Jackal Moon - Chapter One

Donald Westfall pulled the rental car, a newer model Lincoln, over to the side of the road and looked at his wife in the seat beside him. He laid his hand on hers and smiled.

"Well, old girl, still disappointed that we didn't get an earlier flight today?" he asked quietly.

Fern Westfall, who as recently as two years before would have objected strenuously to being called "old", merely shook her head, her brimming eyes drinking in the sight before her.

They had just topped the last of a series of ridges, when they found themselves breaking free of the over-hanging trees on both sides. The natural clearing gave them a perfect view of the valley, with its glittering lake nestled within it, and the small mountain beside it. The last rays of the setting sun were stretched forth, daubing the clouds (which Fern had been fretting about for the last thirty miles) with a myriad of glorious hues. The lake, its calm disturbed by a gentle breeze they could not feel inside the car, threw back those colors as a million sparkles of light.

"Mozart, you bastard, if you could have only seen this..." Don, a classical music buff, whispered.

Fern lowered the window to breathe in the scents on the wind, and then drew back as the wind gusted cool air.

"As wondrous as this is," she told Don, "we'd better get going. There's a storm coming in. And we want to be up the mountain before it gets too bad."

Don glanced in the rearview mirror as he shifted the car into drive, wincing at the dark battleship-gray clouds surging toward them.

He patted Fern's hand again, smiling fondly at his wife of thirty years. The past ten years had not been easy for them, but he was hoping that some luck was beginning to come their way. At least, he was hoping that was what had brought the chance for this summer getaway, at just the right time, meant.

Fern caught his eye and, smiling, shook her head. He smiled back, relaxing the worry lines on his face. He put his arm around her thin shoulders and drew her close to him. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder.

"We'll survive," he said simply, exhaling slowly.

"We always do," she finished, in what Don referred to as their "family mantra."

They drove through several small towns, with names like Silveray, Penny Point, and Tillie, each one boasting desperately of scenic wonders and entertainment for the whole family, hoping to draw in the last possible piece of tourist coin. The last town, just as shameless, had the improbably name of Lakemont, on the small patch of land between the lake and the "mountain" to the north, hence its name. They'd had plenty of time already on their drive in to make fun of the name, since the steep hill could not be called, to their native Oregonian sensibilities, a mountain.

By the time they had reached the middle of the town, which was pierced by a small river feeding the lake, the rain had begun, a gentle pounding of liquid on the windshield.

"Should we wait until it stops?" Fern asked.

"The road is paved all the way, we should be okay," Don told her absently. "Besides, if we stop and I sit down in a comfortable seat in some restaurant, I won't be able to get back up again."

Once across the bridge that divided the town, they turned towards the mountain, and then again to curve along it's feet, slowly climbing. The road switched back upon itself several times, so that they traversed only one side of the mountain, the other side, according to the man who was lending them his summer home, being a ski resort. On each trip back and forth, they once again crossed the river, now divided into several small creeks filled with foaming water. Once Fern caught a glimpse of something rectangular being tossed about the miniature rapids.

"Looks like a good deal of trash is getting washed down," she mused to Don, who nodded absently as he focused on keeping the car between the faded white lines. The guardrails on the outer edge of the road did not look at all sturdy, mostly white-painted posts strung with heavy steel cable.

Fern watched as the houses and yards swept by on the other side. Much of the "mountain" was terraced, with the houses between the road and the bulk of the towering rock and earth. Most of the houses they had passed so far had been small, and a great number of them were trailer homes, surrounded with garbage, junk, old cars, and other less identifiable objects. Gavin, the man who owned the home they would be staying in, had told Don that the lower part of Silver Mountain was mostly given over to the year-round residents, as well as a few vacation cottages owned by those not rich enough to afford homes on the upper third of the mountain. The middle was a no-man's-land, kept uninhabited to afford some privacy for the upper crust. Fern had found that pun reprehensible.

She still found it odd that Gavin and his soon-to-be ex-wife, Isabel, had actually agreed to loan the house out for the summer. Neither one wanted to arrive to find the other there, so this gave them a plausible "out" - a reason not to go in the first place. When Don had first told her of the offer, while she was still at the hospital, she had laughed outright at the idea Gavin and Isabel could agree on anything. Contrariness reigning supreme, the bickering duo had agreed anyway.

She noted that the houses had disappeared as Don took another of the switchback curves. They had entered the "wilderness preserve." Gavin had said that a few houses, properties bought before the "association" had moved in, were scattered here and there, but most of them were hidden out of sight as the top of the mountain rose in a gentler slope.

She noted yet another "Bridge" sign with a sigh, her bones aching for a bath and soft bed.

Don nearly bit off his tongue, as the white line in front of him disappeared like it had been amputated from the road. He twisted the wheel, realizing too late that it was the wrong move, since the flooded road offered no traction for the sudden turn. There was a sickening split-second lack of motion, and they started to slide to the left as he tried to aim the car to the right. Then the wheels slowly took hold, and the car lurched into the ditch, scant inches away from where the bridge was missing. Don stared through his side window at the deep ravine carved into the side of the mountain, filled with snarling white foam and debris.

"Are you alright?" Fern demanded, panting. Don stared at her for a moment.

"Me?" he asked, bewildered. "Are you ok?" He reached for her hand, to check her pulse, but she pushed it away as she reached for his face.

"Donald Westfall, I love you dearly," she told him. "But I had a heart attack, I wasn't transformed into spun glass. Stop swaddling me in tissue and cotton balls. And I'm very proud of you for thinking so quickly."

Don exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath. "I depend on you, old girl. You scared the hell out of me, thinking I'd have to go on without you. And I can't. But thank you. I'd rather we go together, but not right now."

"That was rather close, wasn't it?" Fern observed calmly, looking past him. "Well, what do we do now?"

"We climb out of this ditch and go for help," Don told her. "It's too deep to pull ourselves out."

"There was a small road, just a little way back," Fern told him. "Maybe it's one of the few houses in this section."

"Well, let's go see," Don told her. "We'll have to go out your door, this one's too close for comfort. Grab the lap robe from the back first though, it will keep us from getting too soaked."

Fern pulled the thick wool blanket, emblazoned with the name of the rental company, from the back seat and opened the door. Leaf and mud-choked water swirled in immediately, rainwater from the ditch surging toward the ravine. Fern stood awkwardly in the water, and waited for Don.

Once he had struggled out of the car, resolving once again to lose weight, he unfolded the wool blanket and held it tented over their heads. They climbed hesitantly up the slick rocks to the road.

The road Fern had spotted was only about 500 yards back they way they came, and they reached it quickly, the cold water in their shoes making them move a little faster. From down the road came a welcome glint of yellow-white light.

Another 500 yards brought them around a slight curve towards the ravine, and Fern stopped immediately, astounded. The three-story house before them was octagonal, and the bottom ten feet was solid stonework. It seemed large enough to house a family comfortably. Welcome light poured out of the floor-to-ceiling windows which stood in the middle of each of the four walls they could see, and a bright electric light in a lantern fixture above the door illuminated the stairs and deck before the front door. Additional light flowed from a jewel-like skylight in the middle of the roof.

Don noted the large aluminum barn structure, half-hidden behind a stand of trees, except for the sodium light burning above the three garage doors. He started to turn away, when a flicker of motion caught his eye. He turned to see a large reddish dog loping towards them. He squeezed Fern's hand and pulled her closer to him.

The big dog bounded up to them, barking loudly, its wagging tail making it swerve from side to side. It snuffled at Don and Fern's feet and legs, and then bounded away and up the stairs to the house.

"I think we've been announced," Fern laughed, her voice catching. Don squeezed her hand again, this time to comfort her. They began to walk forward when the front door opened, and a tall young man with long black hair and a beard stepped out of the door, clothed only in old blue jeans.

"Hello!" the man called in a deep voice, shielding his eyes from the glare of the light above him.

"Hello," Don called, willing his voice to confidence. "We ran off the road, and wondered if we could call a tow truck."

The young man shook his head, and motioned them forward, the dog still at his side, barking joyously. The man spoke quietly, fondling the dog's wet ears, and the dog stopped, although still wriggling happily.

"I'm Duane Pirelli," the young man said, as he came part way down the steps to give Fern a hand on the slick steps. "Why don't the two of you come in and get dry?"

"I'm sure if we could use your telephone, we won't impose long," Fern began, and then jumped as thunder rolled across the sky like a great beast.

"There aren't any towing companies that will come up here during a boomer," Duane told her, smiling companionably. "And any excuse for company is fine with us, anyway."

"Oh, dear," Fern sighed as she stepped into the house. She found herself in a foyer, with natural wood walls. The door in front of her was flanked on each side with antique yellow glass, the natural ripples and imperfections making details beyond indistinguishable.

"Why don't you get out of those wet shoes," Duane told her, as he took the sodden wool blanket from Don. "You don't want to have cold wet feet, and Nick will have my head if that mud gets tracked on the floor."

Don and Fern took off their shoes, and their socks as well, and Duane ushered them in through the inner door.

"Oh, my!" Fern gasped. She stared at the expanses of rich amber-colored wood that covered the walls, and the earth-tone area rugs spread out across the floor and around the central kitchen area. The sturdy wood furniture was upholstered in complementing colors. Indirect lighting, from hidden niches at the top of the walls, spread gentle light across the pale wood ceiling.

When the young man behind her cleared his throat, she moved away from the door.

"I'm so sorry!" she laughed. "But this is like... an oasis in the desert!"

"I'd say thank you, but I'd get accused of taking all the credit," Duane smiled. "Hey! We have guests!" He shouted out, towards the left side of the house.

"How many?" a masculine voice called back from an open doorway.

"Two, stranded from the road," Duane answered.

"Oh, thank the gods, I was afraid it was Angela and her brood again," a man said, as he stepped through the doorway. Like Duane, he was clothed only in jeans, but he was a full head shorter than Duane. Still, he was taller than Fern and her husband. Long dark red hair flowed free over his shoulders, and like Duane, he wore a full beard, clipped short in tight curls. From the color of his chest hair and the beard, his hair color was natural.

"Why don't you get out of those wet clothes?" he continued, addressing Fern and Don. "I know we have a couple robes that will fit you, so you can get warm and dry. Oh, sorry, I'm Nick."

"I'm Don Westfall, this is my wife Fern. You don't need to go through this trouble..." Don started to insist. Nick held up a hand to stop him.

"We don't need to, we choose to," he told Don. "And there's nowhere you can go this late anyway. Where is your car, anyway?"

"In the ditch, next to where the bridge was," Don replied, flustered.

"Lake side, or mountain side?" Nick asked, suddenly more alert.

"Uh, mountain side."

"Whoops," Duane breathed, from where he was scratching the dog's stomach. "I better go get my boots and a shirt." He disappeared through a door to the right of the central area.

"The ditches on the mountain side get more water," Nick explained. "Duane's going to get the truck, and haul your car out of the ditch." He turned away for a moment. "Don't forget the barriers! We don't need to be sued if someone goes over the edge!"

"Oh! We didn't put up any markers!" Fern gasped.

"The plastic reflector markers would have been washed away by the rain, or the wind," Duane told her, coming back around the wall, hopping to get the second boot on his foot. "We have some road commission barriers, they show up well, and don't get lost easily."

"They're on loan from a friend of ours," Nick told them.

"Do you need some help?" Don asked.

"I'll go help him once I get the two of you squared away," Nick told him. "And if you don't get warm and dry, you'll wind up sick. We've done this before."

"I'll need the keys," Duane told Don. Don dropped the keys into Duane's outstretched hand. Duane nodded and headed out the door, the dog squeezing past him before he could close the door.

"There's robes in the closet of the bunkroom," Nick told them, moving towards the kitchen. "Around this wall, it's the white door. You probably haven't eaten yet, so I'll make up something for you. The bathroom's next to it, there's towels if you want a shower. Leave the clothes outside the door, and I'll put them in the wash."

"Thank you," Fern told him, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. "This is very kind of you."

"We're just doing what we can to make the world a better place," Nick shrugged. "And I think you'd be doing the same for us."

"If we ever get the chance," Don told him, smiling crookedly. Nick winked and walked into the kitchen.

 

When Don and Fern left the bunkroom, an interesting room with built-in bunk beds, they found Nick placing a steaming casserole on the tiled breakfast bar.

"I see we have bunkmates," Fern laughed gaily. "You have two beautiful cats snuggled in the middle of two of the bunks."

"Bast and Flame deign to allow guests use their domain," Nick told them, placing plates and silverware before them. "Did they leave you a bottom bunk?"

"Yes, actually, they're on the top bunks," Fern replied. "I must say, that's the first time I've seen queen-sized bunkbeds."

"They come in handy," Nick shrugged.

"This is what you 'just made up'?" Don asked. "It looks and smells incredible!"

"Twenty minutes," Nick shrugged. "I use shortcuts, and there's also the microwave." He cut into the casserole to serve a large wedge-shaped slice onto each of their plates. From what they could see, it was vegetables, cheese, pasta and tomato sauce, with herbs throughout. Soon they were marveling at the taste, as Nick went to get more clothes on.

When he returned wearing a shirt, jacket, and hat, as well as the jeans, he stopped to speak to them. "Please don't let the cats have any of the food, no matter how they beg. Bast is allergic to red food pigments, and Flame is on a diet."

"Of course," Fern nodded. "And thank you for the hot chocolate as well."

"Glad to be of service," Nick told them. "Just put the dishes in the dishwasher, I'll take care of them later." He pulled on his boots and walked out the door.

 

After they finished eating (and Fern defiantly washed the dishes), Don and she sat in the living room area, determined to wait for the two men. While Fern read from a copy of the Mother Earth News, Don spied a bound folder, titled, "Ulieka." He flipped it open, and saw that it seemed to be some sort of story. He read the first few sentences, and settled down to read it through, already drawn into the strange almost-Arabian culture the lead character lived in.

Fern discarded the magazine after awhile. She noted with amusement that Don would be engrossed for some time, and walked over to the patio door next to the fireplace. Through the window, she could see the deck, and a stairway which lead down to the ground behind the house. She looked past the deck, and through the flicker of lightning and reflected light from the house, she could see a circular area, paved with stones. At points around the circle, stone slabs stood, and stone benches sat sullenly between them. She filed this fact to the back of her head.

She wandered about the large living area, noting the titles of books, and some of the artwork. There were professionally matted and framed paintings of rural landscapes, exquisitely done, although Fern did not recognize the signature in the corners. There were also books on a diverse number of topics. A fifty-five volume set of the Oxford Treasury of Literature held a proud place, above a shelf full of books on computer programming and repair. One shelf, lighted from above and fronted by sliding glass doors, held a variety of natural crystals and other stones. Another held small figurines of mythological creatures, goddesses of several pantheons, and a chalice of polished silver. She drew her own conclusions, and kept them to herself.

As she crossed the living room back to the couch, she wondered if Don ever realized how badly the situations in their past had hurt him. Afterwards, he had begun to shy away from anything which others might term "strange." If certain things came up in a conversation, he changed the subject. If she brought home a book which others might question, he hid it away where guests would not see it. Of it's own accord, her hand felt for the slim pendant of amethyst that hung about her neck on a silver chain, a gift from one of the nurses at the hospital. She stared out the sliding glass door, watching the rain and the flashes of lightning.

She heard the distant sound of a large engine, and rose to go to the kitchen. She lifted the tea kettle, which she had left simmering, and poured the hot water onto the instant hot chocolate waiting in two mugs. She was stirring the cups as the two men came in, soaking wet and splotched with mud.

"I thought I'd return the favor," she told the two men, sliding the cups across the counter towards them.

"For this blessing, much thanks," Nick told her roguishly as he sipped the hot chocolate. Duane silently toasted her with a wink, and slurped some of his down as well.

"And where is your husband?" Duane asked, licking chocolate from his beard.

"As usual, Don is engrossed in reading," Fern told him. "Give him something to read, and his attention is captured."

"Not so much that I missed hearing your return, however," Don told them, coming up behind Fern. He held up the folder. "Who wrote this? This is excellent!"

Nick and Duane's eyes widened at once at the sight of the folder, and Nick's cup dropped to the floor with a thud and a splash. Duane grabbed Nick by the shoulders as Nick's hands slammed in to the counter.

"Nick, it's my fault, I was reading it over like you asked, when Macci started barking and I went to see what it was," Duane told him in a rush. "He didn't know, it's not his fault."

"What's wrong?" Fern asked, staring at Nick's white face. He's in a rage, she thought. A tightly-controlled rage.

"That's a project Nick's been working on for a while," Duane told her, over the other man's head.

"I need some air," Nick muttered. He moved out of Duane's grasp, and he stomped out of the house.

"Nick had some writing stolen, some years back, and he's been paranoid about it ever since," Duane told them.

"I take it I stepped over a boundary," Don nodded. "That's not paranoid, that's just good planning. Especially in this day and age. I better go apologize."

"No!" Duane answered. "One thing about Nick, you give him space until he calms down. He has a very hot temper. Sorry about this, I shouldn't have left that laying out."

"Oh, I understand," Fern nodded. "You should see Don when it comes to confidentiality, he's the same way."

"I'm a counselor," Don told Duane. "And I can understand how it feels. Some of my work got... twisted around once." He avoided Fern's eyes as he said it.

Duane's eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he nodded his head. "He was just about to send it off to his agent," he mentioned. "He's hoping for a decent deal for a book, hopefully with an offer for future books."

"How long have you been together?" Fern asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Well, the short version is that we've been living together now for four years, this August," Duane told her. "We were in treatment together, for alcoholism. It turned out that we both had similar interests, as well as a growing interest in each other."

"You're… remarkably open about it," Don said slowly. Fern watched as the old wariness drifted into his face.

"Donald Westfall, you can stop that right now," Fern told him quietly. "I think we're both old enough that we can leave what happened in the past, in the past. We're not going to lose our jobs or our homes just because Duane and Nick helped us, or because they're friends of ours. That was over twenty years ago." She crossed her arms and glared at her husband, who managed to look sheepish. She rolled her eyes and looked back to Duane who was stroking his beard, looking bemused.

"Let me clean this up, and I will give you the grand tour," Duane told them. Fern handed him the roll of paper towels next to her.

"And what is the long version?" she asked him as he mopped up the spilled chocolate. He handed her the mug, which she rinsed off and set on the drain board to dry.

"Well, we ran into a bit of a problem at the college we were attending," Duane replied, shrugging, coming around to the other side of the counter to pull a wastebasket out from under the sink. "A bit of good old bigotry, from one of the staff. It put a real strain on our relationship, and we broke up for a while. Two years actually. We tried to stay friends, but that didn't work very well, we were already too much of a couple to stay apart." He grabbed some more paper towels and moistened them with a bit of cleanser from a spray bottle.

"We kept our relationship quiet after that, which was another strain that we didn't need," he continued, as he wiped the wooden floor. "But we managed to graduate, early even, considering that we were both double-majors. This land belonged to my sister, but she and her husband had some problems." He looked up at Fern, sitting back on his heels. "Actually the son-of-a-bitch was beating the crap out of her. One night she got so sick of it, she shot him. There was enough of a history, with the police and the hospitals, that she didn't have to go to prison, but she didn't want to be here anymore."

"As it happened, a good friend of ours had just gotten a job at a local college, which had a number of open positions. She put in a good word for Nick and I, and we offered to buy my sister out." He gave a crooked smile. "We had to really talk her into taking the money, she just wanted to sign it over to us. But Nick had money from when his dad died, and we got her to see reason. Still got it cheap, for what land goes for around here. We moved the trailer out, cleaned the land up, and built the house."

"Are you happy at the college, then?" Don asked, hesitantly.

"Oh, yes," Duane chuckled. "Very. They knew going in that we were a couple, that we are gay, and that we aren't going to apologize for it. There's a few other gay faculty, as well as staff, and the administration, at least now, anyway, likes it that way. We have a small gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender organization, we do AIDS awareness talks, and we are also available if any of the gay students needs somebody to talk to or to speak up for them."

"Good for you!" Fern told him, smiling warmly.

"Oh, it gets even better," Duane told her leaning against the counter. "See, they'd recently expanded. Before it was a very small college, mostly for those entering the priesthood. It was founded by a group of monks who follow St. Francis Xavier, the Xavierian order. But over the past twenty or thirty years, they've had more and more people apply, and they've needed to add more and more courses and instructors.

"So, they got some money together, matching grants, donations from alumni or the family of alumni, some bequests from people in the community, and so on. In fact, I think that the Dominican Sisters put in a large chunk of the money as well. They added new offices, renovated the old ones, a whole bunch of new buildings.

"Sister Mary Loretto, our friend, was hired on as a part-time professor of Religious Studies, as well as Director of Campus Ministries, just as this was starting to come together. We were actually hired a semester before everything opened up.

"They wanted a decent mix of older and younger teachers, from different backgrounds. We were able to make some suggestions on some people, as well as some suggestions on where to look for others.

"When Nick was in the Navy, he had married a woman, for appearances, Jeanette. Jeanette had gone to school with us, and graduated with us, with a double-major of sociology and anthropology. She got a job.

"Nick's aunt had been a nurse for many years, and the college wanted to put in a nursing program, with plans to expand that into a nurse-practitioner program later on. So she is now an instructor, part-time, and heads up the student health program.

"Nick's sister teaches part-time in the business department, and her husband works in the district attorney's office. And my nephew Derek and Nick's brother Mike are due to start at the college, as students, this fall."

"So you have family and friends here with you," Don said slowly. "Your support network… You just moved it here with you."

"Plus we are making new friends all the time," Duane nodded.

"If it's not an imposition, perhaps we could get a tour of the campus sometime," Fern remarked. "It sounds… exciting."

"Be glad to," Duane grinned. "And let's start off with a tour of this campus."

 

As they entered the living room, Duane paused to add more wood to the fireplace that shared the wall with the back of the kitchen.

"Who are these pictures of?" Fern asked.

"In the center there is Nick's father, Grant," Duane told her. The painting showed an older man, in a sober suit, sitting at a desk dominated by a computer. Behind him were pictures of baseball players. "He played baseball in the minor leagues in his youth, and he ran a company specializing in advanced computer designs." He pointed to a picture of a pensive-looking young man in a Naval uniform. "That's Joey, Nick's ex-lover, he died while we were in treatment." Next was an elderly couple lounging under a tree together, the man's arms around the woman. "My parents. My dad died when I was little, Mom passed away just after our graduation." Next was a photo of a genial, chubby man with dark blonde hair, holding a toddler, with two older children standing on either side of him. "That's Nick's step-father, Max, with Nick, his sister Gail, and his little brother Mike." Above all of the pictures were four pictures, each of a different older couple. "And those are our grandparents. All of the paintings were done by Deirdre, Nick's aunt."

"And where is Nick's mother?" Fern asked. Duane grimaced.

"In prison. We don't talk about her. If you are ever interested, you should ask Gail, she probably has a more balanced view of things than the rest of us. But not around Nick."

"You're giving a lot of personal information to two strangers," Don noted.

"Strangers are friends you haven't met yet," Duane shrugged. "We've met you, though."

"You have quite a collection of books," Fern noted, smiling impishly at the look on Don's face.

"There's more upstairs," Duane grinned. "Nick can't walk past a bookstore without buying a few. And I get a lot of computer manuals and such."

"What is it that each of you teach?" Don asked.

"Nick teaches Journalism, English, and Creative Writing. I teach Computer Science, as well as Business Applications."

"What's Business Applications?" Fern asked.

"Teaching students how to use computer programs, such as Word, Excel, Pagemaker, those kinds of things. Usually, it's mostly older students, the younger students have been using them for quite a while already."

Fern looked up at the second floor balcony as they heard a series of short yips. "What in the world?" The sound was repeated, a little louder.

"Well, I will show you the upstairs, since I have to go get him," Duane chuckled. "Nick probably forgot he was up there during the hub-bub earlier."

Duane led the way up a heavy iron circular staircase to the second floor, and to a room where the door stood wide open. Inside, next to a large desk, was an over-stuffed raspberry-red cushion, with a small dog nestled on it. At the sight of the three humans, it's little tail started thumping the fabric of the cushion.

"That's a Chihuahua," Don said suspiciously.

"And a spoiled one, but only out of necessity," Duane agreed wryly. "His hind legs don't really work very well anymore, so we have to carry him around. But he's a good little guy, not like some of those yappy annoyances you've seen." Duane picked the dog up, and arranged him in the crook of his elbow. "This is Pedro. And no, we didn't name him."

The little dog looked at them with bright eyes, and then rubbed his head against Duane's shirt, eventually looking up at the man with adoration. The dog's fur was a delicate shade of fawn, with a little bit of white here and there.

"He's adorable," Fern told Duane. She let the dog sniff her fingers, and then rubbed him between the ears.

"He's worth the trouble," Duane told her. "We couldn't stand to see him abused the way he was, so we took him in." He gestured around the office. "This is Nick's office, obviously. It's the only room in the house where smoking is allowed, and we have the air purifier to keep it out of the rest of the house." He led the way out of the office, and shut the door after them. "Next along here is my office. We have a window between the two offices, which can be shut from either side for privacy." Duane's office held a desk and a workbench, upon which sat two computers in different stages of disassembly. Above the workbench were plastic bins and a computer monitor. "We have our own little network here, and the entire house is wired for it." He motioned to the other side of the house, past the chimney of the fireplace. "Over there is our bedroom, and the upstairs bathroom."

"There's a lot of space here," Fern remarked.

"We got tired of small apartments and tiny houses," Duane shrugged. "Anyway, you've seen one of the guest rooms, the other is identical, and you've probably found the bathroom by now. Nothing exciting in the basement, other than the laundry room and storage. That's also where we keep the overflow from the pantry and the refrigerator." He led the way back downstairs.

He dipped his hand into a large stoneware jar that sat on a small table near the fireplace, pulling out something round, flat, and of a dark, reddish-brown color. This he showed to Pedro. The little dog looked at it for a moment, looked up at Duane, and then took it calmly between his teeth.

"Jerky," Duane explained as they all sat down. "He likes to have something to gnaw on a bit."

They heard the door open and close, and the big dog came trotting in. "I believe you've met Macchi," Dunae observed, as she went from person to person, sniffing them. When she got to Duane, she licked Pedro a couple times and then sat down in front of Duane, looking expectant.

Nick came through the archway, looking tired.

"Your daughter wants a treat," Duane told him. Nick rolled his eyes and got a piece of jerky from the jar. Macchi immediately stood up and went to him, sitting in front of him with the same expression on her face. Nick gave it to her, and she promptly curled up in front of the fire with it.

"I apologize," Nick told Don. "I over-reacted a bit. But when I get angry, it's best if I cool off on my own." He looked at Duane with a sour look on his face. "Old tapes."

"Yeah, it's a bitch," Duane nodded.

"And there's no erase button," Don remarked, smiling crookedly. Nick glanced over at him, surprised, and smiled.

"No, there isn't," he admitted. He sat down next to Duane on the couch. Pedro nudged at Nick's leg with his nose. "OK, problem child." Nick shifted over a little, and set the dog down on the couch between them, and Duane gave Pedro back his jerky.

"It was very good," Don told Nick, seriously. "I don't normally go for fantasy, but you drew me in very quickly and kept me interested."

"Thank you," Nick replied.

"While you were out, I was perusing your books, and your art," Fern told him. "I assume that your aunt Deirdre is also the painter of the landscapes?"

"Yes," Nick grinned. "She doesn't paint as often as she might like, but when she does, she does very well."

"I can only imagine how much work she must put into each one," Fern mused. "I used to do a bit of drawing, a long time ago, and every time I pick up the drawing pad again, it takes more effort to get things the way I want them." She studied the two of them for a moment. "The two of you are nowhere close to normal, are you?" "Fern!" Don exclaimed, looking aghast. Duane through his head back and laughed, while Nick silently chuckled.

"She's quite right," Nick noted. "There isn't a single thing about us that could be called normal, without completely ignoring essential details."

"I thought so," Fern nodded. "You'll have to excuse Don. We were involved in something, a long time ago, that got misconstrued, and then blown out of proportion. His response to that has been to shy away from anything that might sound strange to outsiders."

Don looked uncomfortable, and moved as if to stand up, but suddenly his lap was occupied by a cat. It was a sleek-looking short-hair, tawny gold with dark brown markings on its head and legs. Its head was surmounted by a pair of large, delicate ears, which looked regal rather than ungainly.

"This is Bast," Nick told Don, his eyes darting from the cat to Fern, with a knowing look.

He knows, Fern thought, and turned to regard the cat. The cat looked up at her lazily, and squeezed its eyes shut before opening them again. She opened her mouth to speak to Don, and then shut it. Now or never.

**He knows, Don,** she told her husband.

"Don't be ridiculous," Don spluttered, and then turned red as he realized he'd answered out loud to a mental communication.

"He knows, because the cat knows," Fern pointed out. She created a picture of the cat in her mind and flipped it into his.

Don fidgeted a little, looking lost and frightened, an odd expression for a man nearing 60.

Fern turned back to Duane and Nick, both of them looking grave. "A little over 20 years ago, Don and I started inviting students into our home after school. They all had hard home lives, nothing that could be taken to the authorities, so we were trying to help them to cope. All of them had a little talent, which made it harder for them. Eventually, there were some accusations made against Don and I, and we lost our jobs. I was teaching social studies, and Don was a counselor. Afterwards, it was difficult for us to find jobs. Eventually, Don was able to get a job at a counseling clinic, and I had to take administrative jobs."

"Yeah," Duane nodded. "There's that 'nasty undercurrent' you're always talking about," he noted to Nick.

"Let me guess," Nick smirked. "All of the kids were in homes that were subtly or overtly emotionally or psychologically abusive."

"Yes," Fern nodded. "They had parents that had begun to hate their own children, or hate each other, or just plain hate. And the children were picking up on that."

"So you were teaching them shielding," Duane nodded. "Very good."

"So, how long did it take you to start believing that you were doing something wrong?" Nick asked Don pointedly. Don looked helplessly to Fern, who simply crossed her arms and tilted her head, watching him.

"I'm not sure," Don said quietly, after several tense minutes. "Maybe a couple years. It was very hard, applying for jobs I wouldn't get. I started thinking it was my fault, and then … well."

Fern looked away, and caught the look that passed between the two young men.

"I went through something similar, when I was a kid," Nick sighed. "I won spelling bees, and I got beat up. I wrote articles for the school newspaper, I got beat up. I joined the track team, I got beat up. I started thinking that it was my fault, that if I wasn't different, I wouldn't be a target."

"Got beat up bad enough to break your arm," Duane noted, sourly.

"How did you deal with that?" Fern asked him.

"I didn't," Nick shrugged. "I just pulled in on myself, isolated. Eventually, I found out the truth, the things I didn't know about the situation. I never really dealt with it at all."

Fern nodded, and saw Macchi heave herself up with a sigh. The big dog walked over to Pedro, who was squirming closer to the edge of the couch. Macchi extended her head closer to the little dog, and picked him up by the scruff of his neck, and carried him out of the room.

"What in the world?" she laughed.

"Pedro is probably thirsty," Duane told her. "Macchi has been carrying him around since he came to live with us. She seems to think she's his mother. In another half hour, she'll take him out to go to the bathroom."

"Incredible," Don mused, seemingly relieved the conversation had shifted.

"So, what information was it?" Fern asked Nick, inwardly feeling guilt for subjecting these two men, one a stranger and the other her husband, to more of this pain.

"My mother was very active in the community," Nick told her. "She was a very good realtor. She had a lot of connections to the city government, as well as the local legislators. And she was also popular with the wealthier set as well. And she loved being the center of attention. She didn't appreciate being displaced."

"I don't think I understand," Don said slowly.

"My mother was having me beat up," Nick told him bluntly. "She was sick of hearing people talk about my accomplishments, when she wanted them to talk about hers. So she hired people, or coerced people, into beating me up, every time the spotlight drifted off her."

"How did you find out?" Fern asked softly.

"My father hired a private detective, to keep watch over me, as well as what my mother was up to," Nick shrugged. "The detective actually saved my life once."

"The time they broke his arm, they were using baseball bats," Duane told them. "The boys his mother had hired already didn't like Nick, for various reasons, and they took his mother's instructions a bit liberally."

"You and your father must have been very close," Fern noted, glancing up to the portrait over the fireplace.

"We never met," Nick told her sadly. "He knew that she would lose it if he tried to get in contact with me. She hated him with a passion, and about the only reason she retained custody of myself and Gail was to spite him. I found all of this out after he was killed."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Fern told him. She looked at her hands for a moment and looked up at him. "It sounds to me like fate has brought us together. Because there are a lot of parallels between the two situations."

"Oh?" Nick asked, one eyebrow raised.

"One thing that Don has never been able to come to terms with is that we were deliberately sabotaged," Fern replied. "Two of the older boys had figured out exactly what they had, and what they could do with it. And they viewed what we were doing as an obstacle."

"There's been no proof of that," Don objected.

"They'd been bullying young children for years," Fern continued, ignoring him. "And when we started teaching these children to shield, they started to lose control of them. So they started hiding things in our home, when they were there. And they started a little campaign with the other children, telling them what we were really doing is brainwashing them. Then they started some wild rumors, and then 'confessed' to the school principal."

"How did you find out?" Nick asked.

"Well, we knew that somebody had planted the evidence," Fern shrugged. "Pamphlets and literature, I have no idea where they got it. But, much later, I worked with one of the young women, at my present job, and she told me some of what was going on. She knew what we were really doing, as well. But all of the ruckus, she knew that she couldn't say anything."

"You never told me that," Don gasped.

"I tried to, several times, but you wouldn't listen," Fern pointed out. "You refuse to talk about any of that, and you were appalled that I was associating with her, even after all these years." She turned back to Nick and Duane. "That is what caused my so-called heart attack. Several months ago, she called out to me, frightened to death. The two boys, now men, had tracked her down. She died while we were linked."

"They killed her by telepathy?" Duane grimaced.

"No, they were never that talented, and even if they had, they would not have been able to withstand the backlash. They were only as talented as it took to pull a few secrets or thoughts out of someone else's mind."

"I should have listened to you," Don groaned.

"Do you realize how much you've closed yourself in?" Fern asked him. "You called or visited me in the hospital every day, several times a day. And you didn't need to. Don, it's as if you've forgotten how to use your mind. And that is more dangerous for you than my heart is for me."

"I suppose we have a lot to talk about," Don sighed.

"What happened to the two men?" Nick asked.

Fern smiled crookedly. "They are heading to prison. Amelia's apartment building had cameras in the parking lot, and she ran outside to try to get away from them."

She had to wonder why Nick suddenly shivered violently. But then there was a car horn in the driveway, and Nick and Duane jumped up to find out who had arrived. They went to the window of the dining room to look out.

"Here's Angela," Nick groaned.

"Crud," Duane spat. "Damn it all, it's not fair to the cats and the dogs, Nick. And she just keeps going back to him anyway."

"You want to send them away?" Nick asked archly.

"Yes!" Duane told him forcefully. "We are not a hotel. If she wants to get away from him so badly, then she should call the police."

"What's the matter?" Don asked.

"Angela's husband is a drunk, and he's afraid of lightning," Duane told him. "Most nights, a taxi brings him home, already passed out. But when there's a boomer, he comes home drunk and takes it out on her."

"And she's been doing this for two years," Nick noted. "She stays for a day or two, and then goes back. The entire time they are here, we have to keep the cats and dogs down in the basement, because half the kids won't leave them alone and the other half go into hysterics at the sight of them."

"They especially love Pedro," Duane added. "Because he can't run away, and they keep pulling on his legs." He turned to Nick. "We have an easy out, you know. We're full because we have guests."

"And you can also point out that she's abusing you more than he's abusing her," Fern observed."

"Let's just get it over with," Nick decided. "She'll bitch and scream, but it's high time to cut this out. I'll go talk to her, you go get the list."

"The list?" Don asked.

"Of attorneys, as well as instructions on how to get a restraining order, and contact numbers for the Friend of the Court and the welfare office," Nick replied, pulling on his boots.

He went out the door, and they heard him start saying "no" loudly even as he closed the door behind him. It seemed some of the kids had already climbed the stairs to the front door, because one managed to squeeze past him and ran into the kitchen.

Fern saw the look in Pedro's eyes, where he was sprawled near the water dish, and grabbed the little girl before she could get close to the little dog. The child immediately began thrashing about, screaming "Pedro! Pedro!" in a shrill voice.

Without thinking about it, Fern clamped down on the child's vocal centers. Don came over and took the child from her, carrying her still-squirming form out the door.

"It looks like you've kept in practice," Duane noted grinning.

"Every day," Fern told him. "I work in a state office, with about 10 other secretaries. I like to keep the drama down to a minimum."

"Gods, could we use you at the college," Duane told her, moving toward the door. "Especially in Residential Life. Hell, any of the departments."

 

After Nick and Duane had sent the adamant Angela away, Fern and Don went to bed. They'd been up somewhat early, and then the four-hour drive from the airport, and the night's events, had worn them down.

Fern was snuggled up to Don, her back against his chest, with his breath stirring the hair on the top of her head. She mentally gave herself up to the comforting folds of sleep, when something she had been hoping for, for years, happened.

**You are my center, my life, and my love,** Don told her mentally. **You always have been, and always will be. I'm sorry.**

She wrapped all of her feelings for him in a nice soft blanket and spread it over him, which was all the answer she could give him, and all the answer he really needed. He squeezed her closer to him, and she fell asleep with a triumphant smile on her face.