Meniscus - Part 2

by Adelheide

The Agency learns more of the origins of the invisible woman

"Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company."

- Mark Twain

Brenda Kozlowski's emergence from the Land of the Nod caused a great deal of ruckus. Technicians and agents emerged from the woodwork and were bustling about. About one half hour after Brenda had lapsed back into unconsciousness, Claire was rushing through the hall. She had left home in a hurry and had just enough time to pull some jeans on over her pajama bottoms. An oversized, tattered sweater saved her the indignity of being ogled in her brief camisole. She efficiently ordered the mob about. Fawkes and the Official stood in the hall, away from the chaos, as Fawkes filled the other man in on what had taken place. The Official shook his head and accepted the news silently.
After Bloom had been taken elsewhere to be tended to and another tech had taken his place, Claire made sure another set of agents stood outside the door. Security cameras were set up in Lab 3 and the surrounding halls. The Official grimaced, mentally calculating the costs of these safeguards, but he kept quiet. In an hour, she was able to break away from the tasks at hand and approached the two staying out of the way. Claire had pulled her hair up and used a pen to pin up the loose twist. For someone who was usually so put together, it was an odd sight. With all that had happened, however, neither man really noticed.
"I think we have her secured now," she told the Official.
"How is she?" Darien asked.
"Resting. And I have good news and bad news."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the good side is that we now know that Brenda's brain is still functioning on higher levels. She's able to think and operate, if only in a primitive manner at the moment." She grimaced, reluctant to continue. Fawkes touched her arm briefly, urging her to continue. "The bad news is that this particular episode does not speak well of her state of mind. Tonight, she could have been reacting out of confusion and fear. But it's possible that this is a permanent condition. I'm going to run a CAT scan tomorrow. That will tell me if there has been any physical changes to her brain. Unfortunately, what you saw tonight may be the extent of what she'll be capable of."
"Fawkes said she acted like a terrified animal," the Official added.
"Yes. She may be like that for the rest of her life."
"Wait a minute," Fawkes said. "Do you mean to tell me that Brenda's going to continue to be-" Crazy was the word that leapt immediately to mind, but he was reluctant to use it. "That she's going to end up in some crummy day room somewhere, weaving potholders and talking to herself?"
"It's too soon to tell. As I said, I've scheduled more tests-"
"I want to see her." He broke away from them and headed for the door to Lab 3.
"Darien, wait!"
One of the agents guarding the door held up a hand, blocking access to the room. Fawkes looked from the guard back to Claire, incredulous. She joined him and nodded to the guard, who moved his hand and stood at attention. Fawkes shook his head and went in.

Brenda was back on the bed, unconscious. Her IV and sensor pads were reconnected. The big difference now was that her ankles and wrists were in heavy leather restraints. Fawkes felt a surge of despair. He remembered restraints exactly like those. Restraints that had kept him tied to a bed moments before Kevin was killed. He felt Claire come to his side. She stood silently, giving him a moment to collect himself.
"Do you really need to use those?" he finally asked.
"She could hurt someone, Darien." When he huffed impatiently, she added, "She could also hurt herself." He rubbed his forehead then ran his hand through his hair. She was right, of course. He just hated seeing someone else in those things.
"What now?" he asked, suddenly very tired.
"I think we all could use some sleep. I'll be in early for the CAT scan. After that, we can talk about what to do next."
"I agree with the doctor," the Official said from behind, his tone gentle. "I think we should all go home and get a good night's sleep."
"You two go ahead. I'm going to stay here."
"Darien," the Keeper began, a scold hidden in her voice.
"Claire," he returned, looking in her eyes and leaving no room for argument. She surrendered and left him there while she got the last of the evening's events tied up and the extra personnel cleared out. The Official gave him what Fawkes supposed was an encouraging smile before he, too, left. Fawkes settled in the chair by the bed and waited until all but the technician in the room and the two guards outside the door were gone. He then retrieved the book on the nightstand. He flipped it open to where he'd left off and started to read. After a minute, he stopped. He looked up at Brenda's frail form. She wasn't a small woman, but she looked wasted and tiny. He stood and looked down at her for a while. The thought of her spending the rest of her days in an agency loony bin struck close to home. He'd often wondered what was in store for him, down the road, with years of having the gland in his brain behind him. If he lived that long.
Fawkes climbed onto the bed and sat close to her head, using the chair as a footrest so that he wouldn't crowd her. He opened the book again and began to read aloud.

The next morning, Fawkes pushed open the door to Hobbes' office and nearly collided with his partner, who was on his way out.
"Fawkes. Good. Let's go." Hobbes continued into the hallway.
"Go? Go where?" Another night in the plastic chair had left him a little out of it.
"We have a 11 o'clock meet in LA," Hobbes called over his shoulder as he moved quickly down the corridor.
Fawkes had to run to catch up. "Who do we need to see in LA?"
Hobbes blew through the door at the end. "Mike Inowa. Field supervisor for the LA office of ATF."
Fawkes had to take advantage of his long legs to keep up with Hobbes. He couldn't decide if this new sense of purpose was good or bad. God, he needed a cup of coffee. Hobbes plowed through the main door and into the bright sunshine of a new day. The glare nearly knocked Fawkes over. He still stood by the door, holding up an arm to shield his eyes and blinking, when Hobbes blared the van horn. Fawkes squinted into the cab. Hobbes was behind the wheel, engine started, ready to go.
"Move it, Fawkes," Hobbes called through the open passenger window. He was way too energetic. The younger man made his way to the van, still dazed by the bright light. "Let's go!" Hobbes hollered. "C'mon! We're burning daylight!"

Fawkes found his sunglasses and crammed them onto his face. "Okay, okay! Jeez. Where's the fire?"
Hobbes didn't want to stop, but Fawkes insisted. If he was going to spend over an hour in the van, he needed a caffeine fix. Hobbes grudgingly yanked the van into the lot of a convenience store, barely giving Fawkes time to run in and out before he was yelling at his partner to hurry up. Once under way again, Fawkes slid down in his seat, propping his knee against the dashboard. He took a long pull from the styrofoam cup and glanced at Hobbes through his dark lenses. His partner was focused on the road, leaning into the wheel a bit, intent on their destination. Fawkes decided he could wait for the caffeine to kick in before he struck up conversation. Hobbes was just a wee bit too intense for him this early in the morning.
Hobbes barked a few invectives at the motorists who hampered his entrance to California Highway 5. A few minutes later, Hobbes took them on to Hwy 405 North. Fawkes grumbled internally that if they were going to be making this long drive, at least they could use the PCH. A nice drive along the coast would do him some good. But one look at Hobbes' harsh expression changed his mind. He finished his coffee in silence.
Outside San Clemente, Fawkes decided he'd had enough quiet for the day. He sat up in his seat and said, "So? Is this Mike guy expecting us?"
"Yup."
Fawkes waited for more, but when none came, he prompted, "Care to elaborate on that?"
"I called his office last night." Another long pause.
"Okay. Why?"
"Because the chief won't approve airfare for us to go to Tampa."
"Tampa? Why would- Oh, I get it. You want to get some info on Brenda."
"Kozlowski, our suspect," Hobbes snarled.
Fawkes felt a flare of anger and fought it back. He was not going to get into this with Hobbes today. "But if she'd been working out of the Tampa office, why are we going to LA?"
"I told you, the Official won't authorize airfare."
"Yeah, but what is a guy in LA going to tell us about an agent from Tampa?"
"We gotta start somewhere, Fawkes!" Hobbes exploded. After a minute of obvious struggle getting his temper under control, he continued. "Inowa can get us personnel files, maybe grease the wheels to talk to Kozlowski's boss. I want to know why she took this 'leave of absence', who approved it, and if anyone knows anything about her plans to go back to work. Of course, flying to Tampa would be ideal. We could talk to her friends and coworkers, really get an idea for what was going on with Kozlowski before she split. But that cheap bastard wants us to try this tack first." Hobbes settled into silence, clearly unhappy.
Fawkes pointed his face to his window and closed his eyes, feeling the wind and letting his mind wander. Long moments rolled by, with nothing but the sound of the engine and the rush of air. He lazily tossed some ideas around, not really expecting anything new. He was a little startled when inspiration flashed across his mind. "Hey, Hobbes."
"What?"
"What did you find out about this Cognitive Trust?"
Hobbes grunted. "Nothing. Big fat zero."
"Nothing?"
"Nope. And Eberts was getting pretty creative in his search attempts, too. The best we can figure out is it's some kind of government think tank."
Fawkes mulled that over. "According to the papers we found in Climes' office, it seemed like they had a lot of pull in the Project."
Hobbes changed lanes without signaling, going around a slow-moving ancient pickup. "They had the purse strings."
"But think tanks don't do that."
"Wha'd'ya mean?"
"Hobbes, think tanks are just a collection of writers, professors, scientists, theorists--people like that. They get together and think up solutions to issues and problems. They make recommendations. They're just supposed to be a resource. They're not supposed to make policies."
"Sure looked to me like Cognitive Trust had a lot of say."
"Exactly my point. They had all the cash. Climes went up against them and even with all his family's money, position, and power, he lost."
They were approaching the outskirts of Los Angeles. Green signs alerted them that they were approaching LAX. Hobbes eased over and got on to 110 North. "So, you don't think Cognitive Trust is just a think tank?"
"I don't think so, no."
"So what are--" Hobbes broke off to yell at a semi that narrowly missed their front end. "So what are they?"
"Beats the hell out of me," Fawkes said, finishing off his coffee. For lack of a better place to put the cup, he jammed it under the seat assembly. "Do you think they might have been the ones to make the decision on the finalists chosen from Quicksilver?"
"The Agency's letterhead was all over the paperwork. It looks like the chief was in on the decision."
"But Climes made the final first choice. And it looks like he was pretty tight with that group."
Hobbes was quiet for a long time. Fawkes let him be. His own doubts about Cognitive Trust were growing by the day, especially considering all the time Hobbes had put in, trying to pin them down. The use of think tanks was a point of pride with government agencies. Why was this one so hard to find? He'd seen the results of the work Hobbes and Eberts had done. While the two had come up with all kinds of information on other think groups, Cognitive Trust was shadowy and elusive. It sort of gave him the creeps that these mystery people were behind the gland attached to the back of his brain.
"That lab was pretty low-rent," Hobbes said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"It doesn't make any sense that they'd be willing to put all that money in Kozlowksi's head and not buy themselves some new equipment."
"Maybe all the money went into her gland."
"Nah. If you're gonna drop a few million, what's a few thousand more?" Hobbes pursed his lips and thought for another moment. "Makes me wonder if that was the only lab."
The notion gave Fawkes a chill. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that maybe the reason that place was so slapped together and filled with discount goods is that it isn't the only lab operating. Maybe there are other gland projects going. Maybe all the money is going into other people's heads."
"Like the other four finalists for the original project?" He'd seen where Hobbes was going with this particular train of thought and so hoped he was wrong.
Hobbes nodded and glanced at him. "The thought had occurred to me."
So much for being wrong. "Climes was working with Cognitive Trust. He would have been able to get them the files on the other candidates."
Hobbes exited on 9th Street. "Yup. Sure would save them the time and trouble of finding their own guinea pigs. All of those people had to go through a screening process. Interviews, psych tests, the works." He pulled to a stop in the left-turn lane for Figueroa.
Fawkes watched the cross flow of traffic for a stunned minute. This was getting bigger and bigger. And uglier and uglier. There could be more people like Brenda out there? He was getting a headache and it wasn't from the gland. "We need to track down those other candidates."
The green arrow lit and Hobbes stepped on the gas. "You read my mind, partner."
They pulled into the visitor lot at 350 S. Figueroa. The ATF Los Angeles Field Office was a modern five-story block of yellow brick and tinted glass. Modest but large, it squatted on a lawn that was meticulously maintained. Bougainvillea was in control of the first floor walls and working up. They entered through the glass side door and were greeted by a rush of air-conditioned cool. The pair made their way to the main desk.
The lobby was wide but low in the ceiling. A large seal from the Treasury Department was the main feature on the floor. The desk was a wide granite affair with a tall front that hid security monitors from casual view. A uniformed guard sat behind the black rock surface, reading information from a logbook into the phone. He saw Hobbs and Fawkes, acknowledging their presence. He continued to relay information to the party on the other end of the line. A pair of agents emerged from the bank of elevators and passed through the lobby to the main doors. They discussed a case they apparently shared. The duo pushed through the double main doors and were gone.
The guard hung up his phone. "Yes, sirs? What can I do for you?"
Hobbes flashed his ID. "I'm Agent Hobbes. This is Agent Fawkes. We're here to speak to Director Inowa."
The guard--"Washington", according to his brass nametag--checked an appointment book. "Oh, yes. Agent Hobbes. One moment, please." Washington picked up the phone and informed the other person the agents from Fish and Game were there. After a couple of "uh-huhs", he hung up. "Third floor, gentlemen. Office 312. But first, I'll have to ask you to step over here." Washington picked up a detector wand and moved from behind the desk. He first ran it over Fawkes. The wand squawked about his belt buckle but was otherwise quiet. Hobbes, however, set the detector off immediately with his holstered gun. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave that with me."
Hobbes grimaced, but he pulled off his jacket, handed it to Fawkes, and unbuckled his shoulder holster. He handed the whole rig to Washington. Fawkes handed him back his coat. Washington wrapped the straps neatly around the holster. "You can pick these up on your way out. Office 312, gents," he reminded them genially.

They rode the steel-lined box to the third floor. The door opened on a scene that was part police squad room and part business office. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Cloth covered cube walls divided the space into a warren that housed desks and computers. Gold carpeting flecked with green provided color. A healthy fichus stood sentry over one cubby path. A mail clerk nearly ran them down with his cart. He grinned, apologized, and continued on his way. On the far end of the room someone burst into laughter. The place had a comfy feel, for an office.
"Well, I'm glad Uncle Sam provides for some of his agencies," Fawkes cracked. He and Hobbes stepped off the elevator.
"Look," Hobbes said longingly, pointing at a beverage set up. "They get free coffee."
"Hey, we're lucky we get free paper clips."
They started down a pathway. "Check out the new copy machine," Hobbes murmured when they passed a cubicle that housed two copiers and a fax.
"Yeah," Fawkes remarked. "They get equipment that was made after the Nixon administration."
"Lucky bastards," Hobbes grumbled, only half joking.
They finally located Office 312 at the far corner of the building. The door was protected by a pretty young Latina at a large, L-shaped desk. She stopped typing as they approached. "Agents Hobbes and Fawkes?" she asked, flashing a brilliant smile.
A dopey grin immediately spread across Hobbes' face. "Why, yes, miss, we are." He held out his hand as if to shake hers. But when she took his hand, he merely held on. "I'm Agent Hobbes. Bobby Hobbes. And you are..?"
Her large dark eyes danced with amusement. "Lucinda."
"Lucinda," Hobbes tasted the name and decided he liked it. "That's very pretty."
Oh brother. Fawkes never could figure out Hobbes' way with women, but he was getting a crash course from the master right now. At least Hobbes wasn't yelling or condemning for a change. Fawkes cleared his throat. Twice.
"Oh," Hobbes said, never taking his eyes from Lucinda. "Yeah. This is my partner."
Lucinda looked up at him. Fawkes could read that while she enjoyed the attention, she wasn't buying Hobbes' schtick today. "Director Inowa is expecting you."
"Oh, good," Fawkes said lightly. "Then we should probably go in and talk to him. Right? Hobbes?"
"Do you know of any good restaurants around here, Lucinda?" Hobbes asked smoothly.
Lucinda suppressed a grin. "There are several."
"Would you like to show one of them to me over lunch?"
She was losing her battle with the grin. "I'm flattered, Agent Hobbes--"
"Bobby," he encouraged.
"Agent Hobbes," she insisted kindly. "But I'm afraid I have plans for lunch."
"What about dinner?"
Lucinda had to bite her lip. "I have some work to finish. I'll need my hand back."
Fawkes leaned to his partner's ear. "Let's go inside--Bobby."
Hobbes reluctantly released her hand and graced her with a knowing smile. "Nice to meet you, Lucinda. Very nice...to meet you."
Fawkes rolled his eyes and pushed the shorter man toward the door. It was ajar and they both went it. Sunlight streamed through two walls of windows in the corner office. Inowa rose from his seat behind the desk. He was a stocky, compact Asian man in his late forties or early fifties. His suit jacket hung on the back of an expensive leather desk chair. Behind him, half the wall was occupied by bookshelves crammed with texts and tomes. The other half of the wall was covered with framed certificates and awards.
"Agent Hobbes?" Inowa asked in a deep, strong voice. It was a voice that belied his size.
Recovered from Lucinda's spell, Hobbes strode into the room, his hand extended again. "Yes, sir. I'm Robert Hobbes." Inowa took his hand and pumped it exactly twice. "This is Agent Fawkes."
On his cue, Fawkes stepped up to the large desk and took Inowa's hand. The director was shorter than Hobbes but he had a powerful grip. He shook Fawkes hand twice and released it.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak to us," Hobbes said.
"I'm not sure how I can help you gentlemen. But I am happy to make the time. Please, take a seat."
The guest chairs were upholstered in a tweed fabric. Fawkes sat down. They were much more comfortable than the chairs in the Official's office. "Can I get you gentlemen anything?" Inowa offered.
"No, sir, but thank you. We just need to speak to you about one of your agents."
"Ah," Inowa said, retrieving a file from a bin on his desk. "Agent Kozlowski."
"Yes, sir."
Inowa flipped open the file. "You understand that she worked out of our Tampa office? Not here."
"Yes, sir."
"I don't even know Agent Kozlowski. But I spoke to Director Falcone, who was her supervisor. He had a high opinion of her."
"Would an agent have to go through the director of their field office to be granted a leave of absence?" Hobbes asked.
"Indirectly, yes," Inowa replied, glancing down at the file. "An agent would need the approval of their field supervisor and their director. You're referring to this leave of absence I see noted in her personnel file, correct?"
Hobbes leaned forward in his chair. "Yes, I am, sir. May I see that?"
"Of course." Inowa handed the file across the desk.
Fawkes leaned over to see it as well. Not too much was new. Most of the pages were in their file back at the Agency. But he had one question. "On this leave release form. In the section called 'Reason for Leave'. All that is written here is 'Personal'."
"Yes. I noticed that," Inowa told him.
"Yet I see about five lines here."
"Yes."
"It looks like your agency requires more than a one-word answer to grant leave."
Inowa nodded. "Anthony Falcone approved the leave. I have to assume that he had all the information he needed." Inowa frowned. Clearly, this lax reporting wasn't tolerated in his office.
"Do you have a phone number for the director?" Hobbes asked, glancing down at the page. "This Falcone?"
"I can have my secretary get that for you." Inowa pressed the intercom button on his desk and relayed the request to Lucinda. "Is there anything else I can help you agents with?"
Fawkes and Hobbes exchanged a look. Hobbes asked with his eyes and Fawkes shook his head slightly. "No, sir," Hobbes said, rising and handing the folder back to Inowa. "But thank you very much for your time."
Inowa took his offered hand and pumped it twice again. "Not a problem, Agent Hobbes. I am happy to help." He shook Fawkes' hand twice and walked around the desk. When Fawkes turned to go, he noticed the last wall in Inowa's office. The wall had the door and a watercolor of a crane. Nothing else. Compared to the government office clutter in the rest of the office, this serene space gave the person at the desk a relaxed, uncluttered view. It was kind of nice. He followed Hobbes out.
Lucinda stood waiting for them. She gave Hobbes a folded piece of paper. Hobbes accepted it and gave her a wolfish smile. "Sure you won't change your mind about lunch?" he asked.
Fawkes could see the back view of Lucinda's desk now. He took Hobbes' elbow and began to steer him away. "Thank you," he told the assistant.
"No problem," she said, smiling at Hobbes. "Have a great day."
"It would be better if you--" A quick shove from Fawkes interrupted Hobbes. The taller man propelled him down the cloth hall. "Fawkes, what are you doing? She liked me!"
"Oh, I'm sure she did."
"I was almost there. I could have had a dinner date for this evening!"
"Her husband might have had something to say about that."
"Husband? What are you talking about?"
Fawkes pushed the call button for the elevator. "Don't tell me you didn't see."
"See what?'
Fawkes sighed. "The tanned line on her left ring finger. And the pictures of kids on her desk."
"They could have been nieces or nephews," Hobbes protested, quickly deflating.
"Uh-huh. They sure looked an awful lot like her." The doors rolled open and he nudged Hobbes inside the car.
The clues had been there. Hobbes had just chosen to ignore them. He slouched against the back wall. "Man. Can't believed I missed that."
"You know, if I'm ever in trouble, remind me not to get there if beautiful women are around."
"Huh?" Hobbes asked.
"Because in the time it will take you to score a date, I'm gonna be shot or dissected or something."
Hobbes pinned him with a glare. "Very funny. Come on. Did you see her?" They debated the inherent danger of lovely females on their way down the first floor, while collecting Hobbes' gun, and out the doors to the parking lot.


The drive back was quicker, due to less traffic. Once inside the Agency, Hobbes headed straight for his office. Fawkes started for the stairs. "Fawkes, where are you going?"
"Gonna see the Keep."
That wasn't whom he was really going to see and Hobbes knew it. "We've got a lot of work to do here," he reminded his partner, disgust tingeing his tone.
"I know," the younger man called from the other end of the hall. "I'll be right back up."
"Fawkes!" Who waved and disappeared through the door to the stair well. Dammit dammit dammit! What was with the kid, anyway? Hobbes went to his office to make the first of many phone calls for the day.

"Science fiction writers foresee the inevitable,
and although problems and catastrophes may be inevitable,
solutions are not."

- Isaac Asimov

Fawkes caught the Keeper coming out of Lab 3. "Hey, Claire! How is she?" He stepped toward the door. Claire took his arm and stopped him. Her expression made him stop completely. "What's wrong?"
"Come with me," she said quietly, maintaining her grip on his bicep and leading him down the hall to her lab. Once the door slid shut behind them, Fawkes looked at her with new urgency. "What is it? What's the matter?"
"I took Brenda over to County Memorial this morning to perform the CAT scan," she told him quietly.
Her mood was giving him a bad feeling. "And..?"
She crossed her arms and sighed. She was quiet for a long time--minutes that clawed at Fawkes' nerves. When she finally spoke, it was so softly he had to strain to hear. "There's a problem."
Fawkes waited for more illumination. With none forthcoming, his frayed nerves got the better of him. Dread bloomed in his stomach, cold and hard. "Claire, c'mon. You're killin' me here."
The Keeper walked briskly to the far end of the lab. Fawkes followed. A large metal table with a milky surface was covered with what looked like x-rays. Claire flicked a switch on the table and a light under the top flickered to life. The x-rays sprang into high relief. No, they weren't x-rays. The images looked more like negatives. Claire shuffled them around and pushed most to the side. She brought three forward.
"This is where the gland is situated in Brenda's brain," she said, pointing to a side view of the head. A bright white blob sat at the back of the head. "It's positioned near the juncture of the occipital and parietal lobes." She pointed to the next film. It was a view looking at the back of the brain. The white blob was slightly to the left. "This is not the same position as yours. Your brother knew what he was doing when he implanted your gland." The next image was of a cross section of the brain. There was a black shadow around the white blob.
"What's this?" Fawkes asked, pointing to the dark outline.
"That's the problem. It looks like her gland and her brain are at war. Because of the way the gland was implanted, it's putting pressure on her brain. The brain is retaliating like it would with any foreign body. It's sending out antibodies to attack the intruder. In turn, the gland is attacking brain tissue." The Keeper crossed her arms and pressed them tight against her body.
"So, what does all this mean?" Fawkes asked quietly. He hoped he was wrong about what he suspected the answer would be.
Claire spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I'm not sure. I do know if this continues, eventually..." She wouldn't say the ultimate. Claire never did. She had that doctor habit of not wanting to commit her theories to a worst case scenario. She didn't need to say the words. Her body language spoke volumes. "There's no way to be certain. This situation hasn't been seen before."
Fawkes felt like someone had just punched him in the gut. He braced his hands on the light table and hung his head. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't right. For whatever reason, Brenda had signed on for this project. Then she had been allowed to go crazy, was locked in a cage, then left behind for target practice. And now, despite all they'd done, she was going to die anyway?
Claire touched his arm. "Darien?"
He didn't look up. "Can you help her?"
"I'm not really set up here to be a long-term facility. Down the road, she's going to need full-time hospitalization."
Images of the Agency's nuthouse flashed before his mind's eye. He could picture Brenda languishing in one of the beds in a dim room deep in that place. It made him angry. "You can't take the gland out?"
Claire shook her head. "I would have the same luck with hers that I would have with yours."
"Is there anything you can do?" He was struggling now not to lose his temper. When Claire didn't answer, he finally looked up at her. Dismay and helplessness clouded her brow. His anger bubble popped and Fawkes shoved himself away from the light table. The table was scooted back a foot. A few films slid to the floor. Claire jumped but ignored them.
"Darien--"
"What?" he snapped, whirling to face her.
"I know this is upsetting."
"You do, huh? Because I wouldn't be able to tell from looking at you!" He spun and tried to stalk away. A metal trash can blocked his path. Fawkes kicked the offending item from his path. It flew across the floor and crashed against a brick wall. Claire jumped but kept silent. "You're taking this pretty well. But then, I guess it's not much of a concern for you. We're just experiments, aren't we? Brenda and I are just some interesting lab animals. And why should you care? It's not your brain being turned into Jell-O!"
Claire blinked as though slapped. She knew Darien was just upset. The last few days had been very stressful and he was just blowing off steam. But she felt her eyes sting and her throat close up. She would be damned, however, if she'd let him see her cry. "That's not fair, Darien," she managed.
He looked on the verge of another outburst when the wind went out of him. He shrunk like a deflated balloon until he had to sit on a desk for support. Fawkes shook his head, ashamed of lashing out at his Keeper. It wasn't her fault. She didn't put Brenda's gland in. "I'm...sorry. None if it is fair." He scrubbed his face with his hands, suddenly tired. He looked at her and felt a wave of despair. Claire looked ready to cry. She held herself tight and fingered her necklace. She wouldn't look at him. He stood, with great effort. Best to leave before he really blew it.
"I'm gonna...go upstairs. Hobbes and I may have a lead."
The Keeper nodded, still not looking at him. Tears glittered in her eyes.

Hobbes dropped the receiver in its cradle just as Fawkes walked in. The kid looked beat. But Hobbes was on a roll and hoped what he had would cheer his partner up.
"Fawkes. I got something."
The taller man slouched into the chair opposite Hobbes' desk. "What do you have?"
Hobbes snatched some papers from his printer. "A list of contacts. Kozlowski's family and friends. She had to talk to someone before she left for her 'leave'. Maybe one of them knows what she was up to." He handed two sheets to Fawkes. "Here you go. You call these people. I've got a list to work from, too."
Fawkes read the pages and went pale. "I can't talk to these people."
"What do you mean? That's her family in Minnesota. I thought you'd be good at talking to the family."
Fawkes held the papers out to him. "I can't talk to them. Not today. Give me the list of friends. I'll call them."
Hobbes peered at the other man. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Hobbes, just--please. You talk to these people. I'll call her friends."
He was aggravated but didn't want to argue. He handed the other list to Fawkes and took the family list back. He picked up the phone and dialed the first number. Fawkes retreated to the other side of the room, to the other phone. He looked like someone had just punched him. Hobbes decided it had something to do with Kozlowski, but didn't want to know. The kid was taking this whole thing too much to heart. The woman was a killer. Why he was spending so much time crying over her, Hobbes couldn't understand.
The connection was made and the phone on the other end began to ring. After the fifth ring, a pleasant female voice said, "Hello?"
"Hello," Hobbes said in his best professional voice. "May I speak to Mrs. Helga Kozlowski?"
"This is she."
"Mrs. Kozlowski, my name is Robert Hobbes. I work for the Department of Fish and Game. I wondered if I could have a moment of your time."
"Fish and Game?" The woman's confusion was clear. "What can I do for you, Mr. Hobbes?"
"Ma'am, I was wondering if you have spoken to your daughter, Brenda, recently."
There was a long silence. When Helga's voice returned, there was a tight, hard edge to it. "Why is the Department of Fish and Game looking for my daughter?"
"Mrs. Kozlowski, I am conducting an investigation and I am speaking to your daughter's friends and family."
"Why?" Suspicion oozed from that one syllable.
"I have reason to believe that your daughter is in some way involved with a case I'm working on."
Another pregnant pause. When Helga spoke again, it was softly but with venom. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but I'll thank you not to call me again."
Hobbes knew he just had a second until the line was disconnected. "Ma'am? Mrs. Kozlowski? Please don't hang up."
For a moment, he thought she had until, "Why shouldn't I, Mr. Hobbes?"
"I'm trying to find your daughter. I was hoping you might know where she is or how to reach her."
"Mr. Hobbes," Helga said, reaching the end of her patience, "I have not spoken to my daughter in almost five months. I have not been able to contact her. None of her friends knows where she is. I've called her supervisor and got the run around. I have even contacted the FBI--"
"The FBI?" Hobbes began scribbling notes.
"Yes. They told me that they could not look into this as a disappearance unless there was clear evidence to indicate there had been a kidnapping or...death." He heard the tension in her voice, the worry. Kozlowski's mom was telling the truth. "I don't know where Brenda is. But it is very unlike her to go for so long without calling or writing. We're a close family, Mr. Hobbes. No matter what is happening, we all manage to keep in touch."
"Yes, ma'am, I understand. Do you remember who you spoke to at the FBI?"
"Of course I do. Special Agent Ronald Jefferson out of the Minneapolis field office."
Hobbes wrote as she spoke. "And when was this, ma'am?"
"Six weeks ago."
Hobbes grabbed a thick Federal directory and began to flip through it. "When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Mrs. Kozlowksi?"
"Nearly five months ago, as I mentioned."
"Yes, ma'am. Did your daughter tell you anything that might lead you to believe she was in trouble?"
"No. She said she was going on a special assignment and would be out of touch for a while. But she didn't say how long. I became concerned when I didn't hear from her for four months. As I said, that is not like her."
Hobbes found the number he was looking for and jotted it down by the rest of his notes. "Special assignment? Did she say what kind?"
"No. She said that she couldn't tell me, but that it was a great opportunity and she felt honored to be selected."
"She didn't tell you anything about this assignment? Is that like your daughter, to not tell you something like that?"
"No, it isn't. But she assured me that everything was fine and she would speak to me soon. When I didn't hear for so long, I got worried."
"She didn't say who she was going to be working for?" Hobbes tossed the directory back into the mess on his desk.
"I have told you, she said she couldn't tell me anything." Helga sounded annoyed, but fear was running under her words. If it was an act, it was a damn good act. Hobbes believed that Helga Kozlowski didn't know anything about her daughter's where abouts. "Can you think of anything she said--anything at all--that might help me find her?"
A sad sigh whispered through the phone line. "I wish I could, Mr. Hobbes. I hope you can find Brenda. I'm at my wit's end with worry."
"I'll do my best, ma'am," Hobbes told her. He left her his number in case she thought of anything, said good-bye, and hung up. He looked over to see how Fawkes was doing. His partner was hunched over in his chair, phone wedged between ear and shoulder, making notes on a pad of paper, and looking miserable. Hobbes shrugged and decided to try Jefferson. After being transferred half a dozen times, he got the agent's voice mail. He left a message with his name and number and asked that Jefferson call him back concerning Brenda Kozlowksi. He dropped the handset into the cradle. Fawkes was still on the phone but apparently talking to a different person. Hobbes picked up his list and began working his way down.
Nearly two hours later, he had spoken to every member of Kozlowski's family. Like the mother, they didn't know where Kozlowski was. Unlike the mother, they had even less information to share. Hobbes tried Jefferson again and got voice mail again. He tried tracking the agent down through various transfers with no luck. He was probably going to have to wait until the man called him back.
Hobbes stood and stretched, his back giving him grief for being in that lousy chair for so long. He watched as Fawkes tied up his end of his phone conversation and hung up the phone. "The fat man's going to have a fit when he sees the bill," Hobbes joked. Fawkes didn't seem to hear him. Hobbes strolled over. "How did you do?"
Fawkes finally glanced up, but he looked distracted. "I struck out. None of Brenda's friends or coworkers knows where she went or why. She had a partner she worked with on that one task force. He thought she transferred to another field office."
"Yeah, we're coming up with a great big goose egg all over the place, huh?" The kid looked down at his notes without seeing them. "What's the matter with you, Fawkes?" If he was going to be upset about Kozlowski again, Hobbes was going to have something to say about it.
"Nothing. Nothing, man. Are we done?" Suddenly his partner was full of energy and ready to go.
"What, you got a date or something?"
"No, I just... Is there anything else to do right now?"
Hobbes eyed Fawkes, wondering about the kid's anxious, twitchy behavior. "Not right at the moment. I was going to see if I could borrow Eberts again, do a little more investigating."
Fawkes stood suddenly. "Yeah. Okay. Look, I have to, ah, go. Okay?"
"Yeah, it's okay. I know how you feel about research." Hobbes cocked an eyebrow, more puzzled than ever by Fawke's weirdness. The taller man was backing toward the door. Clearly he had somewhere to be. Did he need a shot? Hobbes didn't think so. It had only been a couple of days since his last dose and Hobbes didn't think he'd been going see-through. The senior partner had taken to mentally calculating Fawke's days of sanity. Having been on the receiving end of quicksilver madness a couple of times, he wanted to have an idea when his partner was going to go loony on him. Plus, he didn't want the kid to experience any more of the skull-splitting headaches than he had to. Fawkes was a pain in the ass, but Hobbes liked him a lot. Which is why he was more than a little concerned about Fawkes when the other man turned and practically ran out of the office.


The apology had been burning in him for two hours. He'd been completely out of line with Claire. The image of her hurt and on the verge of tears haunted him. He swiped his card and rushed into the lab. "Hey, Claire."
She wasn't there. He did a quick look around, calling to her, and discovered she wasn't in her lab. Maybe Lab 3. Fawkes jogged down the hall to the room. Claire and Bloom were standing by the desk, heads bent together, reviewing Brenda's chart. Fawkes pulled up short to prevent a collision. "Hey."
The Keeper looked up. "Darien."
"Can I, uh, talk to you for a minute? I wanted to..." He trailed off as his eyes drifted to the bed. Brenda's eyes were open. She was staring at the far wall. "Hey! She's awake!"
"Yes," Claire said as he rushed by her. Fawkes stopped at the foot of the bed. Brenda didn't move. He looked at his Keeper, his brow furrowed with question. "She's been awake for a few hours now, but she's not responsive."
His regret temporarily forgotten, Fawkes walked into Brenda's line of vision. She stared straight through his legs. He bent down to look into her eyes. It was as if he wasn't there. He straightened and looked at Claire, worry churning in his gut. The Keeper stood at the foot of the bed, resting her hands on the laminated footboard. She read his questions from his face and shook her head. "I don't know, Darien. I suspected that there would be some mental damage due to the length of time she was QS mad. I don't know if her current status is permanent or not. She's conscious but...catatonic."
All the wind rushed out of him. He didn't know much about catatonia, but he imagined it was like being a prisoner in your own body. And it was possible that Brenda was going to be like this for the rest of her life. Granted, the rest of her life wasn't going to be that long, but still...
He turned to the woman on the bed again and took her hand. He squeezed, hoping for some kind of response. But the hand under his fingers was limp and cool. A lump of dismay closed his throat. "It there anything you can do for her?" he managed at last.
"Well, we can observe her. She was quite active, if not entirely lucid, the other night. This may be temporary."
Fawkes crouched again, looking into the blue eyes and hoping for something to be there. "But this could be permanent."
He heard Claire sigh. "Yes. That's possible. I'm going to keep an eye on her for a couple of days, run some tests. Right now all we can do is wait."

"I am a part of all that I have read."

- John Kieran


He wondered if he shouldn't just put a cot or a sleeping bag in Lab 3, with all the nights he was spending there. Claire had long since stopped trying to talk him out of it. She left for the day, ducking her head in to say goodnight to Fawkes and Bloom's evening replacement. Baxter looked about fifteen, with his wiry red hair and freckles. He was far more personal than Bloom, but Fawkes wondered if the Agency was recruiting kids out of high school now. In his white lab coat, Baxter seemed like he should be selling ice cream out of a truck instead of doing lab work. Fawkes also wondered if he was just getting old.
Once again in worn, comfortable sweats, he settled into the chair by the bed. He'd brought a copy of Dubliners by James Joyce from home. He opened the battered hardcover and began to read aloud. Brenda's head was turned away from him, her unseeing stare directed at the far wall. But he hoped that somewhere in there, she could hear him. He hoped that she would be able to emerge from her inner prison.
Baxter glanced up at him periodically, but kept silent and worked on his papers. Fawkes voice was the only sound as the night moved into it's darker hours. His throat became sore and he had to go in search of water at one point. When he came back to the room, Brenda hadn't moved. He didn't know why he thought she should. Blind hope, he guessed. He started on "The Dead", taking frequent sips to smooth the roughness that was cropping up. He rolled his neck on his shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness that was developing. Fawkes' eyes stung. He stopped reading long enough to close his eyes and massage some moisture back into them. When he opened them again, he reflexively glanced over at Brenda.
She was looking right at him.
For a second, Fawkes thought that maybe she has simply turned her head to stare through the wall behind him. But her eyes weren't dead and flat anymore. She was looking at him, seeing him. He was reluctant to even breathe, afraid that he was imagining this.
A shadow of a smile curled the corners of her mouth. "I'm so glad you changed authors," Brenda said in a raspy whisper. "I really hate Vonnegut."
Fawkes leaned forward carefully. Holy crap, she cracked a joke! He let the book slip to the floor and leaned even closer, putting his face near hers. "Brenda?"
"I think so," she replied hoarsely. She tried to move her arm. Fawkes heard the clink of the buckles on the restraint. Brenda looked down at her wrist and frowned.
"Sorry about those. We were afraid you would...hurt yourself."
The blue eyes shot back to his. He could tell she was trying to remember what he was talking about. Fawkes reached down and took her hand. This time, her fingers closed around his. "Don't worry about that right now," he soothed.
Confusion filled her features. "What happened? Where am I?"
"We were kind of hoping you could tell us." Her brow creased further. "Do you remember anything?" She searched her memory frantically and came up empty. She shook her head. "Do you remember me?"
Her eyes locked to his again and she gazed at him for a long time. Fawkes realized that she had pretty eyes. Blue, but not a sky blue. A darker shade, more like sapphires. Fringed with delicate dark lashes. Her real eyes beat the mad red ones any day. "Sort of," she whispered, then, "Yes."
Fawkes broke into a goofy grin. He was so relieved that she was awake and aware, not crazy or suicidal. He gave her hand a squeeze. "That's a good start then." He looked over at Baxter, who was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't heard their whispered conversation. "Hey. She's awake.
Baxter's head snapped up and he stumbled out of his chair. Fawkes rose as he approached. When he got close to the bed, Brenda gasped and clamped her fingers tight. Fawkes wasn't ready for the ferocity of her grip. "Ow! Hey, it's okay. He's just going to take a look at you."
Brenda beheld Baxter with wide-eyed fright. Fawkes covered their linked hands with his free one. "Relax. It's okay. Nobody's going to hurt you."
Baxter went about the business of checking her vitals, listening to her heart. Brenda stared at the ceiling. She began to tremble. Fawkes made soothing noises and rubbed her arm. What was the matter? It was like she was terrified of Baxter. Fawkes thought it would be impossible to fear the clean-scrubbed lab assistant. When Baxter asked her how she felt, she responded with a tight, "Fine." That couldn't be true. While she looked better than when he and Hobbes had first brought her in, she still didn't look well. When Baxter was finished, Fawkes tipped his head, indicating that the other man should move away. When Baxter was out of her sight, Brenda relaxed the vice-like grip she had on Fawkes' hand. "I'll be right back," he told her, extricating himself and approaching the assistant.
"Why don't you give the Keeper a call?" he suggested. "I'm sure she'll want to know." Baxter nodded and went to the desk to use the phone there. Fawkes went back to Brenda's bedside. She was still shaking.

Claire was amazed that she didn't get a ticket on her way to the lab. The third shift lab assistant, Rob Baxter, had called her only a half-hour ago. The minute she heard him say the words "awake" and "lucid", she shot out of bed. She honestly had not thought that Brenda would be either of those things. The CAT scan and the ill woman's recent behavior led Claire to believe that Brenda was permanently damaged. The Keeper was ready to make a recommendation to the Official that Brenda be move to a secured, full-care facility.
Certain she was breaking some kind of land speed record, she yanked her car into the Agency parking lot, tires squealing and smoking in protest. She raced down the stairs and skidded to a halt in Lab 3. Baxter was standing by his desk, shifting his weight and looking uncomfortable. Darien was by the bed, speaking quietly to the restrained woman. Claire took the chart from Baxter and after a perfunctory glance, approached the bed. Darien noticed her and came to join her.
"When did this happen?" Claire gasped to whoever would answer.
"You got here quick," Fawkes observed with humor. Claire was glad to see his spirits were better, but she was primarily concerned with the woman on the bed.
Baxter referred to the chart. "3:36am."
"How is she?" Claire asked.
Baxter looked at the chart again. "Vitals are good. Her pulse and blood pressure are a little high, but everything is within norms."
Claire looked at Fawkes, who shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "She just started talking to me.
"What did she say?"
"She's a little confused and concerned. Wants to know where she is and what happened. But she's stringing words together and making sense. She seems calm."
"Except when I tried to take her vitals," Baxter interjected. "She got a bit agitated then."
Claire saw Baxter's note on that and thought for a moment. She looked up at Fawkes. "Perhaps she feels more comfortable with you."
He shrugged again. "Maybe."
She dumped everything on the desk and tugged her shirt straight. "I think you should introduce me then." Together, they walked to the bed.
Brenda was indeed awake and calm. She looked at Claire with only an eyebrow cocked in question. Fawkes put his hand on the Keeper's back and brought her forward. "Brenda, I want you to meet someone."
"Hi," Brenda greeted simply.
"Hello," Claire said.
Fawkes leaned into them. "Brenda, this is Claire, my Kee--uh, the doctor around here. Claire, this is Brenda."
"Hello," Claire said again. "How are you feeling?"
Brenda didn't seem alarmed by her presence at all. Claire mused on that. The woman strapped to the bed seemed perfectly calm and amiable. The restraints didn't appear to bother her. She shrugged and sighed. "Better, I think. Lots of cobwebs in the attic. I'm sore and tired. My head hurts more than usual."
Claire eased down on to the edge of the bed. "Not surprising, considering all you've been through." Brenda furrowed her brow at that, prompting Claire to ask, "Do you remember anything?"
"Not...really," Brenda said, after a moment of wrestling with her memory. "Bits and pieces, but it's all blurry and out of focus. I--where am I?"
"You're safe. Not to worry." Claire put her hand on Brenda's arm. The skin was warm. Good improvement. "You were brought here a couple of days ago."
"Is this a hospital?"
"Sort of," Claire fudged.
"I don't understand."
"I know. It's a bit complicated. But you're safe here, I promise." Darien was standing right at her shoulder. Brenda's eyes went from him to Claire and back. Suspicion began to creep into the blue. "Who are you people?" she demanded.
"I'll tell you when you are feeling better."
"No," she said firmly. "How about you tell me now."
Claire exchanged worried glances with Darien. She didn't want to overwhelm Brenda with too much information. The woman was in a precarious mental state right now. Claire offered again, "You're safe."
"Yes. You said that before." The steel in Brenda's eyes and voice caught Claire a bit off guard. Gone were the catatonic and the hysteric. "But I don't know where I am. Or how I got here. All I know is that I'm strapped to a bed, who know wh--" She broke off, realization making her eyes darker. "Of course. You work for them."
Claire was lost now. "Work for who?"
Brenda snorted, not buying her innocence. "Those bastards that run the program. Is this another game? Another test?"
Claire was beginning to think that her hopes of Brenda's recovery were a little too high. The woman was starting to act paranoid. But Claire had been to the abandoned lab. Perhaps Brenda had every reason to be paranoid. "I'm sorry. Who are you referring to?"
Brenda cast her a disgusted look and closed her eyes. "No more. I'm done. You need to find another guinea pig."
Darien leaned forward. "Brenda, what are you talking about?"
Brenda pinned him with a clear glare. "You can tell those lying mothers that they can go fuck themselves. And I mean that with whole-hearted sincerity."
He reached forward and took her hand. Claire noted that while Brenda didn't return the squeeze, neither did she try to pull away. Claire was relieved. Right now, Darien was their only connection to Brenda and what had happened to her. "I don't know who you mean, but we don't work for them." Brenda's eyes narrowed. "I swear. It was a completely different group of people. We want to find them and help you. But you're going to have to give us a hand with that."
Brenda looked at both of them. Claire could see that she wanted to believe Darien. The last few months of her life had been a living nightmare. She was suspicious and wary. Claire didn't blame her. But they had to get through to her. Brenda was the only way the Agency was going to catch the criminals that had done this.
Brenda mulled over Darien's promise for a long time. Then she closed her eyes again and grimaced. "I can't. Not now."
Claire became alert. "What's the matter?"
"My head...it's worse."
Darien cast Claire a panicked glance and backed away so she could work. She felt for a pulse. A bit rapid, but steady. "Brenda, I need you to look at me." Brenda opened her eyes with difficulty. Her eyes were clear; no sign of pronounced veining that signaled quicksilver madness. "Where is the pain?"
"It radiates from the back of my head. It's like a normal gland headache, but sometimes they get worse."
A normal gland headache? Claire checked her pupils. Equal and reactive. "Brenda, I need to take a blood sample. I need to run a test."
Brenda shrugged and closed her eyes. Baxter had heard the conversation and brought Claire a hematology kit. Claire quickly wrapped the latex tournequit around Brenda's untapped arm. In Brenda's condition, it was easy to find a vein. After some poking and prodding, Claire was able to coax one up. She swabbed the spot and inserted the butterfly needle carefully so as not to collapse the vein. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw Darien look away from the procedure. As she inserted the vacutainer into the hub, she wondered if he was becoming a little needle-phobic. He never liked to watch her inject him with the counter agent.
Brenda, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. Claire only needed half a tube of blood to run the check she intended. She pointed to the packet in the kit and said to Darien, "I need that prep pad and a cotton ball." Darien tore open the packaging and handed her the alcohol-soaked square. She placed it at the puncture location and gestures with her head for him to follow with the cotton. When she had both in place, she withdrew the needled, keeping pressure. With a quick tug, she pulled the tourniquet free. "Hold this," she instructed Darien. His fingers took the place of hers, allowing her to take the blood sample and run to Lab 1.
One of the tools she was developing was a quick method for checking the levels of quicksilver in Darien's bloodstream. The monitor in his wrist was effective and he was learning to use it properly. But she didn't want that to be her only means of measurement. Since time was of the essence with the onset of quicksilver madness, she needed something quick. She used a hypodermic to pull a little blood from the tube and placed a few drops in a sterile Petrie dish. She took the glass container with her to the refrigerator. Toward the back, in a small glass bottle fitted with a dropper, was her new secret formula. The golden fluid in the bottle fairly sparkled with iridescence. She drew a bit into the dropper and let the liquid splash into the dish. A simple chemical reaction that gave immediate visual confirmation of a problem. However, Brenda's blood only turned slightly purple. An indication of some quicksilver, but not a dangerous level. Claire eliminated quicksilver madness as the cause of Brenda's headache. It was probably the gland itself and it's position in her brain. But what Brenda said about "a normal gland headache" Piqued her curiosity. She carefully put everything away and went back to Lab 3.
Darien was sitting on the bed, holding Brenda's hand, talking quietly to her. Claire went to the other side of the bed. Brenda's earlier anger now seemed to have been replaced by sadness. She was listening to Darien, but not responding. "Excuse me," Claire said gently. They both looked up at her. "Brenda, what do you mean by 'a normal gland headache'?"
The other woman looked at her as if she should know. "Sometimes they get worse."
"Worse than what?"
Brenda looked confused. "Worse than they normally are."
"Brenda, are you telling me that you have headaches all the time?"
"Of course. Constantly. Ever since they implanted the gland." She must have read the concern on Claire's face. "Why? They said it was normal."
"No, it's not normal. You should not be experiencing constant pain."
"But they--" She sighed. "Lied. Of course they lied. That's all they ever did."
"Brenda--"
"Could you...can I be alone for a while? My head hurts. I'd like to try to sleep it off." She closed her eyes again, trying to shut them out of at least one sense. Her voice wobbled but didn't break. It was enough for one day. There would be plenty of time for talking later. Right now, Brenda needed to rest. And something for the pain. Claire had some Vicodan in her lab. A bit much, but it would also help Brenda sleep. She nodded and withdrew quietly. As she walked away, she heard Brenda's voice, thick with emotion. "You too, Darien. Please go."

Fawkes had to look away when Claire jabbed that huge needle into Brenda's arm. He'd never liked needles, and he liked them even less in the past year. He was happy to open packages and help, as long as he didn't have to look directly at it. When Claire retreated to her lab and Baxter sat back at his desk, he sat on the edge of the bed. He lifted the bandage to check the wound. A bead of blood welled up. He reinstated the pressure. Brenda hasn't batted an eye at having blood drawn. In fact, the only way he knew she had a headache was because she'd told him. His macho side wanted to think that, in comparison to him, her pain wasn't as great. But he really suspected that he just had a laughably low pain thresh hold.
"She'll be right back," he promised. Brenda did didn't move or respond. "Your head really hurts, huh?"
She lay there for a long while before looking at him. "If you're working for them... If this is just another trick... Do me a favor. Kill me now and get it over with."
Her tone and expression made his heart tight. She was serious. He leaned close, hoping to convince her. "Brenda, we want to help you. No one is going to kill you. I promise. I won't let that happen."
She fixed her gaze on the ceiling, breaking the intimacy of their conversation. A single tear escaped, slipping down her temple. He felt like a voyeur, seeing her so vulnerable and raw. He wiped the tear away with his thumb.
"I'm not lying." He wanted to say more, but his throat closed up and wouldn't allow him to. He knew there was nothing he could say to make her trust him. He was going to have to show her. And that would take time.
She was struggling with the tears now, struggling with the pain and the emotions. She turned away from him, looking at the far wall. "I...remember hurting people." He waited patiently, letting her finish in her own time. "I did some pretty...awful things. Maybe I deserve this."
"No," he said quickly. "No, you don't. Nobody deserves this." She met his eyes, but she didn't look convinced. His heart sank. He had been thinking of asking Claire to take off the restraints, but the hopelessness in Brenda's eyes made him flash on the stock room. He hated seeing her tied down, but it beat the alternative.
"Listen," he said. "Whatever you need, anytime, ask for me, okay?" His word triggered another battle with tears. She was trying very hard not to cry. If she was anything like Claire, she was too proud to cry. He was quickly feeling useless.
The click of heels told him Claire was coming back to the room. He reached down and gave Brenda's arm a squeeze. "She can help you, if you let her."
Claire came to the other side of the bed. "Excuse me," she said gently.

She was in a dark warren of rooms and halls. She had to get out of there. Fear churned in her belly as she dashed from place to place, frantically seeking escape. She had to hurry. If the other one caught her there... She hit another locked door. The knob wouldn't turn in her hand. It was locked solid. She threw her weight against the door. It silently refused to budge.
Then she heard it. That crazy, lilting laugh. The hairs on her arm and neck stood at attention. She was here. She was going to find her. She threw herself against the door again, tugging on the knob. Oh God oh God oh God! her mind babbled. Her hand, slick with sweat, began to slip around the handle. She clawed at the door, desperate to get out. The laugh echoed behind her, closer now. She spun and flattened against the wood. Maybe she would pass by. Maybe she wouldn't know she was here. She tried to press herself through the door, her breath uneven and ragged. She could hear footsteps now. Oh God oh God oh God..!
Fresh horror bloomed when she walked into view. With every inch, she felt sure she was going to scream. She took her time, easing into view, smiling. She was toying with her, tormenting her. The smile was unpleasant.
"Hello," she greeted, pleased with the fear she was instilling.
She couldn't move, couldn't scream. The terror before her had her hypnotized, like a cobra. The other cackled at her panic. "I don't know what you're so afraid of," she told her, genuinely perplexed. "We're the same."
"No," she whispered.
"'Fraid so. You and I, we're the same. We're partners."
"I have a partner."
"I could fix that for you. Would you like me to do that?"
She knew she meant it. She knew that, given a sliver of a chance, she would kill her partner and anyone else involved in her life. The eyes, solid black orbs in the gloom, regarded her. She began to pace slowly, like a big cat that had it's prey cornered and was taking it's time with the kill. "You can't be afraid of me."
"Go away," she choked. It sounded more like a plea than she would have liked.
"But, I can't. You know that. I'm always here. To be afraid of me, you have to be afraid of yourself."
Her heart was pounding, each beat making the headache worse. She cast her eyes around, desperately seeking escape. The longer she stayed there, the longer she talked, the more her danger grew. But she had to get away without touching her. Because touching her would bring them closer. And that meant dying.
Then, her chance. The hunter looked away for just a moment, but it was enough. She dove passed her and pelted down the hall. "Where are you going?" came the question. She didn't know. She didn't care. She was running so fast that she slammed into a wall in the bend. She barely managed to stay on her feet, ready to pour on the speed again. But she couldn't run. Her path was blocked. With bodies. Dozens of them. She couldn't count. Blood was splashed on the walls and splattered on the floor. Some of the bodies were so badly mutilated that they were just piles of flesh. She gaped in horror. She had done this. The other one had killed all these people. As she stared, she began to recognize some of the people. Her neighbor. The nice man at her corner deli. The receptionist at work. Five people she had been on a task force with. Her partner, Jose, lay against the wall like a bloody rag doll. Her supervisor. Darien was there, too. Eviscerated, he was draped over the mountain of bodies, his head hanging down, dead eyes staring at nothing.
She was grabbed from behind. She had her. She pressed the whole length of her body against her, pinning her, holding her tight. "See what a pretty mess we made?" she whispered in her ear. Her breath was hot and sour.
"No," she denied, trying to move. But she couldn't. As long as she held her, she was helpless. Something cool was slipped into her hand. She looked down. Their hands were linked, so tightly they were one. A metal blade glowed in the poor light.
"And we're not finished," the other hissed, forcing her to look back at the bodies. On the top of the heap, her mother and father gaped at her, surprise frozen on their dead faces...
Brenda jolted awake. She felt like she'd been hit by a lead weight. She stared at the white ceiling for an eternity, trying to catch her breath, the dream still rattling around in her mind. She was sweating and cold. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest. She tried to focus on taking breaths, but fright still pinged in her, vibrant and strong. She forced herself to zero in on one of the ceiling tiles. She began counting holes and was finally able to draw a normal breath. She went to put her hand to her face, but the restraint held her. They had her strapped down. They knew how dangerous she was. She yanked on the metal and leather, making sure she wouldn't be able to get out. This was better. Don't let me go. Please.
"Good morning!"
Brenda jumped, her frayed nerves not prepared for the surprise of someone else in the room. Claire came to her bedside. She smiled down at Brenda. She wouldn't smile if she knew what Brenda had done. If she knew what she was capable of. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Um..." Brenda couldn't think. The remnants of the dream were still in her brain, slithering around in the nooks and crannies, just out of touch.
Claire looked concerned. She touched Brenda's forehead and found the sweat. "Rough night?" she asked sympathetically.
"Yes. I... I just didn't sleep very well."
Her forehead creased in worry, Claire went about checking her and taking vitals. People were doing that a lot these days. Maybe, one day they would all luck out and she would be dead. She could only hope.
"Your heart rate is a bit high," Claire noted. "How's your head?"
The constant, persistent headache she'd had for months never left her. Every waking moment was filled with pain. But, most of the time, it was at a manageable level. She was relieved that this morning, it was normal. "Still hurts, but not like last night."
Claire braced her hand by Brenda's head and leaned forward. She was really worried about her. You shouldn't worry yourself. Anymore than you would worry about a crazed animal. "Brenda, I'd like to run some more tests. Now that you're awake, that will help me. Okay?"
"Sure." Run all the tests you like. Find out how dangerous I am and put me out of my misery. "That would be fine."
Claire was studying her, trying to figure out what was wrong. If she was working for the Project, she was a damn fine actress. Not that it would surprise Brenda. But she seemed so genuinely troubled for her welfare. "Perhaps we can take these off today," Claire said, undoing the restraint around her wrist.
"No!" Brenda yelped. Don't do it! Please don't!
Claire was surprised by her outburst. "You don't want to stay tied up, do you?"
"I--" might go on a rampage and kill everyone here. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Brenda, you'll be fine. There are lots of people here who want to help you. Trust me. I wouldn't be willing to take these off if I thought there was any danger."
But you don't know how deceptive she is. You have no idea how cruel. Brenda bit her lips and fell silent. Claire quickly undid all the restraints and helped her sit up. Brenda felt a moment of vertigo once she was upright, but it quickly passed. Claire patted her back.
"There. See? Everything is fine."
Brenda wanted to believe her. But the persistent headache let her know that everything wasn't fine. Everything was never going to be fine.
"Why don't we get you on your feet?" Claire never left her side, helping her slip out from under the sheets and put her feet on the floor. The linoleum was ice cold. Cautiously, she shifted her weight from the bed to her legs. She stood slowly. Her knees wobbled a bit, but her legs held her up. Claire, holding her arm for support, beamed at her. "Very good!" Claire took a step and urged her to follow. Very carefully, they made it from the bed to the wall and back. Brenda felt surer of her balance with each step, but she was also tiring quickly. She sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her strength.
Claire seemed very pleased and left her long enough to collect a paper bag from the desk. She presented it to Brenda. The bag was full. She looked up at Claire, puzzled. "I thought that perhaps you would like to freshen up. Put on some clean clothes."
For the first time, Brenda was aware of how grungy she felt. She ran a hand through her hair and found it greasy. She felt like she had layers of grime caked to her skin. For the first time in a long time, an idea perked her up. Maybe that's just what she needed. She opened the bag and looked inside. A towel, some clothes, soap, a toothbrush. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for her in...a long time. She looked back at Claire, feeling a wave of gratitude. "Thanks. I would like that."
Claire was happy to see her smile, however small. "Good. I'll show you where the shower is. Feel up to a little walk?"
Brenda stood. She was still sore, but moving felt good. She nodded and followed Claire out of the room. The hall reminded her of her high school. Outside the door to the room, two large, glum men stood. As they passed, one of them left their post and followed. Of course. She was a possible threat. They had to be careful.
Unbidden, the image of the guard lying in a puddle of his own blood flashed across her mind's eye. Horrified, she squeezed her eyes shut and shook the image away. No.
Claire stopped outside a locker room and waved at the door. "Here you go. Just take your time. Fulsome will be here if you need anything." Or if she comes back. "I'll be in your room when you're ready." Claire smiled again and left her with Fulsome. The large man looked down at her, expressionless. For a split second, she thought she saw blood on his face. She quickly ducked into the shower room.
Brenda stepped under the spray of hot water, the temperature making her gasp. The first order of business was her hair. She found a sample bottle of shampoo in the bag and worked it into her hair. The lather was thick and refreshing. She rinsed, feeling the foam washing down over her body, clearing away some of the dirt. She even squeak tested her hair and discovered it clean.
With the soap and a washcloth, she worked up a load of suds and began to wash. She saw to every inch, letting her mind go into the Zen of a mundane task. If she didn't think about it, maybe it would--
A scream echoed in her mind, slicing through her brain and staggering her. Brenda put her hand on the tile wall to brace herself. Just as she was
wondering what that was, she heard another scream. A tattered old man was before her. He was on his knees, bleeding, looking up at her with pleading eyes. His neck opened up and warm, thick blood sprayed her. Then she heard the laugh.
Pain exploded in her head, driving her to her knees. Another image slammed into her. She could feel the weight of the weapon she used to beat the lab technician's brains in. She could feel the impact reverberate up her arms. She could hear his skull crack loudly. She heard the laugh.
Bloody, destructive impression after impression hit her, ricocheting around in her brain, robbing her of the moment. All she could see was blood and tissue, people begging for their lives, mangled corpses. The sounds and the smells... Each picture compounded her pain, making her sob and cry. The tears were hotter than the shower. She could no longer see where she was. She wasn't standing in a shower any more. She was knee deep in death and destruction. And, all the while, that constant, mad laughter...
When Brenda finally came to, she was curled up on the tile floor, fetal and shivering under the spray of the showerhead.

Claire sat at the desk while the daytime lab assistant striped the bed and put on fresh sheets. She referred to the chart, laying out the tests she wanted to run. She knew she would have the same luck removing Brenda's gland as she would removing Darien's. But she hoped she would be able to find a way to eliminate Brenda's pain. And hopefully stop the damage her gland was going to cause.
Darien lopped into the room, looking more rested than he had in days. He stepped aside to allow the lab assistant to pass through the door with his load of laundry. Seeing that, he looked over at the freshly made bed. "Where is she?" he asked, his tone worried.
Claire stood and walked further into the room. "Relax. She in the shower. I thought she might appreciate the opportunity to clean up. Give her some privacy, a moment to herself."
"Is she going to be okay in there?"
"There is an agent posted outside her shower. I had the place checked before I sent her in. There is nothing in there that she could hurt herself with."
Darien visibly relaxed. He joined her by the bed and set a paper bag down on the mattress. "Okay. Good. How is she doing today?"
Claire made one final note before she forgot and closed the chart. "She seems to be doing well, all things considered. She's still calm and lucid. It looks good. I think we can start easing up on some of our precautions."
Darien nodded, even more relieved. "That's great. Then she's okay?"
"'Okay' is very relative here, Darien. I'll say that all things considered, she's doing well. I'll have to observe her and run more tests. But for now, yes, she's okay."
They both heard the crinkle of paper and turned to the door. Brenda stood there, clutching the sack Claire had given her. She was wrapped in a towel, using the hospital gown as a robe. Her hair was wet. She looked cleaner, but not necessarily refreshed. The large agent behind her retook his position at the door. Brenda looked at them both for a long while. There was something about her. An air of resignation, of sadness. And something else. Claire couldn't place it. But something about Brenda had definitely changed.
Darien strode over to her. "Hey, Brenda. Nice to see you up and around. How do you feel?"
She looked at him distantly, almost as though she didn't recognize him. "Fine," she murmured tonelessly. She walked passed him and stopped by the bed. Alarm bells started going off in Claire's mind.
"If you'd like to change, I've got a screen over here..."
Brenda dropped her bag next to Darien's and looked at her. No, that wasn't quite right. Brenda looked through Claire. It was as if a Brenda robot had walked into the room. She glanced over at Darien, who was watching the scene with growing concern. He carefully approached. He picked up the bag and held it out to Brenda. "Hey, I thought you might, you know, want something clean to wear." She looked at the bag and didn't move. "I wasn't sure of the size, so I got everything extra large. I hope that's okay."
Brenda continued to look at his gift. Claire watched her carefully. Is was like she'd been shut off. Or her emotions at least. This wasn't good. Brenda was exhibiting all the signs of an emotionally disturbed person on the verge of an explosion. Brenda finally accepted the bag from Darien with a quiet, "Thanks."
"Why don't you change--?" Claire began, gesturing toward the screen she'd had brought into the room. If she could just get to her, pull her out of this. But before she could finish, Brenda took off the hospital gown and the towel.
"Whoa! Hey!" Darien quickly turned away from Brenda's nudity. Startled, Claire watched as Brenda dressed. Slowly, like she was underwater. Claire remembered the cage in the lab. How long had Brenda been kept there? Long enough to strip her of any thoughts of privacy? Brenda pulled on the socks and sweatpants, then turned away from Claire to gather the sweatshirt from the bed. Claire nearly gasped when she saw Brenda's back
"What is this?"
Dozens of small bruises covered Brenda's back. Some were older, starting to turn yellow with healing. Some were newer, still angry and black. The newest one was the size of a quarter, between her shoulder blades. She touched the other woman's back and examined the marks. Brenda stood patiently, the sweatshirt gathered in front of her, ready to slide over her head. Darien risked a glance over his shoulder and was arrested by the sight. He joined Claire, his forehead creased with concern.
"Brenda," Claire asked, "what happened?"
Brenda stood very still, her eyes fixed on a spot far away. "Take down," she said quietly.
"What? I don't understand."
"When I got...out of hand, they had to take me down. They always used tranq guns. The back was the easiest place to hit."
Claire drew a breath and glanced at Darien. He looked dismayed. He pointed to the newest bruise, then to himself. Of course. He'd had to shoot Brenda with a tranquilizer dart to bring her in. She knew he was feeling terrible about adding to Brenda's collection.
Brenda waited, not moving until Claire said, "All right." She then pulled the sweatshirt over her head and down around her waist. Without a word, she climbed into the bed and lay on her side, pulling the blankets under her chin and facing away from them. Darien was crestfallen. Claire leaned over the woman, trying to see her face. "Brenda?"
"Please," Brenda said in a dead tone. "I'm really tired." And she closed her eyes.

"Sir, I just need to go out there--"
"With what money, Hobbes? Every extra penny I can pinch is going into keeping Agent Kozlowski and Agent Fawkes sane. Counter agent isn't cheap, you know."
"Yes, sir, I know but--"
"Do what you can. I'm trying to see what other funds I can arrange." The Official glanced at Eberts, who was hunched over a ledger. The aid nodded and went back to his task.
Hobbes was reaching the end of his patience. While it never paid to piss off your superior, he was hobbled by the Official's refusal to allow him to take this investigation to Washington and the main office of the ATF. He tried a calming technique one of his shrinks taught him. Deep breath and slow release. Count to ten. Let the anger go. "Sir, the longer we wait, the colder the trail gets."
The Official speared him with a glare that made Hobbes go still. "Agent Hobbes, I am well aware of investigative techniques and how to pursue leads." Uh-oh. "I need you here, to look into this." A manila folder flopped onto the desk. Hobbes picked it up and flipped it open. It was the copy of a police report. A John Doe had been found in a dumpster behind a restaurant. Hobbes studied the crime scene photos, his mind putting the pieces in order. Cause of death had yet to be determined. The ME stated that the mutilation to the head had occurred after death.
Hobbes looked up. "I already have a case. Sir."
The door opened and Fawkes and the Keeper came in. They both looked depressed. The Official waved them foreword. "I have reason to believe this is connected to your case. Take the Keeper with you."
All three of them said, "Why?"
"I want you to go to the morgue, take a look at the body. I want the Keeper to give her medical opinion. Then report back here. I may have something for you then." The Official went back to his papers, clearly dismissing them. Fawkes rolled his eyes and walked out of the office. Hobbes and Claire followed.

The Assistant Medical Examiner met them at the main door. He introduced himself as only Fritz. Fritz had a surfer air about him. His hair was sun-bleached and shaggy. He had a casual manner and a brilliant smile. A string of puka beads circled his neck.
"I'm Claire Keeply. I understand you have a John Doe 294 in your morgue."
"Yup," Fritz agreed. "We've got him on ice now. But the boss man is out right now. And I didn't help him with the initial review of the body."
"Actually, I'm a physician. I would like to see the body."
Fritz shook his head, obviously regretting being the bearer of bad news. "Sorry. No can do. Unless you're with the investigating police."
Hobbes flipped open his badge. "This body may have something to do with a case we're working on. Dr. Keeply here needs to take a look to confirm that."
Fritz peered at the badge. "Wow, a Fed, huh? We don't get too many of those."
Not that it appeared for a moment that Fritz was overly impressed. Darien decided to try. "C'mon, man. Give us 15 minutes. Then we'll be out of your hair."
"Yeah, and I could lose my job." Fritz was a bit of a flake, but he wasn't stupid. "You need to come back with the investigating officer or a court order. Sorry. But we can't let anyone who wants to just stroll in."
Hobbes was about to bite out a retort when Darien put a restraining hand on his arm. "Okay," he told the Assistant ME. "We'll come back."
Fritz flashed them a Hang Loose gesture. "'Kay, man. See you then." Then he disappeared through a set of doors.
As soon as he was out of sight, the trio turned in to cluster together. "I need to see that body right now," Claire insisted in a harsh whisper. "If it does have to do with this case, we can't let a local Medical Examiner poking around, taking samples and toxicology readings."
"Well, if we can figure out where the body is, we don't have to," Darien told her.
"Wha'd ya mean?" Hobbes asked.
"Well, if me and Keep can go see through, we can sneak in and no one will be the wiser."
Claire cocked her eyebrow. "You want to quicksilver me?"
"It's wild, Keep. Really weird. And cold!" Hobbes smiled at the memory.
"Yeah, why not?" Darien said. "We zip in, we zip out, no one needs to know."
Claire looked doubtful. "Why do you need to go in?"
"Because, hello, I'm invisible guy. Quicksilver only lasts so long on a non-host. You know that."
She looked at Hobbes, then at Darien, weighing all the options. Finally she sighed and nodded. "All right. But we have to be quick."
"I can be quick," Darien promised.
"You don't want that to get around, my friend," Hobbes murmured, turning to leave.
"Hey!"
"I'm gonna go start the van. Leave you two to do...your thing." Claire glared at him. "I'll be outside."
"One of these days..." she grumbled.
"Yeah, well, first things first, huh? Come over here." Darien walked them both to a secluded spot in the lobby. He put a hand on her back and her chest. Claire was about to protest his liberties when she felt a cold tingle sweep over her. The quicksilver flowed from Darien's hands, quickly covering her. It slid into her ears and nose. She closed her eyes and tried to hold still. It was a profoundly weird sensation, indeed. Cold and slick and itchy. Odd to think that Darien had become used to this.
"There," he said. Claire opened her eyes. Her vision startled her for a moment. She now understood the different spectrums that Darien saw when quicksilvered. It wasn't quite like watching a black and white movie. She looked for him, but he was, of course, invisible as well. "You ready?" his voice asked.
"I suppose."
A cold hand took hers. "Come on."
They pushed through the double doors that had claimed Fritz earlier and moved down the hall. Claire could feel the quicksilver flowing out of Darien's hand to keep her covered. The connection between them slithered and tingled. Claire had to concentrate on not bumping into things. It was difficult to walk when you couldn't see your own feet.
Darien stopped at the receiving desk. Behind some shelves and files, they could hear someone rattling around. "Stay here," she whispered, letting go of his hand and carefully making her way around the counter. She hit the corner hard with her hip and bit her lip. She found the rack of files for recent arrivals and located the John Doe in question. After the initial cursory examination, the ME had the body placed in refrigeration unit 17B. A more extensive autopsy was scheduled for later that day. There was a note that the investigating officers wanted to be present. She had to hurry.
Feeling her way back around the counter, she realized she didn't know where Darien was. She whispered his name. The quicksilver on her began to feel different. It was warming and not moving as much. She was about to lose her shield. And, from the sounds of it, the clerk would be back any minute. "Darien!" she whispered again.
"Right here," he told her right before bumping into her. That was enough to shatter the quicksilver on her body. Claire darted down the hall, hearing Darien's footsteps behind her. From the desk, someone called out. Claire pressed herself against the wall. Darien grabbed her shoulder and quicksilver covered her again. And not a moment too soon. The clerk poked his head down the hall and looked right through them. The clerk looked around for a minute, trying to find the person who had made all the noise. Finding no one, he shrugged and disappeared behind the desk. Claire and Darien let out a sigh of relief.
"Did you find the...guy?" Darien whispered.
"Yes. I know where the body is. Hopefully, no one else is in the room." She floundered for a moment before finding his hand. She didn't want to lose her cover too soon again. She made a mental note that expending all this quicksilver was going to mean Darien was going to need a shot of counter agent by the end of the day. They had to move quickly to keep his flow to a minimum. She tugged on his hand and led the way down the hall.
The refrigerator was easy enough to find. Claire pushed open the door and peeked her head in. The room was free of the living. She stepped in and pulled Darien in with her. Once the door swung shut, she threw the bolt. She let go of Darien and started to search for 17B. It was in the middle row of units, toward the end. Claire yanked on the handle and the drawer slid out just as her quicksilver scattered from her again. Darien took his cue and appeared at her side.
"This is him?"
"According to the chart." Claire pulled the drawer all the way out. Inside, a black body bag covered a form. She unzipped it and found the cadaver inside. A white male, approximately in his mid to late 40's. The ME had cleaned up the body somewhat, but there was a bit of dried blood around the edges of his face. The wound in question was in the back. She had to flip the body over. "Help me."
"Do what?" Darien asked, a little panic in his voice.
She grabbed the corpse by the shoulders and started turning it. Darien, looking a little green, gingerly reached down and went to grab the arm. As soon as his fingers touched the dead flesh, he yanked his hand back as if burned. "Oh man," he moaned.
"Quit being such a baby. You've seen bodies before."
"Not like this," he protested.
Claire rolled her eyes and tugged some more. Bracing himself, Darien did manage to help her. They got the top half of John Doe rolled over. The back of the head appeared to Darien first. He saw the wound and went pale. "Okay, I did not need to see that."
She honestly couldn't understand why he was being so squeamish. "Come over to my side. Just hold him up so I can get a look." Darien grimaced and took her place, looking away as he held the body by one shoulder. Claire took his place and peered down. The back of the head was missing, as well as a sizable amount of the brain tissue. There was nothing clean about the removal. The police file said this happened post mortem. So what had killed this man and why had someone taken the time to mutilate his head. Claire reached into her bag and donned a pair of latex gloves. She was going to need blood and tissue samples. She also wanted to take some pictures to refer to later. She quickly took her samples and photos, then poked at the wound.
"Someone did this to the body in a hurry," she noted.
"Uh-huh," Darien said with no enthusiasm.
"Coincidentally, this is the location where a quicksilver gland would be implanted."
"Great. Are you done yet?"
"Just a moment." She took another sample of brain tissue from the back edge of the wound and dropped it into a sterile container. "All right. You can set him back down now."
Darien quickly let go and moved away, shaking his hand and looking very unhappy. Claire smiled as she zipped up her bag and peeled of the gloves. The door rattled suddenly. They spun to face the door in unison, freezing in place. "Oh crap," Darien muttered.
Someone knocked and called out, "Hello?"
They looked at each other, eyes wide, then sprang into action. His earlier queasiness forgotten, Darien helped her put the body back into position. Claire yanked the zipper shut and they shoved the drawer in. Darien grabbed her hand and ran for the door, where the person on the other side was pounding impatiently. The handle rattled hard. Claire felt quicksilver slide over them both. Once they were invisible, Darien turned the bolt. Fritz stumbled into the room, his weight pushing the door wide. As he looked around the room, bewildered, Darien and Claire dashed out and ran down the hall.

The Keeper had Hobbes push the van to its limits, trying to get back to the Agency. He didn't know what the hurry was about, but he didn't question her. She didn't even wait for him to stop in his parking space. She was out the side door and through the entrance before he could even put on the parking brake. He and Fawkes ran after her, following her down to the Keep. She pointed to the chair without looking at Fawkes. "Sit," she commanded, all business.
Fawkes sighed and slumped into the chair. Truth be told, he didn't look good. Probably used a lot of the quicksilver. Fawkes leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Hobbes peeked at the tattoo. Two sections left green. Fawkes was getting one of the headaches. Hobbes had learned to read the signs. He took up position beside the chair and watched what the Keeper was up to. She was at the fridge, fiddling with some glass dishes and bottles and other things. She studied the dish, then hurried to the phone. Hobbes glanced down at Fawkes. His partner was rubbing the back of his neck. The way he did when his head was starting to hurt. "Uh, hey, Keep?"
She wasn't listening. She spoke quietly on the phone, nodded several times. Fawkes rolled his head on his neck and winced. "Keep?" Hobbes said again. She continued talking. "Claire!" he finally shouted.
She glared at him, finished her conversation, and approached the chair. "What?"
"Fawkes. He needs a shot."
She sighed impatiently and went to collect the counter agent. Sure that she was finally going to do what was, as Hobbes saw it, her ultimate responsibility, he focused on Fawkes. The younger man's forehead was creased. His breathing was shallow. "Take is easy, kid. Shot's coming."
Claire wheeled her cart to the other side of the chair, drew the correct amount of blue fluid into the hypodermic. It was a nasty looking thing she used to give Fawkes his counter agent. The whole set up was pretty manipulative. If the Keeper needed to play these mind games, fine. As long as Fawkes got what he needed. She jabbed the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger. Fawkes grunted as the chemicals entered his system, but in a minute, he sighed. Relief filled his features. Hobbes felt himself relax as well. He never liked it when Fawkes pushed that gland too far. He was all too aware of what could happen.
"Good thing you had some of the magic juice ready, huh?" he told Claire.
She cast him an impatient look as she put her tools away. "Ever since you two brought Agent Kozlowksi in, I've been synthesizing continuous batches of the counter agent."
He felt the tug of irritation. Bad enough that woman was even being kept at the Agency. Now the Keeper had to keep making counter agent to take care of her, too. Counter agent was expensive. As far as Hobbes was concerned, there was only one person who needed it. And that person was sitting up from the chair in the Keep, rubbing his neck and stretching. "Okay now?" he asked his partner.
Fawkes didn't seem nearly so concerned about his close call. He nodded, almost as an afterthought, then focused on Claire. "What's up?"
"I'm having that body in the morgue transferred here, before the ME can do his autopsy," she told him, putting away her tools.
Hobbes noted that Fawkes looked a bit queasy as he asked, "Why here?"
"Because that body was saturated with quicksilver." Claire held up a Petrie dish for them both to see. The blob in it was black. Without explaining, she continued. "I'm willing to bet that I can find branches of an actual quicksilver gland left in the brain tissue."
"You think this stiff had a gland?" Hobbes asked.
"Given the damage to the back of the cranium, yes. It looks like the gland was removed in a hurry."
"Before or after he was dead?" Fawkes asked, looking greener still.
"The police file said after death, but I have no way to know that," she told him gently. "I'll have to take a look and run some tests. But it would appear that Agent Kozlowski isn't the only person outside this Agency with a gland."

Fawkes, Hobbes, and Claire barged into the Official's office, full of determination. The situation was getting uglier by the minute and they had all agreed that talking to the big man was the next course of action. There would be no more stonewalling. No more evasiveness. The Official had to know more than he had given them and they were all resolute about not leaving his office until they had it.
The Official seemed to be waiting for them. Both he and Eberts watched their entrance unperturbed. The Official looked up at Claire and smiled blandly. "Doctor. Per your request, I am having the body transferred to your lab right now."
She wasn't expecting him to be so accommodating. Armed for bear, his calm attitude threw her for a second. Fawkes and Hobbes were not so hampered.
"Great," Hobbes grunted. "So John Doe will be here soon. Of course, if we knew something besides 'John Doe'-"
The Official regarded Hobbes during his outburst and interrupted him quietly. "How about Malcom Newcomb then?"
Hobbes jerked to a halt. "Malcom...? I'm sorry, sir...who?"
Eberts leaned forward and extended a folder across the desk. Fawkes was the only one not completely flummoxed and he took it from the aid. He opened the file and glanced down. The face from the morgue looked back up at him, pinker, eyes open, decidedly more alive. "This is the guy." Claire and Hobbes crowded to his sides, peering at the photo.
"Yes," the Official remarked. "Malcom Newcomb, ex Air Force colonel."
"Where did you get this?" Claire demanded.
"From the finalist files from Project Quicksilver."
Hobbes looked at him. "You mean, this was another one who made it to the final cut?"
"Col. Newcomb made the final five in the elimination process," Eberts informed him. Hobbes narrowed his eyes at the aid. The guy was such an office boy. "Apparently, it was decided not to utilize him. His age was a factor. He was about to retire."
"He was only 47," Fawkes murmured, reading the file.
"But past his physical prime," Claire noted. "It would make sense to go with a candidate that was younger and healthier."
"But, jeez, look at this list of medals and awards."
The Official nodded. "Col. Newcomb was one of the best the Air Force had to offer. Smart, dedicated, a decorated veteran of the Gulf War and a dozen smaller conflicts. The platoon under his command was one of the most highly regarded in the service."
"Doesn't really help him now," Hobbes remarked.
"No, it doesn't." The Official became somber.
"Wait a minute," Fawkes said, breaking his attention from the file. "So, when you guys were shopping around for a human guinea pig, were all these people the best of the best?"
With an almost imperceptible motion of his head, the Official signaled Eberts, who handed an additional file to Hobbes and one to Claire. Hobbes flipped his open. A stocky guy with a broad, ruddy face and a shock of auburn hair was featured. His eyes were small and his mouth set in a grim line. The FBI letterhead to the left of the photo told him all about the attributes of Special Agent Matthew Gold. In Claire's folder, she was introduced to Sgt. Jackson Langley. The young sergeant was with the Marine Green Berets. Highly regarded by his peers and officers, it was clear that Sgt. Langley had a bright future in the Marine Corps. The young man that gazed out of the picture was young and fit, with smooth ebony skin and clear, bright eyes. The trio swapped folders, trying to take all this new information in.
"Newcomb, Gold, and Langley were reported missing several weeks ago," the Official informed them brusquely. "Unfortunately, it's too late for Newcomb. Find the other two. Let's try to get these boys back in one piece."
"You think the same people who had Brenda have these guys?" Fawkes asked.
The Official fixed him with a stern glare. "Given what has happened in the past few days...what do you think?"

"If you're going through hell, keep going."

- Winston Churchill

Brenda jolted awake, sweat cold on her skin, her breath dragging roughly through her throat. Damn it! The dreams were getting worse. It was getting to the point where she didn't want to sleep. She curled up tighter under the covers, trying to will the last of the images away. She shivered. The images from her dreams were intruding on her waking hours as well. She remembered the incident in the shower. The flashbacks hit her with the force of a speeding truck, terrifying her, making her draw in. She didn't remember too much from the walk back to the room. Darien had brought her some clothes. She hoped she remembered to thank him for his thoughtfulness. Claire asked her something. But it was all fuzzy. No, that wasn't exactly right. It was as though the events were locked away in a box.
She was scared, and not just from the dreams. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She didn't feel...right. Not ill, exactly, but something close. The constant headache was there, but something else wasn't right. She felt like she was unraveling. Her body felt heavy and dull. Her mind couldn't focus properly. And through it all, there was that presence in the back of her conciousness, laughing, waiting for her to come all the way undone so that it could take over.
The worst was, she was alone. Completely alone. Darien, bless his kind soul, was the only rock she had right now. And she had to remind herself that she didn't really know what his agenda was. He could have been placed there, to be kind, to be supportive, to find some way inside her head so he could destroy her later. She was in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, and she didn't know their motives. Maybe this was just a different group of the same people. Maybe this was all some elaborate mind game. Some kind of test. And when she failed it, she would be locked back into that cage and studied some more. She wanted to believe Darien and Claire when they told her they wanted to help her. But how could she know they were telling the truth? The other group said the same thing, before letting her sanity slip away so they could observe her like an exotic bug under glass.
She considered trying to escape. Something deep inside her wanted escape badly. But, where would she go? She didn't even know where she was. She could be anywhere. Alaska. Utah. Some foreign country. All she knew since coming back was this room, this hospital room that wasn't. She could be in an underground bunker or a mountaintop compound, for all she knew.
And she was so tired. Fatigue sat deep inside her being, aching. Maybe these were more of the same people. She was finding it hard to care. She'd fought for so long. Screaming, railing, struggling, running--all for nothing. She'd never been able to get away. What made her think she would be able to now? She decided to stay where she was. Maybe it would be over soon. They would see her as a failed experiment, get what they needed, and kill her. At least that would be the end of it. Her vision went wet, then cleared as the tears spilled from her eyes. It was a relief, in a way. When she was dead, the headache would be gone. The exhaustion would be over. And, most importantly, the monster that lived in the back of her mind would never be able to hurt anyone else again.

A few phone calls revealed the extent of the crap they were knee-deep in. Col. Newcomb had indeed retired. His wife of 25 years told Hobbes that her husband had been, reluctantly, settling into retirement. But one day, the retired Air Force officer received a phone call at their retirement cabin. After a few days of mysterious behavior, he told his wife that he had a job to do. And disappeared. Mrs. Newcomb hadn't heard from her husband in months, and, aside from a visit from some government representatives, she had no idea where he might be. Knowing that the late colonel's body was probably in the basement by now, Hobbes didn't want to spring that piece of info on the poor woman. She was going to find out soon enough. Of course, the police didn't know whose body they have--had. He'd run it by the Official and see how the big man wanted to break the news to the widow.
Sgt. Langley was transferred to a remote post before he, too, disappeared. His commanding officer told Fawkes that the young sergeant had been called to "a secret, high-level post". No one related to Langley, family or friends, had any idea where he was. Only that he'd been accepted to some government program and they hadn't heard from him in months.
Gold, like Kozlowski, asked for and received an unspecified leave of absence. The special agent's fiancée was unable to tell where he was. Truth be told, she was very worried, despite assurances from the Bureau that Gold was fine. It wasn't like Matthew not to call her or contact her. Even given that his "project" was top secret, she knew that Matthew would find a way to let her know that he was all right.
Hobbes and Fawkes huddled after their calls. It was a now-familiar pattern. The subject made the final cut, but were rejected in favor of Simon Cole. But, over a year after that failed experiment, they were contacted again. Only to vanish. Apparently, with the help of their superiors. The pattern with Newcomb was slightly different, but that could have been due to the colonel no longer being a government employee. "I'll tell you what, partner," Hobbes said, rubbing his face wearily. "Climes got the bad guys this list. They nab all their guinea pigs at about the same time. Something goes wrong in the process and we get crazy and dead people turning up."
"Of course, the big question is 'who'?"
"Gotta be high up. How else are all these valuable government employees getting out of their duties so easily?"
"Think the Official will help?"
Hobbes grunted. The Man was helping them, all right, but only giving them little bits and pieces as he saw fit. It was making this investigation very difficult. Normally, Hobbes didn't argue too much. He took what he was given and did his best with it. That's the way things worked in government service. You don't ask too many questions when the info isn't forthcoming. But this whole case was starting to bug him. The enormity of it loomed on the horizon, but he didn't have what he needed to find the path from point A to point B. And it was giving him a headache. "Let's go talk to Claire. Maybe she got something from the stiff."

The Keeper was indeed busy in her lab. The corpse of Col. Newcomb was facedown on the table, an operating light glowing from above and illuminating the gruesome damage to his body. Claire, dressed in a plastic gown and gloves, was making notes into a tape recorder when Fawkes and Hobbes walked into the lab.
"Hey, Keep," Hobbes called out.
She clicked off the recorder. "Hello, you two."
"What'cha got?" Hobbes peered down at the body with interest. Fawkes tried to occupy his eyes with other things in the room.
Claire sighed and looked down at the body. "Well, I discovered the cause of death."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes. He died of an allergic reaction to quicksilver."
That caught Fawkes' attention. "Allergic?"
"The colonel here developed a sudden, intense allergy to the quicksilver in his body."
"You said his body was saturated with quicksilver," Hobbes noted.
"Yes, but that's not initially what killed him."
Fawkes stepped forward, pointedly not looking at the body. "How did that much quicksilver get into his body before he had the reaction?"
"As near as I can tell, he had the quicksilver in his body for quite a while."
"And, what? He suddenly got allergic?"
"It can happen, Darien. Children exhibit the most allergies. Typically, as they get older, their body chemistry changes and adapts. They grow out of their allergies. But adults can develop allergies to anything at anytime. And sometimes, those reactions can be quite severe."
It was quiet for a moment while everyone considered that. Fawkes especially was thinking about the quicksilver flowing through his own veins. As if reading his mind, Claire added, "I wouldn't worry, Darien. I'm keeping a close eye on your body's reaction to the quicksilver."
"But, I could..." He waved a hand at the body he still refused to look at. The Keeper didn't respond. She didn't have to. Terrific. Even more things about the damn gland to worry about.
"You said 'suddenly'," Hobbes injected, breaking the mood. "How sudden?"
"Quite sudden. I'd say from the time of the initial reaction until death, it was the space of only a few minutes."
"So our guy here just keeled over?"
"It would appear that way. Cardio and pulmonary systems seized up and shut down."
"So, our guy here kicks it, falls down, and whoever takes his gland out? Why?"
"Most likely, to study it and discover the difficulty. And, given our discovery of Brenda, to keep it from us."
Hobbes bent down to closely examine the hollowed out head. Fawkes turned pale green and looked away. "Looks like they did this pretty fast."
"Agreed. Maybe time was of the essence. I suspect they didn't have time to do a proper removal."
"Looks like they took the claw end of a hammer to his head."
Fawkes broke in. "You know, I love talking about mutilated corpses as much as the next guy. But do you think we can discuss something else? Like how this is going to help us?"
Hobbes straightened and glanced at his queasy partner. "They're on the run, my friend. They either know we're on to them, or we're close. Either way, we are barking up the right trees and making these people real nervous."
"Super. Now what?"
"I think it's time we talk to our guest."
"Brenda?"
"I'm not sure that's a good idea right now," Claire said.
"What are you talkin' about? We've got someone right here who was there when a lot of this stuff went down. She's got information we need."
"Bobby, Brenda is not completely well at the moment."
Hobbes huffed with impatience. "What are ya talkin'? She's up, she's around, she can tell us who these people are and what they're doing. I think she has a lot of helpful info."
"Her body is healing. But mentally and emotionally..."
"So, she's a headcase." Fawkes flinched at Hobbes' curt assessment. "I know about headcases. I'll go in an take her statement."
"Hobbes," Fawkes murmured.
"No, I got it, Fawkes. That...person has information that we both need to get anywhere in this case. I'll go get what I need from her." Hobbes turned on his heel and headed out of the lab. Fawkes rushed to catch up with him, stopping him by the open door with a hand on his shoulder.
"Hobbes, look, let me talk to her."
A snort of disgust. "Yeah. Right. Who's the lead investigator on this case?"
Fawkes didn't even want to think of what an interrogation by a hostile Hobbes would do to Brenda. "Come on, man. She's fragile right now. She knows me. I think she trusts me."
Hobbes eyed him suspiciously. "What are you gonna do? Hold her hand? Think your girlfriend will only talk to you?"
Fawkes' eyes hardened. "Knock it off. She's not my girlfriend."
"Yeah. Not your girlfriend. You seem awfully protective of someone who's not your girlfriend. Hoping to slide in there, under the buddy radar, and get a little..?" Hobbes made an obscene gesture. Fawkes felt a surge of anger and nearly shoved Hobbes away. Instead, he took a deep breath and stepped back.
"I can talk to her, Hobbes. I'll find out what you need to know." With that, he headed down the hall toward Lab 3.
"You'd better," Hobbes called after him. "Because if I need to go in there..."
Fawkes dismissed him with a disgusted wave over his shoulder. The two guards at the door had changed. Fawkes recognized one of them, but nodded to both as he entered the room. No one else was inside. Brenda was sitting up in the bed, on top of the covers, her legs crossed, staring at nothing. She didn't appear to hear him come in. He paused for a moment, watching the emotions flickering across her face. Worry, fear, and something else. It had been nearly a week since she'd come out of it. Fawkes was worried that she didn't seem to be getting better. Claire was right. Physically, she was doing fine. Her color was better and her appetite was back, helping to fill out her body so she didn't look so much like a skeleton. She was still painfully thin, but there was more fullness to her face now. But mentally...mentally, she was fragile and brittle. Her nerves, raw and exposed, twitched at the slightest thing. In her lucid moments, Fawkes saw she had humor and strength. He just hoped it was enough to get her through this.
"Hey," he said quietly. Her head snapped up and she saw him. Her shoulders relaxed.
"Hi."
"How are you feeling today?"
She shrugged. "Oh, you know. Better, I guess."
He suddenly felt awkward, not sure how to broach this subject. "Well, you look better."
A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Thanks."
"Uh, look, Brenda..." Fawkes eased down on the edge of the bed. "I was wondering if... Do you think..?" She watched his discomfort, puzzled. "I think it's time to...talk...about what happened to you."
He practically heard the steel door behind her eyes slam down. Her back went rigid again and suspicion clouded her face. Not that he blamed her. But, if she didn't talk to him, Hobbes would grill her. At this point, it was a decision for the lesser evil. "I know," he said quietly. "But, if we're gonna catch the people that did this, we need to know what you know."
She eyed him for a long minute. Then nodded reluctantly. "Okay. What do you need to know?"

The tape recorder was a huge, antiquated machine. It was all Eberts was able to provide. Fawkes was surprised it wasn't a reel-to-reel. It sat on the hospital bed table, a cord for the microphone snaking across the laminate surface. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to persuade Hobbes, the Official, Eberts, and the Keeper to stand in the hallway, out of sight, rather than crowd into the room to hear what Brenda Kozlowksi had to say. Fawkes knew that this was going to be difficult enough for her without an audience.
Brenda sat at the head of the bed, legs drawn up tight under her, her elbow tucked and her hands clenched over her ankles. She didn't look at him. She spoke in a hollow monotone, relaying events in a dead way that worried him. He tried to convince himself that this would do her good. That talking about it would ease her a bit. But, watching her, as she sat stiff and fidgeted, he wasn't so sure.
"Almost two years ago, my field supervisor came to me and said a government agency was interested in recruiting me for their team. It was a top-level agency. I was flattered that I was being considered for this. I met with a man and he conducted an interview. He said it was highly classified and that he couldn't tell me too much about the project. Just that it would be an opportunity for me to serve my country. They were talking to everyone, my supervisor, my partner Jose, my co-workers. Everyone in the office was ribbing me, saying the NSA was looking for supercops. A couple of months after that, Mark Applebee-that was the man's name-called to congratulate me. Said I'd made the finalist cut. Everything died down, things went back to normal. I didn't hear anything else and assumed that they had selected another candidate. I didn't think too much more about it.
"Then, one day...I think it was September 22. I got a phone call at my desk. I was doing paperwork. Finishing and filing reports, clearing my desk. Jose and I had been on a case and the work piled up. You know?" Her eyes flicked to Fawkes and he nodded. "This guy calls me. Asks me if I'm still interested in participating in the project. I hadn't really thought about it in a long time, so his question threw me. He apologized for the lag time. Said something about the slow-working gears of government. At that point, I wasn't too gung-ho about leaving my job and told him. He said they were still very interested in me and could he meet with me to discuss it? I guess my ego and my curiosity got the better of me and I told him sure.
"We met in a park. I thought it was a little weird that this top-level government guy wanted to meet me in a place like that, but I figured that if this was a high security project, they had to be careful. He brought another man with him. We sat at one of those chess tables they have in the park and started talking."
"Do you know their names?"
"Oh, yeah. Luke Lawson was one. The other guy was foreign. I thought that was kind of odd."
Recovering from his initial start, Fawkes leaned forward. "His name?"
"Arnaud. DuThiel, I think he said his last name was. He was a doctor from Zurich they'd recruited to oversee this project."
It took every ounce of control for Fawkes to keep his composure. He didn't trust his voice and merely nodded for Brenda to continue.
"They weren't too forthcoming with information. They said they couldn't tell me too much about the project until I was on board. I tried to tell them that I couldn't sign on until I knew what I was getting into. We went around and around for a while. The foreign guy, the doctor, was quiet charming. He told me that I would be doing a great service for my country. That I would be on the forefront of a new age of law enforcement and military protection. That I would emerge with a new ability to catch the bad guys. He went on at length. He didn't really tell me a lot, but he made it sound so damned appealing. He seemed like he was giving me information, but I can see in hindsight, he wasn't telling me a damn thing.
"I told them I would have to think about it. I talked to Jose. He said that while it sounded like a great opportunity, I should be careful and really find out what was involved. I talked to my family about it. They were so proud that I had been selected for something like this. You should have heard my dad on the phone. I thought he was going to burst. I thought about it a lot over the next couple of days. I didn't have a way to contact Lawson, but he eventually called me. I agreed, with the condition that if I didn't like what I found out, I could leave. He told me "absolutely". He told me to apply for a leave of absence and to get my affairs in order. I was going to be with this project for a while. He also told me not to discuss it with anyone. This was a classified project and I couldn't compromise them. I thought the leave of absence was going to be the most difficult thing. It turned out to be the easiest. My field supervisor signed my forms without even looking at them. I got everything else squared away and caught a flight to California."
She fell quiet for a while. Fawkes, his head and stomach churning, tried to figure out if she was gathering her strength or about to crumble. Eventually, she started speaking again.
"It all seemed on the level. They had a laboratory set up in the lower level of this big warehouse. I arrived and they took me on a tour. I met the people that worked at the lab. A bunch of doctors with different specialties. There were a couple of lab workers. But mostly, it was a bare-bones crew and me. I signed a confidentiality agreement and some waivers. Dr. duThiel ordered a bunch of tests. Stress tests, complete physical, blood work-the whole thing. When they said I was perfectly healthy, he sat down with me and told me what was going to happen. That he had developed an artificial gland that would render me invisible. If I hadn't seen the lab and met all the people, I would have thought he was joking. He showed me a rat that turned silver, then vanished. I put my hand in the cage. I could feel the rat. I could feel whiskers and fur. But I couldn't see it. He told me how my government found out about his work and wanted to create a law enforcement agency that was manned with agents that could turn invisible. I mean, think of the possibilities. A police force that could slip into a criminal stronghold, unseen. Cops that could sneak up on suspects and arrest them before any shots could be fired. It would revolutionize law enforcement. The possibilities for good with this gland were amazing."
It was the most animated she'd been since beginning. Fawkes could see how she could be seduced by the prospect of becoming a better cop. He was getting a feel for who she was. Hobbes would be mortified, but he had something in common with this woman. They were both patriots who cared for their country. So much so that they took jobs protecting it.
"I guess I was the perfect mark. I fell for it. I swallowed his whole story without another thought. Doesn't reflect on my intelligence very well, does it?"
He put his hand on hers. She glanced up, her chin tucked. "It doesn't make you stupid," he assured her. "That makes you someone who wants to help people."
She didn't look like she believed him, but she took what he said and continued. "He performed... Dr. duThiel performed the surgery. He did it there at the lab. I didn't really leave the lab during all the prep work and tests. He had this little operating room there in the lab. That's where he..." She pointed at the back of her head. Fawkes nodded, encouraging her to go on. "When I woke up, I had this horrible headache. The doc told me that it was normal, a result of cranial surgery. But, after a few days, the pain diminished but didn't go away. That's when he said that I would most likely always have those headaches. 'An unfortunate side-effect of the gland grafting process.' I wasn't too happy about constant headaches. But then, we started working on my use of the gland. The first test they did, they didn't tell me about. Actually, they didn't tell me a lot. I woke up and there was a fire in my room. The door was blocked and the sprinklers weren't activating. The smoke started to get to me and I panicked. All of a sudden, I got this weird feeling. Like I was in water, or water was running over my body. I saw silver trickling down my arm. The next thing I knew, I was invisible. The door burst open and the lab guys came in with extinguishers. That first time...it was amazing. Once I got over the shock, I was thrilled. Dr. duThiel seemed very happy with the gland's response. Said it worked perfectly. I spent the next couple of months learning how to use it, how to control it."
Fawkes flashed on the warehouse, where Brenda, in the grip of QSM, was closing in on Hobbes. She'd quicksilvered and shed it just as quickly in a ripple effect that thwarted thermal glasses. It showed a level of control that he couldn't imagine.
"Things were going along very well. I was really getting the hang of the gland. I would play tricks on the lab personnel, making things vanish. Trying to loosen them up. They were all so tight. Except for one guy. George. He was one of the lowly techs. But he was always nice to me. He always had a 'hi' and a smile. He was a good guy. He was..." Her voice broke and she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Fawkes waited in silence, wanting her to go at her own pace.
"They'd been giving me these injections. They said it was azathioprine. To keep my body from rejecting the gland. I got a little shot, every other day. I was feeling fine. Healthy. Very good. One day, I didn't get my shot as scheduled. I asked about it. Dr. duThiel said my body seemed to be accepting the gland and they would be able to wean me off the azathioprine. It sounded reasonable to me. I went back to working with the gland and being tested. But, after a couple of days, my headache started getting worse. And I was getting this...feeling. Like...claws on the back of my brain. I was concerned, but the doc just dismissed it, saying my body was adjusting. I wanted to believe him, but I knew-I just knew-something was wrong. I could feel it. But no one seemed too concerned.
"One day, I was in one of the lab rooms, talking to George. I told him that I thought something was wrong with the gland. He was the only one who listened and seemed concerned. I was trying to explain these weird sensations I'd been having when... It felt like my head was going to explode. I've never felt pain like that before. I couldn't stay on my feet, it hurt so badly. I was on the floor, clutching my head, George over me, shouting 'What's wrong? What happened?' I don't know when it happened exactly. I felt...someone else slip in. Someone...something... Suddenly, I had no more pain. Not even the normal headache. I felt absolutely perfect. George had gone to the phone to call for help. There was this big metal stool sitting there. One of those heavy steel lab stools. While George was on the phone, calling to get me help, I picked up that stool and..." She stopped, blinking back tears, her breath short and shallow.
"Hey, it's okay," Fawkes said softly, hoping very hard that he was right.
When she spoke again, her voice was a ragged whisper. "I obliterated the back of his skull, Darien. I picked up that stool and beat his brains in. I killed him just like that. And I enjoyed it." A droplet of saline fell from her face to her lap. Fawkes moved closer, wanting to reassure her, wanting to protect her, knowing that ultimately, there was nothing he could do. He decided to change to subject. "What about that cage?"
That did it. He didn't know if it was for the better, though. She lifted her head, anger flushing her face. "Oh yes. My cage. That wasn't part of the first tour. They didn't put me in there right away. Oh, Dr. duThiel was all apologetic. 'Oh, Miss Kozlowski, I am so sorry. It seems that psychosis is another side effect.' He gave me another injection of what he'd been saying was azathioprine. And I was fine. For a while. But eventually, I could feel my control...me...slipping. When it hit again, I tried to escape. I must have hurt a lot of people. They shot me with a tranq. When I woke up, I was in the cage. Insane and looked in a cage."
Fawkes felt his throat tighten. "Do you know how long you were there?"
"While I was...crazy...it was hard to keep track of time. I tried to escape many times. I was getting good at it. Once, I got almost a mile away before they caught up to me again. I don't know how they kept finding me. But they always did. I'd be shot, bagged, and dumped back into that cage."
"Was Arnaud there through all of this?"
"In the beginning, he was there a lot. Once I was...gone, he was there less and less. Same with Lawson. Though, Lawson was the one who brought me the assignment for killing that little old man."
Dr. Praktuproli. Fawkes nodded and let her continue.
"Lawson said if I killed the old man, they would let me out of the cage. I was crazy, but I wasn't stupid. There was no way they were going to let me out. But, I thought if I did this, if I killed this man, they might let their guard down enough to allow me to escape."
"Did Lawson say why he wanted the doctor killed?"
She shook her head. "Not really. Something about stirring the pot in India. He was pretty cryptic with me. In the beginning, I thought he was just being careful. Then I saw that he was just a lying shit, manipulating me."
"Did you hear anyone else talking? Could you get any idea of what they were after?"
She shook her head again. She looked very tired. This talk had taken a lot out of her. "No, everyone was tight-lipped around me. They told me what they wanted me to know. Until they locked me up, I was going along with them, so..." She sighed. "I tried to get away that night, when you and your partner blew my hit. I ran out the door and was going to keep going. They were waiting for me. It's like they knew exactly where I was."
Fawkes decided to put this parcel of paranoia to bed. "They did. We found a transmitter in your neck. Arnaud must have put it in when he implanted the gland. That way, they would always know where you were."
She looked at him, about to be shocked, then sighed and pressed her hand to her forehead. "Figures. Guess that means they were planning on letting me...they always wanted to know where their experiment was."
"Do you remember the day we-" What word should he use? "Arrested you?"
She took her hand away, then shifted her gaze, guilt-stricken. "Yes," she whispered.
"What happened?"
She grimaced and looked into her lap. "Darien..."
"It's okay. I just want to know what happened that they left you behind like that."
"I'm really sorry about that."
He felt a twinge at the memory. "It's okay, Bren."
"They were in this big hurry to get out of the lab. Everyone was running around, boxing up files, grabbing equipment. I was fiddling with the lock and managed to pick it. I slipped out during all the chaos. I was going up the stairs when I heard someone shout that I was gone. I heard someone else say, 'Let her go. We can't use her anymore. Let them take care of her.' Then, I heard the alarm from the motion sensors. And then you and..." She winced again, the memory too fresh to be viewed with comfort. "I guess they thought you all would be more than happy to kill me for them."
"So, they were there when we arrived?"
"Yes. I guess I bought them the time they needed to get away clean. I'm so glad I could be of help to them," she muttered.
He never thought he'd be glad to hear sarcasm like that. Some of her humor was bobbing to the surface, however dark. He asked her a few more questions, to clarify a couple of points. He also wanted to end their talk on more of an up note. He didn't want to leave her with her memories and despair. By the time they were finished, Brenda was exhausted, but more level and alert. Fawkes tried to think of everything that Hobbes would want to know, if only to save her having to say all of this again. He ended their interview, marveling that a year ago, he would never have thought he would be doing something like this. He collected the tape recorder and started to leave the room. Brenda was sleepy-eyed and droopy, about to pass out where she sat. She called out, "Darien?"
He turned. "Yeah?"
She smiled. It was a tiny, weak smile. But he'd take it. "Thanks."
"No problem. I told you, any time."
The smile got a bit braver.

All five of them sat in the Official's office, listening to the tape. When Brenda voiced Lawson's and Arnaud's names, everyone reacted. Fawkes sat quietly, grimly chewing on a loose cuticle. Hobbes looked over at his partner. Fawkes was a pretty easy-going guy. Sometimes, a bit too carefree for Hobbes. At the moment, however, Hobbes was sure that Fawkes was capable of pounding the crap out of someone. His partner looked pissed, in a calm, dangerous way.
The interview ended and Eberts pressed the Stop button. There was a minute of silence as everyone digested the new twist on their problem.
"I thought Arnaud had his own gland now," the Official grumbled.
"He does," Hobbes confirmed.
"So what was he doing, involved in this...experiment?"
Claire stepped forward, her arms crossed, touching her lips with one hand, deep in thought. "Perhaps he was using these people to work all the glitches out of the gland. I mean, Bobby said that Arnaud claimed his gland was perfect. He said he pieced together enough information to re-create it. I thought it was strange that Arnaud suddenly seemed to have this worked out, when he has been after Darien for so long."
The Official looked just about as angry as Fawkes did. "How did he hook up with Lawson? And how did they get that list of finalists?" No one had an answer for him and his mood darkened. "Hobbes, I want you to find Lawson. Right now. Eberts, get Applebee for me. I want to talk to him." When no one bolted from their spot, he thundered, "I gave you people orders. Now move!"

"All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions."

- Leonardo da Vinci

She slept fitfully. Every time the dreams would try to take hold, Brenda would jerk awake. After a few hours of this, she gave up. She sat up in her bed, her headache worse, feeling tense and exhausted. She was afraid to go to sleep. She was terrified of the dreams. Of her.
At least she was improving. She was starting to get a bit stir crazy. She'd been cooped up in this room for almost two weeks. Two weeks that she could remember. That doctor, Claire, told her that she'd actually been there longer. Brenda climbed out of bed and poured herself a glass of water. She paced around the room, listlessly taking inventory of the contents. She flipped through a book Darien left behind for her, but couldn't get into the story. She fidgeted with the bedclothes. If she didn't do something else soon, she was going to scream.
The cop in her was coming back to life. She wanted to know where she was. She wanted to know what was going on. Escape was further in her mind than acquiring information. She'd tried to ask numerous people-the lab techs that would be in the room, the guards at the door, Claire. No one would give her a straight answer. Maybe she would ask Darien when he came back. But the need to know was gnawing at her right now, threatening to consume her. There was no way these lugs at the door were going to let her stroll around. She was going to have to think up something else.
One of the guards leaned in and murmured something to the other, who nodded. The first guard left. Her opportunity wasn't going to get any better. Brenda quickly gathered up her shower supplies. She pulled the legs of her sweatpants up so they wouldn't be visible below the hem of her robe. Then she wrapped the robe tight around her, tugged the belt snug, and went to the door. The remaining guard heard her approach and looked down. He was a big guy.
"Hi," Brenda said, smiling. "I wanted to go take a shower. Is that okay?"
He considered that for a moment. "Can you wait about 20 minutes?"
"Well, I could. But I'm feeling kind of dirty. You wouldn't begrudge a girl a simple shower, would you?" To press her story home, she batted her eyes. That might be pushing it. Thankfully, he bought it. The guard nodded.
"Come on," he said, offering a brotherly smile. "I'll walk you down."
"Do you think I could go on my own? I mean, I know you have to be careful and everything. But, well, it would mean a lot to me." If she poured on the sugar any more, she was going to develop diabetes. Amazingly, the guard nodded again. It was stunning, just how much some men could be manipulated. She felt a moment of regret. She was about to get this guy in a lot of trouble. But it was his own fault for neglecting his job. She honored him with a huge, grateful smile and strolled down the hall. She pushed through the door to the shower room. Once inside, she darted for a stall. She dropped everything and cranked on the water, side stepping the spray and pulling the curtain closed. If anyone happened in, they would assume someone was taking a shower. She shrugged off the robe and yanked down her pant legs. Barefoot, she ran back to the door. She cracked it open and peeked out. The shower door was just out of view of her room. If the guard took four steps to his right, he would have a clear view. She thought about quicksilvering, then discarded the idea. She didn't want to use it at all if she could avoid it. The thing in her brain could do anything while she was invisible. She was going to have to be very quiet. She slipped out of the room and edged down the hall, pressing her back to the wall. The door marked Stairs was across from her. If the guard happened to look that way, he would see her. She slipped over to the door and went through. No shouts of alarm sounded behind her. Brenda eased the door shut and breathed a sigh of relief.
The stairs went up, so she followed them, her ears pricked for any sound. The door at the top held a pebbled glass pane. She kept far to the side, listening. Then, she cracked the door open slightly and listened harder. Nothing. The hallway was silent. She peered out quickly, then slipped out. The hall was pretty dismal. It reminded her of her junior high school. Brenda tiptoed, constantly looking around for anyone else. The place seemed deserted. What kind of place was she in? Dumb guards at the door and no one up here? She tried a couple of doors. At least those were locked. As she reached for the knob of another door, she heard voices from inside. She froze, pressing herself into the wall. It sounded like two men, but she couldn't clearly make out what they were saying. From the tones and inflections, she got the distinct impression of a superior talking to his assistant or flunky. She strained, trying to get the conversation. She shook her head finally and moved on.
Around the corner, she found the only door in this stretch of hall. Tucked away, it was out of sight of the main corridor. She tried the knob and found it locked as well. She listened at the glass while she withdrew her tools from her bra. A needle from the sharps container. The ink cartridge from a pen. A piece of cardboard. All filched from trays or wastebaskets. Brenda hunkered down, sliding the long thin cartridge into the keyhole, then inserting the needle beside it. Her hands trembled. Lock picking was not her forte. She struggled with the lock for several minutes. Her palms were starting to sweat when she felt a tumbler give. The door swung in, nearly spilling her into the office. She recovered quickly and shut the door behind her.
It was a tiny office, cramped, stuffed with second hand furniture and piles of paper on every surface. She went to the desk first. How did this person keep track of anything? She selected a random file and started to go through it, careful to put everything back where she found it. There were files and papers that held financial research for a shipping company called Crossco. She read through them, tracking the line of intent in all the reports. It didn't mean too much until she saw an address she recognized. The pier where the lab had been. She backtracked and read again, but it wasn't clear exactly what was being searched for. The file was thick. She wouldn't be able to smuggle this back to her room. She set it aside and continued to dig, knowing that she was on the right track. She found an official-looking manila envelope and flipped it open. Shock drove her back. She fell into the chair behind the desk, gaping at the open folder in her hands. At that moment, she heard people approach. Tearing her eyes away, she listened carefully. Footfalls and voices were heading her way. She flipped the file shut and stood, stuffing it into the waistband of her sweats. She hustled to the door, hugging the wall by the jam. The people approached and went past the office, still talking. It might have been the people she'd tried to eavesdrop on.
She was pressing her luck. If she didn't get back, that lunkhead at her door was going to start looking for her. She waited and listened until she was sure the people were gone. Then she darted out of the office and down the hall, taking less care this time in her haste. She ran down the stairs and stopped at the bottom, panting from excersion. Brenda tried to calm her breath as she listened. All quiet. A peek through a crack in the door showed no one. She hustled down the hall and slipped into the shower room. The water was still running and there was no evidence that anyone had been there. She grabbed up her sweat legs again as she shoved her head under the stream, just enough to wet her hair. She shut off the water, wrapped the robe around her body and a towel around her hair, gathered up her things, and casually strolled back to her room. The other guard was back. They both nodded at her as she went back into the room.

Hobbes and Fawkes stood outside an office building, the latest one of many they'd visited that day. All in an attempt to find Lawson. But no one seemed to know where he was. Or they weren't telling. After a day of driving and stonewalling, they were both beat. Fawkes slouched, his hand in his back pockets. Hobbes rolled his neck, trying to ease the tension. He put his sunglasses on so he could read his notes without the glare. Traffic sped past them, sending up gusts of hot air.
"Well, now what?" Fawkes asked, squinting as he turned to look at Hobbes. The senior agent shrugged.
"No one knows where he is. Or they aren't telling. We're spinning our wheels here, partner. I think we need to see what the big man can get for us."
"I'm all for that."
The walked to the van and drove back to the Agency. It was now late afternoon and traffic was thick. It took them nearly an hour to get back. They went straight to the Official's office. Eberts was the only one there, tidying up from the day. He looked up as they both entered.
"Hey, where's the Official?" Fawkes asked.
"He's leaving for the day. He had an important dinner meeting, then he'll head home."
"Hmm. We need his help."
Eberts brightened. "Perhaps I can help you."
"What makes you think you can help us--Eberts," Hobbes growled.
Eberts looked pained. "I have been an asset to you so far, Robert."
"Take the e and t off that and you're right," Hobbes grumbled just loud enough for Fawkes to hear.
"And I do have top security clearance."
"What is it?" the Official demanded as he trundled into the room.
"Sir, I was just explaining to Agent Hobbes--"
"Sir, I was hoping to get your assistance on something."
"I told you that I could probably take care of it, Robert."
"And I told you that I wanted to talk to the Official--Eberts."
It was a familiar spat. Fawkes dropped a hand on Hobbes' shoulder. "You know, as much as I would love to stand here and listen to you girls squabble, I think I'm gonna go check in with Keep." He slipped out the door as the fight continued to wage in the office, with the Official trying to play referee. He took the stairs down and loped into the lab. Claire was at her computer, clicking on an amorphous image on the screen. Fawkes grabbed a chair and pulled up beside her. "Hey."
She didn't look at him. "Hello."
"How's it going?"
Claire sighed. "Not too well, I'm afraid."
"It's not Brenda, is it?"
She tossed the mouse away with disgust and pushed her chair back. "It has to do with her."
He looked at the screen. "What's this?"
"It's a computer model of her gland. I compiled all the CAT scans and data I had and created this." Claire waved at the blob on the screen. "I was hoping that I might have better luck getting her gland out. I thought if I could figure out how to remove hers, it might help me remove yours."
His eyes opened in surprise. "Really?"
She raked her hand through her hair, clearly annoyed. "Yes, but I'm not having a good go of it." She grimaced at the screen, then turned to him. In a body shorthand that had developed between them, she gestured for his wrist. Fawkes obliged. She pulled back the watchband to check his quicksilver levels. He was less than half full. She released his arm and stood, walking further into the lab. Fawkes gazed at the monitor for another moment and then stood, too.
"How is she today?"
"Oh, she appears to be improving," Claire said as she dropped some fish food into some tanks. "She wanted to exercise. I think that's a good sign."
"So, she's not in her room?"
"No. I think she's in the workout room."
"I'll got check on her." Claire nodded, distracted. She got like this on occasion. Whenever she was embroiled in a sticky problem, her mind would churn a mile a minute while her body would go through the daily motions. Fawkes decided to leave her alone and left the lab. He wanted to see how Brenda was.
Fawkes finally found her in the exercise room. She sat in the center of the tattered throw mat, her back to the door, hunched over something. He grabbed the doorframe and leaned in. "Hey, Brenda."
She didn't move or respond in any way. Surely she had heard him. He called to her again with the same result. Concerned, he walked over to where she sat. As he came around from behind her, he saw that she was looking at a file in her lap. With a jolt, he realized what file. Hobbes' report from the hotel. She had pictures of Gardner and Fitzsimmons' pictures side by side. Brenda sat absolutely still, not acknowledging his approach. Worry fluttered in his stomach.
"Brenda?" Again no response. He crouched in front of her. "Hey."
Without looking up, she said quietly, "I killed these men."
Fawkes wasn't sure what to do. His first question would be where did she get the file? Why did she get the file? But there was something about her voice that gave him a chill. He carefully reached forward to take the folder from her. With lightening speed, she grabbed his wrist and held it still. Then she finally looked at him. The haunted look in her eyes scared him.
"I killed these men," she repeated in that dull, flat tone. She held his wrist too tight. Fawkes winced but didn't pull away.
"Come on, Brenda," he said soothingly. "Just give me that file. You don't need to look at that." He carefully tried to take it from her with the other hand. She looked down but let him have the folder. Once he closed it, she continued to stare at the manila. But she finally let go. Fawkes glanced at his arm. The white print of her fingers turned to red, then faded.
"I killed them."
Fawkes took a deep breath. "Brenda, that wasn't you."
"Who was it then?" she demanded with force and fury. Enough to make him flinch. "The Blue Fairy? The Great Pumpkin? Who was it, Darien? Huh?!"
"Brenda--"
"No!" She rolled away from him and climbed nimbly to her feet. Her eyes were wide and burning wild. She began to pace. She had gone from zero to extremely agitated in a very short time and it set off alarm bells. "I didn't tell you about the others, did I? I told you about the lab tech, but not the other two."
He stayed crouched on the floor, feeling out the situation. "The...other two?"
"One was a night guard. I lay in my cage and played dead. He made the mistake of getting too close. I tore his throat out. I can still feel his windpipe crinkling in my hand, feel the blood running down my arm. I killed that man with my bare hands!" She was talking faster and louder. Fawkes quickly stood in case he needed to be ready. Ready for what? He sure hoped he wouldn't find out.
"And the homeless man. I didn't tell you about the homeless man. I stabbed him to death. I knocked him down and sat on his chest and drove the knife in and looked in his eyes as the life drained out of him. And I laughed! I thought it was the funniest thing in the world!" She was practically running back and forth now, flinging her arms in larger and larger gestures. Her voice was becoming strident. Fawkes realized he was watching her lose it. Brenda was coming completely unglued before his eyes. The image of her in the stock room, putting the scalpel to her throat, flashed across his mind's eye. Forcing himself to move slowly and keep his voice calm, he took a step toward her.
"Brenda," he said gently. "Let's go see Claire." He carefully took her arm. She yanked away from his grasp violently. "No! Don't touch me!"
He took another step. "Brenda, let me help you."
She shrunk away from him, confused and fearful. "No," she rasped, on the verge of tears. "You can't help me."
"I'd like to try." Keeping steady and slow, he reached for her again. Fawkes' focus was trying to calm her and get her to the Keeper as quickly as possible.
Brenda backed away now, shaking her head, eyes darting wildly. "You can't. No one can. I'm dangerous. I might...hurt you."
Fawkes tried a smile. "Nah, you won't."
She looked at him now, her eyes full of sadness and fright. "Hobbes was right, you know."
"Hobbes was...what?" He couldn't figure out what she was talking about.
"He wanted to shoot me. I saw it on his face. In the lab. He wanted nothing more at that point than to put a bullet in my head." Realization made her eyes even bigger. "Hobbes was right."
He didn't like where this was leading. "No, Brenda. He wasn't." Another step.
Brenda's eyes drifted away from him and she started nodding. Without warning, she spun and headed for the door.
"Wait! Where are you going?" Fawkes started after her. Her legs were long and she moved quickly. He had to match her pace. "Brenda? Come on. Where are you going?" Fawkes held a brief hope that she would go into the main lab, but she whipped right past it.
She hit the door to the stairs open and continued through. The stairs only went up. He jogged to catch her and took hold of her elbow. "Brenda. Stop."
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, driving her elbow back. It caught Fawkes on the shoulder and knocked him off balance. He fell down two steps and landed in a heap on the floor. He wasn't hurt so much as dazed. Brenda stared at him for a long moment, her mouth an O of dismay. Then she darted up the stairway. The door at the top banged open. He heard her yell, "Where is he?"
Fear propelled him to his feet. "Aw crap," Fawkes muttered as he ran up the stairs. She was already halfway down the corridor, beating on doors with her fist as she progressed. "Hobbes!" she hollered, trying a knob and finding it locked. "Where are you?"
"Brenda!" he shouted.
She spun and pointed at him. "Stay away from me, Darien!"
The commotion roused the curiosity of the office. Heads poked out, eyes following the raging woman. And at the end of the hall, Hobbes stepped into full view.
"Where are--?" Brenda stopped when she spotted him. "Oh good. Look. It's the man of the hour!"
At least she wasn't going to get out of the building. Fawkes hung back. Hobbes stood silently, impassively regarding Brenda as she stalked toward him. She drew up about 10 feet away. Her eyes gleamed maniacally. Her smile was too large. "Today is your lucky day, Bobby."
He didn't move or speak. He stood his ground, watching her.
"You had the right idea. You wanted to shoot me. Well, here's your second chance. Come on." Brenda opened her arms as if to embrace Hobbes. But she didn't move. And neither did Hobbes.
Fawkes, however, started creeping up. He knew what she was doing. He'd heard it called "suicide by cop". He wasn't all that sure Hobbes wouldn't oblige.
"I'm a cop killer, remember?" Now she was egging Hobbes on, hoping to piss him off enough to fire. "I nearly cut those agent's heads off. Don't you remember? And you know what? I enjoyed it."
Fawkes was still behind but close enough to see Hobbes' eye jerk.
"So, do the world a favor. Take out a piece of shit cop killer." Brenda stood, coiled. When Hobbes still didn't move, she screamed, "Come on!"
The door to the Official's office opened just enough for Eberts to poke his head out. Brenda's head twitched in that direction, but her focus was Hobbes. "Come on, Bobby," she said in a low, dangerous tone. "Let's dance." She jumped for him and before anyone could react, Hobbes had his gun drawn and aimed. Brenda was now only five feet away.
"Atta boy!" she encouraged. "Come on. Right here." She jabbed her finger at her forehead. "Do it, Bobby. You know you want to."
Fawkes could tell Hobbes wanted to as well. The hell with being stealthy. He broke into a run. Brenda heard him at the last moment, turning toward him even as she headed for Hobbes. Fawkes knew his partner would shoot if she got close enough. He threw his arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides. He then turned, to put his body between Brenda and Hobbes' gun. But her struggles threw him off balance. He felt them both start to go down. He tried to twist so that he would hit the floor first but just succeeded in cracking his skull on the ancient linoleum. Fawkes saw stars for a minute, but had enough presence of mind to hang onto Brenda tightly.
As soon as they hit the floor, the place erupted to life. Agents and office people swarmed into the hall and piled onto the pair. Brenda screamed and struggled as hands came from everywhere to immobilize her. Dazed, Fawkes looked up and saw that Hobbes still had his gun trained on the melee, ready to shoot if Brenda broke free. Footsteps clattered toward them. He heard Claire shouting orders. His vision swum for a moment and still he hung on. Voice babbled, bodies writhed into view. It was making him dizzy. Brenda began to pull away. Fawkes tightened his arms to hold her, but hands were pulling at him, encouraging him to let go. Suddenly, her weight was gone. A cluster of people, containing a shrieking struggle, was moving down the hall toward the basement stairwell.
Hobbes was beside him, gun holstered. "You okay?"
Another set of hands was helping him sit up. He looked and saw Eberts crouched by his side. The Official loomed in his office door. He looked back at Hobbes. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Hobbes didn't look convinced. "Uh-huh. How many fingers am I holding up?"
It took some effort, but Fawkes managed to focus. "Three. Can I get up now?"
"Slowly," Hobbes instructed. He got a grip on Fawkes' right arm while Eberts took the left. They managed to hoist Fawkes to his feet. A moment of vertigo passed, then he stepped away from them.
"I have to go check on Brenda." He started to walk. Hobbes looped a hand around his elbow and stopped him.
"Give the Keeper a few moments to calm her down," the Official advised. "I'm sure she'll call us with the all-clear."
Fawkes started to protest but Hobbes pulled him into the Official's office and gently but firmly pushed him into a chair. Fawkes touched the side of his head. A lump was already growing.
"Are you sure you're all right?" the Official asked.
"I told you, I'm fine," he shot back.
"What the hell was that all about? Out in the hallway?"
Fawkes put his face in his hands, then pushed both through his hair. "She got a hold of Hobbes' file. The one on the assassination attempt."
"My file? She had my file?" Hobbes demanded.
"How did she get it?" Eberts asked.
"Well, I assume she broke into Hobbes' office."
"Great! Terrific!" Hobbes threw his hands up and paced away.
"Why would she do that?" Eberts mused aloud. The Official motioned for his aid. When Eberts drew close, The Official growled that he wanted to see the head of building security ASAP.
"I guess she wanted to find out what happened."
"And that's what set her off?" the Official asked, supremely annoyed.
"Yeah, well, she wasn't on real firm ground to begin with." Fawkes was suddenly very tired.
"That has got to be the understatement of the year!" Hobbes blurted. "That chick is one whacked-out head case! It's amazing she hasn't hurt anyone else."
Fawkes felt a surge of anger. He was so sick of this song. He'd had enough of avoiding the topic and skirting the issue with his partner. Hobbes was just being pig-headed now. He quickly rose from his chair and got right up to Hobbes, to the point of bumping stomachs. He used his height to his advantage, pinned his partner with a glare, and poured challenge into each word. "And you know all about whacked-out head cases, don't you, Hobbes? You've been tossed out of every law enforcement agency because you can't keep it together. Even now, you have to take meds to function. Who cut you a break? Huh? My guess is you're pretty damn lucky someone did. Someone decided you were worth it and helped you out."
That silenced the shorter man. He pulled back, not because he was afraid, but to consider what Fawkes had said. Fawkes stayed put and continued to stare at him. The unspoken argument was that the Official had been the one to see Hobbes' value and abilities. Right now, the older man watched the two face off. Fawkes was right. If he hadn't stepped in two years ago, Robert Hobbes would be institutionalized. Or worse. He watched Hobbes carefully weighing what his partner had said.
In the next moment, Fawkes when from mad to disgusted. "But, hey. What the hell, right? Screw her. Brenda killed two feds, so let's not cut her a freakin' break. Right?" He shook his head and made for the door just as the phone on the desk jangled. Eberts snatched it up, said two words, and replaced the receiver. "That was the Keeper," he told the group. "She said that we can go downstairs now."


They rode the elevator in silence. Fawkes kept his distance from Hobbes, his body language speaking volumes. In the hallway, a few people loitered, but most refilled the elevator they had just vacated. A technician Fawkes recognized caught their eye and led them down the hall. Fawkes felt dismay when he realized where they were going.
Eberts opened the door to the observation room that looked into the padded cell. Fawkes reluctantly followed the rest in. The Keeper stood by the glass, sadly gazing at the occupant. Brenda was in the cell, strapped into a straight jacket. Her shoes had been removed. She paced, speeding from one end of the room to the other.
"What's her status?" the Official asked, taking a chair. After moment of consideration, Eberts sat behind him.
The Keeper sighed, never taking her eyes from the pacing woman. "I've been expecting this reaction for a while now. I just wasn't sure of the severity."
Fawkes went to the glass, watching Brenda pace like a caged cat. He remembered this room and he hated it. He's spent nearly two days in there, yelling, cursing, bouncing off the walls. More of the Agency's mind games. Allianora had been held in there when he'd struck a deal with the Devil. And Hobbes had been in there, during that awful time when his mind expanded to boggling-and dangerous-extremes. But Brenda was in there because she wanted to hurt herself. His throat and his chest were tight. He watched her, his head following here back and forth, like a demented tennis match.
"What do you mean?" the Official asked quietly, also watching the distressed woman.
"Brenda was quicksilver insane for a lengthy period of time. She did things while under the influence of the gland that she would have never done under normal circumstances. Now that the quicksilver is cleared from her thought processes, her guilt has kicked in."
"But it was the gland, not her," Eberts pointed out.
Claire glanced at the aid and shook her head. "She doesn't see it that way. Brenda has a very strong moral center. While insane, she violated those morals, quite violently. She holds herself responsible for her behavior."
Brenda slowed. She still paced, but she cast furtive glances at the glass. She had to know there were people on the other side of the mirror, observing her. Just like Fawkes had known. He moved closer to the glass.
"So what do we do now?" the Official asked.
"Brenda needs more help than I can give her here. It might be time to consider...hospitalization."
The image of the Agency asylum flashed over Fawkes' mind's eye. The place had been so desolate, so forbidding. The air inside smelled of fear and despair. The idea of Brenda spending her remaining days in such a place made him sick. "There has to be something else we can do," he said, never taking his eyes from the glass. Brenda looked up and her eyes locked with his for a chilling moment. Then she looked past his shoulder.
"I think the Keeper's right, Darien," the Official said sadly.
His nerves already frayed, Fawkes snapped his head around to look at them. "That's the best you can do?" he shot at them. "Ship her off to some God forsaken Agency crazy house? That would be such a great place to wait to die."
The Keeper watched him, sympathy playing across her face. "Darien," she began gently. "We only want what's best for Brenda." He snorted in disbelief. She ignored him and continued. "She experiencing a psychotic episode. This may be due to grief and guilt. It might also be her gland damaging her brain. I simply don't have the facilities here to help her. In a hospital, she could receive around the clock care."
The Official and Eberts looked up at him with what appeared to be genuine concern. Hobbes stood in the back of the room, by the door. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his face unreadable. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Fawkes knew the Keeper was right. He felt his throat tighten and he looked away from them, back into the room. Brenda wasn't pacing anymore. She stood in the center of the room, feet braced, looking up. No, she wasn't looking up. She was examining the observation window.
"I can make some calls," Claire told the Official in quiet tones. "I have some friends in the private sector. I might be able to find someone who can pass government screening enough to..."
Fawkes stopped listening. He watched, puzzled, as Brenda came to the glass. She put her shoulder up against it and pushed. He moved to stand in front of her. Brenda then used her shoulder to hit the glass. Then she turned her back on him and stepped away.
"I could do some research and see about finding a government sanctioned neurologist," Eberts was saying. Fawkes moved closer to the window, trying to figure out what Brenda was doing. Without warning, she spun and delivered a neat roundhouse kick to the glass right in front of his nose. Fawkes reared back reflexively. The impact sounded nearly metallic and the pane bowed briefly. The sound froze everyone is the room.
Brenda studied the window during the moment of stunned silence. Finally, Claire told them all, "Don't worry. This is reinforced, bullet-proof glass."
"Well, that's a relief," Fawkes muttered sarcastically. He watched the straightjacketed woman move to the wall furthest from the window. She stood there for a long time, long enough to lull the Keeper and the Official back into their conversation. Then she broke into a dead run. At the last second, Brenda tucked her chin. Her skull struck the glass with a resounding kong. Everyone was on his or her feet and at the window in time to see her fall back on the mat.
"Jesus!" Fawkes breathed.
Claire flipped a switch by the microphone. "Brenda! Stop it!"
She ignored the voice from the speakers in the room, climbed back to her feet, and went back to the far wall. Before the stunned onlookers, Brenda flung herself at the glass once more. The force of the impact knocked her down again. She lay on the floor, dazed.
"God, do something!" Fawkes pleaded with no one in particular. Claire rushed to the intercom on the wall and punched a button. "Security!"
With some effort, Brenda gained her feet again. She staggered slightly as she walked to the back wall. But there was nothing hesitant in her run for the glass. A report like a gunshot rang out and a smear of blood appeared after Brenda fell away. Fawkes looked at her on the mat for a moment. A wound under her hairline was actively bleeding. He had to do something. He pushed through people and chairs, trying to get to the door. He saw Brenda on her feet again, swaying, blood running down her face.
"Darien, wait!" Claire was peering into the room even as she held out an arm to Fawkes. There was something about her voice. Was security there? He hurried back to the glass. The door to the padded cell was swinging open. Hobbes stepped into the room.
"What the--?" Thunderstruck, he held his spot. In his hurry to get to the door, he hadn't even noticed that Hobbes was no longer there. Now his partner was walking into a room with a suicidal woman he didn't particularly care about.
Brenda turned slowly and looked at the newcomer. It took her a moment to realize who it was. "Oh hi, Bobby," her voice sounded through the speaker in the room. She sounded out of it. She staggered a step toward him. "Decided you really wanted that shot?"
Hobbes didn't say anything. The door closed behind him, sealing them in together.
"Well, it's a good thing you're here," Brenda continued. "I don't think I'll stay awake long enough to finish myself off."
Hobbes took a deep breath and regarded her for a long time. She continued to teeter. It was obvious that will power alone was keeping her upright. He finally spoke. "I'm not going to be your trigger man."
She looked at him as if he had sprouted another head. "You're not..? Why not?"
He looked straight at her. "I'm not a killer."
Brenda whooped with laughter and stumbled away. "But that's the beauty of it, my man! I am a killer! You were right. You were...you were right. You wanted to take me down. I saw it in your eyes. So now, you have the chance to fulfill the dream." Blood spilled over her chin onto the white straight jacket.
"No," he said simply.
"C'mon, Bobby. Do everyone a favor. Take me out. Right now."
He watched her and said nothing. Another fat droplet of blood landed on her white sleeve. She had to close one eye to keep the blood out. She was beginning to breathe more heavily, anger and her injury compounding each other. She stumbled a step forward.
"Would it make it easier if I attacked you?" she prodded. "You could claim self-defense." Hobbes said nothing. Rage twisted Brenda's face. "Don't make me hurt you."
The two stared at each other for a long time until Brenda erupted in a scream and charged drunkenly at Hobbes. He easily sidestepped and let her crash into the wall. A red blossom appeared on the white wall. Heedless, Brenda turned to Hobbes again. "Come on!" she demanded, a sob choking her voice. When he did nothing, she slumped to her knees. "Please," she begged. She bowed her head, her face contorting in grief.
Sympathy softened Hobbes' features. Everyone in the observation room watched, frozen, breathless, as he approached her. After a moment of quandary, he crouched beside Brenda. "There are people here who can help you," he said so softly he could barely be heard over the speakers.
Brenda folded in on herself, shaking her head, until she was in a tight ball. "I can't," she sobbed. "I can't do this."
"Yes you can," he told her. "But you'll need help. Let them-" He considered for a moment, then, "Let us help you."
Brenda rested her injured forehead on the floor and let her sorrow take hold. She cried, great racking sobs that shook her whole body. The grief in her ragged cries shook everyone watching. "I'm so sorry. I can't... I'm sorry," she repeated over and over, weeping into the floor. Hobbes reached out and put his hand on her buckled back.
"It's going to be okay."
If she heard him, she didn't show it. Brenda continued wailing her guilt and her anguish for another hour.











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