Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

“It don’t bother you that your old man was a hired killer?” Cal Torken stared at his guest over a tumbler of whisky.

Sam Marston smiled with brittle courtesy and did not reply. On the sofa beside her, Elliott Marston held his own glass with white-knuckled intensity.

It had not been an easy day, even before their arrival. He’d had to expend considerable persuasion just to get his family through the door. “Elliott, I’m still not sure about this.” Sam Marston had looked up at the house dubiously. “If Mrs. Torken is ill, then she really isn’t going to want strangers around.”

“It won’t be for long, darling. A couple of days at most.” He pulled the trunk out of the carriage and headed for the door. “Besides, Belle’s place isn’t safe anymore.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re right.” Her tone subdued, she pulled off her hat and toyed with the ribbons as she followed him to the porch.

Of course, he couldn’t really fault her lack of enthusiasm. The place had obviously been designed by an architect with a morbid aversion to natural light. Walking into the front hall had plunged them into a twilit gloom even though it was barely noon.

Nor was the décor an inducement to linger in any of the rooms. Heavy wooden chairs and sofas were beached in the front parlour like forlorn sea creatures stranded on shore. A murky haze of dust wafted through the air and obscured the colours of most of the surfaces. The risk of fire from cobwebs wreathing the gas jets on the wall was ever present.

“Oh, Cal.” Molly Torken’s hands fluttered feebly in the air. “I’m sure dear Sam’s father wasn’t a –"

“Lot you know about it.” Torken tossed back his drink in one gulp. “That’s why Elliott was supposed to hire him. Course he mucked it up. He always does.”

Sam’s facial expression did not change but the banked fire in her eyes began to smoulder. Marston jumped into the conversation. “Melvin Collins and I will go visit Major Ashley-Pitt this afternoon and get to the bottom of this whole thing.” Marston reached under the table and squeezed his wife’s hand. Sam curled her fingers around his and held on tight. “Then we’ll take what we have to the chief constable’s office.”

“Elliott, it sounds so dangerous. Maybe you better stay here.” Molly pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It would be safer.”

“Now Molly, there’s no need to worry.” Elliott smiled at her with genuine affection. “I can take care of myself. It will give you and Sam a chance to get to know each other.”

“Yes, I’d like that.” For a moment the careworn lines were smoothed away and a younger, happier Molly Torken smiled across the table at her guests. “And that nice young man, your brother.” Sam smiled back.

“Well, that’s settled.” Marston pushed back his chair. “I’ll be on my way then. See me to the door?” He raised his brow at his wife and tugged her to her feet, not letting go until they were well down the hall out of earshot of the others in the dining room.

“All right, Mr. Smooth Talker, I’ll stay here and be good.” She watched him shrug into his coat. “But I don’t have to like it.”

“No one said you did, darling. Just don’t put any strain on that arm and keep your brother out of trouble.” He checked his gun carefully and adjusted his belt before looking up with a grin. “If you can’t do both at the same time, tie him up.”

“Good advice.” She allowed herself to be pulled into a hug. “Elliott, this place is very creepy. Hurry back.”

“As soon as I can. Ashley-Pitt will be able to tell me something, hopefully a name, and that’s all I need for the police.” He rested his chin on the top of her head as she snuggled into his shirt. “I know what you mean about the house. Their ranch isn’t much better in terms of atmosphere. Cal tends to fill up a place, if you know what I mean.”

Sam shivered. “Yes, I do.”

“And I do want you to get to know Molly. She hasn’t had an easy life but she’s really a lovely woman.” He pulled her head up for a kiss. Silence fell for several minutes.

Finally he pulled away. “I’m off. Be good, woman.”

Footsteps ran down the hall toward them. “Elliott! Where are you going? Can I come too?” Niall appeared, breathless with haste.

“Goodbye!” Marston pushed open the door and disappeared.

Sam caught her brother and held him back. “No you don’t, young man. We’ve got responsibilities right here.”

Niall fought to escape her grip. “But I want to be with Elliott!”

“Yes I know, dear.” Sam blinked away unwelcome tears. She swallowed several times before she continued. “So do I.”

Magda
- Monday, November 15, 1999 at 17:26:22 (PST)

She knew what she must do. Too much time wasted, and too many people hurt in the process. She would continue as planned, in case HE was watching, but before anything more could happen to hurt those she loved, she would slip quietly into the darkness. Just walk away, and when they figured out what she had done, and whom she had been with, it would be too late. Or it wouldn’t. They would still all be safe, and she would be a safe distance away. They wouldn’t trust her again, she would never be allowed to be part of their lives.

She quickly pulled a long sleeved white cotton nightdress over her head, and sprayed pulse points with Mary Anne’s perfume. She tucked the carefully folded handkerchief into her sleeve, and picked up the camera. Looking carefully at the top of the camera in the dim light she set the timer for 5 minutes. When the 5 minutes were up the camera would automatically keep taking pictures, one after the other until the roll of film was finished.

As Claudia walked towards the door that led back into the bedroom, she heard a heart-stopping yell from the adjoining room. “Mary Anne!!”

Claudia’s hand froze on the handle. It was the Colonel’s voice, but she had never heard him sound so uncontrolled, so… so primal. Could she cope with his strength, fight him off if she needed to? She patted her sleeve, checking the handkerchief was still in place. Taking a deep breath she turned the handle and opened the door.
Claudia
- Monday, November 15, 1999 at 13:42:47 (PST)

Italics fixed.
But haven't you been doing HIS bidding?
D.o.C.

Oh, um whoops! DOC HELP it was HIM, honest!
Claudia
- Monday, November 15, 1999 at 11:53:18 (PST)

Claudia felt dizzy. I’m hallucinating, she realised, and shrugged off the Interrogator’s hands. HE looked up, frowned at her and slowly HE was gone, fading, shrinking into a tiny white spot and suddenly disappearing, like turning off an old TV set. What’s going on, I feel so strange?

Perhaps the flickering lights were triggering some self-hypnosis. But then she knew. The location device in her leg. The Doctor had checked it for anything mechanical that could harm her, but his tests hadn’t detected the slow leaching of a drug. Which one she didn’t know, but it was a drug. The Interrogator was playing on one of her weaknesses. He knew them all now, she was vulnerable to HIM. She craved sensations, feelings that proved she was alive and that she could feel. Pleasure or pain, in their intensities they were the same thing, almost. It was what drew her to HIM, she realised. The pain in her leg, the feeling of HIS touch. But she had blocked all sensation, so it shouldn’t affect her any more.

Could she go on with this mission, knowing what HE was doing to her, and possibly why HE was doing it. HE knew she wasn’t really working for HIM. HE knew she would betray HIM soon, so HE had decided to betray her before it could happen.
Claudia
- Monday, November 15, 1999 at 11:52:03 (PST)

Mary Anne slumps back in the chair, her eyes closing in thankfulness. Therese is alive . . .

But what of Renie? And--

Making an effort to keep her surging emotions in check, she opens her eyes again, and immediately catches sight of something very unusual: McCoy, armed.

Mary Anne sits up straighter. Yes, the doctor is wearing an Alliance-issue dart pistol and the wicked-looking AR sidearm that is first cousin to the so-called "Baby Glock," with its clip of nine-millimeter hollow-points, as well as her medical pouch.

Seeing the direction of Mary Anne’s gaze, Joanna nods in disgust. "Yes, I know. Nasty reversal of role for a doctor (homage), but with The Commander and her chief officers in the field, I’m more or less in charge around here. According to regs, that means I have to be armed." A snort. "I’m a doctor, not a—"

"—gunfighter," finishes Mary Anne, and the laughter that she had earlier repressed finally spills over.

But no one else is laughing. James Winterbourne releases her and stands back, looking like a man who suddenly finds himself out of his depth; MacLeod conceals her thoughts behind the bland mask of the ideal domestic, and McCoy . . . well, she is a doctor, and knows the difference between a hearty laugh of enjoyment and the shrill, hysterical release of strain. Stepping forward, McCoy takes Mary Anne by the shoulders and shakes her, gently, but firmly. "Stop that. Now, what’s the matter?"

After a moment, Mary Anne falls silent. A coolness seems to have settled over her emotions, and she can feel her mind grow sharp, her reasoning steady. Don’t feel—not now. Just . . . think.

"So, Joanna, you’re the officer in charge?"

"Yes. I’m working with Doctor Dubois to set up care for the casualties that will be coming in." At Mary Anne’s look, she clarifies, "There are field medics in the West Wood who’ll take care of the wounded, but serious cases will be patched up there—whatever it takes to keep body and soul together—and then sent here. I’m afraid we’ll have to turn part of Delaford into a hospital, temporarily."

Mary Anne nods. "Of course. Miss M—" MacLeod steps forward. "Find Doctor Dubois and see what she’ll need, and help her with it."

"Yes, ma’am," and MacLeod vanishes through the servants’ parlour and out the far door, the way she had come.

Mary Anne turns her attention back to McCoy. "Joanna, I need your help. There’s a security cordon around the house, I assume."

"Of course. Can’t let any of HIS people get in here."

"I’m not worried about someone getting in—it’s someone getting out." Mary Anne takes a deep breath—but that strange blankness of her emotions continues, as her mind works steadily away. "There’s no time to explain . . . but I know that Claudia has been working with The Interrogator. She has to be taken into custody."

Mary Anne looks at McCoy as if she expects some protest, but McCoy offers none.

"I had been . . . seeing . . . the signs of it, but it took me a while to put two and two together. The message Mister Winterbourne brought me just confirmed what I already knew. And—"

Even now, control. Why can’t I feel anything? Later . . .

"—I have reason to believe that Claudia gave my husband a . . . dangerous drug . . . and . . . he’ll need an antidote as soon as possible . . ."

McCoy’s gaze sharpens. "Antidote? I’ll be glad to help if I can, but—"

"It’s fairly simple, and here’s how you make it—"

Feelings, now. A savage joy, as Mary Anne names off ingredients and amounts, while musing that this one time, it was worthwhile to have shared HIS mind.

McCoy is checking through her pouch. "Yes, I have those, but how did you—" A pause. "Of course. Stupid of me to forget."

"I’ve been trying to forget for weeks," Mary Anne bites out. "Now, I’m glad I didn’t."

"So, shouldn’t we go and see if--?"

"Exactly. But—" Mary Anne closes her eyes, briefly. What if--?

"We’ll need help," she finally allows. "That drug—he’ll be like a wild man, if he’s had another dose—"

"Another?"

Mary Anne presses on. " –and Claudia . . . working for . . . HIM . . ."

Her voice shakes. No, Mary Anne, you can’t come apart now! Christopher needs you . . .

"—she could be dangerous, too. Possibly armed. You need to call up some security guards . . ."

McCoy has already unclipped her phone and has it open.

In reality it is only a few moments, but it seems forever to Mary Anne before the complement of guards arrives and she, along with McCoy and Winterbourne, leads the way up the stairs toward the chambers she shares with the Colonel, her heart beating fast, her self-control tested to the utmost.

Claudia . . . hurt Christopher? Working for HIM? She couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t . . .

MA--wow, Clods, what a stunner post! But beware: "The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape . . ."
Fausta--I think it's from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves . . . ?, - Monday, November 15, 1999 at 07:22:41 (PST)

Italics fixed.
Sound file is from RH:PoT, yes.
D.o.C. (who hasn't seen Dogma, yet)

& now I ask for DoC's help, please . . .
Fausta
- Monday, November 15, 1999 at 06:54:41 (PST)

Haven't been here for a while, but I like that sound file, "I could give your every need my personal attention". Where is it from?
Fausta
who found Dogma to be so gory The Dirty Dozen looks laundered by comparison, - Monday, November 15, 1999 at 06:53:38 (PST)

Claudia - stood naked in front of the mirror. The maid's uniform a crumpled heap at her feet. She stared at herself in the mirror, the flickering flame and cascading jewels of light playing on her skin. She looks like something not quite there, a thing of fantasy and horror. Darkness outlined her curves, hollowing her eyes and creating a thick line down her body to the well at her finely muscled belly. But light played in her hair and created a halo about her head. Good and evil battling within her, deciding what she must do next. I'm doing this for you all, I must beat HIM by myself.

Slowly out of the darkness hands appeared on her shoulders. Behind her a figure took shape. The face of the Interrogator smiled at her from HIS reflection in the mirror. Slowly HE bent HIS head, and planted tiny kisses at the nape of her neck.

Despite the block she had put on all sensations, she moaned out loud at the memory of HIS touch.
Claudia
- Sunday, November 14, 1999 at 21:54:46 (PST)

The Delaford kitchen:

When James Winterbourne expresses his hope that he is not "too late," Mary Anne is about to reply, but a voice cuts across hers.

"Aye, an’ speakin’ of late--who are ye, and what’re y’aboot wi’ Missus Brandon a’ this hourrr?"

Winterbourne turns. He is a fine figure of a young man, both strong and brave—but a far stronger and braver man might be forgiven for a qualm if he were so unexpectedly confronted with the figure of Moire MacLeod, all six feet of her, impeccably clad in respectable black gown and snowy apron, just as if it were the prime of the afternoon rather than the dead of night . . . and armed with a butcher’s cleaver that she had plucked from its peg as she entered the kitchen from the servants’ parlour.

"It’s all right, Miss M," protests Mary Anne, before Winterbourne can speak. "This is Mister James Winterbourne, Giles’ brother; he came to give me a message. Now put that thing away!" Mary Anne can feel building in her a reprehensible—not to mention hysterical—desire to laugh, which she attempts to conceal behind her best Mistress of Delaford pose. "What are you doing up so late?"

"Och, weel, ma’am—" MacLeod replaces the cleaver on its hook. " ‘Tis nae so late; ‘tis early. It’s little sleep I’m needing, and a good thing, too, all the stirrin’ aboot—"

"Stirring about? Oh—" A glance at Winterbourne, who has still not quite recovered from his shock at being confronted by a housekeeper with a cleaver. "—the manhunt, that must be! For HIM . . ."

"For HIM, indeed," puts in yet another voice, as Doctor Joanna McCoy steps through the kitchen door, clipping her phone onto her belt. "And the news is good."

Mary Anne is half out of her chair, despite the restraining arm of James Winterbourne, and as McCoy steps closer, she pleads, "What news? What’s happened?"

One look at Mary Anne convinces McCoy that her patient—she still considers Mary Anne her patient—should not hear of everything that has taken place in the West Wood, and is still taking place. But the reports that are filtering in . . . there are some things it would do Mary Anne good to hear.

And so McCoy chooses her tidings: "The Interrogator has been taken by the combined forces of the Alliance, UNIT, and the Imperial Guard." A wry smile. So many, for just one man. "And . . . your friend Therese is alive."

MA--finally, some time to post! Clods: interesting, that recurring leg pain.
R: no argument about the cloaks. ;-) Suzanne: shall HE escape, or do you want HIM brought in chains to the Imperial Palace? *chuckle*, - Sunday, November 14, 1999 at 19:01:51 (PST)

Claudia closed the door silently behind her and leant against it, her heart thumping wildly, and the pain in her leg threatening to overwhelm her once again. She dismissed it, as if clicking a switch in her brain to block out all sensation – good or bad. Then she relit her candle.

Thank goodness! She was in the right place. There before her was a dressing table with a large mirror, crystal perfume bottles, silver backed hairbrushes and combs laid out in a neat row across its top. Claudia put the candle down, sending lights from the items on the table top and mirror to cascade across the ceiling. Quickly she emptied all she had carried with her onto the dressing table, then began to remove her clothes.
Claudia
- Sunday, November 14, 1999 at 15:12:56 (PST)

"You know I've been thinking." Sinclair stretched out half hidden in the long grass of the plateau. Looking at the healthy glow newly returned in past days, he began to test mettle of an erstwhile sparing partner. "I've been thinking, it wouldn't be such a bad life to be an Indian."

Claire sat up. "So what impressed you so much this morning?"

"Well there is the fishing, could spend all day fishing." He ripped the nearest stalk and began casting this way and that. "And the food was extraordinarily good."

"Yes I noticed. Did they have to winch you off the saddle on your return?" came the dry retort.

Sinclair was leading somewhere she didn't necessarily want to follow. Deliberately positioning the marker between the pages Claire snapped closed the book, waiting.

"The women certainly know how to treat the menfolk well. Very deferential." He continued apparently still thinking aloud. "Running Bear says the powerful warriors have several wives."

"Well Wagon Master I suggest you maintain what you have already."

Sinclair snatch the edition just before it landed south of his midriff, smothering both flailing arms in his own.

Claire
Make that 4 plus 1 Dana - R just got in before me!, - Sunday, November 14, 1999 at 12:34:27 (PST)

Scene: The servants’ parlour off the kitchen at Delaford.

Mary Anne, reaching for the bellpull and tugging at it with all her might . . . With a gentle, but firm hand, James Winterbourne halts the bell pull. "You mistake me--I'm not here to harm you, I swear. Please. Don't alarm the house. My news might be better kept quiet . . . it's about someone who's here. Someone you need to watch out for." At this point in his insistent wish for narrative, Mary Anne gives way, stopping her frantic movements.

In fact, she has gone stock still.

The Interrogator? Was he here? Inside these halls? Her nightmare had made it seem within the stretch of reason. She wanted to take a step back from Winterbourne, but she found he had taken her hand to keep it from the bell pull.

"Don't be frightened. (homage) But I was told you and Colonel Brandon should know as soon as possible. To prevent any calamity."

"Who sent you?" Mary Anne could not be faulted for having no idea of the answer she might receive.

Winterbourne picks up the cloak which had fallen from Mary Anne's shoulders. Wrapping it about her, he escorts her from the servant's parlor back to the kitchen. The fire burns, though somewhat reluctantly, as James answers her. "A man called Colin. He is in Egdon, with one who is close to you, and fondly known to many in Wessex. She arrived in a--" James thinks hard--what was the word? "--a jot--in the air--and was taken to Brandon's hospital."

"Renie!--Was she hurt?" Mary Anne's hand squeezes James' own larger one as if the news might come faster with such a procedure.

"I cannot be sure," he gives up, honestly. Then, seeing Mary Anne's distress, he adds, "but I think not. Not so's she was in pain, leastaways. She was in a kind of sleep. But Mister Colin told me that you would want to know she was in Wessex, as she called out for you, in her sleep."

Mary Anne sits down for a moment--that kitchen chair presenting itself when James had seen her beginning to slump.

Her mind fairly jumps. She surmises that Colin has not told Hans, as the private telephone line hasn't rung with any ill news from California. "And this was your message, then?"

"Mister Colin could not ride at night, over the heath and through these woodlands. 'Twas no trouble for me, excepting the manhunt in the West Wood, which slowed my pace"

"The manhunt--have they found anyone?"

"They had not when I left, though they seemed well supplied with arms and legs for the job. And some were women!"

At this exclamation from the young Winterbourne, Mary Anne has to smile. "Then, you have delivered well. If you have passed through such iron gates as those."

Another tease for the young man, who bears it finely and without affront. "I have only half delivered. There is more. Concerns a woman who is here."

Mary Anne blinks. More? She had assumed James had meant Renie in his narrative. "Here?" she questions aloud. "At Delaford?"

"She may be here--I don't know. I am to warn you of a woman named Claudia. She has done a bad thing to Renie, and I am to warn you that she cannot be trusted. It was because of her that Renie and Colin were on the plane--they wanted to try and find her before she did any more harm."

Any more harm. Mary Anne pales.

Seeing the color of Mary Anne's face, he cannot help but add, "I hope I am not too late."

You look good in a cloak, dearest.
(though not as good as your husband!) R, - Sunday, November 14, 1999 at 11:54:23 (PST)

"My birthday isn't till tomorrow, PL." "I know but with this rest day I thought it a perfect chance to celebrate properly. I want this to be a birthday you'll always remember."

Dana blinked quickly to clear the tears from her eyes. "Thank you." she whispered to PL.

"You can thank me later." With a quick nibble on her earlobe he straightened to face the group of well-wishers.

Dana reached around and pinched at the back of his knee. He managed not to yelp but moved quickly out of range. Feeling happier than she had in a long time she dug into her breakfast and chatted with the women who had gathered close to her.
Dana
can you say *four*?, - Saturday, November 13, 1999 at 21:35:12 (PST)

Passing the wide racks of drying fish, Sinclair kept one eye on Running Bear's progress while trying to absorb the surroundings. Nez Perce bands were well used to visitors, the Indian had explained, tribes from far to the east came to trade buffalo meat for dried fish and recently the white fur trappers passed this way.

Those arrows to the sky he had seen were singular pole frameworks covered, he was surprised to see, by grass matting not the buffalo hides he expected. Some dwelling places appeared to be two tepees connected by long ridgepoles. Meeting each enquiring eye with a faint smile Sinclair followed Running Bear towards the largest of such lodges.

It crossed Sinclair's mind briefly that the council before them was as colourfully dressed with eagle feathers and cloth as the spotted Appaloosas that they sat astride. He waited for Running Bear's signal to dismount hoping that the hospitality would extend to a hearty breakfast.

Claire
Wow -Three Gold Rush posts in a row!, - Saturday, November 13, 1999 at 13:51:06 (PST)

Dana emerged from the wagon flap still buttoning the front of her dress. "PL you beast! It must be barely daylight."

"Oh no, my dear, I’m merely saving you from yourself. It’s very late and I’m sure you’re the only woman in the wagon train still abed."

"Well fine! This is the first rest day we’ve had in far too long and I intend to do just that, rest!"

"Do you think you can muster the energy to eat your breakfast? Get a wrap and come on down by the fire." When she re-emerged from the wagon flap he helped her down and placed the mug of hot tea on one hand. The other he retained and pulled her to the fire. "Sit here."

With the look of infinite patience one saves for small children, she complied.

"Now close your eyes."

"PL, what is this about?"

"OK, open!"

Dana gasped in surprise. For the plate on her lap was filled with a beautiful hot breakfast. Bacon, eggs, biscuits all piping hot and ready for her pleasure. "PL, we’re out of bacon. How did you….?"

"I had just a bit of help." From around the wagon came the other families traveling in the train, all smiling as they approached.

PL leaned to whisper in Dana’s ear, "Did you think I’d forget your birthday, Love?"
Dana
almost posted by noon, Claire!!, - Saturday, November 13, 1999 at 12:04:10 (PST)

Morning light found the pair scouting the days trek between the mesas. Smoke curled, barely visiable before fragmenting into the milky blue horizon. Tracing the wisp earthwards it was possible to discern the small darts around the source. Tepees scattered in a loose confederation.

Running Bear stayed Sinclair's movement towards the rifle with a pausing palm, leading the pair in a slow ambling route towards the encampment.

O'Hara put his fingers to his mouth and there issued a piercing shrill, sleep shattering, whistle. Chickens agitated squawking would no doubt send Dana into the flustered outrage of one too long abed, and he would be on hand with the soothing mug of hot tea.

Shoving his hands nonchalantly into his pockets he observed the effect with barely supressed glee. Steaming on the wagon seat the tea awaited it's rescue mission.

Claire
Rise and shine Dana !, - Saturday, November 13, 1999 at 03:19:36 (PST)

Claudia closed the door with a click. But instead of leaving for the kitchen, as a real maid would have done, she stayed inside the room. The Colonel was illuminated by faint lamplight, and she could see him pop the first biscuit into his mouth. A knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. There would be no turning back now. He'd tasted the drug, and his body would crave more. Her soul screamed at her to run, to leave now while she could.

Instead, she made her way round the room, hugging the walls where the lamplight didn't reach. Moving carefully and slowly so as not to make a sound. She reached a wardrobe, and had to move out into the room a bit and round it. On the other side her hand found a doorknob, hopefully the room she had been seeking.

On the night of the wedding, several days before, while so much had been happening, early on she had found time to explore the upper part of the great house, and found the newlywed's room. She had thought to play some trick on them, but seeing the large bed, the carefully prepared love nest, she had simply smiled and closed the door. That is, she had closed the door after she had explored, finding Brandon's dressing room and Mary Anne's own adjoining room.

The latter was what she seeked now. Turning the handle slowly and pushing gently, hoping upon hope that the hinge didn't squeak, she opened the door just enough to slip inside, and close it behind her. She was confident the Colonel had been too preoccupied to notice her at all.
Claudia
MA - leave off that bell, I have work to do!, - Friday, November 12, 1999 at 20:09:24 (PST)

“So you’ve been in town all this time.” The speaker paused to push a fork laden with potato into his mouth. His jaws chewed in a ponderous manner that suggested the movement of tectonic plates.

“Yes.” Elliott Marston smiled tensely as he pushed the meat to the edge of his plate. The mutton was grey and left a trail of pinkish juice on the china. He longed for a jar of mint jelly.

They were the only two people in the back of the dining parlour of the hotel. Heavy dark wood predominated with faded red velvet hangings over the door. Although the day was bright and sunny, Marston felt as if he were sitting in the rear of a deep cave.

The Palmerston Hotel was one of the oldest establishments in Fremantle. Built in the days when the commercial life of the town depended on access to the harbour, it had been left behind as the business district moved further west. The guests of earlier days had been plain, rough men with no refinement or polish and who did not feel the lack. For them, the Palmerston was a comfortable place.

Calbert Torken was just such a man. A large, robust sheep farmer who had scraped a living from the land, he felt no wonder at his success and no compassion for another’s failure. He looked out at the world through mud-colored eyes that noticed nothing that did not affect him personally. His needs were simple and uncomplicated: hearty meals, a warm bed and a solid house. His desires were few: to possess a great quantity of money, to be able to look about him and know that all the land to the farthest horizons belonged to him, and to make sure that nothing inhabited that land that was not his as well.

Since these needs and desires were few, he was able to focus his full attention on them. And he would go to any length to fulfil them.

“And you’ve been wasting your time with some woman when you were supposed to be doing work for the Society.” Torken picked up his knife and began to saw through his meat.

“Actually, I got married.” Marston gripped his eating utensils tightly. “I’ll be sure to pass on your congratulations to my bride.”

He should have known better; sarcasm was lost on his companion. “Didn’t make any.” Torken took another bite and chewed. “And now you got some story about someone trying to kill you. You been out in the sun too long.”

Marston decided to relieve himself of anything that might be considered a weapon. He leaned forward, his fingers interlaced tightly and smiled again. “Cal, I know it sounds strange but it’s true. Now are you going to help me or not?”

“Got no choice, do I? Always got to help you.” The large man flicked a glance across the table. “Gave you the money to get you started, didn’t I? Introduced you to the right people so’s you could get some customers.”

Marston inhaled deeply and let the air out again. “Yes, you did. And I’m grateful for all your help.”

“Just don’t forget it, boy. Now first thing is to bring this gal and her kid outta that whorehouse.”

“He’s her brother, not her child and it’s not –"

“Yeah, well, whatever he is. Now Molly’s in town with me this time cause she’s got to see some doctor. Getting worse in her head. Can’t sleep and always hears voices, she says.” Torken shoved his empty plate aside and put his elbows on the table.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Said Marston sincerely.

“Point is, we’re staying in a house this time. So you bring your two over to us and we’ll get to the bottom of all this nonsense.” He belched. “What do you say?”

“It sounds like a good plan.” Marston threw down his napkin. “We’ll be there this afternoon. You’re sure it won’t be too much for Molly?”

“Nah, she’ll be all right. Spends too much time in bed dreaming of nothing much. Just don’t pay too much attention to what she says. It don’t make much sense sometimes.”

“I’ll let Sam know. And thank you, Cal.” Marston looked away from his companion and gazed out the window into the street. Despite the warmth of the day his skin felt clammy.

“You’re welcome.” Torken belched again. “And then there’s no more excuses for not gitten’ on with our work. Got that?” Just for a moment a hint of menace vibrated in the air.

Magda
- Friday, November 12, 1999 at 17:09:31 (PST)

Whatever Claudia vants, Claudia gets . . .
Watch out Colonel!!!
- Friday, November 12, 1999 at 11:25:10 (PST)

Claudia *vants*? Oh my goodness, look out Colonel! (grin)

Kerri ( .. waiting to see what happens next!)
USA, - Friday, November 12, 1999 at 00:48:45 (PST)

Delaford, the pantry:

Mary Anne begins to break loose from the grip of her nightmare—HIS grip, it seems, for just moments after she had cried out for Brandon, longing for her husband, sick with dread for what might have befallen him, she feels arms about her . . . and they are cold. Has The Interrogator caught her in his grasp, then? And the light . . . and what voice is this . . .?

For someone is moving her, and even as Mary Anne whimpers and struggles to free herself, a low voice at her ear tells her, "There now, ma’am, to th’ fire, an’ we munnot lose no time . . ."

Familiar, somehow, that voice. Diggory?

Slowly, the dream disperses and Mary Anne awakens to find herself in the kitchen at Delaford, wrapped in a dark and heavy cloak and settled in a chair before the fire. And there is a man—presumably the owner of the cloak—stirring the embers with a poker and urging the fire to life, before turning to regard her with his anxious gaze. A young man, perhaps twenty years old, handsome in the style that will be termed rakish as soon as he loses the boyish look. A dark mop of curls. Extraordinary eyes that watch her closely as if he fears she will die even as he watches.

"Forgive me, mum—"

An Egdon accent; that’s why he sounds like Diggory.

He tries again. "Forgive me, ma’am, but . . ." Some hesitation, but then he presses bravely on. "There was no one to let me in, so I came through the window—" A nod. "—there. I heared—" A cough. "I heard your cry in there, and took you out; you were fair perished with cold."

Yes, with the cold . . . and . . . Feeling the blood begin to stir in her icy fingers, Mary Anne holds them nearer the blaze, rubbing her hands together until feeling returns. "Thank you—" A whisper. She clears her throat. "—for getting me out of there. I came down for something to eat and got shut in . . ." She looks more carefully at the man’s face, now clearly illumined by the flames. "You’re a Winterbourne."

"Why—yes, ma’am, James Winterbourne at your service," sweeping her as polite a bow as if she sat before him in silks and jewels, rather than his cloak, over her dressing gown and slippers.

"Giles came to my wedding and has been our guest. Very distinctive features you have."

"Giles is my brother—but did I hear y’say, my wedding? Ye’d be Missus Brandon, then?"

"Yes, I am Mrs. Brandon—"

"I’ve a message for th’Colonel—"

But Mary Anne hardly hears him, for the import of her dream, which had briefly withdrawn from her as James had seen to her comfort, now returns full force.

Brandon had been given that drug. And Claudia--

Mary Anne is up, then, out of the chair, across the room to the servants’ parlour off the kitchen, reaching for the bellpull and tugging at it with all her might . . .

MA--a day off work and how did I have to spend it? Housecleaning--ick! 8-P
Do the Imperial Guard get a day off for Veterans Day, Suzanne? *g*, - Thursday, November 11, 1999 at 16:43:23 (PST)

He spoke of the Big Water where the Sun set, the Snake Indians - lean limbed and fleet of foot - identifiable by the jagged reptilian designs on their body, and the story of the "Devil Fish".

Running Bear narrated the Snake Indians visit from over the Backbone of the World bringing skins to trade with the Blackfoot. Fur finer than beaver or martin, the Devil Fish pelts looked like a dog but with beavers feet and the tail of a fish. One skin traded for the equivalent of a horse or five buffalo robes. Such bounty induced one of the Blackfoot warriors to accompany the traders on their westward journey.

The tale rolled through the warriors adventures trading with tribes along the Big River, who lived off the rivers fish as the Blackfoot did the buffalo, until he reached the edge of the Big Water. Swimming at a distance he saw the Devil Fish, they came to the shore waddled over the land and lay together barking like dogs. It was said they tasted good but as Blackfoot do not eat dog, the warrior refused.

Frenzied fire crackling and voices raised in ribald tune indicated the final stoking of the evening. Pausing in his story, the Indian leaned across to stroke the song dog as they both digested the uncomfortable thought.

Trading everything down to his own clothes and moccasins for their clothes, shells and as many Devil Fish skins as his last horse could carry, the Blackfoot warrior readied to return to his tribe. Two skins remained after the perilous return journey, one offered to the Sun for his safe return, the other ...

Enthralled by the rich rising and falling of tone as the narration unfolded, drawn into the tale by the vibrant visual pictures, Claire waited the finale, the pause an exquisite ache.

Running Bear unfastened the bag.

Reaching towards her he slowly drew a hand wrapped in the whitest seal fur down her cheek, acknowledging the gasp of pleasure that was his due.


Claire
Homage to a Blackfoot legend, - Thursday, November 11, 1999 at 14:34:53 (PST)

Aside:
The missing posts from July 31, '97 have been restored to the Archives. Thanks, Mary Anne!

Instead of adding them to the July 31 - August 16, '97 file (now August 1 - 16, 97) which was already very large, I went ahead and moved all the July 31st posts to the previous file (which is now July 23 - 31, '97). Hope I haven't confused anyone. :-)
Suzanne
You take my breath away, guys!, - Thursday, November 11, 1999 at 06:21:24 (PST)

Minion took one look at Dev, and did a bit of backing up himself. He had not made it far when Dev's hands clamped upon his shirt collar. "Release her." His tone was deep and commanding, yet utterly devoid of all emotion. "Or I'll kill you."

Minion squirmed in the other man's grasp, his expresion grim. Dev was a tall man, and powerfully built; he dwarfed the slender, reclusive computer genious. "The Interrogator wired that," he stammered, pointing to Therese, "if I touch it, he'll kill me."

"You are failing to grasp a very obvious concept," Dev began, his voice calm. "If you do not remove that device, without so much as causing that woman to flinch, I will kill you."

"You wouldn't. . . you can't!" Minion stammered, his pale face becoming red and blotchy under Dev's close scruitiny.

Dev tightened his grasp around Minion's neck. "Can't I? What have I to lose? I am a wanted man all across Ireland and England: terrorism, conspirisy, spying, treason, murder. . . " Dev's eyes bored into Minion's until the smaller man began to squirm anew. "After such a list as that, what would make you think one more more charge should matter in the slightest?"

"If I make even the most benign error, everyone in this room will die!" his tone was pleading now.

"Then might I suggest you take the utmost care?" Dev said, his voice lethal.

Minion sighed. He had no other choice. If he managed to inadvertantly detonate the bomb, they all died. If he didn't free the woman, then he was the one who would be killed. If he did free the woman, then HE would have him terminated, no matter if he were in custody or not. Still, looking at de Valera, he realized only too well which was currently his greatest threat. "I'll need tools."

It took only a few moments to gather the required equipment, and soon Minion scuttled toward Therese on his hands and knees. Dev looked toward Scout, "Clear the room," he ordered, "there is no reason to risk you and the members of the squadron." Scout's first inclination was to argue, to remain with this impulsive, domineering man who had been through so much, and who he had begun to think of as a friend. But his training prevailed, and saw Dev's reason. There was no justification for unnecessary risk of life. He sent the squadron members from the room, and looked up toward Dev. "I am willing to stay with you and Therese, Dev."

Dev moved to Scout's side, and clasped a hand firmly on his shoulder. "I thank you for that, Scout, and accept it in the fellowship it was intended, but you must leave so that you can promise me this. If we do not survive, see that HE pays for our lives, and is brought to justice for HIS crimes."

Minion waited for the room to clear, then began to finger the wires gently, his touch impossibly light, every action studied and thoughtful. He traced the configuration of the network, followed each wire to their connection, and attempted to find the source of combustion. There was one, he was certain. This was not merely for show.

Dev peered over the other man's shoulder, watching his every move. He understood simple circuitry, and could even wire a very basic explosive device, but this contraption was far beyond his knowledge.

Minion separated one wire from the rest and reached to it with the cutters Scout had provided. Dev grasped his wrist firmly before he would make the first alteration. "What about that?" he demanded, indicating the small thermometer which could be seen underneath the coil of parts. "Body heat sensitive," Minion explained. "My hypothesis is if this unit isn't kept at normal body temperature, it will detonate."

"How stable is it otherwise? Could it be moved, so long as it is kept at the correct temperature?"

Minion nodded. He didn't care for the slant this was taking.

Dev slid closer to Therese, his fingers gently undoing the leather clasps which fastened the harness to her body. "Can you hold this in place for just a moment, dearest? Do you have the strength?" Therese nodded her assent, and held the unfastened straps.

Dev moved so quickly toward Minion, that he had no time in which to react. A single, flat handed blow to the base of his slender neck left him temporarily unconcious, but bascially unharmed. Dev slid Minion's body next to Therese's and quickly but carefully refastened the explosive device to its new host. Therese and Dev hardly dared breathe for several moments, as they waited for the explosion that did not occur.

Dev stood up quickly, then bent to take Therese into his arms. She clung to him tightly, the tears sliding, unbidden, down her face. "I knew you'd come for me," she said with a sigh, "I never stopped believing that. It was how I survived. . . "

"Shh, hush now, it's all right. Don't try to speak," he soothed her softly, holding her to his chest with gentle tenderness. She rested her head in the crook of his arm, breathing in his scent and clutching him tightly.
Therese
- Wednesday, November 10, 1999 at 19:49:50 (PST)

“Now then, little lady.” The doctor smiled professionally as he snapped his instrument case shut. “You just lie back and keep still and there’s no reason you can’t go downstairs for breakfast in a few hours.”

Propped up against a bank of pillows, Sam Marston smiled back. “Thank you doctor. It was so good of you to take time away from your – activities – to attend to me.”

“No trouble at all, my dear.” The doctor picked up his bag and gestured in dismissal. “I always carry this with me wherever I go. It was just lucky that I was on the premises tonight.”

At the table, Elliott Marston dropped his head into his hands and groaned. The doctor glanced at him on his way to the door. “If you want my professional advice, sir, I would suggest a good stiff shot of the whiskey Belle keeps locked away in her private cupboard. And you should have it as soon as possible.”

“Thanks again, doctor. I’ll make sure he gets it.” Sam waved with her good arm. The doctor nodded affably and departed, shutting the door behind him.

Sam lay back with a sigh and closed her eyes. The silence was blissful especially following two hours of pandemonium with hysterical women, a frightened little brother, strangers poking and prodding, pain and blood. And just when she was preparing to give her husband total what-for over being left out of his midnight activities. She wondered if she was up to resuming the discussion. Cautiously she shrugged, then gasped as raw pain scored her shoulder.

Marston looked up quickly. “What? What is it?” He was out of his chair and across to the bed in two strides. Minute particles of glass crunched under his feet. “Don’t move! I’ll get the doctor again!”

“No!” Sam grimaced as the pain faded to a dull ache. “Don’t get the doctor. It’s just a little twinge.” She smiled inwardly. All this fuss because a bullet grazed her shoulder. How would he react if she’d actually been shot?

“I thought we’d be safe here. Obviously our mysterious someone has found us. We have to make some plans.” He turned away and stared out the glassless window at the street, his face drawn and pale in the grey dawn light. “Whoever did this will pay for it.” His fists clenched at his sides.

“Elliott, you don’t know that it was the man you’re looking for. It was probably just some fool who’d had too much to drink and decided to play with his gun.” She relaxed carefully into her pillows. “Believe me, it happens a lot around here.”

“I had a chance to talk to Len while the doctor was with you. He was outside within seconds of hearing the shot.” Marston did not look around but his jaw tightened. “He said that whoever fired that shot disappeared almost immediately. Does it seem the sort of behaviour of someone who was merely drunk and disorderly?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Sam bit her lip, then examined his taut stance pensively. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Marston finally glanced at her, then away again. “I’ll have to -” A rapid knocking was heard below. He stuck his head through the window. “It’s Collins. Just the man I want to see. He doesn’t seem to have got any more sleep than we did.”

Footsteps hurried along the hall to the front door and the knocking ceased. Male voices filled the hall. Marston crossed the room and opened the door. Melvin Collins appeared at the top of the stairs, looking tired but pleased.

“Good morning, Elliott. I’ve just heard the news from the old man at the door.” He nodded at his client and entered the room. “Mrs. Marston, my sympathies.”

“Thank you, Melvin.” Sam smiled graciously. “We were just discussing the whole affair. Elliott thinks that it was no accident.” Collins paused before sitting down at the table and looked a question at his host.

Nodding, Marston shut the door. “I don’t want to take our safety for granted. We’ll have to be more aggressive in our pursuit of this person. From what Connaught said last night,” He slid a sideways glance at Sam, wary of her reaction. “This man has a great deal of influence in the community and isn’t afraid to use it.”

Sam’s face was grim. “Why don’t you tell us what he said?”

“It wasn’t much, really.” Marston pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. He related succinctly his discussion with the banker in the latter’s bedroom. No one spoke for some time after he finished.

Finally Collins tapped the table with his finger. “That’s very interesting. But you have allies too, Elliott. And actually that’s what I wanted to tell you. When I got home, I found a message waiting for me from Mr. Calbert Torken. He’s just arrived in town and says he’s supposed to meet with you. He assumed that you would get in touch with me first thing and wanted to leave his address with me.” The lawyer reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper.

Marston reached across the table for the note. “This is a bit of luck. Cal and I aren’t the greatest of friends but I can count on him for help. Now I’ve got someone on my side.

Magda
- Wednesday, November 10, 1999 at 16:31:27 (PST)

Dev kneels before Therese, as close as he possibly can be without actually touching her. His voice is soft and soothing, deep, rich tones, with a faint touch of an Irish lilt. He betrays nothing of the fury and rage he harbours at the injuries HE has inflicted upon Therese, or the frustration that upon finding her alive he cannot take her into his arms as he has longed to do since she had been taken from him. No, his focus remains on the fact that Therese is in fact alive, and it is now up to him to see that she remains that way.

"Try not to move, dearest, not even the tiniest little bit. I don't know how long you've been in that position, and I know that you're in a great deal of pain, but please don't move." He held up a hand to silence her when she would speak. "No, love, don't even speak. We don't know how sensitive this contraption is, and you're simply not to take the risk. I'm going to step into the hall for just a moment now, but I'll be right back." He indicated the several members of the squadron who remained in the tiny room. "You'll not be alone for even a moment, I promise, and I will not be long." Moving from her side, he took Scout's shoulder, and led the other man outside.

"Get me Minion, or I'll bring him here myself." Dev's voice was flat and hard, and his dark eyes burned with intensity.

"Dev we've called the bomb squad, we have some of the finest minds in the realm from which to draw. . ."

Dev turned toward the coridoor from which they had come. "And if this were your Sarah," he demanded over his shoulder. "What then, Lieutenant? Do you try to convince me that you'd be willing to wait, to take the chance when we have the knowledge to free Therese here at our disposal?"

"I cannot allow you to kill him."

"I need him alive in order for him to be of any use. Mind I'll use any means necessary to extract the information I need, but I'll not kill him, I give you my word."

"I'll bring him myself, Dev, stay here with Therese, she needs you to stay close." Scout set out at an easy, long strided lope, as Dev returned to his place on the floor in front of Therese.

It was not long before Minion was brought before Dev, and he picked himself up off the floor slowly before turning to face the pale faced, quivering man.

Dev took Minion from Scout's grasp, and Minion's head swiveled around toward Sifuentes in a mute plea for protection. Scout retreated a single step, his implication clear.

Dev indicated the bomb strapped to Therese's chest. "Undo that, or so help me you shall suffer. . ."

Therese
yup, MA, that's pretty much the conclusion I'd come to myself. Great minds, eh?, - Tuesday, November 09, 1999 at 18:05:31 (PST)

Personal message - Dana mail *is* getting through but has probably gone into the dreaded blackhole your end.
Claire
Hang in there!, - Tuesday, November 09, 1999 at 08:33:49 (PST)

The search continues.

With their find, Dev's manner has taken on renewed purpose, and he shoulders open doors even more forcefully. Shove open door, check premises, tap walls for hidden areas, move to the next, and repeat. Alongside are Scout and the squadron members, each doing the same. The immense proportions of the lair astound those who search it. That HE could have been there, scurrying through HIS warren with such evil intent, this close, for what must have been quite some time. . .it is a most disquieting thought.

From a squadron member, there goes up a shout. "In here!"

Dev can feel his heart pound, his breath shorten. Has the guard found Therese? Or only a body?

Neither. What has been found is a table, a half drunk bottle of water sitting forlornly on the table top, a single chair pushed back from the edge, as if someone had left in a hurry. Or been forced to leave.

Dev and Scout attack the walls, listening for the now familiar hollow sound. They find it, eventually, for HE has been careful to place each recess in a different location, and the hidden doorway comes down.

There is a collective gasp, and Dev's shuddered, "My God," as they perceive a small figure huddled tightly in the corner, visably trembling.

Dev completely ignores Scout's restraining hand, and carefully moves closer to the shaking form. When he is only a few feet from the figure, he falls to his knees. "Therese?" he questions softly, his hands extended toward this woman he loves so dearly, yet cannot touch.

His only desire is to take her into his arms, to sooth her pain creased features, clean and bathe the wounds covering her exposed flesh, and hold her close to himself.

This however, he cannot do. For tightly strapped around her chest is a myriad of wires and circuitry, a small red light glowing from the center of it.

HE has destroyed a hillside in Egdon, leaving the plight of one of the realm's own in question. Will HE now, somehow, find a way to destroy HIS own premesis--along with Therese?

Scout is on his radio to Looey in moments. "Bomb squad, Lt., needed immediately." With a terse order, two members of the forward squadron are sent back at a dead run. They memorize their footsteps as they go, in order to bring help back with the greatest haste.

No one voices the thought that there may not be a place remaining for them to return.

Therese
- Tuesday, November 09, 1999 at 07:53:48 (PST)

DOC--Of *course* I can type with handcuffs on--I always do. (That's why I make misteaks *wink*) Thank-you for restoring Lt. Sifuentes *koff*. From the bottom of his, errr, heart.

Therese--The threads *do* meet up, at least ocassionally. Eventually. Though the other shoe sometimes takes a while to drop! *grin* Thank-you for the compliment *deep bow* (which is hard to do while groveling...)

Claudia--I don't know if I can take this. I may have become more protective of the Colonel than I thought! (Stop smirking, MA.)
Yes, that means you, Miss Wide Blue Innocent.
- Monday, November 08, 1999 at 21:38:53 (PST)

One sentence post deleted.
At least you get plenty of food & water here.
D.o.C.

The sounds of destruction echoed throughout the lair.

As both search parties progressed, doors were felled, bars were wrenched from their hinges, and walls were knocked down. No nook, lodging, or possible hideaway was overlooked. But HE had designed HIS lair well, and the progress was slow and labourious. Scout was painstaking and precise; Dev was frantic. His skills at war, combat, politics, and all that he knew and lived, had abandoned him completely, leaving him desperate and afraid.

Desperate to find Therese, yet afraid of what that may entail. Still he persisted, working through his doubts, and in spite of what they might discover. They were so close; could she have survived this long in HIS clutches? His heart told him that she had, but was it simply because this was the only way in which he could function?

"DEV!" Scout's voice tore through Dev's private ruminations, and sent him rushing to the doorway in which Sifuentes stood, the splinters of a shattered door littering the threshold. Stepping into the room the two men found on the floor a canvas bag, surrounded by what appeared to be water marks.

Dev strode across the floor, kneeling beside the bag and dumping the contents. A towel, a thin cotton shift, a bar of soap, a hairbrush, and a slender pair of manacles. He rose quickly, taking in the area about him. There had to be more, but what? "Where is the water source?" he demanded, indicating the still damp towel.

"Another room? A secret passage? A recessed area off of this one?" Scout suggested, as both men began to tap and feel their way along the wallspace.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THWOK!

Several good kicks later, both men stood in the entranceway to the lavratory. It was empty. Save for a handful of long blonde hair found entwined in the drain catch.

They were closing in. . .

Several hundred yards away, a trembling figure listened to the noise and comotion, muffled, yet discernable through the thick walls. More of HIS games? Or dare she begin to hope. . .

Therese
Umm, clueless about the one sentence post there?? DoC, if you please? (sure, just when I thought I was going to be rescued--incarceration yet again. SIGH), - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 20:23:07 (PST)

Looey steps up to Scout, and lays a single hand upon his shoulder. "Lieutenant, release HIM. HIS fate is beyond any of us at this point, we have done our duty. HE will be brought to trial; justice will be done."

"Fair treatment is far too good for the likes of HIM," Scout responds, giving HIM a final shake before allowing HIM to sink back into the chair. Scruitinizing, calculating, HIS amber eyes follow each of Sifuentes' movements, and not for the first time since becoming involved in this mission Scout finds himself wishing that he had not vowed to uphold the laws for the Empress and her realm. . .no, he would like to deal this one HIS due, quick, and clean, and fitting.

Looey indicates Dev with a nod of her chin. "Lt. Sifuentes, take de Valera and find Therese." The words are an order, but the tone is gentle. This has been easy for no one involved, and emotions have run high. Scout turns to Sarge, standing at the ready with the forward squadron, part of which restrains Dev, and part of which half carries, and half drags the protesting Minion.

It is a grim procession.

Once the assembled group has reached the coridoor, Scout orders Sarge to disperse with half of the assembled squadron and Minion to the East wing, while Scout, Dev, and the remaining force head in the opposite direction. The purpose of this strategy is three fold. First, and most obvious, it will allow them to more efficiently utilize the gathered personnel--they will cover more ground. Second, it will prevent Dev from murdering Minion, which, by the look of the Irishman is something he greatly desires. Finally, it will allow Sarge to prove herself, to not only demonstrate that she is capable, but loyal to the Realm as well.

The two groups begin their search, fervently hoping that they are not too late.

Therese
Renie--you go girl. . .*another* tangent? I am in awe., - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 19:40:02 (PST)

“Don’t you worry yourself zzzerr,” came a warm and friendly voice from the darkness, and the figure started to walk towards the bed. “I’m Margaret, the maid… you’re good lady is in the kitchen having a very late supper, and thought you moight be hungry yourself, zerrrrr.” She reached the bedside and put down her plate of biscuits on the night table.

“Margaret?” said the Colonel, pulling himself up into a sitting position, and staring intently into the face just a few feet from his own. He knew all his staff by name, and there was no west country maid named Margaret. “I do not have a maid named Margaret, nor do any of my staff talk to me in such a familiar manner. Who are you?”

There was a rich bubble of laughter. “Oi dooo beg your pardon, zerrr. To tell the truth, this is my first go at being a maid. Oi’m just filling in while Sarah is taking a few days off. I do humbly apologise if Oi’ve said anything wrong.”

The maid lit the lamp by the Colonel’s bedside and set the flame to low. He still couldn’t make out her face, but there was enough light to make out the chocolate biscuits with a coating of icing sugar staring up at him invitingly from the plate. Suddenly he was ravenous, and he dismissed the maid and his suspicions. “Thank you, Margaret. You may go. And please ask my wife to join me.”

“As you wish,” the maid curtseyed, turned and made her way to the door.

As the Colonel studied the plate and its contents, reaching for the first biscuit, he barely noticed the click as the door closed.
Claudia
No interruptions please - I vant to be alone... with the Colonel ;^D, - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 18:16:16 (PST)

Scene: The Interrogator. Who shows no sign of repentence.

"--And have dearly paid for their mis-TAKES." HIS words bring HIM pleasure, Sifuentes can see it. He'd like to wipe that smirk off HIS face. And install something a bit more permanent there.

Against the wall, almost to the floor, Renie is caught by the gentle hands of the troops next to her.

Sifuentes pulls hard at his stubble. He has aged 10 years in a single day. The grit in his voice unmistakably doubles. He grabs HIM by the collar, lifting HIM from the chair. "And so will you."

As we dissolve to:

The Delaford estate. The main house, impressive, with the moon's reflection off the windows high in the north wing. A candle, perhaps, in one of the bedroom windows? Perhaps not. Above all, it seems, very large indeed to anyone unfamiliar with its pathways, gardens, and byways.

The phrase nooks and crannies could have been coined upon these English grounds.

James Winterbourne, hood about his neck, white card about his chest, bangs harder on the kitchen door. The size of Delaford--the house itself--cannot be underestimated. Several doors had yielded no one to let him in. Though there was some activity at the edges of the property, no one paid him any heed while he wore his carte blanche.

Perhaps he should remove it to get some attention.

"Halllooo! ANYONE HOME HERE?!"

On the other side of the door is the kitchen. And just off the kitchen, the pantry . . . where Mary Anne finds herself feeling weak from the scent of orchids . . . Claudia . . .

If only Mary Anne could wake from this nightmare . . . she would rush into the Colonel's arms . . . make sure that he was . . . that he would stay . . .

Outside the kitchen door, the banging has ceased. At the window, two metal pins slide up from inside the hinges, and a hooded figure easily lifts the latticed glass from the casement. In a trice, he climbs inside. The curtains billow at the sudden rush of wind. Just as smoothly, he reaches with his long arms and strong hands (which run in his family) to the window without, and replaces the window, and the two hinges.

The curtains return to their undisturbed position.

Well, at least I am inside.

Locked inside the pantry, unseen, lies Mrs. Brandon. Hard against the flour sacks, Mary Anne tosses about. Fighting what she fears she knows to be true. Claudia. The drug. Orchids . . . Dear God--"

Her fears begin to find a voice . . . "Dear Christopher!"

. . . but will she get there in time?
Let's see if I can get *these* pronouns right. Mary Anne is a woman, right? ;-) R, - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 13:39:00 (PST)

Changes done. Sifuentes is a man, again. And a fine man indeed.
You mean you can't type with handcuffs on?
D.o.C.

Oooops! DOC, I can do the changes if you like. (If you take MY handcuffs off!!!)
Though I don't deserve it!
Therese, Dev is all yours (as if you didn't know!) R, - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 13:05:45 (PST)

Hey, Renie. . .

Scout Sifuentes is a HIM, not a her! (Unless he's had a sex change operation that he hasn't told me about, and given that I'm the one who created him, I would NOT be pleased. . .) Think of him as Jimmy Smits' younger brother, and you're pretty darn close.

Unless you'd like to make this particular Sifuentes Scout's sister, do you think we could beg the DoC to change all those feminine pronouns to masculine ones?

Far be it from me to ask for any changes to your post (I'm really not quite as dumb as I look, truly) so if that's okay with you, let the head gaoler know.

And, for the record, Dev is on his way--should be getting to Therese around 9:00 CST, or there 'bouts.

Therese
Poor Minion--he is having a *really* bad day. . ., - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 12:58:27 (PST)

Errr--Sifuentes is a man, I think--
Some work for the D.O.C.
- Monday, November 08, 1999 at 12:41:17 (PST)

Sifuentes pats HIM down, though HE has already been searched. He pushes HIM into the swivel chair, so he stands above HIM. Behind him, the computer monitor screen is black and white fuzz. Like a transmission, which has been lost.

He picks up the small black box. Knows what it might be, but nevertheless asks, "What is this, and what have you done?"

"An interro-GATION. How original." HE might have puts his arms behind HIS head, such was his tone, had it not been for the tight steel bracelets holding his hands useless behind him in the chair. "My congratulations for having found me--tell me, how did you do it?"

The Lieutenant knows better than to answer. He also knows he must maintain calm, recite certain legal phrases, and attempt to gain HIS goodwill. HIS taunts must not affect him.

"You are arrested under the charges of kidnapping and illegal detention of members of the Realm, and of the torture, physical and mental harm inflicted on these victims."

Hearing the charges, Renie cannot help but feel miserable. For her friends, who have suffered so much at his hands. If this victory is sweet for some, it is only bittersweet for her. For she is a woman with a heart . . .

"You might want to add murder to the list." HIS cold VOICE. As HE swivels the chair to look at his ex-wife. Involuntarily, she backs against a wall when she sees his face. "Although I doubt you'll find much of them."

Renie, paralyzed. Helpless. HIS look, his face--someone she cares for. What had she done in coming here?! Mary Anne--Brandon? Not the pain . . .

Sifuentes. His patience, wearing thinner. Fiercely, he spins the chair back to face him. His face, strained, his voice, gritted. "You can help yourself by telling us details we will uncover anyway. This is a detonator box. Was there an explosion? Who are we looking for?"

Renie covers her eyes.

HIS voice. HIS game. "It's my belief that a certain Egdon doctor and a co-conspirator were attempting to impersonate my ex-wife. In the hopes of learning from me the whereabouts of a woman who has been with me. They were not successful. And have dearly paid for their mistakes."

Colin. Renie crumples against the wall. As if turbulence has thrown her there, the force of his words assuming a matter-like substance, but shattering as it strikes her, dispersing into her, as she sinks to her knees.

Hurry Dev!
R, - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 11:53:15 (PST)

Eyes on the door. HIS men? Or the Empress's Guardsmen? They cannot wait to find out. They must find Therese before . . .

Before whatever.

Sifuentes, even with help, overcomes the angry Eamon de Valera only with difficulty. "I promised--inch by inch. But do you need a gag as well as an escort?" At this, Dev ceases his struggle, for the moment. Find Therese. He must find Therese. He looks at Minion. All eyes are on Minion. A marked man. But it is Renie's voice that speaks.

"Try the areas which are once removed from the offices. Near--" she pauses, trying to say this without wincing herself, and without undue pain to Dev, "--near a bathroom, perhaps."

She cannot bear to look at Dev, whose face must register renewed horror. What can she have been through? Sifuentes nods at the six pairs of arms. "Take Mister de Valera with you, and search the premises." There is no doubt of the fate which the Irishman had in store for HIM, the beast who had stolen his beloved Therese. Only his desperate desire to find her could tear him from that deadly task.

Sifuentes looks at Sarge, troops in formation at the door. Can he trust Sarge to stay with HIM? Sarge meets his steady gaze. Then addresses her troops. "Forward squadron, accompany them. Clear the way." The Sergeant turns to Minion, who cowers still. "And take him along. For directions."

Renie speaks up. "Let me go, I might help find her." Sifuentes shakes his head. Instantly, half of Sarge's troops and Minion precede Dev and the soldiers as they leave. More noises from the outer corridor. Sarge remains.

Sifuentes, freed from the exigency of saving the Interrogator's neck, produces a pair of steel handcuffs, and the men and women guarding the Interrogator fall back. "Touch anything else, and I will kill you personally."

HIS voice, which belies his situation. "Something to look forward to."

The rattle of the cuffs, and the loud heavy clasps close over HIS wrists, hands pulled behind HIM.

The scent of orchid--very nice...
R, - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 11:50:27 (PST)

The Interrogator’s lair:

The sounds of HIS men, advancing . . .

But even as the sound of those footsteps is heard, there echoes through the outer corridors a deep and chilling war-cry that everyone in the room instinctively recognizes, even those who have never heard it—the battle chant of the Imperial Guardsmen. They have infiltrated by a different route, and now the sounds of their combat with HIS guards carries clearly to the gathering in that small room.

Sarge and Looey exchange glances. There is much they might say to each other, but this is neither the time nor the place. Looey, taking in the situation at a glance, moves everyone back from the door and sets up a guard line of UNIT and Alliance troops; there is no knowing what might come through that entrance and they must be prepared for anything.

The Interrogator allows himself to be moved away from the door, content to remain silent, knowing full well that HIS enemies most likely have orders to take him alive—and filled with gleeful malice at the knowledge that HIS very silence is exquisite torture to the frantic Eamon de Valera, who cannot contain his anxiety over Therese, but continues trying to break loose from the six pairs of restraining arms about him.

As for Minion, he huddles miserably in a corner. His escape attempt had been thwarted by the influx of enemy troops, and now he faces an ugly dilemma: to reveal Therese’s whereabouts, or conceal them from the Irishman. He is woefully certain that, whatever his choice, a messy death awaits him. However, that decision is postponed for the moment.

Renie is pale, but composed. She had said earlier that they had no way of knowing what HE had done to Therese—but she knows, if anyone does.

Over the tumult in the outer corridor, Renie can hear Dev speaking, his voice low but penetrating, directed at The Interrogator. "I meant what I said. You will suffer for this."

HIS smile. "Shall I?"

In spite of the crowd about him, which now includes Sifuentes, Dev still manages to draw nearer, his gaze fixed on The Interrogator as if there were no one else in the room. No one else in the world. "You will be taken out of here, alive, and brought to trial. And this time, you will not escape . . ."

That smile is sharp enough to cut skin. "So, you know about that, do you?"

"I have heard something of it. That you had help before, that someone helped you break out of prison. That shall not happen this time, I swear it! I will petition the Empress herself, to have the Justice in your case invoke Rights of the Victim—" Dev voice breaks here, and ordinarily he would hate himself for betraying any sign of the emotion that masters him. But for now, all such considerations are trivial. All that matters is Therese. "—and Miss Gellert shall be at the front of that line, and I shall be there beside her—"

Renie, alarmed, tries to make herself heard, knowing how terribly this might end. "Dev, don’t--!"

But she cannot be heard, for HIS laugh rises above all other sounds, spine-chilling, momentarily daunting even to the fury of Eamon de Valera, who falls silent as those glittering golden eyes turn upon him in malevolent hilarity. "Oh, Mister de Valera, I can’t tell you how you terrify me. And you know that I had help, do you? Do you know whose help--?"

Renie tries once more to intervene, but Looey is ahead of her, gesturing to the guards that hold HIM securely. "Take HIM to the back," she orders, "away from those doors." And away from de Valera. "And if HE says another word without permission, gag him."

Sifuentes, meanwhile, is engaged in drawing Dev away, putting some space between him and The Interrogator. "Dev, that won’t help. We will find Therese. I promised you, remember? If we have to tear this place apart inch by inch—"

Sarge, meanwhile, gathers the remaining troops into formation at the door, feeling HIS eyes upon her but refusing to meet them. She has other matters to concern her—for instance, the sounds of fighting in the corridor. Gunfire, and shrieks, and shouted orders . . . but even as she listens, the sounds begin to die down . . .

And everyone’s attention is fixed upon the door . . .

MA
Hope I haven't mussed any threads! 8-), - Monday, November 08, 1999 at 08:07:53 (PST)

Splat! The soggy trousers clung to the wall for a moment, then slid slowly to the floor. The shirt sailed over the bed in a perfect arc. Naked and shivering on the carpet, Niall Flanagan handed over his socks.

“Now get into that tub and scrub all over.” Sam Marston dropped the bar of soap into the water with unsubtle emphasis. “Or I’ll do it for you.” The boy scrambled to obey. His sister gathered up his clothes and began to hang them on the backs of chairs in front of the fire.

“You’re still angry.” Elliott Marston leaned against the doorjamb. It was a strategic vantage point, offering a full view of the room as well as safe retreat. Both were important to him at the moment.

That the night’s excursion had been unproductive he’d known even as he made his way back through the garden to the lane. But the true depths of the failure only became apparent when he discovered that his reluctant lawyer and his excited young brother-in-law had been joined by a third person: his irate wife.

Who apparently was not speaking to him. With the exception of one scorching glare before they began to walk back to Belle’s, Sam had not favored him with any recognition at all. And the temperature had been steadily dropping ever since.

“Niall, as soon as you’re finished, I want you to dry yourself off and go to bed.” Sam finished spreading out the wet clothing. “We’ll take care of the tub in the morning.”

“I want to –" Niall began. She turned to look at him. He stopped and hurriedly resumed scrubbing.

“We’ll see you at breakfast, Niall.” Sam spoke gently. “Not one minute before. Good night.”

Marston stepped back quickly as she passed through the door. He pulled the door shut and followed her down the hall into their room. The covers were thrown back on the bed and a nightgown was on the floor, mute testimony to the rapidity with which its owner had dressed. Sam was sitting at the table, her head propped on her hand. The lamp cast shadows over her features.

He closed the door and hesitated, trying to gauge her mood. She didn’t seem angry at the moment but it was possible that she’d simply moved to a higher state of rage. Perhaps a neutral comment would be best.

“I’m satisfied that Jasper Connaught doesn’t know anything that can help us.” He slipped into the other chair at the table. “He certainly couldn’t give me any names. So our next step should be to – "

“Don’t, Elliott.” It came out in a tired, dispirited voice. She didn’t even lift her head.

“Don’t what?” He frowned, not liking her tone at all.

“Don’t talk about ‘us’ and ‘we’ and ‘our’ unless you really mean it.” She finally looked at him. “Do you know how I felt when I woke up and you weren’t in bed? Not only not in bed but also not in the house?”

“I didn’t want you to worry, darling.” If it sounded lame to him, he could imagine how it seemed to her. “It could have been dangerous. I want you to be safe.”

“I want you to be safe too. Or didn’t that occur to you?” Her passive state was finally shattered. She rose to her feet and paced the carpet. “I think I’ve shown that I can keep my head in a tight spot. A couple of times it’s even helped you out of trouble.”

Marston grimaced as he thought of his visit to the bank and her escapade as a robber. Even now the incident had the power to curdle his gut with fear but he had to admit that she was right.

“You’re right. I should have told you where I was going and what I planned to do. It won’t happen again.” He felt it was a heroic admission and waited for her reaction.

“You mean you should have taken me along.” She looked over her shoulder at him from her position at the window.

“I meant no such thing.” A man had to take a stand somewhere. He remembered distinctly that his marriage vows had said something about cherishing and protecting. Hers had mentioned obeying and honoring but he felt it would be a bad tactical move to bring up that subject.

She turned fully around and put her hands on her hips. Whatever she started to say was interrupted by a fusillade of gunfire in the street below. Behind her the glass shattered and sprayed the vicinity with needle-like shards. Sam had only time to scream once before she fell to the floor in a heap.

Magda
No, HE hasn't, - Sunday, November 07, 1999 at 15:33:21 (PST)

Suzanne, please check your e-mail. I've sent you that slice that was missing from the Archives.

MA--has HE frightened everyone away?
- Sunday, November 07, 1999 at 09:10:29 (PST)

HE will spare her nothing.

It seems, now, that she is once more in the Orchid Conservatory, and what holds her in the chair is the pressure of HIS cool fingers upon her hand. A light touch—but a grip of steel that she cannot break. It might just as well be a shackle . . .

"You have observed it all, Mary Anne."

Blinded by tears. Her other senses heightened: HIS hand on her skin; the coppery taste of dread in her dry mouth; the hammering of her heart; the orchid scent . . . overpowering . . .

"Remember."

And it is there—what she had observed, but set aside. Forgotten.

Brandon’s study, after they had learned of Therese’s abduction. When she and Brandon had remained together, discussing the will . . .

Mary Anne herself would be unable to identify any single reason for her sudden uneasiness. The abduction of Therese . . . the reappearance of Claudia . . . and, not least, the eerie familiarity of HIM, which hangs about her as a lasting smell in a room, noticed most upon reentry to it. There is something which Claudia has not spoken of. Something about Claudia . . . (homage)

Yes. A lasting smell. And a distinctive one.

Mary Anne had not noticed it at the time, so subtle it had been. But after telling her story that morning, Claudia had left behind her the lingering scent of black orchid.

MA--I did warn you, R--and I've waited a long time to use this other little offering . . . *grin*
And you go, Dev!! , - Friday, November 05, 1999 at 17:24:04 (PST)

“For the last time, I don’t know anyone named Ashley-Pitt!” Jasper Connaught passed a weary hand over his brow. “And the first time I heard of Ches Watters was when two police constables came looking for you. Now please leave me alone!”

Elliott Marston leaned back in the banker’s comfortable leather chair and stared at his reluctant host. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour or the pathetic spectacle of the old man cowering under the blankets with his nightcap askew. But whatever the reason, Marston was aware of an uncomfortable feeling.

He believed the banker was telling the truth.

And that was very inconvenient right at the moment because a banker who was telling the truth was also a banker who could not be blackmailed into remaining silent about this nocturnal visit. The situation required an inordinate amount of tact and diplomacy if not outright emotional manipulation.

“Jasper, we’ve been friends and associates for many years.” He assumed a hurt expression calculated to appeal to the hardest conscience. “I realize these are unorthodox methods but can you blame me after our last meeting?”

“No, I can’t.” Connaught flushed and looked down at his hands, plucking nervously at the coverlet. “I told you then I had no choice. And I still don’t.”

“Why don’t you? Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.” He thought about Melvin Collins and Niall standing outside in the rain for the past hour but shoved the image aside ruthlessly; the chance to discover some small part of the truth might not come again.

“You can’t! For God’s sake Elliott, do you think I turned you over to the police for some whimsical reason?” The banker closed his eyes and rocked back and forth in the bed. “The day after the police came to me asking questions about you, after this Watters was shot, I received a note in a hand I did not recognize. It said that I should be more co-operative with the police in the pursuit of justice. Otherwise I would suffer. That was all.”

Marston regarded him with an unblinking stare. “No explanation of how you would sufferer?”

“No. But the next day three men – major customers – all came to me saying they’d heard that the First Commercial was in trouble and they might want to consider pulling their money out. They had heard the rumour from different sources. I managed to reassure them. But other men came to me in the following days.” Connaught smiled bleakly. “Had even half of them acted and withdrawn their funds, I would have been finished. After three days of fighting these brushfires, I received another note from the same person asking me if I was now willing to co-operate.”

Marston said nothing. The idea that he had such a powerful enemy was a sobering one.

“Well, I won’t deny it, I was convinced. When you came to see me that day, I sent a messenger to the police while you were in my office. My clerk was instructed to make sure they’d wait in the street.” Connaught hesitated. “You must believe me, Elliott, I hoped you’d get away before they came. And I couldn’t be upset when that bandit tried to rob the bank because it allowed you to get away. That was good luck for you.”

“Well, that’s one way to describe it.” Marston smiled in remembrance. “Have you received any more messages from your mysterious correspondent?”

“No.” The banker sank back on his pillows. The memory and confession seemed to exhaust him. “And there have been no more customers coming to me about withdrawing their money. I thought the whole nightmare was behind me, until your visit tonight.”

Marston sighed. It seemed that his efforts to solve this puzzle simply resulted in even more convolutions. He could see no alternative but to approach Ashley-Pitt directly and question him.

Magda
- Friday, November 05, 1999 at 14:12:04 (PST)

The Interrogator's Lair

Sarge takes stock of the situation immediately, several disparite thoughts crowding her consciousness. First is her role as a member of UNIT, and her responsibility toward that end. She must stop Dev, contain The Interrogator, and help to find the still missing Therese. Until Looey arrives, she is in charge, and she has no other option than to prove herself worthy of the Empress' trust. She has been given this, her second chance; she will leave nothing to chance. However, she too, is human, and the most overpowering, compelling thought she has is that Dev must not be allowed to kill HIM. She, herself, desires that task.

With another yell and a lunge, Dev is upon The Interrogator, his hands reaching toward HIS shirtfront, and pulling HIM from the computer table. Eamon makes no sound as he attacks, and his purpose is clear. There is no feining, no circling his apponent; he has simply gone in for the kill.

The Interrogator is a worthy foe. HE allows HIMself to be drug to HIS feet, and uses the momentum to throw HIS body into Dev's, attempting to knock the other man off balance. With a roar of outrage Dev tackles HIM, charging like an Irish bull, hitting The Interrogator in the midsection, and knocking HIM to the ground.

They are quite evenly matched. Dev has fury on his side, coupled with the accompanying adrennaline and the innate knowledge that he cannot, he WILL not fail. The Interrogator has HIS evil; HE is a cornered animal, and is fighting for HIS life. The men roll atop one another, each seeking a mortal purchase, the specific handhold, grip, or blow which will provide an end to the other.

Chaos reigns, but only briefly. Sarge has the members of the UNIT team with her, they are trained professionals and competant at their task. Her orders are brief, yet specific. Containment, immediately. de Valera is not to be harmed, HE is to be controlled if at all possible, or terminated.

She cannot be faulted for fervently desiring the latter.

Six UNIT men surround each of the combatants. Still, Dev is difficult to hold. HE does not fight once the Irishman has been pulled off. HE is capable of extreme feats of strength, but will wait patiently for better odds or a more desperate situation. HE knows that all is not lost. Security may have been breeched, but HIS men will arrive. HE is far from finished.

Dev struggles violently against the arms that hold him, as gently as possible, true, yet firmly within their grasp. "Where is she!?" he yells at The Interrogator, who stands calmly among HIS armed escort. "So--help--me--God you will suffer years for each second of her pain. WHERE IS SHE!?"

The Interrogator is passive under the verbal assault. HE relishes the power HE holds, even in this critical situation. "To whom do you refer?"

The words find their mark, and even with six members of UNIT it is all they can do to hold the murderous Dev. Tentatively, then with purpose, Renie steps forward.

"Get her BACK!" Sarge barks, indicating one of her team.

Renie looks to the other woman, her face calm. "Wait," she says, holding up a single hand. "He would know where Therese is being held," she said, indicating the cowering Minion, who had been half forgotten in the fray. "Let Eamon go to her--each moment may precious--we have no idea of what HE is capable, or what she might have suffered."

Minion looked toward the two women, and then to Dev. His face paled.

"He will tell you nothing," The Interrogator snarled, his implication to Minion clear. You will tell them nothing, should you wish to live. . .

The attention turns to yet more footsteps rushing toward the hidden lair. Looey has arrived, Scout close on her heels, a dozen or more uniformed AR Personnel flooding the area.

Footsteps, again. This time from the other direction. This time, HIS men.

Therese
Kari--we love you, darlin' --of that never have any doubt! Renine--what? Moi? Leave someone hanging? (perfecting best innocent look) , - Friday, November 05, 1999 at 12:42:28 (PST)

MA---The Interrogator's words---Aaaiiyyeee!!!! My own hand, against my heart . . . Surely you have taught the devil to dance.

Andrea--Don't forget the budget to clean up that mess! ;-)

Clods and Therese--We're hanging!

R <reniept@hotmail.com>
- Friday, November 05, 1999 at 11:30:27 (PST)

The Interrogator's Lair

Or, what was The Interrogator's Lair, up to this very point in time. That security, however, has been breeched. Sarge appears in the doorway, her UNIT members close behind. HE has seen Renie, and caused HIS destruction, heedlessly wiping out countless lives--or at least attempting to do so. . .

In the commotion, the slight disturbance in the doorway goes almost unnoticed. Almost.

There is pushing, the shouts of authortative voices. Halt! You cannot go in there!

The voices are ignored--in actuality, they are barely perceived, so intent is the man for which they are intended. He has but one thing he seeks, and will not be disrupted for any other matter; God help the person, being or entity which stands in his way. A man of little patience, he has been denied his last.

Dev stands in the doorway. He has come for Therese.

With a barbarian yell that would have done his Celtic anscestors proud, Dev is upon HIM. Here is the man who has dared to lay hands upon his woman, the man who has prevented him from marrying his love, has no doubt perpetrated countless horrors upon her, and has possibly ended her life. Here is the man who will now suffer at his hands

Your life shall pay the forfeit of the peace. . . (homage) is Dev's final, coherent thought before he is upon HIM.

The Interrogator's snarl of rage is continued as HE turns from the detonator button where HE has placed HIS indelible mark upon innocent Egdon, to the blinding fury of Eamon de Valera.

Therese <thereseiam@yahoo.com>
a final post or two before I head to Chi-Town to PAR-TAY with my homies!! , - Friday, November 05, 1999 at 06:53:26 (PST)

Missing??? What part of the Archives?
D.o.C.
(who must look into this and correct it immediately), - Friday, November 05, 1999 at 06:45:11 (PST)

Mary Anne, spellbound in her dream:

When HE speaks the word "remember," it is a command.

And she does. Immediately and appallingly.

It seems she is no longer in the Orchid Conservatory, but in HIS offices at that grievous time when she--and Brandon with her--had believed that Renie was dead.

Mary Anne and Brandon. HIS prisoners.

She remembers thinking, after HIS guards had brought them food and drink, that The Interrogator did not mean for them to starve, and then . . .

Brandon, who has risen to his feet and has his eyes fixed on Mary Anne. A fine dew of sweat stands on his face ; the pupils of his eyes have dilated enormously. "Mary Anne," he whispers. A short silence.

Then, whispering no longer, his voice dropping ominously deeper: "You are so . . .beautiful . . ."

Mary Anne takes a few steps away, watching him closely. Not poisoned.

Drugged.

The memory she had evaded and fought now rises to claim her with its grip as inescapable as HIS. Brandon, advancing toward her, his eyes enormous and dark.

Dark? But Christopher's eyes are . . . golden . . .

Dilated. From the drug. From that drug.

There can be no denying it: Brandon had tasted of that drug once more, and even as Mary Anne's memory reels at the assault from the past, the part of her brain that manages reason and logic is coldly tallying her observations--first, that it explains Brandon's strange behaviour, and second, that Brandon must have been given the powdered form of the drug, far less powerful than the liquid form which is administered by hypodermic and induces a lust that borders on madness.

Against the liquid, there would have been no resistance; all barriers would have fallen. This she knows as well as The Interrogator does, for she has been HIM and writhes at the remembrance. That she had actually threatened Brandon with that . . . has this come to haunt her, then? A punishment? A curse?

She can see nothing through her tears, neither prison cell nor conservatory . . . though the scent of orchid hangs heavily in the air. But The Interrogator is still there beside her, and though she is frightened, Mary Anne is somehow grateful to have someone there, anyone. Even a tormentor for company, though HE is simply another aspect of her own mind, is better than to be left alone with this, that someone had struck at Brandon by such unspeakable means . . .

Someone.

Her own thoughts: Brandon must have been given the powdered form of the drug . . .

"Who?" Through her weeping. "Why?"

She had hoped the worst was over, but HIS voice kills that hope, transfixing her as if HE had speared her through the heart, pinning her to the chair.

"A little further," HE replies. "Mary Anne, you know who has done this . . . the only person who could have done it . . ."

MA
Oh, Christopher . . . ! *sob* (BTW, this bit seems to be missing from the Archives . . .), - Friday, November 05, 1999 at 05:49:11 (PST)

Christopher Brandon woke from a deep sleep, feeling ill at ease, groggy and unsure of where he was. Something had happened. He’d been feeling odd all day. He rolled and reached an arm across the bed to find something familiar and comforting. He hugged an empty space. The bed next to him was empty. Through eyes that refused to focus, he saw, across the room that the door was open. Not only was the door open, but the silhouette of a woman was framed in the slight impression on the darkness that the open doorway made.

“Mary Anne?” He blinked a few times and shook his head to clear both. But the figure was lit from behind so he couldn’t make out her face. He paused, but got no immediate answer. “Who is there? What do you want of me?”
Claudia
- Thursday, November 04, 1999 at 18:35:23 (PST)

“This is stupid.” Melvin Collins jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the rain. “Let’s go have a drink and warm up.”

“No, it isn’t and we’ll have one later.” Elliott Marston pulled his hat lower over his eyes. It was an effective enough disguise in the pale glow provided by the gaslights on the sidewalk. “Come on.”

It was the end of a long, frustrating day. Sam Marston’s discovery of the warehouse note had prompted a thorough examination of all the remaining papers, with disappointing results. After the personal and family documents had been set apart, they were left with more receipts, two other contracts and a handful of yellowed newspaper articles. Most of them were stories or obituaries of men whom Sam knew to be her father’s friends but she wasn’t able to identify all of them.

The name of Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt was an unwelcome surprise. For the rest of the day, Marston was withdrawn and silent, going over in his mind the history of their relationship over many years. He was unable to think of any reason why the major would have wanted him harmed or dead. It was simply irrational.

After hours of fruitless pondering, Marston made up his mind. It was time to take action and shake some answers out of someone.

“What if he’s not home?” Collins grimaced as the rain trickled under his collar. He stepped closer to the fence for shelter. “Or in bed? He’s an old man. He might not be up this late.”

“We’ll just have to take our chances. And I’m not afraid to wake him up.” Marston ran his hand over the latch in the gate. “Now be quiet. I have to concentrate.”

The lawyer subsided into a worried calm. Marston lifted the iron lever and pushed open the door carefully. He peered into the darkness of the garden. There was no light from the kitchen or the back rooms, although a window on the second floor was illuminated. Walking through the yard on this moonless night would be a challenge.

Marston straightened up and nodded. “All right, I’ll go first. You wait here and keep an eye - ”

“You know what Elliott? I read a book where a guy had to go through a real dark place just like this!”

At the first sound of a strange voice, Collins sprang into the air and fell against the wooden planks of the fence with a loud thud. He pawed the air with his hands ineffectually before slumping almost to his knees. Marston was quicker. He spun around and leaped on the new arrival, pressing him back to the other side of the lane. With one savage jerk, he tore the other’s scarf from his face.

“Niall!” Marston was hoarse with shock. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I followed you. I thought you’d need extra help on this case.” The boy looked up with a huge smile, wincing slightly under the pressure of Marston’s grip. “Anyways, like I said, in this book - ”

“Never mind the book!” Marston forced himself to release his captive. The temptation to warm his brother-in-law’s backside was too attractive. “You go back to Belle’s place right now. Your sister will be worried sick.”

“No, she won’t. And besides, if I do go back, Len or somebody will wake her up to tell her I was out and then she’ll see that you’re out too and then she’ll get even more worried and she might do something dumb like cry or something and then I’ll have to tell her where you are so’s she won’t come looking for you.” Niall took a deep breath and exhaled noisily.

Collins stared at him with amazement bordering on awe. Marston struggled for speech.

Niall leaned forward and said in a kindly tone, “If we’re going in, we’d better hurry. The light upstairs just went out.”

“We’re going to have a long talk about this tomorrow, do you understand?” Marston hissed through clenched teeth. He grabbed the boy’s arm and thrust him at the lawyer. “Hold onto him for me. I’ll go in alone. Don’t let him go for a second!”

Collins nodded and laid a firm hand on his smug prisoner’s shoulder.

Marston slipped into the garden and closed the gate behind him. Surfaces shiny from the rain surrounded him even in the dark. He took small steps along the path, careful to tread noiselessly on the grass rather than the gravel. The kitchen door loomed up ahead. Under the small protection of the eaves, he examined the lock.

It was an old-fashioned one, with a simple mechanism. A few pokes with a small instrument that had proved helpful in other situations and he was gratified to hear a sharp “snick” as the bolt moved back. A quick turn of the knob and he was in the kitchen.

His breathing was loud in his ears as he shut the door behind him. For a few tense moments he could hear nothing else and imagined being surprised by an occupant who heard him. But no one appeared out of the darkness.

His memory of the house was not recent but he seemed to recall that the main feature of the first floor was a long central hallway with rooms opening off it on both sides. The staircase began just inside the front hall. He pushed open the first door and headed for his quarry.

A thick carpet covered the floors and the stairs. Moving lightly on the balls of his feet he paused on the second floor landing and counted the doors until he determined which one possessed the recently lit window. He reached for the door knob, counted to ten and entered the room.

The bed was against the near wall. Even in the gloom, Marston could make out the lump under the covers as he pulled a long, thin blade out of his pocket. Silence was forgotten. In two strides he was across the room and kneeling on the mattress. His left hand covered his victim’s mouth and his right held the blade to the unfortunate’s throat.

The sleeper woke up immediately, clawing at his restraints. Marston shifted to prevent him from gaining any purchase to free himself. The struggle was short and one-sided. Finally the man lay back, his chest heaving.

Marston smiled evilly. “Good morning, Mr. Connaught. I find I have pressing banking matters to discuss with you tonight.”

Magda
Note proper italicization, - Wednesday, November 03, 1999 at 17:29:35 (PST)

Test.
Suz
Modifying the add form a bit.
, - Wednesday, November 03, 1999 at 06:27:12 (PST)

Oblivious to what transpires in the West Wood, Mary Anne moans in her sleep . . .

And in her dream, HE is ruthless.

No. It would be more correct to say that she is ruthless, to herself. Her mind’s long habit of clothing in HIS form whatever is painful or unpleasant to her, now turns against her with a vengeance . . .

"Mary Anne, this delay is pointless. Allow this to happen—and have it over."

She takes a deep breath, and fights the impulse to sob. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

"Mine, or yours?"

A raised eyebrow from HIM. "Is the truth not always the truth?"

She is not about to let HIM lure her into that trap. "No truth is safe around you."

"Very well." HE adjusts his chair, moving it closer. "Then I shall ask questions, and you shall answer."

"An interrogation, then?" Bitterly.

"If you choose. It need not be so unpleasant."

Mary Anne shudders; she cannot help it. She remembers when The Interrogator had abducted her after the Gruber wedding—HIS assurances that becoming his lover need not be unpleasant for her, and that if she would not fight him, he would not hurt her . . .

She raises her head. The defiant lift of her chin. "Ask your questions, then."

A spray of white trumpet-shaped blossoms, faintly streaked with pink, hangs just beside his chair, and for a moment HE is silent, caressing the nearest of the blooms, drawing HIS finger gently along the blush-coloured stripes.

And then: "What happened, Mary Anne, between you and Christopher?"

An innocent enough sentence, yet at HIS stress upon "happened," and all that it suggests, Mary Anne is crimson with indignation and shame. But her voice is steady. "He . . . as far as a man of his character can do such a thing . . . he forced himself on me."

The Interrogator considers this, with a hint of a smile. "It must have been difficult for you to even say that--you do so love the man and his honour." The smile vanishes. "He raped you, then."

Mary Anne is out of the chair. "No, that he certainly did not!"

HE pounces, verbally. "You make a distinction? Was there force involved, or was there not?"

How best to answer? What can she say? A woman being raped doesn't claw her husband's back. Nor does she moan . . . No, that will not do.

She clears her throat. "Rough, yes. And he was not himself. But he desired me, almost loved me to pieces. But he wasn’t trying to . . . injure me, or do violence to me. Nor was he trying to prove himself, or dominate me."

"And you were not afraid."

"Not after the first . . . no."

"Why not?" Sardonically. "Most women would be. You were frightened by my advances, and I was far more gentle . . ."

"That had nothing to do with it!" All the fear, as if she were back in the room at Safehouse #3, lying helpless before HIM. "You were trying to control me, and I didn’t want you. It would have been rape, no matter how gentle you were. Just as much as what George did to Andrea! But it wasn't from Christopher, no matter how—" Her face is flaming. "—no matter what he did, or how strong he was, as long as it was because he loved me, and wanted me, and—"

"Yet you admit that it was not his usual style."

That voice again. Innocent words, transformed by artful pauses and tones into an insinuation that could shame even Valmont.

Resolutely, Mary Anne ignores it—as far as she can. "No, it was not . . . like him at all."

"He was not himself, you said earlier."

The Interrogator leans forward, HIS eyes glittering, and Mary Anne shrinks back in her chair.

"But, Mary Anne: why was he not himself?"

She can feel it already, the stab of panic in the pit of her stomach. The warning. Don’t go there! Don’t answer!

But she must. "I don’t know!"

She had risen from the chair. How is she back in it, now? And why can she not rise from it again?

HIS hand settles over hers. Cold. So cold.

"You do know, Mary Anne. You know quite well."

HIS fingers exploring her hand, as they had probed the trumpet-flower.

"Or, what would be more accurate: you remember."

MA--oh, right, dearest; I feel MUCH better now. ;-) And you can open your eyes, Andrea!
Homage in about three directions, does that make this an homage a' trois? *grin* - Tuesday, November 02, 1999 at 19:23:01 (PST)

As the pain receded, Claudia’s mind started to function again. I run towards fear, but fear also disables… The Interrogator wouldn’t try to stop her from getting to Brandon. HE wanted her to do this. She’d thought HE had drugged to help her complete her first task. But HE hadn’t - HE’d used suggestion, talked her into thinking HE was right and she should help HIM. Could this be a suggestion HE had planted in her mind? If she showed any doubt, she would feel a pain. HE could have hypnotised her into feeling pain, when there really was none.

Or, HE could have nothing to do with this. Perhaps she wanted herself to fail. Perhaps her own mind was protecting her from herself, and stopping her from getting even more deeply into this mess.

Whatever it was, the pain was bearable now, so she climbed to her feet and carried her plate of biscuits towards their destination. She had to complete this task so she could get back and deal with the Interrogator once and for all.

Oblivious to the deployments of UNIT and the Alliance Rose converging on the Interrogator’s hideaway, Claudia knocked at Brandon’s bedroom door, and without waiting for an answer, started to turn the handle. This would be over, and it would be over soon.
Claudia
Delaford, in the dark - Tuesday, November 02, 1999 at 15:56:47 (PST)

Magda??? Magda is Newbie???
Thanks Kari. I never would have guessed.

MA: I had to shut my eyes when I read that you tripped and HE was upon you. I just couldn't watch.

Renie: I didn't realize that we had the budget for explosions!

Andrea
(re: Newbie)?, USA - Tuesday, November 02, 1999 at 15:34:22 (PST)

Minion runs for the inner door, which leads to hidden pathways within, with various exits through the West Wood. HIS escape route is known only to HIM, and HIS forces know where they must go and how to proceed without HIM.

In full force, the Guardsmen will begin to swarm through the passages like bees in a hive.

Activity--steps outside HIS door. They have come for HIM. Still, HE maks no move to flee. Ten seconds left on the counter.

Calmly, HE turns off the microphone, pulls the chair up to the monitor, and sits down facing it, as if to have an afternoon cup of tea with an old friend.

Behind HIM, the door bursts open--and leading the UNIT forces is Sarge. Orders to secure this area. HE does not move until hears a voice which sends chill through his body.

"Oh my--" she gasps.

The Interrogator turns in HIS chair, and it is Renie who stands there. With a feral snarl HE turns back and jumps at the small black box, and hits the detonator button.

In 2.3 seconds, the hillside is blown to pieces. Stones, dirt, and the wooden door blow out the front of the doctor's cottage. Inside, all manner of substance propels in every direction--the force so great that chunks of rock and earth the size of hayricks shoot skyward from the pressure underneath them. Two more blasts follow, as the other research and storerooms follow the way of the first, spraying the trapped air with hissing chemicals and metal instruments . . . then, as the hillside gives a rumble, gravity pulls the blanket down over the nightmare.

In a crazy volcanic eruption of the manmade madness that had festered within the recess of the hillside, the tools and trade of the Interrogator disappear; either splintered into nothingness or buried deep within nature's tomb. Minutes later, the only movement is the dust rising from the dry earth, too early disturbed from her morning waking duties by this horror.

R
This should make you feel better, MA. :-), - Tuesday, November 02, 1999 at 14:50:13 (PST)

Scene: Two men, each seeking a solution, under pressure, and short of time.

Colin. Thinking . . .

Then it hits him. Time to escape. But not for him, for her. So she can escape--if she is here with doctor. In case HE is wrong.

HE still loves her.

Colin checks his watch. 30 seconds have passed. A minute and a half left. He can make it out the door under a minute, maybe, if he has to. And maybe that printout time is wrong . . . he hovers over the printer like an anxious father during a delivery . . .

. . . While the Interrogator turns over the possibilities like turning sharp corners . . . Was it Colin at the other end, with the doctor? Or his ex-wife? Risks must be calculated. Did Colin merely interfere? Follow the doctor? Invited perhaps. Men were expendable. But Renie . . . and here, for reasons only HE and Renie may know, HE remembers her as she stood in the pantry, at the Almeida Wine Bar Party . . .

Flashcut to the printer. Still not finished! Colin checks to see that the doctor has recovered. He hasn't. No miracle here. This is over, for him. A minute fifteen left.

Maybe over for Colin, too.

The face of the Interrogator. Memories. In HIS left hand--the replicant of Renie's earring. Is she there--so close by? She is. She must be. HE would swear HE can feel her, as one feels the approach of a storm in air. HE had put her far from his heart, after Claudia had completed that task . . . Now her earring lies dully in HIS hand, a base copy of the original. Colin and the doctor would see to it that she was safe--but, still an error would be . . .

Just then, letters appear on the Interrogator's screen. A message. Someone is STILL THERE.

Don't kill me.

Was it???!! Could it be?!! The counter on the black box shows 60 seconds left. 59 . . . 58 . . . 57 . . . With one touch he can cancel the countdown . . . or hit the detonator . . .

Suddenly, an explosion somewhere above HIM rocks the walls of the lair. Then, hasty shouts and cries from without. A warning buzzer goes off behind HIM. Security breach.

HE has been found.

R
- Tuesday, November 02, 1999 at 14:43:49 (PST)

No, not everyone here would agree, Kari--I happen to enjoy your posts very much. The only problem is that there aren't enough of them! 8-)

MA
Still battling the sneezes and wheezes . . . *achoo*!, - Tuesday, November 02, 1999 at 05:09:31 (PST)

Magda, feel free to italicize my posts anytime. I know everyone here would agree that they need all the help they can get!

Kari
USA - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 23:57:52 (PST)

Mary Anne. Caught in her dream.

Unable to bear the suspense of HIS approach, of waiting to be caught, she darts from the concealing hollow of vines and is running down the glazed brick pathways of the Orchid Conservatory.

Running. Feeling as if her heart will burst.

In the strange manner of dreams, she seems to run for a long time, evading her pursuer, feeling her panic build to a screaming pitch as the sounds behind her draw closer and closer . . . a long time, and yet only an instant before the brick pathway, well-tended and smooth only moments ago, now reveals itself as uneven, with some of the paving stones loose in their settings and others missing entirely, waiting to trip her up . . . which they do.

Only an instant, as she falls on the path and sobs for breath, before The Interrogator is upon her.

Her scream, as HE leans down and picks her up in his arms, should echo through the conservatory and shatter the glass--yet the only sound that emerges is like the frail cry of a netted bird as HE holds her, turning her so that her face is pressed against HIS shoulder and she cannot utter another sound as HE carries back along the pathway.

And Mary Anne clings to HIM, feeling an odd sort of relief that the terrifying pursuit is over; better to face HIM outright than to be stalked through the twisting maze of paths, never knowing how far away HE is . . . or how close.

Then, in the strange time-distortion of dreams, she is seated, with The Interrogator close beside her. One of the stone benches? No. Wooden chairs. How did they get here?

"Now, Mary Anne . . . together, we must seek the truth." (homage)

Her voice. Almost without sound, as the scream had been. "Why . . . must we?"

"Because you will know it, sooner or later--better to know it now, while you are alone. You will have time to gain control of yourself before anyone sees you."

Mary Anne wraps herself in her arms, shivering. That an orchid conservatory should be so cold . . . and then, in a few graceful movements, HE has draped HIS jacket about her.

It does not help. "I--" She tries again. She will not cry if she can help it. "I'm so afraid."

HIS voice, very deep--almost tender.

Almost. "I know."

"Please don't make me do this . . ."

MA--jumping back in, cold or no cold . . .
"Together, we must seek the truth." Brrrrr!, - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 19:36:38 (PST)

Italics fixed.
You talkin' to me?
D.o.C. (who thinks Kari could live without it, too.)

Oops. Would an authority figure please delete all the italicising? I can live without it.

Although I think it adds a certain something to Kari's posting.
Newbie
USA - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 17:52:43 (PST)

“Now where did I put it?” Elliott Marston stood in the middle of the carpet and looked around the room. The carved wooden bedstead with the worn coverlet stood against the wall, the rickety table in the corner and the battered bureau between the windows.

“Put what?” Sam Marston rubbed her wrist.

“Ah, yes, in the trunk.” Marston fell to his knees and pulled the rectangular piece of luggage out from under the bed. With a grunt he heaved it on top of the covers. He dusted his hands as he rose. “With all the excitement we’ve had in the past few weeks, I forgot about it entirely.”

A bemused Sam watched him snap open the catches. He rummaged around, carelessly pushing aside piles of clothing until he pulled out a thick envelope wrapped with a shiny covering. “Here we are!” With a grin, he waved it in the air.

“All right, where are we?” She crossed the room to his side and took the package. “It feels like paper inside.”

“I believe it is.” Marston closed the trunk and replaced it under the bed. “Your father wanted me to have it. I thought it was simply legal documents that he wanted taken care of. There’s a marriage license in there, for one thing.”

Sam pulled open the covering and began to sort the contents on the bed. “Yes, here it is; from when he married my stepmother. And here’s my birth certificate and Liam’s. The others must be here too.” She tugged at the remaining papers.

“I’m sure they are. But I wonder if there isn’t something equally important.” He watched her unsuccessful efforts and pulled out his knife. “Let me help.” Inserting the tip into one corner, he sliced the covering from end to end with one stroke. The compressed papers burst out of their tight confinement and fluttered to the floor.

Sam retrieved one. “Here’s Niall’s birth certificate. And my mother’s marriage license.” She placed them on a pile beside the pillows.

Marston sorted through other papers. “There’s some personal letters here. We might have to go through them. A bill of sale. Receipts from buying horses.” He tossed them aside. “And what have we got here? Yes!”

She looked up from her perusal of an old letter. Marston held up a single piece of paper, larger than the others, which looked like an official document. It was a thick stock, written in strong black ink and with an embossed scroll at the top.

“What is it?” Sam reached for it. The paper felt stiff and unyielding between her fingers.

“It seems to be a contract between your father and a senior army officer for some work done two years ago last May.” Marston shuffled the other papers together into a semblance of order and sat down on the bed.

“Major Henry J. Fotheringham.” Sam turned the page over and reread the contents. “Do you know him?”

“The name isn’t familiar to me. I might have met him but I doubt it.” He punched the pillows into a comfortable position and laid back with his hands behind his head. “Your father must have had many jobs like this one.”

“Dozens.” Sam seated herself cross-legged on the covers and propped her chin on her hands.

“So why did he keep this one contract? As you said at breakfast, it was a very basic assignment.” He narrowed his eyes and examined the ceiling. “Let’s assume that we’ve found at least a link with our mysterious army officer. He couldn’t have had a grudge against me if we didn’t know each other. How about your father?”

“Dad never spoke about it. He would have told me if there had been any problem.” Sam picked up the loose pile of paper and began to fold them up carefully.

“So it may be a dead end.” Marston sighed. A vision of being holed up at Belle’s for weeks stretched out in front of him.

“Or it may not. Here’s something.” Sam pulled a piece of notepaper from the very bottom of the pile. A few brief lines were written in a bold hand with a name scrawled across the bottom of the page. “It’s just some instructions about getting access to a warehouse but it’s signed by another army officer.”

“Who is it?” Marston propped himself up on his elbows and craned his neck to read the paper.

Sam squinted at the signature. “I think it says ‘Major R. Ashley-Pitt.’”

Newbie
USA - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 17:51:05 (PST)

The Director, studiously involved in reading a recent script submission from one of his writers, sits in his office with his feet on his desk and the door closed. A youthful hand absent-mindedly twirls a pen between his crenulated teeth and his brow speaks in creases and folds of his intense concentration.

Suddenly, there is a knock at his office door. He does not look up because he does not hear it.

The knob turns.

Slowly.

Screechingly.

This manages to catch his attention and he turns a curious eyebrow towards the offensive sound. The door shifts open cautiously an inch at a time as he watches silently from his comfortable chair.

A few more inches.

A youthful face appears.

Curly blonde hair, sparkling eyes, dimples playfully placed on either side of an infectious grin he immediately recognizes as belonging to his former cast member, Charlie.

His curious expression turns into one of happy-to-see-you and he motions her into his office. As he places the script on his desk and stands to greet her, she bounds energetically into the room and he can't help but open his arms in welcome. He didn't know why she was here nor did he know that he would soon find out. He was simply happy to see her again.

A hug.

And then Charlie reveals why she has come to see him ...

Kari
USA - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 12:07:22 (PST)

And in an underground lair, not so very far away . . .

Minion, re-enters the room, as the Interrogator speaks into the microphone.

"You have two minutes before the whole hillside is buried under rubble."

The Interrogator's words surprise Minion, who cannot imagine what has happened. After all, the UNIT, AR and Guardsmen are far from detecting their true location. Based upon their movements (and all intelligence he has assiduously gathered) their efforts are now at the opposite end of the West Wood. Interrupt HIM? Not without news--which fortunately, he has.

"Excuse me, sir--it was Colin Molyneux aboard the plane with Mrs. Gruber. A Hansjet, blown off course by turbulence. Both were treated with the crew at the hospital, then she released to someone who's name I can't identify. A doctor."

"Who?" HIS lips curl into a twisted joke.

"I don't know who, sir."

"Where is she now? . . . Was it our doctor in Egdon?"

Minion's discomfort grows as HIS patience wanes. "We can't verify her whereabouts. But Molyneux was seen at the Quiet Woman tavern. With our doctor. They left separately, though."

The wheels of HIS mind spin like tops. HIS index finger strokes the small black detonator box.

So, my old darling, are you there, with Colin and the doctor after all?

A battle of wits
(CAn I be the black detonator box?) *wicked grin* R, - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 09:17:54 (PST)

Scene: Egdon, County of Wessex. The doctor's workshop . . .

Where words--HIS words--have struck fear into the heart of Colin Molyneux. Although we hear the Interrogator's voice, we are close on Colin's face.

"You have two minutes before the whole hillside is buried under rubble."

The doctor is no longer "in". And the future hangs under the weight of HIS last sentence.

Detonation. In two minutes.

A death sentence. Quickly, Colin appraises the structure around him. Behind those cold walls, explosives everywhere. Protecting the work and devices here from outside examination and discovery. A team of defusion experts couldn't defuse whatever HE had going. But . . . why was he given two minutes? In that time, he could make it back through the armoire, through the front room--even safely beyond the stony hill.

He dashes to the check the machine's printout--not ready yet! He sees for the first time a blinking number. A countdown of how long it will take for the printout to be ready.

2 minutes!

With both hands he slams the table hard, and jolt of pain flies into his bandaged right wrist. A cut and a sprain, the nurse had told him. "You'll live." If only.

If he waits for the printout to capture the Interrogator, he will die. If he tries to escape, then the slim chance to catch HIM--and the doctor's brave death--will come to nothing.

Five seconds gone. He feels the passing of the time as a cool breath on his damp neck, as if a door had been left open, somewhere. His blood and endorphins urge him to action, but Colin struggles to think before he acts.

Think. Why has the Interrogator given you time to escape? He could not know of the printout . . . or could he?

The pressure is on . . .
Renie, - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 09:12:27 (PST)

I love it! Thank-you, Suzanne.
Flood of posts? ;-) *settling in*
(And a reset button--:-) R, - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 08:57:47 (PST)

Testing.
Suzanne
This thing is working, isn't it?, - Monday, November 01, 1999 at 06:42:43 (PST)

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