Episode One

By pipsqueak

with Liz_Z and Suz.

Special thanks to AXZ for inspiring the opening scene.

Teaser

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

One of the few truly enlightened dudes in this world, the Dalai Lama, advises us, "When you are able to clear away thoughts of the past and the future, slowly you begin to get a sense of the space between the two. You learn to abide in that present moment." Now in his book, A Simple Path, he goes on for almost 200 pages describing the Four Noble Truths, the Three Jewels and everything else you need to know in order to attain this transcendent state of awareness. Me? Well, let's just say that, as with all things, I like to put his concept into practice in my own way.

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

A warm breeze gently stirred the curtains on Darien's open window. Inside the apartment, all was quiet except for the gentle buzz of soft snoring. A stray beam of dusky daylight escaped past the arm Darien had thrown across his face and assaulted his shut eyes. Rolling over with a sleepy sigh, he pushed the crisp white sheets and fluffy comforter down his naked chest, letting them bunch around the waist of his striped pajama bottoms. Then he buried his unshaven face deeper into the pillow he'd curled himself around. Still snuggled in contentedly, a slight smile on his face, he raised a hand and scratched absently at a bare shoulder.

The ringing of the phone pierced the peaceful calm. Darien instinctively pulled the pillow over his ears to block out the noise, but the phone refused to be silenced. Grabbing the handset from off his nightstand, he mumbled, "Fawkes."

"I damn well know who you are," Alex's adamant voice came screaming down the line. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll get your ass in here now. I've already been waiting over three hours for you to show up for your lesson and if I have to wait 10 more minutes, I will come over there and drag your useless, lazy butt out of that bed by your hair, so help me God."

Darien scrubbed his free hand over his eyes and winced. Man, this chick was a major downer. "Ah, you know what, Alex?" His grimace turned into a grin. "Like I told the Fat Man: these days we're doing things my way. I'll be in when I'm in."

"Don't you hang up on me, Fawkes. I swear, I will gut you like a ...."

Darien hit the power button on the handset, cutting Monroe off mid-rant. Settling back down into his comfy nest, he smiled contentedly and dropped the phone onto his bedstand, right next to his clock, which read 2:35 PM in large, glowing numbers. From the street below, the head-banging sound of punk crooner Sid Vicious wafted in compliments of some metal head's boom box, blaring Darien's new personal anthem, "I did it myyyyyyy waaaaaaaay."

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

::Cue Theme Music::

There once was a tale about a man who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.

::Music Fade Out::

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

When I was a kid, there was always some dweeb who actually liked school -- like my bro, Kevin. You know the kind: the one that was always happy when school started up in the fall. The one that was always singing, "School days, school days, good old golden rule days ...." I hated that kid. See, I was always more of the "no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks" kinda guy. So here I am, all grown up, and still hatin' school. And wonderin' what kind of looks Monroe was going to be giving me for being late. 'Course, in the words of my homey, Mark Twain, "I have never let my schooling interfere with my education." Word.

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

Act One

Darien sauntered into Alex's office close to 3:45 p.m. "Well, Teach, I'm here and ready to learn," he announced. "Lay the knowledge on me."

"Sorry, Fawkes, too late. I'm off the clock on this one," Alex nudged Eberts out of the way as she pulled files from her drawer and put them in her briefcase. "Had you been on time like Eberts, I could have included you in my introductory Corruption, Temptation and Seduction tutorial. But now Hobbes here is going to have to handle your training."

Bobby stepped up and threw a friendly arm around the taller man's shoulders. "That's right, partner. And lucky for you, Bobby Hobbes is the CTS master."

Darien leaned on Alex's desk, bringing his eyes level with hers. "Alright, Alex, you made your point. My bad. I swear I'll be on time tomorrow, really ...."

"It won't be any different tomorrow," Alex continued with her packing. "Hobbes is taking over your training whether you like it or not."

"Don't worry, my friend," Bobby assured Darien. "You are in good hands. Learn from the best is what I always say ...."

Darien grabbed Alex by the elbow, "Oh, come on, Suzy, don't be like that..."

"I'm not being anything." She glared at his hand on her arm and he released her to pick up her briefcase. "I'm just telling it like it is and doing what I'm told. I'm outta here."

"Wait, Alex, don't go like that." Darien looked at his two co-workers for support. "Bobby, Ebes, say something."

"She's correct, Darien," Eberts explained, "Miss Monroe is just following the Official's directive. In order to increase the Agency's cash flow, the Official has extended her services to the CIA. As she is one of the few five-star-rated agents, you can imagine that the fee for such inter-agency cooperation is substantial, to say the least."

Darien stared at the normally ferocious female agent. "You're kidding? You mean he sold you out? And you're just going to take it?"

Alex nodded her head. "That's right. The Fat Man's finally done it -- sold me right into super-agent slavery and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. At least not if I want this agency's cooperation in finding my son again. And since you guys are the Chrysalis experts ...," she snorted delicately, "well, let's just say, I've made my bed and now I've got to lie in it."

"Well, I don't have to," Darien pulled himself up to his full height, literally towering over his fellow agents. "I'm pulling the Fat Man's strings now and I'm gonna tell him that you're staying put...."

"Darien, don’t!" Despite their almost eight-inch height disparity, Alex stood toe-to-toe with her unorthodox co-worker. "I mean, I appreciate it, I really do. But when it comes to finding my son, I'm not willing to take any chances. Like it or not, I got myself assigned to this agency and that means dancing to the Official's tune even if I don't like it. I am not willing to risk losing his good will if it means losing my chance to come back and find my son when Stark's trail is picked up. And I'm counting on you," Alex looked at each of the three men, "all of you, to pick it up again. Don't let me down."

Darien looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Bobby came forward and extended his hand. "We won't, Alex," he said. "We'll find Stark and we'll find your son. And when we do, we'll be proud to have you as a member of our team."

Alex took Bobby's hand and shook it. "Thank you, Bobby." She started to exit the room, then stopped in the doorway. "Oh, and while I'm playing in the big leagues, you guys stay out of my office!" Alex shooed the men out and locked the door. "Later, boys." She snapped off a mock salute and then she was gone.

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

Darien sat slouched at his desk in the office both he and Hobbes shared. "Bobby, you've got to be kidding me. I mean, when the 'Fish first told me that I had to sit through Monroe's little CTS seminar with Eberts, I thought it was stupid but at least it might be entertaining. But this," he picked up a sheaf of papers marked "Training Syllabus" and shook it at his partner, "this is ridiculous! Look at this: International Relations, Economics, Physical Science, Target Practice, Hand-to-Hand Combat! This is the equivalent of spook Harvard! C'mon, man, you can not be serious ...."

"Serious as a heart attack, my friend. The 'Fish wants you trained pronto. Seems your less-than-stellar spook skills didn't impress the bigwigs over at the FBI during your little sojourn there, Golden Boy. As a result, the Fat Man looks like something of a joke in the intelligence community," Bobby said. "And in his book, a bad showing on your part means a bad showing on my part, partner. In fact, the Fat Man has let it be known in no uncertain terms that unless you pass the agent-training practical exam with flying colors by the end of next quarter, I can kiss my yearly bonus goodbye." Bobby leaned in closer and poked Darien in the shoulder, "so if your learning self-defense, firearms, CTS, whatever, is what it's gonna take to get me that increase, then you, my friend, are gonna learn, capish?" Bobby tilted his head, staring in first one of Darien's eyes and then the other.

"Ah, yeah, OK, Bobby, capish." Darien slouched further down and crossed his arms.

"OK." Bobby thrust his chest out and put his hands on his hips. "Lesson number one: A good agent is an expert in many areas; his mind is his strongest weapon."

"Oh, yeah? So tell me then, how'd you pass?"

"Very funny there, grasshopper. I'll have you know I passed with flying colors, thank you very much. But we're not talkin' 'bout me, we're talkin' 'bout you. And you have got a lot to learn ...."

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

Darien stood at one end of a large boxing ring at one of the seedier local gyms. Dressed in torn black sweatpants cut into baggy shorts, a dingy white wifebeater and his favorite Converse All-Stars, he fit right in with the regular clientele, who were huffing and puffing as they hoisted free weights and bench-pressed away.

Standing at the other end of the ring, and in marked comparison, was his opponent. For once eschewing his ubiquitous suit and tie, Eberts had dressed in his version of workout gear: pristine white Nike Air Max sneakers, navy sweats that looked suspiciously as if they'd been pressed, a freshly washed "May the Force Be with You" T-shirt and matching red, white and blue striped head and wrist sweatbands.

Bobby stood in the center of the ring, managing to look both clean and comfortable in his well-worn gray fleece sweatsuit. "Alright, gentlemen," he bellowed in his best drill sergeant tone. "The purpose of this next exercise is for you to get real-life, hand-to-hand combat experience. You will fight your opponent using the techniques we've learned over the last few weeks. The first man to take his opponent down and keep him there for three seconds wins. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Eberts snapped to attention.

"Yeah," Darien mumbled.

"I can't hear you, Agent Fawkes!" Bobby went nose to nose with the slouching man.

"Yes, sir," Darien mocked in a singsong tone, hands on his hips, "Hobbes, this is stupid."

"Agent Fawkes, did I give you permission to speak freely?" Bobby demanded as he crossed back to the center of the ring.

"Ah, no, but that hasn't stopped me yet. Like I said, this is stupid," Darien pointed across the ring at his fastidious opponent. "Am I really gonna have to pound Ebes here to prove to you that I know how to fight?"

"I beg to differ with you, Darien," Eberts protested, "the outcome of this fight is as of yet undetermined. I have studied a number of the pugilistic arts, including those Agent Hobbes so recently demonstrated. It could, conceivably, be you that gets, uhm, pounded."

Darien's "Yeah, right," was muffled as Hobbes slapped Eberts on the back. "Atta boy, Agent Eberts." Bobby crossed the ring to face his partner. "That's the kind of fighting spirit Bobby Hobbes likes to see. You'd do well to learn from him, Agent Fawkes." Bobby leaned in close to Darien's ear and added a hushed, "and if you don't TKO this cream puff in 15 seconds or less, I am seriously going to start thinking you're a little 'light in the loafers' there, partner, if you know what I mean." Bobby strutted back to the middle of the ring, slapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "Alright, gentlemen, you've been given your mission orders. Any questions?"

Eberts held up his hand. "Ah, yes, sir, Agent Hobbes, sir! Would you prefer us to use the Wu Shu techniques you showed us this week or the more traditional Wang Chung methodology you demonstrated last week?"

"That's a good question, Agent Eberts," Bobby barked. "You may use any and all of the martial arts skills I have taught you. The point is not to stick to any one school but rather to demonstrate the sum total of the knowledge you have gained in your training over the last few weeks and your ability to use that knowledge to best your opponent." Bobby stepped to the outer edge of the ring. "Alright, then, on the count of three. One. Two. Three!"

Eberts hustled out to the middle of the ring. Darien rolled his eyes and sauntered out of his corner, cracking and snapping his gum, all the while throwing his skinny frame into caricatures of classic martial arts poses. The huskier agent circled his prey once, twice, then rushed him. Darien stepped out of the way and Eberts smacked into the ring's ropes.

"Are you gonna let the punk get away with that, soldier?" Hobbes egged Eberts on.

The youngest agent growled, then feinted to his opponent’s left. Darien saw the move and stepped in the opposite direction -- which was just what Eberts had anticipated. He grabbed Darien’s right wrist, stepped behind the taller man, and snapped Darien into a choke hold.

Darien gasped for air and then swung his right leg backward, wrapping his foot behind Eberts’ knee and pulling forward. Eberts stumbled back, loosening his hold around Darien’s neck slightly as he attempted to regain his balance. That was all the lee-way that Darien needed. He spun around, jerking his wrist from Eberts’ grasp and delivered a sharp blow to Eberts’ midsection.

Eberts rolled with the punch and grabbed Darien’s arm, pulling hard. Darien was jerked forward, his balance seriously compromised, and Eberts hooked his foot between Darien’s legs, sending the taller man careening to the floor. Darien just barely managed to roll out of the way of what would have been a very painful blow to the chest and leapt back to his feet, assuming a defensive posture.

Hobbes watched, spellbound, as Eberts came at Darien with another attack. Darien had been expecting this one, however, and easily jumped out of the way, giving Eberts a swift kick in the ribs. Eberts staggered, but managed to block Darien’s next blow. The two of them began attacking each other ferociously, kicking and punching as if it was their lives, not their grades, that depended on the outcome of the fight.

Darien could feel sweat trickling down his back, and his breath was beginning to come in gasps. Eberts was proving a lot more difficult knock to the floor than Darien had thought he’d be. Darien fully intended to win this fight, but the more Eberts blocked his attacks the less likely it seemed that he would be able to make good on his intentions.

And then Darien thought of something Eberts wouldn’t be expecting, something that might give him a bit of an edge. A cocky grin spread across his face as he moved from the defensive position that Hobbes had recently taught him to a much more familiar -- at least for him -- street-fighting stance. Sure, this particular move hadn't been part of the bag of tricks Hobbes had been pushing the last couple of weeks, but it damn sure was effective. Darien felt a pang of sympathy for Eberts as he remembered being on the receiving end of just such a maneuver plenty of times back in the joint. Then he brushed that thought away and steeled himself. In the ring, as in prison, nice guys not only finished last, they got their asses kicked doing it.

Eberts paused, confusion flickering across his face at Darien’s unexpected, unorthodox technique. "Hey, that’s not--" he started to say, but was cut off as Darien slammed a fist full-force into his solar plexus. Eberts gasped and doubled over in pain. Darien pulled back his fist and slammed it into Eberts’ chin in a classic haymaker. Eberts teetered for a moment and then fell to the ground. He made a feeble attempt to get back to his feet, but then collapsed on the mat, down for the count.

Darien stood there with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath and looking up, his face flushed with exertion and victory. His triumphant expression faded, however, as he looked over at Hobbes and saw the older man shaking his head in obvious disgust. "Congratulations, Fawkes," he said, walking over to Darien and giving him a stern look, "you’ve just been disqualified. That means that officially, Eberts just kicked your ass."

Darien jerked upright and looked down at Hobbes in disbelief. "You’ve gotta be kidding me!"

"Afraid not, my friend."

Darien leaned down so that he and Hobbes were face to face and hissed, "Look, I get my ass kicked plenty. If anybody knows what an ass kicking feels like, it's me. And that," he gestured over at Eberts, "is an ass-kicking. So how come if I’m the one who got his ass kicked, Eberts is the one with his face pressed into the mat?"

Hobbes crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing at the perceived challenge to his authority. "Because haymakers weren’t included in the martial arts lesson, that’s why." He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "Street fighting won’t cut it on the final exam or, more importantly, in the field when some frickin' Chrysalis ninja tries to rip you a new one. What, you thought I was teaching you Wu Shu just for the hell of it?"

Darien rolled his eyes. "Come on Hobbes, it’s obvious that I won. What does it matter how I did it?"

"You wanna know what it matters?" Hobbes asked, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Then just try that crap on me."

Darien gave Hobbes a suspicious look. "Will I get sent to detention for hitting the teacher?" Hobbes shook his head. Darien grinned. "OK then." He took on his street-fighting stance again, but hesitated to attack when he saw that Hobbes wasn’t putting up any kind of defense. Darien frowned. What was Hobbes trying to prove?

A few seconds later, when Hobbes still hadn’t taken a defensive posture, Darien gave a mental shrug and began his attack. Much to his surprise, Hobbes easily dodged the first blow. Darien pulled back and attacked a second time, but once again Hobbes easily dodged his moves. More than a little annoyed now, Darien lunged forward figuring the third time would be the charm and prepared to deliver a haymaker to end all haymakers. He never got the chance to make good on his plan, though. Hobbes grabbed his arm and flipped him over in one lighting quick move. Before Darien knew what hit him, he was slammed hard onto the mat right next to Eberts.

Darien moaned, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. When he opened them Hobbes was standing above him, a stern expression on his face. "You don’t know everything, my friend."

Darien groaned by way of reply, rolling over to find himself face to face with Eberts, who was once again attempting to get up off the mat. The two of them managed to sit up, each rubbing at places where bruises would quite likely be forming soon. Darien gave Eberts a hound dog look. "Sorry about decking you there, Ebes."

Eberts stood to his feet, wincing. "Think nothing of it. Next time, I'll be the one doing the 'decking,' as you put it."

Darien shook his head, rubbing the spot where he had landed the hardest. "This is gonna be a long day ...."

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

His rangy frame sprawled on one of two double beds covered in burnt-orange plaid coverlets, Darien lay flipping through TV channels with the remote. "For God's sake, Hobbes, if I've gotta be holed up in a hotel room with you and Eberts, the least you could do is order room service. I'm starving."

"Fawkes, we are here to observe, not eat." Bobby stood behind Eberts, who was studying the convention center across the way through a pair of high-powered binoculars. "Now remember, Eberts, just take your time and make a thorough observation of any suspicious activity. We'll concentrate on speed later. Eventually, reconn will be so ingrained, it'll be just like breathing. You'll be able to make a terrorist operative without blinking an eye while romancing the ladies and debating the finer qualities of single malt scotches with your fellow bean counters at the bar. "

Darien rolled his eyes at Hobbes' commentary. "That's only if we survive that long. C'mon, Bobby, how's about a pizza -- I'll even let you get anchovies on your half. It's on the Official," he tried hopefully.

Eberts removed the binoculars he'd been using to stare out the window and turned to admonish, "Darien, you know the Official's policy regarding the per diem for field agents on assignment."

"Ebes, man, the Agency doesn't have a per diem."

"Exactly. Any costs incurred during this training excursion, including food and drink, will come out of each agent's pay."

"Great. So, not only am I gonna be stuck in here with you two all day, I'm gonna starve too," Darien whined. "It's official: I'm in Hell."

Bobby grimaced, then pulled the binoculars from Eberts' hands and threw them on the bed. "Fine, you're so bored, you take the binoculars. You've got just 15 minutes to give me a detailed sitrep, not one minute more." Sinking into the room's only armchair, he muttered, "smartass."

Darien picked up the binoculars and went to the window. He fiddled with the lens focus for a moment or two then stood silently observing the activity across the street. After watching people come and go from the convention center for a scant five minutes, he put the binoculars down on the table in front of the window and went back to flipping channels on TV.

"That's it?" Hobbes asked.

"Yeah, that's it." Darien picked up the room service menu again. "Are you sure you don't want to order a pizza? I'm hungry."

"Damn it, Fawkes, would you get serious? This is not a game we're playing here. Pay a little attention, would you?"

"Listen, I'll start paying attention when you start teaching me something I don't already know." Darien pointedly pressed a button on the remote. "Until then, I'm watching the Cartoon Network. Wake me when you're done with Ebes, OK?"

"Excuse me, Darien, but I take umbrage at your continued depiction of me as the lesser skilled agent. In fact, I have had significantly more training than you in preparation for my transfer to The Agency ...."

"Shut up, Eberts!" Darien and Hobbes yelled in stereo.

"So, Calvin, you think I'm wasting your time here, huh?" The vein in the senior agent's temple pulsed.

"Ah, yeah, Hobbes, I do." Darien rose from the bed and stood facing his partner with his hands on his slim hips.

"Oh, no." Eberts grabbed the binoculars and retreated to a safe corner of the room.

Hobbes exhaled forcibly through his nose, the breath taking seemingly forever. "I see. Well then, you wanna dazzle me with the sheer brilliance of that 'detailed' site assessment you just made, Mr. Hot-Shot Know-It-All?"

Darien let out an answering breath, pursed his lips and ran a tongue along the front of his teeth. "Sure. Fine. Why not?" He pulled up a finger and began ticking off, "You got three main entrances -- one on either side and one in the middle. At each entrance you got two guards manning a security checkpoint -- one watching the scanner, one directing traffic through the metal detectors. You've also got a two-man patrol roaming the interior lobby at 2.5 minute intervals. Weak point is on the left -- dude's more interested in his coffee than in the scanner, so the other dude has to pick up the slack. That leaves the end section of the lobby left unwatched when the patrol is making its return trip to the other end of the lobby. It'd be a piece of cake to slip out of line and bypass security during that gap, then make your way to any of the floors via the stairwell next to the coat check room. And if you've got a partner causing a ruckus at the checkpoint in the middle, you could wheel the frickin' Mona Lisa out in its frame and nobody'd see you." Darien crossed his arms and returned to the bed. "Satisfied? I mean, please, give me some credit here. You act like I've never cased a joint before in my life. It's kind of insulting, really."

"Insulting? You think it's insulting? I'll tell you what's insulting, Fawkes. What's insulting is you comparing our mission of protecting the public to pulling some penny-ante boost. When are you gonna get it through your thick skull that you're playing with the white hats now? It's a whole different ballgame."

"No, it ain't. Seriously, you guys act like it's some sort of super-secret, crime-fighting brotherhood. Well, I got a news flash for ya here, Hobbes: you're not Batman, and Ebes ain't Robin. I was 15 when Liz first taught me to case a joint and the basics are still the same whether you're pulling a heist or preventing a bombing. Look for the weaknesses inherent to the security system, then capitalize on them. And 9 out of 10 times, those weaknesses are human."

"OK, you're such a crackerjack agent all of a sudden, maybe you'd like to try your hand at one of the BFM files from the FBI?"

"The Big Frickin' Mess files?" Darien looked up at Hobbes and licked his lips, "what, you want me to break into the FBI and steal files from another agency? Hobbesy, I'm appalled."

Bobby smirked at Darien. "What? Poor li'l Fawkesy afraid big bad Jonesy's gonna catch him with his hand in the cookie jar?"

Darien just snorted. "So, supposing I get this file. What am I supposed to do with it then?"

"Solve it."

"Solve it?"

"Solve it."

"You think I can't?"

"I think you can't."

Darien nudged Eberts in the mid-section. "He thinks I can't."

"Ah, gentlemen, I feel it's my duty to point out that the plan you are currently setting out to embark upon is, in all likelihood, patently illegal. The FBI's files are completely in their purview and therefore we have absolutely no grounds to claim jurisdiction ...."

"Well, Eberts, you might be right." Bobby swaggered over, backing Eberts farther up into the corner, and poking at the mild-mannered accountant. "If the crime scene hadn't been the site of a national monument, and if key evidence hadn't been found near a critical body of water that's home to an endangered species."

"Ah hah, you've got a case in mind then?"

"Oh yeah, I got one for ya."

"You hear that, Ebes? He's got one for us," Darien clapped an arm around Eberts' shoulders, tacitly including the hapless agent in their secret partnership. "Well, bring it on."

Eberts cringed. "Oh no."

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

Act Two

Late that night, Bobby pulled Golda up in front of the FBI offices. Darien, sitting in the passenger seat, looked up at the dark building and grinned. Pulling a B&E had always given him that special glow. Adding invisibility and the fact that this was the FBI -- an organization he'd grown to loathe during his brief tenure as their toy-du-jour -- only heightened the rush.

"Alright Fawkes, you’re on," Hobbes said, giving Darien a pointed look.

Darien glared over at Bobby, not particularly appreciating the interruption of his train of thought. "Why did you have to come?"

"Hey, Bobby Hobbes is the teacher here, my friend. I have a right to evaluate the skills of my students. Besides," Bobby continued with a twinkle in his eye, "I need to make sure you grab the right file." He leaned over and handed Darien a radio headset. "Here, you’ll need this."

Darien shrugged and donned the headset. "Alright, we’ll play it your way." He hopped out of Golda and began walking toward the FBI building, Quicksilvering as he went.

After taking the time to deactivate the security cameras and alarms purely out of habit, Darien made his way to a familiar looking file cabinet -- not that they'd allowed him anywhere near actual case files during those few days when he'd actually been on the FBI's payroll. Nope, the last time he had seen the BFM file drawer had been when he and Hobbes had gone looking for explanations as to why Claire had suddenly gone berserk and tried to kill a complete stranger. Darien shook his head: not exactly the fondest memories... He crouched down and opened the file cabinet carefully, flipping through to the BFM files. "Alright, what’s the file number?" he asked Hobbes, curious to see which case his partner had in mind.

"Number 7012-0597-0235," Hobbes said, his voice distorted by static from the headset.

Darien winced. "You have gotta get some new headphones, man. You sound like one of those drive-through speakers at Jack-in-the-Box." He began thumbing through the files, smiling when he came across the right one. "Okay Hobbes, I’ve got the file. I’m outta here."

"You can’t just swipe the file! The Feds’ll get suspicious if a case file goes missing. It’s the copy machine for you, partner."

Darien frowned. "Oh no. Not the copy machine, man! No way am I going up against that frickin' thing again. Remember last time?" Visions of papers swirling about the copy room as he helplessly tried to wrestle the electronic beast into submission assaulted Darien's memory. "I swear, that thing is out to get me! And it sure ain't gonna like me using it to copy BFM files again."

"Aw come on, Fawkes ...." Bobby sighed. "Did you shut down the security systems?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, sit tight. I’m comin’." Darien could just barely hear the sounds of Hobbes opening and slamming Golda’s door and then the faint sounds of footsteps as Hobbes walked toward the FBI building, muttering, "Now I know what they missed on the entrance exams... knowing how to work a copy machine should be mandatory. 'Sides, I thought I was supposed to be the paranoid one in this partnership ...."

"I heard that."

"You were supposed to. I can’t believe you still don’t know how to work a copy machine."

"What, you thought I would take time out of my precious schedule to learn?"

"After last time, yeah. Come on Fawkes, EVERYONE knows how to work a freakin’ copy machine!" That said, there were several minutes of silence as Hobbes navigated the dark halls of the FBI’s San Diego office, making his way to where his technologically-impaired partner waited. Bobby walked into the file room, glancing over at Darien. He pulled off his headset and grabbed the file out of Darien’s hands. "Alright, let’s get this sucker copied. You, my friend, are about to receive a crash course in the operation of the Copymaster 2350."

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

Less than 30 minutes later, Darien and Bobby walked out of the FBI building. Bobby, moving with a relaxed swagger, had a copy of the BFM file in his hands; Darien slouched after him, rubbing absently at the toner powder smudged on his fingers and face, run through with dried rivulets of sweat.

The two men walked over to Golda and climbed in. Hobbes placed the keys in the ignition, handed the file to Darien, and drove away with nary a glance back at the federal building they had just broken into.

Darien placed his feet up on the dashboard, resting the sheaf of papers on his black-clad knees, and began to peruse the file. He raised an eyebrow as the names of the investigating agents caught his eye. "Hey Hobbesy, why didn’t you tell me you were the dude who worked this case? And with the twit, no less."

Bobby raised an eyebrow as Darien said ‘the twit.’ "You mean Jones?"

"Hey, he calls you Lithium Bob. I can call him a twit."

Bobby shrugged. "I figured it wasn’t important."

Darien snorted in disbelief. "You figured it wasn’t important? You give me a case that stumped the unstumpable Bobby Hobbes and you figure it isn’t important?" Bobby’s eyes narrowed slightly at Darien’s comment, but he said nothing. Darien shook his head. "I knew you were up to something. Well, I got news for you buddy. I am going to solve this case." The corners of Darien’s mouth turned up in a sardonic grin. "I might just be able to teach you a thing or two."

Bobby’s eyes twinkled in something akin to amusement. "If you solve it."

"When I solve it," Darien replied stubbornly, crossing his arms and giving Bobby a pointed look.

"How do you expect to solve it when you haven’t even finished reading the file?"

Darien’s face reddened, and he dropped his gaze back to the file in question, once again picking up the stack of copied papers. Bobby glanced over at Darien and asked in a scholarly tone, "Alright, tell me what you see there, John Edwards."

Darien turned his full attention to the files in his hands for a few moments, then looked back up at Bobby. "Well, it’s a homicide case ...," he turned his attention back to the papers and frowned. "Hey wait, I remember hearing about this on the news a while back. George Pappadamos was Senator Irene McEvy’s aide, right? The anti-nuclear proliferation chick? He disappeared back in May of ‘97. They found his body along the shore at the Cabrillo National Monument a month or two later. I think some whale watcher dude found the body."

Hobbes nodded. "Yeah, that’s the one all right. Now, what’s wrong with this picture?"

Darien gave Hobbes an exasperated look. "Nothing’s wrong with it! I mean, they never found the killer or the murder weapon, but they found the body. Why’d you have me dig this case out of the files? It’s five-years old, Hobbes. Trust me, it's dead -- just like George." He made a slashing motion at his neck. "Nothing left to solve."

Bobby’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, and a deep scowl clouded his face. "You’re so sure about that, huh? Well, I got news for you, partner. You wanted to try your hand at a BFM? Well, that there is a bona fide BFM, and you are not gonna find any easier cases, I can assure you of that." He wagged a finger at Darien. "Now you listen to me, Fawkes. You are going to put your nose to the grindstone and you are going to treat this as if it were still an open case. That means conducting interviews and investigating leads, no matter how old. Unless you wanna wimp out or something, that is," he said, bristling with annoyance and giving Darien a challenging look.

Darien straightened up in his seat, twisting his lips and absently spiking his hair in frustration. "Okay, you want me to do some investigating?" He threw the papers in his lap into the air, causing Hobbes to have a momentary panic attack as they fluttered in front of his face, disrupting his field of vision. "Fine! I’ll investigate the hell out of it."

Bobby yanked hard on his steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, sending Golda skidding over to the side of the road and pinning Darien up against his seatbelt. He looked over at Darien, his expression livid. "I am sick of you acting like a petulant two-year-old! You are going to clean up those papers you threw all over. And in the morning, you are going to get up bright and early and start working on this case. Understood?"

Darien raised an eyebrow. "Petulant?" Hobbes just glared. After a moment, Darien rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in capitulation. "Alright, alright." He began picking up the papers he had scattered across the cab of the van, muttering, "Man, Hobbesy, you’re worse than my third-grade math teacher."

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

Absently humming "Hi-ho, Hi-ho" to himself, Darien bopped through The Agency's front doors at 8:15 a.m. sharp. Catching sight of himself in the glass of one of the office doors that lined the hallway, he stopped to adjust his unruly hair and run a hand over the stubble of his haphazard goatee. Perhaps he hadn't been as awake as he'd thought when performing his morning ablutions.

He was putting the finishing touches on his coif when his make-shift mirror suddenly swung open and he was run over by a stack of files. Darien found himself flat on his back with papers flying everywhere and a chagrinned Eberts staring down at him. "Oh, Darien, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there." The plump man held out a hand to help the lanky one get to his feet.

"Ah, yeah, I get that a lot." Darien ignored the proffered hand and climbed to his feet to look down at the file pages now hopelessly intermingled. "Oh man, Ebes, how are we ever gonna get these sorted? Bobby's gonna have my ass...."

Eberts smiled up at his forlorn friend. "Never fear. For ease of collation I have color-coded the top left corner of all papers from Agency files." He looked askance, first up and then down the hall. Leaning closer to Darien, he put a finger on the side of his nose and whispered, "It's also given me the edge in the speed filing heats for the past three years running. It's how I set the record."

He pushed Darien out of the way, dropped to his knees and in under three minutes was handing Darien back the completed BFM file. "I see Robert has you working the Pappadamos murder. That's one of his old cases, isn't it?"

Darien nodded, "Yes, it is."

"Hmmm, I see. So he expects you, an untrained operative, to solve a case he couldn't?" Eberts quirked his eyebrows at Darien and thinned his lips in obvious disapproval.

Darien saw his opening and took it, frowning and sighing, "Yeah, man, I know. I mean if the great Bobby Hobbes, master investigator and field operative extraordinaire, couldn't solve it, who could? It'd take one major smarty pants and a hell of an agent to make Hobbes look bad ...."

"So you'll need help then?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Alright, where do we begin?"

"Ebes, man, I knew I you were my homey." Darien put his fist out in front of him.

Eberts stared at it for second, then realized what his cooler counterpart was expecting. He raised his own fist, tapped it against Darien's at the knuckles and repeated, "Ah, yes, your ... 'homey.'" He pulled the file from Darien's grasp and opened it between them. "Now from what I see here, you'll probably want to interview the Senator first off."

Darien stared blankly at the file. "Ah, I will?" Eberts stared up at him. "I mean, yeah, right, of course. That's exactly what I was thinking."

Eberts returned to sifting through the file. "Good. Now while you're speaking with Senator McEvy, I'll run a search through Lexis/Nexis, as well as the National Crime Information Center and all federal information databases, which will automatically pull any reference to Mr. Pappadamos or the Senator. I'll put particular emphasis on all payment and banking records. After all, if there's one thing I learned during my time at the IRS, it's if you want to ascertain the guilty party, you need to pursue the source of their funding."

"Huh?"

"If you want to find out who's dirty, you have to follow the money. That is, after all, how we caught Al Capone."

Eberts snapped the file shut and handed it back to Darien, who just stood there blinking. "Yeah, that's great, Ebes. You do that. I'm gonna, ah, go talk to the Senator."

Darien started back down the hall to The Agency's front doors when he heard Eberts call out. "We'll synchronize our findings later, partner!"

Without breaking his stride or a backwards glance, Darien mumbled, "Yeah, right, whatever."

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

A fringe of twin palm trees edged the serpentine driveway that ended in a large whitewashed stucco house with a red-tile roof and a central, open-air atrium. Darien half-expected there to be the stereotypical lawn jockey greeting him as he pulled up in front of an ornately carved oak door. A large black and brindle dog somewhere between a Doberman and a Rottweiler rushed him as he approached the front door. He had a moment's panic as he recalled the first time he'd been chased by a guard dog during one of his teenage heists. He'd ended up shredding his favorite leather jacket as he'd hotfooted it over the car lot's barbed wire fence, leaving the object of his desire, a candy apple red Mustang, behind. Now, however, his fear proved unfounded as the playful beast flopped onto its back at his feet, wiggling and wagging its tail. "What up, pup?" he asked as he rang the doorbell, "is your mom home?"

The door opened as Darien leaned down to pat the dog on its tummy, leaving him with a close-up view of two feet clad in a very tasteful pair of Etienne Aignier pumps. Turning his eyes and his head upward, Darien saw that the feet were attached to a very feminine pair of legs, which were, in turn, attached to a nicely toned body topped by a smiling face with wide hazel eyes and well-coifed strawberry blonde hair shot through with silver. "May I help you?"

"Ah, yeah -- Senator Irene McEvy?" Darien stood and held out his hand in greeting.

"Well, ex-Senator now. And who are you?" The woman hadn't stopped smiling, but she hadn't moved from the doorway of her home either.

Darien dropped his hand and reached for his ID. Flipping it open, he explained, "My name's Darien Fawkes and I'm, ah, with The Department of Fish and Game. I was wondering if I could, uhm, you know, ask you a few questions."

The dog apparently realized the massage was over and trotted off towards the atrium. "What kind of questions?" Irene played with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger.

"Oh, nothing you probably haven't heard before. I'm just trying to gather some information on George Pappadamos, your aide who disappeared."

"You mean was murdered, don't you? That was a long time ago, Agent Fawkes. I gave numerous interviews to both the police and the FBI at the time. I can't imagine there's anything left to say on that matter -- particularly not to a Fish and Game agent."

"Ah, yah, I know," Darien bobbed up and down nervously on his long legs. "But ah, since the, uh ... body and uhm, bloody ...," he stopped as Senator McEvy grimaced at his detail, "the ah, you know, evidence was found at a national monument where, uh, there are, ah, whales ... and as you, ah, know, whales are uhm, endangered ... sit's actually, ah, within Fish and Game's charter ... kinda sorta."

"Oh please, don't try and con me. I used to be a Senator, remember? The fact is, you have no legitimate jurisdiction and I don't have to answer any of your questions." She turned to retreat into the house.

Darien crossed his arms, leaned against the door jam, and cocked his eyebrows. "Well, that may be true. But then again, why not answer my questions? After all, you've got nothing to hide, right?"

Irene sighed, stepped into the house and motioned for Darien to do the same. "I can see you're not going to leave this alone. But tell me: why, after all this time, are you so interested in what happened to George?"

"Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions around here?" Darien followed her through a house that was ripe for the picking. He noted a collection of hefty, antique silver candlesticks on the mantle, at least two original O'Keefe's on the living room walls and an extremely bourgeois "Don Quixote" lithograph that more than likely hid the wall safe. Darien plopped down onto a pearl leather pub-back couch that could easily have accommodated his outstretched lanky frame with room to spare. "So you, ah, worked on the Senate subcommittee for nuclear exports back when George was working for you? The one that was run by that big Senator ... ah, Harkin, right? Senator Thomas Harkin from Oklahoma?" He snapped his gum as she nodded.

"The subcommittee on International Security, Proliferation, and Federal Services, yes. We were tasked with evaluating how U.S. dual-use export control policies promoted military modernization and nuclear proliferation in other countries, most notably Russia and China. As subcommittee chairman, Senator Harkin received quite a bit of press coverage. Some even said he was being groomed for a run at the White House."

"Right. So basically you and your Senate buds were supposed to be trying to figure out where the loopholes were that allowed arms manufacturers to get rich by selling nuclear weapons to our enemies."

"Not exactly, Mr. Fawkes, and quite frankly, I'm surprised an experienced federal agent would put it so carelessly. We were trying to ascertain the efficacy of U.S. policy in preventing or exacerbating proliferant activities in high-risk nations."

"Damn. You really were a politician, weren't you?"

Irene's gaze faded over to the glass wall facing the atrium, from which high-pitched squeals of laughter were ringing. "Yes. I was." Her lips suppressed themselves into a thin line.

"But you left public life shortly after George's murder?"

She nodded once again and smoothed the skirt of her butter-colored, silk sundress. "Once I found out I was pregnant. My husband and I had been trying for so long to have a family that when I finally did conceive, I decided to leave public life and dedicate myself to raising my daughter."

Darien looked up to the portrait over the mantel. A twenty-something Irene, resplendent in ivory satin and lace, stood beaming at a sandy-haired man in a tuxedo. "That your husband there?"

Irene smiled faintly and twisted her ring. "Yes. That's Stephen. Hard to believe that picture was taken close to 25 years ago now." She sighed and passed a hand over her eyes. "Is there anything else, Agent Fawkes?"

Darien stood from the sofa, briefly stretching his long limbs and cracking his back. "Ah, no, that should be all. Thank you, Senator."

"Oh, that's just plain Mrs. McEvy now," she corrected, escorting him back to the door. She opened it and held out her hand as he stepped through, back into the front yard. "Good bye."

Darien shook her hand, then turned to go, only to have to jump out of the way when the dog came barreling through the yard yet again. This time she was followed in hot pursuit by a small child in a bright pink bathing suit with a sheaf of jet black hair dripping down her back. The girl howled as she raised what looked like a neon green bazooka and shot a steady stream of water at the galloping animal and anything in its path -- including Darien.

"Rikki," her mother scolded, "how many times have I told you not to chase the dog with your Super-Soaker?" The little girl just giggled and took off after the dog back into the atrium. Darien wiped the water from his jacket. "Oh, I am so sorry. She's such a little handful -- always getting into something."

"Ah, yah, I think I may have known a kid like that once," Darien grinned. "Thanks again." He started towards his car, then turned back to the woman. "Excuse me, Mrs. McEvy, just one more thing. When was the last time you saw George? Alive, that is?"

Irene gave an automatic glance at the direction her daughter had gone, then came down the path to where Darien stood. In a low voice, she answered, "We took the 7 p.m. flight home from D.C. together. It was May 25, I think -- the Tuesday before the Memorial Day weekend. We were both coming home to spend the holiday with our families."

"So you didn't see him at all once you were back in San Diego?"

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Fawkes. I didn't. In fact, we didn't even speak after we landed." She dropped her eyes to the pavement. "My husband met me at the airport."

"Ah hah. I see." Darien nodded to himself. "Thank you, again. You've been very cooperative."

Irene swung her gaze back up to Darien's. "Believe it or not, I do hope you find whoever was responsible for what happened to George. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help." She marched back up the path and shut the door.

Darien walked in the opposite direction and climbed into his car. Seemingly on autopilot as he sifted through the bits of information gleaned from his interview, he failed to notice the three men in cream-colored suits watching from the road when he pulled through the front gates and headed back to The Agency.

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

Carrying a gargantuan Starbuck's cup, Bobby entered his office. He put the cup gingerly down on his desk, then seated himself. He removed the lid, lifted the cup to his nose and gave a deep sniff, followed by a satisfied, "ahhhh." Putting the cup back down again, he crossed his eyes and tried to lick the foam off the end of his nose.

"It's good to see you hard at work, Hobbes." The imperious tones of The Official heralded his arrival.

Bobby froze for a second, his eyes going wide, then he reached into a drawer, pulled out a napkin and quickly wiped the foam away. "Oh, ah, sir! What a ... ah, surprise it is to see you down here," Bobby replied obsequiously as he came around the desk to greet his boss. "Not to mention what an honor it is ... I mean it's so rare that you visit the field agents in their offices ... the boys are going to be jealous of me for a month ...."

The Official walked past Hobbes, straight to the agent's chair. He sat down in Hobbes' place, grabbed Bobby's cup and began sipping at his latte. Bobby watched helplessly as the rotund bureaucrat appropriated his afternoon treat. "Uhm, if you don't mind me asking, sir, what does bring you down here?" The Official took another sip of the latte and frowned. "Not that it's not a pleasure, of course, to see you ... or that you shouldn't feel free to come down to my office anytime. After all, you do run this Agency. Yessir, the head honcho, that's you ... the Big Kahuna ... the head cheese ...."

"You got any more sugar?"

"Oh, ah, in the top right drawer there, sir ...." Bobby tugged at his collar as he waited for his boss to explain the nature of his visit. "You know, if this is about those Internet files, I can assure you that they were all imperative to ongoing investigations, no matter what the little weasel might claim ...."

The Official grabbed five extra packets of sugar, dumped them into the coffee and began to sip again. "Ah, yes, that's better. Now, where's your partner?"

"He's, ah, out on an investigation ...."

"He's where?"

"Out on an investigation. You see, sir, I developed this as a sort of training exercise ...."

"I'll tell you what I see, Hobbes. I told you to tutor Darien, not turn him loose on the unsuspecting public. I entrust that boy's mind to you and you send him off higgeldy-piggeldy -- with no supervision? No guidance?"

Bobby stared down at his feet as he shuffled them. "Uh, no, sir, it's not like that at all. As I was saying, this is a training exercise, of sorts. To teach him to really put his mind to assessing the evidence ...."

"Of sorts? You of all people, Hobbes, should know how much trouble that kid can get into when he puts his mind to it." The Official leaned over Hobbes' desk and shook his finger. "Now you listen to me, Hobbes. You had better be extremely careful about what kind of exercises you send him out on. I want my $17 million investment trained, not dead."

"Oh, crap, what's he done now?"

"Woken a sleeping dog -- one with whom The Agency has a remarkably profitable relationship." The Official rose and stalked over to the exit. "I want this investigation stopped now." He walked out, wagging his finger over his back and warning, "Or it will come out of your paycheck, Bobby. That's a promise."

Bobby returned to his seat, eyed his hijacked coffee cup, grimaced, and dropped it into the garbage. "Atta boy, Fawkes," he murmured, the corners of his mouth turning up a bit, "atta boy."

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

Act Three

"Darien," Eberts called. The tall man at the other end of the hall just kept on walking. "Darien," Eberts tried again. Still no response. "Fawkes!" he called finally.

Fresh from his interview with Senator McEvy, Darien was still in a world of his own. But the sound of someone calling 'Fawkes' down the hall registered in his brain as potentially being Bobby and so he turned. "Oh, hey, Ebes. Man, we have got to stop meeting in the hall like this -- people are gonna start talking," Darien scratched his ear and quirked his lips to the side, "uhm, what'd you call me?"

"My apologies, Darien. But it was imperative that I get your attention."

"Wow," Darien motioned at the thick file Eberts had tucked under his arm. "That must mean you got some good stuff for me there ...."

"Oh, well, yes, actually, I did manage to collect quite a dossier on Mr. Pappadamos, as well as Senators McEvy and Harkin." He handed the file to Darien, who tore into it like a hungry man tearing into a steak. "But that's not why I wanted to speak with you."

"It's not?" Darien asked idly, already consumed by the new information. "Hey, what's this? It says here that George's mom never gave him a headstone?"

Eberts peered over at the page to which Darien was pointing. "Yes, that is correct. Mrs. Pappadamos has failed to erect a memorial at George's gravesite."

"Hmmm ...." Darien returned to flipping through the pages.

Eberts grabbed Darien's forearm. "Darien, you have to stop this investigation."

Darien stared first at Eberts' hand and then at his face. His friend was pale and visibly shaken. "Ebes, man, what's up?"

"The Official and I were following our standard afternoon regime: some judicious budgetary juggling and then at two our favorite soap ... err, CNN commentator comes on. Only this time, during the third scene ... ah, interview, the phone rang. Unfortunately, I was too busy monitoring the ... uhm, broadcast to fully comprehend the importance of that conversation. But I can tell you that once the Official hung up, he went straight to Robert's office."

"Wait a minute -- you're telling me that the Fat Man actually went down to see Hobbes personally instead of sending you or hauling Hobbes into his office?" Darien grimaced at Eberts nod. "Oh, man, this can't be good ...."

"No, no, it can't. Which is exactly why you are to cease and desist from any further investigation into this matter."

"Wait, Ebes. I thought you said you didn't hear what the 'Fish was talking about on the phone. How do you know any of this has anything to do with this case?"

"Darien, on the day you begin investigating a former case of Robert's, based on information contained in a file you stole from the FBI, the Official receives a phone call that disturbs him enough to send him down to Robert's and your office, personally. I don't believe it's too far-fetched to hypothesize from that data that your investigation is what has upset The Official. "

"Hmmm, no, I guess you don't need to be a five-star to figure that out, huh?"

"No, you don't. Particularly since he then ordered me to direct you to his office the moment you returned to The Agency."

"Well, then, I guess I better not be here. 'Cuz I can't hear what he can't tell me if I'm not here, right?" Darien turned and began walking towards The Agency's exit for the second time that day.

"Wait a minute, Darien -- where are you going?" Eberts shouted at his retreating back.

"To see George's mother."

"But, but ... why?"

"Because nobody leaves their son's grave without a headstone for five years unless something is up, that's why."

Eberts watched Darien's lean frame disappear through The Agency's front doors. "Oh no."

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

"My boy -- he was good looking, you know. All the girls were crazy for Georgie. Here, see for yourself," the old woman walked over to the piano without hesitation in the dimly lit apartment and lifted a tarnished silver frame. When Darien rose from his armchair to help her, she waved him away. "I know you must think I'm crazy -- a blind old lady who keeps pictures out that she can't see anymore. But I know that they're there and so they comfort me. Now look," she commanded as she handed Darien the frame and resumed her seat.

Darien stared into the eyes of a handsome young Adonis, perhaps no more than 25 years old. The face was intelligent, with full lips and jet black hair and eyes. And it gave Darien an unsettling sense of déjà vu when he looked at it.

"You see, good looking, no? Just like his father at that age." The old woman's voice broke the silence. "All the girls on Mykonos had their caps set for Spiro, but he only had eyes for me. And Georgie, he was the same. He never had a problem getting girlfriends. And he would have married and made me a grandmother by now, if not for that ... that woman," she spat out.

"Ah, woman?" Darien placed the picture on the oval, cherry wood coffee table. "What woman, Mrs. Pappadamos?"

"That woman -- the senator. Mrs. Irene McEvy." George's mother grimaced. "She was a married woman -- and his boss. If he had been a girl and she a man, there would have been an investigation. But because my son was a man, they don't listen to me. She stole my son from me and they do nothing. Where is the justice in that?"

"I'm sorry. Are you saying that the Senator and your son were, uhm, involved?" Darien knitted his eyebrows and gestured at the picture as if the old lady could see him.

"Yes, exactly. This is what I am saying. And what I have been saying for the last five years to anyone I could find who would listen. And still they do not change -- they do not admit what they have done."

Darien leaned in towards the woman, as if by getting closer to her he could get closer to the truth. "You think the Senator had something to do with your son's murder?"

The old lady cocked her head. "Yes ... and no. They gave me a body to bury. They thought they could fool the blind old lady, that I'd just take their word that my son was dead. But they couldn't fool me then and they can't fool me now. That's not my Georgie lying in that grave," the old lady leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching and snatched Darien's wrist. "I don't care what evidence they've got; that wasn't my son, Mr. Fawkes. A mother knows." She released him and slid back into her chair with a sigh. "It's not my Georgie," she repeated, wiping away the moisture from her eyes with her hand. "But that woman, she knows, too. And it is her fault."

Darien scowled. He'd actually liked Senator McEvy, though it was clear she had been hiding something. Now Mrs. Pappadamos was suggesting that she was somehow involved in George's murder ... or at least it would have been murder if Mrs. Pappadamos believed her son was dead. Somehow, that made the prospects seem far more sinister in Darien's mind.

"Georgie, he was a good boy before he met her. Always he wanted to help people from the time he was a young boy," the old woman felt on the table until she grasped the frame and then held it to her heart. "I can still remember how he pestered me until I let him donate blood. Can you imagine, a teenager wanting to do that? But he did -- and he became a regular donor. I was worried about the needles and such, but he just told me, 'Mama, it takes so little of my time and it could save someone's life." That was how my Georgie thought. And that's why he decided to go into politics for a living.

"He was so excited to get that position as an aide to Senator McEvy. Now I curse the day he met that woman and went to work for those people. That committee was a joke. It was supposed to stop people from selling information on our nuclear weapons to Russia. But Georgie, he said there is something not right, that there were people on that committee who were more interested in making money than protecting the world. And you can't tell me that that woman wasn't one of them." She replaced the frame on the table. "You will have some tea now?"

"Ah, no, Mrs. Pappadamos. I ... uhm, need to get back to ... ah, work." Darien stood, anxious to return to chipping away at the puzzle he'd been presented with. "Thank you for your time."

"You will help me then? You will help me find out what happened to my Georgie?"

Darien mulled over her request as he walked to the door. This case was certainly full of contradictions. A murder that this woman now claimed wasn't a murder. A powerful senator who'd suddenly left public life to become a housewife. A government agency that rather than protecting the public interest it was charged to protect, might have sold it out. And strangest of all, somehow Hobbes had failed to mention any of this in his report. "I'll do my best to look into it, ma'am." He knew exactly where to start, too.

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

As great Roman statesman named Publilius Sirus once warned, "It is well to learn caution by the misfortune of others." Well, I was dead set on learning all about George's misfortune, and in order to do that, it looked like I was gonna have to be anything but cautious. 'Course it's always easier to be a little reckless when you've got a gland in your head that lets you go invisible ....

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

For the second time in as many days, Darien sat outside an FBI facility late at night. This one was not the same as the one he had broken into the night previously, though. While that had had the hum-drum air of administrative offices, this one had a distinct air of round-the-clock activity and an intangible aura of cleanliness. Darien grimaced. What was it Hobbes had once said? "Cleanliness is a sure sign of hinkiness." He snorted, thinking he was learning just how true that Hobbesism was.

Breathing deep and low, he picked up his backpack and let the Quicksilver coat his rangy frame. Then he exited his car and followed a white-coated worker into the building. Navigating through the lobby on the heels of some random workers, he made his way to the basement, figuring that was where his buried treasure was most likely to be located. Sure enough, there at the end of the hall was a sign proclaiming his destination: The FBI Forensic Evidence Storage Facility.

He stood behind the security camera pointed at the door, stopped the flow and returned to visibility. Pulling a camera from his backpack, he taped a few seconds of nothingness at the door, then bypassed the normal hall camera by daisy-chaining the feed through his camera suspended below it to broadcast that scene back to the security monitors.

Even with the added protection of the feedback loop, though, Darien knew he'd best make short work of picking the door's lock. There was simply no way of knowing who was likely to be roaming these halls this late at night. Judging from what he'd seen upstairs, the facility was a hive of activity 24/7 and the sooner he found what he was looking for, the better.

Once inside the room, he quickly began searching through the warren of storage boxes for one with his case number on it. Holding a Mag light in his mouth, he mumbled to himself as he moved from shelf to shelf: "3256 ... 5083 ... 6397 ... 6902 ... 7003 ... 7012 ...." He stopped, got down on the floor next to the bottom shelf where the box was located and picked up his chant again, " 7012-0256 .... 03267 .... 0471 ... damn." He stood, scooted over to the next rack of shelves and began digging in the boxes at the top. "0583 ... 0591 ... 0597-0135. Crap." He rolled his eyes, stooped and moved to the next shelf down. "OK. 7012-0597-0179 ... 0217 ... 0233 ... 0234 ... ah hah! 7012-0597-0235! I got you now, baby!"

Darien pulled the box from the shelf and set it on the floor. Kneeling, he removed his gloves and began pulling out its contents. "Let's see what ole Georgie left us ... yeach." Darien held up pictures of a corpse sprawled on the rocks below a picturesque lighthouse, bloated and decayed beyond recognition. "So how did they figure out that was you, George?" He pulled out a file folder housing what looked to be the results of the lab’s evaluation of the physical evidence.

Opening it, he paged through an assortment of test results and analyses that described in grizzly detail the nature of the stab wounds and the sort of weapon it would take to produce them. A set of dental x-rays told him how the pathologist had made his identification. Along with that, half a dozen printouts of things that looked like graphs, with assorted spiky squiggles along the bottom edge completed the file. Its thinness struck him. Had there really been so little physical evidence? "Serology? What the hell is that?" Darien muttered under his breath, eyeing the topmost sheet with its caption and tell-tale DNA banding patterns. He wondered if he dared take them back with him to the Agency to see what Claire would make of them. "Damn, I wish I hadn’t flunked out of high school chemistry," he muttered, flipping to the next page and turning it lengthwise to read the tiny type below each spike on the graph, recognizing the letters as chemical compounds, but unable to begin to make a guess about which ones. The only thing he remembered from his wasted semester in chemistry was that C meant carbon. Giving up at last, he tucked the papers and x-rays back in the file and tucked it under his arm, picking up the only other thing in the box: a sealed plastic bag containing a hunter green Izod polo shirt. There was a dark brown, crusty stain covering the upper left chest and shoulder. "OK, I'm thinking I'm not going to be Xeroxing you, my friend," he said to the shirt. Pulling a Swiss Army knife out, he held the shirt up, apologized to it, and cut a sizeable swatch from the stained part. He put the swatch and a couple of random test results into his backpack, then put on his gloves again, refilled the box and placed it back in its proper spot.

Quicksilvering once again, he exited the room, restored the security camera, and headed home.

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

Claire was humming happily to herself as she flitted among the shipping boxes filling the Keep when Darien walked in. "Whoa, Keepy, looks like Santa paid somebody an early visit. So tell me, did you get all this for being naughty or nice?"

Claire grinned impishly at him. "You'll never know. Seriously, though, now that the Counteragent budget money has freed up, I've been able to procure the necessary equipment I've been wanting for some of my other lines of research."

"Wow, that's nice." Darien put one of the two coffee containers he held down on the counter and began to hand the second to Claire, then suddenly froze. "Hey, wait a minute -- the deal was that that money is supposed to fund gland-removal research."

"And it is, Darien, but there are some other avenues of research that I've been interested in exploring when I'm not working on gland removal ...." Claire looked at the proffered cup. "What do you want?"

Darien ignored the question. "Not working on gland removal? What do you mean not working on gland removal? That's why I brought you back, remember? To get the gland out of my head -- I haven't forgotten and neither should you. That needs to be your primary line of research ...."

Claire rolled her eyes, accepted the cup and began sipping at the hot beverage. "Ah hah, Prima Donna Syndrome. Must be a side effect of Arnaud's gene therapy. I really should have seen it coming based on the psych workup in your file ...."

"Alright, Keep, alright. Point taken. I'll always be a lab rat to you."

"Oh, come on, what's the matter that you can't take a little ribbing? And don't worry, I'm still researching gland-removal methods, but even I can't spend all my time on it. A mind needs to have varied input the way a muscle does or you don't maximize strength and flexibility -- or in this case, intelligence," Claire pointed out archly.

"What, so you're telling me that working on a cure for cancer will make you smarter?" Darien asked, eying her with a mixture of skepticism and suspicion.

"Yes, actually, that's exactly what I'm telling you, Darien," Claire eyed him back with a slight smile. A warning bell went off in Darien's head and he knew he was about to be bombarded with medical minutiae that would likely make his head spin.

"Some of the most important breakthroughs in science have come from collateral research. For example, I've been following the work of Dr. Young and his study of tumor propagation. Did you know that he started off by researching whether it was possible to create an artificial form of human blood plasma and discovered in the process that there seem to be hormones that stimulate blood vessel growth? He remembered that when he later began doing cancer research and theorized that perhaps tumors secreted a similar hormone, attracting rapid blood vessel growth to supply the tumor's nutrient demands ...."

"Yeah, yeah, that's great, Claire, very interesting, really. But listen, right now I need you to do a little off-the-clock research for me," Darien interrupted impatiently.

"Oh, bloody hell! I knew there had to be a reason for this," she held up her coffee. "Why does it always have to be quid pro quo with you, Darien?"

"What? What? The coffee? You got it all wrong -- this," Darien held up his own coffee cup and tapped it lightly against Claire's, "is just a simple cup of joe between friends." Darien pulled the scrap of bloody fabric and the FBI test results from his jacket pocket. "Just like this is a simple li'l blood test between friends. Oh and while you're at it, could you please tell me what the hell those papers mean?"

"This wouldn't have anything to do with that case of Bobby's you're not supposed to be investigating, would it?"

"How the heck did you find out about ...? Eberts. What? Do you two have a gossip fest like two old hens over lunch every day?"

"Albert and I exchange information on a regular basis, yes. We both like to keep abreast of what's happening with our Agency colleagues."

"Ah ha. I see. So that means I don't have to fill you in on the whole Pappadamos thing, then."

"No. But Albert also told me that he had alerted you yesterday that The Official wanted you off this case." Claire stared at Darien for a second, then sighed. "Which of course, only made you more determined ...."

"See, you know me so well ...."

"Yes, unfortunately I have come to be all too familiar with your twisted logic. What I don't know is just why you think I'm going to help you out this time."

"One word: biscotti."

Claire's eyes widened. "Biscotti?"

Darien nodded. "The chocolate-dipped kind. There's two of 'em in it for you if you can get me what I need by this afternoon."

"Hmmmm," Claire picked up the scrap and the test results, eying them critically. "I can't see me doing that for less than three: two chocolate dipped and one orange cranberry, if you please."

He laughed and nodded again. "My, my, aren't we the greedy little mad scienteest?"

Claire's grey eyes crinkled at the edges. "And you, sir, are an evil, evil man."

Darien shot her a parting grin. "Don't you forget it, sister."

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

Act Four

The dog and her human playmate were back in the front yard when Darien returned to the McEvy home. This time the child appeared to be trying to ride her friend like a horse but the dog insisted on rolling over every time the girl sat on its back. The two came rolling down the yard as Darien came up the path. The dog stopped mid-roll, noted his approach, and ran up to him, flopping over in front of him once again. Darien chuckled softly and bent to rub the dog's tummy. "Demanding little pup, ain't ya?" he murmured.

The girl watched him from the grass with wide eyes that glittered like jet in her deeply tanned face. In fact, the child was brown as a nut with the only hint of red showing right over the bridge of her nose. "Hey there," Darien called to her, "you're Rikki, right?"

She flipped her jumble of black hair over her shoulders and announced, "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Darien nodded. "Ah, yah, that's good. But hey, your dog knows me, right?" He gave the dogs tummy three firm pats for emphasis. "And you saw me with your mom the other day. So that makes me not a stranger, right?"

"I guess so." She stood, straightened her grass-stained cotton sundress, and walked over to him. She daintily put out her hand, as if meeting the queen, "My name is Rikki."

Darien grinned and lightly shook her hand. "Mine is Darien."

"Da ... Dar ...." He rolled his eyes as she tried to work her child's mouth around his name.

"You know what, Rikki? Why don't you just call me Fawkes?"

Just then Irene came through the front door. "Rikki, where are you?" She spotted the girl and called, "Didn't I tell you to stay in the atrium? Louisa has your lunch ready."

The little girl grabbed Darien by the hand and towed him up the path to where her mother stood. "Mommy, mommy, your friend, Fox, came to see us and he wants to have lunch too!" She turned back to Darien and whispered up at him, "We're having macaroni and cheese!"

Darien leaned down to the girl, "I tell you what: why don't you and your pup go have lunch while I talk to your mommy for a minute, OK?"

The girl gave him a very adult look, quirking her lips as if debating something. "Well, OK, then. But it's the dinosaur kind. You really should try it."

Darien laughed. This child had an impish charm that he found irresistible. It was a good thing she was almost 30 years his junior. If she had been a grown-up, he'd have been in serious trouble. "Next time, OK? It'll be a date."

"OK," she agreed, then took off at full speed for the kitchen with the dog galloping after.

Darien stood and turned to Irene. After the warmth of the child's eyes, he felt a definite chill coming from the woman. "Ah, Mrs. McEvy, sorry to bother you again ...."

"Then why do it? I thought we were done, Agent Fawkes. I have nothing more to say to you and I don't like you hanging around my daughter." She tried to rush him out of the foyer by his elbow, but he stood his ground.

"Yeah, well, I don't like it when people lie to me. Why didn't you tell me that you and George were involved?"

She set her lips in a definite line and looked him square in the eye. "We weren't."

"Bull," he said, "listen, lady, you're good, there's no doubt about that. I guess you'd have to be pretty good at lying to be a successful politician. But I've spoken with George's mother ...."

"Please, that woman's the liar. According to her I'm the anti-Christ ...."

"I don't know what you are, but I do know that little girl of yours is not your husband's. Remember, I've seen pictures of George -- you'd have to be blind not to notice the resemblance. What happened? Your husband figured out you were two-timing him and decided to get even?"

"My husband had no idea," Irene began, then threw her hand across her mouth as she realized what she'd said.

"Ah hah. That's what I thought. So why don't you tell me what really happened?" Darien leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and legs expectantly.

Irene looked over into the living room at her wedding picture, her jaw working but no sounds emanating from her mouth. Finally she turned to Darien and began in a hush, "I wanted a family and after years of trying it was clear my husband couldn’t give me one. Stephen refused to go to a fertility specialist because it wasn't 'manly.' Do you have any idea of what it's like to want a child so desperately and not be able to have one?"

Darien thought about how many times his hopes for having the gland removed had been raised, then dashed. "No, but I do know what it's like to want something and know you may never be able to have it in your lifetime."

Irene looked him in the eye again, but this time hers were soft, searching. "So you understand true desperation," she whispered. "I wasn't in love with George and he knew it. But I was fond of him. He was a good man but innocent, a real idealist in the way that only someone young can be. I think he fell a little bit in love with me because of the opportunity I gave him, the entrée into the political life he longed for. I was flattered -- he was a good-looking young man, what woman wouldn't have been? And with Stephen here while George and I were in D.C. ... well, one thing led to another ....." She brushed her hair back with one hand and put the other on her hip. "Anyway, when I became pregnant with Rikki, Stephen never asked how or why. It was almost as if he was relieved."

"And what did George have to say? I can't imagine he was too pleased that you were planning on passing off his child as your husband's."

"George never knew. I never had the chance to tell him. I didn't realize I was pregnant until after we'd come home that Memorial Day weekend." She sighed, half-turned from Darien and stared down at the floor. "Look, the truth is I don't know what happened to George. I left all that behind five years ago. Since then my only concern has been keeping my family safe. Surely you can understand that."

"What? Did someone threaten to kill you or your daughter?"

"There are worse things than death, Agent Fawkes. Like being separated from your family forever. My daughter and my husband are everything to me -- I won't risk losing them," the Senator's public mask came down, leaving no trace of the woman Darien had just seen. "This interview is over."

Darien was undaunted by her change in demeanor. He set his jaw and looked her square in the eye. "Ah, no, ma'am, it's not. I'm sorry, but I need the truth. Look, I don't want to get you in trouble, but you're a smart lady. You know that as long as you're hiding something, you and your family are in danger. It doesn't matter whether you tell me or not. Do you think the people that threatened you are gonna care? The only way for you to be sure that you and your family stay safe is to come clean so we can put those bastards away." Darien put a hand on Irene's shoulder. "You just said the worst thing that could happen to you would be to be separated from your family. Well, there's a blind old lady who was separated from her son five years ago. If that was you, wouldn't you want somebody to pay?"

The ex-senator gave a sigh that sounded somewhere between frustration and resignation. "There were rumors, alright, but they were just rumors. George suspected that Senator Harkin received overly generous contributions from some of the nation's largest defense contractors, like Lawrence Livermore and Lockheed Martin. These were the same companies who were being paid top dollar for some ... well, shall we say questionable technology on the Korean black market. And that kind of allegation would have been extremely problematic for a potential presidential candidate. Now, George couldn’t prove anything but he did make an awful lot of noise when it appeared that Harkin was intent on quashing a bill that would have prevented such sales. I tried to warn him that he needed to be careful, that he was just an aide and Harkin was a dangerous enemy for someone who had a bright political future ahead of him to make. But George, he was so naïve, so intent on doing the 'right thing,' that he just wouldn't listen."

"So you think Harkin had a hand in George's demise?"

"I don't know, Agent Fawkes. I truly don't. But I do think it odd that a man who'd been the frontrunner as the next presidential candidate would suddenly turn his back on politics just days before our subcommittee's report was published. That should have been his day in the sun, a stepping stone to the White House. Instead he went back to Oklahoma with his tail between his legs and Senator Lee of Hawaii replaced him as head of the subcommittee. It was all very troubling."

"You know what, Mrs. McEvy? It still is."

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

Darien walked to his car with his brows knit, jingling his keys absently as he went. Bobby had definitely had the right idea when he filed this case under 'Big Frickin' Mess." The more he discovered, the more he became convinced that's exactly what this was. No wonder Bobby had laughed at him when he'd said this case was dead. He couldn't have been more wrong.

Still wrapped in his reverie, Darien didn't look up until a cream-clad arm shot out and grabbed his hand as he reached for the driver's side door. Darien was so shocked by the movement that he almost lost control and just barely managed to squelch the familiar tingling at the back of his neck. Calming himself, he turned his head to address three familiar looking men all dressed in matching off-white suits. "Ah, yah, I'd like two Fudgesicles and a Nutty Buddy, please," he deadpanned. "Hey, maybe one of those red, white and blue Firecracker Pops, too. They're so patriotic, don't you think?" Darien fished in his pants pocket as if looking for change.

"Very amusing, Agent Fawkes," the head representative for the Agency of Sequestered Seclusion sounded anything but amused. "Unfortunately that sense of humor won't help you if you insist on pursuing this matter further. We thought we'd made it clear to your superior that you were to halt your investigation immediately."

Darien bit his lip and squinted. "Hey, what can I say? I've always had a problem with authority."

"See, from our point of view, you are the problem," the man and his two silent companions moved closer to Darien in lock step. "This is your last warning: drop this case or suffer the consequences."

"Ooh, I'm scared," Darien smirked. "Please, I've seen your consequences before, remember? And frankly, they didn't impress me. I got out once; I can do it again if I have to."

"Oh, we're not going to extend you the courtesy of offering you accommodations at our facility again, Agent Fawkes. To be blunt, we don't need your kind of element bringing down the neighborhood. Our solution this time will be much more ... 'permanent.'" With that the three men stepped away, leaving Darien to contemplate the implication inherent in their visit.

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

Darien cruised down the Agency's halls, half-surprised to find himself all the way to the office he shared with Bobby and still unaccosted by Eberts. Barging through the door, he launched into the conversation he'd already been having in his head with his partner and mentor. "Bobby, you are not going to believe who just paid me a visit!" He didn't wait for a reply. "The men in the cream suits, that's who."

"You mean the psych ward finally decided to come after you?" Bobby sat behind his desk, calmly alternating between sorting through papers and typing into his computer.

"No, man, The Agency of Sequestered Seclusion. I said cream suits, not white."

"Well, cream is kinda white ...."

"Cream is not white; it's off-white. There's a difference."

"Not much."

"Enough."

"Says you."

"No, I meant 'enough already.' You're missing the point."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. I just told you A.S.S. came after me and told me to stop the Pappadamos investigation!"

"They did, huh? That's interesting." Bobby pulled another paper from his desk and turned back to his computer screen.

Darien's face fell at Bobby's nonchalance. "What? You're not surprised?"

Bobby stopped typing and toyed with a paper clip in his mouth. "Oh, no," he drawled, "I'm surprised ... surprised it's taken you this long to get to here."

"Excuse me?" A red flush crept up Darien's neck and face as disappointment, frustration and embarrassment warred with each other. "Hey, at least I got here. And it's a hell of a lot more than interesting there, buddy. You and Jonesy never even made it this far."

Bobby replaced the paper clip in his mouth and started typing again. "That's right, Fawkes, Jones and me never did ...."

Darien stared at his partner for a few moments, mouth agape, then left the office in silence and headed for the Keep. Maybe Claire would be sufficiently impressed by his latest discovery.

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

"Hey, Claire, guess what? I just had a run-in with A.S.S.!"

"I'm not surprised."

For the second time in a row, Darien's face fell in disappointment. "What is it with you people around here? Can't a guy enjoy a stunning discovery every once in a while?"

Claire clucked her tongue at him. "Poor baby. I'm sorry, but I have a stunning discovery of my own to tell you about."

"Oh really?" Darien popped onto his former administering chair and settled in. "Whatcha got for me?"

"George's blood is, well, George's blood."

"OK, Claire, I gotta tell you: as stunning discoveries go, that one pretty well sucks."

"No, Darien, no," Claire turned in her chair and tapped her file on her desk. "It is George's blood, but it couldn't have come from the body they found. The blood on the shirt had to have come from a living person."

Darien scratched his chin. "Wait a minute, you're telling me that our victim wasn't a victim?"

"Well, yes. According to my test results, the blood sample taken from George's shirt contained traces of a common anti-coagulant, a chemical compound used to keep whole blood from clotting. The only reason such a compound would be present is if the blood was taken from a live donor ...."

"Huh?"

Claire got up, grabbed Darien's hand and held out his index finger. "Oh, look. You cut your finger and what happens? It bleeds for a bit and then stops, right? That's because whole, untreated blood contains protein compounds that cause it to form fibrous clots when it hits the air. It's the body's defense against bleeding to death from a paper cut." Claire released Darien and walked over to her desk, picking up her file. "But this blood had a chemical added to it to prevent it from clotting -- which in and of itself isn't all that unusual. It's fairly standard when you want to collect and store whole blood samples. For example the Red Cross uses it when collecting donations for the blood bank ...."

Darien stood and went to look at the file over her shoulder. "So people who give blood would have this in their, uhm, donations?"

"Right. See, not so unusual." Claire turned to face him. "What is unusual is that this compound was found in the blood sample of an alleged murder victim. And what's even more unusual is that the FBI lab didn't catch it."

"So what? You're saying that the FBI test lab screwed up so badly that they couldn't even tell the victim's blood had to come from a live person?"

"I'd say that's highly unlikely, at best." Claire shifted on her feet and leaned her hip against the edge of her desk.

"Or on purpose. And both Jonesey and Hobbes signed off on the lab's findings as the investigating agents. Now I can believe Jonesy missing something that critical, but Hobbes? Uh, uh, no way our little tiger would let that one slip by."

"So you're saying Bobby knowingly signed off on falsified evidence?" Claire bit her lip and frowned. "That sounds even less likely. I mean, what could possibly induce him to do such a thing?"

Darien took the file from Claire's hands and let out a deep breath as his brows knitted. "I don't know, but I'm damn sure gonna find out."

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

Darien stormed into the office and slammed the file onto Bobby's desktop. "Alright, why don't you tell me what the hell is going on?"

Hobbes simply looked up at Darien from behind his desk and asked mildly, "Why don't you tell me, partner?"

"I've got evidence here," Darien waved the file at Hobbes, "that the murder wasn't a murder, that George wasn't even a victim, that you overlooked false evidence knowingly ...." He swallowed and looked into his partner's eyes. "please, give me something here so I can understand how you could ...."

"You've taken the first step, Fawkes. You've gathered your evidence. Now take that evidence and put it all together. See, as a thief, you were trained to observe your surroundings and work with what you saw. Now you've got to look beyond it. Then tell me what you see." Bobby leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head and simply waited.

Darien's mind whirled as he looked at his partner, a man he knew would never knowingly allow a murder to go unsolved. Except that Claire had just told him that George couldn't have been dead when the blood was taken. And The Community had just tried to dam his investigation into George's supposed death. Taken together, those two facts could only add up to one conclusion: George was now a member of the government's super-secret enclave for agents and other personnel who needed to "disappear" for safety or political reasons. "George isn't dead," Darien said slowly, "he's stashed at The Community. The body at the crime scene was a plant -- just like we used to fake your death that time the Chinese were after you."

Encouraged by Bobby's emerging smile, Darien began hypothesizing out loud, "And if The Community's involved, that means someone pretty high up in the government wanted him kept quiet, but not badly enough to want him dead.

"McEvy? Nah, she wouldn't have done it. Sure it was easier for her not to have him around when Rikki was born, but she wouldn't have had the heart to do that to him. Besides, she didn't have enough pull." Darien started pacing as he spoke, moving like a caged animal from one side of the small room to the other. "But if not, McEvy, who?

"Harkin," Darien turned expecting to be greeted by a triumphant smile from Hobbes but instead was shocked to find a frown marring his partner's handsome features. "It had to be Harkin. He had motive: George knew he was taking bribes from defense contractors. Allegations like that would have spelled the end of his political career. And he had the power to get George sentenced to The Community. It had to be him, Bobby."

The older man shook his head. "Think, Fawkes, think! If Harkin was behind George's disappearance, why bother with The Community? Why not just kill the guy and be done with it? George was much more dangerous to him alive than dead ...."

"And Harkin's political career was pretty much washed up abruptly too." Darien instinctively picked up Hobbes' train of thought. "So it wasn't Harkin directly. But he had to have been involved. There's no other reason for someone to want George to disappear. It had to have been to make sure he kept his mouth shut about Harkin. And whoever had the power to do that, also had to have had the power to make sure that Harkin left office and never returned. Someone who had even more to lose than Harkin if the truth ever came out about his bribes." Darien stopped and turned to his partner again. "It was a deal, wasn't it?"

"What do you mean, Fawkes?" Bobby asked cautiously.

"I mean that somebody high up, maybe even the President himself, made a deal with Harkin: he steps down and George gets a lifetime lease on a retirement suite at The Community. Problem solved and the public never needs to know about the snake the government put in charge of its anti-nuke protection program. Everybody goes home a winner -- except George, that is." Darien grimaced as if he'd swallowed something foul. "And you knew!" Darien put both hands on Hobbes's desk, leaning down to look his partner in the eyes. "And you let them get away with it?"

"Not at first."

"Not at first? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I didn't know about the deal at first. I really thought George had been murdered. But the more I looked into it, the more I knew something was wrong. But every time I had enough facts pulled together to share a theory with Jones, things suddenly got turned on their heads. Crime scene photos I knew I'd pulled went missing. Evidence I'd tagged suddenly disappeared. People who'd told me things suddenly recanted. I thought maybe I'd lost it there for a while.

"And then I realized it wasn't me screwing up; it was Jones screwing the pooch on me." Bobby sighed and ran a hand across his head. "My partner was tampering with the evidence, trying to throw me off at every turn. So I did the only thing I could do. I kept my mouth shut and kept on investigating. When I had enough evidence to make a solid case against Harkin and Jones, I went to our boss and told him what I'd found. That's when I learned what had really happened. That a deal had been made to oust Harkin and keep George quiet to spare the administration any embarrassment. And that Jones had been ordered to sabotage my investigation in the hopes I'd just quit it and move on to the next one.

"That was the end of my partnership with that bastard -- the last case we worked on together. I had to sign off on it as unsolved and file it under the BFM heading, even though I knew what had happened and Jones knew I knew. I couldn't trust him -- no way was I going to work with him again. And he told everyone that he had been the one who asked to be reassigned, that my inability to crack this case had caused me to crack ...."

Darien dropped into the seat in front of Bobby's desk. "But why, Bobby? You knew the truth. Why didn't you just go public?"

"Because Fawkes, sometimes the best thing an agent can know is when to shut up. Which is a lesson Georgie Porgie here never learned. Yeah, I coulda kept protesting and making people uncomfortable. But what woulda happened? I woulda wound up just like George or worse. And you woulda wound up dead a half dozen times over 'cuz I wouldn'ta been there to save your sorry butt." Bobby looked at Darien hard in the eyes. "Nah, there wasn't nothing I could do. I mean, Harkin was already getting the axe behind the scenes. McEvy was having a baby. And George was stashed in The Community, though I didn't know specifically it was The Community then. I didn't figure that part out till a while back when A.S.S. tried to make you and me permanent residents." Bobby sighed and sat back down. "But don't imagine the thought of that boy's mother hasn't kept me up at night. Yeah, Bobby Hobbes did what he had to do, but he sure as hell didn't like it. I just hope you never have to make that choice, my friend."

"What choice?"

"The choice between duty and the truth. Because it is not an easy one. And you can lose yourself in making it." He fished in his inside jacket pocket for a moment, then began patting himself down.

"Is that what happened to you?" Darien picked up a pill bottle from Bobby's desk and shook it. "Is that why you started with these?" His voice was low, barely above a whisper but held the sharp edge of anger behind its velvet tone. "Because of the twit?"

Bobby snatched the bottle from Darien's hand and shook out two pills while shaking his head. "Nah, nah, Fawkes. It wasn't like that." He popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed without benefit of water. "My little ... uh, idiosyncrasies started way before then. 'Sides, it'd take a hell of a lot more than some back-stabbing shenanigans by Jonesy to crack Bobby Hobbes. I'm way more twisted than that ...." He quieted suddenly and just stood scratching with his index finger over his left eyebrow.

Darien looked at his partner, trying to imagine what someone like Bobby must have felt about Jones's betrayal. Sure, Darien had been double-crossed by people he trusted -- like when that bastard Manny Merrick had lifted his prints and framed him for a crime Merrick himself had committed -- but he had been a thief and so he had expected to be betrayed. But Bobby? He was too much of a stand-up guy to have ever imagined that his partner could have stabbed him in the back. A betrayal of that magnitude must have turned his world view on its ear.

"Fawkes, what the hell are you staring at?" Bobby shifted from side to side, then suddenly sat down as if to put himself under Darien's radar-like gaze.

"Oh, ah, nothin', Bobby, just thinkin'."

"Just thinkin', huh? Well, I guess there's a first time for everything." Bobby looked up at Darien, a slow grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "So, whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

"Oh, I don't know," Darien lilted. "Maybe about the best agent I've ever known and the most important lesson he ever taught me." He sat down across the desk and locked eyes with the older man.

Bobby tilted his head and turned the intensity of his gaze up a notch. "And what would that be?"

"Darien Fawkes doesn't bail on his partner." He put his hand out for a low-five. "And you can take that to the bank, my friend."

Bobby's grin turned into a full-fledged smile as he slapped Darien's outstretched palm. "Glad to hear it, partner. Glad to hear it."

Darien slid back into his chair, frowned and proceeded to chew on the end of his thumb.

After a few moments of shuffling the paper on his desk, Bobby broke the silence. "You know you can't tell her."

Darien looked up startled. "Tell who what?"

"George's mother. You can't tell her what really happened to him. You know that, so why are you even thinking about it?"

Darien focused his attention on the end of the thumb he'd been chewing. "I'm not." He scratched at an ear, then his chin, then his nose. "But why not? I mean, I wouldn't have to tell her everything. Just let her know that he's OK -- so she wouldn't have to worry any more, you know?"

"Yeah, right. You give that dame a smoking gun and she's gonna shoot everyone in sight with it. Fawkes, she's just spent the last five years telling anybody who'd listen that her son wasn't dead without any proof. You let her know she's right and there'd be no stopping her ...."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

"Yes, yes, it would be bad."

"For the government."

"For George. Look he's alive right now. And still breathing. There's a lot to be said for that. Granted, he's stuck in The Community for the rest of his life, but that's a whole lot better than being six feet under. And that's where he's gonna end up if his mother starts raising a ruckus again. Trust me, my friend, the best thing you can do for George is to keep your mouth shut." Darien sat for a moment, then leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak. Hobbes held up a hand to stop him. "You know I'm right."

The younger man sank back in his chair. "Yeah, I know." Bobby returned to shuffling papers and Darien picked up gnawing on his thumb again. "Bobby? Does it ever get any easier?"

"No, Fawkes, it doesn't. And like one of my shrinks once told me: if it does, then you know it's time to get out."

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

Tag

Darien sat on his sofa, lips moving as he studied a book open in his lap. Never lifting his eyes from the page, he reached blindly for his beer amid stacks of thick textbooks piled haphazardly on his coffee table. A loud knock on the door disturbed the calm of the apartment, but Darien barely seemed to notice. Without looking up, he mumbled loudly, "Come in."

Hobbes burst through the door, a jumble of frenetic motion. "Hey, partner," he called, stopping by the pool table and hitching up his pants, "Haven't heard from you in a couple of days so I just thought I'd stop by and see how it's going. Another scintillating weekend, I see."

"Oh, hey, Hobbesy," Darien finally looked up and shook his head as if to clear his vision. "Sorry I haven't called, but I been, ah, y'know," Darien ducked his head sheepishly towards the books on the coffee table, "uhm, studyin'."

"Studying, huh?" Bobby walked over to the coffee table and began inspecting the books piled there. At Bobby's approach, Darien quickly shut the book in his lap and tried to stash it under one of the sofa cushions. Hobbes immediately zeroed in on the movement and asked, "Whaddya got there?"

"Oh, it's, ah, nothing, just, ah, just one of those standard agent training textbooks. I, uh, borrowed a couple from Eberts. You know, like political science, world economics, Machiavelli's 'The Prince,'" Darien sighed, "You know, 'a good agent is an expert in many areas; his mind is his strongest weapon,' I think I heard somewhere."

"Oh, you heard that somewhere, did you? Well, whoever said it sounds like a very wise man to me," Bobby grinned over at Darien. "So tell me, oh seeker of knowledge, how are you doing?"

Darien moved his gaze from Bobby to look out the window. "Fine."

"Fine?  You're doing fine?"  Bobby walked around the couch and stood directly in Darien's line of sight.

"Yeah," Darien replied his voice trailing on an upward note.

"Yeah?"  Bobby leaned forward and looked Darien straight in the eye, switching his gaze first from one of Darien's baby brown's to the other. "So no trouble whatsoever?"

"Nope," Darien bit off in a quick syllable.

With a tired sigh, Bobby shook his head, "OK, 'fess up, Fawkesy, what's the problem?"

"Whaddaya mean, I just told you there's no problem."

"Yeah, I know what you told me, but those one word answers of yours are telling me something else," Bobby reached out his hand to snatch the book that the younger man had been trying to hide.

Darien fought briefly for the book, then threw his hands up in the air. "Alright, alright, if you must know, I'm studying CTS."

"Studying CTS?" Hobbes looked at Darien incredulously for a second, then rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "'Course I'm not really surprised. After all, I have seen you trying to put the moves on chicks when we go out drinking."

"Oh, great. That's just great. I'm studying a required course here and you use it as the punch line to a joke. Thanks a lot, partner," Darien stared at Hobbes from soulful eyes under raised brows. "Way to give constructive criticism."

Bobby sat on the arm of the couch and put his arm consolingly around the younger man. "Never fear, my friend. It's all good, 'cuz you know what? You got one of the foremost authorities on CTS sittin' right here next to you."

Darien looked around his apartment searchingly, "Who?"

"Me," Bobby replied with a twinge of annoyance in his voice

"I don't know, Bobby...."

"C'mon, Fawkesy, am I not your mentor in all things spook? Have I not taken you into the bosom of my knowledge before?"

"Yeah, but this, this is different."

"N'ah, you'll see, one evening of Bobby Hobbes' personal instruction and you'll be slaying those agent chiquitas. Now c'mon, shove over and we'll do some role playing." Bobby shouldered Darien over and plopped down on the couch right next to him, both men's knees touching. Twisting a bit in his seat to face the taller man more fully, he leaned in close. In a deep, smooth, hushed tone, he suggested, "Ok, now you're the girl and I'm the agent. Listen and learn, my friend..."

Darien stared back at him unhappily. "You know, Hobbesy, I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Monroe."

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

According to the Dalai Lama, the path to enlightenment is a simple one. The key, he tells us, is to take refuge in the Three Jewels of Buddhism. You know, when I was thief, I thought riches, not wisdom, came in the form of jewels ... or money ... or bearer bonds. But there's an ancient Chinese proverb that says: "Learning is a treasure which accompanies its owner everywhere." And if that enlightened Buddha Bobby Hobbes has his way, I'm gonna be one of the wealthiest dudes in the world.

End