A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Dr. Walker landed the plane on what he claimed was a relatively flat stretch of desert, but the ensuing mayhem felt more as though they'd actually crashed into something; Michael got so jostled and banged about he was sure he'd be bruised on his backside for a week. Dr. Walker suffered a lot of chaff from Grim and Mrs. Walker, who told him he was a better sailor than a pilot; Dr. Walker had just smiled his good-natured smile and given them the finger. The equipment got banged about too; when Michael commented on the smashed screens and scattered motherboards Frances had simply shrugged one elegant shoulder.

"We got what we wanted out of it," he said.

Michael stared at the pile of equipment. He had spent five years scrimping and saving just to get by on an interior decorator's salary and frugality had become almost second nature to him. He knew the stuff must've cost a lot of money, and couldn't imagine just throwing it away. "You're just going to leave it here?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Course not!" bellowed Grim, wheeling a long low motorcycle past them out the cargo door. "Can't leave it lying around. Someone'd figure out what we did with it."

"What DID you do with it?" asked Michael, confused.

"Hacked into the proprietary files at my old company," said Frances serenely. He was loading up small bits of equipment, mostly things that looked like discarded cell phone parts, into a small backpack where they mixed and jumbled with the granola bars and cans of energy drink already there. "I needed a copy of a piece of software I'd helped write."

"You STOLE it?" Michael felt like he ought to be horrified but truthfully he was very impressed. Frances saw the look of approbation on his face and smiled.

"Please, darling," he said dryly; "borrowed. I only borrowed it."

"We took it without asking or paying for it, didn't we?" asked Mrs. Walker with a laugh as she passed them; one arm was loaded with old wool blankets, and in her other hand she held a red jug of gasoline. Even shed of her expensive habiliments and perfect little hat, of her gloves and designer shoes and expertly applied makeup, she looked in her ratty black jumpsuit just as beautiful and well-grooms evs ever; her skin had the luster of freshly-polished abalone, her eyes glowed pale silvery-gray and her black hair was glossy and smooth. Michael sighed enviously after her – he spent so much time and effort on his appearance; to see someone achieve perfection with little to no exertion was Really Unfair.

Then he felt light pressure and body heat against his back and shoulders, and smelled his lover's cleaent.ent. "Don't worry," came Frances' voice, deep and sultry and full of promise, whispering round the whorl of Michael's ear and making him come out in gooseflesh. "I think blondes are MUCH more attractive."

The first thrill of gratification that had shivered through Michael was doused by the memory of Legs' own flawlessness, the sapphire eyes and the sheet of pale hair that lay over his shoulders; he gave another sigh, even more melancholic, and to his surprise Frances wound one long arm round his stomach and pulled him up close. "Thinking of my ex?" he asked, his dark voice edged with wry humor. "Don't worry, darling – all I see is you."

"Really?" Michael twisted in Frances' embrace, tipping his face up to see him. Frances was smiling, his pale eyes hooded; his aquiline nose cast a sharp shadow over his cheek. Even with Frances' stubbled chin and rather battered flannel shirt Michael was once again overwhelmed by his physical beauty, and felt as though his heart were melting right inside his chest. "Oh please, let him love me," he prayed to whatever deity might be handy. "Please please please let him never ever leave me!"

"Get a move on, lovebirds," Dr. Walker said as he passed, the chuckle inherent in his voice; Frances released Michael, gave him a teasing squeeze on his backside, and turned to exit the plane.

Mrs. Walker was standing at the bottom of the ramp, holding something in her hands that looked a lot like the controls for a remote-control airplane. Michael could hear Grim muttering and banging around under the plane but couldn't see him; Doris was standing in the way, occasionally handing him a screwdriver or some other tool. Three motorcycles waited in a row, leaning on their kickstands; Legs' stretched-out monstrosity, and two shorter, fatter bikes, one black and one red. They looked very out of place beside the rusty, decrepit plane; they were glossy and fresh and clean, and looked as though they'd never seen a's h's hard riding in their lives. Dr. Walker and Frances hefted backpacks onto their shoulders and fastened them around their waists, and at last Grim finished whatever he was doing beneath the plane and came out, wiping his hands on his jeans; Doris gave him an exasperated look but smiled anyway. Michael recognized that look – it was the same look he would give Frances when he would catch him at two in the morning, still sweating away at some recalcitrant computer program, when he'd told Michael at ten-thirty he'd only be "five more minutes." "She loves Grim the way I love Frances," he thought, feeling suddenly warm. "She puts up with his funny ways and accepts him the way he is and he loves her right back. She's So Lucky!" He looked wistfully over at Frances, who was speaking in an undertone with Dr. Walker; they both looked very serious, and similar too in a way; tall and broad-shouldered and long-legged, with their dark hair and gray eyes. Michael had another epiphany. "Frances respects Dr. Walker a lot," he thought, watching them. "It's almost as though Dr. Walker's his boss or something. I wonder why it was Legs and not Dr. Walker to order him around?" That got him wondering who was in charge, REALLY in charge – Dr. Walker or Legs? He tried to think back onto the couple of times he'd seen Dr. Walker and Legs interacting together, but couldn't really come to any conclusions; perhaps they were equals? "Either Legs is in charge and he's the one giving all the orders and that's why it was him ordering Frances around," thought Michael, "or Dr. Walker's in charge and Legs is his subordinate and Frances resented anyone but Dr. Walker telling him what to do."

His ruminations were interrupted by Dr. Walker's voice saying very clearly, "See you in Miami," and Michael, startled, turned to him; then he saw to his dismay that Grim and Doris were mounting the two larger bikes and Doris was strapping on a helmet. Doris couldn't Leave Him! She was the only Normal person there! He hurried up to her, fighting down a feeling of panic, and grabbed her by the arm; she turned to him, her face looking strange behind the heavy helmet.

"Why are you leaving?" he asked.

He saw her cheeks bunch up; she had smiled. She patted his hand. "I'll see you in a couple of days," she said, and winked; Michael stepped back, and she and Grim started their motorcycles. They waved as they drove away, and Michael waved back, but half-heartedly; he had dearly hoped Doris would stay. Without her, Michael felt very lost; she at least had seemed to be just as scared as he, and he'd taken some comfort in that; but she was gone. He stared after them, watching the little red taillights grow fainter and fainter in the clear desert air, then they went down into a little dip in the landscape and disappeared entirely.

"All right, let's get moving," said Dr. Walker, shifting his backpack. He looked over at Michael, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Michael," he said, "when was the last time you drank some water?"

"Um," said Michael, trying to think. Dr. Walker seemed to take this to mean "a long time ago" and dug a bottle of spring water out of his backpack. "Drink up," he ordered him. "We've got a long way to go."

That sounded ominous to Michael but he broke the seal and took a gulp. Suddenly he realized he was parched; the feel of the cool liquid caressing his tongue awoke a horrible dryness in his throat and before he knew it he'd downed the entire bottle. When he went to put the top back on he realized the other three were watching him, grinning.

"Good thing it wasn't a beer," said Dr. Walker, and Michael smiled shyly. Dr. Walker turned to his wife and said, "Be careful, okay?"

"I know what I'm doing; I've done it before," she said archly, her hand on her hip.

"I don't mean the plasticine," grinned Dr. Walker. "I mean Legs' Harley."

"Oh, that," she said, and cast a disdainful eye on it. "Serve him right if I laid it down. Awful color scheme."

"To give hrediredit," said Frances with careful solicitousness, "he claims he got it at a discount, and the paint color wasn't his first choice."

"Cheap bastard," said Mrs. Walker, and Dr. Walker and Frances both laughed. Michael swallowed.

"Do you think he's okay?" he asked, his voice sounding high and anxious beside theirs. They all turned to him.

"Who, Legs?" asked Mrs. Walker in surprise. "Hell, yes. Nothing can hurt that sonofabitch. Why do you think we made HIM jump out of the airplane?"

The other three laughed again, and Michael thought they sounded awfully callous; no matter how many times someone cheated death that didn't necessarily mean Lady Luck would be on their side – in fact, the odds would almost have to be stacked against them, wouldn't they? But then Frances took his hand, and following Dr. Walker they started to trudge into the darkness, leaving Mrs. Walker and the plane behind.

**********************************

Surprisingly enough, considering how his week had gone, Michael's worst fears were not realized. He had asked, about twenty minutes into the walk, where they were going, and Dr. Walker had pointed straight ahead to a large black mass rising against the starry sky. "Top of that mountain there," he'd said, "and down the other side of the ridge into the valley on the other side. We'll be in Arizona then." Michael's heart had plummeted. He was in fairly good physical condition (he went to the gym every day, after all; he had to keep his body looking as perfect as possible, so that Frances would continue to be pleased) but wasn't sure he was quite up to THAT kind of hike. But after several hours, and three more bottles of water forced on him by Dr. Walker, they came across a jeep nestled in a dry ravine, and with confidence the two men walked toward it.

"Is this our jeep?" asked Michael in surprise, looking down at it; it looked as though it had seen better days; the tonneau cover was ripped and one of the headlights smashed.

"Actually it's Éowyn's," said Dr. Walker. "She bought a new one and said we could use this. Don't worry," he said, smiling up at Michael and unfastening his backpack; "the VIN's beenbed bed off and all identifying markers have been removed. It's untraceable."

Michael stared at it, thinking it was kith and kin to the plane as far as its disreputable, decrepit looks went, and wondering who on earth Éowyn was. Frances was climbing into the driver's seat; he'd pulled a screwdriver out of his backpack and was fiddling around under the drive shaft. "I hope it starts," he said petulantly; "this wasn't their most reliable mode of transportation. And as I recall THIS was the jeep whose transmission crapped out twenty miles from the second barn, and Sam and Frodo had to walk all the way back, because Sam didn't have his cell phone with him, and Frodo had forgotten to charge the battery in his." He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Rosie was furious."

"Rosie stays pissed off. It's her normal condition," said Dr. Walker. "As long as it starts once and gets us where we want to go, I don't care if it never starts again." He glanced at his watch, pressing a button on the side; Michael saw a little blue glow as the face lit up. "Hm. Better get down here, Mike."

"That close?" asked Frances in surprise, and when Dr. Walker nodded he gestured to Michael. "Hurry," he said. Skidding on the loose dirt and gravel, Michael slid into the ravine and fetched up with his hands against the cold metal side of the jeep. "Oh," added Frances, turning to him, "you might want to cover your ears."

Michael opened his mouth to ask why, but at that moment a tremendous explosion rocked the night, and a brilliant flash of light illuminated the entire desert; there was the faintest whisper of air above the surface of the ravine and a couple of rocks tumbled down at them. One of them struck the back of Michael's leg and he cried out, more in shock than pain; Dr. Walker caught him as he staggered against the jeep. He was surprisingly strong. "That was impressive," said Frances calmly; he gave the screwdriver a little twist and the jeep sputtered to life. "Thank goodness," he muttered. "Didn't think this thing had any life left in it."

"You all right?" asked Dr. Walker; Michael nodded, too stunned to speak, and let him bundle him into the jeep. "Good," said Dr. Walker. He looked back up at the lip of the ravine and grinned. "Bet Arwen loved doing that."

"Yes," said Frances dryly; "Arwen always did love crashing a good party."

"Now, now," chided Dr. Walker, climbing into the passenger's seat and buckling up. "You're not still upset about the elephant in your garden, are you?" When Frances shot him a dirty look Dr. Walker continued blandly, "I thought it added a certain je ne sais quoi to your birthday celebration."

"You're not the one who had to explain to Lord Walbeach why his wife had elephant shit all over her shoes," said Frances acidly, and throwing the jeep into gear they jolted forward.

Frances drove slowly along the ravine floor, not turning on the headlights. Every once in a while an indicator on his cell phone would flash, and they would stop and sit very still; then in the quiet of the desert night he would hear the faint thup-thup-thup of a helicopter far in the distance. After this happened three times the sound was so faint he could hardly hear it at all. "Good," said Dr. Walker. "Looks like she led them off."

"Wh – who, Mrs. Walker?" asked Michael, speaking for the first time since the explosion. Dr. Walker looked over at him with a smile.

"You know, Mike, you can call us Aragorn and Arwen," he said. "You've certainly earned that right by now."

"Um," said Michael. He wasn't sure if he could. "It sounds awfully – I don't know – impolite." When the other two men laughed he said peevishly, "Well, you're so – I don't know – so refined, and your first names are a little – um – "

"Difficult to remember?" asked Dr. Walker. "Well, that's quite all right – call us what you want, Michael."

"Okay," said Michael, hoping he wouldn't be offended – or worse, laugh at him – when Michael continued to call him Dr. Walker. After all he couldn't even remember Legos and Fritos; how did they expect him to remember all these strange names? "But – the plane – do you mean – did Mrs. Walker – blow it up?"

"Yes," said Dr. Walker. He held on tightly to the jeep door while Frances negotiated a particularly bumpy patch. "Had to get rid of the evidence."

"But – your plane – "

"MY plane?" Dr. Walker laughed again. "Gimme a break. I stole it."

Frances gave him a cool look, though Michael could see in the faint starlight he was smiling sardonically. "Please, Aragorn," he said. "Not 'stole.' 'Appropriated.'"

"Right, sorry," chuckled Dr. Walker. "Shit, Faramir, first you 'borrow' a program, then I 'appropriate' an airplane – what verb will you use for what Legolas is about to do?"

Frances pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then he gave a wicked little smile.

"Erase,'" he said.