Episode 4.01

by The Virtual Season Staff

In one of my all time favorite novels,all-time favorite novels," The Name of the Rose" by Umberto Ecco, the brilliant medieval detective Brother William tells his apprentice that, "A dream is a scripture, and many scriptures are nothing but dreams." And, like a lot of religious bullcrap, it sounds all nice and profound, until you really think about it. 'Cuz let's face it: If ole Brother Bill had really known what he was talking about, he would have mentioned how to tell the difference.

The ink-black night was silent, without even the chirp of crickets or the rush of a passing car to break the stillness. Still smoky air drifted in swirls and eddies around a trio of limp crepe-paper skeletons and hobgoblins taped to the tiny apartment's windows, the dankness actually a welcome relief after the hellish heat of the Santa Anas and the ensuing infernos they'd brought.

A few bits of candy corn rattled in a cheap plastic pumpkin as a snake-emblazoned wrist blindly reached out and swatted it off the coffee table. Long, jeans-clad limbs twisted on a shabby fabric couch, sneakers squeaking together as a lanky body arched itself up off the cushions and then crashed back down, spilling the long-forgotten TV remote from the gray chenille throw twined amidst its legs and sending the device clattering to the floor.

Quick, frantic pants escaped the sleeper's lips as his face contorted, obvious terror written across his darkly handsome features. Behind his clamped lids, his eyes moved rapidly, side to side, up and down, at first only viewing a few sugar-induced reruns of the silly, spooky gorefest he'd rented from Blockbuster earlier that evening. But soon a new swirl of images flashed across the page of his sleeping consciousness, scenes that could only have come from his own mind: a confused jumble of Quicksilver vision interspersed with color images, familiar voices calling faintly as if echoing across vast chasms of time and space, the past and present, truth and falsehood all juxtaposed in an inchoate hodgepodge of ephemeral visions.

In his mind's eye, Darien stood at the top of a hill overlooking San Diego and watched paralyzed with fear as a cocoon the size of a skyscraper burst open, the hordes of metallic spiders inside spilling out, swarming over the city and burrowing into the scorched earth, the click of their silvery legs pounding in his ears so loudly he could still hear them, still feel the vibrations, even as they dug their way to the very heart of the earth.

Disgusted, he turned and fell to his knees, his stomach retching violently as his throat spewed gland after gland, each one still attached to his insides by a Quicksilver thread. Desperately his fingers searched his black leather jacket, seizing on his pocketknife and slashing through the unholy umbilical cords. But rather than shriveling up and dying when cut from their source, the glands thrived, oozing Quicksilver until he was standing in an ocean of the shiny substance. Heavy footsteps sounded from the bottom of the hill, and he peered down at two tiny figures climbing. As they got closer, he could see it was a rotund man and a blonde woman, bizarre caricatures of Claire and the Official, holding a pail between them. He screamed at them to stop, tried to warn them before they drowned in the sea of glands, but they marched on. Finally, they stopped at the shoreline and dipped their pail in, filling it with the viscous liquid. They turned together to go back down the hill, but at the last moment, Claire looked back, blew him a kiss and winked one red eye at him. Then she and the Official scampered downhill, giggling maniacally all the way.

With the fanfare of an organ playing the wedding march, Darien suddenly found himself transported to the empty nave of Our Lady of the Sierras, his childhood parish. A tiny woman stood before the altar, swathed in white lace and satin, the deep V cut of her gown's back showcasing a pair of exquisite shoulder blades and her titian hair shining beneath a pearl-encrusted headpiece. Flabbergasted at the sudden change in scene, Darien looked down and realized he was wearing a tuxedo with a white rose as his boutonnière. The bride turned around, beckoning him to come forward with a wave of her bouquet -- fragrant roses, gerbera, orange blossom and ivy almost enveloping her. Darien loped up the aisle to meet her, sweeping the mask of her veil away, only to find the face of his Aunt Celia revealed.

"Thanks heavens you could make it, dear," she smiled up at him. "It's so nice to have the whole family here."

Darien watched in horror as the pews began to fill with the shades of his dead relatives: the dark brooding presence of his uncle, the sweet lightness of his mother, and then Kevin.

"Darien," Kevin said casually, taking off his blood-spattered glasses and wiping them with his equally filthy tie, "come over here. There's something we need to discuss."

Obediently Darien followed his brother to a monolith of ice, the front sculpted into the image of a person's face contorted in agony, the scream forever frozen on his lips, bent fingers eternally trying to claw his way to freedom. Walking around the side, Darien could see that it wasn't just some bizarre ice carving, but the body of a young man frozen solid in the icy obelisk. "Oh my God, that's Ada ..." Darien shook his head, "Ale...." Before he could correct his mistake the glacial monument burst into flames. Without a moment's hesitation, Darien leapt into the heart of the fire in a desperate attempt to save his surrogate son.

But as soon as he reached the center, the flames died and the ice disappeared, leaving Darien standing in the middle of a prison cell. "Kevin!" he bellowed, rushing to the cell door just in time for his grinning brother to slam it shut in his face.

Kevin's smirk grew wider and wider, like the Cheshire Cat's, until it ate up almost his whole face. Then his hair darkened, and he shot up three inches to become a slender young man with piercing green eyes.

"Honestly, Fawkes," Kevin-cum-Arnaud laughed, "you didn't really think I'd let you get off scot-free, now did you? Never fear, though, I've left you a way out. No thanks necessary." He pointed at the cot behind Darien, who looked down to find a .45 Magnum lying on the tattered blanket.

"Nice try, Arnaud, but I'm not playing by your rules any more," Darien retorted, picking up the gun and swinging his arm up to aim it at his arch-nemesis.

Except his target had transformed from Arnaud to Hobbes, who threw open the door to the prison cell. "Bobby Hobbes doesn't bail," he said by way of explanation, holding out a bright pink bakery box, "and look, partner, hot donuts!"

The prison klaxon blared, signaling an escape, and Darien's finger reflexively tensed on the gun's trigger. He watched in horror, as the bullet flew in slow motion, first piercing the box of donuts before slamming into his partner's chest, blood and grape jelly smearing Hobbes' pristine white shirt.

He screamed till his throat was raw but the siren drowned out everything beneath its wail. Dropping the gun, he brought his hands up and clamped them over his ears, falling to his knees, shaking his head, trying to get the damned noise out before his eardrums burst. When that didn't work, he crushed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he could erase the vision of his partner's body lying at his feet. Over and over he rubbed them, all the while the alarm sounded, until he finally dropped to the ground, exhausted, and as his head hit the cement floor his eyes snapped open....

"What the fu..." he muttered, blinking once, twice, three times. Looking around the blessedly normal clutter of his tiny apartment in the dim light of early morning, he realized it was his alarm clock that was buzzing. He sat up with a groan and rubbed his aching back. Taking in the stack of horror movies on his coffee table, he made a mental note: "No more Freddie vs. Jason for me." Then he got up, popping a few vertebrae in the process, and shambled over to slap his alarm off.

He stood for a moment, contemplated the making of coffee, then decided it was much too complicated a process to attempt so early. Instead, he plodded off to the bathroom, with the intention of treating himself to a long, hot shower, complete with two shampoos and a deep conditioning. But no sooner had he adjusted the water temperature to the perfect steaminess, than he was interrupted by three loud raps at the door.

With an irritated grunt, he left the water running and trudged over to the doorway. "You're early, Hobbes," Darien grumbled as he jerked the door open.

"Yeah, but I brought breakfast!" Bobby grinned beatifically and held out a bright pink box.

With an involuntary jerk, a startled Darien knocked the ghastly reminder of his nightmare away, upending the glazed, powdered, and cream-filled pastries onto the floor.

Both men stared down at the ruined donuts on the floor and after a moment sighed in tandem, "Aw crap, not again...."

"Here I go and think I can finally safely buy donuts, and you get all spastic on me," Bobby grumped from the couch.

Darien grimaced as he dumped the last of the paper towels he'd used to clean up the gooey mess from the floor into the trash. "Look, Bobby, I'll get you something to eat on the way over, okay?"

"That's not the point, partner. It's the principle of the matter," the shorter man replied as he rose and brushed off his slacks. "You can't keep letting stuff like this creep you out to the point that it affects everything you do. You're a seasoned agent now, Fawkes. Time to get that professional detachment in place."

Darien rinsed off his hands, dried them on a dishtowel, and joined his friend by the door. "There's nothing wrong with my 'professional detachment', Hobbes," he retorted. "Let me ask you this: do you have dreams that come true?"

"Sure, it's called déjà vu."

"Exactly the way you dreamed them?"

Bobby pursed his lips a little as he cocked his head. "Well, no, but who does?"

They stepped out into the hall, and Darien turned to lock the door. "I do," he murmured under his breath.

Bobby's eyes narrowed in speculation and concern, and then widened as he was hit with a thought. "Crap! Forgot about this." He slipped a small padded manila envelope out of the inner pocket of his sport jacket and handed it to his partner. "This was on top of your mailbox when I got here."

Darien slowly returned his keys to his pocket as he warily eyed the envelope. After a brief pause, he asked, "What is it?"

Bobby shrugged. "How the hell should I know?"

"No return address," Darien noted, absently inspecting the envelope for any clue as to what the contents were, but after a few seconds he slid it into the pocket of his tan leather coat.

As he began to walk to the end of the hall, Bobby called out, "Hey, ain't'cha gonna open it?"

The lanky man paused midstep and shot a brooding look over his shoulder. "Remember the saying 'Beware strangers bearing gifts'?" At his partner's puzzled nod, he continued. "Well, after the last 'present' I got in the mail, I'm not all that fond of strange stuff just coming out of nowhere, you know?"

Bobby's expression firmed, and he trotted to catch up to the longer strides of the other man. "So, what exactly do you have in mind to replace my Boston Cremes?"

"That's an affirmative, sir, we're following the suspect, but I gotta tell you, he ain't exactly actin' like a guy about to skip the country," Hobbes relayed to the Official and Eberts back at the Harding building with a patented long suffering sigh, cradling his cell phone between shoulder and ear while trying to maneuver Golda through downtown San Diego traffic.

"Hobbes! He's going left!" Darien warned, grabbing the cell when it threatened to hit the floorboards after Hobbes shifted quickly and switched lanes to a chorus of honked horns from the drivers behind him.

"I got him, I got him," Hobbes insisted, staring intently at the Blue M-class Mercedes he'd been tailing most of the morning. The Mercedes took a second left into the parking lot of a single story strip mall. Unable to follow closely Hobbes finally pulled up into a loading zone behind a rig with the Starbucks logo and tried to look inconspicuous. He watched their suspect tuck his car into a handicapped spot and jog inside the glass storefront of a florist.

"Listen, Chief, as much as we'd really like to continue this chat I think we gotta boogie here," Darien answered the Official's demand to know what the hell was going on and prepared to press the off button.

"Oh, Darien," Eberts added, almost as an afterthought. "If Mr. Stevens goes into either a dog grooming salon or a cake decorating shop, we believe that he may be picking up his assignment for overseas."

"So we stake out a Petsmart?" Darien groused. "I don't think Stevens has a dog, but we'll keep you posted." Stevens walked out of the florist with a small bouquet of red roses and jumped into his Mercedes, taking off like a shot. Hobbes had to swerve to avoid the delivery guy bringing in a shipment of coffee for Starbucks, earning a shouted curse as Golda careened after in pursuit.

"See that you do that!" the Official roared, his voice even more menacing booming out of the tiny speaker of a flip phone. "We can't let Stevens slip out of our net this easily. He's been linked to several anti-US extremist groups from the Middle East in the last year."

"Aye, aye, Captain Kirk." Darien flipped the phone closed with a flick of his wrist, dumping it into the same pocket he'd stashed the padded envelope. After trying to ignore it all morning he retrieved the mysterious package, fiddling with the flap but not actually tearing loose the tantalizing zip tab.

"When you gonna open that, Fawkes?" The van increased speed as Stevens disappeared onto a side street causing Hobbes to scramble to catch up. "This bastard either knows we're onto him or he's the worst driver on earth!"

"S'probably just one of those CDs for an AOL upgrade," Darien studied the handwritten address with barely suppressed distrust.

"Givit'a me," Having located the Mercedes parked nose-up to a See's Candies shop Bobby made a grab for the envelope, taking his eyes off the road. The long blat of a car horn brought his concentration back on driving after he'd wrestled the mailer away from his partner and he pulled the van to a stop across the street from the candy emporium. Hobbes triumphantly grabbed hold of the flap on the back and ripped the package open,

shaking out a standard-issue black audiocassette. Peering inside the envelope he checked for any accompanying instructions. "Bupkus," he shrugged. "Let's pop this baby in, see if it plays 'I am the Walrus' backwards and proves Paul McCartney really did die in '68."

"Bobby! That could be one of those mail bombs or anthrax!" Darien protested.

Hobbes flipped the cassette over, examined both sides, gave it the smell test before holding it up to his ear and then shook it, proclaiming, "It's fine."

"You get your apartment swept for bugs every other week, you go four miles out of your way to get to work every day to make sure you're not tailed, and now you just want to play this thing that just showed up out of nowhere? What if it's one of those self-destruct tapes, only it's not just the tape that destructs, it's us?" Darien grimaced with uncertainty. "You can't know it's okay from doing that."

"No explosives or hidden mechanisms, looks like any tape you could buy at RadioShack and smells like one, too. Unless it's 'Polka Favorites played on the Accordion,' how bad could it be?" Hobbes shoved the plastic rectangle into the cassette player and pressed play.

"Pretty cocky for a guy who defines the word paranoid," Darien muttered, recoiling when the voice of his nightmares blasted too loudly from the audio speakers. "Turn it down--off!"

"Darien Fawkes, you must heed these words. All my prophecies will come true--but the when is always in question."

"It's him!" Darien lurched forward making a desperate grab for the dash-mounted tape player. Hobbes was distracted as their quarry chose that moment to pull out of his parking slot, backing into a line of oncoming cars in the narrow road. There was little space for Hobbes to swing Golda around, especially with Fawkes leaning all over the dashboard the way he was.

"Fawkes, get hold of yourself and lemme drive!" Bobby pushed his partner's hand away and managed to squeak through a tiny space in jumble of cars, hightailing after the Mercedes with all speed. "Who's him?"

"It's Scarborough." Darien hunched over in his seat, staring at the radio with a drawn, pale face, mesmerized. He jerked back his hand, hugging his arms to his body as if physically preventing himself from pulling the tape out of the player.

"Unless you separate yourself from your life as you know it, all will be destroyed, friends and foe alike." The eerie voice sent a chill down Hobbes' spine as he recognized the voice.

"That creepy blind guy?"

"He was right the last time, Hobbes... the donuts this morning!" Darien shuddered.

"Fawkes, why the hell do you want to give this guy any more leverage over you? You've never been the superstitious type," Hobbes argued, deliberately ignoring the memory of how freaked his partner had been the first time they'd encountered the blind seer who had gone to prison for foretelling deaths his daughter had then helped orchestrate. He scanned the intersection, suddenly aware that the blue Mercedes was no longer in sight. "Dammit all!" Flooring the gas Hobbes raced through the light just changing from yellow to red, slamming on the brakes as a small VW bug turning left barreled into his path.

Darien, having reached for the off button, lost his balance when the van stopped so abruptly, slamming into Hobbes as the whole frame shook from the force of their collision with the smaller vehicle.

"A golden girl strikes vernal green bringing grief and change..." Scarborough intoned. Darien groaned as he straightened, staring out the windshield at the pale green VW now attached to Golda with a tangle of bumpers.

"Oh, crap."

Erupting from his seat like an avenging angel Hobbes stalked over to the driver of the VW. "Hey, pal, what the heck were you doing pulling a left in front of me?"

"Simmer down, old man, you're the one who hit me!" A college-aged boy with the look of a wrestler glowered down at Hobbes, lording his height advantage.

"You got insurance, hotshot?" the 'old man' bristled at the newly acquired nickname.

"What if I don't?" College-boy challenged, ready for a fight. "Look at my fender!" When Hobbes turned to check out the damage, a roundhouse punch arched towards him without warning. Reacting instinctively, Hobbes swung, catching the younger man solidly on the jaw.

"Hobbes!" Darien climbed wearily down from the van, Scarborough's voice still droning in the background. "Hobbes!" he shouted louder, unable to get his partner's attention.

What got the attention of all three was the wail of a police siren parting the surrounding cars like the Red Sea. A beefy dark-skinned man with tiny braids cornrowed tightly to his skull slapped on his blue peaked cap as he exited the patrol car. "Break it up, gentlemen, we're all going down to the precinct to work this out."

"Sir, in my defense, it wasn't my fault..." Hobbes reiterated, his belly churning after the morning he'd had. Losing Stevens in traffic, getting hit by a pre-law student who was determined to sue for his inalienable rights to drive that monkey-puke green Beetle through a red light into Golda's unblemished side and then get slugged on top of it! That the cop had actually hauled them down to the station house had only added insult to injury. And Fawkes had been absolutely no help at all. Since the van was dented but still driveable he'd followed after the squad car, apparently listening to that freakin' tape of predictions the entire way. His face hadn't lost the white pinched look since then. Luckily, the Official had some pull with local law enforcement and had managed to get Hobbes released without a hearing.

Now they were all back in the Official's dingy office, late afternoon light spilling through the slatted blinds, reminding everyone that daylight savings time was about to change over and next week it would be dark much earlier in the day. Hobbes sat up very straight in his chair, knowing there was probably going to be some sort of punishment for what had occurred, even though he'd been the wronged party. Charlie Borden had that kind of look on his face--murderous. Even Eberts was sending concerned vibes in Hobbes' direction. The vibes from Fawkes, who was slouched bonelessly in a chair against the wall, were just plain weird--Darien was well and truly spooked and it would take way more than the promise of no more donuts ever to calm him down.

"Agent Hobbes," the Official said darkly, his eyes glittering with righteous zeal like a tent evangelist. "I have no interest in hearing any more of your excuses. You punched a teenaged boy in the face."

"He was 20 if he was a day!"

"This is not the first time you've had run-ins with the law over your driving habits and that van's many dents are the proof."

"We were tailing Stevens!" Hobbes said in his defense. "On your orders--and there ain't that many dents. The major one was put there this morning by that nozzle of a college boy..."

"Congressman Erlinmeyer's youngest son, Dieter," Eberts supplied helpfully.

"Congressman Erlinmeyer," Borden echoed, steepling his fingers and staring over the tips at Hobbes. "Who is on the budget committee--who approves the money that pays your salary, Agent Hobbes. So, in the interest of smoothing ruffled feathers and keeping you out of court with the budding young Lawyer Erlinmeyer, you will be attending a mandatory defensive driving class which starts next Tuesday--a three day course with a certificate at the end which I expect to see on my desk on Friday morning!" Borden's voice had risen in volume with each word until he thundered like the trailer for a THX sound system at the movie theater.

"A driving course?" Hobbes jumped up in agitation. "Sir, my driving is exemplary..." He glanced over at his partner but Fawkes wasn't supplying any moral support, the guy was barely conscious of what was going on in the room. "Sure, I drive fast sometimes, but only when it's a necessity of the job... sir. I'm sure if I just reviewed the driver's manual then that class would be superfluous."

"Be that as it may, the deal I made is that you take this course or the whole affair goes on your permanent record," Borden said almost jovially, his mood obviously cheered by the idea of having Hobbes off the street for a few days. "Now, how did you manage to lose Stevens in mid-morning San Diego?" He stared over at the almost recumbent Darien. "Fawkes? Care to join in the conversation?"

"Wha... yeah?" Darien startled so violently he nearly slid right out of the chair but Hobbes caught him by the back of his nylon '70's era green and brown shirt and hauled him upright. "Stevens was..."

"Looked like he was buyin' presents to go on a date," Hobbes supplied, eyeing his partner with concern. That Scarborough stuff had really gotten to him. "Flowers, candy... didn't look like he was on his way to get his traveling papers."

"Keep on him. He's crossed the Atlantic and Pacific nine times in the last year and every time sensitive documents have fallen into the hands of the enemy. Your job is simply to follow him until he gets the goods--after that our brothers in espionage take over."

"CIA?" Hobbes asked.

"That's a need to know..." Eberts began, but was shushed by his boss. He hung his head sheepishly. "However, your best chance of finding his sources is probably Poochie's Bubble Bath or The Doggie One-stop Beauty Shop on Las Pulgas."

"How'd you know?" Hobbes started then shook himself. "Don't need..."

"To know," Darien finished, finally actively joining the group. "Clean dogs are us."

"Well, no, that one's been cleared..." Eberts started only to be interrupted by his boss.

"Don't you two have anywhere to go?" Borden asked shortly. "Stop cluttering up my office."

"Going, going," Hobbes grabbed his lanky partner's long arm and pulled him out into the hall. "What's going on with you?"

"Hobbes, that crash was predicted," Darien said flatly, leaning tiredly against the wall like his legs would barely hold him up.

"That's bull, nobody can predict random acts."

"A golden girl strikes vernal green bringing grief..." Darien quoted with a shiver.

"Could mean anything, pal," Bobby waved away the concern.

"Yeah, what about 'The danger to your friend is not over?' or 'The serpent only sleeps'?" Darien held out his wrist with the green coiled snake, panting with frustration. "'Abandon all hope ye who enters in?' 'The caterpillar will change its shape once more?' They're signs--for us!"

"Did you watch that stupid crop circle movie with Mel Gibson?" Hobbes accused, shaking his finger in Darien's face. "Signs, schmines--nothing and nobody can predict the future, Cassandra. It's all up to fate--the accident was caused by some yuppie kid on a cell phone sucking back his double French roast and not payin' attention to the road. End of story, Fawkes." He threw an arm around his friend. "C'mon, I'll treat you to some real food--there's a New York Pizzeria opening around the corner from my place. Pie's on me, huh?"

"Sure, Bobby, I could eat," Darien agreed, allowing himself to be led off. But he glanced down at the harmless looking tattoo as they exited the building into the waning light of the day.

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

Darien lifted his lanky frame out of the car and paused with one hand on the open door to stare at the sprawling cluster of institutionally white buildings. Patton Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He imagined a bunch of identically oppressive padded rooms, full of people like his own red-eyed reflection. Well, if Scarborough would be able to tell that Darien Fawkes was no longer in danger of joining that particular crowd?good for him. Darien tugged on the right cuff of his jacket, and slammed the car door.

The inside walls of the main structure were white as well, brighter by the lack of ash-gray grime blown down from the recent fires, which had scorched the nearby countryside. A short corridor ended at a broad front desk, behind which several locked doors stood sentry. There was apparently nobody at reception, and Darien found himself walking lightly, to minimize the sound of his approach. The observation amused him, as did the thought of breaking into such a facility. Another time, perhaps. "Hey, anyone here?"

Nothing. Darien picked up his pace. "Hello?"

The seven-foot orderly who popped up from behind the counter was a slight shock; the expression of utter indifference as he regarded Darien from under heavy eyelids was far from encouraging. "What d'you want?"

Professionalism. Right. Darien reached easily into his jacket and flashed his I.D. at Mr. Orderly. "Darien Fawkes, federal agent. I need to speak with Benjamin Scarborough."

The orderly stared at him, unimpressed, then turned back to crouch at an open file drawer and shove papers into it.

Darien waited, but no response was forthcoming. "Excuse me." He leaned over the counter. There?the nametag. "Mr. Bradley. Scarborough may have information vital to my current investigation. I need to speak with him."

The guy didn't even look up. He just kept shoving papers like a football-jock version of Eberts.

Darien ran a hand through his hair. "Look. I doubt your boss would appreciate hearing that you wouldn't co-operate with the authorities."

A snort. Bradley was actually laughing. "I'd like to see that court order."

"Keep this up and that's exactly what you'll see."

Bradley straightened up slowly, smirking, and plumped his stack of papers on the counter. "Let me check your I.D. again, Mr. Agent?"

Whatever the orderly found so amusing, he was probably about to get an even bigger laugh. Darien handed over his I.D. "I'm guessing this guy doesn't get a lot of visitors?"

Bradley grinned. "Nah, I wouldn't say he does." The grin widened as he took in the Agency's name. "Fish and Game? What, did the old fart tell pet fortunes too?"

"No." Darien snatched back his badge. "Now if you're satisfied that I'm a federal agent?tell me where to go to talk to him."

"Benjamin Scarborough?" Bradley gave another short laugh, scooped up his papers, and turned back to his files. "Go to hell."

Darien slammed a palm on the counter. "Believe me, it's the first place I tried." Bradley turned to glare at him?and a hand tugged on Darien's shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" The breathy voice belonged to a willowy blonde girl in a flowered scrub top and slacks. Darien wasn't sure where she'd came from but he took her appearance as a good sign. At least somebody was talking to him. Bradley crossed his arms and stared at them both. An overhead summons from the intercom system jerked Bradley out of his glare and he gathered several files he'd retrieved from the cabinet. Still sending out hostile vibes like a prize-fighter before a match, he twisted the knob on the door to the left and disappeared.

"You'd better be able to. This is urgent." Darien flashed his I.D. again, glad to be rid of the hulking receptionist.

The girl blinked and then smiled brightly, almost reverently, as if being of help to him was her most important mission in life. "A federal agent? Of course, sir, whatever you need."

"My name's Darien Fawkes. I need to speak with one of your, uh, patients."

"Well, now." Her smile was almost teasing leaving Darien to wonder how much she had overheard before swooping to his aid. "That shouldn't be a problem." She slid past him, slipping behind the front desk and poised with her fingers raised above the keyboard of the computer. "Who did you need to see, Dar?I mean, Agent Fawkes?"

"Darien's fine," he assured her, leaning over the desk again for a glimpse of the monitor. "Your name is...?" It was then he noticed that she wasn't wearing a nametag or hospital ID as Bradley was.

The girl ducked her head, pleased to be asked. "Amy."

Again feeling like Amy knew something he didn't, Darien replied, "The patient's name is Benjamin Scarborough."

Her fingers froze on the keys. "Scarborough?" She sounded very small as she peered up at Darien with wide green eyes. "I'm afraid you won't be able to talk to him."

Darien leaned further over, right into her face. "Why not?"

She stuttered, "He's--he's not here. Agent--uh, Darien?" Amy took a deep breath. "He's dead."

"What?" What about the voice on the tape, the words, the prophecy about Golda... ? "How long?"

Amy squeezed her eyes closed, calculating silently. "Um, it was in March, so... seven months ago." She watched him intently, breathing rapidly with flushed cheeks, obviously almost as affected by the man's death as Fawkes was.

"Thank you for your time," Darien managed to choke out. The bastard was dead?

"Anything else I can do for you? He--he has a daughter..." Amy said helpfully, pressing her hands together in front of her almost in prayer.

"I know her," Darien nodded, unsettled and definitely freaked by the information. Where had the tape and letters come from, if not from Scarborough?

He walked out to his car in a daze, the blackened earth stretching up the mountain past the hospital a reflection of the inner landscape of Darien's mind at that moment. He'd been so sure he could catch the bastard gas-lighting him, bringing an end to the nightmares and frightening prophesies. But what if they all were true? Was Scarborough really communicating from beyond the grave?

Adjusting his sunglasses against the glare from the overcast skies Darien didn't notice Amy standing outside Patton watching him drive away with a faint smile on her face.

Bernice Pedicini, chaplain for The California Institution for Women gave a reverent sigh, staring up at the small altar in the chapel. The little room was used by all denominations housed in the prison, so the religious trappings were plain and austere but still lovely. A simple cross sat on a creamy altar cloth, a bowl of yellow roses the only other ornamentation. As usual, a dark-haired woman sat in the first pew, her hands clasping a Bible, murmuring words too low to be heard.

"Debra? It's your turn in the yard, Maggie was looking for you," Bernice said softly when Debra put a hand up to wipe away tears.

"I read this book over and over, but I don't find any solace, Bernie," Debra frowned, the deep anger smoldering in her breast so familiar she no longer remembered feeling happy or joyous. Once, before her world was shattered by that vile snake of a man, Darien Fawkes, she'd been peaceful--even content. Keeping house for her father, heeding his prophecies with the fervent knowledge that he alone understood the mysteries of the universe, and her cross-stitching for recreation. Once, that had been all she needed; now revenge was the only thing that kept her moving forward. Revenge on Darien Fawkes for the death of Benjamin Scarborough. "There's nothing here for me anymore. My father's words are what propel me. I hear them constantly, awake or asleep--and others are beginning to follow his path, as well."

"Debra, you know he is with the Father, up in heaven." Bernice took the other woman's cold hand in hers but Debra pulled away, a sharp spike of anger stabbing through her for the nun's attempts at comfort. There was no comfort since her father's death.

"Somehow, I doubt that." Debra brushed her off, rising to put distance between them. She saw Bernice as a kind, but flawed person who couldn't see the handwriting on the wall. But wasn't that just exactly the kind of thing her father had always warned against? People who didn't see what was right in front of their faces? She'd faithfully listened to his teachings and what had it brought her? Locked up in a prison for decades to come without a father's love to sustain her. Then, the ultimate betrayal, he died alone, leaving the legacy of his word to an unbeliever--that loathsome being, Fawkes. When the prison warden had called Debra into her office to deliver the bad news months ago, telling her that Scarborough had died, Debra had been grief stricken, only able to tolerate the kind words and consolations because she remembered her father's recordings of his predictions. Then, upon hearing the tapes, she was shocked to discover the words were not meant for her ears but those of a sinful heretic. "Heaven and Hell are antiquated Christian concepts I no longer have any reverence for. How can I when Hell is everywhere around us? My father was right, the apocalypse is upon us and we must take stock for the future of all mankind."

"You mustn't let the pain of your father's death keep you from seeing the good in life," Bernice intoned softly, her hands crossed in her lap. "You're a model prisoner, Debra, good deeds and positive actions can only help you in the long run, but these rambling diatribes against those who incarcerated you will only cause more bitterness and anger."

"Thank you, Sister, I'll meditate on that," Debra answered caustically. "If you'll excuse me, I'll take my time in the yard now--my followers await." She turned away from the altar, hugging the Bible to her chest. No, the flowery words of Jesus and his teachings held nothing for her, but there were other passages that fueled the fire of her vengeance. She paused just inside the door to the walled-in exercise yard, opening the book to Exodus where a worn and creased picture of her father served as a placeholder. "I will be an enemy to your enemies and an adversary to your adversaries," she murmured, knowing few of her faithful would realize she was paraphrasing the Bible. Most of them could barely finish a first grade reader, much less the intricate and subtext-laden parables of the ancient Jews. She felt a powerful kinship to those persecuted people who had been enslaved and imprisoned, but escaped because their cause was righteous under the eyes of God. If plagues, pestilence and earthquakes were good enough to torment the Egyptians then they were good enough for Darien Fawkes.

"Debra, there you are," Maggie Gilman, the head guard, huffed, coming up the metal runged stairs faster than her usual heavy-footed plod. "I've been looking for you."

"Sister Bernice informed me," Debra said calmly. She held out the Bible like a shield protecting her from the autocracy of prison life. "I was preparing the homily for my flock."

"That will have to wait, you have a visitor."

"Who?" No one except her lawyer ever made the trip up to the prison.

"Tall, skinny guy, a government agent." Maggie giggled girlishly, which was at odds with her spiky short locks and thick-bodied figure. "Real looker by the name of Fawkes."

"Darien Fawkes?" Debra repeated to be sure. She felt the almost forgotten sensations of arousal, increased heart rate, a flush creeping across her cheeks and a quickening of breath, only these symptoms were not from love, but vengeance. There was a certain weird synchronicity that Fawkes came to visit just as she was thinking about him.

"Come on, he's waiting in the reception room." Maggie led the way through the prisoner checkpoint, giving Debra a swift frisk before allowing her entrance into the common room and cuffing her to a table per regulations. Unlike most institutional waiting rooms this one was painted in muted shades of creamy pink and adorned with lovely and valuable paintings donated by the grateful family of a former rehabilitated inmate. The wondrous works of famous artists hung on all four walls, meant to inspire and instill awe in the woman incarcerated therein. Each painting represented a different style and era, creating a dazzling display. A giant blue dappled Hockey showed a girl floating effortlessly in a pool. Frida Kahlo's self portrait had her staring straight out from the frame, blood dripping from her wretched heart and smeared across the gaily-trimmed Mexican dress she wore. There was even a Georgia O'Keefe with a huge white flower dominating the canvas, curling petals drawing the eye towards the nearly hidden center. This is where Debra found Fawkes, examining the painting with much more interest that the average guest. His hand hovered inches from the masterpiece as if he'd like to snatch it off the wall and take it on home. A glimpse of the dark side her father had seen in him. This amused Debra in spite of herself so that when he turned to discover her standing so close she wore a smirk on her face. For a brief second he seemed to shimmer with a silvery glow but it was gone so quickly she assumed it was just an odd trick of the light.

"We meet again," Debra said smoothly, hiding her hatred of him behind what her father had once called her 'pious' face. "An unexpected pleasure. I haven't had an unscheduled visit since..." She shrugged, pretending indifference to his arrival, but instead she was intensely curious. What exactly had prompted him to drive so far, and apparently alone?

"I just learned your father died some time ago," Fawkes said bluntly. She almost winced, but managed to keep her broiling emotions under wraps. "And he left me a tape. What exactly do you know about them?"

Sensing the fervor behind Fawkes' question, Debra decided to play coy. "I only know my father was recording his insights to share his gift with the world. How did you come by it?"

"A package was mailed to my house," he said shortly, circling around one of the many tables that littered the room. They were alone except for the ever-present guard--a hefty black woman with bored eyes and a quick temper. Debra watched Fawkes' restless actions with an inscrutable expression, not revealing her true feeling because she knew her every move was under scrutiny, but his intensity swept over her, leaving her tingly. He was scared, his nerves so raw he almost vibrated. "A few days ago--long after Scarborough died, so where did they come from?" Darien demanded.

"God?" Debra smiled benignly. "Or perhaps the Devil?"

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

A beige van with a large dent in the driver's side door pulled into a nondescript parking lot and settled motionless into a slot five down from a pair of glass and metal doors emblazoned with 'San Diego Department of Motor Vehicles." Slumped behind the wheel on a bright Tuesday morning, Bobby Hobbes couldn't believe he was here.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, and deciding he couldn't wait any longer without being late, Bobby secured the van and reached for the door handle. Just as he unlatched the door an older, rusting Camry flew into the lot and landed in the space next to Bobby, nearly taking off his partially open door.

"Hey!" Hobbes yelled, waiting until the Camry's engine shut off before exiting Golda.

The driver of the car, a short, black-haired man with the slightly upturned eyes of an Islander, turned and faced Bobby, expression clearly not welcoming.

"Nice move." Hobbes gestured at the car. "No brakes on the turn, I liked that."

The grim face softened minutely. "Thanks."

"You here for this fricken' driving class?" Hobbes led the way to the imposing doors, pushing inside to the overly air-conditioned interior.

"Yeah, I can't believe it."

"Join the club." He stuck out a welcoming hand, glad to have a companion to commiserate with since he was stuck in this useless example of bureaucracy. "Bobby Hobbes."

"Tito Marcos," the other man said with a slight accent, ignoring the greeting. He pointed down the hall at the classroom bearing a hand-lettered sign that proclaimed it the 'Defensive Driving Course.'

Room 104 stood open and lit, three or four men and a single woman already milling around selecting desks. Sitting down near the back Hobbes and Marcos found pamphlets advising 'How to Avoid Road Rage' in front of them and cheerful yellow binders full of the curriculum for the next few days. A young man, with kinky black hair and a gold hoop through his left ear, was writing out the rules of the road on the board, his back turned to the gathering class.

"You've got to be kidding!" Bobby groaned upon seeing the instructor. "I've been driving since before he was born!"

"I'd like to see him handle midday traffic in the winter rains, trying to avoid running up some Honda's back end." Marcos added in agreement, crumpling the 'Road Rage' pamphlet into a ball.

"Keepin' from hittin' the oncoming cars when in pursuit."

"Yelling at the brats in the back to be quiet."

"Or at your partner."

"Yeah."

"So how long have you been on the Force?" Bobby asked. Marcos had a seething core that was obvious even when sitting next to him. He must be a sight to see on a bust.

"Force?"

"Yeah, police force. I've been in some chases like that, too."

"Police force, nothing. I haul snot-nosed kids to and from school everyday."

"Kids?"

"Yeah. Pacific Middle School, Bus #90."

"That's a tough job."

"Those damned little punks never stop screaming and leaving their crap on my bus." Marcos scowled. "I'm always cleaning up after them."

The instructor turned to face the seated class, clearing his throat. "I'm DeJuan Collinwood. Welcome to the Department of Motor Vehicles' Adult Refresher Driving Course. I know you all have better things you'd rather be doing than going over the rules of the road, but I think we can have some fun and learn a little something, too."

Bobby rolled his eyes and shared an exasperated look with his fellow classmate. This was going to be a long three days. The morning session consisted of going over frequently broken driving laws, such as how long to stop at a stop sign. Hobbes had to admit he'd never actually recalled there being a set time limit on a stop, although he prided himself on avoiding the common 'California Stop' so common in this state--sliding through a stop sign by only slowing down enough to look like the vehicle had stopped for a millisecond. Although, when in pursuit of a suspect, in his opinion, little things like that could be overlooked for the good of the country as long as he caught the miscreant. California laws, however, were somewhat more nitpicky.

At the break Marcos asked bluntly what he was 'in for' and Hobbes described the race across the intersection after his perp only to have the Beetle slam into the driver's side front end.

"How 'bout you?"

"Idiot kid's father complained I let his son fall down while the bus was in traffic--like the kid should have been standing in the aisle in the first place..." Marcos slugged back a cup of black coffee. "I'm going for a beer for lunch. You, too?"

"Nah, gotta call in to my partner--stake-out stuff," Hobbes shook his head. With any luck Darien had followed Stevens to the drop by now and the whole case would be done. Once Stevens received his traveling orders the CIA would follow him to whatever country he was destined for.

"Whatever, I'm not taking the rest of this garbage sober. Those little sticky-fingered diaper wipes are gonna get what's coming to them for forcing me here. My pay was docked and I gotta come here?" Marcos raged, spittle flying out of his mouth as he shoved the balled up coffee cup into the trash. Fellow classmates, a man and woman who'd apparently taken a shine to each other, jumped out of the way as Marcos stormed out of the break room.

"What're you talking about?" Hobbes hurried to catch up, his spidey senses tingling. He and Marcos were of a size, but the other guy was fast.

"Strike right at their very heart when they least expect it, right in the candy bag" Marcos laughed, smacking his palm against a jaunty poster advising drivers to keep an eye out for trick or treaters on Halloween. The bright picture featured costumed children frolicking around a bowl of candy, jack o'lanterns grinning with giant crooked maws. Marcos laughed, the weirdly maniacal sound sending a shiver down Hobbes' spine.

This guy was planning something. Something bad. Something to do with Halloween!

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

Claire was snapping on a fresh pair of exam gloves as Darien strolled into the Keep. All the better to torture yet another unsuspecting rodent, he silently snarked. He couldn't fathom why she needed to keep on tormenting the helpless little creatures since he'd already been cured of the madness. Shrugging, he decided that maybe she just hated rats.

"Heya, Claire," he moped, idly inspecting her row of rat cages, "so who's walking the last mile today?"

"Nobody actually," Claire chirruped. "Today I'm going to evaluate the effects of bovine growth hormone on in vitro tissue cultures from chimps. You see, we know that the hormone, when injected into the site of a fracture in live animals, encourages the bone to knit, speeding healing and increasing flexibility to near original states. Of course, since it's bovine, it's downward compatible to lower species, but not upward compatible to humans. But I've been thinking that if we could apply the same trans-species DNA splicing techniques that allowed Kevin to make the Quicksilver gland compatible with a human host, we might be able to use it to encourage cell regeneration in transplanted organs using BGH thereby cutting the risk of rejection...."

Darien held up a hand; he simply didn't have the patience to put up with Claire's geek speak. Kettledrums pounded out a tattoo in his head, a constant reminder of his less than peaceful slumber. Rather than allaying those drums, his visit to Scarborough's daughter had only upped the volume. "Stop, just stop, OK?" he snapped.

Claire took a step closer, her gray eyes searching through the limp fringe of Darien's droopy bangs to find the dark circles under her friend's eyes. "Late night, was it?"

"Ah, yah, kinda." Darien hopped up on the exam chair into a boneless, cat-like sprawl. He had once hated the chair, viewing it as a symbol of his enslavement to both the gland and the Agency. Now that he'd been freed from his addiction to the counteragent, however, it had become one of his favorite on-the-job napping perches.

"Oh no, no napping for you today. I've got way to much delicate testing to get done here to have you rattling the walls with your snoring." Claire made shooing motions at him. "Go home and sleep in your own bed."

Darien waggled his head back and forth, weighing the pros and cons of unburdening himself to Claire. Usually, he'd confide his worries to Hobbes, but the little tiger had gone and gotten himself stuck in detention. But while he and Claire had managed to repair the damage done to their friendship, she wasn't the best person to confide in. Not that she wasn't sympathetic, but sometimes she couldn't stop the doctor in her from taking over, at which time Darien usually found himself on the wrong end of a needle.

"Well, see, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I've, ah, been, ah, having these dreams...,"

"About what?" she asked, shining an exam light in his eyes as the inevitable shift to doctor and patient began.

"About people, people that I know...."

"Not your grandmother and the turkey again?"

"No, not that one," Darien impotently tried to swat the flickering light out of his face. "This time it's spiders, and donuts, and me spewing glands that you and the 'Fish use...."

Her eyes narrowed, and the corners of her lush lips turned down. "Well, it's just stuff and nonsense, really," she told him tartly, as she clicked off the exam light and placed her hands firmly on her red-leather clad hips.

"Oh, and ah, that's your professional opinion, is it?" Darien asked, miffed that she'd just shrugged off his nightmares so casually.

"Of course. You're reading too much Harry Potter. Go back to the Harlequin romances, and you'll feel better in a trice." She set the light down firmly on the exam tray and turned to go back to her microscope.

"Fine, I'll swing by the library on the way over to the pharmacy to fill that sleeping pill prescription you're gonna write for me," Darien snarled, his perennially short patience snapping at the familiar lab rat routine.

Claire turned back to stare at him, raising one blonde eyebrow. "I beg your pardon. Just who is the doctor here?"

Chagrined, Darien looked up at his friend from under long lashes, the dark circles under his espresso eyes emphasizing his uncanny resemblance to a hound dog at that moment. "Uh, you are," he answered, soft and sweet as a five-year old sitting on Santa's lap, "which would be why I need you to write the prescription, see...."

"No, I don't see the need for prescription medication in any way. Honestly, I'd think you'd be the last person in the world to ask for any sort of drugs after spending the last two years of your life as a clinical addict for all intents and purposes, not to mention that experience with the Fluff...." The words rattled out of Claire's mouth like a stream overrunning its banks, only to peter out as every muscle in Darien's body visibly tensed.

Darien's spine straightened with a snap. "Thanks a lot, Keep. You've been a real help."

He started to slide off the chair, but Claire headed him off and put a cool hand up to his forehead, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "Look, I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It was insensitive."

Once again Darien looked up at her from soulful brown eyes and saw his own patented sad-puppy expression mirrored in Claire's stormy gray ones. "Yeah, I know," he sighed, taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm just tired and grumpy is all."

Claire cocked her head and studied Darien for a moment, before smiling widely. "Alright, I know just what you need." She went to her desk, took a prescription pad out of the top drawer and started scribbling. "You take this." She handed him the page she'd just written out. "And I want you to follow the instructions exactly."

He grabbed the piece of paper without reading it. "But I thought you said you didn't want to...."

"Just take it and go." Claire pointed him towards the door. "Doctor's orders!"

It wasn't until he was standing in the hall outside the Keep, that he even bothered to read the scrap of paper.

Diagnosis: Droopy hair, it read, Prescription: Retail therapy.

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

Darien nodded a casual greeting to the counter clerk, who smiled pleasantly back, the expression oddly ghoulish as white teeth in a white face flashed through black Goth-style lipstick. He shook off the unpleasant shiver that slithered down his spine and headed for the hair-care aisle, planning on treating himself to a new pomade or some other product to assist in elevating his hair to its customary heights. He knew he was probably over-reacting to the fact that the old blind man had reentered his life so unexpectedly - hell, according to Hobbes, there was no 'probably' about it.

Still, the fact that a literal voice from the past had materialized on his doorstep to haunt his dreams again made the fine hairs on his forearms and on the back of his neck prickle with anxiety. And by now, he'd learned the hard way to pay attention to his dreams. He couldn't explain why, but he knew his dreams were more than simply his subconscious at work. Claire's assessment of a post-traumatic-type reason for them only went so far in explaining things. When things he dreamed about happened, that seemed to signal something other than simple stress. Still, it didn't surprise him that Claire's scientific mindset had eliminated the unexplained from her list of causes. This was obviously one of those things he and his Keeper were destined to disagree on.

He shook his head and picked up a jar of counteragent-blue heavy-bodied gel, turning the jar to read the ingredients. He'd been on an ongoing quest for the ultimate styling products to achieve his look, which explained why the space under his bathroom sink was stuffed full of half-used products of every description from mousse to waxes, and everything in between. Hobbes had teased him mercilessly about it once when he'd come over for one of their orgies of beer, pizza and football, and had gone rooting around the bathroom looking for the spare roll of toilet paper. The whole rest of the night, Hobbes had shuttled back and forth with handfuls of bottles, pumps and jars, feeling the need to comment on them all. Darien had finally snatched them away from his chortling little partner with a snide comment on not having realized Hobbes' OCD extended to other people's hair care items, and banned him from the bathroom for the remainder of the evening. He had only just managed to spare his partner the bald comment that hovered on the edge of his tongue.

Still, Claire's observation that his hair was drooping had decided him on a trip to Mona's to kick off his afternoon. It wasn't often that he had the opportunity for a little Keeper-approved hooky, and he intended to take full advantage. He returned the gel to its place on the shelf and moved on to the waxes. He had yet to try one of the new soy-based ones, so he began his examination of a series of jars, looking for just the right one to experiment with.

One collection of squat silver jars with pale green lids on one of the lower shelves caught his attention and he crouched to take a look, only to be knocked off his feet by another patron who'd been caught unprepared by his sudden move. He landed on his butt hard enough to hurt, grunting his surprise.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!" The mortified woman apologized as she scrambled out of his way, offering him a tentative hand, which he waved off, awkwardly levering himself to his feet in a tangle of colt-like long legs.

"Not your fault," he assured her, brushing off the seat of his pants and flashing her a small smile.

She smiled back, still visibly embarrassed. "As long as you're OK," she went on hesitantly, edging to one side to let another woman pass them.

"No harm done if you don't count the ego bruise." He grinned at her, and her smile warmed away from embarrassment towards something a little more personal. Flirting with pretty women wasn't something he did much of any more, since there was a decided limit on how far he could take that these days, but the bruise on his ass was a small price to pay for a little normal human interaction.

"I'm glad that was the only damage, then," she laughed, green eyes sparkling as she brushed an auburn strand of hair back behind one ear, then bent to retrieve the silver jar that had ended up on the floor along with him. "You dropped this," she said, handing it back, and he took it with a smile, enjoying the unexpected flirtation.

"Thanks," he said. "You know anything about these new soy waxes?" he asked, both on the off chance she might, and to prolong the sense of normality that came with talking to a civilian. He caught himself at that thought, wondering when he'd begun identifying himself with something other than the average citizenry.

"I like the silk protein ones, myself, though my hairdresser recommends this brand," she replied as she reached past him to take a frosted glass jar with a gold lid off the shelf to his left.

He took it as she handed it to him, crouching, more carefully this time, to return the silver jar to its place, when an envelope lying face down on the floor caught his attention. He picked it up without looking at it and handed it up to her. "Is this yours?" he asked, straightening as he took the jar she'd offered him.

She glanced at it, turning it over to read the front of it, and shook her head, offering it back to him. "No, my name is Elizabeth, not Darien," she smiled.

Darien recoiled away from her, dropping the jar he held in shock, thick white paste and glass shards scattering like a paint ball explosion away from the epicenter of the surreal little disaster area he found himself in the middle of. His companion jumped back to avoid the mess, and with one startled glance at him, dropped the envelope to land dead center in the creamy mess on the floor at his feet. He bent to retrieve it with icy fingers as she turned and fled with a garbled and suddenly nervous farewell, making a beeline for the checkout counter with her handful of purchases.

Darien ignored her departure as well as her clear concern that he was some sort of nutcase stalking the beauty parlors and suppliers of San Diego in search of victims. The blood pounding in his ears effectively deafened him, the envelope he held fluttering with the sudden tremor of his hands. He shoved it in his pocket and headed for the door, oblivious to the indignant shout of the little Goth girl behind the counter that he had to pay for the broken merchandise.

He reached the safety of his car and sat there, staring at the envelope he held so reluctantly, steeling himself to open it. The spidery scrawl of his name in faded ink across the front reminded him far too strongly of some scene in an episode of the Twilight Zone or something for his comfort. With screaming reluctance, he slid a thumb under the flap and eased it open, his pulse escalating with every millimeter he loosened. When he finally had it opened, he took a deep, steadying breath and yanked the contents out, unfolding the sheet of paper hurriedly as if speed would make it less of a shock. He couldn't have been more wrong: the four-line poem in the same spidery handwriting sent a shockwave of adrenaline through his system. "Oh, crap," he whispered and Quicksilver flowed haphazardly over him in a rush, the paper he held crumpled thoughtlessly in his suddenly invisible hands.

Flattening the crumbled paper flat once again Darien tried to make sense of the verse but the lines seemed to crawl up and down along the wrinkles like miniature spiders marching across a hilly terrain and he couldn't make sense of the simplest words.

What the hell did that mean? And who had slipped into Mona's to give it to him? Was he being followed? Stalked?

The image of Scarborough's milky eyes boring into his innermost secrets still held him in its thrall years after he'd arrested the spooky man causing Quicksilver to crawl with icy tingles along his spine and out over his arms again. Darien shook himself, banishing the silvery coating back to whence it came. He had to maintain control here. Scarborough was dead. His daughter, while obviously angry, claimed not to have sent the cassette tape. So, where was all this coming from?

Twisting the key in the ignition Darien drove slowly across town--he was supposed to be tailing Stevens still but that case had dropped so low on his top ten list it was virtually invisible. This whimsical thought helped center him and he shoved the paper back into a pocket, trying to dredge up the address Eberts had given him for the Doggy One-Stop Beauty Shop. Might as well look like he was doing his job while Hobbes was stuck in the remedial driving class. Darien gave a slightly hysterical giggle--he'd slouched through so many high school classes in his youth he'd had to take a few remedial math and science classes, but Driver's Ed? At least he had something to rag Hobbes about.

Amazingly, with his subconscious taking over the wheel he turned onto Las Pulgas without really knowing how he'd gotten there. The dog parlor was on the left, snug up against a Starbucks. No blue M-class Mercedes, but it wouldn't hurt to wait for a while so Darien parked his car in the back, ambling around to the coffee emporium. His heart still tripped a beat far faster than usual and it took effort to keep himself from jumping at the slightest car horn or loud voice from people passing on the street. Probably best not to get any overly caffeinated beverage. Darien stood in line to pay an exorbitant price for a decaf latte and settled into a comfy bench just outside with a good view of the pet shop.

He hadn't even finished his coffee when a familiar expensive blue car drove up and Stevens hopped out, dressed like a model from GQ, all in cashmere and silk. The man walked swiftly through a door painted with a picture of a dog covered in pink bubbles but he wasn't carting an animal carrier or a squirming pooch. Standing quickly, Darien ducked behind the cover of an abundant bougainvillea bush and let the Quicksilver flow.

Completely invisible he slipped into the dog washing shop, but there was no one in sight. Must be a slow day for wet dogs. Advancing slowly past the cash wrap and an enormous empty sink ringed with black hair Darien headed for the back of the shop where he could hear voices but just as he'd gained the curtained door Stevens burst through, almost running over the invisible agent. Darien jumped back as another man followed Stevens giving him last minute instructions on where to deliver the packet in Algiers.

Hallelujah.

Fawkes almost wanted to shout for joy for the end of this boring tail of Stevens, but he settled for watching the car pull out of the drive and turn left onto the main road. Let the CIA deal with him now, it was out of his hands. He strolled casually out of the front door, pushing the pink bubbled puppy closed behind him. Letting his invisibility flake off as he walked past a dumpster situated between the two businesses, Darien froze, suddenly aware of eyes on him. Eyes he'd seen somewhere before.

A woman was standing where he'd been only a few minutes earlier, her hair sheathed in bright pink bougainvillea, her face shadowed by the opulent flora. He could see a red paper coffee cup in her hand--the one he'd left on the bench. She stood, almost defiantly, staring directly at him, he was sure. A gaggle of teenagers took that instant to swarm out of Starbucks, discussing the merits of Smallville over The O.C., and by the time they had passed, the woman was gone.

His hands shaking, Darien pushed them into his jacket pockets, crushing the paper in the right pocket into a tiny ball. His heartbeat was like an earthquake in his chest, vibrating his very bones.

Darien slouched into the Agency, his hair once again gelled into glorious peaks, no longer mirroring his emotional state. He'd learned from recent experiences that if he didn't rigorously maintain his appearance, his friends were easily able to discern his state of mind. Frankly, he was sick and tired of being so easy to read. Yesterday's visit

to Mona's hadn't had the desired restorative on his coiffure, since he'd rabbited out of the place without his intended purchases in the wake of the close encounter of the bizarre kind. He'd spent another night tossing and turning in the grip of portentous dreams rich with spiders, snakes and belching smoke.

He fingered the piece of paper in his pocket nervously. If anyone was going to be able to figure these weird quatrain thingies out, it would be Claire.

But first, Darien wanted to drop off his coat at his and Hobbes' office. He slouched down the hall singing quietly to himself.

'Why is it that the last song you hear on the radio just runs through your head all day?' he wondered absently

Darien skidded to a standstill as he entered the office, surprised to see anyone there. Hobbes was sitting at his desk, furiously typing on the computer, with a serious scowl of concentration on his face.

"Hobbes, what the hell're you doing here?" Darien shook himself into motion. He crossed the room to his desk, shrugged off his jacket, and came around Hobbes' desk to see what his partner was so deeply ensconced in. "Aren't you supposed to be at your driver's Ed class? You know, the one that's... mandatory?"

Bobby scowled, but his fingers never paused. "For your information, Fawkes, I'm working on a case."

"There's a case? No one told me about you being on a case."

Bobby shrugged one shoulder without taking his eyes off of the computer screen.

Darien fixed his partner with a knowing glare. "You're not on a case, are you?"

"It'll be a case once I get the info I'm looking for."

"The boss is gonna royally kick your ass for this, buddy. Worse yet, he'll do something really nasty," Darien warned.

Hobbes tipped his head to the side. "What? Worse than he's already done?"

Darien nodded. "Yeah, like having your pay permanently docked. Or suspending you without pay, or having Golda sent to the scrap heap. Or...."

"Awright, awright already!" Bobby snapped. "I get the picture! Jeeze!" His expression fell. "That was low, what you said about my girl."

Darien rolled his eyes. "Considering the damage you could do with her, I'd say it's a safe bet that you'll be grounded with no driving privileges for quite awhile, my friend." He glanced over his partner's shoulder at the computer screen. "What's with the search engine?"

Bobby's eyes flashed. "Running a background check on one of the guys in my class," he replied as his attention was once again sucked into the task at hand.

Darien waited a moment for further explanation, and sighed when none was forthcoming. "Why?"

"'Cause I got a bad feeling about him," was the distracted response.

Darien's brows furrowed, and he patted down the sports coat hanging on the back of his partner's chair. He located and extricated what he was searching for, and set the pill bottle on the desk directly in front of Bobby. "Hobbes, for God's sake, you gotta remember to take your pills on time!"

The elder agent didn't even spare the bottle a glance. "For your information, Mom, I've been taking them like clockwork. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with this so I don't get to class too late."

"Look, Bobby, if the boss finds out you're here, he's really gonna kick your ass."

"Well, then, I guess you'll just have to keep your trap shut, won't'cha?" Hobbes continued his search, his eyes darting across the screen as he pulled up window after window. "Ah-HAH!" he exclaimed in victory.

"What?" Darien peered over his partner's head at the screen. "Tito Fuentes? Who the hell's that?"

Bobby grimaced. "It's Marcos, ya yutz. Tito Marcos is the guy in my class that set off my warning bells."

"So what's so weird about him?"

"Guy's got a friggin' screw loose," Bobby murmured as he scrolled through the file.

"He's not the only one," Darien muttered, and earned a sharp glare. "Okay, what'd he do?"

"It's not what he did, so much as what he's gonna do, Fawkes."

"Like...."

"Like the fact that I overheard him grumbling to himself after class how he's gonna get all the snot-nosed punk kids on Halloween." Bobby frowned. "Look, he's got a record."

"Hobbes, just about every bus driver in America has a friggin' criminal record," Darien retorted acerbically.

Bobby shook his head. "No way, Buckwheat. Every employee of the public school system has a thorough background check done before they even start work. Says here that Tito was clean until he assaulted one'a the kids on his bus. Some teenager that mouthed off to him too much, probably." He paused in his scrolling down the page. "Wait a minute. Here's the psych report. Says here that he had to undergo a mandatory anger management class, and was on probationary status for the next year."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, that year's up this week, my friend. I have a feeling Mr. Marcos has something hinky planned, and it ain't throwing eggs at people's houses." He suddenly pushed his chair back, causing his partner to hop out of the way. "Time to give our 'friend' Tito a little visit and ask him a few questions." He snagged his jacket and began to stride towards the door, but Darien's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Hobbes, don't you think you should be getting to class?"

Bobby grimaced. "I think stopping some whacked-out bozo from harming all the kids in the city would take precedence over some stupid driving class, don't you? And anyway, Bobby Hobbes is a helluva driver. I don't need no stinkin' yuppie tellin' me how to utilize my frickin' turn signals properly!" He shrugged his coat on, breaking Darien's hold on him in the process. Once again he turned to the door, and this time Darien slipped in front of him.

"What?!" Bobby exclaimed in frustration. "Fawkes, get the hell outta my way!"

Darien's face firmed. "Look, Bobby, if you're right about this guy," Hobbes leveled a stern glare at him, but he continued, "then why don't you let me help you out?"

"You got enough on your plate already partner, and I don't wanna get you in trouble..." Bobby balked, but Darien overrode him.

"No way, Bobby. 'Partners do for each other,' remember?"

Hobbes' face softened a little, and he low-fived his friend. "Always, partner."

Darien grinned. "Okay. Anyway, I had to go through with that retarded desensitization class, so I think it's only fair that you get a little refresher course in driving." He snorted at his partner's conflicted grunt. "Now, how about this: you go to class and act like nothing's going on, and I'll do a little behind the scenes snooping. Sound good to you?"

"Sounds good, partner. We'll get together after class and compare notes, all right?"

"Cool." Darien nodded, and the two men walked out of the office. Darien turned away from Hobbes to head off to the Keep, but his partner's outstretched hand stopped him.

"By the way, buddy, you aren't looking too hot there. Still having nightmares?" His mildly worried chestnut eyes assessed his friend, and the results came up wanting.

Darien shrugged. "Always. When don't I?"

"C'mon, you can't let this crap about these predictions get to you."

"Why not? I mean, c'mon Hobbes, how could Scarborough write these things down, when he's freakin' blind? What if he saw this stuff before he lost his sight? Huh? Some of this crap's already come true. What's to say that the rest of it won't?" His hand slid into his back pocket and fingered the paper nervously, as his other hand wandered over his hair in his classic 'I'm freaking out' gesture.

Hobbes noticed, and pulled Darien's hand out of his pocket. "What's this?" he indicated the crumpled bit of folded paper revealed in his friend's hand.

"More of his 'prophecies.' I found it at Mona's," Darien replied, his voice trembling slightly as his blood pressure rose along with his anxiety.

"Let's take a look at that." Bobby gently took the paper and smoothed it open on the wall. "Weird. It's a quatrain." He pored over the message scribbled on the paper before turning his gaze on Darien. "What, you think this guy's like Nostradamus or something? Just 'cause he wrote some of this crap in iambic pentameter?"

Darien shrugged; the irrational fear in the back of his mind blossoming into horrified dread.

Hobbes softly rattled off a quatrain as he examined the paper, and Darien could feel the blood rushing from his head. The hallway seemed to darken and become impossibly long, and through the roaring in his ears he could hear himself whispering, "What did you say?"

At the tone in Darien's voice, Hobbes turned to look at him, and immediately grabbed his friend's arms to steady him. "Whoa, whoa there, Fawkes! C'mere." He guided Darien back into the office, where he sat the lanky man down on the beat-up couch near the window. "Here ya go. Crap, I had no idea how wigged out you were over this." His eyes were filled with worry as he regarded Darien's white complexion and trembling hands. "Hey, look, I just made that one up off the top'a my head. So, anyone can make up all sorts of hinky rhymes and crap. It's left just vague enough for most people to read something in it about themselves. Just like getting a tarot reading," he soothed.

Darien breathed deeply so he wouldn't hyperventilate. After a few moments, he raised his haunted gaze to Bobby's. "H-How...?" he stuttered, still feeling faint.

"What? How did I know how to do that?" At Darien's shaky nod, he elaborated. "What? Just 'cause I grew up in Brooklyn, you think I got my education in a pool hall? Jeeze, Fawkes, you should know me better than that by now," he gently chided. "And anyway, how could Scarborough have written this crap before he went blind? His daughter even told us that he didn't have this 'gift'," he snorted in derision, "until after he lost his sight. Right?"

The color began coming back to Darien's face as his friend's words penetrated the gibbering panic in his mind. "Wait. Yeah, that's right. Debra did say that, didn't she?" He shook his head a little to clear it, and moved to stand up.

"See? What'd I tell you, partner?" Bobby helped Darien stand up, and escorted him to the door. "This guy's just blowing smoke up your ass. He's just a crazy old coot who's got nothing better to do than to scare the crap outta you with these little mind games. Now, I'm off to my class. You go on down to the Keep and let her know about your sleeping problems, okay? I don't wanna see you gettin' all strung out 'cause you ain't getting enough sleep, okay Junior?"

Darien nodded with a wan smile. "Yup. Got it, partner. See you after class." He waved at Bobby, and turned back to the stairwell leading down to the Keep, wondering if a second attempt to convince Claire of his need for pharmaceutical intervention would be any more successful than the first, and deciding against it.

"Claire!"

Darien strode into the Keep, but the blond woman was nowhere to be seen. "Claire? You in here?"

The Keeper ducked out from behind a shelving unit at the back of the lab. "Yes, Darien?" The box of glassware Claire was awkwardly trying to carry muffled her exasperated acknowledgement. She shuffled a couple more steps, shot a sidewise glance at Darien and nearly dropped the carton. "Are you all right?"

A few long steps took Darien close enough to catch the box before it toppled. "Sure. Fine. I just wondered if you could do me a favor."

He swung around to set the box on Claire's lab bench, but her voice, edged with cynicism, followed him. "Depends on the favor."

"Well...." Darien turned, lounging against the lab bench, and extracted Scarborough's note from his hip pocket. He waved it at Claire. "I need to know when this was written, or maybe who wrote it, 'cuz the guy who supposedly sent it is dead, and it's all kind of creepy. You can do that, right?"

Claire eyed the note with distaste, and reached for a pair of latex gloves.

Darien looked guiltily at the paper. "I don't?uh, Hobbes and I have both handled this. There's probably no prints left."

Claire plucked the note from him by one corner. "As scrunched up as it is it probably wouldn't show prints full prints anyway." She gingerly began unfolding the creased, stained sheet. "What have you been doing with this?"

"Nothing." Darien shoved his hands into his pockets. "Nothing gross, it's just hair gel." She gave him a look that could ferret out any lies. "What? It came care of a beauty salon."

"Hmph." Claire smoothed out the paper with quick, efficient fingers, holding it up to the light. "Ah-ha."

"What? That was fast."

Claire beckoned him over. "Look." The lamplight glowed faintly through the creamy paper, showing a brighter pattern woven in, a triangle of three linked letters: CCI.

Darien gaped for a moment, then sputtered. "That?that wasn't there?that?"

"Did you even take a close look at this?" Claire's forehead creased in concern. "You're a good agent, Darien."

He scowled at the note, then at the ceiling. "It spooked me, okay? I knocked over some bottles in the store and there it was, addressed to me by name. And it's the second set of predictions I've gotten from... from Scarborough--who's dead!" His voice rose in a whine and he stopped short, trying to restore the usual manly timbre. "And then there's..."

"... your nightmares?" Claire finished for him. Her eyes suddenly widened in surprise. "Scarborough is dead? Why didn't we hear about this?"

Darien shrugged tightly. "The usual governmental snafu? I went out to Patton..." Sighing with weariness he suddenly snatched the note back. Peering at the watermark with the eye of a former thief, he bristled, "I would've seen it if I'd looked. That looks familiar, actually."

"CCI?"

"California Correctional Institute." Darien squinted at the watermark. "Looks kinda like the stuff we used in Soledad, in the art supply room."

Claire quirked a smile at him. "Art? You?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "A phase. They wouldn't let me in there any more after I tried using acrylic resin for hair gel."

"You didn't." Claire's voice was strangled sounding, and Darien eyed her suspiciously as she struggled to keep a straight face.

"Hey, I was desperate. Prison'll do that to you." Darien dropped the note on the lab bench beside him. "So, whoever wrote this was doing time. We already knew that."

"Look at it again," Claire advised. "It's not at all yellowed, the creases come from being crunched up in your pocket, and it was unstained when you received it, is that right?"

Darien nodded. "You're saying it's probably recent. And Scarborough died back in March."

Claire let her eyes linger on the handwritten lines, actually reading them this time. "Yes. I doubt he wrote this." She touched a fingertip to the note, and her voice softened. "Darien. I know this man said some things that scared you. But no one has the ability to read the future. What has not happened can't be known. It's as simple as that."

Darien said nothing, just stared at the paper, somber-faced.

"Besides, I think we have conclusive proof that Scarborough could not have written this note," the Keeper added, seeing that her words weren't getting through. "It was done recently, in a California correctional institution, and while I'm not a handwriting expert--" Claire let her fingertip trace the curve of the letters. "I would guess that the writer was female. Darien, someone's just trying to mess with your head."

He turned his frown to her. "You don't mean that literally, do you?"

Claire blinked at him. "If you mean chemically, I'd say no. Just good old-fashioned manipulation."

Darien suddenly grinned, scooped up the note, and shoved it back into his pocket. "That's a relief. Thanks for the help, Keep. I've got to go nail someone to a wall."

"You're welcome...." But Darien was already out the door.

Darien fidgeted nervously, twitching at every footstep, every overheard comment among the prisoners and their visitors. Not even the stunning art collection on the walls behind Lexan shields could hold his attention this time. Prisons were far from his favorite haunts, even a women's facility, and bad jokes about captive audiences kept fluttering fitfully through his head as he waited for Debra Benjamin to be brought out. He wiped his sweating palms on the legs of his pants and tried to recite the Hobbesian pep talk he'd been using to calm his ragged nerves for the past five days. After all, it wasn't as if Scarborough's daughter had ever made any claims about sharing her father's 'gift,' he reasoned. So what exactly did he have to be nervous about?

At which point, Debra, escorted by an uniformed matronly-looking guard, stopped in front of him, separated from him only by the width of the table between them. The dark-haired hollow-eyed prisoner sat down gracelessly and submitted to having her wrist cuffed to the waiting restraint, remaining silent until the guard, satisfied, made her way back out of the visitation area.

"I thought you didn't believe in my father's gifts," she spoke, her voice sharply ironic, eyes glinting with malice.

"I don't," Darien insisted sounding weak even in his own ears. "I just wanted to let you know it's not going to work," he went on, a bit more firmly. "I'll find out how you did all this."

The smile that tugged the corners of Debra's mouth did nothing to calm Fawkes' nerves. "Did all what? What's not going to work?" she asked, the innocence of her tone at odds with the knowledge in her expression.

"Your scare tactics," he snapped, annoyance overcoming some of his unease. "Did you really think I wouldn't figure out this has to be coming from you?" he asked. "I don't know who smuggled your last pathetic attempt at poetry out of here, but if you really want to convince me it came from your father, then you shouldn't have written it on CCI stationery," he pointed out. He made no effort to conceal the smug satisfaction he felt at being able to debunk her latest attempt to freak him out. The tremble in his nerves had even subsided as anger warmed him. "I want to know who you conned into helping you with this little game," he went on.

Debra's smile flickered wider for a fraction of a second, then returned to the inscrutable Madonna-like curve of lips that reminded Darien of the Mona Lisa. "I merely transcribed Father's words, Agent Fawkes," she pointed out. "I never claimed to speak for him." She shifted slightly in her chair, a peculiar look sliding across her features, then went on. "But he certainly had a great deal to say to you. I merely made sure his message was delivered."

"Nuh-uh." Darien shook his head negatively. "I'm not going to let you gaslight me the way your old man did," he assured her, scowling.

Her soft snort of laughter wasn't reflected in her eyes, which were devoid of any expression other than hatred. "Believe me, it makes no difference if you believe what he has to say or not. He never needed my help, you see..." she mused. "Even without my attempt to force the prophecy to come true, Frank DuPree would have killed his family, just the way Father said he would." She focused suddenly on Fawkes, the look in her eyes reptilian. "I didn't have faith. This," she waved her free hand desultorily at the waiting area, her attention drifting, as if to indicate the whole of the prison grounds, "is the price I paid for that misjudgment of him. Of his gift."

Darien snorted his skepticism, but his growing conviction that he was the target of some sort of elaborate con was abruptly shaken as Debra's head snapped around, bringing her dead eyes to bear on him again. He flinched back a millimeter or two in the face of the palpable viciousness she exuded, unaware of having done so, pinned by her gaze like a moth on a specimen board in a museum. "Philistine," she hissed. "So sure you know what the truth is, Agent Fawkes... But you're wrong. Truth has nothing to do with your petty, trivial world and everything to do with the unseen wold around us." She stabbed a forefinger at him accusatorily. "My father knew the truth. Not the pathetic, commonplace 'truth' you and the rest of the people like you inhabit, but the ultimate truth of time, of events you and your kind set in motion and fates you can't escape," she asserted, her voice soft yet shrill at the same time. "Shall I tell you what he said?" she asked as gently as a knife on silk.

Speechless, Darien was caught in the fanatical evangelical power of her persona, its full weight crushing will and resistance.

Correctly gauging his stunned silence for what it was, she went on. "Oh, he had quite a lot to say about you and the evil you carry inside you. An evil that will trigger the deaths of innocents while you parade about in your phony costumes, trumpeting your righteousness," she spat.

The veiled and vague portents Debra seemed to find so much meaning in had the opposite effect on Darien, and in spite of himself, he laughed, an explosive snort of derisive mirth. The spell she'd woven was broken, and he leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table between them as he eyed her condescendingly. "To quote my boss, 'evil schmeevil'," he grinned at her. "Your dad couldn't sell me on that, and neither can you," he informed her. "Just do me a favor, and stop with the poison pen letters, OK?" he suggested as he got to his feet, still smirking.

Debra leaned back in her own seat, a brief flash of rage flashing across her features. "'Woe be to the nonbelievers'," she quoted dryly. "Let's see how funny you find it when your partner's bus driver friend finishes what he has planned," she spoke calmly, a lethal smile playing on her mouth. "Have a nice day, Agent Fawkes. It may well be the last nice one you have." With that, she beckoned across the waiting area, signaling to a guard that the interview had ended and her wish to depart.

Darien hesitated a second, the exhaustion and stress of the last few days tensing along his muscles and nerves. How on earth had she known about the bus driver? Nothing made sense and he was too tired to think logically any longer.

Debra eyed him, unmistakable satisfaction in her face. "Oh, and Agent Fawkes... It won't be too much longer before the ground will open up under your feet. You may live to wish it had swallowed you," she said as she got to her feet, the visitation room guard having arrived to return her to her cell.

Fawkes watched her go, a cold shiver making him shudder, the creep-out factor having just been pegged at the upper end of the scale. He backed away from the table awkwardly, bumping into another visitor, before turning and scrambling as unobtrusively for the exit as he could, hearing Debra's mocking laughter following on his heels.

Darien's cell rang as he was exiting the prison. "Fawkes."

"You'll never guess who's playing hooky from class," Bobby's voice murmured into his ear.

Darien grimaced. "Hobbes, what'd I tell you about this? Why can't you...?"

"Not me, you doofus. Marcos. He cut out early sayin' he was sick, but he's nowhere near his place."

"And somehow I don't think you're calling from where you're supposed to be either," Darien grumbled as he pinched his nose.

"You got that right," was the triumphant whisper. "I'm on his tail right now."

Darien sighed. "Where?"

"We're just pulling up to Jolly Lolly on West Harbor. Looks like what I heard him say about candy is panning out. Where are you?"

Darien ducked his head down, even though his partner couldn't see him. "Research. Just on my way to the car."

"What do you mean, 'research'?" Bobby asked suspiciously.

"You know, re-search?" Darien replied caustically. "What a good secret agent does in order to crack a case?"

"Fawkes, I know you. The way you sound, you sound like you're bugging out about something."

"God, is everyone freakin' psychic around here?" the lanky man blurted out. "What, is it something in the freakin' water?"

There was a pause before Bobby answered. "You're at the women's prison, aren't you?"

Darien stopped in his tracks and rubbed his free hand over his face as he took a deep breath. "Look, I gotta find out who's pulling this head game on me. I wanted to see if it was Debra, and she just went off on this whole pious rant. Hobbes, she knows about your buddy from the driving class! How the hell can she know about that?"

"Buddy, she's really tugging you around by the short hairs, ain't she? These kinda people can read you and make up the most ridiculous crap about anybody. Fawkes, she's a friggin' nut case. As soon as you accept and believe that, she won't be able to manipulate you so easily."

"Easier said than done, my friend." Darien started walking towards his car again.

"Look, Pinocchio, you need to cut the strings and remember that you can stand on your own two feet," the worried voice of the senior agent attempted to soothe the frazzled nerves of his friend. "I have faith in you, my friend."

Darien closed his eyes for a moment. "Thanks, Bobby. Sometimes I need to be reminded of that."

"Maybe if your hair weren't so frickin' out there, it wouldn't take so long for these things to soak into that thick noggin of yours," Bobby teased. "Now, I could really use your help on this thing with Marcos."

Hobbes paused, and Darien didn't disappoint with his response. "All right, what do you want me to do?"

"Meet me at Horton Plaza in 20. I can't get close enough to him to see what he's looking for."

Darien reached his car and unlocked the door. "Ah, the ole sneak-n-peek routine."

"The ole sneak-n-peek," Bobby agreed with an audible grin. "You in, partner?"

The weary invisible man got in, shut the door and cranked the engine. "I'll meet you outside See's."

"Sounds like a plan," Bobby agreed. "In 20, Fawkes."

"Got it." Darien hung up and pulled out of the prison parking lot on his way to Horton Plaza.

"Okay, this is really starting to get old." Darien ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration. He and Hobbes were in the Crown Vic following Tito Marcos to the fifth candy store of the afternoon. "I mean, come on, how many bags of Jelly Bellys does this guy have to buy?"

Hobbes stared out the window at the leaden sky. "Considering what the fires did to a lot of the outlying areas of the city, there're a lot of kids who can't go trick or treating in their neighborhoods this year, Fawkes," he replied quietly. "It's a safe bet that the areas where there wasn't much, if any, damage will be getting a whole lot more kids at their doors."

"Which means that our buddy Tito is going to make sure to stock up on a butt-load of candy, huh?"

Bobby nodded. "Gold star for the junior scoutmaster."

"Oh, don't remind me about that," Darien almost groaned, and Bobby grinned.

"So, now we just gotta figure out what the hell he's planning on doing with these things." Bobby tapped the armrest in a staccato rhythm as he contemplated all the angles.

"Well, I can tell you one thing: this guy's not firing on all cylinders any more," Darien replied as he maneuvered through the thickening traffic. "He's been muttering to himself the whole time about how 'payback's gonna be such a bitch to the little bastards'," he quoted.

Tito haphazardly pulled into the parking lot at The Candy Store and hopped out of his still-running car. He scurried into the store, and Darien hurriedly stopped his car on the other side of the building. He put the car in park, looked over at his partner, and nodded as he let the Quicksilver rapidly swim over his body. The driver's door opened and shut seemingly by itself, and Bobby called through the open window.

"Take it easy there, partner! After this we're taking a quick Mickey D's break to fill you up!"

"Cool," murmured Darien's disembodied voice as he silently padded to the front of the store. He glanced in through the front window, and watched as Tito hauled a shopping cart full of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans boxes to the front register. The bored clerk looked sharply at the almost frenetic Filipino for a moment and then sighed before starting to stack the small boxes on the counter.

Darien shook his invisible head. "This guy's a real fruitcake," he muttered.

He had to quickly step out of the way as another customer entered the store, and he slipped in behind her as the door was closing. Darien then sidled as close to the checkout counter as he could, so he could listen in on the conversation between the now irritated clerk and Marcos.

"How many more of these are you getting?" the clerk asked as he continued to count and stack the boxes.

"I've already gone ta four other stores," Marcos bragged. "Got my trunk all full'a these things."

Darien shook his head. Did he say his trunk was full? Crap. You could fit at least two bodies in the trunk of that Camry, he thought to himself. The cashier sighed as he finally finished counting the boxes and began tapping on the register.

Darien clambered out of the van's passenger seat reluctantly, shooting dark looks at his partner who remained steadfastly oblivious. "Tell me again why I'm the one who's gotta do this? He's your case, Bobby," he complained through the open window. "'Nut Cases Are Us'," he added under his breath.

"I heard that, Fawkes. Gimme a frickin' break, man. You're the invisible one, remember? Not to mention, that guy catches sight of me, and I'm made. Not exactly the point of the exercise, my friend. I gotta remind you how to do the job now? What's up with you?" Hobbes responded impatiently. "Get a move on! Who knows what the hell this guy is doin' with a lifetime supply of frickin' jelly beans!"

Muttering to himself as he settled his headset on over his ears and adjusted the mike, Darien jogged across the street and around the corner, arriving at Marcos' grimy, rundown bungalow, the bus driver's battered car parked in the driveway, cooling metal ticking mundanely. Ducking around the side of the garage, Fawkes let the Quicksilver flow, slicking him in its chilly grip, and circled around to the back of the house, searching for a window with a view of his quarry.

Marcos was in his kitchen, seated at the vintage Formica table, with what looked like every bowl he owned, from cereal to mixing, littering the table and the nearby countertops. Puzzled, Darien watched as he opened box after box of 'Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans,' pouring them out of their packaging and into two bowls immediately in front of him. When the mixing bowls were full of jellybeans, the empty packages were carefully swept into a cardboard box and set on the floor out of the way.

If Darien had thought that was strange, what happened next made him cringe. He ducked away from the window, grossed out beyond belief. "Hobbes," he whispered into his mike, "Fawkes to Hobbes. You aren't gonna frickin' believe this."

"Lone Ranger to Tonto, what's the problem, partner?" Hobbes voice crackled in Darien's ear.

"He's licking them, Hobbes," Fawkes said, his squeamishness audible.

"So what?" Bobby snorted. "I had all that candy sitting in front of me, I'd be tasting it too," he pointed out.

"No, you're not hearing me, Hobbes," Darien interrupted. He peered around the window frame again to confirm what he'd seen. Sure enough, Marcos was sorting the jellybeans into cereal bowls, each one licked then deposited in the appropriate bowl.

"He's licking them! ALL of them!"

"Huh?"

Hobbes' grunt of surprise made Fawkes shake his head in annoyance. "What, are you going deaf on me all of a sudden?" he demanded. "He's not eating them, he's just licking them. Sorting them, I guess, by flavor or something."

"Oh, ick," Hobbes replied expressively. "Are you kidding me? That's -- that's sick! The guy's whacked -- I told you so, Fawkes. Didn't I say? Didn't I?"

"Guess it takes one to know one," Darien answered unkindly. "Wait a second, he's doing something else, now...." He paused as Marcos, finished with the first pile of bean sorting, sprinkled some kind of white powder over the individual bowls of candy, stirring them briskly with a soup spoon, then turned each flavor out onto a sheet of wax paper on the counter. "He's coating them with something," he informed his distant partner, simple queasiness replaced by real concern. "You think he's poisoning them?" he asked unhappily. "Cuz this is starting to creep me out, Hobbes. It's way to close too what Scarborough's daughter said would happen..."

"Get a grip, Fawkes, wouldja? OK, so she knew about the guy, knew I was onto him, somehow. That don't make her a psychic, OK? There IS no such thing as a psychic! How many times I gotta talk you down offa this head-trip of yours? Look, think it through, big guy. She's gotta have someone on the outside watching you. Or me. Or both of us. How else would she have gotten that exercise in rotten poetry in front of you at Mona's? Huh?"

"Yeah, but -" Darien argued, knowing Hobbes was probably right, but unable to shake the unnerving suspicion that something more was going on. Something unexplainable by conventional means.

"No buts, partner. There's always a rational explanation for the kinda crock people like Scarborough and his kid try and pass off as 'psychic phenomena'. Suck it up, Fawkes, we got a job to do here. We gotta find out what the hell Marcos is up to. You gotta go in. Get us a sample. Claire'll be able to tell us exactly what that little weasel is doin' to that candy."

Darien knew there was no arguing with Hobbes when he was on a tear, and he had to admit, his paranoid little partner was apparently onto something. Something every bit as frightening as the firestorms that had swept the area two weeks before. The air still smelled of scorched earth and burned homes when the wind shifted, and the idea of San Diego's children being targeted for yet another nightmare didn't bear thinking about.

"On it," he told Hobbes and retraced his steps to the back door he'd passed on his way to the kitchen window, opening it soundlessly and stepping inside. It took little or no skill save that of silence to sidle into the kitchen and scrape three or four of each of the treated jellybeans into a Ziplock baggie he took from his pocket. These days, he never seemed to be without a few of the little evidence bags. He would have sighed at that symbol of his drift away from perpetrating crimes to solving them, if it wouldn't have risked giving him away.

His evidence secured, he retreated the way he came, not letting the Quicksilver dissipate until he'd climbed back into the van next to Hobbes. "Get us outta here," he told Bobby, who obediently put the van in gear and headed back towards the Agency and Claire's skills in the lab.

"Did I or did I not ORDER you to attend that defensive driving class?" the Official snarled, interrupting Hobbes mid-sentence.

"Yes, you did, Chief, but -" Hobbes tried to get a word in edgewise, pausing in his agitated pacing to try and regain control of the conversation.

"One more breach of orders and it's going on your record, Hobbes!" the Official rumbled, jowls wobbling like a Thanksgiving turkey's wattle. The Fat Man's fury was unmistakable, and ordinarily would have been enough to deflate Hobbes into the servile mode he adopted when confronted by an authority. But Hobbes had had his paranoia triggered and was more or less bouncing off the walls of the office, trying to excuse his behavior in cutting his driving class by reciting the evidence he and Fawkes had secured documenting Marcos' suspicious behavior.

"You don't understand, sir," he interrupted whatever scolding the Official was about to launch into. "Fawkes and me, we saw -"

Darien raised a hand with a show of reluctance mostly feigned for the Official's benefit. "Uh, Chief, he's right. You know I don't like admitting when Hobbesy's whack-o-meter gets pegged off the charts, but this time," he paused significantly, ignoring Bobby's wounded expression and muttered accusations of disloyalty, "I think the little tiger may be onto something. Which is why we scored a sample. Claire -" chose that moment to make her entrance into the Official's office, bearing a printout covered with spectrum analysis graphs and tightly spaced printing.

"I've finished my jellybean analysis," she announced, looking up from the papers she held, oblivious as usual to the heated atmosphere of the office, too wrapped up in her discoveries to notice much else. Darien wondered if that single-mindedness was part of the genetic make up of every megawatt scientist, or if he just seemed to luck out in those he associated with. Or maybe he brought it out in them, he speculated, missing the first few words out of Claire's mouth.

"Sucrose, maltodextrin, sodium benzoate, rosin esters -" she was saying when Hobbes interrupted.

"Rosin-what?" he demanded urgently. "That can't be good. See, Chief? I told you that guy was up to something," he insisted.

Claire's scowl was turned full force on Hobbes, which accomplished what even the Official had been unable to manage. Bobby blushed and swallowed whatever it was he was about to say next, silenced by Claire's obvious censure. "As I was saying, rosin esters -- which are used in candy manufacturing as a humectant, Bobby," she informed him archly, "and all the usual ingredients found in jellybeans like guar gum, gum arabic, FD&C dyes number 5, 3 and 6, as well as annatto coloring and confectioners glaze. In short, nothing out of place," she finished, glancing back at her printout momentarily.

The Official opened his mouth, but Claire continued, unexpectedly, "Except for one thing...."

Eberts' forehead furrowed worriedly at that, and he glanced at his superior to gauge the reaction from that quarter. Darien leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin on his fists as he eyed Claire in anticipation. He knew what he'd seen, and it bore out his partner's instinct that something was definitely 'up' with Marcos. "What about the white power he coated the candy with?" he asked, it being his turn to interrupt, after all.

Claire shrugged dismissively. "Sugar. Superfine, to be precise."

"And we must always be precise," Darien interjected with the same prim tone she'd used, not caring if he earned himself one of her glares, but surprised when his partner swatted him upside the head. Presumably defending Claire's honor, he winced, turning his patented puppy-dog eyes on Hobbes, who frowned a warning at him.

Claire crossed her arms under her breasts, irritated, and tapped the toe of one of her spike-heeled Manolo Blannik kiss-me-pumps to punctuate her disapproval. "Are you quite finished, Darien?" she inquired with a decided chill in her voice.

"Oh, by all means, Keep. Carry on, please." Darien waved a magnanimous hand at her.

Claire turned to the Official to deliver the rest of her report. "Sir, what isn't normal to the ingredients of any commercial confectionery is human saliva. I'm afraid Darien and Hobbes may be correct in their assessment of this man's instability," she concluded, a worried crease in her forehead to match Eberts'. Darien almost expected Hobbes to leap to her aid and sooth her troubled brow, but he was disappointed when Eberts spoke up next.

"You mean Darien was correct? Marcos actually licked each candy?" he asked, aghast.

"It appears that way," Claire nodded.

The expressions of revolted distaste on both Eberts' and the Official's faces pretty much echoed the reaction he and Bobby had had to that particular tidbit of information, as did the soft 'ewwww' from Eberts.

"Eberts!" the Official snapped, the word a sentence, a command and a reprimand all at once. "What do we have on Marcos?"

Obediently, Eberts picked up the manila folder that had lain to one side of the Fat Man's blotter, opening it to recite from the document within. "Tito Marcos, born in the Philippines in 1956, emigrated to the US in 1978, unmarried, currently employed by the San Diego School District as a bus driver. He is assigned the Pacific Middle School route at the moment. He is attending the defensive driving class for similar reasons to Agent Hobbes...." The assistant glanced up at Hobbes with disapproval, then continued. "He has had altercations with four different motorists in the past two years over minor traffic violations and this is his last opportunity to avoid disciplinary termination. He has also been suspended more than once for inappropriate comments and even threats to the youngsters," Eberts finished, his disapproval now encompassing Marcos as well as Hobbes.

"This guy is a wingnut," Hobbes asserted aggressively, in full 'agent' mode.

"Well, he's got some screws loose, anyway," Darien added, straight-faced.

The Official ignored the commentary, glaring at them. "Alright. You've got until tomorrow night when the last trick-or-treater rings his doorbell to find out what he's up to, gentlemen. After that, he's the San Diego School District's problem."

"A stakeout?" Hobbes bounced enthusiastically on the balls of his feet.

"Fawkes, you're to conduct an up close and personal clandestine surveillance on Mr. Marcos. Hobbes, you'll be his backup," the Official continued.

"Why me?" "Why him?" the partners responded simultaneously, then exchanged glances.

"In case you'd forgotten, Darien's better 'equipped' for this sort of activity than you are," Borden reminded them caustically.

"Now wait a sec, you're telling me that I've gotta hang out in his place for however long the kids keep coming?" Darien demanded indignantly. "Quicksilvered the whole time?"

"There's no longer a time limit on your use of Quicksilver," the Official pointed out shortly. "Consider this the new modus operandi, Agent Fawkes," he concluded, stressing the 'agent' with measurable sarcasm.

Darien scowled unhappily. "What's wrong with doing things the old fashioned way?" he wanted to know, and Hobbes nodded emphatically beside him. "It's like killing flies with a nuclear bomb!"

Hobbes nodded vigorously. "Overkill, sir. Serious overkill."

The Official glared from one to the other of the partners, incensed at the disagreement. "Fawkes, you're a two-bit hood. Your training has been haphazard at best. The only reason you've survived in this game is the competitive advantage we've given you!"

Darien opened his mouth to respond, outraged at the implication that after all he'd been through in his three years as a government agent, he was still viewed as a neophyte hack.

"Now wait a minute, sir, the kid's done some good work for us," Hobbes defended his partner. "Doesn't always even need the gland to do it, either," he reminded them. "What about that whole break-in at Waring's headquarters? He got us in, got us out -" Hobbes paused then made a face. "Well, he woulda if he hadn't lost focus there for a second. Neat as you please, and no Quicksilver needed."

Darien nodded emphatically, raising his right fist for their traditional low five, his partner responding as per routine, celebrating the semi-psychic connection they'd cultivated.

"It's the 'loss of focus' that concerns the Official," Eberts said, tone chiding.

"Exactly," the Official nodded. "The subject isn't open to negotiation, boys."

Darien knew his expression was mutinous, but the idea of spending literally hours Quicksilvered was making him queasy. The few times he'd pushed himself beyond the pre-cure 30 minute limit, he'd been left feeling wrung out, and sometimes downright ill, depending on how much he'd overextended himself. The experience he'd had when he and Hobbes had had to make a break for it with Adam to get him past the Chrysalis blockade in place around the Agency was one good argument for why profligate use of the gland was still not a good idea. He'd had to single-handedly Quicksilver the entire car they'd been riding in to shake the Chrysalis tail. By the time they'd made it to the airport, both Adam and Bobby had been deeply concerned at the reaction he was having.

As if he was on the same wavelength, Hobbes was shaking his head unhappily. "Nope, there's easier ways to handle this, chief. Just cuz we have the gland boy here, doesn't mean there ain't any other aces up our sleeves," he pointed out.

Darien caught the deepening frown on Claire's forehead as she listened to them. "Bobby? Darien? What aren't you telling us?" she asked, cutting neatly through whatever dictatorial edict the Official was about to hand down. Startled, the Fat Man turned his glare on Claire.

Bobby shuffled his feet without meeting Claire's suddenly intense stare. Darien looked away as well, sighing.

"Darien!" Claire said sharply.

Darien slouched deeper into the naugahide chair, evading her look, the squeak every bit as sulky as he was feeling.

"Bobby!" she turned the big guns on Hobbes, who promptly buckled.

"See, he gets like... hungry... when he overdoes it," Bobby muttered with an apologetic glance at Darien.

"Hungry?" the three others repeated in disbelief.

Darien sighed again.

Bobby fidgeted.

"HOBBES!" the Fat Man roared.

Startled into it, Hobbes snapped to attention. "Uh, well, see, he... uh, he... like practically passes out if he goes Saran Wrap too long."

"And neither of you thought this was worth mentioning?" It was Claire's turn to bellow.

"I knew it'd just mean more tests," Darien whined.

"It is my job to ensure your well-being, Darien!" Claire retorted, anger mixing with real concern. "Mentioning things like that sort of extreme reaction are not optional!"

Darien managed a suitably hangdog expression, but Claire and the rest knew him well enough by now to guess he was unrepentant. Claire turned to Hobbes instead, sure of her target there. "And you. What sort of partner are you?" she demanded of the shorter agent. "From now on," she continued, cutting Hobbes off mid-protest, "you are to see to it that none of these 'events' are swept under the carpet. Darien may be too selfish and stubborn to speak up himself, but you; it is your job as his partner to protect him! And that means letting me know the instant something unusual occurs!" Fascinated, Darien noted that her accent, usually melodious, was nearing shrill, such was her degree of outrage.

Hobbes sputtered, nodding, mumbling excuses, and Darien spoke up at last. "Stop blaming him. I told him not to say anything because if you come after me with one more needle, I'm gonna blow a frickin' gasket. OK? Satisfied? This lab rat has retired. Got it? Retired, as in no more blood tests, no more urine tests, no more tests, period!"

Claire glowered at him, every bit as annoyed as he was. "This is not about making you miserable, Darien! This is about keeping you alive! Now if something is happening to the gland, I need to know about it to prevent it from turning into some sort of crisis! Not to mention killing you!"

Darien bit his tongue on the reflex that nearly had him dragging up all the betrayals, the times when Claire's agenda had been far from altruistic, and had seemed, at least from his perspective, to have far more to do with keeping him enslaved to the Agency than defending his well-being. He shrugged awkwardly. "OK. OK, I'm sorry. Happy now? Now can we go get ourselves a crazy bus driver or are we gonna fight about this all afternoon?"

"Dismissed," the Official said, before Claire could insist Fawkes accompany her to the Keep for the tests Darien could see her making mental lists of already. Relieved, he rose from his chair, he and Hobbes bolting for the door. "Fawkes!" The basso profundo command brought the partners up short mere feet from freedom. "Report to the Keep for a full exam as soon as the surveillance is finished. And I mean as soon as it's finished. Hobbes, I don't care if you have to knock him out, get him back here, or you're fired.

"Yessir," they said in unison and fled out the door

Snicking open the lock of the back door, Amy Messerschmit let herself into a tiny kitchen, glancing at the clock decorated with twelve different birds over the stove. It was nearly six p.m. The little trick or treaters would be swarming out of their homes to terrorize the neighborhood soon enough. She had just a short while to prepare a special holiday treat and be out of the house before Marcos came home from his nightly beer run. She caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective surface of the stainless steel refrigerator and winced. The green makeup and latex nose that transformed her features into that of Margaret Hamilton's Wicked Witch of the West were grotesque and itched annoyingly. But she couldn't let that get in the way of her appointed duties.

Taking a dozen glazed and chocolate frosted donuts out of a pink bakery box she arranged them on a plate emblazoned with the visage of a hideous witch. Amy sprinkled orange and black jimmies over all the pastries before poking little plastic signs reading 'Happy Halloween' into each. Debra had been very specific that it be donuts. And if Debra was right, the simple pastries should really throw fear into Fawkes' heart, she thought with satisfaction.

Amy's admiration for Debra Benjamin and the great one, Scarborough, held no bounds. Helping to bring Darien Fawkes to his knees was the least she could do for Debra. If not for her Amy would have rotted in prison because of a petty crime. Now, after Debra's teachings of her father's predictions, she had gained her parole and a whole new outlook on life.

The raucous cawing of a crow startled her so badly she knocked the jar of sprinkles onto the linoleum, looking around wildly for thenonexistant bird. With her heart pounding frantically she laughed self-consciously when she realized it was the clock. One of those infernal clocks advertised on TV that featured the different call of a bird for every hour. Apparently the crow -- an appropriate bird for a spooky night -- was designated for the sixth hour.

"Nevermore!" Amy waggled her finger at the clock face. Now she had to make sure to clean up all the tiny candies scattered across the floor before leaving. She watched CSI--those inspectors could find the tiniest clue to identify who had been at a crime scene. Determined that she not be found out, Amy swept the kitchen thoroughly before stepping out onto the porch with the plate of appealing-looking donuts in hand. She hadn't tasted one, and had carefully washed her hands after touching any of the decorations since the jimmies had enough poison in them to bring on sudden, violent spasms and vomiting to anyone who tasted them. Hearing children's voices down the street, she took a last hasty look around, knowing it was time to make her departure.

Amy circled the card table blocking her path. Marcos, her lazy soon-to-be scapegoat, had just set up a table on his front porch, lamely decorated with an unlit plastic pumpkin, and left out a giant basket filled with boxes of oddly colored jelly beans. Shoving the bowl over slightly Amy placed the witch plate directly in the center of the table with a cackle of glee. She admired her handiwork for a moment, stepping off the porch into the dark of the evening. Passing a group of small goblins, cowboys and princesses chattering about the merits of M&M's over Smarties she blended into the crowd of parents escorting little ones on their trick-or-treating rounds. A few people waved and pointed to the striking witch walking down the street, but it was in a friendly way, her real agenda as disguised as her features from the perspective of parents with kids.

Just as she gained the corner Amy looked back to see a beat-up Camry pull into the driveway of number 87 Parkview Terrace. The garage door slid up smoothly, seeming to suck the ugly car inside but there was just enough illumination from the dim interior light to recognize Tito Marcos driving. Ducking her head Amy fled around the corner into darkness.

"Damn kids already cloggin' up the street," Marcos growled, taking a swig from his bottle of Pumpkin Ale. The unusual brew had been on sale at the liquor store in honor of the season, but he didn't really like the flavor. Luckily he'd only picked up one of the specialty brews, but he planned on putting quite a dent in the six-pack of Miller Draft he'd purchased. "First time they bite into one of them all-flavor beans!" he giggled drunkenly to himself, imagining the look on their faces, especially those hellions Sammy Turkell and Deaqon Washington. He couldn't wait to hear their tales of Halloween night on the bus next Monday morning. For once in his life he almost wished he had to drive the little screw-ups on a Saturday just to hear what they had to say fresh the next morning.

Dropping his coat over the back of a chrome and vinyl chair he yanked open the fridge and stowed the remains of his favorite brew after pulling two out of the plastic rings to drink now. Nothing beat the taste of malt and hops made in America. The swill he'd had back in the Philippines didn't even compare. Popping the bottle top he never noticed the tiny orange and black candies just at the edge of the refrigerator.

Not even bothering to check the TV Guide before turning on the tube, Tito settled into a well-worn recliner. Using the remote he flipped through a variety of home shopping networks and stupid game shows before finding on an old black and white horror movie. "Couldn't even afford to colorize it," he groused, taking a swig from the beer, but he dropped the remote, getting into the tale of a man who turned invisible. Laughing at the cheesy special effects as the actor unwrapped the bandages covering his face to reveal emptiness where his head should have been, Tito leaned back, putting up his feet. The looks on the faces of the people surrounding the invisible man were priceless--as if anyone in their right mind could ever believe such utter nonsense. He fell asleep shortly later, without checking on his Halloween display out front, or even turning on the porch light.

The evening had grown dark as a clammy night settled over the blackened landscape like a musty camping blanket. The weather hadn't dampened the children's spirits, however, as they paraded up and down the street, going from one pumpkin-lit door to another. As Darien watched, he could see how obviously glad the kids were to have an outlet for all the energy that must have been pent up during the awful days of waiting out the threat to their homes and loved ones from the all-consuming brush fires. So many who had been sullen and nervous, camped out in temporary shelters not two weeks ago, were now happily chanting "Treat or Treat" at each welcoming door and being rewarded with great fistfuls of candy being tossed into their waiting sacks.

But while kids swarmed up and down the stoops of all the other houses in the neighborhood, Tito Marcos's porch remained empty and his house dark except for the flickering light of the TV that slipped through the shuttered slats of his blinds. His table full of goodies remained untouched, and Darien sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He'd have cut his losses and called the night a bust hours ago, except for those damned donuts. It had taken Hobbes a good 15 minutes to calm Darien down when he'd first spied the platter on Marcos's porch, and the younger man still couldn't bring himself to look directly at the donuts, instead only peeking at them out of the corner of his black-masked eyes every now and then.

"Oh, would you quit doing that, ya big baby," Bobby's voice sounded tinny in the microphone in Darien's ear.

"Doing what?" Darien grumped.

"Looking at the frickin' donuts like they're gonna turn into bats and fly into your hair or somethin'," Bobby answered. "They're donuts, Fawkes, innocent pastries eaten by millions of people every day and particularly enjoyed at this time of year with hot cider. They're festive for God's sake."

"Yeah, but they're donuts, Hobbes. Scarborough knew about the donuts, and now they're on Marcos's front porch. You can't tell me that's a coincidence..."

"Yeah, actually I can. Donuts at Halloween, who'da thunk it? Stop the presses -- it's a frickin' revelation! Now would you please forget about the damn donuts; it's the beans we're interested in..."

Hobbes' harangue was interrupted as a tiny, tow-headed fairy princess came barreling up to Darien, her mother lagging about three steps behind. "Look, momma, it's a pirate!" she cried as she tugged at the top flap of one of Darien's black leather thigh-high boots.

Darien laughed out loud and bowed to the girl with a flourish of his long, black cape. "Why, it's no pirate, but Zorro at your service, my lady." With a flick of his wrist he used his rapier to slash a neat "Z" in the air beside them.

The girl crowed with delight, clapping her hands and stomping her feet. "Do it again, do it again!" she demanded gleefully.

"Now, Suzanne," her mother scolded, "don't bother the nice man. He's got his own children to look after." She mouthed a silent thank you to Darien as she took her daughter's hand and marched off to the next house on the block.

"Looks like you made a conquest there, partner," Hobbes teased. "Hey, where'd you learn to do that?"

"High school fencing team." Darien grinned as he wistfully watched the little girl go up the street. "And it's more like the other way around. I'm a sucker for a beautiful woman."

"Yeah, well, get your head back in the game 'cuz it looks like we got bogies comin' up at 6 o'clock."

"Huh? Bogart's doing what when?"

"Not Bogart, bogies," Hobbes sighed in frustration. "Never mind, there's a bunch of older kids coming up behind you on Marcos' side of the street."

Darien turned, searching the street casually as if looking for his wayward child. He spotted the group Hobbes had described about two houses down from Marcos. They were a group of 'tweens,' none of them over 11, maybe 12, years old -- mostly boys, a few girls -- dressed in the ubiquitous costumes of older kids: bums and hippies. Darien crossed the street, heading for the house in between the group and Marcos, standing at the edge of the lawn as if waiting for one of the little kids at the door, but really staying within earshot of the older kids' whispered debate.

"C'mon, Jimmy. What are you? Chicken?" one of the bigger boys asked the runt of the litter.

Darien watched as the proverbial 95-pound weakling gamely tried to hold his ground with the bruiser. "Nah, I'm not chicken. But you know that guy. He's a grouch. He probably just put out something crappy, like raisins, maybe...."

"They're not raisins, doofus, they're jelly beans. Any idiot could see that, unless they're a chicken," the other boy shot back. "Bwaack, bwaaack, bwaaaack," he squawked, flapping his arms as he paraded in a circle around the smaller boy.

"I am not a chicken!" Jimmy pleaded his case to the assembled jury, but his peers looked doubtful. "I am not!"

"Then prove it," the bully Darien had mentally nicknamed Butch taunted. "I dare you to go up there and grab that whole bowl full of jelly beans off ole butthead's porch."

Jimmy's eyes went wide behind his coke-bottle-bottom glasses. "The whole bowl?" he squeaked.

"That's right, the whole bowl," Butch nodded. "Unless you're too chicken that is. Bwaaaack, bwaaack, bwaaaack...."

"Alright, alright," the scrawny hobo capitulated, "just shut it, would ya?"

Butch stopped in mid-squawk and stared at the smaller boy. "Well then, what are ya waiting for?" He pushed the smaller boy towards Marcos's steps with a swift shove, propelling the reluctant thief right past Darien, who leaned into the shadow of a tree and disappeared from sight, Quicksilver sliding over him in one long rush of breath.

Not without a sense of nostalgia, the former juvenile delinquent watched as Jimmy slunk up to Marcos's house, the kid's head swinging from side to side repeatedly until he scooted up the front steps like a mouse trying to avoid a cat. Jimmy grabbed at the basket of treats and frantically dumped its contents into his bag, all the time still doing his bobblehead doll impression. He'd just finished filling his sack and was ready to make a clean getaway, but the heavy bowl slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered onto the porch floor. The entire group of guilty kids stood stock still, sure that justice would be swift in its descent.

But much to their surprise, and Darien's, nothing happened. Not even a grunt of displeasure issued from the house's occupant, much less a thunderbolt of vengeance. Emboldened, Jimmy hammed it up for his audience, dancing a jig across the porch. The girls twittered as Jimmy extended his act, scampering in front of the living room window. He was busy swinging his arms like a monkey, when he bumped into the table and almost upended the platter of donuts.

"Oh, cool," he hissed to his companions, "donuts!" He raised the platter over his head, and the rest of his friends crowded up the stairs to grab their share of the treats.

A wicked cackle blew across the street, and Darien stared from the platter of donuts to the tall green witch and back again, before taking off at top speed.

Terrified children screamed as they were suddenly jostled off the stairs, and poor Jimmy howled as the platter leapt from his hands and flew across the porch. But as the donuts landed in a squishy, sugary-frosted heap on the ground, one screech drowned out the others.

"Nooooooooooh!" The Wicked Witch of the West scrambled over to the donuts, heaping them back onto the platter and shoving them at the children. "My donuts," she wailed. "Don't you want my beautiful donuts?"

"Would you cut that out?" a now visible Darien ordered, stalking over to her and pulling off her disguise. "Well, well, well, ding dong, the witch is dead. I know who you are. You're that chick from Scarborough's psych ward."

"Wait a minute, Fawkes, you know this whack job?" Hobbes asked as he jogged up to the lawn and slapped the cuffs on Amy.

"She's the one who told me Scarborough was dead," Darien said. "She's been following me..." he snapped his fingers as a sudden memory kicked in. "I even saw her when I was staking out Stevens."

Amy writhed in fury. "Don't you dare speak his name, you heathen! You are not worthy of the wisdom he bequeathed to you...."

"Do me a favor and save it for the court-appointed shrink, lady," Darien told her as he tossed the platter of broken donuts into a trash can. "Frankly, I've had more than enough of Benjamin Scarborough and his psychotic prophecies for one lifetime."

"Doubt him at your peril, Fawkes!" Amy admonished, all fire and brimstone. "His will will be done. Maybe not today, but soon and inevitably. I am but one instrument of his divine intention, just one of his faithful following dedicated to doing his work...."

Hobbes hustled her into the back of the van. "Oh yeah? Well, guess what, sister? I predict you're gonna be rejoining his flock in the slammer for a very long time. Meditate on that."

A flood of light filled the porch as Marcos's front door banged open, and an enraged Tito stumbled out, waving his fists in the air. "What the hell is going on out here? What's all this damned rucshush ... rascush ... noise about?"

That was all it took to send the mischief-makers flying directly back to their homes, screaming in terror the whole way.

Tito swayed in the doorway as he watched Darien climb his front steps. "For cryin' oush loud, why all thish drama? They're jush ookie beans." He waved a hand at the spilled candy on his porch floor. "Ishnot like somebody was tryin' to kill them nor nothin'..."

"Yeah," Darien said drolly, giving an evil grin and allowing the Quicksilver to slowly seep over his face and hair. "Well, that's the problem with playing tricks on Halloween. Some folks just can't help losing their heads."

Tito watched, dumbstruck as the headless man turned and walked down his steps before disappearing completely. Backing into his house, he slammed the door shut and returned to his seat on the recliner, running a hand over his eyes. Instinctively, he grabbed his beer bottle off the side table and went to take a swig. He reconsidered before putting it to his lips, however, looking nervously over his shoulder in the direction of his porch. Shaking his head, he put the bottle back down, shut off the lights and went up to his bed.

"Talk about your déjà vu," Darien murmured to himself as he watched Debra Benjamin once again being escorted to the visiting room table.

Once she was secured, he stared into her glittering eyes. "Your little plan didn't work, Debra. I told this to your old man, and I'm gonna tell you: I've had worse people than you play head games with me. You aren't even in their league."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And I've said before, Agent Fawkes," she sneered. "Ignore the prophecies at your own peril. Very soon now the earth will open up beneath you..."

He raised a hand as he cut her off. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I'll wish it'd swallowed me up. You're a broken record, sister, in more ways than one. Look, all I wanted to say was that your so-called 'prophecies' died with your dad. I'm sorry that you weren't able to see him before, but that doesn't give you the right to take out your problems on me. You're a sick woman, Debra. Get some help, and maybe some day you can work through it."

He rose to leave, and she sat there stunned.

How dare he?!

"You fiend!" she shrieked as she launched herself at him. Even though she was secured by one wrist to the table, Darien leaped back in reaction and crashed into the table behind him. The guard jumped into immediate action, slamming the incensed prisoner onto the table and physically pinning her. Other guards swarmed into the room as Debra struggled and spat at Darien, who was still sprawled across the next table. His eyes were wide, but that's not what caused Debra cease in her struggles.

It was the soul-consuming sadness that was reflected in them.

Wordlessly, she was fully cuffed and manhandled out of the room, and the lady guard that was the first to react to the incident held out a hand to assist Darien off of the table. "Are you hurt, Agent Fawkes?"

He smiled wearily as he straightened up his clothes. "Only my pride. Thanks."

She returned the smile apologetically. "I'm sorry about Debra. She's been a model prisoner up until now."

He ducked his head a little. "I seem to have a negative effect on the people I arrest."

She nodded in understanding. "It might be a good idea for you to not visit her again," she advised.

Darien agreed wordlessly as he started towards the door. "As long as she doesn't give me a reason to."

The guard, Maggie Gilman, pursed her lips. "I'll be filling out the report on this one, and I think I'm going to recommend that Debra be put under the full-time care of a psychiatrist."

Darien turned to her and shook her hand. "Here's hoping she gets the help she needs. Thanks again."

Darien walked out of the prison, and squinted his eyes in the brilliant sunshine. He strode towards the Crown Victoria, and his friend lounging by the hood. "Hey, partner."

"How'd it go?" Bobby asked. He tipped a Starbucks cup up in order to get the last dregs it contained.

Darien shook his head as he got to the driver's door. "Go ahead and say it, Hobbes. You know you want to."

"What?" was the affected response. "You want me to say it?"

Darien sighed. "If you don't, it'll fester, and then it'll come out a whole lot worse than it would now."

"Awright. I told you so." Bobby grinned like a kid who just found a 20 at the carnival.

"Thank you. Now, let's get the hell out of here," Darien replied acerbically as he got in the car. "I gotta get back to the Keep."

Bobby slid into the passenger seat and shut his door. "The tests?"

The leggy man shuddered. "Yeah. More tests. Thanks for watching my back there, partner."

Bobby shrugged awkwardly. "What can I say? I'm sorry. You know I can't hold out against Claire when she gives me that look."

Darien pulled out onto the main road. "Man, you are so whipped," he teased.

"Fawkes, don't start on me," Bobby warned as they merged into rush hour traffic.

Bobby Hobbes is a pragmatist. For him, seeing is believing, which probably explains why he barely blinked an eyelash the first time I unQuicksilvered in front of him in that Mexican taxi the day we first met up. I guess it's a survival skill for a spy, that ability to just roll with even the weirdest new information. As long as he's got first hand evidence of it, I mean. But sometimes I wonder if maybe if there's any evidence he'd ever consider conclusive when it comes to psychic phenomena. The aphorist, Mason Cooley, sort of sums up Hobbesy's philosophy on psychics in a nutshell: " To be fulfilled, a prophecy needs lots of flexibility."

For me, though, Vice President Hubert Humphrey had it right when he said, "The difference between heresy and prophecy is often one of sequence. Heresy often turns out to have been prophesy?when properly aged." The problem is, I'm not sure if I want to see whether Scarborough was a heretic - or a prophet.

Hobbes slid out of his partner's way as Darien hoisted long legs back onto the administering chair he'd just begun to believe he'd no longer be spending his time being tortured in. He heaved a sigh and his partner's forehead furrowed

"Don't start on it again, Fawkes. How many times I gotta tell ya that there's no such thing as psychics? It's a scam, my friend. S-C-A-M. Read my lips."

"So why'm I here, then?" Darien asked more sharply than he'd meant to.

"You're here because there are people who worry about you," Claire snapped back, pushing her instrument tray toward the chair Darien sat in. She hooked an ankle around the low-wheeled stool under her lab bench and pulled it towards her, settling gracefully on it and rolling into place beside the treatment chair. "Why on earth didn't you tell me about the reaction you were having to extended Quicksilver episodes?" she chided as she prepped a blood draw, wedging the first in a series of seven or eight collection vials into place.

Darien winced as she wiped an alcohol swab over a bulging vein in the crook of his right elbow and slid the large gauge needle home. "That's why," he snarked unhappily as yet more blood began to flow out of his veins and into the seemingly endless succession of test tubes that had defined his life as a lab rat in the past three years.

Claire shot him a look that expressed her opinion of that excuse. "How many times do I have to tell you this is for your own good, Darien?" she asked tartly. "Do you think I enjoy this part of my job?"

"Yeah, uh, actually, I do, Claire," Darien responded sourly. "You sure seem to like poking me full of holes."

"Fawkes," Hobbes began uncomfortably as he glanced at the lovely blonde Englishwoman. "Don't take it personally, Keepy, he's just a little creeped out, what with Scarborough's whack-job daughter jerking his chain the past few days."

"Stop making excuses for me, Hobbes," Darien complained to his partner. "Haven't you seen the look on Claire's face when she sticks her damned needles into me? And for the record, partner, you aren't entitled to an opinion until you've spent three years on the receiving end of her bedside manner."

Hobbes paled, then flushed faintly, undoubtedly reacting to the 'bedside manner' crack. Darien glared at his partner, daring him to run with the opening, knowing he wouldn't.

"Fawkes, the Keeper's just doin' her job. OK? Like you and me go out and catch bad guys. She makes sure you don't end up with that blob of goo in your head leaking out your ears when we can least afford it. So stop giving her a hard time and just deal."

Darien could hear Bobby's irritation, but the weirdness of the past three weeks, between the firestorms that had swept through a Delaware-sized section of southern California and the unexpected and deeply unwanted return of Scarborough and his daughter into his life, had more or less maxed out his tolerance for the unexpected. Top that off with the bizarre antics of one disgruntled bus driver and all in all, the 'strange factor' was pretty well off the scale.

Claire switched out vials and Darien glanced away from the dark spurt of crimson, eyes falling on the tattoo that colored the inside of his wrist. He'd more or less weaned himself from staring at it every few minutes, but the events of the past few days had essentially reversed any progress he'd made in that direction. He reached across his lap with his left hand to rub fingertips over the ouroboros, wondering if the twinge he felt was real or purely imaginary.

"Fawkes," Hobbes warned. "There's nothing wrong with you a nice multivitamin or something won't fix. The madness isn't coming back. Now will ya quit worrying?"

Darien shrugged, shoulders up around his ears defensively. "But what if you're wrong, Hobbesy? What if there really IS such a thing as psychics? And what if the old man was one?" He looked up at his exasperated partner, not expecting understanding. "What if I do end up killing you?" he asked forlornly. "'The serpent only sleeps,' that's what he said..."

Bobby threw up his hands in annoyance. "Fawkes, will you getta grip? OK. Suppose the old man was really 'plugged in' to something. Suppose he was right? You didn't kill me then, and you ain't gonna manage it anytime in the future, hot shot, QSM or not. No dumb-ass thing you could come up with would be enough to get Bobby Hobbes dead. Got it?" Hobbes glared down at Darien fiercely, and it was only three years of practice that let Fawkes see the real concern that underlay the anger. Unless he had completely flunked Hobbes 101, Bobby was more worried than he was letting on. The question was, was it because of the Scarborough prophecies? Or something else?

He was distracted from his speculations by the insertion of another vial, the needle jiggling under its tape and zinging a nerve. "Oww!" he complained, glaring at Claire before returning his attention to his smaller partner. "And what if the madness isn't gone, Hobbes? The 'cure' came from Arnaud. Can you think of even one time when that Swiss Miss Mother actually did something that wasn't so twisted you could drill for oil with it? Straightforward isn't in that bastard's vocabulary, Hobbes. And I'm sorry, but I don't trust him. What's to say this is any different than anything else he's done where I'm concerned?"

Hobbes snorted. "Arnaud de Freak is the least of our worries, pal, and don't you forget it. The reason you came back to the Agency still stands, my friend. And that reason is Chrysalis. Arnie and that old man don't hold a candle to them in the 'menace' department. You gonna let some old ghosts mess with your head?" Hobbes grinned at him and brushed a fond hand over the spiky hairstyle Darien cultivated, teasing him.

"Hey! Don't mess with the - " Darien's words were cut off as the floor under them heaved violently, a low freight train-like rumble vibrating through the brick and mortar of the basement that housed the Keep.

As dust and chunks of brick fell from the walls and ceiling and ductwork began to come loose, the lights flickered once, twice, and went out, plunging them into the surging, thunderous darkness of every Californian's worst nightmare.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-h-h-h-h-h-hhh CRAP!" Darien wailed as he was hurled out of the chair by an unseen hand, landing on the rolling, bucking floor hard enough to hurt. "Earthquake!"

End