Sing to Life

By JadeRabbyt

Chapter 11: The Unusual Suspects

Classified memo, FBI Director Johnson to the President dated 10/2: Sir, I am not sure you are aware of the severity of our situation here in Green Bay. We have just apprehended four highly suspicious trespassers caught in the act of disturbing our primary suspect… I have thus far trusted your judgment in leaving the matter to the FBP and its eccentric management, but now I must protest that the critical nature of the situation demands the attention of professionals if you wish to avoid another disaster.

"They used a TAZER." McKinley folded his hands across the desk, removing his glasses to get a better look at his assistant. "They used a TAZER on Danny Phantom."

The assistant took a nervous breath, feeling the heavy weight of inexperience. He'd been hired a couple months ago, and McKinley had fifty years of life and twenty years of FBP work on him. "He was being hostile, sir." The assistant licked his dry lips as McKinley's keen eyes searched his own. "I believe the FBI may also have, ah, used tranquilizers. Sir."

McKinley shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Did it work?"

"No. No, I don't believe so, sir. The FBI had some trouble with him until they let our guys help 'em out. Help them catch the Phantom, I mean." McKinley chuckled, and the assistant let some amusement slip into his tone. "Apparently the FBI isn't used to ghosts."

"Johnson must be thrilled."

The assistant nodded. "That's actually what I wanted to speak with you about. Johnson is getting ready to do his own interrogations."

"Johnson..." McKinley muttered, letting his head drop back on the chair's tall back. He pushed up from his desk and straightened his jacket, taking a last hurried look at some reports before striding from the office and leaving the door to swing shut. The assistant hesitated, opened his mouth for a question he couldn't quite muster, and with a final frustrated sigh, turned to jog after McKinley. The frosty early-morning air replaced the stale warmth of the portable as the two of them made their way through the thick flurry of agents.

Nobody was ever surprised to learn that the FBP had begun as a joke. Legend held that shortly after Roswell, the President and several exceedingly liberal senators had been discussing the event over drinks, and one of the statesmen remarked how funny it would be it they did actually have a Federal Bureau of Prestidigitation to handle all the crazy reports received habitually by other bureaucracies. The joke had bounced around Congress for a while and then, quietly, rolled over into obscurity. The United States executive officer remembered that joke thirty years later.

Reports of the paranormal had grown in frequency, severity, and reliability. Independent researchers began to discover that ghosts were not a laughing matter after all. Documentation, pictures, and finally samples of ectoplasmic activity began to form a considerable pile on Big Brother's desk. Under rising complaints from financially powerful parties, in1982 legislators signed the Federal Bureau of Prestidigitation into existence.

McKinley wasn't the first director. Prior to his leadership, the FBP had indulged itself in extravagant ventures, public ventures, dangerous ventures. Early directors were too ambitious, risking the secrecy of the FBP for their own hunches and long-shots, deeply worrying those who controlled its funding. The agency had been on the verge of collapse when McKinley agreed to come on board, and it had survived because McKinley, the respected scientist, was as good at playing ball as he was at solving equations. McKinley knew how to keep in touch with the independent scientists without effecting a media circus. He could balance the budget and apply for discreet private financing when is was needed, and he could sort reliable applicants from the mentally unstable. Most importantly in the eyes of his superiors, McKinley also knew when to give ground. If he caught hold of anything the more respectable agencies demanded, he gave the responsibility to them. If anything big came up, he knew when and how to report it to the right people. As far as discipline went, the nature of the FBP's work gave it a higher tolerance level than most of the other agencies, but employees carefully screened and held accountable. McKinley had trained his staff well over the years and they knew how to do their jobs right. McKinley trusted them and the President trusted them.

Johnson didn't trust him, but this time he didn't have a choice and needed to be reminded of it. McKinley climbed the portable steps and rapped on the door. After a moment he knocked again and leaned lightly over the iron rail that ran alongside the steps, glancing out over the compound and checking on the general state of things. The agents bustled along among the portables, their sharp shadows criss-crossing and sharpened by the high-power floodlights mounted periodically throughout the camp. The records department was a hive of activity, and a couple buildings over several heavily-armored guards stood watch at the doors of the angular steel containment cells. The heavy structures had been trucked out from storage and replanted in the middle of this pasture to house, and they currently housed the two most valuable creatures in America, plus some perfectly normal high school kids. McKinley massaged his temples and shook his head.

"Come in," Johnson rumbled.

McKinley pushed open the door. Johnson sat hunched over a wide blueprint on the table, his brush of brown hair drooping slightly over his forehead as he studied the prints for a pretentiously long time before leisurely glancing up. McKinley suppressed his irritation; the blueprints were of the containment cells. "I heard you wanted to interrogate the suspects."

Johnson nodded, folding his hands across his desk. "That's right."

McKinley pretended to glance over the blueprints, calculating the best way to angle it. Johnson returned McKinley's quiet reticence with a snide half-smile, enough to remind McKinley of Johnson's oft-stated opinion that men in their early forties were more competent than men in their late seventies.

"I recall reading that the President assigned this case specifically to me," mused McKinley.

"You recall wrong. He assigned it to us."

McKinley's eyes narrowed. "Yes, but can you remember who was assigned to which duties?"

Johnson sat up straight in his chair. "You're not qualified for this, despite your convictions to the contrary. A situation like this could be anything." Johnson gestured expansively to a bookcase of reports against the wall. "You see those? Many are files on terrorist organizations-directly from the CIA. I've got shelves of things on potentially hostile nations-the smart money's on China, in that area-not to mention the nuts here in the United States that may have done it." Johnson cocked his head. "It's not always ghosts."

"That's true," McKinley agreed. "It's not. But I wish you'd let me know when China gets the technology to pass solid objects through the earth." McKinley withdrew a picture from his coat and tossed it across the desk, an ectoscopic image of four kids phasing through the ground.

Johnson wrinkled his nose and pushed the picture away. "I'm not convinced."

"You don't have to be convinced. Just follow the President's orders."

"I'm going to be honest with you, McKinley. This is very serious."

McKinley hated to pass up such ripe grounds for sarcasm, but in the interest of humanity, he managed it.

"We need professionals involved. You've been very wise in cooperating with the wishes of the FBI in the past, and now you must exercise the discretion to do that once more."

McKinley shook his head. "I can't do that this time. These people made it past the perimeter defenses without causing a stir. They must have walked right through the camp, and the only reason we caught them is because I had special sensors monitoring the area around the crater, sensors designed to detect ectoplasmic activity. Your men got in a fight with my own on our way down to arrest them-"

"Hey, your guys were in the way."

"-and then, when we went in to catch them, it was my people who finally got things under control. The President assigned you to securing the area, but I have the exclusive duty of investigating it."

Johnson's face was blank. "I intend to contest that decision."

"Go ahead. For now let me do my job." He turned for the door. "My men are experts. There will be no mistakes."

Johnson's quiet voice followed him out the door. "There had better not be."

-

McKinley met his assistant outside. "How'd it go?"

He shrugged. "Johnson was... difficult. But he's not going to interfere." He pushed up his glasses and smiled. The assistant grinned back, letting his shoulders drop a notch.

"What now, sir?"

McKinley rolled the matter over in his mind, and the answer tumbled out his mouth. "I think we'll start our own interviews. It's been almost a half hour already." The dark sky was already beginning to lighten in the east, a welcome reprieve from the red glow up north.

"Who first? They've all been held in solitary, as directed."

"Good." McKinley began the walk back to his office. "Call in Jazmine Fenton. Arrange for her to meet me in interrogation."

The assistant nodded and hurried off, calling out to one or two others on his way. McKinley watched the small group cluster, exchanging a word or two in explanation before making its way toward the containment cells: quick, efficient, and obedient.

McKinley walked back to his office, pulled open a filing cabinet and thumbed through packets and papers, withdrawing the Fenton files and giving them an idle flip-though. The Fentons were good people. Cleaned up their own messes and put safety first when they thought of it. The parents shouldn't give him any trouble. McKinley tapped the files into neat stacks on his desk, catching an irritating glare from that old brass plaque on the desk's edge in the process.

McKinley had always tried to avoid it-the plaque was out only because people expected it to be-but this time the token Los Alamos award didn't seem to bother him. It meant nothing, he hadn't had the time to do any real physics work before the FBP picked him up, but it was something tangible from those few short days. McKinley gathered his papers and hurried over to the interrogation room, and the incident slipped from his mind, just like it always did.

The assistant and a few others were standing around inside. "Jazmine is already in there."

"Great." McKinley glanced through the one-way window into the cell. A red-headed girl sat at a table across from an empty chair, her back ramrod-straight, eyes shadowed with fatigue and hands placed quietly in her lap. McKinley took a breath, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. She jerked to attention, sitting up straighter still at his entrance.

"Hello, Ms. Fenton. My name is Arthur McKinley of the FBP and I'm here to ask you a few questions."

She swallowed audibly. "Okay."

He went through the routine stuff first, things he already knew. Questions about her school, her life, notable hobbies, that kind of thing. Fluff. Information that was always asked just to make sure the criminal wasn't a filthy liar. McKinley had run into a good deal of those in his day, but, true to his records, Jazmine was a straight arrow. She got antsy as the interrogation progressed, realizing that they hadn't called her in to check out her school record.

McKinley liked to start things off this way. It was always easier if the suspect wanted to tell you what had gone on; sometimes if you pressed too hard they held back. The strategy paid off when she cut him off and voiced her obvious anxiety.

"Look, Mr. McKinley, I don't know what you think, but we weren't trying to hurt anybody!"

Time now for tough-cop, but not too much of it. McKinley assumed a disapproving glare. "Your brother woke up a very dangerous ghost. He risked the lives of my men and countless others doing that."

"Yeah, I told him not to, but you don't understand. Danny has… well, all four of us have a history with Alex."

McKinley uncapped his pen. "Tell me."

She told him, alright. McKinley hardly believed he was hearing it: a tale of the ghost that, in a violent, roundabout sort of way, had convinced him take the position of director. McKinley took casual notes, asking to clarify different points and breathing silent thanks for years of practice with his poker face. He wanted to ask her more, if she knew anything of his history or weaknesses, but he held back and waited as she described the defeat of Alex six months ago and how Danny had arranged a custody deal with Walker. "He didn't want me involved anymore than I already was, but I did make sure that Alex wouldn't just be dumped somewhere without proper security."

McKinley nodded, looking at her over his glasses. He was an old man, but he felt like doing cartwheels. Rarely did the FBP catch such sane, observant witnesses, and a budding psychologist to boot. "How about his mind? Tell me more about your conversation at that cafe, before Alex got out of hand. Anything you can tell us about how he thinks would be greatly appreciated."

Jazmine nodded, nervousness giving way to a hint of pride, but her face darkened once more as she spoke. "Alex is a ghost, but from what I could tell, he works on human rules. He acts irrationally, but not inexplicably, an extreme case of the troubled kids I see at school all the time." She frowned at a spot on the table. "He's different now. Something's happened. I don't know what. You should ask my brother about it. I do all right with the analytical side of things, but he's much more aware of whatever it is that's going on here."

"Because of his prior contact with Alex?"

"I guess, but it's not just that. Danny beat him, and it sounds like everybody's been beating him since. Not that I mind," she said quickly. "But that much stress... I really don't know. Ask Danny. This whole thing is terrible, however you look at it." She glanced at the reflection in the one-way window. "Hey, do you know what that sphere thing is? Do you have any ideas on how to handle this?"

McKinley straightened his notes. "I'm afraid that's classified."

"Oh. Right. Well, I mean, how much trouble are we in? I mean, me and my brother and his friends. What'll happen to us?"

McKinley smiled and signaled the window. "For now, nothing." His men came in and stood waiting. Jazmine got to her feet, the fear seeping back into her face. McKinley stood and motioned to the door. "These men will escort you to a bunk and bring you some breakfast. We'll let you get some rest."

The men led her out, and McKinley took one moment more to glance over his notes, excitement stirring his old heart and reminding him why he hadn't retired yet. The very thought of it. Alex himself, after all these years.

He arranged his expression carefully before joining his assistant outside. "Let's have Tucker Foley, now."

The assistant wrinkled his nose. "The technophile?"

"Yes. Jazmine was telling the truth I'm sure, but it'll be good to have her story corroborated."

So Tucker Foley was hauled into the interrogation room, and McKinley had to laugh. The kid looked naked without his backpack. He kept glancing around, fingers unconsciously moving for a mouse or stylus. McKinley made a mental note to keep Johnson away from the material evidence. This kid was probably loaded with viruses, or bootlegged music at the least.

"Hi sir," Tucker stammered. "I don't know what this is about, but we have... Rights!" His face lit up pathetically at the word.

McKinley sighed. Every geek a Mitnick.

"You can't hold us here, and we'll uncover your conspiracy of, of um, secret... stuff..." The kid glanced around, shifting his weight as his confidence drained, looking as though he expected to be shot, drawn, quartered, and decapitated from several angles at once.

"Sit down, son."

Tucker dropped into the seat. "Okay." He wrung his hands, thinking up another line of attack. "Hey, I want you to know that all that software was bought and paid for-"

McKinley waved him off. "Don't worry. That stuff is for the so-called official agencies. Me, I just want to know about Alex. And the thermos, of course."

"Oh! Yeah, well, I can tell you a lot about all that stuff."

McKinley listened as Tucker first described the operation of the thermos, explaining that it froze the ghosts in what was essentially suspended animation. "It's why the thermos doesn't jump around a whole lot when there's a ghost inside." As to Alex, Tucker related the same story as Jazmine, with a few bonuses. Tucker told him where Danny and Alex had met: down at some old docks, number seventeen. McKinley wrote a note to himself to check it out later. Tucker described their conversation, basically confirming what Jazmine had said. "Sure he could pack a punch, but still. That ghost loves to hear his own voice." McKinley asked a few more questions, filled in Tucker's perspective of the fight at the cafe along with Danny's own reactions, noting particularly the strange influence Alex exercised over others' minds.

"Can you tell me any more about that?"

Tucker shook his head. "Nah. I didn't get hit with it until the end, and then it went so fast I didn't know what happened. It felt like my brain was dunked in hydrochloric acid, or something."

McKinley nodded. "Alright. That's all for now." He signaled to the window.

"Um, sir?"

McKinley stopped. "Yes?"

"Can I get my stuff back?"

He smiled. "We'll see."

Tucker's escort led him out of the room, off to another bunk, and the assistant ducked in to ask who should be brought next. McKinley glanced over his notepad and cleared his throat. "I suppose we've got to call in Danny. But keep his cuffs on."

Danny, the most thoroughly-documented 'ghost' the FBP had. Good kid, average grades, didn't get in too much trouble considering his circumstances, but he was a so-called 'halfa,' and McKinley had his doubts about that side of him. He'd met Vlad Masters ten years ago. They were arranging a treaty of sorts that barred the FBP from involving itself in his affairs, and McKinley had signed it under enormous pressure from the heftily bribed higher-ups. McKinley found a morbid sort of humor from the fact that nobody in Washington had mentioned that particular treaty since the Green Bay disaster. Danny didn't have Vlad's influence, but McKinley was more than a little on his guard when Danny walked into the room.

Danny walked with his shoulders back in spite of the cuffs on his hands and a slight limp in his left leg. His shirt was scuffed and torn in several places, proof that he had given the agents a run for their money. Danny sat down on the chair, holding his leg a little to the side, his stolid expression like that of a condemned prisoner, and he looked straight at McKinley and asked, "What."

McKinley did away with the introductory questions. "You're not very worried by all this, are you?"

Danny laughed dryly. "Nope. I'm scared out of my mind."

"Tell me why."

"Look, I don't know." Danny ran a hand through his tangled hair. "All I'm trying to do here is keep Alex under control. That's what I came down here for. Alex has a knack for making things very bad, very quickly, and I'm trying to figure out WHAT he's done NOW when I turned around and there's a gun! Not even ghost-effective gun, which is just annoying," he muttered. "And then the tazer-"

McKinley cut him off. "We're not as dumb as you seem to think. This agency has been around for decades, whether you know it or not, and we provide a large amount of your parents' funding."

That one got his attention. "My... parents?"

"Yes. Your parents. Also, keep in mind that we were letting Alex take the ectoplasmic equivalent of a nap because we didn't want to risk catalyzing a whole new reaction by waking him up, and we actually got some good, basic data on him using that strategy. We aren't stupid."

Danny nodded. "Alright. Okay. I just got a little worked up, I guess." He relaxed in the chair. "Alex is kind of popular for screwing up people's heads."

"How so, exactly?"

"In the past it's been an eye-contact thing. You want to look away quick when his eyes turn black, and when he gets really worked up this goopy stuff that comes out of them that he can use."

"Use to do what?"

"It just makes everything darker." Danny licked his lips. "More depressing. If you don't deal with it quick, realize that it's just Alex and not the way things are, it can get bad." He looked away. "Really bad..."

McKinley groaned internally. This poor kid. "But that isn't what happened just now. We've got it on tape. His eyes were brown the whole time."

"Yeah, that's the thing. He's not like he used to be, but it's worse. I don't know. I got up this morning and I felt terrible. That's where it started," Danny huffed, frowning. "You know what? I was out last night having the time of my life with Sam, and then I wake up there's just this feeling, just like when I got infected with whatever Alex was carrying six months ago. Alex gave it to me directly back then, the eye-contact thing I mentioned, but now it's like that bad feeling is coming from outside, and Alex has nothing to do with it anymore. I don't even think he has any of his old powers left." Danny fisted his hands. "I don't know what happened, but you can bet he was the one who made it happen. You need somebody to pound that creep, call me."

McKinley finished his notes and looked up. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Is that all? Can I go now?"

"One more thing, if you don't mind. What happened just now with Alex, in the crater?"

"He was crazy. I mean REALLY crazy," Danny repeated, squirming a bit. "Alex was evil before, but at least he made some sense back then. As far as what happened... I don't know. I don't know what I saw." Danny looked at his hands.

McKinley sighed. "Tell me as best you can and I'll give you food, a bed, and four hours undisturbed." He wouldn't be ready to move the team before seven AM, anyway.

Danny grinned and leaned forward on the table. "Really? You're not going to punish me?"

"No, but don't tell the FBI I said that." McKinley smiled at him. "We know just about everything there is to know about you, and to be perfectly honest, there isn't a man on my team who hasn't studied the reports and pictures we get on your fights."

"I had no idea. But you haven't told my parents?"

"Nope. That's your personal business and we don't want to intrude unless it becomes necessary." McKinley crossed his arms on the desk. "We are not out to make your work any more difficult than it already is, and I would very much like to be on good terms with you for this ordeal. You are right. This isn't confined to Alex anymore. We're still doing research, but we've got molecules we've never even seen before on their way to the linear accelerators for analysis. Whatever has gone wrong is going to take a lot of work to fix, and I hope we can work together on this."

"You bet we can, so long as you take these cuffs off."

McKinley smiled. "I'll have them taken off, just the last question, please. What happened?"

"He got... big." Danny explained, doing his best. "Not telepathy, exactly, but something like it. I just saw this big dark thing kind of rise up behind him, a snake or something, and it just poisoned everything and then destroyed it." He glared at McKinley's slant-eyed skepticism. "Hey, you asked. That's what I saw, and it didn't make any sense to me either."

"Alright. We're done here, for now, and you can go rest for a couple of hours." Danny lost his limp and almost had a bounce in his step as they led him off.

McKinley's assistant wasn't reassured. "Are you sure you want the cuffs off?"

"Yes. Immediately. But set up a sensor field around whatever portable he ends up in."

"Good idea. Who next, or are we done?"

"'Course we're not done. I've still got two more to talk to."

"The Manson girl and... who else?"

"Alex."

McKinley suppressed a smile as his assistant made a small gagging sound. "But sir, Alex is-"

"I'm going to speak with him. Go get him or you're fired."

-

With Tucker's notes, McKinley had them get the ghost out of his thermos and properly restrained. When he walked in, Alex was covered more or less literally from head to foot in ghost-containment devices and escorted on all sides by four armored men, one of whom carried the Fenton thermos while the other three toted various ectoplasmic bazookas.

Alex found the whole thing hilarious, giggling spastically as they brought him in. McKinley would have called him a druggie if he didn't know better. There was a tremor in his his legs and his arms hung like rubber. His face was fixed in a twitching rictus, his eyes darting and wild, but not supernaturally so. He had no aura, and no obvious transparency. They reached the desk and the guards shoved him down into the chair, positioning themselves carefully, two behind Alex and two beside the desk facing him.

Alex stared at McKinley, his twisted smile widening. "Welcome to the monkey house." He giggled.

Nonsense speech meant very little mental clarity, or some kind of clever information barrier. Or both. "So you're Alex," McKinley observed.

"That's what they tell me."

"Don't you know?"

"Not really."

McKinley sighed. "So who are you, then?"

Alex shrugged. "I'm a dead atheist."

"Obviously."

"Yeah." Alex's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. He put his cuffed hands behind his head. Making himself comfortable.

McKinley drummed his fingers on his desk, wondering how he could draw anything useful from this. It occurred to him that it might have been better to wait, but the procedure had always been to get statements as soon as possible in order to insure accuracy. As McKinley mulled these things over, it came to his attention that Alex had become fascinated with the rhythmic movement of his fingers. The ridiculous expression was gone, replaced by something that might be curiosity.

"Something wrong?"

Alex didn't take his eyes off McKinley's fingers. He stopped moving them and folded his hands on the desk.

Alex put his arms down and started rubbing his own finger on the arm of his metal chair.

The guards shuffled their feet, and McKinley remembered the plasma gun on his belt. "What are you doing."

Shrug. "Dunno. Shut up a minute."

McKinley tensed, remembering pictures of the cafe incident's aftermath. "Stop or you will be fired upon."

"Jesus, you guys are dumbasses. I'm a fucking retard and you still think I can destroy the world." Alex rolled his eyes and resumed his action.

The guards shouldered their guns. McKinley discreetly motioned for them to stand down. Lewd and coherent speech was better than nonsense. "You strike me as a nut job, but not necessarily a retard."

"I'm flattered, but the word you want is 'asshole,' not 'nut job,'" Alex muttered. He looked like he was trying to remove a stain, but the chrome-plated chair was spotless. Under Alex's attention, a slight dark spot faded in.

"Knock it off, Alex," McKinley growled.

Alex cackled. He took his hand from the armrest, and now there was something black pinched between his fingers. The guards had their guns up in an instant. McKinley's voice froze over. "Fire."

Alex screamed and his body smoldered as the beams burned into him, cooking his guts, if McKinley remembered the weapons manuals correctly. He let several seconds crawl by before he told the guards to disengage. Alex shuddered and convulsed, his head rolling back on his shoulders and his body slumping doll-like into the chair. McKinley planted his fists on the desk, leaning over it to recite the same speech he'd told countless other disobedients. "Let me tell you how this is going to go. You are going to live by my rules or you are going to have an extremely tough time here. I don't know what you did in the past, but it will never happen again. I-" He stopped. Alex was laughing hysterically.

"Excuse me?" McKinley asked. One of the guards smashed Alex with the butt of his gun, knocking him onto the floor and abruptly silencing the laughter. "As I was saying, I'm not Walker. I don't know what little games you played with him, but outside the ghost zone people who die stay dead and there is no way in hell you are ever going to hurt them again." He paused, a cold sweat seeping down his back. "Have I made myself clear?"

Alex coughed and spat green plasma. "You are so frickin' stupid," he growled, shaking his head. Alex held his chest painfully on the floor, panting as he tried to catch his staggered breath. "We'll all be dead in a couple days! Dead!" he shrieked. "D'ya hear me, ya thick FUCK!" Alex grimaced, teeth snapping shut as a spasm of agony shook through him.

McKinley kept stock still. No aura, and ghosts weren't supposed to breathe. Alex didn't say anything more, so McKinley cleared his throat and started again. "What was in your hand?"

Alex flicked his wrist, tossing the black lump onto the table. McKinley jumped away and the guards readied themselves, but by the time they were in position the blob had dissolved into the table. McKinley sighed shakily, straightened his jacket, and sat back down. "What was that?"

Alex dragged himself back into the chair and met McKinley's eyes with a relieved kind of smile. "That's proof of purchase. That and the portal."

"Neither of those proves anything," McKinley countered. He was having trouble focusing; he felt disembodied. Distant memories of catatonic kids floated unbidden to his mind's eye. McKinley continued anyway, talking himself out of it.

"We'll have them analyzed, and if you don't know or won't tell us what they are then we'll take everything apart until we figure it out. Whatever you have started, we're going to stop it. The sooner you accept that, the less difficult-"

Alex had been shaking his head. "No. No no no... you don't get it. There's nothing LEFT of me that could give you anything. Just let me go back to sleep..."

"Fat chance. You made this mess, now you're going to help us clean it up."

Alex's eyes narrowed, wandering slightly to his right. He scooted up in his chair and brought his feet in closer, tensing up for something. With horrific clarity, McKinley realized exactly what was going to happen, but by the time he'd begun to warn the guards, there was nothing anybody could do to stop it.

Alex sprang up, moving fluidly on his long legs to attack the guard on the right, poised arms-forward and head-down to tackle him. Time crawled. McKinley saw the disparity between the motion of Alex's body and the expression on his face, the one animal and violent, the other fully conscious and calculating. The guard yelled and brought his gun up, and Alex closed his eyes as the nozzle of the cannon bumped against his forehead. The guard tripped backwards and squeezed the trigger, his knuckles white, and the two hung preternaturally suspended in midair while an innocent click sprang from the gun's barrel.

A low hum filtered through the air and then came a light, and the blast fried the atmosphere as a smell like burning blood exploded into the room. Just as quickly it was over, the guard lying on his back panting, and Alex on the ground several feet away in a highly dubious state of consciousness.

McKinley dashed around the table to check the guard, who was shocked but alright, and then Alex, who was god-only-knew how badly damaged. His skin, or ectoplasm, or whatever he was made of simmered and bubbled in places. McKinley muted the panicked yammering of his guilty conscience—how careless to let himself be distracted by simple memories!—and barked orders to the men behind the glass, instructing them to get Alex in a plasma tank for recovery. Never mind the chance that he might not recover at all.

The assistant came in after everything was squared away, lips pursed in frustrated indignation. McKinley endured his silent but emphatic disapproval. "Don't tell Johnson."

"Is this something personal with you?"

"No."

"Because I've heard some stories about you, and-"

"It's not personal," McKinley insisted. He gathered his notes. "I had nothing to go on. We've only interviewed one or two ghosts before, both predictable idiots."

The assistant didn't look convinced. McKinley shook his head. "We've only got one more to go. Samantha, right? After that, we leave a couple guys on duty and everybody else goes home for six hours of rest."

"Fine. But don't use this place. It smells awful in here."

They had Sam brought to McKinley's office for the interview, which he had bugged just as thoroughly as the official room anyway. Sam was a wary girl, wary and tired. Her hair was disarrayed, and a few dark circles highlighted her eyes.

McKinley tossed out the script. He wanted the night over with. "You're Danny's girl."

Sam stiffened. "Yes."

"Okay." McKinley rubbed his forehead. "First off: nothing bad is going to happen to you. We'll let you off at your parents' on our way into Amity and probably follow up with a call later."

"What about-"

"Danny's fine. We're letting him recoup in a bunk somewhere. There will be no crazy Area 51 testing on him, so don't worry."

"Oh." She picked at the hem of her skirt, confused. "Um, thanks, I guess. What did you want to see me about?"

"Alex. What do you know, what do you suspect, and just generally what do you think."

McKinley pulled himself through another rendition of the Six-Month Scare, as he was beginning to call it, and nodded for her to continue with speculation on the current disaster. She surprised him by pulling herself up straight saying, with a fair amount of confidence, "Danny can take care of it."

"What?"

She continued, unfazed by his reaction. "He took care of it before, and he can do it again. I don't know if you've seen him in action-" McKinley smiled to himself. "But he's the best around. You have no idea how dead I was when he found me," she insisted. "I was gone. But somehow, Danny found a way to pull me out. That's the miracle of my life." She looked down, rubbing her hands-wrists-self-consciously. "I'm sure it's not going to be easy, I mean, I'm not stupid, but I also know that he's going to find a way to pull us out of this." She locked eyes with him. "It's just a matter of time."

McKinley, in an unusual show of frankness, shook his head. "I've got faith in him too, Sam, not so much as you, but a lot. I want you both to know that whatever happens, I'll be behind the both of you all the way."

Sam grinned, the fatigue vanishing in the lines of her smile. She bowed her head. "Thank you."

McKinley nodded for her dismissal and gave his curious assistant some homework to keep him busy for a while. For the first time in ten or fifteen hours, McKinley had a moment to himself. He glanced at the tapes of the interviews and then at his densely-packed pad of written notes. His gaze wandered to the physics plaque, its golden surface dulled by a couple years' buildup of neglect. McKinley inspected it, wiped it off and shined it to his satisfaction. Taking the notes in one hand and a fresh sheet of paper in the other, he set to work on the case he'd been chasing in one way or anotherfor the better part of his life.

A/N: Gah. This chapter was tough to write. Hope everybody liked it! Last chapter's heroes are Sakura Scout and Cheerin4danny, and remember, you too can make a tired author squeal in fangirly-joy simply by pressing the little review button.