Chapter 2

Mel abruptly started. Disoriented, it took her a few seconds to realize that the sound she was hearing was only that of the refrigerator's compressor switching on, its throbbing, whirring chug astonishingly loud in the stark, overwhelming silence of her apartment.

Funny how she'd never noticed it before.

How long had she just been standing here by the door, her mind beyond numb, an utter blank?

A minute? An hour?

More?

She really had to get to the supermarket. The cupboard was bare and there were only three sorry carrots left in the refrigerator. Hurricane Cole had made landfall once again and, as usual, what hadn't moved he'd eaten. God, could that man ever pack it away. She might even be missing some flatware, she mused. A few forks, at least. Maybe a spoon or two.

Are there metal detectors in wormholes?

Without even remembering how she got there, she then found herself back in the War Room, her hand lightly gliding along the top of one of Cole's monitors, an unconscious caress. Sooner rather than later she was going to have to dispose of all this electronic stuff somehow, probably disassemble it first, maybe take a mallet and smash it all to smithereens so it would be completely unrecognizable.

"I won't let you down, Cole."

Come hell or high water, she was going to keep his secret to her grave.

"I know you won't."

His secret, as well as her own.

"But some people know about us."

Her mind couldn't seem to focus, chaotically ricocheting in dozens of different directions at once, too swiftly for her to separate most of the individual thoughts. Her brain had been functioning on mostly misfiring cylinders for two weeks now. It was a wonder she hadn't been walking into walls.

As she automatically grabbed up a navy blue T-shirt Cole had left lying out and forgotten (as per usual) to put in the hamper, she noticed that one of his window screens was locked in the up' position. Her mind seized upon that inane little detail, seeking something, anything, to hang on to and steady itself.

Through the window was – had been, she sternly corrected herself – Cole's usual route to and from the roof, scrambling up and down the side of the building with more ease and finesse than Spiderman ever could. Although such alien strangeness eventually became so commonplace she scarcely took any notice, she'd nearly had a coronary the first time she ever saw him do that.

He'd been with her only a little more than a week when she'd been out back in her own little flower garden patch of Chicago soil, watering the merrily rioting zinnias and impatiens. She just happened to glance up as Cole's head poked out his open window, followed in short order by the rest of him. Zip. Up he went. As if there was no such thing as gravity.

Mel smiled to herself at the memory.

Her face felt as though it was contorting into an obscenely grimacing mask.

Collapsing heavily onto Cole's chair, she unconsciously whimpered as she realized that it still retained some of his body heat. Oh, lucky chair. She promptly snuggled in, trying to make it a part of herself as she buried her face in his discarded T-shirt and deeply inhaled.

She immediately knew that she wouldn't be laundering this one anytime soon. If ever. It still carried his unique scent.

And there were still more of his shirts in the hamper...

A ringing began to impinge on her awareness as she sat there for she knew not how long, at that point nearly in a trance, mesmerized by the spinning planet of Cole's still-operational screen-saver.

Disoriented again, she rapidly blinked, trying to regain her bearings.

Ringing? What's that ringing? ... Oh ... yes ... the ... phone...

But she didn't move, couldn't move.

In the next room, her bedroom, the answering machine finally came to life. A beep and then the bleating of a familiar voice: "Mel? ... You there? If you're there, pick up! ... Please, Sweetheart! Please. ... We have to talk. We can't just leave it like this! ... Mel?"

Vic.

Calling for the umpteenth time in a month. Still begging her to call him back, still not understanding, still having a hard time accepting the fact that she'd ended their relationship.

Again.

But this time, she knew, it was over between them for good.

Why, oh why, had she ever bothered to take up with Vic again, anyway? They hadn't worked as a couple the last time they tried. Or the time before that. What ever made her think the two of them might work this time?

Such a dumb, stupid question.

She knew exactly why she'd started seeing him again, why she continued to see him even after he'd declared his love for her and she didn't feel the same way, knew beyond question that she could never feel the same way.

She'd blinded herself to her reasons before, but now she fully recognized the whys of it.

And she was deeply ashamed of herself for them.

She always did have incredibly clear 20/20 hindsight.

Vic's voice just kept droning on and on, alternately upset, confused, pleading, wheedling, demanding and ... patronizing.

Of course.

Vic was so good at that. He called it being concerned', being protective'. And he was. Very much so. Overly so. To the point of being maddening. To the point of always wanting to know where she'd been, what she'd been up to, what she was doing, who she was seeing. To the point of always being suspicious, wanting to check out' everyone she knew. To the point of always thinking he knew exactly what was best for her ... To the point of constantly – if oh-so-very-sweetly-and-gently – nagging her to listen to him, to follow his advice, insisting she do things his way... And sulking if she didn't.

In short, patronizing. Always trying to run her life, never giving her the credit for knowing how to do that herself.

"Oh, that's really funny, Mel ... That's really funny."

His extreme overprotectiveness was his worst fault.

And he'd hit excessive new highs (lows?) about it when it came to her "boarder-slash-handyman," at the last demonstrating a disconcertingly deep streak of snide contempt and animosity, no doubt fueled by his jealousy.

Shortly before she'd ended it with him, he'd just about admitted it: "I know I've been giving you a hard time about Cole and I know you think it's because of what we have between us ... And I'm sure a lot of that's true..."

If he kept going, he would use up the answering machine's entire tape.

He'd done that several times already over the past month.

"Dammit, Mel! It isn't just us we still have to talk about! All right? You two are holding up the rest of my investigation here with your games! I have to know exactly where Cole took that screenwriting course!"

That did it. Mel was finally galvanized to get to her feet.

But she had no intentions of picking up the phone.

She really didn't want to speak with Vic yet again. She'd talked herself hoarse with him three times already – twice in person and then the third time over the phone – and there was nothing more to be said. Not unless she was willing to further hurt him with the real "truth truth" of her motivations.

And patronizing or not, at heart he was far too good, decent and caring a man to deserve that.

The walls felt as if they were closing in on her. She just couldn't stay here any longer. It was imperative she leave, go somewhere. Where? Does it matter? Anywhere! Just get the hell out, get some fresh air, change the scenery. Get away ... Run.

"I'm sorry, Vic. I really am. But I'm all out of explanations and I'm sick to death of pointless discussion. It's just over and done with," she muttered under her breath as she rushed out of the War Room and gathered up her coat, scarf, purse and car keys. "Deal with it." Without even a backward glance, she then hurried down the stairs, leaving Vic's still droning voice behind.

Once below she paused a long few moments, taking in the abandoned, almost ghostly atmosphere of the now defunct Watchfire, the requisite Closed for Remodeling' sign a joke in the window.

She had been thinking of remodeling, had even gone so far as to have some blueprints drawn up. But this was ridiculous.

The tables had all been pushed to the front along with the jukebox, the cigarette machine and the pool table. The chairs were stacked on the tables, the barstools lined up atop the bar. Even all the pictures had been taken down from the walls. And everything was carefully covered with protective tarps.

Cole had diligently dismantled the metal retaining wall and support braces Zin and his people had used during their drilling operation and had rebuilt the entire rear section of the bar's floor with a sturdy, steel-reinforced multi-layered subfloor, sealing off all traces of the broad, God-only-knows-how-deep crater tunneled beneath for good. He'd even re-routed all electrical and phone lines, as well as the plumbing and heating pipes, so none would ever have to disturb this back area of floor again. New tongue-and-groove floorboards lay in a large, neatly piled stack in the far aisle, ready for installation.

Now there was no need to concern herself with finishing the job, no need to remodel, no need for her to even stay here. The Stra'da-Brac had been taken away to a new hiding place and, therefore, the entire reason her grandmother had made her promise to keep the bar in the family was no more.

And although Cole's remote Collection had avoided their above ground location, he'd programmed the satellite's pulses to extend beneath. Since Zin's lifeforce had been Collected from the Vault below and taken back to Migar along with all the rest of those alien pond scum fugitives, there was no need to concern herself about him, either.

Good-bye and good riddance.

The Watchfire had served its purpose and now she was free.

She could sell it (probably get a pretty good price, too), get on with her life, move somewhere that held no memories of her – or to her – at all. A fresh beginning, a brand new start.

The West Coast.

Or the East Coast.

An island in the Caribbean? Europe, maybe? New Zealand? Bora Bora?

She was free to go anywhere in the world she wished, for as long as she wished

Forever, even.

She didn't have to stay here any more. She didn't even want to stay here any more.

Maybe she'd go to law school like she'd always planned on doing.

She'd get in touch with a realtor, she promised herself.

Later. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. Perhaps next week. Soon. Very soon.

She was free.

And Cole had left for his home world and his real life in the far-distant Migar System.

He'd ended his Earthly masquerade as a Human and resumed being who and what he is.

His name is Daggon.

He's a Cirronian.

And he's gone.

Sobbing, the long-suppressed tears flowing unnoticed and unheeded, Mel fled through the kitchen and out the Watchfire's service door, still clutching Cole's navy blue T-shirt.