Chapter 1

Olivia looked, wide-eyed, out her car window into the not-quite-open spaces of Montana, just west of the state line and Yellowstone park. She'd never been there or anywhere like there before – having only flown over the middle of the country on her way to the west coast. She'd always assumed that the middle of the country was nothing but flat farmland. What she found instead was breathtaking. The thick and wild forest seemed so much bigger than those of the Appalachians. The plains seemed impossibly wide and barrenn. The sky, which was currently fully of dark, ominous clouds, seemed somehow bigger. Or, she reasoned, perhaps she just felt smaller.

Walter seemed as enthralled by their surroundings as Olivia was. Peter, on the other hand, didn't seem to be impressed; if anything, he looked at it with disgust and disdain. Naturally, Olivia was curious about his attitude, but she didn't dare ask.

"Here it is," Walter said urgently, leaning up towards the front seat. "To the right. You see the mailbox that looks like a fish?" The old man laughed, "Why a fish?"

"I see it," Peter said, cranking the steering wheel to the right and turning the Jeep Wrangler off of the paved road and onto a long rural driveway.

In the car rental's parking lot, Olivia had thought that the Wrangler looked a little overdone. She was used to east-coast driving: crowded streets, aggressive traffic, tight parking. But Walter had insisted and, like an indulgent mother, Olivia had given in. Now she was glad she had. The surface they were driving on was barely worthy of the name 'road.' It was an unstable mix of slush and gravel zig-zagging up a step hill toward a rustic log cabin. The sedans of the city wouldn't cut it. She was also glad that Peter was driving. She had a feeling her training in defensive and high-speed driving would have been useless.

The road, such as it was, lead up to the homestead of Mr. Wilson. Walter had known Mr. Wilson back in the 80s, but he couldn't remember Mr. Wilson's first name – or, for that matter, if Wilson was a first or last name. However, Walter did remember that Mr. Wilson's property held a very unusual mineral that, he insisted, was absolutely necessary for the kind of work Olivia constantly demanded of him. Of course, Walter was the only one who knew what this mineral was, so he had to go retrieve it personally. As usual, Peter had complained and tried to get out of the weekend in Montana. But, as usual, the necessity of the mission overrode his qualms.

"It will be nice to see Mr. Wilson again," Walter said excitedly, once they reached the top of the hill and Peter put the jeep into park next to a red pickup truck covered by a foot of snow. "I wonder if his mother is still alive. You know, she made the best apple pie."

"I can't believe he remembers this so clearly," Peter muttered, apparently to Olivia. "He doesn't remember abandoning me on our only family vacation but he remembers this guy's mom's pie."

"Sensory memories can be very vivid," Olivia offered as she got out of the jeep.

Peter just shook his head and started following his father toward the cabin. He was upset, and he had a right to be. Olivia wished that, for one moment, Walter could see what his carelessness had done to his son. She though that if Walter could understand, then perhaps Peter could forgive. But not understanding the people around him was, somehow, essential to who Walter was. If he started to understand Peter, perhaps he would lose the ability to understand his crazy theories that always seemed to work. And, if he lost that, Olivia would lose everything and the world would lose one of its last hopes. Still, when she saw Peter catch his father, who'd slipped on the icy stairs leading up to the front door, and Walter not even bother to say 'thank you,' she couldn't help but think that Peter deserved better.

Walter must have rung the doorbell as soon as he reached the porch because Mr. Wilson opened the door while Olivia was still climbing up the icy steps. It was clear, even from the bottom of the stairs, that he recognized Walter immediately.

"If it isn't Doc Bishop," he said, with a cold edge on his voice. "What are you doing here after so damn long?"

"I need to get back in your mine," Walter said excitedly. "My supply of the mineral has been lost and . . ."

"You want back in the mine!" Mr. Wilson said, angrily. Even though he looked to be as old as Walter, if not older, he was a large man, fit and muscular. Olivia had no doubt that, if Mr. Wilson turned violent, Walter did not stand a chance.

"Let me explain," Peter said, stepping between his father and the angry old man. "Walter here is working for the Department of Homeland Security. He thinks the mineral in that mine can help him protect America."

"Him?" Mr. Wilson scoffed. "Government?"

"I'm Agent Olivia Dunham, FBI" Olivia said once she reached the top step. She flashed her badge and tried to smile warmly. "I can see that you are a patriot," she added, looking past through the door and into Wilson's living room. In one corner there was an arm chair and TV showing FOX news. In another corner there was fireplace with pictures on the mantle of young men who looked very much like Mr. Wilson. One of them was in a military uniform, and in the center there was a U.S. flag, folded into a triangle and put in a display case. "Did you lose a son?"

"I lost all my sons," Mr. Wilson said. "Thanks to Doc Bishop."

"How about your mother?" Walter asked. "Does she still make apple pies?"

"Get the hell off my property," Mr. Wilson said.

"There's got to be something we can arrange, sir," Olivia said, trying to appear as respectful as possible. "If you'll let me give you my card . . ."

"If you aren't in that yuppie car driving down my hill in thirty seconds, I'm going to get my gun and fire on you."

"You'd fire on a federal officer?" Peter asked, amazed. "Do you know how much trouble you'd be in?"

"I don't care. Without a warrant you're trespassing. And the law's clear that I have a right to protect my land."

"He's right," Olivia said quickly, before Peter could object again. "There's no use in arguing. Mr. Wilson has made his position clear. Let's go."

"Right," Peter sighed. "Come on, Walter."

"Tell your boys I say hello," Walter started, but before he could get the words out, the door slammed in his face. "I don't know what he's so upset about," Walter protested as Peter helped him back down the icy steps. "I paid them good wages to work down in the mine: two-fifty an hour. And, I had several very pleasant talks with Mrs. Wilson. She'd immigrated from Krakow, you know, back in ought-seven.

"Chatted about the old neighborhood, did you?" Peter asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, I never lived in Krakow," Walter said, shaking his son's arm off and storming angrily towards the car – as if implying someone was from Krakow was an insult.