A small-statured balding man paused for a moment at the entrance to the visitation room, then rolled his shoulders resolutely and strolled as nonchalantly as possible over to the chair where a blue uniformed guard waited. Once he was seated, the guard moved back against the wall, his eyes shadowed, but watching the proceedings. The balding man picked up the phone immediately, turning expectantly towards the glass and the slender, lanky man on the other side.

There was no exchange of pleasantries; it was not that sort of visit. "She dead?" the prisoner asked.

"Coupla days," the other man grunted. "Nothing in the news so far."

"Have you been watching him?"

"Sure have, an' he's not exactly a party animal or anything. How long do I have to keep this up?" the taller man whined, running a hand through his hair. "It's boring. He goes to the office, back to his crummy studio, and sleeps--goes to bed early, like nine o'clock."

"Sticks to that schedule?" the prisoner questioned, ignoring the complaints.

"Every night this week. Sometimes he gets a pizza or Chinese, but usually just eats and sleeps at home. Never leaves once he's in for the night."

"Perfect. That gives us lots of time."

"So what's next, boss?"

"You go on up to the place in Palm Springs, just like you did before." He watched as the guard walked over to the security door to admit another prisoner and settle him in a cubical at the other end of the long row. "Have a nice time, take Vic and the Mouth--everything's on me," Johnny Castignacci said smoothly, settling the wire rim glasses more firmly on his nose after the phone receiver knocked them askew. With a bland expression, he glanced over as the penitentiary guard walked back to his station. Nothing going on here, Mr. Guard, nothing at all. "Get yourself a nice bottle of wine and celebrate. I intend to."

"Just like before. Your lawyer still working on an appeal?"

"We just got a new court date," Castignacci promised. "It's all downhill from here, Pete. Once this one last item is dealt with, I'm putting the champagne on ice."

There's a Japanese proverb that says 'Vision without action is a daydream; action without vision is a nightmare.' Now, I've had lots of daydreams in my time, but getting caught up in someone else's vision really turned out to be a nightmare.

Chugging down a double-caf.-Frappucino, Darien Fawkes sauntered into the office he shared with his partner Bobby Hobbes. After a good strong suck on the straw, he flopped back into the ergonomically correct chair, squirming unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. He and the chair were too different for that to ever be remotely possible--the chair might be ergonomically correct for a much shorter person, probably someone Hobbes' height, but for a long-legged human such as himself, it was more on the order of a torture device. His main problem was, however, his utter exhaustion. Even getting into bed at nine p.m. every evening he was tired all the time, and achy like he had the flu.

Finishing off the afternoon picker-upper, he tossed the paper cup into the trash can outfitted with a mini basketball hoop. Starbucks teetered on the rim but fell to the floor with an audible crunch. Ignoring that for the moment, Darien brightened when he saw a small mailtruck icon on his computer screen signaling unopened mail. Keying up the e-mail, the fatigue melted away when he read who it was from.

To Hutch@secretagent.com

From RedTorino@secretagent.com

Went surfing today--fantastic waves. Caught a barrel and rode for what seemed like hours. Totally awesome, I kept thinking you should have been there. Virtual's got nothing on the goddess ocean, man. And no cement sidewalk to break your fall. Tony Hawke, eat your heart out.

Darien chuckled reading Adam's effusive message, missing his foster son with a pang that never quite left his heart. They'd been two of a kind, and just like nearly everyone else he'd ever had feelings for, Adam had had to go. Because of the virus implanted in his body as an infant, he was a target for the evilness that Darien helped fight against. Luckily Adam no longer was the walking time bomb he had once been; Claire's classy little piece of genetic manipulation had solved that one, but, for his own good, the Agency had parceled Adam off to a remote island in the Caribbean for the rest of his teenagerhood. Darien knew that Hobbes' cousins were taking good care of the kid, but it wasn't the same as seeing him grow up.

He sighed, going on to read the rest of the post.

Watching the World soccer match tonight--so jazzed since Charlie got the satellite TV--we get shows from everywhere. You on for another bet? I'm rooting for Spain this week. You still like those underdogs from Germany? If I win I want the new Starsky and Hutch game, already watched all the eps on DVD you sent. Got any more?

Ohana, mahalo

Darien typed his reply swiftly, a big grin on his face. When he'd seen the Starsky and Hutch DVDs in the store he couldn't resist buying them for Adam and sending them straight off--or as straight as the convoluted mail route Eberts had arranged to get things to Adam and the Steinmans could ever be. Adam's immediate interest in the new-to-him series had prompted their most recent e-mail monikers. Eberts insisted on changing the codes and addresses quite frequently to avoid detection from those who might still be searching for Adam/Alex, although with his on-going headaches and fatigue Darien found it a chore to remember who he was that month. He'd been Silver Surfer, CoolDude and BarFly to Adam's Wolverine, GenX'r and Chillywilly. But he kind of liked the Starsky and Hutch-inspired names and hoped to keep those for a while, at least. Unfortunately, he didn't know when a second season of DVDs were coming out, but there was always some other bastion of '70's male bonding he could find. Maybe the Dukes of Hazzard? The car wasn't half as cool as the Torino, but it had its moments. Or, better yet, 'The A-Team' with Mr. T.

Darien was still contemplating the relative merits of one show over the other and whether he should take a trip to the Suncoast Video store on the way home or just order a boxed set on line when Bobby Hobbes walked in.

"Hobbes, what'd you think of Mr. T?"

"Too much jewelry," Hobbes replied promptly. "I thought you were checking out the Ocean Avenue park for the meet tomorrow."

"I did. It's a park. Not a very big park." Darien shrugged. "Playground on one side, baseball diamond on the other, big open grassy area in the middle. Coupla benches along the path, trees scattered around. I'll be wearing Quicksilver, which goes with everything. You and Alex pretend to be all lovey-dovey, Eberts and Pippin will be planting a tree on the West side--already cleared it with the Parks and Rec Commission--and we wait for Wynters and his eyes-only info. If anybody else is tailing him, I'll be on them like white on rice."

"Good work, partner," Hobbes said, sounding impressed. "Wynters is on the up and up--been out in the cold for coupla decades. I worked with him in Angola, he's a little paranoid..."

"Coming from you, how much is a little?" Darien snarked.

"But a solid guy and a good agent," Hobbes continued as if Fawkes hadn't spoken. "Probably ready for retirement by now."

"On a nice island in the Caribbean, perhaps?" Darien grinned, showing Hobbes the e-mail from Adam.

"Kid sounds happy," Hobbes said wistfully. "Bet he's as tall as you by now."

"Maybe I'd better send a new pair of pants along with the DVDs," Darien mused, missing the nearly weekly visits to Gap and Old Navy when Adam was around.

"You really bet on World Soccer?"

"We were watching ski trials, but there's not much snow in the islands."

Hobbes stared at Darien for a beat as if trying to determine whether that statement was on the level or not but apparently decided to refrain from commenting. "Go on home, get some shut eye so you're not falling asleep in class tomorrow. Oh, an' Claire told me she made up some more of that green powder you love so much."

"Oh, yeah, just add water and it's like drinking grass in liquid form." Darien rubbed his flat belly, hungry for anything other than the nasty concoction. "You going to come pick me up in the a.m.?"

"Why, you can't drive suddenly?"

"Just thought it'd save time. Otherwise getting over to the park by 8:30..."

"I'll pick you up," Hobbes sighed. "Be ready, all dressed and goop dried in your hair so we don't have to mess around. Eight sharp in front of the building."

"Yes, sir!" Darien saluted like an over-eager Marine plebe. He winked saucily at Hobbes before ambling down the hall towards the elevator. Might as well save a few steps, and his energy, by forgoing the stairs but the creaky machine took forever to traverse the relatively short distance to the Keep.

"Darien!" Claire greeted pleasantly. "You'll be overjoyed, I'm sure, to hear that I've prepared a fresh batch of the nutrient supplement for you. In handy, portable containers."

"Those look like clear plastic raviolis," Darien said without enthusiasm.

"You are a clever boy. Albert bought a heat sealer on e-Bay. It's ever so handy for packaging things up." Claire gave his cheek a pinch and handed over the packets of dark green powder. Darien stuffed them into his pockets. "Try taking one before you go off to bed, it may give you more restful sleep. I've added Chlorella and milk thistle."

"For calcium?"

"No, Chlorella is another kind of algae, like the Spirulina already in there, and milk thistle is an herb; they boost the immune and nervous systems. To keep your lovely cells alive longer. Many plant-based products help fight infection and brain trauma--but milk thistle is one of the best. Detoxifies your liver, as well. Just one hundred and one uses."

"Claire, I'm a human being, not a hot house plant that needs to be fertilized."

"Hmm, people as plants..." Claire had an odd look in her eye as if this idea had caught her fancy, and was already generating a whole host of theories in her fertile brain. "That would certainly lend credence to the whole SAD syndrome."

"Claire, take it from me, don't start watching Farscape. Plant people are just plain weird," Darien advised, poking at the bags in his pocket. He hoped the police didn't pick him up for carrying some unidentified drug-like substance. The whole experience with Utopia had left him more than skittish about so-called recreational pharmaceuticals. How was he supposed to explain that his personal physician was feeding him pond scum as a therapeutic regime?

"Do you feel more depressed in the winter?" she mused. "I haven't kept any specific data on that."

"Everyone is more depressed in the winter, that's why they stuck Christmas on practically the shortest day of the whole crappy year, to cheer everyone up." Darien yawned so wide he could hear his jaw crack. "Which reminds me, d'you think Adam would like Mr. T or the Duke brothers better?"

"I suspect a growing, adolescent boy would like Daisy Duke better than all three of them," Claire said wisely. "Isn't it a little early to be shopping for Christmas?"

"Well, it's more of a consolation prize. Gotta bounce, before the sun goes down."

"Tell me in the morning if the sun perks up your spirits any. This could be a wonderful break-through. There are these little lamps that I could set up..."

"Claire, leaving now. Gonna go to Whole Foods, stock up, and hit the hay early, 'cause Hobbes wants me functional at some ungodly early hour."

"Eat your greens!" Claire reminded absently, hurrying to her computer to check up on the latest in phototherapy lamps.

Unable to find street parking in front of his building, Darien had to deviate from his usual custom and park on a side street. He ambled down the tree shaded lane to Park Ave., enjoying the breeze that ruffled leaves and kicked up trash in the gutters.

By the time Darien made it to the upscale grocery, the place was packed with after-work shoppers all vying for the same pieces of prepared salmon, potato latkes and vegetarian lasagna. Not willing to brave the ravenous hordes at the deli counter Darien grabbed up the last of the prepackaged sandwiches, falafel in this case, along with a bottle of water and another of spicy chai tea. He'd polished off most of the tea by the time he made it through the cash only lane, and was so hungry he sat outside the store, under a jaunty green umbrella, to eat his meal. Watching early evening couples strolling along the sidewalk chatting and window shopping, Darien polished off his tabouli and pita bread sandwich with a satisfied burp.

The sun was low in the summer evening sky as he strolled down the street towards his apartment building, slurping the last dregs of the tea. He glanced up at the flaming ball above, but his mood didn't change the least bit, for better or worse. Maybe the sunlight effect only worked when the distant star was directly overhead?

Darien was fumbling in his pocket for his keys when a hand came out of the shadows between his building and the one next door, jerking him into the narrow space.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, adrenaline releasing the Quicksilver flow up his left leg. He struggled with his captor, trying to twist around to see the man's face. A hard blow to the side of the head stunned him, but Darien didn't black out. He jammed his elbow hard into unseen ribs and belly, but another set of hands yanked his hands behind him, and he heard the familiar, and chilling, sound of handcuffs snapping around his wrists. "Who are you?" he challenged, anger diminishing the invisibility so that he didn't have to worry about muggers seeing--or not seeing--what they shouldn't.

"Hit him harder!" a rough voice commanded, and with a whoosh that pushed all the air right out of his lungs Darien was slammed against the brick wall, his head connecting with a sickening crack.

"That hard enough?" Mouth chuckled gleefully at Pete, starting to rifle through the unconscious man's pockets.

"What are you doing? We're not supposed to rob him," Pete complained, trying to pick up Darien's limp body. "Man, for a skinny guy, he's heavy."

"Kinda looks like you," Mouth observed, stuffing the contents of Darien's coat pockets back into place. He did keep the ten bucks, but didn't tell his accomplice. The packets of green powder smelled nasty and the bottle of water would be useful where Fawkes was going. Mouth never noticed the ring of keys kicked over to the side of the building.

Swinging Golda alongside the curb just after the street cleaning truck whooshed by, leaving a wet trail behind it, Hobbes put the van into park, settling in to wait for Fawkes. Never failed, no matter what time he told his partner to be ready, the kid was always still messing with his hair or deciding which of his equally disreputable vintage shirts to wear.

Hobbes bit into a bagel, chewing slowly before washing it down with a long swallow of coffee. He'd give Fawkes five minutes, then charge on up to the apartment. Luckily, the park where the meet was going down wasn't all that far away, so there was plenty of time.

The Fat Man wanted them all in place by 8:30, although Wynters wasn't due until nearly nine. Even savoring every morsel of bagel Hobbes finished his breakfast without seeing his spiky-haired friend. With a long suffering sigh he climbed out of the van, let himself into Fawkes' building and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"Fawkes!" Hobbes called, pounding on the door with the flat of his hand. "Rise and shine, we're late!" He waited, tapping his foot, but there was absolutely no response. Trying the same thing again merited the same results, giving Hobbes the first niggling pangs of worry. He fished the heavy ring of keys from his pocket, finding Darien's in just under a minute. He really had to get rid of some of the old ones that had outlasted their usefulness--especially the one to the house he and Vivian had shared, and his old Trans Am sports car. Shaking his head in memory of the car that had gone up in a ball of flames on the side of the 405, Hobbes gave one last hard rap on the door. Fawkes did like those long showers; maybe the water was drowning out Bobby's calls? Not convinced that the reason was anything so mundane, Hobbes slipped the key in the lock. As an afterthought, he pulled his pistol before pushing open the door.

The wide, cluttered studio looked no different than on any other day Hobbes had visited with the notable exception of the time Quicksilver-mad Darien had trashed the place. It had a lived-in look, but nothing that bespoke of break-ins or anything disastrous. There was such a normalcy to the house that Hobbes half-expected to have Darien come out of the bathroom with his hair disheveled to maximum height and an exasperated expression on his face. Except there was no sound of running water, no sign that Fawkes had rushed out, no sign that anyone had been there at all that morning.

Tucked into a corner, near the closet, was a small overnight bag, and for a moment Hobbes was stunned. Had Fawkes been planning a trip without mentioning the fact? Had he gotten it into his head to skip out on the Agency? Just the thought caused something vital to twist inside Bobby's chest.

The softsided bag was open at the top, t-shirts and boxers spilling out, and a sprinkling of something small, rounded and pinkish brown covering everything. It wasn't until Hobbes examined one of the soft, delicate things more closely that he realized the stuff littering the bag, and the carpet underneath, were rose petals--very old, nearly desiccated rose petals, the sort that had come from a girl's corsage or bouquet. Fingering the lightly scented flower, he remembered Fawkes' quick trip to Cold Springs a few weeks previously. Aunt Celia's surprise nuptials to a guy with the oh-so-British name of Cecil Fogg-Bothem. Fawkes had reported back that Cecil was 79 if he was a day, but a spry old geezer with a gleam in his eye every time he looked at the comely Celia. A match made in old folks paradise. So, apparently Darien simply hadn't gotten around to unpacking afterwards. That still left the question of where he was right now.

Holstering his weapon after poking his head into the bathroom and kitchen, Hobbes stood feeling the slightest bit uncertain. Should he be angry here, or just very worried? This unproductive bit of thought was broken off when his cell bleeped. Checking the display, he saw that Monroe was calling. "Alex, is Fawkes there with you?"

"No," she replied, sounding annoyed. "You're supposed to be picking him up, aren't you? Now get the hell over here before we fubar the whole set-up."

"Maybe we got our wires crossed," Hobbes muttered. "I swear the kid said to pick him up, but come to think of it, I didn't see his car, either. I'll be there in 10."

"Make it five," Alex said, disconnecting without even saying goodbye.

"Wanna split the difference and make it seven and a half?" Hobbes snarked before pocketing the tiny phone. "Hell, Fawkes, you better be on your way or the Fat Man will have your ass for grass, and I'll be right behind him." Even so, as he carefully closed the door again, those tendrils of dread that something was very wrong lodged themselves securely under his breastbone.

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

Feeling unusually feminine, Alex Monroe fiddled with the tiny spaghetti straps of her sundress. This early in the morning, the skimpy dress was not quite enough clothing for the weather, but she hadn't been able to resist the pretty, ultra girly pink roses splashed across the gathered skirt. Perfect for an outing like this where she was supposed to look as un-Federal Agent as possible. Certainly Eberts and Pippin, already hard at work shoveling large spadefulls of dirt out of the earth, had made every effort to look convincing. Both were wearing coveralls with the SD Park and Rec dept. logo on the back, and Eberts had accessorized with a jaunty red baseball cap emblazoned with the Starship Enterprise.

The chunky Pippin wiped his florid face with a bandana, whispering into the receiver on his sleeve as he did so. "See anything, Monroe?"

"Not from this end," she murmured into the cloth rose pinned at the top of her low-cut bodice. That had been another selling point for the dress; the convenient decoration to hide all sorts of useful items in. She also had a miniature camera tucked in amongst the fabric petals. All was in readiness except for her supposed escort, and the Agency's favorite secret weapon, the invisible ex-con. Fawkes was late. Again.

Starting to fume, Alex plastered on a smile when Hobbes came around the corner of Ocean walking casually as it he had all the time in the world. Obviously very aware that there could be eyes watching them from every corner, he waved at her, calling out in the sappy voice of a lovesick suitor.

"Sweetie," Alex bussed him on the nose, amused that her pink Jimmy Choos with the white spike heels put her head considerably higher than his.

"Love-muffin," Hobbes cooed back at her. "We good to go?"

"As long as your partner does his thing. Where is he? Already see-through?"

The fleeting look of concern in Hobbes' eyes startled her. "Hobbes?" she whispered. "Where's Fawkes?"

"Really hoping he was already here," he started to say more, but Pippin's voice emerged from the flower on Alex's chest again.

"Objective in sight, folks, heads up."

"Let's get this show on the road," Hobbes said a trifle impatiently. He held out a courtly arm to his 'intended', smiling at her when she linked arms with him. They strolled slowly towards the reflecting pool, chatting quietly, both focused on the slender black man standing to one side of the water. He was looking down at the pennies and nickels at the bottom of the pool, lost in thought, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

"Bobby!" Alex exclaimed brightly in a gushy voice. "Let's make a wish, do you have a penny?"

"Not in this economy," he muttered under his voice, but made a show of searching his pockets.

"May I offer you one, miss?" Tyrone Wynters held out a handful of change.

Having heard of the legendary agent over beers and pretzels with any number of her past colleagues, Alex was interested to get to know the man. Unfortunately, now was not the time. She looked up into his tired, haunted, dark brown eyes before selecting an assortment of coins out of his hand. "Thank you, that's really nice." She tossed one copper-shiny penny into the shallow pond, the sun reflecting in shattered sparkles off the widening ripples.

"Very gentlemanly," Hobbes responded, adding the correct code phrase to alert the older agent. "Bet he'd feel right at home at the Palace."

"Good day to you." Wynters nodded his understanding, barely glanced their way again, and walked off in the direction of the tree planting. Once he reached the street, a dark blue Toyota would follow him to ensure that there were no unfriendly tails.

"You get it?" Hobbes peered at what Alex held in her hand, but she closed her fist.

"Yes, but not here." Alex tucked her prize into her tiny pink purse. "Borden wants it ASAP."

"Fawkes?" Hobbes called out, glancing around but there was no shower of glittery silver, or snarky comments coming from thin air. A small boy riding a scooter raced along the path, narrowly avoiding the agent who was becoming more concerned with every passing moment. "Watch out, kid!" Hobbes jumped back, but the child took no notice, zooming around the reflecting pool making engine noises. "Punk."

"That's what you always call him," Alex observed wryly. "Or were you talking about Dale Earnhardt there?"

"Something hinky is goin' on here, Monroe. We gotta check this out." Hobbes crossed the park quickly, making a beeline for the two gardeners finishing up their planting chores. "Either of you seen Fawkes?"

"Not even a cold breeze," Pippin replied.

"He wasn't here?" Eberts asked anxiously.

"Not so's I could see," Hobbes answered tightly. "We musta gotten our wires crossed or something, but he specifically asked me to pick him up this morning."

"And he wasn't at his apartment," Alex concluded. "Or here."

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

"Phone call for you, Castignacci," A sharp-faced guard sneered, beckoning Johnny from the exercise yard. "You got five minutes."

"You're a ray of sunshine, you know that, Bosco?" Castignacci gave the scowling man an insouciant grin, not about to be cowed by the guards, the bars and any of the prison walls that kept him in. This was the news he'd been waiting for. With the date for his appeals rapidly approaching, and certain key figures now out of the way, there were no more limits for Johnny Books. He'd be back in the world in a matter of weeks, living the grand life in the house in Palm Springs. He'd had to sell the mansion in San Diego to help with lawyer fees, which was a pity because he'd always liked that place. But that was all in the past, the future looked bright, and he was wearing rose-colored glasses.

"Johnny, it's 95 degrees in the shade here, desert's great and we been making good headway into your wine cellar," Pete reported.

"Wonderful," Castignacci enthused. "Any trouble on the drive up?"

"Nah, we stopped once to take a leak over a cactus, but otherwise smooth sailing," Pete said, and Johnny could hear dangerous enjoyment in his voice. He'd liked that little delivery job--probably even more than the first one.

"You see any one?"

"Just the usual sunbirds, no helicopters, no body at all." He put stress on the word 'body,' chuckling.

"Get nice and brown in the sun, Pete. Won't be long now before I can join you up there," Johnny promised, hanging up. He met Bosco's eyes steadily. "Some friends o'mine are watching my house, since I can't be there."

"Nice of them," Bosco said flatly. "Back to your cell."

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

"What exactly do you expect to find?" Alex asked critically, giving Hobbes one of her patented 'make-me-believe-you' expressions. "If Fawkes has gone on some walkabout he doesn't want us to know about, he could be awfully difficult to find."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Hobbes snapped, steering Golda back onto Park Street. They'd left Monroe's Corvette in the care of an appreciative Pippin, who had promised to drive it back to the Agency. While Hobbes knew that Monroe had to be as concerned about Darien as he was, or she wouldn't have agreed to come along to check on him, it still irked him that she continued to talk about Fawkes as if he were still the streetwise ex-con punk of several years ago. Darien might enjoy stepping over the line once in a while, but he was a dedicated agent who wouldn't miss a planned meet for no reason.

"Believe that he would be hard to find?" she asked more mildly. "Or that he'd disappeared?" Alex gave him a grim smile. "What do you think happened?"

"I don't know--it could be anything, or anyone!" Hobbes drove slowly past Fawkes' apartment building but there were no open parking spaces along the street. He didn't want to voice his inner most fears that Darien, overly stressed with his worsening health problems, might have slipped away like a wounded animal in the night. "Arnaud, Stark...who knows, with the crazies we deal with?" He took a sharp right onto the next cross street.

"So you think he's been...oh!" Alex pointed to the LTD parked less than half the block down. "There's his car."

"Crap." Hobbes said vehemently. Luckily, he could pull the van right in front of Fawkes' long Ford, parallel parking far more smoothly than he'd ever managed before while driving Golda. Monroe jumped out before he'd pulled the key from the ignition but he was quick to follow her. "See anything?"

"Nothing," Alex said, peering through the windows, then rolled her eyes at her inadvertent pun. "If he were unconscious, he'd be visible, right?"

"Usually," Hobbes agreed, using a slim jim to pop open the driver side door.

"Fawkes been tutoring you?"

"'Let the student teach the master'," Hobbes quoted, reaching out with a certain degree of apprehension. He did not want to feel the body of an invisible Darien lying there in the seat, possibly dead. However, it didn't really help his nerves to encounter nothing but warm upholstery. Where was that wayward partner of his?

"Confucius?"

"Bobby Hobbes. He's not here, and he wasn't in his apartment." He slumped against the bulk of the vehicle. "Where are you, Fawkes?"

"Did you check his answering machine?"

"No, you called before I had a chance."

"He once found you that way," she reminded, striding purposely down to the corner but was stopped when her mobile twittered 'Lara's Theme.' Hobbes mouthed 'Dr. Zivago?' but she ignored him. "Monroe here, hello sir."

Knowing who had called her, Hobbes moved as far away as possible to avoid any fall out from the Fat Man's wrath. They hadn't delivered the goods straight to the Agency as ordered because of his concern for Fawkes' welfare. Monroe still had the tiny object in the pocket of her ruffly pink dress.

"We're concerned with Fawkes' health," Monroe lied smoothly, although Hobbes mused that it wasn't that much of a lie. The whole Agency was caught up in what Darien had termed 'the perils of the invisible thief'. What adverse symptom would he exhibit next, and what could be done to fix the root cause? Had Claire even figured out the main problem in the first place?

"We're at his apartment now, and once we go inside we'll bring the micro CD to you," she continued, holding the phone about six inches from her ear, wincing. Monroe waited out the tirade that Hobbes could from hear 10 feet away, and then plastered on her best butter-up-the-old-coot smile. "With the frequent financial straits the Agency is plagued with, I was sure you'd want us to make sure that your secret weapon was safe." Her expression turned to one of cat swallowing a canary. "We'll be there, with the CD, with all speed." Monroe was already walking rapidly over the cracked sidewalk as she snapped her phone shut. "C'mon, we'd better make this quick. I'm not so sure my little Band-Aid will hold for very long," she said, then wobbled awkwardly, grabbing the rough side of the building for support. "What the frell?"

"Looks like your heel is caught in a crack," Hobbes said helpfully.

"I can see that," Monroe groused, slipping her foot out of the pink shoe and bending over to retrieve the broken remains, then paused, going still. "Hobbes, look, keys." She pointed to the heavy set splayed out on the concrete against the side of the building.

"That's Darien's ring." Hobbes snagged the keys from the ground, that alarm bell ringing so loudly inside his head he wondered why Monroe didn't hear it, too. Something had happened to Fawkes, and whatever it was, he was willing to bet it was bad.

"I want a full accounting of what exactly happened, and what you intend to do about it,"

Charles Borden declared officiously, peering down at the tiny rainbow-hued circlet now sitting on his desk blotter.

"We just told you we don't know what happened, or for that matter when," Hobbes exploded, pacing the length of the room with agitation. He hit the back wall with the flat of his hand, but that just made his palm hurt.

"His answering machine didn't provide any clues," Alex put in helpfully. She had changed from the earlier frills into her usual sleek slacks and a plum colored scoop-necked tee. "But there was a possible streak of blood on the side of his building. Maybe luminal would help?"

"This isn't CSI, Agent," Borden growled. "Forensics supplies are not in the current budget."

"Actually, I've been frequenting e-Bay recently." Eberts hurried in, his arms full of an assortment of items which threatened to slip to the floor at any minute. He deposited most on the Official's desk, although a file of papers did finally make its escape with a slithery rustle. "And found some very reasonable prices for luminal, slightly used listening devices, some miniature GPS transmitters that are only two generations from what's currently in use at the CIA, an electron microscope that the doctor would love to get her hands on, and a gross of toner that I've put a bid on."

"Why would you possibly need that much?" Hobbes asked.

"The Agency goes through a large volume of printed copies every day, Robert," Eberts said, scooping the fallen papers off the floor and pushing them into a tidier pile. "Part of my job is to coordinate the systematic filing of all paperwork, and also to ensure that all supplies are..."

"Makin' copies in the copy room," Hobbes mimicked the annoying Saturday Night Live Copy boy character played by Adam Sandler.

"That was one of my favorite SNL skits..." Eberts snickered.

"Eberts, shut up," the Official roared. "Did you find the encryption code for this thing?"

"Wynters sent it last week, I had it filed away in anticipation," Eberts opened up the laptop he'd brought in and tapped the keys quickly. Then, he carefully slid the tiny CD into a specially designed regulation sized carrier CD, and inserted the sandwich into the slot on the side of his computer.

"Excellent." The Official rubbed his hands together with obvious glee, scanning what was on the screen, but when Hobbes tried to read it too, Borden pulled the laptop around so that only he was privy to its secrets. "This is need to know, Bobby, and..."

"I don't need to know," Hobbes finished, not giving in to hurt feelings. He'd been an agent too long for that. He'd eventually find out what was on the CD, even if it involved a little after hours B and E with Fawkes. That sobered him, fear for his partner rearing up like a live thing.

"Bobby?" Claire came in, her long blond hair streaming behind her as if she'd dashed up the stairs and it was still trying to catch up to her head. "What's happened?"

"We can't find Fawkes," Alex said succinctly. "There's a very real possibility that he could be hurt but there's no way to test whether it was blood we saw on the wall."

"Bugger!" Claire swore. "He came in last night--got some of the green powder..."

"Claire, how's his health been lately?" Hobbes asked.

"Up and down--you all know, he's plagued with vague complaints I can't quite put a diagnosis to--joint pain, low blood sugar, an increased metabolism, high blood pressure; none of it really makes a lot of sense."

"Sounds like my grandmother," Eberts said absently, typing rapidly on the laptop. Borden had already ejected the CD and stored it in his desk. "Well, except for the being able to eat everything in sight--she ate like a bird, poor thing. Allergic to everything. And her rheumatism was a constant topic of discussion." He stopped, looking intently at whatever he'd found on the Internet. "Hmmm."

"Albert, you may be onto something," Claire said, frowning. "I'm going to go read up on some disease processes."

"Do you think there's something physically wrong with Fawkes?" Borden demanded.

"Besides having a gland in his head?" Bobby snarked, filling in for the absent Darien, who always inserted that phrase into any conversation about his health.

"I am more than worried about him," Claire admitted. "What are you doing to find him?"

Hobbes glared over at the Official, feeling like they'd finally come back to the original question. How were they going to find Fawkes? He'd vanished into thin air, excuse the pun.

"As much as I am concerned for your wayward partner, Bobby," The Official still looked amazingly pleased despite the proper touch of sympathy in his tone, "this is not the first time he's skipped out in the middle of a case. He'll come back on his own terms."

"I get a feeling he didn't leave on his own terms," Hobbes argued.

"Be that as it may, you have little in the way of proof. Right now, I want all energies focused on Tyrone Wynters. He is our number one priority."

"Robert, this in no way pertains to the missing Darien, but I've just uncovered something you asked me about some time ago." Eberts turned the lightweight computer around to share with the group. "You told me to keep tabs on Elizabeth Morgan's whereabouts."

It took Bobby a moment to place the name. Elizabeth Morgan? Liz, Darien's former mentor; calculating and devious, with a lecherous gleam in her eye and a way of wrapping Fawkes around her little finger. "Yeah, I did. What'd you find?"

"Her body was found in the Palm Desert last week," Eberts explained. "Her fingerprints matched with AFIS, since she'd been arrested so many times. Looks like she died of exposure."

Consumed with the need to move, to mount a search party, do something to find his missing partner, Hobbes prowled the halls, waiting for the analysis of blood and fingerprints he and Alice had gone back to Fawkes' apartment to collect. His gut told him the smear of red on the bricks had come from Darien's head, which was wreaking havoc on his belly. He had the urge to smack the wall again, but stopped himself just in time, knowing intellectually that he was starting to obsess, but needing the intense focus that brought on to think through all possibilities.

Who had grabbed Fawkes, and why? The list of suspects was far too long to wade through without some kind of compass to guide him. With little or no ideas on that front Hobbes' thoughts returned to the not so dearly departed Elizabeth Morgan. What had she been doing in the desert? Not the hiking kind of gal. Hobbes wasn't sorry she was gone, Liz had been an albatross around Darien's neck for the past decade, although he wouldn't wish dying of dehydration in the desert on his worst enemy. Liz may not have done Fawkes a single favor, but she should have been locked up in maximum security, not desiccating under a pitiless sun.

Had Fawkes still been in contact with his mentor? Feeling a little like a snooping father checking up on his teen-aged son, Hobbes logged onto the computer Darien had been using just the day before. Settling into the desk chair, Hobbes wondered if Fawkes had a journal or day planner that could shed any light on his whereabouts. That turned out to be a big fat zero. It Fawkes kept any sort of calendar, it was all inside his pointy little head.

Clicking on the mail icon, Hobbes read over Fawkes' e-mail. Anything from Liz would have to be more than two weeks old, since she'd been found in the desert days ago. He scrolled down the recente-mail, and then recently deleted stuff, but couldn't find a single thing that seemed even remotely related to Liz Morgan, or any of Darien's other thieving ex-associates. Fawkes mostly exchanged posts with Adam. There was one or two from his Cold Springs friend, Sheriff John 'Pizza' Pizzetti, and a copious quantity of spam ads for Viagra and short term home loans. Neither of which, as far as Hobbes knew, Darien needed. Just the same old junk found on any computer. Out of ideas, he hit receive to get that day's e-mails, and Adam's latest missive popped up.

To Hutch@secretagent.com

From RedTorino@secretagent.com

Hey, bro. you owe me big time! Did you catch that goal Spain made in the second half? The bomb.

We're reading The Invisible Man in school--how's that for ironic, huh? But the book's really deep, more than I expected. I thought it'd be all this guy in bandages and a pair of Ray Bans scaring everybody around and it's all about racial prejudice and the alienation of people going about their everyday business. Really weird, but good for a book I have to read for the grade.

We're having conch chowder for dinner. The things Deb can do with fish. Well, I think it's a crustacean., but I don't have Marine Biology until next semester.

Ohana, mahalo

Bobby caught his breath, aching for the opportunities Darien and Adam had lost when the kid had been sent to the islands. It wasn't fair to either of them, two biological freaks who formed a kind of brotherhood against all odds. Fawkes should be here to answer this e-mail. It would have brought a smile to his face. So where was Fawkes right now, and why did Hobbes have the continued disturbing intuition that the discovery of Liz's body tied into his partner's disappearance? It was too much of a coincidence that she turned up around the same time as Darien went missing.

Trying one more tactic, Hobbes did a Google search for the name Elizabeth Morgan. As usual, he had to wade through hundreds of sites pertaining to any women named Elizabeth, Queen Elizabeth, German sites with morning in the address, and several porn sites with a pneumatic-busted chick named Morgan Elizabeth. Hobbes would have bookmarked Morgan's URL if he'd had the time, but just when he was at the end of his patience, he found two newspaper articles on Elizabeth Morgan, convicted thief.

The first, and most recent, mentioned her name in connection with a robbery in the Del Mar area. The CEO of Triumph Foods had come home from a vacation to find his safe open and the contents gone. Since the complicated lock had been opened, possibly with an electronic pick that digitally sequenced the code in only a few seconds, police had a short list of the thieves known to have used this sort of technology. Liz Morgan was one of them, but Logan Giang and Tyree Sanders were also under suspicion.

Filing the second article for another viewing, Hobbes wrote down all the info on Giang and Sanders, planning to do a little recon.

It was hot. A heat that leached the fluid right out of a body, seared off layers of skin, and bleached bones dry. Darien didn't even open his eyes, but he could feel the scorching temperature baking him as if he'd crawled into the oven to take a rest.

Had he remembered to turn the oven off? Or maybe the iron?

Wait a minute, he didn't own an iron.

And he hadn't used his oven in months.

Where was he? Moving with absolute care he got his limbs arranged in some sort of order, still without opening his eyes. The lurking pain in the back of his head seemed dormant but there was every reason to believe that it could strike out with the speed of a rattler to send paralyzing pain through every nerve in his body. Darien had experienced far too many piercing headaches and concussions in his life to underestimate their power. He didn't open his eyes until he'd gained all fours, swaying slightly on his hands and knees, he cracked his eyelids to stare numbly at his surroundings.

Desolate. That was the word for it. Miles and miles of arid landscape as far as the eye could see in any direction. North, South, East and West were all the same; desert. Which didn't exactly narrow the location any, either. Southern California was pocked with deserts--the Mojave, Death Valley, Palm Desert, not to mention any that were easily assessable by a short drive over the state border into Nevada or Arizona.

The enormity of his situation stunned Darien, and he sat, gazing out at the unforgiving land with rising fear. How the hell had he gotten here? How long had it been since he'd been attacked? From the rumblings in his belly, long enough for his falafel to be digested. He felt disjointed, disoriented, and without any idea of what to do next.

It wasn't until a lizard scurried past his fingers resting in the hot dirt that comprehension began to seep back in. He couldn't stay here, in direct sunlight. That was the first order of business. Find shade--any shade. The sun was no where near its zenith in the brilliantly blue bowl of sky. So, from all indications, it was still morning. That meant that he'd been missing roughly--what? About 12 to 15 hours. Long enough for Hobbes and the rest of the Agency to know he was gone, probably not long enough for them to do anything about it.

And just why had the two--there were two, Darien was almost certain he remembered two men--one behind him and the other to the side, grabbing him, cuffing him and hitting him on the head. Why had two men shanghaied him? What possible reason did they have? Who had ordered the abduction? And why wasn't he dead now, with a bullet in the back of his brain, instead of roasting under a guileless sun like a teenaged girl in a tanning booth?

They'd dumped him out into the desert like a criminal. Well, okay, technically, he was a criminal--but he hadn't committed any crimes in the recent past, not really, and the California Penal code didn't usually go in for draconian justice. This was more like the Foreign Legion. Darien gave a short barking laugh at the thought. This was Algiers, or maybe Morocco, and he was Gary Cooper in Beau Geste. All he needed was a kepi, and a sandstorm to make the illusion complete. As a matter of fact, a kepi, with its brim and the little flap in the back to cover the neck, would be perfect headgear for his present situation. No wonder so many legionnaires wore them while slogging through the blowing grit.

Rubbing his head just renewed the stupefying ache, so he resolved not to do that any more, dropping his hand limply into his lap where it brushed against something hard in the pocket of his jacket. Further investigation uncovered a bottle of Arrowhead water and two packets of Claire's nasty cure-all. Darien would have cried for joy, had he had enough moisture in his body for tears. He twisted off the cap of the bottle, guzzling half the contents before it dawned on him that this was all the water he had, and he would do well to save some for later. That was such a sobering thought he stared nervously at the remaining water, afraid it might evaporate right before his eyes.

Time to get moving--now. Getting up was a distinctly unpleasant chore, as his battered body chose to remind him of all the places he now hurt. Not like he could do anything much about it, although he remembered hearing that aloe vera was good for aches and pains. Good to know, if only he could recognize an aloe vera plant in the wild. His surroundings were mostly low scrubby bushes, bristly cactus, which offered little in the way of shade, and brittle, delicate tumbleweeds which blew restlessly around in the parching wind. He should have requested more desert survival techniques when Bobby Hobbes was teaching him the finer points of being an agent.

Taking a few steps Darien frowned, vaguely comforted when a small brown bird perched on a nearby cactus, peering at him curiously. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto," Darien said to the bird. This so obviously disturbed the tiny thing that it flew away, leaving him once more alone. "Didn't mean to scare you off!" Darien called out. "I'm betting this is still California, although, lost my Boy Scout compass 20 years ago, so I'm not all that sure."

High above, hawks wheeled and dove in the thermals, and Darien wished fervently that his special power were flying, and not invisibility. What good did having a special power do, anyway, when it stillleft you stranded in the desert with half a bottle of water, and two packets of pond algae for food?

"Hobbes?" Darien said, then repeated it louder just to hear his own voice in the wilderness. "Hobbes? Now would be a good time to come looking for me."

It didn't take Hobbes long to discover that Logan Giang had been taken into custody for the Triumph Foods CEO robbery, but he was still curious about Tyree Sanders--and the piece of equipment used to pop the safe. Something like that would only be sold at one place in San Diego. He directed Golda over to 'Open Sesame,' a specialized emporium catering to thieves and their ilk. He knew Darien was a regular there, or had been, at any rate, which meant that Liz, and possibly Sanders, had passed through its portals, as well.

The proprietor was hard-eyed and distrusting, recognizing Hobbes as a cop right off. Since this kind of thing happened all the time, Hobbes was starting to develop a complex about it.

"I'm not a cop, I'm a Federal Agent," he corrected, annoyed, flashing his badge quickly so the owner couldn't read the Fish and Game logo.

"Like that makes a difference?" Mike Lonagan deadpanned. "Only reason I'm even talking to you is cuz I've seen you with Fawkes before."

"Yeah, Fawkes and me are like this," Hobbes said, crossing his fingers the way he'd done as a school kid. "Same with Liz Morgan--you heard she died?"

"Damned shame, gorgeous dame dying like a mummy out there in the desert," Mike shivered, rubbing his shoulders as if the idea made him cold. "And she was riding high lately, didn't have to work anymore." A phone rang behind him, and he started to close the door.

"Wait...I got a few more questions!"

"And I got a business to run, Fed."

"Not if I close this place down, you don't," Hobbes threatened, setting his shoulders. He might be several inches shorter than the other man, but he had muscle, and the weight of the law behind him. "I bet a quick look at your customer list would reveal all kinda hinky characters--and merchandise...is it hot in there, or is it just me?"

"What do you want?" Mike asked coldly, keeping the door open only wide enough to talk through. There was no way Hobbes could get inside without resorting to unnecessary roughness.

"Did Liz Morgan have any new protegees lately? Some new kid she was bringing up like she did Fawkes?"

"Nah, I'm telling you, the broad wasn't working. She was rolling in dough, bought a house, made some investments--paid back all the money she owed me."

It hit Hobbes between the eyes so strongly he felt pole-axed. Liz had money because she'd stolen the contents of Johnny Books' safe three years ago. Galvanized by the information he'd known all along, he asked as an afterthought, "What about Fawkes, you seen him lately?"

"You're like this with the kid," Mike crossed his fingers, then liberated one, folding the forefinger down. "Don't you know?" He slammed the door in Hobbes' face just as the phone began to ring again.

Hobbes stood outside the closed door, a shiver running through him. Johnny Books was the tie that linked Liz and Darien. Liz had gotten away, avoiding probable jail time because Fawkes basically let her, but he had helped arrest Johnny 'Books' Castignacci. Darien had even testified at the mobster's trial, putting him away for 10 to 20 years for fraud, extortion and a host of Rico violations. Liz had pimped Fawkes to Johnny Books, using her former protegee's burglary skills to steal information about a protected witness who was set to testify against Castignacci. Only the whole thing had backfired, and not just because of Darien's guilty conscience. The witness had objected to having a contract put out on him, and retaliated. But if Books could order a murder for hire on one witness, what was to prevent him from doing it to another--even after the trial?

His heart in his throat, Hobbes sped back to the McKinley building, parked Golda haphazardly, and clattered down the stairs to Claire's lair, too hyped to take the clunky, slow moving elevator. He wasn't sure why he headed down, and not up to the Official, but right now he was buzzing with too many ideas and thoughts. They might just be raging paranoia, but on the other hand...

"Claire?" he called out. "I need to use your computer!"

"Bobby?" Claire jerked up, startled. "What's wrong? Did you get word about Darien?"

"No, but I got a theory." Hobbes hunkered down in front of a console, popping in an Agency file CD on Castignacci. He scrolled down, reading the information rapidly. "C'mon, c'mon, tell me something..."

"Bobby, how about you tell me something first!" Claire demanded, placing a hand squarely on the screen.

"It's Johnny Books, it has to be." Hobbes scowled.

"What put that notion into your fevered brain?" She felt his forehead with the back of her hand. "Have you taken your Ritalin today? You're very speedy."

"Yeah, yeah--Liz's body in the desert. Books put her there 'cause she stole his money." Hobbes pushed the doctor's hand aside impatiently.

"If I recall she stole quite a lot of his money," Claire agreed, now reading over his shoulder. "But what does that have to do with Darien?"

"Books has an ax to grind, and he may have buried it in Fawkes' gland-enhanced head," Hobbes said soberly. "There we go--gotcha. I thought I remembered something about this--during the trial he sold his San Diego house to pay for some big-shot lawyer, but still owns a house in Palm Springs."

"Which is north of the Palm Desert where they found Liz."

"If you cut off from highway 10 onto 111, you go right through both places." Hobbes dropped his hands into his lap, suddenly completely drained. "But how the hell do we find him, huh, in a big pile of sand?"

"If he's even there."

"He's there all right," Hobbes growled. "I'd bet my life on it. We just gotta find him before he ends up like Morgan."

"The problem is, we may need to find him sooner than that," Claire suddenly sounded like she was about to cry. "I've been compiling Darien's symptoms for some time, with disturbing and confusing conclusions, but they're leading me toward a possible diagnosis."

"That is?" Hobbes asked, almost afraid to know.

"Darien has been showing strange immune responses for a long time. We both know how severely he reacts when he's ill--and not just the pseudo Helena virus that Arnaud dosed him with. Even a mild cold puts Darien under the weather for longer than it would you or I. His extreme swings in blood sugar, and the constant aches and pains...sound like an older person, as Albert pointed out." Claire absently pushed a lock of blonde hair over her ear. "Or an auto-immune disorder, which could mean that Darien's own body is fighting itself."

"Give me the dummy's version," Hobbes demanded sharply.

"I'd have to understand it better myself in order to explain it fully," Claire answered in frustration. "It's not my field of expertise, but it's going to be." Her tone was fierce.

"Claire, what're you tryin' not to tell me?" Hobbes worried.

The blonde doctor stared back at him with an expression that chilled Bobby to the bone. "You're tellin' me this is like that whatsit, your first lab rat, Gloria, had?" he went on, jumping to the only conclusion he could come up with that fit the evidence. "Werner's syndrome? It could kill him? But I thought you had that licked! You cured him!"

"I thought I had, Bobby. But at this stage, without all the variables accounted for, I'm afraid the answer is yes. If this is what I think it is, it may very well kill him." Claire's distress was unmistakable.

"Mr. Castignacci, as your lawyer, I have to advise you that using the strategy that Miss Morgan and Mr. Fawkes coerced you into threatening the witness is not in your best interest," Martin Gottlieb said carefully. He'd been counsel for Johnny Books for several years now, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could handle the stress. The mobster never listened to him, and even though Gottlieb wasn't positive of the facts, he was fairly certain that Castignacci was conducting his illegal businesses from inside the prison.

"You've done your part, Gottlieb, getting the date for the appeals. Now I just gotta look like the completely innocent, legitimate business man that I am," Johnny assured.

"Have you read the newspaper today?"

"I have the New York Times delivered special," the prisoner smirked. "That rag San Diego calls a paper is so small-town."

"You ought to keep up with the local news," Gottlieb retorted, more angry than he knew he should be. And he had every reason to believe that what he was about to tell Castignacci wouldn't surprise the mobster in the least. "Liz Morgan's body was found out in the desert."

"Oh? Such a waste of a beautiful woman," Johnny mused. "And such a talent. The woman knew how to open a safe."

"Did you...?"

"Martin, I'm in lock-up, how could you even think such a thing?" Johnny couldn’t spread his hands because of the cuffs anchoring him to the table, but he held his palms open; the universal sign of innocence. "I'm wounded, that a man I've known for so long could think I would stoop to such violence."

Gottlieb stared at his client for several long minutes, trying out and rejecting several responses to that outrageous statement. Johnny Books was a man of supreme vengeance. When pushed, he pushed back, and harder. Under no circumstances was Gottlieb willing to put himself in harm's way. He cleared his throat, shoving two forms across the table with a pen. "Sign these affidavits. They outline your claims as the unvarnished truth. I'll find some way to sell it to the judge."

"That's why I pay you," Johnny smiled triumphantly, scribbling his name on the lines indicated.

"Agent Hobbes, where have you been? The meet to bring Wynters in from the cold is in less than an hour. You're supposed to be over at the Palace Hotel ordering lobster bisque right now," The Official ordered when Hobbes threw open the door.

Eberts added, "Your reservation is for noon, under the name of..."

"No can do, sir, 'cause I may have a lead on Fawkes' whereabouts, and I gotta go out to the prison," Hobbes said breathlessly, but as politely as possible under the circumstances.

"This case hinges on getting Wynters in--you know the clock is ticking now that he's here. The Iraqi insurgents are probably closing in on the hotel as we speak," The Official argued, then paused, his countenance softening. "What did you find out about Fawkes?"

Explaining his theory quickly, Hobbes was astonished when Eberts picked up the phone, dialed rapidly, spoke a few words of greeting, then held it out to him. "This is Warden Mandrake, he--we're acquainted. He'll have Johnny Books in the visitors room by the time you get there."

Stunned by Eberts' swift work, Hobbes exchanged a few words with the warden of the Federal Penitentiary before hanging up. "Sir, I can't go meet Wynters," he said firmly, the adrenaline coursing through his veins causing his hands to tremble slightly. He shoved them into his sports jacket pockets, not dwelling on the thought that if Johnny Books wasn't the culprit, then Hobbes didn't have a clue where else to search for his partner.

"It is not my usual practice to condone an agent's refusal of a field assignment, but that gland in Fawkes' head is worth..." Borden started.

"Seventeen million dollars plus interest, and we've all done the math. Quicksilver glands are hard to come by and have gone up in price in the last few years," Alex Monroe said dryly, nearly colliding with Eberts as she walked in and he walked out. "Nice tie, Eberts," she complimented. "I could use a nice Cobb Salad for lunch, and Wynters and I have already been mano a mano. Stands to reason I should be the one to go."

"How did you know?" Hobbes stared at her. She hadn't been in the office until after the Official's harangue about meeting Wynters.

"Intel, Hobbesy." She grinned slyly at him, the Queen cat with all the mice. "I have my sources."

"Pippin and Heyes have a safe house for Wynters, co-ordinate with them once you have the man. All the data on that CD checks out. The insurgents would have a party if they got what was in his head," the Official said. "We do this job right and we may get a lot more of these high profile cases. Looks good on the old resume. Agent Monroe, make me proud."

Alex turned, rolling her eyes so that only Hobbes could see her, "Can I bring you back a doggy bag, sir? The prime rib is very good there."

"He wants lobster bisque," Hobbes said to her departing back. He clenched his fists inside his pockets, desperate to find Fawkes before it might be too late. Claire's diagnosis had scared him.

"Find Fawkes, Hobbes," Borden said with much less of his usual bluster.

"Because of what's in his head. sir?"

"Because he's one of our team, Bobby."

Wiping a shaky hand over his forehead, Darien was surprised to find that he wasn't sweating much. Surely walking in this heat he should be perspiring buckets by now. No sweat, and he hadn't had the urge to pee in a long time. Not since he first woke up in this devil's hellhole, now that he thought about it. Dehydration. The most common way to die in the desert.

Taking a tiny sip from his bottle, Darien let the water pool in his mouth, soothing his caked tongue and gritty teeth. Only one sip every hour--how long could he make the bottle of water last? His whole being begged for another sip, but he held firm, even though his head throbbed. What the heck had those two hit him with?

Trying to puzzle out who had dumped him, and why, had kept him occupied as he trudged along, but the list of suspects was too long and varied. Stark? No, too impersonal for him. The former leader of Chrysalis liked to see the destruction he caused up close.

Arnaud? Possible but not probable. While the Swiss Miss Mother often created such convoluted and ridiculous plots it was a wonder any part of them succeeded, stranding an enemy in the desert wasn't quite Rube Goldbergian enough for him.

The Chinese, or some other foreign nationals? Like crazed Canadians? Not even Bobby Hobbes would be paranoid enough to believe that. This was too Hollywood; if not Algiers then Mad Max--A gray haired, gimpy Mel Gibson crossing the wastelands in Thunderdome only to find that chain-mail wearing Tina Turner, of all people, had banished him.

Darien shook his head, which was a distinct mistake, and had to hunch over with his forehead on his knees for a few dicey moments before he could straighten. All the wool gathering hadn't answered the fundamental question of who had dumped him, much less why, and his mind was wandering too much to keep on the subject, anyway.

It was too damned hot.

Darien discarded his jacket, tucking the packets of Claire's concoction and the half bottle of water in the pockets of his low slung khakis. At least he'd dressed for the desert. All the best people wore khakis and a Boy Scout leader's shirt with the name Bud embroidered on the breast pocket when crossing the Sahara. There was even a merit badge on the right sleeve, for Lifguarding. Damned lot of good that did here in the land of sand. Darien walked away, leaving his gas station jacket draped over a pile of rocks, and never looked back.

The sun was blinding, baking his skin. He was already red and sensitive on his unprotected face, and now without his jacket, his arms would burn, too. Never one to pass up an opportunity to experiment with the gland, even under these adverse conditions, Darien let the Quicksilver flow until his body disappeared from sight. Like his own personal sunscreen.

Squat cactus and spiny trees looked otherworldly in Quicksilver vision, and, for a brief time, Darien was comfortable in his cold bubble. He saw a strange outcropping of rocks and hunkered down, winded and vaguely nauseated after being invisible for only a short time. Dry heaves nearly knocked him over, and he let the silvery substance flake away, unable to retch and maintain the flow from the gland at the same time.

Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea after all.

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

Wynters was already sitting in the restaurant when Alex Monroe arrived, approximately five minutes after the rendezvous time. She hoped that hadn't scared him off. In her one encounter with Tyrone Wynters she'd sensed a man tired and disillusioned by the life he'd led, ready for some sort of haven where he could rest. With any luck, the Agency would be able to help him slip away into a hiding place where he could live the remainder of his days without the adrenaline rush that had propelled him through two decades of service to his government.

"May I help you?" The Maitre d' asked unctuously, standing at his post like a Beefeater in front of Buckingham Palace, ready to repel any unwanted invaders.

"I see my client over there," Alex murmured. He let her by with a sniff of distaste.

She approached the table cautiously, surreptitiously scanning the room for any sign of Iraqi insurgents or terrorists of any kind. Of course, in this post-9/11 world, any American knew that evil didn't wear a black hat and speak with an easily discernable accent like Boris Badenoff and Fearless Leader on the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Terrorists were subtler these days, slipping glibly amongst unsuspecting fools. However, Alex Monroe was no fool, and neither was the man she was about to meet. He sat with his back to the wall, at a table situated midway between the restaurant foyer and kitchen, able to view all exits and entrances with ease. Wynters had seen her the minute she passed the maitre d', his dark eyes guardedly watching her maneuver past waiters and sommeliers. He gave a tiny nod just as she slid into the chair opposite him.

"I trust your stay has been pleasant?" she asked sweetly.

"No surprises, and my room was suitable to my needs," he answered formally. "Thank you for making the reservation."

"Do you plan on staying permanently in the San Diego area?" Alex kept up the innocuous chat as the waiter handed out large leather-bound menus.

"Depends on the climate--not too hot or too cold," Wynters said.

"There are some lovely homes--many with excellent security systems already installed," Alex continued. "I have some in mind that would be highly suitable to your needs." And not, she reminded herself, half as restrictive as the Community Hobbes and Fawkes had recently visited.

They both bent over their menus as if actually planning to enjoy their lunches. Monroe had been a party to more than her share of tense meetings like this one. Being a woman, she was often the go-between in negotiations, the old guard agents thinking that watchful eyes would discount a feminine presence. While Alex had resented the implication that this was all she was good for in her early days, now she rather enjoyed the tingle of adrenaline that kept her alert without sending her into hyperdrive the way a firefight or aggressive car chase might. "May I suggest the prime rib? It's excellent here."

"I'm trying to cut down my intake of red meat," Wynters said with a hint of a smile, the first sign she'd seen of his real self.

"Not on the low carb diet?" Alex laughed.

"Having sustained myself for days on no carb, no dairy, no vegetables and only cockroaches for protein on numerous occasions in the past, I no longer subscribe to any particular fad." He shrugged, with a world-weary grin. "I'm happy to have food, and a roof over my head."

"And a garden to sit out in on lazy afternoons to read other people's versions of government coups, and fictional spy thrillers," Alex quoted, remembering her father saying those exact words the last time she'd seen him in the flesh.

"You look like him."

Alex was startled by the intimate tone, but the waiter's reappearance forestalled any further conversation. She ordered a Caesar Salad instead of the Cobb, and Wynters chose the pasta primavera. They were actually going to eat lunch, Alex was surprised to note. There was no urgency in Wynters' demeanor, he seemed content to wait and watch for whatever came next. Alex didn't know whether to hurry him along, in case there was some sort of unexpected attack, or relax and enjoy herself in the company of a gentlemen. The fact that Pippin and Hayes were loitering at the mahogany-paneled bar was reassuring. The fact that the busboy with the matte black eyes, clearing the next table over, was constantly glancing at her, was not.

"Your father--you look like him."

"You worked together?" Alex asked carefully, sipping the icy water the waiter had deposited in front of her. State secrets being what they were, she rarely got to hear any details about James Monroe.

"In Berlin--long before the wall came down. He was a good man, didn't hold with any of the prejudice rampant in those days." Wynters frowned. "I think that's what I miss the most. Goodness. Like water in the desert."

"I have a list of rental opportunities," Alex almost stammered, wanting to hear more but knowing she needed to stay in character. She was a Federal agent, pretending to be a real estate agent, if memory served her from the long ago briefing she and Hobbes had had before the original meet with Wynters, and Fawkes' disappearance, and not some wistful teenager dreaming of her father's daring exploits. "I think you'll agree that we have a lot here for you. You won't have to worry about rising foreign interest rates, or being mired in debtors prison. Our objectives are clear and aboveboard. We want you to be comfortable."

"I'm very interested," Wynters agreed amiably. "Perhaps we can get our lunches to go? I have a feeling that someone wants this table."

Alex flicked her eyes at the disappearing back of the black-eyed busboy, and signaled the waiter who was bringing over laden plates. "May we have some boxes for this? My client just realized he was late for a business meeting."

"No problem, ma'am," the waiter assured. There was a wait station not 10 feet away, and he skillfully transferred the food into Styrofoam containers.

Suddenly, the need to leave was tantamount, and Wynters' cool savior faire impressed Alex. He paid the check in cash, leaving a generous tip, and took the food with a formal nod at the waiter, appearing neither rushed nor overly concerned. Alex could almost feel the Iraqis moving in to surround them, expecting the busboy, and perhaps that guileless looking sommelier who uncorked a bottle without taking his eyes off her, to launch some sort of attack to prevent their escape. She opened her tiny pink purse, as if to get some money for a tip, but really to have her pistol readily available.

Amazingly, Pippin had brought a car up into the portico, and had it idling when she and Wynters emerged. No shots were fired, no shouts heard behind them. Where Heyes was, Monroe wasn't entirely sure. "Get in," Pippin said tightly.

Alex complied, her breath still caught in her chest. Had she imagined the threat or had it been there, but so low level as to be almost impossible to perceive? Had she been blind or appallingly naïve?

"One of your agents pointed out the busboy and his cronies to me before you ever arrived," Wynters explained. "We were waiting to see how long they took to circle the wagons. Both the sous chef and the bartender were involved. What was it you said about rising foreign interests?"

"Heyes, Silverman and Pollack are pounding some Arab butt right about now," Pippin said when the car had been swallowed up in midday San Diego traffic.

Alex felt a flare of irrational anger. "Be nice if someone kept me up to speed," she groused, uncertain whether she was relieved to have avoided a shoot-out or annoyed to have missed the excitement.

"Arrive on time next time," Pippin said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Your lunch, Miss Monroe?" Wynters held out the Styrofoam box with a look of genuine amusement. "Eat when you can because one never knows when one will have make do with a selection of ants and local flora."

Hobbes was jittery by the time he'd arrived at the prison. That old expression 'like a cat on a hot tin roof' came to him, and made sense, for the first time. That was exactly how he felt; like he couldn't stay still for more than a few seconds at a time. Forcing himself into a calm that was barely skin deep, he showed his badge at the front gate and was waved through with a minimum of fuss. Certainly helped to have friends in high places--or in Eberts' case, maybe not high places, but the right place.

Warden Mandrake was waiting just outside the visitor's room after Hobbes had been checked and rechecked, and surrendered his firearm to a bored guard.

"Agent Hobbes? I'm Doyle Mandrake, anything I can do to be of service?" A pudgy man with a comb over extended his hand. Hobbes gave it a preemptory shake, finding Mandrake's palm clammy and damp. The guy gave the impression of a milquetoast, with pale, anemic skin and doughy cheeks, but there was the intelligence and alertness of an eagle in his dark eyes. Hobbes had no doubt that someone in charge of several thousand prisoners was a man to be reckoned with and wondered idly how he and Eberts knew one another.

"There's every reason to believe that Johnny Castignacci may have ordered a hit on a woman whose body was recently found in the desert, and on one of the agents who works with me," Hobbes explained. He'd already told Mandrake this over the phone, but it never hurt to emphasize important issues.

"Yes, you said that. I've compiled a list of all his visitors in the last month--mostly his lawyer, Martin Gottlieb, and two friends, a Peter Adare, and Gary Mathers."

"The Mouth?" Hobbes asked in surprise. "He's a known mechanic for the mob."

"He got through security." Mandrake sighed. "Was no trouble, visited one time, over a month ago. Adare has visited or called many times, on five separate occasions recently." He held out a page copied from the visitor's log and the phone records. "The lawyer, from Gottlieb, Greenberg and Eisner, visits once a week, since there is an appeal date coming up soon."

"How soon?" Hobbes pressed. That would be the reason Johnny Books wanted Morgan and Fawkes out of the way. He was getting rid of all the probable witnesses.

"At the end of the month. I believe July 25th."

Hobbes glanced over the copies, checking the dates. Townsend had visited several times at the beginning of the month, before Liz Morgan was found, but since then he'd only phoned, from Palm Springs. "You monitor the inmates' calls?"

"Of course," Mandrake agreed, obviously unruffled by any allusions to poor prison management. "Castignacci could be speaking in code, and we'd never catch every single reference. Nothing recentlywas mentioned about your agent--Fawkes, was it? Or a woman."

"Can I see him?" Hobbes changed the subject, since there was no point. He already had hard suspicions about the mobster. Best just to confront him.

"I anticipated that; Bosco, one of the guards, is waiting to take him down to the private room inmates use to meet with their lawyers. Let me just give him the high sign." Mandrake picked up the phone and spoke a few words. He handed Hobbes a small featureless white plastic card with a magnetic strip. "This will allow you entrance downstairs--just take the stairwell on your left, and Bosco will meet you on the second floor."

Walking down the bland institutional pale green hall, Hobbes kept expecting to feel the icy chill of Fawkes' invisible arm brushing up against him. He felt vulnerable and strangely naked without his partner, and that made him angry. What a difference four years made. He already marked the time, privately, as Before Fawkes and After Fawkes.

Before Fawkes, he'd been hanging on to his very last chance at a job as a Federal agent with all 10 fingernails dug in. The Agency, with its cover under the Department of Fish and Game, had been his last resort. Drummed out of the FBI and CIA, he'd had nowhere else to land. But the Official had given him a break, if a low paying one, and he'd been equal parts grateful, and outraged. It grates on the nerves, being irritated all the time. Not to mention, Hobbes had to be honest with himself, paranoid. Even with the stabilizing meds he'd been taking at the time, the paranoia bled through so easily. The first time he'd seen the tall, absurdly slender Fawkes he'd been sure the Official was pulling a fast one on him. Who was this punk, and why did a seasoned agent like Robert A. Hobbes have to baby-sit?

Now, Hobbes felt itchy without the spiky-haired amateur philosopher. The thought of Castignacci sitting smugly in his prison cell, ordering a hit on Fawkes made Hobbes boil. When he spotted the guard standing at parade rest in front of the interrogation room, Hobbes' blood pressure shot upward. How was he going to stay in control long enough to confront Johnny Books?

A phrase from a song popped into his head, and Hobbes almost laughed. "Stay cool, real cool," he murmured. Like Fawkes going invisible, cool as ice. Like Adam accepting the inevitable, and climbing into his cryo bed to be frozen until the cure came about. If they could do it, so could he. He wanted to smash Castignacci's head until the bastard spilled the beans, but he'd stay cool--and worm the information out of the man. At least, that was the plan.

"Bosco?" Hobbes handed over his get into jail free card.

"Agent," Bosco said without inflection. "Castignacci's already inside. Just knock on the door when you're ready to come out, or there's a red panic button beside the light switch. I wouldn't advise using it."

"Brings out the big guns?" Hobbes observed wryly.

"Yes, sir."

"Lemme in."

Bosco swiped the card through the reader, and once the door was unlocked, Hobbes stalked in, waiting for the click that signaled Bosco locking them inside before staring belligerently at his foe. He'd met Johnny Books two years earlier, after the debacle with Liz Morgan, but it hadn't really struck him until now how much he resembled the mobster. Both had compact, densely muscled bodies, balding heads and prominent noses. Hobbes could almost see a familial resemblance, which just served to irritate him all over again. The last thing he needed in his life was more connected 'family.'

"Heard your appeal is on the docket in a coupla weeks," Hobbes said as preamble, still studying Castignacci as if he were an exhibit in the museum of prison art.

"My lawyer has been highly efficient," Johnny agreed, dark eyes behind wire-rim frames revealing nothing. Except for the handcuffs attaching him to the tabletop, he was as relaxed as a man could be in prison.

"Martin Gottlieb." Hobbes skirted the prisoner, walking all around the table, showing off his freedom of movement. "Sleezoid shark in a Perry Ellis suit who gets mobsters and murderers off so they can do it all over again. Musta paid a pretty penny to get a high level shyster like him"

"He's always gotten me what I want."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Hobbes sneered. "Helped you a lot on that trial in '01. Got you in the joint here," he listed Gottlieb's contributions to Castignacci's current medium security status. In Bobby's opinion, the mobster ought to have been in San Quentin where he belonged. Reaching the side of the table opposite the prisoner, abruptly, he leaned forward, smacking his palms onto the surface of the table as he got right into Castignacci's face. "You ever personally murdered somebody, Castignacci? I mean with your own hands? Done the deed, gotten blood on your shirt, or is it always Pete and the Mouth who do the dirty work? Have you made your bones, or did you coast on your daddy's coattails?"

Johnny laughed condescendingly. "Agent... Hobbes, was it? You seem to have watched The Godfather a few too many times. I'm just another legitimate businessman who ran afoul of the IRS. And for your information, Pete is my right hand man. He's handling my business affairs while I'm incarcerated," Johnny said smoothly. "Gary Mathers is just an acquaintance."

"Nice friends you got," Hobbes cocked his head, squinting at the prisoner, struggling to keep his hands on the table. God, he wanted to wring Fawkes' location out of the little weasel. "The Mouth's suspected of killin' two known wiseguys, and a State Attorney."

"I wouldn't know, he's not a close friend." Castignacci's relaxed posture didn't change one iota, and Hobbes found himself wanting to do whatever it took to rattle the bastard's smug calm.

"Then why'd he visit here? Huh? Why does a known mob button man waltz on into a prison -- unless he works for you? And you had something you needed a good mechanic for?"

"I haven't driven my car since I was incarcerated," Johnny said innocently. "But I'm starved for intelligent conversation in a place like this. Most of the other inmates don't have quite the education I do."

"And Mathers is what, a Harvard MBA? Try again, Johnny. I'm not buyin' that the Mouth came callin' just to shoot the breeze with a slimeball like you." Hobbes shook his head as he straightened. "Life in the joint must be a real hardship for a guy with your appetite for the finer things, huh? How d'you stand havin' t'sit next t'some of those low-lifes at dinner? Most of 'em probably eat with their mouths open," Hobbes commiserated. "A friggin' crime. 'Cause, you're such a stand-up guy. Pillar of the community and all. That the line of BS you're feeding the appeals court?"

"An unfortunate circumstance led to the conviction, which Gottlieb is going to have overturned. A misunderstanding--the jury didn't hear all the facts."

"'Cause you tried to kill the main witness, and he refused to testify." Hobbes laughed shortly, remembering the shootout at Castignacci's estate before the protected witness disappeared. Between Liz Morgan's escape and the crazed witness, events went from confused to chaotic in short order. Fawkes had lost it to Quicksilver Madness and had to be shoved into Golda and handcuffed, once again, just to get him back to the Agency. Luckily, the FBI had been more than happy to take Castignacci off Hobbes' hands, and hadn't caught sight of red-eyed Darien. And once he'd gotten his dose of Counteragent, Darien had cooperated completely, singing a pretty song about the mob boss. "Now you're doin' it all over again.

Castignacci ignored the implicit connection. "A judge has granted my appeal, obviously he believes facts were misinterpreted."

"How much money d'you have to pay the judge? Four hundred large?" Hobbes threw back at him, pacing restlessly. The mobster's imperturbable calm was becoming more and more galling. Darien had confessed a great deal more to his partner than what was on the permanent record. Hobbes knew that Liz and Darien were to be paid $400,000 for robbing the FBI offices in the Tenneson building. The fact that they'd gotten away with it had left the Feds with egg on their face, even after the files were returned.

"Since my incarceration, my finances are an open book. Where would I get that kind of money?"

"Off the top of my head, the Grand Caymans?"

"Be my guest, take a cruise to the Caribbean, because there's nothing here for you, Agent Hobbes. You're barking up the wrong cactus."

"Your MO never changes, does it, Johnny? If you can't buy your way out of trouble, then you kill the witnesses," Hobbes accused, slamming his palm down on the scarred brown table again hard enough to shake the chains connecting Castignacci's wrists. "Morgan's body was found in the desert a 'couple days ago. She died of dehydration. From what I hear, it wasn't pretty."

"Very unfortunate for Ms. Morgan. But you say she was found in the desert, Agent Hobbes. If that's the case, how could I have had anything to do with her death?" Johnny asked reasonably. He folded his hands over the metal hasp locking him to the table. "I haven't seen the woman since she stole my money three years ago."

"Stealing from a thief, now there's a novel concept," Hobbes mused, reining in his anger. He didn't want to lose his chance to find Fawkes because he lost control. "With the trial coming up, you wanted her out of the way."

"I wanted my money, but apparently, if she's dead, I'm out close to a million."

"Sorry to hear that, Johnny boy. Really breaks my heart, you practically on the door of bankruptcy. Had to sell that mansion you had over in Del Mar. Loved the red tile roof." Hobbes shook his head. "Still got the place in Palm Springs? Near where Bob Hope usta live?"

The start of surprise was genuine, but Castignacci schooled his features instantly. Hobbes grinned; the hook was in his fish, now all he had to do was real him in. "I hear they got some great restaurants up there--too bad Fawkes won't get anything t'eat. Where you got him stashed, Castignacci? You have Pete and Mouth drop him in the desert like they did Morgan?"

"Fawkes... I thought we were discussing Elizabeth Morgan," Castignacci said calmly, leaning back into his chair comfortably. "You know, Agent Hobbes, I really don't care for your tone. As for what Fawkes eats - or doesn't, that really doesn't concern me. I haven't seen your ex-con partner since my trial three years ago. I'm sure I have no idea what imaginary evidence you think you have to implicate me in Liz's disappearance, but my lawyer will hear about your accusations. My constitutional rights are being impinged upon..."

The self-important monologue made Bobby's temper surge. "Impinge this, you jerkwad," Hobbes hissed, his barely restrained fury bubbling up like warm soda pop. "You kill Darien Fawkes an' you won't see the outside of these walls until the Bush twins are old enough to run for president, capiche? Now what have you done with Fawkes? Got him squirreled away in that desert oasis of yours drinkin' iced tea and eatin' fruit salad? Or did you dump him out in the middle of nowhere to roast his chestnuts under an open sky?"

"I didn't kill Elizabeth Morgan, and I haven't harmed a hair on Fawkes' head," Johnny replied with righteous calm. "And the only guests at my home are the ones I've invited there to take advantage of the warm weather. I'd say be my guest, check it out, but I doubt you'd make it past the front gates of the development. They have a rather strict dress code, Agent Hobbes. If Fawkes is missing, I suggest you investigate his other associates. Once a thief, always a thief, isn't that what they say?"

"Maybe about you," Hobbes said shortly. "I have been checking up on his past, and you know what? Your name came up. Since you're one of his former associates, you just gave tacit agreement for me to search your house." He held out the tiny recording device he'd secreted in his pocket. "You don't mind if I taped our conversation, do you? Press one if yes, and two if no. Oh, sorry, you don't got a push button phone. It's only for your protection, wouldn't want anything t'be misconstrued."

"You've got nothing on me, Hobbes. From the looks of things, I'll be out of here in no time--if you're right, and there's no Darien Fawkes to testify against me." Castignacci shrugged casually. "And you could be the one staring out between the bars, over the flat, dry landscape. I don't know where your partner is, and even if I did, he's been missing for a whole day--probably scorpion food by now."

Hobbes knew when he'd been stonewalled. He smacked the metal door with enough force to bruise his palm, Johnny Books' words ringing in his ears. Castignacci might not know where Fawkes was exactly, but he'd dropped enough hints about the desert to prove he'd known about the hit. Even knowing that much didn't do Hobbes any good unless Darien had stayed in one spot since Tuesday night. Highly unlikely. So where to start looking for him in a vast wasteland of sand, cacti and Joshua trees?

An old Chinese guy--apparently not that wise man, Confucius, once said, "If we don't change the direction we are headed, we will end up where we are going." Sage advice, no doubt about it, but I wasn't sure where I had come from, so how would I know if I ended up where I was going, when I didn't know where that was?

Peering up at the sky, Darien kept heading west, toward the setting sun. If nothing else, he knew east from west--and by a process of elimination, north from south. Which meant that San Diego was roughly in the direction the sun was headed, and the rest of the US was behind him. Fat lot of good that intel did when there wasn't a road or a human for miles.

The convenient outcropping of rock where he'd huddled during the most brutal heat had been a Godsend, but now his impatient nature told him to move. He could already feel the debilitating effects of the sun on his exhausted body. Just walking slowly took more effort than he possessed, and he had to rest frequently. At least, when the sun set, it would be cooler, but without a clear plan of action, Darien was beginning to despair. He'd never been an ardent camper, and his wilderness skills were next to nil--especially in the desert with its wealth of lizards, snakes and coyotes.

Shading his eyes, he saw the long, lean body of one of the desert's predators silhouetted against the sun just as it dipped below the horizon. For a long time Darien stood motionless, letting the Quicksilver coat his body, afraid that the coyote would come his way. The animal must have seen something much more edible elsewhere, because it loped off, but Darien didn't reappear instantly. He felt safer invisible. Although fully aware that the coyote could have smelled him even when he was Quicksilvered, Darien still liked the thin layer of insulation the gland gave him.

Unfortunately, he was also all too cognizant of the dangers of staying see-through too long. He'd have no hope of escaping this hellhole if he was so dehydrated and sick from over use of Quicksilver he couldn't walk. Reluctantly he let the silver flake off, trudging along between cactuses, wondering if some long ago Indians and cowboys had traveled over the same ground.

"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my," Darien muttered. "Snakes, and scorpions and coyotes, too." Were there spiders in this arid wasteland? That gave him pause, and for a while he tried watching where he placed each foot, but it was getting too dark to see.

Wearily Darien hunkered down on a flat rock, pulling out the bottle of water. He'd sipped sparingly from the contents most of the day, but his belly was protesting the absence of food. He'd been trembling and lightheaded for a couple of hours, the need to preserve his precious fluid had kept him from gulping the whole thing all at once. The time had come to pull out one of Claire's special concoctions.

With a grimace Darien dumped the green powder into the last of the water, and guzzled down the thick, slimy mixture. As nasty as the stuff was to swallow, it did clear his head and give him an almost instant boost of energy. But for what? Would he wither away out here in the harsh landscape until there was little more than dried tendons holding his bones together? That lovely image got Darien on his feet again, trudging toward his goal. There had to be a freeway around here somewhere--someone had to have dropped him off in a car.

Belatedly Darien realized he should have looked for footprints or tire tracks where he'd first awakened. It was far too late that, he'd walked hours away from that spot. Now there was nothing to do but keep walking, and avoid any hungry creatures of the night.

"Bobby, I feel I must point out that this whole enterprise is highly illegal--as much as I understand American jurisprudence," Claire said adamantly, hanging onto the door handle as Golda zipped down the freeway going faster than the rattletrap van ought to ever be allowed to go. "We don't really have a warrant or reasonable cause to go all the way to Palm Springs on a..."

"Ain't a whim, darlin'," Hobbes snapped, his patience unraveling about the same speed the van was traveling. They were wasting time even talking about this. "Fawkes has already been missing for over 24 hours now. By the time we can really start searching the desert, it'll be tomorrow."

"He'll be alone, in the dark," Claire said softly.

"For the second night in a row," Hobbes agreed. "Ain't good, Claire. You said yourself that he could be in big trouble with the way his health has been. All the green algae in the world can't save him from dehydration and sun stroke."

"I never imagined it would be this hard..." Claire mused.

"What?"

"Becoming attached."

Bobby pulled his eyes away from the road for a scant second to see her face. Claire's lips were pressed tightly together, and her hands were clasped tightly in her lap as if she had to keep her fingers attached to her palms by sheer force. "Never is, sweetheart."

"With Gloria...I was in over my head from the beginning because I felt such guilt over her fate. I'd done that to her--caused premature aging in a young, vital woman. So, I felt obligated to keep in contact with her family, make sure that she knew she was loved... when I finally found the formula to give her her youth back--I was absolutely chuffed, but mostly relieved. I didn't have that burden anymore."

"And you already had Fawkes to contend with," Hobbes pointed out.

The first time I saw him, in the padded room..." Claire trailed off, lost in thought. "I was cold, analytical, because I didn't want to let myself get involved again. I was still caring for Gloria in secret...and God knows Darien was angry with me."

"He was angry at the world."

"He resented what I represented. The hold we had on him, hated that he needed the Counteragent...and yet he had such an incredible sweetness, a vulnerability...he needed me, not just as a doctor, but as a friend."

"Better not let the smart-ass hear you say that," Bobby laughed, even though his chest hurt. They were talking like Fawkes was already gone--like this was some sort of anticipatory wake. "We'll find him, Claire," he stated firmly. "Kid lands on his feet--he was a cat burglar. Got nine lives."

"He's using them up faster than anyone should," Claire swallowed audibly, staring out at the changing landscape. "And now it looks like I may not have cured Gloria, after all."

Bobby let his gaze follow hers. What had been rolling golden hills covered in scrub oak and dark green live oak trees had segued into flatter, more arid terrain. Cactus and weird, twisted Joshua trees now vied for survival with low lying ground cover. Very soon there'd be only sand and rocks, very little greenery at all. Unforgiving, hot, dangerous country, where a few steps in the wrong direction got you lost quick. Landmarks were harder to come by, and the sun beat down on unprotected skin with wicked fire. Did Fawkes even have any water? Claire had said he had packets of the green stuff, but what good would they be without a liquid medium to consume them? And lastly, what Hobbes was most afraid of--had Fawkes even been alive when Pete and Mouth dumped him?

"Been through the desert on a horse with no name..." Darien tried to keep the tune, but he was too tired. "In the desert you can remember your name...cause there're ain't no one for to give you no pain..." His mouth was so dry he couldn't get the words out half the time, anyway, and he ached. Every damned joint in his body ached like he was wearing rubber bands wrapped around knees, ankles, wrists and elbows. Getting up and down was the worst; his entire body cringing due to the mechanics needed to reassemble his gawky frame from sitting to standing, or vice versa. He should take another rest, he knew, but it was so much cooler now, with the sun down, that the small boost of energy from the Claire special had propelled him well along. And restarting after stopping for a while was such a chore. There had to be a road nearby soon--if he just walked over that rise, maybe beyond that dark row of cacti? Then, maybe?

Taking a deep, hopeful breath, Darien peered up at the stars. He'd never seen so many stars, shining in a clear velvety sky. Celestial glory at its finest, and he was hardly in a position to enjoy the view. It just reminded him, strangely, of Kevin, and the yearly astronomy lesson his scientific elder brother hadtried to drum into Darien's less than enthusiastic noggin. The only thing he'd ever cared about were the cycles of the moon. As an aspiring cat burglar, the lunar phases were important to a denizen of the darkest shadows. While other crimes might increase on those brightest of nights, any self respecting burglar stayed out of the moonlight, and waited for a darker evening a few days hence.

The stars were just pretty, sparkly things hanging up there in the dark void of space. Darien fervently wished he'd paid a whole lot more attention to Kevin's lectures, which would have come in handy just about now. He was certain there was a North Star, just not quite sure which one it was.

Tilting his head back as he walked Darien puzzled out the constellations. Big Dipper, or was that Ursa Major? Right above him, like a big saucepan pouring out a stream of glittering stars. He took a step to the left, trying to remember anything about the Pliades, or Orion. The names were coming back to him, Kevin's sonorous voice a comfort in the dark after all these years. Darien stumbled, his ankle turning on a patch of lose rocks. He grabbed for something, anything, to catch himself, and got a handful of cactus spines for his troubles.

"Crap!" Darien cursed, his forward momentum not slowed one iota by the aggressive flora, and he tumbled headfirst down a small ravine into an arroyo. Lying there winded, he catalogued his newly acquired hurts, honing in on the most troubling of the long list. His calf burned, a dreadful stinging pain that seemed to be growing steadily the longer he lay there. What the hell?

With a howl, Darien scrambled up as fast as he could go, his left leg a column of agony. What had caused that? Fear creeping up his spine, like millions of spider feet, Darien knew. He'd been bitten. Again! He collapsed onto his backside, grabbing at his increasingly painful calf with his unperforated hand. Pushing up his pants leg, he squinted, trying to see the wound. There was no swelling, but the brush of one finger over a spot midway between his ankle and knee just about sent him into outer space. What had bit him? A spider? What?

Taking great, panicky lungfuls of air, Darien tried consciously to calm down. Hysterics would get him nowhere out here alone in the desert. He had to fend for himself, and do so quickly. Who the hell knew what kind of destruction this vermin's venom could do? If it was anything like the Funnel Web spider, his own particular least favorite arachnid, he would start having trouble breathing fairly soon. And that scared the hell out of him.

With infinite care, he tried to visually search the area where he'd fallen. It was much too dark to see anything small, but the path of his body down the slope was obvious, loose gravel, sand and crushed scrub all spelling out the tale. What had stung him? He moved cautiously to all fours, his left leg protesting violently enough to send shudders up his torso. The burning path of the poison was spreading through his veins, he could feel the tingling sensation working its way out from the middle of his calf.

Crap, crap, crap and crap on top of a great stinking dung-heap of crap.

Tentatively inching forward Darien probed the rocky ground. Should he even try to find the creature? Should he care at this point, since, in all probability, he was going to die out here, alone and unguarded? Would coyotes find his body before his too-late rescuers?

Trying not to give in to his terrors, it took Darien nearly a minute to realize that his hand, and then his pants leg were damp. Not truly wet, but far from dry. He poked a finger into the earth, surprised to find it mushy, unlike the hard packed sand everywhere else. He sat down to investigate, dry mouth almost salivating at the thought of fresh water. Pushing down with his whole palm on the tiny oasis Darien could feel moisture beading on his skin and he quickly raised his prize to his mouth to lick up the natural refresher. After doing this three more times, his miniature well ran dry, but Darien had hopes that the underground source that fed the baby fountain would replenish soon. Even that small amount of fluid helped, but he was now drooling more than absolutely necessary. His whole body had been invaded by twitching, tingling caterpillars alternating with a numbness that came and went with weird unpredictability. On the one hand, the one with the cactus spines imbedded in his palm, numbness was a good thing. The problem was, the only place that never seemed to go numb was his left calf. Blazing, searing fire roared from the wound Darien couldn't even see, and he curled on his side, contorted in gruesome pain.

Sleep was elusive. Every time Darien dropped off, he'd jerk awake, fearing the feral predators of the night, and the chilling specter of death. Amazingly, as the lonely, endless hours passed, he realized his lungs were still functioning perfectly well. Cramps stole his breath once in a while, but that was temporary, vaguely like the contractions he'd heard women describe during labor. After an intense bout of cramping, where his left leg spasmed so strongly he couldn't even straighten his knee, he lay shivering on the unforgiving earth waiting for death. Quicksilver settled over him, shielding him from view.

Hobbes didn't even try to play nice with the square-jawed guard outside the gated mansion owned by John Castignacci. He just shoved his Colt up the guy's nostril.

"Here t'see Pete. Castignacci sent me." Not precisely true, but Hobbes had ensured that Johnny Books be placed in solitary confinement for the rest of the day to prevent him from calling his Palm Springs estate and warning his co-horts.

"C-can't..."

"Cat got your tongue?" Hobbes snarled. He was in no mood to play games--the tense drive through the desert had leached any sense of decorum right out, even with Claire watching this little display of testosterone. "Open the damn gate." He jerked the unprotesting guard's arm behind his back, shoving him against the wall.

"Can't."

"What kinda crap are you trying to pull?" Hobbes added an extra elbow to the kidneys just because he felt like it.

"Bobby, I think he can't open it with you pawing at him like that," Claire pointed out.

"Then you do it, Claire!"

Coming around the huge colonnade where she'd been hiding, Claire stepped daintily into the guard box to examine the controls.

Hobbes glanced at the video screen above her head, which provided a view of the empty driveway in front of the closed gate. He'd managed to slide in around the camera's perimeter, so he was fairly certain no one at the main house was yet aware of their presence. Using a set of plastic restraints he'd brought along, he snugged the guard's wrists and ankles together by the time Claire found the correct button and had the gate sliding smoothly open.

"Not a sound," Hobbes commented with admiration of the well oiled machinery, cat-footing it over the threshold with Claire right behind. A gibbous moon shone down on them, and Hobbes directed Claire to stay in the darker patches, skirting the electric eyes of cameras mounted almost invisibly at intervals along the drive. The house was low and white, an elegant building without much adornment, but peaceful and serene. The homes of mobsters never reflected their owner's true personalities, or the whole world would be able to guess where all the money from graft, corruption and murder went. This multi-million dollar abode had been a haven for the criminals that resided inside, but no longer.

"You ready?" Hobbes whispered, barely able to see his companion in the dark, if not for her shining length of hair. Next time he'd tell her to wear a black watch cap like the time they'd invaded Fawkes' apartment to kidnap him for his unbirthday party. Fine time to be thinking of something like that. He bit the inside of his cheek, welcoming the burst of pain. A tiny thing compared to what Fawkes might be enduring.

"As I'll ever be," Claire answered barely audibly. Hobbes was glad to see she was holding her pistol with firm confidence. It always surprised him that she was a good shot, and a damned good fighter when the occasion warranted. She might not be Fawkes at his back, but she was strong, competent, and especially useful for bandaging any injuries afterwards.

A second guard at the front door went down easily when Hobbes cold-cocked him with a roll of quarters he always kept in his pocket for just such an occasion. Low tech, but eminently functional. Once inside the foyer, Hobbes advanced slowly, listening for voices. He heard male laughter, and then the flat smack of skin on skin followed by a feminine yelp.

"Petey!" the woman complained. "That hurt."

"Just a love pat, Kitten."

"More like a love spank," Kitten purred. "Doncha wanna celebrate my birthday, Gary?"

"Ain't yer birthday."

Hobbes rolled his eyes, beckoning Claire forward. With the distraction of the petulant Kitten, Pete and Gary would be easy to corner.

The raunchy, playful banter continued from what Hobbes had now figured out was the dining room. Kitten apparently got more love spanks, to the delight of Pete. Gary sounded less enthusiastic and Hobbes was surprised, when he peered around the mahogany door jam for a quick look, to see that there were three more people in the room--a blonde asleep, or passed out, on the table, her head pillowed on Villeroy and Boch china, and a dark haired couple sucking each other's tonsils out. That certainly skewed the odds. Pete was pouring champagne onto Kitten's cleavage and lapping it up while Gary watched moodily, but none of them noticed they were being watched.

Hobbes and Claire against six people, well, five, since the one girl looked comatose but still, something had to be done to whittle down the other side.

His answer came in the form of a short, dark woman of obvious Mexican Indian descent. She was pushing a cart loaded with liquors and desserts from the kitchen to the dining room, and pulled up short at the sight of Hobbes and Claire. Her black eyes widening, the woman simply stood there, not making a sound of protest when Hobbes pointed his gun at her.

He motioned her back in the direction she'd come, Claire coming up the rear with the drinks trolley. "Are there anymore men besides those banditos?" Hobbes asked in his work-a-day Spanish.

Her eyes still wary, but accepting the woman shook her head. "Those bastards come here, wreck the place, Senor Johnny shouldn't allow..." she answered in her native tongue.

"Ssh" Hobbes cut her off. "What's your name?"

"Guadelupe Hidalgo." She surveyed the two of them critically. "You're Federales."

Busted, Hobbes thought. How did everyone pick him out so easily? He glanced over at Claire who shrugged ruefully. Not that she even looked remotely government issue to him, even dressed all in black with her blond hair tied back.

"Guadelupe, we're here to send them packing. Call Pete in here. Tell him there's an emergency?"

Apparently cheered by the prospect of getting rid of her houseguests, Guadelupe brightened. "A leetle fire?" she asked in English.

"Perfecto," Hobbes praised.

"Might add verisimilitude if the alarms went off," Claire grinned wickedly, pointing to the small white object mounted on the ceiling above them. "You must have matches, Senora Hidalgo?"

The shout of fire and the whoop of claxons sent bodies running in all directions out from the dining room. Semi-naked women fled, one of them clutching rhinestone-studded spike heels to her bobbing breasts. Hobbes might have been more amused under other circumstances, but he'd lost his sense of humor somewhere on the long hot drive over.

Pete, wearing only a pair of gray cashmere slacks, purloined no doubt from Castignacci's closet, dashed into the kitchen with all haste, yelling for the fire extinguisher. Miraculously, Mouth was right behind him. Where the girls had gone--and the third male, was anyone's guess, and Hobbes wasn't waiting around to find out.

He leveled his Colt directly between Pete's brown eyes, seeing Claire take Mouth prisoner a moment later. While both men had certainly encountered guns before, something in the expression on Hobbes' face must have communicated his rage because both surrendered without a fight. Guadelupe helped by providing some sturdy clothesline to tie their hands with. The ear splitting shriek of the smoke detector continued apace until Claire climbed back up on the chair she'd used to wave a match in front of the sensor, and yanked the whole contraption off the wall. Blessed silence was restored.

"Where's Darien Fawkes?" Hobbes demanded once things were a little more in hand, and both mobsters were secured to kitchen chairs. He still worried about the third unknown who hadn't made an appearance thus far, but wasn't about to risk Claire's life by having her go look for him.

"How the hell should we know?" Gary sneered, struggling with his bonds. The chairs were heavy-duty hardwood and could withstand a lot of abuse without splintering, so he was in for a long, frustrating battle. Besides, Guadelupe was hovering with a cast iron skillet in her capable hands.

"You dumped him in the desert--Johnny Books ratted you out."

"Never happen," Pete declared loyally.

"Oh, it happened all right--he was looking for a reduced sentence, and just stuck his nickel stretch into your pocket, my friend," Hobbes touched the cold barrel of his pistol into the lush growth of hair on the side of Pete's head. "So tell me something I can believe." He eased his finger on the trigger, puffing out his cheeks at the same time. "Or it's 'pow'," he whispered explosively. Pete shuddered, going pale. "Scared you, didn't it?" Hobbes asked with nasty intent. "That’s what I'll do if I find the body of my partner, capiche? He'd better be alive, or you won't even live long enough to spend that nickel your boss bummed off on you."

Pete clamped down his mouth, glaring.

"Do you know what happens to the human brain when a bullet hits at such close quarters, Bobby?" Claire asked in such a conversational tone that he mentally congratulated her on her poise. "Dreadful mess." She was standing back against the work-island in the middle of the stone tiled floor, holding her weapon loosely, but Hobbes had never felt such an aura of menace off the pretty doctor. She was nearly as ready to shoot as he was. "Bullet shatters the skull, rips apart the frontal lobe, then plows right through the cerebral cortex and the cerebellum. Blood splatters everywhere, for several feet in all directions. Death would be instantaneous, which is such a shame. Much more effective just to sever the spinal cord with a single shot through the neck. If you missed the carotid, a person could survive for a fairly lengthy period, just completely unable to move a single muscle."

"P-palm Desert." Mouth sputtered. Hobbes was a little disappointed. He'd have given odds that Pete would break first, but Castignacci's right hand man was silent, although his face had gone pasty pale.

"We know that, Douchebag! Where's the location!" Hobbes swiveled his pistol over to Gary the Mouth's direction.

"Just before the turn off to Ranch Mirage," Mouth supplied, snorting air out of his nostrils like a warthog.

Hobbes cuffed him upside the head with an open palm, a blow that caused more noise than injury. "Claire, get Eberts on the horn. He's standin' by, has a direct line to the Palm Springs search and rescue squad."

"Thanks to your efforts, Agent Monroe, oil prices may..."

"Or may not," Eberts interjected, then closed his mouth with a snap at a snarl from the Official.

"Shut up, Eberts," Borden said abruptly. "May go down. Wynters delivered the design specs and blueprints for several refineries and pipelines to be built all over the Arab world. Not just Iraq and Iran. Had Al Qaeda gotten their hands on him he would have been one of those unfortunates beheaded on their national TV. And then we would have seen refineries all over the Middle East targeted for attack."

"Gruesome visuals, sir," Alex responded dryly. She'd liked Wynters, enough to wish she could visit with him longer, reminisce about the old days when spies were clean shaven, wore tuxedos to save the damsel, and drank martinis that were shaken, not stirred. Her father's days, not hers, by any stretch of the imagination. Were the criminals more amoral these days, or had terrorism ousted the old begrudging respect spies once held for their foreign counterparts? She could remember hearing stories of old Alexi and Starevsky as if they were her father's acquaintances, and not the men he'd been sworn to eradicate. She'd never had an inkling of admiration for Stark, Arnaud, or the vile international gangsters who held such sway over the democratic countries of the world. The 21st century was a different place than the cold war atmosphere her father had played and fought in. In some ways, Alex almost wished she could go back and stay there.

"Eberts," the desk jockey answered the phone in the middle of the first ring. It wasn't until then that Alex had noticed that Eberts had been standing with his hand about one inch above the receiver the whole time she'd been in the office. What was he waiting for?

His eyes narrowed, and he immediately began to scribble information onto a legal pad, nodding. "Yes, Robert, we'll get right on it. Where will you be?" he paused, listening intently. "This could take all night." There was a surprisingly gentle and sympathetic side to Eberts that people didn't often get to see in the straight-laced, overly vigilant office manager. "Take care, and don't lose hope. Darien is a fighter at heart." He disconnected, his expression grave.

"Has Hobbes found Fawkes?" The Official demanded.

"He knows approximately where he was the first night," Eberts explained, going over what Bobby had told him. "But it's now been close to 28 hours, if we assume he was grabbed at approximately seven p.m. yesterday."

"And knowing Fawkes, he didn't stay in one place, so they'll have to track him," Alex surmised with a snort of annoyance for the hyperactive punk. She would rarely admit that he amused her like few people could. That insolent, 'take me as I come' attitude was one she sometimes wished she could adopt, but the importance of the correct appearance and decorum had been too highly ingrained in her as a child. So, she used her tongue as a weapon, sometimes even wounding those she didn't mean to. "What can we do?"

Eberts was already on the line to the Palm Springs search and rescue service, but there was little that could be done until daybreak, since searching the desert in the dark was nothing more than a lesson in frustration. Even with a search light, if Darien was hidden under a rock pile, or sitting next to a particularly tall cactus, he might be missed. Better to increase their chances of finding him when there was light, even if it meant he had to survive another night alone in the wilderness.

My main man, Mark Twain said 'Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear.' Pretty much what ol' FDR assured America during World War II--about the only thing we had to fear is fear itself. The problem is, fear is a strong mother-- Courage? I don't know where she sneaks in, because just resisting fear takes so much of our time we rarely notice that courage was even there until somebody else points it out.

Darien rolled to one side, groaning at the pain in his leg. Sleep had fled, and with it, any sort of comfort he'd managed to hang on to. How in the hell could anyone find him? He'd never made it to any sort of road, or signs of civilization, and now he could barely sit up on his own, much less climb out of this damned arroyo. He was hot and cold by turns--feverish, no doubt. Quicksilver helped wick away the heat, but left him even more vulnerable to the chills afterwards. Still, even with his strength waning and nausea plaguing his belly, he felt strangely comforted by his own version of the security blanket. Invisible from the naked eye, he was less vulnerable to the dangers of the desert.

Dispassionately, Darien realized he should try to get more water--not that it mattered much anymore, since he would most probably die here. But, never let it be said that he didn't put up a fight. He shook off the Quicksilver before dipping into the natural spring, since he didn't want to freeze the water. Drawing up a palmful of tiny water droplets, he licked the miniscule portion off with a swollen tongue, craving more the way he used to crave Counteragent. It was hard to even give a damn any longer, and he had to force himself to repeat the exercise one more time, even though the result was even less water the second time. Maybe there was another outlet for the underground source?

Feeling the feral eyes of the night watching him, he slipped back into his Quicksilver protection, but the action roiled his belly and he had to fight the urge to be sick. Looking around, Darien searched the natural dip in the earth, eyes sliding over gleaming, shimmery rocks, sand, and strange, silvery delicate tumbleweeds. One thing shone above all, practically phosphorescing in the weird monovision of Quicksilver--the crushed body of a tiny predator, the lobster of the desert--a scorpion. Darien didn't dare touch the horrible thing with its long narrow tail ending in a vicious point. That's what had stung him, there was no doubt.

He blinked, harsh light stabbing in through his retinas, and it wasn't until he let the shield of QS drop away did he realize that the sun was rising, long brilliant rays of golden fire breaking through the pearly gray sky. Morning. He'd made it through another night. If there was a chance of rescue, it had to be on this bright day, because Darien wasn't sure he could hold out much longer.

Bobby Hobbes had never really enjoyed riding in helicopters. He considered them a necessary means to an end. They got you where you needed to be quickly, and were invaluable in a search like this one. Still, the swooping, non-linear flight pattern, and the sudden drops in altitude when the pilot dove down to investigate some Darien-like object on the arid landscape below, all conspired to wreak havoc on Hobbes' belly. No food, no rest, and no partner made him very cranky.

He hadn't gotten much sleep, what with coordinating with the search and rescue people, delivering Castignacci's men to the police and rounding up the three prostitutes. Kitten, Misty, and the somnambulant Darla had tripped off behind the arresting officers whimpering protestations that they were just the entertainment, they didn't know anything, but all three had gotten on Hobbes' last nerve. He'd finally figured out that the third man, Vic, had driven the car which transported Fawkes to his ultimate destination, but the guy claimed he hadn't paid any attention to where they stopped, just that he'd taken a leak while Gary was dumping the body.

The body. Hobbes wouldn't let himself think of Darien Fawkes that way.

The helicopter dropped like a stone, and Hobbes grabbed onto a convenient strap to keep from pitching out the open sides of the craft. "You see something?" he shouted through his radio transmitter,over the throbbing whap of the rotary blades.

"Could be!" Angus, the tattooed and pierced pilot, affirmed. "Something moving in an arroyo up ahead, and it ain't no coyote."

The paramedic in the co-pilot seat nodded, pointing up ahead to a dip in the dusty brown earth.

There were coyotes around? Damn. Hobbes craned his neck, trying to peer through the wide bubble windscreen, but, at first, all he could see was the ground rushing toward them. Lots of rocks, pale olive vegetation and scrubby ground cover. A formidable, hostile land, uncompromising and unforgiving. Without water or shelter a human could die in a very short time under such conditions. Hobbes didn't let himself go there.

Like the tornado in The Wizard of Oz, sand and dirt swirled in a vortex around the chopper as dropped out of the sky onto a flat patch of desert. Hobbes was out and running before the blades above his head had even stopped rotating, intent on reaching the man he could just glimpse in the dry creek bed. He skidded on some loose rocks, and barely made it down the short slope on his own feet. Nothing mattered as long as Fawkes was still alive.

"Hey, Fawkesy?" Hobbes wheedled, taking in the lobster red of his burned skin and his raw, chapped lips. "Buddy?"

Darien opened one brown eye and then the second, nailing Bobby with a weary, but relieved glare. "Wha'th'hell took y'so long?" Darien muttered around a dry, swollen tongue.

The words might be garbled, but the sentiment was strong. Fawkes was happy to see him. Hobbes grinned, waving over the paramedic. "He's okay, he's okay. Kinda dehydrated."

"Got...stung," Darien whispered as the medic hooked him up to portable oxygen, and started an IV so quickly Hobbes never saw the needle enter the skin, just the taping up afterwards, and plastic tubing being attached. A clear bag was hung to a portable IV pole to give Darien immediate fluids.

Behind them, as the helicopter motor quieted, Hobbes could hear the pilot radioing in their location and Fawkes' condition.

"What stung you?" the medic asked, carefully checking Darien's vitals. He inspected his limbs for injuries when Fawkes pointed in the general direction of his left leg. "Here, on the calf?"

"How bad is it?" Hobbes asked gruffly to mask his fear. It was too easy to remember the hellish night when Fawkes had been bitten by the Funnel Web spider. He'd nearly died in an amazingly short period of time. This wound, a tiny reddish puncture mark in the middle of his calf, didn't look half so bad. No swelling or oozing, but Darien flinched visibly when the medic poked at it.

"D-don't," Darien ground out, pulling his leg out of the man's grasp. He wavered, his blistered face blanching.

"Fawkes!" Hobbes yelled, grabbing at his partner before he hit the dirt. Darien winced but opened his eyes again, nodding. "Don't bail on me, partner," Hobbes said with mock sternness.

"Darien, my name is Artie." The paramedic drew up something into a syringe that Bobby hoped was a painkiller of some kind. Fawkes didn't look so good. "Do you know what stung you? Doesn't look like a rattlesnake bite."

Hobbes knew that Fawkes was far too used to injections to pay much attention to the needle Artie plunged into his biceps, but he sat up a little straighter against Hobbes' shoulder, looking around. "S-scorpion. Saw it earlier." He pointed with more assertion. "There. M-make sure Claire gets it. She likes tha' sorta thing."

"Bark Scorpion," Artie identified and scooped the flattened carcass into a Ziplock bag.

"They'll be here in less than 30 minutes," Claire said with a relieved sigh, hanging up the mike for the two way transmitter "I realize it's a great drain at the Agency's expense, but I'm certainly glad you three came out here, Alex."

"Leave you alone at a time like this?" Monroe scoffed. "Wasn't my idea, but you know how the old guy gets when there's a threat to his multimillion dollar secret weapon. Now that would be the drain on the company funds, not the private jet Eberts commandeered to ferry us over."

"A private jet?" Claire asked in disbelief. She picked up one of the bottles of fruit juice Eberts had arranged to have sent in, and poured nearly half of it down her throat. With her thirst taken care of, hunger poked at her belly for the first time in what seemed like forever and she accepted the sandwich Alex pushed into her hand. Without even checking to see what filling was between the two slices of bread, Claire bit down ferociously. "Where did that come from?" she asked when she'd swallowed two huge bites.

"The usual--connections, networking..."

"In the form of a handsome, retired FBI agent by the name of Mike Zembach?"

"He may have played a part," Alex smiled evasively.

"Weren't you supposed to have a special rendezvous with him sometime this week?" Claire licked egg salad off her fingers and contemplated another sandwich. She snatched up a container of lime yogurt instead, trying to remember just what day it was. Was it Friday yet?

"Today's Thursday," Alex said as if reading her mind and plucked a few grapes off the bunch nestled amongst the packages of sandwiches and chips. "If both of our schedules manage to coincide, there's the possibility of a moonlit boat ride on the ocean."

"Sounds lovely," Claire sighed again, this time with happiness. It had been a long--make that very long--time since she'd done anything quite so abashedly romantic. "Wear that little pink frock you had on the other morning."

"For a night in an open boat?" Alex snorted derisively. "It may be July, but that water is cold at night. I was thinking about a cashmere sweater and woolen slacks...with something lacy, red and scanty underneath."

Any reply Claire was about to make was cut short by Eberts running through the door. "The helicopter is landing!" he reported with authority. "I think your services are required, doctor."

Once his dehydration and exposure was taken care of Darien was beginning to feel a whole lot better. His face had taken on a fairly terrifying hue of red, somewhat similar to a boiled lobster, and both arms were blistered and red from mid upper arm down, but on the whole, he was thankful to be back among his friends. He lay back in the scratchy hospital bed sheets, trying not to obsess on the severe pain in his leg. There were periods when it was just a nagging drain on his returning strength but at other times pain imploded in his leg, completely out of proportion with the miniscule mark on his calf. Even morphine couldn't keep the nastiness at bay, and Darien was more than tired of suffering through another round of the cramping, fearsome agony. He glanced over at the clock, knowing from the tightening in his limb that the pain was returning.

"How you doin', Camille?" Hobbes bounced in, bringing with him distraction, and the possibility of information, both of which Darien craved.

"Getting better," he lied, pretending he couldn't feel the fiery cattle prods now probing deeply into what Claire termed his tibial anterus muscle. "Tell me, how'd you find me? I didn't even know where I was."

"Bobby Hobbes has ways," Hobbes joked, tapping his temple. He sobered with a frown. "First I got some news you may not wanna hear."

"What, is it, one of those first the bad news, then the good kind of things?" Darien panted, trying to outlast the tremendous pressure forcing his calf muscles to shorten, pulling his foot into a contorted position.

"You okay?"

"Crap!" Darien reached down to massage the muscle, but that never helped much because his skin was about 10 times more sensitive than ever before. Like hundreds of thousands of raw nerve endings just below the surface, all screaming at the mere brush of the sheets, much less his probing fingers.

"Darien!" Claire pushed through the door carrying a glass jar full of pinkish jelly. "Hello, Bobby." She greeted. "Darien, I may have the answer to your problem."

"You can get the gland out of my/his head?" Darien and Hobbes spoke as one.

Chuckling at the stereo reply, Claire shook her head, holding out a jar. "Prickly Pear pulp."

"Not really in the mood for toast and jam right now, Claire," Darien groaned as he tried to coax his spasming muscles to relax.

"No, it's a local recipe for Bark Scorpion sting." Claire pushed his hands away, and slopped a large dollop on the wound.

It wasn't immediate, but very quickly Darien noticed a reduction of the heat and searing pain, and a soothing relaxation of his massive charley horse. "Wow," he said, so relieved to have the pain gone he just wanted to luxuriate in the serenity of his own body. "Thanks."

"Called the local ER, since his Officialness still won't allow you to be seen by outsiders.

By the way, while I was researching their prickly pear suggestion, I came across a very interesting bit of information," Claire began, her accent even more pronounced when she was excited and in lecture mode. "Quite fascinating. Studies are being conducted using the venom of the Bark Scorpion as symptom relief for joint pain. How have you been feeling since you were stung, Darien?"

"Like a snake molting," Darien scratched absently at the blistered sunburn on his arm. The ouroboros on his wrist was indeed losing a layer of peeling skin.

"Don't scratch," Claire swatted his hand away. "And I thank you for remembering to have them bag the scorpion for me. Always handy to have the actual vector in hand."

"A scorpion in the bag is worth two in the sand," Hobbes quipped.

"The EMT was a lovely man, but I think The Official scared the life out of him and the poor bloke who flew the helicopter. He seemed to feel the need to extensively debrief them before he'd let them leave."

"I never Quicksilvered once in front of them," Darien declared staunchly. "Probably freaked out a few coyotes and jack rabbits, though."

"Not to mention the scorpion," Bobby added.

"He had it coming," Darien grumped. "So what is it you were about to say?"

Hobbes let out a noisy exhalation. "Eberts got it off the 'net the day we realized you were missing. Liz Morgan died--some hikers found her body, about two miles from where we found you."

"Oh, crap." Darien was surprised how affected he was by the news. It had been a decade since he and the woman were partners in crime. The last time he'd seen her, she'd pissed him off royally, but all in all, he owed Liz a great deal. Maybe most people wouldn't agree that he should have not obligation, but friendship, to the thief who had introduced him to his less than legal profession, but he did. And now felt true grief at her death.

"Darien?" Claire asked worriedly. "Can I do anything?"

"Nothing to do, but thanks." He shrugged. "Just one more piece of my past to bury." He made a mental note find her cemetery plot, maybe pay for a headstone. As far as he knew, Liz had no other family, and very few real friends. Most thieves didn't. Showed how much he had gained by abandoning a life of crime. "That how you found me?" he asked hollowly.

"Seemed like a coincidence at first," Hobbes explained the steps he'd taken to link Liz, Darien and Johnny Books.

"You wanna just go ahead and say it?" Darien asked sarcastically, slumping back on his pillow in defeat. Just one more thing to make him feel lower than one of those scaly creatures he'd seen scurrying around in the baking sand.

"Say what?" Hobbes sounded mystified.

"A snappy Bobby Hobbes 'I told you so' or 'had it coming'?"

"Nobody deserves to be dumped in the desert, no matter how stupid they were to go doggin' after a skirt right to the door of the biggest mob boss this side of the Sunset Strip," Hobbes said softly, shoving his hands in his pocket. "You already paid your dues by testifying in front of the Grand Jury. He's just a sore loser."

Darien smiled, knowing Hobbes was just saying how much he'd missed his partner in a left-handed compliment sort of way. "Most guys in prison are. One way or another."

"Bobby spearheaded the search for you from the very start," Claire said.

"Which reminds me!" Hobbes interjected as if anxious to get off the sappy stuff. "I kinda read some of your e-mails..."

"Hobbes!"

"Looking for clues!" Hobbes defended himself. "Let's not forget a certain punk ass ex-thief who once had Eberts analyze my answering machine tape to find out where I was."

"Point taken." Darien agreed without a drop of remorse.

"The kid--you could call him Double A, or maybe Red Torino, needs a reply ASAP, and I'd leave out as much as possible about baking your kiester out in the hot sun for two days."

"Oh, geeze," Darien groaned, remembering the bet with Adam over the soccer finals. "I need to go buy him some DVDs, too."

"Give me a list--Alex and I were going to hit the mall here in Palm Springs before we fly back later this afternoon." Claire grinned. "Can't waste a golden opportunity, and she has a date tomorrow night."

"What about you?" Hobbes looked very interested, Darien noted. Much more interested than anyone who claimed he never shopped in the company store should look.

"Nobody's asked me yet." Claire inspected Darien's leg once more, adding more jelly over the wound and covering it with a gauze dressing.

"Can't have you sitting home alone reading old medical journals when the Rod Stewart is playing in town," Hobbes answered nonchalantly. "Not a date, just proposin' both of us take in some culture, maybe have dinner before?"

"Rod Stewart?" Claire giggled. "I've never thought of him as culture."

"He's turning over a new leaf--singing the classics." Hobbes hummed a few bars of Someone to Watch Over Me.

"Bobby Hobbes, I do believe you're blushing," Claire accused, singing along for a phrase or two.

"Fawkes is redder than a beet, and you can say that?" he blustered, scrubbing at his cheeks, head ducked. Darien burst out laughing, smacking the bed in amusement.

"Just an observation. I'd love to hear Rod Stewart. Maybe he'll sing 'Maggie May', as well." She nodded. "Gives me all the more reason to go shopping. Darien, what should I get for Adam? Oh, I recall you mentioned something about Dukes of Hazzard?"

"And throw in a best songs of the '70s and '80s for you two Stewart fans," Darien teased. "Boy, I'd like to be an invisible fly on the wall tomorrow night for your date."

"It's not a date!" Hobbes and Claire declared as one.

"Doctor, I want some kind of assurance that Fawkes' whereabouts will never again be a mystery to this Agency," Charles Borden said testily.

"Since we can't monitor every single enemy we're acquired, much less any of Darien's chums from his former profession, sir, I'm not sure what you want me to do about it," Claire answered carefully. In no mood for a dressing down, she shifted her feet in her new dark blue mules, glancing down to admire her feet. The new style, with an elongated toe, coming to a sort of cone at the end rather than the out-of-fashion point, were very flattering, and surprisingly comfortable. The office venetian blinds cast a chiaroscuro pattern of dark and light stripes across the floor and her feet, causing her shoes to look blue and then black, depending on how she moved her foot. Perhaps she should have followed Alex's example and gotten two pair in different colors

"We have a solution to the problem," Borden interrupted her admiration of her shoes.

"The Yamamoto 2005, the latest in tiny transmitting devices. It's one of the items I was tracking on e-Bay earlier this week." Eberts opened a jeweler box to reveal what appeared to be a miniscule white ball. "The instructions say it may be tiny but it is virtually indestructible, has long range satellite tracking abilities, and will last a lifetime, maybe longer."

"Sounds like Experiment 626," Claire said dryly, remembering the movie Lilo and Stitch. "What do you propose I do with it?"

"It works best implanted in a tooth filling," Eberts piped up enthusiastically. The Official nodded, his wattles wobbling disconcertingly.

Claire stared in shock at her employer, her belly churning. She'd long ago known that the man was heartless, despite his recent show of concern for Darien's predicament, but this was going too far. "It's not enough that Darien has to have the bleedin' gland in his brain that is most probably bollixing his health, but now you want me to implant a transmitter so you'll know where he is at all times? We don't live in 1984!"

"No, this is a whole new millennium, and that gland cost more than an independently produced movie does--I'm only concerned for the welfare of my agents. He barely survived his stint out in the desert. Would you rather he died the next time, or help to ensure his safety by installing this piece of equipment, doctor?"

"It's invasion of privacy."

"Privacy is a thing of the past, Miss--Keeply, or whatever name you're going by this year. September 11th, and the office of Homeland Security have changed the way we look at everyone in this country--including foreign born nationals." He picked up the box as if admiring the contents before holding it across the desk to her.

"You'd blackmail me to bend me to your will?" Claire asked in horror, no longer interested in shoes, shopping, or her impending evening with Hobbes. She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. "How do I convince Darien, then? He'll never agree to this."

"Why tell him?" The Official said in a sepulchre tone. "Tell him you need to check his teeth--he probably hasn't seen a dentist since the last time he was in prison."

"I always floss, and see my dentist twice a year," Eberts added perkily.

"I'll need to study up on my knowledge of silver alloys." Claire took the box with a sinking feeling, knowing she was going to betray Darien's trust once again.

"Use porcelain, the cost is justified," Borden decried munificently.

"To endure is the first thing that a child ought to learn, and that which he will have the most to need." Credit Jean Jacques Rousseau with this pithy statement of truth. I've endured the desert and a scorpion sting, but those don't hurt as much as losing friends. Was Liz a friend? Hard to say anymore, but the mind is a funny thing--I could remember the good times with her far more easily than the bad. And Adam--his loss was the hardest thing I've ever had to endure, and he's still around, if only by internet. But I've come to the conclusion that I haven't got enough friends to endure losing any more.

"Don't you have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon than this?" Darien whined, slouching into the exam chair. His leg still hurt enough that all he wanted to do was lounge around the house previewing the Dukes of Hazzard DVDs before he sent them off to Adam, although the weird Prickly Pair pulp jelly certainly did the trick. Took away nearly all the pain, and seemed to work fairly well on a sunburn. His face was peeling like a molting snake, though. "I haven't had a cavity since I was seven, and ate all the Halloween candy in one sitting."

"Must have made your aunt a bit shirty when you heaved up all the chocolate in the morning," Claire observed, setting up her newly purchased dental equipment on a Mayo stand to one side of the chair

"'Shirty,' Princess Claire?"

"Angry, annoyed," she translated, tight lipped, pulling on her gloves with abrupt force.

"Claire, are you angry with me?" Darien asked.

Her hard mask crumbling, Claire smiled sadly at him. "No, sweetheart, never. I'm...it's another matter altogether that's got my mind in a whirl."

"Maybe that date with Hobbes?"

"It wasn't a date!" She poked a finger into his mouth, probing the lone filling in a molar on the right. "We had a friendly dinner, then enjoyed a wonderful concert. The CD isn't out yet, but I intend to go buy it as soon as it hits the stores. Who'd have expected an old rocker like Rod Stewart to sound so unabashedly romantic singing ballads from the thirties and forties?"

"No' me," Darien agreed, drooling as she replaced her finger with a syringe, and injected Novocaine into his gum. "Ow!"

"Don't be a big baby, Darien. Your dental hygiene could use an improvement--but you do seem to have only the one filling. The Novocaine will numb you up in just a tic, and the whole thing won't take very long at all. You'll be back to your perusal of the DVDs before long."

"Good, 'cause I'm doing a comparative study on the Torino from Starsky and Hutch versus the Duke's car General Lee." Darien ran his tongue over the bitter taste left over from the injection, wondering at the strange vibe coming off Claire. Whatever it was, she was not one to confide very often, and he doubted she'd say anything, even if he pushed.

"I always liked Starsky best, myself. Neither of those Dukes stood a chance." Claire turned her back, switching on the drill. "The metal in the old filling is degrading so I'll just have to extract it, and replace that with a new one."

At the sound of the drill, both of Darien's arms disappeared from view up to the elbow, and silver snakes were quickly slithering along his collarbone toward the chin.

Darien!" Claire chastised. "I won't be able to work if I can't see your mouth, or the teeth therein!"

"That's the point," Darien agreed, shaking off the Quicksilver, but edging away from the whining hum of the torture device. "When was the last time you worked on a filling? Or, crap--this is the first time, isn't it? That penny-pinching miser conned you into doing my teeth so he wouldn't have to pay for a dentist with clearance."

"Penny-pinching miser is redundant," Claire said tartly. "In view of the possible auto-immune problems you've been having, the Official thought it best that I check your teeth--to for cavities, gingivitis, that sort of thing. Bacteria in the gums and teeth has been implicated in Endocarditis, a potentially fatal heart disease. It's all just to be on the safe side, keep you healthy." She was almost rambling.

Darien wasn't sure but he thought he noticed a slight wobble in Claire's voice, as if she wasn't convinced herself of the need for the examination. However, she didn't go on, just gave him a toothy smile, and said brightly, "Now open wide, and I'll give you a lovely green algae shake and a vitamin enriched lollypop afterward, if you're a good boy."

"What next?" Darien bemoaned his fate. "You'll say I need braces." He opened his mouth when she tapped him on the bottom lip, and settled back in the chair with a grumpy expression while she stuffed small cotton rods under his gums to protect her work field.

"Perish the thought. Your incisors are quite straight," Claire bent down, filling Darien's field of vision with her grave blue eyes behind safety goggles, and removed the small hunk of old silver filling with a surprising finesse.

"Huh, you'b got a bet'er toush than th' lass dentish I wen’ to," he had to admit around the cotton. He warily held still while Claire delicately chipped the last of the old silver filling off his enamel, and then watched her mix up something thick, sticky and white in a small cup. Not overly concerned by her inexperience, he closed his eyes, the song Someone to Watch Over Me tripping lightly over the soundtrack of his mind. He could feel his personal physician, now dentist, pack the thick white substance into his tooth, and forced himself not to probe the place with his tongue until after she finished angling a warming light past his lip to aid the setting up of the porcelain. To his amusement, Darien realized Claire was humming the same song he was.

"I'm a little lamb who's lost in the woods, I think I could... long to be good with someone to watch over me..." she sang softly.