For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin--real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life.-- Alfred D. Souza

When I first read ol' Alfred's view of life, it kind of depressed me, but he's right. We never quite get what we want, and if all we do is strive for something that never comes, then we miss what's right in front of us. Or as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans." He and Alfred would have gotten along. But what did I do when one of my obstacles was a gland the size of a golf ball in the back of my brain?

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

Mornings had gotten to be the worst, in Darien's opinion. The evenings were bad, but at least he could leave the Agency with the knowledge that he was heading home and to bed -- and there was always the added lures of a heating pad and a couple of extra strength Advil to delight his senses. He couldn't even sit through American Idol or The Amazing Race any longer -- dinner, and then he was asleep, practically comatose until the morning alarm roused him for another day of achy joints, flagging energy, and ever-changing but infuriating symptoms that only seemed to get worse. He was beginning to wonder if the gland were killing him, but wasn't sure how to bring up the subject with Claire. She was as mystified as he was. She took vast quantities of his blood in the search for a solution, so he was loath to suggest anything new since it would just involve her sticking more needles into his pincushion arms. Better to keep his concerns to himself and let whatever happened happen.

So, with less than charitable thoughts about the scheduling of morning briefings so damned early, Darien pulled on a pair of jeans and one of his most threadbare and comfortable t-shirts, and trudged to the nearest Starbucks for breakfast. In honor of the coming holiday season, he ordered a pumpkin latte and a chocolate croissant for the calories, then went next door to Jamba Juice and got the biggest fruit smoothie with an extra boost of energy. He'd have preferred a nice double espresso, but lately all the caffeine did was make him breathless and jittery. He still fell asleep at the drop of a hat.

Parking his car in the Agency parking lot, Darien looked up at the McKinley building. He still experienced that slightly off-kilter feeling when he walked in, since it was a mirror copy of the old Harding building they used to occupy. Strange to realize that it had been just over a year since the earthquake that had shaken up all their lives and forced the move. Just over a year and Claire still had no answers to the perplexing symptoms he was displaying.

More than two years since he'd had to deal with Quicksilver Madness. On the whole, he preferred the extreme fatigue and ravenous hunger to the constant threat of insanity; life was always a trade off.

Juggling his drinks, he waltzed into the Official's office only a few minutes late to discover that he and Hobbes were the only students called in to see the principal that day.

"Where's Alex?" Darien asked, easing into a wooden chair like the arthritic old man he was beginning to fear he resembled.

"Back in DC, with Zembach," The Official said shortly, his eyes mostly on Eberts setting up a portable screen. The spindly metal legs were refusing to stay in one place, causing the whole contraption to list decidedly to one side. Eberts was valiantly trying to provide ballast by hanging onto one end while simultaneously reaching up to attach the top of the screen to the small clip that kept it flat, but he got his finger caught in the roller. While he was trying to pull his finger free, the screen rolled down again, whapping him on the head. It wasn't until Hobbes jumped up and jammed the tripod out as far as it would go that they were able to get the ornery screen settled into place.

Trying to recall whether he'd heard that Alex was off again on one of her frequent jaunts, Darien sipped the pumpkin latte, his eyelids sliding to half-mast.

"Fawkes?" Bobby nudged him hard enough to spill some of the hot milk on his jeans.

"Hobbes!"

"You were asleep," Bobby whispered. "Pay attention."

"Just watching with my eyes closed," Darien countered, but he was nonplussed that he'd drifted off that easily -- and so soon after getting up in the morning. Maybe he should go back to espresso. He knuckled his eyes, but it really was dark in the room. Someone had turned out the lights and started the slide show while he took a power nap.

"Rancher Scott Calhoun raises Suri Alpacas for their coats. Alpaca wool is warm and very soft. The animals are a hearty mountain breed that eats mostly alfalfa and grasses." Eberts clicked through a series of slides of adorable animals similar to llamas except for their enormous, almost jewel-like, eyes. An assortment of the furry beasts was seen grazing in a field, running up to greet a thick-shouldered man with short graying hair, and lastly walking up a road towards large, well-appointed farm buildings. "Their crias -- or offspring -- are worth thousands of dollars, and are highly prized by other breeders." The baby alpacas were even cuter than their parents, like large, stuffed toys designed to be cuddled and hugged by some lucky girl or boy.

"So what's this got to do with us?" Hobbes interjected.

"Wait for it," Borden warned.

The next image was not so idyllic. The bodies of four alpacas were lying a few feet from a fence, their gorgeous eyes staring unseeing up at a blue sky. In the foreground of the picture was a man sprawled in the dust, his cowboy hat covering his face. He was most obviously dead.

"This was the scene in mid-October, the fourteenth, to be exact," Eberts continued more soberly. "The causes of their deaths have not yet been determined."

"Oh, crap," Darien muttered softly. He hated the murder cases.

Hobbes stood up to get a better look at the picture. "You said these... uh...."

"Alpacas," Eberts and Darien said as one, and high-fived each other.

"Alpacas were worth a lot. Who's to say some yahoo didn't just come and poach 'em?"

"Calhoun said that the Alpaca breeding community in California is a small, tight-knit group who all know one another. Unless this was a competitor from out of state, he couldn't imagine any other breeder killing the Alpacas and leaving them there to rot. They had not been skinned or shaved to steal the valuable coats, so poaching was not the intent," Borden said. "Hank McGill's cell phone was melted down into a plastic blob -- as if hit by a direct current."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Darien said. "Let me guess, you want us to go out there to cowboy country to interrogate Calhoun."

"And if I may be so bold as to ask," Hobbes started in the annoyingly obsequious voice he got when he was hoping the Official would give him a raise or allot some money to repair the constantly falling apart Golda, "why us? This sounds like a job for animal control, or the local sheriff's department."

"The Department of Fish & Game has been investigating the deaths of various animals for several months now," Borden said just as Eberts turned the lights back on. They all blinked and took a moment to sip from cups of coffee or latte until their vision cleared. He put down his china cup that read 'The buck stops here!' with a decisive thump. "Without any breaks in the case, it was forwarded to us through numerous agencies."

"So we're the agency of last resort," Darien snorted into his orange burst smoothie, having finished the pumpkin latte.

"Until recently the state police weren't all that concerned with a few dead animals, most of whom appeared to been killed by high voltage electricity," Eberts said. "In some cases, there were electric fences, transformers or power lines in the vicinity to explain the deaths, but not all."

"The death of Hank McGill changed it from a minor problem with animals into a possible murder investigation." The Official took another drink of coffee, then peered into the empty cup with disappointment. Apparently, it had been good to the last drop.

"I have files from the insurance agencies of eight different ranchers in California, as well as records from the Audubon Society and the state police," Eberts started, handing out reams of papers. "In a number of these cases, insurance did not pay off because the cause of death was in dispute. In particular with the Calhoun fatalities, the coroner believes that Hank McGill and the alpacas were electrocuted."

"Nasty way to go," Hobbes stated, flipping through the information.

"Calhoun alleges that McGill and the livestock were killed by lightning," the Official explained, pointing to a paragraph on page 10 of the printouts. "And would stand to gain a lot of insurance money if they approve his claim."

"The problem is that the sky was blue that day," Eberts added. "There were no storms that could have produced lightning in the whole county, or the entire state, for that matter, on October fourteenth."

"It was hot enough to roast marshmallows on the street. I remember, because the radiator went dry on the van when we were on the freeway back from Del Mar," Bobby agreed. "Remember, Fawkes?"

Darien nodded, staring down at the papers in his hand, but either Eberts had started using a smaller print to get more words to the page, or he was having difficulty focusing, because he couldn't make heads or tails of the document. Eberts' voice droned on about arguments between the police and F&G over jurisdiction.

"....Was determined to be an act of God, or possibly a murder that was covered up when the body was moved back onto Calhoun land," Eberts was saying when Darien jerked back awake. He took a deep breath, determined to stay awake for the rest of the meeting.

"And the alpacas killed to cover up the crime." Bobby gestured as if he held a stun gun. "Probably a cattle prod set on fricassee or something."

"So over 50 different animals were killed, and we're just hearing about this now?" Darien grabbed onto the one bit of data he could recall hearing. "And all of 'em were crispy critters? Sounds like some kind of sick bastard roaming the countryside."

"And it's your job to find out how and why," Borden leveled a finger at him, and Darien had a sinking feeling in his belly. "Think what a coup it will be if our agency can solve this one and put one over on those name-callers back in Washington. Might bring us a real budget instead of the accumulation of half cents from all the other budgets once Bush has finished adding up the columns."

"We're on the job, sir." Hobbes sprang to a stand and nearly saluted. "And may I say that your confidence in us is a real motivator."

Given a choice in the matter, Darien would have rather gone back to sleep.

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

"There you are, Hobbesy... Whatcha doin'?" Darien inquired as he walked into the Agency garage an hour later, seeing Hobbes squatting by the door of his van with his back to Fawkes. His smaller partner wasn't exactly the picture of a mechanic, though, in his cowboy boots and dress pants, with a tweed sports coat to finish off the ensemble. Definitely not what you'd expect from a garage setting. Darien smirked to himself. "Hot date, there, partner?" he teased.

"Just puttin' the official touches on Ms. Golda here... the question is: what are you doin'?" Hobbes finally looked over his shoulder at Fawkes, eyeing him worriedly. "I thought I told you to get some sleep last night, my friend," he went on. "You practically dozed off twice during Eberts' briefing this morning. You know the Fat Man hates it when you do that." Hobbes returned his attention to the job at hand, sparing only a sidelong glance at Fawkes while he fussed with his decals.

"I wasn't dozing," Darien defended himself. "Just resting my eyes. And for your information, pal, I did get some sleep last night. Almost 10 hours worth." Darien slouched against the side of the van with a stifled yawn, shoving his hands in his pockets as he leaned his back on the open door frame, wondering what a few new stickers could possibly do to improve the looks of the yellow-ocher Ford van. "Hobbes, man, you should wash that spot there before you apply the sticker," Darien commented as he watched Hobbes peel the backing off the flimsy plastic decal.

"Already did, wiseguy," Hobbes snarked back, holding up the circular decal and carefully positioning it so that the print was straight, aiming for the center of the door. The adhesive started to stick at the bottom, and he began smoothing with his hand from bottom to top and center to sides, all the way around the decal. For good measure, he buffed the plastic Fish & Game seal down firmly with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Oh?" Darien remarked casually, trying to hide his grin at the irony of washing a van that at its best would look dirty even if you didn't count the rust, dents, and bullet holes that marred the aging body. "Guess that spot there," he pointed at one especially large rust mark just to the left of the newly applied decal, "must be camouflage, huh?"

"Very funny, Fawkes. Didn't your mother ever tell you it's what's on the inside, not what's on the outside, that counts?" Bobby glowered at the implied insult to his trusted vehicle, then glanced back at his handiwork critically. "How's that look to you?" he asked as he leaned back on his heels to eye the results of his efforts.

"Hunh...?" Darien grunted, not quite following the direction of Hobbes' questioning. "Well, it looks like a rusted, out-of-date van with some fancy new stickers put on the door," he said dryly, looking at the new decal.

Hobbes half-turned to face his partner. "No, Junior, are they on straight? Official-looking -- you know."

"You really believe that those stickers are going to convince anyone this van is an official government vehicle?" Darien asked with skeptical amusement.

Hobbes looked up at his tall partner from his crouch, clearly feeling a need to defend his beloved van. "Hey, there, watch who you're insulting, partner. She may just decide to let us down when we need her the most if you don't talk nice. She's sensitive, Fawkes!"

Darien snorted with laugher. "Hobbes, 'she' is a 20-year-old rust-bucket with shocks that probably came out of a Sherman tank, and seats with about as much cushioning as the ones on the local cross-town buses! You're anthropomorphizing a CAR, Hobbes. It's a CAR. An inanimate object. You put gas in it and it takes you where you want to go. Period. 'She' doesn't have feelings. Tell me you're taking your meds."

"I'll have you know Golda is not a rusty, out-of-date anything." Hobbes quickly stood up, prepared to defend the honor of his van. "She is a precision machine, a finely tuned instrument. And she hauls your butt anywhere it needs to go." There was no mistaking his wounded pride as he dusted off his hands on a rag pulled from where it had been tucked through the door handle, then headed towards the bright red tool chest to toss it on top of the scattered tools. He turned then, hands on hips, scowling at Fawkes disapprovingly. "And yes, I'm taking my meds."

Darien held his hands up in surrender, knowing he'd perhaps overstepped himself with the crack about the drugs. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Hobbes' feelings. Even if those feelings were for an antique, baby-barf yellow van. "OK, you're right... my bad... Now that you mention it, the stickers do add a touch of sophistication to the rust pattern...." He bent down to touch the fancy new decal with one hand, and looked up at Hobbes. "She passes inspection... Sir."

Hobbes folded his arms across his chest, apparently not quite willing to forgive and forget just yet. "You wouldn't know sophistication if it smacked you upside your head, Gumby. Now get outta here, let me finish the touch-ups on the official dee-cals so we can head out." Hobbes picked up a second circular sticker and headed around the front of the van to the driver's side door, preparing to repeat the adhesive process.

Darien grinned, knowing his help wouldn't be wanted, and, smiling at his best friend, he turned, running a hand through his hair as he headed for the doorway. "OK. I'll go bug Claire. That is, if you're sure you don't need my help, Hobbesy," he added, just in case.

"Trust me, Slim, I think I can handle it," Hobbes' sarcastic voice assured him from the far side of the van. "Go get something to fill those hollow legs of yours. It's gonna be a long drive." Darien felt his grin broaden. He'd been forgiven. Bobby was back to worrying about him instead of scolding him.

The growling of his belly acted as the impetus he needed to go raid Claire's fridge. Even a yogurt sounded good about now, and he knew she'd begun keeping other edibles in the lab as a sort of emergency buffet to stoke his raging metabolism. Time to see what she'd stocked up on this week.

It was a roundabout journey from the Agency's private garage in the back of the building to the Keep, involving a set of narrow dark back stairs that had given him the creeps the first few times he'd used them.

For all that the McKinley Building was the virtual twin of their old digs in the Harding Building a few blocks away, there were still individual differences. When he'd questioned Eberts about the back stairs, he'd been told that once upon a time, the Harding building had also had them, though they'd been sealed off in the interest of security when Kevin had first joined the Agency.

What made getting to the Keep from the back of the building so tedious was the fact that it involved going up two flights of the back stairs from the garage level to the mezzanine level, and entering the actual lobby of the building. Then you had to go back downstairs via the interior fire stairs (or the elevator) two floors to the basement level that housed the Keep. It annoyed him that the labs and the garage were actually on the same level, but utterly inaccessible to each other without the roundabout trek.

When he'd griped about it, he'd been reminded that the Keep wasn't SUPPOSED to be easily accessible, and that as long as his legs functioned as intended, he could manage the stairs. And that he should just be glad they weren't sealed off, which would necessitate either a hike around the block from the garage to reach the front of the building, or a walk through the McKinley's public garage that connected to the Agency's private one by a fire door. Either way, it was a longer route than the one up and down the stairs.

As he opened the squeaky stair door into the hallway of the Keep's outer sanctum, the bright lights made him squint in the glare. Through the open doors of the Keep, he could watch Claire as she turned at the familiar squeak of hinges to see him blinking back at her in the bright florescent lights of the corridor.

"Darien, I've been expecting you. I'm glad you remembered I need another blood sample, and I'd like to examine your sinuses, while I'm at it," she informed him.

"Hi, Claire, nice to see you, too," he replied. "How's the weather?"

"The weather?" Her brow furrowed in momentary confusion as her train of thought was derailed. "Ah. Irony. Hello, Darien, nice to see you. Now please come in and roll up your sleeve," she directed rather primly, hugging her metal clipboard to her chest as she awaited him.

Reluctantly he assumed his usual place in the demented dentist's chair and obediently rolled up a sleeve, leaning back so his head rested on the cushion behind his skull. "You have anything to eat down here?" he asked wistfully, turning his best woebegone look on her.

"Actually, I do," she smiled down at him as she tied off his vein with the rubber tourniquet. "I even brought some Krispy Kremes. The ones with sprinkles. Oh, and I made a new version of the power shake for you to test drive, too."

Darien made a face. "If it's all the same to you, I'll pass on the shake," he grimaced.

"No shake, no donut," she threatened as she deftly inserted a large-bore needle into his arm and siphoned off two collection vials of his bodily fluids.

"You drive a hard bargain, Keepy," he complained as he bent his elbow up to hold the cotton wad in place while she released the knot in the rubber tourniquet.

"I've completely reworked the formula," she informed him as she wrote notes on the blood vials and put them in a rack in the fridge door, then withdrew a pitcher of greenish purple liquid and poured a hefty serving into one of her beakers. "Here. Tell me what you think," she said, handing it to him and watching him closely as he raised the glass to his nose for a suspicious sniff.

Surprised, he glanced at her. "Pineapple juice?" he guessed.

"Yes," she confirmed. "And banana, orange, coconut, mixed berries, mango, guava, apple and grape," she rattled off the new ingredients as she ticked them off on her fingers.

"So why's it still green?" he wanted to know.

"Because I left in the spirulina, wheat grass, and other green superfoods, as well as adding bee pollen, propolis, royal jelly, and honey. I've decided to try it without the whey powder, and I'm using soy instead for the extra protein without the milk. I'm beginning to suspect you've developed a lactose intolerance," she explained. "The fruit juices should improve both the energy delivery and the taste," she went on, eyeing him expectantly.

Darien braced himself, unsure of half of what she she'd included in the drink, but knowing he wouldn't get his donuts if he didn't at least taste it. Holding his breath, he took a sip.

Fruity sweetness flooded his mouth and he took another, larger swallow, astounded at the total transformation of the flavor. "Whoa. BIG improvement, Keepy," he praised her. "I almost can't taste the soy powder. What's the little crunchy things?" he asked.

"Flax seed," she smiled at his reaction. "And my secret ingredient is avocado."

"Guacamole?" he questioned, startled, peering into the beaker as if he'd see bits of salsa floating in the drink.

"No, pureed avocado. It's loaded with essential fatty acids and omega threes and sixes. It's a very nutrient dense fruit, Darien. It's also quite bland, so the fruit juices disguise it well, I think. I tasted it several times while developing the new recipe."

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, grinning. "That's why it tastes good! Someone besides me actually taste-tested it!"

Claire scowled at him, annoyed. "Finish that up, and I'll put the rest of this in a thermos for you. I still haven't found a way to make the dry mix as palatable, but try mixing it in fruit juice and see if that helps, in future. I will try and have the gourmet version available for you when you're working out of the office, though," she assured him.

"Do I get my donuts, after?" he wheedled as he took another sip. "Oh, and does this mean I can't have milk with the Krispies??"

"I'd like you to stay away from dairy for awhile until I can run some allergy tests on you to find out just what it is you're reacting to these days," Claire said, turning to retrieve the white, red and green Krispy Kreme box from her computer desk to wave it under his nose.

He took the cue and chugged his fruit drink in a half-dozen gulps, licking the purpley-green mustache off his upper lip.

His reach for the box was interrupted by her 'tsk-tsk' and the little scope she pulled out of her lab coat pocket. "Sinuses first," she reminded.

With a long-suffering sigh, he dropped his head back onto the cushion with a melodramatic thump and submitted to her examination.

"Say 'ahhhh'," Claire requested, aiming the little odoscope's light at the back of Darien's throat. As she'd expected, there were signs of significant postnasal drip and irritation. His tonsils and adenoids also looked swollen. She palpated the lymph nodes along his jaw, noting their larger than normal size.

The uneasiness she'd been feeling for weeks now ramped up another notch. Whatever was going on in Darien's body was growing rapidly worse, and the symptoms were beginning to intensify and expand. "How are you feeling?" she asked with forced brightness, hoping he wouldn't be able to hear the worry in her voice.

"I'm fine, just tired, I guess," he said, purposefully running a hand through his hair and evading her expert gaze.

"You're sure?" Claire could see he was avoiding eye contact with her, a warning sign if ever there was one that all was not well with her Kept.

"Yeah... I'm sure, just not exactly into the work thing lately, y'know?" This time he met her eyes.

" 'Your way' again?" she teased deliberately, grinning at him, and was pleased when he grinned back. "Well, doctor's orders. You're to take a long weekend this coming weekend. I'll clear it with the Official. And you are to stay home and rest. I'll have Green and Alice standing watch outside your apartment, so you'd better stay put. Besides, according to the Weather Channel, it's supposed to rain."

"But Claire, it's the annual uniform swap meet out at Ocean Beach this weekend! I need new threads!" Darien whined. "And I need a replacement for my 'Jerry' jacket."

"I agree you need new clothes, but a swap meet isn't where I'd send you to buy them," Claire laughed. "Why can't you buy your clothes at a department store like the rest of San Diego?"

"I don't wanna look like the rest of San Diego," he grumped.

"Well, you don't need to be wearing other people's hand-me-downs, either. I'd so like to see you in something that actually fits you," she sighed winsomely, flirting lightly with him.

"Hey! My clothes fit!" he disagreed, plucking at the baggy-at-the-elbows and decaying long-sleeve BMX t-shirt he wore.

"Darien, I can practically see through that shirt of yours -- and not because of residual Quicksilver!" she exclaimed. "Besides, your pants are so loose they're nearly sliding off your hips."

He bounced his eyebrows at her and leered. "Some women would consider that a turn on," he smirked.

She put her hand on her hips and struggled to keep a straight face. "I'm your doctor, Darien. Not 'some women'."

"Nope, you're 'the' woman," he grinned back at her and dropped off the examining chair to stand, quickly kissing her on the cheek. "Just ask Hobbes."

"Bobby is happily seeing someone," she corrected, squelching the little sigh of regret at those words. "He is long since over his crush on me."

"Don't think so, Keepy. But you keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel any better," he replied in his best 'if you say so' tone. "You really should tell him how you feel about him," he goaded, and she glared at him, willing down the blush she could feel in her cheeks.

"I'll thank you to stop playing match-maker," she said starchily.

"Yeah. You and Bobby are doing so well on your own," Darien responded ironically. "Don't worry, Claire, I'll drop the subject." With that, he ambled to the exit, snatching the Krispy Kreme box off her rolling table as he departed "For now, anyway," he added as he reached the door.

"Darien Fawkes...," she scolded as he triggered the pneumatic door and disappeared behind the sliding steel.

"You are impossible," she muttered to herself as she turned back to her computer and settled in front of it for another long day of running simulations in an effort to try and understand what was happening to her charge.

Less than half an hour later, the Keep doors wooshed open and a very dapper Bobby Hobbes sauntered through them. "Hey, Claire. Got a second?"

She turned her desk chair to face him. "For you? Always," she smiled. "What can I help you with?"

"Uh, well," Hobbes started, making a face. "I'm kinda wanting to know what's going on with my partner."

"Going on how?" she asked, her stomach sinking. Clearly, Darien wasn't confiding in Bobby, either, and her worry deepened.

"Like he says he's gettin' enough sleep, but he's nodding off in the middle of one of the Fat Man's briefings. Like he's got bags under his eyes bigger'n one'a your purses. Like he's in bed by 9:00 p.m., and still drags into the office around 10:00 a.m. looking like death warmed over. He's getting worse isn't he?" The casual body language of his entrance into the Keep had vanished, replaced with very real concern. "Claire. What's going on? He's not talking to me."

She sighed deeply. "Honestly, Bobby, I don't know. I can tell you this much; his body is behaving as if it was under constant bombardment by foreign proteins. Think allergic reactions, like those to a bee-sting, for example. The problem is, none of the standard diagnostics turn up anything particularly noteworthy. Yet every one of his symptoms seems to be some how related to a heightened immune response that I can't explain."

Hobbes frowned, hiking a hip onto the demented dentist's chair. "So you're telling me he's got allergies? That's not exactly breaking news, Claire. He's had a runny nose off and on since we got Apollo... uh, Zeus... uh, whatever, back for the Boss's horsey pal. You said it wasn't serious," he squinted at her accusatorily. "And that isn't explaining why he burns through fuel like a Ferrari, either," he added.

"Clearly, they're related phenomena, but right now, I'm afraid I just don't have any explanations," she admitted.

Bobby sighed. "It's that damned gland again, isn't it?"

Claire gritted her teeth. Bobby had just voiced her greatest fear. "It may be. The problem is, I can't isolate any changes in the chemical makeup of the Quicksilver, which should be the first indicator of trouble. His blood work comes back normal, as well, though his white cells are elevated, as they would be in the case of any allergic reaction...."

"You're telling me he's allergic to the gland?" Bobby pounced on that vague hint like a cat on a mouse.

"I'm saying there is that possibility. I hope it's that simple," she admitted softly.

Hobbes blanched. "You're saying it might be something else?"

Claire hesitated, torn between sharing the burden of her fears and the oath of doctor-patient confidentiality she'd sworn. "I don't have anything concrete to go on, Bobby. I've asked the Official to allow me to schedule a series of tests at Fort Leavitt, but you know how he feels about their security," she reminded.

Bobby snorted derisively. "Security? They leak worse'n the Titanic!"

"Unfortunately, they are also the only cleared facility with the equipment I need within three states. So one way or another, either the Official finds a way to get me access to an MRI, a CT scanner, and more extensive DNA analysis equipment or my hands are tied, diagnostically." She sighed again, knowing this was as far as she dared confide in Hobbes. But as Darien's partner, Bobby was going to be her first line of defense should Fawkes continue to decline, or take any serious or unexpected turns for the worse.

Making up her mind, she rose and went to her drug cabinet, unlocking it and scanning the shelves for what she wanted. Finding what she was looking for, she selected two of each and returned to where Hobbes waited. "I want you to make sure you always have at least one of each of these with you," she said gravely as she handed him the boxes.

Bobby examined them carefully, then eyed her, waiting for an explanation.

"I've given you the injectable versions of two common allergy meds, Bobby, in case there's some kind of emergency out in the field, since you've had experience with administering Counteragent. Are you alright with that?" she asked cautiously. "I'm sure you're familiar with the Benadryl."

Bobby nodded, mouth set in a determined line. "Sure. I've heard of it. Heard of this one, too," he added darkly, waving around the bright yellow marker-shaped container. "I know this is for real emergencies, Claire. What's going on?" he asked grimly.

"Consider it a safety precaution. At least until we have a better idea what's happening to him and why."

"You haven't told Fawkes any of this yet, have you?" Hobbes accused unhappily.

She considered her answer carefully. "No. And I don't want you to, either."

Hobbes made no response, simply watching her with the same grim set to his expression, disappointment in his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," she sighed.

"Like what, Keepy? Like someone who's letting the Fat Man's games take precedence over her patient? Fawkes is the one this is happening to, Claire. He needs to know. You have to tell him."

"And then what?" she demanded, frustrated. "I'm not delaying telling Darien there's a problem because the Official asked me too, though he has. I'm delaying because I don't want to send him right back into the depression he went through right before... right before I gave him Arnaud's cure. Bobby, we've been through this with him before. I just need a little more time... I know there's a way to fix this problem. Can you trust me a little longer?"

She knew she was using Bobby's affection for her to her own advantage, but the idea of telling Darien that there was yet another issue with the gland was more than she could bear, especially if she had no solution to bring to the table when she told him. He'd know soon enough that there was a problem once he got wind of the tests she was trying to schedule him for. And she knew he already suspected trouble. How much was the question, though.

Bobby hadn't answered right away, which made her nervous, and she watched him consider all the ramifications of her request. She saw it the minute he came down in her favor, though reluctance was written all over him.

"OK, Keepy. I'll keep my mouth shut. Unless he asks me point blank. Then I'm sending him to you. Capiche?" His voice brooked no disagreement. "He's my partner. I'll keep him safe. But I won't lie to him. Got it? Not now, not ever. We been through way too much for me to pull that kinda crap on him now."

She took a deep breath, relieved. "Capiche," she agreed.

Hobbes dropped his weight back off the examining chair and made for the door. "Fix it, Claire," he said, his parting glance fraught with all the anxiety and fear she herself felt on Darien's behalf.

As the steel doors once again closed behind a friend, she whispered, "I'll do my best, Bobby. I'll do my best."

Hobbes stepped out of the elevator on the second floor and strode down the hall towards his office, head down, concentrating on how to get through this case without betraying either his partner or Claire. He hated being put in the middle of two opposing agendas this way. He'd been in the same position too many times, with too many consequences to both his mental health and his career to be happy about it now.

But everything came down to one thing: he never bailed on a partner. Ever. It was who he was, and more than his life was worth. He'd grown accustomed to the fact that few people felt equally strongly about the subject, but for him, that core value was the essence of who he had struggled to become.

So much of what he'd grown up with was the antithesis of loyalty. Of friendship. And yet, in so many perverse ways, his family background was the epitome of those things. Not for the first time, he thanked the fates that had led him over the fence and into Jack Lynch's backyard, and a whole different experience of loyalty and family.

And after more bad breaks than he could count, he'd finally managed to acquire a partner worth his loyalty. Fawkes and he had simply clicked. Two hard luck cases who'd stumbled into a friendship.

But once again, their luck was running out. If Claire couldn't figure out what was happening to Fawkes, Bobby feared he was doomed to the loss of not only his partner, but also his best friend. He reminded himself that she'd done it once already. He had no doubt that, with enough time, she'd do it again. The question was, would she have that time? Would any of them?

In a somber mood, Hobbes entered his office and paused in the doorway. Expecting to see his lanky partner poking around on the computer, taking care of some emails or something, he was unprepared for a crashed Darien Fawkes.

Darien was slumped over his desk with his arms folded under his head, a half-drunk cup of cooling coffee and a half-eaten donut still in his grasp. For one horrible second Bobby feared the worst, his heart standing still in his chest. It took an act of sheer will to press fingertips lightly to Darien's throat under his jaw, but the slow, steady throb of a pulse reassured him. Hobbes shook his head sympathetically. "What'm I gonna do with you, kid?" he muttered to himself. Gently, he pried the cup out of Darien's lax fingers and set it aside, then shook his partner's shoulder gently. "Fawkes. Wake up. We gotta hit the road, there, my friend."

Fawkes started slightly, groaning, and sat up, wiping a little drool off the corner of his mouth. "I was just restin' my eyes," he yawned.

"Yeah? You're doin' a lot of eye-resting today, kiddo. A word of advice my friend; if you're gonna hoot all night with the owls, you're not gonna be able to soar with the eagles come daylight... That means you need to get more rest-time than playtime," Hobbes said gravely as he stared directly into Darien's glazed eyes.

"Eagles? Around here? That must be why we're working for Fish & Game, huh?" Darien shot back, then muttered; "Feels more like clucking with the turkeys, if you ask me. And I told you already: I got almost 10 hours last night. I haven't been able to keep my eyes open past 10:00 p.m. since the end of August. I think I'm hibernating or something... the time change always throws me off." He stretched and blinked at Hobbes blearily. "So what're we doin' next?"

"We're taking a field trip, Fawkes. Remember? Up to it, huh? Turkey?" Hobbes snarked. "The old gray matter ain't what it used to be," he added, tapping a forefinger gently against Darien's temple. "Don't try and blame it all on the end of Daylight Savings Time, either, pal."

Darien mock-laughed. "I remember, smartypants. I even Googled the directions out to the Circle C," he replied, triumphantly smacking Hobbes in the chest with a sheaf of printouts. "Are the other turkeys going, or just me?" he asked, levering himself out of the desk chair to stand and stretch once again, his spine popping audibly.

"Just us chickens," Hobbes assured him. "The 'Fish thinks we can handle it on our own. Come on, pal. You can nap on the way out. It's gonna be a long drive."

"So now it's chickens?" Darien grumbled, shoving one hand into a pocket and slouching towards the office door, yanking his new-but-now-distressed tan leather jacket off the coat rack as he passed. "What, we're goin' all Wild Kingdom 'cuz we're off to a ranch?"

"Chickens aren't wild, my friend," Hobbes disagreed, following Darien out into the hall. "They've been domesticated forever. And turkeys don't cluck. They gobble. Like you do when you get your hands on one of these 12-packs of Krispy Kremes," he teased as he handed Darien the donut box he'd retrieved from the desk.

Darien grinned, taking it, the last of his post-nap moodiness evaporating with the promise of food. Together, the partners made their way out of the McKinley Building, still squabbling over the history of poultry domestication.

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

"Are we there yet?" Darien asked in his best whiny voice.

"What, you're five, now? You're the one with the map, Junior. How's about you tell me." Hobbes shot Darien a quick glare as Fawkes grinned back at him. "D'we pass the road already? Sunshine-something, right?" he asked, peering through the windshield trying to keep the little frisson of anxiety down. The miles of empty rolling hills, with just a hint of the green of new winter grass poking up through last summer's tawny gray weeds, unsettled him. It was too much like some of the places he'd served as a Marine in the Middle East.

Darien consulted the directions. "No, SunRISE. Sunrise Highway past the Cuyamaca State Park to Corn Silk. Corn Silk Drive," he corrected as he craned his head to peer over Bobby's arm at the odometer. "Says you're supposed to be going 12.6 miles past the old entrance to the park, here, Hobbes," he reminded as he shook the paper in his hand slightly.

Hobbes muttered under his breath, mimicking Darien's words sarcastically. "Everyone's a critic," he griped aloud, smacking Darien on the side of the head lightly to get him out of his personal space. "So was it Sunshine or Corn Silk I'm supposed to be looking for first?" he asked, the squabble with Fawkes having distracted him.

"SunRISE, for Pete's sake," Darien sighed long-sufferingly. "SUNRISE, Hobbes. SUNRISE. Geeze. Are you sure you took your pills today?"

"What! I'm just askin' for directions, wisenheimer," Bobby retorted, wounded, but knowing Fawkes was most likely just teasing him. Again. He hunched his shoulders into the depths of his jacket a little.

Darien eyed him warily. "Well, then, maybe you need to think about taking some ginko or one of those herbs Claire's always foisting off on me," he commented. " 'Cuz I'm not the one with the deficient gray matter today," he added, tone suspicious. "Your focus is shot, man."

Hobbes grimaced unhappily. He had way too much on his mind, and none of it was anything he could actually do anything about by worrying. He sighed.

"Hobbes. What is UP with you? You've been in a funk since we left San Diego."

Bobby made a face in the rearview mirror. "I don't like these wide open spaces, partner. Too many places for an ambush, and no one around to call for back up," he admitted reluctantly, unwilling to discuss his real concerns right now, at least not with Darien, the subject of those concerns.

"That's why we have cell phones, Bobby," Darien pointed out patiently. "Besides. It's kinda nice to be out of the city for a change. Plenty of open road, sunshine, no traffic; what's not to like? Besides, we can see anyone coming for 20 miles in any direction, pretty much. I promise I'll protect you from the boogey men out there," he grinned a little.

Bobby had to stifle the urge to point out that calling for backup would be pointless, since they were over an hour drive from the Agency, at the very least, and help couldn't get to them in a hurry.

"Shut up," he snarked instead. "I just don't like being out here, hell and gone from anything even vaguely resembling civilization. No sir, don't like being away from the convenience of payphones on every corner, mom and pop grocery stores, taxi service...." he trailed off, hoping his dissembling would distract his all-too-attentive partner. "Why in God's name would anyone want to live out here, anyway? There is no entertainment, unless you count cow-tipping. I mean, it's been 30 minutes since we've even seen a house." He dropped back to a mutter, breaking his vow not to voice his uneasiness. "If something happens, it'll take forever for anyone to find us." He scanned the road in front of him for any sign of the unusual.

"Why the heck would they need to, Hobbes?" Darien asked, exasperated, as he threw his arms wide to encompass the landscape outside. "Wide open spaces, no one to bother us," he went on expansively, "and not a bad guy in sight. In case you forgot, this is just some insurance scam. Maybe. And it may even be this guy is legit. You know, on the up-and-up. Worst case scenario, we came out here to roust him for electrocuting his herd. Best case scenario, he gets a nice fat insurance settlement. I still can't believe one of these alpacas is worth nearly a quarter mil."

"There!" Hobbes yelled as he hit the brakes hard and took a sharp left onto a narrower road designated by a small green and white street sign on a bent post as the Sunrise Highway.

"Oof!" Darien was thrown out of his peaceful musings and into the passenger door by Hobbes' sudden swerve onto the old highway, which continued off into the distance in a northeasterly direction.

"Man, they could do with some better road signs around here, ya think?" Bobby complained. "I nearly missed it."

Darien spent a solid five minutes bitching about Bobby's driving, and Hobbes considered it a successful way to get his partner onto some topic of conversation other than their general isolation way out here in the middle of nowhere.

Fifteen minutes later, they passed the entrance to the state park mentioned in the directions, and Darien began counting down the odometer's progress towards their 12.6 mile goal. "Slow down, slow down," he insisted as the numbers slowly inched towards the right count. "It's coming up right...."

The van made another sharp turn, this time to the right, and Darien nearly ended up in Bobby's lap. "Here," he finished grumpily. "Warn a guy, will ya? Any more Mario Andretti moves like that, and I'm going to be in physical therapy for whiplash for a month," he whined.

"Yeah, I figured that out, Mr. Mapquest," Bobby agreed smugly, feeling better now that he knew they were where they were supposed to be. "Corn Silk Drive. So how far now?" he asked.

"Two point two miles. The ranch'll be on your side," Fawkes replied, folding the directions and stuffing them into the glove compartment.

"Looks like this is the place," Bobby said a few minutes later, this time slowing and considerately activating his turn signal, even though they hadn't passed another car in 45 minutes.

A wide gravel driveway bracketed by the same whitewashed plank fencing that had lined the road for miles provided the entrance to the ranch. A large wrought-iron lintel set on matching stone pillars that also supported a massive, open gate acted as the entrance onto the property, a fancy script 'C' within a simple iron circle confirming they'd reached their destination. Hobbes turned down the long drive, which seemed to vanish into the haze, and cruised along at a steady 30 MPH.

"This is it?" Darien inquired curiously, peering around. "There's nothing...."

At that moment, they topped a low hill and directly below them in a shallow valley was an enormous compound presided over by a sprawling multi-storied Victorian-style ranch house. The estate was at the point of the V between two small mountains, or large hills depending on your perspective, the ranch proper disappearing into the distance, the hills dropping, and eventually merging into the desert floor.

"Here," he finished weakly, mouth hanging open at the collection of barns, outbuildings and distant white glass greenhouses. There was even the turquoise glitter of an Olympic-sized swimming pool visible in the emerald lawns of the manicured yard behind the main house. "Man," he whistled, impressed.

"You can say that again," Bobby agreed, slowly coasting down the gravel road to the heart of the compound. He pulled to a stop in the circular drive in front of the house, the three-tiered fountain splashing water merrily in the bright sunshine. He couldn't have said why, but the overwhelming prosperity of the spread had set off warning bells.

"This place is huge!" Darien said as he got out of the van, peering around in amazement. "It looks like a movie set."

"I'm thinkin' he's doin' somethin' right, if he can afford a place like this selling camel wool and semen samples," Bobby agreed. "Sounds like snake oil to me," he concluded cynically.

Darien snickered. "Hey, maybe he's got some swamp land in Florida he can sell you, Mr. Optimism," he suggested with equal sarcasm.

"Ha, Fawkes. Funny," Bobby snorted humorlessly, leading the way towards the main house and the wraparound porch that fronted it, decorated with scores of lush hanging flower baskets.

"You fellas the investigators?" a man greeted them from his wicker chair near the stained glass and walnut front doors. He rose, meeting them at the top of the stairs onto the porch.

Hobbes took the lead. "Bobby Hobbes," he introduced himself, flashing his F&G shield and waving his hand in Darien's direction. "My partner, Darien Fawkes. Fish & Game," he finished.

"Jake Jameson," the man replied in kind, offering a gnarled, work-roughened hand to shake. "Ranch foreman for the Circle C. Scott told me you'd be showin' up to check things out... again. Can't say I see the point in goin' out to the north 40 one more time, but you insurance guys are sure hard to pry loose from a settlement," he observed with good-natured irony.

Hobbes stifled a flash of impatience as he tapped his F&G shield against Jake's chest lightly. "Not insurance; Feds," he corrected darkly.

" 'Scuse me," Jameson said with an air of facetiousness. "See, that's another thing... What the hell are the Feds doing out here to investigate a lightning strike? I mean, OK, FBI I could see, if Hank was murdered, or maybe someone from the BLM, since Scott leases about 400 acres of pasture from them. But Fish & Game?"

Darien interceded when Hobbes faltered, only half-remembering the convoluted arguments that had led to their assignment to the case.

"Interdepartmental cooperation," Darien inserted smoothly before Bobby could come up with a response. "Since the Circle C leases federal range land as pasturage, the Bureau of Land Management wanted to make sure it hadn't occurred on federal lands, or happened as a result of some kind of oversight. Legal reasons. Mostly, I think my boss just didn't want anyone coming after him for negligence, since that guy fried. You know, liability and all?"

Jameson eyed Fawkes in a way that made it clear that he was reserving judgment on this line of reasoning. "If you fellas say so," he said simply. "Scott told me to set you up with transportation out to the north point. He's already out there, finishing some fence repairs. You can't miss him."

Hobbes snorted skeptically. "So you say. Me, I'm thinkin' missing him is a whole lot more likely than finding him, on 400 acres. Pretty big haystack to get lost in."

"Oh, hell, the Circle C is over 4,000 acres," the ranch foreman grinned, "and that's not counting the 400 we lease from you fellas. Milly's got supper goin', so if you want to wait, he'll come to you, give him long enough."

Darien and Hobbes exchanged glances, and Hobbes resumed control of the conversation. "We're on the clock, here, bub. Don't think we'd better sit around drinking mint juleps until we've got the job done."

"Transportation?" Darien interrupted worriedly, returning to the original subject. "You mean like horses?" he hesitated. "I, uh, I'm kinda allergic," he added a little sheepishly. "Besides I've only been on a horse once in the last 20 years, and it wasn't exactly a great experience."

Jameson snickered. "Now what makes you think we'd risk you running one of our pure blood quarter horses into a gopher hole? No, you'll be usin' a different kinda horsepower, where you're heading." With that, he turned, waving a hand over his shoulder. "Come with me."

He led them along the porch towards the back side of the massive house, passing pot after pot of blazing red flowers that lined the porch railing; flowers that reminded Bobby of something, though he couldn't for the life of him remember what.

As their guide rounded the back corner of the porch, a screen door popped open and a petite little woman with a striking resemblance to some 1940's movie actress poked her head out. "Jake! I thought I heard you thumping around out here," she began without preamble. "Did you dig up the 'taters yet? I need to put them in to roast if dinner is gonna be anywhere near ready on time," she finished and then peered around him at the two visitors, wiping her hands on the dishtowel she held before offering a dainty one to be shaken. "Hi, there, fellas, I'm Milly Lombard," she introduced herself. "And you'd be?"

"Uhm, Darien Fawkes," Fawkes said, reaching past Hobbes quickly to shake her hand first. Bobby stifled the snort of amusement. Show the kid a pretty girl and he went all hormonal. Of course, given Milly's looks, he couldn't exactly blame Fawkes. She was a tiny little thing, though the energy coming off her was formidable. Dark hair in an old-fashioned looking style that harked back to World War II, a pair of china blue eyes, and skin like a porcelain doll all conspired to give her a glamour-girl look in spite of the casual, snug but worn jeans and plaid shirt she wore.

"Nice to meet you, Darien," she flashed a killer smile at his taller partner, then eyed Hobbes curiously.

"Bobby Hobbes," he hastily supplied his name. "Pleasure, ma'am," he found himself saying, and for a moment, felt as if he should be tipping his nonexistent hat to the lady.

Milly grinned. "Ma'am? Try Miss," she corrected.

Darien grinned back at this bit of news, and Hobbes shook his head slightly. Predictable.

"Can it wait 'til I've got these boys on their way out to the North Point to meet up with Scott?" Jake asked with ill-concealed annoyance.

"Only if you want to be the one to explain to our boss why the meal isn't on time," she threatened as she crossed her arms across her chest and scowled fiercely up at Jake.

"Damn, you're a pain, Mil," Jameson complained. "You just wanna bat your baby blues at these fellas, don'tcha?" he accused.

Milly tapped a booted foot impatiently on the porch planking. "Hmm. And you just want to get out of helping me feed the ravening hordes around here," she retorted. "C'mon, Jake. It'll take you, what, 15 minutes to dig up enough for dinner? I'll get these fellas a drink, a little something to eat, get 'em ready for the ride out to the point," she switched tactics, going from threat to wheedle. "Don't want the boss man accusing us of not being hospitable, do we?"

"Women," Jameson heaved a put-upon sigh and stumped off down the back stairs towards the large vegetable garden that filled the side yard. "Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em," they heard him mutter as he snatched a pitchfork and waded into a small ocean of foliage.

"What can I get you boys?" Milly asked, diverting Bobby from peering after Jameson.

"Nothing for me," he declined, only to be poked in the ribs by his lanky partner.

"You have any lemonade?" Darien asked at the same time.

Milly's smile was incandescent. "Come on in," she invited, holding the screen door open for them. "Fresh squeezed OK?"

Fawkes' eyes widened a little. "Fresh squeezed is great," he agreed happily. "Hey, since we're gonna be wandering around out in the wilderness, is it alright if I use the bathroom before we head out?" he asked, and Hobbes had to squelch the smirk he felt quirking his mouth. Score one for Fawkes. Sneaky little bastard was gonna scope the place out, unless he totally missed his guess.

"It's ain't exactly the wilderness, but the conveniences are kind of few and far between," Milly agreed. "Sure. Right down the hall to the mudroom, there's a little powder room you can use."

"Perfect," Fawkes said as he strode off, leaving Bobby to chat up the housekeeper as a diversion for what he assumed would be a little invisible snooping.

Darien made his way to the specified half-bath and conspicuously shut the door behind him to give himself the privacy to Quicksilver. Once sheathed in frosty invisibility, he eased back out of the small room again and slipped into the main part of the house for a quick look around.

He found himself in a back hallway with a clear view towards the massive front doors, so he headed for the front of the house. He was sidetracked however, when he passed what he quickly realized was a den or formal office, and he stuck his head inside.

The Victorian elements of the building went further than simply the exterior of the house. The ceilings were easily 10 feet high, and crown molding and other decorative elements, as well as elaborate woodwork around the lower quarter of the walls, definitely gave the place a period feel. This was added to by the other furnishings, most of them antiques or very good reproductions, unless he missed his guess. However, it was the trio of Fredrick Remington bronzes and other valuable collectibles that decorated the surfaces of the desks, side tables, and credenzas that really caught his attention. He took the risk of unQuicksilvering so he could examine a pair of paintings the room held as well.

One of them he recognized as a Maxfield Parrish original oil painting, and even though it was a smallish one -- measuring less than two feet by three feet -- its value was still somewhere in the vicinity of a quarter million. Possibly more. The other painting was a massive landscape, painted in the late 1890s, if the date and signature were legitimate, by Albert Bierstadt, one of the most famous of the plein air painters whose work helped showcase the western states' scenic grandeur. Darien knew this particular stylistic school had been in part responsible for the founding of the national park system. And a Beirstadt painting of this size... well, he couldn't even hazard a guess at the price tag. Paintings had never been high on his shopping list as a thief, being awkward to steal and harder to fence, though he'd spent a fair amount of time in prison studying art history simply to improve his skills at picking out those items of most value when he burgled a place.

Every larcenous cell in his body was slavering over the other collectibles as well, most of which would have easily been small enough for him to make off with if he'd actually been robbing the place. Three Remington bronzes, and what, to his less-than-expert eye, looked like an Anasazi harvest basket, along with miscellaneous other things, was enough to confirm that there was one hell of a lot of money in alpaca ranching, or else Scott Calhoun was supplementing his income in some highly lucrative, and possibly shady way.

For all his teasing, he shared Hobbes' suspicions that things were just a little too good to be true here at the Circle C. This was more than just a prosperous ranch: this was a wealthy one. And while he didn't claim to be an expert on the subject, this kind of ostentatiousness was unlikely for an operation that received its sole income from agriculture. Farming and ranching were notoriously hard ways to make a living, certainly one of this caliber, so logically, that meant that money had to be coming in from somewhere else.

He'd definitely been hanging out with Bobby Hobbes too long, he smiled to himself as he willed the Quicksilver into place and made his way back towards the small bathroom he had supposedly been using.

Five minutes later, he sauntered into the kitchen to find Bobby sipping from a frosty glass of lemonade complete with lemon slice and mint sprig.

"I was starting to think I needed to send a rescue party after you," Hobbes snarked at him.

Darien knew the apparent ribbing was Hobbes' way of expressing his concern over the length of time he'd been gone. "Sorry. Breakfast isn't agreeing with me," he explained.

"Breakfast?" Milly exclaimed, glancing at her wrist watch. "It's nearly two in the afternoon and you're still running off breakfast?" She cocked her head, eyeing him. "You could do with a few decent meals, Darien Fawkes," she observed, clucking worriedly as she turned and pulled the foil off the remains of a roast of some kind. Deftly and with no wasted motion, she carved off three slabs of meat, then turned out what had to be a home-made loaf of bread from its pan and sliced off a couple thick pieces, slathered both with mustard from a crock on the counter, and then assembled it all into a two-inch thick sandwich. "Here. Eat this."

Darien knew better than to argue with anyone who offered him food and took the sandwich eagerly. "You really didn't have to," he said winsomely, flirting with her.

She snorted delicately. "I'm not having someone pass out from hunger in my kitchen," she scoffed with a smile. "Are you sure I can't offer you something?" she asked Hobbes, who was struggling to suppress his amusement.

"Nah, hollow-legs, here, could eat me under a table," he replied. "I'm good."

"As long as you're sure," she hesitated.

"I'll take his," Darien offered with his best puppy dog eyes, and heard Bobby snicker.

Milly grinned and turned to hack another couple of slices off the loaf. "Coming right up," she said.

Darien had time to eat most of the second sandwich as well before Jake returned with a bushel basket of freshly dug potatoes.

"Took you long enough," Milly scolded, taking the basket away from him and dumping the contents in the sink. Darien couldn't keep himself from peering over her shoulder at the tubers. He'd never seen them fresh out of the ground before. They looked just like the supermarket ones, only a heck of a lot dirtier.

" 'Took ya long enough', " Jake mocked as he pulled a cell phone out of his back hip pocket. "Next time, you can go dig 'em up yourself, Mil," he suggested as he punched in an auto-dial code. "Hey, Scott. The feds are here. I was gonna send 'em out to North Point to hook up with you for the scenic tour," the foreman said into the phone as his call was answered.

Darien was standing close enough to Jake that he could catch an occasional word from the man on the other end of the line, but that was about it. However, the overall tone of annoyance was unmistakable.

"Yeah, they've been here about 20 minutes. Milly's been busy feedin' 'em and making goo-goo eyes at the tall one," Jameson continued after a pause.

There was another brief silence as Calhoun responded to this, and Jake went on, seeming rather surprised. "OK, I'll tell 'em. So you're sure you wanna meet 'em at Windmill Hill instead of North Point?" he waited for confirmation, then continued. "Whatever you say, boss," and with that, disconnected the call and stowed the phone in his pocket again.

"Change of plans," he informed them. "Scott's done out there so he'll meet you about a half-mile out, at Windmill Hill."

"Good," Milly harrumphed. "It's less of a ride. You guys planning on staying for supper?" she asked the two agents, who exchanged uncertain looks.

Darien cleared his throat, glancing at Hobbes. "Uh, I don't know. I'd love to, though, if your boss extends the invitation."

"Pshaw," she waved a dismissive hand at this concern. "This is my kitchen, and I'll feed whomever I want," she informed them haughtily, then spoiled the queenly effect by grinning.

"Enough gabbing," Jake interrupted. "C'mon, you two, time's a-wastin'." And with that, he turned and marched back out the screen door, Fawkes and Hobbes on his heels. Darien nearly ran Hobbes over as he tried to walk forward while looking back at a bustling Milly through the screen. "Oh, sorry, man," he apologized, a tad embarrassed at being caught ogling the woman.

Hobbes heaved a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. "She's got a mighty fine swing in her backyard, Fawkes, I'll grant ya, but try keeping an eye on where you're goin', will you? Instead of on the lady's... dangerous curves?" with this last, he spared a lecherous smirk at Darien, who found himself blushing.

"Ho-o-bbes," he groaned in a stage whisper. "Do you mind? She might hear you."

Hobbes snickered again and followed Jake down off the porch.

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

Act 2