Episode 4.04

by Dawnwind

Someone named Avicenna once said 'A horse is simply a horse'. I guess she was watching 'Mr. Ed', which claimed that "A horse is a horse of course..." Maybe we'd found the exception to the rule...

On the windless, moonless night, the darkness was absolute. Clouds obscured the few stars bright enough to be seen through the light pollution of San Diego creating deep gloom in the stable yard. Even the horses housed in the once-neat blue-trimmed stables were quiet, perhaps dreaming of winning races and congratulatory apples and lumps of sugar, unperturbed by the debris and construction clutter scattered through the stable yard in the wake of the magnitude 6.5 earthquake that had rattled the greater San Diego area only two weeks before.

The lads who cared for the horses had all trundled off to their beds to be ready for the pre-dawn exercise rides out along the surrounding hills. It was a peaceful scene, but one charged through with an undercurrent of tension. Things were too quiet, too normal.

A silhouetted figure slid through the unlit yard, pausing just outside the main barn before melting into the shadows of the building. He moved easily amongst the horses like a pro, patting one long muzzle, letting another accept a carrot from the palm of his hand. The horses accepted his presence calmly, with only small whickers of pleasure for his treats. The last stall held the champion of the group; a majestic animal standing 17 hands with long, elegant legs capable of winning any race it was entered into. The man held out radish for the animal to munch before unlatching the gate emblazoned with the name Zeus's Forehead and entering the small enclosure with the horse. Slipping a halter over Zeus's head and forcing the bit between large yellow teeth, the man confidently led the horse out of the stable and across the yard. A double horse trailer was parked there, no different than the other Range Rovers and animal transport vehicles parked in a crooked line along the verge next to the driveway. Zeus had never been one to balk on entering a dark enclosure and he followed the man without a whinny of discontent. After the magnificent beast had been secured, and the gate closed, the silent figure released a second horse from the trailer, placing him in Zeus' former stall.

Gently running a hand down one of the horse's slender brown limbs the man drew out a long-needled syringe and plunged the contents into leg. This horse squealed once in annoyance, but quieted immediately when he was given a carrot. A few of the other horses whinnied in equine concern, but moments later, when the dark figure merged into the blackness of the world, all was still again.

"This is what I'm saying, Fawkes, this is it," Bobby Hobbes waved an expansive hand at the racetrack, betting windows and viewing stands. "This takes me back."

"Dark ages in the Bronx, huh?" Darien Fawkes shoved his hands into his low-slung pants, sending them perilously close to falling off his narrow hips. "Cut a lot of school for the ponies?"

"It was all an education, Fawkesy. Averages, figuring out percentages, learning to sense which horse had the instinct to run..." Hobbes took a deep, satisfied breath, sniffing the air for the mingled scents of horse, jockey sweat, and money. "A punk like you never hung out at the track?"

"I was working second story jobs while the rest of the junior class was hunched over their SATs," Darien answered, glancing around. A race was just beginning as they entered the grandstand, the graceful horses taking off with pulsing adrenaline, pounding around the curved track with ferocious strength. He watched with an appreciation for the power and majesty of the beautiful animals, but this was as close as he wanted to get to the sharp hooves and teeth. "Keeping a bookie on speed dial to grab some action on Laker's games, and an occasional wager on the Kentucky Derby were as close as I ever got to the track."

"Lotsa guys used to tell me I shoulda been a jockey," Hobbes continued, puffing out his chest. "One'a the few occupations where a shorter stature is an asset."

"An asset, huh?" Darien laughed.

"But I had loftier aspirations in mind - the military all the way for me. Had to get away from...," Hobbes paused to watch the front runner gallop past, the jockey slung low over his neck. "From a lot of things," he finished.

"Yeah, man," Darien agreed, remembering his visit to Bobby's family. While they hadn't been quite as dysfunctional as his own relatives, he could totally sympathize with Hobbes' need to distance himself from the mob. He pointed to a man nearby with the San Diego Union Tribune folded back to reveal the story that was still headlines on the sports page. "Kinda strange to be here when all the sports page headlines are still screaming about that poisoned horse a few weeks ago."

"What a waste," Hobbes agreed. "Some bozo just broke in and shot that horse fulla poison and left him to die."

"S'not the first time it's happened, either," Darien watched the horses round the track on the furthest curve and race down the straightaway. Above him the announcer shouted out an on going description of the race over a tinny loudspeaker. "All up and down California horses've been found dead in their stalls, poisoned in the night."

"Can't believe some guy could just sneak into all those places without raisin' an alarm." Hobbes raised his eyebrows. "Unless he's got a way to beat the odds, like you, there, cellophane."

Darien stared disdainfully down at him from his vastly superior height like a displeased monarch. "So, regale me with your racing tips, Bobby the Greek."

"Gotta study the stats, know your horse." Hobbes unfurled the list of horses racing that day, frowning at the columns of minutia on each animal. Age, number of races won and lost, speed out of the gate, each was an important consideration for determining a winner.

"I like the name Mercury," Darien laughed, easily reading over Hobbes' shoulder.

"See, now, that shows you for the amateur that you are, Fawkes," Hobbes snorted. "A name has nothing to do with..."

"I beg to differ," Darien pointed out on the track where huge, straining equine muscles competed to be the first ones across the finish line. The announcer was blaring the horses' names over the loudspeaker in an excited breathless tone that reminded him of scenes from countless old movies, especially the penultimate con flick, 'The Sting.'

"Blue Balls is coming up on the left, but Mercury is still in the lead with Sweet Revenge third, Nightingale fourth and Baby's Sorrow trailing by 14 lengths," the announcer proclaimed. The surrounding crowd seemed to surge forward, pressing Hobbes and Darien up against the fence, a low roar of approval coming from every throat.

"And Mercury wins by a length!" the announcer cried dramatically. "Blue Balls second and Sweet Revenge third! The next race, The Rouche Pharmaceuticals Silver Cup will start in 30 minutes."

"See, I coulda earned some cash." Darien grinned smugly.

"Hah, Mercury was the favorite," Hobbes sneered, pointing to the tote boards. "No money in an odds on favorite. It's when you get one that's 50 to 1 you make the money."

"Okay, then, "Darien snatched up the racing sheet. "Then let's put down a couple bills on..." He scanned the roster for a long shot. "Jupiter Moon."

Hobbes eyed him skeptically, then held out his hand. "Give me all you got, smart guy."

Darien dug into his pockets, causing his low-rise pants to slide even further down, and produced $40.

"That all?" Hobbes raised his eyebrows.

"Times are hard, Bobby, there was an earthquake, remember?" Darien grinned. "Most of my ready cash went to make the down payment on our new home away from home."

"I'll match you and we'll split whatever this nag pulls in, since you're so sure he's gonna win," Hobbes rolled his eyes. "Read off his stats."

"Seventeen hands high, chestnut with no distinguishing marks," Darien read out loud, trailing after Bobby to the betting windows. "Finished back in the pack in all his races as a yearling, and almost all of them this year, too. Oh, except for the last two. He took the winner's purse twice in the past two weeks. See? He's just a late bloomer, Hobbesy."

Hobbes snorted. "Like someone else I could name, right Fawkesy?" he teased as he plunked down their combined bet. "Jupiter Moon to win in the Rouche Cup," he told the window clerk.

"Thanks for meeting me here, Charlie." Bradley Gibson held out a welcoming hand to one of his oldest friends.

"Got to take a break from the office once in a while." Charles Borden smiled warmly, shaking Gibson's hand. They'd served together as Marines in several covert operations but Gibson had left the military for the life of a gentlemen farmer, raising racehorses. His horses had placed in some of the biggest races in the United States and even England, including coming in second in the Kentucky Derby in '99 and '02. It had seemed appropriate to meet at Del Mar Racetrack. Standing in the crowded concourse next to the fence separating them from the running horses Borden could almost understand the appeal they held for the man next to him. The raw power as the sleek animals thundered past was almost intoxicating.

"How's the knee?"

"A nuisance, but healing." Borden shrugged. He was still using a cane, but it was mostly for show, even if it did help him get around. His doctor kept advising him that if he lost weight he wouldn't put so much strain on his body, but he wasn't much interested in changing his eating habits. Although that Atkins diet didn't sound all that bad - mostly meat without vegetables or fruits to get in the way. "Tell me what happened."

Overhead, the track announcer called the order out of the gate on the next race, the Rouche Cup, the information essentially meaningless to Borden. Instead, he focused on his friend, wondering exactly why he'd been called down to the racetrack.

"Zeus was the best stallion I'd had in years - he had the urge to win in his blood, ran for the fun of it and never tired." Gibson, a big man himself with a barrel chest and the broad shoulders of a college football player, seemed to collapse inward for a moment, his dreams crushed aborning. "Two weeks after the quake I went out to the stables to oversee the string going out for the morning workout and I heard one of the lads yelling." He shook his head, scrubbing one blunt hand over his face, seeing a memory that Borden couldn't imagine. "He kept saying 'Zeus is dead! Zeus is dead!' I couldn't believe it," Gibson said, voice still breaking weeks after the fact. "Zeus was over on his side in the stall, stone cold dead. Vet said it was poison - a pesticide. Fifth horse in California in the last six months. My security system was screwed up after the quake - dead easy for somebody to break in."

"Same poison as the others?" Borden asked keenly.

Gibson nodded grimly. "The vet took blood samples. Matched the rest of the poisoned animals perfectly."

"So, I'm assuming you asked me down here to investigate the break-in?"

"No, as a matter of fact." Gibson turned to watch the horses streak past on their second lap around the track. "Do you see that stallion? Jockey's wearing purple silks." He pointed to the front-runner, a chestnut horse with long, flashing limbs easily maintaining his position behind the lead horse.

Borden nodded. He didn't usually get caught up in horse racing - or any sport for that matter. But from the crowd all around he could feel the excitement building as the chestnut horse surged into the forefront seemingly effortlessly. "Yes?"

"I was here last week and saw that horse - Jupiter Moon, and broke out in a cold sweat. If I didn't know better, I'd swear that was Zeus' Forehead. Same stride, same drive... it's eerie." Gibson cleared his throat, too disciplined a man to succumb completely to sentiment about a horse. "If Zeus had won today's race he would have brought home a $22,000 purse plus I'd've made millions in potential stud fees."

"Millions?" Borden asked in amazement.

"I could have retired a rich man on that horse's sperm," Gibson sighed. "$25,000 an ounce, so yeah, if the horse had good motility, I'd have been in like Flynn. Now... because the earthquake damaged my stables, and the insurance company basically threatened to terminate my coverage on the rest of my string if I didn't move them. I've had to parcel the horses out to other trainers. I've basically lost everything." He leaned against the railing of their box, watching the horses thunder along the turf. "I didn't know who else to turn to - you're my oldest friend, Charlie. I need your help to prove that's my horse."

"Brad, you said yourself that your horse was dead."

"That's what I thought, until I saw Jupiter Moon. It's him, it has to be," Gibson said in desperation. Borden eyed his old friend, disapproving of what sounded like a bad case of denial. He turned to watch the race again, Gibson following suit, as the horses neared the final stretch.

They both looked on as the jockey wearing purple silks leaned low over the handsome steed's powerful neck, riding crop whisked glancingly over the straining hindquarters. Jupiter Moon heeded the signal and stretched out, taking the last furlong in a blur. With the excited crowd cheering wildly, the announcer shouted out the order of the horses crossing the finish line. "Jupiter Moon wins the Rouche Pharmaceuticals Silver Cup by a nose, with Sunny Delight in second place and Love's Passion in third..." he trailed off then came back with a correction. "It looks like we have a photo finish. The judges will determine the winner momentarily. No bets will be honored until the inquiry is concluded."

"Hot damn! He won! Whaddid I tell you?" Borden heard a startlingly familiar voice from somewhere in the crush of humanity at the fence below him. The voice continued. "I can just about smell the money!"

"Fawkes?" Charles Borden said abruptly, searching the crowd for the speaker, his first instinct to ream Fawkes and his partner out for malingering on Agency time. If Darien Fawkes was around it was a sure bet that Bobby Hobbes was close by.

"Hobbes! Fawkes!" the Official commanded in a barking tone that cut through the surrounding throng. Several people frowned at his unsportsmanlike behavior and one woman sniffed, sipping her drink from a straw. "Show yourselves. Immediately!"

Short enough to be camouflaged by packed San Diegans, Hobbes jerked up short in shock at the familiar bellow. "The 'Fish is here? Wanna make a run for it?" he asked his lanky partner in crime.

"We can't leave, we just made a wad of cash!" Darien protested, and then the massive bulk of the Official was upon them, nearly blotting out the sun as he lumbered down the grandstand stairs like a leviathan.

"Why am I not surprised to find the two of you frittering away your time betting on horses?" Borden asked rhetorically as Gibson joined them along the fence.

"And sir, what would you be doing down here at track side on such a fine day?" Hobbes asked in his most obsequious manner. He knew he skirted insubordination by implying his employer had descended to the level of a common lay-about losing his paycheck on a horse, but it was too good an opportunity to miss.

Pinning the short, balding agent with a withering stare, Charles Borden refused to rise to the bait.

"We put down $80 on Jupiter Moon," Darien said brightly. "Just made $4,000. And how's your day?" His newfound pleasure in the ponies was unmistakable.

"You bet on Jupiter Moon?" Gibson broke in excitedly.

"Fifty to one odds." Darien nodded, pointing to the racing form.

"Can I see that?" Gibson nearly yanked the paper out of his hand, tearing one corner, but he paid it little heed, scanning the tiny print intently.

"Bradley?" Borden asked, concern in his tone. Hobbes and Fawkes peered from the Official to his companion, curiously. Obviously, the Agency's erstwhile head was not at the track for the sheer enjoyment of it.

"Once they announce the results of the photo finish, he'll be over in the winner's enclosure," Gibson insisted, pointing to the horse's name in print. "It's our best shot at getting close to the horse."

"Brad, there's no reason to get close to that animal." Borden harrumphed. "You just told me your vet pronounced your horse dead of poison over two weeks ago. That," he stabbed a finger at the sweat-dark chestnut being walked in a short path by a groom among all the other winded equine athletes, his jockey's purple silks gleaming in the bright sunligh,. "is not your horse! It's time to accept that!"

"Your horse was one of those racehorses poisoned by the whacko with the huge syringe?" Bobby asked, intrigued, ignoring Darien's grimace at the mention of needles.

"These two... men... work for me," Borden said tightly, indicating Fawkes and Hobbes. "Darien Fawkes, Robert Hobbes. This is Bradley Gibson, an old friend."

"Nice to meet you, sir," Bobby said, thrusting out a polite hand, which Gibson shook distractedly. "I take it you have some doubts that it was your horse found dead in your stable?" he asked, making an assumption based on the few scant clues the Official and Gibson had dangled in front of him. Darien glanced at him, frowning.

"I didn't doubt it at all, Mr. Hobbes -" Gibson started.

"Agent Hobbes," Bobby interrupted, and got glowered at by the Official for his impudence.

"Agent Hobbes. I didn't doubt Zeus had died, until I saw Bill Swan's new wünderkind run for the first time last week. I swear it was like seeing a ghost." Gibson turned to Borden, as if pleading for understanding. "I don't know... his style, the way that horse, Jupiter Moon, moves. Zeus had a way of kicking his left hind leg out when going around a curve," Gibson said. "Jupiter does exactly the same thing."

The Official's skeptical snort punctuated the pause.

"So you think Jupiter Moon is your horse," Hobbes concluded, raising an eyebrow. "That why you want to get close to the beastie?"

"To convince yourself that it's not yours? Or to convince yourself it is?" Darien asked, apparently catching on finally.

"Bill Swan was just a mediocre trainer with a reputation until last year, and Jupiter hadn't won a race until two weeks ago. His stats are on the record." He pointed back at the racing form viciously. "A dud as a yearling and as a two-year-old, too, and then this month, at the end of his third year, he suddenly takes two big money purses - three if you count Rouche - in less than three weeks? You want to tell me it's all a coincidence?" Gibson demanded forcefully.

"The judge's inquiry has concluded," an amplified voice announced overhead. "Jupiter Moon is indeed the winner of the Rouche Pharmaceuticals Silver Cup. Congratulations to Bill Swan and jockey Kit Somerville. Please come to the winner's circle immediately for the presentation of the purse and the Rouche trophy."

"Charlie, you can come with me or not, but I'm going over there," Gibson announced as he turned and headed for the exit, intent on reaching the winner's circle. The Official hesitated a moment as the two agents cackled in delight at the announcement of the official winner of the race.

"We made out, partner!" Darien crowed, performing a highly complicated set of handshakes and elbow bumps with Hobbes. "I'm off to claim the winnings!"

"Hold up there, Diamond Jim. You think I'm lettin' you collect without me?" Hobbes asked, waving the betting slip under Fawkes' nose. "'Sides, you ain't gonna get very far without this," he added, tucking the paper back into his breast pocket.

"As far as I know, you two are still on the clock. Which makes any winnings the property of the Agency," the Official snapped as he made a grab for the slip in Hobbes' pocket.

Darien, however, beat him to it, snatching it and holding it high over their heads. "Just consider it the pay-off on the loan I made Monroe so she could buy the McKinley building for your new castle, there, chief," Darien suggested, his smile not concealing his stubborn streak.

Hobbes winked at his partner in approval, then turned to their boss. "So, you want we should meet you at the winner's circle, sir?"

The Official glared at them. "You're on the clock, gentlemen. That means if either of you expect to be paid for your time here today, you'd better be at that winner's circle by the time I get there!" With that, he turned and retreated back up the stairs of the stands towards the exit.

Grinning like a fool, Darien Fawkes joined the crush around winning horse Jupiter Moon. They'd garnered $2,000 each, thanks to the fleet-footed nag on the other side of the tidy white fence. Never having been a big one for betting on animals running in circles, he hadn't ever really considered the monetary gain possible in legal track betting. After all, anything legal wasn't usually all that lucrative, in his experience, anyway. "This kinda makes up for my generous donation of five grand to the house hunting fund, huh?" he observed as his partner rested his arms on the fence rails to get a better look at the goings on in the winner's circle.

"Yeah, hotshot, it does," Hobbes commented, looking equally content with his share of the profits. "You see the 'Fish, long legs?"

"Over that way." Darien grinned maniacally and Quicksilvered one hand, keeping it below most people's eye level. Just an incidental brush of icy coldness on the unprotected skin of various persons in the crowd and suddenly a pathway had opened up in front of him. Apparently a large number of San Diego citizens were highly cold sensitive. Who knew?

They arrived up near the gates of the enclosure in time to see Gibson reach out to shake the hand of a thick-necked man with arms so tree trunk-like, the sleeves of his suit coat were straining at the seams.

"Let me congratulate you, Mr. Swan," Bradley Gibson said warmly. "I'm...."

"So good to meet you," Swan said with cold politeness. "Heard about your bad luck. Tough break - maybe you'll be back on your feet by next season."

In the winner's paddock, the long-necked horse whickered, turning towards the two men, ears pricked to pick out the familiar voice. Only it wasn't to Bill Swan that the animal whinnied in recognition; it was Bradley Gibson. The stallion stretched a long nose towards Gibson, and amazed, the man started to pet Jupiter Moon on the broad forehead, but the horse ducked, thrusting his nose into the man's pocket, lipping at the fabric with familiarity. A visibly furious Bill Swan barked a command as he seized the bridle and yanked the horse away from Gibson, handing the reins to a stable boy who had instantly appeared to lead the winning horse away.

Swan glared daggers at Brad Gibson as he turned his back and stalked away after his horse, silver trophy tucked under one beefy arm.

"That was Zeus," Gibson whispered, white faced, taking an unsteady step backwards to let the other trainer walk past. "I told you so!" He turned to meet Borden's perplexed gaze.

"Bradley, are you feeling all right?" Borden asked, looking more concerned than Darien could have ever imagined. The 'Fish actually had a heart buried under all that blubber.

"I used to carry radishes in my pocket for Zeus - they were his favorite treat. He went straight for my pocket."

"Sir?" Hobbes spoke up tentatively. Realizing he had both men's attention he continued on quickly. "I read a couple of Dick Francis mysteries a while back. Isn't there a way to tell if a horse is yours? Some sort of tattoo?"

"Yes, inside the upper lip. When the vet came out to pronounce Zeus, we checked, it was him," Gibson agreed.

"Any way to forge those things?" Darien asked, his larcenous mind clicking along the same lines Hobbes must be. He didn't know much about horses, but he knew about forgeries. Industrious thieves did it all the time, passing a less valuable thing off as a masterpiece. "Change them?"

"It wouldn't be that much harder than changing a tattoo on your own skin," Gibson confirmed. "It's been done in the past, but these days, what with DNA samples on file for every registered thoroughbred in the country, hell, the world, for that matter, there's not much to be gained by trying it. The first time someone raised a red flag with the racing commission, a standard DNA test would catch them in the act."

"But you told me yourself, earlier." Borden frowned. "A winning purse worth tens of thousands, not to mention millions of dollars in stud fees, can make or break a stable." He considered the situation for a moment. "If you're right, Brad, and that animal is yours, then Swan's found some way around the safeguards."

Hobbes and Darien exchanged looks. "I say we go check out this horse Jupiter Moon," Hobbes declared.

Out on the track, horses were lining up for another race, prancing and snorting in front of the watching humans on their way into the starting booth.

"I don't think Swan would take too kindly to me walking up and demanding to see his horse's ID tattoo, much less have the authorities check his chip." Gibson pointed out grimly. "If we're going get close to my horse, it's going to have to be on the sly."

"His chip?" Darien repeated. This was too eerie; he was beginning to think Claire had been reading too many horse-breeding magazines when she'd fitted him with a computer chip to monitor the level of toxin that caused QSM, and then disguised it with a tattoo.

"Imbedded above the withers, carries detailed information about the horse," Gibson explained. "Same technology they use on pets, these days."

"Sounds like something out of the 'X-Files'," Darien muttered darkly.

"Fawkes, you're the man for this particular job," Borden decided abruptly.

"Me?" Darien countered, nervous enough to feel the chilly tendrils of Quicksilver creeping up his hands. He shoved them in the pockets of his tan jacket, hunching his shoulders. "I don't know the first thing about horses."

"But your special talents lend themselves to this operation," The Official said in his most decisive voice. "Bradley, exactly where is that tattoo?"

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

Standing opposite the stables Darien watched the comings and goings of the grooms caring for the horses. He breathed in the mingled scents of horse-flesh, hay and manure while screwing up his courage. He'd never liked horses - there wasn't any one particular explanation. Nothing as concrete as the reasoning behind his spider phobia, for example. There'd been no fall from a tree after seeing a horse. He'd been placed on the back of a placid pony at the fair once or twice in his early childhood without any ill effects, but still all things being equal, he'd just prefer to stay as far away as possible from over half a ton of horse and its sharp hooves, thank you very much.

So why was he being sent in to poke into a horse's mouth like some amateur equine dentist? Being invisible in no way protected him from being trampled on by an unhappy animal. Gibson had said Jupiter, or Zeus, or what ever his name was, liked radishes so Fawkes had helped himself to a handful in the kitchen of the Del Mar Racing Club's dining room where the rest of his colleagues were now nursing drinks while waiting for him.

Noises coming from the track behind him indicated that another race was in progress and several of the stable workers wandered over to watch the competition. Now was Darien's chance if he was ever going to take it. Breathing in slowly, he rotated his neck, listening to the satisfying crack of vertebrae, and sensed the chilling flow of Quicksilver taking over his body. In a matter of seconds, he was invisible and moving across the rutted dirt to the stalls.

Curious horses craned their necks at the mysterious stranger walking in their midst. Darien realized with a shock that while they couldn't see him, like dogs and other animals he'd encountered while Quicksilvered, they could smell him. Wonderful. He walked more quickly, scanning the little placards slotted into each stall. Where was Jupiter Moon?

Naturally, with the way of all things being searched for, Jupiter was in the last stall he checked. The great beast whinnied softly, moving restlessly in his stall, but when Darien shook off the silver flakes on his hand revealing the radishes, the horse turned his enormous head, nuzzling Darien's fingers and then snatching the red vegetables with sharp teeth. Cooing softly, Darien waited until Jupiter finished chewing and then gently pushed back the slobbery upper lip to view the number tattooed there. Gibson had rattled off the number from memory and Darien had written it on his hand with the pen that Hobbes had been using to check off winners on the racing form. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Fawkes to see that the ID on Jupiter Moon did not match that number.

"Let me get this straight," Alex Monroe said in disbelief, glancing around the Official's office at her fellow agents. Hobbes, Fawkes and Claire sat at the round table sharing an untidy stack of racing magazines and papers. As usual, Charles Borden sat at his desk like some minor potentate with his faithful steward by his side, namely Eberts, who was typing rapidly on the keyboard of his laptop, designated note-taker for the meeting. He no longer stood at attention behind his mentor due to the recent injury to his leg, but he sat close behind the Official's desk, just to the right. "You're saying Bill Swan - a well known and semi-respected horse trainer, stole your friend's horse, poisoned him and is passing him off as some other horse who won the Rouche Silver Cup?" Alex gave a short skeptical laugh.

"Poisoned a different horse who looked like Zeus," Hobbes corrected.

"This is conjecture at this point, I assume." She crossed her arms, leaning back against the table. "If not outright bull..."

"Agent Monroe!" The Official hushed. "Nothing is certain yet, however the whole situation is highly fishy."

"Two day-old dead fish if you ask me," she sniped.

"Eberts is already checking out a list of the other four horses poisoned in California in the last year to see if there's any similarities." Darien pointed at the man hunched over his computer. "But how is it you seem to know so much about Bill Swan, a pompous jerk if there ever was one?"

"Don't keep your feelings to yourself, Fawkes." Hobbes laughed, folding back the front page of a racing paper proclaiming Sleeping Beauty the winner of a race up in San Francisco.

"Met him at a cocktail party, where one goes to mingle," Monroe said placidly, but there was amused contempt in her voice. Like a mongoose playing with a snake. "You've heard of parties, haven't you? No doubt used them as an opportunity to climb into some business tycoon's window and steal him blind?"

"Gotta be ready when opportunity knocks, Alex," Darien parried genially, completely unfazed by her tone. He'd gotten used to the sarcasm by now, and recognized it for the teasing it was. That was just her usual way of addressing the world. He pushed aside the old magazines he'd already gone through and reached for one with a common-looking chestnut horse on the cover. A black banner underneath his hooves mourned; Norwegian Blue third Dead in Mysterious Poisoning.

"But you're right about the pompous jerk part." She nodded. Darien was stunned although he didn't let it show on his face. That was probably the first time Alex Monroe had ever openly agreed with him.

"Got them!" Eberts crowed, hitting the print key. Immediately, his printer began whirring and clunking before spitting out five copies of the list he'd compiled.

"Lemme see that," Hobbes grabbed up the first of the sheets, scanning the data. "All four other horses died in the same way. A guy snuck in, injected pesticide into their front legs then disappeared. All were top o'the line stallions, winnin' big purses at the track."

"But the $64,000 question is, why?" Darien asked out loud.

"To substitute their horse in a race," Monroe put in.

"Except that their horse wouldn't be a known name with a known pedigree," the Official disagreed. "So what would be the point?"

"The odds," Darien said slowly, suddenly up and pacing restlessly around the room. "Who knows their Greek and Roman Gods?"

"Aren't you getting too old for guessing games, Fawkes?" Monroe idly picked up one of the copies.

"The original horse was Zeus, named after the head honcho of Mt. Olympus..." Darien looked around at the group expectantly.

"And Gibson claims that Zeus is Jupiter," Hobbes said slowly.

"Well, he is." Claire looked up from her research, her long hair mussed and falling in her face. She swept a handful back over her shoulder with impatience. "The way Aphrodite and Venus are the same."

"Exactly!" Darien pointed at her like an umpire calling a runner out. "Zeus and Jupiter are the same god, different countries."

"But Zeus is dead," Borden reminded. "You've pretty much proved that. The vet ID'd Zeus when he pronounced him dead, and you said Jupiter's tattoo wasn't the same."

"We think Zeus is dead," Darien countered. "What if somebody switched the tattoos and the horses? Some slow clunker who looks just like Zeus died. Then Zeus becomes Jupiter Moon and..."

"A horse with 50 to 1 odds wins the Rouche Silver Cup," Hobbes said in agreement. "It's ballsy."

"Prove it," Borden snapped.

"That presupposes that there are four other horses winning races instead of the dead ones," Claire propped her elbow on a stack of racing papers. "How do we compare the dead horses with the winning ones?"

"None of the rest of them have Greek or Roman names," Eberts said, running his finger down the column.

"Now, that's one you would have bet on, Fawkesy," Hobbes grinned, pointing to the first horse killed. "Musta been owned by the skateboarding company, Quiksilver..." Just as he said the name, he looked up at his partner, dumbfounded.

"Mercury!" Darien said at the same moment Hobbes did.

"Mercury won the first race today," Borden nodded vigorously. "Big chestnut brute, faster than..."

"Quicksilver?" Claire quirked a grin. "Then, the other winning horses must have similar names to the dead horses, we just have to ferret them out. What's the next one?"

"Digitalis," Eberts supplied. "Poisoned in late October."

"Too easy," Claire waved her hand airily. "Foxglove - that's the plant that Digitalis comes from, but unfortunately I haven't found a horse named that."

"Endora," Monroe said, looking up from her list. "Poisoned in early November, up in the San Fernando Valley."

"Bewitched would be a good name for a horse, but haven't found one," Bobby answered. He looked up hopefully at his colleagues but all around the table shook their heads.

"There's a mare named Samantha's Magic running in New York," Claire chimed in, pointing to a list of horses at Pimlico.

"Kind of hard to substitute a mare for a stallion and that's too far away." Darien peered at the picture anyway, hoping for inspiration. None came. "Unless maybe we have drag queen horses?"

"Transgender, 'M. Butterfly', gotta be PC," Hobbes snickered, elbowing his partner in the ribs. Darien giggled and a scuffle would have ensued if the Official hadn't audibly cleared his throat, glaring at his employees like Simon Legree sans the whip.

"Gentlemen, could we get back to the matter at hand?" he roared. Hobbes had the good sense to look chastised, but Darien lounged in his chair perfecting his punk-in-the-back-of-the-class-goofing-off routine.

"The last one is Norwegian Blue," Eberts read primly from the list on his monitor. There was always one teacher's pet in every class.

"Isn't that a Beatles song?" Hobbes asked.

"That's 'Norwegian Wood'," Monroe tossed back, then gave him a hard stare when he started to hum the chorus.

"Monty Python!" Claire grinned triumphantly with a clap of her hands.

"I haven't found a horse...oh, you mean the show..." Darien corrected himself. "But a Norwegian Blue is a parrot."

"And Pushing up the Daisies is a horse!" Eberts called out. "I just logged onto Track Racing dot com, and Pushing up the Daisies won $10,000 at Santa Anita, up near L.A., first race of the day."

"'If he weren't nailed to the perch he'd be pushing up the daisies!'" Claire, Darien and Hobbes chorused merrily in horrible Pythonesque accents. Alex looked bemused at their antics, but joined in the laughter.

"Lovely plumage," Claire complimented to no one in particular.

"What were his odds?" Hobbes asked, peering over Eberts' shoulder to view the screen.

Eberts scrolled down the page, humming slightly under his breath. "Wasn't his first win, but he was still a long shot at 20 to 1."

"That's why they're being substituted; monetary gain." Borden nodded soberly, explaining about the stud fees once a horse retired from racing. "Are these horses owned by individuals or corporations?"

"The horses we found listed as winning races, Pushing up the Daisies, and Mercury, are both owned by different corporations, which is the same for Jupiter Moon. Bill Swan isn't the owner, he's the trainer." Eberts' fingers flew over the keyboard as he searched the web for the information. "And although Jupiter only began making waves recently on the racing scene, Daisies and Mercury have been in multiple races starting early in the fall."

"Dig deeper into these corporations, Eberts," Borden ordered. "Find any connection, no matter how small."

"And find out who were their progenitors," Alex added. The others stared at her as if they were seeing a whole new woman. "What?" she retorted with a snort. "A girl likes to relax down at the track once in a while, a couple of mint juleps watching Funny Cide win the Kentucky Derby,"

"Ascot...wearing spectator pumps and a big hat, and then the prince walks by with Lady Diana," Claire said a little dreamily, then shook herself. "Eberts, if you'll give me the name of the vet who examined Zeus, I can track down the poison - possibly even discern where it was bought. And if he still has the blood sample he used for testing, perhaps other helpful facts."

"Fawkes, Hobbes, I'm calling Bradley Gibson right now - get yourselves out to his place pronto," the Official barked.

Darien hopped out of the van to unlatch the gate that barricaded the private road that led out to Double Oak Farms. It was a beautiful place nestled in the hills north of San Diego. Live oak and eucalyptus trees shaded the area, and recent rains had turned the partially fire-blackened grass to brilliant green. Faint 'moos' from cows a field away and the drone of bees were the only sounds apart from Golda's engine. This seemed a world away from the hustle and bustle of downtown.

"Looks like he managed to escape the worst of the fires," Darien commented when he was seatbelted in the van once again.

"But not the quake." Hobbes pointed to the left where a gaping crack split the pasture for a hundred yards or more. As they pulled into the stable yard, they could see that one of the smaller out buildings was damaged extensively, the sloped roof hanging off at a crazy angle. The main house and barn appeared untouched, but there was an air of sadness about the place. "Unless things look up, Gibson's going into bankruptcy soon," Hobbes said with a shake of his head. "Between the quake and losing Jupiter..."

"Zeus," Darien corrected, shading his eyes from the intense sun. It was one of those exceptional days where the Weather Channel gloomily detailed the snowfall in the Northern and Eastern states and then gleefully pointed down at sunny San Diego. The fact that the temperature was only in the '60s and a jacket was needed didn't seem to be as important. "Good morning, Mr. Gibson," he greeted when the older man came out of his ranch-style home.

"Call me Brad; it's good enough for ol' Charlie Borden." Gibson gave each agent a firm handshake.

"Ol' Charlie?" Darien chuckled in an aside to his partner.

"Your Mr. Eberts called me after you left." Gibson led the way to the stables. "I've already called my vet, and she does have a blood sample, plus, we have several sperm samples that were frozen in anticipation of putting Zeus out to stud."

"Is this where Zeus was kept?" Hobbes asked walking around the small stall. Someone had cleaned out any evidence of a horse; the floor had been swept clean of any straw, feed or anything else that would serve as a sad reminder of the murdered horse.

"Ever since I bought him." Gibson buffed a brass plate with his sleeve. The name Zeus's Forehead was spelled out in elegant script.

"So, did the police go over the place after Zeus was killed? Find any fingerprints, tire marks from the horse trailer?" Hobbes bent to examine a few hairs caught on a nail in the wooden wall. "The syringe used to inject the poison?"

"They weren't Gil Grissom's team from 'CSI', but they seemed competent." Gibson nodded. "There was rain that morning, after three or four a.m., so whatever tire marks might have been were washed away. Ground was still wet when I woke up at five. No footprints that we could see. No syringe, must have worn gloves... Zeus was a trusting horse, but even he would have kicked up a ruckus if somebody started something... I still can't believe anyone would want to kill him. And now the possibility that he was switched...it's like something from a movie."

"So, the person must have been here before three but after...?" Hobbes frowned idly watching Fawkes taking a wider perimeter around the yard. Three horses in the corral whinnied softly as he passed by. "When do the grooms go to bed?"

"We do one last walk around the yard, to make sure all the horses are secure, between 10:30 and 11," Gibson reported. "It was a Monday, two weeks after the quake - we'd all had a hard couple of weeks cleaning up the aftermath, and everyone was tired. The alarm system was due to be repaired in the morning."

"How many people work here?" Darien called from the other side of the yard, practically in the backyard of the house. If someone had snuck in very quietly when everyone was asleep, it's conceivable that no one heard anything. The house and small in-law unit behind were a considerable ways from the stall where Zeus had once resided. He could have done it--if he'd had any experience with horses at all, that was. Right now, the two pairs of brown equine eyes that followed him everywhere in 'their' territory were creeping him out. The third horse was ignoring the small group touring the stable yard with his nose stuck in a manger of hay.

"Three besides my wife and I. I did all the training, with my son, who lives about 10 minutes away, and we had two young men and a lovely girl - she wants to go to vet school - who took care of the horses." He pointed to the gray painted structure behind Darien. "They stay there. I had to let all but Angela go last week. There are only three horses left of the 10 we had, and my insurance premiums shot through the roof. I can't pay for repairs on the buildings, much less continue with training. We were counting on Zeus..."

"Did the other owners come take their horses away?" Hobbes questioned.

"Yes, five horses have left in the last week. We sold one of our own, and that one..." He walked over to stroke the neck of an elegant chestnut horse in the corral. "North Star, will be sold by the end of the week. Have to pay the bills..." He sighed again. "The last owner stables two horses with me and isn't in any better straits than I am, so he's agreed to leave his two horses here and pay what he can on the costs."

"Where did you actually purchase Zeus?" Darien circled around so he didn't have to stand any closer to North Star and his buddy than absolutely necessary.

"Bought as a yearling at an auction in the Valley," Gibson explained. "Two years ago."

"We've been researching the poisoned horses and, to me, all of 'em - and for that matter, North Star there, look exactly alike." Darien belatedly donned sunglasses against the noon sun.

"To some they might, but I can see differences between North Star and Zeus - Star has a small blaze," Gibson ran a gentle hand over the small white patch on the horse's nose. "But that horse, I guess we have to call him Jupiter, looks exactly like Zeus. Exactly."

"So do the two other pairs of horses we think were switched," Hobbes agreed.

Gibson turned, staring at Hobbes as if something had just occurred to him he hadn't thought of before. "Now that you mention it, there were a number of nearly identical horses at the auction. I just assumed them to be from the same bloodlines - two or three were already spoken for, so I didn't really give them more than a glance after I saw Zeus."

"Who owned Zeus before you bought him?" Darien asked taking a good look at North Star from a safe distance. He'd never paid much attention to horses before, except to acknowledge them as beautiful creatures and fast runners. Star was slightly taller than the other two horses, with long clean lines, and slender, almost breakable legs. His mane and tail were a darker brown than the rest of him. The smaller horses had tawny bodies with blond manes and tails, like Ben Cartwright's horse on Bonanza. Recalling his close encounter with Jupiter - that horse had been built on the same lines as Star but with a mane and tail that almost matched the same brown as his coat. No white markings or blazes to set him apart from any other.

"A conglomerate was selling off their stock. Really good bloodlines." Gibson beckoned them into the house to his office. A dumpy woman with a sweet smile and lively blue eyes asked if anyone wanted some lunch. "My wife, Ruby Orene," Gibson introduced.

All agreed that sandwiches and coffee would be welcome and Ruby bustled off purposefully. "I keep my records locked up, but I pulled all of Zeus' files for you to take. His sire was Olympus and his dam Maiden Head."

"Well, I can work out where the name Zeus' Forehead came from," Hobbes snorted glancing over the paperwork. "This is real helpful, thank you."

"If it'll get my horse back, or help you find out why someone would do this, I'll help in whatever way I can." He smiled as Ruby returned toting a large tray with roast beef sandwiches, potato salad and coffee.

All discussion of the sad business ceased as bellies were filled. Darien wolfed his sandwich down and requested more potato salad, which brought a pleased smile to Ruby's plain face. Just as the last crumb was swallowed, the vet, Harriet James, arrived with the requested vials of blood and sperm secured in a cold pack. She reiterated what Gibson had told them, stressing that once she'd done the necessary blood tests to determine cause of death and checked the lip tattoo and microchip she hadn't looked any further. There had been no reason to, since both she and Gibson automatically assumed that the dead horse was Zeus from all indications. She was astonished, but not offended, that they might have been deceived and was eager to help in whatever way she could to catch the horse killer.

"The only thing I can add is that the poison is a pesticide, Toxaphene, that's no longer even used. The government outlawed the stuff a dozen years ago," Harriet said, savoring a cup of coffee. "Might be easily traced, I don't know, but I think that was one of the avenues the cops were pursuing."

"Worth checking up on," Hobbes agreed. "Have you ever worked on any of the other dead horses? Or these two?" He handed her a sheet with the names Pushing up the Daisies and Mercury printed at the top.

"I did know the owner of Quiksilver." Harriet nodded. "Might still have the files in my office... I'm fairly certain I do. I can call you with the bloodlines, and test results, if you want."

"Please." Hobbes handed over the business card Darien had recently taken to printing out by himself on the Agency printer. Sometimes knowing how to work the more complicated machinery did pay off. "Did you do the necropsy?" Hobbes asked.

"No... I suspect my colleague, Paul Ping, did," she replied. "He's been around less than a year but he's really taken on a lot of my work load. It's been great."

"He ever do any work on your horses?" Darien asked Gibson.

"Occasionally, when Harriet wasn't available," he confirmed.

"So Zeus would recognize him?" Darien pressed.

"Possibly."

"What are you getting at, Fawkes?" Hobbes asked curiously.

Not wanting to plant seeds of suspicion about a veterinarian he knew nothing about, Darien waved away the question with an expansive gesture. "Nothing, man, nothing. I think we oughta be going, get this stuff back to the lab for analysis."

"Would you like some potato salad for the road?" Ruby asked.

"I've got some room left." Darien grinned, patting his flat belly.

"You need some fattening up, young man," Ruby clucked cheerfully. "I'll include a few chocolate chip cookies, too."

Munching on the cookies, Darien leaned back, feet up on the Golda's dashboard. "Paul Ping, huh? Makes me think of ball peen, as in hammer."

"You dissing some guy's proud ethnic heritage, Fawkes?" Hobbes goaded with a teasing smile. "Give me one of those cookies."

"Just playing word association." Darien licked chocolate off his bottom lip before handing the last cookie to the driver. "Something you probably have some experience with, psychiatry-boy."

"Make that psychiatry-man," Hobbes said dryly, "and I think I have some experience reading you, my friend. You suspect this Ping."

"Pong," Darien said with a straight face and then roared with laughter when Bobby scowled at him. "If you could see your face, man! I couldn't help myself."

"Try."

"Yeah, I suspect him - he's been around less than a year, takes over half of the established vet's clients - worked on Zeus." Darien finished his cookie with a contented sigh. "Who better to go in and lead a horse out without anyone hearing or seeing him? And Zeus would have known him."

"I can't argue with your logic, brainiac," Hobbes conceded. "The big question is who does this all lead back to? The pieces just don't add up. Identical horses, switched in the night right before they were all poised to be giants on the racing circuit. This is too complicated to just be some betting scam. Had to have started back before these horses ever ran a lap - Gibson said there was a whole bunch of horses at the auction..." He glanced over at the bag their hosts had packed the extra food and files in, a glimmer of an idea growing. "Dig through there, find out the name of that conglomerate who was selling the horses."

Darien opened the manila folder, sorting through the records of Zeus' races, his medical records, and some assorted photos. "Arkitech sold the horses at an auction in the summer of '01. Zeus went for just over $10,000, everything notarized, all 'i's' dotted and 't's' crossed, and signatures on all the dotted lines."

"Arkitech? Sounds like they make blue prints for horses..." Bobby froze, his blossoming with an idea so stunningly original, Golda nearly went into a ditch.

"Bobby! Stay inside the lines! Didn't you learn anything in Kindergarten?" Darien snarked.

"What was in the news last summer? Around July, August...?"

"Is this a trick question? Uh? Fourth of July? The Comic Con?"

"You remember the big announcement out of Italy? That they'd cloned a little horse?"

"To be honest, no."

"I watch a lot of CNN..." His mind racing Hobbes took the left that brought them back to their new quarters, the van bouncing over a speed bump going into the parking lot. "After the sheep Dolly, and some kittens and even a mule, I think, the Italians cloned a horse."

"You think Arkitech is cloning horses?" Darien asked in astonishment.

"Identical horses who run alike, like the same foods..."

"They look alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike, you could lose your mind..." Darien warbled the theme from the Patty Duke show. "They're two of a kind!"

"More like six, maybe more..." Hobbes shook his heard marveling at the chutzpah of Arkitech. Was it possible? Certainly he was aware that Chrysalis was doing genetic experimenting on humans, so why not? Could Chrysalis be involved? If the Italians had announced their achievements six months ago, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that someone else could have perfected this feat even earlier without telling the world.

"Arkitech was disbanded shortly after the auction," Eberts said, after a number of phone calls, several faxes, e-mails and a Google search. "They were involved in the DNA mapping, and had proposed that people send in DNA of their pets to be stored until the technology for cloning was perfected. That way they could keep Fluffy or... Alonzo forever ..." He trailed off.

"How very Stephen King of them," Alex interjected.

"However," Eberts continued, looking around at his audience camped out in the Official's office. "Pushing up the Daisies, Jupiter Moon and Mercury are owned by off-shoots of that original corporation. DNArk and Equine Research, Inc."

"Huh," Hobbes mused. "I figured Rouche Pharmaceuticals bein' somewhere in the mix, with Jupiter Moon winning their silver cup."

"Mere coincidence." The Official shrugged off the idea.

"A logical assumption, if incorrect." Eberts looked up to see that he'd regained his audience. "The list of corporate shareholders on both DNArk and Equine Research share many of the same names, including Bill Swan."

"Ah, our friend from the track, I wondered when we'd run into him," Darien commented, digging in to his Tupperware of potato salad.

"Swan is a powerful name in local racing," The Official warned. "I don't want any unwarranted accusations until we have irrefutable proof of malfeasance. And Fawkes, stop dropping mayonnaise all over the floor."

"Then I'll bring the vials down to Claire, and eat in the Keep," Darien shrugged, gathering up the cold pack that held tiny bottles of Zeus' blood and sperm. Walking out, he turned left when he should have turned right and stood for a moment getting his bearings. The McKinley Building was a mirror image of their old digs and he still felt vaguely disoriented. But the elevator was down the hall to the right. Juggling his load, he elbowed the elevator button. The doors jerked open while he was still spooning another bite of the creamy potato and bacon mixture into his mouth. He'd have to go visit Ruby and Brad again someday just to get more food like this.

The old elevator clunked and groaned downward, and more often than not appeared poised to stall between floors, but the journey was mercifully short.

"Claire!" Darien called into the Keep, pushing through the mini-rainforest the doctor managed to maintain in her subterranean cave. "Your order is here."

"Brilliant! I wanted a distraction this morning." She smiled beatifically at him, causing Darien to wonder just how much fun anyone could have performing chemical experiments on horse sperm. "But business before pleasure. Your monthly exam is overdue."

"Claire! You drew blood the day of the earthquake!" Darien protested. "Not to mention the day after," he added.

"Yes, and it's been more than a month since then, correct?" Claire tapped her foot impatiently. "Thus, to reiterate, your monthly is late."

"Claire, been nipping at the medicinal brandy? Got the ol' XY running in my chromosomes." Darien was only really prolonging the inevitable and they both knew it. He climbed up onto the exam chair still grumbling. "Real men don't get monthlies."

"Then henceforth I shall call it by another name," Claire said dryly, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "You know the drill."

Unfortunately, he did. Darien rolled up his sleeve with a sigh and concentrated on watching a pair of brilliantly colored fighting fish glare at each other in adjacent bowls. Their sensuous tails swirled through the water like silk scarves blown by the wind. "Ow," he yelped when Claire found the vein and drained blood into a series of collection tubes.

"What exactly are you looking for, anyway?" He eyed the crimson blood-filled tubes lined up in a small rack. "Seems like you take more and more every time. I could run out, you know."

"You'll make more," Claire made a few notations on each vial. "Now, blood pressure, weight, all the usual suspects."

It was obvious when the physical was over that Claire was perplexed. She didn't hide her emotions very well, and her pretty face was serious. "Sweetheart, you're losing weight again. Are you eating enough? Taking those vitamins like I asked?"

"Claire, I had three helpings of potato salad, a roast beef sandwich and four cookies - for lunch. I take my Jimmy Neutrons every morning at eight and wash it down with six and a half ounces of orange juice and this morning, I chased it with a big bowl of Cap'n Crunch, a banana and two slices of cinnamon toast. Oh - and a latte in the van with Hobbes," Darien rattled off. "And it's only two in the afternoon."

"Your metabolism is astounding. I could do with a bit of that," she commented. "But I'm becoming concerned because of what happened when you were invisible so long during the moving out process last month..."

"Claire, I puked, so what?" Darien yanked down the sleeves of his shirt, annoyed at the ongoing debate about his health. He wouldn't be in this predicament if his brother hadn't saddled him with the world's largest pimple on the inside of his skull.

"Have you ever done that before? Hobbes says you wear out more easily than you used to."

"Claire - we've had a month that would stress the Dalai Lama," he said. "Maybe things will mellow out in 2004, but right now, I gotta get back to the case. Could be horse cloning involved."

"What?"

Relating what Hobbes had surmised, Darien was happy to get her off his health. So what if he dragged himself to bed some nights so tired he could sleep for a week and woke up 10 hours later feeling like he hadn't slept at all? It was the curse of the 21^st century, wasn't it? Said so in all the magazines he found at the hair stylist's while waiting for his haircut. "And the vet who cared for Zeus - nice lady - wrote out the name of the pesticide for you."

"I'll get on this straight away, but I want to hear first hand about this cloning..." Claire followed him out of the Keep.

"Wondered where you'd gotten to, partner," Hobbes said quietly by way of a greeting when Darien and Claire slipped back into the Official's office. "Boss-man chomped on the cloning idea like a dog with a bone. Monroe's gonna go out to prowl around the offices of DNArk and Equine Research."

"Agent Monroe, I expect you to be on your best behavior over there. I don't want any hint of Federal Investigation at this point," The Official warned.

"I rarely tip my hand unless I mean to," Alex said testily.

"Remind me to invite her over for a night of poker," Hobbes grinned over at Darien. The kid looked unsettled, like whatever he and Claire had been discussing wasn't what he'd wanted to hear.

"Alex, mind if I tag along?" Claire asked.

"Probably be a good idea," Monroe agreed. "I might need you to interpret any scientific gobbly-gook."

"What about us, boss? Fawkes and me are always ready for a challenge." Hobbes asked hopefully. He was always looking for places to promote his team spirit and get in good with the big man. He knew it made him sound perilously close to a butt kisser at times, and was loath to be even remotely comparable to the ultimate brown noser, Eberts. Thus, he backpedaled some. "Except we've already logged two hours driving time, and with gas this expensive lately, maybe a better use of our time would be to..."

"Hobbes, quit babbling," Darien said, flopping his long frame into the chair Monroe had vacated. He folded his ankles, resting clasped hands on his flat belly. "Ebes, man, got any more on those horses? Any recent links?"

"Although all have run races statewide and in Nevada, none competed in the same race, or even on the same course on the same day."

"Until yesterday." Hobbes nodded vigorously. "Needed to keep them as far apart as possible to avoid suspicion, but they must be moving up the timetable or something."

"Or panicking," The Official added.

"And as we might have guessed, Norwegian Blue, Quiksilver and Zeus' Forehead all raced up until their so-called deaths, and then Daisies, Mercury and Jupiter, who hadn't amounted to much previously, all began to win." Eberts handed out charts he'd compiled with all the relevant information they'd gleaned thus far. "The only thing I can find in common between any of them is a jockey, Kit Somerville. She's ridden Daisies, and Mercury."

"Kit Somerville?" Darien perched on the edge of a chair.

"Rode Jupiter Moon, in the Rouche Silver Cup," Hobbes remembered with a tight smile. "Partner, I think you and me are going to go chat up a lady jockey."

Kit Somerville was 4'9'' tall, with red hair cut short like a boy's, but a figure that could have graced the pages of Playboy. She accepted the drink Hobbes placed in front of her with a sly smile and an eyebrow arch that rivaled Alex Monroe's.

"You two with some racing rag or just track groupies?" she asked in a smoky voice with a slight hint of Southern twang.

"Department of Fish and Game," Darien said politely, but didn't fish out his badge to show her. Instead, he slid into the booth next to Kit with Hobbes on her other side.

"We're investigating some illegal activities at several California tracks," Bobby improvised swiftly, watching her reactions. On any other day, he'd have asked her out in a heartbeat. She had a street girl attitude overlaid with the features of Tinker Belle or some other tiny, fairy like creature. A collection of contradictions dressed in racing silks. Instead of the purple she'd worn yesterday morning to ride on Jupiter Moon, now she wore yellow and black checks.

"Which illegal activities?" Kit snorted derisively, downing the whiskey she'd asked for in one go.

"That's for us to know..." Darien started.

"And that's all you have to know," Hobbes finished. "You rode Jupiter Moon yesterday for the win; must have felt nice."

"It's a living." Kit shrugged evasively.

"Do you ride exclusively for Bill Swan or are you freelance?" Darien asked.

"I've ridden at lots of tracks, but lately Mr. Swan has been getting me rides and I like the results."

"Like Mercury or Pushing up the Daisies?" Hobbes tossed out, tasting his own scotch for the first time. Fawkes was nursing a Vanilla Coke, swirling a plastic swizzle stick with a little horse on the top around in the glass causing an annoying tinkling sound that was beginning to get on Bobby's nerves.

"Ridden Daisies twice, won on Mercury two weeks ago - got a bonus an' everything." Kit eyed the bowl of tortilla chips the Mexican-costumed waitress set on the table but pushed it aside with a sigh. Darien immediately plucked out two large triangles and dipped them into salsa.

"And another win on Jupiter Moon. You make handling that much horse look easy," Hobbes commented.

She shrugged with pride, watching Darien stuff his mouth and selected a tiny chip for herself, just holding it for a while.

"How about Quiksilver, Norwegian Blue or Zeus' Forehead?" Hobbes persisted.

"Rode the first one." She nodded and then stopped, turning the chip over and over in her hand before licking the salt off one finger. There was a quizzical expression on her face and she paused before speaking again. "I rode Quikkie a long time ago - used to go by the name Katherine Myers - like the rum?" She grinned, and finally ate the chip. "Before I got married. Then I started using a less girly name - got lots more rides that way." She frowned thoughtfully then shrugged.

"What?" Darien questioned.

"Nothing, just jockey stuff that never occurred to me before." Kit gave the chips a last wistful glance before indicating that she was ready to leave. Darien stood to let her get out of the booth. "I gotta get changed."

"If you think of anything else about those horses, give us a call." Hobbes handed over another of the cards Fawkes had printed up, thinking he should request another set. They were going fast.

"Will do." She saluted them with the tiny slip of pasteboard and sauntered out of the restaurant.

Pushing the glass front door open, Alex Monroe waited until Claire passed by, taking a moment to orient herself to her new surroundings. It never hurt to know all exits, where the security cameras were and how many people were around her at any given time. Her tendency for noticing the small details certainly had come in handy in the recent bank debacle. In this case, the lobby was upscale generic with a slant into futuristic furnishings. Lots of glass, lots of chrome, and a free-form abstract sculpture that looked vaguely like a running horse, if you twisted your head just a little to one side. Shiny, mirror-black marble flooring reminded her of the so-called reflective properties of patent leather Mary Janes and little girls' ruffly underpanties. This brought a smile to her lips, so that the previously bored receptionist brightened considerably, looking like seeing two beautiful women come in was the highlight of his day. Alex let Claire ask directions, still unobtrusively taking stock of the place. Only the one visible door, one bank of elevators, presumably one flight of stairs and three floors, according to the directory on the facing wall. Straightforward enough. Equine Research, Inc. was on the top floor.

Claire pushed the elevator button, and the silver doors slid open immediately. Alex followed her partner in, musing with fresh appreciation how comfortable it was to be working with another woman. All her life she'd inserted herself into the previously all-male bastion of undercover operations and withstood the innuendoes, leers and crude talk by hardening herself and reflecting that talk back with snide, abrasive comments of her own. She'd become quite fond of Hobbes and Fawkes in the last two years, but Hobbes, in particular, was always coming up with some sexist remark that brought out the worst in her. Working with Claire was like having a girlfriend she could confide in, who understood the pressures inherent in this sort of work. And she was plain fun to be with. She never had any objections to a workout at the gym and then a relaxing hour trying on the latest Jimmy Choo's at the end of the day.

"You have your story straight?" Alex asked, rolling her shoulder where the butt of her new Sig-Sauer bit into her armpit.

"Just one more animal researcher interested in collaboration," Claire said confidently. "Although, even the most benign scientists can be really secretive when they think somebody else might steal their thunder before publishing. If these people have something to hide they are not going to tell us anything."

"They're worse than spies," Alex laughed, straightening her short black leather jacket as the elevator deposited them on the third floor. Equine Research wasn't presenting a very welcoming front. The foyer was deserted and there were no chairs to sit in or outdated magazines to leaf through. A broad desk prevented anyone from accessing the back offices without permission.

"May I help you?" a voice asked.

"My name is Dr. Claire Keeply," Claire said, looking around for the source of the voice. "I work for a someone very interested in advancing the field of animal genetics. He's offering funding for companies working towards... a better tomorrow. We understand you are involved in cloning."

Alex sighted a speaker, unobtrusively mounted behind a potted ficus, a video camera pointed straight at them. She smiled at the lens.

"Where did you get this information?"

"Off the Internet," Claire answered honestly. "Cloning is the breeding answer for the new millennium. Keeping livestock free of diseases like Mad Cow and Bird Flu."

"We don't deal with cows."

"Yes, if I could just speak to someone, in person? I could show you the benefits of receiving a generous grant to further your research?" Claire persisted, glancing warily at Alex. Their spiel didn't seem to be working. "I'm currently involved in several different projects, all enjoying the advantages of having millions of dollars at their disposal..."

"We have funding."

"Then I hope I haven't wasted your time, thank you." Claire nodded, turning her back on the camera.

Alex gritted her teeth, frustrated. There was no way of slipping in to rifle through company files or even discover what sort of people they were dealing with. There was no sign of obvious security guards or alarms which just made her all the more certain E.R., Inc was hiding something behind their ficus tree.

Darien's brief doze with his feet up on Golda's dash was interrupted by a trill of notes from the current song "Invisible."

"Hey, Clay, it's for you," Hobbes called out, busy negotiating his way through rush hour traffic. "Answer that thing and change the ringer tone, 'cause I'm getting tired of that song."

Groping for his phone, Darien wiped the sleep out of his eyes. "'Lo?"

"Darien Fawkes?" An unsteady, but vaguely familiar voice asked. "This is Harriet James..."

"The vet."

"Yes." She took a shaky breath. "I meant to call before this, but... I won't be able to give you the information you wanted regarding Quiksilver. Just after I left the Gibson's, while I was on my way to another call... the fire department called. My clinic - and all the records - burned to the ground."

"Was anybody hurt?" Darien asked, more concerned with the fate of any employees and pets kenneled in the place than data for their investigation.

"My assistant, Pedro was burned on his arms saving some of the animals, but no one -thank God - was killed." She hiccuped. "Paul Ping will be taking over more of the work for the next few weeks while I regroup.... I'm sorry."

"No, Harriet, I'm sorry. Keep safe. Get some rest." Darien disconnected with a chill of fear.

"What?" Hobbes demanded.

"They're burning their bridges before we can cross 'em," Darien said tersely.

"What now?" Claire asked, frustration evident in every line of her body, standing on the sidewalk in front of an impressive skyscraper, which had obviously escaped the earthquake unscathed. Modern building codes at their finest. DNArk occupied the entire fourteenth floor, but the stony receptionist, a real person this time, refused all entreaties for a face to face with any of the upper echelon management. Even the prospectus, which this firm was at least polite enough to provide, hadn't told them anything more than they'd gleaned off the Internet.

"My father used to say 'Alexandra, never admit defeat. Outmaneuver the bastards'," Alex said with a tight smile. "Does that pamphlet list where the horses are kept? 'Cause I certainly didn't see any four legged creatures in these offices."

"That's a very good point," Claire flipped through the glossy magazine which featured glowing reports of horse breeding successes, reduction of diseases and genetic anomalies. 2003 had been a profitable year for the company and they'd even given away thousands in charitable donations to allow children with cerebral palsy to get riding lessons. All in all, an impressive front with no hint of any unscrupulous practices in any of their dealings.

"Wait, turn back a page," Alex ordered, pointing to a picture of a good-looking Asian man holding the bridle of a chestnut horse. Both were posed in front of a fence with a partially obscured sign behind them. "What does that say?"

"A... Farms," Claire puzzled out. "The man's body covers up too much. Maybe there's an 'R' there?"

"We have Arkitech and DNArk - I'd guess, in all probability, that it's Ark. Ark something Farms."

"That horse looks like Jupiter," Darien identified, studying the photo. "And, Hobbesy, guess who's holding the reins... in more ways than one, unless I'm completely off the mark."

"Dr Ping, staff veterinarian, with Maiden Head," Hobbes read aloud. "Ba-da-bing, We just hit the jackpot, partner."

"You know him?" Claire asked, looking up from her microscope. In her haste to join Alex in the investigation she'd never gotten around to examining the vials Darien had brought her. However, there was nothing surprising in either; they were standard equine blood and sperm. She'd need examples from the other horses, especially Jupiter Moon, to establish any link to Zeus.

"He's taking over business from Dr. James slowly but surely, and her place went up in smoke yesterday, along with any records of Quiksilver...," Hobbes replied, miming paper burning to a crisp. "So right now we got bupkus for proof. We were out at Del Mar again, but the vet there doesn't keep blood samples. Sends it all out to an independent lab."

"Then I'll give them a call." Claire jotted that down for reference.

"Ark Haven Farms," Alex Monroe announced, coming through the sliding metal door of the new Keep. "Eberts printed out a map. Any one up for a ride-along?"

"I'm driving," Hobbes said.

"Before you all go haring off on a wild goose chase..." Claire began.

"Claire, pick one animal and stick to it," Darien snickered.

"What I was about to say," she glowered at him, "is that I really do need more samples. Blood, semen, DNA, whatever you can get, from the other horses."

"And how do you expect us to go about getting those?" Darien asked petulantly.

"Isn't it obvious, Fawkes?" Alex asked winked, pointing one tapered mauve fingernail at him. Hobbes nodded in agreement, poking Darien in the ribs.

"Oh, no, there is no way I'm not taking a pint from some stallion. I don't do needles."

"That's a perfect idea, Darien!" Claire crowed.

"I just said..."

"Not with a needle, but even you can't object to a sperm sample..."

It is a monstrous abuse of the science of biology to teach it only in the laboratory. Life belongs in the fields, in the ponds, on the mountains, and by the seashore. - James G. Needham, 1888 - 1957

And, apparently, the horse track.

"I'm going to say this one more time." Darien scowled, climbing out of Golda onto a gravel strewn private road behind Ark Haven Farms. "I was totally opposed to this whole cockamamie plan from the get-go, and I really wish I had a union to complain to!"

"Like there's even enough of your kind to have a meeting - unless, of course, you're counting fictional characters," Hobbes said, grinning. "Monroe should be here any minute with the stuff."

"And that's another thing. My Aunt always told me this would make me go blind," Darien retorted. "I've been blind, and it ranks way higher on my favorites list than masturbating a horse!"

"It's for scientific research, Fawkesy." Hobbes waved at a low-slung black car that pulled up behind him. "You get it?"

"I got it. Cynthia and Monprit at UCSD were very happy to raid the biology department for us." Alex nodded, unloading a box of supplies and stowing most into a backpack. She held up a small bottle. "Eau de mare - in heat. Guaranteed to drive any self-respecting stallion wild. And this," she paused as she handed Darien a long flared rubber tube. The opening at one end was wider than his upper arm and the other end funneled down to a small plugged spout. "This is the important part, an artificial vagina."

"I'm liking this less and less every second," Darien moaned.

"C'mon, cowboy," Hobbes chortled. "Buck up, channel your inner John Wayne, your Rooster Cogburn." He covered one eye with his hand to simulate The Duke's infamous eye patch in the movie.

"Right now the only person I'm channeling is Barney Fife!" Darien sighed. He always ended up doing the dirty work. The damned gland made him a perfect sneak, at a time in his life when he'd just as well not do any more sneaking around. But collecting semen from a huge animal with deadly hooves had never even entered his mind as an assignment for a fully accredited Federal Agent. Maybe if he appealed to the AFL/CIO? After all, he was a subjugated minority here. Forced to participate in an activity that was just fundamentally wrong. Not that he had anything against, well, the occasional pleasurable sensation in the privacy of his own shower - but doing it to a horse?

"Eberts has disrupted their perimeter alarms by hacking through their electrical system. Computers these days are just wonderful, aren't they?" Alex said brightly. Fiddling with something in her ear, she nodded. "And I've got Claire on the line." Monroe helped outfit Fawkes and Hobbes with the mini transmitting devices, brushing Darien's hair off the curve of his ear to insert the tiny appliance into his ear canal. "Take it slow and talk dirty to the horse, Fawkes. Works for me, every time," she said softly enough that only he could hear.

He was slightly mollified by her recommendations, although he wasn't sure the horse had read any Penthouse letters lately. But after her quiet voice, Claire's blaring in his ear was unnerving.

"Can you hear me, Darien?" Claire asked from the safety of the Keep. "I'll walk you through the procedure."

"I can hear you," he replied. He fingered the radishes he'd stashed in his pocket. If what Gibson said was true then all the horses that looked like Zeus/Jupiter should like the spicy vegetables.

"Ready to rock and roll?" Hobbes grinned, shouldering the backpack, looking like he was finding this whole thing a lark. Darien scowled again at him, climbing over the fence into a broad green pasture. No alarms went off, no electrical current jolted through him. Eberts had done his part.

The main buildings for Ark Haven Farms were on the crest of a small hill, nearly half a mile away. With any luck, Monroe would be able to keep some of the people working there distracted with her spiel about private investors while Fawkes and Hobbes gave a horse a hand job. It was a beautiful day, just the sort for a nice amble through the countryside, listening to the distant drone of a lawnmower and the crow of a rooster. None of the bucolic splendor changed the fact that Darien would have preferred the darkness of a safe, completely enclosed movie theatre, watching Sea Biscuit.

The problem was, there were lots of horses on the farm. But after 20 minutes of walking around, they hadn't seen any of the twins to Zeus. There were quite a number of absolutely identical gray foals gamboling in a large pen. No humans seemed to be watching their stealthy approach, but the hair on the back of Darien's neck had been standing on end since they arrived. Maybe it was the close proximity to so many horses; maybe it was just his gland indicating it wanted no part of this. He rubbed the base of his skull, the location of so many headaches, but it wasn't Quicksilver that was causing the disturbance today. He sneezed abruptly, wrinkling his nose.

"Gesundheit. Looks like they've made a few more," Hobbes observed, leaning on the fence to see the gray horses. "Maybe you should do the shoom thing and get up closer to the barn? Look for 'em there?"

"Wait." Darien scratched his nose, squinting into the sun to try and get a glimpse of a group of horses in a small swale to their left. "Over there."

"Thar he blows!" Hobbes took off over the bright green grass, disturbing a clutch of bunnies. The rabbits bounded off in frantic haste, nearly tripping Darien.

The three horses in the field watched their new companions approach warily, nickering to each other. Hobbes reported softly to Claire that they'd found their targets, and walked confidently over to the stallions, holding out a hand for them to smell. "Fawkes, you got those radishes? All of these horses sure look like Jupiter."

"Catch." Darien tossed two over, keeping his distance. "Check for the tattoo," he called, rattling off the number he'd memorized the first time he'd met the horse. His nose was itching with a vengeance now, and he rubbed the back of his hand across the tip, clearing his throat.

"This one," Hobbes indicated a long-legged chestnut stallion. "Claire says we need a stand-in for the girl."

"Can't you douse yourself with eau de mare?"

"I think Jupiter, here, has eyes for someone taller with four legs," Hobbes said dryly. He placed all the necessary equipment on the grass for easy access and looked up expectantly. "Are you gonna get your butt over here?"

"Give me a minute. What about one of the other horses here?" Darien asked regarding Jupiter's triplets with uncertainty.

"They're stallions, too, mushbrain. We need a girl - or at the very least, not a boy..." Hobbes grinned, crossing to the adjoining pasture. He opened the gate, quickly capturing the bridle of a placid brown horse with a dark, almost black mane and tail. "That's the ticket, partner, a gelding." With only a little resistance from the other animals, he coaxed what were presumably Pushing up the Daisies and Mercury into the other enclosure and locked them in.

"Okay, let's get this over with before I lose what little resolve I've managed to achieve," Darien groaned, listening to Claire's instructions into his ear. It was like having a little conscience, with a British accent, reminding him of what he ought to do. He'd never in a million years imagined he ought to do this, though! Donning latex gloves that slid all the way up to his shoulders, he waited for Hobbes to give the gelding a splash or two of essence of interested mare. Jupiter quickly got involved, his physical arousal an impressive thing. Darien gulped nervously. Hobbes tied the gelding he'd nicknamed 'Ru-Paul' to the fence and then grabbed up Jupiter's bridle, encouraging him to mount the fence next to the decoy. Jupiter kicked and stomped, trumpeting his excitement loudly.

"Now, Fawkes!" Hobbes called, sounding strained from holding onto a very restive horse. "Get to it!"

In his nervousness, Darien had already lost both of his feet to invisibility and the cold was swiftly encroaching up his legs. When he cautiously patted Jupiter on the withers, the silvery substance rushed over his whole body, covering the horse and Hobbes, too. Jupiter screamed, and Darien jerked forward, blindly shoving the rubber collection chamber into place. He braced himself under the onslaught and sneezed repeatedly as the horse gave its contribution.

"Oh, my, what is that... pungent odor?" Claire asked, clearly attempting to appear as if she wasn't gagging from the fumes coming off Darien's clothes. She was doing a pretty good job, too, because he couldn't stand to be near himself, if given the choice.

"Fawkes stepped in a few deposits in the pasture," Hobbes explained, following his partner into the Keep. He didn't smell much better, and was similarly covered in grass stains and sweat after their adventures in animal husbandry.

"Among other things," Darien sneezed violently, holding out the vials he'd Quicksilvered after the donation to flash freeze them. "We did all three horses, just to make sure. Cleaned the... uh... receptacle between each of 'em."

"Marvelous!" Claire crowed. "Now, could you go... shower perhaps? And change clothes?"

"I've got some clothes stashed upstairs in my office," Hobbes said, wrinkling his nose. "Fawkes, you got anything?"

"I was thinking of going on home for the day," Darien proposed, more than tired. He didn't usually spend such a long time outside in the fresh air. His head was stuffed up, his throat scratchy and he'd been sneezing all afternoon. He wanted nothing better than to lay back with a big bowl of clam chowder and lots of those little crackers, and the entire first and second season DVD collection of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Maybe Angel, too. Seeing them battle weird man-eating, giant earthworms and demonic vampires really put a guy's world into perspective.

"You feeling all right?" Claire asked carefully, pausing as she manipulated a tiny sample of horse sperm onto a glass slide.

"Claire, I just spent two hours chasing horses who weren't too thrilled about their part in contributing to modern science," Darien said, wiping the back of his hand across his nose in what was often described as the 'allergy salute.' "And I'm really hoping hair doesn't start sprouting from my palms from touching a horse's privates. The nuns at school always warned us about that!" He sneezed.

"Are you allergic?" Claire frowned, passing over a box of Kleenex.

"Been like this since we hit Ark Haven Farms," Hobbes nodded. "Hey, did Alex ever call in?" He sauntered out, heading for the showers Claire had insisted on having installed when the renovations were in progress.

"She will not talk to you smelling like that," Darien called after him, mopping up his nose with a succession of tissues.

"Why didn't you tell me you were allergic to horses, sweetheart?" Claire persisted.

"It never came up. 'S'not like I spend lots of time with 'em."

"Well, it would have been important to know before I injected you with the antivenin."

"Come again?" He sat down in a chair near her microscope, stretching out lanky legs.

Claire bravely pretended to ignore the smell. "When you were bit by the Funnel Web spider I gave you five injections of antivenin which is made from the blood of an immunized horse. So if you weren't allergic before, you certainly are now. And it's my fault."

"Claire, I doubt you were thinking much about allergies when you saved my life," Darien grinned at her. "I'd give you a kiss right now in thanks if I didn't reek. But believe me, clogged sinuses are a heck of a trade off for a heartbeat."

"You're welcome, I'm sure." Claire smiled back at him. "Go, clean up. And that's your doctor's orders."

Hobbes had just finished his morning ablutions when his cell rang, vibrating so violently it skidded across the breakfast table. He swallowed the last of his wake-up cup of coffee, checked to see that all the buttons on his shirt were done up and rescued the tiny phone before it pitched off the table completely. "Bobby Hobbes, at your service," he greeted cheerfully.

"Mr. Hobbes? This is Kit Somerville." The voice was as smooth as Kentucky sipping whiskey, with a drawl that made his groin ache.

"Kit!" he greeted, running a hand over the crown of his head to smooth down any errant strands. "How're you doing?"

"I ... I was wondering if I could talk to you? Maybe later, after the first race?

"You have something to tell us?" Hobbes asked quickly, only slightly disappointed to hear she'd called for business reasons and not for pleasure. Gave him more time to practice his magic on her. "How about near the winner's circle?"

"No, go to the back door of the jockey changing room, I'll be there. I have another race later." She exhaled noisily. "I got to thinking about what you were asking me. About the horses...the ones I've been riding lately."

"For Bill Swan, you mean? Mercury, Daisies and Jupiter?"

Yes," Kit agreed somewhat reluctantly and then plunged ahead, her words almost tumbling over themselves as if she'd decided to get everything out as quickly as possible.

"Certain horses have particular strides a style all their own. Little quirks, like humans do. One horse likes sugar, another likes..."

"Radishes?" Hobbes asked softly.

"Quikkie and Mercury, they could be the same horse. In fact... Jupiter, too. Daisies, he's..." Kit stopped. "They're just...they're all really good rides. They have the same competitive instinct, the same stamina, everything.

"Kit, we're investigating some... claims that may seem farfetched but..." Hobbes started, playing it casual, but she cut him off, talking even faster. There was a tiny current of anxiety underscoring her words. She was scared of her own discovery.

"Those horses all look alike, y'know? And they run so much alike, even the little peculiarities of their gait." She laughed nervously. "I swear, if I hadn't seen all three of them at the same time, I'd think they were all the same horse. I've gotta go, get ready for the races. It's just that I never thought about this before you and your partner showed up and started asking questions."

The call ended abruptly and Bobby found himself staring at his cell as if expecting Kit to keep talking. With a shake of his head he punched in Fawkes' number from memory, rousting his partner out of bed.

The action was lively at Del Mar that day. Darien watched with interest as the odds on the tote boards changed as swiftly as the highs and lows on the New York Stock market. Lately, when he was having a hard time sleeping he'd found the continuous flicker of numbers crawling along the bottom of the TV during the local stock market update quite soporific. But here the exhilarating rush of horses, constant shouts of people vying for their chance to bet, and the drone of the announcer's voice had the opposite effect. He was hyper-alert and vaguely uneasy. Of course, it could be that Hobbes' rampant paranoia was rubbing off on him.

"She was scared, I could hear in it her voice," Hobbes said for the fourth time. "Is the first race still on?"

"Yeah," Darien climbed into the grandstand to get a better view, sighting the horses running flat out on the far side of the track. "Which one is Kit riding?"

Raising binoculars to see the jockeys more easily, Hobbes said, "She's on Mercury accordin' to the Racing Form."

"Purple silks," Darien shaded his eyes with the Racing Form, finally identifying Kit on the big chestnut animal. They were in the lead; her head was down over his neck. They seemed welded together, an amalgamation of human and horse intent on one goal - to finish first. He could feel his heart-rate accelerating up to match the pace of the speeding horses. The cluster of straining thoroughbreds rounded the final turn, and the pack began to open up as Mercury, under Kit's expert guidance, swept clear of the rest of the field, his lead opening up to a half-dozen lengths in as many heartbeats. It was a tremendous, exhilarating performance; a feat of equine athleticism that left the rest of the horses strung out behind Mercury like the wake of a ship, or a comet's tail.

Darien was watching the race so intently he was shocked when Mercury faltered, his own heart actually lurching to a stop and then skipping a beat when Mercury went to his knees, momentum somersaulting him over his own nose to land on his back in a struggling tangle of long limbs. Kit flew off the saddle head over heels to hit the hard-packed dirt with violent force, and lay motionless. What had been the epitome of organized and coordinated effort suddenly exploded into chaos. The trailing horses scattered, some running or jumping over their fallen comrades, others pulling to a shocked stop, and some swerving into the inner rail of the track like a pile up on the freeway at rush hour. The announcer's frantic voice described the appalling scene as a siren cut the air, the ambulance roaring out onto the field.

"What just happened?" Darien asked breathlessly, wanting to grab the binoculars out of Hobbes' hands and view the whole scene over again in slo-mo.

"Was like Mercury was hit or something..." Hobbes said, already moving down the grandstand steps. "C'mon, Fawkes! We gotta get out there on the track."

"Hobbes, we're not authorized..." Darien protested.

"What if that wasn't an accident?" Hobbes hissed. "Go see-through, Superhero, and find out what happened to her!"

Moving against the direction of the crowd pushing towards the fence, Darien searched for a place to make his transformation. He hurried behind a horse trailer, releasing the gland, and continued on, swathed in Quicksilver. He circled around the track to avoid the horses finally coming over the finish line, the race ending in a disorganized mess. Coming within yards of the ambulance, he vaulted the fence and padded over to the accident scene with a sense of foreboding. Kit lay unmoving, her body splayed out unnaturally, arms and legs bent strangely and her head turned to one side. Her eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly through him. Darien shuddered, almost glad that he was seeing the whole thing in the oddly distancing silvery gray of Quicksilver vision. It gave everything the gloss of an old movie, letting him believe, for just a moment, that nothing was real, and Kit Somerville hadn't just died right in front of him. He turned his attention to the horse. A group of men were setting up a small screen around the downed animal and Darien trotted around the side to peer inside.

Mercury was still alive, but obviously badly injured. He kept trying to heave upwards onto his broken forelegs and then squealing in fear and pain. One man, with a grim expression on his face, hefted a thick pistol. With horrified fascination, Darien watched as the trigger was pulled, jerking as if it had been aimed at him, but to his surprise, there was no echoing report, only a dull, wet 'thwacking' noise, and the animal went down completely, a boneless final collapse onto the dirt of the track. Vaguely, he wondered what weapon had been used, and made a distracted mental note to ask Gibson, later.

"Her neck was broken on impact," Darien heard a voice say as EMT's worked furiously to load the jockey's body into the small ambulance. "What a waste."

"Horrible," his companion agreed, and then the ambulance was speeding away to some hospital for Kit to be pronounced dead.

Wanting only to get away from the violence and anguish, Darien slowly climbed back over the fence without paying much attention to where he was. A tangle of shrubbery scratched and caught at his pants and he would have tripped on the foliage if he hadn't reached down to untangle one foot. His finger caught and snagged on something sharp, but not natural, like the wood and thorns of the bush. After shaking the injured finger, Darien parted the branches carefully, searching for the perpetrator of his superficial wound. And saw it. A spool, the sort similar to those found on a fishing pole, was attached to the base of the juniper bush. A vicious looking wire had snared in the brambles so that it hadn't coiled back to the spool completely. The end had been cut or snapped off, which was what had gashed his finger. He yanked a fresh Kleenex out of his pocket and used it to collect the spool. Then, with a really bad taste in his mouth, Darien hopped back over the fence, walking directly across the track to the opposite side. He found what he was looking for.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes asked anxiously. He'd managed to wipe away the surprising moisture that had gathered in his eyes with the announcement of Kit Somervilles' untimely death, and now concentrated on his partner's discovery. It had been agony waiting for Darien to return, but Bobby had tried to put the time to good use, scoping out any familiar faces in the shocked crowd, and keeping his ears open for information. Of Bill Swan he'd seen nothing, which, in itself, was surprising since it was one of his horses that had just died. The tap of Darien's icy fingers on his shoulder had almost scared him out of his skin, but he followed the whispered instructions quickly, meeting his partner in a quiet corner behind the grandstand. Most of the race fans were still up front discussing the recent tragedy, newspaper and TV reporters interviewing everyone in sight for that 'man-on-the-street' perspective.

"She and the horse were murdered," Darien said without preamble once he'd reappeared. He handed Hobbes the tissues containing the spool and a coiled length of wire. "I found these on either side of the track. I bet Claire could compare the ends... they were cut when Mercury went over it..."

"Mercury was out in front," Hobbes agreed. "By way more than one length. You're sayin' somebody planted this wire intentionally so that Mercury would trip over it?"

"Kit broke her neck," Darien said, and Hobbes could hear the tremor he was trying valiantly to hide. Fawkes liked to present himself as the hardened con, unaffected by the evils of the world at large, but in truth he was far more sweet-natured and tender-hearted than he ever let on to the general public. The tough punk role was at least partly a façade, invented to help him cope with several terms in prison.

"I heard." Hobbes took a breath to steady himself, stunned by the audacity of the crime. They'd murdered an innocent woman in front of thousands of people, on a bright and shining afternoon, no less. The question was, just exactly who were they? And why? Because she had possibly stumbled on to the truth about the horses she rode? That Mercury, Pushing up the Daisies and Jupiter Moon were identical clones? If so, Claire was possibly in as much danger as Kit had been, since she had the sperm samples he and Darien had supplied the day before. He was less worried about himself and his partner. They'd been invisible most of the time during the collection process, but Claire and Alex had presented themselves as targets when they'd gone into DNArk and Equine Research, Inc. But he didn't dare voice these fears. "Let's get back to the Agency," was all he said.

"Did you handle this?" Claire asked, turning the bag full of wire over.

"I don't leave prints when I'm Quicksilvered," Darien answered testily, still shook up from his experiences at the track. "But even so, I've been watching all those forensic shows, I know how to pick up evidence."

"Is there a friction ridge?" Alex asked curiously, using the more technical term for a fingerprint.

Claire went to work, dusting the spool carefully with black powder. She affixed a piece of tape over the most obvious swirl and transferred the print onto the tape. "Voila!" Claire said airily.

"Only good if we have something to compare it to," Alex said sourly.

"Let me take a look," Claire scanned the impression into her computer and typed in the necessary instructions to log onto the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, or AFIS for short, run by the FBI. "Meanwhile, I'd say that the spool was rigged to retract the wire once the horse hit it. Did you see any... wounds... on Mercury, Darien?"

Intent on watching the rapid cycling of the computer attempting to locate a match, Darien jumped when Alex put a hand on his arm. Her face was sympathetic, but her voice didn't reflect that. "Fawkes, get with the program, finish the debriefing."

"Shouldn't I be telling all this to Sidney Greenstreet and Elisha Cook Jr. upstairs?" Darien countered.

Alex's mouth twitched, but she didn't reward his joke with a smile. "Only if you're Sam Spade, which I doubt. Besides the Official and Eberts made concurrent physical therapy appointments so they wouldn't be out of the office for long periods of time."

"A lovely woman named Ludmilla is whipping their legs back into shape," Claire agreed.

"I don't think either of them ever were in shape," Hobbes observed, coming into the Keep in the middle of the conversation. "I went through the stuff Eberts dug up. Kit Somerville had been racing exclusively with Swan since about the beginning of October. He probably didn't know she'd ridden Quiksilver under a different name, and from the look of her bank accounts recently, she'd been paid very well for a jockey."

"She did say she'd gotten a bonus," Darien recalled from their first meeting at the Del Mar restaurant..

"Darien, did you see any wounds on Mercury? On his legs?" Claire repeated her original question.

"Yeah, right here," Darien slashed a line across his own wrist. "Just above the hoof. There was a loop of wire around a bush on the other side of the track, too. It obviously stretched all the way across and when he tripped, it snapped and coiled back into the spool."

The computer chirped importantly, signaling all four to crowd around the monitor. "The search didn't find any matches." Claire sighed.

"At least Fawkes didn't come up." Alex muttered.

"You questioning his technique, Monroe?" Hobbes bristled.

"Just stating a fact, Elmer," Alex said mildly, tipping her head to view him from her high-heeled advantage. "I say we go after Swan. He's a conniving SOB who wasn't even at the track to watch the murder. He's up to his elbows in horse manure."

"He already knows you're poking around the corporations," Hobbes said with a frown. "If he went after Kit, he could be gunnin' for you and Claire."

"Then I take a security blanket with me," Alex assured. "I'm sure we could easily convince Gibson to join the posse. We've both met Swan before, the man cannot kill either one of us when we're standing on his carpet."

"Go in wired," Hobbes recommended.

"Nah, that's too conventional," Darien spoke up. "I'll go in with them. The ol' fly on the wall strategy."

"Ol' fly on the wall strategy," Hobbes echoed, and slapped Darien's outstretched hand, bumped elbows and knocked knuckles. They grinned at each other. Darien could feel his dark mood lifting with every second he spent with these people. More than his late brother Kevin, more than his dotty aunt Celia and his difficult-to-relate-to Grandmother, these were his family members.

"Sounds like a plan," Alex nodded, following the men towards the exit.

"Wait a minute..." Hobbes stopped abruptly near the sliding metal door, causing a pile up when Darien walked right into him, followed by Alex, who smacked straight into Fawkes.

"I don't think I've ever had you in this position, Alex, but you've just fulfilled one of my fantasies." Darien turned quickly so that he and Monroe were pressed together chest-to-chest, and grinned evilly at her.

"In your dreams, Fawkes," Alex snarked backing up. "In mine, you're accidentally left naked in the Antarctic, and only I have the power to rescue you before certain parts begin to freeze."

"Ouch." Darien shivered at the imagined threat.

"Claire," Hobbes said, pushing past the squabbling duo. "Doctors have to have their fingerprints on file, don't they?"

"That is current policy, yes," she agreed.

"What about veterinarians?"

"I don't actually know, Bobby." Claire tapped her bottom lip. "But anyone fingerprinted for any reason is listed on AFIS."

"You thinking about Ping?" Darien asked with a sly smile.

"You know it, partner." Hobbes stared soberly at the flashing letters on the computer screen 'No Match Found.' "And even if Ping was involved, he probably wouldn't be running around doin' the scut work, so..."

"An accomplice," Alex surmised, looking intrigued.

"The fire at Dr. James' office!" Darien exclaimed.

"I'll get on the horn and find out if there were any fingerprints found there," Hobbes said quickly. "Before you take off to confront Swan. We need all the evidence on this slimeball we can get."

"C'mon, Hobbes, we can use my office. I need a glass of Ginseng tea as a midday pick-me-up if I'm going to have to talk to Roamin' Hands Swan," Alex said. "Do you want some, Claire?"

"That would be lovely, thank you, Alex." Claire's fingers flew across the computer keyboard and the AFIS web site disappeared, replaced by a spreadsheet of numbers. "Darien, can you stay here for a moment?"

"Sure." He flopped into a chrome-framed chair, tipping it back to rest his feet on the counter.

"I've started a file specifically for your symptoms after strenuous Quicksilver activity," Claire explained. "To find a pattern. I think we are all aware that you deplete your body's nutritional and caloric resources much faster than people..."

"Without a gland in their head?" Darien finished sarcastically.

"Exactly. The question is why." Claire pointed to a column of numbers. "These represent your vital signs before Arnaud's cure... and these after. You didn't used to have as much trouble when you were nearing madness and craving Counteragent as you do now after a long period of invisibility."

"Oh, no contest, those headaches were killers," Darien protested, jumping up, the memory of the horrific awl-through-his-eyeballs pain still intense after more than a year. "So I'm sometimes lightheaded and worn out now. No problem, Claire. I don't try to kill my friends anymore, and I'm not addicted to some crap blue Kool-Aid that costs three thousand bucks a hit at the all night pharmacy."

"Agreed, but I'm still concerned. I think your symptoms are getting worse with time."

"Claire, you got anything decent to eat in here?" Darien felt very uncomfortable with this line of questioning. He didn't want to hear that he might be succumbing to some unknown malady because of the damned gland. The gland that had crapped up his life. A never-ending source of bad luck. Kevin had certainly left him with the gift that kept on giving, that was for sure.

"Try the kefir, it's liquid yogurt."

"Does it taste like library paste?" Darien whined, but he opened the hourglass shaped bottle and took a swig. It was light, creamy, and delicious. The flavor of peaches filled his mouth.

"It's high-calorie with lots of vitamins and minerals - plus culture."

"I listen to Jimmy Dorsey, Paul Whitehead and Benny Goodman once in a while on the big band era radio station." Darien swallowed the rest in one gulp. "Don't need much more culture than that." He flipped the empty carton into the trash like Yao nailing a free throw and smiled at his doctor. "But if you get more of that kefir, save a bottle for me."

"You up with the game plan, Brad?" Hobbes asked seriously.

"It galls me that Swan thought he could get away with this," Bradley Gibson growled. "But what kind of proof have you got against him?"

"We think we can prove the horses are clones, and if our hunch is right, Paul Ping orchestrated most of the poisonings, and the killing of Kit Somerville," Darien said. "Claire?"

"It's a fairly complicated process, cloning, but in a nut shell, biological monozygotic twins have the same DNA - we've all seen identical children such as those dreadful Olsen twins." She made a circle with her right thumb and forefinger. "With normal twinning, a single, fertilized egg splits," she raised her other hand to mimic the same circle, and pulled them apart to represent two identical eggs, "then proceeds to divide normally, forming two complete, genetically identical offspring."

"Yeah, yeah, cut to the chase, there, Keepy. I know what 'twin' means. So what're you talkin' about when you're talkin' clone?" Bobby interrupted impatiently.

Claire shot him a look that boded ill for the non-scientific in her audience. "What do you know about cloning?" she asked generally, sweeping that fierce glance over the room. The reactions, from confusion to cautious blankness, spoke to a general ignorance of cutting edge science.

"I'm aware of the procedures to use surrogate mares for breeding purposes," Gibson spoke up. "But that's just to get optimal use out of the biological mare by causing her to go into estrus more than once a year."

"Exactly," Claire agreed. "Surrogacy is common in the thoroughbred industry, indeed, in all of our current animal breeding programs. To maximize the number of offspring any two horses can produce in a year, and therefore, maximize the potential profits to the owner, a surrogate MUST be used. I assume you've all heard of Dolly the sheep?" she inquired, and received nods all around.

"And Prometea, too, the cloned horse in Italy," Hobbes put in.

"Yes, thank you, Bobby. I see you've been watching the science and technology hour on CNN again," Claire said shortly, cutting off any further interruptions. "Cloning involves taking the DNA of a mature individual, replacing the DNA in an ovum from a donor female ovum with that harvested DNA and implanting it in a uterus, preferably of that same female. The ovum behaves the way a normal fertilized egg does, dividing in the usual way, and producing a juvenile version of the DNA donor." She paused, looking around to ensure that they were still with her. Eberts was taking notes with a look of rapt interest on his face, Darien looked bored, and the Official appeared half asleep, although that might be a ruse to disguise his fascination. Alex was hiding behind an inscrutable expression, and Claire abruptly realized how hard this must be for her to listen to since she'd discovered her inadvertent surrogacy for Jared Stark. Hobbes was keeping up with her with an intelligence that still surprised her, even after the many times she'd been reminded that Bobby Hobbes kept a great deal more under his vest than he let on. Assured that they were listening, she continued. "The thing is, a clone MUST, at least with our current technology, be produced with the aid of a surrogate."

The furrowed foreheads of Fawkes and The Official told her she was losing her audience. "Look. A horse's gestational period is 11 months. A mare can produce at most, one foal a year. As Mr. Gibson has said, for a breeder, that is a huge investment in what may, or may not, be a champion thoroughbred. By breeding a receptive champion mare to a champion stud, and then harvesting the fertilized egg and implanting it in a surrogate, the champion mare becomes receptive again in the usual time frame, allowing her to be bred again." She smiled, noticing Gibson nodding and whispering something to his friend Charlie Borden. "In this way, she, and any combination of mates, can produce up to 8 foals in a single year. Obviously, that is a huge advantage to a professional breeder."

"Yeah, but where do the clones come into it, Claire?" Darien asked, mystified.

"Cloning, as I said, involves a donor egg. The donor's DNA is removed, leaving only the shell of the egg. It is filled with the complete genetic code of the animal being cloned, usually obtained from a stem cell, but theoretically-"

"Doctor." The Official's warning brought her up short, prevented from expressing her sheer awe at the wonders of genetics, and biology in general.

She gathered her wits and went on. "Sorry. As I was saying, the DNA of the animal being cloned is placed in the donor egg. What most people fail to understand is that the donor egg actually contributes a small - very small - genetic component to the clone. The donor eggshell contains mitochondrial DNA." Now there were blank looks all 'round, save for, astonishingly, Bobby Hobbes.

Hobbes nodded, as if connecting dots he had no right to understand, at least as far as Claire knew. "And that mitochondrial DNA only gets passed through the female line. So if Daisy, Mercury and Jupiter were all bred from the same pair of horses, they'd all have the same mitochondrial DNA."

Claire stared at the short, paranoid agent, amazed that of all the people in the room he alone had instantly understood what she was getting at. "Exactly," she responded, focused on Hobbes. "But they didn't. Not only were they the same age, within a few weeks or so, but all of them had mitochondrial DNA markers that differed from either the surrogate mares, or the mare supposedly bred to produce them. Which means they had to have been cloned. If they'd been legitimately conceived and transferred to surrogates, they would all have had the same mare's mitochondrial DNA. They would also have had different combinations of their parent's genes. The odds of three horses naturally conceived - more or less - having essentially identical DNA markers is... well, pretty much astronomical." Claire paused to evaluate her audience. "According to the American Thoroughbred Association, all of them were registered within a month of each other."

Hobbes nodded sagely. "And that means they were all born at more or less the same time - around New Years' of 2001 - so they couldn't have come from the same mare being bred three times in the same year. They would've hadda be at least a couple of months apart."

Claire nodded. "No matter how you slice it, Daisies, Mercury and Jupiter are the same horse. After a fashion," she amended herself. Blanket statements were counterproductive, and she wasn't going to start issuing them now.

"They all like radishes, and that can't be all that common in normal horses," Darien snarked.

"When Prometea was cloned last summer, the Jockey Club put out an immediate statement stressing that they would never allow cloned horses to run in legitimate races," Gibson shook his head, pale-faced. "And Zeus' Forehead was winning right from his first two year race."

"But you weren't aware that he was cloned," Borden pointed out.

"Not only that, I'm wondering exactly why Arkitech sold the horses off," Hobbes mused. "Don't most cloned animals have, uh, arthritis and stuff like that?"

"I'll bet they wanted to see if these cloned animals could stand up against normal horses," Alex said quietly. "So they sold them to unsuspecting buyers, then planned to buy them back when the time was right. Did you have offers on Zeus, Brad?"

Claire sighed, watching Alex's face closely. This had to be so difficult for her, but she didn't show any stray emotion, acting as if this were just another assignment and not one that had uncanny parallels to her own life.

"Yes, I did, but I brushed them off." He shrugged. "It's not uncommon. Buyers pop up frequently when a horse is a winner, but I knew Zeus was a keeper." The trainer paused a moment, massaging the back of his neck. "This is all so far beyond reality I can't get my head around it. So you're saying that since I wouldn't sell the horse back to them, they pretended to kill Zeus?"

"I suspect that if we were to do a necropsy on the horse Dr. James ID'd as Zeus we'd find those genetic anomalies - arthritis and other cellular mistakes Bobby mentioned," Claire said. "Zeus, Norwegian Blue and Quiksilver who became Jupiter, Daisies and Mercury were the perfect clones. The others were the duds," Claire confirmed.

"And so a plan comes together," Darien deadpanned.

"Which leads into another piece of the puzzle I've uncovered," Eberts volunteered. "The Toxaphene, used to kill all the horses who were poisoned in California - not just the ones we suspect of being clones - was outlawed in the late '80's as an insecticide. Ark Haven Farms used to be a walnut orchard, then called simply Haven Farms - and was cited by the FDA in the early '90s because they were still using the outlawed chemical on trees from which the nuts were destined to be sold overseas."

"So they have the stuff." Hobbes grinned.

"Well, they certainly did," Eberts nodded.

Alexandra Monroe tossed her head, settling her long, dark hair over her shoulders. The last time she'd been inside the offices of Ark Haven, luckily Bill Swan hadn't been in. The hapless secretary and two goggle-eyed scientific types had ogled her figure the entire time, but hadn't volunteered one piece of information on their operation. That hadn't been a problem, then, since the whole idea was to keep them distracted while Hobbes and Fawkes did the dirty work. However, this time, it was a whole different story.

Gibson, resplendent in a pin-striped suit that was slightly out of fashion, but still in elegant taste, climbed out of the car, and glanced around the immaculate grounds. Horses pranced in a near by exercise yard, and two German Shepherds paced steadily beside a workman who was so obviously a guard, Alex wondered why they even bothered dressing him up in overalls and a red shirt. Bill Swan had agreed to meet with her, when she explained her story of the mysterious benefactor interested in animal genetics to the main man. He didn't know that Gibson would be with her. And no one would be aware that Fawkes had joined the party, as well. He'd driven up in a separate car with Hobbes, to keep the invisibility a secret from their co-conspirator, and met Alex at the front parking lot.

"Fawkes," Alex hissed sotto voce. The chill that radiated off his Quicksilvered body was making her shiver. "You're making me cold, move further away. Did you take your antihistamines?"

"Shoulda worn a warmer jacket, Alex, and yeah, I did, 'mom'," Darien retorted softly so Gibson wouldn't hear him, but did move off to a less frigid distance.

"This is the jacket that goes with these slacks," Alex muttered.

"Miss Monroe?" Gibson held out his arm to escort her into the building, and she smiled. While she would have snubbed Bobby Hobbes cold for the same behavior, coming from the barrel-chested ex-military man, it had a courtly, old-world manners feel. He had a way about him that reminded her vaguely of her father.

"Talking to myself," Alex said louder. "Now, surprise is on our side - and the facts, too, so let me do the talking. Right?"

"I'll follow your lead. You seem like a woman who knows her own mind," he winked. "Ruby Orene's the same sort. Tells me what to do."

"Then we're a team." Alex smiled benignly, the wink again reminding her of her father. She'd have to stop allowing stray personal thoughts to interrupt her concentration during an operation. It was amateurish and dangerous, but happened more often lately, as time passed since she'd seen her son. Or even her heart's foster child, Adam/Alex.

They entered the small white office complex, Alex holding the door a fraction longer than necessary so Fawkes could come in without opening it a second time. She marched up to the receptionist on duty with a bright smile and loud, forced chatter. "I'm Alexandra Monroe, I was here the other day, but Mr. Swan wasn't in. Now, I have an appointment."

"I remember you," he narrowed his eyes in concentration as if trying to recall some specific instructions. "You don't have an appointment. Mr. Swan is...."

"He'll see me," she said airily, sweeping past the blustering receptionist and into the back office, her escort - visible and otherwise - on her heels.

The thick-necked man sat at a teak desk, talking on the phone. Pictures of award winning horses lined the walls as well as books on animal husbandry and racing. Alex noticed the French doors offering a view of the verdant landscape were ajar, the curtains blowing gently in the mild breeze, and wondered if Fawkes had gone over to stand in that natural camouflage. Gibson followed closely behind, a grim smile on his face when she glanced back at him. "Bill Swan?" She advanced on the man behind the desk despite the receptionist's squawk of indignation. "Alexandra Monroe, I'm sure you remember me."

Swan glanced up with an outraged expression, but schooled his face quickly, "I have clients - have to get back to you," he said into the phone and hung up. "The lovely Alex Monroe, now weren't you working for some mysterious money lender when we met at the Governor's soiree last year...?" he extended a genial hand, shaking hers warmly, but up close she was hit with a reptilian coldness in his gray eyes. And she really hated snakes. "And Gibson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Swan asked smoothly.

"Swan," Gibson briefly shook hands, then stood back, arms behind his back at parade rest. "I'm sure you're aware of why I've come."

"I don't, and never did, work for a mysterious money lender," Alex flipped open her federal badge identifying her as an agent for the Department of Fish and Game. "I work for them, but more importantly, for Bradley Gibson."

"We have nothing to hide here," Swan chuckled, waving a hand at the beautifully kept farmlands. "We do the work of every other racing stable in the country, just as Gibson does. Training and maintaining racehorses."

"And poisoning them, not to mention cloning them, something not exactly on most other trainer's agendas." Alex picked up a framed photograph, the same one she'd seen in the prospectus - Dr. Ping standing next to a chestnut horse, Maiden Head, unless she was mistaken, although it could easily have been any one of three other horses she recognized.

Hobbes adjusted the volume on his receiver so he could hear whatever Swan said in response to Monroe's allegations. The woman had balls, he had to give that to her. She was tough as nails and twice as sharp when threatened. And Hobbes could see that something about this case had bitten her hard. She didn't usually sanction the quirkier, off-the-record stuff he and Fawkes often embraced, but Monroe was with the team big time on this one.

"Fawkes!" Bobby whispered into his mic, which corresponded to a tiny receiver in his partner's ear. That way neither Alex nor Gibson appeared to be wearing a wire, but, in fact, Fawkes' mini transmitter was recording the entire conversation for posterity. "Get in closer, I want every word."

Since Fawkes couldn't answer without giving himself away, Hobbes wasn't sure his instructions had been obeyed, but sure enough, Swan's response came in loud and clear. Whether it was because he'd increased the volume or Fawkes had moved, that was hard to know.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Monroe," Swan replied frostily, his tone the one Hobbes remembered from the racetrack. "We do the usual cellular manipulation common these days when breeding expensive horses, but nothing like you're suggesting."

"Au contraire, Mr. Swan, I beg to differ," Alex said. "We have proof that a horse you are currently racing under the name of Jupiter Moon is, in fact, the horse owned by Bradley Gibson, Zeus's Forehead."

"What kind of proof?" he scoffed.

"I have a printout of the DNA from both horses, they're identical - as are the DNA samples from several other of your horses," Alex explained. "Even though Zeus is supposed to be dead. Killed by a pesticide called Toxaphene, which has been found on the Ark Haven premises."

"Well, then, if they are clones, as you say," Swan began smoothly, "then how does that prove Zeus is Jupiter? Perhaps I have a whole stable of identical horses." He laughed derisively. "Your allegations are ludicrous."

"If you'd call in that so-called expert I spoke with the other day - Dr. Amyx from research, I'm sure he could verify these reports. Even call up my expert," Alex said. "Or, I could call another friend I met at the Governor's house, Sandra Delancy, the head of the California Jockey Club, who would be more than interested to learn that you've been racing cloned horses - not to mention the charges of murder and animal abuse we'll be bringing."

Hobbes grinned, smacking his fist into the opposite palm as if giving Bill Swan the old 'one-two' punch for Kit Somerville's sake.

"We've gathered information on Arkitech, DNArk and Equine Research, Inc.," Alex continued. "What I'm most curious is why Arkitech sold off the horses in the first place -then got them back by such nefarious means."

"Arkitech was disbanded years ago," Swan said stiffly. "Which, if you didn't know, proves just how faulty your information gathering really is."

"Be assured, we were aware of that - except that the board of directors just transferred their names to another letter head."

"I'm only a cog in the wheel, Miss Monroe," he said archly. "I suggest that you talk to some of the others on that letterhead. They undoubtedly have much more knowledge of the day to day business end. I just train horses."

"But I'm talking to you..." Alex began, but her words were cut off by a much more urgent voice.

"Hobbes!" His name hissed out of the tiny speakers.

"Fawkes?"

"Ping, I just spotted him coming out of the barn with a gun..." Fawkes was obviously running, his breath coming out in loud, woofing pants between phrases. "Like the one they used on Mercury , at the track," he gasped out an explanation. "A captive bolt, Gibson told me. To kill the horses."

"Get going, then, partner!" Hobbes encouraged, abandoning his post. Without Fawkes in the room to monitor the conversation, there was nothing to hear.

Darien had been standing as close to the teak desk as possible, under the circumstances, using the wind from the open French doors to account for any wintry chill caused by his proximity. Swan, arguing with Alex, didn't seem to notice. Darien swiveled his head slowly, taking in all the details in the room since he would be expected to recount every aspect of the conversation for the Official. Alex stood right up next to the desk, playing with the framed photos on the broad surface, but she looked bright and focused like a hunting dog on the scent of prey. Gibson was watching the action in much the same way as Darien, only visible, of course. There wasn't much movement in the room, the verbal sparring taking precedence. Outside was another matter. A groom was leading a string of horses up towards a back pasture while several others saddled and readied other animals to be ridden. But what particularly caught Darien's attention was an Asian man carrying a lethal and familiar-looking weapon from an equipment shed over to a corral containing three chestnut horses with brown manes.

His stomach sinking, Darien forgot the accusations flying fast and furiously across Swan's desk, and streaked out of the open doors, hailing Hobbes with this new development. Ping was already opening the gate to get at the beautiful horses, holding out a palm-full of red vegetables. As Darien broke into a run, Ping led the first horse back into the barn. Needing all his energy, he dropped the Quicksilver in a rain of glitter on the new winter grass and sprinted for the barn.

"Get here fast, man!" Darien ordered Hobbes over the transmitter, dashing down the slope to the corral with all speed. Luckily for him, the string of horses and riders had just departed, leaving the stable yard momentarily deserted. Without thinking, Darien scrambled over the white washed fence, hearing a muffled thud from the barn. Ping had killed one of the triplets, but which one? Mercury was already dead, so that left Jupiter and Daisies, and who ever else this third, decidedly male horse might be. His heart pounding painfully, Darien approached the remaining two, hand outstretched, wishing he still had some of the spicy treats for the horses. Both wore blankets, presumably against the cool of the December air, and had been tethered to the fences.

One horse whinnied softly, looking straight at him. Hoping Jupiter, who'd now met him twice, although not under the best of circumstances either time, recognized him, Darien moved in closer. Holding out his hand as Hobbes had done, Darien let the horse sniff him, then very slowly willed himself invisible. This was also nothing new to Jupiter, who accepted this unusual human trick with much more amenity than most people did. Taking a deep breath, Darien untied first the other horse, then the one he was nearly sure was Jupiter, smacking the first animal on its padded rump with the end of Jupiter's lead. The horse snorted irritably, and trotted off, lead trailing, to the nearest clump of fresh grass, and proceeded to make short work of the winter growth. Darien hesitated a moment longer then grabbed a handful of Jupiter's mane, and using the slats on the corral fence as a step stool, climbed up on top of the mighty steed. Suddenly he was a long way off the ground.

'What now, Lone Ranger?' he thought sarcastically to himself. Jupiter tossed his head with impatience, shaking the rope in Darien's hand. He gripped it tightly in his fingers, wondering how he was going to steer with only one rein. Trusting his fate to the horse beneath him, Darien pressed both knees into the horse's sides as he'd seen on countless episodes of 'Bonanza' and 'High Chaparral.' Just as Ping emerged from the barn Jupiter responded, going from zero to 60 faster than any car Darien had ever up-shifted.

Suddenly the corral was too tiny, and, in an instant they were airborne. Jupiter vaulted the fence, flying past the other stallion to freedom with Darien clinging to his back. To the astonished eyes of Ping and two stable workers Jupiter seemed to leap into the sky and disappear from sight in an instant.

The wind singing in his ears, Darien wished he could do something - stopping Jupiter came to mind - but the horse had been bred to run, and run he did. Although not normally a jumper, Jupiter took the intervening fences between them and the outlying pastures like a pro. Terrified of falling off and breaking his neck like Kit, Darien mentally glued himself to the uneven surface of the horse's back, clamping his knees to the withers. Trees, sheds and other horses flashed by like streaks of silver splashed against a bucolic landscape. So he'd rescued the horse, but what good would it do if he couldn't get Jupiter to stop?

Hobbes witnessed the rather spectacular magical departure of man and horse, grinning sardonically to himself. Good thing the Chronicle didn't have any photographers lurking around Ark Haven Farms to get a shot of that. It'd be on the cover of every tabloid inside of a week -- Invisible Horse cloned in Pauma Valley.

Monroe, Gibson and Swan spilled out of the French doors, attracted by the shouting. Assured of having some back-up, Hobbes held up his ID in front of the veterinarian who was still hefting a captive bolt pistol. "Paul Ping, you're under arrest on a list of Federal charges too long to recite - but murder is the one at the top!" Bobby snarled.

"Murder?" Ping dropped the pistol, almost hitting Hobbes on the foot. "This is a..."

"We know what that is," Gibson interrupted. "You've already executed one horse."

"The animal had genetic anomalies. Wouldn't be able to walk much longer." Ping explained coolly, but Hobbes shoved him against the barn wall, clicking on a pair of handcuffs.

"The murder of Kit Somerville - and yeah, I know you weren't the one who actually did the deed - we already picked up your vet assistant, Wo Fang, at your clinic. Smart to use an undocumented alien - no prints on file with AFIS," Hobbes snorted. "But he was sloppy. Left some at the scene of Dr. James' burned out clinic and on the spool of wire at the track. They matched. And you - get your jollies offing horses, do you?"

"This is an outrage!" Bill Swan bellowed. "Ping? What were you doing?"

"Like you didn't know," Alex flipped open her cell, calling in the Agency troops, who were parked a mile up the road from Ark Haven. "Ping did your dirty work, and what he couldn't do, he farmed out to his assistant. Did you think that would keep your hands clean, Billy-boy?"

"I run a legit stable - that's the only thing you'll get out of me until I have a lawyer present," Swan declared. "You have nothing to charge me with."

"Conspiracy has a nice ring to it, don't you agree, Agent Monroe?" Hobbes asked cheerfully.

"Chimes like a bell, Agent Hobbes." Alex smiled tightly at him, handcuffing a protesting Bill Swan. "The next question is how do we get Fawkes back? The rate that horse was going he could be in the next county by now."

"And Wild Darien Hickock probably doesn't know how to stop that thing." Hobbes glanced around. "Got any ideas, Brad?"

Gibson walked over to the last horse left in the corral, crooning softly to him. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was Zeus... but he doesn't know me. Still, if I saddled him up, I'm sure I could go after Darien the same way he left. Maybe you could bring that Land Rover around, and we'll track him from two directions?"

"Here comes the cavalry," Alex observed as one of the Agency's ubiquitous Crown Victorias pulled to a stop in the stable yard, 20 yards away. She waved over the troops. Several Agency men spilled out of the unmarked car to take charge of the prisoners.

In the end, it wasn't the wild ride that caused Darien to loose his seat, it was one final buck that knocked him off. The racehorse had slowed to a trot, ironically in the back pasture where Darien had performed his least favorite activity as an agent to date, and was circling restlessly. Just about to attempt to slide off while the horse was slowing, Darien was abruptly pitched off the back when the animal snorted and reared up, his forelegs stretching up to the powder blue sky and dumped his rider onto the grass.

"Ooofff!" Darien groaned, staring up at the cloudless expanse above him for a long minute. He wasn't badly injured, in fact, aside from some possible bruises he'd escaped relatively unscathed. That was a pleasant surprise, considering his past track record, and he smiled proudly at having come through unbloodied. He could feel the residual enervation prolonged invisibility brought on. His stomach wasn't rebelling for a change, even if he was shaking with exhaustion, and he was pretty pleased with himself for Quicksilvering an entire horse for the second time. Could add that one to the short list of really big things he'd Quicksilvered.

"Well, Jupiter," Darien lay back, watching the restive horse still circling around, pawing the earth and neighing as if he were complaining in equine language. "Or should I call you Zeus? Which do you like better? This is some fine kettle of fish you've landed us in, huh? Way out in the pasture. Guess we'll have to walk all the back." He sat up experimentally, and when the ground didn't sway dizzily, he climbed to his feet, rubbing his aching coccyx with a wince. "Hobbes?" he called hopefully, wondering if his partner still wore the reciprocal transmitter, but there was no answer. "Oh, well, you wanna come, Jupiter-Zeus?"

Jupiter-Zeus was munching the young winter grass, his muscles still quivering from the race, but calmer. At the sound of his name he raised his massive head, large brown eyes regarding Darien with a baleful expression as if to say, 'I'm eating, can't you see?'

"Take your time - we've probably missed the mopping up, anyway," Darien placed a tentative hand on the horse's sweaty neck, patting gently. He could already feel the tickle in his throat and eyes signaling an allergic reaction even with a dose of antihistamines in his system, but horses weren't quite so scary close up as he'd always imagined. He was sorry he hadn't been able to save Daisies--at least he assumed that was the identity of the horse Ping had shot--but maybe he was running around in horse-heaven with Mercury right this minute. And Darien was developing a friendship of sorts with the last of the triplets. As one lab rat to another, he could commiserate with Jupiter-Zeus' lot in life. Hopefully now, the horse could live out his years in the comfortable security of Gibson's Double Oak Farms.

From up on the ridge between the back pasture and the barns, a horse and rider appeared. Darien squinted, then grinned. "Well, J.Z., I think help is on the way. Here comes Brad, on one of your relations, by the look of him."

Jupiter-Zeus whinnied with a shake of his mane and lowered his head for a few more succulent clovers. The roar of an off-road vehicle drowned out the drone of bees, startling a few foals gamboling in the next field over, and Darien waved his compatriots over.

"Despite the ethical considerations surrounding cloning, Ark Haven farms really did some fine work to further the research," Claire declared, reading over some of the paperwork they'd confiscated in the raid, while Darien finished his debriefing with the Official and Eberts. Hobbes and Monroe had gone first, giving their version of the arrests.

Swan, Amyx, and all those involved with cover-up had been taken into custody, along with a van-load of paperwork and other documentation that spelled out the exact nature of the scheme that had resulted in the deaths of over seven horses and one jockey. Interoffice memos and computer records had revealed that Arkitech's demise had been staged when the FDA came down hard on biotech firms experimenting in interdicted stem cell and cloning research. In order to duck under the spreading radar, they had sold off most of the horses already born and then reconfigured the company under cover of an off-shore holding company, using the embryos still left in deep freeze to begin their efforts again.

But they hadn't reckoned with the greed of their former trainer. When the success of some of the first group of cloned horses caught the eye of Bill Swan, he had launched a highly unscrupulous scheme to get them back. Ping's veterinary assistant, Wo Fang, had poisoned horses up and down the state to keep the real targets out of the main focus. With the facts now out in the open, the FDA had followed on the Agency's coat tails and swept in to close down the labs.

However, left without anyone to watch over 30 horses in various stages of life from newly born foals to older animals, the Department of Fish and Game had promptly elected Bradley Gibson for the job. He was there now, getting the Ark Haven stables into shape with the help of Harriet James, who was checking out the health of all the animals.

"How can you condone this kinda thing?" Hobbes grumbled. "They broke every law they could find - and then some."

"Still, I can't fault their scientific findings," Claire argued amiably. "Our government has been right in proceeding cautiously on the cloning subject, but it has stymied our scientists. South Korea is leading the way in cloning tailor-made tissue and organs for sick people. You yourself said Italy publicly cloned the first horse. We need to move forward in this field or risk falling behind as an entire industry grows up around this area - and America loses its position as a scientific innovator."

"But doesn't that start all the furor about cloning babies and all that sci-fi mumbo-jumbo?" Hobbes asked.

"There are definitely some issues that need to be carefully regulated, but unfortunately, I don't think that medical science is far off from a cloned human," Claire frowned. "Those reports of a group who claimed to have one last year were most certainly a hoax, but it's just a matter of time."

"Chrysalis is basically doin' it now," Hobbes sighed.

"Yes," Claire nodded. "It's a time bomb waiting to go off, and we need to be ready for the explosion. Now, we have a whole lot of clones to study. Which is a good thing."

"Nope, not making my friend J.Z. into a guinea pig," Darien sauntered into the Keep. "That horse and I are buds, and he gets his fill of hay, radishes and pretty young fillies..."

"Don't think anyone's gonna argue with you there, partner," Hobbes clapped him on the back. "Or should I call you Cowboy Joe?"

"Invisible Joe will do just fine." He grinned back, settling onto the worn brown administering chair.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Claire asked, taking a deep breath of the horse-scented air. The early December sky was blue and although the air had a crisp tang, the sun shone brightly above. Perfect weather for a day at the races.

"Definitely one for the record books," Hobbes agreed, holding out an arm to escort her over to their private box atop the race track grandstand. "Claire, I've never seen you dressed quite so..."

"Princess Diana?" Alex inquired teasingly as they joined her, and sipped her cool green drink through a darker green straw. While she had dressed in the elegant corporate look -- slim-legged black silk slacks, a short bolero style jacket with jewel purple shell underneath, and sharply pointed mules with a demure diamond clasp over the instep, Claire had gone all out for the races. She wore a blue raw silk sheath under a matching blue coat, a smoothly woven straw hat with a blue ribbon, and blue and white spectator pumps.

"I've attended Ascot a time or two in my youth," Claire said haughtily, but her giggle ruined the pose. She, too, sampled her Mint Julep from a straw, licking a smear of green off her lower lip. "Now, what race is North Star running in?"

"The fourth - with all the entry fees going to a retired jockey charity in the name of Kit Somerville," Gibson joined them, with Fawkes and Borden in his wake. "Anyone care to join me in the owner's enclosure to give North Star a send off?" the jovial trainer asked hopefully of the two ladies.

"Oh, by all means," Claire agreed with excitement, setting her drink on the flat wooden banister of their box. Alex followed suit, and together the small group, including a reluctant Fawkes, made their way to the track-side area in which the restive race horses waited for their call to the gates.

The horse in question looked majestic, his chestnut coat gleaming in the morning sun. A pretty blond girl in jodhpurs held his lead as his owner gave him a last once over.

"You didn't have to sell him after all, huh?" Darien asked. Even with his budding friendship with Jupiter-Zeus, he still kept his distance from North Star, who'd always given him the evil eye to begin with. "I don't think he likes me."

"North Star is a prima donna, all right," Gibson ran an experienced hand down one delicate foreleg, then patted his nose, and told Angela to get him saddled for the race. "The buyer bowed out at the last minute, wanted a two year old, as it turned out and North Star is nearly four. He was never as fast as Zeus, or as determined to win, but if North Star wins this race, I could be back on track."

"At least have enough to repair your stables... but what are you going to do with Jupiter now that he can't be raced?" Borden asked.

"Ruby Orene came up with a wonderful suggestion," Gibson said proudly. "We're going to open a riding school to promote more female jockeys. J.Z., as Darien has been calling him, may not be a legitimate race horse anymore, but he still runs like one."

"I can swear to that!" Darien agreed. "I've never gone that fast on anything that didn't have wheels, before." He grimaced as his belly growled. "I'm starved; didn't I hear something about some potato salad and chicken up in the box?"

"Partner, you're always hungry. I'm about ready for a nice piece of Ruby Orene's fried chicken, myself." Hobbes laughed. "But where did Eberts get to?"

"I sent him off to place a couple of bets, but he's been gone a long time," Darien answered, glancing around the growing crowd but not seeing the limping accountant.

"This race is ending," Alex pointed to a bay crossing the finish line. "Who'd you bet on?"

"The long shot," Darien sighed. "Silver Fox."

"And the winner of the third race at Del Mar is Cinderella Dancer, followed by Slashy Fella and Money Drain," the overhead announcer proclaimed as the rest of the horses galloped into view. "Last place was Silver Fox."

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry Darien," Claire pursed her lips in sympathy. "Maybe next time?"

"No, I'm giving up on the whole racing business." Darien shoved his hands in his pockets dejectedly. "The 'sport of kings' just isn't for me."

"But where is Eberts?" Borden asked, banging his cane in irritation.

"Here I am, sir," Eberts said proudly, walking up as quickly as possible while still favoring his leg. "I'm sorry to be so long, but I was fascinated by the entire betting process. Since we had all those racing journals all over the office the last few days, I've been studying up. And I've devised a system of sorts."

"A system?" Hobbes questioned. "This I've gotta hear. Did you compute the horse's stats, times and previous races into a spreadsheet, Ee-berts?"

"Actually, Robert, yes I did - with a few extra numbers that only mean anything to me," Eberts answered, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. "But armed with that information, I decided to attempt the trifecta."

"Betting on all three horses, win, place and show," Claire explained at Darien's baffled look.

"And?" Hobbes prompted.

"Come on, Eberts, talk!" the Official ordered to the surprise of everyone, since he was usually insisting that Eberts shut up.

"I won 10 thousand dollars," Eberts beamed, holding up his tickets. "Unfortunately, Darien, you didn't win anything."

"That's okay, Eberts, old pal," Darien threw a comradely arm around the shorter man while the rest of the Agency crew congratulated Eberts on his good fortune. "Maybe I'll give this whole betting gig another chance. Think you can do it again? What's the fourth race look like? How're the odds on North Star?"

"I have some computations to do, and Miss Monroe has kindly lent me her lap top," Eberts said. "It's up in the box already."

"Then we have 45 minutes to post time. I say we go upstairs, munch some chicken and crunch some numbers," Darien proposed.

"I can do that," Eberts agreed to the laughter of his friends. Gibson led the way up to the elevator, in consideration of the two with gimpy legs, and all walked up to the penthouse box, once the private aerie of Bill Swan. Since it had been paid for through the end of the racing season, it was now under the auspices of the Department of Fish and Game. A perfect place to keep an eye on current horse racing practices.

North Star came in second, but ultimately, that didn't prove to be a problem as Eberts' new expertise with racing odds had said that Mad Max would come in first, with Red Torino third. A pleasantly surprised Eberts won another perfect trifecta to the enthusiastic cheers of his companions.

End