Splashes of dawn seeped through the heavy snow clouds, signaling the promise of a clear afternoon sky and a warmer day. Chris squeezed his eyes tightly against the light that poured in through the bay window, and he blinked to free himself from the drowsy haze. His lower back ached due to an awkward sleeping position, and sharp needles pricked his foot as he shook it awake. A warm, pleasant heat covered his body like a blanket, and as he broke the surface of consciousness, he realized that his discomfort emanated from being stretched out on the stiff antique sofa with Teena draped over him. She slept deeply with soft and even inhales and exhales against his neck, and her long, dark hair fanned across his shoulder, spilling over the edge of the sofa. She was completely nude. And so was he. The beating of his heart quickened, and he struggled to take enough air into his lungs as he braced himself for a panic attack. He tried to talk himself through it, told himself to breathe, that he had control over this—that it was all right. But the internal voice threatening to pull him over the edge repeated "What were you thinking?" again and again. Everything was changed.

Carefully he rolled out from beneath her, leaving her resting on her belly. She shifted in her sleep and turned over to her side, her body on display as if to taunt him. Clumsily he dug through the pile of clothes on the floor and hurriedly slipped on his briefs and slacks. He struggled with the buttons on his shirt as he stumbled into the kitchen. After locating a notepad and pen, he poised his shaking hand over the paper to scrawl out a brief message, but he found that he was unable to piece a coherent thought together. Should he quote some poet? That was always the easiest—just bastardize someone else's thoughts. No, damn it, that wouldn't do. He shook his head and simply began writing, hoping ideas would come as he went along.

Teena, I'm sorry to leave like this, but I think it's for the best

No, no that wasn't right. He crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it into the waste basket, and tore another leaflet from the pad.

Teena, I cannot say that I did not enjoy last night. I wish I could stay. I do not know how to say goodbye. I'm sorry. My love,

Chris

Chris breezed over the message quickly and furrowed his brow in disapproval. He crossed out "My love", and then nodded in satisfaction. On his way out, he left the note on the old radio in the foyer and did not glance into the parlor before quietly shutting the door.

--

After this beautiful summer afternoon he will never wear the uniform again. He glances at his reflection in the mirror, brushes his fingers over the jagged pink scar below his hairline, and understands that he will never be the same. Laughter of guests drifts through the open window into the hallway. His heart patters nervously as she emerges from the powder room. She has been his dearest companion for most of his life, but only in the past year has he come to realize how beautiful she is. Today in her white hoop skirt and long veil with strawberry blonde locks falling below her shoulders, she is lovelier than he could have imagined. She takes his hand in hers. "Are you ready, Fox?" she whispers. His mother would be proud.

It was so easy to get lost in someone else's story as a means of keeping her mind off her own. Writing was an escape, though not one in which she could hide forever. She should feel guilty, but she didn't, and that bothered her immensely. The hurt she felt at his sudden departure was a more powerful sorrow than the knowledge that she had destroyed her marriage. Did it make her a terrible person? No, she decided, it did not. It made her honest. After she read the message over and over, searching for the real words beneath the text, she crumpled the paper and clutched it in her palm.

Of course they could never see each other again. But she was changed; she could never go back to life before him, and she could never forget. Sitting in this room was driving her mad. She could still smell him here. It was a bizarre cross of two worlds; this was Bill's home—the parlor was his favorite place, despite the fact that he cared nothing for the library. He always said the room had the best view of the yard. The first time she'd seen it, she'd sucked in her breath at its beauty. At that time she'd been twenty-one years old and a different person. Now this place held new memories; in this room, she'd been with a man that was not her husband, a man she loved more than she loved her husband. This house was driving her mad, and the silence was deafening. It was time to escape. She hurried upstairs to pack a bag.

--

Sheets of rain pelted the sodden earth angrily, and Chris felt as though he were actually sinking into the mud. A dense morning fog rose from the jungle in the east like thick steam. The rifle slipped under the surface of the mud as Chris pulled his knees up to his chest, his back against the decaying brick wall. He was glad for the fog and the rain that trickled into his eyes, because he could no longer clearly see the blood-splattered concrete wall across the yard. The body was gone; it had been smuggled away by Katangan and Belgian guards like vultures feeding on road kill. Before the man had breathed his last, he was the most pathetic creature Chris had ever seen. He'd been beaten, starved, humiliated, and then forced to beg for his life. His sallow, empty black eyes, flooded with tears, had pleaded desperately for Chris to find it in his heart to grant one more chance. A noble, strong, invincible leader had been reduced to a frail old man in the span of minutes. Chris looked away from the eyes that would haunt him for years to come, and before he pulled the trigger he heard the man's hoarse cry: "You think you know, but you have no idea." And then he was gone. Chris believed that somehow, the message was meant for him.

At that moment, he needed something real, something tangible. He stood slowly, his back sliding upright against the wall. The rifle still lay imbedded in the sludge at his feet, but he didn't bother to retrieve it. He could leave now. It was over. Mission accomplished for Uncle Sam.

--

Teena sat in the rocking chair with her legs tucked against her chest and shifted her weight back and forth, causing the rockers of the old chair to creak over the floorboards. She had chosen this less than comfortable place to perch because it was the only piece of furniture in the lower level of the house that wasn't taped and covered with a sheet. The room was bitterly cold—the heat hadn't run all winter and now, of course, the system decided to malfunction. Strangely she felt incredibly tired, but so mentally exhausted that she could not think of sleep. And she couldn't write. Ironically the new "summer" home seemed barren and unwelcoming, though Teena didn't know what she'd been expecting. Furnishing was less than half completed and the process of decorating the "quaint cottage" had not yet begun. Bill had called it a cottage. Funny. It did provide some escape at least and a change of scenery. She wasn't supposed to be here, Bill didn't know she was here, and that made her feel better.

Reaching to the floor with her fingertips, she retrieved a dwindling pack of Morley's and the lighter. Her fingers shook as she steadied the cigarette in her mouth, flicked the spark, and inhaled deeply. Smoking had become one of her favorite things, because it was private, her secret. The only person she'd shared it with—No. She'd promised herself to stop obsessing over things she couldn't have, things she couldn't change. Why did everything suddenly feel so helpless—as though she were trapped on a bus with the whole world flying past the windows, hues melting together like sloppy watercolors, leaving her unable touch the outside. Teena knew she could stop if she desired it, if she could force herself to do it. Just because she was Bill's wife now didn't mean she always had to be Bill's wife. People could start over at twenty-five. If only it were that easy.

A light rain pattered against the windows as cracks of thunder approached from the Atlantic in the distance. Clumps of snow and melting ice splattered on the front walk after plummeting from the shingles. There was something forlornly sad about the rains that came to wash the white winter away, leaving nothing but muddy slush. Golden light from the standing lamp began to flicker and fade as the thunder grew closer. When the power died completely, the darkness enveloped Teena softly, and the only light arrived every few seconds when a brilliant white flash of lightening lit the room. She took a drag while she watched the storm creep up on the other side of the window, and when the light returned to illuminate the land, she gasped and quickly stood in fear, the rocking chair clattering sharply as it fell behind her.

Crouching low to the floor, Teena scurried to the kitchen to retrieve a knife, and upon her return to the living room, she found that the figure outside had not moved from its bent position. Slowly it began to amble closer to the house, and Teena raced to the front door to make sure the deadbolt was secured. Her heart jumped into her throat as she peered out the peephole to see the person shuffling toward the stairs. She needed the police, but the phone had yet to be connected. It was up to her to defend herself against the intruder. Whoever it was did not seem to be taking an offensive posture, however, and before the person could reach the door, he crumpled to his knees on the front stoop.

"Who's there?" Teena cried out from inside, "I'm…I'm armed!" she added for some emphasis but received no response.

Hesitantly, she unlocked the door and poked her head outside.

"Who are you? Turn around and explain yourself, or I shall have to call the police! You are trespassing on private property."

Slowly the man turned his head toward her. He was soaked from head to toe, and water trickled from his drenched hair over his face and into his reddened eyes. Her heart stopped in recognition and a lump formed in her throat.

"Oh my God, Chris. What happened to you? Are you all right?"

He shook his head "no" and looked away.

"Come inside. It's okay. I'll help you. You don't have to tell me."

He stood on wobbly legs, and she wrapped an arm around him for support, leading him to the living room before gently easing his weight to the floor. She put her hands on his shoulders as she studied his glazed expression and placed her palm against his forehead.

"You're sick. You have a fever. I'll be right back."

Teena hurried upstairs and grabbed some towels and an old quilt from the linen closet, and then ran back down to the kitchen to dig through her purse for a bottle of aspirin. She heated water on the gas stove before returning to the living room as quickly as possible.

"I don't have any logs for a fire, but maybe some candles would help," she said, removing two tapers from the mantle and placing them on the floor, striking the flames with her lighter. After the kettle sounded in the kitchen, she retrieved a steaming mug and returned with the aspirin, shaking three pills into her palm.

"I'm sorry, I don't have tea or coffee. Swallow these and drink all this water."

He complied numbly and shivered as she began peeling layers of drenched clothing from his skin. When she'd stripped him nude, she was frightened at how pale and clammy he looked. Delicately she wrapped the quilt around his shaking body and began lightly toweling his hair as he sipped tentatively from the mug.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely.

"How did you know to find me here?" she asked.

"I'm s-ssorry I scared you. You weren't at the house in the Vineyard, so I took the chance that you would come here."

She wrapped her arms around him, giving the warmth of her body, and he curled against her comfortably, his head resting on her breast. Her fingers stroked lightly through his hair, and she bent to kiss the top of his head.

"Teena, I've done a terrible thing."

"What have you done?" she whispered.

"I think, perhaps, that I understand Macbeth."

"What do you mean?"

"I—I killed someone. I killed a man for power…You're afraid of me now, aren't you?"

"No, of course not. I don't care what you've done. Sleep now. Just sleep," she cradled him in her arms as if he were a child, gently rocking their bodies back and forth.

"I love you," he murmured.

--

"Chris, wake up. Wake up now. It's after noon and you should have something to eat."

He blinked tentatively at the sound of her voice and opened his eyes in the sunless daylight that had flooded the room. She smiled softly as he gazed up at her face, and she helped him sit up slowly. He felt surprisingly well and comfortable after sleeping the night on a hardwood floor. A plate of toast with jam, a glass of juice, a banana, and a bowl of oatmeal lay on the floor beside him.

"We didn't have much food in the house. I went to the market this morning after I was sure your fever had passed."

She offered him a piece of toast which he took gratefully. He hadn't realized how famished he'd been until he was given the opportunity to eat. She sat beside him quietly while he finished his meal, and after he devoured everything, she presented him with a casual polo shirt, drawers, and slacks.

"Bill's," she said, "Your clothes are not yet dry."

He thanked her and took the garments hesitantly. She tried to help him stand to button up the slacks, but he waved her off, assuring her that he felt fine. "I need to leave soon," he said.

"Chris…I'm tired of being lied to. You know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about you. Why can't you trust me! You—you come to my house in a physical and emotional wreck in the middle of the night, I care for you without question, and then you, what, just go about your business after I've served my purpose? God, for all that I know, this is some kind of master plan—make me fall in love with you so I can be used and manipulated for who knows what? Damn it, I'm sick of living in the dark!"

Her voice had gradually risen in volume until she was shouting, and she pinned him with an intense glare he knew he deserved. Years of frustration and hurt and anger were finally beginning to surface.

"You love me?" he asked quietly.

"Yes I love you! Despite the fact that I know so little about you and against my better judgment, I love you!"

"But you do know me. You know me better than anyone, but…I will tell you everything else that you want to know," he said, as he motioned for her to sit beside him on the floor, finally ready to trust her completely. "I suppose I'll begin with myself…"

--

He told her of enlisting in the army when he was no more than a child, of going to war and killing boys younger than he, of returning home changed. He told her of his nightmares and anxieties, of his history of manic depression and loose relationships, and of his hatred for the father he'd never known. "My father was a Communist. He was executed for treason. When I was young, I didn't know what I could do with my life; the one thing I knew was that I would be nothing like him, I knew that I would always do what was best for my country…"

Teena listened intently but asked nothing. She simply let him share with her.

"I met Bill in 1951 after I returned from Korea. We were of the same rank, and we were friends then. Later that year, the project recruited us. They were looking for young, intelligent, well-educated men with military experience, and we were hand-selected out of thousands. We didn't even know then…Teena, we don't work for the State Department; we never have. Our group promotes the secret agendas of the government, and we call ourselves The Syndicate."

"What sort of agendas?" she asked, the first words she'd spoken in well over an hour.

"Our primary goal is to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestrials from the global public."

She frowned, laughing lightly in disbelief and awaiting for him to admit a ruse. When he did not respond, she said, "You can't be serious! Space men? Like flying saucers? You're saying all of it is real?"

Chris sighed, understanding the outlandish nature of the story, and began with the crash at Roswell and the alien autopsies. He then continued with the bounty hunters, the abductions, the hybridization program known as "Purity Control", and the aid with cloning and genetics experimentation from German and Japanese scientists who had performed unethical research on humans during World War II.

When his story finished, he awaited some response from Teena, but she remained silent, starring at her folded hands in her lap as she leaned back against the wall.

"I guess I understand if you can't believe it. I know it's a lot to take in," he added uncomfortably.

"No…Now everything seems to fit. So you're working with these…aliens. Why?"

"At some point, possibly in the near future, there will be an alien invasion of the planet. Our work with Them is merely a delaying tactic to allow time for us to develop a real defense. We are trying to develop a vaccine against the virus—Their life force that will eventually control us all, what we have come to call Black Oil. Bill's work deals primarily with the creation of this vaccine, whereas I am more of a field operative."

"You're pretending to be on Their side while secretly learning about Them so you can defeat Them?"

"Yes. I don't know how long we can keep it up. Time seems to be running out. But for now, that is the plan."

"What would happen if your group discovered you'd told me all this?"

"I would be killed."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"I've been planning to tell you for awhile, because you're close to this, it doesn't matter how indirectly. There has been recent talk of requiring project members' families to participate in Purity Control as a means of proving allegiance and dedication. You need to be aware of the danger you're in."

"I don't…What am I supposed to do?"

"Teena, we have to break contact forever. If anyone found out, both of our lives would be in danger, especially now, after what you've learned. Return to the Vineyard as soon as possible."

"I can't just go back with everything I now know."

"Live your life, Teena. Let us fight the future. I'm expected in Washington tomorrow, so…I think this has to be goodbye for us. I'll leave an emergency number with you. If you need anything, you can contact me, but do so only if absolutely necessary. Do you have something I can write on?"

She stood to cross the room and crouched under the rocking chair to retrieve a leather-bound book. She flipped to the last page and silently passed it to him.

"My journal," she said.

He took the pen she offered and scribbled out the number, then closed the book reverently.

"There's something I want you to keep," he said.

Chris dug through the pocket of his trench coat, draped over a linen-covered table to dry, and removed a small metallic object. "This is Their weapon—the only device that can kill Them." He pushed the button on the side of the ice-pick like device, and she jumped at the hiss of the protracting blade. "It takes only one stab to the back of the neck. This will protect you against anything. Keep it hidden until you need it." He retracted the blade and handed it to her. She took it hesitantly, examining its weight in her palm before dropping it carefully into her purse and moving close to him to take his hand.

"One more night," she whispered. "Stay with me one more night."

"All right," he murmured, "I'll stay one more night."

--

She wanted this night to be perfect so that she could always remember it, because she knew it was the last time she would ever be with him. Their goodbye was soft and slow and sweet, with time stretching like elastic. A cool breeze blew in from the open door to the balcony, causing the sheer curtains in the bedroom to billow softly. Their bodies tangled in the fresh sheets in a dance of giving and accepting. His lips caressing hers whispered that he loved her, the delicate touch of his hands assured her he would protect her, and the roll of his tongue as he tasted her said he wanted to please her. "I love you" she told him with her lips and teeth and tongue. Pleasure crashed over her in waves, and he followed his own crest close behind. She decided that she wouldn't fall asleep, but the calm relaxation of her body betrayed her, and she drifted into pleasant dreams as she lay cradled in his embrace.

--

When she awoke, he was gone, but she knew he would be. It was probably better this way. Before he'd left, he'd covered her with layers of blankets and shut the door against the chill. She rolled over to see her journal lying open on his pillow, and she couldn't stop her tears as she read.

Take me with you

Take the me I give you

To your hiding place

I want to hold your secrets

Like the stars I almost touch.

When the lights shine bright

As you dance across the stage

Remember

Know that I am there

Watching, listening,

Laughing, Sobbing

Always

I wish I had found you years ago. In so short a time, you have taught me what it means to be alive. Share your voice.

-C.