Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

"You don't trust me. But you must. We won't have much time." The doctor poured himself a drink of water, and finished with the machines.

Colin still looked wary. "It's a simple plan, Mr. Molyneux. We will contact the Interrogator, using the computer codes which he has given only to Renie. HE will use the tracking locator to find out where our transmission is coming from. But we will reverse the tracking locator's positronic array with this series of rotolators, which cannot be detected. My clever machines will tell us HIS location. Once pinpointed, HE can be captured."

"The old switcheroo." Colin thumped the table with his thumb.

"Exactly so."

"And you're not going to plug me full of lead after I tell you the codes? What if this is a trick to kill me--if really know them?"

"Come, now. HE would have had you killed immediately if he had believed the codes were compromised." A pause. "Besides, Mr. Molyneux, you're holding the gun on me."

Colin indeed felt the black steel in his palm. They moved to the computer screen, which was in the shape of an oval. As in a looking glass.

"Now point the gun at me," continued the doctor. Colin didn't respond. "Doctor's orders!" insisted the doctor, with a strange expression. Colin raised the gun; it hovered in the direction of the doctor. "Now, tell me what the codes are."

"Is someone watching?"

"If we're discovered, I can say I was forced to help you. God help you then."

"What if they're listening?"

The doctor looked into the dark oval before him. "Then God help us both."

The UNIT officer casts her eyes over the darkened wood. "-- plan. We've covered a lot of ground--it shouldn't be long now." Her eyes are red, peering through the darkness.

"Respectfully, sir, there's one concern." A young Guardsman, smooth of face, with bright eyes. Until now, he has not spoken, deferring to the experience of the other two. His unspotted cloak hangs low about his high-polished black boots. "The encirclement of the West Wood is only a matter of time. We will find HIM. And rescue his hostage. But--"

He hesitates to say it. To give words to a fear which is shared by many--even officers--but goes unspoken.

"--what if HE isn't there?"

The UNIT officer's eyes never leave the wood. "Pray God HE is."

The debate is suddenly halted by the sound of horse's hooves.

A sleek black horse and hooded rider fly through the trees. The horse rears up as its rider pulls back hard on the reigns.

"HALT!!" cry the pair of Imperial Guardsmen.

The hooded horseman slips from the saddle, as the soldiers reach for their weapons.

“No. It’s not.” Elliott Marston frowned. Hands on hips, he leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the table and his frown deepened.

Sam realized with a jolt that he was unsure of himself. She had never seen this before. Obviously she would have to guide the conversation. “I assume this has something to do with that letter?”

Marston hesitated, then nodded. He lifted his arms and folded them across his chest. “It’s a little complicated.”

“Well, we’ve got all afternoon.” Sam rose from her chair and looked around the room. “Let’s get comfortable on the sofa so you can tell me all about it.” She secured a hold on his belt as she walked past and towed him across the carpet in her wake. He held back at first but she got her way with a sharp tug.

It was an old sofa, wide and long enough for a large man to sleep on comfortably. From the state of the cushions, it was obvious that large men slept on it often. She sat at the very end and pulled her husband down beside her. “Now let’s get cozy so we can talk.”

Marston closed his eyes and sank into the sagging upholstery where the back curved into a hump. Through the open windows came the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood. The street was quiet at this time of day, just after the height of noon. Sam rested against the scrolled wooden arm, waiting for the conversation to resume.

“That letter I sent your father all those months ago – do you remember it?” He opened his eyes and glanced at her, then closed them again.

She nodded. “You wanted him to take on a job for you. A year-long job. You said it wasn’t woman’s work.”

“The work wasn’t just for me. It would have been for a consortium that I’m a part of along with other ranchers in this state. The chairman is Cal Torken, the man who sent me the letter. WARTHOGS is dedicated to -” He jerked his head around. “Did you say something?”

“No, nothing.” She hastily coughed. “What did you say it was called?”

“WARTHOGS. It’s stands for Western Australian Ranchers Together Helping Our Government Society.” With a scowl, he examined her countenance closely. “It’s a very exclusive group.”

“Yes, I’m sure. It probably takes a special person to be a WARTHOG.” She managed to keep her expression solemn for several seconds, then surrendered. Her laughter seemed to have an adverse affect on his mood. He watched coldly as she took in great gulps of air in an effort to get herself under control again.

“If I might resume?” He waited for her confirming nod, ignoring the strangled noise in her throat that accompanied it. “As I was saying, our group is dedicated to assisting the government of the state in one of its most important functions: the security of private property in the agricultural sector through the pacification of the aboriginal population. We recognize that the government’s resources are limited and we try to help in our own way. That’s why I tried to hire your father on behalf of the society.”

“Wait a minute.” Sam suddenly did not feel like laughing. “What do you mean by pacification?”

“Eradication. Removal. Extermination.” Marston’s face was cold and mask-like.

“How can you talk as if they were vermin?” She was incredulous. “They’re people! I can’t believe this!”

“They are little better than vermin.” His voice grated her ears with its harshness. “They do serious damage to ranchers. They poach our livestock and steal our crops. We are within our rights to protect our interests.”

“You wanted my father to hunt down and kill people? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I wanted your father to eliminate a pestilential presence from this state. He would have been well paid for his efforts.”

She stared at him in disbelief. She did not know this man. This was not her husband, the man she’d pledged her heart to for the rest of their lives. This was a stranger who talked about killing as if it were a sacred duty. A wave of nausea washed over her.

“You make the same mistake so many people do. You don’t know what the aborigines are really like.” He rose to his feet and paced across the room. Anger swelled his voice with every word. “It’s not possible to civilize them in any way. They’ll never be like us. It’s war out there.”

Sam watched him and struggled to make sense of what was happening. She’d never seen him so agitated. “What was in that letter?”

“Cal was reminding me – in his own unique not-too-subtle manner – that he had not heard from me concerning our project. He wants to meet me in town for a progress report. He suggests the middle of next month.” Marston paused by the table. “He doesn’t know we’re already here. We’ll have to stay until then anyway.”

“Elliott, we’ve got to talk about this.” She was beginning to feel desperate. “You can’t really want to kill so many people. What have they ever done to you?”

“To me?!” In two long strides he was in front of the sofa. She cowered back as he loomed over her. He was pale with rage, his hands trembling, his voice hoarse. “It was aborigines who murdered my parents.”

The scene dissolves briefly to the pantry, where Mary Anne lies asleep.

And dreaming. The shot closes to emphasize the subtle disturbances of her face, the movements of her eyes behind their closed lids.

She wanders in an enclosure with pathways of glazed brick, and all about her is moist greenery and lush outpouring of bloom. Tropical exotics.

A conservatory.

It should be a beautiful place, and is, but there is something disturbing to her in its beauty as well, the way the foliage seems to press about her, allowing her to walk down a pathway and then closing over it so that she cannot turn back.

Che la diritta via era smarrita . . .

The straight way, lost. Lost. She is lost, and there is a gleam of light there among the leaves--a reflection off of steel- rimmed spectacles.

Dev, she sighs to herself in relief, remembering even this deep in her dream how he had startled her in the conservatory.

But then, to her growing fear, she realizes that it is not Eamon de Valera, though she cannot think how she realizes it. Something as thick as smoke in the humid air, weighing her down, slowing her steps, filling her throat.

Heavily, heavily . . . heavily.

The scent of orchid. Eyes, watching her, and a looming presence hidden among the leaves. Something clamours in her memory, urgent to be released, even as the cry struggles to escape from her throat.

So profound is Mary Anne's exhaustion that even this alarming dream cannot awaken her. The camera lingers for a moment on her face, her brows drawn together, her forehead creased with strain, her delicate profile etched against the sacking of her improvised cushion. And the scene fades, but slowly, so that the afterimage of the sleeping Mary Anne remains before our eyes even as we hear voices--the voices of the two men of the Imperial Guard, and the woman from UNIT.

A debate is in progress . . .

"They are still using echolocators, sir."

"Yes." HE only moves HIS lips. He draws on something. Intently.

"We know exactly where they are. And--the tracking locator. It's repaired. But I supposed she's long arrived."

"Never suppose. Find me confirmation. She'll be either at Delaford or in Egdon. I want to know. Immediately."

"As you say, sir." Minion shows his respect, then leaves.

He pauses to look at his work. A drawing. On a white cloth napkin. A sketch with a sharp dark pencil. It is Mary Anne.

This place, though not exactly cold, could have chilled the deepest oceans into ice. Full fathom five.

"Neuroscience and alchemy, eh?" The doctor looked upon his former life. "There are other rooms, of course. This house backs into a hillside, and this laboratory is one of many. I don't use them anymore, and neither does HE--though HE has men randomly check to see that the materials HE may require are still here. He has let me live--but only because HE has use for me, knowing that I cannot tell what is here or forfeit my life." Then, quickly, he pulled a large cloth to the floor, revealing a homemade computer, hooked up to several other machines. "I'm not a brave man, Mr. Molyneux. But I'm not dead either. Not yet."

Colin had the creeps. "Renie's going home to her cottage. She isn't in danger. Just what are you going to do here?"

"We."

"We?"

"Yes, you and I. You want to catch HIM, don't you?"

A grunt from Colin. Catch the Interrogator? Talk about futile. How to catch a man whose very name was kept secret? With what? A room full of dusty junk and a disgruntled former employee? And why would should this man be trusted? "What's in this for you . . . Doctor Faustus?"

The doctor laughed. A cruel joke, but apt. "Well might you call me that, Mr. Molyneux. As I did make a pact with devil didn't I? For me--perhaps an end. Though merely to thwart HIM would bring me joy. I had almost forgotten the difference between good and evil. Imagine that."

"Let's go. What do we do?" Colin looked at the strange computer.

The doctor pressed a series of buttons, and life sprang into it. The attached machines whirred to life as well. "You know the codes to reach the Interrogator through computer telephone lines--did you succeed in contacting him on the plane?"

Did this man read minds?

The doctor laughed again--"I'm a doctor, not a magician. With the help of my vaccinations, the crew was able to report to me everything which happened aboard that jet. In detail. Though no one was clear whether your computer efforts had connected before the turbulence hit."

Colin felt better, but not much. Maybe this was a trap--one big trap--which he had let himself in for. How far could you trust a man with four-inch needle?

Colin nearly dropped the gun. "What's that!?" He knew it was Renie's earring--their intimate meeting in the plane had certainly ensured that--but its meaning, in this man's hands, was lost.

"Bait," snapped the doctor. "Come with me." Colin crossed the room to the oversized armoire--a piece much too big for a single small room. Inside it, two old musty coats hung on a high bar. The doctor pushed them aside, ducked under the bar--and opened the heavy wood backing by twisting a chock of wood which held it closed. "This way," he motioned to Colin. "Bring the lamp."

"Where are we going?" Colin, lamp in hand, had to duck severely under the bar, as he followed the shorter doctor through the armoire and out its back.

"My workshop." Then, in more of a whisper, "My former workshop." If the lamp light had been on the doctor's face, Colin would have seen remorse's garden in full bloom. "I worked for HIM, you see. When I thrilled to the possibilities of science without borders, and danced to the tune HE called."

Colin's eyes flinched as a second lamp came up--no, not a lamp, but dim electric light. Some large shapes had pieces of cloth draped over them, and there was a fine layer of dust on almost everything. But there was no mistaking that it was a laboratory. A curious one, in that the old mixed with the new--bottles and beakers sat alongside electronic consoles, wires protruded from circuit boards which sat under X-ray equipment. There were old wooden cabinets full of drugs which would shock a learned man just in their naming, apart from how these drugs had been used.

For a minute, Colin wished he had not followed this man.

The fall night air of Egdon might have chilled Colin, but the heat of the whiskey and rapidity of his own footfalls kept him warm enough. The doctor walked quickly. Colin followed. Passing by the road to the hospital, they took an alternate road. After some minutes, they came to a grey stone house. The doctor unlocked the door, pushed it open, and lit a lamp inside. Outside, Colin crept along the wall so as not to be seen. Some moments passed. Wishing to peek in, craned his neck to the light so that one eye had a view of the room.

It was empty. It was a small enough room, clean, but rustic, and it was empty. As Colin stepped inside--for so he could without detection, as no soul stirred about--he heard the door slam behind him. From behind it stepped the doctor, in his hospital whites, holding a black gun.

Pointed at Colin.

"Are you really a friend to Renie?" he asked--in a voice which seemed almost to quaver, and which belied the gun in his hand.

"I am," said Colin slowly.

"Then, take this. We have work to do." The doctor held the gun out for Colin to take. Colin did not move. "Go ahead, take it." Colin took it. The doctor then reached into the pocket of his medical uniform and pulled out--Renie's glistening earring.

“For the last time – no!”

“But Elliott! The wagons are gone. You’d have to take me to the ranch yourself. And you said it’s dangerous to do it on horseback.”

“He’s right, darling. Whether we like it or not, he’s got to stay.”

Elliott Marston slammed his hands down on the table and curled them into fists as he leaned forward. It was an intimidating pose, one perfected over years of business negotiations to strike fear into his audience. It certainly had his current audience, at the very least, nervous. Sam eyed him warily and slid her arm around her brother’s shoulders. Niall blinked rapidly and sat up straighter, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

However, a pose by itself doesn’t go very far; it really needs a pithy comment to accompany it. And Marston was ruefully aware that he didn’t have one.

He flexed his fingers and relaxed his posture. Then he dropped his chin on his hand. “Niall, what on earth possessed you to leave the wagons and come back?” He was painfully aware that the question was an acknowledgement of defeat.

Niall grinned. “You needed me here. I had to come back.” He reached into his shirt and pulled out a paper. “And I thought you should see this letter. It looks important.”

“What is it?” Marston reached across the table. “It looks like Cal’s handwriting.” He tore open the envelope.

“Barney was taking the mail back to the ranch but I thought you should see it.” Niall nodded importantly.

Marston frowned as he unfolded the paper. “Have you given any thought to what happened when Barney and Ted found out you were gone?”

Niall grinned. “I left them a note. They’ll understand.”

“Mmm.” Marston scanned the letter.

“Who’s Cal?” Sam asked.

“He’s the son of my foster parents. The people who took me in after my parents were killed.” He didn’t look up.

“So he’s your foster brother?”

“No!” Marston glanced up quickly, then looked down again. “No, he’s not.”

Sam raised her brows but said nothing. Nothing broke the silence until the crackling of paper as Marston folded the letter and tucked it into his vest. For a long moment he stared down at his hands lying on the tablecloth. Sam and Niall said nothing, unwilling to interrupt his thoughts.

After what seemed an interminable time, he took a deep breath, then sighed. When he finally turned to them, the expression on his face was distant and forbidding. “Niall, I have to talk to Sam in private. Why don’t you go downstairs and get something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry. I’d rather stay – OUCH!” Niall glared at his sister as he rubbed his arm.

“Yes, you are.” Sam gave him a gentle push toward the door. “Go downstairs. Right now.” She ignored his sullen look as he marched out. Her eyes remained on her husband.

Marston said nothing for a long moment. How could he begin to explain? He was vividly aware of the letter secured in his vest and what it meant to their family life together. Their family; wonderful words to roll over the tongue and hear out loud. How much longer would he have the right to say them?

“Elliott? Is everything all right?” Sam was looking at him with concern.

He pulled himself together. “Not really. We need to have a talk. One we should have had some months ago.” The right words did not come easily.

“Heavens, sounds very serious.” Gentle mockery suffused her voice.

“It is. But I don’t really know where to start.” He rose to his feet and walked to the window. Perhaps if he didn’t have to look at her. “Maybe I should begin by asking you a question.”

“Go ahead.” She was concentrating on his every word.

He turned from the window and walked to the table. Hands on hips, he looked down at her. “If I asked you to, how many people would you be willing to kill for me?”

Claudia smiled and slipped into her room and closed the door behind her. Quickly she put down her clothes and plate on the nearest bed, and fumbled in the darkness for her bag underneath it. She rifled through the contents until her fingers found the hard object they were seeking, and clasped it, drawing out her camera. She’d brought it along to take pictures of the wedding, but hadn’t had a chance to take many photos. That had been a full and interesting day. She slipped the camera into the deep pocket in the front of her uniform, and picked up the biscuits again.

The guard raised an eyebrow when Claudia appeared again in the hallway with the same plate of biscuits.

“She was asleep,” explained Claudia, who dressed as a maid in a dark corridor was talking about herself. “I know just the person who could be doing with these.”

At his older comrade's pronouncement of "And it may not be enough," the younger asks, "What do you mean--" only to be cut off as he perceives, along with his fellow officer, that someone is moving toward them in the blackness.

In a flash, two pistols are freed from their holsters and the older calls out, "Who goes there?"

No melodrama, here. These are men hand-picked for strength and intelligence, adaptability and reflexes, courage and dedication, and they carry the firepower to match; no one in his senses would return them anything except a completely serious response.

And no one in her senses would, either. A female voice, low-pitched and even, replies, "An officer of UNIT, and a loyal citizen of the Realm."

An observant bystander would note how the two men relax--a little--at the speaker's declaration of loyalty; nevertheless, they do not drop their guard until she moves close enough to be clearly seen.

At first glance, there is nothing remarkable about her appearance; it is, in fact, quite generic. The woman is of average height, perhaps a shade on the tall side. Not beautiful. Not ugly. Older than the two men. A Frenchman--especially one such as Valmont--would think of her as a woman of a certain age. But whatever that certain age is, it wears well on her, and any man's eye would be drawn to follow her, not for her beauty, or lack of it, but for her intensity. There is a purpose to her every movement that bodes well for any command she serves, and ill for any enemy who opposes her.

She is now close enough to be seen, and stands still as the Imperial officers examine her briefly in the light of close-beam torches that cannot be detected at any great distance. They take note of the UNIT badge on her coverall, along with her rank stripes, and now that they are satisfied that this woman is who she claims to be, there is an exchange of handshakes before she produces from her jacket the dispatches she has been ordered to deliver.

Men of another type might question why a UNIT Sergeant is hand-delivering dispatches . . . but not these men. This is a special mission, anomalous by its very nature. And their part is not to question, but to obey. Except as it bears on the mission, her business is none of theirs.

Together, they read the dispatches. Their last-minute instructions--whenever the last minute does come, which will be soon.

"Let it be soon," murmurs the younger.

He is astonished when the woman responds, "You feel it too, then?" She nods into the night-- in that direction. The centre of this giant circle of converging forces; the source of . . . the evil.

The younger nods. "Yes. " Fiercely. "Let us be about it, in the name of the Empress." Then, "Bless her sweet eyes," he murmurs under his breath, his right hand flicking automatically upward, touching his heart in salute.

His older comrade sees the gesture and understands it, but says nothing. All of the Imperial Guard are trained to revere the Empress, but his younger friend . . .

It is the custom of the Empress to periodically review the Imperial Guard and meet new inductees personally; it had been the fate of this young man to take one look at her and lose his heart, irretrievably. To say that he fell in love . . . no. That does not come near the truth. What burns in the breast of this guardsman is the pure, clear flame of amour courtois as it flourished in the writings of Chretien de Troyes, of Dante and Petrarch--an adoration that converts one smile from the beloved into a sufficient return for a lifetime of service. Should he hope to be requited? No. The very aim of such love is that it serves; the lover freely offers his life. And this one, in that grand old fashion, has chosen for his lady the highest of all in the Realm and asks for nothing more than the right to protect her, to help her live out her reign in comfort and safety. It is enough.

All of this the older knows, and he admires the sincerity of it even as he pities the hopelessness. To cover for his younger friend, he makes conversation. "Yes, there are many hereabouts--and all over the Realm--who will sleep better when that--" A nod in the direction of the Wood. "--is captured."

"And if HE--"

Both men tense, but the woman does not appear to notice.

"--cannot be captured?"

"Killed, then." The younger. Bitterly. Through his teeth.

"General orders to all teams," replies the woman, slowly, "are to make every effort to take The Interrogator alive."

"Make every effort," retorts the younger man, "to take . . . HIM . . ." He swallows. " . . . alive, if possible. It may not be possible. And if it falls to me, I will not endanger one of my comrades for the sake of one who is a criminal, and a traitor to Her Majesty. Not one of my comrades, nor any of the teams, nor the hostage in HIS toils. Poor woman," he adds, his voice softening in sympathy.

A nod from the newcomer. With those sentiments, she can find no fault . . .

Hart had been right. No phones. No faxes. No televisions. Instantly, the ranch enveloped her like a safe cocoon, making Colin, the Hansbank and the U.S. Attorney seem very far away. Grace loved the place on sight.

After they settled into the white clapboard ranch house Hart had reserved, he told her he had to check on some arrangements at the office, and left her to explore the ranch. She walked through the oak grove and past the other guest houses, but the only people she saw were ranch employees in their subdued green shirts, who smiled at her and glided silently out of sight. The pool and the tennis courts were deserted. She looked in the library, a separate building with arching hand-hewn beams. No one was there. Another building, faced with split logs and surrounded by a broad porch, announced itself as the dining room and bar. Not a soul in there, either. She drifted, walking much more slowly than she usually did, toward the paddock. She stood at the fence, talking softly to the horses who crowded around for a sniff or a rub on the nose. They were used to strangers bearing gifts, and boldly nuzzled at her hands and pockets.

She didn't hear Hart walk up behind her. Suddenly he was there, next to her, leaning on the fence and looking critically at the horses. "You came unprepared. They're looking for this," he said, pressing a raw carrot into her hands. A chestnut mare with long lashes over mischievous eyes alertly followed his hand and the carrot. She pushed the other horses out of the way to stand opposite Grace and reached her head over the fence. "That one," said Hart, "that's your horse. She knows what she wants, just like you. You'll do fine together."

Grace let his remark about knowing what she wanted pass by. Did she? she wondered. Then she realized Hart was talking about riding. "You're not serious, Lukas. I love watching them, but I haven't ridden since college. I'll fall off and scare the other horses." Involuntarily, her mouth tightened as she looked a the ground. For the second time that day, she was forcibly reminded how different they were, how Hart just assumed she could play all the games of the idle rich like golf and horseback riding. And sailing, as she thought of the Sea Dove. "I'm a working stiff, Lukas, I haven't had time for this kind of thing since -- well, too long to remember."

He knew that. That was one reason he had brought her up here. One reason. He began carefully, but in a casual tone of voice, "Then we have work to do. We will have to work very hard at teaching you. . . how to play."

There in the star-pierced blackness, seated on a low knoll, two men are slowly revealed to us: first, their faces, and gradually, their uniforms--which are neither Alliance nor UNIT, but those of the Empress' own Imperial Guard.

Only the finest of the Realm are considered for inclusion in this elite company. To protect the Empress is, of course, the first among their duties, but no man would be considered whose only accomplishment is ceremonial pacing while clad in a handsome uniform, complete to the utmost detail of high varnished boot and sweeping cloak. No, the training is of such rigour that any man who completes it can proudly take his place alongside the worthiest warriors of the galaxy: the Dorsai, the Sardukar, the Klingons . . . all would look with approval on the inclusion of an Imperial liegeman among their ranks.

In addition to their physical training, these men are also conditioned to a loyalty that would fire the envy of many a monarch: they are quite prepared to lay down their lives for their Empress at a moment's notice, and consider those lives well-lost.

Knowing this, look upon them now: two men, not especially formidable in appearance, garbed in plain black night-drill fatigues, bearing only one small badge of the Imperial crest. Though both are still young men, they are men, not boys; one, however, is quite plainly older than the other. It is not the visible marks of aging that single out the older, but rather a certain appraising wariness about their situation, a way of continually sweeping the field with his eyes--though, of course, he can see nothing in this darkness save the occasional flash of some distant equipment light. Very occasional.

The eyes of the younger are turned in one direction, and one direction only: toward the West Wood.

"All of this," the younger finally ventures. "All for . . ."

Most citizens of the Realm might finish that sentence with "The Interrogator" or "HIM." These men, however, find it almost impossible to even complete the thought, still less to speak it aloud. Disloyalty to Her Majesty--to say nothing of outright enmity--is, to them, a supreme horror.

And so the younger does not complete the sentence, but simply gestures in that same direction as his fixed gaze.

His older comrade nods. "All of this," he agrees. "And it may not be enough."

"You have no right to hold my client prisoner." The lawyer was speaking again -- this time to Dot. "You have no evidence, and your 'victim' is unwilling to undergo a physical examination."

Dot is unmoved by his argument. Charges have been filed. The accused will be held for trial.

Mitchell refocuses his verbal attack on Andrea. "You are the one who will end up in jail -- for contempt -- if you refuse a court-ordered exam. I strongly advise you to drop all charges, immediately."

Andrea feels as though she is being bullied. She does not like being bullied. Confident that she has Dot's support, Andrea speaks sweetly. "Mr. Mitchell, the only decision I will make 'immediately' is to end this meeting." The strength returns to her legs, and she rises effortlessly.

The Sheriff badgers his lawyer. "What's going on? She can't just walk out of here while I remain a prisoner! You assured me . . . "

George's voice trails off as Andrea strides out of the room and down the hall followed closely by Dr. Mesmer. Hamlet stays behind to assist Dot and Dr. Dubois in securing their prisoner.

When they can no longer hear Nottingham's protestations, Mesmer asks his patient "Have you a plan?"

"I do. Once the AR are forced to release Nottingham, and if Hamlet is amenable, . . . Yes. I have a plan."

Mesmer steps up to walk beside her. "Tell me."

Andrea avoids looking at him. "It is better if you do not know."

He does look at her -- at the side of her face. "When will you learn to trust me?"

She continues to stare straight ahead. "It's not a matter of trust. I am trying to protect you."

Mesmer steps directly in front of her, forcing Andrea to stop walking and look up at him. He can guess that she is planning something terrible, something criminal. "You should consider that you may later regret your actions. -- Is revenge so important to you?"

Revenge? "I am not doing this for myself. The Sheriff is a menace. Every lady in the Realm will benefit from my -- protection."

The thought was enough to make him sit up and throw back the blankets. He padded across the worn carpet to the bureau and poured cold water into the basin. His wife was out there meeting with his lawyer while he lay in bed. Time to get moving. He performed his morning ablutions with dispatch and dressed with more haste than usual.

Sam’s proscription of the night before – urged in such an enthusiastic and agreeable manner – that he remain hidden in the house chafed his patience. Enforced idleness did not sit well with him. He wanted to take part in the chase, not wait for his wife to come back with information. She wanted to protect him. He snorted. Who would protect her?

Sitting at the small kitchen table, he considered his options while eating breakfast. He’d promised not to leave the house; he wouldn’t break his word. It wasn’t likely that Lilly had any more knowledge to impart, assuming that Sam hadn’t terrified her into actually moving out of the house.

Marston chewed his eggs thoughtfully. It might be helpful to know if Watters had done any socializing when he visited the Palace. Did he drink with the other customers in the front parlor? Was he known to be a friend of anyone in particular? Did he usually arrive or leave with anyone? Lilly probably wouldn’t know. Belle probably wouldn’t talk if she did. But there might be someone in the house who had paid attention.

He considered. While Belle owned the establishment outright, she was assisted in her management responsibilities by others. There was Len, a former soldier who combined the duties of doorman and security guard; no one entered during business hours without his knowledge. It might be worthwhile to have a chat with Len. His meal completed, Marston picked up his tea and went in search of his quarry.

Len was sitting in the front parlor, smoking a pipe and reading an old newspaper. His military bearing was still apparent, despite the stubble on his chin. Tobacco and ash adorned his shirtfront. He didn’t look up when Marston entered the room.

“Mind if I join you?” He tried for a jovial tone, somewhere between friendly and fulsome but falling well short of presumptuous.

“Suit yourself. Plenty of room.” The older man was intent on his newspaper.

“Anything interesting?” Marston sipped his tea.

Len grunted without enthusiasm. “The usual.”

“You must find it pretty unexciting working here after being a soldier.” It seemed a safe bet. In Marston’s experience few soldiers would turn down the chance to expound old battle stories.

“Yep.” The other’s gaze never wavered from his reading.

Silence fell. Marston wracked his brain for another comment. He lifted the cup to his lips to buy time.

Len turned a page. “I kinda wondered when you’d get to me.” A puff of smoke from his pipe floated to the ceiling.

Marston choked on his tea. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I wondered when you’d get around to asking me about Ches Watters.” The old man finally looked at him directly for the first time.

“Um, yes, well…” Marston cleared his throat and tried again. “I have to explain about -”

“Lilly’s a good girl. Not very bright but in her line of work it’s not like she’s gonna get called on to do surgery, ya know?” Len put the newspaper on the floor and took his pipe out of his mouth. He tapped it against the side of the potted plant beside his chair. “She don’t notice much.”

“Well, as you say, she really doesn’t need to.” It was an inane comment; Marston winced inwardly even as he said it. “What, exactly, might she have noticed?”

The doorman pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and scoured the inside of the pipe bowl. “Oh, this and that. Sometimes Ches wasn’t any too discreet, ya know? Liked to bigshot around about the people he did stuff for.” He put the stem to his lips and blew through it, creating a faint whistling sound. Satisfied, he began to refill his pipe from the tobacco pouch on the chair arm.

“Like who?” Marston sipped his tea.

“Like this guy who owned the feed store down by the harbor. Had a bunch of customers that weren’t payin’ their bills.” Len tamped the tobacco down firmly with his thumb. “Hired Ches to sort of persuade ‘em to ante up. That was his line of work. Applied muscle.”

“Interesting.” Marston lied politely. “Did he have any close friends that you know of? Men who came here with him?”

“Not really. Usually came alone, visited with Lilly or maybe Alice, then left.” He scraped a match against the side of his boot and lit his pipe, puffing until the flame caught. “Couple of times, he showed up with some Army guys. Went into the back parlor for talkin’. Ches was pretty flush with cash for a while after those meetings.”

Marston nodded slowly. “I see. Do you know who -”

A sudden scream cut off his sentence. Both men leaped to their feet. The sound of running footsteps came from the hall as Marston pulled open the door.

“My lace! You tore my lace! You little brat!!” The voice was shrill with rage.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do it!” It was a boy’s voice, shaky and frightened. As the two men watched from the threshold of the parlor, the speaker ran past and stopped at the front door. His small body shook with panic as he stared wildly around the foyer. The sound of his breathing was harsh in the silence.

Marston closed his eyes and groaned. He counted to ten, then opened them again. No, it hadn’t been an illusion. Niall Flanagan, supposedly on his way to Marston Ranch, was indeed in the house.

"I know Sinclair is concerned about the crossing coming up. This river is a mighty thing."

Eamon de Valera was a fighter. Not by choice, but out of circumstance and necessity. However, he had become very adept at this task. His cunning, coupled with his physical size and strength, not to mention periodic instances of outright desperation, had made him a formidable opponent.

In short, he did not like to lose.

Under the best of circumstnaces, it was hard for him to accept defeat gracefully--and it can honestly be stated that he had had little opportunity to practice this grace, given his considerable skill. He stood now in the back corner of a small room off of the Delaford library, glowering darkly at Lt. Scout Sifuentes, the man who had been able to physically restrain him and end his desperate pursuit.

There are many common cliches which describe tense moments. In this instance, all of them would be accurate. Few words had been spoken since Scout had bested Dev in the physical confrontation along the fringe of the West Woods. Brandon, though he had been there as well, had not needed to intervene. The thought still rankled Dev. He had seldom been brought down, and never singlehandedly. Once Scout had slipped on the lightweight manacles, Dev's resistance had ceased, temporarily, at least. His temper however, still blazed.

"If she dies because I could not get to her, your own life is worth nothing." Dev glared at the slender AR leiutenant who stood at ease by the single doorway to the tiny room.

"And if she had died because of your reckless intervention without anyone to assist you?" Scout returned his gaze, steady and unflinching.

"I would not have failed her." Dev paused for a brief moment, and when he resumed speaking, his voice faltered. "I cannot fail her." He sank into a nearby chair, drawing his hands to his head as he shakily ran his fingers through his hair. "God help me, I cannot fail her. . ." he murmered, his voice harsh and raspy with emotion.

Scout crossed the room, taking a nearby chair and pulling it in front of Dev, to sit in front of him. "Dev, we will find her, and we will bring her back to you. I'm going to tell you why I will bring her back. Will you listen?"

Dev sighed, his anger abating somewhat, his tone weary. "It appears, Scout, that I am a captive audience."

"I was a police officer when I met the woman who would later become my wife. I knew almost immediately that she was, and is, the love of my life. Before I met her, she had been attacked, was beaten almost senseless, raped, and left for dead. I am the one who helped capture the animal who did this to her, Dev. I held this creature in my hands, and because I made a pledge to uphold the law, not to create it, I had no choice but to allow him to live. Do you know how it felt to let that man survive to breathe another breath, Dev? To know that the man who first almost killed my beautiful, intelligent, kind hearted wife physically, then nearly succeeded in destroying her emotionally as well was going to be allowed to live?" Scout paused, his dark eyes boring into Dev's face until brown eyes met hazel. "Dev, I understand, and we will get Therese back."

Dev drew a ragged, uneven breath, his voice was soft and haunted. "I cannot go on without her."

Scout laid a hand gently on the Irishman's arm. "You won't have to." A miserable, albeit companionable silence ensued as the two men settled down to do the one thing completely foreign to all men of purpose and action.

They sat, and waited.

Pacing. Deep breaths, follwed by heavy sighs. Impatient glances. Angry consultations of timepieces. Ill-fated attempts at courtesy.

"Are you hungry? I could have something sent up."

"No." A beat later, a decided after-thought. "Thank you."

Finally.

The shrill beep of Scout's radio pierced the still of the tiny room, causing both men to leap to their feet. "Sifuentes," he said simply into the device. He listened for several moments, before responding with an 'understood,' then returned the piece of equipment to his belt.

He looked to Dev. "It's time."

“Buttershaw doesn’t bill for services rendered like most of us do. He receives a very lucrative monthly retainer from most of them regardless of whether he does anything or not. It ensures that he’s available when needed and also that he doesn’t work for a client’s business competitors.” Melvin Collins leaned back in his chair and stared wistfully at the list. “It’s every lawyer’s dream.”

Sam smiled. “Wouldn’t you rather make an honest living, knowing that you charge a fair fee for everything you do?”

Collins looked at her in surprise. “No.”

Sam gave up and went off into peals of laughter. She liked her husband’s lawyer and his droll sense of humor. After they solved this matter of who was trying to kill Elliott, she would have to see about finding the right wife for him. The man was too attractive to be left a bachelor for long. She reverted back to her reason for being there.

“Well, I don’t see that these names tell us very much.” She ran her finger down the list. “Thomas Higgins is a big shipping name, I know that. But I don’t recognize James Buchanan or Silas Latham.” She looked up, her brow furrowed.

“Buchanan made his money in sheep ranching but he sold out a couple of years ago and went back to Scotland. Buttershaw has been winding up his affairs for him.” The lawyer leaned forward to peruse the names for himself. “Latham’s a different matter. He’s building railroads all over the state. He needs political friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if Buttershaw wasn’t a silent partner in most of his dealings.”

“So we’ll put a little tick mark beside Mr. Latham.” Sam marked the paper accordingly. “I see that the Army also contributes to Mr. Buttershaw’s income. How much money could that bring in?”

“Lots.” Collins was emphatic. “Getting the Army as a client is like having permission to take a wheelbarrow to the Exchequer and load it up with gold every week.”

“How?” Sam stared. “What would he do for them?”

“He’d negotiate with merchants to get the best deal he could. A really unscrupulous lawyer could get rich just on the bribes offered by those who wanted to become Army suppliers.” Collins began to count off on his fingers. “He would also deal with local government authorities when the Army needed anything from them; they would prefer to use the services of a local lawyer who knew Australia. Another opportunity would come from assisting army officers who needed legal advice personally and wanted someone they could trust.”

“Really? Then we’ll definitely need to consider the army.” She made a note on the paper.

“That could be a little difficult.” Collins was amused. “It’s pretty big.”

“Yes, but we can narrow things down.” Sam leaned back in her chair and mimicked his earlier counting motions. “It would have to be a senior enough officer to motivate Buttershaw into visiting the chief constable’s office. Also a senior officer would have more at stake than a petty officer or enlisted man.”

“But that still leaves a large group of men.” The lawyer was drawn in by her logic.

“There might be quite a few officers who would know Robert Buttershaw. That I’ll grant you.” She tapped the paper in front of her. “But how many of those officers would also know Jasper Connaught and be able to influence him?”

Collins stared at her, his lips pursed in a silent whistle.

Sam nodded emphatically. “The only bank on this list is the Prime Mercantile, not the First Commercial. Buttershaw wouldn’t have much pull with Connaught.” She tossed the paper on the table between them. “So we have to ask ourselves: who does?”

After what seemed like an eternity in the air, Kari’s flight finally touched down at Boston’s Logan Airport. It was nearly 5 o’clock in the afternoon and nearly dark outside when she quickly calculated how long it would take her to retrieve her baggage and hail a cab home.

A mere half-hour later she was in the cab and headed towards the Back Bay and her much-missed brownstone. As the vehicle lurched around corners and sped down winding roads, Kari wondered how David and Alexis were getting along in Dark Harbor. And despite her best efforts, she felt a pang of jealousy.

She remembered back on her first days and nights with David ...

In the weeks after their first “date” at the Ritz-Carlton, they saw each other with increasing frequency. Drinks after work at Bristol Lounge and Tremont 647 turned into Sunday brunches at Rhowe’s Wharf and The Neighborhood. Lunches at Cafe Louis graduated comfortably into clandestine dinners at L’Espalier, and, from there, to taking in top-notch jazz at Regattabar in the Charles Hotel.

And, eventually, late one night, after dinner at Marcuccio’s, they had shared a brandy at Clio in the Eliot Hotel and, soon after, had found themselves sharing a bed as well.

"I'm so worried about her. I believe she's in danger. I don't think she knows what she's doing."

"Try and tell her that," replies Ed forlornly. "Did you know you'd lost an earring?"

Renie tugs at her ear--which is bare. The other magnificent earring still dangles in place. "Never mind. Ed--she's--"

But Ed has moved away from the bench, walking towards the rows of roses. "I'm beginning to think she's never loved me. Not really. You don't go and leave the one you love behind. Again and again." His voice disappears among the frantically red blooms. He turns a corner and comes face to face to an angry Mrs. Gruber. Her hands are behind her back.

"Are you saying I don't love my husband?"

"I was talking about Claudia."

"You were talking about me. And Claudia. And scores of other women who are as true to themselves as they are to the people they love. It's that spirit--the very one you chide her for--that you love. Women who can--and do--break the molds that others set for them. Women who meet life head on. They don't wait for the right moment--they make it."

"It's different for you Hans. He knows you love him."

"It's no different." Men can be so infuriating. Her right hand materializes, from behind her back. "You see this rose? It's beautiful. Achingly beautiful. But it's got thorns. The thorns are part of its beauty." She hands it to Ed. "This is Claudia."

Ed stares at the rose . . . and promptly bursts into tears. Renie does the best she can to comfort him. Obviously this has been long in coming. "What is it?" Gently.

He lifts his soft brown eyes to hers. "This rose is here, with me. And I think she's with--with HIM." He flusters. "I don't mean to . . ."

She shakes her head. "Don't apologize . . . but--you're not going to stand around here moping, are you?"

A kind of energy comes into his eyes. "Not on your life." He lifts his arm for her to take, and together, they leave the holodeck. He still holds the rose, tightly in his hand.

"Thank-you." Renie handles the perfect rose carefully, avoiding its thorns. Her words are trimmed with heavy emotion. She owes him a great deal.

"Ah, Wolsey," mutters the Doctor. The cat jumps onto Renie's lap, rubbing against her shoulder, displacing the rose from her lap.

"Am I--really all right?" Renie strokes Wolsey gently, behind the ears.

The Doctor's explanation of events had seemed both plausible and fantastic. (This was not unusual where he was concerned.) No, she had not been in mortal danger, though she had banged up a leg, and her insides, and been "a trifle unconscious." Since the hospital could not compare with his facilities aboard the Tardis, he had, well, signed her out to be placed under his care. To prevent any undue publicity, he had taken the Tardis away from the prying eyes of Egdon while she was being treated. He had left Colin a note with a staff doctor. She was expected back shortly.

"But my baby--" Though Wolsey purrs in her warm lap, she feels a shudder, for a moment.

Yes, there was a chance she might miscarry. This had been a tricky matter. However, working with the medical tools of the Tardis, his own considerable skill, and the latest laser techniques of Gallifrey, he had virtually banished the prospect of her being bedridden for the next few months. Not to mention his expert healing of her superficial leg injury and bruises. He had left her beauty mark, however.

"So." A blush spreads over her, as she reminds herself that he is a doctor. "I'm in better shape than when I started the trip?"

Wolsey stretches, and jumps off her lap, ignoring the red rose lying at her side, on the bench.

"Except for those side effects I've told you about, you're fit as a fiddle--though may I remind you that even fiddles are not indestructible." Here, a warning glare not far from parental concern. "And the storms have cleared as well. I think things will be looking up." A big friendly smile from the Doctor, as Ed appears. "Ah, Ed. So that's how Wolsey got in here. You can see Renie now--" as Ed wraps Renie in a big gentle hug--"and we're nearly ready to land at Egdon cottage. In the cottage, if you like, judging the size of 'your home away from home.'" With this, the good Doctor chuckles to himself, as he leaves the holodeck to check the navigational heading of the Tardis, which in no way needs his help at this particular time.

Ed's beard, soft against her skin. "You don't look ill at all," he says, letting her go enough to look at her.

"He says I'm fine--now." She hesitates. This has to be done. "But Ed--where's Claudia?"

Darkness.

And cold. Night in early winter.

The camera adjusts to the blackness, much as a man's eyes would adjust, until it is not all black: the stars reveal themselves, all the brighter for the waning moon.

Movement. And the occasional flicker of artificial light, soon to be shaded against detection--but for now, this far out from the centre, there are electrical torches illuminated over plans and dispatches, the many-coloured glows of switches . . . and heavy reliance on night-vision goggles.

"You received the summary from Commander Hudson."

It is not a question--not from Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart of UNIT, who stands near one of his technicians, watching closely as the man monitors his equipment.

"Yes, sir. And the findings from the scientific advisor--you know, that strange little man . . ."

"You mean The Doctor."

"Who?"

"Exactly." Tight smile from the Brigadier; the joke is more than a quarter-century old, now. "You understand how to proceed, then."

"That's not the problem, sir. From what Commander Hudson's informant seems to have told her, and the findings of the . . . Doctor . . . we'll have to move in slowly, that's all. With this talk of caves, maybe tunnels, in that West Wood . . ." The tech shakes his head. "We'll be monitoring the magnetic resonance response and the echolocator signatures. But past a certain depth . . . it simply isn't possible to be certain. The Interrogator could pass under our lines and come up behind us. And get away."

"We had thought of that," comes the crisp reply, as Lethbridge-Stewart reaches into his field jacket and withdraws a set of papers. "Have a look at these."

The technician studies the sheets, squinting a little from the distortion of the low lights and the goggles. "Yes," he finally offers, "I see." A pause. "But it's likely that HE would be suspicious of any information that came too easily."

"It's a known communications frequency of UNIT and The Alliance. If The Interrogator overhears, perhaps HE will think we're getting sloppy." A small, mirthless grin. "HE has no great opinion of us, at any rate--a state of affairs that I hope to change, before this proceeding is over."

There is a brief, weighty silence before Lethbridge-Stewart continues. "But to keep it from being too easy, we'll be periodically blanketing the area with low-level interference. Genuine communications traffic among UNIT, the AR, and the Imperial Guard will be kept to a minimum, and on a heavily shielded frequency. And scrambled. So . . ."

The Brigadier is no longer facing the technician, but has turned to survey the countryside stretched out before them in the darkness. No landmarks to lend sense of direction; however--could he but know it--Lethbridge- Stewart has aimed himself, as iron drawn to adamant, toward the lowering Wood where a great enemy of The Realm lies in wait.

"So," repeats the Brigadier. "If this goes as we hope--then HE will think we are in one place, when in reality . . . we shall be somewhere else."

"She loved these roses." Mary Anne's voice broke with emotion. Colonel Brandon was at her shoulder, in black gloves. Mary Anne was in black, her face pale. Her eyes red from crying.

"Hush," murmured Brandon, holding her weight against his own, so his wife should not collapse from sorrow.

She dreamed of a funeral. Of roses. She could smell them.

*****

She woke to roses. There was no mistaking them--Delaford roses. The sweet smell drew her mind away from the dark places it had been.

She opened her eyes. She was lying on a bench, in afternoon sunlight, the full blooms arching everywhere. Tea roses and Sophia's Treasures, all too rich with color to be real.

"We are aboard the Tardis. You'll be tired and groggy for a bit longer. I thought perhaps this place might quicken your recovery." The words of The Doctor were slow to penetrate. "You've had a nasty bump, thanks to the Master. But you-- and your baby--should be all right."

"I feel--woozy." The sunlight was so bright. It hurt her eyes.

"You can thank the Tardis that you don't feel a mite worse. Though the treatment has been known to have a few side effects. The worst of which is--you'll hate Vegemite for a few weeks."

She sat up. "I can't stand Vegemite."

"You see?" Although she was sure he had taken her meaning, she began to smile nonetheless. The Doctor padded over to a rose, and clipped it neatly off with a hand pruner. "The best side effect is a craving for sugar. Lots of it." Handing the green stem to Renie, he said, "Time to get you back to Egdon. They've been looking for you."

Colin tries to form a plan between sips at the Quiet Woman. Only tea can be served--tea, as it is the absolute middle o' th' night. The hearth fire has been heaped with wood and cuttings. It crackles, as does the conversation of men in caps. No women at this hour, though by dawn the town will be full of clacking dames, who to be sure can talk a man to an early death. If he be lucky.

Sips of tea; but thanks to Colin's tiny silver flask, Thomasin's famous tea takes on an even bolder taste. He replaces it inside his pocket. It made events no clearer. He would have to contact Hans, or he would be for it. Just where in blazes had everyone on the plane gone so fast? And now, he'd lost Renie and The Doctor, too. Even the Tardis had gone missing.

Colin sips deeply, and flexes the muscles in his bandaged left arm. Sore. A familiar-looking man in high-buttoned doctor's whites pulls up a well-worn chair. Settles himself next to Colin. Without introducing himself, he hands Colin a folded letter.

"My Dear Mister Molyneux,

Most practical if Renie comes with me for medical reasons. She will be returned to Egdon Cottage shortly. Tell Claudia that the Master was responsible for the near disaster of the Hansbank jet. When you see her.

The note certainly made things clear as the sludge in the bottom of a mug of old mead. The man did not make any effort to explain himself. "And you are?" asked Colin.

The man spoke quietly. "That's not important. I work at the hospital now. The gentleman asked me to deliver that note to you." Yes. Colin recognized the nondescript doctor's face from the trauma center. That familiarity . . . "I knew Renie," he continued, "--when she was first married to HIM." The doctor rose and went out the door of the Quiet Woman.

Colin rose and followed him into the night.

I'm pushing my luck here, aren't I?

"I asked you if you were finished." HIS voice was a low hiss in Therese's ear, and she could feel HIS breath, warm against her bare neck. "Respond."

"I'll give you a response," Therese muttered darkly, twisting about within HIS grasp as she unsuccessfully attempted to raise her knee to groin level.

HE spun her back to face the wall once again, his fingers tightening painfully along the pressure points on both sides of her neck. Therese's arms came up to grasp at the wall in a futile effort to support her body as her knees buckled with the pain. She groaned slightly under the assault, her face contorting as she struggled not to cry out. Then, as quickly as HE began, HE ceased, and stepped backwards. Without HIS support, Therese slid to the floor.

She spun around quickly, keeping an eye on HIM as HE retrieved the bag which Minion had brought into the room. Lifting it from the floor The Interrogator once again approached. With a dramatic flair, HE raised HIS arm high into the air, plunged it quickly into the sack, and brought forth. . .

A RUBBER DUCKIE!?!?

Pouncing upon Therese, HE squeaked it at her noisily as she shook her head, giggling breathlessly. "You are a NUT!" she gasped between chuckles.

"CUUUUTTTT!!!!!!" roared out across the soundstage as The Director, one hand on hip, the other stabbing accusitively into the air, approached his actors. When he was within several feet of the two hooligans, he paused, his eyes narrowing, and arms crossing in front of his body. "You two are acting like juevinle delinquents," he said very calmly. TOO calmly, Therese thought to herself, as she swallowed the grin she had been wearing.

"Therese had no idea, truly," Mr. I explained gallantly, "it was all my doing--a bit of a relief from the strain, if you will."

The Director gazed at Mr. I, his features hard, eyes cold. Ice cold. Therese couldn't be sure, but she was almost positive that she saw HIM swallow. Yes, there, HE had.

The Director paused, and reached into the pocket of his trousers, his face breaking into a wide, even grin. "Besides, you forgot this." He tossed a rectangular object toward the stunned actor, before returning jauntily to his camera off the set.

Therese lay prostrate on the floor, laughing hysterically.

"What in the bloody hell?" Mr. I demanded.

"It's called, 'Soap on a rope!!!'" Therese finally managed to wheeze before disolving once more into uncontrolled laughter.

But she’d just convinced herself she was clinging to her fears, holding them close, so did she subconsciously want to fail? NO! But if she continued being addicted to fear she was setting herself up to fail. Fear held you back. But it hasn’t held me back, it has always pushed me forward.

Claudia was confused at the thoughts whirling through her mind, so when she rounded a corner in the guest wing, the corridor her room was on, she very nearly blew everything. There was a guard standing sentry outside her door, and there were faint echoes of movement, electricity in the air that she should have picked up moments ago, if her mind hadn’t been occupied with its internal struggle.

Quickly she blew out the candle, so her face was just a smudge in the darkened corridor. She continued walking purposefully forward with her head down, to her door and reached out for the handle. The guard’s hand fell on her shoulder. Damn! She put on her best West Country accent and fell straight into character. “Laundry…” she lifted the clothes in her arms.

“At this time of night?”

“Get most of my work done at noight, I do. No interruptions. Besides, the young lady arsked for a midnoight snack, she did.” Claudia held up the plate of biscuits to the guard, and grinned conspiritally. “Waant one?”

Commander Martha Hudson of the Alliance Rose lies on her bed, her eyes closed.

It is clear that she had not expected to sleep the night undisturbed, for she is fully clothed save for her uniform jacket, which is draped neatly over a chair, and her low boots placed beside the bed and ready to step into at a moment's notice.

And now, from the night table, the buzz of her cell phone.

Her eyes open. No trace of surprise; she had already awakened. Before the second buzz, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and sits up straight, reaching for the phone. "Hudson."

A pause, and then: "Yes. At once."

The Commander breaks the connection, and then begins--efficiently, without any sign of anxiety or undue haste--to make ready for what lies ahead of her.

The first step, after resuming full uniform, is to visit the room next door and awaken the Lieutenant--who has not been asleep either, but answers the door at the first knock.

"Looey. It's time."

To which Looey offers no verbal reply, save a nod and an unmistakable spark of excitement in her eyes as she reaches for her own cell phone.

Through a series of camera cuts, we see the news travel through Delaford, from Commander Hudson and her Lieutenant, to Doctors Joanna McCoy and Marian DuBois, to Lieutenant Sifuentes, and through them to all degrees of lesser personnel stationed through Delaford, each knowing their posts and their duties: some to retain their stations on guard around Delaford, both in the house and about the grounds; others to gather their gear and join the assembly out in the field--the troops of UNIT and various Alliance combat teams that have taken their positions in the giant circle that has formed for miles around Delaford and Barton.

A circle that will now begin to close . . .

. . . in the attempt to capture The Interrogator.

Roaring, raw power assaulted his senses.

Nothing in his experience of wide, lazy, southern rivers compared to the rattle of the Snake. Ever deepening canyons, the river seemed to squeeze the Wagon Train, test its mettle with the roughest terrain. Sinclair shuddered at the memory of the slewed cart, a wheel bouncing slowly before helpless hands, over the 200 foot cliff.

Majestic, beyond comprehension, living up to it's name Americian Falls Sinclair heard the sirens' call to take an extra step.

Raising hands, as if drawing the power of the waters unto his spirit he bellowed defiance, releasing the tension of the past days toil.

No evidence? Andrea is glad to be sitting down. The blood drains from her head as she considers that her only weapon is her word -- against George's.

Of course, other thoughts also rush through her brain. Who would steal the evidence? Who does George (or Mitchell) have working for him? Who is Mitchell working for? Surely, he is being well paid to defend a rapist; and George is forever pleading poverty.

Her mind keeps coming back to the night that George escaped after her confrontation with The Interrogator. She still cannot fathom why HE would help The Sheriff. Is HE continuing to help Nottingham?

As some blood returns to her head, Andrea finds her voice. "Mr. Mitchell. Who has paid you to take this case?"

Real sleep eludes her, but her body demands rest. She lies on her makeshift couch, wrapped in the blanket, pressed against the warm wall and slipping into a light doze that deepens gradually into uneasy dreams. From these dreams, her waking and conscious mind seems to stand back, a detached and passionless spectator at the play of memory and imagination.

The Interrogator figures in many of these dreams, though HE seldom actually appears in them--HE is a shadow on the wall, a voice, a breath of chill air. A memory, sunk fathoms deep in icy water, that surfaces . . .

Of my bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were my eyes . . .

No, Mary Anne, no, not "my bones," it's "his bones, his eyes . . ."

Fathoms deep. Lying in blackness at Safehouse #3, not unconscious, hearing every word spoken about her--but unable to respond. Sinking, as into the ocean depths . . . the limitless tides of her tears . . .

HIS eyes.

HIS voice. Safehouse #3. Lying there before The Interrogator as HE knelt over her, stroking her arm with what passes for tenderness.

"You are so beautiful . . . "

Mary Anne trembles at the memory, blinks her eyes . . . almost fully awake . . .

The dreams withdraw, but do not flee. As her eyes grow heavy once more . . .

Eyes. The portrait gallery at Delaford.

Christopher, which is your father, which is your brother? Or are they even here?

She doubts it. It occurs to her, there in that zone between sleeping and waking, that Brandon's ire runs so deep that he will not see their faces; an ironic revenge from the master of Delaford, the man whom no one believed would be the master. Christopher Brandon, who displays without hesitation or apology the likeness of a ducal ancestor who had an eye to his own advantage and was no better than he should have been, not to mention a wild highlander who fled his village under charges of witchcraft, and a "gentleman" of the highways who was hanged for his crimes--these may be seen, but not his father or brother.

He will neither display their faces nor speak their names.

What else do I not know about this man?

Oh, but don't be absurd, Mary Anne! Christopher loves you; you know he does. No matter if he wasn't himself, tonight--he loves you and he'd never hurt you.

"My life upon his faith . . ."

There you go again. "Her faith."

I know. "Her" faith. My faith. I love you, sir; I'll always love you . . .

Not himself.

That clasp of untrammeled strength, each searing kiss . . . his eyes, huge and dark there above her . . .

"You are so beautiful . . . "

His voice, his eyes.

And then, puzzlement: Dark? But Christopher's eyes are . . . golden . . .

But she is too exhausted and her mind abandons the struggle. Finally, Mary Anne's own weariness overwhelms her and her troubled half-waking dreams are submerged in the dark tide of sleep. Flowing about her, drawing her down.

Full fathom five.

And this time she was playing the bad guy. Or at least, to all but her it would look like she was the bad guy. She'd just locked Mary Anne in the pantry and now she started picking up her belongings, one by one, from the table in the servant's parlour, and putting them in the large pocket in the front of her apron.

Mary Anne being in the pantry had solved one problem and caused another. Claudia had planned to call on the Colonel with a plate of goodies and a drink of warm milk, sent up by his wife. Now she couldn't get at any goodies without letting Mary Anne out. Not one to be beaten that easily (she was on a roll tonight) she started searching the servant's parlour for anything useful. She was quickly rewarded for her optimism.

Almost . . .

Colin nearly falls flat on his back as the twins scramble up to him. "Are you lot here?" The boys tell him that Claudia isn't with them, though Ed can be found, if he was wanted. Looking at them, Colin realizes how much he misses Claudia, and her madcap style. He could use a bit of lightening up.

Speaking of light, stepping outside the Tardis, he can see the lights being thrown around in the cleared field where the Hansjet had landed--curious Wessex townsfolk marveling at the huge winged mechanical sitting like a plucked pheasant on a giant table. Those who had visited the Quiet Woman for any length of time look doubly hard at the jet--their voices seeking confirmation that the "thing wi' wings be sittin' thar" and "it be so" and "whatever can it mean?" and the like. The lone sentry left to guard the plane is in for some scrutiny as well, while the other crew members are cared for at the new hospital, which is living up to the namesake it was given. It would only be several hours before the crew had been treated, seen to the amenities to be delivered to Mrs. Gruber's "cottage" and had been helicoptered to other, less fantastical destinations, where carts and horses were relics of the past.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Renie knows none of this, nor will for several hours. Examined and treated by an odd looking fellow--who had remarked to her unheeding ears that she was lucky indeed that Time Lords took a passing interest in the machinations of silly humans--she has not awakened since the trouble began. True, she has tossed and turned, and was heard to call out several names--Hans being chief among them. But the Doctor has seen to her, and it will not be too long before she will wake.

It cannot come too soon for Colin, who had heard her cry for dearest friend Mary Anne, then lapse back into darkness. That Mary Anne could help her, be there for her, was desirable, certainly. He considers whether, when the Doctor is finished, he ought to call Mrs. Brandon, despite the hour. Then he remembers that the private telephone line Hans set up could not be reached by any simple means, this being Egdon, and without modern amenities, except by special arrangement. He could ride a horse--thanks to some idle time spent with Emilie at Delaford--but was not horseman enough to ride so well so far, and at night. He would send someone else to go.

The better part of two hours was spent thus, anticipating in every possible way what Renie would need. When he returned to the hospital, he was surprised to find that the Doctor had gone, and so--to his amazement--had his patient.

She’d completed a very active day. Ted and Barney accepted her new status as their boss’s wife with little difficulty. She had been amused when, after a moment of surprise, they had pulled off their hats. It was a respectful gesture that had not been accorded to their fellow employee Sam Flanagan.

Checking out of the Royal was easier than she’d anticipated. Although too conscious of their status as the premier hotel in town to actually eject a customer as well- heeled as her husband, it was obvious that their departure was a relief to the staff. The wagons back to the ranch had been loaded in record time.

The biggest problem she’d had to face had been the boys. Liam asked only one question: “Does Elliott want us to go to his ranch?” Upon hearing an affirmative answer, he’d nodded and set out to pack his belongings for the trip. Conn’s major concern was whether he’d have his blanked and his tin soldiers. Niall was another matter.

To her surprise, Niall listened quietly, his large gray eyes unblinking and solemn. He’d asked no questions and made no comments. Sam didn’t know what to make of his response. She couldn’t forget the sight of his forlorn figure on the last wagon, staring back at her in mute appeal, as it lumbered down the street.

“Just once.” Elliott Marston took a bite of his chicken and chewed meditatively. “Now why would Ches Watters want me dead?”

“Where did she kiss you?” She sipped her wine, dragging her mind back to immediate issues.

“Hm? Oh, in the back parlor.” He mopped up some gravy with a crust of bread. “I’ve been racking my brains but it’s no good. I’ve never even heard of the man. And he certainly didn’t know me that day at Fletcher’s Stables.”

“That’s not what I meant. On the lips?” With a frown, Sam plunked her glass on the table and picked up her fork. “Or where?”

“What are you talking about?” Marston looked up, surprised at her tone. “She kissed my ear. That’s all she had time for.”

“Well, I think I’m going to have a word with Miss Lilly before bedtime.” She stabbed her fork into a potato and mutilated it into bite-size pieces with her knife.

“I tell you that a man I never heard of tried to hire your father to kill me and you’re worried about whether some woman kissed me?” He stared at her incredulously. It seemed a strange priority under the circumstances.

“Let’s deal with one subject at a time.” The potato required quite a bit of aggressive chewing. “Did you like it?”

“No, I didn’t. I don’t care for attar of roses.” He pushed his plate away, watching her warily. She poked at her food, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ll show you how it happened if you like.” He stood up and held out his hand. She accepted it with a sidelong look, suspicious of his bland tone. “We don’t have an overstuffed chair up here so we’ll have to use the bed.”

He sat down and bounced into the center of the mattress. “She was sitting on my lap like this. That’s right.” He positioned her properly. “Now put your arms around my neck.”

“Yes, I can see how she did it.” Lilly’s methods were not sophisticated, Sam decided. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled his ear. “Now tell me what else she said about Watters.”

“That was all. Either she’s not a great listener or he wasn’t a big talker.” Marston frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. “What did Watters have against me?”

“Maybe Watters was just the middle-man.” Sam kissed her way along his jaw to his chin. “Someone who does have a grudge against you could have got him to hire Dad.”

“Maybe.” He tilted his head back to make things easier for her. “But that doesn’t answer the main question. Who in this town wants me dead? And why?”

“It would have to be someone pretty big to explain why a rich business lawyer like Robert Buttershaw would be involved.” Sam began an intimate assault on his other ear. “He wasn’t interested in Ches Watters. He was protecting someone else.”

“Brilliant as well as beautiful!” Marston hugged her waist as he considered the possibilities. “Now let me think. The only people in town that I deal with regularly are my banker, my lawyer and my suppliers.”

“It’s not likely to be someone in that group. You’re a source of revenue for them.” Sam ran her fingers through his hair. It seemed to aid in her thinking, so she did it again. “And why would they try to kill you now instead of last year or next year? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Very well. Then it’s someone else.” Marston leaned back against the pillows and furrowed his brow in concentration. “I don’t mix socially with very many people when I’m here.”

“You must have some friends in town.” She sat up and kissed his nose.

“There’s Gil Johnson, the mayor. But I can’t see him dealing with the likes of Watters.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know, you’re much better at this than Lilly.”

“Thank you, kind sir. I do aim to please.” Lilly’s pose was not designed for long-term activity. Sam twisted around so that she was straddling his lap with her knees on the bed. She resumed her admiration of his ear.

“You’re right. We’ve got to find out who Buttershaw’s clients and friends are. I’ll talk to Collins in the morning.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Sam shrugged off his grip and pushed him down into the softness of the bed. “I’ll talk to Melvin in the morning. You’ll stay here where it’s safe.” She leaned over him in a mock-threatening manner.

“Very well.” He grinned up at her. “I’ll stay here where all I have to worry about is fighting off half-naked women.”

“Nice try, Mr. Marston.” She straightened up, hands on her hips. “But by tomorrow morning you won’t be much use to them.”