CHAPTER 17

John left Monica and Gibson after a round of affectionate good-byes, 
then went in search of Catherine. She was impressed when he 
translated his message into his newly-learned code, and she promised 
to send it. "I'm glad you came to me with this," she said. "We've 
heard from Gibson's parents."

John's stomach leapt into his throat. "What did they say?"

"They've been looking for him since he ran away from his foster 
home. And the state's been looking for him too. The grand jury has 
questioned them about his disappearance, and his foster parents have 
been indicted."

"Aw, jeez..." John shook his head. "When I requested special 
protections for him..."

"You did that?" she asked.

He nodded. "But it wasn't because of his parents..." He sighed, 
remembering the questioning he underwent after Luke's 
disappearance. "He needs to be safe. He'd been kidnapped, and 
threatened, and ..."

"We know about that," Catherine said. "We've been taking care of him 
off and on for years. He came to us when he ran away. And the Via 
Sub Rosa sheltered your friend Mulder too."

"So now what?" Doggett rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "We 
turn him over to his parents? Back to the state?"

"He's still a ward of the state... They want us to surrender him."

Doggett started pacing in a small arc. "We can't do that! They're 
on their way? What if..."

Catherine grasped his arm and held him in place. "They don't know 
where he is. We have time."

Doggett's panic didn't ease with this small consolation. "How much 
time?"

"Time enough for us to set up your escape," she said 
confidently. "Come, let me show you something."

He followed her as she led him to the ravine, then down the rickety 
stairs to the foul-smelling cave. He stopped caring whether she 
could hear his thoughts, and he let his mind ruminate over his 
questions about what she was doing. When they reached the mouth of 
the cave, Catherine met a gnarled, elderly, Mexican man and spoke to 
him in Spanish. John picked up only a few words but the man's face 
showed the importance of what was said. He nodded his head earnestly 
and ushered the pair inside, then he handed them flashlights and led 
them to a large, high-ceilinged chamber. A shaft of daylight in the 
center provided dull illumination for the entire area, revealing a 
series of iron containers, each with a fire burning under them. As 
they approached the first one the odor overwhelmed John and he pulled 
his shirt over his mouth.

"What the--" he demanded, coughing into the fabric.

"Not a pretty smell," Catherine agreed. "But it can't be helped. 
Magnetite is like that."

Doggett stared at her, wide-eyed. Did she say magnetite?

She nodded in response to his mental question, then led him through a 
series of similar chambers. As they wound their way around vats, 
machinery, ovens and assembly lines, she explained that the complex 
was a factory, making bullets and a few other products wholly or 
partly made from magnetite. "We've known for some time about the 
supersoldiers and their weakness. Gibson is not the only one of his 
kind," she said significantly. "We have protected other children 
from them too."

"Rosalita?" Doggett suggested.

Catherine nodded. "Lita has been with us for awhile now."

*******

When they arrived at the library, Monica found a Fedex box waiting 
for her. As she sorted through the home-schooling materials she 
felt an odd sensation around her, as if something was weaving itself 
through her mind, yet not leaving a trace. She looked up to see 
Gibson and Rosalita staring into space, looking over her shoulder 
with blank expressions in their eyes but Mona Lisa grins on their 
lips.

"Okay, you two, what are you doing?" Monica said sternly.

The pair erupted into giggles and looked mischievously into each 
other's eyes. "Nothing," Gibson could barely get out through his 
laughter. Rosalita demurely put her hand to her mouth, not knowing 
that her eyes were laughing as heartily as her mouth.

Monica stared at the impish pair, her amused disapproval not making 
an impact. They continued giggling until they seemed to have shared 
a serious thought, then stopped. "We're sorry, Monica," Gibson 
said. "We'll be good." His giggles threatened to bubble up again 
but he suppressed him. "Let's learn some math!"

Monica eyed them skeptically. "Am I going to have to separate you 
two?"

"No, teacher," Gibson said with mock obedience.

"Rosalita?" Monica nodded to the girl. Rosalita seemed shy suddenly, 
blushing and looking down, her hands in her lap. Monica lowered her 
voice and said soothingly, "Rosalita? What's wrong?" The girl pulled 
up her head slowly and looked into Monica's eyes. Monica saw a 
haunted, frightened little girl suddenly, haunted with the same fear 
she had seen in Gibson's eyes. Gibson's hand reached out for 
Rosalita's and the girl immediately smiled, sighing gratefully at her 
hero's tender touch.

"She's okay," Gibson stated authoritatively. "She's just a little 
shy."

"Shy but full of mischief?" Monica asked skeptically. "Are you going 
to come clean?"

"We were playing tag..." Gibson admitted after a long silence. "In 
your mind."

Monica sighed and leaned back in her seat. "Who won?" she asked 
finally. But the mischievous pair remained mum. "Well, whoever won, 
I'd appreciate it if you didn't do it again. Okay?" Gibson and 
Rosalita nodded contritely. "Today is diagnostics day. Gibson, 
you'll take the English test. Rosalita, American history." She 
shoved some papers across to her students, handed them pencils, and 
started toward the computer. "And NO CHEATING," she reminded them 
over her shoulder. Rosalita looked at Gibson, and Gibson winked at 
her.

After "class," Monica approached Martha. "Does the Via have some 
kind of code of ethics?"

Martha sighed. "What did they do?" After Monica explained about the 
tag game and her suspicions about cheating, Martha offered to have a 
talk with the miscreants during their training. "Rosalita has been 
with us long enough to know better," she said with a tinge of 
disappointment. "But I have to admit, I'm glad to see her spirit 
returning. She's had a difficult time of it. Worse than Gibson."

It hadn't occurred to Monica that *any* child could have had a more 
traumatic childhood than Gibson. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said 
sadly. "I wish there were something I could do..."

Martha put her hand on Monica's arm, the calmness and serenity of the 
nun's spirit somehow suffusing Monica's through this gesture. "You 
already are. And we appreciate it."