Comes The Inquisitor *Series*(AU,TEEN) Complete - 9/23

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sat Feb 11, 2006 11:35 pm

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

December 13, 1947, 2035 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base

"Would you give us a minute?" Spade heard Dr. Pierce ask the guards.

"We're not supposed to leave," one of the guards said uncertainly. "Major Cavitt's orders, sir."

"And I am Major Pierce," Pierce reminded them firmly. "You're dismissed. I take full responsibility," he added as the guards began to protest further.

Standing in the first floor room currently in use as an infirmary, Spade barely heard the bickering behind him. Make that a morgue, he thought, still in shock from the doctor's announcement only minutes ago. In front of him lay five of his men felled near the front door when the aliens had entered, all sleeping peacefully.....all but one. That one lay furthest from the door, his stretcher devoid of IV bottles and other medical paraphernalia, the sheet pulled over his head instead of up to his chin.

Spade walked to the stretcher and pulled the sheet back quickly, before he could lose his nerve. Why you? he thought sadly, staring at Treyborn's babyish, peaceful face. When Pierce had told him a man had died, Spade had been certain it was Walker. The first alien to enter had slipped in wearing Walker's face, so it stood to reason Walker was lying in a heap somewhere....and frankly, there would be a kind of poetic justice in that. Walker was the one who had let the "dog" in to begin with, and Spade was willing to bet very good money that he'd served the same purpose a second time.

Footsteps; Pierce was standing behind him, the room having gone quiet after he'd won the skirmish with the guards. "How?" Spade whispered, pulling the sheet back further. There wasn't a mark on Treyborn: No silver handprint, no blood, no wounds....nothing. He truly looked like he was only sleeping, like he'd wake up any minute now.

"They snapped his neck," Pierce said quietly, as Spade winced. "That's not obvious because we repositioned his head. The angle was quite...alarming."

Spade closed his eyes for a moment. "Are you sure he's...."

"Human?" Pierce finished for him. "That was one of the first things I checked. I'm afraid this is indeed Private Walter Treyborn."

Walter. Spade had only used Treyborn's first name once, back when he was fishing for information about the dog. He'd only used Thompson's first name once, tonight, in the middle of a crisis. "I knew his first name," Spade said, "but I don't know everyone's. I don't know theirs," he added, looking at a sedated soldier lying nearby. "And I should."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Lieutenant," Pierce said gently. "You're new at command, and these are daunting circumstances for even a seasoned commander. My personal opinion is that you've done an admirable job with little experience, no precedents to learn from, and very little support. Your men knew you cared about them—that's far more important than knowing their names. And as for this....unfortunate tragedy, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it that you hadn't already done."

"Why him?" Spade asked, glancing at the other four soldiers who had been merely sedated. "They didn't kill anyone else. Why Treyborn?"

"We won't know for sure until the others regain consciousness," Pierce said, "but I gather Private Treyborn had just returned from the base when the lights went out. One of the men who was standing near him when the power failed remembers him calling out something about aliens, then falling silent. I can't be certain, but I think it's possible that he saw or heard something that tipped him off to what was happening while everyone else still thought it was a drill or a simple power failure."

He knew, Spade thought, sinking into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. Treyborn had shown a knack for sensing aliens, an instinct others lacked. He'd figured out the dog wasn't really a dog when no one else had, even though he'd managed to talk himself out of it. Unfortunately, that instinct would never bother the aliens again.

"If it makes you feel any better," Pierce was saying, "there might be a silver lining in this cloud. I strongly suspect that the casualty rate is as low as it is precisely because your men were slow to realize exactly what was going on. Had the Private been successful in spreading the word...assuming that was what he was trying to do....it's quite likely the aliens would have encountered a different level of resistance, with higher casualties to match. I know you regret his death, but silencing him may have saved many lives tonight. For what it's worth."

Not much. It wasn't lost on Spade that this was the same argument he'd used earlier when he'd been trying to decide whether or not to tell everyone they were about to be attacked. He'd decided then that everyone's ignorance might well save their lives even if it lost them the prisoner, a bargain he was willing to make. Now, even faced with evidence that he was right, he still wasn't convinced.

"I presume you're not familiar with the necessary paperwork in these circumstances," Pierce continued. "I—"

Spade dropped his hands. "Paperwork?"

"Yes, paperwork," Pierce repeated patiently. "There is a great deal of it whenever a soldier dies in the line of duty, and in this case there will be even more; the 'real' reports which will circulate only within certain circles, and the 'official' report which the rest of the world will see. And then there is the matter of informing his parents."

"Jesus," Spade whispered, going suddenly cold. "I'll have to lie, won't I? I'll have to lie to his parents about what happened."

"I'm afraid so," Pierce said gently. "No doubt some kind of accident will be created. I've done this before, Lieutenant; I'd be happy to shoulder that burden if you—"

"No," Spade said firmly. "I'm his commanding officer. They should hear it from me."

"Of course," Pierce said. "As his commander, that's your right."

The door flew open and Major Cavitt breezed into the room, still immaculately groomed and calm. "There you are, Lieutenant. I've been looking for you. What are you doing in here? Leave the wounded to the doctor; that's not your department. I need you to organize a detail to retrieve any of our men off duty at the base. Make certain they receive blood tests and pass the usual security checks before being allowed back inside the compound. And—"

"Sheridan," Pierce interrupted wearily. "Would you give him a minute?"

"What for?"

"He's never lost a man before," Pierce explained with the exaggerated patience one might use with a small child.

" 'Lost a man'?" Cavitt repeated. "Is that what this mope fest is about? Good Lord, Lieutenant! The key word in that sentence is 'a'. You lost 'a' man, which is a lot less than you might have lost under the circumstances. Try focusing on what you haven't lost instead of wasting all this energy mourning one man."

"Ordinarily I'd say that if you opened your mouth wider, you'd be able to fit the other foot in, but I think it's already in there," Pierce snapped as Spade stared at Cavitt, speechless.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Cavitt demanded.

"It means that even I didn't know you could be this insensitive...and that's saying something," Pierce said angrily.

"Oh, I'm insensitive, am I?" Cavitt retorted, his cold gaze sweeping both Pierce and Spade. "Let me tell you how I define 'insensitive', gentlemen. 'Insensitive' is when the commander of our guard detail sits there whining over the loss of one man when the enemy could return at any moment. Has that not occurred to either of you? If the aliens were to return now, they'd find us down by a couple of dozen men with no clear way to prevent a repeat of what happened here tonight. We still don't know exactly how they compromised our emergency generator, we still don't have a convenient way to identify them when they look like us; now would be the perfect time to attack. What about the rest of your men, Lieutenant? They're still alive—don't you want them to stay that way?"

Spade remained in the chair, staring straight ahead at Treyborn's lifeless body, not even bothering to answer that preposterous question. Besides, he didn't trust himself; if he even tried to address Cavitt right now, he'd probably strangle him.

"So you lost a man," Cavitt continued. "I have news for you, Lieutenant—this is war. I've been saying that all along; perhaps now someone will believe me. The aliens are not 'benign', or 'friendly', or 'here by accident'—they are murderous creatures who came here deliberately for a purpose we have yet to discover. No matter how many times General Ramey tries to sugarcoat it, this is war, and in war, young men die. The only way to stop that is to stop the aliens. So I suggest you get off that chair and do your part to make certain that no more of your men die at alien hands. Wallowing in grief is nothing less than 'insensitive' to the continued safety of the remaining men under your command."

Another soldier entered the room, pulling up short at the tense silence and stony faces he encountered. "Uh....sir?" he said, addressing Major Cavitt. "I have the reports from the Sheriffs' offices. There's one here I think you should look at."

"Which one?" Cavitt asked, snatching the list from the soldier's hand.

"This one, sir," the soldier said, pointing. "Fighting and gunshots reported on Baldwin Street. Doesn't William Brazel live on Baldwin Street?"

"He does indeed," Cavitt said, eyes gleaming. "Well done, Private! You see, Lieutenant?" he added to Spade, who was still studiously ignoring him. "This is the type of behavior that will save your men's lives, not sitting there awash in self pity. Get my car," Cavitt said briskly to the hovering soldier, "and a half dozen men from the base to accompany me. With any luck we'll have more prisoners before the evening's through."

The Private scurried out. "I mean it, Lieutenant," Cavitt warned Spade. "By the time I get back, I expect this place to be humming and a preliminary report prepared so we can decide how we're going to prevent further incursions of this nature. Leave your grieving for the funeral. That's what funerals are for."

Silence fell as Cavitt swept out of the room. Pierce sighed and cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking.

"Don't you just hate it when he has a point?" he said, shaking his head. "I know I do. But he does have a point," Pierce added gently. "I know this is upsetting, and I understand why, but there are things that need doing lest others join Private Treyborn." He paused. "Lieutenant? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Spade said tersely, rising from his chair abruptly just as Pierce's hand was about to descend upon his shoulder. "The Major needn't worry about me not doing my duty."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Spade nodded curtly. "Sir."

Spade stalked out of the room, his own words to the alien earlier in the mess hall ringing in his ears: "I still don't see how this is my problem." It is now, he thought grimly as he strode down the hallway. Now he had his own beef with these people that had nothing to do with thrones or usurpers or political factions. Now they'd taken something that belonged to him. Now it was personal.

Now he finally knew which side he was on.

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

"Let me get the door for you, ma'am."

"Thank you, Private," Yvonne said wearily, pushing her hair off her face. She'd attempted to pin it back up several times since it had come loose during the aliens' attack, with no success; it kept falling around her shoulders, getting in her eyes, getting in her way.

"We've checked everyone's quarters," the soldier assured her as he opened the door to her room, "and I'll be right outside. Major Cavitt wants all the officers shadowed by a guard for the time being in case those bastards come back."

Yvonne flinched at the hatred lacing the guard's voice. The mood in the compound had rapidly moved from shocked to angry as news of Private Treyborn's death had spread like wildfire. She had no quarrel with their anger—indeed, she shared it—but she knew from experience that John would become the target of that anger just as soon as he was conscious again. No one would ever believe that he hadn't wanted to be "rescued", that the only reason the aliens had been beaten back was because one of their own had joined the fight.

"I've been instructed to lock your door when you're inside," the guard added. "Just knock when you're ready to leave."

"I'll just be a few minutes," Yvonne said faintly, not pleased at the prospect of being locked in even though she understood the reason. The door clicked shut, and she leaned against it with her eyes closed like she'd done so often, relishing the solitude, the quiet, and the soft darkness free of the harsh artificial lighting which was all the basement level had.

Darkness.....

Yvonne's eyes flew open as she lurched for the light switch in panic. Suddenly that artificial light was most welcome, and she sank onto the bed, rubbing her arms and shaking. She hadn't realized until just now how much being in total darkness had affected her....not just being in it, but being hunted....pursued...hearing your pursuers getting closer and closer, and not being able to see them. Even though she'd known she was not the target, it had been absolutely terrifying to hide behind John's bed, hearing the fighting, the soft thwap of tranquilizer darts followed inevitably by the sound of a body slumping to the floor, and the terrified cries of the soldiers fighting something they couldn't see. She was ashamed to admit it, but she'd actually put her hands over her ears at one point so she wouldn't have to listen as her compromised vision made her hearing more acute.

No, not compromised—absent. In a windowless basement, the darkness was total without artificial light. The flashlights had been better than nothing, even if only barely, but when John had asked for them to be turned off....suddenly Yvonne realized why children were afraid of the dark. Fear of the dark was something she'd never suffered as a child, so it was ironic that she'd be suffering from it now. Now the bogeymen were real.

Reluctantly, Yvonne rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom, careful to flip the light on before entering. She couldn't be away long. All the men on this floor felled by darts were being given intravenous fluids and monitored around the clock, so she needed to get back. The dosage of sedative in a dart may not be enough to kill a human, but it was still a high dosage, so they needed careful observation. She used the bathroom, washed her face, contemplated changing into a fresh uniform, rejected the notion as too time consuming, and walked back into her quarters.....only to gasp at what she saw there.

<What are you doing here?> she demanded in telepathic speech, praying it still worked.

Brivari was slumped in her chair; if he was surprised that she could now speak telepathically, he didn't show it. No doubt he had other things on his mind. he answered.

<Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be here right now?> Yvonne sputtered. <The whole place is in an uproar!>

<So I've noticed. Where is Jaddo?>

<He's fine,> Yvonne answered. <They didn't get him. He was hit with a dart, so he's out at the moment. They've put him in his new 'room', as they call it,> she added darkly, remembering her own feelings of panic when Lewis had "accidentally" locked her inside those white walls with no door. She didn't even want to think about how many phobias she was going to have when all this was finally over. <You need to leave. It's not safe to be here.>



<You need to leave now,> Yvonne insisted. <There's a guard right outside my door! I'm locked in—I can't even get out unless I knock first. You have to—>

 Brivari repeated sharply, rising from the chair.

Yvonne opened her mouth to protest further, stopping when she got a good look at him. <You're injured,> she said in surprise, staring at the gash in his right leg and the numerous bruises, suddenly realizing that she wasn't the only one having a bad night. <They went after you too, didn't they? John said they would.>

<It is nothing,> he said dismissively. <Now what happened?>

<At least let me look at you,> Yvonne said, taking a step toward him. <That's a nasty cut, and—>

Brivari took a step backward. 

<All right,> Yvonne said reluctantly, pushing her nursing instincts aside. She ruminated for a moment and he let her, remaining silent while she tried to decide where to begin. <Okay, for starters, those two you thought were dead? They're not. They both survived...and one of them came here tonight to warn Stephen that this was going to happen.>

Brivari's eyes widened in surprise as he stared at her for a moment before turning away, shocked. he murmured, more to himself than to her. 

<Perhaps you should be glad you made that mistake,> Yvonne said. <The only reason we were at all ready for them is because one of them tipped us off. If not for that, I don't think John—Jaddo—would be here now.>

<Malik,> Brivari said with certainty.

Yvonne shook her head. she added, feeling cold all over again at the memory of John's description of a "specially engineered" living weapon.

<There were eight all together,> Brivari said, sinking back down into the chair. He didn't appear very steady on his feet. 

<Malik said one of them was a 'bioscientist'.>

Brivari nodded. <Their ultimate aim is to capture the infant recreations of our royal family, so they would need a bioscientist. And the other?>

<He gave us a name....what was it?> Yvonne murmured, trying to remember the strange name Stephen had repeated to her.

<This is very important,> Brivari said urgently. <The leader of this expedition is likely someone they feel would be expert at tracking me. I need to know who I'm up against.>

Yvonne racked her brain trying to think of the alien name Stephen had repeated, or even the first initial, but she came up with nothing. <I'm sorry...I don't know. I....>

<You don't know, or you don't remember?>

<Stephen did tell me, but I can't recall it now. If I see him, I'll ask him.>

 Brivari said shortly.

<No!> Yvonne exclaimed. <The last thing you should do right now is walk around pretending to be me. Besides, you can't—you're injured, remember? And Stephen might not be in the best of moods right now. One of his men is dead.>

<He will lose a great deal more than just one man if I do not learn what I need to know,> Brivari said, taking a step toward her, his expression so intense that she actually backed up. 

<It's going to have to,> Yvonne said wearily. <Look,> she added, one hand to her forehead, <I've had a rough night. I'm really sorry I can't think of the name at the moment, but—>

<There is another way.>

<What other way?>

<We could form a telepathic connection.>

<Isn't that what we're doing now?>

<No,> Brivari said impatiently. <Now we are speaking telepathically. A connection would allow me to see your thoughts...and I should warn you that you would see some of mine as well.>

Yvonne stared at him. <You mean...you mean you could...read my mind?>

<Not exactly. Only the most proficient can do that. I could only see what you were thinking at the moment, so it is very important that you recall whatever happened here tonight when we connect.>

Connect? Yvonne felt her heart racing. She knew this person better than some members of her own family, often forgetting that he was a different species. But tonight it was impossible to forget that, and she simply wasn't up to participating in more alien shenanigans at the moment. Besides, the thought of seeing some of his thoughts was unsettling, to say the least.

<I'm sorry,> she whispered, heading for the door. She knocked on the door before Brivari could protest again and put her hand on the light switch, ready to douse the lights just as soon as the door began to open. She heard the clinking of keys, her hand was on the knob....

....and then his hand was on hers, and she was somewhere else.

Hurrying down a long hallway, dragging a battered body through a sea of corpses...

...an impossible view of Earth looming through a large window...

...a young girl lying on the ground, her face covered with blood...

...a dimly lit chamber made of rock, filled with pulsing, glowing bags containing tiny fetuses...

"Ma'am?"

Startled, Yvonne came back to herself. The door had opened slightly, and the concerned face of the guard was peering through, having no idea that an alien was only inches away on the other side of the door.

<I'm sorry,> Brivari whispered, having removed his hand from hers. <Time was of the essence.>

"Ma'am, are you all right?" the guard said, trying to open the door further.

"Of course," Yvonne answered brightly, snapping off the light and slipping through the door, hoping he wouldn't notice how brittle her voice was. "I just...." She just what? "I just...almost turned off the lights before the door opened, and realized I didn't want to be in the dark," she finished in a rush, mentally cringing at how lame that sounded even for a hasty excuse.

But the guard smiled knowingly. "I know how you feel, ma'am. I don't think I'll ever feel the same way in the dark again. Pretty weird, huh?" he added sheepishly. "Here we are, all grown up and afraid of the dark. But then we know the monsters are real, don't we?" He locked the door and pocketed the keys, shaking his head. "Frankly, I think I liked it better when I didn't know the monsters were real."

"I know how you feel," Yvonne agreed, eager to be gone. "Now if you'll excuse me...."

She headed up the hallway, the hand Brivari had touched jammed in the pocket of her uniform, the images she'd seen swirling through her mind like someone's endless home movie. The images of battle and death were all too familiar. She'd never seen the glowing sacs, but they were just as Stephen had described them. It was the contents of those sacs that surprised her. She had expected to see fetuses. What she hadn't expected was that those fetuses would inexplicably look.....human.

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

Proctor residence

The beam from his flashlight shook as Deputy Valenti tried—and failed—to hold it steady on the apparition on the floor right beside him. There had been a man there just a moment before, a man who'd come falling out of the darkness moments after David Proctor had shouted a warning and fired his pistol. And now that man was gone, replaced by a pile of....what? Dirt? Ashes? Sand? Whatever it was, it was black and fine, lying in a smooth, flat layer on the polished hardwood floor like someone had just accidentally tipped over a coal bin.

Wincing, Valenti pulled himself into a sitting position, his shoulder throbbing from where he'd hit the floor when he'd rolled out of the path of Proctor's bullet. All the lights in the house were still out, the only illumination coming from moonlight and his lone flashlight. Chilly air blew in from the shattered dining room window...and nothing else. The sounds of shock which had echoed from outside when the two twins had crashed through the window into the yard beyond had stopped. Eerie silence wreathed the house. Raising his weapon with his flashlight beneath, Valenti began sweeping the beam back and forth, looking for more assailants.

"There aren't any more," a tired voice said from very close by. "There were only three."

Valenti whipped his light around to rest on David Proctor, who was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall in a corner of the dining room, virtually invisible in the gloom. His arms were resting on his drawn up knees, his pistol still in his hand. "How do you know?" Valenti demanded.

"Kind of beside the point, don't you think?"

"Where's the one you shot? Where'd he go?"

David waved his gun at the floor. "He's right there. Or what's left of him."

Valenti's eyes dropped to the pile of dark stuff on the floor. Now that he was upright, it looked different. He moved his light slowly from side to side, realizing that the stuff wasn't in a random pile, but a specific pattern. A pattern that looked very familiar....

Staggering backwards, Valenti bumped into the wall, breathing hard as he recognized the shape on the floor. It was the outline of a human body; there was the head, sideways judging from the vague profile of the face, and there was the arm, flung to one side. The end of the arm sported the perfectly recognizable pattern of a human hand with short fingers. It was as though someone had filled in the classic chalk outline of a murder victim with coal dust, carefully coloring within the lines.

"Mr. Proctor," Valenti whispered, staring at the floor, "what the hell just happened?"

"The short answer? You almost got killed."

"And the long answer?"

David eyed him from across the pile of black. "You almost got killed—but you didn't."

Something glinted in the beam of Valenti's flashlight. Bending over, he reached a shaking hand down to the center of the pile, grimacing as his fingers touched something much softer than sand or dirt, and extracted a metal object which he held up in front of him for inspection. It was a bullet, the bullet David Proctor had fired at whatever it was that now lay on the floor. Judging from the bullet's position, it had hit the heart; a wound like that should have caused massive blood loss, but there wasn't a speck of blood to be seen. Valenti aimed his flashlight at the threshold between the Proctor's dining room and living room; based on where he'd been standing when he'd been attacked, whatever this thing was had been coming right at him.

"Lucky for me you're a good shot," Valenti said, grateful that the darkness hid the embarrassment on his face, if not in his voice. He'd come here to protect the Proctors, and they'd wound up saving his ass.

"I've had a lot of practice," David said heavily.

Valenti swung his flashlight over to David. Even the narrow beam of light showed the unmistakable stamp of the World War II veteran—the haunted eyes, eyes that had seen more than they'd ever wanted to, more than they should have had to. Valenti had been fortunate. As the only son in his family, his draft number had never come up.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs, two pairs of feet, one heavier, one lighter. Valenti whipped his light around toward the archway to the living room as Emily and Dee Proctor loomed into view, Emily raising a hand to block the glare of his flashlight. "I'm sorry, Daddy!" Dee's voice called from somewhere behind Emily. "I told her not to come down, but we......"

She stopped. Emily had flipped on the light switch, and for some reason, the lights now worked. Everyone blinked, the light seeming harsh and invasive instead of welcoming. Emily's gaze slowly rotated from Valenti to her husband, still seated on the floor with his back against the wall, to the broken dining room window, finally coming to rest on the pile of dark stuff on the floor, her eyes widening as she recognized the outline.

But her daughter was way ahead of her, having noticed the shape on the floor immediately and never taken her eyes off it. "Daddy," she whispered, "is that....is that...."

"No," David said firmly. "It's not."

"But...how can you be sure?"

"Because there were two more who left fighting," David answered. "If this were him, there would be no reason for the other two to fight."

Him? Him who? Valenti looked back and forth from David to Dee, mystified, but Dee seemed satisfied by this cryptic explanation. Emily had finished her sweep of the area and zeroed in on what she felt the most imminent threat.

"What is he doing here?" she asked, glaring at Valenti.

"I don't know," David answered.

"You don't know?" Emily echoed. "You're sitting down here in the dark, chatting, and you 'don't know'?"

"I hadn't gotten there yet," David replied, a touch of annoyance in his voice as he climbed to his feet.

"Mrs. Proctor," Valenti began, "I assure you I only came because I thought you were all in dan—"

"What is that?" Emily interrupted, staring at the gun in her husband's hand.

"It's exactly what it looks like," David replied.

"Where did it come from?" Emily demanded.

David sighed. "It's mine, Emily. It's my gun."

Silence. Valenti's eyes flicked back and forth from Emily's astonished face to David's resolute one. Dee remained partway behind her mother, ignoring all of them, her eyes on the shape on the floor.

"Do you mean to tell me," Emily said in a brittle voice, "that you had a gun in our house?"

"Yes," David answered.

"I'm sorry," Emily said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I must have heard that wrong. I thought I just heard you say you had a gun in our house. A gun in our house!" she repeated, her voice rising dangerously.

"That's exactly what I said," David replied calmly. "I've had a gun ever since I came back."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"No. For obvious reasons."

God, he's cool, Valenti thought, noting that David had managed to keep both his voice and his posture steady despite the fact that his wife was turning into a thundercloud. Being married to someone like that, one probably got used to it.

"Mrs. Proctor," Valenti said, feeling a sudden urge to stand behind both David and his gun, "I don't know what this is about, but I can assure you as a Sheriff's deputy that there isn't a vet out there who doesn't have a gun. And it's a good thing he did, because—"

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Emily interrupted coldly.

Valenti stopped, taken aback. "Why, no, Mrs. Proctor," he said after a moment, folding his arms in front of himself. "As a matter of fact, you didn't. I decided that you could benefit from my opinion, so I'm offering it to you free of charge. You can thank me later."

Emily's eyebrows rose at the sarcasm in his voice. "This is none of your business," she snapped. "I have no idea what the hell you think you're doing in my house, but I trust that having found your way in uninvited, you can also find your way out."

Valenti's eyes narrowed. "Wrong on both counts—I'm not going anywhere, and this is my business. I witnessed people being attacked tonight in this house, and one of them attacked me. If your husband hadn't had a gun and been a good shot, I might be dead right now. And if I hadn't been here, you all might be dead right now. I warned you that one day you'd get yourself in too deep. Now do you believe me?"

"Why you—" Emily began, practically quivering with fury.

"Enough!" David broke in sharply. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"I want him out!" Emily exclaimed. "I'll drag him out myself if I have to!"

"I'm not leaving until I get an explanation," Valenti declared, backing up in spite of himself. Emily Proctor was not a large woman, but right now she looked perfectly capable of carrying out her threat.

"We have bigger problems," David said. "Listen."

The sound of sirens cut through the night air, faint at first, then much closer. Then the flashing beacon of a sheriff's cruiser appeared through the living room window, and an excited chatter of voices rose from outside. "Good Lord, David," Emily breathed, peering through the window from a safe distance, her quarrel with her husband forgotten. "The whole neighborhood must be out there!"

"Of course they are," David murmured, as Deputies Woods and McMahon climbed out of the cruiser. "Most of them are veterans. They wouldn't miss gunshots."

"What'll we tell them?" Emily asked.

"How about the truth?" Valenti suggested. "For a change," he added when Emily glared at him.

"Good idea," David said. "I'll go take care of that while you take care of things in here."

Valenti watched closely as the Proctors exchanged knowing glances. What were they up to? But he didn't have time to ponder the question as Emily and Dee retreated immediately toward the kitchen while David headed for the front door, Valenti scrambling to keep up with him. David threw the front door open and stepped onto the porch, snapping on the porch light as he did so, Valenti close on his heels.

A small crowd was gathered outside at the edge of the front yard, about a couple of dozen people from the looks of it. The lights on top of the Sheriff's cruiser were still whirling as it sat parked by the curb, and Woods and McMahon had their weapons drawn, cautiously eyeing the broken dining room window in the side yard. They turned around when they heard the door open, blinking when they saw Valenti and David descending the porch steps.

"Jim?" Woods said. "What are you doing here?"

"Something broke through your window," one of the neighbors added as they all pressed a bit closer. "You okay, Dave?"

"We heard there were gunshots," McMahon added.

"There were," David said gravely, as Valenti noticed he was no longer holding his gun. Where was it? He hadn't seen him put it down anywhere. "Someone broke into my house tonight. We're all fine," he added hastily as a murmur of alarm rippled through the neighbors, "and we're deeply grateful to Deputy Valenti for his keen eye. He was driving by and sensed that something was amiss. He chased the burglars off."

Valenti gaped at David, who was wearing a perfectly straight face. Did he really think he was going to weasel out of this one by passing it off as a burglary? Did David really think that heaping praise on him would silence him about everything he'd seen tonight?

"Glad to hear you're all right," Woods said, as he and McMahon relaxed and holstered their weapons, joining them at the base of the porch steps. "The Sheriff's on his way, and then we'll have a look around."

"I don't think they got anything, and no one was hurt," David said. "Hopefully the worst of it was the broken window, thanks to Deputy Valenti here."

Oh, no you don't! Valenti thought fiercely. No way was he letting this one go. Grateful as he was for David's sharp aim, the fact remained that there wouldn't have been any need for that sharp aim if the Proctors hadn't bitten off more than they could chew in the first place. He'd been summoned here tonight to save their collective butts, and he'd emerged with irrefutable proof that something was rotten in Corona.

"I'm delighted no one was injured," someone drawled just as Valenti opened his mouth to reply, "although I rather doubt it was burglars."

Voices hushed and the crowd parted to reveal a uniformed Army officer approaching the house. He stopped when he reached the little group near the steps, removing his hat and tucking it under his arm. "Major Sheridan Cavitt," he announced, "at your service."

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

I'll post Chapter 72 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Feb 19, 2006 2:38 pm

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

December 13, 1947, 8:45 p.m.

Proctor residence

All eyes were fastened on the newcomer at the base of the Proctor's front steps. Cavitt, Valenti thought, remembering the name from the day the crash site had been discovered. It had been "Captain" Cavitt then, a pushy, control freak of an officer whom Valenti had been pleased to frustrate in his attempts to remove one Betty Osorio, lady reporter. Eventually, though, it had become worth Valenti's while to comply, just like it was now worth his while to dance with Cavitt even though his disposition had likely not changed. Cavitt knew there were aliens—he would listen. Finally, here was someone who would listen and believe not just what had happened tonight, but all the rest of it as well. No one would ever call him "Deputy Martian" again.

"Major, I'm so glad to see you," Valenti said sincerely as David Proctor threw him a warning glance.

"And you are.....?"

"Deputy Valenti," Valenti answered uneasily, hoping his name wouldn't ring any bells. Now might not be the best time for Cavitt to recall that Osorio incident.

No such luck. "Deputy Valenti!" Cavitt echoed, smiling broadly. "I remember you! As I recall, the last time we met, you were giving me a lecture about jurisdiction, were you not?"

Valenti bit back a sharp retort; at the moment, tussling with Cavitt was a bad idea. "Yes, but—"

"A pity you don't heed your own advice," Cavitt continued cheerfully. "Because you do seem to be very much out of your jurisdiction at the moment. Not to mention the fact that you appear to have misplaced your uniform."

"I'm off duty," Valenti said impatiently, "and I'm on loan to Chaves County, which makes this very much my jurisdiction and puts me in a position to be of assistance.....assuming you want assistance, that is."

Cavitt's eyes narrowed slightly; he had gotten the point. "Of course, Deputy. I appreciate the welcome and look forward to your cooperation....this time."

"Exactly why are you here?" David interjected. "This is a police matter, not an Army matter."

Cavitt smiled indulgently. "I beg to differ, Mr....?"

"Proctor," Valenti said helpfully.

"Ah. I beg to differ, Mr. Proctor," Cavitt said. "I'm not at liberty to go into detail, but this may very well be an Army matter. I'm sure you won't mind if my men and I have a look around."

"Actually, I would," David said.

Cavitt's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"I'd prefer the local Sheriff lead the investigation," David said.

"I'd rather not wait," Cavitt replied.

"I'm afraid you'll have to," David said pleasantly.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," Cavitt said, his voice remaining level as his eyes turned hard. "What I meant was, I won't wait."

"Apparently neither of us made ourselves clear, Major," David replied with an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. "What I meant was, permission denied. You may not enter my house."

A sudden chill settled over the group. Cavitt and Proctor never took their eyes off each other, while Deputies Woods and McMahon exchanged wary glances. The neighbors clustered on the edge of the Proctor's front lawn seemed to have picked up the scent of trouble; their conversation died away, and all were now openly staring.

"This could represent a matter of national security," Cavitt said, both his voice and eyes hard now. "I'm afraid you have no choice."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," David answered, uncowed. "Without a warrant, the Army has no authority to enter a private dwelling unless a state of emergency exists or we are at war. I can't imagine I missed a state of emergency, and we are not at war."

"Aren't we, now?" Cavitt said coldly. "I gather you're Army?"

"Was," David corrected. "Captain."

"I see," Cavitt answered. "Well, former Captain Proctor, I—"

"All right, everybody, just settle down now," Woods interrupted. "Sheriff Wilcox is on his way. I'm sure he'll settle this."

"The Major said he couldn't wait for the Sheriff," Valenti pointed out. "Maybe time is a factor in whatever he's looking for. Look, we are Corona deputies," he continued, as Woods and McMahon looked at him in consternation. "I don't see why we can't escort the Major as he conducts his investigation. That should satisfy Mr. Proctor's concerns about local jurisdiction and the Major's need for speed."

"An excellent suggestion," Cavitt smiled.

"Not necessary," Woods said, shaking his head. "The Sheriff will be here any minute, and I’m sure he'll.....what the hell?"

Valenti followed Woods' gaze; four soldiers were approaching from the direction of the yard next door, all carrying weapons. "The Brazel's aren't home, sir," one of them reported when he came abreast of Cavitt. "The house is locked, and there are no signs of forced entry or anything unusual."

"Really?" Cavitt said in surprise. "That might explain the goings on here. Conduct a thorough search of the Brazel's house."

"Yes, sir," the soldier replied.

"Hold it," Woods ordered. "You'll need a warrant for that, Major."

"Here we go again," Cavitt sighed impatiently.

Woods' eyes narrowed. "Major, I have no idea what the Brazel's have to do with Mr. Proctor's house being burglarized just like I don't understand your pressing need for speed, but you'll need a warrant to search the Brazel's house."

Cavitt's eyes flicked toward Valenti. "Perhaps if local law enforcement accompanied my men, that would suffice?"

"Sorry, Major," Valenti said, wondering what Cavitt thought the Brazel's had to do with all this. "You'll need either Mr. Brazel's permission or a warrant to search their property. So would I. And seeing as how the Brazel's house isn't the scene of the crime, Judge Hanson will want Sheriff Wilcox's report before he'll even consider issuing a warrant."

"Do you really expect me to believe that a judge won't consider the word of a Major in the U.S. Army without first hearing a report from a two-bit county sheriff?" Cavitt demanded.

"Evening, gentlemen," drawled a voice behind them. "Don't mind me. I'm just a two-bit county sheriff, here to do my job."

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

"Is that everyone?" Spade asked.

"We just found Lomonaco, Vallone, and LaBella," Private Thompson answered, ticking off a list of names, "so we have a total of six. That's everyone who was out of the compound during the attack."

"You tell'em anything?"

Thompson glanced at the nervous soldiers huddled together several feet away. "No. Although they know damned well that if we're rounding them up and hauling them back just a couple of hours into their first off-duty visit to the base, it can't be good."

"Dr. Pierce has arranged to give them blood tests in the entryway before they're actually allowed back in," Spade said, glancing up and down the long hallway as other base soldiers hurried by, having no idea that aliens had just attacked. "Make sure they're human, then tell them what happened and see if they saw anything while they were here. I'll debrief them myself when I get back."

"Get back from where, sir?"

"We're still missing someone," Spade reminded him. "We know that wasn't really Walker who came in as Walker, so where the hell is Walker?"

Thompson shifted uneasily. "You think he's dead, sir?"

"Wouldn't be surprised. Although the way my night's going, he'll be alive and kicking just to spite me."

"I'm really sorry about Treyborn, sir," Thompson said quietly. "We all are."

"Later," Spade said shortly, heading for a nearby bathroom. "We've got work to do. I'll be out in a minute."

The door swung closed behind him in the mercifully empty bathroom, and Spade leaned his head against the cold ceramic tile and closed his eyes. He had only just managed to push his rage over Treyborn's death into a place far enough back in his mind that he could still function, still do his job. Even the mention of Treyborn's name made that rage strain for escape. Having never been one of those who was short on self-control, Spade found himself suddenly sympathizing with the hotheads of the world who struggled with these feelings every day....or not. Perhaps that was the difference between people like Spade and people like Walker or Fifer, the first to die after the aliens' ship was discovered: Hotheads didn't bother to struggle.

Moving to the sink, Spade turned the squeaky water faucet and splashed cold water on his face in a vain attempt to quite literally cool himself down. He stood up, his face dripping, only to see another familiar face in the mirror.

In one swift motion, Spade spun around and felt his fist connect squarely with "Private Johnson's" nose. The alien went sprawling on the floor, hitting the tile with a satisfying thud that only made Spade want more. "You bastard!" he shouted, the rage he'd kept so precariously bottled up bursting free.

"Wait! I'm sorry about your man!" the alien pleaded, climbing to his feet, blood leaking from his nose.

"Oh, I'll bet you are," Spade said grimly. "And you're going to be even sorrier by the time I'm finished with you."

Smack. Spade's fist connected again and the alien went down, taking longer to get up this time. "You used our darts!" Spade seethed, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the wall. "Why the hell couldn't you have shot him with one of those? That would have shut him up! Why'd you have to kill him?"

"It was not my doing—" the alien began.

Smack. Spade's fist connected again as he held the alien against the wall with one hand and punched with the other. "You know what? I don't care whose 'doing' it was. I'm taking it out of your hide!"

The door opened behind him. "Sir?" Thompson called. "Are you all right? I heard...shit!" he exclaimed, scrambling for his rifle when he saw Spade holding the bloody nosed soldier against the wall. "That's...that's....sir, that's the same soldier who....who..."

"Who offered to 'help' you remove the bodies of those two who looked like Pierce and me?" Spade finished angrily, pulling the alien off the wall and slamming him into it again. "What a surprise. You're just so 'helpful', aren't you? Trotting around everywhere offering to 'help' everyone. With friends like you, who the hell needs enemies?"

"Sir?" Thompson squeaked, his rifle pointed squarely at the alien.

"Hold your fire!" Spade ordered. "This one's mine." He raised his fist again....only to have the alien's hand fly up and grab it, holding the hand in mid air as his eyes went completely, utterly black. The unspoken message was clear—back off.

Spade wrenched his hand out of the alien's and shook his sore knuckles, panting. Thompson's finger was still on the trigger; his eyes were the size of platters, but he hadn't panicked. The alien remained against the wall, eyeing Spade warily as he wiped blood from his face; his lip was bleeding now too.

"I told you I was sorry about your man," the alien said in a remarkably level voice for someone who'd just had his ass kicked. "I didn't want anyone to die any more than you did. He realized who we were. If he had just kept that to himself, he would likely be alive right now, but—"

"Oh, so it's his fault," Spade said sarcastically. "That still doesn't explain why his neck was broken when any one of you could easily have just knocked him out!"

"You do realize, don't you, that if I hadn't warned you that we were coming, you'd probably have even more men dead?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic!" Spade retorted. "Now I'm supposed to thank you for my dead soldier because it's only one dead soldier? Did anyone ever tell you that you're seriously screwed up? You keep saying you don't want John held captive, but you let him be captured last summer, and tonight you made certain he stayed that way. You keep saying one thing and doing another. We have a word for that here—liar."

"I told you I didn't intend for Jaddo to be captured!" the alien said impatiently. "That was an accident! I was trying to prevent his capture just like you were, and I failed—and so did you, in case you hadn't noticed."

"And tonight?" Spade demanded. "Why did you shoot him again tonight?"

"I want all my people free," the alien explained. "Having more captured defeats that purpose. Having both Jaddo and Brivari free while others are captive creates an even worse imbalance than currently exists. I—"

"You know what? I don't give a shit about your 'imbalance'," Spade said. "All I care about is that I've got a man dead for no good reason, and every time you show up to 'help', we get screwed. Don't come to me again. I can't trust you."

"I did not mislead you tonight," the alien insisted, wiping his bleeding lip again. "Didn't everything happen just as I told you it would? And we were successful—Jaddo was not captured by my people, and the serum did not fall into their hands thanks to both of your efforts," he added, nodding to Thompson, who stared back at him, thunderstruck. "You have no idea what a tragedy you prevented by—"

"Oh, stop it!" Spade snapped, feeling a sudden urge to take another swing. "I have no idea what game you're playing, or whose side you're on, but—"

"I told you, I am on neither side; I am—"

"Oh, no you don't," Spade interrupted. "No more of that 'I'm neutral' bullshit. You're not neutral. All you're doing is yanking everyone and everything up, down, and sideways, trying to manipulate the universe into some magic position where you think you'll get what you want, whatever the hell that is. That's about as far from 'neutral' as you can get."

"I never said I was neutral," the alien insisted. "You keep assuming there are only two sides to this conflict, and there aren't. I said I was on the side of my race, not the side of either man who would rule it."

"And the end result is that no one will trust you," Spade said coldly. "Not me. Not Brivari. Not whoever you were with tonight. No one will believe a word you say when you keep pingponging back and forth because you're on some mythical 'third side'. But since you've seen fit to invent a third side, I'm inventing a fourth—consider me on the side of my people, the side that says I don't want any more dead men because of a war on the other side of the galaxy that has nothing to do with us. Clear?"

Silence. The alien stared at him gravely; Thompson's breathing sounded ragged. He wanted to know, Spade thought, suddenly guilty that he hadn't sent Thompson out of the room. Spade had wanted to break all this to him gently, and instead he'd been deluged with alien names, alien politics, and alien conspiracies, all in just a few minutes.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the alien said quietly, sounding genuinely regretful. "I'd hoped....but never mind," he added. "Perhaps I'd better just say what I came to say."

Spade snorted softly. "Let me guess—more 'helpful' advice? Another lecture about 'balance' and 'third sides'? Spare me."

"No. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you prevented my people from succeeding tonight, and how sorry that one of your men paid the price for that. And to let you know that it will only take about a day for my people to completely recover from the effects of the sedative. After that, they will be back. You need to find a way to identify my people before they get into the compound. Once they're inside, it's too late."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Spade said sarcastically. "Now get out, and don't come back."

"There is one more thing."

"Isn't there always?"

"Something more tangible this time," the alien said. "I know where you can find your missing man."

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

Proctor residence

Every head turned to see Sheriff Wilcox, his narrowed eyes sweeping over the unlikely group near the Proctor's porch. Valenti's heart sank; he'd been hoping to get the Major into the Proctor's house before Wilcox got here because he was in cahoots with the Proctors. The odds of actually being listened to this time had just dropped precipitously.

"Gentlemen," Wilcox said, nodding to his deputies. "Dave. And Major—what a surprise," he added, his tone making it clear that that surprise was less than pleasant.

"Sheriff," Cavitt said, his tone changing immediately as he nodded toward Wilcox. "I apologize for my outburst; I meant no disrespect. I'm afraid that my frustration with this situation got the better of me for a moment."

"As I recall, that happens a lot," Wilcox said casually, turning his attention to David Proctor as Cavitt flushed. "Dave, what's going on here?"

"Our house was burglarized, George," David said, no doubt deliberately making it clear he was on a first name basis with the Sheriff.

"Everyone okay?"

"No one's hurt, but they did break a window on their way out. I haven't had a chance to find out what was taken, if anything. The Army finds this interesting for some odd reason, and furthermore suspects Mac of having something to do with it even though he's not home and his house is untouched."

"That so?" Wilcox said, looking at Cavitt. "Why's that, Major?"

"I'm afraid the details require a somewhat higher security clearance than you currently possess," Cavitt replied smoothly, "but I assure you, Sheriff, I have good reason to be here."

"You'll have to do better than that," Wilcox said flatly.

"And I shall," Cavitt replied impatiently, "when we all stop gabbing and I am finally allowed to search both this house and the Brazel's."

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Wilcox said in a deadly voice. " 'Gabbing', are we? You want in the Brazel's house, Major, then you'll need a warrant. And in order to get a warrant, you'll need me; Judge Hanson won't issue one if I don't recommend it. So I strongly suggest you climb off that high horse of yours because that attitude is not going to fly with me. This is my turf. Have I made myself clear?"

For just a moment, Valenti felt an ominous foreboding rumble in his gut when he saw the look in Cavitt's eyes after this tongue lashing. Even more interesting were the expressions on the faces of the soldiers standing behind him, each and every one making it clear that Cavitt was not a man to be crossed. But, disappointed as he was with Proctor successfully stalling until Wilcox could get here, he pushed that foreboding aside. Cavitt may be an arrogant son of a bitch, but he was also the only one likely to give Valenti and his concerns the time of day. It was too bad that validation had to come in such an unattractive package, but life certainly wasn't always fair.

"Forgive me, Sheriff," Cavitt said, almost sounding like he meant it this time. "As I mentioned earlier, it's frustrating to encounter one obstacle after another as I attempt to do my job to the best of my ability."

For you and me both, Valenti thought silently, the feeling of foreboding evaporating.

"Uh huh," Wilcox said, obviously unconvinced. "Well, Dave—let's see what went on in there."

"May I assume that I have your permission to accompany you as you conduct your investigation?" Cavitt asked.

Valenti watched Proctor and Wilcox exchange glances, saw Proctor give the tiniest of nods. "Just you," Wilcox said gruffly to Cavitt. "Leave the firing squad outside."

"Of course," Cavitt agreed, nodding to the soldiers, who withdrew further into a small huddle midway between the house and the still watchful neighbors.

"We'll start with their escape route," Wilcox said. "You said they broke a window?"

"Around here, sir," Woods said, leading the group toward the side yard and the broken dining room window. Proctor hung back toward the end of the line, and Valenti drew abreast of him.

"Mr. Proctor, what the hell are you trying to pull?"

Proctor gave him a sidelong glance. "Sorry?"

"Do you really think anyone's going to buy this 'burglar' story when I'm an eyewitness to a lot more than that?" Valenti demanded. "How do you think they're going to react to that stuff on your dining room floor? What do you think is going to happen when I tell my side of the story?"

Proctor gave a small shrug. "Then I imagine it'll be your word against mine."

"And you've got the Sheriff in your back pocket," Valenti said darkly, stopping and facing David, who also stopped, hands in his pockets, calm as could be. " "Give it up, Mr. Proctor! You and your family have wiggled out of an awful lot, but you're not getting out of this one."

"I'm guessing here, but I'll bet you think this is your big moment," David said casually, glancing toward the group now examining the broken window. "You think this officer is going to listen to you, validate all your claims, and thank you warmly for your efforts. Am I right?"

Valenti felt his face growing warm. That was exactly what he was thinking, but he had no idea he'd been that obvious.

"Unfortunately you don't know Major Cavitt," David continued. "I do. He's dangerous—and he's every bit as dangerous to you as he is to me. He's the one responsible for holding Mac at the base for a week and attempting a house arrest when they finally let him out. And now he wants to just waltz into Mac's house without a warrant or permission of any kind. Are any of your alarms going off, Deputy?"

They were, Valenti thought, mentally pushing that fact aside. "Okay, so Cavitt's not a boy scout," he allowed. "He certainly doesn't look like an easy man to work for, but his oversight of the crash site was professional and efficient. He made some bad calls and was justifiably reined in. And he may have just forgotten about needing a warrant—he's not a police officer."

"A commissioned officer in the United States Army doesn't know he needs a warrant?" David said skeptically. "No, I'm afraid that's not it. Cavitt doesn't think he needs a warrant. He feels the law doesn't apply to him. He'll break any law, ignore any rights, run over virtually anyone to get what he wants—including you."

Jesus. Where was all this paranoia coming from? Valenti stared at David a moment, ultimately deciding his fear of Cavitt was the main stumbling block here. "Mr. Proctor, I know you're a good man," Valenti began, lowering his voice as he leaned in closer to David. "I know you and your family mean well—I truly don't question your motives. But I don't think you realize what you've stepped in. I've said it before, and I'll say it again—however good your intentions may be, you've all gotten yourselves involved in something way beyond what you can handle. If tonight's little powwow doesn't convince you of that, nothing ever will. It's time to stop, Mr. Proctor. It's time to let the professionals handle it. Now, I assure you that your rights will be protected. I won't let Cavitt run over you or your family, and you and I both know Sheriff Wilcox won't let that happen either. That's what we're here for—to protect the citizens of this county. That's my job, and I take it very seriously. Another part of that job is getting to the truth...and that's where you come in. You have to stop hiding what you know."

David was quiet for a moment, watching the group in the side yard finish examining his broken window. "What if you can't have both?" he asked.

"Both what?"

"You said your job involves protection and truth. What if one cancels out the other? What if telling the truth means putting us in danger?"

"What if not telling the truth puts others in danger?" Valenti demanded. "Think of your family—what if your assailants come back? What if they attack someone else, and that attack could have been prevented if you'd been honest? Have you really considered the possible consequences of remaining silent?"

"Absolutely," David replied quietly, "and I've considered them from a perspective you've already admitted you don't have—I know both sides of this story. Believe me when I tell you that we're all in far more danger from that officer back there than we ever were from what you saw tonight. I appreciate your concern," he continued as Valenti started to protest, "and I don't doubt your sincerity, even if I do have problems with your methods. But I've made my choice, and now you'll have to make yours."

"We're going in now, Dave," the Sheriff called as he walked by. "You coming?"

"Be right there," David called.

"I won't lie," Valenti insisted stubbornly.

"If you're serious about 'protecting' us," David answered as he headed for the house, "you're going to have to."

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

I'll post Chapter 73 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Feb 26, 2006 3:20 pm

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

December 13, 1947, 9:50 p.m.

Proctor residence

"Major, for the last time, no!"

"But Sheriff—"

"I haven't seen a thing here that would indicate the Brazel's have anything to do with this," Sheriff Wilcox said in exasperation. "I can't recommend that the Judge issue a warrant without evidence."

"How am I supposed to present evidence when that evidence is out of reach in the Brazel's house?" Major Cavitt demanded.

"Welcome to the catch-22's of our justice system," Wilcox said dryly. "And may I remind you that's what you said about this house? What we found here was supposedly going to provide evidence that would justify a warrant, and all we've got is an interrupted burglary. Nothing the least bit unusual about it. I'm sorry, Major, but you just don't have a leg to stand on."

Join the club, Valenti thought glumly, leaning against the Proctor's dining room wall and once again sharing Major Cavitt's frustration. Because Cavitt hadn't been the only one who hadn't found what he'd been looking for tonight. Or worse yet, found it....and then lost it.

Valenti had been the last one inside the Proctor's house when the group including the Sheriff, his deputies, Major Cavitt, and David Proctor had come inside to inspect the crime scene, and he'd known immediately that something was wrong. David had led them to the dining room where there should have been audible exclamations of surprise when the body-shaped pile of dirt on the floor was discovered. But no gasps of surprise came, and when Valenti reached the dining room, he discovered why: The pile of dirt was missing.

"Okay, Dave, tell us what happened," the Sheriff had asked. And David had spun his tale, which was basically true. He and his family had been upstairs when they'd heard a commotion on the lower floor, followed by gunshots. He had placed his wife and daughter in the attic for safety and come down himself with his gun, encountering two intruders and Valenti himself in the dining room. The intruders escaped through the dining room window, breaking it in the process. End of story. No mention, of course, of a third intruder, the fact that he'd shot it, disintegrating bodies, or the conversation he and Valenti had afterwards. A lie of omission.

Valenti had only half listened while David was talking, intent as he was on scouring the dining room for any signs of the powdery grayish-black stuff the alien's body had collapsed into. But the dining room was immaculate; the walls, the furniture, even the pedestal of the dining room table were scrupulously clean. So that was what Proctor's knowing look to his wife had meant—she had used the time to remove the evidence. He hadn't been stalling just to wait for Wilcox; he'd also been stalling to give her time to Hoover. Mixed in with ordinary household dust in a vacuum cleaner bag, the alien dirt would be indistinguishable. Which left Valenti right where he always found himself—having seen something extraordinary, but having no proof.

"They really tore the place up," Deputy McMahon remarked. With the lights on, the signs of struggle were obvious....and huge. A terrific fight had been waged all over the Proctor's first floor, with overturned furniture, broken lamps and dishes, and a hole in the plaster in the kitchen where someone—or something—had smashed into it. The door to the grandfather clock in the front hall was shattered. The front door of the house had slammed back against the wall with such force that the doorknob had cracked the wall.

"Where are your wife and daughter, Mr. Proctor?" Major Cavitt had asked, peering around the house with displeasure, having apparently reached the same conclusion Valenti had—there was nothing here.

"Upstairs," David had answered. "They're very upset."

"Understandably, but aren't you at least going to interrogate them?" Cavitt asked Wilcox.

"Around here we 'interview' victims," Wilcox had said pointedly, "and I already have. They were in the attic, remember? They didn't see a thing."

"Did you fire your weapon, Mr. Proctor?" Cavitt asked.

"No."

Liar, Valenti thought darkly. Then again, David couldn't afford to admit he'd fired. If he'd fired and hit one of the "intruders", there would have been a blood trail. And if he'd missed, they'd go looking for the bullet, which had vanished right along with the alien dirt.

"May I see it?"

David produced his gun, and Cavitt snapped the chamber open. "There's a round missing."

"It wasn't full," David said calmly.

"So all these are Jim's," Deputy Woods said, gazing at a bullet lodged in a nearby wall.

"What about you, Jim?" Wilcox had said. "What do you have to add to this?"

From across the room, Valenti and David Proctor had locked eyes. Plenty, Valenti thought darkly...but nothing he was willing to say here. Oh, Cavitt would believe him, and Valenti didn't hold with David's extreme paranoia about the Major for a moment, but without evidence.....well, there were already enough people who referred to him as "Deputy Martian". Tell a fantastic tale like the one he had to tell with absolutely nothing to point to, and he'd be the laughingstock of just about anywhere within reach. No, his best bet was to lay low for now and approach Cavitt privately.

"Not much," he'd answered Wilcox. "I was driving by and heard a lot of noise coming from the Proctor's house, so I stopped to investigate. I heard more sounds of struggle while I was ringing the doorbell, so I entered the house and tracked the suspects to the dining room, where I encountered Mr. Proctor."

"Is that your car, Deputy?" Cavitt had asked, gazing out the living room window.

"Yes."

"How is it that you heard a 'lot of noise' from street level with all your windows rolled up?"

Very good, Valenti thought approvingly, even though he was embarrassed to admit that he was copying David Proctor on this one: No way was he admitting that a tip from a nine year-old had led him here. "That should tell you just how loud it was," he replied evenly.

"Anything else?" Cavitt had asked. "Did you notice anything unusual about the intruders? Anything at all? Even the slightest detail might be important."

Valenti's gaze had flickered from Cavitt's intense face, to David's wary one, to the merely interested expressions his co-workers were wearing. "Not that I can think of," he'd answered, as Cavitt's face fell. "But if I happen to recall anything else, I'll be sure to put it in my report."

"I look forward to reading that," Cavitt said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "I assume there are no obstacles to my obtaining a copy of the Deputy's report, are there Sheriff?"

"Of course not," Wilcox said, adding to his deputies, "We're done here. Thanks for all your help, Dave, and I'm sorry you and your family had to go through this. I'll let you know if we learn anything."

"Sheriff," Cavitt had interjected, "about my warrant...." Which is where they were now, arguing over Wilcox's refusal to recommend that Judge Hanson issue a warrant for the Army to search the Brazel's house.

"Major, I'm not going to repeat myself again," Wilcox said firmly. "I've already told you 'no' at least ten times, and I've explained why. If you didn't like my explanation the first ten times, I somehow doubt you'll suddenly cotton to it on the eleventh. If you feel you have justification for a warrant, you're free to go to the judge yourself. Now stop wasting my time!"

Wilcox gestured sharply to his deputies as he headed for the front door with Cavitt on his heels. "Go have a chat with the neighbors," he said to Woods and McMahon, "and then head back to the station. Put the word out, see if any other houses have been hit or anyone's reported injured men. Be sure you check the hospital."

Woods and McMahon headed outside followed by David Proctor, Valenti bringing up the rear. The night was clear and cold, the four soldiers Cavitt had brought with him still waiting in the front yard....and the neighbors were still gathered near the sidewalk. Why hadn't they gone home? Were they afraid something else was going to happen? Or maybe they were protecting the Brazel's house, which still appeared empty?

"Sheriff, may I have a word with you in private?"

Standing in the front doorway, Valenti turned to see Wilcox and Cavitt step into the kitchen. Cautiously, Valenti crept up to the kitchen door, careful not to make a sound. What were those two talking about?

"....don't think you understand the gravity of the situation," Cavitt was saying impatiently, "although I can hardly expect you to, being that you're just local law enforcement and—"

"Nix the insults, Major," Wilcox said in a stony voice. "I may not be Army, but I was wearing a badge while you were still in diapers. And don't bother telling me you meant no disrespect because we both know you did. I'm not giving you what you want. Period. End of discussion."

"Sheriff, this is a matter of national security—"

"If that's the case, then you don't need me," Wilcox interrupted. "If this is truly about 'national security', you have federal resources at your disposal. Unless, of course, you're acting alone."

Silence.....a tense, angry silence. Finally Cavitt spoke again in a voice devoid of any remnant of the social graces. "What do I have to do to get you to recommend a warrant?"

"Excuse me?"

"What do you want?" Cavitt clarified in exasperation. "Money? A promotion? Name your price."

"Why Major," Wilcox said with mock surprise, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to bribe me."

"Oh, come now, Sheriff. You can't be this naïve! If you've been wearing that badge as long as you claim, you must know how the game is played. Sometimes, you have to get your hands a little dirty in order to get the job done."

Rooted to the spot just outside the kitchen door, Valenti felt his heart racing. What Cavitt was trying to do wasn't as bad as trying to bribe the Judge himself, but still....

"Sorry to disappoint you, Major, but I can't be bought. Guess you could say I'm 'priceless'."

A snort of frustration, undoubtedly Cavitt's. "What if I'm not willing to accept that?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I have four armed guards out there. Perhaps I should just take what I need and deal with the consequences later."

Valenti froze, David Proctor's paranoia suddenly making some sense. Would Cavitt really try to blast his way into the Brazel's house at gunpoint? As much as he sympathized with the Major's frustration, there had to be a line—and Cavitt's foot was hovering over it.

"So now you're threatening me," Wilcox said flatly.

"I am merely pointing out a simple fact you may have overlooked," Cavitt replied placidly.

"A 'simple fact'?" Wilcox echoed. "How's this for a 'simple fact': Did you notice all those neighbors out there?"

"The neighbors?" Cavitt echoed, chuckling. "Really, Sheriff, what are they going to do? Hold me off with torches and pitchforks?"

"Those neighbors are all war veterans," Wilcox pointed out. "I guarantee you every single one of them has a gun they're perfectly capable of using. And would gladly use if I asked them to."

"So now you're threatening me?" Cavitt demanded.

"Perish the thought," Wilcox said sarcastically. "I'm merely pointing out a simple fact you may have overlooked. They don't trust you, Major, not after what the Army did to Mac earlier this year. You go anywhere near the Brazel's house without authorization, and I can't guarantee your safety."

" 'Can't'....or won't?" Cavitt asked.

"Doesn't matter," Wilcox said darkly. "You're screwed either way."

Silence again, this time a deathly silence that made Valenti cold all over, a cold that had nothing to do with the still open front door. He'd only been a deputy for a few years, and in a sleepy town like Roswell, one rarely had the opportunity—or the need—to play hardball. He'd certainly never had to, never even seen it done until now, never realized that Wilcox was capable of holding his own in a shooting match such as this one.

"You disappoint me, Sheriff," Cavitt said, his voice every bit as cold as Valenti felt.

"You can be damned sure I'm not going to lose sleep over it," Wilcox retorted. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to that don't involve bribery and threats."

Footsteps; Valenti sprang back from the door, reaching the end of the stairs just as Wilcox blew through wearing an expression like grim death. "Sheriff," Valenti said hastily, as though he'd just been looking for him. "I just wanted to see if there's anything else you needed before—"

"No, thank you, Deputy, that'll be all," Wilcox said as he thundered past. "And Jim," he added, turning around when he reached the front door, "good work tonight. Thank you."

"Of course, sir. Just doing my job," Valenti replied, breathing a mental sigh of relief as the Sheriff left. Something told him that Wilcox wouldn't be so congratulatory if he'd caught him eavesdropping.

"Deputy Valenti?" a voice said behind him.

Valenti whirled around to find Cavitt staring at him like a cat who'd just cornered a mouse.

"I was wondering," Cavitt said with a disarming smile, "if the two of us might have a word."

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Treyborn,

I regret to inform you that......

No. Sounded like a business letter.

I have some bad news......

No. Too unprofessional.

It is my sad duty to inform you....

Lieutenant Spade tossed the notebook down in frustration. So far he'd tried a dozen different ways to start the dreaded letter to Treyborn's parents, and all of them were somewhere on the spectrum from hopelessly lame to cold and cruel. Treyborn lay in front of him on the stretcher, the sheet pulled back so Spade could see his face, hoping that would guide his pen. Unfortunately, it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

"Sir?"

Spade turned to find Private Thompson entering the room. "There you are," Thompson said, closing the door behind him. "I've been looking all over for you." He glanced uneasily at Treyborn's lifeless form. "I didn't expect to find you in here."

"I needed some peace," Spade said wearily, scratching the back of his head. "That's one good thing about the dead—they're quiet. Is everybody ready?"

Thompson nodded. "Dr. Pierce tested everyone we brought back—they're all human. They're upstairs in separate rooms, waiting to be debriefed. How's Walker?"

"Oh, he's just fine," Spade said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Looks like he got whacked on the head. Doc says he'll have a goose egg and a nasty headache, but nothing too serious." He shook his head sadly. "If they had to kill someone, why didn't—"

Spade stopped, furious with himself. As a commander, he was never supposed to show preferences. The last thing you wanted your men to think was that you considered one life less valuable than another.....but that was exactly how he felt right now. He couldn't help it.

"It's okay, sir," Thompson said gently. "I'd wager just about everyone here feels the same way."

"Yeah," Spade said, "but I'm not supposed to say so."

"Cut yourself a break, sir. You're only human."

Both of them stared at each other in surprise for a moment, then looked away. You're only human. Such a common expression, that. And now.....now it carried a weight it never had in the past.

"So," Thompson said, breaking the awkward silence as he glanced at the notepad on the table beside Spade, "is this the letter to Treyborn's parents?"

"Yes. No," Spade corrected. "It was supposed to be the letter to Treyborn's parents. No matter what I say, it's not good enough. I can't even get it started."

"I don't think there's any good way to say what you have to say, sir," Thompson said quietly.

"I don't know how to do this," Spade whispered, staring at Treyborn. "I am so far out of my league here, it's not even funny."

"You're a good man, sir," Thompson said sincerely. "You'll think of something." He glanced at Treyborn again. "Maybe you should give it some time....you know, step away for a bit? Maybe it's all just a little too fresh. A little too soon."

Spade smiled slightly. "I was just taking advantage of the relative peace and quiet, Thompson. We're in the eye of the hurricane now. I thought I'd get a head start on this before the rest of the storm hits."

" 'Storm', sir?"

"The attack is over," Spade explained, "the bodies counted, the perimeter re-secured. But the aliens will be back. And when Major Cavitt finds out exactly how they got in......" Spade stopped, not really needing to finish the sentence.

"You mean how the aliens got in by looking like Walker," Thompson said soberly. "Do you think we'll be put on lockdown again?"

"Very likely," Spade sighed. "Despite the fact they probably would have gotten in anyway, Cavitt will announce that letting people outside the compound is dangerous just like he's always said it was....and now he'll have evidence I'm sure he won't hesitate to use."

"Where is the Major?" Thompson asked. "I was surprised to hear he'd left at a time like this."

"He's off chasing something from a police report. Guess he thinks they struck two places at once." Spade paused. "And he's right."

"But....why?" Thompson asked, looking confused. "The prisoner is here. What else would they be looking for?"

"Not 'what'," Spade corrected. " 'Who'."

It took a moment for the implications of that statement to sink in. "You mean....you mean.....you mean the other one is still alive?" Thompson asked, his eyes wide.

"Very much so," Spade answered. "Assuming they didn't get him tonight, that is."

"Was that the one we saw in the bathroom tonight? How many—"

"Keep your voice down, Thompson," Spade cautioned. "I know we're alone in here with the door closed, but you're now in a position where you have to be very careful about what you say every single time you open your mouth. Remember that."

The room grew quiet as Thompson stared at him, his face pale. "Sir," he whispered, glancing nervously at the door, "how many are there, anyway?"

Spade was silent for a moment. He intended to fill Thompson in, of course—God knows he'd earned it—but he hadn't yet given any thought as to how much to tell him, or where would be the safest place to deliver that information. Here was probably as safe a place as any, an empty room with only a dead body to eavesdrop and everyone else preoccupied with the events of the evening.

"Block the door," Spade ordered.

"But won't people be suspicious if someone comes for us and they can't open it?"

"They'll be a damned sight more suspicious if they overhear even one syllable of what I'm about to tell you," Spade answered. "Block the door."

Wordlessly, Thompson nodded and fetched a chair, which was shoved firmly beneath the doorknob. He pulled a second chair closer to Spade, sinking into it quickly as though concerned his legs might not hold him much longer, his hands nervously massaging his knees.

"There's been a coup on another planet," Spade began, speaking slowly, sifting through what he knew for only the most pertinent pieces of information. He'd had months to digest all this, and some of it still didn't make sense. No sense tipping over the entire pot. "A king was assassinated and his throne taken by the one who killed him."

"I gathered as much, sir."

Spade blinked. "You did?"

" 'I said I was on the side of my race, not the side of either man who would rule it.' That's what the alien said tonight, sir."

"You remember that?"

"I remember pretty much everything I hear, sir," Thompson answered. "Kind of like a spoken photographic memory...or something like that."

"Wow," Spade said in genuine admiration. His own recollection of his conversation with the alien in the bathroom was seriously clouded by rage. "Anyway, this king, the one who was murdered along with the rest of his family, had bodyguards. Those bodyguards came here when he was overthrown, supposedly because the race that the king's rival belongs to can't survive here. Can't breathe our air, or something like that."

"So that was the ship that crashed?" Thompson asked.

Spade nodded. "The crash itself was an accident. The four aliens on that ship were all guards for the royal family. Two of them are dead, and two we captured. The one who escaped guarded the king. The other, the prisoner downstairs, guarded the king's top military advisor."

"So that's why he wanted to talk to the General!" Thompson exclaimed, the nervous kneading of his knees pausing as something made sense. "He was used to dealing with people of high rank."

Spade nodded again. "Pretty much. There were two others here who support the king's rival. One you met tonight. And the other....well, you met him awhile ago. Spent a lot of time with him, the way I understand it."

Thompson's face went absolutely white. "The dog," he whispered.

"The dog," Spade confirmed grimly. "No dog, just a sarcastic son of a bitch who knocked out Lieutenant White and used her shape to get into the prisoner's room."

Knead, knead. Thompson's hands resumed their nervous massaging. "Good God," he said faintly. "We played with it. I played with it. We let it sleep in our rooms. It slept on the foot of my...." He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. "And all along that was an alien," he said, pressing a hand to his stomach. "I feel sick."

"I don't blame you," Spade said. "Fortunately, I found out about the dog and got suspicious. I went to Lieutenant White and found her unconscious, then went to the prisoner to see if he could help, only to find out that 'Lieutenant White' was already in the prisoner's room."

Thompson's mouth dropped open. "You mean....you mean that day you said you 'needed' to see him, I'd already let an alien into his room?"

"Tricky, aren't they?" Spade said sympathetically. "I gather their kind aren't well liked where they come from. Not hard to see why."

Spade paused for a moment as Thompson sat stunned in his seat, trying to take it all in. The dog was probably the hardest to get used to. To think that the puppy you'd fed, played with, and cuddled with in bed was really an alien was more than a little disturbing.

"So what about the rest of them?" Thompson asked after a moment.

"New arrivals," Spade sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Six of them sent to bring the two bodyguards home."

"Why? If the king is dead and his guards are on some other planet, why do they want them back?"

"Maybe they have information the new regime needs," Spade suggested, shrugging. "Maybe it's their policy to kill all the old king's advisors. I don't know," he finished, deliberately leaving out the part about the king's impending resurrection: Too much information, and he didn't understand that part himself.

"That's kind of disappointing," Thompson said.

"What is?"

"Well....I guess I've never really thought about it, but....wouldn't you think another planet would be....different? I mean, kings, and coups, and fighting....it sounds just like......"

"Us?" Spade finished ironically. "It sure as hell does. Turns out things aren't a whole lot different on the other side of the galaxy."

"So what's up with the one in the bathroom?" Thompson asked. "He's the one who told you they were coming, right?"

"Oh, he's a piece of work," Spade said sourly. "He went over to the king's rival because he was upset with the king for some reason or other, and now he's upset that the king was overthrown. Says he never wanted that. He claims he wants all his people free so they can hash out their differences, and I'm all for that. I just don't want any of us dead in the process."

"So...he didn't want the prisoner freed?"

"He told me his people would come here tonight and try to take our prisoner....prisoner," Spade explained. "So that's not freedom, it's just exchanging captors. He also said they were planning to steal the serum because they apparently have similar problems with the prisoner's powers. He told me they would cut the power, compromise the emergency generator, and head for both the prisoner and the lab. He also claimed he didn't want anyone dead, and begged me to help stop them."

"Which is why you put me outside the lab," Thompson noted.

"Right," Spade said. "And now I'm wishing I hadn't listened. Treyborn's dead, someone tried to kill you....as far as I'm concerned, they can just take the prisoner and be done with it. I'm tired of us paying a price for something happening on some other planet, tired of hearing about 'this' side and 'that' side. From now on, I'm not on anyone's side but my own."

Silence. Spade closed his eyes, feeling the rage wash over him again, that feeling of helplessness like no matter what he did, someone was still going to go down. But if that's the way things were, he planned to see to it that the ones who went down were the ones doing the fighting, not the innocent bystanders whose backyard they'd landed in.

"With all due respect, sir....I don't think that's going to work."

Spade cracked an eyelid to find Thompson staring at him gravely. "What's not going to work?"

"There are too many sides," Thompson said, shaking his head. "The king's side, his rival's side, whatever side that alien tonight was on, the 'side of his race', or whatever he said.....and now our side. We're never going to accomplish anything that way. It's like every man for himself."

"That's exactly what it is," Spade said darkly. "I don't trust that alien. He's a shapeshifter, for God's sake—why does he need my help? Why doesn't he sabotage his own people? What if he's just lying to me, using me as a patsy to get what he wants? I don't know anything about this little war they're having; I have no idea who's right and who's wrong. It's not like I can pick up a newspaper and read up on the issues. If I pick a side, how do I know it's the right side?"

Thompson shrugged helplessly. "I guess you don't, sir, at least not for sure. But for what it's worth....I think that alien was telling the truth."

"Why?"

"I just get a sense about people," Thompson replied. "That's how I knew you were okay, even though some of the things you did looked suspicious. I even got that impression from the prisoner when I talked to him, though he's damned contrary. I got the same impression tonight. Far be it from me to tell you what to do, sir, but that alien gave us accurate intelligence tonight. And if he's willing to do that, whatever his reasons.....shouldn't we take it?"

The door rattled. Spade sat bolt upright in his chair as someone outside tried to push the door open and failed. "Anyone in there?" called an alarmed voice, pounding on the door.

"Just a second, the door sticks!" Spade called back, rising from his chair. "Chat's over," he said to Thompson. "Time to go." He stopped as Thompson grabbed his hand, staring at it.

"Sir? You need to....um....take care of something first."

Spade looked down at his hand....and froze. The knuckles of his right hand were coated with something black, something that looked like tar....something that wasn't anything of the sort. Images of his hand, this same right hand, connecting with the alien's face with that satisfying smack swam through his mind, along with the alien's bloody nose and lip.....

"I'll get the door, sir," Thompson said, gingerly letting go of Spade's hand as though it were a grenade with the pin pulled. "Why don't you go wash up. I'm pretty sure Dr. Pierce would recognize that for what it is."

Speechless, Spade nodded and headed for the sink as Thompson pulled the chair out from under the door and opened it, smoothly explaining to whoever was outside that Spade was working on a letter to Treyborn's parents and hadn't wanted to be disturbed. Murmurs of sympathy ensued, followed by a conversation in hushed tones that Spade couldn't hear. Not that he'd be able to anyway, so preoccupied was he with the fact that he'd been wandering around the compound for over an hour with alien blood on his hand, and hadn't even noticed.

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

Proctor residence

Valenti eyed Cavitt warily, resisting the urge to back up a step. He'd just heard this man threatening a county sheriff—it didn't strike him as wise to appear hesitant in front of him. "What can I do for you, Major?" he asked in his most perfunctory public servant voice.

"I need your assistance," Cavitt announced. "I need you to help me gain access to the Brazel residence."

"I'm afraid my word won't carry much weight with Judge Hanson," Valenti said. "Especially if Sheriff Wilcox won't support a warrant, I can't see that my opinion—"

"I'm not talking about a warrant," Cavitt interrupted, eyeing him steadily. "I'm talking about my leaving, the mob dispersing," he continued, with a disgusted look out the open front door toward the neighbors talking with David Proctor, "and my returning later at a predetermined time which you will help me choose so as to attract the least attention and avoid the Brazels themselves. If nothing is found, they need never know we were there."

"He feels the law doesn't apply to him." Valenti felt his heart pounding as the magnitude of the Major's "request" became clear. "That's breaking the law, Major," he objected. "Breaking and entering, to be exact. I'm sworn to uphold the law, not break it."

"You are also sworn to protect the people, are you not?" Cavitt queried. "As am I—we share a common goal."

"It appears we don't share a consensus on how to achieve that goal," Valenti noted.

Cavitt smiled slightly. "You're young. Perhaps you haven't yet been visited by this harsh truth, so allow me to break it to you gently: In order to do your job, there are times when rules must be bent. This is a perfect example. In order to protect the people, you'll need to bend the law."

You mean break it, Valenti thought grimly. David Proctor had said essentially the same thing, arguing that Valenti would have to lie in order to protect them. What stroke of bad luck had landed him not just one, but two moral relativists on the same evening?

"I think you're missing the point, Major," Valenti said. "The law itself protects the people, in this case from unreasonable search and seizure. I—"

"There are no laws to protect the people from a threat like this," Cavitt said flatly, his eyes going hard. "We face a threat the likes of which no one has ever faced before, so the laws as written cannot begin to address that threat, or the measures which must be taken to avert it. These are extraordinary circumstances, so extraordinary measures must be taken in response."

"If that's so, then make your case to the Judge," Valenti argued. "If it's really that bad, he might decide to issue a warrant over the Sheriff's objections."

"I do not have time for this nonsense!" Cavitt snapped. "I have already tried legal remedies, and they have failed!"

"So that makes it all right for you to try illegal remedies?" Valenti retorted. "I'm sorry you feel the laws of this nation are 'nonsense', Major, not to mention a bit surprised. I would think a commissioned officer in the United States Army would know better."

"Why you...!" Cavitt grabbed Valenti's arm and pushed him up against the wall. "Fine. You want to do this the 'right' way? Then tell me what you saw. You saw something. I know you did. Something strange, something out of place, something you can't explain. Something you were afraid to say in front of your colleagues because they would likely think you mad. Your colleagues aren't here now, Mr. Valenti. What did you see?"

"I bet you think this is your big moment." David Proctor's words once again rang in Valenti's mind as Cavitt's fingers ground into his arm, pinning him against the wall. Yes, that is exactly what he'd thought...and this should be his big moment right here. All alone with Cavitt, no one to overhear, no one to laugh and call him "Deputy Martian" as he finally bent the ear of someone willing to listen to him, willing to believe. And now that opportunity knocked, Valenti realized he didn't want to answer the door. "That's 'Deputy Valenti', and get your hands off me," he said coldly.

"It may not be 'deputy' for long unless you talk! What did you see?" Cavitt demanded again.

"I said get your hands off me!"

"Tell me what you saw!"

Furious now, Valenti wrenched himself out of Cavitt's grasp and gave him a hard shove that sent Cavitt stumbling backwards. He hit the wall hard with a distinctly un-Major-like thump, his look of shock turning to fury as he righted himself and glared at Valenti. Faint snatches of conversation drifted in through the open front door as the neighbors continued their vigil. A slight sound drew Valenti's eyes to the top of the nearby staircase, reminding him that Proctor's wife and daughter were up there. Wonderful. He could just imagine what conclusions Emily Proctor would reach were she to stumble onto him and Cavitt now. All the wrong ones, he was sure.

A low chuckle drew his eyes down again; Cavitt was laughing at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. Valenti felt his cheeks burning and resentment flaring as Cavitt continued to chuckle. Apparently he found the little people to be amusing, unless they came packing heat like the Proctors' neighbors.

"Well done, Deputy! Well done!" Cavitt said approvingly, still smiling. "Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you do have a backbone after all."

Valenti blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You won't let anyone push you around," Cavitt noted. "Very good. So you do know how the game is played...you're just reluctant to play it. You shouldn't be, you know. It's people like us who keep this country safe. Others may decry our methods, but the fact that they're alive and free to decry those methods is precisely because of those methods, an irony they often choose to ignore. Freedom is never free, Deputy...and neither is safety. Both are bought and paid for, and some don't have the stomach to pay the necessary price. Fortunately, there are those like us who do."

What? Valenti stared at Cavitt, his eyes narrowing. Why was Cavitt singing his praises only seconds after threatening him?

"We can work together, Deputy," Cavitt was saying, withdrawing a card from his pocket and handing it over. Valenti took it and stared at it in silence. "My personal number. No need to go through base secretaries, or even my secretary—only I answer that phone. I don't give this out to just anyone."

"And why, exactly, are you giving it to me?" Valenti asked warily.

Cavitt smiled. "You may not realize it—or want to admit it—but you and I have much in common. It hasn't escaped my notice that you were conveniently here for tonight's festivities. I don't believe that cock-and-bull story about 'just driving by' for a moment. You're chasing something....and tonight, you found it. I'll wager you've found other things too, things I would love to hear about. I spend most of my time at the base—I need a pair of eyes and ears in the community, and I want those eyes and ears to be yours. You've just proven yourself worthy, and I can see to it that it's worth your while." He donned his hat. "When you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen. And I look forward to reading your report."

Valenti leaned heavily against the wall as Cavitt gave him a small nod before heading out the door and down the porch steps, the crowd outside falling silent as he gathered his soldiers and retreated to his car. Why did this have to be so hard? Despite all he'd seen and heard, all he ever managed to come up with were eyewitness accounts with no evidence and no one of integrity to report to. "Damn! he muttered, slamming his hand against the wall in frustration.

A gasp from above made him look up. Peering through the railings at the top of the stairs was a very young, very familiar face which disappeared the moment she realized she'd been discovered. So....he hadn't been the only one eavesdropping tonight. And young Miss Proctor had just gotten an earful.

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

I'll post Chapter 74 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Mar 05, 2006 3:50 pm

Hello to everyone reading! *wave*

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

December 13, 1947, 10:30 p.m.

Proctor residence

Deputy Valenti leaned against the side of his car, staring at the Proctor's house. Major Cavitt had left about twenty minutes ago, his men scuttling in his wake. The Sheriff was gone, Woods and McMahon were gone, and David Proctor was currently bidding adieu to the last of the neighborhood army which had been so effective at staving off the real Army. The lights were on in the Evans' home a few houses down, but he'd seen no sign of his pint-sized informant. The night was still and cold, his breath making little puffs in front of his face, and as he pulled the collar of his jacket up higher, it dawned on him that David Proctor wasn't wearing a coat and hadn't been all evening, despite all the standing around outside. He didn't even look cold. The guy was no wimp, that was for sure.

Another neighbor waved goodbye and headed across the street, leaving just one. And to think they were all armed, Valenti thought, shivering involuntarily, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from the thought of the mayhem which could have ensued if all those weapons had been brought into play. He wasn't surprised that someone would produce a weapon in his own home, but to arm oneself and cross the street.....that he hadn't expected. Yet one more way this night could have turned into a disaster, from yet another source. And yet one more reason to wonder if he'd done the right thing by sending Cavitt packing. Now that the heat of the moment had passed, Valenti found himself pondering the Major's words.

"We face a threat the likes of which no one has ever faced before, so the laws as written cannot begin to address that threat, or the measures which must be taken to avert it."

That argument was uncannily similar to an argument he'd used himself with a little girl trying to make the New Mexico statutes on illegal aliens apply to real aliens.

"It doesn't say that, Miss Proctor, because there's no way the people who wrote and approved those laws could have been thinking about what you're thinking about.

And the similarities didn't stop there.

"In order to do your job, there are times when rules must be bent. This is a perfect example. In order to protect the people, you'll need to bend the law."

"I have some discretion when it comes to the 'letter of the law', Miss Proctor. My primary duty is to protect the people, so if I think following the law prevents me from doing that, I can make that decision."

Did I do the right thing? Valenti wondered as a cold gust of wind found its way past his raised collar. Cavitt had made exactly the same point Valenti had made to Dee Proctor when she'd sat there with that volume of New Mexico statutes on her lap: There was no law out there that covered space aliens, no law where the original intent was to address a situation even remotely like this one. Perhaps Cavitt had a point; perhaps extraordinary circumstances did warrant "extraordinary measures". Perhaps the bending—or even breaking—of the law was justified in this case.

"Deputy?"

Valenti jumped, the voice pulling him out of his reverie. David Proctor was standing off to one side looking cold at last, his hands jammed in his pockets. "Here," Valenti said, opening the back door of his car and fishing out a sweater which he handed to David. "I'm getting colder just looking at you."

"Thanks." David slipped the sweater on, his hands sliding into the pockets, one hand withdrawing a pack of cigarettes.

"That's where I put those," Valenti said, taking the box from David. He fished a lighter out of his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and held out the box. "You smoke?"

"Not officially," David answered, accepting both the cigarette and the light Valenti offered.

" 'Officially'?"

"Only when I need one," David clarified. "And tonight, I need one." He exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to my wife."

"That's one secret I won't have a problem keeping, Mr. Proctor."

A minute passed while both puffed their cigarettes, the smoke mingling with their frosty breath. "So," David said at length. "You lied."

Valenti gave a soft snort. "Of course I lied. I had no evidence. Your wife is mighty fast with a Hoover."

"It's a Kirby."

"Whatever," Valenti said impatiently. "The point is that you deliberately held things up to give her time to remove all that dirt, or whatever it was. That made it your word against mine, and we both know who the Sheriff would have believed. 'Officially', anyway."

"But Cavitt would have believed you," David said. "You didn't tell him, not when we were all together or when you were alone with him before he left."

"What do you know about what I told him?" Valenti asked. "You were out here with the hit squad."

David smiled faintly. "I saw George leave the house looking like a thundercloud—and mind you, I've known George for years, so I know what mad looks like on him—followed by Cavitt looking decidedly unhappy, followed by you looking......disturbed. It really doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened."

No....just a trained eye, Valenti thought crossly, annoyed that David had learned how to pay attention, how to read expressions....how to play the game. No wonder he'd lied so smoothly. "Major Cavitt and I differed on how best to approach this particular matter," Valenti said.

"Mmm," David murmured. "So he threatened you."

"I didn't say that," Valenti said sharply, flicking the ashes off his cigarette, sending them flying into the grass.

"You didn't have to," David said, puffing casually on his cigarette. "A man like Cavitt has only two weapons in his arsenal: The carrot and the stick. I imagine he threatened to ruin your career, or something like that. And when that didn't work, what'd he offer you?"

Valenti didn't answer, taking another drag from his cigarette as he seethed in silence. He knew David hadn't been eavesdropping, couldn't have been because he'd been clearly visible through the open front door while Cavitt was doing his song and dance, nor had he been back to the house to get the scoop from his ever resourceful nine year-old. This was sheer intuition and admirable investigative skills. No wonder the aliens liked these people.

"If I were you, I wouldn't worry about what you think Major Cavitt said to me," Valenti warned. "If I were you, I'd worry about what I'm going to put in my report."

"So you're still considering his offer," David said, nodding slowly. "But you must have seen something in him that gave you pause, or you wouldn't have held back. For what it's worth, you did the right thing. I'm grateful."

"Don't thank me yet," Valenti said darkly. "I'm still not convinced I should have kept my mouth shut, and there's no guarantee it'll stay that way. Whatever I think of Major Cavitt, I haven't changed my opinions one bit about what's going on here. I still think you're in way over your head, Mr. Proctor. What would you have done if I hadn't shown up to save your ass?"

"Stayed in the attic just like we were told to," David answered, as Valenti's eyes widened. "I came down because I heard gunshots. Your gunshots. If you hadn't been there, that wouldn't have happened....and I wouldn't have had to save your ass."

"I'd better go," Valenti said, flushing at the reminder that David had saved his life. He dropped his cigarette on the curb, grinding it out with his foot. "No offense, Mr. Proctor, but you're getting on my last nerve."

"I imagine that means you want this back," David said dryly, shrugging off the sweater as Valenti climbed inside his car. Valenti tossed it on the passenger seat, started the engine, then rolled down his window and glared at David.

"What are you going to do when they come back?" Valenti demanded. "While you were busy vacuuming and lying, did you give even a moment's thought to that?"

"I doubt they'll be back," David said. "Best to abandon a position that's been made. You know that."

"This isn't going to work forever, Mr. Proctor," Valenti argued. "You're obviously a smart man, and as I said earlier, I believe you mean well. But sooner or later, this extraordinary run of luck you've been having is going to peter out. Either you're going to fall into a hole too deep to climb out of, or someone besides me is going to figure out you're lying. How long do you think you can keep this up?"

"As long as I have to," David answered quietly. "How long do you think you can live with yourself if you do what Cavitt wants you to?"

Valenti didn't answer, gripping the steering wheel hard, staring straight ahead through the windshield. "Thanks for the cigarette," David said after a moment, "and the sweater. And the silence. You know as well as I do that you did the right thing." He turned to leave, then paused.

"There's one thing I can't figure out. I know you weren't 'just driving by', so how did you know to come here tonight?"

"Well, well, Mr. Proctor," Valenti said with a tight smile. "It appears you're not the only one with secrets. How do you like it?"

He shifted his car into drive, not expecting an answer; David backed up and watched him pull away. The last thing he saw in his rear view mirror was David stubbing out his cigarette on the sidewalk before heading back to his house.

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

"Come away from the window, Dee," Emily ordered her daughter, who was kneeling behind the living room couch peeking out through the slit between the drawn curtains.

"No one can see me, Mama," Dee protested. "And Daddy's still talking to Deputy Valenti."

"I know he is, and I don't want Valenti to see you. Now, come away from the window."

"But Mama—"

"Now!"

Emily was instantly sorry as her daughter flinched before rising from the floor and stepping away from the window. "I'm sorry," she said, giving Dee a quick hug. "I'm just...on edge," she finished, almost laughing at how inadequate that phrase was at describing how she felt right now. "Over the edge" would have been much more accurate.

"It's okay, Mama. He won't say anything."

"Who won't say anything?"

"Deputy Valenti."

"What makes you think that?"

"That officer got Deputy Valenti really mad," Dee explained, "and—"

"Excuse me?" Emily interrupted. "And just exactly how would you know that?" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You weren't eavesdropping, were you?"

Dee's shocked expression was all the answer she needed. "Don't look so surprised," Emily said severely, crossing her arms in front of her. "Do you really think your father and I don't know you hover at the top of the stairs and listen to us? And I believe we were quite clear about the need to stay out of sight as long as that officer was anywhere around here. The last thing we need is for him to remember that Mac originally said he had a child with him when he first found those pieces of metal from the ship."

"He didn't see me," Dee said hastily. "I'm sure of that. I—"

"But you were eavesdropping, weren't you? Honestly, Deanna! Do I have to watch you every second? Couldn't you just do as you're told for once and not go off gallivanting on your own? Now, get upstairs and get ready for bed, and don't let me catch you eavesdropping!"

"Yes, Mama," Dee said quietly, heading for the staircase.

Emily closed her eyes in frustration, sorry that she had once again lashed out. She'd had a hair trigger temper all evening, especially after she and Dee had retreated upstairs for the second nail-biting wait of the evening. Emily had sit rigidly on her bed as the Sheriff, that dreadful officer, and everyone else had pored over the first floor, praying they'd find nothing, hoping that the vacuum cleaner she'd brought upstairs because it was still warm had done its job. Dee, on the other hand, had run from heat vent to heat vent, searching for the best vantage point to hear voices drifting up from downstairs. Initially that was a moving target as everyone milled around, but when they finally settled in the dining room right beneath Emily's and David's bedroom, the voices drifting up faint, but clear, Emily had retreated to the guest room, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair while her daughter pressed her ear to the vent to catch every word. She still didn't know exactly what had been said. All she knew is that they'd left—thank God.

And when they'd left she had scurried downstairs, grateful they had gone and further grateful that she finally had something to do to burn off this nervous energy. Less than twenty minutes later she had the broken glass from the door to the grandfather clock in the wastebasket, a blanket tacked over the dining room window, and plaster dust from the holes in the wall mingling with the alien dust in the vacuum cleaner bag....but the damage to the house wasn't what was bothering her. Even the alien hijinks, high on her list of nightmares, weren't what had her pacing the floor right now, waiting impatiently for her husband to return. Some nightmares were worse than others.

The front door opened and David came in, shivering. "Everyone's gone," he announced, wiping his shoes on the mat and reaching for a sweater. "I didn't find out how Valenti knew to be here, but I don't think he'll say anything. Something happened between him and Cavitt, and I doubt it was something good. Where's Dee?"

"Upstairs," Emily said shortly.

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine. I'm not."

"It's over," David said gently, reaching for her. "They won't be back. Brivari won't be able to stay here now that they've found him, so we're off the hook."

Emily backed out of reach. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

David stared at her a moment, then dropped his arms and sighed, heading for the living room. He sat down on the couch and waited in silence as Emily wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, as though afraid her insides would spill out. Given how she was feeling, that wasn't far off the mark.

"How long have you had a gun in our house?" she demanded.

"Since about a month after I came home from the war," David answered quietly.

Emily's breath caught in her throat. That long? And all this time she'd thought she was safe, thought her husband could never follow in his brother's suicidal footsteps because there was no gun close at hand, no easy way out.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't see the point," David answered. "You wouldn't have liked it, and you couldn't have understood. And then when James died...." He paused, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "Well, then it was definitely better that you not know."

"What couldn't I understand?"

David was silent for a moment. "You weren't there, Em. You don't know what it was like. That's not your fault. You had your own hell to go through here, a hell I don't understand because I didn't live it. I can't expect you to understand mine."

"Try me," Emily said, sinking onto the edge of a chair opposite her husband, perching stiffly on the edge, her legs and arms tightly crossed. David, by contrast, leaned back against the couch for a moment, lost in thought.

"You know I had nightmares when I came home," he began. "Every night. Dozens of them. It was always about things that had gone wrong, mistakes I'd made, men I'd lost....always the bad stuff. It got to the point where I was so tired I couldn't stay awake, and so scared to sleep that I tried to stay awake."

Emily closed her eyes, remembering how her husband had thrashed in his sleep and cried out, over and over, probably many more times than he'd realized. He would get so exhausted that he'd fall asleep in spite of himself, only to reawaken in a panic a short while later. That had been a horrible time, a nasty shock after the euphoria of his coming home alive and supposedly unharmed. Exhaustion had begun to take its toll, and he'd missed several days of work because he simply couldn't keep his eyes open....but neither could he keep them shut. It was a vicious cycle she'd seen no way out of.

"And then I realized," David continued, "that the reason I was panicking was because I couldn't find my gun. We always had our guns with us; we never set them down. We ate with them, slept with them....we couldn't have slept without them if we'd tried. Any bump in the night could mean you'd need that gun fast. Guys who lost their weapons didn't live very long. And here I was, waking up every night from some awful dream or another, instinctively reaching for my gun....and panicking because it wasn't there. Sometimes it took me several minutes to completely wake up and realize I was home, and I didn't need a gun anymore....and by then, I was too upset to go back to sleep."

"So," David went on when Emily didn't say anything, "I decided to give myself what I seemed to need. I bought a gun, a little one I could slip under my pillow where you wouldn't see it. I started sleeping with it in my hand, and suddenly everything got better. I still had nightmares, but I could manage them; I'd feel the gun and relax, and go back to sleep. I did that dozens of times each night for weeks before the nightmares started to go away."

Emily sank back into the chair, stunned. She'd always wondered why the nightmares had suddenly gotten better, why David had suddenly started sleeping more soundly. He still thrashed sometimes, still murmured in his sleep, but the episodes were much more brief and much less violent. He'd finally been able to rest, finally been able to hold his eyes open during the day....and to think it was all because he'd had a gun in their bed that she'd known nothing about.

"Eventually the gun moved to the drawer in my bedside table where I could reach it," David continued, "and then into a box on the top shelf of the closet. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and just looking at the closet and knowing what was in there was enough to calm me down so I could go back to sleep." He paused, his eyes locked on Emily's. "I know you may find this hard to believe...but that gun gave me my life back."

The grandfather clock bonged, sounding louder than usual with the glass in its door missing. Outside, the wind was blowing, flapping the blanket over the broken dining room window, making it even colder in here than Emily already felt. What with their stint in the attic and the now frigid first floor, she might never feel warm again.

"When was the last time you needed the gun to sleep?" she asked in a brittle voice.

David shook his head. "Months ago; I don't remember when, exactly."

"Then you don't need it anymore. I want that gun out of my house."

"I can't do that," David said. "We—"

"I'm glad it helped you when you needed it," Emily broke in, "but there's no reason for it to be here now."

"Yes there is," David insisted, "just a different reason. I needed it to help me work through what happened to me over there, and now we need it for protection."

"You said they wouldn't come back," Emily reminded him, her voice rising. "You said Brivari couldn't stay here any more because they'd found him."

"That doesn't mean it's over," David protested. "And as long as there's any chance that my family is in danger from anyone, humans or aliens, I'm keeping a weapon in this house."

"If you need a weapon in this house, then why did you drag out Mac and his rifle the last time we had a party like this at Halloween?" Emily demanded.

"Mac just showed up with his rifle, and it would have taken too long to go back in the house and get my own gun."

"That was in my bedroom," Emily whispered, the full impact of what she'd been told finally beginning to sink in. "That....that thing was in my bed! All this time, and I never knew!"

"It wasn't loaded," David said, exasperation creeping around the edges of his voice. "I've never even fired it until tonight."

"I don't care if it was loaded!" Emily exclaimed, rising to her feet. "I want that gun out of my house!"

Across from her, David also stood up. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"Just what I said," David said firmly. "This is my house too, and there is no way in hell I'm going to face what we're facing without some way of defending ourselves."

Emily stared at him in shock, unaccustomed to this kind of resistance. "Very well, then," she said unsteadily. "If the gun doesn't go....I will."

"Where are you going?" David sighed as Emily headed for the stairs, ignoring him. "Emily.....I'm not going to shoot myself."

Emily stopped at the base of the stairs, gripping the railing hard to hide the fact that she was shaking. Images of her brother-in-law, what was left of his head collapsed on his shoulders while blood and gray matter coated everything in sight made tears well up in her eyes. That was her biggest nightmare. Not aliens, or the Army, or that nosy Deputy; just that her husband might follow in his brother's footsteps and take his own life.

"Listen to me," David said behind her. "Guns are not responsible for my brother's death—my brother is responsible for my brother's death. He was depressed, Emily. Suicidal. If he hadn't had a gun, he would have found another way."

Perhaps a way that wouldn't have given me nightmares for the rest of my life, Emily thought bitterly. Maybe the gun hadn't killed James, but it had certainly made things easier. She walked up a few steps before feeling David's hand on her arm.

"Before you do something stupid, consider this: A gun kept me alive for two years. A gun brought me back when I almost went over the edge. If I hadn't had a gun tonight, Valenti would probably be dead....and so would Brivari. He didn't look so good when I saw him. A gun is just a tool, Emily...nothing more. It's all in how you use it."

And then she wrenched her arm away and skipped up the stairs, grateful that, for once, her daughter wasn't eavesdropping at the top.

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

2315 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base

His injured leg shaking beneath him, Brivari kept a wary eye on the door as he filled a coffee cup in the base's mess hall, busy even at this late hour. There had been risks involved in forming a connection with the reluctant Healer, not the least of which were that he would lose her allegiance or that she would see something in his own mind that he'd rather she didn't. But when he'd found the identity of the leader of the attack on the human compound tonight floating on the very surface of the Healer's consciousness, he knew those risks had been worth taking. In war, it was always better to know your enemy....and always worse when your enemy knew you.

So Brivari had retreated to the rooftops, watching and waiting for what he was certain was coming. Less than an hour later, a lone Covari had appeared on the base, keeping to the safety of public areas and making no effort to hide, an open invitation for approach. Brivari had watched him carefully for a long time to make certain he was alone. Any other Covari would be visible to him, of course, and the hunters should not be a threat for at least a short while yet with one dead, one badly injured, and two unconscious. That was assuming the information Spade's informant had given about there being four hunters had been correct...and there was no way to be certain of that. So Brivari had made absolutely certain his visitor was alone before briefly allowing himself to be seen and heading here, to the same place Jaddo had chosen for his meeting with Malik months ago. Only now it was not Malik who approached. Would that it were.

Wincing, Brivari limped to the end of the mess hall line and dumped a large amount of sugar into his coffee cup. Fortunately he had seen fit to move the healing stones from the pod chamber to the Proctor's house after Amar's last "visit", so they would be available for use. It wasn't safe now to go anywhere near the pod chamber. It also wasn't a good idea to let his enemy know just how injured he really was, so he'd best take a seat with a good view of the door and settle in before the other's arrival.

<Over here, Brivari.>

Brivari whirled around in dismay, realizing he was too late. His adversary was already there, sitting at a table tucked in the far corner of the room, nursing his own cup of something or other and reveling in Brivari's surprise. Damn it! He'd missed the other's entrance, and now he would have to limp over there in plain view. Exhaustion and his injury were catching up with him. He paused at the front of the mess hall, scanning the crowd, wondering what else he'd missed.



Still cursing inwardly, Brivari walked stiffly to the table, willing himself not to limp. Their confrontation hadn't even begun, and already he'd lost control.

<What is this, anyway?> the Covari asked, staring at his own cup, the contents of which were now visible. <It bears a visual resemblance to jero, which is why I selected it, but I'm still not sure what it is.>

<The humans call it 'coffee',> Brivari answered, easing onto the opposite bench. <If you had done your homework, you would know that. You would also know that the form you've chosen is too old given the rank you wear; the human lifespan is shorter than ours, and their military doesn't admit males past a certain age. Sloppy as usual, Orlon.>

Orlon smiled, tapping his finger on his coffee cup. <This certainly feels familiar, doesn't it? Secret meetings. You keeping me waiting. Finding fault with everything I say or do.>

<And you on the wrong side,> Brivari said flatly. <Again.>

<And you on the same side,> Orlon said, his smile fading. <Still,> he added pointedly. <No doubt still believing Riall and his son were our saviors.>

<Oh, I see,> Brivari said sarcastically. <So all those years of peace and prosperity were just figments of my imagination?>

<Peace and prosperity for some,> Orlon noted, <but not for as many as you think.> He stopped, watching Brivari wince as he moved his injured leg. <Are you badly hurt?>

Brivari stared at him in disbelief. <The last time I saw you, you were false, trying to trick me into returning home. And now I'm supposed to believe you care about my welfare?>

 Orlon replied. <Nor did you. Nor should I be surprised. You never did.>

<So in order to gain my 'trust', you violated the one way Covari have to trust each other—our vow never to take the form of another of our race. And that succeeded every bit as brilliantly as any of your other schemes.>

<You should have listened,> Orlon said, ignoring the sarcasm. <The time you chose to flee was actually the perfect time to hide. Chaos reigned, and Khivar had not yet established control. I could have easily hidden you, or even moved you to a sister planet.> He leaned his human form back against the wall and fell silent for a moment. <I'm quite sure you won't believe this, but despite our past differences, I never meant you any harm.>

<You're right,> Brivari said darkly. 

<We both wanted the same thing,> Orlon continued, still ignoring him. <Better lives for our people. We simply differed on how best to achieve that. I had my reasons for opposing Riall and Zan, just as you had your reasons for supporting them. I doubted your methods, but never your sincerity. Things would go better for both of us if you could find your way to a place where you don't doubt mine.>

<Remind me to send hunters after the next person I 'sincerely' don't mean any harm,> Brivari said acidly.

<You were the one who agreed to the creation of hunters, and now you are their prey. Ironic, isn't it?>

<And you are the one who bitterly opposed their creation, claiming anyone who supported them was a traitor to their race,> Brivari retorted. <Yet now you see fit to use them. I gather your principles disappear when they become inconvenient. Ironic, isn't it?>

Orlon's eyes narrowed. <Khivar sent the hunters—they would be here with or without me. I am here in an attempt to bring some sanity to this situation. Things are worsening at home, Brivari. Khivar has declared war on Larak, ostensibly to make him return the bodies of the royal family and the Granolith, both of which he knows Larak doesn't have. It is merely a ruse to distract everyone, to keep them busy and off the subject of how he can't legitimately claim the throne. He's a fool—left to his own devices, he will ruin our world.>

<Yet you are here in that 'fool's' name, toting his henchman and hunters.>

Orlon laced his hands together around his cup. <I saw this coming years ago. Zan had only one rival with the will and the wherewithal to challenge him, and I deliberately infiltrated that rival's ranks so that when that challenge came, our people would not be left out in the cold should he prevail. Thank goodness I did. Were it not for my planning and care, things would be going much worse for us.>

<Wonderful,> Brivari deadpanned. <Now treachery and treason are dressed up as foresight and loyalty. You really do have an endless capacity for self-deception...but then you always did, didn't you?>

 Orlon said, eyeing him steadily. <One of the few things we can both agree on is that we will never agree with each other's actions years ago. I am here because we have a unique opportunity, one which may never come again...but in order to take advantage of it, I need to get you back home. And in order to do that....I need you to give yourself up.>

For a moment, Brivari just stared at him in shock, his sore leg forgotten. Then he began to laugh, beginning with a slow chuckle which progressed to a full blown guffaw which drew the attention of humans at nearby tables. Orlon frowned at him as he continued laughing, whether from the sheer ludicrousness of the request or sheer exhaustion, he couldn't tell. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this. It must have been in another time, on another world.

<My goodness,> Brivari chuckled, as Orlon continued glowering. <All these years, and I had no idea you had all these hidden talents. First fiction, now comedy—what's next?>

 Orlon answered sharply. <It's over, Brivari. You tried to salvage this mess and failed. And now our world stands at a crossroads, as it has countless times in our history. It was Covari who tipped the scales of power the last time the throne was in contention, and we can do so again.>

Brivari shook his head, still smiling. he went on, as Orlon scowled again. <I wouldn't want to have to make the report you'll be making to whoever's holding the other end of your leash. Imagine failing to acquire either target when everyone expected instant and stunning success. No wonder you're blathering these absurdities.>

Orlon's eyes flashed. <Would you drop the sarcasm and listen to me? Look at the mess you're in—you can't possibly hope to prevail! Urza and Valeris are dead, Jaddo is imprisoned, you're a fugitive, you tried and failed to kill my operatives—>

<Your operatives?> Brivari interrupted. <Since when are they your operatives?>

<Semantics!> Orlon snapped. <The point is that if you come to us voluntarily, I have all sorts of options at my disposal. Force us to pursue you, and not only will you be captured, but I will not be able to help you!>

<It appears I am not the only one who needs help,> Brivari noted. <Of the eight you started with, only you and one other are left standing. Four are drugged, including two hunters, another hunter is injured, and the fourth is dead. You weren't expecting that, were you? And that's why you're here now,> he continued pleasantly, enjoying the look of dismay on Orlon's face as he realized Brivari knew exactly how many Orlon had with him. <If I can do that without prior knowledge of your arrival, just imagine what I can do now that I know you're here.> He leaned in closer. <You're worried. And you should be. For once, you're worried about the right thing.>

<You can't take credit for our failure tonight,> Orlon objected. <It was Amar who alerted the humans to our presence; I will see to it that does not happen again. And my hunter is dead at the hands of one of your human allies, one who no doubt hasn't been told how and why you came to be here. I don't mean Zan's death—you would have told that sob story to gain their sympathy. No, I'm referring to the reason we first came to Earth. The reason you have all your 'special' powers,> he added, infusing as much disdain into the word "special" as he could manage. 

Brivari looked away, annoyed. None of the Proctors would likely be thrilled were they to learn the initial reason Antarians had come to Earth. David Proctor had come perilously close to doing just that after examining the memories both Jaddo and Brivari had accidentally transmitted. He had been fully conscious and in control when he had formed the connection with the Healer, so he had been able to hold certain things back, but David Proctor had gotten an eyeful, and he was perfectly capable of putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

<Do the right thing, Brivari,> Orlon was saying. <Come home before things get worse, before your allies here discover the truth and turn on you. We tried your way; it is now time to try mine. Abandon your allegiance to a dead king, and look forward instead.>

<Zan is not dead,> Brivari said softly. <With your long list of things that have gone wrong, that is one thing which has gone right.>

 Orlon said impatiently. <A manufactured creature who resembles none of us will never be accepted as king, no matter how many memories of his predecessor he possesses.>

<Correct. He will be identifiable as king in the same way all of Antar's kings have been identified for centuries.>

It took almost a full minute for the meaning of this statement to fully sink in. When it finally did, another full minute passed before Orlon found his voice.

<Do you mean.....do you mean you actually have a hybrid with....with the mark?> Orlon demanded. <Do you have any idea what you've done? That thing....that abomination you've created will have the power to command us, to—>

<He will be safe from the likes of you,> Brivari interrupted. <Even in his fetal state, the mark prevents any of us from killing the king, from enlisting others to harm him, or from refusing to act on the knowledge that others plan to do him harm.>

<Covari may not be able to harm him,> Orlon said darkly, <but the Argilians can.>

<They are not here.>

<Yet,> Orlon retorted. <But they will be. And when they are, they will—>

<--fail,> Brivari finished flatly. <Valeris foresaw this possibility. The death of the hybrid bearing the mark will cause the development of the mark in another. Kill all the Zan hybrids, and the mark will transfer to another member of the Royal Four. We have hundreds; you'll never find them all. And I only need one.>

Orlon stared at him, thunderstruck, as Brivari thanked his lucky stars that no one knew just how few hybrids they had left, and that they were all conveniently located in one place. That had been necessary at the time, but now he saw the error of "putting all your eggs in one basket", as humans would say. It wasn't safe to approach the pod chamber now, but once this latest development was settled, he would see to it that the hybrids were scattered for safety's sake.

<So,> Brivari said, <it appears we are still 'doing it my way'. And this conversation is over.>

<You can't run forever!> Orlon exclaimed as Brivari rose from the bench, stifling a wince as he put weight on his injured leg. <Three hunters are still far too many for you to handle! They will find you.>

<Do your best,> Brivari answered. <That's what you did the last time, and your best proved wanting. History will repeat itself; you know that. That's why you're here.>

Orlon's sharp reply was cut off by the sudden appearance of several human soldiers behind Brivari, all holding trays of food. "Can we join you?" one of them asked. "We heard you laughing, and we're all in the mood for a good joke."

"Then you're in luck," Brivari replied, nodding toward the furious Orlon. "Because you've found one."

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

I'll post Chapter 75 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Mar 12, 2006 3:36 pm

Hey, Misha! *wave* I never thought about the parallels between Max and Alex's conversation--thanks for pointing that out. Alex was (will be?) in a very similar position as Grandpa Valenti was here.

And if you really want to hit Cavitt, you'll have to step into a very long line that's only going to grow longer. He hasn't finished playing his cards yet.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

December 14, 1947, 6:00 a.m.

Proctor residence

The clanging of the grandfather clock woke Emily Proctor, and she stirred uncomfortably, wincing as she moved her head. Ouch. That was going to be one hell of a stiff neck. Spending a night on the living room couch with your head resting at an odd angle on the too-hard armrest could do that. She sat up stiffly, the blanket she'd pulled from the linen closet last night falling away, making her shiver. The house was dark, quiet.....and cold. There was still only a tarp covering the broken dining room window where Brivari and whatever had been chasing him had escaped, and the December breeze sneaking past it reached all the way into the living room. Perhaps this hadn't been the best choice of sleeping arrangements. After she'd seen David replacing that horrid gun in their bedroom last night, she'd rejected the notion of sleeping in the guest room and come down here instead, not wanting to be startled by an alien guest in the middle of the night. Unlike David, Emily fully expected Brivari to be back, at least briefly. He was probably injured, and the healing stones were here.

Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders as she tucked her feet into slippers, Emily glanced toward the grandfather clock; it was 6:00 a.m., too early for the morning paper, even. The last time she'd heard those bongs, louder than ever due to the clock's shattered door, it had been 4:00 a.m., so she'd managed to get a couple hours of sleep after all. Good for me, she thought wearily, rising and slipping behind the couch to open the drapes and let in the Sunday morning sunshine. Outside, their street was quiet, with no trace of last night's theatrics. Later on, after their neighbors had returned from whatever Sunday services they attended, Emily knew there would be a steady parade of visitors wanting to hear the tale of what had happened last night and gawk over the damage to their house. Well....perhaps "gawk" was an uncharitable word. Most of the neighbors would appear with some kind of food so she wouldn't have to cook for awhile, along with offers of assistance or materials to repair the damage. Most likely the window would be fixed by nightfall.

Emily turned away from the window, her breath catching in her throat as she got her first look at the house in the light of day. Sunshine glinted off the shattered glass in the grandfather clock. The bullet holes in the walls were clearly visible even from this distance, and looked much bigger than they had last night. Whoever had said that things look better in the morning obviously hadn't witnessed the after affects of an alien catfight in their house. Coffee, she thought, deliberately avoiding the dining room as she headed through the front hallway into the kitchen. But there was damage here too, the smashed-in wall revealing the studs behind the plaster.

"Morning."

Startled, Emily spun around to find David sitting at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. She'd been so busy looking at the hole in the wall that she hadn't noticed him.

"You made coffee?" she said, looking gratefully at the pot. "I didn't even hear you."

"You were sleeping," David answered. "I didn't want to wake you. I just turned the thermostat up," he added, eyeing the blanket around her shoulders.

Emily nodded wordlessly, standing uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen for a moment before crossing to the stove. The only time she and David had slept apart was when he'd been overseas. This was awkward, to say the least.

"Did you get any sleep?" she asked, her back to him as she poured coffee.

"No. You?"

"No," she answered, reaching for the sugar. "Well....a little. Not much. The couch isn't very comfortable."

"You didn't have to sleep there."

"But it's a damned sight more comfortable than sleeping in a room with a gun," Emily said sharply, her spoon clinking in her cup.

"You're going to have to stop this eventually, you know," David said.

"Stop what?"

"Stop worrying that I'm going to kill myself. And stop blaming the gun when it was James who pulled the trigger."

"You didn't see what I saw," Emily said bitterly, staring out the kitchen window. "If you knew how he killed himself , you'd know why I can't get that out of my head."

"I know how he did it, Emily."

"I know you know he shot himself," Emily said impatiently. "That's not what I meant. I meant—"

"That he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger?"

Emily whirled around, nearly upsetting her coffee in the process. "How did you know that? I swore everyone to secrecy when—"

"And no one said a word," David interrupted. "They didn't have to." He sat back in his chair, looking every bit as stiff and exhausted as she felt. "Do you really think James was the first soldier to blow his brains out?"

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"Lots of guys killed themselves overseas," David said, "for obvious reasons. Those who did wanted two things: They wanted to be successful, and they wanted it not to hurt. No one wanted to wind up with a painful injury locked up in a psych ward. The best way to get what they wanted was to do exactly what James did. Instant success, and they never felt a thing."

Emily gaped at her husband in disbelief. I assure you, he knows, Brivari had said, insisting that David knew exactly how his brother had died. And here she'd spent a year keeping the "secret", all for no good reason. "If you knew, then why didn't you go into his apartment?" she demanded. "Do you have any idea how many nightmares I've had about what I found in there? His face was gone! His brain was gone, splattered all over the furniture and the walls, and—" She stopped, her stomach threatening to revolt even though there was nothing in it.

"I know," David said gently. "I know it looks awful. I wish I'd been the one to go in there. I knew what to expect—"

"Then why didn't you go in there?" Emily broke in angrily. "Why did you let me go in if you already knew?"

David was silent for a moment. "I meant to. I would have....I just needed a few minutes to collect myself. I've seen it before but,.....this was my own brother, and I'd been hoping he'd pull out of it. And then—" He paused, staring at her. "And then you marched in there, marched right back out, and told me not to go in. You were very insistent. I even argued with you, but in the end I let you have it your way because I didn't see the point in pushing. It's not like I didn't know what happened."

Emily turned back to the window, her coffee untouched on the counter in front of her. David had argued with her. She hadn't wanted him to go in there, hadn't wanted him to see because.....why? Because she was afraid he'd get ideas? Because his nightmares had finally begun to abate, and she didn't want them to start all over again? Because for all the time he'd been overseas, when all she'd been able to do was write him letters, hold down the fort, and pray, here was something tangible she could do to share the burden? All of the above.

"You never talked about it," David continued behind her, "and you'd made it clear to everyone that you didn't want anyone else to talk about it either. So I stayed off the subject. It seemed so important to you that I not know that I just let you go on believing that I didn't. It seemed a harmless lie at the time. If I'd known you were having nightmares about it....." He paused, his voice husky when he spoke again. "I'm sorry, Em. You never said anything. I didn't realize how it was affecting you. I never meant to leave you alone with it."

"It doesn't matter," Emily said quietly. "I guess I thought I was protecting you from more of what you went through in the war....and from doing the same thing yourself. Although that was a useless gesture, because it turns out you had a gun anyway, had had a gun for months before that happened. Good Lord," she added, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "If I'd known there was a gun in my bedroom when we came home that night......" She stopped, unwilling to carry that thought to its logical conclusion. She'd been so frightened that David would follow in his brother's footsteps. And to think that the means of doing so had been on the top shelf of their closet. It was just as well she hadn't known.

"James bought a gun to take his own life, Emily. I bought a gun to save mine. Like I said before, a gun is just a tool—a tool we all might need with everything that's going on."

Emily stared out the kitchen window, her eyes far away. "How long do you think we have before they come for us?" she asked, grateful to be off the subject of the gun. Talking about aliens was easier than talking about what was on her closet shelf.

"Hopefully, they won't be 'coming for us."

"Like hell they won't," Emily said darkly. "That was no coincidence that both Valenti and the Army showed up last night. And not just anyone from the Army, but the very jackass who locked up Mac."

"I don't think Cavitt's being here had anything to do with Valenti," David said. "I didn't get the impression Valenti was expecting anyone, and he didn't tell Cavitt the truth. Plus I have good reason to believe that he had his own run-in with Cavitt. He was on the fence last night when he left, and he just might come down on our side."

"I'm not holding my breath waiting for that to happen," Emily muttered. "So how do you think they both wound up here?"

"I'm still not sure why Valenti was here," David answered. "I can't figure that one out. But I imagine Cavitt found out by monitoring police calls."

"Why would he be doing that?"

"Well," David said, "it's reasonable to assume that if the aliens sent someone after Brivari, they'd send someone after Jaddo as well. If the base was attacked last night, that would explain why Cavitt would be on the prowl."

"More good news," Emily sighed. "Where is Brivari, anyway? I slept on the couch because I assumed he'd be back for the healing stones."

"He's not."

"Not what?"

"He's not back. Wasn't when I came downstairs, anyway."

"Then where is he? You said he was hurt, right?"

"Right."

"Oh, no," Emily breathed. "Do you think they got him?"

"It's possible," David admitted. "But I wouldn't jump to conclusions. Give him some more time."

"David," Emily said slowly, "what are those babies going to do if they come out years from now and......and there's no one there?"

David shook his head. "I don't know. The way I understand it, they'll be born fully grown, but still....if they lose all their guardians, that can't be good."

Damn it! Emily exclaimed in silent frustration, shrugging off the blanket and skipping up the stairs two at a time, pausing only long enough to look at her still sleeping daughter before hurrying to the guest room, empty like her husband said. Where was Brivari? And what was going on in the minds of people who would pursue a former regime all the way across a galaxy? They'd killed the king and his family, taken control of their planet—wasn't that enough? Just how important had this king been to be considered such a threat while in a fetal state, with years to go before he returned? Or maybe it wasn't fear driving this behavior, but simple, implacable hatred, which would better explain the lengths to which the aliens were willing to go to stamp out even the last gasps of their fallen royalty or anyone connected with them.

And does that include us? Emily wondered, heading for the dresser. The healing stones were in the bottom drawer, tucked away in the back and useless to the one who needed them. She slammed the drawer closed, suddenly consumed with an irrational hatred. She and her family had busted their backsides for those babies and the ones who watched them: Feeding them, healing them, rescuing them, keeping their secrets. This latest assault felt almost personal, like it was no longer just the aliens' problem, but her problem as well. Just for a moment, she dearly wished one of those hunters would reappear so she could knock him into the middle of next week. On the way downstairs, she paused by her bedroom door, staring at the half-used bed, one side untouched. David's gun had dispatched one of those hunters. Maybe the gun wasn't such a bad idea after all. Right now she was so angry, she wouldn't mind using it on one of them herself.

But she would have to settle for something less dramatic. Emily went to the kitchen closet and pulled the bag off the vacuum cleaner. There hadn't been time to empty it last night, and besides, the bag itself had been the safest receptacle for the alien dust they wanted no one to find. Now she had other ideas. Carrying the bag to the back porch, she opened the door, wincing as the cold wind blew right through her nightgown. But she'd found what she wanted—the puddle that always formed just to the left of the door. She flipped the bag over and shook it, watching with satisfaction as the contents plopped into the puddle, dissolved....and disappeared.

"No 'flying free' for you, buddy," she said with satisfaction. She had no idea if the dust of hunters was treated the same way as Urza's dust had been, and she didn't care; what she had just done was considered an insult, at least in some quarters. Perhaps it was also an empty gesture without an audience, but no matter. For some strange reason, she felt better.

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

Chaves County Sheriff's Station

Deputy Valenti yawned as he sat at his desk, his coffee growing cold from neglect. He'd had an exhausting night, alternately pacing the floor or staring into space, too worked up to come even close to anything resembling sleep. The station was nearly empty at this hour, which explained his presence here now; he'd wanted peace and quiet for this task. The irony was that after sitting here for thirty minutes, he had nothing to show for it.

Not a damned thing, Valenti thought wearily, staring at the empty sheet of paper in his typewriter. He was supposed to be writing his report on the events of last night at the Proctors' house, what should have been an easy task given how long and hard he'd looked for solid proof of an alien presence. He still didn't have solid proof, but he did have the next best thing, and a no less essential ingredient in that complicated recipe called "truth"—someone who would listen to him. It was gratifying to know there was at least one person who would read this report who wouldn't immediately mutter "Deputy Martian". Being believed was a gift, a powerful lure for one who'd had his eyesight, his methods, his very sanity questioned on a regular basis. He shouldn't have any problem hitting these keys, pounding out the story of the three intruders, two of whom looked exactly alike and one of whom died and turned into a pile of dirt on the Proctors' dining room floor. And that was just the beginning; what about all the other things he'd seen? What about whatever the Proctors had taken from Warner's Creek last July? How about the fugitive he'd chased all the way to St. Bridgit's a week later? And the handyman who wasn't a handyman? Cavitt would listen to all of it. This should be easy.

So why wasn't it? Why was he sitting here staring at a blank piece of paper, afraid to hit the "a", "l", "i", "e", and "n" keys in that order? Scenes from the night before played and replayed through his mind: David Proctor's concern that if he fired, he'd hit the "wrong one". That weird pile of stuff in the perfect outline of a body. Emily Proctor's anger that her husband had a gun, which seemed oddly misplaced given that she had a dead alien, or what was left of one, on her dining room floor. Major Cavitt threatening Sheriff Wilcox, and Wilcox responding in kind. Major Cavitt threatening him when he wouldn't sneak Cavitt into the Brazel's house....and changing his tune when Valenti had fought back. Major Cavitt making sense, despite the bad taste he'd left in Valenti's mouth.

"You are also sworn to protect the people, are you not? As am I—we share a common goal."

"In order to do your job, there are times when rules must be bent."

"These are extraordinary circumstances, so extraordinary measures must be taken in response."

All true....and yet it wasn't. These were certainly extraordinary circumstances by any measure, but did that justify what Cavitt had tried to do? Who decided circumstances were extraordinary? Who oversaw the people making those decisions? Was the letter of the law really as inviolate as he'd repeatedly told young Miss Proctor it was? Could he ever look her in the face again if he suddenly started disregarding the law? Would he ever see her face again if Cavitt got wind of what was happening on Baldwin Street?

"You're up early, Deputy."

Startled, Valenti looked up to see Sheriff Wilcox standing over him. "Morning, Sheriff," he said, shifting stiffly in his chair. "I didn't hear you come in."

"No surprise," Wilcox answered. "You looked like you were somewhere else. You get any sleep last night?"

"No, sir," Valenti admitted.

"That your report?" Wilcox asked, nodding toward the typewriter as he eased himself onto the corner of the desk. "Looks a little thin. Want some advice?"

"Here we go," Valenti said grimly, his fingers tapping on the arms of his chair. "This is the part where you tell me what I can and can't put in my report, right?"

"No."

"What then?" Valenti demanded. "Threats to fire me? Discredit me? Get me an even better moniker than 'Deputy Martian'?"

"I've had a request to leave you alone on this one."

"From Major Cavitt," Valenti said with certainty.

"No. David Proctor."

"Why would he want you to stay out of this?" Valenti asked suspiciously.

"Dave thinks you and Major Cavitt had a dust-up after I left last night," Wilcox answered. "That true?"

Valenti stared at the Sheriff a moment, weighing his options. It might not hurt to run this by Wilcox, especially if he really was going to abide by Proctor's odd—and completely unexpected—request. And his estimation of Wilcox had risen considerably since he'd heard him go toe to toe with Cavitt. "The Major and I had a chat," Valenti confirmed, irony lacing his voice.

"Seems the Major was quite chatty last night," Wilcox said dryly. "He 'chatted' with me too....but you know that already because you were eavesdropping." He smiled as Valenti flushed. "I'm not sore," he added calmly. "I learned a lot by eavesdropping when I was your age. How much did you hear?"

"Pretty much all of it," Valenti admitted uncomfortably. "I didn't know you played hard ball, Sheriff. Were you really going to risk all those neighbors brandishing weapons?"

"You don't get to be county sheriff without learning how to play hard ball," Wilcox noted. "And yes, I would have risked it if I'd had to. Pissed off neighbors wouldn't have been my first choice for back up, but one makes do. What did our friend Cavitt want from you?"

"He wanted me to secretly get him into the Brazel's house without a warrant," Valenti answered, the mere act of stating such a thing out loud giving him goose bumps.

"Decided to dump the middle man entirely, did he?" Wilcox said. "So—did you?"

"No!" Valenti exclaimed. "Of course not!"

"But you thought about it."

"No! Well, yes, but...." Valenti paused, gathering his wits before he went on babbling like an idiot. "I didn't do it, Sheriff. I would never do something like that."

"Okay," Wilcox said agreeably. "So what'd he do when you turned him down?"

"Same thing he did to you," Valenti admitted. "He threatened me....and I got mad."

"And?"

"And....he didn't react the way he did with you. His whole manner changed. He went on about how we both had a common goal, and sometimes you have to bend the law in extraordinary circumstances. And then....and then he made me an offer," Valenti added, deliberately avoiding Wilcox's gaze. "A different offer than he made you."

"Did you take it?"

Valenti's eyes snapped up in anger, but Wilcox's face was completely bland, neither his expression nor his voice fitting the loaded question he'd just asked. "No, sir," Valenti said firmly. "I didn't take it. And I still can't figure out why he didn't make you the same offer. You'd be of far more use to him than I would."

"Because he'd already figured out that I can't be bought," Wilcox said. "But you—you he thinks are still for sale." He paused, his eyes boring into Valenti's. "Are you?"

For sale. God, that sounded ugly. Valenti stared at the empty sheet of paper in his typewriter, remembering Cavitt's sudden about face last night. Having failed to get what he wanted by force, Cavitt had apparently decided to move down the list of incentives. He'd tried to buy Wilcox too, but when the Sheriff had sent him packing, Cavitt had been savvy enough to quit while he was behind, knowing that Wilcox wouldn't bite. But he thought I would, Valenti thought bitterly. All that flattery might be nothing more than manipulation.

"I'm not for sale, sir," Valenti said, "but telling the truth isn't 'selling out'. Cavitt's an asshole; I don't like his methods, and I won't be his patsy....but he had a point. Actually several points, one of those being that he and I both have a duty to protect. I know what I saw last night, and that definitely qualifies as something people need protection from, whether 'people' means everyone or just the Proctors. So what am I supposed to do? Lie? Ignore what I saw? What if someone gets hurt?"

"What if someone gets hurt by what you put in that report?" Wilcox countered.

"Sir, I don't understand you," Valenti said impatiently. "The Proctors are your friends. Aren't you worried about them? What if the same thing happens again, and I'm not there to bail them out?"

The sheriff's eyebrows rose. "Refresh my memory, Jim—who bailed out whom last night?"

Valenti felt his face growing warm again as he remembered that it was David Proctor who had saved his life. "Consider this," Wilcox continued. "The Proctors were in their attic because they had reason to believe that was the safest place for them to be. And they would have stayed there had you not showed up and started shooting. The reason Dave came downstairs was because he heard your gun go off. Have you ever considered that you might have made things worse by blundering in the way you did?"

"I thought you were going to leave me alone on this one," Valenti retorted in exasperation, annoyed because he had considered that when Proctor had made the same point last night.

"I said David asked me to leave you alone," Wilcox clarified. "I didn't say I would."

"So you want me to lie," Valenti said bluntly.

"I want you to consider the ramifications of spilling your guts."

"And then you want me to lie," Valenti fumed. "I don't need to tell you that's perjury! If it's wrong for Cavitt to ignore the need for a warrant, then isn't it wrong for me to falsify a report? Don't I have a duty to report the facts?"

"You also have a duty to make certain those facts don't fall into the wrong hands," Wilcox pointed out. "We write reports, but we don't publish them in the newspaper. We don't read them aloud at Sunday service. We don't divulge their contents to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asks. We have a responsibility to make certain that the information we collect in the discharge of our duties winds up in the right hands. Whose hands will your report wind up in, Deputy? Do those hands belong to someone you can trust to uphold the law, to observe citizens' due process rights, to use rather than misuse this information?"

"What, so now we have to do a character analysis on every lawyer, or prosecutor, or public defender we meet?" Valenti demanded. "And if we don't think their hands are the 'right' hands, we don't have to cooperate?" Valenti shook his head. "Cavitt tried to go too far last night, and we stopped him—and we should have. But every single time you've suppressed evidence on the Proctors, you've been doing exactly what he tried to do—ignoring the law under the guise of protecting the people. But those laws exist to protect the people, to—"

"Exactly," Wilcox interrupted. "People don't serve the law; the law serves the people. This is where you're losing your way, Deputy. The law doesn't exist in its own right. Its only authority is the protection of the people it serves, and when it fails at that task, our first duty is to correct that failure by protecting the people instead of the law."

"Major Cavitt said the same thing."

"Major Cavitt is full of it," Wilcox said bluntly. "The duty of the military is to protect the state. The duty of the police is to protect the people—from the state, if necessary. Are you following me?"

"And that's exactly what you and I both did last night," Valenti argued. "I know Cavitt got a little out of hand, but we stopped him. The system worked just the way it was supposed to; our duty to uphold the law prevented someone from breaking it." He leaned forward in his chair. "Sheriff, nothing bad is going to happen to the Proctors. They haven't broken any laws as far as I can tell. And if the Major gets out of hand again, then we'll be there to remind him what's what. I know I will, and I’m sure you will be too. We did it before, and we can do it again. One porky Major is no reason to falsify a report."

"Really?"

"Really."

"If you believe that, then why are you sitting here staring at a blank piece of paper?"

Noises floated from the back as locker doors slammed, and deputies arriving for the morning shift began filtering in. Some cast curious glances in their direction, but most just nodded on their way past, yawning. "Let me answer that one for you," Wilcox said, lowering his voice as another deputy walked by. "You know something's rotten in Denmark. That's why you didn't fess up last night, and that's why you're dithering now. You, of all people, who's pursued this for so long, sought validation for so long.....it's right in front of you, and you won't take it. Why? Because your gut is telling you not to, and you're listening to your gut. And you should—all good law enforcement men have guts they listen to when the waters get murky. I learned to trust my gut a long time ago. Stop trying to talk yourself out of it, and learn to trust yours."

Valenti sat rigid in his chair, unwilling to admit he'd been asking himself the same questions. "Maybe I'd better warm this up for you," Wilcox said, taking Valenti's cup as he stood up. "Looks like you're going to need it."

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

0630 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base

"The guards stationed both outside and inside the generator room had been shot with tranquilizer darts, and the door jammed," Spade finished, answering the latest of dozens of questions as he sat facing the table of officers. "It took a little less than fifteen minutes to unjam the door and restore emergency power, and a few minutes more to fully restore power. The aliens were gone by then."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," General Ramey said, handing his coffee cup to an aide for a refill of what had kept them all going all night long. He glanced sideways toward Major Cavitt on his right and Dr. Pierce on his left. "Comments?"

Spade sank gratefully back in his chair as both Cavitt and Piece began talking at once. Ramey had arrived in Roswell in the wee small hours of the morning and begun the debriefings with those on the first floor at the time of the attack, which had given Spade, Yvonne, and Thompson time to square their stories. When the rest of the men awakened and were debriefed, there would undoubtedly be a few things that didn't exactly match his version of events, but that could easily be explained by the darkness and confusion. And there would be very little that didn't match; he'd told them pretty much exactly what happened, minus any mention of his foreknowledge of the attack, or of the fact that the only reason the aliens had been rebuffed was because he'd handed his weapon to the prisoner. They'd never understand the latter, and he still hadn't decided how he felt about the former.

"Gentleman....please," Ramey said wearily as Cavitt and Pierce each tried to talk over the other. "One at a time. Major Cavitt?"

"I told you this would happen!" Cavitt said triumphantly, still cheerful at the prospect of battle. "Didn't I? Didn't I? I told you they were planning to invade, that—"

"Half a dozen people in a single location does not constitute an invasion," Pierce interrupted.

"Well, of course that wasn't the invasion," Cavitt said impatiently. "That was merely a strike force to rescue the prisoner and avail themselves of the intelligence he's gathered. The real question is, where are the rest of them?"

"Radar has picked up no unusual activity of any kind," Ramey said, "nor have any other attacks or incidents been reported. Has anything unusual happened in this area?"

"I'm still investigating that," Cavitt answered.

"Which means 'no'," Pierce said, as Cavitt glared at him. "Perhaps there is no 'rest of them', given that there have been no further attacks. That suggests that the ones who attacked last night are waiting for the effects of the sedative to wear off before trying again. If there were more, wouldn't they have tried again by now?"

"The important thing is, they will try again," Cavitt said. "And I would like to point out that this compound was infiltrated just exactly the way I thought it would be: They impersonated one of our men who was outside the compound. This is exactly the scenario the lockdown was meant to prevent, and I find it no coincidence that mere minutes after ending it, we were infiltrated!"

Not another lockdown, Spade thought, closing his eyes. His men couldn't take it. He couldn't take it. This place would explode if everyone was confined again.

"And I would like to point out that had standard security procedures been followed, what looked like "Private Walker" would never have been allowed back inside the compound," Ramey said. "It would appear your men were unprepared for what happened last night, and were forced to make a judgment call just like Lieutenant Spade said. I'm impressed with the way your men performed, Major, but your security procedures were designed for a closed compound. Obviously they need tweaking."

"What I'm wondering," Pierce broke in as Cavitt flushed, "is why they were trying to get into the lab."

"Isn't that obvious?" Cavitt asked. "They wished to destroy the serum and restore their comrade's powers."

"But they were rescuing him," Pierce said, bewildered. "Destroying the serum in the lab wouldn't have had any immediate effect. Besides, if you're right....how did they even know there was a serum to destroy, or where it was kept?"

Uneasy silence settled over the room. "Do you think they know?" Cavitt asked after a moment.

"Know what, sirs?" Spade broke in. "Is there anything else in the lab they would have wanted?"

Spade watched curiously as Ramey, Cavitt, and Pierce all exchanged knowing glances. What are they up to? Spade wondered, noting that whatever it was, Ramey was up to it too. The alien informant had only mentioned the serum, so whatever these three were thinking of didn't appear to be on the alien radar. Was this secret something the reason Corporal Brisson had gotten so upset the day Spade had burst into the lab and surprised him?

"We are fortunate that Private Thompson happened to be nearby at the right time," Pierce continued smoothly, ignoring Spade's question. "Thank goodness he was able to stop them. I'm still left with the question of how this 'strike force' knew the layout of the compound so well that they were able to move confidently in near total darkness."

"Weren't you listening?" Cavitt said impatiently. "The Lieutenant has already told us that the alien who impersonated Private Walker was here for nearly an hour before the power failed."

"You think an hour is long enough to gain and convey all that information?" Pierce asked doubtfully. "Movement around the compound would be difficult, even wearing a familiar face. Security requires—"

"Doctor," Cavitt interrupted severely, "I would appreciate it mightily if you would leave the tactical musings to me. I am in charge of security here; you are in charge of the medical end of things. I don't masquerade as a doctor, and you shouldn't masquerade as a soldier."

"Of course you don't," Pierce replied sharply. "You haven't been trained in both—I have. And you're too damned stubborn to admit the obvious—your precious compound may have been infiltrated prior to last night."

"Impossible!" Cavitt protested. "Nothing like this has ever happened before!"

"What about the dog?"

Three blank faces turned toward Spade. He hadn't divulged the true nature of the dog six weeks ago because, at the time, it hadn't been necessary—both enemy aliens had supposedly been killed. Now that he knew they had survived and others had joined them, he couldn't in good conscience keep that information to himself any longer. The "dog" was probably what had lured Walker in last night, and Treyborn might be dead because of what he'd intuitively realized about the dog. He couldn't let that happen again.

"The dog?" Ramey echoed.

"Well....it was here for three months, on the first floor at least," Spade answered, deliberately not looking at Cavitt. "It heard everything the men who were playing with it said, and it made it down to the basement the day we found it. If that were an alien, it would have had plenty of time to gather all sorts of intelligence."

"You didn't report anything unusual about the dog," Ramey reminded him. "Did you see something that would make you think it was an alien?"

Yes. "No," Spade said quickly. "I was just responding to Dr. Pierce's comment about maybe being infiltrated before, that's all."

"It couldn't be," Cavitt announced with absolute certainty. "We've never seen them be animals before. Besides, if the dog was an alien, why did it take so long for them to return? That was weeks ago. Intelligence is only valid when it's new. A spy would have used whatever information they'd gathered immediately."

Everyone looked at Pierce, who was musing in silence. Despite Cavitt's military acumen, it turned out that Pierce had the better grasp of what had happened last night and why. Cavitt was too fixated on his dreams of invasion, too convinced of what he thought the final puzzle would look like to realize that the pieces of that puzzle didn't fit. For all his sharpness in the past, he now came up short because he was unwilling to question an assumption made long ago.

Apparently he wasn't the only one. "No," Pierce said slowly, shaking his head as Spade pondered the irony that he'd just told the truth and not been believed. "I don't see how a body could compress into such a small shape and then re-expand. But the facts point to prior infiltration, even if Major Cavitt can't abide the notion that his sacred security procedures failed."

"Majors," Ramey interrupted, stemming yet another tidal wave of bickering, "all of these are valid questions, and I promise you we'll pursue them. But for now, the most important point is this: Last night proved the aliens have to access this facility the same way we do—through the door. And anything that comes through the door can be stopped."

" 'Once we're inside, you're too late'," Spade murmured.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant?"

Spade's eyes flew up to find all three officers staring at him—again. He hadn't even realized he'd been speaking out loud, quoting what the alien informant had said last night when Spade had been so angry, he almost hadn't been able to process it. "I was saying that once they're inside, we're probably too late," he said quickly. "We need a way to identify them before they get inside."

"Exactly," Ramey agreed. "Doctor Pierce, what options do we have for identifying these people?"

"Very few," Pierce admitted. "Blood tests are conclusive, as you know, but that involves syringes, slides, and microscopes, not to mention poking every single person who enters the compound every single time they enter. Alien internal organs are very different, but taking x-rays involves trained eyes and developing the film, which takes longer than a blood test. At the moment, those are the only two means of identification we have."

"Then we need to do better," Ramey said. "I have men outside as we speak constructing an entryway where visitors to the compound will be screened before being escorted inside. Unfortunately, that's the easy part. We need a fast, reliable method of identification, and we need it fast. For the moment we'll use blood tests, but that won't do for the future. The Pentagon wants personnel screened inside the compound as well, and we can't draw blood every time a man goes upstairs or downstairs."

"Men are screened inside the compound, sir," Cavitt said rather huffily. "They have been since day one. You yourself have—"

"I'm afraid questions about your great uncle's cat won't be good enough any longer, Major," Ramey said dryly. "Whoever got in here as Private Walker last night also got into the basement, which means they passed security checks. We'll question the guards once they awaken, but I doubt you'll find anything out of order. That alien had obviously learned enough about who they were impersonating to answer the questions posed. I'm afraid your security procedures are outdated; even a lockdown isn't enough insurance at this point. We need something else, something irrefutable, something they can't fool....and we need it by five o'clock tonight."

Pierce's eyebrows rose. "Sir?"

Ramey removed his glasses and set them on the table. God, he looks exhausted, Spade thought, watching him rub his eyes. Judging from the look on Ramey's face, whatever that deadline meant, it couldn't be good. Deadlines rarely were.

"Gentlemen, as you know, there has been a faction within the Army from the beginning which opposed our holding the prisoner. They feel he represents an unacceptable risk given what he's learned about our people and our country, and the unlikelihood that we'd be able to repel a rescue effort. Unfortunately, that faction now has the upper hand."

Ramey paused, every pair of eyes in the room fastened on him. Spade's hands curled and uncurled on the arms of his chair. Was this going where he thought it was going?

"After hearing everyone's testimony," Ramey continued, "at least those personnel currently conscious, I'm convinced we can keep these people at bay—but only if we can identify them. I’m scheduled to call Washington at 5 p.m.. If we can't demonstrate a reliable way to identify an alien, a way that we can all live with for an indefinite period of time...."—Ramey hesitated—"then I will likely be given an order to terminate the prisoner immediately."

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

I'll post Chapter 76 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Mar 19, 2006 3:51 pm

Misha wrote: And *then* it hit me that if they succes on recognizing other Covari, Brivari won't be able to enter either!!! ggaaaahhhh!!!!

You're good.

Yep--the Warders lose either way, although Jaddo's death would certainly be the bigger loss.

And Jaddo is indeed in the White Room, but all is not lost. I've said all along that I wasn't interested in turning this into a three year description of torture. Those characters who would love to have it that way will have their day in the White Room, but it will be days, not years.

And *hugs* to your Mom!

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

December 14, 1947, 0645 hours

Eagle Rock Military Base

Terminate? Spade sat paralyzed in his chair, horrified at Ramey's announcement. They're going to kill him, he thought in disbelief, surprised to find that hot well of anger flaring again at the thought of John's death just like it had for Treyborn's. He glanced back and forth from Cavitt to Pierce, expecting a firestorm of protest....and found none.

"That would be unfortunate," Pierce said, in the tone of voice one uses when the ice cream parlor is out of your favorite flavor.

"But understandable," Cavitt added. "It's too risky to lose, and if it's too risky to keep, then the only alternative is to get rid of it. At least we'll still have its ship."

"I assume I would be allowed to conduct the autopsy?" Pierce asked.

Spade stared at both of them, thunderstruck. Not even a full minute after Ramey had uttered the word "terminate", and they were already divvying up the spoils. And what about his own spoils? With John gone, he'd finally get his wish—he'd be free, and so would everyone else in the compound. Not like this, he thought, echoing Yvonne last night. This time, the price of freedom was just too high.

"Doctor, let me make myself clear," Ramey said firmly. "I don't want it to come to this. I want you and your staff to spend every waking minute trying to come up with a solution. You found a way to hold him. Now find a way to identify him—and do it fast."

"Of course, sir," Pierce said promptly. "I'll do my best."

"Good. Dismissed."

Spade remained frozen to his chair as Cavitt and Pierce rose, gathered up the reams of notes they'd taken during all the various testimonies, and left the room as though nothing unusual had happened. No surprise, no outrage, no questions; just a mild sense of regret, so vague he might be imagining it. He looked at Ramey, also packing up to leave, wondering if he would be ice cold also. Cavitt was understandable; he'd said from the beginning that he'd kill the prisoner rather than have it escape or be rescued. Pierce was surprising because he should be more upset about losing such a valuable lab rat. But Ramey? Ramey was one of the few reasons Spade was still willing to put on his uniform every morning. If he'd turned to ice, it was all over.

"Lieutenant?" Ramey said, seeing that Spade hadn't budged from his chair. "You're dismissed also. Thank you for your efforts and your testimony. You look exhausted—go get some sleep."

"Sleep, sir?" Spade repeated in disbelief. "You just announced you were going to kill somebody, and everybody just kind of shrugs and says, 'oh, well', and now you expect me to sleep?"

Ramey stared at him levelly for a moment, then nodded to his aides, who set down the piles of notepads he'd handed them and took up positions on either side of the door. Ramey himself resumed his seat, sinking down into his chair with a heavy sigh, lacing his hands together in front of him.

"Son, I know you sympathize with the prisoner," Ramey said quietly, "as do I. But this one's out of your league."

"And what about your league?" Spade demanded. "You're a two-star general, and you're just going to kill somebody with no trial, no evidence, no formal charges even, no anything! Just kill them—just like that! That's not even legal! This is supposed to be the United States Army, not a goddamned hit squad!"

"Be careful, Lieutenant," Ramey warned.

" 'Careful'? I am way past 'careful'!" Spade said angrily. "I'm exhausted, fed up, disappointed.....and betrayed. I thought you were different. I thought you could actually see that 'person' is not necessarily synonymous with 'human'. God, was I ever wrong. You're just like the rest of them—you have principles when it's convenient, and when it's not, forget it!"

Ramey listened to this outburst impassively, his aides shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to another. "My turn," he announced when Spade paused for breath. "First of all, Lieutenant, let me assure you that it has never been 'convenient' for me to advocate for the prisoner. I've had to fight tooth and nail every step of the way for every comfort, every consideration, no matter how small, and I'm considered mighty strange for even bothering. I imagine you've encountered similar reactions."

Spade said nothing, his fingers tapping against the edge of his chair in a gesture born partly of anger, partly of exhaustion and too much coffee. Yes, he had experienced similar reactions for months, and so had Yvonne. He'd had no idea Ramey was being treated the same way.

"I'm afraid we're in the minority," Ramey continued. "We can see past species, past the obvious differences to the similarities—but most others can't. They see at worst a monster, at best a zoo animal. They haven't talked to the prisoner like you and I have. I've encouraged many of the people who visit the observation room to speak with him, and they've all declined. They don't want to, most likely because they're afraid....and not necessarily afraid of him personally, thought that would be understandable. No, they're afraid of identifying with him, of seeing something in him they're not prepared to see. It's so much easier if they think of him as a creature instead of a person. That perspective avoids so many messy questions, so many ambiguities. If he's not a person, they can do anything they want with impunity....or so they think. Like ignoring the due process you so rightly claim he deserves. Or ordering his execution and viewing it as little more than putting a dog to sleep."

"If you really feel that way, then why are you doing this, sir?" Spade demanded. "What you're saying doesn't match what you're doing, which can only mean one thing—you don't mean what you say."

Ramey eyed Spade in silence for a moment before turning to his aides. "Leave us."

They left immediately, closing the door behind them. Ramey locked the door behind them and leaned against the edge of the table, facing Spade. "You've been honest with me before, Lieutenant. So now I’m going to be honest with you. But what I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room. Understood?"

Wordlessly, Spade nodded. What was this? Was this about whatever was hidden down in Dr. Pierce's lab?

"I lied to Majors Pierce and Cavitt a few minutes ago," Ramey said bluntly, as Spade's eyes widened. "My orders were to ask Dr. Pierce if we had a fast, simple, foolproof method of identifying the aliens, and if he said 'no', to have the prisoner terminated immediately. As of now, I have disobeyed those orders."

Spade felt his throat constrict. Here he'd just virtually called Ramey a liar, and it turned out his real orders were even worse. God, had he made a mistake.

"It's always easy to be a Monday morning quarterback," Ramey continued, easing himself onto the table. "No doubt you're thinking the people who issued those orders are monsters, much the same way as those same people think the prisoner is a monster. And you're both wrong. Last night, when word reached Washington that this facility had been attacked, news was hard to come by and we feared the worst...and not without reason, I might add. The orders I received right before I left for New Mexico reflect that fear.

"However, after hearing testimony from those of you left standing, I'm convinced we overreacted, and I made the judgment call to extend the deadline for those orders and give Dr. Pierce at least a little time to come up with a solution. I'll be making myself conveniently unavailable for phone calls for the rest of the day, something I guarantee I'll have to explain when I get back to Washington."

"But why five o'clock?" Spade asked. "Why is that the magic hour?"

"Because it's before the sun sets, Lieutenant. I believe the aliens won't return until after dark. They obviously have some means of seeing in the dark, so I believe they'll try the same thing tonight that they tried last night, waiting for dark and cutting our power. And they'll succeed, unless we have some way to keep them out. As you said yourself, once they're inside, it's too late. Once the power's cut, we're at a crippling disadvantage. Don't take this the wrong way, but it was sheer luck that you and your men managed to repel them at all."

And a little help, Spade thought guiltily, remembering the alien's bloody nose. "Maybe they won't be back tonight," he argued. "The sedative may not have worn off completely. That would give Dr. Pierce another whole night and day to come up with something before we have to resort to murder."

Ramey shook his head. "I can't be sure they won't be back tonight. Can you? What if there are more of them, as Major Cavitt suggested? I can't justify expending more human lives in defense of a facility I know is indefensible. You lost your first man last night. Care to repeat that?"

Spade looked away, Treyborn's white face flashing through his mind. "Then give them what they want, sir. Let them have the prisoner. Let him go. That's probably all they wanted anyway, given the way they attacked. Just throw in the towel and let him go, and no one else has to get hurt on either side."

"I wish I could," Ramey replied, "but I concur with those of my colleagues who feel that the prisoner is an unacceptable security risk should he escape or be rescued. Especially if he's rescued. My first duty, Lieutenant, and yours, is the defense of the United States Government and her territories. How well are we doing our jobs if we just let the prisoner walk out the door?" Ramey sighed, folding his arms in front of himself. "Between you and me and the fence post, I don't think these people are here to hurt us. I also don't believe they're here by accident, but I've never gotten the impression they meant us harm, and last night only confirms that. But that's just a gut feeling—I have nothing to back it up. And the aliens aren't helping their own case. If they approached us, attempted to talk to us, to explain why they're here and what's going on, then maybe things would be different. Until one of them shows a willingness to communicate, I have to assume they may be hostile despite my feelings to the contrary....and act accordingly."

One of them did, Spade thought wearily, and I blew him off. Should he admit to Ramey that he'd been in contact with the aliens? Never in a million years had he ever thought he might one day contemplate doing that, but if it came to that.....if Pierce was unable to come up with something that would stay the executioner's hand.....would it be worth the resulting trip to a military prison to save John's life?

"So five o'clock it is," Ramey said. "That's as long as I'm willing to gamble with the lives of the men under my command. And believe me, Lieutenant, I am gambling. If I'm wrong, and the aliens return before nightfall, it's your life on the line too. And if we make it to five o'clock with no progress, I will carry out my orders with regret....but no apology. My conscience will be clear."

"What if we do come up with a way to identify them, and you're still ordered to kill him?" Spade asked.

"Come again?" Ramey asked, resuming his seat on the other side of the table.

"You said there was a faction that wanted the prisoner dead," Spade said slowly, a horrible dread growing in the pit of his stomach. "What if Dr. Pierce actually comes up with something, and you're ordered to kill him anyway? Will your conscience be clear then, sir?"

Ramey stared at him in silence, his face inscrutable. "One thing at a time, Lieutenant. I think we have enough problems without you dreaming up new ones. Dismissed."

The note of finality in Ramey's voice made it clear that the leeway he'd granted was over. Spade rose stiffly to his feet, muscles complaining from fatigue and being in one position for so long. He had his hand on the doorknob when Ramey spoke again.

"And Lieutenant? I realize you're exhausted and upset, so I'll cut you a pass—this time. But don't you ever speak to me in that tone of voice again, or I'll see to it that's the last thing you ever do. This is the Army, not a kindergarten. Throw your tantrums elsewhere, not with superior officers."

Spade swallowed hard and answered without turning around. "Yes, sir."

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

10:30 a.m.

Proctor residence

"Wow!" Peter exclaimed, gazing up at Dee's dining room wall. "That's a bullet hole! A real bullet hole!"

"Did you think it was a fake bullet hole?" Ernie Hutton asked, eyeballing another in the living room.

"A bullet hole? Eww!" was Rachel's contribution to the discussion.

"Did the burglar go from the living room to the dining room, or the dining room to the living room?" asked Mary Laura, studying the progression of holes studding the walls in the two rooms.

"Who cares?" Rachel asked, hugging herself and looking away. "It's creepy."

"Aw, what would you know. You're just a girl," Ernie shot back in disgust.

Standing off to one side of the pack of variously interested neighborhood children, Dee rolled her eyes. The neighbors had descended upon the Proctor household at precisely 10:15 that morning, suggesting that everyone had virtually run home from their various Sunday services to be the first to arrive and see the results of last night's excitement, much of which wasn't that exciting. The broken door in the grandfather clock and the broken dining room window elicited no interest, as virtually every child there had broken something made of glass at one point or other, whether it was a drinking glass, a pair of eyeglasses, or a window with a baseball. The staved in plaster in the kitchen and behind the front door had drawn only a bit more interest. But the bullet holes in the living and dining room walls had proven to be quite the tourist attraction....for some, anyway. Peter and Ernie were fascinated, Rachel was revolted, Mary Laura was behaving like a pint-sized police officer, and Anthony.....Anthony was hovering silently toward the back of the crowd, staring at the bullet holes with wide eyes. Poor Anthony. After she'd left him the way she had last night, it was no wonder he was so upset. He was the only one in the group who had some idea of what had really happened.

"Holy cow!" Ernie exclaimed, his eye to one bullet hole like he was looking through a telescope. "The bullet's still in there!"

"Really? Lemme see!" Peter said, trying to push Ernie aside.

"Shove off, Parker!" Ernie growled. "Go find your own bullet hole!"

Peter did, heading for another in the dining room and excitedly reporting that that one also contained a bullet. Mary Laura peeked primly into a third, getting up on tiptoe in the patent leather Mary Janes she'd worn to church. Rachel sighed. Anthony looked stricken.

"I heard your Dad had a gun too!" Peter said enthusiastically. "Is that true?"

"Yeah, he did," Dee answered, thinking of the tension still simmering between her parents about the gun. "But he didn't fire it," she added, sticking to the family-approved story.

"Too bad," Peter said regretfully. "And you didn't get to see any of this?"

"No. I was upstairs in the attic with my mother."

"I wouldn't have stayed in the attic. I would have come down here and blown that burglar's brains out," Ernie announced, making his hands into the shape of a gun and adding pow noises for emphasis.

"Wow!" Peter repeated, peering into another bullet hole, virtually beside himself with awe. "That deputy actually shot a gun off in your house! That is just so neat!"

"It's not that neat," Ernie countered. "He missed."

Daddy didn't, Dee thought silently, remembering the pile of alien dust on the dining room floor, and thinking again of what none of the Proctors wanted to talk about: Brivari wasn't back yet. She knew her parents were diplomatically not voicing their fear that he was dead, but Dee didn't share their pessimism. He's all right, she thought fiercely, unwilling to even consider another outcome. She knew he was all right. Brivari had been through so much, and he always came out okay. This time should be no different.

"Why was the Army here last night?" Mary Laura wondered out loud. "Why would they be interested in a burglar?"

Dee shrugged. "We don't know," she answered evasively. "I guess only Sheriff Wilcox would know."

"Maybe it was an alien burglar!" Ernie exclaimed, off and running on his favorite subject. "Maybe they're trying to catch it so they can experiment on it!" As he spoke, he crept silently behind an unsuspecting Rachel and clamped his hands over her eyes.

"AAARGH! Ernie!" Rachel shouted, twisting away from him. "I swear if you do that one more time, I'll.....I'll......."

"You'll what?" Ernie challenged, supremely confident that the answer was 'nothing'.

"I wouldn't worry about what Rachel would do," Dee said sweetly. "But you should be worrying about what I would do."

"You wouldn't dare hit me again!" Ernie announced, backing up as he spoke.

"That's what you said the last time she hit you," Mary Laura said dryly.

"Dee won't have to hit you!" Rachel said crossly. "I'll do it myself!"

"Oh, sure," Ernie scoffed. "You're a weenie, Cavuto. You'd never have the guts to hit me."

Dee was about to enter the fray when someone grabbed her arm and propelled her backwards; a moment later, she found herself in the kitchen facing a very worried Anthony. Adult voices floated through the side door; they'd had so many visitors descend so quickly that her parents were talking to everyone outdoors, it being about fifty-six degrees and sunny. "I wasn't going to hit him," Dee assured Anthony, assuming that was why he'd pulled her away. "Yet, anyway."

"I don't care about Ernie," Anthony said, his voice low and urgent. "Are you all right? I had no idea all this was going to happen!"

"We're fine," Dee assured him. "Well, I'm fine. And Daddy's fine. Mama, I'm not so sure about.

"Why?" Anthony asked in alarm. "What happened to your mother?"

"Nothing 'happened' to her," Dee said. "She and Daddy are barely speaking to each other because Mama didn't know Daddy had a gun in the house until last night, and she doesn't like guns because my Uncle James killed himself with a gun. And she's all worried that Deputy Valenti is going to tell on us. Every time the phone or the doorbell rings, she jumps a mile."

At the mention of Valenti's name, Anthony's face went white. "So that's why the Army was here! He called them, didn't he?"

"I don't think so," Dee answered. "Valenti and that nasty officer had a fight. He wanted Valenti to let him into Mac's house even though Mac wasn't home, and Valenti wouldn't do it. That officer wanted him to break the law, and I know how Valenti feels about that from all the times I talked to him. I don't think he'll tell."

"But then how did the Army know?"

"I don't know," Dee said, "but it doesn't matter now—we're all okay. We were always okay. We were all up in the attic, even Daddy, because......"—she hesitated, finally deciding it was safe to continue—"because we were told we'd be safe up there while...other things were going on."

"Then why did your father come downstairs?"

"Because he heard the gunshots," Dee explained. "That's when he came down and got his own gun. Mama was all upset, and she was going to follow him, but I stopped her....until we heard a gun go off again after he'd left, and then she just bolted down the ladder. But it's all right," she added hastily, as Anthony's eyes widened in shock. "We're all right. I promise."

"What are you two doing out here?" asked a suspicious voice behind them. It was Mary Laura, arms crossed across her starched Sunday dress.

"I needed to use the bathroom," Anthony announced, heading out of the kitchen just as Dee was about to tell Mary Laura to mind her own business.

"You'd better get back in there," Mary Laura said to Dee. "I do believe Rachel is on the verge of actually popping Ernie."

"Good," Dee muttered, pushing past her as she headed back toward the latest war in her dining room.

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

"Anything yet?" Pierce asked.

Corporal Brisson looked up from his microscope and sighed as Dr. Pierce entered the main lab. "Yes....and no."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, Lieutenant White and I have had some success at making the blood test easier and faster," Brisson explained. "We've perfected it to the point where all you need is a sample from a finger stick instead of a venous draw."

"That's encouraging," Pierce replied, taking a seat across from Brisson, "and I sense a 'but' coming."

"But," Brisson continued, "reading that sample is still a problem. We could do a blood smear, but that takes practice and training to learn how to spread the sample to just the right thickness. That's always tricky, and now it's harder than ever because the sample's so small."

"Or?"

"Or we could dilute, like we do for a white count. That requires use of a pipette, which also takes training and practice, but it does make the sample much easier to read. The good news is that once we come up with a readable sample, virtually anyone can see the difference between human and alien blood cells. It's the process of obtaining that readable sample that's still stumping us."

Pierce shook his head. "Good work, Corporal, but I'm afraid this won't do. Both methods still require equipment and specialized training. And even though a finger stick is much better than a venous draw, I can't imagine getting stuck every single time I go upstairs or downstairs."

"No, sir," Brisson said glumly.

"What about x-rays? Any luck there?"

"X-rays show more promise," Brisson answered. "Obviously we can't wait for them to develop, but we could install fluoroscopes at key points in the compound and have people step behind them. Unfortunately, the guards need to know what they're looking at. We could have a human x-ray handy for reference, but the procedure would still take several minutes, and the equipment is bulky and fragile."

"Closer," Pierce murmured, "but not close enough."

"What if we approach one of the companies that makes x-ray equipment and ask them to make us something special?" Brisson suggested. "Something smaller, in a sturdier housing perhaps?"

"That would be possible if we had more time," Pierce replied, "but we don't. General Ramey was very clear on this point—whatever we come up with has to be in place and useable by 5 p.m. today. Even if I could get a company interested, you know how long Army paperwork takes. We'd be lucky to have it by next year."

Brisson was quiet for a moment, staring despondently at the myriad blood samples on the counter in front of him. "We're not going to make it, are we sir?"

"Don't despair, Corporal," Pierce said soothingly. "I've been on the phone for the past couple of hours calling in every favor I can."

"Did you get the death sentence repealed?" Brisson asked.

"No," Pierce allowed. "I don't have that kind of clout, more's the pity. But I made certain our work will go on, even if the prisoner doesn't."

Brisson blinked in confusion. "But....don't you want the prisoner alive, sir?"

"Of course I do," Pierce replied, "but in times of crisis, one puts first things first. I'd love to see the prisoner live, but I have to be practical. There have always been those who felt it was too dangerous to keep, serum or no serum, and I completely agree with those who feel it's too dangerous to lose. And even if this hadn't come up, other things might have. There have always been plenty of reasons why it may need to be put down. Now," he added, glancing around the lab as Brisson stared at him in shock. "Where is Lieutenant White?"

"She....she went to visit the prisoner, sir," Brisson said. "She's very upset."

"Understandably. Is it still unconscious?"

"Yes, sir."

"How's Major Lewis' new room working out?"

"It's okay....I suppose," Brisson said doubtfully.

"Something wrong?"

"No. No, it's just so....white. I feel like I'm inside a refrigerator when I'm in there. No door, no windows, nothing but white walls....it gives me the creeps," Brisson admitted.

"Cheer up, Corporal. If things continue as they are, we won't be needing that room anyway, except for the autopsy. Poor Bernard," Pierce added, chuckling. "Major Lewis has tried every way he can think of to insert himself into this operation, and he's relegated to building manager for a room that probably won't be used. No doubt he's out there now, having a heart attack because Ramey's locked the place down and he can't get in. He won't even be allowed at the autopsy—that was one of the favors I called in. I don't want him to see what we're harvesting. Did you start the new cell samples, by the way?"

"Yes, sir," Brisson answered, perplexed, "but should I be spending my time doing that when the prisoner's life hangs in the balance? I had to move Lieutenant White to another lab so she wouldn't see, and it's all pointless anyway if the prisoner dies, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't," Pierce answered, smiling broadly. "I told you I was calling in favors, and I only wasted one making sure Lewis won't get what he wants. The rest I used to insure our little endeavor will continue, prisoner or no prisoner."

"But I don't see how we can do that, sir," Brisson protested. "I mean, I know we have plenty of the alien's cells on ice, and we could get more from an autopsy...but what about Lieutenant White? Won't everyone be reassigned if the prisoner dies and the operation is discontinued?"

"Everyone but Lieutenant White will be reassigned," Pierce said with satisfaction. "I had to pull some mighty heavy strings for that one, I can tell you, but I managed it in the end. Lieutenant White will remain assigned and accessible to me. Granted, she'd be very upset at first, and that could throw things off for a month or so. But eventually she'd calm down, things would return to normal, and we'd be able to continue. Thank goodness."

"So you're planning to go ahead with the first trial tomorrow in spite of everything that's happening?" Brisson asked in amazement.

"Absolutely," Pierce said firmly. "That's more important now than ever. Once we've actually started, it'll be all the harder to shut us down."

"But...what if we wind up losing Lieutenant White anyway?" Brisson asked. "Wouldn't it be safer to wait and see if you really manage to hang on to her? If you do need to choose another subject, that could take months, and—"

"I've thought about that," Pierce broke in. "I pride myself on planning for every eventuality. I've already put out feelers with prisons and mental hospitals, both of which are controlled situations with captive audiences. And both of which would be easier, in the long run, and yield more subjects, but....well, we've spent months collecting data. It would be a real shame to have so much of it go to waste by having to choose a new subject. And Lieutenant White represents such a sterling specimen, especially when compared to convicted felons or mental patients, don't you think?"

"Of course, sir," Brisson said faintly.

"Well," Pierce said briskly, rising from his chair, "back to work. I just wanted to see how things were going and to let you know that your position is secure no matter what happens. What's wrong?" he added, when Brisson didn't jump for joy at this news. "Is something bothering you?"

"I was just wondering," Brisson said slowly, staring at his hands, "if....well, if I was expected to....you know.....if it comes to that....if 5 o'clock rolls around and......" He stopped, looking supremely uncomfortable.

"Don't worry, Corporal," Pierce said kindly. "I'll take care of it—humanely, of course. I'll use a lethal injection; it'll probably still be unconscious at that point, and if it isn't, it'll just think it's another dose of serum. It'll never feel a thing."

"No, sir," Brisson whispered as the door closed behind Pierce. "And neither will you."

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

Proctor residence

Anthony bolted up the Proctor's staircase two steps at a time, Dee's and Mary Laura's voices fading away behind him. Careening into the bathroom, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his heart pounding in his chest. This is all my fault, he thought, feeling downright panicky. Almost every single thing that had gone wrong was his fault. He should never, ever have called Deputy Valenti.

Things certainly hadn't looked that way last night when all that noise had been coming from Dee's house after she'd warned him away. Anthony had been so happy to see Valenti arrive, had waited impatiently for him to go inside, and was thrilled when the men from the neighborhood headed over after the gunshots. Whatever was going on at Dee's house, at least she wasn't alone and defenseless. Then more Sheriff's deputies had arrived, responding to everyone's phone calls, and Anthony had cheered again. Whatever alien war had descended on the Proctor's house wouldn't last when challenged by that many determined humans, including his own father.

But then events had taken a turn for the worse. The Army had arrived, sending a neighborhood on the edge over the edge. The Evans' phone had rung off the hook as one neighbor called another, speculating on the reason for the Army's presence. Anthony's mother had been so agitated that she'd shipped him off to bed, ignoring his strenuous protests; he'd stayed there for exactly three interminable minutes before slipping outside again, binoculars in hand, to continue monitoring the situation at Dee's house.

Time had passed. Sheriff Wilcox arrived and disappeared inside the house with his deputies and the Army officer, leaving awhile later looking furious. The officer left shortly after that, and only then did the neighbors disperse. Anthony's father had headed back for the house, meaning Anthony had had to scramble back inside and content himself with trying to overhear his parents' conversation. Apparently Mr. Proctor has insisted on waiting for Sheriff Wilcox's arrival before he'd let the Army officer into his house, but once inside, no one had found anything unusual. "We stayed until that officer left," his father had told his mother. "We don't trust him. He's the one who locked up Mac Brazel for a week with no charges or anything." Anthony had listened to every word, noting that even though his family was new here, his parents sounded every bit as personally insulted as those who'd lived here for years.

Anthony had crawled back into bed when his parents finally retired, spending a sleepless night turning everything over in his mind, trying to convince himself he'd done the right thing by calling Valenti, without success. By daybreak, he was in such a state that he'd wanted to run right over to Dee's, but he'd had to wait, of course. I should never have called him! Anthony thought fiercely, plopping down on the toilet lid, his head in his hands. Someone else had been looking out for the Proctors; they'd been safely stashed away in the attic until Mr. Proctor had heard the gunshots. It was those gunshots which had sent Dee's father from the safety of the attic....and those gunshots had come from Valenti. Dee's mother was upset with her father about a gun she didn't know he'd had, a gun he'd pulled out because he'd heard gunshots from Valenti. And if Valenti had seen something in this house last night that the Army would be interested in.....oh, if only he hadn't called Valenti, most of what went wrong last night would never have happened.

Silent and miserable, Anthony sat on the toilet lid for a good while longer before reaching a decision. He stood up, swiping irritably at his eyes as he checked the mirror over the sink to make certain no one would be able to tell he'd been crying.

"You made this mess, Evans," he said severely to his own reflection, "so you'll have to clean it up."

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

I'll post Chapter 77 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Mar 26, 2006 3:24 pm

Cinthia: I'm so glad you're still enjoying it! I think you're probably one of a very few people (if not the only one) who loves Jaddo, so you can have him all to yourself.

He's a tough cookie to love.

And your English is excellent, BTW. I have no trouble at all understanding you.

Misha: Anthony could certainly use those hugs right now! Unfortunately, he's learning one of life's nastier truths: No matter how hard we try to help sometimes, or how sincerely we mean it, it just doesn't always work.

As for Ramey, I recall back at the beginning of the book when Pierce and Cavitt first agreed to work together on....well....whatever they agreed to work together on, Pierce said he hadn't told Ramey the whole story and asked Cavitt to help him keep the secret. Look's like it was Brisson he should have been worried about instead.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

December 14, 1947, 11 a.m.

Chaves County Sheriff's Station

"I don't want to talk to Major Cavitt, or his secretary, or his wife, his dog, or his gardener!" Valenti said into the phone in exasperation. "Isn't there someone else I can talk to?" A few feet away, Alan McMahon raised his eyebrows as he polished off his third doughnut of the morning.

"No, sir," came the equally exasperated voice at the other end of the line. "A complaint of this nature can only be directed to Major Cavitt's office. I'll connect you."

"No! I said I didn't—"

The line clicked, and that same inexplicably cheerful voice piped in Valenti's ear. "Major Sheridan Cavitt's office."

"Sorry. Wrong number," Valenti muttered, plopping the phone down in its cradle with a weary sigh. How someone like Cavitt wound up with such a perpetually good-natured secretary was beyond him.

"Problem?" McMahon asked through a mouthful of yet another doughnut.

"You could say that," Valenti said, reaching for his empty coffee cup. "Back in a minute." He passed the Sheriff's office on the way to the coffee pot and deliberately avoided glancing in the door as he walked by. His report wasn't done yet, and he didn't need an inquiring look from Wilcox to drive that point home.

After dithering for an hour following Wilcox's sermon, Valenti had reluctantly admitted the Sheriff had made at least one point he could swallow: All law enforcement personnel had a responsibility to safeguard the information they collected in pursuit of public safety. Since it was easy to make a very good case for Major Cavitt not being the "right person" to pass such information along to, Valenti had spent the past several hours calling the Army base under various aliases with various bogus alien sightings or whatnot, trying to find someone else he could inform. Chaves County received dozens of such complaints a week, so it hadn't been difficult coming up with suitable tales, and he'd been careful to place his fictitious complaints all around the county so as not to pinpoint any one location. Unfortunately, Major Cavitt seemed to be "the man" when it came to complaints of an alien nature. All of his efforts to find someone, anyone else to turn over his report to had ended in failure. It was Cavitt or no one.

"Have a doughnut," McMahon offered when Valenti resumed his seat, more confused than ever about what to do. "You look like you need one."

Valenti almost shook his head as the box of doughnuts was waved under his nose. McMahon was always eating, conversations with him inevitably laced with chewing sounds. But as Valenti hadn't had anything but coffee since dinner last night, doughnuts were looking mighty good right now; he pulled one out of the box, nodding his thanks.

"Did I hear you say 'Cavitt'?" McMahon asked, finishing off the doughnut he'd been working on when Valenti had gone for coffee.

"Yeah," Valenti said glumly.

"He giving you trouble?"

"Sort of."

McMahon shook his head as he licked his fingers. "Guy's a right royal bastard, if you ask me. I wonder what he was doing at the Proctor's house last night? Wilcox seems to know, but he's not telling. Do you know?"

"Nope."

"Well, I'd watch him, if I were you. He's the one who locked up Mac Brazel for a week."

"The Sheriff said something about that," Valenti replied, frowning. "I'd always assumed that had something to do with Brazel mouthing off on the radio, or.....wait a minute. Did you say a week?"

"Yep. Woulda been longer if Wilcox hadn't shoehorned him out of there."

"He locked Brazel up for a week?" Valenti repeated. "On what grounds?"

McMahon shot him a pitying look. "This is Cavitt we're talking about, Jim. You met him last night. Cavitt doesn't need 'grounds'."

"Do you mean to tell me," Valenti said slowly, "that he basically kidnapped Mr. Brazel with no formal charges, no due process, no anything?"

"Nothing," McMahon confirmed. "Took us most of a day to even find out where Brazel was. He just disappeared. His wife was going nuts. Guess the guy didn't get a phone call either."

"So how did Wilcox get him out?"

"Wilcox is no slouch when it comes to leaning on people," McMahon noted. "I don't know what he did, but if I were him, I would have threatened to go public. The Army already had a black eye about their famous 'weather balloon', and holding Brazel made everyone think twice about that story. Why hold a man over a weather balloon? Keeping Brazel was giving the lie to their own story."

Jesus, Valenti thought, leaning back in his chair, his doughnut forgotten. Is this what was going to happen to the Proctors if Cavitt got wind of what had really happened last night? Were they going to just disappear too? For that matter, what would happen to the Brazels? They didn't appear to have had anything to do with last night's events, but Cavitt had still tried anything he could think of to get into their house.

"Valenti!" someone called from across the room. "Phone's for you. Says it's urgent."

Still stunned, Valenti picked up the phone on his desk. "Hello?"

"Are you going to tell on Dee?" an angry voice demanded on the other end of the line.

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

Private Thompson stepped gratefully outside the main doors to the compound, and blinked in confusion. Instead of the expected sun and desert breezes, everything was dark and noisy. The long, narrow hallway General Ramey had ordered constructed as an antechamber to the compound was nearly half completed, despite construction having begun only a few hours ago. He walked to the end of the partially completed passageway before finding the sunshine he was looking for, plus one very interested Sergeant.

"You from inside?" the Sergeant asked, pausing with a sheaf of rolled-up papers in his hand, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. All around him, about three dozen men from the main base measured, sawed, and hammered, casting curious glances in his direction.

"Yes, sir," Thompson answered. "General Ramey would like an update."

"You're the first one we've seen from inside," the Sergeant observed. "Only seen the General's aides so far. What's going on in there? First we don't see you guys for months, then all of a sudden we do, then just as suddenly you disappear and we're building you a sunroom."

Thompson smiled as the men nearby chuckled; the entryway they were building was about as far from a sunroom as one could get. "The General just wants a more secure place to screen people before they go inside," he explained. "That's all."

"You lot got a security problem?"

"Something like that," Thompson said. "I'm expected back in ten minutes," he added, "so I'd appreciate that report."

"Right. Back in a few." The Sergeant disappeared into the dusty, sweaty crowd, and Thompson turned his attention to the outside of the structure, which looked like it had been thrown up every bit as fast as it had been. He hadn't mentioned to the Sergeant that every time someone stepped outside the compound they had to have their species checked when they returned, which is why he was here now instead of one of Ramey's aides; they were starting to balk at all the blood tests. Thompson wasn't exactly looking forward to being poked again, but he was enjoying the fresh air. After having been locked down for months and finally sprung, he wasn't enjoying being cooped up inside.

Not that he'd be cooped up long this time. No one was supposed to know about the 5 p.m. deadline for inventing some kind of alien identification, or the end result if they failed, so of course everyone in the compound knew. The word was that Pierce and company weren't having much luck coming up with an easy way to identify aliens, which meant that all this toil might well be useless. If someone didn't make some headway soon, there'd be nothing—or rather, no one—left to guard. "Sure hope this isn't for nothing," he muttered under his breath as he stared at the northern outside wall of the entryway.

"You and me both."

Thompson swung his head toward one of the soldiers with his back to him, hammering a support into place. Then the soldier turned around....and Thompson did a double take.

Private Johnson.

Jesus! Thompson thought wildly, looking around in panic. This was his fourth alien visitation in less than twenty-four hours, and he'd had enough of this, thank you very much. Is this what life was like for Lieutenant Spade, with aliens popping in every few hours? Soldiers wandered by, ignoring "Johnson" and casting odd looks in Thompson's direction, probably wondering why he looked so frantic, every one of them ignorant of the irony that an alien was helping them build an entryway to stave off aliens. And why shouldn't they be ignorant? Johnson looked just like them, stripped to the waist in the December desert sun, sweating like a pig and working just as hard.

"Water truck's coming," "Johnson" observed, pointing to the truck rolling up a ways away. All around them, soldiers set down their tools and headed gratefully in its direction, leaving Thompson in a position in which he'd never wanted to find himself again—alone with an alien.

"What are you doing here?" Thompson hissed.

"Helping," the alien replied briefly, reaching for another board.

"Won't you get in trouble for this?"

"Most of my people are still unconscious," the alien noted, hammering the board into place. "I was sent to do reconnaissance because I know this place, and I decided to lend a hand. No offence, but I can work longer and faster than the rest of these men."

"But....why?" Thompson asked.

"I believe I made that clear last night," the alien answered over hammering sounds. "I don't wish my people to recapture your prisoner, and you don't have much time left to thwart that."

"I thought you also said you wanted him free."

"I do."

"Then why'd you shoot him?" Thompson demanded, irritation trumping apprehension. "He might have been able to escape last night in all the hullabaloo."

"Yes, he might have," the alien agreed. "And if he had, the best that would have happened is that several more of my people would have been captured by yours, or your prisoner would have killed us all single-handedly." He shook his head regretfully. "Bringing all sides to the table will be difficult. The situation on my world is...complicated."

"You mean there's some place where it isn't complicated?" Thompson said. "Look at my world. We just had a huge war started by a lunatic who was frying people in gas ovens."

"I know," the alien answered. "Your war is over. Mine has only just begun." He looked up at the half-completed entryway. "This should do nicely. It's narrow enough to be defensible, and long enough to make it difficult to get to the door. Make sure it's well manned. The only way you'll succeed is with sheer numbers."

"At the rate we're going, there won't be any reason to 'succeed'," Thompson said soberly.

"What do you mean?"

"General Ramey says Dr. Pierce has to find a quick way to identify your people before 5 o'clock tonight. So far, no one's come up with anything. And if they don't, they're going to....." Thompson hesitated, wondering what stroke of ill luck had made him the bearer of such bad news.

"They're going to what?" the alien asked suspiciously.

"Kill him," Thompson sighed. "They're going to kill the prisoner if we can't come up with something."

" 'Kill him'?" the alien repeated, stunned. "He's the only alien specimen they have. Why would they kill him?"

"Because they think he's too dangerous to keep and too dangerous to lose," Thompson explained. "They're afraid that if he escapes, he'll give away what he's learned about us. They don't realize you people are fighting with each other, not us, and I'm not sure that would make any difference."

"This is not good," the alien announced rather unnecessarily, his finger tapping against his leg as he spoke. "There are only two Warders left; reducing their number to one is a very bad idea. What exactly do your people need?"

"I told you—a fast way to identify your people."

"But you have that," the alien protested. "We can change our exterior appearance, but our bone and organ structure remain essentially the same regardless of the shape we wear. I know this world has technology for seeing inside the body."

"Yeah, we've got x-rays, which take too long, and blood tests, which also take too long, plus they turn us all into pin cushions," Thompson noted, flexing his sore right arm and making a mental note to make them take the next blood sample from the left. "All of it's too complicated, or takes too long, or needs someone trained in medicine to do it, or read it, or both. The General wants something quick that anyone can do so we can check people inside and outside the compound."

"Admirable," the alien said, "but difficult given your current level of technology."

"Which is why I think this is probably going to be useless," Thompson answered, nodding toward the uncompleted entryway. "Your 'Warder' doesn't have much time left."

The alien dropped the hammer he'd been holding. "I can't let this happen. How long did you say we have?"

"Until 5 p.m.," Thompson answered warily, not exactly sure how he felt about being "we" with someone from another planet. "About five and half hours."

"That's not long enough," the alien muttered, pacing back and forth in front of Thompson. "My people won't be ready for another incursion that early, so we won't be able to rescue him in time."

"I thought you said you didn't want them to recapture the prisoner?"

"I don't," the alien said, "but recaptured is far better than dead. Tell Lieutenant Spade that he must find some way to delay the execution until my people can get back in there and get your prisoner out."

"Oh, so now you don't want us to stop you?" Thompson said impatiently. "Honestly, I think I can see why Spade has had it with you. You change your tune every time I see you, and I haven't even seen you that much. I'll tell you the same thing I told him—if everyone's on their own 'side', nothing's ever going to get accomplished. That goes for your people and mine."

"Here you go!" came the Sergeant's voice behind them. Thompson fell silent as the Sergeant held out a folder, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. Behind him the workers were on their way back, many of them carrying cups of water. Break time was over.

"Thank you, sir," Thompson said, accepting the report. He nodded to the alien, who was now staring off into space, ignoring all of them, and headed back inside the entryway.

"Shoe stores."

Thompson stopped and turned around, as did the Sergeant and most of the workers, who'd just picked up their tools to resume work.

"Shoe stores," the alien repeated, staring at Thompson intently. "Tell them 'shoe stores'."

"Shoe stores?" Thompson repeated blankly.

"They'll find what they need at shoe stores," the alien repeated, before picking up the hammer and heading back to the spot where he'd been working earlier.

"Right," Thompson said slowly. "Thanks. Good luck to the rest of you," he added awkwardly to the staring soldiers as he disappeared back inside with his first ever alien message to deliver. Too bad it was gibberish that wasn't going to help.

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

Chaves County Sheriff's Station

"Are you going to tell on Dee?" the angry voice demanded again when Valenti didn't answer. It was a young voice, male, and practically quivering with righteous indignation.

"What—who—is that you, Mr. Evans?" Valenti asked in astonishment, remembering to drop his voice just in time as McMahon watched with interest.

"This is Anthony Evans," the voice announced impatiently, as though the speaker didn't have time for the usual niceties of telephone etiquette. "Are you going to tell on Dee?"

"Tell on her to whom?" Valenti asked, cupping his hand around the receiver as McMahon continued staring.

"The Army!" Evans clarified. "You called them, didn't you? I called you to keep her safe, and then you went and called the Army, didn't you?"

"No!" Valenti protested, switching the phone to his other ear and turning his chair away from McMahon. "No, I didn't. I don't know how that happened, but it wasn't me."

"So are you going to tell now?"

"This isn't about 'telling'," Valenti said in exasperation. "This is about making an accurate report, something I am bound to do by law—"

"Then why isn't that Army officer supposed to obey the law too?" Evans interrupted. "Why did he want you to let him into Mr. Brazel's house when you weren't supposed to?"

"How do you know about that?" Valenti demanded.

"Dee heard you. She heard everything."

Of course she did, Valenti thought wearily. Of all the people available to overhear that particular conversation, young Miss Proctor was the worst. "If she heard everything, then she knows I didn't do it," Valenti said firmly.

"But the officer wanted you to," Evans persisted. "Shouldn't he get in trouble? Are you going to put that in your report?"

I should, Valenti admitted silently, but it wouldn't do any good. He had no proof that Cavitt had tried to strong-arm him—it was Cavitt's word against his, and Valenti was pretty sure who would win that contest. "Look, Mr. Evans, I know you're upset, and I can understand that. But you really should leave this to the grown-ups."

"I never should have called you!" Evans said fiercely. "None of this would have happened if I hadn't called you!"

"Whatever happened to the Proctors last night started without me," Valenti pointed out. "You might very well have saved their bacon by calling me."

"No, don't you get it?" Evans insisted. "They were all in the attic! All of them! They were sent there so they'd be safe, and then Mr. Proctor heard your gun go off, and that's when he came downstairs. And now Mrs. Proctor is mad at Mr. Proctor because she didn't know he had a gun, and....."

Evans babbled on about the Proctors' argument, but Valenti wasn't listening. He was recalling something the Sheriff had said earlier, something he'd found a bit odd:

"The Proctors were in their attic because they had reason to believe that was the safest place for them to be. And they would have stayed there had you not showed up and started shooting."

He lied, Valenti thought, putting it all together. Valenti hadn't questioned the accuracy of that particular part of David Proctor's rendition of events. He'd claimed to have placed his wife and daughter in the attic for protection while he pursued the intruders, but now it seemed David himself had been in the attic, rousted only by the sound of Valenti's gun. The Proctors hadn't been caught off guard—they'd known trouble was coming and the nature of that trouble, which explained David's plea not to shoot, his cryptic comment, "They'd love it if you did their dirty work for them', and the fact that he knew how many assailants there were. Whatever the Proctors had been protecting had protected them in turn, advising them to hide. And he'd gone blundering right into the middle of it, pulling one of them out of the attic and into harm's way.

".....and now she says they're barely speaking to each other, and it's all my fault!" came the ending wail over the phone.

"No, it isn't your fault," Valenti answered. Having seen Emily Proctor angry last night over this very subject, he could just imagine what she was like now that she'd had time to think it over. "Believe me, Mr. Evans, she would have found out anyway. Maybe not last night, but someday. And you did what you did because you were concerned. You acted in good faith....and so did I. Neither one of us knew what was going on there. We were both just trying to help."

"And what about now?" Evans demanded. "Are you trying to help now?"

"Mr. Evans, I know you're upset. But I can't break the law—"

"Then what about what happens to Dee? What about all that stuff you told her about the 'spirit of the law', and not using the letter of the law to break the spirit of the law? Did you mean any of that?"

"I'm not prepared to argue state law with you," Valenti said sharply, irritated because the kid had a point. "This is out of your hands. Leave it to the professionals."

"I can't let you do that," Evans announced. "I'm coming up there."

"No!" Valenti exclaimed. "I won't be here—I'm leaving shortly. And don't call me again. If you—"

*Click*

"Damn it!" Valenti muttered under his breath, setting the phone down hard as he swung his chair around to find himself face to face with a wide-eyed McMahon.

"Shit, Valenti, what was all that about?"

"Eat your doughnut," Valenti said peevishly, gesturing toward the last one in the box.

"Not hungry," McMahon answered. "You okay?"

"I’m fine," Valenti snapped, wondering why today, of all days, was the day when McMahon finally decided he was full.

"Valenti!" someone bellowed. "Phone again!"

"Damn it!" Valenti exclaimed again, grabbing the telephone. "I thought I told you not to call me!" he thundered into the receiver.

"Really? I don't recall having that conversation."

Cavitt. Valenti sat stock still in his chair, suddenly finding it difficult to breath. "Oh. I....I thought you were someone else," he said as McMahon sat there, watching him avidly.

"I haven't received your report yet, Deputy. Is it finished?"

"Not quite," Valenti replied. Not even started, he added silently.

"Well, do be quick about it. My commanding officer is here today, and I'll need his approval."

"Approval for what?"

"To do what must be done to do my job," Cavitt announced.

"What does that mean?" Valenti asked.

"That's not your concern."

"Since when?" Valenti demanded. "If it concerns the citizens in this county, then it concerns me. For someone who claims he wants to 'work with me', you're awfully stingy with answers."

"I apologize, but I'm afraid that can't be helped. This is a matter of national security, and I would like to think I can count on your support. All I'm asking is that you tell the truth. Is that so much to ask?"

Valenti hesitated, torn all over again just like he had been all morning. No, he decided silently. Expecting the truth wasn't too much to ask, and never should be. "I'll have it done within the hour," he answered.

"Good. I look forward to reading it." The line went dead.

Valenti sat holding the silent receiver for several seconds before realizing that McMahon was still staring at him. "You know, Jim, if I were you, I wouldn't get the phone any more today," McMahon said thoughtfully. He held out the nearly empty box. "Doughnut?"

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

" 'Shoe stores'?" Lieutenant Spade repeated blankly. "That's it?"

"Yes, sir," Thompson answered. "Just that. 'Shoe stores'."

"Oh, that's helpful," Spade said sarcastically. "Yvonne, has Pierce come up with anything at all?"

"Not yet," Lieutenant White sighed. "We're still stuck with blood tests and x-rays, neither of which Ramey finds acceptable. Think for a moment, Brian," she continued. "Did the alien say anything else—anything at all—that might shed some light on what he meant?"

Thompson duly thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No, ma'am. That's all he said."

"Perfect!" Spade said angrily, pacing back and forth. "Last night it was 'I want balance', and today it's riddles. This guy is so full of it, the whites of his eyes are turning brown!"

"I think he just didn't want to say anything that would give himself away with everyone listening," Thompson said hastily, glancing at Lieutenant White as he blushed slightly at Spade's off color remark. "Remember, we weren't alone then. Everyone had just come back from their water break, and—"

"I don't care who was listening!" Spade interrupted angrily. "If he's serious about keeping John alive, why didn't he just tell you what he meant? What, is this some kind of intelligence test to see if we're smart enough to figure it out before John's dead?"

"I didn't get that impression, sir," Thompson protested. "He seemed really surprised that the prisoner might be killed, and really upset about it. I think—"

"Of course he's upset," Spade interrupted again. "The game won't be as much fun with one more piece off the board."

"Stephen, stop it!" Lieutenant White said impatiently. "Let Brian talk! He's the one who was out there, not you."

"You've never met this one, Yvonne," Spade said. "This one's slippery. First he's trying to help one side, then the other side, then he tells me he's on his own side—"

"Just like you said last night," Lieutenant White reminded him. "Why is it okay for you to be on your own side?"

Sitting awkwardly in Lieutenant White's desk chair, Thompson looked back and forth from one irritated officer to the other, watching the drama swirl around him. Brian? Stephen? Yvonne? He'd known Spade's first name, but until thirty seconds ago, he'd had no idea what Lieutenant White's first name was, nor had he ever been addressed by his own first name with the exception of last night, when Lieutenant Spade had asked him to guard the lab. Belonging to the "alien club" apparently conferred a certain familiarity, judging from the first names flying around. He'd been whisked down to Lieutenant White's private and decidedly feminine quarters mere minutes after telling Spade that he'd met their alien informant outside, and the mood had changed as soon as her door had closed: Out with rank and military formality, and in with the first names and arguments.

"I can be on my own side because we're the ones under attack," Spade was saying. "Besides, this war on their planet has nothing to do with us. We shouldn't be expected to take sides in a conflict we don't know anything about."

"Well, we'll have to," Lieutenant White said firmly, "because like I said last night, we're involved whether we want to be or not. I don't really care what this alien says or doesn't say. John didn't want them to take him, and that's good enough for me."

John. It was odd hearing the prisoner referred to by a name so often. Lieutenant White was the only one who routinely referred to him as "John", everyone else calling him "the alien", or "the prisoner", or just plain "it". And Thompson was willing to bet no one else knew what Lieutenant White sounded like in private. He'd seen her go to the mat with Private Walker and Major Lewis, but those were exceptions; usually she was quiet, almost reticent, not at all the outspoken and opinionated person she seemed to be behind closed doors. What else didn't he know about what went on around here?

"Are you.....are we sure it's all right to be talking about this out loud?" Thompson asked nervously. "I mean....I know there's no place that's really 'safe', but......"

"This is where we have these discussions," Lieutenant White answered, glancing around her room. "I don't have a command like Stephen does, so there's less likelihood of anyone interrupting us."

"How often do you see aliens, anyway?" Thompson asked. "Have you seen this one before?"

"Last night was the first time I've seen this alien since last summer, on the night John was captured," Spade answered. "But there have been other incidents....like the dog."

" 'Incidents'?" Thompson repeated, his stomach going queasy all over again at the memory of petting that dog. " 'Incidents' plural? What else has been going on besides the dog?"

The Lieutenants exchanged glances. "You've had a lot happen to you recently, Brian," Lieutenant White said gently. "We don't want to overwhelm you. And we're under pressure here because we've got a life or death deadline looming. Let's stick to the immediate problem before we waste time going into other things, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Thompson answered, "but I don't think I can offer much more. That's all the alien said. I have no idea what it means. I haven't been to a shoe store in a month of Sundays."

"What about you, Yvonne?" Spade asked. "You're one of the few people who was actually off the base recently. Did you happen to go in any shoe stores when you were in Roswell?"

" 'In'? No. We went past several because we walked up and down Main Street, but......" Lieutenant White stopped suddenly, staring into space. "That's it," she said slowly.

"What's it?" Spade asked.

"That's it!" she repeated in disbelief. "I didn't actually use it because we didn't go inside, but I saw it through the window as we walked past and.....oh, how could I have been so stupid!" she exclaimed, leaping off the bed as Thompson leaned back in alarm. "Here all this time we've been looking in the medical world, but all of that's much too complicated, and—"

"Yvonne," Spade interrupted, "what on earth are you talking about?"

"I've got it!" she beamed, as both Spade and Thompson looked blank. "I've got the answer!"

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

Proctor residence

The phone rang, and Emily jumped a foot, her heart rate doubling in two seconds flat. She glanced at the clock—it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon, more than enough time for Valenti to have done his dirty work. She stood at the kitchen sink with her hands in the soapy dish water, listening to the phone ring, paralyzed by fear.

The side door closed, and Mac Brazel appeared with an armful of drinking glasses, glancing sympathetically from Emily to the phone. "I'll get that," he said, setting the glasses down by the sink. A moment later, when Emily heard him addressing a mutual friend, she sagged against the sink with relief. I can't keep doing this, she thought wearily. She'd panicked every single time the phone rang today, and it had rung a lot as news of the "burglary" last night spread through town. Part of the reason she'd steered their neighbors outside after the obligatory tour of the house was so she wouldn't have to answer the phone.

"That was just Eleanor down at the post office," Mac said behind her after he'd rung off, "wanting to know the details."

"Of course," Emily answered, putting the glasses Mac had fetched into the sink. With all the neighbors and refreshments, one might think they were having a party instead of an alien attack. "I imagine it's all over town now. Is everyone gone?"

"The last of them just left, including the Huttons. Did Rachel Cavuoto really almost pop Ernie Hutton?"

"Yup," Emily answered, grateful that, for once, it wasn't her own daughter popping Ernie. "Ernie's one of those who doesn't know when to quit."

"There's one in every bunch," Mac observed. "At least one." A chair scraped, then squeaked as Mac sat down. "I'm really sorry Rose and I weren't here last night."

"I'm really glad you weren't," Emily answered. "The Army came for you, and the fact that you weren't here was the only thing that shut them down."

"I would have loved to have been here to shut them down myself," Mac said darkly.

"You wouldn't have been able to," Emily said. "Your mere presence would have labeled you guilty even though you would have had no idea what was going on." She rinsed a glass and set it in the drainer. "But that's not why you're here, is it?"

"I was helping Dave pick up," Mac said. "That's why I brought the glasses—"

"And you're not here to help me pick up either," Emily interrupted, eager to get this conversation over with. "You're here to plead his case, aren't you?"

Mac gave a deep sigh. "I know you're upset Dave didn't tell you about the gun...and I don't blame you for that. He should have told you. But as far as him owning a gun...hell, Emily, there isn't a vet out there who doesn't own a gun. I own several."

"I believe I've heard this argument before," Emily said dryly. "It's called the, 'But, Mom! Everyone else is doing it!' argument, and I've never heard a grown man use it."

"He already explained to you why he first bought the gun," Mac continued, ignoring her sarcasm, "and—"

"And need I remind you what his brother did with his gun?" Emily demanded, setting a just-washed glass down with a clink.

"I know what James did," Mac said patiently, "and he's the exception. Look at all of us who own guns; we're not blowing our heads off."

"What lovely imagery," Emily muttered.

"Okay—poor choice of words," Mac allowed. "My point is that Dave had that gun for months before James killed himself, and now he's had it for a year afterward. He didn't go the same route as his brother. He wouldn't have, couldn't have. He has you and Dee to look after, and I know he'd never abandon you like that. You don't need to worry. It's over. It's been over for awhile now."

Emily moved another glass to the drainer, slowing her washing so she wouldn't finish and have to turn around and look at Mac. "Fine. So if it's over, he can get rid of it."

Mac shook his head. "No way. You need that gun now. After what happened last night, you need it more than ever." He paused. "You should consider learning to shoot it yourself."

What? Now she did turn around, absolutely flabbergasted. "Shoot it....are you out of your mind?"

"Look at what happened last night," Mac argued. "You need protection, Em. Your family needs protection. You have reason to fear at least some of these people, and we know that bullets are effective against them."

"If you can find them," Emily protested. "How am I supposed to shoot people who can look like anyone, or melt into walls, or slither along the floor like moving puddles?"

"If you can see it, you can shoot it," Mac said firmly. "If you know how. Rather than getting all upset about the gun, you should learn how to use it in case you ever need to. I'd be glad to teach you. Dave could teach you, but somehow I don't think you'd be comfortable learning from him."

Emily turned back to the sink in disgust. "I'm not shooting a gun," she said severely, "nor am I sleeping in a bedroom with a gun, nor do I even want to be in the same house with a gun. If Dee weren't here, I'd leave."

"Think about it," Mac urged. "If you had to defend yourselves, how would you? Frankly, I feel a lot better knowing there's a gun in this house, and I'd feel even better if you knew how to use it."

"Thanks for the offer, but no thanks," Emily said firmly. "And don't give me the 'gun is just a tool' argument'," she added, as Mac started talking again. "As far as I'm concerned, a gun is a killing tool, nothing more. Now why don't you run out back and see if David and Rose have found any more dirty dishes before I drain the dishwater."

Mac sighed, realizing he'd been dismissed, the chair scraping again as he stood up. "Think it over," he said. "My offer stands. Just let me know. And I'm really glad that all of you are all right."

But we're not, Emily thought, leaning on the sink for support as the kitchen door closed behind Mac. She had been so jumpy all day that her hands were literally shaking. David was quiet, pensive, and still unyielding on the subject of the gun. Dee was worried because they still hadn't heard anything from Brivari....and she wasn't the only one. Where could he be? And what about Jaddo? Was David right that the enemy aliens had struck the base as well? What if both Brivari and Jaddo were dead? That would leave her family as the only ones left who knew the location of the infant royal family. What would happen to those babies if all their protectors were gone? Would others come looking for them? Should they tell them where the babies were? How would they know whom to trust?

Footsteps sounded behind her, heavier this time. "When you said 'think it over', I was assuming I'd have longer than two minutes," she said irritably to Mac without turning around. "Nothing's changed. I don't want a gun in the house, and I'm certainly not learning how to shoot it."

"Perhaps you should rethink that position, Emily Proctor."

Emily whirled around, soapy water flying everywhere. "Brivari?"

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

I'll post Chapter 78 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Apr 02, 2006 2:21 pm

Shiesty23: I'm so glad you're enjoying the story! Thanks for letting me know.

Misha: Don't wrack your brain over the shoe stores. I'll be amazed if anyone comes up with this one. It's a bit of history I happened to stumble across in a magazine article years ago, before I started writing fanfic. I'd wondered what kind of security procedures were used prior to the days of the computer scanners we saw in "White Room", and I remember thinking that this gadget might have served the same purpose as Pierce's scanner in a pre-computer age.

He's not mean, and does not mean harm, but gosh, he can be so stubborn and so unflexible with things...

That's precisely how I see him. I don't think Grandpa Valenti was a bad person--he produced Jim, who is a good person, and Jim produced Kyle, another good person--but Grandpa did seem to suffer from a kind of tunnel vision that eventually became his downfall.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

December 14, 1947, 2 p.m.

Proctor residence

Emily Proctor stared at Brivari, ignoring the dishwater dripping from her hands onto her kitchen floor. He was sitting in the same chair Mac had vacated only minutes before, watching her steadily. "Where have you been?" she demanded in the tone a parent uses toward an absent child. "We were worried sick! And what.....wait. I should rethink what position? You mean about guns? Why? Is there...." She stopped, looking wildly around the kitchen. He hadn't brought them back here, had he?

"You are safe," Brivari said, shifting stiffly in his chair, his right leg at an odd angle, "and so am I. For the immediate future, at least."

The kitchen door opened. "I think we're done out here," David called as he stepped inside. "Dee went looking for Anthony—seems no one knows where he is—and Rose just helped me put away.....what's wrong?" he finished when he saw the look on her face.

Emily pointed mutely, and David walked all the way into the kitchen. "Brivari! Are you all right?"

"I told you to stay in the attic, David Proctor," Brivari said gravely.

"Yes," David admitted. "Yes, you did."

"And I am very glad that you did not."

David smiled slightly. "I figured as much. Things were looking iffy when I showed up.

"The hunters were programmed for retrieval, not execution," Brivari noted. "You not only prevented my capture, you removed one of my deadliest enemies. Now I have only three to deal with."

Emily kept her gaze straight ahead, willing herself not to look at her husband. Don't say it, she mentally warned him. If he tried to use this stroke of extraordinary good luck as a defense for having that gun, tried to even think "I told you so", he was going to get an earful. Then she realized what Brivari had said. "Three? What do you mean, 'three'? Shouldn't there only be one?"

"I'm afraid not," Brivari replied. "There are three hunters remaining, in addition to four of my people."

Emily looked back and forth from her husband to Brivari in dismay. Seven. Seven enemy aliens out there. Not exactly an army, but when those seven could look like virtually anyone, they might as well be.

"Just a minute," David said, nodding to her as he headed for the front door. Emily automatically went to the kitchen door, turning the button lock on the handle. This was becoming routine, this locking of the doors to prevent some hapless neighbor from blundering into an alien discussion. Prior to the crash, they'd only ever locked their doors on the infrequent occasions when they'd left town. Now they did so on a distressingly regular basis.

"Everyone's gone," David reported, returning from the back porch where he'd been locking that door. "Dee's still out, but she'll just have to knock when she gets back. What happened?" he asked Brivari, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table and gesturing to Emily to take a seat. She shook her head, leaning against the wall in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed tightly in front of her, too agitated to sit.

"As you know, two hunters were sent here last night," Brivari began, "while the other two hunters, plus four more of my people attempted to remove Jaddo from the Army base. They were unsuccessful."

"How did the base manage to fend off six of your people?" David asked.

"They were forewarned."

David's eyebrows rose. "You have an ally?"

Brivari was quiet for a moment, looking away. "The two I thought I had previously dealt with managed to survive. One of them approached a human soldier and warned him of the impending attack."

"What?" Emily exclaimed. "You mean the one who showed up here at Halloween is still alive?"

"Unfortunately," Brivari answered, a touch of irritation in his voice. "The irony is that when they ran, they faked their own deaths—and I believed them dead. I believed them dead this time too, with similar results. They are annoyingly unwilling to die."

"Maybe that's a good thing," David said, as Emily stared at him in disbelief. "The informant was the one who told Dee he was still loyal, right?" Brivari nodded, and David shook his head slowly. "Maybe you should give this guy another chance. How many times has he tried to help you now?"

"He betrayed his King," Brivari announced, in a tone which suggested that settled the matter.

"You may have to overlook that," David argued. "There are still seven of them left, with three of them these 'hunters' you said you can't see. Having an ally—"

"Aren't we getting off the subject?" Emily interrupted, panic creeping into her voice. "Where are these people now? That's what I want to know."

"A short ways north of the military base in an abandoned dwelling," Brivari answered. "Four, including two hunters, are still under the effects of the sedative used on Jaddo and myself when we were captured. That still leaves the hunter I injured last night, no doubt already healed, and two others—too many for me to handle with my own injuries. I have returned here to see if I can alter those odds."

"The healing stones," David said.

"Exactly. I'm afraid it is now a race between how quickly I can recover versus how quickly the four regain consciousness. I would have returned sooner, but I had to be certain I was not followed."

"Wait," David interjected, as Brivari began to ease himself up from the chair. "Even if you do recover soon enough...three against one? Those aren't good odds. What if I came with you?"

"David!" Emily exclaimed. "No!"

"Or maybe the Sheriff could arrest them," David continued stubbornly, ignoring her. "If they're in an abandoned house, perhaps he could arrest them for trespassing, or breaking and entering."

"If he did so, that would be the last thing he ever did," Brivari said, "and it would be the same for you. Much as I am grateful for your intervention last night, it was a miracle that you weren't killed. This is my fight. Spare yourself and your family, and leave it to me."

Brivari rose stiffly to his feet as Emily eyed his bad leg. "You shouldn't be climbing stairs with that leg," she said. "Go on in the living room; I'll be there in a minute." She watched him limp past, waiting until he was out of earshot before rounding on her husband.

"What on earth were you thinking?" she hissed. "Go after a bunch of aliens? Are you crazy? Didn't you hear him say it's a miracle you survived?"

"And didn't you hear him say he wouldn't be here right now if not for me?" David demanded. "I'm not just an idiot waving a gun around, Emily—I was trained for this. I didn't get to be a Captain by being bad at it."

"But then you were fighting an enemy you understood!" Emily exclaimed.

"Really? Ever try to understand a Japanese soldier who'd rather commit suicide than be captured?"

"All right," she sighed, "so maybe you didn't understand them, but at least they were your own species and they didn't melt into walls! David, please, drop the Captain America bit!"

"I'm not trying to be Captain America," David protested. "I know what it's like to be outnumbered, and if he wants my help, he can have it."

"Then it's just as well he didn't want it," Emily said irritably. "The last thing I want is you getting killed over something happening on some other planet a zillion miles away from—where are you going?"

"To get Dee," David answered, slipping his coat on.

"I can handle this one myself," Emily objected. "We've seen him much worse. It sounds like he won't be here long anyway."

"That's exactly why I'm going to find her. She'll never forgive us if she finds out she missed her last chance to see him."

"What do you mean?" Emily asked suspiciously.

"Just what I said. Look, at best, he'll manage to pick off some of them, after which he'll be on the run because our house isn't safe anymore, and at worst....well, you can figure that one out for yourself. Either way, we won't be seeing him again. Dee will want to say goodbye."

"But he's not that badly hurt," Emily argued, "and with all the things he can do—"

"All the things he can do won't help him take care of seven people simultaneously and single-handedly," David broke in. "I'm not one of them, but I can count, and so can you—Brivari is badly outnumbered." He opened the door, pausing for a last look at her stricken face. "He says it's a miracle I survived last night, but you didn't see him—it's every bit as much of a miracle that he survived. And the odds are very good he won't get that lucky again."

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

"Right over there," Yvonne said, pointing to the front of the briefing room. "Set it down right at the front where everyone can see—ooh! Be careful!"

One of the soldiers' hands slipped, making the heavy wooden device they were carrying drift dangerously close to their toes. "Thing weighs a ton," one of them muttered as he readjusted his grip. "What the hell is it, anyway?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Major Cavitt announced, looking at Dr. Pierce as the soldiers continued to struggle. "Is this the thing you said was going to 'revolutionize security in the compound'?"

"All in good time, Sheridan, all in good time," Pierce answered cheerfully. "General! We're just about ready, sir."

"I can't wait to hear this one," General Ramey said, standing in the doorway and staring at the device which the soldiers had finally managed to maneuver in front of the long table in the briefing room without damaging any body parts. "This is what's going to solve our problem?"

"Absolutely," Pierce said firmly, ignoring the I-told-you-so look from Cavitt. "Now if everyone will just take a seat, we'll get started. I'm turning the briefing over to Lieutenant White," he added expansively, "because this marvelous idea was hers. Lieutenant?"

What? Yvonne rose from plugging in the device, startled to suddenly be the center of attention. Everyone was staring at her—Dr. Pierce, General Ramey, Major Cavitt, Corporal Brisson, and at the closest end of the long table, Stephen, wearing an encouraging, if somewhat baffled smile. "Oh no, Doctor," she protested. "I'm sure you would be—"

"Nonsense," Pierce interrupted. "Credit should be given where credit is due...and this credit is due you. Just tell the General exactly what you told me. Corporal Brisson has the necessary x-rays with him, and Lieutenant Spade will serve as a demonstrator, he being in command of the security detail and wearing the same type of boots as his men."

"Boots?" Cavitt repeated blankly.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," Pierce coaxed, ignoring Cavitt. "Explain about your wonderful brainstorm."

But it wasn't mine, Yvonne thought, one hand fingering the gauze over the most recent needle puncture for the blood test required to re-enter the compound. For one wild moment, she had half a mind to tell them all that it had been an alien who had pointed them in the right direction. Whatever Stephen's feelings about him, that alien had just saved John's life.

When Yvonne had realized what the alien meant by the cryptic "shoe store" reference he'd delivered to Private Thompson, she'd lost no time finding Dr. Pierce, who had promptly consulted with Ramey, who had immediately dispatched soldiers from the base to fetch the device she'd seen through the window of a Roswell shoe store two days ago when she'd been visiting with her parents. Yvonne had argued that she should go too, fearful that the armed men and the letter from General Ramey wouldn't be enough. She was right; while the Army was well-regarded by the American people in the wake of the war, Roswell was the exception. People were still suspicious of the Army's handling of the alleged "crash", and that suspicion was never more evident than in the eyes of the shoe store owner, faced with losing his biggest attraction.

"You can't just go in there and take my personal property!" the owner had said angrily to the soldier bearing Ramey's letter after they'd appeared on his front porch and roused him from his Sunday afternoon siesta. "Do you know how much business that thing brings in? Tons, that's how much!"

"You'll be compensated, sir," the soldier had assured him, "just like it says here in—"

"But that'll take weeks!" the owner had groused. "And in the meantime, I lose money! Why don't you just go buy one of your own, you—"

And that was where Yvonne had stepped in. She had taken care to wear her dress uniform with her dress coat, hat, and prominent rank insignia, and it had the desired effect—the store owner, taken aback by the sudden appearance of a woman, had fallen into a flustered silence, apparently not willing to finish that sentence with the planned expletive.

"Please, sir," she'd begged softly, "I'm a nurse at the base, and I need this for one of my patients. It would take too long to explain why, but I assure you, it's vitally important that we have this. I realize what an imposition this is, and I do apologize, but this is very important. My patient may die without it."

"Die without that?" the owner had muttered, though he'd already softened substantially. "Why would anybody die without that?"

"Like I said, it would take too long to explain," Yvonne had answered. "But you would be doing your country a great service by taking the Army's offer of compensation and allowing us to have it now. Not to mention saving a man's life," she added, conveniently leaving out the fact that the life being saved belonged to an alien. "I just don't know how I can go back and face him if....." She'd paused dramatically, letting the owner's imagination fill in the blank.

"Now, now, missy, don't get yourself all worked up," the owner had said hastily, throwing a protective arm around her. "You can have it. I'll go get my keys and meet you at the store. I haven't the faintest idea how this will help, but good luck to you and your patient."

"All right," Yvonne now began uncertainly, standing in front of the row of curious faces. "This is a shoe fitting machine. It was used—"

"Shoe fitting machine?" Cavitt echoed. "What, now we're outfitting aliens with galoshes?"

"Let her finish, Sheridan," Pierce said testily.

"Finish what?" Cavitt demanded. "She might just as well have brought in a dress dummy! I fail to understand how—"

"Of course you do," Yvonne interrupted, angry that Cavitt hadn't even let her finish one sentence before cutting her off at the knees. "You fail to understand, sir, because you didn't let me finish. You didn't even let me start. With all due respect, if you want to understand, you're going to have to actually be quiet and listen."

Cavitt stared at her, stunned. Ramey's eyebrows rose. Brisson looked terrified. Stephen managed to hide a smile; Pierce didn't bother trying.

"My apologies for springing to your defense, Lieutenant," Pierce said, chuckling. "You're obviously quite capable of defending yourself."

"Please continue, Lieutenant," General Ramey said blandly. "I'm certain Major Cavitt will curb his tongue, which means there will be no further need for you to lash him with yours."

"Of course, sir," Yvonne said, surprised to find that she didn't care that she'd just been rebuked, albeit gently, by a two-star general. "As I was saying, this is a shoe fitting machine, technically a 'shoe-fitting fluoroscope'. It's actually an x-ray, developed for the purpose of x-raying the feet of soldiers in the first world war without having to remove their boots. After the war, the device was modified and used to check the fit of shoes. Most shoe stores have one; they're very popular, especially with children. I saw several clustered around this one when I was in Roswell with my parents two days ago."

"I thought you'd ruled out x-rays," Ramey said, looking at Pierce.

"That was because we didn't have a way to use an x-ray that wasn't lengthy and inconvenient," Pierce answered. "The beauty of this is its simplicity. If you'll all gather round, we'll have Lieutenant Spade demonstrate."

Everyone rose from their seats, crowding around the shoe fitter. "Stand here," Yvonne said to Stephen, who stepped on the wooden platform as Yvonne turned it on. "There are three viewers," she explained to her confused audience, "one for the customer—that would be Lieutenant Spade—one for the salesman, and a third for someone else, like a parent. General, if you'll look into the viewer in front of you, you'll see the bones of Lieutenant Spade's feet inside his shoes."

"Well, I'll be damned," Ramey murmured, peering into his own viewer as Cavitt looked into the third.

"While I'll grant that it's fascinating to watch the Lieutenant wiggle his toes, I still don't see the point," Cavitt said. "How is this helpful?"

Yvonne nodded to Corporal Brisson, who attached an x-ray to the illuminated board brought upstairs for the occasion. "This is an x-ray of an alien's foot while he's in human form," she said, adopting Pierce's tactic of ignoring Cavitt's needling. "Look at the x-ray, then look in the viewer. Do you see the difference?"

Seconds passed. Yvonne waited nervously while Spade, Ramey, and Cavitt peered first at the x-ray, then into their respective viewers, then back again. This was the crucial test. What was obvious to medical personnel might not be obvious to others, but she was of the opinion that others could easily learn, and Dr. Pierce had agreed.

"The bones are different," Ramey said after a full minute of staring. "There are lots of small bones in Lieutenant Spade's foot, but only a few long bones in the alien's."

"No joints," Stephen added. "None at all."

"Exactly," Yvonne said, relieved. "The aliens' bone structure is different than ours. Our bones don't bend; we have multiple bones with joints to allow movement. There are 26 bones in the human foot, 28 if you count the sesamoid bones at the base of the big toe....but we've only identified six in an alien foot."

"And that's not all," Brisson chimed in, adding another x-ray to the board. "This is an x-ray of an alien's foot when the alien was in alien form. Even though it looked very different from a human foot on the outside, it looks remarkably similar on the x-ray."

"How can they have no joints?" Cavitt wondered.

"We're not sure," Pierce answered, "but it would appear that the aliens' bones are pliable enough that they don't need joints, yet strong enough to serve as a support structure. It probably has something to do with the way they're able to change their shapes."

"And what does the prisoner have to say about this?" Cavitt asked.

"He claims he isn't a 'healer', as he puts it, and therefore knows nothing about why his bones works the way they do."

"If you'd let me at him, I'm sure he'd come up with a different answer," Cavitt muttered.

"Stay on the subject, gentlemen," Ramey said firmly. "Lieutenant White, are guards going to have to sort through all these x-rays every single time they test someone?" he asked, looking from one film to another in bewilderment.

"No, sir," Yvonne said hastily. "We were just making a point—the aliens can change their outward appearance, but not their bone structure. So no matter who they look like outside, their x-rays will always look basically the same."

"All the guards will have to do is have the person being tested step onto the platform just as Lieutenant Spade has done here and check the viewer to make certain the bone structure of the feet is human," Pierce added. "They'll need some training, of course, but all of you figured it out with no prompting. I'm confident that this will work, General. It's fast, simple, and impossible to fool. Just what you were looking for."

"Lieutenant Spade, do you feel your men are up to learning how to differentiate alien from human feet on an x-ray?" Ramey asked.

"I can see it, so they should be able to," Spade said, stepping off the platform. "If someone has a real problem with it, I just won't assign them to the posts where we have these x-rays."

Ramey straightened up, his face breaking into a huge smile. "Congratulations, Lieutenant—you did it. Excellent work. I'm impressed. Now—where do we get more of these little beauties?"

"The company that manufactures them has a six week turn around time," Pierce answered.

"No good," Ramey said. "We have less than three hours. Lieutenant White, you said these were popular. That means other shoe stores would have them, correct?"

"Yes, sir....but the store we got this from is the only shoe store in Roswell."

"There are lots of other shoe stores in New Mexico," Ramey assured her. "Major Cavitt—send men from the base to collect at least three more of these from anywhere they can find them. Offer the store owners double compensation, if necessary. I want one at the entrance, one at the stairs, one at the door to the prisoner's room, and a spare in case one of these breaks by 5 o'clock this evening."

"Yes, sir," Cavitt said promptly. "And Lieutenant," he added, turning to Yvonne, "I was hasty in my earlier remarks. I apologize. Well done."

"Thank you, Major," Yvonne said faintly, the dual miracle of both an apology and praise from Cavitt lost in what she'd just heard. "General, did you say you're putting one of these by the door to the prisoner's room?"

"Of course," Ramey answered. "If the aliens do manage to infiltrate the compound, that's obviously where they'll be heading. The prisoner's room is the next most important place to put one after the front door, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, sir," Yvonne answered, trying to keep the shock out of her voice as Stephen threw her a sympathetic look. "Of course."

"Good. Lieutenant Spade, coordinate the training of your men with Dr. Pierce. I want at least two sets of guards trained by the time the other units arrive. We're close, people, but we still have work to do," Ramey concluded. "Dismissed."

Pierce immediately drew Yvonne and Brisson aside to discuss training procedures, but Yvonne barely heard him, so sickened was she with what she'd just done. Inadvertently done, but done just the same. Brivari had always been able to avoid the security checkpoints when entering the compound, although he'd never told her how....but John's room was one place he couldn't avoid. Hopefully she'd just saved John's life, but in the process, she'd cut off any chance Brivari had of seeing him again.

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

Proctor residence

The stone in Emily's hands abruptly stopped glowing, and she opened her eyes, surprised. She hadn't stopped the flow of energy, so Brivari must have. He was sitting with his eyes closed in one of the living room chairs, having slipped into that waking trance the aliens always went into when healing themselves. She set the stone down on a nearby table, noting that she didn't feel the least bit tired or shaky like she usually did after using the healing stones. Granted, Brivari's injuries were nowhere near as severe as those he'd suffered in the past, but that wasn't all of it. She'd struggled with such a surfeit of nervous energy all day that it had been almost a relief to bleed some of it off, and the few minutes she'd spent concentrating on the stone had taken her mind off her last, disturbing conversation with her husband. Were they really just fixing Brivari up only to send him to his death? Should she encourage David to go with him while some of the aliens were unconscious to even those awful odds? Brivari had said that three were awake now; one against three was bad, but two against three...that was almost even. Almost....but not quite.

The front doorbell rang; instantly, every nerve in Emily's body was on alert. She practically leaped off the sofa and ran to the window, her heart beating a wild tattoo on the way there. Who was that? Hadn't most of the neighbors been over already? Was the Army finally here? Peering fearfully through the curtains, she caught a glimpse of Dee's friend, Rachel, standing on the porch and looking around quizzically for several seconds before giving up and leaving. Relieved, Emily leaned against the wall, shaking all over and feeling like a fool....only to jump again when she heard a voice behind her.

"I assure you that if my people had followed me here, they would not be ringing doorbells, Emily Proctor."

"It wasn't your people I was worried about," Emily said, startled again for the second time in seconds. She hadn't expected Brivari to wake up so soon.

"So it is your people you fear?" Brivari asked, reaching the obvious conclusion. "What happened last night after I left?"

"Oh, nothing much," Emily said ironically, perching on the edge of the couch. "Valenti got an eyeful. The entire neighborhood turned out because of the gunshots, and they called the Sheriff."

"The enforcer's word should not have carried much weight," Brivari said. "There could have been no evidence. Hunters disintegrate immediately upon death."

"It did," Emily confirmed, "and I vacuumed up all the dust in short order. Which was good, because then the Army came. Valenti didn't say anything last night, but I've been sitting around all day waiting for him to blurt it out and send the Army right back here."

"Exactly who came from the Army?" Brivari asked.

"Major Cavitt, the one who locked up our neighbor for a week after you crashed. Charming man," Emily added bitterly. "I wouldn't mind accidentally backing over him with the car."

"Cavitt," Brivari said, an ominous note in his voice. "Then you do indeed have a problem."

"You just said there was no evidence," Emily pointed out, noting that she'd been mentally repeating that same argument to herself all day in the vain hope that repetition would eventually produce belief. "If there's no evidence, we should be fine....right?"

Brivari gingerly shifted his healed leg. "Cavitt doesn't need evidence. Your military knows my people can change their shapes, and they know what happens to us after death. If the enforcer tells Cavitt what he saw, Cavitt will believe him."

"Then it's a good thing we have the Sheriff on our side," Emily said, trying to feel as confident as she sounded. "George will make sure Cavitt doesn't pull anything."

Brivari shook his head. "He may not be able to. Your Chief Enforcer operates by rules, and Cavitt does not. All too often, those who break the rules prevail, at least in the short term. As I said earlier, perhaps you should rethink your position considering your mate's weapon."

" 'Husband'," Emily corrected, annoyed that David's gun was being sanctioned for the second time today. "He's not my 'mate', he's my 'husband'."

Brivari blinked. "You have not mated?"

"Of course we've.....of course we have," Emily finished, exasperated. "Obviously. 'Mate' is a term we use for animals. 'Spouse' is the term we use for people, with 'husband' for the man and 'wife' for the woman."

"Interesting. But you are changing the subject."

"There's no point in discussing that subject," Emily said irritably. "I'm not handling any guns, and that's final. I could never shoot a gun, not after what happened to my brother-in-law."

"I would wager that, before my arrival, you would have sworn you would never smash a man's hand in a door," Brivari said dryly. "But you did."

Emily flushed as she recalled closing the kitchen door on Valenti's hand last summer when he'd been so insufferable; not only closing it, but pushing it, deliberately making it worse. Not one of her finer moments.

"I have said this before, and I will say it again," Brivari said, easing off the chair, testing his leg. "You are a Warder. Warders do whatever is necessary to protect those they guard. If the time comes, I know you will not be any more content to wait in the attic than your mate was."

Emily's angry reply was cut off by the sound of a key in the kitchen door. A moment later Dee bounded into the room, followed by David.

"There you are!" she cried, running over to Brivari, practically hopping with excitement. "I knew you were all right! I told them you were all right! I'm sorry we didn't stay in the attic. Daddy went down when he heard the gunshots, and then Mama went down when we heard gunshots after that, and....well, I just didn't want to stay there by myself."

Brivari eyebrows rose as he looked at Emily, whose face was now practically on fire. No, she hadn't stayed in the attic. She'd been furious with David for leaving, and then she'd gone and done exactly the same thing.

"So did you get the other hunter?" Dee was asking.

"No," Brivari replied.

"Oh," Dee said, instantly subdued. "So now what?"

Brivari glanced at David, who shook his head. "I haven't filled her in yet."

"Filled me in on what?" Dee asked, twisting around to look at her father.

"Honey, Brivari might have to go away for awhile," David said gently.

"Because they know you're here, right?" Dee said to Brivari, who nodded. "Where will you go?"

"I'm not sure," Brivari admitted.

"I did some checking," David said. "There are woods nearby with a number of caves which might be a good place to lay low for awhile."

"Where are these woods?" Brivari asked.

"Down south," David said. "Right by the Indian Reservation."

"Indians?" Dee said. "You mean Bright Sun's and River Dog's people?"

"Yes," David answered. "Why?"

"Wait right here!" Dee ordered Brivari. "Don't go until I come back!" She pounded up the front staircase and disappeared, reappearing seconds later and pounding back down. "Here," she said breathlessly, pressing something into Brivari's hand. "This is Bright Sun's necklace. She gave it to me after you helped us when all those boys beat up on her brother. If you do meet any Indians, it may help."

"You have my thanks," Brivari said, accepting the necklace with a slight bow, "as do all of you. The King could not have asked for better allies."

"Good luck," David said.

"And to you," Brivari said seriously. "I would imagine we could all use some."

A few minutes later, all three Proctors were staring at the back door through which Brivari had left with the necklace and the healing stones. "He'll be okay," Dee said confidently, with that fierce optimism only children had. "I know he will."

"I certainly hope so," David murmured. "I should have—"

"No," Emily broke in firmly, slipping her arm through her husband's as Dee looked at her curiously. "You shouldn't have."

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

Valenti residence

Roswell, New Mexico

Deputy Valenti pulled the key out of the ignition and climbed wearily out of his car, tugging his jacket after him. He'd been in such a hurry to leave the station that he hadn't even bothered putting it on, and that had proven helpful; he'd been so cold on the way home that he'd actually managed to stay awake. Thirty-six hours with no sleep was no joke; he was looking forward to a beer, his couch, and blessed silence. Skipping up the porch stairs, he reached for the front doorknob.

"You told on her, didn't you?" an angry voice demanded behind him.

Valenti whirled around, nearly jumping out of his skin. A small figure was seated on the porch floor, its back to the front railings, invisible from the road because of all the foliage. The figure pushed itself to its feet, the mid-afternoon sunlight shining off its sandy hair.

"Mr. Evans?" Valenti said in astonishment. "What—how—what on earth on you doing here? How did you even get here?"

"I hitched a ride," Anthony said impatiently. "Lots of people come into Roswell on Sunday. Did you tell on Dee? You did, didn't you!" he said accusingly, his voice rising as he reached his own conclusions. "You told, didn't you?"

"Keep your voice down!" Valenti said severely, looking nervously toward his neighbors' houses.

"You were supposed to protect them, not send the Army after them!" Anthony exclaimed. "How could you—"

In one swift motion, Valenti grabbed the kid's arm, threw open the front door, and hauled him through it. "I said keep your voice down!" he hissed in exasperation. "Jesus, at the rate you're going, the whole neighborhood will hear you!"

"So what if they do?" Anthony challenged. "Maybe the whole neighborhood should know what you did so they won't call you if they ever need help! You don't help people, you just—"

"I didn't file the report," Valenti interrupted.

Anthony stopped in mid-sentence. "What?"

"I didn't file the report," Valenti repeated. "At least not the one you're thinking of."

"What does that mean?" Anthony asked suspiciously.

Valenti sighed and tossed his coat onto a nearby chair. "It means, Mr. Evans, that I filed a false report. I didn't put down what actually happened last night in the Proctor's house."

Anthony's eyes narrowed as though he thought this was some sort of trick. "Why not?" he asked after a moment.

Why not, indeed. Valenti had sat in front of his typewriter shortly after his conversation with Cavitt, fully intending to type out every single thing he'd seen....but he couldn't. Every time he tried, his fingers would freeze over the keys, paralyzed with indecision. Finally, he'd given up and typed what was basically a rewording of David Proctor's version of events, noting that his fingers had no trouble obeying him this time, and handed it in feeling like he should be wearing a scarlet letter—only this time, that letter would be "P" for "perjury". "Believe me, I've been asking myself that ever since I turned it in," Valenti said darkly, sinking into a chair. "I've never filed a false report. Never thought I would, either. I just committed perjury."

"What's that?"

"It means I lied," Valenti said severely. "So I'd appreciate it very much if you would pipe down. You got what you wanted. Now I just have to find a way to live with myself."

Anthony walked to the living room sofa and perched on the edge. "If you can't live with yourself, then why'd you do it?"

Valenti leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He hadn't wanted to get into this now. He'd earmarked tomorrow as the day he'd struggle with the ramifications of his decision, after plenty of beer and the good night's sleep only exhaustion can bring, and he certainly hadn't expected a pint-sized shrink in his own living room probing his reasoning. But what the hell—maybe if he got it over with now, he'd sleep better tonight.

"I did it, Mr. Evans, because telling the truth didn't feel right. And it should have. Telling the truth should always feel right. Mind you, lying didn't feel right either, but for some reason, telling the truth felt worse. I decided to sleep on it and see how it felt tomorrow."

Anthony stared at him without comment. "What, don't I even get a thank you?" Valenti asked.

"For what?"

"For keeping my mouth shut like you wanted me to!"

"It sounds like it might not stay that way," Anthony said slowly. "It sounds like you might just turn around and tell tomorrow, or some other day."

"Tell me something, Mr. Evans," Valenti said irritably. "If you think I'm so awful, why did you call me?"

"I'm not sure," Anthony answered uncertainly. "I wasn't really thinking about you. I was thinking about Dee and how she needed help."

"But you didn't have to call me," Valenti reminded him, desperately wishing right about now that he hadn't. "You could have just called the sheriff and reported a prowler, or something like that. What made you call me?"

The front doorbell rang. "That for you?" Valenti asked.

Anthony shook his head. "No. I didn't tell anyone where I was going."

"So how are you getting back?"

"I guess I'll just find another ride back," Anthony replied, shrugging. "Shouldn't be too hard."

"Let me get rid of whoever this is, and then I'll run you home," Valenti sighed, heaving himself out of his chair. God, he was exhausted, but he couldn't just let the kid hitch a ride home. The beer and the armchair would have to wait.

The bell rang again, more insistently this time. "I'm coming!" Valenti called, annoyed. He threw open the door...and froze to the spot.

"Good afternoon, Deputy," Major Cavitt said politely. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment of your time."

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

I'll post Chapter 79 next Sunday.

Note: The shoe-fitting fluoroscope is a real machine. They were common in shoe stores from the 30's through the 50's before concerns about radiation led to their being banned. You can use this link to see a nice picture of one:

http://www.orau.org/ptp/collection/shoe ... r/shoe.htm

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sun Apr 09, 2006 1:30 pm

Misha wrote:CAVITT??? CAVITT??!!!!! What the hell is he doing there??!!!! yeah, I know what he's doing there, but I don't want him there!! so shu!! go away!!! get lost or something!!!

ROTFLMAO!!! If only that would work! Then again.....well, I do sympathize with Valenti, but he's behaved very much the way you noted Anthony is now--getting in the middle of things he barely understands. Anthony's only a kid; Valenti should know better. But he'll learn. Read on.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

December 14, 1947, 4:15 p.m.

Valenti residence, Roswell

"Major Cavitt?" Valenti said in astonishment. "What are you doing here?"

Cavitt pulled off his gloves and brandished a manila envelope he'd been carrying under his arm. "I'm here because of this."

"What's that?"

"Your report, Deputy," Cavitt replied. "Your bland, uneventful report, devoid of any mention of what really happened last night."

Jesus. Valenti's hand gripped the doorknob tighter. He'd turned in that report only a little over an hour ago. What the hell had Cavitt been doing—waiting at the door of the base for it to arrive? He flicked his eyes sideways just in time to see Anthony Evans' retreating figure; a moment later, the kitchen side door closed softly . Just as well, Valenti thought. He didn't need a kid mixed up in all of this, especially if Cavitt planned to get nasty again. "What about my report, Major?" he asked, neither confirming nor denying the Major's assertion that his report wasn't as complete as it could be.

"I was trying to figure out what would have kept you from being honest with me," Cavitt said, "and it occurred to me that all of this must look very different from your perspective, concerned as you must be with the safety of your constituents. Given how little you know, my actions last night must seem inappropriate, if not downright predatory. And your comment earlier today about my being stingy with answers has not fallen on deaf ears. You are correct—if we are to work together, I have an obligation to take you fully into my confidence so that you may understand the magnitude of what we are facing. I failed to do that. In short, I asked you to trust me without trusting you in return. I would like to rectify my error."

"Meaning?" Valenti asked suspiciously.

"Meaning that I am prepared to answer your questions," Cavitt replied smoothly. "I offer you my complete confidence in exchange for yours."

Answer your questions. Valenti's mind whirled at the implications. The answers to what had really crashed on that ranch. To what it was he'd chased all the way to St. Brigit's last July. To what those glowing, pulsing lumps had been in that truck. Answers to everything.

"All right," Valenti said, trying to sound nonchalant instead of excited, and deeply grateful that the Evans kid has chosen to vamoose. If he'd been upset before at the mere notion that Valenti might tell the truth, he'd be having kittens if he heard this. "Come on in."

"Oh, no," Cavitt replied, smiling. "What we have to discuss is not something one discusses in living rooms."

"Where then?"

"My car," Cavitt answered, stepping aside and gesturing toward the street, "where I can be absolutely certain we will not be overheard. I realize you've never dealt with issues of national security before, Deputy. There are certain....precautions we must follow."

"Okay," Valenti said slowly, looking back and forth from Cavitt to the car. "Give me five minutes."

"Of course."

Valenti closed the door and stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. Was this really happening? Was he really going to learn everything he wanted to know? And Cavitt was behaving nicely, a far cry from his demeanor last night. All he'd needed was a firm hand and a reminder of the law, which was, after all, the Sheriff's province, not the Major's. The checks and balances were there, and working as they should be.

Quickly, Valenti checked the kitchen door—the Evans kid was nowhere in sight, which was no big surprise. He ran a comb through his hair, grabbed a nicer looking jacket, and headed for the front door, pausing as he passed the end table in the living room.

"I learned to trust my gut a long time ago. Stop trying to talk yourself out of it, and learn to trust yours."

Valenti hesitated, staring at the little drawer in the end table. Finally, he opened it and removed the tiny pistol he kept way in the back, tucking it into his sock and carefully covering it with his pant leg. He had his weapon, of course, and there was no indication he would need it, but still.... Better safe than sorry.

"All set," he said to Cavitt as he closed the front door behind him.

As Cavitt headed down the porch stairs, soldiers climbed out of each side of the front seat of the car and opened their respective back doors. Nice, Valenti thought, as Cavitt gestured him toward the near door. "Good afternoon, sir," the soldier said smartly, holding the door open as Valenti climbed in and ran his hands admiringly over the smooth leather seats. The doors closed, the guards climbed in, and Cavitt leaned toward the driver. "You may go."

"Go?" Valenti repeated. "Go where?"

"To the base," Cavitt replied, as though that were obvious.

"You didn't say anything about going to the base," Valenti objected.

"Didn't I?" Cavitt said casually. "How careless of me."

"Major," Valenti said warningly, "you said we were going to talk in your car."

"And we shall, Deputy. On the way to the base."

Valenti's stomach gave a lurch as the car pulled away from the curb, his gut screaming in protest as the car roared off.

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

The door to the brand new observation room slid open, vanishing into the wall, and Lieutenant Spade hesitated a moment before stepping over the threshold. He hadn't spent much time thinking about John's new "room". He'd heard about it from Yvonne, and given her reaction to it, he'd been content to ignore it, figuring he'd deal with it when he had to.

Now he had to. Reluctantly, Spade stepped across the threshold to the new observation room and found himself in a tiny, almost claustrophobic room, a far cry from the large, airy room over the old operating theater which had been John's former home. One entire wall was nothing but a large window which ran the length of the room on one side. And through that window Spade could see John stretched out on his bed in a room tiled completely in white, still unconscious from the tranquilizer dart the night before. Perhaps that was a blessing; perhaps it was better that he learn of how close he'd come to death after the fact, when the threat had passed. And it nearly had; 1700 hours arrived in only thirty minutes, and Ramey had asked for a final update. He was seated in one of the chairs which faced the window, only the top of his head being visible as the only available light came from the prisoner's room, the door to the observation room itself having been closed by the guards. Spade paused for a moment, expecting a greeting and receiving none.

"General Ramey?"

Pause. "Yes?"

The voice was dull, devoid of emotion, and the General didn't turn around. Spade hesitated again before ploughing on. "It's Lieutenant Spade, sir. You wanted a security update at 1630 hours."

"Did I, now?" The voice was heavy with irony, as though wanting a security update was somehow amusing. "I gather you've prepared this update?"

"Uh....yes, sir," Spade answered.

A deep sigh. "Very well then. Report."

"I have only good news, sir," Spade began. "We've finished installing the second emergency generator and prepared a security protocol which should make it much more difficult to compromise either, never mind both. Lieutenant White and Corporal Brisson report excellent results training the first group of guards to tell the difference between a human and an alien x-ray. The shoe-fitting machine Lieutenant White brought back is installed and operational in the outside entrance hallway, which is being completed as we speak. We were able to get our hands on two more shoe-fitters, which will be set up at the upstairs doors to the basement stairs and outside the prisoner's room. We're right on schedule."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," Spade replied uncertainly.

"Very good, Lieutenant. Well done. Well done to all of you. You have all risen to the occasion and performed commendably. It's really too bad that none of it matters now," Ramey added, swinging his chair around. For a moment, he was silhouetted against the light from John's room; then he reached over and snapped on a small light, illuminating the tiny observation room....and making Spade gasp. Ramey looked terrible. His jacket was open, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his eyes haunted. His left hand held a glass of something that smelled like Scotch and was almost gone.

"Sir?" Spade said in astonishment. "What's wrong?"

Ramey turned back toward the prisoner's room, that impossibly white room. "This morning, you asked me what would happen if I was ordered to terminate the prisoner regardless of success in finding a way to identify the aliens. I believe I told you not to go dreaming up more trouble than we already had. I figured I'd cross that bridge if and when I came to it."

Spade nearly stopped breathing. "They ordered you to kill him anyway, didn't they, sir?"

"Heavens, no," Ramey answered darkly. "That would've been too easy."

"What does that mean?" Spade asked, wondering what the new orders could be that would make execution look "easy".

Another deep sigh. "As I indicated earlier, Lieutenant, I made myself unavailable for calls from Washington to buy us more time. And I did buy us more time. Unfortunately, I also bought more time for the slice-n-dice lobby, headed by none other than our own beloved Major Lewis, to convince the powers that be that the alien is far too valuable a commodity to merely execute."

"So....they're not going to kill him?" Spade asked, confused.

"Outright? No," Ramey said grimly. "Major Lewis has been granted permission to perform what I can only term a 'living autopsy' on the prisoner. He's to be kept alive as long as possible while they cut him open and rummage around in there. He'll die eventually, of course, after which they'll have a limited amount of time before everything turns to dust."

Spare stared at Ramey in disbelief. "But...but that's...." He stopped, struggling for the appropriate words for such a heinous act. Inhumane? Cruel? Barbaric? Nothing seemed strong enough.

"And so the irony is," Ramey continued, "that in buying time for Mr. Doe in there, I actually bought him a long and painful death. If I'd followed orders earlier, at least his death would have been quick and painless. He wouldn't even have been aware of it." He glanced up at Spade, fingering his glass of Scotch. "I helped liberate the concentration camps at the end of the war," he said, his voice thick with rage. "I heard what Josef Mengele had done, saw some of the results. The surgery he performed without anesthesia. Immersing prisoners in freezing water to see how long it took them to die. Injecting dye into their eyes to see if he could change the color." He looked back toward the window. "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be seeing those things on American soil."

"Sir, we got them what they wanted," Spade said, his voice shaking from the recital of atrocities. "We have a fast, reliable way to screen every single person who comes in here, a lot faster and more reliable than the question and answer method we were using before. We can keep the aliens out. So why are they doing this?"

"Like I said before, Lieutenant, there's always been a faction that argued the prisoner was too risky to hold. I've long suspected Major Lewis had something to do with that, although I didn't have definitive proof until now. They've used fear of what might happen if the prisoner escapes to get what they want, which is to get their hands on the biggest toy they've ever seen. I say we have just as much to fear from summarily executing him—if we piss his people off, we don't stand a chance against them in a real battle. But no one's listening to me."

"He's not a 'toy', sir!" Spade protested. "He's a living, breathing, thinking being!"

"I know that, son," Ramey said heavily. "And you know that, and Lieutenant White knows that. But the top dogs in Washington, they don't know that. They sit at their desks, reading reports and gabbing with each other, never knowing what they're really dealing with. I told you earlier that I've tried to get several people to talk to the prisoner, without success. None of these movers and shakers have even been out here to look at him, never mind talk to him. Oh, I've tried to get them out here. Believe me, I've tried. They don't want to come out here. They're afraid that if they so much as lay eyes on Mr. Doe, they'll go soft, start to see him as a person. And they don't want to see him as a person. The easiest way to make certain that doesn't happen is to stay away."

"We can't let this happen, sir," Spade insisted. "You're a two-star general! You must have some favors you can call in!"

Ramey shook his head. "I've already called in all the favors I had and incurred some debt just trying to keep the prisoner alive and well-treated so far. I'm fresh out of favors."

"Well....what about the President?" Spade asked, grasping at straws. "He doesn't even know we have an alien, which means your orders are illegal orders. Why not threaten to rat these people out?"

"Exactly how long do you think I'd live if I did that?"

Spade opened his mouth and then closed it, suddenly realizing that wouldn't work. Ramey had openly defied his superiors, which meant they'd be watching his every move. Any attempt he made to contact the President would fail.

"You see my problem," Ramey said, watching the light dawn in Spade's eyes. "I can't get near the President. Were I foolish enough to try, I guarantee you I'd find myself transferred to the middle of nowhere, accused of some trumped up charges....or worse. And even if I could reach the President, I'm not certain it would do much good. One of the reasons I agreed to go along with keeping this operation under wraps was because I know the civilians President Truman would turn to for advice in this matter. Believe me, Mr. Doe wouldn't have lasted an hour in their tender care." He shook his head sadly. "No, I'm afraid there's nothing for it. Major Lewis has already been given his orders, and is no doubt on the way here with bells on. That jackass," Ramey added bitterly, staring through the window. "All this time he was building this room, and I looked at the plans and the requisition sheets and never realized what it would look like. It looks like a tomb, a blinding white tomb. What kind of a man builds a room like that?"

"There must be something we can do, sir!" Spade said desperately.

"I'm afraid all I can give Mr. Doe now is a mercifully brief death," Ramey said sadly. "I'll have Dr. Pierce end his life now, painlessly, like we'd originally planned. He'll do it, if for no other reason than to spite Lewis. And even that will cost me the rest of my career....what's left of it, anyway."

"That can't be right," Spade objected, as Ramey rose from his chair. "It can't end like this! We can't let it, not after everything everyone here has gone through!"

"I feel for you, Lieutenant," Ramey said soberly. "Believe me, I do. But as I've explained, I've already exhausted all military options."

"Then what about non-military options?" Spade demanded.

Ramey's eyebrows rose. "Such as?"

"Such as....such as...." Such as what? Spade fell into a frustrated silence, realizing he didn't even know. Who outside the Army could fend off something like this? The police? They didn't have jurisdiction on a military base. Too bad he couldn't rustle up an indignant crowd like the one who got Mac Brazel sprung from his house arrest....

"The media," Spade said suddenly.

"The media?" Ramey repeated blankly.

"Yes, the media!" Spade exclaimed. "When Major Cavitt let that civilian who first found pieces of the alien's ship go home, he put him under house arrest. Someone rounded up the neighbors and called the radio station and the newspaper, and they raised such a ruckus—"

"House arrest?" Ramey echoed. "How come I didn't hear anything about this?"

"Later—sir," Spade said impatiently. "My point is, you could threaten to go to the media. At least half the country doesn't believe the weather balloon story. The papers and the radio stations would be eating out of your hand if you blew this wide open, and whoever you're reporting to must know that."

"You're assuming I'd have a hand to eat out of," Ramey countered. "The minute I make a threat like that, my life, for all practical purposes, is forfeit. I'd never make it to the media to tell them a thing."

"You would if we did it right, sir."

" 'We'?"

"You'll need help," Spade pointed out. "I'm volunteering."

Ramey smiled sadly and shook his head. "Son, that's a generous offer. An impossibly generous offer. I'm not certain you realize just how generous. If I were to try this ploy and fail—and the odds are good that I would—you'd go down with me. That would be career suicide."

"Sir, Major Cavitt locked me up last summer because I refused to lie about what happened with the alien who surrendered," Spade said. "Two of my friends died under mysterious circumstances with fake silver handprints on their bodies that were really silver paint, and I told you about that despite the fact that I had no evidence. I stopped caring about my 'career' some hundred miles back." He stepped closer to Ramey. "Remember that bridge you mentioned a minute ago? We're at that bridge now, sir. Cross it."

Ramey stared at Spade a moment longer before sinking back into his seat, staring through the window again. The silence lengthened, and Spade forced himself to stand motionless, waiting. He had no way of contacting either his informant or Brivari, no way of getting an unconscious alien out of here to safety. The compound was more impregnable now than it had ever been. Without Ramey, John died.

"Did you know I'm near retirement, Lieutenant?"

What? "No, sir," Spade said carefully.

"I was due to stand down soon," Ramey continued, still staring through the window. "Forty years in the service. The Army has been my life."

"Yes, sir," Spade said dully, bracing himself for what he was certain would be a testimonial as to how Ramey just couldn't end his career this way, couldn't threaten an institution that had been his life.

"It's been my life," Ramey repeated softly. And then his face hardened, and his voice along with it. "And I'll be damned if I'll have cold-blooded murder be my swan song. Or my epitaph for that matter." He leaned forward in his chair. "Now.....what exactly did you have in mind?"

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

Roswell, New Mexico

Deputy Valenti watched the outskirts of town slip by as Cavitt's car whisked smoothly along the road. Across from him, the Major pulled off his black leather gloves and set them neatly on his lap. "Now then," Cavitt said pleasantly. "Shall we begin?"

"Please," Valenti said uncomfortably, still unhappy about where they were heading. All he could think about was McMahon telling him how Cavitt had locked up Mac Brazel, and the difficulty Sheriff Wilcox had getting him out.

"Very well, then," Cavitt said, staring out the side window. "Last July, an alien ship crashed on Pohlman ranch. You were there—you know this. I won't insult your intelligence by trying to tell you it was a weather balloon, a Russian ship, or anything else."

Whoa. Valenti sat stock still, amazed to have both his wits and his senses vindicated in three sentences. That alone made this little side trip to the base worth it.

"We captured two prisoners," Cavitt continued. "One we still have; the other escaped only a few days after its capture. Judging from police reports, it was heading toward Corona the night it escaped. We've heard nothing from it since....until last night."

I have, Valenti thought, remembering what he'd chased to the church last summer, the shattered windows in the gym when the Indian children were attacked, and the apparition on the Proctor's porch on Halloween night that David Proctor had managed to convince everyone was merely a prank. Those incidents must have gotten lost in the general pile of alien calls because Cavitt clearly had feelers out, and Valenti felt a twinge of pride that he knew things that the apparent head of alien headquarters did not.

"I've long suspected this prisoner was still alive," Cavitt went on. "I believe it was responsible for the so-called 'burglary' last night next door to William Brazel's residence. I do not intend to let it escape this time."

Valenti remained silent. The guards in the front seat stared straight ahead, ignoring both of them. They had left the town behind and were now in open desert, about a quarter of the way to the base.

"What I need from you, Deputy, is an accurate recounting of what you saw last night. You will make a deposition to my commanding officer, who will then, I'm sure, grant me the latitude to take whatever measures are necessary to find this thing. I would have preferred handing the General your report, but as it is, this is useless," he added, slapping his hand on the manila envelope on the seat between them.

" 'Measures'?" Valenti repeated. "What kind of 'measures'?"

Cavitt's head swung around. "Anything. Everything. I want that thing, and I will have it. Understand me," he continued, his voice hardening. "I wasn't happy about losing it the first time. I will be twice as unhappy if I lose it a second time. I'm not a pleasant man when I'm unhappy. Are you following me, Deputy?"

"Not entirely," Valenti admitted. "If you really think your escaped prisoner is responsible for the robbery last night, it would appear you've already lost it again. How are you planning to find it?"

"By finding the ones who've been hiding it all these months," Cavitt answered. "I've always known it survived, even after everyone else gave it up for dead, and I've known someone is helping it. They will lead me to the prisoner."

"But...what if they don't know where it is?" Valenti asked. "If you're right, it probably fled after last night. Even if someone was helping it, they might have no idea where it is now."

"Then if you're a religious man, I would suggest you say a prayer for those unfortunate individuals," Cavitt said softly, his voice shaded with menace. "Because I will see to it that whoever that is either tells me what I want to know, or is put away in a very dark place for a very long time."

The temperature in the car seemed to drop several degrees. Valenti felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down his back. "Major, I understand your wanting to find your prisoner. And I understand your wanting to question anyone who's had contact with that prisoner. But you can't just grab people and hold them without evidence, without procedure, without—"

"Of course I can," Cavitt interrupted, "if needed to perform my job. Haven't we been over this, Deputy?"

"Your job is the protection of the state," Valenti insisted, his temper rising, "the same state that affords certain protections to its citizens that you have a duty to uphold every bit as much as I do. I—"

"Don't presume to lecture me about my duty!" Cavitt snapped, as Valenti shrank back into the corner of the car. "My duty is clear—what about yours, Deputy. Is your duty clear?"

Absolutely, Valenti thought, as the doubts he'd had that day evaporated and reality snapped into terrifying focus. "The duty of the military is to protect the state. The duty of the police is to protect the people—from the state, if necessary." This morning, Valenti had found that announcement of Wilcox's preposterous when the state in question was the United States of America; it was amazing how much perspective could change in just a few short hours. "Oh, yes," Valenti said grimly. "I can confidently say that for the first time today, my duty is clear."

"Excellent," Cavitt said expansively, his good humor returning. "As soon as we arrive at the base, you will make your statement to Major General Roger Ramey, who will then allow me to take William Brazel into custody. You might wish to come along to facilitate that process. I'd prefer this be done quietly. We wouldn't want the neighbors upset again, now would we?"

Valenti stared at Cavitt in disbelief. Cavitt still thought it was Brazel even though he hadn't a shred of evidence against him, even though Brazel hadn't even been home last night and the so-called 'robbery' hadn't occurred in his house. "He thinks the law doesn't apply to him," David Proctor had said. Perhaps it was time to drive home the point that it did.

"No."

Cavitt turned to him in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I said 'no'. I'm not making a deposition to this General Ramey, or anyone else, for that matter. My report is accurate, and I stand behind it."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Cavitt said impatiently. "You'll be well compensated for your efforts, of course."

"This isn't about 'compensation'," Valenti said hotly. "I'm not for sale."

"Everyone is for sale," Cavitt said dismissively, "for the right price."

"The Sheriff wasn't for sale last night when you tried to bribe him," Valenti reminded him, "and neither am I. My report stands, and this conversation is over. Stop the car," he ordered the driver.

The driver ignored him, his eyes fastened on the road ahead. "I said stop the car!" Valenti demanded. "I'm getting out!"

"No, Deputy," Cavitt replied calmly. "You're not."

The bead of cold sweat trickling down Valenti's back turned into a river. He's going to lock me up too, he thought frantically, as he looked out the window and realized they were quite near the base. His hand moved to the door handle—dropping out of a car at this speed would be dangerous, but far preferable to the alternative. But the handle wouldn't budge, nor would the door lock button; it remained stubbornly depressed, despite his attempts to raise it. He was stuck.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," Cavitt said. "You don't have a choice in the matter. You will tell General Ramey what really happened last night, or I will see to it that you are put away in a very dark place for a very long time."

"Like you tried to do with Brazel?" Valenti demanded, fighting rising panic. "It didn't work then, and it won't work now!"

"No, it didn't," Cavitt agreed, shaking his head regretfully. "I rarely make strategic errors, but in that case I made a grievous one—everyone knew where Brazel was. But no one knows where you are, Deputy. No one saw you leave your house. You will have simply vanished, and no one will know where."

Good God, Valenti thought desperately, realizing that Cavitt was right. Oh, Wilcox would figure it out in no time at all, but without evidence, he wouldn't get anywhere. The Army base may be in Chaves County, but the Chaves County Sheriff had no jurisdiction on the base; once this car crossed onto base property, he'd be on his own.

Instinctively Valenti edged his hand behind him, reaching for his gun. A second later he was staring down the barrel of a pistol held by the soldier in the front seat, who apparently hadn't been ignoring the conversation in the back as much as it had appeared.

"Really, Deputy," Cavitt tut-tutted. "Such drama. What were you doing to do? You're rather outnumbered. No neighborhood rabble to back you up this time." He held out his hand. "Your weapon, please."

Valenti didn't move, his eyes swinging back and forth from the expressionless soldier to Cavitt. "Your weapon," Cavitt repeated firmly, "or I'll order him to fire."

Slowly, Valenti withdrew his weapon from its holster and handed it to Cavitt, who promptly passed it to the soldier in the front seat. "You disappoint me," Cavitt remarked. "I thought we had an understanding. I thought you took your job seriously. You should want this thing off the streets of your county even more than I do, and I'm willing to take care of that for you. All I needed was your honesty. When did that come to be too much to ask from a law enforcement officer?"

"About the same time it became too much to ask for an Army officer to obey the law," Valenti retorted, his hand drifting toward his feet as he watched the soldier in the front seat lower his weapon. "The end doesn't justify the means, Major. You can't—"

"Oh, spare me," Cavitt interrupted sharply. "This isn't some cops and robbers radio show, where everyone is honorable and never gets their hands dirty. These are the big leagues, where you have to have the balls to do whatever's necessary to get the job done. If you want to play in the big leagues, Deputy, you'll have to grow up."

"Funny you should mention that," Valenti said grimly, whipping out the second, smaller pistol his gut had insisted he take with him. "Unfortunately for you, I think I just did."

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

I'll post Chapter 80 next Sunday.

Kathy W · Post by **Kathy W** » Sat Apr 15, 2006 11:08 pm

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

CHAPTER EIGHTY

December 14, 1947, 4:40 p.m.

Roswell, New Mexico

The soldier driving the car swerved violently as he whipped his head around, unable to believe what he'd seen in his rear view mirror. The passenger-side soldier scrambled for his own weapon, but couldn't react fast enough; by the time he had Valenti in his sights, Valenti's small, but still perfectly lethal pistol was aimed straight at what was likely considered the most valuable asset in the car: Major Cavitt's head.

"How's this?" Valenti demanded. "Is this enough for the 'big leagues', Major? Does this qualify as 'growing up'?"

"That depends," Cavitt answered, holding stock still, a wise decision given that he had a weapon only inches from his face.

"On what?"

"On whether you'd actually pull the trigger."

"I'm not your pet, Cavitt," Valenti said angrily, "and you're not locking me up just because I don't bark and roll over on command."

"It appears you will be locked up regardless of the outcome of this drama," Cavitt observed. "Lower your weapon, and things proceed as they began. Shoot me, and you'll be locked up for an entirely different reason. Assuming you survive your own wounds," he added, glancing toward the soldier in the front seat aiming at Valenti.

"Not after I tell the judge about your tendency to threaten and bribe everyone you meet," Valenti said.

Cavitt shook his head sadly. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. And neither will anyone else because, you see, you have no witnesses. I, on the other hand, have two witnesses who will gladly attest to the fact that you willingly entered this vehicle and then attacked me without provocation. Whom do you think a court will believe?"

Him, Valenti thought, his heart sinking as he realized he didn't have a shred of evidence for any of this. Cavitt's threats to him last night? His word against Cavitt's. Cavitt's threats today? Same thing, with Cavitt's men backing up their commander. Cavitt's threats to Wilcox? Wilcox would back him up, but that would be seen as the boys in blue sticking together.

"I wouldn't be wasting time speculating about that, if I were you," Valenti said severely, holding his pistol steady. "All you need to worry about right now is that this gun is aimed squarely between your eyeballs. And since I'm screwed either way, as you've so handily pointed out, I'll take my chances with the criminal justice system. So if you'd like to live to commit bribery another day, then tell the driver to stop the car."

"Sir," the driver said nervously, "should I pull over?"

"Absolutely not!" Cavitt ordered.

"Stop the car, Major," Valenti warned, as the car crested a hill and the base came into view. Not much time left now.

"No," Cavitt replied with satisfaction, following Valenti's glance out the window. "We're almost there, Deputy. You'll have to shoot me—but you don't have the nerve."

"Stop the car!" Valenti shouted, cocking his gun.

"Drop it!" the soldier in the front seat shouted back.

"You drop it!" Valenti retorted, "unless you want to go down in history as the one who let Cavitt die!"

"Sir!" the driver exclaimed. "Shouldn't I pull over?"

"No!" Cavitt thundered, as the driver flinched. "Time to stop talking and start doing," he added softly to Valenti. "You'll have to shoot me."

Shit. The soldier in the front seat remained tensed and ready. The driver continued to dither, looking back and forth from the road to the back seat. The base was clearly visible now. They'd be there in a couple of minutes.

And then the car abruptly slowed. "I told you to keep going!" Cavitt shouted at the hapless driver.

"I can't, sir!" the driver protested. "The road is blocked!"

"Then go around!" Cavitt ordered angrily.

"I can't, sir!" the driver repeated, slowing the car further still. "Look!"

Valenti's mouth dropped open as he saw three sheriff's cruisers through the windshield, blocking the road ahead. Standing in front of the cruisers were Alan McMahon, Tom Woods, and Sheriff Wilcox himself, all staring directly at Cavitt's car, which came to a halt only feet away from them.

Slowly, Wilcox walked toward the car and knocked on the window. Valenti saw the driver swallow hard before rolling down his window.

"Well, well, well," Wilcox said, peering inside at what must be a very interesting spectacle indeed. "And just when I thought I'd seen everything."

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

Eagle Rock Military Base

"Correct, Private," Yvonne said approvingly, removing the x-ray from the viewer. "You're the only one so far to ace them all."

Private LaBella beamed as his buddies hooted and clapped him on the back. "Every single one right!" Lomonaco crowed. "Maybe you shoulda been a doctor, LaBella!"

"I knew we got basic medical training, but I never thought I'd be reading x-rays," LaBella admitted.

Yvonne smiled as she turned off the shoe fitter. This was the second group of soldiers to go through the process of learning to discern a human foot from an alien foot on an x-ray; Corporal Brisson was next door with the third. The first group was already posted around the compound, and the shoe fitter Yvonne had brought back from Roswell was up and running in the new entry hallway outside the main doors. They were using the two new shoe fitters for training, after which they'd be set up at the doors to the basement and outside John's room. Yvonne wasn't looking forward to that moment. She'd been running almost non-stop for the past two hours, which was advantageous; it left her no time to bemoan the fact that she'd just effectively barred Brivari from John's room, or to ponder the question of whether the alien informant who'd pointed them in the direction of the shoe fitters had intended to cause just exactly that.

"Hell, maybe we should all go to medical school now," Lomonaco said, as the others laughed. "Maybe we missed our calling!"

" 'cept Treyborn," LaBella chuckled. "He'd flunk out, wouldn't you, Treyborn?"

A horrified silence fell over the group, and the color drained from LaBella's face as he realized he'd just addressed a dead man. "Jesus," he said, his voice husky, "I....I'm sorry. I....I didn't...."

"It's okay, man," Lomonaco said, suddenly sober. "You just forgot."

"You only just lost him," Yvonne said gently, being very familiar with this problem. "It'll take you awhile to get used to the fact that he's gone."

"I hope an alien comes tonight, and sticks its fake foot under that thing," LaBella said darkly, staring at the shoe fitter. "I'd like to break its neck."

"How would you know the one you killed is the one who killed Treyborn?" Yvonne asked.

LaBella's eyes burned as he looked at her. "Ask me if I care."

Yvonne didn't answer as she tidied the stack of x-rays into a single pile and reflected that Treyborn's death certainly hadn't done wonders for alien-human relations. Not that those relations had been stellar to begin with, but at least some of the men had started to sound more neutral as opposed to hostile regarding John. Now John would likely bear the brunt of everyone's anger about Treyborn, even though he wasn't responsible for what happened. "You'll all be on duty in a few hours," she said briskly, changing the subject. "Given how long the sedative lasts, the aliens will be able to attack again tonight, probably in the middle of the night or toward dawn. That means all of you will likely be manning the gates if anything happens. Does anyone have any questions? Any at all?"

"Nope," Lomonaco said firmly.

"Bring'em on," LaBella added, stone-faced, as the others nodded.

"Okay, then. Dismissed....and good luck."

The men filed out silently, their jokes forgotten. Yvonne sighed, looking at her watch as she leaned on the shoe fitter. The next group wasn't due for twenty minutes and she wanted something to do, something to take her mind off the awful price on John's life. The only thing that had kept him sane so far was seeing Brivari—what would happen to him now?

"How'd it go?"

Corporal Brisson stood in the doorway holding his own stack of x-rays. "Fine....until a minute ago," Yvonne answered wearily. "Someone just asked Private Treyborn a question, and....well, you can imagine the response," she added, as Brisson shook his head sympathetically. "But the session went fine. This should work with no problem."

"It was a brilliant idea," Brisson said sincerely. "You single-handedly saved the prisoner."

No I didn't. "I just thought of the shoe fitters," Yvonne said modestly. "It was Dr. Pierce who put everything in motion to get them here and train everyone. No surprise, I suppose, since he's out of business if John dies."

Brisson looked away. "I suppose."

Yvonne eyed him curiously. "What is it?"

"Well...it's just that...." Brisson set down his x-rays and paused before continuing in exasperation. "Look, earlier today when you and I were racking our brains trying to figure out an easy way to identify aliens, I thought Pierce was upstairs trying to do the same thing. But he wasn't. He was calling in favors trying to save his ass."

"Save his ass from what?" Yvonne asked.

"Not 'save his ass', exactly," Brisson corrected. "More like 'shelter his assets'."

"You mean like making certain he'd get the credit for his research?"

"Sort of," Brisson answered.

"That doesn't surprise me," Yvonne admitted. "I've always known Pierce has his own agenda. He's strange really...he can be so thoughtful, so insightful, and yet so cruel too. But whatever he is, all I need to do is look at someone like Major Lewis to know I'd take Pierce any day. At least he has a vested interest in John being alive and well. Without John, Pierce has nothing to study."

Brisson stared at her in consternation for so long that Yvonne began to wonder if something was seriously wrong. "Why are you looking at me like that, Corporal? Is something wrong?"

"Lieutenant," Brisson began, stepping closer to her, his eyes shifting toward the doorway as though afraid of being overheard, "there's.....there's something you should know about Dr. Pierce."

"Like what?" Yvonne asked.

Brisson hesitated a moment before continuing. "Dr. Pierce may not have your best interests at heart."

"Oh," Yvonne smiled. "Is that all. Sorry to burst your bubble, Corporal, but I'm not that naïve. I realized a long time ago that Dr. Pierce doesn't have anyone's best interests at heart but his own."

"That's not what I meant," Brisson objected.

"Then what did you mean?" Yvonne asked.

"I...I meant...."

<What are these devices?>

The "voice" crashed into Yvonne's mind suddenly, catching her completely by surprise. She glanced around the room, terrified that Brivari was standing somewhere out in the open, but she saw nothing. Beside her, Brisson continued to dither, apparently unable—or unwilling—to say exactly what he meant. <Where are you?> she asked frantically. <You shouldn't be here!>

<Where I am is irrelevant,> Brivari's voice answered. <What are these devices, and what is their function? There is one at the entrance.>

"I just meant that you should be careful around Dr. Pierce," Brisson was saying.

"What? Why?" Yvonne asked, distracted by trying to carry on two conversations at once.

"Well, I.....I....." Brisson stammered, falling into a frustrated silence once more.

<They're x-ray machines,> Yvonne answered Brivari, taking advantage of Brisson's hesitation. <Your bone structure is different from ours. We'll be able to identify your people even in human form.>

<Excellent,> Brivari announced. 

<It was the informant's idea,> Yvonne said. <The one who told us about the attack last night.>

<Malik?> Brivari asked sharply.

<His name doesn't matter,> Yvonne said, grateful in some small way that she didn't have to actually face him as she told him the bad news. <What does matter is that in an hour or so, one of these machines will be placed outside John's door. Everyone going into his room will be screened. I—I'm afraid you won't be able to get in there anymore.>

No answer. Brisson was talking, but Yvonne wasn't listening, so consumed was she with guilt. <I'm so sorry!> she added miserably. <They were going to kill him if we didn't come up with a quick way to identify your people. I thought they were just going to put one at the front door, but....that's not what happened.>

Silence. Brisson had paused for breath. Brivari took a moment longer.

<Will you be engaged in this room for much longer?>

<Yes,> Yvonne answered, <at least another hour. You wouldn't be able to trade places with me until then, and it's not safe for you to be here now anyway.>



It took Yvonne a moment to figure out what he meant. Oh my God, she thought with horror. He's just going to walk in there while I'm in here? <No!> she 'called' frantically. <It's too dangerous! As soon as I'm done here-->

<As soon as you are done here, these devices will likely be moved to their new locations.>

<Then we'll stall them,> Yvonne said desperately. <Or maybe Stephen can stall them, or—>

<Spade has left with your General,> Brivari answered. <Both looked distinctly unhappy.>

Left with the General? Now, what was that all about? <Then I'll think of something else,> Yvonne insisted. <But it's much too dangerous to be walking around here now!>

No answer. <Are you there? Brivari? Brivari!>

"Lieutenant?"

With a start, Yvonne realized that Brisson had stopped talking and was watching her closely. "Lieutenant," he repeated, "are you all right?"

"Of course," Yvonne answered, hoping her voice wasn't as shaky as she felt. "I'm just...tired, that's all. And hungry, and distracted, and worried, and a hundred other things," she added truthfully. "I'm sorry—what were you saying?"

"I was saying that if you should start feeling unwell, you should report it right away."

"Unwell? Why would I be feeling unwell?"

"Uh...just everything that's been going on," Brisson said evasively. "Stress can make you sick, you know. We should all be on the lookout for any repercussions...in anyone, of course....not just you."

"I'm sorry, Corporal, but what does this have to do with being careful around Dr. Pierce, and him not having my best interests at heart?" Yvonne asked irritably, listening hard for any sign of Brivari.

Brisson stared at her a moment before dropping his eyes. "Nothing, Lieutenant. Nothing at all. I was just......nothing." He picked up his stack of x-rays. "Would you like to get something to eat before the next group comes?"

"No!" Yvonne said hastily. The last thing she wanted to be doing was walking around the compound while Brivari was out there looking like her. "I mean....I'm not hungry," she added.

"You just said you were."

"I—I'm just too tired to go to the mess hall right now," she corrected.

"Oh. Okay. Then I'll go, and bring something back for you."

"No!" Yvonne repeated, as Brisson stared at her again. She realized she sounded ridiculous, but she couldn't have Brisson wandering around either. "We only have a short time before the next group," she continued, trying to sound calm. "Could we go over a few things before they get here, and then get something to eat after they're done?"

"That's another hour or so," Brisson said doubtfully.

"Please," Yvonne said, attempting a pleading smile. "I'd appreciate it so much."

Brisson hesitated a moment before setting down his pile of x-rays. "All right. What did you want to go over?"

I have no idea, but I'll think of something, Yvonne thought, settling into a chair. Hopefully, she'd just bought Brivari some time. So distracted was she by this whole situation that she didn't think to seriously question what Brisson had been trying to tell her only minutes before.

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

"It's still asleep, but would you like someone to go in with you, Lieutenant?" the guard asked.

"No, thank you," Brivari replied, wearing the Healer's form as he stood outside Jaddo's new cell.

"There's someone in the observation room next door," the guard said as he and his fellow guard slid the door open, "so if you need any help, we'll know."

"Why would I need help if he's asleep?"

"Supposedly, it could wake up any time now," the guard answered. "There's no telling how pissed it'll be when it realizes it wasn't rescued. Or who it'll decide to take that out on," he added, glancing inside the cell."

Rescued, Brivari thought as he stepped inside, the door sliding closed behind him. Yes, that must be how the events of last night appeared to the uninitiated. Little did the humans know how wrong they were.

Jaddo lay on the bed in the middle of the room, his eyes closed. The gray blanket which covered him was positively bright compared to the glaring white tile which covered the walls, ceiling, and floor. The Healer had spent a fair amount of time detailing how much she hated this room, with its lack of color, exposed waste facilities, and improved surveillance. Ironically, Brivari knew Jaddo would not share her opinion. To him it would be just another cell in what was no more or less a prison. Only now that cell had become sanctuary. It was odd, really, how perceptions changed. Jaddo was now safer as a captive than Brivari was free.

After leaving the Proctors' house, Brivari had proceeded at once to the abandoned dwelling where Orlon and the others had hidden to wait out the effects of the human sedative. He had approached slowly, cautiously, every nerve alert; there should be only one hunter conscious, but one was enough if you were the careless type. But there was no movement of any kind around the dwelling, and an hour later when Brivari finally entered, he discovered why—they had moved.

Damn! Brivari had muttered to himself, borrowing a human expletive as he prowled the rooms of the obviously empty house. He was positive that he had not been seen following Orlon last night when he had returned to this place, and given the difficulty of dragging around all those unconscious bodies, Brivari had gambled on them staying put—and lost. A sweep of the immediate area produced nothing. They had not left the one conscious hunter behind lying in wait for him, a testimony to the fact that they knew Brivari was a match for a single hunter. He now had two choices: Expend his energy on a possibly fruitless search when his enemies could be virtually anywhere, or lie in wait in the one place to which he knew they would eventually return—the human military compound. They did not know where Brivari would be, but they knew where Jaddo was, and he was powerless. This is where they would strike tonight, when all of them had awakened. This was the easier target.

Or so they thought. The addition of the x-ray machines, a crude but accurate technology, was yet another welcome intervention by Malik. Given what Brivari had seen so far, it was unlikely that any of Orlon's band would make it into the compound, never mind into the basement. Of course, he was now cut off from Jaddo too as the Healer had said, but unbeknownst to her, he was anyway. Deprived of the element of surprise and the lesser numbers he had been hoping to exploit, his only hope now lay in picking them off one by one. That would take time....and during that time, he would have to be exceptionally careful about how he approached the compound. With hunters around, he could no longer take the risk of actually entering the compound, x-rays or no x-rays.

<Jaddo?> Brivari called, moving to the side of the bed and pretending to check him as The Healer would. <Jaddo? Wake up.>

No answer. <Jaddo, can you hear me?>

Still no answer. Brivari allowed himself a moment of relief tinged with guilt. Part of him had been hoping Jaddo would be at least slightly conscious....and part of him had been hoping he wouldn't. Now he wouldn't have to look Jaddo in the eye and tell him that he wouldn't be back for possibly a long, long time. That Jaddo was now on his own, with only their human allies for support. That he was now what he had always feared most—alone.

 Brivari said softly, just in case Jaddo could hear. <Do not lose hope. Your Ward still lives, and he still needs you.>

As do the rest of the hybrids, Brivari thought as he knocked on the door, unwilling to risk a longer stay because the Healer was still about. David Proctor had been right—the odds were unquestionably against him. If he failed tonight, if he were captured or killed, that would leave only Jaddo as the last hope for the resurrection of the Royal Four.

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

Roswell, New Mexico

"Major Cavitt," Sheriff Wilcox said pleasantly, leaning on the open windowsill of the driver's door. "We meet again. And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. What a treat." His eyes moved to the terrified driver, to the guard in the passenger seat aiming his weapon at Valenti, and finally, to Valenti himself, still aiming his own small pistol at Cavitt. "Looks like you boys have a bit of a problem."

Cavitt lowered his own window. "Thank God you're here, Sheriff," he answered, effecting a breathless tone. "I'm afraid your Deputy has become somewhat....unhinged."

Wilcox's gaze shifted to Valenti. "That so?"

"Indeed," Cavitt continued. "He entered my vehicle willingly and then proceeded to attack me, as you can plainly see."

"That's a lie!" Valenti exclaimed. "He told me he'd answer my questions, and then he announced he was going to lock me up and throw away the key if I didn't change my testimony on what happened last night at the Proctors'!"

"Nonsense," Cavitt scoffed. "All I wanted from you was the truth! Honestly, Deputy, do you really think you're going to get away with this? I have two witnesses right here who will testify on my behalf."

"You mean lie on your behalf," Valenti said grimly. "I suppose you threatened them too?"

"I did nothing of the sort!" Cavitt retorted.

"Gentlemen," Wilcox broke in blandly, "—and I use the term loosely, mind you—this is all fascinating, but first things first. Lower your weapons."

No one moved. He'll shoot, Valenti thought, eyeing the guard in the front seat, whose gun hadn't budged. Right now, the only thing keeping Valenti alive was the fact that he had his pistol pointed straight at Cavitt's head.

"I said, lower your weapons," Wilcox repeated firmly.

"I need an order from my commanding officer," the guard in the front seat said stoutly.

"Look around you, son," Wilcox replied. "This isn't the base. This is Chaves County...and I'm the Sheriff of Chaves County. Out here, I am your commanding officer. Both of you, lower your weapons or I'll order my deputies to shoot."

All eyes flicked out the windows. McMahon's and Wood's hands rested on their weapons, waiting for the Sheriff's order.

Slowly, Valenti and the guard lowered their weapons. "That's better," Wilcox said approvingly. "Always tough to have a decent conversation with a gun in your face."

"Thank you for diffusing the situation, Sheriff," Cavitt said smoothly as Valenti sagged into the corner of the back seat, so delighted to not be only inches from death that he didn't care what Cavitt was going to try next. "Now, if you'll accompany us to the base, I will begin the process of levying charges against Deputy Valenti."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Major," Wilcox said regretfully.

Cavitt's face darkened. "And why not? You saw him pointing a weapon at me, saw him with your own eyes! Only the quick intervention of my guard saved my life!"

"No doubt," Wilcox said, with what Valenti hoped was mock seriousness. "But I'm afraid we have a little jurisdictional problem here. You see, by your own admission, Deputy Valenti committed these alleged acts in my county. That makes him my problem. I'm going to have to place him under arrest."

"And you actually except me to believe that you're going to keep him in custody while I pursue charges against him?" Cavitt asked skeptically.

"I'd never dream of telling you what to believe, Major," Wilcox said calmly. "Oh—and since this unfortunate little incident is going before the judge, I propose we save some time and bring my charges against you at the same time."

"Your charges for what?" Cavitt demanded.

"Attempted bribery of a law enforcement officer."

"Sheriff," Cavitt scoffed, "I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about. Do you have any witnesses to this ridiculous claim?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Wilcox smiled. "Deputy Valenti here was eavesdropping. He heard the whole thing."

"I gather you think the judge will take the word of an obviously deranged man?" Cavitt asked coldly.

"I think the judge will take the word of a man he's worked with for twenty-five years," Wilcox said in a conversational tone. "That would be me, of course. But if you don't think so, you're certainly free to plead your case. I'm sure the Daily Record and KGFL will be very interested in anything you have to say."

"That course of action would be a huge mistake," Cavitt warned.

"Don't worry, Major," Wilcox said expansively. "Everything in my testimony will be the truth, which is exactly what you just told me you were looking for from my deputy. Although," he added dryly as Cavitt scowled, "I would imagine some truths are more desirable than others. To you at least."

Tucked in the corner of the back seat, Valenti worked hard to suppress a grin. Alerting the radio stations and newspapers was definitely not in Cavitt's best interests; the bad press the Army had received over the Brazel incident was still smoking. And so was Cavitt, sitting there like a uniformed thundercloud, glaring at Wilcox, who stared back unperturbed.

"Now that that's settled, let's move along," Wilcox said cheerfully. "Deputy Valenti, would you please step out of the car."

"I can't, sir," Valenti answered, glancing at the still depressed lock button on his door. "The door is locked, and it won't open."

"Major," Wilcox said evenly, "please open the door and allow my deputy to exit."

"I'm terribly sorry," Major Cavitt said. "There must be something wrong with the door. Tell you what. We'll proceed to the base since we're so close anyway, and I'll have the mechanics there take a look at it."

"Unlock the door, Major, or I'll have my deputies shoot the lock out."

"Really, Sheriff," Cavitt said severely. "You're beginning to sound as unhinged as your deputy."

Wilcox leaned on Cavitt's windowsill. "Major, I don't give jack shit what you think I sound like. Open that door, or I'll open it for you."

Cavitt's eyebrows rose. "Now who's making threats?"

Wilcox straightened up. "Gentlemen."

McMahon and Woods promptly drew their weapons, pointing them at the car. Woods' eyes were hard, while McMahon's were popping. "You'll need to shoot the latch on the back passenger door," Wilcox instructed them. "Deputy Valenti, I'm afraid you'll need to move closer to Major Cavitt. Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"You wouldn't dare," Cavitt hissed.

Wilcox's eyes flicked downward. "Try me."

Valenti hesitated, not wanting to move so much as a millimeter closer to Cavitt. Woods and McMahon hovered outside, not wanting to fire at the car unless they had to.

The door lock abruptly popped up. Valenti scrambled out of the car, not knowing or caring if it had been Cavitt or one of the guards who had caved. Fresh air had never tasted so good.

"Looks like your door fixed itself," Wilcox commented.

"You've made an enemy today, Sheriff," Cavitt said in a deadly voice. "I hope you realize that."

"Oh, please," Wilcox answered with a broad smile. "You don't scare me, Major. I've been Sheriff of this county for the past quarter century, and no one holds a position like that without making enemies. You're at the end of a very long line."

"I have a habit of pushing to the front of the line," Cavitt said softly.

"No surprise there," Wilcox answered, "but if I were you, I'd keep something in mind. That," he said, nodding toward the base, "is your turf. Chaves County is my turf. Nobody screws with me and mine in my county, and when you're in my county, you play by my rules. And if you don't like that...stay the hell out of my county."

"For your sake, I pray the day never comes when you find yourself on my turf," Cavitt said, his eyes boring into Wilcox.

"Given that you're far more likely to find yourself in my county, you might want to consider redirecting those prayers, Major." Wilcox stepped back from the car. "Deputies, move your vehicles and let this asshole out of here."

"With pleasure, sir," Woods answered grimly. McMahon hurried to the other car, eyes still bulging, while Valenti stood off to one side. A minute later, Cavitt's car roared off, kicking up a huge cloud of dust; when it settled, Valenti found himself staring straight at Wilcox.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Valenti said, surprised to find his voice shaking. "How'd you find me?"

"We received a phone call saying that you'd gotten into Cavitt's car," Wilcox answered. "I'd read your report, so it didn't take a Harvard graduate to put it all together."

"A call?" Valenti echoed. "From whom?"

"Don't know," McMahon answered, coming up behind Wilcox. "Sounded panicky. Sounded young. But I knew something was up because Cavitt had called you earlier," he added, smiling proudly as though he'd pulled off a great piece of detective work.

Evans, Valenti thought. So he hadn't run away after all. He must have hung around long enough to see him leave with Cavitt, and then called the Sheriff. He owed his life to a nine year-old boy.

"C'mon, Jim," Woods was saying. "Let's go home."

Valenti nodded numbly, following Woods as he tucked his small pistol into his pocket. "Bastard," he muttered. "He kept my gun."

"You're damned lucky that's all he kept," Wilcox said, falling in step beside him. "If I thought I could've gotten you out of there, I would've let him take you just to drive the point home."

Valenti said nothing, walking beside the Sheriff in miserable silence until Wilcox stepped in front of him.

"Tell me one thing. Did he tell you what you wanted to know?"

"Yes," Valenti said faintly.

"I see." Wilcox pondered that in silence for a moment. "So—was it worth it?"

Valenti stepped around the Sheriff, heading for the car.

"No."

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

I'll post Chapter 81 next Sunday.

Roswell Fanatics

Comes The Inquisitor Series(AU,TEEN) Complete - 9/23