JiM :: Coming Home

Chapter 1

"Doctor? There's a Dr. Gandahar here to see you. Shall I show him in?"

Quest looked up from his computer notepad and smiled gently at his assistant. "Show her in, would you Jenny?"

"It's a gentleman who's come to see you, sir. Were you expecting a woman? Shall I call Security?"

His smile deepened to a grin. Those original, paranoid security protocols, put in place so long ago, instructed them to call Security at any discrepancy, no matter how minor. It gave him a secret thrill to ignore them at whim now. "No, Jenny. Show the doctor in and ask Mark to bring some tea, would you?"

His assistant's disapproving frown make him laugh out loud, once she was gone. He had no doubt that she would contact Security, just in case and on her own initiative. Let her—he had hired independent intelligent staff, not automatons, for a reason.

Jenny returned with a somewhat elderly Indian gentleman in tow. She courteously conducted him into the office, then silently withdrew. He was somewhat stooped and had to look up into Dr. Quest's face as he bowed, then shook hands. His skin was nut-brown and papery-dry, bespeaking his age. His smooth dark hair was liberally sprinkled with gray and gave him a most distinguished appearance.

"It is kind of you to see me on such short notice, Dr. Quest. It is on a matter of the gravest nature that I come to you now." His voice was the querulous voice of an old man, but the accent was pure Oxonian.

"How can I help you, Dr. Gandahar?" He gestured courteously toward a comfortable chair.

"I need a place to hide, Ben." The voice had suddenly deepened and the accent had relaxed into its natural Southern drawl, overlaid with unknown traces of many places.

As Quest stared in shock, his visitor straightened up, becoming taller than he by several inches and mysteriously broadening into a muscular and vigorous man in his middle forties.

"Don't you know me, Ben?"

"Race!" He caught both of the other man's hands, then after an awkward pause, he clasped him in a clumsy hug. "It's been a year! I thought you might be dead; where have you been?"

"It's a long story. But the most important part is that I've found Jessie. I found my daughter, Ben. She's here with me. And we need a place to go to ground."

Quest said nothing for a moment. "I…I'm glad for you, Race." Then he visibly shook himself. "You'd better come to the Compound with me. It's the safest place I know."

The other man's mouth quirked. "I know. I designed it to be."

The door opened and Mark entered with a tea service on floaters. Instantaneously, the elderly Dr. Gandahar was back, slowly lowering himself into the comfortable chair that his host was suddenly gesturing toward. A sparkle in both their eyes would have told the quick observer that they were momentarily enjoying themselves and their play-acting.

"Perhaps we could invite my grandson in for a cup, Dr. Quest? I left him outside with your excellent assistant." Quest nodded once to Mark who silently withdrew and conducted a youngster, who might have been the twin to Dr. Quest's teen-aged ward Hadji, back into the inner office. The young man set down the black suitcase he had been carrying, executed a polite low bow toward his host, but seemed too oppressed by his surroundings to speak. The orderly left, sealing the door behind him. Once again Dr. Quest was fascinated by the way the elderly Dr. Gandahar seemed to melt into Race Bannon. The young man immediately relaxed into a sullen-mouthed teenaged girl, impatient with this game of her father's. He wondered how neither Mark nor Jenny had seen through those disguises. Of course, Race knew his business and the girl was undoubtedly the daughter of one of the best spies and adventuresses he had ever met, the passionately amoral Jade.

"Jessie, this is Dr. Benton Quest. Ben, this is my daughter." Race's eyes met Quest's for a long moment, before the scientist moved forward to shake the girl's hand and tried to smile in welcome.

"I'm glad to meet you, Jessie. I knew your mother."

"Dr. Quest," the girl acknowledged him without enthusiasm, barely touching his out-stretched hand before dropping it. It was hard to tell what she actually looked like, under all of the skin-dye, the wig and the unisex suit and the turban she was sporting. But he could see that she had inherited her mother's emerald green eyes and her father's decisive jaw.

"I think we'd better get home to the compound. We have a lot to talk about." Meeting Bannon's eyes over his daughter's head, Dr. Quest grimaced as he remembered how much they had to talk about—and words they both needed to forget.

They left his office by the private exit to the roof. Race never once dropped out of his character as Dr. Gandahar, allowing himself to be solicitously helped into the mini-jet's front seat by his "grandson" and host. Only once they were air-borne and Quest had videoed his assistant with some end-of-the-day instructions, did he allow himself to relax again. Turning in his seat, he winked at his daughter and knocked her turban off. With a sigh of relief, she dragged the black wig off her head and shook out long, light-brown tresses, combing her hands through them luxuriously. The effect of her brown-dyed skin with her light-colored hair made her appear even more exotic and, for a moment, Race thought he caught a glimpse of her mother in her expression. Then the girl frowned at him and turned away to stare out of the window at the ocean passing below.

Dr. Quest piloted the jet with quiet confidence and efficiency, but Bannon still itched to take the controls. No one could ever fly to his satisfaction. He distracted himself by trying to trace the changes of a year's separation in his friend's face. His hair and beard were still auburn, still neatly clipped in a style that hadn't changed in 25 years. There were a few tell-tale gray hairs among the red and a few more wrinkles around the bright blue eyes, but he looked much as he always had, a little too dreamy to be a man of action, a little too muscular to be a simple scientist.

Quest caught his scrutiny. "Well, what do you think?"

"You look good, Ben."

"So do you."

When they landed in Maine, Race obviously felt no more need to stay in character, jumping down from the jet and striding across the landing square in his old way. Two boys came jogging toward the jet to meet them, bursting into wild shouts as they recognized Bannon. Jonny and Hadji careened into him, babbling greetings and hugging him. Race couldn't speak for a moment; he hadn't realized how much he had missed both of them, companions of a hundred adventures, the de facto sons whose childhoods he had shared with Benton Quest.

"Boys—this is my daughter, Jessie. Jessie, this is Jonny and this is Hadji." The two boys stammered shy hello's, which seemed to give Jessie the confidence she needed to greet them in the regal manner teen-aged girls usually adopt around teen-aged boys. The boys took refuge in bombarding him with questions. "Are you staying?" "Where've you been?" "Why are you dressed like that?"

Neither of them asked the only two questions that mattered. Why did you leave? What daughter?

He laughed and steered them toward the house, leaving Jessie and Ben to follow behind. Quest tried to carry the heavy suitcase for her, but she had pulled away with a jerk, muttering, "I can do it."

They entered the large, airy foyer and Race felt a lightening of the tense watchfulness he had carried for months. Now they were safe. His daughter was safe. He could really sleep tonight, he could afford hours of complete insensibility to night-noises, daytime passers-by, incongruities and suspicious occurrences.

He took the suitcase from Jessie, opened it and extracted two plastic squeeze-bottles full of an unappetizing-looking purple liquid. He handed one to his daughter, saying, "Ok, Panchita. Work this into your skin and rinse off under a cool shower and all of that skin-dye should come off. Boys, why don't you show Jessie to a guest-room so she can shower and change. Ben…"

"Your room is still the way you left it. I think you even have some clothes left here." Race smiled, that same slow, private grin that used to call Ben into collaboration without thought. The grin faded as Quest blankly turned away and went to inform the housekeeper, Mrs. Lee, of her new guests.

Benton knew how she would react to the news that Race had returned—the way everyone did—with wild joy and eagerness to do anything he asked from her. He found himself resenting Bannon; and he had only been home a few minutes. What was wrong with him? Couldn't he just accept his incredible good luck and welcome his friend home and not poison it with the resentments of the past?

Race found him in the library, just finishing pouring two scotches. He came padding in barefoot, dressed in jeans and a purple polo shirt. Without the skin dye, it became obvious that he had seen some heavy action recently. He was suddenly sporting a split eyebrow and a heavily purpled cheek. There were various darkenings that might have been bruises up and down his forearms. Benton handed him one glass and they silently toasted one another and drank. Race put down his glass and ran a hand through his still-damp hair. Benton had always thought that it was absurd that anything should be as fair as that without actually being colorless. It made a startling contrast to his tanned skin and blue eyes. That was Race—always startling, disturbing, challenging.

"Well?"

"Jade is dead, Ben."

Quest was startled at the grief he felt. Amoral, undependable and governed wholly by her own ends, Jade had still proved to be a friend to him and his in some damn tight places. And—she had been exciting to be around. Dangerous, but never boring. And Race had loved her, once.

"I'm sorry, Race. What happened?"

"She was murdered, Ben. Right in front of Jessie." He ignored Ben's wordless sound of horror. "Jessie saw who did it and they're gunning for her. That's why I brought her here. We've been tailed and attacked twice since we left Singapore."

"Singapore? I thought Jade was living in Paris."

"She had been. When she first told me about Jessie, I went to meet her there. But she had already moved on. I tracked them halfway around the world before I caught up with them. And then…" he swallowed another gulp of scotch. "I finally met Jade in a bar down on the waterfront. She took me back to meet Jessie. They had a little house in the hills." He stopped a moment, remembering that rainy evening when he had first met his daughter. "We had dinner. When I left that evening, we had made plans to meet the next morning. But they attacked the house right after I left. Jessie barely got out and came running to my hotel room.

"Ben…I must have led them right to her." His head bowed with grief.

Quest laid a hand on his friend's arm. "It's not your fault, Race. Jade had made enemies in every country in the world."

"I know that. But none of them had found her until I showed up."

They sat in silence for a time. Then Benton asked, "When did this happen, Race?"

"About two and a half months ago, I guess. It took me nearly six months to track her down after she sent me that note from Paris."

"And those lab reports."

"Trust Jade to be thorough. Without proof that Jessie was my daughter, she knew I had damn little reason to come at her beck and call. But I would have helped her, if she'd just told me she was in trouble."

"A year, Race. Where have you been? Why didn't you call?" Quest hated the plaintive tone that had crept into his voice. He removed his hand. "I would have helped you."

"Don't you think I knew that? That's why I came to you now."

"Why not then?"

"I couldn't lead them back here, Ben. I didn't know who was after us, or how much they knew."

"And now you know?"

Race nodded, but said nothing.

"Well, you made it back; you're home."

"Am I?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have my old job back?"

"Of course."

"Jessie?"

"She's as welcome as you are. She can take lessons with the boys, have the run of the place, go to private school, whatever she wants."

"What about us?"

Silence. The two men stared at one another, neither able to answer.

Jonny and Hadji had shown Jessie to a ground-floor room across the hall from their own. Somehow, Hadji had quietly assumed the weight of her suitcase, she didn't remember when. Quest's blond son had self-consciously held the door to usher her into the large and airy room.

It charmed her immediately. Decorated in sea-tones, it was full of peaceful blues and greens and the white walls caught and threw back the late afternoon sunlight glinting from the pool. Beyond the pool was a low sea-wall and the ocean stretching out to blend into the sky. It even had its own glass door right out to the lawn surrounding the pool.

"I love it! Do you think I can stay here?"

"Of course. It's your room, if you want it. There are others, if you wish." Hadji said.

"We're across the hall, Hadji's is on the right, my door is the one on the left. We share a bathroom, but you get your own." Jonny gestured self-consciously toward its door, uncertain about whether it was rude to talk about bathrooms with a girl. Since she didn't seem particularly upset by his mentioning it, he went on. "We could take you on a tour later, if you wanted. I mean, after you wash up, like Race—uh, your father, said to." Her expression hardened when he mentioned her father.

"That would be very nice," she answered mechanically and reached for the suitcase, forgotten in Hadji's hand.

"Hey—what's in that thing?" Hadji asked. "It weighs quite a bit." "Oh. Just some clothes and stuff. My rock collection. You know, stuff."

"I've got a rock collection, too. Let's see yours," Jonny suggested.

"No!" She backed away, clutching the suitcase to her chest. At their odd looks, she relaxed a little and smiles tentatively. "I'm sorry. It's just…"

"We understand. It's been a long day. Perhaps you'll show us them some other time?" Hadji said smoothly, grabbing his friend by the elbow and hustling him toward the door.

They left her, promising to return in an hour to show her the way to dinner.

"I never knew Race had a daughter."

"I suspect Race never did, either, Jonny."

"Do you think that's why he went away? To go find her? How old do you think she is?"

"Maybe our age, or a little younger. She's awfully pretty."

"No she isn't. She's—I don't know, she looks like Race, I guess. Not pretty, but not too forgettable, either.

"I wonder if she's going to like it here?"

"I wonder if we're going to like having her here?" was Hadji's prophetic question.

Dinner was long over. It had been a cheerful, boisterous affair. As Quest had predicted, Mrs. Lee had fallen upon Race as a long-lost son. The resulting meal was nothing short of a feast. Benton watched as his friend leisurely consumed a meal large enough for two men. But he had always eaten like that and never gained or lost a pound. Which Quest had always resented. His own more sedentary lifestyle made it very difficult to maintain a reasonable weight in the face of Mrs. Lee's culinary genius.

Sullen Jessie had relaxed enough to show some interest in her surroundings and was chatting genially with Jonny and Hadji. She was still shy around Dr. Quest, but was polite enough when asked direct questions. He noticed that she did not speak to her father unless he spoke to her directly.

After dinner, they had sent the kids off to feed the dolphins in the moon pool, a treat Jonny and Hadji had begged for Jessie. Benton and Race had moved to the back deck to sip brandy and watch the stars swirl over the ocean.

Giggles and splashes came filtering up from the dolphin pool. Race had lit a thin cigar and its aroma touched Benton's memories like a cat-burglar. "I haven't smelled one of those since you went away."

Without a word, Race took the cigar from his mouth and handed it over to him. Benton held it for a moment, then slowly put it to his lips. The end was damp from Race's mouth. He drew the smoke into his mouth, then slowly down into his lungs. Its rich, smooth flavor rolled around his mouth, unfolding new shades of taste as he exhaled slowly. He handed it back and watched the tip flare as Race put it back in his mouth and drew on it.

"About us…It can't be like it was."

"Why?"

"You can't drop out of sight for an entire year and expect everything to be normal when you suddenly show up again. Try to understand this, Race. I was pretty sure that you were dead; I did my grieving. I've moved on. "

"Then there's nothing to say. I understand," Race said flatly. "I've moved on, too."

They turned back toward the ocean and listened to the soft whisper of the surf, each locked in his private thoughts.

At some point, Race had melted into the night. Benton hadn't even heard him stand. Lights began to go out around the compound and in the house as the computer scanned and found no movement or life-signs in the public rooms and passage-ways. The kids had long since gone to bed, calling cheerful "goodnights" from the gardens below. Still Quest sat, anchored by a nameless sorrow.

Alone in his room, Bannon prowled around, unable to fall into the exhausted sleep he had planned. He had secured the house and grounds, then reactivated the security panel and computer terminal which allowed him to monitor every inch of the compound from his room. It was those old, familiar tasks that convinced him, more than anything else, that he was home. The room itself hadn't changed. Spare white walls, a dark-patterned carpet and windows that opened onto a balcony overlooking the sea. The bookcases, armoire, a weapons rack and gun-case were arranged around the room with more precision than decorative sense. The same wine-dark comforter was spread on the king-sized bed; his clothes hung in the closet and were folded in the drawers as if he had just left.

The one difference was a full-length dressing mirror that now stood in one corner of the room. It had been placed squarely in front of the door that connected with Benton Quest's room. As clear as a traffic sign—Do Not Enter.

Why hadn't he protested when Ben told him they were through? A dozen different exclamations had risen to his lips—why had he simply shrugged it off, as though it were of no importance? What did the man mean, he had 'moved on'? Did he have someone else now? Perhaps the beautiful young assistant he had met earlier; what was her name, Jenny? He felt stifled. He crossed to the windows and stepped out onto the balcony to breathe the now-chilly sea air. He stood at the railing, searching blindly for the surf which muttered and whispered below. Motionless for so long, the lights in his room were turned off automatically. In the darkness, the pale white line of the waves lapping the shore below became visible.

A rectangle of light appeared on the floor of the next balcony—the lights in Ben's room. A shadow moved across the light and his eyes were drawn to its pantomimed floor-show. It crossed the room several times; probably laying out his clothes for the morning. Ben was always methodical. The shadow figure stopped in the center of the light; he was taking off his clothes. First, the bulky sweater he had put on as the evening cooled, then the shirt beneath it. The clean outline of his torso held Race mesmerized. Then the shadow pantomimed taking off his belt; his trousers slid off his hips and were folded and tossed onto a chair. He remembered how smooth, nearly silken, Ben's skin had been beneath his hands. His fingers curled, remembering the crisp texture of the scientist's hair and beard. Suddenly, he could smell Ben, taste him as if he had just left him. Race felt his desire shock through him as it had not in years, since long before he had left this place in search of his daughter.

He turned away from the light to slam his fists on the iron railing. What a bitter joke. Only now to discover how deep his desire, his feelings, for his friend were, only now, when all hope was gone, the friend turned away, he, himself too wounded.

"Race?" The ringing blow he had dealt to the railing had brought Ben out onto his own balcony, wrapping a robe around himself.

"It's nothing, Ben. Go to bed."

Ben hesitated a moment, then said, "Good night," and went back inside.

Chapter 2

During the next few days, it would have seemed to the casual observer that the Quest household had re-absorbed Race Bannon without a ripple. He interviewed all the staff, becoming reacquainted with those who had worked under him before and gauging those who had been hired since his departure.

The minor adjustments and tightenings in security that he made were complied with cheerfully and without comment. All domestic arrangements were soon back in his capable hands and flowed all the more smoothly.

But Quest noticed that he had not resumed his daily routines, which had included rising early to swim and run the beach, to work out and meditate in the afternoons and to work like a demon unleashed the rest of his waking hours.

He still rose early, but now he walked the beach and he no longer lifted weights in the afternoons. He spent much of his time alone, working, and he seemed to almost be avoiding the other members of the household.

Bannon worked long hours into the night, reviewing security logs, calculating changes and researching new techniques. After a year away, he had needed updating on the new computer systems Quest had designed for his own personal use. Hadji and Jonny were more than happy to tutor him and he found himself proud of their capabilities. He luxuriated in the simple unrestrained fondness that the boys gave him freely. Sometimes they joined him on the beach, other times one or the other would seek him out for conversation wherever his work took him. Their questions were far less artless than they had been. They were fast becoming young men, with an attractive young woman around to focus burgeoning desires upon.

He marveled at the elasticity of adolescence—one moment they were mature and insightful, the next horsing around like little kids. Aggravating, admirable, bursting with confidence, uneasily navigating the straits to adulthood.

Bannon was less clearsighted and detached when it came to his own daughter. She never confided in her father, treating him as if he were a nuisance to be tolerated. Jessie was at best distant, at worst openly hostile and defiant. She challenged everything he said, from a comment on the weather to setting a bedtime.

Benton had more luck with her. She was enough in awe of him, his scientific reputation and his beautiful house, to treat him with awkward courtesy. He became the one she sought out with questions about her school-work, about what she was allowed to do, about books and politics. She sometimes called him "Uncle Ben" and had shyly begun to kiss him good night. If her father reached out to her, she accepted his caresses in a wooden, detached manner that he found more chilling than no contact at all. He had soon stopped reaching out to her at all.

In the evenings, he still joined Benton in the library for a drink or out on the deck on fine evenings. But there was now little conversation between them and no laughter. A wall had grown between them that first evening; Race spoke little and Benton found he couldn't ask. Having closed the door on the old friendship, they seemed unable to build anew. Occasionally Quest would begin talking about the various projects he was working on at his labs on the mainland. Those were the best times—then they were able to forget the space between them and share the eagerness of research, experiment and discovery. Otherwise, there was a silence between them, a living, growing thing that stalked them whenever they were together.

Benton Quest stood on the balcony outside his room, enjoying the hot touch of the sun on his face. The garden and house were silent—everyone was probably taking siesta on this hot Sunday afternoon. The boys and Jessie were off for a hike to the other side of the island and a picnic. He had declined their half-hearted invitation, filled with a restlessness that no amount of hiking would allay. He did not know where Bannon was. A figure moved in the garden below him. One of the young gardeners, bronze torso bared to the summer sun, carried a bucket and shovel toward the sea wall. A soft whistle caused the young man to start, then change his direction and head for the grape arbor off to Quest's left. Someone was standing in the deep cool shadows of the arbor, someone who beckoned the young gardener with a tanned hand. As he came to the edge of the vines, he stopped, put down his tools, then took a few steps forward, uncertain and skittish. Two strong male hands reached out and pulled him gently into the arbor, into the cool and secret darkness. As much as he strained, Benton was unable to see who the young gardener had met. But a secret suspicion twisted inside of him; he couldn't turn away until he knew for sure.

The two figures had shifted back into sight again, although the mystery man's features remained shadowed and unknown. The two were kissing passionately, the unknown man's hands ranging everywhere on the gardener's body; first gripping his head, then tracing the strong lines of his back, then roughly grabbing the hard cheeks of his ass, before slipping back up to caress the young man's muscular shoulders and biceps.

They twisted slightly as the mystery man's hands dug down into the front of the gardener's shorts. His head came out from the shadow and the sun turned his fair hair white in the sun. He was taller than the gardener, so as he bent his head to kiss the younger man, his face was still hidden. But Benton knew who it had to be down there; whose strong hands and blond hair he had seen.

Poison raged in him but he couldn't look away. His hands gripped the iron railing until the knuckles were bloodless and white. Suddenly, the young gardener broke the kiss and slowly pulled the other man's t-shirt over his head. As he undressed the larger man, he turned so that he now stood in shadow and the blond man's back was to the house and to the unwilling voyeur.

A large dragon tattoo crawled across the man's left shoulder, picked out in the sun and glinting with sweat. The gardener knelt and, looking steadily up into the big man's face, slowly unbuckled the man's shorts and slid them to the ground.

From his vantage point, Benton couldn't see the big man's tool as it sprang free, but he knew he could describe every inch of it. He heard a gasp from one of them, carried on the still air. Something white-hot tore through him as the kneeling gardener wrapped his arms around the big man's thighs and began kneading and caressing his muscular buttocks. The blond man's head was thrown back, exulting in the sun at the edge of the cool vines, his hands tangled in the gardener's hair.

A choked sound tore from Quest's throat. A cool voice broke the silence from his left.

"Whatever else you might think of me, you might have remembered that I don't have a tattoo, Benton."

Bannon was standing on his own balcony, watching them all. It was plain that he knew exactly what Quest had been thinking. And feeling. After a wordless stare at his factotum, the scientist left the balcony. Bannon heard the door of his room slam as he left it.

The tableau in the garden had broken with the sound of his voice. He turned his attention back to the lovers in the garden.

"Perhaps you gentlemen would remember that we have children living here? Confine your trysts to off-hours and more private places than your employer's garden, please."

The two men vanished, hastily grabbing scattered clothes and work implements as they went. Race smiled humorlessly as he turned away. Poor idiots—all they had wanted was a nice quiet spot in the middle of a long, hot afternoon. He could imagine their burning frustration, so close to release, only to be drawn up short.

---

It was a hoarse shout that woke him in the dead of night. Benton rolled out of bed, grabbed his robe and tied it around him, trying to figure out where it had come from. There was a deep groan from next door; of course, Race's room. There was a white-hot flash of some emotion he couldn't name, then he was in motion. He strode over to the connecting door, shoving the easy chair he had placed in front of it out of his path. The door was still unlocked and Benton was through it without a thought.

Race's room was dark, except for the moonlight that poured through the open windows. The curtains blowing in the breeze caused flickering shadows to play across the room, making everything indistinct and dream-like. Quest stumbled into the mirror, then pushed past it. A figure on the bed twisted and strained, gripping sweat-soaked sheets in his large hands as he moaned.

It was several moments before Quest realized that Race was alone in bed, caught in the grip of nightmare. He sat on the edge of the bed and shook Bannon by the shoulder. Race was too deeply locked into his nightmare to be awakened; one flailing arm caught Quest a glancing blow on his face. Blood began dripping from his nose as Quest fought to get the sleeping Bannon under control. His eyes filled with tears from the blow and he had trouble focusing.

"Race! Wake up—wake up!" He shook the big man hard, nearly lifting him from the bed. Bannon's arms had reached up to lock onto his 'attacker's' shoulders—his fingers dug painfully into Quest's flesh. Suddenly the sleeper's eyes snapped open and consciousness flooded into his expression.

"Benton…what the hell?" He dropped his hands as if they had been burned.

"You were dreaming—having a nightmare. You cried out."

Race sat up, looking around at the knotted sheets, the blankets thrown to the floor, then he focused back on Quest. He saw the blood still flowing down Quest's face, black in the moonlight, into his beard.

"Did I do that to you?"

At his friend's wry shrug, Bannon hit the bed with a balled fist, then rolled clumsily out of bed and stood in his shorts and a t-shirt. "Come on—we've got to get the bleeding stopped." He slid a hand under the scientist's elbow and steered him toward the bathroom, ignoring any protests Quest made. He flipped on the light, making both of them wince and blink. He maneuvered Quest over to the toilet and pushed him down. "Sit. Let me look at that." His strong fingers under the scientist's jaw, he turned his face this way and that, gently probing the bones. Last, he stared into Benton's eyes, checking for a concussion. The moment Quest stared back, he broke off and straightened up, saying, "It's not as bad as I thought. Just a bloody nose. It'll probably be sore in the morning, but that's all." He hurriedly turned away and wet a towel with cool water, which he folded and placed under Quest's nose and made him hold there. Then he tipped the man's head back with a hand on his forehead and slipped the other beneath his head. There was a sharp sensation on the back of Quest's neck and a sound like a slap, then the full liquid feeling in his nostrils had stopped.

"The bleeding's stopped, doctor." He turned away to the sink and soaked another washcloth.

"Another trick you learned in the mysterious Orient?" Quest asked, gingerly checking his nose.

Bannon didn't answer, just took the soiled towel away from him, threw it into the sink, then tipped Quest's head back again. He began gently toweling away the sticky blood congealing in Quest's beard and down his throat, scrubbing a little where it had dried.

"Race—what were you dreaming about?"

"Nothing important, doctor." Distant, coolly courteous, revealing nothing.

"Stop calling me that!"

"It's your title." He turned away and rinsed the blood from the towel, then turned back and tried to finish his task. Quest's hand gripped his wrist, stopping the mechanical rubbing.

"We used to be friends, Race."

"'It can't be like it was' you said. OK, I've accepted that. What more do you want from me?" he demanded, pulling his arm free.

"What were you dreaming about? I have a right to ask. That's my blood all over your hands."

Race threw the towel into the sink and leaned back on the counter, not looking at Quest. "I was dreaming about something that happened to me…a while ago." "What was it, Race? I've never seen you like that before."

"Please don't ask, Benton. I really don't want to talk about it," Race said, sounding strangely pleading.

Quest marveled at the sense of power he had over the big man before him; he could compel him to speak, he knew it. "Tell me."

Staring at the opposite wall, Bannon said tonelessly, "I was dreaming about being tortured."

Catching his breath, Quest asked, "When?" He couldn't remember anything like that in the years they had been together.

"A week ago." Just before he had shown up at the labs. Good god.

"Who? What happened?"

"The same ones who want Jessie. I don't know who they are or what they wanted with Jade. All I know is I got careless one day and they got me."

"What happened?"

"Ben," Race pleaded, pale and sweating again, despite the cool sea air coming from the open windows in the bedroom.

"Tell me. What did they do to you?"

"The usual. Beat me up a little, slapped me around." He gestured toward one of his legs. "Burned me with cigarettes." There were dark circles in the tender golden flesh of the inner thigh. "Some needles and other kid stuff. They were trying to get me to tell them where I had stashed Jessie." He tried to sound off-hand, but a shiver passed through him.

He stood and walked into the bedroom, coming to a stop before the open window, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Quest came to stand behind him but didn't touch him. It was obvious that Bannon was in the grip of his nightmare again. He took a stab.

"There's more, isn't there, Race? What it is you're trying to hide?"

Bannon turned on him in fury. "They raped me, Ben. Are you happy now?

"Over and over. It went on for hours. Do you want to know exactly what they did? Or would you rather hear how it felt? Perhaps you'd like to see the scars?"

Quest was appalled at what he had unleashed through jealousy and hurt. But he was far more sickened by what he had just heard. What were Race and his daughter tangled up in? He struggled for something coherent to say, but nothing came out.

When the scientist didn't respond, Bannon pushed past him and held the door to Quest's room open, plainly inviting him to leave.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just leave me alone, Benton."

"I'm sorry." There was no reply but the sound of the closing door.

The next morning was Sunday, a late-rising day by common consent. Breakfast was a family affair and apt to drag on into lunch if no work pressed. It was a cold gray New England morning, threatening storms later in the day, so they ate in the dining room, surrounded by newspapers.

This morning, Quest watched Bannon more closely than usual and was disturbed at what he saw. The big man ate nothing, drinking cup after cup of black coffee, reading steadily through the papers and speaking little. Apparently he was unable to sustain even his usual level of good-natured banter with the boys, who had begun to watch him with troubled looks in their eyes.

Typically, it was Jessie who sparked the storm.

"Well, Father, what's wrong with you today? You look like hell."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Oh yes, there is," she smiled with malicious glee. "Did you go on another bender last night?" She turned to include the rest of the table. "He's been doing that a lot lately. Sometimes he doesn't even make it home at night. Is this the new career you said you wanted, Father? Drunkard?" she spat.

"Shut up, Jessie," he said evenly, not looking at her over his newspaper.

"Why should I?"

"Because I told you to. Because I've saved your life three times in the past year. Because I loved your mother." He stood up. "Because I could kill you with one hand and no one would ever look for your body. Because I don't truly care what happens to you any more. Because I'm your father. Pick any reason—just shut up." He strode from the room, leaving an appalled silence in his wake.

Jonny whistled. "I've never seen him like that. Dad?"

"Neither have I," Quest replied, then turned to the girl. "I don't know what you thought you were doing, young lady, but I won't have it at my table nor under my roof."

Jessie flushed and looked around the table, anywhere but at the doctor's stern eyes. Both Hadji and Jonny were looking at her in no friendly way.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice.

"Somehow, I don't think that's going to be enough," Hadji's gentle voice remarked as he looked after Race.

Benton queried the house computer for Race's whereabouts and smiled a little when it told him. He should have known—the ready room where many of their weapons and equipment were stored and repaired. He was there, cleaning a rifle. The smell of gun oil and salt water was strong. For a moment, Benton just stood and watched the precise and competent movements of the man before him. "Don't lurk, Ben. Either come in and lecture me or leave."

"The latter is preferable, I assume."

"Very."

Stung, Quest blurted out what he had intended to carefully build up to in reasonable conversation. "I think you need a physical exam, Race."

"Not a psychological one? That's kind of you."

"No—your reaction was entirely appropriate—in fact, far more calm then she deserved. She's been surly, rude and downright obnoxious to you. Why do you let her get away with it?"

Bannon sighted down the barrel, then took up a cleaning rod, attached an oil-covered cleaning patch to the end and ran it down the barrel, twisting as he went. "Look at it from her point of view. She never had a father; for all she knew, I couldn't have cared less about her. Who knows what Jade told her about me? All of a sudden, I show up and the next moment, her mother is dead. The next thing she knows, this near-stranger is dragging her around the globe, snapping orders at her, people are shooting at her and all she wants to do is go home. Which she'll never be able to do, because 'home' was Jade, and Jade is dead.

"She's entitled to some bitterness. But sometimes, it's more than I can take."

A sudden light broke in Quest's head. "She doesn't know what happened to you, does she?"

"No. She's got enough nightmares as it is."

"You told her you got drunk and roughed up in a bar fight, didn't you?"

Bannon nodded shortly and began to re-assemble the rifle.

"Did you see a doctor?"

"No. The damage wasn't that bad."

"Race…"

"I'm a professional, doctor. I know what requires medical attention and what I can handle in the field. I don't want, nor do I need, a physical." His eyes blazed at Quest.

"I'm a professional, too, Bannon. A doctor, as you keep reminding me. You know as well as I do what kinds of viruses, bacteria and parasites you could have gotten; you know that injuries left untreated don't heal properly."

"No. You are not going to examine me."

"Someone is, Bannon. If you prefer that it not be me, I can call Dr. Chow from the labs. She's an internist."

"No."

"Of course, she'll probably want to know where those burns came from. And the abrasions and the…other physical evidence which I know to expect."

"Why can't you simply leave it alone?"

"You walk, never run, in the mornings. You've lost weight; you won't swim at all and no one has seen you without a shirt since you returned. Last night I saw bloody bandages in your bathroom trash. Shall I go on, or do I have enough reason to be concerned?"

"You've been spying on me?"

"Collecting data, like any good researcher. Want to hear my working theory?"

"Shut up, Quest." But Race rose and put the rifle back into its locker. When he turned, he said only, "Not a word to the kids, do you understand?"

"Come on. Let's get it over with." Benton was a little ashamed of the tingle of victory that had come with Race's capitulation. He had rarely won a contest of wills with his friend before.

Chapter 3

It was not pleasant.

Quest had brought his medical kit to Bannon's room, where he hoped they would be undisturbed. He entered all his findings by voice onto an electronic notepad, patched through to his main diagnostic banks. Bannon sat on a stool in the middle of the room, expressionless, allowing him to work undisturbed.

"Temperature is slightly elevated. Blood pressure—up about 20 points." He made no comment as he checked Race's eyes and ears with a small penlight. His fingers probed Race's throat. "Some swelling—open your mouth." He peered down the man's throat and knit his brows, frowning in a detached way. "Take off your shirt." He almost lost his professional detachment when he saw the other man's back. It was covered with long whip-cuts from shoulder to hip. Most had scabbed over, but some were still raw and oozing. Race had improvised bandages made of gauze pads on long strips of medical tape.

Not trusting himself to speak, Benton removed the old bandages as gently as he could, but many began to bleed again as he worked. He staunched the blood with styptics and gauze pads, then sprayed the wounds with a cool spray from a bottle no larger than a lighter. He handed it over Bannon's shoulder, uneasy with his silence.

"It's a stand-in for skin; Dr. Chow finished testing it last year. It'll prevent bacterial infections and protect those wounds until your body has a chance to repair itself. It's also got a bit of anesthetic in it."

Race handed the bottle back to him without comment.

Next, Dr. Quest probed the bruised ribs. He tried to be gentle, but he saw Bannon wince once or twice as he hit particularly tender spots. "I think you've got a couple of cracked ribs."

"Surprise me." Quest started to smile at his friend, then something caught his eye. High on the breast, almost hidden by the golden hair around the nipples, were burns. Not cigarettes, but something serrated. Clips. Oh god. There were also thin lines of scabs, like patchwork tracings in brown all over his chest. A scalpel or sharp knife had probably made those, one fraction of an inch at a time.

Bannon's face was impassive, but his hands shook slightly as he reached for the burn cream the doctor fished out of his case.

"Give it to me." Quest handed it over without a word and didn't watch as he smoothed the white salve into his golden skin. "I told you, Ben. Kids' stuff; rank amateurs."

There was nothing unusual when he listened to the big man's lungs. He was breathing more shallowly than usual, but the broken ribs probably accounted for that.

Remembering Bannon's comment about needles the night before, Quest grasped each of Bannon's hands in turn and looked carefully at the nails. Yes, there were marks under the nails and some swelling was evident. He noted it quietly on the pad, then moved his scrutiny to his friend's legs. There were the burns he had seen last night; they were healing cleanly and needed no attention. Some livid bruises were turning a lurid purplish yellow on his upper thighs and he was wearing an ankle brace over a slightly sprained ankle. He checked the ankle's flexibility and noted the restricted range of movement.

"Ok. Take off your shorts."

"No."

"Can we just get this over with? It's nothing I haven't seen before." Quest's voice grated. Bannon glared fiercely at him, but again, the usually mild doctor won the silent battle of wills.

Bannon stripped and allowed Quest to continue the rest of his exam. Neither spoke until Quest stripped off his gloves. The other clip and burn marks he had found had choked Quest's throat with rage and he couldn't speak.

As Race pulled on his clothes again, Quest reached for another set of gloves. "Don't bother with your shirt. I need a blood sample." He rolled the muscular arm over and probed for a vein. Finding one, he slid a six-inch hollow glass needle into the vein, allowed it to fill with crimson, then pulled it out, pressing a gauze pad over the miniscule wound.

Mechanically, Bannon folded his arm and held it up, keeping the pad in place to stop any bleeding.

He watched as Quest plugged the needle into a small opening at the top of the notepad, then tapped a couple of flickering boxes on the small screen, choosing the tests he wanted done. "Analyze and print results in Race Bannon's room," he instructed it.

Race finished dressing, slowly pulling on a t-shirt, then a flannel shirt. Quest repacked his bag. Outside, rain began to tap on the glass. They both watched the wind rake up whitecaps on the slate-gray ocean. The printer hummed and Quest moved swiftly, ripping it off and reading it. Bannon waited, still sitting in the middle of the room. "You've got a low-grade infection; I'll get you some antibiotics. There's nothing viral. Whatever else they may have…you haven't got any diseases to worry about. No HIV, no VD, no Cooperman's II Syndrome." As he spoke, he filled a syringe with a broad-spectrum antibiotic, swabbed a spot on Bannon's arm with alcohol, then injected him. He continued, "Everything else is pretty minor. Pulled muscles, contusions, fatigue. It should heal cleanly and quickly. I'll want to keep an eye on that elevated temperature. Take a couple of these," he handed Bannon a small bottle which he considered suspiciously. "They're a little stronger than aspirin but won't impair you. Good for sore ribs and pulled tendons. Your ankle is going to need some physical therapy, but you know what to do to get the flexibility and strength back, so do it, starting in about a week."

He picked up his bag and started to leave when Bannon's voice stopped him. "Ben, thanks."

Quest turned to look back and something in the set of Race's shoulders made the scientist drop his bag and cross to his friend. He stood above him for a moment, then wrapped his arms around Race, pulling him to rest gently against his body, mindful of the lacerations on his back. Bending, Quest rested his face in the white-blond hair. "You'll get my bill in the mail."

Slowly, Race's arms came up to hold Benton closer. They remained, unmoving, listening to the wind rise as the storm swept in around the house. It was later in the afternoon that Race awoke with a small start. He remembered that Benton had eventually coaxed him to lie down and rest. Benton had laid down beside him, close, but not touching, while he stared at the ceiling.

They had spoken, finally, of the many things between them. Haltingly, Race explained how much more willing he had been that Benton's love for him be killed by silence than that he or Jonny or Hadji should suffer from the ones who pursued him. How it was that, only after he had discovered that no one knew that he, Race Bannon, was Jessie's father, he had come home. "I wasn't going to bring the war home to you, Benton."

"We would have fought it with you. You've stood by us too many times to count."

"It was my job, Ben. That's what bodyguards do; it's not for scientists and half-grown boys, no matter how good they are in tight places." He smiled to take away any sting to his words.

"Race. Your battles are ours. They're mine." He stopped, suddenly afraid that he had said too much. Race groaned and turned toward him, throwing an arm across Benton's chest and burying his face in his shoulder.

"I need you, Ben. I always have. Forgive me?" His voice was muffled and his arm had tightened to a crushing grip around the scientist.

"I think that neither of us has 'moved on', Mr. Bannon."

He shifted, sliding his arm under the larger man's head and drawing him closer. "I'm here. Remember that—I'm always here for you. Your battles, your wounds, your daughter—whatever you need from me is yours. Agreed?"

"Mmmm," Race had murmured, already falling asleep.

Waking was sweet, in the late afternon gloom. Rain still fell, the ocean still growled with storm-surge and Benton was still beside him. The scientist was leaning up on one elbow and was checking his patient's forehead for fever with his wrist. He smiled a little when Race opened his eyes. "Well Doctor, will I live?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bannon, but you're doomed. I give you another 40, 50 years more, at most. I'd suggest you put your affairs in order," he teased.

But Race didn't smile. He said earnestly, "No affairs to put in order, Ben. I swear."

A nagging fear in the back of Quest's head receded. He smiled and and pressed his lips to the blond man's forehead. "I wasn't worried."

"Liar," Race suggested, remembering that scene in the garden. Quest sighed. From the first day they had met, Bannon had always been uncannily accurate in his assessment of his employer. Which was admirable in an employee and hellish in a lover. No secret flaw was safe.

"Why don't you go take a shower? It'll be dinner soon."

"Why? Do I stink?"

"No, but I'll bet that you haven't been able to take one for a week because of those cuts. The spray-skin will hold up fine, as long as you don't let the water run too hot. Try it—it'll feel good on those muscles."

"It certainly will—I was getting sick of all those sponge-baths." He rolled out of bed, still stiff and slightly clumsy. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, then he stopped suddenly. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the water and stripped off his clothes. The shower stall was made of shimmered glass and could easily have fit four people. He stepped into the steam and stood under the showerhead, letting it send needle-jets of hot water streaming down his chest and face. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and mouth open. The pain wasn't entirely gone; whatever Benton had said, there was still one thing that would stand between them.

He hadn't even been able to undress in front of his friend. His body had been cruelly used and, whatever else might be between them, he wondered if either would ever forget it. The physical had been hellish, knowing what Benton was seeing and the revulsion that he had to be feeling. He hadn't even been able to look him in the eye at the end. Comfort him, yes, like a child.

He groaned in frustration.

"Race? What's wrong?" Benton's voice came from outside the stall.

"Nothing."

"Liar." The scientist's figure rippled outside the glass. There was silence as Quest waited. Hot water still streaming down his body, Race tried to explain to the indistinct figure. "Do you know, when I was first assigned here, I almost hated you? Do you know why? Because you hardly noticed me and I couldn't stop thinking about you. Wondering about what you were like, when you weren't wearing a lab-coat and attitude. About your wife—your life together—where she was. I didn't even know what I wanted from you -I just couldn't stay away. I felt like I was trapped; I hated that."

"That's odd. Do you know—I used to watch you all the time. I was afraid you'd notice and know what was going on in my head. Then you'd put in for transfer and I'd never see you again," Quest said quietly. "I never knew. Then, when we…became friends, I still couldn't think of anyone else. Couldn't be with anyone else. Then I was even more afraid—you had so much power over me.

"I hate being afraid."

"What are you afraid of, Race?" Quest asked carefully.

Bannon's whole body locked; he had to force the words out. "That you won't be able to touch me. That you'll always be disgusted—hate my body because of what happened to me.

"Tell me now, Ben, if we're just going to be friends. I can live with that—I'll never find a better friend -but tell me now."

The door of the stall opened and Quest stepped in, still fully dressed. He considered the large man still slumped against the wall, letting water run down his golden body as he stared at his friend. "You think I hate your body because they tortured you? That I won't be able to make love to you now because of it?" Relief at finally knowing the root of the problem made him feel almost giddy. "Hmmm—let's see."

He took a bottle from the shelf and poured some shampoo into his hand. Disregarding the water soaking his clothes, he reached out and began gently massaging it into the white-blond hair. Race bowed his head as the scientist's long fingers ran through his hair. He pulled Race's head under the shower spray and the white suds slid down his body and away.

When he opened his eyes, Benton was pouring body-wash into his hand. Race leaned back against the wall and Benton began to slide it along one of his arms. The lather was rich and forest-scented, making his head swim. Benton lathered his chest, then the other arm, always using slow, long strokes. He kept looking straight into Bannon's eyes—there was no possibility that he could misunderstand, this time. His hands slid up Race's lathered arms, then down onto his broad chest. He allowed his hands to linger a moment on the nipples, then slid them down along the ribs, across his belly, then back up and around the big man's throat and shoulders.

"No—I don't hate your arms. Or your chest," he said with a gleam of humor. Race's hands began to reach out to him, and Quest stopped them, placing them firmly back against the tile. He knelt, the water streaming around his head and through his beard. He lathered first one leg, then the other, ignoring the obvious signs of his friend's growing arousal. He used his hands as a blind man might, tracing the form and textures under his touch. Almost without thinking, his hands slid to the backs of the large man's legs, then up. The powerful muscles of his thighs melted into the taut hardness of his buttocks.

At this touch, a deep tremor ran through Race's body. His hands came down to drag Benton to his feet by his clothes, then pulled him against him, kissing him deeply, as the hot water kept pouring down both of them. The passion flowing through him was clean and hot, and he was so grateful he was almost in tears. He clawed the scientist's clothes from him, struggling a little with the wet denim, kissing whatever he could expose. Benton laughed at his eagerness, a happy, triumphant sound. No, there was no revulsion in that sound.

"Gently—you're still recovering," he protested, still laughing.

"No. Now," the blond man breathed in his ear, his hands running up and down the scientist's body. Ah—his skin was still like silk under his hands. He drank water from the hollow of his throat and tangled his fingers in the auburn hair. Home.

Chapter 4

A week later…

Race and Benton lounged by the pool, alternately working and swimming as the mood took them. Currently, Race was sitting cross-legged on a chaise, typing away at the lap-top he habitually used for tracking and research. His large fingers picked at the keys dexterously and he watched the screen intently.

Benton looked up from his technical journal.

"What are you after now?"

"Weather patterns in Tibet."

"Do I want to know why?"

"Not yet. But we've been having some problems with satellite communications with our field station there. I hope it's something simple and inexplicable like sunspots. It may be something or someone else."

Quest laughed. "I've missed having some good old-fashioned paranoia around here."

"Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me, you know. And a disturbing number of people have been out to get us in the past and probably will be in the future."

"And to think that all I ever wanted was a quiet life of research and a big family. I missed on both counts."

"Yeah—but it's never boring." Race got up and stripped off the unbuttoned shirt he wore. "Where are the kids?" .

"They're down at the lighthouse, playing in Questworld. They'll be there all afternoon and half the night, most likely. We're alone."

"Swim?" he asked with studied casualness.

"Maybe. But let me put some sunblock on your back."

"We're in Maine, Benton, not the Caribbean."

"The sun shines here, too. And it'll burn those stripes right into you—that new skin is still too delicate. Come on, trust your doctor." Grumbling but obedient, Race sat down on the end of Benton's chaise and allowed him to rub sunblock over his back.

Observing the scene from her bedroom windows, Jessie was struck by how peaceful and private it looked. Their voices had carried through her open windows and roused her from her reading.

What "stripes"? "New skin?" What was Dr. Quest talking about? Her mother had taught her that there was a lot of valuable information to be gained simply by listening, unobserved, so she remained very still, hidden by the drapes, and watched. They were across the pool, but facing toward her, so the water projected their voices well.

She saw how gently and carefully Benton smoothed the cream into her father's skin; first his back, then his arms. When Race leaned back against Benton and allowed him to slowly stroke the sunblock onto his chest, she began to understand what she was seeing.

"I thought you were worried about my back."

She had never heard that teasing drawl her father used.

"With you, I need to worry about everything else, too."

She was shocked when Benton turned his head and kissed her father. Their kiss lingered, and Race's hand moved back to pull Benton's head closer. When they slowly moved apart, her father grinned and said, "I thought we were going swimming."

"You go—I'll watch."

Race stood up. "You're going to turn into a fat old man, Benton."

"Well, I'm halfway there."

She watched her father pace around the granite edge of the pool, coming toward her and the low springboard placed directly outside her room. When he stepped onto the board, she saw his back and cried out softly. It looked like a tiger had raked him over and over. No wonder Benton had been concerned. Those weren't old scars—they were recent wounds. How? She hoped her involuntary cry hadn't been heard over the splash Race made knifing into the pool. She thought not, but drew back deeper behind the curtain.

Benton had heard it and when he saw the curtain moving, he knew where and who it had come from.

Race broke the surface, swimming strongly for the opposite edge of the pool. When he reached it, he did a swimmers' turn, diving and pushing off, gliding underwater until he came up in front of Benton's seat.

"How do the ribs feel? Any soreness in the muscles?"

"Some. I'd probably better spend some time swimming this week and loosen them up."

"You got beat up pretty good. Do some yoga, too, or you'll lose the flexibility."

"Yes, doctor," Race salaamed sarcastically. He pushed off to float lightly on his back, hands behind his head.

"Race?" Benton began tentatively. "You never told me. How did you escape?" His voice was purposely pitched to carry to their unseen listener.

"They forgot to check the unconscious man, Ben. Always a mistake. I told you, they were amateurs." His voice was tolerably calm, so Benton continued.

"It's not like you to leave unfinished business behind."

"I didn't. I said, they were amateurs. I'm not. Not long after I left their tender care, the whole place went up in one big fireball; it was beautiful to see. Not a single one escaped."

"Then there's no one to question?"

"They were just hired scum, Ben. They didn't know who hired them and wouldn't have been able to tell me anyway. They didn't even know that Jessie is my daughter. They assumed that I was a bodyguard or someone's flunky. That's probably why whoever wants her sent such amateurs—he figured that a hired gun wasn't likely to hold out long against a little physical discomfort."

" A little physical discomfort? That's what you call it?!!"

Race came over to the side of the pool with two easy strokes. He folded his arms on the edge and looked seriously up at his friend. "Ben, bad as it was at some points, they were pretty lame at torture. I was nowhere close to breaking.

"There are pros out there, Ben. Not the Latin American backwoods boys, but people who make a science out of it that the Nazis would envy. The service teaches you some techniques for handling torture, but nothing will stand against a dedicated professional.

"If one of those guys had gotten a hold of me, there isn't a damn thing they wouldn't have been able to get out of me, in time. I might not have been recognizable, but they would have known exactly where Jessie was, her shoe size and eye color. I would have told them everything, just so they would kill me sooner.

"As it was, that's as close as I ever want to come." He shivered reflexively in the water.

"Why do they want her so badly?"

"I don't know, Ben. All I do know is that, she's my daughter. And no one is ever going to hurt her while I'm around to prevent it. Even if she does hate me. At least she's still around to scream at me," he chuckled ruefully.

There was a strangled sound from the Jessie's room. Race looked around trying to pinpoint it and failed. "Did you hear something?"

"No," Benton replied with some satisfaction.

He was expecting her visit to him that evening. She came into the library where he was working and loitered carelessly, pulling out books and looking at them without seeing them. Quest let her stew for a few moments, then asked,

"Was there something?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I saw you with my father this afternoon."

"I thought you might have."

His calmness in the face of her discomfort aggravated her and she snapped, "I think it's disgusting!"

"Think whatever you wish."

"What do you think Jonny would do if he found out his father was a queer? And mine," she added bitterly.

"Interesting question—I'm not sure. But he's known me a long time. And Race. Longer, in fact, than you've known your dad. Come to think of it, he really has no excuse for not knowing about us. But we've never flaunted it."

"You did this afternoon."

"I thought you were all down in Questworld."

"So that makes it OK?"

"Under my roof, whatever two consenting adults do is 'OK'. I make my choices based on what I feel is best for the children in my care, then for myself. What did you see—two men kiss? Did it really hurt you?"

She ran an uncertain finger along the spine of a book on the table beside her. Her next question surprised him. "Do you love him?"

"Yes. Do you?"

"I want to. But it's so hard," she wailed.

"Why? Because of me?"

"No. Because of me," she admitted with a surprising flash of adult insight. "I liked growing up with my mother, learning from her, doing odd jobs with her. I even liked it when she left me with the Fengs; they had a houseboat on the river and six children. They called me 'elder daughter' and I herded ducks for them."

"Then came Race."

She nodded. "And then my mother was gone. Just like that. And now everything's gone. All I have are the…" she stopped suddenly. "And now I have a father I don't know at all. All I do know is that he's a queer and a drunkard. He's disgusting!"

"That's it."

The scientist closed his book and got up, eyes blazing. "It's time for you to learn some unpleasant truths, young lady.' He stalked toward her and she shrank from his expression, although he never raised his voice.

"Think, girl. Think about what you overheard while you were eavesdropping this afternoon. What you saw. That man, whom you called 'disgusting', was prepared to be tortured to death to keep you safe.

"That time he told you he was drunk, a few weeks ago? A child could have seen through that story. He had just spent the night being tortured; they caught him and cut him and burned him and beat him, trying to find out where you were.

"They did terrible things to his body, Jessie. I know—I've seen the scars. I've heard him cry out in nightmares and what's he's let slip in his sleep would freeze your blood. He will never forget it, Jessie. There will always be scars on his soul.

"That's the man who said, 'No one's going to hurt her as long as I'm around—even if she hates me.'

"Don't you ever dare to despise your father, no matter who or what he sleeps with. Not after what he's done for you.

"And Jessie? The next time you try to use someone's secrets against them by threatening to expose them, remember that it's called 'blackmail' and not indulged in by civilized people. Particularly not toward someone who has housed and fed you, 'queer' or not. Got it?"

Her mouth worked for a moment, but nothing came out. Then she turned and ran from the library.

The next morning, Jessie was the last to the table. The papers were already spread out, Jonny and Hadji arguing amiably over the comics, the sun streaming in over the ocean. She tried to be casual as she strolled in.

"Good morning, Uncle Ben. Hi guys," she said as she took a plate and went to the sideboard. Then, "Good morning, Father," she said in a tentative tone.

He looked at her, carefully concealing any surprise, although his coffee-cup wavered in mid-air. "Good morning, Jessie."

Without warning, she dropped her plate and flung herself at him, sobbing wildly. He was almost knocked from his seat, but recovered quickly, cradling her close. His eyes sought Benton's, who just shrugged slightly. The boys stared in shock, frozen in their places.

Race broke the tableau by rising, easily picking up the crying girl. "I think we should go somewhere a little more private." He walked out, carrying his daughter in his arms.

"Dad?"

"I think the Bannon family is working out its little problems, son."