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

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading, and thanks for the feedback! ^





CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT


February 18, 2000, 4 p.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe




During the weeks Kathleen Topolsky had sat at her desk taking phone calls from agents luckier than her, she'd had occasion to dream. Having thought she'd given up daydreaming in junior high, she'd been surprised to find herself drifting away, lost in thought until a phone would ring with yet another call from yet another agent with yet another problem or need or request. Those daydreams always had one consistent highlight: Her vindication. Perhaps something would be found in Roswell and her earlier calls for caution would be noted. Perhaps her superiors found themselves in need of her expert advice on people she knew better than anyone else. One of her favorites involved her quitting the Bureau only to have them beg her to come back. Another involved the aliens making contact and demanding her as their liaison because they knew her. All involved her reinstatement as a field agent and exoneration on all charges, real or perceived. All left her smiling and feeling marginally better until the next phone call came in, reminding her once again that she'd been relegated to a desk job doing essentially nothing and making her reach for another daydream. This cycle of reality and fantasy had served her well through long, boring days that made her wonder if she needed a new job. What was the point of being an FBI agent if the sum total of one's duties was answering phones?

Sitting on the bench outside the Bureau's Field Office with her venti soy half fat double shot latte balanced on her lap and a stranger who knew an awful lot about her, it appeared her vindication had come at last. Finally, she thought with an inward mental sigh. Finally, someone had listened. Finally, someone was coming to her for input. Finally, finally, finally...but first things first.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Topolsky said. "You know who I am, but you are...?"

The nattily dressed man held out a hand. "Brian Samuels. Agent Brian Samuels."

"From this office?" Topolsky asked.

"From the Special Unit," Samuels answered. "Just like you."

"But which branch?" Topolsky persisted. "I've never heard of you, so I'm guessing not this one."

"Washington," Samuels answered.

Topolsky's eyes widened. Only the very top of the Unit food chain were in Washington, which was not regarded as a branch; Washington was Mount Olympus. "Wow," she said, her hand faltering ever so slightly on her latte before she steadied it. "Washington calling on little old me? Who would have thought."

"We're calling on a number of people who appear to share our concern that the alien threat isn't being taken seriously," Samuels said. "The Unit hasn't been itself since Agent Summers died. Too many things are falling through the cracks."

"Tell me about it," Topolsky said ruefully. "There are days I forget I even work for the Unit. Most days it feels like I'm working for any old FBI branch."

"Exactly," Samuels agreed. "You and I, all of us, joined the Unit for two reasons: We were the best of the best, and we wanted the best. None of us are interested in being ordinary agents, but that's largely what we've become. And no wonder—the plan is to fold the Unit back into the Bureau, making us ordinary agents in more than name only."

"So...what are you saying? Is the Unit getting smaller? Are we looking at layoffs?"

"Word is we're being disbanded," Samuels answered.

"Disbanded?" Topolsky exclaimed. "Why? We held a live alien once, for God's sake. Why would they disband us?"

"Ask Director Freeh."

"The director?" Topolsky said in astonishment. "No. No, there's no way the director would be in favor of that, not with the records at his disposal. He knows the alien threat is real, assuming he can read, that is. Why would he disband our last, best hope to fight it?"

"Why, indeed?" Samuels agreed. "What I meant was, ask Director Freeh because he talks to the congressmen and senators who give us our mandates and pay our bills. The Unit is expensive, and with no obvious threats for a while now, or at least none they acknowledge..."

"They don't want to fork over the money," Topolsky finished in disgust. "Unbelievable. Unbelievable."

"We'd like to show the people signing the checks that there's no need to disband us, that we can work smaller and smarter," Samuels went on. "We're gathering our best and brightest in Washington...and we'd like to extend an invitation for you to join us there."

"You mean a transfer?" Topolsky said. "I'm not sure Agent Stevens would approve of that."

"He wouldn't have to," Samuels said. "Orders would come from Washington."

Topolsky hesitated, incredibly tempted but still skeptical. "And what would I be doing in this new job, Agent Samuels? Because even if I do think I had a raw deal in Roswell, I know I'm not one of the Unit's 'best and brightest'. Why me?"

"Because you were the one who went to Roswell," Samuels answered. "You have intimate knowledge of the suspects. You felt there was something to the recent sighting, and so do we. We'd like to distill the Unit down to those who are still able to recognize alien activity when they see it."

"And those who can't?" Topolsky said. "What happens to them?"

Samuels smiled faintly. "Your concern is admirable, Agent, but the Unit is fighting for its very existence. We need to both downsize and prove our relevance if we're going to survive. The latter involves convincing a Congress who hasn't seen irrefutable evidence like the '47 crash that aliens are still here. The former involves the careful selection of a core group of agents who know what they're looking for. Anyone left over can always take a job within the Bureau, and if they truly don't believe aliens are still among us or are incapable of recognizing the signs of their presence, perhaps they should. Perhaps they'd be better off."

Topolsky eyes dropped to her cooling coffee. "The first time I knew aliens were real was when Agent Summers was murdered. I'd read all the reports, of course, looked at all the photographs...but that was the first time it really hit home. That it became personal." She paused. "He hired me, you know. Right from my graduation ceremony at Quantico. Totally out of the blue."

Samuels nodded. "We know. Agent Summers didn't do a lot of his own recruiting, so we made a point of looking up those he'd handpicked. Yet another reason I'm here now."

A church bell clanged, and Topolsky glanced at her watch. "I have to go. I'll give what you said some thought. Where can I reach you?"

Samuels handed her a business card. "Call me. Any time of the day or night. This would be an official transfer, so pay and benefits remain the same and you'd get the standard relocation allowance in addition to a group of people who'll take you seriously. You're wasting your time in a desk job, Kathleen. Everything you know, everything you learned out there is wasted. Please don't let yourself go to waste."

Exactly how I've been feeling, Topolsky thought as she took the card from him. "Oh, and one more thing," Samuels added. "Don't mention this to Agent Stevens. It might not surprise you to learn that he wasn't considered one of our best and brightest."

"Agent Stevens is a good agent," Topolsky allowed, feeling a moral obligation to at least make a show of defending her boss.

"That he is," Samuels agreed. "But being a good agent doesn't make one a good Unit agent. We're a different breed altogether, which is why you haven't been able to get through to him. You'd have better luck in Washington." He gave her a small, almost courtly bow. "It's been nice talking to you, Agent Topolsky. I hope to hear from you soon."

Topolsky took her time walking back into the building, tossing her now cold latte into a trash can on the way. It was not uncommon for one branch of the Bureau to poach an agent from another, and not uncommon for that to cause hard feelings, so not saying anything to Stevens made sense. Relocation allowances were standard, covering the cost of finding an apartment and moving one's belongings. One frequently transferred at a higher rate of pay, but if the concern was that the Unit was being disbanded for budgetary reasons, they couldn't very well offer her any more money. And none of this even began to touch the sheer enormity of transferring to Washington, of all places. She felt like Cinderella being asked to the ball...and that bothered her. There was something a little off about this offer, a niggling feeling that all was not right. It followed her all the way back to her desk, where she ignored her ringing phone and the rapidly blinking message light on her answering machine and did a little due diligence. Agent Brian Samuels, it turned out, was totally legit, having joined the Bureau in 1989 with Washington his first and only posting. She lingered over his photo, wondering if Summers had handpicked him too given that Washington was a rare destination for any agent, never mind one fresh out of Quantico. Naturally that information wasn't available in the Bureau's database because, officially, the Special Unit didn't exist.

"Agent Topolsky?"

Topolsky jumped, managing to clear her computer screen before Stevens rounded the cubicle corner with his assistant, Pamela, on his heels. "Agent Stevens! I was just..."

"Not answering your phone, that's what you were 'just'," Stevens said testily. "Agent Bering has been trying to reach you for some time now. He said he left several messages...which I gather is true," he added with a pointed look at her frantically blinking answering machine.

"Sorry, sir," Topolsky said quickly. "I just got back from my break, and—"

"I don't care if you just got back from Mars," Stevens interrupted. "Agents in the field should not be left hanging. Get on it."

A flicker of defiance stirred in Topolsky. Agent Bering was one of the agents assigned to last month's sighting who had been completely unaware of the relevance of the evidence he'd collected and disdainful of her input, yet she was supposed to drop everything when he snapped his fingers. Agent Bering didn't have any friggin' idea what was going on out there and no interest in listening to someone who did, but he took precedence while she had to fight for the right to take a break.

"Sir, we're going to be late for the meeting," Pamela prompted with a sympathetic look at Topolsky.

"Yes, yes, I'm going," Stevens said crossly, heading for the elevator.

Topolsky watched the elevator door close behind him before removing Agent Samuels' card from her pocket.

"You know what?" she said softly. "So am I."




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




"Well?" Pierce's voice demanded.

"She's interested," Brian reported, his phone to his ear as he walked rapidly down the street about a block from the field office. "Wary, but interested."

"Wary about what? You just offered her Washington. What more could she want?"

"She's loyal to the Bureau," Brian noted. "When I felt her out on the subject of the director wanting to shut us down, she didn't believe it. She thinks Freeh would never do that."

"Oh, of course she does," Pierce said disdainfully.

"In fairness, many of our recruits felt the same way," Brian said. "I shifted the blame to pencil pushers in Congress, and that she bought."

"Good."

"She's also loyal to Stevens," Brian went on. "She called him a 'good agent'."

"I can't believe I let you talk me into going after this airhead," Pierce complained. "Tell me again what she brings to the table except a modest rack and a decent pair of legs?"

"You know perfectly well what she brings to the table," Brian said patiently. "Information. She can tell us who to go after in Roswell better than anyone can. Hubble's death brought a couple of dozen agents to the party, but all the agents in the world are meaningless if we don't know what we're doing."

"I still say we can collect this information ourselves," Pierce argued.

"Not fast enough," Brian said. "Not quietly enough. No one can know we're there, Danny, and the longer we're there, the more likely someone will know. Going into Roswell with Kathleen Topolsky in our back pocket saves us one hell of a lot of time. With what she knows, we might be able to make this a surgical extraction, or damned close to it. We don't even have far to bring them; Eagle Rock's a stone's throw away."

"If she's loyal to the Bureau and Stevens, what makes you think she'll play ball?"

"Once we know what she knows, she won't have to," Brian said. "Look, she's in a crap job now, and she knows it. Bring her to Washington, butter her up, treat her like she's important, hang on her every word, and she'll eat it up. By the time she figures out where we're headed, if she objects—if she objects—it'll be too late to do anything about it."

"You'd better be right about that," Pierce said darkly. "I wouldn't be surprised if she blew you in just for having that conversation."

"Blew me in to whom?" Brian said innocently. "Blew me in for what? For telling her the Unit faces disbandment? Everyone knows that, or they should if they're paying attention. We just had a friendly conversation about the state of the Unit and our mutual desire to see it thrive, and if she remembers it differently...well...it's her word against mine."

"That's what I like about you, Brian," Pierce laughed. "Sometimes you're almost as devious as I am."

"Thank you," Brian smiled. "By the way, speaking of devious...were you ever going to mention that Summers hand-picked her?"

"Oh, she told you that, did she? Well, of course she did. Yeah, Summers recruited her. Call it a moment of weakness. He wanted to 'expand our horizons', or something like that."

"Summers was no fool," Brian noted. "He must have seen something in her."

"Sure he did. A 'C' cup and legs that go all the way up to there."

"Wow," Brian deadpanned. "Cynical, much?"

"I'm serious," Pierce insisted.

"Which is odd for someone who idolized Summers," Brian commented.

"I didn't idolize him," Pierce protested. "I had a great deal of respect for him, but even he had his weaknesses."

"Perhaps," Brian allowed. "Although choosing agents would not appear to be one of them."

"Everyone gets at least one clinker," Pierce said. "I'm just afraid she'll wind up mine. That's assuming she takes the bait, that is."

"She'll take it," Brian promised. "I'm sure of it."






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




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Wait for me outside," Mrs. DeLuca said.

Michael gave the woman who had just saved his ass a tentative smile which she did not return, not that he blamed her. He'd followed Valenti up here like a man on his way to his own execution, desperately wishing she'd simply picked up the phone. God knows he did awkward, but this was too awkward even for him. This was the second time today he'd had to face her, although this time he had his pants on, no small relief. It was something of a miracle that she was here at all; granted he'd helped her out with that Alien Takedown bit, but after the way she'd freaked out this morning without even bothering to ask a single question, he was pretty certain that all the wrestling matches in the world wouldn't have dragged her down here to bail him out of jail, even if bail was set at her word. Whatever the reason for her largesse, this instant dismissal meant he didn't have to use the lame "thank you" speech he'd hastily thrown together on the way up here, and he slipped into the hallway, grateful to have avoided yet another scene...only to find himself alone with Maria. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Hey," he said uncomfortably.

"Hey, yourself," Maria answered. She waited a painfully long moment before speaking again. "So...where do you think Hank is?"

"No clue," Michael said. "He was there when I left last night, and that's the God's honest truth."

"Of course it is," Maria said. "I believe you."

Her tone was quiet and reassuring, and Michael instantly felt guilty for getting defensive. "Listen, I...I really appreciate this," he went on, nodding toward the office door. "I know I didn't exactly give your mom a reason to help me. Although it might have been nice if she'd kept the screaming to a minimum and given me a chance to put my pants on."

Maria made a sound somewhere between a wince and a chuckle. "You blithering idiot," she said, shaking her head. "Why didn't you just tell Valenti where you were? I mean, it was really noble of you not to say anything, but jail? Jail is when you stop being noble."

"And what would have happened if I'd told him?" Michael asked. "He would have called your mom for verification, who would have said...what?"

"I'm not sure," Maria admitted. "Probably nothing good."

"Exactly. Besides, you know what he would have thought. We didn't do anything, but he would have thought we did. Just like she did."

"I told her we just slept," Maria said quickly. "I made that very clear."

"Yeah, and how'd that go over?" Michael asked.

Maria sighed and leaned against the wall. "Not well. Look, she was totally out of line. She just lost it, probably because I walked in on her and Valenti making out last night."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Your mom and Valenti? You're kidding."

"I wish I were," Maria said darkly. "I can just imagine why he's developed a sudden interest in my mother, of all people."

"So that's why he believed her," Michael said. "Whatever. Works for me."

"I make no excuses for the way she acted this morning," Maria said. "But I got her to change her mind this afternoon."

"You did this?" Michael said. "How'd you pull that one off?"

"I begged," Maria admitted. "A lot. It's okay," she added when she saw the look on his face. "You didn't ask me to; I decided to. And it was worth it. The begging, her blowing up...all of it."

Michael looked away, suddenly self-conscious. If life as a non-human foster child had taught him anything, it was that it wasn't wise to become indebted to anyone or depend on anyone but yourself, and yet here he was, indebted all over again and to the same person, no less. Trouble was, all the alarms which normally went off in situations like these weren't going off this time. Trouble was, he kind of liked it.

"I didn't think you were going to let me in last night," he said suddenly.

"That's because I wasn't," Maria said. "I figured 'stone walls' would be just fine out in the rain."

"So why did you?"

Her eyes dropped. "Because I knew that if you were coming to me, something must be wrong. Really wrong. And based on what Isabel told me, I was right."

"Isabel," Michael muttered. "She told you."

"I made her," Maria said quickly. "She couldn't find you, and I wouldn't tell her I'd seen you until she told me why she was looking. What did he do to you, Michael?"

Michael kept his eyes on a crack on the opposite wall. "Not much. A black eye. Max fixed it."

" 'Not much'?" she repeated incredulously. "Michael, a black eye isn't 'not much'. A black eye is assault!"

"See, this is why I didn't want anyone to know," Michael said, "because I knew they'd feel sorry for me, and blow it all out of proportion, and make it sound worse than it really was."

"No it isn't," Maria insisted. "You didn't want anyone to know because you hate needing help, and you hate it because you're always afraid you're not going to get any."

Michael kept his eyes on the wall crack, marveling at the fact that he wasn't feeling angry. That statement should have pissed him off, but it didn't. She didn't sound angry, or accusatory, or even vaguely annoyed, just...sad. And worried. About him.

"Maybe," he allowed. "But there's another reason. Like I told Isabel, Hank's a jerk, but that was all I had. There aren't a lot of places for a kid my age to go, and I don't want to wind up in one of those homes. As long as I could handle it, as long as it wasn't too bad...well, let's just say it could get worse. A lot worse."

"Then we need to make certain that doesn't happen," Maria said firmly. "Isabel was talking about something her dad arranged, about a kid our age living on his own."

"Her dad hates me," Michael said. "He made that clear last night."

"I heard you weren't exactly a paragon of virtue yourself," Maria said dryly. "And I thought it was her mom who hated you."

"Her too."

"Really? Cause it didn't sound like it to me."

"Okay, so maybe she wasn't as bad as she usually is," Michael admitted, reflecting privately that Diane Evans had displayed none of her usual annoyance last night, had even been friendly. "And that was weird. I would rather she'd been her usually pissy self."

"Oh, right," Maria nodded. "Because that way you're the victim, and it's someone else's fault." She paused, waiting for that to sink in. "Michael, in some ways, you are a victim. But sometimes you make yourself a victim. You make it harder than it has to be."

"Yeah, well, you know what they say," Michael answered. "There's value in the preemptive strike."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's easier for me to reject people before they have a chance to reject me."

He was staring at the floor now, the crack being uncomfortably level with her face...but that didn't stop him feeling the hand which slipped into his. "I didn't reject you," she said softly.

"Yeah, I...I know," Michael said, still carefully keeping his eyes averted. "And, a...thanks for letting me in. I didn't know where else to go, and...and I haven't slept that well in a long time. Maybe ever."

She took his face in her hands, raised it to hers. "Me neither," she smiled.

The door to Valenti's office opened abruptly. First out was Mrs. DeLuca, of course, whose eyes narrowed when she saw them.

"Mrs. DeLuca," Michael said before she could erupt. "I...appreciate you coming all the way down here, and...well...you know."

"Mmm hmm," she murmured skeptically.

"Where were you planning on staying, son?" Valenti asked him, ignoring the layer of frost building up on the woman beside him.

"At the trailer," Michael answered. "Where else?"

"Will you be all right there by yourself?"

"Sure," Michael shrugged. "I'm by myself a lot anyway. Hank'll show up eventually. Last time this happened, some cop from another town brought him back."

"You let me know the minute you see him," Valenti ordered as Mrs. DeLuca's eyes widened. "And I meant what I said earlier. I'll see to it that they find you another—"

" 'Situation'," Michael finished. "Yeah. You mentioned that."

"Uh...we should be going," Mrs. DeLuca said, gazing at him curiously.

"I'll walk you out, Amy," Valenti smiled.

They walked away, Maria bringing up the rear, but not before mouthing Amy? and sticking her fingers down her throat. Michael waited until he could be certain they'd left the building before going downstairs. Three encounters with Maria's mother in one day was too many.

"Michael!" Isabel exclaimed when she caught sight of him. "What happened? Maria and her mom just left, but she couldn't talk because her mother rushed her out of here—"

"Slow down, Isabel," Max broke in. "Give him a minute."

Isabel blinked. "Right. Right, I was just...I mean, we were just worried."

"So what happened?" Max asked.

So much for a minute, Michael thought. "Hank's gone, don't know where. Valenti thought I knew something about it, but I don't. End of story."

"But why didn't you tell him where you were?" Isabel protested. "And why were you with her, anyway? Why didn't you come to us?"

"Do I really need to answer that? Isabel...not here," Michael added, pushing past her when she opened her mouth. "Let's go. I've seen enough of the Sheriff's Station to last me a lifetime."




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





"So it looks like we just got unlucky," Brivari said. "God knows much worse has happened in that trailer park and no one reported it, so we certainly didn't expect anyone to report anything this time."

"And no one did," Dee's voice said over the phone. "The residents there probably see enough of the police. If that gun hadn't gone off, that motorist wouldn't have heard it and called it in."

"It would appear Valenti's concern stemmed from the fact that Rath wouldn't tell him where he spent the night," Brivari went on. "Once that was settled, he let him go.

"I wish he'd come here," Dee said sadly, "but I imagine my house is too far away, especially on foot in the rain."

"Valenti apparently told Rath he'd contact Social Services for him," Brivari said. "How much time do we have?"

"Not much," Dee said. "Michael's a minor, which means they'll have to act quickly. Someone isn't officially missing until forty-eight hours have passed, so they'll probably wait that long, but no longer."

"Damn it," Brivari muttered. "I could strangle whoever made that call. If not for that, we could have arranged to have Hank missing for weeks with none the wiser."

"Or none that mattered," Dee added. "But I'm afraid that ship has sailed. I told Isabel as much when she asked me again to intervene with Philip on Michael's behalf. I told her I'd love to, but Michael had to cooperate. Even she knew that wasn't likely to happen. She's afraid he'll leave town."

"Rath?" Brivari said. "Leave his king? Unlikely. If he...wait. That's my other line. I'll call you back."

Brivari rung off with Dee and connected his other line. "Jaddo? Where are you?"

"At the trailer," Jaddo's voice said, heavy with concern. "He's...he's leaving, Brivari."

"Jesus," Brivari muttered, "I always said she was a weather vane, but this is ridiculous. Dee just told me Vilandra was worried Rath would leave town, and I thought she was nuts."

"Would that she were," Jaddo said. "Zan was here, and he tried to stop him, but..."

"Well, go get him," Brivari said impatiently. "We can't very well have the King's Second wandering around God knows where."

"This isn't like him," Jaddo said worriedly. "He doesn't just give up like this. Soldiers don't simply walk away from a fight."

"Of course they do," Brivari said. "It's called 'retreat'. He's retreating from the near certainty that he'll wind up in an institution, but there's already a fix for that, this emancipation Dee's been talking about. But he'll have to ask for help and be willing to accept it."

"He was never good at accepting help," Jaddo admitted, "although he would when he had to. This definitely meets the criteria for 'have to'."

"He's not himself, Jaddo," Brivari reminded him. "At the moment he's still a child, a proud, stubborn, frightened child. Go get him and bring him back. Reveal yourself if you have to. This is that important."

"I'd rather not," Jaddo said, sounding genuinely troubled. "Given his behavior, he's not ready to know."

"Then get him back here some other way," Brivari said. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"It's not that simple," Jaddo protested. "If I bring him back, what's to stop him from leaving tomorrow? He needs to not only come back, he needs to fix the problem. He needs to go to Zan's guardian and accept his help, and I...I don't know how to make that happen. You're much better at this than I am. Could I...could you..."

His voice trailed off, and Brivari sighed heavily. Like Ward, like Warder; if Rath had difficulty asking for help, his Warder wasn't much better.

"I'll bring him back," Brivari promised. "One way or another."



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


Vacation starts next week, so I'll post Chapter 79 on Sunday, July 8.

[Kathy W]

Hello everyone! We're back from the west coast, where we were visiting our son who lives in New Zealand (we met him half way). Thanks for reading and waiting!



SEVENTY-NINE



February 18, 2000, 10:00 p.m.

Outskirts of Roswell



"Ain't no aliens in that town. Let me ask you something—if you were an alien, you can go anywhere in the world...would you pick Roswell?"

His hands caressing the healing stones, Michael looked at the truck driver who had responded to his thumb. He wasn't the least bit certain anyone had "picked" Roswell; more likely they'd just crashed there by pure chance, and he and Max and Isabel were the only survivors. Or at least that's what he liked to tell himself because it was a better story than the one where there had been other survivors who had left them behind, even though that was a more fitting tale for his current mood.

"Trust me, there ain't nothin' in that town," the trucker declared.

Not even Hank, Michael thought. The trailer had been oddly quiet when he'd returned to find Hank was indeed missing. Nothing appeared to have been stolen, and although Hank wasn't exactly a model of predictable behavior, he was in one regard: Paid employment. The fact that he hadn't shown up for work was weird because Hank loved nothing more than the money which bought his precious booze. Still, he wasn't missing him, and it was just too damned bad that the sheriff had gotten wind of this so quickly. He could have lived for at least another month all alone in the trailer, especially with the money from the coffee can which Hank thought was a big secret and which he'd nicked. Hank owed him that.

"So you a resident or a tourist?"

It was the trucker again, still warm to his subject. "A resident," Michael answered. "Who's leaving."

"Smart boy," the trucker nodded. "Like I said, ain't—"

"Nothing in that town," Michael finished tonelessly. "Yeah. I heard."

"You got somethin' there?" the trucker asked curiously.

Nothing but the only people I call family, Michael thought sadly. And trouble. He hadn't told Max about the message on Hank's answering machine from his case worker at Social Services. She was planning a visit tomorrow, which meant the merry-go-round would begin all over again. He vividly remembered what had happened when the Guerins had split, how the relatively stable home he'd enjoyed had disappeared overnight, replaced by a dormitory full of bunk beds and similarly displaced boys where life bore a striking resemblance to Lord of the Flies. It was fend for yourself and it stayed that way during the long search for a new "situation", a task made difficult by the fact that he'd become too old for most foster parents to be bothered with. If that was true then, it was even more true now, so there was no way in hell he was going back to that. No, he needed to make himself scarce until he was 18. Then it would be safe to come back.

"I said, you got somethin' there?" the trucker repeated.

"Not any more," Michael answered, his eyes out the window.

"So you did have somethin' there," the trucker deduced.

"Brilliant," Michael deadpanned. "But none of your business."

"Down, boy," the trucker warned. "Don't have to be a jackass about it."

"Who's being a jackass?" Michael demanded. "You're the one who—"

A loud bang sounded, and the truck lurched sideways. Cursing, the trucker pulled off to the side of the road, where they both jumped out.

"Jesus Christ Almighty!" the trucker swore when he saw the blown tire. "They said they fixed it! That garage ain't worth jack shit! It'll take the company service weenies a month of Sundays to get out here in the middle of nowhere!"

The tirade continued as Michael looked up and down the road. This hardly qualified as "the middle of nowhere", but it was certainly inconvenient, and it was starting to rain. He was considering attempting a repair when lights appeared in the distance. A minute later, another truck pulled up.

"Trouble?" the driver called.

"Blew a tire," Michael's driver said in disgust.

"Need a lift?"

"Gotta stay with my rig," Michael's driver said. "But the kid might want one."

"Goin' north," the driver said to Michael. "Santa Fe, but I'm stopping first at the truck stop coupla miles from here for a bite."

"Sounds good," Michael said, grabbing his stuff. He climbed into the other cab and the truck pulled away, leaving the first driver on his cellphone.

"Where you headed?" the new driver asked.

"Anywhere," Michael answered.

"Interesting. What state is 'anywhere' in?"

"Very funny."

"Thanks. I do comedy."

Irritated, Michael glanced sideways. What stroke of luck had landed him with two chatty truck drivers? Hitching rides was always something of a crap shoot, from getting the ride in the first place, to how far the driver was going, to how friendly the driver was, but he really wasn't in the mood to talk right now. Judging by the look on this one's face, he wasn't going to get that lucky, so he may as well steer the conversation himself."

"So the last guy hated Roswell," Michael said. "Said he only went through here because it's on his route. What about you?"




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




Brivari smiled faintly as he steered the truck down the dark road. The tone was irritated, challenging, and confrontational even though the question was quite bland. A young Rath, it seemed, had Jaddo's gift for picking a fight about even the mundane.

"I don't see as I have an opinion one way or another," he answered. "I don't 'hate' Roswell, I don't love it; it's just there. It's where I landed."

"Yeah?" Rath said. "Me too."

"So why are you leaving?"

"I'm looking for someone. Someone who's apparently not too keen on being found."

"Why do you say that?"

"He keeps leaving hints," Rath said, "but he won't show himself. It's damned annoying."

"Mmm. And what will you do when you find him?"

"Nail him to the wall," Rath said darkly, "and make him talk."

Only if I get to watch, Brivari thought dryly. "So if this guy is leaving you 'hints', shouldn't you stay where he's leaving the hints? What makes you think you'll find him some place else?"

Rath's face clouded. "There's other stuff."

"There always is," Brivari agreed.

"Can we not talk about this? I'm really not in the mood for a pep talk."

"Good," Brivari said, "because I'm not in the mood to give one."

Rath shot him a look worthy of his Warder and fell into a sullen silence which lasted all the way to the truck stop, a ramshackle affair which was surprisingly busy at this time of night. "Gonna grab a bite," Brivari said, climbing down from the cab. "Meet me in half an hour. If you're not here, I won't come looking."

"Fair enough," Rath muttered, sliding out his own door and stalking inside behind Brivari, who joined the line at the counter.

"Michael?" a voice said.

Brivari's eyes flicked sideways. *He's all yours. Convince him to turn around, or I'll have to throw him over my shoulder and carry him back.*




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




"Grandma?" Michael said. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Dee smiled, indicating the bench across from her. "Can you join me?"

Michael glanced at the truck driver he'd entered with, a.k.a. Brivari, then back to her. "I've got half an hour," he allowed, sliding into the booth, "so I guess so."

"Hungry?" Dee asked.

"Not really. Okay...maybe a little," Michael amended when Dee gave him a skeptical look. "It's been a day."

"I see," Dee answered, signaling their waitress. "Order anything you want; it's on me. No, I insist," she went on when he began to protest. "Call it a..." She paused, looking pointedly at his bulging backpack. "Well, it looks like it'll be a going away present."

Michael kept his eyes on the table, although he did manage to give the waitress an order for a three egg omelet with everything, toast, hash browns, bacon, sausage, and coffee. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here," he said when the waitress had left.

"Neither have you," Dee noted.

"Ladies first."

"That only counts if you're being genuinely chivalrous," Dee said dryly. "You're merely wondering if I've been sent to fetch you."

"Were you?" Michael asked bluntly.

"I'm on my way back from Santa Fe," Dee answered. "Truck stops aren't pretty, but they have some of the best food out there at the cheapest prices."

"I'll keep that in mind," Michael said.

"Although I do know a bit about your 'day'," Dee went on. "Isabel came to me yesterday asking about how one becomes an emancipated minor."

"Isabel," Michael sighed. "She's probably told the newspapers by now. Why'd she come to you? Did she want you to twist her father's arm?"

"No. She came to me because I'm a lawyer."

Michael blinked. "You're a lawyer? I mean...I didn't mean it like...really?" he finished, unable to contain his surprise even in the face of her raised eyebrows.

"Yes, really," Dee answered. "I was a lawyer back when women didn't become lawyers."

Michael stared at her for a good long while, all the way through the delivery of his coffee. "That makes sense," he said finally. "That makes total sense. I just never thought..."

"That I'd had a job?" Dee finished. "A life? A career? I may be getting older, Michael, but I'm not dead yet."

"I know that," Michael said quickly. "I just meant...it fits. You being a lawyer, that is. I bet you were a good one."

"Why, thank you, Michael. I do like to argue."

"Hey...if you're a lawyer, do you think you could do this emancipating thing for me?" Michael said suddenly. "Isabel's father hates me, but you could do it, couldn't you?"

Got him, Dee thought, her eyes on her sandwich. This was the hook, the link to Philip that Max and Isabel had been unable to provide. If Michael had come to her house last night, she would have been able to do this then, but she could hardly blame him for preferring Maria over an old lady.

"I retired years ago," Dee answered, "and 'Isabel's father' who 'hates you' is my son."

Michael's eyes dropped. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"And he doesn't 'hate you'," Dee went on. "He simply realizes that if you go before a court to request emancipation, you'll need to have your ducks in a row."

"Wait...Isabel said something to him?" Michael demanded. "About me?"

"No, Isabel said something to me, and I said something to Mr. Evans," Dee clarified. "I don't believe Isabel has said a word to her father about you."

"You mean she kept her mouth shut?" Michael said skeptically. "Imagine that. So what'd he...wait. You mean he knows? He knows about this whole emancipating thing, but he didn't say anything to me?"

"No, Michael, he didn't," Dee said patiently. "You're going to have to say something to him."

"See, this is what I can't stand about him," Michael said angrily. "He's into games, that guy. He likes to make people jump through hoops. It's all 'play by the rules' or you're out. So I guess one of his 'rules' is that I have to talk first? Are these written down somewhere so I can find out what they are, or do I just have to guess?"

"Why?" Dee asked. "If you knew what they were, would that make you any more likely to follow them? Because I'm guessing it wouldn't."

Michael opened his mouth, closed it, and stabbed his fork into his newly arrived omelet. "I can answer those questions," Dee went on as he furiously shoveled food into his mouth, "but I'm only willing to do that if you're listening. If not, we'll just drop the whole subject because I don't do business with angry, rude individuals now any more than I did when I was practicing. I'll talk, but only if you're willing to hear me out. I've earned that from you...haven't I?"

The shoveling slowed, as did the stabbing. "Sorry," Michael mumbled after a moment. "I...I'm upset."

"Understandably," Dee allowed. "But what happened to you is not my fault, so don't take it out on me."

"I know, I know, I...go on," Michael finished. "I'm listening. Really listening."

"Good. Now...Mr. Evans didn't say anything to you because he did not believe he had the right to. Isabel told me your problem in confidence, and I admit I broke that confidence to speak to him about it. Mr. Evans felt I was wrong to do so and that it was wrong for his daughter to do so. To raise such a private subject which you had no idea he even knew about and had made clear you didn't want anyone to know about would be a breach of ethics. It was, simply put, none of his business unless you chose to make it his business...and you did not."

Michael's fork paused, and he gave her a fleeting, disconcerted glance. "As for 'following the rules'," Dee went on, "he's a lawyer, Michael. That's what lawyers do—they follow the rules we call laws. If you want the law to recognize you as an adult before you're 18, you'll have to follow the rules to make that happen. If you're not willing to do that, no judge will look twice at you, and Mr. Evans knows this. It would be a waste of time for him to bring you before the court unless he was certain you were willing to do what needs to be done, not to mention personally dangerous; bringing an uncooperative applicant who's clearly not ready to be emancipated would make him look foolish and make people question his judgment, including the judges who hear his cases. Needless to say, that's bad for business."

"Yeah," Michael said, abashed. "I get it."

"As for whether I could take your case, you wouldn't want me to. I haven't practiced law in years, and the judges who would hear your case know Mr. Evans, not me. You want a lawyer they're familiar with and one who's familiar with current law. That would not be me."

Michael chewed on that and his food in silence for several minutes before abruptly pushing his plate away. "Okay, so, what are these rules? What do I have to do?"

"For starters, drop the attitude," Dee replied. "Judges don't like attitude, they have sole discretion to grant or deny a petition for emancipation, and historically they don't like granting them. Learn how to grovel, if only to get what you want."

"Okay," Michael said doubtfully. "What else?"

"They'll want a medical exam, and they'll want you to talk to a psychologist," Dee went on as Michael winced. "And you'll need to show proof of employment and find a place to live."

"How do I hold down a job and go to school?"

"The same way everyone else does," Dee said. "With difficulty. Did I say this would be easy?" she went on when Michael gave a snort of disgust. "Because I don't recall saying that, and if I did, I need to retract that at once. You'll have a job just like the rest of the world, and school on top of it. You're 16 and can legally quit, but the school issue is one of the top reasons judges get queasy about these petitions, so smart applicants submit a plan for finishing high school, at least, even if they don't intend to follow it."

"And what happens to me in the meantime? Where do I live? Can I stay in the trailer?"

"This is where it gets murky," Dee admitted. "Technically speaking, you're a minor, so Social Services should find you another guardian if Hank remains missing. Practically speaking, finding you another guardian would be extremely difficult, and if you're petitioning for emancipation, they'll probably not bother. As for the trailer, that belongs to Hank. Hank's possessions will sit there until he either returns or time runs out on something like rent or a mortgage. As his foster child, I think you could continue to live there. It would involve several people looking the other way...your case worker, the sheriff...but if—if—you had a petition for emancipation filed, I'm betting they'll do just that."

"But petitions can be turned down," Michael said. "So I could go through this song and dance routine only to be tossed back into a home."

"Yes, you could," Dee agreed. "So make it a good one. Don't give anyone even one good reason to turn you down. You're already 16, too old to legally keep in school, so that's in your favor. The judge will know that Social isn't exactly flush with foster parents for your age group, and that will work in your favor too."

"But it still might not work," Michael said. "Why go through all that when it might not work anyway? I mean, if I leave now, I'll have to find work, find a place to live, but I know I'll get to do that."

" 'Places to live' are scarce for 16 year-olds on the run," Dee remarked. "So are jobs that pay a living wage to someone without a high school diploma."

"Which means they're scarce in Roswell too," Michael argued.

"But there are people who know you in Roswell, " Dee said, "or know people who know you, like me, like Mr. Evans. Your chances of finding both are far higher here, where people know you."

"Yeah," Michael said glumly. "Right. They know I have a police record and that I missed a lot of school."

"And that you lived in rough circumstances," Dee added. "They'll give you a chance if you make it clear you're trying to turn yourself around precisely because they know you." She paused as he shook his head slowly, still not buying it. "Let me ask you something. If you could choose what to do, have your pick of the options knowing it was a done deal...which would you choose?"

"I'd stay in Roswell and live on my own," Michael said promptly.

"Well, there you go, then," Dee said. "That's what you really want, so go for it! Go to my son and tell him you want to make this happen. If it doesn't work, you can always skip town later."

"Yeah. I guess," Michael said tonelessly. He glanced at his watch. "I have to get going. Thanks for dinner, Grandma, and...well...just thanks."

"I could bring you back," Dee said gently. "You could spend the night at my house, and I could take you over to Max's tomorrow morning."

She could see he was tempted, turning the offer over in his mind, and for a moment there, she thought he'd accept. "No," he said finally. "Thanks, but...maybe some other time."

"There won't be another time," Dee said. "This is the only chance you'll get to do this. If you run now, no judge will grant an emancipation petition, and frankly, you'll have given them every reason not to."

He hesitated again, but even that wasn't enough. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised. "Take care, Grandma. And don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Oh, but I will worry about you," Dee said sadly. "Every day."

"Well, don't," Michael said. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can," Dee agreed. "So can I. But I'd rather have some help, or at least some company, because it can be a bitch of a job."

He smiled faintly, no doubt finding the mix of age and profanity odd. But it still wasn't enough, and he stood up, shouldering his bag, briefly looking like he was going to say something else before apparently thinking better of it and slouching off without another word.

"Dessert?" the waitress chirped at her elbow.

"Yes, please," Dee sighed. "Your largest chocolate whatever, and a beer. No...make that a whiskey. Straight up."




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




"You're back," the truck driver said.

Michael grunted a reply as he swung his bag, then himself into the cab. He'd never been this conflicted in his life, not even over Maria, which was more conflicted than he'd ever wanted to be. Was he making a huge mistake? Was he giving up his one chance to be free of Hank or any other foster parent for the next two years? If it doesn't work, you can always skip town later. Lot of truth to that. Skipping town was always an option, as long as he wasn't in jail.

"So," the driver said, "still heading to 'anywhere'?"

"I'm really not in the mood right now," Michael grumbled.

"Are you ever?" the driver asked as the engine chugged to life. "Needs to warm up, so we'll be sitting for a spell, but I'm guessing 'anywhere' can wait a few more minutes."

Michael bit back a retort as the driver laughed at his latest joke. Was he really going to sit next to this chucklehead for the next God knows how long? And where was he going, anyway? He had no idea. Hadn't better say that to the driver or he'd be going on about "North No Idea" and "South No Idea". And he'd have to come up with a fake ID with a fake birth date in order to get work, plus a fake diploma and a fake...well...everything. What a pain. Jumping through illegal hoops was almost as much of a pain as jumping through legal hoops.

"Can we get going?" Michael said impatiently.

"Patience, your highness," the driver said. "I told you, the engine needs to—"

"Warm up," Michael finished. "Yeah, you said that. Thing is, modern engines don't need to warm up."

"Who said this was modern? Old engine, old methods. You want a hovercraft, try Back To The Future."

"Who said anything about a hovercraft?" Michael demanded. "All I wanted—"

There was a sudden bang, followed by the cab listing slightly to the right. Michael and the driver climbed out of the cab to find one of the tires blown.

"What, again?" Michael exclaimed. "That's two in one night!"

"I know," the driver agreed, staring at his ruined tire. "And you in both trucks. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had something to do with this."

Michael, who had been on the verge of another rant, stopped short. "Wait...you think I blew out the tires?"

"I was just noticing that you were the common denominator," the driver shrugged. "But you couldn't have blown out this one because you were in the cab. Not unless you're one of those mind benders," he added with a chuckle, wiggling his fingers near his temples.

Oh, God, Michael thought with an uneasy feeling. Had he blown the tires out? It was certainly the kind of thing his powers would do, especially when he got upset, and...and it was even the exact same tire which had blown on the other truck, the one right beneath where he'd been sitting...and both times he'd been angry right before it happened. What did that mean? Did something bad happen if he left Roswell? Were his powers going all whonky? Or maybe he was losing even the little control he had over them? He glanced at his pack, wondering if the healing stones would fix him if something was wrong with him...and then realized there was no one to use them. And that he had all of them, so there was nothing for Max and Isabel to use if either of them ever got sick.

"Good news is, we're at a truck stop," the driver was saying. "Shouldn't take more than a coupla hours to fix. You could go back inside and talk to that old lady friend of yours while you're waiting."

Michael shouldered his pack. "Actually, she offered me a ride...and I think I'm gonna take her up on it."

The truck driver shrugged. "Suit yourself."




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




Two days later

February 21, 2000, 10 a.m.

Office of Social Services, Roswell



The ticking of the clock sounded extremely loud as Dee sat in the waiting room with Michael to her left, one hand drumming on his leg which in turn was drumming on the floor, each in a unique staccato rhythm which didn't gel with the other and was giving her a headache. They'd been sitting here for a good half hour, him drumming and her trying to ignore it, but enough was enough. She reached out and touched his knee.

"Michael? Please...that's getting annoying."

He stopped. "Sorry. I'm just..."

"Worried. I know."

"He's been in there a long time," Michael said. "That can't be good."

"He's been in there for about thirty minutes," Dee corrected. "That's not long at all."

"Seems long," Michael muttered.

"I know it does, but these things take time, and Mr. Evans is very thorough. Ducks in a row, remember?"

He nodded, went back to drumming, then thought better of it when he saw the look on her face. Philip was meeting with Michael's caseworker to iron out the details of how he would live in Hank's absence while his emancipation petition worked its way through the system. Brivari had offered to have Hank reappear and pull out of the foster parent program, but Dee had advised against that—while the agency held out hope that Hank might reappear, they'd be less likely to go through the painful process of relocating his charge. Better to leave Hank safely missing until this was settled.

"Here he comes," Michael whispered.

The office door had opened. Philip emerged and shook the caseworker's hand, who scuttled down the hall while Philip came out to meet them. "She has another meeting," he said, explaining the disappearing caseworker. "They just don't have enough people to do all that needs doing here."

"So what happened?" Michael demanded. "I mean...how did everything work out, sir?" he amended quickly when Dee gave him a pointed glance.

"Very well, Michael, very well," Philip answered, ignoring his initial brusqueness. "Your caseworker is willing to let you stay in Hank's trailer by yourself as long as you have someone to keep an eye on you. She's supposedly going to be making weekly visits, but I wouldn't be too surprised if that didn't happen."

" 'Keep an eye on me'?" Michael said doubtfully. "Who's going to do that? You?"

"No, I'm your lawyer," Philip answered. "I recommended my mother for that job, and your caseworker was only too glad to agree."

"Great!" Michael said.

"It is if Mrs. Evans agrees," Philip said. "I can't speak for her, I merely recommended her. It's a commitment because these petitions can take time, so you need to ask Mrs. Evans if she's willing to shoulder that responsibility."

Dee stifled a smile as Michael's mouth twitched in protest. This was quintessential Philip: Formalities, procedures, and courtesies, otherwise known as "hoop jumping". They'd had several long talks about the necessities of hoop jumping, and so far he'd gotten the message.

"Mrs. Evans, would you agree to...'keep an eye on me' while my petition is in the works?" Michael asked, sounding deeply uncomfortable.

"I would, and gladly," Dee answered. "Thank you, Philip. You did a wonderful job."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Evans," Michael added. "I really appreciate it."

"Don't thank me yet," Philip warned. "My mother can be a taskmaster; I should know."

"Oh, hush," Dee said dryly.

"Your first hearing is in a week," Philip went on. "We'll need to show some progress on finding you a job and a place of your own to live."

"I might be able to help out with that," another voice said.

"Diane!" Philip exclaimed, giving her a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"I had an early housewarming present for Michael," Diane said as Dee's eyebrows rose. "I was thinking this morning about that lovely breakfast you cooked for us, and I had an idea. And a chat, with Jeff Parker, who I know is looking for another cook." She handed Michael a slip of paper. "He'll interview you tomorrow afternoon at 4 p.m. It's largely a formality because he agreed to give you a trial period, at least. Keep your nose clean in the interview, and everything should be fine."

"My goodness, Diane, that's wonderful!" Dee said. "That's positively inspired."

"Honey, that's great," Philip said. "With a job in his pocket, finding an apartment will be much easier. Michael? What do you think? Would you like being a cook?"

Michael was staring at the tiny slip of paper like he couldn't believe it. "I...well...yeah," he finished, flabbergasted. "I guess I just assumed I'd be hauling lumber, or mowing lawns, or...thanks, Mrs. Evans. I know I'm not exactly your favorite person, so...thanks."

Dee struggled to keep a neutral expression as Diane flushed, probably having not expected to have her dislike of Michael referenced so bluntly. "Ah, well, I know I wasn't always...I mean, I know I could be...but that was before," she went on crisply. "My children adore you; they always have. It was the least I could do." She gave Philip a quick peck on the cheek. "See you at dinner. Gotta run!"

"I've got to go too, so I'll walk you out," Philip said. "Mom, Michael...we'll keep in touch."

"Well," Dee said after they'd left, "things are working out after all, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Michael said faintly. "And to think I was all ready to leave...I was in the truck. I was going. I'm just not lucky enough to have things work out for me. And then the tire blew, and...I guess that gave me a little more time to think."

"Yes," Dee said blandly, "that tire blew just when you needed it to."




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




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




Kathleen Topolsky sat stiffly in one of Agent Stevens' two chairs, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, eyes focused on the shiny gold watch on her left wrist, the smallest men's watch she'd been able to find on her celebratory shopping trip this weekend. She'd dressed carefully for this encounter: Black pantsuit, sensible heels, no jewelry save for the watch. She'd wanted to appear as professional and un-feminine as she could manage, and she was glad she'd made the effort. God willing, this was the last time she'd be in this office, and she forced herself to sit quietly and not twitch. She must have been here at least fifteen minutes already, but she'd sit here all day if she had to.

Finally Agent Stevens looked up from his third read-through of the papers in front of him. "So, Agent," he said, tossing his glasses on the desk. "You're transferring."

"Yes, sir," Topolsky beamed. "To Washington."



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


I'll post Chapter 80 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

^ I'll eat chocolate just about any time--personally I think it should be it's own food group--but I'd have to agree that chocolate and whiskey is not a deliciously natural combination.




CHAPTER EIGHTY




February 21, 2000 10:15 a.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe



It was safe to say that the last few months had been the most tumultuous of Kathleen Topolsky's life, even more so than the period when she'd first joined the Unit. She'd landed her first undercover assignment, getting close enough to the target to smell it only to find herself discovered and leaving in disgrace. That disgrace had been largely whitewashed to save her boss's face, if not her own, but the dead end job he'd dumped her in supporting other, less capable agents in the field had been almost as bad. With no light at the end of the tunnel for the last three months, it was now somewhat disorienting to find herself not only out of the tunnel but on top of the mountain, in a place she'd never expected to find herself anywhere but in her wildest dreams. Disorienting, maybe...but oh so delicious. Washington. The word hung in the air, the FBI equivalent of "heaven" as she and Agent Stevens eyed one another across his desk and she waited for his response. And waited. And waited.

"I said I'm going to Washington," she repeated, the words sending a shiver through her spine even though he hadn't reacted yet. And he should have; Washington meant a promotion. He must know that.

"I see that, agent," Stevens said calmly. "What I don't see is what exactly you'll be doing in Washington."

Topolsky paused, savoring this moment. Truth be told, she was looking forward to this particular part of the conversation every bit as much her transfer. God, she wished she had a video camera because she was absolutely certain she would want to replay this over and over for as long as she lived.

"Well, sir," she said with as straight a face as she could muster, "I'd tell you, but...I'm afraid you don't have the necessary security clearance."

Stevens laughed then, an easy, infuriating laugh that made her want to pick up the paperweight on his desk and hurl it at him. " 'Security clearance'? Surely you're not suggesting that you've been granted a higher security clearance than mine."

"No, sir, I'm telling you that I've been granted a higher security clearance than yours."

Stevens blinked. "Overnight? Just like that. Like magic?"

Topolsky's straight face faltered slightly. "Like a 'promotion', sir."

"A promotion," Stevens repeated in a you've-got-to-be-kidding voice. "To what? Are you going to be some big shot's personal secretary?"

"Like I said, sir," Topolsky answered, bristling at his tone, "I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of my posting."

"Uh huh," Stevens said, sounding unconvinced. "I called the agent who approved your transfer, and he said you were being assigned to 'unspecified clerical duties'. That's apparently the 'nature of your posting'."

Topolsky sank down a little further in the chair as all the wind went out of her sails. She'd been strictly admonished to keep the true nature of her new position a secret and had assumed her new superiors would do the same. Which they had, of course, and in the usual way, by pretending she was being assigned to some nondescript, unimportant position unworthy of anyone's interest. It wouldn't do to wave the fact that Stevens hadn't been invited to this party in his face; much better for him to think she'd been siphoned off to mop floors and fetch coffee. Much better, that is, except for the fact that she no longer had the means to enjoy this moment without spilling the beans.

"I was told not to discuss it, sir," Topolsky said in a brittle voice.

Stevens shrugged. "Yes, well...why would you want to?" He sighed as she fumed, unperturbed by her obvious annoyance. "I'm very much afraid, agent, that my efforts to keep the way your last assignment ended quiet have been unsuccessful."

"My last assignment, sir, was as a resource for agents in the field," Topolsky reminded him coldly, "an assignment you dumped me in to cover yourself as much as me. Is that the 'assignment' to which you're referring?"

To her surprise, Stevens didn't get angry, didn't react at all. "Is that what you think?" he asked, completely serious.

"Well...yes," she said, taken aback. "What else would I think?"

"Hmm," Stevens murmured, one finger tapping on his armrest. "I see." He was quiet for a moment. "Agent Topolsky, I was not trying to 'dump you' anywhere. Roswell was your first undercover assignment and, as such, there were bound to be some mistakes. Yours were rather spectacular in nature...beaning the local sheriff, and all...but the fact remained that that sheriff was a Valenti. An inexperienced agent and a Valenti? In many ways, that wasn't a fair fight. I felt badly about what happened, and I wanted to keep it quiet; yes, for me, but also for you. I didn't want it to tarnish your chances in the Bureau. I kept you here because if I hadn't, that would have sent the message that I no longer believed in you, no longer wanted you around. That's not true, and not the message I wanted to send."

He paused as she stared at him in disbelief. "What I fear," he went on, "is that someone learned what happened in Roswell and is now punishing you for it in my stead. Which would be interesting, not to mention alarming, because I worked my tail off keeping that quiet, Kathleen. Anyone who found out about it must have very deep tendrils indeed. That's the part which gives me pause."

That niggling feeling Topolsky had had right after meeting Agent Samuels abruptly resurfaced, the feeling that something was not quite right here, that something was off. Actually, it had never left; she'd merely pushed it to the back of her mind, heady with the excitement of accepting the offer, of hearing her first set of instructions about where to go and what to do after leaving Santa Fe. Damn it! she thought angrily. This was supposed to be her moment of triumph, and it had just been reduced to "unspecified clerical duties" and a suddenly sympathetic boss.

"I'm a big girl, sir," she told Stevens. "I'll be fine."

"Right," Stevens murmured, nodding. "Right. Well...who am I to stand in the way of a 'promotion'? I hope you're right. And if you're not..." He stripped a post-it note off a nearby cube, scribbled on it. "This is my personal home number. It's a landline, regularly checked for bugs. No one has this number but God and my wife. You make it three. Call me any time."

"I won't need it, sir," Topolsky said, rising from her seat. "Like I said, I'll be—"

She stopped as he reached across the desk, pressed the paper into her hand. "Take it, Kathleen. Just in case I'm right."

There followed a long, awkward moment before he released her hand and sat back in his chair, eyes on his desk. "Congratulations, agent, and good luck."

Topolsky stared at the blue post-it in her hand for much too long before exciting the office, leaning against the door as she closed it. Well, she thought wearily. That hadn't exactly gone as planned. Some big triumph.

"Kathleen?"

It was Pamela, Stevens' administrative assistant and all-around life saver whose job description probably read something like "unspecified clerical duties". "Pam," she said brightly. "I—"

"Did he tell you?" Pam broke in. "Did he tell you what he thinks of this 'new job' of yours?"

"Uh...tell me what?" Topolsky asked carefully.

"That this smells wrong," Pam said. "This whole thing about Washington calling you just reeks of trouble."

"And why exactly is it so unthinkable that Washington would want me?" Topolsky asked, exasperated. "Honestly, Pam, I expected better from you. Do you really think so little of me that—"

She stopped as Pam grabbed her by the arm and propelled her toward her desk. "Don't be ridiculous," Pam protested. "That's not it at all, not for me and not for him. I see things," she went on, sounding like the FBI's version of The Sixth Sense. "Jobs in the pipeline, looming retirements, you name it. There's nothing there; the Unit isn't hiring, isn't promoting, isn't doing much of anything these days except sitting there. For Washington to just suddenly up and pluck anyone out of anywhere is...weird."

"This isn't 'hiring'," Topolsky said patiently. "It's 'promoting from within'."

" 'Unspecified clerical duties'?" Pam said as Topolsky seriously contemplated throttling whoever had come up with that one. "You call that a promotion? Horse hockey! Something else is going on here, and he's worried you're walking right into the middle of it."

Topolsky's eyes burned. "You mean he's worried I can't handle it."

"I mean he's worried you don't have the experience to handle it," Pam corrected. "Don't bristle at me, Kathleen. You're not experienced, and you know it. It's not something to be ashamed of, it's just a statement of fact. You haven't developed the nose for trouble that Stevens has, and his nose is smelling a rat."

"What kind of rat?" Topolsky demanded. "You're making all these vague allegations without really saying a damned thing!"

Pam pulled her further behind the desk. "Rumor is," she whispered "that a dark unit is forming."

Topolsky blinked. " 'Dark Unit'? Is that like Darth Vader? Darth Maul?"

"I'm serious," Pam insisted. "It's no secret that there are a lot of unhappy campers in the Unit right now what with the director essentially sitting on it. Maybe some have decided to take matters into their own hands and go rogue."

"So what if they have?" Topolsky asked. "Would that be a bad thing?"

Wrong answer, she thought as Pam's eyes widened. "Look, I don't know anything about that," Topolsky said quickly. "All I know is that I've been stuck in a boring, go-nowhere job for several months now, and I've got the chance to get out. So I'm going to try this. If it doesn't work out, I'll let you know."

"That's just it," Pam said. "If you fall in with the wrong crowd, you may not be able to."

"He's really got you going, hasn't he?" Topolsky remarked.

"This isn't him, it's me," Pam insisted. "It's me talking now. Please, be careful. Just watch your back."

Pam looked so worried and so earnest that Topolsky put a hand on her shoulder. "I'll be fine," she said soothingly, "but you've got my cell number. Just call me if you get worried."

Topolsky walked away, that niggling feeling much quieter now. The "Mission Impossible" tone of Pam's voice sounded over the top, so much so that it was almost comical. Although it was worth noting that the "dark unit" rumor was true; another group was forming, a group that wanted her input, that found her to be a valuable asset, and not just at a desk with a phone attached to her ear. Niggling feeling or not, she'd never forgive herself if she let this one pass. And if it all went bad...well, then maybe she'd give them reason to regret having ever approached Kathleen Topolsky.




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




One week later,

February 29, 2000, 3 p.m.

Roswell





"It's open," Michael called when a knock sounded on the door.

The door opened slowly. "Wow," Max said, eyes sweeping everywhere as he stepped inside. "So this is it?"

"This is it," Michael answered. "My own place. Can you believe it?"

"It sure happened fast," Max agreed, circling the apartment. "Nice kitchen, for a studio."

"It's only one room, but it was all I could afford," Michael said. "Actually, I couldn't afford this until they gave me a price break."

"I'll bet Dad had something to do with that," Max said.

"No, I think it was your grandmother. She could put the fear of God into God."

"She could," Max agreed.

"Brought my stuff over yesterday after school, right after I signed on the dotted line," Michael went on. "Don't even think the ink was dry. I couldn't wait to get out of that trailer."

"Is that all of it?" Max asked, gazing at the duffle bag Michael had indicated.

"Yep. All my worldly possessions. You know that. You saw me pack right before I..."

"Ran away?" Max finished. "Yeah, I saw you pack, but I didn't really think that was it. I thought you were just traveling light. You must have had something else in the trailer."

Michael shook his head. "Nothing else I wanted. That's a period in my life I'd just as soon forget."

"And now you can," Max said.

"Almost," Michael qualified. "I still don't know what happened to Hank."

"Do you care?"

"In the sense that I want it settled, yeah, I care," Michael answered. "It might have been a lot quieter at the trailer without him, but there wasn't a night that went by where I didn't listen for the sound of the door banging, for him coming back. Until I find out what happened to him, I think a part of me will always be listening for that no matter where I am."

"Knock, knock?"

Michael watched Max stiffen as Sheriff Valenti appeared in the doorway. "Afternoon, boys," Valenti said with that faux folksy smile. "May I come in?"

"It's Michael's place," Max answered. "Ask him."

Valenti looked at Michael, who looked at Max. "Sure, come on in," Michael said.

Michael stayed where he was, but Max took a wary step backward as Valenti stepped inside. "Nice place," Valenti commented, looking around. "Congratulations, by the way. Heard your petition was granted."

"Thank you," Michael said.

"So you all moved in?" Valenti went on. "Got everything out of the trailer?"

"Why?" Michael asked bluntly. "Are you planning on arresting me again?"

"We didn't 'arrest' you, Mr. Guerin," Valenti corrected. "We held you for questioning because you wouldn't explain your whereabouts. The law allows me to do that. I understand why you didn't want to explain it, but that doesn't change the fact that I had a missing man and no whereabouts for you."

"Funny, I thought someone had to be gone for at least 48 hours before they could be declared 'missing'," Michael said. "But whatever. Is there a point to this visit?"

Valenti glanced down at the hat in his hand. "Hank turned up last night."

Michael and Max exchanged glances. "What?" Michael demanded. "Where?"

"At the station. Said he'd been down in Carlsbad and met some woman at a bar."

"I knew it," Michael muttered.

"Anyway, he said he got an offer from a plant in Las Cruces, and he was pulling up stakes."

"Wait—he's moving?" Michael said. "What was he going to do with me?"

"Said he was going alone," Valenti answered. "Offered to sign off on you. I told him that wasn't necessary."

" 'Sign off'?" Michael repeated incredulously. "What, he didn't even care about the money?" He paused, shaking his head in disbelief. "So he dumped me. He just dumped me."

Valenti shrugged slightly. "That's one way of looking at it. The other is that you dodged a bullet. I'm pulling for that one."

Michael and Valenti locked eyes. "You're right," Michael said finally. "That's the way to look at it."

"Just thought you should know," Valenti said. "You need anything, anything at all, you let me know."

"Somehow I don't think I'll be going to the sheriff with my problems," Michael said.

"Doesn't have to be a problem," Valenti said. "Could be just a question, and it doesn't have to have anything to do with me being sheriff. I'm here for everyone in this town. That's my job."

" 'Everyone', sheriff?" Max asked softly.

Valenti looked him directly in the eye. "Yes, Mr. Evans, 'everyone'. I've sworn to serve and protect every single resident of this town, no matter who they are...or how they got here." He donned his hat. "Good luck, Mr. Guerin, Mr. Evans. I'll see myself out."

Michael snorted softly after he'd left. " 'See myself out'...sounds like he's in Buckingham Palace."

"Michael, don't waste a split second on Hank," Max said. "He didn't abandon you, he did you a favor."

"See, that's the thing, Maxwell—Hank doesn't do favors, and he was deeply in love with the steady income I provided. This doesn't make sense."

"Maybe that 'woman' he met has a foster kid of her own," Max suggested. "We know it's a business for some people."

"Maybe," Michael said. "At least I don't have to listen for the door anymore." He looked around his new place with satisfaction. "I'm finally free."




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



9 p.m.

Ronald Reagan International Airport, Washington, D.C.




Pulling her roll-aboard behind her, Kathleen Topolsky stepped off the plane and headed down the jetway with a mounting sense of excitement. She was here! Reagan International was only steps away, the former Washington International rechristened by President Clinton in honor of his predecessor. The trip had gone smoothly, having been arranged by Agent Samuels. Virtually everything had been arranged by Agent Samuels, from the disposition of her apartment in Santa Fe—she'd been told to simply leave it, and he'd settle things with her landlord—to her first class ticket, to the car that was scheduled to meet her. She'd never flown first class before, and now that she had, she doubted she'd ever be content with coach again; huge seats, free wine, large bathrooms, and actual food served on linen could do that to you. Unlike most flights, she'd emerged from this one clean, fed, and rested. She was truly flying high.

Reagan was busy, which only added to her excitement as she navigated the path to the baggage claim. She'd packed light, assured by Agent Samuels that the rest of her things would arrive within a couple of days. Now she looked forward to a nice dinner at her hotel and a hot bath, all the better to prepare herself for her new position, which most certainly was not "unspecified clerical duties". The moving sidewalk seemed to whisk a little faster and even the escalators seemed speedy as she practically floated to the baggage claim where her bag, miraculously, was the first off the plane. That simply never happened, and she took it as a good omen as she trundled her suitcase through the sliding doors to the arrivals area, scanning the various people holding signs for one with her name on it.

"Agent Topolsky?"

Topolsky whirled around. "Agent Samuels! I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you'd send a driver."

"We're a small group," Agent Samuels answered. "I'm the driver. Follow me."

They threaded through the crowds, dodging harried businessmen, soldiers, and the odd child or two. "Did you have a good trip?" Samuels asked.

"Fantastic!" Topolsky said enthusiastically. "Flying First Class is...first class. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Samuels replied. "And thank you for agreeing to lend a hand. We really appreciate it."

"I can't tell you what a relief it is that someone is actually going to take this seriously," Topolsky said. "I thought it would never happen."

"It almost didn't," Samuels allowed. "But events occurred which convinced a number of people to join us."

"Such as?"

Samuels sidestepped a double wide stroller holding two screaming babies. "Are you familiar with Everett Hubble, agent?"

"No. Who is he?"

"Who 'was' he," Samuels corrected. "He's dead. Sheriff Valenti shot him."

Topolsky stopped in her tracks. "You mean Jim Valenti?"

"I do."

Topolsky slowly resumed walking. "Why?"

"Everett Hubble has worked for us for years," Samuels went on. "An alien killed his wife decades ago, left a handprint behind. He's been hunting it ever since, and we've found his enthusiasm and tracking skills useful. He could go places we couldn't."

"Of course," Topolsky agreed. "What happened?"

"Hubble went to Roswell back in January," Samuels continued. "He was following up on your work there...and he came back in a body bag."

"But why?" Topolsky asked doubtfully. "Jim Valenti doesn't run around randomly shooting people. He must have had a reason."

"Valenti blames Hubble for the downfall of his father," Samuels answered. "He claims Hubble lured him to the site of his wife's murder and pulled a gun on him."

" 'Claims'?"

Samuels paused beside the revolving door which led outside the terminal. "Hubble was with Max Evans only minutes before he was killed."

Topolsky's eyes widened. "Max? Max was with him?"

"Why, agent," Samuels said blandly, "I had no idea you were on a first name basis with the subject."

"Oh," Topolsky said, taken aback. "Well...I knew him. As a guidance counselor, of course, but that involves a certain level of...access."

"Precisely why you're here. This way."

Topolsky stepped through the revolving door...and gasped. A stretch limo awaited them, a small one by limo standards, but still... "Oh, my," she said faintly. "First class, and now this?"

"Only the best for the best," Samuels smiled, holding the door for her. "Leave the luggage. I'll get it."

As if in a trance, Topolsky left her suitcases and climbed inside. Good Lord, she thought, running her hand over the leather seats. Tinted windows, a wet bar, a tiny TV in the corner...what next?

The door in the partition lowered. "All set?" Agent Samuels asked.

"Oh, yes," Topolsky breathed.

"Good. Enjoy the ride."

The limo slid forward, gliding so smoothly it barely felt like it was moving, and Topolsky nearly dissolved in giggles as she recalled an old Saturday Night Live sketch of a TV commercial which advertised a car's smooth ride by performing a bris in the back seat. She had no idea which hotel she'd be staying at, but it was unlikely to be far, which was entirely too bad. She really should enjoy this while she had it. The windows were dark, blocking most of the lights, and leaning back, she closed her eyes, the gentle rocking motion incredibly soothing...

...only to jerk awake. Momentarily disoriented, she righted herself, smoothed her hair. Had she fallen asleep? For how long? Couldn't have been long because they were still on the road, and she checked her watch.

An hour had gone by.

That can't be right, Topolsky thought. She tapped her watch, checked the date; it appeared to be working, but they couldn't have been on the road for an hour. Rummaging in her purse, she pulled out her cellphone.

There was no reception.

Curious now, she pressed her face to the tinted window. When that didn't work, she fumbled with the buttons on the car door until she found one which lowered the window, certain she'd see the lights of downtown Washington. Instead she saw only blackness and dark countryside as the limo sped along an unlit road in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere.

"Excuse me?" Topolsky said, knocking on the partition which separated her from Agent Samuels.

The partition lowered. "Need something?" Agent Samuels asked.

"Where are we?" Topolsky asked. "It looks like we've been on the road for an hour."

"Because we have," Samuels confirmed.

"But...I thought I'd be at a hotel while I looked at apartments."

"No need. Your new residence is only a few miles away."

Topolsky blinked. "New residence? My 'new residence' is over an hour away from Washington?"

"Sit tight. We'll be there soon."

The partition rose, leaving Topolsky confused and alone in the back seat. She left the window down, watching the dark countryside glide by as they continued to who knew where. She'd been promised the Bureau's usual relocation assistance, but that typically meant choosing one's own housing, not having it assigned. This hadn't been in the contract.

Ten minutes later, the car came to a halt. Topolsky was out before Agent Samuels, gaping at the huge house in front of her, a looming shadow in the night.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Samuels said. "Hubble's death attracted many people to our cause, including several with the means to fund our efforts."

"You mean, I'm...living here?" Topolsky asked faintly.

"It's a period house," Samuels replied, as though that settled it. "Early 18th century. Come inside; I'm sure you'll like it."

A single light clicked on by the front door, which was unlocked. Samuels ushered her into a beautiful foyer, all paneled wood and oil paintings. A man in a suit appeared out of nowhere.

"Mr. Bates, this is Agent Topolsky," Samuels said. "Agent, this is Mr. Bates. He sees to the house."

"Glad to meet you, Agent Topolsky," Bates said with a little bow.

"Uh...glad to meet you, too," Topolsky answered, thoroughly confused now. "Agent Samuels, I still don't understand—"

"This way, agent," Bates interrupted. "Your room has been prepared."

Bates took off up the magnificent stairway and Samuels gestured after him, leaving Topolsky with no choice but to follow. Bates led them up the stairs and down a hallway to a set of double doors behind which was a suite which would do the Savoy proud. Bedroom, sitting room, large bathroom, all beautifully furnished in what looked like period furniture.

"Do you like it?" Bates asked.

"Um...it's beautiful," Topolsky answered. "I'm just confused. What am I doing all the way out here?"

"Bates, would you excuse us?" Samuels said.

Bates gave a little bow and left immediately, Samuels closing the door behind him. "We can't do this in the capital, agent. It's imperative that no one find out about our movement, not until we have the evidence we need."

Topolsky thought for a moment. "Ah. You want to have your ducks in a row before you bring it to Director Freeh."

"Precisely," Samuels agreed. "If he were to find out about this too early, he'd shut us down for sure."

"But surely we could manage this somewhere less...remote," Topolsky objected. "I have no idea where I even am. Where's the nearest grocery store? Where do I find—"

"You don't need a grocery store, agent. Bates will have your meals ready at the times you request, anything you want. Just pull this..." Samuels indicated a black pull cord beside the door "...whenever you need him. It's period," he added.

I'm not here for a goddamned history lesson, Topolsky thought irritably. "That's very nice, agent, but I'm accustomed to living on my own," she said firmly. "You never mentioned any of this when we spoke. Why not?"

"Didn't I?" Samuels looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "I know I mentioned the secrecy needed, but the details must have slipped my mind. I do apologize. Ah—your luggage," he went on as Bates wheeled the suitcases to the doorway and promptly left again. "Ring Bates if you're hungry, and have a good night's sleep. We'll get started tomorrow."

"But—"

But he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Topolsky in the middle of her magnificent room with her mouth hanging open. What in heaven's name was going on here? But then her eyes fell on her suitcases and she went to work, pulling out her laptop. There must be some way to find out where she was. Ten frustrating minutes later, she'd learned that "period house" meant no internet connection. A map program she had installed indicated that an hour's drive from Washington could be anywhere within a ring of rural countryside. Exasperated, she pulled out her cellphone. Still no reception.

A sudden wave of panic sent her running to the door. Throwing it open, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Bates standing directly on the other side.

"Do you require anything, agent?" he inquired.

"No," Topolsky said faintly. "No...thank you."

She closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply to calm herself. It could be nothing. It could just be her imagination. She had agreed to join a covert operation, after all, something of a hilarity as the Special Unit was a covert operation in its own right. Black ops within black ops...and that gave her an idea.

Fishing in her suitcase, she pulled out a box of floppy discs and shoved one into her laptop. An hour later, she'd transferred all sensitive data on her laptop to the floppies and set about wiping it from her hard drive. Searching for a safe hiding place, she discovered yet another feature of "period houses", that being loose boards. The discs were safely ensconced beneath a board she pried lose with her penknife, a gift from her father she'd never had occasion to use. A chair was shoved beneath the doorknob, and several small, loud objects placed on the floor near the doors and the windows should anyone try to enter the room while she slept. Feeling marginally prepared for the worst, she took a long bath which was a far cry from the triumphant soak in a hotel she'd been looking forward to and climbed into bed, determined to get at least some sleep despite the gun she'd placed beneath her pillow. She was, after all, an FBI agent. She'd trained for this.

If worst came to worst, they'd picked a fight with the wrong girl.




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




"What took you so long?" Pierce's voice demanded.

"I had to get far enough away that I had reception," Brian answered. "You know that."

"Well? Did she show?"

"She's did," Brian confirmed. "But she's suspicious."

"Already?" Pierce said dryly. "Didn't think she had it in her."

"I'm serious, Danny. You may not like her, but she's still a trained Bureau agent, and a Special Unit agent to boot. Remember that, even if you still think she's Summers' one screw-up."

"Okay, fine, she's a credit to the nation," Pierce said impatiently. "Did you learn anything?"

"I learned she feels quite an affinity for the suspects," Brian said. "She was shocked that Valenti killed Hubble, said he 'didn't go around randomly shooting people'. And she called Evans by his first name."

"So?"

"So she sounded...familiar," Brian answered. "Like she cared about them. Sympathized with them."

"Wonderful," Pierce deadpanned. "Stockholm Syndrome with Aliens. Just what I needed. If there's even a chance that she feels that way, we need to be extra careful and move extra fast. Get as much as you can out of her as quickly as possible."

"One more thing," Brian went on. "She thinks we're gathering evidence to present to Director Freeh so he'll re-start the Unit."

"Dead wrong, but whatever," Pierce said. "Lean on that. It's a nice, law-abiding explanation that will work in our favor. And if it doesn't, then she goes the same route as the other agents who went to Roswell with her."

"Neither of whom worked out so well," Brian noted.

"Moss didn't," Pierce allowed. "But Butler responded to the drugs better. We got something out of him, but not nearly enough. She was closest to the suspects, so she'll know the most. Or so you keep telling me."

"But if she—"

"Brian, for heaven's sake, will you stop fidgeting?" Pierce demanded. "She has no means of transportation, no communication with the outside world...seriously, what's she going to do? Even if she takes off on foot, we'll catch her long before she gets much of anywhere."

"True," Brian agreed. "Lucky for us we bagged some donors with deep pockets and nice summer homes."

"Everett would be proud," Pierce laughed. "You know, I think dying was the best thing Hubble ever did for the Unit. If I'd known that, I would have killed him myself a long time ago. Look, don't worry," he went on. "No matter how smart you think she is, she's still just a girl. Flatter her, stroke her ego, and she'll do anything for you. Just find out what she knows. By any means necessary."


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


I'll post Chapter 81 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!

I could just feel Michael's relief when he knew Hank was finally gone......such a sad upbringing for that young man.

I agree. I missed that in the show, the moment when Michael learned he was free of Hank. Certainly it was more important to be legally free of him, but to know he'd actually left town (or so he thought) must have made that freedom even sweeter. Not a huge plot point, just one of those emotionally satisfying moments.



CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE



March 1, 2000, 10:30 a.m.

West Roswell High School




Liz Parker pushed open the door to the rest room, barely registering the stream of students she rushed past on her way to the nearest empty sink. Once there she turned on the cold water full blast and splashed her face, ran her wet hands up and down her arms and inside her collar. Only then did she notice the strange looks other people were giving her, and she tried to act nonchalant as she grabbed a paper towel and dried herself off, escaping to a nearby stall where she held the wet paper towels against her face and neck until the bell had rung and she'd heard everyone leave. Emerging from the stall, she splashed again, letting the water evaporate this time...and then, finally, it was over.

What's wrong with me? Liz thought, leaning over the sink as the heat left her body just as quickly as it had come. For the last few days she'd been having these mini "heat waves" where heat suddenly boiled up from the middle of her body, spreading through her arms, her legs, her neck, her face. It always came on suddenly, going from 0 to 60 in mere seconds with a pounding heart and profuse sweating along for the ride. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it would leave and she'd be chilly. It was the weirdest sensation, and at first she'd thought she was coming down with something. But as the days had gone by with no sniffles, coughs, stomach aches, or whatnot, she'd finally consulted her mother.

"Hmm," Nancy had said. "You know, what you just described is the spitting image of a hot flash."

"A what?"

"Hot flashes," Nancy had answered. "Women get them when they're going through menopause, you know, when our periods stop? The hormones are all whonky, and all sorts of strange things happen. That's one of them."

"But...my periods aren't stopping," Liz had said. "I just got mine four years ago."

"I know," Nancy had agreed. "But adolescence is also a time for lots of changes in your body. Maybe you can get them at your age too?"

"You don't sound very sure about that," Liz had said dubiously.

"Because I'm not," Nancy agreed. "We can call the doctor, see what he says—"

"No," Liz said quickly. "I'm sure it's nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anything about it."

"Well, I do, but only because I'm a middle-aged woman," Nancy had chuckled. "If it's bothering you, we should—"

"It's not bothering me," Liz had lied. "Not really. I was just curious."

"Okay," Nancy had said. "But let me know if it doesn't go away in a few days, okay?"

Liz had promised and headed straight for her computer. Hot flashes were indeed associated with menopause, not adolescence, so why was she having them? And then there was the part she hadn't told her mother, about the ones she got at night which were always accompanied by the most vivid dreams. It was certainly no surprise why she awoke from those sweating and breathing hard, but that wasn't a topic for her mother.

The bathroom door opened, and Maria appeared. "There you are! I know it's just a study hall, but Mr. Soames is looking for you. I told him I'd look."

"Yeah, I know, I just needed a minute," Liz said, reaching for another paper towel.

"So did you hear?" Maria went on, oblivious to the fact that Liz was practically dripping. "Michael got an apartment!"

"Wow," Liz said. "That was fast."

"He says he got a price break on it," Maria went on. "I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if mom had something to do with that."

"Your mom? I thought she wanted to roast him alive."

"That was before she found out why he spent the night at our place," Maria said. "Sheriff Valenti was just over—"

"Wait—they're still seeing each other?"

"Well, I don't know if they're 'seeing' seeing each other," Maria answered, drawing virtual quotation marks in the air. "I certainly didn't catch him with his fly down, if that's what you're asking. No, they were just sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee, and I heard a bit before they saw me. She was asking about something he said when we got Michael out of jail, about his foster father. Then after he left, she asked me about it because apparently the sheriff wouldn't tell her—said it was 'confidential'. So I told her about the whole foster-father-smacking-him-around-thing, and you should have seen her, Liz; she looked absolutely mortified. And that was the day before Michael got that great deal on his apartment. So put two and two together, and..." Maria stopped, staring at her. "Uh...is there a reason you're all wet?"

"Yeah, I was just...feeling a little warm," Liz said.

"You got a fever?"

"Maybe. Look, I should get back—"

"You look a bit flushed," Maria went on, putting a hand to her forehead, which had cooled by now. "You sure you're all right?"

Liz glanced around the empty restroom. "Maria, do you...have you ever...do you get 'hot flashes'?"

"Hot flashes?" Maria repeated blankly. "No, no, sweetie, it's our moms who get those, not us."

"Yeah, that's what my mom said," Liz admitted. "But I'm getting them. Or something like them."

"What do you mean? What do they feel like?"

"Like this wave of heat that just creeps across my whole body," Liz said. "It lasts for a minute or so, and then it's gone, but it's so intense when it happens."

"And you just had one?" Maria asked, looking at the wet paper towel in her hand. "Do you get them all day, or just at certain times?"

"Well, I get them at night, but I know why those are happening," Liz said. "They always come with the dreams..." She felt herself flushing, normally this time, not because of temperature. "You know...those kinds of dreams."

"Ah," Maria said knowingly. "The kind with Max in them."

"Maria, I don't know where these are coming from," Liz said. "I literally wake up embarrassed at what we've been doing in them."

"You 'don't know where they're coming from'?" Maria repeated skeptically. "Well, I do. Want me to elaborate?"

"No, you don't understand," Liz insisted. "I'm doing things in these dreams I've never even thought of doing. And when I wake up...well, I think it's like when a guy has a wet dream."

"Gross!" Maria declared. "That is definitely 'TMI'. 'Too Much Information'," she clarified when Liz looked blank. "And, yes, I know I just offered to elaborate, but I wasn't going to elaborate that much. Is this really the first time you've had dreams like that? I have them all the time."

Liz raised an eyebrow. "About Michael?"

"Well...yes, about Michael," Maria allowed. "Among others."

"With 'others' meaning 'Michael'," Liz said dryly. "You know, you never told me what exactly happened to 'no'."

"I think it started evaporating when I found him standing outside my window in the rain looking like a lost puppy," Maria sighed. "And then it evaporated the rest of the way when he was standing in my bedroom crying. I guess I decided I feel the same way you do: It's not that I can't give him up, it's that I don't want to."

"So...you and Michael are together again?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Maria admitted. "But he invited me over to see his new place today, so we'll see. What about you and Max?"

"I guess we'll see about that too," Liz said.

"We should get back," Maria said briskly. "Oh, and I wouldn't worry about your 'hot flashes', babe. With dreams like that, I'm surprised you don't spontaneously combust."

Liz tossed the wet paper towels in the trash as she followed Maria out the door. Her racy dreams explained her night sweats, but not those during the day like the one she'd just had. She'd been working on math when that had started, not daydreaming about...whatever. And she couldn't get something else her mom had said out of her mind, another comment about menopause.

"They call it 'the change'."





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




Proctor residence





"Coming!" Dee called as the doorbell sounded again, almost spilling her coffee in her haste to set it down. She was halfway to the front door before she realized it had been a while since she'd heard the doorbell ring. No one came to the door any more, not with voice mail and e-mail and encyclopedias on CD, making the classic Britannica salesman obsolete. These days a ringing doorbell meant the UPS truck had left something on your doorstep or someone was campaigning for election. But it wasn't November or Christmas, so she opened the door with a good deal of curiosity...

...and found herself eye to eye with a huge floral arrangement which appeared to be hovering in mid-air. Correction, she amended, glancing down; the floral arrangement had legs. Having not received flowers recently, she'd completely forgotten that even in the age of phone and internet orders, the actual flowers still had to be delivered in person. Perhaps the doorbell wasn't dead yet.

"My goodness!" she said, bewildered by the size of the thing, which completely blocked her view of its bearer. "This is...impressive."

A head appeared around the side of the floating garden. "Flowers are customary as a 'thank you' gift, are they not?"

Dee blinked, flabbergasted for the second time in mere seconds. "Of...course they are. Please...come in."

The flowers floated in, borne by one she would never have seen as gifting flowers, and duly deposited on the dining room table with a plunk far more reminiscent of the giver than the gift. An awkward silence ensued.

"Well," Dee said after a moment. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"I wanted to thank you," Jaddo said, "for talking Rath into coming back."

"Ah! Yes. Well...that wasn't all me. Brivari had something to do with it too."

"So I hear," Jaddo answered. "But you did most of the heavy lifting. Rath trusts you, and I appreciate the support you've offered him even though he falls outside the parameters of 'family', as well as the intervention with your son."

"That last one was Michael's doing," Dee said. "Philip didn't help because I asked him to, he helped because Michael asked him to." She paused. "One thing I was never clear on was why it was Brivari and not you who went after Michael."

Jaddo's expression clouded. "I'm not the persuasive type. That's Brivari's department."

"I see what you mean," Dee allowed, "but I'm still surprised. He's your Ward, after all."

"It was best left to others," Jaddo said. "Making myself clear without getting angry is not my strong suit."

"Odd," Dee mused, "because you just did a bang up job of 'making yourself clear'. And you're welcome, by the way."

Even after all these years, Dee had no idea if Covari could officially blush, but if so, this one did. "It would have been difficult to make myself clear to Rath," Jaddo said, looking deeply uncomfortable, "when what I really wanted to do was grab him by the hair and haul him back here. His behavior was deeply embarrassing."

" 'Embarrassing'?" Dee echoed. "How so?"

"He ran away!" Jaddo exclaimed. "The leader of the King's armies ran away! Do you have any idea how unlike him that is? Rath didn't run from a fight even when doing so was arguably advisable. Like at the end, when I begged him not to go out there, and he..."

Oh dear, Dee thought heavily as the sentence dangled in mid-air. Michael had apparently touched a very raw nerve in more than just Max and Isabel. "Come sit down," she said gently. "I've made coffee. Have some?"

Jaddo nodded mutely, and Dee retreated to the kitchen, returning minutes later to find him sitting stiffly on the living room sofa. "As I recall, you like lots of sugar," she said, setting the sugar bowl beside his cup.

"For energy," he nodded. "Shifting takes a great deal of energy, hence the sugar."

Interesting, Dee thought, noting that Brivari had done the same until '89, when the hybrids had emerged and she'd noticed he took his coffee black. "I've said this many times before, and I'll say it again," she went on. "You can't expect them to behave the way they did in their previous lives. They're different people this time around, similar, perhaps, but still different, and still children, I might add. Michael is behaving very much like any other human adolescent—"

"Which is exactly the point," Jaddo interrupted. "He's not a human adolescent."

"Of course he is," Dee objected. "What else would he be? He doesn't remember his previous life, so you can hardly expect him to behave like some seasoned military man when he's neither military nor man."

"But running away?" Jaddo demanded. "That's completely unlike him. The one time I needed him to run away, he didn't!"

"He was afraid he'd be put in an orphanage," Dee said, sidestepping the issue of what had happened on Antar. "And frankly, he may have been. There was no guarantee that his petition for emancipation would work. I recall pointing out to him that if it didn't, he could always run away then. What?" she said when Jaddo gave her a look. "It's perfectly true. Short of tying him to a chair, we can't keep him here."

"Don't tempt me," Jaddo muttered.

"You're right; you shouldn't have gone after him," Dee said dryly. "That attitude would have had him running for the hills even faster than he already was. So," she continued briskly, changing the subject, "I hear the two of you have come to some sort of understanding on how to present yourselves to the kids."

" 'Kids'?"

"Hybrids," Dee corrected. "Forgive me, in my mind, they're kids. Whatever you call them, they all know Anthony and me, so where do we fit into the business of introductions?"

"You don't," Jaddo said. "At least not yet. I'm going to recommend we hold off on approaching them."

Dee blinked. "You're what?"

"I'm going to—"

"I heard you," Dee interrupted. "What I meant was, why would you do that? Weren't you the one hell bent on letting the cat out of the bag?"

"Cats," Jaddo frowned. "Ghastly creatures. To clarify, I was hell bent on giving them a reason to keep their mouths shut and their heads down, especially since they sometimes seem hell bent on getting themselves killed. But given what's recently happened to Rath, this would be a poor time to drop something else in his lap. We should let him get used to his new situation before burdening him with another, and with Brivari's predilection toward doing nothing, I'm confident he'll agree it's just not a good time. And we have time. The Unit has pulled back, Hubble is dead...there are no threats near to hand. Perhaps now more than ever, we can afford to wait."




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






Kathleen Topolsky stepped back from the mirror and gave herself a long look. It was mid-morning, and she was about to test the boundaries of her new existence. She'd awakened surprisingly late, having been more exhausted than she'd thought. The chair she'd shoved under the door was still there, the windows undisturbed, and her gun still under the pillow, all untouched. It appeared no one had approached her during the night, a good sign, and she'd taken her time getting dressed, wanting to be in top shape for whatever she might encounter. Now she checked the rounds in her weapon, tucked it into the holster under her jacket, pulled the chair away, and cautiously tried the door.

It opened. She was so relieved that she nearly sagged against it, half expecting to have been locked in. The hallway outside was empty, all its door closed, and she walked toward the stairs, her sneakers making no sound on the plush carpet. She was halfway down the magnificent stairway when Bates appeared.

"Good morning, agent," he said pleasantly, looking far less menacing than he had last night when he'd been lurking outside her door. "Agent Samuels is waiting for you in the dining room."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

Bates promptly left, leaving her unsupervised and unsure of where to find the dining room. Should she go left or right? She went left, and after locating a library, a home theater, and what looked like a living room, all gleaming in oak and brass, she returned to the foyer and tried the front door.

It opened. The front porch ran the length of the house, a stately old-fashioned veranda that looked out on a snow covered valley. Wherever this was, it was beautiful country...and isolated. There wasn't a house in sight, or a vehicle, or a telephone pole, or any other sign of civilization, for that matter. She walked down the front steps and made a circuit of the house, exhaling little clouds of fog as she noted a barn and what looked like an old outhouse, but no electrical or telephone wires that she could see. Returning to the house, she stomped snow off her shoes, took the hallway on the right, and finally found the dining room. Agent Samuels was on one side of a surprisingly large table, and he stood up when he saw her.

"Kathleen! Did you sleep well?"

"You mean after being misled about the circumstances of my 'relocation' and dumped in the middle of nowhere without an internet or cell connection? Yeah, I slept surprisingly well in spite of that, thanks for asking."

"Oh...yes," Samuels said, looking downright abashed. "Forgive me, I was tired last night and didn't explain myself well. If you'll sit down—"

"Last night had nothing to do with it," Topolsky broke in, not budging from the doorway. "You didn't 'explain yourself' when you first approached me, or when I took the job, or when you sent me travel instructions. Were you 'tired' then too?"

"Agent Topolsky," Samuels said placatingly, "you have to understand—"

"No," Topolsky said bluntly. "I don't have to understand, agent, you have to explain. This is what you call 'relocation assistance'? What the hell is going on here?"

"I'm trying to explain," Samuels said soothingly. "Please...sit down."

"I'll take your explanation standing up, thank you, and I should note that I'm armed."

"Of course you are," Samuels said. "You're an FBI agent—you'd be remiss not to be. Where would you like me to start?"

Topolsky paused, a bit taken aback; she hadn't expected him to cave so quickly. "Where is this place?" she demanded, deciding to begin with the basics.

"We're about an hour northwest of Washington," Samuels answered. "Technically speaking we're in the city of Frederick, although the city proper is quite a ways away—"

"Frederick? You mean Frederick, Maryland?"

"I do. A lovely city dating back to the pre-Revolutionary War period—"

"I'm familiar with Frederick, agent. How does this house come into it?"

"This house belongs to a wealthy advocate of the Special Unit who graciously lent it to us for the privacy it offers along with relatively fast access to the capital," Samuels answered. "It's 18th century, Revolutionary War era—"

"Oh, right! That would explain the home theater."

Samuels smiled faintly. "Updated, of course. Although all the original woodwork and most of the furnishings are still in place. This table, for example, is—"

"Gorgeous," Topolsky finished. "Get to the part where I'm stranded here."

"You're not 'stranded', agent," Samuels said. "You're merely here for a few days for debriefing, and then you'll be in Washington. We can't discuss what we have to discuss within earshot of any other Bureau agent, so we certainly can't take the risk of discussing it anywhere in Washington."

"How does this place get electricity?" Topolsky asked. "I didn't see any wires."

"This house was never hooked up to the grid. They have their own generator and a mass of solar panels on the roof—"

"Solar panels? In the northeast?"

"I'll grant they're not as effective here as in the south, but every little bit helps," Samuels said. "Especially when you're off grid."

"Which means no phones," Topolsky said. "What happens if there's an emergency?"

"We have a landline," Samuels said, pointing. "Carefully checked for taps, of course. We could set up a portable cell tower, but frankly, a cellular connection is just too insecure. Anyone could be listening."

Topolsky almost missed that last part, her eyes having followed Samuel's finger to where a telephone sat on the nearby sideboard, sleek and black and very old fashioned, with a dial instead of buttons. "Is that...does that work?" she asked. "I didn't see any phone connections outside."

Samuels smiled again, broadly this time. "My, but you have done your due diligence. Yes, it works. See for yourself."

Topolsky hesitated, then cautiously moved the few feet to the sideboard. The reassuring hum of a dial tone greeted her when she hefted the surprisingly heavy receiver to her ear. "I need to make a call," she announced.

"Go right ahead," Samuels said. "There are only so many ways of tapping a landline, and we know them all. That phone is clean."

Topolsky stared at the retro dial for a moment, mulling over whom to call. Dialing took a long time, it being necessary to wait for the dial to spin back to "0" after each number, but it worked—the other end rang three times before it was answered.

"Agent Stevens' office," Pamela's voice said.

"Pam," Topolsky said, suppressing a sigh of relief. "It's Kathleen Topolsky."

"Kathleen? Where are you?" Pam demanded. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Topolsky answered, running a weary hand through her hair. "Yes, I'm..." She stopped, suddenly feeling monumentally silly. Had she really just spent the last several minutes grilling her new boss? Hadn't he made it clear this was a clandestine endeavor? Hadn't she known that from the get-go? He certainly didn't sound like she was a prisoner, nor was anyone acting like she was, leaving her alone to wander the house and grounds, letting her use the phone...

"I'm good," Topolsky said. "Just a little homesick, I guess. So how are things back at the old grindstone?"

"Same old, same old," Pam answered. "Kathy, are you sure you're all right? You sound...off."

"I'm just tired," Topolsky replied. "Last night was a late night. You take care, Pam. Say hello to Agent Stevens for me."

"You haven't told me where you are" Pam protested.

"In Washington, right where I said I'd be," Topolsky answered. "I'll tell you more when I get settled. Bye, Pam."

Topolsky glanced uncertainly at Agent Samuels, afraid he'd disapprove of her calling her old office. But he was merely watching her blandly and sipping his coffee, not appearing the least bit perturbed.

"So," he said after she'd hung up, "what other questions do you have?"

"Uh...what's for breakfast? I'm starving."

Samuels laughed, an easy laugh that washed away any of her remaining qualms. "I'll bet you are. Bates!" he called. "We're ready for the food!"

"Very good, sir," floated a voice from the hallway, its owner appearing minutes later with laden trays. There was toast, eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, coffee, tea, orange juice in crystal wine glasses, and it just kept coming.

"My goodness," Topolsky said. "I think this is what you call a 'heart attack on a plate'."

"Only if you eat it all the time," Samuels said, helping himself to several strips of bacon. "Which I don't. I love this place," he continued conversationally. "We can talk freely here, but we have to be so careful at the office. Director Freeh is determined to shut down the Unit, and any hint that one disagrees will earn you a black mark. We need solid, incontrovertible evidence to present so that if he still turns us down, we can take it directly to the President."

"Of course," Topolsky said.

"I apologize that I didn't explain this sooner," Samuels went on. "You're here for a safe debriefing, of course, but also to make you aware of just how careful you'll need to be when you move to the capital. Without a thorough knowledge of the lay of the land, it would be very easy to walk into a trap without even realizing it."

"I understand."

"Still, I never stopped to think about what this must have looked like from your perspective," Samuels continued. "I'm terribly sorry, but I must say I'm impressed by the way you responded. We chose well, Kathleen. You'll be a huge asset to the team. Did you have any other questions for me? I really want to put your mind at ease."

Topolsky felt herself flushing as she dug into her scrambled eggs. "Well...I didn't see a car outside. How do you get here? Helicopter?"

"Don't I wish," Samuels chuckled, "but no; too noticeable. My car is in the barn. I don't want it parked outside in case someone notices it and realizes this place is occupied. It's largely a summer home, so no one would be here at this time of year except caretakers. This area is remote, but it seems the more remote a place is, the more the few neighbors you have want to know all your business."

"Mm," Topolsky said, having tucked into the sausage. "And there's no internet?"

"No internet, no cell coverage," Samuels confirmed. "Cell towers haven't gotten out this far yet. I'm sure they will someday, but not yet. And like I said, a cellular connection is far too insecure. Here," he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket and handing it to her. "Mine won't work either."

Topolsky took the Nokia she was handed just as Bates appeared in the doorway. "How is everything?" he asked.

"Just wonderful, Bates, thank you," Samuels told him. "I always look forward to your cooking when I come here."

"Thank you, agent," Bates said with a little bow.

"Yep," Topolsky said lightly, handing back the phone. "No signal."

"You'll need to learn how to use your cellphone safely," Samuels went on. "We can't just chatter over a cell in the capital. We use codes and pseudonyms; you'll learn all those here. I have some things to do today, but I'll be back this evening. Take the day to get settled, and we'll get started right after dinner."

"I'll look forward to it," Topolsky smiled, raising her glass of orange juice in a toast.

Samuels raised his own, and Topolsky desperately hoped he didn't see her hand wobble as she replaced her glass on the table and returned to her breakfast as though nothing had happened. During the few seconds Samuels had been busy complimenting Bates, she'd hit the "contacts" button. She hadn't had time to scroll through the list, but then again, she hadn't needed to. The top name told her everything she needed to know.

Pierce


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


I'll post Chapter 82 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Thanks to everyone reading, and thanks ^ for the feedback, keepsmiling7!






CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO




March 1, 2000, 4:00 p.m.

Frederick, Maryland




Her hands gloved, Kathleen Topolsky tried the doorknob; it turned, just like every other knob on this floor. Inside was yet another bedroom, ornately furnished, immaculately clean. Working quickly, she began pulling out drawers and opening closets. She only had a few hours to reach a decision about what, if anything, she was going to tell these people.

After waiting impatiently for Agent Samuels to leave this morning, she'd set to work before his car, which had indeed been stashed in the barn, had reached the end of the very long driveway. Her finding a contact named "Pierce" on Samuels' phone, initially so jarring, now struck her as perhaps something of a coincidence; it was a common enough name, after all. It seemed a bit paranoid to jump to the conclusion that Samuels' Pierce was the same jackass she'd encountered in Agent Stevens' office shortly after her return from Roswell, not to mention the fact that the arrogant, dismissive man she'd told off a few months ago had obviously possessed a singularly poor opinion of her, so poor it beggared belief that he would seek her out for anything other than a Starbucks run. But how many Pierce's can there be? she wondered, opening a wardrobe which proved empty. The Special Unit was small compared to the entire Bureau, so the likelihood of repeated surnames was smaller. Add in the fact that she truly possessed unique information about events in Roswell which may have been enough to override Pierce's opinion of her and that explained the knot in her stomach which had been there since breakfast. She could call Pamela and have her do some due diligence, but that would make her look like a schoolgirl, not a special agent. No, she needed to settle this herself and to that end she'd spent the day combing the house from top to bottom, encountering no resistance along the way. By the time she'd finished with the first floor and started on the second, she was beginning to feel a little foolish, and by the time she'd worked her way through the fifth bedroom, she was feeling more than a little foolish; this was the sixth, and she'd still found nothing to indicate that anything was amiss when she pulled open the bottom dresser drawer and saw something glinting in the back corner. Reaching back with a gloved hand, she pulled out a small, shiny object.

A cufflink, Topolsky thought, examining it beneath a lamp. Slightly dated but not antique, black onyx edged in silver, with the initials "PM". She stared at it, turning it over and over in her hand, wondering why it looked so familiar...

Moss, she thought suddenly. "PM" was "Peter Moss", as in Agent Moss, one of her agents in Roswell who had worn these cufflinks nearly every day. "Family heirloom", he'd said when she asked about them. "A little showy for me, but hey, they were Dad's." Which explained the somewhat 50's look about them, but didn't explain why one of them was way in the back of an old dresser in an even older house in Frederick, Maryland. Had Moss been recruited by Agent Samuels? If so, why hadn't Samuels mentioned that? And what would a cufflink be doing in the back corner of a bottom drawer? Cufflinks were things that lived on top of dressers or on bedside tables...

A moment later, Topolsky had pulled the drawer completely out of the bureau, shining her flashlight around the space it had vacated. Nothing. She tapped the bottom of the drawer, measured the depth of its bottom panel; 1/8" wood, so no concealed compartment. She was lifting the drawer back into the dresser when it slipped from her hands and upended...and that was when she saw the brown envelope taped to the underside, right in the middle between two supporting struts where no stray fingers would find it. Topolsky set the flashlight down and tore the envelope off, turning it over to find familiar handwriting. Agent Moss's handwriting.

Don't trust them, Kathleen.

Barely breathing, Topolsky opened the envelope; inside was a single diskette with no label or markings of any kind. She stared at it for a moment in astonishment before sliding it back into its envelope and replacing the drawer with shaking hands. After double-checking that the room was in perfect order, she made a beeline for her room, locked the door, pulled out her laptop, and slid the disc into the drive. At first she couldn't make heads or tails of what she was looking at—it appeared to be crammed full of documents on the aliens who were held captive in the late forties, a subject on which she was very well versed, or so she thought; upon closer inspection, it appeared there were several things in this stash she'd never seen before. Tales of psychological experiments, a "living autopsy", a horrifying account of attempts to impregnate a human nurse with alien cells...it just got worse and worse. She started skimming, clicking rapidly from one page to the next until she came upon one that was very different—a single-spaced, double-columned list in small type. Names, Topolsky realized, skimming this page also. These were all names, some of which were crossed out or followed by question marks, some of which were unadorned. She slowed down, actually reading them...

Max Evans.

Elizabeth Parker

Isabel Evans

Michael Guerin

Maria DeLuca

Alex Whitman

James Valenti Jr.

What the hell? Topolsky read faster, finding a veritable who's who of Roswell; everyone she'd ever met there seemed to be listed, including the school principal, the office secretaries, Valenti's deputies. Then she reached a more familiar pile of names...

John Stevens

Adam Butler

Peter Moss

Topolsky's stomach lurched. Agent Moss's name had a question mark after it; Agent Butler's was crossed out. What did that mean? She knew what the next name would be before she even reached it.

Kathleen Topolsky

Her name also had a question mark.

Topolsky looked at the names swimming in front of her for several more minutes before she finally sat back, breathing hard. Now what? It was clear that Moss had been here and managed to get his hands on this information. What was truly terrifying is that he'd somehow known she would follow him, known she would have the niggling feeling that something was wrong, known she'd search the house. She'd asked him about those cufflinks; he'd left one behind to mark his hiding place, been so certain of who would discover it that he'd addressed a note to her. That he was not here now did not bode well, and she looked outside to where the sky was growing dark. Samuels would be here soon...

A moment later, Topolsky was prying up the board beneath which she'd hidden the contents of her laptop. The disc safely stashed, she went downstairs; Bates was in the kitchen, humming over a steaming pot of something or other, and the dining room was empty, the phone still sporting a reassuring dial tone. She'd considered this a last resort, but it was time for last resorts. The dial moved with agonizing slowness as she dialed the number she'd committed to memory.

"Hello?" Agent Stevens' voice answered warily.

"Agent Stevens," Topolsky said, nearly collapsing with relief. "It's...it's Kathleen Topolsky."

"Agent Topolsky? Pam said you called earlier. Where are you?"

"I'm in Frederick, Maryland," Topolsky answered. "I—"

"Frederick? I thought you were going to Washington?"

"I was. Some other things happened, and I...sir, I need to know where Agents Moss and Butler are. Are they still in Santa Fe?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know where Agent Moss is," Stevens answered. "Agent Moss went missing three weeks ago. Do you know where he is, agent?"

" 'Is'?" Topolsky echoed. "No, but I know where he was; he was here, in the same house I'm in now, some Revolutionary War relic out in the country near Frederick. And he left me a message, a diskette with records on the aliens we held captive in the forties. It was hidden beneath a dresser drawer in an envelope which said, 'Don't trust them, Kathleen'. He knew I was coming."

"Jesus Christ," Stevens muttered.

"There's more," Topolsky said. "There's a list on that disc, a list of just about everyone I ever encountered in Roswell...and some of us. Agents Moss and Butler are on that list, sir. So am I. So are you."

"Well, I always hated being left out," Stevens deadpanned. "Please tell me you're not on a cell."

"No, sir," Topolsky said, drawing strength from the fact that Stevens not only hadn't panicked, he was actually joking. "Landline, untapped. There's no cell coverage out here, or internet."

"How convenient. How'd you get there?"

"I was brought here straight from Regan International for 'debriefing'," Topolsky went on. "I was promised housing assistance, but when I—"

" 'Brought there' by whom?"

"Agent Samuels, the man who recruited me."

"Brian Samuels?" Stevens said sharply.

"Yes," Topolsky said slowly. "Why?"

"Brian Samuels was one of Agent Summers' lieutenants," Stevens answered. "He was one of those left adrift when Summers wasn't replaced, and he dropped off the map a couple of months ago. I wish you'd told me this. It's extremely odd that he'd be recruiting for anything."

"Marvelous," Topolsky said wearily. "I got a hold of his phone, and the first contact on his list was a 'Pierce'."

Dead silence followed this announcement, and the dread which had briefly subsided in Topolsky's gut flared again. "Sir?" she said desperately. "Are you still there? Did you hear me?"

"Yes, agent, I'm still here, and I heard you," Stevens said, his voice preternaturally calm. "Are you alone?"

"Except for the housekeeper, sir. But Agent Samuels said he'd be back around dinner time."

"Which will be very soon, then," Stevens said. "I want you to listen to me very carefully. You have to get out of there now, as in, right now. Don't stop to get your luggage, pass go, or collect $200. Leave now, before he gets back."

"But leave for where, sir? I told you, I'm in the country about an hour from the capital. There are no vehicles available, there's only one road, everything's covered with snow, I—"

"We all had survival training," Stevens broke in. "You'll need it now. Wear the warmest, darkest clothes you have. Get your hands on some food, and make sure you take your cellphone; eventually you'll run into someplace that has coverage. Stay off the road; that'll be the easiest place to find you."

Topolsky glanced around the empty dining room, then out the window. "I'm not so sure that's the best course of action, sir. I'd have to walk for miles, and this is the northeast, not New Mexico—it's well below freezing out there. I'm supposedly being debriefed before being settled in Washington. I think I should stay and tell them something they want to hear, and then make a run for it when I'm in the city."

"You're never going to be in the city," Stevens argued. "This is Pierce we're talking about; you met him once, but I've had the pleasure a lot more often. He's a ruthless bastard with a God complex who will pick your brain and dispose of you long before you get a chance to 'make a run for it'. Obviously Agent Moss didn't manage to 'make a run for it'."

"Maybe because he fought back," Topolsky said. "We both know what Pierce thinks of me, sir; he'll think I'm too stupid to expose him, never mind fight him. Why not capitalize on that? And in the process I might learn more that will help bring him down."

"Negative, agent," Stevens said firmly. "Your best bet is to get out of there as fast as your feet can carry you anywhere that's as far from Pierce as you can get. Bundle up and run. That's an order. And before you tell me I'm not your boss any more, you might want to give a passing thought to the alternative."

"Honey?" floated a woman's voice in the background. "Who's that on the phone?"

"That's my wife," Stevens said, lowering his voice. "I don't give out this number. Get going, agent. You don't want to end up like Agent Moss."

The line went dead. Topolsky stared at the receiver for a moment before realizing he hadn't said anything about Agent Butler. Moss's name had a question mark just like hers, but Butler's had been crossed out...

Uncomfortably aware of what that could mean, Topolsky retreated to her room and piled on as many layers of clothing as she could. She hadn't lived in the northeast for a while, but memories of its long winters had fortunately spurred her to come prepared; she had boots, gloves, a parka. She had to wait for Bates to step out of the kitchen before she managed to raid it of a few portable foodstuffs, but half an hour later, she emerged from a back door into the bitter cold, meaning to set off across the fields before she realized the problem: Footprints. Snow meant tracks. She'd be laughably easy to follow.

Topolsky gazed across the snowy field, pondering her next move and wondering if this was what it felt like to be an alien. Max Evans. His name had been at the top of that list, and no wonder; he was well known within the Unit as Suspect Number One. If they were right about him, this was the life he led, hiding, running, lying, and judging from her experience, he was pretty good at it; he'd thrown three Unit agents off his trail more than once and his allies had made things so complicated, she'd had to withdraw. Too bad he wasn't here to give advice; he'd probably been in tighter situations than this one and lived to tell of it.

The sound of a car approaching made her turn. There was nowhere to hide and she was too far from the house to make it back; it screeched to a halt in front of her, the passenger door opened, and a dark, silhouetted figure stepped out, taller than Agent Samuels.

"Agent Topolsky," a familiar voice said. "Now, where would you be going this fine evening?"




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



Wal Mart,

Roswell




"Max? Max, are you listening?"

Max jerked back to the present, which happened to be a rather disheveled aisle in the local Wal Mart. "Sure," he said quickly as Isabel gave him a dubious look. "Sure I'm listening."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say half their stock is on the floor," Isabel groused. "Tell me again why we couldn't have gone to a department store?"

"Because this is cheaper," Max said as Isabel cast a baleful eye on a nearby shopper who had knocked a box off a shelf and left it there. "Same stuff, less money. Did you make up your mind yet?"

"I was trying to," Isabel said. "And since you were listening, which one?"

"Which one what?"

"See, I knew you weren't listening," Isabel sighed. "Mom and Dad are counting on us to pick a good housewarming present for Michael, and there are eight models here."

"Yeah, why is that?" Max wondered. "It's a toaster, Isabel. All it needs to do is toast bread. How could there possibly be eight different ways to do that?"

"Men," Isabel muttered. "Of course there aren't eight different ways to toast bread. It's all in the features. This model, for instance has an eight point darkness setting while this one only has five. This one toasts two slices, and that one toasts four. This one—"

" 'Darkness setting'? What the heck is a 'darkness setting'?"

"How dark you like your toast," Isabel explained with exaggerated patience. "Moving along...this one is chrome, while this one is black. This one—"

"I get it," Max broke in. "What I don't get is why you're making this so complicated. I don't even know if Michael eats toast."

Isabel blinked. "Oh. Oh, I...okay. Maybe we should get him something else, maybe something more versatile like a...like a waffle iron."

"I'm not sure he eats waffles either," Max said.

"Waffle irons aren't just for waffles," Isabel replied.

"They aren't?"

"No, brother dear, they aren't," Isabel said, pulling him around the corner into the next aisle and pointing to what must be a waffle iron. "See? They have plates which are...waffley on one side and flat on the other, so you can use them to make pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Must make an awfully thin pancake," Max said skeptically.

"No, no, you don't squish a pancake," Isabel said impatiently. "You leave it open and cook on the flat plate, like a frying pan, or...wait. Why am I wasting my time? You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Not really," Max admitted.

"Yes, well, what can I expect from someone who can only make sandwiches or heat up Beefaroni in the microwave," Isabel huffed.

"Which is pretty much all Michael does too," Max pointed out.

"Men," Isabel snorted for the second time in as many minutes. "All the culinary skills of an aardvark."

"Is that why most chefs are men?" Max asked innocently.

If looks could kill, the one Isabel shot him would have done the job nicely. Then her gaze swept the new aisle and her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Hey! What about a panini maker? I never thought of that!"

Max opened his mouth to ask what a panini was and mention that Michael probably didn't know either, then thought better of it. "Great idea," he said. "I'm sure Michael doesn't have one."

Isabel happily began a close and lengthy inspection of every panini maker Wal Mart had to offer as Max rolled his eyes and prayed for patience. His sister was a veteran shopper who loved to spend hours picking just the right this or that, but the effort was lost on Michael, who would have been perfectly happy with the donations he'd received from their parents, their grandparents, Maria's mom, Liz's parents...pretty much everyone. This gift was more for her than Michael, for her need to punctuate her happiness with his finally being free of Hank with some brand new, shiny something or other. Which was fine with him, but didn't explain why she'd had to drag him along to watch while she inspected every single appliance in the store. God knows he had nothing to contribute.

"How about this?" Isabel asked, holding up a brightly colored box which screamed, "New!", "Improved!", "Fast!" and "Easy!", all on one side. "It does waffles, paninis, and has flat plates for grilling."

"Sold," Max said briskly. "Let's go."

"But...don't you want to compare it to all the others? This one's nice too—"

"I trust your judgment. Besides, versatile is good, right? Let's go."

Max grabbed the box and took off through the crowded store, reaching a check-out crucial seconds before his sister. "What's the rush?" Isabel asked peevishly when she caught up with him. "You got a hot date?"

"No, Michael does," Max said absently, not realizing his mistake until he saw her raised eyebrows.

"Michael has a date?" she demanded. "Oh...with Maria, I suppose."

"Yes, Isabel, with Maria," Max said. "You know, the one who convinced her mother to get him out of jail? That Maria."

Isabel looked away. "Yeah, I know. I'm just not used to them being together."

"Now that he has his own place, I'm sure they'll be more together than ever," Max remarked.

There was a long pause. "Good," Isabel said finally.

Max was so surprised that he momentarily forgot to take the bag the clerk was handing him. "Good?" he said as they left the store. "You mean you're not going to pitch a fit?"

"No, Max, I'm not going to pitch a fit. Michael doesn't have family, not the way we do. He needs friends, lots of them, so if that means he and Maria...you know...then I say, good."

Max climbed into the jeep and stared at her. "If this is what shopping does to you, I swear I'll take you shopping every day for the rest of my life."

"Very funny," Isabel said dryly. "It's just that what happened to Michael made me realize how much we need friends. All of our friends. All the friends we can get. In any species they come in."

Max pulled up at a red light, digesting that incredible statement. "So this means that if Liz and I...I mean, if we..."

"Go ahead," Isabel sighed. "You can't stay away from each other anyway, and I've gotta admit that's worked out well for us sometimes. Except for the first time, of course, which started it all. But that's old news."

Max was so flabbergasted that he missed the green light until someone behind him honked. Coming to, he zipped around the corner and down one side street, then another. "Where are we going?" Isabel said. "This isn't the way home. Why are you—"

She stopped, groaning, as Max pulled up outside the Crashdown. "Here you go," he said, tossing her the keys. "I'll find another way home."

"You can't be serious!" Isabel called after him. "I didn't mean right this second! Max? Max! What do you think you're going to do? Make out in the kitchen?"





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




Frederick, Maryland




"Sit," Pierce ordered.

Woof, Topolsky thought as she was roughly shoved into a chair. Samuels stood off to one side holding her gun, his face a study in worry. Exactly what he was worried about became clear just as soon as Pierce opened his mouth.

"You said you had this," Pierce fumed at him, pacing back in forth in front of her. "You said she was on board. You said—"

"I did, Danny," Samuels interrupted. "And she was. Or so I thought."

"You 'thought'?" Pierce echoed. "You thought?" He grabbed her backpack, jerked the top open, tipped it upside down; the contents splayed to the dining room floor, canned goods, a can opener, extra clothes, matches. "Does this look like 'on board' to you, Brian? Does it?"

Samuels didn't answer, his eyes on the pile. Topolsky watched their interaction with interest and a curious lack of panic; Agent Stevens knew exactly where she was and would lose no time rallying the troops. In the meantime she needed to learn as much as she could, and she'd just discovered a key piece of information—Samuels and Pierce had history, enough that they were on a first name basis, enough that Samuels was now smarting like a younger brother caught with his pants down by his older brother. Pierce looked no different than he had when she'd first seen him, with the same dark hair and dark good looks, impeccable suit, and haughty attitude. A pity, she thought sadly. Why did the handsome ones always turn out to be assholes?

"She was on board," Samuels insisted. "I allayed her concerns. I know I did."

"Oh, really?" Pierce said sarcastically. "Okay, then, tell us, Agent Topolsky, what you were doing outside with all this. Go ahead, tell us."

Topolsky eyed the two men in front of her, trying to decide how to play this. It was said that the best defense was a good offence; that wasn't likely to work in this case, but it was worth a shot. It might at least string things out and give Stevens more time to get to her.

"I know him," Topolsky said, addressing Samuels. "He's Pierce, the one Agent Stevens and I slapped upside the head right after Thanksgiving. What's he doing here?"

"He's your new boss," Samuels said as Pierce flushed.

"Can't be," Topolsky said, shaking her head briskly. "He made it very clear how little he thought of me, and I must say, the feeling's mutual. Why would he want to hire me?"

"Why, indeed?" Pierce said acidly. "For what it's worth, this wasn't my idea. And you still haven't told us where you were going or why."

Topolsky shrugged. "I like to take walks."

"Walks that require a food stash?"

"Low blood sugar," Topolsky said sweetly. "Family trait."

"And extra clothes?"

"In these temperatures, it's important to have a change of clothes in case you get wet," Topolsky said with due seriousness. "You must not be from a winter climate."

"Excuse me...sir?"

It was Bates, hovering in the doorway. Pierce disappeared into the hall, returning a moment later with a familiar object in his hand.

"Forget something?" he asked her, holding her laptop aloft. "How remiss of you to leave this behind, Agent."

"And why would I take a computer with me on a simple walk, Agent Pierce?" she asked innocently.

Pierce's expression darkened, and he snapped the laptop open so sharply, she was surprised he didn't break the hinge. There was in interminable wait while it booted during which Topolsky mentally ticked down her list of options. If she supplied him with the password, he'd see immediately that she'd removed anything of interest; if she demurred, if would take time to decrypt, but he'd get there eventually.

"There," he said, spinning the laptop around. "Put in your password."

"No."

Pierce looked at Samuels, who looked alarmed. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, agent," Pierce said deliberately. "I said, put in your password."

"It appears I'm the one who didn't make myself clear," Topolsky replied in a steely tone. "I said 'no'. It's a single syllable, two letter word. Even you should be able to handle it."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Agent Samuels which coincided with the appearance of satisfyingly red veins in Pierce's neck. "I don't believe this!" Pierce exclaimed in exasperation. "Brian, tell her to unlock it."

"Agent Topolsky," Samuels began, "it would be in your best interest to—"

"Don't ask her, tell her!" Pierce thundered.

"Don't bother," Topolsky snapped. "I'm not unlocking a damned thing until I get some answers. Like where are Agents Moss and Butler? They're missing. I know Moss was here. Where is he?"

The effect of his question was immediate and electric. Both men froze, staring first at her, then each other with shock and suspicion. "What makes you think Moss was here?" Pierce demanded. "Where did you hear that?"

"Oh, c'mon, Danny, you know where!" Samuels exclaimed. "I told you we were going about this the wrong way—"

"And I let you do it your way!" Pierce interrupted furiously. "You said you'd handle it. You said you had it under control, and this is the second time you bungled it!"

Topolsky lurched sideways as the chair she was sitting in was jerked around to face Pierce, who knelt in front of her, his handsome features a mask of fury. "You said, 'I know Moss was here'. How did you know that?"

"I didn't," she lied. "I was just testing you. Thanks for sorting that out."

Pierce's features contorted as Samuels gave a bitter laugh. "And you thought she was stupid," he said, shaking his head. "I was right about that, at least."

"That's a damned short list of things to be right about," Pierce retorted. "And she still hasn't told us why she would need to test that theory. What have you heard," he said menacingly, leaning in so close she could smell the coffee on his breath, "that would make you even suspect that?"

Topolsky held his gaze as she sorted through her options. She couldn't very well tell him that Moss had left a message for her; if he wasn't dead yet, he would be soon after Pierce learned that. He obviously prided himself on keeping things secret...

"There's talk," she said slowly, "of a dark unit forming."

Pierce sat back on his haunches, thunderstruck. Samuels stopped breathing. No one spoke for what seemed like a very long time.

"A...'dark unit'?" Pierce said finally. "What exactly does that mean?"

"A rogue unit," Topolsky clarified, using Pamela's definition. "Unauthorized. Lawless. In other words...you. To a 'T'."

Pierce looked at Samuels, who shook his head, slowly at first, then faster. "Do not look at me, Danny," he said firmly. "I have been so careful every step of the way."

"Then pray tell how did this rumor get started?" Pierce said in a voice so soft, it was deadly.

"I don't know!" Samuels wailed. "Maybe something to do with your screw-up?"

"As opposed to your two screw-ups?" Pierce retorted. "Congratulations, Brian, because you're one up on me. But that's all you're getting. Bates!" he bellowed, rising to his feet. "Bates!"

Bates appeared in the doorway so suddenly, he must have been lurking just outside. "Turn off the scrambler," Pierce ordered. "Now."

Bates disappeared as Pierce pulled his cellphone from his pocket and stared at it. A few seconds later, he started punching buttons. "It's me," he said tersely into the phone as he retreated to the hallway. "We have a situation..."

Topolsky turned hard eyes on Samuels. "So this is 'too remote' to have cell coverage?"

"We had to know if we could trust you," Samuels said. "We can't have moles, Agent Topolsky, or traitors."

"So how much of what you told me can I trust?" Topolsky demanded. "What am I even doing here? He hates me, and I'm not exactly fond of him either."

"You're here because I argued we needed you. I didn't lie, Kathleen—we do believe there's something in Roswell, and you're the one who knows the most about that." Samuels paused, glancing at the doorway before coming in closer. "What gave it away?" he whispered. "I know you were okay with this. What made you change your mind?"

"You did," Topolsky told him. "You handed me your phone to prove you couldn't get a signal, and I checked your contacts. Guess who came up first?" Samuels' eyes widened in horror as she watched him intently. "How do you think Pierce will take that? How do you think he'll react when he finds out you screwed up again? Let me go, Samuels, and I'll keep that little tidbit to myself. You'll still have the rest of the Bureau nipping at your heels, but I'm betting that's a damned sight better than having that one mad at you."

Footsteps sounded, and Samuels backed away as Pierce reentered the room. "It gets worse," Pierce said grimly. "Seems our guest made a phone call not long before she left. Bates says it was about 4:30 p.m."

"That phone's not tapped," Topolsky said. "I checked."

"No, agent, it isn't," Pierce said sarcastically. "Because someone said it needed to be clear so you'd 'trust us', and we all know how well that worked. Clean this up," he barked at Samuels. "And do it right this time. I want to know what she knows."

So they're not going to kill me, Topolsky thought with a private sigh of relief. She only had to hold them off as long as it took Agent Stevens to get to her, which shouldn't be long. Pierce could certainly find out who she'd called, but that would take time, and...

A sharp pain erupted in her arm. Gasping, she looked down to find Samuels withdrawing a hypodermic needle.

"Nighty-nite," Pierce's voice said as everything went black.




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

Vacation next week (last one), so I'll be posting Chapter 83 on Sunday, August 12.

[Kathy W]

Hello to everyone reading!

Funny to see Max and Isabel picking out a toaster for Michael in Walmart!

Isabel would so do that. Good thing she didn't, or she'd be there still, ruminating on the various advantages and disadvantages of various toasters/panini makers/griddles/etc.

YOU GO, BOY! Nothing like right this moment to do what you so desperately want to do!

Go, Max! Mind the strawberries! I can just see him rushing in there while Isabel drives off in a huff.


On to the Eraser Room....








CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE



March 2, 2000, 1 p.m.

West Roswell High School




"Wait...I'm a little lost," Diane said. "You mean Liz and Max were cleaning erasers when they created this disturbance?"

"No," the school principal said with just the hint of a smile. "They were what we used to call 'making out'. We're talking sexual activity here, not erasers."

Diane glanced at Nancy Parker, seated nearby and looking every bit as bewildered and embarrassed as she was. Gracious, but Nancy must be taking this hard, especially after she'd primed her for something much different. Diane's phone had rung in the middle of a meeting, and she'd almost ignored it. Well, actually she had ignored it, letting it go to voicemail but noting that it was the school's number, which was odd. She'd called back only minutes later, reaching one of the school's admins who told her the principal wanted to see her. Was she available today? She was, Diane had answered, but what was this about? The admin had demurred, saying she'd best leave explanations to the principal.

Diane had set off immediately, her head spinning over what this could possibly be about. By the time she'd reached the school, she'd decided—it must be an award. When one of Isabel's classmates had received a prestigious national award, her parents had been summoned in just such a hasty and enigmatic fashion. She and Philip had been very lucky in that they'd avoided many of the pitfalls of raising adoptive children, including poor school performance; both Isabel and Max were exemplary students, excelling in virtually all their academic subjects. It would not be surprising if one or both of them had garnered national attention, and she'd hurried into school eager to solve the mystery, even leaving Philip a voicemail on the way in, spying Nancy Parker just as she hung up.

"Nancy! I haven't seen you in a while."

"You shouldn't be seeing me today," Nancy said, sounding faintly annoyed. "I hate being interrupted in the middle of taxes; I just know I'm going to screw something up."

"What interrupted you?" Diane asked.

"I got a phone call from the principal's office to come down here right away," Nancy answered, "and they wouldn't say why."

Diane's eyes widened. Nancy's daughter, Liz, was also a stellar student, bolstering the award theory which she lost no time sharing.

"You really think so?" Nancy said dubiously. "The woman who called me didn't sound like she was calling about an award, or anything good, for that matter."

"Well, of course she didn't," Diane said sagely. "It's a surprise! They wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. Besides, our kids are all candidates for valedictorian. What else could it be?"

The first sign that something was wrong had been the sight of Liz and Max seated outside the principal's office. "See, there they are," Diane had said, assuming this confirmed her theory.

"They don't look very happy," Nancy had observed.

Upon closer inspection, Diane realized Nancy was right—they did not. The reason they didn't unfolded over the next fifteen minutes as the principal outlined why they'd been summoned, complete with a blow-by-blow report from the teacher who'd made the "arrest". Diane had felt first her face, then her body growing warmer, followed by a mortifying dripping sensation inside her jacket which meant her antiperspirant had failed her. Beside her, Nancy sat still as a stone, absorbing the tale in silence. It was safe to say that both of them were flabbergasted. Their children simply did not get in trouble.

"Why don't we go talk to them?" the principal suggested.

Everyone rose. Max and Liz were still outside, and Nancy and Liz promptly got into a heated mother-daughter exchange. She's good, Diane thought, watching Nancy parry her daughter's thrusts with a calm she didn't think she could pull off. Max, by contrast, was quiet and abashed, refusing to look her in the eye.

"Mom, it's just a mix-up," Liz insisted as the confrontation continued.

"They also cut two academic classes," the principal interjected. "Now, Liz and Max are honor students. I think we'd all like to keep it that way."

"I'm sure there's an explanation for it," Diane broke in. "I'm certain that Max wouldn't miss any of his classes unless there was a good reason. Max?"

The silence which followed was deafening. Max looked at Liz, then at the floor. The arresting teacher cleared his throat.

"I think I've made my point," the principal said finally, "so I'll leave the settlement of this matter in your expert hands. Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Evans...thank you for coming in so quickly."

The principal retreated to his office. The arresting teacher left. The admins tried to look busy, but there was no avoiding those not-so-furtive glances. Diane hadn't felt so completely at a loss for what to say or do since the day she'd been told she couldn't have children. It was Nancy who finally took charge.

"Wait for us in the hallway," she told Liz.

"Mom—"

"Liz—don't," Nancy said flatly. "Just don't. You'll get your chance, and so will I. Keep that in mind while you're taking your chance. Out in the hallway. Both of you," she added when she saw the bewildered look on Diane's face.

"Yes," Diane said quickly, "yes, you too, Max. I'll be right out."

They left, her furious, him hangdog. "Well," Nancy sighed, giving her a wan smile. " 'Surprise'."

"Not exactly the surprise I was expecting," Diane said, deeply embarrassed. "Good Lord, Nancy, I'm sorry. You can be certain I'll have a talk with Max about—"

But Nancy held up a hand. "Don't worry. One thing I'm certain of here is that it's not all Max."

"Maybe not," Diane said, "but still, I'm just out in left field here. Max has never, ever done anything like this, never mind landed in the principal's office."

"Neither has Liz," Nancy agreed. "Guess there's a first time for everything."

"I guess I just thought things would always go on as they have," Diane admitted. "Not exactly realistic of me. They're growing up, after all."

"Yeah," Nancy sighed, "that's what happens when we keep feeding and watering them."

There was a brief moment of silence before they both started laughing. "Oh, dear," Diane chuckled, catching the startled looks on the admins' faces. "They probably think we're nuts."

"Under the circumstances, they probably weren't expecting us to bust up," Nancy said. "So...how do you plan on handling this?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Diane said.

"I think...we're gonna talk," Nancy said. "About appropriate behavior. And appropriate places to do certain things."

"Good idea," Diane agreed.

"And birth control. I know it wasn't going that far in the 'eraser room'," Nancy added quickly when Diane's eyes widened. "God knows we would have heard about it if it had. I just think I need to remind Liz of a few things, like how to keep from making new people. What about Max? Does he know how to use a condom, and where to get them, and stuff like that?"

Diane felt her face growing warm, followed by a wave of mortification. "I...I don't know," she stammered, feeling like the world's worst parent. "I...guess I never asked. I think Philip would be the best one to have...'that' talk with him."

"Right," Nancy nodded. "The dads do the boys, and we get the girls. Which means Jeff is off the hook, for which I'm certain he'll be eternally grateful. Well...it was nice to see you, Diane, even if the circumstances weren't the best. Good luck with Max."

"Oh, you too," Diane said. "And please let me know how it works out for you. Philip may tackle this with Max, but I'll get Izzie."

"True," Nancy agreed. "Back into the trenches. Wish me luck?"

"You might need it," Diane murmured, glancing into the hallway where Liz looked like a storm cloud and Max stared at the floor. "She should be on the debate team."

"She is," Nancy said wearily. "See ya."

Nancy walked into the hallway, had the briefest of exchanges with her daughter, then walked away, her furious offspring trailing her. Diane hesitated before following, Max's eyes turning to her only for a second before dropping again. She really had no idea what to say to him.

"Well," she said after a long, awkward silence. "This is...different."

"Mom, I'm really sorry," Max said, still staring at the floor.

"Okay, just...just don't cut any more classes, okay? We'll talk about this after school. I want you to come right home."

"I have detention," Max mumbled.

Diane blinked. "Detention?"

"I'll be home right after that," Max said. "I promise. Look, I should go. I'm missing Social Studies."

"Go on, then," Diane sighed.

He fled, and Diane briefly closed her eyes. Don't cut any more classes? That was her motherly advice? And detention? Was that related to the eraser room fiasco or something else entirely? At a loss for what to do, Diane pulled out her phone.

"Honey!" Philip's voice said. "So what did Max or Izzie win? Or was it both of them?"

"Neither," Diane replied. "We've had a first—I was called to the principal's office because Max 'created a disturbance'."

"Max?" Philip said, puzzled. "That doesn't sound like him. What kind of 'disturbance'?"

"The kind you get with a boy and a girl all alone in a room."

"Wait," Philip said. "Do you mean Max was..."

"Necking," Diane finished. "He was necking, Philip, with Liz Parker in a storeroom, or closet, or something like that. And not only necking, but noisily, enough that a teacher heard them. He even cut two classes."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line followed by the last thing Diane had expected to hear: Laughter. It started out as a low chuckle, progressed to a louder one, then graduated to a bona fide chortle. "What are you laughing at?" Diane demanded. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?"

"Probably not as embarrassing as being caught in the middle of tonsil hockey," Philip chuckled.

"Philip, be serious," Diane said crossly. "This is sexual activity we're talking about."

" 'Sexual activity'?" Philip said doubtfully. "I know things change, but last I checked, necking is kissing, and kissing isn't sexual activity. A precursor, maybe, but not necessarily, and definitely not always. What, is every little peck on the cheek 'sexual activity'?"

"Would you stop it with the legalese," Diane snapped. "This wasn't a 'peck on the cheek'! Do you know what it feels like to be hauled into the principal's office because of your kid? It's worse than being hauled in because of yourself."

"Oh, please, Diane, you were never hauled into the principal's office."

"Well...no, but what's that got to do with anything? The point is—"

"The point is that this is your first time and you're mortified," Philip said. "I get it. It's not my first time, so it looks different to me."

"What, you mean...you mean you were hauled into the principal's office?"

"Constantly," Philip said cheerfully. "So was my mother, no big surprise there. Yup, we Evans aren't good at keeping our opinions to ourselves. They had a chair with my name on it."

"You got hauled in more than once?" Diane said in astonishment.

"Put it this way," Philip said, "if it had existed back then, they would have had my mother's number on speed dial."

"I didn't know this!" Diane exclaimed. "You never mentioned it!"

"Does this mean you're giving back your engagement ring?"

"Oh, stop it!" Diane said in exasperation. "Fine, so you're an outlaw and proud of it, but what about Max? He's not like that."

"No, Max is just a red-blooded American male, and he likes a pretty girl. It's that simple."

"It is not that simple!" Diane protested. "What was he doing in a closet making out with a girl?"

"Oh, c'mon," Philip said. "I know we adopted, but do you really expect me to believe you don't know where babies come from?"

"I don't believe this," Diane said furiously.

"That much is clear," Philip agreed, "but what you really can't believe is that your own son is doing it. He's 16, for heaven's sake, not 6. What did you expect?"

"I know he's 16," Diane said peevishly. "And I'm not surprised he'd be making out with a girl, I'm just surprised he'd be doing it in a closet, of all places."

"Believe me when I say that teenaged boys will do it anywhere," Philip teased as Diane rolled her eyes. "And girls, for that matter, because obviously the boys are doing it with somebody. Didn't you ever make out with someone when you were in high school? Duck under the bleachers, grab an empty classroom, meet out by the dumpster?"

"No," Diane said flatly. "For some strange reason, making out next to a trash heap was less than appealing."

"Okay, maybe not a dumpster, but somewhere else? No? Wow," Philip said when his query met with stony silence. "Too bad. Good times, good times."

"Good Lord, you sound almost proud of him," Diane grumbled.

"Well, I am...a little," Philip amended when she gave a snort of disbelief. "It's just that Max is so quiet that sometimes I worry about him. He doesn't seem to have many friends, doesn't date...it's kind of nice to see him doing something normal."

"Necking in a closet is 'normal'?"

"For a teenaged boy? You bet."

"So, what, we're just going to ignore this?" Diane demanded. "Just say 'boys will be boys' and pretend it didn't happen?"

"What makes you think that?" Philip said. "I never said that. We'll obviously have to clarify that there's a time and place for certain things. And that cutting class is unacceptable."

"That's it?" Diane protested. "You make it sound like there is a time and a place for 'certain things'. What about what happens after the 'certain things'? Does he understand he could get a girl pregnant?"

"I believe he does, but I'll go over all that," Philip said.

"And what about birth control?" Diane went on. "Nancy Parker asked me if Max knows how to use a condom and where to get them."

"Of course she did. It's her daughter who would get pregnant."

"Philip Evans, I insist you take this seriously!" Diane thundered. "You didn't have to look a woman in the eye knowing your son was just caught chewing on her daughter!"

"I'm guessing her daughter was doing some chewing of her own, but whatever," Philip said. "And I am taking it seriously; I see unwed teenaged mothers all the time. I'll make certain Max understands his responsibilities to both women and school. Maybe I'll come home early so we can—"

"Don't bother," Diane broke in. "He's got detention. But after dinner, I want you to make sure he realizes where the line is."

"I'll paint the line on the floor," Philip promised. "We still have some of that paint left over that we used after the kitchen fire, right?"

Diane gave a snort of exasperation as she rung off. Honestly, what had gotten into her usually straight-laced, law-abiding husband? Well...not entirely straight-laced, she amended. She and Philip had met in college and enjoyed their own "moments", although they were over 18 and none of them occurred in a closet, theirs or anyone else's. And what was this about him living in the principal's office? Why did she suddenly feel she didn't know the man she married? She was all the way out to her car before it occurred to her that she may not know everything about her husband, but there was someone who did.

"Mom?" Diane said when Dee answered the phone. "I have a few questions for you that may sound odd..."




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




Alex Whitman rounded a corner and spied Liz and her mother in the middle of the hallway, obviously having some kind of discussion. Liz's back was to him, so he couldn't see her face, but judging from the look on her mother's, it was a safe bet her daughter wasn't any happier than she was. Then Mrs. Parker left, Liz turned around...and he saw he'd gotten that wrong.

"Oh!" Liz said happily when she saw him.

"Liz, what's going on?" Alex asked.

"Alex, the most incredible thing is happening to me," Liz said excitedly, "but I...I don't even know what it is!"

Alex blinked. It was completely unlike the studious Liz Parker to not know what something was, or to not at least have a million theories. "What?" he said, confused.

By way of answer, Liz grabbed him by the arm and propelled him down the hallway. "Wait a minute," Alex protested. "Where have you been? I didn't see you in Math, I didn't see you in Health—"

"In here," Liz said, giving him a shove.

"—but I did see you in Bio, or rather, hear you, while you and Max were making out on the floor," Alex went on as she flipped on a light. "Which is so completely unlike you that I...wait. Where are we?"

"The Eraser Room."

"We...what?" Alex sputtered. "Why are we in the Eraser Room?"

"Because it's the last place anyone would think to look for me," Liz answered. "Look, I've just got to tell someone about this, Alex, and, as you know, my supply of people I can talk to is limited due to the whole alien thing—"

"Did your mom get called down here because of the Bio thing?" Alex interrupted.

"No, that was just detention," Liz said, oblivious to the spectacle of herself uttering the unfathomable phrase "just detention". "She was here because of the Eraser Room thing. But never mind that, I've got to tell you—"

"What 'Eraser Room' thing?" Alex asked, looking around warily. "What, did someone puke in here, or something?"

"No, Max and I were in here, and some teacher busted in on us, and the principal blew it all out of proportion and called our parents," Liz said. "Never mind that. What I wanted to tell you—"

" 'Never mind that'?" Alex echoed incredulously. "Is that where you've been? Since when do you get dragged into the principal's office at all, never mind have your parents called? What were you and Max doing?"

"Kissing," Liz said impatiently. "We were just kissing."

"I'm pretty sure it would have had to have been more than 'just kissing' to drag parents in on it," Alex said.

"No, no, that was just because of the noise—"

"Noise? What 'noise'? Since when does kissing involve noise? What else were you and Max doing?"

"Nothing!" Liz insisted. "We were just—"

"I'm not completely stupid, you know," Alex said stoutly. "I know what goes on in here. Sounds like Health class is the one class you shouldn't have skipped. And if you just got in trouble for being here, why are we in here now?"

"Alex, would you just chill?" Liz demanded. "It was just kissing, and I already told you, it's the last place anyone would look for me precisely because I've already gotten in trouble once today for being here."

"I don't believe this!" Alex said, flabbergasted. "Liz, what's gotten into you?"

"That's what I keep trying to tell you," Liz said in exasperation. "And I can't tell you just anywhere because it's an 'alien' answer, so we had to go someplace private."

"Not sure how 'private' this is if teachers are busting in, but whatever," Alex said doubtfully. "Okay, what's the big secret? Or revelation? Or...oh, God. You're not pregnant with an alien baby, are you?"

"Alex!"

"Okay, okay!" Alex protested. "I'm just trying to think of what would turn one of my best friends into someone I've never seen before. I know you like Max—believe me, I got that with the whole blood sample thing—but this is ridiculous."

"No, it's incredible," Liz said excitedly, giving him a little push. "Sit down."

"If you say so," Alex muttered.

"Okay," Liz said once he was reluctantly seated atop a copier box, "did I ever tell you about the connection thing?"

"No, you never told me about the 'connection thing'. What's that?"

"It's how Max can see what I'm thinking, or what I thought before, how he—"

"Wait," Alex broke in. "He reads minds?"

"No, it's not like that. He can see things that happened before—"

"Sounds like mind reading."

"—or see how they made you feel—"

"Still sounds like mind reading."

"—even things from a long time ago—"

"So how is this not mind reading?"

"It's not mind reading!" Liz insisted. "It's like...he described it as a bunch of images going by, like a slide show on fast forward. It's like...like if you dropped a bunch of pictures on the floor and he reached down and picked up a few at random. But the rest all stay on the floor."

"Okay," Alex said slowly. "So that's ever so slightly less creepy."

"The first time it happened was when he healed me," Liz went on. "Apparently he 'connected' with me when he did that, and he saw me as a little girl when I wore this horrible dress my mother had made with cupcakes all over it when I was in kindergarten."

"Definitely creepy," Alex confirmed.

"But then afterwards, after I...found out about him, he reversed the connection so I could do the same thing with him," Liz continued. "And it worked. It was just like he said—random images, but I could also tell how he felt about things."

"Yikes," Alex murmured. "So this is the wonderful, miraculous, fantastic thing that happened?"

"No, this happened months ago," Liz said. "What's happening now is that I'm seeing things from him again, but he's not doing it."

"So...you're 'connecting' with Max, but he's not driving it?" Alex said, puzzled. "So who is?"

For the first time since this incredible conversation had begun, Liz looked a bit less sure of herself. "I...I think it's me."

"You?" Alex echoed. "Why do you think it's you?"

"Well, it has to be one of us, and it's not Max. And it happens when we're, you know, kissing, so of course there's only the two of us—"

"Of course," Alex said quickly. "So is this why you've been making out anywhere and everywhere? So you can do this 'connection' thing?"

"No, that isn't why we've been...you know," Liz said. "It's just happening when we do. And the things I've been seeing are pretty incredible."

"I'm afraid to ask," Alex sighed. "Okay...I'll bite. Things like what, exactly?"

Liz sat down next to him, eyes shining. "At first it was stars and nebulae and galaxies. But then it was soldiers and jeeps and wreckage, and...Alex...I think I saw the crash."

Alex blinked. "The crash? What crash?"

"The crash," Liz answered. "The one Max was in. The one that brought him and Michael and Isabel here."

Alex was quiet for a moment. "Wow," he said finally. "If that's true, that is incredible. Especially since Max doesn't remember it."

"Well, maybe he does," Liz said, "somewhere deep down where he can't reach it. Maybe I tapped into something, some deeply buried memory or traumatic past."

"Or maybe you're just horny?" Alex suggested.

Liz gave him a playful swat. "No! I mean, yes...oh never mind," she finished when his eyebrows rose. "That's not why this is happening. We've kissed before, and I didn't see anything."

"Mmm," Alex murmured. "But have you ever kissed like this before? You know, this...passionately?"

Liz's eyes widened. "You know, you might be on to something! There does seem to be a link between me seeing things and when I...I mean, when we..."

"I get it," Alex said quickly.

"You're a genius!" Liz exclaimed, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Later!"

"Wait, Liz...Liz!" Alex called as she threw the door open and bolted into the hallway. Geez, what was with her? After her earlier adventures he would have expected her to crack the door open, peek through, and venture out only when she was certain she wouldn't be spotted. But then Liz clearly wasn't herself today, he reminded himself as he used the crack-n-peek method to extricate himself. Not only that, he appeared to have just handed her a golden excuse to lose her virginity. "Proper job, Alex," he groaned on his way to lunch. "Nice going."




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




Proctor residence




" 'Sexual activity'?" Dee said, plopping grocery bags on the kitchen table. "That's going a bit far, don't you think?"

"That's what I said," Philip's voice answered, coming over the phone cradled precariously between her ear and her shoulder. Oh, for the days of the old-fashioned telephone which could easily be propped hands free; today's tiny cellphones must be a boon for chiropractors, at least for those with patients old enough to remember when you could secure a phone that way. "I mean, kissing? C'mon! Granted they shouldn't have been doing it in a storeroom during classes, but to hear the rhetoric, they were making babies."

"Because they're afraid that's what's next," Dee pointed out, pulling groceries out of bags and handing them to Anthony. "These days it's all about 'prevention', which is code for 'make everything sound worse than it is out of fear it will become so'. Today's society thrives on exaggeration, and schools are no exception."

"See, I knew you'd understand," Philip said. "Diane was just horrified."

"Actually, she was horrified that you weren't horrified," Dee said dryly. "And further horrified that she'd married such an anarchist, not to mention surprised, given how much you complain about your anarchist mother. Is there a reason you never told her about your escapades in school? Which I confirmed, by the way, so no weasling out of that one."

"It wasn't deliberate," Philip protested. "It just never came up."

"Mmmhmm," Dee murmured, unconvinced. "Either that or you were afraid she'd dump you if she realized how little the apple rolled after it fell from the tree."

"Now who's exaggerating?"

"Not I," Dee said innocently. "So...what are you going to do with Max?"

"I told her I'd talk to him," Philip sighed. "You know, 'the' talk."

"Philip, he's 16," Dee said in disbelief. "Do you mean you've never talked to him about sex?"

"It just never seemed necessary," Philip said. "He's so quiet, and he was never interested in girls...I even thought he might be gay."

"Would it make a difference if he was?"

"No," Philip said quickly. "It just makes life easier if he isn't. Why?"

"Just wondering," Dee answered. "I know you're a stickler for rules and conformity, at least in some ways, so I wasn't sure what you'd do with a child who was...different."

There followed a long moment of shocked silence. "Mom," Philip said finally in a wounded tone, "do you really mean to tell me that you think I'd disown my own son over something like that?"

"I mean to tell you that I wasn't sure," Dee clarified.

"Well, then, let me settle that once and for all," Philip said firmly. "I would never think less of either of my children over sexual orientation, or hair color, or how tall they are, or anything they have no control over. Are we clear now?"

What about species? Dee thought. "Of course," she replied. "Calm down, Philip. You're exaggerating."

"I don't think so," Philip argued. "If you really thought—"

"What I think is that you should save your energy for 'the talk'," Dee broke in. "Go get him now, before you lose your nerve. You can always spar with me later."

She rung off, setting the phone down before handing the last loaf of bread to her husband. "Wow," Anthony said lightly. "That was...direct."

"We were on the subject," Dee said, "so I was just curious as to how he'd react."

"And I'm curious as to how he's going to react," Anthony remarked, looking past her.

Dee turned around...and sighed. "Look, I called you so you wouldn't be surprised," she told Brivari, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway. "He's not in trouble—"

"I beg to differ," Brivari interrupted.

Dee rolled her eyes. "Is this the part where I remind you that Max is an adolescent, with all an adolescent's hormones?"

"No, this is the part where I inform you that hormones are the least of our problems," Brivari answered. "We have a new problem—Elizabeth Parker."



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


I'll post Chapter 84 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Thanks to everyone reading, and thanks for the feedback! ^^ I would have liked to have seen more of the parents too, especially Amy DeLuca. I loved just about every scene she was in.

On to what Brivari said about Liz.





CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR



March 2, 2000, 4 p.m.

Proctor residence





Dee paused beside the counter full of groceries, looked at Brivari blankly, than at Anthony, who shrugged. "Liz?" Dee repeated. "Why is Liz a problem? Other than the corresponding cart load of hormones, that is."

"Would you stop with the hormones?" Brivari said irritably. "This goes way beyond getting caught in a closet with a girl."

"Okay, so they were kissing," Dee said wearily. "You're starting to sound like Diane. Like I said, I only called you so you wouldn't worry, not because there was any kind of real problem. As long as they weren't—"

"There is a 'real problem'," Brivari interrupted. "They're not just kissing, they're connecting."

" 'Connecting'?" Anthony chuckled. "Is that what they're calling it now? I guess every generation has it's euphemisms—oh," he amended when he saw the look on Dee's face. "You mean the other kind of connecting. The mind reading kind."

"It's not mind reading," Brivari answered. "It's nowhere near that precise. But we can definitely share feelings, memories, and images."

"I gather Max is sharing something he's not supposed to?" Anthony said.

"That we already know," Dee said dryly.

"This is not a joke," Brivari said sharply. "This is serious."

"Look, I can understand how this would upset you, but why?" Dee said. "Liz already knows Max isn't human. What could she possibly see that would have you all up in arms?"

"Things Zan doesn't know. Things he couldn't know."

"And now you've lost me," Dee said, emptying the last of the grocery bags. "How could she see something that Max doesn't know?"

"The same way he drew a picture for the Healer depicting something he never saw," Brivari answered.

Dee paused, a jar of spaghetti sauce in one hand. "The picture," she said after a moment. "The one of Earth from space. He never saw that, but he drew an incredibly detailed picture."

"Because I saw it," Brivari said. "And inadvertently transferred that memory to him when we first attempted a connection. The same type of thing could be happening with the Parker girl. I've spent a great deal of time listening to her babble because this has enthralled her to the point where she won't stop talking about it, and what she's describing disturbs me. Stars racing by. A ship crashing. Soldiers."

Dee and Anthony exchanged glances. "That...sounds like the crash," Anthony said.

"Uh oh," Dee said quietly.

"Exactly," Brivari sighed.

Anthony looked back and forth from one to the other. "What 'uh oh'?"

"Oh, dear," Dee whispered, sinking down into a kitchen chair. "We're lucky if all she's seeing are stars and soldiers."

"Exactly," Brivari said heavily.

"Exactly what?" Anthony demanded. "I don't recall Max drawing pictures of soldiers when he....oh," he said suddenly, his eyes widening. "You're not thinking about that first time, are you? You're thinking about the night he made you tell them how they got here."

"When they all wound up having screaming fits and breakdowns," Dee added. "And forgetting pretty much everything, although that also means they forgot those breakdowns."

"Sounds like Liz might wind up remembering for him," Anthony said.

Silence. Everyone looked at everyone else as the possibilities loomed, and the implications from those possibilities loomed larger. "Okay," Dee said briskly, breaking the trance. "One thing at a time. Anthony, get us some coffee, will you, please? Sit down," she said to Brivari, "and let's think about this. First of all, are you absolutely certain she isn't coming up with this all by herself? Roswell natives hear crash stories from the day they're born, and when you know your boyfriend is an alien...well...it's easy to see how one's imagination could run away with you, especially in the heat of passion."

"That's possible," Brivari allowed, "but her recollections are quite vivid."

"How vivid?"

"She asked one of her teachers about a 'red star'," Brivari answered. "Antar's sun is a red star."

"And that's not in any of the alien stories," Anthony remarked.

"True," Dee agreed, "but it's still very basic and harmless information. We know the children have memories they stopped accessing; back at the orphanage, Isabel told Yvonne our sun was 'wrong'. Surely on some level, Max knows what his own sun looks like."

"Most likely," Brivari agreed. "But there's another wrinkle—I'm not convinced he's initiating these connections. I know he did once before because the Parker girl explained it in some detail to her friend, but that was different; Zan initiated that connection. We can connect with humans, but we have to drive the process, and it takes some effort. Zan appears as bewildered by this as she is."

"Then perhaps it's just the heat of the moment," Anthony suggested. "Maybe he's letting his guard down while they're...you know. Wouldn't be the first time someone's uttered something they shouldn't in that kind of situation, although with us, it's usually something audible."

"Like another woman's name," Dee chuckled.

"Perhaps," Brivari said doubtfully. "But this isn't something you have to block access to, not with humans. You have to actively pursue it, and he's not."

"Well, what other explanation is there?" Dee said. "It has to be coming from him somehow, right?"

Brivari's eyes dropped, and Dee's narrowed. "Is this the part where you tell us what you haven't been telling us?"

Brivari sighed, staring into the coffee cup Anthony had handed him. "I've been concerned about something for some time now. It's only a possibility, and I'd convinced myself it hadn't happened because I'd seen no evidence of it...until now."

"Evidence of what?" Dee said impatiently. "Is something wrong with Max?"

"No. But something might be wrong with Liz Parker. Well, not 'wrong', exactly, just...different."

Anthony shook his head. "I'm lost."

"That makes two of us," Dee agreed. "English, please?"

Brivari hesitated. "I think she might be initiating the connection herself."

Dee blinked. "Who? Liz? I thought humans couldn't do that."

"They can't," Brivari agreed, "...unless they've been healed by an Antarian-Human hybrid."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Dee said. "That was months ago."

"These changes can take months, if not years," Brivari said.

"What 'changes'?" Anthony said. "You sound like you have experience with this."

"I do," Brivari allowed, "albeit in a different way. You may recall that our people were here for years before our ship crashed. We were exploring the potential of the human brain—"

"Of course I 'recall'," Dee interrupted. "I believe that by 'exploring the potential', you mean 'experiments on humans'. It's why Mama threw you out of the house years ago. I'm not going to throw you out of the house, but let's be clear—I understand why my mother did. Call it what it is."

"Very well, then, 'experiments'," Brivari corrected with a touch of impatience. "Call it what you like, it's why I suspect that when Zan healed this girl, he did more than just heal her. The human brain has enormous potential, much more than current humans realize. We were able to awaken unused or underused parts of the brain in our test subjects with a concentrated dose of power."

"Which is what Liz likely got when Max healed her," Anthony said thoughtfully.

"Oh, no," Brivari said gravely. "What she got was much more than that. Our hybrids are more powerful than their Warders, although they aren't aware of that, thank God, nor are they adept at using their skills, the extent of which I don't even know. What she received was an unfocused blast from a panicky king, the equivalent of turning a fire hose on a match. It worked, but I've always been concerned it did more than merely heal her wound."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what would 'more' look like?" Dee said.

"Like me," Brivari said soberly. "Like Jaddo, like Zan, like all the rest. Depending on how it affected her, she could develop extra-human abilities...like forming connections."

"So you think she's causing these 'connections'," Anthony said. "But why would she do that?"

"It's not a question of 'why'," Brivari explained. "In the beginning, she wouldn't be able to control herself, likely wouldn't even know what was happening. It would just happen, just flare, like...like..."

"Like the kids did when they were little, when we first found them," Dee finished. "They used their powers, like when Isabel changed Yvonne's drawing. Sometimes they did something dangerous, like when Max overheated the bath water the night we found them and didn't seem to understand why."

"Exactly," Brivari said. "It would be reflexive and largely uncontrollable."

"But why would she be seeing things like stars and crashes?" Anthony wondered. "I would think she'd be seeing things like what he had for breakfast or something that happened at school. You know, everyday stuff."

"That's another reason I think it might be her," Brivari said. "If she's doing this, she doesn't know she's doing it and certainly doesn't understand how to control it. Back to the fire hose on the match analogy; it would be a blast of power which could easily reach Zan's deepest memories, including those he got from me."

"Including how they died," Anthony said faintly.

Brivari shook his head. "Including a lot more than that."

No one said anything for a moment. "So," Dee said at length, "if it is her...or even if it isn't...I don't see as there's anything we can do about it. I don't see a way to make them stop."

"Wow," Anthony murmured. "I think I liked it better when all we had to fret over was the birds and the bees."




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




7 p.m.

Evans residence




Max threw an anxious look at his bedroom door as he threw the last few things into a duffle bag. His parents were still cleaning up after dinner, but it was only a matter of time before his father showed up. That it would be his father and not his mother was a foregone conclusion; matters of discipline in the Evans household always fell to his father, and having both a detention and a trip to the principal's office in one day definitely fell under the heading of "discipline". He'd already prepared the requisite speech which would hopefully put his parents' qualms to rest, but didn't even touch his own. What had started as a joy had now taken on shades of a burden. Even when he tried to forget he was alien, he never seemed to be able to.

When Isabel had given her blessing to Michael and Maria dating and, by extension, he and Liz, Max had felt like he'd suddenly been released from a cage. All the pent up emotion he'd kept so carefully under control, all the longing, all the pining for the friendship and honesty he'd enjoyed with Liz only to have to set it aside had come surging forward. The way it had surged, however, had taken him by surprise, as had Liz's prompt and in-kind response. Not that he'd never had..."those"...feelings about her; he'd just never thought he'd get the chance to act on them, not like they had at the Crashdown anyway, sending crockery flying and drawing enough attention that he'd fled, although without a shred of guilt, both his and Liz's eyes still shining with a longing they'd fully intended to satisfy at the earliest opportunity. Which they had, only to be rudely interrupted by not one, but two teachers, the first of whom prescribed detention while the second went a bit further. Having their mothers called to the scene had been embarrassing, but only emphasized the importance of discretion; he'd resolved to be more careful and looked forward to their next meeting.

Which is where things had gotten complicated. If Liz was to be believed, and there was no reason she shouldn't be, she was "seeing things" when they were...together. The trouble was, he wasn't connecting with her, or at least wasn't trying to. He would have written the whole thing off to an accidental connection in the midst of a previously untried passionate embrace if not for the fact that what Liz said she was seeing was impossible. Soldiers? Crashed ships? Galaxies? She'd seemed to actually recognize that galaxy on the poster in the classroom where they'd done detention, and he'd stared at it for a long time, hoping for some kind of spark, but...nothing. It meant something to her, but not to him. How could that be? How could she be seeing things he didn't remember? What did this mean for future encounters? All of a sudden, passion meant much more than frustrated desire or embarrassing encounters with adults; it meant learning things he wasn't in the mood to learn. As much as he wanted to kiss her, he didn't want her to suddenly pull back and announce she knew the name of his home planet. What was supposed to be a blissful vacation from anything alien had once again been interrupted by just that.

A sound directly behind him made him whirl around so suddenly, he dropped his bag. Isabel raised an eyebrow.

"Little jumpy there, big brother?"

"Don't do that, Iz," Max said reproachfully. "I thought you were Dad."

"You mean he hasn't been in here yet? Well, don't fret," Isabel said breezily, plopping on the bed. "It's only a matter of time. We both know it'll be Dad."

"Did you come to gloat because I got in trouble?"

"No, Max, I came to ask you if you've lost your mind," Isabel replied tartly. "The Eraser Room? I mean, really...the Eraser Room? What the hell were you thinking?"

"Precisely," Max said crossly. "Very little 'thinking' goes on in the Eraser Room. Don't tell me those friends of yours I see going in there all the time didn't mention that."

"Stay on the subject," Isabel ordered. "Yes, other people use the Eraser Room, but I never have, and you never have until today. What's gotten into you?"

"Why are you acting so surprised? You were the one who told me to 'go for it'."

"For the record, 'go for it' does not mean 'screw each other's lights out'," Isabel retorted. "I didn't think I needed to clarify that, but maybe I do."

"We weren't 'screwing'," Max protested. "We were just kissing."

"Loud enough that a teacher heard you?"

"Okay, kissing loudly," Max amended. "Actually, it was Liz who was making the noise, probably because—"

"Stop!" Isabel commanded, holding up a hand. "The last thing I need so soon after a meal is to hear about my own brother doing...that."

"I wasn't going into detail," Max protested. "I was just trying to tell you what was happening when Liz and I...you know."

"What was 'happening'?" Isabel echoed incredulously. "Good Lord, Max, I know perfectly well what 'happens' when girls and boys...'you know'. Granted, I've never been stupid enough to get caught in the Eraser Room, of all places, but—"

"So that means you've done...'you know'...but just not in the Eraser Room?"

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

"No, you implied it," Max said with a small smile. "Just checking."

"You're hardly in a position to be making insinuations," Isabel said imperiously.

"Who's insinuating?" Max asked innocently. "If anyone is, you are. Anyway, I was trying to tell you what's been happening to Liz when she—"

"I do not want to hear this!" Isabel exclaimed. "Why would I be the least bit interested in how your girlfriend moaned, or groaned, or wet herself? It's disgusting!"

"And none of your business," Max agreed. "But that's not it. She's seeing things."

"Oh, I'm sure," Isabel muttered.

"Not like that," Max said. "Like...stars."

"And fireworks, and sunbeams, and big fluffy clouds shaped like hearts," Isabel said scornfully. "Anything else? Prince Charming, maybe? Oh, no, that would be you, gag me with a spoon. A fairy castle? Maybe a dwarf or two?"

"How about soldiers?" Max said. "How about the crash? Do your friends see that?"

"What?" Isabel said sharply. "What crash? What soldiers?"

"Soldiers in old-fashioned uniforms," Max answered. "And the crash. Our crash."

Isabel stared at him for a moment. "Wait—you're serious!" she exclaimed. "You actually believe she saw something from the crash?"

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Isabel echoed. "Good God, where do I start? Okay, let's start with the obvious, which would be that we don't remember anything about that."

"Don't we?"

"Of course we don't. We never saw that."

"Didn't we? How do we know we didn't?"

"Because we don't remember," Isabel said impatiently. "Look, you already explained the whole 'see-inside-your-head' thing, which I'm not sure I totally buy and is really creepy, by the way, but—"

"Creepier than when you dreamwalk? How is your dreamwalking any different than me seeing things she's thinking, or vice versa? I just do it when we're awake. And we all get flashes from objects, so why not people?"

"Okay, fine," Isabel sighed. "But we can't see things that aren't there, and neither can she."

"So you're saying she's lying."

"No, I'm saying she's horny," Isabel corrected. "Look, Max, I have lots of friends who regale me with the particulars, and I can assure you that she's not the first girl to see stars when she...you know. And when you've got a girl who knows her boyfriend is an alien, and she grew up in a place where there are all these stories, it's not hard to figure out how she could go there without meaning to. Passion can do strange things to a girl."

May smiled faintly. "Is that personal experience talking?"

Isabel's eyes narrowed. "None of your business."

A knock sounded on the door. "Max?" their dad called. "Got a minute? Oh...hi, Izzy. Could you give me a moment with your brother?"

"Sure, Dad," Isabel said with a wide smile. "See you at Michael's, big brother."

Isabel left, and Philip looked at Max questioningly. "You're going out tonight?"

"Yeah, we're helping Michael set up his apartment," Max said, hefting the duffle bag. "I've got some old clothes Mom said he could have."

"Don't you have homework?" Philip asked. "Especially since I hear you cut a couple of classes today."

"Already did it," Max said crisply, this conversation going exactly as he'd anticipated. "And just let me say again how sorry I am that I was so irresponsible today. It won't happen again."

"Glad to hear it," Philip answered, "although I want to stress that it's not so much what you were doing as your choice of locations that bothers us."

"Right," Max nodded vigorously. "You're absolutely right. I made a mistake, and I won't repeat it."

"What also bothers us is the possible downstream ramifications," Philip went on. "Have you decided what birth control method you'll be using?"

Max blinked as the conversation took a sudden fork in the road. "I...what?"

"Birth control, Max. It's every bit as much your responsibility as your partner's."

"I...know that," Max said, flushing. "But we were just kissing, Dad. You don't get pregnant from kissing."

"I'm aware of that," Philip said patiently, "but I'm also aware of what kissing can lead to. We can't stop you from having sex, but your mother and I feel the need to remind you that if you do, you need to take precautions so you don't accidentally father a child."

"Is that even possible?" Max muttered.

"Of course it's possible," Philip said, misreading that statement entirely. "You and Liz are plenty old enough, and a pregnancy could be devastating to both of you."

"I know," Max said, supremely uncomfortable now. "I get all this in Health Class."

"And now you're getting it at home," Philip said calmly, ignoring his discomfiture. "So—what birth control method will you be using?"

"Dad, we're not having sex."

"Glad to hear it. Whenever you do have sex, what birth control method will you be using?"

"With Liz, or anyone else," Max clarified.

"Good to know. Whenever you have sex, whomever you have it with, what birth control method will you be using?"

"Dad, I've really gotta go—"

"I've got all night," Philip interrupted, "but I gather you don't. This will take just as long as you make it. Once again: What birth control method will you be using?"

"I...um...condoms, I guess," Max stammered.

"You 'guess'? Don't 'guess', Max. Pregnancy isn't a 'guess'."

"Condoms," Max said, desperately wishing this encounter was over. "I'll use condoms."

"And do you know where to get condoms?"

"The drug store. Or the health aisle in the grocery store."

"And do you know how to use a condom?"

Max closed his eyes. "Yes, Dad. Health class, remember?"

There was a long pause where Max was certain he was going to be asked to demonstrate. "Okay," Philip said finally. "Just so long as you realize you have a responsibility to avoid bringing another human being into this world before you're ready."

"You have my solemn promise that I won't bring another human being into this world," Max said. "Ever."

" 'Ever'?" Philip repeated. "That's a bit much, but...good. Glad we talked. I'll go set your mother's mind at ease."

Max leaned against the wall and let out a long slow breath. Philip hadn't even been gone a full minute before Isabel appeared.

"Well?" she demanded in a whisper. "How'd it go?"

"Mom and Dad want me to know that it's my responsibility not to bring another human being into this world," Max announced.

Isabel eyes dropped. "Ironic, don't you think?" she said after a moment. "What they're worried about, I mean. We can't 'bring another human being into this world'. We're not human."

"Precisely," Max sighed. "Let's go."




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




A distant humming filled Kathleen Topolsky's ears, becoming louder and louder. It was a Christmas tune, familiar, but with the name just out of reach, and she hummed along with it for a moment, trying to remember, to recall...

"You like that one, do you?"

Topolsky opened her eyes. The ceiling was white, the walls were white, but the smock the woman beside her was wearing was a cheerful blue. "One of my favorites," the woman declared with a smile. "Always reminds me of when I was a kid. Course it's past Christmas, but that don't stop me. I'll be singing carols till Easter!"

That last line was delivered with a defiant laugh which somehow managed to be friendly, which was fortunate because Topolsky was becoming alarmed. Nothing about the room in which she found herself was the least bit familiar.

"Where am I?" she whispered, surprised to find her throat so dry and sore, she could barely talk.

"You're safe," the woman said soothingly, producing a cup of water, holding her head so she could drink, which she did; it was cold, and wet, and tasted wonderful. "But...where am I?" Topolsky tried again in between gulps.

"You're safe," the woman repeated, refilling the glass from a pitcher on the bedside table. "Get your bearings, and then we'll talk."

She handed her the refilled cup, patted her on the shoulder and left. Topolsky gazed around the strange room, noting the white walls, the tile floor, the industrial light fixture overhead, the bathroom with no door. No door... What was familiar about that?

It took another cup of water before she could sit up, before she realized she was wearing unfamiliar clothes—sweatpants, a tee shirt, thick athletic socks. Sneakers peaked out from under the bed, and when she climbed off, stiff and woozy, and fished them out, she realized they had no laces. No laces? How was she supposed to keep them on her feet? And why did this look both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time? How did she even get here? What had she been doing...

With a start that had her staggering back onto the bed, she remembered: Pierce. The new job, that house in the middle of nowhere, the message Agent Moss had left her, being discovered...and that sharp prick in the back of her arm. Her hand flew up, and when she felt nothing, could see nothing, she went in search of a mirror, but there wasn't one, not in the room, not in the bathroom, the bathroom with no door.

Where the hell was she?

Shaking now, Topolsky shoved her feet into the lace-less sneakers and cautiously peered out into the hallway. There was a name card on her door lettered "Kathleen" in cheerful pink script. A couple of people shambled by, dressed as she was in floppy sweats, their sneakers also lacking laces...and it was the expressions on their faces which tripped the switch. She knew where she was now. She'd been here before, with her father, when he'd suffered from a depression so crippling, he'd threatened to harm himself.

She was in a psych ward.




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


I'll post Chapter 85 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

Thanks to everyone reading, and thanks for the feedback! ^^







CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE





March 2, 2000, 7:30 p.m.




With a growing sense of horror, Kathleen Topolsky crept down the hallway, her sneakers making a soft squish on the tile floor. Doors opened off either side, the interiors she could see carbon copies of her own room. She passed a few somber, sweatsuit-clad people before reaching a more populated area, a hub of sorts with a workstation on one side and a large room on the other. The latter was equipped with several televisions, tables, and chairs; the former was staffed by people in those cheerful blue smocks bustling back and forth with charts, answering telephones, tapping on keyboards. A large calendar on the wall read, "March 2, 2000" in bold black letters. March 2... She'd tangled with Pierce yesterday, so she'd been here about twenty-four hours...

Bzzzzz!

Topolsky felt her stomach clench. She knew that sound. She'd heard that every single time she'd gone to visit her father, the sound of the locked door being opened from the inside. There were always two doors so that if a patient managed to get through the first, they'd face another barrier; you had to identify yourself at both, be buzzed in at both. The sound of the buzzer invariably drew attention, which meant that when you finally got inside, you were greeted by a circle of patients eager for a visitor.

Bzzzzz!

"Okay, everybody, step back," commanded a nurse, her nurse, as it turned out. "Give'em some room, people, give'em some room!"

Topolsky craned her neck around the corner of the hallway. She could see them now, the visitors standing in the airlock, trapped between two locked doors and eyeing the crowd of patients with alarm, enough so that they didn't open the door soon enough. There was always a timer; miss your window, and you'd have to be buzzed in again. "Hit it again, would you?" her nurse asked another behind the counter.

The sickening buzz sounded again, and this time the nurse opened the door. "Come in, come in!" she urged, hustling the wide-eyed visitors inside. "Don't be shy. It's just a precaution. Bit of a nuisance, really, but you get used to it."

I didn't, Topolsky thought sadly. She'd never gotten used to it, not the locked doors, the buzzers, or any of the other oddities of her father's existence in that place. Many of the patients had been suicidal, which meant the removal of anything they could use to hurt themselves: No shoelaces, drawstrings, razors, glass mirrors, breakable dishes or glassware, no tubs where they could drown themselves, no doors on the bathrooms so they couldn't lock themselves inside. She'd never been able to bring herself to use her father's bathroom when she'd visited. He'd always offered to leave the room, but she'd held it until she was on the first floor with the visitors' bathroom and doors that closed.

"Right in here," the helpful nurse was saying, ushering the reluctant visitors into the large room nearby. Her father had had one of those too; they called it the "common room", a kind of all purpose cafeteria/living room/activity room which was the social hub of the ward, the only place to watch TV, and the place visitors congregated. Visitors were the main attraction, the highlight of everyone's day even if they weren't yours; you could always watch everyone else's visitors even if you didn't get any of your own. They were the lucky ones, the ones who could come and go as they pleased even if they did have to wait for that infernal buzzer.

"There we are!" the nurse said with that forced cheerfulness which seemed to infect every member of the medical profession. "Everyone have a seat, and we'll get started with introductions. Jenny's been very excited to see you all!"

"Jenny" was a skinny young girl in a sweatsuit at least two sizes too large who appeared more bewildered than excited. Her visitors regarded her in horror, there apparently being some difference between the Jenny they remembered and the one they saw now, desperately trying to hold up her pants. Elastic worked, but get the size wrong and you needed a drawstring. No drawstrings here.

"All right then," Cheerful Nurse said brightly, pulling up a seat for herself. "I'm Kate, Jenny's nurse, and I'd like to welcome you to the Institute."

"Institute"? Great, Topolsky thought. A generic name like that told her nothing.

"This is the living room for our residents," Kate went on, "where they receive visitors, watch TV, and eat meals. Here at the Institute, we take a family approach to therapy."

Bullshit, Topolsky thought darkly. If there was anything she hated more than forced cheerfulness, it was the fiction that these places were "family". This wasn't a family, it was a locked inpatient unit and the residents were prisoners. For their own good, so the story went, but watching those who'd been locked in with her father, she hadn't always been so sure.

"I'm off," Topolsky heard one of the nurses at the station say. "Make sure they get the parking pass, would you?"

"Sure thing," another nurse answered.

Topolsky's eyes fasted on the square of paper which had just changed hands. Parking passes were the one perk of having a relative in psych, a get-out-of-jail-free card which typically bore the name and address of the hospital. One way or another, she had to get a look at that pass. The nurse who was staying buzzed out the nurse who was leaving, picked up the pass, and headed for the common room.

"Here you go," Pass Nurse said to one of the still horrified relatives.

"What...what's this?" Horrified stammered, gazing at the piece of paper like it was contagious.

"A parking pass," Cheerful Nurse explained. "Visitors to this unit park free.

"Just hand it to the attendant on the way out," instructed Pass Nurse, "and he'll...oof!"

Pass Nurse lurched sideways as Topolsky collided with her, sending the parking pass in her outstretched hand fluttering to the floor. Everyone leaped from their chairs in alarm with the exception of Jenny, who likely hadn't seen anything this interesting all day.

"Kathleen?" Cheerful Nurse said. "Are you all right?"

No, Topolsky thought as hands hauled her upright. Running on adrenaline, she'd finally run out of steam just after her fake stumble, dropping to her knees as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over her. Unable to stand without assistance, she was helped to a chair, watching the Jenny group with half-open eyes and blurry vision, their expressions of horror growing worse by the minute. Cheerful Nurse rose from her seat and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder as she took her pulse.

"She shouldn't be up yet," Pass Nurse chided.

"Yes, well, it's different for everyone," Cheerful Nurse said sympathetically. "I apologize for the interruption, everyone; Kathleen has had a rough night. Back to bed with you," she added briskly to Topolsky. "You still need your rest."

Topolsky was helped to her feet and back to her room, fighting another wave of nausea on the way which refused to abate even after she was stretched on her bed. The good news was that she now knew where she was—according to the parking pass, the "Institute" was the Bethesda Psychiatric Institute in Bethesda, Maryland, about halfway between Frederick and Washington. The bad news was that she'd caught a glimpse of herself in the glass of the common room doors. It was funny how little you knew without a mirror; she'd imagined herself as she usually looked, with combed hair and neat make-up. What she'd seen had been a disheveled woman with unkempt, dirty hair and dark circles under her eyes. That, combined with the regulation sweatsuit, had made it very clear why the Jenny group was staring at her in shock.

She was the spitting image of a psych patient.




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




March 3, 2000, 11:30 a.m.

Nurse's Office, West Roswell High School




"I want to see her," Mrs. Pilato declared.

"I told you, she's lying down," the nurse replied.

"I want to see her anyway," Pilato insisted.

"I take it you don't believe me?" the nurse's voice asked archly.

Curled in a fetal position on a cot in the back room, Liz Parker squeezed her eyes closed and did her best to think sick thoughts. After Max had left the locker room, she knew she wouldn't be able to just wander back into class, especially since Pilato had come looking for her. What would she have said? That she was crouched in a shower stall with her boyfriend discussing visions and glowing hickies? That her boyfriend had seen a fantasy so personal, it was personally painful to contemplate? Nope, the only thing that would save her at that point was illness, so she had hotfooted it to the nurse and pleaded dizziness, remembering at the last minute not to attribute it to having her period. Every girl in school cited her period as a reason to get out of gym class, and it drove the gym teachers crazy. Say she had her period, and Pilato would probably insist on going into the bathroom with her to make her prove it.

"Of course I believe you," Pilato said, the voice drifting into the back room sounding less than convincing. "I'm just concerned, is all. She was there, and then she wasn't. I couldn't find her anywhere."

"And now you have," the nurse said. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem is she just disappeared. If she's ill when she's in my class, she needs to come to me first."

"She mentioned that," the nurse said. "You'd already started class and she didn't want to bother you."

"So she just leaves me out on a limb wondering what in the hell happened to her?" Pilato demanded. "I mean, her friend said something to me about her being queasy—"

"Then there you have it," the nurse said briskly. "You were told. You must have been. How else would you have known to come here?"

Go, Maria! Liz thought with relief. Maria had just said she'd cover for her, but she hadn't said how. Illness was the standard answer that could get you out of just about anything, for a little while, at least, so it had been a safe bet that was the excuse given. She hadn't been sure, though, and she hadn't mentioned being queasy. Better add that to the list.

"I don't like it when my students vanish on me," Pilato said in a steely tone. "I at least need to talk to her and make it clear that behavior is unacceptable."

"You can yell at her...sorry, talk to her when she's feeling better," the nurse said stoutly. "Students shouldn't feel they have to genuflect in order to come here."

"I just want to make sure she's okay—"

"No, you don't," the nurse interrupted. "This isn't about the student, this is about your wounded pride. I swear all PE teachers are control freaks."

"I could say the same thing about nurses," Pilato shot back.

"Not in my office, you can't," the nurse retorted. "This is my turf. You don't like it, tell it to the principal."

Good grief, Liz thought as a slammed door announced her gym teacher's departure. She'd had no idea the adults in school had turf wars. If she hadn't already known who these people were, she could easily have mistaken them for a couple of teenagers having a fight.

"Okay, then," the nurse said cheerfully, bustling into the room as though she hadn't just locked horns with a teacher, "how are we doing, dear?"

"Okay, I guess," Liz whispered, willing to overlook the hated "royal we" given that the nurse had just gone to bat for her. "Still really dizzy. And a minute ago I thought I was going to throw up."

"Ah, yes," the nurse said, making it sound more like "Ah ha!" "I'd heard you had an upset stomach. I'll get the bucket so you won't have to get up."

Not the bucket, Liz groaned, screwing her eyes shut. The bucket was famous, or rather, infamous; if you had to throw up during the school day, the bucket was where you did it, or at least where everyone preferred you do it. They said it was sanitized between uses, but just the thought of all those kids barfing in it was enough to make you barf even if you hadn't already. Alex Whitman had famously lost his lunch at the mere sight of it, and even the jocks hadn't picked on him. They'd been there.

A scraping noise heralded the arrival of the bucket, right near the head of the cot, of course. "Am I in trouble?" Liz asked, careful not to look down.

The nurse looked startled. "What makes you say that?"

"I thought I heard Mrs. Pilato," Liz said. "She sounded...angry."

"Oh, that," the nurse said, obviously relieved to think that Liz hadn't heard anything specific. "She was just...worried...about you. I told her you weren't feeling well."

"I sent my friend with a message," Liz went on. "Did she get it?"

"She did," the nurse confirmed darkly, "for all the good it did. Honestly, these PE teachers parade around in their track suits like they're the Gestapo. Next thing you know, they'll want us all to salute—"

The nurse stopped, having apparently registered Liz's wide eyes. A moment later the phone rang and she fled, probably glad to escape a conversation where she'd compared a fellow employee to a Nazi. She heard the nurse answer the phone, closed her eyes...

"Liz?"

Liz's eyes flew open. Max was leaning over her, and she sat up quickly, so quickly that, for a moment, she really was dizzy. "Max, what are you doing here?" she whispered frantically.

"I had to see you," he answered. "I wanted to make certain you didn't get in trouble."

"I didn't, but you will if they find you here," Liz said, looking past him toward the outer room where the nurse's voice droned on. "How'd you get past her?"

"She's busy," Max smiled. "And I can walk really softly when I need to."

"You shouldn't be here," Liz insisted. "You almost got nailed in the locker room, now the nurse's office?"

Max reached out, took her hand. "I had to see you," he whispered. "I had to."

Liz felt a tingle creep up her arm, and when she reached for Max's other hand, the same thing happened to the other arm. Max must have felt it too, or at least been aware of it; he ran his hand up and down her arms as though following the path of the buzz.

"Does it hurt?" he murmured.

Liz shook her head; what was hurting wasn't the tingling, it was the effort it took not to hurl herself at him, probably not the best of ideas after yesterday. "Max, you should go," she told him. "You'll get in trouble. We'll get in trouble. Again."

"Okay," he said reluctantly, his hands still running lightly up and down her arms, making her shiver. "Can I see you later?"

"After school," Liz nodded, the shivering becoming deliciously intense. "Call me."

For one heart-stopping moment, she was afraid he was going to kiss her, not because she didn't want him to, but because she was afraid that if she started, she wouldn't be able to stop. But he didn't, dropping his hands, backing away, checking the outside room carefully, where the nurse was still talking. She held her breath for what must have been a full minute, deciding at that point that he must be gone. A couple of minutes later, a phone hung up and the nurse returned.

"Let's just check a few things," the nurse said lightly, producing a thermometer. "Open?"

A thermometer slipped under her tongue. "Don't bite," the nurse instructed. "It'll only take a minute."

They always say that, Liz thought, noting that it was closer to the truth now that electronic thermometers had replaced the mercury variety. "Sorry about the interruption," she apologized. "Some parents, I tell you. Look, I...I didn't want you to get the wrong idea about what I said earlier," she went on in a light tone tinged with worry. "About Mrs. Pilato, I mean. I just get frustrated when the gym teachers second guess every single student who feels ill. I know some of them are faking it, but...say, honey, are you all right? You look flushed. How are you feeling?"

Hot, Liz thought. A sudden wave of heat had washed over her, just like before, only faster, speeding from her torso down her arms to her hands, down her legs to her toes. The thermometer slipped from her mouth just as it beeped, and Liz watched in apprehension as the nurse read it, pursed her lips, shook her head.

"See, this is why pushy PE teachers annoy me. I've been a nurse for 25 years, and I know a faker when I see one. I knew right away something was up with you, and this proves it." She waved the thermometer. "102 degrees. Definitely a fever."

Liz blinked. "What, is that...is that high?"

"High enough," the nurse answered. "Let me get you some Tylenol, and then I'll call your parents—"

"No!" Liz said, struggling to sit up. "No, they're...busy."

"Okay, okay," the nurse said soothingly, pushing her back down. "I'll wait a bit if you like. You were fine a minute ago, so maybe this is just a passing spell. Did anything happen while I was gone?"

"No," Liz said faintly.

"Well, you rest then, and we'll see how you feel in a few minutes. I'll get the Tylenol."

The nurse left, and Liz closed her eyes, feeling the heat beginning to subside. Nothing happened, she thought, except Max touched me.




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




Bethesda Psychiatric Institute

Bethesda, Maryland



"There you go," the nurse said, setting a bowl of soup on the table. "This will help calm your stomach."

Topolsky reached for the spoon she set beside it with hands that shook despite her best efforts to stop. She was steadier today but still very weak, no surprise given that her last meal had been lunch two days ago. No wonder she felt so shaky. That didn't explain the punched-in-the-gut feeling, but one thing at a time.

The common room was uncommonly quiet as plastic cutlery scraped against plastic plates, and Topolsky eyed the patients, all dressed in the requisite sweatsuit sans drawstrings and sneakers sans shoelaces. Most wore blank expressions, probably because they were drugged. She'd almost wound up in the same boat when she'd awakened to the sound of rubber soles on the floor near her bed, heard the rattle of pills in a cup and a soft voice calling her name. She'd feigned sleep, and the rubber soles had moved around the room for a minute before leaving; when she'd sat up, she'd spied the little plastic medication cup hospitals used to dispense meds. Antidepressants were the new miracle drugs, passed out like candy, so it wasn't surprising they were passing them out to her, but what really got her attention was the name on the cup: Kathleen Topolsky. The name card on her door bore her first name, but she'd assumed her last would have been changed. Pierce was so certain of his footing that he'd actually used her real name. Not a good sign.

"Good?"

It was the nurse, watching her closely. "Mm...yeah," Topolsky said, or rather, croaked. Her throat was still sore, dry and scratchy and all around upset. The hot soup felt good.

"Your doctor wanted me to do your intake interview," the nurse said, pulling up a chair beside her. "Do you feel up to it?"

Barely, Topolsky thought, nodding as she spooned her soup. The interview was a staple of psych wards, where they assessed how aware you were of your surroundings and what had happened to put you here in the first place. In her case it was fraught with peril; Pierce and company had likely not fessed up to kidnapping and drugging her, and she had no idea what fairy tail they'd invented. Getting the details wrong would brand her unstable, which would greatly impede her efforts to escape. The most stable patients had the most freedom, and freedom would be essential to getting out of here. The trick would be to get the nurse to do most of the talking.

"Okay," the nurse said, penciling on the standard intake form which didn't appear to have changed since her father's day. "I'm Kate, by the way. And you are?"

"Kathleen," Topolsky answered. "Kathleen Marie Topolsky."

"Good," Kate said approvingly. "And do you know where you are?"

"In Bethesda Psychiatric," Topolsky said, grateful she'd pursued that parking pass.

"Good!" Kate repeated with that annoying false cheerfulness. "And do you know why you're here, Kathleen?"

"I don't...remember."

The nurse smiled sympathetically at hearing the most oft-repeated phrase in a psych ward. "Understandable, dear. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was...getting ready for dinner," Topolsky said, adopting a faraway look in her eyes.

"And?" Kate prompted.

"And...nothing."

"So you don't remember swallowing the pills?"

Topolsky kept her eyes on her soup. "No."

"You don't remember your brother trying to wake you up?"

I don't have a brother. "No."

"What about the ride to the hospital? Do you remember that?"

"No," Topolsky repeated. "My stomach hurts."

"Because we had to pump it," Kate said gently. "I'm sorry."

Topolsky's hand gripped the spoon harder. Pierce had branded her a suicide attempt. Of course he had; suicidal patients were the most watched, the most restricted. He could have just reported finding her with razor blades or pills or whatever and produced the same result, but what would be the fun in that? Pumping the stomach was a violent procedure which perfectly fitted Pierce's sadistic MO.

"I understand you had a previous suicide attempt with carbon monoxide," Kate said.

Topolsky closed her eyes briefly. Dad. Her father had tried to kill himself twice, once by turning on the car in their closed garage, once by take a handful of pills. Pierce had done his homework. "The good thing about these attempts," Kate went on when Topolsky didn't say anything, "is that you're clearly looking for a painless way out, and that usually means some part of you doesn't want to go. We can work with this, Kathleen. We can get you back to your life, to your job as a file clerk. Would you like that? Will you work with me to get better?"

Topolsky winced even as she nodded. File clerk? Well, of course; that's all Pierce thought she was anyway. "Good," Kate went on. "Then the first step is taking these."

She pushed a small plastic cup toward Topolsky containing two capsules, half white, half black. "Go on," Kate urged. "Take them."

Topolsky took the cup without hesitation and dumped the pills in her mouth, drank from the glass of water Kate handed her. "There's a good girl," Kate said approvingly.

Topolsky set the glass down. "I'm not a 'girl'. I'm a woman."

"Of course you are," Kate said quickly. "I'm sorry." She reached for her pencil, scribbled on the intake form. "Finish your soup," she said, patting the bowl. "Later on, we'll try some solid food. You're going to get better, Kathleen. I'm sure of it."

Topolsky waited until she'd left the room before sneezing violently and wiping her nose with a tissue she'd grabbed for just this occasion. Tucking the tissue inside the wristband of her sweatshirt—no pockets on these sweats, so it was hard to hide something—she finished her soup and took her dishes to the cart, making certain Kate saw her moving slowly. It was a good 15 minutes before she made it to a bathroom, deliberately choosing a fortunately empty communal toilet instead of the one in her room to flush away the capsules she'd tucked inside her cheek and spit out soon after. Thank goodness they were capsules instead of tablets, which dissolved quickly, or liquids, which were almost impossible to avoid. She had no idea what it was or what it would do to her; Pierce wanted information, so it was unlikely he'd kill her while he still felt he might get it, but for all she knew it was some kind of truth serum. Cooperation and compliance were the currency in these places, never more so than on the subject of meds, so it was very important that she appear willing to take them, and take them in the right way; dumping them into her hand instead of taking them directly from the cup would be interpreted as an effort to palm them, while hurrying away afterwards would be considered an attempt to spit them out. The last thing she needed was a head fuzzy from medication or another flash of temper like the "woman/girl" objection, likely recorded on her intake form as evidence of defiance. She waited until the toilet stopped running before leaving.

Pierce was outside.

"Kathleen," he said, shaking his head sadly as she stopped dead in her tracks. "You didn't spit out your medicine, did you? Bad girl."

Something boiled over in Topolsky, something primal and savage and completely uninterested in the consequences as she grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the wall. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, gratified at the surprise on his face. "Do you actually think you're going to get away with this? Because you're not, buster, you're not. Freeh will have your ass in a sling before you can—"

The rest of that sentence was cut off as Pierce recovered and threw a hand over her mouth, dragging her down the empty hallway, the smell of his aftershave making her nauseous. "Yes, sweetheart, I do think I'm going to get away with this," he hissed in her ear. "Want to know why? Let me show you."

They stopped in front of a door which Pierce opened with one hand and shoved her through with the other. She stumbled into the room...and gasped.

Agent Stevens was there, tied to a chair and much the worse for wear. There was blood all over his shirt, one eye was swollen shut, and he appeared to have lost a tooth, possibly more than one. Oh, God, Topolsky thought frantically. Had she done this? Had she led them right to him? But she'd checked that phone for bugs...

"The phone wasn't bugged," she insisted, shaking her head in dismay. "I checked. It wasn't bugged. It wasn't."

"No, it wasn't," Pierce agreed. "But his was."

"How terribly law-abiding of you," Stevens said thickly, his swollen lips slurring his speech.

Pierce shrugged. " 'Law-abiding' is a relative term when you're chasing monsters."

"Sir, I am so sorry," Topolsky whispered. "I had no idea—"

"Come here," Stevens interrupted, his voice ragged. "Now!" he barked when she kept protesting, wincing as the effort spilled blood from his mouth.

"I think he wants a word with you," Pierce remarked cheerfully. "I figured he would. Might want to get closer; I do believe he's feeling poorly. Go on," he coaxed when she glared at him. "The sooner we get this over with, the better for all of us."

Topolsky crept closer. Stevens' head hung down on his chest as though the effort to say what little he'd said had left him spent. She bent over, putting her ear close to his mouth, half afraid he'd passed out. But he began to speak, in a whisper so faint she could only barely hear it...

"Enough!" Pierce snapped, pulling her away after nearly a full minute of this. "As I explained to your former employer, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Please tell me he impressed upon you the importance of doing it the easy way."

Topolsky looked at Stevens, who nodded. "We have only three words for you," she answered in the steadiest voice she could muster. "Go to hell."

Pierce's expression darkened. "All right, then. Hard way." He gave her a rough push, and she landed in a chair facing Stevens as Pierce leaned over, now wearing a smile that would have frightened Jesus. "And you get to watch. Lucky you."





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




Roswell




"You got my message?"

Jaddo gave a snort of disgust as he climbed into the passenger seat opposite Brivari. "Yes, I got your message. Are they in there?"

"All three of them," Brivari answered as he gazed out the window at Rath's apartment building. "For the moment."

"So, tell me," Jaddo said, "Valeris being so clever and all, why couldn't he invent a hybrid without a sex drive?"

"A monarch without a sex drive," Brivari said dryly. "Rather counterproductive, don't you think?"

"Who said anything about the monarch? Rath is every bit as involved in this 'search for information'. It's only a matter of time before he's caught in some closet or other."

"That's not the problem," Brivari said. "The first problem is what these females are seeing."

"Which so far doesn't seem to be much of anything specific," Jaddo said. "So I'm a bit lost as to why you're taking this so seriously, other than the obvious risk should they follow this through to the logical conclusion. We could terminate any resulting pregnancy."

"I know that," Brivari said, dropping his coffee cup in the cup holder. "I'm concerned about how the females are seeing what they're seeing. Or, rather, 'female' singular. Only one is actually connecting."

"Tell that to my Ward," Jaddo muttered.

"She did. 'Maria', that is. She made it up."

"What?"

"You need to lurk in more closets," Brivari advised. "Maria lied about her encounters with Rath. He was not amused."

"I should say not," Jaddo declared. "Women," he added sourly. "What ever made him think he wanted one in his life?"

"Which leaves the Parker girl," Brivari went on, "and brings us to the second problem; I'm afraid Zan isn't the one initiating their connections."

"He has to be," Jaddo said. "She's human."

"Is she?" Brivari said softly.

Jaddo's head swung around. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"If I'm right," Brivari said slowly, "—and I hope to God I'm not—we may have not one, but two brand new species on our hands."

Jaddo stared at him a moment. "What in blazes are you talking about?" he demanded. "How could she—"

He stopped, staring out the window, and Brivari followed his gaze to find Liz Parker approaching Rath's apartment building. "Never mind," Jaddo said, his eyes narrowing. "I'll find out myself."

"Wait," Brivari ordered as Jaddo opened the car door. "Jaddo, wait!"

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


Labor Day weekend next week, so I'll post Chapter 86 on Sunday, September 9th.

[Kathy W]

^ Yep, our Liz is a brand new species. Max and Tess's baby must be another. Those Antarians are cranking out new species like cookies.




CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX



March 3, 2000, 8 p.m.,

Crashdown Cafe





"Honey," Jeff Parker called. "What's this?"

Nancy Parker closed her eyes briefly and prayed for patience. The restaurant business certainly demanded much in the way of patience, but never more so than at tax time. Granted they had an accountant who did most of the heavy lifting, but the fact remained that someone had to go through the receipts, categorize expenses, and assemble some kind of coherent pile of information for that accountant to use. That this task fell to her was a result of personality differences; Jeff was the "throw the receipts in a folder and worry about it later" type of business owner, while she preferred meticulously detailed records. She preferred to prepare for an audit, while he resented having to prepare for something he found unlikely; she felt safer having done the heavy lifting, while he complained that he was wasting his time. Arguments between them had drawn chuckles from their accountant, who had announced they would never see eye to eye; no one ever did, he assured them, not on this subject. It appeared that careful book keepers and casual receipt tossers rarely changed their stripes. That meant she got the job, and also meant she resented any interruption which derailed her already reluctant concentration.

"What's what?" Nancy called, hoping it was something which could be settled by hollering from another room.

"This message on the answering machine," Jeff answered. "Something about the school wanting to talk to you?"

Crap, Nancy thought, tossing her pencil on the desk. Hadn't she erased that? Apparently not. "Oh, that," she said dismissively, turning around in her chair. "They just...wanted to double check something."

There was a brief pause before Jeff appeared in the doorway. "Oh? What?"

"Something about...Liz's schedule. That's all."

"What about her schedule? I thought that was all settled in September."

"Well, that was...last semester," Nancy said, struggling for an explanation. "This was something about this semester."

Jeff looked puzzled. "Didn't the second semester start in January?"

"Maybe. I don't know," Nancy said in exasperation. "Look, I took care of it, okay? Whatever it was."

" 'Whatever it was'?" Jeff repeated in amazement. "You mean you don't know?"

"I'm in the middle of taxes," Nancy said crossly. "Do you mind?"

"Right," Jeff said quickly. "Sorry. I'll leave you to it."

Nancy sank back in her chair with a sigh as her husband practically ran out of the room. Their ongoing inability to make peace over how to genuflect to the government meant that all she had to do was mention the word "taxes" and Jeff would overlook practically anything, up to and maybe including a dead body in the freezer. The taxes card was her equivalent of a "get out of jail free" card, and her playing it now was convenient...and unfair. Lizzie was Jeff's daughter too. He really should know what she'd been up to. So why was she bending over backwards to make certain he didn't?

Because he'd freak, Nancy thought. If she was struggling with the notion that Liz was no longer a little girl, Jeff was struggling much harder. It might be difficult to swallow the thought of her straight "A" daughter being caught snogging in a school closet, but at least she had memories of what it was like to be a teenaged girl, distant though they were. Jeff, unfortunately, had memories of being a teenaged boy, memories which he would no doubt feel justified locking up their daughter until she was at least thirty. If Claudia were here, she might have been able to talk him down. Jeff's mother had always been good at that, at being the one who pacified everyone; Liz had trusted her, Jeff had listened to her, and Nancy had used that more than once. But Claudia wasn't here, and she felt her absence now more than ever, when she needed a liaison to both her husband and her child. All alone with a completely unexpected problem, she found silence her best option, if a lonely one.

Pushing back from the desk, Nancy went to the answering machine and deleted the incriminating message, glancing upstairs as she did so. Yesterday's encounter with Liz, which could only loosely be described as a "conversation", had not exactly gone satisfactorily. Perhaps she should give it another shot, if only under the pretense of telling Lizzie that her father had been asking questions so she'd know what to say. And it wouldn't hurt to remind her that dear old mom was actively keeping this quiet. It reeked of blackmail, but maybe she'd be more forthcoming if she knew that doing so would keep her father out of this.

"Liz?" Nancy called softly, knocking on her bedroom door. "It's Mom. Can I come in?"

No answer. "Liz?" Nancy called again.

Nothing. Nancy cracked the door open, peeked inside, saw the bathroom door closed. "Lizzie?" she called. "I wanted to talk to you. I'll just wait out here."

There was no answer, but then this was a teenager she was dealing with. Nancy wandered the room, smiling at the reminders of days gone by when things had seemed so much simpler. There was the pile of pogs, those little inserts in milk container caps emblazoned with cartoon characters and such, collected by children everywhere back when Liz was in grade school. There were spelling trophies and citizenship awards and certificates of merit for just about everything you could think of. There were stuffed animals, some worn, some not, all dusty and all of which made her smile. There were yearbooks dating back to kindergarten, the early ones not much more than booklets, while last year's was a proper, hardcover book...

Curious, Nancy pulled out the kindergarten book and leafed through it, spending the first five minutes smiling at the fresh young faces. There was Maria DeLuca, a fashionista even at five. There was Kyle Valenti, stocky and wary, not unlike his father. There was Alex Whitman, thin as a chopstick with that same endearing smile. But the one face she was looking for was missing, and she tried first grade and then second with similar results. It wasn't until third grade that she found him, a young Max Evans, dark-haired and serious looking even then. Had Lizzie really known him that long? Where had he been before third grade? Had Philip and Diane not moved here yet? She couldn't recall Max ever being in her daughter's orbit before this year, but then that's how this worked—little boys and girls grew up into teens who skipped class in closets. Even hers. She went through the rest of the yearbooks one by one, tracking Max's still serious face all the way up to last year. The book was riddled with autographs, but Max's picture was untouched.

A noise made her jump, and it took Nancy a minute to realize it had come from downstairs. Startled, she looked at her watch; she'd been sitting here for fifteen minutes? "Lizzie?" she called, hastily piling the books back onto the shelf lest her daughter burst out and frown upon her snooping mother. "Lizzie, are you okay? You've been in there a long time."

No answer. "Liz," Nancy called again, annoyance creeping into her voice, "at least answer me so I know you're alive."

Still nothing. Oh, for heaven's sake, Nancy muttered privately. "Elizabeth Parker, if you don't at least grunt, I'm coming in there," she said severely. "Even if you're sitting on the toilet."

In the deafening silence which followed, every magazine article about teenage suicide Nancy had ever read or even given a passing glance raced before her eyes as she threw open the bathroom door, almost afraid to look. A moment later she leaned against the sink, breathing heavily: Empty. Liz wasn't in here, and relief at having not found a body in the bathtub quickly morphed to annoyance at having not found anyone. She'd been strictly forbidden to leave the house after school until next week at the earliest; so much for that. Where the hell was she?

Her lips set in a thin line, Nancy parked herself on the bed and waited.




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





Guerin residence



Brivari scrambled out of the car after Jaddo, the one person he hadn't yet told of his suspicions because he knew that when he did, he would have only one suggestion: Remove Liz Parker. Her appearing at this moment was damnably inconvenient. If he'd known she was going to be here now, he would never have broached the subject.

"What are you doing?" Brivari asked in alarm.

"Settling this," Jaddo answered grimly as the Parker girl continued toward Rath's apartment building.

"Settling what? I haven't even explained yet."

"You've explained enough," Jaddo said, hard eyes on his target. "Enough to know she's a threat."

"Jaddo, get back in the car," Brivari ordered.

A slammed door was the response. The noise caught the Parker girl's attention and she stopped, watching the two men across the street. "I said, get back in the car," Brivari repeated.

More pedestrians rounded a nearby corner while a car snaked down the road, looking for a parking place. "I will not have a repeat of Audrey," Brivari said severely when Jaddo didn't move. "Get back in the car. Now."

For one long moment, Brivari thought he wouldn't. But then he capitulated, slamming the door so hard the entire vehicle shook. Brivari climbed in after him as the Parker girl went into the building.

"What the hell was that?" Brivari demanded.

"That was me, sick and tired of these random threats popping up," Jaddo retorted. "Here we thought we were in the clear when the Unit left, and then we had Hubble, and alcohol, and Rath's foster father. And now this. Only it sounds like you saw this one coming."

"Suspected the possibility," Brivari corrected. "And never saw any evidence of it until—"

"You said you'd explain. Now would be a good time."

Brivari briefly considered pointing out that Jaddo had kept plenty from him over the years and decided to save that card for a later round. "You know about the research we conducted on this planet prior to the coup, how we—"

"Yes, of course I know," Jaddo said impatiently. "That's why we have hybrids. Get to the point."

"I believe that when Zan healed the Parker girl, he initiated a process by which she will develop extra-human powers similar to theirs."

Jaddo blinked at him. "And how in blazes could that happen?"

"I was attempting to explain that when you demanded a summary."

"Fine, now I'm demanding details. What would lead you to suspect that?"

"Because the energy Zan used is not unlike the energy used to stimulate development in dormant areas of the human brain," Brivari answered. "In our case that energy was controlled, measured, and precisely aimed to produce a particular result. There was little controlled about what Zan threw at her."

"So?"

"So there's no telling how it affected her," Brivari replied. "The only corollary would be when we conduct an execution. We use a similar amount of energy which is more focused but still leaves traces in the human body. A moot point when the subject is dead, perhaps...but this subject isn't dead."

A door opened across the street; Rath and Vilandra appeared, climbed into a car, left. "So they're in there alone," Jaddo muttered. "Wonderful."

"Yesterday I was merely suspicious," Brivari went on. "Today I kept a closer watch on her...and today I'm more suspicious. She's experiencing fevers which come on suddenly and leave just as quickly, a symptom our test subjects also exhibited. In her case, a fever can be triggered by touch."

"Touch?" Jaddo repeated. "Touching what?"

Brivari hesitated. "Zan's touch. So far it only flows one way; I haven't seen any signs of her affecting him—"

"But she could," Jaddo interrupted. "It could happen. Anything could happen. We're in uncharted waters here."

"We are," Brivari admitted. "The good news is that it might be self-limiting. Our test subjects evolved in fits and spurts, sometimes with long stretches in between. An ability which suddenly surfaced could disappear as quickly as it came, especially if not practiced."

"Practicing seems to be their strong point," Jaddo said sourly. "Surely you can see that we have to get rid of her. Your Ward is in there alone with a type of hybrid we know nothing about."

"We know precious little about our own hybrids," Brivari reminded him, "and even less about this one."

"All the more reason not to find out," Jaddo argued. "The last thing we need is to blindsided by yet another problem."

"We already have been," Brivari said. "And you know perfectly well we're not at liberty to 'get rid of her'. She's risked her own life in the service of the king."

Jaddo stared at him in disbelief. "Do you mean to tell me that you're going to hold us to a standard from another world?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole point is to restore that world, is it not? And if not, then why are we here? What are we even doing here?"

"Trying to restore our world," Jaddo said impatiently. "But the rules are different now; we weren't dealing with deposed monarchs and never-before-seen hybrids back then."

"No, we were dealing with a young king with grand plans who moved too quickly and with too little grace, with older rivals who sought to take advantage of his youth, with our first chance at a hereditary monarchy and the fragile compromise which breathed life into it. And unbeknownst to us, we were dealing with a king who continued his father's practice of persecuting our people in secret against all the promises made to win their support."

"So, what, this is payback?" Jaddo said. "If she harms him, you'll figure he had it coming?"

Brivari shook his head. " 'Payback'? No. Call it justice. Riall began the experiments on this world, and his son continued them. His existence is a testament to their success...and the reason that girl is very likely now something more than human. He made her, Jaddo, in two separate lifetimes. He should see the results of his behavior."

"A pointless exercise given that he doesn't remember that behavior," Jaddo noted.

"Then he should at least realize that his behavior has consequences," Brivari said. "If he learns nothing else from this exile, I will see to it he learns that."

"What the hell?" Jaddo muttered, gazing out the window. "Are they having a party in there?"

It was the DeLuca girl, the Parker girl's friend, who parked and went into the building. Several tense minutes later she emerged with the Parker girl, who looked none too happy as they sped off.

"You stay here," Brivari said. "I'll go after her. I'd like her to live through the night."

"Why? Because of codes of conduct from another world, or because you want to teach him a lesson?"

"Not 'another' world, our world," Brivari corrected, "the one we're standing on our heads trying to restore. And if we're successful, I want some things to be different. I won't tolerate a king who behaves the way this one did."

Jaddo looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before climbing out. "If we're successful," he said slowly, leaning on the open windowsill, "we won't have a choice."





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





Evans residence




"That's it?" Diane said in astonishment. "That's all you talked about? That's all you said?"

"What?" Philip protested. "I got it all in there. I told him our concerns. I asked him what birth control method he would use when the time came. I pointed out how important it was to be careful, and he gave me his solemn promise that he wouldn't bring another human being into this world."

The tea Dee was drinking suddenly went down the wrong way, leaving her coughing and gasping, and temporarily interrupting her son's and daughter-in-law's argument. "You okay, Mom?" Philip asked, handing her a napkin. "You look...upset."

More like trying not to laugh, Dee thought, shaking her head by way of answer. Max's "solemn promise" looked a whole lot different when one took into account the fact that he was incapable of bringing another human being into this world, at least the plain vanilla variety. Tough to do that when you weren't human yourself.

"I'm just coughing, is all," Dee said when she could speak again. "I think you've got us confused, dear. Your wife is the one who's upset."

"Got that right," Diane declared. "You were in there all of five minutes, Philip! How could you possibly have settled this in five minutes?"

"I didn't know there was a meter running," Philip said irritably. "And if you were so concerned I wouldn't perform to your satisfaction, you could have, no should have, come with me."

"Phillip, don't make this about you," Diane said sternly. "You know perfectly well what this is about, and it's not you."

"No, it isn't, and like I said, I covered all your bitching...I mean 'talking'...points," Philip retorted as Diane's eyes narrowed and Dee rolled hers. "I told him we were concerned about downstream problems—"

" 'Downstream problems'?" Diane said. "That's a new euphemism for teenage pregnancy."

"—and I explained what that meant," Philip went on, "that bringing another person into this world was a huge responsibility that shouldn't happen before both parents are ready, and that both are responsible for making sure that doesn't happen. And then I asked him what birth control method he was using."

"And what did he say?" Dee asked.

"That he wasn't having sex. That they were just kissing, and that kissing didn't cause pregnancy. And I said I knew that, but when that changed, whenever that changed, what would he use? And he said condoms."

"So he's thought about it," Dee said.

"No, Mom, he hasn't 'thought about it'," Diane groaned. "He just said condoms because that's all they talk about in school health classes. That would be the first thing that came to mind."

"Perhaps," Dee allowed. "It would also be the easiest and most readily available thing to use, so I don't see as how that proves he hasn't thought about it."

"Did you talk about STD's?" Diane asked Philip. "It's not just syphilis and gonorrhea out there now, you know."

"You never mentioned that," Philip protested.

"So you didn't," Diane said in exasperation. "Great. Because even if he doesn't get someone pregnant, he could still catch something fatal."

"I stuck to the script," Philip insisted. "Pregnancy was what you were upset about, so that's what I talked about."

"And the vast majority of STD's aren't fatal," Dee said gently. "Annoying, maybe, but treatable, if not curable. It's only AIDS—'

"Mom, please," Diane interrupted, holding up a hand. "You didn't raise a child when there were piles of different bugs to catch."

"No, I raised a child when there was a different pile of bugs to catch," Dee noted. "Many modern vaccines were only just appearing, remember? Philip got most of them when he was older, but he went through his early childhood without them. Diane, every generation of parents has its worries," she went on when Diane huffed impatiently. "Mine was no different, and neither is yours. You can't prevent everything."

"But we can try," Diane argued. "And I would hardly call a five minute conversation 'trying'."

"Honey, honestly, I think you're blowing this out of proportion," Philip said. "I don't think Max is there yet; I really think they were just kissing. When I first brought up the prospect of pregnancy, he even asked me if that was possible."

Good question, Dee thought. Yvonne had determined the hybrids' bodies were human, but it was a safe bet she hadn't investigated the prospect of reproduction. Was it even possible for them to produce a child with an ordinary human, and if so, what would the result be?

But Diane, of course, knew none of this, and was taking Max's very practical question entirely the wrong way. "Oh, God," she said, eyes wide and hands to her mouth. "Do you think...Philip, do you think he actually doesn't know how a girl gets pregnant? I mean, we've never actually sat them down and gone through it—"

"Of course he knows," Philip interrupted. "Health class, remember? Either that or the school bus," he added with a chuckle which faded abruptly when his wife glared at him. "He knows," he insisted. "I know he knows."

"But what if he doesn't?" Diane demanded. "What if we're just assuming...oh, who is that?" she sputtered when the phone rang. "Probably telemarketing. Where's the handset? Philip, do you know where the handset is?"

"No, I don't," Philip answered wearily. "Use the speakerphone."

Dee held her tongue as Diane scrabbled through piles on the kitchen table before taking Philip's suggestion, stabbing at the button as though she'd like to murder it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Diane?" a worried voice said. "It's Nancy Parker. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh...Nancy...no," Diane said, the anger melting from her face. "I mean, yes, this is a good time. Is something wrong?"

"I was just wondering if Max was there."

Philip and Diane exchanged glances. "Max? Uh...no," Diane answered. "He's..."

"Helping Michael move into his apartment," Philip finished, "he and Izzie both. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I...I've had a bit of a night, and I...I was just wondering."

Now Diane glanced at Dee, who raised an eyebrow. "Nancy, what's wrong?" Diane asked. "You sound upset. Is everything all right?"

There was a chuffing sound, as though someone was trying to hold back tears. "Liz and I, we...had a fight," Nancy said haltingly. "She was grounded after...you know, and I found her missing from her room after supper, so I waited for her. She crawled back in through her window."

"Windows," Philip muttered. "What is it with kids and windows? I saw Michael climbing in through Max's window once. Doesn't anyone know how to use a door?"

"He was probably afraid one of you would answer it," Dee commented.

"And?" Diane prompted Nancy, ignoring them. "What did she say? Did she say where she'd been?"

"No, but...she was sick," Nancy answered. "Her face was flushed, and her forehead was hot...she was burning up."

"Oh, my," Diane said faintly.

"And then she got all mad at me and stomped into the bathroom, and told me to go away when I tried to talk to her. But I know who she was with."

"Actually, you don't," Philip noted. "Well, she doesn't," he argued in a whisper as Diane looked daggers at him. "She's making an assumption which may or may not prove to be correct. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"

"Lawyers," Diane said in disgust. "Nancy, I'm so sorry. We'll call Max and see what's what."

"Why?" Philip asked. "I told you, he's at—"

"Call him anyway," Diane broke in. "Nancy, we're calling Max. Just hang on."

Philip sighed and pulled out his phone, but Dee's mind was elsewhere. She was burning up... She hadn't give much credence to Brivari's worry that Liz was initiating the flashes of memory she was seeing from Max, but now she wasn't so sure. Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, she pulled out her own cell.

"Brivari, Nancy Parker is on the phone" she said when she reached his voicemail. "She was saying some interesting things about Liz, and..."

She stopped as a sound suspiciously close to a wail came from the kitchen. "What do you mean he's not answering?" Diane's voice said. "Why wouldn't he answer? Call him again," she insisted as Philip tried to soothe her. "Call him again right now! No, I'll call him. Where's my purse?"

"...and it appears that Max and Liz were together tonight against their parents wishes," Dee continued. "Do you know anything about this?"




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




"Is that yours or mine?"

Liz stared out the window as the ringtone sounded again. "Yours. I left my phone in my room."

Max glanced at her quickly before reaching one hand into his pocket, the other on the wheel of the jeep as it sped along into the desert. "It's my dad," he announced, the phone's screen glowing in the dark car. "He never calls me."

"Which means they know something's up," Liz said.

The ringing continued, loud and insistent. "I should answer it," Max said, "so they won't worry—"

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because somehow or other, it'll get back to my mom," Liz answered. "And because my mother doesn't get to know every single thing about me. Because I deserve some privacy. Because I'm not stupid, and she should give me the benefit of the doubt."

The phone stopped ringing, removing the immediate need for action. Max returned his eyes to the road, glancing at her every now and then with puzzled eyes she could feel without looking at him. "She's just worried about you," he said gently. "So was I when you told me she thought you had a fever, that you—"

"But I don't, okay? No fever. I'm fine."

"But you weren't earlier. Not at school, not in Michael's apartment. What if something's happening to you—"

"What if something is?" Liz broke in. "If it is, it's happening to me, right? So I get to decide if I do anything about it, and I've decided what I'm doing—we're doing it right now."

The phone rang again. Max tore his eyes away from her and pulled it out. "My mom this time. Look, if I don't tell them something, they'll drag your mom into this for sure—"

He stopped as Liz grabbed the phone from his hand and typed in a message. "What'd you say?" he asked when she handed the phone back to him."

"That you're still helping Michael with his apartment and you'll be home late. That was the story, right?"

Max hesitated before nodding, a troubled look on his face. "What's gotten into you? You sound...angry."

"Because I am angry," Liz declared. "All my life, I've been the 'good girl', the responsible girl, the one with straight A's and piles of awards. And just this once something happens to me that is so incredible, and I need a little slack, and no one will give me any! Not teachers, or my mom, or Maria, or anyone. And I think I've earned it, Max. I think I've earned some slack because I've always been a logical person before, so why wouldn't I be now? Why is everybody treating me like I'm a truant and a slut and problem child when I've never, ever been any of those things?"

"Probably because you've never been any of those things," Max said dryly. "And now you're skipping classes, and making out with your boyfriend, and sneaking out of the house. Just a guess, but I'll bet that's it. Look," he continued when she glared at him, "you can't blame them. They don't know what's going on. They don't know I'm an alien, they don't know you're...seeing things, and we can't tell them. It looks different to them."

"Maybe it does, but I still say I've earned the right to an explanation," Liz insisted.

"Okay, so, what would you tell them? If they asked you to explain. What would you say?"

Liz's mouth worked for a moment. "I don't know," she admitted, "but I do know that whatever's happening, I'm not afraid of it. I want it to happen. I feel like whatever's happening is a good thing. So if something's happening, I say just let it happen, because nothing has ever felt so right in my life as what we're doing right now." She paused. "Do you feel that way? Do you feel like this is the right thing to do?"

Max's hands tightened on the wheel. "Honestly? I don't know. I don't know what's happening to you, Liz. I don't know what you're seeing, or why you're seeing anything, or what it all means, or what this will end up doing to you. I don't even know where we're going—"

"There!" Liz said suddenly, leaning forward as she peered through the windshield. "That's the tower I saw!"




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




The phone rang. "Not again," Jaddo groaned. "Can't you turn that thing off?"

"I gather someone has discovered they're missing children," Brivari said, pulling it out of his pocket as Dee's number glowed from the screen. "Either that or her legendary Spidey sense is tingling."

"I wish ours was," Jaddo grumbled. "What would make them up and take off to the desert? Where the hell are they going?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Jaddo's head swung around to look at him. "Do you think they're—"

"I don't 'think', I 'know'," Brivari answered. "They're heading for the crash site."




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


I'll post Chapter 87 next Sunday.

[Kathy W]

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN



March 4, 2000, 6:00 a.m.

Crashdown Cafe



Nancy Parker startled awake, took a moment to register the dark bedroom with the morning sky just beginning to peep through the shades, then sank back on the pillows with a sigh. What an awful dream, a dream she hadn't had in years. Every parent had their nightmares, and this was one of her worst, born of an incident in a local department store where she'd briefly lost her then 3 year-old daughter. Five grueling minutes had passed as she searched frantically up and down the aisles, calling to her, asking other shoppers if they'd seen her. She'd been seconds away from notifying the staff when Lizzie had emerged, giggling, from within a circular rack of clothing where she'd been hiding, listening to her distraught mother hunt for her as though they were playing some kind of demented hide and seek. Several tearful minutes and many admonishments later, she'd managed to impress upon her daughter the importance of never, ever, worrying Mommy like that again, and Liz being Liz, she hadn't.

Until now. That department store episode had occurred over a dozen years ago, but the feelings of helplessness and panic were all too familiar...only this time Lizzie wasn't hiding in a clothes rack, she was right in front of her, angry and defiant. She'd barely recognized the child who had shouted at her last night, who had curtly told her to go away several times after she'd trekked back to her room to make amends. Bewildered and smarting, Nancy had backed off, resisting the urge to unburden herself to Jeff because what, after all, would she tell him? That their daughter had been replaced by a doppelganger? That their exemplary student was skipping classes, necking noisily in closets, and sneaking out of the house after she'd been grounded? No, as much as she was struggling with this changeling, this completely unrecognizable person, Jeff would take it far harder than she would. Better to keep it to herself until she had no other options...and pray that day never came.

A truck roared outside. Pots clanged in the kitchen. The cafe door dingled downstairs as it did most Saturday mornings, rattled by tourists who somehow missed the "Open at 7:00 a.m." sign in big letters at eye level. It was her day to sleep in, but sleep eluded her, just as well as she had no desire to slide back into that nightmare. Liz was starting a shift at 9:00; maybe she could catch her beforehand. Maybe she could rustle up some of those pancakes her daughter—that is, her real daughter—had always loved, and they could hash this out like women, over heaping plates of fat and sugar. The thought of food and detente got her moving, and a half hour later, she knocked on Liz's bedroom door.

"Liz?" she called hopefully. "I made pancakes."

No answer. "Liz, I know we...disagreed last night," Nancy went on, noting that her feelings of foolishness for talking to a closed door had diminished somewhat with practice. "But it's a new day, and that's behind us. Can I come in?"

Still no answer. At least she's not snapping at me, Nancy thought, although her final attempt last night had met with a similar silence. She'd assumed Liz had just fallen asleep, which she probably was now, and which was why it was probably premature to be grateful for anything. But silence also meant she hadn't been told to stay out, and Nancy's hand closed on the doorknob, fully prepared to use either that or the "Gee, I thought you were asleep" excuse if she found herself in front of a firing squad.

"Liz?" she called, opening the door.

The room was bright and airy, the curtains wide open...and the bed empty. Nancy's eyes flew to the bathroom, also empty, as was the balcony. The bed was unrumpled and unslept in, the telltale pile of yesterday's clothes absent. Bewildered, Nancy went back downstairs and combed the lower level, hoping she'd find her daughter up early for her shift, but not really expecting to. Five tense minutes later, after searching everywhere including the diner and the kitchen, she slumped down in the living room, absolutely furious with herself. How could she have been so stupid? What had made her think that, having defied her once, her child would be reluctant to defy her again? Because she's never done this before, Nancy admitted. Because she never would have done this before. Because I thought she was always going to be that way.

"You okay?"

It was Jeff, poking his head around the doorway. "Uh...yeah," Nancy stammered. "Yeah, I'm just...tired."

"You're up early," Jeff noted. "It's your day to sleep in."

Nancy gave him a wan smile, certain she'd never sleep soundly again. "I know."

"Saw you made pancakes," Jeff went on. "Lizzie'll love that."

She might if she were here, Nancy thought as he mercifully disappeared back into the kitchen, the urge to confide in him so strong that she nearly ran after him. Instead she pulled out her phone and punched in Liz's number, pacing impatiently as it rang, wondering why she could have sworn she was hearing it ring in both ears...

Pulling the phone away from her ear, Nancy froze. The ringing continued, softer, but there, and she climbed the stairs on legs that grew heavier by the second until she stood in the bedroom doorway and confirmed her suspicions—Liz's phone was on her nightstand, ringing cheerfully away. She'd left her phone? Why would she do that? Because she didn't want me to be able to find her, Nancy thought despairingly. And it worked. For several long moments, she leaned against the wall and breathed the breath of the terrified as that awful day she'd lost her daughter came rushing back, with all its attendant feelings of helplessness and fear. Should she tell Jeff? This wasn't just a noisy necking session in a closet, this was serious. Noisy or not, at least she'd known where she was. Now she had no idea.

Nancy glanced down at her phone. She may not know where Liz was...but she was willing to bet good money on who she was with.




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




Evans residence




The phone jolted Diane awake, and her hand went out without thinking, knocking her bedside glass of water to the floor. Muttering language she'd never use in front of her children, she finally located the receiver and managed to get it to her ear without further incident.

" 'lo?"

"Diane, it's Nancy Parker," a strained voice said. "Sorry to wake you so early, but is Liz at your house?"

Diane blinked. "Say again?"

"I said, is Liz at your house," Nancy repeated. "Because she's not here."

Oh, good Lord, Diane groaned, rolling over on the pillow, one hand to her forehead as sun peeped through the shades and Philip snored softly beside her. Honestly, this was just too much. She'd admired how Nancy had jousted with her daughter the other day, but this was approaching paranoia. "No, Liz isn't here," she answered in what she hoped was a level voice.

"But...how do you know that?" Nancy asked. "I mean, I can tell I woke you...and again, I'm sorry about that...but if you're in bed, how can you know if Liz is there or not?"

"Because the children don't have guests of the opposite sex over for sleepovers," Diane said patiently. "They know that."

"Yeah, well, there were lots of things I thought Liz knew," Nancy said ruefully. "Would you just check, please?"

"Nancy, I know you and Liz had...words last night," Diane said carefully, "and I'm sorry about that. This has been difficult for all of us. But—"

"Diane, I just want to know if Liz and Max are together," Nancy broke in. "Please check."

"We called Max last night, and he said he'd be home late," Diane reminded her. "We've been over this—"

"Yes, I know," Nancy interrupted again. "But I'd still like you to check because I don't know where Liz is."

"Did you try her phone?"

"Yes," Nancy replied in a brittle voice, "and it rang in her room. She left it here. Wherever she went, she left her phone here."

"She...what?" Diane said, confused. "Why would she do that?"

"Isn't it obvious? She didn't want me to find her," Nancy said bitterly. "And it worked—I can't. I can't find her, Diane. My daughter is missing."

Missing. That last word caught Diane's attention, sending her up on her elbows, putting her feet on the floor. Losing a child was every parent's worst nightmare, and even when it happened to some other parent, it still felt like it was happening to you precisely because it was so terrifying. "Let me see if Max or Izzie knows anything," she said soothingly. "Hang on a minute."

"Thank you," Nancy said weakly.

Diane set the phone on the nightstand and slid her feet into her slippers. "You okay?" Philip mumbled when she reached their bedroom door.

"Just going to the bathroom," Diane whispered. "Go back to sleep."

He did, Philip never needing much persuasion to sleep, just as well as she wasn't in the mood for another lecture about how Max's behavior was normal and she was overreacting, etc., etc. Padding along the hallway, she reached Max's room and knocked on the door. "Max? It's Mom. Can I talk to you?"

No answer, although she really hadn't expected one; it was the crack of dawn on a Saturday, after all. Pushing the door open, she walked silently through the gloom of the darkened bedroom and quietly opened the curtains.

The bed was empty.

It took Diane a moment to register what that meant, to put it together with what Nancy had told her. Then she was off, out the door and around the corner, where she barreled into Isabel's room with none of the stealth she'd displayed in her son's. "Isabel!" she exclaimed, throwing the curtains open. "Izzie, wake up!"

Isabel startled awake, blinked, squinted. "Mom?"

"Wake up," Diane repeated urgently. "Your brother's not here. Do you know where he is?"

Isabel stared at her uncomprehendingly. "What?"

"Max is gone," Diane clarified. "He said he'd be home late, but his bed isn't even turned down."

"Gone?" Isabel repeated thickly. "Are you...are you sure?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, of course I'm sure!" Diane exclaimed. "I know an empty bed when I see one! Where is he?"

"I...I don't know," Isabel stammered.

"Then where was he?" Diane pressed. "How did you get home last night? Did he bring you home?"

"I..I...are you absolutely sure he's not here?" Isabel asked. "Maybe he's having breakfast, or out running, or—"

"The jeep is gone," Diane broke in. "He's gone. And Liz Parker's mother is on the phone telling me Liz is gone too."

Isabel's eyes widened, and then she was out of bed, bolting along the hallway to her brother's bedroom as though she had to see the empty bed for herself. "You never told me how you got home," Diane persisted. "Did Max drop you off?"

"I...no," Isabel said, dazed. "Michael has a car now, and he dropped me off."

"But was Max at Michael's last night? Was he helping set up his apartment like he said he was?"

"Of course," Isabel said defensively. "What, are you saying he lied?"

"I'm saying he told us he'd be home, and he's not here," Diane countered. "Unless you see him, and I don't."

"Well, you go to bed a lot earlier than we do," Isabel argued. "Maybe he came home and went out again."

"Good Lord, Isabel, I'm not that stupid," Diane groaned. "Max is missing, Liz is missing...do you really think I can't put that together?"

"Who's missing?"

It was Philip, yawning and scratching in the hallway. "What's all the commotion?" he asked as his wife and daughter stared at him. "Did you say someone was missing?"

"Mom's jumping to conclusions," Isabel said quickly. "We don't really know anyone's missing."

"Thank you very much, I can speak for myself," Diane said tartly as Isabel flushed. "Nancy Parker is on the line, Philip, because Liz is missing. And lo and behold, our son is missing also."

Now wide awake, Philip made a quick circuit of the bedroom, then the house, ending with a glance out the front window. "He's not here," Diane insisted. "Would you like to check the basement too? Maybe comb the backyard? The jeep is gone—"

"I noticed," Philip said curtly.

"Yes, well, perhaps you've also 'noticed' that this situation is growing worse by the day," Diane retorted. "We can't just keep ignoring this, Philip. We can't just keep saying 'boys will be boys'. This requires—"

"I agree," Philip said. "Let's go."

Diane blinked. "Go? Go where?"

"To speak with Nancy and Jeff," Philip answered. "You said Nancy was on the line? Tell her we'll be there in thirty minutes."

Finally, Diane thought gratefully, although the look on Isabel's face suggested rather different emotions. "Nancy?" Diane said after returning to the phone. "Liz isn't here, but..."

"Neither is Max," Nancy finished for her. "I figured as much."

"We'd like to come over, if that's all right," Diane said, grateful all over again that Nancy couldn't see her mortified face.

"Of course," Nancy said quietly. "I'll be here."

Thirty minutes later on the dot, Philip shut the car off in front of the Crashdown. Only the hardiest of tourists were there at this hour on a Saturday, and the dread in the pit of her stomach contrasted sharply with the cheerily jingling bell on the door and the wide smile with which Jeff greeted them. "Philip! Diane! Didn't expect to see you here on a weekend. What has you up at this hour?"

Philip and Diane exchanged startled glances, but were spared having to answer that question by Nancy, who emerged from the kitchen as pale as a ghost. "Honey?" she said tentatively. "There's something I have to tell you."

"Uh oh," Philip murmured as Nancy drew her husband aside, speaking in hushed tones. After several minutes and a considerable amount of back and forth, Jeff's smile had evaporated.

"Listen up, everyone," he called grimly to the munching crowd. "We're closing. Family emergency. The staff will box up your food, which is on the house."

This announcement was met with stunned silence from virtually everyone in the cafe including the staff. "I said, we're closing," Jeff repeated testily. "Everybody out!"

That did it. Chairs scraped, staff scrambled, and Philip pulled Diane aside to avoid the fray. "God, I feel terrible," she whispered miserably as the staff hurriedly distributed carryout containers. "Not only did our son abscond with their daughter, now Jeff is losing his weekend business."

"We don't know anything for sure at this point," Philip said. "Yes, yes, I know what it looks like, but we still don't know for sure. And there's someone I haven't checked with who might know something," he continued, pulling out his phone. "It's worth a try."

"Make sure you let it ring," Diane advised. "The only phone is at the base of the stairs."




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



Proctor residence




A distant jingling woke Dee, a faint sound initially hard to identify. Phone, she thought after a moment of bleary-eyed thought. Her beside clock read 7:40, way too early for God or man, so she let it ring. This was precisely what voicemail was for.

Only it didn't stop. Several rings later, she shot an annoyed hand toward her nightstand, scrabbling for her phone. Only then did she realize that the phone ringing was not her cell, but the ancient land line on the telephone table at the base of the stairs, circa 1940, a relic of a time when telephones were so revered, they were deemed worthy of furniture named in their honor. No wonder it hadn't gone to voicemail, which certainly hadn't been around in 1940. Her parents had never installed an answering machine, nor had she and Anthony, having relegated the land line to emergency use after switching day-to-day calls to their cells. So who hadn't gotten the message? Probably a wrong number, she decided. It would stop soon.

It didn't. Muttering phrases which would have made a sailor blush, Dee climbed into her robe and slippers and padded downstairs, leaving Anthony blissfully sleeping through the entire episode much the way he'd slept through Philip's loudest infant wails. Whoever this was, it had better be good, and she was in a mood by the time she picked up the handset and tried to keep the irritation out of her voice as she said, "Hello?"

"Mom!" Philip's voice said. "Did I wake you?"

"No, I'm always up at the crack of dawn on a weekend," Dee deadpanned. "Of course you woke me! Haven't we told you to call our cellphones?"

There was a pause. "Oh. Yeah," Philip allowed. "You did. Guess I just don't associate you with modern technology."

"I love you too," Dee said darkly. "Did you want something, or are you just spreading early morning cheer?"

"Yeah, is Max at your house?"

Dee glanced around the dark living room. "No. Why would he be at my house?"

"No reason, I guess," Philip said. "He's just not at mine."

"Philip, for heaven's sake, would you just spit it out?" Dee said in exasperation. "I'm only half awake and not in the mood for riddles!"

"Max is missing," Philip clarified.

" 'Missing'? As in not home, or as in 'missing' missing?"

"As in he didn't come home last night, and we don't know where he is," Philip answered. "Ditto for Liz Parker. We're at the Crashdown now with her parents."

Oh dear, Dee thought heavily, sinking down on the chair which always accompanied a telephone table, a necessity back when all phones had short cords. "Have you called the sheriff?"

"Not yet," Philip answered as Dee breathed a sigh of relief that they didn't have to deal with Valenti...yet. "Although we're getting there."

"Well, do you know for sure they're together?" Dee asked.

"See, that's what I said, and Diane got all mad at me," Philip complained. "She seems to think this is my fault for not riding him harder about the whole kissing-in-the-closet bit. And no, we don't know that for sure, but I admit that's the logical conclusion. Do you know anything about this? Max and Izzie sometimes tell you things they don't tell us."

"He hasn't told me a thing about this," Dee said truthfully, sidestepping the question of whether or not she "knew anything", which would have required one hell of a lie. "How are Jeff and Nancy taking it?"

"Nancy's worried, but Jeff...Jeff isn't in a very good mood," Philip admitted. "Seems Nancy didn't tell him about the incident at school, and now he's looking at me like my son abducted his daughter...Mom? Are you laughing? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Dee said quickly, privately noting that they'd achieved a whole new meaning for "alien abduction". "I was just clearing my throat. Look, we know neither of them are stupid, so I doubt they've gone and done anything drastic. They'll turn up. Give them a little time."

"I hope so," Philip said. "Call me if you hear anything?"

"Of course," Dee promised.

I'd better hear something, she thought darkly, climbing the stairs back to the bedroom to retrieve her cellphone. Brivari's number again brought her to voicemail, and she sat there, smarting, for several long minutes before she remembered something Isabel had taught her about sending messages via telephone numbers. It took a while, what with three or four letters assigned to each number key, but she'd never been anything but persistent.

Max and Liz missing. You'd better be keeping an eye on them, or I swear to God, there'll be 1 less Warder on this planet.




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



Pohlman Ranch





"She's up," Jaddo said as Brivari's phone rang. "Isn't this early for her?"

"It is," Brivari said as he glanced at his phone. "I'm guessing they've discovered a few things aren't where they should be."

"They're not the only ones," Jaddo muttered, gazing through the windshield into the distance where two figures lay huddled on a blanket on the desert sand. "Where the hell did that come from, Brivari?"

"Wal Mart," Brivari deadpanned. "What do you mean, 'where did it come from'? It came from our ship, of course."

"But we removed all the communicators."

"Obviously we didn't. And based on the girl's reports of seeing it buried, it appears this one was removed by a soldier, probably hoping for a souvenir."

"What I don't understand," Jaddo said slowly, "is how she could have seen that. I don't remember seeing that buried. Do you?"

No, Brivari thought, privately noting that there were several things about this latest situation which had him concerned. "It was a tumultuous time," he answered. "The ship crashed, the hybrids were compromised, then captured, Urza and Valeris died...we could have seen all sorts of things we later forgot."

"You neglected to mention that we were captured," Jaddo murmured.

"I figured you already knew that."

His answer was a soft snort which Brivari tactfully ignored. The one subject which remained off limits between them was that of Jaddo's captivity, a three year ordeal which had left a black hole in an already murky psyche. Jaddo never spoke of it. That he'd mentioned it now was highly unusual.

The phone rang again, a series of beeps this time. "Haven't heard that one," Jaddo commented. "New ringer?"

"It's Dee," Brivari said, looking at the screen. "Text message. Hasn't really caught on yet. Just wait until teenagers realize you can do this instead of calling."

"What does it say?"

Brivari clicked his phone shut. "It's a death threat."

Jaddo burst out laughing, causing the whole car to shake. "Oh, my," he said through spasms as Brivari stared at him in surprise. "That's my girl."

"I haven't heard you laugh like that in ages," Brivari said. "Maybe never."

"You may be right," Jaddo allowed, still laughing.

"I should have her threaten to kill you more often," Brivari said dryly. "Why should I have all the fun?"

"Why, indeed?" Jaddo chuckled. "You'd better answer her before she makes good on it. Knowing her, she's got a satellite armed with nuclear warheads aimed straight at us."

Brivari smiled faintly as he typed They're OK and sent it off into the ether. "Wouldn't surprise me in the least. If there really is a deity, he or she must have been in a good mood the day they sent Deanna Proctor across the path of our ship."

"No argument there," Jaddo agreed. He was quiet for a moment. "Did you hear what the girl said about hearing the communicator in her 'vision'?"

"Yes."

"But...how could she have heard that? It didn't start sounding until we were all out here. Or is that part of the memory? Was it sounding when that soldier buried it?"

"It could have sounded at any time," Brivari answered. "Someone on Antar has no doubt been calling for decades now, if not someone on each of the five planets."

Jaddo considered that for a moment before nodding. "I suppose you're right. Did you notice how she kind of collapsed after they found it? Like she was exhausted?"

"I noticed. Much like anyone unaccustomed to the expenditure of power."

"At least it kept us from the pregnancy question," Jaddo sighed. "For the moment, at least." He checked his watch. "They're still asleep. Should we hurry them along now that the cavalry has been saddled?"

"Probably," Brivari said. "Do you want the honors, or shall I?"

"I'll do it. Should I take the communicator?"

Brivari considered that for a moment. "No," he said finally. "That will give away that someone's watching and make them paranoid, and we both know how they handle paranoia. It's unlikely they'll activate it. We can always grab it later if need be."

Jaddo nodded and climbed out of the car. Brivari watched as he approached Zan and the girl, kicked some rocks, woke them. What he hadn't said was that he, too, had noticed how the girl had referenced hearing the communicator before it had actually sounded. While it was possible that was part of a memory she'd gleaned from Zan, there was another, less attractive possibility. The human brain was an incredibly complex organ, the depths of which had only barely been tapped by present-day humans. Antarian experiments had proven that prodding it could produce startling and unexpected results.

Just what we needed, he thought heavily. A prescient human.




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



Gazing up at a canopy of night stars, Liz Parker sighed. The sky was beautiful, the air was warm, the silence was intoxicating. It was peaceful here, and peace had been in short supply of late. She could have lain here forever.

A noise nearby intruded and the night sky receded, vanishing along with the warmth. Suddenly she was cold and blinking, bright sun making her squint, hard ground beneath her...and an odd grey object in front of her. A second later it all came flooding back, the visions, the digging, why she was lying on sand under a desert sun. She must have been dreaming just now, and pleasant as that dream had been, what lay behind her was better. Max. He stirred when she propped herself up, smiled, stroked her face...then looked past her with an expression of alarm.

Liz turned. A strange man stood off to one side, several yards away, watching them. After a moment, he walked toward them.

"This is private property," the stranger announced. "You two better get home."

Max never took his eyes off the stranger as they scrambled to their feet, cramming the strange rock they'd found into his backpack and hurrying away. "Who is that?" Liz whispered, glancing back at the stranger who stood unmoving, watching them go.

"Don't know," Max said in a clipped tone. "Keep moving."

They reached the jeep, climbed inside, took off, Max's eyes on the rear view mirror. Liz's hand slipped inside the backpack, closed on the smooth, gray stone that felt oddly warm to the touch. "Max, what is this?"

"I don't know," Max answered, "and right now, I don't care."

"Is he following us?"

"No. Are you all right?"

Liz blinked. "Me? Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Don't you remember last night?" Max asked, giving her a worried glance. "Right after we found that?"

Liz looked down at the rock, recalling the beeping which had led them to it, beeping she'd heard before in those visions she'd had. What she hadn't said was that she'd known what they were going to find, having glimpsed it moments before they'd uncovered it, seeing it lying in its hole as though through the eyes of the one who'd buried it. It had been a weird, almost out of body experience, and after it was over, when the shaft of light which had shot from the strange rock had vanished, she'd suddenly felt exhausted, drained, completely wiped out. She'd staggered, Max had caught her, laid her down, wrapped his arms around her mere moments before everything went black.

"Uh...a little," she admitted. "I remember a little."

"You collapsed," Max said, the terror that had caused evident in his voice. "Just kind of crumpled. You couldn't even talk to me. But you were breathing okay, and there didn't seem to be anything to heal, so I..." His voice trailed away, his face stricken.

"I'm okay," Liz said gently, putting a hand on his arm. "I feel fine now. I was just a little...disoriented, that's all."

Max reached out, put a hand on her forehead in a gesture eerily reminiscent of her mother. "You're not warm," he reported. "Not like you were yesterday."

"I'm good," Liz assured him. "Just drive."

His hand fell away, dropped to hers, squeezed it. They rode in silence through the desert as more details of last night and this morning came back to her. By far the most troubling was the moment right after she'd awakened to find the stranger staring at them. For just a second she'd felt something building within her, and she'd braced herself, poised to strike...but strike with what? She clearly remembered feeling seconds away from hurling something at the stranger, but what could she possibly have hurled? Sand? Her shoe? It's not like she carried pepper spray with her or any kind of weapon, and yet she'd been convinced she had a weapon, a powerful weapon, and if the stranger had taken so much as a step toward them, she would have unleashed whatever it was. And then what? What would have happened? What could possibly have happened?

Now, whisking through the desert with Max at her side and a weird, alien rock in one hand, she was deeply grateful she didn't know the answer.


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

I'll post Chapter 88 next Sunday.