brother's whereabouts should stand in the way of learning all we can about who did this to Itza-chu."

Grey Wolf swallowed hard and nodded. "River Dog....he left too. Right after you did. He thought Nasedo would have gone to his cave. And he found him there—he was very sick, but River Dog said he was better now."

"What else did he tell you?"

"He didn't tell me anything," Grey Wolf said faintly. "He told you. Or....what I thought was you. And what River Dog thought was you."

Leosanni's eyes widened. "He said that before," she said, addressing her husband, "but I didn't think....I mean, how could that be? They only take the shape of animals! They never—"

"Not in front of the child," Quanah interrupted. "And what did 'I' say to River Dog?" he asked his son.

"You...you asked if Nasedo was alive, and then you told River Dog to take you to his cave," Grey Wolf said, looking back and forth from one parent to the other in confusion.

"How long ago did they leave?" Quanah demanded.

"Almost half an hour."

"What does it want?" Leosanni asked, her eyes still wide with fright.

Quanah cocked the rifle and inspected the bullet chamber. "It hunts Nasedo," he said to his wife quietly. "It is trying to find him, trying to find someone who will lead it to him....and it appears it has succeeded." He snapped the rifle shut. "I will go and find River Dog. Alone. Tell no one where I have gone," he added, as his wife began to protest. "This creature is a trickster; it can wear another man's face, copy another man's gait. The fewer people out there, the less likely I will become confused and shoot the wrong thing. I mean it," he insisted, as Leosanni's protests escalated. "I must go alone. And be suspicious of your eyes tonight; you cannot trust them."

A minute later, Quanah reached the edge of the forest and hesitated. It was the middle of the night, and clouds obscured the moon, blocking even the little moonlight that managed to filter through the trees. It was dark as pitch in the woods. This would not be easy.

No matter, he thought grimly, slipping noiselessly between the first of the trees. His son was out there. He would find him, or die trying.


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

I'll post Chapter 107 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading! *wave*






CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN


May 25, 1949, 2:00 a.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation



River Dog came to a halt in a nearly completely black clearing, swinging around in a circle, the trees only barely dark shapes against the night. He looked skyward, but clouds now completely obscured the stars and the moon. No help there. After several moments hesitation, he turned to his father.

"Which way?" he asked Quanah.

"You know which way," his father replied. "You have already come this way tonight."

"This is different," River Dog answered. "I had at least a little light to go by, but now......" He glanced at the sky again, which still offered no guidance. "Now it is much more difficult."

"Choose," his father said.

For the second time that night, uneasiness stirred in the pit of River Dog's stomach. The first had been when he and his father had set out from their house after that odd conversation with Grey Wolf. "I'm ready," River Dog had said, waiting for his father to take the lead like he always did when they were together.

"You go. I will follow. I am fatigued," Quanah had added, when River Dog looked at him questioningly. And it was only then that he'd remembered why his father had wanted him to stay home tonight.

"You must watch for that which appears familiar.....but is not."

What did that mean? Did that have something to do with what Grey Wolf was saying, that people they knew well were behaving strangely? What could be the cause of that? He had pondered those questions all the way to this clearing where, once again, his father was not behaving like his father. Quanah would never stand there passively like he was now, waiting for a verdict on the route; he would be examining the various openings between the trees himself. He would be leading instead of following. He be acting like himself instead of a stranger.

"He wanted to know where father was. And he really wanted to know where Nasedo's cave was. Grandfather doesn't know, but Itza-chu does....so why was he asking?"

So—Itza-chu had wanted to know where Nasedo's cave was...but he already knew that. His father had demanded River Dog take him to Nasedo's cave and was now acting like he didn't know the way.....but he did. Why would people who already knew where something was act like they didn't know? And what was the big hurry to get to Nasedo's cave?

"Choose," his father insisted behind him.

As if on cue, the clouds parted for just a moment, sending bits of moonlight through the trees, and River Dog pointed. "This way," he said confidently, leading his father through a gap in the trees.

Ten minutes later, River Dog was shaking, drenched with sweat as his father walked placidly behind him. He had deliberately chosen the wrong way....and his father said nothing, not so much as a word as they wound their way toward the outer edge of the forest instead of heading deeper into the interior, where Nasedo's cave lay. Fatigued or not, Quanah would have realized they were heading east when they should have been heading west. Which meant that either his father had been taken over by some evil spirit.....or whatever walked behind was not his father.



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



Quanah approached the cave cautiously, stepping carefully so as to avoid making any sound. He had found no sign of his son on the path here, no surprise really, as River Dog had long ago learned how to not leave a trail. What bothered Quanah was that whoever—or whatever—walked with his son also left no sign of its passing. A being capable of disguising itself as another and hiding its trail was very dangerous indeed.

"Nasedo?" Quanah whispered.

No answer. Quanah stepped inside, his rifle ready, unsure—and fearful—of what he would find. Was he too late? River Dog had had a good head start. Had they already come and gone? Where was his son now?

And then he rounded the bend in the cave which blocked the opening from view. A small fire glowed on the floor, and sitting beside it wrapped in a familiar blanket was Nasedo, regarding him warily. Beside him was another blanket, neatly folded, and the remnants of a meal. There was no one else in the cave.

"Greetings," Nasedo said, eyeing Quanah's rifle. "Is something wrong?"

Slowly, Quanah lowered his rifle. "Have you seen River Dog? I know he was here earlier, but have you seen him since?"

"No," Nasedo answered slowly, never taking his eyes off the rifle. "Why?"

"Over an hour ago, a man came to my house who looked like me, sounded like me. But it was not me."

Instantly, Nasedo was on his feet, circling the fire, putting it between them. "Where is this man now?" he demanded.

"He bade my son take him to your cave," Quanah said, "and River Dog complied. In the meantime, we found our medicine man attacked. All he could say was, 'It wanted to know where the stranger dwelled, but I wouldn't tell it'." Quanah's eyes narrowed. "You know of what I speak, don't you?"

"I do," Nasedo answered, his voice cold. "What I do not know is who you are."

"Who I am—" Quanah stopped, suddenly realizing that the imposter had last been seen wearing his own face....and Nasedo had no way of knowing if he was the real Quanah or not. And he, Quanah, had no way of knowing if Nasedo was the real Nasedo or not.....

The rifle snapped up, aimed squarely at the man across the fire. "So you see our dilemma," Nasedo said. "Neither of us can be certain of the other's identity."

"Then what do we do?" Quanah demanded.

"We exchange information," Nasedo answered, "information that only the other would have. For example, when did you first invite me to your house?"

"Last summer," Quanah answered promptly, "in the month of July."

"Correct. What is your question?"

Quanah considered briefly before asking, "I brought you messages from beyond the grave from which of my relatives?"

"Your grandfather," Nasedo answered.

A breeze wafted into the cave, seeming to carry the tension away with it as Quanah once again lowered his gun. "So this is what hunts you, what you have hidden from these many months. It followed me here the other night, or tried to. Why did it not find you then?"

"Most likely it lost your trail," Nasedo replied. "The forest is dense, making it difficult to see, and your people are schooled in stealth. Both of which made this an excellent hiding place."

"How do we fight it?" Quanah asked.

" 'We' don't," Nasedo answered. "Go home and tend your medicine man. Leave this one to me."

"I will not," Quanah declared. "It has my son!"

"I know how to fight this," Nasedo insisted. "You will only get yourself killed."

"Is it spirit or flesh?" Quanah demanded. When Nasedo didn't answer, he held out his rifle. "Will this kill it?"

"Yes," Nasedo admitted, "but it is not that simple."

"Because it wears my face?"

"Because it can wear anyone's face," Nasedo said. "And because there are two of them. Wherever one is, the other will not be far behind."

Two of them. Quanah's chest tightened as he tried to imagine two creatures who could disguise themselves so perfectly. No wonder these beings were considered evil by his people. The power to fool the eyes was a fearsome power indeed....but not nearly fearsome enough to hold a father back.

"It has my son," Quanah repeated firmly. "Whatever it is, whatever it can do, is nothing to that simple fact. Dismiss me, and I will hunt it myself. A poor choice, to my way of thinking. You were ill tonight, and I am inexperienced with this creature. We stand a much better chance if we hunt together."

Nasedo studied him for in silence for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. "Very well, then. Point the way."

"I don't know the way," Quanah said. "My son and the imposter were headed here. If they did not come here, how will we know where to find them?"

"You will know precisely because they are not here," Nasedo answered, coming around the fire and heading for the mouth of the cave, Quanah following. "If they started out over an hour ago, they should have been here long ago. That they are not tells me that the boy has discovered its deception and deliberately led it astray. You know your son. Where would he go in such a case?"

Quanah stared out the dark opening of the cave, his eyes sweeping the clearing, thinking. A minute later, he gripped his rifle tightly and stepped outside.

"Follow me."



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



The clouds rolled away, sending small shafts of light through the canopy of trees onto the forest floor below, and Brivari looked up in annoyance. The darker it was, the better he could see; however, the same was true of the hunters. Whatever impeded him impeded them also, and he would gladly take whatever advantage he could get, no matter how small, especially since the time and place of their meeting had been chosen for him. Behind him walked Quanah, as silent as any Covari. Quanah had not objected when Brivari took the lead after Quanah decided on a direction. "He would turn east," he had answered when Brivari had asked which way River Dog would have gone had he discovered his false companion enroute to the cave. "Your cave lies west, so he would take the creature east and south to avoid it."

"And lead it where?" Brivari had asked.

"I am not sure," Quanah answered, clearly troubled.

So east they had headed, almost to the edge of the forest, and then turned south, picking up no sign of the boy. The woods were almost completely dark save for those times when the clouds rolled aside, only to roll back a moment later, plunging them back into blackness. This time was different, however. This time the clouds stayed put, and when they came upon a small clearing a minute later, it was bathed in moonlight.

"Look," Quanah said softly.

Brivari followed his pointing finger to see a snapped branch on a nearby bush. "A trail?" he asked.

Quanah nodded. "A deliberate trail in case anyone came for him. It looks like they are about fifteen to twenty minutes ahead of us."

"So he does know," Brivari murmured.

"He knows what walks with him is not me," Quanah said, "but it is doubtful he knows its true nature. We keep that from our children." He paused, fingering the broken branch. "Perhaps that is a mistake."

" 'True nature'?" Brivari echoed. "I thought you said you were unfamiliar with this creature."

"I have never seen one myself," Quanah replied, slowing skirting the edges of the clearing, trying to pick up more of his son's trail. "We Apache place little stock in the legends, but our cousins, the Navaho, feel differently."

"What kind of legends?" Brivari asked warily.

"We call them 'skinwalkers'," Quanah answered, "men capable of taking the shape of animals. Some say they actually shapeshift, while others say they merely fool the mind into thinking you see an animal instead of a man. All agree they are evil and speak of them only in whispers, lest some be tempted to try and discover the secret of how to accomplish this."

Typical, Brivari thought, as he followed Quanah around the clearing. The notion of someone capable of changing their shape existed in some form in every sentient species he knew, yet only Antar had managed to actually produce such a being. And even that had been an accident, with the resulting new species poorly understood to this day.

"But never," Quanah continued, "have I heard of a skinwalker capable of taking the shape of a man. This is a different kind of skinwalker, one far more evil than even the legends speak of. And that," he added, turning to face Brivari, "at last solves the riddle of exactly who and what you are."

Wind ruffled the leaves on the trees as Brivari looked sorrowfully at Quanah, a dark shape in the moonlight. I suppose it was bound to come to this, he thought sadly. Superstition was difficult to counteract. The Proctors appeared to have no cultural lore about shapeshifters to overcome, but the Indians....even the boy, who had readily accepted Brivari as a "spaceman" would likely feel differently should he discover what kind of a spaceman his visitor was.

"Exactly who and what do you think I am?" Brivari asked, preparing himself for the inevitable.

"It is said," Quanah said slowly, "that the very first skinwalkers were shamans, powerful medicine men who learned the means by which to appropriate an animal's characteristics in order to do good. Over time that changed, and a skinwalker became a thing profane rather than sacred." He walked a bit further, fingering the foliage. "This skinwalker hunts you, has hunted you since you sought refuge in our woods. Such a powerful being, able to take the shape of any man by your own admission...and yet it fears you. You must be an incredibly powerful shaman to have earned the hatred of such a creature."

"You think me a 'shaman'?" Brivari said in surprise.

"Or whatever the equivalent is among your people," Quanah said. "There is no other explanation. You know how to defeat this evil; only a powerful shaman could hope to do that. And that explains why all of us have felt your strangeness, why Itza-chu reacts to you the way he does. Both of you wield power, but you are the stronger, and he knows it—and resents it." He pointed to a nearby opening between two trees. "They left through here. If we hurry, we can catch up with them. River Dog will deliberately slow his pace in case someone manages to track him."

Quanah stepped aside deferentially to let Brivari take the lead; he did so, shaking his head in amazement over the sudden turn in events, letting the power he'd been building within himself ebb away. And Quanah fell in step behind him as before, never realizing how very close he had come to dying only moments ago.



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


"You are slowing."

River Dog stopped in his tracks, glancing briefly backwards at the thing behind him that was not his father. "I am tired," he said, trying to keep his voice from betraying his fear. "I have already made this trip once tonight, and you know how far away Nasedo's cave is."

The creature was silent, having no idea, of course, where Nasedo's cave was, or of the fact that they were now far from it. "I need to rest," River Dog continued, sitting down on a nearby fallen log, "and I imagine you do too, father. You said you were tired. That's why you didn't want to take the lead."

More silence. River Dog waited, grateful that the blackness of the forest prevented him from seeing any more than a silhouette of the thing that walked with him, if that. It had pressed him to hurry several times now since he'd veered off on a southward track, which made things a bit tricky as River Dog had actually slowed down, carefully marking his trail on the outside chance that someone came for him. This latest effort to slow their passage was not entirely contrived; he was very tired, it being the wee small hours of the morning, not to mention having to hike through a dark forest while trying to look like he knew where he was going and was unaware that what walked with him was not his father. The strain was beginning to show.

"We will rest," the imposter announced, taking a seat on the far end of the log, no doubt worried that River Dog would challenge it to take the lead instead.

River Dog nodded, carefully keeping his expression neutral as he suspected the creature could see quite clearly, the darkness notwithstanding. What do I do? he thought wearily. His initial thought had been to simply thwart it by leading it away from its destination—Nasedo's cave. But now that he had accomplished that, he realized the futility of that decision. The creature would figure out his deception sooner or later, very likely sooner. The only hope for aid lay in his village, but he was loathe to lead it there—what if it attacked? Or what if no one there was strong enough to fight a creature of such enormous power? And how would he get it to the village in the first place? If he doubled back, the creature would know. He had led it away, but where was he leading it to?

Closing his eyes, River Dog tried to calm the wild tattoo his heart was beating inside his chest. He thought he knew what this creature was. He wasn't supposed to, as it was something the adults spoke of only in whispers, but River Dog suspected that adults everywhere underestimated the capacity of their offspring to discover that which they weren't supposed to know. Supposedly it was a man, a shaman, who had learned to masquerade as an animal, usually a coyote. Never had he heard of one masquerading as another man, but then some of those whispers had been hard to decipher. He distinctly remembered something about killing the animal and skinning it so the shaman could walk in its skin.....

River Dog went cold as his mind dredged up everything he'd heard about these "skinwalkers". They had to kill an animal in order to steal its attributes—did that mean they had to do the same if they wished to mimic a man? Was his father lying dead somewhere with another man walking in his skin? What about Itza-chu, whom Grey Wolf had said had been acting strangely? Who else would it kill were it given the chance? Perhaps I should give it what it wants, River Dog thought, part of his mind revolting at the thought even as another seriously considered it. If he led it to Nasedo's cave, would the creature take what it wanted and leave the village alone? Or would it take vengeance on the village for hiding its quarry in the first place?

As it turned out, there was no time to answer any of those questions. A brilliant burst of light suddenly exploded in the sky, bathing the forest in light. River Dog saw the perfect copy of his father jerk its head up, and he followed its gaze to find a symbol hanging in the sky, two swirls around a central core.



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


His rifle cocked and ready, Quanah gaped at the symbol in the sky, momentarily distracted from its purpose. "You must move quickly," Nasedo had said only moments before. "I will make the creature visible for only a moment." Quanah had had no idea how Nasedo intended to accomplish that, and he had certainly never expected the sky to burst with light, raining radiance down on everything below as the strange, swirled symbol hovered above them.

They had happened upon River Dog and the skinwalker a few minutes ago, having heard River Dog's footsteps and voice since he was making no effort to be quiet. Nasedo had given instructions to creep closer as quietly as possible and wait for light to see by; Quanah was to shoot the skinwalker with his son while Nasedo dealt with the second skinwalker who was supposedly close by. "You must aim for the heart or the head," Nasedo had said firmly. "You aim to kill, preferably with the first shot." But the strange apparition in the sky, coupled with the shock of seeing a perfect copy of himself right down to his clothes sitting only feet away from his son made Quanah hesitate. The creature's head jerked skyward, its face curiously blank...and Quanah fired.

The shot was true, but a bit to the side of the chest. Damn it! Quanah thought, firing all of his remaining bullets, which mysteriously missed. Furious with himself for hesitating, Quanah launched himself in the direction of the creature just as the light above died.



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


A shot rang out, then several more. River Dog watched in astonishment as the thing that was not his father took a bullet and then....moved in some strange way to dodge the others. He flung himself to the ground, catching just a glimpse of something flying out of the forest toward the imposter before the light abruptly died.

Gasping, River Dog crawled behind the log as a fierce battle raged in two places simultaneously; something fought above as well as below, their shapes only occasional silhouettes against the sky, cries of anger and hatred filling the air, making him clap his hands over his ears. Only feet away, the skinwalker battled with its attacker so furiously that the dust kicked up from the tussle made it hard to breathe.

Then....silence. Cautiously, River Dog raised his head and peered over the log, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, the silence frightening after the clamor of just a few seconds ago. Shrugging off his pack, he scrambled inside for matches; the torch he lit revealed a twisted gray shape on the forest floor right in front of him with huge hands, a horribly misshapen head, and vacant black eyes..... "Ussen!" River Dog whispered, invoking the Creator as he dropped the torch in horror. It fell to the ground, its light illuminating a face several yards away....a very familiar face.

His heart in his throat, River Dog picked up the torch. The face was his father's, and it appeared dead—whatever had fought the skinwalker had apparently won. He edged closer, shaking all over, and trained his light on the victor....

....only to gasp again when he saw another copy of his father lying right next to the first.

"Father!" River Dog exclaimed, whipping the torch back and forth from one version of his father to another in panic. Both lay prone on the forest floor, unconscious, both wore the same clothing, both were bloody and battered. One was not his father, while the other presumably was...but which was which? Or perhaps both were imposters? A second battle had been fought alongside this one, in the direction of that mangled gray creature over there that also looked dead. How many skinwalkers were there? Were there more out there now? If one of these bodies was his real father, then where were the others who had accompanied him? Had he come alone? Should he call into the woods? What would hear him?

Fearful of the answer to that question, River Dog opted for silence and dragged his thoughts back to the most important matter: The gunshot. He had seen the skinwalker take a bullet, while all the other bullets had missed. No other shots had been fired after that, so one of these copies of his father should have a bullet wound in the chest, and that would be the skinwalker. That meant he would have to roll them over....and that meant he would have to touch them. Grimacing, he selected the closer of the two, grasped an arm, and pulled. The body flopped onto its back, the bullet wound large and ragged, and River Dog pulled back in disgust, kicking the torch he'd carefully propped up. When he picked it up and trained it on the skinwalker's body with shaking hands, the body was...gone.

Gone? How could it be gone? Had his moving it made it come back to life? River Dog swung the light around wildly, but found no sign of the creature, nor of the grey creature that had lain on the ground a short ways away other than odd piles of black dirt where their bodies had been. But the second copy of his father was still there. River Dog rolled it over; this one had no gunshot wound, mainly a nasty head wound among assorted cuts and bruises. "Father?" River Dog whispered, wiping the blood away from the face. "Father, is that you?" The eyes fluttered open, and a hand reached up to caress his cheek...only to fall back to the ground again, limp.

"Father!" River Dog cried, certain now that this was his father. "Father, wake up!" But Quanah had lapsed back into unconsciousness, and River Dog cradled him close, rocking from side to side in terror. What should he do? He was far from the village, his father was much too heavy to carry, and much too injured to leave. Should he stay with him? Run back to the village? Was he truly alone out here, or were there more imposters waiting to snare him?

A sound nearby made him stiffen. Forests were always noisy, even at night, but this was not the sound of a nocturnal animal or wind in the trees. Something had moved, something that did not belong here. "Who's there?" he called sharply, holding his father closer.

"Does he live?" a voice whispered.

River Dog swung his head toward the voice, which was weak, but close by....and familiar. "Nasedo?" he called. "Is that you?"

"Yes. Does your father live?"

Slowly, River Dog lowered his father to the ground and grabbed the torch. The voice had come from the left, where the brush was so thick, it was nearly impenetrable. Kneeling on the ground, he peered into the wall of foliage, swinging his light back and forth. "Where are you?" he asked. "Are you injured?"

"Not badly," Nasedo replied, his voice closer now, but still weak. "I gather your father fared worse?"

"His head is injured," River Dog said worriedly, still searching. "He woke up briefly, but now he's unconscious again. And the skinwalkers are gone."

" 'Gone'?" Nasedo repeated sharply. "What do you mean 'gone'?"

"Their bodies are gone," River Dog clarified. "There must have been two because one looked like my father and the other was badly misshapen. One moment they were there, and the next they had disappeared." He paused. "What does that mean?"

"It means they are dead," Nasedo said with obvious satisfaction. "You need no longer fear them."

"They were hunting you, weren't they?" River Dog asked.

"Yes."

"Because they knew what you are?"

A pause. "Yes."

Nasedo's voice was very close now. River Dog began to part a section of foliage, remembering how Nasedo had warned him not to tell anyone that he came from another world. And no wonder—look what had pursued him. Two of the most evil creatures known to the Apache had obviously discovered his secret, and—

"Stop!"

Startled, River Dog stumbled back from the wall of brush, nearly dropping his torch. "What?"

"Come no closer," Nasedo ordered. "It is not safe."

"Not safe?" River Dog repeated. "But why not? You just said the skinwalkers were dead, that—"

"We have more urgent matters to attend to. Look down."

Puzzled, River Dog swung his light toward his feet, where a small, familiar bag lay. The magic stones. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of those? They had healed Nasedo when he was ill; surely they could heal his father. "I will use them at once!" River Dog said urgently, fumbling in the bag for one of the stones.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Nasedo answered, his voice weary once more. "You will not be able to use the stones by yourself."

"Why not? I used them by myself when you were ill."

"That is because the stones were made for me," Nasedo explained, "for my people. I know how to make use of the power they contain. Your father does not. We must wield them together if they are to work."

"All right," River Dog said. "Come out, and then—"

"I must stay here," Nasedo interrupted. "Ask me no questions," he added firmly, as River Dog began to do just that. "There is no time. I have one stone; take another and sit beside your father. I will do the rest."

After a glance back at his father's still form, River Dog obeyed, taking a stone in his hand which immediately glowed with a radiance far brighter than when he'd helped Nasedo. "You must be careful," Nasedo's voice warned. "You must not let fear of your father dying pull too much from you. If you do, it will kill you."

"It did not kill me before," River Dog said.

"Your feelings for your father are different than your feelings for me," Nasedo answered. "You must be careful not to give so much to your father that you have nothing left for yourself. You must maintain a balance."

A balance. River Dog was about to ask what that meant when his question was answered for him; the radiant stone in his hand was pulling, pulling something from him, his energy, his very life force. It would probably go on pulling until there was nothing left to take.

"I will not be able to help you," Nasedo said, his voice sounding weaker still. "You must balance your energy on your own. If you go too far, there will be no one to stop you." He paused. "Do you wish to proceed in spite of the risk?"

"Yes," River Dog said firmly, although his hands were shaking as he faced his father's motionless body, cupping the fiercely glowing stone in his hand. "Begin."



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

I'll post Chapter 108 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT


May 25, 1949, 9:30 a.m.

Alamogordo, New Mexico



"Turn left here," Yvonne instructed, struggling to fold the map into a useable shape. "No, not right—left!"

"We already tried going left four times," Stephen said impatiently as he whipped the car around the corner to the right. "It's not there."

"According to the house numbers, it should be there," Yvonne objected.

"Then maybe people here don't know how to count," Stephen said, "because it's not there."

"Maybe we just missed it."

"Four times? We know how to count."

"Well, then maybe we should stop and ask someone," Yvonne said in exasperation.

"In this neighborhood?" Stephen muttered. "You're joking, right?"

Yvonne stared out the car window, privately admitting he was right. Joseph Avenue was definitely not the garden district of Alamogordo, being lined with tightly packed, seedy houses badly in need of repair. Garbage cans overflowed at the curbs beside run-down cars parked in the street, while the owners of those cars watched suspiciously from their front porches as Yvonne's and Stephen's car drove slowly by.

"I still don't see what makes you think that 'H.C.' means 'Hal Carver'," Stephen said as they squinted at house numbers, many of which were absent. "That could mean anything. And why would Cavitt put Carver's address in the Rolodex on his desk?"

"He didn't," Yvonne answered. "He put "H.C.'s' address in the Rolodex on Harriet's desk. Who would know what that meant?"

"No one," Stephen deadpanned. "Including us."

"Tell me again why I brought you along?" Yvonne asked crossly.

"Because I'm the only one officially off duty and able to sign out a car," Stephen reminded her. "You're playing hooky courtesy of one of your nurse friends, and Alamogordo is a long walk from Roswell."

"Who else could 'H.C.' be," Yvonne asked, "especially with two out of three address crossed out? The numbers are going down," she added, peering out the window. "We want 155 Joseph Avenue, and now we're in the 120's."

"And now they're going back up," Stephen said. "There's number 155."

"What? But 155 is supposed to be back that way!"

" 'Supposed to be', yes," Stephen agreed, pulling the car over and shifting into park. "But it isn't. When you're trying to find something, rule number one is look where you think it is. And if it isn't where you think it is, rule number two is look where you think it isn't." He climbed out of the car, buttoning the bottom buttons on his dress uniform jacket and donning his hat before coming around to the passenger side and opening Yvonne's door. "After you," he smiled.

Yvonne shook her head as she climbed out of the car, adjusting her own hat and dress jacket. She'd been all excited yesterday when she'd found the cryptic "H.C." entry in Harriet's Rolodex, certain that it referred to Hal Carver and delighted that the most recent of the three addresses listed was relatively close. Stephen had disagreed, thinking her crazy to drive all the way down here on such a wild goose chase. She'd signed up for a car three days from now, but Stephen had unexpectedly shown up this morning after John had been delivered to the hangar with a car he'd finagled out of one of his friends and several hours leave. Yvonne had easily convinced another nurse to cover for her in the base infirmary, and here they were....and one look at 155 Joseph Avenue had Yvonne very grateful that she hadn't come alone as she'd been planning to.

"Bit of a fixer-upper, I'd say," Stephen murmured.

Good Lord, Yvonne thought, heading slowly up the dilapidated front steps past the filthy porch furniture to the front door, which looked none too steady on its hinges. A doorbell hung from the wall, inoperable. One of the front windows was broken and boarded up.

"People actually live here?" Yvonne whispered.

"Well, there are cars in the driveway, mail in the mailbox, and garbage cans by the curb," Stephen said. "I'd call those signs of habitation....of some sort, at least."

"I wonder how Cavitt is keeping tabs on him," Yvonne said. "If "H.C." is Carver, then he's moved twice already. How does Cavitt know where he's gone?"

"First, let's find out if he's even here," Stephen said, nodding toward the door.

Hesitantly, Yvonne knocked on the front door, a part of her hoping that Captain Carver wasn't here. What a slap in the face for someone who had served his country to be reduced to circumstances such as this because of someone like Cavitt.

No one answered. She was about to knock again when Stephen reached around her and pounded loudly on the door, calling, "United States Army! Anyone home?"

Footsteps sounded inside as Yvonne gave Stephen a withering look. He shrugged and looked up just as the door opened to reveal a man every bit as unkempt as his house. "What'dya want?" he barked, nearly knocking Yvonne over with his breath.

"Good morning, sir," Stephen said briskly. "Are you the owner?"

"Landlord," the man corrected curtly. "What's it to you?"

"We're looking for someone, a Harold Carver. Captain Carver, actually. This was his last known address. Does he still live here?"

The landlord's eyes widened; he glanced back inside quickly before stepping onto the porch, closing the door behind him; Yvonne noticed he was barefoot. "I already done called in for this week," he said in an urgent whisper. "Didn't he get the message? Does this mean I don't get paid?"

"Of course not," Stephen said smoothly. "We're merely checking the integrity of our intelligence procedures. We'd appreciate it if you didn't mention our visit the next time you....call in. No one's supposed to know we're checking up on them, and if they should find out....well....if that happens, I would imagine your pay would be in jeopardy."

"Not a word outa me," the landlord promised, shaking his head vigorously, spraying more foul breath Yvonne's way. "Best money I ever made, and all for a few phone calls! Not gonna screw that up. No way."

"Good," Stephen said. "Now—where would we find Captain Carver?"

"Top of the stairs, first room on the left," the landlord said. "But you didn't hear it from me 'cos you were never here, were you, missy?" Yvonne winced as a dirty hand tweaked her cheek. "Not a word outa me, no sir, no sir," he added, heading back into the house with Stephen and Yvonne on his heels and disappearing into a side room where an ancient radio blared.

"I guess that settles how Cavitt is getting his information," Yvonne whispered, wiping her cheek with the back of her glove.

"Probably paying out of his own pocket," Stephen said, climbing the stairs. "At least I hope so." He paused at the first door on the left. "You've met Carver. I think this one's yours."

This time Yvonne's polite knock produced an instant response. "Who is it?" demanded a gravelly voice from the other side.

"Captain Carver?" Yvonne said. "It's Yvonne White. Remember me? I'm the Army nurse you spoke with briefly in Roswell in the summer of '47. At the bus station, in your car."

There was a long moment of silence before the door opened a crack, and an astonished face peered out. "It is you," Carver breathed, staring at Yvonne. "I couldn't find you. I heard a scream and went looking, but no one had seen you and I thought—" He stopped, registering Stephen's presence for the first time. "Who's he?"

"Captain Stephen Spade," Stephen said, holding out a hand which Carver peered at suspiciously. "Nice to meet you."

"A friend of mine," Yvonne said quickly. "Look, Captain—"

"I'm no Captain. Not anymore. Cavitt saw to that."

"We know," Stephen interjected, "and we're afraid he saw to more besides."

"Whatever he did, it's got nothing to do with me," Carver said darkly, still peering through the crack. "I haven't laid eyes on Sheridan Cavitt in almost two years and that's good news for him, because if I ever see him again, I swear to God, I'll kill'im."

"We think you might be able to help us," Yvonne persisted. "We think Cavitt might have had something to do with the death of Betty Osorio. Do you remember her?"

Carver's eyes softened, and he seemed to sag against the door frame. "Yeah," he whispered. "I remember her. Always will."

"Then please," Yvonne said, pressing the advantage. "Talk to us. For Betty."

"Anything you could tell us would be most appreciated," Stephen added.

Carver's eyes darted back and forth between them for a moment before opening the door wider. "All right, then," he said, stepping aside. "For Betty."



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


Mescalero Indian Reservation



"Are they alive?"

"Yes."

"Injured?"

"I don't think so."

"But what would—wait. He's waking up."

A rustling sound filled Quanah's ears as he shifted his arms and legs. A moment later he opened his eyes and discovered its source: He was covered with leaves. Four heads hovered over him, faceless shadows which blocked most of what appeared to be morning sunshine. "Where....." Where am I? was the intended sentence, but only the first word escaped from a too dry throat.

"You are in the forest," answered a familiar voice. One of the shadowed heads moved, making its features visible.

Quanah struggled to sit up. "Kanseah?"

"Easy," Kanseah said, placing a strong hand on his back to help him. "It appears you spent the night here."

"I did? Why?" Quanah asked, his memory failing him. He recalled going out with Kanseah to look for Nasedo after he fell ill at the sweat, coming home empty-handed, and then....and then....

"We were hoping you could answer that," Kanseah was saying, nodding toward the three men from the village who accompanied him. "When you did not return last night, your wife became frantic. We began searching at first light. Nasedo's cave was empty, and we finally found a trail which led us here." He paused, as though measuring his words carefully. "Leosanni told us some strange things, Quanah. We thought her raving until Itza-chu regained consciousness and gave credence to what she was saying."

Itza-chu... Quanah's head reeled as, suddenly, it all came flooding back: Itza-chu being attacked, Grey Wolf's insistence that Quanah had already been home and left again with River Dog....

"River Dog!" Quanah gasped, brushing leaves off himself as he looked around wildly for his son. "Where is he?"

"Right here," Kanseah said soothingly, pointing to another lump of leaves right next to Quanah, "asleep, as you were. He appears unharmed."

"And the skinwalkers?" Quanah demanded. "What of them?"

A shocked silence was followed by excited murmuring. "So there were skinwalkers," Kanseah said, his expression troubled. "Leosanni and Itza-chu said as much, although I found that hard to believe. Did you actually see these creatures?"

"There were two of them," Quanah answered, scanning the forest for any sign of the perfect copy of himself that he had sent crashing to the forest floor in the dead of night. "They are what hunts Nasedo, what he has been hiding from all this time. One of them took my face to lure River Dog into leading him to Nasedo's cave."

"Silence!" Kanseah ordered the men behind him as the murmurings moved from excited to fearful. "Quanah, skinwalkers do not take the shape of men."

"These do. I saw the one who looked like me. It would have fooled anyone."

"Did you find it?" someone asked fearfully.

"Yes," Quanah whispered. "Right here. We tracked it, Nasedo and I. River Dog had discovered its deception and left a trail for us to follow. Nasedo knew how to fight it. He is obviously a powerful shaman among his people."

"He must be to fight a creature so evil," Kanseah agreed as heads nodded behind him. "Did he vanquish it?"

"I....I don't remember," Quanah said. "He had me shoot the one that resembled me—they are flesh, after all, not spirit, and can be killed. But my shot went wide and it was near my son...we struggled...."

Quanah stopped as the mound of leaves beside him began to move. A moment later, River Dog was blinking in the morning sunlight, his expression one of utter confusion until his eyes fell on his father.

"Father!" he exclaimed, sitting up so quickly that leaves flew off in all directions. "Are you all right? Are you—"

"Hush," Quanah said soothingly, taking his son by the shoulders. "I am unharmed. But my memory fails me. What happened last night after I shot the skinwalker who snared you?"

"You killed it," River Dog said. "And Nasedo killed the other."

"Then where are they?" one of the men asked in alarm, looking around the forest floor. "If they are dead, they should be here."

"Perhaps they are not dead," another man whispered fearfully. "And if they can look like men, we can trust no one."

"They were dead," River Dog insisted. "I saw them. One looked like you, father, and the other was...misshapen. Their bodies disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Kanseah repeated sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I....I don't know," River Dog said. "It was so dark....so dark...they were there, and then they weren't. And Nasedo seemed certain they were dead, and—"

River Dog stopped suddenly, his eyes darting toward the foliage to his left. A moment later he was on his feet, crashing into the brush with everyone piling after him, all talking at once. "Where is he?" River Dog said frantically, ignoring all the questions thrown his way. "Where is Nasedo? He was here, and he was injured! Have you found him?"

"No," Kanseah answered. "We only just found you, after hours of searching."

"Someone was here," Quanah said quietly, kneeling beside an imprint in the soft dirt. "Someone sat here with their back against this tree."

"The cave," River Dog said. "He must have gone back to the cave!"

"Wait!" Quanah called, as River Dog took off through the forest. "You have only just awakened, and you shouldn't be—River Dog! Wait!"



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


Alamogordo, New Mexico




"Have a seat," Carver said. "Get you anything? A beer, maybe?"

"I'd love one, thanks," Spade said as Yvonne glanced pointedly at the clock. Granted, it was 9:30 in the morning, but Carver was skittish enough that a communal drink wasn't a bad idea, even at this hour.

Carver disappeared into a small alcove, then reappeared with two beers in hand to find Yvonne vainly trying to find a place to sit. "Sorry," he mumbled, sweeping piles of dirty clothes and various half-eaten foodstuffs off the couch and two chairs. "I don't get much in the way of visitors."

"No problem," Spade said, accepting the beer and taking a seat on the couch as Yvonne perched near the edge of a chair that had seen better days. He studied Carver closely, wondering why he looked so familiar, but couldn't place the face. "Did you know your landlord is blowing you in to Cavitt on a weekly basis?"

"That asshole?" Carver snorted. " 'Course I do. He probably makes more from ratting me out than from all of us roomers combined." He plopped into the second chair, taking a swig of his beer. "I could get away, you know. Already have—twice. Each time Cavitt harassed my family, tailing my mother, needling my sisters. Now he knows where I am, so he leaves them alone. The moment I go to ground, he'll start after them again. The moment I go near them, they'll be in the middle of it. That's why I stay here. So," he went on, staring hard at Yvonne. "What happened to you? The bus driver said you never got on the bus."

"Somebody dragged me into the alley nearby," Yvonne answered. "When I kept struggling, they knocked me out. I woke up locked in a room at the base. Cavitt showed me pictures of Betty and I talking at the restaurant where you and I first met, and threatened to court-martial me if I didn't cooperate."

"Cooperate with what?" Carver asked.

"A number of us were secretly assigned to a once empty building on the base to investigate the....weather balloon," Spade said carefully. "No one, including our families, was allowed to know where we were really stationed until General Ramey lifted that restriction in December of '47."

"My reassignment to London was the cover story they used for me," Yvonne added. "I meant what I said that night when I told you I wanted to get away from Roswell, Captain. Apparently Cavitt expected me to object, which is why he basically had me kidnapped."

"I heard you scream," Carver said, lighting a cigarette. "I went looking for you, but I couldn't find you."

"I was only a few feet away," Yvonne said, paling at the memory, "but he had his hand over my mouth."

"Who's your commanding officer now?" Carver asked.

"Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Pierce," Yvonne replied.

"Never heard of him. Is this 'Pierce' fellow your CO too?" Carver asked Spade.

Spade hesitated, knowing where this was going. "No. My CO is Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan Cavitt."

Carver set his beer down with a thud. " 'Lieutenant Colonel'? Lieutenant Colonel?" He shook his head in disgust. "Jesus Christ Almighty. That bastard was a Captain back in '47, same as me. Same as you." He stubbed his cigarette angrily in a nearby ashtray. "So tell me—why should I talk to either one of you? How do I know you're not here at 'Lieutenant Colonel' Cavitt's bidding, trying to milk me for anything I know that could come back and bite him on his lily white ass?"

"You don't," Spade said just as Yvonne opened her mouth to protest. "There's no way we can prove to you that we hate Cavitt every bit as much as you do, so you'll have to decide which means more to you: Frustrating Cavitt, if you really think we're here on his errand...or getting justice for Betty Osorio. We can't do that without you."

"Why not?" Carver asked warily, staring at both of them in turn.

Spade leaned forward on the couch. "The last time anyone saw you in Roswell, you stopped in Parker's bar. Miss Osorio had left a note for you containing a key. We think she knew she was being targeted, and we want to know what the note said and what the key was for."

Carver's eyes narrowed. "Who told you about that?"

"Pete, the bartender at Parker's. For a price," Spade added.

"Good ol' Pete," Carver said with a small smile. "Maybe he's the one you should be talking to. Everyone on the base goes to Parker's. Pete probably knows at least half of the military's classified secrets." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "But I don't suppose there's any harm in telling you about the note. Wasn't much to it. Just a phone number and three words: 'Just in case.' "

"And the phone number?" Spade pressed.

"Her sister," Carver answered quietly. "When I called, she told me Betty'd been killed in a car crash."

"So Betty did know," Yvonne breathed, her eyes very wide. "She knew someone was after her!"

" 'Course she knew," Carver said. "Betty was no fool. No fool," he added softly, wearing an expression Spade found only too familiar—guilt.

"Betty knew something, didn't she?" Spade asked. "Something worth killing her for. Something....." He paused, the pieces falling into place. "Something you told her."

Carver's stony silence was all the answer Spade needed. "Captain—"

"I'm no Captain," Carver said flatly.

"Fine. Mr. Carver," Spade tried again, "Betty didn't file any stories on her time in Roswell, so whoever killed her succeeded in silencing her and got away with murder. I'd like to change that. Wouldn't you?"

Carver was quiet for a long time. Spade stared him down, waiting patiently as his paranoia wrestled with his hatred of Cavitt, smoke from his cigarette lingering in the morning sunshine that filtered in from the dirty blinds on a nearby window. "Did you know I refused to talk to Betty the first time she approached me?" Carver said finally. He stood up and walked to the window, one hand in his pocket. "I thought she was just snooping around trying to make us soldiers look bad. I was pretty rude."

"I remember," Yvonne said. "That morning in the restaurant. You wouldn't talk to me either."

"So what changed?" Spade asked.

"I saw some things....and talked to some people who'd seen some things," Carver said, nodding toward Yvonne. "But the real kicker was when Colonel Cassidy ordered me to write death notices for two privates. Heard of him?"

Spade shook his head. The name was vaguely familiar, but back in '47, Spade had been a lowly private that no colonel would have come near, if he could help it.

"Those privates died at the crash site—you know, where the 'weather balloon' crashed," Carver added with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Cassidy told me to say they'd died in a jeep accident. Two eyewitness reports said otherwise, although Cavitt got one of those witnesses to retract his statement. I was so upset that I went looking for my best friend, Richard Dodie. I found him at the hangar where the debris had been taken with a shiny new security clearance and an attitude that made me want to slap him. He blew me off. Wouldn't even listen." He paused. "And then I got pissed."

Jeep accident. Spade closed his eyes, that first day at the crash site coming back in full color as Fifer had charged the ship and gone down with a silver handprint on his chest, followed by McCarthy. "You're talking about Privates Fifer and McCarthy, aren't you?"

Carver turned in surprise. "Yeah. Did you know'em?"

"I was there when they died," Spade said, "one of the four who first found the....'weather balloon'. And I promise you, that was no jeep accident."

"You the one who retracted his statement?"

"No. I'm the one who wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Maybe for the same reasons you smuggled classified military documents off the base and handed them over to a reporter. That's what happened, wasn't it?" Spade added as Yvonne gaped. "You gave Betty proof of what really happened to those men for her to publish. That took balls, Carver."

"No," Carver said, shaking his head. "What took balls was lying to a mother about how her son died. My brother died in the war. I watched my mother open that telegram. Parents deserve to know how their children died."

"So Stephen's right?" Yvonne broke in, her voice dropping as though she feared she'd be overheard. "You gave Betty classified documents?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, I did," Carver answered. "Everything about those two boys and how they really died. She said she'd run the story. Said once it ran, I'd either be a hero or a traitor, and asked me if I was willing to go on the record."

"What did you say?" Spade asked.

Carver looked back out the window. "What do you think I said? And now I wish I hadn't. If I knew then what I know now....." He sighed, leaning against the window frame. "I wish a lot of things. I wish I'd stayed with her that night. Wish I'd driven her home. Wish I'd kissed her," he added, his eyes far away.

"Captain—Mr. Carver," Yvonne said urgently, "this is very important. When did you give Betty those documents?"

"On the evening of July 9th, 1947."

"The night she died," Yvonne breathed. "My goodness, they got to her quickly. And nothing was found in her car."

" 'Course not," Carver said darkly. "Whoever ran her off the road cleaned up after themselves, I'm sure. They knew what to look for, courtesy of my big mouth and tendency to believe my so-called 'friends'."

"You know who was after her?" Yvonne asked.

"I know who they got to do some of their dirty work," Carver said, returning to his chair and pulling out another cigarette. "After I talked to Betty, I went to Parker's. Dodie was there, drowning his sorrows and going on about how maybe we were on the wrong side. I told him I had friends who were gonna tell the world what was going on, and it'd all be in the morning paper."

"But it wasn't," Spade said, recalling Richard Dodie's angry face in the officer's mess at the base.

"Nope," Carver said dully. "Not a word. I called the Telegram, but Betty wasn't there. 'Course she wasn't. She was dead; they just didn't know that yet. Then I get called down to Cassidy's office, and Dodie's there with a resignation he wants me to sign. He set me up, that bastard. He wasn't drowning his sorrows, he was spying for Cavitt. Said they'd court-martial me if I didn't bow out, and threatened my friends for good measure." He paused, staring at the ceiling, his jaw clenching. "I signed."

"But then you went to Parker's and got Betty's note," Spade said, "and called her sister and found out she was dead."

"Yeah," Carver whispered.

"And where did the key lead?"

Carver pulled on his cigarette and sent a plume of smoke into the air. "To a room in the morgue on the base. I'm not talking about that. Wild horses couldn't drag that out of me."

The morgue, Spade thought. On the night of July 10, 1947. The alien sacs were being used as bait to draw the aliens out, but they'd been secretly moved to the morgue, where the doctors were working on them. And Spade had dropped everything and run over there when he'd learned the sacs had been moved, knowing the aliens would figure it out, knowing that section of the base was unguarded. He'd run down the hallway, trying door after door, when suddenly a man holding a camera had emerged from a room further down, pulled the fire alarm and fled. And the chaos that had ensued had allowed one of the aliens to escape.

"That was you," Spade whispered, staring at Carver, mentally subtracting the three days worth of beard growth, the sunken eyes, and the grimy white tee shirt. "No wonder you looked familiar. That was you who pulled the fire alarm and sent the whole base into an uproar."

Carver's eyes bored into Spade's like nails. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about. I'd 'resigned', remember? I left Roswell the next day, and I've never looked back. End of story."

"Did you ever go to the police with what you knew?" Spade asked.

"Is that what this is all about?" Carver exclaimed. "I fingered you two as nuts to begin with, and that's when I thought you were pursuing a captain through military channels. Now we're talking about a lieutenant colonel and civilian police? You're even crazier than I thought."

"Betty Osorio was a civilian," Spade answered, "and she died in Chaves County. Which makes her death the province of the Chaves County Sheriff. And it just so happens we've found a willing pair of ears there. We need you to tell what you know."

"What the hell for?" Carver demanded. "I don't have anything on anyone in particular, just a whole lot of suspicions. Which is all you have, in case you haven't noticed."

"Suspicions backed up by what you just told me. The police might investigate it as a homicide if you come forward," Stephen insisted.

"After all this time? I doubt it."

"We've already talked to someone," Spade said, looking at Yvonne, "a Deputy...."

"Valenti," Yvonne finished. "Deputy Valenti at the Chaves County Sheriff's Station. He had some sort of run-in with Cavitt, and he doesn't like him. Valenti said he'd be glad to look into Betty's death if I could find him a reason. What you just told us could very well be that reason, Mr. Carver."

"I'm not setting foot in that town again," Carver vowed.

"You don't have to," Yvonne said soothingly. "The county sheriff's station isn't in Roswell, it's—"

"I don't care if it's in Never Never Land," Carver interrupted. "If you two want to bang your heads against a wall, go right ahead, but I don't want to dredge all this up again for no good reason."

"This isn't about what you 'want'," Spade said, his temper rising. "It's about your responsibility as an officer."

"Are you deaf?" Carver demanded. "Did you miss the part about them forcing me to resign?"

"Stephen....." Yvonne said warningly.

"They didn't 'force' you to resign, you agreed to resign," Spade argued. "And it was an honorable discharge, which means you kept your rank, your retirement pay, and your duty to uphold the oath you took when you joined the armed forces."

"They kicked me out!" Carver snapped.

"You have information that implicates an officer in the death of a civilian you claim to care about, and you're just sitting on it!" Spade retorted. "Why? As some kind of penance? You didn't kill her, Carver."

"Stephen, please!" Yvonne pleaded.

"What, you're my shrink now?" Carver said angrily, stabbing his cigarette into the ashtray. "You've got one hell of a lotta nerve acting like you have any idea what I went through!"

"I know exactly what you went through," Spade said. "I've been in your shoes more times than I care to remember, and I know the one thing you don't do with someone like Cavitt is hide under a rock. You're giving him exactly what he wants. Was that your intention?"

Carver's eyes burned. "Get out," he whispered, so angry he could barely speak.

"Mr. Carver, I'm so sorry," Yvonne said hastily. "Perhaps—"

"Get out!"

"Fine," Spade said flatly. "Wallow in self-pity. God knows you're good at it." He rose from the couch, donning his hat. "You didn't kill Betty, Carver, but you may as well have. You want me to believe you're all broken up about her, but you haven't lifted a finger to avenge her death. If you're really as upset as you say you are, you'll go to this Valenti and tell him what you know. If it comes from us, it's just hearsay."

"Get out, or I swear to God, I'll throw you out!" Carver bellowed.

Spade stalked out of the room with Yvonne on his heels, the door banging behind them. "Stephen!" Yvonne called, her shoes clacking on the stairs as she trotted after him. "Stephen, wait! Stephen!" He ignored her as she pleaded all the way back to the car, climbing into the driver's seat as she climbed in the other side.

"Was that really necessary?" Yvonne demanded.

"Yes," Spade said shortly.

"Look, I know he's bitter, but he has a right to be," Yvonne argued. "We of all people know what it's like to be burned by Cavitt."

"Exactly," Spade said angrily, tossing his hat into the back seat. "I've been where he is, Yvonne. Hell, I'm still there. Cavitt killed two of my friends partly as a way to get to me, I'm responsible for not one, but two aliens being captured, I lied to Treyborn's parents about how he died just like Carver lied when he typed up those death notices. I have more reasons that he does to be 'bitter', but you won't find me parked in some slum wailing that I never 'kissed the girl'."

"That's because you did kiss me," Yvonne said dryly. "Twice."

Three times, Spade thought, gripping the steering wheel tightly, his face on fire as he remembered the times he'd impulsively kissed Yvonne...and the one time it hadn't been Yvonne he'd kissed, but Brivari in disguise. "Look, people grieve in different ways," Yvonne went on, mercifully unaware of that incident. "You can't expect him to react just like you did. He's not you, he's—"

"Trouble," Spade interrupted. "I must have talked to a dozen people about Hal Carver, and the one thing they all mentioned was that he had an attitude the size of New Mexico. No wonder Cavitt didn't like him. You know why he was at Eagle Rock? As a disciplinary measure for taking his girlfriend on a joy ride in a plane. Now, you tell me why a guy who has the nerve to smuggle classified documents off a military base and sneak into locked rooms on that base is sitting up there with his tail between his legs!"

"Because it happens," Yvonne said, her dark eyes going hard. "Because anyone can get depressed. Because even strong people can get tired of being strong. Even you, Stephen. You're not invulnerable. A little bad luck, and you could wind up just like Carver. So could I."

"Yeah? Well, I didn't," Spade said tersely, jamming the key into the ignition and starting the engine. "And neither did you. And neither should he. It's Carver's job to get off his ass and tell the police what he knows about Betty, and it's our job to follow up on what he told us. We'll never get anywhere unless we both do our jobs."

" 'Follow up'....follow up on what? On what happened to the documents Carver gave her?"

"I think we both know who wound up with those," Spade said as he pulled away from the curb. "What I'm more interested in is who gave Betty that key. The key was to the room in the morgue where Cavitt's doctors were working on the alien sacs when almost everyone, myself included, thought those sacs were several buildings away being used as bait to lure the aliens out. I only found out they'd been moved because one of the guys overheard something he wasn't supposed to. The list of people who knew where those sacs were is very short....and one of them must have given Betty that key. I want to know who that someone is, don't you? Or would you rather go back up there and cry in your beer with Carver?"

Yvonne sighed and leaned back against the seat. "Of course not. I just would have handled Carver with a little more compassion."

"Then it's a good thing you brought me along," Spade said, "because what Carver needed wasn't compassion, but a good, swift kick in the ass. Let's just hope he got the message."



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



Mescalero Indian Reservation



"Nasedo!" River Dog shouted, crashing through the clearing outside the cave, heedless of the noise he was making. Both skinwalkers were dead; there was no need for stealth. Behind him, he heard his father, Kanseah, and the others trailing him, having given up trying to stop him long ago. He raced into the cave, his feet slapping on the ground, his sides aching. "Nasedo!" he called into the cave. "Are you here?"

River Dog's memory had been blurred when he had reawakened, but the trip to the cave had reawakened it, the horror of the previous evening coming into sharp focus as he passed trail markers he had left last night when he had led the skinwalker astray. The subsequent fights, both on the ground and, somehow, in the air, the body that looked like his father but was not, the horribly disfigured thing lying dead on the ground all came back in vivid detail, along with his fear that his real father was beyond help. And then Nasedo had called to him from the brush, insisting on staying hidden and giving him the magic stones to save his father. Long had he sat there with the glowing stone in his hands, feeling weaker and weaker, ignoring Nasedo's warning to maintain his "balance". Finally the stone had stopped glowing and River Dog had collapsed on the ground beside his father, using the last of his strength to pull leaves over both of them to keep them warm throughout the night.

"Nasedo!" River Dog called again. "Where are you?"

"He was not here when we arrived earlier this morning," Kanseah said behind him, "and it appears he has not returned. This fire is long cold."

"These are the blankets River Dog brought him last night when he was ill," Quanah added, joining them beside the remnants of the fire River Dog had built for Nasedo last night.

"Do you think he has left for good?" Kanseah asked. "Does he have any personal possessions that are still here?"

"He doesn't have...." River Dog paused, realizing that Nasedo did have one personal possession—the bag of magic stones. But a quick check of the cleft in the rock revealed it to be every bit as empty as the rest of the cave.

"I'm sorry," Quanah said gently when he saw the stricken look on his son's face, "but this cave appears untouched since last night. Perhaps he has left, as Kanseah said. Or—"

"Or perhaps he was not able to make it back here because he was injured," River Dog said. "We must search for him."

"Search where?" Kanseah asked in bewilderment. "We have already searched his last known location and his dwelling. Beyond that, we have no idea where he went."

"Perhaps it is a good thing that he is gone," said one of the other men. "His presence divided our village."

"Surely you don't still think him evil," River Dog protested. "He saved us all from the skinwalkers!"

"But the skinwalkers would not have been here in the first place if not for Nasedo," Kanseah said gravely. "He may not mean us ill, but his presence lured a great evil here."

"Father," River Dog said urgently, rounding on Quanah, "after everything that happened last night, you realize that we must look for him, don't you?"

"Son, you're exhausted," Quanah said, laying a hand on River Dog's shoulder. "I can see it in your face. So am I. And the forest is huge; even all of us here will never be able to search fast enough to do Nasedo any good. If we are to search, we need a large number of men from the village and our strength back. Let's return home, tell our story, and go from there."

"But you don't understand!" River Dog exclaimed. "He saved...."

"Come," Quanah said soothingly when River Dog stopped in mid-sentence. "Let's go home."

In a daze, River Dog allowed himself to be led out of the cave, back into the spring sunshine. He saved your life, was what he'd been about to say....but that would have triggered an avalanche of questions about how that had been accomplished, and he simply could not tell about the magic stones. If he did, not only would he be breaking his vow to Nasedo not to tell, but the now well established perception of Nasedo as a "powerful shaman" which he had overheard on their trek to the cave might very well change to something else.



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



4:45 p.m.

Chaves County Sheriff's Station




"Jimbo?"

Deputy Valenti looked up to find Alan McMahon wearing a shit-eating grin. "I thought I told you to stop calling me that," Valenti said. "What is it?"

"Got someone for you."

"Forget it," Valenti said shortly, opening a file cabinet. "I'm off in fifteen minutes. Go bug Donovan."

"Can't. This one's askin' for you by name."

"So tell'em I'm not here, and go bug Donovan," Valenti insisted. "I'm almost not here, so you don't need to worry about your nose growing, Pinocchio."

McMahon shook his head, that infuriating smile still plastered on his face. "They said they'd only talk to you. Said they'd come back if you weren't here, so blowin' them off now means you just get'em later. Guess that's the price of fame....Deputy Martian."

Valenti whirled around, but McMahon had already escaped, being long practiced in the art of baiting. Shit, Valenti thought sourly, grabbing another stack of folders. As if it wasn't bad enough to have spent an hour on the phone this morning with Herkimer Buckpit, who remained convinced that aliens were trying to breed with his homely wife despite having spent last night unmolested due to Chaves County deputies removing the food he'd peppered all over his back porch for the "aliens". Sometimes he would swear that even the "real" alien calls weren't worth the avalanche of false ones. And now the nutcases were asking for him personally. Wonderful.

"You Valenti?" a deep voice asked.

"Yep," Valenti said with no enthusiasm, tucking the last of the folders inside the cabinet. "Have a seat."

"You sure you're Deputy Valenti? I won't talk to anyone else."

Annoyed, Valenti slammed the file drawer shut and turned around to find a tall man with hard eyes and a strangely familiar face. "Well, let's see—I was Valenti when I woke up this morning, and I imagine I still am. At least it says so on my name tag. That good enough for you, or do you want to see my driver's license?"

"Just asking," the man said sharply. "You don't have to be an ass about it."

"Neither do you," Valenti replied, his temper dangerously close to fraying as he pulled out a blank report form. "And now that we've established my identity six ways to Sunday, who might you be?"

Silence. Valenti looked up from the form on which he's just scribbled the date to find his visitor staring off into space, ignoring him. "I need your name, sir," Valenti clarified.

More silence. Valenti sighed and dropped his pencil on the desk. Getting someone's name was usually the easy part, sometimes the only easy part. "You do have a name, don't you?" he asked, resisting the urge to point out how interested this guy had just been in verifying Valenti's name. "I have to put a name on the report, Mr....."

"It's not 'mister'," the man interrupted, his eyes swinging back to Valenti. "It's 'Captain'. Captain Harold Carver."



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

I'll post Chapter 109 next Sunday.