INTERLUDE
The Old Man lay on the bed, eyes closed, one arm flung across his face. All but one of the generators were on standby, running the telescope and other monitoring equipment. There was, therefore, no mistaking the origin of the alarm that rang insistently through the dark observatory chamber.
Stop it, he thought. Stop, stop, stop . . .
But the alarm went on,relentless, and he finally sat up. Barefoot, he left his womb and headed for the basement. There was no need yet to turn on lights - he could see clearly wherever any light existed. It was only when he started down the basement steps that he turned on the overheads.
At the bottom of the steps, the silence gave way to a low, unbroken hum. Walking along a faded green cinderblock hall, he unlocked a door with "Authorized Personnel Only" handwritten across it and went inside.
The room held computers and other, more arcane equipment, all fully powered and murmuring ceaselessly to each other. Above them was an incoherent spider web of black wiring. The Old Man wound through the islands of machinery to one that was spewing paper. Folds of it were heaped on the floor. He bent and retrieved a handful. The spikes in the endless, wavy line were slight, barely recognizable as such, but he knew what it meant.
Time was running out.
* *
*
"Where is he?"
The Doctor opened a wary eye. He was flat on his back and his head ached like the devil. It took him a moment to process the question. Where was who? How should he know? Then:
Danner!
The Doctor sat bolt upright and promptly regretted it. An explosion went off in the back of his head, and the sudden change in altitude made his stomach roll. He sat very still, holding his breath until his equilibrium stabilized.
A man crouched in front of him, a rifle laid across his knee. "Where is the blackstone?" he repeated.
It took a moment, but the Time Lord finally recognized him as the mercenary who ridden into the crowd after Danner. Witchhorde Rider. His dark hair was cut short around an angular face, and he had the gaunt, dangerous look of a half-starved wolf. Looking past the Rider, the Doctor saw two more mercenaries in the doorway.
"Who are you?" the Time Lord demanded in his best authoritarian tones.
The wolf was not unduly impressed. "Lieutenant Miles Nelson of the Witchhorde. And I'll ask you just once more - where is the blackstone?"
The Doctor brushed imaginary dirt from his jacket, thinking quickly. This was a dangerous man, but not, he thought, unreasonable.
"We were attacked. The blackstone, as you put it, was abducted."
"By whom?"
"About a dozen men, most of them in black uniforms. They had very small i.d. patches in black and grey - almost impossible to see unless you're looking closely. There was a small, embroidered "UCS" entwined with a stylized "Igan" above some numbers on the patch."
"Lieutenant." One of the other Riders stepped forward, frowning. "We saw a group matching that description on our way here. They were heading west, sir. We didn't see any blackstone, but they were driving a wagon covered by a tarp."
"Go after them," Nelson ordered shortly. "Don't attempt to intercept. Just note where they go and report."
"Yessir." The men saluted smartly and were gone. Nelson returned his considering gaze to the Doctor.
"So. Useful information, if it can be trusted. Who are you?"
"I'm the Doctor," replied the Time Lord. "Who was that woman riding with you?"
"Captain McAllister?" Nelson's smile was little more than a polite baring of teeth. "You'll meet her soon enough."
"I will?"
"Yes, sir. She'll want to talk to you."
"Delighted," the Doctor replied. "I would like to talk to her as well."
"I can imagine." The lieutenant got to his feet, a lengthy process - the man was well over six feet tall. "Doctor?"
The Time Lord hesitated, startled at the hand held out to help him. Then he grasped it and was hauled upright with speed that set his aching head to spinning again.
"Are you all right?" Nelson's voice came from a vast distance. "Doctor?"
"Fine," the Doctor managed breathlessly. "Just a little bump on the head . . ."
"Who were these men who attacked you?"
"I don't know." The Doctor had to lean back slightly to meet the Horde Rider's eyes. "But I have my theories."
"Than put them in order," Nelson suggested. "The Captain will want to hear them, too."
"And where is your Captain?" The Doctor went to the window and looked out. Below, the street was empty.
"Busy. Can you ride?"
"Ride what?"
"Horses, Doctor. Can you ride a horse?"
"Certainly."
The lieutenant jerked his head toward the door. There was another Rider in the corridor outside. He and Nelson escorted the Doctor down a set of rickety stairs and out the back of the building. A black horse stood waiting. It whinnied and flicked its tail at the sight of Nelson.
Down the street were several more armed men - Riders and two members of the Deet police. The Deetans kept well apart from the former and watched the proceedings suspiciously.
One of the mercenaries detached from the group and ambled over. He and the lieutenant spoke quietly for a moment, then the lieutenant turned back to the Time Lord.
"Andy'll take you to our camp. And Doctor? I strongly suggest you don't give him any trouble. Andy tends to shoot first and think about it later - don't you, Andy?"
Andy, a red-haired youth of about nineteen, grinned amiably at the Doctor and cocked his rifle with an expert flick of his bony wrist. "Terrible habit," he agreed. "Doc?"
Nelson vaulted into the black's saddle. Putting two fingers to his lips, he whistled shrilly. Yet another Horde rider cantered around the corner, leading a riderless brown mare. The sight sent the police edging forward, hands on their own weapons.
"Doctor?"
Nelson remained calm, but his eyes narrowed and did not stray far from the advancing militia. The Doctor, sensing the tension, effortlessly mounted the mare and earned a slight, surprised nod from the man.
"Hey!" One of the Deetan officers urged his horse ahead of his fellows, glowering. "Where are you going?"
"These men and I are going to join Captain McAllister," Nelson replied. "The other two are returning to our camp. Is there a problem?"
Andy grinned and shifted his rifle so the barrel just happened to point toward them. The Deetan scowled.
"Guess not," he growled. "But you'd best get a move on, Horder. The Council doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Remember, Doctor." Nelson leaned across his saddle and caught hold of the mare's reins. "No trouble."
"No trouble," the Time Lord promised.
And, indeed, he meant it. These men belonged to the flame-haired beauty, the mere sight of whom had sent Danner running for his life. Oh, no. The Doctor was not about to run - not until he understood what was going on here.
The police fell in behind Nelson and the remaining Riders. They did not, the Doctor noticed, ride too close. Turning a corner, the little group quickly passed from sight.
"You ready, Doc?"
The Time Lord nodded. Wheeling his horse around, the young man motioned for the Doctor to precede him.
"Where are we going?"
"North," the young man replied. "Straight down this road. I'll let you know when to turn."
They traveled for a while without speaking. Andy, riding knee to knee with the Doctor, whistled softly to himself as they rode, a tuneless meandering of notes. Around them the Fringe was changing. The urban was giving way to suburban. Buildings were farther apart and surrounded by more open land. Multi-storied structures appeared less frequently. Small side streets provided glimpses of ruined houses, brick shells in neat rows, their once pristine gardens succumbing to a relentless onslaught of unchecked vegetation. The Doctor finally broke the silence.
"Andy?"
"Yeah?"
"How long have you been with the Witchhorde?"
He shrugged. "'Bout ten years."
"How did you come to join up with them?"
Andy considered the question, open face thoughtful. "Saw the Captain," he admitted finally. He grinned at the Doctor with perfect good humor. "I mean, you saw her, too, didn't ya? Back in Deet?"
"Yes," the Doctor replied with sincere appreciation. "I most certainly did."
There was a reverent pause. Then:
"Did you and she . . .?" the Doctor paused delicately.
The youth reddened. "'Course not! Hell, I bet she don'teven know my name. But she's a good captain and it's a fair life in the Horde. Can't complain." He hesitated. Then the irrepressible grin was back. "I can dream, though."
"Where did she come from?"
"I don't know. I joined up when the Horde came through Ouwa. They'd been in the Flatlands for a long time - hired police for a couple of big cattle towns down that way."
"And that's what the Horde is? Hired constables?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah - sometimes. Other times we're a cleanup squad. Just before we came to Deet, we were contracted to hunt down a gang of outlaws - couple dozen guys -- that were preying on the countryside. It just depends on what's needed, you see."
"So how long has the Captain been in charge?"
Andy thought again. "Fifteen years. Her Ma was in charge before that."
"Her mother? The Doctor straightened in the saddle. "Are you certain?"
"Sure. It's a regular maternity, er, maternack . . ."
"Matriarchy?"
"Yeah. That. A dynasty, like. Captain McAllister says she's one in a long line of women with second sight."
"Really? You believe her?"
"Sure, I guess. I'm not a superstitious guy or anything, but she's got some weird powers. We've never been beaten in all the time I've been with the Horde. And to hear the older guys talk, not in their memory either. She always knows where to find the enemy's weak point, when it's time to strike. No one messes with us twice, believe me!"
"Oh, I do," the Doctor agreed.
They came upon a bridge spanning an ancient motorway. It looked unsafe. There were great holes in the pavement that exposed the rusting infrastructure, and the safety railing was long gone.
"It's OK, just follow me close," Andy reassured, seeing his expression.
Nodding, the Doctor wrapped hands in a death-grip around the reins. The boy led him to the extreme right of the bridge and, for the few moments it took to cross, the Doctor made himself look straight ahead and away from a precipitous fifty-foot drop.
The afternoon waned. A bank of dark clouds rose along the western horizon and the wind quickened, chill and heavy with the scent of rain. They had reached the outskirts of Deet.
The buildings were now few and far between. Andy left the road and started down a steep, weed-covered slope onto another of the overgrown motorways, this one running north. After a half mile, they came upon the first signs of human activity since Old Town. A wall of timber and scavenged concrete spanned the road. Andy motioned for him to hang back.
"Deet border guard," he explained. "Stay here. It's a small outpost. This route ain't used much."
The Doctor obeyed, settling back in the saddle as Andy trotted toward the barrier. Figures appeared along the top of the wall, and a bristling of bows and rifle barrels.
A door opened in the base of the wall. Andy conferred briefly with the man who came through it. The man nodded and, stepping back, shouted to the watchers above. Then he moved aside and motioned them through the door.
The opening was just wide enough to admit one rider at a time. On the other side were a few wooden barracks, offices and stables. No one stopped them, but the Doctor was aware of darkling looks as they rode through. Then they were past the outpost and in open country.
The motorway began to climb. Its steep banks fell away, leveling off to reveal meadows and wooded hills. As in the city, there were ruins, but here they were in much worse condition. In most cases, they were visible only as mossy hillocks or an occasional chimney rising, solitary, above the waist-high weeds.
Andy turned onto a road leading into a low ridge of hills. It wandered between two of them, then plunged into a pine wood. Deep silence settled around them. They went noiselessly on the thick carpet of needles.
A bird call broke the quiet. Another sounded further on. Signals, the Doctor figured. His guess was confirmed when, a moment later, Andy repeated the trill.
They came out of the woods suddenly, and the Doctor half rose in the stirrups. A low fence of spiked logs surrounded an impressive military camp. Row after row of small dull-hued tents filled the landscape. Larger tents were interspersed -- infirmaries, messes, supply depots. The place teemed with men, all in the Horde's official green and brown.
Hired constables, indeed!
Four Riders came out of the woods behind them, circling to block their path. Andy was recognized - this was formality only. They exchanged greetings with the young man before vanishing back into the trees.
The two rode on toward the center of camp. Here was the nerve center of the Horde. Six tents, all larger than the rest, grouped around a seventh. The Doctor was escorted to the latter.
"This is the Doctor," Andy told the lone sentinel. "The Captain wants him to wait for her."
"Security level?"
"Four." Andy turned back to the Doctor. "Sergeant Forbes'll keep you company until the Captain gets back. Nice meetin' ya."
The Doctor found his hand caught in a hard, dry grip. Then the youth was off, leading his horse through the tents and away.
"Inside, sir, if you please."
This tent's spacious interior was sparsely, but comfortably, furnished. Rugs had been laid over the bare earth, and a small, open-faced stove sat atop a stone slab. Camp chairs were arranged around the stove, and there was a cot against the wall. It had the look of an infrequently used guest room.
Sergeant Forbes was a man of few words. He responded to the Doctor's conversational overtures with monosyllabic grunts, and the Time Lord soon gave up. "Security Clearance Four" apparently meant "don't let him out of your sight," because the taciturn man sat and proceeded to watch every move the Time Lord made. The Doctor, after wandering aimlessly about the tent, finally lay down on the cot and went to sleep.
He woke abruptly to a clap of thunder and wind howling around the billowing canvas walls. It had grown very dark. An oil lamp swayed gently from the center pole. The Doctor sat up, rubbing the sizeable lump on the back of his head. It took him a moment to realize that the figure in the chair was no longer Forbes. His hearts went off-rhythm. Then he stood up and faced her across the tent.
"Captain McAllister?"
"Doctor?"
The strength of her presence was disconcerting. He suddenly believed that she could command men in this woman-starved land. The sense of danger he had received in the Slough was just as potent.
"Please. Sit."
She motioned toward a chair and he took it. He had formed a theory about her, had meant to confront her with it. Now all his intentions slipped like smoke through his fingers.
"You were in the Slough," she said. "You found the blackstone."
He nodded, distracted by the way his hearts were pounding.
"He was alive."
Again, a statement. The Time Lord felt a twinge of resentment at her cold self-assurance.
"Barely. What happened? What did you do to him?"
"Irrelevant. What did you do to him?"
"I? Nothing! I didn't know what was wrong with him - then."
Perfect brows lifted. "And you do now?"
Careful . . . careful . . .
"I'm familiar with Earth legends of succubi."
She said nothing, did nothing. Only the eyes changed. Hefound himself gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his fingers ached. She stood up and moved away, turning her back on him to stare into the stove. Thunder roared, drowning out the wind. The storm was directly overhead.
"Miles told me you had a theory about who took him."
"He has a name," the Doctor said quietly. "It's Danner Renwolf. But then, you don't care about that, do you? What is he to you? Amusement? Food?"
Something touched his mind. Startled, he did not react immediately. Confident, strong, the telepathic tendril quested inward. He fought the impulse to throw her out. She was expecting no resistence, was certain he did not even know. That was fine. He slid his own mind along that psychic probe, tracing it back into a shadowy world of pain, anger and desperate need. It was, in fact, a psyche that reminded him strongly of the blackstone she so ruthlessly sought.
As careful as he was, she found him out. She was gone from his mind in an instant, leaving behind an echo of astonished rage. He was lifted off the ground. Something unseen hurled him with bone-rattling force high against the tent wall and held him there. His lungs strained for air. Small pinwheels of light went off behind his eyes. There was pain, a great deal of it, and his thoughts spun into chaos.
Then the force was gone, removed as abruptly as it had been applied. The Doctor slid to the ground, every limb trembling uncontrollably. He blinked tears from his eyes and, on hands and knees, drew breath after deep, shuddering breath. Telepathy, telekinesis - and of considerable strength and development. These he had not expected.
"Captain?"
Across the tent, the flap had been pulled open and Lieutenant Nelson stood staring. The Captain had moved to the far side of the tent, out of the lamplight, but he sensed agitation equal to his own.
"Miles?" Her voice was an unsteady rasp.
Nodding, the Rider came into the tent. He was soaked through from the storm, his expression sombre. Intensely grateful for the interruption, the Time Lord gathered himself up and tottered over to the cot. He needed time to think about this.
"I sent Jerry and Don after the men this guy described. They're not back."
Silence. The Doctor risked another look in her direction. For the moment, he was forgotten.
"They went west, didn't they? The 'haunted' west."
"Yes, ma'am."
She walked back into the light, preoccupied. "Erik hasn't reported either, has he?"
"Interesting, isn't it?"
"Very." She turned and the Doctor was once again the uncomfortable object of her regard. "What is this theory of yours?"
"First age tech," he replied. "It was something Danner said - a rumor he'd heard - about a hidden group acting as guardians of the old knowledge."
"Legends and tall tales," scoffed Nelson. "I've been hearing them for years, but nothing has ever been found. Nothing!"
"Those men had Danner under surveillance before they snatched him. They had laser-focused, n-cell powered cameras. If I recall my history correctly, those were developed right after the turn of the twentieth century."
"Were they indeed?" The Captain was grimly fascinated.
"According to Danner," the Doctor went on, "this area had more than a few colleges or universities. Such places are always centers of technology."
"All of them were destroyed by the Purifiers," Nelson said.
"How do you know? And even so, what if one was rebuilt?"
"Without attracting attention?" Nelson was flatly disbelieving.
"Whose attention?" The Doctor stood up. His legs worked, fortunately. "Almost everyone was dead. The only people actively looking for something like that were these Purifiers, and correct me if I'm mistaken, but they are no longer a factor."
"Disbanded fifty years ago," agreed the Captain absently. "It is possible."
"It is not!"
"Someone," interrupted the Doctor, "is out there. Someone -- or something is preventing your men from returning -- men who are, I imagine, well able to defend themselves against equal odds."
A breath of laughter escaped the Captain.
"Quite able," she agreed.
Nelson looked from his captain to the Time Lord.
"I could send another party out, more men . . ."
"If this entity exists, if it really has possession of twenty-first century technology, than they have you and your single-shot rifles at a significant disadvantage," the Doctor pointed out. "Would these men recognize an A107 for what it was?"
Nelson was a man far out of his depth.
"Probably not," he admitted finally. "I have heard something of these weapons, but have never seen one."
"I have," said the Captain.
Nelson was no fool. He saw where this was leading, and he did not like it.
"Captain, if you're considering going yourself, may I remind you that we've just signed a contract to protect the city of Deet? You gave the Council your personal assurance this very morning that we would do so. If something happens to you . . ."
"Miles - when was the last time anything 'happened' to me?"
A look passed between the two of them.
"Than I'm coming with you."
"And I," the Doctor chimed in, but neither seemed to hear. They were caught up in some private argument.
"Lieutenant. You will stay here."
"Palas!"
"If I don't return, someone has to lead the Horde. They will follow you."
"No! I will not agree to this!"
"I have to find the blackstone, Miles. You know why."
The officer apparently did, for he clenched his jaws and lapsed into angry silence. Captain McAllister sighed then, and walked up to him. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she said quietly: "I'll be all right, old friend. Have a little faith, will you?"
"At least take a couple of the men along," he grated. "That much, at least?"
She shook her head.
"If you don't return, Palas, I promise I'm coming after you and I'll bring the entire Horde, damn it! Deet can rot in hell!"
"Fine, you do that." She smiled crookedly.
Miles let out a long, frustrated breath. "You're not taking him, are you?" He glared at the Doctor.
"What for?" Her disdainful
gaze dismissed the Time Lord.
"Take him to the stockade, will you? Then send Humphrey in. I have to finish reading the codicils the Council put into this contract before I leave, but hell if I'll do it on an empty stomach!"
* * *
Anna hit the reverse button on the cassette player and winced at the resulting screech. The antique was about to go belly-up again -- which meant another trip to Tech Repair and two months of hand transcription while she waited for it to come back. The high-pitched whine filled the office until it reached the spot on the tape she wanted. She hit stop, then play. Her own voice came tinnily through the speaker.
"Subject 46A: Richard Wiley, blackstone, twenty-six years post-infection, eighty-six years actual age."
The taped voice cleared its throat, then went on: "Test results to date indicate onset of initial memory archiving. No spontaneous recall before actual age fourteen. Post-archive recall slowed by 14 percent as compared to control. This is consistent with other subjects' results."
She hit stop again and, chewing in the end of her pencil, scowled unseeingly across the small, cluttered office. Eighty-six years old. Such longevities were unheard of these days in Norms, at least outside the Consortium. During the first age, however, eighty-six had been almost ho-hum. Unfortunately, in terms of her research, it still was. She needed a blackstone with an actual age of at least a hundred and twenty - if not a first-gen, than damn close to it.
Anna switched off the cassette player. Pushing back her chair, she got up and stretched aching shoulders. She had been at it all day. Max had lately started dropping elaborate hints about the need to get her data into a report and on his desk.
With the facility of long practice, she stepped over heaps of files to the window. Outside, the land fell steeply to the river. The storm that had pounded them all day was finally moving off to the east. A lone ray of sunshine slanted down to create a fleeting rainbow.
Autumn was only a few weeks away, and the trees were still thick and green. But beyond the river, high among the glacial hills that surrounded the valley, the verdure had begun to show the colorful promise of that season. And among those distant trees, she could just make out the familiar slim spires. There lay the Consortium's final and most potent defense against a hostile outside world, the Barrier.
"Dr. Taylor?"
She turned to see Tim, the young office assistant and one of her ardent admirers. He peered shyly around the door.
"Mail," he said.
"Thanks, hon."
He scooted in and deposited a small pile on her desk. Usually he flirted for a few minutes before going on with his deliveries, but now he simply blushed and backed quickly out. The door opened to admit the reason. He took off his hat and tossed it carelessly on some files. No wonder Tim fled. Major Sheridan grinned at her across the desk and kicked the door shut with his heel.
"I have a present for you, my love," he said.
All the blood drained from Anna's head. She yanked out her chair and sat. "You have him."
"Uh - don't I get a 'hello, Ron, love of my life'?"
She smiled distractedly, and when he came around the desk and pulled her to her feet, she responded automatically. Ron either did not notice or did not care, for when he released her, his humor was unimpaired.
"He looks good, honey. I've never seen a crystal as intricate as his. The bio boys I left him with were practically salivating."
"Bio boys - oh, the assessment team."
"Yeah." He caressed her hair and, for just a second, she resented his possessiveness. "The only problem is, this guy is real hostile."
She looked up sharply. "You haven't been beating up on him, have you?"
"Oh, hell, Anna. He's a blackstone. You punch him and five minutes later, he's fine. He's fighting us every step of the way - killed two of my men! Two, damn his soul! How are we supposed to keep him under control? We can't use drugs, as you very well know."
"I know. Antibodies nix them before they reach the brain, but Ron . . ."
"Look, darling. Don't worry about it, OK? You've got your first-gen. You can prove -- or disprove -- this archiving theory of yours. When he arrives on your doorstep, he'll be fine -- and grateful as hell to be here."
"Where he will be tethered, locked up and spied on. Ron, I know what kind of measures are taken to control someone with a high risk factor. Or are you going to tell me you're not going to assign him a level ten?"
"Of course we're assigning him ten! He killed two people!"
Small spots of color had appeared high on the Major's cheekbones. "You'd think you were sorry we found one," he snapped.
She dropped back into the chair and shook her head ruefully.
"I know. I'm sorry, Ron. It just bothers me, that's all."
"You're the one who keeps saying that we have to beat plague -- and you're right." He took a deep breath, but his smile was rather strained. "I have to get back. Wilson's giving me the Sec duties on this one . . ."
"Congratulations," she murmured. "You deserve it."
"Thanks."
That restored him to good humor. He leaned over and brushed his lips across the tip of her nose. "There's a promotion in this, my love, you can bet on it. And a raise. Enough to afford an, ahem, family unit in the Towers."
"Really? Great!"
"How about a little celebration tonight? A toast to both our successes!"
"Absolutely. Eight?"
"My place," he agreed. "Ta, love."
She sat for a long while after he had gone, trying to reconcile her conflicting emotions. She had what she needed now. Fifteen years of schooling, five years of graduate study, was finally coming to fruition. But the cost?
Oh, hell! Why weren't things easy?
Too distracted now to go back to data crunching, she picked up the envelope at the top of her mail. It was an inter-Consortium memo advertising the latest reports from Sociology. She chucked into the circular file and went on to the next. This was a grim bit of news: the charismatic "Prophet" was within fifteen miles of Antuck University. Antuck was on the northernmost edge of the Consortium's Southern Division, which meant the fanatic bastard was not moving west after all. According to the report, Antuckians were already evacuating. Barriers were no good against an army of thousands.
There was little more of interest - she read and discarded several other administrative memos and added an unsigned marriage proposal to her collection. The last bit of mail was not in a campus envelope, but a plain manila one with her name printed neatly in block letters across it. She tore it open. Two pieces of paper fell out, one a yellowed bit of newsprint. Both were dated fifty-five years earlier and were from the Eveda University paper.
Eveda - three thousand miles away.
She smoothed the crumbling material carefully and felt her throat constrict. It was from the paper's weekly campus crime report.
"The dessicated body of a blackstone was found early this morning by Eveda Security in the alley behind Shelby Hall. Identified as Mark Shearer, the blackstone was part of the local Outreach Program and had been at Eveda for nineteen years. Security Chief, Annette Tyler, confirmed that the cause of death appeared to be identical to that of the two other blackstones earlier this year."
The other piece of paper was an inter-division report to Chief Tyler.
"Subject was actual age fifty-two and an employee of the Eveda Sanitation Division. The body was found unclothed and there was evidence of recent sexual activity. Long scratches were found on the victim's back as well as widespread bruising on chest, abdomen and face. As in the previous murders (Case #419 and #426), the corpses were in an advanced state of desiccation inconsistent with time elapsed since death.
"Also consistent with the before-mentioned cases, there were no witnesses. Recommend body be remanded immediately to the Plague Studies division for autopsy."
Anna's hand shook as she put the papers back into the envelope. A small ache began at her temples. There was no note accompanying these documents, no return address on the envelope. None of that mattered.
She knew exactly who sent it.