Title: Walter and Mariel: 5.Contrappunto
Author: Mary Mastrangelo
Series: Walter and Mariel
Rated: PG-13 or soft R for some violence and language, and for adult talk between spouses.
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner and Co. belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Used without permission and without intention to infringe copyright. All characters and backgrounds not already established on the television program are my own invention. Dr. Mariel Fraser-Skinner is my creation and may not be used without permission.

Summary: Even as their marriage enters a new phase, and Walter and Mariel Skinner must deal with the resulting changes in their lives as well as in the continuing demands of their careers, the Consortium reveals some plans of its own. Soon the conspiracy's machinations reach more deeply into the Skinners' lives, and their friends in Arizona are drawn towards the same deadly snare.

Unbuttoning her jacket as she shifted in the chair, she decided that sitting through an official F.B.I. debriefing was the second-most grueling experience of her life. She doubted that the setting had been deliberately arranged this way, but the chair was hard, its thin cushion biting into the backs of her knees, and the atmosphere in the room was stale and close. Of course, the air conditioning on this entire floor was out, and she was glad she'd worn a light cologne. Soon the mingled smells of colognes, deodorants and sweat-stained shirts would be nearly unbearable in this small briefing room.

Special Agent Torelli took her through each day with exhaustive thoroughness. An attractive, dark-haired 40'ish woman, Torelli had handled enough debriefings to know when to push and when to ease off. Because the subject of this interview was AD Skinner's wife was no reason for Torelli to change her techniques. Skinner himself had given her no special instructions, so Torelli proceeded as protocol and her own experience dictated.

It ws relatively easy for Mariel to relate facts and time-frames and even conversations -- if her terse, often monosyllabic exchanges with the smoking man could be called 'conversations' -- but she balked at baring her feelings before the other woman. But finally Agent Torelli cut off the tape machine and closed her notebook, standing up as she did so.

"Thank you, Mrs. Skinner," she said, then smiled down into Mariel's level eyes. "I reckon that that was no harder than the oral exam for your doctorate."

Mariel didn't feel like smiling back. She was warm, uncomfortably damp under her linen blouse and slightly lightheaded in the airless room. "Agent Torelli," she replied dryly, "in my oral exam I knew what I was talking about. I'm still in the dark about why *this* happened to me," she ended, gesturing to the tape.

When Mariel looked down to locate her belongings, Torelli glanced up toward the outer door. Popping the tape from the machine while Mariel gathered her purse, the agent walked across to the door and handed the tape to the tall, balding man who stood there. Even with his dress shirt slightly wilted and a sheen of perspiration dampening his bare pate, Walter Skinner seemed to fill the room.

Relaxing protocol just a touch, Torelli murmured, "She did fine, sir. No problems."

"Thank you, Agent Torelli," the AD said formally, sliding the tape into his shirt pocket. "I appreciate your assistance in this matter." Although his words were for the dark-haired agent, his deep brown eyes never left the tall, grey-eyed woman across the room.

Noticing the man's expression and the direction of his gaze, Torelli smiled to herself. In the past, she remembered, when powder room speculations centered on eligible men in the Bureau, Skinner's name had come up more than once. But Torelli herself had always thought that when the AD finally fell, it would be fast, hard, and forever. Pretty happily married herself, she looked up at him now and was gratified to see that her instincts about him had been correct.

"You're welcome, sir," she nodded, and left.

Closing the door behind Torelli, Skinner joined his wife and picked up her jacket from the chair. "That's it, honey," he said quietly, holding the jacket so she could slip her arms into the sleeves. When Mariel shook her head, he folded it over his arm instead.

"What time is it, Walt?" she asked.

"Around two-thirty. Are you going home now or to the college?"

Mariel tucked a sweep of hair behind her ear. "I really have to see the dean this afternoon. He's been such a sweetheart about my, ummm, unexpected sabbatical, Walt," she said, looking up a little.

Skinner stood very close to his wife, his deep chest nearly touching her. Their gazes held, rich brown on clear grey, and he reached up to rest a hand on her shoulder, the touch a small caress. "All right," he said, "but please try to get home before dark."

"I will." Mariel rested her hand upon his. "At least I won't have to dodge reporters any more," she said, shaking her head.

Skinner's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened at the reminder. The hand that was on her shoulder remained loose and gentle, but his other hand clenched hard. "And damn them for plastering your face all over the newspapers," he grated. He'd been as angry as Mariel had ever seen him when they arrived home from Phoenix and he saw the newspaper accounts of her abduction.

As Mariel later heard second-hand from Agent Scully, the very next day her husband had gotten a couple of city-desk editors into his office and given them a 'talking to,' as Scully put it. Their marriage, of course, was a matter of public record, but Mariel knew that Walter wanted to keep her face out of public sight. But now that anyone who had seen the papers might know who she was, Mariel realized that Walter would think that it would be even harder to keep her safe.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," she said comfortingly, kissing his hand. "I'm old news now, and you know I'm careful."

Yes, she was, he realized. Careful, and now armed with a 9mm in her purse. - God...I didn't want it to be like this - he thought, half-angry and half-sad. - But I can't be with her all the time. - And he didn't know how much longer he could justify the expense and manpower involved in staking our his home.

Putting the thoughts aside, he leaned close to her, catching the scents of cologne mingled with damp linen. Holding her chin in one hand, he kissed her lips, briefly but sweetly. "Just get home early, honey," he said. "I'll see you out."

Mariel smiled and nodded, but did not try to take his hand as they walked out the door. She knew that Walter would be uncomfortable with outwardly obvious affection from her as they left the briefing room and walked through the Bureau corridors. She didn't mind; it was more than wonderfully enough for her that he was sweetly demonstrative in the privacy of their home. She respected his desire not to be distracted at his work. But she *did* allow her hip to gently brush against his in the natural rhythm of her walk.

She glanced at a hallway clock as they neared the elevator. Yes, she did have to see the dean of arts and music this afternoon, but she had another appointment as well. She had not told Walter about the second meeting, and that still bothered her a little. She didn't want to keep anything from her husband, but in this case she believed that it was necessary. When the elevator door closed behind them, she took his hand at last.

Smoking quietly, the man stood by the window, watching the human parade as people moved in and out of the building. Soon a tall couple caught his eye: the woman dark-haired, the man balding and jacketless in the late Summer heat. For a moment he watched them turn toward the sidewalk. Rather, the man watched *her* until he realized that someone had come up to stand next to him, and, indeed, had been there for a few minutes.

About six feet tall, with rough-hewn features and the body build of a professional wrestler, the newcomer didn't look like a person who could stand quietly, unmoving for a time as he looked down also. But he was patient and waited until the smoker recognized his presence. Then, voice as casual and matter-of-fact as if he were remarking that the sun would rise in the east tomorrow, the person said, "I can give her to you."

The smoker did not flinch or even blink, although he was genuinely startled. The lean, grey-eyed man wondered if his companion was telepathic, but dismissed the idea. He, himself, knew the characteristics of these men, and mind-reading was not one of them. Then he frowned inwardly, eyes on the street sightless now as he thought.

A test, perhaps? A test of his resolve and dedication? It was not impossible that his...no, he had no 'friends' ; call him an acquaintance or even an associate...his associate in the organization had made a comment out loud or voiced a speculation. The smoker did not think that his old...associate would baldly doubt his loyalty in this person's presence.

At any rate, he knew how he had to respond. Hand steady as he raised the cigarette for another deep draw, he did not bother turning as he said, as if unutterably bored, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Someone else would have recognized the smoker's tone and the disinterested reply as a cool dismissive, a subtle warning that the other was on dangerous ground. This person, of course, did not know that, and so proceeded as if the smoker had meant that he needed further clarification of the statement. "For a twelve-hour period," the rough-featured person stated emotionlessly, "the woman would behave with you as she now does with that other whom she calls 'husband.' She would talk with you, prepare food for you, and mate with you if you desired it."

Only a lifetime spent in suppressing or camouflaging outward displays of emotion kept the lean smoker from crushing the cigarette between his fingers. Oblivious to the other's inner turmoil, the speaker was continuing, "There would be no violence done to her mind, and she would have no sensation of lost time. For her, it would be as if the twelve hours simply had never existed."

The smoker did not move. Swallowing unobtrusively, he considered what agreement might mean. What would it be like, he wondered, to have her look at him, not with disgust, pity or fear, but with affection and respect? It would never happen, of course: he knew that Mariel Skinner despised him, and with good reason. To her, he was a threat to everyone and everything she loved.

And yet, the thought of her smiling openly at him, sitting beside him as they shared an ordinary, everyday lunch, talking pleasantly with him as they washed the dishes together, was almost painfully seductive. An ordinary day with a woman he cared about....He broke off his thoughts, lighting another cigarette with an almost savage jerk of the lighter.

Filling his lungs with the smoke, he whispered, " 'Retro me, Satanas.' ... 'Get behind me, Satan.' " As he spoke, he realized that, even if the other heard, the derivation, the import of the words would have no meaning for him. How could it? The words were part of the cultural and religious heritage of humanity, a heritage of which the smoker's companion had no genuine interest. With an insight that was almost a revelation, the smoker wondered how much of mankind's common heritage soon would be discounted or discarded. But there was nothing to be done about that, after all....

At last, he turned toward the...person. "But what would be the cost?" he asked bitterly.

The other showed no reaction to the harsh tone. He responded, "The price could be negotiated."

"No," the smoker grated. "The *cost*." His cold inner laugh almost broke through. No...he'd mortgaged his soul so long ago that there was nothing left of himself to redeem. And yet....

In control of himself again, he ground out the cigarette in the already-littered ash tray and said coldly, "Let's get on with our business here."....

Pulling the car into the alley, the dark-haired, nattily-dressed man parked beside the chain-link fence and turned off the engine. He would wait for full darkness, he decided, and unwrapped the sandwich that lay on the seat beside him. Chicken salad today, he remembered as he chewed, relishing the tangy flavors of chicken salad and sourdough bread.

Joe didn't mind waiting in his car. This neighborhood near the Salt River -- he'd lived in Phoenix long enough not to automatically use the newer name of Rio Salado -- was industrial and commercial rather than residential. Printing shops, T.V. repair places, equipment rental yards, and anonymous, windowless warehouse buildings bracketed the streets here, along with an occasional, and he sometimes thought inevitable, bar. Also in this neighborhood, dealers made their transactions, drunks urinated in doorways and hookers got dropped off by their pimps for the few blocks' walk to busier streets.

To call this area seedy and dilapidated would be doing it a favor, Joe decided. Still, he waited by the self-storage facility until the big arc lights surrounding the property flooded on, then got out of his car.

His recent involvement with the F.B.I. had gotten Joe to thinking. But then, it had also gotten Joe's unofficial contact, S.A.I.C. Sanders, shot up, although he understood that the agent would be out of the hospital in a few more days. Joe grinned to himself as he walked toward the pedestrian gate in the fence line. He didn't know Sanders well, not personally, but thought that being at home on convalescent leave would do Sanders good. At least it would give the S.A.I.C. a chance to see his wife for a change instead of the inside of his office.

Joe's inward smile broke out on his face as he thought of his *own* wife, who he'd left sleeping happily in their big bed before he started on the errand tonight. She was a good woman, he knew, and, incidentally, the *only* woman he'd met who could put up with him and his surveillance activities. If he could manage to keep himself alive a while longer, they planned to start filling up the other bedrooms in their house.

He used his key on the gate and made sure the latch engaged when he pulled the gate shut behind him. Three parallel rows of self-storage lockers led off in the direction of the now-dry riverbed. Choosing the far right-hand row, he started down a line of doors that were the size of ordinary house doors. Pausing at the last one before the doors on the storage bays changed to the wide, roll-up garage style entries of lockers big enough to hold boats and RVs, Joe produced a separate keyring.

Had Grant Sanders seen the inside of this storage bay, the Phoenix S.A.I.C. would have realized his hunch was correct: Joe did have nearly a warehouse-full of items for his use and disposal. Some of the items were perfectly ordinary -- multi-band-width scanners, microphones, sound filters, stereoscopic passive listening devices, and optical equipment of various sizes and acuity. However, tonight he hadn't come to pick up or drop off any hardware, but rather to verify his newly-jogged memory.

There was one piece of hardware stored here that he'd never been able to identify. Gathering it up with the other equipment that he and his associates had set up in the desert after a fruitless A.P.R.O. investigation ouside town a few years ago -- another unverified 'lights in the sky' story -- he'd brought it all home to recalibrate and repack. But that one piece didn't fit in anywhere: it was not a component or a module or even a small stand-alone. So he'd packed it up separately for later study, and forgotten that it existed.

Kneeling now on the damp concrete to reach the bottom shelf row, he gripped a musty-feeling cardboard box and slid it forward. Shaking his head at the good-sized tarantula that scooted up from the back of the box, he gripped the thing by either side of its hairy abdomen and set it on the floor.

"Scoot, you," he muttered, and the creature stalked away, somehow managing to look insulted. He grinned at it and carefully unsealed the box flaps, leaning back as he opened it in case any of the creature's friends were inside. When nothing hairy scrambled out, Joe gingerly withdrew the package on the top and pushed back the styrofoam.

The item looked the same as he remembered. About the size of a credit card and scarcely one-quarter inch thick, it looked like a thinly sliced, deep blue sapphire crystal patterned with intricate designs traced in pale crimson. And did it feel heavier now than he recalled, or was that sensation just a trick of memory?

Frowning, concentrating on the crystalline shape, Joe didn't hear the movement behind him. But he did feel the swift scurry of eight hairy legs skittering up his pant leg, and bent with an annoyed curse to brush off the spider. One second later, something heavy slammed into the shelf inches from his skull. Pure instinct taking over from his conscious mind, he dropped flat on the concrete, sweeping both legs out in a swift, sharp movement.

His foot impacted something, and with a metallic clatter a half-seen shape crashed back onto the opposite shelves, which promptly collapsed on top of the assailant. Joe twisted up to his knees, scrambling past the figure that was shouldering itself up from under the pile of metal, glass and shattered plastic. But barely a foot beyond, Joe fell, himself, as a hand grabbed his ankle and yanked. A heavy body landed on top of him, and two hard hands found his throat.

Joe had a split second to realize that the man was strangling him like a profesisonal before the red fog poured through his brain. - Oh, God... - he thought dully - I guess we won't get to fill up those bedrooms after all.... - Consciousness and life almost squeezed from him, Joe did not feel the small skittering legs that dashed through his hair, and did not see the hairy, fat-bodied spider that literally leaped from his forehead onto his assailant's face.

The man bellowed, falling back as he frantically swept his hands at the spider. Released, gulping the stale air, Joe scrambled shakily through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. He weaved his way to the phone at the end of the storage row and dialed 911. Still gasping and panting, hardly able to talk, Joe finally managed to make himself understood. Sinking down to the asphalt at last, he waited for the police, all the while wondering what in heaven's name he'd gotten himself into.

"I am not going to sit here and listen to any more excuses," Skinner said tersely into the phone. "That report *will* be in my hands by 9 a.m. tomorrow, and you are personally responsible for it. Is that clear?" The AD didn't make a habit of slamming down telephone receivers, but he came close this time.

Waste, inefficiency, and slip-shod methodology always tried his patience painfully. But to have them result in a failed indictment because of a missing link in the evidence chain was immeasurably galling. And damn it all, when in hell's name was the air conditioning going to be fixed? Everyone on the floor was short-tempered, and no one could work efficiently with sweat oozing down into already-strained eyes and breathing short from the stale air. Maintenance had passed out all the available fans, and the cafeteria couldn't keep up with the demand for ice.

Skinner sighed when his intercom buzzed. "Yes, Kimberly?" he asked, lifting another file from his in-box.

"Sir," his assistant's voice said, "your two o'clock appointment is here."

He dropped the file right back into the in-box and swept a big hand distractedly over his smooth, damp scalp. "Kimberly," he said, voice slightly sharp-edged, "according to the calendar in *here*, I don't *have* a two o'clock appointment."

Skinner's erstwhile secretary now administrative assistant didn't miss a beat. She'd worked at the AD's side long enough to know that he didn't take out his moods and frustrations on those under his authority. So she went on calmly, "Sir, it seems important."

The two people in Kimberly's small office heard the exasperated sigh clearly even over the intercom. "Oh, very well." Clicking it off, Kimberly nodded to the visitor and got up to open the inner door.

Skinner pulled the file down again while he waited. Annoyed and thrown a little off-balance by this unexpected visitor, he deliberately did not look up when the outer door opened, then closed. His ears registered the muffled thump of low heels on carpeting and the gentle swish of nyloned thighs brushing lightly against a silky slip. Then the scent of a light, floral-spice cologne flooded his senses and he looked up at last.

"Mariel," he whispered, and felt his whole body relax when she smiled at him.

"Hi, assistant director, sir," she said warmly, and sat in the chair opposite his desk, folding her hands in her lap and arranging her legs primly together. She looked for all the world like an eager young trainee, and he chuckled, then sobered again. "Honey, I'm sorry," he said quietly, hoping the strains of the day didn't echo in his voice. "You caught me at a bad time."

Mariel blinked against the prickle behind her eyes. She'd spent a couple of hours preparing herself for this: deciding what to say and, truthfully, getting up the nerve. "Walt, I'll just take a little while," she ventured, and stopped at Walter's incredulous look.

"No, no, sweetheart," he said, getting up to perch on his desk in front of her. "I just meant that I'm not in a very cheerful mood right now." He took her hand to reassure her, and she smiled again.

"O.K." Mariel gestured to the chair next to hers. Walter sat down there, bringing her hand to his knee. He liked what she was wearing: a pale turquoise eyelet-lace blouse tucked into a simple white cotton skirt that allowed her knees to peek out as she sat. Walter smiled a little and slid a fingertip along the collar of the blouse, lifting it a little from skin that was already slightly damp from the heat inside the office. "What did you want, honey?" he asked. "I really don't have a lot of time now."

She looked at him with gentle eyes, seeing beyond the stern-faced, stiff "office" expression that he had worn for so long during his career. "I went to the doctor this morning," she began, "and..."

The sudden involuntary squeeze of his hand on hers interrupted her. "Mariel," he said, looking at her seriously, "I didn't know you weren't feeling well."

"I feel all right," she reassured him quickly. "I got some test results and..." She broke off, concerned by his taut-faced, sudden inhalation.

"And what?"

"And it was positive."

Positive....To Walter Skinner, as perhaps to many men of his age, positive medical test results were a matter of deep concern. But...but he *hadn't* know that she was ill. - God, please...not the cancer, not for my sweet love. Give it to me instead.... - Restraining his probably wild imaginings, he asked carefully, "What kind of test?"

"For HCG," Mariel said, looking at him anxiously.

"HCG?"

"Yes -- 'human chorionic gonadotrophin.' It's a substance that appears in a woman's bloodstream after...after the placenta develops." Mariel finished the sentence all in a rush and felt the smile beginning.

Walter literally stared, his brown eyes widening slowly behind the glare from his glasses. Then his adult knowledge of human biology kicked in, and he slid off his chair, dropping to his knees before his wife. "Mariel, you..." He swallowed, tried again. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded, her smile flooding over her face. "I sure am, assistant director, sir."

He reached forward, slowly, tentatively, and laid his hand low down on her abdomen. "Here?" he whispered, as if afraid someone besides them might hear.

Mariel placed her hand over his, moving his hand just a little. "Right here," she whispered back, and sat listening to her heartbeat, watching her husband's incredulous face.

"So I'm going to be a father, Mrs. S.," he smiled, voice still hushed.

"No," she answered firmly. "Not 'going to be.' You *are* a father, right now." She pressed his big hand a little closer against her body. "Our son or daughter is right *here*, growing and developing inside me."

Then Walter surprised her. He reached for his glasses with his free hand and set them on his desk, pressing his fingertips against his eyes. When he looked up again, Mariel saw the liquid shine of dampness on his lashes, and she leaned over to gently kiss those tears.

"Thank you," he murmured, replacing his glasses.

"For what, love?" she asked tenderly.

"For you," he replied simply. "And for him or her."

"You're welcome, Mr. S.," Mariel whispered.

After a quiet moment, Walter reached over to the intercom. "Kimberly," he said after his assistant answered, "cancel what can be canceled today and reschedule the rest." His eyes never left the soft gaze of his love. "I'm going to take Mrs. Skinner home."...

The young policeman looked disgustedly around the storage bay, wondering how people could collect so much as to need to rent these things. His own bachelor studio apartment suited him just fine. After a final look around, he went outside to rejoin his partner, who was still interviewing the victim. The desert night hadn't cooled off much from the day's heavy, sticky heat. He'd wager that another thunderstorm was on its way, and he'd be changing his uniform at least once before his shift was over.

The paramedics were packing up now, and Joe was glad they didn't have to transport him. His throat was still bruised and painful, and swallowing felt like trying to choke down sandpaper, but he'd be all right in a few days. Unconsciously rubbing his Adam's apple, he looked expectantly at the policeman who was crossing the asphalt apron between the bay rows.

"Sir," the young patrolman said, "you said you locked the bay door behind you after you eluded the assailant. Is that correct?"

"Yes." And where *was* the attacker? Unconscious inside there? Dead? He certainly wasn't out here being handcuffed and herded into the patrol car for assault and battery. Attempted murder, more like....

"There's no one inside, and no one on the premises besides us, sir."

How was that possible? Frowning, Joe thought back. He was positive he'd managed to get the padlock back onto the door after that desparate scramble away from death. He could remember the lock's cold bite on his palm as he'd forced the hasp home. Was it possible that he hadn't forced it far enough to engage the mechanism? Even granted that he might have failed to lock the door, Joe hadn't seen anybody go past him as he had slumped painfully by the row telephone. That left the other direction, over the fence toward the riverbed. Well, maybe....

After more questions and formalities, Joe went into the bay for a quick check, accompanied by the young patrolman. "Is anything missing, sir?" the officer asked.

Right now, Joe was interested only in one item. But he didn't see the deep sapphire glimmer of the unknown object he'd dropped during the attack. "Not sure yet," he replied. "Give me your flash."

With the policeman's light in hand, Joe knelt on the hard, damp concrete to see if the earlier scuffle had knocked the piece under a storage rack. - Damn, my pants are going in the laundry when I get home - he thought inconsequentially. Dust, mold, cobwebs...but no sapphire gleam met his eye as his gaze followed the moving light beam that he angled under the shelf. But what the heck...?

He sat back on his heels as the tarantula made a quick dash from under the bottom shelf. "If that's you again, thanks," Joe muttered. He was well aware that only the spider's lunge onto the assailant's face had saved his life. Then Joe realized that the spider was not moving as quickly as it could scoot, and saw that the creature was dragging something under its fat abdomen. Partly webbed, bouncing scrapingly along the concrete as the tarantula struggled to haul it along, was the sapphire and crimson piece Joe was searching for.

Lifting the creature by its abdomen again, Joe tugged the component away from the sticky webbing. "You can't eat that, stupid," he informed the spider as it flailed all eight legs frantically at him. He put the thing down again and it scampered off, obviously giving up its hunting in this room as a bad job.

- What *were* you doing with this? - Joe wondered, and stood up. "No, officer," he said slowly. "Nothing's missing." - Except maybe the reason I was attacked tonight. - Putting that aside for the moment, Joe followed the patrolman outside and locked the storage bay door -- definitely locked it, this time, with a solid push.

Grant Sanders didn't have a high opinion of hospital food, but since he did place a high priority on regaining enough strength to go home, he finished all of his lunch. Sitting perched on the bed beside him, Jenny Sanders leaned over to push the bed tray aside and claim a strawberry jello-flavored kiss.

"Doing good, honey," she smiled. "Soon you'll be bench-pressing 300 pounds again."

Sanders laughed ruefully, looking down at his bandaged torso. "Baby," he said, ruffling his wife's red-gold hair, "until I get my abdominals back I couldn't bench-press the cat." Then he sighed, settling back and lowering the head of the bed. "You should get on home and rest a while, Jen," he went on. "I'm all right."

The S.A.I.C.'s wife looked at him fondly. After 23 years she knew her man through and through, so she winked. "I know, honey." She knew that he was tired, but didn't want to nap in front of her after she'd gone without sleep by sitting up with him since the night before. Well, fair was fair, after all. He had sat up with her the whole time during that marathon-length labor when their last child was born, and she was glad to take her turn.

"I'll go home till the kids get back from school," Jenny went on. "Bob can watch them tonight." 20-year-old Bob, their oldest, was studying criminology at Arizona State.

"All right, baby," Sander said, pulling her down for another kiss. - Mmm...damn good - he thought. - 23 years and I still get a kick out of her. -

Apparently the 'kick' was still mutual, for Jenny Sanders teased her husband's ear with a smooth fingertip and murmured, "There's plenty of that and more waiting for when you get home, honey." They both laughed at that, and Jenny left with a final wave.

Out in the corridor, Jenny waved to the hall desk nurse and walked to the elevators. She waited a moment or two for one, and when the elevator door opened, a tall man dressed -- of all things in this weather, she thought -- in a three-piece suit got out and nodded briefly as he passed her. She entered the elevator, pushed the lobby button, and thought no more about the man.

- Must be Mrs. Sanders - the man thought as he continued down the hall. He'd seen her only once before, at a distance, but remembered the woman's bright hair. Nice, but not as nice as *his* lady, he decided, and located the proper room.

His bed elevated somewhat, Grant Sanders had begun to doze. But he was not so far gone that he failed to hear the door open, or the sound of rubber-heeled shoes on the composition flooring. His fingers found the call button immediately, and he looked up. "What are you doing here?" he asked, startled and wary.

The visitor inclined his dark head and pulled the room's only chair to the foot of the bed. He held up one finger in a 'just a minute' gesture, fishing in an inner pocket with the other hand. Bringing out what looked like a portable radio, the visitor propped it on the mattress and turned it on.

"White noise generator," he announced, rather proudly to Sanders's ear.

"All right," the S.A.I.C. said. "Tell me what you've got."

"I'm not sure myself what I've got," Joe confessed, then frowned. "But somebody knows who I am."...

The air conditioning in the room was set at a comfortable 72 degrees, and she felt good. As she lay upon her husband's muscular body, her bare shoulders and back were sheltered under a soft percale sheet, and her head moved just slightly with each breath that he drew. - Such a wonderful pillow - she thought dreamily as his chest inflated to a deep sigh. - And an even better couch... - Mariel stretched lingeringly, slowly pulling Walter's unresisting arms up over his head, holding them there while she kissed him. Deliberately teasing, she rubbed her soft body against him until he growled under his breath, reclaimed his hands and rolled her over in easy capture. "Be careful what you do, Mrs. S.," he said warningly, beginning to stroke her intimately. "I *can* be seduced, you know."

She gasped happily as the touch deepened, thrilling her. "I...I thought I did that already."

"Oh, you did." Walter slowly nibbled his way down. "Now it's my turn."

- Ohhh....It certainly is... - she decided after a long, delirious moment. Mariel could barely breathe, could not think at all except of him, of his voice and his embrace and the way he was making her feel. She groaned softly at last, yielding to his fierce kisses and the sheer strength of him that carried them both beyond any rational thought. He could feel her final release through his ever nerve, hear her voice gasping and incoherent in her excitement, and every second of her pleasure heightened his own delight.

They dozed a little afterward, in the absolute physical relaxation of completed love. Mariel stirred at last, still lying partly atop him. "Mmmm...I should come to your office at 2 o'clock more often, Mr. S.," she whispered, still sleepy.

"Why so, honey?" Walter asked drowsily, sliding his hand over her back.

"Well, look at the nice reward that I got," she chuckled, and nipped playfully at his ear.

He laughed, too, softly, enjoying the sensation of her teeth nibbling his skin. "Honey, it's not every day that a man's wife comes to his office to tell him that he's a father." Walter cradled her face, brought her head close to claim more kisses. "Think we can arrange for you to do that a few more times?"

The shared kisses warmed them delightfully. "One baby at a time, sweetheart," she laughed at last, wiggling out from under his arms. He let her go, but reluctantly, patting her bottom as she slid from the bed. "That's how we'll have to do it, honey," he said, linking his fingers behind his head as he leaned back against the headboard. "Twins don't run in my family."

"Mine, either," she grinned, searching for her discarded clothing. Wondering with a little blush how her panties had gotten under her pillow, Mariel sat again on the mattress to slide on the silky undergarment. When she reached for her bra, she felt Walter's warm hand on her back.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, rubbing her soft skin.

"Yep. Evening classes today, remember?"

Walter frowned, although his hand continued to stroke her. Reality was back again with a vengeance, he realized ruefully, after this interlude of love and dreaming of his family to come. He sat up and gently pressed Mariel's hands away from her bra, fastening the garment on her himself. "I don't like these evening classes, Mariel," he said. "Did you ask the dean about a schedule change?"

"We discussed it," she replied, locating her skirt and blouse on the floor. No, too wrinkled to wear tonight, she decided, and walked to the closet, feet almost soundless on the smoothly-polished hardwood floor. "We'll have to wait until next semester for a change, though." She found an outfit and came out of the closet.

Walter stepped into his trousers, pulling up the zipper and buckling the belt. "I'm not trying to be a..." He paused, searching for the phrase. "...A heavy-handed husband, but I really don't want you to be on that campus after dark anymore."

Mariel considered his statement as she buttoned her blouse, watching him standing by the bed pushing his head and arms into his brown teeshirt. - Only Walt could make our canopy bed look small - she thought as he reached to the nightstand to retrieve his glasses. "The campus is hardly a hotbed of vice, Walt," she said dryly then, adjusting her skirt. - Wonder when I'll have to start getting bigger sizes? - "I'm careful, and you know I can use the 9mm properly if I have to."

He *did* know those things, but couldn't dispell the sense of apprehension he felt for her safety. And not only *hers* now, of course. She was carrying their child -- now tiny and sheltered invisibly within her cradling womb, a sweet inner presence and the embodied fruit of their love. - God...was I wrong? - he thought suddenly. - Wrong to think I could have Mariel and a child and...and still deal with my job and what we have to face sometimes simply *because* of that job? - Troubled and half-angry, Walter slid his car keys into his pocket.

"I noticed we need some things from the store," he said, preoccupied and tense with his thoughts. "I'll be back soon."

After nearly six months of marriage, Mariel recognized that Walter was upset but didn't want to spark an argument with her. - Is he concerned that he won't be able to protect me and the baby properly? - she wondered suddenly. - I know he's worried about both of us now. - Frowning, she finished dressing and went to the study to gather what she needed for her evening classes. Maybe there were some things she could do to take some of the weight from his heart....

He noticed the man sitting at the table, but affected not to. The streetside cafe' was crowded on this hot late Summer noontime, and the umbrellas above the outside tables were unfurled in a colorful riot of yellows, blues and reds. He carried his suit coat over his arm, and moved unhurriedly in his turn up to the cart selling cappuccino, pastries and deli sandwiches. After paying for an iced latte', he turned toward the tables, walking through the seated diners as if searching for an empty place.

Finally, as if despairing of locating a table for himself, he paused and laid his hand on the back of a vacant chair. "Excuse me," he said politely, "but it's rather crowded here today. Do you mind if I share this table?"

The man at the table looked up, his expression neutral. "Not at all," he replied, courteously gathering up the newspaper sections that were spread out before him. He was impeccably dressed in a tropical-weight linen suit, and his lined face was composed despite the dampness about his collar and cuffs.

Sitting down, the first man took out a cigarette pack. "Do you mind?" he asked, still as if dealing with a complete stranger.

"Of course not." Pursing his lips against a smile, the older man continued dryly, "Although why anyone would care to add more fire to the atmosphere today is a bit beyond me."

The smoker inhaled deeply, meeting the other's eyes squarely for the first time. "Heat doesn't bother me," he said.

The other man acknowledged the many nuances of that remark with a brief nod. "That fact served you well last month, didn't it, Jonathan?" he asked.

"It made things...easier, yes." The smoker took a long drink of his cold beverage, and waited. *He* had not requested this meeting, after all. It was up to the other to show his hand first.

The older man spent a few moments folding his newspaper and assembling the sections into a tidy pile. That done, he raised his styrofoam cup, swallowing the last of his raspberry tea. The slightly tart sweetness of the drink was refreshing to him, and he was glad he'd chosen that blend today. Finally, without looking at the smoker, he said, "Our...'distant' associate in Phoenix did not retrieve the parcel."

The smoker paused in mid-draw, lowering his hand. "What do you mean?"

"After your return, he remained behind after informing me of certain leads he wished to pursue." The older man patted his lips with a paper napkin, briefling wishing he'd not finished all his tea. Perhaps he could get another cup.

The smoker felt a warning stir in his mind. Nevertheless, he said coolly, "I wasn't informed that one of them would be there."

"No, you weren't," the other agreed evenly. "He was there in case you might be unable to complete the investigation." He smiled, not entirely with humor. "After all, Jonathan, the desert can be a treacherous environment, and you are no longer young."

Wondering dispassionately what else he had not been told, the smoker said, "What's done is done. But what 'parcel' do you mean?"

The older man sat up straight, leaning forward and folding his hands on the small plastic table. "Without going into details in this public place, our associate discovered that your friends from the Bureau had local aid beyond the resources given by the Phoenix field office." For a moment, a slightly malicious glee sparked in the man's eyes. "But I'm afraid his search of this person's belongings was thwarted by, shall we say, an enthusiastic local denizen."

The smoker had no idea what this man was getting at. The fact that he hadn't been told about the other...person in Phoenix troubled him. Was he, himself, being set up, he wondered, or maneuvered into some untenable position? But if that *were* the case, then why? Putting the speculations aside for the moment, he took out another cigarette. "What is the point of this discussion?" he asked as he struck the lighter, careful to keep any inflection from his voice.

"Simply this. I believe that Mrs. Skinner knows more than what you discovered."

- Dangerous ground, indeed.... - He let the smoke trickle out his nostrils before replying in a bored tone, "And I am sure that you're mistaken."

The other man snorted derisively. "You're hardly a professional interrogator, Jonathan," he declared. "You may have missed something in Phoenix."

"I always find out what we need to know," the smoker replied, stung a little despite his icy demeanor. "For that matter, I'm sure Mrs. Skinner was debriefed at the Bureau after they returned."

"If that's the case, I want you to obtain that tape." He considered this new possibility for a moment. "Yes," he decided finally, "a properly conducted debriefing can help a person remember or make connections between events that may have originally escaped his -- or, in this case, *her* -- notice." The well-dressed man placed the carefully-folded napkin into the styrofoam cup and looked down the street as though watching for a taxi. "We may learn what we need from this tape," he went on. "And there is always the chance that Skinner himself told her something."

Standing up from beneath the awning, the smoker paused. The sun hit him fully now, and he felt the heat pressing his shirt against his damp, sticky torso. Sliding the cigarettes into his pocket, he snorted, "You know Skinner as well as I do. He wouldn't tell her anything about this business." - Or any other Bureau business, for that matter. - The table umbrella still shaded the other man's body, but he didn't squint as he looked up toward the smoker. "Not directly, no, but she *is* his wife." He stood up then, and tucked the newspaper under his elbow while he reached for the discarded napkins and cups. He continued almost conversationally, "I believe that even our redoubtable Assistant Director would be unable to resist a little pillow talk with the lovely Mrs. Skinner."

....Lorene's soft mouth against his ear, her smooth hands stroking his neck and playing with his dark hair as they lay close together, giggling and whispering nonsense in the sweet aftermath of love.... Years of iron control kept the bleakness from the smoker's face as he shut the memory away and stared back at his associate. With cold, black humor, he said, "I recall such things myself, you know."

Yes, he did know it. The older man well remembered Jonathan's rage and grief that day long ago when his fiancee was disposed of as knowing too much. - Perhaps that's one reason he thinks Skinner wouldn't say anything - he reasoned almost subconsciously. "Of course," he murmured aloud, moving to stand directly in front of his old...had he actually been his friend, then?...associate, "if you would reconsider your recent refusal of our 'distant' colleague's generous offer, you would have the means to discover the details of even very private conversations."

For a split-second the smoker stared before deliberately-suppressed memory surged to the forefront of his mind. Memory of words spoken to him so casually and without comprehension of the possible human consequences involved: ..." 'I can give her to you.' "... Cold disinterest masking his uncertainty, the grey-eyed smoker took the cups and napkins from his companion's hand and, never breaking the other's gaze, shoved the debris into a streetside refuse can, metaphorically disposing of the idea as well. "I see no reason for such theatrics," he said evenly.

"Perhaps not," the other smiled slightly. "Do remember the offer, however." Holding up a hand for a cruising taxi, the well-dressed man started for the curb as the auto pulled up. Hand on the taxi's door latch, he glanced back and smiled genuinely, broadly. "Good day, Jonathan. Remember the tape."

After the other had gone, the smoker returned to the vending cart to wait in line once again. His movements outwardly casual, his nonchalant manner belying his turbulent thoughts, he paid for a sandwich and unwrapped it for a bite. Ham and swiss, perhaps -- the taste didn't register. He had too much to think about for the taste of food to penetrate to his conscious mind.

"O.K., pack up. Don't leave a mess for the next class." Mariel Skinner stacked the manuscript papers in alphabetical order. "Then come get your compositions. The ones we played today I'll grade for next time."

Chairs scraped and instrument cases bumped lightly against seats as the students began to put away their instruments. Somebody called out from the percussion section, "Dr. Fraser, I heard you have a shot at the Concert on the Mall this year."

Now *that* was interesting. Mariel smiled. "Then you've heard more than I have, Frankllin," she said, passing out the student compositions as the young people crowded around the podium. "Besides, a Slatkin or a John Williams would be a bigger draw and therefore sell more tickets than an unknown woman conductor." But it would be great, she knew, to lead the National Philharmonic in their Labor Day concert. Of course she had no chance at it, even though she hadn't heard as yet who the guest conductor would be.

After the majority of the class departed, Mariel assigned practice sessions and rooms for the students who requested -- or required -- extra time to work on their parts. That task completed, she glanced at her wristwatch, unconsciously laying her other hand over her abdomen. - You like Brahms, sweetie? - she thought to the baby. - Mommy's going to play some now. - Since the auditorium was free until the evening drama class, she liked to practice before going home. After propping up the lid on the concert grand, Mariel sat to adjust the stool properly. She loosened up with a series of scale passages, then began the piece she'd chosen to practice.

The Brahms f-minor rhapsody was a fierce, compelling work, its passion relieved only briefly by a smoothly lyrical middle section. She worked methodically on the transition passages, concentrating on her touch on the keyboard and the blending of one section to another. Finally, unaware of the passage of time, Mariel played the entire composition, her mind almost literally lost within the composer's universe.

The man standing at the back of the auditorium walked slowly down the side aisle, watching the woman pianist as he moved into a seat row and chose a place to sit. Head slightly bent as she studied the keyboard, she seemed unaware of his presence, so he did not speak or make any distracting gestures. When he was settled near the stage, he could watch her face and the easy movements of her hands. At least, the movements appeared to be easy. From what he understood of human endeavors, it would take years of study and practice to achieve that apparent ease. He knew that the proper response after a performance was applause, so when she rested her hands in her lap at last, he did applaud.

The sound of clapping startled Mariel back to the present, and she pushed back on the stool, looking out toward the partially-lighted auditorium. The man who was applauding looked big even sitting down, she noticed, but his rough-featured face was oddly immobile. Mariel was used to people listening in on music classes, so she didn't find anything unusual about the man's presence. He stood up then and walked to the edge of the stage, his wrestler-size body moving easily.

"That was good playing," he said, looking up. "Dr. Fraser?"

"Yes." Although he'd given her no reason to feel apprehensive, she found herself wishing there was not so much open stage between herself and the podium where she'd left her purse. - You don't need to be nervous about *every* stranger who talks to you - she scolded herself.

"Do you give private instruction?" the man asked, studying her eyes and face and the shape of her bones beneath her skin. He wasn't interested, however, in whatever answer she might give. He had to hear her voice, to pick up on the nuances of her tone and speech patterns. It would all become part of the whole.

"I'm afraid I don't have time for private lessons right now," she replied, closing the piano lid without turning her back on him. "The department secretary can give you a list of the available private teachers."

"I see." He watched her go over to the music stand to pick up her purse. "I'll check at the office, then."

"It's open until 5 o'clock." - He's looking at me like he's vetting a prize heifer at the state fair - she thought, half amused and half uneasy. She wasn't used to such a forthright stare, and, truthfully, didn't want to be used to it. "Excuse me," Mariel finished, gathering her papers and conductor's score and laying her open purse atop the small stack. "I have to leave the hall ready for the next class."

He understood that she meant her words to be a dismissive -- he *was* learning, little by little, after all -- and so he nodded pleasantly enough as she descended the side stage steps. "Thank you for the information," he said, and turned to leave.

Mariel looked after him for a moment, frowning. She wasn't a nervous person, and knew that she had enough physical and mental presence to quell the adolescent foolishness and rowdiness she sometimes encountered in her classes. Besides, six months of marriage to Walter Skinner had enabled her self-confidence and poise to blossom beautifully before his respect and loving acceptance of her into his life and his heart. But still, something about the man in the auditorium seemed a little "off" to Mariel right now, something that wasn't quite what she was accustomed to when talking to another person.

- Whatever it was - she sighed inwardly - I'm *not* telling Walt about him. - She patted her abdomen lightly before pulling the building keys from her purse. - Your daddy worries so much already, sweetie - she informed the baby tenderly. - I've got to keep up my end. - Locking up behind her, Mariel Skinner hurried to keep her next appointment....

Jenny Sanders set out another plate, then frowned and carried it back to the cabinet. She didn't know when Grant's friend would arrive, and when he did, maybe he wouldn't want dinner. She grinned. Or maybe he wouldn't want to be in the middle of what was going to pass for their dinner tonight. Spaghetti and meatballs was a quick, throw-it-together meal for her brood. What with piano recital rehearsals and league softball games like this evening, dinnertime at the Sanders's house was sometimes a grab and run affair.

Settled in the recliner in the living room, Grant could see into the kitchen and watched Jenny shepherding the kids through the meal. The noise and bustle of his family actually felt relaxing to him, after the sterility of that hospital room. He smiled. And tonight he planned to cuddle Jen properly, with care, of course, for his still-healing abdominals. He knew they could figure something out.

Work was the last thing he wanted to think about during his convalescent leave, but Sanders was still unsure about the import of Joe's news. Even tonight, warm and comfortable in the recliner and looking forward to a pleasant evening with his wife, Sanders found his mind circling and recircling Joe's visit to the hospital. Damn...if the man's identity -- or at least, his special expertise -- was now a known quantity in certain circles, he'd be safer disappearing for a while.

Jenny's light step and gentle kiss brought his eyes open, and Sanders realized he'd dozed off. "Something wrong, baby?" he asked, pushing himself up straighter and trying to ignore the catch in his belly.

"No, but Joe's here," Jenny replied, adjusting the chair. - Don't think that I didn't see you wince, Grant Sanders - she thought, exasperated. - You're not going to heal as fast as you did when you were twenty. - "And I have to run with the kids. You guys be o.k.?"

Sanders looked over her shoulder as she leaned close. - Damn - he thought, watching his visitor sit on the sofa, - he looks like a cover model for some fashion magazine. - Wondering again how much the informant spent on his suits, Sanders said, "We'll be fine, Jen." He gave her a firm kiss. "See you later."

From the sofa ten feet across the room, Joe watched Jenny Sanders straighten up from her husband's hug and throw him an apprehensive glance before she left. He waited until the front door closed, cutting off the children's chatter, before remarking, "You've got a good-looking lady there." But still not as nice as his, he figured.

"Thanks," Sanders said tersely. "Can we make this brief?"

- Yeah, well, I don't want to be in the house of a known F.B.I. agent too long, myself - Joe thought. - Or be seen leaving it. - That is, the precaution would only matter if he had any scrap of cover left after the last few days. Otherwise, he may as well walk down Central Avenue wearing a sign that read: --'I am an informant. Drug smugglers shoot me.'-- "You got it," he said aloud, and reached into his vest pocket.

Sanders stared at the small blue crystal that glinted in the light from the reading lamp beside the sofa as Joe turned the object in his hands. "What's that?"

"Damned if I know." The informant told the story briefly once more, fleshing it out more now that he could hold the crystalline rectangle as a kind of visual aid. "I'm going to take it to a friend of mine at Kitt Peak," he finished finally.

Somehow it didn't surprise Grant Sanders that Joe had a contact at the solar observatory outside Tucson. "Am I not supposed to know about this person?" he asked dryly.

Joe shrugged. "Just know where I'm going, o.k.?" he asked, voice not sounding as careless as he hoped it might. His eyes met Sanders's gaze and he continued seriously, "I want to have the chance to fill up my house like you and Mrs. Sanders did." He gestured briefly toward the end tables and the bookcase beside him, then shuttered himself off again.

Sanders followed the gesturing hand motion. Nothing looked unusual on the indicated furniture. Books were there, of course, with family photographs, lumpy, oddly-shaped bowls from Kirsten's art class, a battered softball signed by the league players, scrapbooks bulging with half-completed artwork....Then Sanders realized what Joe meant, and felt a stab of mingled thankfulness and compassion. Thankfulness for the family that was his, and compassion for this largely nameless, faceless informant who wanted the same chance for belonging that he, himself, already enjoyed.

"Now it's my turn to say 'you got it,' Joe," Sanders said quietly. "Just be careful."

The other looked up, a little surprised. "Yeah, not much insurance available in my line of work."

After Joe left -- going out the front door "like any other guest" -- Sanders went into the master bedroom and lowered himself onto the bed. He was a little tired from sitting up, but wanted to think. Not that it would do much good, he reasoned. He had very few facts that were concrete enough for his mind to manipulate.

After what seemed like only a couple of minutes, Sanders started at the feel of something tugging at his feet. At the other end of the bed, sitting and looking rather cross, Jenny was yanking his shoelaces loose, tugging and dropping the shoes on the floor.

"Honestly, Grant," she muttered. "A grown man trying to go to bed with his shoes on."

He laughed and reached down for her. "Never mind that. Kids in bed?"

Jenny stopped frowning and nestled, cuddling to his side. "Yes, but Bob's still out. He said he'd be late." It was still a little odd for Jenny Sanders to think of their firstborn as an adult and responsible for himself now. She sighed, then asked, "Joe get away all right?"

"Yes." Sanders rubbed his wife's back. "But we don't have to talk about him now, do we?"

Jenny grinned, walking her fingertips up her husband's chest, avoiding the scars. - Wish I could kiss them all better - she thought, then announced, "No, we don't." Her grin widened. "I want to play now."

Sanders laughed again, feeling warm and healed inside. "Ooh, I thought you'd never say that," he teased, pulling Jenny closer. "Let's go for it, baby."

They did, their enthusiasm tempered somewhat by his injuries, but not tempered enough to make their lovemaking any less than a very nice expression of their reunion after his hospital stay. After they were quiet again, Sanders pressed his lips to her temple, murmuring, "Yeah...I think I'll keep you, baby."

Still warm and trembly inside, Jenny chuckled, "Well, now that you're back in action, I guess I'll tell my boyfriends to quit coming over."

"You do that." He grinned, nipping at her ear playfully. He knew that one thing neither of them had to worry about was another person coming between them. Still cuddled close to him, Jenny went to sleep after a while. Sanders himself was ready for sleep, but before his mind began to fog, he remembered that he had to contact Walter about Joe's plans. The S.A.I.C.'s instincts were as good as his old friend's hunches, and Grant Sanders intuited that Joe's blue crystal was connected somehow to the kidnap case. He'd call Skinner in any event, in the morning....

"Ah, Agent Torelli," the man said pleasantly, falling into step beside the dark-haired woman. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

Angela Torelli looked over at her companion in surprise. She'd just begun her shift -- indeed, she hadn't reached her office yet, or even poured a cup of coffee from her thermos. There was only one answer she could give without sounding insubordinate, however, so she replied, "Of course, sir. Your office?"

"Oh, no, no," he murmured dismissively. "It won't take as long as all that." They turned a corner near the elevator, and the tall, grey-eyed man smiled. The gesture wasn't difficult: he liked Torelli -- as a competent agent rather than as a "woman," as it were -- and rather enjoyed dealing with her. "I simply need to review the tape of a recent debriefing that you conducted."

"I see." Torelli turned the last corner before her office, but stopped when the man paused by a water cooler. "Which tape is that?"

He drew a cup of cold water, mixing it with a little warm water from the other spigot. "The one concerning Mrs. Walter Skinner." Holding the pleated cup poised for a drink, he smiled again, eyes never leaving hers.

Torelli paused, feeling uncertain for some reason. This man had the authority to ask for the tape, she knew, yet AD Skinner himself -- though without saying it in so many words -- gave her to understand that this particular debriefing was a private matter. Certainly it had nothing to do with any pending cases. Torelli reasoned that Skinner had requested his wife's debriefing both to discover any probably cause for an indictment in her abduction, and to afford Mariel Skinner with a means of closure for her experience.

In any case, Torelli could answer in only one way. "I don't have that tape, sir," she said, unconsciously glancing at her wristwatch. Her partner would be in the office by now, looking through their in-box. He'd start planning their whole day down to who should fetch the lunch if she didn't get to the office soon.

The smoker noticed Torelli's time-check gesture, and nonchalantly tossed his paper cup into the plastic-lined wastecan by the cooler. "I'm sorry to hear that," he remarked, straightening up. "But then, I'm sure you have a good reason for allowing possibly vital information out of your possession."

Torelli replied stiffly, "Perhaps you should discuss that fact with AD Skinner." Now she was even more uncertain about this man's request for the tape. He seemed to be baiting her, in a way, calling her competence into question. Or perhaps he was trying to raise a doubt in her own mind about why Skinner wanted the tape?

- Well, you won't succeed with *that* - Torelli thought, beginning to move down the corridor again. The dark-haired agent trusted the AD, and respected his methods and conclusions. At the same time, if there were some upper-level machinations going on here, she had no desire to be in the middle of them.

"Yes, of course I'll discuss it with him," the smoker said, his longer stride bringing him easily beside Torelli again. "In the meantime, please provide me with the transcript of your notes. I'll expect a copy tomorrow morning."

Torelli stopped finally, hand on her office door. She looked up at the man, taking care not to let her doubts and growing misgivings reflect in her eyes. "I'll have the transcript ready first thing," she said, and opened the office door. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, it is, Agent Torelli," he replied, keeping his demeanor outwardly pleasant. - For now - he thought coolly, and continued on his way. His own office actually was not far from Torelli's: down to the end of the corridor, up one flight of stairs, and turn right past the men's room. He'd always rather liked the location, as the office had a large window that overlooked the main entrance to the building, and the stairs and nearby elevator gave easy egress if necessary. This morning, however, when he unlocked the door, he saw the unexpected visitor and frowned. Unexpected and unwelcome.

"I don't recall sending for you," he said coldly, securing the door behind him.

"Perhaps not." The big, rough-featured man didn't bother standing up. "But I do have the information you require."

Genuinely puzzled for a moment, the smoker sat down, pushing his chair back against the window-sill. "What information do you mean?" he asked, pulling out cigarettes.

"I should say, rather, that I'm prepared now," the other replied.

- I will not ask what he's prepared for - the smoker thought crossly, glaring at the other person. - Let *him* talk. - He finished lighting the cigarette, determined not to let the other's return stare disconcert him.

Apparently realizing that the continuation of the discussion was up to him, the younger man continued, "I have impressed the nuances of the woman's brain activity upon my consciousness. I'm ready now to give her to you."

For the space of a dozen heartbeats the smoker sat frozen, unaware of the passage of time or of his own breathing. He blindly dropped the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, his metal-hard gaze frozen and still. "Who sent you here this morning?" The whisper was harsh and strained but he did not swallow to ease his throat.

The other pronounced a name, and the smoker stood up to stare out the window. So....He knew now. Or, at lease, he knew *who*, if not *why*. "I haven't decided yet," he remarked, needing all his self-control to keep his voice even. "Tell...*him* that it's still unnecessary."

But how long could he, himself, continue to set aside the admittedly enticing prospect of spending an ordinary day with Mariel Skinner? Then other words spoken by his "distant associate" flooded his memory, and the smoker closed his eyes hard against the mental vision they conjured: "...she will...mate with you if you desire it."... - Damn all this - he thought bitterly. Angry, frustrated, and genuinely uncertain of what he should do, the smoker threw his lighter on the desk, gaining some emotional release from the rattling clatter as the lighter bounced across the glass desk top. "I have work to do," he grated, wanting this person to be gone. "So get out."...

Mariel Skinner sat up slowly and swung her long legs off the mattress. The movements, slow as they were, did her stomach no good and she groaned softly, rubbing her abdomen gently. The touch through the smooth coolness of her silk nightgown soothed her skin, and after a moment the nausea eased. Soon she was feeling merely miserable instead of ready to expire, and she sighed, smiling half-wryly to herself. - Welcome to the wonderful world of morning sickness - she thought, then chuckled, looking down at her softly-rounded abdomen. Well, the final result would be worth the misery, she decided.

She opened the top drawer of her nightstand and picked up a cracker from the stash she'd put there a couple of days ago. Nibbling the soda cracker slowly, she rested back against the headboard and let the sight of the morning sun filtering through the curtains ease her spirit. She and Walter had made their bedroom a warm haven, and just sitting there relaxing in their bed made her feel better.

Walter had left for the Bureau already, so she was alone, but Mariel still felt as if he was close by. In a sense, he *was*, of course: she bore his child within her, and if she closed her eyes now she could feel Walter's lips and the gentleness of his hug. She smiled, letting her thoughts drift a little. He'd been so careful with her last night, easing her along so gently that she'd finally clasped him tightly and whispered in his ear for more, whispered to please, please take her with him and let her soar. And it had been so good....

She opened her eyes, feeling warm inside, and reluctantly brought her thoughts back to the present. Finishing the cracker with one more bite, Mariel leaned over and kissed Walter's pillow, nestling her head down onto it for a moment. Then it was time to get up and hit the day, as her step-father used to say, and Mariel grinned at the memory.

After a shower she turned on the bedside clock/radio to hear the weather report. Hmm...90% humidity, expected temperature in the low 90s. Shaking her head, she hung the dress she'd chosen back in the closet and selected a light cotton skirt and blouse set instead. She pulled the forest green skirt down over her head, settling the waistband into place, and reached behind her for the zipper. It wouldn't go up all the way.

She frowned and tugged the skirt around so she could see what was wrong. No, the zipper wasn't caught in fabric, and the teeth were unbroken. That must mean that she was gaining weight already. Mariel chewed on her lip reflectively. She knew that during her pregnancy she might gain 30 or 40 pounds, and she was certainly tall enough to carry it easily. She just hadn't expected to need a bigger size when she was hardly two months along. She took off the skirt and found one with an elastic waistband instead.

When she closed the bedroom door and started along the hallway, satchel in hand, to make herself breakfast, she felt a new wave of nausea wash through her. Darn.... She leaned against the banister for a moment, riding it out. If the discomfort followed the pattern of the last few days, the queasiness would continue on and off for hours. Her doctor had told her that nausea attacks instead of outright vomiting happened for some women in the first few months. Well, if the nausea never got any worse than this, she could manage, she decided, and continued down the stairs.

In the kitchen, she saw a piece of typewriter paper attached to the refrigerator door. Smiling, she removed the G-clef magnet that held the paper and read Walter's note. He had written:

..."Honey, I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight. Something may be breaking, and I have to be there. There's no danger for me, so please don't worry. I'll call you later if I can.

"Please, take care of yourself -- remember the alarm systems. I love you, and delight in you...You, and the baby, too, of course!

"Always, Walter

"P.S. -- Mariel, stay warm for me, love...."...

Mariel blinked against the salt warmth of tears, and stroked her fingertip across the hand-written words. "Yes...warm and ready," she whispered, wishing he could hear her voice. Since their marriage, this small exchange of words had become a little code, the verbal symbol of their love and desire. Determined not to worry about him, she folded the note and tucked it down into her brassiere where the paper he'd touched could rest over her heart. - Corny, maybe - she thought. - But I want it close to me. - Outside Walter and Mariel's House The Same Time

Special Agent Fran MacDonald -- known to her many friends as "Mac" -- yawned and cracked her knuckles absently. Even with the car windows rolled down a couple of inches, the smell of her partner's cigars was strong. Not that he was smoking one right now. He knew better than that. MacDonald had partnered Special Agent Dan Sorensen for so long that she knew him almost as well as she did her own husband. Dan was a good back-up for her and she, in turn, complemented his strengths.

"Mac," he said, interrupting her thoughts, "doesn't she have morning classes today?"

"Yeah." MacDonald glanced at her wristwatch. "She won't be late; she never is." MacDonald knew that was one thing AD Skinner *must* have told his wife: never keep a clockwork schedule. Punctuality was a hard habit to break, however, and maybe that was one reason she and Dan were here.

"Does she know about us?" Dan asked, stretching an arm along the back of the seat.

"I'm not sure," MacDonald answered. "Assistant Director Skinner didn't remark about that." MacDonald was glad to help the AD, even if this watchdog duty was unofficial. She and Dan were turning in regular cover reports, and so far no one had questioned them.

Over and above doing her duty, MacDonald liked Skinner's wife. She'd guarded Mariel before the AD's marriage to the woman, when that near-deadly series of "accidents" had disrupted so many lives, and remembered her as a warm, gutsy person. MacDonald smiled. Just the kind of woman to make that big, stern-faced, by-the-book AD of theirs fall good and hard.

"There she is," Dan said, and lowered his binoculars.

MacDonald started the car. "O.K.," she remarked. "Here we go."...

The dark van was parked with its wheels jammed against the curb. Mud coated the back, splashing up above the license plate in messy, half-dried globs. The tinted rear windows were starred, and long scrapes ravaged the primer-coated sides in rusty-edged gouges. A staggering, ragged drunk half-leaned against the front fender, turning toward the tire and fumbling with his pants.

Inside the van, a man was seated in front of a communications console mounted aong the side of the van. He wore a combination headset/microphone, and waited patiently for his message. Then he chuckled at what he *did* pick up. "Great," he remarked to his companion, "now this heap is a public john."

After the drunk finished his business and weaved on his way, the other man in the van laughed. "Adds to our cover, that's all."

The headphoned man held up one hand in a sudden gesture, adjusting dials on the console mounted in front of his seat while he listened. "He's positioned," he said.

His companion nodded, fine-tuning the telescope that had been faired into an almost-invisible hole in one rear door. He spoke into the microphone strapped beside his lips. "Unit One positioned."

"Copy, Unit One," a disembodied voice answered from the console. "Unit Two ready."

Half a block down the street, a man slouched on a bus stop bench. His clothes were a dark, nondescript pullover shirt and navy blue slacks, with a baseball cap pulled down far enough to hide his dark eyebrows and shadow his deep brown eyes. He lips moved as if he were muttering to himself, but the sensitive microphone taped to his broad chest picked up the almost voiceless words.

"I'm holding," Skinner whispered, and waited. He felt exposed and alone, sitting on a bench in this neighborhood, and he had to concentrate on breathing properly so he would stay calm. The danger wouldn't come here, he knew, so he hadn't lied to Mariel about that. The risk would come later, in a warehouse building a dozen blocks away. That is, it would come if his informant showed up with the final link.

The only reason Skinner was sitting here instead of one of his younger agents was because the awaited informant trusted no one but him. When Skinner was still a field agent, the man had been invaluable in two pivotal cases, and they'd achieved a kind of uneasy mutual respect. The informant knew he could trust Skinner, but the AD realized that the trust couldn't entirely flow both ways. Still, Skinner wasn't physically afraid right now, even though he was alert and prepared.

Hearing stumbling footsteps nearby, Skinner looked around to see a ragged drunk lurch against the bench, then collapse sloppily onto the seat. The newcomer was middle-aged and greying, his vague blue eyes heavy-lidded. Tattered trousers rode low under his heavy belly, and the man pulled his dirty shirt up for a long scratch. Looking blearily at Skinner, and apparently recognizing the big man as another human being, the drunk grinned. "S'hot," he slurred cheerfully, then scooted over a few inches. "Got any change onya?"

Skinner looked at the man carefully. "Just two wooden nickels," he answered.

The other laughed, suddenly sounding no more drunk than Skinner was. "I still do a good alkie, don't I?"

"Yeah," Skinner answered, and waited.

"It's on," the 'drunk' said, and flopped both arms along the bench back, to all appearances beginning to settle in for a nap in the sun. "Drugs *and* guns," he went on, "but I don't know what kind. Designer stuff, from what I heard."

Skinner frowned. It was unusual in the first place for the two shipments to be blended in one drop. To call it "designer stuff" argued a special purpose for the shipment. Maybe this wasn't purely a money run, Skinner mused, and asked aloud, "What kind of muscle?"

The informant rubbed his stubbly face, fingers rasping on the whiskers. "A couple Uzis, some AK-47s," he said, and shrugged. "Some hand guns. The usual." He eyed Skinner hard, and the AD's instincts started jumping up and down to be noticed. "But the shipment's...unstable." He bit at a ragged cuticle before continuing obliquely, "I saw that picture of your wife in the paper a while back. You're damn lucky, man -- don't blow a good thing."

Skinner lowered his voice to a barely audible rumble. "I don't intend to...and, thanks." He met the informant's eyes squarely. "If you're right, I owe you."

Another shrug. "Hell, I'm still here because of you." Then he grinned broadly, showing off several missing teeth. "Guess I owe you the chance to breed a few more Skinners, huh?" Before Walter could even begin to formulate an answer, the other man lurched up from the bench, effortlessly redonning his drunken mien. "Watch your back," he muttered, then tipped his head toward the dilapidated van. "Tell *them* to watch it, too."

Despite the new worries raised by his old contact's news, Skinner nodded inwardly. "I will. You better take care of yourself."

"All the time, man," the informant said, and lurched off down the street to stumble into a liquor store partway down the block. Skinner knew that the man would eventually weave his way out the store's delivery entrance and into a waiting car. The AD sat unmoving for a few minutes, then murmured toward the microphone. "Coming back now." He stood up and started toward the van, mentally listing some new instructions for his teams.

- I may be *really* late, honey - he thought, pausing by the van's rear door. - But I *will* get home, maybe thanks to someone I'd never want you to meet. - Reaching into his pants pocket for the case, he took out his glasses and put them on. Sliding the case back, Skinner swung up into the van, turning his mind back to the job he had to do....

Laying her book down in her lap, Mariel Skinner looked over at the bedside clock. For a moment, her tired eyes refused to focus properly, and she stroked her closed lids with gentle fingertips. The next squint at the illuminated dial worked, and she sighed. 1:20 a.m.... Well, Walter hadn't been kidding when he said that he'd be late. - I guess my news will just have to wait until tomorrow morning - she thought. Too sleepy to sit up any longer, Mariel set her book on the night table and switched off the light.

Comfortable between the clean, softly-scented sheets that were nicely warmed by her body, she was almost asleep when a sharp, clicking sound brought her upright with a gasp. Then she heard the front door close, and she relaxed. Of course, that noisy door latch....And now Walter was home. Mariel tossed back the covers and slid out of bed, forgetting about robe and slippers, conscious only of the nearness of her love.

Walter Skinner climbed the stairs slowly, realizing that a person really could be so tired that putting one foot in front of the other was an effort. His limbs felt as though they were tipped with lead instead of hands and feet of warm, living flesh, and he could not focus his thoughts clearly. Then he heard hurrying footsteps on the landing above him, and he looked up to see his wife's sweet face, her bright eyes, her smooth arms outstretched to draw him close. He stopped between one stair tread and the next, swaying slightly against the railing, and held up one hand.

"Mariel, don't touch me." The words came out flat, dull, exhausted, and he dropped his hand to lean more heavily against the stair railing. "I need a shower," he went on, and inhaled deeply, resuming the leaden climb.

Taken aback by his tone, Mariel rallied after a second. "Walt, are you all right?" she asked anxiously, stepping back to allow him room to pass by.

"Yeah...I'm o.k." Again the dull, uninflected voice, and his strong-featured face was set and hard.

- But someone else *isn't* o.k. - Mariel intuited compassionately. "O.K., honey," she said, "there are fresh towels in the bathroom." Opening the bedroom door, she turned on the ceiling light. "If you give me your clothes, I'll..."

"No, leave them alone," Skinner interrupted her. "I'll deal with them." - I don't want anything of tonight to soil you, love - he thought. "I need to clean up."

They entered the bedroom, and in the brighter illumination Mariel could see her husband more clearly. Walter was filthy, his face and arms caked and streaked with mud and...was it soot? His dark slacks and pullover were torn and even dirtier than his exposed skin. He stopped a moment by the dresser and unbuckled his holster, setting the weapon and the leathers on the floor. Moving as if unaware of Mariel's presence, Walter tugged off his shirt, tossing it in a wad by the bathroom door, then started on his pants. Unbuttoned and unzipped, the trousers dropped down his trim hips to his feet and he wearily kicked them aside.

Sitting on the bed in silence, Mariel felt her heart ache for her exhausted, and, so obviously, burdened man. Something had gone wrong tonight; she knew that as clearly as if Walter had come home wearing a neon sign spelling it out. When he moved toward the bathroom at last, she stood up. "I'll make some coffee, Walt, while you shower."

"No." He turned toward her, leaning his big body wearily against the doorframe. "Coffee will keep me awake. I don't want to be awake." His dark, sweat-reddened eyes slid over Mariel's body, taking her in. - She still doesn't really understand what she does to me - he thought. - But I can't...Not now, feeling as I do.... - He pulled off his briefs, throwing them with a sudden rough gesture onto the filthy pile by the door. "Go to bed, Mariel," he grated, and closed the bathroom door hard.

- Oh, no, you don't, Walter Skinner - Mariel thought, pressing her lips firmly together. - You're not going to go off and stew and shut yourself away from me. - She understood that her husband needed time to settle down, time to let some of the sharp edges smooth out a little. But she wasn't some fragile hot-house plant that could be bruised by a cold wind or a sudden touch. She wasn't going to let him bear whatever this was alone.

Walter stood under the shower for a long time, breathing the billowing steam, letting the surging, hot water pound against his body. He lathered the soap almost angrily, and scrubbed his skin roughly, thoroughly, not bothering to be gentle with his scrapes and abrasions. Even when his body was clean again he thought he still could smell the soot and the chemicals and the charred flesh....

He shoved the sensory illusions from his consciousness with a bitter curse. Wrenching the water off with enough force to strip the faucet washers, Walter shoved the shower curtain back and stepped out onto the fluffy bathmat. He flung a towel around his middle and froze when the bathroom door opened.

Mariel came in, closing the door behind her. Walter dropped his hands to his sides and swallowed, tasting his own need, feeling the sudden swelling hunger. She had on the nightgown she'd worn on their honeymoon: a gloriously shimmering pure white satin gown that fell to mid-thigh length, the deeply-scooped neckline and hem trimmed with tiny embroidered pink roses. Beneath the gown her figure looked lusher now, fuller in the first flush of pregnancy, and he felt the fire within him mounting to ignite behind his eyes.

Mariel paused, her gaze irresistibly drawn to her husband's body. His body was still wet, chest hair matted from the damp. Every swell and line and contour of his powerful arms, his deep, strongly-muscled chest, and his flat, hard abdomen glistened as the water pooled and dripped and ran along his skin.

When she stepped up to him, he asked roughly, "Why aren't you in bed?"

Determined not to back down, but trembling slightly with the discordant feelings that tightened her up inside, Mariel raised her hands to his breast. "Walt," she whispered, "what is it? What has hurt you?"

"What makes you think something hurt me, Mrs. Skinner?" he asked, voice still hard-edged. - Mariel...go back to bed, put a robe on...I can't stand this much longer, and...I'm afraid that I won't be gentle.... - Mariel drew her fingertips over his wet forehead, her skin slipping easily along his in the damp. "I know because you bear your burdens in your eyes, love," she said, her face so close that her breath touched his mouth with the quiet words. "Besides," she went on with a tiny smile, "do you think that I don't know my man by now?"

Moving so quickly that she barely had time to gasp a breath, Walter pulled Mariel against him. Her satin gown absorbed the water from his skin, the fabric soaking and molding to her body, slipping sensually between her body and his as she pressed closer and he ran his hands down her back. "You still have to learn this," he groaned, unable to endure another moment of her sweet, yet, he knew, completely unconscious seduction. THe loving concern in her clear grey eyes; her warm, fragrant skin; the sensual promise of her rounded womanly body and the surcease she offered without even being aware of the offering, was too deep a temptation for his bruised heart to endure.

He kissed her hard, his arms circling her lower body to pull her even tighter against him. She returned his kisses with the same strength, instinctively aware that this embrace was somehow more deeply elemental than any they'd shared before. In a way, they were simply a male and a female now, and he was a man who required his woman, needing her almost desperately to give him release from his pain.

And yet, they were a man and a woman bound by love and by vows, and neither would force anything at the expense of the other. Mouth still on hers, Walter murmured between kisses, "Mariel...I know you weren't thinking...of this, but...when I see you like this, feel you and taste you, I...need you and I want you." The last words were almost lost in another searching kiss.

Mariel pulled her head back to his breathless murmur of protest and saw longing and love and the pain of recent memories in his eyes almost black with emotion. She lifted her face again and whispered, "You can have me...." For a moment he could not speak, and only the strength of his hand pressing the back of her neck and the pressure of his arm around her hips kept Mariel on her feet.

Without breaking his kiss, Walter slid his arms around her shoulders and under her knees and lifted Mariel up from the floor. She managed to fumble the bathroom door open before clinging around his neck with both arms. On the way to the bed, Walter's only detour was toward the door to elbow off the switch to the room's overhead light. Then, moving unerringly in the dark through the familiar room, he rolled her gently from his arms onto the bed.

Mariel whispered his name, reaching up to tug loose the knot that bound the towel around his waist. - He's so beautiful - she thought, trembling with the aching tightness that was coiling inside her. "Walt," she murmured, opening her arms for him, "come to me."

"Mariel..." Excited beyond bearing, he gave himself into her arms, forgetting this day's pain in his eagerness to embrace the only woman he would ever love. Her perception of time and place began to haze as all her senses responded to this frank, deeply erotic embrace. There were no words between them, only low murmurs, voiceless whispers and the warm gasps of labored breath as man and wife plundered and pleasured each other with hot, wet kisses and delicious, intimate fondlings.

Soon they were one, bodies perfect foils for one another, giving and taking love's pleasure together. Body satisfied and heart comforted at last, Walter managed to ease his weight to one side, so only his arm and one leg lay upon his wife, before sleep blanked out his consciousness with the suddenness of a physical blow.

Mariel blinked drowsily, aware of a touch of coolness as the slight slick of perspiration evaporated from her heated skin. - Oh, gosh...that was, was... - But she was too exhausted and sated to think any longer, and fell asleep herself a moment later.

After what seemed like only an instant or two, Mariel awoke sitting up. Gathering sleep-scattered thoughts, she wondered how she'd managed to sleep in that position when she became aware of pressure against her skin and a slight tickle on her cheek. Oh, yes...she had been sleeping in Walter's arms, and he was sitting up with his back against the headboard. "Hi," she murmured, anointing his nipple with a tiny, wet kiss. "Feel better now?"

"Yes. Thank you, love," he murmured back, voice dark with emotion.

"I'm your wife, sweetheart," she smiled, shifting to settle her head higher on his breast. "I'm supposed to take care of you."

Walter lifted her chin to look at her. "Mariel, did I hurt you, or...or the baby?" His eyes were serious and, she saw, a little afraid. - Please, God, please...let me not have hurt them. - Walter Skinner would walk naked through flaming napalm rather than cause pain to either of his little loves.

"Nope," she reassured him tenderly. "We're both fine. In fact," she laughed softly, tracing little circles around the nipple she'd kissed, "Mommy feels great."

He chuckled at last, wondering when he'd last been able to laugh. "So does daddy," he said, and captured the teasing fingers for a nibble.

After a peaceful time, Mariel said gently, "Walt, can you tell me what happened?"

She felt his chest swell to a sudden quick breath. "You know I can't, honey."

"I don't mean details, Walt." She sat up, nestled her left shoulder into his right side, and clasped his hand, settling their hands into her lap. "Just, whatever you can."

He didn't speak for a while. Mariel saw that the draperies were starting to glow with the coming dawn, and she put her head down on his shoulder. Finally he said, "Some things went sour, honey. In fact, it would have been worse if I hadn't been warned ahead of time." - And I wonder how he may have paid for the warning - he thought, referring in his mind to his informant. "Do you remember Agent Torelli?" he continued.

Mariel looked at his face. "Sure. She debriefed me that day and..." Breaking off, Mariel sat up straight with a gasp. "Oh, Walt! Not..."

"No," he said, drawing her back into his arms. "Her partner." It would have been Torelli, Walter knew, if her partner hadn't been slightly out of position and so been able to see the shooter that Torelli missed in the explosions and the confusion. "He has a three-year old," Walter went on evenly, "and his wife is due again around the end of November. Damn fine Thanksgiving she'll have now," he grated, his hands balling into hard fists.

Mariel didn't know what to say. She understood that her husband agonized over injury or death to his people, and would mentally replay the circumstances to see if he had missed anything that might have changed the outcome. All she could do was stay close to him, supporting and consoling him with her presence. Almost shyly, she reached up to close her palm around the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, Walt," she whispered.

"So am I," he replied, "but nothing will change it now." He rubbed his eyes, wishing he could sit longer and enjoy more of Mariel's good neck massage, but duty tugged strongly at the AD. "I have to get in to work, Mariel," he continued. "There's a lot to take care of."

First among his jobs, he knew, would be to discover what Torelli and her partner had been doing at the warehouse in the first place. Skinner had signed off on the strike team roster only hours before the raid, and he knew that Agents Torelli and Donner hadn't been on the final list. It was possible that someone had taken ill and had to be replaced, and in the tense last moments he hadn't been informed. Possible, yes, but something about the explanation felt "off" to Walter Skinner, maybe because just yesterday Torelli had asked to see him before the end of the week. Putting aside the musings for now, he pushed the covers back and stood up.

Mariel didn't release her hold on his hand. Tugging him down, she caressed his shoulders and brought his face close to hers. She looked up into his beautiful eyes that softened visibly at the touch of her gaze, and stretched up into a long, slow kiss. "Just keep coming home to me, love...to us," she whispered, lips moist and soft from his mouth.

"Always, love," he answered, and stroked her abdomen. "I'm not about to miss out on what's ahead for us."....

Professor Jacki Samuels enveloped her old friend in a warm hug, then pushed him back to arm's length to look him delightedly up and down. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" she beamed, squeezing his shoulders affectionately. "And how's Laurel?"

Joe grinned. "She's great, Jacki," he said. "We're both doing o.k." The last time he'd seen Professor Samuels had been nearly five years ago, during that abortive A.P.R.O. investigation outside Phoenix. She looked just the same to him now: standing five-feet five-inches tall, black hair cut short, stocky figure, and blue eyes stuck behind thick-lensed glasses. She also had a booming laugh, a penchant for Harold Lloyd silent movies, and happened to be his wife's godmother. Joe figured he could never properly repay her for introducing him to Laurel in the first place.

Professor Samuels winked, linking arms with him. "I know you didn't arrange to meet me up here just to chew the fat, Joe. What's up?"

Joe glanced around the small, utterly innocuous-looking reception area. "Let's go check the view," he said. "Tell you then."

Cocking an eyebrow at the tall, black-haired man, Professor Samuels walked with him to the door that led to the visitor's parking area. Outside away from the air conditioned visitor's room, the air pressed onto their faces like a hot metal mask. Ahead of them across the narrow plateau was the blinding white exterior upright of the huge solar telescope. The massive structure towered up several stories before the housing bent at a 45-degree angle and plunged downward again in a long, absolutely straight slope. Joe knew that the main working area here was underground, in rooms hollowed several stories down into the bulk of the mountain. He remembered reading once that the clear, smog-free desert air of southern Arizona made it the perfect location for the telescope.

On the flatland below the peak, dust devils danced in the shifting currents of air, their slim, tornado-like shapes stretching up and then dissipating in the blinding heat. Sunlight pressed upon Joe's head like a flatiron, and he could feel his eyes pulling tight and his throat and nasal passages drying out. "Jacki," he said, "I know you can keep things under wraps if you have to."

"And...?" she prompted when he paused.

"And I need you to check this over for me," Joe said. Turning his back to the few buildings on the plateau, he reached into his shirt pocket. The crystalline rectangle caught the sun as he drew it out, but it did not reflect the bright rays. Instead, as Professor Samuels reached out hesitantly to take it from his hand, it began to glow, as if it was greedily absorbing the sunlight all for itself.

Fascinated, Joe stared at the crystal. He'd never before seen it react with this richly fluorescent display. He'd held the blue rectangle under both artificial and natural light, and it always had reflected the illumination like any unpolished rough crystal such as quartz. But this...this inward glow was fascinating and inexplicable.

"What on earth is it?" The scientist turned the object slowly, examining it as well as she could with the naked eye.

Joe answered wryly, "That may well be the question, Jacki. I've never seen another object even remotely like it."

She looked up from her scrutiny. "You know that my specialty is spectrographic analysis," she reminded him.

He nodded. Her special expertise made her analysis of the solar photography work invaluable. "If this is a kind of crystal, could you find out anything about it?"

"That first 'if' is a big one, Joe," Samuels remarked, studying his cool eyes. The heavyset woman didn't know any details about this man's work, nor did she want to know, but she understood that this object was connected to that work in some way. She looked down at it again, drawn by the gentle sapphire glow radiating from the cool, smooth surface. The crimson tracings upon it looked almost black against that glow, and she gasped suddenly. "Do you know what this pattern looks like?" she asked excitedly, placing a fingertip near one branching whorl.

Joe looked, squinting against the light. The pattern did look vaguely familiar -- he'd always thought *that* -- but he couldn't put a word to the familiarity. "You have a guess?" he parried gently.

"Yes, crazy as it seems." She held the object up on her palm. "It looks like a dendrite pattern." Pointing to her forehead, she went on, "The nerve-cell branchings of the human brain."

"What the hell?" Joe retrieved the object, noticing that the sapphire glow faded when his fingers touched it. "Are you sure?"

"Of course not," Samuels returned a bit testily. "But that's what the tracings look like." She held up a hand to shade her eyes, looking from the crystal to the tall man and back. "Another puzzle: why isn't it glowing any more? It glowed when I held it, right?"

Joe frowned. "Yeah...yeah, it did." He thought back, remembering his chain of custody of this item. He'd found the object in the desert, packed it away, retrieved it again, showed it to S.A.I.C. Sanders, and now to Jacki Samuels....A sudden leap of intuition jarred him, and he raised his heat-dried eyes to his friend. "Jacki, I don't know if this means anything, but you're the only *woman* I've shown this to. And it never glowed like that before, either."

Samuels rubbed her cheek, thinking. "Hmmm, pretty damn weird...." Then she straightened up to her full height of nearly five and a half feet. "How long do I have for this?" she asked briskly, and Joe relaxed to a grin.

"Atta girl," he approved fondly. "How about tomorrow morning?"

Her deep laugh echoed across the plateau. "Maybe, if you help," she said, and turned back toward the reception building. Footsteps muffled in the desert soil, they walked together back across the cleared plateau.

Folding his jacket aside, he settled his long, lean body into the chair across from the television, setting cigarettes and lighter onto he deal occasional table. Although the window blinds were partially closed and the room shadowy, he didn't switch on the pole lamp immediately. Picking up the television remote control, he used it to flip through several channels until he found a program he wanted.

Lighting a cigarette, he watched the old war movie for a while -- "Sands of Iwo Jima," wasn't it? -- before muting the sound and reaching in his suit-coat pocket. Pulling out a sheaf of folded papers, the smoker reached out to click on the lamp and began to read.

Immediately caught up in the pleasure of studying this transcript of a well-conducted debriefing, he read contentedly all the way through. Yes, he could almost hear her replies, spoken in that clear mezzo-soprano voice: unhurried, measured, and thoughtful. He could put a face to that mental voice with no effort: smoothly-sweeping dark hair; clear, level grey eyes; high-arched brows and expressive mouth. - Put it away, you fool - he commanded himself sternly. - To her, you live under a rock and *belong* there, with the other slime.... - Looking at Angela Torelli's signature at the bottom of the transcript, he remembered that he'd been honestly dismayed this morning when he heard the news of the warehouse raid, and learned how close Agent Torelli had come to death. Of course, it was regrettable that her partner had died, but the agent had known the risks of such a raid. It didn't occur to the smoker that Torelli and Donner had not been originally scheduled into the strike team roster. If it had occured to him, he might have felt a tug of warning. As it was, he assumed that Donner's death was simply a part of the toss of the game.

An hour later, he was certain that he could not gain anything else from the transcript. His reading of it bore out Mrs. Skinner's claim that she knew nothing more than what she'd already stated. He folded the papers and sat reflectively, his face alternately lighted and obscured by the staticy images from the small television screen. Reaching a decision, he stood up loosely and walked to his desk, where he lifted the telephone.

Two rings...press the cut-off button...dial again. Soon the voice of his old associate came over the line. "Good day," the man said. "You have something for me?"

The smoker sat in the desk chair, swiveling it so that he faced the window. "I just finished the debriefing transcript."

"And your conclusion?" The other's tone was level, disinterested, but the smoker could sense the quickening interest there.

Although his associate was several hundred miles away, the smoker shrugged. "Nothing," he said, almost nonchalantly. "The transcript bore out my original conclusion."

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the slight hiss of the open line. Then the other voice returned, guarded, cool. "*That* being that your...desert companion indeed knows no more than what she has already stated?"

"Yes, of course." The smoker's lips closed over the smooth paper of the cigarette end, pressed lightly but almost sensually down against the tobacco packing as he inhaled deeply. "I'm certain she is hiding nothing." There was a certain irony, he mused, in the fact that a man such as himself who dealt in lies and subterfuge sometimes could have a clear sense of truth when he saw it in another person. And she radiated that quality: it was as much a part of her as her courage and her faithful heart. A heart that could never...

The smoker turned aside from this unfruitful digression of his thoughts and concentrated on the voice from the phone. His associate was saying, "Are you certain enough of your assessment fo stake *everything* on it?"

Even a tyro in this work would catch the danger inherent in that statement, and the smoker was no babe in the woods. "Nothing is absolutely certain, what with the state of the world nowadays," he said, his sentence phrasing cautious even while his tone remained confident.

"Jonathan, I must strongly encourage you to explore *every* avenue," the other said, his tone just short of being an outright warning. "You must be absolutely certain."

The smoker did not hesitate. "Of course."

"Then, good day, Jonathan. Don't keep me waiting."

Hanging up the phone, he thought for some time, smoking several cigarettes without being aware of doing so. Attention snapping back to the present at last, he looked almost in disgust at the half-dozen spent butts polluting the desk ash tray. Conscious that hunger was tugging at his belly, the smoker stood up and looked around.

Startled to see how dark it had become, he closed the window blinds completely before crossing the small living room to the kitchenette. Maybe there was something in the freezer -- he didn't want to go out again.

....Lorene leaning close, brushing a kiss over his cheek as she fondly scolded him even while setting a plate of fragrant roast beef, baked potatoes and fresh green beans before him...'Honestly, Jonathan, your eating habits are atrocious! No wonder you're so lean. Here.'...Then a dish of melting vanilla ice cream and chocolate cake, and later, the ultimate, most precious dessert: the honeyed lushness of their mutual surrender....

Cold air from the open freezer tingling on his cheek snapped him from the vibrant but painful memory. Memory of an ordinary day, an ordinary meal with the woman he'd lost nearly thirty years ago. Closing the freezer more forcefully than was necessary, he finally selected a leftover pot roast and sliced off chunks for a sandwich.

He carried sandwich and coffee to the living room and sat in front of the television again. The war movie was over, he saw, and automatically clicked the remote to another film. Light and shadow flickering across his face, he bit into tender meat, fresh tomato, and soft sourdough but tasted nothing. The food was sustenance for him, no more.

Just as the apartment where he lived was no more than shelter: functional, spare, the rooms bearing small trace of his personality. Unless...unless the apartment had absorbed his personality so thoroughly that the sterility truly was...him. Inexplicably troubled by the unexpected insight, the smoker set down his unfinished sandwich.

What had he told Fox Mulder that day when the young agent held him at gunpoint, demanding answers about his partner's abduction? Yes...that was it: ...'Look at me: no child, no wife, some power...'... But wasn't that in itself a facile lie? Hollow words to mask the reality that was so much more stark than even the haunted Fox Mulder could understand?

Sitting in silent darkness, the smoker realized that other words were circling in his mind now, words once spoken to him and often repulsed, but now returning and more seductive than ever before. ..."...She will behave with you as she now does with that other whom she calls husband...."...

His decision made at last, the smoker moved to the telephone, punched out a number, and waited patiently for the expected response.....

Somber in his dark suit and subdued tie, Walter Skinner stood at the gravesite feeling out of place and definitely unwanted. He'd said a few words during the service because he was asked to do so, and because Agent Donner had been under his ultimate jurisdiction. - Yeah...what else can you call it when a man dies under your watch? - he asked himself with some bitterness.

His brief eulogy had been honest, at least. He talked about Donner's dedication and desire to make a positive difference to this world, to leave it ultimately the better for his presence in it. True words, yes, but Skinner had felt them to be bitter and inadequate when he looked at Donner's widow.

Just under five feet tall, Mrs. Donner looked to Walter Skinner to be barely out of her teens. Her three-year-old son clung to her knees, the child's big dark eyes moving uncomprehendingly over the dark-clad adults and the flag-draped bier standing beside the freshly-dug grave. Of course the boy didn't know what was going on -- all that he would know was that his mother was sad, and no one was smiling, and his father wasn't there. - Bad men killed your daddy - Skinner thought, as if he was speaking aloud to the boy - because they didn't want him to stop them from doing their bad things. - Standing there amid the mourners, the AD realized that, in the long run, that's what it came down to: decent men and women trying to keep the "bad men" from overrunning human society with their callous disregard for life and with their monstrous greed. Sadness was here today, and yet Skinner was deeply proud of all his decent people, and proud, too, that he himself could stand with these decent ones and even lead some of them, as best he could.

The service was over now, and people were picking up their purses and suit coats and gathering together into quiet groups. Although Mrs. Donner was standing alone at this moment, Skinner hesitated over approaching the young widow. - Would Mariel want *my* boss to come over and offer condolences - he thought with sudden, painful insight - when all she wanted was to have her husband back in her arms? -

Over the course of his life, during his Vietnam experiences and his F.B.I. career, Walter Skinner had faced his own mortality more often than he cared to remember. But right now, looking at Mrs. Donner lifting her small son up above the bulge in her abdomen to hug him close, the realities of death, and yet of burgeoning life, hit Skinner forcefully. He wondered if, through some sense of precognition, he was looking at Mariel a few years hence, holding their child, cradling another within her, nerving herself to face life without him?

He shook off the mood. Whatever the future held was in God's hands, he knew. He would continue to do his duty, in any case, and love his family for as much time as he was granted.

"Excuse me, Assistant Director Skinner," a woman's voice said from beside him, voice and words drawing him out of his reverie.

"Yes?" He turned, and found himself looking down into Angela Torelli's troubled eyes and taut-held face. Next to her, one arm protectingly around her waist, a muscular man of medium height stood and extended a hand to Skinner.

"I'm Dan Torelli, Mr. Skinner," the man introduced himself, seeming not at all intimidated that he had to look up to meet the AD's eyes.

Skinner nodded, but before he could speak, Agent Torelli said, "Sir, if you have a few minutes now, I have to talk to you."

Gesturing away from the other mourners, Skinner said, "Of course," then looked on with some surprise as the agent placed a hand on her husband's chest and shook her head, pointing to a nearby bench. Dan nodded, kissing her cheek before dropping down onto the bench. Torelli began to walk beside Skinner, and the big man let her set the pace and direction.

They walked in silence through the graveyard. The day was hot, the air heavy with a moisture that clogged the lungs and distressingly dampened shirts and underclothing against sticky skin. Here and there among the headstones, cooling sprays of water arched up from hidden sprinklers, moistening the parched grass. Watching one rainbow-laden stream trickling down through the greenery, Torelli murmured, "Makes me want to peel off my clothes and splash in it."

Her tone was abstracted, and Skinner knew she was simply wishing out loud while another part of her mind dealt with whatever she needed to discuss with him. Skinner decided to give matters a tiny nudge. "Agent Torelli," he said, pausing near one of the walkways that meandered through the cemetery, "I am sincerely sorry about your partner's death. I know that it's not an easy thing to deal with."

Torelli stopped beside the AD, blinking as her eyes filled. - Damn, I've never been a crier - she thought disgustedly. But she was so angry that she wondered if she could keep her tongue civil. Deliberately pacing her breathing to calm herself, she looked up, unconsciously rearranging her stance as she stood before the AD.

Skinner was not stupid about the nuances of body language, and so he realized before she spoke that Torelli was blazingly angry. "Spit it out, Agent Torelli," he said brusquely, his tone giving her permission to respond just as abruptly.

She did. "Sir, what in heaven's name were you thinking to put Donner and me on that strike team?" Swallowing an obscenity, Torelli searched the big man's eyes. "Donner was still a probationary agent -- he hadn't the experience for that kind of raid. You *knew* that!"

"Yes, I did, Agent Torelli," he replied sternly. "For what it's worth, I did not assign you. When I realized you two were at the warehouse we already had a situation going and there was no time to do anything about it."

Torelli stared back at the AD, and swallowed again. "So he died because someone made a...a clerical error?" That realization, for Torelli, was an even more obscene thought than believing that Peter Donner died because of someone's lack of judgement. - 'someone's'? - she thought with brutal honesty. - You mean *Skinner's* lack of judgement, don't you? You thought he'd screwed up and a man died as a result. Your partner.... - "Whatever I may think or know," Skinner said carefully, "is not fair game for discussion right now, Agent Torelli."

The agent got it the first time. She understood that the AD meant to say that he was investigating her partner's death and therefore could not talk about it in public, as it were. She looked down at the grassblades poking up around her shoes, wondering how many other supervisors would have allowed her to practically accuse him to his face of incompetence resulting in a fatal miscalculation. She'd worked with Skinner for...what now, three years?...and she'd still doubted his integrity, his abilities, something. She sighed, and said quietly, "I get the picture, sir. I just...damn, it was such a waste of a good man."

Skinner began to walk back the way they'd come, and Torelli joined him after a moment. "Yes, it was," he said, "but if he *hadn't* used the skills and heart he possessed, I'd be talking to him now instead of you."

Torelli's eyes slid over the now departing mourners, and she watched the men and women getting into cars, and Dan standing up from his bench. "I know that, sir," she said, voice barely audible. "Maybe, on top of everything else, I'm feeling a little of the 'survivor's syndrome.' "

Dan Torelli joined the pair then, and lifted his wife's face for a kiss. The two men's eyes met over her dark head, and Skinner nodded once to Dan's understanding look. "Time to go, sugar," Dan said, embracing her waist. "Pete would want you to eat something now, keep your strength up." At those words, Angela Torelli moved into her husband's arms, and Skinner turned away when he saw her face contort with her unsuccessful effort to keep back the tears. Her husband would support her now, Skinner knew, and help her work through this loss.

Skinner continued walking, past the gravesite where cemetery workers were lowering Special Agent Peter Donner's casket into the ground. Glad that the man's family hadn't waited to see that sight, the AD looked around to locate his car, which he'd parked in a spot along the access road that was shaded by a young oak tree.

He peeled off his suit jacket, slinging it over one shoulder while he unlocked the driver's door. Inside the car, Mariel stirred in the passenger seat and turned her head to smile at him. Mariel had insisted on coming with him to the graveside services, and he'd been equally adamant about insisting that she remain in the car with the air conditioner on. She'd adjusted the seat fully back, and her hair stirred slightly around her face in the breeze from the front-seat air conditioning ducts.

He threw his jacket into the back seat and slid in under the wheel. "I'm glad you stayed in here," he remarked. "It's hellish out in the sun."

Mariel sat up when he reached up for his tie, and pushed his hands down. "Let me, honey," she said, unknotting the length of crushed silk. The material felt sticky to her touch, and she studied his sweat-damp, flushed face with concern. Finished with the tie, she unbuttoned his shirt down a ways, and he closed his eyes, relishing the feel of her cool fingers on his heated skin.

"Here," she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small package. "Hold still." He opened his eyes at the sound of tearing foil and the clean tang of fresh lemon that permeated the car. Leaning toward Walter, Mariel unfolded the towelette and, over his protests, gently wiped his face and neck with its moist coolness. When he realized that she wanted to do this, Walter relaxed under her ministrations, enjoying her touch and the scent of her perfume, and the smooth curve of her cheek so near his face. After a soothing moment, she lowered her head to press a kiss against the pulsebeat in his throat. She felt a deep quiver shudder through his frame, and raised her head.

He took her hand then, in a gentle squeeze. "Thank you," he said, raising her palm for a kiss. "I feel cooler now. Ready to go?"

Mariel nodded wordlessly. As Walter drove out of the cemetery she laid her hand upon his muscular thigh in a gentle, almost tentative touch. He glanced away from the road, his eyes meeting her quiet, accepting gaze, and he felt some more of the stiffness ease. Later, they would talk, and he would be able to let go of this day. Let it go until tomorrow...when he would take his next step toward learning why a fine young agent died so needlessly.

When Walter Skinner stepped out of the shower, Mariel was standing at the sink. Concentrating on smoothing moisturizer on her forehead and cheeks, she gave him a quick smile in the mirror. "Almost done, honey," she said.

"Don't rush," he replied, and came up behind her, bracing his palms on either side of the sink. In the steamy mirror, his shoulders overarched her body and he leaned slightly to rub his cheek against her soft, moist skin. "Thank you for today," he said, lips against her temple. "It helped me to know that you were there waiting for me."

Mariel turned her head to find and kiss his mouth. "I'll always be waiting...you know that," she whispered after a moment, then murmured softly when Walter found something nice to do with his hands. "Mmmm...I like...." she whispered.

"Do you now?" he grinned. "Then let's continue."

She laid her hands over his, and stepped away slightly. "O.K.," she smiled, adroitly avoiding his reaching arms. "Give me a minute, first, then come on in." When she opened the bathroom door, she heard him begin to count backward from 60, and laughed in delight.

Wondering why she wanted him to wait, Walter finished his countdown while he shaved. He didn't enjoy having a beard that grew fast enough to require him to shave twice a day, but the thought of rubbing his freshly-smoothed cheek against the satiny body now awaiting his touch was all the incentive he needed. - Damn...I wouldn't have thought I'd enjoy just plain touching so much - he thought as he turned out the bathroom light. Mariel was awakening qualities within him that he hadn't known he possessed.

In the bedroom, only the lamp on his nightstand was on. Mariel had thrown the comforter off and lay under the sheet, her bare shoulders gleaming pale in the subdued light. She patted his pillow, and he saw that a folded paper lay atop it. "What's this, honey?" he asked, sitting on the mattress as he picked the paper up.

"Oh, just something," she murmured, and sat up to massage his back and shoulders. - Oh, I hope he'll be excited - she thought, feeling her rapid heartbeat. Maybe the timing for letting him know could be better, she supposed, but she couldn't keep the news to herself any longer.

Walter unfolded the paper. It was a printer's proof of an advertising brochure, he saw, and read it over. Partway through, he broke into a wide grin and laughed. "And how long have you kept *this* secret, Mrs. S.?" he chuckled, turning and taking her shoulders to pull her close.

"Not long," she giggled. "In fact, just since yesterday."

He read aloud from the brochure. " 'The National Philharmonic Orchestra... Dr. Mariel Fraser-Skinner, guest conductor.' " Literally beaming, Walter hugged her tight. "Honey, I'm so proud of you!"

Mariel hugged back, tears warm in her eyes. "Your lady's hitting the big time," she teased, feeling warm and happy and excited by her husband's honest praise.

"Honey, this *is* big time," he said. "And it's a huge feather in your cap."

She pushed back from him, hands on his shoulders. Sitting with him in the bed where they cuddled and loved and shared their hearts, she knew what was important to her. "Walt," she said firmly, pulling him back into her embrace, "I already have the 'feathers' in my cap that I want." She kissed him slowly, eager for his response. "One is right here in my arms," she murmured, rubbing his back. Then she drew his hand to her abdomen. "The other one is cradled here between us."

He smiled, patting her abdomen fondly. "You won't get an argument from me about *that*," he said, and reached down to clasp her waist with both hands. His powerful arms flexed as with a single lift he raised her from the bed and forward into his lap. "But this is a big step for your career, honey," he went on.

Mariel draped her arms around his neck. "Yes, but you didn't finish reading. There are names there besides mine."

"Is that so?" he inquired, sliding his palms down her thighs to gently grasp her knees. "I was only interested in your name."

She quivered, hugging his neck for balance as he slowly drew her legs apart, sliding his hands under her bottom to lift and settle her body against his. Bodies pressed completely together, her legs straddling and hugging his trim hips, she could feel his every breath and every quiver of his muscles as he caressed her. Excited and eager for her husband, Mariel rocked gently against him, and Walter continued his loving seduction.

Mariel gasped, "It was funny, really....Mmmm, that's right, love....We had a blind audition....Oh, Walt!....The...the committee couldn't see who was, was....Oh! I love you, I love you so much...! Who was conducting...."

Walter pulled her gown up over her hips, stroking her through the satin. He loved doing this, bringing his lady along so gently, enjoying her blossoming passion that he knew was only for him. - And you're the only woman who'll ever have me - he thought, breath coming in gasps now to mingle with Mariel's whimpers of need and sheer delight.

"Walt," she panted, fingers clutching his broad, muscular back, "you won't hurt me if you...if you...Oh, yes, love...Oooh, so good...."

After a long while, Mariel opened her eyes. Her lids felt heavy, her body limp and sated, and she stretched up a little to kiss Walter under his chin. He didn't move, and after a minute she realized that he was fast asleep, sprawled on his back, the sheet tangled around his legs. She giggled, reached sleepily down to tug the sheet free, and tucked it around them both as she settled her head down on his chest. " 'Night, Walt," she breathed, softly kissing his nipple, enjoying the slow movement of his breast to his breathing. "I love you, too...."....

When he got to the kitchen in the morning, Walter Skinner put a pot of water on to boil and walked over to the pantry. Opening the paneled door, he stepped inside and looked over the shelves for the oatmeal that Mariel liked. Ah, there it was, behind the mashed potatoes. Opening the tin to measure out the heavy-textured, steel-cut oatmeal, Walter hoped Mariel would be down soon. He'd overslept a bit, and the morning was going to turn hectic in about ten minutes more.

He was standing at the stove dishing up the freshly-cooked oatmeal when he heard her steps behind him. "Get out the orange juice, will you, honey?" he remarked, turning and setting the bowls on the table.

"Good morning to you, too," she chuckled, tweaking his ear on her way to the refrigerator.

"Sorry," Walter smiled. " 'Morning." He looked over her approvingly as she crossed the kitchen. Hmmm...that teal rayon slip dress did wonders for his imagination. He just hoped that she didn't plan on wearing it to the college. It would certainly distract *him* from his studies.... Still smiling, he stroked her bottom as she bent to retrieve the juice. "I want to hear all about those blind auditions, honey," he said.

Mariel poured juice into two glasses, warmed by the fact that he remembered what she'd said last night despite the, well, other activities going on at the time. "I started to tell you last night," she teased, sitting down and spreading the napkin across her lap. "But you seemed a little distracted."

"Oh?" Walter sat across from her, lifting the pitcher of milk to pour some over her oatmeal. "I can't imagine why I'd be distracted by my half-naked wife sitting in my lap." His brown eyes sparked roguishly behind his glasses, and he winked.

Mariel laughed, knowing that no one in the Bureau would ever believe that AD Skinner would behave like this. Loving, teasing... happy. - And I'll see to it that he stays like this, if I can help it - she vowed to herself. - For as long as I'm granted life. - "Seriously, honey," he continued, reaching out for her hand. "I'm so proud of you that I feel like I'm going to bust my buttons!" Walter's smile was wide and natural, and he squeezed her hand fondly.

Mariel's smile broadened as she pictured Walter's chest expanding to an even greater girth and the shirt buttons subsequently flying. She returned his wink and relaxed to enjoy her oatmeal. Under the table, she rubbed her abdomen, giving a pat to her body over her womb. - You'll be crazy about your daddy, sweetie - she thought to the baby. - He's just the best.... - Walter wished he could tarry over breakfast and hear more about how Mariel was selected for the end-of-Summer concert, but he couldn't. He had an appointment with Agent Torelli this morning, and also had to decide who to assign as her new partner. He had several agents in mind, none of them probationers, and would have to finalize his choice soon.

Draining the last of the sweetly-tart orange juice, Walter patted his lips with the soft linen napkin and looked up. Pale morning light filtering through the yellow flowered muslin curtains above the sink glistened on the shiny porcelain fixtures and reached across the room to touch Mariel's dark hair. He sat still for a moment, resting his eyes and his heart on his wife's gentle face as she sat, unaware of his scrutiny, peacefully spooning up her oatmeal. - An ordinary morning - he thought - with my extraordinary woman. I wouldn't trade it for the Directorship. - "Honey, I have to run," he said at last, regretfully, pushing his chair back to stand up. "I should be back in good time tonight, and I want to hear everything about the audition then."

"O.K.," Mariel replied, swinging around and reaching up her arms. Walter easily pulled the chair out, and knelt in front of her, responding to the hug. Mmm...she smelled of lavender and sweet, warm skin, and he kissed her throat in the smooth hollow there.

She giggled, the movement of her throat tickling his mouth. "Hey, I have to get going, too," she protested tenderly, even while sliding her fingers through his fringe of dark hair to rub his ears. She knew that he liked that touch, and also liked it when she massaged the back of his neck. So she did both things, and cradled his body against hers when he rested his head down on her shoulder with a contented sigh.

"I could call in late," he smiled, drawing a fingertip along her collarbone. - I don't know why I'm so lucky - he thought. - But I'm thankful that you love me. - "No, love," she whispered. "You'd better not. I know that *I* sure can't," she finished, lifting his head between her palms. She leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose. "Now kiss me and our little sweetie goodbye," she smiled, "and let's head out and make our marks on this old world."

Walter laughed. "All right," he acquiesced, and bent his head. "Sweetie first," he smiled, kissing Mariel's abdomen down between her hips. - Maybe you can't feel it yet, little guy or gal - he thought. - But I love you. - Then he straightened and slid his arms around Mariel's shoulders and waist, holding her soft gaze with his intensity. "Now you, honey," he murmured, and proceeded to pour all of his feelings into a long, deep and very thorough kiss.

"Wow!" she chuckled huskily at last, stroking his cheek. "I'm ready for anything now."

"Me, too," he smiled, standing up and raising her with him, "but if I don't leave in three minutes and twenty-two seconds I won't make my first appointment."

Laughing, Mariel gave Walter's firm buttocks a playful swat. "So answer duty's call and let me go change," she said. "Take care today." At the front door, they parted for the day with another sweet kiss. A Street in Northeast Phoenix, Arizona Early Evening

She left her car at the end of the block, after parking the dark sedan near the water authority access gate to the irrigation canal. Only a couple of feet of water flowed through the concrete channel now, so she knew this residential street wasn't yet due for its monthly soaking. Swinging herself out of the car, she settled her hip pack around her middle and unzipped its side pocket. Pulling out a small sticky-note, she reread the address and stuffed the paper back.

She walked east along the wide shoulder of the road. This street had no sidewalks, only that broad, cleared shoulder strip paralleling the canal's tributary ditch that ran the length of the block, plunging into metal piping when it crossed under driveways. The houses along here were attractively arranged, she saw, sitting on quarter-to-half acre lots behind laden orange and grapefruit trees. She stopped, looking across to the north side of the street, and found the number.

Swallowing and hoping she at least appeared calm, the woman waited for a break in the admittedly light traffic before walking quickly over the blacktop road. The tarry substance, oozing liquidly in places from the day's heat, clung to her shoes as she stepped on it. She saw a red-haired woman standing under an orange tree in the yard, so she crossed the driveway, stepped down the slight embankment around the yard and approached the woman, moistening her lips so she could talk intelligibly.

Jenny Sanders enjoyed picking oranges at this time of day. Although the air was still warm, the light form the westering sun was mellower now, and the breeze held a touch of coolness that promised a pleasant, open-the-windows type of evening. Later, she'd bring out the juicer to the back patio and slice the plump oranges into halves. Grant would take a few, and then they'd take turns squeezing the fruit, sharing the juice and the freshly-sliced halves. And somewhere along the line, they'd share their juice-moist mouths in a teasing seduction that they'd thought up very early in their marriage. - Mmm, and I still like it - Jenny thought, and smiled. Whistling softly, arms raised as she steadied the small tree limb with one hand and twisted the plump orange from its stem with the other, Jenny glanced over her shoulder when she heard footsteps on the concrete driveway. Tossing the orange into the almost full bag by her feet, she said, "Can I help you?"

The woman facing Jenny Sanders looked to be in her early 30s, with short honey-brown hair and cinnamon-brown eyes. She had generous lips, and a small, tip-tilted nose. Obviously uncomfortable, the woman fiddled with the zipper on her hippack and licked her lips to a deep breath. "Excuse me...um, Mrs. Sanders?"

"Yes?" Jenny bent to heft the sack of oranges.

"Your husband is the Grant Sanders with the F.B.I.?" the woman went on.

Alerted, Jenny said cautiously, "If you need to contact the F.B.I. office you can dial the operator." She didn't recognize this woman, but on the other hand, Grant didn't make a habit of telling her about his contacts.

The younger woman could feel Jenny's hesitation, felt the wall being erected, and said quickly, "Please...I'll stay right here...I won't try to come in, but please tell you husband I have to see him."

Jenny felt the younger woman's desperation like a palpable touch, and said slowly, "Who are you?"

"I...he doesn't know me by name," the woman rushed on. "But, if it'll help, tell him it's Laurel Byers." Squeezing her small hands into pale-knuckled fists, she continued, "I'm Joe's wife."

He hated this country. The unrelenting, blistering heat; the brilliant, harsh sunlight; the oppressive, leaden stillness in air so dry that it sucked the moisture from one's very eyeballs made the place -- what was the word? -- yes, hellish for him. Still, the heat wasn't too nauseating today, and his car resting at the base of a mature cottonwood tree was sheltered by the leaf canopy from the direct sun.

More than once yesterday he'd been certain that the man knew he was being followed. He'd exited the highway several times, stopping once in Casa Grande to go into a fast food restaurant; stopping at other times to visit an electronics store, a video rental parlor and a private home. The shadower reported everything, of course, and now he was simply waiting.

The man would come down from the mountain eventually, and when he did, the shadower would carry out his instructions.

The smoker decided to make out a list of questions. His office was empty... - Of course. No one comes here simply to pass the time of day. - ...and he had time to put everything down in logical order. Pushing aside the laden, rank-smelling ashtray, the grey-eyed man set out a fresh sheet of letterhead and uncapped his fountain pen. He supposed that he could type the list, but he'd left his old manual typewriter in his apartment and sometimes he thought better when he wrote longhand.

By the third question, he found his eyes drawn to the liquid glisten of the blue-black ink pooling briefly at the silver tip of the pen's nub before his hand's motion drew the ink into letters and words. Recognizing his own technique for thought distraction -- focusing on minutiae -- the smoker briskly gathered himself up to finish the task. His decision was made; the arrangements were proceeding apace and all he had to do was wait for the message confirming the date and time. The whole business was a simple matter of investigating a first-hand lead and questioning an eyewitness. There was no reason for his heartbeat to throb a little faster at the thought of the upcoming appointment.

Still, he wondered what he should wear. Whether he should carry his cigarettes or not. Whether the timbre of his voice would make a difference. Whether there were any words he should not use or any subjects he should not bring up. Whatever the case and whatever the outcome of this interview, he knew he would carry the memory of it until he died.

An event which would not be too long delayed if Assistant Director Skinner discovered what it was that he intended to do....

Jacki Samuels thought that there must be an unwritten law that cafeteria coffee would taste like styrofoam whether the beverage was in such a container or not. Although long since used to such fare after her years at the University of Arizona, she still found herself putting in too much sugar and cream to make the coffee taste like something other than a plastic cup. When her lunch-table companion reached across to her tray and picked up the discarded sugar and cream containers in a deliberate one by one motion, Jacki winced and shoved the unfinished cup aside.

"I get the point, Joe," she said, and slid the plate of fruit-molded gelatin salad in front of her. At least this wouldn't taste like plastic...hopefully. While she ate, Professor Samuels noticed that Joe was simply shoving his creamed corn from one side of his plate to the other, and she sighed, setting down her spoon.

"Joe, I don't know what else to tell you," she began, leaning over the tray so her head was close to his. The below-ground cafeteria was noisier than it usually was at this lunch break time, and she didn't want to raise her voice. "About the only thing I'm sure of is that the thing *is* a crystal. It resonates properly, but the spectrographic analysis shows anomalies in the infrared." Jacki bounced her spoon absently against the remaining gelatin salad, and looked up. "And truthfully, I don't want to run any test that might disturb that tracing pattern."

Yes, those crimson tracings... Lifting a forkful of creamed corn into his mouth, Joe chewed the food absently. Finally he pushed a hand through his dark hair and lifted his tray aside. "Jacki," he said, smoothing his fingers through his goatee in what Laurel called his 'thinking out loud' gesture, "I don't want to sound idiotic here, but let me run this by you."

Professor Samuels pushed her tray over and leaned her forearms on the speckled formica table top. "Go for it," she encouraged.

Joe drew the sapphire rectangle from his shirt pocket. He'd insisted on keeping the item either in his possession or in his direct sight, and now he laid it on his palm. He noticed that it felt warm from the heat of his body. "After you made that remark about dendrite patterns," he began, drawing a fingertip over the branchings without actually touching the smooth surface, "I started thinking." He looked up, and Jacki's blue eyes behind the thick lenses linked with his. "I'm no scientist," he continued, "but I've had some experience with high-tech devices."

Jacki Samuels nodded, thinking that the phrase 'some experience' was probably a self-deprecating understatement on Joe's part. --- Funny, he didn't use to be so modest --- she smiled inwardly. --- Maybe Laurel's toned him down a bit. ---

Unaware of his friend's affectionate personal assessment, the blue-eyed man went on speaking. "On and off, I've toyed with the idea that someday we may be able to operate computers and suchlike directly." He tapped his forehead. "I mean, through some kind of direct mind-to-machine interface. Think about it, and it works. Brain activity is electrical, isn't it?"

Jacki felt her jaw slackening. --- *Maybe* --- she thought excitedly, then said aloud, "Basically, yes. Electro-chemical, anyway." She put her index finger directly on the sapphire, and watched as the crystal once again softly fluoresced beneath her touch.

"Are all brain nerve-cell branchings alike?" Joe pressed on, raising his hand to bring the glowing crystal closer to their bent heads.

"In as much as we're all human beings and so are individual members of the same species, yes." Was it her imagination, she wondered, or was a slight tingling sensation shivering along the nerves of her finger as she touched the crystal's crimson whorls? "But since we *are* individuals, there are variations. In the neuron firing patterns, for example."

Feeling a frown drawing her brows together above the tortoise-shell glasses frame, Jacki raised her finger from the crystal and watched its glow vanish. Hmm...on and off, almost like a switch.... She blinked, wondering at the sudden mental leap. --- Ridiculous --- she scolded herself. --- I'm a scientist. --- Her frown deepened. Was she so caught up in measurable results and known quantities that intuitive leaps felt foreign to her? She'd never thought of herself as the visionary kind of scientist, but maybe that type of thinking was needed here. Seeing her frown, Joe sat back in the hard, molded-plastic cafeteria chair. Placing his hands together with the crystal pressed between his palms, he said over the voices and chair-scrapings and dish-clankings of the lunch crowd, "I don't think that idea's just crazy science fiction, Jacki."

Catching the cool, almost disinterested tone, Jacki realized that Joe thought her frown meant that she'd dismissed his speculations as fringe or underground 'science', the kind of thing one read in mimeographed pamphlets left on car windshields. She stood and picked up the lunch tray and he followed suit after a moment's hesitation. "I don't think it's nonsense, Joe," she said at last, wadding her paper trash into a fist-sized ball to throw away. "I'm sure somebody somewhere's running tests on an idea like that right now."

The crystal resting securely in his breast pocket, Joe followed Jacki and shoved his dirty dishes into the labeled wall slot near the cafeteria exit. "Probably," he said. "But I've got this crystal, and *they* don't."

Outside the cafeteria, Jacki took Joe's arm and hustled him around a turn in the corridor near the water fountain. Releasing her grip, she stepped close enough for her shoulder to bump his upper arm, and asked, "You think this crystal is some kind of...extraterrestrial computer interface?"

Startled by his friend's intensity, Joe shook his head. "Jacki," he said quietly, "you know I was with A.P.R.O. and that means I don't discount things. But that notion's a bit of a reach, don't you think?" Then he grinned, and put a hand affectionately on the professor's shoulder. "I *don't* think that, but I am very curious about those patterns. Something's funny about them."

"Something's funny about this whole business, if you ask me," Jacki snorted, swinging around to head down the corridor toward an elevator. Joe replied mildly, "You did the tests, Professor Samuels. You must have believed *something* about 'this whole business.' " He chuckled at her sour sideways glance, and followed her into the elevator.

When the door slid shut, Jacki looked up at her goddaughter's husband. --- Laurel must have seen a lot in him that other women missed --- she thought suddenly, apropos of nothing in the conversation. --- At least, I know that she's happy. --- Jacki reached up then, tapping Joe's chest above the shirt pocket. "I can't do any more testing without possibly destroying this thing," she said, "and I don't think either of us wants that to happen." Looking down momentarily as the elevator slid to a stop, she continued more quietly, "And I can't ignore my own work any longer."

Understanding that results were paramount in field-grant studies, Joe nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "You've given me a good start, anyway." He knew that he couldn't ask any more of Jacki, at least not right now. He still had friends and contacts to approach for the next possible step. "I won't make a production of saying goodbye, Jacki," he said, remaining in the elevator and holding its door open as his friend stepped out.

"Then neither will I," Professor Samuels replied, holding out her hand. "Give my love to Laurel."

"I will," he smiled, "when I can reach her again. Damn cell phones don't work right around here, it seems."

"Atmospherics," Jacki supplied automatically, then squeezed his hand firmly. "Take care of yourself, Joe," she said, drawing back her hand as the elevator door closed.

"Thanks, I will," he replied. --- And it won't be any seven years before I see you again --- he thought. The elevator continued on its way to the surface of the observatory facility.

Special Agent Fran MacDonald put down the phone with a frown. Although her husband was mowing the front lawn and the sound of the power mower came clearly through the open screen door as she stood in the front hall, she was positive she had not misunderstood the instructions she'd just been given. Still frowning, she picked up the receiver again and dialled another number.

After several rings a familiar voice answered. "Yeah, Mac?"

At another time, MacDonald might have chuckled and asked her partner what he'd do if it *wasn't* her on the phone, but she didn't think the levity was appropriate now. "Dan," she said, "I just got a call from Assistant Director Skinner. He asked me to pass on the message."

Dan Sorensen's voice was audible and clear over background noises of what sounded like two children playing a loud video game. "O.K.," he said. "Hit me with it."

MacDonald repeated it verbatim, and very carefully. "Our, um, current investigation has been cancelled, and we're to turn in our final 'official' report." " 'Official', huh?" Sorensen's usually easy bass-baritone voice tightened a little. After a minute his voice came again over the receiver. "I get the picture, Mac, but I can't say that I like it."

"I'm with you on that," MacDonald said, wondering why their surveillance of the Skinner household had been terminated so abruptly. Maybe the AD couldn't justify the manpower and expense outlay any longer, in a case that was, after all, not an official one. When Skinner had spoken to her a few minutes ago, he certainly sounded angry and tense. Maybe someone was pressing *him* now. "Look, Dan," she continued, "my other half's done with the lawn and we're going to grab some dinner. I'll get back to you."

--- If he thinks he can outmaneuver me, he's got another think coming. --- Aware that his angry reaction was counterproductive, Walter Skinner concentrated on setting the telephone down slowly before he stood up. Really, it had been only a matter of time before the bean-counters and paper-shufflers upstairs "requested" him to cut back on the expenses incurred by his departments. And that included "unnecessary and unofficial" stakeouts. At least Agent MacDonald had sounded as if she didn't like it any more than he did, and he was thankful that his old friend was still on his side, as it were.

MacDonald had been a field agent since he himself was in high school, and they'd met at some party or other while he was still in the Academy. They never had been friendly in any sense that would cause elbow-jabs and winks among other agents, and in fact she'd married before he graduated, but Skinner always liked her wry, no-nonsense approach to life and her job. The fact that MacDonald liked Mariel was a bonus that had made him feel more comfortable with approaching her and Sorensen about the surveillance in the first place.

He parted the blinds and gazed down at the street for a moment before dropping his hand back to his side. They may have forced him to close off one avenue of protection for his wife and unborn child, but Skinner hadn't reached his present position without storing up a few favors along the way. The higher-ups might actually be surprised at some of the friends he had....

Grant Sanders knew he'd behaved foolishly the moment he stopped the activity. Lying on his back staring at the acoustic tiles on the family room ceiling, he tasted warm sweat and felt the icy burn of overtaxed muscles. He sat up slowly on the bench, one hand braced behind him to push the last few inches. Rolling his shoulders back and lifting his ribcage to open his chest cavity, he breathed deeply until the pain eased. --- Damn...I'm really not twenty-two any more --- he thought. --- Jen's right: I won't heal like I used to. --- He reached under the weight bench for a towel.

His reaching fingers met soft fur, and he heard a startled miaou from the floor. Sanders laughed. He grinned at the black and tortoise-shell colored cat as Jenny's pet stalked out from under the bench. "Sorry, Gandalf," Sanders remarked. He lifted the animal, palm under the cat's belly. The big tabby-Manx cross immediately went limp, legs dangling as if boneless, and Grant chuckled at the drooping deadweight. "Hmm, guess I should have bench-pressed you instead," he smiled, setting the cat onto the bench between his knees.

He held out a hand until Gandalf pushed his face against the human palm with a sound midway between a purr and a growl. Grant said, "All right. I'll forgive you for sleeping on my towel if you'll forgive me for interrupting your nap. All even?" As if in answer, Gandalf closed small, sharp teeth unpiercingly over Grant's finger, then let go, leaped down, and glided out the door.

Still smiling, Grant rubbed the towel over his sweaty face. That was another sign that he wasn't physically up to par yet, he realized ruefully. He didn't normally perspire so heavily after so little time spent at exercising. He had a doctor's appointment tomorrow, anyway, so he'd probably learn then how much longer the healing should take.

"Hey, Dad," a young treble voice called from the door. "You better get some jeans on."

"Why?" Grant looked around, and smiled at the sight of his youngest son standing in the door with a basketball under one arm and holding a sandwich and cola bottle in the other hand.

The auburn-haired, wiry pre-teen bit off a quarter of the sandwich and gestured down the hallway with his head. " 'Cause Mom's bringing some lady in the side door right now," he said around the food. "I saw 'em outside through the kitchen window a while ago."

"O.K., Ben," Grant said, standing up. "Might be business, so scram," he went on, throwing the towel around his neck.

"I'm gone," Ben said cheerfully. "Gotta finish my snack." The boy disappeared from the doorway, and his father left the family room to change clothes.

In the master bedroom, the blinds over the west-facing windows were shut and the room was dim, sheltered and cool. Grant didn't turn on the lights. He shucked his sweat-damp jersey shorts and top and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, he was buttoning his shirt, skin still damp from the quick wash, when Jenny came into their bedroom.

"Grant, his wife said with no introductory small talk, "you'd better come. I think something's wrong."

The living room was just as Joe had described it, Laurel saw. Chairs and a sofa that invited comfortable sprawling were set in a semi-circle near a tall pinewood bookcase. Against the opposite wall a matching wood entertainment center held a cd player and a television-vcr combination, and to her left french doors led onto a flagstone patio that was shaded by fruit-laden orange trees. But as Laurel sat there on the leather sofa, she didn't only *see* the furnishings and the decor; she could *feel* the warmth of this home. She knew that she would be secure here, and that her story would be listened to patiently. Laurel did not trust easily, but she'd felt drawn to Mrs. Sanders when they'd talked outside a little while ago. She knew that Joe trusted the woman's husband, and, indeed, had told her to get in touch with Grant Sanders should the need arise. --- But why did the need arise *now*? --- Laurel thought drearily, even while she realized that she might be wrong. There might be another explanation, another reason. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions because she was afraid. --- I just wish I didn't cry so easily --- she thought, pressing her lips together. --- I don't want Mr. Sanders to think I'm a...hysterical female. --- To distract her thoughts, she picked up the tall, napkin-wrapped glass Mrs. Sanders had given her, and slowly drank the cold water.

" Mrs. Byers, is anything wrong?"

Laurel looked up, feeling herself relax almost thankfully at sight of the F.B.I. senior agent, whom her husband had described, and indeed, had spoken of favorably. Sanders wasn't overly tall -- standing perhaps 5'10" -- and his brownish-blond hair was thinning, but his blue-grey eyes were frank and level and his manner competent and assured.

Sanders himself noticed that Joe's wife was nervous and possibly afraid. Twisting at the cocktail napkin wrapped around her glass, the cinnamon-haired woman let her eyes move quickly from place to place, as if she was unable to focus her gaze on any specific thing just yet. He sat down beside her, leaning his forearms on his knees as he looked at her face, waiting for her gaze to meet his.

His patient silence gradually had its effect, and Laurel looked up. "All right," she said between deep breaths. "Now I'll tell you." She set the glass on the lamp table after one more swallow, then unzipped a pouch of her hip-pack. Pulling out a stiff, folded paper, she placed the paper on her knee with her palm down upon it. "Joe told me you were a good man," Laurel said, staring at the paper beneath her hand. "He said I could trust you...that *he* trusts you."

"I'm glad he told you that," Sanders said, watching her closely. "He's right." He didn't know where this was going, but the tension in this woman was palpable.

"I know where he went, and you do, too, he said," Laurel continued almost as if Sanders hadn't spoken. "But he hasn't contacted me since he left....He always contacts me."

That would make it the evening before last, Sanders figured, since Joe had been in touch with his wife. Of course, that conclusion presumed that the informant had gotten on the road immediately after he'd left the Sanders's house. The S.A.I.C. didn't interrupt Laurel's commentary, but filed the timetable in the back of his mind.

"In the years we've been married," Laurel went on, "he has *always* contacted me when he's...away on business." She managed a little smile, her hands now busy creasing and smoothing the paper on her knee. "It's been as certain as our Summer thunderstorms. Only, not this time."

"You do know where he was going, you said?" Sanders asked. She nodded, and he continued. "Maybe the equipment there, or the atmospherics made a call impossible."

Laurel picked at her fingernails distractedly. "Maybe. But then he'd use a land line." She shook her head, wincing involuntarily as her nervous pulling broke a fingernail. "Then early this morning," she said, picking up the paper, "I got this from a security camera outside the house."

Sanders reached for the creased paper as she handed it to him. He unfolded it, to find a somewhat grainy, slightly out of focus picture of a man's head and shoulders. The quality was better than that of some security camera shots he'd seen, and he studied it for a moment with the naked eye. Grant knew that he'd never seen the man before, but the person had the kind of face that would have typecast an actor as a thug in a 1940s gangster movie. Roughly-cut, uneven features, a glowering expression, and a wrestler's thick, heavy neck made up a police artist's dream.

"Your alarms didn't trip?" he asked, looking up.

"No. There was just the picture."

Frowning slightly, Sanders stood up. "Would you excuse me, please?" he asked. When the woman nodded tiredly, her shoulders slumping forward as she exhaled a sigh, he knew he should hunt up Jenny before going to his home office, and send her in to sit with Laurel. He knew from his own experience that his wife was an immensely comforting presence for a troubled person. Reaching Special Agent Matthews at the field office, Sanders faxed off the photo. While he waited, he dialled his contact at the highway patrol and arranged for a surveillance code. Not quite a search, but a "heads up," as it were. Since the photo search results would take a while, he walked slowly back to the living room, hoping that he and Laurel were wrong in their misgivings.

Just north of Picacho, state road 87 paralleled the interstate for a mile until the divided U.S. highway swept a little west of north, leaving the narrower road to continue north alone. Once the main artery between Phoenix and Tucson, route 87 now served mostly local traffic -- usually agricultural haulers and farm trucks -- from Eloy and Picacho to the south and Coolidge with its cotton fields some 20 miles to the north.

This afternoon when the heat made dancing waves on the horizon and approaching vehicles appeared in the distance as bubbles in the shimmering haze, several cars sat at the pumps of the combination gas station and cafe. Perhaps a quarter-mile north of the highway junction, the station attracted motorists anxious to top off gas tanks or replenish radiator water before driving on to Coolidge or returning to the interstate.

The attendant was alone at the pumps but he didn't mind. He would sell the people gas, and suggest in his softly accented voice that purchasing drinking water for the trip would be wise. Many motorists went into the cafe while he saw to their cars. Inside, his Carlota would heap their plates with fresh, warm tortillas, huevos topped with green salsa, and saffron colored rice mixed with chopped pimientos. The diners had no desire to visit the fast-food outlets in town with their pasteboard food after sampling Carlota's offerings, he thought with pride.

Replacing the gas nozzle and twisting the tank cap back on, he leaned over the driver's window as the man inside pressed a button to lower the glass. "That will be fifteen dollars, sir," he said, wondering why the man looked so angry. "It is best, in this country," the attendant went on, "not to let the tank get so low."

The hard-faced man didn't reply. He pulled money from his shirt pocket, handing the attendant the top two bills on the stack without even checking their denomination. "Look at the water, will you?" he ordered, but still didn't move his gaze from the cafe door.

Sliding the money into his pants to figure out the change later, the gas station owner frowned as he went around to the hood. When it didn't pop up, he called to the driver, "The hood latch, senor," and shook his head. --- Does the hombre not know how to work his own car? --- Once the hood was up, he pulled a greasy rag from his hip pocket to shield his hand while he unscrewed the radiator cap, but glanced up toward the cafe while he worked. He did not know what this driver was staring at, but perhaps he was waiting for someone who was in the cafe. Perhaps he was angry because he was impatient, and whoever he was waiting for was taking too long to return.

Over the gurgle of the water hose, he heard the cafe door close, and footsteps crunched over the film of fine sand that blew today, as always, across the concrete apron around the pumps. "Esteban, quantos?" a quiet voice called softly, colloquially, beside him.

"Diez-y-siete dolares, Senor Joseph," Esteban said without turning from the water hose he held over the radiator.

"Raise your prices again?" Joe grinned, the expression and the banter masking his deeply simmering frustration. While Esteban fetched his change, Joe turned his back to the busy pumps and reached for his phone. He wasn't even surprised when, yet again, the call did not go through. Although he mistrusted the security of land lines, he'd tried to reach Laurel from two different locations after leaving the observatory with the same lack of results.

Joe was certain that his carefully-maintained cover was now nonexistent. He could not catalogue the specifics that had led him to this conclusion, but he did know that he had to act on his realization, erroneous or not. When he got back to Phoenix, he and Laurel were going to disappear.

Joe turned as Esteban walked up with his change. "Your money," the Hispanic man said, then lowered his voice when Joe reached out for the change. "That man, Senor Joseph," he said, gesturing toward the pumps with a quick eye movement, "he looks at you strangely. Coming back with the money, I saw him."

Joe looked in the indicated direction under cover of shoving the money in his pocket. --- The fool hasn't even changed cars --- he thought, and felt the tingle of the game spark along his nerves.

"Perhaps he plans to force your car from the road and take your money," Esteban continued.

"Maybe." Coming to a decision, Joe said quickly, "If you can delay him for a few minutes after I leave without endangering yourself, do it."

Esteban nodded. "Then I will call the highway patrol."

The two men separated, Joe returning to his car and Esteban to the water hose. Perhaps he could arrange for another delay later, he decided, and conveniently neglected to replace the radiator cap as he closed the hood. "Will there be anything else, senor?"....

The man studied himself in the vanity mirror attached to the passenger seat sunvisor. There was still enough light in the sky that he did not have to rely on the tiny fluorescent bulbs around the mirror to see clearly. Of course he looked the same as he always did: grey eyes, face deeply lined around his mouth and eyes, lips slightly quirked as if to a wry thought. No...no amount of staring would make him handsome, but today he might have wished for such a change in his features.

Pushing the visor back up, he looked with satisfaction up and down the street. Residential, homes on lots of a half-acre or more, the neighborhood this afternoon was as noisy as might be expected. Since it was late enough for the children to be home from school, bicyclists and skaters surged up and down the alder-hedged road, the young people gathering briefly in laughing, pummeling knots before breaking into motion again. So very normal.... --- If things had been different --- he thought --- I might be watching one of my grandchildren now. ---

"Move down the street a little," he said to his driver. "I want to be closer."

The other obeyed without a word, starting the ignition. When the car reached a point just at the edge of the willow hedge separating the property lines, the smoker raised his hand. "Good enough," he said, and reached into the glove box for cigarettes.

Inhaling deeply, he smiled. He actually liked this house. It was a spacious two-story brick and timber home, sheltered from the street by a rose arbor hedge. A flagstone path led from a side garage to the front porch, and stained glass panels flanking the front door caught the warm late afternoon light. It was an older home, meticulously upkept, and the smoker reasoned that Skinner might have inherited it. Whatever the case, it appeared to be a fitting homestead for AD Walter Skinner and his lovely bride.

Removing his gaze from the house, the smoker shifted in the bench seat so he could see farther down the street, and nodded in satisfaction. There was no surveillance car parked anywhere within sight. There had been risks involved in maneuvering MacDonald and Sorensen out of their watchdog duty, and no doubt the AD had other options to call into play. The smoker knew that Skinner would sacrifice almost anything to protect his wife, and perhaps in the future he, himself, could use that knowledge.

The person behind the wheel shifted once, then settled his stocky body again. "Is she late?" he asked without turning.

The smoker raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter? We don't have to worry about Skinner arriving early, you know."

The younger man smiled. With his hard-featured face, the gesture looked slightly sadistic rather than pleasant. "After she arrives, I will need a short time to finalize the impressioning," he said.

How easily he discussed this manipulation of another living, reasoning being.... Jonathan sucked in the smoke deeply, held it in his lungs to let it out again in a slow trickle through his nostrils. Why did he imagine that he, himself, would always be immune if *that* was another sign of what was to come? As far as he was concerned, after this afternoon there would be no need for any more such theatrics with *her.*

Mariel Skinner crossed herself with holy water on her way out of the church. She'd barely made it to the late afternoon service in time, but she'd never missed a holyday yet and intended to keep on not missing them. She was glad that she hadn't had to eat any soda crackers for a while to ease afternoon nausea attacks, so she'd gone to communion after the preparatory fasting time. --- You made it a near thing, though, Sweetie --- she mentally informed the baby. --- Hope I've got more crackers in the car. ---

While she was still working patiently through the departing parishioners toward the church lot exit, the car phone rang. She clicked it automatically to speaker mode, swallowed the mouthful of cracker, and said, "Skinner here."

The answering chuckle sent an extra throb to her heartbeat. "Here, too, honey," Walter's voice said. Then his tone changed. "And here I'll be until at least 10 o'clock, I'm afraid, maybe later."

"Oh, heck," Mariel said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. "Sweetie and I were looking forward to a good cuddle tonight." Mariel was trying to keep her bedtime fairly regular now that she was pregnant, so she could count on a certain amount of rest every night, and kind of "catch up" on her drowsy spells during the day. When Walter was late, she sometimes fell asleep before he came home, try as she might to stay awake. Looking left and right then left again at the main street, Mariel turned left at a break in the traffic. "Hmmm," Walter's deep voice murmured, relaxing her as she accelerated to join the traffic flow. "That's a fine incentive to finish work soon." Mariel could feel warmth slowly suffusing her cheeks. She wondered if her husband was alone in his office. Surely he wouldn't talk like *that* in front of Kimberly or an agent.

He went on, "If I'm home by, say, midnight, will I get a reward?" His voice was dark, honeyed velvet, like a warm, moist breath against her ear. The sound alone gave her a sweet little quiver, and her soft lips parted to a sigh. --- Oh, my love --- she thought --- last year at this time I never dreamed I would be hearing things like this from my own husband. Please don't stop.... ---

"O.K.," she whispered, hoping that her voice was affecting him, too. "You'll get something nice, because... I'll be all warm and ready." --- Oh, dear --- she thought --- Was that too much? ---

There was a moment of breath-held silence, until Walter's voice murmured, "Mmm...don't do that to me, love, when I can't do anything about it." Then he laughed, the warm, free sound echoing in the car. "Mariel," he teased, "talking like this over the phone *must* be illegal!"

She laughed, too, sparkling right back at him. "Then when you get home, I'll have to throw myself into the arms of the law."

His voice in answer was a shivery whisper of silken menace with an undertone of laughter. "In that case, Mrs. S., you'd best be prepared for the law to show no mercy."

Reveling in the wordplay, Mariel replied, "I'm counting on it, Mr. S."

There was a pause, and Walter's voice changed again. "Take care of yourself, honey. I have to get back to work." Still warm, but more quietly professional; Mariel realized that someone must have come into his office.

She replied in kind. "O.K. Love you." Closing the connection at last, Mariel sighed, then giggled, surprising herself with the spontaneity of the sound. --- Mmm, my imagination is working now, sweetheart --- she thought. --- You may be surprised at what I come up with. --- Then she calmed a bit, hoping that she hadn't actually, well, aroused Walter with her verbal sparring. That really wouldn't have been fair to -- how had her great-grandmother put it? -- "light him up when you're not there to put him out." Well, she knew that when he got home, they'd take care of each other just right.

Mariel sighed then, turning the car down the alder-lined street leading to their driveway. That was another thing: having a tactile, physically affectionate spouse after 34 years of chastity had taken some getting used to. Walter may be a hard-nosed, demanding but fair boss at work, but at home he liked to touch. Not obtrusively: a hand on her shoulders; a stroke along her arm or throat; a pat on her bottom. And in bed together.... She sighed again, her eyes glowing as she turned the car into the driveway, touching the brake pedal gently. --- I'm thankful for him --- she thought. --- We keep each other warm and happy. --- Stopping the car in the garage, Mariel shut off the ignition and opened the door, swinging her long legs out from under the dashboard as she stood up.

"There she is," the driver said, and unlocked the door.

The smoker sat up straighter, hand automatically reaching to adjust his tie. Realizing the uselessness of the gesture, Jonathan cursed under his breath. "How long?" he asked, bracing an elbow on the dashboard as he turned.

His companion's eyes were locked on the tall woman's form as she swung both legs out of the parked car and stood up, ducking to avoid the car's roof. "How long?" The driver shrugged, the gesture looking awkward somehow, as if he wasn't accustomed to using his muscles for that gesture. "You'll have plenty of time," he answered obliquely, and swung the driver's door open.

The smoker exited the vehicle when the other did, and stood leaning an arm on the car roof while he waited. The woman had reached the porch and was unlocking the house door when a sudden movement to his left distracted him. Glancing over, he stared in surprise as his companion slumped against the hood. Big hands splayed upon the metal to arrest a fall, the man leaned heavily upon his arms, his head dipping as if his neck was made of loose string.

"What the hell...?" the smoker grated, moving around the car to grab the man's upper arm. "What's the matter?"

"I can't," the person replied, voice as hard as his face. "Not while...He is there."

Jonathan dropped his hand, confused. " 'He'? Skinner's inside? How did he leave his office without our hearing of it?" Someone would pay for such an oversight, the smoker knew.

His companion shook his head, his body still braced against the car. "No...not the one she calls 'husband.' " His eyes closed, lids pressed firmly together. "I cannot complete the impressioning while His Real Presence is there." The man shifted, edging around the car to drop down heavily into the driver's seat.

The smoker had no notion what this person was talking about. A "Presence" that prevented him from dominating Mrs. Skinner's conscious, reasoning mind? Jonathan shook his head, while a part of his own mind realized that it might be a very necessary thing to discover what this "Presence" might be. His associate had called it "He," as if referring to a person rather than a thing.....

"We must wait," the man said, and dropped his face into his palms.

Mariel made a sandwich for herself, and verified that there was plenty of roast beef left for Walter. If he'd sent out for something to eat at his desk, he might not want much more food when he got home. After a light supper, Mariel loaded the dishwasher, mentally reviewing the next day's schedule. Next, she put through a small wash load, then walked upstairs, taking care to hold the bannister. --- Maybe we can attach one of those lift chairs --- she thought cheerfully --- to sweep me up and down. --- Laughing inwardly at her mental image of a ski lift on the stairwell, she continued down the hall toward the study.

Mariel had just sat down at the desk when a wave of sheer exhaustion swept over her. Slumping forward, she settled her head down onto her arms and closed her eyes. The sound of the squeaky front door lock recalled her to herself, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. --- Gosh, I...I fell asleep --- she thought. --- And now Walt's home. --- She stood up quickly, and reached the stairway landing in time to see her husband crossing the parquet flooring toward the kitchen.

"Oh, heck, sweetheart," she called down, remembering something. "I haven't had a chance to get your reward fixed up yet."

He looked up and smiled. "My reward? Oh, oh yes, of course." He moved toward her. "Plenty of time for that...honey," he said, starting up the stairs.

"Want a little preview?" Mariel asked with an almost shy smile, starting down the stairs at the same time.

He stopped a step below her. "Certainly," he smiled encouragingly, and waited while she lifted her arms to his shoulders. Soft sweep of dark, mahogany-colored hair; still drowsy grey eyes; the scent of a spicy-floral cologne -- he didn't try to suppress the warm swell of desire within him. She lifted her mouth for a kiss, and for the first time, Jonathan gathered the woman he loved into his too-long empty arms....

The man put the telephone receiver back into the cradle and leaned against the wall. --- They always put the pay phones back by the johns --- he thought distastefully, shifting his protruding stomach sideways to avoid a customer stumbling by towards the men's room. Better cover, anyway, he decided. No one looked twice at a bar patron heading for the bathroom.

He stood waiting, looking amusedly in the meantime at the names and phone numbers promising a "good time" that were scratched into the plaster wall. The names hadn't changed since he was a young man, he noticed: Trixi, Fifi, Roxy.... He shook his head. The names may not have changed, but the times sure had. --- Who'd be crazy enough to call one of those numbers in *this* day and age? --- he asked himself. --- You're safer keeping it in your pants. ---

The phone rang twice, then stopped. A five second interval, and it rang again, three times. After the third ring he picked it up. "Yeah.... No, no change on me. Got a couple of wooden nickels, though.... Look, I read that obituary in the paper. Damn sorry about that boy...." In his peripheral vision, the speaker caught the man coming out of the restroom. His talk shifted effortlessly until the other went back through the door leading into the bar. "Thash wha' I sed, ba-bee...The boss he sesh t'me....O.K., gone now.... Sure.... When do you want me to be there?... Might take me a couple of hours to get it all together. That do?... Sure, that's fine. Tell her not to worry.... Hell, yeah -- as long as the neighbors don't call the cops about the drunks.... Yeah, watch your back."

The arrangements completed, he hung up and leaned against the wall. Pushing a dirty hand under his shirt to scratch his rotund belly, the barfly laughed silently, breath wheezing past crusted lips. --- Damn if I'm not good --- he thought cheerfully. --- Always did like hanging around those fancy neighborhoods. ---

Of course, it was no laughing matter for the other man, he knew, sobering. Well, he owed Skinner more than what this little watchdog duty would pay for. Hell, maybe in that kind of neighborhood he might find himself some well-heeled widow or divorced lady. You never knew what was around the bend. Shoving his shirttails back into his pants, he pushed off the wall and weaved his way to the door that led to the alley and his waiting transportation.

Mmm... so much sensation... so many sensory delights that he scarcely knew which he should focus his mind on first. All right... the scent.... How could he have forgotten that special scent of a woman's skin and hair: the warm, sweet smell of life and a beating heart mingling with the clean odor of soap and some delicately-scented cologne. Nice.... Then the feel of smooth arms around his neck, a firm yet pliant body pressed against his, her breasts yielding to his chest. Very nice....

Although the smoker had not been celibate since Lorene's death, there'd been no one whom he'd wanted to have around after the passion was completed. Not that any woman would have *wanted* to stay, had she really known him. Only Lorene.... And now, at least for him, the wife of another man.

The tall, mahogany-haired woman in his arms stirred and murmured, "This is a very nice hug, Mr. S., but where's my kiss?" Her voice was cheerful and teasing, and Jonathan leaned back a little to look at her. He realized that Mariel's calling him "Mr. S." must be part of a verbal game between her and the Assistant Director, so he responded in the only logical way.

"Not yet, Mrs. S.," he replied. "I have to keep my mind on business for a while longer."

She sighed, then grinned, moving sideways on the step and pulling one of his hands to her abdomen. "Oh, o.k.," she said. "At least give Sweetie a kiss," she continued, guiding his hand down her abdomen toward the juncture of her thighs.

His grey eyes widened as his gaze dropped to her abdomen. He saw the tiny swelling mound there even as he felt the tenderness with which she stroked his hand over that special, sheltering place.... He pulled his hand away, catching his breath as realization struck him with the force of a mule kick to the belly.

Mariel Skinner was pregnant. She was carrying Skinner's baby. She wasn't showing, really, and Jonathan reasoned that it must have happened in Arizona. Maybe during the time when he, himself, was returning to D.C., she'd been with her husband sharing the fervent bliss of reunion, giving herself to him without reservation or restraint.

Jonathan swallowed a cold, bitter laugh. If he hadn't been so aware that Mariel was a one-man woman, if he hadn't let her sleep alone that night in the hotel before the desert trek, maybe the baby would have been his. Not that he deserved to pass on something of himself. But it would have been an...interesting situation.

He gathered his wits together and managed to tease her a little. "No... that'll *really* distract me," he said, quirking an eyebrow. She blushed, and his eyes were drawn to the soft coral flush on her cheeks. Ignoring the instinctive tightening inside him, he took her hand and led Mariel down the stairs. As they walked, he tried to distract himself by glancing around at the tasteful decor. He wondered which of the furnishings had belonged to Skinner and which Mariel had brought to the union. Of course, they had probably bought the master bedroom suite together, he reasoned, coolly facing his mental vision of Mariel sleeping, happily exhausted, in Skinner's embrace. Exhausted in the aftermath of the love that had found fruition within her.... He took a breath, focusing on his business here. In the living room, the smoker settled onto the couch, drawing Mariel down beside him. "This is tiresome, I know," he said, "but I have to ask you some other questions about what happened in Arizona." She tucked her feet up on the cushions, sliding her arm around his shoulders. "O.K., but why?" she asked, pushing a sweep of hair behind her ear. "I thought that Agent Torelli covered everything."

Jonathan focused on the coffee table, considering the order of his questions. "She did, of course," he replied. "But a certain... situation has arisen since the debriefing, and I require additional information from you." Turning his head, he found her face only a few inches away, and was arrested by the warmth in her grey eyes. Mariel was looking at him with acceptance, tenderness and something else that he only could describe as "friendship caught fire": that special emotional rapport that some couples found in their marriages.

For the second time that evening, the shock of reality was wrenchingly painful to him. Mariel wasn't looking at *him*, at Jonathan, the lean, greying, wrinkled puppeteer for the cause. She was, quite literally, looking at her husband, and the smoker could see the physical proof before his eyes. Her grey eyes were unfocused, holding the same vacant, sightless gaze as of an extremely nearsighted person without glasses. She was looking at a vision within her own mind, as if she was facing a screen held up behind her eyes upon which was being projected a holographic image of Walter Skinner. Her mind was not her own, and the smoker felt a sudden disgusted distaste for this whole affair.

--- So are my own feelings simply a joke? --- he asked himself bitterly. --- I thought that I loved this woman, and yet I've subjected her to this? --- Toying with her mind and her perceptions, invading her home and her life as casually as though he had some right to do so. Was *that* another glimpse of the future, a time in which no one could be sure that their thoughts and even the images before their eyes were a reflection of reality, or simply some distortion forced on their consciousness for some other end? He shook his head. --- Ask your questions, then... and get the hell out of here. Go find a woman you can honestly have, even if you have to pay her for her company... --- Bleakly, saddened by the realization that he couldn't live in the fantasy even if buying into it would bring Mariel Skinner into his life and his bed for a little while, the smoker stood up. Reaching into his pocket, he activated the tiny recorder and proceeded to ask the questions that he had written down a few days before.

Walter Skinner looked up from his desk when the door leading from Kimberly's office opened. His admin assistant put her head and shoulders around the door and said, "Excuse me, sir, is there anything else you want me to do?"

He exhaled slowly, pushing his arms against the desktop and sitting far back in the chair to stretch out his upper body. "I didn't realize that you were still here, Kimberly," he said, pushing his glasses closer to his face. "But, no, I don't think there's anything else."

She nodded, brown hair bouncing lightly against her shoulders with the motion, but her eyes were on the papers stacked in several piles before him. Walking up to his desk, she set her purse on one of the "visitor's chairs" and laid her fingertip on top of one pile. "Sir, isn't this the Section Chief's quarterly report? The one about the cash-flow charts?"

"Yes, it is," Skinner replied, pulling off his glasses to look up at Kimberly's face. She was frowning, he realized, and he asked, "Why? Is there something the matter with them?"

"No, but I didn't think they were due for another week," she said. "I just now finished downloading the specifications for the new formatting that I was supposed to use to set them up for you."

Putting his glasses back on, Skinner set a couple of folders aside and picked up a memo sheet. He handed it to Kimberly, and said, "When I got back from that meeting with the Deputy Director, this memo was on my desk directing that I have the report done by tomorrow morning. Didn't they mention the new specs when they asked you to set this up?"

Frowning, Kimberly stared at the memo. She didn't remember signing this, even though her initials were at the bottom as the typist. "I... I honestly don't remember this memo coming through me, sir. Those are my initials, but... why would we be directed to do a report that would have to be immediately redone anyway with the spec changes?"

Uneasy without knowing exactly why, Skinner carefully folded the memo and placed it in his shirt pocket. "Welcome to the wonderful world of bureaucracy," he remarked, then came to a decision. "All right, Kimberly. Go on home, and I'll put all this away for now. In the morning you can find out when this stuff is *really* due."

"I will, sir, first thing," she said, picking up her purse again. Kimberly had been in government service long enough to recognize another clerical nightmare in the making, and couldn't suppress a sigh. She caught her boss's sympathetic glance and said, "Good night, sir. Give my best to Mrs. Skinner."

Mariel blinked, groaning a little in discomfort as she tried to focus her leaden-lidded eyes. She was as exhausted as if she'd just finished crawling home from the college on her hands and knees, and it took several more minutes for her head to clear enough to realize where she was. She was sitting slumped over the desktop in Walter's and her study, her head pillowed on her arms. At last, the sound of the squeaky front door lock recalled her completely to herself, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. --- Gosh, I... I fell asleep --- she thought. --- And now Walt's home. --- She stood up quickly, catching the edge of the desk to ride out a spasm of dizziness, and finally reached the stairway landing in time to see her husband crossing the parquet flooring toward the kitchen.

Hearing her footsteps above him, Walter Skinner looked up and changed his direction. Mmm, she was all the sustenance he needed, he decided, and walked up the stairs to gather Mariel in his arms. She looked so sleepy and disoriented, and he kissed her tenderly, nuzzling under her ear. "Hey, looks like you need to get to bed, honey," he said, sliding his lips up to kiss her ear. "I don't want you waiting up for me like this if it's going to wear you out."

Mariel cuddled her arms around his neck, needing to be close to him. "I'm o.k.," she murmured, beginning to succumb to the exhaustion again. "I don't think so, love," Walter chuckled, lifting her up into his arms. "I'm taking you to bed before you fall asleep on your feet."

Mariel pressed her lips to his throat, nibbling gently. "I'd rather do it in your arms," she whispered.

In the master bedroom, Walter set her down beside the bed and threw back the comforter. "Do what in my arms, Mariel," he teased gently, easing her down onto the mattress and taking off her blouse. "Fall asleep?" "Umm-hmmm," she breathed, eyes closed now, breathing settling almost into the rhythm of sleep. "And making love...." Her head drooped against his shoulder, and she cuddled automatically to find a comfortable spot on his body to rest.

Smiling, Walter gently shifted her head to the pillow, lifted her legs up onto the mattress, and slipped both thumbs under the waistband of her linen slacks, easing them down and off her legs. She nestled into the bedclothes and he spread the comforter over her body. Kneeling beside the bed, Walter smoothed her hair back, lightly kissed her temple and cheek and parted lips. "Good night, honey," he murmured. "Let's both collect our reward in the morning."....

Afternoons like this one sometimes made Patrolman Morris question his choice of a vocation. The lowering sun was over his left shoulder as he drove north along the state highway, its light glaring through the untinted driver's window with painful strength. His uniform was wet under the sleeves and he could feel warm sweat trickling along his spine in the enclosed car. The patrol cruiser's air conditioning only moderated the temperature when the unit was actually operating: whenever he turned it off, the interior heat became blinding again within seconds. Toying momentarily with the idea of requesting a transfer to Flagstaff with its high mountains and pine forests and brisk winters, Morris reached down to adjust the air vents.

Then he squinted through the windshield, focusing on a wavering blob in the heat-haze ahead. Soon the blob resolved itself into a car, drawn off onto the shoulder of the road. Morris could see a man standing beside the open hood, and the young patroman sighed at the familiar sight. Didn't anybody carry along extra radiator water in the desert, to say nothing of full bottles to drink in case of mishap? Shaking his head, Morris eased a foot down onto the brake pedal, gradually slowing his vehicle. The patrolman edged his cruiser onto the firm sandy verge of the road, bringing the vehicle to a halt some ten feet behind the disabled car. He noticed that the man standing by the open hood was shading his eyes and looking back in his direction. As he set the cruiser's brake, Morris could see the steam boiling up from under the open hood, and the patrolman smiled grimly to himself at the visual confirmation of his guess about what was wrong here.

Before he stepped out of the patrol car, the young officer lifted the radio handset to report his location and give the "code 6" that indicated he was exiting his vehicle. Automatically leaving the radio on, he turned up the volume enough so he could hear it clearly from outside before swinging out of his vehicle to approach the disabled car.

"Afternoon, sir," he said pleasantly, dark eyes alert behind his sunglasses. "What's the trouble here?" The other man lowered his hand. He was big, broader than the young patrolman, with a body build that would be the envy of a professional wrestler. "My car is out of water," he replied, his voice as hard as his expression. --- Ridiculous internal combustion engines --- the man thought sourly. He hated the backwater technology these people thought so advanced, and despised this desolate country with a passion that was almost nauseating. But he had a job to finish, and would do so despite his aversions. "I can give you enough water to get you into Coolidge," Morris said. "You'd better have the radiator checked when you get there -- and buy a few gallons of water to put in your trunk."

"I'll do that, officer," the man said, and stood quietly watching while the young patrolman walked to the rear of his vehicle and opened the trunk. This official vehicle would provide the perfect cover for him, he decided. The man he was following should have no reason to distrust a law-enforcement car, and might even turn to its driver for assistance. Yes, the plan was good... a much better idea than continuing the pursuit in a car which was familiar to his quarry. His decision made, the big man silently approached the patrolman, who was reaching into the trunk for another gallon bottle.

Patrolman Morris heard no warning sound, and felt no prickle of precognition before massive hands closed around his throat from behind. Pure instinct coupled with training guided his muscles as he reached up to gouge his thumbnails into his assailant's exposed wrists. Jamming his upraised foot against the back bumper at the same instant, Morris shoved all his weight backwards in a move that would have taken a normal man off his feet with the patrolman landing on his assailant's stomach. But as it was, the stocky man only stumbled back a couple of paces, never relaxing the pressure on the younger man's carotid arteries. Only a few more seconds now....

Morris's last conscious thoughts were of his year-old daughter, hugging his knees while she laughed up at him with sparkling blue eyes and a huge grin. Then his weight collapsed completely against the big man behind him, who simply stepped back to let the patrolman slump onto the desert ground. Unconcerned whether the officer was dead or simply unconscious, the man stripped him of weapon, I.D., and handcuffs before delving into pockets for the car keys. Then he stood up, frowning for a moment. Uncertain himself about why this thought came to him, the stocky man set a gallon bottle of water next to the patrolman's head before turning away to claim the prize of the young man's car.

Jenny Sanders blinked awake to the soft wash of light from the bedside lamp. She sighed, rubbing her eyes gently as she rolled onto her back. The bedroom was dusky but for the dim glow from the nightstand lamp, and she could just make out the loom of a figure beside the bed. "Grant?" she murmured sleepily, leaning on her elbow for a better look. "Sorry, Baby. Didn't mean to wake you." The mattress sagged as Grant Sanders sat down, and Jenny lay back again. Air puffed in the open west-facing windows with a breath of coolness from the desert night, and she was glad that she'd opened the curtains before going to bed. "That's o.k," she replied, pulling the pillow under her cheek and gently kicking the sheet off so she could enjoy the cool air. Then she realized that there was no familiar warm weight stretched beside her feet. "Didn't you let Gandalf in?"

"Yes," Sanders replied, unbuttoning his shirt. "He's in keeping Mrs. Byers company. I guess he's adopted her for the duration." He slid the shirt off, then stood up again to unfasten his pants.

Jenny heard the soft rasp of the zipper and watched in drowsy contentment as her husband stepped out of his pants and draped them over the foot of the bed. --- Come on to bed, honey --- she thought. --- You can't do any more tonight about Joe. --- Sitting up again, Jenny tugged her nightgown from under her hips and drew the soft material up over her head. But there was more on her mind than a bedtime cuddle, and she bit her lip in distress at the thought of their troubled, impromptu house-guest. Grant hadn't allowed Laurel Byers to leave the house, and when Jenny had opened the windows earlier she'd seen the familiar government sedan parked across the street. Jenny Sanders knew a stake-out when she saw one, and realized that her husband must have arranged for it when he faxed that surveillance-camera picture off for identification. "Grant, is it... is it going to be all right?" Jenny asked, turning toward him. "Have you heard *anything* from the highway patrol or from Agent Matthews?"

Sanders turned out the bedside light and slid under the cool sheet, opening his arms in an easy, familiar movement. Jenny settled into his embrace, and Grant murmured appreciatively at the touch of her bare skin against him. "Nothing yet," he replied, gently rubbing Jenny's smooth back. "I don't know if I really expected anything so soon... I guess that I hoped I'd hear."

Jenny stroked Grant's still-healing scars gently, wishing that the touch of her fingertips could both smooth them completely away and also remove all of his memories of the hurt. "Joe's important to you, isn't he?" she asked softly, leaning down to kiss the scars.

"Yeah." As Jenny's kisses moved lightly, delicately over his skin, Grant Sanders felt himself relaxing for the first time in hours. He knew that his wife was correct: the prickly, acerbic informant had become a person to him, not just a voice on the phone or a brief presence in his office. Joe had become a man who simply wanted the chance to live a normal life, have a family, pay his bills and grouse about high taxes like any other normal man. Another life linked to his own, just as the man's wife, now sleeping in their guest room, was also linked. --- We're all in this together --- he thought, mentally voicing a cliche', perhaps, but that didn't matter. He knew that he would do whatever he could to ensure Joe's and Laurel's safety. If only it wasn't already too late....

Jenny's soft mouth had reached his own, and Sanders stopped thinking of anything but his love and his need for his wife. --- 23 years and I still get a kick out of her --- he thought warmly, and whispered out loud, "Hey, Baby... I'm getting the feeling that you want to play."

"Hey, yourself," she whispered back, sinking completely into her husband's embrace. "Since you're back in action, I don't want you to forget how this works."

"Not a chance, Baby," he chuckled, and showed her that he did, indeed, remember *everything*. After a while, deciding that, from all appearances, Jenny must still get a kick out of him, he was drifting into sleep when the bedside telephone buzzed.

Jenny whispered, "The machine will pick it up." Sanders groaned at the inopportune call, but pushed himself up on an elbow to reach for the phone. "You know me better than that, Baby," he murmured, kissing her once more before lifting the receiver. "Sanders," he said firmly into the mouthpiece. Then, "Is he alive? Can he i.d. the guy?... Yeah, thank goodness on both counts.... No, I'll be in. Start your people moving."

Sanders replaced the phone and sat up, reaching for his pants. "I'm going downtown, Jen," he announced, dressing quickly. "Some field workers found a body north of Picacho, on the state highway, and a highway patrol car is missing."

Jenny sat up openmouthed. Grant wasn't usually so forthcoming about "the gory details," as she sometimes called them, of his work. --- Well, hell... if he can't trust me who can he trust? --- she thought. --- Besides, he's worried about his friend. --- Halfway out the bedroom door, Sanders swung around. "Baby, I'm trusting you to keep Mrs. Byers here. She may be in danger, too."

"The body," Jenny gasped, "was it, was it Joe?"

"No." Thank goodness for that, anyway. But a stolen highway patrol car threw a new menace into this game, Sanders recognized. Praying that Joe would continue in his habits of mistrust, the Phoenix SAIC retraced his steps quickly and pulled his wife close for a final hard kiss. "Keep safe, Baby," he murmured, "and watch out for the kids *and* Mrs. Byers."....

Her shoulder was moving, she realized. Someone's hand was on her shoulder, shaking it gently. A large hand, wide-palmed, with strong fingers that moved now to her temple, stroking back her hair. Now there was breath, warm against her ear, and a deep, velvet voice that whispered, "Time to wake up, love."

"Oh, heck," Mariel Skinner murmured drowsily. "Do I have to?"

Walter's voice became a chuckle. "Yes, you have to. At least, you told me yesterday morning that you had to get in early today."

Oh, yes, she remembered now. Mariel opened her eyes, to find Walter sitting on the bed beside her. Gently rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she decided that he'd only just gotten up himself because he still wore the soft flannel boxers she'd given him, half as a joke, half because the soft, warm material felt so good when she cuddled up to him at night. At least, on the nights when they wore anything at all.

Mariel smiled a little, tenderly, at her thoughts. After 34 years of chastity, she was happy and thankful to be able to enjoy her husband, and to feel with his embraces how much he enjoyed her. Of course, it was important for her to feel Walter beside her even if they didn't make love. --- His *presence* is important --- she thought. --- The touch of his soul, for want of a better phrase --- And the fulfillment of that touch had created new life within her....

"Honey, you're drifting off again," Walter said, his voice coming from close beside her head. "Sure you're awake?"

Mariel opened her eyes with a start. "Oh! Oh, yes, yes I am." She smiled and reached up to tug gently on both his earlobes. He smiled back and let her pull his head down for a "good-morning" kiss. After a while, Walter reluctantly released her mouth and Mariel stretched languidly, reaching high up over her head before letting her arms fall back lightly to her sides. Walter caught her hands to kiss both the palms. "If you say so," he chuckled. "I'll go get dressed now." Still drowsy, Mariel leaned back and watched him walk across the room, enjoying the loose, easy way he moved. He seemed so comfortable and at ease in his muscular body, and she remembered that she'd noticed that quality of physical grace early in their relationship. Allowing herself one final, gentle fantasy before turning her thoughts to the tasks ahead, she let her eyes drift peacefully, lovingly over her fine, strong man as he stood by the closet door. --- O.K., Mari, --- she decided with a sigh. --- Time to hit the day. --- Sliding her long legs out of bed, she glanced down and blinked. Now, what the heck...? "Um, honey," she asked, "what am I doing sleeping in my bra and panties?"

"Don't you remember?" Walter came back over to the bed, throwing his trousers and shirt across the footboard before he stepped out of his boxers. "You fell asleep waiting up for me last night. I carried you to bed and didn't want to disturb you too much by taking everything off."

"Oh." Funny, she didn't remember falling asleep like that. --- Well, if you were that tired --- she reasoned to herself --- you probably wouldn't remember much. --- She did remember her dream, however. Vivid, detailed, in technicolor complete with sound effects -- indeed, as were all her dreams -- the dream had featured herself and, of all people, the smoking man. They'd been in the living room, sitting on the sofa talking, and he'd asked her a list of questions about their recent desert trek. Then he'd left, telling her to remember to lock the door, and the dream faded off at that point. If there had been more, she didn't recall it.

Absently opening the nightstand drawer to retrieve her stash of saltine crackers, Mariel took a moment to consider the dream while she nibbled one. It probably had been natural for her subconscious mind to relive that painful adventure in some way. Maybe she'd dreamed of a question and answer session because of her experience with the official debriefing after she and Walter had returned from Arizona. That made sense, she supposed, as did her sleeping mind's casting of the smoker in the role of the interrogator. Mariel had never given much thought to dream interpretations before, and a glance at the bedside clock confirmed that she had no time this morning to start.

Mariel stood up, taking a moment to draw the sheet and comforter up over the pillow. Straightening at last, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and clutched at the corner bedpost as a spell of nausea churned up from her belly. This time, the feeling did not ease, but rather escalated quickly. Realizing that she had to get to the bathroom, Mariel half-ran around the bed, bumping a startled Walter as she hurried across the smoothly-polished hardwood floor toward the bath. She managed the trip just in time. After a few unpleasant seconds, she heard Walter's step and his concerned voice as he entered the bathroom behind her. "Hon', what's the matter?"

Mariel didn't bother trying to answer. Clutching the toilet tank, she leaned over to ride out the nausea. "Isn't it obvious?" she gasped in a pause between the miserable bouts. But at last it was over, and she felt strong, warm hands closing around her upper arms, drawing her away from the toilet. Walter eased her down onto the edge of the bathtub, then returned to the sink to moisten a washcloth.

"Here you go, honey," he said, gently wiping her face with the cool, damp cloth. "Are you sure you're all right? You never vomited in the morning before."

She felt better now, and smiled. "I'm just pregnant, Walt," she said, standing slowly. He immediately embraced her waist and she leaned gladly against the strong support of his big frame. "Women have been having babies for umpteen years," she chuckled. "We're specially designed for the job, you know."

His arm tightened in a firm, affectionate hug. "Yeah," he murmured, trying to ease his apprehension with a little tease. "I've noticed some of those *special designs*, honey."

Mariel giggled, feeling much better now that the nausea had passed, at least for the moment. While Walter drew a small cup of water for her to rinse her mouth, she tried her own little tease in return. "Uh-huh... and I think you like them, too."

"As long as they're yours, little love," he said, and rubbed the back of her neck as she bent over the sink. --- Your *special designs* are the only ones that interest me, Mariel --- he thought. --- I hope that you realize that fact by now. --- "Do you feel well enough to get dressed now?" he asked aloud.

"Sure," she replied. "Why don't you turn on the shower? And it'll go faster if we share the tub."

"All right," he smiled. "But I think that it'll only go faster if all we do in there is *shower*."

Fighting a grin as she shed her undergarments, Mariel held up her right hand. "In the interest of both of us getting to work on time, I promise to keep my *special designs* to myself." Letting the smile come fully, she said, "Dibs on the spot closest to the shower head."

The room was clean. He could say that much about it, at any rate. The bathroom, although fitted with plumbing that looked as though it was from the early '50s, was also clean. The window beside the small dresser could not be opened, but an individual "swamp cooler" unit was propped into its sill. At least the machine was circulating the air, even if the old evaporative cooling unit didn't do much to lower its temperature.

Joe lay on the bedspread, the pillow jammed into a roll behind his neck. He'd gotten only a couple of hours sleep after checking in here, and realized now that he wasn't going to drop off again. Deciding that there was no point in remaining here the rest of the night if we wasn't going to sleep any more, Joe sat up and went into the bathroom for a quick wash.

Rinsing the soap from his face and neck with brisk splashes of lukewarm water, the dark-bearded man wondered when his pursuer would appear in the rear-view mirror again. Although he hadn't seen the tail since he'd reached a point about ten miles south of Coolidge, Joe had no illusions that he'd permanently lost the man. After he checked out, he could take the chance of returning to the interstate -- which would make for a faster trip to Phoenix -- or continue on the state route north. The latter way would afford him more chances to use the streets of the intervening towns to lose any returning pursuer. Sacaton and Ocotillo were small farm communities, but Chandler was big enough to allow him to thoroughly lose the man if necessary. And Joe doubted that this person, whoever he was, had as much knowledge of the Southern Arizona desert as he, himself, did.

Joe pulled his shirt back on, then spun into a reflexive crouch as the sound of a telephone shrilled from the bedroom. Holding the freeze for a moment, Joe counted the rings even while he listened for any other sounds. Two rings... pause... three rings... Only two people had the number to this cell phone, he knew: Laurel, and Grant Sanders.

He reached the phone by the fifth ring and plucked it from where he'd stuck it into his toilet kit. Before he had a chance to say a word, a familiar voice murmured into his ear with a hasty, gasping sound. "Joe... are you there?"

"Laurel," he murmured back, relief slackening his taut-held muscles. "I've been trying to reach you for nearly three days."

"I... I've been trying, too," Laurel replied, and Joe could hear tears in his wife's voice. "I'm at your friend's house. You know... Grant? He wants me to stay, and they're looking for you. The highway patrol, I mean."

"All right. Stay there until I come for you." Thank goodness that Laurel had remembered his instructions. He knew that his wife would be safe at the Sanders's home until he got there to take her away. But what was this about the highway patrol?

"Say again, the last sentence," Joe instructed softly.

He heard Laurel's intake of breath before she repeated herself. Then he chuckled softly. Esteban had said he'd call the highway patrol. It was good to know that he had some friendlies at his back, anyway. "I'll be on the road within 10 minutes," Joe continued quietly. "It'll take maybe an hour and a half to reach you, but don't worry. I may have to take some detours."

"Just get back," Laurel whispered. "I want my kid to have a father."

Joe felt as though Laurel's whisper carried an electric charge that stiffened his body with a quivering tingle. "Say again," he commanded.

"I... I think I'm pregnant, Joe. I'm five days late."

Oh, yes, yes, he was definitely going to get back now, no matter who or what was in his way. --- Finally... we're going to start filling up the other bedrooms in our house --- he thought, and murmured back, "I hope you're right. I'm leaving now. I love you."

The sound of a kiss caressed his ear, and Joe knew that Laurel had pressed her lips to the mouthpiece in goodbye. Pressing the cut-off button, he shoved the phone into his pocket and pushed the remaining toilet articles into the travel case. Now this was more like it! A normal life at last... No more feeling like a fugitive rather than like a respected F.B.I. informant. He'd get Laurel and they'd find a place to start over.

About to walk out the door, Joe paused. No, it wouldn't do to let his excitement blur his watchfulness, he knew, and took a moment to settle down. If Laurel was pregnant, she'd still be pregnant when he got there. If he wasn't careful, she'd be left to raise the child by herself and that was the last thing that Joe wanted. He wanted to have a bookcase like the one in the Sanders's house: filled with family pictures and children's art projects and school team pennants. --- Just watch your step --- he counseled himself. --- There's still a lot of miles between here and Phoenix. ---

Joe let himself out of the motel room, key in hand, and hurried down the outside walkway to the lighted manager's office....

"Do come in, Jonathan." The old man stepped back from the door, right arm motioning his visitor inside with a gesture that was almost courtly. "It's very unpleasant when the weather turns warm so early in the day, don't you agree?"

The smoker inclined his head briefly as he entered, moving aside to give the older man room to close the door. Even at this hour, the smoker's old acquaintance was meticulously attired in a paisley silk dressing gown above immaculately-creased grey silk suit trousers and black leather shoes. With his greying hair and thin-lipped, weathered face, the man looked as though he could be filming a commercial for some expensive brand of liquor. "I find such weather typical of Washington in the Summer, actually," the smoker replied easily, and followed the older man down the hallway.

The window at the far end of the corridor was shuttered, the sunlight leaking through the shade in a single brilliant horizontal bar directly above the sill. Low wattage bulbs glimmered softly from overhead wall sconces that had the look of old-fashioned gas fixtures. Perhaps they had been gaslights at one time, the smoker reasoned. This uilding was old enough to have been fitted out originally with gas lines.

The older man paused beside an open door. "Please, take a seat," he said, waving the smoker into a room that was a combination reading room and office. Filled bookshelves lined two walls, and on a large desk was a telephone, fax machine and copier, and a computer terminal. The man sat down behind the desk and smiled, but the smoker could see no humor in the expression. "I'm anxious to learn the details of your recent interview," the older man said. "The message you passed on to me was not a very satisfactory one."

The smoker drew out cigarettes, unwrapped the fresh pack with practiced, almost lazy movements. "The message contained the pertinent details," he said, tapping the pack on his index finger. "I see," the well-dressed man said, leaning forward. "You decided on a 'need to know' approach, then." This time, the man's smile seemed more genuine, with a touch of what the smoker might have termed 'man-to-man' amusement. "May I assume that any other details were of a more... private or personal nature?"

Realizing that this man thought that he'd taken the opportunity of the interview to seduce AD Skinner's wife -- if it could be called 'seduction', he thought, when a woman thought that you were her husband -- the smoker covered his slight distaste at the man's last question by flicking his lighter, raising the flame to the tip of the cigarette. So... His old associate was a bit of a verbal voyeur, so to speak? An interesting thought to keep filed away. "Of course you may assume that," the smoker replied aloud, exhaling slowly with his words. "However, I decided that indulging in the personal details was neither appropriate nor necessary at the time," he finished with a deliberately bored tone.

The other chuckled. "I understand," he said. "Sometimes our work is not without its pleasures."

Meeting the other's amused gaze, the smoker realized that, despite anything he might say, his associate would persist with the erroneous conclusion that he, Jonathan, had claimed Walter Skinner's wife as one of these pleasures. Drawing deeply on the cigarette again, the grey-eyed man considered a moment, then shrugged inwardly. It could do no harm for the man to think that he and Mrs. Skinner were lovers. Perhaps his own knowledge of the man's error in this regard could be useful someday. Putting the thoughts aside for the moment, the smoker took the cigarette from his mouth and drew a breath to speak.

The telephone on the desk shrilled, and Jonathan replaced the cigarette while the other man answered. "Yes, of course I know who you are. Was it necessary to call here?" The older man stared down at the receiver, and the smoker could see the man's knuckles whiten as his fingers tightened their grip. "If you are correct, then you know what you must do.... Yes, of course.... I'm sure you won't make the mistake of letting it appear to be anything other than an accident.... Yes, inform me immediately."

The man replaced the receiver, and stood up, moving to a small liquor cabinet that stood against the wall behind the desk. He placed a decanter of liquor and two small glasses on a silver tray before carrying the drink service to the desk. As he pulled the stopper from the decanter, he looked over at his visitor with a smile. "I know that you don't drink so early in the morning, Jonathan, but would you care to reconsider and join me?"

The smoker raised his eyebrows. "Why? Are we celebrating something?" he asked.

"The man on the phone just now was our associate in Arizona," the older man replied, holding out a filled glass toward his visitor. "He thinks that his investigations have uncovered that which *you* failed to find."

Jonathan reached slowly for the glass, lifting his eyes to meet the other's gaze squarely. "I did not 'fail' to find anything," the smoker said, carefully choosing his words without seeming to. "As I reported to the group, there was nothing in that desert to find."

"And it didn't occur to you that it might have been taken away before you arrived to search?" The old man sipped his drink delicately, enjoying the warming flood of the liquor down into his belly. The smoker shrugged, carefully nonchalant. "Of course. The desert is full of packrats and other creatures that might have long since taken it away, if it ever was there. I'm not convinced that it was."

The older man chuckled, and settled down behind the desk again. "Because that eventuality would suit you better, old friend?" he remarked. --- If you ever were my friend --- he thought --- which I doubt. --- "Whatever the case," he went on briskly, leaning forward to rest his arms on the desktop, "our contact thinks that it's possible, although he doesn't have the same detection device that you so cavalierly sported on your wrist."

"That's correct, he does not," Jonathan returned pointedly. "And you know *why* he does not."

--- I'll grant you that point, Jonathan --- the well-dressed man thought, inwardly amused. --- You don't realize how few you have... --- He went on speaking as though his visitor had never opened his mouth. "He reported that he should have confirmation by sometime tonight. If it's true, and he retrieves it successfully, we will be able to test it at last." The smoker frowned slightly, remembering his own relief when he'd been unable to locate the device. He remembered the nail-sharp hammering of the heavy rain on his shoulders, the sodden slop of his clothes against his chilled body as he'd moved through the sycamore clump. He remembered, too, the utter confusion mingling with the pain and tautly-leashed anger on Mariel Skinner's wet, but lovely face. And most sharply, the smoker remembered the night of the interview when Mrs. Skinner, thinking that he was the assistant director, had drawn his hand to her slightly-swollen abdomen so his hand could cradle the child within her body. "Are you certain that's wise?" he asked, schooling his voice to a bored monotone. "Our other projects are going forward now, and any such testing would divert the necessary time and money."

Jonathan's host ran an absent fingertip around the rim of his glass. "That is a consideration, of course," he said. "One must apply one's resources where the outcome will be most profitable."

"And least dangerous," the smoker added, stubbing our his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the desk.

"Dangerous to whom?" the older man asked sharply, and Jonathan wondered if he'd inadvertently exposed himself in some way.

"To all of us, of course," the smoker countered, "and the test subject, naturally. We know nothing about this device, if it does actually exist. It would hardly do to have the testing end up terminating the subject -- in that eventuality, *everything* would be lost." The smoker set his unfinished drink on the tray and stood up. "I know that you'll consider all this very carefully before authorizing any action which may bring... irreversible consequences."

The older man arose also, and gestured to the library door. "You may be sure that I'll think deeply on the subject, Jonathan," he replied. "Your points have merit."

--- And we both know the decision is already made --- the smoker thought, taking his leave. --- And now I must do what I can to make sure it doesn't become irreversible. --- ....

Telephone receiver balanced between her shoulder and cheek, Jenny Sanders steadied the frying pan with one hand and reached toward the utensil tray with the other hand. On the fly back from the refrigerator with a pitcher of orange juice, Ben grabbed the spatula and smacked it into his mother's open palm rather like a scrub nurse passing the scalpel to a surgeon.

"There you go, Mom," the Sanders's youngest boy grinned, and the beam widened at his mother's wink.

"One for you, Ben," Jenny said, then raised her voice a little. "Nancy, start timing the bagels if you don't feel like having charcoal with the jam this morning. Kelly, the oatmeal needs a stir, honey." While the children set about their breakfast duties, Jenny stirred the spatula through the warm eggs, which were swiftly congealing into a proper scramble. Hmmm, a few more minutes and a touch of parsley and the eggs would be done, and once 12-year-old Kelly finished with the oatmeal they'd be ready to eat. "Ben," she called again over her shoulder, "please go knock on the guestroom door. Tell Mrs. Byers that breakfast is ready."

Busy doodling on the slick, moist surface of the juice pitcher, Ben didn't realize that his mother had spoken until Nancy stepped on his toes under cover of the table. "Sheesh, watch the toes!" he blurted, jerking his head up to glare crossly at his sister. Noticing Nancy's flick of her head toward the stove, Ben crumbled off an edge of his bran muffin and said, "Oops, what'd you say, Mom?"

"Our guest," Jenny Sanders said slowly and clearly, but with a twinkle in her voice. "Please tell her that breakfast is ready."

" 'Kay, Mom," Ben said around the grainy texture of the muffin in his mouth, then closed his fingers around the rest of the pastry, bending down to the plate to slurp up the remaining crumbly fragments. Ignoring a muttered "Yuck, gross!" from his sister, the auburn-haired boy slid from his chair without bothering to push it back from the table. Swallowing the last of the muffin, Ben said, "Say, Mom, is this gonna be her safe house for a while or something? Does she have some vital testimony that Dad needs?"

Jenny had long since ceased being surprised at how quickly her children picked up their father's expressions. "Honey," she said, unconsciously shifting the phone more firmly against her cheek, "leave all that up to your father, o.k.? Now, scoot." Turning back to the scrambled eggs, Jenny clicked her tongue in annoyance at the elevator music still droning from the receiver. She hated being kept on hold, especially when she was waiting for her husband to pick up the line. Of course, after what Grant had told her last night, she realized that there was no help for the wait this morning. At that moment, the elevator music shut off and Grant Sanders's voice spoke into Jenny's ear. "Yeah, Sanders here."

"Grant, it's me," Jenny said quickly, knowing that her husband couldn't take much time right now to talk. "Honey, we're having breakfast here, and, can you tell me if there's any news for Mrs. Byers?"

"No, it's a stalemate so far." The S.A.I.C.'s voice sounded rushed and yet tired at the same time. "Just tell her to keep hanging on. I'll call you when we have anything."

Intent on her husband's words, Jenny didn't realize that Ben had returned from his errand until a new voice spoke from across the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sanders."

At the sound of her houseguest's voice, Jenny Sanders turned from the stove to see Mrs. Byers entering the kitchen. The woman looked like she sounded, the S.A.I.C.'s wife realized: happy, relaxed, even radiant. The younger woman's generous mouth was pulled into a shy grin, and she fluffed self-consciously at her cinnamon-brown curls. Laurel's entire demeanor was in such contrast to the shuttered, troubled woman whom Jenny had comforted last night, that Mrs. Sanders found herself glancing over Laurel's shoulder, half-expecting to see Joe standing behind his now-contented spouse, hands on her shoulders and wearing a slightly sheepish grin.

"Is... is Joe here yet?" Laurel asked, looking around to take in the warm chaos in the Sanders's kitchen.

Jenny said quickly into the mouthpiece, "Grant, hang on."

A little surprised that Jenny should ask him to wait after she'd been on hold for so long, Grant Sanders looked up alertly when the fax machine buzzed. Tucking the cell phone into his shoulder, he crossed his secretary's office and pulled the incoming fax from the machine. He read the fax in a two-second glance and shook his head in exasperated disgust. "The onboard tracker in the cruiser still won't activate," he called across the office to Special Agent Matthews, then waved the younger man to answer the ring on the other phone line.

Matthews turned from the pin-dotted map spread out over the wall. "I thought those things were pretty much foolproof," the young agent said to Sanders as he reached for the ringing desk phone. He knew that the comm people downtown would have coded the tracker immediately after Patrolman Morris had failed to report himself back in after his radioed code 6 vehicle exit. Was it possible that the trooper's assailant knew about the tracker, and hence how to disable it? "F.B.I. field office, Matthews," he said, then held up one finger in an automatic 'wait one' gesture and leaned over the desk to grab a notepad. After a moment's scribbling, he said into the phone, "Thanks.... Yeah, get it if you can make it a quick one. No time to be fancy." Matthews passed the pad to the S.A.I.C.

-- Patrolman Awake -- Sanders read from the paper. -- He Remembers -- Good. Sanders knew that Captain Bowers, his highway patrol contact, would have an artist fax a sketch as soon as it was completed. Sanders himself, however, was grimly aware that he required no confirmation. He was almost positive that the sketch of Patrolman Morris's assailant would depict a thick-necked man with square-cut, glowering features: the man in Mrs. Byers' surveillance camera photo.

"Jen," he called into the cell phone's mouthpiece, "I can't hold here. Are you there?" Sanders could make out muffled words in the background as he held the receiver, and then Jenny's voice came clearly.

"Grant, Mrs. Byers has information. Here...." There was a momentary shift of background noises as the receiver was passed over, then Mrs. Byers's said, "Yes, um, Agent Sanders? Yes, my husband contacted me this morning. That is, I couldn't sleep, and I kept waking up and trying his cell phone. Around 4:30 I got through."

4:30... Sanders glanced at his wristwatch. Two and a half hours, give or take. "Laurel, what did he say?" the S.A.I.C. asked, and he used the woman's first name deliberately.

"Well, he said, er..." During the long pause, Sanders could almost hear Laurel's mental search for an appropriate phrase. "...he said what you'd probably say to Mrs. Sanders given the circumstances, then told me he was about an hour and a half away."

"Where was he?" Sanders interrupted.

"He didn't tell me -- said he'd come and get me." Another pause, and Sanders heard Laurel take a breath. "Um, then I remembered what you'd said last night about asking the highway patrol to search for him, so I told him that."

Sanders mouthed a voiceless curse, careful to keep the bitter sounds behind his teeth so the woman could not hear. Damn... he hadn't told Mrs. Byers about the trooper's attack and the stolen patrol car, and obviously Jenny hadn't, either. Had he made a possibly fatal error in unconsciously assuming that Joe would continue to be unreachable by phone? Sanders shook it off, knowing that self-recriminations, no matter how justified, would only cloud his thoughts. So, the last information that Joe had heard, and from his own wife's lips, was that friendlies were at his back. Laurel didn't need to know that, given the worst-case scenario, her innocently-imparted information might cost her husband his life. And the blame for such an outcome, Sanders decided, would rest on the agent in charge of the Phoenix field office.

"All right," Sanders said aloud. "Laurel, I want you to keep trying to contact him again. If you get through, tell him to keep his eyes open, and not to trust anyone. And I mean *no one*, not even the highway patrol. Put my wife on, please."

Jenny's voice came back. "Grant, what...?"

Sanders cut her off. "No time to explain right now, baby. Listen, I'm sending Matthews to the house; he'll stay there with Mrs. Byers in case Joe shows up. After Matthews arrives, you and the kids go to your dad's place until I contact you again. Clear?"

A split-second's silence on the other end bespoke Jenny's surprise, but Sanders knew that the flame-haired woman hadn't been his wife for 23 years for nothing. "Clear, Grant. Please, be careful, whatever you're going to do." Her voice was steady and strong, but a tiny tremor touched the last sentence.

"Don't worry." Sanders looked up as the fax machine sounded again for an incoming message. "Later, baby... I love you."

"I love you." Jenny broke the connection before he had a chance to press the disconnect button, and Sanders smiled despite the tension. He'd long since discovered that she hated protracted good-byes. Such farewells wouldn't bring them together again any quicker, and he couldn't divide his attention any longer between his family and... whatever might be happening now on the highway or the desert within an hour and a half's drive of Phoenix....

Joe had driven a little over ten miles before he regretted his decision to take this route. After leaving Coolidge before dawn, he'd turned west instead of continuing north along State Highway 87. Joe had originally planned to approach Chandler from the southeast by traveling this old secondary road, but he hadn't counted on the fact that the road was still heavily damaged from the monsoonal rains of late June and early July. Deep potholes and buckling cracks in the poorly-maintained asphalt paving forced him to keep his speed down, and he'd lost time. Too much time, perhaps.

He flicked a glance down at the dashboard clock. Damn... nearly seven already. After a quick study of the road behind as reflected in the rear-view mirror, Joe eased the car to a halt near the right shoulder. The road was completely empty in either direction but for the shimmers at the horizon that bespoke the promise of heat later in the morning. He knew that if he drove back south for a half-mile or so, he could pick up a spur that would lead back to 87.

For the past two hours he'd seen no cars behind him, nor, for that matter, had he seen any place along the road where a car could be hidden. So even if it was reasonable to assume that he'd lost his tail by now, Joe recognized that he hadn't lived so long in his profession by assuming anything. Making up his mind, he swung the car into a careful u-turn, backing for the final adjustment so the wheels wouldn't drop onto the sandy verge. A half-hour later, he knew he'd made the proper move. 87 was clear and open, and he began to make up the time. Dividing his attention between the road and his cell phone, he punched in S.A.I.C. Sanders's number for what must have been the sixth time that morning only to hear the same crackly hissing instead of a ring-through. Well, Laurel knew that he was on his way, and she'd probably passed on the word to Sanders.

If only she wouldn't worry about him -- it wouldn't be good for her in her condition. He'd get there, and they'd find a place... Oregon, maybe, or Idaho... and he'd raise their kid to fish and take apart and rebuild old radios and later he'd help teach the kid how to change diapers on his little brothers or sisters....

The flash of red and blue lights in the rear-view mirror sparked across Joe's eyes, drawing his attention back to the present. Cursing softly, he realized that a highway patrol car was perhaps 50 yards behind him, signaling for his attention. A moment later, he caught the brief, sharp blatt as the officer popped his siren.

Although he automatically eased his foot's pressure on the gas pedal, Joe was genuinely puzzled. He knew that his car was in good mechanical condition, and had no broken lights or dragging tailpipe to attract a trooper's attention. He hadn't been speeding, either -- at least, he amended to himself, not such that an officer patrolling this section of the desert highway would think it necessary to pull him over. And even if this was an officer involved in the search that Laurel had told him about, the man would have no reason to actually stop him, he decided.

Perhaps it was this anomaly in the usual, this tiny glitch in the known order of things, that sent the cool, almost subconsciously-felt frisson along Joe's nerves. A warning, perhaps, that all was not as it should be. The highway patrol vehicle closed the distance between the two cars and gradually drew up to his left. Joe slowed a little, glancing between the road ahead and the other driver, and realized that the patrolman was gesturing with his right hand. The man's hand was big and square, fitting very well with his solid, blocky frame and wrestler's arms with biceps that strained the fabric of the short-sleeved uniform shirt. There was something familiar about this person, Joe realized, but in that moment of distracted attention he could not place what it was. Obeying the hand gesture, Joe lowered his driver's window enough to speak through. "What's the trouble, officer?" he called, and looked at last at the man's face. At sight of the hard-featured face and cold eyes, Joe felt a twist inside his belly, a surge of sour bile and an urge to vomit, to somehow clear his body of the truth that hammered his emotions like a physical blow. The man's dark eyes were as empty as those of a corpse, and Joe remembered those eyes. Eyes only scarcely heeded at the time, and yet seared into his brain for all time by the terror of the moment remembered, Joe faced once more the man who had nearly strangled him to death. --- Oh, God... Now I'll never see my baby. --- The thought exploded in Joe's mind with nauseating force, but he shoved it down forcefully, angrily. --- Play it cool, here. He doesn't know that *you* know. --- Joe slowed the car briefly, quickly and automatically memorizing the lay of the land around him.

To the west and east of the narrow highway were blossoming cotton fields, the healthy green plants laden with the creamy white poufs of the burgeoning cotton balls. Irrigation ditches both bordered and bisected the fields, and some 100 yards away was the main irrigation line that fed the ditches, a wide concrete culvert that looked full enough to mean that the next field soaking was about due. In the far distance, he thought that he could make out moving shapes that might be combines or field hands, depending on how far away they really were. The driver of the patrol car considered the situation for a moment as the other vehicle began to slow down. He could kill his quarry as he sat, but he didn't want to use the ridiculous, expanding gasses from exploding powder hard slug weapon that the law enforcement officers carried here. Of course, no one would question his right to shoot a fleeing felon, but he decided that he'd best not chance using the gun.

After all, he didn't know whether his quarry had the object in the car, or on his person, or simply carried the knowledge of where the item had been hidden. The mechanism would be easy enough for him to retrieve from the car, or from its revealed hiding place, once the man was dead. On the other hand, if the man had it hidden in his clothes or upon his body, the hard-faced pursuer knew that he couldn't risk damaging the object by a gunshot.

He was not unaware that all of his considerations were pointless if the object did not exist -- and he had no concrete proof that it did. He couldn't kill the only person who knew whether the thing that he sought actually existed. The man gestured again, pointing forcefully to the shoulder of the road, and called out, "Stop your car."'

Joe smiled grimly. He had no intention of stopping, but there might be another option. He glanced down at his dashboard. Funny how the movements of driving were so automatic that he had to think a minute to place the location of all the controls. Yes, the gearshift lever in his car was mounted next to the steering column. Any movement of his hand toward the lever would be clearly visible to the other driver. Joe frowned, considering. If he could make the man think that he was gearing down in order to pull over, it might gain him time. Even a couple of seconds would do.

Making his decision, Joe slowed the car -- 45 mph... nearly 40 now... -- and grasped the shift lever, closing his fingers over the sun-warmed rubberized handle grip. Beside his car, the cruiser began to drop back, and he realized that his pursuer was preparing to pull in just behind him. Judging time and distance more carefully than he'd ever done before, Joe sucked in a hard, full breath and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. Yanking the wheel around at the same instant, he sent the car into a sliding, skidding u-turn.

The cruiser braked hard as the driver, caught by surprise by Joe's unexpected maneuver, instinctively slammed down the pedal to avoid a collision. Sand and grit spat up from the locked tires as the rear of the vehicle fishtailed violently before the traction caught. Cursing obscenely, fighting the wheel, the stocky driver yanked the shotgun from its mounting under the dashboard and swung the weapon's muzzle out the side window. It was a matter of only a second to aim and fire the primitive expanding gasses slug weapon, and the man had to admit that the results were exactly what he'd wanted.

The left rear tire of Joe's car exploded in a burst of rubber chunks that shot backward and up, hammering the bumper and strewing themselves across the heat-buckled asphalt. The car, not completely out of its turn, continued to skid until the right front tire dropped into the irrigation ditch bordering the cotton field.

Inside the tipped car, Joe shook off the shocked dizziness and tore off his seat harness, yanking open the glove box to retrieve his 38 calibre. Ignoring the nearby sound of a car door slamming shut, he threw himself across the front seat and wrenched open the passenger door. Literally rolling out of the car, Joe slid down the weed-strewn berm of the irrigation ditch and landed jarringly on his knees. Clambering to his feet, he began to run, realizing after a second that the impact of his fall had loosened his grip on his weapon. It lay in the ditch, a few paces behind, but he could not turn back now.

Why hadn't the guy used his gun? Was it because he was afraid that a pistol slug might damage the crystal? Joe was absolutely certain that the sapphire crystal was the prize his pursuer sought. --- What the hell have I got here? --- But there was no time to wonder now.

In his high school days, Joe had run the 100 in 11.3 seconds. Now, years later and perhaps 20 pounds heavier, running through a weedy, dirt-strewn ditch, he knew that he couldn't even approach that time but he had to run, he had to reach that culvert. Behind him, a loud, rough shout tore across the air but he didn't slow, didn't even risk a glance over his shoulder. Sucking in the dry, warm air, he pumped his legs faster. Almost... he was almost there... Another ten yards, maybe --- Come on, you can do it! ---

Then, yes, oh yes! Joe flung himself forward the last few feet, fingernails clawing at the rough cement, rubber-soled shoes clambering for purchase on the sloping walls of the culvert pumphouse. He flung up his left arm, clutching for the sluice-gate wheel. His fingers closed around the wheel and tightened, his skin abrading against the rust-roughened metal.

Without pausing to breathe, Joe lurched upward, hauling his body the final two feet. Bracing his knees on the narrow roof, he grasped the control wheel, wrenching it bodily toward him. --- Oh, God... it's so stiff! Please... --- If he could just get it to move.... Another wrench, his lean body straining against the unforgiving metal, his mind conscious of his pounding heartbeat and the echoing pounding of hard footsteps so close behind him. --- Please... ---

Large, hard hands clutched at Joe's ankles, the massive, powerful fingers digging into his flesh. Only the informant's almost desperate grip on the wheel kept him from being yanked backward off the pumphouse roof. As it was, his chest slammed against the hard edge of the roof as his knees were yanked out from under him, the impact forcing all the breath from his lungs. Half-stunned, he ground his teeth against the pain as his body was pulled down, scraping across the rough concrete. --- Please... I have to be here to help Laurel. And our kid... God... he won't even know me ---

The pain in his hands was almost unbearable, and in that moment of heightened awareness, Joe saw a scorpion sunning itself on the concrete in the well of the wheel post. Apparently startled by the noisy interruption of its sunbath, the creature raised its pincer claws in instinctive defense. Even then, a part of Joe's mind recognized that the scorpion was a beautiful specimen: nearly six inches long from pincer claws to the tip of its upraised, segmented tail. --- I can't... I can't do this much longer... --- Joe felt his fingers loosening, and he did the only thing that he possibly could do.

Letting go with his right hand, he grabbed for the scorpion, closing his forefinger and thumb upon the creature's segmented tail. Enraged and desperate to defend itself against this huge aggressor, the scorpion swung on the axis of its captured tail, flailing its pincer claws for purchase on anything it could reach. Joe felt his other hand give way, and he landed hard at the base of the pumphouse, the creature still clutched in his fist. He looked up into death's-head eyes. --- Laurel, I'm sorry.... ---

For a split second, the hard-faced assailant hesitated. There it was again.... He was not a mind-reader, as the ignorant humans whom he tolerated understood the term, but he could cause another's mind to mistake the messages sent to the brain by that person's senses. But, also, he could pick up a glimpse of a thought, as it were, or a brief impressioning of a powerful emotion. During that instant's hesitation, he remembered that, when the young trooper's neck had been secure in his suffocating clasp, the boy's thoughts had been of another. And now again... Another man on the brink of death, another human male thinking not of himself at this time, but of someone else.

Was it compassion, perhaps, or love? He knew the definition of these words, but they had no other meaning for him. This was his life now, and his duty. He would conclude his task, and be done with it. Reaching down, he grabbed Joe's arm and yanked the man to his feet with a savage jerk.

Letting the strength of that pull serve as the final impetus, Joe ducked his head and slammed his shoulder into his assailant's chest. At the same instant he swung his right hand up and grabbed at the other's shirt collar, opening his fist to free the scorpion. As the creature scuttled upward, the bigger man threw Joe backward with a sound that was literally a howl.

Freed, Joe scrambled up the pumphouse again, ignoring the yells and frantic thrashing noises behind him. Panting, body wet with exertion and the sweat of fear, the informant threw his weight one more time against the rust-crusted sluice-gate wheel. --- It has to work now, it just has to.... ---

... No... no! Another grotesque, disgusting... *thing!*... that infested this infernal country. The stocky man swept his big hand up to sweep the scorpion from his shirt, but the creature scrambled under his shirt collar, multiple legs working against his skin. Furious, his control blasted away by this final assault, the assailant yanked the patrolman's revolver from its holster and raised the weapon, sighting along it as he'd been taught to use the primitive thing. He'd kill his quarry slowly, getting what he needed before the man died. Then he'd be quit of this forsaken place forever. His thick forefinger began to squeeze the trigger.

At that instant, making its final dash under the shelter of the shirt, the scorpion found its target. Pincer claws digging into the muscles of the man's shoulders, the scorpion drove its strong tail down, burying its stinger into the hollow at the base of the man's skull. It was a matter of only a second for the creature's poison sac to pump its contents deep into its prey. He screamed, piercingly, stumbling forward even as his finger completed its squeeze and the weapon fired.

... It was going to give... Yes, yes, there!... Gasping and spent, Joe didn't hear the scream behind him as the sluice gate slammed upward into its metal guides. The roar of millions of gallons of irrigation water pouring down into the ditch below drowned the sound of the gunshot but not the wrenching impact of the .38 calibre slug that tore into his upper body, pitching him back against the pumphouse roof. --- Laurel, tell the kid that I loved him.... ---

Cursing on a harsh exhalation of breath, the ranch foreman swung down from the truck, surveying the ruined field with a grimace of genuine pain. Damn... He'd been at the main house when Alonzo radioed up from the west field, the field foreman talking so fast that his boss had barely understood him. Something about a flood, and the big combine. Now that he was on the perimeter road, he could see it all for himself.

Shit... Twenty acres of prime Egyptian cotton ruined, he saw. Plants were strewn every which way, uprooted, their hearty branches coated in mud. Plump cotton bolls torn from those branches were scattered everywhere, indistinguishable from mud clots as they littered the ditches and the raised earth berms of the planting rows. Water looked to be a foot deep out there, flowing unchecked up over the channels of the irrigation ditches and spreading farther west even as he watched. He could see the combine, too, the huge machine flat on its side, and he didn't need to be a clairvoyant to know what had happened to it.

Even the big seasonal rainstorms had never done so much damage -- at least, during the time that he'd been foreman here -- partly because every Summer the farmhands usually had time to prepare for the rains. *This* thing apparently had hit like the wrath of hades, and just as unexpectedly. Hell's bells, there must be a couple million acre feet of water pouring over these fields. Cursing again, the foreman climbed back into the truck and drove toward the main culvert. Maybe the damn thing broke, or something. Pulling off the farm road onto the state highway, the foreman saw two vehicles about a hundred yards away from the culvert and, a little farther up, a knot of gesticulating, mud-coated farmhands, none of whom were making any move to shut off the water that was still flooding through the main perimeter ditch. One of the cars was partly upended into the ditch, and the other, a highway patrol cruiser, was stopped kind of sideways across the opposite lane. Stopping and sliding out of the truck, the foreman gave a quick look around but saw no trooper standing with the farmhands. What the hell had happened here?

"Damn it, Alonzo," he shouted in his midwestern-tang accented Spanish, "get that sluice down before half the Colorado River is in that field!" The field foreman broke away from the knot of men and hurried toward his boss. "Senor Morgan," the lean Hispanic man hissed, pointing to the ditch. "There is something here, and there," he ended, swinging his arm toward the culvert. --- What the hell...? --- Morgan stalked toward the ditch, starting a little in surprise when Alonzo grabbed at his arm. The field foreman's grip was strong, but Morgan felt the man's hand trembling. "Don't go close, por favor."

Pulling in a breath to answer the man, Morgan choked instead, bending over in a fit of coughing. He was sorry that he had no breath to curse at that moment -- he could think of some perfect words that his tongue ached to spit out. A stench like a decomposing corpse floating in an open cesspool assaulted his nostrils, and he caught a glimpse of something at the near edge of the ditch that looked like a big lump of greenish slime.

What the hell was this? Some toxic waste? Had some fool tried to make an illegal toxic dump -- on his land, of all places -- and that's why the highway patrol car was over there? But where was the officer? "Never mind this," Morgan grunted, heading up the road away from the stink. "You get that sluice gate down, like I said, before..." He broke off then, staring at the culvert pumphouse. There was a body on top of the pumphouse. Morgan jogged the rest of the way, leaped up onto the culvert and, balancing carefully, finessed himself along onto the pumphouse roof. A man in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt was sprawled on his back beside the sluice-control wheel. There was blood on the man's shirt, and under the neatly-trimmed mustache and goatee the man's face was as pale as Morgan's infant grandson's bottom.

"Is he dead, senor?" Alonzo's voice reached the ranch foreman. "We... we did not come near."

Damn... Morgan cursed aloud. "Then *come near* now and get this wheel turned. I'll check him." Maneuvering gingerly on the barely five-foot square area of roof -- Morgan definitely knew that he should be careful not to touch the guy -- he managed to hunker down onto his heels and thought he saw the body move slightly. Yeah, the man's chest was raising and lowering very, very slowly and there didn't seem to be too much blood on his clothes. When Alonzo finished wrestling the wheel back, Morgan grunted, "Get back to the truck and radio Senora Morgan. Tell her to call 911 because this guy's not dead yet."

The field foreman nodded and dropped down from the roof. Morgan leaned a little closer to the body, focusing on what looked like a hole in the man's shirt. After a second, he realized that he was looking at the entry point of a gunshot round, and he cursed again. What the bloody hell *did* happen here? And why wasn't there a lot more blood? An open gunshot wound should have left the man's shirtfront soaked with blood and a puddle on the roof.

It was then that Morgan saw movement under the man's loose shirt. He stared as a tarantula that was almost the size of his clenched fist emerged from under the shirt, stalking unconcernedly along the victim's collarbone. Morgan knocked the thing aside in disgust, then froze in sheer surprise. Something glimmered slightly under the hole torn by the bullet, and the ranch foreman very carefully unbuttoned the man's shirt and peered under it, being careful not to pull the material away from the wound.

Lying across the man's chest, molding closely to his skin, was a glistening mat of some silky-looking material. Morgan squinted, and realized that the mat was positioned just right to seal the bullet hole, thus preventing this man from bleeding to death. The ranch foreman touched the edge of that mat with the lightest possible brush of a fingertip, unable to fully credit what it was that he saw. Spider-silk. The bandaging mat of silky fibers was made of spider-silk. Remembering the big tarantula, Morgan shook his head sharply. No, that was impossible.... Then he heard the distant sound of sirens approaching from the south and focused on that sound, grateful for the distraction. Somebody else could figure this one out. He'd have enough to do with answering questions about the flood and what the hell else might have happened here. To say nothing about the damages to the crop and all the acre-feet of water they'd have to pay for now. --- Whatever happened, buddy --- Morgan thought, glad to see the man's eyelids begin to flutter slightly --- at least you came out of it alive. --- Unnoticed by the preoccupied foreman, the big tarantula stalked quietly to the edge of the roof and continued on its way down the pumphouse wall. Soon it would reach its underground nest to feast on whatever prey its web had caught. Its work was done here.

He looked up at the clock hanging on the wall beside the window. Yes, it was time to start putting his papers and files away. The smoking man sighed, stacking the pamphlets and notes for the locked drawer of his desk, and unaccountably wondered if he had anything in his apartment to eat tonight. Perhaps he would eat out somewhere this evening. He had no desire to return to his dark, empty apartment any sooner than he had to.

Although he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, he was tired today, as well as physically hungry. The smoker didn't often think of his age, but the weight of it sat uneasily upon him just now. He wondered if he was still troubled because of his meeting with his dapper associate that morning. The man had talked so cavalierly about testing the device, if it existed and was found, and Jonathan himself had been surprised at the intensity of his own abhorrence to the idea. He sighed again, automatically reaching for the comforting pack of cigarettes in his pocket. How long would he be able to continue separating his own feelings from his work?

Feelings, indeed... Useless, foolish emotions that only clouded a man's judgement and made him unable to see the grand picture. Made him concentrate on the little things that were close to his own life instead of allowing him to stretch his aspirations toward the future that must come to pass. And yet, perhaps it was that focus on the little things -- a man's care and concern for those who depended on him for safety... his spouse, his children... the day to day spending of his strength and abilities on those who mattered to *him* -- perhaps it was these things that truly brought about the ultimate grand picture. Perhaps he'd been shackled in ways that he didn't completely understand because he'd never awakened over the years in a loved woman's arms and had never felt their children bouncing joyously on the mattress upon a fine Saturday morning....

He sucked a lungful of smoke, the hot, burning taste searing into his lungs and obliterating the thoughts that he could not indulge any longer. Standing up, the smoker lifted his suit coat from the back of the chair and settled it upon his shoulders. He was about to turn off the desk lamp when the telephone rang. Pausing long enough to drag in another breath of smoke, he lifted the receiver.

"Yes?"

"It's done with." It was the voice of the man the smoker had spoken with only hours previously. Level, uninflected, neither the voice nor the words themselves held any hint of triumph or disappointment, or, indeed, any clue as to what the outcome actually had been.

"How so?" The smoker ground out his cigarette, raising his hand from the ashtray to click off the desk lamp.

"Everything is done with. He's dead."

The smoker was aware of a painfully jarring heartbeat within him. "Then did the device actually exist? Was it recovered?" If both the answers were "yes," the smoker wondered how long it would take him to finalize his plans. The other voice took on a tone of repressed anger. "No, not *him.* Our associate."

Jonathan felt a tiny, grimly delighted smile tug at the corner of his lip. "Really? How very unfortunate.... I didn't realize that *he* had the means to do that."

"He didn't. All the *means* have been accounted for. You know that." The smoker was glad that his old associate could not see his smile. He kept his voice carefully neutral. "Yes, all the *means* that we know about." A moment of silence followed these words, and the grey-eyed man knew that he'd given the other something else to think about. "You're right, of course," the older man said finally. When he spoke again, it was with a voice of cool finality. "In view of the circumstances -- and of the unfortunate amount of local public interest in this... affair -- we shall consider the present line of inquiry to be closed. At least, for the immediate future."

The smoker flicked his lighter, the flame reflecting hotly in his quiet, satisfied eyes. "That seems to be the wisest course." The smoke felt so good drifting down his throat, spreading its welcome tendrils deep into his waiting lungs. As pleasurable, almost, at this moment of triumph, as would be *her* touch upon his skin.

"Yes," the other man said. "I will inform the others."

"Good-bye, then." The smoker stood for a moment after the conversation was over, then looked once more at the clock. Lifting the receiver again, he dialled a number and waited. When the line was picked up, he asked, "Is he still there?... No, no, there's no difficulty. You needn't interrupt.... Yes, I'll speak to him later."

Finishing the call, the smoker placed the cigarette between his lips and drew deeply once again. Yes, there was time. He'd speak to him now....

Mariel Skinner paused at the doorway to her husband's inner office, taking a moment to gently fluff the sweep of mahogany hair that fell so softly around her shoulders. As she glanced down to straighten her skirt, she realized that her blouse button had undone itself yet again, revealing the lacy edge of her creamy silk camisole. Sighing, she started to button it once more -- darn, this was the last time she'd wear *this* blouse to her afternoon classes -- then stopped, and let her fingertip smooth gently along the lace instead. Hmm, now, why *shouldn't* it stay unbuttoned? She'd love to have her husband's dark eyes be drawn to the gentle swell of her upright breasts.... Hoping that she wasn't blushing, Mariel knocked lightly on the door.

"Yeah, come in," Walter's voice called, and she pushed the door open. A quick glance around the room satisifed her that he was alone.

"Assistant Director, sir," she grinned, closing the door behind her, "your ride home has arrived."

Across the room, Walter looked up and smiled slowly. He was pulling on his suit coat, and took a moment to draw the garment into place across his broad chest before buttoning it. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her open blouse and she felt warmth glow in her cheeks as his eyes lingered there, then lifted slowly again to hers. "The Assistant Director is ready," he said, and reached down to pick up the briefcase that rested beside his chair.

As he walked toward her, Mariel's own gaze was drawn irresistibly to the easy grace of his long strides. She slid her arm around his waist and stretched up a little, brushing her lips upon his. Smiling, she said, "That's good, because I've been ready for hours."

He kissed her again, lingeringly. "You mean, as in 'ready to go home', or as in 'warm and ready,' honey?"

"Um... the second one, Mr. S," she replied, her grey eyes as warm as her voice. "I need some good loving tonight." "You'll get it," Walter promised, lowering his head just a little to nibble at her throat. She giggled, and his heart lifted to that tiny, happy sound. It had taken him a while to help her relax completely with this, but he knew now that Mariel finally felt comfortable about openly telling him of her needs. And he, of course, was absolutely delighted to satisfy each and every one of them.

When they left his office, Mariel dropped her arm from his waist. There were people still in the building, and she knew that Walter wasn't comfortable with that public display here. "I put the car in your regular spot, Walt," she said as they rode down in the elevator. "I figured nobody would care. And, oh, honey, I should find out by tomorrow what I'm going to conduct at that end-of-Summer concert."

"That's good," he remarked, waiting for the elevator doors to open completely before gesturing her to precede him. "Rather late notice, though, isn't it?"

She walked easily beside him, heels echoing hollowly on the concrete floor in the open garage. "Well, I guess they figure that, with a concert like this, everybody already knows the selections, anyway." Mariel laughed. "Goodness knows, I'll probably end up with the '1812 Overture' or a goshawful arrangement of some popular movie theme." She shook her head, sobering. That kind of thing was a genuine sore point with her, knowing as she did the fine musical works that could be chosen for an open-air, evening concert. "I guess the symphony board just wants music that'll draw the most ticket-buyers. That's disappointing, though."

Walter stopped, and when she paused beside him he lifted her chin with his fingertips and leaned down to press a slow, sweet kiss to her lips. "When *you're* in charge of that board," he said, "I know you'll pick the best stuff there is to play." Glowing inside to his gentle words that bespoke so much pride in her, Mariel let her smile spread all the way down to her soul. "I love you, Walter Skinner," she whispered.

"Ditto," he replied, and chuckled in response to her warm, rich laugh. Linking his arm with hers, he tossed his briefcase on top of the car and was about to put his other arm around her for a long hug when he heard footsteps behind him, coming from the opposite row of cars.

Alerted but not afraid, Skinner turned around, automatically keeping his body between Mariel and whoever was nearby. He could make out the silhouette of a man beside one of the big pillars that supported the garage roof, but the person did not move. "Can I help you," Skinner called out, voice brusque and cool.

"I believe that I can help you," a familiar voice replied, and a tall, lean greying man stepped out from the shadow.

Skinner felt his face harden even while the blood drained from his cheeks and his heartbeat accelerated. He knew that his body was automatically preparing the "fight or flight" response, but he kept himself under iron control. "Mariel, get in the car and lock the doors," he ordered without taking his eyes from the other man.

Mariel stared up for a second, startled, then shot a glance to the other side of the garage, following Skinner's line of vision. She recognized the man immediately, and swallowed against a stomach-churning combination of rage and remembered fear. Without a second's hesitation, Mariel pulled open the passenger door and slid inside, slamming it. Skinner waited until he heard the metallic snick of the doorlock before he spoke again. "What do you want, you son of a bitch? How dare you come here now."

"Please, Mr. Skinner," the smoker said, smiling around his cigarette. "There's no need for histrionics that might upset your wife. I'd consider that hardly adviseable in her condition."

Skinner took a single step forward, hands balling into massive fists. --- Her condition? My God... could he possibly know...? --- Skinner could count on one hand the number of people who knew that Mariel was pregnant -- and that was *including* the two of them. He reasoned that the smoker's words were a shot in the dark -- after all, what more natural than to assume a pregnancy for a couple? There was no way that Skinner would give this man the satisfaction of knowing that his guess was correct."What the hell are you pulling?" he spat out.

"Mr. Skinner, I'm not here to waste your time, and I know that your lovely wife will assure you that I never meant her any harm." The smoker dropped his cigarette onto the concrete floor, grinding it out with the ball of his shoe. "I simply wanted to tell you that the problem that S.A.I.C. Sanders dealt with in Arizona has been resolved on the side of the angels." Chuckling at his own phraseology, the smoker looked up. "You should be getting a complete, and completely satisfactory, report from your old friend tomorrow morning."

Skinner knew that there was no way in hell he would let this man know that he'd already heard from Grant Sanders, not an hour before Mariel had come to his office tonight. "I see. I don't suppose that you would have anything to do with that conclusion?"

The lean smoker laughed. "You have that high an opinion of my abilities, Mr. Skinner? I'm flattered." For a moment, their eyes locked, and each man read a warning in the other's gaze. The smoker withdrew his look first, tacitly accepting Skinner's right of warning. "Good night, Mr. Skinner. Please remember that if anything should happen to you, your wife and any future family will never be touched by anyone."

Before Skinner could even begin to reply, the smoker turned to a nearby car, got in and drove away.

Smoothing gentle kisses over his wife's soft, warm skin, Walter looked up at last into Mariel's eyes. She lay relaxed beneath him, cradling his hips between her silken inner thighs, and he could feel every breath she drew to the depths of his soul. Seeing her lips move in the moonlight, he whispered, "What, honey?"

She murmured, "Feels good, love," and twined her fingers behind his neck, drawing his head down to her mouth. He tasted her sweet mouth, reveling in the kiss and in the delicious sensations flowing through him. "Yeah... it sure does," he murmured back, continuing his slow, loving seduction.

After they'd arrived home, Mariel had been uncertain about approaching him for love, he remembered. That chance meeting in the Bureau garage had been unpleasant for both of them, but he'd decided that nothing in creation was going to keep him from giving his wife all that she needed, and all that she rightly craved from him. Love and support and his entire heart and soul was hers to claim. Even more so now, he realized, since their little Sweetie was growing and developing inside Mariel every day and she needed him more than ever. Husband, lover, and friend... for always.

Mariel sighed softly, reading Walter's eyes, reading everything that she'd ever dreamed of seeing in her man's gaze. She slid her arms completely around his shoulders, and gently lifted herself against him in rhythm with his movements. "Come love me, dearest," she whispered. "Take all that you want, all you ever need."

"God, honey... I do love you, I... I do...." Soon the sweet, healing warmth of completion flowed between them, and they clung together, drinking in each other's breaths with their kisses, laying their souls bare for each other's loving.

"Mmmm..." Mariel breathed against his ear, "next time, I want to be on top." Her body felt heavy and languid in the exhaustion of completed love, and she knew that a few moments more of rest would bring her sleep. "Why's that, honey?" Walter mumbled, his drowsy voice muffled against her hair.

"I want to practice for when I'm nice and big with Sweetie," she whispered, and grinned. "I think it sounds like fun that way."

Despite his delicious exhaustion, Walter laughed, nipping lovingly at her ear. "It's fun any way as long as it's you," he murmured, and fell peacefully to sleep in Mariel's arms. Problems and difficulties could wait for tomorrow. Tonight was for love and sharing, and healing rest.

" 'Night, Walt," Mariel breathed, her eyes closing as slumber claimed her at last.

In an apartment across the city, a man lay down in his empty bed and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Moonlight flowed coldly over the bed as he pulled the covers up to his shoulders and rolled to his side, sighing. For a brief second, the moonlight caught a sheen in his eyes that might have been from wetness until his eyes closed and his solitary breathing filled the room.... The End, For Now....

Please respond to TBYV46A@prodigy.com or mastrame@inetworld.net I hope everybody enjoyed the ride! Thanks for coming along with me on this story. -- Mary Mastrangelo