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

[Kathy W]

^ Good ol' Alex! He'd try his best, even if he is better at math.





CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT



December 11, 1999, 5 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




"You're a hard man to find," Nasedo said. "Very savvy of you to 'hide' so close to the village. No one would expect that."

River Dog gaped across the fire, unable to believe his eyes. The tone was calm, even conversational, not at all the kind one would use with someone they hadn't seen in years, never mind decades. "It hasn't been easy," he answered. "My son is very persistent." He leaned in closer, suspicious his eyes were playing tricks on him. "Is it really you after all this time?"

"It's me, old friend," Nasedo said quietly. "And it has indeed been a long time."

"You don't look a day older than when I last saw you," River Dog said wonderingly. "And not a bit different. Apart from the clothes, that is. I don't recall your tastes running toward leather."

Nasedo smiled faintly. "Different times, different styles. And I assure you, I am older. My life span is longer than yours, and I don't show age the way you do."

River Dog looked down at his hands, darkened with sun spots and a good deal stiffer than they used to be. "In that case, seeing me must be quite a shock. But you're not here to see me, are you? You could have done that many times."

Nasedo's eyes drifted to the fire. "Knowing me has consequences. Consequences which have recently washed up on your doorstep, as I understand it."

"They're early," River Dog said. "I understood you to mean that my grandchildren or even great-grandchildren would be the ones to fulfill my promise."

"Actually, they're late," Nasedo sighed. "But they're also early in the sense that they're young. They were supposed to be adults, not children."

"Which explains their lack of discretion," River Dog said. "The first one who came, the one who passed your test, has told someone what he found here. Either that, or an enemy approaches. Neither is good news."

"And neither is true," Nasedo said. "The one who came last night also belongs to me."

River Dog frowned. "He didn't react the way you did when he entered the sweat."

"Actually, he did, although he initially recovered," Nasedo answered. "But he sickened again today, and his illness resembles mine as far as I remember it, though it advances more slowly. I need your help to heal him."

River Dog stared at him, stunned. "I...I'm sorry. I had no idea…the stones," he finished. "That's why you're here. You need the stones."

"I have one of my own," Nasedo answered. "But I'll also need the others, and someone to help me wield them."

"I don't understand," River Dog said. "I was alone when I healed you, and had only one stone."

"I know how to take the energy from the stones and assist in my own healing," Nasedo explained.

"And they don't?" River Dog asked, puzzled. "Is this because they don't remember? When the first one who came looked at the cave drawing, he didn't recognize it."

"I'm afraid none of them do," Nasedo said heavily.

"How many are there?"

"Three, at the moment, plus allies who know their secret as you know mine."

"The girl," River Dog nodded. "Would that she had come with the second one; I may not have made such an error in judgment. I intended to intervene with the stones if he succumbed, but…" He paused. "So if he'd sickened in the sweat, I would not have been able to help him?"

Nasedo shook his head. "We're fortunate there was a delay."

"Indeed," River Dog murmured sadly.

"I don't blame you," Nasedo said softly. "You did exactly what I asked of you, and more; just being out here is an attempt to safeguard mine as well as yours. You were right to be wary of enemies, but none pursue them now. I know the stones work for your grandson as well as you; the three of us should be able to manage."

"My grandson? You think three would be needed?"

"I'm not sure," Nasedo allowed. "I've already tried to heal him myself and failed. Theoretically he should be able to assist, but that may well be something else 'forgotten'. I may have to do all the work for him, so the more energy we have, the better. It will be much like healing a human, and you'll recall it took both of us to heal your father."

River Dog was quiet for a moment. "Then it would appear you already have what you need. You have three charges, and they have allies. There should be more than enough energy there."

Now it was Nasedo's turn to stare. "You expect them to do the healing?"

"Why not?"

"Because they have no idea who they are or what's happening to them," Nasedo answered. "They don't remember."

"But they want to," River Dog said. "I watched the boy as he struggled to make sense of the cave drawings. It spoke to him, and he didn't know why. But he wanted to, which is why he came, why she came, why the sick one came."

"But—"

"Don't you want them to remember?" River Dog asked.

"Of course I do," Nasedo said in frustration. "But how will they even know what to do? They are unaware of my presence, and I wanted to avoid revealing myself because doing so will prompt a torrent of questions they're not prepared to hear the answers to."

"Then I will instruct them," River Dog said. "They have already met me."

"No," Nasedo said, shaking his head vigorously. "This is too important to leave to chance. What if they can't do it?"

River Dog took a stick and poked the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. "The raising of children is an odd vocation. Done correctly, it renders us unnecessary. They start out needing us for virtually everything, but our goal is to prepare them to not need us, to teach them how to survive once we are gone. In order for them to learn, they must take risks…and we must let them. We must allow them the opportunity to fail because that is the only way they will learn."

"They can't afford to fail," Nasedo protested. "If they fail, he dies."

"Should they fail, you will intervene, of course," River Dog said. "But what makes you so certain they will? You said they should be able to assist."

"But he wasn't," Nasedo argued. "I already tried."

"You only tried once," River Dog pointed out. "If I had abandoned my efforts the first time my children failed, they would never have made it to adulthood. If I had done for them what they could do for themselves, they would never have learned to do anything. "

"And if they die, they will never learn anything either!" Nasedo exclaimed, rising in frustration. "My primary job is to keep them alive at all costs."

"But for what purpose?" River Dog asked. "I don't pretend to know their destiny, but I am fairly certain no purpose will be served if they remain in the state they are now. They have the opportunity to heal one of their own and to learn more about themselves as they do so. You must give them that chance. You must allow them to become who they are in order for them to be of any use in the future, to themselves or anyone else."

Nasedo stared at him in consternation before plopping down on the log again. "What you're suggesting is…terrifying," he whispered.

River Dog nodded slowly. "I doubt there is a parent alive who would not agree that the raising of children is a terrifying experience, one that requires persistence and courage. The only question now is...do you have the courage?"




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




Crashdown Café




Nine….

Isabel Evans stared at her watch, willing the hands to move. Only the second hand obliged, dragging along at a snail's pace, each tick barely moving it. She would have sworn it was taking much longer than the obligatory sixty seconds to complete one revolution. She'd already watched nine incredibly slow revolutions, and this last one seemed even longer.

Ten!

Times up! Isabel thought, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over Michael's shivering body. Having privately admitted there was sense in Maria's opinion that Michael needed to be cooled down, not warmed up, she'd removed the blanket for ten solid minutes to see if he'd improve. He hadn't, and watching him lie there, inexplicably sweating and shivering had been almost more than she could bear. Maybe he was too hot, but he sure looked cold, and leaving him uncovered was ripping her heart out while not helping him one bit. As she eagerly tucked the blanket around him, she spared a guilty thought as to whether she was happy about that. Desperate as she was for something to make Michael better, there was a tiny, selfish, and frankly embarrassing part of her that was glad Maria hadn't been right. Last night, when Michael had first gotten sick, it had been Maria who had convinced him to drink the water which had made him feel better…and that had rankled Isabel. There was her brother, so tight with Liz, and now here was Michael, famously solitary Michael, responding to someone else, not her. She had never felt so alone as she had last night, with Maria successful at pulling Michael back, and Max and Liz with their interrupted but apparently successful date. Max and Michael now both had someone else, but she didn't, and that had made Alex's phone call this morning more welcome than it would normally have been. It sucked to be alone, and as much as she wanted to help Michael, there was something just a little bit satisfying in knowing Maria's approach hadn't. At the moment, that is. If this went on much longer, even that tiny bit of light would go out fast.

Her phone rang. Isabel fumbled in her pocket and jabbed the button without looking at the display. "Hello?" she said breathlessly. "What? Oh. No, no, nothing's wrong, I...I was just expecting a call from my brother. What've you got?"

Isabel listened silently, closing her eyes as the voice on the other end went on. "Okay, well…thanks," she said heavily. "I really appreciate you looking that up for me. No, that's all I needed. I really appreciate it. Yeah, I know you'll take any excuse to stop doing homework, but I mean it. I'm nowhere near a computer right now, and…what? Yeah, I guess my mom might've known something, but I kind of wanted to leave the adults out of this if I could. Right. Okay…bye."

Isabel let out a slow, shaky breath as she ended the call and buried her head in her hands. She'd been so hoping it was Max, with an explanation and a solution. Running off to the Indian reservation was just exactly the kind of thing Michael would have done, so she hadn't been surprised when Max had called earlier to report that Michael had indeed been there. But River Dog wasn't there, no one seemed to know why Michael was sick, and Max had hunkered down to wait. Desperate for information and unwilling to leave Michael for even a second, she'd pressed a friend into service to do a bit of searching on the subject of fever, something she knew nothing about. The bad news was that high fevers could be dangerous and needed to be lowered, usually by cooling the patient, and the danger level for fevers began at 105 degrees, well below the 112 degrees that Michael had reached and probably surpassed hours ago. The danger level for humans, Isabel corrected silently. None of them were human, so there was no telling how high one of their fevers could go, or what would happen to them if it did. The good news was that fevers usually "broke", or self-corrected, once the threat they were intended to fight had been beaten back sufficiently. Given their usually picture-perfect good health, there was a good chance that Michael would be able to fight off whatever was causing this. God, I hope so, Isabel thought, taking hold of his much too warm hand again. C'mon, Michael. Fight it off.

The door opened behind her, and the smell of food wafted in. A moment later, Maria appeared at her side with a plate and a bottle.

"Hey," she said quietly. "You should eat. Um, I didn't know how much you like, so…"

Isabel felt her face growing warm. She'd treated both Maria and Alex horribly, so the last thing she deserved was room service, never mind Tabasco. "Thank you," she said quietly, setting the plate and bottle off to one side. The smell was actually making her nauseous, but she wouldn't have admitted it for the world.

"I care about him too, you know," Maria said.

"I know you do," Isabel answered. "But Max and Michael are all I have. And if I lose them…"

"You won't," Maria said.

Isabel's next words died in her throat as Michael suddenly started convulsing, heaving and falling on the bed. "What's happening?" Maria exclaimed as Isabel grabbed Michael by the shoulders.

"I don't know," Isabel said in panic, trying to hold him down. "I don't know! He's too strong; he'll hurt himself. Go get Alex. Michael!" she shouted, trying vainly to hold him still as Maria ran out of the room. "Michael, it's me! It's Isabel! Michael, please…please don't…oh, God," she moaned, literally laying on top of him as he wrenched from side to side. "Michael, please don't…Michael…"

Hot tears welled up in her eyes, and she squeezed them shut as he continued to thrash, clinging to him desperately like a drowning person clings to a log. And then suddenly it got easier to hang on, and she opened her eyes to find Alex right next to her.

"Roll him over," he instructed calmly. "Roll him on his side. C'mon, trust me—I've been in enough wrestling holds in gym class to know that it's harder to move that way. Let go," he coaxed when she hesitated. "I've got him."

Slowly, Isabel loosened her grip and slipped off. It wasn't hard; Michael was still thrashing. But the thrashing slowed considerably when Alex rolled him on his side, subsiding into minor jerking as he lay in a fetal position, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath.

"Okay, that's…better," Maria said uncertainly.

"A lot better," Alex agreed. He looked up at Isabel, who was still crouched over Michael, tensed like a cat waiting to spring. "Are you okay?"

Isabel opened her mouth to answer, then settled for a silent nod; if she even so much as tried to say something out loud, she was positive she'd burst into tears. Lowering herself slowly back into the chair beside the bed, she swiped a hand across her face which came away black; her mascara was running, not to mention she had large wet spots on her shirt where Michael's sweat had soaked through. A hand appeared holding a tissue, and Isabel took it without a word.

"I take it he's getting worse?" Alex said.

"Well, that was certainly 'worse'," Maria sighed, taking a seat on the end of the bed. "He hadn't been getting any better, but he also wasn't getting worse...until now."

"Maybe this is a dumb question," Alex said, "but if Max could heal Liz's gunshot wound, couldn't he do something with this?"

"He tried," Maria said. "That was the first thing he did when we got him up here. No dice."

"Damn," Alex murmured. "What about Max and Liz? Did they find out anything?"

"They called and said Michael had been to the reservation last night," Maria answered. "But he was fine when he left, and River Dog wasn't there to talk to, so they were going to wait until he got back."

"Which is…when?"

Maria shook her head. "You got me."

Michael had now settled into a gentle twitching pattern, and Alex watched him in silence for a moment. "Okay, at the risk of making a fool out of myself for the second time today, I'm just gonna throw this out there…maybe it's time we brought in some help."

"What kind of help?" Maria asked warily.

"Well, maybe it's time we told a parent, or someone who might know something else we could try."

"They can't tell anyone," Maria protested. "The FBI was sniffing around them, for heaven's sake. Telling someone could mean he dies."

"And not telling someone could mean the same thing," Alex pointed out. "What about your parents?" he asked Isabel. "I know you said they don't know, but could you tell them in an emergency? Because this sure looks like an emergency."

"Did you hear me?" Maria demanded. "I just told you—"

"I'd love to tell Mom," Isabel whispered.

Both of them stared at her. "What?" Maria said.

"I'd love to tell my mother," Isabel repeated. "I'd give anything to have her here right now, and if it were Max, I would. But it's Michael, and…"

"She hates Michael," Maria finished sadly.

Isabel nodded miserably. "She'd probably think he was on drugs, or something."

"Do we know that he isn't?" Alex asked. "What I mean is, we don't know what happened," he added hastily when they both glared at him. "He may have ingested something he shouldn't have. Not a drug, exactly, but just something that doesn't agree with him for…other reasons."

"Like because he's not human?" Maria suggested.

"Yeah…that," Alex said uncomfortably, glancing down at Michael. "At least he's calmed down."

"For now," Maria said doubtfully, checking her watch. "But our shift is finally over, so we can stay up here."

"Let's give him some more water," Isabel said suddenly. "That helped him before."

"Good idea," Maria agreed. "I'll get it."

"No; I will," Isabel said. "Be right back."

She escaped into the hallway and headed for the bathroom. God, that had been frightening. Maybe it was time to give Maria's ice bath idea a try. She would do absolutely anything to keep that from happening again, no matter whose idea it was. "Roll him on his back," she instructed when she returned to the bedroom. "And prop him up so he doesn't choke. C'mon, Michael," she murmured, holding the glass up to his lips. "Drink something. Just a little. C'mon…"

Michael was still murmuring softly, that weird, sing-songy chant he'd mumbled before, and some of the water went into his mouth only to roll right back out again. "Drink some water," Isabel insisted, more forcefully this time. "You'll feel better. Michael…Michael…damn it!" she exclaimed as water spilled out, soaking his shirt. "Maria, make him drink."

"Wait, how am I supposed to do that?" Maria asked.

"You did the other night," Isabel said desperately. "Please. Just try."

Maria took the glass from her and held it up to Michael's lips. "Drink something," she commanded, though with less authority than she'd used last night. "Swallow…swallow…"

But Michael didn't swallow. Instead, he abruptly started thrashing again, the chanting growing louder as he knocked the glass of water right out of Maria's hand and they hung on for dear life just to keep him on the bed. "Roll him over!" Alex exclaimed.

It took all three of them, but they finally managed, Isabel holding him in a fierce hug as she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to keep from crying. Her phone rang, and she ignored it, unwilling to let go even for a second. It seemed to take forever, but Michael finally lapsed into less violent twitching and shaking. Isabel still held him in a death grip, but Maria let go and grabbed Isabel's phone off the nightstand.

"That was Liz," she said despairingly. "She didn't leave a message."

"Call her back," Alex suggested.

"Right," Maria said, punching buttons, pacing back and forth, muttering, "C'mon, pick up. C'mon…what?! Voicemail? What the…Liz, what gives?" Maria said angrily into the phone. "You just called us, like, sixty seconds ago, so where are you now? Michael's getting worse, and we're out of ideas." She clicked the phone off, even the click sounding frustrated. "Let me go get my phone," she said. "She might be trying me too, and it's in my locker…"

She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Michael. "What's wrong?" Alex asked.

"Isabel?" Maria whispered. "Don't freak, okay, but…what is that?"

Isabel, who had barely been listening, followed her gaze. Maria was looking at Isabel's right hand which was behind Michael's back, and as she raised it, she dragged along a mass of white, sticky threads.




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




Mescalero Indian Reservation





Max Evans drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, gazing out across the dark reservation, lost in thought. They'd retreated to the jeep when darkness fell and it had gotten colder. It didn't offer much in the way of protection, but it was better than nothing.

"What's this?" Liz said after he'd shrugged off his jacket and draped it across her shoulders.

"You were shivering," Max said.

"I'm not cold," Liz protested. "Not really," she added unconvincingly. "Just a little, not…" She stopped, blushing, as her stomach let out a loud growl.

"Cold and hungry," Max sighed. "I'm not much of a friend, am I?"

"Don't be silly," Liz protested. "I'll be…"

Her stomach growled again, a long, drawn out one this time that made her look away. "When was the last time you ate?" Max asked. "Breakfast?"

Liz hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "I kinda doubt there's a McDonald's anywhere nearby," Max said, leaning over and popping the glove compartment open. "Will this do?"

"What's this?" Liz asked, staring at the bar he'd handed her.

"Protein bar. I keep a bunch in the jeep in case Michael gets hungry. His foster dad isn't big on meals."

"Then I shouldn't eat it," Liz said, putting it back in the glove compartment only to hear her stomach growl again.

"Liz, eat it," Max said gently. "It probably doesn't taste like much, but it's better than nothing, and small thanks for sitting out here with me all day. Which I appreciate by the way. It's bad enough going through this, but going through it with you makes it a lot less bad."

"Like I'd leave you out here by yourself," Liz said. "But thanks."

Max smiled sadly as she tore the wrapper open. "Not much to thank me for. All I've managed to do is freeze you and starve you, and get Michael sick."

"How do you figure this is your fault?" Liz asked. "We know Michael came here last night. And he came after promising he wouldn't, after promising he'd wait."

"And I thought he'd wait," Max murmured. "Guess not."

"Well, he should have," Liz said. " You only asked him to wait a few hours, and he didn't. That was his decision. Why do you always think it's your fault, Max? Why do you always think you're the one responsible for what everyone else does?"

Max was quiet for a long time, pondering that. "I don't know," he said finally. "I just am. I know I am. I don't know why, or how I know, but I know that, somehow, the buck stops with me."

"Someone's been reading the history assignment," Liz teased. "But remember, FDR was president, and you're not. Don't worry. River Dog has to come back sometime. He lives here."

"But even when he does, there's no guarantee he'll know what's wrong with Michael," Max said. "We just came here because Michael said his name. River Dog may not have anything to do with this at all. And if that's the case…I'll have to make a decision."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll have to do something," Max said. "We'll have to tell someone about us just to get him some help."

"Tell someone?" Liz repeated. "Someone like…who?" She watched him closely, and Max looked away. "Max? Tell who? Who are you thinking of telling? Wait…you're not…you're not thinking of telling the FBI, are you?"

Max shrugged helplessly. "I'll have to do something. Maybe they know more about us than we do. Maybe they'd know how to help him. Maybe if I turned myself in, they would—"

"Max, no," Liz said firmly. "No one's turning themselves in. Okay, look, I'm going to call them again and see what's going on. Last time I called he wasn't better, but he also wasn't worse. Hang on…" She stuffed the crumpled wrapper into one pocket while pulling out her phone with the other. "I'm not getting any bars," she said after a moment. "Maybe the reception's better outside."

They climbed out, the cold air making it clear that the jeep was indeed better than nothing, leaning against it as she dialed, waiting. "Let me try Maria," Liz said after a minute. "Isabel didn't pick up."

Several passes later, Liz looked at her phone in frustration. "They're not answering."

"We should get back," Max said.

But something had caught Liz's attention, and a moment later, Max heard it too: A low, slow chant, much like Michael's feverish mutterings.

"That's what Michael's been saying over and over," Liz said.

"It's coming from that tent," Max said.

Curious now, they walked toward the tent, completely missing the figure which stepped from the shadows to follow them.




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




"I'm sorry," Jackie said, "but I haven't seen him."

"Are you sure?" Eddie's mother asked. "We heard there was some sort of confrontation in the village. Someone said they saw him talking to you."

"I don't know anything about that," Jackie said, "And Eddie and I haven't exactly been getting along recently. But if I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

Jackie closed the door as Eddie's mother reluctantly accepted that and walked away, wondering how much longer she could keep this up. Her own parents would be back soon, and Eddie would have to find another hiding place. She found him around the corner, watching out the side window as his mother walked away.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For dragging you into this. That's exactly what you said you didn't want."

"Well…I'm not exactly 'in' it," Jackie said. "I'm just saying I don't know where you are."

"You're just lying," Eddie corrected.

Jackie shrugged slightly. "I prefer to think of it as 'not sharing'."

" 'Not sharing'?" Eddie repeated ironically. "So you're 'not sharing' where I am. Or the fact that you were there this afternoon when Max showed up. Or that you've gone out twice already to find out what's going on."

"Okay, so I'm 'not sharing' several things," Jackie said dryly. "Your point?"

"Is that I'm the one in trouble," Eddie sighed. "I shouldn't be getting you in trouble too."

"But I'm not in trouble," Jackie said. "No one knows you're here. Besides, why should you be in trouble? You didn't do anything wrong."

"I dare you to try and sell that to my parents," Eddie said, sinking into a chair, staring at his hands, which worked in his lap. "So is he still there?"

"Yep. Still waiting by his jeep with that girl."

"And grandfather?"

"Still out there."

"What a mess," Eddie muttered, rubbing both eyes with his hands. "This is not gonna end well."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean grandfather's gone, Max will sit there until hell freezes over waiting for him to come back, I have no idea when he'll be back, or even if he'll be back—"

"He'll be back," Jackie said.

"And what on earth makes you say that?" Eddie demanded. "I just sent God-knows-what into the forest after him! And it sounds like that kid last night really was an 'other', and he's sick, which means grandfather was not only wrong, he might have done something that made him sick. What if Nasedo blames River Dog? What if he does something to him—"

"He won't," Jackie said calmly.

Eddie stared at her in disbelief. "And you know this…how?"

Jackie was quiet for a moment, gazing out the window. It had grown dark a good hour ago, and the chanting from tonight's sweat drifted in the open window. "I wasn't supposed to be there," Jackie said. "At the carts, I mean, when the girl came with the broken necklace. My mother was going to work that night, but she wasn't feeling well."

Eddie blinked. "Okay. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm getting there," Jackie said. "After the whole thing with your grandfather, and my grandmother, and all the talk that churned up in our house, I started thinking about all the stories we heard as children. Not just the standard ones about skinwalkers and such, but the local ones, the ones specific to our village."

"The ones about the 'visitor'," Eddie murmured.

"Exactly. Some people said he was a demon, some said a god, but those were never the people who actually knew him. The few left who actually knew him never said much of anything about him one way or the other, and I always wondered why. I always wondered what the truth of it was." Jackie paused. "And now I know. Now I've met him myself. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I sure wasn't expecting that."

"Me neither," Eddie agreed. "Whenever I pictured Nasedo, the last thing that came to mind was a bald guy in a leather jacket."

Jackie shook her head. "Not that. Visitor stories date back to the '47 crash, so he's been around a long time, and he'd have to wear whatever clothes fit the time and place. He scared the hell out of me when he first showed up, but then I realized he just sounds so…ordinary. He's knows the kid waiting for River Dog, he's worried about the sick kid, he's exasperated with both of them. He sounds like a frustrated parent, not a demon."

"Yeah, but a frustrated parent with how many kids?" Eddie asked. "How many more of these teenagers are there?"

"If you're thinking invasion, I wouldn't," Jackie advised. "If this is an invasion, it's got to be the lamest one on record. What interests me is why these kids are looking for your grandfather. Don't they know why they're here? Why aren't they talking to Nasedo?"

"Good questions, all," another voice said. "But they must wait for another time."

Eddie leaped to his feet. River Dog stood in the kitchen doorway like he'd never been gone, like half the village wasn't out looking for him. "Grandfather!" he exclaimed. "You're all right!"

"Of course I'm all right," River Dog said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"He was here," Eddie said. "Nasedo came looking for you—"

"I know. He found me. And now we have work to do. The boy from last night is ill, and I'm the one who sickened him. We need the stones. You'll have to bring them to the cave because I can't go back to the house without being discovered."

"I can't either," Eddie said. "I've been holed up here all day."

"We need the stones," River Dog insisted, "and the stones are at the house. If we can't—"

"I'll get them," Jackie said suddenly.

"No," Eddie said. "You've done enough already."

But River Dog was giving her an appraising stare. "She would not raise suspicion."

"We can't drag her into this," Eddie argued. "This is our—"

"I'm already in it," Jackie broke in. "We settled that. And he's right; if either of you go anywhere near your house, you're never leaving it again, at least not without company."

"What about your grandmother?" Eddie asked. "She won't exactly be thrilled if she finds out you helped a visitor."

"She won't find out," Jackie said. "I'm not going near the cave; you can wait for me in the woods. Then it's up to you."

"Agreed," River Dog said. "We need her," he continued when Eddie began to protest again. "The others will be back within the hour. You must be ready to guide them to the cave, and it's very important that no one from the village sees them."

"Or they'll take sides," Jackie nodded. "Just like they did the last time."

"That could happen anyway," Eddie warned. "And if you do this, you've chosen a side. Are you sure you want to? Because if you walk away, I won't blame you. This isn't your problem."

Jackie looked from Eddie's concerned expression to River Dog's passive one. "Tell me what you need and where to find it. I'll do the rest."




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


I'll post Chapter 39 next Sunday!

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


December 11, 1999, 10:00 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




"Head's up! There's a hill coming."

Great, Alex thought wearily, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and hang onto the tarp which held Michael at the same time. All around him everyone else was struggling too, breathing hard as they trekked as quickly as they could toward…well, toward wherever they were going. He still didn't know.

The ground rose abruptly. He heard the sharp intake of breath as they started up the hill, felt the convoy slow as footing became more perilous. There were six of them, three on each side of the tarp; their tour guide, a young Indian named Eddie, he of the hill warning, was in the lead opposite Max, Isabel and Liz were in the middle, and he and Maria brought up the rear. She wasn't doing so well from the sounds of things; her breath was coming in sharp, short gasps, and she was starting to sway from side to side, unable to keep a straight line as they lurched up the incline. Between them the tarp which held Michael swayed also, swinging sideways first this way, then that, as they inched upward at a snail's pace, his calves screaming, his arm aching, his fingers frozen in a clench. Jesus, but this hill felt like it was the size of Mount Rushmore…

Then there were gasps that sounded like happy gasps, and a minute later, the ground leveled off. "Set him down," Eddie called, perhaps sensing that his troops were at the ends of their various ropes. "Take five."

"Make it three," Max's voice said.

Alex set Michael down as gently as he could and flopped on the ground beside him, not caring where he landed just as long as he wasn't standing, walking, or hanging onto something. Across from him Maria did the same, only a silhouette in the darkness, but even that silhouette managing to look exhausted. It was cold out here, and damp, which made it feel even colder, but he was sweating like a pig, the t-shirt beneath his jacket thoroughly wet. This morning he'd been all aglow with the discovery of alien life and what that could mean; unfortunately he'd discovered it could mean some rather unsavory things, such as coming down with something no one could identify and for which help could not be safely sought. Which is how they'd come to find themselves here, in a cold forest in the dark of night heading God knew where in an effort to bring Michael back. Whatever this "River Dog" was going to do had better work because, if it didn't, they were out of ideas.

Not that we ever really had any to start with, he amended silently, resting his head on his pulled-up knees. Other than the Maria/Isabel bickering about cooling him down versus warming him up, no one really had a clue what to do for Michael, and that had only intensified when the "threads" appeared, sticky white tendrils which had started as wisps on his skin and hair and, over the course of a couple of hours, grown to encase his entire body in a thick, white weave that resembled a killer spider's web. He'd had to physically remove Isabel from the room when it had started, so distraught had she been, and she'd only just ventured back inside when Max and Liz had returned with the only ray of hope so far. He knew she was embarrassed to be out in the hallway when Maria was inside with Michael, but it turned out Maria was made of sterner stuff than Isabel. The news that River Dog had instructed them to bring Michael to the reservation had drawn attention away from Isabel's weakness and refocused it on one of her strengths: planning. It had taken a good deal of planning to figure out how to get Michael out of the second floor of the Crashdown and into the jeep without being seen, involving tarps, lookouts, and some frantic hand washing as those who lifted Michael onto said tarp found their hands covered with sticky white gunk. The ride to the reservation had been a welcome break as Max, Isabel, and Liz had taken Michael in the jeep while he and Maria had ridden in the Jetta. But the respite ended when they reached the reservation and were met by a worried Eddie, who hustled them away from the village as quickly as possible lest they be seen. And then the long walk had begun over dark, uneven ground, Michael swaying on the tarp between them. It was a good thing Eddie knew where he was going. They would have walked into more than a few trees if he hadn't.

"I'm glad you decided to come."

Alex raised his head. He could see a bit better now, could see that the others had pulled away, leaning against nearby trees, not moving, trying to rest. Maria was right where he'd left her, directly across from him, her knees pulled up like his.

" 'Decided' to come? I really don't think I had a choice," Alex said.

"Of course you did."

"No, I didn't," Alex insisted. "Especially when I found out this involved carrying him to Timbuktu. Max and I were the only guys around until we got here and Eddie decided to help."

A low chuckle came from Maria's silhouette. "Right. Because everyone knows girls are weaklings."

Alex felt the blood rush to his face even in the cold forest. Honestly, what was with him today? He couldn't stop putting his foot in his mouth no matter what he did. "I…I didn't mean it like that," he stammered. "I wasn't…I didn't…I just meant that it didn't seem right to, you know, leave at the worst possible time, when there was heavy lifting involved—"

"Alex, relax," Maria said. "I was joking. Besides, you're right; I've never carried anything this heavy in my life, never mind schlepped it for miles. Thank God you were smart enough to nix the blanket. And put handles in the tarp."

"Max didn't seem to think so," Alex said doubtfully.

"Max is lucky you didn't run for the hills ages ago," Maria said firmly. "He just wasn't thinking. He's too close to it. So is Isabel; that's why she couldn't come in the room when Michael was…you know. We may be 'only human', but we're propping them up right now. Don't forget that."

"Right," Alex murmured, recalling Max's consternation when he'd argued forcefully that carrying Michael in a blanket was a bad idea; it would slip out of everyone's hands, and if set on the ground, moisture would soak through. Liz had then suggested a tarp, and Alex had cut handles around the edges, lining them with heavy packing tape so they wouldn't tear because a tarp would be difficult to hold onto also. He hadn't bothered to check with anyone about the handles, but Eddie had noted them appreciatively when he'd seen them struggling and joined the cavalcade. Alex had said nothing, but Maria had promptly proclaimed them his idea. Max had looked startled; Isabel hadn't even noticed.

"So do you know where we're going?" Alex asked.

"Haven't a clue," Maria answered. "Actually, I don't much care where we're going; I'd just like to know when we'll get there. My arms are killing me. You'd think with six people, this would be a piece of cake."

"Well, you know what they say," Alex said. " 'There's no weight like dead weight'." He paused. "Oh, God…I did it again, didn't I? I didn't mean…I'm sure he's not…"

"He isn't," Maria said. "The one good thing about carrying him is that I feel him moving sometimes. I don't know what's going on, but he's not dead."

"I'm sure this 'River Dog' wouldn't have told Max to bring him all the way out here if there wasn't something he could do," Alex assured her. "And Max didn't say anything about it being that bad. Neither did Liz."

"They didn't say much of anything," Maria replied. "I should have made Liz ride with us so we could have gotten some information out of her. Now I'm too tired to even get up and ask."

Alex glanced around their fellow silhouettes. "Maybe she's not the one to ask."

"What do you mean?" Maria asked.

"Hang on," Alex whispered.

He rose to his feet slowly, his legs complaining. His feet made crunching noises on the ground as he walked past Isabel and Liz, who were just sitting there breathing hard, and then Max, whose silhouette turned ever so slightly away from him. His target was up ahead, the only one not winded.

"Hey," Alex said, crouching down beside Eddie.

"Hey," Eddie's voice came, low and guarded.

"Look, thanks for helping us out," Alex said, deciding to use the psychologist's trick of beginning with a positive. "We really needed another pair of hands."

"No problem," Eddie said tonelessly.

"So…where exactly are we going?" Alex asked, coming to the point.

"We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"Where we're going. I'm not just saying that," Eddie added. "I kept you all going until we'd cleared the hill because I knew that would be the hardest part. It's not far now. Five, maybe ten minutes walk."

"Yeah, but where…" Alex stopped, remembering something. "Are we going to the cave?" he said suddenly. "The one with those weird symbols on the wall?"

The shadow of Eddie's head swung toward him. "You know about that?"

"Uh…yeah," Alex said uncertainly.

Eddie gave a soft snort. "Of course you do. Everyone and their mother knows about that. Are you a visitor?"

"What? Me? No, I'm just…" Alex stopped, suddenly worried. "Does this mean I'm going to be 'tested' and wind up like Michael?"

"Beats me. I'm not the one who does the testing."

"Well, that's…reassuring," Alex said doubtfully. "I just wanted to know—"

"So who is a visitor?" Eddie broke in. "I know Max is, and apparently the one we're carrying. Any more?"

Alex hesitated, glancing at the still shapes sitting nearby. "Isabel," he whispered, nodding toward one of the shapes. "It's Max, Michael, and Isabel. Those three. The rest of us are…human. But we're all friends," he added quickly. "It's not an 'us' versus 'them' thing. We're all a group."

"Good to know," Eddie said, a touch of irony in his voice. "And yes, we're going to the cave. I guess it's okay to tell you that since you know about it already. We need to get going if we're going to get there in time."

"In time for what?" Alex asked.

"In time to save your friend."

" 'Save' him?" Alex echoed. "Don't you mean 'help him', or 'cure him'?"

"Call it whatever you want," Eddie said, brushing off his jeans as he climbed to his feet. "All I know is that if we don't get there fast enough, your friend could die."

Die. Alex froze for a second before walking numbly back toward Maria. "Everybody up!" Eddie called just as he reached his side of the tarp. "Let's go!"

"What'd he say?" Maria whispered as everyone clambered to their feet.

"We're going to the cave," Alex answered.

"Makes sense. What else did he say?"

"Nothing."

" 'Nothing'? You two were talking way longer than it took to just say 'cave'. C'mon, give! What else did he say?"

Alex slipped his hand into the crudely cut tarp handle, his fingers making it clear they didn't appreciate being clenched once again. "Everything's going to be all right, Maria. We're almost there. Just walk."



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



Thoroughly exhausted, Liz Parker leaned against a tree and closed her eyes, simultaneously grateful for the break and scared to death to be taking it. She wasn't the only one; Max was several yards away, but even from this distance, she could sense the fear coming off him in waves. Behind her, Maria and Alex were talking quietly, probably comparing notes and trying to figure out what was going on. She deliberately hadn't ridden in the Jetta because she didn't want to answer their questions, didn't want to let on that she knew more than she was letting on. Isabel hadn't exactly been thrilled when she'd climbed into the jeep beside Max, but he'd given her a grateful look. With Isabel in the back with Michael, he was all alone up front, and he was scared. She could sympathize; she was scared too. Since she'd met Max, she'd been scared more times than she'd ever been in her life, but nothing held a candle to this.

When River Dog had found them beside the tent with all the chanting, they had both been alarmed at what he'd said: Bring him here. We may not have much time. That had sent them running with River Dog on their heels, peppering them with questions even as he urged them on. By the time they'd reached the jeep, they'd managed to impart Michael's symptoms, but it was his last question which had caught their attention and confused them the most.

"Has he cocooned yet?"

She and Max had looked at each other, completely flummoxed. Cocooned? What in God's name did that mean? "Like I said," Max had repeated slowly, "he has a fever, his eyes are white, and he's chanting just like the men in that tent. He's basically unconscious, but…that's it."

Much to their surprise, River Dog had relaxed. "Good," he'd said approvingly. "Then he's not too far gone. Bring him here as quickly as possible, along with as many people as you can trust. I'll have someone meet you."

"Wait," Max had called. "What did you mean? What's 'cocooning'?"

"Explanations can wait," River Dog had answered. "There is no time to waste. Bring him here as quickly as possible."

River Dog had melted into the darkness, and she and Max had climbed into the jeep and floored it, feeling marginally better but uncertain if they should. While River Dog hadn't said what was wrong with Michael or what had caused it, he did seem to know what to do about it and clearly was hopeful that he'd be successful. After a long afternoon spent wandering the reservation or waiting in the jeep, tense with worry, that was welcome news. On the other hand, this talk of "cocooning" was worrisome, making them wonder if River Dog was all there. In some ways she almost wished he wasn't because, if he was, that meant "cocooning" was some future step in Michael's condition that she was willing to bet had nothing to do with pretty butterflies. But whatever was happening to Michael was clearly bad news, so discovering River Dog wasn't playing with a full deck when he was their only hope wouldn't be good news either. She and Max had ultimately decided to shelve the question of "cocooning" for later and enjoy whatever twist of fate had sent River Dog back only minutes before they were planning to leave.

And then they'd arrived back at the Crashdown. She'd entered the spare bedroom ahead of Max, so she hadn't been able to see his face, but she hadn't needed to; she'd heard him stop dead in his tracks, felt him stiffen. And no wonder, because the meaning of "cocooning" had suddenly become all too clear: Michael was lying on the bed, wrapped head to toe in a tight web of sticky white filaments that bore a striking resemblance to…well…a cocoon. Max had looked at her, stricken, and she knew what he was thinking. Then he's not too far gone, River Dog had said. Did this mean Michael was now too far gone?

"Thank God you're here," Maria had said, the strain showing in her voice.

"Oh, my God, Max," Isabel had whispered, enveloping Max in a desperate hug.

"This is really happening, isn't it?" Alex had murmured.

And Liz had nodded wordlessly, reflexively, every bit as shocked as he was. The scientist in her had wanted to question them closely about when and how Michael had come to be encased like this, to take a sample of the webbing and examine it, but there wasn't time for any of that. Alex and Max had promptly gotten into a heated discussion about how to carry Michael; Max wanted to use a blanket, and Alex argued that wouldn't work. She'd suggested a tarp, which Max had reluctantly agreed to, and the resulting scurry to get Michael into the jeep without being seen had precluded any conversation. It wasn't until just before they'd left that she'd found herself alone with Max in the jeep for a couple of minutes.

"He's going to be okay," she'd said gently. "This hadn't happened when I called them last. It hasn't been that long."

"But how long is too long?" Max had whispered. "Has it been too long already? And what's happening to him? Is he turning into something else? Is he turning into what our…'people'…really look like? Is what we look like now just a disguise that wears off after a while, after we've supposed to have figured out what we're doing here? Or is he…I mean, could he be…"

"No," Liz had said firmly. "Look, this is all speculation. One hundred percent speculation. We can speculate all day and all night and never get near the truth. Let's just get Michael to River Dog as fast as we possibly can, and then maybe we'll get some answers."

And Max had nodded numbly, not answering because he couldn't; Isabel had climbed into the back with Michael, and it was time to go. Just as well because any further discussion would have had one or both of them finishing that last sentence: Could he be dying? River Dog had acted like something was wrong, like this wasn't a natural process, and as he had now been proven to be of sound mind, that was unfortunately the explanation which made the most sense. She wouldn't have said so out loud if you'd paid her, though, on the tense, silent drive to the reservation which had seemed to take twice as long as usual. And then there was the complication of not only having to carry Michael, but carry him all the way to the cave. Eddie, who had met them when they'd arrived, hadn't said where they were going, but she and Max had exchanged glances, knowing full well when he'd hustled them into the woods that they had a long, hard walk in front of them.

A shadow brushed past her. It was Alex, crouching down beside Eddie, speaking in murmurs. A minute later he walked back, and a minute after that, Eddie rose to his feet.

"Everybody up! Let's go!"

Liz could tell from the way Max practically leaped off the ground that he'd been itching to move ever since they'd stopped. She really had no idea how close they were to the cave, but it turned out to be very close; little more than five minutes had passed when they reached the clearing in front of it, unusually bright after the forest because moonlight and starlight could reach it. Eddie stopped, lit a torch, and held it aloft so they could see the opening.

"We're going in," he told them. "I'll warn you when to duck in the low places. Try not to drift sideways because the passageway curves and can get pretty tight before we reach the place where it widens out. Ready?"

Everyone nodded. Even the little light from the sky promptly disappeared as they shuffled inside, their feet kicking up dust which was invisible in the enveloping darkness, but still made them cough when they inhaled it. The torch bobbed in front of her in Eddie's right hand, barely cutting the darkness.

"Is this the same cave you and Max saw?" Isabel whispered.

"Yeah," Liz answered.

There was a pause. "Then maybe it's just as well it was you and not me."

Liz glanced across the tarp. She couldn't see Isabel's expression, but she didn't really need to.

"He's going to be okay," she said.

"Right," Isabel said dully. "Keep saying that."




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




"Where are they?" Nasedo asked impatiently.

"They're on their way," River Dog answered.

"But where are they? They should be here by now."

"I sent my grandson to meet them," River Dog said. "He will bring them here as quickly as he can."

"It's taking too long," Nasedo fretted.

"I already told you the symptoms they described," River Dog pointed out. "The illness is not advancing as quickly as it did for you."

"But that could change," Nasedo argued. "It's still taking too long." He paused. "What are you doing?"

"Marking the circle," River Dog replied as he squatted near the cave floor. "The sick one will go in the center, and I will draw lines for each one who wields a stone when I see how many there are. I also have the bowl to pass, and a simple chant—"

"What for?" Nasedo demanded. "They don't need any of that to heal."

"But this is how I healed you. I drew a circle around you—"

"But why?" Nasedo interrupted. "Pictures? Bowls? Chants? These are the trappings of religion, and this has nothing to do with religion."

"It does not," River Dog agreed. "Religion is something man invented, and not to be confused with faith. But this is neither; this is ritual, a form of symbolism which helps us organize our thoughts and focus our minds. Since this is their first experience healing, I thought it might help."

Nasedo said nothing, even looked taken aback. River Dog watched him out of the corner of his eye as he continued his task, finally climbing to his feet when the circle was finished.

"You asked for my help," River Dog said, "and this is my way. But these belong to you, so if you do not approve, you have only to say so and I will withdraw so you may proceed another way."

"No," Nasedo said quickly, shaking his head. "No, that's not…I mean I didn't mean to…" He stopped, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry. You're trying to help, and I was rude."

"No apology is needed," River Dog said. "Parenthood is never easy. But your behavior is downright curious, even for a new parent. Is this how children are raised where you come from?"

"Parent?" Nasedo repeated blankly. "You keep referring to parents. Do you think these are my children?"

"You said as much yourself," River Dog answered. "You said they were 'too young'."

"They are," Nasedo replied. "But they're not my children. And I'm not a parent, theirs or anyone's."

"I see," River Dog murmured. "That explains a great deal. And leaves a great deal unexplained."

Nasedo was quiet for several long moments, gazing at the cave floor. "Do you remember what I told you when I left back in '59?"

"Of course," River Dog answered. "That these may come, not in my lifetime, but the lifetimes of my grandchildren or my grandchildren's children. You said they may not be themselves because they had been injured and were healing. When I met the first one, I assumed they were your children, and you were waiting for them to recover."

"Right on the second part," Nasedo sighed. "Although 'recover' is perhaps the wrong word."

River Dog regarded him in silence for a time. "My father never asked your purpose here," he said finally. "He felt it irrelevant, and perhaps he was right. But I am asking you now, and I believe I have earned an answer. Why are you here, Nasedo? And if these are not your children…who are they?"

Nasedo stared off down the cave passage as though hoping for an interruption, the torches throwing flicking shadows across his face. River Dog waited patiently, prepared to wait as long as it took. Quanah had always been adamant that Nasedo's purpose here was his own business and no one else's. If he had ever learned what that purpose was, he had never spoken of it, even to his own son. But that was then, and Quanah was gone. The ones who were due many years from now had found their way here. Nasedo had reappeared after decades of absence exhibiting downright peculiar behavior. If he was to offer any kind of useful assistance, he needed to know more.

"There was a king on my world," Nasedo said suddenly, his voice unusually loud in the deserted cave. "A tragedy occurred, and the king and his family died. The royal family had guardians whose principal job was to keep them alive, or, failing that, to resurrect them. Our medical science allows us to do that." He paused. "I am one of those guardians, and the ones who approach now are some of that resurrected royal family: The king, his sister, and his chief military officer."

River Dog pondered that for a moment. "Max," he said softly. "He is the king. And the one last night is his officer."

Nasedo snorted faintly. "Is it that obvious?"

"Just a little," River Dog said dryly. "But why do they not know who they are?"

"Something went wrong," Nasedo said. "They were supposed to emerge as fully grown adults in approximately twenty years with all their memories intact, yet it took forty-two years for them to emerge as young children who looked about six years of age and…"

"Don't remember?" River Dog prompted.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Nasedo said. "But, simply put, no, they don't remember. Or they didn't, anyway, until just recently."

"But you must want them to remember."

"Yes…but not now," Nasedo said. "The whole point is for them to return to our world and their rightful places in that world. They're nowhere near ready to do that."

"Agreed," River Dog said. "But if you are a guardian, why have you not shown yourself? Why do they not know you? Surely the best way for them to remember is for you to help them do so."

"They mustn't remember, not yet," Nasedo insisted. "They remembered once before, to disastrous effect. This is why I sought your help. I don't want to reveal myself unless there is truly no other way because doing so could be disastrous all over again. My job is to keep them alive and bring them home, and therein lies the problem; if I bring them home now, they'll be dead within days, but if they stay here, they could get themselves killed anyway. They certainly seem to have a knack for getting into trouble." He paused. "You keep talking about children and how to raise them, but I know nothing of that. I'm completely out of my league here. I was never meant to be a parent."

River Dog smiled faintly. "When I was a child, there were those who thought you a demon. If only they could see you now. Demons do not speak this way." He held up a hand as Nasedo started to say something. "You may not be a parent, but I am. And I can assure you that all children have both a knack for getting into trouble and for discovering that which we'd prefer to keep from them. I can help you this time, but the time will come when no one can…and then you will have to reveal yourself, whether they're ready or not."

Sounds drifted up the cave's passageway, muffled footfalls and the murmur of conversation. "And here they are," River Dog said.

"What if you're wrong?" Nasedo said worriedly. "What if they can't do this by themselves?"

"That's where you come in," River Dog answered. "But you have to let them try. Another sure thing about the young is that they will grow up when they will, be that with us or without us…and it is better they grow up with us." He took up a torch. "I will go and meet them now. If you are not here when I get back, I will take that to mean that you wish me to proceed."

River Dog started up the passageway without waiting for a reply. They were quite a ways up and moving slowly, their burden swaying between them. When Eddie spied him, he called the caravan to a halt. They stopped, Max and Eddie in the lead, Liz and another girl in the middle, two more behind them, all sweating and panting and eyeing him warily.

"Set him down," River Dog said, squatting beside the invalid…and growing cold when he saw the cocoon which covered him.

"How long has he been this way?"

"He was like that when we got back from the reservation," Max said. "We didn't know."

"But for how long before that?" River Dog pressed.

Max looked to the girl across from Liz. "It happened just before you got back," she answered. "Half an hour? Maybe forty-five minutes?"

"No longer than that," agreed the boy behind her. "So, total time elapsed would be about two hours."

"Do we still have time?" Max asked.

Six expectant faces awaited a reply. "I believe so," River Dog said. "Bring them," he instructed his grandson. "I will go ahead to make the final preparations. There is no time to waste."

Eddie nodded, and River Dog left before they'd even hefted their burden again. He had lied; he had no idea if they still had time to heal. When Max had told him the cocoon had not yet formed, he'd assumed the illness was moving slowly, especially since it had taken so long to appear in the first place. Now it appeared to have sped up, and he was no longer certain they could handle this themselves, even with his help.

Nasedo might have to reveal himself sooner than he wanted.




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



Michael opened his eyes.

A moment later, he closed them, opening them again a second later, but more slowly this time, squinting against the bright light overhead from…where? He could feel that he was lying on his back, but he had no idea where he was. Keeping his eyes mostly closed, he cautiously sat up and looked around.

And he wasn't alone.



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


I'm off to New Zealand this week to see my son! That'll knock out the next 2 weeks (it turns out that traveling halfway around the world is time consuming), but I'm hoping to have Chapter 40 up on Sunday, July 3.

[Kathy W]

I'm back! Still haven't figured out day from night (there's a 16 hour time difference between me and NZ), but hopefully I'll get there soon.



CHAPTER FORTY



December 11, 1999, 10:45 p.m.

Mescalero Indian Reservation




Michael Guerin looked around him in confusion, shielding his eyes from the glaring sunlight overhead. Or was it sunlight? It seemed to be, but there was the little niggle that there was no visible sun in the sky or even clouds, for that matter, which would explain why there was only a bright glare. The exact origin of the light was interesting, but would have to wait for two far more important questions: Where was he, and how did he get here? He appeared to be in the desert, seated on sand which was curiously cool to the touch. Shouldn't it be hot, given the bright sun overhead? But then the "sun" wasn't hot either, nor was the air, and both should be. Off to one side was a massive rock formation, jagged peaks angling to the sky like rockets ready to take off…and curiously familiar. Of even more interest was the fact that he was alone; he could have sworn he'd seen someone else as soon as he'd opened his eyes, but now he saw no one. Just sand, rocks, and that curious glow that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Okay…second question. He'd woken up that morning at Max's grandmother's house feeling just fine, but by late morning he'd been back to feeling crappy. The last thing he remembered was entering the UFO center to look for Max. Had he found him? He couldn't remember. How had the feeling crappy turned out? He couldn't remember. What had happened between the UFO center and the desert? He couldn't remember that either, nor had he any recollection of how he'd gotten here. There were no vehicles in sight, so what was up with that? Had he been dumped? Flapped his wings and flown? Maybe they were parked behind that giant rocket ship rock? He looked down at his clothes and saw they were the same ones he'd put on that morning, meaning they were the same ones he'd worn last night. Thoroughly confused, he started to stand up, meaning to get a better look at those rocks over there…

…only to fall back to the ground feeling like he'd been hit by a bus. Something was wrong, very wrong. His chest felt tight, as though it just couldn't seem to expand as much as it needed to pull in enough air. His arms were working, but his legs felt heavy, so heavy they were impossible to move. What's happening? Michael thought in a panic as the weirdly lit scene in front of him began to waver and streak, like water drops falling on a chalk drawing. This was worse than feeling crappy; this was feeling perilously close to…dead? Breathing hard, he lay back down on the too cool sand under the not hot sun and tried desperately to figure out what was going on. Was this a dream? Why couldn't he wake up?

And suddenly there was heat, flowing into him from all over, from every direction. Michael felt his constricted chest relaxing as blessed warmth crept into him from the back, the front, his head, his feet, every limb. He lay still for several long moments, reveling in it, finally opening his eyes to find himself…standing? This was good news, as was the fact that the "sun" now felt appropriately warm, but when had his legs begun working again? He remembered another dream where he'd been standing on sand covered with symbols from the cave wall. This must also be a dream, there being no other explanation for the way the laws of physics had gone right out the window, and he looked down eagerly, anxious to look at the symbols again and see if any of them made sense now. But no symbols decorated the sand now. Instead he found himself at the center of a circle, a spoked wheel, each spoke leading to a solitary figure.

Cool, Michael thought when he spied Maria. Being with her in the real world was problematic, but in the dream world, anything could happen. Isabel was there too, which might put a damper on any really good dream stuff with Maria, and…Alex Whitman? What was he doing here? Granted the guy had saved their butts numerous times now, but that hadn't earned him dream status. And where on earth was…Max, he thought with satisfaction, spying Max walking toward him, only to hesitate and look past him at something else. Michael turned around…and was suddenly confused. Liz Parker. Now, what in blazes was Liz Parker doing in his dream? Alex, maybe, if only because he was the newest member of the "alien club", but Liz? She wasn't the newest; she was the oldest, the founding member, and the circumstances surrounding that were still a sore point. No way did she deserve to be here

Then the scene changed. One second he'd been standing in the middle of the desert and the spoked wheel, scowling at Liz, and now he was somewhere on rocks, maybe those rocket ship rocks he'd seen before. Several feet below him, lying in a depression in the rock, was a body encased head to toe in a white web that looked like some big ass spider had been hard at work. Squatting down, Michael examined it more closely. Man, but this dream was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. So who exactly had his unconscious mind trussed up like a snack for Shelob? He peered closer, trying to see the features past the webbing…and pulled back in alarm when he did so.

Then things got really confusing.

Michael stood stock still as reality shifted and morphed around him, never the same from one moment to the next. Max and Isabel were there, appearing out of nowhere, looking down at the body in the web…and then they were still there, but they were children, little children watching him, Max holding out his hand with a pleading expression. Then it was night, and they were all gazing up at a sky bright with stars from which five stood out, five brilliant stars in the shape of a "V". The body flashed by again, then the desert with the carpet of alien symbols, and then he was walking with Max and Isabel hand in hand, away from the rocket ship rocks on a night so dark, only the stars were available to guide their way. He wrenched his hand away and ran when two lights pierced the darkness behind them, running for cover, away from Max's assurances that it would be all right. As his feet pounded over the sand, Michael looked down and found himself small, as small as he'd been in his earliest memories when he'd lived with the Guerins and loved Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street, and weird as that was, for a moment, he was actually relieved. Because that meant that what he'd seen back there when he'd been squinting at the body in the webbing couldn't be true…because he'd seen himself, his teenaged self. It was him in that webbing, and it was him here now, running frantically away from a car's headlights in the dark of night, both scenes producing fear and an urge to run, to run away. Which was true? Neither could be true, could they? He wasn't small, and he wasn't spider food. But then what was true?

And then, in a moment of blinding clarity, it all came together. The symbols on the ground, giant cousins to those on the cave wall. The rocket ship rocks. The stars in the sky. The three young children standing hand in hand. The source of the warm glow which seemed to fill every cell in his body and which he instinctively knew what to do with, how to use. Calm now, Michael took Max's and Isabel's hands and walked away, across the desert, away from the rocks and the stars and the symbols. They were big now, the way they were supposed to be, and as they walked, everything felt more real with each step. The sun burned his skin, the sand sent heat through his feet, even the air was growing warmer and heavier…

The desert disappeared. He wasn't walking any more, but lying on his back, a familiar web of white in front of his eyes. It gave way as he sat up, the torn edges disintegrating into dust motes which danced in the chill air. It was dark, but this wasn't the UFO center, the last place he remembered being, at least not judging by the torches flicking all around him and the wheel drawn on the floor, its spokes leading out in all directions. And standing over him, gazing at him with expressions which ranged from fearful to hopeful to just plain curious were Max, Isabel, Maria, Alex, Liz…and River Dog.

"You all right?" Max asked warily as Michael climbed to his feet.

"I went some place, Max," Michael answered. "And I saw things."

"But you came back," Max said. "For good this time."

"Yeah, I came back," Michael said as Isabel gave him a relieved hug. "Thank you, Maxwell. No more running, no matter what." He held out a hand. "Give me your rocks."

There was a moment's hesitation before hands outstretched. Michael collected them one by one before marching further into the cave, everyone trailing. The cave markings were right where he knew they would be, along with the depressions for the stones. He inserted them one by one and stepped back, waiting. There were audible gasps when they began to glow, illuminating the shape of a "V".

"It's a map," Michael explained.

"How do you know that?" Max asked.

"I know," Michael whispered, caressing the symbols with one hand. "I know this. This…this is mine. I made this."

Five heads turned. "Is that true?" he heard Max ask. "Did Michael make this drawing?"

"No," River Dog answered. "Although it appears he may know what it means."

"Do you, Michael?" Isabel asked anxiously. "Do you know what this means?"

Of course I do, Michael thought, at peace for the first time in his life. Max had asked if he was "all right", and the answer was that he'd never been more "right" in his life. He knew this had been left for them to guide the way, left by one who knew he would recognize it. Such a faithful servant…

"What I'd like to know," another voice said, "is how he knew to ask for the rocks."

Everyone looked at Alex. "Well…it's just that none of you…us…had ever seen them before," Alex said uncertainly, "and that includes Michael. But first thing after he comes to, he asks for the rocks. How did he even know they existed?"

"That's how you saved me," Michael explained.

"Right," Max said slowly, "but…how did you know that?"

Michael fixed steady eyes on him. "How else would you have done it?"

Max's eyes widened. Behind him, Isabel looked downright terrified. Maria and Liz edged closer together. River Dog raised an eyebrow. Alex merely blinked.

"Okay," Max said, pointing to the glowing rocks in the wall. "Let's start with that. What is that? What does it mean?"

"You know what it means, Max," Michael said. "Think."

"I am thinking," Max retorted. "And I think I have no idea what that means."

"But you do," Michael insisted. "So do you," he added to Isabel, who recoiled. "We all do."

"Fine, then," Isabel said, sounding like she was on the verge of panic. "Consider us stupid, and tell us what it means."

"You should know—"

"Yeah, yeah, we should know," Isabel interrupted impatiently. "We heard. But we haven't been gifted with your epiphany, Michael, so have a heart and fill us in."

Oh, for heaven's sake. Michael sighed heavily, unable to believe they'd forgotten this most basic information. Then again, he'd had to almost die before he remembered. "All right," he said indulgently. "It's…"

Michael froze, his next words evaporating into thin air. "It's what?" Max pressed. "What is it?"

No, Michael thought frantically, closing his eyes, clutching his head with his hands. No!




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




"No, no, no!" Michael howled, bending at the waist as though he'd been struck, falling to his knees on the cave floor, dust rising as they hit. "NO!"

"Max!" Isabel exclaimed, grabbing Michael's arm as he fell. "Max, what's happening?"

"I don't know," Max said worriedly, bending over him. "Michael? Michael, what's wrong?"

"Is it some kind of relapse?" Alex asked.

"Oh, my God," Maria whispered as Liz clutched her arm.

Max straightened up, spun around. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "He was better. Why is he getting worse?"

River Dog looked curiously at the boy in the dirt, then back to Max. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Did this happen when you healed Nasedo?" Isabel asked.

"No," River Dog answered. "He never sickened again, although he was weak for a time. Your friend wasn't even weak. He had more healers; Nasedo had only me."

"Then what's going on?" Isabel asked, near tears as Michael continued to kneel in the dirt, one hand to either side of his head as though he had a massive headache.

"Try the stones again," Alex suggested.

"Good idea," Max agreed, plucking the stones from the wall one by one; they stopped glowing, only to start again when each landed in an outstretched hand. "Everybody gather round," Max instructed. "Quickly."

"Concentrate," Isabel added.

Five people gathered around the boy on the floor, each of their faces a study in concern and concentration. But their efforts did not appear to be producing much in the way of results; Michael continued to kneel on the ground, his arms now wrapped around his head.

"It's not working!" Isabel cried. "Now what do we do?"

"I…I don't know," Max said, bewildered.

"Why isn't it working?" Alex wondered. "It worked like a charm the last time."

"Because he was ill," River Dog said. "It would appear that this is not an illness."

"Then what is it?" Maria demanded.

Michael abruptly sat up, his arms falling away from his head, his face ashen. "Michael?" Max said, kneeling down beside him. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"I lost it," Michael whispered.

"Lost what?" Isabel asked. "Are you sick again?"

"I lost it," Michael repeated, louder this time. "It was right there, right there...and then it slipped away."

"What slipped away?" Isabel asked.

"Wait—give me the stones," Max said, hurriedly collecting them. "You were just about to tell us what this meant," he told Michael as he replaced them in the wall depressions. "And then you just…collapsed."

Michael looked blankly at the softly glowing "V" on the wall. "I…I don't know."

"But you did know," Max said.

"You were even ragging us for not knowing," Isabel muttered.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Michael said bitterly. "I lost it! I felt it slipping away, and I couldn't stop it. I tried to hang onto it, but…I couldn't."

"Like a dream," Alex murmured. "Not that you were dreaming," he added hastily when Michael turned hard eyes on him. "I meant that it's like a dream, like when you first wake up, and it's so vivid, but…"

"But five minutes later, you can't remember the details," Maria finished.

"And a few minutes after that, you can barely remember you even had a dream," Liz added.

"That's it," Michael whispered. "That's it exactly. I knew what this meant," he added, looking at the glowing "V" like a starving man looks at food. "I know I knew. And it's like it's still there, right on the edge of my mind, but…I can't reach it!" he exclaimed, pounding a fist on the wall. "I can't get to it!"

"Michael, calm down," Isabel ordered. "It's okay."

"No, it's not okay!" Michael retorted. "It's not okay that I had it, and now I don't!"

"Maybe you'll remember later," Max suggested soothingly. "You remembered once, right? So maybe you'll remember again later. That happens with dreams sometimes, doesn't it?"

Alex, Maria, and Liz exchanged doubtful glances, but said nothing. "It doesn't matter if he remembers or not," Isabel insisted. "The important thing is that he's not sick any more."

"How can you say that?" Michael demanded. "Oh, I know how. You don't want to know. You've never wanted to know."

"Michael, don't start this with me now," Isabel said tersely. "I have no problem saying that, because you know what? You almost died! Died, as in dead, as in six feet under, and there was nothing we could do about it! We didn't know what was happening, nothing we did seemed to help, there was no one we could go to...I mean, if you hadn't said River Dog's name, we would never have known to come here, and you'd be dead right now. And this all happened because you came here in the first place. You lied to Max, you told him you'd wait, and then you—I am not finished!" she shouted when Michael tried to talk over her. "You told him you'd wait, and you didn't! And then you almost got yourself killed! So forgive me if I find the fact that you're alive and well the main point of interest here, because no matter what you think you remembered, you'll never get to tell us if you die in the process of remembering it!"

"Iz," Max said warningly. "That's enough."

"No, that is not enough!" Isabel exclaimed in anguish. "He put us all through hell because he couldn't be bothered to wait a few hours, and all he can do is whine over some rocks on the wall!"

Michael stood up suddenly and stalked out of the cave, his face a thundercloud. "I'll go after him," Maria said quietly. "Don't worry," she added when Max tried to intercept her. "I'll keep my distance. I just want to make sure he doesn't have a relapse somewhere no one can find him."

"I'll go with you," Alex said.

River Dog waited while the three who remained looked at each other uncertainly; Max looked embarrassed, Liz appeared to be in shock, and Isabel was near tears. "I'm sorry," Max said finally. "Please don't take this to mean we're not grateful for what you did, because we are."

"You saved his life," Isabel added, nodding. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," River Dog said. "And I'd give your friend some time. It must be very frustrating to lose something important to you, especially when you've only just found it." He reached over, plucked the stones out of the wall. "You should take these. They belong to you, and you may have need of them in the future."

"Thank you," Max said. "For everything."

They trudged off, still in shock, Max and Isabel looking ahead, Liz glancing back as they walked away. Their footsteps faded away down the cave's passageway, and a minute later, River Dog was alone. Or so it seemed.

"Well," he said to the empty air. "That was certainly…interesting."

"An 'interesting' way of putting it," Nasedo's weary voice said behind him. "I would have used another word."

River Dog turned around to find his friend seated on a rock with his head in his hands in an eerie parallel to Michael. "I should have also," River Dog said. "I should have added 'successful'. Extremely successful."

Nasedo looked up in astonishment. "That's what you call 'successful'?"

"The point was to heal his illness, was it not?" River Dog said. "They not only succeeded, they did so in record time. He was at least as far gone as you were, maybe more. It took me much longer to heal you, and the effort left me quite drained, in spite of the assistance you said you provided. This only took a couple of minutes, and none of them seemed the least bit affected. Except Michael."

"A huge exception," Nasedo sighed. "And now that's he's remembered something, however briefly, he will stop at nothing to bring that back. The process of saving him may have provided him with information which could wind up killing him."

River Dog took a seat beside Nasedo. "What did he mean when he said the cave painting belonged to him? Is there any truth to that?"

"This," Nasedo said, waving a hand toward the symbols on the wall nearby, "is a code, a military code that…'Michael' developed. That was precisely why this was left here, because we had hoped he would be able to decipher it."

"And what does it say?"

"It tells them how to go home," Nasedo answered.

"Something you don't want them to do."

"Something they must not do," Nasedo corrected. "Not now, not before they've matured."

"I understand your not wanting them to return prematurely," River Dog said, "but I don't understand your reluctance to tell them where they came from. Clearly they're remembering on their own. Wouldn't you rather guide the process?"

"They remembered once before," Nasedo reminded him. "It didn't end well. The shock was too great."

"Is this the 'tragedy' of which you spoke?" River Dog asked. "What kind of tragedy? Was this a plague, or some other kind of illness?"

Nasedo was quiet for a moment. "No," he said finally. "It was a coup. The monarchy was overthrown by a rival. The king and his family didn't merely die…they were murdered."

"I see," River Dog murmured. " So they remembered their own murders."

"And if they remember again, they will order me to bring them home," Nasedo said. "I can't risk that happening."

"Then refuse," River Dog said. "It would not be the first time a child wanted something he should not have, nor will it be the last. That is precisely the purpose of any guardian, to make those decisions until their charges are capable of making them on their own."

"It's not that simple," Nasedo said in frustration. "The king…he has the ability to command me, to compel me to obey. Never mind the details," he continued when River Dog's eyebrows rose. "Such a power was never meant to land in the hands of a child, and I'm virtually certain it will be misused should he learn of it now. I have reason to believe he misused it before, even as an adult." He paused. "This must sound absolutely crazy."

River Dog shrugged slightly. "The king has a power he does not yet possess the wisdom to wield. The same can be said of many men on this world."

"And all others," Nasedo said darkly. "Anyone who thinks it gets better on other planets would be sadly mistaken." He paused, shaking his head. "So now you know why I came here, why I'm still here. Why I cannot yet leave. Any expert advice from an experienced parent would be most welcome."

River Dog was quiet for several minutes, gazing into the flame of a nearby torch, thinking. Requested advice should never be given lightly.

"You are in a difficult position," he said finally, "and I sympathize. But your charges are also in a difficult position. They know they are visitors, but they do not know their purpose here. You fear that knowing would be dangerous for them, and perhaps that is true. But it could also be that not knowing is equally dangerous in a different way, as their obvious desire to know may lead them to do reckless things."

"Tell me about it," Nasedo muttered.

"But the deciding factor is that they have begun to remember," River Dog continued. "They have actively sought answers, and it appears that Michael remembered something on his own, even if he did soon forget. Whether he ever regains what he lost, or whether that happens to any of them in the future, is irrelevant. They have made it clear what they're willing to do to learn more, and they'll continue to do so whether you want them to or not. So you must make a decision: Is it more dangerous for them to seek those answers with you...or without you?"




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



Hank Whitmore's trailer




Max stood outside Michael's trailer, the hand he'd raised to knock pausing in mid-air. It was past midnight, late for a visit, but he knew his sister would kill him if he didn't check on Michael before coming home, and the truth was, he wanted to anyway. It had always been just the three of them, and tonight, it had almost become two. Even with public healings and lurking FBI agents, this had been the closest call any of them had experienced. Thinking better of knocking on the door, he moved sideways and knocked on Michael's window instead. He had to knock twice before he heard movement inside the trailer, and he watched warily as the door opened, hoping it wouldn't be Hank.

It wasn't. "Hey," Michael said, bleary-eyed as he held the door open. "Come on in."

Max hesitated, glancing past him to where Hank was snoring on the couch. "Don't mind him," Michael said. "He's passed out for the night."

Max stepped gingerly inside, closing the door noiselessly behind him and tiptoeing past the Hank-whale on the couch toward Michael's room. "Seriously, don't worry about it," Michael said, heaving himself on his bed without a care in the world for the noise he made. "A freight train couldn't wake him up."

"Does he do that every night?" Max asked.

"Just about."

Max glanced back toward the couch. "That sucks."

"Not really. He's way easier to deal with like this than when he's conscious. Or sober."

Max shrugged doubtfully. "If you say so." He took a seat on the end of the bed. "So are you okay?"

"Just peachy," Michael deadpanned. "Every weekend should be this much fun."

"Michael—"

"Okay, okay," Michael broke in. "First, the Isabel Report: Physically, I'm 100%. No lingering aftereffects of my near death experience, or not yet, anyway. Mentally, I'm pissed."

" 'Pissed'?"

"Yes, pissed. I had answers, Maxwell, real answers…and then I didn't. That pisses me off. I make no apology for that."

"I didn't ask you to—"

"I do, however, apologize for putting all of you through hell," Michael went on. "Believe me, Isabel read me the riot act on the way home. I accept full responsibility for what happened and why, and I humbly apologize that I did not wait to address the question of the symbols on the cave wall. My doing so was hasty and foolish and nearly got me killed. I hereby tender my undying gratitude for your efforts to undo my idiocy."

"You're gonna make me hurl," Max said dryly.

"This isn't for you," Michael said. "This is the Isabel Report, remember? This is what she wants to hear. This is what will shut her up."

"And the fact that you don't actually feel that way?"

"Is beside the point. Silence is not only golden, it's expensive. And humiliating."

"Michael, knock it off," Max said. "Are you really okay?"

Michael sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes, Maxwell, I'm okay. As okay as I can be given that something I'd never expected nearly ended me. I was in that sweat for all of ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and look what happened."

"River Dog said it was the heat from the sweat that disrupted your 'balance," Max said. "Or so Nasedo told him."

"Yeah, well, I think Nasedo was full of it," Michael answered. "According to Isabel, my body temperature flew way past the end of a thermometer, and yet I'm still alive to tell about it. I'm guessing heat wasn't the problem. More likely it was whatever River Dog kept throwing on the fire."

"What was that?"

"No idea. It stank and smoked, and made me cough like hell. That's all I've got. That and a closet fear that anything, anywhere, at any time can knock me flat. What else is out there that can do that?"

Max shook his head slowly. "I don't know. But that's why I've decided to tell Liz we need to back off for a while."

Michael twisted his head around to look at him. "You did? Why?"

"Because it's all so tentative," Max said. "Because the same thing could happen to any one of us at any time. Because next time, River Dog may not know what to do, or even be there."

"Oh. And here I thought it was because you'd finally seen the light and realized none of this is real."

"Of course it's 'real'," Max said. "It's the only 'real' we know, the only 'real' we have right now."

"But it's not the one we're supposed to have," Michael insisted. "I know. I saw."

"You saw what?" Max demanded. "You claim you saw something, but then you forgot. Face it Michael, your version of 'real' is nothing more than wishful thinking."

"You're just jealous because I've seen things you haven't," Michael retorted.

"Or maybe you're jealous that I've got Liz, but Maria dumped you," Max shot back. "Honestly, what was I thinking, even telling you this? You've always hated Liz."

"I do not 'hate Liz'," Michael protested. "I've never hated Liz. What I hated was being exposed, which was your fault, not hers. And I don't give a damn about Maria."

"Strange words from Mr. 'It Feels So Wrong, But It Feels So Good'."

"Yeah, well, at least I knew it was wrong," Michael said. "You're a little late coming to that conclusion. It's just us, Max. It can only ever be us. I'm glad you finally realized that."

"You might want to dig down in that ego of yours and find a shred of gratitude," Max advised, "because if it had been 'just us' tonight, you wouldn't be here now. Do you have any idea what all of us went through to bring you back tonight?"

"I told you Isabel filled me in," Michael said in a bored tone. "Spare me the reprise."

"No," Max said bluntly. "You'd love to be 'spared' because you don't want to think about it, but you don't get off that easy. You're alive tonight not just because of Isabel and me, but because of Liz, Maria, and Alex too. They hid you, watched over you, tried to help you while Liz and I went to the reservation to find out what stupid thing you'd done this time. Alex worked the Crashdown so Maria could spend more time with you and Isabel. Liz talked Eddie into finding River Dog for us. All of them helped carry you miles into the woods, and all of them helped heal you. All of them—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Michael said impatiently. "Enough with the sob story, already. Nobody asked them to do that."

"But they did," Max said. "They did anyway, and that's killing you, isn't it? Because now you owe them. Now it's harder to go around bitching about them without looking like an ungrateful bastard."

"Are you done?" Michael said irritably. "Because you've got something more important to do than tear me to shreds. Go tell Liz it's over, and leave me alone. I was trying to remember what I saw when you got here, and that's way more important."

" 'What you saw'?" Max said ironically. "Michael, you wouldn't have seen anything if not for Liz. She went to the reservation when we couldn't."

"And maybe she shouldn't have. It was a stupid thing to do."

"I'll be sure and tell her you said that."

"Look, what do you want from me?" Michael demanded.

"I want some real acknowledgement that you did something stupid!" Max exclaimed. "And that the only reason you're alive right now is because the rest of us, including the people you're so eager to ignore, busted their asses to pull you back from the edge!"

"Really?" Michael reached over the edge of the bed and grabbed a sheet of paper from underneath it. "That's what you want? No questions about what I saw, or what this means, or anything like that?"

Max looked down at the drawing of the symbols on the cave wall. "Did you do this?"

"Yes, Max, I did this. From memory. And it means something. It's not just a map, it's a message someone left there for us to find. And now that we've found it, we have to figure out what it means, and that's way more important than your fake girlfriend, or my hormones, or Isabel's terror that we'll actually learn something that will burst her little bubble. This is tops on my list. I guess I'm not surprised it's not tops on yours."

Michael tossed the drawing on the bed and leaned back in disgust, his hands clasped behind his head. Max stared at the drawing for several minutes. It was good, better than the one he'd made, with details he'd missed when he'd made his own copy.

"So what's it mean, Michael?" Max asked softly. "What's the message? Where's the map leading us?"

Michael closed his eyes. "I don't know. Yet. But I'll figure it out. I have to figure it out. Because we're here for a reason."

"What reason?"

"I don't know. But I did. I knew…and then it all drained away. All of it but one part."

"What?" Max asked eagerly. "What part?"

Michael propped himself up on one elbow and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, so you do have some sense of priorities? Good to know."

"Michael—"

"Like I just said, we're here for a reason, Maxwell. This isn't some random occurrence. Our ship didn't just run out of gas over Roswell. We were sent here for a reason, a very important reason, and that's why we have to figure out what that reason is and not get distracted. By anything." He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

"Now go tell Liz you're done."




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



Proctor residence




Dee was all ready to climb the stairs to bed when she heard the screen door flapping. Cursing under her breath that neither she nor Anthony had gotten around to fixing its troublesome latch, she unlocked the front door to close it securely…and froze when she saw someone sitting in one of the porch chairs.

"Good Lord, don't scare me like that!" Dee said crossly after snapping on the porch light. "What are you doing lurking out here?"

"I'm surprised to find you awake at this hour," Brivari answered. "I thought older humans went to sleep progressively earlier."

"You're the second person to tell me that this week," Dee grumbled. "Forgive me for not being a model 'older human'. And you haven't answered my question."

Brivari was quiet for a moment. "Remind me," he said finally, "should the physical limitations of my race ever be altered to allow us to reproduce…remind me never, ever, to have children."

Dee came out onto the porch, the chilly December wind whipping her nightgown. "What happened?" she demanded. "Are they all right?"

"Do you really think I'd be sitting here if they weren't?"

"Don't answer a question with a question," Dee said tartly. "Are my grandchildren all right?"

"Your grandchildren are just fine," Brivari sighed. "But I'm not."

"Dee?" Anthony's voice called from inside. "I thought you were coming to bed."

Dee studied Brivari for a moment before answering. "I think you'd better put some coffee on," she called.

"Coffee?" came Anthony's bewildered voice, coming closer as he spoke. "At this hour? Why would we…" He stopped, having reached the door.

"Yes, coffee," Dee said. "I think we're all going to need it."


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


I'll post Chapter 41 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!




CHAPTER FORTY-ONE



Two days later



December 13, 1999, 5:00 p.m.

Evans residence




Max Evans tossed his pencil down in disgust and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. This wasn't working. For the past two days he'd tried to shove recent events aside and drown himself in school, and on the surface, at least, it had worked; he'd never completed his homework so quickly or thoroughly, never studied for a test that hadn't even been announced yet, never started a paper due two weeks from now on the day it was assigned. He'd reasoned that focusing on the mundane would give him a much needed breather from all the hijinks of this past weekend, that a couple of dozen geometry proofs would take his mind off cave paintings and glowing rocks, that the yawn fest also known as Ernest Hemingway would help him forget that one of his closest friends had almost died.

Only it hadn't. The numbers swam in front of him like some foreign language, one he didn't have a dictionary for. Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises supposedly examined the side effects of war, something he really didn't want to think about right now. He'd carefully tucked away his own drawing of the cave symbols, but that didn't stop his eyes from drifting in the direction of its hiding place. He'd set aside his biology textbook for later in the hopes he'd get the rest of his homework done before he had to tackle that subject, but that didn't stop him remembering the look on Liz's face when he'd sat down next to her in Biology this morning, or the fact that she'd spoken to him only when necessary. He'd spent a miserable period second-guessing his decision to cool it, and, frankly, had never really stopped. I'm doing it now, he thought wearily, closing his eyes. He'd been over it and over it and over it, and he always reached the same conclusion: He needed some space. They both needed some space, but somehow the need for space had been misinterpreted as a desire for a new ice age. He'd heard of girls doing this, but he'd never thought Liz to be that type, the type who sensationalized every little thing a guy said and blew it all out of proportion.

That's not fair, he chastised himself. He hadn't merely asked for space, he'd actually said "we don't belong together" out loud and in English. He hadn't quite meant it that way, and even now, just thinking about it made him cringe. What he'd said had made it sound like Liz was deficient in some way, which couldn't be further from the truth; what he'd meant was, "I'm a freak. I'm abnormal. I'm dangerous." It wasn't her, it was him; he was the problem. But he hadn't made that clear, and to make matters worse, he'd dumped this on her right after she'd stuck her neck out for him, after they'd all stuck their necks out for all of them. Bad wording, bad timing, bad form all the way around. No wonder she didn't want to talk to him.

Max rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. If time away from Liz was supposed to bestow clarity, it was failing miserably…for him, anyway. Isabel had been positively giddy when he'd told her about it, and Michael, of course, had been Michael: Dismissive and blunt to the point of rudeness. He'd love to drown his sorrows by talking about it, but neither Isabel nor Michael would understand, never mind have a shred of sympathy for him. He'd love to talk about the cave symbols, but Michael was still sullen on the subject of what he'd remembered, then forgotten, and Isabel wanted nothing to do with it. Liz would have talked about it, Max thought, realizing with a start that what he missed the most was having a friend. Liz marked the first time in his life that he'd had someone other than Michael or Isabel he could be completely honest with. It had been liberating in ways he'd never imagined, so to lose it now was like being locked in a dark room, one he'd only just left and was in no hurry to return to…only this time, it was different. This time he knew it could be different...and that he could die at any moment. How many other supposedly innocuous things were out there that were unexpectedly dangerous, and which of them would run into one of them next?

A sound pricked his ears. A moment later he was climbing off the bed and heading out of his bedroom, hardly able to believe he was doing this. Loneliness made you do strange things, and he must be very lonely indeed if he was even considering this…

"What are you watching?"

His mother twisted around on the couch, the TV remote in one hand. "Old videos," she answered. "What else? I always drag these out when your father's away. It's the only time they get watched."

"Oh. Are you making dinner, or are we ordering in?"

"Making dinner," Diane said firmly, switching the TV off. "I'm sorry, I just got involved in this."

"Mind if I do my homework in the kitchen?"

"Oh, I'd love that honey. I get so lonely when Dad's away, and it's just you and me tonight."

"Where's Isabel?"

"On a date. She said she'd miss dinner. I'll go get started."

Max shook his head as he headed back to his room. A date? Figures. Isabel went on dates all the time, and Michael and Maria had visited the janitor's closet, but just let he and Liz go out once—once—and you'd think the end of the world was imminent. Why did they get to have friends, and he didn't? Why the double standard?

Because it isn't a double standard, he thought as he gathered up his books. What he and Liz had was different. None of Isabel's random guys even came close to what he and Liz shared. Michael and Maria more closely resembled gasoline and a lit match than boyfriend and girlfriend. No, he and Liz were different, and he knew it. Michael and Isabel knew it. And Liz knew it, which is why she'd reacted the way she had. But there was nothing he could do about it now except to take whatever comfort he could find in his mother's company. You knew it was bad when you went looking for your mom for someone to talk to.

"This is kind of fun, isn't it?" Diane said, setting a skillet on the stove as he arrived in the kitchen. "You and I don't see much of each other these days."

Max smiled gamely. "Guess not," he answered, spreading his papers out and opening his biology book. The kitchen would be much better for doing biology homework. It would be tough to throw his pen down and moon over Liz with his mother there.

"Gracious, I just sharpened this," Diane muttered, struggling to coax a knife through a garlic clove. "I'm beginning to think these need new edges. They won't even cut butter without a fight. And it doesn't help that I forgot to pick up any fresh peppers this week. Honestly, I get so discombobulated when your father goes away. Guess this'll have to do," she added, throwing a huge handful of barely chopped garlic into the skillet.

"Why don't you put a little more garlic in that, Mom?" Max teased.

Diane smiled indulgently. "You know how I get when your father's away on business, honey. Fried foods, red meat."

"You're a real party animal," Max agreed.

"Oh, shut up," Diane said dryly. "Oh…so, what's that? Biology?"

"Yeah. Everything you always wanted to know about a dead frog."

"Oh," Diane said ruefully. "Not my strongest subject."

"Mine either. But I have a good lab partner. She's really good in science, so—"

"She?"

Oops. Max groaned inwardly; so much for taking his mind off Liz. "Mom," he said warningly.

"Well, I'm just curious," Diane insisted. "Does 'she' have a name?"

Max hesitated. "Liz," he answered, his eyes on his book.

"Oh, right. Liz Parker. Isn't she the one that came by the other day?"

"Yeah," Max answered shortly, hoping his mom would take a clue from a single syllable answer and drop the subject.

No dice. "So…what are you, just friends, or—"

"Yeah," Max broke in before she could finish that sentence. "Just…" Just friends, he'd meant to say, and then change the subject to something safe, something else, something about anything but Liz.

But he never got there. Flames suddenly shot from the stove top, forming a wall of fire so tall, it reached the ceiling. "Mom, watch out!" Max shouted, dropping his pencil and launching himself toward the stove as Diane screamed. Pushing her out of the way, he raced past the stove, throwing power at it, ignoring the fierce heat. A split second after the flames had evaporated, he glanced over toward his mother and found her staring at him wide-eyed. And that was when he realized what he'd done—he'd just used his powers right in front of someone. Again.

Self conscious now, Max grabbed a pot of water, made a show of tossing it on the now non-existent fire, and went to his mother. "You all right?" he asked worriedly, kneeling beside her.

"Max…oh," she said, dazed. "I, uh…I…think so."

"Let me see your hands," Max instructed. "Did you get burned? Does anything hurt?"

Diane looked down at her hands as though seeing them for the first time. "I…no. I don't think so. I…Max, what just happened?"

She's okay, Max thought, finding no redness anywhere, no singed clothing. God, he'd almost just lost Michael, and now his mother. And she didn't see anything, he added with relief. Everything had happened so fast, it would be tough to prove anything anyway. "Let me go look," he said gently. "You stay here."

A moment later, he held something up. "Looks like this tipped over," he reported, holding the grotesquely misshapen bottle of vegetable oil aloft. "Wasn't this almost full just a couple a minutes ago?"

Diane blinked. "Oh, God," she said slowly. "I must have knocked it over. Oh, how stupid of me—"

"Mom…Mom…it's okay," Max said when she almost burst into tears. "It was an accident. It happens."

The sound of the front door opening floated back toward the kitchen. "Hello!" came Grandma Dee's voice. "Anybody home? I knew Philip was gone, so I brought over some pizza. Although I was thinking maybe you were making dinner because I thought I smelled…"

She arrived in the kitchen doorway and stopped, staring at the scorched kitchen.

"…smoke."




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




"And then the bottle of oil must have tipped over," Max reported, holding a badly melted slug of plastic that used to be a Crisco bottle up for her inspection. "The burner was on, so it must have caught fire."

"My goodness, Diane," Dee said lightly. "I know you hate it when Philip's away on business, but did you have to go and burn the house down?"

Still seated on the floor, Diane made a sound that suspiciously resembled a moan as Max frowned. "Mom's really upset, Grandma," he said disapprovingly. "Don't make her feel any worse than she already does."

"I'm sorry," Dee said promptly, suppressing a smile at her grandson's reproachful tone. "I was just teasing. And it's a really bad time for teasing," she added quickly. "I see that now."

" 'Now'?' Diane echoed incredulously. "Mom, we could have been killed! We could have been—"

"All sorts of horrible things," Dee finished. "But you weren't. That's the important part. Life is full of near misses, and if we dwell on them, we'll go nuts. Best to learn from them and move along. The ones we know about, that is. There are plenty we're never aware of, and maybe that's just as well."

"How can you say 'move along' after this?" Diane demanded.

"I didn't," Dee answered. "I said 'learn from them and move along'. Big difference. For example, I imagine you won't be putting bottles of oil anywhere near your cook top in the future, right?" Diane nodded mutely. "There you go, then," Dee continued. "We know this won't happen again because you'll change your behavior."

"Maybe," Diane allowed, "but I'm still going to have nightmares about what might have happened."

"Oh, 'might have happened'," Dee scoffed. "Gracious, all sorts of things 'might have happened'. You were out earlier today, right? What if you hadn't made it home? What if you'd been hit by a car, or something like that? Then you wouldn't have been making dinner and spilled the oil, so no fire, but you'd be much worse off than you are now."

"I guess," Diane said doubtfully.

"I know," Dee said firmly. "Once you start playing the 'might have happened' game, you lose, because that list is endless. Let's just count our blessings that what 'might have happened' didn't, and leave it at that."

Diane nodded wordlessly, but Max looked momentarily startled, glancing at his grandmother and quickly looking away when he found her watching him. He'd had his own brush with disaster only a few days ago, so he'd probably been doing his own wrestling with the 'might have' monster. That mini-lecture had been aimed at him every bit as much as his mother.

"Hello?" a voice called from the front of the house. "Anyone home?"

"Back here," Dee called.

A moment later, a yellow-coated fireman appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Evening, everyone. Your security system sent out a fire code…and that looks to be accurate," he finished, gazing at the scorched mess that used to be a cook top. "Everybody all right?"

"I think so," Diane said, scrambling to her feet and composing herself now that strangers were in the house. "I...this is my fault. I had a bottle of oil too close to the stove, and I must have knocked it over, and—"

"Say no more," the fireman said, holding up a hand. "Accidents happen. Mind if we have a look around?"

"No, no, of course not," Diane answered, waving them on. "Go ahead. Max, honey, would you fill them in on what happened?"

"Sure, Mom," Max said, disappearing with the first fireman and a second who had joined them. Diane watched them go before turning to Dee.

"Mom, could I…could I ask you a favor?"

"Of course, dear."

"Would you…could you call Philip and tell him what happened? If the security system went off, that means he'll get a call, and…and I don't think I can talk to him about this. Not yet."

"I'll be glad to call him," Dee answered. "And if he's not there, I'll leave a message so he knows not to worry."

"Thanks, Mom," Diane said gratefully. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem, dear. Oh, and Diane?"

"What?"

"Philip's not perfect either," Dee said, "and no one knows that better than me. So when he lights into you, or does a 'you should have known better', you just send him my way. I'll have him hushed up in a jiffy."

Diane managed a shaky smile. "I love him dearly, but...it's just he can get a little..."

"Judgmental? I know," Dee sighed. "It pains me to say it, but he comes by it honestly. You run along and fill in the firemen. I'll go outside and call Philip."

It was dark out when Dee stepped out the front door and pulled her cellphone from her purse. A couple of firemen stood by the fire truck in the driveway, and a knot of neighbors had gathered near the edge of the front lawn. "Everyone's fine," Dee assured the neighbors. "Just a kitchen fire. Looks worse than it is."

They nodded and moved away, some gladly, others with just a tinge of disappointment that life hadn't served up something more exciting. Voices came through the front door, Diane and Max detailing what had happened, and Dee move further away. The last thing she wanted Philip to hear was emergency personnel in his house. He could be awfully harsh sometimes, and she had only herself to blame; he'd learned that at her knee. Better that he have what would inevitably be his initial reaction with her than either his wife or his son, what with Diane understandably upset and Max…poor Max, Dee thought sadly as the phone rang on the other end. According to Brivari, he'd had one hell of a weekend, and now this.

"Mom!" Philip's voice boomed over the phone. "I just got a call from the security company, something about the alarm being tripped at home? Do you know anything—"

"It's all right," Dee said soothingly. "Everyone's fine. There was a fire in the kitchen—"

"Fire? What kind of fire? Is anyone hurt? Is anyone—"

"No one's hurt, and it's out," Dee broke in. "But it tripped the alarm, as you already know, and Diane knew you'd get a call, so I said I'd—"

"But what happened? How did it start?"

"Diane accidentally knocked a bottle of vegetable oil onto an open burner," Dee explained. "The firemen are checking everything—"

"Oil? It was a grease fire? Did she find the fire extinguisher? I keep pointing it out to her, but I don't think she's ever used it—"

"Max put the fire out," Dee said, "so he must have used it. They're just fine, Philip. And stop interrupting; you might learn more if you let me talk."

Naturally that admonition sent Philip off on a tear, and Dee sighed in resignation, not bothering to stop him. And that was when she saw the cruiser making it's way slowly down the street. You've got to be kidding me, she thought as her son droned on in her ear. It can't be…

It was. The cruiser pulled into the driveway behind the fire truck, and there was a pause before the sheriff climbed out. Great, Dee thought sourly. Valenti had been quiet for some time now, but apparently couldn't pass up an opportunity to get close to his quarry again. No different from his father, who had first pursued her at the tender age of eight after he'd found one of her red sneakers mixed in with the crash site debris. The apple hadn't fallen far from this tree either.

The front door opened abruptly, and two firemen exited. "So how on earth did the kid put that out?" one of them asked. "That was one hell of a fire."

"No idea," the other answered. "There was a fire extinguisher under the sink, but nobody'd touched it. Maybe he smothered it?"

"Must've," the first one answered. "Only way he could have done it."

A prickle of unease crept along Dee's spine as the firemen headed for their truck, Valenti meandered up the driveway, and Philip exploded in her ear. "What'd they say?" he demanded. "What was that about the fire extinguisher? Did they say—"

"Philip, calm down," Dee ordered. "I already told you Diane and Max are safe, and the fire is out. I'll get you the details later. I have to go."

Diane clicked the phone off in the middle of one of Philip's sentences and went back into the house, closing the door quietly behind her. Voices drifted from the kitchen, two male, one female, and Dee moved carefully toward them, her heart in her throat. She'd just assumed Max had used the fire extinguisher, but, come to think of it, she hadn't seen it lying around anywhere, nor had either Max or Diane mentioned it; Diane had merely said that Max put out the fire, but neither had said how. And exactly how would an Antarian-human hybrid respond in an emergency such as this? Would he grab a fire extinguisher…or use something much closer to hand?

"….I'd say you had quite a fire here," Valenti's voice floated from the kitchen. "That must've been pretty scary."

"Well…yeah," Max's voice said uncomfortably.

"For a moment there sheriff, I wasn't sure what was going to happen," Diane said. "The flames were coming right at me, and they were…they were high."

"How high?" Valenti asked.

"I don't know," Diane said. "Maybe…five feet. Maybe higher."

"But Max saved the day," Valenti said cheerfully.

"Oh, Sheriff, he didn't hesitate," Diane said proudly. "He just came right in, pulled me out of the way, poured this pot of water on it, and suddenly everything was okay. It was miraculous, really."

Oh, God, Dee thought heavily, leaning against the wall. Using the word "miraculous" was bad enough, but a pot of water? On a grease fire? No way.

And she wasn't the only one who'd noticed. "Miraculous," came Valenti's voice, with more than a tinge of irony. "The flames were five feet high, or maybe higher. And your mom, God forbid, could've caught on fire, and you put the whole thing out with this one pot of water, huh?"

"Yep," Max answered, sounding like he didn't believe it himself.

"Boy, I gotta hand it to you, Mr. Evans, I'm impressed," Valenti said. "You ought to join our fire brigade."

"Really, it was…it was nothing," Max said.

"No, there's nothing to be humble about," Valenti insisted. "You're a real hero."

Lay it on thick, why don't you? Dee groaned. Ironically, Diane seemed to be the only one who wasn't catching Valenti's sarcasm. "Why, thank you, Sheriff," she said proudly, and Dee could just see her slipping her arm through her son's even though she was around the corner and out of sight. "I'm delighted that you recognize how brave Max was."

"Oh, I do, Mrs. Evans," Valenti assured her. "Believe me, I do. I may be the only one who does."

"Except for me, of course," Diane said.

"Of course," Valenti agreed quickly. "Well…I just wanted to stop by and make certain everything was okay. If there's nothing I can do to help, I'll leave you in the hands of your incredibly capable son, and make my way out."

"Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff," Diane said warmly. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem, Mrs. Evans," Valenti assured her. "It was my pleasure."

I'll bet, Dee thought darkly, moving to the living room window and waiting until Valenti drove away. The driveway was empty now, the fire truck having left and the neighbors gone home.

"Mom!" Diane said, coming up behind her. "Did you reach Philip?"

"Yes," Dee said, watching Max duck down the hallway toward his room. "I told him what happened. Was that the sheriff?"

"He stopped by to make sure we were okay," Diane answered. "Wasn't that nice of him?"

"Delightful," Dee muttered.

"What?"

"It was nice of him," Dee agreed. "Have you called the insurance company yet?"

Diane's eyes widened. "Oh, that's right! I should do that so they can send a claims adjuster, maybe even before Philip gets home. That'll make him feel better. They're probably closed," she added, glancing at her watch, "but I can leave a message—"

"They have twenty-four hour hot lines," Dee said. "Go call them now."

Diane scurried off, giving Dee what she wanted: Unfettered and unobserved access to the kitchen. The smell was much worse now, the odor of charred wood and singed metal mingling with the smell of burnt paint and drywall. The entire cook top was scorched, as was the counter on either side, and, most damning of all, the ceiling above the stove was blackened, attesting to the height of the flames. This hadn't been some little fire—this had been a fireball. Holding her breath, Dee walked to the sink, bent down, and opened the cupboard door.

The fire extinguisher inside was untouched.

Damn it! she thought savagely. If she'd figured this out earlier, she may have been able to discharge the extinguisher and put this entire problem to rest. Except for the part about explaining to Max why she'd be doing it in the first place, that is, although that would be far easier than explaining to Valenti how a massive grease fire had been controlled with a little pot of water. The pot in question was sitting on the counter beside the sink, looking ridiculously tiny in light of the circumstances. The good news was that, even if full, it couldn't have held enough water to cause much in the way of spread. The bad news was there was no way in hell it could have had anything to do with putting out a fire like this.

A door closed. "I'm home!" Isabel's voice called. "What's that smell? Mom? What…"

Her voice trailed off when she reached the kitchen. "Oh, God," Isabel whispered. "Grandma! What happened? What—"

"It's all right," Dee said, closing the cupboard door on the unused extinguisher. "There was an accident while your mother was cooking, and it caused a fire. No one got hurt, but your kitchen will need some help."

"Where's Mom?" Isabel demanded. "Is she—"

"Isabel!" Diane's voice called up the stairs. "Is that you?" Footsteps pounded, and a moment later Diane appeared with a sheaf of papers in her hand. "I was downstairs pulling out the insurance information," she explained as Isabel enveloped her mother in a crushing hug. "Don't worry, I'm okay. Your brother saw to that."

Dee watched Isabel's eyes cloud over. "He…he did?" she said warily. "What'd he do?"

"He put the fire out," Diane answered. "He rushed right in, pulled me out of the way, and seconds later, the fire had just…disappeared. It was downright miraculous."

Dee winced inwardly at the second occurrence of the "M" word, the significance of which was not lost on Isabel. "Miraculous," she repeated with a brittle smile. "Wow. Imagine that."

"It was just amazing," Diane went on. "I have no idea how he did it. I'm just glad he did."

"Oh, me too," Isabel agreed. "Um…is he here?"

"I think he's in his bedroom," Diane told her. "Go talk to him. He can tell you what happened far better than I could. I have to call the insurance company, and then we'll order out for dinner, or make sandwiches, or something. I don't think I want to go near a heat-producing appliance for the rest of the evening."

Isabel practically ran toward her brother's bedroom as Diane headed for a quiet phone, probably the one in their bedroom, leaving Dee alone in the ruined kitchen with its blackened ceiling, its pristine fire extinguisher, and the laughably small pot. She contemplated all in silence for a moment before retreating to the garage.

"Yes?" Brivari's voice said warily when he answered his phone.

"It's me," Dee said heavily. "We have a problem."




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



Proctor residence




"I don't see as we have a problem," Brivari said.

Dee blinked. "You don't? Did you not hear a word I just said? About fires, and Valenti, and—"

"I heard every word," Brivari broke in. "But no one can prove anything."

"They couldn't 'prove anything' with the shooting either, but that certainly seemed to kick up a lot of dust," Dee noted.

"That was different," Brivari said. "There were witnesses to the shooting; here, the only witness is your daughter-in-law, and her testimony is suspect because of the nature of the accident."

"But what about Valenti?" Dee demanded. "What about the FBI? The shooting alerted the FBI—"

"No, Valenti alerted the FBI," Brivari reminded her. "I sincerely doubt they would have paid any attention to the shooting if he hadn't brought it to their attention. And even though he's suspicious now, he was suspicious before, so nothing's changed. No new suspicious people have been added to the list."

Dee stared at him a moment, then shook her head. "I don't get it. I thought you'd be worried."

"Maybe it's all in the perspective," Anthony suggested. "Michael almost died a few days ago. After that, what's a little kitchen fire among friends?"

"That was no 'little' kitchen fire," Dee protested. "The firemen wondered how Max managed to put out a fire that size without an extinguisher, and you can be sure Valenti will too."

"I'm sure they will," Brivari agreed. "But the firefighters won't pursue it because there's nothing to pursue; the fire was extinguished and no one was hurt. They may not understand how that was accomplished, but at the end of the day, they won't care how just as long as it was."

"And Valenti?" Dee asked.

"Will reach the conclusion we all know he'll reach," Brivari sighed. "But he can't prove it, and if he tries to, he'll look like a madman. And he won't let that happen; word is he's very leery of falling into his father's footsteps. Or perhaps I should say 'missteps'."

"The only 'misstep' Jim Valenti ever made was opening his mouth," Dee said. "He was right all along; he just couldn't prove it. And his son isn't so leery that he didn't call the FBI."

"True," Brivari allowed. "He let his curiosity get the better of him on that one. But Stevens treated him like dirt and cut him out of the loop, Topolsky attacked him, then disappeared…I sincerely doubt he'll be approaching the Bureau again any time soon. He'll go it alone from here on."

"Okay," Dee said slowly. "So you're not worried about Valenti. That's good. But why haven't you lit into Max for doing exactly what he did before, that being using his powers in public?"

"This wasn't 'public'," Brivari answered. "There was only one other person present, and she was seriously preoccupied. And then we have the fact that this was his mother, or so he thinks. Antar would be ill served by a monarch who won't take a risk to save his own parent from an accident."

Dee's eyes narrowed. "So does this mean you think Antar would be well served by a monarch who won't take a risk to save anyone else from an accident? Say, for instance, some random person who happens to be the victim of a shooting?"

"You're pulling this out of context," Brivari said.

Dee shook her head. "No...no, I don't think I am."

"This was completely different," Brivari insisted.

"Good luck," Anthony said to Brivari under his breath.

"I don't see how," Dee argued.

"Then you don't see it," Brivari shrugged. "I can live with that. Suffice is to say that I am unconcerned about this exposing him. The only possible threat I can see is if your daughter-in-law saw more than we think she did and decides to pursue it. Is that likely?"

Anthony smiled and shook his head as Dee rolled her eyes. "Diane? To put it delicately, Diane isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. I sincerely doubt she noticed a thing."




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




Evans residence




Diane Evans shivered as she closed the living room window. The acrid smell of smoke still lingered despite having thrown the windows open for a couple of hours, but now it was just too cold. Even the smoke smell was better than freezing to death. Plopping on the couch, she grabbed the TV remote and clicked "play", picking up where she'd left off right before she'd started dinner, or tried to. She hated Philip's business trips. Granted he frequently worked late, but that was different; he was still in town, and only a phone call and a few minutes away if something happened, like something just had. On the plus side, he hadn't been here to chide her for being careless, and their insurance agent had assured her that all repairs would be covered. Right now all she wanted to do was forget about all of it, about Philip being gone, about accidents, everything, and lose herself in those innocent days when the kids were young and her dream of having a family, so long denied, had suddenly and unexpectedly come true.

Five minutes later, she'd remembered something she hadn't thought about in years.



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


I'll post Chapter 42 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER FORTY-TWO




December 14, 1999, 9:30 a.m.

West Roswell High School





"Okay, we'll just wait right here until he comes along," Isabel said, stepping out of the crowds thronging past them as she gazed anxiously down the hallway.

"Okay," Max agreed.

"And we're not going to sensationalize this," she went on. "We're going to stay calm even if he doesn't, and stick to the facts."

"Right."

"No freaking out about Valenti being there, or—"

"Isabel, I got it," Max interrupted. "We don't even know if he's here today. Michael isn't exactly a model of good attendance."

Isabel's eyes widened in alarm. "But you're going to wait, aren't you? Don't leave me alone to tell him, because—"

"Relax," Max said gently. "I'll tell him. If he doesn't show now, I'll catch up with him later. You don't have to do a thing."

"Good," Isabel said, obviously relieved. "That's good."

"In fact, you can go now," Max offered. "You don't need to be here."

"Really?" Isabel said hopefully, deflating a moment later. "No. No, that wouldn't be fair. I just know he's going to start in on you, and he shouldn't, not this time. We both have to make a firm stand that saving Mom's life was the right thing to do, the only thing to do."

Max's eyebrows rose. "Like saving Liz's life was the 'right thing' to do?"

Isabel gave him a look of pure anguish. "Yes."

" 'Yes'? So now you think I did the right thing?"

"I think you never would have forgiven yourself if you hadn't," Isabel clarified. "So while I don't like the fallout from it, I have to admit that it's no good to save your own life if the way you did it means you can't live with yourself." She paused. "I would have done anything, Max. For Mom, I mean. No matter what it took, no matter who saw it, no matter what it cost me…I would have done anything to keep her safe. Even if it meant she wound up hating me, or that I had to run…I just wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I'd done nothing. It wouldn't have been worth living if I'd done nothing."

The crowds in the hallway thinned abruptly, and Max spied Liz and Maria talking a couple of classrooms down. I couldn't have lived with myself either, he thought. He'd been over this a thousand times, and the answer was always the same—he didn't care. He didn't care what the fallout was because it didn't matter. There was simply nothing else he could have done.

"You didn't want to put the brakes on, did you?" Isabel murmured, following his gaze.

"Of course I didn't want to," Max answered. "I had to. There's a difference."

"But last night, you said you could live with that—"

"Right, I said I could live with it," Max said. "I didn't say I wanted to, or that I liked it. And nobody's going to tell me I should."

"Should what?" said a voice behind them.

Isabel whirled around. "Michael!" she said reproachfully. "Don't sneak up on us like that."

"Right. Like I crawled on hands and knees so you wouldn't see me. So what are we talking about?"

Isabel dropped her eyes, but not before they'd flicked in Liz's and Maria's direction. "Not that," Michael said in a bored tone. "Not again."

"No, not 'that'," Max answered. "We wanted to tell you about something that happened last night. There was a fire in our kitchen. Mom accidentally knocked over a bottle of cooking oil, and it got into an open flame on the stove."

Michael unwrapped a lollipop. "Breakfast," he commented as they stared at him. "So...a fire. So what?"

"So Mom could have been seriously hurt, or worse," Isabel said.

"But she wasn't, or you wouldn't be standing here," Michael said. "So send her to Safety Town."

Max blinked. "What?"

"Safety Town," Michael repeated. "You know, the class they have for preschoolers in the gym about safety? Looking both ways before crossing the street, not taking candy from strangers, not leaving open bottles of oil near flames. Things like that."

"Unbelievable," Isabel muttered.

"Tell me about it," Michael agreed. "I can't believe I know something about what goes on in this school that you don't know."

"She's not a preschooler," Isabel said crossly. "It was an accident, you know, an unintentional bad event? You're familiar with the concept of an accident, or you should be after last weekend."

"Fine, it was an accident," Michael shrugged. "I repeat—so what?"

"So…I put the fire out," Max said.

"Good for you."

"No, he put the fire out," Isabel repeated slowly. "Not the usual way. Our way."

"Yeah, well, I probably would have done the same thing," Michael said. "Not that it would be any great loss if the trailer burned down, but at the end of the day, even I have to admit it's better than nothing."

"And…Valenti stopped by," Max added. "I guess he heard the fire report on the radio."

"I can't see him passing up a chance like that," Michael said. "But he wasn't there, and he can't prove anything, so he's out of luck."

Isabel looked startled. "I…we…thought you'd be upset."

"About what? Valenti? He didn't see anything, right? So there's nothing to get upset about. As long as no one saw it, it doesn't matter."

Max and Isabel exchanged glances. Michael looked back and forth from one to the other before pulling his lollipop out of his mouth.

"Someone saw you?"

"Well…not really," Max said.

" 'Not really'?" Michael echoed. "What does that mean, 'not really'? Either someone saw you, or they didn't."

"Look, Mom was cooking dinner when it happened," Max said. "I pulled her away, but—"

"Wait," Michael ordered. "Your mother was there when you did this?"

"Cooking involves standing near the stove," Max said dryly. "Of course she was there."

"Did she see you?" Michael demanded.

"It happened so fast, I don't think she saw anything," Max said, "or not anything she can piece together. She was on the floor when I did it, so—"

"You used your powers in front of your mother?" Michael interrupted in disbelief.

"Yes, he did," Isabel said firmly. "Because, like I said before, she could have been hurt or killed, and we will not let that happen."

"Fine, but why did you have to do it in front of her?" Michael said.

"Because there wasn't time to escort her out of the kitchen and find her a comfy chair before I put out the flames that were high enough to scorch the ceiling," Max retorted. "I told you, she didn't see anything."

"No, you said you didn't think she saw anything," Michael corrected. "That's way different."

"Right, I don't think she saw anything," Max agreed. "So I think we're okay."

"We just wanted you to know what happened," Isabel added.

"In case you're wrong," Michael said, "about what you think she didn't see."

"Well, what if we are?" Isabel demanded. "If someone had to accidentally see something they shouldn't, Mom would be the safest one to do that because she loves us."

"I don't believe this," Michael muttered.

Isabel stared at him a moment. "No, you probably don't," she said quietly. "Because you've never experienced a parent's love, so you don't know what it feels like." She hoisted her books higher on her hip. "We just wanted you to know Michael. See you later."

Isabel walked off, her rigid posture practically screaming disapproval. "Nice going," Max remarked.

"I don't care what she thinks," Michael retorted.

"Yeah, I got that."

"Look, we can't go all lovey-dovey on this," Michael insisted. "We can't get lax and say, 'oh, it doesn't matter if she sees because she loves us'. It matters."

"Michael, you're blowing this way out of proportion," Max argued. "She didn't see anything. We were only telling you because Valenti used it as an excuse to come over. But that didn't bother you, so what's the problem? Everything's fine."

Max walked away; Michael tossed his lollipop in a nearby trash bin and followed him. "You used your powers in front of your mother? That is not fine."

"Michael, I'm handing it, all right?" Max said in exasperation.

"Well, I hope so, because dealing with Frick and Frack over there is one thing, but we can't bring adults into this and expect them to handle it. Adults are the enemy, Max. Remember that."

"Michael, you say everyone is the enemy."

"They are," Michael declared.

"Hey."

Good timing, Max though as "Frick and Frack", a.k.a. Liz and Maria appeared. "Hey," Max answered, grateful for the interruption.

"Hey," Michael said to Maria.

"Yeah, whatever," Maria answered, walking off.

Michael gave a barely audible snort of disgust before walking off also, leaving Max alone with Liz. The urge to tell her about what had happened last night was almost overpowering. It had been so liberating to have a friend; suddenly not having one was suffocating.

"So how's it going?" he ventured.

"It's great," Liz answered. "It's, um…it's really great."

"Good," Max said, not sure whether to be sad or glad about that response.

"So, um, you know, about the game today, and the fact that we all have seats together? You know, the way that I see it, it's just a basketball game. We'll go, and we'll watch, and then we'll leave. It doesn't have to be a big deal."

"I agree," Max said quickly. "It's no big deal."

"It doesn't…have to be this whole awkward thing," Liz finished as Kyle Valenti and several members of the basketball team sauntered past to the sounds of cheers. Kyle's eyes fastened on Liz.

"Hey," he said as he walked by. Liz smiled. Max's stomach dropped to his ankles.

"So…later," Liz said.

"Yeah. Later," Max agreed.

She left, still smiling. Great, Max thought, savagely closing his locker. Valenti was back on his case, Michael was mad at him, Kyle was back to ogling Liz…and Liz was enjoying it. What next?




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




Evans residence




"Grandma!" Isabel called, coming down the front walk as Dee climbed out of her car. "What are you doing here?"

"I told your mother I'd be here when the insurance adjuster came by," Dee answered, pausing beside the car as she silently cursed her bothersome right knee, which was currently refusing to take her full weight. "I think she wanted another pair of eyes and ears around in case they try to deny the claim."

"Oh," Isabel said, obviously relieved. "I thought you were here for…something else."

"Like what?" Dee asked, coming up the front walk as the knee decided to capitulate. "You look upset, dear. Is something wrong?"

"No," Isabel answered. "I mean yes. I mean…maybe," she finished, flustered, her sweater swinging from one hand as she crossed her arms. "It's just…Mom's in a weird mood today."

"Is that unusual?" Dee chuckled.

"Weirder than usual," Isabel clarified. "She's in there watching home videos and going on about Max having secrets."

Dee blinked. "She's what?"

Isabel looked startled, like she hadn't meant to say that. "I'm sure it's nothing," she said quickly. "Probably just the fire and all. I need to go; I'm due at a basketball game. Good luck with the insurance guy."

"I think it's a gal," Dee observed. "But have a good time."

Isabel disappeared so quickly, she practically left a trail of smoke in her wake. Dee gazed after her for a minute before going inside. She was about to call a hello when she heard it.

"Here, birdie, birdie, birdie! Here, birdie…"

The voice was young, high-pitched, and female, a voice from a very long time ago; Diane was indeed watching "home videos", and not just any home videos. "I'm here," Dee called brightly, rounding the corner like she hadn't just been eavesdropping. "There aren't any strange cars in the driveway, so I gather I beat the adjuster."

"Mom!" Diane exclaimed. "Am I glad to see you! Come here."

"What's up?" Dee asked casually, watching a young Max and Isabel scamper across the television screen.

"Sit down," Diane said, patting a spot on the sofa beside her. "I want to know if you remember something."

"Diane, I said I'd join you for the insurance review," Dee reminded her. "Is this really the time to be walking down memory lane?"

"The adjuster's not due for another twenty minutes, and this is absolutely the time to be walking down memory lane," Diane said. "Do you remember this day?"

Dee sank slowly down on the sofa, and Diane started the tape. It was Max and Isabel playing in the park not long after Philip and Diane had taken them home from the orphanage. Dee held her breath as the camera panned, following Isabel as she scampered around trees, startling flocks of pigeons skyward, then Max as he scampered after his sister, but there was no picnic in sight. Maybe this wasn't what she thought it was.

"Do you remember that, Mom?" Diane asked.

"Vaguely," Dee said guardedly. "We took the kids to the park a lot back then."

Diane nodded slowly. "We did. And I'm trying to find something, something that happened at the park when Max was very young. I was sure Philip had caught it on tape, but I can't find it anywhere."

"Maybe that's because there are lots of tapes," Dee suggested, throwing a pointed look at the nearby box virtually overflowing with tapes. "And the fact that Philip videotaped every single thing the kids did back then. He lived behind that camcorder so much, it was a wonder he could recognize his own children."

"I'm looking for the time when Isabel found the bird with the broken wing," Diane continued, ignoring Dee's attempt to redirect the conversation. "The bird's wing was dragging on the ground, and Max picked it up…and then it just flew away. Like it had never been hurt. Do you remember that?"

"I'm sorry, I don't," Dee answered.

"Take your time," Diane said eagerly. "Think about it. We were having a picnic that day, and you were there."

I know I was, Dee thought heavily. This was the moment they had all dreaded from the day Philip and Diane had brought the kids home, the moment when they began to suspect that something was different about their "children". This wasn't the first scare. Remarks had been made about the children's lack of illness, the inevitable childhood cuts and bruises which had vanished so quickly, the odd times when an object had moved seemingly of its own accord. But those times had been rare and never pursued, never causing more than a few minutes' worth of concern. This might be different.

"I think I remember the picnic you're talking about," Dee said finally. "I remember it was a beautiful day, and that you were happy because Max was talking more than usual. An old man even complimented me on my beautiful grandchildren. That was the first time I really felt like a grandmother."

Diane's worried expression softened. It was a true story even if the "old man" had been the children's Warder, but she was hoping to nudge the emotional Diane in a different direction. Maybe she just had.

Or maybe not. "That's beautiful, Mom," Diane said sincerely, "but it's the bird I'm interested in. What do you remember about the bird?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember that," Dee said. "I was setting the table when that happened. I remember some kind of excitement and you having Max wash his hands before lunch, but that's about it."

"Oh," Diane said, crestfallen. "You don't remember anything about the bird coming back to life?"

" 'Back to life'? What, it was dead?"

"No, no, not dead, just...well…I'm not sure what it was," Diane said, flustered. "But I would have sworn it couldn't fly, and then…it did."

"Maybe it had a wing cramp," Dee chuckled. "God knows I get enough cramps these days, and in more than just my 'wings'."

"It was more than that," Diane insisted. "And when Max picked it up, it was suddenly all right."

"Diane, what are you getting at?" Dee asked. "Because I'm not following this. I came over here for an insurance adjuster, and now you're going on about birds from ten years ago."

Diane set the remote down and stared at the floor for a moment. "Something happened last night, Mom. Something I can't explain. Something Max did."

"And what exactly did Max do?" Dee asked carefully.

"I'm not sure," Diane answered. "That's why it's bothering me. I think…I think there's something strange about the way he put the fire out."

"All right," Dee said, bracing herself against the worst, the possibility that Diane had seen more than she'd let on last night. "What exactly did you see him do that was…'strange'?"

"That's just it," Diane said in frustration. "I didn't 'see' it. I couldn't see it. It all happened so fast. The flames roared up, and I ducked, and then I felt Max pulling me away. And then I was on the floor, and I looked up, but his back was toward me, and there was all this smoke…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked helplessly at Dee.

"Okay," Dee said slowly, "forgetting for a moment all the stuff that was obscuring your vision…what do you think you saw?"

"I think…I think I saw Max run by the stove," Diane said. "And then the next thing I knew, he was tossing the pot of water on the stove and coming over to see if I was okay."

"Frankly, I'm surprised you saw anything at all," Dee remarked. "But it sounds like anything you saw was good news, so what's the problem?"

Diane sat back on the sofa, her hands working in front of her. "It's just…it doesn't add up," she said in the tone one uses when a particularly frustrating math problem refuses all attempts to work it out. "Those flames were very high, really high, and I didn't imagine that; the marks on the ceiling prove it. But I know how much water was in that pot, Mom; only a couple of inches or so, because all I was doing was braising asparagus. You would have needed a bucket, at least, to put out a fire like that."

"Maybe it wasn't just the water," Dee suggested. "Maybe he used the pot itself to smother the flames?"

Diane considered that for a moment. "No," she said finally. "No, I saw him throw the water on the stove, and after that he just tossed the pot down and came over to me."

"Are you sure about that?" Dee asked.

"I…I don't know," Diane said wearily, leaning her head back against the sofa. "I've gone over this so many times now, it's all beginning to blur."

"I'm still not clear why this is bothering you, or what it has to do with a picnic from ten years ago," Dee said.

"Don't you see?" Diane demanded, sitting up suddenly. "This isn't the first time Max has done something I couldn't explain. I never understood what happened at that picnic, but I just wrote it off as something weird."

"Understandable," Dee said, "but what's 'weird' about putting out a fire? That's not weird, that's great."

"Of course it is, but it's the way he did it," Diane argued. "Don't think for one minute that I'm not eternally grateful Max did whatever he did, because if he hadn't, I might not be here right now. It's just that what he said he did shouldn't have put the fire out…should it?"

"Truthfully? I don't know," Dee said. "I've never been near a fire like that, thank God for small favors. It could be that Max just got really, really lucky and caught it at a moment or an angle where what he did worked. It might be one of those times when a certain set of variables allowed something to work which normally wouldn't have. And as for the picnic, we have no idea what condition that bird was in. What happened may have just looked strange because you were assuming the bird was more injured than it was. We don't even know if you're remembering it the way it happened because we don't have a record of it."

Diane sat motionless, silent and staring, for so long, that Dee began to worry. "You're right," Diane said finally. "You're absolutely right, I…I don't know what came over me."

"Well, I do," Dee said. "You had a serious accident here last night, one that could have been far worse than it was. Couple that with the fact that you always hate it when Philip's away, and the way we always feel more vulnerable and anxious after something like this happens, and it's not hard to see how your head could race ahead of common sense. And one more thing: Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No," Diane sighed. "Well…off and on. More off than on."

"Then I'm sure that's not helping," Dee said.

"You're right," Diane agreed, nodding vigorously. "You're right. I should just be grateful Max succeeded instead of fretting over how he did it. Heck, maybe that's why I'm fretting, because I know what could have happened if he hadn't been there."

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway came through the window. "Oh, God, that's the adjuster," Diane said, scrambling to her feet, smoothing her hair. "I must look a mess. Do I look a mess? I don't want him to think I'm some moron who shouldn't be allowed near a kitchen appliance."

"It's a 'she'," Dee observed from the window, "and accidents happen all the time. That's why you have insurance. Filing a claim doesn't make you a 'moron'."

"If you say so," Diane said, sounding unconvinced. "Well…here I go." She marched to the front door, opening it only seconds after the doorbell rang. "Good afternoon," she said warmly, as though she hadn't just spent the last several minutes tearing her hair out. "I'm Diane Evans. Please, come inside."

"Thank you," the woman on the front step smiled. "I'm Kim Warner from State Farm, and I…"

Dee kept to the background, smiling and nodding when Diane introduced her, trailing behind as they took a tour of the wounded kitchen. Kim Warner was a no-nonsense woman in blue jeans, tee shirt, and tool belt, and she lost no time in deploying a tape measure to estimate the square footage of the damage and a camera to document it, taking copious notes along the way. All that officiousness gave Dee the opportunity to think, making a mental list of the various aspects of this latest—and worst—threat of discovery. On the plus side, Diane really hadn't seen anything concrete; on the minus side, she'd not only seen enough to be suspicious, she'd connected what she'd seen to the incident when Max was young. Diane had always been very tuned in to Max. When he was little, that had been helpful. Now it was terribly inconvenient.

"You had a quite a fire here," Kim was saying, coming to the end of her second page of notes. "You're mighty lucky it didn't do more damage."

"I know," Diane said. "Thank God my son was here."

"Oh, that's right," Kim said, plucking her pencil from behind her ear and scribbling something else. "I forgot, you'll be needing a new fire extinguisher."

Diane blinked. "Fire extinguisher?"

"To replace the one your son used to put this out," Kim explained.

Diane looked at Dee, who managed to maintain a neutral expression even as she was cursing silently. "He…he didn't use a fire extinguisher," Diane said uncertainly. "We do have one," she added hastily, opening the cupboard under the sink where the extinguisher sat in all it's untouched glory. "But he didn't use it." She paused. "Did you expect him to?"

"Well, yeah," Kim answered, gazing at the blackened ceiling. "With a fire this big, you'd pretty much have to."

"Diane was saying earlier that she didn't understand how my grandson managed to put this out," Dee broke in, deciding to take the bull by the horns and steer the conversation herself. "We decided he must have gotten extraordinarily lucky. That happens, right?"

"Oh, God, yes," Kim agreed. "I've seen cases where firefighters went into a burning house to rescue people, and everyone came out without a scratch even though the building was falling down around them. I've seen pets plucked alive and unhurt from the rubble, maybe in a completely unlikely pocket of clean air. I had a telephone repair guy once who fell off his cherry picker from a height of forty feet and didn't break even one bone…but he needed a new cell phone. His phone got crushed, but he didn't." She shook her head. "I'm not that lucky, but some people are. I'm glad your son was one of them."

Dee uttered a private sigh of relief as all of the suspicion and uncertainly drained from Diane's face. "So am I," Diane said gratefully. "And when something like that happens, something so unlikely, it's so hard to believe it."

"You almost end up feeling like you don't deserve it," Kim added. "Like it's not fair that you were so lucky and other people weren't."

"Exactly!" Diane exclaimed. "Maybe that's it, Mom; maybe I'm feeling guilty."

"Well, don't," Dee said firmly. "Life always manages to grab you by the neck at some point. It missed this time. That's good news, not bad."

"Amen," Kim agreed. "This claim shouldn't be a problem, Mrs. Evans. If I rush it, I should be able to get your money to you within a week. That'll give you enough time to at least get a new range before Christmas dinner."

"Oh, that's wonderful," Diane said in relief. "My husband will be so pleased."

"So," Kim went on, "after the deductible, we're looking at about $500 for a new stove, another $500 for ceiling repair…"

The list went on, and Dee listened with satisfaction. No one had been hurt, Philip was going to get a nice chunk of change to repair the damage, maybe even upgrade the kitchen, and Diane's suspicions had been completely averted. Bullet dodged.




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




Roswell Fire Department




"Mind if I come in?"

"Jim!" Captain Hernandez exclaimed, setting down his newspaper. "Haven't seen you in ages. Sure, come on in. Did you come for a slide down the pole?"

Jim Valenti smiled indulgently. "No; no, I didn't."

"Just teasing," Hernandez chuckled. "When you were little, that was the first thing you wanted to do every time you came here with your daddy. You'd scamper upstairs and be down that pole before he'd spoken two full sentences. I have fond memories of those days."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I'm afraid at my age, I'd hurt myself," Valenti said. "So I think I'll pass."

" 'Your' age," Hernandez said ruefully. "If you're of an 'age', what does that make me? Ancient?"

"Incredibly well preserved," Valenti corrected. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go right ahead," Hernandez said. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Valenti set his hat on the table and waited patiently while Hernandez rummaged in a cupboard for a clean mug. "So if the pole didn't lure you, to what do I owe the honor?" he asked, setting a cup of coffee in front of Valenti and holding up a bowl of sugar and a carton of milk for his inspection.

"No, thanks," Valenti said. "I take it black. I was just checking up on the Evans fire last night. Mrs. Evans was really shaken, so I told her I'd look into what you found. Not for me, of course; I know your guys are top notch. It's really just to make her feel better."

"Sure, sure," Hernandez said. "Let me grab the report. Be right back."

Hernandez disappeared into the office nearby as Valenti sipped his coffee, strong as usual; firehouse coffee was known for its ability to grow hair on your chest. Hernandez was right; Valenti had loved the firehouse when he'd been a kid even more than he'd loved the sheriff's station, where the cloud of being the sheriff's kid had loomed over every single interaction he'd had with every single person he'd met. But here, being the sheriff's son had been an advantage; the firefighters had allowed him to do things no other kid was allowed to do, like climb inside the trucks and repeatedly slide down the aforementioned pole. Good memories, all, but tinged a bit now by his father's disgrace. Some people still weren't entirely happy with the fact that another Valenti had been handed the badge. Thankfully, Chuck Hernandez wasn't one of them.

"Okay, let's see what we've got," Hernandez said, reappearing with a thin file folder in his hand. "Not much for us to do there. Fire was already out when my guys arrived, and no injuries. They assessed the damage, determined no one needed medical care, reset the security system, and were on their way."

"Thank goodness for Max Evans," Valenti said. "That was terribly brave of him, putting the fire out like that."

"I'll say," Hernandez remarked. "This was a scorcher. Remarkably little damage for such a big fire, too."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, a fire this big normally produces more damage than we saw here," Hernandez explained. "I'd expect to see melted countertops, lots of scorched cabinets, things like that. Anything nearby would have been affected by the heat, but the damage zone here was very narrow. It's like it went straight up, but it never went out."

"Huh," Valenti said slowly. "And what could cause that?"

"If it was put out fast," Hernandez answered. "Really fast. A fire like this goes up first, then out. This one only went up, which means it was extinguished before it got a chance to spread. So Max was not only brave, he was damned speedy. Good thing he was right there in the kitchen when it happened."

"Good thing," Valenti agreed. "And good thing that pot of water Mrs. Evans was cooking with was right there for him to use."

Hernandez blinked. " 'Pot of water'? He didn't put this out with any pot of water. This was a grease fire."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive. The melted bottle of cooking oil was right there; Mrs. Evans must have knocked it over near the burner. Canola oil is supposed to be better for you, but not near an open flame," Hernandez chuckled. "Anyway, water only makes grease fire spread, so water isn't what put this out. A fire extinguisher is basically the only way to tame something like this."

"Funny," Valenti said slowly, "that he didn't mention that. All he mentioned was the pot of water."

"Not funny at all. People's memories go all wonky at times like these."

"Right," Valenti nodded. "Of course they do. Well…if everything looks to be in order, I'll stop by and tell Mrs. Evans. Maybe I'll grab one of your pamphlets on the way out; I'm sure she'd appreciate it. Thanks, Chuck."

"No problem, Jim. Hey, if you…" Hernandez stopped, suddenly uncomfortable. "If you see…you know…your dad…tell him I said 'hi'."

"Will do," Valenti promised. "I'll let myself out."

You could tell him yourself, Valenti thought, stepping into the December sunshine, pamphlet in hand. Seeing his father's former friends and co-workers was frequently awkward; they didn't know whether to ask about him or not, and when they did, it was invariably painful. Most asked to be remembered to him, and Valenti knew perfectly well that none would ever lift a finger to go visit him. Not that he was a paragon of virtue in that department; it had been months since he'd seen his father, and Christmas was coming. He and Kyle would have to make at least a token visit.

But awkwardness aside, he had what he wanted. The Evans' fire had been a grease fire, and no way had Max Evans put out a grease fire with any amount of water. He couldn't prove that…but he could lean on the one witness who could.


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


I'll post Chapter 43 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

I love the way Dee talked the insurance adjuster into her way of thinking about the fire.

She's very good at "leading" the conversation.

You did a perfect job of reflecting Michael's attitude over the whole fire insident.......I could just see him there.

Aww, thank you! The ultimate compliment is when readers have no trouble seeing the characters.






CHAPTER FORTY-THREE



December 15, 1999, 7 p.m.

Eastside Manor




"So that was the closest Diane's come to figuring out something's…'different'…about her children," Dee finished. "It was a little hairy there for a few minutes."

"I'll bet," David agreed. "Did Philip actually record this thing with the bird?"

"I think he did," Dee answered. "But Diane couldn't find it, and hopefully it's lost in that massive tape pile."

"Or maybe it got taped over at some point," David suggested. "I recall him doing that sometimes, and that would certainly be handy in this case. Although, frankly, I'm surprised this hasn't come up before. If you'd asked me ten years ago if they'd last this long with no one the wiser, I wouldn't have bet a nickel on it."

"Are you talking about me?" Emily asked suddenly.

"No, honey," David said gently. "I'm just talking to Dee about the grandkids."

"He's always talking about me," Emily said to Dee. "He says he isn't, but he is."

"Not this time, Mama," Dee said. "Daddy and I are just talking about the fire…I mean, something that happened at Diane's house," she amended quickly. The last thing she needed was for her mother to start fretting over that.

But Emily merely blinked at her from her recliner before returning her eyes to the television. "I don't like this show," she said, using the remote to change the channel.

No need to have worried, Dee thought, having forgotten the TV was on because the sound was all the way down. Emily's hearing was bad enough now that she couldn't hear the television unless it was set to a deafening level, so it stood to reason that she also couldn't hear a remark about a fire.

"I don't suppose we could convince her to get a hearing aid?" Dee asked.

"You're welcome to try," David sighed. "God knows I have. But she seems to be content just watching the picture. She has the set on most of the day, and I turn the sound up when I'm watching too."

"We had chicken for dinner," Emily remarked.

Dee managed a smile. "That's sounds nice, Mama."

"I don't like this show," Emily said, changing the channel again.

Dee glanced at her father, who smiled sadly. Emily's hearing wasn't the only thing going; her ability to carry on a conversation was waning also. Some of that was undoubtedly due to her diminished ability to hear what was said to her, but even when she heard just fine she frequently lost her train of thought, repeated things several times, changed the subject without warning, or said the first thing that popped into her head. Thank goodness her father was still all here; he'd lent a welcome ear during the past few months' hijinks, just like he was doing now. Her mother, by contrast, really had no idea what was going on.

"Have you considered telling Diane the truth?" David was asking.

"For a while there, I thought I'd have to," Dee answered. "But then she moved on, and I let her. I'm just not sure how she'd react. And don't get me started on Philip."

"I never thought Philip would be the problem you did," David said. "I know he's exacting, but he'd support his children. And both of them might be a help now the kids are 'stretching their wings', as it were. Their parents could help rein them in."

"Maybe," Dee said doubtfully.

"Is it time for dinner?" Emily asked suddenly, staring at the clock.

Dee blinked. "No, honey," David answered. "We already had dinner."

Emily looked at her husband, then back to the clock. "But the hand is near the five. That means it's time for dinner."

Dee looked helplessly at her father, who did not look surprised. It was twenty minutes after eight, so while the big hand was "near the five" it was nowhere near 5 o'clock. "Let me get your bedroom clock," Dee said, going into the bedroom and returning with the little digital clock with the giant red numbers which sat on Emily's bedside table. "See, Mama? It says '8:20'."

Emily stared at the clock for a moment in silence. "Are you sure?" she asked finally. "I don't know what they've done to the clocks around here, but they don't seem to be working right. Can you read that?"

"Yes, Mama, I can read it," Dee said heavily.

"And what about that one?" Emily demanded, pointing to the wall clock. "That one's been messed up for ages. I keep telling your father to have someone come fix it, but they never do."

"Maybe I'll call them again," David suggested.

"You should," Emily declared. "With what we pay for this place, I should be able to tell what time it is around here."

Dee took the digital clock back into the bedroom, not sure whether she should be grateful her mother had just sounded more like herself or alarmed at what she'd just learned. When she returned to the living room, Emily was in the bathroom.

"I thought she just couldn't see the wall clock because it was so far away," Dee said faintly.

"That's what I thought, too," David admitted. "She hasn't been able to read that digital clock for a while, so I got her an old fashioned alarm clock; you know, the kind they had when you were little, with the buzzer? It was really hard to find, but I found one at Wal-Mart. Turns out she can't read any of them, no matter what kind or where they are."

Dee looked at her hands. "So…she can't tell time any more?"

"It looks that way," David said. "She still knows the clock is where you find out what time it is, and she can read the numbers, but it appears she can't decipher it."

"And she explains that by saying they're 'broken'," Dee murmured.

"That would be my guess," David agreed. "She knows she should be able to read it, so calling it 'broken' gets her off the hook." He paused. "It's not all bad," he added. "You only see her for brief snippets, and she's not always at her best, especially later in the day. Sometimes she's all here, and you'd swear it was ten years ago."

Ten years ago. Back when the children had first been found, and doctors and deputies were hovering, Dee had brought the children to her parents' house, knowing her mother and father could help her decide what to do. But not now, she thought sadly as she made her way back through Eastside's hallways, past several residents plodding along with walkers, a couple of wheelchairs, a nurse with a medication cart, and one of the Manor's two cats. Whatever happened now, the woman who had helped keep them out of harm's way was no longer all here. Whatever happened now, she and Anthony were on their own.

Oh, stop it, she told herself severely. She still had one functioning parent, which was more than many of her friends had. Perhaps she should visit more often, or at a different time. If her mother's lucid moments were becoming more rare, perhaps it wouldn't be wise to waste any.

Half an hour later she was home, Anthony had made popcorn and had a movie all cued up, and Dee spared a moment for nostalgia as she pulled bowls out of the cupboard. She'd been born in this house. She'd grown up in this house. She'd met her husband in the backyard of this house. Their family's best friends had been their next door neighbors, Mac and Rose Brazel; it had been Mac who had driven her to his ranch the day after the crash where she'd made a discovery which had changed her life, all their lives. Now the Brazels were gone, having passed away several years ago, her parents had begun the "long goodbye"…and she and Anthony would be next. They too would begin to falter, lose the ability to hold a conversation, to tell time, to…

"You okay?"

It was Anthony, standing in the kitchen doorway and looking silly in his bathrobe and those huge slippers Isabel had bought him for Christmas. "I guess," Dee answered. "It's just...it's Mama."

"Ah," Anthony said. "Is she worse?"

Dee's eyes dropped. "She can't tell time any more, Anthony. She looks at the clock, and she sees the numbers, but she can't figure out what they mean."

Anthony nodded slowly. "Does she still know who you are?"

"So far."

"Then that's all she needs to know. I hear that's the worst, when they don't recognize you any more. I'd rather have her not recognize the clock."

"You're right," Dee nodded. "You're right. It could be worse. And Daddy's still with us, thank God. But I can see why Brivari won't visit them because…it's hard to watch. Especially since that will be us some day."

"But not today," Anthony said firmly. "That will be everyone eventually, even Brivari; it'll just take longer. But it's not our turn yet, and I'll be damned if I'm going to miss what time I've got left worrying about when it's gone. Or missing the beginning of Christmas Vacation. Come on; you could use a good laugh, and I don't stay up until the wee small like you do."

Twenty minutes later they were both roaring with laughter as the Griswolds had their customary problems with the Christmas tree, the in-laws, the kids, their neighbors, and the electric grid. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation was one of their favorite Christmas movies, much better than that sappy It's A Wonderful Life, which Dee had never liked. When the movie was over, Anthony went up to bed, still chuckling, while Dee turned on a late night talk show. She must have fallen asleep because, the next thing she knew, her phone was ringing. Glancing at the clock, she answered it worriedly; who could be calling at almost midnight?

"Mom?" came Diane's breathless voice.

"Diane?" Dee said in alarm. "Is something wrong?"

"Mom, I have to talk to someone," Diane said, sounding close to tears. "Something is wrong, and Max won't talk to me. He and Isabel just walked out, and—"

"Wait," Dee broke in. "Max won't talk to you about what? He and Isabel went where?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a deep breath. "Remember what we were talking about yesterday? About how I couldn't figure out how Max could have put the fire out the way he said he did?"

"Yes," Dee said guardedly.

"Well, I was right. He couldn't have. He did something, Mom, something he won't talk to me about. I'm on the verge of calling Philip and—"

"No!" Dee said quickly. "I mean, no, don't bother him; it's later on the East coast than it is here. I'll be right over."




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




December 16, 1999, 12:15 a.m.

Evans residence




Diane hurried to the door when she heard the car in the doorway, tugging her sweater closer around her. "I'm so sorry," she called miserably as her mother-in-law climbed out of the car. "I really should have just called Philip instead of dragging you over here at this hour."

"You absolutely should not have called Philip," Dee said firmly, looking chipper as ever despite the fact that it was the middle of the night. "He's probably been in meetings all day, and he wouldn't be very sympathetic to some domestic argument—"

"It wasn't an argument," Diane said.

"Okay, then, a dispute," Dee corrected.

"It wasn't a dispute either."

"I thought you said Max and Isabel walked out on you," Dee said as Diane closed the door. "You sounded like they left in a huff."

"No, no, it wasn't anything like that," Diane answered. "I was just trying to get some information out of Max, and then Isabel walked in, and then he just...left. With her. Just like that."

"Maybe they had somewhere to be?" Dee suggested.

"At this hour?" Diane demanded. "On a school night? And he was painting the ceiling for me, and he just left all this, just set down the roller and walked out. No, he left because he didn't want to talk to me, Mom. He took advantage of his sister's interruption to walk away because he didn't like what I was telling him, because…"

Diane stopped and looked away, unwilling to finish that sentence out loud: Because he's hiding something from me. Much as it broke her heart to admit it, she was now absolutely certain that Max was actively hiding something from her. He had always been a quiet child who kept to himself, but he'd always trusted her. Now he didn't. Now there was something he didn't want her to know, and that revelation was like a kick to the gut. And she didn't want to say that out loud because her famously no-nonsense mother-in-law, who admittedly could be a pillar of strength or a battering ram when you needed either, could also be very impatient with feelings like this. Maybe she should have insisted she not come over.

But Dee was wearing an uncharacteristically sympathetic expression. "I can see he left in a hurry," she remarked, glancing at the paint roller and the half-painted ceiling. "This is all going to congeal if he doesn't get back soon. So what made him leave? What did you say to him? And, no, that isn't an accusation. Just a question."

"I was just telling him what I'd learned today about grease fires," Diane said, pulling the pamphlet out of her pocket. "From this."

Dee took the pamphlet and opened it, her eyebrows rising when she saw the highlighted section. "Where did you get this?"

"Sheriff Valenti."

"The sheriff gave you this? When?"

"This afternoon," Diane answered. "He stopped by to see how I was doing."

"I'll bet he did," Dee muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean? I thought it was very nice of him."

"Oh, of course," Dee said skeptically. "And he just happened to have one of these on him, did he?"

"Why do you sound so suspicious?" Diane protested. "He was just being nice, just trying to give me some information to prevent this from happening again. According to that, the number one thing you shouldn't do with a grease fire is throw water on it. Oil doesn't dissolve in water, it floats on the surface, so water won't put out a grease fire; it just disperses it, just carries it elsewhere. In other words, water makes a grease fire—"

"Spread," Dee finished. "Yes, I got that. I read fast," she added when Diane looked surprised. "And you read well because you quoted this nearly word for word."

"Then you know why I'm upset," Diane said. "Max told me he threw water on the fire. I always wondered about that because I knew how little water was in that pot, but now I'm doubly curiously because it shouldn't have worked anyway; it should have made things worse."

"Maybe it didn't 'make things worse' because there was so little water to begin with," Dee suggested.

"Okay," Diane said slowly. "But…then how did he put the fire out?"

"I don't know," Dee admitted. "I wasn't here. And being here wouldn't necessarily have helped because you were here, and you don't know either. I'm less interested in how he did it and more grateful that he did."

"Don't turn this into 'ungrateful'," Diane retorted. "You know I'm grateful he did…whatever it was he did. I just—"

" 'Whatever it was he did'?" Dee echoed. "What he 'did' was put the fire out. So what if you don't know exactly how he did it? So what if he doesn't know how he did it? Which he may not, you know, and that may be why he's so unwilling to talk about this, because he doesn't want to admit he doesn't know, especially since everyone's hailing him as a hero. It might be tough to be a hero if you don't know exactly what you did, or if you were just incredibly lucky and too embarrassed to admit that it wasn't skill, but plain dumb luck that got you all those accolades."

Diane stared at Dee in silence for a moment. "I…I never considered that," she said finally. "Do you think that's what it is? Do you think he really doesn't know? But then why wouldn't he just say that?"

"And that would be where the embarrassment comes in," Dee noted.

"Well," Diane said doubtfully, "I guess that could explain it. If he really doesn't know…I mean, there is such a thing as a freak accident, so maybe there's such a thing as a…I don't know, a 'freak happy accident'. I guess."

"You sound less than happy with that explanation," Dee said dryly.

"Well, yeah," Diane admitted. "I still don't know how he put the fire out, and if Max doesn't know either, that makes two of us. And then the sheriff was going on about the shooting at the Crashdown—"

"What?" Dee said sharply. "What does that have to do with your kitchen fire?"

"Nothing," Diane answered. "If I understood him correctly, it has to do with Max. He claimed Max had been around a 'couple of near misses lately', and then implied that Max had something to do with that shooting."

"Like what?" Dee demanded.

"He didn't say. I asked him point blank what Max had to do with that, and he said it was just 'water under the bridge' and left in a big hurry."

Dee's eyes flashed. "Why that little…"

Diane's eye widened as Dee stopped, swallowing the rest of that sentence. "Mom, what's wrong?" she asked in alarm. "Why are you so angry? Do you know something about that?"

"Of course not," Dee said irritably. "But obviously our dear sheriff is fishing, and he's taking advantage of your misfortune to do it. Which is glaringly unprofessional, I might add."

"Fishing for what?" Diane asked, bewildered. "You're a lawyer. Why would he do that?"

"Maybe he still has questions about the shooting," Dee said. "They never made an arrest, so maybe it's an open investigation. Maybe someone reported high school students present, and he's trying to figure out who. It could be a million different things; I just don't like him dropping that in your lap while you're dealing with this."

"Okay, so maybe he stepped over the line," Diane allowed. "But that still doesn't explain this pamphlet."

"Oh, for God's sake, forget the stupid pamphlet!" Dee exclaimed. "What difference does it make? All that matters is that Max put the fire out; he doesn't have to do it in a sheriff-approved manner."

"This didn't come from the sheriff," Diane reminded her. "Yes, I know, he brought it over, but it's from the fire department; it says so right on the back."

"Fine, so he didn't put it out in a fire department-approved manner," Dee said impatiently. "Maybe he should just take it all back and let the house burn down."

"But Mom—"

"Don't 'but Mom' me," Dee said severely. "You said you didn't want to this to be about gratitude, but how grateful can you be when you grill someone who put out a major fire for precise details on how they did it, and then carry on because they didn't do it the 'right' way? And then yesterday you were going on about supposedly hurt birds that magically flew away a decade ago, and it all adds up to a an unmistakable aura of paranoia."

"That happened!" Diane insisted. "I remember it even if you don't. I didn't imagine it. Just because I can't find it doesn't mean it's not there. We spent loads of time in the park, and Philip videotaped constantly that first year. I know it's there somewhere, and when I find it…"

The kitchen door opened, and Diane broke off just as Max and Isabel appeared.

"Hi," Max said guardedly.

"Hi, Mom," Isabel said cheerfully. "Grandma, what are you doing here so late? Is everything all right?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure," Dee said.

"Max, where have you been?" Diane demanded, ignoring her mother-in-law. "You were painting, and then you just ran out and left all this stuff. The paint will be ruined."

"I'll take care of it," Max said hurriedly. "Isabel just…needed to talk to me."

"Oh, Isabel needed to talk, did she?" Diane said in a deeply skeptical voice. "Max, I'm the one who needed to talk to you."

"Well, I can't talk right now," Max said. "I have to clean this up, and then I have to get to bed; I have school tomorrow."

"But—"

"I have a test," Max persisted. "Two of them."

"I'm sorry I dragged him away," Isabel said brightly. "I didn't realize I was interrupting something."

"Oh, honey, you didn't 'drag' him," Diane sighed. "He ran off. You saw it."

"Because he knew I'd need to talk to him," Isabel said. "He was just being a good brother."

"Well, I needed to talk to him too," Diane said petulantly.

"Look, Mom, I'm sorry," Max said, a touch of irritation in his voice. "But I need to clean this up and get to bed. We'll talk later."

Max gathered up the painting supplies and disappeared without another word. "Um…well…good night," Isabel said awkwardly.

"Good night, dear," Dee said wearily.

Diane bit her tongue as Isabel went to her room. "Did you see that?" she asked Dee when she was out of earshot. "Did you see the way he put me off?"

"What I saw was you pressuring him and him resisting," Dee answered, "just like any teenager resists when his parents get too nosy."

"I am not nosy!" Diane exclaimed. "I just want to know how he—"

"Look, for the sake of argument, let's say Max is hiding something," Dee broke in. "You can't make him tell you what this is, Diane. You can't make him talk to you. He has to tell you willingly. He has to want to tell you. The best way—no, the only way—to get where you're going is to back off and let him lead. If he's got something to say, he'll say it only if and when he's ready."

"And what if he's never ready?" Diane asked.

"Then you'll never know. Because, like I said, you can't make him tell you. All you can do is try to create a climate where he'll want to tell you. Pushing him like you were just doing will only push him away." Dee held out the pamphlet. "Here's your Holy Grail. Try not to let the pursuit of it ruin your relationship with your son. Because that relationship is more important than exactly how he put out the fire…right?"

Diane sighed and sank into a chair as Dee left, the sound of her car fading away. She reread the section about grease fires, took another look at the pot which supposedly staved off disaster, and still wasn't satisfied. But her mother-in-law was right; she couldn't make Max tell her anything. Maybe there was nothing to tell. Maybe he really didn't know what he'd done.

"Mom?"

It was Isabel, in her pajamas and hovering uncertainly in the doorway. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Of course," Diane replied. "I'm just…rattled. This whole thing has me rattled, and your father being away doesn't make it any easier. Go to bed, honey. You need your rest."

"Okay." Isabel turned away, came back, planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "I love you, Mom," she said gently. "And Max loves you, too. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know that," Diane answered. "I guess I'm just not feeling it right now."

"I'm sorry about that," Isabel said. "But remember, you're not the only one who's rattled about this. Max is rattled too." She squeezed her hand. "G'night."

Diane watched her go, a new thought occurring to her. Isabel had always been more open than Max, more talkative, more trusting. Maybe the problem wasn't the questions she was asking.

Maybe the problem was she was asking the wrong person.




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




December 16, 1999 10:45 a.m.

West Roswell High School





Max shifted his books to his other arm as he craned his neck, the better to see down the hallway. His target was nowhere in sight, however, and late besides. He was all ready to give up when she appeared.

"Isabel! Where have you been?"

His sister gave him a withering look. "Where have I been? Right where I'm supposed to be. Why?"

"You usually pass this hallway a good five minutes ago," Max answered as he fell in step beside her.

"Well, excuse me," Isabel said tartly, barely breaking stride. "I had no idea you were standing over me with a stopwatch."

"I just wanted to ask you something," Max said. "Why so pissy?"

"If you wanted to ask me something, why didn't you ask me this morning?" Isabel demanded. "Where were you at breakfast? Mom and I waited, and you never showed."

"I left early," Max said shortly.

"I noticed," Isabel muttered.

"I saw Mom go into your bedroom right before you left," Max went on. "What did she say?"

Isabel stopped and whirled around. "And how would you know that? I thought you left early."

"I did—"

"Like hell you did! If you'd left early, you wouldn't have been able to see Mom come into my room, now would you?"

Max stuffed one hand in his pocket and looked away. "Okay, fine, I was outside. I just couldn't talk to her this morning," he went on as Isabel gave a snort of disgust. "She was waving that pamphlet around last night, and so upset that Grandma came over."

"Grandma comes over all the time," Isabel said crossly.

"At midnight?" Max challenged. "And she was holding the pamphlet when we walked in. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why she was there, Iz."

"Okay, fine, she was upset," Isabel said. "And why shouldn't she be? Like I said before, we're lying to her now, and she knows it. She just doesn't know why."

"And she can't know why," Max said. "Which is why I left early."

"And what about tomorrow, Max? Are you planning on leaving early every day? You can't put off talking to her forever, you know. She's our mother. She may not have given birth to us, but she raised us, so like it or not, she's the only mother we have. And don't you dare tell me she isn't, or I swear to God, I'll scream. If I wanted to talk to Michael, I'd go find him."

"We should," Max said.

"No, we shouldn't," Isabel argued. "He'll just get all suspicious, only now it'll be aimed at Mom, and I'll strangle him before lunch time. Besides, there's nothing to tell. This is coming from Valenti, and we already know Valenti is after us."

"And he's trying to get Mom after us," Max said. "So what did she say to you this morning?"

Isabel sighed and glanced around the crowded hallway before moving off to the side. "She wanted to know what I remembered about you and me before we met her and Daddy."

"What did you tell her?"

"The truth," Isabel answered. "That I don't remember much," she added when Max's eyes widened in alarm. "I told her I remembered the orphanage, and that yellow sweater she was wearing the day they came to pick us up. And…" She stopped, her voice catching in her throat. "And I reminded her that the day she and Daddy came for us was the day our lives began. Because it was, Max. We had nothing before that. I may not remember much, but I remember that." She paused. "You can't avoid her forever. You can't always 'leave early' or hide in the bushes. You're going to have to talk to her eventually, so you're going to have to figure out what to tell her."

"Like what?" Max said. "What do I say now that Valenti taught her grease fires 101?"

"I don't know," Isabel admitted. "Say you were in shock and don't remember. Or say you do remember, that there's something else about how you put the fire out, something you forgot or didn't think had mattered, but now you know it must, and all because of Valenti's magic pamphlet. I don't know what to tell her, I just know you're going to have to tell her something. She's not going to just drop it."

"I guess not," Max said glumly.

Isabel stared at him a moment. "Do you remember when Mom and Dad first brought us home?"

"Why?" Max asked warily.

"Do you remember?" Isabel persisted. "Do you remember how you cried every single night? And Mom would come in and stay with you until you cried yourself to sleep?"

Max stared at the floor. "Yeah," he said uncomfortably.

"Good," Isabel said soberly. "Make sure you think of that the next time you blow her off. And then think of what could have happened to us if she hadn't been willing to take a chance on two kids wandering naked in the desert. She deserves better than what she's getting, Max. Think about that the next time you hide in the bushes. I know I will."




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




Roswell Sheriff's Station







From his position in the corner, Jim Valenti gave his office a critical look, wanting everything to be perfect, to convey just the right balance of authority, friendliness, and concern. He nudged the chair in front of his desk with his foot, putting it on a slight angle, then took a seat in his own chair. No, he decided. That was too much authority. Better to sit next to her. He'd just pulled an extra chair into service when Hanson walked in.

"I've…got everything set up the way you asked," Hanson said, his eyes widening slightly as he watched Valenti meticulously mess up everything on top of his desk. "Muffins, coffee—"

"The good stuff, right? None of that usual rot gut."

"Gourmet blend, purchased myself," Hanson nodded. "It's ready when you are." He paused, breaking into a smile. "You know, you could go out, sir. You don't have to do this in your office."

"On the contrary, the office is the only place to do this," Valenti answered.

Hanson blinked. "Oh. Okay. I just…I mean, we can certainly hold down the fort for a couple of hours so you can go on a date."

Now it was Valenti's turn to blink. "Date? What date?"

"Well…isn't that what this is? The muffins, the special coffee, all this fussing…what else could it be?"

"Wait a minute," Valenti said. "You think I'm having a date? In my office? In the middle of the day?"

Hanson reddened slightly. "I…I mean, we…we just assumed…"

" 'Assumed'?" Valenti broke in. "Haven't you heard the one about assuming, that when you assume, you—"

"Make an 'ass out of you and me'," Hanson finished. "Yes, of course I've heard that, sir. I went to high school too."

"Then what in blazes would make you think I would bring a date here?" Valenti demanded.

"Word is you and Amy DeLuca were having a good time when that party at the soap factory interrupted you," Hanson said cheerfully.

" 'Word is'?" Valenti echoed. "Whose word? What did you hear?"

"Uh...only that the two of you were having a good time, sir."

"And who told you that?"

"Well...the waiter who took my call…might have said…something," Hanson stammered.

"Oh, did he, now?" Valenti said darkly. "Anything else? Did he report what we were eating? Tape record our conversation?"

Hanson looked taken aback. "It's a small town, sir, and you're the sheriff; you go out in public, people notice. No one meant any harm."

Valenti sighed when he saw the kicked puppy look on Hanson's face. "I know," he said, chastened. "I'm just wondering what would make my staff think that I'd have them scurrying around so I could have a romantic encounter on a workday."

"Oh, we wouldn't mind, sir," Hanson grinned. "That Amy DeLuca's easy on the eyes. But of course you wouldn't do that in the office," he added hastily when Valenti raised an eyebrow. "So who's all this for?"

A car door closed outside. Valenti hurried to the window and looked out, Hanson joining him. "It's for her," Valenti said. "Go downstairs and welcome her, bring her some coffee. I'll be right down."

Hanson gave him a curious look, but said nothing before leaving. Valenti gave the office one last look, ran a comb through his hair, and made certain his badge was on straight before going downstairs.

"Mrs. Evans," he said warmly to Diane, who was holding a steaming cup of freshly roasted gourmet coffee and looking a bit bewildered. "Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I really appreciate it."

"You sounded concerned," Diane said. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "No, nothing's wrong. In light of recent events, there was just something I thought you should see."

"Like the pamphlet?" Diane asked.

Valenti smiled faintly. "I think you'll find this much more interesting than the pamphlet."



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


I'll post Chapter 44 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR




December 17, 1999, 5:45 a.m.

Proctor residence



A dull thud woke Dee, and she opened her eyes, momentarily disoriented. A second later she closed them, unable to believe she'd done it again. For the life of her, she just could not get used to sleeping in her parents' old bedroom. She'd grown up in this house staring at a completely different ceiling in a room across the hall, with the only time she'd seen this one being when she'd been sick and crawled into bed with her mother. She and Anthony had lived here long enough now that most mornings didn't bring this reaction, but whenever she was awakened suddenly, unexpectedly, it seemed to trip a circuit in her brain that brought her back to her childhood, when waking up in this bed was not normal.

So what had awakened her this time? She glanced at the clock and groaned. God, she hated waking up early. More and more now she found that waking up early meant she couldn't get back to sleep. Unlike most of her peers, she still kept "younger" hours, staying up late and sleeping in much later than most people her age. Word was that one's internal clock reset in your waning years, making you sleep less soundly, go to bed earlier, and wake up earlier. So far the only indication that might happen to her was this habit of not being able to get back to sleep if she woke early. Or maybe it's just life, she thought ruefully. Her most recent conversation with Diane had not been encouraging, and worse yet, Philip was due home soon. If Diane had not satisfied her curiosity by the time he returned, she was liable to pull him into this, and Dee knew only too well how her son was likely to react—he'd sink his teeth into it and not let go in a way that would make Valenti look like a casual observer. Perhaps it was time to make plans for a day they had all dreaded—the day Philip and Diane found out who and what they were actually raising.

Wide awake now that her most pressing problem had once again reared its ugly head, Dee gave up and threw back the covers. It was cold, and the robe she pulled on did little to dispel the chill, nor did the slippers she stepped into. Anthony was snoring softly as she padded out to the thermostat and cranked it up several degrees. When she was young, she could never understand how people wore multiple layers of clothing, like a sweater over a blouse; she always ran much too hot to wear more than one layer. At some point in her forties her metabolism must have taken a nosedive because now she was more likely to be too cold than too warm. The cold bothered her more too, like now, as her stiff joints complained on the trek down the stairs. Growing older was certainly better than the alternative, but that didn't mean it was any fun.

The first floor was dark, and Dee flipped on the porch light as she opened the front door. The newspaper lay to one side, it being what had awakened her; their carrier, now an adult in a car instead of a kid on a bicycle, threw the paper from the driveway and had a dubious record for accuracy. At least he'd made the porch this time instead of the bushes. She bent over slowly to retrieve it, closed the door…and heard a sound behind her.

"Good grief," Dee sighed. "Isn't it a bit early, Brivari? And what have I told you about sneaking up on me? You're going to scare the daylights out of me one of these days, and I hope I live long enough afterward to make you regret it."

There was a pause before a puzzled voice said, "What?"

Dee whirled around, peered into the murky living room, and snapped on a light to find not the Warder, but the Ward stretched on the sofa, looking at her curiously. "Max!" she exclaimed, one hand to her heart. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Sorry," he said, pulling himself into a sitting position. "I got here really late last night, and I didn't want to wake you. Hope you don't mind."

"Well, of course I don't mind, but why are you here?" Dee asked, plopping down in a chair. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I just needed somewhere else to sleep."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but needing 'somewhere else to sleep' usually means something's wrong," Dee said dryly. "C'mon—out with it."

Max ran a hand through his messy hair as he stared at the floor. "Mom and I…we…" He stopped, looking helplessly at Dee.

"Let me guess," Dee said. "She was getting all worked up about how you put out the fire. That's what she was just going on about, about some pamphlet the sheriff had given her which announced that you couldn't have put out the fire the way you said you did."

"Something like that," Max said.

Dee's eyebrows rose. " 'Something' like that? You mean there's more?"

"Oh, yeah," Max murmured. "Way more."

"Like what?" Dee asked.

"She was just watching old tapes…you know, like she does when Dad's gone, and…I guess she found something that…look, I don't know," Max finished, clearly flustered. "I don't even remember what happened. It was way back when Mom and Dad first adopted us."

Oh, dear, Dee thought heavily. Diane had clearly found her missing bird video. "I see," she said softly. "And now she's asking all kinds of questions that you can't answer. Or don't want to."

Max glanced at her in surprise, then quickly looked away. "Yeah. That pretty much sums it up."

"So what are you going to tell her?"

"I don't know," Max whispered, his eyes far away. "I had to think about that, so…I came here. Only it didn't help. I still don't know."

"Max," Dee began, "I…"

She stopped, swallowing her next words with more difficulty than at any other time in her life. The anguish in his voice was so intense that it was all she could do not to spill what she knew about him, about all of them. Only the knowledge that doing so would open up a can of worms of enormous proportions stayed her tongue. Her personal opinion was that Max could handle the truth, but this wasn't just about Max. Whatever she told him would make it's way back to the others, and even if it didn't, that was no better; a secret like that was a huge burden to carry, and no one knew that better than she did. Faced with the worst temptation to reveal herself she'd ever felt, she found herself reluctantly agreeing with Brivari; it wasn't time. Not yet.

"What?" Max asked, looking at her curiously.

"I was just going to say that when I was over the other night, I pointed out to your mother that you might not even know how you put the fire out," Dee said. "Things like that happen so fast and are so unexpected…it wouldn't be unusual if you're not sure exactly what it was you did."

Max gave her a wan smile. "Maybe," he allowed.

"I also told her that she can't make you tell her anything," Dee went on. "And that pushing you to do so will only make you want to tell her less. Assuming you have anything to tell, of course, which I'm not at all clear that you do."

"Thanks, Grandma," Max said sadly, "but I think we're past that. I have to tell her something. I just don't know what." He rose from the couch. "Mind if I use your bathroom? I don't want to go to school looking like this."

"Of course not," Dee said. "Oh, and Max?"

He paused at the base of the stairs. "Yeah?"

"Remember one thing while you're deciding what to tell you mother: First and foremost, before her curiosity or anything she wants to know, she loves you. That simple fact will trump anything you tell her."

"Anything?" Max said doubtfully.

"Anything," Dee said firmly. "Anything at all. No matter how bizarre, or unusual, or unbelievable. I know she can drive you crazy…she's driven me crazy for years…but I've never doubted her love for you, or how that love will come first, before anything else."

Max looked skeptical, but nodded. "Okay. Thanks. Hi, Grandpa," he added as he climbed the staircase, passing a bewildered Anthony who was on the way down.

"Hi, Max," Anthony said faintly, watching Max climb the stairs before coming down the rest of the way. "What's going on?" he demanded in a low voice. "I heard voices down here, but I thought I was dreaming."

"Remember that videotape I told you Diane was looking for?" Dee asked. "The one with…" She paused, glancing upstairs. "The one with the bird?" she finished in a whisper. "She found it."

Anthony sank slowly down onto the couch. "Oh, dear," he said faintly.

"My thoughts exactly," Dee muttered. "Every other suburban American family tapes over all kinds of things, but not our son; no siree, he makes certain everything is saved, catalogued, and available to menace future generations."

"What's he going to tell her?" Anthony asked.

"I don't know," Dee replied, "and neither does he. I'll go see her this morning and watch it myself. I might be able to salvage this, although my last attempt to do that failed thanks to our lovely sheriff—"

"Grandma?"

It was Max, poking his head down the stairwell. "Do you need something, honey?" she asked.

"I was just wondering," Max said slowly, coming down a few more stairs, "who did you think I was? When you were getting the paper, I mean. You thought I was someone else."

Dee felt her face growing warm as Anthony raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was your grandfather," she answered. "He loves to tease me."

"But I heard a name," Max persisted. "You said a name, and it wasn't Grandpa's name."

"Did I?" Dee said lightly. "I don't recall. But I was only half awake, so God only knows what I said. I have lots of nicknames for your grandfather, some of them unprintable. It might have been one of those."

Max gazed at her for a moment before dropping his eyes in disappointment. "Oh. Okay." He started back up the stairs, then stopped. "If you think of it, let me know, would you? Because for just a minute there…I thought I recognized it."




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




West Roswell High School




"Isabel!" Claire called. "Over here!"

"Let's get to the cafeteria before all the doughnuts are gone," Carly added.

"You go," Isabel said from her post on the steps outside school. "I'm waiting for someone."

Wrong answer, Isabel groaned as both Claire and Carly instantly whisked to her side. "This isn't fair!" Carly declared. "Who is he?"

"And why don't we know about him already?" Claire demanded.

"Because you do," Isabel said sweetly. "I'm waiting for my brother. You knew about him, right? Or if you didn't, you can catch up with him at the UFO center, one of your all time favorite places."

"And here I thought it was someone interesting," Claire pouted.

"Bummer," Carly agreed.

"Bye," Isabel smiled.

Claire and Carly went off in search of fatty sugars as Isabel continued to anxiously scan the crowds thronging into school. "C'mon, c'mon," she muttered, craning her neck this way and that. It was so hard to see that she resorted to boosting herself up on the stair railing to get a better look. She didn't find Max, but she did find the next best thing.

"Michael! Over here!"

Michael wove through the crowd sideways until he reached her. "Is there a reason you're hanging from the railing? Seems a little undignified for you."

"Is Max with you?" Isabel asked, ignoring him.

"No. Why would he be with me?"

"Damn," Isabel muttered. "I was hoping he'd spent the night with you."

"You've got it backwards," Michael said. "I climb in his window, he doesn't climb in mine. Why would he have spent the night with me?"

"Because he didn't spend the night at home," Isabel sighed, plopping down on the step. "He and Mom had some kind of fight last night, and he left."

Michael took a seat beside her. "So did she put out a missing person's report yet?"

"Very funny," Isabel said darkly.

"What? She's the spastic type."

"Michael, this is serious," Isabel said crossly. "Mom doesn't realize he was gone all night because I told her I'd seen him this morning—"

"Which explains the lack of a missing person's report."

"—but I lied," Isabel went on. "He never came home last night, and I don't know where he is."

"This wouldn't happen to be about a certain fire, would it?" Michael asked.

"I wish it were," Isabel said soberly. "At least that's a familiar subject. But I asked Mom if they were still arguing about the fire, and she said no, it was something else. But she wouldn't say what, and she spent most of the night in front of the TV watching old movies of us when we were little."

"Domestic dispute," Michael announced, rising abruptly. "Not my thing."

" 'Not your thing'?" Isabel echoed. "Max is missing! Isn't that your 'thing'?"

"He's not missing, Isabel. He just had a fight with the woman you call your mother and walked out. He's around here somewhere."

Isabel's eyes narrowed. "The 'woman I call my mother'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means. And so does Max."

"I don't believe this!" Isabel sputtered. "If you tried really, really hard, do you think you could possibly be more rude?"

"Yes," Michael said bluntly. "I've had it up to here with whiny human females."

"Oh, this is rich coming from the guy whose life was just saved by 'whiny human females'," Isabel retorted.

Michael stopped, giving her a stare so penetrating, she was certain he was about to launch into yet another lecture about how humans were useless. But he hesitated, seeming to wrestle with himself before muttering, "Whatever," and walking away, his hands stuffed in his pockets because, as usual, Michael had no books. He never did. Great, Isabel thought wearily, leaning against the stair railing. Max was missing, and now Michael was mad at her. Michael was being his usual brand of insufferable, but had she really needed to make things worse?

And then the crowd parted and the sun came out because off in the distance was her brother, backpack over one shoulder, staring at the ground as he walked. "Max!" Isabel called, sprinting through the crowd, as much as she could, at least. "Max! Over here!"

He looked up, veered sideways, heading for an empty spot on the front lawn. "Max, where have you been?" Isabel demanded when she reached him. "What happened? Mom wouldn't say, and when she went looking for you this morning, I told her you'd come back and left again."

Max's eyes swept the crowds outside the school, but no one was nearby. "I slept at Grandma's house. I can't go home until I figure out how to handle this."

"Handle what? What on earth could be so bad that you won't come home? She can't prove anything about the fire, so—"

"It's not the fire," Max interrupted.

Isabel's throat constricted. "Oh. So…what now?"

Max leaned in closer. "Remember a couple of days ago at the basketball game, when you said Mom had been asking questions about me, and she said I had secrets? You said she was watching old videotapes, and she seemed to be looking for something."

"Yeah," Isabel said warily. "What about it?"

"Well, you were right. She was looking for something. And she found it."

"Found…what?" Isabel whispered.

"A tape of us when were little, right after we were adopted," Max answered. "We were feeding pigeons in the park, and it looked like one of them was hurt. Until I picked it up, that is."

Isabel blinked. " 'Hurt'? Hurt how?"

"Mom thinks its wing was broken. I couldn't tell, but…on the tape, I picked it up and held it for a minute…and then it flew away."

Isabel was silent for a moment, digesting that. "So…you healed it?" she asked uncertainly.

"I don't know," Max admitted. "But that's what it looked like. You were there too. Do you remember anything like that."

Isabel shook her head. "No. Nothing."

"Neither do I," Max agreed. "But Dad filmed it, so it must have happened."

"Okay, so there was a possibly hurt bird," Isabel said. "But what did Mom get from that that would have you running out of the house?"

Max shifted his backpack to his other shoulder. "Because she made the connection, Iz. She knows I didn't put that fire out with a little bit of water, and she thinks the bird was too hurt to fly until I picked it up. So now she's got two unexplained things I'm involved in, and she wanted…answers."

Isabel's eyes widened. "She said that? She said she wanted answers?"

"Not exactly," Max allowed. "But she asked me what happened on the tape."

"And what did you tell her? Did you tell her you didn't remember?"

"Not exactly," Max repeated. "I just…I got so freaked out watching that. I mean, what if the FBI had found that? What if Valenti had? I had no idea there was a tape with evidence of our powers. I felt like Topolsky was gonna walk through the door any minute and arrest me."

"So you yelled at her," Isabel said.

"No! I didn't yell, I…got upset," Max said uncomfortably. "She said she wanted to know, and I said I couldn't talk to her about it, and then she wanted to know why, and…" He broke off in frustration. "I have to tell her something, Iz. She's not gonna let this one go. Maybe I can go with the not remembering. We were little kids on that tape, and most people don't remember stuff that happened when they were that young anyway."

"Or we could tell her the truth," Isabel said. "That's still an option on my list."

"Well, it's not on mine," Max replied. "And I doubt it would be for Michael either."

"Why not?" Isabel argued. "She figured it out, Max. We didn't tell her; she figured it out on her own."

"She hasn't figured anything out. She's just seen a couple of things she can't explain."

"But she knows there's something different about you," Isabel said, "different enough that it has you worried. If she wasn't close, you wouldn't be this worried."

" 'Close' isn't the same as 'there'," Max noted. "She's not there, and I'm not going to bring her there if she isn't there already."

"So you're going to lie," Isabel said reprovingly. "Again."

"I'm not lying," Max insisted. "I really don't remember what happened on that tape, and neither do you."

"And the fire?" Isabel persisted. "You told her you threw a pot of water on it. So that wasn't lying?"

"No. I did throw a pot of water on it. It's just not what put out the fire."

"Semantics, Max!" Isabel exclaimed. "It's a lie, and you know it! And the worst part is, Mom knows it too."

"We have to get to class," Max said, heading into the school, Isabel following. "We can talk about this later and decide what to do. And we have to tell Michael. If Mom finds out about me, he's in danger too."

" 'Danger'?" Isabel echoed incredulously. "How are we in 'danger'? She's our mother! She would never do anything to hurt us."

"We hope," Max said soberly. "We hope, but we don't know."

"I know," Isabel insisted. "I'd stake my life on it."

"Well, the good news is, you don't have to," Max said. "Meet me by the jeep at lunch time. I'll tell Michael."

"Great," Isabel grumbled. "He'll be so helpful… She stopped, gazing in a nearby classroom. "What's Michael doing in the wood shop?"

Max shook his head. "No idea."




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




11:15 a.m.,

Evans residence





Dee rang the doorbell for the fifth time, her foot tap-tapping on the front porch. Diane hadn't been answering her phone all morning, which Dee had initially written off to sleeping late or errands. But as the morning had worn on, she'd grown increasingly worried, finally visiting her father for advice. That advice was why she was now standing on her son's front porch, impatiently punching the doorbell with no result. Truly worried now, she tried to peer through the peephole, and when that failed, resorted to knocking loudly. "Diane?" she called, feeling more than a little foolish talking to a closed door. "It's Mom. Are you there?"

No answer. Dee tried the door, but it was locked. Okay, she sighed, casting a furtive glance toward first one neighbor's house, then another. No one in sight. Time to escalate things. She had a key, although she hadn't used it in years. Letting herself into her son's house uninvited seemed like a violation, but then this was Diane they were talking about; it was not so farfetched to imagine her doing something dramatic, like…Oh, never mind, Dee thought fiercely, digging into a little-used pocket of her purse. Enough with the speculation. "I'm coming in," she called to the closed door. "If you're there, now would be a good time to say something—"

Her latest speech was interrupted by the sound of shuffling footsteps, followed by the chink of the front deadbolt. She waited for what must have been a full minute, but when the door didn't open, she tried the knob herself. It turned. Slowly, she opened the door.

"Diane?" she called warily.

No one answered. Dee pushed the door open further and stepped inside. Despite the sunny day, it was dark inside; all the curtains were closed, and there was a musty smell which told her the windows were closed as well, overlaid by the lingering odor of stale smoke. "Diane?" Dee called again, closing the door behind her. "Where are you?"

Still no answer. Dee walked further into the house, past the living room, all the way into the kitchen. And there was Diane, seated at the kitchen table in a pair of sweatpants and an old sweatshirt with her hair a mess and dark circles under her eyes large enough to eat off of. Dirty dishes filled the sink, and the kitchen trash can smelled suspiciously like it needed to be emptied.

"Diane, are you all right?" Dee asked, privately noting the answer to that question was obvious. "I've called several times this morning, and I've been outside for a while now—"

"I know," Diane broke in, her voice flat, emotionless. "I…I didn't sleep last night, so after the kids went to school, I went back to bed. I turned the phone ringer off so it wouldn't wake me."

"Is that also why you closed all the curtains? It's like a tomb in here."

"Because that's what I feel like," Diane said tonelessly. "I feel…dead."

Whatever sympathy Dee had been feeling for her daughter-in-law promptly evaporated. "Nonsense," she declared. "I've seen plenty of deaths in my time, and trust me, you're not dead."

"Who have you see die?" Diane asked, showing a flicker of interest for the first time.

But Dee ignored her. "Time to wake up," she said briskly, sending the kitchen shade up with a snap as Diane winced against the sunlight that poured in. "Let's start by waking this house up."

"No!" Diane protested. "Mom, just…just leave me alone, would you? I'm tired. I didn't sleep, and I just want to go back to bed, and forget."

But she was way too late; by the time she'd finished that sentence, Dee had moved on to the living room, pulling curtains back and flinging windows open. Five minutes later the house had been transformed, a pot of coffee had been started, and Diane stood blinking in her sweats, her messy hair, and her droopy eyes. She looked even worse in broad daylight.

"Now," Dee said, "are you going to tell me what this is all about, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

Diane sank onto the living room couch, bearing a closer resemblance to "dead" than Dee would like to admit. "I'd rather not talk about it," Diane said.

Oh, no you don't, Dee thought. "Max came by," she announced.

However "dead" Diane had thought herself, she certainly wasn't now as that single sentence made her sit bolt upright. "He did? Did he talk to you? What did he say?"

"It appears the two of you are quarrelling," Dee said.

"He said that?"

"Not in so many words, but I got the message. He also said you'd been watching old videotapes. Does this mean you found what you were looking for? All right, then; let's see it," Dee added when Diane nodded mutely. "I'm curious as to what all the fuss is about."

Diane grabbed the remote off the coffee table, clicked the TV on, and hit "play". All cued up, Dee noted. Someone was obsessing about something, watching it over and over and over. The scene started with Isabel and Max scampering around the park feeding pigeons, and Dee braced herself for the important part, which played out as she remembered it: Max picking up a bird, Diane warning him to stay away, the bird flying away followed by the dazed look on Max's face, as though he didn't realize what he'd done. His bewilderment was even more pronounced on the tape because she hadn't seen it up close the first time; she'd been setting up the picnic lunch with Brivari beside her, something Philip had mercifully not recorded. By the time it finished, Dee was feeling much better. There was a lot of wiggle room here, and she intended to wiggle like crazy.

"What did you see, Mom?" Diane asked in a tight voice after she'd turned off the tape.

"I saw a little boy pick up a bird, and then the bird flew away," Dee answered.

"A hurt bird," Diane corrected. "The bird was injured, Mom. It couldn't fly."

"That wasn't at all clear to me. You think the bird was injured. You think it couldn't fly."

"But you heard Isabel say something was wrong with it's wing—"

"Yes, I heard a little girl say that," Dee agreed. "But she was six years old, Diane. It's not like you called in a vet to confirm that six year-old's diagnosis. We don't know for certain the bird was injured, and we can't tell from the tape."

"But it was flapping around like it couldn't fly!" Diane protested. "You saw it! You must have!"

"I saw it flapping, yes, but that doesn't mean it couldn't fly," Dee said. "I'm no ornithologist, and neither are you."

"It was hurt," Diane insisted. "It know it was. And when Max picked it up, all of a sudden, it wasn't hurt any more."

"Or so it appeared," Dee said. "And I'm still lost as to why this is such an issue. First it was grease fires, and then it was a bird you think was hurt ten years ago. I didn't get the connection before, and I still don't."

"But don't you see, Mom?" Diane said, her voice rising. "It all fits! Max and the bird, and his putting out the fire, and that girl that got shot last fall, and—"

"Wait a minute—what?" Dee said sharply. "What girl that got shot last fall?"

Diane pushed a limp strand of hair back and clasped both hands tightly around the crumpled tissue in her hand. "Sheriff Valenti called me yesterday and asked me to come down to the station. He said he had something he wanted me to see."

"Like what?" Dee asked warily.

"He…he showed me a report on what happened at the Crashdown Café last September," Diane went on. "There were a couple of tourists there who said they…" She paused, her voice breaking. "…who said they saw Max there. They said one of the waitresses was shot, and that he did…something...to her. And then he ran away."

That little snake, Dee thought darkly. Valenti had used the fire to bring what he knew about Max to Diane's attention in ways far more damaging than a pamphlet. Diane had been blissfully unaware of the Crashdown business, but she wasn't now. Good ol' Jimmy had seen to that. What should have been relatively easy to handle had now become much more difficult.

The coffee pot beeped, providing the perfect interruption. "Okay," Dee said briskly. "I'm going to pour us both a cup of coffee, and then I want you to tell me everything the sheriff said, because—"

"It won't matter," Diane insisted as Dee rose from the couch. "I know there's something up with Max. I know. I'm his mother, and I know. There are too many things that don't make sense, too many things I can't explain. I know I'm not a Rhodes scholar, but I'm not stupid, either; I can see what's right in front of me. So pick it all apart it you want to, Mom, but I know something's different about him. I'm certain of it."

Dee studied her daughter-in-law for a moment, noting the stiff posture, the set jaw, the now defiant expression on her face. Diane no longer looked tired, she looked ready for battle, ready to take on anyone who opposed her…and perhaps the opportunity to do so had passed. Perhaps her father had a point and it was time to fess up. Game's over, Deanna, David had said. She knows. Time to stop playing dumb.

"Maybe you're right," Dee said. "Maybe there is something…'different'…about Max."

Diane blinked. "Really?"

"Really."

Diane's eyes widened. "Mom," she said slowly, "...what are you saying?"




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


Next weekend is my birthday , so I'll be posting Chapter 45 on Sunday, August 14.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Happy Birthday early to you!

Thank you! It's my last year to be forty-something.

He never did like to give "humans" any credit until it suited him.

[amateur psychologist] I suspect Michael's upbringing taught him not to become dependent on anyone lest he get hurt, and the whole not-being-human bit just made that worse.[/amateur psychologist]

And he could just be a pain in the butt. Which made it all the more annoying when he was right.

First Max recognized a name Dee mentioned........what was that?

Dee thought Brivari was in her living room at the crack of dawn, and she said his name. So it was Brivari's name which was ringing a bell somewhere in Max.






CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE



December 17, 1999, 11:45 a.m.

Evans residence





Back in 1989, Dee and Anthony Evans had sat down with her parents and Brivari to hammer out a plan for the day they all knew was coming, the day when their son and his wife discovered the two children they were raising were not human. A great deal of thought had been given as to what to say and how to say it. They had even play-acted the event, with each of them taking the role of Philip or Diane and responding with varying degrees of disbelief, anger, fear, or any other emotion that might bubble to the surface. Care had been taken to factor in the uncomfortable possibility that Philip and Diane would reject their "children" upon learning of their true origins and possibly contact the authorities. At the time it had been thought that this could happen at any moment; the children had just lost their memories after Zan's disastrous order to the Warders to show all the hybrids exactly how and why they had left their planet, but it was assumed that it was only a matter of time before those memories would resurface because the memories were clearly there. But they hadn't, and as the years had gone by, "the plan" had been largely forgotten, pushed to the back of the mental shelf like a half-eaten box of cereal one is unwilling to throw away because you think you might finish it some day.

Until now, that is. Looking at her daughter-in-law, who was wearing an expression that was equal parts suspicion, hope, defiance, and fear, Dee had to reluctantly admit that it was time to dust off that plan. If this were just about the video, this wouldn't be so hard, but she'd just been thrown a curve ball. It had always been assumed that the children would give themselves away, do something, say something, remember something that would tip off their adoptive parents. Ironically it wasn't the kids leading the way, but none other than Jim Valenti, whacking the bee's nest, highlighting what Diane had already dismissed or hadn't even known about, sending her looking for further proof. Step one of the plan had involved listening; when logic failed, and attempts to provide alternative explanations for whatever had aroused suspicion fell flat, the next step was to validate those feelings that something was amiss and express openness to discussing them while fishing for more information.

"Mom, what do you mean?" Diane repeated sharply. "How is Max 'different'?"

"I don't know," Dee answered. "But you seem convinced he is, and I'm listening. Let's start with the fact that you've raised Max for the past ten years, but this is the first time I'm hearing about this. Why is that?"

"Because I'd never put it all together before," Diane answered. "I'd never had so many things happen at the same time that pointed to it."

"We've got a bird from ten years ago, a shooting from four months ago, and a fire from three days ago. That's a quite a range for 'the same time'."

"Okay, so they didn't happen at the same time," Diane allowed. "I just linked them together at the same time. But I did link them. They are related."

"I've already gone on record about the fire and the bird," Dee said. "But what's this with the sheriff? That shooting was months ago, with no reported injuries, by the way. If he thought Max was involved somehow, why is he bringing it up now? Why not earlier?"

"He just said it was something he thought I should know," Diane answered. "The report he showed me said that Max 'fled the scene'. Why would he do that?"

"Gee, I don't know; maybe because a gun had just gone off?" Dee said dryly.

"Don't joke," Diane scolded. "This is serious. There were a couple of tourists who said they saw the waitress fall over, and then Max went up to her and put his hand on her, or...something...and then she was fine. And then he ran away. The sheriff said—"

"A 'couple' of tourists'? There's a crowd in the Crashdown on a Sunday morning, Diane. Why did only a 'couple of tourists' see this magical event?"

"Let me finish," Diane insisted. "The sheriff said they had serious credibility issues, but—"

"Come again?" Dee said in astonishment. " 'Serious credibility issues'? That's legal speak for 'can't believe a word they say'."

"But then why would he have shown me that?" Diane persisted. "He obviously put stock in what they said, or he wouldn't have gone to the trouble to invite me down to the station just to show it to me."

"I'd like to know why he 'invited you down to the station' at all," Dee said. "What's he getting at? If there were any legal concern about Max being there that day, he would have contacted you when it happened. The fact that he didn't is a dead giveaway that this is about something else."

"Of course it's about something else," Diane said impatiently. "The sheriff gave me that pamphlet about grease fires. He knows there's something wrong with the way Max says he put the fire out. And now he tells me about these people who claim Max healed a girl who had been shot, and you just watched that video where Max healed a bird that couldn't fly. Yes, I know I can't prove the bird was hurt, but I know it was."

"So, you're saying Max… 'healed' the fire?" Dee ventured.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Diane sighed. "When you say it like that, I sound crazy! But I'm not crazy, and that tape proves it. When I showed it to Max last night, he accused me of 'investigating' him and got all upset, but he didn't deny it. He said he can't talk to me about it, so there is something to talk about. He just won't talk to me. My son won't talk to me," she went on in a brittle voice. "He's never not talked to me, Mom. He's never not trusted me like this. I don't care what it is. I just want him to trust me enough to tell me."

The ache in Diane's voice was so profound, it was almost palpable, and Dee realized two things: That she'd veered off the "validate" track and back onto the "logic" track, and that no amount of logic would be helpful because what was bothering Diane the most wasn't how Max had put out the fire, or what the sheriff had told her. What bothered her the most was the fact that Max wouldn't discuss it with her, something she'd completely missed.

"Did you tell him that?" Dee asked gently, passing the Kleenex box. "Did you tell Max you were just looking for a little trust?"

"I didn't have a chance," Diane said, close to tears now. "He ran away like something was chasing him, like I was chasing him. Isabel said she saw him this morning, but I didn't. He's avoiding me. But he can't avoid me forever, and…and I may have figured it out," she went on in a somewhat calmer tone. "When he ran away last night, I was so upset, and I just had to know, so I spent the entire night doing research. That's part of why I didn't sleep."

"And what did you find out?" Dee asked.

Diane perched on the edge of the couch. "Promise you won't laugh?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Dee promised.

"Okay." Diane took a moment to compose herself. "Throughout recorded history," she began, sounding like a Nova announcer, "there have been people who have certain…abilities. Gifts. Things they can do that most people can't."

"Like?"

"Like moving things without touching them. Or predicting the future. Or reading minds. Some of them can even start fires just by thinking about it. Which I know sounds crazy," Diane went on in a rush, "but there is real evidence of this, scientific evidence. The idea is that it has something to do with evolution, that these people are further up the evolutionary ladder than the rest of us." Diane paused, watching Dee closely for signs of ridicule, sliding closer when she found none. "I think," Diane said slowly, "that maybe Max is one of these…'special people'. I mean, if there are people who can start fires with their minds, couldn't there be people who could put them out the same way? And what do we really know about him, Mom? We found him wandering in the desert, and for all we know, his real family abandoned him because he could do these things. Anything's possible."

"And what about Isabel? You found her the same way."

Diane shook her head firmly. "Isabel's never done anything even remotely odd. Besides, Isabel would have told me. No, it's not Isabel, it's Max."

"Mmm," Dee murmured, noting the discrepancy between Diane's accurate analysis of her son and completely inaccurate analysis of her daughter. Nevertheless, Diane had just served up the perfect excuse for everything she was grappling with, and she wasn't far off; according to Brivari, the hybrids were further up the evolutionary ladder. That Diane had found a satisfying terrestrial explanation was sheer luck.

"So what do you think?" Diane asked nervously. "Do you think that's possible?"

"I think it's entirely possible," Dee answered. "And that would certainly explain why Max doesn't want to talk about it. If he knows he can do things other people can't, it may be something he's simply too frightened to discuss."

"But not with me!" Diane protested. "Why would he be too scared to discuss it with me? I'm his mother! I'm—"

"I also think you have to be extremely careful," Dee went on. "Because if the wrong people get wind of this, things could go very badly for Max."

Diane stopped mid-sentence. "What? Why?"

"Well, think about it, Diane. Why is the sheriff so interested in any of this? The one thing that's very clear is that Max hasn't done anything wrong. Putting out a fire? What's bad about that? That implausible and poorly substantiated tale about healing someone who was shot in front of a crowd, but only two people saw it? Correct me if I'm wrong, but healing an accident victim is hardly a crime. The maybe-hurt bird? Helping a bird isn't a crime either."

"Oh, of course," Diane agreed. "Max is a good person; he always has been, and we've always known that. No matter what he can do, his heart is in the right place."

"But those who find out about this may not have their hearts in the right place," Dee pointed out. "Can you imagine what some of them would do if they had access to Max?"

"Like who?" Diane asked bewildered. "Who are you talking about?"

"The military," Dee answered, ticking off the possibilities on her fingers. "The medical establishment. Politicians. Anyone powerful who wants access to more power. If this gets out, I'm afraid of what would happen to Max. I'm afraid of why the sheriff seems to be trying to use you to expose him." She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. "We have to keep this quiet, Diane. Very quiet. No one can know about it. Maybe that's why Max is so reluctant to talk about it. Maybe he knows instinctively what might happen if someone else finds out."

"Oh, God," Diane breathed. "I never thought about that. I never thought about any of this! Wait until Philip hears—"

"No," Dee interrupted firmly. "When I said we can't tell anyone, I meant anyone. That means Philip can't know, Anthony can't know, no one but you and me can know. The more people who know, the more likely it is to get out."

Diane blinked. "Wait. You want me to…to hide this from my own husband?"




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




West Roswell High School





Michael Guerin sat in the back of the jeep, watching the world go by and studiously ignoring the gathering storm in the front. Max was driving, his eyes on the road except for the furtive, worried glances sent his sister's way while Isabel sat in the passenger seat, bolt upright, arms folded, her eyes on the road except for the not-so-furtive, furious glances sent her brother's way. Their conflict was silly and stupid and oh so typical, and his already short patience was draining with each passing minute. It must be nice to have such a good life that you felt you had the time to waste on petty disagreements like this. The idea that you could get all worked up over a human you weren't even related to was foreign to him. Much as he'd liked the Guerins, he'd always known they weren't his real parents; that was a fiction that just didn't fly with all the foster children revolving in and out of their house. There had been a brief period when he'd ever so slightly started to lean in Isabel's direction, when he'd been with the Guerins long enough and they were still getting along well enough that at times it almost felt like…No, he amended silently. The key word there was "almost". "Almost" may be close, but it still wasn't there. Almost only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Max pulled into the school parking lot, parked the jeep, and looked at his sister, who was deliberately avoiding looking at him. Michael sighed loudly, waiting for the stand-off to end. The trouble with these two is that they still hadn't figured out what was really important. A near death experience could do that to you, not to mention a near death experience coupled with a tantalizing glimpse into their past. It was hard to believe that only a few short days ago he'd both nearly died and had the most vivid experience of his life, so much so that the latter trumped the former, making him wish he could almost die all over again. The others had described the steps they'd followed to bring him back, including the fact that it had taken only a few minutes from their perspective. To him it had seemed much longer, and he wouldn't have minded if it had gone on forever. Not that it did much good, he thought sadly. Whatever he'd seen was now gone, replaced by a blank mental wall and the lingering feeling that he'd lost something precious, something dreadfully important. Too bad he hadn't lost that too. It was tough to miss what you'd never had.

"Isabel," Max said suddenly, breaking the silence, "I—"

"Save it, Max," Isabel spat. "I don't want to hear it."

"But—"

"I said I don't want to hear it! I'm through with you."

"C'mon, Iz—"

"You know what?" Michael broke in. "I don't want to hear it either, and I'm through with both of you."

"Michael, wait!" Max called as Michael hoisted himself out of the jeep.

"Suit yourself," Isabel retorted, slamming the door behind her and stalking off through the parking lot.

"Michael! Iz! Oh, for Pete's sake," Max muttered, climbing out of the jeep as both abandoned him. Michael could almost feel him dithering about whom to follow, and he smiled faintly when he heard footsteps closing behind him.

"Wait up," Max called.

"Hurry up," Michael countered. "And congrats, by the way. You picked the right one."

"Well, she's certainly not talking to me," Max said, jogging until he fell in step beside him. "You're not mad at me too, are you?"

"Mad? No. Exasperated? Yes."

"Then that makes two of us."

Now Michael did stop. "You're exasperated with me? What the hell for?"

"Michael, you've got to let up on Isabel about Mom," Max said. "You're only making things worse."

Michael started walking again. "We can't tell her, Maxwell."

"Don't you think I know that?" Max demanded. "Didn't you hear me say that at least half a dozen times?"

"Three," Michael corrected. "But who's counting?"

"You, apparently. Look, Isabel will come around, but not by—"

"No, she won't," Michael said. "Isabel will not come around, and that's why I won't 'let up'. Both of you need regular reminders that the adults you're living with aren't your real parents."

"Are your ears working?" Max said irritably. "I believe I actually said, 'She's not our mother' out loud and in English."

"Yeah, well, you also said you knew you weren't the final word on everything and then proceeded to issue an order that was 'final'. Go figure."

"Why are you changing the subject?"

"I'm not changing the subject. I'm saying you're the one whose ears aren't working."

"Just let me handle Isabel," Max said as they entered the school. "You don't know what it's like to have a real parent, so you don't know how to talk to her."

Michael shook his head. "There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don't know where to start."

"Like what?" Max demanded.

"Like telling me I don't know what it's like to have a 'real' parent only seconds after claiming you know your 'mother' isn't a real parent. None of us know what it's like to have real parents, Maxwell, because none of us have ever had real parents. And I don't know how to talk to Isabel? Who exactly was she refusing to speak to just now? Me, or you?"

"Would you just leave it to me?" Max insisted. "Please? Whatever you think of our relationship with our parents, or whatever you call them, the fact remains that you don't know anything about it. That alone disqualifies you from making announcements."

"If I'm so 'disqualified', then why did you want me at the quarry?"

"The idea was to discuss what to do about the videotape," Max said impatiently, "not get into existential arguments about how 'real' my mother is."

"Well, you're in luck, then, Max, because I don't do 'existential'. And I already told you what to do about the videotape: Destroy it."

"I can't do that, at least not right away," Max protested. "She's bound to notice, and it'll make me look guilty. It can't just up and disappear."

"Sure it can. Would you like me to show you how?"

Max grabbed his arm, spun him around. "Don't come near my house, or anything in it."

"Wow," Michael said blandly. "Is that 'final'?"

"I don't want you blundering in there and making things worse," Max insisted. "Let me handle it."

"If you were so hot on 'handling it', why'd you drag us out to the middle of nowhere to discuss it? If you didn't want my opinion, you shouldn't have asked."

"I did want your opinion," Max argued. "And for what it's worth, I agree; the tape has to go. It just has to go in a way that doesn't make things worse than they already are."

"Your mother just stumbled on a recording of you using your powers," Michael reminded him. "The only thing worse is if she mails it to the FBI."

"And why would she do that? She has no idea the FBI was even here. And there are plenty of other ways this could get worse. That's the problem with you, Michael; you see everything in black and white, this way or that. Life isn't that simple; it's more complex than that."

"And you see everything in shades of waffle brown," Michael retorted. "You make everything way more complicated than it needs to be, and you hang back and do nothing because you're afraid of every single choice there is. Maybe I do see things in black and white, but that's what happens when you almost die. It kind of puts things in perspective."

"Bullshit," Max said bluntly. "You've always been like this. And if it's perspective you're after, watching someone almost die has the same effect. But you wouldn't know that."

"I wouldn't know?" Michael challenged. "Let's talk about what you don't know. You don't know what it's like to go somewhere else without your body moving. You don't know what it's like to discover things about yourself you've wanted to know all your life and then lose them. You don't know what it's like to spend every moment, waking and sleeping, trying to pull back just a speck of that. I want that back so much that if I weren't such an atheist, I might even try praying for it."

"Wow," Max deadpanned. "And here I thought you didn't 'do existential'." He paused. "Look, Michael, much as you may not like it, we need friends in this world. You want to fool yourself that we don't, go right ahead, but…" Max glanced at the nearest classroom. "That's Maria's shop class, isn't it? Funny how you stopped right here. This have anything to do with you being in the shop this morning?"

"What this has is nothing to do with you," Michael answered.

"Okay," Max said. "Fine. I'm just saying…not even you're buying what you're selling." He held up both hands as if to fend off an argument. "Later."

Yeah, later, Michael thought darkly, waiting until Max had rounded a corner before peering through the window of what was indeed Maria's shop class. The only thing which had kept him from biting Isabel's head off earlier was the fact that he secretly sympathized with her. He didn't have a parent or a reasonable facsimile of same, but lately he'd enjoyed a connection with a human unlike any he'd had before, and it was so attractive. No, more than that; it was…intoxicating. Addictive. Very, very hard to let go of. But let go he must, because it was a crutch he mustn't get used to the way Max and Isabel had, a weakness he—they—couldn't afford. They were alone here, and they mustn't forget that. He intended to make that clear in just a few minutes when the bell rang...but only after he found out if she'd liked his gift.




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



11:30 p.m.

Proctor residence




"So what did she say?" Anthony asked. "Is she going to tell Philip?"

"I don't know," Dee sighed, "but it's not looking good. She was very upset at the notion of keeping something from her husband."

"Unlike you, who'd keep something from me without batting an eyelash," Anthony said with a perfectly straight face.

"Oh, hush up," Dee said crossly. "This is serious! It was a stroke of incredibly good luck that Diane came up with such a convenient explanation for Max doing what he's done, but I'm not at all certain Philip would be willing to just let it go. And if he decides to 'investigate'…"

"It's all over," Anthony finished sadly. "He won't stop until he's standing on the bridge of their ship. Assuming it has one."

"It does," Dee confirmed. "I remember Jaddo talking about repairing it for the Army. And then someone almost got trapped on it when they accidentally activated some kind of security system."

"What's this? See, you are keeping things from me."

Dee shot her husband an annoyed look, but Anthony was smiling. He was only trying to lighten the mood, but he had an impossible job. Dee's chat with Diane earlier today had not ended well, with the latter indignant at the suggestion that Philip be kept in the dark about what Diane thought she'd discovered about their son. She'd flatly refused to do so, although she had agreed to wait until he returned from his business trip to raise the subject if only because she didn't want to bother him while he was on the road, especially since he'd already been bothered with the fire. That gave them until tomorrow evening to convince her to keep mum, something which was very unlikely to happen given her mood when Dee had left.

"The Tonight Show is about to start," Anthony said, clicking on the TV. "Wonder who's on tonight?"

"Gracious, who cares?" Dee demanded. "I can't waste time watching 'Jaywalking' when the world could cave in tomorrow!"

"Oh, pish," Anthony said dismissively. "The world's been about to cave in tomorrow since we were kids. What'll happen will happen."

"That's it?" Dee said in astonishment. "That's your grand advice?"

"That's my opinion," Anthony corrected. "You never asked for my advice, grand or otherwise. She'll either tell him, or she won't, and that's not up to us. The more you try to get her to stay quiet, the more likely she is to talk."

"But if she talks, that could bring down the entire house of cards," Dee argued. "Philip is like a dog with his teeth in your leg; he won't let go for nothing."

"Double negative."

"Oh, stop it!" Dee exclaimed. "This is not a joke—"

"Do you really think I'm not aware of that?" Anthony interrupted. "You said it yourself; this situation is a fragile compromise, a house of cards that's always been in danger of blowing over any second. I just won't live every moment in fear of that happening. You've done all you can, Dee. Now it's up to Max. You told him he needed to talk to her. Whatever Diane does after that, she'll do tomorrow, so for right now, I'm going to stop thinking about it and enjoy some idiotic laughs, and I suggest you do the same. And who knows? Stepping away for a few minutes might give us some insight we won't get when we're too close to it. Wouldn't be the first time that happened."

Anthony cranked the volume as Dee gaped at him, unable to believe he was just going to plop down and watch TV at a time like this. But as usual, her husband was the counterbalance to her tendency to fret about things over which she had no control, and there was no question she had no control over whether or what Diane told Philip. She'd made her best arguments, even invoking the mother card, but when Philip hit the driveway tomorrow, it would be up to Diane, a frightening thought if there ever was one. Maybe Anthony was right. Maybe it was time to lay down her arms and just forget about it for a while. Given what could happen tomorrow, it may be the last time she'd be able to do that.

Fifteen minutes later they were both laughing their heads off. Jay Leno's monologue had been very good tonight, and even the stupid pet tricks had been entertaining, either that or her standards were lower than usual, a distinct possibility. Dee felt the tension drain out of her, felt herself relaxing for the first time this week. God, this felt good, and the only thing that would make it better was snacks. "Popcorn," she announced as soon as a crop of ads hit. "Back in a few. Want anything to drink?"

"Just water," Anthony said. "I can't drink anything fizzy right before I go to bed."

"Me neither," Dee agreed. "Remember when we could stuff ourselves lying down, and never regret it?"

"Vaguely. Hurry up; the ads are almost over."

"Unlikely," Dee chuckled. She'd just put the popcorn in the microwave when the doorbell rang, and she glanced at the clock on the way out of the kitchen, hoping against hope that the only likely caller at a quarter to midnight wasn't who was ringing their bell. No dice, she thought sadly when she spied Max stepping through the door Anthony held open for him.

"Hey," Max said self-consciously. " I wasn't sure you were still up."

"Not only up, but snacking," Anthony said as popcorn began popping in the kitchen. "Want some?"

"Sure," Max answered, ducking into the living room before Dee could say anything. "What are we watching?"

"Jay Leno," Anthony answered. "Sounds like the popcorn's done, dear," he added to Dee, throwing her a "not now" look.

Dee bit her tongue and went back into the kitchen, fetching bowls and napkins. This couldn't be good that Max was here instead of home, but obviously Anthony thought they should let the matter lie for the moment. He was probably right, but it was all she could do not to grab her grandson and shake him when she arrived back in the living room with food and drink. As if to emphasize his point, Anthony was now sitting in the middle of the couch, with Max to one side. Apparently he didn't trust her to even sit next to him.

"Excellent," Anthony said cheerfully, ignoring the look she gave him as he passed out popcorn. "Jay has some good guests on tonight, so let's all enjoy the show."

Oh, stop it, Dee thought sullenly. Jay had his usual assortment of Hollywood starlets in five inch heels, and she barely heard a word of their banter as she stared at the screen, her mind miles away. She wasn't the only one; Max sat quietly beside Anthony, giving no sign of enjoying himself either. Only Anthony was laughing, ignoring the two on either side of him who were clearly elsewhere.

Finally some ads hit. Anthony muted the sound, refilled his bowl, and gave up. "So, Max," he said casually, "what brings you here so late?"

Max said nothing, just stared at the silent pictures winking by on the television screen as Dee ate her popcorn extra fast to keep herself from saying anything.

"Am I controlling?" Max said suddenly.

"Who told you that?" Anthony asked.

"Why do you think someone told me that?" Max said warily.

"Didn't sound like a personal observation," Anthony replied. "So who was it? Friend or enemy?"

Max looked down at his hands in his lap. "Friend. I guess."

"You 'guess'?" Anthony echoed. "So they might be an enemy?"

"No. I don't know," Max amended. "I…I just needed someone to talk to. Isabel thinks I'm controlling, and now someone else told me the same thing…I was just wondering if you think that's true."

"In your case, it's a bit of an occupational hazard," Anthony said dryly.

Max blinked. "What?"

"What your grandfather means is that the oldest child is frequently more controlling than other children in the family," Dee said, giving Anthony a steely glare. "But what's this really about, Max? Your mom?"

Max looked back down at his hands. "Tell me you've been home today," Dee said. "Tell me you've at least spoken to your mother since last night."

Max stuffed his hands in his pockets. "No," he admitted. "I still don't know what to tell her," he added hurriedly when he saw the look on her face. "I'm still thinking about it."

"Max, at this point, what you tell her isn't as important as that you tell her something," Dee said. "I talked to her this morning—"

"What'd she say?" Max interrupted worriedly.

"—and her biggest problem with all of this is not how you put the fire out or what really happened to that bird. It's the fact that you won't talk to her that has her wrapped around an axle. She just can't understand that."

Max stared at the TV screen; Jay was back on, but no one noticed. "Did she say anything else?"

"Yes. She thinks you might have special talents, like people who can read minds, or tell the future."

"I can't do either of those things," Max said quickly.

"That's not the point. The point is that, whatever it is, she wants you to talk to her."

Dee waited while he turned that one over in his mind, no doubt realizing, as she had, that Diane had come up with a plausible explanation which avoided getting into the nitty gritty she knew he didn't want to get into. "Like I said, it's not the why that matters," she said gently. "She just needs to hear it from you, to hear something from you. Which is why you can't keep hiding over here. You have to talk to her, even if it's just to say you can't talk."

Max stared straight ahead for several minutes, well into Jay's second guest. "You're right," he said finally. "I was also told I should have more faith in the people around me. Maybe that's how I do it." He stood up. "I'll go home now. Thanks…for the popcorn."

"You're welcome," Anthony smiled. "For the popcorn."

Max opened the front door, stopped. "Grandma," he said slowly. "Don't you and Grandpa want to know if Mom's right?"

"We don't need to know, dear," Dee answered. "And maybe it's best if we don't."

"Right," Max nodded, looking relieved. "Right. Well…goodnight."

"Goodnight, Max," Anthony said.

"Give my love to your mother," Dee added.

The door closed. Anthony clicked Jay back on, but neither of them were listening now.

"That went well," Anthony said finally. "After I convinced you not to bite his head off, that is."

"I wasn't going to bite his head off," Dee said crossly.

"Speaking of which," Anthony went on, "what does Brivari think about all this?"

Now it was Dee's turn to stare at her hands. "I…haven't told him."

Anthony's eyebrows rose. "You haven't told him Diane almost figured it out?"

"Not yet. I will," she added. "I just wanted to see how it all worked out before I sent him into a tizzy."

"Are you sure about this?" Anthony said doubtfully.

"No," Dee sighed. "But it's the way I'm doing it. One more day. All I need is one more day."



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


I'll post Chapter 46 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hi, everyone! Thanks to everyone reading, and thanks for the feedback!



CHAPTER FORTY-SIX



December 18, 1999, 8:30 a.m.

Evans residence




Something woke Isabel, a noise that lingered, half-remembered, as she opened her eyes. The clock beside her bed read 8:30, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought her alarm had failed to go off and she was very late for school. Then she remembered it was Saturday, which was almost as bad because she shouldn't be awake this early on a weekend. Propping herself up on one elbow, she listened for whatever had awakened her. It took a couple of minutes, but finally she heard it again, dull thumps coming from the kitchen which had her hurrying into the hallway, one hand against the wall because she'd stood up so fast, she was dizzy.

"Mom?"

Her mother was filling the coffee pot at the sink, the apparent origin of the thumps. She was still wearing the same sweatshirt and sweatpants she'd worn all day yesterday, and it didn't look like she'd showered or combed her hair. "Mom?" Isabel repeated. "Are you okay?"

Diane turned around, startled. "Isabel! I didn't see you there. What are you doing up at this hour on a Saturday?"

"I…couldn't sleep," Isabel lied. "You?"

"Oh, well…'me'," Diane said with a sad smile. "I haven't slept in a couple of days now."

"You fell asleep last night on the couch," Isabel said. "I went to wake you after Grandma called…again. Did you know you've got, like, a dozen messages from her on the machine?"

"Yes," Diane said tonelessly. "I don't want to talk to her."

Okay, now I'm really worried, Isabel thought. Sometimes Grandma Dee was the only thing that kept her mother from losing her marbles. "Okay, well…I didn't wake you because it looked like you needed to sleep."

"I appreciate that, sweetheart, but I don't think I got much in the way of usable sleep," Diane sighed. "I certainly don't feel rested."

"Yeah, you look…" Isabel stopped, having been about to say something unflattering. "Tired," she finished lightly. "You look tired."

"Nice try, honey, but I know what you were about to say," Diane said dryly. "I know no one will be photographing me for Cosmo this morning, but then again, even you fall short."

Isabel blinked. "What?"

"Have you looked at yourself, Isabel?" Diane asked gently. "You're still wearing your clothes from yesterday, and it looks like you slept in them. Which you probably did, because I saw you asleep on your bed when I was up in the middle of the night. That's 'on' your bed, not 'in' your bed. That's not like you. Is anything wrong?"

Isabel glanced at the door of the nearby microwave, reflective enough that it served as a mirror. God, she was a mess, a disheveled, younger version of her disheveled mother. That disheartening imagine occupied her thoughts for several seconds before the ramifications of what Diane had said sunk in.

"You looked in my room?" Isabel said worriedly, knowing that meant she must have looked in Max's room too. "Look, Mom, I can explain about Max. I'm sure he'll be home soon—"

"What?" Diane said sharply. "What do you mean? He's sound asleep in his bed, isn't he?"

Diane took off down the hall, Isabel hurrying after her. Damn you, brother dear, she thought sourly. She'd covered for Max when he hadn't come home two nights ago by telling her mother the next morning that he'd already left for school. But he hadn't been home last night either, which is why she'd been up so late and why she'd apparently conked out fully clothed on top of her bed. This being a Saturday, she hadn't gotten to her mother in time, Max had apparently left some kind of doppelganger to make her think he was home, and now she'd just gone and shot her mouth off. She braced herself as Diane edged Max's door open, certain that whatever pillows he'd mounded up to make it look like the bed was occupied wouldn't work in broad daylight.

"Oh, thank goodness," Diane said in relief. "He's right there, Izzie. Look for yourself."

Isabel peered into the dark bedroom, light seeping around the corners of the shades...and Max was there, sound asleep in bed, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest making it clear that those were no pillows. "You really had me going," Diane scolded as she closed the door. "I don't know what I'd do if your brother was sleeping somewhere else."

"I…I'm sorry," Isabel stammered. "I…guess I didn't hear him come in last night."

"Well, he's been getting home late, for sure," Diane agreed, making her way back to the kitchen. "All the better to avoid talking to me, I suppose." She poured a cup of coffee, added an impressive amount of sugar. "I don't suppose he told you about…" Her voice trailed off as though she wasn't sure how to finish that sentence.

"He told me," Isabel answered. "And I…" She hesitated, having been wrestling with whether or not to broach this subject with her mother. "And I watched the tape."

Diane looked up in surprise. "You did?"

"He said I was on it," Isabel shrugged. "You had it all cued up, and I wanted to see if I remembered it."

"Do you?" Diane asked eagerly.

"No," Isabel answered as Diane's face fell. "I don't."

"Not at all?" Diane pressed.

Isabel shook her head. "It was like watching someone else. I mean, I know it was me, but it didn't feel like me. I know we went to the park a lot, and I remember feeding lots of birds, but…that's all." She paused, watching Diane stare into her coffee. "Mom, we were both really little. And if I don't remember it, I can understand if Max says he doesn't remember it. And if—"

"I'm not disputing that he doesn't remember it," Diane broke in. "And for the record, that's not what I asked him. He may not remember, Isabel, but he knows what happened. I could tell he did. He knows what happened, but he won't tell me. Just like the fire. He knows how he put it out, but he won't tell me."

The ache in her mother's voice was so strong, it was all Isabel could do not to spill their secret right then and there. "Oh," she said, past the lump in her throat. "Well…does it really matter? It's not like he did anything bad—"

"Oh, for goodness sake, now you sound like your grandmother," Diane sighed. " Of course he didn't do anything bad; your brother doesn't have a bad bone in his body. But that's not the point. It matters because he doesn't trust me. I don't care what it is. I care that he doesn't trust me enough to tell me what it is."

"Well, you know what you've always said about trust," Isabel said. "That it's not something bestowed, it's something you have to earn."

No sooner had those words left Isabel's mouth than she regretted them. Diane stopped, her coffee cup midway to her mouth, her expression one of someone who's just been slapped. "You…you don't think I've done that?" she whispered. "You don't think I've earned his trust?"

"I…what I meant…God, Mom, I'm sorry," Isabel said miserably as Diane stood there, glassy-eyed with shock. "I didn't mean that the way it came out. I—"

"Yes, you did," Diane said slowly. "You meant it exactly the way it came out."

"No, I didn't," Isabel said desperately. "I didn't. Really. Mom, please," she begged when Diane merely stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. "I misspoke. It's early, and I'm tired, heck, we're both tired, and…look, why don't we do some decorating today?" she said brightly, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "That'll make us both feel better. Christmas lights always cheer me up, even when I'm exhausted, and I know you'd enjoy…"

But Diane wasn't listening, and Isabel's voice trailed off as she set her coffee cup down on the counter and walked out of the kitchen without another word. "Mom, wait!" Isabel called, scrambling to follow. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like it sounded! I…"

But her mother had disappeared into her bathroom, and a minute later, the sound of running water announced that she had turned on the shower. Good news in one way, bad in another, and Isabel leaned her head against the wall, thoroughly dejected. What had she been thinking? She'd just slammed her own mother, practically accused her of not being worthy of their trust, something with which Michael would no doubt agree. But she didn't agree, so why had she said that? Did she secretly believe him, that their parents couldn't be trusted?

The phone rang. Isabel reached the kitchen just in time to hear the beep at the end of the outgoing message. "Good morning, Diane," Grandma Dee's worried voice said. "You haven't returned any of my calls, so I hope you're not still fretting. Please let me know you're all right."

Not likely, Isabel thought, sinking into a chair. Not only was Diane not talking to Grandma, she wasn't all right, not one little bit, and that had been before her own daughter had gone and insulted her. She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the blinking light on the answering machine for God knows how long, debating whether or not to give Grandma a call…

"Who was that?"

Isabel turned around. "That was Grandma," she told her brother, "for like, the millionth time. Mom won't call her back. Oh, and thanks for letting me know when you got in last night. I almost spilled the beans that you never did get in the night before that."

"You were asleep," Max said, padding across to the fridge. "I didn't want to wake you."

"So where were you?"

"Talking to people who aren't so close to the problem," Max answered.

Isabel's jaw tightened. "Which means Liz."

"Among others."

"Right," Isabel nodded savagely. "Right. Because Liz knows so much about Mom. Okay, so what sage advice did Liz have for us?"

Max pulled a milk carton from the fridge. "She said I'm controlling," he replied. "And that I take too much on myself. And that I should have more faith in the people around me." He waited, while she blinked, completely at a loss as to how to answer that one. Mercifully, he didn't make her. "Did I hear Mom out here?"

"Yes, Max, you heard Mom out here," Isabel sighed. "And Mom is a mess. She's still wearing yesterday's clothes, she hasn't eaten, she hasn't slept—"

"She was asleep last night when I got home, just like you were," Max interrupted. "And she's in the shower now."

"Whoopee," Isabel said crossly, leaving out her own part in Diane's current mood. "The point is, she's torqued because you won't talk to her."

Max looked down at his glass of milk. "I know."

"You 'know'?" Isabel echoed in astonishment. "That's it? Mom is falling apart, and you 'know'? Christmas is, like, next week, and she doesn't even want to decorate!"

"She was waiting until Dad got home," Max said.

"That's not the point!" Isabel exclaimed. "Don't you even care what this is doing to her? Don't you—"

"Of course I care," Max protested. "Do you think I did this on purpose? Do you think I set the fire, or dug up that tape? I didn't do any of this. No one did. It just happened, and I wish it hadn't. And I know you're wishing the same thing, but all our wishing won't undo what's done."

"Then let's just tell her, and fix it!" Isabel exclaimed.

"We can't tell her, Isabel."

"Why not?" Isabel demanded. "I know why Michael doesn't want to tell her. He can't even begin to imagine what having a real parent feels like. But you can, so what's your problem? She won't freak out—"

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know that she will!"

"Which makes it a risk we can't take," Max said firmly. "Not now. Not with enemies so close."

"Oh, this is rich coming from the one who's always telling me we're safe now," Isabel retorted. "Topolsky's gone, don't be so paranoid, blah, blah, blah. How safe are we, Max, when you're afraid of your own mother? Don't you see," she went on earnestly. "We're not just lying to her now, and we're not just losing her. We're killing her. Your not talking to her is killing her."

Max drained his glass, set it in the sink. "I'll talk to her. But not about that," he added when he saw Isabel's hopeful expression. "I'll talk to her, and tell her…"

"What?" Isabel asked.

"Something," Max said.

"Something like what?"

"I don't know," Max said in exasperation. "I'll think of something."

"Just like that?" Isabel said. "You'll just wave your magic wand, and make it all go away without really telling her anything?"

But that last jab didn't have the desired effect. Max stopped short, looking every bit as stunned as Diane had before. "Magic," he said softly. "That's it."

"What's it?" Isabel said wearily. "You're going to try and pass yourself off as Houdini? No, wait…I don't care. I don't care what it is, just do it. Whatever it is, just do it, because we have to do something. If we don't, I'm afraid she'll—"

A door closed, followed a few moments later by the sound of a car's engine starting. Alarmed, Isabel looked at Max for a moment before both of them hurried into the living room. The car was backing out of the driveway by the time they got to the front window.

"Great," Isabel moaned when she spotted Diane at the wheel. "Just great."




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




Eastside Manor





"Morning!" Dee called as she opened her parents' apartment door after knocking briefly. "Breakfast is over, right?"

"Long over," David agreed, folding his newspaper. "What brings you here at this hour? You usually come in the afternoon."

"I know," Dee sighed, tossing her coat over a chair. "I'm just so worried about what Diane's up to. She won't return my calls, and—"

"Is that you, Dee?" Emily called from the bedroom.

"Yes, Mama, it's me," Dee answered.

Emily appeared, shuffling along slowly as she crossed the open space between the bedroom doorway and her chair with nothing to hang onto along the way. "It's good to see you, dear," she said, lowering herself painfully into her chair. "It's been so long since you were here last."

Dee blinked. "She was here two days ago, Em," David said gently.

"She most certainly was not," Emily protested. "I would have remembered seeing my own daughter."

But you don't, Dee thought sadly, consoling herself with the fact that Emily still remembered who she was; as Anthony had pointed out, many of their friends' parents didn't. "Well, I'm here now, Mama," she said lightly. "It's nice to see you too."

"Emily!" called a voice from the door. "I've got your meds."

It was Melody, one of the assistants who passed out medications, with Emily's morning dose of vile liquid meant to aid digestion. Dee had no idea how anything that smelled that bad could aid digestion, but Emily never seemed to mind it. David had told her she couldn't taste much any more anyway.

"There you go!" Melody said cheerfully, handing over the little paper Dixie cup as though it were a fancy cocktail. "I see you have a guest today," she commented as Emily drank.

"I'd hardly call myself a 'guest'," Dee said, wondering if Melody's memory was going too, given that she'd seen Dee coming here for the past year at least.

"I meant the gentleman at the front desk," Melody said.

"What gentleman at the front desk?" David asked.

"The one who was looking for your room," Melody answered. "He was…oh. Here he is."

Dee's eyes widened. Brivari was standing in the hallway outside the apartment, and he didn't look happy. "You found it!" Melody said approvingly as though praising a small child for locating a lost toy. "And I'm done, so I'm out of your way."

She sailed out, right past Brivari, who hadn't budged an inch. "You can come in," David called encouragingly. "It would be nice to see you again."

But Brivari wasn't looking at David. He was looking at Emily, who had managed to smear medicine all over her chin and was completely ignoring everyone, having not even noticed he was there. "Here, Mama," Dee said gently, handing her a napkin. "I'll be right back."

Dee closed the apartment door behind her, leaving them alone in the hallway. "Whatever it is, it has to be bad if you're willing to darken the door of this place," she said.

"Were you planning on telling me that your daughter-in-law had become a threat?" Brivari demanded.

So that's what this is about, Dee thought, secretly relieved it wasn't something worse. It had probably been too much to expect that she'd make it all the way through the Diane debacle with him none the wiser. "Of course I was," she answered. "If and when she becomes a threat, which she hasn't. Diane just—"

"Found evidence of my Ward's abilities," Brivari interrupted tersely. "And you didn't find this worthy of my attention?"

"You were the one telling me not to worry about her," Dee reminded him. "Just a few days ago you insisted she couldn't prove anything about how Max put out the fire, and—"

"She can't. But that was the fire. The videotape is another matter entirely."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, you were there," Dee said. "You saw Philip with the camera. If it's such a big deal, why didn't you stop him then? Look, there's nothing obvious on the tape, no handprint, or flashing lights, or anything like that. He's just holding a bird that may or may not have been injured, and then it flies away. That's all."

"That is not 'all', and you know it," Brivari retorted. "She knows something's different about him, and she's pressuring him to tell her what. I can't have that."

"Then you're in luck, because he can't do that," Dee said crossly. "He doesn't know exactly what's different about him because you won't tell him."

"This isn't about me!" Brivari snapped. "It's about a threat you mysteriously neglected to alert me to—"

The apartment door opened abruptly. "Not for nothing," David said calmly, "but if I can bust in on you like this, so can someone else. Is it really wise to be discussing this in the hallway?" He stepped back. "Come inside."

As if to illustrate David's point, a Manor employee rounded the corner, smiling as she passed them, no doubt mistaking this for some sort of family reunion. "Daddy's right," Dee said after she was out of earshot. "You want to talk to me, you're going to have to come in. I know you don't like seeing my mother like this, and for what it's worth, I don't either. But I don't get to avoid it like you do."

Dee marched into the apartment and plopped back in her seat. David remained at the door as Brivari hesitated before reluctantly coming inside, followed by a long, awkward silence as Emily looked the newcomer up and down curiously, but without a shred of recognition.

"So," David said finally, "Dee, you were saying where things stood with Diane."

"Oh, him you tell," Brivari muttered, perching on the edge of the couch.

"I told Max he needed to talk to his mother," Dee answered, ignoring him. "It doesn't matter what he tells her as long as he tells her something."

"It most certainly does matter what he tells her," Brivari protested. "How did she get on this tack, anyway? How did a fire send her combing through old videos?"

"The way I understand it, Valenti is the one who piqued her curiosity," David answered. "Something about how grease fires are extinguished...and how they're not."

Brivari's eyes narrowed. "The sheriff is still involved? And you didn't see fit to tell me that either?"

"Like you said, he knows, but he can't prove anything," Dee replied. "That hasn't changed."

"What has changed is that your daughter-in-law didn't know anything either," Brivari argued. "Now she does, and she's in a position to prove it if she ever puts her mind to it."

"She won't hurt them," Dee said firmly. "Even if she were to learn the truth, I know she'd never hurt them."

"You know no such thing, and neither do I," Brivari retorted. "And what about your son? Are you equally confident he'll accept their origins so easily?"

No, Dee admitted silently, deciding this wouldn't be a good time to bring up her admonishments to Diane not to tell Philip, or Valenti having brought the Crashdown shooting to her attention. "Just let Max and Diane work this out themselves," she begged. "That's the only way we're going to know for certain where she stands."

"And if she stands against him?" Brivari demanded.

"Don't be ridiculous," Emily said suddenly. "Diane would never do that to her own child."

Three pairs of startled eyes settled on Emily, who no longer looked vacant or confused in the least. Dee hadn't even been aware that her mother had been following the conversation, never mind processing it. "Uh…Mama, I'm not sure you know what we're talking about," Dee ventured. "We were—"

"Of course I know what you're talking about," Emily said tartly. "I'm not deaf. And you have a short memory," she added to Brivari, who gaped at her, stunned. "Remember the day I slammed Valenti's hand in the door when he came looking for Dee? I was feeling terrible about it, and you told me not to. You said I was a Warder, and a Warder will do anything to protect their Ward, even if it involves violence."

Dee looked at David in bewilderment; what Emily was describing had happened back in '47 right after the ship was discovered, over fifty years ago. "Diane is a Warder too," Emily went on, "and Max is no fool. You just stay out of it and let them work it out. They'll do it better than you ever could."

"I can't 'stay out of it'!" Brivari exclaimed. "Warding, by definition, precludes 'staying out it'!"

"This is his mother," Emily said stoutly. "Yes, I know she's not his 'real' mother, but for all practical purposes, she's his mother. Which means you stay out it, just like I told you to stay out of anything between me and my daughter."

Brivari stared at her incredulously for a moment before rising from his seat and stalking out without another word. "Don't mind him," Emily told Dee, who was still trying to process the fact that her mother had completely, inexplicably, returned. "He just doesn't like hearing what's what; he never did. Which never stopped me from telling him, mind you. And shouldn't stop you either."

"No, Mama, it didn't," Dee said, her voice dropping to a whisper as her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. God, she hated crying, but just hearing her mother's voice again, her real voice, the voice which had been largely silent for months now, was overwhelming. "It didn't, and I won't. I won't stop telling him." She paused, composing herself. "I…I should go talk to him. He's probably not very happy."

"Yes, well, he never was when I told him off," Emily said. "Some things never change, do they?"

Except you, Dee thought, fighting back tears. No matter how ticked Brivari was with her, she was going to send him promptly on his way so she could get back in here and enjoy her mother, her real mother, not the near-empty shell which had been walking around for so long now. David followed her into the hallway, where Brivari was pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded. "I thought she was…was…"

"She is," David said, sparing him the necessity of finishing that sentence. "Most of the time. But sometimes she has these bursts of clarity when she's herself again."

"Older people frequently have trouble remembering what happened yesterday, but remember things from years ago like they happened yesterday," Dee added. "It's something about how memories are stored in the brain, long term versus short term memory. Our short term memories go first, I guess. Long term is…longer term."

"Maybe seeing you jogged a pathway which is still open," David suggested.

"Yes, the pathway where she rakes me over the coals," Brivari muttered. "She was always good at that."

"The best," Dee agreed. "And for what it's worth, she's right. Give them a chance to work it out themselves. Take the advice Max was given, and have some faith in the people around you."

"Who told him that?" Brivari said sharply.

"He didn't say," Dee answered. "But it's good advice. For all of us."

Brivari stared at her for a moment in silence. "The tape has to go," he said finally. "There's no negotiating that one."

"Fine, the tape goes," Dee said. "But unless you find them on the phone to the FBI, leave my son's family alone."

Brivari eyed her warily. "For the moment," he said finally. "But only for the moment."

"Moments can be worth a lot," David said. "Say, when this is squared away, do you think you could come back? If seeing you made her remember, maybe she'll remember again if she sees you again."

His tone was calm, but Dee didn't miss the catch in her father's voice. David was ever the stalwart soldier, trudging along, doing his duty, and she rarely stopped to think about how it must be affecting him to have essentially lost his wife even though she was sitting right there in front of him. Dementia was a real bitch.

"Maybe," Brivari said grudgingly. "At the moment, I have bigger fish to fry."

He disappeared down the hallway, and Dee saw her father deflate a little. "He won't come back," he said sadly. "He doesn't want to see her like that. Can't really blame him."

"But he might," Dee said softly. "For you." She took his arm. "Let's go back inside so you don't miss any more of this 'moment'."

Emily looked up in surprise when she saw them. "Dee! Gracious, it's been ages since you've been here. Why do you stay away so long, dear?"

Dee could barely look at her father as she slid sadly back into her chair. They were too late.

The moment was gone.




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




Town and Country Food Mart,

Roswell




Coffee, Diane thought, grabbing the familiar red jar of Nescafe before pushing her cart further down the aisle. Sugar. Oh, and I'm out of oregano….

Diane continued down the aisle and into the next one, humming along to the muzak pumped over the PA system. The ritual of food shopping was soothing after the last few days of turmoil, the familiarity reassuring. This place seemed worlds away from fires and birds and silent sons, what with its cheerful music, cheerful ads, and cheerful employees handing out samples of everything from doughnuts to dim sum. The minute she'd stepped through the automatic doors and grabbed a cart, she'd been enveloped in a cocoon of peace that even her pet peeves couldn't pierce. Cereal hadn't been restocked? No problem! All the apples had bad spots? Who cares! Cart left in the middle of the aisle by a thoughtless fellow shopper? Smile and go around them! Except when you couldn't, of course, in which case she'd moved the offending cart and sailed on by, ignoring the how-dare-you-touch-my-cart frown from the clod who seemed to think he was the only customer in the store. Normally that level of selfishness would have made her cranky...but not today. Normally grocery shopping was something she hurried through to get it over with…but not today. Today this was an oasis. Too bad she didn't have a bigger freezer, or she'd stay in here all day.

She hadn't even had a clear picture where she was going when she'd left the house this morning, still in a daze from the well-deserved verbal swat dished out by her daughter, however unwittingly. Isabel had protested that she hadn't meant what she'd said, but she had, and with good reason: She was right. You know what you've always said about trust. That it's not something bestowed, it's something you have to earn. Yes, she had always said that, but she'd never expected to have it thrown back in her face. And what on earth did Izzie mean, anyway? She was Max's mother. Hadn't she already earned his trust? Isn't that exactly what she'd been doing these past ten years?

Aware that she hadn't been fit for public consumption, she'd showered, dressed, and left the house on autopilot, driving along with no clear idea where she was going. She'd just needed to get out, away from that burnt drywall smell which served as a constant reminder that something wasn't right, away from the TV with that weird videotape, away from her mother-in-law's constant phone calls. And then she'd spotted the grocery store and a wave of unexpected, almost comical relief had washed over her. Even the most mundane decisions seemed fascinating compared to what she was up against. Whole or cut green beans? Frozen bread dough or bread mix? Bottled orange juice or fresh oranges? God, but it was good to get away from everything for a while, to escape into the land of the predictable and inconsequential.

"Mrs. Evans!"

Lost in her happy fog, Diane barely heard her own name. Roswell was a small town, and lots of people knew her. But she didn't feel like talking, didn't feel like coming back down to earth yet, so perhaps if she ignored whoever it was, they'd go away.

"Mrs. Evans?"

Oh, well, Diane sighed. It had been worth a try. She turned around, meaning to exchange a pleasantry or two and be on her way, only to stiffen as that comforting cocoon she'd been enjoying so much evaporated into thin air.

"Morning, Mrs. Evans," Sheriff Valenti smiled. "What a surprise to find you here."



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


We'll be gone next weekend, so I'll post Chapter 47 on Sunday, September 4th. Last summer trip! (*sniffle*)

[Kathy W]

The board's back! Many, many thanks to Angel for keeping our huge, fragile database intact!

So we have some catching up to do. This story has continued running on other boards, and I'll use this week to catch it up.





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN




December 18, 1999, 9:30 a.m.

Town and Country Food Mart, Roswell





Jim Valenti carefully kept the smile plastered on his face even as Diane Evans gaped at him and Kyle gave him a classic what-are-you-up-to-now look. "Nice today, isn't it?" Valenti said when Diane didn't respond to his second greeting. "Sunny. Warm. Kyle, this is Mrs. Evans, Max Evans' mom. Mrs. Evans, this is my son, Kyle."

Kyle looked her up and down as though appraising her for sale. "Hello," he said warily.

"I…hello, Sheriff," Diane stammered. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Why's everyone acting so surprised?" Kyle grumbled. "It's Saturday morning in the grocery store. Half the town is here."

"Kyle, don't be rude," Valenti admonished. "Here," he continued, gesturing down the aisle. "Go pick out some frozen dinners. Find some of those new ones, you know, like one of those sandwich and soup thingies? They look good."

"Sure they do," Kyle said. "They've got, like, a million grams of fat."

"Kyle," Valenti said deliberately, "run along and scout them out. I'll be along in a few minutes."

"How did you hurt yourself?" Diane asked, eyeing Kyle's crutches.

"Basketball," Kyle muttered, raking his eyes over Diane one more time before limping away, his departure accompanied by the pained sigh of the put-upon teenager.

"Gosh, I'm sorry about that," Valenti said sheepishly. "He's in a mood, probably because he can't play ball."

"Is it serious?" Diane asked.

"No, no, not serious," Valenti answered. "He's only supposed to be out a couple of weeks, but you'd think it was a couple of years. Teenagers and drama. Can't have one without the other."

"Tell me about it," Diane sighed.

"Weird how he eats healthier than I do," Valenti added. "Especially when I'm supposed to be the roll model. I see you're better at that than I am," he went on, looking at her laden cart. "Shopping for the family?"

"Yes, and I really should be going," Diane said. "It was nice to see you, but if you'll excuse me…"

"Just one more thing," Valenti said, leaning a fraction of an inch to the right, enough to stop her cart as she gave it a push. "Have you had a chance to look over that information I gave you about grease fires?"

Diane's expression answered his question even before she did. "Yes," she said, her eyes on the floor. "I did."

"Uh huh. So…did Max have any insight to offer on any of that?"

Diane hesitated, then shook her head. "No. He still insists he threw a pot of water on it."

"I see," Valenti murmured. "But you and I know that can't be how he did it, don't we?"

"Sheriff, I must confess I'm not entirely certain where you're going with this," Diane said. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish by bringing this up?"

"My job, Mrs. Evans. Which is to protect the people of this town in every way I know how."

"But protect them from what?" Diane persisted. "Max put the fire out. We may not understand how he did it, but the fact remains he put the fire out. That's a good thing, isn't it? And this other story of yours, about what supposedly happened at the Crashdown…fantastical as it sounds, it still involves Max saving someone's life. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Of course those are good things," Valenti agreed. "What concerns me is how he did them." He maneuvered his cart closer to the shelves, pulling out of mid-aisle traffic. "When Kyle was in grade school, I got a phone call from the principal one day," he confided. "Seems Kyle had knocked a boy down on the playground, and he'd admitted doing it. I went hurrying over there, and Kyle was very upset. He said he'd pushed the boy away from a little girl he'd been bullying. He'd only meant to stop him, but he'd pushed the kid so hard that he'd fallen down and broken his wrist."

"Oh, my," Diane murmured.

"Now, Kyle hadn't meant to hurt anybody," Valenti went on, "and he did what he did in another's defense. But Kyle was big for his age; he didn't know his own strength, and he wound up hurting someone without meaning to. I had to do a lot of talking to draw the line between the two, between coming to someone's aid and not going too far."

"But…how is that relevant?" Diane asked. "Max didn't 'go too far'. He didn't hurt anybody."

"Yet," Valenti cautioned. "It's clear your son is special, Mrs. Evans, and I think he means well. I'm just concerned that whatever he used to do what he did could also be used to hurt someone, even without meaning to. That's why I think you should talk to him about this—"

"I've tried!" Diane exclaimed. "Several times! He won't talk to me, and I…I don't know what else to do."

A cheerful voice boomed over the public address, yammering on about ground chuck on special and marked down baked goods. Another customer hovered nearby, clearly reluctant to interrupt what was obviously an intense conversation, and Valenti paused, stepping back and smiling disarmingly as the apologetic shopper reached between them to pluck a bottle of French's mustard off the shelf. "I can understand if Max doesn't want to talk about this," he continued when they were alone again. "But you have to keep trying. Just like it's my job to protect the people of this town, it's our job as parents to protect our children."

"You mean protect Max?" Diane said, puzzled. "From what?"

"From the day he goes too far," Valenti said. "From the day he doesn't know his own strength and—without meaning to—causes something he didn't mean to. Like Kyle did. Like Max could someday if no one teaches him not to. That's our responsibility as parents, to teach our children about limits. Kids don't think of the consequences, they just run out and do whatever they feel like doing. They think they'll live forever, that nothing can hurt them. I wish that were true, and I'm sure you do too, but we both know it isn't. We have to make that clear."

"There's no need to lecture me about my job as a parent," Diane said tartly. "I may not have been a parent as long as you have, but I do have two children to your one, and neither of them are delinquents. It's not like I'm raising axe murderers."

"I didn't mean that," Valenti said quickly, "and I apologize if I came across that way. You have wonderful children, Mrs. Evans. I just want it to stay that way. Keep in mind that if Max ever goes too far, he's just as likely to hurt himself as someone else. This is about his safety every bit as much as anyone else's."

Diane's eyes dropped. "Of course," she said. "You're right. I'll…I'll try again." She pulled her cart away, swinging around his so quickly he didn't have time to stop her. "Nice to see you, Sheriff. Have a good day."

Valenti watched her go, waiting until she'd rounded the corner into the next aisle before swinging his own cart around…and almost crashing it into Kyle.

"Watch it, Dad!" Kyle exclaimed. "I don't need two sprained ankles."

"I thought I sent you looking for frozen dinners," Valenti said.

"And I looked. And then I came back. And caught you in the middle of raking Max Evans' mom over the coals. What was that all about?"

"I wasn't raking her over the coals," Valenti protested. "We were just talking."

"Oh, no," Kyle said, shaking his head with a finger-wagging-style head shake, probably because both hands were holding crutches. "I know you, and I know when you're fishing. You were fishing."

"I was not fishing," Valenti said.

"Yes, you were."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

"No, I wasn't!" Valenti insisted, pulling out into traffic, hoping the conversation would end when Kyle had trouble keeping up. But Kyle had gotten pretty good with those crutches, and had no trouble keeping up.

"So what was all that about Max's 'safety'?" Kyle went on, somehow keeping stride beside him as Valenti motored down the aisle.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Valenti said.

"It sounded like you were trying to get him to stop doing something," Kyle persisted. "What could milquetoast Max possibly be doing that would have you trying to shut him down? The guy is so boring, he makes brown bread look exciting. I…wait a minute. Did he file a complaint?"

"A what?"

"A complaint, Dad. You know, the kind of thing people file with the sheriff's office? The same sheriff's office where you work?"

"I know what a complaint is, Kyle," Valenti said crossly.

"You sure? 'Cause it sounded like you didn't. Whatever," Kyle added when Valenti began smoldering. "He finally filed a complaint, didn't he. About being beat up."

"What?" Valenti demanded.

"Remember a couple of months ago when some of my overzealous friends worked Max over, gave him a black eye? I told you about this," Kyle added with a sigh. "But since when does that mean anything?"

"Oh," Valenti said quickly. "Yeah. That. No, that's not it."

"So he didn't file a complaint?"

"No, he didn't file a complaint."

"Good," Kyle said. "It's a bit late for that. But then what was all that about with Mrs. Evans?"

"Kyle, you know I'm not at liberty to discuss my work," Valenti said impatiently, wanting to shut this conversation down for good.

"Oh, so this is official?" Kyle said as Valenti groaned inwardly. "So it is a complaint. What else could it be?"

"Kyle!" Valenti exclaimed, bringing his cart to an abrupt halt in front of a freezer case. "It's none of your business! Stay out of it. Now…what frozen dinners did you pick?"

"They've got some new pizzas over there," Kyle said, waving a crutch to his left. "Something about 'rising crust', or whatnot. So are you gonna tell me—"

"No, I'm not 'gonna tell you'!" Valenti interrupted. "And why do you care, anyway? I thought you didn't like Max. Something having to do with Liz, if I recall."

"Yeah, well, that and the fact that you practically ordered me to stay away from him," Kyle said. "I don't like Max, Dad, and Liz is sweet on him, but here's the thing...I like Liz. I don't like the fact that she broke up with me, but she's been decent. She brought me some study notes and a pie the other day, and she was feeling bad, thinking she made me fall and hurt my ankle during the game because she was yelling."

"Let me guess," Valenti said dryly. "You didn't bother to point out that everyone yells during basketball games, so one person's yell couldn't possibly have affected you."

"Details," Kyle said dismissively. "Anyway, she's been cool, and we'd like to stay friends. And she likes Max. Who knows why, but she does. So I don't care what happens to Max…but she does. So whatever you're doing, just don't hurt Liz…okay?"

His message delivered, Kyle hopped sideways and peered into a freezer case. "There's one of those 'rising crust' pizzas. Looks pretty good, but it's got enough grams of fat to plug the levees in New Orleans."

"The what?"

"I've been watching a lot of TV lately. The latest was about the long-predicted 'killer hurricane' that will supposedly drown New Orleans. Which is kind of like the theory about an earthquake causing California to fall into the ocean, but this one seems more plausible. There's a bunch of engineers that claim the levees won't hold if…Dad? Are you listening to me?"

"Killer hurricane," Valenti said quickly. "New Orleans drowned. Film at eleven. Go on."

Kyle did, but Valenti really wasn't listening. He was playing and replaying his conversation with Diane, wondering if he'd managed to hit the right notes, just the right combination of concern and urgency to spur her to action. It was clear she'd noticed something different about Max, and that was good, because the person Max was most likely to confide in was one of his parents. But maybe I'm leaning on the wrong one, he thought. Mothers let you get away with murder, but fathers meant business. Maybe the nervous and jerky Diane wasn't the best one to drag the truth out of Max.

Maybe he needed a different target.




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




Crashdown Café





"Order up!" yelled the cook as he slapped a plate bearing a Beam Me Up Burrito onto the pass-through so hard, the burrito jumped.

"Easy there," Jeff Parker cautioned. "We don't want to be giving the customers busted crockery along with their meals."

"Oh!" the cook said sheepishly. "Sorry, Mr. Parker. Didn't see you there. What are you doing here this morning? Something wrong?"

"Surprise!" Jeff said brightly. "I took Lizzie's morning shift, and if you'd just stop trying to break my dishes, everything would be peachy."

"Right," the cook said hastily. "Got it."

The cook retreated into the kitchen as Jeff grabbed the almost-pulverized plate. It was always good to show up unannounced and in the trenches alongside your employees once in a while; it told you all sorts of things you needed to know and kept them on their toes. The shock value was brief, of course; it only took a few minutes for word to spread that the boss was in range. But it was surprising what could be gleaned even in those few minutes, and the effects lingered long after he'd hung up his apron and gone back upstairs. Which he wished he could do right now, given that he'd slept so little last night, it was a wonder he was even functional. And I'm not the only one, he thought, spying a familiar face walking through the door. Someone else was sleepwalking too.

"Can I get you something?" Jeff asked as Diane Evans slid onto a counter stool.

"Yeah," Diane said wearily. "Gin and tonic. Make it a double."

"Oh, my," Jeff chuckled. "This hasn't been a bar since I took over, and I know Dad never served before 11 a.m. Rough night?"

"Is it that obvious?" Diane said dryly.

"Just a little," Jeff admitted. "But only because misery loves company. I think I got about an hour's worth of sleep last night, maybe two. How about coffee?"

"Then you're ahead of me," Diane sighed. "And sure, I'll take coffee."

"This calls for 'high test'," Jeff said, grabbing a pot off the far burner. "End of the pot. Extra strong because all the grounds have settled to the bottom. Sugar?"

"No thanks," Diane said. "I'll take mine straight up."

"Wow, thing's are bad if you're turning down sugar," Jeff commented, emptying the pot into two mugs and handing one of them to Diane. "Hope it's nothing serious."

"Not really. Well…maybe. I don't know," Diane finished in exasperation. "I just don't know what to think any more."

"Then you're in luck," Jeff said cheerfully, pulling up a stool. "This may not be a bar any more, but I've got a hefty dose of bartender's DNA. Lay it on me."

" 'Lay it on you'?" Diane said skeptically. "You're dating yourself, Jeff."

"Only if you're talking to someone younger. You're my age, so I can't date myself. What's up?"

Diane hesitated before scooching closer to the counter. "Do you ever feel that you don't know what's going on with Liz?"

Jeff winced involuntarily. "Constantly."

Diane blinked. "Really? So it's not just me? I used to know everything my kids were thinking, and now it's…it's…"

"Like they're from another planet?" Jeff suggested.

"Maybe not that bad," Diane allowed. "But close."

"All I can tell you is that it seems every parent of a teenager goes through this," Jeff said, "including ours. Remember when we were that age? I know, I know—we were never that age," he chuckled when Diane gave him a look. "But I remember holing up in my room, hiding stuff under my mattress because my mom knew to look under the bed, not wanting to be seen with them in public. Stuff like that. We've been spared the worst of that, but there's no doubt Lizzie and I aren't connected the way we used to be. She was daddy's little girl, and now…now she's no one's little girl. Because she isn't a little girl any more."

"What about Nancy?" Diane asked. "Doesn't she talk to her mother?"

"She used to," Jeff answered. "And then that dwindled, and the only one she really talked to was my mother. Mom wouldn't tell us everything, but she told us enough that we felt we weren't completely in the dark. And then…"

"And then she died," Diane said softly. "I'm so sorry, Jeff. You not only lost your mom, you lost your link to Liz."

"Yeah," Jeff said heavily. "Well…guess I'll just have to forge my own. But enough about me. Bartenders don't go on about themselves. I'm talking about one, but you've got two. I take it your kids aren't talking to you any more?"

"Max has always been quiet, but he always trusted me," Diane said sadly. "Now he seems he doesn't."

"This is about Max?" Jeff said. "Well, there's the problem. No teenaged boy wants to talk to his mother. Have Philip talk to him."

"In this case, that won't help," Diane said. "It might even make things worse."

"What about other family members?" Jeff asked. "Aunts? Uncles? Grandparents?"

"Maybe Philip's parents," Dee said. "He's sort of close to them, or as close as he gets to anyone. Mine are in Florida, and neither of us has siblings."

"Okay, maybe someone outside the family?" Jeff suggested. "A counselor at school? Your family doctor? Minister? How about someone in the community?" he went on, widening the list as Diane shook her head at each suggestion. "A civic leader, maybe? Or a business owner? How about…me?"

"That's very sweet of you, Jeff, but I don't think Max would talk to anyone," Diane said. "Anyone at all. And that's not the problem, not really."

"Then what is?"

Diane glanced left and right as though looking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in closer. "Someone just called me an irresponsible parent," she whispered.

"Oh, is that all," Jeff chuckled. "Boy, you had me going there for a second. I was afraid it was something serious."

"It is serious!" Diane said crossly.

"Seriously?" Jeff said innocently. "No, really—I can't pick up a newspaper or a magazine without reading something which announces that every single thing I've said or done with my kid is wrong."

"This wasn't a newspaper or a magazine," Diane said. "It was someone I know, someone I trust."

"And someone who reads those newspapers and magazines," Jeff said dryly. "You know, sometimes I wish I could turn back time to my parents' era. Sure, they didn't have microwaves and air conditioning, but it was so much easier to be a parent back then. They just didn't obsess about it the way we do. Parents weren't held to impossible standards. They weren't told they had to be the perfect parent or design the perfect life for their child. Other people supported their decisions, not second-guessed them. Now we've got this glut of 'experts' constantly telling us what to do or what not to do. Seems like you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a so-called 'expert', every single one of whom thinks they know my daughter better than I do."

"Well, maybe they do," Diane said. "They are experts, after all."

"Says who?" Jeff demanded. "A lot of these so-called 'experts' are self-proclaimed. They trumpet their degrees, but diplomas don't make experts, they just make graduates with big bills. For all we know, that 'expert' waving his psychology degree limped along with a "D" average and barely managed to graduate. Merely going to school doesn't make anyone an 'expert' on anything."

"Okay, then what about those who did do well in school?" Diane said. "Or who have a lot of experience in their field?"

"I don't care how much experience they have," Jeff said firmly, "or how many kids they've worked with, they haven't experienced my kid. They haven't worked with my kid. They don't know my kid." He leaned sideways. "Take that one, for example, at the booth right behind you. There's an 'expert' who claimed he knew Liz better than I did."

Diane turned around and stared at the couple in the booth, bickering as usual. "Who's that?" she asked.

"Larry Trilling," Jeff said, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. "And that's his girlfriend, Jen. Larry claims Liz was shot the day those guys got into a fight here last September despite the fact that she was absolutely fine mere minutes afterwards and no one else saw her get shot. He's been in here every day since then, sniffing around and stirring things up."

Diane was staring at Larry and Jen, her eyes widening as they argued with each other like they always did. "You mean…those are the people who claimed that M…that Liz got shot?"

"So you heard about it?" Jeff said. "Well, of course you did. Larry's been trumpeting his tale all over town. Claims to be an 'expert' on aliens, and all he is is a MUFON geek. I threatened to pitch him out if he didn't shut up, and I'm sorry to say he did. I was looking forward to throwing him out. But the thing that really gets my goat is that he claims my daughter is lying. Lizzie and I may not be as thick as we once were, but my daughter is no liar; I'm as certain as that as I am of the air we're breathing."

" 'Aliens'?" Diane echoed incredulously. "That guy believes in aliens?"

"In the worst way," Jeff nodded.

"Oh, my God," Diane said faintly. "I've been so stupid."

"What do you mean?"

"I believed him!" Diane said in disbelief. "He was going on and on about how Max could hurt somebody, and—"

"Max hurt somebody?"

"No!" Diane protested. "No, Max never hurt anybody! But this person was warning me that Max could have hurt somebody, that he didn't know his own strength, and that I had to 'be responsible' and make certain he never did, and—"

"Hold up," Jeff ordered. "Never mind what this person thinks—what do you think? You know Max better than they do, probably better than anyone. Is there any reason to believe anyone has anything to fear from Max?"

Diane's mouth set in a thin line. "No, Jeff. No reason at all."

"Well, there you go," Jeff said stoutly. "No one knows our kids better than we do. And don't you let anyone make you think otherwise."

"I won't," Diane promised. "I'm going to settle this my way, and the rest of the world be damned." She reached across the counter, took his hand. "Thank you, Jeff. You've been an enormous help."

"No problem," Jeff said warmly. "Glad I could help."

She left, a very different woman than when she'd come in. "What'dya know, Dad," Jeff murmured, leaning on the counter as he watched her leave. "Maybe I've got more bartender in me than you ever thought."





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




Evans residence






"Right here," Philip Evans told the cab driver. "Second house on the left. You can pull in the driveway."

At least the house is still standing, Philip thought as he gathered up his suit coat and briefcase. He was home early, having managed to grab an earlier flight than expected. Normally he'd be glad for that, but this time he wasn't so sure. Diane had sounded distraught about the fire, and she'd only sounded worse as the week had gone on. He wasn't looking forward to what he might find.

"Keep the change," Philip said, handing the cab driver a couple of bills. "Thanks."

Philip hefted his suitcase to the front door, depositing all of his luggage on the front step so he could fish his keys out of his pocket. Thankfully Diane had locked it; they'd had several conversations about the robbery which had occurred the last time she hadn't. "Hello?" he called cautiously as the door swung open. "I'm home!"

No one answered. Lugging his luggage inside, Philip left it by the door before making his way to the kitchen. He'd noticed it as soon as he'd crossed the threshold, the acrid smell of toasted drywall and scorched metal. It must have had time to permeate the entire house judging by the way the odor reached all the way to the front door, and he braced himself as he rounded the corner, fearing the worst. But the kitchen looked surprisingly normal, if a bit messy, and someone had covered at least some of the scorch marks on the ceiling with a coat of paint. It would need many more, of course, and the stove and the wall behind were beyond repair, but all in all, the damage was remarkably contained.

"Hello?" a voice called from the front. "Anybody home?"

"Back here," Philip called, going back out to the front hall. "Jim!" he exclaimed when he found Sheriff Valenti on his front doorstep. "Please tell me nothing else is wrong."

"No, no," Valenti said quickly. "I've just noticed that Mrs. Evans has been having a bit of a rough week, so I stopped to check on her, and the front door was open…may I come in?"

"Sure, come on in," Philip answered. "I'm trying to air out the house."

"Anyone else home?" Valenti asked.

"Guess not," Philip replied, "but it's Saturday, and we all scatter on Saturdays. Plus they weren't expecting me until later. I just got home from a business trip, so this is the first time I've seen the damage."

"I know it looks bad," Valenti said, "but actually, you got really lucky."

"You know, I was just thinking that it doesn't look anywhere near as bad as I'd feared," Philip said, returning to the kitchen.

"Remarkable, isn't it," Valenti commented, gazing at the ceiling. "Max moved in mighty fast."

"And thank God for that," Philip said. "This could have been a lot worse. A lot worse."

"Oh, I agree," Valenti nodded. "Now if we could just figure out how he did it."

"What's that?"

"Well, the firefighters and I are having a little trouble with Max's story," Valenti said.

Philip gave him a puzzled look. " 'Story'?"

"About how he put the fire out," Valenti explained. "He claims he threw a pot of water on the fire, but that couldn't have done it because it was a grease fire, and water won't put out a grease fire."

"It might if there was a lot of water and a little grease," Philip said.

"Maybe," Valenti allowed. "Although your wife doesn't seem to think there was much water in the pot in question."

"Then she must have been mistaken," Philip said. "Diane is pretty emotional. It's quite possible she didn't remember all the details correctly, what with the shock, and all."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "Has Mrs. Evans spoken to you about the conversations we've had about Max's involvement?"

Philip paused. "I'm a little confused," he said after a moment. "You know perfectly well I'm a lawyer, so you know I'm aware that your tone simply doesn't fit the subject at hand. My son put out a potentially dangerous fire. How in the world could that be considered a crime?"

"I'm not accusing Max of any crime," Valenti said quickly. "I just—"

"Used words like 'story', and 'claims', and 'involvement'," Philip interrupted, "words which mean someone is a suspect. But a suspect for what?"

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me," Valenti said. "All I meant was that there are still some questions about exactly how Max did what he did. But I agree this could have been catastrophic if he hadn't done whatever he did and there's no question that I thank God right along with the rest of you that he managed to do it, even if I don't understand how."

"See, there's that equivocating again," Philip said, irritation creeping into his voice. "What exactly are you insinuating?"

"I'm not 'insinuating' anything," Valenti said soothingly. "Perhaps you should talk to Mrs. Evans about this. She could fill you in—"

"I'm not talking to Mrs. Evans," Philip said firmly. "I'm talking to you. I know my business, Sheriff, which is representing the people who are your business, and I know accusatory language when I hear it. Now, I'll ask you one more time: Of what, exactly, are you accusing my son?"