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Chapter Text

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"Fall into me my arms

Are stretched open wide
You don't have to say

A word 'cause I

Already see that it's

Hard and you're scared
And you're tired and

I know it hurts
Yes it's hard and

You're scared and you're

Tired and it hurts
And I wanna be the
One you reach for first."

Fall Into Me – Sugarland

Love On The Inside Deluxe Fan Edition – Mercury Nashville 2008

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Santini Air

Van Nuys Airport

16461 Sherman Way

Van Nuys, CA 91406

Tuesday April 1 1986

'April Fools' Day.  How distressingly fitting.  For we have all been fools, and we have been fooled.  Badly on both counts.'

In other lives, other cities, he would be known by other names, but he wasn't there yet. Right now – still two months, one week and three days shy of turning twenty – Michael Coldsmith Briggs IV sat in the pilot's seat in a Bell 222A Ranger chopper, painted a disturbingly cheerful red, white and blue. Red and white stripes covering most of the fuselage, fading along the tail boom to a dark blue field spangled with white stars. The motif was repeated on another chopper parked outside, two Jeep CJ-6 Renegade 4X4s also parked outside – even the banner advertising the name of the business housed in the hangar Michael was currently moping around in.

Moping? Perhaps sulking? No, sulking would imply he had done something worthy of punishment. Grieving ... 'Oh, Hell no. Not a chance in Hell will I let those grasping bastards catch me grieving.' 

The unmistakable screech of three sets of polyurethane wheels on pavement made him look up, pulling himself out of the chopper when it was punctuated by the rattle-thump-wheeze-growl of a pickup truck ten years past its' prime. This was all that was left, then – two college kids, two high-school kids, and two junior kids. All they had to do was steal a chopper. Not get caught, not get killed. Find a new place to hide. Live. Be. 

A literally one-of-a-kind, top-secret, ultra-sophisticated, high-tech, armed warcopter. A helicopter gunship that only ran on one distinctive sort of fuel. They couldn't exactly wander down to the local gun shop and pull boxes of Copperhead, Redeye or Hellfire missiles 'off the shelf.' Thirty-millimeter chain gun and 40-millimeter cannon rounds were likewise going to be rather difficult to procure. A battlechopper only he and Everett really knew how to fly at all, and that only barely. Neither Evie nor Tye had yet soloed in the 222A Ranger. Sam and Le Van were interested, but they were fourteen and thirteen, respectively. Their 'flight hours' were still limited to arcade games.

Hell, only he and Everett were old enough to drive a car, for God's sake! Evie and Tye wouldn't turn sixteen until September! There was just simply no way they were going to accomplish this, let alone get away with it, they may as well just sit and wait for the butchers to catch up with them. 'Oh no! NO self-pity, Michael!  Absolutely no self-pity allowed!' Michael looked down at the file folder in his hands. How on Earth it had been smuggled out he could not begin to guess, but it had. Fulfilling the mission contained within would be his final gift to a truly incredible woman, who had possessed the courage of her convictions in sufficient quantity as to allow her to walk away from everyone and everything she'd ever known. To chase a dream that had ultimately resulted in her death.

He looked up as Evie, Tye and Le Van came up to the chopper, Everett and Sam behind them. Everett had possessed the foresight to shut the damn door, something Michael himself had neglected to do. The corrugated steel walls of the hangar wouldn't stop BBs, but hopefully the bastards after them would not merely fire blindly into a building they had not previously ascertained actually held their assigned targets. Which would necessitate opening the door, which would give them time to scramble to some pathetic semblance of safety. Sitting there wool-gathering with the door hanging open, Michael had made himself the perfect target.

Everett started. "I got these two," he chucked a thumb at Evie and Tye, "fake ID's. I've been teaching them to drive Ol' Red. If they can drive him they can drive anything. You and I go retrieve the package, the rest go on to the campground."

Amazing how quickly they'd adapted their speech, naturally presuming they were being listened in on. 'Package' instead of naming the helicopter outright; 'the campground,' as opposed to their intended destination – which they had yet to even intend! Michael passed him the file folder. "Read it.  Our first assignment. We'll figure out the rest later."

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Raines Farm

Grayson County, Texas

Wednesday 23 April 1986

Twelve-year-old Vin Tanner huddled miserably under Ol' Man Raines' ancient tool shed, knowing that at any second it was going to be ripped out from over him, leaving him at the mercy of the storm. He didn't even know what he'd done 'wrong' this time, if he'd even done anything at all. Ol' Raines was a drunk, and a violent one at that. How he'd passed the tests to become a foster parent, Vin didn't care to think about. 

For the past two years, 'Child Services' had seen fit to place Vin in progressively worse situations, ever since a Texas Highway Patrol chopper pilot with more heart than she'd had good sense had bothered to remember he was turning eleven. She'd picked him up from school the day of, and taken him out for lunch – he hadn't had the money to eat at school – and shopping at NorthPark Center. It had been the first time Vin had been inside the huge mall, only the third time he could ever remember being in a mall in his life. They'd wandered around for hours. But the pièce de résistance of the day had been when Deputy Caitlin O'Shannessy had driven out to the airport, and taken him for a chopper ride. That had been half the reason for staying in the mall so long – she’d wanted to give the mid-spring sun time to go down, time for the lights of Dallas to come up – the Dallas Main Center outlined in green; Renaissance Tower's white X's; the obsidian spire of the Ewing Oil building, somehow even more sinister for being so dark next to its glowing neighbors, save the airplane caution lights at the very top; the glowing ball of Reunion Tower. He'd loved his city before, but seeing her like this ... could there be any finer place to live than Texas?

It had been a night Vin had would never forget. They'd both paid for it. Vin had been removed from a placement that, while certainly neglectful, had never been outright abusive. He'd spent a week in Juvie, then embarked on a series of increasingly crueler 'homes.' Every time he was retrieved to be sent on to the next place, his social worker seemed more and more surprised that she was indeed rescuing a live person, not claiming a body. Culminating in his current situation, stuffed under the tool shed.

Caitlin had been reassigned from the Metroplex to Pope County, in the western edges of the state, under the command of one Sheriff J.J. Bogan. The week he'd spent in Juvie, Vin had overheard Caitlin's former boss laughing with a friend – “I’ve known Jack Bogan since the Republic. He'll put that uppity, overgrown schoolgirl in her place and no mistake!" Except ... he kinda hadn't. Four months after Caitlin's reassignment, Sheriff Bogan, his personal deputy and half the cowboys in Pope County had been dead, the Sheriff's office and department vehicle had been so much smoking rubble and wreckage, and Caitlin had turned in her badge and packed her bags for California.

On the drive out here to Ol' Raines' place back on April Fools' Day, his social worker had informed him – with no small amount of malicious glee – that Caitlin had been killed in a helicopter crash three days' previous. She'd become disoriented in bad weather, and flown into the side of a mountain.

Like Hell she had. But Ranger Cordell Walker was in the hospital recovering from the assassination attempt that had killed his fiancée, and was thoroughly unable to investigate the matter.

Through the storm, Vin heard a new sound, a strange vibrating drone. His heart sank. Here came the twister, he was done for now. From the depths of his earliest childhood memories, a half-forgotten Comanche chant bubbled up. Hell, wasn't like Ol' Raines' was exactly gonna hear him now, and if the Spirits had a care for a boy who was three-quarters White-eyes, it might help them find him.

"He's under the tool shed?!?" Michael's voice damn near hit what could only be described as 'squeak.'

"One of us is gonna have to get out." Everett replied, much too calm for the circumstances. Hail hammered the aircraft's gleaming black hide, having no more effect than any of the rifle bullets currently being fired from the porch. At least, the ones that were making it that far.

Flip you for it! Exclaimed an all-too-excited voice, more inside their heads than their helmets.

"Oh, I'm sure you'd love to." Michael answered the voice. "Keep between him and me, would you? He's an idiot, but he's still dangerous."

The very last thing Vin was expecting was a hand around his ankle and a sharp tug. Or the voice that was decidedly not Ol' Raines. "Come on, hurry! I will not leave you here!"

The only things he was immediately aware of was a pair of stunningly emerald-green eyes, and a Southern drawl equally as thick – if a great deal more cultured – as his own.

"I am a friend of Caitlin's, she sent me for you! Now hurry! There's an F-4 coming this way, and this excuse for a shed will not survive it!"

Hell, any kindergarten kid could tell Vin that. Nothing survived an F-4! There was no room to turn over down here, he had to crab crawl out. The stinging rain and pounding hail nearly made him change his mind, but his savior grabbed him by the collar of his only Rangers T-shirt and hauled him towards a huge black helicopter, like nothing Vin had ever seen before. The door made a strange sighing sound when it opened, and he was shoved across the cockpit to the left-side seat. The young man who had saved him settled into the pilot's seat, and pulled a black flight helmet on that covered his entire head. Only his face between his mouth and forehead were visible.

Rifle rounds cracked off the chopper's nose, and Vin tensed, until he saw the sparks where the bullets were ricocheting off, entirely ineffective. Frustrated and enraged, Ol' Raines reached down and picked up a .357, unloading the entire cylinder directly at the windscreen. Three pinged harmlessly away, two never made it.

"Ol' Raines keeps 'is hammer on an empty chamber, keeps money rolled up in th' empty one." Vin explained.

"I do apologize, that you will be unable to liberate any of your personal belongings from the house." Michael looked at the torn, too-large T-shirt and ragged, too-small jeans Vin had on, the entirely mismatched sneakers.

Vin reached into his right hip pocket, pulling out a battered harmonica. "Got all 'at's really mine, what's in 'th' house came from a church sale, an' I already done outgrowed it, 'ceptin' what I's wearin' now." 

"May I remind you that F-4s generally have a wind speed of  between 207 and 260 miles an hour? And a damage path of between 400 and 900 feet? I'd rather not be here when that decides to show up." Everett piped up from the back seat.

Me neither, let's go!

"Who was that?" In scrambling across the cockpit, Vin had seen someone wearing a helmet in the rear compartment, but this was a different voice.

"I'll explain later." Michael pulled back on the stick, sending the chopper into the turbulent skies. Ol' Raines tried a few more futile shots, before finally realizing he'd best be diving for the storm cellar. Vin didn't bother looking down to see if he'd made it. He never knew that Ol' Raines was later sent to the state hospital at Waco, insisting to his dying day that aliens had used the storm as cover to abduct the young boy he'd had living with him.

Chapter Text

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"And I hear them saying

You'll never change things
And no matter what you do

It's still the same thing
But it's not the world

That I am changing
I do this so this

World will know that it

Will not change me."

The Change – Garth Brooks

Fresh Horses – Capitol Nashville 1995

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Somewhere over North Texas

Wednesday 23 April 1986

The plan – and even calling it a plan was more glory than it deserved – hadn’t really been much of one. Get in, Grab the kid, Get out, Don't get caught. The storm had been viewed as a plus, anyone with any sense would be taking shelter, thus reducing potential witnesses. Besides, Airwolf had in her existence flown through two hurricanes, a volcanic eruption, and on one occasion to an altitude of 100,000 feet – the middle reaches of the stratosphere, traditionally the domain of such aircraft as the U-2, SR-71 Blackbird and the Concorde! Plus, they could do a little storm chasing, and perhaps make someone's life easier that worked for the local weather service. Certainly no civilian chopper was going up in this, and the ground-based chasers could only be in one place at a time, and see what was immediately around them. The Lady's radar could cover the entire storm system. Other than that ... firewall the turbos until they'd escaped the storm, then simply navigate around it.

If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. And never believe that twisters 'only' travel northeast. Fortunately, one of Vin's less-horrible foster fathers had been an amateur race-car driver, so Vin knew how to operate a five-point harness. He was still being tossed around to some degree, as the harness had never been intended for use by someone that small. The only reason they weren't dead yet was because the AI program was taking most of the load, computer synapses racing through Airwolf's cybernetic 'brain' faster than Michael and Everett could ever hope to react.

Wind speed ... direction ... three funnel clouds ... two on the ground ... F-4 intensity ... downdraft! She bucked and rocked like a rodeo bull on Saturday night, involuntarily spinning on her axis three complete revolutions. Ohh, that's only fun when I mean to do it ...  

"Closest heading that will get us out of this, my dear." Despite Airwolf for all intents and purposes 'flying herself,' Michael wasn't about to take his hands off the controls.

When I find one, I'll take it!

Vin looked across the cockpit. He'd just figured out that the 'voice' he kept hearing in his head was the helicopter itself – herself – and that she could think for herself. This was why Caitlin had left Texas, this was what had so thoroughly wrecked Pope County. "She's tryin' her best."

Michael spared a second for a smile. "I'm aware of that, and I am thankful. I suppose we were not expecting quite such fierce opposition. It is almost as if your native soil does not wish to relinquish you."

"Should have treated him better in the first place," Everett chimed in from the back seat. "Michael, microburst!"

Oh, I hate microbursts! Ouch, that hurts! Oh, the Hell with this! Turbos full! And Airwolf aimed her nose at the sky and kicked all of her considerable power into the four turbojets that would give her the boost she needed to escape the storm. Somewhat like the afterburners on a fighter jet, it was a quick way to grab extra power when needed. Unfortunately, just like afterburners, the turbos gulped up an incredible amount of fuel. Airwolf could not go supersonic for an extended period of time, but to get herself and her passengers out of this mess, it was exactly what would do the trick. And the fact that her cabin was pressurized and somewhat temperature-controlled would ensure that visiting the stratosphere would not be unnecessarily uncomfortable.

Cumulonimbus – the  scientific name for what Vin knew as thunderheads – usually topped out at roughly 60,000 feet. Airwolf knew her personal vertical limit was 40,000 feet over that, all she had to do was get there.

There, that's better. She leveled out at 70,000, looking down at the storm. Everett shook his head. "Well, like Dom said about the hurricane -- for what it's worth, it's a look nobody else will get."

Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Monday 26 May 1986

Memorial Day

Vin stood at the stern of the 61-foot Sea Ray motor yacht, the Defiance. Michael – ‘No, ain't Michael no more, now we's gotta call 'im Quattro. Why's he wanta call hisself after a car?' – stood nearby, holding a wreath made of flowers, waiting to toss it overboard. They'd all been up at sunrise to raise the flag, and sing the National Anthem. Evie had recited 'In Flanders' Fields,' which Vin kinda-sorta remembered from English class. Quattro had promised that after tossing the wreath into the ocean, the 'serious part' of their Memorial Day observance would be over, and they'd have the rest of the day to relax and celebrate. Evie had spent most of yesterday making cold salads, there were ribs, chicken pieces, steaks, shrimps, scallops and fish marinating in the fridge, crabs, lobsters and clams 'cooling their shells', blissfully unaware of their impending fates once Tye and Everett got a massive fire going back on the beach.

Tet nudged Quattro with his grizzle-gray muzzle, and Vin absently reached over to scratch the Bluetick hound's floppy ears. He and the old dog had taken to each other instantly, which apparently pleased Quattro greatly. Vin guessed that as long as Tet was around, Quattro figured nobody would be hassling him for a dog, since he was pretty much the boss around here even though Everett was two years older. The two dozen or so cats Quattro referred to as Hemingways seemed to have come with the island. Evie had told Vin they were called Hemingways because they were all six- or seven-toed. The ones who lived in the house had figured out the can opener, and if three of them worked together, could open the refrigerator. Tet had 'gotten the point,' so to speak, and left them mostly alone.

Quattro stepped forward. "Today is a day of remembrance, for those who have given their lives for our sake. Those who stepped forward when their country called them, who never received the parades when the cease-fire was declared. The fields of stones in Europe; the black wall in Washington.  The eternal flames for those unknown. They are only truly dead when they are forgotten, so the last Monday in May has been set aside to make certain they are never forgotten." He fell silent, bowing his head for a moment, then twisted slightly at the waist, pulling his arms in, as if he was about to launch a Frisbee.

The wreath sailed across the crystal-blue water a lot further than Vin had thought it would, before settling with hardly a splash to float on the serene waves. He looked over at Evie and Tye to see them rubbing their left hands over the metal bracelets on their right wrists. Vin knew the bracelets were engraved with the name of the Navy fighter pilot father they'd never known. Le Van had a similar bracelet, his father had been a chopper pilot in the Army. Sam's father had come home, so Sam had his dog tags. The sun glinted off the tags as they hung against Sam's #55 Orel Hershiser Los Angeles Dodgers blue-on-gray 'away' jersey, hastily tugged on over cutoff black jeans, half-buttoned if that.

Quattro nodded slightly, headed for the boat's wheelhouse. In seconds, they were slicing through the waves back to what was now home. The island Quattro claimed to have inherited from a relative included a mansion that was more than big enough for all of them to keep out of each others' way if needs be, with even more bedrooms when more 'strays' needed rescuing. The rooms were large and airy with high ceilings, plenty of windows, French doors that led out to the verandahs that encircled the entire structure, and all painted white or pastels, to maximize the abundant Caribbean sunlight. The manse and the grounds surrounding it were very well tended by staff, whom Quattro treated as people, not property. They'd been given a week off -- Everett had flown them to the nearest large, well-known island, to visit with friends and relatives of their own. Within sight of the house, the rest of the island grew in glorious, untouched jungle, ringed by sand the consistency and color of fine sugar. The Caribbean stretched for as far as Vin could see beyond the beach, meeting the sky in a line even his eyesight sometimes had trouble telling the difference between.

Quattro had warned that this was a 'windward' island, and as such to keep an eye on that sky, and an ear to the weather reports. Most of the staff had been born here, and likely knew more about how to spot a storm than the 'educated professionals' back in the States. After his experience leaving Texas, Vin was resolved to become the best weather watcher anyone ever saw. He knew he'd fallen into roses, and he was determined not to waste it. Quattro had read his file, but actually seeing the fading bruises and half-healed scars on Vin's rail-thin frame had been another order of magnitude entirely. The scoliosis never treated; the dyslexia never tested. The closet and bathroom doors left open at all times (he'd resorted to leaving whichever sock happened to be handiest on his bedroom doorknob if he had to use the bathroom, to save Evie walking in on him.) The way he was uneasy about physical contact, especially if he didn't see it coming, and from Everett and Tye even if he did see them. Vin had learned early and hard that bigger equaled stronger. The way he ate anything and everything put in front of him -- this at least was a trait he shared with Sam, who had spent several hard years alone on the streets of Saigon.

For a quarter inch beneath his blond hair and blue eyes, Sam Roper was half-Vietnamese, just like Le Van. They understood the shame Vin had been subjected to, all too often made to feel as if his Comanche blood was a moral failing on his part. A 'half-breed' in Texas was a 'dust child' in Saigon, and the three boys formed their own gang of three familiar misfits, faced with the All-American white skin and blue-green eyes of Tye and Evie, Everett's fallen Brazilian aristocracy, and Quattro's American 'landed gentry.' The dock and boathouse came into view, now. In addition to the Defiance herself, there were half a dozen smaller Sea Rays, along with a gaggle of personal watercraft of varying sizes. Vin figured Quattro was about the richest person he'd ever met, since Everett seemed to be pretty sure there'd be no money left in the inheritance stolen from him, once he did finally turn 25 three years from now. But he was never a snob with it, never made any of them feel as if there was anything 'less than' about them, just because they were pretty much living off him.

"Company!" Tye's sharp exclamation brought Vin's head up and around, looking towards the dock. Evie's wail of despair brought a clench in his guts he'd already started to hope he'd never have to feel again.

"God in Heaven, Quattro, it's Zeus! How in Hell did he find us?" God in Heaven, that had always been Caitlin's catchphrase. Tye stepped in front of Vin, blocking his view of the heavyset, silver-haired man waiting on the dock, incongruous in a dark suit against their ragged collection of T-shirts and shorts.

"Stay behind me, Vin." His voice brooked no argument, and Vin knew in an instant what the older boy was about. Stay behind me, so the bullets hit me, not you. Stay behind me, I'll shield you. Stay behind me and I'll die instead, so maybe you can get out of this.

"Tye, no – “

"I said stay back. Get below."

"Like Hell!" Vin spat back. "Ain't no way out below, I go down there I'm trapped!"

"He's right, Tye," Quattro called down from the bridge, calm as Sunday in June. "Shield him if you must, but we face this together. He wants us separated, he cannot defeat us if we are united."

A proposal. This man who called himself 'Zeus' had a proposal for them. A computer program had been discovered, a backup copy of everything that made Airwolf ... Airwolf, and Zeus wanted to resurrect what had been the original 'plan.' Build a whole fleet of Airwolfs, fuel and arm and provide necessary logistical support. Quattro and Everett – and  the rest of them, as they became old enough – would fly missions assigned by Zeus, who would be their contact back to "The Firm." "The Committee" would have no control, Quattro would have full autonomy. If they came upon a problem that needed solving independently, no questions would be asked ... unless they really caused an international incident.

"Got any Ocean Front Property In Arizona to go along with this sweetheart deal, Zeus?" Evie sneered. "Hawke didn't have this much freedom when he was working with Archangel, and he was a grown man. You mean to hand a fleet of Airwolfs to a pack of kids!" She swept an arm to encompass the group. "What do you get out of this?"

"My self-respect back. We – I – made a mistake. Jason Locke was a double agent, the 'St. John Hawke' he claimed to have found was an incredibly well-trained KGB operative. Mike Rivers and Jo Santini barely escaped with their lives."

"Better than Father, Messrs. Hawke and Santini, and Misses Abaco and O'Shannessy." Quattro's voice was colder than charity – and  Vin knew all about charity. He didn't think Quattro was going to go along with it; if he did, Zeus was really going to have to prove himself, and the very first time he stepped over the line ...

Zeus sighed tiredly, he'd known this wasn't going to be easy. Finding them had been sheer stupid luck – an American aircraft carrier had passed nearby, and one of the F-14 Tomcat jockeys had used his onboard camera to snap a few photos of Airwolf, when Quattro and Everett had taken her up to test the repairs made after rescuing Vin. They'd landed as soon as The Lady's radar system had ID'd the fighter jets in the area, but not soon enough. The young fighter pilot's stepfather was a cousin of Zeus's, and had brought the pictures to Zeus as soon as his stepson had shown them to him. Zeus had already known about the island estate Quattro had inherited, it had come from Archangel's side of the young man's family.

"How much fuel have you got left? Have you taken her up since that last check flight? How are you for armament and ordnance? There were a couple of incidents between Van Nuys and your rescue of the boy in Texas – “

"The boy is in the room, Zeus, and he does have a name," Evie's sneer turned to a snarl. "If you mean to work with him someday, you'd best start using it."  Evie and Tye had been adopted by Stringfellow Hawke when they were ten years old, and had spent the previous two-and-a-half years Airwolf had been active knowing that the only consequence Zeus assigned to them was the necessity of keeping them alive if The Committee wished to keep Hawke happy. Other than that, they were non-entities to him – they didn't exist on his plane of awareness. If he was really serious about this now, there would come the day he was facing Evie herself across his office, handing her mission parameters. They were all going to be a damn sight more than 'just someone we have to keep alive.'

Zeus scanned the youthful faces. He'd read Caitlin O'Shannessy's file before Hawke and Santini had made it back to Van Nuys from Texas, before even Archangel had – he knew what had transpired in Dallas that had led the feisty young Highway Patrol chopper pilot to Pope County. He'd known that Archangel was keeping tabs on the child Caitlin had befriended, waiting only for the perfect opportunity to retrieve him.

'Six've us an' one a him. Ev'r'tt an' Quattro's carryin' guns, dunno 'bout Evie an' Tye. He's far 'nough away he cain't jist grab me an' bolt afore someone gits a shot off.' Vin stood up from where he'd remained half-hidden behind and to Tye's left, because if Tye was armed, he was right-handed.

"M'name's Vin Tanner, Mister. But I reckon y'know that already. Likely y'know a lot 'bout me, mebbe even some thing's I don't. Y'speak ta Walker an' th' Malloys, ya tell 'em I'm safe. Bein' taken good care of. Might be some water unner th' bridge afore I make it back t'Texas, though."

"He's dealing with not being able to see it from here," Tye commented mildly. He didn't love country music as much as Evie and Vin, but he couldn't live with them and not pick up things by sheer proximity osmosis.

Zeus nodded at Vin. "There seem to be a few ... black holes in your history, Mr. Tanner. You don't seem to exist before the age of four. We're investigating the whys of that."

"Don't bother askin' th' Peneteka, they ain't gonna tell no White-eyes fed'ral agent." Naming the specific branch of the Comanche he belonged to.  Nobody from Child Services could stop Cordell Walker from asking questions, and the fact the Ranger was half-Cherokee had opened the doors needed. Somehow Walker had always managed to find where Vin was being kept ... held. Nobody from Child Services had wished to antagonize the Ranger into launching a full-scale investigation into Vin's case.

The phone rang, and with an evil grin, Evie got up to answer it, flipping on the speaker phone. They were in what Quattro called 'the sunhouse,' set off from the main building and made almost entirely of glass. The walls folded back and made a nifty pavilion for entertaining guests, supposedly. They weren't about to let Zeus in the house. Now, the sheer curtains that backed the doors blew inward as a very familiar black fuselage poked in. Airwolf was just barely too big to actually get entirely into the sunhouse, but by angling her rotors crosswise to her fuselage could get a substantial portion of herself at least in enough to become the focus of attention.

Do I get a vote?  Came out of the speaker phone.  Everett smirked at the pole-axed expression on Zeus's face.

"Remember that AI program my mother was working on, with the crew from the Foundation For Law And Government?" Zeus nodded dumbly, and Everett couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Well, it evolved."

"Evolved?!?"

"It means she's sentient, Zeus. And she's got a Hell of a memory. A delightful temper, as well!" Quattro interjected, as gleeful as Everett if not moreso.  "She can even fly herself, in the unfortunate event her crew becomes incapacitated."

"Fly ... herself ... " and all Zeus could think of right now was the time she'd very nearly destroyed herself, when Charles Henry Moffett's 'logic bomb' had activated.

Evie strolled over and draped herself across Airwolf's nose, like a tiger tamer at the circus. "Now, I will ask you again, Zeus. You want to hand a fleet of Airwolfs to a pack of kids?"

He deflated like a popped balloon, actually slumped forward, in such a degree as to have Quattro and Everett stepping forward in concern. "I ... I don't have a choice. What I do have are orders. Directly from the White House itself. The Airwolf program is to be re-activated, with all speed, under whatever circumstances are necessary.” He looked around at them. Two college kids, two high school kids, two junior high kids, and one twelve-year-old fifth-grader. "You are the Airwolf program now."

Tye rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Three cheers for the Cold War."

Chapter Text

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"Stone wish I had

A heart of stone
Then it wouldn't hurt

So bad being alone

Dam I wish that I

Could build a dam
And hold back the tears
That flow on and on

But my heart's not made

Of stone and my

Tears I can't control
'Cause my heart's so filled
With love for you."

(I Wish I Had A) Heart Of Stone – Baillie & The Boys

Turn The Tide – RCA 1989

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Manitoba-Minnesota Border

Friday 13 January 1989

Two hurricanes, a volcanic eruption, 100,000 feet, a tornado outbreak ... and now a howling blizzard.

I love you guys, I really love you guys. What's next – underwater?

"Hey, I'm willing to try it if you are!" 

"Silence, you!"

Tye grinned at the back of Quattro's helmet. The mission was technically completed, but one of the bad guys had made an incredibly reckless escape attempt in an old Huey that only a madman would think had any hope of surviving this storm. In the interest of making absolutely certain they'd never have to deal with the bastard again – John Bradford Horn was still out there ... somewhere ... – they were scouring the forest, hoping to find the crash site. 

"Hey, I got a heat signature. Faint, too small to be our guy ... What the Hell?!?"

Quattro brought The Lady around, looking through the windscreen at what Tye had discovered. What could be desperate or foolish enough to be out in this?

"CHILDREN?!? Quattro, they're just kids! Two, looks like – no, three, there's three, one's carrying another."

"Nearest place we can set down."

"There's a clearing 50 yards to the north. Quattro, we don't have a rope or anything long enough –“

Let me worry about that. If they keep going the way they are, they should just walk right into us.

And they did. A girl in her early teens, her school-age brother, and a sister who looked all of possibly one. They were beyond exhausted, and meekly allowed Tye to lift the older girl into the left-side front seat, and the two younger ones in with him in the back. Just before she passed out, the girl turned dull, dark blue eyes to Quattro.

"Please don't send us back."

They passed over the crashed Huey ten minutes later, stopping only long enough for Airwolf's scanners to make sure there was nothing left alive in the wreckage.

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Larabee residence

Cheesman Park neighborhood

Denver, CO

Friday 13 October 1989

Nineteen-year-old Sarah Larabee looked up as her husband came into the kitchen, head down and shoulders slumped, looking as if the weight of the world was on those shoulders. In a way it was. His best friend was hurting, and there didn't seem to be a damn thing Chris could do about it. And Chris Larabee was not a man made for helplessness.

Today, the Minnesota State Police had announced they were suspending the search for Buck Wilmington's children. The cult their mother had been a part of had been taken down in August. The woman who now called herself 'Patience' had spitefully informed Buck that their children had walked out into a blizzard back in January. The compound had been in northern Minnesota, three miles from the Manitoba border. The general consensus was that the two girls and one boy had been overwhelmed by the storm. Once the weather cleared up again – sometime next June or so – the MSP would go back out and re-search the area between the compound and the border.

With cadaver dogs.

Chris trudged over to the fridge, opened the door and just stood there for a moment, staring without seeing. Then slowly, like a marionette with half his strings cut, he reached in and pulled out a Coors Light longneck, rummaged in the junk drawer for the church key. Sarah held back a sigh. Usually, Chris would pour his beer into one of the mugs he and Buck kept in the freezer, both claiming they were too old to drink it straight from the bottle anymore. "Besides, I found a cigarette butt in one, once," Buck had commented. "Least I hope it was a cigarette."

"Dammit, I hate this. There has to be something we can do ... they can't just give up like this!" Chris braced both hands on the scarred, worn Formica countertop and dropped his chin to his chest. Sarah came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her forehead on his back. Five-five to his six foot even, she was often mistaken for his kid sister more than his wife – understandable since there was eleven years between them. 

"We can't give up hope. We can't let Bucklin give up." Words that sounded empty even to her ears, no more comforting than when she'd been all of ten, and her world had abruptly spun sideways. Chris sighed, the motion lifting and dropping his chest like a bellows.

"I know. Hell, maybe they got abducted by aliens. Lot of nothing between that compound and Winnipeg, nobody'd notice a UFO." 'Please God.  Anything, anything at all, so I don't have to think about those kids dying in a snowbank.'

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Sunday 15 January 1989

"Their prints don't match up with any known missing children. Evie's checking abduction cases, focusing on custody cases gone bad, since Judgment insists his mother 'stole them' from his father."

"They must have come from somewhere. That wretched excuse for a church hasn't been operational long enough for any but the youngest children to have been born there, like Honor. Understandably Judgment is really too young to remember his life previous. We can only wait for Glory to regain consciousness."

"I can't even imagine being so desperate that going out into a blizzard would seem like a better idea. And I'm saying that after what we were put through."

"I kin 'magine. Kin 'magine real easy."

And that was the voice that finally roused her from the darkness. Some inner instinct told her to remain still, keep her eyes closed, not yet give herself away. Glory ... was that her name? And who were Judgment and Honor? Where was she, what had happened to her? 

She was lying in a bed, somewhere blessedly warm. And why did the mere thought of being cold terrify her so? Birds were singing somewhere nearby, and she could smell flowers perfuming the air. The sound of running feet, someone bursting into the room. A male voice.

"Hey, we got something! I had ESPN on, they were talking about the Super Bowl. Judgment about flipped when he found out the Donkeys – I mean, the Broncos – are in it. Then they talked about the Denver Nuggets dumping back-to-back games to Chicago and Cleveland last night and Friday.  Tomorrow they play Sacramento. And Judgment got all psyched about that, too. So now we know where they came from."

"Excellent, Le Van! Did you pass that information on to Evie? Wonderful. Someone in Colorado must be missing them." Colorado ... She turned the word over in her head, hoping to make it come to some semblance of light.

A week later ...

Glory sat in one of the chaise lounges scattered across the verdant green lawn, staring out at water and sky so clear and bright it almost made her eyes hurt. Despite the balmy 75-degree day, she was wrapped in a thick quilt, handmade by one of the maids. She just couldn't seem to stay warm. The Super Bowl was tonight, and she was trying to work up some excitement to support what the 7-year-old boy who called himself her brother swore was 'their' team. She wasn't having an awful lot of success.

Vin dropped boneless into the chair next to her, using his T-shirt to scrub his face with, finishing by dragging it through his sodden, shoulder-length hair. Glory had been told Vin had been here for nearly three years, having been rescued in much the same manner as she had been, along with her little brother and sister. He was going to be sixteen in May, and was in almost-constant training, to someday fly one of the gleaming black-on-white helicopters. Separated from Haven itself by a strait some 500 yards wide was an extinct volcano, that had become the hiding place for the original Airwolf, and her two baby sisters, still in their own testing stages.

She stole another look at Vin. The blazing tropical sun and the salt water had bleached his sandy-brown hair to brilliant gold, and darkened his skin to a shade more reminiscent of his Comanche ancestors. It made his blue eyes almost explode out of his face. She was thirteen, and whole worlds were suddenly opening up to her, the concussion she'd suffered (they'd discovered a knot the size of an ostrich egg on the side of her skull, behind her right ear) having almost completely wiped her memory clean. He noticed her watching him, flashed a lightning-fast smile. Butterflies the size of bald eagles took up residence in her stomach.

"Y'gonna watch 'th' game t'night? Judgment’s all but turnin' hisself inside out, already."

"I – I guess. I still don't remember anything ... maybe watching it will help. Who are you rooting for?"

"Denver," he slung his shirt over the high back of the lounger and kicked his legs up to lay back. "But jist on 'count of they ain't th' danged Niners. I hate th' Niners. Not so bad as th' 'Skins er th' Giants, but I still hate 'em." He glanced over. "Y'know, they're all Raiders fans. 'Ceptin' Quattro, he roots fer th' Falcons – don’t ask me why. But th' rest – Ev’r’tt an' Evie an' Tye an' Le an' Sam, they's all Raiders fans."

"Long way until next football season, maybe I'll be home by then."

They fell silent for a while, Vin dozing off slightly, while Glory huddled down into her quilt. An offshore breeze picked up. Glory didn't realize that she herself had fallen asleep until Evie shook both of them awake.

"You two come on inside now. Vin, you've got just enough time for a shower before the pre-game hoopla starts. Glory, you go put on long pants and a long-sleeve shirt, it's all up on your bed."

"What's fer eatin'?" Like most fifteen-year-old boys, Vin was best described as a stomach on legs, and the rigorous training coupled with a natural hummingbird-level metabolism didn't help. He'd filled out from the near-skeleton of three years ago, but he'd never have to worry about being fat. "Y'cain't jist feed us beans an' weenies fer th' Super Bowl, Evie."

"You let me worry about that, Texas." She rolled her eyes at Glory, who giggled and rolled hers right back.

Boys.

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Larabee residence

Cheesman Park neighborhood

Denver, CO

Tuesday 31 October 1989

It sure didn't take a rocket scientist to know the last thing Buck Wilmington's heart was into was Halloween, but it was his godson's very first, and he wasn't about to blow it. Besides, several area police and fire departments had collaborated – kind of, sort of, under extreme duress – on a charity haunted house for underprivileged kids. With a little help from Sarah, Buck could be a teddy bear for the little kids during the afternoon matinees, and a slavering, rabid werewolf at night, for the teenage punks who thought nothing could scare them. Sarah was a friendly, slightly scatterbrained ghost during the day, and an eerie banshee at night – her mother had come from Belfast, and her brogue added frightful authenticity, coupled with the fact that she actually knew what she was talking about. Chris – who had been threatened by his five-foot-five, 115-pound teenage wife with having his bedroom privileges suspended! – was a vampire throughout. A take-off on 'Count Chocula' during the day, the next Bela Lugosi once the lights went out. Dark Shadows had been one of Buck's late mother's favorite TV shows, so he was periodically yanking Chris's chain by hollering "Hey, Barnabas!" across the room. Sarah would invariably follow that with an eerie, ululating wail designed to raise the hackles on a ten-year corpse. One of the firefighters was wearing a fright mask and wielding a chainsaw, somewhere in the maze, on the other side of Sarah's position.

The house was set up in what had been a Cub Foods, south of downtown. When the grocery store pulled out, the strip mall basically collapsed, and was now all but empty. The cavernous grocery space made for a perfect haunted house, and some of the smaller stores had been turned into 'activity areas.'

They were taking a moment between evening shows to grab a bite to eat, and for Sarah to feed Adam – a jack-o'-lantern – when a couple of K-9 officers came up to them. "Chris, we have a problem. You forget to lock up your Jeep?"

"Oh, damn, I did, when I went back to get Adam's diaper bag for Sarah, between the last afternoon show, and this one." Thanking them for telling him died on his lips when he saw the looks on their faces. It shouldn't take both of them to tell him he'd left his Cherokee unlocked, in a not-so-great area of town. He stood up slowly. 

"One of the dogs alert on something?" His voice went very, very quiet.

"You better come out here."

As bombs went, it was pretty crude. But placed directly beneath the gas tank, it would have done plenty of damage. Curious teenagers milled around the acres of cracked, patchily-lit parking lot, watching as the Bomb Squad did their job, and a seriously pissed-off vampire and werewolf stood guard over a banshee and a three-month-old jack-o'-lantern.

Chapter Text

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"Now you're here and everything's changing
Suddenly life means so much
I can't wait to wake

Up tomorrow and find out

This promise is true
I will never have

To go back to
The day before you."

The Day Before You – Rascal Flatts

Feels Like Today – Lyric Street 2004

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Friday 25 August 1989

He'd been toweling off his hair when he heard his name called. Such a ... trivial? No, not quite the word he was searching for ... Prosaic! That's it! – thing to be doing, when one's world was about to be flipped downside up and sideways. 

Again.

Quattro looked up at the call, his emerald gaze locking on Glory, racing down from the house. Blue jean shorts, and a green-on-white Colorado Springs Sky Sox jersey, her long black hair streaming away from her face. Her face was red from her no doubt full-speed-ahead run down here, and her cobalt eyes were huge.

"Evie wants you to come right away! Zeus is here!"

One thing they didn't have was a telephone, which meant that Zeus could not call ahead to announce his intention to visit. "If I called," he'd grumbled once, "you wouldn't be here when I arrived." Which was probably true. Besides which, who did any of them have to call, or to be expecting a call from? 

"Did he say what he's after?" Quattro enquired lazily, stuffing towel, T-shirt and jeans into a small duffel bag. Zeus slept in his suits, and he'd always been heavyset. For twenty-three-year-old Quattro to stroll into the sunhouse – Zeus still not allowed into the mansion, with any luck never would be – wearing nothing but his Speedos and sandals would tempt the older man's temper.

Glory shook her head vehemently, raising one hand to impatiently yank her hair out of her face. "Just that he wants to speak to you."

"To us," Quattro corrected mildly. "You're old enough to be involved. What is said to one is said to all, or the deal's off. And he knows that. Are Judgment and Honora in the house?"

"Yeah, Libby's watching them. You're just going up like that?"

"But of course," he grinned wickedly.

Zeus gave him a suitably evil look upon arrival, his mood not at all mollified by the assorted badly muffled chortles, chuckles, giggles and snorts from the others. Quattro leaned back against a table, entirely unself-conscious, as if he were wearing a custom-tailored tux instead of the next closest thing to his birthday suit. Zeus also looked as if he hadn't slept since Independence Day, he'd actually lost weight – enough to make his suit hang – and the bags under his eyes were steamer trunks Judgment could have played hide-and-go-seek in. His hair bore a strong resemblance to Einstein's.

"All right, let's have it. What have you gotten yourself into this time, that I'm the only person on Earth who can get you back out of it?"

Zeus lowered himself to sit in a nearby chair, that in itself a sign of his mental state.  he was taller than Quattro, and used that slight advantage, remaining on his feet throughout a visit. For him to sit down, the situation was dire indeed.

"Before everything ... went to Hell, you and Hawke took a mission to Nicaragua. The weekend after Valentine's Day."

"I remember," Quattro nodded. "Hawke was in a foul mood, he'd had plans for that weekend, the mission ruined them. The mission very nearly got away from us there at the end, and you were none too pleased upon our return, that he'd undertaken the detour to rescue the Navy SEAL team that was in dire straits." He pinned Zeus with a glittering emerald glare. "Very nearly got away from us ... but it did turn out, and really rather more quickly than perhaps it should have – Damn it, Zeus! What manner of demon did you sell our souls to?!? And what is the bill the Devil expects to collect on?"

The operative collapsed like a balloon shot up by a Gatling gun, waving a hand toward the bulging file folder sitting on the table between himself and Quattro. He held no faith in the table's ability to serve as any sort of barrier between his continued survival ... and Quattro's temper.

"His name is Gabriel ... "

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 Manhattan, New York

Somewhere ... beneath ...

Saturday 26 August 1989

For a woman very near her time, Catherine Chandler was moving a great deal faster than her young savior thought she ought to have been able to. Not that he was complaining under any circumstances, the faster they got away the better. Lord, his head was ringing. It was a very good thing she seemed to know where she was going. At the immediate moment, he wasn't sure what he would have given for an answer, if asked to separate right from left, up from down, ahead from behind. If he was capable of providing an answer at all.

He remembered nothing, his memory not even a chalkboard passed over with an eraser, because even then, the chalkboard retained dust from the chalk used upon it. His mind was a chalkboard sprayed down and wiped clean with a wet cloth. His name, history, everything gone. He had no knowledge of the gray flight suit he was wearing, the submachine gun in his right hand -- or how he knew how to use it, why he was in Catherine's company at all. Was he truly her rescuer? Or her condemner? Were they seeking salvation ... or courting their own doom? He turned to look at her, saw again the ungainly shape of her petite frame. No. She would never knowingly endanger her child. I know nothing else – and even that I'm not sure how I know – but I am certain of that. I must trust that she knows what she's doing. Why his hands were slick and hot with fresh blood, why his flight suit was drenched in it.   

"This way," her soft voice nearly inaudible between their shared gasps. She shouldn't have been running in her condition, but he had a feeling she'd run the New York Marathon to get away from ... whatever they were trying to get away from. 

Another dark passageway, another mysterious tunnel. Odd clanging noises – now harmonic, now discordant – a child attempting to play The Carol of the Bells on a discount-store toy xylophone. Catherine heaved a shuddering sob of relief. "We've been seen," sounding more glad than terrified. Weren't they trying not to be seen? It made no difference, their pursuers had dogs. His fractured mind broke loose one shattered memory – being taught Uncle Tom's Cabin in school, how Tom Loker had pursued Eliza through the swamps ... with dogs. Vicious hounds, deliberately kept half-starved so they would be driven to attack when they had the escaping slave cornered.

With no warning at all, the wall directly to his right exploded outward, a chunk of it catching him a glancing blow, but more than enough. The very last thing he was at all aware of was Catherine's voice crying out a name. "Vincent!"

The lights went out.

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Monday 4 September 1989 (Labor Day)

"DAMN YOU!!!"  It was taking all Tye had to keep Everett from ripping Zeus limb from limb, and Sam, Le and Vin looked as if they'd be only too happy to assist. Evie had a M1911A Colt .45 ACP aimed at a portion of his anatomy she knew the older man would be loath to live without. Her crystal blue-green eyes had darkened to slate, and blazed with deadly fire. Glory was shaking with rage she had no words to articulate, clenching her jaws shut with such force that later she would discover she'd chipped five teeth. But at the moment it was necessary, for the alternative was simply to scream.

The mission had been a partial success. 'Gabriel' was dead, along with all of his henchmen. Catherine Chandler had turned up as mysteriously as she'd disappeared the previous December, in the care of her godfather, a doctor named Peter Alcott. She was heavily pregnant, reportedly due any day, and she and her child were seemingly none the worse for the wear of their ordeal. The New York District Attorney's Office – under the command of 'Acting' D.A. Joe Maxwell – was having a field day with Gabriel's mansion, the 'laboratory' that had been Catherine's prison. Joe Maxwell was her boss, and had trusted his own boss, John Moreno. He'd been stunned to learn that Moreno was as dirty as the criminals they were charged with keeping off the streets, and under Gabriel's control. The more he learned, the more he seemed to be able to channel 'stunned' into 'sheer, unadulterated pissed-right-the-Hell-off,' and from there focusing that rage into dismantling Gabriel's entire empire, that nothing of it could ever rise again. It was almost an aside that Catherine was one of his favorite investigators.

But ... but. God in Heaven ... but.

Quattro was lost. The last time Tye had seen him, he and Everett were going into the building, with the intention of bringing Catherine out and back to The Lady. Somehow they'd become separated in the confusion, and Everett had come out alone. Airwolf had tracked Quattro into the sub-basements of the building, then lost him entirely. He'd just ... vanished. After finding a place to stash Airwolf, Everett and Tye had scoured the building, uncaring whether they had Joe Maxwell's consent or not. As it was, he'd kept out of their way. They had not, however, been able to gain access to Catherine Chandler, the only person they could think of who might know where Quattro was.

Zeus had the great misfortune of being the most readily available target. And after what had happened in California, saying the kids weren't about to cut him any slack was merely a strung-together collection of mildly descriptive words flying in loose formation, with little true relevance to the seriousness of the situation. If Tye lost his desperate grip on Everett now, President Bush was going to be stuck finding someone else to be their handler. And Quattro had heard – directly from Jo Santini Rivers, they'd quite accidentally tripped over each other in Hawai'i, Quattro and Tye returning from a mission, she and Mike on their delayed honeymoon – that nobody else wanted to touch them with a hundred-yard pole. Zeus was entirely on his own.  At the time, it had been a terrific joke. Wow, he's really stuck with us, isn't he? Bet he's wishing he'd thought of that at the time! 

But Airwolf and her cubs still only ran on one kind of fuel. And they still couldn't buy Hellfires and .40-mil ammo off the shelf. Like it or not – and they didn't – they were stuck with him, too.

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Larabee residence

Cheesman Park neighborhood

Denver, Colorado

Friday 13 April 1990

Something you had to pretty much be a native to know was that what was now the neighborhood of Cheesman Park had once been the city cemetery. And when the decision was made to close the cemetery and build a neighborhood on top of it, proper care was not always paid to the sanctified remains. If one knew where exactly in Cheesman Park itself to look, and what and when to look for, it was easy to see where some of the graves had once been. So it hadn't come as much surprise to Sarah that she lived in a haunted house, once Chris had explained it. They'd learned to live with the odd noises, doors that opened and closed themselves, lights that turned themselves on and off, and that little scamp that lived in Buck's room. She – Sarah was sure it was the spirit of a young girl – had held his pocket watch hostage for three months, only relinquishing it when he promised to stop smoking entirely. Out of deference for Adam, he'd taken himself to a corner of the postage-stamp-sized backyard when he'd wanted to light up. Sarah had planted a rosebush in the spot, which apparently the young spirit liked immensely. Her current favorite target was Buck's shaving kit, as he still did it the old-fashioned way, sneering at Chris' battery-powered Norelco. 

So when the lights went out when she and Adam were home alone, Sarah was not initially concerned. A few quick steps to the front window proved that it wasn't just their house, but the whole street. 'Likely the grid overloaded, with the entire city suddenly switching on our air conditioners all at once!' Changing seasons in Colorado was rarely if ever a gradual affair. With the Nuggets winding up regular-season play in nine days' time, Mother Nature had decided it was high time she got an early start on summer. The loud, ominous thumps from the basement didn't frighten her either, at least not to start with. The low rumble of thunder and the distant moan of an old-time train whistle merely made her smile and shake her head. Whatever else lived here besides herself, Chris, Adam and Buck was rarely this dramatic. After the early heat wave of the past couple of weeks, the sudden blast of cold air that shot up from the basement she took as a welcome relief. She turned her head to check on Adam, sleeping in the front room and apparently oblivious. There was a pale rose glow coalescing on the floor in front of the couch, roughly the size of a six-year-old child.

Footsteps, coming up the basement stairs. Heavy and deep and slow, as if Buck were deliberately stomping, trying to scare her. He couldn't seem to figure out that he never managed to muffle his laughter well enough to fool anyone, even Adam would look expectantly toward the basement door and squeal in anticipation. Suddenly becoming uneasy, she glanced back to the front room. The rose glow had managed to resolve itself into a little girl in Victorian-era clothing. Not fancy, perhaps only the daughter of a farmer. Her face was suffused with fear, and she was making little shooing motions with her hands. As if she were trying to tell Sarah to –

"I know you're alone, Sarah."

She reeled in shock, backed against a corner of the countertop. A voice, she had not been expecting. Especially not one such as this. Dark and malevolent, like the villain in a horror movie. And directly on the other side of the basement door. Obscenely loud in the silent darkness.

"Can you, Sarah? Make it to that door? You have to pass me to reach your precious baby. That child can't save him."

Now she was scared. Now her heart pounded, her breath came short. She reached a trembling hand to the emerald cross necklace she was never without, the O'Rourke family heirloom her mother had given her.  She felt the blood drain out of her face.

"They're clear across town, sweet Sarah. What will he come home to?"

Sweet Sarah.  It was Chris's special name for her. She hardly dared to take her eyes off the basement door, but Adam ... the little girl was trying to pick him up, but her arms simply passed through him. Somewhere nearby, Mrs. Yorkie's 'Muffsie' began yapping hysterically. The basement door began rattling, light leaking 'round the doorframe. It jammed sometimes, sometimes took both Chris and Buck to force it open again.

"I KNOW YOU'RE ALONE, SWEET SARAH!"

She screamed, bolted into the front room and grabbed Adam, passing through the spirit-child herself. In a flash she remembered she'd left the front door unlocked. Just a moment ago, just long enough to snatch the mail out of the box that hung by the door. She burst out into the yard as whatever-it-was roared behind her. A small child's high, thin shriek echoed the roar, then abruptly cut off. She'd reached the street by now, and Sarah whirled at the sound of that helpless scream ending so suddenly. Adam clutched in her arms, crying now because he'd been yanked so rudely from a peaceful nap. She took a jerky, almost automatic step and a half back towards the house.

Spectral green lights flashed from the basement window wells, thin gray fog snaking towards her. The voice again, now sinuous and almost cajoling.  High and thin and eerily sweet.

"Sssssaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. Oh, come back, Sarah. You won't leave me here alone, will you?  Sssssaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh ... "

Jerking to a stop, Sarah spun again, fleeing down the street. Towards busy Colfax Avenue four blocks away, one of the main thoroughfares in the city, where she knew he'd find lights, businesses, people.

"SARAH!!!"

"Chris, front door!" Buck saw it as they turned into the driveway, since the lights were back on. There was no way Sarah would have left the door just hanging wide open like that. Chris jammed the Cherokee into Park and pulled his gun. "You take the back." Shoving the driver's door open and dropping into the defensive crouch that was as natural as breathing as he approached the front porch. He never saw it coming. One second he had his back to the mailbox, feeling the metal box's sharp edges digging into his shoulders and upper back, preparing to shove the door open and come busting through it ...

 ... the next he got the bum's rush as someone who wasn't Buck came out of the door, pushing him hard enough that he landed in a wild tangle on the porch floor. The training instilled in his adult life allowed him to right himself, bring his .45 to bear. It roared in his hand three times, an explosion of red blood and bone where his attacker's left hand had been. The guy kept going – Six foot, dark hair, about my size, he'll need a doctor for what's left of his hand – a late-model Mustang convertible came screaming past, top down and lights out, and the guy dove in just as Buck came through the front door. He busted ass across the lawn, but the car had already peeled out.

Chris rolled to his feet as Buck came back. "Plate?"

"Of course not. Woulda been stolen if it'd had one anyway. Car probably is."

"No probably about it. You see his face?" Swore as Buck shook his head again.

"I was comin' in through the laundry when he reached the front door. All I saw was a cheap fright mask."

"Call it in. I blew off his left hand, he'll need an ER sooner rather than later." He turned to go in the house as Buck pulled his radio from his utility belt.

Adam's diaper bag on the washer, Sarah's purse and bookbag hooked over the chair in the dining room, bags of groceries abandoned on the counter. She'd gone out that front door in one big hurry. They waited for backup before searching the rest of the house. Fletcher and Grayson were as dependable as sunrise, and Fletcher was as tall as Buck and half again as wide, in the bargain. Grayson's steel-gray eyes noted the diaper, book and grocery bags as well as Chris had.

"She went out of her on her own two feet. If she'd been taken, this place wouldn't look this neat. You guys have an emergency meeting point?" She looked at Chris, nodding approvingly as he named the diner they all knew.

"Yeah, Pete's." Two more blue-on-white Chevy Caprice Classic Denver PD cruisers pulled up in the yard, red and blue lights dancing crazily but sirens off. Neighbors were starting to gather on their front lawns. Mrs. Yorkie was cradling her damned Muffsie and yammering at Morgan, a rookie as green as a Boston Celtics jersey. Buck had found the yapping fluffbag in the backyard, tied to the rosebush. Poor Morgan looked like he'd rather be getting a root canal -- without Novocain.

"Tell Forensics I want that basement taken apart down to toothpicks. And get someone over there to save Morgan. Buck, as soon as Forensics says it's clear, pack us all for the weekend and throw it in the Jeep. I'm going after Sarah."

Pete's Diner was blessedly bright and loud, filled with East High students jubilantly celebrating an athletic trouncing of rival Montbello. Having just turned twenty in March, Sarah could still blend in unnoticed. She took a booth near the plate glass windows and within sight of the door. Gave silent thanks that she'd simply shoved the change from her trip to Safeway in her jeans pocket, not in her wallet in the purse she'd left behind. She had enough for a Sprite for herself and a bowl of chocolate ice cream to placate Adam. She didn't trust her stomach with anything more substantial than the Sprite, but Pete's menu didn't run as far as ginger ale.

Chris would have made an impression in street clothes. Walking in wearing his uniform and looking furious, he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Not one East High Angel dared a smart remark about his unannounced arrival. If any of the young men who'd been covertly eyeing up Sarah had to stifle a groan of disappointment when he sat down next to her, they did so silently, and promptly turned their attention back to their girlfriends.

The noise level picked back up as Chris sat down. A little too loud now, a little too bright. Everything's just fine, nothing to see here. Adam was all but face-first into his ice cream, the spoon a tool his pudgy little hands had yet to master. He grinned and squealed at the sight of his Daddy, which drew an answering grin.

"You gettin' any of that in your mouth there, Buddy?" Chuckled softly as Adam babbled something an indulgent parent might translate as, "Is good!"

Sarah'd had some time to calm down, but her moss-green eyes were still glazed with fear. "Chris ... there was ... something – “

Chris sighed, closed his eyes and tipped his head down to rest it against Sarah's. What he wouldn't give to tell her that it had indeed only been something, that she'd only had an unfortunate encounter with one of the displaced souls of the old cemetery. But lying wasn't going to make it go away.

"Not something, Sarah. Someone. There was someone in the house, they had the whole basement wired up. Me and Buck caught the guy leavin' as we came in."

Someone. In his house, threatening his wife and son.

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The Tunnels

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday 4 July 1990

"Can we see them from here?"

The whiskey-and-velvet voice drew Ezra's attention, and he looked over one shoulder to see Vincent coming toward him, carrying little Jacob in the crook of one arm.

"No, only hear them.  It's as close as I dare." A cannonade of concussion blasts punctuated the younger man's words. "I thought you and Catherine ... "

"She had to go for another interview tonight. I'm afraid Joe is still intimidated by me." Despite the fact that Gabriel himself had been dead for eleven months, his employees and victims were still appearing out of the woodwork. Joe Maxwell wanted nothing left undone. Ezra nodded, and turned back to face where he could hear but not see the fireworks.

He had taken the name Ezra because it meant 'helper,' and Vincent would be forever grateful for his part in rescuing Catherine. And guilty that it had cost the young man all sense of who he had been before. The blood had never come out of the gray flight suit, which Ezra kept folded in the bottom of the steamer trunk at the foot of his bed. He'd taken a role as an assistant teacher in the community, and also helping Father with bookwork, and keeping track of their always-meager supplies. He was fluent in several languages, well-read, and a good enough chess player to allow Father a victim to vent his frustrations on, when he was once again wiped off the board by Vincent.

"I believe I'm quite good at this, Vincent. Certainly adept. Perhaps it's best I don't know how I can simply ... shed an old life like a snake sheds its skin, and begin entirely over again."

"Someone must miss you, Ezra. You could not possibly have been alone that night. You were part of some sort of team, and now they are short one person. Once Joe is certain Gabriel's empire has fallen, we will set him to unraveling the mystery of you."

Ezra smiled, but it didn't reach his emerald eyes, and his gold tooth didn't shine in the light of the one Roman candle that soared high enough to bathe them in its' green-and-gold glow as it exploded.

Chapter Text

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"Must be doin' somethin' right
I just heard you sigh
You lean into my kiss

And close those deep

Blue need-you eyes
Don't know what I did
To earn a love like this
But baby I must
Be doin' somethin' right."

Must Be Doin' Somethin' Right – Billy Currington

Doin' Somethin' Right – Mercury Nashville 2005

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Persian Gulf

January 1991

He's not going to make it! Pull up pull up pull up PULL UP!!!!

Tye and Evie could do nothing but look on in shocked horror as the F-14 exploded into a fireball against the USS Seahawk's flight deck, obscenely bright in the darkness. In Navy parlance, it was a 'ramp strike.' The fighter jock had brought his Tomcat in dangerously low, and crashed against the trailing edge of the deck. Deuce – no way in Hell were they calling her Airwolf II, not after the fiasco with Harlan Jenkins – was getting tossed around in the storm, and due to the wartime footing, the carrier had been running with as little lighting as possible in the single hours of the night. Why the pilot hadn't listened to his Radar Intercept Officer, the Landing Signal Officer, trusted what his instruments were telling him ... Come on, come on ...

One chute. No life signals from the aircraft. Pilot only. Deuce gave the report in a flat, unemotional tone. Over the radio, Evie choked back a half-sob of despair.

He didn't know it, wouldn't for several more years, but they did. That tragic Tomcat jockey was their older half-brother, who had been waiting back home in Miramar with his mother, when Bob Hope brought his USO show to the USS Ticonderoga CVA-14 for Christmas 1969. Tye and Evie's mother had been the 'girl singer' on that tour package, brought along "To show you boys what you're missing back home." According to what Tye and Evie had been told, Jenny Lake had been singing I'll Be Home For Christmas on a stage set up on the flight deck ... while Lt. Harmon D. 'Hammer' Rabb, Sr. was getting blown out of the air, somewhere outside Hanoi. He'd been taken prisoner, and not heard from since. His name was on the Wall in Washington, a few gleaming black panels away from St. John Hawke's. It had taken years for Stringfellow Hawke to convince Evie that her father being shot down was not 'God's divine punishment' for his having cheated on his wife and son with her and Tye's mother. And Hawke had been a champion at telling himself that the tragedies that had defined so much of his life were entirely his own responsibility. That there had to have been something he could have said or not said, done or not done, to change the outcome.

"Let's just get this over with." Tye growled.

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Friday 13 September 1991

"Because maybe we're tired, Zeus! Tired of being a bunch of very small cogs in an effort to bring peace to a region that's been at war since the beginning of damn time!!! Because all they've got over there is a bunch of overgrown schoolyard bullies who refuse to grow the Hell up! Nobody wants to sit down, shut up, admit they're not perfect, and maybe give a little to the other side, because they're scared to death of appearing weak on the world stage. So you know what? Let them all kill each other, we're washing our hands. Send us on missions wherever else you want to, Zeus, but the Middle East can Goddamn well start taking care of itself." Barely able to look at Zeus, Everett turned his back and paced away to stare out over the water.

"Seems t'me that we could solve an awful lot'f problems over there. Permanent like. All's y'gotta do is cut us loose an' turn yer back fer a while." Vin, like all of them, was something decidedly less than happy about how the war had turned out, and convinced that somewhere down the line, they'd only be right back where they started from.

Zeus sighed, wishing futilely for an ounce of the diplomacy that had seemed to come so naturally to Archangel. Sure, he'd butted heads with Hawke and Santini, but somehow they'd all managed to work together as a functioning, cohesive unit. Working with these kids was like pulling teeth, when the 'patient' in the dentist's chair was a venomous snake – of Australian persuasion!

"That's not how this works, Vin. Just because you have enough combined firepower to wipe Baghdad off the face of the planet doesn't mean you can."

Glory rolled her eyes. It was an on-going struggle with Zeus, that how he worded his demands was as important as making the demand at all. "Well obviously we can, Zeus. It's just whether we ought to, or not. You can go five wide through the tri-oval at Talladega, as long as you're prepared for the consequences of however many guys get caught up in it, blaming you for triggering The Big One until whenever they feel like forgiving you." Zeus indulged himself in aiming a dirty look in her direction.

"Call MacGyver, maybe he's in the mood for a suicide run this week." Tye gave a humorless laugh at the look on Zeus's face. "Oh, come on, intelligence is a damned small community. With Michael Knight retired, it's pretty much down to MacGyver or us. Or did Thornton tell you to fold it four ways and shove it, he's tired of you nearly getting his operatives killed?"

Zeus couldn't hold in the grump. "More like fold it four ways, set it on fire, and shove it. He looks like Winnie-the-Pooh, but he's got a habit of growing fangs and claws at the most inopportune times possible, and he doesn't care who knows it! At least with Devon Miles, you'd get told off with British diplomacy! Besides, Thornton doesn't like our ... methods. Whatever that meant." Even though he knew perfectly well what Pete Thornton had been referring to. Certain things, Devon Miles and Michael Knight hadn't been quite so squeamish about.

Glory slanted a quick look at their surroundings, which happened to be the rifle range. Quattro had believed in the policy of making quite certain their enemies were dead – it meant you wouldn't have to be dealing with them again at a later date. And never again would any of them be as vulnerable as their assorted original circumstances had left them.

"Besides," Everett rejoined the conversation. "We've got another run up to New York scheduled. Catherine Chandler's reclaimed her job with the D.A.'s office. They've gotten too used to me and Tye, so we're sending Evie and Glory, this time. Maybe she'll respond better to two young women."

They haggled about it for form's sake for another hour or so, until Zeus finally gave up and left.

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Burlington, Vermont

Monday 20 July 1992

The first thing twelve-year-old J.D. Dunne saw was the HP Hood Dairy delivery truck. The first thing he realized was that he wasn't going to stop! Skateboards were good for a great many things, but they were decidedly short (Ha, ha) in the brakes department. And sticking your foot out to stop yourself – or just plain jumping off – wasn’t really a bright idea when you were going full speed downhill, unless you liked road rash and broken bones. Road rash J.D. didn't mind, cost of doing business and all that. Broken bones were another matter. Mom's bank account couldn't cover that, and they'd had to skip the insurance to cover the property and income taxes, back in March and April. Lake Champlain glittered in the sunlight at the foot of Main Street, taunting J.D. with the knowledge of the free world that lay beyond the western slope of New York's Adirondack Mountains. The free world, where nobody cared whose Dadsy was or whose Dadsy wasn't at IBM. Or whose mother cleaned the offices in 916 Building after the lights went out. Rachel Dunne was one of the lucky few who hadn't lost her job in the 'restructuring' of 1990, if only because changing the light bulbs in their own desk lamps was beneath the dignity of the managers and engineers whose sons and daughters enjoyed making J.D.'s life a living Hell in the hallways of Albert D. Lawton Intermediate School. Sixth grade had mostly sucked, and he bet seventh grade wasn't going to be much better come September. 'Restructuring. What, we were the wrong structure before?' Sometimes he thought the Lake and the Adirondacks might as well be the Berlin Wall, for all the chances he had of ever getting out of Vermont.

O'course, that was if he managed to not become Irish street pizza before Tuesday, September 8th ...

No help for it, he was going to have to jump, and hope for the best. The Shell station that stood on the corner of Main St. and S. Winooski Ave. loomed on his left. Taking a deep breath, J.D. parted ways with his skateboard, tucking his head in and trying to roll and curl up in a ball, like action heroes on TV.

"Is he getting up?" "Yeah, he's getting up." "Aw, man!" A powder-blue Chrysler minivan passed by, fragments of classmates' voices drifting from the windows. As J.D. regained his feet, shaking himself out to make sure he wasn't hurt, he could hear the voices going away. "Because he's a loser, Mom!" He could only hope that 'Mom' hadn't gotten a good look at his face. If she forced her kid and his/her friends to apologize, J.D. wouldn't be able to stick his face out the door to grab the mail for the rest of summer vacation – and there was still six weeks of that! Adults never seemed to figure out that forcing a bully to apologize to their victims wasn't solving the problem; out-waiting the grown-ups was easy, and eventually you'd catch your victim alone. Winter in Vermont practically assured that once summer did arrive, hardly anyone stayed indoors out of choice. Especially kids, who were forced to spend nine months a year all but locked indoors.

"Damn little brats. You okay, kid?" A gruff-voiced, rail-thin old man in a Yankees T-shirt and jeans was cleaning his car's windows, and had seen the whole thing.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Mom says I bounce real good." J.D. tugged on his Red Sox T-shirt, which was about five sizes too big. "You see where my board went?" If it had gotten crunched, he was going to have to call his Mom to come all the way out here from Essex Junction and collect him, and she hadn't had a day off since practically St. Patrick's.

The man gestured across S. Winooski Ave., where J.D. saw his board resting against the curb. "It went between the front and rear axles of the truck, good thing you jumped."

"Thanks, mister." J.D. inwardly groaned as a Burlington cop picked up his board, turning it curiously in his hands and looking around for its owner. For all of Burlington's socially-progressive ways – bolstered by the presence of the University of Vermont – skateboarding in any way, shape or form was still strongly frowned upon. The city council couldn't make it entirely illegal, for fear of alienating the out-of-state kids who came to UVM (and brought their parents' out-of-state money with them) but it was clearly unpopular, and those who insisted on skating learned to either endure the cops ... or spend a great deal of time being really unhappy. Add the fact that J.D. had just turned twelve yesterday (looked about eight) and was without parental supervision, and it looked like road rash was the least of his problems. The cop came jogging across the street, and J.D. glanced helplessly down Main Street to the corner of Church Street, where practically the only comic book shop in Vermont was located. Oh so close ...

"A for effort and execution, 8.2 for form – you remembered to tuck your head in first – D for situational awareness. All in all, a C+."

J.D. winced. The last time he'd gotten as low as a C+ in anything, it had been in second grade and he'd had a fever of 102. He'd had the chicken pox and just hadn't broken out, yet. The cop handed him his board.

"I've got bigger fish to fry chasing high school and college kids. You get gone and be more careful, I'll skip running you in on a first offense."

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, J.D. accepted his board. "Thanks!" He made sure to walk down to the corner and across S. Winooski Ave., then dropped his board and pushed off again.

The day was actually looking up.

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Larabee residence

Cheesman Park neighborhood

Denver, Colorado

Friday 31 July 1992

Buck Wilmington slinked around the back of the house, wishing he could remember where he'd lost his key to the front door. He was still in simmering water with Sarah over 'the pot roast incident' from January, and had only been allowed to start drinking beer again on his own birthday, back on the first of the month. Now here it was Chris's ... and he was having to come home and tell Sarah that Chris was in the ER, would in all likelihood be an overnight guest, if not straight through to Monday, at least. What had Goose said to Maverick in Top Gun about truck-driving school?

He could hear her in the laundry nook, just in from the back door, singing along with Garth Brooks playing on KYGO, on the old Panasonic boombox sitting on a shelf over the washer and dryer. It had been the very first thing she'd bought with her own money, when she'd gotten an after-school job sacking groceries at a Safeway when she was 16. Buck had taken electronics shop in high school, so it was his job to keep the thing running as long as possible. If she was doing laundry, working in the kitchen or at the dining room table doing her schoolwork, Sarah disliked turning on the big stereo in the front room, because she'd have to stop what she was doing to go in and change the station if a song she didn't like came up. The boombox was portable, as long as she could find an electrical outlet close enough by.

Adam was sacked out on a blanket, with the dog Chris had brought home after 'the basement incident' flopped down on the steps proper, where he could watch both mistress and boy. Diablo was a black Lab, and to Buck's mind, about as useful as a throw rug and half as bright. But both Chris and Sarah were military brats – Chris Army, Sarah Air Force – and had grown up with only what could be packed quickly. Having a real house to raise Adam in was important to them, and adding the dog they'd never been allowed to have even moreso. Nobody would ever mistake him for a guard animal, but the hope was that if there was ever a repeat of the basement incident, that he'd at least bark enough to warn Sarah. Buck had his doubts about that. Not that he thought Sarah and Adam needed an entourage of ten attack-trained Rottweilers, but hadn't the Dumb Friends' League animal shelter had any German Shepherds the day Chris had gone? 'Well, maybe the Rottweilers just for one day, just to see that old biddy across the street's head explode.' 

And as if on cue, didn't Diablo look up and woof. Then Woof again, louder, when it seemed to him as if Sarah hadn't heard him at first. Then he got up on all fours and backed that third Woof! up with what sounded for all the world like an I mean business growl a German Shepherd wouldn't sniff at. Sarah looked out the back door just as Buck put his hands on his hips and stared the damn dog down. "Now, come on! I live here, you see me every day! Heck, I'll feed you right off the table, you don't get that from Chris!" Chris was actually good for a growl that might even back an attack-trained Rottweiler off, when Buck shared choice morsels with Diablo. But while Buck had never officially 'had a dog of his very own,' one or another of the ladies in the 'house of ill repute' he'd been raised in had always been feeding the neighborhood strays off the back steps, and those dogs had accepted Buck as a member of the pack. As long as he hadn't come home obviously mauled, Rosalie Wilmington hadn't minded her only son palling around with the local mutts.

Glancing down to make certain Adam was still asleep, Sarah sidestepped Diablo and came straight up to Buck. "What happened?" She knew if it was truly bad, there would have been a cruiser at the curb, and Chris and Buck's captain in it. If it was only Buck, and no call from the ER ... it wasn't good, but it wasn't irreversible. It was, however, Chris's birthday, and he had bitched volubly about having to work on it. "I requested off three damn times! Haven't I traded with enough guys that someone could have traded with me?" And now look what had happened. Buck shoved his hands in his pockets.

 "Chris had a wreck. Took 'em nearly an hour to get him out of what's left of the cruiser. Docs said he'll be in the hospital 'til Monday, at least. More than likely be on medical leave until nearly Halloween after that. I had the dumb luck of being in a different vehicle when Chris lost his. The uh ... ER staff's kinda got their hands full, just now." He offered a sheepish smile, Chris was a notoriously rotten patient.

Sarah let out a sigh of relief. If Chris was well enough to give the ER staff a hard time, he would ultimately be just fine. She glanced over at Adam. "Just let me finish this, and I'll be ready to go." Diablo had resumed his boneless flop, obliging Sarah to perform some interesting gymnastics to scale the steps without stepping on him. Once she got to the top step, she reached down and scratched Diablo's ears. "Why Chris couldn't have gotten a useful dog while he was at it," she teased affectionately.

Buck's sentiments exactly.

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Friday 28 August 1992

They wouldn't have lasted long without fresh water – the estate wouldn't have been built at all without it – and why such a large island that did have a ready supply hadn't been settled was a mystery. Just how long had the island been in Quattro's family, anyhow? But there was a river, ten miles long, flowing out of a cave at the base of the extinct volcano that formed Haven, they hadn't bothered to explore how long it ran underground.

Three miles from the source, it widened into 'The Swimmin' Hole.' Evie and Tye had declared it perfect, right down to the massive old oak tree – whatever an oak was doing this far south – with the branch that hung out over the north end of the pool. The first thing they'd done upon discovery was to rig up a tire swing. The Swiss Family Robinson treehouse was added after Judgement and Honora arrived. The pool measured an acre around, fifty feet deep, and square in the middle was a ten-by-ten-foot flat rock. With a beach towel, his portable stereo loaded with fresh batteries, selections from his George Strait collection and a sack lunch, Vin had nothing on his mind but nothing at all. For the next few hours, the most energy he planned to exert was to roll over and change tapes.

On a day like this, he should have expected that someone else would have the same idea. The closer he got, the more he could hear music from another stereo – sounded like Reba McEntire. As he cleared the last bit of jungle, he saw a flash of a blue-on-black swimsuit, and long, seal-black hair as his new companion used the central rock to push off and change directions. Either Evie or Glory was using the pool for an intensive swim workout.

Glory. As he came up to where she'd spread her own towel, stereo and lunch sack, he could see that the swimmer was too short to be Evie, who had topped out at six-two – five inches above his five-ten. Glory was five-six. And now Vin Tanner had a decision to make – leave before she registered his presence ... or stay and take his chances. Vin knew he'd had a jones for Glory for a while, she'd just always been too young. But he'd come nineteen in May, she sixteen in June. In his mind, she'd finally 'caught up.'

He knew there was always the prospect of Glory's memories coming back, and what baggage they'd bring with them. But save Honora, none of them lacked demons. Even Judgment still woke screaming, never able to remember exactly what had scared him so badly, but something had. And Vin bet that Glory had a family somewhere in the States, who might not be wild about their princess one day turning up with a quarter Comanche boyfriend. 'Okay, some'f my Comanche relatives won't care fer me datin' a 'paleface'.' He had reconnected with the Comanche relatives the Sovereign State of Texas hadn't allowed to keep him after the deaths of his mother and grandfather. They still didn't know anything about his father.

"Hey," Glory's voice practically at his feet shook Vin out of his musings. She was treading water a few feet away, looking up. A gradual drop-off was directly beneath the tire swing, and a 'safe area' for Judgement and Honora had been roped off there. The swing's 'launch area' reached beyond that, leaving the rest of the pool for the older kids. Here, on the eastern side and even with the rock, the drop between bank and bottom was instantaneous. Vin spread his towel, setting his stereo and sack lunch next to hers. He slipped Beyond The Blue Neon into his stereo's tape deck, pressed Play. The opening chords of the title track to George Strait's 1989 album meshed with the fading chorus of Reba McEntire's Now You Tell Me, from her 1990 album Rumor Has It. Vin looked at Glory as he flipped the Reba cassette over to Side Two. "Reckon this's th' closest we'll ever git ta them doin' a duet?"

Glory rolled her eyes. "I don't care if they get up there and sing about the Texas-Oklahoma college football game! I don't care if they sing the Yellow Pages!" Vin laughed as she hauled herself out of the water to flop down on her towel and rummage around in her sack, coming up with a bottle of Dr. Pepper. Out of the water, he could see her 'swimsuit' was really a short bodysuit, with a high neck and quarter-length sleeves and legs – whatever Glory had been through that had driven her out into that blizzard had left her with scars she rarely exposed. Vin reckoned he could count on one hand the times he'd seen her in a 'regular' one-piece swimsuit, and never in a bikini. He'd made peace with his scars, Glory wouldn't be able to reconcile hers until she remembered what had caused them.

Glory scooped her hair back, knee-walked to the bank and leaned over to squeeze the excess water out, then returned to her towel. "One hundred laps around this thing. I'm gonna grow gills, Vin!" She chomped into a homemade granola bar -- Evie's creation. "Next week, I go to the mouth of the river and swim against it. Once I make the cave, I swim around the island."

"Endurance trainin'. If'n ya don't hate Ev'r'tt yet, yer gonna." He gave it three beats. "How many laps ya add on yerself?" Grinning when she flushed and mumbled "Fifty," around a mouthful of granola. "By th' time I made it 'round th' whole island, I's ready ta slit 'is throat an' toss 'im out fer th' sharks. But I'm glad I've got th' stamina, couple times I've needed it."

Glory nodded. "Yeah, I know. Tropical paradise or not, we don't live on vacation, here." She tipped her head to the sun, and Vin willed his body to behave. He was nineteen, and it sure didn't take much. Then she did something that completely knocked the pins out from under him. She simply looked over at him with those deep, deep blue eyes, kinda smiled a little, and dove in headfirst.

"So, you gonna kiss me, or what?"

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Essex Junction, Vermont

Saturday 31 October 1992

"'Bye, Ma!" J.D. went charging out the door carrying a pillowcase in one hand and a flashlight in the other, racing to catch up with his friends – geeks stuck together in a town like this, or they got turned into ground chuck. No coat, no gloves, no hat. The guys exclaimed over the Star Trek costume his Mom had sewn together herself, patiently enduring hours of J.D.'s favorite TV show to make sure she had it right. The lady down the street whose house he went to after school was a nurse, and her college-sophomore son had gone to a sci-fi convention in Boston, and came back with gold pips for J.D. to put on his collar and wrist. For one night, he could pretend he was Will Riker.

It started to snow before he got home – footsore from tromping all over town, half-frozen, his pillowcase bulging at the seams. After a hot bath and some shrimp ramen he went to bed, dreaming of starships. Somewhere around midnight, Rachel Dunne put on some old Marty Robbins, and his dreams turned to the Old West.

It kept snowing. And then it got cold. From the week before Thanksgiving to the week of St. Patrick's Day '93, it never got above -20 that whole time – and mostly it never got above -40! That week of St. Pat's, they had another nor'easter – the 'Storm of the Century,' only slightly less severe than the 'Perfect Storm' of Hallowe'en 1991. The last storm of the winter was Mother's Day weekend – there was still snow piled up in places on Memorial Day. Thick on the ground up in The Northeast Kingdom!

They nearly froze when the furnace broke in February – would have, if the high-school girl who delivered The Essex Reporter every Thursday afternoon hadn't gotten her father to fix it – and Rachel nearly ended up in court when she couldn't pay the March and April taxes. It wasn't until nearly the Champlain Valley Fair in August that J.D. realized she really wasn't getting much better from when she'd been sick during the winter. And the summer of 1993 was as beastly hot as the previous winter had been cold! J.D. was only thirteen, and he didn't know what to do.

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Friday 23 April 1993

"Evie?"

"I'm in here, Glory!" She looked up as the younger girl came into the kitchen, looking for all the world like Joan of Arc heading for the stake. "Hey, what's wrong? You and Vin have a fight or something?"

"Or ... something." Glory walked over to the central island and climbed into one of the high barstools surrounding it. Evie was making pasta – they never ate pasta from a box or sauce from a jar, something about Dominic Santini coming back from his grave to haunt them for eternity. Somewhere in the house Judgment had the stereo on way too loud, playing Jimmy Buffett. The TV nearby was playing the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Philadelphia Phillies, in Philly.

"So? Or something?" Evie looked up, taking note all-of-a-sudden of the paleness of Glory's face, the too-wide, bruise-dark eyes. She reached across the bar and took Glory's hand – cold as ice.

"Evie ... I'm pregnant."

Chapter Text

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"All that I'm after is

A life full of laughter
As long as I'm laughing

With you I'm thinkin' that

All that still matters

Is love ever after, after
The life we've been through
'Cause I know there's

No life after you."

Life After You – Daughtry

Leave This Town – RCA 2009

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The Tunnels

New York City

Tuesday 6 July 1993

Catherine Chandler-Wells descended the steps into Father's chamber and looked around. Sheets and old rugs and blankets and carpet remnants covered bookcases of varying shapes and sizes, and the couches, chairs and tables surrounding them. Close by was the sounds of picks and shovels, a new chamber being carved. Father's library had outgrown him – again – and now 'something else' had to be done. Again. She'd been told Jacob was in here, but she couldn't see ...

A pile of books under one of Mary's old quilts swayed alarmingly, just before a childish "Oh no!" ... and the entire affair collapsed. Smiling and shaking her head, Catherine went over and pulled up the quilt.

"Mommy!" Jacob squealed, jumping up and wrapping her in a hug. "I maked the books fall down, oops."

"I see that, let's see if we can get them picked up before Grandpa and Daddy find out." Having already changed out of her 'office wear' and into the sturdier, practical clothes of the Tunnels, Catherine had no qualms about hunkering down on the floor. After Jacob's birth, Father and Vincent had rearranged the entire library, so the children's books would be closer to hand, and there would be no chance of an inquisitive small boy accidentally stumbling over anything inappropriate. It had been an interesting endeavor, as Father had rediscovered books he'd thought lost, and those even he hadn't known he had. The medical books of course had to be kept close at hand, but anything 'racy' beyond that – and there was a rather larger quantity of such books than Catherine had expected to find in Father's collection! – was banished to a set of high shelves in a far corner of the second level of the chamber. A simple warning system of bells on strings warned if one ventured therein, and everyone had simply adopted the policy of just telling Father if they wanted something off 'the red-light shelves.' 

Somewhere in the process of rearranging and cataloging, the library had finally been sorted by category and subject, like a proper library instead of just a haphazard rambling mess. Father grumped about having been "perfectly comfortable in my jumbled hodge-podge," the children and young people replied that it was now ever so much easier to find exactly what book was needed for a homework assignment, "instead of having to dig through the whole entire room." Proper bookcases had been built, and the couches, chairs and tables brought in. Grudgingly, Father had admitted that it was now more civilized than before.

"Have you seen Grandpa?" She knew Vincent would be working, but hadn't seen Father anywhere. Jacob nodded happily. 

"He said he was going to see Kurt, and I'd be okay by my own self 'cause Daddy's right here. And Daddy said you'd be home from work really, really soon, and here you are!" He hugged her again, obviously pleased that such an esteemed personage as his grandfather had trusted him to be left alone practically almost by his own self, even though Vincent was within hearing if not sight. Three sawhorses painted a virulent neon green guarded the entrance to the chamber addition, backed by a sheet of heavy canvas.  Catherine could see a group of young teenagers gathered 'round a table just this side of the sawhorses, heads bent over their homework. It was their job to keep the canvas wet, and thus keep down the dust. She knew they had to have heard Father and Jacob talking – and had therefore stayed down and silent, allowing the little prince of the community to enjoy his small independence, a feeling they well understood. Jacob knew he was never-for-any-reason-at-all-for-anything-ever to go past those sawhorses – if he needed Vincent, he could go up to the sawhorses and call out, or one of the older kids would go in and find Vincent for him.

Kurt was the blacksmith now, having taken on the position left vacant by the death of Winslow. Two former Tunnel residents, Feodora and Jack, had brought him down one frigid February night, Feodora begging Father and Vincent to give him shelter. "What happened was no accident, and I know who's at fault! If he finds out Kurt is still alive, he'll kill him!” The indulgent smile Kurt bestowed on the young Russian Romany woman when she couldn't see suggested that she might have been over-dramatizing the situation just a bit, but he hadn't the heart to argue the matter. That he'd been in a fire was obvious -- the skin on the left side of his face had melted, the eye sealed shut, part of his thick, dark brown hair burned off, the left side of his body covered in thick scars like twisted ropes. He never spoke aloud, communicating with sign language. Feodora turned up reliable as sunrise every Saturday noon, bringing a week's worth of The Springfield Journal all the way from Illinois, God love New York newsstands. They'd disappear into Kurt's chamber and read them front to back, with frequent loud complaining on Feodora's part – “I don't care what she's thinking! She's not thinking, that's obvious!" Kurt's only comment on their weekly meeting was that several people in Springfield should be grateful that there were over 800 miles between them and Feodora. "She's not eleven anymore, and if she ever goes back -- or if they're foolish enough to dare looking for her here! – they’ll sure be getting some awful surprise."

"Ah, Catherine, here you are." Father hobbled down the steps, smiling at the book avalanche Jacob was scrambling to repair, chanting "Oops-oops-oops." He settled in his favorite chair as Catherine and Jacob finished stacking the books, covering them again with the old quilt. Jamie appeared in the door, asking if Jacob might be added to the troop accompanying her to a Helper's, to retrieve some books, clothes, toys and other items the Helper was donating to the community – Mouse once again buried in one of his infamous Projects Known Only To Mouse. Receiving confirmation from Catherine, Jacob darted to the sawhorses to holler a goodbye to Vincent, hugged Catherine and Father, and happily gamboled off with Jamie, chattering a-mile-a-second about what he'd been reading before Catherine's arrival.

Father shook his head. "I love him dearly, but he puts me more in mind of a small, yet intensely powerful hurricane every day. I swear I don't remember Vincent and Devin having half that much energy."

Hah! Came to Catherine from Vincent. Remind me to tell Devin that next time he visits!

Hush, you! Catherine laughed as she settled into what had become her chair. "Nancy told me I'd never appreciate true silence until he'd been in a room, and then went out of it." She looked up as a teenage girl jumped up from the table and rushed over to a bookcase, flinging aside the sheets covering it.

"I know it's in here, and I know it says something different than what's in that book you've got! Someone stick their head in and see if Ezra will come out – he’s from the South, he must know a lot about the Civil War!" One of the boys rolled his eyes resignedly and got up, disappearing behind sawhorses and canvas. He reappeared a moment later with Ezra, caked in dust and sweat, his emerald eyes standing out like Times Square neon.

"Yes? Someone has a question regarding The Late Unpleasantness?" The Late Unpleasantness was what Ezra usually called the Civil War – unless he was in a very sarcastic mood, then it was The War of Northern Aggression. Nobody had ever heard him saying anything overtly discriminatory – he’d never have lasted in the community if he had – but he was clearly Southern, and just as clearly proud of said heritage. And he did live in a city where the dominant sports team was The Yankees. Besides which, the current dispute was between two African-American kids. LaNeisha emerged from the shrouded bookcase, finger holding her place in a book as she settled next to DeQuan. "Now see, DeQuan's book says this about The Battle of the Wilderness, but this book says something entirely different!"

"Ah yes, The Wilderness, wretched fiasco. Combatants – on both sides – perished of burns and smoke inhalation when a brushfire broke out between the lines during the night. Now, where exactly is the discrepancy?"

Father leaned across the table and said in a low voice, "Notice he only says wretched fiasco about battles the Confederacy lost."

Catherine smiled, and poured herself some tea. She eyed the chessboard, a game in progress. Whoever was black had better have a Hail Mary play up their sleeve, white was going to have their bishop in three moves. Father smirked again, and nodded his head in Ezra's direction. "I'm luring him in, letting him get confident. See how open he's left his queen."

And so he had. The unguarded space surrounding the white queen resembled the Russian steppes. Even the nearest white pawn was a good four spaces away. "That's hardly fair, Father. Challenging him to a game after he's been digging out your new addition all day."

Father harrumphed quietly. "Strategy, my dear, all strategy." He scowled over the tops of his glasses. "He's catching up to me."

Catherine shook her head, smiling.

Greed Fever Ristorante, Pizzeria & Sports Bar

Brooklyn

Evie and Glory stepped into the restaurant that had become their 'local' in New York, happy to be out of the miserable heat. Greed Fever was one of their favorite places -- even if it was way out in Brooklyn. It was a known 'cop bar,' which meant the less law-abiding citizenry kept a wide berth -- particularly the flashy, hot-headed, too-good-looking-for-their-own-good 'Young Turks'whose Mafiosi grandfathers controlled the dark side of the city. Some arrogant jerk had tried copping a feel on Evie once, and Everett had damn near killed the guy. Hard luck for the jerk, his grandfather was a very distant cousin of Dominic Santini's. Word had gotten around – Everett & Co. were strictly off-limits. An anonymous phone call had directed them to Greed Fever, and the retired Marine who owned it. Finding out that Sal Camaletti had known St. John in 'Nam had been an unexpected bonus. Sal had lost both legs to a land mine, and St. John had been the reckless chopper pilot who had braved intense enemy fire to retrieve his friend, get Sal's men to safety and Sal himself to medical assistance. Sal of course had been sent home, but had maintained correspondence with St. John until he went MIA, and with Stringfellow from before the younger Hawke had graduated high school until his disappearance in March 1986. Although he'd never met Everett, Sam, Le Van, Evie and Tye before they'd turned up at 'his place,' he'd known about them, and welcomed them with open arms. 

Sal's older brother Angelo was a cop – that fact and already being a father having saved him from 'Nam – and he'd made a quiet crusade out of helping the kids in their quest to locate the seemingly eternally missing Quattro. Greed Fever became one of the first places they checked in upon arrival in New York, right after the Central Park penthouse apartment that was part of Quattro's estate. Thinking ahead and not wanting the others to be cast to the winds as they'd been before, Quattro had arranged his affairs in such a manner that in case of his disappearance, or an injury severe enough that he was no longer personally able to manage said affairs, everything that was his would be placed in trust, available for use by the rest of the Airwolf team. Progressing down through each of them as they came eighteen, and therefore keeping it out of his mother's greedy hands, wherever Maude Standish had taken herself. No one had seen her since before everything went to Hell, and nobody was missing her. And as Quattro had been Archangel's only son and main beneficiary, Quattro's holdings were extensive. The kids had yet to find someplace where they had to lay out funds to rent lodging and transportation. Everywhere they lived was ridiculously fantastic, and playing with Archangel's collection of classic and exotic cars was more fun than was legal. 

"Hello girls, I got your table all set." Sal appeared from the kitchen and led them to what had become 'their' table. It sat on a raised dais, had enough seating for all of them, and sight-lines to the front door, kitchen, and both rear exits. "Alessa saw you walking from your place to the subway, she'd've stopped and given you a ride but she was still on duty." Sal's family ran heavy to cops and the Marine Corps. Two of Angelo's boys were the 'black sheep'  – a fire-fighter and a Navy F-18 Hornet jock.

"Thanks, Sal." The girls gratefully sat down – that one-and-only downside to Greed Fever was that it was a five-block hike from the nearest subway stop. But not even if she'd had the permission of Archangel himself would Evie have driven one of the cars in the garage in Manhattan into this section of Brooklyn, cop bar or not! Glory snapped up her menu. Now that she was over the morning sickness – the definition of morning in the baby's opinion being anytime after 12:00 AM  -- she was starving. The kid was apparently inheriting both Vin's voracious appetite and his lightning metabolism. Evie reached for the wine list. "Because I can, and you couldn't even if you were old enough," she smirked.

"Stick it in your hat," Glory replied easily, grinning when the waiter stopped by with a cloth-lined basket filled with chunks of crusty Italian bread, and two small plates with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and herbs. The waiter went into his assigned routine, identifying himself as Jamey and rattling off the specials before taking their drink orders and heading off. Evie watched him back to the bar. 'Five-nine, one-eighty-five, blond hair in a ponytail and one eye, turquoise blue. Eye patch, right side,' Archangel's had been his lefteye. 'Patch is decorated in a sunburst design, aquamarine and clear rhinestones. Black low-top Reeboks – for work, not showing off – black jeans, black pirate shirt, Chicago White Sox earring, right ear. All-American boy-next-door face, makes you think of cheeseburgers, apple pie and a chocolate milkshake.' 

Without looking up from her menu, Glory commented idly, "What's occurred to your busy brain? Do I need to tell Everett you're trading him in for a newer model?"

"He saw us from across the room. It's tough to catch with just one eye – I used to have the same problem with Archangel if I wasn't paying attention – but when he saw us, there was a quick flash of alarm on his face. We make him nervous."

Glory glanced up to see Jamey with his back to the bar, keeping an eye on his tables. When he caught her watching, he did a quick 180 and began a conversation with the bartender. She shared a look with Evie.

"I'm not really showing that much, yet, so he can't be freaked out by that. Unless he's really worried about his girlfriend catching him, he'd have at least given me more than a business smile – and likely a lot more attention while he was over here before."

"Or his boyfriend," Evie replied. "But I'm not getting that vibe off him. I'm trying to remember if we've seen him before now."

Glory shrugged. "Ask Angelo when we see him. Oh wait, we won't see him tonight, the Mets have the Padres in. What are you getting?"

Across the room, Jamey Cantori was sweating. He knew well enough who the two lookers at that table were, and what they were after. Oh man, he didn't want to go Below tonight. The White Sox were gonna be on WGN for the first time since May (Damn channel-hogging Cubs) and they were in first place for the first time in what felt like his whole life – and probably was! He didn't know what time he was going to get out of here today – he  was filling in for a waitress whose ten-year-old was hospitalized for a major asthma attack -- and no matter how he got down, he was facing a long walk to the Hub. In the Tunnels, he was known as Jack – a play on One-Eyed Jack because of his appearance, and also because there was already one Jamie down there, and she'd been there a lot longer than he had.

But as much as he didn't want to miss the White Sox game, and as much as he didn't want to tromp around under half of Manhattan all night, there was something else he didn't want even more. To be on the receiving end of one of Father's lectures! He'd been no altar boy while living Below – looser allowances were made for children, and nine times out of ten, Vincent had been in on the pranks anyway – but  he'd managed to get in and out without being the focus of Father's ire. He'd witnessed several – Gotta love Mouse! – and that was as close as he cared to get!

Joe Maxwell had spent some time poking into who Ezra might have been, and got nothing for his troubles but a visit from some serious government types, telling him to back off. Ezra had never recovered his memories of his life previous to August 1993, had no way to tell friend from foe -- and once away from the Tunnels, would have no means to warn them if he'd guessed wrong. Because he'd risked and lost so much to save Catherine and little Jacob from Gabriel's clutches, Ezra was on a bit of a pedestal Below, and nobody wanted to be the one to turn him loose for the wolves – even if the people searching for him claimed to be his own parents! Nodding decisively, Jamey slapped the bar as the bartender set Evie's wine and Glory's hazelnut Italian cream soda on the tray next to him.

 "Thanks, Leo. Hey, I'll drop these off, check a couple tables, and then I'm gonna need the phone."

After Jamey had delivered the drinks, taken their food order and gone away again, Evie allowed herself to relax. As much as Evie ever relaxed. "I thought Tye was going to have to knock Vin unconscious and stuff him in the back of Trio to get him along on that drug interdiction mission. If Everett, Sam and Deuce weren't still off in the Arctic, and Le and Tetra still recovering from their trip to ... whatever Yugoslavia's calling itself this week – Tye’d be on his way to Georgia alone." They'd had a heck of a time deciding what to call the fourth 'cub' – Quattra hadn't really sounded right. It had been Zeus who had finally mentioned that tetra was the Greek prefix for 'four.' They were sticking with 'number names' until they thought of anything better – not that they were trying very hard at that.

"I feel sorry for all the Daddies in Georgia who have eligible young daughters. You watch, the one who catches his eye? Her father will be in it up to his hair." One thing Haven didn't have was girls – Glory was Vin's girl, and Evie had been Everett's girl even before, in California. Tye, Sam and Le Van had been forced to go looking. And they had – Puerto Rico, Jamaica, the Bahamas, Miami. The only place they hadn't hit was Cuba, and they roundly cursed Castro, bemoaned all the beautiful Cuban ladies they weren't meeting, thanks to him. Tye in particular fell in love at least a million times a week – and damn near every time he went on a mission. It lasted as long as it lasted, and he was heartbroken for, oh, about a half an hour when it ended. Everett had blown up in spectacular fashion at them when they'd each had close calls, having been out carousing without 'raincoats.' "Well, pardon me for expecting all three of you to know better!" Unspoken in Le Van's case being the fact that St. John had gone MIA in 1969, and Le Van's birthday was Saturday 20 January 1973. So where was St. John between Saturday 23 August 1969, and April 1972? The phony St. John had arrived with the cover story that he'd been railroaded into working for a different division of the Firm, and had been told that String had been kept apprised of his whereabouts. At a distance, it had almost sounded believable enough to fool Le Van into going back to Santini Air. Only the skepticism that was as natural to Evie as breathing had saved them all.

The Tunnels

Manhattan

Jamey stood in Father's chamber, hands in his front pockets. He'd reported the arrival of Evie and Glory, and now he, Catherine and Vincent, Joe Maxwell and Ezra awaited Father's decision. Ezra was looking at the pictures Jamey had taken of Evie and Glory – at a distance, a pack of college kids had come into Greed Fever while the girls were there, and had proceeded to embarrass one of their number with a surprise birthday celebration. Leo the bartender kept a couple cameras behind the bar for just such events, one regular and one Polaroid. Jamey had commandeered the Polaroid, and made sure he was facing Glory and Evie while he was using it. 

Now Ezra tossed the pictures on the table, stood up so quickly that his chair went over sideways – no small feat, considering that furniture Below tended toward heavy, sturdy practicality. He paced a few feet away from the table and stood with his back to them, his shoulders rising and falling swiftly, as if he was suddenly unable to draw enough air to fill his lungs.

"I ... I remember. God help me, I remember. Evie Lake and Glory ... Glory ... Glory never had a last name, she was stricken with amnesia as well, I plucked her out of a blizzard in northern Minnesota. Or perhaps it was southern Manitoba, the ... the navigation was out that night, we – we weren't exactly sure where we were. She and her brother and sister had escaped from a cult, The First Church of the Only Son."

Jamey glanced at Joe, catching a spark of recognition in the D.A.'s eyes. Ezra spun about at just that moment, focusing on Joe. His emerald eyes were suddenly feverish.

"Mr. Maxwell, were there any reports – from the night Catherine was rescued – a large black helicopter, with no identifying markings? And seeming to pack quite a large amount of weaponry?"

Joe blinked. "Yeah, there were. That was my first encounter with Washington trying to interfere with Cathy's case. I got a visit from some 'secret-agent' type, telling me I'd better not make public anything about that helicopter if I knew what was good for me. I canvassed some of the reporters and cops who were at the scene, they said the same thing. Peter Maza from the 23rd was plenty hot about it, too."

Jamey spoke up. "I've seen some pictures that were taken that night, they circulated around campus at school. Some seniors who were taking a Graphic Arts course were in Manhattan taking pictures for their still photography project. The Fine Arts Department as a whole runs pretty strong to radicalism and conspiracy theorists – “ here he broke off, and indulged a wicked smirk in Vincent's direction. "Talk about cults, Vincent had a fan club, for cryin' out loud, none of whose theories came anywhere remotely close to reality. But hey, if they thought you were the modern incarnation of an ancient Babylonian-Egyptian-Sumerian god, who was a brainwashed-by-the-bourgeoisie-intelligentsia working-class peasant such as I to burst their bubble? The time they spent obsessing over your 'mythology' instead of paying attention in class eventually served to get them out of the way of those of us who were serious about actually graduating. Anyway, the kids who took those pictures made enough copies for nearly everyone in school." He cocked his head to one side, narrowing his eye in thought. "I think? I still have my set somewhere in my room ... Yeah, I do, way in the back of my junk drawer in my dresser. I really need to sort that out before I head off for school next month."

Ezra shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Zeus knows damn well there are pictures of The Lady in the Kremlin, as well as files on everyone involved with her. Including me." He shifted his gaze to Father. "I have endangered the entire Community simply by the fact that I am here."

"How much less we would have been these past years, without your presence," Father replied. "But for your risks and sacrifice that night, whatever Gabriel's ultimate plan had been for Catherine and Jacob would have come to fruition. Do you believe he intended to simply allow Catherine to walk out the door, Jacob in her arms? I certainly don't."

Catherine tightened her arms around Jacob, slumbering on her lap. "But ... if someone in Washington knew Joe was asking, and they've come up here more than once to warn him off, shouldn't they realize Ezra is here somewhere? Wouldn't they want you back?"

Ezra's laugh held little humor. "No, my dear Catherine, they most decidedly don't 'want me back.' You see, even as young as I am, I am the leader of the Airwolf project. They were hoping against hope that if they severed the head, the entire operation would collapse, as a house of cards in a hurricane. Then they could come in and take over. It's what they tried to do in March, 1986, when my father was head of the operation." He smiled. "The fact that my friends keep returning here to search for me, proves that they have prevailed, and Airwolf yet survives, under the terms of the agreement we made with Zeus in May of '86. Lord, poor Everett, he never wanted to be leader. He doesn't mind being involved, but oh, how he must despise having to be in charge!" 

Vincent stepped forward from where he had been standing behind and to one side of Catherine's chair. "We all understand the reasons we have held our silence and protected Ezra, having no way to know for certain whether those searching for him were friend or foe. But now that Ezra has identified these young women as friends, it would be cruel to continue keeping the truth from them. We know Ezra will never betray our sanctuary, and the choice to stay here or return to his previous life remains his own. But whatever his choice will be, his friends deserve to know that their faith in his survival has not been misplaced."

Father nodded. "Joe, by the pattern they've set previously, Evie and Glory should make an appearance at Catherine's desk sometime tomorrow afternoon, yes? Could you redirect them to Peter Alcott's house? I have to go there tomorrow and pick up some medicine he's ordered for us."

"Yeah, but Cathy and I won't be there. Closing arguments on the Reidy case are scheduled for eight o'clock, sharp, and they'll probably take all day."

"Leave a message with Clayton," Catherine suggested, naming a law clerk who combined the efficiency of an AK-47 with the mothering instincts of a hen with one chick. "He knows where Peter lives, his Auntie's been seeing Peter for her heart as long as Clay's been alive."

"Yeah, I can do that. Clayton always beats me in."

New York Supreme Court - Criminal Division

100 Centre St.

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday 7 July 1993

"God, am I glad that case is over," Catherine shook her head as she and Joe jogged down the steps of the massive courthouse complex. She was already thinking ahead – try and score a cab to Peter's, or just give in and take the train? Though wealthy enough to keep a car in Manhattan, she rarely drove it to work.

"You and me both, Radcliffe. Hey, walk me to my car. If the girls passed Father's muster to come Below tonight, I don't want them to see me looking like I've been in court all day. I'm gonna run home, grab a shower and some regular clothes." Joe rolled his shoulders inside his suit coat, even though he'd already popped the top two buttons on his shirt and tugged his tie loose.

Catherine laughed. "You do realize that one of them is seventeen, and her friend that is legal is taken?"

"Now hey, did I say anything like that? I just think they've seen enough of Joe Maxwell, District Attorney, is all. I haven't exactly acted like their best friend all these years, y'know, covering for you guys." He tossed her a patently fake accusatory look.

"Yeah, Joe, I know. And if I was in their shoes, I'd probably be plenty mad that we've been hiding Ezra all this time, while they've been so worried about him. If one of them decides to take a swing at you, your suit coat will louse up your swing to defend yourself."

"See? There ya go, Cathy. Always thinking." They reached the lot where Joe parked his utilitarian Dodge sedan, and he popped the trunk to toss his briefcase inside. "Hey, long as you're here, you wanna ride?"

She thought about it for a second, then shook her head. "No, I can grab the train from here, it'll be easier for where I need to go down. You're right, I should take a shower too, and definitely change my shoes!" She tilted one foot to show off the peach heels she'd worn with her own suit. "These aren't exactly suited for wilderness hikes!" 

"No kiddin'?" He playfully dodged the swipe she aimed at his head. "See you later, Cathy."

Shaking her head, Catherine headed for the nearest subway entrance. It still wasn't a picnic to ride the train, and everyone and their brother would be trying to get a ride at this time of day, but in this part of town, she'd be trying to flag down a taxi for hours.

KA-WHAM-BOOM!!! Even half a block back, the sheer force of the explosion pitched her forward off her feet. Picking herself up, Catherine spun, staring in sick horror at the roiling, twisting ball of black smoke and red flames ...

 ... where Joe's car had been, mere seconds before.

The Tunnels

Evie and Glory perched nervously on a couch, watching Quattro – Ezra, another new name to get used to – pace angrily. The joy of at last finding him had been dashed by the brutal death of Joe Maxwell, and how close Catherine had come to being in that car with him. Catherine sat on the couch with them, one arm around Glory's shoulders, her hand covering Glory's as the young woman twisted them in her lap. She didn't know anything more than Evie's hurried, "Nightmares, maybe got three hours of sleep, total. Baby picked a hell of a time to decide Mommy needed to get her memory back, too." But she could see that the teenager was pale and shaken, even without ... 'God, Joe.' Vincent was a solid presence on Catherine's other side. The girls hadn't even blinked.

Ezra swung around to face Evie. "And there has been no unusual behavior on Zeus's part?"

Evie shook her head. "No, he's been boringly normal, fuel and supplies soon as we request them. Everett, Le Van and Deuce are above the Arctic Circle doing environmental research; Tye, Vin and Trio are on a drug interdiction run in northern Georgia -- ours, not the former Soviet republic; Sam and Tetra are recovering from a humanitarian mission to Yugoslavia – whatever it's calling itself this week. And Glory and I have The Lady here. Cinco's still in testing, Sixer's still under construction, and Sevens isn't off the computer screen, yet. Everett and I have barely even started discussing Ocho."

Ezra plowed one hand through already disordered chestnut curls. "That can't be it, then."

Glory spoke up, her voice surprisingly stronger than her appearance. "Ezra, there's no way Zeus could have known that this would be the time your friends would decide to let us in."

"I'd like to believe that, Glory. After Harlan Jenkins and Redwolf, my father demanded total control of the program, threatened to walk, and Hawke would have gone with him. They believed Zeus and The Committee, then. We all did." Ezra shook his head. "I vowed as I left Van Nuys, I'd never be fooled like that again. And it was saving Zeus's miserable hide from Gabriel that got me here in the first place."

 "Yeah, and the SEAL team you saved that time was my father's, Ezra," Glory interjected. "I remember now, him arguing with Uncle Chris about a black helicopter the brass kept telling them they hadn't seen. Daddy had been injured, he – he nearly didn't make it. They told him ... that he must have been hallucinating because of the blood loss, and the painkillers he'd already been given. He insisted that no matter how badly he'd been hurt, "when somethin' like that's fifteen feet over your head and breathin' fire, you know what you're lookin' at!" Uncle Chris wasn't hurt as bad, he still had a clear head, and he drew for me and Judgment a picture that looked exactly like The Lady. I still had it in my desk in my room in Denver, when Mom took us and left."

Ezra was staring at Glory like he was seeing her for the very first time, his mind flying back to that day over the jungles of Nicaragua. They'd been low on everything – fuel, ammunition and ordnance, time, – but Hawke would not refuse the call of American military personnel in distress. A CH-53 Chinook helicopter belonging to the Navy was the extraction for a SEAL team, and they were under fire. Angry and scared, they'd broken radio silence in a desperate call for help. The fighters belonging to the aircraft carrier battle group -- the USS Constellation CVA-64 – lurking  just outside international waters would never get there in time, even if they'd ridden afterburners all the way. Hawke had slewed The Lady through a turn that would have croaked any feathered creature foolish enough to attempt it, her metallic scream of defiance echoing over the treetops. Defending the Chinook long enough for the SEALs to get to it had taken the last of Airwolf's weapons. Shadowing it until the Tomcats and Hornets from the Constellation could reach them had nearly taken the last of her fuel. The KC-135 Archangel had scrambled had reached them with minutes to spare before he and Hawke would have been facing a decidedly uncomfortable night in hostile territory. The Committee had been unanimously furious, had called Hawke to task personally. "I've more than held up my end of this operation, I'm not seeing a hell of a lot of progress from you people. I will not leave men behind. Not ever again." He had turned and walked out of the conference room, Caitlin taking a second to sweep the room with an icy blue glare before following him.

And two of those SEALs had been Glory's father, and a man she honored as 'Uncle' Chris.

Evie ended up staying on until Hallowe'en, to assist in the investigation into Joe Maxwell's death. They sent Glory home, of course, which meant she was there when Trio came back from Georgia – with one more person on board than she'd taken off with.

Boston, Massachusetts

Thursday 25-Friday 26 November 1993

(Thanksgiving)

Rachel Dunne slumped against the back wall of the elevator, slipped her earrings and necklace into the pocket of her long cashmere coat. Knowing, and not caring, that by morning she'd have forgotten where they were. She wondered if she was going to meet J.D. coming in, as he wouldn't have school that day.

There was more than one way to skin a cat, and there was more than one way – God forgive her – to raise a son. Looking for better opportunities than they could ever find in Vermont, she and three other single mothers had moved to Boston. The others had given up and gone back to Essex Junction like whipped dogs, but Rachel and J.D. had held out. Cleaning office buildings and waiting tables had gotten her through secretarial school. Secretarial school had gotten her named in no less than five 'alienation of affection' lawsuits from wives who were certain Rachel was a gold-digging little hussy out to steal their husbands. The last one had tried to kill Rachel, after it had been revealed that it wasn't Rachel the unfaithful husband was sneaking around with, it was the nineteen-year-old college kid in the mailroom. The male nineteen-year-old college kid. The betrayed wife's mind had snapped like an over-stretched rubber band, convinced Rachel had set the entire thing up, intending to blackmail the husband into a paternity suit.

Hah, Rachel knew exactly who J.D.'s father was. If she cared to put some effort into it, had half an idea where to find him, too. And – touché – knew he was married. She'd been a 'working girl' in Norfolk, Virginia, keeping company with the sailors, in America quite illegally. Enough of them had been enchanted by her Irish brogue to not give her away. In August of 1980, a tall, handsome SEAL had begun to come to her room in a motor court near the Navy base. His wife had stepped out on him with an officer, and he was angry and hurt. They'd been high school sweethearts, had a four-year-old daughter, "How could she do this to me?" One of his buddies had told him about Rachel, and he'd decided to pay his wife back in kind. She had no pimp, and had a little money set by. She saw Buck Wilmington exclusively until October. A week before Hallowe'en, his best friend had turned up at her door. Buck and his wife had reconciled, he'd said, looking at a stunned Rachel with sympathy in his crystal-green eyes. But Noreen knew who Rachel was and where to find her, it might be a good idea if she got out of town for a while, would she need any money?

Having had plenty of experience with jealous Navy wives, the other girls in the motor court had encouraged her to take the offer. Just for a little while. If he sticks it out, eventually she'll forget you. She'd taken rather more money from Chris Larabee than she'd thought an man of his enlisted rank would have, and gone to Vermont. She'd never breathed a word to anyone about J.D., naming him after her grandfathers.

After that last secretarial job had evaporated, she'd realized the only way to keep them out of a homeless shelter – and J.D. out of the system when she got caught – was to fall back on the way of life that had given him to her. She'd opened the Yellow Pages and called every escort service and gentlemen's club listed. She was thirty-one, had a child, had been out of the business for over ten years, and the odds were astronomically not in her favor.

She got a job, with one of the most exclusive, expensive, classiest escort services in the city. It had taken J.D. a while to get used to it, until that kid whose mother danced in a topless bar had been beaten up in the boys' locker room. The mother had been arrested, the boy placed in the care of her parents. Less than a month later, the boy – a friend of J.D.'s – was dead, beaten to death by his own grandparents. They'd claimed in their 'defense' that the boy was wicked and beyond salvation, that they'd feared for their own souls with him in their home. After that, J.D. had clammed up at school, maintaining the illusion that Rachel worked in an office building. As the mother of an American citizen, Rachel had hope she wouldn't be deported back to Belfast, but J.D. wasn't taking any chances. If his mother being a high-class call girl was what it took to keep a roof over their heads, he was going to take a page out of what had been Montpelier, Vermont's policy when dealing with Essex Junction – as long as the money comes in, don't rock the boat.

Besides, he wouldn't have met Spenser and Hawk any other way. And he wouldn't trade knowing them for all the gold-pressed latinum on Ferenginar. They'd tried to get Rachel out of 'the life,' she'd challenged them to find her a job where she wouldn't become the target of a harpy of a corporate wife. They admitted that at least she wasn't walking the streets, compromised by slipping her some money now and then, when she came up short. Most of it came by way of 'paying' J.D. when he worked for them. Spenser trusted computers like he trusted his chances of stopping Ray Bourque's slap shot, and Hawk trusted them even less. Susan Silverman had to work with computers for her job as a psychologist, but she wasn't about to let Spenser and Hawk use her work computer to look up things for their cases. J.D. loved computers, and he was developing into quite the talented hacker. Since hacking was about as legal as being an escort, Rachel and J.D. had developed a variation on 'don't ask, don't tell' to get through the day. They wouldn't go back to Essex Junction with their tails betwixt their legs.

J.D.'s teachers were amazed by his progress with computers, and he nonchalantly blew it off by saying he was taking some after-school tutoring courses. One advantage Boston had over Vermont, he finally had teachers who realized his potential, wanted to nurture it. The teachers in Essex Junction had feared gifted students, not wanting to admit that a child might be smarter than they were. J.D. had been in eighth grade for all of a month before Rachel had been called in to a meeting. A week later, he'd been jumped up to ninth grade. His Computer Sciences teacher was already talking about early graduation. "Those idiots in Vermont ought to be dragged out and publicly horse-whipped," was his favorite refrain, accompanied by a horrified groan when Rachel teasingly reminded him that several of J.D.'s teachers in Vermont had been Boston-area natives, and had considered themselves 'College-Educated Professional Experts,' socially far above a bog Irish lass who had supported her son cleaning offices in 916 Building at the IBM plant. She'd have made a pass at the teacher, if he'd been straight. Her luck.

She stepped out of the elevator just as J.D. came through the fire door at the end of the hall. He preferred the stairs, heeding Hawk's advice that an elevator was little more than a steel kill box. Besides, whoever heard of a fat private eye – or a fat hockey player, either? But he could understand why fifteen flights in four-inch heels wasn't his mother's idea of a good time.

"Hi, Ma." In hopes of keeping the peace, he pulled a wad of fifties out of the pocket he'd had her sew into the inside lining of his Bruins winter coat and waved them in the air. "Spenser's client was, let's just say, insanely grateful we caught the junior executive who was falsifying reports about the disposal of hazardous chemicals. He insisted on paying me as well as Spenser and Hawk, because paying us was a lot cheaper than paying the EPA would have been, if the jerk had left him holding the bag  I gotta check the Bruins and Celtics schedules."

"Not the Patriots?" She teased lightly, chuckling at his grumbled, "Not this year."

Atlanta Federal Center

Atlanta, Georgia

Monday 3 January 1994

It had taken no small effort on Zeus's part, but he was here. The man who had ordered Joe Maxwell's death was somewhere in this building, hiding behind a false face of law and order. All Ezra had to do was find him. In the guise of Ezra Standish, FBI agent, nobody saw the scared kid from Van Nuys, the shadow operative of the Airwolf team, the teacher and bookkeeper of the Tunnels. He was starting over once again.

'And where shall this road end up leading me, I wonder?'

Chapter Text

| ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * |

"She said My middle name

Is Trouble and Trouble's

Gonna treat you right

You'll be a better man

When the morning comes

If you can make it

Through tonight 'cause Trouble's

Gonna treat you right."

Trouble – Bo Duke

Too Good To Stop Now – MCA 1985

| ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * |

Essex Junction High School

2 Educational Dr.,

Essex Jct., VT

Tuesday 1 June 1993

Eighteen-year-old Alona Turner jogged down the 'C-Wing' stairs and swung out into the Guidance Lobby, intending to duck down the hallway between it and the Main Lobby to reach the hallway that led to the Cafeteria. Fourth period was Study Hall, so she could grab a quick something at the snack bar window, knock out the last bit of APCPH Trig IV homework before she had to pass it in for 7th period, then actually relax and enjoy herself for lunch, which she had in 5A period. 5B and C were also Study Halls – hooray for completing most of her 'requirements' by Mid-Terms of Junior year – and she'd spend those in the Library killing that Sociology assignment.

'And if it wasn't for that Soc paper, I wouldn't even be heading for the Cafeteria now, I'd be on my way out the damn door to go somewhere and have real food!' She looked up as the sound of angry voices reached her, just before she ran into the back of Tut Martin, the hockey star. His given name was Justin, but there had been five other Justins on his pee-wee team. The coach had tagged him 'Tut,' as a cut-down of his middle name Tuttle, Mrs. Martin's maiden name. In four years, the only place Alona had ever seen him addressed as Justin was in the yearbook – they even called him Tut over the PA. He also played football, but the only person who cared about that was Coach Wheeler, who had to spend football season listening to varsity hockey coach and English teacher Mr. O'Neill panicking that his star player was going to get hurt. The Essex Junction Hornets Varsity Football team had won the Division 1 state championship last fall, after going 7-1 during the regular season. Coach Wheeler had subsequently retired, and Tut was graduating in nineteen days. He'd recently been drafted by the Boston Bruins.

"Are they at it again?"

Tut looked over his shoulder, 6'4" to Alona's 5'11". "Yeah, pretty much. Apparently the custody agreement for the Cats tickets fell through again."

"Has anyone asked the tickets how they feel?" One among the many things that sucked about this place, in Alona's opinion, that was when the matter came to divorces or wills, more care and attention were often paid to who got control of the University of Vermont Catamounts ice hockey tickets than anything else -- up to and including minor children! The 10th Grade ASS-istant Principal, Mr. Zidofsky, had gotten a divorce from Mrs. Zidofsky, one of the Phys. Ed. teachers, three years ago. Alona wouldn't even have minded that so much ... except they brought it to school, and nobody in Montpelier seemed to care what effect that may have on teenagers who might view school as a refuge from home. But that was Montpelier – As long as the property taxes come in on schedule in March and September, don't monkey with Essex Junction.

Alona rocked back on her heels, considering her options. To her right was the wide hallway between the Library and the purely cosmetic courtyard. Partway down that was another hall that also led to the Cafeteria.  Directly ahead, the Guidance Office door, letting her reach the Main Lobby by cutting through the offices. To her left, the door leading outside, she could duck around the offices and back into the Main Lobby. The weather was FINALLY warming up after the worst winter the students could remember, and Spring Fever, Senioritis and Senior Skip Day were approaching pandemic status.

She chose the offices, the least susceptible to temptation. If she went outside, she'd just walk straight out to her car, and the sunlight in the courtyard would likely induce the same reaction – she’d just turn around and go out the door. "Catch you around, Tut," she clapped him on the shoulder, walking away as he tossed a "Later," back to her. Inside the Guidance Office, Randy Winslow was arguing with one of the secretaries, trying to get an appointment with Mrs. Shepherd before the end of the week, that wouldn't interfere with her class schedule. "No, after school is not feasible, I have a job." "Oh, of course you do, dear." Passing Mrs. Shepherd's office, Alona could see Randy's boyfriend Rory Paladin jump up and turn a frustrated circle around the tiny space, his face thunderous. She ignored the sneers from Anne LaVoie, Renee Maloska and Nina Shatney, waiting outside 12th Grade Assistant Principal Mr. Vilaseca's office. Inside, Mr. Vilaseca was earnestly trying to explain something to a supremely uninterested Buffy Deak – undoubtedly for the skeighty-eight-zillionth time. Tara Piasecki was leaning in the window cut into the wall of the PA closet, talking with the PA lady, a Romanian who had successfully managed to not pronounce Tara's Polish surname correctly once in four whole years. Aimee Slattery, Sarah Spencer and Krista Washburn were closer to the door, waiting on Tara.

"Oh, Alona! I was just about to have you paged," one of the secretaries jumped up from behind her desk. For what reason escaped Alona, but the secretary known as 'Mrs. Sarge' – because she was married to one of the US Air Force JROTC instructors – had rated having her own separate cubicle built inside the office before the beginning of the 1990-91 school year. "I don't have your money for your graduation tickets. How many people are you having?"

"One. Me." Alona replied, nodding to football star Lij Quintyne as he came in, calling Tara's name as he caught sight of her. Out of a graduating class of 288, Lij was one of five African-Americans – and Ben Alarie, Gabriella Lawrence and Phil Wills were mixed-race. Counting those five, there were a grand total of fourteen 'ethnic' students in the Class of '93 – the rest of the 274 of them couldn't get much whiter if they'd tried.

Mrs. Sarge gave her a surprised look. "Your parents aren't coming?"

Alona almost laughed, she hadn't considered the Turners her parents since the seventh grade. "Who, the ones who bailed out running for Europe Friday morning, the ones who won't be back until almost the Fair? Those parents? They even had the mail and the Reporter and the Free Press stopped. No, the only person watching me escape from this place will be myself. Or didn't you know I'm adopted? They'd have run out on me when I turned eighteen in March if it hadn't been for the weather. Nope, just me, and I'll have the car packed and waiting in the parking lot. I'll come back in here one last time, change in the bathroom, and I'm catching the two o'clock ferry."

She and Rory and Randy had made the deal on Labor Day 1989, the 4th of September, the last night of the Champlain Valley Fair before their first day of high school. Eight years down, four years to go, Graduation Day is Sunday, June 20th, 1993. We don't stay one day longer than that than we have to. It had taken a Herculean effort, especially once IBM crashed and jobs turned into the stuff of myth and legend – hence Randy's insistence to the secretary in the Guidance Office that an afterhours meeting with Mrs. Shepherd wouldn't work, and the secretary's sarcastic response. Telling their bosses they were quitting would feel nearly as satisfying if the answer was that they couldn't quit, they were fired!

Taking the ferry across Lake Champlain wasn't the most practical means of escaping Vermont for where Alona was planning to go, but it was symbolic. She wanted to be able to stand on the car deck of the M/V Valcour and watch Vermont disappearing behind her forever. It just wouldn't feel the same, if she was only crossing a line on a map in the 1988 Rand McNally Road Atlas, that she kept under the driver's seat of her rattletrap 1986 Ford Taurus two-door. All due apologies to Mac Davis, happiness was going to be Burlington, Vermont in her rear-view mirror, and she wasn't coming back.

"But where will you go?" Mrs. Sarge queried, with the stunned shock of one who had stopped looking out through the bars so long ago she no longer even remembered she lived in cage of her own making, who couldn't possibly fathom that not everyone else on the planet was as in love with Essex Junction as she was, and refused to even acknowledge the concept that Vermont wasn't perfect for every living being on Earth.

"Anywhere as long as it's not here, because as strange as it may seem some of us aren't actually married to this backwater hellhole. Champlain is a Lake, not the Berlin Wall, and there's a whole world on the other side of the Adirondacks. I do realize this comes as a shameful affront to a great many people's delicate sensibilities, but some of us mean to go out into that world. There are other ways to live that don't involve sacrificing one's soul on The Altar Of The Almighty Semi-Conductor, then sitting around waiting to die for the next thirty years. This place is not a life, Mrs. Sarge, it's a sentence, and I personally have never even been informed of what charges I'm being held accused. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some Trig homework demanding my attention." And having thusly delivered her personal Declaration of Independence, she went out the door and on to her intended destination of the Cafeteria.

It got around, of course (most likely thanks to the efforts of Anne, Renee, Nina and Buffy; Alona liked to hope that Tara, Lij, Aimee, Sarah and Krista wouldn't have ratted her out like that) and for the next three weeks, she was treated to an almost full-court press of so-called adults imploring her to "just tell them why she was all of a sudden so unexplainably and unjustifiably unhappy." She, Rory and Randy figured out right away that what their inquisitors were working towards was for the three of them to degenerate into emotional meltdown, at which point it would be declared that they were "dangerously unbalanced, and that it just wasn't possible for them to be allowed out into the world. They needed to stay in Vermont, where competent, trained professionals could help them overcome their deep psychological problems." Screw THAT. Twelve years down and less than a month to go. One of the Social Studies teachers, Mr. Hornus, was a proponent of Eastern philosophies – a radical concept in small-town New England – and  he advised them to cultivate a Zen approach to the harassment.

"I don't blame you for being angry, most of the time I'm angry about this place! You're absolutely right, the willful, voluntary blindness and oblivion are shameful. But don't let them see that you're angry, because that's exactly what they want. You know, in Iceland, they have volcanoes beneath the glaciers. Be a volcano beneath a glacier; be as angry as you want – inside. Outside, show them a blank wall of snow."

It worked, perfectly. It was the Guidance Counselors and the School Psychologists who worked themselves into frothing distraction, not the three 'Student Dissidents,' as Mr. Hornus had tagged them. It was Rory who took that bone and ran with it, nearly 'inciting' one of the psychologists into a stroke when he responded to her insistent demands for "dialogue." "You know, I thought most totalitarian governments wanted to get rid of protesters, not keep them! What are you so afraid we're gonna do, get over to Port Kent and set up Radio Free Vermont? Besides, none of the three of us are even native Vermontsters – heck, Randy's barely even an American citizen. You should be eager to get rid of us! I'm so not-a-Vermonter, that I'm from Texas. Remember? The Confederacy? The guys you fought a war against? If I'd have been living in St. Albans on Friday the 19th of October, 1864, Lt. Young and his men would have gotten away with a lot more than $208,00.00, and the Greek fire would have worked and burned the whole place down! What I can't figure out is why you people haven't deported me, yet!"

LCT M/V Valcour

Lake Champlain between

Burlington, VT and

Port Kent, NY

Sunday 20 June 1993

Towing the trailer on which was parked Randy's 1969 Chevrolet Catalina SS convertible (with pretty much everything the couple owned stuffed inside) Rory's 1975 Ford Ranger F-250 Camper Highboy Special Club Cab 4X4 went well over the 19' limit which denoted how much one paid to take the ferry across the Lake.

"You'd think they could've swapped the difference out from Alona's little breadbox, sheeze." Vehicles parked and secured, the trio were sitting in the snack bar/gift shop aboard the M/V Valcour. Alona smirked as she dug into her first meal eaten in freedom – a cheeseburger and a Cherry Coke. Rory had gone for a slice of cheese pizza and regular Coke; Randy a fried fish sandwich and a Sprite. They were splitting a large order of fries.

"I think you'd still be over, even if they tried that. That trailer's gotta be twenty or so feet just by itself."

"Damn."

"So where are you going, Alona?" Randy asked, shooting a hairy eyeball at a pack of junior-high-aged kids who invaded the snack bar, shouting and shoving and generally making a nuisance of themselves. 'Must be nice to have social anarchists for parents – excuse me, adult roommates. If I'd ever acted like that, mine would have paddled my arse and dropped me overboard!'

"Hazzard, Georgia, it's outside of Atlanta," Alona replied, making a fast grab to save her Cherry Coke from spilling into the fries. They'd taken the corner table so 6'2" Rory could sit in the 'Wild Bill Hickok' seat – his back to the corner of two walls, and a clear view of the door. Alona sat to his left because she was nearly as tall, Randy to his right, because her five-feet-six wouldn't block his view. An elderly man who had been reading the new issue of Reader's Digest at a nearby table started scolding the younger kids, just as a woman in her mid-forties came in.

"Don't you tell me how to raise my kid! It's none of your damn business how I raise my kid!"

"If you would raise them instead of letting them run wild in the streets I wouldn't have to!"

"They're kids! It's summer vacation! Go eat some prunes and shit out some of that grouchiness, why don't you! Goddamn sonofabitch, it's none of your fucking business!"

"Now you listen to me, young lady!"

"Shit," Rory growled, grabbing a handful of fries. "Hurry up and eat, let's go back topside. If we're not out of sight of the breakwater yet, they might just turn around and dump the whole lot of us off. Then we'll be stuck until five, and out what we already paid to get onboard this time in the first place."

"Yeah, and that five o'clock's the last ferry today, we'll be trapped until nine tomorrow morning." Alona had made a point of damn near memorizing the ferry schedule. "I've got this budgeted pretty tight, I don't think I can handle any bad surprises like that."

They bolted their food, chugged their soda, and got out of there, Alona casting a wistful glance at the jellied fruit slices and sugar dots on paper in the display case, and the jars of stick candy. She never had managed that last trip to Shelburne Museum like she'd told herself she was going to. Oh, Rory had money he'd never be able to burn through if he lived to be 100, and she had no doubt he'd just give her plenty and then some more to buy the candy if she only asked, but it just wouldn't feel right.

Topside, the sun was blazing out of the cloudless blue bowl of sky, and both temperature and humidity were well into the nineties. Apparently summer was going to be equally as beastly as winter. Randy leaned against the rail and looked out over the water. "I bet it pours cougars and wolves tonight."

Rory nodded. "And the water treatment plant backs up."

Alona shuddered. "And North Beach closes. Which if tomorrow's as hot as today, will make anyone who has to attend summer school at BHS rethink their opinion of Hell." Burlington High – Essex Junction's mortal enemy – was literally up the street from North Beach, which always closed the day after a heavy rain, because the water treatment plant always backed up and overflowed. The damn thing hadn't been updated since it had been built, and approval and appropriation of funding to do so was perpetually voted down, usually in favor of the never-ending road construction project that was Main Street. Shipping Bernie Sanders's happy hind end off to Washington D.C. hadn't really changed much in regards to Burlington's day-to-day goings-on. But like Keith Olbermann said on ESPN, "Aren't we all 'day-to-day.'"

Randy grinned, scanning the area. "Ain't our problem no more."

Alona's head came up and around as the sound of shouting began to come from the direction of the stairs. "Is that her already?"

"It is," Rory replied. "Anyone see what car she came in? If all those kids came with her, it's gotta be a van or something."

Alona looked around. A supremely harassed-looking man was heading for the stairs, from the driver's side of a multi-toned blue Ford Econoline conversion van. It was towing about the largest U-Haul trailer a vehicle of its capabilities could manage, and still had a black travel box bolted to the roof. Keeping one eye toward the stairs, Alona jogged over behind the van, then came back.

"Oh, get this. There's a My Child Is An Honor Student At Christ The King bumper sticker on the spare tire case. Wouldn't you just guess?" Christ the King was the Catholic grade school/junior high in Burlington.

"Gotta love Christian charity in action. Come on, let's go up forward." Randy nodded toward what was currently the bow of the double-ended ferry. "We'll be here for an hour or so, Valcour's a big tub, we can avoid her."

"Oh, yeah." They ducked out of sight around two baby blue Dodge Caravans and an unmarked pine green Vermont State Police Chevy Suburban, just as the woman and the kids exploded up from the stairs, trailed by the elderly man and five ferry company employees.

Duke Farm

Hazzard, Georgia

Sunday 20 June 1993

Luke Duke looked up through the complex workings of the engine compartment, at his cousin's wintry eyes and granite jaw. Yes, the General Lee needed and deserved considerable TLC after the paces he'd been put through the last three months; yes, it was imperative that he be in top working order, if they had any hope at all of beating back the drug dealers who considered Hazzard County easy pickings; yes, it was a deadly serious matter – serious enough that Uncle Jesse had called in all hands, and there were now three 1969 Dodge Chargers sitting in the farmhouse yard. Cousins Coy and Vance were working on the second, cousin Jeb and Luke's kid brother Jud on the third. The paint jobs were exactly identical, the better to hopefully thoroughly confuse their adversaries. Only the Duke family themselves knew that Coy and Vance's car was General Jackson, Jeb and Jud's car, General Forrest. Over the CB, they'd all use the 'Lost Sheep' handle, and trust in Uncle Jesse and Cooter to keep it all straight.

The drug lords, however, were not what was on Bo Duke's mind right now. And Luke seriously doubted whether he was even thinking about his country music career. Bo had scheduled this part of June off, despite the fact it was prime touring season. He'd make up for it in October and November, after most of the other singers and bands had gone home for the year, to rest and spend the holidays with their families. He had also kicked off earlier this year, in mid-February right after the Daytona 500 – most folks didn't start touring until April or May, to make sure winter was over and done with. So Bo apparently figured he could afford sixteen days off in June, and not worry about getting left in Garth Brooks’ dust. He'd stayed real quiet these past ten days, especially for him, and Luke knew for a fact that Bo hadn't touched his guitar; had in fact put it in the closet in their old room upon his arrival late on Friday the 11th, closed the closet door and walked away! And here it was Sunday the 20th, and Bo tentatively planning to leave in a week's time.

Not to even mention that since he was Bo's Head of Security, it was Luke's responsibility now more than ever to keep the dang fool safe. It was a mere 282 miles between Nashville and Hazzard, a four-and-a-half hour drive – more like two-and-change the way they drove. They were back and forth constantly, since Bo lived here in Hazzard County, in a house on the other side of town on acreage that backed up to Hazzard Pond and contained what had been Still Site #4. It had burned J.D. Hogg's cheese considerably to have to sell that land, but Bo had paid in cash money, even Boss couldn't argue with that. Bo did keep a townhouse in Nashville, so he wouldn't have to live out of a hotel while he was there, especially during Fan Fair in June.

Something was eating Bo, and Luke was determined to see the bottom of it. Unaware of his older cousin's ponderings, Bo leaned further under the General Lee's opened hood to reach something tucked right up to the firewall, grunting and shifting position as the black safety bar bolted to the front bumper applied itself to a ... rather sensitive portion of his anatomy – the idea behind the safety bar being if they ever hit something square-on, that the safety bar would absorb the impact – not the vitally important radiator. "You okay?" "Yeah, m'fine." Bo pulled back and went around to the passenger side front fender, to get a better angle. To say Luke was in a precarious position flat on his back underneath 4,200 pounds of muscle car was a decided understatement. 'Jacking up' all three cars had constituted nothing more sophisticated than driving the front tires up on ramps and securing those to the front axle with bungee cords, then jamming rocks behind the rear tires to act as stabilizers. Because no matter how well they checked over the fields before planting, it seemed as if they grew as many rocks as they did corn. Looking over, Luke could see the bottom half of Coy sticking out from underneath General Jackson, with Vance bent past double under the hood.

A yell from the direction of General Forrest drew his attention, and he bit back a curse, seeing Jud roll out from under as the car began to move on its own initiative. He was moving before he realized it, the last thing they needed was a broken axle. And he'd never been so glad to see Cooter as when the mechanic-turned-politician pulled his tow truck up behind General Forrest and stopped the car's sudden rearward momentum.

"Y'awright, Jud?" "Yeah, I'm good. Dang, I thought we had him tied down okay."

Jeb was walking around behind the car. "We are kinda sittin' on a downhill right here. Heck, I dunno, maybe we shoulda used four rocks?"

Vance – by far the spookiest and most superstitious of all of them – shook his head. "I'm tellin' you boys, there's somethin' in that car 'sides just a 440 Hemi. Dang thing's possessed."

Coy rolled his eyes at Luke, behind Vance's back. That year Bo and Luke had spent running for Dale Earnhardt, Coy'd had to put up with all of Vance's hoodoos, as they had served in place of Bo and Luke, to stand between Hazzard and Boss Hogg.

"Well, whatever it is, is gonna have to learn to live with us as long as it takes to get this finished. After that, we can argue about it. 'Cause right now, there ain't another '69 Charger between here and Pass Christian, Mississippi." Luke jogged around the back, to where Cooter was just coming around the back of the tow, having made sure it was in Park, and the emergency brake was set. Cooter shared Luke's worried look – the very last thing they needed now was anyone losing his nerve. He looked up to see Jud backing out of the driver's side window, an odd look on his face.

"Luke, weren't neither one of us fussin' with the transmission, an' I know I put him down in Park. Danged if he didn't go and shift hisself into Neutral."

Luke fought down the urge to holler. 'Drug lords, a haunted car, Bo's about to fly apart at the seams ... what else is gonna go wrong?'

I-285

Somewhere outside Atlanta

Monday 21 June 1993

Alona was not precisely 'lost.' Certainly not her definition of. She had her TripTik from AAA, she had her road atlas, and if bad came to absolute worst, she'd just duck into one of those Waffle House places that seemed to be on every corner, and throw herself on the mercy of the waitresses. Southerners were legendary for their hospitality, right? Surely they wouldn't turn their backs on a runaway Yankee schoolgirl.

Of course, it'd be better if she could find her way back to I-20 on her own. It would be nice to find her father and be able to announce she'd made the whole 1,148 mile trip all by herself. She sent another Thank You! winging upward, for the angels along the way who had tucked scratch tickets under her windshield wipers, while she'd been inside gas stations paying. Every last one of those tickets had hit over $100, and she would be arriving on her father's doorstep with actually more money than she'd left Essex Junction carrying!

"I-20 South! Yeah! Now I'm back on track!" She tucked in behind a city bus to navigate the on-ramp, then sling-shotted around it the first chance she got. According to the TripTik, Hazzard town proper was in the northern corner of Hazzard County, where I-20 crossed State Roads 81 and 36. It looked like the crossing with I-20 was where 36 became 81, however that worked. 

She passed a roadside sign announcing a gaggle of fast-food restaurants at the exit for Conyers, and her body took the opportunity to remind her a few unpleasant facts – namely that Mother Nature had seen fit to impose herself on an otherwise perfectly wonderful trip, and that last dose of Aleve had worn off two hours ago. She also needed the 'little girls' room,' because one of her personal side effects of Mother Nature's monthly ruination of three perfectly good days was that her innards went out of whack, which she'd never been able to understand the reasoning behind. An empty bottle of Pepto rattled around somewhere in the floorboards.

'Andohyeah,'  she glanced at the gas gauge that had never worked, and was one of the reasons she'd broken her brain through years of math classes in order to get as far as APCPH Trig IV in the first place – she was below a quarter of a tank. 'Yay.' She followed a Jeep CJ-7 with Dixie painted along the hood down the off-ramp. A Wal-Mart in Conyers didn't seem too much different from an Ames in Colchester or a K-Mart in Shelburne – they all had restrooms, and they all had a Pharmacy section. Finding a bottle of Mountain Dew down here in 'Coca-Cola Central' might involve a scavenger hunt, at least until she could locate the 7-11, anyway. Food since she'd disembarked from the Valcour had been 100% drive-thru, but maybe once she'd placated her four-wheeled vampire, she'd drop into a Waffle House anyhow. 'Oh wait, then I won't be hungry when I get there, will I, and isn't the first thing they'll want to do will be to feed me, since the fact that I'm so skinny apparently proves they don't believe in food in Vermont?' That had been amusing when the older lady working at a gas station in Virginia had said that to her – “Mercy sakes, child! Didn't they ever feed you? First time there's a twister, why, that wind will blow you clear back to Canada!" Okay, so she'd skip the Waffle House, for now anyway.

The 7-11 occupied a corner of the Wal-Mart parking lot, and she fed the Taurus first, since she knew from bitter experience that it was much less patient than she was. "It's been an interesting couple of years, you rolling nightmare, but I honestly can't say I'll be sorry to see the last of what's left of your rear bumper. If Hazzard High has an auto shop, I'm donating your rusty blue trunk. Let them figure out what crawled up your tailpipe and died." Delighted laughter had her looking up, to see the gold-on-white CJ-7 pulled up to the pump in front of her. A tall brunette in heels, blue jean short-shorts and a strappy dusty rose camisole was unscrewing the gas cap.

"Oh, Hazzard High's definitely got an auto shop, darlin'. But you won't be donatin' that heap, one of the kids'll buy it off you, to build a huntin' blind out of."

Alona winced. "I wouldn't go hunting out of this thing if there was any other choice, but okay, if you say so."

Daisy Duke smiled over at the tall, slender teenager, wearing purple wind pants and a purple T-shirt that advertised for someplace called 'Kittery Trading Post.' Through the windshield of the battered Taurus, Daisy could see a purple-white-magenta wind jacket that had obviously been bought as a set with the pants, tossed haphazardly over the passenger-side seat back. Waist-length blonde curls had been tied back and tugged through the keyhole of a dark blue ballcap, which was decorated with the stuffed-animal face of a wolf. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she knew before she glanced down at the sad little two-door's front bumper that the license plate would be green and white – Vermont, The Green Mountain State.

Because Daisy knew what Luke didn't about the summer of 1974. Heck, Luke had still been 'in country' in Vietnam, had in fact run out the back door while the North Vietnamese were kicking in the front. He'd brought with him a mixed-race teenage girl with the patently improbable name of Tien Thi Fire Arrow, whose Irish-Cherokee father had grown up in the Orphan's Home in next-by Chickasaw County. Having been discovered all alone at the tender age of five in 1968 Hue, Tien had been nicknamed Ricey and served as a mascot of sorts for Marines all over South Vietnam, finally ending up in Luke's care just before the Fall of Saigon. Upon arriving in Hazzard two months before her thirteenth birthday, she'd been bequeathed yet a third name – Martha Lavinia, for Jesse Duke's late wife, and mother. Her newfound peers subsequently shortened that to Marty. The only time she ever used Martha anymore was when she needed to sign something, however, or unless Bo knew he was in trouble; she'd been tagged Ricey at five, and Ricey she chose to remain. Unless, of course, Uncle Jesse, Boss Hogg or Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane chose to call her Tien, which they would on occasion.

It had taken years for Bo to see Ricey as anything more than 'Luke's adopted daughter,' and Ricey had lived through a thousand agonies as she watched Bo fall for every woman who crossed his path. When Diane Benson had come to town and tried to lure Bo away to her 'Carnival of Thrills,' Daisy had wondered if they'd be needing to use the 'S/He Needed Killin',' defense to save Ricey from a murder charge! And she'd very nearly packed her bags and gone clear back to Vietnam – Communists or not! – that time Luke had been poisoned by the contaminated water. But Ricey had dug in her heels and quite simply refused to go away, and eventually Bo had realized what had been right there in front of him the entire time. They now had a four-year-old daughter, Norah, after the mother Bo had lost to the ravages of Hurricane Gracie, when he'd been barely seventeen months old.

And if Ricey knew about the Summer of 1974 and the girl who had captured Bo's heart for three months, it was news to Daisy. She was sure Ricey didn't know about the letter Bo had received on Wednesday, March 12th, 1975, exactly one month before Ricey's arrival in Hazzard. The letter from April Stevens, the girl Bo had romanced the summer before, informing him that she'd given their child up for adoption. A baby girl she'd named Alona Trouble, born in Dayton, Ohio on Sunday, March 9th, 1975, adopted by a couple who lived somewhere in Vermont. And now here was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed teenage girl in Conyers, Georgia in June of 1993, in a car with Vermont license plates. On his 1985 debut record, Too Good To Stop Now, Bo had recorded a song titled Trouble – “She said My middle name is Trouble ... " Even a ten-year-old kid could put those pieces together, and learn how to bide her time. Hazzard High had graduated yesterday, a teenage kid loaded up on junk food could drive themselves almost anywhere in twenty-four hours.

Ricey was gonna explode. And as soon as those drug dealers found out there was something – even better, someone – they could potentially use to force the Dukes to back off their operation ... Daisy gave herself a sharp mental headshake. 'Oh, Hell no. Heck no – sorry, Lord,' she was not going to start thinking like that, letting that scum beat them before they'd even begun to fight. There hadn't been an opponent yet that the Dukes couldn't whup, and this time they had the whole family working together.

And however sensible it had seemed eighteen years ago, there was a gaping hole in Bo's life. Daisy only wished April had lived to see the woman her child had become. But April Stevens Ewing had laid cold in her grave for three years now, gunned down in a terrorist attack on her Paris honeymoon, mere days after marrying the youngest son of Texas oil royalty. Even in Hazzard, that had made the news.

Alona closed up the Taurus's gas port, replaced the pump nozzle, and went into the store to pay, Daisy mere steps behind her. "Hold up a bit?"

And there was no hiding the hopefulness in the eyes of the surprised-kitten face Alona turned to her.

Duke Farm

Later same day

If there'd ever been a time he'd been angrier at Bo – well, besides that time he'd been drugged out of his head by the contaminated water, and had very nearly shot the younger man – Luke didn't want to know it. How could Bo have had a daughter all these years, and never said anything? Especially in this family, where family was everything? Those long-ago jokes about how many of the kids in the Hazzard County Orphans' Home had Duke blood in their veins suddenly didn't seem so funny anymore. Luke closed his eyes and struggled to drag up some semblance of civility as he heard the back porch screen door squeak behind him.

"Standing out here like a Charlie sniper's early Christmas gift, Marine. If Communists recognized Christmas, anyway. You planning to build a bridge and get over this, or you just gonna crawl off somewhere and sulk like a gutshot bear?" Luke grinned and shook his head. Speaking of civility, the concepts of tact and diplomacy were wasted on the scrappy orphan he'd dragged back from Vietnam, because having a culture-shocked twelve-year-old kid to keep track of, worry about and fuss over had kept him from sinking into obsessive brooding himself. The woman known as Du'o'ng Thi Tien, Tien Thi Fire Arrow, Martha Lavinia Duke and irrepressibly Ricey called the world like she saw it, and anyone who didn't like it, had probably had it coming in the first place.

"I'd sure like to know how you can be so danged calm about this," he commented, as she came to stand next to him. He'd eventually remembered watching Hazzard High football, basketball and baseball games played against rival Tri-County High, and a tall, rangy, blue-eyed Cherokee kid named John Fire Arrow who had been Tri-County's star athlete. College and professional scouts had come from all over the country to see John play, courting him with promises of wealth and fame beyond Hazzard's limited borders. But he'd received his draft notice in the mail, had in his few possessions the Congressional Medal of Honor that his Cherokee father had won in World War Two, during the Italian Campaign. It had been kept tucked in a plain white letter-sized envelope, along with a picture of Joe Fire Arrow sitting on a tank with a group of fellow soldiers – one of them the legendary Audie Murphy. So to war Joe's only son John went, meeting in the South Vietnamese city of Hue a half-Vietnamese-half-French sixteen-year-old barmaid named Du'o'ng Jeanne Cai, forced to sell her body to keep it and her tattered soul together. John died in 1962, three months before Ricey's birth, and Cai vanished into thin air in January of 1968, during the Tet Offensive.

"Because I've known about it," Ricey replied matter-of-factly. "Bo told me shortly after we learned I was expecting Norah. And before you ask why I haven't said anything, it's because it was none of anybody's damn business. Bo decided years ago that he wasn't going to disrupt Alona's life by trying to search for her before she turned eighteen. After that, if she put the pieces together and chose to come looking for him, it would be just that – her choice." She gave him a sideways look. "There are worse things than being an orphan, you know. Sometimes it's better to know who you are not."

Luke nodded ruefully. It had taken twenty-five years before he'd re-discovered Jud, believing that his baby brother had died in the same hospital fire that had killed their mother. Jud had also been adopted, had grown up in a 'family' marked by abuse and alcohol. A troubled kid had found himself in a boxing ring, from which he'd fallen in with shady characters who had threatened his life when some scrap of integrity of his Duke heritage had refused to allow him to throw a fight. It was ironic – in a family whose very existence had once revolved around moonshine, Jud never touched anything stronger than Coke. He didn't mind if the others indulged, but he'd never drink himself. Consequently, his role in Bo's personal empire was of course as his cousin's bus driver.

Luke looked up as a low-flying military-looking helicopter temporarily blotted out the stars. "Just wish we'd had some warning, is all. Don't think the timing could possibly be any worse."

Ricey barked out a laugh. "Oh, like she knew that when she left Vermont! Excuse me, please, I have to go in and ask my stepdaughter what this week's lottery numbers are!"

Luke shook his head. He wasn't getting out of this one. The door squeaked again.

"Will you get back in here? I ain't had you back so long I'm ready to cash you in yet!" Jud, sounding more than a little angry. Luke released a huge sigh, looked up at the stars and around the yard, telling himself sternly that he was imagining the phosphorescent green glow that seemed to slither around General Forrest. He looped an arm around Ricey's shoulders.

"Come on, you can help me grovel my way back into Alona's good graces."

Chapter Text

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"He said, My name,

Is Private Andrew Malone.
And if you're readin' this,

Then I didn't make it home.
But for every dream that's

Shattered  another one comes true.
This car was once,

A dream of mine,
Now it belongs to you.
And though you may take

Her and make her your

Own you'll always be

Riding with Private Malone."

Riding With Private Malone – David Ball

Amigo – Dualtone 2001

| ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * | ~ + * |

Hazzard County, GA

Saturday 26 June 1993

Alona burst out from the underbrush, running so fast that poor little Norah had finally given up trying to run along; had just picked her feet up and let herself be pulled through the air, like she did with Panda-Bear (who at the moment was jammed quite safely under her right arm.) Alona hadn't even noticed. And nothing in the world had ever looked so good as that orange Dodge Charger with '01' on the doors and the rebel flag on the roof, and Alona hoped that the handful of ethnic kids she'd left behind in Vermont would understand. She lurched forward, hoping whoever had left him here had followed what her father had explained was the family habit – in the interest of quick getaways, the General was always left with the keys in the ignition. Ideally, with two people involved, the passenger would reach across and fire the engine, so the driver could just burn rubber. 

(This had also been given as the explanation to Alona's rather amazed query about why – in the name of chocolate and all other things holy and sacred – was a car like the General Lee managed by an automatic transmission.)

Just that quickly Alona jerked to a stop, as a green mist curled out from the Charger's wheel wells. Not General Lee, or even General Jackson; this was General Forrest, the ghost car who'd given them nothing but headaches for the past week. Her panicked mind took her back to one of the few 'house parties' she'd been invited to – exactly whose house it had been she neither remembered nor cared to, only that it had been a week before Halloween, and some joker had rented Christine, Pet Sematary and Cujo from Showtime Video on Main Street. Not wanting to be shown up as a wuss, she'd sat through all three, and hadn't slept well until nearly Mid-Term Exams the next January.

"They can't have gotten too far away!"

And the second she kicked over that 440 Hemi, the drug dealers chasing them would know exactly where she and Norah were. But they'd have that 440, and the four tires it was attached to. The killers chasing them would be on foot. She hoped. Hell, for all she knew, General Forrest had driven himself here. She picked Norah up and slung her through the window. "Get down in the floorboards and stay there." With Norah therefore out of the way, she dived through the passenger window and scrambled across the seat, muttering an almost-silent "Thank You," when she saw the keys right where they should have been. And whatever ruckus he'd been kicking back against the men, or even Daisy, General Forrest turned over and peeled out as smooth as butter for her. She could only hope that whatever was in the car with her and Norah would forgive the fact that they didn't quite get away fast enough to not get both windshields and the rear lights shot out.

But they were still moving forward, so Alona wasn't about to argue about it now. To say a 1969 Charger with a 440 Hemi was not the same vehicle as a 1986 Taurus with a baseline-at-best V-4 was so much of an understatement it barely bore arguing. It was taking every ounce of Alona's fear-fuelled strength to 'keep 'er between the ditches,' as the saying went. The fact that she didn't dare hit the headlights wasn't helping much, on this night of all nights that the moon had picked to play Hide-And-Go-Seek with the clouds from the thunderstorms that had been harassing Hazzard and the surrounding area since Wednesday night. The Astros were in town to face the Braves, but things in Hazzard had gone thoroughly pear-shaped before anyone had heard whether or not Friday night's game would be played as scheduled.

A tilted road sigh whipped by her, something about Dry Creek. She was just about to risk Reverse and double-check when headlights pierced the night and the passenger-side wing mirror disintegrated. Norah squealed and curled herself in tighter, trying without much success to stuff herself under the bench seat. She thought about stuffing Panda-Bear in there by himself, then realized he'd be scared without her.

Alona. The CB spoke at her right elbow, without the trademark "Breaker, breaker," and in no voice she recognized. In no voice she was sure she wanted to. Alona.

She didn't dare take even one hand off the wheel to reach over. "Please ... don't do this to me now." In her peripheral vision, Norah's face was as pale as the peek-a-boo moon, the eyes Bo teasingly claimed were 'Petty Blue,' now bruise-dark and as wide as cake plates.  Alona. Alona, listen to me.

"NO! Go away, leave us alone! Please, just leave us alone!"

Alona. You can do this. Trust the car. Keep the gas pedal flat to the floor and the wheel straight. The car will do the rest. Trust the car. You can do this. Alona, my own.

She absolutely did not want to know what that meant. The road dipped sharply, the trees falling away on either side, to reveal ...

 ... Dry Creek, with no bridge, and no way across. She forgot to breathe, right foot slipping off the accelerator, left fumbling a frantic tap-dance on the floor. Oh God, the brake! Where was the brake pedal, it had just been here! At her left elbow, the driver's wing mirror exploded in a shower of glass.

ALONA! Keep your foot on the gas! Put it through the floor! Keep the wheel straight! The car. Will do. The rest! ALONA!

Too scared even to scream now, she stomped on the gas, and General Forrest leaped forward, roaring down the hill and towards what had once been a bridge abutment but was about to become a ramp.

Trio didn't know if she'd shouted, or Tye or Vin, or if they all had. All her sensors were filled with was the Dodge Charger about to take flight, the two heartbeats inside it, and the two Chevy Suburbans barreling up behind, loaded to the speakers with South American hired killers.

"ALONA!" Okay, that had definitely been Tye. Trio had been literally struck by lightning a couple of times, so she guessed she had some frame of reference of what Tye was talking about – she didn't understand what he was so happy about, though. All lightning had even given her was fried circuits, and Everett busting his brain for weeks at a time to get her reprogrammed.

Liftoff. General Forrest launched across Dry Creek, wheels spinning on air and engine roaring a defiant battle cry to all comers who dared oppose him. Just as the center of gravity tipped towards the opposite bank, the horn sounded, the unmistakable twelve-note refrain of Dixie. The flight, to Alona's senses, was endless. She was flying the car across the English Channel.

It was hard, but it was a landing. Tires bit into Georgia clay, found purchase and shot the car another several yards down the road before a stunned Alona finally slammed both feet down on the brake pedal that had suddenly reappeared under her left sneaker.

The lead Suburban fell victim to both momentum, and that same Georgia clay, which all-of-a-sudden chose to turn from sticky red molasses into sheer ice. The SUV went down the hill and was spat off the end of the ramp. Just before it made the other side, it nosed over and went grille-first into the gulch. Vin made an uncertain move toward the missile controls, but it wasn't necessary. The Suburban exploded in an eye-searing orange explosion before it had decided if it was going to continue over onto its roof, or fall back onto its tires.

The chase vehicle managed, somehow, to skid to a shuddering, sideways, decidedly ungraceful stop at the edge of oblivion ... and found itself staring down Trio's gun barrels. Hi there! She chirped out an absurdly cheerful greeting, letting a couple of the thugs get their doors open and think she'd actually let them get away. She even let the guy getting out of the back seat of the passenger side get far enough out of the vehicle to realize he was only going to face-plant into the inferno that was the other rig.

Alona flinched and gasped as Trio's .40-millimeter cannons opened up and obliterated the second Suburban, turning it into a burning mass of twisted steel to match its' fellow. A third set of headlights appeared at the top of the hill, AK-74 rounds chattering off Trio's sleek black hide. A bolt of fire burst from her missile rack and the third and fourth Suburbans both vanished into brilliant balls of flame.

This time, the CB crackled. Tye didn't know proper CB etiquette, but he at least identified himself, something the phantom voice hadn't done. It still took him three repetitions of her name to get Alona to respond, fumbling to lift the handset off the cradle. "Yeah?"

"If you keep going on this road and hang a right as soon as you hit pavement, you'll end up at Tri-County Hospital. Nobody's hurt that you care about.  I'll stay with you."

Alona glanced back at the burning hulks that filled Dry Creek. "Don't you have to ... to ... clean this up, or ... something?"

Trio broke in, and Alona silently wondered how in one week, a schoolgirl from small-town Vermont had learned to believe in a living computer, housed in a helicopter almost nothing could catch long enough to shoot her down. "None of them survived, and there's another rain squall about to break on top of us. It may not put out the fires, but it will keep them from spreading any further."

"Okay, I guess. Curly-Girl out." She replaced the CB handset and took a second to drop General Forrest into second gear -- Georgia clay had more in common with Vermont snow than anyone thought. As she got moving and left the carnage of Dry Creek behind her, she remembered Norah, glancing down at the passenger-side floor well.

"Okay, get up here. But be ready to drop down again if I yell."

Norah scrambled up and plastered herself to her big sister's side. "I didn't know you could drive like that!"

"Little sister, neither did I."

Tri-County Hospital

Chickasaw County, GA

Saturday 26 June 1993

She collected Chickasaw County Sheriff Edward 'Big Ed' Little a mile in from the county line, having previously been informed by Cooter that Big Ed had already written her off. Not for anything she'd ever done, but simply because she was a Duke in general and Bo Duke's daughter in particular. She'd had teachers like that – the ones who picked out two or three kids to hate for no good reason at all. Since her driver's license still read 'Vermont Junior Operator,' she decided not to take her chances, and pulled into the parking lot at Tri-County Hospital like she had Miss Daisy in the backseat. She was heartily grateful to see Luke cut across General Forrest's nose to intercept Big Ed before he could start anything. She pulled General Forrest in between his counterparts and slid out, reaching in to retrieve Norah.

"We hafta find Daddy! We hafta tell him we flied!" Now that the immediate danger was apparently over, Norah's little-kid-puppy-dog enthusiasm was returning. Alona favored her with a weary smile as she snatched at one little hand, just in time to keep Norah from getting away.

"Tell him we flew, you mean."

"Yeah," Norah's puppy-dog-ears pigtails bounced merrily as she nodded. "That too."

It had long been a joke around the area that Big Ed Little didn't so much get out of his police cruiser as he took the car off. As his belt gave up the battle with his belly and his love of Rachelle Little's soul food, it became less a joke and more a truism. Standing 6'4" in his socks, he preferred to deal with the Dukes standing up, so Luke wasn't surprised to see Big Ed shift the car into Park and swing open the door. Bo could look Big Ed square in the eye; Luke gave up four inches to the only African-American lawman between here and Atlanta, and had to concede rocking back on his heels and tipping his head back a fraction. It basically meant that if Big Ed had ever entirely lost his temper and taken a swing, the first point of contact would have been Luke's chin.

What was surprising was the look of deep concern on Big Ed's face, and the matching tone in his voice. "I wasn't plannin' to pull her over for anythin', Luke. I just wanted to make sure she got here all right. Left some kind of a mess down in Dry Creek – that black chopper everyone's not seein' helped." He looked over at a glad shout from Bo, to see Alona and Norah being engulfed in a bear hug. "You Dukes have been a pain in my backside for so long, I'd miss it if you-all went away." He pinned Luke with a severe look through his mirrored aviator shades. "And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I will put my hand on the Lord's Book in the Supreme Court and lie through my teeth."

Luke chuckled. "They won't hear it from me. She get across Dry Creek the usual way? Me and Bo haven't jumped with her in the car, yet."

"I didn't see it, myself, but I can't imagine she got across it any other way, especially since one of the Chevys that was chasin' after her is nosed over in the gully. What's left of it, anyhow. Second truck managed to stop at the edge, and there's two more after that at the top of the hill. All four of them exploded and burned, no survivors, according to radio chatter. I don't think she'd have stopped long enough to fire off any dynamite arrows with Norah in the car with her, so all I can think is that chopper had to be there. I'd sure like to get a look at that thing in daylight."

"You and me both," Luke glanced back over his shoulder as the breeze carried the scent of sandalwood and ginger. As much as Ricey distrusted any lawman in the area, she held a particular dislike for Big Ed Little. A lifetime ago, a much younger Big Ed had been one among the many Marines under whose care Ricey had passed. She hadn't remembered him being a jerk, back then. Of course, she hadn't been a Duke, back then.

"Well, I was hoping I'd at least get her into first grade before she 'earned her wings.' And over Dry Creek, to boot. That's quite a first flight for someone who has no idea what she's doing."

"Alona was driving, Ricey, not Norah."

"That's not what Norah just told Bo. She said the CB was talking by itself. Alona's sure that's General Forrest she just pulled in with. And since you guys had Lee, and Jeb an' Jud swear they had Jackson, I guess she's right."

Luke turned to look over at the three Chargers. In addition to parking between Lee and Jackson, Alona had parked Forrest nose-in, where the other two were backed into their respective slots – all the better for a quick getaway. But having spent the first thirteen years of her life in a war, Ricey could see that Alona was very close to the ragged, frayed ends of her rope. The green glow pulsed softly underneath General Forrest. No snaking tendrils of mist, and not enough light to illuminate the passenger compartment, just enough to be seen, and define the four corners of the Charger's undercarriage.

Big Ed quietly cleared his throat. "You know, my cousin Elroy's a preacher in Choctaw. I can get him here in half an hour or so."

Luke held in a snort. "Thanks for the offer, but with our luck, if we tried to exorcise it, we'd just piss whatever it is off and make it worse. But thanks."

Bad idea. Not supposed to be seen.

"Not asking your opinion, you don't get a vote, et-cetera-et-cetera-et-cetera. I need to know she's all right." Tye settled Trio on the wide lawn outside the hospital. "Vin, stay put."

"Like hell, least I speak th' language. You got 'California' 'crost yer forehead in Vegas neon."

Having shifted focus to Luke and Ricey's conversation with Big Ed, Bo didn't realize Alona was moving until she was out of reach, and could only watch as she dashed up to that tall, dark-haired city slicker who'd been hanging around lately. Just about the time, abruptly putting two-and-two together, as folks started seeing the black helicopter the kid had just gotten out of. 

Southfork Ranch

3700 Hogge Dr.

Braddock, TX

Friday 13 August 1993

Bobby Ewing stood in the foyer of Southfork Ranch, watching helplessly as his college-bound niece Rana January bustled about, making certain that nothing remained of the twelve years she'd spent at Southfork, the last seven living "up the House," as the hands put it. Outside, her husband Airyn chatted amicably with his newly-rediscovered brother-in-law, Rory Paladin. Rory and his girlfriend Randy Winslow had arrived in the middle of June, having driven straight from Vermont. They'd taken a room at the first Motel 6 they found, and Rory had started opening phone books. It had taken him ten days to find Braddock High School, and his triplet sister's photo in the 1992-93 yearbook. The third member of their set, Keja, had been found in California eight years previous. Randy had pointed out that it made about as much sense driving from California to Texas to reach Colorado as it did driving from Vermont to Texas to reach Colorado, so Keja and her boyfriend Dev Dragon were driving straight from Gary's to Boulder, where all six young people would be attending the University of Colorado. For their third choices, Rory and Keja had applied to the University of Texas. Rana had not. "Long past high time we broke that vicious cycle." She also had no intention to take anything remotely resembling Geology.

That Rana had lasted as long at Southfork as she had was a miracle in itself. From the moment she'd set foot in the main house in March of 1986 shortly after turning eleven, it seemed that all she'd known had been loss. Mickey Trotter and Mark Graison had already died, in 1983 – Mickey’s tragic passing having struck Rana particularly hard, since the young man had called her a friend. After her arrival, the blows had struck hard and fast – Jack, Jamie, Pamela, April. Every time Rana turned around, she was burying someone else. And she'd already buried enough people, almost including herself. After April's death in 1990, a man Bobby had never met named Ray Firewalker had offered the emotionally shattered teen a place in his home. "J.R.'s chased off, bought off or outright killed almost everyone else. I'll be damned if I'll give him the satisfaction of seeing the back of me until such time as I'm jolly well good and ready." A year later, when J.R. had his, well ... breakdown, for lack of better words and tramped off to Europe to spa his way back to reality, Ray Firewalker's nephew Cordell had reiterated the offer. Rana had met this with delighted laughter – “Why should I want to leave now? I won!"

At the time, Bobby had told himself that it meant Rana would stay for good ... right up until the acceptance letter with the University of Colorado envelope had arrived in the mail. Even Miss Ellie had been forced to realize that Rana had only been marking time, like a prisoner counting the days until release. She was even taking the calendars she'd saved all these years, from 1986 to 1993, with a red Crayola-marker dot in the lower right-hand corner of each day box. "To remind myself. So that I never make a mistake like this ever again." Rana had hated it here, hated being a Ewing at all, would have been perfectly happy to stay in the cabins occupied by the hired hands, the foster daughter of Ray Krebbs's second-in-command, a big Lakota named Bryce January. Airyn's uncle had moved up to ranch foreman after Ray married Jenna wade and moved to Europe. After J.R. went to Europe himself, Rana had defiantly moved half-Lakota-half-Cheyenne Airyn "up the House." She'd given birth to twins – one of each – over Memorial Day Weekend, two weeks before graduating from Braddock High.

Chumani Waneta and Kalmanu Taima were settled into their car seats, outside with their father, waiting to be strapped into the side-facing bucket seats from a totaled, much-newer F-250 that Rana had found in a junkyard and bolted in to replace the flimsy jump seats her 1975 Ford Ranger F-250 Camper Highboy Special Club Cab 4X4 had originally been built with. Airyn's 1969 Chevy Chevelle SS was trailered behind the truck, and everything the young family owned was either in the Ranger's bed, or in the Chevelle. Bobby just bet that when they arrived in Boulder, it would be to see Keja's matching Ranger, towing Dev's 1966 Pontiac GTO. The only difference between the trucks was their paint – Rory’s was black, Keja's was brown, and Rana's was what she called "1970s Kitchen Appliance Harvest Gold." Their long-unseen father had purchased the trucks as a set the day they were born. Bobby had done some research on the guy, discovered he had set himself up like a king in Springfield, Illinois. Ray and Gary had been notified. As soon as Bobby was sure the triplets were safely settled in Boulder, their uncles would be paying their father a visit. There was some decidedly unfinished business to be discussed.

"Guess that's it, then." Rana appeared at the head of the curving main staircase, looking down at Bobby with a box in her arms. She leaned over the outer banister and held the box out. "Catch!" Dropping it without waiting to see if he would, she set herself sidesaddle on the banister and slid down, landing with a spin on the toe of her boot in front of Bobby, who had barely managed to catch the box.

"What's this?" It weighed a country ton, and was barely taped shut.

"Oh, just some things Lucy set by for me, before she bailed out running." Gary's daughter Lucy had left in 1988, going to Italy to become a fashion designer. Rana had accused her of letting J.R. run her off, as he had with Lucy's father Gary. Lucy had replied that with half a dozen broken relationships and two failed marriages – to the same man! – there was nothing left for her in Texas. It had taken April's death for Rana to choke down her pride and send Lucy a conciliatory letter. They wrote every month or so, now, talked on the phone every other. Bobby had walked in on the end of the last phone call, Rana reminding Lucy not to write to her at Southfork anymore, that she'd send her new address in Colorado when she got there.

In the seven years Rana had lived in the house, Bobby had seen his long-lost sister Madeleine less than half a dozen times. Renamed Kelly and married to a Brigadier General named Clay Abernathy – Rana addressed him as "Daddy Hawk" – she had purchased a fixer-upper near the U of C campus in Boulder for the triplets to move into. Kelly herself lived in Denver, close to Clay's family, where she taught English at Cherry Creek High School. She refused to admit exactly what it was Clay did in the Army, only that it was far too dangerous for her and their three sets of twins to live with him.

They never had caught whoever had kidnapped Kelly from the hospital nursery at 36 hours old on March 16, 1956, leaving a dead infant in her place. It was only when Rana had nearly been killed in a drive-by shooting in January of 1986 that Jock had secretly had a blood test performed, having watched her from afar since her arrival as Bryce's foster daughter in September of 1981. The child named Rana Paladin conclusively proved to be a Ewing, and not belonging to J.R., Ray, Gary or Bobby, it had been all the proof Jock and Miss Ellie had needed to believe that Madeleine was still out there somewhere. Rana had insisted that her mother had blonde hair, called herself Kelly, and had a boyfriend named Clay who was a soldier. Men Jock had known as privates and corporals in WWII were generals themselves by 1986, and it hadn't taken much favor-trading to track Kelly down. At the time, still healing from her ordeal, not knowing the future and young enough to be enthralled by the glittering world in which she'd suddenly discovered herself, Rana had insisted on staying at Southfork. By the time she realized she'd made a colossal mistake in judgment, her pride refused to allow her to take it back – not wanting to give J.R. the satisfaction. "The more of the rest of us there are, the thinner his slice of the pie gets. That's why he hates everyone who isn't himself. If I'm up in his face every day, he can't ignore Momma."

The Texas sun poured down as Bobby followed Rana out to the waiting vehicles. Jock and Miss Ellie were sitting at one of the shaded tables next to the pool, with a pitcher of sun tea and enough glasses to go around. Airyn eyed the box between the rim of his glass and the bill of his Rangers ballcap. "Trunk of the Chevelle. That's the last of it?"

"Only things left to put in the truck is them," Rana nodded at the car-seated twins napping under the yellow-and-white-striped awning that extended from the back of the house and kept the ferocious sun out of the kitchen. "And us."

This was it, then. When the Ranger's back bumper passed under the white iron arch at the end of the driveway, who knew when Southfork would see Rana again. 'Never, if she can manage it,' Bobby thought. With Rory's help, he got the last box stuffed into the Chevelle's trunk, wishing the thunk of it slamming down didn't sound so much like a guillotine. He stepped down off the trailer as Rana hoisted herself up on the passenger-side running board and swung open the door, turning to take a car seat from Airyn once she was in the cab. 'And who is the coward, after all? Gary for leaving ... or me for staying all these years?' Looking over at his parents, who had clung to Rana all this time, as they had to Lucy before her. But Lucy hadn't been Madeleine, and Rana hadn't been Madeleine, and Kelly both was and wasn't Madeleine. Rory's Randy had spoken of that town in Vermont ... "I just could never be the Stepford Barbie they wanted."

Looking up at the white house he'd called home his entire forty-three years – even the four he had spent in Austin wearing Longhorn Orange every Saturday afternoon between September and January – Bobby remembered that Madeleine wasn't the only Ewing child gone missing. They were still waiting for Jesse to come home. Jock stood, walking over to the Ranger as Rana backed out of the cab and swung herself down. She'd never gotten any taller than four-ten (lied to the Sovereign State of Texas in 1988, when she'd applied for an Agricultural Exemption Driver's License at the tender age of 13, that she was actually four-eleven,) and getting into and out of the massive truck would always be an adventure. When she drove, she was actually looking out between the dashboard and the upper curve of the steering wheel, from the street you couldn't see her at all. She'd threatened repeatedly to paint the Autobot symbol across the truck's hood. For her thirteenth birthday, Ray had called her bluff, bought her a can each of red and silver spray paint. As far as Bobby knew, those cans were still safely stashed under the Ranger's front seat.

"I can't say I don't understand why you're doing this. I grew up farming rocks in north Georgia, all I could think of when I was your age was getting away. I never have gone back, not even when the aunt and uncle who raised Jason and me after our parents and older brother died passed on themselves. And I'll understand if we don't ever hear from you except a card at Christmas."

"North Georgia never went anywhere, Granddaddy. And I promise I'll write more often than just at Christmas." She moved in for a hug as Bobby struggled to conceal his relief.

A last round of hugs, admonishments from Miss Ellie to take care of themselves, handshakes from Rory and Airyn, and the two big Ford 385 engines roared to life. Since 'Ra' came before 'Ro' in the dictionary – and it was her house anyway – Rana rolled away first, the sun glaring off the windshield. Jock and Bobby stood watching until they couldn't see the trucks anymore. Looking around as he turned back to the patio, Bobby couldn't help thinking how much ... smaller the place already felt. Until his son Christopher returned from Scout camp in two weeks, it would be just him and his parents. And Christopher was only twelve. He turned to look back down the road, felt his father's hand on his shoulder.

"She'll be all right, Bobby. And who knows, maybe someday, she'll bring Jesse home."

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McNichols Arena

1635 Bryant St.

Denver, CO

Sunday 7 November 1993

"Really shouldn't be doing this," Sarah repeated for at least the fifty-millionth time since Buck had appeared with five tickets for the Denver Nuggets home opener. "My reasons are valid."

"Your reasons are borin', darlin'," Buck replied, reaching around Chris to give her a gentle shove. Adam bounced around them, wearing a navy blue turtleneck under his brand-new #55 Dikembe Mutombo jersey – under his Denver Broncos winter coat. The Broncos had clobbered the Cleveland Browns 29-14 in Cleveland earlier that day.

"You and Chris have an 0600 wake-up call, I have to be at school for 0700 – which includes getting Adam to pre-school! – and Serena has to be at work for 0800." She looked over at Buck's current girlfriend, Serena Raburn, who had originally scored the tickets. Walking across the parking lot at her grocery-store job, she'd spotted a wallet lost by a customer – with the man's $1500.00 mortgage payment inside, in cash. She'd taken it straight to the store manager, who recognized the wallet as belonging to one of his buddies from the VFW. A week later, the manager had passed back to Serena an envelope, containing the tickets.

"And Serena is anticipating getting suspended before she's been in the store an hour tomorrow, because my shift supervisor is that hateful." Serena replied, her crystalline blue-green eyes dancing with merriment.

"What's hateful mean?" Adam finally landed, grabbing onto Chris and Buck's hands as they got closer to the building. You had to hold hands in a crowd, or you might get losted. Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Buck and Miss Laurie and Miss Becky at school said so.

"It means she's a bully."

Adam nodded. "We gots those at school. They don't bother me, though, 'cause I told them Daddy and Uncle Buck would arrest them and throw them in jail if they did." He bounced in place as they came up to the lines to get in, blissfully oblivious to the smirk Chris and Buck shared over his head, and the eyeroll from Sarah. She was teaching English at a junior high, and exactly none of her students cared that her husband was a Denver cop. If anything it made them bolder, especially the boys. Being fresh out of college, she'd been 'assigned' to a veteran teacher, Nettie Wells. Nettie had seen everything, and brooked a minimal amount of nonsense, even from school district administrators. Perhaps especially from the administration, as Sky Valley Middle School had danced on the wire of closing for the last decade. Ninety percent of the student body was non-white, eighty-five percent was on some form of government assistance, at least seventy percent of Nettie and Sarah's combined students had only one adult at home – and that wasn't always a biological parent. Some of the kids had even known who Chris and Buck were, before Sarah had arrived in front of them. She was learning Spanish as she went along, having taken French at her father's demand.

"How's Nettie's niece settling in?" Chris queried, having been introduced to the mousy little twelve-year-old over the Halloween weekend. Her father, a career rodeo cowboy, had finally admitted defeat and relinquished Casey to Nettie, his late older brother's widow. Casey's mother, a singer, had abandoned her family for brighter lights and bigger dreams sometime around Casey's sixth birthday. Last anyone had heard, she was installed in a casino somewhere in Reno. Buck, a Las Vegas native, had pronounced it her just desserts – “Reno’s all she ever will get, too."

"She's coming along, slowly. I imagine we might even get a word or two out of her. Sometime in the year 2000, maybe."

"Anyone talk to Boulder lately?" Chris and Buck had been delighted to see Rana January appear at the door in August, announcing that she was attending CU. They'd met her in 1989, stepping in to help the Cheyenne, Wyoming PD keep the furious fourteen-year-old from killing the competitor's father she'd caught attempting to poison her barrel-racing horse at the famed Cheyenne Frontier Days & Rodeo. She'd been sitting between them in the arena seats the day bullrider Lane Frost was killed.

"We've been invited up for Thanksgiving, since there's no way all of them will fit into our place. Airyn promises they'll have a decent roof installed by then."

"Heck, I hope so!"

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Haven Island

Caribbean Ocean

Saturday 25 December 1993

Twenty-year-old Vin Tanner stood on the beach, the waves just washing over his bare feet, facing east. The five-pound-eight-ounce weight of three-hour-old Waylon George Tanner nestled in his arms, Glory stood beside them, the black silk of her hair draping over Vin's right arm. Having been yanked so unceremoniously into the white man's world at such a young age, Vin had no idea what was or had been Comanche tradition for presenting a new child to the world – let alone a child born on an auspicious date. Of all the nights for a lowering cloud cover.

"There it is," Glory whispered, a breath of sound barely forming words. The clouds shifted, thinned, parted. A star peeked through, its light showering down on Haven. For endless moments the little family stood there, until the clouds moved and closed again. The moment was over.

Stepping back, Vin looked down at his son. His son. He'd arrived with a full head of streaky, blond-brown hair, and had already blinked open hazy sky blue eyes. "Mebbe th' next one'll look like 'er Mamma."

"Yeah, you dream about that a while, Texas. I'm not doing that again until this one's at least six or seven. Maybe even ten."