"Excuse me Ms. Nuygen, but do you have a moment?" Martin asks from the doorway to the office break room, pausing to eye the two loose figurines precariously balanced atop the large box of similar statuettes he was holding. The fertility figures, blissfully unaware of both their bearer's increasing agitation at their acrobatic endeavors, and his growing embarrassment at the risqué image they presented swaying back and forth together, continued their version of the macarena. Please God, let her have a sense of humor, he thinks frantically. If I try and put the box down to fix them, they’re going to take off for orbit - along with this year’s salary.

"What's up?" Tran asks, sucking on a paper cut as she steps over, platform shoes adding an extra five inches of height. Raising an eyebrow at the figurines, she focuses on Martin's face. "Don't like the Sheila na Gaels?"

"That's partially it," he admits, shifting position slightly and causing the dancing figures to perform an act illegal in thirteen states and two territories. "My tastes in sculpture usually run in more... classical directions. The rest of it, well..." he grins self-consciously, "I keep waiting for one of them to leap off a shelf and break into about fifty pieces at a thousand bucks apiece."

She smiles, light warming her blue eyes for a second. "You're not alone," she says quietly. "I crated mine up a few months back, and if rumor can be believed, Mira has been using hers for target practice."

A look of relief crosses his face, and he sighs, "In that case, where are we hiding them? Mr. Armitage told me to just take them home or something, but I'm not comfortable with that. " Yeah, right. Just take about a hundred grand worth of jade home. They’ll love that story after they haul my ass downtown, he adds silently A soft ‘clink’ from the figurines draws his eyes back to them as they shimmy into a position usually found in the "Advanced Practitioners Only" portion of the Kama Sutra. I think I arrested a couple for doing that over on the Embarcadero three years ago, he muses. A faint flush rises on his cheeks as he continues, "Besides, I don't really think my daughter is ready for them yet - maybe when she's ninety or so, but not now."

The office manager laughs, a bitter laugh that Martin had come to think was his trademark. "Most of them are being stored in the new offices, across from the elevator bank," she says, referring to the offices reserved for AI Inc's expansion. "Third office on your right over there -- the equivalent of Mr. Armitage's here -- has a bunch of these boxes in them. Can't miss it."

"Thanks," he replies, relieved, then pauses to juggle the two statuettes for a moment. This isn’t going to work, he sighs mentally. I might as well go on and ask for the help. "Ummm..." he begins, embarrassed. "Could I impose a little more and ask for some help with these two before they do something that'll get me arrested?"

She laughs more genuinely. "Not a problem." She grabs the two figurines and tucks them under her arms. "I'll get that door for you, too." Moving swiftly despite her attire, Tran ignores the amused look of Anna, who is making copies at the main copy area.

"Not a word," Tran says to her sweetly, opening the glass doors for Martin, leading the way to the unoccupied offices.

Following her out the doors and into the hall, Martin stops to let a UPS deliveryman wheel a stack of boxes bearing overseas labels past him and into the Armitage offices, then catches up in a few quick steps. "Were yours this bad?" he asks as Tran unlocks the doors to the empty suite of offices, "I wasn't sure that there *were* this many fertility figures in mythology."

"Well..." she says, her cheeks turning pink, "Mine weren't as graphic," she finishes. She flips the lights on. "I think Mr. Armitage wanted to see how everyone reacted to them, too. I think he has a bet going on with Travis Eckerd, our systems administrator, on how long it takes the office to empty of them. They aren't really worth all that much," she says, "From what I've overheard, you can buy them in bulk from catalogs. When I was in Saudi Arabia, I saw --" she stops. "Well, they tend to uncover a lot of these babies," she plunks them down on a crate, "In bulk."

"Nice to know the human race has *always* had its mind in the gutter," he sighs, setting the box down next to the others. Like I ever really had any doubts. Eyeing the other boxes and crates in the office he shakes his head, "Are all of these fertility statues? Or have they multiplied like amoebae with no one watching them?"

Tran giggles. "They may have. Sometimes I swear they move around the office. Like when I first started, I found two -- a male and a female -- that had moved from the glass coffee table by the couch in the reception area to behind the couch. And I could *swear* I was the last one to leave, and the first one to get there that morning." She leans forward. "Those two were the first to go -- that's when I decided I had to get them out of there." 

Martin nods, "Sounds like they just wanted a little privacy - unlike my pair there," he glares at the offending statuettes for a moment, still a trifle embarrassed. "Just my luck to get the exhibitionists of the set." Glancing around the room again he asks, "Is Mr. Armitage planning on enlarging the company this much? I hadn't realized he was considering this kind of expansion. 

"I think that he really just didn't want to share the floor with anyone else," Tran explains. "Most floors in this building are split into two wings. And with him, well, money isn't an object. But we've actually started thinking about expanding. As it stands right now, there are five investigators here at AI Inc, and about twenty support staff. We have lawyers on retainer and most of our bookkeeping is sent to a third party, but I think what Mr. Armitage is planning is to hire three more investigators, as well as having our own legal and complete accounting/payroll staff. Also, we're going to be branching out into security -- but personally, I think that's only to spite SF Investigators," she says conspiratorially.

"Twenty-five?" Martin questions, "I obviously haven't met everyone then. Besides you, Ms. Richards and her finance, Dr. Emori, Mr. Armitage, and Ms. Stafford who's left?" And please don’t tell me there’s another ex-SFPD officer in amongst them.

"Well, you probably wouldn't have reason to meet all of them yet," Tran says. "You've only been here for a couple weeks and you've been out of the office for most of that. There are five investigators -- you, Mira, Anna, Rick, and Franklin. At Dr. Emori's lab there are a total of seven people -- Dr. Emori, five lab workers, and the lab administrator, who is really their secretary, but is kind of uppity about having a title," she adds. "Here at the office there's me and my staff -- there are four regular secretaries, one receptionist -- that's Miriam, and you would have met her but she's been on vacation, and two records people."

Tran looks thoughtful. "That's fifteen, including me. Then there's Randolph, in charge of the accounting, our system administrator, Gary the janitor -- I don't know if you knew this, but we don't use the building's custodial service for security reasons. And then there are Tom and Elaine, who deal with most of our clients. Most of the people who hire AI Inc. are interested in security and confidentiality -- that's what we excel at -- and so Tom and Elaine usually meet with clients outside of the office. Mr. Armitage deals with clients, too, but that's more rare, and usually for clients he knows personally."

"'Somehow I never pictured the firm as being that large when I first talked to Mr. Armitage," Martin notes, glancing out the window and then at his watch. In for a penny, in for a pound - I might as well see what she’ll tell me about the rest of the staff while I’m at it. "Am I keeping you from something? I had a couple of more questions, but they can wait for another time if you're in the middle of something important."

"No, no, I'm actually giving Rachel a chance to recover," Tran says. "She's screwed up some important paperwork three times in a row, and won't listen to me when I explain to her how to do it, so she goes and screws it up again. I yelled at her, and so I decided to hide out until she composes herself. I was going to watch Headline News for a half-hour, but if you have any other questions, that's part of my job."

With a wave at their surroundings, Martin asks, "Is there someplace that you'd rather talk? This is a bit... sparse... on furniture, and this might take a minute." And the last thing I want is stories about the two of us doing the wild thing in an empty office on company time - or a harassment complaint that alleges I tried to do it, regardless of the truth. He shifts a touch uncomfortably for no obvious reason 

"Hmm..." Tran sticks a long fingernail in her mouth and chews it speculatively, not seeming to notice Martin's discomfort. "I'm still giving Rachel space, but we could go to the cafe downstairs, or to the

Chinese place across the street. Despite the very kitschy decor, they make the best General's Chicken that I've ever had."

Food. Great, all she did was mention it and now I’m starving again. How much do I have to eat to keep these damn powers quiet? "Since I missed lunch what with the briefing and all," he replies, "the Chinese sounds pretty good." Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m hungry enough that R.G.’s Alpo would sound good. His posture relaxes a trifle, but still remains uncomfortable.

"OK," she says, flipping the lights off, and locking the doors. "Let me tell the office that I'm leaving for an early lunch -- that way they can talk about me, secure in the knowledge I won't be back for an hour."

"If this office is anything like my last one," he observes. "You’ll be lucky if that’s all they do"

Turning, Tran looks startled. "Well, that's all they're brave enough to do," she says finally. "Lucky for me they still fear me."

"It never lasts long enough," Martin replies, shaking his head. Never did for me anyway. "Sooner or later someone has a little too much caffeine and sugar in the morning and the next thing you know... POW! There you are with a desk drawer filled with pistachio pudding or something equally humorous." I never did pay you back for that Frankie - just another thing to add to the bill.

She smiles, but looks a tad surprised -- and relieved. "Oh, I see what you mean." Pushing the door open, she turns back to Martin. "I'll meet you there in a few."

After Martin leaves her office, Mira leans back in her chair. "And I thought I had ghosts," she mutters to herself. Sighing, she closes her eyes to think. She struggles through her memories trying to see if she had ever stopped by those particular rest stops. While she can remember the two times she broke down on Interstate 80 and the long hours spent trying to get a ride back to civilization and a mechanic, she has no recollection of those two rest stops that straddle the highway.

"Amazing, a place in BFE Nevada I haven't visited or lived in," she says, twisting up and out of her chair. Refilling her cup of coffee, she wanders around her small office for a few seconds. 

Most of the items in the room don't belong to her. Since Mira spends most of her time at home writing, her "official" office at Armitage Investigations gets little use. It's not that it isn't a nice office. Actually, it's very nice. Better than anything Mira ever had as a reporter. It's just "loud." The ambient buzz of noise as everyone in the office works can get on your nerves. Especially, when you really can "hear" things and you're trying to write the next Lakota Whiteyes bestseller. No pressure there, Mira thinks. Just trying to prove you're not a one-book wonder.

Usually Mira retreats to her own home office, a nice quiet room in her quiet house. But today she couldn't get any work done there and since she had this meeting with David anyway, she decided to come in. Maybe noise will help be get over the writer's block I seem to be having on that chapter, she thinks.

Tapping on her computer screen, Mira launches her Mac's word processor. It was the one thing she refused to budge on. While the rest of the office was using a PC, Mira clung faithfully to her Mac even though it cost twice as much.

Sighing some more she stared at the computer screen. Scrawling across the top corner of the monitor were the words:

"A less auspicious beginning for a super hero group could not have been envisioned. Beset by problems from the outset, including two members who appeared to have earned PRIMUS' enmity by their very existence, the Golden Gate Guardians would suffer their greatest publicity blow in an ill-conceived attempt to generate positive press. In one fail swoop the team laid it's bumbling ineptness out before the public, costing the lives of 16 people and nearly destroying one of San Francisco's treasured cultural centers. Supporters of the Paranormal Registration Act couldn't ask for a better ad campaign. The Golden Gate Goofs - as one media pundit labeled them - had screwed up again."

Perhaps that is a little harsh, Mira thought to herself. Typing a few more words in she adds:

"While it is easy to criticize the team's failures in the harsh light of hindsight, it should be recognized that had they not been present many more would have died when the roof of the De Young collapsed. Police reports and investigations after the crisis left no doubt that the goal of VIPER was to steal a number of artifacts from the De Young while at the same time dealing a blow to the Guardians and PRIMUS if possible."

It just doesn't read well, Mira thinks, abandoning her keyboard. It reads like a poly-sci report. Frustration gripping her, she slaps her mouse across the desk and exits the program. The first book had been easy, but this one was like pulling teeth 

Well, maybe some work.

Abandoning her writing for the moment, she logs onto to the alt.conspiracy news group as well as a few other notable web sites and Usenet groups. No mention of project Redwing. David was right, she thinks. Scrolling through the posts, she finds very little related to their rest stops either.

"Geez, you'd think that the only place secret operations are held is Area 51," Mira mutters after sifting through the 50th post on aliens being held in the Southern Nevada desert.

"They'd be surprised about what really goes on there. Unfortunately, no mention of anything vaguely sounding like Project Redwing."

Perhaps the guys would know something about this, she thinks. Dialing their number, Mira gets their message machine:

"A little known fact, the phone company has begun routinely taping random phone calls in an effort to bolster its attempt at world domination through the control and barter of information. Keep that in mind when you leave a message. Who knows who may be listening. Beeeepppppp...."

Ever since they started working with that FBI agent, they're never home, Mira thinks to herself. And, if it's even possible, I think they're getting weirder. Now Frohike insists on calling me "Ms. Sureshot" as a code name. I should have never told him I knew how to ride a horse and shoot.

"Yeah this is," I can't believe I'm actually saying this, "Ms. Sureshot. Call me." 

Getting off the phone, Mira utters a snort of disgust. "I can't believe I said that."

Sighing she grabs her purse and heads for the door.

"Hi Tran, I'm heading off to the library to do some research," Mira says, passing the office manager. "If anyone needs me, they can reach me on my cellular. Did you and Anna reach a compromise on the dress? 

"Nope," she says, reaching for the phone. "Not yet, anyway, but I'm sure I'll have my way," she grins evilly. "Let Marie know you're going — I'm about to take an early lunch with Martin."

Ten minutes later, Martin is seated across from Tran at the tiny Chinese dive, located on the second floor of a four story brick building, out of place in the area. Kitschy doesn't begin to describe the place, though even at this early hour it's filled with business people, all likely from the many high rises of the financial district.

Tran pours tea for herself, deftly maneuvering the pot and cup despite prohibitively long, purple fingernails. "Tea?" she asks him.

"Please," he replies, sliding his cup over so she doesn't have to reach across the table. And our food better get here very soon now before the centerpiece looks any more edible.

"So, what questions can I answer about the company?" she asks after a minute, eyes sly as she continues, "Didn't orientation cover everything, or did my PowerPoint presentation bore you to sleep?" 

"PowerPoint presentation?" he asks. "That was the self-paced computer program that I was supposed to work my way through, right?"

Tran's blue eyes narrow dangerously. "It took me three weeks to put that thing together," she says accusingly. "You didn't even sit through it?" She sighs and shakes the black and white mane of hair. "Don't you know I can do terrible things to your paycheck? You never should have admitted that!"

Oh, that was good. Get right off to a good start there Marty, he groans to himself. "I used to work for the City of San Francisco - there isn't *anything* I haven't seen, or had done, to my checks," he replies wryly. "Beside, I'd have to know how to work the thing before I could've seen it." Hey, it’s the truth. Maybe she’ll take pity on me 

"Ah, I get it. I'll set it up for you when we get back," she says, contemplating the menu, then putting it on the edge of the table. "Look, I don't mind the small talk, but what's going on, Martin? What questions did you have for me about the company?"

"Actually, they weren't about the company itself so much as they were about the people who work there," he admits, shifting in his seat to find a better position. "On the force I'd have found the Desk Sergeant or the Senior Lieutenant and asked them about my co-workers. Here, " he shrugs, "you get to be the one I pester." Of course, you’re also the only one who I thought might actually answer them too. Most supervisors love it when the new guy tries to fit in - and I don’t have any choice.

"Ohhh," she says, sipping her tea. "I get it. Well, I'm not really one to kiss and tell," she grins, "But I can tell you some. Everyone who works for AI Inc. has been checked out, from their potty training to the first time they got laid." She shrugs. "That was in the disclaimer you signed when you interviewed, actually. Not quite worded that way, but....we have a background check system that would have been J. Edgar Hoover's favorite wet dream, or at least a real close second to seeing the Golden Avenger in a pink tutu. No one gets hired here unless we have a real good feeling about 'em."

"But," she adds, "If you're wondering about Mira in particular, especially because of the fact you'll be traipsing around in the Nevada desert with her for the next week, I can reassure you. She knows what she's doing. She has a tendency to piss off the government, but that's hardly a unique gift at AI Inc. More like a recommendation." Tran shrugs, an impressive gesture given the tight outfit she's wearing. "You'll have a decent drive to get to know her, anyway, and I imagine the two of you will work well together. She's kind of happy-go-lucky in that irritating Pollyanna way, but she'll get over it eventually." A dark look crosses the AI Inc. office manager's face, then fades as the waitress arrives. "Oh, God, I am dyin'!" She picks up the chopsticks and dives into the meal with gusto.

If they’d waited any longer, I’d have found out whether or not I can digest cheap plastic flowers now, Martin sighs in relief as his food is slid in front of him by the waitress. Following Tran’s lead, he concentrates on his food for several minutes before trying to talk again, his plate nearly empty when he looks up again. "Ms. Stafford was part of it, but I was also thinking about the rest of the people there as well. I don't need to know their deepest secrets - wouldn't want to if I could - I just wanted to know what they were like... Kind of a scouting report so I won't say something that will push somebody's buttons by accident and set them off."

"Hmmm...it's difficult to say, really, what will set people off and what won't. I'm friends with Anna, and I can tell her that to say anything negative about matrimony will probably earn you sugar in your gas tank. Don't offer Rick anything to drink, and Franklin is pretty socially inept, so any buddy attempts will be met with skepticism. I can't think of anything that might set Mr. Armitage off -- he is cool, no matter what the situation -- but he puts a lot of faith, justified, but faith in his employees. If anyone betrayed the company, I think that would kill him."

Nodding slowly as he polishes off the last remnants of his meal, Martin says. "That was exactly the sort of thing I was looking for. I haven't had a drink in six months, so Rick won't be a problem, and I'm not likely to worry over social gaffes made in honest error..." he pauses, then adds sourly, "I'd need a social life before it became a problem." Sipping at his tea, as if to get the taste of his last words out of his mouth, he continues, "As for Anna... I think I'd better just stay out of her way." If she bubbles on about how wonderful marriage is to me I think they’ll need to apply to the Superfund to clean up the toxic spill from my stomach acid.

"Probably a good idea," Tran says. " She's very wrapped up in it right now."

He nods, "With any luck it won't be a problem." Studying his tea for a moment he adds, "What about you?"

She shrugs. "I'm doing my best to smile through it. He's a nice enough guy, I guess." For a moment, her expression looks bleak, but it's quickly replaced by a broad smile. "As long as I don't have to wear that *&$^@% bow, I'll be OK with it," she says, tone chipper.

"Bow?" Martin asks, then holds a hand up as he sees Tran start to explain, "No, no that's okay. I don't need to know, really." He pauses again, glances at the molded plastic silhouette painting on the wall, then looks back at her as if forcing himself to meet her gaze. "Actually, I meant "What should I do to avoid pushing *your* buttons?' there...."

"Oh, I see," she says, wrinkling her forehead and running a hand through her unruly, multicolored mop of hair. She seems to go a long way out of her way to make herself unattractive, Martin notices. "I don't know – as long as you get your paperwork in five days after you've completed an assignment, can document all of your expenditures and you don't create any public relations nightmares for us, you'll be OK with me, I guess. Bathe often enough that I don't have to smell you, that sort of thing. I'm not too picky."

"Sounds pretty straightforward to me," he answers. "Just do me a favor and let me know if a problem develops - I figure it's only a matter of time before someone takes me the wrong way, and I'd like to see it coming." It won’t do any good, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing the knife before it lands in my back this time. 

It takes Mira almost an hour to find the report she is looking for at the library. The government section is terribly disorganized and the clerk is not helpful. Finally, after searching she locates the report.

The "1997 Proposed Land Withdrawal for Military Use Environmental Use and Impact" report is about 6 inches thick and going through it is about as boring as it gets. Mira quietly opens a Diet Pepsi. It may be against the rule, but if I'm going to get through this report I'm going to need it, Mira thinks.

Taking a sip she starts flipping through the pages. Thirty minutes and $2 worth of copies later, Mira had the section that pertains to that particular section of Interstate 80 copied off. "It looks like it is restricted air space, pretty much all over there," Mira whispers, marking off the area in question with a yellow highlighter. But since almost all of the airspace over Northern Nevada is restricted, except for the commercial routes, that doesn't mean much.

Turning toward the geothermal plant, Mira heads toward the Edgar database. She starts her research checking to see if the company that runs the geothermal plant is publicly traded,. If so, it will have to file several forms with the Securities and Exchange Committee including the Form 10-K (annual report) all of the quarterly updates, a list of those who hold proxies in the company.

It's a utility company, geothermal power is regulated and therefore has to file certain records with the SEC including annual reports, a list of owners and several other reports.

Aye, the wonderful glamorous life of a reporter, Mira thinks, pulling out stacks of dusty reports.

Several hours later, Mira makes it home. A slow drizzle is falling. Pulling open the door, she tosses a stack of copies on the chair. Well, at least I'll have something to read on the trip, she observes wryly 

"Ugghhh..." she says, shaking out her trenchcoat. "I doubt I'll ever get used to the humidity here."

Throwing the coat onto a chair, she heads toward the basement, picking up a phone along the way. When she gets to the basement , she turns on the light and calls Mike Johnson in Tonopah. The innumerable numbers she has to dial to get what David calls a "safe line " is a pain. But, he says it's virtually untraceable. 

As she listens to the phone ring for about the 20th time, she pulls down her camping gear: tent, lanterns, sleeping bags. He must be out in the barn, Mira thinks. I keep telling him to join the information age and get a cellular phone, but Mike doesn't want to listen. At least Louise convinced him to get an answering machine. Mira smiled at the thought of what an effort that must have taken.

"Hi Mike. Hi Louise. This is me. I hope things are going well with you. Give me a call when you get in."

Hanging up the phone, Mira thinks it may be a longshot. But maybe Mike knows someone who has a ranch in the area. They might be able to clue us in on anything stranger going on there.

Grabbing the camping gear and the phone, she heads upstairs. Pulling up all the stuff, she throws it all in a corner. Better go get the rest.

"No honey, I’m not going to run away and go to Las Vegas and get married again," Martin signed for the third time. "I have to go there for business."

Dorothy frowned at him for a minute, her ten-year old face scrunched up into a determined expression as her fingers replied, "But you’re going with a woman."

"She’s my partner, " he returned, pausing a moment before adding, "like Charlie was. We just work together."

"But Joanie’s daddy ran off to Las Vegas and got married there," she persisted. "And he married a girl he worked with. She was his.. re..ceptionist," she slowed as her fingers spelled out the unfamiliar word, then picked up speed again, "I saw her when she picked Joanie up yesterday. She had on a hooker-suit."

"What?" Martin said aloud, then realized what he’d done and repeated himself in Ameslan, "What? What is a ‘hooker-suit’ and where did you hear about one?"

"From you. It was red leather, not black like the one you and Nana were talking about that girl wearing two nights ago at dinner, but it looked the same - only there was more of Joanie’s mom in it."

Wincing despite himself, Martin shook his head, "That isn’t a very nice thing to say honey. You shouldn’t repeat things you hear Nana and I say unless you check with us first."

"But you said it," she answered back immediately.

As Martin was gathering himself for the inevitable round of questions that his answer would generate, the doorbell rang, interrupting his train of thought. "Saved," he thought to himself, a bit guiltily. Answering the tough questions was part of being a parent -just not his favorite part.

Spying the wall-mounted flashing light that was her signal that someone was at the door, Dorothy hopped up off of the stool she’d been half-sitting on and dashed off towards the front of the house to see who it was in a burst of speed, racing R.G.’s cinnamon-colored blur as he launched itself up from the floor at her first few steps.

"Why do children never *walk* anywhere?" Marin asked himself as he followed. "I couldn’t have been this bad when I was her age, or Gramps would have chained me to a wall."

As he rounded the corner from the library into the den, he heard the door open and his mother’s voice greeting Dorothy. "Please God let her be able to keep Dorothy for the week," he repeated to himself, "I don’t know what I’m going to do if she can’t. 

Three steps later, as he entered the foyer, his mother’s voice called out in alarm, "Martin! Who is this woman from work you’re running off to Las Vegas to marry? 

"I’m going to shoot myself," he thought calmly, as he rounded the corner. "It’s the only answer. 

With a sigh of relief, Martin dragged the pack frame out from behind a box of comics dating back to his own childhood, ‘There you are. I was beginning to think Lorri had used you to cart things off with," he murmured to the silent object, his voice turning bitter as his ex-wife entered the sentence. Examining it for a moment to ensure that it was still functional, he nodded to himself in satisfaction before leaving the storage room and adding it to the stack of material he’d accumulated in the upstairs hallway next to the balcony rail. 

"That just about does it then," he mused, glancing over the list he’d scrawled out during dinner. "Clothes, check. Surveillance gear, check. Money, check. I still need to run by Carl’s and swap the bills out though - we can do that on the way out. Phone," he opened the cellular phone’s traveling case and confirmed the presence of the spare batteries and the recharger’s cigarette lighter adapter, "check." Glancing around, he picked up the laptop in it’s hard-shell case and checked to make sure the battery charger was there as well, "Computer, check."

Referring back to his list, he ran through several more items in rapid succession, "Spare boots, check. Sunglasses, check. Music, check. Hope she likes an eclectic mix, four days of solid country and I’ll be begging for mercy. Food and water, Mira’s handling that. With any luck it’ll be something besides Doritos and cheese dip..." he paused, "I’d better bring some extra along just in case, the way my appetite has been going lately. Last thing I want to do is clean us out of food fifty miles from the nearest store."

Making another note on the bottom of the list, he unzipped the duffel bag his clothing was packed in and rifled the stacks of carefully-folded clothing, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything while Dorothy had been helping him pack. "Shirts, socks, jeans, underwear, dog hair - yep, looks like everything to me." Shaking his head, he blew the stray hairs R.G. had left for him off his fingers and closed the bag. "That just leaves checking with Ricky tomorrow morning about the money angle and the gun case."

Picking up the two cases of surveillance gear, he started ferrying material down the stairs to the front hallway, careful not to bump them into the wall adjoining Dorothy’s room. It’d taken forever to get her to sleep once she started helping him pack, and he wasn’t taking any chances on waking her again. Leaving the material he’d brought in the foyer, he started back upstairs for another load, slowly ferrying the rest of the material down with a little assistance from an always helpful R.G. at the end. 

"Good boy," Martin praised softly, ruffling the Chow’s mane as he pried the second boot from his mouth. "You’re a good boy, yes you are." Whuffling happily, the Chow trotted off to see if there was anything left of his evening meal to scavenge, as Martin delicately wiped the lingering saliva from the boot with a handy tissue. "Yuck," he observed calmly, eyeing the tissue after he finished, "Thank goodness for waterproofing."

Disposing of the tissue carefully. He placed the boot next to its mate - on top of the surveillance cases and out of R.G.’s line of sight - and ducked through the dining room to the stairs again, opening the door to the under-stair storage area where he’d installed the gun safe. Dialing in the combination, he listened for the click of the lock disengaging, then flicked the alarm switch off on the inside of the storage area wall dropping the old calendar he’d hung over it back down. Pulling the safe’s door open, he ran his eyes over the guns stored there, "Let’s see," he mused. "Given her size, I’d guess Mira for a nine millimeter, probably one of the newer compact models. No sense carrying something that uses different ammunition in case we do have a problem...."

Passing over his usual carry weapon, he pulled out a surplus Browning High Power he’d taken off of an informant years ago. "With Terry singing in the penitentiary choir for another ten after that drug deal, I don’t think he’ll mind if I use this. I certainly won’t be needing to hold it over his head as a parole violation any more." A bit of searching turned up the shoulder rig and spare magazines that went with it, and he spent a moment adjusting the straps before judging the fit satisfactory. "Maybe they’ll buy a pancake holster on the expense statement," he thought, frowning at the idea of wearing a jacket all day in the desert as he was stacking a box of ammunition next to the weapon on the safe’s top.

Glancing back into the safe for a moment, he spied an oilcloth wrapped bundle and pulled it out to check on the memory that it sparked. Unwrapping the bundle revealed a never-returned single-action Colt and western gunbelt that Charlie had loaned him last year for a costume party. On impulse, he checked the cylinder. "Damn," he sighed, I always meant to give this back to you Charlie...."

After a moment of silence, he nodded to himself, and added the pistol and the box of rounds Charlie had given him to fill out the belt-loops on the gunbelt to the Browning. "Might as well. At least it won’t look quite as out of place," he chuckled. "I’ll just have to put up with Mira’s ‘concrete cowboy’ jokes. I know that look I saw in her eyes when she started talking about riding hoses - it was the same one Sergeant Milner used to get when he paired a rookie up with Bill Lopez on the night shift. "

Shaking his head again, he pulled out the drawer that held his odds and ends and fished out a couple of complimentary cans of CS-DZ spray left over from the last exposition he’d attended, placing them on top of the safe. Reaching back inside, he extracted a pair of Kevlar vests, checking to make sure that he got the one he’d bought for Lorraine but had never persuaded her to wear in case Mira didn’t own one, as he draped them over his arm. "That ought to take care of that," he murmured, closing the safe and picking up a carrying case from beside it. "I’ll just pack this up and be..." he stopped as a tingling at the base of his neck alerted him to someone else’s presence just before they tugged on his shirt-tail.

Looking down, he met his daughter’s gaze as she stood there in her oversized t-shirt, worry written on her face. "Are bad men going to shoot at you again ?" she signed urgently. "Don’t go."

Setting the vests and the carrying case down, Martin knelt down in front of his daughter and shook his head. "No, honey," he replied, his fingers moving, unsure how awake she was, "No one’s going to shoot at me. I’m just being careful, that’s all."

"But you wouldn’t take them if you didn’t need them," she insisted, shaking her head. "Don’t go. Make them send somebody else."

"I can’t honey. I’m the one the they need to go." Martin answered, hating the memory of a hundred conversations like this one he’d had with Lorraine without realizing how bitter she’d become, that chose this moment to haunt him. "I won’t be gone long, just a few days."

‘No, stay with me," she signed back, her eyes glistening with tears about to fall.

Heart aching, Martin reached out and pulled his daughter into his chest, one hand stroking her hair as she began to cry softly. "It’ll be all right honey," he whispered, knowing that she couldn’t hear him, but needing to say the words anyway. "I’m not going to leave like your mother did. I’ll be back before you know it. Shhhhh...."