CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
August 20, 1959, 3 p.m.
Valenti residence
"Damn!" Valenti exclaimed as the box he was tugging off a high shelf tumbled out of his hands and hit the floor hard, papers spewing everywhere, clouds of dust puffing from the basement floor where the box landed. He really should keep it cleaner down here even if he hadn't darkened the doorway of this particular closet in nearly five years. Bending over, he gathered an armload of papers and stuffed them back into the box before carrying it out into the basement proper and setting it down on an old kitchen table. Everything was out of order now. Wonderful. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, flipping through the contents, hoping he'd get lucky.
"Dad? You're home early. What are you doing?"
His son was on the basement stairs, gazing at him curiously. "I'm busy," Valenti said shortly.
"Does this mean you'll be here for dinner?" Jimmy asked hopefully.
"I doubt it," Valenti said, setting down a handful of folders and reaching for another.
"Oh," Jimmy said, disappointed. "Well...can I help with whatever you're doing?"
"No. Go back upstairs."
"But...it looks like you're looking for something," Jimmy said coming the rest of the way down the stairs. "I could help you find it faster."
"Thanks for offering, but no, you couldn't," Valenti said.
"I could if you told me what you were looking for," Jimmy said, peering into the box. "I found lots of stuff for your deputies."
"And I'm sure they appreciated that," Valenti said struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice. "But I only have a little while, and I need to look myself. Go back upstairs."
"What's this?" Jimmy asked, picking up a folder labeled "July, 1947".
"Put that down!"
Jimmy was so startled that he dropped the folder. "I already told you, I'm pressed for time and I need to do this myself," Valenti said firmly. "Now, go back upstairs and stop slowing me down."
"Yes sir," Jimmy said faintly, retreating up the stairs, his heavy footsteps sounding like a rebuke. Valenti sighed and retrieved the folder his son had been holding, by some mysterious stroke of luck the very one he'd been looking for. He flipped through the pages only to discover that what he wanted was missing, probably having fallen out when he dropped the box. He started rummaging through the loose papers, flinging them sideways as he pawed through them. He only had a little while before he had to be back at the station, and he was so close......
Valenti had spent every minute since his morning encounter with Agent Owens in a state of growing tension, living for the gaps in his duties that would allow him to pursue what he suspected. Not that he trusted Owens, or that he wasn't aware that the FBI could have stolen Mark Green's remains without Owens knowing. The only problem was that Audrey Tate's body had not been touched. If the FBI had gone to the trouble of breaking into Raymond Blake's office, wouldn't they have taken the body that Agent Lewis had wanted so badly only last night? Add to that the fact that both Lewis and Owens seemed to know nothing of exploding bodies, and he was left with two choices—either the FBI was lying through their collective teeth, or aliens were indeed in Roswell and had stolen Green's remains because, according to Ray, those remains showed evidence of non-human cells. Green's remains were damning. Audrey Tate's were not.
Whatever the explanation, the problem was one of how to find a needle in a haystack. Roswell was currently loaded with out-of-towners, the perfect place for an FBI agent—or an alien—to hide. The various rooming houses and inns in the area had little information about their temporary guests, even less than he had about his temporary deputies, and there was always the chance that another agent or agents was hidden in his town. The sheer plethora of possibilities had distracted him all day until the discharge report on Charles Dean had crossed his desk. Seen in writing, Dean's allegations about the clapper loader's allegedly odd behavior had looked very familiar.....
And so the first chance he'd had, Valenti had sped home and made a beeline for the basement. The incident he was recalling had happened in Chaves County, not Roswell, so the records of it were inaccessible without answering a whole lot of inconvenient questions. But Valenti had spent three years working for Chaves County, and he'd had the foresight to keep his own notes on any and all alien sightings, alien encounters, alien anything. Based on what he'd learned later, most of those notes had been worthless. But some were not, and it was one of those he was looking for, one that sounded suspiciously like what Dean had described. Here! he thought triumphantly, plucking a paper out of the mess and scanning it eagerly. Trey Osborn....
"Hi."
Valenti looked up to find Andi peering over the stair railing at him. "Hi," he said briefly, returning to his notes.
"Mind telling me why our son is up in his bedroom crying?"
Valenti closed his eyes briefly. "Maybe I was a little....short with him."
" 'Short' doesn't usually produce tears," Andi observed, coming down the stairs and raking her eyes over the mess on the table. "What's this?"
"Records."
"What kind of records?"
"Old records. Can we talk about this later?"
Big mistake. Andi raised an eyebrow and glanced at the folder in front of him. " '1947'? Why are you looking at stuff from 1947?"
"It's for work," Valenti said. "And I'm pressed for time. So if you don't mind....."
Andi folded her arms in front of herself and leaned against the table. "Actually, I do. Mind, that is. This is about the FBI, isn't it?"
"I didn't say that," Valenti protested.
"You didn't have to. They plant someone in your station, bully their way into our house, and now you're actually thinking of buying whatever they were selling last night, aren't you?"
"I never said I was buying it—"
"But you must be," Andi insisted. "Yesterday afternoon that actress's death was an unfortunate accident. Last night the FBI claimed otherwise, and now you're off on a tear that has our son in tears. And for what? You told me Agent Lewis didn't even give you his number. Don't you get it, Jim? He doesn't want any of this traced back to him. That's why he came here instead of the station where others would have seen him, why he's having you contact someone other than him. I'm telling you, that man is bad news!"
"Something else happened," Valenti broke in before she could continue.
"Like what?" Andi demanded. "And don't you dare tell me you can't say, James Valenti! I've seen and heard enough now that 'I can't tell you' isn't going to cut it."
Valenti eyed his angry wife, trying to decide how little he could say and still satisfy her curiosity. But maybe that wasn't the way to go. Maybe getting another opinion from someone he trusted was the wiser course of action.
"Two months ago, a man was killed in town in what looked like a robbery," he began, choosing his words carefully. "When Doctor Blake was doing an autopsy, the body just.....exploded."
" 'Exploded'?" Andi repeated. "As in, blew up?"
"Sort of. It exploded into little skin flakes, like lots and lots of dry skin. But that's all it was; no blood, no bones, nothing else. Ray ran some tests on what was left and said he found two different kinds of cells, both human and....non-human."
Andi blinked. " 'Non-human'? Do you mean this guy was....an alien?"
"That's what Ray thinks," Valenti answered. "I've been sitting on the case trying to dig up more information, but I've been a little busy. And then this morning, he found out this guy's remains were gone."
"Gone?"
"Stolen," Valenti clarified. "Everything. Every scrap of evidence. No sign of a break-in, no broken locks, no fingerprints...nothing. Whoever did it knew their stuff."
"Like the FBI?"
Valenti shot her an annoyed look. "Do you really believe I didn't think of that? Problem is, I dropped the idea of exploding bodies last night, and Agent Lewis didn't blink. Same thing with Agent Owens when I spoke with him this morning. He claimed they didn't take anything, and he didn't react when I brought up the exploding bodies bit."
"And it never occurred to you they could be lying?" Andi asked in a deeply skeptical voice.
Valenti tossed the report he'd been reading onto the table. "I don't know what to believe. But you've got to admit it's weird that Audrey Tate's body wasn't taken. If the FBI went to all that trouble to break into Ray's office, why didn't they take Tate? Lewis nearly had a fit last night when I wouldn't let him have her until Ray was finished."
"So you think aliens took whoever—or whatever—is missing from Ray's office?"
Valenti hesitated. "I think I'm not sure what happened," he answered. "And I want to find out. Which is why I'm down here digging through old notes from a decade ago."
"Jim," Andi said slowly, "why would aliens take these....'remains' now? It's been weeks. Wouldn't they have taken them right away? Like before Ray had a chance to figure out there was something strange about them?"
"Maybe they didn't know I had them," Valenti suggested. "Or maybe they didn't care until the FBI showed up."
"Or maybe the FBI is after something other than what they told you they're after," Andi said pointedly. "Which is why Audrey Tate wasn't touched. What would she have to do with this? She didn't 'explode'."
"No. But the FBI thinks her death was—"
"Unnatural?" Andi suggested. "As in killed by aliens?" When he didn't answer, she glanced at some of the other folders on the table. "These are all from the late forties," she noted. "You believe them, don't you? You believe aliens killed Audrey Tate."
"Like I said," Valenti answered carefully, "I don't know what to believe. I'm trying to separate fact from fiction and figure out what the FBI really wants. And in order to do that, I need to go through these."
Andi studied him for a moment before capitulating. "All right. I know you're not stupid, so I'll leave you to your digging. Just try not to bulldoze our son in the process, would you? It's hard enough that he doesn't see you much, so yelling at him when you do doesn't help."
"I know," Valenti admitted with a sigh. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not the one you need to apologize to."
"Right. I'll apologize to Jimmy. I promise."
Andi's expression softened, and she leaned in close to kiss him on the cheek. "Try not to get so caught up in this that you can't see straight, okay? I don't trust Lewis."
"Neither do I," Valenti assured her. "I'll be careful."
She left, her skirt swishing up the stairs, and Valenti returned to his notes, the deposition of one Trey Osborn, teenage thug extraordinaire and member of Denny Miltnor's gang. That gang had been disturbing the peace at the Independence Day parade in the town of Corona in 1947 and had run afoul of an odd handyman supposedly in the employ of Chambers grocery. A handyman accompanied by none other than Dee Proctor. A handyman no one had ever seen again. And a handyman who had reportedly displayed some unusual behaviors.
He held me up against the wall several feet off the ground, without touching me....
Choked all of us without touching us....
Knocked us to the ground without touching us.....
Jesus, Valenti thought, a chill running down his spine. The allegations Osborn had made against the man Valenti had long suspected was an alien matched Dean's description of what the clapper loader and his friend had done to him just yesterday.
**************************************************
Ruth Bruce's rooming house
"I cannot believe that you went ahead without consulting me again!" Malik exclaimed. "Do you want my help, or don't you?"
"This has nothing to do with your 'help'," Michael answered. "This was an internal affair that concerned my people, not yours, not to mention that we had information you did not."
"And I had information you didn't have," Malik reminded him. "You just made things ten times worse, and they were bad enough already!"
"Consulting you would have been pointless," Michael argued. "We didn't know where to find you, and your objections would not have changed my mind."
"You didn't even try to find me, and you haven't even heard my objections," Malik retorted. "This is not how allies behave, Michael. If you want me to smooth the way to contact with the Warders, you have to work with me, not without me."
"I am trying to keep us alive," Michael said impatiently. "Since being alive is a prerequisite to contact with the Warders, you should be able to appreciate that."
"What I appreciate is that you've blown me off twice now," Malik said angrily. "Pull that again, and you're on your own. Consider yourself warned."
Michael flushed. "How dare you...."
"Michael," Nathaniel warned.
"Okay, time out!" Dee ordered. "Everybody just step back and calm down. I said everybody," she added sternly when Malik and Michael began to protest. "Back off. Now."
Seated on the floor beneath the window, Courtney suppressed a completely inappropriate smile as both Malik and her furious father reluctantly complied, each prowling as far away from each other as they could get in Courtney's tiny apartment. Mr. Parker had cancelled Dee's shift today because no one was doing much eating in the wake of the actress's death, and that had proven a blessing. Upon returning to her apartment after her own shift, Courtney had found Malik blazing mad over what her father and Nathaniel had done earlier today. Her own efforts to act as referee had gone nowhere; her father held little stock in her opinion these days, and Malik still regarded her as a potential enemy. Dee was a different story; Malik trusted her implicitly, and in her presence, Michael was on if not good, at least better, behavior, unwilling to offend a valuable human ally. Unable to soothe everyone's ragged emotions, Courtney had crossed the hall and solicited help. The resulting confrontation had been instructive. Dee didn't give a hoot about anyone's emotions, barking orders like a drill sergeant to establish order and drilling inconvenient facts out of both parties before retreating and letting them at each other's throats. This was the first time out, and a much needed one at that.
"There's little point in rehashing what happened," Dee said, "so the focus of this discussion should be on how you're going to handle these situations in the future."
"I'll tell you how," Malik said curtly. "He's going to tell me before he does something stupid that gives us away, not after."
"I fail to see how recovering our operative's remains will attract undue attention," Michael retorted. "No one knows who took them."
"Which is why this needs rehashing," Malik answered, drowning out Dee's protest that they'd already been over this. "Valenti will figure out who took it and be right back on the warpath. Here we'd just about dodged that bullet, and now it's speeding right for us again. Nice work, Michael."
"The man we saw at the diner this morning had obviously already been to the sheriff with tales of strange happenings," Michael argued.
"Which Valenti didn't believe," Malik said. "Now that evidence has been stolen, he'll rethink that."
"Why wouldn't he suspect the FBI of taking that evidence?" Michael asked. "And while we're on the subject, why were we not informed that the FBI was in town? Why did I need to hear that from Nicholas?"
"I've been a little busy!" Malik said furiously. "And while we're on the subject, did it not occur to you that Valenti might tell the FBI about that strange guy whose body blew up? He's been keeping that to himself, but he might not now. You may have just informed the FBI's new alien hunting unit that there is yet another race of aliens on this planet. Was that your intention?"
Courtney watched her father's eyes drop, only for a second, but long enough to tell her that, no, he hadn't considered that possibility. Not that that would make a difference. She knew her father, and he wouldn't back down for anyone. "If that occurs, it would be an unwelcome but unavoidable side effect of a necessary operation," Michael said. "There is another operative coming to town, and we needed to remove any evidence of Green's death. And there is nothing more to be said on the matter," he added firmly. "The subject is closed."
"Like hell it is," Dee announced. "You blew it."
Michael's eyes narrowed. " 'Blew' it?"
"Screwed up," Dee clarified. "Made a bad decision. Did something wrong. In other words, blew it."
Silence. Courtney had to clench her jaw to keep her mouth from dropping open, Nathaniel's eyes nearly popped out of his head, and her father...well, he was clearly struggling between puzzlement and outrage. The former was dominating at the moment, but the latter would be along in short order.
"I beg your pardon!" Michael exclaimed. "I—"
"Don't beg my pardon—beg his," Dee interrupted. "You should never have moved a muscle without consulting Malik, especially when the Warders are in the middle of a crisis. You're lucky he's willing to give you one more chance. I wouldn't."
The tension in the room, already high, soared to stratospheric levels as Dee and Michael faced off in the center of the room. To interrupt her father, give him an order, reprimand him, and dismiss him in a mere four sentences displayed an abundance of both efficiency and nerve that made Courtney downright jealous. Nathaniel was throwing her a glance that said stop her!, but Courtney was too interested in how this would play out. Besides, you couldn't stop Dee any more than you could stop any other force of nature.
"The crisis was of their own making," Michael said angrily. "It's not my fault they chose to execute someone."
"They killed to protect their identity," Dee said. "Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have done the same."
Michael glared at her a moment longer before looking away. "That is entirely beside the point."
"You're right," Dee agreed. "The point is that no matter what the circumstances or how you feel about Covari, you can't keep acting unilaterally—it's stupid, it's dishonest, and it endangers your own mission. Assuming you've been honest about that mission, that is."
"Young lady," Michael began, using the same tone he used when Courtney was being obstinate, "I don't believe you understand, or are capable of understanding, the gravity of the situation. If—"
"If your new operative finds out you've been lying about Mark Green, you'll all be dead, likely in a very slow, very nasty way," Dee said impatiently. "That about sum it up?"
"I would appreciate it if you would let me finish my sentences," Michael said sharply. "I was given to understand that interrupting was considered rude in your culture."
"So is blowing off an ally," Dee retorted. "So is talking to me like I'm an idiot and couldn't possibly know what time of day it is. I met the Warders when I was eight years old. I was on their ship when the Army found it, I've watched two of them die, my father killed a hunter, my mother was kidnapped because of the help we gave them. I've already been in enough 'situations' that I could be one of your operatives, and that goes triple for Malik. You owe him an apology."
"Thank you," Malik muttered as Courtney nearly stopped breathing, Nathaniel being way ahead of her—he looked like he'd stopped a while ago. Her father certainly didn't rule with Nicholas' iron fist, but she could safely say that no one would ever talk to him this way. Politely disagree, perhaps, even argue a point if one was close enough to him, but to scold him like this....no, that was unthinkable. Almost as unthinkable as offering an apology to a Covari, which was mighty unthinkable indeed.
"I regret that this matter has caused an impasse between us," Michael said coldly, clearly trying to find a middle ground between the equally unattractive options of apologizing to a shapeshifter and offending a needed ally, "but I stand by the decision we made."
" 'We'?" Dee challenged, looking at Courtney. "Is that true? Did you buy into this?"
Courtney's eyes flicked from one face to another as everyone's attention settled on her. She really shouldn't fan the flames. She really should attempt to calm this situation for the good of everyone involved. She really should take the high road and not point out that her father was lying.
"No," Courtney answered, throwing all those "really should's" to the wind. "I told him he should talk to Malik first, both this time and when he decided to send that letter to the Warders. And make no mistake about it—he decides. Nathaniel and I have nothing to say about anything."
"Wonderful," Malik said darkly. "You put an operative here, and then you ignore her? Isn't she the one who's been living here? Shouldn't her opinion count for something?"
"Do not presume to insert yourself between me and my daughter!" Michael snapped, turning hard eyes on Courtney before stalking out of the apartment, followed a moment later by Nathaniel, who kept his eyes on the ground. Boy, was she going to get it later.
"I don't have time for this," Malik muttered, following on their heels. "I'll catch up with you later."
Dee gave a heavy sigh as the door banged shut behind them before plopping down beside Courtney.
"So....that went well."
"Better than it was going before you got here," Courtney replied. "When did you find out about the actress?"
"Last night," Dee answered. "I suspected as soon as I heard who had died, but I wasn't sure until Malik confirmed it." She paused. "Is your father always like that?"
Courtney hesitated. "We've never fought like this before. But I've never seen him with a problem like this before."
"He can't keep doing this," Dee said. "He can't keep going off on his own as though what he does doesn't affect everyone else."
"I know," Courtney said quietly.
"So who keeps him in line? Who knocks him upside the head when he needs it?"
"Here? No one," Courtney answered. "Nathaniel is his second, but he doesn't have any real power. At home the resistance is much larger, and so is the number of people he'd have to answer to. But this is really more about Covari and how they're viewed than anything else. We're up against centuries of preconceptions that we're asking him to abandon. Convincing him to do that won't be easy, and frankly, I'm not sure anyone is up to that task."
"You're wrong," Dee said bluntly. "You are."
Courtney blinked. "Me? Dee, I can't—"
"You have to. I'm going back to school next week, so I can't run over whenever daddy gets stupid."
Don't remind me, Courtney thought, not even wanting to contemplate the fact that Dee and her family would be gone in just a few short days. "I'll talk to Nathaniel," she said. "Maybe he—"
"No," Dee said firmly. "Nathaniel didn't so much as squeak, and no wonder—you said he doesn't have any real power. He also doesn't know Malik like you do and how important he is in all of this. You're the one who's been living here for weeks, you're the one who knew the right thing to do, so you're the one who's going to have to be the brains."
"Dee, I can't make my father work with Malik," Courtney protested. "I can argue all I want, but I can't force him to do that any more than he could force me to come home with him."
"Then you'll have to work with Malik yourself. You knew your father was going to write that letter and break into the doctor's office. You could have warned him."
Courtney drew her knees up closer and wrapped her arms around them. "I thought about it," she admitted, "but if I defy him, that will only happen once; from then on, he'll never tell me anything, and what good will that do?"
"Well, what you're doing now certainly isn't doing any good," Dee said.
"No," Courtney said quietly. "It isn't." She paused. "Do you really think it's as bad as Malik says it is? Will Valenti figure it out?"
"Knowing him, he already has," Dee sighed. "Look, just think about it. You're hanging in the middle now, but you might not be able to stay there; you might be forced to pick a side like Malik was." She climbed to her feet, looking out the window. "Who's that?"
Courtney stood up. Her father and Nathaniel were standing on the curb beside a taxi cab. "Is that the new operative?" Dee asked.
"Must be," Courtney murmured. "They took a cab? The bus station's not that far away. When I came into town, I walked here in about twenty minutes—"
She stopped, the figure which emerged from the cab making it all too clear why they hadn't walked.
"Wow," Dee commented.
"Oh, shit," Courtney muttered.
*****************************************************
Roswell Sheriff's Station
"Sir?"
Valenti slammed his desk drawer shut with an exasperated sigh, this being the third time in the past fifteen minutes he'd been interrupted. "What is it, Hanson?"
"There's someone here to see you about the Tate case."
" 'Someone'? Could you be any less specific?"
Hanson glanced back toward the waiting room as though concerned he was being pursued before slipping into the office. "It's....kind of a reporter, sir."
" 'Kind of' a reporter? Is that like being 'kind of' pregnant?"
Hanson pinked. "She calls herself an 'independent contributor'."
"I don't care if she's an independent goddess," Valenti snapped. "I have no comment on the Tate case until Dr. Blake finishes his independent autopsy. Get rid of her."
"You might not want to do that, sir," Hanson ventured. "She claims she sells to several newspapers and magazines, so whatever she writes will....well....."
Get all over hell's half acre, Valenti finished. "I can't tell her anything," he said impatiently. "I don't have anything to say other than what I've already said."
"She only just got into town, so she wasn't here when you said it, so....maybe if you tell her personally?" Hanson suggested. "If you won't talk to her, she'll probably just make something up."
Crap, Valenti thought sourly. The local press had calmed after Dr. Blake's initial finding that Tate wasn't murdered and news of Dean's inebriation had been helpfully leaked, but all it would take was one denied 'independent contributor' to start it all up again. "All right," he said grudgingly. "Send her in."
Hanson broke into a wide smile, grateful to be relieved of the burden of delivering a refusal. "Thank you, sir. She's easy on the eyes, if that's any consolation."
Ask me if I care, Valenti thought, sweeping the contents of his desk into various drawers so prying eyes wouldn't have anything to look at save for pencil cups, staplers, and other headline producing artifacts. A minute later, Hanson ushered a tall, stately woman into his office smartly dressed in a suit, her heels click, clicking on the tile floor.
"Ma'am," Valenti said cordially, rising from his chair and wearing his best public relations face, or the best he could dredge up at the moment. "I'm Sheriff Valenti. How can I help you?"
"So nice to meet you, Sheriff," the woman smiled, "and thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I'm Vanessa Crawford."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll post Chapter 50 next Sunday.
I guess power can constrict one's vision to the point where all the powerful see are their self important selves. 
Barring being hit by a bus, I will absolutely see this through to when Langley and Max clash in Secrets and Lies/Control....and hopefully that clash will make much more sense. (And Misha, the bus reference is for you. 
