Roswell Fanatics

Replacing the lost chapters!




CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE



August 18, 1959, 6:30 p.m.

FBI field office, Santa Fe





"What is that?" Agent Lewis demanded as the swirling symbol carved into the surface of the alien device continued to shine, pulsing from a dim glow to a brilliant glare. "What's it doing?"

"No idea," Agent Feldman said, bewildered. "It's never done this before, never done anything before—"

"Then what did you do to it?"

"I didn't so anything to it, sir. I was just sitting here talking to you, and it started glowing. You saw it."

"But why is it glowing?" Lewis demanded.

"Hell if I know!" Feldman exclaimed. "Sir," he added hastily when Lewis' eyebrows rose. "I don't even know how it's glowing. This thing doesn't have any battery door that I can see, or a light bulb."

"Do you think it's dangerous?" Agent Del Bianco asked worriedly. "Maybe it's not a communicator at all; maybe it's some kind of bomb, or grenade."

"And maybe that's why the prisoner told us they only work in pairs," Lewis added, his eyes widening. "Maybe it wanted to increase the level of damage. Agent Feldman, you have spent more time with this than anyone. In your professional opinion, what is happening?"

" 'Professional opinion'?" Feldman echoed incredulously. "How can any of us have a 'professional opinion' about something none of us has ever.....seen before," he trailed off as Lewis looked daggers at him.

The device abruptly stopped glowing. "Why did it stop?" Lewis demanded. "Make it start again! We need to know what this thing is!"

"Sir, I don't know how to!" Feldman said in frustration. "I don't know why it started in the first place, so I certainly can't make it happen again."

"At least you have something to take to the Director," Del Bianco said. "We know it's in working order, at least to a certain extent."

"But we still don't know what it is," Lewis said irritably, pacing around the office. "What if it is an explosive device?"

"I doubt that, sir," Feldman said. "If it were meant to explode, why didn't it?"

"A minute ago you claimed you couldn't be expected to know anything about a device you've been working on for a month, and now you have an opinion?" Lewis said acidly. "Make up your mind, agent."

"Sir, I just—"

The device flared to life again. Feldman's hand, which he had been moving as he spoke, passed over the glowing symbol, and as it did, the symbol beamed more brilliantly than ever, fading back to a soft, pulsing glow when Feldman jerked his hand away.

"Do that again," Lewis commanded. "Hold your hand over it."

"But—"

"Do it!" Lewis ordered.

Del Bianco shot Feldman a sympathetic glance as the latter held a shaky hand over the glowing symbol. It flared again; when Feldman withdrew his hand, it softened. He repeated the same movement three more times with the same result.

"Analysis," Lewis demanded.

"Well.....it doesn't appear to be a weapon," Del Bianco said hesitantly. "It's not behaving like a weapon."

"No, it's behaving like exactly what we were told it was," Feldman said. "A communication device."

"Explain," Lewis ordered.

"If this is a communication device, there must be some way to let whoever has it know that a message is coming in," Feldman said. "Perhaps the glow is like a telephone ring, or the blinking line light on an office phone."

"And holding your hand over it could be like answering that phone," Del Bianco suggested. "Maybe that's why it glows more brightly when your hand passes over it, because it senses someone there."

"It's a thought," Lewis agreed. "Agent Feldman—answer the phone."

Feldman blinked. "Sir?"

"Hold your hand over it," Lewis said impatiently. "I want to see what happens."

Feldman and Del Bianco exchanged startled glances. "But....sir, we don't know what would happen."

"Of course we don't know what would happen!" Lewis exclaimed. "Isn't that why you'd do it, to find out what would happen? Isn't that the point? Yes, that is the point," he added, answering his own question. "Hold your hand over it, and keep it there. That's an order."

Feldman shot a pleading look at Del Bianco, who shrugged helplessly. Slowly, he moved a shaking hand over the glowing symbol, stiffening when it flared brilliantly again. Ten long seconds passed.

"Nothing's happening, sir," Feldman whispered.

"Don't move," Lewis ordered.

"But sir—"

"It's still glowing more brightly than before, so whatever has started is continuing," Lewis said. "Don't move."

"But—"

"I said don't move!"

Feldman reluctantly remained still. The symbol continued to flare. "It's been a full minute, sir," Del Bianco said uncomfortably after what seemed like a lot longer than a full minute later. "Maybe it doesn't work with humans."

"Maybe not," Feldman agreed, beads of perspiration breaking out on his forehead as his hand began to wobble unsteadily.

"Or maybe my agents give up too easily," Lewis said severely. "If—"

Suddenly a beam of light shot from the symbol on the device, rising toward the ceiling as Feldman snatched his hand away. A moment later, an image formed within the beam, a three dimensional image of a face. A man's face.

A human face.

"Who are you?" the face demanded, its voice as clear as if its owner were right there in front of them.

"I.....I.....," Feldman stuttered.

"Where did you get this communicator? Where is the operative who owns it?"

Lewis, who was behind the image and had been walking from side to side, studying it carefully, suddenly stopped. "Answer him," he whispered.

"How?" Feldman asked desperately.

"Make something up!" Lewis hissed. "Think on your feet!"

"Where did you get this communicator?" the face demanded again, showing no sign of having heard Lewis.

"I......we....found it," Feldman stammered. "We didn't know what it was. We were just......curious." He paused, visibly pulling himself together. "Who are you?"

The image was silent for a moment, glaring at him. "Sir, you need to see this," it said, apparently talking to someone else the agents couldn't see.

Another voice answered, the speaker unseen. "Well, well," it drawled, heavy with sarcasm. "Someone's where they shouldn't be."

Lewis began to back up; Del Bianco tore his eyes away from the communicator and looked at him in amazement.

"You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?" the voice continued. "They say it killed the cat." It paused as all three agents held their breath. "Guess you're not a cat, but you still should have thought of that before you messed with something you shouldn't have."

Del Bianco felt himself jerked backwards as Lewis grabbed his arm and all but hauled him out of the room, slamming the door behind them only seconds after an immensely bright light flared in the office, followed by a scream.




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



Ruth Bruce's boarding house




"Daddy?" Philip asked.

"Daddy will be home soon, sweetheart," Emily Proctor said as her grandson looked hopefully at the door. "Mama too. Would you like a snack before dinner?"

Philip nodded eagerly and clambered into a kitchen chair, perching on his knees and happily diving into the pile of sliced grapes Emily laid on the table. Dee was working tonight, which meant that dinner would be late. That usually entailed a snack for Philip so he could last until the later dinner time, and Dee had hit upon the brilliant strategy of making that "snack" a fruit or vegetable, which looked more inviting all by itself instead of surrounded by other, more interesting foods. In Emily's day, giving a child a snack right before dinner was considered a cardinal sin; Dee had turned it into an advantage. Having meals on a variable schedule had also been considered verboten, but Philip never seemed to mind. Perhaps we were too stuck on schedules, Emily thought. To think of all the times she'd adhered to her "schedule" even when she hadn't wanted to just because the experts told her she should have.

"Good?" Emily asked her grandson.

"Good," Philip replied, a fistful of grapes in one hand as he pointed with the other. "Go bye-bye?"

Emily's expression softened as she glanced toward the suitcases lined up along the nearby wall. "Yes, sweetheart, you and Mama and Daddy are going bye-bye soon. Back to school."

"School," Philip nodded, as though he already knew that.

"Grandma will miss you," Emily said. "All of you."

"Um," Philip answered, munching on grapes.

And I'm glad I didn't have to miss you sooner, Emily added privately. If not for the verbal slap her son-in-law had given her, she might have spent a summer with no children or grandchildren. Thank God Anthony had knocked some sense into her, or she wouldn't have had all these wonderful afternoons with her only grandchild to enjoy. And thank God for Courtney, if only in a twisted way. Courtney's presence had made Dee long for Emily's experience and counsel, something Emily had been all too happy to provide when it had just been Courtney. Recent revelations that more of her people were in town, however, had made Emily glad that Dee and her family were going back to Albuquerque. She had been in the middle of an alien war before, and although this hadn't reached that level and never may, there was always the possibility that it would. And if it did, she wanted her daughter and her family as far away from here as they could get.

A knock sounded on the door. "Daddy!" Philip exclaimed.

"Daddy doesn't knock," Emily reminded him, hesitating before she reached for the doorknob, it having occurred to her who it might be. She'd heard nothing from Valenti since their last conversation, and she wasn't eager to see him again. Not that she'd tell him anything, of course, but she did feel bad keeping him in the dark. Then again, maybe the dark was the best place to be under the circumstances. The deeper one delved into alien territory, the more dangerous life became.

Emily opened the door......and blinked. Not Valenti, but someone else she hadn't seen lately, someone else she'd been keeping things from. "Well," she said in surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here, despite the fact that you live downstairs. Sort of."

"It is good to see you, Emily Proctor," Brivari said. "It has been awhile, has it not?"

"It has," Emily agreed, stepping back. "Would you like to come in? Anthony should be home shortly, and Dee a little after that."

"Thank you," Brivari replied, stepping inside.

"Iced tea?"

"Do you have coffee?"

"In this heat? You're crazy," Emily said good naturedly, pouring two glasses of tea. "Stir a bunch of sugar into this, and you'll never know the difference."

"I gather you have—what is the expression?—'mended fences' with your daughter," Brivari said, taking a seat across from her as she set two glasses on the table.

"For the moment," Emily said. "You know how it is with Dee. And me," she added ruefully. "We're both stubborn as oxen. Fortunately, Anthony got through to me. And I must admit Dee handled this particular fight differently than I would have expected. She was much calmer this time, much more in control. That got my attention."

"I told her as much," Brivari said.

Emily's eyebrows rose. "You were coaching her?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "I merely noted the finer points of power struggles, something I have a great deal of experience with."

"So I hear," Emily said. "I gather you're the big man on the movie set now, advising Hollywood bigwigs and getting them to behave."

"An exaggeration," Brivari said. "And the movie will soon end."

"And then what?"

"I am not sure," Brivari admitted. "Jaddo feels my time has been wasted, and my attention needlessly diverted."

"He would," Emily chuckled. "But diverted from what?"

"Activity at the base," Brivari answered. "The formation of a new unit within your 'FBI' tasked with hunting us down."

Emily dropped her eyes to her glass, hopefully concealing that she already knew about that. "That doesn't sound good," she said.

"There will always be attempts to locate us," Brivari said, sounding completely unperturbed. "They should be monitored, but other than that, ignoring them is our best option." His gaze fell on Philip, who regarded him briefly before returning to his grapes. "Your grandson has grown."

"Yes, he has," Emily said fondly.

"I was not aware that human children grew so quickly," Brivari said, a touch of wistfulness in his voice.

Emily was quiet for a moment, recalling what Dee had said about the hybrids not growing as fast as they should be. Brivari had never raised that subject with her, so it would be indiscreet to bring it up now. "We don't live as long as your people do, so I guess we have to get our growing done faster," she said lightly.

Brivari's eyes clouded. "Believe me, I am more aware than ever that humans have shorter lifespans."

"If you're referring to your friend that died, that was an illness," Emily said gently. "Anyone can get sick."

"Indeed," Brivari murmured. "And I could have stopped it."

"Had you known," Emily added. "But you didn't. You couldn't have."

"You're not going to tell me there's some divine reason why Quanah had to die, are you?" Brivari said, a touch of irritation in his voice. "His people believe his death holds a purpose in their deity's plan."

"Maybe it does," Emily allowed. "But since I have no way of knowing that, no, I wasn't going to say that. I am going to say that blaming yourself doesn't help. David and I blamed ourselves for years after his brother killed himself. We knew James was depressed, and we tried to get help for him, but in the end he took his own life. We berated ourselves for not trying harder, for not being with him to prevent it, until we realized that we couldn't have been with him every minute. There's only so much you can do."

"But what does one do when one knows one has not done as much as one could have?" Brivari asked, staring into his tea.

Emily closed her eyes briefly, that familiar ache stirring again. "You realize that when you're dealing with the death of someone you were close to, nothing you did will ever seem like enough. The fact that they died makes any effort feel inadequate."

"Perhaps," Brivari agreed quietly. "But that will not stop me from wishing I had made a greater effort."

"Same here," Emily sighed. "How is Quanah's family doing?"

"I have not returned since his death," Brivari admitted.

"Too hard to go back?" Emily asked sympathetically.

Brivari was silent for a long time. "I would appreciate it if you would not repeat this," he said at length, "but I am considering leaving this area, for a time at least."

" 'Leaving'?" Emily repeated blankly. "Where would you go?"

"I don't know. I do know this place holds painful memories for me for a variety of reasons. I believe I might dwell less on the past if I spent less time here."

"How is Jaddo going to feel about that?"

"He will loathe the idea, of course," Brivari answered. "But if he wishes to stay here and fret over every possible developing threat, he is welcome to. Those threats are hardly confined to this place, and could safely be monitored from a distance."

"But won't you miss him?" Emily asked. "Wherever you go, you'd be the only one of your kind unless one of the other two went with you."

"I believe Jaddo and I might actually benefit from a period of separation," Brivari replied. "We were always only colleagues, thrown closer together by tragedy. We work well together in a crisis, but seem to tolerate each other less in the absence of a threat. The only real threat to our safety lies not with your people, but with mine, the king's enemies, who have never shown themselves and may not ever have arrived."

"Down," Philip announced, having finished his snack.

But they did, Emily thought, more conflicted now than ever as she wiped the sticky grape juice from her grandson's hands and picked up his plate. The "king's enemies" had found them here, albeit a rebel subset, making this a very bad time for Brivari to be taking off for parts unknown. Should she tell him? Was it ethical to withhold that information in light of what she knew? And if she did tell him, what would happen to the girl across the hall? Stupid question; she knew exactly what would happen to her....and she would be responsible for it.

"So have you definitely decided to leave, or are you just mulling it over?" Emily asked.

"I am....'mulling', as you put it," Brivari answered. "I imagine things will come into sharper focus after the movie is completed and my employment has ended."

Then I have that much time to figure this out, Emily thought heavily. Because whatever might happen to Courtney, she couldn't in good conscience let Brivari leave town without telling him what he would be leaving behind.




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




Copper Summit, Arizona




"What the hell was that?" Nicholas demanded.

Michael shot a sympathetic glance at the trembling operative trapped in front of Nicholas. "It....it appears a human came into possession of Crist's communicator," the operative answered.

"Did you get a trace?"

"Yes. Whoever has it is in Santa Fe, New Mexico, hundreds of miles north of where it should be."

Not Roswell, Michael thought with relief. Thank God.

"And where does Crist live?"

"A little town called Dexter, just south of Roswell."

"Then what was his communicator doing in Santa Fe?" Nicholas exclaimed in frustration. "And how did a human get a hold of it? Start from the beginning," he ordered.

The operative's terrified gaze swept the multitude of eyes boring into his own as everyone leaned in closer, not wanting to miss any details. "Well....I was following up with anyone who hadn't checked in on schedule," he said. "The first time I signaled Crist, no one answered, so I sent a second signal, intending to leave a message. But then I got an answer....sort of. It was intermittent, never quite connecting. I thought Crist was messing with me, and I was all ready to chew him out when the signal suddenly steadied, and that human appeared in the hologram."

"How do we know it wasn't a Warder pretending to be a human?" Greer asked.

"Because a Warder wouldn't have bothered to pretend," Nicholas said impatiently. "What exactly did the human say?"

"That they'd found it, and they didn't know what it was. That they were just curious. You heard that part."

" 'Found it'?" Nicholas grumbled. "They're supposed to hide these things, for Christ's sake, not leave them lying around for humans to pick up."

"The bigger question," Greer said, "is what happened to Crist? Why hasn't he reported in?"

Michael shifted uneasily as a heavy silence permeated the room in the hidden chamber beneath Nicholas' house. While he agreed with Greer that the human in the hologram was not a Warder in disguise, he still felt Covari had something to do with this. It was too coincidental that his daughter would locate the Warders, their allies, and the one rogue Covari left only to have an operative go missing and his communicator fall into human hands. Nicholas was a cruel master, but he was also no fool; he may very well discern that there was more to this than met the eye, and the results would not be good for either Courtney or their mission despite the fact that the errant communicator wasn't in Roswell. It was time to intervene.

"We can't afford to leave that communicator in human hands," Michael said.

"We didn't," Nicholas said with a nasty smile. "Every communicator is equipped with a little gift from that rogue Covari who blew me in; give it the right code, and I can kill whoever's on the other end. A neat trick, even if it did come from a Covari."

Michael paled. "You mean every communicator can do that? Even the trithium generators?"

"You bet," Nicholas said. "With everyone scattered the way they are, I have to have a way to dispose of undesirables from a distance."

"Of course," Michael said faintly. So much for the notion that Courtney was safely out of Nicholas' reach. "Whether or not the thief survived, someone still has to find out who acquired the communicator and how, and what happened to Crist. Someone needs to go up there. I volunteer."

"No," Nicholas said. "I need you here. Greer will go. Take a team."

"With all due respect, Greer is far more important to you than I am," Michael said quickly when Greer looked distinctly unhappy.

"He's right," Greer agreed readily. "He should go."

"I would suggest taking just one operative with me," Michael ploughed on before Nicholas could reply. "Two can move more quickly than a full team, and are less likely to attract suspicion. We can always send more later if the situation warrants."

There was a long pause while Nicholas considered, both Michael and Greer uneasy, albeit for different reasons—Greer didn't want to go, and Michael was terrified a full team would go charging into the Roswell area and ruin any chance of contacting the Warders, not to mention put his daughter's life in danger. At least if he were with the team, he could monitor and hopefully affect its movements; even better would be if he was allowed to go with an operative of his choosing. That was probably too much to ask for, so he mentally prepared arguments that would at least get him on the team.

"All right," Nicholas said suddenly. "Michael, you go. Take one man, someone you trust implicitly. Find out what happened to Crist, and who had that communicator. And while you're up there, stop in and see Courtney. Maybe she knows something. Crist was temporarily assigned to the Roswell sheriff's station this summer."

"I.....thank you, Nicholas," Michael stammered, flabbergasted to have gotten everything he wanted, and more. "I'll begin preparations at once."

"Don't screw up," Nicholas said casually. "I can always do to you what I did to that stupid human. Kidding," he added when Michael's eyes widened. "Just kidding. Get going."

Fifteen minutes later, Michael was back in his house with the telephone pressed impatiently to his ear. It took several tries and more than an hour before Courtney picked up.

"Where have you been?" Michael demanded. "Did Mark get his message?"

"Did....what?" Courtney stammered. "Uh.....no. He's not home."

"Why is he never home?" Michael wondered. "But then perhaps I should be grateful for that. Everything will be easier if he's gone a lot."

"What will be easier?" Courtney asked warily.

"There's been an incident in Santa Fe," Michael replied. "Nicholas has ordered me to investigate, and I'm to stop in Roswell on the way there. We have much to talk about, Courtney, and we'll have to be careful to avoid Mark."

There was a very long pause before Courtney spoke again. "That's okay, Papa," she said faintly. "I don't think avoiding Mark will be a problem."

CHAPTER FORTY


August 18, 1959, 7:00 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




"This drive gets longer every week," Agent Owens grumbled as he climbed out of the car and stretched.

"Only four hours," Agent Cates said. "We used to drive eight, ten, even twelve hours when I went on vacation as a kid. My Dad didn't like to stop, not even to let us pee."

"Four hours is my limit," Owens said firmly. "After that, I start to petrify."

"I'm glad we were the ones who found something," Cates said as they walked into the building. "Lewis isn't too happy with everyone else."

"Maybe there was nothing to find," Owens said. "Lewis acts like they're incompetent or lazy, but no one can find anything if there's nothing to find."

"I don't think it's occurred to Lewis that there might be nothing to find," Cates answered. "Like with Feldman. What's he supposed to do with that alien football? It doesn't have an 'on' switch, a power cord, or anything else that looks like it would make it work, but he's catching hell for not making it sing and dance."

"That's because Lewis will have to do a song and dance if they haven't figured out how to make it work by the time he meets with J. Edgar," Owen said, pulling out his key for the door to the section that Lewis' unit had been allotted. "I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall for that vaudeville act. We should sell tickets—" He stopped short, then gave the door a gentle push. It swung open, having not only not been locked, but not even latched.

"Wow," Cates said faintly. "Whoever left that open is going to catch hell."

"Sounds like someone already has," Owens muttered, hurrying toward the back, where the sounds of a commotion grew louder as they approached. Rounding a corner, they discovered three agents not assigned to the unit gathered around the door to Agent Feldman's office, which was guarded by an obviously flustered Del Bianco.

"You have to let us in!" one of the agents exclaimed.

"I'm under strict orders not to let anyone inside this room but Agent Bernard Lewis, head of this unit," Del Bianco said hotly. "You shouldn't be here; you don't have clearance. I'd leave if I were you. You don't want Lewis finding you here."

"What happened?" Owens demanded. "What's wrong?"

"Something exploded down here," one of the agents said, "and choir boy here won't let us in."

"You don't belong here!" Del Bianco insisted.

"And explosions don't belong in field offices," the agent retorted, "but that doesn't seem to bother you, does it?"

"C'mon, guys, back off," Cates said. "He's only following orders, just like we all do. If you don't like it, take it up with Lewis or his supervisor. Don't take it out on Del Bianco."

The three agents left reluctantly, muttering under their breaths about doing just that. "Wait till they find out Hoover is Lewis' supervisor," Owens said. "Jesus, Del Bianco, what happened?"

"Yeah, you look like you've seen a ghost," Cates added.

For a second, it looked like Del Bianco was going to answer them; then his mouth closed in a thin line. "I can't tell you. Lewis' orders."

" 'Can't tell us'?" Owens echoed. "We're Special Unit! What do you mean you 'can't tell us'?"

"Like I said, Lewis' orders," Del Bianco said stoutly.

"Fine, then let us in," Owens said impatiently, trying to push past Del Bianco.

"No," Del Bianco said firmly. "No one goes in there."

"Into Feldman's office? Why not?" Cates asked. "Did he get that alien thingamajig working?"

"Shhhh!" Del Bianco whispered fiercely. "Don't say that out loud!"

"So he did get it working?" Cates said. "Then what's wrong? What's this about an explosion?"

Cates and Owens exchanged glances as Del Bianco's face drained of color. "Did something happen to Feldman?" Owens asked sharply.

Del Bianco paled further. "Lewis' orders," he repeated in a hollow voice. "No one goes in there."

"Out of my way," Owens said firmly.

"No!" Del Bianco shouted. But Owens grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him aside as Cates reached for the doorknob and flung the door open. All three stood gaping in the doorway.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Owens breathed. "What happened here?"

Del Bianco was looking at the floor, the ceiling, the window, anywhere but at the table in the middle of the room. "I said, what happened here?" Owens repeated.

"Like they said," Del Bianco whispered. "There was an explosion."

Owens and Cates looked at each other, then at the center of the room. There had indeed been an explosion in Feldman's office, an explosion which had taken out.....Feldman. His charred and blackened body was still smoking in the remains of his chair next to the remains of his work table, while the rest of the office remained untouched. "My God!" Cates exclaimed. "What did this? Was it that....that thing?" he asked, indicating the burned remains of the alien device sitting directly in front of what had once been Agent Feldman.

"Talk," Owens demanded, backing Del Bianco against the wall.

"I was ordered not to," Del Bianco said stubbornly. "If Lewis finds out—"

"If you don't talk, you'll never get to the part where Lewis finds out," Owens warned. "Now, talk!"

"Don't you think we deserve to know?" Cates added. "We found it."

"This isn't about who 'deserves to know'," Del Bianco objected. "It's about orders! I have orders—"

"To hell with your orders!" Owens said angrily, grabbing Del Bianco by the collar. "One of our own is dead, and you won't tell us why? Talk, Del Bianco!"

"Cough it up," Cates added angrily, "or I not only won't hold him back, I'll beat him to it."

Del Bianco's eyes flickered defiantly from one to the other before apparently deciding that his personal safety outweighed any orders he had received. "He....he got it working," he said, nodding toward what was left of Feldman without actually looking at him. "Or it started working. He claimed he hadn't done anything, that it started working on its own."

"Working how?" Owens demanded.

"That swirly thing on the top was glowing," Del Bianco said, "and Feldman discovered that every time his hand passed over it, it glowed brighter. So we thought, since it was supposedly a communication device, maybe that's the way you answer it. So Lewis told him to hold his hand over it."

"And?" Cates pressed.

Del Bianco swallowed. "And this picture formed in the air over top of it. Like TV, but without a screen, and 3D too. It was a human face, a man's face, and he asked Feldman who he was and what had happened to the 'operative' who owned the device. And then...."

"And then what?" Owens asked when Del Bianco hesitated. "What?"

"He screamed," Del Bianco whispered. "God, I've never heard a sound like that. There was this bright flash of light and a kind of sonic boom, and he screamed. I covered my ears. Even the door couldn't block it."

"Wait," Cates said. "The door? Do you mean you were outside the office when this happened? Why?" he continued when Del Bianco nodded. "If Feldman was making such a momentous discovery, why were you outside?"

Owens suddenly exploded, hauling Del Bianco off the wall and shaking him. "You left him, didn't you? You ran like a dog with your tail between your legs and let him get fried!"

"No!" Del Bianco exclaimed. "I didn't! Lewis pulled me out! He grabbed me and pulled me out!"

"You both left him!" Owens raged as Cates tried to pull him off. "You—"

"And what would you have had us do?" a sharp voice interrupted. "Stay with him so all three of us could be killed?"

Owens whirled around to find Agent Lewis in the doorway. "Unhand him," Lewis ordered. "Agent Del Bianco was only doing his job, which is to follow my orders as the leader of this unit."

"Is it true?" Owens demanded. "Did you really cut and run, and—"

"Chris," Cates warned.

"—let Feldman get blown to smithereens? Is that what you call leadership? What the hell kind of dictionary are you using?"

A stunned silence fell over the room. Owens was panting, Del Bianco and Cates were wide-eyed with shock, and Lewis regarded Owens in stony silence for what seemed like a very long time indeed.

"The dictionary I am using, agent, is the one that defines leaders as those who make hard decisions," Lewis answered. "Often unpopular decisions. Decisions others love to second guess. Especially those who weren't there and are in no position to be passing judgment on something they didn't see. Am I making myself clear, agent?"

Owens held Lewis' gaze, but said nothing. "I understand this is a shock," Lewis continued, "so I will overlook this....indiscretion. Once. Take my advice and don't overstep your bounds again. We have more important things to deal with than your self-righteous indignation."

"Like a dead colleague," Owens said grimly.

"Exactly," Lewis agreed. "And do you know why he's dead, agent? He's dead because aliens killed him. Aliens who didn't want him tampering with their technology. Aliens who are obviously still using devices just like the one we found. Aliens who have 'operatives', meaning that they have infiltrated our society, possibly in ways undreamed of. Aliens who look exactly like us, are virtually indistinguishable from us. Aliens who are still here, who have not gone home after some unfortunate accident as they would have had us believe back in the forties. I always knew that was a lie, and this proves it. Why are they still here after all this time? Why do they need 'operatives'? And what do we make of creatures who can do that—" he nodded toward what remained of Feldman as the others studiously looked away "—who would do that to someone who had merely stumbled upon their phone number?"

Lewis was quiet for a moment, as though waiting for an answer. "In regards to your specific question," he continued when none came, "what I did was not 'cut and run', but 'cut our losses'. If Agent Del Bianco and I had been in this room when that thing went off, all three of us would likely be dead. Surely one dead agent is better than three?"

"And zero dead agents are better than one!" Owens said harshly, not the least bit cowed by Lewis' diatribe. "The point is that you didn't even try to save Feldman!"

"The point is, he couldn't have," Del Bianco broke in. "We barely made it out ourselves. If we'd tried to haul Feldman out with us, none of us would have made it."

"There are losses in every war," Lewis added. "Real soldiers know this, and accept it as a regrettable but necessary price to pay for our freedom and safety. Be grateful our losses were as low as they were."

"I'm not a soldier, and you're a little too willing to shrug this off," Owens retorted. "But I suppose one dead agent is a small price to pay for having something to drop in the Director's lap in a few days, isn't it?"

"Okay, that's enough," Cates said briskly as Lewis' eyes flashed dangerously. "Sir, please forgive him; this has been a tremendous shock. Why don't I take him out and get him a beer or three, and let him cool off."

"An excellent suggestion," Lewis said frostily. "Our ballistics experts should have a preliminary report for us within the hour. Make certain he 'cools off' by then."

"Yes, sir. One hour. Shut up," Cates added in a stern whisper as he propelled Owens toward the door. "One more word out of you, and you'll lose your job."

"That'd be preferable to losing it the way Feldman did," Owens snapped, wrenching himself out of Cates' grasp and stalking on ahead.




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




Courtney set the phone down in shock, her grocery bag of frozen vegetables thawing at her feet. All the possible repercussions from this latest chat with her father, including the fact that her own equipment could be used against her, paled beside the fact that she would have to face him at last. She'd kept it from him for two months now, but if her father was coming to Roswell, he was bound to notice a few things, or more specifically, the absence of a few things. Like the fact that she obviously wasn't sharing a room with anyone, never mind the operative who was supposed to be chaperoning her. And while it was certainly a relief that it was her father who was coming and not Greer or, God forbid, Nicholas himself, the fact remained that her father was perfectly capable of ordering her back to Copper Summit. Back to that house next door to Nicholas and his minions, back to endless scrutiny, back to confinement, back to.....boredom. As inexperienced as she was, she had accomplished much more than she'd been sent here to do, plus made friends and learned to support herself besides. She had learned enough, albeit the hard way, that she could survive on her own in the human world. No wonder Nicholas had been reluctant to put everyone in the field.

I need advice, Courtney thought, emptying her soggy paper grocery bag into the freezer and hurrying across the hall. Dee was at the diner tonight which meant that Mrs. Proctor should be babysitting Philip; perhaps a human parent would be a good sounding board for how to break her news to an Antarian parent. "Mrs. Proctor?" she called, knocking on Dee's door. "Are you there?"

"Come in," Emily's voice answered.

Thank God, Courtney thought, relief washing over her as she threw the door open. "I'm so glad you're here," she said even before she was inside. "I just got a call from my father, and he's coming to see me! I—"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Philip was building yet another block tower in the corner, Emily was sitting at the kitchen table, and across from her was none other than "Mr. Langley", otherwise known as Brivari.

"I.....I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't know you had.....company."

"Does a visit from your father constitute bad news?" Brivari asked.

Courtney swallowed hard, stupefied that she had almost blurted out her secret right in front of the king's Warder. "Courtney has a somewhat....problematic relationship with her father," Emily said smoothly, covering her silence. "Perhaps you could come back later, dear, and we can talk then."

"Right," Courtney whispered, barely registering the sympathetic look Emily was giving her. "Later. Sorry."

"Twitchy little thing, isn't she?" Brivari said casually as she left the apartment and skipped down the stairs, not slowing until she reached the end of the front walk. That had been close, so close...... Too close, she thought grimly as she hurried toward Parker's, the evening sun only marginally less torrid than earlier. She'd lived so long now with people who knew who she was, what she was, that she'd grown careless. Even if it was only her father coming this time, others would follow; she could not afford that level of carelessness, not if she wanted to stay alive.

"Didn't get enough of the place earlier?" Nancy asked when she arrived at Parker's.

"I.....forgot something in my locker," Courtney said.

Nancy nodded and hurried off, her arms laden with plates. Courtney found Dee in the back, having just deposited a load of dirty dishes to be washed. "What are you doing here?" Dee asked when Courtney hooked an arm through hers and propelled her back toward the little hall where the lockers were. "Is something wrong with Philip?"

"Philip's fine," Courtney said, opening the door to her locker so they could use it as a shield from prying eyes. "My father just called. Someone activated that communicator Valenti found, and now he's coming up here! What am I going to do? What am I going to tell him about Mark?"

"Slow down," Dee ordered. " 'Someone' activated the communicator? Who?"

"Whoever took it from Valenti," Courtney explained. "And—"

"You mean the FBI? A human activated it? How could a human activate one of your communicators?"

"Humans emit large amounts of bioelectric energy," Courtney explained. "You just don't know how to use it....and that particular human will never use it again. The point is—"

"What do you mean?" Dee asked. "What happened to whoever activated it?"

"Nicholas killed him, of course. What else?"

"Killed him how? Has he already sent someone up here?"

"He used the communicator," Courtney said. "Look, the point is that Nicholas knows that humans are in possession of Crist's communicator, and—"

"No, the point is that a man just died," Dee interrupted sharply. "And not only that, but if Nicholas can kill someone with a communicator, he can also kill you with yours."

"Don't you think I've figured that out?" Courtney said impatiently. "We all live under Nicholas' thumb, so the idea that he has a way to kill us by remote control isn't surprising. And whoever activated that communicator is supposedly hunting not only me, but the Warders besides, so forgive me if I'm not shedding any tears for him. They're messing with stuff they don't understand, and they'll have to fight their own battles; I have to figure out what I'm going to tell my father about why Mark and Crist aren't here."

"Okay," Dee sighed. "Crist is easy. Malik made it look like he quit and left town, and that's what everyone thinks, so you just stick to the story. As for Mark....I'm afraid you're going to have to tell him the truth."

"What, that I lied to him?" Courtney exclaimed. "That the sheriff had the body, that he knows Mark was an alien, and I kept that all quiet?"

"What other—" Dee stopped as another waitress walked to her locker, opened it, and chucked something inside, giving them curious looks before returning to the kitchen. "What other choice do you have?" she continued in a whisper. "Lots of people know Mark was killed, so if you tell your father otherwise, he'll find out eventually anyway."

"Oh, God," Courtney said, leaning back against the adjacent locker. "He'll be so mad. He'll make me go back, he'll—"

"How?" Dee asked. "How will he make you go back? What can he do to you to make you go back?"

With a start, Courtney realized Dee was right: There wasn't any way to force her return to Copper Summit. Nicholas was unlikely to be interested in fatherly pleas for a daughter's return in the current climate, so short of exposing her, which her father would never do, he could bluster and order all he wanted, but she could still refuse.

"Look, you made the decision to stay here for a reason," Dee went on, "presumably a good enough reason that you'd go so far as to cover up Mark's death. It looks like it's time to tell your father what those reasons are and stand behind them. He doesn't have to like them, or agree with them....but that doesn't mean you're wrong. It just means you disagree. My mother and I have been doing that for years." She paused, giving Courtney a sympathetic look similar to Emily's. "When's he getting in?"

"Tonight," Courtney said miserably. "In the middle of the night. With another resistance operative."

"Then you have a few hours to come up with what you're going to say," Dee said gently. " If you really feel that what you did was best for your cause, you're going to have to argue that point. Remember, you're an adult and a Level III operative. I would imagine you don't get to Level III by knuckling under every time someone disagrees with you. "

"It's different when that someone is your own father," Courtney muttered.

"Or mother," Dee agreed. "Tell me about it." She reached over and closed the locker. "I have to finish my shift. I'll be off before long, and then we can all talk about it. Maybe Malik will have some ideas."

"No!" Courtney said in alarm. "We can't tell him! Not yet."

"We have to," Dee objected. "If there are more of your people coming, whether it's your father or anyone else, he needs to know that."

"If he finds out there are more of my people coming, he'll tell the Warders," Courtney insisted.

"Maybe it's time to tell the Warders," Dee said. "Maybe this has gone too far. It was one thing when we were the only ones who knew your people were here, but now the FBI knows.....and the Warders don't."

"But—"

"You're not stupid, Courtney," Dee said firmly. "You knew it would come to this eventually. We held off as long as we could, but there's too much at stake now, including the people you're supposedly here to save. We have to tell them."

"Okay, compromise," Courtney said desperately. "I'll tell Malik myself....and then we'll let him decide what to do. Deal?"

Dee eyed her for a moment while Courtney held her breath. "Deal," she said finally. "But make sure you tell him. Because if you don't, I will."




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



FBI Field Office

Santa Fe




"You're going to behave yourself, right?" Del Bianco asked when he spied Cates and Owens approaching.

"He will," Cates promised with a pointed look at Owens. "Won't you?"

"No promises," Owens said darkly, nodding toward Feldman's office. "What's going on?"

Del Bianco shook his head. "Not sure. Lewis has been closeted in there since shortly after you two left. I should have gone out with you for that beer."

"No, you shouldn't have," Owens said flatly.

"Hey, you're not blaming me for this, are you?" Del Bianco protested. "I told you Lewis grabbed me and pulled me out of there."

"Which begs the question why didn't he grab Feldman and pull him out of there too," Owens said. "But we both know the answer to that, don't we? Lewis was heading out the door even before things got ugly."

"Look, we barely made it out in time," Del Bianco argued. "If we hadn't been right near the door, all three of us might be dead. Is that what you want? Would that make you feel better?"

"Don't be an asshole," Owens said sharply.

"You're the asshole if you expect me to apologize for being alive!" Del Bianco retorted.

"Guys....guys," Cates interrupted, stepping between them. "We're all upset that Feldman's dead, but going at each other's throats isn't going to change that. You," he said to Del Bianco, "have to realize that we weren't here when this happened, so naturally we have questions about what went down and why, and you," he added to Owens, "need to acknowledge that it was Lewis' quick assessment of the risk that saved two agents' lives. Otherwise we would have had three fried bodies, and no idea what happened. One is bad, but it's better than three any day....and we all knew the risks when we signed on. Even Feldman."

Feldman's office door opened, and Agent Lewis appeared. "You're back," he said with a pointed look at Owens. "Have you reacquired your perspective, Agent Owens?"

"Yes, sir," Owens said tonelessly.

"Good. Step inside, gentlemen. You need to hear this."

Cates, Owens, and Del Bianco walked cautiously inside Feldman's office, keeping toward the door, their eyes averted from his charred body. Across the room was a flustered looking man with thick glasses who was taking copious notes on a legal pad. "Gentlemen, this is Dr. Mosher," Agent Lewis said, "a ballistics expert. Tell my agents your findings, if you would, please."

"You understand this is completely preliminary," Dr. Mosher cautioned. "I'll need weeks to analyze all this."

"Yes, yes," Lewis said with exaggerated patience. "We understand. Proceed."

"All right," Dr. Mosher said, removing his glasses. "This....individual appears to have died from a blast of radiation."

" 'Radiation'?" Cates repeated blankly. "Like an x-ray?"

"More like an atomic bomb," Mosher corrected, "although nothing like our atomic bombs. An effect like this could only be produced with a very tightly controlled, precisely aimed blast, the likes of which are far beyond our capabilities. Anyone's capabilities," he added. "Including Russia's. If my colleagues could see this—"

"Doctor, I believe I made it quite clear that you can't discuss the origins of this particular....'effect' with anyone outside this unit," Lewis broke in.

"Right," Mosher said with obvious disappointment. "The blast appears to have been limited to a three foot radius," he continued, settling his glasses on his nose as he peered at his pad, "which might be a limitation imposed by the size of the delivery device itself, or a deliberate attempt to minimize the damage. It's hard to say without being able to examine the delivery device, which was mostly destroyed in the explosion. That's all I've managed to come up with so far."

"Thank you, doctor," Lewis said briskly. "Finish collecting your samples. I want a written report within twenty-four hours." He ushered the agents outside, closing the door behind him and fixing them with a steady stare. "There you have it, gentlemen. Proof that the alien prisoner lied to us. That device wasn't for communication. It's a weapon, or to be more precise, a miniature atomic bomb."

"But.....it seemed to be a communication device when that face first appeared," Del Bianco said. "The alien said it belonged to an 'operative'—"

"Of course it did," Lewis said, "the same way a gun or a grenade 'belongs' to a soldier. If anyone had any lingering doubts about the threat we're dealing with, they will have them no longer. These are murderous creatures who could have planted these devices virtually anywhere. In light of this, I'm quite certain the Director will give us all the latitude we need to pursue them."

"It's a weird kind of bomb, sir," Cates noted. "You said Feldman had to activate it first. Doesn't that seem kind of counterproductive?"

"Not at all," Lewis answered. "What better way to target more precisely?"

"Guess the Army's lucky theirs never killed anyone," Del Bianco remarked.

"We should warn them not to 'activate' their device," Owens said.

"We will do no such thing," Lewis said firmly.

Three pairs of eyes blinked. "But....the same thing could happen to them, sir," Cates protested. "Don't you think—"

"I do not," Lewis interrupted. "I have given the military every opportunity to cooperate with the Bureau in the pursuit of intelligence regarding these so-called 'communicators', and they have consistently refused. In refusing to share their intelligence, they have simultaneously declined receipt of ours."

"But someone could die, sir!" Owens protested.

"They could indeed, agent," Lewis agreed. "And that will be the Army's fault, not the FBI's. The Army currently suffers from a disturbing inertia regarding alien infiltration, an inertia I have been powerless to counteract. Perhaps the death of one of their own would rouse them from their lethargy."

"Sir, you can't be serious!" Owens protested. "If—" He stopped short when he saw the look in Lewis' eye.

"Agent Owens, you have already lost perspective once this evening," Lewis said coldly. "Take my advice, and do not do so again. Agent Del Bianco," he continued, "the coroner will be here shortly to retrieve Feldman's body, after which I want you to draft a letter to his parents informing them that their son died in the line of duty. Have it on my desk before you leave tonight. No details, of course. Agents Cates and Owens, you will continue your duties in Roswell. Keep an eye out for any more treasures the sheriff may discover. He found one of these devices; he may well find another. Dismissed."

"Jesus Christ Almighty," Owens muttered in disgust after Lewis left. "So he doesn't care if he offs a soldier, and he wants you to lie to Feldman's parents. I wonder if the aliens treat each other this way."



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



August 19, 1959, 4 a.m.

Roswell




"Is this it?" Michael asked, squinting at the street sign as Nathaniel drove slowly down Roswell's dark Main Street. "Confound these tiny human eyes! After all this time, I'm still not used to the reduced field of vision."

"They'll do," Nathaniel said calmly, turning down a side street. "I believe this is her street. And I believe this is her house," he added, bringing the car to a halt in front of a rather large, two-story human dwelling. "Nice place. She's done well for herself, Michael."

"She's with Mark," Michael reminded him. "It's not like she's all by herself."

"Still, it was awfully gutsy of her to offer to come up here," Nathaniel said. "Is she going to Santa Fe with us?"

Michael hesitated, having not explained the full extent of their situation even to his most trusted deputy. "We're not going to Santa Fe," he answered.

"But the signal came from Santa Fe—"

"And I'm afraid I know why," Michael broke in. "Courtney has located the Warders."

Nathaniel's eyes widened. "She found them?" he whispered. "Do they know this?"

"Not yet," Michael answered. "Although the one Covari who remained alive from the rogues who once assisted us is aware of her, as are the Warders' human allies. She has apparently befriended them. After several lectures on the fine art of diplomacy," he added. "The human allies regard Covari as equals, and convincing Courtney to play along with that nonsensical notion took some time."

Nathaniel was quiet for a moment before speaking again. "How long?"

"Six weeks," Michael answered.

"And you said nothing? Not to any of us?"

"I didn't dare," Michael insisted. "It was frightening enough to talk to my daughter on that infernal 'telephone'. Even though Nicholas pays no attention to that mode of communication, I lived in constant fear that someone would suddenly develop an interest in it. I had planned to come up here if she found them, but then the Warders killed one of their former captors, and I couldn't leave; none of us could. I had to entrust our mission to her."

"So that was why you volunteered to go to Santa Fe," Nathaniel said. "It was the only way to reach Roswell without rousing Nicholas' suspicions. But how will we answer communications? The minute we respond, they'll know we're not in Santa Fe."

"Nicholas knows we're stopping here," Michael said, climbing out of the car. "We're fine for a day or so. After that....." He paused, staring at the house in front of him. "After that, we'll just have to 'play it by ear', as the humans say. Be careful with Mark," he added as the headed up the front walk, lit brightly by the moon. "Officially we're just stopping here on our way north. We'll have to at least make a pretense of leaving just to keep him quiet, and then make certain he doesn't see us after that."

"Right," Nathaniel murmured as they carefully opened the front door. The house was dark and silent, it being the middle of the night for humans. "She's on the second floor, as I recall."

Michael nodded, making an effort to keep his footsteps light and measured as they walked up the stairs, so eager was he to see his daughter. It had been two months since she'd left, and he hadn't slept well since. She was effectively alone here, living with a hostile operative and surrounded by Covari and their allies. The potential for disaster was enormous.

"This is it," Michael whispered, knocking softly on her door.

Faint footsteps approached, and the door opened to reveal his weary daughter. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him even before he was all the way inside. "It's so good to see you! You too, Nathaniel. How is everyone? Has anyone been discovered?"

"Shhhh!" Michael admonished with a frown, displeased that she was being so indiscreet. "Where is Mark?"

Courtney's smile faded, and she closed the door behind them before answering.

"He's not here."

"At this hour?" Michael said. "Where is he?"

Courtney hesitated a moment. "Why don't you both sit down," she said gently. "There's something I need to tell you."



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


I'll post Chapter 41 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE



August 19, 1959, 6 a.m.

Ruth Bruce's rooming house





"Irresponsible, inconsiderate, deceitful....no, downright dangerous!" Michael exclaimed. "Whatever possessed you to keep this from me? Did you really think you were going to get away with it?"

"I have for two months—"

"Silence!" Michael thundered. "I'm the one talking now! You've said quite enough, thank you! Or not enough, actually," he added darkly.

Courtney sat bolt upright on her bed, resisting the urge to bow her head at her father's anger which crashed over her like a wave as he paced back and forth in front of her, too agitated to hold still. Across from her, Nathaniel sat in one of her two chairs, silent and unhelpful. Not that she had expected assistance from him; quite the opposite. He would, of course, side with her father. He really had no other choice.

"Do you have any idea how this jeopardizes my position?" Michael continued furiously. "An operative is dead, a human has possession of his husk, you've been lying about his presence here, and.....oh, God," he whispered, coming to a halt in front of her. "Mark supposedly reported in just recently. How did you manage that?"

Courtney squeezed her hands into fists, willing her voice to remain steady. "Malik took his shape."

Michael's eyes widened; behind him, she saw Nathaniel stiffen. "Malik took his......you let a Covari communicate with our base?"

"You told me to be nice to him—"

"I told you to avoid angering the Warders' human allies by being disparaging toward Covari!" Michael interrupted. "That doesn't mean you allow it to contact our base! If I thought you reckless and irresponsible before, I didn't know the half of it! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking of our mission," Courtney answered, "and—"

"That was a rhetorical question," Michael snapped. "Nothing you were thinking justifies this behavior!"

"If you don't want answers, then I would recommend you stop asking questions," Courtney said sharply.

Her father paused, fixing her with a hard stare that she returned with surprisingly little effort. Even though she had dreaded this confrontation, seeing herself summarily dismissed as some immature child after everything she'd been through, everything she'd accomplished, had raised her hackles. Her fear was subsiding, replaced by a head of steam that threatened to rival her father's.

That transformation had begun the night before, when Courtney had returned from the diner to find Anthony home and Emily gone. The hour long wait for Dee to come home had seemed interminable, but proven useful as she'd mulled over what Dee had said. She had had excellent reasons for what she'd done; the problem would be convincing her father of that.

"You might not be able to," Dee had said when she and Courtney had sat down to draft a strategy. "Your goal shouldn't be to convince him, but to explain and support your position whether or not he winds up agreeing with you, which he very well might not. You may just have to agree to disagree."

"Doesn't that sound familiar," Anthony said dryly. "Dee has a lot of experience arguing with her mother; heck, just plain arguing," he added as Dee gave him a withering look. "I think they live in a permanent state of 'agreeing to disagree'."

"I don't see how my father and I can 'agree to disagree' about my keeping Mark's death from him," Courtney said doubtfully.

"But what difference did that make?" Dee asked. "Mark was dead before you even got here. Valenti had his body before you even got here. All of that—Mark's murder, Valenti finding out something was weird with his body—would have happened whether or not you came, whether or not you stayed. Your coming didn't cause it, and your leaving wouldn't have fixed it. You could even argue that leaving would have been unwise because staying allowed you to keep an eye on the situation."

Courtney had blinked. "You're right," she'd said after a moment. "I never thought of it that way."

"The best defense is a good offence," Dee announced, pulling out a pad of paper. "You know your father—what's he going to say? You need to be prepared with rebuttals for any objections he has."

"Spoken like a true trial lawyer-to-be," Anthony had chuckled.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, Dee had methodically laid out on paper a list of arguments and counterarguments with the skill of that "trial lawyer" she wanted to be. "It all sounds so logical when you say it," Courtney sighed, leaning back in her chair when they'd finished, "but somehow, I don't think my father will buy it."

"He doesn't have to," Dee reminded her. "You have to. You have to believe that you did the right thing. That doesn't mean your decisions were perfect, only that, on balance, they were the best of several imperfect choices. And whatever you do, stay calm. If you get angry, that just reinforces your father's view of you as a child throwing a tantrum. And don't get too defensive; that sounds like you're unsure of yourself."

"You don't want much, do you?" Courtney had said irritably. "How do I 'explain' without being 'defensive'?"

"You explain two or three times, and then you say, 'I've already explained that. It's a waste of time to go over it again.' Don't let him keep you in a round and round argument. That's the advice I was given when my mother and I were at each other's throats earlier this summer, and it worked."

"Who gave you that advice?" Courtney asked wearily. "Another 'trial lawyer'?"

Dee and Anthony had exchanged glances. "No. Brivari."

Courtney had nearly laughed out loud at that, so ludicrous was the notion of the King's Warder giving a human advice on domestic disputes. But as the night wore on and her father's arrival drew closer, she had reconsidered. Zan's father was the most successful king Antar had ever known, with a bloodless takeover of the throne, a long reign, and an unprecedented peaceful succession.....and it was widely acknowledged, even by those who loathed Covari, that the principal architect behind that long and peaceful reign had been none other than Brivari. If anyone knew how to handle conflict of this nature, it would be him. How ironic that she was now using the advice of one hated and hunted as she rose from the bed to face her father.

"I have spent the past hour going over this with you," she said, keeping her voice level. "I told you why I did what I did. Mark was dead when I got here, the sheriff had his body, and my leaving town would have accomplished nothing except to ruin the best chance we've had, or may ever have, of accomplishing our mission. I knew there were risks, but I thought it was worth it. And it was. I found the Warders, and I befriended their allies. They're willing to function as intermediaries on our behalf, an advantage we never dreamed of having. We are closer now than we've ever been—"

"You're missing the point," Michael interrupted, "which is—"

"Which is that I'm not finished," Courtney said flatly. "I was taught not to interrupt, Papa. You taught me that. Does this mean I can interrupt you now?"

Michael's expression darkened. "Pack your bags," he ordered. "You're coming home with me."

Courtney resumed her seat on the bed, arms folded in front of herself. "No."

" 'No'?" Michael repeated blankly. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

" 'No' means I'm not leaving," Courtney said calmly.

"You are my daughter, and you will do as I say!" Michael exclaimed.

"I am your adult daughter, not to mention an operative in my own right, and I don't appreciate being treated like a child," Courtney retorted.

"You're acting like a child!" Michael snapped.

"Am I? And which one of us is throwing the tantrum?"

Michael's mouth opened and closed several times before he went off on a tear, with Nathaniel reminding him to keep his voice down. It was liberating, really, to watch your own parent letting their anger get the better of them and refuse to let it affect you. Liberating.....and annoying.

"I've had enough," Courtney announced after about a minute's worth of his tirade. "Papa, you're being unreasonable; you need some sleep, and I need to get to work. You're both welcome to stay here. I should be back around three in the afternoon."

"You're not going anywhere but back to Copper Summit!" Michael exclaimed.

"Wrong," Courtney said firmly. "I'm staying right here to finish what I started."

"You're coming home!" Michael insisted angrily.

"No, I'm not," Courtney said, "and you can't force me to. What are you going to do? Throw me over your shoulder and carry me off? Are you really willing to let your anger with me get in the way of our mission? A mission which is closer to success than it's ever been?"

Courtney braced herself, knowing the look in her father's eyes meant he was ready to explode, her own anger and frustration nearly overriding her efforts to remain calm. Logical arguments were all well and good, but all the logic in the world wasn't going to change his mind. Nothing would.

"She's right, Michael."

Okay.....maybe something would, Courtney amended as both she and her father stared at Nathaniel in shock. "Excuse me?" Michael said blankly.

"She's right," Nathaniel repeated. "I know you're angry that she lied to you, to all of us, but what she's accomplished outweighs that. She has single-handedly put us closer to our goal than any operative in the history of the resistance. I would think that would make you proud, not angry."

Michael gaped at Nathaniel in disbelief, with Courtney not far behind. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected support from any of her people. With all the effort to convince her father, she'd missed the fact that she'd managed to convince his own second.

"Our first step should be to remove any evidence the local sheriff has collected," Nathaniel continued. "If—"

"You can't be serious!" Michael protested. "Our 'first step' should be to remove Courtney from this place as fast as possible and come up with a credible explanation as to why this wasn't reported!"

"I disagree," Nathaniel replied. "The smartest thing we can do is to continue the deception Courtney has begun, and strengthen it, if possible."

"If you think for one minute that I—" Michael began.

"This is all fascinating," Courtney interrupted, "but I really need to get ready for work. Why don't the two of you duke it out, and I'll talk to whoever's left standing when I get off work. Assuming whoever's left is willing to work with me, that is. Because whatever happens, I'm going to finish what I started, with or without you. And I'd rather finish it with you," she added gently. "We have a much greater chance of success that way, don't you think?"

Her father stared at her as she fetched a towel and washcloth and left the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it, letting out a long, slow breath. Usually she had to steel herself to go to work, knowing that she'd likely encounter a Warder or two. Now she couldn't wait to get there.





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




7:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner




"So it's goodbye to Roswell next week," Atherton said cheerfully, spreading jam on his toast. "I'll go home for a few weeks, take care of some business, then head out for a book signing. That second reprinting is nearly ready."

"Home?" Brivari repeated, having never heard Atherton mention any of the multiple places he seemed to have been as "home". "And where is that, exactly?"

"A ways south of here," Atherton answered. "I have a very avant grade house, befitting the crackpot I'm supposed to be. Actually, I had it built before I did the crackpot thing, so I really like it. Don't get to spend much time there, though. I'm on the road most of the time."

"Then why have the house at all?"

"To receive my checks, for one," Atherton answered. "It's my 'real' self that makes the money, remember, and allows me to travel as much as I do. And as much as I love to travel, it's comforting to know I have a base, something familiar to return to, even if I spend little actual time there."

Interesting, Brivari thought. If he did indeed leave this area as he had proposed to Emily Proctor, he would likely wind up emulating Atherton; Roswell would be his "base", the hybrids' hiding place and home of their closest allies, something he returned to periodically. An attractive idea, especially since he found himself dreading the completion of the movie. Long days with nothing to do loomed ahead of him, a bleak notion if ever there was one. He might wind up joining Jaddo at the base to watch Lewis come and go out of sheer boredom.

"Ah—there is your Miss Tate," Atherton said. "A pity she no longer joins us."

"She is not 'my' Miss Tate," Brivari said, "and—"

"And she's coming this way," Atherton said.

Brivari turned in his seat to find Audrey approaching. "Long time, no see!" she smiled. "May I join you?"

"My dear, I thought you'd never ask!" Atherton beamed, sliding further into the booth to make room for her. "I think I speak for both of us when I say we have deeply missed your delightful company. Haven't we, Langley?"

"Of course," Brivari answered, locking eyes briefly with Audrey before going back to his breakfast.

"Miss Harris!" Atherton called to the famously jumpy waitress. "We have another member of our party. What will you be having this morning, dear?"

"Just coffee, for the moment," Audrey told Courtney, who obliged. "So, gentlemen, what's the topic this morning? The Cold War? World peace?"

"Nothing so weighty, I'm afraid," Atherton chuckled. "Langley and I were just discussing what we'd be doing after the movie is finished filming. I'll be returning to my home briefly before setting off on business. And you?"

"The same, actually," Audrey answered. "I have a new film that starts production in three weeks. I met with the producers and signed the contract last night."

Ah, Brivari thought. So that was why Audrey had been much more cavalier regarding the grasping Mr. Dean. "Congratulations!" Atherton exclaimed. "It must be nice to have another project all lined up. I understand it's difficult for those in your profession, never knowing where the next job is coming from."

"Or where you'll be living next," Audrey agreed. "It's a nomad's life, that's for sure."

"Much like mine," Atherton nodded, "but then I'm not the type for the steady job, same old, same old, day after day; I'd die of boredom. So what about you, Langley? Where will you be going?"

"I have not yet decided," Brivari admitted. "Perhaps—"

"What are you doing here?" a sharp voice demanded.

Three heads turned. Charles Dean stood at the end of the table, his eyes boring into Audrey, who returned his stare without blinking. "What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked, a touch of frost in her voice. "I'm having breakfast. Like I do every morning."

"Not with them, you don't," Dean said, his opinion of Brivari and Atherton evident in his tone. "You sit with me. I'm over there."

"You weren't here when I arrived, so I joined these two gentlemen," Audrey answered.

"Well, I'm here now, so you're joining me," Dean declared.

"You're welcome to join us," Atherton suggested.

"Why would I want to join you?" Dean said disdainfully.

"Don't be rude, Charlie," Audrey admonished.

"Don't tell me what to do," Dean snapped. "Do you know what this looks like?"

"Of course I do," Audrey retorted. "It looks like I'm having breakfast with two gentlemen in a diner, one of whom is a crew member. That's all it looks like."

"You're not suggesting there's something improper going on, are you?" Atherton asked. "There hardly could be in a public place—"

"I'm not talking to you," Dean interrupted. "C'mon, Audrey—we're leaving." He grabbed her arm, his eyes widening when she wrenched it from his grasp.

"For your information, I don't like being told what to do either," Audrey said angrily.

"My dear Mr. Dean," Atherton said coldly, "while I might—emphasis on 'might'—be willing to excuse your rudeness toward me, I will never excuse your rudeness toward a lady. Adjust your tone, or leave us."

"You shut up, and you get up!" Dean snapped to Atherton and Audrey in turn, once more reaching for her arm and missing as she snatched it away. "I mean it, Audrey! If you don't—"

"Are you ready to order yet, Miss Tate?" a voice broke in. "Oh....I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

Dean whirled around to find Courtney giving him a level stare, pad and pencil in hand. Her eyes flicked sideways, and Dean's followed, taking in the startled expressions that filled the diner as other patrons watched the drama unfolding in the back corner. Flushing, he stalked out, pushing the door open so violently that the little bell rang several times before it closed.

"What a charmer," Courtney remarked.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Audrey said. "You've got good timing, that's for sure."

"He sounded like he needed a little perspective," Courtney noted. "Besides, he's the second angry male I've dealt with this morning, so I'm on a roll. Did you want some breakfast?"

Audrey glanced around; everyone was still staring. "I don't think so," she said, sliding out of the booth. "I should get to the set. Sorry to.....I'm sorry," she finished. "I didn't think he'd go off like that in public."

"My dear, you've done nothing wrong," Atherton said gently. "Please don't let that cad scare you away."

"Thanks, but I'll have to catch you later," Audrey said, her eyes on Brivari. "Bye."

"My goodness," Atherton murmured as she walked away with that swinging gait so common to human women wearing high-heeled footwear. "I had no idea. Why haven't you dealt with that bully, Langley?"

"She asked me not to," Brivari answered. "Something about her employment could suffer if she didn't humor him."

"Ah, yes," Atherton sighed. "The 'casting couch'. I've heard of that. Were I her, I think I'd look for another line of work."

"Now that she has subsequent employment, I believe she is less willing to tolerate his behavior," Brivari observed.

"Good," Atherton declared. "I hate bullies."

*So do I,* a dry voice said in Brivari's mind. *And so do you, if I remember correctly.*

Not again, Brivari sighed. Jaddo was back at the counter, eavesdropping once more. *How is it that you manage to show up for the most dramatic moments?* Brivari asked irritably.

*Don't blame me,* Jaddo answered. *You're having so many 'dramatic moments', they're becoming hard to miss. Would you like me to silence him for you? I'll make certain no one traces it back to you.*

*He's an idiot,* Brivari said, *an idiot who's leaving soon. He's not worth your time.*

*He's trouble, Brivari,* Jaddo said seriously. *You can't always hang back and do nothing. Sometimes you have to handle the situation before it handles you.*

*And sometimes there is no 'situation' until you create one by attempting to handle it,* Brivari said pointedly. *Mr. Dean is Audrey's problem, not mine.*

*Are you quite sure about that?*

*Very,* Brivari said firmly.

*Nevertheless, I think I should keep an eye on him just the same.*

*Jaddo, do not make this any worse than it is already!* Brivari admonished. *Go back to the base and fret over Lewis if you want something to do.*

*I thought you were concerned about me spending so much time at the base,* Jaddo said.

*I am concerned about you spending time anywhere given your propensity to act first and think later,* Brivari said impatiently. *You really need employment.*

Jaddo snorted softly. *Like your 'movie'? Spare me. I'd watch Lewis brush his teeth before I'd waste my time on something like that.*

"So Langley," Atherton said, unaware that he was interrupting a conversation, "you were talking about what you'd be doing after filming wrapped when that oaf showed up. You were saying?"

Brivari hesitated a moment, sensing an opportunity. "I still have some time to myself. Perhaps I'll move on and see a bit more of the world."

*What did you say?* Jaddo demanded.

That got your attention, Brivari thought grimly. Perhaps now Jaddo would be focused on him, not Dean.

"Why don't you come and stay at my house for a little while?" Atherton suggested. "We could each have a bit of a layover until we move on."

*You can't be serious!* Jaddo exclaimed. *Would you really leave our Wards?*

*Our Wards are safely hidden,* Brivari reminded him, *and as I will likely spend the rest of my life in exile on this planet, I have no intention of spending it in one place, never mind this place.* "A gracious invitation," he said out loud to Atherton. "I accept."

"Excellent!" Atherton beamed.

*You can't!* Jaddo objected.

*This from the one who spent the last decade scouring the country for an enemy, gone for days or weeks at a time,* Brivari replied acidly.

*This is different,* Jaddo insisted.

*Of course it is,* Brivari replied dryly. *This is about the prospect of a lifetime with you being enough to make me take leave of my senses.*

There was a clatter as Jaddo rose abruptly and stalked out of the diner much the same way Dean had. "You know, it's the strangest thing," Atherton said, gazing after Jaddo's retreating form. "Several times these past few weeks, a man at the counter has just suddenly up and left like he's angry.....but he hasn't been speaking to anyone. And it's a different man every time. Why is that, do you suppose?" he asked, addressing Courtney, who had appeared to clear the table and was the only one in the diner not watching Jaddo's retreat. "Is the food at the counter different somehow?"

"Same food you get here," she answered lightly.

"Yes," Atherton murmured. "And I suppose if it were the food, they'd complain about it, not just stalk off in a huff. So I gather they just stiff the waitresses?"

"Mr. Langley paid for one of them," Courtney said.

Atherton blinked. "You did? Whatever for?"

Because I'm a fool, Brivari thought. Covering for Jaddo's outbursts was attracting attention. "I felt sorry for his server," he answered, "but given the frequency with which this occurs, I'm afraid I can't make that largesse permanent."

"Of course not," Atherton agreed. "It was kind of you to do it once. Besides, the proprietor will have to deal with this behavior on his own after you leave."

"You're leaving?" Courtney asked.

"We both are," Atherton answered, "just as soon as the movie is finished. I'd bet you'll be delighted to have your town back."

"But where are you going?" Courtney persisted, her arms full of dirty plates.

"Langley has accepted an invitation to visit my home," Atherton said cheerfully.

"Where?" Courtney pressed.

But Atherton merely smiled and shook his head. "I'm afraid I keep that private, dear. But I appreciate the thought. I've enjoyed your company too."

That's not it, Brivari thought as the waitress' eyes lingered for a moment on him, and him alone. She was concerned about him leaving, and unsurprised at Jaddo's tantrum. Curious.




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






"Miss Tate, can I have your autograph?"

"Not now," Audrey said sharply, brushing past the pad and pen thrust at her as she marched down Main Street. She never turned down an autograph, not being nearly a big enough star to cop the attitude that her fans didn't matter; the fact that she was doing so now was a testament to how angry she was with Charlie for humiliating her in front of all those people.

"Miss Tate? Miss Tate!" called another voice.

"No autographs now, please," Audrey said tersely.

"I'm not looking for an autograph; I'm with the National Enquirer."

Audrey whirled around to find a greasy looking man with a camera around his neck that had seen better days. "How's about a picture?" he asked, whipping up the camera and snapping a shot before she could protest. "Now, what was all that about between you and Charles Dean? Is he having an affair? Are you? Is there trouble on the set of "They Are Among Us"?"

Audrey opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and kept walking. "Hey doll, you know I'm going to print something," the reporter persisted, trotting along beside her. "Why not make certain I say what you want me to say? You don't want to make me make something up, do you?"

Oh sure, Audrey thought bitterly, make it sound like it's my fault. The Enquirer was nothing more than a tabloid, noted for ridiculous stories like "Aliens Ate My Mother!!!!" and the payment of sources for information, a practice much frowned upon in the world of real journalism. Whatever story was printed would be "made up" no matter what she said. Further reason why Charlie's behavior was absolutely unacceptable and must be dealt with immediately. Flipping out when she paid attention to other men was one thing, but objecting to her even speaking to another member of the crew was out of line. She had tolerated this increasingly controlling behavior this past month only by seeing Langley secretly at night, her one chance to get out from under Charlie's thumb and have a private conversation. But her patience was wearing thin, even more so now that she had another picture lined up with a signed contract that he couldn't easily derail. His performance at the diner threatened to start a tabloid frenzy that could hurt both of them, so it was time to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.

She'd shaken the reporter and made up her mind by the time she reached the set. "Miss Tate!" one of the dressers sputtered, pointing to the sign on the door as she marched past. "This is the men's dressing room!"

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry—I never learned how to read," Audrey said scornfully. "I know it's the men's dressing room!" she exclaimed to the wide-eyed dresser. "I sincerely doubt anyone in here has anything I haven't seen before, and if I'm wrong, please, whip it out! Now, out of my way!"

The dresser stumbled backwards as she pushed past. Charlie was stripped to the waist and in the process of donning his costume; others were stripped a lot further than that. There were yelps of surprise at her appearance, followed by frantic scrambling to grab something, anything, to cover themselves. "Just exactly who the hell do you think you are?" Audrey demanded, hands on hips. "There I am, eating breakfast with a co-worker and a friend of his in full public view, and you come charging in like a mad dog! How dare you?"

"You eat with me!" Charlie retorted. "You sit with me, you sleep with me, you belong to me!"

"Mr. Anderson offered to have you join us, and you insulted him!" Audrey said angrily. "Where do you get off insulting my friends?"

"Why would I want to join that moron?" Charlie demanded. "Besides, I don't 'join' people—people join me."

"Oh, so you wouldn't have minded if they'd gotten up and moved to your table?" Audrey said. "Somehow I think you would have. Do you realize what your little temper tantrum could cost us? I was just stopped by a reporter from the Enquirer! Do you want our faces plastered all over that rag? What do you think that would do to your illustrious career?"

"If you're so worried about it, then make certain you behave yourself," Charlie growled.

"You're the one who needs to worry about it," Audrey retorted. "I have another picture lined up already. Do you?"

Slap! Audrey's head whipped sideways from the force of the blow. A moment later, Charlie's did the same as she planted a returning slap on his own cheek. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then....bedlam. Charlie lunged for her as every other man in the dressing room threw modesty to the wind and dropped whatever they were holding to stop him. "Simmer down, buddy!" one of the men said as they held him back.

"Just like the director," another muttered. "Beats people up."

"Let me go!" Charlie thundered, struggling in their grasp. "Let go of me!"

Audrey glared at him, one hand to her cheek. "If you ever lay a hand on me again," she said in a voice ragged with anger, "I swear to God I will see to it that you never touch me again."

"Oh, yeah?" Charlie challenged. "And how are you gonna do that?"

"Langley," someone whispered.

Silence. Charlie heard it, his eyes hardening. "That clapper loader? Is that it? Are you gonna sic him on me, Audrey? Go ahead! I can take him! He's just a weasly little bald guy with a stupid hat! I don't know why everyone's so damned afraid of him—he's nothing! Do you hear me, nothing!"

Audrey swung on her heel and marched away without another word, past the flabbergasted dresser, past everyone peering toward the dressing room as Charlie hollered after her. "Let me at him, Audrey! Bring him on! That stupid clapper loader doesn't scare me!"



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



I'll post Chapter 42 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!

Michelle in Yonkers wrote:Sister's house -- and computer -- got struck by lightning, her daughter going off to college needed software for her new Mac. (I've made a convert! Plus her college insisted on Macs.)

Okay, this why we run around unplugging computers whenever there's bad lightning! Not that we're always here when that happens, but if we are, there's a scramble to unplug electronic equipment. So how's her house? I hope it wasn't badly damaged. Too bad about the computer, but that's easier to replace, and besides, you got to make another convert. My older son feels exactly as you do, although he has one of each (Windows desktop, Mac laptop). But my next computer will probably be a Mac, so he's made a convert too.

Things in the story are coming to a head, methinks -- stuff should be hitting the fan, soon.

Yup.....today.

And I love how Anthony is still able to inject a little irony to give Dee a reality-check -- best feature of any good friendship, of whatever kind.

Agreed. And a strong personality like Dee's needs a counterpoint. Come to think of it, there's a lot of reality-checking going on here: Anthony for Dee, Dee and Emily for each other kind of interchangeably, Malik for Courtney, and the humans for the aliens. Guess they're all strong personalities....either that, or I have a secret urge to make people snark at each other.






CHAPTER FORTY-TWO



August 19, 1959, 10:30 a.m.

Parker's Diner



"Courtney, are you ever going to take your break?" Nancy asked as she flew by, arms laden with plates.

"Of course," Courtney assured her, "I'm just....in the middle of something."

"That's what you said fifteen minutes ago, dear," Nancy noted. "Take it soon, or it will be time for Doris' break, and you'll be out of luck."

"Right. I will," Courtney promised. Just as soon as he gets here, she added silently, looking longingly at the door. He was late today. Didn't it just figure; she'd been waiting all morning on pins and needles, and today was the day he picked to be late.

The bell jingled, and she turned. "Off to take my break!" she called to Nancy, sailing out from behind the counter and sliding into a booth opposite a wary Malik.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Do I look like something's wrong?" Courtney asked.

Malik set his menu down. "Every day, I come here for lunch and every day, I'm careful to choose a booth or a seat you're not serving because neither of us would like that. So if you're voluntarily seeking me out, that means trouble."

"So that's who you've been waiting for!" Nancy exclaimed, appearing with a pot of coffee. "Why didn't you say so, dear? I didn't know Carl was your young man."

Courtney bit her tongue as Malik smiled faintly and Nancy poured them cups of coffee with a big smile on her face. Any woman on Antar would have jumped off a cliff rather than have her "young man" be a Covari.

"You're doing better in the blurting-things-out department," Malik remarked dryly. "I know your stomach must be turning at the notion of romance with the likes of me."

"Never mind that," Courtney said, dodging the fact that he was right. "My father's here."

Malik's spoon stopped stirring. " 'Here'? As in here, here?"

"Where else 'here'?" Courtney said impatiently. "I had to tell him about Mark, and he's not very happy with me."

"Of course not," Malik said, "but why is he here? Why would Nicholas send someone else up here?"

Courtney hesitated, knowing how Malik was going to take the answer to that question. "Something happened," she began. "Whoever had Crist's communicator managed to activate it when a signal came through."

" 'Had' the communicator?" Malik echoed sharply. "I'm assuming there's a reason for the use of the past tense?"

"Nicholas has booby-trapped the communicators," Courtney explained. "He used it to kill whoever activated it. The signal was traced to Santa Fe."

Nancy reappeared. "Ready to order?" she chirped, giving Courtney a wink.

"Just toast, please," Malik said.

"Nothing, thank you," Courtney said, trying to ignore the smiles everyone was sending her way. Good Lord, but there would be no living this down. "So Nicholas wanted someone to come up here and check it out," she continued after Nancy left, "and my father managed to get elected. He arrived this morning with his second, Nathaniel."

"They used Amar's work," Malik said tonelessly.

"What?"

"Amar," Malik repeated. "My friend and fellow rogue. He rigged a communicator to kill Orlon and Marana when they returned to the house after killing him and trying to kill me. Brivari said he amplified the radiation that the imager uses to produce a hologram so that it killed anyone close enough."

"How would Nicholas know about that?" Courtney asked. "We weren't here then."

"Brivari sealed the door shut, and I sold the house," Malik said, "but we left everything; we figured no human would ever find it unless the house was literally torn down, and entombing it there made it less likely to ever be found. But Nicholas bought the house, so he would have found their dust and the ruined communicator when he broke through the wall. We should have taken it," he added, anger lacing his voice. "If we'd just taken it, they would never have known. And if I'd just taken Crist's communicator, this would never have happened."

"You would have had to take the dust too," Courtney said gently. "Analyzing that might have told them how they died. And you had no way of knowing that someone would swipe Crist's communicator right out from under Valenti's nose." She paused. "It's too late for that now. We have to focus on other things. My father's here, and—"

"We have to tell the Warders."

You and Dee both, Courtney thought wearily. "Let's take this one step at a time," she countered. "It'll be hard enough for my father and Nathaniel to meet you, never mind deal with Warders."

"No, we have to tell them," Malik insisted. "The FBI has one of our communicators, and now one of their agents is dead because of it. That's going to validate the formation of their new unit, strengthen their resolve, and just generally piss everyone off. This is a new level of threat to the king."

"We're here more for Rath than the king," Courtney said, "or in his absence, his Warder."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "What difference does that make? It's the 'Royal Four', not the 'Royal One'; a threat to one is a threat to all. Besides, Rath already made his position clear; your people offered him the throne, and he turned them down. He probably could have had it if he'd wanted it, but he didn't; his loyalty to the king held him back. How do you think he'll feel if he finds out that you and yours put that king in danger?"

"I'm not sure now's a good time to be dropping this in the Warders' laps," Courtney said, desperate to buy her father just a little more time. "They had another tiff this morning, and Jaddo walked out again. Brivari said something about leaving town. He accepted an invitation from Mr. Anderson to visit his house."

"Okay, now I know we have to tell them," Malik said firmly. "He can't leave, not now. And the only reason he's thinking of leaving is because he thinks the coast is clear when it's not."

Damn! Courtney thought, kicking herself for opening her mouth. "If you just march in and tell them who we are, they'll kill us," she said urgently, "especially if you tell them about the FBI at the same time. We have to plan for this. We can't help Rath, or Zan, or any of them if we're dead."

Malik considered this in silence for a minute, during which time his toast arrived and Courtney endured more knowing smiles from Nancy as her father's life hung in the balance. "All right," he said finally. "I agree it's a process, but I have to start the process. Where's your father?"

"Safely hidden. I'll take you there when I get off work."

"This can't wait. Where is he?"

"It'll have to wait," Courtney insisted. "I can't just send a Covari after him. Do you have any idea what that would look like?"

"I don't care what it would 'look like'," Malik retorted. "Your people knew you'd have to work with Covari in order to accomplish your objectives."

"That's a lot different than pulling them out of a sound sleep to find you hovering over them!" Courtney exclaimed, flushing as a handful of heads turned. "I have to prepare him," she insisted, lowering her voice. "He's all mad at me about Mark, and now this."

"If he's who you say he is, then he's already prepared for this," Malik argued. "He's been prepared for this for a very long time."

"Fine, but you have to let me—"

Malik rose abruptly and pulled a few coins out of his pocket, tossing them on the table before leaving without another word. Courtney sighed and pulled his uneaten plate of toast toward her. She'd missed breakfast, and the smell of food had been nauseating her all morning; now she was suddenly hungry. He wouldn't find them, of course. She'd cautioned her father to be very quiet and to not answer the door. The question now was what Malik would do when he couldn't find them. If he went straight to the Warders.....

"Lovers' quarrel, dear?"

It was Nancy, wearing a sympathetic expression. "Let me make something perfectly clear," Courtney said irritably. "Carl is not, nor will he ever be, my 'lover'."

"Oh, of course not," Nancy said, nodding so hard her earrings waggled. "Lovers' quarrel," she whispered to another waitress as she walked away.




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




A knock startled Michael Harris awake, assuming one could refer to the state he'd been in as "sleep", that is. It was oppressively warm in the apartment, the faint breeze coming from the open windows doing little to alleviate the heat. He glanced across the room at Nathaniel, asleep in a chair, then at the clock. It was late morning, long before Courtney was due home.

"Mr. Harris?" a voice called, female judging by the timbre. "I'm Dee Evans; I live across the hall. I brought you something to eat."

Goodness, does it think I'm stupid? Michael thought irritably, reaching into his pocket for his trithium generator. If this was who...or rather, what.....he thought it was, it really should know better. He rose from the bed almost eagerly, secretly relieved that his anger had a target other than his daughter, and threw the door open.

A young woman stood in the hallway holding a dish of steaming food. She was wearing trousers instead of the dresses most human women favored, and her hair was pulled back in a completely utilitarian fashion. "Hi. I'm Dee Evans," she repeated. "Are you Mr. Harris?"

Michael remained silent, nodding almost imperceptibly. "Then welcome to Roswell," the woman said, holding out the dish. "Last I knew, Courtney's family didn't like meat, so I made you some macaroni and cheese. I thought you might get hungry before she gets back."

Michael stared at the proffered dish without touching it. "I was hoping," he said stiffly, "that you would come up with something more original. Or at least something that didn't insult my intelligence."

The woman blinked. "Should I take that to mean you don't like macaroni and cheese?"

"You may take that to mean that posing as an ally is the oldest trick in the book," Michael retorted. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

There was a pause while the woman regarded him blankly. "Oh, I see," she said after a moment. "You think I'm a shapeshifter."

Michael flinched, glancing quickly around the upstairs hallway for anyone who might have overheard. "Courtney and I have the only two apartments up here, so there's no one else to hear," the woman said. "But you can settle this, can't you? You must have one of those pentagonal gizmos. Use it. Quickly," she added. "Even with potholders, this casserole dish is getting hotter by the minute."

Now it was Michael's turn to blink. He'd been certain the woman was a Covari....but would a Covari offer to undergo an identification test? Slowly, he removed his generator from his pocket and pressed the correct button, bathing the hallway in the revealing wash. There was no infrared signature surrounding the woman in front of him, none in the hallway, on the stairs, or anywhere the eye could see. He snapped it off feeling exceptionally foolish and more than a little embarrassed. He'd likely just offended one of their greatest allies.

"Now that you know I'm human, do you want this or not?" the woman said bluntly.

"I......of course," Michael stammered, reaching for the casserole dish.

"Keep the pot holders," the woman said. "Courtney can get them back to me. So nice to have met you," she added with a touch of sarcasm.

"Wait," Michael said, wanting desperately to apologize. "I—"

But she was gone, back across the hall into her own apartment. Cursing under his breath, Michael kicked the door closed with his foot and set the dish on his daughter's kitchen table.

"For one who has to lecture his daughter on the finer points of diplomacy, you seem to have forgotten how to employ it yourself," a dry voice said.

"I thought you were sleeping," Michael said crossly.

Nathaniel sat up, yawning. "Like you were sleeping?"

"I had to know," Michael insisted.

"And the only way to 'know' was to insult an ally?"

"She couldn't have been too insulted," Michael grumbled. "She left the food."

"Thank goodness," Nathaniel sighed. "I'm starving." He reached into a cupboard, fished out a bowl, and helped himself to the "macaroni and cheese". "This is good," he announced. "And no meat. Very thoughtful."

"So I not only insulted an ally, I insulted a thoughtful ally," Michael said bitterly. "Are there any other helpful observations you'd like to make?"

"As a matter of fact, there are," Nathaniel answered, giving him a level stare. "You're going to have to forgive her in order for us to get anything done here. You know that, don't you?"

"She lied to me!" Michael exclaimed.

"And you lied to me, to the entire resistance," Nathaniel noted, "yet you don't find me holding that against you, and no one else will either. You had your reasons, and Courtney had hers."

"This is different," Michael argued. "I've headed the resistance since its inception. Courtney is merely a child, my child. She shouldn't even be here, wouldn't have been here if she hadn't shot her mouth off to Nicholas."

"Maybe that's what we need; more young blood shooting its mouth off. Look what she's accomplished," Nathaniel continued when Michael tried to object. "She positioned herself in the most advantageous place, found the Warders, and befriended their allies, even a Covari ally. That 'child' has brought us closer than we've ever been, and she's still alive to tell of it. That's nothing short of astounding."

"She won't be alive much longer at the rate she's going," Michael said. "When Nicholas finds out—"

"And how will Nicholas find out?" Nathaniel asked. "Will you tell him? Will I? Of course not. Besides, look at what would have happened had she reported Green's death: She would have been recalled, and Nicholas would have sent his henchman to remove any traces of our presence. That would very likely have alerted the Warders, or at the very least ruined a golden opportunity to contact them. This is a risky business, Michael, always has been. We know that. And so does Courtney. As I recall, she enlisted voluntarily."

Michael sank into a kitchen chair, the exhaustion of the past two days overwhelming him. "Yes, she did," he answered. "Nicholas insisted on bringing family members to use as leverage, and she knew that volunteering would add one more member of the resistance to the expedition. Four children," he added wearily. "I have three sons, all of whom joined the military, but only my daughter embraced the cause. It isn't fair."

"What isn't fair?" Nathaniel asked. "Many of us had none of our children join the resistance and had to hide our endeavors from all of them. You, at least, had a child you could talk to."

"Yes," Michael murmured. "One to send into harm's way."

"Courtney hasn't been harmed," Nathaniel reminded him.

"Yet," Michael countered. "The Warders do not yet know of her presence here."

"And they need never know. You needn't tell them your daughter is here.

Michael was quiet for a moment, gazing into space. "If they kill me, she'll effectively be an orphan. Look after her for me, will you?"

"Good Lord, Michael, no one is dead yet!" Nathaniel said in exasperation. "Yes, I know Jaddo killed the first several couriers years ago, but things were different then: Zan's throne was secure, Khivar was in his rightful place, and Rath had no reason to suspect that would change. Now the Royal Four are fugitives. Jaddo would be crazy not to listen to you."

"And what about Brivari?" Michael asked.

"What about him? The Warders don't always work as a set. From what I've heard, Brivari and Jaddo didn't always get along. Besides, the Covari Courtney made contact with reported that Jaddo would be willing to listen to a resistance member he'd worked with in the past....and that would be you. "

"Assuming that Covari wasn't lying," Michael muttered.

"I wasn't."

Michael and Nathaniel flew out of their chairs, the latter's bowl of food clattering to the floor as both backed away from a shape emerging from the wall on the far side of the room. A moment later that shape had coalesced into that of a young man, casually dressed and regarding them with interest.

"Covari," Nathaniel whispered.

"How did you get in here?" Michael thundered. "Have you been here all long? Did my daughter—"

"Your daughter has no idea I'm here," the Covari said calmly. "I'm Malik, by the way. And you are...."

"Why are you asking when you know perfectly well who I am!" Michael snapped.

"You do seem to have a problem greeting people," Malik sighed. "And I'm asking because it's considered polite to introduce oneself."

"It is also considered polite to request permission to enter private quarters, but you seem willing to let that particular courtesy fall by the wayside," Michael said angrily.

"And for the same reason you voiced earlier," Malik said. "I had to know."

"Know what?" Michael demanded.

"If we really were members of the resistance," Nathaniel said. "To make certain we weren't Nicholas' spies."

"Exactly," Malik agreed. "And now that's been settled, we can get down to business."

"I do not do 'business' with those who sneak up on me," Michael said tersely. "Leave."

"Michael, we need it," Nathaniel protested. "It would be far better to let it approach Jaddo on our behalf rather than trying to do so directly."

"He's right," Malik said. "If you're as worried as you say you are about your daughter becoming an orphan, you'll do everything in your power to make certain that doesn't happen."

Michael's eyes flashed, and he stalked toward Malik, pulling up short halfway across the room when there came faint sounds of a commotion outside. Malik went to the window and looked through the curtain.

"What is it?" Michael demanded. "What's happened?"

"I don't know," Malik answered, "but a number of people are running toward Main Street. Maybe there's been an accident. Stay here," it ordered, heading for the door. "I'll be back later. And this time, I'll knock."

The Covari was no sooner out the door than Michael was reaching for his shoes. "Where are you going?" Nathaniel asked. "It said to stay here."

"I don't take orders from shapeshifters," Michael said testily, "and neither do you. You take orders from me. Get dressed. If something's wrong in the town where my daughter is living near two Royal Warders, I want to see for myself."




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



12:00 p.m.

On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"Places!" the director called. "C'mon, everybody, places."

Brivari reached down for the clapboard he'd placed at his feet, and his fingers closed on.....nothing. Faint snickers sounded behind him, inaudible to human ears but perfectly audible to his own. Crew members looked away uncomfortably when Brivari turned around, but Charles Dean didn't bother, returning Brivari's stare with a nasty smile that made it clear he didn't care that his prank had been discovered.

Brivari sighed as he scanned the area for a suitable object to transform into a clapboard. This was the fourth time this had happened, although the other three had involved merely damaging the clapboard, not removing it. Each time Brivari had surreptitiously mended it, much to Dean's dismay. He'll be even more unhappy this time, Brivari thought as he stepped into the shadows with an ordinary clipboard, the molecules of which dissolved and reformed into a clapboard in a matter of seconds.

"Langley, where the hell are you?" the director hollered, always eager to catch Brivari in the wrong.

"Right here," Brivari replied, clapping the clapper sharply in front of the camera and enjoying the shocked look on Dean's face. Stop it, he told himself severely. If Dean's antics were childish, then taking too much pleasure in foiling them was even more so. It was all too easy to get caught up in a child's game, and Dean was little more than a very tall child. It was well worth remembering that idiocy could be contagious.

"Ready.....action!" the director called.

The scene was cut short as Dean flubbed his lines, no doubt distracted by how Brivari had acquired a clapboard on such short notice. He stomped off amidst an argument with the director; this "butting heads", as Audrey referred to it, was becoming a tiresome daily ritual as the two resident bullies vied for dominance. This particular episode was on the short-lived side, lasting only a couple of minutes or so before both reappeared, red-faced and swearing under their respective breaths. Scowling, Dean resumed his seat in the chair that was his starting position for this scene.....only to have it collapse beneath him. Chuckles erupted as Dean flushed.

"Oh, now what?" the director exclaimed in exasperation. "Jesus H. Christ, if it isn't defective talent, it's defective set pieces! Somebody get another chair! Let's go, now, on the double!"

Another chair was procured and places called for again.....only to have the chair collapse again. This time the chuckles turned into howls of laughter, and Dean angrily kicked the second broken chair aside, glaring at everyone in turn.

"Too many doughnuts, Charlie?" someone called.

"Can't be that," another voice added. "He skipped breakfast this morning."

More laughter. Brivari hadn't missed the veiled reference to this morning's altercation, but he was busy scanning the crowd for infrared signatures. One chair he could dismiss, but two? The odds of two collapsing of their own volition were extremely low. *Jaddo,* he called, *this isn't helping. Provoking a temperamental animal is never wise.*

Silence. If Jaddo was out there, he was choosing to remain hidden, although he could hardly expect to continue that if he kept this up. A third chair was produced, and Dean sat down gingerly as the crew struggled to control their mirth. Nothing happened. The director called for places, and the scene began to film. Just in case, Brivari concentrated on holding the chair's molecules intact, only to run smack into a competing effort to tear them apart.

*Jaddo, stop it!* Brivari exclaimed, momentarily losing his concentration. The third chair collapsed, more violently this time as the force shoring it up abruptly disappeared, sending Dean to the ground in an ungainly sprawl. No one even tried to mask their laughter this time, with some actually doubling over. Another produced a camera and snapped a picture.

"Get that thing out of my face!" Dean bellowed, that face now beet red with rage. "Give me that film!"

"All right, everybody, can it," the director ordered, taking on the unprecedented roll of peacemaker. "Break for lunch. Props, find me a chair that won't break, or I'll break you."

The cast and crew scattered, still laughing. Dean stormed off toward the costume trailer while Brivari, almost as angry as Dean, scanned the area for Jaddo. But Jaddo had hidden himself well, and was probably long gone by now.

"Did you do that?"

Brivari turned to find Audrey behind him. "Look, I know he's been needling you today," she continued, "and I know he's a jackass, and I admit he deserves it. It's just that, with someone like Charlie, this only winds him up more and makes him even more irrational than he is already."

"Believe me, I am very familiar with people like your Mr. Dean," Brivari answered. "I assure you I have done nothing to sabotage him. I gave you my word I would stay out of this."

" 'My' Mr. Dean?" Audrey repeated sourly. "If he's 'mine', can I send him back?" She sighed heavily as she leaned against a nearby set piece. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have suspected you. It could have been anyone. Charlie's been blathering all morning that he's going to get you in trouble, although he doesn't seem to have come up with a way to do that yet."

Nothing successful, at any rate, Brivari thought. "I wouldn't worry about me," he said out loud. "I would be more concerned about you."

Audrey smiled as she reached up to caress his cheek. "That's so sweet, Langley. You're always worrying about me. It's like you're the direct opposite of Charlie. But this is all my fault. I knew he wouldn't like it if I tried to have breakfast with you, but I never thought he'd go off half cocked. I'm just sick of living in this bubble. Charlie's always been the jealous type, but he's never been this bad. I thought if I really laid it on thick, he'd ease up, but it never worked. Seems like the more I tried to reassure him, the more suspicious he got."

"Perhaps because you didn't really mean it," Brivari answered. "Mr. Dean is immature and selfish, but that did not render him incapable of sensing the insincerity of your.....'performance'."

"Guess I'm not as good an actress as I thought, huh?" Audrey said ruefully. "I don't even think the rest of the crew bought it."

"Of course they didn't," Brivari said. "They know what he's like; he treats them little better than he treats you. Why do you think they were laughing at him?"

"Which is going to make him even angrier," Audrey said. "Do you have any idea who's doing this? Because they're not helping."

Brivari's eyes swept the area again without success. "Let me see what I can find out."

Audrey's expression softened. "Thanks. That's going above and beyond the call of duty, especially after how he's treated you."

*I'm glad to hear she realizes that, even if you don't,* said a deeply skeptical voice in Brivari's mind.

"I suppose we shouldn't try to have lunch together," Audrey continued, missing the way Brivari's eyes had clouded. "Let me know if you find out anything, okay?"

Brivari stowed his clapboard away, certain it would not be there when he returned, and left the set alone, heading away from the town eateries where the rest of the crew would be going. *Do I have to restrain you?* he demanded of Jaddo, certain he was following. *I continue to ponder why you would waste your time on a situation which you claim is a waste of mine."

Jaddo fell in step beside him. *I'm only doing what you should be doing, Brivari. Honestly, how could you let that oaf torment you like he has this morning? Throwing a tantrum in a restaurant is one thing, but this was multiple times over several hours.*

*And how does one qualify multiple tantrums in said restaurant over several days? People in Parker's are starting to notice your frequent tantrums, Jaddo. Why do I let you torment me like that? Do you have an answer for that one?*

*So now you're comparing me to the oaf? You really have lost all sense of perspective.*

*My 'perspective' is that you are engaging in the exact behavior you purport to deplore,* Brivari retorted. *If we really are in danger from Major Lewis trotting back and forth to the base, I can't imagine why you'd be out here, providing a textbook example of immaturity and childish behavior.*

*He started it,* Jaddo objected. *I was merely giving the fool a taste of his own medicine. Besides, what's really bothering you is how that child's temper will affect your lover.*

Brivari came to an abrupt halt, pulling Jaddo into a narrow alley. *She is not my lover.*

Jaddo's eyebrows rose. *So you haven't been mating with her?*

*You must be more bored than I thought if you're surveiling me,* Brivari snapped. *She is an interesting companion, nothing more.*

*If you say so,* Jaddo said blandly.

*Stay out of this Jaddo!* Brivari exclaimed.

"There you are!" an angry voice called.

Brivari swallowed an epithet when he spied Dean standing at the far end of the alley. *Wonderful,* he muttered. *Now I have two children to deal with.*

*You should have realized he would seek an altercation with you,* Jaddo said. *I'm sure he blames you for his humiliation today. Only logical, given that he tried to humiliate you numerous times.*

*And failed,* Brivari said. *I didn't let him get away with it.*

*Obviously, that wasn't enough,* Jaddo noted.

*We'll never know if it was 'enough' because, as usual, you interfered!* Brivari said angrily.

"Did you think I was gonna let you get away with that?" Dean continued, advancing part way down the alley, the look in his eyes making it clear he wasn't paying a social call. "Nobody messes with me! I'm a star!"

"Is that what you call yourself?" Jaddo asked. "I find 'fool' a more accurate term."

Dean's eyes darkened, and he reached into his pocket. "So there are two of you who don't know how to behave, is that it? Is this your accomplice, Langley? Is this the doofus who switched the chairs around while you stood where everyone could see you and made them think you were innocent?" The hand left his pocket, revealing a metal handle from which snapped a knife blade.

"I've had enough of this," Brivari said sharply, "from both of you."

"So have I," Jaddo agreed. "So have I."

Jaddo's hand shot out and Dean's retort died in his throat, his own hands clawing at his neck as though he couldn't breathe, his weapon falling to the ground. A moment later, he rose into the air, his feet pedaling wildly, his eyes bulging as the ground receded. *Stop it!* Brivari ordered, his own hand rising, pulling Dean back down.

*You do realize we'll have to kill him now, don't you?* Jaddo asked casually as Dean continued to hang, pedal, and claw, his body rising and falling while the pressure on his neck alternately eased and strengthened as two sets of powers clashed. *Either that, or you'll have to change your face.....and leave your movie behind.*

*Is that what this is about?* Brivari demanded. *The movie is finished soon anyway. Put him down! If you—*

A stifled gasp interrupted him. Audrey was near the mouth of the alley, watching Dean as he dipped and soared and struggled for breath, both hands over her mouth, both eyes very wide. "What are you doing?" she asked. "What's wrong with him?"

*Where do I start?* Jaddo said dryly.

*Put him down!* Brivari ordered angrily.

Jaddo's eyes flashed, but he abruptly released Dean, who would have crashed to the ground had Brivari not mentally caught him and slowed his descent. He lay unmoving, apparently unconscious, as Audrey cautiously walked closer. "Is he....dead?" she whispered.

*Unfortunately not,* Jaddo said sourly.

"No," Brivari said, shooting Jaddo a warning look. "He attacked us. His weapon is on the ground."

"Christ, it's a switchblade," Audrey said, her voice shaking. "I followed him because I was afraid he was going to cause trouble, but I never thought he'd....." She stopped, looking at Brivari. "What were you doing to him? How did you get him to hang in the air like that?"

*Tell her, Brivari,* Jaddo said sharply. *If she's so special to you, tell her the truth.*

"I'll explain everything later," Brivari said, having no idea how he was going to do that. "But first, I think we should—"

*Tell her!* Jaddo thundered.

*Don't you think you've done enough damage for one day?* Brivari retorted. *Now, get out of here before you create even more of a mess for me to mop up!*

A hand shot up, gleaming and sharp. Dean had recovered both his wits and his weapon. The knife was heading straight for Brivari before he reached out with his mind and caught the hand which held it, twisting it, Dean crying out in pain until the knife clattered to the ground again and he clattered with it, another mental blow causing his head to connect with the pavement hard enough to render him unconscious again.

"Oh, my God," Audrey breathed, wild-eyed. "That can't be! How did you do that? How did you.....what are you?" she demanded, backing away. "What the hell are you?"

"I can explain," Brivari said gently. "But not here. We should bring Mr. Dean back to the set."

Audrey's eyes darted back and forth from Dean to Brivari to Jaddo. "Okay," she said after a moment, nodding vigorously, some of the alarm leaving her expression. "Right. Okay. We'll take him back, and then you'll tell me what's going on."

Brivari breathed a sigh of relief. Audrey was intelligent; she would control her emotions to get answers. "Good," he said. "We will—"

"No," Jaddo said firmly, his eyes flashing. "We won't."

Audrey took one look at him and read his expression all too clearly. "Wait!" Brivari called as she took off, kicking those ridiculous shoes off and tearing up the alley with surprising speed with Jaddo in hot pursuit.

*Stop!* Brivari roared as he tore after them. *Jaddo, NO!*



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



I'll post Chapter 43 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


August 19, 1959, 12:15 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"So what did they find out?" Agent Owens whispered into the phone. "Anything new?"

"You shouldn't be calling me from the station," Agent Cates said. "You're gonna blow your cover."

"No way am I waiting until tomorrow evening to find out what's going on!" Owens retorted. "Are you going to answer me, or do I have to ask Valenti for time off?"

Cates heaved a sigh that was almost audible from Santa Fe without the aid of Ma Bell. "It's just what that ballistics guru said it was—a massive, but extremely focused burst of radiation. That's the bad news. The good news is that Feldman was killed instantly, so he likely never felt a thing."

Thank God, Owens thought, sinking back into his chair as the hubbub of the Roswell station swirled around him. He'd been on pins and needles all morning waiting for Feldman's autopsy report, and when he hadn't heard anything by lunch time, he'd called Cates' private number, much to the latter's dismay. "I have to tell Valenti what happened," Owens insisted. "What if he's got more of those things?"

"That's his problem," Cates said. "Lewis' orders were very clear."

"I thought we were supposed to be protecting people," Owens argued. "Seems to me like all Lewis is protecting is his job."

"He just doesn't want this spread all over," Cates said, "and besides, his job is safer now than it's ever been because he's got a bona fide alien threat to report."

"And a dead agent," Owens muttered.

"Which makes that threat all the more real," Cates pointed out, "which means Lewis' job is completely safe. He's protecting the secret, not his job."

"So the secret's more important than human life?"

"Chris, if this gets out, the resulting riots will definitely mean loss of life," Cates said.

"Sanchez?"

Owens whirled around in his seat at the sound of his alias; Hanson, Valenti's right-hand-man, was at his elbow. "What's up?" Owens asked.

"Sheriff wants to see you in his office."

"Why?"

Hanson shrugged. "Didn't say. Maybe he's saying goodbye to everyone leaving next week. Or maybe he's going to offer you a job here."

"Offer you a job?" Cates whispered on the other end of the line as Hanson walked away. "That would be hilarious. But like I said, we keep talking like this, and you're going to blow your cover. Which is a bad thing even if you don't need it much longer. Now get off the phone. We might know more when you come in tomorrow night."

Cates hung up without waiting for an answer, and Owens heaved the phone back into its cradle with a sigh and rose from his chair. He still felt that lying to Valenti was a very bad idea. It was Valenti who had had experience with aliens in the forties and who had found the alien device. And even though that might have been sheer dumb luck, Owens was willing to bet that it hadn't been, that Valenti had sniffed out a trail and followed it. The FBI should be working with men like that, not against them. When it came to aliens, one needed all the help one could get.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Owens asked.

"Sanchez!" Valenti smiled. "Close the door and have a seat. So....it's almost over," he continued cheerfully as Owens obliged. "Hollywood pulls out next week, and we're still standing.....and we have you, among others, to thank for it."

"It was a pleasure, sir," Owens said sincerely.

"You've done a good job while you were here," Valenti continued. "I wouldn't mind having you back, if you're amenable."

"I'd love to, sir, but that would be up to Sheriff Franklin," Owens answered, giving the name of his fictional employer.

"Of course," Valenti nodded. "Well....I'm sure you're eager to have more time with your wife and children."

"Child, sir," Owens corrected. "A boy. He's five."

"Three years younger than mine," Valenti noted. "What was his name again?"

"Albert, sir."

"Albert....right. Sorry," Valenti said, shaking his head. "I have trouble keeping my own employees straight, never mind my temps. Are you and Maddy planning on having more? My wife and I get that question all the time."

A prickle of unease crept up Owens' spine. "It's 'Patty', sir, and we thought we'd stop at one. You?"

"Same here," Valenti replied. "It's hard enough to find time for one. So I imagine you're looking forward to Albert starting school. Which school will he be going to?"

The prickle of unease grew stronger as Owens hesitated. His alias' backstory hadn't contained details that precise. "My wife handles all that, sir," he said smoothly. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. We were talking about private school at one point."

"So you're looking to move?"

Owens hesitated again. "I suppose that would be a factor in our decision."

"It'd have to be," Valenti agreed, "because there are no private schools in Roosevelt County. You'd pretty much have to move."

Owens' nodded noncommittally, working hard to keep his expression neutral as all his alarms went off. Valenti's tone was casual, but he was definitely fishing and had definitely done his homework. Which means I've been made, he thought heavily, wondering how he'd given himself away. Lewis was going to give him hell for this.

"So you and Patty married in 1956?" Valenti continued.

Owens smiled faintly. "1952, sir. Albert is 5, and I know we didn't have him out of wedlock."

"Right, right," Valenti nodded. "Of course not. And where does Patty hail from?"

Beats me, Owens thought, weighing his options. He could feign anger at the prying, go on being evasive on undeveloped details, which would be something of a dead giveaway, or he could develop those details right now, which would mean he'd have to keep close track of them because Valenti surely would. Or.......well.....there was another option. One he'd been promoting for awhile now.

"Sir, I'd appreciate it if you'd just cut to the chase."

"Sorry?"

"You're obviously fishing, sir," Owens said, looking Valenti straight in the eye. "I'd be grateful for some candor."

Valenti's eyebrows rose. "All right, then. Candor, it is." He leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my station posing as someone you're not?"

" 'Someone I'm not'?" Owens repeated, fishing himself now, for just exactly how much Valenti know.

"There is no Christopher Sanchez in the employ of Sheriff Franklin in Roosevelt County," Valenti said. "At least not according to Sheriff Franklin, who's never heard of you and couldn't identify a photograph of you."

"I see," Owens murmured.

"Curious, though, that Franklin did find a personnel file on you," Valenti continued. "I suppose if I hadn't gone straight to the top, if I'd just called and spoken with anybody who answered, they would have pulled the file and said you were legit. But I didn't. And they didn't. So I repeat—who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my station?"

Valenti and Owens eyed each other across the desk, the former tweaked, the latter in a quandary. Any information he divulged would make its way back to Lewis, which meant his job was forfeit, if it wasn't already. At the same time, he still believed Valenti deserved to know what was going on. The line between those two positions was so thin as to be invisible, assuming it existed at all.

"You don't want to know the answer to that, sir," Owens replied.

"Like hell I don't," Valenti said sharply. "Who are you working for?"

"It's best if I don't answer that, sir. You don't want to mess with that crowd."

"I'll mess with anyone from anywhere who messes with my station!" Valenti snapped. "Did you listen in on one of my phone conversations? Did you steal something from my desk on the afternoon of July 23rd?"

"Was there something in your desk worth stealing?"

"Don't play games with me!" Valenti exclaimed angrily. "Are you a thief as well as here under false pretenses? I'll ask you again—who are you working for?"

"Sir, I already told you—"

"What did you do with what you took from my desk?"

"I never said I took anything from your desk, sir."

"Who did you give it to?" Valenti persisted, rising from his chair and planting his hands on the desk. "Who are you working for?"

"Sir, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong tack—"

"Funny how everyone thinks they've gotten off on the wrong tack once their cover's been blown," Valenti said acidly. "You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Some local moron with a badge that you can just bulldoze any time you want!"

"Far from it," Owens said firmly. "But—"

"Who are you working for?"

"Sir—"

"Answer me!"

"Sir, please!" Owens exclaimed, springing out of his own chair in desperation. God, Valenti could be just as bad as Lewis when he set his mind to it. They stood face to face for several long seconds, each measuring the other.

"Can I say something?" Owens asked after a moment. "Without you interrupting?" He waited until Valenti gave him a barely perceptible nod. "Sir, in the weeks that I've been here, I've developed a great deal of respect for you. Please believe that I have your best interests at heart when I advise you to let this one go. It's over your head. It's a battle you won't be able to win. And I don't want to see you go down, sir. So do yourself a favor, and stay out of it."

"May I take this as an admission that you stole from me?" Valenti demanded.

"Take it as a warning," Owens recommended, "both to not leave anything of value in your office, and to be very careful about picking up things you find lying around. You never know how dangerous those things could be."

"I didn't find anything 'lying around'," Valenti said coldly. "I found it the old fashioned way, with good police work. The same way I found you, by checking out every single temporary deputy, one at a time. Whoever covered your tracks did a very thorough job, and obviously has enough friends in high places to pull that off. So what are you? Military? CIA? FBI?"

So I didn't blow my cover after all, Owens thought, his admiration for Valenti growing exponentially. It would have taken a good deal of time to get past Lewis' carefully planted backgrounds. The difficulty in getting away from town plus the sheer number of temporary deputies to check out added up to one hell of a tough task and one very stubborn sheriff.

"I'm...." Owens began, then stopped.

"You're what?" Valenti prodded.

"I'm....leaving, sir," Owens finished. "Obviously I can't stay here any longer, so I think that would be best."

"You're not going anywhere," Valenti assured him, "except to a holding cell where you will cool your heels until whoever is holding the other end of your leash realizes you're missing."

"You're going to lock me up?" Owens said incredulously.

"Why not?" Valenti challenged. "Someone will come looking for you, 'Deputy Sanchez'. And when they do, I'll be waiting."

"I'm afraid that doesn't work for me, sir," Owens said gently. "And although you don't know it, it wouldn't work for you either. So I'm just going to go now, for both our sakes, and unless you want to make a scene in your own station and tell everyone what you think was stolen, you'll have to—"

Owens' words died in his throat as Valenti pulled his gun. "Would you really....shoot me, sir?"

"Try me," Valenti said darkly, coming around the desk, stripping Owens of his weapon, pressing the business end of the pistol into his back. "March."

"But....what if I'm an alien?" Owens asked as Valenti steered him out of the office.

"Nice try," Valenti answered. "An alien would've been out of here by now. An alien wouldn't have had to infiltrate for weeks. I'm not stupid, you know."

I know, Owens thought, beginning to sweat as Valenti maneuvered him through the station, deputies looking up in surprise at the sight of their boss holding a gun on what they thought was one of their own. He'd been counting on Valenti not wanting him to reveal the nature of the theft, but then Valenti could always deny anything he said, and point to the fact that he had the Roosevelt County sheriff's word that "Deputy Sanchez" was a fraud. He'd admired Valenti's smarts, but now those smarts were getting in the way.

"What's going on?" Baker asked as a trail of incredulous deputies followed them to a holding cell.

"I think the sheriff's a little overworked, guys...." Owens began.

"Shut it!" Valenti ordered as everyone recoiled. " 'Deputy Sanchez' doesn't exist, gentlemen. I don't know who this imposter is, but I'm putting him on ice until I find out." As he spoke, Valenti shoved Owens into a cell and locked the door behind him. Owens turned to find several shocked faces staring at him with expressions ranging from disbelief to anger. Once Valenti told his side of the story, he was willing to bet there'd be a lot more anger than disbelief. This was not good.

"Sheriff!"

It was Hanson, alarmed and breathless, pushing through the crowd of deputies without so much as a glance at Owens. "Sir, we just got a call. Something's happened."




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



Roswell




Valenti pulled his cruiser over to the side of Main Street, shut it off, and climbed out. He'd been expecting this, but they were so close to the end that he'd hoped this particular comet would pass Roswell. To have it not only hit, but hit at the exact moment he'd uncovered a mole from God knew where in his own station after a month's worth of digging was doubly upsetting. It was almost unseemly how little concern he felt for whoever the victim was as he marched up the little alley with Hanson on his heels. It was probably a larceny or alcohol intoxication, and he just wanted to get everything tagged and bagged so he could get back to the real business at hand.

"What've you got?" he called to the deputies already on the scene.

The looks on their faces told him he was going to be here awhile. "It's Miss Tate, sir," one of the deputies answered. "From the movie."

"Audrey Tate? The actress?"

"Yes, sir. She's.....well.....see for yourself."

Valenti pushed through the crowd. Audrey Tate was lying face down on the ground, Doctor Blake bending over her, his hands shaking as he gingerly lifted an arm. Tendrils of smoke rose from her blackened flesh, her long blonde hair mostly gone, her clothing charred rags. She'd been burned to a crisp.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," Valenti whispered, kneeling down beside the body.

"It must have been," Ray agreed. "I can't imagine what else could have done this but an act of God. Never seen anything like it."

"I have," Valenti said faintly.

"You have? When?"

"Back in '47," Valenti said, wincing as Ray moved the arm further and a scrap of burned clothing fell off. "It was a truck driver. Burned just like this, but worse. We had to identify him from a wedding ring and dental records."

"What did they decide caused it?"

"I don't think they did. What do you think it is?"

"Only thing I can think of is a lightning strike," Ray answered.

Valenti glanced upward. "Doc, there's not a cloud in that sunny sky."

"I know that," Ray said, "but do you have a better idea?"

"I might. Get the body back to your office and look for traces of accelerant, injuries, and so forth."

"Of course," Ray said, "but even if you dunked her in gasoline and lit her on fire, she wouldn't have burned like this."

"Sir?" It was Hanson, looking worried. "We've got quite a crowd gathering, including reporters from the Daily Record."

Valenti looked up to find about twice as many onlookers as had been there only minutes ago. Word spread fast, especially when news was bad. "Cover her," he ordered Hanson. "All right, everybody, back up!" he called to the crowd. "Until we know otherwise, this is a crime scene, so I'm going to have to ask everyone to clear the alley."

There was a jostling in the crowd nearby, and flashbulbs popped. "Sheriff, is that Audrey Tate?" a reporter asked, elbowing his way to the front.

"We haven't yet identified the victim," Valenti said. "Now if you'd just—"

"Was she murdered?"

"Someone said she burned to death. Is that true?"

"What will happen to the movie now that she's dead?"

Valenti held up a hand for silence as more flashbulbs popped, doing his best to block a clear shot of the body. "I said we haven't yet identified the victim," he reminded them. "When we have definitive information, we'll release it."

"But you called it a crime scene," a reporter persisted. "That means there was a crime."

"I also said 'until we know otherwise'," Valenti corrected. "Any death is treated as suspicious until a cause is determined. "Now if you'd all please—"

"Should the public be concerned?" another reporter demanded. "Is there a murderer loose in Roswell?"

Damn it, Valenti swore, feeling the temperature of the crowd rise as the notion of a roving murderer began to spread through the crowd like wildfire. Leave it to a reporter to shout the "M" word at the top of his lungs. "As I said, we'll release more information as we have it," he answered patiently. "Wild speculation will get us nowhere, and I'm trusting everyone's good judgment to sit tight and not panic—or cause anyone else to panic," he added with a pointed look at the reporters. "I don't have enough information at the moment to answer everyone's questions, and the best way for me to get that information is for everyone to clear the alley and let us do our jobs. I'd appreciate your cooperation. Thank you."

The tension began to subside as the crowd obediently began backing up, including the reporters, who were looking distinctly embarrassed. Good, Valenti thought. He'd come this far without major mishap, so to have this happen at the next to last minute was bad enough without adding mass hysteria to the mix. Hopefully Ray was right. Hopefully this was just a freak act of nature, although how a bolt of lightning strong enough to fry a woman could have come out of that cloudless sky was beyond him. But perhaps he was doing the same thing as his citizens, jumping to conclusions without sufficient information. Perhaps someone had heard it and not attributed the sound to lightning because of the sunny weather. That must be it. A little investigation, and this would all become clear, allowing him to refocus on the imposter in his jail cell.

"Let me through!" a male voice shouted. "Outa my way! Let me through!"

The crowd heaved and parted to reveal an extremely disheveled, wild-eyed young man. "That's Charles Dean, from the movie!" a woman in the crowd called. "Mr. Dean, can I have your autograph?"

But Dean wasn't interested in his adoring public. He pushed past the inner edge of the crowd and would have barreled right past Valenti if Valenti hadn't caught him by the shoulders. "Let go of me!" Dean shouted, wrenching himself free. Valenti caught him again, but not before Dean had gotten an eyeful.

"She's dead isn't she," Dean demanded. "Isn't she?"

"Calm down, sir," Valenti ordered. "Deputy Hanson, would you escort this man—"

"I know who did it!" Dean shouted in a voice that could have carried all the way to the back row of the largest theater in the world. "I know who murdered Audrey Tate!"




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




"You had to kill her, didn't you?" Brivari raged. "You had to go and leave yet another trail for Lewis to follow!"

"I left no handprint, and she'd seen too much," Jaddo argued.

"And why had she seen too much?" Brivari snapped. "Because you once again displayed your trademark dismal judgment! There wouldn't have been anything to see if you'd behaved yourself!"

"Irrelevant," Jaddo said stonily. "She saw what she saw, and that made her a risk."

"I could have explained it to her," Brivari argued.

"Nonsense," Jaddo scoffed. "Look at the way she ran."

"She ran because she knew what you were going to do!" Brivari exclaimed. "She's not stupid!"

"Don't you mean 'wasn't' stupid?"

Brivari's eyes narrowed dangerously as he stalked up to Jaddo. "You killed her because of me, didn't you? As payment for my not doing exactly what you wanted me to."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jaddo said sharply. "I killed her because she represented an unacceptable threat."

"But you didn't kill Dean," Brivari reminded him. "He saw your antics also, but him you didn't kill—"

"Because he wasn't there when we went back, and we were unable to locate him," Jaddo said. "I will deal with him later."

"You will do no such thing!" Brivari ordered. "One death is bad enough; two will—"

"Hold on a minute," Malik broke in. "Would you two just back off and tell me what happened? You can always kill each other later. God knows it would be a lot quieter if there was only one of you."

Two heads snapped Malik's way as both Warders glared at him. Malik returned their stares, making no attempt to hide his own frustration and alarm. The commotion he'd heard while talking with Courtney's father had turned out to herald the discovery of a completely burned body in an alley nearby. Malik hadn't been able to get close enough to identify the victim, but no matter; a body in that condition was clearly the work of Royal Warders, and, worse yet, out in the open for all to see. By the time he'd arrived, there had been far too many onlookers to intervene.

"Start at the beginning," Malik commanded. "Why were you in that alley with Audrey Tate to begin with?"

The Warders separated, glowering at each other from across Malik's apartment. "We weren't," Jaddo said darkly. "We were in a neighboring alley minding our own business when Miss Tate's paramour accosted us."

"Because you were antagonizing him on the set," Brivari added angrily. "Didn't I tell you that you'd only stir up trouble with those antics?"

"I stirred up nothing that wasn't already there!" Jaddo retorted. "If you'd have taken off your rose-colored glasses, you would have seen that."

"Okay, so Dean confronted you, and then what?" Malik asked.

"Jaddo hung him in the air in full view of anyone who might happen to walk by," Brivari said. "Which is exactly what Audrey did."

"You used your powers in public?" Malik asked incredulously.

"Hardly," Jaddo said scathingly. "There was no one else around until she blundered in."

"But Dean must have noticed that he was levitating," Malik protested. "Why would you do that, and then leave him alive?"

"Because he chose to kill Audrey instead," Brivari said acidly. "Even though she calmed down when I told her I'd explain, Jaddo elected to pursue her instead of Dean. We had no time to remove her body before it was discovered, and by the time we went back for Dean, he was gone, and has no doubt told his story already, making it impossible to remove him without causing further suspicion."

"Of course I pursued your lover first," Jaddo said. "Dean was unconscious, but she was running as fast as she could—"

Brivari's hand shot out, and Jaddo flew against the wall, pinned there. "She was not my 'lover', but that term betrays your true intentions," Brivari said angrily. "You killed her because she was my friend. You can't stand the fact that I have friends while you have nothing and no one, no purpose in life save for watching Lewis come and go. You're so bored, you probably follow him into the lavatory—"

Brivari recoiled slightly as Jaddo pushed back, freeing himself. "I have no purpose?" he echoed. "I am monitoring threats to our Wards while you fritter away your time with this brainless 'movie'—"

"We're getting off the subject," Malik interrupted, stepping between them. "Whatever anyone's reasons, the humans now have a body killed by alien means, and there's someone running around out there who saw you use your powers. What are we going to do about that?"

The Warders glared at one another, each looking ready to do serious damage to the other. "Nothing," Jaddo said finally. "The female is dead, and the male has no witnesses to what will sound like impossible things. No one will believe him."

"That is where you're wrong," Brivari countered. "The military is familiar with our abilities. Word of this will get back to them and to Lewis, the very person you claim represents such a threat, and who you supposedly sought to avoid!"

"And who is easily avoided," Jaddo said, "by simply changing our faces. We change our faces and disappear, and this will all disappear with us."

"No, it won't," Malik argued. He usually made it a point not to take sides when the Warders squabbled, but this time, he couldn't help himself. "Even if they can't find you, the fact that you left evidence of your presence, and by killing someone, no less, will only spur them on. The goal is to be invisible in more than just the conventional sense, and you just ruined that. Again."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Jaddo said coldly.

"Lucky you; you got it anyway," Malik retorted. "Consider it a free gift. You just put us all in danger, and I shouldn't have to point out to you that putting us in danger also puts the hybrids in danger."

"Finally," Brivari huffed. "Someone with a brain."

"If it's danger you're worried about, talk to him!" Jaddo said angrily. "Brivari is the one consorting with everyone and their mother—"

"Brivari is not the one who just alerted the human military to our presence!" Malik exclaimed. "All his 'consorting' hasn't attracted the attention of even one of our enemies, but you can be certain this will."

Jaddo's eyes narrowed, and Malik braced himself, hoping Brivari would intervene. As it turned out, he didn't have to; Jaddo abruptly turned and stalked out as Brivari turned away in disgust. Wonderful, Malik thought heavily. Jaddo had needed to hear that from someone other than Brivari, but the timing couldn't be worse. Just as the Argilian resistance rode into town and he needed the good graces of Rath's Warder more than ever, he'd managed to squelch any chance of that before he'd even tried.




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



Parker's Diner




"I wish we could go out there," Nancy fretted, her nose pressed to the window. "It's not like we have anything to do in here."

"Tell me about it," Abigail said. "I haven't seen this place so empty since....well, since ever. Since it opened."

Neither have I, Courtney thought, even though she hadn't been here when it opened. The diner was literally empty, unheard of at this hour of the afternoon. Not a single Roswell resident, movie crew member, or tourist was in Parker's because everyone seemed to be several streets up in the middle of some kind of melee that involved the sheriff and an ambulance. Nancy had stopped several passers-by who had unfortunately been uninformative due to the fact that they were hurrying toward, not away from, whatever was happening. Until the excitement died down and patrons returned with news, the waitresses in Parker's could do nothing more than watch and wait.

"Where's Mr. Parker?" another waitress asked.

"Went over to the bar," Nancy said. "At least there's a few customers over there."

"I bet it's a fight," Abigail offered, still peering out the window.

"I bet it's an accident," Nancy said. "It's nothing short of a miracle that there haven't been any accidents yet. We're overdue, especially with all these extra people in town."

Not to mention Royal Warders, Courtney added silently. She had no idea what had happened and no reason to suspect the Warders had a hand in whatever it was, but she still couldn't shake a vague feeling of unease. Proximity to Warders was very much like playing with fire; play with it long enough, and one was bound to get burned.

"Here comes somebody!" Abigail said excitedly. "Maybe they know something!"

All eyes swung south, and one pair widened in alarm. It was Michael and Nathaniel, heading straight for the diner even though Courtney had given them strict instructions to wait at her apartment. Either her father had chosen to ignore her or something very bad indeed had happened, hopefully the former. She watched them closely, expecting them to walk past.....but they didn't. Instead, they walked straight into the diner.

"I'll trade you free coffee for information," Nancy said as Courtney stared at them, flabbergasted. "What on earth's going on out there?"

Courtney watched Nathaniel's lips twitch, Argilians finding the popular phrase "what on earth" to be a humorous reminder that humans considered themselves the only sentient life in existence. "I believe there's been an accident of some sort, although I confess I don't know the details, madam," Michael answered.

"I told you it was an accident!" Nancy said confidently. "And now I owe you some free coffee. Have a seat, any seat. God knows we're not crowded."

"You're very kind, but I'm not here to eat," Michael answered. "I'm here to see my daughter. Privately, if possible."

All eyes followed his gaze to Courtney. "Everyone, this is my father, Mr. Harris," Courtney said brightly. "He's....visiting. With a friend."

"Why didn't you tell us it was your father?" Nancy admonished, grabbing Michael's hand and shaking it. "Welcome to Roswell, Mr. Harris! You've got a quite a kid here. Held herself together even though that guy she was going to stay with was killed right before she arrived. That took guts."

"So I hear," Michael said. "And now if you'd excuse us....."

Courtney steered the two men through the kitchen and into the locker area, barely able to hold her tongue until they were out of earshot. "What are you doing?" she demanded. "I told you not to come here, and protocol demands—"

"You're a fine one to be talking about protocol," her father said sternly.

"And you're a fine one to be ignoring it," Courtney retorted. "You know perfectly well that you should have walked past and waited for me to join you. And what's with telling them who you are? Do you realize how stupid that made me look? Now I'll have to come up with a reason why I didn't say anything in the first place. Why didn't you stay home like I told you to?"

"For the same reason you didn't go home when I told you to," her father replied testily. "It was my judgment that we should speak with you immediately."

"The Covari also told us not to leave the apartment," Nathaniel said.

"I told you, I don't take orders from Covari," Michael retorted.

Courtney blinked. "Covari....you mean Malik? You've met him?"

"If you call infiltrating your apartment 'meeting him', yes," Michael answered darkly. "Your neighbor, the Warder's ally, brought us something to eat. We believe it slipped inside then, despite the fact that we examined her with the generator. It eavesdropped for several minutes before revealing itself."

Most likely with Dee's blessing, Courtney thought wearily. Malik had probably headed for her apartment right after leaving the diner, and Dee wouldn't have hesitated to help him get in there undetected. The whole thing had probably been a set up.

"But it did reveal itself after ascertaining that we were indeed with the resistance," Nathaniel countered. "I understand its need to be sure."

"Nathaniel has spent a good deal of time apologizing for the Covari's behavior, a perspective I do not share," Michael said coldly. "But we can debate this later. There has been a death. From what we hear, it was an 'actress' in whatever film is being made here, and the manner of her death is somewhat.....odd."

Courtney swallowed. Miss Tate. God knows she'd warned her to stay away from "Langley", for the all good it had done. "What do you mean by 'odd'?" she asked out loud.

"Our hearing is superior to that of a human, so we were able to glean certain details," Nathaniel answered. "It appears this female was completely incinerated."

"Incinerated as in....burned?" Courtney asked. "On the outside? I thought the Warders burned from the inside and left a handprint behind. Is this something they could do?"

"We don't know," Michael admitted. "But we do know that the explanation currently favored is unlikely. The humans think she was struck by lightning."

Courtney glanced toward the nearest window. "It hasn't rained for days, and certainly not today."

"We know," her father sighed. "And whether or not we are familiar with this mode of execution, it certainly falls within the Warders' abilities. Do you know of any reason why they would want to execute this female?"

Courtney leaned back against a locker and closed her eyes. "Brivari," she whispered.

"What?"

"Brivari," she repeated as the morning's events came back to her. "Brivari and Jaddo quarreled this morning.....again."

"They've been quarreling?" Michael asked.

"Brivari took a job on the movie set," Courtney explained, "and he developed some sort of relationship with that actress. I saw them in here lots of times. And just this morning, Brivari was talking about leaving town. That's when they quarreled again, telepathically, of course. I can tell because Jaddo usually storms out and doesn't pay his bill."

"How many times has this happened?"

"Two or three," Courtney answered. "Maybe four. It's been going on since I got here."

"We have to warn them," Nathaniel said as Michael looked distinctly worried. "It would be nice to wait for the introductions and the pleasantries, but we don't have that luxury any more."

"Warn them about what?" Courtney asked in alarm, not missing the irony of having fought off Dee and then Malik only to have her own people propose exactly what they'd wanted to do in the first place. "If the Warders killed her, they must have known what would happen. They don't need your help—"

"I'm not talking about the human enforcers," her father interrupted. "I know they can handle those. But when word of this gets back to Nicholas, he may very well send more operatives, all equipped with trithium generators. And if the Warders are behaving as you say they are, even shapeshifting might not shield them. You figured it out; other operatives might too. The Warders think they're safe. We need to inform them otherwise."





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



I'll post Chapter 44 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR



August 19, 1959, 3 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Get him inside," Valenti said to Hanson as he pulled the cruiser up to the back door of the station. "And you," he said severely, pointing a finger in Dean's sullen face, "I hear so much as a word out of you, and I'll slap you in a holding cell so fast, your head will spin."

"You can't treat me like this!" Dean protested. "I'm Charles Dean! I'm a star! I'm—"

"Can't you count?" Valenti interrupted sharply. "I said one word. You're way over your limit. Go ahead, try me," he added when Dean opened his mouth. "After what you pulled, I am not in the mood."

Dean glowered at him but held his tongue as Hanson pulled him out of the car and steered him into the station via the back door. "Straight to my office," Valenti ordered as they passed curious deputies on the way in.

"Sir?" Hanson said, his eyes up ahead.

"I see them. Keep going. Don't make eye contact, and don't stop."

Damn it, Valenti muttered silently, eyeing the crowd up ahead, the cameras held aloft, the pencils poised over pads of paper, his deputies struggling to corral everyone. The last thing he'd wanted was a media circus, and thanks to the loudmouth in tow, that's exactly what he now had. He'd just succeeded in calming everyone down, and then it had all gone to hell.

"Sheriff!" a reporter called. "Is Mr. Dean right? Was Audrey Tate murdered?"

"Should the citizens of Roswell stay indoors?"

"What do you have to say about the strange condition of Miss Tate's body?"

Valenti walked right past, ignoring all of them. Stopping would only embroil him in a quagmire from which there was no escape because he had no information. That simple fact wouldn't stop the press, however, so it was best to just ignore them. His deputies knew the drill, and as he reached his office, he heard Deputy Alvarez giving the, "We have insufficient information with which to comment at this time" speech, which his men were trained to keep repeating until the reporters got tired of asking and went in search of other targets. They'd be back, of course, and much too soon, but hopefully he'd know more by then. Hopefully.

"Inside," Valenti said, giving Dean a little shove as he closed and locked the door behind him. "Sit. Down," he clarified, indicating a chair when Dean appeared to need directional guidance.

"Why are getting all pissy with me?" Dean demanded, still standing. "I know who killed her! I know who did it! You should be thanking me for—"

"For yelling "fire" in a crowded theater?" Valenti snapped. "Because that's what you did, Mr. Dean. You just riled up an entire town, so now I not only have a dead woman, I've got a panicked populace. Panicky people are not rational, so I'm going to have one hell of a time keeping order thanks to you and your big mouth!"

"So you don't want to know who killed her? You don't want to know what I saw? And you call yourself a sheriff—"

Valenti grabbed Dean by the collar and pushed him into the chair. "If you have allegations, you bring them to me quietly," he said sternly. "You may run the show on the movie set, but I'm glad to say the real world operates a bit differently. I need evidence to accuse someone of anything, and as much as it may come as a shock to you, your word alone doesn't qualify. So you keep your voice down until I see if there's anything to back up your claims, or I swear to God, I'll gag you. Got that?"

Dean's eyes flashed, but he nodded sullenly. Valenti took a seat behind his desk while Hanson took up a position directly behind Dean. "Now....in the privacy of this office.....what did you see?"

"It was the clapper loader," Dean announced.

"The clapper loader," Valenti repeated as Hanson rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, the clapper loader, that Langley guy. He killed her!"

"And you base this on.....what?"

"They attacked me," Dean said with satisfaction.

" 'They'?"

"The clapper loader and that smart ass friend of his," Dean nodded. "They attacked me because they knew I was onto him."

"Onto whom?" Hanson asked. "The clapper loader or the smart ass friend?"

"The clapper loader!" Dean said impatiently, as though they should already know that. "He was sweet on her, and she thought she was sweet on him. You know dames. They never know what's best for them. Audrey was mine—mine. And he knew it. That short, bald little nobody knew it. He wanted to take me out of the picture, see, so he could have her to himself."

"Seems to have done one hell of a crappy job," Hanson observed dryly. "She's dead, and you're not."

"Yes, could you explain that?" Valenti said. "If this is a love triangle, you should be dead, not her."

"He tried," Dean said, nodding vigorously. "He attacked me, and then Audrey showed up, and then he attacked her. I saw it!"

"If you saw it, then where were you?" Valenti asked. "You weren't the one who called in the discovery of the body, and there was no one else on site when it was discovered."

"They attacked me in a different place. And then Audrey came, and they knocked me out, and they must have chased her and killed her because she caught'em in the act."

"So you didn't actually 'see' anything," Valenti pointed out.

Dean's face clouded. "Look, my watch stopped when they knocked me out," he said, holding out his arm. "So you know exactly what time it happened."

Hanson bent over and examined the watch. "It has stopped, sir, but it's reading only minutes before the body was discovered."

"So?" Dean demanded. "What does that mean?"

It means there's no way someone could have burned Audrey Tate to a crisp in such a short amount of time, Valenti thought. "Mr. Dean, if you'd be kind enough to give my deputy the location where this alleged attack took place, I'll have them investigate. As for Miss Tate, I'm waiting for an autopsy report—"

"You don't need an autopsy!" Dean exclaimed. "He killed her! I know he did!"

"—because early indications are that Miss Tate died of natural causes," Valenti finished. "I need evidence of foul play for an accusation of murder—"

"I just gave you evidence!"

"—which an autopsy may or may not provide. I assure you I will pursue any evidence to the fullest extent of the law. Absent that evidence, we'll just have to wait."

"Wait?" Dean sputtered in disbelief. "Wait for what? For him to finish the job? I'm in danger, sheriff, can't you see that?"

"If this clapper loader knocked you out, then pursued and killed Miss Tate, why didn't he go back and finish you off while you were unconscious?" Hanson asked.

"I....I.....what the hell difference does that make?" Dean said in exasperation, obviously annoyed with inconvenient facts. "Do your job, and go arrest that clapper loader!"

"Mr. Dean, I can't make an arrest without cause," Valenti said patiently. "I need the autopsy report—"

"If you don't take care of him, I will!" Dean declared. "I'll go out there and tell everyone what he did, get people together, and we'll take care of him ourselves!"

"You mean a lynching?" Valenti said. "Thanks so much for the heads up, Mr. Dean. Hanson, book this man on charges of disturbing the peace, and lock him up."

Dean vaulted out of his chair. "You can't do that!"

"Watch me," Valenti said flatly.

"But he killed her!" Dean exclaimed, wrenching himself free of Hanson's grip. "And that's not all. They were weird, those two. They did weird things no one should be able to do! They choked me without touching me. They grabbed my knife right out of my hand without touching it—"

"You had a knife?" Valenti broke in. "Refresh my memory—who was attacking whom?"

"I have a right to defend myself!" Dean insisted. "Especially against weirdoes like that, like.....like....." He stopped, his eyes widening. "Maybe," he breathed, ".....maybe they're aliens! No, wait!" he went on when Valenti sank back into his chair with a sigh and Hanson shook his head in disgust. "It makes sense! Aliens would want to know what we know about them, so of course they'd be interested in my movie!"

"Any alien interested in your movie needs to have its big head examined," Valenti said sharply. "And I can't help but notice that you didn't mention these 'weird things' right away. Why not? Someone choked you without touching you, and you neglected to mention that until after I threatened to toss you in a holding cell? And while we're on the subject of what I can't help noticing, let's add your breath to the list. You've been drinking, haven't you?"

Dean flushed. "I had a beer. So what?"

" 'A' beer?" Valenti repeated. "Try several. Lock him up until we have some answers, and he sobers up," he said to Hanson, "and have somebody check out the alley where all this drama supposedly happened. Oh, and bring 'Deputy Sanchez', or whoever he really is, up here. I have more important things to do than listen to this nonsense."

"No!" Dean shouted. "Wait! I didn't say anything before because I thought you'd think I was crazy!"

"Imagine that," Hanson muttered, hauling him out of the chair.

"But they did all those things!" Dean insisted, struggling in Hanson's grasp. "They never laid a hand on me, but they choked me, and hung me in the air, and—"

"And I'm Judy Garland," Hanson said impatiently, shoving Dean toward the door. "Honestly, mister, your story has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. C'mon....let's go."

Dean shouted all the way through the station with Hanson doing damage control by announcing he'd had too much to drink. Not exactly true, but it should keep the worst of the rumors at bay until they had some real answers from real sources, not some lovesick megalomaniac who had a score to settle with a fellow crew member. Whoever this clapper loader was, it wasn't hard to see why Audrey Tate or anyone else would prefer him to a control freak like Dean who announced ownership of another human being. Good thing Andi wasn't here; had she heard that, at least Dean's ears would be burning, if not other body parts.

Andi. He hadn't had time to think about her all day, but tonight he had something to tell her. Tonight when he got home, whenever that was, he could tell her that he'd been right, that there had been a spy in his station....if, that is, he was willing to tell her why a spy would be there in the first place. Perhaps it was time to do that. Now that he had proof, he could—

"Sir?"

Valenti sighed. "What is it, Hanson? Did Mr. Movie Star pee his pants on the way to his cell?"

"No, sir. It's Sanchez, or whoever he was."

Valenti's eyes narrowed. " 'Was'?"

Hanson's eyes dropped. "He's gone, sir."




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




"Jesus, you got here fast," Agent Cates said when he spied Owens striding briskly down the hall. "What'd you do, floor it all the way from Roswell?"

"Pretty much," Owens answered. ""Did you tell him anything?"

"Are you kidding?" Cates said, trotting to keep up with him. "Did you really expect me to deliver the news that one of his agents had been made? No way. I don't want to die young."

"You won't, and neither will I."

Cates shook his head. "Ordinarily I'd say it was lucky that you kept those lock picks on you, but when you told me what happened, my first thought was that you would have been better off taking your chances with Valenti."

"And under other circumstances, you might have been right," Owens agreed.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning however pissed Lewis may be that one of his agents has been exposed, I've got one hell of a consolation prize for him."

"Sorry, Chris, but the only consolation prize big enough to save your ass would be an alien on a platter."

"Nope," Owens declared. "All he needs is irrefutable evidence of aliens that he can plop in front of J. Edgar, thereby justifying his Special Unit."

"And.....you have that?" Cates ventured.

Owens gave him a wide smile. "I don't need to save my ass. Because Lewis is about to pucker up and kiss my ass."




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"All right, thanks, Ray," Valenti said. "Are you comfortable with me going to the press with this, or would you rather I wait?"

A knock sounded on the door. "Come in," Valenti called, holding up a hand to tell Hanson to wait. "That's great. This'll take a lot of the pressure off. Let me know when you're finished. Right. Goodbye."

"That Dr. Blake?" Hanson asked when Valenti hung up the phone. "What'd he say?"

"That his preliminary findings show no traces of accelerant on Tate's body," Valenti replied. "The position of her body seems to indicate she was struck from behind, but there are no obvious signs of blunt trauma, or any trauma, for that matter. He's sticking with his original idea of a freak lightning strike, for the moment, at least."

"Lightning," Hanson said, shaking his head. "There's no lightning for miles around."

"It appears there was for just a moment this afternoon, and Tate was unlucky enough to get right in its way. What have you got?"

Hanson hesitated, staring at his shoes. "Before I give you my report, sir, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Sanchez escaping. I know I—"

"Stop right there," Valenti ordered. "I put him in the cell, I locked it. And if Sanchez is working for the military or the government, he probably sleeps with a lock pick under his pillow."

"You think he got himself out?"

"There was no damage to the lock," Valenti noted. "You have another theory?"

"What about another mole, sir? I mean, if there's one, there could be more....right?"

Valenti fell silent, struggling to push back the wave of anger that had threatened to overtake him since he'd learned of Sanchez's escape. Here he'd just found an imposter in his station, and he'd promptly lost him. It was quite possible there were more where Sanchez came from, and only the recent death of Audrey Tate had kept him from tearing the station apart to find out if that was true. If Sanchez had an accomplice.....

"Maybe there is," Valenti admitted, "but at the moment, I don't have the luxury of looking for them. It took me a month to ferret out Sanchez; whoever planted his false background did a good enough job that it took some digging to break through the façade. And digging takes time, something I've had precious little of, and even less now. It'll have to wait. What'd you find?"

Hanson pulled out an evidence bag. "There were no signs of struggle in the alley, no blood, no evidence of a fight....but we did find this."

"Prints?" Valenti asked, inspecting the open switchblade.

"Only Dean's," Hanson answered. "No other prints, no blood, nothing."

"You found more than I did," Valenti sighed. "There was no blood in or around the alley where we found the body, no signs of a struggle, no weapons. Dr. Blake stopped by to look at Dean, and he found no evidence that anyone had attacked him other than a bump on the back of his head, which he could easily have gotten from merely falling down. So far, this knife is the only thing that corroborates a word of what he's said."

"Well, he did say the aliens didn't touch him," Hanson said with a chuckle. "So there wouldn't have been any marks, would there? Honestly, sir, I think he just made the whole thing up."

"But why? Why invent an elaborate story like that?"

"Who knows?" Hanson shrugged. "Maybe it's the beer talking. Maybe he wants to get this clapper loader in trouble and saw a chance to do that. Or maybe he's just nuts."

"Maybe," Valenti agreed, rising from his chair. "I'm going to interview the crew of the movie, see what I can find out. Hold down the fort, will you?"

"Of course. Oh, and sir.....since you're busy.....would you mind if I did a little digging on our temporary staff? I know anything I'd be told over the phone probably wouldn't be trustworthy, but I could at least do round one for you. Save you some work."

"Hanson, I already told you it's not your fault—"

"I know it isn't, sir, but....well.....I ate a lot of lunches with that liar, and I'd really like to know if I'm working with any more of them."

Valenti hesitated for only a moment before pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling some names. "These are the ones I haven't gotten to yet," he said, handing the paper to Hanson. "Make sure you're discreet."

"Of course," Hanson said. "Good luck with your own digging, sir."

I'd rather the luck go to you, Valenti thought as he reached for his hat. It was unlikely he'd find anything on the set except tales of a jealous actor, but there could very well be another spy in his office. The big question was why. It couldn't be just the stolen artifact because Sanchez had arrived a good month prior to that. No, someone had other reasons for placing a mole in the Roswell station, and Valenti couldn't help but wonder what those reasons might be. Did it have something to do with Mark Green and the strange way his body had disintegrated? But he'd kept that so quiet....was it possible that Raymond Blake had talked? Maybe the tests he'd run had been discovered? And if it wasn't Green, then what?

I'll probably never find out, Valenti thought as he left the station. Whoever Sanchez was, whatever the reason he'd been there, it was extremely doubtful he'd ever see him again.




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



FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe



"What are you doing here at this hour?" Agent Lewis asked sharply when he spied Owens, trailed by a tense Cates. "You shouldn't be off duty for another hour at least."

"Sir, Sheriff Valenti has discovered that I'm not who I say I am," Owens announced without preamble. "He doesn't know where I'm coming from, but he does know that there's no such person as 'Christopher Sanchez'."

Owens waited as the impact of this news spread across Lewis' features. Don't lose your nerve, he ordered himself severely. If he'd learned nothing else from his brief time on the Special Unit, it was that this was not a game for the faint of heart.

"Did I understand you correctly, agent?" Lewis said in a deadly voice. "Did you just tell me that you've been exposed?"

"Half exposed, sir," Owens replied. "Like I said—"

" 'Half exposed' Is that like being 'a little pregnant'?"

"—Valenti doesn't know who I am, or that the FBI is involved," Owens finished.

"And you think that matters?" Lewis exclaimed. "I don't care what that idiot sheriff thinks he knows, and I have no room in my unit for agents who are exposed, either completely or 'halfway'! You're fired. Pack your things and leave."

"I understand, sir," Owens said smoothly. "And when I leave, I'll take the evidence of the latest incident in Roswell with me. I gather you don't want it."

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "What incident?"

"It happened just as Valenti and I were.....'talking'," Owens said. "Ironically, if I hadn't been discovered, I wouldn't have been able to obtain the photographs I did; instead, I would have been assigned to corral the public, or something like that. As it was, I was free to use the roof of a nearby building to get some very good shots of the body."

Owens kept a neutral expression as Lewis' eyebrows shot skyward at the word "body". "What happened?" he demanded. "Who died?"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I no longer work for the FBI."

Owens' eyes flicked toward Cates, who was goggle-eyed. "Excuse me?" Lewis said in a strangled voice, the beginnings of a right royal tantrum tugging at the edges of his voice. "What did you say?"

"I'm sorry; was I unclear?" Owens said calmly. "What I meant was, 'Give me my job back, and I'll tell you'."

Owens remained stock still as Lewis came around the desk and planted himself directly in front of him. "Agent, I'm ordering you to hand over any information collected in the performance of your duties."

"But I'm not an agent any more," Owens said regretfully. "You just fired me, remember?"

"You were an agent when you collected that information!" Lewis snapped.

"Then perhaps you fired me a bit....prematurely," Owens suggested, looking Lewis directly in the eye. "As it stands now, I do not work for the FBI, and you are not in a position to give me orders."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Owens held his ground as Cates wisely took a step backwards and Lewis came even closer, no easy task given that they were already nearly toe to toe. "How dare you," he breathed, the odor of whatever he'd had for lunch surrounding every word. "How dare you expose yourself to the local and then act like you deserve to—"

"I didn't 'expose myself to the local'," Owens interrupted. "You did."

"Oh, so now this is my fault?" Lewis said incredulously. "I can't wait to hear this fairy tale."

"No fairy tale, sir," Owens said. "Just a sheriff doing his job. Valenti told me I hadn't done a thing to tip him off. He was digging into the backgrounds of his temporary deputies because of that alien whatsis we stole from him, and mine didn't hold up. That would be the background you planted, sir. I had nothing to do with it."

"My covers are impeccable," Lewis insisted.

"Apparently not impeccable enough for that 'idiot sheriff'," Owens said softly.

"Irrelevant," Lewis declared. "You were exposed. It doesn't matter how."

"Like hell it doesn't," Owens retorted. "I took a potentially catastrophic situation and turned it to our advantage. Valenti tossed me in a holding cell when he got word about the body, but I picked the lock, obtained valuable information, and brought it directly to you. Give me an hour to develop the film and print the pictures, and you'll be on the phone to the Director and handing him another discovery. You'd be a fool to pass that up."

Silence. Lewis' eyes bored into Owens', and he returned the stare unblinking. After what seemed like a lifetime but was probably only a minute, Lewis broke into a wide smile.

"Quite so," he said briskly, returning to his seat.

Owens looked at Cates, who gave him a baffled shrug. "Does that mean I have my job back, sir?"

"Of course you do," Lewis said. "I don't want wimps in my unit, agent. I want men who can think on their feet and who are interested enough to fight for their positions. You have just demonstrated both. What do you have for me?"

"A dead actress sir," Owens said, carefully keeping the elation out of his voice. "She was discovered burned to a crisp in an alley in Roswell. The local doctor thought it might be a lightning strike even though the weather was clear. I recall you referencing similar deaths from your time in the military."

Lewis tapped his pencil on his desk for a moment before rising from his chair and heading for a file cabinet. A minute later, he produced several photographs which he arrayed on his desk. Cates glanced at them briefly before looking away.

"Do you mean like this?"

"Exactly like this, sir," Owens said. "It's them. It's the aliens."

"And you have photographs of this latest murder?"

"Close-ups," Owens answered. "I keep a telephoto lens in my car."

"Outstanding," Lewis said approvingly. "I had my doubts about you, agent, but no more. I want those prints ASAP."

"I'll get the film right away, sir," Owens said, waiting until he was all the way out into the parking lot before pumping his fist in the air.




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



On the set of "They Are Among Us",

Roswell




"All right, everyone, just calm down!" Morty Steinfeld exclaimed. "Getting all hysterical isn't going to help one bit. We still have a movie to finish—"

"How can you think about the movie at a time like this?" one of the costumers demanded tearfully. "Audrey's dead! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Of course it does, Brivari thought. It means his production schedule is now in jeopardy. That Steinfeld didn't have a sentimental bone in his body was underscored by the fact that the news of Audrey's death had left him more annoyed than shocked. The director predictably shared this viewpoint, although the rest of the cast and crew did not judging by the tearful faces ringing the producer. To Steinfeld, Audrey was nothing more than a tool, and a misplaced tool at that.

"They said she was burned," one of the make-up artists whispered.

"How could she have burned?" another asked. "Did someone set her on fire?"

"Charlie said someone killed her," a crew member offered.

"Please, please!" Steinfeld broke in. "We don't know what's going on. Mr. Dean is still speaking with the sheriff, who tells me that Miss Tate's body is being autopsied. We don't know what happened, and until we do, we should continue with our work—"

"You expect us to just go on like nothing's happened?" one of the women wailed. "We can't do that!"

*Emotional, aren't they?*

Brivari had to make an effort to stifle his anger before answering. *I gather you have a problem with that?* he said coldly.

*It's their greatest weakness,* Jaddo observed as though he were taking notes on rats in a maze. *Emotion clouds judgment.*

*An interesting observation given that emotion has impaired your judgment twice now. Stop sounding like Pierce with one of his experiments, and report.*

There was a pause. *Dean is indeed with the enforcer,* Jaddo said, apparently deciding to forego another verbal sparring match for the moment. *No doubt he has already told his tale.*

Then we are too late, Brivari thought heavily. If they had managed to reach Dean before he spoke to anyone, they could have silenced him; doing so now would only arouse further suspicion. *The enforcer will undoubtedly come looking for you,* Jaddo continued. *We should be certain not to show the faces we were wearing at the time. You need to leave at once.*

*No.*

Another pause. *No?* Jaddo echoed. *What do you mean, 'no'? If you are recognizable, the enforcer will interrogate you.*

*I am aware of that.*

*If you are aware of that, then you are also aware of the need for invisibility,* Jaddo said impatiently.

*Odd that you would be lecturing me about invisibility after killing a woman in broad daylight by what the humans will consider suspicious means,* Brivari said acidly. *But then you do seem to be having trouble thinking beyond the moment these days.*

*This is no time for argument,* Jaddo said severely. *If this is some kind of retaliation for removing your lover—*

*For the third time, she was not my lover, and any retaliation I would employ would be unmistakable,* Brivari retorted. *This is simple strategy, something that escapes you of late. If Dean has fingered 'Langley', then having 'Langley' disappear would immediately start the humans thinking of foul play. Only Langley's exoneration will steer them toward more pedestrian explanations.*

*You can't be serious!* Jaddo exclaimed. *Brivari, we have to leave—*

"Correction—we have to minimize the trail we leave,* Brivari interrupted. *What's happened to you, Jaddo? When did you lose the ability to think several moves ahead of your opponent?*

*I haven't,* Jaddo retorted. *They can't identify us, so any 'trail' is useless to them.*

*Is that why you've had Lewis under surveillance these past weeks? Because any trail is useless to them?*

*What does Lewis have to do with this?* Jaddo demanded. *You need to leave at once and abandon that face—*

"There's the sheriff!" someone called.

It was indeed the sheriff, holding up his hands for silence as the crew crowded around him, begging for information. "I'm sorry I don't have anything to tell you at this time," Valenti said. "I know you've all had a big shock, and you want answers. I'll see that you get them just as soon as I have any to give. We're still investigating what happened, and that's why I'm here. I need to speak to a number of different people, and I'd like to start with a clapper loader, someone named 'Langley'. Anyone know where he is?"




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



I'll post Chapter 45 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE




August 19, 1959, 5:30 p.m.,

On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"So you maintain that you never had an altercation with Mr. Dean?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "On the contrary, I gave you a detailed account of an altercation with Mr. Dean just this morning at a local diner. It is the alleged events of this afternoon that did not take place."

"Right," Valenti said slowly, rifling through pages of scribbled notes in his little notebook. "I have that here. My mistake."

Unlikely, Brivari thought even as he nodded cordially. Roswell's sheriff was very adept at the classic investigator's gambit of repeating one's words with slight alterations and waiting to see if you corrected them. A useful tactic for ferreting our lies, if a tricky one, since too many alleged memory lapses could make one appear incompetent.

"So this confrontation in the alley, you attacking him.....that never happened?"

"No."

"Are you saying he made it up?"

"It's quite possible that Mr. Dean did have an altercation with someone, just not me," Brivari answered. "He has been known to....imbibe.....somewhat earlier in the day than most."

Valenti said nothing, but nodded almost imperceptibly. Brivari had already learned from chatter on the set that Dean had been drinking quite heavily that morning, and it was highly unlikely the sheriff had missed that.

"Do you have any witnesses to your whereabouts at the time of the attack?" Valenti asked.

"I was with Carl Smith."

"The handyman? I'll need to talk to him."

"Of course."

Brivari waited patiently while Valenti continued scribbling in silence, casting the occasional surreptitious glance Brivari's way. Or what he thought was a surreptitious glance. Another investigative tactic was to allow long stretches of silence in the hopes that the less than truthful would lose their nerve and babble, giving themselves away in the process. And it was working, if not on the intended target.

*Explain to me again why you're doing this?* Jaddo said impatiently.

*Congratulations,* Brivari deadpanned. *He's trying to break me with his silence, but he broke you instead.*

*I am no stranger to silence,* Jaddo retorted. *I simply do not understand why you would endanger us like this.*

*Says the one who just endangered us,* Brivari noted.

*Even if you could have 'explained' it to her, the movie is almost finished and she would have been leaving soon,* Jaddo said. *Would you really have been willing to let her go, knowing what she knew?*

*What makes you think I would have told her the truth?* Brivari demanded. *There are so many other ways this could have been handled. Once again, I am left to mop up your messes.*

*There would be no mess if you would just change your face and leave this place,* Jaddo argued.

*Dean has already told his tale,* Brivari reminded him. *My leaving now would lend credence to his claims. Our best course of action is to discredit him, and I can only do that if I remain.*

*You do realize that he's going to be telling his story to more than just the sheriff the very moment they release him, don't you?*

*And there is not a shred of evidence to back him up,* Brivari answered. *No witnesses, no physical evidence of any kind. We all agreed it was best to simply say it never happened and allow the lack of evidence to bolster our story instead of his. The sheriff is familiar with Malik, so he will accept the alibi he provides.*

*I never agreed it was 'best' to say anything,* Jaddo objected. *Dean's story will still point the finger at you, so if the military does come calling, they will investigate you. Assuming you're still foolish enough to be here, that is.*

*Which I won't be as soon as the movie is finished,* Brivari said. * 'Langley' will leave with the rest of the crew, and that will be the end of that. And if you're worried about what the military will find, perhaps you should think about that before you dispose of a human in broad daylight.*

*I would have had no need to dispose of anyone if you had not involved yourself with them in the first place!* Jaddo exclaimed. *Stop blaming this entirely on me.*

*Why are you here, Jaddo?* Brivari demanded. *Shouldn't you be at the base, watching for Lewis to get wind of this latest of your indiscretions?*

*So now you want me at the base?*

*Anywhere but here would be preferable,* Brivari said sourly.

"You okay?"

Brivari's attention snapped back to Valenti, who was watching him curiously. He couldn't hear their telepathic conversation, of course, but his sharp eyes hadn't missed the look on Brivari's face. "Not entirely," Brivari replied, hoping that confirming at least some of Valenti's suspicions would mollify him. "How could I be when Miss Tate is dead and Mr. Dean is pointing the finger at me?"

Valenti tucked his notebook back in his pocket. "Did you have a....relationship with Miss Tate, Mr. Langley?"

"We were colleagues. Friendly colleagues."

"I meant a romantic relationship," Valenti clarified.

"No," Brivari replied, "although I'd wager Mr. Dean feels otherwise. He never liked it when she spoke to anyone else, especially other men, nor did he approve of her spending time with anyone besides him, even female companions."

"Like when she joined you for breakfast this morning?"

"Exactly. He refused an offer to join us, and insisted Audrey leave our table."

" 'Audrey'," Valenti echoed. "You were on a first name basis with Miss Tate?"

"Only in private," Brivari said smoothly. "I would never have addressed her that way in public."

"So you had a.....'private' relationship with her?"

*Oh, wonderful, Brivari,* Jaddo said acidly. *Nicely done.*

*Perhaps if you would stop harassing me in the midst of an interrogation, these missteps wouldn't occur!* Brivari snapped, careful to keep his expression neutral. "If you are referring to a romantic relationship, I've already answered that question," he continued out loud to the sheriff. "I was merely pointing out that the way one behaves in public with one's colleagues is frequently different than the way one behaves in private. I would never refer to Mr. Steinfeld by his first name in public, for example, whereas in private is another matter entirely."

"I see," Valenti nodded, rising from his seat. "Well.....I think I have everything I need for now. Where will I find you if I have any further questions?"

"I have an apartment in town until filming is finished," Brivari answered. "With a Mrs. Bruce."

Valenti's eyes widened slightly for just a moment....and then the moment was gone. "Mrs. Bruce," he repeated. "I know her. Nice lady."

"Very nice," Brivari agreed.

"Thank you for your time, and I'll be in touch if I need anything else," Valenti said, tipping his hat. "Good day to you."

"To you as well," Brivari replied. He watched the sheriff approach Steinfeld, saw the camera crew being assembled. They must be next on the list.

*Did you see that?* Jaddo asked quietly.

*Of course I saw that,* Brivari answered. *I have no idea why the location of my apartment would give the sheriff pause.*

*Has anything happened there recently?*

*Not that I know of.*

*Well, something set him off,* Jaddo said warily. *And we'd best find out what.*




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



Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"We shouldn't be doing this," Courtney argued. "Not yet."

"It's not up for discussion," Michael answered.

"We should talk to Malik first," Courtney insisted. "Doing anything without him is a mistake."

"I don't need a Covari babysitter," Michael said coldly.

"I was thinking more along the lines of getting his opinion," Courtney said pointedly. "And wasn't it you, Papa, who told me to get close to him and avoid offending him?"

"I told you to avoid offending the Warders' human allies, who understandably don't realize the true nature of Covari," Michael corrected. "That's a long way from taking orders from them."

"Who said anything about taking orders?" Courtney said crossly. "He knows the Warders, so I just want to know what he thinks."

"I don't care what it thinks," Michael announced.

"Don't let Dee hear you call him 'it'," Courtney warned. "That's looked on as demeaning in human culture. They consider Covari to be the same as them or us, remember?"

"And when I am in the presence of human allies, I will, of course, follow their conventions," Michael answered. "I notice you're following them even outside of their presence. Watch yourself, daughter. You sound like you're buying into the illusion, especially when you place the opinion of a Covari over that of your own father."

Courtney felt her face growing warm. "I didn't say that. I just said I wanted to know what...it.....thought. I don't even know what that is, so you can't say I'm taking that opinion over yours."

"We're digressing," Nathaniel said as Michael opened his mouth to continue the argument. "We all know Nicholas, so we all know there is value in the preemptive strike. We shouldn't wait any longer. We need to get there first."

Courtney sighed as her father and Nathaniel positioned themselves in front of her father's trithium generator. She'd been living here for two months now and was in the best position to know exactly how much Malik's advice was worth, but her father just swept her aside like some wet-behind-the-ears recruit. And if that wasn't irritating enough, she was surprised and not a little disturbed to find his attitude toward Malik equally irritating. Granted, Malik was Covari, but that was merely reason for caution, not license to simply dismiss him, a foolish attitude given that he was closer to the Warders than anyone. And—

And I'm doing it again, she thought with a start as her father activated his communicator. Even in the privacy of her own thoughts, she was labeling Malik a "he" though she knew perfectly well that "he" was no such thing. Perhaps she'd been around Dee too long. Perhaps she was losing sight of some basic truths.

A hologram of Nicholas' face formed over the generator. "Michael! What have you got for me?"

"News," Michael replied. "We're in Roswell, and....there has been a death."

Nicholas leaned forward eagerly. "The Warders?"

Or perhaps my system of measurement has been recalibrated, Courtney amended silently, disgusted by the avid look in Nicholas' eyes. Some people thrived on violence, were invigorated by it, and this was one of them. She would never say this out loud, but Nicholas was far more deserving of the human designation "it" than Malik.

"We're not sure," Nathaniel answered. "There is no handprint as there was with Pierce, but the circumstances are apparently under discussion."

"We'd like to stay in Roswell and investigate before continuing north," Michael added. "If there's any chance this is the work of a Warder, we shouldn't waste time chasing stolen communicators."

"Agreed," Nicholas said. "What about Crist? Have you found him?"

Courtney felt rather than saw her father stiffen slightly. "Not yet, but we've only just arrived. We plan to visit his apartment today."

"Let me know as soon as you talk to him," Nicholas said. "I don't like it when my operatives leave their equipment around for humans to find." He cocked his head sideways. "You're looking good, Courtney. Miss me?"

"Not even remotely," Courtney said promptly.

"Such a tough customer," Nicholas sighed. "Most women love me. But I have to hand it to you—you were right. They're somewhere up there, just like you said they were. That makes putting up with your mouth worth it. Let me know as soon as you have further information."

The hologram faded, and Michael rounded on her. "Must you antagonize him?" he snapped. "After the mess you've gotten me into, the last thing I need is to have you anger the very person we're trying to deceive!"

"Do you think I'm some sort of idiot?" Courtney protested. "I always antagonize him, Papa. He expects it. He even enjoys it. If I came off any differently, he'd notice. I thought the point was to not attract attention."

"Antagonizing Nicholas is attracting attention," her father retorted. "Don't do that again. Honestly, what is the matter with you? Two months of independence, and you're reckless and argumentative."

"That two months of independence is two months of experience," Courtney countered, "experience with both Covari and their allies. We shouldn't be doing this without consulting Malik."

"I've led the resistance since its inception, so forgive me if your two months of experience fail to impress me," Michael said sharply. "You know perfectly well that if Nicholas had heard of the death here from some other source, he would want to know why we hadn't reported it. He has now heard it from us first, and we've secured permission to stay here longer, which gives us more breathing room for our real task. For your information, I'm not an 'idiot' either."

"I never said you were," Courtney said impatiently, "but this should stop here. The rest of it is a mistake."

"I disagree. And since I am the senior officer here, not to mention your father, it's my decision to make."

Courtney threw a pleading look Nathaniel's way, but Nathaniel only shook his head. "They must be warned," he said gently. "Surely you can see that."

"Then let Malik decide how to warn them," Courtney pleaded.

"If Malik does the warning, has it not occurred to you that he might not survive?" Nathaniel pointed out. "This protects him as well as us."

"If you disagree, you are welcome to not participate," Michael added. "Given the way you're behaving, I'd rather you didn't."

Courtney's lips set in a thin line. "Fine. But I want it on record that I felt that proceeding without further counsel was a mistake."

"Noted," her father said flatly. "Goodbye."

Courtney closed her eyes and leaned against the door as her father and Nathaniel left the apartment, the latter giving her a sympathetic look on the way out. If only she knew where to find Malik, but she had no idea where he'd be in the middle of a crisis. Perhaps Emily would know? Would it be prudent to interrupt Dee in the middle of a shift when she'd done so only yesterday? Would Dee even care after her father had been so rude to her earlier? Was it fair to drag the Proctors into what was really a private dispute? Perhaps she could just wander around and hope to find "Carl", or maybe someone could tell her where he was.

Startled, Courtney's eyes flew open. Had she really just considered betraying her father's intentions to a Covari?



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



Roswell Sheriff's Station





"Thanks for your time, Carl," Valenti said. "If I need to talk to you again, I'll let you know."

"Glad to help," Carl replied, nodding to Hanson on his way out of the office.

"How's the press behaving?" Valenti asked.

"They've backed off, for the moment at least," Hanson replied. "What'd Carl have to say?"

"He says our clapper loader was with him after the movie set broke for lunch," Valenti answered. "No surprise there. What have you got?"

"The names of the waitresses who were at the diner this morning," Hanson said, handing over a sheet of paper. "Everyone there now is "B" shift. Want me to interview them?"

Valenti glanced over the names before shaking his head. "I'll do it."

"Let me, sir," Hanson urged. "You've had a rough day, and I'm sure Andi would like to see you for dinner at least one day this week, not to mention Jimmy."

"Relax, Hanson," Valenti said. "I'm on my way home. I'll talk to the diner employees tomorrow morning. It's no big deal because I'm pretty sure I've heard the story already from the movie crew. A number of them saw Dean go after Miss Tate this morning, and those accounts match, so I can't imagine the story will change much."

"Jesus, Dean must have been more drunk than he looked," Hanson said in disgust. "Did he really think anyone was going to believe a tall tale like that?"

Valenti sat back in his chair, tapping his pencil on the desk. "Part of it's true. There was something going on between the clapper loader and Miss Tate. Oh, he says there wasn't, but plenty of other crew members tell a different story."

"You mean an affair?"

"I'm not sure," Valenti admitted. "People said they spent a lot of time together prior to Dean's arrival, although all of them stopped short of calling it an affair."

"Maybe Langley just doesn't want to tarnish her reputation," Hanson said. "Or his. If there was something going on, it would go a long way toward explaining why Dean's trying to blame him for Miss Tate's death, even if he is doing an awful job of it. And in the end, it doesn't matter if there was hanky panky; that's not illegal. There's no evidence to support Dean's story that he was attacked, and the clapper loader has an alibi, so we're done."

"Not quite," Valenti said. "We still have a woman dead by mysterious means."

"Doc said it was lightning," Hanson reminded him. "What else could it have been?"

"On a sunny day, and no one heard it? How's that work, exactly?"

"Not sure," Hanson admitted, "but stranger things have happened. Turn it around—how could someone have pulled off a murder like that?"

Valenti was quiet for a moment, the pencil tap tapping against the desk. "I don't know," he said finally. "I really don't. But I'd still like the autopsy report before I write it off to some freak accident."

"Suit yourself, sir. What do you want me to do with Dean?"

"Hold him until morning," Valenti said. "That way I can deal with the resulting antics in daylight."

"Will do. Need anything else before I go?"

Valenti shook his head. "Go on home. I'm right behind you." And not convinced, he added silently, fingering the list of names as Hanson left. Courtney Harris' name was on that list, the same Courtney Harris who also lived in Ruth Bruce's rooming house along with Langley. The very same rooming house where Mark Green used to live, he of the exploding body and weird cells that still had Dr. Blake on the edge of his seat, kept at bay only by the promise that Valenti would give the Green case his full attention just as soon as Hollywood pulled up stakes. But why would he think there was a connection there? Miss Harris' reticence to talk had turned out to be nothing more than her running from her father, and there was no denying that Langley had an airtight alibi; Carl Smith was well respected in town, had been since he'd arrived back in 1950.

.......1950....... The year the military had lost an alien prisoner, and both Roswell and the surrounding area had come under siege as they tried to find him. But they never had......

Stop it, Valenti ordered himself severely as he reached for his hat. This was ridiculous. He usually excelled at connecting the dots, but these dots were so faint, they were almost invisible. He had far more important dots to connect, and he practiced his speech all the way home, still working on the last nuances as he pulled into his driveway, only to have the whole thing fly right out of his head when he saw his wife standing in the front doorway. But she didn't look mad, thank God; just worried.

"I didn't think we'd be seeing you for a while," Andi said. "Is it true what I've been hearing, that someone was killed downtown today? What happened?"

"Looks like a freak lightning strike," Valenti answered.

"How could it be a lightning strike? Was it raining over by you?"

"Never mind that now," Valenti said, pulling her into the kitchen. "Andi, I....I found a spy in my station today."

"A 'spy'?" Andi echoed. "What kind of spy?"

"A deputy who wasn't a deputy, who didn't even exist," Valenti answered. "Whoever laid his cover did a good enough job that it took some doing to peel off the varnish. That's what I've been doing all this time, why I haven't been home much. I've been checking on all those temporary deputies I have, and this one came up bad."

"Oh, my God!" Andi exclaimed. "What was he doing there? Where did he come from?"

"He wouldn't tell me," Valenti said. "Said I didn't want to know. I locked him up, but he escaped while we were all out on the lightning strike call."

"Good Lord," Andi breathed, sinking into a kitchen chair. "Do you think he's the one who stole from your office?"

"He wouldn't admit it, but I'm sure of it," Valenti said.

"But why would someone be spying on you? What's so all-fired important in Roswell that someone would go to all that trouble to plant a fake deputy?" Andi paused, eyeing him closely. "Jim—what was it that was stolen?"

"I'm not sure what it was," Valenti admitted, "but I have my suspicions. And if I'm right, that explains the fake deputy."

"What suspicions?" Andi persisted. "Look, I know I'm not supposed to pry, but this is serious. A month ago you came home asking if anyone strange had been to the house, but you never said why, never explained—"

The doorbell rang. "Don't move," Andi ordered. "I'll get rid of them." She disappeared, returning a minute later with a puzzled look. "It's for you. Someone named 'Sanchez'. He says it can't wait."

Valenti stood stock still for a moment before vaulting out of the kitchen with Andi on his heels. It was indeed "Sanchez" on his doorstep, now dressed in a dark suit instead of a uniform. "Sheriff," he nodded. "I apologize for the intrusion, but—"

"Which one?" Valenti interrupted sharply. "The current variety, or the six weeks you spent at my station impersonating a deputy?"

Andi's eyes widened as Sanchez's dropped. "Is this true?" she demanded. "Are you the spy?"

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here," Valenti said angrily.

"Sheriff, I understand you're angry, and you have a right to be," Sanchez said, "but if you'd just let me explain—"

"The only thing I'll 'just let you explain' is who the hell you're working for!" Valenti exclaimed.

As if on cue, a figure appeared behind Sanchez, another man in a dark suit who stepped in from the side. "Perhaps I could be of some assistance," the man said smoothly, presenting identification. "I am Agent Bernard Lewis of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe you've met Agent Owens, albeit by a different name. We have much to discuss, sheriff. May we come inside?"




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"What happened?" Brivari asked when Malik arrived at the apartment.

"He believed me," Malik answered. "I hung around the station for a while longer. Dean accused you and an accomplice of attacking him, and then going after the actress. They found his knife, but since there were no prints on it and no signs of a struggle, his story's been discounted."

"Did his story include some of the more unusual things he saw?" Brivari asked.

"I don't know," Malik said, taking a seat. "No one mentioned that. They did mention that Dean had been drinking, so if he did say anything about you using your abilities, it was probably written off to his being drunk. They're holding him overnight, presumably because he threatened you."

"I told you he'd be a problem," Jaddo said from his position beside the window, peering out as though expecting an invasion. "No doubt he'll be spouting his tale at the top of his lungs when he's released. What did the sheriff ask you about how you know Brivari?"

"Not much," Malik replied. "I told him we met at Parker's, where he already knows we both eat."

"Did he ask you if you knew where Brivari lived?"

"No. Why?"

Brivari and Jaddo exchanged glances. "When he questioned me earlier, the sheriff appeared to hesitate upon learning of my address," Brivari said. "Do you have any idea why he would consider this place suspect?"

Plenty, Malik thought wearily. Every time he thought they were getting on top of this latest disaster, he was wrong. Valenti knew that Mark Green's body had disintegrated in a very odd way, and the town's doctor had told him point blank that body had alien cells. And Green's apartment was now occupied by Courtney, whom Valenti supposedly no longer suspected, but had at one time. He now had a dead body with alien cells in an upstairs apartment and a man accused of fantastic power in a downstairs apartment at the same address. Knowing Valenti, there was no way he would miss that confluence of events. This whole situation was rapidly sliding downhill.

"No," Malik said, careful to keep his expression puzzled. "I have no idea why he'd be interested in where you're living."

"It was probably nothing," Brivari said.

"But we don't know that," Jaddo persisted, "and I, for one, don't wish to linger to find out. Our hands are tied with Dean; removing him now is much too risky. Have your 'Langley' quit his job, change your face, and disappear."

Malik shook his head. "That would be even worse than having something happen to Dean. What would it look like if Brivari is fingered and then immediately vanishes? Even without evidence, that would be the worst thing he could do. His disappearance would become evidence."

"Finally, someone with vision," Brivari said darkly. " 'Langley' will stay put and give the lie to anything Dean says until the movie has finished filming, at which point he will logically disappear along with the rest of the cast and crew. And if you don't like that, Jaddo, perhaps you should consider the ramifications of your temper the next time you decide to have an outburst."

Malik heaved a private sigh of relief as Jaddo gave a disgruntled snort, but didn't argue. He would never have breathed a word of this, but he was surprised at how unwilling he was to entertain the notion of changing his own face. If 'Langley' came under any real suspicion, it was likely that the alibi 'Carl' had provided would come under similar suspicion, and it wasn't a giant leap from that point to where 'Carl' would have to disappear as well....and he didn't want to. He'd been so comfortable here for the past ten years with friends, a thriving business, and a level of peace and acceptance unavailable to him at home. The thought of losing that had made his encounter with Valenti most uncomfortable....and that discomfort made him even more uncomfortable. Shifting was a Covari's stock in trade, the ability to change one's identity whenever one wished or the occasion called for it. Emotional investment in an adopted identity was unwise for the very reason he was now conflicted; the prospect of leaving it behind became difficult to bear.

But I might have to, Malik thought sadly. The peace of the last decade had been shattered this summer, first by Pierce's death, then Courtney's arrival, and now this. And soon, very soon, he would need to find a way to tell the Warders that the Argilian resistance was here. That would cause fireworks which might well make "Carl Smith's" existence untenable, however much he might wish to hang onto that. And then there was that little matter of what he'd just witnessed at Valenti's house. This day was getting worse by the minute.

Someone knocked on the door. Everyone exchanged wary glances before Brivari answered it.

"Good evening, Mr. Langley," Mrs. Bruce smiled. "Leroy delivered this for you."

"Leroy?"

"Our postman," Mrs. Bruce explained, handing him an envelope. "Someone brought this to the post office just as it was closing, and he goes by here on his way home, so he dropped it off. I said I'd make sure you got it. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not," Brivari said. "Thank you kindly."

"What is that?" Jaddo asked suspiciously when the landlady had left.

"I have no idea," Brivari said, tearing open the letter, scanning the contents. "I don't get 'mail'."

A moment later he went rigid, his eyes widening. "What is it?" Jaddo demanded as Malik rose from his chair in alarm. "Who sent it?"

Brivari said nothing, merely handed the letter to Jaddo and walked away, gazing out the window in what appeared to be a state of shock. Worried, Malik leaned in closer to read.....


To the Royal Warders,


We are members of the Argilian resistance. We share common cause in that we also wish to remove Khivar from the throne and restore peace and prosperity to Antar. Recent events have convinced us that you should be made aware that we have learned of your presence here. Athenor, who goes by the name of Nicholas, is not yet aware of it, but he suspects. We have misled him as best we can, but if you continue to draw attention to yourselves, it will only be a matter of time before he locates you.

Be advised that all Argilians wear husks, a bioengineered life form that mimics human skin and renders us unidentifiable on sight. We are also equipped with devices capable of both identifying you and disabling your enhancements. It is imperative that you do nothing further to give away your position or attract the attention of the many Argilian operatives stationed in this area of the planet.

It is our fervent hope that reports of the Royal Four's impending resurrection are true, and we stand ready to assist in their protection in any way we can. We will contact you when it is safe to arrange a meeting.



Malik looked up at the Warders in shock, his worst fears confirmed.

"And so it begins," Brivari whispered.




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



I'll post Chapter 46 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!

Misha wrote:That guy just creeps me out...

You and Andi Valenti both. Read on.

Misha wrote:I still miss Audrey.... sniff, sniff...

Oh, good! Well, not good that you're sniffing, but good that you miss her. I spent time with her because I wanted her death to mean something. I have a thing about that; when I kill people off, I want it to mean something.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


August 19, 1959, 7:15 p.m.

Valenti residence



Flabbergasted, Jim Valenti stood at his front door with his wife beside him no less flabbergasted than he was. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI had planted an agent in his station with nary a word to him, and now they had the gall to stand on his doorstep and try to make nice.

"Let me make certain I understand you correctly," Valenti said, struggling to control his temper. "You snuck an agent into my station—my station—under false pretenses, and now you expect me to let you into my house? Why in the name of all that's holy would I do that?"

"Please, sheriff," Lewis said placatingly. "You're law enforcement, we're law enforcement. We're on the same side."

"You could've fooled me!" Valenti exclaimed. "People who are 'on the same side' don't typically lie to each other."

"I am not of the opinion that I 'lied'," Lewis said. "Agent Owens is with the Federal Bureau of Investigation; in other words, federal police. That makes him the equivalent of one of your deputies, which was how he presented to you, and is the office he's filled these past six weeks. Would you rate his performance in that office as satisfactory?"

Yes, Valenti admitted silently, the word sticking in his craw even though it remained unspoken. Owens, or "Sanchez", had been an exemplary deputy: Calm, astute, punctual, and always willing to fill in for others when necessary. In light of recent information, that last was perhaps not as praiseworthy as it would have seemed; the more "Sanchez" worked, the more he was likely to have learned.

"Nice try," Valenti said, "but a lie is a lie, and jurisdiction is jurisdiction....and the FBI doesn't have jurisdiction in Roswell. Why did you put him here?"

"To gather information," Lewis replied. "He was not to interfere with your jurisdiction in any way."

"Oh, really? So stealing from a locked desk drawer in my office doesn't constitute 'interference'?"

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about," Lewis answered calmly.

"Like hell you don't," Valenti retorted. "I wonder if your memory will improve when I file a complaint with your superiors."

Lewis smiled faintly. "Sheriff, believe me when I say that would be a very bad idea."

"Is that a threat?" Valenti demanded.

"An observation," Lewis corrected, "but you're certainly free to take it any way you like. Just remember, I warned you."

"Thanks a heap," Valenti said sourly. "Now, get off my doorstep."

"Sheriff, please," Owens broke in as Valenti began to close the door. "I convinced Agent Lewis to approach you because I have a great deal of respect for your investigational skills....and we need your help."

"Of course you do," Valenti said sarcastically. "His man's been made, and now he 'needs my help'. How convenient."

"This concerns the citizens of your jurisdiction, sheriff," Lewis said. "Surely you can set your personal disappointments aside for the safety of those with whom you were entrusted when you took your oath of office?"

Valenti's eyes narrowed as he stepped onto the porch, nose to nose with Lewis. "How dare you stand here and lecture me about oaths when you're the one lying through your teeth. I'm not the only one who took an oath, agent, and you don't seem to have had any trouble ignoring yours. Were you always this much of a hypocrite, or is that something you had to learn to join the FBI?"

Valenti felt Andi stiffen beside him as Owens paled and Lewis' face darkened. "I'm not interested in a philosophical discussion," Lewis said coldly, "and spare me the grade school theatrics. Do you really mean to tell me that you've always been forthcoming during an investigation? That you've never kept anything to yourself, never bent the rules even slightly to find out what you needed to know? But of course you have. If not, you wouldn't have those excellent investigational skills Agent Owens speaks so highly of. Stop posturing as some sort of law enforcement saint, and hear us out."

"Get lost," Valenti answered.

Lewis' eyes flashed. "Would you prefer we do this the hard way?"

"Why, you piece of shit!" Valenti snapped. "You—"

"Jim," Andi warned.

"—lie to me, you steal from me, and now you have the nerve to stand on my doorstep and threaten me? I should throw you both in a cell—"

"Jim!"

"—stark naked so you won't have anywhere to hide a lock pick. Nowhere comfortable, that is."

"Jim!"

Andi jerked his arm for emphasis this time, turning him halfway around. Jimmy was halfway down the stairs, watching the angry grown-ups in front of him with wide eyes. How long had he been standing there? Didn't matter. Any length of time was too long.

"This is work business, son," Valenti said, his voice a study in barely suppressed rage. "Go back upstairs."

"But—"

"Your father's right, honey," Andi said. "Go back upstairs."

Jimmy cast a longing look at the two men at the door before reluctantly retreating. "Get off my property," Valenti said just as soon as his son was out of sight, "and out of my town."

"If you insist," Lewis said. "But you won't like the result."

"No!" Owens exclaimed. "This isn't the way to do it! Sheriff, you need to listen to us. I'm sorry we went behind your back, but—"

"Out," Valenti ordered.

"—we need to work together. Yes, I know that sounds hypocritical, but it's the truth. If—"

"Out!"

"—we don't work together, you'd be letting a potentially dangerous situation go unaddressed—"

"OUT!"

"Sheriff, the death in town today was not a natural death," Owens blurted out.

Four startled faces stared at Owens, especially Lewis, who looked fit to be tied. "What do you mean not 'natural'?" Valenti demanded.

"Don't answer that," Lewis ordered.

"We have to," Owens insisted. "He needs to know."

"He doesn't want to know!" Lewis snapped.

"Know what?" Valenti asked suspiciously.

"Sir, he needs information in order to trust us," Owens argued. "You have to admit that he doesn't have much reason to."

"I don't care what he has 'reasons' for," Lewis retorted. "You will hold your tongue, do you hear me? That's an order!"

"Wait a minute," Valenti said. "Do you mean that now you don't want him to talk to me?"

"Did I not just ask several times for an audience?" Lewis said impatiently. "What upsets me is my agent blurting classified information on a public doorstep. That was indiscreet," he added with a dark look at Owens, "and I will deal with it later."

"Is stealing from my husband's office also considered 'indiscreet'?" Andi demanded.

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "Refresh my memory, sheriff—who is it that holds 'jurisdiction' in Roswell? You, or the little missus?"

"I apologize for Agent Lewis, Mrs. Valenti," Owens broke in before Andi could respond. "It's been a long day, and we're all a little on edge. I'm sure that several of the Bureau's actions appear....disconcerting. If you'd be so kind as to let us come in, we'll tell your husband why we found them necessary."

"No," Andi said firmly. "Take them down to the station, Jim. Take formal statements, have witnesses, make it official."

"That won't be possible," Lewis interjected. "It is imperative that the perpetrators not know of the FBI's interest in them. That's another reason my man was under cover, something you'd know already if you'd bothered to listen to us in the first place. We should leave," he added to Owens. "This was a mistake."

"Sheriff, please," Owens pleaded as Valenti hesitated.

"Jim, don't," Andi said fiercely. "They lie to you, they steal from you, and now you're actually considering letting them in our house? What makes you think you can trust anything they say?"

"Give me some credit, Andi," Valenti replied. "I know I can't trust them. I can't trust most of the people I arrest, either, but I still hear them out."

"How very kind of you to compare us to common criminals," Lewis said acidly. "And yet another reason we should leave as requested."

Valenti's eyes swept the faces in front of him, weighing his options. "I apologize," he said to Lewis, stepping back from the door. "I was hasty. Please, gentlemen.....come right in. I can't wait to hear what you have to say."

Owens didn't wait for a second invitation, vaulting past Valenti into the house, forcing a scowling Lewis to follow him. "I can't believe you did that," Andi breathed. "Tell me why you did that."

"Keep you friends close, and your enemies closer," Valenti murmured. "Strategy 101. Besides, it pisses him off. That alone is worth the price of admission."

"Just be careful," Andi sighed. "He makes my skin crawl."

"I will be," Valenti promised, kissing her lightly on the forehead. "Besides, what do I have to worry about? You'll have the guy in a half-Nelson if he tries anything."

She smiled ruefully as Valenti headed for the agents hovering in the living room. Neither noticed Jimmy peering around the corner of the upstairs hallway, listening intently.




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Explain to me why you would even consider contacting the Warders without checking with me first," Malik demanded.

"I have no need to 'explain' myself to you," Michael said coldly. "Be that as it may, I already have. Twice. For the third time, they needed to know they were being watched. The last time you gave 'advice', you advised my daughter to delay warning them of their peril because it wasn't a 'good time', and now look what's happened. There will never be a 'good time'. They would have been more careful had they known."

"You obviously don't know Jaddo very well," Malik argued. "Couldn't you have waited a few days until this died down?"

"A few days may have been too long," Michael insisted. "Nicholas may have—"

"Nicholas may never have known about it if you hadn't gone out of your way to tell him!" Malik exclaimed. "You didn't even know if the death was related to the Warders in the first place!"

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying it wasn't?"

Malik's furious silence provided the answer. Curled in a chair by her window, Courtney shivered involuntarily as the anger in the room washed over her. She was feeling especially sorry for Malik at the moment; he was truly caught in the middle between two opposing factions with no clear path ahead, a situation with which she was unfortunately familiar. She hadn't necessarily been against warning the Warders of the danger they didn't know was there, but she had been very much against doing so without at least telling Malik about it. Not that that had stopped her father. Her opinion didn't count for much with him these days.

"You would do well to remember that I am Nicholas' third, making me one of his most trusted advisors," her father continued. "He has contacts everywhere. I assure you he would have found out about the female's death with or without me. Telling him myself allowed me to control the situation."

"We told him we weren't sure of the details, and we will be certain to downplay the whole thing when we contact him again," Nathaniel added, standing off to the side and, like Courtney, largely avoiding the fray. "Hopefully he won't send any more operatives."

"And had he learned of this through other channels, he would have sent others immediately," Michael said. "I have headed the resistance since its inception, and have had to work around Nicholas for a very long time. Do keep that in mind before you spout off about things you know nothing about."

"Strange advice from someone who takes action on a subject he knows nothing about," Malik retorted. "Do you have any idea what havoc this is causing with the Warders? And what possessed you to include Brivari in your contact? Did you think he'd forget that your faction wanted Rath on the throne?"

"Involving Brivari would not have been my first choice, but he was the only one with an address," Michael countered. "The human postal system is so wonderfully anonymous. And they both need to refrain from calling attention to themselves because they are both in danger, and by extension so are their Wards. All their fates are linked."

"Papa," Courtney broke in before anyone else could say anything, "I believe Malik's principal objection is that you didn't tell him. You could still have gone through with it if he'd objected, but you blindsided him with it."

"And thereby saved his life," Michael argued. "If he had known, he would have had to keep that knowledge from them; this way he was every bit as surprised as they were, not to mention that I have relieved him of the burden of telling the Warders about us, a revelation he may very well not have survived. Now he need never admit to prior contact with any of us. I challenge anyone to argue that isn't better."

Malik sank down on Courtney's bed. "I'm right back where I was years ago," he said sadly. "Everyone at each other's throats, and me trying to keep you all alive. And we all know how well that worked out the last time."

Courtney glanced at Nathaniel, then her father. "Actually, we don't," she said, swinging around in her chair. "Not for certain. We know that Khivar received a transmission from a Covari operative on Earth that revealed Nicholas as the one who ordered the deaths of the royal family and implied he was trying to gain the throne. But when we got here, you were all gone. You told me the others died, but you didn't say how, or why you split from them in the first place."

Malik was quiet for a long time. Twice Michael opened his mouth, and twice Courtney threw him warning glances to silence him. The fate of Khivar's Covari operatives was largely a mystery to the Argilians. All they knew for certain was that the dust of two of them had been found on the floor of the basement chamber in their base at Copper Summit, now Nicholas' house. Which two, and exactly what had happened to the other two, remained unknown.

"Amar and I and three others went rogue because Zan and his father had broken faith with our people," Malik said at length, his hands working in front of him. "We put Riall on the throne, and in exchange he promised our people would not be used in research against their will. But they were. Not just criminals or defectives, but those he wanted to get rid of for one reason or another. His son continued that practice, and we had reason to believe we were being targeted as well. So we left. Or stayed behind, rather, on a visit here.

"We went to work for Khivar," Malik continued. "He sent a scientist, and we assisted him in the construction of seals for the husks you now wear. I felt like I was evening the score, providing a counterpoint to Zan's power. And then...." He paused, shaking his head. "Then the royal family was murdered, Khivar seized control....and everything changed. His paranoid behavior threatened all the five planets, and the news that his second was angling for the throne was even worse. But the last straw was Orlon murdering the emergents."

" 'Emergents'?" Michael echoed. "What 'emergents'?"

"Our payment for helping Khivar," Malik answered. "Covari born free of the genetic coding which impelled them to obey the king. Orlon felt they were tying us down, so he killed them and blamed it on Brivari. But we saw him, Marana and I, and discovered he was actually working for Nicholas. We had to run."

Courtney looked away, saw her father and Nathaniel do the same. The only reason Covari had been even slightly bearable was the assurance that the king could command them, could rein them in if necessary. The thought of unrestrained Covari running around anywhere was positively nauseating.

"If Orlon was working for Nicholas, why would he have sent a message which fingered his master as the Royal Four's assassin?" Nathaniel asked. "Did they have a falling out?"

"Amar sent that message," Malik said. "Or rather, he rigged a communicator to send it in Orlon's name should anyone besides Amar activate it. He was afraid Orlon would try to kill him. And he was right."

"But what happened to Orlon?" Michael asked.

"The communicator was set to emit a brief, but powerful blast of radiation," Malik answered. "It killed Orlon and Marana."

"That's what happened to Crist's communicator," Nathaniel murmured. "Nicholas learned that from a Covari."

"And Amar?" Courtney prodded.

Malik's eyes dropped. "Marana tried to get me to abandon Jaddo, who had only just escaped and was still vulnerable. When I wouldn't, she sided with Orlon, and she shot me, or tried to. Amar.....he jumped in front of the gun."

An uncomfortable silence followed before Michael finally spoke. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly.

"Like hell you are," Malik whispered.

Courtney threw her father yet another warning glance which shushed him just in time. Malik was right, of course. Anyone would rejoice at the notion of one less Covari in the universe. Anyone but her, perhaps, who found herself responding to the glaze of pain in Malik's eyes. God, but that looked like real sorrow.....

Stop it, she ordered herself severely. Here she was, getting caught up in the illusion again, and she felt another pang of sympathy for Dee having fallen for that illusion so completely. "So what's our next step?" she asked, changing the subject. "They know we're here, but they don't know who we are."

"And they shouldn't," Malik insisted. "They're already at each other's throats over the dead actress, and now this. Identify yourselves to them now, and you will not survive. And there will be nothing I can do to change that."

"I'm guessing this means they didn't exactly jump for joy at the news that the resistance is in town?" Courtney asked.

Malik leaned his head wearily against the wall. "Unfortunately, the resistance isn't the only one who's just come to town."



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




Valenti residence




"You're joking, right?"

"Do I look like I'm joking, sheriff?" Lewis asked.

Seated across from them, Valenti eyed Lewis warily, trying to decide if he was sincere or merely testing him. This was the second time today that someone had attributed Audrey Tate's death to an alien, although he was willing to grant that the accusation carried more heft when delivered by an FBI agent instead of an inebriated lovesick actor.

"So you expect me to believe that Tate's death was caused by an.....alien?" Valenti asked, infusing that last word with a large dose of skepticism. Multiple bad experiences had taught him to never admit belief in aliens. It had been hard enough to admit it to Raymond Blake, and he'd only done so because the doctor had gone out on that limb first.

"Sheriff, I would be deeply grateful if you would refrain from wasting any more of our mutually valuable time by pretending you aren't familiar with aliens," Lewis said. "I know better. And I know you know better."

"And what is it, exactly, that you think you...or rather, 'we'.....know?"

"July, 1947," Lewis said, pulling out a folder. "A truck driver was found burned to a crisp in a dumpster behind a truck stop, his truck missing. The truck was later found, along with the cargo, which had been removed. You were the deputy of record."

"Where did you get that—" Valenti began, only to fall silent when Agent Owens dropped his eyes. "Oh, yeah. I forgot. Your spy."

"I have a great deal more than that," Lewis said calmly. "The FBI has a file on every American, sheriff. Even you. Even me."

"Bet yours would be interesting reading," Valenti deadpanned. "But what does that have to do with aliens?"

"In July of '47, an alien ship crashed on Pohlman Ranch," Lewis answered. "Several soldiers were killed in the ensuing confrontations, some by being completely burned.....just like that truck driver. Just like Audrey Tate."

"You have documentation of this?" Valenti asked.

"I do not," Lewis answered. "Or none I can share."

"So I'm just supposed to take your word for it?"

"The point is that this is one of the ways aliens kill," Lewis said. "They've killed several people in this fashion, and now here's one more. You have an alien loose in your town, sheriff, quite possibly more than one. Doesn't that interest you?"

"What interests me is the length of time between these alleged alien murders," Valenti answered. "1947 was twelve years ago. Why'd they wait so long?"

Lewis and Owens exchanged glances. "We have reason to believe the aliens showed themselves elsewhere recently," Owens said.

"How?" Valenti asked.

"That's classified," Lewis answered.

"Classified," Valenti repeated slowly. "So.....after planting an agent in my station, you now want me to help you find an alleged alien murderer based on information which you cannot—or will not—share. For someone who wants my 'help', you're not being very forthcoming."

"I've already been more forthcoming than I should have been," Lewis said. "I didn't have leave to point out the true nature of Audrey Tate's death."

"Then why did you?" Valenti asked. "What does the mighty FBI want from me?"

"Your investigative skills," Owens answered, "and your familiarity. If we were to start asking questions, it would tip off the aliens. But if you do it, you're just the Roswell sheriff investigating a death in his town. You're much less likely to attract attention."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "You know, it's too bad I found out about you when I did, Agent Owens. As a Roswell deputy, you could have done a good bit of investigating yourself without attracting attention, isn't that right?" He watched with satisfaction as Owens flushed and Lewis' face clouded. "I'm still unclear as to why you want me to find your 'alien'," he continued. "It shouldn't be that hard to find a little green man wandering around Roswell."

"They don't look like 'little green men'," Lewis said. "Most of the time they look exactly like us, indistinguishable except by blood test or x-ray. They are masters of disguise; the alien is very likely hiding in plain sight. You may have already talked to him....or her."

A cold tendril of unease crept up Valenti's spine. He had long suspected that the aliens could disguise themselves as humans, but he'd never managed to confirm that. "And what do I do when I find this alien? Pull out my ray gun and take it down?"

"Absolutely not," Lewis said. "You notify us of who you suspect, and you back off. Completely. It is of paramount importance that you not engage the creature because if you kill it, we will have nothing left to study."

"Let me guess," Valenti said. "They explode into tiny little pieces?"

"You've been reading too many comic books, sheriff," Lewis said dryly. "Within twenty-four hours of death, their bodies disintegrate, rendering them useless."

Valenti stiffened involuntarily, hoping Lewis didn't notice. That's exactly what had happened to the alien he'd killed in the Proctor's house back in the forties—it had collapsed into a pile of what looked like soot. He hadn't gotten a good look at it before Emily Proctor had vacuumed it up, but there was no denying that Lewis had that particular nugget of information correct. And he didn't seem to know anything about exploding aliens, which meant Ray was wrong about Mark Green.

"Sheriff, I've already told you far more than I should have," Lewis said, impatience creeping around the edges of his voice. "All we want is for you to do the digging you do so well and give us a target."

"I haven't heard anything so far that would make me believe Audrey Tate's death was anything more than a weird and tragic accident," Valenti said.

"You didn't know what you were looking for," Lewis countered. "Now you do. Try again."

Valenti hesitated, torn between wanting to know and not wanting to do a single thing to help these people. He'd assumed they were using aliens just to get his attention and cover up ulterior motives, but the details Lewis had provided matched his own experiences. And if there was a murdering alien loose in his town, wasn't it his responsibility to stop them regardless of his personal feelings?

"I'll check around, and let you know if I find anything."

"Excellent," Lewis said with satisfaction. "We'll be taking possession of Miss Tate's body to run tests—"

"No, you won't."

Lewis blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no, you won't," Valenti repeated. "Our town coroner is doing an autopsy."

"Your 'town coroner'?" Lewis said derisively. "You meant that antique of a doctor? You can't be serious."

"I'm perfectly serious," Valenti replied. "Audrey Tate died in my town, so the autopsy will be done in my town. Period. End of discussion."

Lewis' eyes narrowed. "Sheriff, did you, or did you not just agree to assist us?"

"I agreed to do some checking," Valenti corrected. "We never discussed turning over evidence, and I certainly never agreed to that."

Lewis sighed in exasperation. "Fine. Do be so kind as to notify us when your country bumpkin of a doctor finishes his witchcraft, and I'll have the body picked up."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Lewis demanded.

"You do seem to have trouble with that word, don't you?" Valenti said casually, glancing at Owens. "Maybe those around you should use it more often." Owens looked away, and Valenti could have sworn he was suppressing a smile. " 'No', for your information, agent, means 'no, you can't have the body unless the results of my investigation show that's warranted'."

"Of course it's warranted!" Lewis snapped. "Audrey Tate was killed by an alien, a ruthless killer who—"

"I have no proof of that," Valenti interrupted. "And until I do, Miss Tate's body belongs to her next of kin."

Lewis rose from the couch abruptly. "I have a mandate from Director Hoover himself to stamp out the alien presence on this planet. You will turn that body over to me!"

"Only if I find evidence of alien involvement," Valenti said firmly. "Absent that, it's my job to protect anyone in Roswell, be they citizen or visitor. Even from the FBI."

"Then I'll take it myself," Lewis declared.

Valenti rose from his chair as did Agent Owens, hovering nervously beside them. "Go right ahead," Valenti said. "March in there with your agents and telegraph to the entire town, no, the country, that the FBI is in Roswell, and why. I'll be certain to have the newspaper down there, and the radio station, and anyone else I can find. They're hungry for news. They'd love it if you gave them some."

Valenti waited while Lewis smoldered, having given away his one weakness—he didn't want publicity. He couldn't barge in and take what he wanted without sacrificing the anonymity he wanted badly enough to be willing to deal with the local in the first place.

"Fine," Lewis ground out. "You are to report to me—"

"Let's get one thing straight right now," Valenti said sharply, his voice rising. "I don't report to you. He reports to you," he continued, indicating Owens, "and for that, he has my deepest sympathy, but I don't report to you. I'm working with you, not for you. Keep that in mind before you open your mouth again and piss me off."

Lewis' eyes flared, and for a moment, Valenti was certain he was going to call his bluff. Owens must have thought so too because he took a step back, his own eyes widening with alarm. A full minute must have passed before Lewis deflated slightly. "Of course," he said, sounding mollified. "I apologize for my....exuberance."

"Not the word I would have used, but it'll do," Valenti said. "How do I contact you?"

Lewis pulled a pad and pencil from his suit pocket. "Agent Owens will be your contact," he said, scribbling on a sheet and tearing it off. "This is his number. I look forward to hearing from you soon."

"Don't hold your breath," Valenti said. "If there is a killer out there, whether 'natural' or not, I seriously doubt he's just going to turn himself in."

"I have the utmost confidence in your abilities, sheriff," Lewis said.

"Do you, now?" Valenti said in mock puzzlement. "And why is that? Oh, that's right. I found something your agent thought worthy of stealing from me. I found it. That must have stung."

Anger flickered across Lewis' face for just a moment; it was there, and then it was gone. "As I said before, sheriff, I don't know what you're talking about. You'll have to look elsewhere for whatever it is you think you're missing. We should be off," he continued briskly, pausing at the front door with Owens behind him. "I've enjoyed our 'chat', sheriff. Your reputation preceded you.....and was richly deserved."

Whatever that means, Valenti thought uneasily as Lewis and Owens disappeared down the street, having probably parked their car out of sight of the house. Should he know him? Lewis.....Lewis..... Nope. He didn't remember anyone named Lewis from the forties, either civilian or military. Captain Spade had never mentioned a Lewis, nor had Lieutenant White or Captain Dodie. No, Lewis must be referring to whatever apparently glowing assessment Owens had given him, although it sounded like it was more than that.

"Are they gone, Dad?"

Valenti whirled around to find his son perched on the second stair from the top. "Jimmy!" he exclaimed. "How long have you been there?"



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


I'll post Chapter 47 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


August 19, 1959, 9:15 p.m.

Valenti residence




"How long?" Valenti demanded sharply when his son didn't answer him. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"

Jimmy looked at his feet. "I didn't hear much," he said, abashed. "Just the part before you went into the living room. And that bit at the end." He looked up, his face suddenly shining. "You were boss, Dad!"

" 'Boss'?"

"You know....cool," Jimmy clarified. "Really cool. I didn't think you could talk that way to the FBI."

"Why not?"

"Well....they're the FBI," Jimmy said uncertainly. "Isn't that more important than town sheriff?"

Valenti climbed the stairs and sat down next to his son, who slid sideways to make room for him. "Don't ever let anyone tell you that one branch of law enforcement is more important than another, Jimmy. We're all here to protect the people, and we all have our patch of ground to watch over. No one of us can do it all, so every single one of us is important, and each of us provides checks and balances for the other. You remember that."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said solemnly. "So....Deputy Sanchez is really working for the FBI?"

"Looks that way," Valenti sighed.

"I really liked him," Jimmy said wistfully. "He didn't seem like a spy."

"Good spies rarely do," Valenti observed.

"So was Deputy Crist an FBI agent too?" Jimmy asked. "Is that why he was going through your desk?"

Crist. Valenti hadn't considered that possibility, but it made sense. Perhaps what he'd found in Crist's apartment actually belonged to the FBI, and by "stealing" it, the FBI was merely reappropriating its own property. "I don't know," he admitted, "but I suppose that's a possibility."

"I head about the lady who died," Jimmy said. "What did they mean about it being 'unnatural'?"

"I'm not sure," Valenti answered.

"You mean they didn't tell you?"

"I mean I'm not sure I believe what they said," Valenti clarified. "These people have already lied to me once. They might say anything to get my attention, get me to help them, or throw me off whatever they're really after." Like exploding bodies, he added silently. It was Crist who had displayed interest in the drawer which held Green's file, and Crist who had inexplicably cross-examined Courtney Harris, Green's future roommate who never got to room with him. If Crist was working for the FBI, it all made sense now.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment. "Deputy Crist wanted me to ask you what you knew about aliens," he said abruptly.

Valenti's eyebrows rose. "He did?"

"Yeah. He promised me he'd....." Jimmy stopped, flushing. "He promised me he'd let me help take mug shots if I found out what you know about aliens and what you'd seen back when they landed. Or when everyone thinks they landed," he amended quickly.

"Is that so," Valenti said slowly as his son squirmed. "And as I recall, you did ask me."

"But you didn't tell me anything," Jimmy said quickly. "And I never got to do the mug shots because Crist left. And before he left, he told me he shouldn't have asked me to do that. I'm really sorry, Dad. I know I shouldn't have listened to him."

Valenti leaned back against the staircase, his son's apology lost amidst this new information. If Crist had gone AWOL from the FBI, maybe it was Crist they were after. He had removed that weird and very well hidden whatever-it-was from Crist's apartment, and, despite protests to the contrary, Valenti was certain Agent Owens had then removed it from his office. Crist had certainly gone to some lengths to disappear, quitting his job, leaving his apartment, selling his car, and leaving no forwarding address. Was this alien business just a cover for the FBI having lost an agent? Maybe he'd changed allegiances, switching to the CIA or the military?

"Dad?"

"What? Oh....sorry," Valenti said, coming back to the present as his son peered at him curiously. "I'm sorry you got mixed up in this, Jimmy. This is exactly what I was afraid of when you came to work at the station—that you'd run into some of the nastier things in life a lot earlier than I'd like. Although I must admit I was thinking along the lines of drunks, not spies." He shook his head. "I should have sent you fishing instead."

Jimmy blinked slowly, once, then twice. "You're kidding, right?"

"About what?"

"Dad, I loved working at the station," Jimmy insisted. "That was the coolest thing I've ever done, way better than fishing will ever be. Just think of all the stories I've got to tell when I go back to school! Everyone else did all the normal stuff, but not me."

"That's just it," Valenti said gently. "You can't tell. When you're the sheriff, or a deputy, or working at the station in any capacity, you can't discuss what went on there. And you certainly can't go running around telling everyone that the FBI is in Roswell."

Jimmy's face fell. "Oh," he said dejectedly. "But that's okay," he added, perking up again. "It was still the coolest thing I've ever done. I just wish Mom and I could have stayed all the way to the end of the movie."

"I'm glad you didn't," Valenti said with feeling.

"I'm eight years old," Jimmy said stoutly. "I can take it."

Valenti broke into a smile and ruffled his son's hair. Spoken like a true child, when whatever age you were at the moment seemed like the top of the world, the pinnacle of wisdom. "I need to find your mom," he said, heading back down the stairs. "I won't tell her you were eavesdropping.....this time. But don't try that again, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said quickly, knowing full well that Andi would be furious if she discovered he'd been snooping. "And Dad?"

"Hmm?" Valenti said, turning around at the bottom of the stairs.

"I was wondering....I mean....don't get mad, but....."

"But what?"

"Well....sometimes, when you're investigating, don't you have to...you know....lie? At least a little? To find out what you need to know?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"Well.... how is that different than what the FBI did? I mean, if you need to lie sometimes, then wouldn't they too?"

"They don't need to lie to other law enforcement," Valenti explained. "That's where they crossed the line."

"So....it's okay to lie to regular people, but not to you?"

Valenti put one foot on the bottom stair, willing himself to take his time, to phrase his answer carefully. "I know what that sounds like....but it's not what it sounds like. There's a code of ethics in law enforcement. Remember how I said all of us have our own little patch of ground to watch over? That's called 'jurisdiction', a fancy name for the area you're responsible for. My jurisdiction is Roswell. If law enforcement from another jurisdiction wants to come into my jurisdiction, they're supposed to let me know."

"So what's the FBI's 'jurisdiction'?"

Valenti closed his eyes briefly, seeing where this was going. "The FBI is the 'Federal Bureau of Investigation'. Federal means the whole country, all of America. And before you remind me that Roswell is in America, that's not enough for them to plant someone in my station without telling me. There are rules, and they're supposed to follow them. And they didn't."

"Do you always follow the rules?" Jimmy asked solemnly.

"I do my very best to follow the rules because the rules are there for a reason," Valenti answered. "If everyone could just ignore the rules when it suited them, there wouldn't be much sense in having rules, now would there?"

Jimmy considered that a moment before shaking his head. "I guess not. It wouldn't work in school, I know that for sure."

"No, it wouldn't," Valenti agreed, glancing at his watch. "You'd better go on back to your room before your mother finds you out here past your bedtime."

Jimmy obediently trooped back to his room as Valenti breathed a silent prayer of thanks that he wasn't related to Pinocchio. Not that he'd precisely lied, of course; he did try to follow the rules because he truly did believe those rules were there for a reason. But then there were those times when you had to break the rules, maybe because someone else was breaking them and efforts to counter that required you to do the same. Or maybe because you needed more information, which is why Mark Green's case file was locked up tight in his home office instead of at the station. Or because telling the truth would only panic the public or hurt someone, like back in the forties with the Proctors. But if it was okay for him to lie, to make that judgment call that being less than truthful was in everyone's best interests, why wasn't it okay when the FBI did that? How did one explain those very gray areas to a child?

You don't, Valenti thought darkly, heading downstairs toward a no doubt emotional exchange with his wife. This is why children didn't belong at the station, and why he would never allow his son there again for a very long time.




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





First Presbyterian Church,

Roswell




"There you go, Leroy," Evelyn said, smiling as she handed him several foil wrapped packages. "That should do you for a couple of days at least."

"Time was when there were never any leftovers at our potlucks," Leroy sighed. "Now we're all taking food home."

"It's only temporary," Evelyn said soothingly. "Because of the movie, you know. Everyone's busy with that now. They'll be back, and we'll be scraping the dishes clean again. Just you wait."

I don't want to wait, Leroy thought glumly, gazing at the nearly empty church basement. First Presbyterian's monthly potluck dinner was usually a standing room only affair with at least two long tables brimming with food, dozens of children underfoot, and a decent supply of eligible women. Those last were what Leroy missed the most, being unmarried. His job as one of Roswell's handful of postmen gave him daily access to plenty of eligible women, but left him little time to actually court those women. The potlucks gave him that time and the opportunity to eat something other than his own rather poor cooking. He'd been very disappointed when July's dinner had been cancelled due to lack of interest, and tonight's hadn't been much better. The leftovers Evelyn had just given him were a consolation prize, but only a small one. Even the best food lost a good deal of its flavor when eaten alone.

"Leroy?"

"Mrs. Bruce!" Leroy exclaimed, spying Ruth Bruce across the unfortunately uncrowded church hall, one of those eligible women he'd been craving. Not only eligible, but self-employed; Ruth ran her own boarding house, left to her by her late husband. Most eligible women in his age bracket were widows by definition. "What brings you here?" he asked. "I've never seen you here before."

"I'd heard your dinners were a good time, so I thought I'd see for myself," Ruth answered. "But I got held up, and now it looks like I've missed it."

"There's always next month," Leroy assured her with a smile. "All you need to bring is yourself and a dish to pass."

"Are you sure?" Ruth asked uncertainly. "I'm a Catholic, you know."

"Everyone's welcome," Leroy assured her. "We usually have a lot more people than this. It's that dam—darned movie," he amended, flushing. Goodness, but his mother would have washed his mouth out with soap for saying something like that in the presence of a lady.

"Well, the movie's almost over," Ruth said, tactfully ignoring his breach of courtesy. "I imagine everyone will be back next month." She paused. "I should thank you for taking the trouble to drop that letter by to my boarder. He was so pleased."

"No trouble at all," Leroy said. "It was on my way home, and the gentlemen didn't seem too happy when they found out it wouldn't be delivered until tomorrow."

"Gentlemen?"

"The ones who dropped off the letter. Two of them. Caught me right before closing."

"Well, it was certainly appreciated," Ruth assured him. "I should let you go," she added, laying her hand gently on his arm. "Sorry I missed the festivities."

Leroy smiled and gave a small shrug. "Like I said, there's always...."

A house on a quiet street.....

Running for his life, dragging a body behind him.....

A camp fire with an Indian sitting across from him....

Earth against a field of stars, bright lights in black velvet.....

....next month," Leroy finished faintly, suddenly dazed. What had just happened? What were all those things he'd just seen?

"Is something wrong?" Ruth asked.

"No," Leroy said quickly. It would never do to have tongues wagging about him being wonky. Nothing hurt one's romantic prospects faster than having the ladies think one odd or sickly. "No, not at all. Thanks for stopping by, Mrs. Bruce. I really hope you come back next month."

What just happened? Leroy thought, sinking gratefully into a chair the very moment she was out of sight. He felt light-headed, as though he'd just done something strenuous when all he'd done was exchange a few words with an attractive woman. And what were all those things he'd seen? That view of Earth.....he'd seen paintings, but this had been much more vivid. Like he was actually hanging in space and looking right at it......

I'm going crazy, Leroy thought in disgust as he grabbed his pile of leftovers with shaking hands. No one had ever been in outer space to see what the Earth looked like, so that was impossible. He must have been reading too much about that silly observatory Roswell was talking about building to have come up with something strange like that. Why anyone would waste all that time and money staring at the sky when there were so many problems on the ground was beyond him. And the rest of it, Indians and bloody bodies and all......perhaps he just need to stop reading the newspaper, period.




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




*Did you see anything?* Jaddo asked.

*Very little,* Brivari answered as they walked down the street side by side. *Two males, one whose face was mostly obscured by a hat, and another in the background whose face he never saw clearly. Or didn't remember clearly.*

*That's it?*

*At least we know they're male,* Brivari said.

*Of course they're male,* Jaddo said. *Females are devalued in this culture, so why would the Argilians have sent a female?*

*Perhaps because they would expect us to expect otherwise. We cannot afford to make assumptions.*

*I can't believe you came away with nothing more than gender,* Jaddo grumbled.

*I had very little time,* Brivari argued. *A connection is reciprocal, so—*

*I am aware of how a connection works,* Jaddo interrupted. *He would not have understood anything he saw from you, so I fail to see why you couldn't have continued it long enough to learn something of use.*

*Just like you 'fail' to see why your temper tantrums have put us in danger,* Brivari retorted. *My goodness, but you're failing a lot these days, Jaddo. That's not like you.*

Both fell into a frustrated silence as they continued down the street. Dusk was falling, the shadows mounting, edges blurring, making everything seem suddenly tentative....and dangerous. The turmoil produced by the letter from alleged members of the Argilian resistance had magnified in the few hours since they'd received it, sending both Warders into a near panic as they tried to discover who had sent it. A conversation with Mrs. Bruce had led to the postman's name and address, and further inquiries had brought them to the church and a risky course of action. A verbal description would be essentially useless, so the subject of the letter and those who had mailed it must be raised and a connection initiated immediately while it was in the forefront of the postman's mind. Brivari had tried very hard to avoid anything that might alarm his target when he saw, as he inevitably would, whatever was in the forefront of Brivari's own mind, but judging by the look on the man's face, he had been unsuccessful, and he had terminated the connection just as soon as he'd realized that he wasn't going to get a good view of their enemies' faces. Leroy would have vivid dreams tonight.

*I'm sorry.*

Brivari stopped. *Did I hear what I think I just heard?*

*Don't make this any harder than it already is,* Jaddo said stiffly, not looking at him. *I had no idea the Argilians were here. If I had....* His voice trailed off.

*Go on,* Brivari said after a long pause.

*If I had, then I would have still killed Pierce,* Jaddo said defiantly. *But I wouldn't have left a handprint, nor would I have...* He sighed as though he'd rather not continue. *Nor would I have let your penchant for human company affect me the way it did.*

Brivari resumed walking, somewhat mollified that Jaddo had at least acknowledged the danger he'd placed them in. *Well?* Jaddo said. *Don't you have something to say?*

*Such as?*

*Such as how your taking a job and forming 'friendships' also placed us in danger.*

*I fail to see how either did anything of the sort.*

*Then how did they know where to find you? They sent the letter to you because you have an address to which to send it.*

*So does Malik,* Brivari noted. *He has been hiding in plain sight with both employment and numerous relationships for years now, yet they don't appear to have located him. Why is that?*

*I don't know,* Jaddo admitted. *But something is odd here. I admit that my actions would draw their attention, but that doesn't explain how they located you.*

No, it doesn't, Brivari agreed privately, every bit as curious as Jaddo as to how his identity had been discovered. Taking employment and forming relationships would not have been enough to tip off the Argilians. *However they managed it, the point is they succeeded,* he said. *Now the problem becomes identifying and removing them.*

*Are you sure that's wise?*

Brivari stopped again. *And why wouldn't it be?*

*What if they really are members of the resistance?* Jaddo asked. *We'd be passing up a golden opportunity to gather intelligence about Athenor, or Nicholas, or whatever it is he's calling himself now.*

*Yes,* Brivari said dryly. *And a golden opportunity to reunite with those who wanted your Ward on the throne.*

Jaddo's eyes narrowed. *You think I'm trying to elevate Rath to the throne?*

*The thought had crossed my mind.*

*Do we really need to have this discussion again?* Jaddo demanded. *I already told you Rath's response when the resistance approached him before the fall.*

*And now Rath is not here,* Brivari noted, *so response falls to you. And what will that response be, Jaddo?*

Jaddo was silent for so long that passers-by slowed and stared at them. *You disappoint me,* he said flatly. *For all our differences, I thought I'd convinced you long ago that I was not a traitor.*

Brivari dropped his eyes and resumed walking; Jaddo followed, even his footsteps sounding sullen. They had indeed already been over this, on their ship on the way to Earth, where Brivari had learned of the Argilian's offer to Rath and briefly suspected him of treason. Their resulting 'discussion' had been less of a conversation and more of a coming to blows, softened only by Valeris' recollection of both the offer and Rath's rejection of it. Valeris, Brivari thought sadly. And Quanah. Two people whose counsel he could very much use at the moment, and would never have again.

*I don't think you're a traitor,* Brivari said. *I was merely seeking to clarify your position on the issue. If this is truly the resistance, they will no doubt view Zan's fall as evidence that they were right, that he wasn't fit to rule, and press all the harder for some sort of accommodation from you.*

*Then they're off to a poor start,* Jaddo answered. *If that is their intent, informing the king's Warder of their presence here is a very bad idea. The mere fact that they were willing to approach you, knowing you would view them as the enemy because of their earlier offer to Rath, is instructive. They must be very worried indeed to risk a parlay with you.*

*Either that, or they aren't members of the resistance at all,* Brivari suggested.

*Granted,* Jaddo allowed. *But I'm inclined to believe they are. Argilians masquerading as resistance members are far more likely to have approached not you, but me, most likely with another offer they would have hoped would sound too good to refuse, not valuable details such those they provided.*

*Once again, assuming those details are valid,* Brivari said.

*I believe they are,* Jaddo answered. *We already know that Amar had developed a device capable of blocking our powers. It also compromised the humans' power systems, but the Argilians have had a decade to improve it. And the fact that they located you lends credence to the claim that they have the means by which to identify us.*

They walked along in silence, each brooding privately. Brivari found himself scanning the faces of those they passed, looking for a glimmer of recognition, of surprise, of fear. He hadn't felt this exposed for a very long time, not since the hunters had been here. *One thing is for certain,* Jaddo continued. *You must leave the apartment and change your face immediately. They must not have a location where they know they can find one of us.*

*Agreed on the first, but not the second,* Brivari replied. *I will of course not be staying in the apartment, but as I indicated earlier, I will continue as Langley until the movie crew leaves town. Disappearing is a last resort.*

*Disappearing is what we do!* Jaddo protested. *We no longer have only humans chasing us—*

*But we still have humans chasing us,* Brivari remind him, *and we would be unwise to forget that. Did you not hear what Malik told us? Lewis has gone to Valenti, and Lewis knows we kill the way Audrey was killed. You led him right to us, Jaddo, and the best way to get rid of him is to make him think we've moved on.*

*Remain 'Langley', and we risk the Argilians finding us,* Jaddo argued.

*They have already found us,* Brivari countered. *But Lewis has not, not yet. Abandon 'Langley', and we bolster Lewis' claims and confirm our presence here. The movie ends in a few days, 'Langley' will move on, and hopefully we will have given the humans no further reason to pursue him. Which will leave one enemy down, one to go.*

*Back to my original point: It was a bad idea for you to take employment and assume a known identity,* Jaddo said darkly.

*You have still not explained why you've never minded that Malik did just exactly that,* Brivari said irritably.

*Malik is not a Royal Warder,* Jaddo retorted. *Are you?*

Brivari stopped abruptly. *And what exactly does that mean?*

*Nothing personal,* Jaddo said softly. *I was merely seeking to clarify your position.*

Brivari stepped closer, biting back a flood of anger. *My position is this—once again we agree on the ends, but not the means. And since it was your actions that led our enemies right to our doorstep, you are in no position to dictate those means. Obviously more is needed than just changing one's face. Like self control, for example. You should try it, Jaddo; we would all benefit, most of all our Wards. We will do this my way. Is that understood?*

Jaddo's eyes flared, and he looked about to stalk away like he usually did. But he restricted himself to a curt nod, falling in step beside Brivari until they reached the next cross street where he veered off alone without a word. An improvement, Brivari thought, scanning the street for anyone who appeared to be watching them, but not good enough. He was not wearing Langley's face, and would do so only as necessary from now until the end of the movie shoot, but as they weren't certain what mechanism the Argilians were using to identify them, that may or may not help. It would be extremely disconcerting to return to work knowing that someone besides their allies knew who and what he was. His employment may not have caused their current predicament, but it was certainly proving inconvenient now.

He paused as he came abreast of the street which housed his apartment. He couldn't go back there, a fact he found troubling....and the fact that he found it troubling was troubling in itself. He had liked having a personal space, having the crew over, playing the host much like he had done back home. How did they find me? he wondered again, passing the street by regretfully. How on Earth did they find me?




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Are we all clear on what our story is?" Michael asked as he set his trithium generator on Courtney's kitchen table.

"I'm clear on the story," Nathaniel answered. "What I'm not clear on is whether or not this is wise. We both know he's not going to like it. This will be the first clear failure, or what appears to be a failure."

"That can't be helped," Michael answered. "We're already pretending one dead operative is alive; we can't possibly pull off two. Hopefully everyone will be much too preoccupied with the Warders to investigate further."

Nathaniel nodded reluctantly, and Courtney with more enthusiasm, being already familiar with the difficulties inherent in keeping a dead man alive. A moment later her stomach turned as Nicholas' face hovered over the generator. Just the sight of him made her nauseous.

"I have news regarding Crist," Michael announced, coming right to the point.

"What happened?" Nicholas asked. "Did you find him?"

"No," Michael replied. "But we did find out what happened to him."

" 'Happened'?" Nicholas echoed sharply. "What do you mean, 'happened'?"

Courtney felt rather than saw her father steady himself, knowing what was coming. "It appears he has left town," Michael answered. "He left his employment, vacated his dwelling, sold his vehicle. Those who witnessed this said he told them he was leaving due to a 'family emergency'." He paused. "Is that code for an assignment he's on, perhaps one I am not privy to?"

Nicholas' face had frozen in an expression of utter disbelief. "He left? Just like that? No other explanation, or communication, or anything?"

"None we're aware of," Michael replied.

Courtney struggled to keep her face somber as Nicholas' face twisted. The freedoms and pleasures Earth afforded had tempted many, but none had actually 'gone AWOL', as the human military would phrase it....until now. Crist hadn't really left, of course, but there were plenty of others whom Courtney knew were this close to doing exactly what Crist had supposedly done. When they heard of this—and they would, despite what she knew would be Nicholas' Herculean efforts to keep it quiet—they would be emboldened to do the same.

"He left," Nicholas repeated, his voice rising as he stalked to the imager, his face growing alarmingly large. "He abandoned his post! He defected! He committed treason! He's a traitor!"

"At the moment, it would appear so," Michael said gravely. "That would also explain why he would leave his communicator behind."

"Who else knows about this?" Nicholas demanded.

"Only the three of us," Michael answered, indicating Nathaniel and Courtney.

"And that's the way it stays," Nicholas ordered. "I don't want anyone to know, not even Greer. Understood?"

Three heads nodded. Wow, Courtney thought blandly. Greer got a three page report every time Nicholas so much as went to the bathroom. To think she'd just been entrusted with information the mighty Greer didn't have. It was a pity she wouldn't be able to rub his nose in it.

"This gets out, and I'll have people leaving right and left," Nicholas continued angrily. "I can't afford that right now."

"Of course not," Michael said smoothly, the undercurrent of satisfaction audible to his daughter if no one else. They had all been worried that telling Nicholas of Crist's "disappearance" would cause him to send more operatives to find out what happened. His desire to keep Crist's apparent defection a secret had taken care of that.

"Regarding the recent death in town," Michael continued, "it does not appear to be related to the Warders."

"Is that so? The FBI appears to feel differently."

Michael blinked. "The FBI?"

"With you staying in Roswell, I diverted other operatives to Santa Fe," Nicholas said. "They traced the communicator signal to the FBI Field Office there and followed two of their agents from Santa Fe to Roswell this evening. They went directly to the sheriff's private residence."

Courtney closed her eyes briefly. The FBI being in Roswell was bad news. Nicholas knowing about it was even worse.

"That was most likely concerning the communicator," her father said, not missing a beat. "We have not been able to confirm this, but we have heard that it was the Roswell sheriff who found Crist's communicator in his vacated apartment, only to have it stolen from his office. Since we know it wound up in the FBI's possession, it is reasonable to assume it was the FBI who stole it."

Courtney watched Nathaniel shift uneasily from one foot to another. They hadn't been planning on sharing that particular bit of information because Nicholas' knowing the communicator had passed through the sheriff's hands could place Valenti's life in danger. It was always a game of adjusting what Nicholas was told based on what one thought his response would be and what response you wanted. In Mr. Parker's lexicon, her father had just had to "punt".

"It might be about the communicator, or it might not be," Nicholas answered. "I'm not taking any chances. With Crist gone, you're down by one. I'm sending another operative. Expect them by tomorrow evening. I hope your apartment is big enough for five, Courtney. It'll have to be."

The hologram winked out as Courtney, her father, and Nathaniel exchanged panicked looks. That had definitely not been the response they'd wanted.




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


I'll post Chapter 48 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT


August 20, 1959, 6:30 a.m.

Dr. Raymond Blake's office




Valenti watched as a car pulled alongside his cruiser in the tiny parking lot beside the doctor's office, the driver hesitating a moment before climbing out and looking at him expectantly.

"Get in," Valenti said through the window, nodding toward his passenger seat.

Raymond Blake heaved a sigh and obliged, parking his briefcase in his lap and raising an eyebrow when Valenti rolled up his window. "Let me guess," Ray said dryly. "You're trying to suffocate me because I know too much?"

"Very funny," Valenti said.

"Well, it can't be good if you're skulking around at this hour," Ray noted.

"Who's 'skulking'?" Valenti protested. "I'm in uniform, I'm in my patrol car, and besides, skulking wouldn't help. Not with the FBI on my tail."

Ray blinked. "FBI?" he murmured in tones of awe. "My goodness!"

"Steady, Doc. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us."

"But it's the FBI!" Ray exclaimed. "To think that they're here, right here in Roswell....it just gives me the shivers, that's all."

"Gee, no one gets the shivers when I show up," Valenti said.

"Well of course not; you're just the town sheriff. No offense," Ray added hastily when Valenti's face darkened. "But you've got to admit—"

"Admit what?" Valenti interrupted. "Look, I'm law enforcement, they're law enforcement. We've both got badges and uniforms and oaths. We both watch over our own jurisdictions, and neither of us can just mosey into the other's, which is why I'm mighty pissed that they planted one of their agents in my station without telling me. They crossed a line. So pardon me if I'm not all gooey-eyed over the mighty FBI. What have they got that I don't? Except for a lack of professional courtesy, of course."

"They've got J. Edgar Hoover," Ray replied. "I seriously doubt you're keeping tabs on the American public the way he's said to."

"And I'm not wearing dresses like he's said to either," Valenti said crossly. "Enough already with the genuflecting. You're not even Catholic."

"Touchy, aren't we?" Ray said. "Are you going to tell me what they want, or are you just going to whine? No, don't bother, I already know. They're here about Mark Green."

Valenti shook his head. "Nope. They don't seem to know a thing about exploding bodies. They're here for Audrey Tate. Claim she was killed by an alien."

"Tate?" Ray echoed. "Are you sure?"

"I cleaned my ears recently, so I know the difference between 'Tate' and 'Green'. I'm sure."

"So I was right!" Ray said triumphantly. "There are aliens here!"

"If you believe them," Valenti cautioned, "and I'm not sure I do. They may just be using that to get my attention, or to keep me quiet because repeating anything about aliens would make me look loopy. And you told me yesterday that you hadn't found anything weird about Tate's death. You still sticking to that?"

Ray hesitated long enough that Valenti grew uneasy. "Well....."

"Well, what?" Valenti demanded. "You said you found no accelerant, no evidence of a physical confrontation or foul play of any kind."

"Not yet," Ray qualified.

"Not 'yet'?"

"Look, I'm not done yet, okay? And you must admit it's damned peculiar. There wasn't a speck of lightning that day, Jim. You know that."

"But that doesn't mean she was killed by an alien. Were there any similarities between her body and Green's?"

"No," Ray admitted. "None of those weird cells, and she certainly didn't explode. Audrey Tate was definitely human. But I do see one similarity: The FBI told you Tate was killed by an alien....and I have what I think are the remains of an alien in my office. And even though Green's a bit past the point where he could have killed her, another one like him could have." He paused. "You know we have to tell them about Green, don't you?"

"Absolutely not," Valenti said firmly. "I still don't know what they really want. No way am I coughing up information they don't know I have."

"Jim, we have to!" Ray protested. "Here I think I have an alien, and now the FBI shows up looking for aliens? Do I really need to draw a dotted line between those two points?"

"I already told you I ran it by them surreptitiously, and they didn't bite," Valenti reminded him. "They don't know about Green."

"You mean they don't know his body could explode the way it did," Ray corrected. "Maybe they haven't gotten that far yet. Maybe I'm the first one to figure it out."

"Or maybe Green wasn't an alien, but some kind of spy with new technology," Valenti argued.

"Isn't that all the more reason to tell the FBI? You've been sitting on this for weeks now—"

"And we're going to sit on it a while longer," Valenti said firmly. "I'm not letting go of anything until I have a better idea of what's going on. As it is, I had to stand on my head and scream to keep them from taking Tate's body right out from under your nose."

Ray looked away. "Maybe you shouldn't have. Maybe we should give it to them."

"You're the coroner in Roswell, so you get the first look," Valenti insisted.

"Jim, you must know I have very limited resources compared to them," Ray said. "If you won't turn over Green, at least turn over Tate and see if they come up with something else."

Valenti shook his head stubbornly. "No. I'm not done yet either."

Ray abruptly opened the door and climbed out of the car. "Well, I am," he said testily as Valenti climbed out across from him. "At least with this part of it. You've been waiting on this for weeks, and you keep telling me to wait longer. How long am I supposed to wait?"

"Keep your voice down!" Valenti admonished. "And what makes you think turning it over will do any good? What makes you think they'll be willing to share 'something else'? The minute we let that body go, it's gone, as in completely gone. We'll never learn a thing!"

"Maybe we shouldn't," Ray said as he unlocked the door to his office. "Maybe this one is out of our league."

"It's not of my league," Valenti retorted. "If there's something weird going down here, I have a right to know because it's my job to protect the people in this town. Do you really think the FBI's going to tell me after they didn't even bother to let me know they were planting an agent in my station?"

"I thought they just did 'tell you'," Ray said. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"They came to me because their man had been outed," Valenti argued, following Ray down the hall and into his surgery. "They had no choice; they'd lost their access. If they'd had it their way, I never would have known they were there." Valenti paused, trying to rein himself in. "Look," he continued in a more conciliatory tone, "I know what you gave me yesterday was just a preliminary report. Finish the job, do it thoroughly, get everything you can out it, and then we'll turn over Tate's body to the FBI. I just....I value your opinion, so I that's all I want. Your opinion. Nothing more."

Ray hesitated a moment before nodding reluctantly. "All right. I'll go over her, or what's left of her, with a fine-toothed comb. But when I'm done, I'm signing off, you hear?"

"Absolutely," Valenti agreed. "Make sure you keep the body under lock and key. I don't trust them."

"If they want to get in, they'll get in," Ray said. "It's not like this is Fort Knox."

"Speaking of which, where are Green's remains?" Valenti asked. "We should relocate those."

"To where?"

"I was thinking my house," Valenti said.

"You want to keep his remains in your house?"

"Why not? There's not much of him left anyway."

"I thought you just told me the FBI wasn't interested in Green."

"They aren't," Valenti said impatiently. "I'm just being cautious. Don't you want to be cautious? That's your only evidence so far of genuine alien involvement."

Ray eyed him skeptically. "All right. But you can't have all of it; some of it needs to be refrigerated, and I seriously doubt Andi would appreciate having any of this next to the tuna casserole. Why don't you take—" He stopped, staring into the refrigerator he'd just opened, dumbfounded.

"What?" Valenti demanded. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong," Ray said with a sigh, "is that we're too late."




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




Parker's Diner




"Just coffee? No toast? Eggs? Pancakes?"

Heads shook around the table. "We're not hungry," one of the men explained, his arm around a shaken woman, her head resting on his shoulder. "Just coffee. And keep it coming."

Courtney slipped her pad into her apron pocket and headed for the back, passing tables filled with similarly upset people. The town appeared to be in a state of shock over the death of the actress, none more so than the movie crew. Her shift had ended yesterday before people had started piling into Parker's, and word was that when they had, they had done nothing but drink, both alcohol at the bar and coffee in the diner. Pete hadn't had much to do in the way of cooking, and today looked like it would be more of the same. At least it made her life a little easier, not having to lug heavy plates back and forth. Now she was only lugging coffee pots back and forth, and she'd made four trips for refills and extra cream and sugar before she'd finally reached all the mourners. If this is what it was like at this hour, it was going to be a very long day.

"Is there any left for me?" a voice asked.

Courtney turned around to find her father sliding into a seat at the counter. The bell had been jingling on the diner's door so often that she hadn't bothered to check who was coming and going. "It's done," Michael said quietly as she placed a cup and saucer in front of him. "The locks were trivial. We were not detected."

"Yet," Courtney corrected, draining her fifth pot. "I can't believe you actually went ahead and did something else without consulting Malik."

"It was our decision to make," Michael replied.

"I didn't say it wasn't," Courtney answered. "I said 'consult'. That means 'discuss'."

"I am aware of the definition, thank you."

"Then you know that consulting with him doesn't mean you're bound by his opinion," Courtney pointed out. "But at least he would have known. You've got to stop blindsiding him, Papa."

"I am not required to discuss anything with it," her father said frostily.

"Aren't you at least going to tell him after the fact?" Courtney demanded.

"When I am ready to do so," Michael answered. "Not a moment before."

"Let's hope that moment arrives before the other operative does," Courtney muttered.

Her father's eyes flickered in annoyance. "I would appreciate it if you would give me credit for at least some intelligence."

Same here, Courtney thought darkly, taking the next several minutes to refill the coffee urn and calm down. She and her father had already had this argument twice since his arrival, so there was no sense in repeating it. Once again she found herself disagreeing not with the course of action, but the way in which it had been undertaken, irritated at the way her father referred to Malik as "it", and further irritated that she found that irritating. The only thing that softened this particular episode was the realization of what was coming and the knowledge that they were all worried sick about the outcome. With another operative coming to town, keeping Mark's death a secret from Nicholas had just become a lot harder.

"Who do you think they're sending?" she asked when the urn was settled.

"I've already told you I don't know," Michael answered. "Given the way everyone is deployed, Nicholas will either have to pull someone from another location or send in a novice."

"A novice would be better," Courtney said.

"Not necessarily. They might be more married to procedure or extremely thorough in their anxiety to do a good job."

"But easier to fool," Courtney murmured.

"Hopefully that won't be necessary."

"That's an awfully big 'hopefully'," she said glumly.

"Steady, daughter," Michael said. "The resistance is not for the faint of heart. We've agreed on a cover story for what happened to Mark, and we will stick to it. Is that understood?"

"Is it really necessary to talk to me like I'm a small child?" Courtney demanded. "If—"

"Miss Harris!" a booming voice called. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm looking for Langley. Have you seen him?"

It was Mr. Anderson, scanning the diner worriedly as he waited for her answer. Michael kept his eyes on his coffee cup as Courtney shook her head. "Nope. Not today. Why?"

"I'm worried about him," Mr. Anderson answered. "I haven't been able to find him since yesterday morning's altercation with Mr. Dean. He hasn't even come back to his apartment."

And he won't, Courtney thought sadly. Having been fingered, it would not do for Brivari to maintain that shape any longer. "Langley" had no doubt vanished back into the ether from which he'd come, having never really existed in the first place.

"There you are!" Mr. Anderson exclaimed suddenly, darting toward the door. "Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!"

Courtney blinked. There stood Brivari wearing Langley's face and Langley's cap on Langley's trademark bald head. "I was detained," Brivari answered as various members of the movie crew called for him to join them. "Yesterday was a difficult day."

"I know that," Anderson said, following Brivari to a nearby booth, the inhabitants of which slid over to make room for them. "Does anyone know any more than the official story? I've heard all sorts of crazy things, from....."

Voices dropped, and the conversation became too difficult to hear from the counter. "Is that him?" Michael whispered. "Amazing," he added when Courtney nodded. "Never in a million years would I have expected him to show a known face again."

"Me neither," Courtney murmured. They weren't sitting at one of her booths, but she grabbed a pot of coffee and hurried over before anyone else did, anxious to hear what they were talking about.

"....grilled me for a good half hour," one of the crew was complaining. "I thought he was going to arrest me."

"Well, you have to admit it was weird," someone else said. "You can't blame the sheriff for looking into it."

"I don't mean this to sound indelicate," Mr. Anderson said, "but what will happen to the movie now that Miss Tate is...."

"Fried?" someone suggested.

"Deceased," Mr. Anderson corrected with a pained expression. "Will she be replaced?"

"Principle filming is done," one of the camera operators answered. "All we're doing now is pick-up shots and stuff like that. Any stand-in with the right hair could pass muster. Fill'er up," he added to Courtney, who complied just as the bell on the diner's door jingled again.

"You!" a voice called harshly.

Courtney started, nearly spilling the coffee. Charles Dean had just entered the diner, wild-eyed, disheveled, and looking like he'd slept in his clothes, not to mention glaring at Langley with a murderous expression that was not encouraging. "You!" Dean repeated. "You killed her!"

Silence. One could have heard a pin drop in the diner. All eyes were on Dean, including Michael's, who looked every bit as surprised as everyone else.

"Charlie, what the hell are you talking about?" one of the crew members finally asked.

"He killed her!" Dean answered, stabbing a finger at Langley. "I said she was murdered, I told that idiot sheriff, but he doesn't believe me!"

Startled faces swiveled between the actor and the Warder. "Mr. Dean is of the opinion that I am somehow responsible for Miss Tate's death," Langley explained.

"I'm not 'of the opinion', I saw you!" Dean said angrily. "You and that freaky friend of yours doing freaky stuff! You killed Audrey!"

Courtney nearly dropped the coffee pot. There was a witness? That was bad, very bad. It was one thing to have an odd death, but to have a witness to "freaky stuff"? Several feet away her father had stiffened, no doubt reaching the same conclusion she had. Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd been withholding information.

But the crew was having none of it. "Jesus, Charlie, have you been drinking already at this hour?" one of them said in disgust.

"He was well oiled yesterday afternoon," someone else observed. "That's why the sheriff locked him up overnight, so he could sober up."

"Didn't work," another said dryly.

Dean stared at the crew members in disbelief, as though he just couldn't process that no one was buying it. "But he did it!" he protested. "He killed her!"

"Charlie, stop it," the camera operator ordered severely. "Just stop it. It's bad enough that Audrey's dead, and you're just making it worse. We all know you were sore at Langley yesterday, but this is too much."

"He killed her because she saw!" Dean exclaimed. "She saw them pick me up and choke me without touching me, and then he killed her, he burned her, he—"

"Enough!" the camera operator ordered as the woman sitting next to him stifled a sob. "You're a mess. Go clean yourself up and stop flinging wild accusations around. You're upsetting the ladies."

"I told the sheriff," Dean reminded them, nodding vigorously. "I told them what he did!"

"And yet he didn't lock up Langley," Mr. Anderson noted. "He locked up you."

"Exactly," the camera operator added. "I've heard enough. Get out of here."

Dean hesitated for only a moment before launching himself at Langley, shoving Courtney aside in the process, hot coffee spilling all over her. And all for naught—he never reached his target, at least half a dozen crew members springing from their seats and planting themselves between Dean and their clapper loader, who hadn't moved a muscle. Courtney saw her father twist around as both watched the incredible sight of fragile humans protecting one of the most dangerous creatures on any planet. If only they knew how little he needed it.

"What's going on out here?" Mr. Parker barked, flying out of the kitchen with Nancy on his heels. "Just so you know, the brawls happen over in the bar, folks. And they don't happen over there either because I won't have it."

"Charlie was just leaving, weren't you, Charlie?" the camera operator said deliberately.

Dean glared at everyone in turn before abruptly turning and leaving the diner, nearly knocking over someone on their way in. "Geez Louise," a crew member muttered. "I knew he was mad at you, Langley, but I never would have guessed he'd go off half cocked. He looked like he was ready to kill you."

"I appreciate your support, but I assure you he would not have harmed me," Langley said. "I'm quite capable of defending myself."

And how, Courtney thought, squatting down to mop up the spilled coffee with the rag she always kept in her pocket, her eyes widening when she saw her right hand. She rose quickly, slipping her hand into her pocket....and bumped right into Langley.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"No," Courtney said quickly, her fingers clenching and unclenching in her pocket, hoping she'd been fast enough that he hadn't seen. "I'm fine."

"Are you certain?" Mr. Anderson added as Courtney prayed for him to shut up. "That coffee was steaming."

"Most of it missed me," Courtney lied. "It's just a little....pink."

"You're lucky if that's all it is," Nancy fussed, rescuing her from the scrutiny of Zan's Warder as she steered her toward the back. "Let's have a look, honey. And get you a new uniform."

Courtney caught her father's concerned expression as she went by, and tried to send him a reassuring smile even though she did have what looked to be a nasty burn on her right hand. But husks healed quickly; the burn had been fading even as she'd discovered it, the redness fading to pink.....and it would not have done for the most dangerous creature on any planet to have noticed that.




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



Route 285 South




Agent Owens pulled his car off the road south of Roswell and shut off the engine, looking expectantly out the window. He'd had such faith in Valenti that he'd put his job on the line to bring him on board, and the effort had paid off in spades with a phone call just this morning from the sheriff, saying he had information for them. Told you, Owens thought with satisfaction, recalling Agent Lewis' reluctance to involve Valenti, a reluctance overcome only by the fact that it would be impossible to send anyone into the Roswell station under cover. And that reluctance paled by comparison to the tongue-lashing he'd endured last night after blurting out to Valenti that the movie actress's death had not been "natural". The fact that doing so had secured the sheriff's cooperation had been the only thing that saved most of Owens' ass, and whatever Valenti had for them today would only make it safer to sit down.

A car appeared on the horizon, and a minute later, Valenti's cruiser pulled over behind Owens. Both men climbed out, Owens eagerly anticipating Agent Lewis' expression when he brought back intel less than twenty-four hours after initiating a risky and controversial contact. After everything Lewis had put him through, it would be very satisfying indeed to rub his nose in this.

"Sheriff!" Owens smiled as Valenti approached. "It's good to hear from you. What—"

Owens' back exploded in pain as Valenti grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into his car. "You lie to me," Valenti said furiously, "you steal from me, you come crawling to my house with your tail between your legs and beg for my help....and then you steal from me again!"

"What the hell?" Owens sputtered, struggling in Valenti's grip. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about what you and yours took from Dr. Blake's office!" Valenti snapped. "As if you didn't know!"

"Sheriff, I'm not aware of our having taken anything from a doctor's office—"

"Oh, of course not," Valenti said angrily.

"—and whatever you're missing, it couldn't have been us," Owens insisted. "We were all called in from the field last night, and the entire unit was together, including Agent Lewis."

"Like he couldn't have found other goons to do his bidding," Valenti said darkly. "You already stole from me once. Why not twice?"

"Agent Lewis told you we didn't—"

"Don't lie to me again!" Valenti shouted. "The least you could do after sneaking into my station and stealing from me is to quit lying to me!"

"I'm not—" Owens began, then stopped. He was lying, not about whatever the sheriff was missing this time, but about what he'd stolen from Valenti's desk. "Deny, deny, deny," Lewis had chanted when they'd been discussing that inconvenient fact, and much as it had pained Owens, he'd had to agree; admitting to the man they were asking for help that they'd pilfered from his office had seemed counterproductive.

But that was before said man had decided to slam him into a car. "Okay—okay!" Owens said frantically as Valenti hauled him off the car again. "I took it! I went into your office and I took it out of your drawer."

Valenti paused and Owens held his breath, suspended inches away from the car. "Why?" Valenti demanded.

"Because....because that was my job," Owens stammered, racking his brain for explanations the sheriff would accept. "Because....because I feared for your safety, for your—"

"You thought I was too stupid to figure out what it was, didn't you?" Valenti interrupted, pushing, rather than slamming him into the car, a marginal improvement. "I wasn't too stupid to find it, was I? I wasn't too stupid to know enough to bring it in."

"Sheriff, the last thing I'd call you is stupid," Owens said, his back complaining as it made uncomfortable contact with the side view mirror. "That's why I'm here, why you're here, why we're having this conversation in the first place. Agent Lewis almost busted my balls when I told him we should talk to you. Believe me, he didn't want to."

Valenti loosened his grip slightly. "What was it?"

Owens' eyes flicked over the roadway, empty as far as the eye could see. "We're not sure," he answered, "but it was alien. And it killed a fellow agent."

"How?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me," Valenti insisted, his grip tightening again.

"Look, I've already said too much!" Owens protested, bracing himself for another slam. "That thing killed a colleague of mine, and it could have killed you or one of your staff the same way if you'd kept it. But you're right, you found it....and that's precisely why I told Agent Lewis a long time ago that we should bring you into our investigation. That and the fact that it was your digging that led you past the cover he'd constructed for me, further evidence that we'd be better off with you than without you."

"With you outed, he didn't have much of a choice," Valenti noted.

"He had a choice," Owens insisted. "I had a choice. I could have disappeared. He could have gotten a warrant and emptied your station. But he didn't. We didn't. We came back and 'fessed up."

"Which doesn't count now that he's stolen from me again!" Valenti exclaimed. "No fingerprints, no sign of forced entry; whoever did it knew what they were doing. If you want my help, Agent, you need to tell me everything, and oh, by the way, you need to stop stealing evidence!"

"I told you we were all together last night!" Owens said desperately as Valenti readied another slam. "There's no way we could have taken her body! Maybe the aliens took it to hide the evidence."

Valenti's grip loosened again. "Body?"

"The actress's body," Owens clarified, sweating profusely as he realized what this meant; if the body was gone, he was in big trouble. "That is what you're talking about, isn't it?"

Valenti stared at him hard for a long minute before releasing him. "No. It isn't."

Owens ran a hand over the back of his neck where his jacket had been cutting into it. "So...you still have her body?"

"Yes," Valenti said guardedly.

"Then what are you talking about?" Owens demanded. "What else do you think we took?"

Valenti turned his back to him, hands on hips, lost in thought. "The FBI is investigating the death of Audrey Tate, but you were here weeks before that. Why? What brought you here in the first place?"

Owens dropped his eyes. "I really shouldn't.....okay!" he exclaimed as Valenti advanced on him again. "All right! We were tipped off by another death."

"Whose death?"

"I can't say," Owens insisted. "But it was an alien-related death," he added hastily as Valenti's expression darkened dangerously. "That's how we knew they were in the area."

"In Roswell?"

Owens shook his head. "No. North, in another county."

"Did they die the same way Miss Tate did?"

"No, but—"

"How, then?"

"I can't say—"

"Did they burn, or blow up, or—"

"Neither," Owens broke in. "I can't tell you everything you want to know, sheriff. I've already told you too much. The previous death fits the patterns established by the aliens in the forties, and so does Miss Tate's. That's why we're here, to find out who's killing people. I would think you'd want to know that too....don't you?"

Valenti stared at him a moment before turning abruptly and heading back for his car. "Wait!" Owens called after him. "You never told me what you lost!"

"I can't tell you everything you want to know, agent," Valenti replied curtly, still walking.

"Well, whatever it was, we didn't take it," Owens said. "So you'll need to look elsewhere for your thief."

Valenti paused beside his open car door. "For once, we agree, Agent Owens. And that's exactly what I intend to do."



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



I'll post Chapter 49 next Sunday.