Roswell Fanatics

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FORTY-NINE



August 20, 1959, 3 p.m.

Valenti residence




"Damn!" Valenti exclaimed as the box he was tugging off a high shelf tumbled out of his hands and hit the floor hard, papers spewing everywhere, clouds of dust puffing from the basement floor where the box landed. He really should keep it cleaner down here even if he hadn't darkened the doorway of this particular closet in nearly five years. Bending over, he gathered an armload of papers and stuffed them back into the box before carrying it out into the basement proper and setting it down on an old kitchen table. Everything was out of order now. Wonderful. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, flipping through the contents, hoping he'd get lucky.

"Dad? You're home early. What are you doing?"

His son was on the basement stairs, gazing at him curiously. "I'm busy," Valenti said shortly.

"Does this mean you'll be here for dinner?" Jimmy asked hopefully.

"I doubt it," Valenti said, setting down a handful of folders and reaching for another.

"Oh," Jimmy said, disappointed. "Well...can I help with whatever you're doing?"

"No. Go back upstairs."

"But...it looks like you're looking for something," Jimmy said coming the rest of the way down the stairs. "I could help you find it faster."

"Thanks for offering, but no, you couldn't," Valenti said.

"I could if you told me what you were looking for," Jimmy said, peering into the box. "I found lots of stuff for your deputies."

"And I'm sure they appreciated that," Valenti said struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice. "But I only have a little while, and I need to look myself. Go back upstairs."

"What's this?" Jimmy asked, picking up a folder labeled "July, 1947".

"Put that down!"

Jimmy was so startled that he dropped the folder. "I already told you, I'm pressed for time and I need to do this myself," Valenti said firmly. "Now, go back upstairs and stop slowing me down."

"Yes sir," Jimmy said faintly, retreating up the stairs, his heavy footsteps sounding like a rebuke. Valenti sighed and retrieved the folder his son had been holding, by some mysterious stroke of luck the very one he'd been looking for. He flipped through the pages only to discover that what he wanted was missing, probably having fallen out when he dropped the box. He started rummaging through the loose papers, flinging them sideways as he pawed through them. He only had a little while before he had to be back at the station, and he was so close......

Valenti had spent every minute since his morning encounter with Agent Owens in a state of growing tension, living for the gaps in his duties that would allow him to pursue what he suspected. Not that he trusted Owens, or that he wasn't aware that the FBI could have stolen Mark Green's remains without Owens knowing. The only problem was that Audrey Tate's body had not been touched. If the FBI had gone to the trouble of breaking into Raymond Blake's office, wouldn't they have taken the body that Agent Lewis had wanted so badly only last night? Add to that the fact that both Lewis and Owens seemed to know nothing of exploding bodies, and he was left with two choices—either the FBI was lying through their collective teeth, or aliens were indeed in Roswell and had stolen Green's remains because, according to Ray, those remains showed evidence of non-human cells. Green's remains were damning. Audrey Tate's were not.

Whatever the explanation, the problem was one of how to find a needle in a haystack. Roswell was currently loaded with out-of-towners, the perfect place for an FBI agent—or an alien—to hide. The various rooming houses and inns in the area had little information about their temporary guests, even less than he had about his temporary deputies, and there was always the chance that another agent or agents was hidden in his town. The sheer plethora of possibilities had distracted him all day until the discharge report on Charles Dean had crossed his desk. Seen in writing, Dean's allegations about the clapper loader's allegedly odd behavior had looked very familiar.....

And so the first chance he'd had, Valenti had sped home and made a beeline for the basement. The incident he was recalling had happened in Chaves County, not Roswell, so the records of it were inaccessible without answering a whole lot of inconvenient questions. But Valenti had spent three years working for Chaves County, and he'd had the foresight to keep his own notes on any and all alien sightings, alien encounters, alien anything. Based on what he'd learned later, most of those notes had been worthless. But some were not, and it was one of those he was looking for, one that sounded suspiciously like what Dean had described. Here! he thought triumphantly, plucking a paper out of the mess and scanning it eagerly. Trey Osborn....

"Hi."

Valenti looked up to find Andi peering over the stair railing at him. "Hi," he said briefly, returning to his notes.

"Mind telling me why our son is up in his bedroom crying?"

Valenti closed his eyes briefly. "Maybe I was a little....short with him."

" 'Short' doesn't usually produce tears," Andi observed, coming down the stairs and raking her eyes over the mess on the table. "What's this?"

"Records."

"What kind of records?"

"Old records. Can we talk about this later?"

Big mistake. Andi raised an eyebrow and glanced at the folder in front of him. " '1947'? Why are you looking at stuff from 1947?"

"It's for work," Valenti said. "And I'm pressed for time. So if you don't mind....."

Andi folded her arms in front of herself and leaned against the table. "Actually, I do. Mind, that is. This is about the FBI, isn't it?"

"I didn't say that," Valenti protested.

"You didn't have to. They plant someone in your station, bully their way into our house, and now you're actually thinking of buying whatever they were selling last night, aren't you?"

"I never said I was buying it—"

"But you must be," Andi insisted. "Yesterday afternoon that actress's death was an unfortunate accident. Last night the FBI claimed otherwise, and now you're off on a tear that has our son in tears. And for what? You told me Agent Lewis didn't even give you his number. Don't you get it, Jim? He doesn't want any of this traced back to him. That's why he came here instead of the station where others would have seen him, why he's having you contact someone other than him. I'm telling you, that man is bad news!"

"Something else happened," Valenti broke in before she could continue.

"Like what?" Andi demanded. "And don't you dare tell me you can't say, James Valenti! I've seen and heard enough now that 'I can't tell you' isn't going to cut it."

Valenti eyed his angry wife, trying to decide how little he could say and still satisfy her curiosity. But maybe that wasn't the way to go. Maybe getting another opinion from someone he trusted was the wiser course of action.

"Two months ago, a man was killed in town in what looked like a robbery," he began, choosing his words carefully. "When Doctor Blake was doing an autopsy, the body just.....exploded."

" 'Exploded'?" Andi repeated. "As in, blew up?"

"Sort of. It exploded into little skin flakes, like lots and lots of dry skin. But that's all it was; no blood, no bones, nothing else. Ray ran some tests on what was left and said he found two different kinds of cells, both human and....non-human."

Andi blinked. " 'Non-human'? Do you mean this guy was....an alien?"

"That's what Ray thinks," Valenti answered. "I've been sitting on the case trying to dig up more information, but I've been a little busy. And then this morning, he found out this guy's remains were gone."

"Gone?"

"Stolen," Valenti clarified. "Everything. Every scrap of evidence. No sign of a break-in, no broken locks, no fingerprints...nothing. Whoever did it knew their stuff."

"Like the FBI?"

Valenti shot her an annoyed look. "Do you really believe I didn't think of that? Problem is, I dropped the idea of exploding bodies last night, and Agent Lewis didn't blink. Same thing with Agent Owens when I spoke with him this morning. He claimed they didn't take anything, and he didn't react when I brought up the exploding bodies bit."

"And it never occurred to you they could be lying?" Andi asked in a deeply skeptical voice.

Valenti tossed the report he'd been reading onto the table. "I don't know what to believe. But you've got to admit it's weird that Audrey Tate's body wasn't taken. If the FBI went to all that trouble to break into Ray's office, why didn't they take Tate? Lewis nearly had a fit last night when I wouldn't let him have her until Ray was finished."

"So you think aliens took whoever—or whatever—is missing from Ray's office?"

Valenti hesitated. "I think I'm not sure what happened," he answered. "And I want to find out. Which is why I'm down here digging through old notes from a decade ago."

"Jim," Andi said slowly, "why would aliens take these....'remains' now? It's been weeks. Wouldn't they have taken them right away? Like before Ray had a chance to figure out there was something strange about them?"

"Maybe they didn't know I had them," Valenti suggested. "Or maybe they didn't care until the FBI showed up."

"Or maybe the FBI is after something other than what they told you they're after," Andi said pointedly. "Which is why Audrey Tate wasn't touched. What would she have to do with this? She didn't 'explode'."

"No. But the FBI thinks her death was—"

"Unnatural?" Andi suggested. "As in killed by aliens?" When he didn't answer, she glanced at some of the other folders on the table. "These are all from the late forties," she noted. "You believe them, don't you? You believe aliens killed Audrey Tate."

"Like I said," Valenti answered carefully, "I don't know what to believe. I'm trying to separate fact from fiction and figure out what the FBI really wants. And in order to do that, I need to go through these."

Andi studied him for a moment before capitulating. "All right. I know you're not stupid, so I'll leave you to your digging. Just try not to bulldoze our son in the process, would you? It's hard enough that he doesn't see you much, so yelling at him when you do doesn't help."

"I know," Valenti admitted with a sigh. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to."

"Right. I'll apologize to Jimmy. I promise."

Andi's expression softened, and she leaned in close to kiss him on the cheek. "Try not to get so caught up in this that you can't see straight, okay? I don't trust Lewis."

"Neither do I," Valenti assured her. "I'll be careful."

She left, her skirt swishing up the stairs, and Valenti returned to his notes, the deposition of one Trey Osborn, teenage thug extraordinaire and member of Denny Miltnor's gang. That gang had been disturbing the peace at the Independence Day parade in the town of Corona in 1947 and had run afoul of an odd handyman supposedly in the employ of Chambers grocery. A handyman accompanied by none other than Dee Proctor. A handyman no one had ever seen again. And a handyman who had reportedly displayed some unusual behaviors.

He held me up against the wall several feet off the ground, without touching me....

Choked all of us without touching us....

Knocked us to the ground without touching us.....

Jesus, Valenti thought, a chill running down his spine. The allegations Osborn had made against the man Valenti had long suspected was an alien matched Dean's description of what the clapper loader and his friend had done to him just yesterday.




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"I cannot believe that you went ahead without consulting me again!" Malik exclaimed. "Do you want my help, or don't you?"

"This has nothing to do with your 'help'," Michael answered. "This was an internal affair that concerned my people, not yours, not to mention that we had information you did not."

"And I had information you didn't have," Malik reminded him. "You just made things ten times worse, and they were bad enough already!"

"Consulting you would have been pointless," Michael argued. "We didn't know where to find you, and your objections would not have changed my mind."

"You didn't even try to find me, and you haven't even heard my objections," Malik retorted. "This is not how allies behave, Michael. If you want me to smooth the way to contact with the Warders, you have to work with me, not without me."

"I am trying to keep us alive," Michael said impatiently. "Since being alive is a prerequisite to contact with the Warders, you should be able to appreciate that."

"What I appreciate is that you've blown me off twice now," Malik said angrily. "Pull that again, and you're on your own. Consider yourself warned."

Michael flushed. "How dare you...."

"Michael," Nathaniel warned.

"Okay, time out!" Dee ordered. "Everybody just step back and calm down. I said everybody," she added sternly when Malik and Michael began to protest. "Back off. Now."

Seated on the floor beneath the window, Courtney suppressed a completely inappropriate smile as both Malik and her furious father reluctantly complied, each prowling as far away from each other as they could get in Courtney's tiny apartment. Mr. Parker had cancelled Dee's shift today because no one was doing much eating in the wake of the actress's death, and that had proven a blessing. Upon returning to her apartment after her own shift, Courtney had found Malik blazing mad over what her father and Nathaniel had done earlier today. Her own efforts to act as referee had gone nowhere; her father held little stock in her opinion these days, and Malik still regarded her as a potential enemy. Dee was a different story; Malik trusted her implicitly, and in her presence, Michael was on if not good, at least better, behavior, unwilling to offend a valuable human ally. Unable to soothe everyone's ragged emotions, Courtney had crossed the hall and solicited help. The resulting confrontation had been instructive. Dee didn't give a hoot about anyone's emotions, barking orders like a drill sergeant to establish order and drilling inconvenient facts out of both parties before retreating and letting them at each other's throats. This was the first time out, and a much needed one at that.

"There's little point in rehashing what happened," Dee said, "so the focus of this discussion should be on how you're going to handle these situations in the future."

"I'll tell you how," Malik said curtly. "He's going to tell me before he does something stupid that gives us away, not after."

"I fail to see how recovering our operative's remains will attract undue attention," Michael retorted. "No one knows who took them."

"Which is why this needs rehashing," Malik answered, drowning out Dee's protest that they'd already been over this. "Valenti will figure out who took it and be right back on the warpath. Here we'd just about dodged that bullet, and now it's speeding right for us again. Nice work, Michael."

"The man we saw at the diner this morning had obviously already been to the sheriff with tales of strange happenings," Michael argued.

"Which Valenti didn't believe," Malik said. "Now that evidence has been stolen, he'll rethink that."

"Why wouldn't he suspect the FBI of taking that evidence?" Michael asked. "And while we're on the subject, why were we not informed that the FBI was in town? Why did I need to hear that from Nicholas?"

"I've been a little busy!" Malik said furiously. "And while we're on the subject, did it not occur to you that Valenti might tell the FBI about that strange guy whose body blew up? He's been keeping that to himself, but he might not now. You may have just informed the FBI's new alien hunting unit that there is yet another race of aliens on this planet. Was that your intention?"

Courtney watched her father's eyes drop, only for a second, but long enough to tell her that, no, he hadn't considered that possibility. Not that that would make a difference. She knew her father, and he wouldn't back down for anyone. "If that occurs, it would be an unwelcome but unavoidable side effect of a necessary operation," Michael said. "There is another operative coming to town, and we needed to remove any evidence of Green's death. And there is nothing more to be said on the matter," he added firmly. "The subject is closed."

"Like hell it is," Dee announced. "You blew it."

Michael's eyes narrowed. " 'Blew' it?"

"Screwed up," Dee clarified. "Made a bad decision. Did something wrong. In other words, blew it."

Silence. Courtney had to clench her jaw to keep her mouth from dropping open, Nathaniel's eyes nearly popped out of his head, and her father...well, he was clearly struggling between puzzlement and outrage. The former was dominating at the moment, but the latter would be along in short order.

"I beg your pardon!" Michael exclaimed. "I—"

"Don't beg my pardon—beg his," Dee interrupted. "You should never have moved a muscle without consulting Malik, especially when the Warders are in the middle of a crisis. You're lucky he's willing to give you one more chance. I wouldn't."

The tension in the room, already high, soared to stratospheric levels as Dee and Michael faced off in the center of the room. To interrupt her father, give him an order, reprimand him, and dismiss him in a mere four sentences displayed an abundance of both efficiency and nerve that made Courtney downright jealous. Nathaniel was throwing her a glance that said stop her!, but Courtney was too interested in how this would play out. Besides, you couldn't stop Dee any more than you could stop any other force of nature.

"The crisis was of their own making," Michael said angrily. "It's not my fault they chose to execute someone."

"They killed to protect their identity," Dee said. "Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have done the same."

Michael glared at her a moment longer before looking away. "That is entirely beside the point."

"You're right," Dee agreed. "The point is that no matter what the circumstances or how you feel about Covari, you can't keep acting unilaterally—it's stupid, it's dishonest, and it endangers your own mission. Assuming you've been honest about that mission, that is."

"Young lady," Michael began, using the same tone he used when Courtney was being obstinate, "I don't believe you understand, or are capable of understanding, the gravity of the situation. If—"

"If your new operative finds out you've been lying about Mark Green, you'll all be dead, likely in a very slow, very nasty way," Dee said impatiently. "That about sum it up?"

"I would appreciate it if you would let me finish my sentences," Michael said sharply. "I was given to understand that interrupting was considered rude in your culture."

"So is blowing off an ally," Dee retorted. "So is talking to me like I'm an idiot and couldn't possibly know what time of day it is. I met the Warders when I was eight years old. I was on their ship when the Army found it, I've watched two of them die, my father killed a hunter, my mother was kidnapped because of the help we gave them. I've already been in enough 'situations' that I could be one of your operatives, and that goes triple for Malik. You owe him an apology."

"Thank you," Malik muttered as Courtney nearly stopped breathing, Nathaniel being way ahead of her—he looked like he'd stopped a while ago. Her father certainly didn't rule with Nicholas' iron fist, but she could safely say that no one would ever talk to him this way. Politely disagree, perhaps, even argue a point if one was close enough to him, but to scold him like this....no, that was unthinkable. Almost as unthinkable as offering an apology to a Covari, which was mighty unthinkable indeed.

"I regret that this matter has caused an impasse between us," Michael said coldly, clearly trying to find a middle ground between the equally unattractive options of apologizing to a shapeshifter and offending a needed ally, "but I stand by the decision we made."

" 'We'?" Dee challenged, looking at Courtney. "Is that true? Did you buy into this?"

Courtney's eyes flicked from one face to another as everyone's attention settled on her. She really shouldn't fan the flames. She really should attempt to calm this situation for the good of everyone involved. She really should take the high road and not point out that her father was lying.

"No," Courtney answered, throwing all those "really should's" to the wind. "I told him he should talk to Malik first, both this time and when he decided to send that letter to the Warders. And make no mistake about it—he decides. Nathaniel and I have nothing to say about anything."

"Wonderful," Malik said darkly. "You put an operative here, and then you ignore her? Isn't she the one who's been living here? Shouldn't her opinion count for something?"

"Do not presume to insert yourself between me and my daughter!" Michael snapped, turning hard eyes on Courtney before stalking out of the apartment, followed a moment later by Nathaniel, who kept his eyes on the ground. Boy, was she going to get it later.

"I don't have time for this," Malik muttered, following on their heels. "I'll catch up with you later."

Dee gave a heavy sigh as the door banged shut behind them before plopping down beside Courtney.

"So....that went well."

"Better than it was going before you got here," Courtney replied. "When did you find out about the actress?"

"Last night," Dee answered. "I suspected as soon as I heard who had died, but I wasn't sure until Malik confirmed it." She paused. "Is your father always like that?"

Courtney hesitated. "We've never fought like this before. But I've never seen him with a problem like this before."

"He can't keep doing this," Dee said. "He can't keep going off on his own as though what he does doesn't affect everyone else."

"I know," Courtney said quietly.

"So who keeps him in line? Who knocks him upside the head when he needs it?"

"Here? No one," Courtney answered. "Nathaniel is his second, but he doesn't have any real power. At home the resistance is much larger, and so is the number of people he'd have to answer to. But this is really more about Covari and how they're viewed than anything else. We're up against centuries of preconceptions that we're asking him to abandon. Convincing him to do that won't be easy, and frankly, I'm not sure anyone is up to that task."

"You're wrong," Dee said bluntly. "You are."

Courtney blinked. "Me? Dee, I can't—"

"You have to. I'm going back to school next week, so I can't run over whenever daddy gets stupid."

Don't remind me, Courtney thought, not even wanting to contemplate the fact that Dee and her family would be gone in just a few short days. "I'll talk to Nathaniel," she said. "Maybe he—"

"No," Dee said firmly. "Nathaniel didn't so much as squeak, and no wonder—you said he doesn't have any real power. He also doesn't know Malik like you do and how important he is in all of this. You're the one who's been living here for weeks, you're the one who knew the right thing to do, so you're the one who's going to have to be the brains."

"Dee, I can't make my father work with Malik," Courtney protested. "I can argue all I want, but I can't force him to do that any more than he could force me to come home with him."

"Then you'll have to work with Malik yourself. You knew your father was going to write that letter and break into the doctor's office. You could have warned him."

Courtney drew her knees up closer and wrapped her arms around them. "I thought about it," she admitted, "but if I defy him, that will only happen once; from then on, he'll never tell me anything, and what good will that do?"

"Well, what you're doing now certainly isn't doing any good," Dee said.

"No," Courtney said quietly. "It isn't." She paused. "Do you really think it's as bad as Malik says it is? Will Valenti figure it out?"

"Knowing him, he already has," Dee sighed. "Look, just think about it. You're hanging in the middle now, but you might not be able to stay there; you might be forced to pick a side like Malik was." She climbed to her feet, looking out the window. "Who's that?"

Courtney stood up. Her father and Nathaniel were standing on the curb beside a taxi cab. "Is that the new operative?" Dee asked.

"Must be," Courtney murmured. "They took a cab? The bus station's not that far away. When I came into town, I walked here in about twenty minutes—"

She stopped, the figure which emerged from the cab making it all too clear why they hadn't walked.

"Wow," Dee commented.

"Oh, shit," Courtney muttered.




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Sir?"

Valenti slammed his desk drawer shut with an exasperated sigh, this being the third time in the past fifteen minutes he'd been interrupted. "What is it, Hanson?"

"There's someone here to see you about the Tate case."

" 'Someone'? Could you be any less specific?"

Hanson glanced back toward the waiting room as though concerned he was being pursued before slipping into the office. "It's....kind of a reporter, sir."

" 'Kind of' a reporter? Is that like being 'kind of' pregnant?"

Hanson pinked. "She calls herself an 'independent contributor'."

"I don't care if she's an independent goddess," Valenti snapped. "I have no comment on the Tate case until Dr. Blake finishes his independent autopsy. Get rid of her."

"You might not want to do that, sir," Hanson ventured. "She claims she sells to several newspapers and magazines, so whatever she writes will....well....."

Get all over hell's half acre, Valenti finished. "I can't tell her anything," he said impatiently. "I don't have anything to say other than what I've already said."

"She only just got into town, so she wasn't here when you said it, so....maybe if you tell her personally?" Hanson suggested. "If you won't talk to her, she'll probably just make something up."

Crap, Valenti thought sourly. The local press had calmed after Dr. Blake's initial finding that Tate wasn't murdered and news of Dean's inebriation had been helpfully leaked, but all it would take was one denied 'independent contributor' to start it all up again. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Send her in."

Hanson broke into a wide smile, grateful to be relieved of the burden of delivering a refusal. "Thank you, sir. She's easy on the eyes, if that's any consolation."

Ask me if I care, Valenti thought, sweeping the contents of his desk into various drawers so prying eyes wouldn't have anything to look at save for pencil cups, staplers, and other headline producing artifacts. A minute later, Hanson ushered a tall, stately woman into his office smartly dressed in a suit, her heels click, clicking on the tile floor.

"Ma'am," Valenti said cordially, rising from his chair and wearing his best public relations face, or the best he could dredge up at the moment. "I'm Sheriff Valenti. How can I help you?"

"So nice to meet you, Sheriff," the woman smiled, "and thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'm Vanessa Crawford."




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


I'll post Chapter 50 next Sunday.

Hi everyone!

Misha wrote:I'm getting the feeling that Valenti got to know a hell of a lot of stuff we never even suspected... and what exactly will happen to make him snap soooo badly with the Silo drifter-shooting thing... ggggaaaaaahhhh.... and I'm even liking him now!!!!

When I was thinking of Papa Valenti's character, I wondered how much he knew. I decided he could know a great deal; what mattered is that no one believed him, that he was never able to prove it. I also decided he must have known something pretty decisive to make him willing to go out on a limb the way he did, claiming aliens killed the actress and ultimately losing his family and his job. (Actually.....I know Jim Jr. got divorced, but did Jim Sr.? I'm recalling his wife left him too. Must research.....)

kj4ever wrote:Man, all the men from Antar seem so self important, don't they? It seems to me like Michael, Brivari, Jaddo really have a lot in common even though they are so different.

Malik seems to be the only one that can take a step outside himself and see what is going on around him. *sighs* Imagine how great Roswell would have been with a character like Malik helping the podsters?

Malik is more of a working stiff, and so is Courtney; the others are powerful men who hovered near a throne. We're about to get a whiff of a woman from Antar who hovers near the throne, and she won't be much better. And then there's Nicholas' mom, who suffers from no lack of self esteem. I guess power can constrict one's vision to the point where all the powerful see are their self important selves.

And I completely agree about how much better things could have been if the pod squad had had Malik as a mentor. Can you just imagine the difference? That's a whole other fic.






CHAPTER FIFTY



August 20, 1959, 6:30 p.m.

Ruth Bruce's boarding house




"God, it's roasting in here!" Vanessa complained, stripping off her jacket and sinking into Courtney's one chair. "Don't you have a fan? Well, what are you waiting for? Fetch it! Before I melt!"

Like the wicked witch? Courtney thought hopefully, taking her sweet time to retrieve the fan from the other side of the room. A pity they couldn't rid themselves of this latest problem as easily as throwing a bucket of water at it. Why, oh why, did Nicholas have to send Vanessa? Not that Greer or any other of his other cronies would have been welcome, but at least they wouldn't have been such big babies. Vanessa had done nothing but bitch from the moment her foot had hit the pavement. Nothing was right, from the taxi cab, to the size of Courtney's apartment, to the heat which no one could control and which was no worse than the heat in Arizona. It's not fair, Courtney thought sourly. She'd escaped Nicholas, but his family had followed her, and that family could be every bit as bad as he was. Granted his father was largely inert, happy to wear his paunchy husk, smoke those disgusting cigars, and stay out of everyone's way. But his mother was a hellion, as bad as her son on a good day, worse on a bad one, and Vanessa....Vanessa was usually smart enough to be quiet around Ida, although enough of her true colors came through to make it clear what they all could expect should she ever be given free rein.

As she had been now. Relieved of Ida's presence, Vanessa was every bit as haughty and demanding as her future mother-in-law. She had always been proud of her husk, decorating it with the finest clothing, the latest hairstyles, and various shades of paint, right down to the perfectly manicured nails which were, in Courtney's opinion, entirely the wrong color; they should not be pink, but red, human blood red, as befitted the predator who wore them. Fingernail paint was fragile, and one of those wrongly colored nails was now chipped; Courtney smiled faintly, watching Vanessa fret over it as she set up the fan. The nail wasn't her only problem; after arriving beautifully dressed and coifed as usual, there were now large perspiration stains beneath the arms of her blouse, her hair hung in damp hanks, the curls wilting, and probably unbeknownst to her, her mascara was running, producing a gratifying raccoon effect. She really was melting. If only.

"Finally!" Vanessa sighed as Courtney plugged in the fan and reached for the switch. "I was beginning to wonder if—turn it off! Turn it off!"

"Sorry," Courtney said tonelessly, having turned the fan on "high" and nearly blasted Vanessa out of her chair, earning her a stern look from her father. Behind him, Nathaniel suppressed a smile.

"Place it further away from me," Vanessa ordered. "Honestly, do I have to think of everything myself?"

Courtney obediently moved the fan backwards, not bothering to note that it also had a "low" setting. Vanessa closed her eyes and basked in the breeze for a full minute as the three of them awaited her pleasure. Time for a nap, Courtney thought. If they were awaiting her pleasure, they'd probably be here awhile.

"I understood you had a report?" Michael ventured.

Vanessa's eyes flew open, and so did Courtney's; apparently not everyone was content to simply sit and wait. "Of course I do," Vanessa said imperiously. "I'm just very hot. These husks are damnably lifelike. I don't know how humans tolerate this leakage. It's disgusting."

"I'm sorry you are indisposed," Michael answered calmly. "If your health is at risk, it is my duty as Nicholas' third to apprise him of the situation before you come to harm."

His tone betrayed nothing but concern, but his meaning was not lost on anyone, especially Vanessa, whose expression adopted an unmistakable tinge of worry. Never mind Nicholas; any hint of weakness, and Ida would yank her home in a second. For her father to not only threaten to have her recalled but also remind her that he outranked her was a huge slap, and Courtney watched with interest to see how Vanessa would take it.

Seriously, it turned out. "Don't be ridiculous," Vanessa said, a brittle edge to her voice that hadn't been there a moment ago. "I'm just a little warm, that's all." She straightened in the chair, running a hand through her damp hair, plucking at the front of her damp blouse. "The sheriff doesn't appear to know a blessed thing about how the female died, nor does he seem the least bit interested in learning. A curious viewpoint for a so-called 'public servant', but then he's obviously a dimwit. At least we know he doesn't possess the intellect to be an obstacle."

Incredible, Courtney thought, trying to decide whether Vanessa's stunningly incorrect assessment of the sheriff was a testament to the former's hubris or the latter's heretofore unknown acting skills. Could be either. Could be both.

"Then we will proceed with our original plan," Michael said, accepting Vanessa's verdict without debate. "We will begin canvassing the town—"

"The entire town?" Vanessa interrupted. "That could take ages! Haven't you gathered any intelligence as to where the Warders could be?"

"We only arrived last night," Michael answered, "and have spent the little time we've been here searching for answers regarding Crist's disappearance."

"I would think finding the Warders would be more important than one missing operative," Vanessa said impatiently.

"I was following orders," Michael replied. "Nicholas is most unhappy that Crist appears to have left voluntarily. I set Mark on the trail of one of the few leads we managed to obtain. He may be gone for several days."

"Fine, but he was here for ages before that," Vanessa interrupted, the lie about Mark's whereabouts sliding right past her as they had intended. "And Courtney's been here for a couple of months now. Haven't either of them learned anything? How can that be? Just how incompetent are they?"

"Probably as incompetent as all the other operatives stationed in this area who also haven't learned a thing," Courtney said blandly.

"Our operatives have obviously produced results as evidenced by our presence here," Michael said, throwing Courtney another warning look. "Once again, if you are indisposed, you need not participate, indeed should not participate. I like my operatives to be one hundred percent."

"My" operatives. Vanessa stiffened at yet another subtle dig at her complaining and yet another reminder that Michael was in charge. "I am always 'one hundred percent'," she said coldly, looking decidedly less than that in her sweaty clothes, "and of course I will participate. Someone has to get something done around here. Have you examined the victim's body yet? No, of course not," she added with disgust. "How silly of me to expect anyone to actually do their jobs."

"If you find my service unacceptable, you are welcome to address the matter with the one who issued my orders in the first place," Michael said.

Vanessa glared at Michael, who gazed back at her unperturbed, everyone knowing full well she would do nothing of the sort. For all of Nicholas' delusions of grandeur, it was ultimately Ida who ruled the roost, and Ida would never choose Vanessa over Michael.

"I'm certain Nicholas has his reasons for giving you this assignment," Vanessa said, the ice in her voice making it clear that she couldn't imagine what those reasons could be.

"We should be ready to go as soon as soon as it's dark," Michael said, ignoring her. "And you might want to.....freshen up," he added, waving a hand vaguely toward his face.

Vanessa looked startled, then dug a small mirror out of her handbag. "Why didn't you tell me I looked a fright?" she wailed at Courtney. "Where's your bathroom?"

"Down the hall to your right," Courtney answered, hoping it was occupied.

"You mean you don't have your own bathroom? No, of course you don't," Vanessa grumbled, grabbing her purse. "Thank goodness I'm staying at a hotel instead of this hovel."

Yes, thank goodness, Courtney echoed in disgust as the peacock strutted out of the room. It was bad enough to be anywhere near her; sleeping with her would have been downright impossible.

"You have to stop antagonizing her," Michael ordered as soon as Vanessa was out of earshot.

"You should talk," Courtney retorted. "You 'antagonized' her way more than I did."

"That's different; I am her superior, even if she doesn't want to admit it," Michael answered. "You enjoy no such position, and are only making things worse when I think you'll agree they are bad enough already. Be ready at nightfall, and behave yourself."

"Are you going to warn them that we're coming after them?" Courtney asked.

Her father and Nathaniel exchanged glances. "We can't," Michael answered. "The mail has already been delivered today. I'll do the best I can, but beyond that, I'm afraid the Warders are on their own."




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



10:30 p.m.

On the set of "They Are Among Us"




"No, no, no!" the director erupted angrily. "Can't anybody walk and talk at the same time? Do it again, and this time, do it right! Move!"

Brivari waited as cast and crew shambled to their places for take seventeen of what should have been a very simple scene, their expressions alternately confused and vacant as though they couldn't quite remember why they were there. It was curious, really, how the death of an ordinary person such as Audrey could have such an effect on so many, even those who didn't really know her. That effect was understandable following the death of a king or other important personage, but the absence of the average individual rarely cast such a wide shadow. Everyone from the cast, including the sullen Dean, silent now that news of his inebriation had become common knowledge, to the camera crew, to the wardrobe mistress, to the make-up people, to the extras were seriously affected, none more so than the extra Steinfeld had hastily chosen to replace Audrey because of her similar physical characteristics. She seemed downright frightened, as though taking the place of a dead woman conveyed bad luck in some fashion. Perhaps a similar primitive concern drove everyone to avoid the chair Audrey had used in the make-up trailer, to leave her name on the call sheets even though everyone knew she would not appear, and to leave the personal belongings she had left behind on the set right where she had left them. Curious. He wasn't familiar with human superstitions about death, but he hadn't noticed similar fears among Quanah's people. Not that he'd actually attended the funeral, hanging back as he had because he'd been so angry......

Whack! Brivari clapped the clapper after everyone had finally, laboriously taken their places. "At least someone still knows how to do his job," the director grumbled, paying Brivari a rare compliment. "Let's get it right this time, shall we, people?"

The scene began and promptly fell apart. More scolding ensued, and the weeping stand-in for Audrey fled the set as Brivari watched with unexpected sympathy. He would never admit this to Jaddo, but the truth was that he was more affected by Audrey's death than he would have anticipated; the set seemed less interesting, the world an overall bleaker place without her. Here he'd taken this job to take his mind off a death, and now he was dealing with another, not to mention another round of regrets. Because once again, it is my fault, he thought heavily. He could have saved Quanah had he known he was ill, and he arguably could have saved Audrey if he'd managed to restrain Jaddo in time, if he'd realized how far he would go just a few seconds earlier.....

"Finally!" the director exclaimed as the shaky stand-in reappeared with Steinfeld's arm around her shoulder. "Do you think we can get this done in my lifetime? Places!"

Steinfeld pulled the director aside as everyone moved into their places again. "Simmer down, Larry," Brivari heard Steinfeld whisper. "We've all just suffered a tremendous loss—"

"Speak for yourself," Larry declared. "She wasn't a 'loss', she was a pain in the ass, always stirring everyone up. And you should know better than anyone that we need to finish this on time!"

"Of course we do, but in order to do that, we need their cooperation," Steinfeld said, nodding toward the set. "Keep your opinions to yourself, show a little empathy, and we might get what we want."

"I didn't see 'empathy' in my job description," Larry grumbled. "If....." He stopped, glancing around the set. "Now what?"

Every head including Brivari's turned this way and that. The lights were blinking for some reason, or....no, upon closer inspection, the lights were unaffected. It was another light in addition to the regular complement that was blinking on and off and had an odd, pinkish cast to it, very unlike the humans' usual yellow-tinged lights. "What is that?" Larry barked. "Find out!" he added when no one moved. "The last thing I need is more problems!"

Larry paced back and forth, muttering under his breath as the crew scrambled around in utter confusion, trying to find the strange light's source. But this was not the confusion of a few moments ago; this was genuine befuddlement. They honestly didn't know what was causing the strange pink glow that continued to flicker every few seconds, on and off, on and off.

A camera man wheeled his camera out of the way for a technician, and as he did so, Brivari caught a glimpse of his reflection as the odd light pulsed again. A reflection wreathed by a reddish glow, the infrared signature bred into all Covari which made them recognizable to each other, but not to anyone else, because most species couldn't see in the infrared spectrum.....

"They are also equipped with devices capable of both identifying you and disabling your enhancements....."

A second later Brivari had disappeared beneath the camera dolly, no longer wearing a form anyone would recognize. And not a moment too soon; he was barely there before more pink lights appeared, steady now, unblinking, and blanketing large areas of the set. He heard Larry swear loudly, heard the techs argue that they had no idea what was going on, heard Steinfeld attempting to make peace.....and then suddenly, it was over. The lights disappeared, and Larry didn't wait for an explanation.

"Get going before it happens again!" he ordered everyone. "Places! Where's the clapper loader?"

Cautiously, Brivari reappeared. "Get over here!" Larry said irritably when he saw him. " Where were you?"

"Attempting to locate the problem," Brivari answered, every nerve taut as he clapped the clapper and stepped back, into the shadows where there was a margin of safety in case the lights reappeared. Which they might not, of course.

It might already be too late.




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



August 21, 1959, 1 a.m.

Valenti residence




A jangling phone jarred Andrea Valenti out of a sound sleep. She felt her husband stir beside her, heard him pull the receiver off the cradle, clamped her eyes shut as he turned on the light. What now? she thought wearily. Andi was no fool—she knew what had been in store for her when she'd agreed to marry a deputy with his heart set on becoming sheriff, and resolved to not let the job come between them. That resolve had never been so severely tested as it was this summer when her occasionally absent husband had turned into a regularly absent husband and the occasional late night phone call had turned into a regular occurrence. The calls had eased as the movie neared completion although Jim's absences had not, and now she knew why—he had been pursuing a spy in his office, a spy now known to be an FBI agent. As usual, her husband's instincts had been correct, even if his single-minded pursuit of them had been troubling. And hard on Jimmy, she added silently, recalling her tearful son earlier today. Sometimes Jim just didn't realize how harsh he sounded.

"Lights?" her husband said, puzzled. "What kind of lights?"

Andi rolled over, squinting at the clock. Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pajama bottoms, hair askew, stubble on his chin. "Where.....slow down. Where were they reported?" he asked, scribbling on the pad of paper he always kept on his bedside table. "What was the order? The order in which the calls came in." More scribbling. "All right. Thanks."

"What is it?" Andi asked.

"There've been several reports of reddish lights coming on at various places around town for just a few seconds, then disappearing," Jim said, still scribbling.

"So what? Lights aren't usually fatal."

"That's weird," Jim murmured, staring at the pad.

"What's weird?" Andi asked, propping herself up on one elbow.

"If you look at the order in which the calls came in...." he paused, drawing a circle on his pad ".......it's a circle. The locations, I mean. It's like someone's making a circuit of the town."

" 'Someone'?" Andi echoed skeptically. "Maybe it's just an electrical problem. Why did the station call you with this, anyway? It's not like it's an emergency."

"I told them to call any time of the day or night if something unusual was reported," Jim answered.

"Right," Andi sighed, sinking back on her pillow. "Of course you did. Now that you know it's nothing serious, we can go back to sleep, and you can call the electric company in the morning."

There was a long pause while Jim stared at his pad, tapping the pencil against it, lost in thought. Suddenly, he stood up.

"I'm going in."

"In the middle of the night?" Andi protested. "Over some lights? What for?"

"Because it's weird that the lights were reported in a pattern," Jim answered, pulling socks out of his dresser drawer. "Like it was deliberate."

"Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?" Andi asked. "It's probably just an electrical problem that's spreading through town."

"Maybe," Jim answered, sounding unconvinced.

"Jim, it's one o'clock in the morning! What do you expect to learn at this hour? Almost everything is closed, or will be very soon. Even the bars are closed by 2 a.m."

"That gives me an hour," Jim replied, buckling his belt.

"Fifty-four minutes," Andi corrected, glancing at the clock.

"All the more reason to stop arguing with me and let me do my job," Jim said, closing the closet door with a bang.

Andi's eyes narrowed. So this was how he wanted to play it, was it? "Tell me something," she said stiffly. "Does your job still include your being 'Deputy Martian'?"

Jim stopped buttoning his shirt. "Where did you hear that?"

Andi sat up, wide awake now. "From Cathy Cook. You know, Jake Cook's wife? The Jake Cook you used to work with? The Jake Cook whose son, Tommy, dropped off the map after he started repeating stuff about you to Jimmy? She had some very interesting stories of her husband's to tell. Very interesting indeed. You led quite the life back in the forties."

"So you're worried I believe the FBI, but you're willing to buy the first thing out of Jake's mouth?" Jim demanded. "Now who's being gullible?"

"Is it true?" Andi persisted. "Do you really believe you were chased by aliens?"

"How should I know what story he told his wife?" Jim asked crossly. "I don't have time for this now."

"And you never will," Andi said severely. "You think this is aliens, don't you? Why in the name of God would aliens be blinking red lights all over town?"

"I never said it was aliens!" Jim snapped. "All I said was it looked deliberate, and by my standards, that's reason enough to deserve my personal attention, especially with all the other bizarre stuff that's been happening here lately."

"Like exploding bodies?" Andi said skeptically.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Jim demanded. "Are you saying you don't believe me? I was there, Andi!"

"I know," Andi sighed. "I just.....you dumped a lot of information on me today, and I don't know what to believe."

"Neither do I," Jim muttered, tucking his shirt into his pants in quick, sharp jabs. "Congratulations. Now you know how I feel."

"Jim, wait....I'm sorry.....wait!"

But he was gone, pounding down the stairs, the front door closing behind him, the car starting in the driveway. Andi leaned wearily against the bedroom window frame, wishing she'd never brought it up. The age-old advice about not going to bed mad was hard enough to follow without starting an argument in the wee small.

"Mom?"

It was Jimmy, his eyes wide, his shorty pajamas looking large on his wiry frame. "We woke you," Andi said, giving him a hug. "I'm sorry, honey. We didn't mean to."

"Where's Dad going?" Jimmy asked, his voice muffled against her arm.

"Into work."

"Why?"

Andi hesitated. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "And I don't think he is either."




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



2:15 a.m.

Roswell




"I'm not impressed with the range of these devices," Vanessa announced as they climbed into Michael's car. "I can't believe our technicians designed something so inefficient."

"I thought they performed well," Michael answered as he started the engine.

"I found them adequate at best," Vanessa sniffed. "And then there's operator error," she added, throwing a dark look at Courtney.

"I told you, it just went on by itself," Courtney protested. "And when I tried to turn it off, it just popped back on. I had to smack it on the ground to get it to turn off. That's 'device error', not operator error."

"Entirely possible," Michael added. "This is the first time the generators have been field tested. We should keep track of any malfunctions in case they turn out to be widespread."

Nice cover, Papa, Courtney thought with satisfaction as Vanessa looked out the window, lips pursed in disapproval but unable to come up with a suitable retort. They had left her apartment shortly after dark and headed straight for the movie set at Vanessa's insistence because she felt—correctly—that that would be the best place for a Covari to hide. Courtney had given her father a pleading look, but he had shaken his head, there being no way to argue with that logic without arousing suspicion. It hardly mattered anyway; they would reach the movie set eventually, and Brivari would be there, making any argument about exactly when they arrived academic. Unable to cover such a wide area with only one generator, they had slipped onto the set, not difficult given everyone's disposition following the actress' death, and positioned themselves in various locations so as to cover the most people. She had spotted Brivari and allowed herself to be briefly distracted by the ridiculous sight of the king's warder clapping that silly sign for a movie camera before the feeling of defeat that had been dogging her all the way here had settled over her like a wet blanket. She knew from her experience with Malik that "Langley" was going to glow like a Christmas tree. He'd get away, of course; only Vanessa would seriously pursue him, although the rest of them would put on a good show. But word would get back to Nicholas that a Warder had been spotted for the first time since their arrival, and the thought of the excitement that would produce back in Copper Summit was unbearable; the thought that Vanessa would get the credit for it was even worse.

But worst of all was the thought that it would happen at all. We found them, she'd thought fiercely. The resistance had found the Warders first, and now they were about to lose that advantage. The area would swarm with operatives, the Warders would have to flee, and the resistance would be right back where it had started. Of course Nicholas would be too, but the mere fact that a Warder had been spotted would be enough to carry him for a very long time. After everything she'd been through, it was all about to go down the drain.

Or maybe not. What if I can warn him? she'd thought, watching Brivari while the director yelled at the emotionally spent crew. But how to accomplish that? She could hardly write a note and fold it into a paper airplane. Causing a disturbance on the set would only distract the humans, not Vanessa. She'd fretted for a good five minutes as she'd repeatedly checked her watch, watching the hands tick toward the appointed hour to set off the generators. There had to be a way......

That way, it turned out, was the generator itself. With less than a minute to go, she had remembered something her father had said to Vanessa on the way there. "We'll only have the element of surprise once. It won't take them long to figure out what it is." Her finger had hit the button even as she remembered, but only for a second, causing a brief patch of infrared that puzzled the humans and was no doubt causing consternation in her own circles. Brivari was in range, so she was taking a risk, but hopefully the wash would be on so briefly that only those who knew right where to look would notice anything. She'd blinked the wash on and off over and over again as the director yelled and the crew scrambled to find the cause. You don't have much time! she'd yelled silently to Brivari, who was gazing at the flickering light in wary puzzlement, clearly suspicious, but not there yet. Figure it out!

Miraculously, he had. Just as time had run out and most of the set was blanketed in the wash, Brivari had.....disappeared. There was no other word for it; she'd been looking right at him, desperate for him to realize what was what, and then suddenly, he was gone. She'd searched frantically for the full minute they'd agreed to leave the wash on, afraid she'd see him somewhere, but she hadn't. A minute after the wash was turned off, he had reappeared from seemingly nowhere, the expression on his face making it very clear that he knew what a close call he'd just had.

Courtney had been so elated that she'd pulled it off that Vanessa's ensuing tirade had fallen on deaf ears. She'd placed the blame on a faulty switch and stuck doggedly to that, making certain she replicated the "malfunction" at least a couple more times to drive the point home. She'd even offered to switch generators with Vanessa so she could see for herself, knowing full well Vanessa would never risk being stuck with a faulty device. After that Vanessa had piped down, resorting to occasional sharp remarks which Courtney never left unanswered. She'd hear about that from her father, no doubt, but she didn't care. She'd not only found the Warders, she'd just saved them from discovery. That was well worth a lecture from her father.

"Where are we?" Courtney asked as Michael pulled the car over.

"About a block away from the physician's office where the actress's body is being stored," Michael answered.

And where Mark's body was stored, Courtney thought as they piled out of the car. It was dark and silent in the early hours of the morning, and still surprisingly hot as they walked around the corner and down the street to the doctor's office. Human locks were ridiculously easy to defeat, and Nathaniel made short work of this one for the second time in as many days. They were inside within moments.

"The body is in the room at the end of the hall," Michael said quietly. "Nathaniel will keep watch."

"All of you stay here," Vanessa ordered. "I'll examine the body myself. I seriously doubt any of you have any idea what you're looking for. Besides, why would I want little Miss Screw Up with me?"

Michael appeared about to protest when he suddenly stopped, gazing out the window. "If you wish," he said.

Vanessa stalked up the long center hallway alone, pausing briefly as she picked the lock on the door at the end of the hall. Courtney stared at her father in consternation; here he'd consistently exerted his authority, and now he was just passively letting her run things? "Why did you do that?" she hissed. "You can't let her go in there alone!"

"I know what I'm doing," Michael murmured.

"But we need to contradict her findings," Nathaniel argued. "Nicholas might listen only to her, but you know Ida won't."

"There won't be any findings," Michael whispered, backing away, pulling them with him. "We have to go. Now."

Courtney glanced at Nathaniel, who appeared as befuddled as she was. What was her father talking about? They had another opportunity here to deflect suspicion, and he was just letting it slip away.

Suddenly the light snapped on in the room at the end of the hall, many yards away but alarmingly bright because it was wrong, very wrong. No way would Vanessa have turned on that light. Who else was down there? A second later she had her answer as a very familiar voice floated up the hallway.

"Good evening, Miss Crawford," Sheriff Valenti said. "Or perhaps I should say 'good morning'?"





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


I'll post Chapter 51 next Sunday.

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE



August 21, 1959, 7:30 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Good morning, Hanson!" Valenti said cheerfully as he breezed into the station. "Any more strange lights?"

"Good morning, sir," Hanson replied. "No, we haven't heard of any."

"Good," Valenti said. "Maybe Andi was right, and I should just call the electric company. Anything to report?"

Hanson shook his head. "All's quiet for the moment." He paused. "You're looking better than I've seen you in a long time, sir. It's good to see you that way."

"Why, thank you," Valenti smiled, heading for the coffee pot. "I must say I'm in an unusually good mood this morning."

"Mind sharing why?" Hanson asked, as though hoping he could replicate the cause in the future.

"Just enjoy it while you can," Valenti advised, stirring sugar into his coffee. "I'll be in the back if you need me."

"I heard you brought someone in last night," Hanson called after him. "What happened?"

"Just a simple breaking and entering," Valenti answered, privately noting that that simple breaking and entering was the reason for his good mood. While following the path of the strange lights last night, his last stop had been very close to Doctor Blake's office, so he'd decided to take a look....and hit paydirt. After the frustrations of ferreting out spies, weird gadgets that wound up stolen, and a couple of weird deaths, it had been enormously satisfying to actually catch someone in the act, slap on a pair of cuffs, and haul them off to jail. Granted he'd tossed Owens in the clink upon discovery, but the actress's death soon after and Owens' subsequent escape had robbed him of the opportunity to truly savor that moment. He intended to savor this one to the hilt.

He found "independent contributor" Vanessa Crawford perched ramrod straight on the edge of her bunk, her impeccable suit unrumpled, legs and arms crossed, face set. She'd been persistent, but not annoyingly so yesterday afternoon when she'd questioned him about Audrey Tate, yet there had been an undercurrent that had piqued Valenti's interest and left him not entirely surprised when he'd snapped on the light in Doc's surgery to find her there. He'd gotten the distinct impression that she'd wanted to throttle him last night, which had made arresting her all the more delicious. She was a connoisseur of the intimidating glare, this one, her mug shot having caught a very impressive version, almost as impressive as the one she wore now. Still, the fact that she was behind bars tended to take some of the oomph out of it.

"Good morning again, Miss Crawford," Valenti said cordially. "Did you sleep well?"

"No," she replied flatly.

"Ah. Well, in the future, when you want to get a good night's sleep, I'd recommend a glass of warm milk instead of theft."

"I didn't steal anything," Miss Crawford objected.

"So if I hadn't been there, you would have just looked around and tiptoed out?"

"Just exactly what were you doing there?" Miss Crawford demanded. "Do you always lurk in doctor's offices in the middle of the night?"

"Only when I have a hunch they'll be broken into," Valenti replied, pulling up a chair. "And my hunches are pretty good. But you already know that."

"I could use one of those," Miss Crawford said, eyeing his coffee.

"Hanson will be along shortly with your breakfast. So....how long have you worked for the FBI?"

Miss Crawford blinked. "You think I work for the FBI?" A slow smile spread across her face. "If I were you, sheriff, I'd reassess the validity of those 'hunches'. I don't work for the FBI. I already told you—I'm an independent contributor to several news publications."

"Bullshit," Valenti said calmly. "I heard you come down that hall. You never hesitated, never checked any other doors, looked around, nothing. Not only did you know exactly where you were going, you also picked your way expertly past two locks, left no fingerprints, and managed to ditch your lock picks. Where do they teach that? Reporter school?"

"How very condescending of you," Miss Crawford replied coldly. "Has it not occurred to you that since the job of a reporter is to gather information, I may have gathered information on how to pick locks and not leave a trail?"

"So you did break into the doctor's office."

"It's hardly worth wasting my time disputing it," Miss Crawford said impatiently. "And why should I? The people have a right to know."

"What the people have a right to know, Miss Crawford, are the facts, facts which haven't been determined because I haven't finished my investigation. Prior to the conclusion of that investigation, any so-called 'facts' are nothing more than suppositions, and publishing those suppositions is called irresponsible reporting. In case you were wondering."

"Sheriff, you could have a vicious killer on the loose, and you don't even seem to care," Miss Crawford retorted. "Failing to protect the public is called 'irresponsible law enforcement'. In case you were wondering."

"No argument there," Valenti replied. "Which is why I 'protected the public' from a thief last night by locking you up. Apprehending those who break the law is an example of responsible law enforcement, wouldn't you say?"

Miss Crawford promptly turned a very satisfying shade of purple, fastening those flint eyes on the far wall. "As for your concern that there could be a 'vicious killer' on the loose, the operative word in that sentence is 'could'," Valenti continued. "Absent a thorough investigation, we don't know if we have a murder or a freak accident. I have no intention of alarming the people of this town based on unfounded or emotional accusations, and I'll be mighty ticked off with anyone who does. And ticking me off is a very bad idea. In case you were wondering."

Miss Crawford's eyes swung his way; a moment later, she rose from her bunk and came to the bars, gazing at him steadily. "So you think you're good at threatening people, do you, sheriff? I'm sorry to tell you that's not the case. I've been threatened by the best, and you don't even come close."

"I'm crushed," Valenti deadpanned. "Do you have a lawyer you wish to contact, or shall I arrange for your representation?"

"Neither," Miss Crawford replied. "I'm pleading guilty. Tell me what the fine is, and let me out of here."

Damn, Valenti thought. He'd been looking forward to dragging more out of this woman during a back and forth in front of a judge. "I gather you don't want your employer to know you were caught? Although I seriously doubt you can keep this from Lewis."

"I have no idea who 'Louis' is, and I don't have an employer; that's why I'm called an 'independent' contributor. Shall I get you a dictionary?"

"Please do, but I think you should keep it," Valenti replied pleasantly. "Look up the word 'criminal'; you appear to have forgotten what it means, assuming you ever knew in the first place. I've enjoyed our chat, Miss Crawford. I'll see you again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? But I just said I'm pleading guilty! That means I don't need a lawyer, and—"

"And the law allows me to hold you for twenty-four hours without formally charging you," Valenti broke in. "And since I don't think you've been entirely forthcoming with me, I'm going to give you the rest of those twenty-four hours to contemplate how very ticked off I will be when I find out you've been lying to me."

"Twenty-four hours?" Miss Crawford sputtered in disbelief. "You must be joking! I have no intention of sitting in this hell hole until the middle of the night!"

"Tomorrow morning, actually," Valenti corrected. "I get in around 7 a.m., so I'll be back to see if you've suddenly thought of anything else you'd like to tell me. And then there's the fact that tomorrow's Saturday, and there's no guarantee the judge will be available."

"You can't do that!" Miss Crawford exclaimed. "That's more than twenty-four hours!"

"Why, so it is," Valenti said with mock surprise. "Good for you! You can count!" He paused while she smoldered, enjoying every minute of it. "Keep in mind the twenty-four hour mark is when I have to charge you," he reminded her. "After that the court schedules a hearing, where you'll make your plea. And who knows how long that will take?"

"What about bail?" she asked, a tinge of desperation in her voice.

"If I were you, I'd save your money for your fine," Valenti advised. "Now, if you like, you could always file a complaint with the judge. Mind you, he wouldn't entertain a petition for a hearing in the wee small, and filing a complaint would mean being grilled about things like who you work for and what you were planning to do in Doctor Blake's office. I'm guessing that's not going to work for you since you seem to be keen on avoiding that. But what do I know. That's just a hunch. Oh," he added in mock surprise. "That's right. I seem to remember my hunches being pretty good."

If looks could kill, Miss Vanessa Crawford was now wearing one that could bring the Soviet Union to its knees. Interestingly, she didn't argue with him, just stood there wearing a glare that threatened to ignite the station. Yes, the lovely Miss Crawford was definitely worried that someone would find out she'd been nabbed. The question was.....who? Given how quickly she was likely to get her hearing, he probably had less than seventy-two hours to find out.

"Well, I'm off," Valenti said cheerfully. "Busy, busy. If there's anything you'd like to share, just let one of my deputies know."

"You can't leave me here!" she protested, both hands on the bars now, projecting a very satisfying picture indeed. "Look at this place! Do you actually expect me to relieve myself in full view of world?"

Valenti glanced at the clearly visible toilet and sink, then turned around and scanned the room. "I don't see anyone else here, never mind the world."

"You know what I mean!" she snapped. "What if I'm.....indisposed....when someone walks back here? I demand appropriate accommodations!"

Valenti came closer to the bars. "I see your point," he said gently, "and I understand completely. I have two suggestions. First, if you don't like your 'accommodations', don't ever let me catch you breaking the law in my town again. And second..." he paused, leaning in closer "......if you don't wish to use the available facilities, by all means.....hold it."

He stepped back and smiled as her mouth dropped open. "Do have yourself a nice day, Miss Crawford."





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




2:20 p.m.

Parker's Diner




"God, you're beautiful. Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

"Every day, Herman," Courtney replied calmly, setting a grilled cheese sandwich in front of him. "Eat your sandwich."

"Would'ja marry me?"

"I'm a little young for you," Courtney said, leaning away from the stale breath which stank of alcohol. "C'mon....eat up. It'll make you feel better."

"You make me feel better," Herman murmured, petting her arm. "Pretty girl. Pretty, pretty girl....."

"Behave yourself," Courtney said firmly, redirecting his hand toward his sandwich. "No more talking until you've finished your lunch, okay?"

"Goodness, you're patient," Nancy grumbled as Herman obediently tucked into his lunch. "Dirty old man. I'm surprised Pete lets him in here."

"I asked him to," Courtney said.

"You did? Why?"

"Because he's not a 'dirty old man', he's just lonely," Courtney answered. "Homeless and lonely."

"And broke," Nancy added. "Who's paying for that lunch?"

"I am," Courtney said. "Out of my tips."

"Whatever for?"

Courtney shut the cash register with a bang. "Maybe because I know what it's like to be homeless and lonely."

Nancy studied her a moment before shaking her head. "You look so young, but you sure don't sound young."

"Looks can be deceiving," Courtney said lightly. "Don't worry about me, Nancy. I can take care of myself."

And I'm in a good mood, Courtney added as Nancy shrugged and walked away. A very good mood, good enough to feed a hundred Herman's. After all the garbage the universe had seen fit to throw her way, it had finally tossed her a bone. Watching Vanessa hauled away in handcuffs ranked up there with the top five moments of her life, maybe even the top three. The worst thing any operative could do was to blow their cover, and being arrested was one of the fastest ways to do that. That Vanessa had broken this cardinal rule within mere hours of her arrival was very bad news for her, a point Courtney had pondered with relish from the corner of a nearby building to which she and her father had retreated as soon as they'd heard Valenti's voice, while Nathaniel had taken up a closer position in the hopes of overhearing something.

"You knew he was there?" Courtney had demanded. "How?" she'd added when her father nodded.

"When I arrived in town, I took note of the vehicle your sheriff drives," Michael had answered. "I saw that vehicle out the back window of the doctor's office, and just hoped we hadn't all been caught."

The bubble of elation Courtney had been enjoying from having successfully warned Brivari had deflated somewhat upon hearing this. Her last minute idea didn't seem so wonderful now; Brivari would have escaped even if fingered, but none of them would have escaped Valenti's notice in that office last night had her father not been so observant. To think that one little detail, a detail she still didn't know after two months in Roswell, had saved all their tails.

Make that "almost" all their tails. The door to the doctor's office had opened and she had watched, fascinated, as Valenti escorted a handcuffed and scowling Vanessa to his car, depositing her in the back seat before driving away. A minute later, Nathaniel had appeared.

"I didn't hear much," he reported. "Obviously he's arrested her."

"That he has," Michael said with satisfaction.

"Nicholas isn't going to like this," Nathaniel added.

"No," Michael agreed, a broad smile in his voice. "He certainly isn't. But she insisted on going back alone, and who am I to argue with Vanessa?"

"This is refreshing," Courtney said dryly. "I usually see you genuflecting to all of them, and here you let her go back there, knowing she might get caught."

"I 'genuflect' because I have to in order to maintain our cover," Michael said calmly. "Times like these make it worth it. Do you have any idea how long she'll be held?"

"No, but I can ask Dee. She'll know." Courtney paused. "Papa, what made you look at Valenti's car? I've been here a couple of months, and I don't know what kind of car he drives."

"You obviously considered him a formidable adversary, and I like to keep notes on my enemies," Michael answered.

"I didn't think you put much stock in my opinion, Papa. I thought I was 'reckless and irresponsible'."

It was easier to say it in the quiet dark, when her father was little more than a silhouette and his expression unreadable. "I question some of your decisions, but I never said I didn't trust your instincts," her father replied levelly. "And I must confess there are times when recklessness is indistinguishable from inspiration. Like when you pretended your generator was faulty in order to warn Brivari. They're so new that defects are to be expected, and you prevented a positive sighting which would have made life much more difficult for all of us. That was quite simply brilliant. We have work to do," he added briskly, abruptly changing the subject. "If possible, Vanessa will have hidden her generator somewhere. We should retrieve it before someone finds it and starts pushing buttons."

Courtney had followed along behind them, in shock that her father had not only praised her, but called her brilliant. Granted she hadn't proceeded in what her father would have considered the "right" way; he would have wanted all the details worked out beforehand, while she hadn't given so much as a second's thought as to how she would explain the generator's odd behavior. But no matter. He said I was brilliant! she'd thought happily, finding it almost overwhelming to have two fantastic things happen within minutes of each other. Why couldn't fate spread out the good stuff, maybe mix it up with the bad to make life a little easier?

But fate, it turned out, was in a very good mood that night because the fun wasn't over. After retrieving Vanessa's generator, which she'd stashed behind an instrument case in the doctor's office, they had returned to Courtney's apartment and contacted Nicholas. The look on Nicholas' face when he learned his lover was in jail had been absolutely priceless.

"She got arrested?" he'd repeated in disbelief. "No one's ever been arrested! Michael, how could you let this happen?"

Oh sure, blame Papa, Courtney had thought sourly. But her father's long history with Nicholas had obviously prepared him for that. "Sir, I do apologize," Michael said sounding absolutely contrite, "but she insisted on going in herself, even over my objections. She was quite specific, even insulting about it. Since her arrival, it is clear that she considers herself my superior, and yet at times I find her judgment......" here Michael had paused, as though searching for just the right word ".....questionable," he'd finished. "I would appreciate clarification on this issue for the future."

Nicholas' image had been abruptly pushed aside, replaced by Ida's round, glowering visage. "I'll give you clarification," she growled. "You are in charge, Michael. Don't let that little tart overrule the experience of a long-time lieutenant like yourself. I told you she'd mess it up," she added severely to her son. "I told you not to send her!"

"I didn't have anyone else!" Nicholas protested. "Everyone available is assigned, and pulling them off—"

"Would have been a damned sight better that having one of us wind up in a human jail," Ida had interrupted sharply. "Did she have anything on her that would give her away, Michael?"

"No, ma'am," Michael had answered. "She managed to hide her trithium generator before she was taken away, and we have retrieved it. Unless the humans do a medical exam, she should be safe."

"Will they do that?" Nicholas had asked anxiously.

Michael had looked to Courtney, who shook her head. "I doubt it," she said. "Not for breaking and entering. I think she'll just sit in jail until she's brought before a judge."

"Serves her right," Ida had said flatly. "Michael, you don't go near her, you hear? The last thing we need is to have the sheriff connecting you with someone he's arrested. Some of our operatives have studied human law; if the ninny can't get herself out of this mess, they'll handle it."

"Yes, ma'am," Michael answered.

"And you tell her I want to talk to her just as soon as she's out," Ida ordered. "I won't have her walking over top of a third lieutenant, and he shouldn't either," she'd added, with a glare at her son which produced an argument that was still in progress when Michael deactivated the hologram.

"That is the first time I actually enjoyed a communication," Nathaniel had commented. "Perhaps the humans are right—there really is a first time for everything."

"This'll be interesting," Courtney said. "None of us has ever been arrested before."

"It will be a valuable learning experience," her father had agreed. "As more of our people branch out into human society, this was bound to happen sooner or later."

"And to have Vanessa be the first is just marvelous," Courtney said with deep satisfaction.

"Every now and then, even a setback can be turned to our advantage," her father agreed. "We should remember that for the future, especially given what else we learned this night. You all saw the body. What do you think?"

Courtney had glanced at Nathaniel, who'd looked away. They had briefly examined the body, an unrecognizable mass of burned flesh that bore no resemblance to the blonde-haired, red-lipped Audrey Tate and a blunt testimony to the Warders' "enhancements". "I think the stories we've heard are true, that they're more powerful than ever," Nathaniel had answered.

"It is said they enhanced the hybrids the same way," Michael replied. "If the Royal Four live again, they will be at least as powerful as their Warders, likely more so. We should keep that in mind as we encounter further evidence of the Warders' abilities because the hybrids may also have those abilities."

Courtney had pondered that the rest of the long night as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, too worked up to sleep. Morning brought little relief even when she told Dee about what had happened and Dee promised to pay a visit to the sheriff's station. It had been hard slogging through her shift, wondering what was going on, but the thought of the haughty Vanessa in a bare jail cell had been enough to perk her up and now, finally, the time had come. "I'm off!" she said brightly to Nancy, who was pinning up a slew of orders, the movie crew having trickled back in as hunger trumped shock. "I've already paid for Herman's lunch. He gets a slice of chocolate cake too, but only after he finishes his sandwich."

"Aren't you just the little mama," Nancy chuckled. "I wonder if Herman knows how lucky he is?"

Not half as lucky as me, Courtney thought, practically flying home, ignoring the stitch in her side as she ran up the stairs and knocked on Dee's door. It opened immediately, and Courtney spilled inside, trying to avoid looking at the suitcases and boxes splayed around, further evidence that Dee was leaving. She didn't want anything to spoil her good mood.

"Well?" she asked breathlessly, pausing briefly to hug Philip when he came running to see her. "Where is she? Is he going to keep her? God, tell me he's going to keep her and throw away the key. If he just lets her off, I swear I'll—"

"Slow down," Dee chuckled. "Did you really think Valenti, of all people, would just 'let her off'?"

"So, what then?" Courtney demanded. "Is she going on trial? Will she go to jail for a long time?"

Dee hesitated. "It looks like she'll be out soon."

"Really?" Courtney said, disappointed. "Oh. Is this that 'bail' thing, where you pay money and they let you out until your trial?"

"Not exactly," Dee said, plucking Philip out of a box of dishes and steering him toward his favorite pots and pans. "According to Hanson, your Vanessa—"

"She's not 'my Vanessa'."

"Okay, 'Vanessa' is pleading guilty to breaking and entering. That's a misdemeanor, which means it's considered minor, and this is her first offense, so she can get away with just a fine."

Courtney blinked. "That's it? She pays money, and that's the end of it? No trial? No jail?"

"I'm afraid not," Dee said. "Since she wasn't caught stealing anything, and she's willing to plead guilty, the only way Valenti can force this further is if he thinks he can prove she broke into Doctor Burke's office with the intent to commit a felony, which does carry a minimum jail sentence. But I don't think he can do that; Vanessa presented herself as a reporter, so she'll say she was just going to look at the body. There was no one else with her, so he can't very well argue she was going to steal it. I think the judge will buy her story, impose a fine, and that will be that."

"Damn!" Courtney muttered under her breath. "I was so hoping she'd go to jail."

"But the good news," Dee continued, "is that Hanson let on Valenti wasn't buying her story."

"Why not?" Courtney asked eagerly. "What did she do?"

"He wouldn't say," Dee said thoughtfully, "but my guess is that Valenti thinks she's another FBI agent."

"Doesn't she wish," Courtney said dryly. "Nicholas would love to infiltrate the FBI. Give him enough time, and he will."

"That's a sobering thought," Dee said darkly. "At any rate, Valenti can hold her for twenty-four hours without formally charging her, and it looks like that's what he's doing. Then after he charges her, they have to wait for the hearing. This is Friday, so her twenty-four hours is up on a Saturday; if we're lucky, she'll have to wait until Monday morning for a hearing. As long as she can pay the fine, she'll walk as soon as it's over. Does she have money?"

"We all have money," Courtney sighed, sinking into a chair. "The importance of currency was drummed into us over and over during our training. And if she doesn't have enough, Nicholas will get her some, you can be sure of that."

"Then she'll be back in your hair in a couple of days, tops." Dee paused. "The deputies were all talking about how good looking she is. Did she get an 'extra pretty' husk?"

Courtney snorted softly. "Probably. She's Nicholas' lover, or his primary lover, anyway; I hear he has several. She also likes to decorate her husk; she's always driving into the city for the latest clothes and make-up, or what-not."

" "Decorate'? You make it sound like it's a Christmas tree," Dee joked. "Or something separate, at least."

"Because it is," Courtney answered. "This isn't what I really look like. It's like a uniform, or a costume. It's not really me."

Dee raised an eyebrow. "All these years, and you still see it as something to 'decorate'?"

Courtney smiled faintly. "When you see rows and rows of empty husks....when you watch friends of yours disappear inside them....when you see what happens to someone like Crist when his husk was compromised.....it kind of drives the point home: This isn't me. It's just a shell. It's keeping me alive while I'm here, but it isn't me."

Dee gave a little shrug. "I guess I can see that. Well....I'm sorry I don't have better news for you. At least you managed to throw her off the track last night. What's she going to do when she gets out?"

Courtney's hands knotted together. "That's what worries me."




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




Dr. Raymond Blake's office




"Where is everyone?" Valenti asked as he walked into Ray's empty office.

"He had me cancel all of today's appointments," Maureen answered, glancing worriedly down the hallway. "He's been back there all day. I think he's scared, sheriff—we've had two break-in's in just a few days."

"I know," Valenti said soothingly. "But you didn't find anything missing this last time, right?"

"No," Maureen allowed. "But I've gotta tell you, it's weird knowing that twice now, people have just waltzed past our locks. Makes me feel unsafe in my own house."

All your thieves may not have been 'people', Valenti thought privately, giving Maureen's hand a reassuring pat before heading down the hallway toward the surgery. The nosy reporter—or FBI agent—was one thing, but the theft of Mark Green's remains still bothered him, as did the similarity of Dean's report with the reports from the forties. Much as he hated the way the FBI had behaved, he was reluctantly leaning toward agreeing that aliens were in the area. But it was all still hunches and undercurrents, not to mention a death that appeared to be nothing more than freak accident, none of which was enough to make an arrest. Lacking hard evidence, there was little he could do but keep looking. Which is why he was eager to hear what Ray had to say now that he was ready to pass judgment on the death of Audrey Tate.

"Okay, let's have it," Valenti said, walking into the surgery where Ray was bent over a microscope.

"For what it's worth," Ray sighed, straightening up.

"You said you were finished, right? Maureen told me you cancelled all your appointments today—"

"Of course I did," Ray interrupted irritably. "I've been burgled twice now, Jim. I want this done and out of my office."

"So was she murdered or not?"

"In the conventional sense? No. She definitely burned to death, but I didn't find any accelerants."

"So it was lightning."

"No."

"Well, what then?" Valenti asked in exasperation.

Ray hesitated, as though at a loss for what to say. "Let me put it this way," he said finally. "This woman burned to death as the result of a fire that could not possibly exist."

Valenti felt a cold hand squeeze his chest as one of those undercurrents came crashing to the surface. "And yet it did exist," he said warily. "I assume you're going to explain this?"

"That's just it," Ray said. "I can't." He rose from his chair and went to the body; Valenti braced himself as he pulled back the sheet. "Every fire has an ignition point, the place where the blaze begins and from which it spreads. Every fire has to start somewhere."

"And?"

"And this one didn't," Ray explained. "There is no ignition point. "Whether someone set her on fire or she was struck by lightning, there had to have been an ignition point....but there wasn't. Audrey Tate's entire body caught fire at exactly the same time and burned at exactly the same rate."

"So how could that happen?" Valenti asked.

"That's just it—it can't happen," Ray answered. "At least not in any way I know of. If lightning hit her, it would have hit a certain point on her body, not her entire body at once. If you douse someone with gasoline, the match which ignites it strikes a certain point first. If you pushed someone into a fire, part of their body would reach the fire first, clothing would shield some parts and have to burn away before the skin beneath would ignite—"

"I get the picture," Valenti said, the coffee in his stomach churning. "So what does that mean?"

Ray pulled the sheet up and leaned wearily against the counter. "It means I can't explain how this happened. And it means there's one more thing to add to the list. Last month we had a body with non-human cells. This month we've got a woman dead from a fire no one could make and the FBI announcing she was killed by an alien. At this point, Jim, having seen what I've seen, including some things the FBI hasn't seen.....I'd have to say I agree."

Valenti walked to the window, staring outside. "You said you didn't find any of those weird cells on Tate?"

"No. But that only means she's not an alien. It doesn't mean an alien didn't kill her." Ray paused, coming up behind him. "Jim, I know you kept what we knew close to the vest because you wanted more information, because you were afraid of losing control. But now we have more information, and looking at this, I'd say you've already lost control.....just not to whom you thought. A woman is dead. How much more evidence do you need? How many people have to die before you'll be willing to do something about it?"




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



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




Morton Steinfeld winced as his director threw his script on the ground and launched into another string of profanity as yet another scene fell apart. Five days, he thought desperately. They only had five more days to finish shooting. His first thought upon hearing of Audrey's death had been to thank God it hadn't happened earlier, when replacing her would have been much more difficult; now it appeared it didn't matter. At this rate, they wouldn't finish anyway.

"Damn it, can't she manage to stay on the set for ten minutes?" Larry exploded as Audrey's replacement fled in tears for the umpteenth time. Women, Steinfeld muttered to himself. Whether crying or dying, women seemed to cause more trouble then men ever did. Not that people like Dean were sterling examples of American manhood, but at least their troublemaking fell into comfortably familiar categories like drinking and fighting. Those he could deal with. Crying and drying left him at his wits' end, which is where he'd been living these past two days and which is why he was oh-so-very unhappy to spot Sheriff Valenti arriving on the other side of the set. What now? Steinfeld thought irritably. He had enough trouble without the sheriff working everyone up again looking for a murderer. Dean had been drunk; everyone knew that. Whatever he'd said about Audrey being murdered should have been instantly discounted.

"Sheriff," Steinfeld said, giving him a perfunctory nod, "I'm a bit busy now, so I hope you can make this quick."

"As a matter of fact, I can," Valenti replied. "I need two people; I'll start with your clapper loader. Where is he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Steinfeld sighed.

"What does that mean?" Valenti asked sharply.

"It means he's gone, sheriff. He didn't show up for work today, and no one's been able to find him."





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


I'll post Chapter 52 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO



August 21, 1959, 4 p.m.

Mrs. Bruce's rooming house




"Do you mean to tell me that you have no personal information on your roomers?" Valenti asked. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, I have their names and occupations," Mrs. Bruce answered. "And their phone numbers, if they have a phone. And it's not like I don't know where they live."

"Do you get references? Ask for proof of employment? Anything?" Valenti paused, pulling back when he saw the look on the landlady's face. "Mrs. Bruce, please understand, I'm not trying to pass judgment on your business practices. Obviously they work well for you. But I need to find this Mr. Langley, and I'm running into a brick wall wherever I go. Nobody seems to know anything about him, and I find that mighty peculiar."

Mrs. Bruce's expression stiffened. "Sheriff, I have rented rooms since my husband's death ten years ago. It was the only way I could survive. I had no skills, no way to earn a living, and even if I had, who would have hired a woman in her fifties? But my point is that I've seen many people come and go, and I pride myself on being a good judge of character. Mr. Langley was an excellent tenant: Quiet, punctual with his rent, and so courtly I would have thought him British, but he didn't have an accent. I don't need references for a tenant like that. And I hardly needed proof of employment when all those people from the movie set came to his room all the time. Especially the actress, that Miss Tate, she—"

"Miss Tate visited Mr. Langley's apartment?" Valenti interrupted.

"Why, yes. All the time. Many times she spent the night and left in the very early hours of the morning. I'm up before the birds—you're young, dear, just wait till you're older and can't sleep the way you used to—so I would see her leaving. I don't think she wanted anyone to know she was here, so I never let on I knew, of course. My impression...." Mrs. Bruce hesitated, her cheeks pinking "....my impression was that they were.....having an affair," she finished, that last part coming in a stage whisper. "But that's none of my business, and I don't interfere with the private affairs of good tenants. Whatever my personal feelings may be," she added primly, her tone making it clear how she felt about unmarried women who frequented men's apartments in the dead of night.

"Did you ever hear them fighting?" Valenti asked.

"No, never. I heard very little from Mr. Langley's apartment, even when all those movie people were over."

"What about Mr. Dean, her co-star? Did you ever see him here?"

"Unfortunately, no," Mrs. Bruce sighed. "Not that I would have minded." She blinked as Valenti's eyebrows rose. "Not that I.....I mean, he's very good looking, so....." She stopped, blushing furiously. "No, I never saw him here."

"I'd like to see Mr. Langley's room," Valenti said, politely ignoring her discomfiture. "If you wouldn't mind."

"I know you said you can't find him, but that doesn't mean I can just let you into his room," Mrs. Bruce objected. "I know I let you into Mr. Green's room, but he was....deceased. Don't you need a warrant if someone's still alive?"

"Really, Mrs. Bruce," Valenti said soothingly. "We've known each other for years, so you know I'd never do anything that wasn't in the best interests of the people of this town. If I could find Mr. Langley, I wouldn't be asking, but since I can't, I'm kind of between a rock and a hard place. Help me out? You're welcome to stay with me the entire time."

Mrs. Bruce, as it turned out, was nowhere near as suspicious as Courtney Harris had been. Which was just as well because no way in hell would he have gotten a warrant out of a judge with the story he had to tell. "Well......all right," Mrs. Bruce relented. "Let me get my keys."

Valenti wandered around the flowery living room while he waited, trying to maintain at least a semblance of patience. Now that he had a genuinely unexplainable death to go with the FBI's assertion of alien involvement, he'd headed straight from Ray's office to the movie set intending to begin anew with the accuser and the accused, Mr. Dean and Mr. Langley. His interest in the former, who looked much the worse for wear as though he'd had too much to drink last night and perhaps this morning too, had evaporated upon learning that the latter was missing. Inquiries about Langley had gotten him almost nowhere because it seemed that no one knew much of anything about him, including his employer. Langley had simply appeared one day, had a verbal tussle with the director after he reportedly struck Miss Tate, and been hired on the spot by a frustrated producer who was having problems reigning in his employees.

"So you have nothing on him?" Valenti had asked in disbelief, much like he had just asked Mrs. Bruce.

"We hired a huge number of people from Roswell," Steinfeld had answered, "and we have very little information on any of them. These aren't union employees with contracts. All we have are names, addresses, and phone numbers "

"But you don't even have that on Langley," Valenti had said. "Only his last name. Did he even have a first name?"

"Many people in this industry use screen names instead of their real names, much the same way writers use pen names," Steinfeld had replied. "And many are virtual nomads, following the work from place to place. Sheriff, you must understand I had just lost my clapper loader, and I had a director whose temper was threatening production. Langley solved both problems for me. He had a....a presence that seemed to give my director pause. I'm not sure why, and I really don't care—it worked."

"But you couldn't have made out his paychecks to just 'Langley'," Valenti said in exasperation.

"Mr. Langley and I had an......arrangement," Steinfeld had replied, beginning to sweat.

"Cash, in other words. Under the table."

"Cash payments are very common in our industry," Steinfeld said defensively, "and it's ultimately the duty of every citizen to calculate and pay their taxes, not—"

"Look, I don't care if you paid this guy in wampum," Valenti had interrupted sharply. "I just want to know where he is. He must have lived around here somewhere."

"He had an apartment in town; I'm not sure where. The crew would know."

But the crew had been reluctant to divulge this information, staring at Valenti suspiciously as though they feared for a good friend. Which was apparently how they thought of Langley even though he hadn't shown up for work and had been implicated in the death of one of their own, a notion they seemed to find preposterous. Only a few crew members were willing to talk to him, albeit grudgingly. All mentioned Langley's hold over the director, some kind of get-togethers they had enjoyed at his apartment, Audrey Tate's interest in him, and Charles Dean's resentment of that interest. None seemed to know anything about him other than his last name; no first name, no background, no idea of where he'd come from, where he'd gone, or why he'd left. Whoever—or whatever—Langley was, he appeared to have vanished without ever having really existed in the first place.

"Here we are," Mrs. Bruce said, bustling back into the room. "Follow me."

Valenti obediently followed her to Mr. Langley's apartment just left of the front door and waited while she knocked, knowing there would be no answer. "Please be discreet, sheriff," Mrs. Bruce said as she unlocked the door. "I'm still not sure I should be doing this."

Mrs. Bruce kept a sharp eye on him as Valenti wandered the room, puzzling at the lack of personal effects one would expect to find even for a short-term resident. And that wasn't the only puzzling thing; the bed was nicely made, so nicely it appeared unslept in. The kitchen held only a few food items usually reserved for parties like chip dip and crackers, and none of the necessities like bread and milk. The bathroom was stocked with toilet paper, soap, and a toothbrush, but no toothpaste or razor, and nothing in the wastebasket or any of the wastebaskets, which appeared virtually unused. A nice vase of flowers sat on the kitchen table, but he found no cookware of any kind and only a small supply of plates and glasses. The sink was immaculate. There were hangers but no clothing in the closet, a couple of shirts in the dresser drawers, a nice watch on the table beside the unused bed.

"Odd," Valenti murmured.

"I told you how polite he was," Mrs. Bruce said. "Obviously he was very neat. Nothing wrong with that."

That's not it, Valenti thought uneasily. He had the strangest feeling, like this place wasn't merely neat, but.......staged. This apartment bore all the marks of a movie set, complete in some ways but not others, meant to look lived in when it hadn't been, not if you looked too closely.

"When did you say he moved in?" Valenti asked, giving the medicine cabinet a tug.

"A month ago," Mrs. Bruce answered. "Why are you pulling on that, sheriff? These rooms come furnished, so if you break that, I'll have to have Carl repair it."

"Right," Valenti said. "Sorry. I just....found something behind a medicine cabinet once, so I developed the habit of looking." He closed the cabinet, which wasn't the least bit loose. "I gather Carl Smith is your handyman?"

"Has been for years now, ever since he first came to town," Mrs. Bruce replied. "He helped Mr. Langley set the place up."

Valenti shut the drawer he'd just opened with a bang. "He did?"

"Why, yes. Carl helped him move in and get settled, and I believe Miss Tate added a few things. Like the flowers there."

"Were Mr. Langley and Carl friends?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Bruce answered. "I only saw Carl here right around the time Mr. Langley moved in, so he was probably hired to help him do that."

Valenti looked around the carefully appointed apartment that nevertheless didn't look lived in. Maybe, he thought privately. Maybe not.




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




*Where is he?* Jaddo asked, joining Brivari on the roof of Mrs. Bruce's building.

*In the apartment,* Brivari answered.

*Did you empty it?*

*I didn't dare go back there last night.*

Jaddo sighed. *I'm sorry it came to this, Brivari.*

*No you're not.*

*You misunderstand. I'm not sorry you're no longer masquerading as a human; I'm only sorry that it pains you to lose that.*

*The humans have something called a 'left-handed compliment',* Brivari said darkly. *That must qualify as a 'left-handed apology'.*

*I fail to see why one appendage would take precedence over the other, but you did what you had to do,* Jaddo said. *I was already of the opinion that it was much too dangerous for you to continue as 'Langley', and after last night, even you saw the light.*

*Yes,* Brivari answered. *Far too much of it, in fact. The 'Argilian resistance' is nothing but a fraud.*

*You think it was a trap?*

*Of course it was a trap. Why else would they claim that Athenor, or Nicholas, or whatever he's calling himself Earthside is unaware of our presence, then ambush us the very next day?*

Jaddo was quiet for a moment, the two of them staring down at the enforcer's empty car. *Perhaps because they didn't know the ambush was coming at the time they wrote the letter,* he said at length. *That's the only thing that makes sense because these are clearly not amateurs. When Rath was contacted, the resistance was headed by none other than Athenor's third lieutenant. I recall Rath being impressed that they'd managed to get so close to Athenor without him knowing. The deception required to do so bespeaks a great deal of skill.*

*Yes, we all know how impressed you are with those who offered Rath the throne,* Brivari said impatiently. *Spare me the replay.*

*My point,* Jaddo said carefully, *is that if they were unable to warn you prior to the search, the next best thing would be to warn you during the search itself, which it appears they did with the intermittent flashing.*

*You think that was an attempt to warn me?*

*You got the message, didn't you? You managed to hide before the wash stabilized.*

*Only by a matter of seconds,* Brivari reminded him, *so it would appear your 'resistance' is tardy.*

*In an emergency, seconds can mean the difference between success and failure,* Jaddo argued. *Would you rather have not been warned?*

I would rather not have felt so incredibly exposed, Brivari thought. Not since the hunters had he needed to hide like this; it was a familiar and most uncomfortable sensation knowing that discovery could come from any direction at any moment with little or no time to react. And if the initial assault had been bad, the hour spent filming afterwards had been worse, waiting for the lights to reappear, conscious of the fact that he may have to disappear abruptly at any moment. They had not returned, but he had left the set that night knowing that neither could he, not to the set or his apartment. He could no longer take the risk of being in predictable places in any form.

*For what it's worth, there were reports of similar 'lights' in several different places around town last night,* Jaddo said. *They appear to have begun with the movie set and then moved on. I would wager you were not discovered.*

*We have no way of knowing that,* Brivari said. *They could have been waiting for me back here and been disappointed when I did not appear. This would have been the perfect place to waylay me.*

*Perhaps,* Jaddo allowed. *Although with humans in such close proximity, they would have risked waking them. And then there's the matter of how they would have apprehended you.*

*Yet another small detail left unaddressed by the oh-so-helpful 'resistance',* Brivari said sourly. *We have no idea how they intend to capture us, or even what they're using to produce that wash.*

*I believe I may,* Jaddo replied, settling back against the roof railing. *The letter referenced a single device which could both block our abilities and identify us. I'd wager that's the same device Amar used against me, albeit with an upgrade, when I attempted to rescue you when you were captured right after the crash.*

*Against my express orders,* Brivari muttered.

*Bygones,* Jaddo said calmly. *I've seen that device. It's pentagonal and small, pocket-sized, really.*

*Fascinating,* Brivari deadpanned. *And this is helpful....how?*

*The reports last night referenced patches of odd light as well as the intermittent flickering you observed,* Jaddo answered, ignoring Brivari's temper. *If they're using Amar's device to produce this wash, that would explain the uneven coverage; it's too small to cover a wide area.*

*They certainly covered a wide area on the set.*

*Which suggests there are several of these devices being used in concert,* Jaddo continued. *Those wielding them would need to stay within a certain perimeter in order to avoid gaps in the wash. We could use this information to locate the devices if and when they are used again.*

*You're forgetting that in order to locate them, we'll need to be close enough to be identified,* Brivari said testily. *At which point the 'ability blocking' feature would no doubt be brought into play.*

*And that had problems,* Jaddo said. *The prototype knocked out the compound's power source, plunging it into darkness and sending the humans into a tailspin.*

*And you don't think they've improved it?*

*They can only improve it to a certain extent,* Jaddo noted. *Make it weak enough that no one would notice, and it would no longer be effective. It may still attract the attention of the humans, which would buy us precious time to escape. That and the help of our Argilian allies.*

*For heaven's sake, Jaddo, we don't have Argilian allies!* Brivari snapped. *Your so-called 'warning' was likely nothing more than a technical malfunction. The sooner you let go of this notion that the 'resistance' will be of any help to us, the safer we'll be.*

Jaddo eyed him closely for a moment. *Perhaps you don't place much stock in my opinion, but I seem to recall you held my Ward in high esteem. Rath believed the resistance to be sincere; he simply rejected their offer.*

*Rath is not here to consult, and the resistance he encountered may not bear any resemblance to this 'resistance',* Brivari retorted. *So you'll forgive me if I'm not ready to toast a new alliance just yet.*

*Still, we'd be foolish to discount them without....where are you going?* Jaddo demanded as Brivari began walking away.

*I'm following Valenti.*

*Valenti hasn't left yet.*

*He will very soon,* Brivari answered. *I know where he's going next....and so do you. The least I can do is try to soften the blow.*

*Don't coddle him!* Jaddo called after him severely. *He made his choice years ago, and he knew perfectly well this could happen, probably would happen. Brivari....wait. Brivari!*





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




"I gave Eileen a call," Anthony said, setting another empty box on top of the already towering stack, "so she knows exactly when to expect us next week. She wanted to know if she could sublet from us again next summer, and I told her I wasn't sure."

"Mmm," Dee murmured, gazing out the window.

"I think I've got enough boxes," Anthony continued. "Your parents offered to help us pack, and.....no, Philip, don't play with Daddy's briefcase. C'mon, don't...."

Anthony sighed as the briefcase spilled open and papers cascaded over the floor. "Oops!" Philip said cheerfully, his new favorite word whenever he'd done something he shouldn't have because grown-ups forgot they were mad and smiled when he said it.

"You're not getting off that easy, buddy," Anthony said dryly. "Help me pick them up. That's a good boy," he added when Philip began handing him toddler-sized fistfuls of papers. "No, don't scrunch them....Dee, could I have a little help here?"

No answer. Anthony collected the rest of the papers in silence, locked his briefcase, and found his son something else to play with before joining his wife at the window.

"He still there?" he asked, looking down at the sheriff's cruiser parked in front of the house.

"Of course he is," Dee said tonelessly. "And he knows. I know he knows. He can't prove it, he'll probably never be able to prove it, but he knows."

"He probably does," Anthony agreed. "But I don't see any way out of this. After what happened last night, Brivari couldn't stick around, and leaving meant tripping Valenti's radar."

"Which will also trip the FBI's."

"Maybe," Anthony allowed, wrapping his arms around her. "But it's easier to avoid us than their own people. They've just got too many people chasing them, Dee. They had to go to ground."

"I know," she sighed, leaning her head against his arm. "I just can't believe that with everything that's going on, we have to walk away like nothing's going on."

"We're starting graduate school in less than two weeks," Anthony reminded her.

"I know, I know. I just wish this could have happened earlier."

"There's something I never expected," Anthony chuckled. "You were so reluctant to come here, and now you're reluctant to leave. But then you never did like to miss the action."

"It's not just that," Dee protested. "What about Courtney? She'll be all alone with that dictatorial father of hers and that woman who just got here, that Vanessa."

"Personally I'd worry about those in reverse order, but suit yourself," Anthony said. "And I still say it's because you don't want to miss anything."

Dee gave him a withering look. "I'm glad we're leaving," she insisted. "I don't want Philip in the middle of all this."

"Like your mother didn't want you in the middle of it?" Anthony said innocently.

"I've already admitted that, and to Mama, no less," Dee grumbled. "Do you really have to rub my nose in it?"

"Okay, that was a low blow," Anthony admitted. "But you have to admit there's truth to the notion that once you become a parent, your own parents look a lot different." He was quiet for a moment, staring out the window. "Do you remember the day we met?"

"Hard to forget. Ernie Hutton was playing that awful 'capture the alien' game in my backyard."

"And you wouldn't play," Anthony added. "And you punched him in the nose when he got mouthy."

"He was always mouthy," Dee muttered.

"Then there was the day River Dog and his sister were attacked at school, and you tried to fight off a gang of teenaged boys," Anthony went on. "And the Independence Day festival where Amar found us in the school after we'd watched the fireworks on the roof. And let's not forget when Jaddo escaped, and we spent the night at St. Brigit's with you right smack in the middle of a warring bunch of aliens. Kind of like you are now."

"Is there a point to this recital?" Dee demanded.

"Of course," Anthony answered calmly. "You don't want to miss the action because that's who you are, who you've always been. You've always been in the thick of things. I don't know if it's that you look for trouble, or if trouble looks for you because it knows you'll be an obstacle." He smiled faintly as she twisted around to give him one of "those" looks. "If I had to pick one moment in our lives to describe you, I'd pick that night at St. Brigit's when you went charging up the aisle, yelling at the top of your lungs to warn Malik about the gun. Quintessential Deanna."

"As I recall, I wasn't the only one 'in the thick of things', " Dee reminded him. "You went charging right up that aisle with me."

"No, after you," Anthony corrected. "I was in the thick of it because I was following you." He turned her around, tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "The point is you didn't waste time being scared; you never do. You're fearless. I'm only brave when I have to be, when I can't avoid it. You....you were born that way."

"Or 'reckless', depending on your point of view," Dee said. "One of the reasons Courtney's father bugs me so much is that he reminds me of how Mama felt about me when I was a kid. And I think you're selling yourself short," she added gently. "It's a lot harder to be brave when it doesn't come naturally. Maybe it really is just recklessness, which explains why it's harder for you. You're not the reckless type."

"Semantics," Anthony said dismissively, rocking her back and forth. "Call it what you like, it's why I love you, and why I know you'll make a great lawyer. Hell, if I had to go up against you, I'd advise my client to plead guilty and skip the trial. So don't act like there's something wrong with not wanting to miss the action. It's a part of you, you're good at it, and we both know there's bound to be some."

"Pickle?"

Dee and Anthony looked down to find Philip trying to worm his way between them. He never liked it when they hugged without him, preferring to be picked up and held between them. "Do you want to be the pickle in the middle, big guy?" Anthony asked, scooping up his son, who nodded enthusiastically.

A door closed below them. Three pairs of eyes looked out the window as Valenti was headed down the front walk to his car, striding purposefully like he knew exactly where he was going.




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



5 p.m.

Malik's apartment




When the knock came on his door, Malik looked up from the repair he was in the middle of and glanced at the clock. He'd expected this much earlier; that he'd gotten an entire day's worth of work done before it happened was something of a miracle. He set down his screwdriver and wiped his hands on a rag before opening the door.

"Hi Carl," Sheriff Valenti smiled, removing his hat. "Mind if I come in?"

"Not at all," Malik said, stepping back. "Aren't you expected home for dinner?"

"I seem to be missing dinner a lot these days," Valenti lamented. "It's just been one thing after another."

Same here, Malik thought. "So I've heard," he said out loud. "What can I do for you?"

"I had a few more questions about the day Miss Tate died," Valenti answered. "If you don't mind."

"Of course not. What would you like to know?"

"You said you were with Mr. Langley at the time Miss Tate was killed. And where was that again?"

"Right here."

"Langley came to your apartment?"

"On his lunch break," Malik nodded. "He wanted to know if something could be repaired."

"And what was that?"

"Some of the microphones on the set were giving the movie crew problems," Malik answered. "He wanted to see if there was anything I could do."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "And was there?"

"I was going to visit the set that afternoon, but....well....everyone got sidetracked. You know why."

"Yes...yes, I do," Valenti answered as he wandered around the apartment, his eyes everywhere. Malik waited, knowing this was only the opening salvo. "So if I recall correctly, you said you used to meet Mr. Langley at Parker's?"

"I said I met him for the first time at Parker's," Malik corrected.

"Right, right," Valenti said. "Tell me, did Langley ever mention his first name?"

"No. He just referred to himself as 'Langley'?"

"Anyone else ever mention his first name?"

"Not that I heard, but I didn't hang around with the movie crew."

"Have you seen Langley today, Carl?"

Malik glanced at the pile of repairs he had to deliver and decided to move this along. "No, I haven't. Sheriff, is there something specific you wanted? Not that I'm in a hurry, it's just that I've already answered most of these questions, and I've got to wonder why you're asking them again."

Valenti leaned against the windowsill, his hat tap tapping against the radiator below it. "Langley is missing, Carl. He didn't show up for work today, and he's not at his apartment."

Nor will he be, Malik thought heavily. Last night's assault had made it very clear that none of them could afford to be out in public for any length of time. "I see. I gather he didn't quit his job?"

"No. And Mrs. Bruce says she hasn't heard anything about him moving out."

"Maybe he had to leave suddenly?" Malik suggested.

"Like for a family emergency?"

Malik shrugged, knowing full well that was the excuse used for "Deputy Crist's" abrupt departure. "If he'd had to leave suddenly, I would imagine he would have told his employer, don't you?" Valenti asked.

"I really didn't know him, so I have no idea what he'd do," Malik answered.

"Right," Valenti said. He was quiet for a moment as Malik waited for the next round. They had known that "Langley's" disappearance would look very suspicious to Valenti, but it couldn't be helped. At the moment, the humans presented less of a threat than the Argilians.

"Carl," Valenti said slowly, "is there anyone else that saw Langley here on the day Miss Tate died?"

Malik shook his head. "As I told you before, not that I know of. I'm afraid you have only my word to go on, sheriff. I know you want more than that, and I wish had more to give you, but I don't. I'm sorry."

"I know," Valenti answered, nodding regretfully. "And God knows I've known you for years, unlike the inebriated Mr. Dean. When did you move here? It was the summer of 1950, wasn't it? July, I think. Don't remember seeing you before then."

Valenti paused as that last sentence hung in the air like lead. And lead was exactly what Malik's heart felt like as one of his worst nightmares came to life right in front of him. Whether or not he realized it, Valenti had not only jumped to the obvious conclusion, he had marched right past it to the next. "I did move here in the summer of 1950," Malik confirmed. "You seem to have a good memory for things that happened years ago, but you get mixed up on conversations from only a couple of days ago. I hear that happens as we get older."

Valenti smiled faintly, circling Malik's workbench. "Is that a television set?"

"Yes."

"Really? You repair televisions?"

"If I can," Malik answered. "This is one of the new color models from Magnavox, and Mrs. Parker was concerned about the size of the repair bill. I told her I'd take a look at it."

"Find anything?"

"Not yet."

"You'll find it," Valenti said confidently. "You have a reputation for being able to repair virtually anything....and I mean anything." He paused. "You're very handy, Carl. Some might say......extraordinarily so."

"Thank you, sheriff," Malik said softly. "I enjoy my work."

"It shows," Valenti said sincerely. "Well....you'll let me know if you see Mr. Langley again?"

"Of course."

"I'd appreciate that. Have yourself a good evening, Carl."

Malik closed the door behind him and leaned his head against it as a crushing wave of sadness washed over him. So....after all these years, it had finally come to this. He'd always known it would sooner or later, and he supposed that nine years likely qualified as "later". Even if it felt like "sooner".

A minute later, he straightened up and went back to his workbench; he had no idea how much time he had, so he'd best be moving along. The television was the last of his outstanding repairs, a simple repair from his perspective and a perfect example of what he'd struggled with these last several years. Earth technology was so very simple that it had been very tempting to fix everything, including that which he shouldn't have been able to fix. Doing so could attract attention, just like fixing this television would. But it didn't matter now, and Mrs. Parker was a nice lady who had sent him a lot of business. Might as well save her some money.

He heard faint sounds behind him, ignored them. When one had so little time, one enjoyed the little one had to the fullest. His next visitor could wait until he'd finished.

*I'm sorry,* Brivari said after several minutes had passed. *I didn't want this to happen.*

*None of us did,* Malik answered.

*But it will affect you the most.*

*It won't be the first time I've lived like that.*

*There are just too many enemies closing in from too many sides for any of us to hold one identity, Malik. If there were any other way—*

*I know.*

*Then why are you still working?*

*I'm going to finish this,* Malik said firmly, *and then I'm going to deliver everything I've repaired. If you have a problem with that, too bad.*

Brivari walked to the other side of the workbench and watched him in silence for a minute. *What is that?*

*A cathode ray tube. Colloquially known as a 'picture tube'. It produces the image on a television set. It's the imaging equivalent of a flint knife, but it works.*

*So did the flint knife,* Brivari observed. *I wasn't aware humans possessed the ability to repair something like that.*

*They don't.*

Malik waited for the lecture about caution, about discretion, about the risk of revealing themselves. A useless lecture at this point, but he was still surprised when it wasn't forthcoming.

*I could help you make your deliveries if you like,* Brivari offered.

*I can do it.*

*Of course you can. But you shouldn't be left alone. Not now.*

*I'll handle it.*

Brivari watched as Malik replaced the thread-like filament by shifting his hand into a shape not much larger than the filament itself. *Then make your deliveries,* he said, *and I will ward you as you finish your tasks.*

Malik blinked. *You will?*

*I am a Warder, am I not?*

Malik dropped his eyes. *A bit of a come down after warding kings, isn't it?*

*Not today,* Brivari said gently. *Not today.*




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


I'll post Chapter 53 next Sunday.

Hello everyone! Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it, and an extra big thank you to all who have stayed with this series. I've recently had some questions as to whether or not I intend to finish it, and I assure everyone I do--I've finished the book you're reading, and am currently writing the next book, where the hybrids have already popped out of their pods. It's fun to have the pod squad on their feet, even if they are small feet. Barring being hit by a bus, I will absolutely see this through to when Langley and Max clash in Secrets and Lies/Control....and hopefully that clash will make much more sense. (And Misha, the bus reference is for you. )






CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE



August 22, 1959, 7:00 a.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




Agent Owens looked up as Agent Cates set a cup of coffee on his desk in front of him. "Do I look that bad?" Owens asked dryly.

"Just thought you could use a pick-me-up," Cates shrugged. "Has he called?"

"No. But it's only been a couple of days, and coffee isn't going to help unless it's spiked."

Cates raised an eyebrow. "Drinking before eight in the morning? That's a bit much, even for me. Don't worry, he'll find something. He'll call."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll find something," Owens said. "But that doesn't mean he'll call. Valenti doesn't trust us, and I can't much blame him."

Cates pulled up a chair and sat down. "Then what can we do to change his mind? Because we both know you're toast if Valenti doesn't find something and hand it over."

Owens said nothing, tapping his pencil on his desk as he stared at his phone, willing it to ring. He hadn't told anyone about his private encounter with Valenti where the sheriff had accused the FBI of stealing something from him again. Owens had no idea what that something could have been—he could only hope it wasn't another communication device—but he thought he'd managed to convince Valenti he was wrong. The last two days had passed in tense silence as the entire Special Unit had abandoned their undercover assignments and convened in Santa Fe, waiting for Valenti to give them a target. And waiting. And waiting.

"Who's Lewis on the phone with?" Owens asked, glancing over Cates' shoulder at Lewis' closed office door. "Pierce's widow?"

"Perish the thought," Cates chuckled. "She's less than a month away from delivery and calling him every single day, sometimes multiple times a day; she's driving him crazy. But she called only half an hour ago, so that's a bit much even for her."

"Who, then?" Owens wondered. "He's been in there a while."

"I wouldn't worry," Cates said casually. "I'm sure if it was anything bad, we'd hear about it."

Lewis' door opened abruptly. "Owens!" he barked. "Come!"

"And I think we just heard about it," Cates murmured. "Sorry."

Owens sighed and rose from his chair, buttoning his jacket and straightening his tie. Might as well look put together while getting raked over the coals for whatever he was in trouble for now. Lewis' office was several yards away, but he could have sworn it was a lot closer because he reached it much too quickly.

"Sit," Lewis ordered.

Owens obeyed, knowing it couldn't be good if Lewis had been reduced to one word commands. "Do you know who that was on the phone, agent?" Lewis asked in a deadly voice.

"Mrs. Pierce?" Owens ventured.

"Don't I wish," Lewis said darkly. "That, Agent Owens, was the Director, wanting to know why we no longer have agents in Roswell despite the fact that there has just been a strange death there."

Owens opened his mouth to ask how the Director could have known that, but stopped himself just in time. That would be an exceptionally stupid question regarding J. Edgar Hoover, the man who had made it his business to compile dossiers on everyone and their mother. If he really wanted to, Hoover could find out whether you wiped from the left or the right, so it wouldn't be a stretch for him to have agents watching agents.

"What did you say, sir?" Owens asked.

Lewis gave him a withering look. "Why, I simply informed Director Hoover that one of his agents had been sniffed out by a local sheriff and tossed in a cell. And that circumstances had demanded that we go sucking up to said sheriff and beg his help, as though the resources of the FBI were insufficient. What do you think I said?" he snapped as Owens flinched. "I did the only thing I could under the circumstances—I lied. I told him we were on the brink of something big, that I found it best to minimize our presence as I prepared my entire unit to move in lest we tip off the suspects."

"Good thinking, and very true, sir," Owens said. "Sheriff Valenti—"

"Yes, yes, Valenti is brilliant, Valenti is wise, Valenti is all knowing," Lewis interrupted sharply. "And at the moment, Valenti is useless because the mighty Valenti has produced precisely nothing. Here we sit on our collective asses waiting for Valenti to point the way, and so far, the great investigator has uncovered squat!"

"We don't know that, sir," Owens protested. "It's only been a couple of days; it took him a month to find me. Just give him a little more time—"

"We don't have time, agent!" Lewis exclaimed angrily. "I have a suspicious death in Roswell and no agents there! Do you have any idea how that looks? I had an agent in the sheriff's station, perfectly positioned to gather intelligence, and now I don't! Would you like to take a stab at explaining that to the Director?"

Owens swallowed hard. "No, sir. And with all due respect, you already explained it to him. That was no lie, sir."

"Oh, wasn't it?" Lewis demanded. "Where's my 'something big', agent? Where is all the wonderful information you swore Valenti could produce? Because I need it. Now."

"Sir....I don't know what to say," Owens said desperately, perspiration trickling down his back. "I honestly believe that Valenti is the best one to lead us to the aliens. If he hadn't found me, if I were still at the station, that's what I'd be doing: Following him around. We would only know as much as he knows. He knows his town, he knows the residents, they know him....if strangers start nosing around, the aliens are bound to notice. And Valenti will notice too, which means he'll stop cooperating with us. We can't afford that."

"Oh, is that what you think?" Lewis said acidly. "Let's review—this is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. More specifically, this is a special unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the most top secret unit it has, a unit which answers only to the Director himself. While it might be convenient to have a local sheriff drop intelligence in our lap, it's hardly necessary. We are the FBI. We take what we need for the safety of the American people."

"I'm aware of the command structure, sir," Owens said carefully, "but legally—"

"There is no 'legally'," Lewis interrupted. "We are above the law."

Owens blinked. "Sir, no one is above the law."

Lewis picked up the telephone receiver and held it out to Owens. "Perhaps you'd like to call the Director and tell him he has misinterpreted the parameters of his position?"

Silence. Owens stared at the receiver hovering in mid-air, his hands clenched in his lap. "Of course I wouldn't," he answered, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I don't have a death wish. But the fact remains that our only hope of fingering the aliens is to work with Valenti, not against him. If we march into Roswell and try to take this out of Valenti's hands, we will fail. And at the end of the day, failure will be much harder to explain to the Director than why you don't have an agent there at the moment."

"You forget, I've already explained that," Lewis retorted. "I've told him we're poised to move in, and the longer I wait, the longer I sit here with all my agents recalled but not moving, the more apparent it will become that I'm lying."

"You're not lying!" Owens said desperately. "You're waiting for intel from a skilled investigator who already located an alien device! That must count for something!"

"How do you know he didn't stumble across that thing by sheer accident?" Lewis said impatiently. "So he's nosy. Or suspicious, or paranoid, or any other synonym you choose to employ. None of that makes him 'skilled'."

"My point is that 'moving' won't do us any good if we're moving blind," Owens argued. "That will just lead to the aforementioned failure, and I'm betting that's a phone call you do not want to make. We can't afford to go blundering around with no target."

"And my point is we may never acquire the information to acquire the target without agents on the scene," Lewis retorted. "I've given your wonder boy two full days. That's all I can afford."

"Sir, wait!" Owens begged, springing to his feet. "At least talk to him first. Knowing Valenti, he already suspects someone. Maybe if he hears you're at the end of your rope, he'll tell you. It couldn't hurt to ask, especially if I'm right and ripping this out of his hands means certain failure. Shouldn't we try everything we can think of before you have to place that call to Director Hoover?"

Owens held his breath as a parade of emotions marched across Lewis' face, some of which he sympathized with, some of which he'd rather not identify. "Get him on the phone," Lewis said finally as Owens nearly collapsed with relief. "And you'd better hope he's an early riser, because if he's not in yet, he's through."




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Good morning, sheriff," Hanson said, looking up in surprise. "We weren't expecting you in this morning."

"I couldn't sleep," Valenti said. "Did you reach the judge?"

"Yes, sir. He said that in light of the fact that it's Saturday and he has family plans, he could see his way clear to postponing Miss Crawford's hearing until Monday morning."

"Good," Valenti answered, wondering if that was the judge's way of giving him more time to lean on the lovely Miss Crawford, an indictment of her behavior, or simple good luck. Regardless, it was welcome. "Have you told her yet?"

"No, sir, I was leaving that honor for you."

"There's one thing to look forward to, at least," Valenti sighed. "Anything else?"

"Is....something wrong, sir?" Hanson asked.

"Why?"

"You were so happy yesterday morning, and now.....you don't look so good. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'll live," Valenti said. "I'll be in my office. Don't bother me unless it's important."

"Yes, sir."

You wouldn't look so good either if you'd been awake all night, Valenti added silently, feeling everyone's eyes on him as he headed for his office. He'd alternately tossed and turned or paced the floor last night, lost in thought until a gray morning had dawned which perfectly matched his mood. His wife and son had watched him with equal measures of curiosity and alarm; neither had actually asked him what was wrong, but both were itching to. Which is why he'd come here, where he could close a door and think in peace on what should be a relatively quiet Saturday morning. Not that thinking would help much; he'd been thinking all night with no success, no resolution. How did one resolve the niggling feeling that someone they'd known for years was not who he said he was? Instinct told him that Langley was somehow involved in the death of Audrey Tate, if not her actual killer. But if that was true, that meant that Carl Smith, long time Roswell handyman and well known upstanding citizen, was lying. And Valenti could think of no good reason that Carl would be willing to lie for an alleged visitor he'd only just met unless he followed his other instincts as well. Instincts that had led him to draw parallels between the fantastic behavior Charles Dean had described and the behavior of the aliens back in the forties. Instincts which had noted that Carl had appeared in town just after the escape of the so-called "AWOL soldier" from Eagle Rock in 1950, and that he had an uncanny knack for fixing just about anything. Neither of which proved he was an alien, of course, but it certainly justified further investigation. If only he weren't so afraid of what he'd find.

There was a knock on the door. Great; he'd been here less than ten minutes, and already he was being interrupted. "What?" he called in exasperation.

Hanson poked his head in. "Sorry, sir," he said apologetically, "but there's a phone call—"

"Take a message."

"Yes, sir, but they say it's important—"

"Isn't it always?" Valenti muttered. "Who is it?"

"Someone named 'Louis'. Wouldn't give a last name. He insisted I get you, got quite snippy about it."

Lewis. Well, well. Maybe this gloomy Saturday morning was looking up after all; perhaps Agent Lewis was calling to inquire after his lost "reporter". "I'll take it," he said to Hanson. "In private," he added pointedly when Hanson hesitated, hoping for an explanation. He waited until the door was firmly closed before picking up the receiver.

"Good morning, sheriff," Lewis' smooth voice came over the line, the patronizing undercurrent all the more noticeable in the absence of a face. "I'm glad to see you're up early."

"I thought Agent Owens was my contact," Valenti said. "What could possibly make you stoop to contacting me directly? Maybe because you've lost something? Or perhaps I should say someone."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Lewis answered coldly, "but I do wish you'd stop wasting our mutually valuable time and spit it out."

"Your 'reporter'?" Valenti prompted. "The one who broke into Doctor Blake's office to get at Tate's body? Quite the looker, or she was, anyway. She's finding personal hygiene to be a challenge in my jail."

"Did something happen to the body?" Lewis asked sharply. "I left that body in your care at your insistence, so if it has been compromised, I swear to God I'll have you charged with hindering a federal investigation."

Valenti paused; Lewis sounded genuinely worried, certainly not what would be expected if he'd sent Miss Crawford. "Relax, agent. I anticipated the break-in, and I was there when she arrived. She never got near it."

"Really?" Lewis said, the faintest note of admiration in his voice. "Commendable. I gather you think I sent this woman?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Valenti deadpanned. "I'm sure it would never occur to you to be so unprofessional as to send spies into the office of a fellow law enforcement agency."

"Sheriff, there are certain things in life that are immutable," Lewis answered, ignoring his sarcasm. "Besides the old stand-bys of death and taxes, there is also the fact that I loathe females. They pollute our thinking with their emotional baggage and ultimately serve no purpose I can think of save for breeding. I can assure you the sun will never dawn on the day when I would consent to a woman in my employ. Whoever your 'reporter' is, she has nothing to do with me. Is there anything else you'd like to accuse me of?"

"Not at the moment," Valenti said warily, making a mental note to never, ever let Andi hear what he'd just heard lest she commit murder.

"Good. I'm calling to find out if you have any leads regarding Audrey Tate's killers."

"I would have thought a 'bureau of investigation' would have realized that most investigations take longer than forty-eight hours," Valenti said dryly.

"This hardly belongs under the heading of 'most investigations', especially when I have J. Edgar Hoover breathing down my neck, wondering why I have no agents on site," Lewis answered tersely. "What do I tell him, sheriff? I've honored my end of our agreement and stayed away, but you have yet to contact us. Do you have any leads? Anything at all?"

Valenti leaned back in his chair, one hand tapping on the desk. "I might have a lead," he said slowly, "but—"

"Excellent! Who?"

"—I'm still working on it. It's too early to name names."

"And it's too late for me to wait any longer," Lewis insisted. "If you've identified a suspect, we'll take it from there."

"The moment that 'suspect' sees you coming, he'll vanish," Valenti argued, privately noting that one suspect already had. "The easiest way to scare him off is to have you and yours come charging in here—"

"Let us worry about that," Lewis interrupted. "Who is it?"

"—which means none of us will learn anything," Valenti finished. "Is that what you want?"

"Sheriff, you agreed to provide us with leads," Lewis said. "Now you say you have a lead, and you're withholding it. Which means you're willingly breaking our agreement, a fact I find amusing given that you just accused me of being the one to break it. Tell me what you know, or I'll have my agents there in a matter of hours."

"Do that, and I'll tell you nothing," Valenti retorted, "and you'll be stuck blundering around town while your target gets away. I'd love to be a fly on the wall when you explain that to Hoover."

A heavy silence followed punctuated only by the sound of Valenti's own breathing. For a moment, he wondered if Lewis had hung up, but there was no dial tone. He clamped his mouth shut, forcing himself to leave the ball in Lewis' court. He'd sit here all day if he had to.....

"You have forty-eight hours," Lewis said finally. "If we haven't heard from you by then, I will send in my agents and you will give us whatever information you have on possible suspects."

"Assuming I have any information," Valenti countered. "Our 'agreement' was that I would investigate in a field where you'd been compromised. There was never any guarantee that investigation would produce anything useful."

"It already has," Lewis answered. "You said you had a suspect."

"I said I might have a suspect," Valenti corrected. "If it doesn't pan out—"

"I don't care if it 'pans out' or not," Lewis said sharply. "If you have not contacted my unit by Monday morning, the FBI will take over this investigation, and you will turn over all information regarding it to me, including hunches, suppositions, and suspects that didn't 'pan out'. Given that I already have your admission that there is at least one name on that list, announcing there are no suspects is not an option. Do that, and I will take you up on your generous offer and have not only you arrested, but your opinionated wife and nosy son as well."

Valenti's heart nearly stopped. "Are you threatening me?" he demanded. "Are you threatening my family?"

"You need to ask?" Lewis said. "You may be cavalier about your own freedom, but I'll wager you feel differently about your family's. There are times when people need some....incentive."

"How dare you!" Valenti shouted into the phone. "You bastard! You can't—"

"Of course I can," Lewis broke in. "I have the resources of the FBI behind me, as well as Director Hoover, who wouldn't give you an additional forty-eight hours, by the way, and who likely would have never given you the first forty-eight. Consider yourself fortunate."

Fortunate? Valenti's heart raced as he realized Lewis had him in a stranglehold. Hoover was well known as a bastard in his own right, every bit as bad as Joe McCarthy. They could indeed arrest his entire family, make up some charges, deny them due process; it certainly wouldn't be the first time Hoover would have pulled a stunt like that. "If you so much as go near my family," Valenti said angrily, "I'll—"

"Spare me the schoolboy bleatings," Lewis said coldly. "I have it on good authority that you know how the game is played, so you know as well as I do that it does not do to make idle threats. And this is no idle threat. Remember that while you're 'investigating'. I'll see you Monday morning. One way or another."

The line went dead. Valenti stared at the phone for a second before slamming the receiver down. No time for introspection now, no time for pondering how to handle this. Lewis wanted blood, and if he didn't get some, he'd take Andi's and Jimmy's. What if there's no blood to give him? Valenti thought as he hurried out of the office. What if he wound up fingering innocent blood in order to save his wife and son?

"Sir?" Hanson called as Valenti sailed past the front desk. "Where are you—"

"Out. I'll get back to you."

"But....Miss Crawford....you were going to speak to her...."

"You'll have to do it," Valenti said. "Keep your distance. That one's got claws."

Valenti had to resist the urge to speed in his own town as he whisked down Main Street. Fortunately Carl's rooming house wasn't far away, and he'd barely turned off the engine before he was jogging up the stairs and knocking on Carl's door. "Carl, it's Sheriff Valenti," he called. "I need to talk to you right away."

No answer. Valenti checked his watch; it was unlikely that Carl would be out and about at this hour. "Carl!" he called again, knocking harder. "I'm sorry to bother you so early, but it's really important. Open up."

Still nothing. A roomer exited the room next door with a towel over his shoulder, eyeing Valenti warily before heading for the bathroom. Valenti waited until he was inside before pulling a lock pick out of his pocket; a few seconds later, Carl's door swung open. "Carl? Are you here?"

He wasn't. The bed was neatly made, the workbench littered with tools, clothes were in the closet, and laundry in the hamper...but no Carl. "Hey!" Valenti called, spying the roomer across the hall retrieving his newspaper. "Do you know Carl? Do you know where he is?"

"Haven't seen him since yesterday," the roomer answered.

"Damn it!" Valenti muttered, heading back to his car. "Damn it!"




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



Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Rose said you could keep anything she gave you," Emily said as she opened a cupboard door, "and the same goes for me. If there's anything you can use, you're welcome to it."

"We'll just have to be careful to leave room for us in the car," Dee said. "Whatever we take has to fit in the trunk because Anthony, Philip, and me will fill up the back seat."

Dee stood amid piles of boxes as she and her mother packed up the contents of the apartment. They weren't actually leaving until early next week, but packing took time, and Dee hated packing, so she'd taken Emily up on her offer to help while Anthony kept Philip busy in town where he couldn't unpack what they were packing. "You can have whatever perishables are left," Dee said, peering into the fridge. "I doubt anything would be edible by the time we reached Albuquerque."

"Pity there isn't a way to get it there," Emily said. "It would save you money. Are you and Anthony keeping your part-time jobs from last year?"

"Yup," Dee replied, not elaborating. Things may be much better between her and her mother, but some subjects were still best not discussed.

"I honestly don't know how you do it," Emily sighed. "Working, going to school, raising a child. Where do you find the time to do all that?"

"I'm talented," Dee said lightly. "Pass me another box?"

"But does Philip even get to see you?" Emily pressed. "How could he between classes and homework and 'work work'?"

"Mama—"

"And I can't imagine Anthony's schedule is any better, so—"

"Mama!"

Emily stopped. "Sorry. I just—sorry," she finished, flushing. "Old habits die hard. Well.....if everything you want won't fit, you could set things aside and take them back some other time. Is this our year for Thanksgiving or Christmas?"

"Thanksgiving," Dee answered. "We'll be with Anthony's parents for Christmas."

"Oh, they'll love that," Emily smiled. "Philip will be just old enough to appreciate the decorations." She paused, fitting towels into a box. "I was hoping you'd at least consider staying at the house for Thanksgiving. Assuming I didn't just ruin my chances, that is."

Dee smiled faintly. "I won't expect you to be perfect if you won't expect me to be perfect either."

"Was that a 'yes'?"

"More like a 'probably'," Dee admitted. "It's not you; I just can't think that far ahead, not with everything else that's going on. It's hard enough with Anthony and me both going back to school, but then there's everything I'm leaving behind here. All hell is breaking loose, and I'll be walking out right in the middle of it."

"You mean Courtney?" Emily asked, glancing toward Courtney's apartment across the hall. "This fight was going on long before we ever heard of it, and I'm betting it'll go on long after we're out of the picture. They'll just have to hash it out on their own."

"That's what Anthony said," Dee sighed.

"Then you should listen," Emily advised. "Anthony was always smart. Even when he was young."

"But it's not just the aliens," Dee said. "What about the actress, and the FBI, and all that?"

"What about it?" Emily asked. " 'Langley' has disappeared, which means anyone looking will find nothing, it'll all come to a dead end, and they'll all go home."

"You hope," Dee muttered.

There was a knock on the door. "Dee, are you in there?" a voice called.

Dee stood stock still, the look on her mother's face making it clear that she, too, had recognized the voice. "He never calls me by my first name," she said worriedly.

More knocking. "I need to talk to you," the voice insisted. "It's important."

"Three guesses what that's about," Dee sighed.

"You can't blame him, Deanna," Emily said quietly. "A woman is dead in his town; he's just doing his job." She paused. "Well? Aren't you going to let him in?"

"Can't we just sit here real quiet like and pretend we're not here?" Dee asked hopefully, rolling her eyes when her mother gave her a withering look, wiping her dusty hands on a towel before opening the door to find a clearly agitated sheriff.

"Hi," Dee said. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that," Valenti answered, his voice tense as he nodded to Emily. "I'm looking for somebody, somebody I just can't seem to find."

"Oh. Right. Mrs. Bruce mentioned something about you looking for Mr. Langley," Dee said. "Sorry, I never knew him. Only saw him once or twice."

"Not him," Valenti said. "I'm looking for Langley too, but at the moment, I can't find Carl Smith. Have you seen him?"

Dee and Emily exchanged glances. Malik? Why would Valenti be looking for Malik? "Not today," Dee hedged. "Why?"

"I can't find him anywhere!" Valenti exclaimed. "He made some deliveries last night, but no one seems to have seen him since then. Everyone knows Carl, someone should have seen him. His apartment doesn't look like he's left, so—"

"Wait," Dee broke in. "How could you be in his apartment if you can't find him?"

"With this," Valenti said severely, removing a lock pick from his pocket. "And before you give me chapter and verse about warrants, you might like to know that the FBI is breathing down my neck looking for leads in the Audrey Tate case. And since the man accused of killing her has apparently disappeared, the next logical step is the one who gave that man an alibi. I need to get to Carl before the FBI does."

"You think Carl is lying?" Emily asked.

"I don't know what to think," Valenti said in exasperation, pacing back and forth in front of them as though he just couldn't bear to be still. "I'd hate to throw an innocent man to Hoover's dogs, but...." He paused, glancing around the apartment. "Are we alone?"

"Yes," Dee said slowly. "But why—"

"Is Carl Smith an alien?" Valenti demanded.

Dee watched her mother's eyes widen as her own heart began to race. Valenti must be desperate indeed to ask such a bald question, a question she couldn't answer, not truthfully at any rate. And yet Emily was right—Valenti was just doing his job. And she was impeding that job. She, a future lawyer, was standing in the way of the law she was about to study. It was not a pleasant thought.

"So....you not only think Carl is lying, you think he's an alien?" Emily asked carefully.

"Why not?" Valenti asked. "He arrived here in July of 1950, right after the alien the Army captured escaped. He can fix virtually anything mechanical, including things no one thought repairable. This 'Langley' has up and vanished, which is mighty suspicious, Carl says Langley was with him when Audrey Tate died, yet no one else saw them, so no one can back them up. I talked to Carl just last night, and now he's gone. Why would they both run unless they both had something to hide?"

Oh my God. Dee leaned against the chair behind her as the implications of what Valenti was saying sank in. Obviously Malik had realized that the sheriff was getting too close and vanished right along with Brivari....and that was going to kill him. Malik loved living here, loved his little fix-it business, his friends, everything. To lose that, to have to start over somewhere else, would be a huge blow.

"Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?" Emily suggested. "I'm certain Carl wasn't the only one who arrived in town at that time, plenty of people are handy with machinery, and there's no reason to think he's run away just because you haven't found him yet."

"Did you hear me?" Valenti demanded. "The FBI is sniffing around here! They planted one of their agents in my office—it was sheer luck I found out about it—and now they say they're rolling into town on Monday morning unless I give them some information."

"So let them come," Emily said. "You can't give them information you don't have."

"I wish it were that simple," Valenti said. "They threatened to arrest me and my family if I don't name names."

"Oh, dear," Emily said faintly.

"So when they find out Carl gave Langley an alibi and Langley's missing, they'll go for Carl," Valenti continued. "If Carl's not an alien, maybe he was threatened by them. Or maybe he's telling the truth, but there's no way to prove that. I could be handing over an innocent man to people who don't give a damn about his rights."

"All right, slow down," Emily said soothingly. "First of all, you need to get your family out of here, somewhere safe, somewhere the FBI can't find them."

"This is the FBI!" Valenti exclaimed. "Who knows how many other agents they have around here? There's nowhere I could put my family where they wouldn't know about it, where—"

"Sheriff!" Emily said sharply, bringing his outburst to a halt. "Jim," she added more gently. "Don't forget, I've been in your shoes. My family was threatened. I fought it, and so can you. Let us help you—"

"The only way you can help is if you can produce either Langley or Carl Smith," Valenti said. "And apparently you can't. Sorry to bother you."

"Jim, wait," Emily called after him as he headed back out into the hallway, pounding down the stairs, letting the front door slam behind him, drawing a squawk from Mrs. Bruce. "Jim!"

"Too late," Dee whispered, looking out the front window. "He's already in his car." She turned to her mother, unable to believe what she'd just heard. "Do you think they'll do that, Mama? Do you really think they'd arrest his entire family?"

"Of course they would," Emily said, picking up the phone. "You do remember what the Army did to us, don't you?"

"But we were just ordinary people," Dee protested. "Valenti is a sheriff. Law enforcement agencies should work together, should—"

"I really hate to burst your rose-colored bubble, Deanna, but why should law enforcement agencies be any different than the military?" Emily asked, the receiver to her ear. "They're all run by people, fallible people, power hungry people, people with—good morning," she finished, turning her attention to the phone. "This is Emily Proctor. I need to speak with Sheriff Wilcox. No, I do not want a deputy, I want George Wilcox. Give him my name, and tell him it's urgent."



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



On the set of "They Are Among Us"




Morton Steinfeld slapped his script down in exasperation when the sheriff appeared on the opposite side of the set. Here things had just been going right for the first time in several days, and now Roswell's resident monkey wrench on two legs was about to disrupt that fragile equilibrium. "Sheriff," Steinfeld called with his best public relations smile, intercepting Valenti before he got very far, "this isn't a good time. Perhaps you could come back later."

"I need to speak to everyone who had any contact with your clapper loader," Valenti announced.

"Good morning to you too," Steinfeld said stiffly. "And as I said, this isn't a good time. Perhaps later—"

"I don't have 'time'," Valenti broke in sharply. "I need to know everything anyone can tell me about that clapper loader, and I need to know now. Shut this all down and line everyone up. I'll use your office."

Steinfeld's mouth set in a thin line; the most useful lesson his clapper loader had taught him was how to deal with a bully. "You will do nothing of the sort," he said firmly. "I've had quite enough delays with cast members either dead, inebriated, or in shock. You've already been here several times and talked to everyone, so if you want another go-round, it will have to wait."

"I said now!" Valenti exclaimed, grabbing Steinfeld by the collar, "or I swear to God, I'll lock everyone up until I've talked to them!"

"Get your hands off me!" Steinfeld demanded, giving Valenti a hard shove. "Who the hell do you think you are, manhandling me like this? The FBI?"

Valenti blinked, abruptly releasing him. "That's better," Steinfeld said huffily, repositioning his neck tie. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

The rest of that sentence was cut off as Valenti caught his arm in a death grip and steered him toward his office. "Shut up, and listen to me," Valenti said severely as Steinfeld began to protest, closing the office door behind them. "Do you remember the day we met, Mr. Steinfeld? You asked me if I'd seen aliens back in the forties."

"And you said you hadn't," Steinfeld retorted, wrenching his arm away from Valenti. "What of it?"

"I lied," Valenti said flatly. "I did see aliens back in the forties. What would you think if I were to tell you that one of your crew members might be an alien?"





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


I'll be busy over Thanksgiving weekend, so I'll be posting Chapter 54 on Sunday, December 7th.

Hello to everyone reading!

kj4ever wrote:Oh. My. God.

Guess that make-up lady Liz met in Season 3 (Mrs. Covendale?) was right when she said Valenti caused "quite a stir with that alien business".







CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR


August 22, 1959, 12:30 p.m.

Parker's Diner



Courtney looked up nervously as the bell on the diner's door dingled, but it was just one of the regulars coming in for lunch. She had looked up in terror every single time that door had opened today, expecting it to be either Vanessa or her father telling her that Vanessa was free. While they were all fervently hoping that she wouldn't be able to get her hearing on a weekend, there was no way to tell for certain what was going on without asking outright, which would invite questions as to why they wanted to know. Dee was busy packing to leave—and sending her back to ask questions a second time was risky anyway—while her father and Nathaniel were on the alert for any further information about the dead actress or Vanessa's reappearance. Everything seemed to be at a standstill. It was a nerve-wracking position to be in, waiting for the other shoe to drop and hoping it didn't.

"Here he comes again," Nancy muttered beside her.

"Who?" Courtney asked.

"That Mr. Anderson," Nancy answered. "You know, Mr. Langley's friend? He was in here first thing this morning, even before you got here, out of his mind with worry. Nobody's seen Langley in over a day now."

I know, Courtney thought heavily, eyeing Mr. Anderson through the front window. An unfortunate side effect of Vanessa's Warder hunt was that Brivari had had to abandon the persona of Langley, for obvious reasons. And an unfortunate side effect of that side effect was that Valenti was now suspicious of "Langley", whereas he hadn't been earlier. But there was nothing to be done about that, and it was far better to be chased by humans than by their own kind. Poor Mr. Anderson had been left out in the cold, something she could have assured him would happen even back when they'd first met. Nothing good ever came from contact with Covari. Ask anyone on Antar.

"Miss Harris!" Mr. Anderson exclaimed, latching onto her the very moment his foot crossed the threshold. "May I speak with you on a matter of great urgency?"

"Sure," Courtney replied, not needing to guess what the "matter of great urgency" was. "What can I do for you?"

Mr. Anderson slid onto one of the counter stools and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "When was the last time you saw Mr. Langley?"

"Day before yesterday," Courtney answered, "when he came in for dinner."

"Oh, dear," Mr. Anderson fretted. "That was the last I saw of him too. He hasn't shown up for work on the set, and no one's seen him at his apartment."

"Maybe he left because that actor fingered him?" Courtney suggested.

"Nonsense," Mr. Anderson scoffed. "Langley is many things, but easily intimidated isn't one of them. No well-oiled dandy would have sent him packing, I can promise you that. But I can't imagine why he would have left....well, actually I can imagine," he amended. "I'm thinking someone may have done him an injury."

"What, like....beat him up, or something?"

"You saw that Mr. Dean," Mr. Anderson said, his tone making it clear what he thought of "that Mr. Dean". "I wouldn't put it past him to have hired some thugs to go after Langley. I'm quite certain Dean wouldn't have handled that himself. He might have mussed his hair."

Courtney smiled faintly, well aware that Mr. Dean was fussier about his appearance than Miss Tate had ever been. "I wouldn't worry about Langley. I'm sure he's okay, even if you can't find him."

"I don't see how you could be," Mr. Anderson said. "Langley was incredibly intelligent, but he didn't look...well....pardon my bluntness, but I never got the impression that he would know how to defend himself physically."

"Looks can be deceiving," Courtney said lightly. "I'm betting he'd be more than a match for anything life threw at him."

"You're kind," Mr. Anderson said, patting her hand, "but naïve, I'm afraid. I know that Langley wouldn't have been scared off by the tragic, but completely accidental death of Miss Tate, so there must be some other reason he's gone, and I'm terrified of what that reason may be. I'm seriously considering going to the sheriff."

"What? No! I mean...." Courtney stopped, flustered, as Mr. Anderson stared at her in surprise. "Do you really think that's a good idea?" she continued. "The sheriff may think his being gone means he's guilty."

"Then I shall inform the sheriff he is seriously mistaken," Mr. Anderson said stoutly. "It's the sheriff's job to protect the citizens of this town, and Langley's disappearance could easily mean that he was the victim of foul play. Why wouldn't it be a good idea to inform him?"

Because we need to get the sheriff off this subject as soon as possible, Courtney thought, her mind racing to come up with an explanation she could actually say out loud. The more Valenti suspected Langley, the longer Vanessa was likely to hang around. And the longer she hung around, the longer the resistance would have to wait before they had any chance of approaching the Warders, and the more likely it would be that Nicholas would send in reinforcements. They needed this to die down fast, needed the trail to grow cold quickly so that Nicholas would think the Warders had fled and search elsewhere.

"Look, I didn't know him well," she said, "but deep down, I really believe nothing bad has happened to him. I just don't see how anything could."

"Why ever not?" Mr. Anderson asked.

Why not indeed? Courtney thought, her argument sounding lame even to herself. "I can't explain it," she said carefully, "but Mr. Langley just seemed too....too....powerful to have anything happen to him. Do you know what I mean?"

"He had a powerful intellect, and a profound effect on others," Mr. Anderson agreed, "but he was hardly immune to physical harm. Suppose someone put a bullet in him?"

"With all the people in town, someone would have heard a gunshot and reported it," Courtney reasoned. "The sheriff would have been all over it."

"A knife, then," Mr. Anderson persisted. "There are many ways to kill a man, Miss Harris, not all of them noisy. He could be lying in an alley somewhere!"

Courtney leaned closer and put her hand over Mr. Anderson's. "He's fine," she said firmly. "I know he is. I can feel it."

Mr. Anderson gave her a wan smile as he placed his hand over hers. "You're a dear girl to try and cheer me up, and I do hope you're right, but....Mr. Parker!" he exclaimed, popping off his stool. "Do excuse me, Miss Harris, but Mr. Parker may have heard something."

And he was off, trotting right into the kitchen, narrowly missing Nancy, who was coming through with a large tray. Poor guy; he had no idea what was going on, and he never would. "Who does he think he is, barging back there like that?" Nancy huffed on her way past.

"He's worried, is all," Courtney said.

"Worried doesn't mean you can help yourself to the kitchen," Nancy grumbled. "And here comes another one. Just shoot me, would you?"

Courtney followed Nancy's gaze, and stiffened. It was Valenti, the bell on the door jangling loudly as he whipped the door open, his expression making it clear he was on the warpath. "I need to talk to you," he said to Nancy and Courtney, "and any other employees who are here today."

"All right," Nancy said. "Just let me deliver these lunches, and—"

"Now," Valenti interrupted. "Put the tray down. Lunch can wait."

Nancy's mouth set in a thin line. "Are you familiar with the word 'please', sheriff?" she asked sharply. "You should try it some time."

Valenti fixed her with a stare that could have frozen boiling water. "I don't have time for this," he said flatly. "Not today. Put the tray down."

Uh oh. Courtney's eyebrows rose and Nancy blinked before setting the tray down on the counter. Valenti was persistent as a bulldog and not afraid to bend the rules to find out what he wanted to know, but he had always been unfailingly polite. This was very unusual.

"Mr. Langley, the clapper loader on the movie, is missing," Valenti announced. "I'm told he ate here at lot, and I need to know who he usually sat with."

"I can answer this one," Courtney said quickly before Nancy could say anything. "Why don't you deliver your lunches before they get cold while I help out the sheriff."

"Thanks, hon," Nancy said, throwing Valenti a dark look before bustling off with her tray.

"Langley ate with just about everyone from the movie, especially the tech crew," Courtney told Valenti, resisting the urge to look at the kitchen door, hoping Mr. Anderson would stay back there while she got rid of the sheriff. "And Miss Tate. He sat with her a lot."

"They crew told me about an older man, some kind of UFO nut," Valenti said. "Who was that?"

"Not sure," Courtney said evasively. "I think he was one of those people just passing through for the movie."

"So you didn't get his name?"

"Nope."

"Then what'd he look like?"

The kitchen door opened. Like that, Courtney sighed inwardly as Mr. Anderson appeared. "Sheriff!" he exclaimed as though he'd just discovered a long lost friend. "I've been meaning to talk to you."

"And you are....."

"James Anderson," Mr. Anderson announced, "a friend of Mr. Langley's. I'm very worried about him. I haven't seen him since the day before yesterday."

Valenti's eyes flicked back to Courtney. "Is this the guy?"

"Yeah," Courtney said heavily.

"Have you already spoken to him, then?" Mr. Anderson asked, beaming as though Courtney had just done him a great favor. "How very—"

"Mr. Anderson, I need you to come with me," Valenti interrupted.

"Where?" Mr. Anderson asked.

"Down to the station. I have some questions for you."

"And I for you as well," Mr. Anderson nodded enthusiastically, consulting his watch. "Shall we meet in an hour or so?"

"No. Now."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I have another engagement in a half hour," Mr. Anderson said. "But—"

"Perhaps you misunderstood me," Valenti broke in. "I need you to come with me now. It's not a request."

Mr. Anderson blinked, then looked at Courtney, who could only throw him a sympathetic look. "I see," he said slowly. "May I ask why?"

"You may not," Valenti answered. "It'd be nice if you came quietly, but I'm prepared if you won't."

"Do I....need a lawyer?" Mr. Anderson ventured.

"You're not under arrest," Valenti replied. "I'm just asking some friendly questions."

"Pardon me, sheriff, but there is nothing the least bit 'friendly' about your manner," Mr. Anderson said tartly. "Either I need a lawyer, or you need to adjust your tone."

Courtney watched with interest to see who would win this battle of wills, along with several customers who looked up eagerly from their lunches, sensing a fight. Valenti took note of his audience before speaking again.

"I apologize if I seemed....harsh," he said, sounding not the least bit apologetic. "I'm told you might be able to help me. I'm looking for Mr. Langley as well. Perhaps we can help each other."

Mr. Anderson broke into a wide smile. "Now you're talking! Lead the way."

Mr. Anderson tagged after the sheriff as Courtney wearily began collecting dirty dishes. The look on Valenti's face had made it clear that the matter of Audrey Tate wasn't going away any time soon. Which meant that Vanessa would get an earful when she emerged from jail, and Nicholas would likely send more operatives when he heard her report. Damn, she thought, tossing dishes into the cart. Just damn.




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




"The enforcer has definitely been asking after a 'Carl Smith'," Nathaniel reported, emerging from the bakery and falling into step beside Michael, who had been waiting outside. "That's the fourth person who mentioned that. Are you familiar with that name?"

"Unfortunately," Michael sighed. "That is the current pseudonym the Covari is using. Or was," he corrected. "If the sheriff is suspicious of it, I doubt it is now."

The two walked along in silence for a moment, this latest bit of bad news merely adding to the growing list. They had noticed Valenti canvassing the town early this morning and made it their business to follow him. He had disappeared inside the movie set for several hours, and they had taken advantage of his absence to visit some of the places he had stopped earlier and ask some pertinent questions.

"If the enforcer has already located the Covari, he is quite efficient," Nathaniel remarked.

"Damnably so," Michael agreed. "Here we found ourselves in the unheard of position of being able to identify both a Covari and a Warder, and now...." He shook his head. "Thank goodness we warned them while we had the chance, even if we are back to having no idea where they are."

"Perhaps just as well with Vanessa still in town," Nathaniel observed.

"Hardly," Michael answered. "Courtney was able to alert it precisely because we knew who and where it would be. Now it could be anywhere, so when Vanessa is released from prison and takes up the hunt again.....well.....I don't have to tell you how disastrous it would be for a Warder to be positively identified in the area. And the way things have been going, that's exactly what will happen," he grumbled. "Everything has moved steadily from bad to worse."

"Perhaps we have played a part in that," Nathaniel suggested.

"Nonsense," Michael scoffed. "I lay this squarely at the feet of the Warders—if they hadn't killed Audrey Tate, none of this would have happened. They're volatile, unpredictable creatures, but we are unfortunately condemned to dealing with them if we wish to support the crown."

"The Covari called 'Malik' does not strike me as volatile and unpredictable," Nathaniel remarked.

"Perhaps it isn't," Michael answered. "Warders are a special subset of Covari, created to be fanatical in their devotion to their Wards. I suppose they wouldn't be very good at their jobs if they weren't."

"True," Nathaniel said thoughtfully. "Although I find it interesting that these are not behaving as I would have expected."

"A Warder just performed an execution," Michael reminded him. "I'd call that 'expected'."

"But this desire to pose as humans, not only in form, but with specific identities, is not," Nathaniel said. "What would be driving that?"

"The need for currency," Michael suggested, "and the supplies it procures."

"Given the Warders' abilities, they have no need to go through such lengthy subterfuge to obtain what they want," Nathaniel pointed out. "And that doesn't explain why Brivari suddenly adopted a persona and a personal dwelling after years of having neither."

"Perhaps it saw some advantage in doing so," Michael replied. "Or perhaps it was just bored. Who knows how their heads work?"

"We do, supposedly. Covari are said to be created for a specific purpose, yet these are acting outside the scope of their original purpose."

"We have never seen Covari in such a situation," Michael reminded him, "so we have no idea how they would behave. And Warders are the exception; their skill set is necessarily larger, especially in the case of Royal Warders."

"I still find it odd," Nathaniel persisted. "Even Malik is capable of taking what he wants, yet he has spent the past decade wearing the same face and forging bonds with humans which were evident with everyone I've spoken with today."

" 'He'?" Michael stopped, turning to face Nathaniel. "It is not a 'he', nor will it ever be. It's merely masquerading as a 'he'."

"Of course it is," Nathaniel said, "but you can't deny it bears many of the traits of a sentient individual."

"Correction: It appears to bear traits of a sentient individual," Michael said. "Covari are excellent mimics. Do not mistake the ability to copy with the actual presence of what they are copying."

Nathaniel paused as pedestrians passed close enough to overhear. "Courtney seems to feel otherwise."

"Courtney seems to feel the Covari's wishes must be followed because it represents the only direct link to the Warders," Michael said. "While she has a point, there are other factors to take into consideration."

"That's not what I meant," Nathaniel said.

Michael sighed and resumed walking. "My daughter obeyed my orders a bit too well. I instructed her to play along with the Warders' human allies, who understandably are not aware of a Covari's true nature, but it appears she has begun to believe the lie, perhaps initially out of a desire to appease the allies or perhaps because she is confronted with it on a daily basis. Even the most ridiculous things begin to look mundane when seen with regularity, and one's vision clouds. I must speak with her about that."

"And yet she was right about the quality of the enforcer," Nathaniel noted. "What if she's right about this too?"

"She isn't," Michael insisted.

"But how would we know?" Nathaniel asked. "Argilians never spend time with Covari. Courtney is probably the first of our people to ever get close to one for any length of time."

"What difference does it make?" Michael demanded. "We're not here as anthropology professors, we're here to provide Antar with a stronger, more stable ruler."

"Zan's father was a strong, stable ruler, and he made an alliance with Covari," Nathaniel countered. "And he did so by treating them more like people and less like....things."

"Because they, too, believe the lie," Michael argued. "Of course they wish to be what they pretend to be. Why wouldn't they? But wanting does not mean they can ever have it, even were that in one's power to bestow. Riall's alliance was a political move, a business decision—nothing more."

"Perhaps," Nathaniel allowed. "But the fact that Malik and his associates went rogue suggests a higher degree of free will than we were aware of, as does their current behavior. All I'm suggesting is that we explore the possibility—"

"Enough!" Michael interrupted firmly. "What's gotten into you, Nathaniel? I can see how my daughter would be drawn into the deception, but to see my second tricked as well is downright disturbing. We have no choice but to work with the Warders if we wish to oust Khivar, but we must never lose sight of what they are....and what they aren't. Remember that the next time you're tempted to pursue this dangerous line of thinking that could get us killed all the faster."

For a moment Nathaniel looked as though he were ready to argue the point further, but then he gave a resigned shrug.

"As you wish."





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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Have a seat, Mr. Anderson," Valenti said, holding open the door to his office.

"Thank you," Mr. Anderson replied, all smiles since Valenti had asked him to come to the station rather than trying to strong-arm him. A lesson he should have kept in mind from his experience with Steinfeld and company this morning, where he'd discovered that the producer had grown a backbone since their first encounter when saying a lot less had sent him into a quivering fit of appeasement. He had neither the cause nor the means to carry out his threat of locking up the entire movie crew, which meant he'd needed Steinfeld's cooperation. Which further meant he'd needed to get his attention any way he could.

The way he'd chosen had certainly been effective. Steinfeld's eyes had popped to the point where it looked painful upon hearing Valenti's announcement that one of his crew might be an alien. "Really?" he'd whispered furtively. "Who?" Upon hearing the answer, he'd promptly dismissed it. "Langley? Are you serious? Sheriff, I know I'm producing a movie which is nothing but nonsense, but even I know that aliens don't look human."

But dismissed or not, the notion that Valenti was looking for an alien got him what he wanted: Access to the movie's crew, who had spent so much time with "Langley" and would be the most likely to point the way as to where to look next. Carl Smith had proven impossible to find, and casting aspersions on a well known and much respected town resident was problematic. Langley made the better target.....or so he'd thought. It had turned out that the movie's crew was very unhappy that their fellow employee, or rather, former fellow employee, had been fingered once again in the death of Audrey Tate, and several of them let him know that in no uncertain terms.

"I can't believe you're going after him," a camera operator had groused. "Dean was drunk when he said he saw Langley do all that crazy stuff. We know that; you know that. So where's this coming from?"

Others had been even less blunt, but said essentially the same thing. All Valenti would tell them was that new evidence had come to light that necessitated further investigation. He'd been very careful not to use the "A" word with the crew and sworn Steinfeld to secrecy upon pain of death, so he'd lacked effective ammunition in getting the crew to talk. But slowly, reluctantly, details had come out, the most interesting of which was the fact that no one could find out where Langley lived right after he was hired despite their efforts to follow him; he seemed to just "vanish into thin air" in the words of several crew members. The ensuing contest to be the first to discover Langley's address had been won by none other than Audrey Tate, and the date she'd won coincided with the date Langley had rented the apartment from Mrs. Bruce. Which begged the question of where he'd been living prior to that, and suggested that he'd rented the apartment merely to quiet suspicion.

Another detail had been the tales of the older gentleman Langley had frequently eaten with at Parker's. This Anderson fellow was seen by the movie crew as the only person besides Audrey Tate who knew Langley well and represented Valenti's best chance to get some real information. And he had to get some real information, that much was clear. The thought of his wife and son being carted off by the FBI had sharpened his tongue and shortened his nerves, and he mentally reined himself in as he took a seat behind his desk. Under normal circumstances that wouldn't be necessary, but today he was finding it difficult to be civil.

"Sheriff, I'm terribly worried about Langley," Mr. Anderson announced, sparing Valenti the burden of starting the conversation. "I haven't seen him since Thursday, and I'm concerned he may have been the victim of foul play."

"Foul play? Why?"

"Because of that Mr. Dean," Mr. Anderson answered. "He was all riled up, accusing Langley of Miss Tate's death among other things, all of them equally fantastic and ridiculous. He's a violent, suspicious man, that Mr. Dean, which is why Miss Tate didn't like him."

"So I hear," Valenti said. "I hear she preferred Langley."

"Yes, the lucky clod," Mr. Anderson said cheerfully. "Can you imagine a beautiful woman like that being sweet on...well, forgive me, but on a homely man like Langley? And he never seemed to realize what a gift that was. Why, when they first met, he wouldn't walk her home or hold doors for her, didn't even seem to know he was expected to do those things. He claimed there was no merit in making women feel 'helpless' when they obviously weren't. He's a bit of an odd duck, Langley."

"Is that so?"

"But no murderer," Anderson added firmly. "Besides, how could he have killed Miss Tate? It's not like he carried a blowtorch in his pocket."

"Right," Valenti said slowly. "So you haven't seen Langley since....when?"

"Thursday," Anderson repeated. "And no one I've talked to seems to have seen him either. That's why I'm worried."

"And you don't know of any reason why he'd leave?"

"None," Anderson answered, "and certainly not because he feared being blamed for Miss Tate's death. Langley would never run from a fop like Charles Dean."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured, rearranging the pencils in his pencil cup. "Mr. Steinfeld tells me he hired Langley on the spot without a shred of experience after Langley had a pissing match with his director. Do you have any idea what Langley did when he wasn't being a clapper loader?"

"Don't I wish," Anderson chuckled. "He was very secretive about that, but I suspect he provided protection to a person of importance, perhaps a military or government official."

"Then what was he doing here?"

"I always thought he was on vacation," Anderson replied. "Although men like Langley never truly take a vacation."

"And what about you, Mr. Anderson? What is it you do for a living?"

"I'm a fortunate man, sheriff. I can live off the family business and indulge my passion—looking for answers about alien visitors to this planet."

"And you think watching the filming of They Are Among Us is going to provide those answers?"

Anderson broke into a hearty laugh that seemed to ricochet around the office. "Goodness, no! The movie is nothing but nonsense. But it did serve as a focal point for those interested in aliens, and I took advantage of that."

"Were you here for the UFO convention at the end of June?"

"Absolutely not," Anderson replied. "I am a serious alienologist. I don't waste my time with charlatans and snake oil salesmen."

"Alien...ologist?" Valenti repeated. "Didn't even know that was a word."

"Then you've learned something today, haven't you?"

Valenti leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. "And what about you, Mr. Anderson? What have you learned?"

"About?"

"About aliens. About how to identify them, what they're doing here, what they want with us."

"I'd be happy to indulge your interest in aliens, sheriff, but I have to ask what this has to do with Langley. You don't think he was abducted, do you?"

Not unless you can abduct yourself, Valenti thought, pondering how far to go. Anderson had already given him some valuable information, and it was possible he had more, perhaps information he didn't even know he had. Perhaps there were connections he hadn't made yet, things he'd seen that he hadn't quite put together. Perhaps it was time to connect some dots.

"I was around at the time of the crash," Valenti said. "There was a lot of stuff going on at the time, as you can imagine, a lot of anxiety, a lot of fear. Phones at the sheriff's stations rang off the hook with reports of aliens, the vast majority of them bogus."

Anderson leaned forward eagerly. "Are you saying some weren't bogus?"

"A few," Valenti allowed. "A very few. The most credible reported that aliens could move things without touching them, pick people up and slam them into walls or choke them without laying a hand on them. And all of them said the aliens looked.....human."

"Well, that right there gives the lie to the whole story," Anderson declared, settling back in his chair. "There were many eyewitnesses after the crash who reported seeing something that was anything but human."

"True," Valenti agreed. "But what if they could look human? Or make us think they looked human?"

Anderson shook his head impatiently. "Of all the lore that has come down from the eyewitnesses in the forties, nothing has suggested that...." He stopped, his eyes widening. "Wait a minute. Are you.....are you suggesting that.....that Langley was an alien?"

Valenti shrugged with what he hoped was just the right amount of dismissiveness. "The accusations against him do match previous accounts in some ways."

"My dear sheriff, you can't be serious!" Anderson said incredulously. "What makes you think Mr. Dean didn't just repeat something he heard elsewhere?"

"Oh, he may have, may very well have," Valenti nodded. "Although...." He paused, allowing the silence to pique Anderson's interest. "Although it is interesting that the details Mr. Dean provided happened to be the same details from those few, those very few credible reports from the forties. With all the trivia floating around about aliens, what were the odds that he'd latch onto only those rare details?"

Anderson started to answer, stopped, started again....and stopped again. Valenti watched him carefully, watched the wheels spinning, the dots connecting. Another minute, and he'd be there.....

Someone knocked on the door. "Sir?" Hanson called from outside.

Damn! "What is it?" Valenti barked.

"Sir, there's—"

"Oh, just get out of my way," a gruff voice growled. The door flew open suddenly, and Sheriff Wilcox strode into the room. "Whatever you're doing, you're done," he announced to Anderson, jabbing his thumb toward the hallway. Anderson blinked, nodded, and left the office in a hurry, scrambling past Hanson on his way out.

"George, what the hell are you doing?" Valenti exclaimed. "I was—"

"I've heard," Wilcox interrupted sharply, "from Emily Proctor this morning, and more recently from your own citizens. Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you have any idea what's going on out there?"

"Going on where?" Valenti demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Wonderful," Wilcox growled. "You're holed up in your office with no idea there's a tornado coming down the road. This is worse than I thought. Come on," he added, grabbing Valenti by the collar and steering him toward the door. "You're going."

"What do you think you're doing?" Valenti sputtered. "Going where?"

"In reverse order, we're going to my station, and I'm saving your ass," Wilcox said, pushing Valenti past a startled Hanson. "And as soon as we get to my office, I'm going to kick your ass. Worked before, so it's worth a try now."

Valenti let go a storm of protest that came to an abrupt halt as they emerged from the station into the afternoon sunlight....and a pile of reporters, all with pencils poised eagerly over pads and cameras pointed straight at him. "Sheriff!" came multiple voices at once as they all crowded around him. "Is it true? Do you really think there are aliens in Roswell, and that they killed Audrey Tate?"

Valenti paled and glanced at Wilcox.

"Too late," Wilcox sighed. "Too late."



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


I'll post Chapter 55 next Sunday.

Hello to everyone reading!

Misha wrote:ggggaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

You and your cliffhangers... Kathy =

Gotta give you a reason to keep comin' back.

Girl... Hanson has it bad for absurdly bad timing!!! And the worst part is... it's in his GENES!!!! The next generation is not going to get any better!!! To the annoyance of the next Valenti generation

Yep, like father, like son. (Or from the perspective of a prequel, like son, like father.)

Pity he did lack people skills when it came to Zan...

Brivari wanted the son to be like the father....and he wasn't. And Zan's hybrid is going to be even less like Zan's father, so Brivari's going to be even more disappointed. But we already knew that.....

Now, Valenti... WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!? Oh, I know, his family is being threatened, but still... to go spilling his guts like that, and to THOSE people?!?!

You are channeling George Wilcox. (You'll see what I mean when you read this next chapter.)

I feel sorry for Grandpa Valenti; I always have, ever since I first met him onscreen in that nursing home. He was right....but no one believed him. There are a number of parallels between Grandpa and Jimbo....they both discovered aliens are real, they both lost their jobs over it....but Jimbo climbed out of the hole, and Grandpa didn't. Was it because Jimbo kept what he knew to himself instead of broadcasting it? Or was it because he actually knew aliens and cared for them? Did that make it easier to take the price he paid?

I hate Lewis.

Period.

Get ready to hate him even more. He hasn't done his worst yet.

I want to hit Michael (it feels good to say it aloud)

What is it about people named "Michael" that makes us all want to hit them? And are they all that stubborn, and narrow minded, and annoying, and....

Guess we'll just have to wait until the next "Michael" comes along to find out.







CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


August 22, 1959, 1:45 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



Valenti's stomach clutched as he took in the crowd of reporters, the scribbling pencils, and the passers-by coming to a screeching halt, their ears pricking at the word "alien". "Sheriff, we need to hear it from you," a reporter at his right elbow said. "Did you confirm that aliens killed Audrey Tate?"

"Who told you that?" Valenti demanded.

Over a dozen pairs of eyes flared suddenly, and the crowd surged forward, everyone talking at once, everyone taking his question as an answer. "Hold on!" Valenti called over the tumult. "I never said aliens killed Audrey Tate. Whoever told you that misquoted me."

"Then what did you say?" the reporter asked. "Our source was very specific—"

"My private conversations are none of your business," Valenti snapped, his already thin patience wearing even thinner. "And if people want to blow what I say out of proportion, there's not much I can do about it."

"So do you think aliens killed Audrey Tate?" another reporter pressed.

"What could you possibly have said that would have been taken that way?" another added.

"Gentlemen!" Wilcox boomed, taking Valenti's arm in a "shut the hell up" squeeze. "Sheriff Valenti and I are working together on the Tate case, and all the sheriff said was that we were keeping our options open. How someone turned that into 'aliens', I don't know, but that's not what was said."

"But what does that mean, exactly?" a reporter called from the back of the crowd. "Why do you need 'options'?"

"Because Miss Tate appears to have been hit by lightning on a sunny day," Wilcox answered. "So given the weather that day, or lack thereof, we're just double-checking. That's all."

A collective grumble of disappointment went up from the crowd, who had clearly been spoiling for juicier information. "Sorry, gentlemen," Wilcox chuckled. "I know it would have made your day, but there are still no little green men in Roswell."

"There never were," a reporter answered. "Mac Brazel said they were gray."

"I don't care if they're purple with pink spots, they're not here," Wilcox said pointedly. "Run along now, and stop scaring everybody. You'll have to look elsewhere for your next headline."

All the reporters started talking at once as Wilcox turned around and went back into the station with Valenti at his side. "Walk," Wilcox ordered as Valenti slowed when another question came flying through the air. "The last thing you want to do is have even one more word with that crowd. I wanted to talk at my place, but we'll have to do it here."

Wilcox strode through the station with a commanding air that made deputies step aside as he passed, and Valenti followed in his wake, too dazed to care that this was his station and his staff. As if it wasn't bad enough to have aliens killing people and the FBI threatening his family, now the entire town might go into a panic. Even if the papers didn't publish another "Aliens in Roswell!" headline, word would still get out. Hell, it already had.

"In," Wilcox ordered, stabbing a thumb at the doorway to Valenti's office as though it were his own. Once inside, he locked the door behind them and turned beady eyes on Valenti.

"What in the name of all that's holy is going on, Jim? Is that lot right? Did you tell someone that aliens killed Audrey Tate?"

"Of course not," Valenti said impatiently. "I said aliens 'might' have killed Audrey Tate."

Wilcox's eyebrows rose. He grabbed an empty coffee cup off Valenti's desk and gave it a deep sniff. "No alcohol," he reported. "I don't know if that's good news or bad news."

"Very funny," Valenti retorted. "Aren't you going to ask me—"

"I don't need to ask you a damned thing in order to assure you that you never, I mean never, utter the word 'alien' in front of a citizen!" Wilcox snapped.

"I have proof, George!" Valenti exclaimed. "I have—"

"I don't care if you have a delegation of Martians in your office!" Wilcox exploded. "You never, I repeat never, use the 'A' word in public! I would think you, of all people, would know that!"

"It wasn't in public, and I had to!' Valenti protested. "I had to get Steinfeld to give me access to the movie crew, and that was the only way to get his attention!"

"Wait," Wilcox ordered, holding up a hand. "You used the 'A' word with a movie producer? A movie producer who is currently producing a movie about aliens? A movie so bad that it would greatly benefit from some publicity, say, Roswell's sheriff claiming there might be real aliens running around? Jesus, Jim, why didn't you just call the papers yourself instead of waiting the few hours it took for the news to reach them?"

"You don't understand!" Valenti said desperately. "I need to find them!"

"Find who?" Wilcox demanded. "The aliens? Honestly, what's gotten into you? Since when did every weird death turn into aliens? "

"They're going to take them!" Valenti shouted. "They're going to take my wife and son!"

"Who? The aliens?"

"The FBI!"

Wilcox stared at him in amazement. "Did I hear you right?" he asked softly. "What does the FBI have to do with this?"

"Everything!" Valenti exclaimed, jamming his hands in his pockets, his voice ragged as he paced back and forth, too agitated to stand still. "They planted an agent in my office last month. I found the spy the day Tate died, tossed him in a cell, and he got out. Then the spy's boss came to me and asked for my 'help'. Claimed he had evidence that Tate's death matched alien-related deaths in the forties. And today he said if I don't have something for him by Monday morning, he's going to take my family, going to—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair, the panic he'd kept at bay by storming around town finally overtaking him. "George, what am I going to do?"

Wilcox studied him in silence for a moment before going to the office door and opening it. "You," he called, "what's your name, son? Hanson? Hanson, we're going to need a pot of coffee ASAP. Thanks." Closing the door, he heaved his bulk into the chair in front of Valenti's desk.

"Start from the beginning," he ordered. "Don't leave anything out, and I mean anything. I want to hear it all in the order it happened, right down to what you ate for breakfast and when you brushed your teeth. Go."




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




"And what about you, ma'am?" a reporter asked a worried looking woman with a small child clutching her hand. "Do you believe the sheriff's claim that he was misquoted?"

"Well....I don't know," the woman answered, flustered. "It is odd that that poor woman would be struck down like that on a sunny day. But stranger things have happened."

"But her co-star says he saw aliens," the reporter continued. "And now we have another source who says the sheriff is actively looking for aliens. Does that frighten you?"

"I....suppose," the woman replied uncertainly, looking down at her child.

"So you don't think the sheriff is telling the truth?"

"I didn't say that," the woman protested.

"But—"

"She didn't say that," another voice broke in.

Brivari hung back, and Jaddo gave a snort of annoyance as Malik confronted the reporter, many of whom were working the crowd that had gathered while the press had been talking to the enforcers, eager to drum up some sort of news. "I wasn't talking to you, pal," the reporter said to Malik. "Back off."

"Like hell I will," Malik retorted, "not when you're putting words in people's mouths. Don't let him bully you, Mrs. Hawthorne; he just wants a story, and he doesn't seem to care how he gets it."

"Well...thank you," Mrs. Hawthorne said uncertainly as the reporter scowled and started looking for a new, less well-protected target. "But how did you know my name? Have we met?"

Yes, Brivari thought, wincing inwardly at the pained expression that crossed Malik's face. Mrs. Hawthorne was a frequent customer of Malik's, but she wouldn't know that; the man she'd known as 'Carl Smith' had disappeared, his face no longer safe to wear.

"I....no," Malik said quietly. "I overheard someone call you by name."

"Oh. Well....thank you again," Mrs. Hawthorne said, scuttling away before any other reporters decided to interview her. Malik stared after her as she disappeared into the crowd, which was thinning now that the sheriff had officially disavowed a search for aliens.

*I've known her for a decade,* he said tonelessly, *and she had no idea who I was.*

*Further evidence that maintaining one identity for any length of time is inadvisable,* Jaddo declared.

*I wonder why the sheriff is taking the risk of being so open about his purpose,* Brivari remarked, hoping to forestall an argument by changing the subject. *Regardless of his claims, he must have said something about aliens to cause this latest drama. It's unlike him to be so indiscreet.*

*I've been 'Carl' for nine years with no problem whatsoever,* Malik said, ignoring Brivari. *And Brivari was 'Langley' for only a few weeks before a problem occurred, so obviously the length of time has nothing to do with it.*

*And now there is a 'problem', that being that your reluctance to abandon your shape,* Jaddo answered. *A reluctance that likely wouldn't be there if you hadn't been using it for so long.*

*The only 'problem' is your inability to control yourself,* Malik said sharply. *We're in this mess because of you and your hair trigger temper.*

*She had to die,* Jaddo insisted. *She'd seen too much.*

*You're conveniently leaving out why she'd seen too much,* Malik retorted. *Face it, Jaddo—you're bored. With no one to hunt, you have nothing to do but stir up enough trouble so that you have someone to hunt. For all your whining about Brivari's boredom, at least his didn't take such a self-destructive form.*

Brivari watched Jaddo's eyes flare as Malik stalked off through the crowd. *Leave him be,* Brivari ordered as Jaddo started after him.

*Did you hear what he said?* Jaddo demanded.

*He said nothing I haven't said already,* Brivari replied. *You're a soldier, Jaddo—you like to fight. And absent a ready fight, you tend to create one, whether you realize it or not.*

*That does not address the fact that he is too attached to a particular shape!* Jaddo protested.

*Malik had a place here, a profession, friends,* Brivari replied. *Of course he would mourn the loss of that. How would you feel if were you to encounter your Ward and discover he did not know you? Would that not upset you if Rath were unable to recognize you?*

*I would hardly equate my Ward with a 'customer',* Jaddo said.

*Since you have no friends to speak of, it was the closest approximation I could find.*

Brivari sighed as Jaddo did what he always did when he was angry—stalked away, a habit Malik appeared to be appropriating. Malik had been blunt, more blunt that he had ever dared be with either of them, but he was right: Jaddo had been at dangerously loose ends. The fact that he was now calm and content only underscored the fact that he thrived on conflict, something that had never been in short supply back home or for the first several years Earthside. The hunt for Pierce had consumed him these past nine years; absent that, he had resorted to antagonizing everyone around him until he'd created enough conflict to feed his hunger for it. His apology a few days ago proved that he was aware of this on at least some level, and he certainly wasn't to blame for the sudden appearance of the Argilians which had complicated matters even further, but there was no denying that he'd made the current situation far more complicated than it would have been under different circumstances.

And I sympathize with Malik, Brivari admitted privately, spotting Atherton in his disguise as "Mr. Anderson" across the crowd and knowing there was no way to approach his friend without wearing a face that no one must see. He missed his apartment, missed the deference with which he'd been treated on the movie set, missed the settled nature and predictability of his life these past few weeks.....and he missed Atherton. And judging from what he was able to overhear, Atherton missed him as well, plying the crowd around him with questions about "Langley" and whether anyone had seen him, sounding very worried indeed.

Several minutes passed before Atherton drifted away, looking for others to question. Brivari watched him go with an all too familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach and a fresh supply of resolve. Whatever the risk, he would find a way to approach Atherton and set his mind at ease. After losing Quanah so recently, losing yet another friend was a price he wasn't willing to pay.




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



Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Well," Sheriff Wilcox said slowly, staring into his empty coffee cup. "You've got yourself in quite a pickle, Jim."

That must be the understatement of the year, Valenti thought wearily, leaning back in the chair he'd collapsed into from sheer exhaustion about midway through his story, a story Wilcox had listened to largely in silence punctuated only by brief, specific questions. He had hoped that after telling the entire tale from start to finish he would see something he'd missed, make a connection that hadn't been clear before, or at least gain some small amount of insight. But he had hoped in vain; the whole thing was as much a muddle now as it had been earlier, perhaps more so. It was hard to believe that all this had happened just since Wednesday; in a mere four days, all hell had broken loose in so many different ways, it was depressing to count them all.

"So what do I do?" Valenti asked.

"I'll tell you what you do," Wilcox said. "You give this 'special unit' all the information you've collected on the Tate case, you back away, and you forget you ever heard anything about it."

Valenti blinked. "Did I just hear the sound of George Wilcox throwing in the towel? Since when do you genuflect to people who threaten you? You didn't do that with the Army."

"I was on much more solid ground there," Wilcox said. "And I was going up against one officer with delusions of grandeur whose CO was a decent man with a brain. If what you've been told is true, you're going up against the head of a new FBI unit who's desperate to prove himself and whose boss is J. Edgar Hoover. My advice? Don't."

"Okay, fine, so I turn over what I've got and get out from under the FBI's thumb," Valenti said. "But then what? I can't just stop there."

"Why not?"

" 'Why not'?" Valenti echoed in disbelief. "Have you heard anything I've been telling you? I've got exploding bodies, weird deaths, missing suspects—"

"What you've got is a whole lot of nothing," Wilcox interrupted. "That exploding body, or what was left of it? Gone. At this point it doesn't matter who took it because the outcome is the same—it's gone. The actress's death? Odd, to be sure, but she wouldn't be the first person to be hit by lightning on a clear day, and she won't be the last. Your 'missing suspects'? Neither have been missing long enough to file a missing person's report, and the only evidence that makes one of them a suspect comes from a known troublemaker who was drunk at the time and spoiling for a fight. Like I said, a whole lot of nothing."

"But what about what Doctor Blake said about the weird cells in that body?" Valenti demanded. "What about that shiny football thing the FBI admitted stealing from my office? They said it killed someone! What about the fact that the way Audrey Tate died matches the deaths of several soldiers killed by aliens back in the forties? What about—"

"What about you show me some proof for any of that?" Wilcox said. "With all due respect to Raymond Blake, he's a small town doctor; I'd want his findings corroborated before I'd go off on a tear. You've got an FBI agent who lied to you claiming that whatever they stole was lethal, not exactly a credible source, and his boss saying that Tate's death matches the aliens' MO, but not producing a shred of evidence. Where are the photos? Where are the reports? Where is anything at all to back up his claims? If he really wanted your 'help', he should have shown up with every scrap of evidence in his possession in order to secure that help. Instead he dropped a crapload of innuendo in your lap, and you're falling for it hook, line, and sinker. You're smarter than this, Jim. Snap out of it!"

"I'm not an idiot!" Valenti protested. "I thought they were just using the alien angle to get my attention and cover their real motives before I started digging around myself. And as soon as I started digging, people started disappearing. Why is Langley gone? Why is Carl gone?"

"What makes you think Carl is gone?" Wilcox asked. "You just saw him last night, for Christ's sake. As for this 'Langley', I don't know, but you don't have anywhere near enough to charge him even if he were here. What are you going to haul him in for? Suspicion of being alien?"

"I can't haul him in for anything because he's gone," Valenti said crossly. "Something is going on here, George. I know it is!"

"Of course something is going on here," Wilcox agreed. "The question is what. Maybe something; maybe nothing. Maybe a combination of both. Maybe your exploding body guy really was a spy like you and Ray first thought. Maybe Langley isn't an alien, but knows something about Tate's death that he hasn't told you. Maybe aliens really did kill some people back in the forties by flash-frying them, and what you've got here is a death that's similar enough that it's caught the attention of a new FBI unit eager to justify its existence. That's just it—you don't have enough information to go on, and without that, you won't be able to unravel it. Which is why I say just give the bastards who've threatened your family what they want and get them out of your hair. You know how often I go on the attack, so if I'm sounding the retreat, it's serious. There's a time to back off, and this is one of those times."

"You left something off your list," Valenti reminded him. "What if aliens really are in Roswell, and what if they did kill Audrey Tate?"

Wilcox dropped his eyes and was quiet for a moment. "If that's the case, the best thing you can do is exactly what I just recommended—turn over what you have to the FBI and let them handle it. And forget about frisking the Proctors. Dave and Emily haven't mentioned aliens since 1950."

"So just sell out to the FBI," Valenti said. "Just act like it's not my responsibility to protect the people of this town."

"If you're convinced you're dealing with aliens, then turning over your findings to a federal agency that supposedly deals with aliens is a responsible way to protect the people of this town," Wilcox pointed out. He paused, eyeing Valenti closely. "How did the FBI wind up with an alien-hunting unit anyway? The last alien hullabaloo was in 1950. What took them so long?"

Valenti shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "According to the spy, aliens killed someone this summer somewhere north of here."

" 'Someone'?" Wilcox echoed incredulously. " 'Somewhere'? I gather this 'someone' who was killed 'somewhere' died like Audrey Tate?"

"He said they didn't," Valenti admitted, "but he wouldn't tell me how. Told me he shouldn't even have said that much."

Wilcox gave a soft snort. "Figures. How very convenient to claim possession of evidence without having to present it. Wish I could do that, but the rest of the law enforcement world doesn't work that way."

"I know," Valenti agreed, "but I believed him. Given the way Lewis is, I could see him being wary of saying too much."

" 'Lewis'?"

"Agent Lewis, the head of the special unit."

Wilcox's eyes drifted far away. "Lewis...Lewis....." He rose from his chair, wandered to the window. "I know that name. There was a 'Major Lewis' who got in trouble along with Colonel Cavitt in 1950. I remember Captain Spade mentioning him. Something about him resigning in lieu of a dishonorable discharge."

"You think it's the same Lewis?"

"Could very well be," Wilcox answered. "That would explain how he'd have access to information about how Army soldiers died. And that means you should be careful, Jim. If this is the same Lewis and he knows the role you played in bringing down Cavitt, he could be gunning for you."

Valenti sighed and leaned forward, his head in his hands. "Wonderful. I'll add that to the worry list, right alongside 'aliens in Roswell' and 'what happens if Tate's death really was just an accident, and I deliver two innocent men to the tender mercies of the FBI'."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Wilcox reminded him gently. "Look, let this be for now. Check and see if Carl or this Langley is back tomorrow. If they are, you can talk to them some more."

"And if they aren't?"

"If neither comes back, there's no one to deliver," Wilcox said. "I'll make certain to have your house protected by myself and my men on Monday morning, just until we know Lewis has left with whatever you give him. Don't mention the FBI to Andi, and certainly not to Jimmy; no sense worrying them. And for God's sake, don't use the 'A' word with anyone else, even with a qualifier like 'might'."

"The whole town is going to be in an uproar," Valenti groaned.

"Don't fret," Wilcox advised him. "I'm a little surprised Steinfeld hasn't tried something like this already. Just stick to your misquoted story. People will believe their sheriff over an ambitious movie producer any day."

"Even though the ambitious movie producer is telling the truth?"

"He shot his mouth off when you told him not to," Wilcox pointed out. "He shouldn't have done that. This is another one of those times when the truth could cause a whole lot of trouble. It's Saturday—go home, stay out of the fray, and let your staff handle it. That's one of the perks of being sheriff."

"Right," Valenti said dully. "Perks."




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



10:00 p.m.

Valenti residence



"This is all a tempest in a teapot, Mrs. Parker," Andi said into the phone. "Jim never said aliens killed Audrey Tate. He was misquoted. Yes, of course you can repeat that to your customers. I'm sure they're upset; misinformation does that. Look, I'm sorry, but it's getting late, so I have to ring off. Yes....of course. Good night, Mrs. Parker."

Andi closed her eyes wearily as she replaced the receiver in its cradle; mere seconds after she'd done so, the phone rang again. She stared at it for several seconds, the strident jangle fracturing the peace of her house like it had over and over since lunch time....and then she snapped. Lifting the receiver only barely off the cradle, she set it back down, then removed it again and set it on the table, the loud beep beep beep that announced a phone off the hook muffled by a dish towel she pulled from her apron pocket and wound around the receiver.

"Mom?"

Startled, Andi whirled around to find Jimmy standing on the bottom step, looking unusually scrawny in his shorty pajamas which were down past his knees because she'd bought them a size too big so he could grow into them. "What is it honey?" she asked, planting herself in front of the phone and stupidly hoping her son wouldn't notice the still audible beeping.

But Jimmy never so much as glanced at the phone. "Dad never came up to say good night."

"Maybe he didn't hear me when I called downstairs to tell him you were in bed," she said, knowing full well that wasn't the case as she ushered her son back upstairs. "I'll tell him again."

"Is Dad okay?" Jimmy asked as he climbed back into bed. "I was so glad when he came home early because I thought we could go fishing, but he hasn't come out of the basement."

"He's just.....preoccupied," Andi said soothingly, readjusting the fan in the sweltering bedroom. "He takes it very personally when people die on his watch, even when it's an accident."

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, his arms folded over the top of the sheet Andi had pulled over him. "Was it an accident?" he whispered. " Is it true what everyone who's calling is saying? Does Dad really think that lady was killed by aliens?"

"Of course not," Andi said lightly. "I think someone took something he said the wrong way. Maybe they just misheard, or maybe they saw some advantage in causing a ruckus."

"Like news people," Jimmy nodded knowingly.

"Exactly," Andi said, planting a kiss on his forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll send your father up."

"I haven't been asleep. The phone keeps ringing and waking me up."

"It won't ring any more," Andi told him.

"Why not?"

"Because....it's late, so people will stop calling," Andi replied. "You know it's rude to call after 9:30, and so does everyone else."

"But it just rang—"

"And I reminded that person it was too late," Andi broke in. "It won't bother you again."

A minute later Andi was descending the staircase, throwing a guilty look in the direction of the still beeping phone. Never in all her years as Jim's wife had she ever taken the phone off the hook. Not that she hadn't considered it occasionally, but that was part and parcel of being a sheriff's wife; one's husband was essentially on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Today marked the first time she had put her foot down and drawn a line in the sand between her family and the people of Roswell. Calls had started coming in late morning, and by the time Jim came home mid-afternoon, she'd been thoroughly confused and very upset. Unfortunately her husband's presence hadn't helped much; after a perfunctory explanation, he had disappeared into the basement with his boxes of records, surfacing only for a largely silent dinner and submerging again after it was over. Now she walked past the incriminating phone to the basement door and went down the stairs, peering into the dimly lit basement. To say she was worried pushed the boundaries of understatement.

"Hi."

Jim looked up from the table he was hunched over on which were stacked literally hundreds of papers in haphazard piles which presumably made some sense to him. "Hi."

"You never said good night to Jimmy."

Jim's expression became pained. "I'm sorry. Is he still waiting for me?"

"Sort of," Andi said, leaning against the stair railing. "The phone kept him up."

"I'm sorry."

"I took it off the hook."

Their eyes locked, Andi making no effort to hide the fact that she'd hit the wall for the first time after nearly a decade of marriage. "You need to talk to me before you do something like that," Jim said.

"Like hell I do," Andi retorted. "It's almost 10 o'clock at night, my son can't sleep, and you're holed up down here. I'm the one answering the phone, Jim, and I'm not the sheriff. If you want it answered, get up there and answer it yourself."

He dropped his eyes back to his precious papers, saying nothing. "They're right, aren't they?" she said tightly. "You really do believe aliens killed that actress. I thought...." She paused, trying to rein in her temper. "I thought that if I gave you some space, you'd work through this and come to your senses, but it's only getting worse."

"I already told you I was misquoted—"

"I'm your wife, Jim! Don't try to blow me off with the official line! You believe it, don't you? Misquoted or not, you believe it!"

"Andi, things just don't add up, and I'm trying to make them add up."

"By sitting down here knee deep in ten year-old records?" Andi demanded. "How does that help to 'add it up' unless you really think it's aliens?"

"That's one of the possibilities I'm considering," Jim said irritably.

" 'One' of the possibilities? Don't you mean the 'only' possibility?"

"That's not what I said," Jim objected.

"You didn't have to!" Andi exclaimed. "I have eyes; I can see. You actually believe this nonsense. You even believe that Carl Smith, of all people, is an alien! The last I checked, Carl looked decidedly human."

"I have reason to believe they can look human, or at least make us think they look human."

Andi's eyes widened. "Is that so? Okay, then, what about the fact that we've known Carl for years, and so has the rest of the town?"

"That doesn't mean he isn't an alien," Jim said stubbornly.

Andi paused, flabbergasted. " 'Doesn't mean he isn't an alien'?" she echoed in disbelief. "So.....anyone could be an alien? Even you? Even....me?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Andi, I don't think you're an alien," Jim said in disgust.

"But how do you know?" she persisted. "You met me after you met Carl; you've actually known him longer, and yet now you think he's an alien. So why couldn't I be?"

"I'm done with this ridiculous conversation," Jim announced flatly. "If you'll excuse me, I have to say good night to Jimmy."

"Oh, of course you do," Andi said bitterly, "now that it's a convenient way to shut me up. Let me tell you something, James Valenti," she continued as her husband stalked past her. "Carl Smith has been a hard worker and a good friend to everyone in Roswell for years. If that's what aliens are like, then I prefer them over a lot of humans I've met."

"Very open-minded of you, but that doesn't mean he isn't lying," Jim said as he stomped up the stairs.

"It also doesn't mean he is!" Andi protested. "Look at you! You're on a witch hunt!"

"There are things you don't know!" Jim snapped from the top of the stairs. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd refrain from passing judgment when you don't have all the facts!"

"As if you do," Andi muttered, leaning against the stair railing. Jim could certainly be intense, certainly get lost in his work sometimes, but this....this was different. This was scary.

A minute later, the phone rang.

Swearing under her breath, Andi marched up the stairs; Jim was nowhere in sight. Of course not; he'd replaced the receiver and disappeared, leaving her to deal with the fallout. "Don't you know what time it is?" she demanded of whoever was on the other end of the line. "Stop waking up my son!" Slamming the receiver down, she picked it up again and dropped it on the table, not even bothering to muffle the insistent beep beep beep.




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



August 23, 1959, 6:45 a.m.

Valenti residence




"Dad? Dad? Dad, wake up!"

Slowly, Valenti opened his eyes. He was in the basement, slumped over the records from the forties with Jimmy beside him wearing a worried expression. "What time is it?" he mumbled, his mouth feeling like cotton.

"Really early," Jimmy whispered. "I got up to go to the bathroom, and I heard the paper boy put the paper in our door, and then....."

"What?" Valenti asked, rubbing his eyes.

"And then I heard the door open again," Jimmy said. "I looked out the window, and there was this guy in a suit reading our paper on our front doorstep. He's still out there."

Valenti stared at his son stupidly for a moment before bolting up the basement stairs, now wide awake, and flinging open the front door to find......

.......Agent Lewis.

"Good morning, sheriff," Lewis said grimly, brandishing the paper. "What interesting headlines."




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


I'll post Chapter 56 next Sunday.

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, and a big thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX


August 23, 1959, 6:45 a.m.

Valenti residence



Jimmy Valenti stood stock still, eyes darting back and forth from the man on the front porch, the same FBI agent who had been here just a few days ago, to his father, whose expression rotated through a range of emotions beginning with shock and ending with fury. It was one in between, however, fleeting but recognizable, which caught Jimmy's attention and made him break out in a cold sweat—fear. His father was scared. In all his eight years, Jimmy had never, ever seen his father scared. Whoever this man was, he must be very frightening indeed to scare someone like his dad, even for a moment.

But that moment had passed, his disheveled father now standing nose to nose with the man in the expensive looking suit and slicked back hair, looking angrier than Jimmy had ever seen him. "What are you doing here?" his father demanded. "You said I had forty-eight hours! Can't you count?"

"Can't you keep your mouth shut?" the man retorted, pushing past his father into the house and holding up the paper, the front page of which blared, Sheriff Searching for Aliens? "Is this typical of those oh-so-exemplary investigative skills you're rumored to have? If so, may God have mercy on Roswell."

"If you're that unhappy, then get the hell out of here," his father said furiously.

"If only I could," the man replied. "I'm not here because I want to be here, sheriff. I'm here because of your incompetence, your total lack of—"

"Dad?"

The FBI agent's eyes jerked toward Jimmy, who returned the angry stare with one of his own despite having been taught all his life not to interrupt grown-ups. No way was he going to stand here and listen to this nasty man pick on his father, manners be damned. "Jimmy, this is about work," his father said, his voice tight. "Go back to bed."

Jimmy hesitated, glancing back and forth from the man to his father. "Go upstairs," his father urged. "I'll handle this."

"Obey your father!" the man barked suddenly when Jimmy didn't move. "Go—"

The man stopped short as his father's finger materialized millimeters from his nose. "Don't you ever presume to speak to a member of my family, or I swear to God with my eyes wide open, I will kick your federal ass out that door so hard, you'll bounce down the front walk!"

The man's face darkened. Way to go, Dad! Jimmy thought, his chest swelling with pride....until he remembered he had an audience. "It seems you have a cheering section," the man said sourly. "How sweet."

"Take my advice, and quit while you're behind," his father snapped.

"Very well then," the man answered coldly. "Shall we continue this discussion somewhere more private, or shall we keep sparring in front of the tot?"

"If you didn't want to talk in front of my son, you should have kept your mouth closed as soon as the door opened," his father replied. "You did see him, didn't you? Or doesn't the FBI have very stringent vision requirements?"

"Sheriff, I'm sure I enjoy our repartee as much as you do, which is to say not at all, but we really don't have time for this. Get rid of him, or I will."

Jimmy kept his face carefully blank even as his stomach wrenched at the look in his father's eyes. The fear was back, and worse than before, mute evidence that the agent's threat was not an idle one. How would he 'get rid' of him? Where would he take him? Would he.....would he kill him? Is that why his father was so scared? Whatever the reason, it was absolutely imperative that the man not know that either he or his father was afraid. One of the first lessons Jimmy had learned at his father's knee was that bullies thrived on fear, and that depriving them of what they wanted most was an effective way of bringing them to heel. He tried to remember that now as his father took him by the shoulders, the FBI agent watching impatiently.

"Go back upstairs," his father said quietly, intently, his eyes boring into Jimmy's. "Be very quiet; don't wake your mother."

Jimmy stiffened as his father leaned in toward him—was he going to kiss him? Kissing was something any self-respecting boy over the age of six reserved for mothers, and then only when no one else was looking; to be kissed by his father in front of this awful man was almost too humiliating to bear. He struggled not to pull away as he felt his father's lips graze his cheek and keep going, coming to rest over his ear, lingering there.......

Seconds later, his father straightened up. "Go on," he said firmly. "I'll be up in a little while."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said, trying to sound abashed, which was difficult under the circumstances. He forced himself to walk slowly up the stairs, turning around once to look at his father, resisting the urge to turn a second time for fear of overdoing it. As soon as he was out of sight, he bolted down the upstairs hallway, slowing as he reached his parents' bedroom. Never before had his father entrusted him with a mission; the fact that he'd done so now meant that things were very bad indeed, but that didn't stop his heart from pounding with excitement...and pride. His father was counting on him. Not his mother, who was perfectly capable of handling the snotty man downstairs, but him. He mustn't let him down. Wiping his clammy hands on his pajamas, he took hold of the doorknob and turned it as quietly as he could.

His mother was still sound asleep, unaware that her home had been invaded. The telephone was on the bedside table beside his father's unslept-in side of the bed, and he mentally estimated the length of the phone cord versus the distance to the closet, going down on one knee to judge the space between the bottom of the closet door and the floor. It'll fit, he thought with relief, taking two careful steps toward the bed before stopping in his tracks when his mother sighed and rolled over. Before, she'd had her back to him; now she was facing the phone.

This wasn't going to be easy.



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




"Get in here," Valenti ordered, heading into the kitchen. "No, not the living room; that's right under my bedroom. I'm quite sure you don't want to wake my wife."

"Absolutely not," Agent Lewis said darkly as he followed him into the kitchen. "We wouldn't want to upset the little woman."

"Don't flatter yourself," Valenti retorted. "You don't want her awake for your protection, not hers. If she heard you shoot your mouth off like you did on the phone yesterday, she'd have you for lunch."

"You're hardly in a position to be accusing me of 'shooting my mouth off'," Lewis said, waving the newspaper in Valenti's face. "What is this, sheriff? What happened to 'keeping this quiet' and 'not tipping anyone off'? I'd call this 'tipping them off', wouldn't you?"

"I was misquoted by a movie producer eager to promote his movie and a press eager for a headline," Valenti said. "Unlike the lofty FBI, I actually have to deal with the public. You know, the little people that I, and supposedly you, are sworn to protect?"

"Don't presume to lecture me!" Lewis snapped. "My faith in local law enforcement may be misplaced, but I have never forgotten my duty."

"But you do seem to have forgotten how to tell time," Valenti shot back. "You said I had until tomorrow morning. What the hell are you doing here now?"

"How long would you have me wait, sheriff?" Lewis demanded, brandishing the newspaper. "Until the entire town has awakened to this charming headline? Until pastors in their pulpits entreat the good Lord to protect them from aliens like they did in '47?"

"Oh, spare me," Valenti said impatiently. "In case you haven't noticed, this is Roswell; the papers talk about aliens nearly every day."

"But it isn't every day that we're certain aliens are actually in Roswell," Lewis countered. "In Roswell after having committed murder, no less. In Roswell and reading the same headlines we are. And no longer in Roswell when they discover you're hot on their trail. Why I let myself be talked into trusting an incompetent like you, I'll never know."

"If I'm so incompetent, how can I be 'hot on their trail'?" Valenti asked.

Lewis stepped closer, his eyes burning. "Luck, Mr. Valenti. Sheer, unadulterated luck. Not skill, not intuition, not even a vague sixth sense; nothing more than blind, blundering luck. The kind that is absolutely useless in the hands of one who is too stupid to know what to do with it!"

"That's 'Sheriff Valenti' to you, 'Major' Lewis," Valenti said.

A very satisfying, albeit brief flicker of surprise crossed Lewis' features. "So you did your homework," he said sourly. "Shall I pin a medal on your chest?"

"That's the real reason you're here, isn't it?" Valenti said, ignoring the jibe. "You didn't need to 'let yourself be talked into' working with me. You've got an ulterior motive, a score to settle from your days in the Army with your buddy Cavitt."

"That's 'Colonel Cavitt' to you," Lewis said angrily.

"So you're into titles, are you? Tell me, how does 'agent' stack up against 'major'? Better? Worse?"

Valenti watched Lewis' face darken dangerously, making it abundantly clear he'd hit a very raw nerve; score another point for George Wilcox's memory and intuition. Get as mad as you want, Valenti thought. Lewis was welcome to rant, rave, and call him every name in the book as long as he stayed here, as long as he didn't try to haul his wife and son off to some dark hole in which they'd never be found. The connection Wilcox had made between Cavitt and Lewis had made Lewis' threat all the more frightening. Valenti remembered the night he and Captain Spade had chased Cavitt across the county after he'd kidnapped Emily Proctor and tried to stash her in the basement of one of the Army base's buildings, only barely catching up with him before he'd managed to do just that. Valenti had fired the tranquilizer dart which had brought Cavitt down, and he'd never forget the look in Cavitt's eyes, the fanaticism, the certainty that kidnapping a civilian woman in the middle of the night without a warrant or due process of any kind was his patriotic duty. He saw the same fire in Lewis' eyes right now, and there was no doubt in his mind that Lewis would treat his family just as Cavitt had treated Emily Proctor without so much as a shred of remorse. Which is why he needed to keep him busy, keep him talking, keep him from calling in the goons that Valenti was sure were just outside and give Jimmy a fighting chance to follow his instructions.

"However unjust my departure from the armed services may have been, at the moment I'd have to say that 'agent' is far preferable to 'major'," Lewis answered. "Would you like to know why?"

"I'm hanging on your every word," Valenti answered, privately hoping the "why" would take a good thirty minutes to explain.

"Sheridan Cavitt was a patriot," Lewis said, "a man who saw clearly what the aliens really wanted while others stuck their heads in the sand and tried to bargain with them, or reason with them, or psychoanalyze them."

"Let me guess," Valenti said in a bored tone. "No one appreciated him, no one listened to him, he was a voice crying in the wilderness, blah, blah, blah."

"Not at all," Lewis replied. "Many listened to him, many believed him. But one man—one man—stood between Sheridan and those who felt as he did: His commanding officer, a lily-livered, alien apologist who, maddeningly enough, always seemed to come out ahead as though guided by some perverse guardian angel."

"So someone injected a bit of humanity into the process," Valenti said. "And you object to that. Why am I not surprised?"

"You call it 'humanity'; I call it 'stupidity'," Lewis retorted. "Sheridan lost because he did not have support in the right places; I suffer no such handicap. I have none other than Director Hoover backing me, a man who understands hard decisions and the sacrifices that go with them. Which is why you are now going to take me to whatever suspects or witnesses you have in the Tate case so the FBI can finish what you have so completely bungled."

Damn. This had come way too fast. "You gave me until tomorrow morning!" Valenti objected, having counted on Lewis pontificating about Cavitt's heroics and how the Army had done them wrong for at least several more minutes. "Do you want accurate information or not?"

"That was before this," Lewis said, holding up the newspaper. "How it happened is irrelevant. Whether it's accurate is irrelevant. In a very short while, everyone in Roswell of any species will be reading this headline, which means we need to move now. You and I will take your car, and my men will follow at a discreet distance until the time comes to apprehend a suspect. And believe me, there will be a suspect, sheriff," he continued. "One way or another, I will have a warm body to set before Director Hoover by the time I leave today. I'd prefer that be someone who knows something about Audrey Tate's death, but in the absence of such, I'll have to settle for you. And your family, of course. I wouldn't want to deprive you of your little woman and pint-sized cheering section." He stepped closer, his eyes boring into Valenti's. "Have I made myself clear?"

Valenti's eyes flicked to the clock on the kitchen wall directly behind Lewis' head. Six minutes. That's all this little tête-à-tête had taken. He could stall a bit more getting ready to leave, give his son another minute or two, but it might not be enough. Lewis would leave his men here, and if they heard so much as a peep from upstairs.....he could only hope Jimmy would know enough to be very, very quiet.

Much as he hated it, their entire family's fate now rested in the hands of an eight year-old boy.





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



Cactus Motel, Roswell




When he heard the footsteps tap tapping toward his door, James Atherton heaved himself into a sitting position with a sigh, abandoning all pretense of sleep. And pretense it was as he hadn't slept a wink aside from the occasional doze, having spent the night staring at the ceiling, his mind working furiously. Now he grabbed a robe and made it to the door only seconds before the paper boy, who jumped a foot when the door opened just as he was laying a copy of the Daily Record on the ground outside.

"Oh, geez, mister, you startled me!" the paper boy gasped. "Sorry this is a little late; it went to press late last night. You'll see why when you see the headline."

"Mmm," Atherton murmured, closing the door on the paper boy and snapping open the paper to find the banner Sheriff Searching for Aliens? plastered across a tidy share of the front page. "Damn," he muttered, tossing the paper on the bed and sinking heavily into a chair, his insomnia due not to lack of sleep but to the subject of that headline. Having initially dismissed Sheriff Valenti's accusations against Langley, he'd had second thoughts. Is it possible? he thought for the hundredth time. Was it possible that Langley was an....an alien? Was it possible that he, James Atherton, an avid alienologist since the crash in '47, had missed a genuine alien sitting right across from him for the past two months? The sheriff's reasoning was undeniably intriguing; God knows Langley had always been a strange character. The way he commanded virtually every situation in which Atherton had seen him....the way others deferred to him without knowing why.....that strange contest the movie crew had started because no one could figure out where he lived.....the odd way he'd treated Miss Tate, and didn't seem to realize what was expected of him with regards to a lady......Mr. Dean's wild accusations, which suddenly sounded more plausible....

No, Atherton thought firmly, having been down this road many times since yesterday. Intriguing was not the same thing as damning. There were plenty of far more eccentric people than Langley—were all of them suddenly aliens? He would undoubtedly be considered eccentric himself if people were to discover his own subterfuge of masquerading under a pseudonym while wearing his own face and using his real name with a disguise—did that make him an alien? The sheriff struck Atherton as no fool, but he still couldn't bring himself to reach a similar conclusion, and in the end, his opinion was irrelevant; all that mattered was that his time here was over, and Langley was still missing. The first could not be helped; his two months in Roswell had consumed a good deal of cash which his wild-haired author persona would need to recoup with more conventions and speaking engagements at some point in the near future. And the second, it appeared, could not be helped either; no one seemed to know where Langley was, and while most believed him innocent of Dean's preposterous charges, they also believed he'd fled to avoid the sheriff. Highly unlikely, to Atherton's way of thinking, because Langley was not one to flee. But as Langley was also undeniably absent and there was no better explanation for that absence, he was not at liberty to disagree.

Time to go, Atherton thought sadly, pulling the curtain aside to gaze out at the motel's parking lot. The movie still had a few more days of filming, but there was little point in staying here any longer. What had begun as an interesting romp had become something else entirely; a pall had settled over the town after Miss Tate's death, with the crowds of onlookers disappearing as though watching would be disrespectful. Atherton shared the town's malaise, and the disappearance of his friend only made things worse. This had become a sad place to be. Time to move on. He pulled his suitcase out of the closet and started packing, his spirits rising at the thought of a change of scenery. Fifteen minutes later he set his briefcase beside his suitcase and had just picked up the phone to call a taxi when someone knocked on his door.

"Who is it?" Atherton called.

"Open the door, James," came a muffled voice.

Atherton's eyes widened as he set the phone down and flung open the door. "Langley!" he exclaimed. "Where have you.....come in here," he amended, glancing around the deserted parking lot before pulling him inside and hastily closing the door. "It's not the best idea for anyone to see you at the moment, but....oh, Langley, I was so worried about you!"

"I'm sorry about that," Langley answered, looking none the worse for wear. "I heard you'd been asking after me."

"Of course I was!" Atherton said. "You just disappeared! And everyone's saying you're avoiding the sheriff, which isn't a bad idea considering my encounter with him yesterday. He sounds a little.....unhinged. Luckily I was saved by a pack of newshounds."

"Is that why you were at the station yesterday?" Langley asked.

"You were there? But I didn't see you! Well, never mind; I was there because the sheriff insisted on it. Sounded like he was going to haul me down in chains if I didn't come willingly until I called him out on his attitude."

"He thought you'd know where I was?"

"It was more than that," Atherton said gravely. "He thinks...." he paused, dropping his voice ".....he thinks you're an alien."

"So he now believes Mr. Dean," Langley murmured.

"He seemed the most concerned about why you'd disappear the way you did," Atherton replied. "Why did you leave? Did Dean threaten you? I told the sheriff he was after you, that I was afraid he'd done you harm—"

"You think Charles Dean attacked me?" Langley asked with a touch of amusement in his voice.

"Well, not personally, of course," Atherton said. "But I wouldn't put it past him to hire it out and leave you bleeding in some dark alley, and I was worried sick he'd done just that. I've been scouring the town for the past two days trying to find you."

Langley's expression softened. "I appreciate your concern, James. I can't give you details, but I wanted you to know that nothing untoward had happened to me." He glanced down at the luggage. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes," Atherton said heavily. "No point in staying, really. The movie's almost over, already is over for all practical purposes, and you're gone. Time to go home for awhile, and then go back on the convention circuit and make some more money." He paused. "I don't suppose I could talk you into visiting."

"I would like that," Langley answered.

Atherton broke into a broad smile, the day suddenly looking better. "You would? Splendid! Why, I—"

A knock on the door cut him off. "Mr. Anderson?" called a muffled voice from the other side. "It's Sheriff Valenti. May I speak with you, please?"

Atherton looked blankly at the door. Valenti? "Why would the sheriff be here at this hour?" Langley asked in a low voice.

"I have no idea," Atherton whispered, moving to the window and looking carefully through the curtain. "But he's not alone. There's someone else in his car."

"Let me see," Langley said.

Atherton stepped back; whoever the sheriff's companion was, his face was in shadow, so he doubted Langley would be able to tell identify him. "Major Lewis," Langley said promptly, a cold edge to his voice.

Atherton peered out the window. "Major who? I can't even see—"

"Is there another exit from this room?"

Atherton blinked. "Exit? Well....there's the window in the bathroom, but.....why?"

"Because the sheriff isn't merely here to question you this time," Langley said. "Do you have a vehicle?"

"What? No," Atherton said. "A vehicle could be traced, so I never use one when I'm using my pseudonym. I travel by bus, or taxi, or—."

"Then we'll need to find a vehicle."

" 'Find'?" Atherton echoed. "What, you mean....'steal'?"

More knocking. "Mr. Anderson, are in you there?" Valenti called.

"We need to leave now," Langley insisted.

"No, you need to leave," Atherton corrected. "It's you Valenti is after, not me. You go on out the bathroom window, and I'll keep him busy."

"Listen to me," Langley commanded. "This isn't about Valenti, it's about the man in the car. Do you remember telling me about the FBI's new alien hunting unit?"

"Of course," Atherton answered, mystified.

"The man in the car is the head of that unit, a former Army officer of my acquaintance," Langley said. "I assure you that if he doesn't find me here, he will settle for you...and I don't want that on my conscience."

"Me?" Atherton said as the sheriff began a fresh round of knocking. "What possible good could I do him?"

"You don't want to know," Langley said darkly. "Gather only what you absolutely need, and I will see you safely past him."

Atherton stared at him in consternation for a moment before going to the window again. A man was emerging from the passenger side of Valenti's car, a man wearing a dark suit and an even darker expression. Beside him, another car had pulled up, and as Atherton watched in alarm, it, too, began disgorging men in dark suits.

"Mr. Anderson!" Valenti called again.

"James!" Langley whispered urgently. "There is no more time!"

Atherton reached down and picked up his briefcase. "Anything that could possibly be used to identify me is in here. Let's go."




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




"He's not here," Valenti said to Lewis.

"Then locate the owner of this fine establishment and have him open the door," Lewis ordered, his eyes raking the little motel's parking lot.

"No problem," Valenti said casually, checking his watch. "He'd be in church right now, so we can just barge up the aisle during the sermon yelling, 'FBI! Anyone seen any aliens?' That's oughta do it."

Valenti watched with satisfaction as Lewis frowned, stymied yet again. This was the third place that had turned up empty, the first two being Langley's and Carl Smith's respective apartments, each of which had been opened by a nervous landlady bullied into it by Lewis flashing his FBI credentials. Lewis and his agents had spent surprisingly little time going through either apartment. "It doesn't matter who they were when they lived here," he'd said dismissively when Valenti had made a less than complimentary observation about the FBI's investigative skills. "They are no longer those people." When pressed for details, he would only say, "That's classified", but he'd already said enough to confirm Valenti's suspicions that aliens were masters of disguise.

"Open it," Lewis ordered.

Valenti eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'open it'," Lewis repeated impatiently. "As in 'open the door'."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you 'can't?" Lewis demanded.

"It means 'I can't," Valenti repeated, "as in 'I can't open it without a warrant'. You can't either, although I notice that hasn't stopped you. What a shock."

"I don't have time for that nonsense," Lewis announced. "Open it."

Valenti broke into a laugh, prompting raised eyebrows from Lewis and horrified expressions from the agents behind him. "Did I say something funny?" Lewis asked coldly.

"You sure did," Valenti chuckled. "You and Cavitt are certainly birds of a feather. He once said exactly the same thing when he tried to get me to help him ransack a citizen's house without a warrant. I'll tell you the same thing I told him—no."

"Sheriff, the laws of this great nation—"

"Aren't worth shit if those sworn to uphold them toss them out the window on a whim," Valenti interrupted sharply. "You want to break them, I can't stop you, but I'll be damned if I'll help you do it. You want that open? Open it yourself."

"It is much more appropriate for local law enforcement to—"

"To what?" Valenti demanded. "Do your dirty work for you? No quivering landlady here, is there? Well, no problem, agent; you've got those strapping young men behind you, ready and willing to kiss your....boots," he finished as the agents flushed.

"Sheriff," Lewis said softly, stepping closer, "may I remind you that I left two of my men back at your house to ensure your cooperation?"

"And how do you plan to reach them? Are you really willing to abandon this all-important investigation of yours to tool on back to my place?"

Valenti watched the agents behind Lewis shift nervously as their boss smoldered. One of law enforcement's greatest wishes was for more rapid forms of communication, but this was one time he was grateful that hadn't yet been invented. For some reason, the agents Lewis had left behind were not in the house, but parked in a car out front and nowhere near a phone; he would have to literally drive back there in order to contact them. And as their boss was on the road, those agents would be unable to contact him either. All of which boded well for Jimmy having been able to complete his task, and raised Valenti's hopes that he and his family would make it out of this in one piece. The best thing he could do now was to keep Lewis away from them, slow him down by any means possible. The fact that needling him accomplished that task was a bonus.

"Open it," Lewis ordered one of the agents, who promptly produced a set of lock picks from his breast pocket. "I don't have time to stand here while you fuss with that!" Lewis snapped. "I said open it!"

The agent blinked, pocketed the lock picks, and slammed his shoulder into the motel room door. It took three slams to open it, by which time heads had popped out of nearby rooms bearing expressions ranging from curious to alarmed.

"Very covert," Valenti deadpanned.

"Oh, shut up," Lewis said darkly, pushing past his agents into the motel room. The bed was unmade and slept in; a single suitcase sat beside it which, when opened, revealed clothes and toiletries, but no identification.

"Sir!" an agent called from the bathroom. "The window in here is wide open."

Like a dog that had suddenly caught a scent, Lewis' head snapped up. A moment later he was heading not for the bathroom, but the motel room door, nearly knocking Valenti over in the process. He had no sooner set foot in the parking lot when a car six doors down flared to life, backed out of its parking space with a squeal of tires, and flew past them.




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




"Faster," Brivari ordered, twisting around in the passenger seat. "They're gaining on us."

"Don't you think I know that?" Atherton asked, his hands white from gripping the steering wheel as they sped down the highway with the sheriff and the FBI in close pursuit.

"Then go faster," Brivari urged.

"This is an Oldsmobile, not a Corvette," Atherton objected. "It can only go so fast."

Brivari threw another worried look out the rear window. He was already treading on dangerously thin ice, having used his abilities to unlock this particular vehicle and start its engine with Atherton too startled that he was being pursued to spend much time asking questions. Those questions were bound to come up, however, along with questions about any other "miracles" he performed....but it looked like there was nothing to be done about that. Their pursuers were coming closer and closer. He could certainly escape, but Atherton would not be so fortunate.

A moment later, Brivari reached out with his mind and pressed the car's accelerator all the way to the floor. Atherton's eyes widened as he felt the pedal move of its own accord, widened further still as the car surged forward, going faster, but not fast enough.

"What just happened?" Atherton gasped, struggling to control the car at the increased speed.

"Focus on the road," Brivari ordered.

"But—"

"The road, James. We have to get away from them."

"Look," Atherton said desperately, "why don't we pull over, you can vanish, I'll tell them you kidnapped me or some such rubbish. At least we won't wind up wrapped around a tree."

"No, you'll wind up locked in a cell for the rest of your life," Brivari said. "Not to mention your identity will be discovered, your secret out, your life ruined. I won't have that. Not because of me."

"We can't keep this up," Atherton argued. "This car isn't built to go this fast for this long. Before long we're going to blow a gasket, and then we'll need another strategy."

Indeed, Brivari thought sourly, making a mental note to chastise Malik for his love of inferior human technology. He could disable the pursuing cars, of course, but not without completely revealing himself to Atherton. Perhaps an obstacle in their path would suffice? It would have to be somewhere remote enough that it would not be handy to commandeer another vehicle....

A shot rang out, piercing the back windshield, shattering it into a shower of cascading bits of glass. "Good Lord!" Atherton sputtered, the car careening wildly from side to side as he ducked. "They're shooting at us? My God, Langley, what do we do now?"

Brivari turned in his seat, his eyes burning. They were very close now, and Lewis was hanging out the passenger side of the sheriff's vehicle, raising his gun again....no, not a gun....more of a rifle.....a very familiar rifle....

"Lean to your left!" Brivari shouted, realizing what Lewis was holding.

Too late. Atherton had spun around to see what was happening, providing Lewis with the perfect target; a second later, a soft hissing noise confirmed Brivari's worst fears. He gave it a mental shove, but the tip still grazed Atherton's neck before falling to the floor. "Something hit me!" Atherton gasped, clawing at the spot where the tranquilizer dart had nicked him just above his collarbone. "What is it? Is it a bullet? Have I been shot?"

Enough! Brivari thought furiously, catching the look of triumph on Lewis' face, that same face which had been so eager to carve Jaddo into little pieces, that had struck the Healer to the floor, that had threatened to kill General Ramey. Holding up a hand, he aimed a blast of energy at the first car, causing the engine to burst into flames. "Oh, my God!" Atherton exclaimed, gazing in the rear view mirror as Lewis' car swerved for several seconds before veering off the road. A moment later the same fate befell the second car. One more thing, Brivari thought, sending a nearby tree crashing across the road, effectively blocking access.

"What was that?" Atherton demanded in a frightened voice, his eyes darting from Langley to the road and back again. "Was that.....did you.....are you.....oh my," he added in a fainter voice as the car began to slow. "I don't.....I don't feel well."

"Let go, James," Brivari said gently, mentally taking the wheel as Atherton began to lose consciousness. "I'll drive."





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


I'll post Chapter 57 on Wednesday, December 31st.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Misha wrote:Girl, Valenti has seen it close, uh? In all shapes, colors and distances!

And he's not done seeing. Trouble is, he talks about it. Now, if he'd just kept his mouth shut like Jimbo did....then again, Jimbo wound up losing his job just like his father, so maybe it doesn't matter.

On an unrelated note, I saw The Day the Earth Stood Still, and they had the same problem translating the "it" versus "he" in the subtitles... heh... Totally made me think of you

You should see me, combing through paragraphs for "he's" that should be "it's". I'm sure I missed some.......





CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN



August 23, 1959, 10 a.m.

Roswell



"What the hell are you doing?" Valenti demanded as Agent Lewis unrolled the car window and hoisted himself up on the sill.

"Ending this," Lewis called sharply, pulling out a gun. Before Valenti could protest, he fired, shattering the window of the fleeing vehicle in front of them.

"Are you crazy?" Valenti shouted. "You can't just gun down American citizens!"

"The occupants of that vehicle are neither American nor citizens," Lewis retorted, pulling a rifle off the floor Valenti had never seen before. Where had that come from? He'd been so worried about his family when they'd left the house that he must have missed it.

"Put it down, agent," Valenti warned, "or I stop this car."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Lewis snapped, raising the rifle and firing.

Damn it! Valenti thought furiously as the car in front of them swerved wildly. That did it. Threats or no threats, there was no way he was going to transport a gunman who was doing his best to add to the growing pile of bodies in his town. He was just about to pull over when flames burst from the edges of the car's hood.

"Jesus!" Valenti sputtered, swerving every bit as wildly as the car ahead of them just had.

"Keep going!" Lewis shouted.

"No way!" Valenti shouted back. "We're on fire!"

"Don't stop!" Lewis roared. "That's an order!"

"Go to hell!" Valenti yelled.

The car bounced over the road's edge as Valenti slammed on the brakes, nearly hurling Lewis from the window. Don't mind if I do, he thought grimly as he jammed the brake pedal to the floor, struggling to control the bucking car. It probably only took a half minute to stop but seemed much longer and the flames much higher by the time he scrambled out, grabbed the fire extinguisher from his trunk, and sprayed the hood. The other, similarly afflicted car had come to a halt in a less graceful way, its front end buckled against a nearby tree, the flames dancing from its hood threatening to ignite it. Valenti trained the extinguisher on the second car for several seconds before returning to his, going back and forth until he was certain both fires were out. By that time all of the agents had shambled, dazed, from the wreckage.

"Everyone okay?" Valenti asked, squinting through the smoke that made it difficult to see.

"I...I think so," one of the agents answered.

"Why did you stop?" Lewis demanded, appearing out of the smoke like some awful apparition. "I gave you explicit orders not to stop!"

"Guess you're okay," Valenti said sourly. "Or as 'okay' as you'll ever be."

"I ordered you—"

"I don't take orders from you!" Valenti snapped. "And you do not shoot at people in my town without a damned good reason, a reason which you did not have, you flaming asshole!"

The agents off to the side, having just begun to recover, lapsed back into shock. "Is that what this is about?" Lewis said tersely. "You're concerned for the 'people' of your town? Sheriff, those weren't Roswell residents, they were aliens!"

"One of them was James Anderson, whom I talked to just yesterday," Valenti objected. "He was never implicated as a suspect—"

"I don't care!" Lewis exclaimed. "Has it not occurred to you that James Anderson was also an alien? Try to wrap your tiny little mind around this—they can look human. If 'Langley' could be an alien, why not Anderson? Did you take a blood sample? Do an x-ray? Without either of those, you have no way of knowing if the occupants were human."

"Without either of those, you have no way of knowing they weren't," Valenti retorted.

"There were not one, but two aliens in that car, and you just let them go!" Lewis exploded.

"The car was on fire!" Valenti shouted. "You're not going to catch anything real or imaginary if you let yourself be blown up!"

"And why did the cars catch fire?" Lewis demanded. "How very convenient that both caught fire at the same time. And where did that come from?"

The smoke had cleared somewhat, and Valenti followed Lewis' gaze. A huge tree had fallen—no, been ripped—from the earth to lie neatly on its side smack across the road, its exposed roots dangling in the wind. A tree that would have taken many men with trucks and cranes and chainsaws the better part of a day to fell had been casually tipped over like a child bumping a Lincoln Log.

"Do you believe me now?" Lewis asked. "We were pursuing aliens. This proves it! If you had just—"

"Why didn't they kill us?"

Lewis stopped. "What?"

"Why didn't they kill us?" Valenti repeated, gazing at the tree's enormous root ball. "Anything that could do that could easily have killed us, all of us. Why didn't they?"

Lewis started at him in disbelief. "What, now you want an explanation for their supposed benevolence? Has it not occurred to you that they tried to kill us and failed?"

"You were certainly trying to kill them," Valenti muttered.

"Nonsense!" Lewis protested, brandishing his odd rifle. "The bullet merely broke the window; this is a tranquilizer rifle. I was trying to capture them, not kill them."

"And you failed," Valenti noted. "The mighty FBI failed. How about that?"

Lewis' expression darkened dangerously. "If I didn't know better, sheriff, I might think you were happy about that."

"If I didn't know better, agent, I might think you actually gave a shit about someone's opinion besides your own."

Valenti held his ground while Lewis glared at him, appearing to be mere seconds from a meltdown. Then he suddenly pulled back.

"We are wasting time," he announced in a voice tight with rage. "I know I hit the driver, and we know what kind of car they were driving. I suggest we get moving before they get too far ahead of us. I will settle with you later," he added to Valenti before stalking off in the direction of the fleeing car, his men trailing behind him.




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



Mescalero Indian Reservation




A soft noise woke Atherton; he opened his eyes only to regret that a moment later when the world began spinning merrily around him. It took several minutes to halt the spinning and clear his vision, giving him a view of a sparse room with a single window. And by that window, in the room's one chair, sat a little girl of about eight or so, staring at him solemnly, so still that he wondered if she were real or he was dreaming.

"Where am I?" he whispered.

Her reaction settled that question; the girl bolted from the chair and skittered out of the room as through he had threatened her. Atherton tried to follow her with his eyes only to discover that any movement of his head restarted the visual merry-go-round. Where's the brass ring? he thought wearily, clamping his eyes closed and straining with his ears to catch the slightest sound. A few minutes later soft footsteps approached, and he risked opening his eyes again.

A young woman stood at the foot of his bed, her long, dark hair hanging straight over her shoulders. Indian, Atherton thought. The child who had just left had also been Indian; he hadn't processed that until just now. "You are awake," the young woman said to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," Atherton admitted. "Where am I?"

The woman paused, as though uncertain as to whether she should answer that. "I think it would be best if you talked to my husband."

She disappeared before he could protest or learn a blessed thing from her, leaving Atherton to wonder again if he were dreaming. How in the world did he wind up with Indians? Had he overimbibed at some establishment or other and been tossed here to sleep it off? But he didn't remember having frequented a watering hole; he only remembered packing this morning.....yes, he'd been about to leave town.....

A male Indian appeared in the doorway, much taller than his wife, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Who are you?" Atherton asked before he, too, decided to disappear. "Where am I?"

"I am River Dog," the man answered, "and you are in my house on the reservation outside Roswell."

"Your house?" Atherton repeated. "I admit there are times I've tied one on, but, how in the world did I wind up in your house?"

"You don't remember?"

Atherton paused, plucking at the strings of memory which were very faint at the moment. He'd decided to leave....packed his suitcase....called the taxi.....

"Nasedo brought you here," River Dog said, drawing his own conclusions from the silence. "He said you had been drugged but would recover, and asked me to watch over you until he returned."

Atherton blinked. What in blazes was he talking about? "Who is 'nah-say-doe'? Do I know him?"

"He is the man who was with you when you were attacked."

Langley, Atherton remembered suddenly. He had been with Langley, careening down the highway with the FBI on their tail. And they'd shot out the back windshield, something had hit him in the neck, and then......

Oh God, Atherton thought, remembering the rest of it. He sat up much too quickly, ignoring the way the room spun around him, both heart and head pounding like a kettle drum. Langley was an alien. It was the only explanation for the odd things that had happened, for the way he'd started that car they'd swiped without appearing to hotwire it, for the accelerator magically moving to the floor, for those cars behind them bursting into flames. "Good Lord!" he rasped. "The sheriff was right! He's.....he's an......"

He stopped, it suddenly occurring to him that bleating about Langley being an alien to this Indian might not be the best idea he'd ever had. But River Dog looked neither alarmed nor puzzled. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he took a seat in the chair previously occupied by the child and fixed Atherton with an appraising look that was most uncomfortable.

"You know, don't you?" Atherton whispered. "You already know he's...."

"He's....what?" River Dog asked.

"He's....different," Atherton said carefully, gambling that River Dog would merely dismiss him as mad if it turned out he didn't know.

"I have known since boyhood that Nasedo is not one of us," River Dog answered.

Not one of us. Atherton hesitated, uncertain of how to interpret that. A statement that vague could mean this River Dog knew that Langley, or nah-say-doe, or whatever he called him was an alien, or it could simply mean that he was not Indian. "And....that doesn't bother you?" he ventured.

River Dog gave a small shrug. "I owe Nasedo my life, as did my father."

Did. Past tense. Atherton stared at the young man in front of him, finally putting it all together. "It was your father who died, wasn't it? He said his friend was an Indian.....he was so broken up about it.....so very upset."

River Dog dropped his eyes. "Nasedo blames himself for my father's death."

And no wonder, Atherton thought, realizing now why his friend had been so distraught. Langley's Indian friend had died of pneumonia, if he remembered rightly, something Langley may well have had the technology to cure. It wasn't just that he hadn't been there when his friend had died, it was that he possessed the means to have prevented that death in the first place. "I can see why he might feel that way," he said to River Dog. "Given who....'nah-say-doe' is, he may have been able to cure him."

"Nasedo saved my father's life when I was a child," River Dog said, his voice devoid of even a hint of reproach. "I have no reason to doubt he could have done so again."

"You sound very philosophical about it," Atherton observed. "I imagine others would find that harder to accept."

"The Creator's will is sometimes hard to accept," River Dog agreed. "But when one is prevented from using the means available to affect something, it is all the more clear that whatever happened was the Creator's wish. That Nasedo was busy elsewhere when my father lay dying tells me it was the Creator's will that he not intervene."

"Somehow I doubt 'nah-say-doe' sees it that way," Atherton said, finding it hard to believe that Langley would accept an explanation of divine intervention.

"He does not," River Dog said heavily. "It is a burden I wish he would lay down....but that is a decision he must make."

Atherton was quiet for a minute, his head clearing as certain details fell into place. He'd imagined this moment many, many times.....but not this way. No, he'd had something much more scholarly in mind, something along the lines of aliens approaching him because he was learned, and open-minded, and eager to make their acquaintance. Never in a million years had he imagined himself in a car pursued by government agents shooting at him. And people thought it was only the aliens who were dangerous. Boy, did they have that backwards. But he has friends, he thought, excitement building as he realized that a key belief held by himself and his fellow alienologists had just been confirmed: The aliens had human allies. They had long thought they must have in order to have remained hidden for so long and to effect the escape of the one purported to have been captured. Efforts to locate those allies had been completely unsuccessful....but no one had thought of Indians. If this man had truly been a child when he had discovered Langley's secret, he must have known almost from the beginning, from the crash itself.

"So....you've known nah-say-doe since childhood?" Atherton asked casually, eager for more information. "When exactly did you meet him?"

"When I was sixteen," River Dog answered. "He sought shelter among my people when he was hunted, and befriended us."

He hid here, Atherton thought, another detail now confirmed. Although the standard tale told of an alien held captive for three years, another version had two captive aliens, with one escaping almost immediately and eluding all efforts at recapture. So Langley had escaped and hidden here, while another had been less fortunate. "Were there others?" Atherton asked. "Do you know of any more like him?"

But River Dog shook his head and rose from his chair. "It is best that he tell you his story when he returns, if he so chooses."

"He's not here? Where is he?"

"He did not say," River Dog answered, "merely asked me to give you shelter until he returned. As Nasedo's guest, you are welcome to stay as long as necessary."

"I should go," Atherton said, rising to his feet only to sink back down on the bed as his head protested. "Or maybe not," he added weakly.

"You should wait for the effects of whatever drug you were given to wear off," River Dog said as he opened the door. "And it would not be wise to return to town even if you were well. Those hunting you will no doubt be looking for you."

"What time is it?" Atherton asked.

"It is mid-afternoon," River Dog replied. "Rest. I will alert you when Nasedo returns."

Atherton laid back on the bed; it felt good, just a few minutes of conversation having taken more of a toll than he would have expected. It had been mid-morning when he'd fled with Langley; there was no telling what had happened in the intervening hours. If Langley had gone back to town, he may well have been captured. For all the irony of having spent the last two months with an alien and being none the wiser, it would be even more ironic if his first true meeting with an alien ended before it really began.




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



Valenti residence




Valenti turned the patrol car onto his street, Agent Lewis smoldering silently in the passenger seat beside him while the other agents sat tensely behind them. After hours of searching, including a nice, long trek in the hot sun, a hitched ride to the station, and an exhaustive search of the town and surrounding environs, they had predictably turned up....nothing. Not so much as a hint of the fleeing car or its occupants, nor a whisper from all the bulletins he'd put out describing same. The car containing James Anderson and whoever had been with him had simply vanished.

Which means I may be about to vanish too, Valenti thought heavily as he drove down his street. In the absence of a warm body to haul in, he was quite sure Agent Lewis would make good on his threat and haul him in instead. That was the bad news. The good news was that his family was likely safe; he'd been gone so long that Jimmy must have had time to carry out his instructions. "Call Sheriff Wilcox. And try not to wake your mother," he'd whispered into his son's ear, knowing that even an eight year-old's rendition of the morning's events would tell George all he needed to know. When he'd left with Lewis and company this morning, Valenti had thought they wouldn't be gone much more than a couple of hours; the several hours that had elapsed was a bonus. Andi and Jimmy should be long gone by now, leaving only one person for Lewis to take into custody. Not good, to be sure, but better than his entire family being marched off.

The car Lewis had left behind was right where it had been, on the street in front of his house. Valenti glanced in the window as he drove past, the two agents inside watching him pull into the driveway with apprehensive expressions. "Yes, they're still there," Lewis said sullenly. "And so is your family. They wouldn't have been allowed to leave."

Valenti said nothing, knowing full well it would have taken a lot more than a couple of FBI agents to stop George Wilcox. "You and your wife and son have fifteen minutes to gather what belongings you need," Lewis added. "Anything you don't have at that point, you'll leave without."

"How magnanimous of you," Valenti said dryly.

"Don't push your luck, sheriff," Lewis retorted, opening his door. "I have no one in custody, and your incompetence to thank for that."

" 'Incompetence'?" Valenti repeated, climbing out of the car and facing Lewis across the roof. "So that's how you're going to spin this? Well, I suppose you have to make up something. It wouldn't do to admit that you blew it."

"I'm not 'making up' a thing," Lewis said angrily. "If you had opened that motel room door when I told you to, we may have caught them!"

"So why were you asking me to open that motel room door?" Valenti demanded. "You were obviously willing to break the law and do it yourself, so why didn't you? I'll tell you why—you wanted a scapegoat. You knew you were out of line, and you wanted someone else to blame. This isn't about my 'incompetence', it's about your cowardice."

Slam! The car shook as Lewis closed his door with enough force to almost knock an exiting agent off his feet. "Your sidearm," he said through gritted teeth. "Hand it over."

"Excuse me?"

"Surrender your weapon, or I'll have it taken from you."

Valenti glanced at the three agents who had managed to climb out of the back seat, all on his side. No point fighting this; there were too many of them. "Now, inside," Lewis ordered after he'd handed over his gun. "And make it quick. I can safely say my patience with you has all but evaporated."

Ask me if I care, Valenti thought darkly as he was "escorted" up his front walk, the two agents who had been left behind joining the other three. He no longer cared what they did to him so long as his family was free.

He was halfway to the front door when Andi and Jimmy appeared in the doorway.

With a sudden rush of panic, Valenti froze in his tracks, the agents coming to a halt behind him. What in blazes were they doing here? Had Jimmy not called? Had George not been home? Certainly he would have removed them immediately if he had been, so that must be it. He had no sooner thought that when George appeared behind Andi, wearing a serene expression that suggested he had not grasped the gravity of the situation. But how could that be? He'd talked to George just yesterday about the FBI's interest in this case, and it was George who had pointed out that Lewis might have bones to pick that had nothing to do with current circumstances. So why hadn't George taken his family to safety? Why was he standing there in the doorway, calm as could be, as though absolutely nothing was wrong even though Valenti was only yards away and surrounded by dark-suited men who obviously hadn't stopped by for dinner?

A second later, the front door opened and a horde of people spilled out of his house, most bearing notepads, some bearing cameras. Reporters, Valenti thought incredulously. Wilcox had called the press. And judging from the hungry looks on their faces, he must have told them some very interesting tales.

"Sheriff, is it true that the FBI has asked for your help hunting Audrey Tate's killer?" one of the reporters asked as flashbulbs popped.

"And is that killer an alien?" another called.

Everyone started talking at once. There must have been at least a dozen reporters, most with photographers in tow, making for quite a crowd on the front lawn. The FBI agents backed up, alarmed, looking to their boss for direction. Lewis, who was standing by the car in shock, finally came to life and charged into the fray. "No pictures!" he barked as the cameras snapped away. "Don't talk to them! Don't tell them anything!"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Wilcox called, his booming voice carrying over the scrum on the front lawn. "I'd like to introduce Agent Bernard Lewis, formerly Major Bernard Lewis of the United States Army. Agent Lewis is the FBI's chief representative in this investigation, so all queries should be addressed directly to him."

There was a pause, a very pregnant pause as every gaze, every scrap of attention turned toward Lewis, then.....bedlam. Lewis was surrounded by the entire pack, flashbulbs popping away and reporters shouting questions about Audrey Tate and aliens as he vainly tried to fend them off. Valenti caught Wilcox's eye and turned around to find the noisy hubbub had attracted the neighborhood's attention; people were coming out of their houses, walking across the street, curious as to what the commotion was all about.

"No comment!" Lewis was repeating over and over as he elbowed his way through the crowd. "No pictures! This is a classified investigation! Let me through!"

But he was getting nowhere, and the more he objected, the more the press smelled blood, making the flashbulbs pop faster and the queries more insistent. The agents having formed a protective ring around their boss, or tried to, Valenti found himself alone. He walked over to Wilcox, who was placidly watching the melee as though he hadn't just averted an official government kidnapping.

"Nice," Valenti said approvingly. "Ballsy, actually."

"Wasn't my idea," Wilcox said calmly.

"Then whose was it?"

"Emily Proctor's," Wilcox answered. "She tipped off the press and called in the neighbors when Cavitt was harassing Mac Brazel right after the crash."

"Are they okay?" Valenti asked, trying to give his wife and son a reassuring look, Andi's arm protectively around Jimmy.

"I told them what I told those reporters; that the FBI had asked for your assistance on a case."

"You've got reporters here from all over the state," Valenti marveled.

"I had a good long while to rustle them up," Wilcox noted. He glanced at Valenti, then back to Lewis, who was still under siege. "I take it you didn't find anything?"

"We might have," Valenti allowed, "but they got away. Lewis wanted me to unlock a door for him so he could proceed without a warrant. Sound familiar?"

"Sheridan Cavitt come back to haunt us," Wilcox muttered, shaking his head in disgust. "So what do you think? Was there anything to this?"

Valenti hesitated. "I can't deny some weird things happened, George."

"Yeah, well, this is Roswell, capital of the weird," Wilcox answered. "And weird's a long way from guilty."

"Tell that to Lewis," Valenti said.

Wilcox was quiet for a moment. "I won't lie to you, Jim—this might not work. If that bastard's determined to fry you, he'll do it no matter what I do, find you wherever you hide, assuming you'd be willing to hide. That's why I decided to stay put and make our stand here, because leaving wouldn't really do any good. Our best bet is to take advantage of the fact that men like Lewis operate best in darkness; they can't stand the light of day or the scrutiny of the public. If anything happens to you or your family after this, the press will be on him like a duck on a June bug, and I'm betting he'll want to avoid that. Hope so, anyway. It's our best shot." He paused. "Think I should rescue him?"

"What the hell for?" Valenti asked.

Wilcox smiled. "Because there's something in it for us," he said cagily, stepping closer to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he called in that megaphone-quality voice that Valenti dearly wished he possessed, "Agent Lewis has made it clear that he's running a classified investigation, so we'd appreciate your cooperation. Rest assured that should anything—anything at all—come to light regarding this case that can be released to the public, Sheriff Valenti and I will see to it that each and every one of you is notified immediately. That's the least we can do to help out our boys at the FBI."

Lewis locked eyes with Wilcox, the latter serene, the former furious, but still savvy enough to take advantage of the brief lapse in the press's attention and make a run for his car. Reporters followed, but within a couple of minutes, both cars containing FBI agents had left.

"I'll take round one with these," George said as the reporters' attention swerved their way. "You go give your family a hug. And decide what you're going to tell these people, because you're going to have to tell them something before they'll leave you alone."

Valenti nodded mutely, leaving George to handle the sea of questions as he slipped inside the house. "Jim, are you all right?" Andi asked, concerned, but clearly unaware of what had almost just happened. Jimmy was another matter; his eyes were two pools of fear as he flung his arms around his father's waist for an uncharacteristic hug.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Jimmy whispered.

Valenti buried his face in his son's hair. "You did good, kiddo. You did good."

"What does that mean?" Andi asked. "Honestly, I woke up this morning to George Wilcox knocking on our door and you gone, and with the FBI, no less. What's going on?"

Valenti glanced behind him. "Let me go rescue George, and then I'll tell you all about it."




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




Mescalero Indian Reservation




The sun was low in the sky by the time Brivari returned to Quanah's house, having watched carefully to make certain Lewis had abandoned his search and to monitor the repercussions of the morning's events. He had changed both the color and numeric identification of the car they'd taken, and Atherton was safely hidden with River Dog, so the chances of Lewis finding anything were remote. Still, he had lingered in town, reluctant to return any sooner than necessary because he dreaded doing so. As he approached the house, the sound of wood being chopped drew him toward the back yard, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Without being able to see who was doing the chopping, it was easy to imagine it was Quanah, swinging the axe in the summer evening sun like he had so many times before......

But it wasn't Quanah, of course. It was River Dog, who had moved into Quanah's house with his family shortly after his father's death, and who looked up only briefly before resuming his chopping, the axe coming down with a whack which sounded louder than the previous strokes.

"He is inside," River Dog said by way of greeting.

"Is he awake?" Brivari asked.

Whack! "Has been for hours."

Brivari nodded, having had no idea how much of the tranquilizer Atherton had received. "Is he fit to move, do you think?"

"He is currently helping Nalin clean up after dinner, so yes, he is fit to move," River Dog answered, throwing the logs he had just split onto a pile to his left.

"Then I will relieve you of him at once," Brivari answered. "I appreciate you sheltering him."

River Dog set the axe down and fixed Brivari with a level stare. "Where have you been, Nasedo? We have not seen you since father's funeral almost two months ago."

"I did not attend your father's funeral," Brivari reminded him.

"Yes, you did," River Dog said. "However angry you may have been, however invisible.....you were there. I know you were."

Of course I was, Brivari thought. For all that it had been the son who had introduced him to these people, it had been the father who had accepted him, fought for him, taken him into his home even in the face of disapproval from his own people. In many ways, Quanah had filled the void left by Valeris' death. Now it was Atherton who at least partially filled the void left by Quanah's death....and the place where Quanah once walked had become painful to visit.

"I know you miss him," River Dog said, as if reading his thoughts. "I know you blame yourself for his death. But you would do well to remember that you are not the only one who misses him, or the only one who blames themselves. If it's hard for you to see this place without him, how much harder, then, for us? How much harder for my grandmother, who took the medicine that could have saved her son? But we do not have the luxury of just walking away," he continued with an edge to his voice. "We do not have the luxury of selfishness."

An awkward silence settled over them as Brivari found himself in a most unfamiliar position: At a loss for words. River Dog stared at him hard for a long moment, then dropped his eyes.

"I'm sorry. My tongue is quicker than my father's. He often said so....but now he is not here to remind me."

"Do not apologize," Brivari said quietly. "I can offer no excuse for my behavior because there is none to offer. I can only say that your father's death has left......" He paused, gazing out over the forest that had sheltered him for so long. ".....has left an empty space in my life larger than I would have anticipated."

River Dog's expression softened. "Then stay with us awhile. Talk. Remember. We have not only missed him, we have missed you as well. And we would hope you have missed us."

I have, Brivari thought, not having realized that until just now. The movie had been a pleasant diversion until it had all gone sour, reminding him of palace intrigues and power plays. "I have missed you," he confessed. "And I will make it up to you, to all of you. But first I must get my friend far away from here."

"What did he do?" River Dog asked.

Brivari sighed heavily. "He befriended me."

River Dog's eyebrows rose. "So it was you they were after," he said slowly. "Your hunters have returned."

"I'm afraid so," Brivari replied.

"Skinwalkers?" River Dog asked warily.

Yes. "No," Brivari answered, noting the irony that the Argilians, at least, would qualify for the term "skinwalker" in a way the Covari hunters never had. "These hunters possess no special powers, but that does not mean they cannot do you harm. I don't believe we were followed here, but in case I'm wrong, I should remove my friend at once. And after he is safely hidden, I will come back. I—" He hesitated. "I am sorry I was away so long. You are right; my grief is no excuse."

"You loved him," River Dog said gently. "I can forgive a man many things when that is his motivation."

"I am not a man," Brivari noted.

"Which made no difference to father, and makes none to me," River Dog replied. He started for the house, then paused. "About your friend....I should warn you. He knows."

"Knows.....what?"

"He, too, knows that you are no man."

"He said that?"

River Dog shook his head. "He did not need to."

Brivari followed River Dog into the house, still holding out hope that, with everything having happened so quickly, Atherton's memory would be tenuous and the various unexplainable things he had witnessed might be explained away in a less revealing fashion. A faint hope, perhaps, given Atherton's powers of observation, but then he had been drugged. That should count for something.

Atherton was in the kitchen. "You came back!" he exclaimed, his tone making it clear he hadn't expected to see Brivari again.

"Of course I came back," Brivari said. "As I was telling your husband, I appreciate your giving him shelter," he added to Nalin. "My thanks, as always."

"He has been helpful," Nalin answered with a smile. "Your friend is quite the cook."

"Oh, I'm nothing really, I just dabble," Atherton said, still staring at Brivari as though he couldn't believe his eyes. "And it was the least I could do."

"I'm sure," Brivari said dryly, imaging Atherton taking over Nalin's kitchen. "But we need to leave. I am unaware of any pursuit, but we must not take chances. I will repay your kindness when I return," he added to River Dog and his wife.

"And I as well," Atherton added, pumping River Dog's hand. "Thank you so much. I'll—"

"James?" Brivari prompted.

Atherton tore himself away from his temporary hosts and followed him out of the house. "I have procured another vehicle," Brivari said, "but we can't return to Roswell. Is there somewhere you can go where you would be safe for a few days until we're certain no one has tracked you?"

"Absolutely," Atherton answered. "My house, the one where my eccentric author persona lives. Everyone knew me as James Anderson, so no one would be looking for me there. Or you either," he added, coming to a halt behind Brivari. "We have a great deal to talk about, my friend. A great deal indeed."

Brivari turned, giving Atherton a level stare which was returned by an expression filled with....fear? Anticipation? Hope, Brivari decided, having read Atherton's moods long enough to decipher this one. He was concerned Brivari was going to deny it all, a distinctly attractive possibility because Atherton could prove nothing. Once safely deposited in his house with no pursuit, Atherton would no longer be in danger, leaving Brivari free to disappear, change his face, melt into the sea of humanity which had provided such an excellent hiding place for so long. Atherton would no doubt write another book or consult his "alienologist" friends about his suspicions, but he would never know for sure.

"Yes," Brivari said suddenly, logical argument going straight out the window. "We do have a great deal to talk about."

Atherton's face nearly split in half, his smile was so wide. "Oh, my goodness!" he exclaimed with all the fervor of a man facing his dream come true. "I have waited so long for this day......so long! But I must confess I never dreamed of it happening on an Indian Reservation after being chased by the FBI. And you're rescuing me. That's downright backwards!"

"Life rarely turns out the way we expect," Brivari replied. "On any world. Yours or mine."

Atherton froze for a moment as those words hung in the air, the first spoken testament that what he suspected was true. A second later he was back to his usual self, charging ahead, babbling at a hundred miles an hour. "We definitely need to go to my house," he said firmly. "I have so much to show you, things you need to see. I'll drive. I know the way in my sleep."

"And where exactly are we going?" Brivari asked.

"Texas," Atherton answered. "The town of Marathon, to be exact. Straight down Route 285 South."





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


I'll post Chapter 58 on Sunday, January 11, and then I'll be back to regular weekly posting.

Hello to everyone reading! I hope you all had good holidays, and that the transition back to normal life wasn't too jarring. (It usually is for me. )







CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT


August 24, 1959, 7:30 a.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station



"Happy Monday, Hanson," Valenti said, stopping at the counter on the way to his office. "What have we got this morning?"

The entire station fell silent as typewriters ceased clacking, deputies stopped talking, coffee cups stopped halfway to mouths. A phone rang, sounding unusually loud in the very quiet station as Valenti eyed his staff and realized he wasn't going to get away with business as usual.

"Okay," he said, folding his hands on the counter. "I'm sure some of you have heard some pretty wild tales about what happened yesterday with me and the FBI. It's over, they're gone, and my family and I are just fine. I'd appreciate everyone waiting to hear the details from me instead of believing the first thing you hear. The best thing for all of us to do now, myself included, is to get back to the business of safeguarding this town. Are we clear?"

Eyes blinked and people stirred as though waking from a trance. "Yes, sir," Hanson said, the reassuring sounds of typewriters and chatter resuming behind him. "We were just....well...."

"Worried," Valenti finished for him. "Thank you. I appreciate the concern. Now, what have you got for me this morning?"

"A large part of the movie crew is leaving," Hanson said. "A small crew is staying behind until tomorrow to get some location shots, maybe Wednesday if it rains, but most will be gone by the end of business today."

"Hallelujah," Valenti said dryly. "What else?"

"Mr. Toland from the Cactus Motel sent over a bill for the damage to his door," Hanson continued, handing over a sheet of paper. "And the gentleman whose car was stolen filed a report. Still no sign of the car."

"Mm hmm," Valenti murmured, examining the bill and wondering if Cactus Motel room doors were made of solid gold. "Anything else?"

"Most of the tree that was blocking the road has been removed," Hanson went on. "They sawed it in half and pushed the pieces apart yesterday to allow at least a single lane of traffic through, and we've had someone directing traffic during daylight hours until this morning, when they managed to open up the road the rest of the way. Just a few branches and leaves to clean up now."

"Good. Public reaction?"

"People were pretty jumpy yesterday, but they've calmed down," Hanson replied. "The papers made a big deal about you and the FBI working on the Tate case, but only the local paper tried to connect that with the tree incident. We're spreading the word that things were blown out of proportion, and since no one actually saw anything, most of them believe that."

" 'Blown out of proportion'," Valenti muttered. "Don't I wish. That it?"

"One more thing: Dr. Blake called and said to tell you 'everything had been taken care of'. Whatever that means."

"Excellent," Valenti smiled. "I'll be in my office if you need me."

They don't know the half of it, Valenti thought as he headed down the hall to his office. Oh, they probably suspected, especially since George Wilcox had been pulled into the fray, but he had yet to tell anyone other than his wife how very, very close they had come to joining the list of those who had disappeared at the behest of J. Edgar Hoover's FBI. Andi was speaking to him again this morning, unlike yesterday, when she had been absolutely furious that he hadn't awakened her to call Wilcox instead of leaving that job to Jimmy. Attempts to explain his reasoning had fallen on deaf ears until this morning, when she'd had time to sort it all out and grudgingly admit that he had a point. As for Lewis and company, the press mob George had summoned had run him straight out of town, following him back to his office in Santa Fe and demanding explanations. And the aliens, or whoever had been in that car they'd been chasing? They had vanished, along with the car. Hanson didn't know it yet, but Valenti was certain no one would ever hear a thing about that car again. All he had left was a suitcase full of James Anderson's clothes, a whole lot of hunches, and his family, safe and sound. That last bit made the whole circus worth it.

"Sir?"

It was Hanson again, standing in the office doorway. "There was one more thing I wanted to tell you," he said, talking fast as though afraid Valenti would order him away. "I know I speak for everyone here when I say I'm glad to see you're okay."

"Thanks, Hanson; so am I," Valenti said.

"And if there's anything you need, if you want some of us to stay later, or whatever, you just let us know, sir."

"That won't be necessary, but thank you," Valenti answered.

"So....what did happen yesterday?" Hanson asked.

Valenti smiled faintly. "The only thing of note at the moment is that I'm closing the investigation on Audrey Tate's death."

"Really? So what killed her?"

"A freak lightning strike, just like Dr. Blake said."

Hanson hesitated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Do you really believe that, sir?"

"What I believe isn't important," Valenti answered. "There simply isn't enough evidence to pursue any other theory."

"But the FBI......"

Valenti looked up as Hanson's voice trailed off. "If the FBI feels differently, they're welcome to do their own investigating," Valenti said. "Or if they....what's wrong?"

Hanson wasn't paying attention, wasn't even looking at him. He was staring down the hallway, his mouth hanging open, and as Valenti watched, he backed into the office as though Satan himself were advancing.

A moment later, it was clear he wasn't far off as Agent Lewis rounded the corner trailed by six of his minions, all in dark suits with distinctly unfriendly expressions. "Good morning, sheriff," Lewis said stiffly. "I hope you don't mind my inviting myself in."

"Damned straight I do," Valenti retorted. "What the hell are you doing here? Weren't you busy running from a mob the last time I saw you?"

Lewis' face darkened; Hanson blanched. "I have a warrant to search these premises," Lewis announced, extending a hand into which one of his agents placed a manila envelope. "It's all nice and legal and tied up with a bow. Just the way you like it."

"Well, I'll be damned," Valenti smiled, removing the warrant from the envelope and examining it. "I must admit, agent, I'm pleasantly surprised. After yesterday, I was under the impression you didn't even know what a warrant was, never mind how to get one. I figured maybe you just missed that class in FBI school."

Lewis' eyes narrowed, his agents were looking alarmed, and Hanson was practically apoplectic. "Are you planning on giving us any trouble about searching these premises?" Lewis asked hopefully.

"Heck, no," Valenti said cheerfully. "Help yourselves. Check my lunch box if you want. Tuna salad. Homemade. Nothing better. Hanson, get back to work and let these little boys do their job."

Hanson ducked gratefully into the hallway, although Valenti was willing to bet he was still within earshot. "We'll start with the Audrey Tate file," Lewis ordered.

"Sure thing. In that file cabinet over there," Valenti said, pointing. "It's under 'T' for 'Tate'. You boys do know what a 'T' looks like, don't you?"

Valenti settled back in his chair as Lewis glowered at him. The Tate file was produced in short order, and Lewis spent a full minute leafing through it before fwapping it shut.

"Where are they?" he demanded.

"Where are what?"

"The suspects' names!" Lewis exclaimed. "You said you had suspects, but not one of them is mentioned."

"I did?" Valenti asked innocently, rubbing his chin. "No.....no, I don't recall having said that."

"Sheriff," Lewis said in a dangerous voice, "you took me to the addresses of three different suspects yesterday. Why isn't even one of them listed in this file?"

"Correction: I took you to three different people I'd interviewed about the Tate case because you threatened my family," Valenti said. "I had to take you somewhere."

Lewis leaned forward, his palms on Valenti's desk. "On the phone," he said deliberately as though talking to an idiot, "the day before yesterday, you said you had suspects. You were quite clear."

Valenti adopted a puzzled expression. "The phone, you say? Do you by any chance have a recording of that conversation so I can hear what you're referring to?"

No, Valenti thought with enormous satisfaction as Lewis turned a very satisfying shade of purple. No recording and nothing in the file meant Lewis had no way to prove a blessed thing, a fact which had obviously only just occurred to him.

"Take it," Lewis snapped, handing the Tate file to an agent. "And turn this place upside down. If there is so much as a scrap of information on Audrey Tate, I want it in my hands within the hour. Oh, and one more thing," he added to Valenti. "This warrant also gives me possession of Tate's body. Tell your resident witch doctor to have it ready." He leaned forward again, a satisfied smile on his face. "Did you really think you could keep everything from me, sheriff? You must have noticed by now that I don't like to lose."

"Oh, dear," Valenti said in mock dismay. "I wish you'd said something yesterday. I mean, what with you running off the way you did and not saying a word about that....well....I just wish I'd known sooner."

The smile slid off Lewis' face. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"Well," Valenti said heavily, "seeing as how I thought this was all over and done with, I released the body to Miss Tate's family."

Lewis' face went white. "You did what?"

"I said I—"

"Then get it back!" Lewis shouted without bothering to wait for the reprise.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Valenti said regretfully. "You see, I felt mighty bad about not being able to release Miss Tate's body right away, and her family has been very patient. So to make it up to them, I had it cremated on the town's tab. It was the least we could do after making them wait."

Silence. Lewis' agents were frozen in place, their expressions a study in pure terror. Valenti watched with interest as Lewis did a mental inventory, the list readable on his anguished features. No body, no written evidence of foul play, no suspects, no....nothing.

"But if it makes you feel any better," Valenti continued, rising from his chair, "I did notice that you don't like to lose. What I can't figure out is how you didn't notice that I don't like to let bastards like you win." He grabbed his hat, nodding to the furious Lewis and his terrified agents. "You boys have yourselves a good look, now."

Valenti stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, finding Hanson right where he knew he'd be. "Sir, do you...do you think that's wise?" he whispered, his eyes darting toward the office. "He's FBI! It's like poking a bear with a stick!"

"You're probably right," Valenti agreed as they walked down the hallway. "But God, that felt good."




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



Marathon, Texas



"Another five minutes, and we should be there," Atherton said cheerfully.

Finally, Brivari thought. The tranquilizer with which Atherton had been sedated must not have worn off completely because his energy had begun to flag last night only an hour into the drive. They had pulled off the road, parking behind one of those huge advertisement boards with the intention of Atherton having a little nap. That "little" nap had lasted for hours, with Brivari watching carefully for any signs of pursuit; although he had changed the vehicle's color and identification plate, it remained the same variety of car it had been before, and he wouldn't put it past Valenti to cast a wider net than one might initially expect. Atherton had finally awakened in the very early hours of the morning, after which they had stopped at a roadside diner for breakfast and a grocery store to procure some food. There had been no indication they were being followed, but Brivari was still relieved when they had finally hit the open road at a good clip with nothing else to stop them.

"And here we are!" Atherton announced with a flourish as they rounded a low hill.

Brivari stared through the windshield at one of the strangest sights he'd ever seen. To the right was a relatively simple dwelling, modern in style, but small. To the left was a downright odd structure, half spherical and sporting a wooden front door that looked out of place on such a bizarre building. Atherton parked the car between the two structures and climbed out, breathing deeply.

"Smell that Texas air!" he exclaimed. "I can always tell when I'm back in Texas. New Mexico air was.....different."

"Why did you choose such a remote location?" Brivari asked, being unable to either smell "Texas air" or offer an opinion on it. "I believe this qualifies for the appellation 'middle of nowhere'."

"I like my solitude," Atherton answered, closing the car door. "I spend part of my life earning my living giving speeches or attending conventions, and the other part pursuing my life's work under a false name. Here there is no subterfuge, no expectations, no neighbors, even. Just me."

Indeed, Brivari thought as Atherton headed toward the spherical structure. The last dwelling they had passed had been several miles back. If one wanted solitude, this was the place to come. "This is my pride and joy," Atherton chattered, producing a key from his pocket. "I've been fascinated with these for years. Finally made enough money to build one. Bit of a bother, really. Building materials are made for squares and rectangles, so there's a lot of waste. And the space inside is a bit fussy with the curvature and all, but I'm working on it." He slipped the key into the lock below the door's hexagonal window, opened the door, and stepped aside. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Brivari crossed the threshold, musing that "wonderful" was hardly the word he would choose. But then Atherton did have rather eclectic tastes, tastes which had not yet been satisfied, by the looks of things. Exposed beams, piles of materials, little furniture, and a general dishevelment pointed to the fact that the work continued.

"The exterior is complete, but the interior is unfinished," Atherton noted, as though reading his mind. "But the most important part is done. Follow me."

Brivari obliged as Atherton led him through frameworks which would become hallways and rooms when completed. A good deal of light came from the many windows, including several in the ceiling. There was a smattering of furniture, a sofa here, a table there, and several boxes of papers, as though the construction site were being used as a storage location. Atherton wound through the structure, coming to a halt before a stone wall.

"Is something wrong?" Brivari asked when he didn't move.

"Before I take you any further," Atherton said slowly, "I need to know something."

"Such as?"

"Such as why did you save my life? You didn't have to. One could argue you shouldn't have bothered. That in saving me, you put yourself in danger."

I did, Brivari thought privately. If that dart had hit him instead of Atherton, he would now be at the tender mercy of Major Lewis. "I am tired," he said after a moment, "of losing those I care about."

"Like your Indian friend?"

"Yes," Brivari said quietly. "And my long time friend who died shortly after we arrived here. And....and Audrey."

Atherton's eyes widened. "You killed her?" he whispered.

Brivari shook his head. "No; my companion did. She saw something she shouldn't have, and he.....reacted. Overreacted, really. I am of the opinion I could have explained things to her. He disagreed."

Atherton sank slowly onto a stack of wood nearby, kneading his hands together in front of him. "I don't know how to call that one," he confessed. "Miss Tate was certainly intelligent, but.....I don't know. I don't know how she would have reacted." He paused. "What exactly did she see?"

"My companion was having some fun at Mr. Dean's expense," Brivari sighed.

Atherton blinked, then dissolved into laughter. "I know, I know," he said when he saw the look on Brivari's face. "Given what happened, it's not funny. But the thought of that dandy being given his comeuppance.....well, let's just say I can sympathize with his tormentor."

"We were alone in an ally with no one but Mr. Dean," Brivari said soberly. "And then suddenly she was there, and she panicked. She ran, we pursued....and he got to her first. I didn't think he would go so far."

"That explains why she was found so far from where Mr. Dean said he was attacked. And he was attacked," Atherton added incredulously. "My God, that moron was telling the truth. That smarts. Why is he still alive?"

"We are not indiscriminate killers, if that's what you think," Brivari said coldly. "Mr. Dean was obnoxious and annoying, but that hardly makes his life forfeit."

"But running around blathering that you're an alien just might," Atherton noted. "Even if your friend wasn't planning on killing Dean, I'm surprised he's still alive given the way he's been shooting his mouth off."

"We couldn't afford another death," Brivari answered. "We had done enough to attract the attention of our enemies. And when those enemies came for you......" He stopped, gazing out a window. "I have personal experience with the head of the FBI's new 'special unit'. He nearly cost my companion his life while he was held captive; I have no doubt what he would have done to you had you come under his power. And I grow weary of there being a price for befriending me. You offered to shield my escape. It was the least I could do to offer the same."

"So one of you was held captive!" Atherton said triumphantly. "But it wasn't you! That explains the reports of two aliens captured, but only one being held. We'd always wondered if that meant the other one captured was one of the dead, or it was a simple miscount, or—"

" 'We'?" Brivari interrupted.

"My friend," Atherton said earnestly, "my fellow alienologists and I have been looking for you for years, literally years. And as luck would have it, I'm something of a pack rat." As he spoke, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and withdrew a cord at the end of which dangled a key. "This is much too valuable to let out of my sight. It goes with me everywhere, no matter who I'm masquerading as at the moment."

"And that opens....what?"

"Watch," Atherton said, returning to the stone wall, one finger extended as though he were counting. "This is the first thing I built once the exterior was finished. That's the main reason for this dome, other than it tickles me. I needed a suitable hiding place." As he spoke, he plucked a stone out of the middle of the wall to reveal a keyhole into which he fitted the key from around his neck.

"Trap door," Atherton explained, pulling it all the way open. Beneath was a set of stairs which they climbed down into a dimly lit room. "Damn!" Atherton muttered, pulling a lantern off the wall. "I forgot the matches. I'll be right back."

"No need," Brivari said, holding out a hand. Atherton blinked as the lantern flared to life revealing a room crammed with papers in boxes, maps, charts, and photographs.

"What is this place?" Brivari asked.

"My private library," Atherton explained, hanging the lantern on the wall. "The repository of everything I've learned about your people since I began studying you. Here," he continued, pulling one box toward him, "are eyewitness accounts of soldiers who must have been your friend's captors. And over here are documents the military tried to shred back in 1950 when he escaped. And here," he went on, scurrying to another corner, "are carbon copies of military documents pertaining to aliens after 1950. One of my alienologist friends knows someone in the service who throws in an extra carbon whenever anything that looks interesting comes across her desk. I have years worth of data here.....and it's all for you."

"For me?" Brivari echoed.

"Yes, you!" Atherton beamed. "I had this place built for you even though I'd never met you. It's a hiding place not only for this incredibly sensitive information, but also for you, any of you, if you need it. This room isn't on any of the blueprints, and I did all the work myself; no one knows about it but me. It's unconnected to any electrical or sewer systems, and there's an escape route that leads outside, several yards from the dome," he added, drawing aside a tarp which covered a circular opening. "It's a bit of a mess now, but once this place is finished, it will be much more inviting, I assure you. And this isn't the only such place. There are dozens of hidden rooms like this all over the country. My friends and I are prepared to operate our own alien underground railroad."

"And the price for this largesse is.......?"

"Is simple," Atherton said. "We want to learn. We want to know why you came here, what you want with us. We only want you to answer the question, 'Why?' "

Brivari pulled a box toward him and removed the lid. Atherton's discretion was well established, and there was a great deal of information here which could prove useful. And it was worth noting that it had been Atherton's "alienologists" who had discovered the FBI's new unit. Perhaps there was value in tapping into a network of human spies, albeit carefully.

"Thank you, James," he said as Atherton broke into a wide smile. "Where should I start?"




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




Ruth Bruce's rooming house




"Just made it," Anthony said with relief as he closed the trunk of the car on what had looked to be an impossible amount of luggage. "I was convinced we were going to have to get rid of something."

"The only reason we managed to get it all in is because Mama decided not to come," Dee answered, gazing at the back seat of her father's car, which was every bit as full as the trunk with just enough room left over for her and Philip. At the last minute, Emily had done the math and graciously stepped aside so they could haul everything up to Albuquerque in one trip.

"Is that everything?" David asked.

Dee glanced toward the house. "Give me just ten more minutes, Daddy. I want to say goodbye to Courtney before we leave."

"Take your time," her father said affably.

"Not too much," Anthony warned. "We still have to unload everything when we get there, and then Philip will need time to calm down."

"Just ten more minutes," Dee insisted. "We can spare ten more minutes. I don't want to spend all day wondering what on earth is going on."

"All right," Anthony sighed. "I'll take Philip for a walk. Maybe it'll wear him out so he'll sleep on the way up."

"Don't we wish," Dee said ruefully, watching her toddler sprint down the sidewalk surprisingly fast with his father and grandfather on his heels. Philip was so excited he could hardly stand it, so she wasn't in a big hurry to confine him to a car. And she also wasn't in a big hurry to leave without finding out everything she could about the drama this weekend. Valenti's behavior on Saturday followed by the headlines on Sunday had the whole town talking, despite the fact that all the newspapers had really said was that someone thought the sheriff was looking for aliens. His rebuttal was in the article, but no one had paid much attention to it, especially after rumors of some kind of confrontation at a local motel had made the rounds yesterday afternoon and today's papers had announced that the Roswell sheriff was working with the FBI to investigate the death of Audrey Tate. Dee had been on pins and needles with worry, not about the aliens, who could take care of themselves, but about Valenti, whose family had been targeted. For all the boxing matches she'd had with him, he didn't deserve that.

The front door to the house opened, and Courtney appeared. "What did Mrs. Bruce say?" Dee called, scurrying up the front walk. "Has she heard anything?"

"Of course she has," Courtney chuckled. "Little old ladies are gossip magnets even where I come from. Would you like one of the embellished versions of the story, which includes something that sounds like Godzilla, or just the facts?"

"Which do you think?" Dee said impatiently.

"Facts it is, then," Courtney said. "The FBI was in town yesterday, and the sheriff was with them. Along the way a door at a local motel was broken down, someone's car was stolen, and a tree fell across a road, blocking it until this morning. That's pretty much it."

"Good Lord," Dee muttered. "I can't believe this is all happening just as we're leaving town. What about Valenti? Is he okay?"

"Seems to be," Courtney answered. "He's at work, and people say it's business as usual down at the station. The whole town is calling his wife, and she's answering the phone, so no one's made off with her. Mrs. Bruce heard that a bunch of reporters was at Valenti's house yesterday afternoon along with another sheriff, and that's where he told them he was working with the FBI. No one's seen the FBI since yesterday, though, so maybe they gave up."

Sheriff Wilcox, Dee thought. So her mother's call had helped after all. And it sounded like the sheriff had taken a tip from Emily and called in the press to make the FBI back off, just like her mother had back in '47 when the Army had been harassing the Brazels. "They probably left because of all the reporters," Dee said, "but that doesn't mean they won't be back. Valenti may not be off the hook yet."

"I think everyone would notice if the FBI did anything to Valenti now," Courtney noted. "It looks like they're gone."

"And so are the Warders," Dee sighed. "You found them....and then you lost them."

"But at least I found them," Courtney reminded her. "And at least they weren't caught by any of the wrong people. And Malik knows where I am, so I'll just sit tight and wait."

"But what about Vanessa? She'll have her hearing today; Valenti won't be able to put it off any longer."

"Doesn't matter," Courtney said. "The Warders know they're being watched now, so they're not here to find." She paused, glancing back at the house. "I guess my father sending them that letter was a good idea after all. Just don't tell him I said that."

"Said what?" Dee asked innocently, being well acquainted with the ups and downs of being a strong-willed child with a strong-willed parent. "Besides, I've been careful to stay away from him after our last 'chat'. I figured he'd want it that way."

"My father's a good man, and very smart," Courtney said. "He's just a little.....rigid. Or maybe 'paranoid' would be a better word. He worries a lot."

"And no wonder," Dee said, who had secretly developed a measure of sympathy for Michael over the past several days. "He's leading a resistance within the organization of a tyrant on a war torn planet. That's enough to make anyone paranoid."

"You need to get away from all this," Courtney said crisply, taking Dee's arm and steering her toward the car. "Get in the car, go back to school, and let me handle what goes on here. You've earned a vacation."

"Law school as a vacation," Dee said dryly. "What a novel idea. You have my number, right?"

"Of course."

"And you'll call me if anything happens?"

"Of course."

"I mean anything. Big, small, important, unimportant—"

"Of course not. I'm not going to bother you with every little thing. You'll be busy."

"But—"

"Get her out of here," Courtney called to Anthony, who had just come within earshot as he trailed Philip, who was toddling back to the car. "She needs to put some distance between herself and this place."

"I couldn't agree more," Anthony said, opening the car door. "Let's go!"

"You're not in a hurry to get rid of me, are you?" Dee said sourly.

"Don't be silly," Courtney said calmly. "Goodbye, sweetheart!" she added to Philip, sweeping him up in a big hug. "Have fun in your new house!"

"House!" Philip said enthusiastically. "Car!"

"Yes, you get to ride in the car," Courtney agreed as Philip squirmed out of her grasp and clambered into the car. "Isn't that exciting?"

"It will be for the first few miles," Anthony smiled. "After that, all bets are off."

"I gave Courtney your number in case she needs anything," Dee said to her father. "You and Mama will look after her, won't you?"

"I'll be fine," Courtney insisted. "Now, go on. Git!"

Dee blinked at her. " 'Git'?"

"New word," Courtney said. "Have a good trip!" she added, waving to Philip through the window.

"So what did she say?" David asked after they'd all climbed into the car and pulled away. "Is Valenti all right?"

"Seems to be," Dee said as Philip bounced on her lap. "It looks like it's over."

"I hear a 'but' in there," Anthony noted.

"It may look like it's over, but it isn't," Dee answered. "Someone's head is going to roll for this. The only question is whose."




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




FBI Headquarters,

Washington, D.C.



In the tiny, cramped hallway outside Director Hoover's office, Agent Lewis stood at attention and waited. And waited. He'd been waiting for over an hour now, a guard having delivered his report on recent events in Roswell and bidden him wait until the Director had finished reading it, which he apparently still hadn't, a fact that weighed heavily on Lewis' mind. While he'd done his best to frame himself and his unit in the best light possible, there was no avoiding the fact they had failed, and he'd spent every minute of his time on the plane ride to Washington and in this sweaty little alcove practicing his pep talk. The plan was to shift as much of the blame as possible onto Sheriff Valenti, relieving his unit of most, if not all, of the fallout and giving him a reason to haul Valenti down here by his badge. They no longer had the element of surprise, so removing Valenti was now problematic, but no matter; everything was possible with J. Edgar Hoover.

Assuming he knows how to read, Lewis thought uncharitably as he shifted his cramped legs. The size of this hallway was so small, it was barely deserving of the name. There was no place to sit, or pace, or do much of anything but stand, which didn't seem to bother the guards outside Hoover's office door. Lewis was determined that no one know it was bothering him; the last thing he needed was for the guards to say he was whining. Still, if he didn't move soon, his legs were going to fall asleep under him.

A guard turned suddenly and for no apparent reason, as though called by one of those inaudible dog whistles. Entering the office, he emerged a moment later.

"The Director will see you now."

Thank God, Lewis thought gratefully, careful to take his first few steps slowly while his stiff legs complained. As much as he dreaded this audience, it was a relief to be moving toward getting this over with and getting back to work. Especially the part about dragging Valenti down here to account for his actions. He was looking forward to that most of all.

"Come!" Hoover barked before the door was even closed.

Lewis hastily covered the length of the office. "Stop," Hoover ordered when he was about three feet away and level with the two chairs in front of the desk, his aching legs waiting expectantly for the command to sit. But none was forthcoming. The Director took his time rearranging the various pieces of Lewis' report, which had been delivered carefully bound and had now been ripped apart and arranged in piles.

"So," Hoover said at length as Lewis cast longing glances at the chair. "They escaped on your watch. Again."

Lewis's mouth opened, then closed. He'd been expecting questions; harsh questions, perhaps, but not this bald, unfortunate truth.

"Well....yes, but as I made clear in my report, it was—"

"Agent, did you or did you not allow aliens to escape on your watch?"

"You make it sound like I let them go, sir," Lewis objected. "I clearly—"

"Did you or did you not allow aliens to escape on your watch?!" Hoover thundered.

Lewis' mouth set in a thin line. "Aliens escaped on my watch, sir, but I did not 'allow' them to escape. I was in close pursuit at the time. I would hardly refer to that as 'allowing' them to escape."

"So you like semantics, do you?" Hoover snapped. "I've noticed. This entire report is an exercise in semantics, not to mention scapegoating, buck-passing, and all manner of other related hoo-hah."

The trickles of sweat running down Lewis' back abruptly turned into torrents. "Sir, I—"

"Do you really think I made it to this side of this desk without being able to recognize a snow job when I see one?" Hoover demanded. "I specialize in snow jobs, agent! And right now, it's snowing in Washington at the end of August, and I am not happy!"

Lewis swallowed hard. "Sir, if you would—"

"Silence!" Hoover ordered. "I don't need to hear a blessed thing from you—it's all right here. You exposed yourself to the local, allowed a two-bit county sheriff to make a fool of you, lost the aliens, lost the evidence, and caused a whole lot of inconvenient questions from the press. Did I leave anything out?"

Plenty, Lewis thought darkly, recalling the rather large number of details he had deliberately omitted from the report. And thank goodness, considering that Hoover was off on a tear about the abbreviated version.

"Do you know what your single biggest mistake was, agent?" Hoover asked. "Not that you didn't make scads of them, but only one was fatal. Take a guess."

"I asked for Valenti's assistance in locating the aliens," Lewis said promptly.

"Wrong; that was the right thing to do," Hoover answered. "You had a much better chance of finding aliens posing as locals by using local law enforcement. No, your single biggest mistake was that you didn't take complete control of the situation immediately. You should have taken Valenti's family into 'protective custody' on day one. That would have made him think twice about blathering to newspapers or releasing bodies without your consent. Hell, the man wouldn't have pissed his pants without your say-so if you'd had his wife and child. Do you have the stones for this job, or don't you, agent?"

Lewis blinked....and then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, sir," he said hastily when Hoover's eyes narrowed dangerously. "It's not that you said anything funny, it's just that....well, I've never been chastised for not being ruthless enough. Quite the opposite, usually."

"This isn't the Army," Hoover said deliberately. "And these are no ordinary criminals we're chasing. Next time, no negotiating, no threats, no time wasted on warrants that don't apply to creatures from other planets. Just swift, decisive, unapologetic action."

"With pleasure, sir," Lewis answered.

"Good. One more thing. You failed, agent. Your unit failed. Someone has to pay for that, and I'll let you pick who that someone is. Choose carefully—if your choice tarnishes the reputation of the FBI or causes more interest from the press, I'll take it out of your hide. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," Lewis replied. "Very clear."




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


I'll post Chapter 59 next Sunday.