Chapter 3

Lonesome Dove

A/N: Sorry it's been so long. I now have about 2 weeks before the last day of classes (yes, I'm in college) and the dance recital is the same day as graduation and I've got about a zillion projects due, so don't expect too many updates until after May 17th. And yes, I realize I said the chapter titles would most likely be in Welsh, but I couldn't resist the symbolism. Cheers!


Number 6 had greeted Frank and Joe upon their arrival at the place Number 6 had set up on the edge of the Village Cemetery. The brothers had nodded greetings in return.

"There's going to be an art festival in a couple weeks," Number 6 said. "I've been working on a project." He gestured toward a collection of boards and felled trees. "I know from the other festival they did that they want Number 2's face somewhere on the project, whether he's the main subject or he's a decoration. They liked the boat I made last time, so this time we're doing something a bit on the bigger side."

"Don't you think they'll catch on to our plan?" Joe asked, nervous. In all his years of working in association with the Network, the agents who obviously ran this place were cunning.

Number 6 had shaken his head at that. "Not likely. Sure, they've got video cameras around here so they can monitor the iffy prisoners, and the keepers hold rather high positions, like working in the computer and monitoring room, and they report to Number 2, but Number 2 changes so frequently that by the time he's fully informed of just my current status, he's offed and someone else takes over. It's been like this for a while; I think they switch Number 2 so many times because they want to find someone who'll get me to break. They want me to tell them why I resigned," he added at Joe's questioning look.

"That's what they want me to tell," Frank said quietly, grimly. "I keep telling them it was a matter of conscience."

Number 6 smirked, but it was a sympathetic gesture. "I know. That's what I tell them, too."


Now, Joe wondered why his brother and Number 6 had really resigned. He was holding the main pole of the sea-faring vessel they were creating, his mind not truly on the matter. Nancy had said that Frank had been muttering to himself shortly before he resigned from the Network. Joe wondered, too, why Frank had resigned in the first place. He knew that sometimes the Network gave them assignments that neither was very comfortable with—like that one in which they basically had to break into an Assassin-held fortress of sorts to rescue a Network agent. The survival rate had been very low, and Joe and Frank both had received wounds in the process of escaping the place, but they had been informed that an alternate plan was in store if they refused to accept the mission. Knowing the Network, that plan would probably have had something similar to the way in which Joe had been transported to The Village.

But that didn't solve the puzzles Number 6 gave as his reasons for resigning from his top-secret government job.


As Joe sat on the walkway leading to the electronically-operated door of the small apartment he and Frank shared, he couldn't help but wonder why he had been brought there. Was it because he knew too much of The Village, just from Jerry Gilroy's vague memory of reading something that had mentioned the place? Was it because he had been too open about trying to find Frank? Was it because Elen could see things none of them could? Why?

His years as a policeman had given him the ability to suppress his emotions for a time; and the ability had developed into something of an instinct.

A soft step coming from a sneaker-clad foot caught his attention. Obviously the owner was attempting stealth, and was rather good at it. His eyes widened as he saw the owner round the corner.

"Hello, Joe," Iola Morton said.

"You died."

Iola shook her head. "No, I was saved from death by some men."

Joe's blue eyes flashed. "There was a copy of her shortly after that. A clone, who knew everything about her. Her real name was Sally."

Iola's face took on a stormy appearance. "How do you know that?"

"I saw her. The Assassins said that Iola truly died that night. How long ago was that?"

"23 years," Iola said automatically.

It was Joe's turn to shake his head. "25 years," he corrected.

The woman, if anything, got angrier. "Why don't you prove it?" she hissed, a British accent betraying her.

"I have."


Joe again sat on the side of the walkway outside the apartment. Frank, who evidently had just finished the dishes, came out and sat beside him, and set down the two-faced radio, which was playing a soft classical piece for instruments.

"Where do you think the others are?" Joe asked.

Frank tensed; his eyes became rather dull. "I don't know. I don't care as long as they're safe."

"You've got to care, don't you? Nancy's your wife; Brett's your son. I've lost my girls as well. You've got to care."

"Escape is impossible from here."

"Yeah, just because I tried swimming farther than the boundaries permitted." Joe shuddered. "Remind me not to do that again."

"Did you see anyone you recognized while you were in the hospital?"

Joe shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I saw Biff, but it's just, he's back home. And maybe I saw Nancy, but if you're not sure, someone with just the same hair color and build can look like someone you know."

They stared out into the warm fall night for a few minutes.

"What do you think of Number 6?" Frank asked.

Joe shrugged again. "He's in the same boat, and somehow, my instinct says we can trust him. But we don't even know his real name. And while we know he's British, three-quarters of the population here are British. We're the only Americans, it seems."

"Do you know why I resigned?" Frank asked quietly.

"How do you know they're not listening?" Joe retorted.

"Number 6 showed me this trick," Frank replied, nodding toward the radio. "Do you want to know why I resigned?"

Joe glanced at him. "You said yesterday it was a matter of conscience, same as Number 6."

Frank nodded. "That's part of it. They wanted me to accompany another agent on what seemed to me a suicide mission."

"Suicide mission!"

"Yeah. The Assassins had captured Atlas, Ian, and Mayberry. They wanted Helen and me to go in after them."

"How many guards were there?"

"About a hundred. I didn't want to risk it. Even if we managed to get in, with three others in probably less than superb condition, we would have been slowed down coming out."

"And you knew it would be impossible."

"Uh-huh. Helen didn't like the idea, either, but she said she'd go. She didn't have everything to lose. I did."

"So how come you don't care about them anymore?"

"I do. But like I said, escape is impossible. You saw what Rover can do. You also know that our every movement is monitored. It's just…impossible."