"Is he still watching me?"

I'm being followed. It was hard enough to get my work done before the murder, and now—well, I barely stay still long enough to gulp a cup of coffee before moving on again. In the week since Professor Rollins was killed, I've kept to busy places, but the Starbucks we've chosen for our meeting this morning isn't as crowded as I would like.

Merritt is wearing a pair of those enormous Paris Hilton sunglasses. They look ridiculous, but at least she can keep an eye on the guy who's watching me without making it too obvious. She is holding a largish duffle bag stuffed with clean clothes, my toothbrush, and a few other odds and ends I asked her to bring. She peers over my shoulder at the tall, dark-suited man sitting at the bus stop across the street.

"Yeah, I think he's still onto you. At least, he hasn't moved—he's pretending to read The New York Times." Her voice is light but a little shaky.

I can understand why; at first glance, the man following me looks kind of like a buttoned-down stockbroker or an especially well-dressed undertaker—sharp suit, polished shoes, straight black tie. It's his dark glasses that start you wondering what deathsquad he might be working for.

I reach under the table and take the duffle bag with a large measure of relief. I don't happen to care at the moment that it has a giant Hello Kitty emblazoned on the front, I just want to get my hands on the clean clothes inside. Note to self: when going on the run from mysterious killers, try to at least bring a change of underwear along with the 190-year-old portrait and alien-hunter journal.

Merritt wrinkles her nose. "I guess I'll sleep a little better tonight, knowing I've made the city safe from your poor hygiene." Then her shoulders slump and she leans forward to toy with the straw in her overpriced iced tea. "But where are you going to go, Gabriel?" She's already asked this question about a dozen times.

I am relieved she hasn't asked where I've been. The first horrible night I slept under a bridge, the second in a shelter; the third night I walked until dawn and then dozed on the subway all day. No matter where I spend my nights, he always manages to find me.

Instead of answering Merritt, I take advantage of the screen provided by a passing crowd of tourists to give her the portrait. Surprised, she hides it under the folds of her long skirt. "What's this for?" she hisses.

"Sell it; buy yourself a nice place somewhere far from this city. See if the owner of 2nd Time Around will recommend an auction house."

Merritt pulls her giant sunglasses off her face, revealing terrified brown eyes. "Gabriel—don't do this. You've got to get help. Go to the police!"

"We both know that the police will either laugh me off or lock me up. I'm going to Baton Rouge, Merritt. I'm putting this diary back in the archive where I found it. I'm through."

My roommate and best friend of five years absorbs that, thumping her stubby pink fingernails on the tabletop. Finally she puts her sunglasses back on and flashes her lopsided, killer smile. "At least you'll have something interesting to read on the plane. And, you know, bartenders can make a lot of money in this city. Especially smart, well-read, intellectual bartenders. I happen to know we're going to need to fill a position down at the restaurant really soon—if you want it. When you come back."

I shake my head, knowing I am too weighted-down with secrets to come back to New York anytime soon. Even so, I can't help smiling back as I start to rise. There's a kind of thrill in being the hunted; I'm not exactly enjoying it, but the adrenaline rush isn't unpleasant. It's time to run again.

"I'm going now, and then you'll be safe. He'll follow me. You'll be fi—" I break off as she dives across the table and hugs me goodbye.

I can swear that, across the street, the dark-suited man is laughing at me.

20 September 1850

Villere has been dead for two days; my men have kept the remains fresh by packing them in ice, but the chance of bringing him back fades with each passing hour. In spite of this, I keep trying. The accursed grey men have given me hope, in this respect—I have witnessed them using a device that can restore life to the dead, though I do not yet fully understand how it works. The alien technology we have confiscated still functions, though it has been difficult to keep the scum alive for use as test subjects.

Yesterday my new assistant, Simmons, managed to transfer the vital essence of a dog into the body of one of the invaders. The result was promising but not definitive. Our team has dissected the remains of both creatures to observe and document the traumatic effects of the procedure. It must be perfected before we attempt to bring Villere back.

8 December 1855

I am no longer performing the dissections; my hands shake all the time now. But I watch and supervise, directing my men in the proper methods. After each alien autopsy I meditate by Villere's grave; it gives me peace to be near my old friend, who always reminded me how vital our mission is to the nation and the world.

Tonight's experiment was a success. Harrison procured Test Subject A—a black male on the run from slavers—for our initial trial. I felt a pang of sympathy for the man at first; no doubt Harrison had promised him an escape route to the north in order to lure him back to our laboratory. I quickly administered a sedative; it would not do for his screams to carry through the streets of our fair capitol.

Isaac brought in a dying street-woman to serve as Subject B, and we proceeded with the transference. When it was finished, the man lay still, his mouth slack; but the woman—I could see a new awareness in her face. Our runaway slave gazed at me from her eyes. He did not speak and did not live for very long afterwards, but I counted it a victory.

29 March 1861

Isaac has accepted a commission as sergeant in the Union Army. I argued with him at length about participating in this foolish war—he knows that there are far more deadly enemies about—but he insisted that it was his duty to the Union to go to battle. He will do so in company with the 2nd Dragoons.

I am beginning to understand that my son has other reasons for choosing this path. One night I awoke to find him hovering over my bed with a strange glow cast over his body. That eerie light came from my own flesh, shining out from the scars I received long ago at the hands of my captors. I can still see the expression of revulsion on his face as the light from my decaying flesh slid across his healthy skin.

Since then the pain has become daily burden, mushrooming through my bones and sinews and spilling out through my whole being. When it is especially bad I can see their lights again. Sometimes I see Helen. Isaac tries to help me, to perform the duties of a son to his ailing, broken, elderly father, but to no purpose—my body's destruction was assured long ago.

And I find myself watching my son, as I haven't in years. Hungrily. He is a man in the prime of life—strong limbs, whole flesh, keen mind. If only he would put this strength to use for our higher cause, for the benefit of all mankind, instead of putting down this petty insurrection!

13 August 1865

I have been ailing. I had despaired of seeing Isaac again, but he arrived home from the front today.

"Father," he said, gripping my shoulders. "Father."

His left leg was shattered, but it will heal.

29 September 1865

When Isaac was a child, I brought him to the top of a mountain near our cabin in the Western territories. Helen resisted—she did not approve of one so young traveling such dangerous territory in the darkness of night. She did not understand that John Bishop's son had a great destiny, and that he must learn from an early age the way of strength, vision, and unquestioning faith in his father.

The path was narrow and rocky; when we reached the summit, I could see that he was tired but proud. I showed him the desert below, the scrub pines and sage that surrounded us, and the billions of stars that sprinkled the heavens above. From far off we heard the keening howl of a coyote, and he pressed against my side.

"Those lights are beautiful, are they not?"

"Yes, father," Isaac responded dutifully. He stood as straight has he could, but I could see that his sturdy legs were trembling with exhaustion.

"They are also our enemies, Isaac. They are glorious, but they must always be feared and watched."

We built no fire, but kept a lookout on the stars until sunrise. I carried him home then, sound asleep in my arms. Helen took him from me. She did not speak to me again.

Vigilance is the greatest virtue. Love, mercy, courage, justice—all are subordinate to vigilance. These are the lessons I have taught my son from the beginning. And he was always so willing to sacrifice—God, at times I think about what Isaac has sacrificed and my flesh crawls. These are moments of weakness, and I allow them now and then because I love my son.

But now Isaac's vision is no longer trained upon the heavens; it has been corrupted by the filth and mud of the battlefield. I can feel him watching me more closely than ever before. His strength is returning and he has begun to walk without aid. It may be time to redeem him from this corruption—to set his feet back upon the path of destiny and virtue.

30 November 1865

I am a righteous man.

I do not write now to defend my actions, but to honor my son; his sacrifice has made the world safe again—for a time. It is my hope that his death will ensure the security of mankind for many centuries to come.

I look down upon hands that are scarred, strong, and sure. They have seen battle but are surprisingly elegant in spite of this. I draw the cavalry sword and enjoy the sheen of the blade, bright and sharp—an emblem of virtue. Eyes blessed with keen sight, heart beating with strength and surety, hands that do not tremble: the corruption of old age forever held at bay.

I prod at the small, blinking device sewn into my chest; much of my first life was spent discovering its secret and immortalizing powers. The sutures are still tender—the clumsy stitchwork of old, trembling hands that are ready for the grave. There is a momentary pang of sorrow for that old body, but I understand it was just a temporary vessel. John Bishop cannot be buried. His eyes must be ever affixed to the heavens. It was necessary to find a new home for his spirit.

I finally pound the last nail into the coffin, readying instructions for the burial of Isaac Bishop at the new cemetery at Arlington. Lovingly, I stroke my new, powerful arms. "Your father will take care of you always, Isaac."

Always.