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almost two years there was still something she could find on Snakehead that could push her over the edge.
    It was sweet, really. But she had to do this.
    "The weather's supposed to be gorgeous. Why would I want to be stuck inside with a bunch of old paintings?"
    "But what about these weird people prowling the mountain at night?" The Colonel put in.
    "Your aliens? Don't worry, I won't be anywhere near the dam."
    "Where are you planning to be?" Hal folded his newspaper and regarded her with a serious expression. "You ought not go alone."
    "I'll be fine. But I wouldn't mind borrowing one of your two-ways, just in case."
    "No problem. Radios are one thing we've plenty of. You going over to the west face?"
    "Thought I'd start up near the Colonel's cabin and kind of meander down. It's been awhile since I've spent a night on the mountain." Two years to be precise. The last time she and Sam had taken Josh up to the cabin. The men busied themselves with their food. Sarah's smile wilted. "Anyway, it will be a nice change of pace."
    The Colonel twisted his lips. She knew he was ready to bark an order at her to cease and desist, so she met his gaze and arched an eyebrow. He put up a hand in surrender and backed off to brew a fresh pot of coffee.
    "You just watch out for those aliens," George said. "Who knows what they want."

CHAPTER 5
    Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Quantico, Virginia
     
    Caitlyn and Clemens moved to the one area on base even more secure than the lab building: the picnic tables in front of the Hogan's Alley Deli. Just a block away from the most frequently robbed bank in the world, they sat surrounded by trees with a view of anyone approaching from all directions and no chance of being overheard by anyone except the tame deer and squirrels who populated the forest. The only interruption was the occasional bark of an order from an instructor leading a car-stop drill along the block past the bank.
    As they walked over, talking about anything except the incendiary contents of the folders Clemens carried in his briefcase, Caitlyn had taken measure of the lab tech. He'd enthusiastically informed her that he came from Pittsburgh with a masters from CMU and a PhD from Pitt, that he loved working at Quantico and that his fiancée managed a clothing store in Fairfax. Nothing to set off warning bells, his face had been open, he'd even blushed when mentioning his fiancée and their up-coming wedding and honeymoon.
    She waited until he'd finished eating before prodding him back onto the topic of the Hopewell case. Not wanting to tempt her impending migraine prematurely into life, she'd barely touched her food. Clemens didn't seem to notice.
    The headaches were just another part of her new reality—one that she'd learned to manage. When she returned to the office, she would gobble down a few naproxen. If those didn't do the trick, she'd deal with it when she got home tonight: shoot up with her Imitrex, swallow a few Fiorcet and curl up in the dark.
    Tonight , she promised her silent but almost constant companion, tonight I'm all yours.
    Post-concussive syndrome, the docs at Hopkins called it. Or traumatic brain injury. TBI. Caitlyn called it hell on earth.
    Since she'd sustained her original head injury—a skull fracture and an epidural hematoma—in the line of duty, she could have applied for disability. But Caitlyn refused to admit that she was in anyway disabled. Not to herself and certainly not to the Bureau. She could just imagine what Jack Logan and others like him would say if she did that. What's next? they'd laugh. Medical leave for PMS?
    No, she wasn't disabled. Just disadvantaged. After the operation to remove the blood clot and repair the torn vessels in her brain, she'd learned how to do almost everything again. How to associate names and faces rather than simply memorizing them; how to read even though some of the letters still seemed jumbled, especially if they were on a computer screen; how to handle her migraines and