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The Longest Road: Part I - A Long Road to Enlightenment
By: Gerry Wolfson-Grande
e-mail: gawolfson@earthlink.net

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl
Banks, Randy Wolfe, and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All
other characters and entities are wholly fictional and belong to me; and any chance resemblance
to any living person or entity is purely accidental. I made 'em up.

I am making no profit from this; however, please e-mail me if you wish to distribute this story
elsewhere, and please do let me know if you like it!

Rating: PG-13.
Spoilers: None.
Challenge: #33
Summary: Randy Wolfe waltzes back into Steve Sloan's life and gets more than she bargained for.

Parts of this story actually have been wandering around in my head for quite some time,
clamoring to get out; I have also always thought Randy would make an excellent sparring partner
for Steve, but I would like to thank Anna and Simone for posting Challenge #33 on the DM Fan
Fiction Challenge Page and providing the catalyst I needed to tie the various parts together.


Chapter One

"Seen any good mimes lately?"

Startled, Mark Sloan looked up from the medical records he had been studying to see a
beautiful woman leaning in his office doorway. "Randy!" he exclaimed, jumping up to give her
an enthusiastic hug. "How was New Zealand?"

"Oh, that's long done. I just got back from a stint as activities director on a cruise ship -
nice long vacation, and I got paid for it too," she smiled. "And since I had an errand in
California, I had to come see you."

Mark smiled back at her warmly. "I'm glad you have. How long are you going to be in
town?"

"At least a week or so. I need to do some research and make some calls before I go
upstate."

The wheels in Mark's brain whirred into action. Steve was still on partial disability
following his knee surgery, and seemed to be tolerating his forced vacation with poorly concealed
impatience and irritation. A few days of Randy Wolfe, Mark thought gleefully, might be just what
the doctor ordered.

"My dear," he said wickedly, "why don't you join us for dinner tonight?"

Randy beamed at him. "I'd love to!"

Chapter Two

Limping into the kitchen, Steve Sloan glanced over at his father, who was industriously
chopping vegetables. "Something special tonight, Dad?"

Mark briefly contemplated a radish before hacking it into a miraculously precise rosette,
then favored his son with an inimical stare. Although Steve had responded very well to the initial
physical therapy, and his other injuries from the car accident had healed fairly quickly once the
lunatic experimenting with staph bacteria at Community General had been caught (literally by
Steve's flinging himself out of his hospital bed and falling on top of the hapless miscreant), his
progress since being released to come home had not been as good. Impatient to get back to work,
Steve had insisted he could manage, but the long-suffering Captain Newman had finally put his
foot down and ordered the recalcitrant lieutenant to stay home until he could walk reliably. He
was unmoved by Steve's insincere promise to use the cane, and threatened him with a month of
desk duty once he was cleared to come back if he didn't do as he was told. As things stood,
Mark had already had to alternately coax and bully his son through two episodes of
overconfidence and subsequent frustration, not to mention outright crankiness. Watching his son
carefully, he was relieved to see that Steve was using the cane tonight without waiting to be
nagged.

"Oh, I figured I might as well experiment on Jesse and Amanda too, so they should be
here shortly. Why don't you get a beer and enjoy the sunset?"

Steve raised an amused eyebrow at his father. "Cramping your culinary style, Dad?" He
lifted an arm in mock terror as his father brandished a large wooden spoon threateningly. "Okay,
okay, I'll get my beer and hobble outside to await your summons."

Laughing, Mark flung a radish at his tall son as the latter edged out the door to the deck.

* * *

Mark had succeeded in subduing the salad and was working on his special recipe garlic
bread when the doorbell rang. Waving a dismissive hand at his son, who was struggling to get up,
he hastened to the door and threw it open, to see a smiling Randy, who was clutching an armful
of wine bottles. "You didn't say what you were cooking, so I brought one of everything."

"Come in, come in," Mark said happily, attempting in vain to remove one or three of the
more precariously positioned bottles, but Randy shook her head at his efforts and sailed towards
the kitchen with her cargo. Mark gave up trying and followed her. "Amanda and Jesse are on
their way, and Steve will be delighted to see you."

"Delighted to see whom?"

Having succeeded in rising, Steve was limping toward the kitchen. Unfortunately, he was
still looking down rather than where he was going after negotiating the short step from outside,
and was unprepared for the figure which suddenly appeared in front of him. Unable to stop or
move the cane quickly enough to keep his balance, he had time for only an instant of startled,
horrified recognition before the cane went one way, his good leg another, and the bad knee
selfishly refused to single-leggedly provide enough support to keep him from crashing headlong
to the floor.

With enviable speed and precision, Randy deposited her burden, intact, on a counter and
knelt next to his recumbent body. "Oh, Steve, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed.

Dazed, Steve blinked up at her with an ominous feeling of d‚j… vu and said the first
stupid thing he could think of. "But -- you're in New Zealand --!" he stammered, uncomfortably
aware in a small corner of his brain that he sounded like a complete moron.

Randy decided it wasn't the best time for lengthy explanations. "Yes, but I came back,"
she said soothingly, helping him up with small hands which were surprisingly strong.

His own hands firmly planted on the cane, more for reassurance than balance, Steve eyed
her warily, unsure of how enthusiastic he felt about the reunion. Their history had been brief but
eventful, and had involved his receiving frequent minor physical injuries whenever she was
around, as well as being dragged into one of the weirder cases of his career. He had reacted with
natural resentment, only coming to finally, grudgingly, admit that, however screwy her thought
processes, she certainly had brains, and she was pretty cute as well. By the time he had reached
that enlightened state, however, the Feds had left, the mime's murder was no longer a mystery,
and Randy had smiled at him, kissed him, and blown out of town, leaving Steve to wonder if he
should spend the next several days, weeks or months kicking himself. Hard.

He sorted mentally through several possible things to say, discarding all of them as either
too brusque, too fatuous, too rude, or just plain idiotic. His father, usually only too willing to butt
in, had, inexplicably, disappeared. The silence lengthened until even Randy, usually so supremely
confident, began to wonder if her visit had been such a brilliant idea. She had hoped to enlist the
Sloan men to help her find out what had happened to her sister, and, although she wasn't sure she
wanted to admit as much to the handsome owner of the deep blue eyes regarding her with a tinge
of ice, she had definitely looked forward to seeing those gorgeous eyes again, not to mention the
rest of him. They stared at each other, both still silent, each reluctant to speak first, until an
exasperated Mark strode back into the room and took each one by an arm, saying, "Alice,
pudding. Pudding, Alice."

He was rewarded with an affronted glare from his son and a gasp, followed by a giggle,
from Randy, which only deepened Steve's scowl. Irritably, Steve started to turn away, but the
sudden lack of amusement on his father's face stopped him cold. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I
seem to have left my good manners with my other cane."

Randy opened her mouth to say something, but Steve shook his head. "Randy, I am
sorry. No reason for me to take my bad temper at my own clumsiness out on you." Steeling
himself for what he was sure he would see in her eyes, he took a deep breath and declared,
"Dad's right, of course. I really am delighted to see you." Encouraged by the fact that he had
incurred no additional injuries so far, and emboldened by the beginning twinkle in her eyes, he
blurted, "Will you let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night?"

There was another short silence, while Steve felt a growing chill in his chest. Then Randy
smiled that incredible smile at him, took his hand, and beamed, "Absolutely, Steve."

Chapter Three

Mark had managed for the most part to deflect Jesse's natural and persistent (not to mention
occasionally tactless) curiosity as to why Steve and Randy kept surreptitiously giving each other
goopy looks, helped by Amanda, who had no compunction about giving her good-natured
compatriot a good hard pinch when warranted. They had worked their way in a rather leisurely
fashion through one of Mark's gourmet Italian dinners, accompanied by one of the excellent wines
contributed by Randy, and had uttered the obligatory oohs and aahs at the exquisite precision of
Mark's vegetable creations. They were now relaxing on the deck enjoying coffee, the evening air,
and the pleasant company. The would-be lovebirds were sitting as close to each other as possible
without being excessively obvious, although Steve's hand kept wandering up to touch Randy's
hair, until Jesse caught him at it and broke into gales of laughter. When the others turned
inquiring glances on him, Steve affected an innocent look, hoping for once they'd cut him some
slack.

Tempted, Mark contemplated his long-suffering son appraisingly, then decided to take
pity on him. He turned to Randy. "Not to necessarily mix business with pleasure, dear, but what
does bring you back to California?"

Randy had been debating with herself for the last several minutes as to just how she
wanted to broach the subject. She definitely wanted their help, and she found that she had to know
just how mutual her attraction with the younger Sloan was. Strangely, though, her customary
supreme self-confidence had deserted her, leaving her unsure of how best to ask, not to mention
worried about how she would feel if they refused. But, since it was Mark who was asking with
that singularly charming smile, she knew she had to be as straightforward about her problem as
possible. Hoping for the best, she put her cup down and leaned forward slightly.

"I'm trying to find out what has happened to my sister, and I --" she started, only to be
interrupted by the person whose opinion, she realized, would affect her the most.

"Need us to help you," finished Steve, somewhat startled to hear the words coming out
of his mouth instead of his father's. Before he could talk himself out of it, he captured her hands
with his and gave her a devastating smile. "Of course we will -- "

Jesse couldn't restrain himself. "Man, Steve, you must have really banged your head hard
when you hit the floor!" he laughed. "Hey! Stop that!" he groused, rubbing his arm where
Amanda had just pinched him with more force than usual. Resigning himself to more black and
blue marks, Jesse delivered another zinger. "Better bring Kevlar and a helmet!"

Face red, Steve growled, "You're lucky I'm too comfortable to get up and you're out of
cane range, Jess." Jesse's retort went unnoticed as Randy cried, "Oh, Steve! I forgot about your
leg!" Distressed, she continued, "I can't possibly ask you to get involved in something right now -
- "

"On the contrary," Mark interjected. "I think a little low-level investigation might be just
the ticket, as long as you promise to keep the bizarre Randy-related injury level at a bare
minimum."

Steve ignored his father's wisecrack and gave him a long, level look. "You don't object?"
he asked pointedly, his tone somewhat chilly.

"Nope," Mark answered equably. "I would hope that, if things start to get too
complicated, or require more resources, you involve the department, but, depending on what
Randy has to tell us, I think you'll be much happier with something to do, and that knee may get
a chance to heal yet."

From the somewhat mulish expressions shared by father and son, Randy suspected they
were heading for dangerous waters. Better get the discussion back to the issue at hand. "Well,"
she started, "my sister, Ariel --"

Mark smiled at her. "Let me guess. Miranda, right? The Tempest?"

Randy smiled back at him. "My parents were English majors and Shakespeare fanatics.
Ironically, they got us backwards; Ariel has always been a proper, good little girl, and I was the
flighty, adventurous one -- she's five years younger than me." She paused, shrugging. "I guess
I've always felt a bit responsible for her."

Steve's thumb was stroking her hand, apparently of its own volition. "I take it she's
disappeared?" he asked.

She nodded. "I got a letter from her about two weeks ago." She looked crestfallen for
a moment. "Actually, she wrote it over three months ago, but it took that long to catch up to me."

A weird feeling overtook Steve. How it happened, he didn't know, but suddenly he
wanted to be the one to take care of her, defend her, slay dragons right and left for her. He shook
himself mentally. They hadn't even had a proper date yet, and here he was indulging in wishful
fantasies like a teenager. Besides, he still didn't know if he could survive a single evening with
her unscathed!

"And?" he prompted gently.

"She told me all about this wonderful guy she had met," Randy said flatly. At the lack
of reaction from her listeners, she continued, "Ariel met this guy, married him, and dropped off
the face of the earth, all in only three or four months."

"Excuse me?" said Amanda. "She did what?"

Randy sighed. "She got involved in this spooky new sect, where she met the man she
married. Her letter referred to some sort of mass wedding. And then she and this guy she married
stayed at their center upstate, but when I tried to contact her there, they told me she'd never been
a member, hadn't ever visited the place even!" Her voice and hands became more agitated,
reminding Steve uncomfortably of previous occasions when he'd narrowly avoided permanent
injury or maiming. With some effort, he captured both flying hands and held them in his large,
capable ones. "Randy, let me do some checking on this place before you try to do anything drastic
-- some of those folks are pretty strange. What's it called?"

Randy made a contemptuous sound. "Enlightenment Ranch. Talk about imaginative."

"Okay. I'll look into it. See who the principals, owners, are, what they're about."

Mark had been listening intently. Now he turned to Randy and said quietly, "There's
something else, isn't there."

She sighed. "Yes. What's really bothering me is that, as I said before, this is totally
unlike her. I'm the one who does crazy things at the drop of a hat, not her."

"People do funny things sometimes, you know," Amanda pointed out gently.

"Maybe," Randy responded, "but she still wouldn't walk off without letting someone
know where she was going. And, even though we don't see each other very often, we stay in
touch. The last time I talked to her was only a month or two before she met her husband, and she
didn't sound like she was planning to go off the deep end. I just know something bad has
happened to her."

"Don't worry, Randy," Jesse chipped in. "We're a lot smarter and faster on our feet than
we look -- well, some of us," he laughed, easily dodging the pillow thrown by his annoyed
business partner.

Mark scratched his mustache. "Well, I suggest we get some rest tonight. Randy, you'll
stay with us, of course?"

Chapter Four

Breakfast the next morning was typical for the Sloan household, or so the Sloan men
anticipated before discovering a small cyclone in the kitchen. "What the hell?--" Steve muttered,
half out loud, gazing at the scene with amazement.

Randy turned from the counter where she had been conjuring up something which smelled
indescribably appetizing. "Out! Both of you!" she commanded, shooing them with those small
hands. "Go sit and enjoy the morning air -- coffee and juice are already out there, and breakfast's
almost ready." Bemused, Steve watched her neatly circumvent his father's attempt to sneak
around her to inspect her creation, easily deflecting him towards the door to the deck, and decided
he was less likely to get hurt if he simply did as he was told. "I'm going, I'm going, don't hit
me," he grinned at her, and limped out to join his father.

The reality of breakfast fully met the promise of its aromas. Stuffed, Mark put his napkin
down and leaned back, smiling at their guest. "Randy, that was delicious. Thank you."

"Second," mumbled Steve, mouth full of the best Western omelet he had ever tasted. "I'll
hire you at Bob's any day."

Randy patted his hand. "Thank you for the compliment, Steve, but I'm afraid you can't
afford me."

"Huh?" Steve swallowed his mouthful and looked up to see what he privately considered
the "Randy Wolfe diploma announcement" look. "Let me guess. Muckety-muck cooking school,
class of ?"

"Actually," Randy replied, "American Culinary Institute, California and Louisiana
Culinary Institutes, over a few years, and a stint at the Cordon Bleu before I took the cruise ship
job." She gave the startled men a bland look. "I like to cook."

After an astonished silence, Mark broke into delighted laughter. "That does it. Pretty,
smart, talented, and now an incredible cook -- if you don't snap her up, Steve, I swear I will!"

Randy watched the color seeping up Steve's neck and took pity on him. "I'm sure we can
work something out," she said kindly. "More coffee, anyone?" she asked, and burst out laughing
as Steve hastily reached for the pot before she could pick it up.

"All right," Mark said a few minutes later, fortified with a fresh cup of coffee. "What's
your plan of attack, Steve?"

Cradling his mug in his hands, inhaling the aroma appreciatively, Steve organized his
thoughts, swiftly switching from pleasant flirting to critical analysis. "I gave this some thought last
night," he replied. "You enjoy messing around on the Internet, so why don't you see what you
can find out about who or what owns an interest in this operation?"

Mark nodded. "Corporate info, other interests, all that," he agreed. "Real estate
transactions..." his voice trailed off while he pondered.

Randy gave Steve an inquiring look. "And you?" she asked.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I'm debating whether to call my partner, Cheryl, and
ask her if she'd be willing to pay the ranch an official type of visit. If something fishy is going
on, I don't know that I want to alert them unnecessarily to any kind of investigation." He doodled
absently on the placemat with a fingernail, searching for the best way to tell Randy where his
thoughts were leading him.

Mark looked hard at his son, sensing Steve's unease. "What is it, son?" he asked quietly.

Steve reached over to take Randy's hand, running his thumb gently over her fingertips.
"I think," he said carefully, as tactfully as possible, "I'd also better check official police reports
for the last month or so." As her eyes widened, he added gently, "I'm sorry, Randy, but I have
a bad feeling about this."

"What do you mean?"

He didn't want to look into those same eyes he had been mooning over the night before.
Watching him, Randy, realized he was mentally somewhere he didn't want to be, and she was
going to have to join him there if their discussion was going to get anywhere. "Steve?" she
encouraged, but he continued to avoid her gaze, until she felt an uncharacteristically strong wave
of irritation ripple through her. "Steve Sloan," she warned, "spit it out before this pot of coffee
ends up in your lap!"

Despite his worry about his son, Mark let out a crack of amusement, startling Steve from
his distraction. "What?" the latter demanded aggrievedly.

"Son," Mark said gently, "You need to tell us what you're thinking."

Steve scrubbed the heels of his hands across his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay. I
can't wrap this in cotton wool, Randy. I don't think your sister's still alive."

She swallowed, hard, but kept her calm. "Why?"

"That place has had some disturbing press in the last year or so," he started to explain,
but Randy interrupted him. "Wait a minute! You hadn't even heard of it yesterday!"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I -- woke up last night and couldn't get back to sleep --"

It was Mark's turn to interrupt. Frowning at his son, he asked with concern, "Nightmares
again? I thought you were going to take the pills I gave you --" His voice trailed off as his son's
squirmy look altered abruptly, eyebrows slamming down into a deep vee of annoyance. "Dad, I -
-"

Mark shook his head angrily, glaring back at his son. "You didn't even try to go to sleep,
did you?" he charged.

"Dad --"

"Look, Steve, I can't wave a magic wand and make your knee better!" Mark was in full
swing now, oblivious to Randy's presence, concentrating on his exasperating eldest-born, aching
to knock some sense into that obstinate skull. "You have got to recognize your body can't keep
fighting itself while you prance about pretending the injury doesn't exist!"

"Dad, I --" Steve's voice had risen to match his father's, but he might as well have tried
to stop a runaway express train by standing in front of it. "I really wish, just once, you'd humor
me if nothing else," Mark stormed, "and do as I damn well tell you!"

Randy couldn't take it anymore. "Mark, don't you think you're being a little harsh?" she
asked, setting off another torrent of snarling between the Sloan men, Mark gloriously furious,
Steve glowering and trying to get a word in edgewise, and her exasperated scolding all
contributing to an incredible cacophony of argument. Finally, totally out of patience, Steve
slammed both fists on the table and, to the accompaniment of rattling crockery, yelled, "Dad!
Would you please listen? I was on the Internet!"

Mouth open in readiness to deliver another blistering comment about his son's hard head
and lack of filial responsibility to an aging, worried father, the elder Sloan stopped in mid-
inhalation, promptly breaking into a fit of coughing as the air went the wrong way. Randy patted
him on the back. After catching his breath, Mark eyed his son with a certain wariness and
demanded, "You were on the Internet? You actually touched the computer?"

Randy watched with regret as Steve made a visible effort to calm down. She had to admit
that he was absolutely magnificent when he was angry, those eyes blazing blue fury and his color
high. She shook herself mentally at her purple prose, and gazed at the two men with fascination.

Aware that his audience was waiting, Steve complained, half-joking, "You don't have to
make an issue of it," which spurred an unfortunate reaction from his father. "The computer or
your health?" Mark inquired, voice dripping with sarcasm, still stung by his son's lack of
receptiveness to his lecture.

Steve crossed his eyes and counted to ten. Then, hoping he had succeeded in regaining
control of himself, he said mildly, "Either one, Dad. I really am trying to take care of myself.
I just was too edgy to sleep, and I figured I'd do something constructive."

Mark opened his mouth to retort and shut it again hurriedly as Randy scowled at him and
reached for the coffee pot. Steve ignored the byplay, worrying at the placemat with his finger
again. "Anyway, if we're all through digressing, there were several stories in the newspaper
archives which were -- unsettling."

He had their undivided attention now. "In addition to the sort of yellow journalism you
might expect about this type of mystic crap and the mass marriages, they've attracted attention
over several nasty lawsuits." He looked up, brow creased. "These weren't your garden variety
cult-related cases, either; an excessive number of them involved allegations of criminal mischief,
particularly in the disappearances of three men and two women, no apparent connection between
them, over the course of several months." Steve hunched his shoulders as if he were suddenly
cold. "They had one of those video -- streamers? -- of Aubrey Wyler, the guy in charge; shades
of Jones, Manson, all those nuts, except this fellow had the deadest eyes I've ever seen." He took
a deep breath, shook himself, and this time did meet Randy's eyes, hating what he had to say
next. "I'm sorry, Randy. I don't think we can expect anything but the worst as far as Ariel's
concerned. And," he added hastily, seeing that look in her eyes which meant her brain was
cooking up something which was going to be scary as hell, "please, please, please promise me
you won't go waltzing in there brandishing whichever diploma claiming to be qualified to do God-
knows-what in order to find out what happened!"

Randy gazed at him appreciatively. Intensity was almost as irresistibly attractive on him
as rage; maybe more so, she decided, noting the worry in his blue eyes. "All right," she agreed
equably.

"And don't think I don't mean -- what?" asked a flustered Steve, certain she had planned
to give him a hard time.

"No, Steve, don't worry. I won't -- we will," pronounced the infuriating woman as she
scooped up the breakfast dishes and sailed off into the kitchen with them. Irritated, Steve reached
for his cane, but was stopped by his father's hand on his arm. "Leave her be for now, son," Mark
advised kindly. "She'll need some time to think that idea through, by which time we should be
able to calmly and rationally talk her out of it."

Steve stared at the man who had been shouting and waving his arms like a lunatic only
minutes before. "Calmly and rationally?" he inquired, trying and failing to keep the grin from
sidling out.

Unable to resist his son's smile, Mark responded with one of his own. "Yep, ice-cool,
that's us!" They both laughed, then Steve said soberly, "Dad, I'm going to call Cheryl and see
what kind of reports she can dig up, on this ranch and on Ariel, and pick her brain about how to
approach our investigation."

Mark nodded in agreement. "Best before Randy finishes punishing the dishes and comes
looking for us!"

Chapter Five

Unfortunately, what Steve learned was even less reassuring. His partner confirmed a
number of suspicious incidents which had involved residents or former residents of the
Enlightenment Ranch. She also pulled a Jane Doe report on a drowning victim which, when
Cheryl dropped by the beach house with it, bore a disturbing resemblance to Ariel Carson, n‚e
Wolfe. The identification was confirmed when Randy took one look at the picture, went white,
nodded and mumbled something thickly about going for a quick run to clear her head.

Cheryl watched her run out of the room, then turned back to her partner and his father.
"I called the ranch and asked if they had a member named Roger Carson," she reported. "I
explained that we were trying to confirm the identity of a woman believed to be his wife."

Mark looked up over his glasses from the report. "And?"

She shrugged. "First reaction was a little interesting; I got the feeling the girl I was
talking to knew something but not how to tell me she didn't. But she took off and found someone
who must deal with the public frequently enough to know how to avoid unpleasant questions. I
was informed, very politely and just as firmly, that the Carsons had been assigned to one of the
quote-unquote missionary teams -- get this, in Malaysia, of all places -- and weren't expected to
be anywhere near civilization for at least two or three months."

"Convenient," Steve commented.

His partner glanced at him. "I can try to get a warrant to look around," she offered, "but
I'm not sure that would be helpful."

He nodded. "Under the circumstances, I have to agree with you. We'll have to think of
a different approach."

Mark had been leaning back against the couch cushions, eyes half closed, listening to the
other two. "Wait a minute," he said suddenly. "You said they told you the Carsons, both of them,
were in Malaysia?"

Cheryl nodded. "That's right."

"But," Mark pointed out, "they told Randy her sister had never been there at all. Ever."

"That's what they said." Randy came into the room, wearing shorts and a tank top, hair
in a ponytail. She had gone for a quick run on the beach to clear her head, and her skin glistened
with a faint sheen of perspiration. To Steve, with the sun from the windows behind her, it looked
like she glowed.

Cheryl spread her hands. "Then maybe an official visit would be better, if they've lied
about Mrs. Carson," she suggested.

Randy shook her head firmly. "No. If they realize we're onto them, they'll destroy any
proof which may exist." She gave Mark and Steve a pleading look. "I have to know how this
happened to my sister."

Steve tried not to look in his father's direction, but it didn't work. Sure enough, Mark
was wearing that famous Sloan "my hands are tied, what are you gonna do?" expression. Fat lot
of help he was going to be, his son mused resentfully.

"Why do I think I'm not going to like this part?" Steve asked with resignation. He
glanced up, and saw the look in Randy's eyes he had been dreading; she was running in high gear
now and capable of concocting all sorts of hare-brained schemes. "You're not seriously thinking -
-"

"Of infiltrating their organization? Absolutely," she declared with determination.

"Randy, this is crazy. For one thing, they've seen you before, remember?" he begged.

She gave him the sort of pitying look one bestowed upon men of slow brain. "They saw
a blonde."

Before anyone could offer an intelligent response to this indisputable but bewildering
statement, she continued, "I intend to look different. And you and I will pose as an affianced
couple looking to travel the enlightened path."

"A what doing what?" Steve exclaimed, aghast.

Randy ignored him. "We get in there, snoop around, find what we're looking for, and
then get out fast. And we set up some kind of check-in with Cheryl so the police know where we
are and that we're okay. If we don't call in, then it's time to send in the Marines."

Cheryl looked dubious, not wanting to say anything which would set off the argument
which hovered in the air. Mark's expression was grave, but he remained silent. This was Steve's
decision. Randy turned to face Steve's scowl with desperation in her eyes. "Please, Steve," she
pleaded softly. "I have to know. I wasn't here to stop her."

Steve felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. How could he turn her down now?
He had first-hand experience of the heartbreak of trying and ultimately being unable to protect a
much-loved younger sister from the harsher aspects of life. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he
muttered resignedly, "but okay. We'll do it. And I mean we, as in you, me, Cheryl, Dad,
everybody," he added as he watched a totally different glow come over her face, and promptly
lost any control of his heart whatsoever.

Watching them, Mark quipped to Cheryl, "I don't think they'll have to work too hard to
get into character."

They spent a few more hours working out the details. Mark's internet research had
revealed a formidable operation. What public information existed showed ownership of the
Enlightenment Ranch to rest in the hands of a few frighteningly powerful individuals, whose
influence stretched in far too many directions.

"Easy enough to wish someone away with the right funding," Steve remarked,
contemplating the stack of paper Mark had generated. Cheryl glanced up from the call-in schedule
she was preparing. "All the more reason for you to be very careful," she pointed out, "especially
since you still need to watch your step literally." She ducked as he tossed a wadded-up paper at
her in mock admonishment, and handed him her plan. "Here. If there are no phones, and your
cell doesn't work, get out of there or find some way of alerting me to back off. Otherwise, any
time we don't hear from you somehow within one hour of your check-in time, we're coming in
with a warrant."

After they had finally tweaked the schedule to their satisfaction, Cheryl hugged her
partner, wished them luck, and took her leave.

Steve took Randy to a quiet little Japanese restaurant not too far from the beach house,
pointing out that he couldn't fall on his face on the floor if he was already sitting on it. Dinner
itself actually turned out to be relatively uneventful, although there was a near miss involving
shrimp and a cruet of teriyaki sauce. Steve considered himself fortunate only to incur a minor
cleaning bill during the course of the evening.

Returning to the beach house, he took her to his special spot on the beach, shielded from
any watching eyes, where, as he took her in his arms, they discovered their attraction was very
much a mutual one.

Chapter Six

Yawning, Steve limped into the kitchen in search of Randy, coffee and his father, in that
order. Although she herself was not in evidence, proof of her prior occupation of the kitchen lay
steaming under a warm towel. Happily, Steve took his plate outside to join his father, settling
himself as Mark glanced up with a small grin. "I see my lecture about sleep has gone
unappreciated once more," the older man ventured slyly.

"Ah, give it a rest, Dad." But Steve was grinning, so Mark niggled at him again. "You
know, son, if she can cook like that after being kept up all night --"

"Dad!"

His father smirked at him. "All right, then, we'd better keep her, don't you think?"

"What's this "we" business?" Steve growled. "Get your own super girl!"

"I always liked Wonder Woman," said a pensive voice. Mark saw Randy first, and his
expression brought Steve twisting around to stop short, mouth open, at the vision in front of him.
The long blonde hair which she almost always wore up was now curling luxuriantly around her
head and down her neck in enthusiastic auburn waves. Her hazel eyes snapped blue, and the
higher-heeled shoes she wore added at least three inches to her height.

"Wow," Steve said appreciatively. "And blonde was pretty good!"

She tossed her head in a mock movie-star pose. "I got bored with it," she commented.
"Thought I'd be a redhead for a while." She received no argument from either of the Sloan men,
both of whom continued to stare, until Steve finally shook himself and began the arduous process
of getting to his feet. "Time to get organized."

Mark watched him with concern. "Son, are you sure you're --"

"Forget it, Dad," Steve interrupted. "We've been through that, and I don't think I can
handle another lengthy discussion. Besides, it really doesn't matter -- I've resigned myself to the
fact that I'm dealing with an irresistible force. No point in doing anything but going along for the
ride when she gets like this." He threw a quick, belated look over his shoulder to make sure
Randy had made it all the way back into the kitchen, safely out of earshot. "And, Dad -- I know
how she feels. I'm not sure I wouldn't do the same thing in her place."

Mark gave him a telling look. "At least try not to get any ribs broken this time," he said
reprovingly, recalling Steve's encounter with the men who had killed his sister's husband.

His son smiled down at him. "Don't worry, Dad. I'm more concerned about staying in
one piece around Randy than any bad guys!"

They had planned originally to take off that afternoon, but Mark took one look at his
son's tired eyes and flatly insisted he get one good night's sleep before embarking on their
adventure. Unwilling to let the two men start bickering, and unhappily aware that the revised
schedule probably wouldn't make much difference, Randy managed to convince the glowering
Steve that his father had a point. "Besides," she added, "Mark told me Jesse and Amanda were
coming over, and it wouldn't hurt to bounce our plan off of them too." She batted her eyelashes
at her handsome lover, trying to mock-vamp him, but failing and subsiding into giggles. "Then
tomorrow I get you all to myself."

Reluctantly, Steve allowed himself to be distracted by her efforts to make him laugh.
"Yeah, you and God knows how many mystic lunatics."

It turned out to be one of Randy's better ideas, however. Jesse and Amanda listened, the
young doctor open-mouthed in amazement, and the pretty pathologist with a small frown.

Steve noticed the distracted look on her face first. "What is it, Amanda?" he asked.

Amanda hoped she could couch her thought in a sufficiently delicate fashion. "Well --
I realize that you two are -- pretending to be engaged, but -- don't you think someone might get
suspicious if Randy's not wearing a ring?"

"Yeah," Jesse added breezily. "I mean, you guys aren't really, but still it's gonna look
kind of funny -- ow!" he sulked, rubbing his arm where Amanda had smacked him.

"Ring," Steve said flatly. He looked from Amanda to Jesse to his father to Randy and
back again. "Ring. Damn. I totally forgot about a ring." He reached for his cane. "You're right,
Amanda. Guess I've got an errand to run."

"Wait," Mark said suddenly. "Everyone just stay put; I'll be right back," he added
hastily, and disappeared from the room. Steve shrugged at the others' questioning looks. "Don't
ask."

A few minutes later, Mark returned with a small box in his hand. "Here, son," he said,
handing it to the bewildered Steve. "Please use this."

Puzzled, Steve opened the box; the color drained from his face and rushed back again.
"Dad --"

His voice cracked momentarily, then roughened with emotion. "Dad, this was Mom's
ring." His eyes lifted to see a very odd expression on his father's face. "Dad -- I can't -- Carol -
-" he stammered, totally at a loss.

"No, son," Mark responded quietly. "Your mother was adamant. She wanted me to give
it to you when you were ready."

Steve stood silent, irresolute, staring at the box in his hands. The others waited, patiently
at first, then with some unease as Mark began to wonder if he had done the right thing. Finally,
Randy broke the silence. "Steve -- I'm sure we can pick something up tomorrow -- after all, we're
not really --" She broke off, wondering why it was so hard for her to say they were only
pretending to be engaged to be married.

Steve stirred. "No, you don't understand." She started to answer, but he shook his head.
"You don't understand," he repeated, reaching for his cane and then limping to stand in front of
her chair. "Randy --" He swallowed and took a deep breath. "Randy, I want to give this to you.
For the right reasons. What I don't know is whether you'll accept it for those right reasons."

Staring in shock at the oh-so-attractive man standing before her with hope blazing in those
deep blue eyes, Randy found herself groping for words for one of the few times in her life.
Instinctively, she put her left hand to her face, and somehow she was not surprised when his large
one reached down, took it, and gently but firmly pulled her to her feet.

"Miranda Wolfe," Steve Sloan asked softly, sliding the ring onto her hand, "will you
marry me?"

Randy forgot momentarily about the uncertainty surrounding the next few days. Her
vision was filled with those eyes and that smile. "Yes," she breathed, and raised her mouth to his.

Jesse allowed them a minute or so before he couldn't restrain himself any longer. "Way
to go, Steve!" he cried, clapping his hands. "I think -- mmfph!" The rest was muffled as Amanda
whacked him in the face with the same cushion Steve had thrown at him before.

Mark came and hugged both his son and his prospective daughter-in-law, smiling from
ear to ear. He pulled her away from Steve so that Amanda and Jesse could hug their friend. "I'm
so glad, honey," Mark told her, hugging her again. "And please -- promise me you'll be careful,"
he added soberly, "and take care of my son for me."

Chapter Seven

Steve squinted at the map, then at the rather mysterious road sign. "This is where we're
supposed to get off PCH," he stated, giving the unhelpful sign another dubious look. "Are you
sure this is the way you went?" he asked his fianc‚e, who was checking her makeup.

"Yep," Randy said firmly, after glancing around briefly. "I remember wondering at the
time if you had to get lost in order to become enlightened."

Steve chuckled appreciatively, then sobered. "I'm not too thrilled at how remote this
place seems to be," he commented. "I'd like to know Cheryl can reach us if and when that
becomes necessary."

They continued to sit in the parking lot of the gas station where they had turned off.
Finally, Randy looked over at Steve, who was obviously distracted by something. "What is it?"
she asked.

Wordlessly, Steve reached for her hand, focusing on the light coursing through the
diamond. "There's something I want you to promise me," he said at last, in a voice so calm and
quiet that she felt a quick icy touch on the back of her neck.

"Steve --"

"I want you to promise me," he continued evenly, ignoring the interruption, "that -- if
for any reason, something happens, you'll go for help."

Face white, Randy stared at him. "You mean, leave you and go for help."

He nodded, not meeting her increasingly furious eyes. She let out an explosive breath.
"Steve Sloan, if you think for one minute that I could leave you lying hurt in a nest of vipers and -
-"

"Randy." His voice was like the crack of a whip. "I'm not asking you to make the
decision. I'm asking you to make me a promise."

"But --"

"No buts." His voice, though still hard, was starting to sound strained. "I can't
necessarily guarantee my knee will hold up if for some reason we have to get out of there fast.
You know Cheryl and her team will be in place to meet you. If you were to stay, her only option
will be to come in with guns blazing, with no idea of whether we're safe. Too many innocent
people could get hurt. If you're out, you can at least tell her what she needs to know. I'll try not
to run into anything or fall down in your absence."

She had been on the brink of either tears or rage, she wasn't sure which, but the last
sentence was obviously a clumsy effort to cheer her up. She also came to the belated recognition
that this was a man of firm principles and convictions, who would not hesitate to put his foot
down and stand fast if he truly felt it was necessary, and, in this case, he was unfortunately right.
She sighed.

"That means?" Steve asked with a slight qualm, wishing he hadn't had to be quite so
brutal.

Randy bit her lip. "I guess I really don't have a choice, do I?" And then, as he inhaled
abruptly, obviously about to lecture her again, she added hastily, "I promise." She lifted her hand
to touch his cheek. "But, remember, Steve Sloan, if you make me keep it, you had better expect
to hear about it from me when I get my hands on you again!"

He turned his head to kiss her hand. "Duly noted."

It took the better part of another hour of twisting and turning road, accompanied by
Steve's grumbles about his partner being able to find the damn place, but they finally reached
what was indisputably a guard house in the middle of an expanse of barbed wire which stretched
off endlessly in both directions.

"Steve Miller and Miranda Taylor," Steve told the blank-faced guard. "We have an
appointment." The guard somehow managed to check his computer screen without taking his eyes
off the pair in the car. He grunted something which sounded like "right" and handed them a
visitor tag for the car. "You'll get an escort guide at the next gate," he said, and waved them
through.

The guide turned out to be a pleasant-looking woman in her early thirties, who slid into
the back seat and introduced herself as Irene. She managed to pry their prepared background story
out of them without seeming too obvious while giving them an overview of what to expect at the
Enlightenment Ranch. "I believe you'll find the marriage encounter very helpful," she burbled,
beaming when Randy assured her they were looking forward to it.

"Didn't I see in the literature we received something about group wedding ceremonies?"
Steve asked.

Irene gave him a surprised look, then laughed. "Typical man -- always in such a rush,
right, dear?" she asked. Randy gave her a "what can I say" type of smirk. "Impetuous - gotta love
'em," she agreed.

"Well, Steve," Irene explained, "to answer your question, we do have group weddings
from time to time. It's been a few months, so one may be planned for sometime soon, but I
couldn't tell you for sure. Ordinarily, one has to participate in the wedding and enlightenment
encounters for several sessions before being eligible for the ceremony."

Steve decided he had been sufficiently enlightened over the course of Irene's lecture. He
noticed that they were approaching some buildings, and followed Irene's directions as to where
to stop and park with considerable relief. That relief, however, was short-lived when they were
given photo ID visitor's badges; inexplicably, he felt a finger of something uncomfortable slide
down his neck and back. He shrugged it off for the time being, making a mental note to try to
make sure he kept a low profile.

Their suite was surprisingly large and comfortable. Steve had been half-expecting some
sort of ultra-spartan decor, devoid of any possible distractions to pursuing the path to
enlightenment. The slightly disapproving look on Randy's face indicated she was having a similar
reaction. Steve grinned at her and limped over to where their bags had been put, quickly riffling
through the contents of his to see if it had been searched.

"Hmm. If they went looking, they were damn good at it; none of the little traps I laid
have been disturbed," he commented. He lifted out the miniature, flat case cell phone Cheryl had
insisted he use. He pressed the memory combination for his partner's cell phone, and was
rewarded by her voice on the line within seconds. "Steve. We're registered and have had a tour.
Our "encounter" appointment is in half an hour." He chuckled. "No, I've been told to get off of
my leg for a little while -- guess our guide felt sorry for me." He winked at Randy, who stuck
her tongue out at him. "Anything new we need to know?" He listened for a moment. "Okay, I'll
tell her. Give our love to Dad and the others."

"Tell me what?"

Steve limped over to the bed and sat down less heavily than he had expected. The
enlightenment apparently also applied to comfortable mattresses; for a moment, he indulged in a
fantasy that they were here purely for enjoyable reasons. Remembering hastily what Cheryl had
told him, he regretfully shelved the delightful thought and patted the mattress next to him. "Come
sit, sweetheart."

Randy's eyebrows lifted at the endearment. "What are you planning to make me promise
now?" she demanded suspiciously, nevertheless sitting down and letting him take her hands in his.

Steve shook his head. "Nothing like that. There's something I have to tell you."

She waited, wondering.

He debated, searching for the least hurtful words and not succeeding very well. "Randy,
Amanda finished the autopsy on Ariel."

Randy frowned. "She didn't really drown, did she?"

"No. She sustained blunt trauma to the back of her head, but that's not what killed her
either. Her windpipe was crushed; it was definitely murder." Seeing the tears well up, he put
strong arms around her, stroking her hair until her breathing calmed. "I'm sorry, darling. I
promise you we'll get them."

She relaxed in his arms, feeling oddly safe, even though they were in a highly precarious
position, given they were right in the middle of whatever had killed her sister and miles away
from civilization. She rubbed the back of her hand across her face, and smiled tremulously at the
concerned blue eyes gazing down at her. "I believe you, Steve." She grabbed his head to bring
it close enough to kiss him. "I believe you. Come on -- let's go see exactly who or what we're
supposed to encounter."

Half an hour into said "encounter," Steve, bored almost to tears, decided if he never
heard the word "enlightenment" again, it wouldn't be too soon. These people were idiots. Their
philosophy was at best bewildering and at worst a ridiculous mishmash of every known esoteric
bit of naturalistic occult science known to man or woman, with an ominous hint of aryanism
thrown into the mix. Eclectic was not exactly the appropriate word to describe it. Thinking along
similar lines, Randy wondered idly just how so many people could swallow the gobbledygook
being preached by the "Enlightened Ones" without realizing that they were being fed a thinly
disguised hate message doctored with some really bad plagiarism. She sighed inwardly; a sneaked
glance at her watch indicated they had at least another hour or so of this silliness ahead of them.
She watched with some amusement as Steve, having been asked the type of question which
ordinarily would have made him squirm with distaste, plastered a too-bright smile on his face and
mumbled something inarticulate.

Steve had almost succeeded in achieving his own zoned state of enlightenment (having
long ago mastered the art of resting with his eyes open), when he felt a sharp, sudden pain in his
ribs. Barely managing to avoid wincing aloud, he threw an irritated glare at his innocently demure
fianc‚e and grabbed at the discussion. "Excuse me?" he asked hastily.

Their encounter director gave him a slightly superior look. "I realize there's a lot to
assimilate," she told them kindly, "but you both show such promise that I think you'll do just
fine." She rose. "Rumor has it a ceremony's due to be scheduled soon -- if you apply yourselves,
you may be able to qualify."

"Ceremony?" Steve said blankly.

She patted his hand. "Well, yes, dear. Wedding ceremony." She walked them to the door.
"Now, go back to your room and think about the techniques you've learned. Dinner is at seven."

Randy shuddered as the pair wandered off down the corridor. "Eww. Another hour of
that, and I would have run screaming from the room looking for someone sane, like the Spanish
Inquisition."

Steve laughed. "Yeah -- they do go a bit over the top, don't they." He scratched his chin,
sobering. "I think a little exploring after dinner might be a good idea; at least that shouldn't be
quite so weird."

Chapter Eight

He might not have felt so confident if he had witnessed a conversation taking place in the
office reserved for Aubrey Wyler, the founder of the Enlightenment Ranch. Wyler was a financial
genius who, early on in his life, had espoused certain neo-fascist principles, which he combined
with his naturally sociopathic personality to create a mindset which despised any sort of
governmental interference and hated almost everybody. Too clever to allow himself to be
potentially ruined by his natural predilections, however, he was canny enough to attract a cadre
of smart, worldly, powerful and influential individuals who were similarly unconcerned with social
responsibility, and their combined brainstorming and financial efforts had produced the bizarre but
highly profitable Enlightenment Ranch. At first scornful of the brainless fools who swallowed the
propaganda and opened their wallets to him, Wyler had eventually come to take a certain perverse
pleasure in serving as their all too insincere high guru.

Presently, however, he was definitely not pleased. He stared at his companion, shocked
by her revelation. "A what?" he raged. "Who the hell screened this guy, Tanya?"

Tanya Solario examined a fingernail and shrugged. She was to all intents and purposes
Wyler's primary partner and closest companion, far more than any of their other associates.
"Aubrey, I'm not totally sure. It's been several years since I saw him." She stretched
languorously, knowing her lover would at least appreciate the view. On the computer monitor
behind her were the images of the ranch's newest arrivals, taken from their ID photos. She
pointed lazily at the screen. "I don't know who she is, and for all I know this may be totally
legitimate. He definitely looks like the cop who busted me ten years ago." She grinned at Wyler.
"It should be easy enough for me to find out one way or another."

The man on the other side of the room turned dead black eyes on her, as always giving
her that odd thrill. Aubrey Wyler was not a handsome man by any definition: his chin was sharp,
his nose large, Roman almost, his black eyes lifeless, and his crow's black hair seemed to absorb
light rather than reflect it. Yet, when in the throes of any intense activity, whether it was sex,
ranting tirades against whichever political process or entity which had aroused his wrath, or his
proselytizing performances for the benefit of the Enlightened, that face blazed with a charismatic
power she found irresistible.

"When is the next ceremony scheduled?" he asked, his voice lingering over the word with
distaste.

Tanya opened another window on her screen. "Ordinarily, not for another two weeks."
She gave him an inquiring look. "What are you thinking, Aubrey?"

Wyler looked pensive. "What do you need in order to identify this man?" he asked. "Will
he recognize you?"

Tanya clicked back to Steve's smiling face. "I think your customary greeting for new
members should be enough for me to be sure," she replied. "I don't know if he will. I've changed
a lot of things, but I don't know how good his memory is."

Wyler thought for a few more minutes. "Can't hurt," he decided finally. "If he's not here
legitimately, he's on a fishing expedition for something, and we may as well find out what." He
snapped his fingers. "How many other couples are eligible, and how many rings do we have on
hand?"

She moved the mouse again and tapped a few keys. "Thirty couples. Plenty of rings."

"Good." Wyler started messing around with the papers on his desk with an air of finality.
"I want you to give me a definite opinion one way or another after the meet and greet, and before
dinner. If he's your cop, we'll schedule a ceremony for tomorrow. The sooner they're wearing
those rings, the better. We'll find out what they're up to then."

She rose, acknowledging that he wanted to be alone, then suddenly thought of something.
"Aubrey? Do you want guards posted outside their room tonight?"

He debated briefly. "No. No point in tipping them off. Just make sure you have enough
activity going on near them that they have no opportunity to leave their room without more
company than they want." He smiled a smile which got nowhere near his eyes. "Once they're
married, with their brand new rings, we'll know where they are all the time."

Chapter Nine

Steve used the opportunity before dinner to make a quick call to Cheryl and update her
on their scheduled routine, throwing in a few choice comments about their experience that
afternoon. He left her chuckling and encouraging him not to lose his head, hard though it was.
He turned to find Randy holding up two dresses, neither one of which suffered from any
conservative restraint in its design. "Hmmm," she mused. "Which is more appropriate for dinner
with the most enlightened muckety-muck -- lots of chest or lots of leg?"

"Do you seriously expect me to answer a question like that?" he asked in mock horror.
"Just because I haven't incurred any mildly incapacitating injury around you lately doesn't mean
I'm looking for trouble."

She made a face at him. "Coward. I swear I won't hurt you."

Steve squinted, attempting to give the proffered garments a serious inspection and failing
when she laughed. "Okay," he said finally, as she raised her eyebrows threateningly, "much as
I have qualms about choosing one or the other, somehow I think Wyler's a leg man."

She gave him a teasing look. "And you?" she inquired archly.

His mouth quirked in that smile she loved. "I'm taking the Fifth, lady -- and the whole
package."

* * *

Scrutinizing the directions they had been given, they walked into a large room big enough
to feed a small army. Large enough that Steve once more felt that inexplicable sense of unease;
but, when he tried to pin it down, it fled as quickly as it had arrived. He shook it off and took
Randy's arm. "Shall we, darling?"

Irene saw them and came bustling over. A brief look of distress crossed her face when
she noted Randy's hemline, but then she relaxed back into her normal pleasant expression. "What
a pretty dress, dear," she commented kindly, "you may as well enjoy it while you're novice
members. Below the knee after that," she laughed. Randy gave Steve a telling look while he
fervently hoped his face hadn't turned too red.

Irene was apparently oblivious to nuances. "Come, my dears. I'm supposed to take you
to meet Mr. Wyler. He always likes to welcome our new members personally." She escorted
them over to a corner of the room where a tall, black-haired man was holding forth to several
other people. He glanced up as the trio approached.

"Irene," he said in a well-modulated voice, "thank you for performing escort duties." He
shook Steve's hand and kissed Randy's. "Welcome, Ms. Taylor, Mr. Miller. My name is Aubrey
Wyler. I am fortunate to be the person these kind people have entrusted to be their -- visionary,
if you will. Please call me Aubrey -- and I will call you Miranda and Steven, if I may."

Steve reacted with a slight jerk. "Uh, just Steve, please; my father only calls me Steven
when I'm in trouble." There was a polite chuckle, while Steve found himself realizing that the
eyes of the man he had seen in the video footage were positively lively compared with the physical
reality. He turned with relief to the next person in line, only to have that relief leave him with a
rush as he was introduced to a woman he had arrested several years earlier. Somehow, he
maintained a bland, polite expression, knowing it was too much to expect her not to recognize
him, but hoping against hope that his face had not revealed that the recognition was mutual.
"Sloan," he told himself, "you are going to have to really watch your step."

He received another shock after dinner. Before dessert and coffee were served, Aubrey
rose and tapped on his glass, bringing the low murmur of conversation in the room to a halt. "My
friends," he stated, "the time has arrived for many of you to proceed to the next level of
Enlightenment."

Steve could feel his eyes glazing over at the word and forced himself to pay attention.

"Therefore," Wyler was saying (somehow Steve had missed the intermediate portion of
the speech as a result of his internal struggle), "we have chosen 4:00 tomorrow afternoon to hold
the wedding ceremony. Let us all congratulate our brothers and sisters in Enlightenment. Tanya,
would you name them?"

Steve's concentration started to wander again as she began to read a list of names, only
to snap to attention with a start as he heard "Miranda Taylor and Steve Miller." He glanced at
Randy in alarm. "Did she --?" he choked, only to start coughing as she nodded. As their
tablemates began to offer both congratulations and concern in equal parts, Randy rose to the
occasion, covering for her still spluttering fianc‚. "Don't worry," she assured them blithely, "he'll
be fine. He's just a bit shy, and we weren't expecting all the attention." She gave Steve a warning
look and handed him a glass of water. "Pre-wedding jitters, don't you know." Their companions
smiled understandingly and laughed, and the remainder of the dinner passed without incident.

"Shy? Jitters?" growled Steve once they were safely back in their room, having endured
a post-dinner session with their excited encounter counselor in preparation for the schedule for the
following day. "I am not shy," he complained. "Cautious, maybe. But not shy."

Randy gave him a pitying look. "Darling, we never would have solved the mime's
murder or broken up that stolen car parts ring if I hadn't --" she paused at Steve's inimical stare,
and opted for a different turn of phrase. "Encouraged you," she finished wickedly.

"Yeah, well, shy, jitters, and encouraged be damned," Steve grumbled. They both
grinned at each other, then he sobered. "I'd better call Cheryl and give her the grisly details --
and there's an additional wrinkle."

Randy raised an eyebrow. "Something to do with Tanya Solario?" she asked shrewdly.

Steve's mouth fell open. "How the hell --"

"Relax," Randy said hastily. "You were not obvious about it. I just had a feeling, and
there was something peculiar about the way she looked at you anyway." She gave him a
measuring look. "What is it?"

Steve's mouth was grim. "I put her in jail her ten years ago. Her name was Felicity
something or other. And her hair was different. But it's definitely her; she bit me when we
arrested her." His mouth quirked. "I recognized the overbite."

He moved his neck as if it hurt suddenly; Randy came over and started to massage it. The
muscles were definitely tight. Softly, she asked, "Do you think she recognized you?"

He was silent for a minute. "I don't know. If she did, she didn't let on to me." He
reached back to capture the soothing hands and kiss each one. "I don't have a good feeling about
this."

She slipped around in front of him, to be pulled into his lap as he wrapped tired arms
around her and leaned his face into her hair. "Do you want to call it quits and get out?" she asked
quietly, dreading either possible answer.

He sighed, a warm puff of air against her neck. "I don't know. I don't think we should
do anything tonight -- no, darling," he declared as she started to speak in protest, "if Tanya did
recognize me, they'll be waiting to see what we do tonight, so we're going to stay right here and
postpone our explorations for a day or so. I'm also going to update Cheryl so she's prepared for
any sudden activity."

Randy turned her head to look deep into his blue eyes, so serious and intent. "Are you
sure?" she pleaded. "I don't want to stay if you don't think we should."

His mouth quirked. "Where's a tape recorder when you need it? I never thought I'd hear
those words come out of your mouth," he teased. As her eyebrows started to descend, and the fire
kindled in her eyes, he added hurriedly, "It's all right, sweetheart. Really. If I think we really
need to run like rabbits, I'll let you know." He kissed her mouth, so temptingly close. "Let's get
some rest -- we're getting married tomorrow, after all."

And kicked himself mentally as she pulled back to gaze at him seriously. "Steve --"

He sighed, frustrated. "What?"

"It's not real, is it?"

"What's not real?" Steve reached for her, only for her to trap his hand with hers.

"You know," Randy mumbled, suddenly reluctant to blurt it out. He gave her a confused
look, making it obvious that he was going to be totally unhelpful. Annoyed, she exclaimed,
"Marrying you, you fool!"

Steve was tired, his knee was aching, and he just wanted to go to bed with the woman
he loved. "Randy Wolfe, I swear you are the most exasperating woman I have ever met. Do you
or do you not want me to marry you?" He reached for her again.

Randy stared at him. "Well, yes," she managed, still distressed. "But --"

"But nothing, lady," Steve interrupted. "Then, as far as I'm concerned, it's real," he said
simply. "Now take pity on a poor semi-invalid and come here."

Chapter Ten

Much later, when describing the following day's events to Mark, Amanda, Jesse, Cheryl
and an irate Captain Newman, at first Randy could only say about the bulk of the day,
defensively, "It was weird. Most of it was just plain strange."

It started innocently and even pleasantly enough. She awoke curled in Steve's arms, face
nuzzled against his shoulder. Heaven, she thought before fully surfacing and realizing she had
agreed to let herself be married to this man by a certifiable nutcase. She wondered detachedly if
a marriage was legal if the person performing the ceremony was insane. Most likely didn't make
any difference, she concluded; this was California, after all. Probably harder to find one who
wasn't crazy. She extricated herself and stretched, and went yawning to clean up and get dressed.
Better wear something a little more demure today, she considered with some amusement.

Steve hadn't stirred when she came back in the bedroom, resisting the urge to poke him
in a ticklish spot under one rib which she had delightedly discovered the night before. The long
drive and longer day had tired him, and the surprises had not helped. She recalled ruefully the
near-argument they had had after he had awakened too soon after finally falling asleep and
injudiciously let her see the degree of pain he was in. She had nagged him about the methadone
Mark had provided them, pushing him to the limit of his patience.

"Randy, I don't like what it does to me. Doesn't help to get rid of the pain if I have no
idea who I am or what I'm doing!"

"But -- all you have to do right now is go to sleep!" Randy had informed him, with heat
and possibly more hauteur than absolutely necessary.

He had given her a long, level look, eyebrows lowered, while he apparently counted
backwards. From a hundred. "Darling," he had said finally, in a deceptively controlled voice,
"they don't always let me sleep either. Not by this point." He rubbed his eyes. "Randy, I really
am tired. I will go to sleep. I will not take my pills." He held up a hand to forestall her retort.
"I'll make you a deal. You let it drop now, and I'll keep them in my pocket tomorrow. If the pain
gets too severe, I'll take them." Famous last words, he thought cynically. How many times had
he tried that on his father?

Randy had scrutinized his face carefully until he squirmed, wondering uncomfortably if
she could read his mind. "All right," she had finally agreed, and had told him to get back in bed
and go to sleep.

And he had, she mused, listening to his even breathing. Once he eventually fell asleep
again, he had slept like the dead. She took a deep breath and reached over to stroke the hair off
of his forehead, only to have her hand captured as a deep blue eye contemplated her serenely.
"Fooled you. I've been watching you for the last twenty minutes, including while you stood there
in a quandary debating whether to tickle or not to tickle."

She laughed and leaned down to kiss him. "Come on, loverboy. I want a good meal
inside me before we have to encounter again."

Steve grimaced. "There's a definition of hell for you -- enlightenment on an empty
stomach!"

* * *

The only thing that kept them awake, she told her listeners, was the near-overdose of
caffeine with breakfast and the pact they made to poke each other as necessary. The morning was
interminable. Lunch not long enough. Another mind-dulling two hours of "encounter" nonsense,
until they were separated. Then she was escorted to another part of the compound by the beaming
Irene, who apparently got her jollies weaving countless ribbons and flower garlands through
Randy's hair, clucking delightedly to herself and her captive listener all the while. "So pretty! So
beautiful!" she burbled, amazingly succeeding in inserting yet another floral decoration. Randy
was starting to worry that she was going to get married looking like Mother Nature on speed.
"And such a handsome husband -- and that physique!" Irene gurgled coyly. And she was off and
running while Randy, fascinated in spite of herself, listened, wondering at the bizarre dichotomy
which encouraged such overtly sexual fantasies to spill out of a woman dressed in an ankle-length
gunnysack.

Amanda had put her fork down at this juncture. "She said all that? About Steve?" she
questioned in shock, eyes wide. "In front of you and God and everybody!" Jesse had contributed
with his customary tactfulness. Randy had blushed in spite of herself. At the time and at the
retelling of it. "Um. Maybe I should skip that part!" Which, despite protests from the others, she
had.

* * *

Finally, embarrassed beyond even her own belief, Randy had been led by her salacious
gal-pal back to the main event hall. It had been decorated wildly with more flowers (must have
their own greenhouse or stripped every highway median in the state, Randy thought with a trace
of surliness, starting to get her fill of floral excess), and excited members of the sect milled
everywhere, talking and laughing. Something was pressed into her hand. "Put it on your right
hand for now, dear," Irene advised her.

She looked at her hand and realized with a shock that she held a man's wedding ring.
Startled, she blurted out the first thing which jumped into her head. "How did they know Steve's
size?" After all, he had large, strong, competent hands -- she started to feel a slight tinge of
hysteria at the whole thing.

Irene chortled. Disgusting image, Randy thought, still on that semi-surreal plane, a
woman who chortles. She shook herself and concentrated on what Irene was saying. "That was
part of your first encounter, don't you remember? And we have jewelers on site, and they usually
have a wide selection to work with."

Randy decided she had heard enough. She craned her neck, trying to locate her
prospective husband, who had damn well better be as uncomfortable as she was.

Unfortunately for her, Steve's companion had had the grace to keep his explanations
short, wisely deducing the bigger man was more than capable of dressing himself, cane or no
cane, and they spent most of the time discussing other subjects. Consequently, Steve was lost in
his own thoughts when the bells started to ring. The young man who had been assigned to him
touched his shoulder briefly. "Steve, that means the ladies are assembling," and, on a second
series of chimes, "Now it's our turn," and, finally, after a third, with a slight push, "Go stand
next to your bride."

Steve emerged from his reverie and apologized for not paying attention. "Thanks, Jeff,"
he said, and turned to look for Randy. At first, the mass of women and men was bewildering.
Then, his eyes found hers as she stood on tiptoe, looking for him. Dazed, he moved towards her,
seeing nothing and no one else. His left hand mechanically patted his pants pocket. He had a dim
recollection of Jeff putting something in there and enunciating "The RING" very slowly while
trying not to laugh.

She was all he could see. Like a man dying of thirst, he drank her in over and over. She
looked like some wild, fey creature from the fairy tales he and Carol and read as children; would
she disappear as soon as he kissed her, or would she abandon her world of faerie to share his?
Humbly, he hobbled to her and took her hand, only to be blinded again by the radiance of the look
she turned to him.

He stayed more or less in that blissful fog through most of the ceremony. Finally,
regretfully, revelling in the intensity of his gaze, Randy ventured a small poke. "It's getting to the
serious part now, darling," she whispered. "The vows --?"

Steve surfaced reluctantly, staring wonderingly when she failed to disappear into thin air.
He conducted himself admirably, however, retrieving the ring without fumbling, speaking his
piece clearly, and sliding the ring onto her finger, then repositioning his mother's engagement ring
above it. Determined to follow his example, Randy floated through the most important moment
of her life, forgetting her earlier fears about the reality or legitimacy of it. She was married to this
incredible man, she marvelled, dimly aware of Aubrey Wyler's sonorous tones rolling through
the room, solemnizing the moment as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife.

* * *

There was a silence as Randy paused to collect her thoughts, which were none too
coherent at this point. "And then --" she started, and stopped again in distress.

Mark had put a sheltering arm around his daughter-in-law. "Take your time, honey," he
had comforted her, although every nerve in his body was screaming for action. "Tell us as best
you can."

Chapter Eleven

They had milled around with the other celebrants, exchanging congratulations. Finally,
another bell summoned them to a scene which reminded Steve of pictures of Roman orgies he
remembered from history class. "I don't understand," he muttered to Randy as they seated
themselves. "I thought these New Age philosophies leaned away from excess."

Randy shrugged. "Beats me. This goes far beyond anything I ever tried."

He laughed. "Somehow, that does surprise me." His expression stilled, and he said
quickly, tensely, "Randy. We need to get what we came for and get out of here as soon as
possible."

Her eyes widened. "What is it?"

His mouth tightened briefly. "I know she recognized me. When they came up to
congratulate us. She looked me right in the eyes and let me know that she knew."

Randy digested the information, wondering momentarily why Solario had waited until
now to reveal herself so blatantly, then shelved the puzzle for the time being. "So what do you
have in mind?" she asked quietly.

He crumbled a roll between his fingers, then stiffened. "Smile," he advised, baring his
teeth, "we're being watched." She didn't ask how he knew, just waited to hear his plan while
displaying her own teeth to any curious observers. "Not this evening," he continued, "too chancy.
I think early, early morning, four-ish, will should finish us up to mingle with the early breakfast
crew. No one will take notice of us being up and about then. After breakfast, we find our way
to the car and get the hell out of here."

"How do you know where we need to go?" she whispered, grinning furiously.

"Okay, you can stop blinding everyone now," he commented drily. "Simple. Jeff." He
affected a supercilious manner. "While you spent the day with a woman whom I understand wants
my body even more than you do, if that's humanly possible, I spent it with a guy who designed
most of their IS center. I know just where we need to go."

* * *

Amazingly enough, they both actually got a few hours' sleep before it was time to break
into Wyler's computer database. "How did you get all this out of Jeff?" Randy inquired, diverted
by the sight of Steve, pencil flashlight clenched in his teeth, picking locks and hacking passwords
like a modern-day Raffles. Her husband glanced at her briefly, inexplicably divining her thoughts.
"Not hacking," he mumbled around the flashlight. "Just worked it out from what Jeff told me."

"Yes, but --" Randy started, to be abruptly shushed as his eyes narrowed. "Hel-lo." He
moved the mouse to highlight something. "Here," he said suddenly. "You can do this faster --
copy that file and these others." He pulled a diskette from his jacket and handed it to her.

"What files are you copying?" Randy asked as she slid into the chair he had vacated.

He pointed with a long finger. "Wyler's personal files, employee info; and Ariel's file."

"What?"

"Under that self-effacing exterior, Jeff's a little on the conceited side. I got him talking
to the point he was bragging about how he set this stuff up. Practically volunteered the file
names." He grinned. "I asked him how he could find one individual file in a hurry given the
massive number of files there must be. Arrogant little bugger actually told me his basic system;
it wasn't too difficult to figure out which one was hers."

The last file finished copying. Randy slid the diskette out of the drive and into her purse,
and they slunk out as quietly as they had entered. Down a couple of halls, they emerged into the
early morning activity of the compound. "Come on," Steve said, taking her elbow. "Let's get out
of here."

This time, Randy had to stop for more than just a brief moment to collect her thoughts.
"Everything was going so well," she said sadly. "Then it all went down the tubes in no time."

* * *

They had worked their way through most of the route to the wing which ultimately led
to the parking lot when Steve froze. "Shh," he cautioned, pulling her back into a doorway.

"What did you see?" Randy whispered.

"Guards up ahead," he muttered. "And they look like they're waiting for something.
Come on." He grabbed her hand and started off down a different hallway, discarding his cane in
order to make less noise. Soon he was limping noticeably, but he set his teeth and ignored the
discomfort. Within minutes, though, they almost walked into another group of purposeful-looking
types packing weapons. Once again flattening themselves in a doorway, they listened anxiously
to what little they could hear of the security guards' conversation.

"Yeah, we've got the pix downloaded. Cop, eh?" The voice faded, and Steve strained
to hear more, muscles tense with apprehension. "Signal's coming in this quadrant --"

Steve didn't wait to hear more. This was not good at all. He grabbed Randy again and
set off in another direction entirely, hoping to get a little distance between them and their
pursuers. They narrowly avoided capture twice more before Steve, now conscious of a ball of
flame where his right knee had been, resigned himself to the suspicion he had harbored for the
last few minutes, and pulled Randy to a stop in yet another doorway. "Randy," he said as calmly
as he could, "I need you to keep your promise."

She stared at him, aghast. "You can't possibly mean that!" she hissed.

His expression was remote and forbidding. "Yes, I do," he said flatly. "It's the rings.
They're tracking us through the damn rings," he said, somewhat bitterly.

Momentarily diverted, she held up her hand to examine the small wonder. "Wow. Talk
about advances in technology."

"Randy, please."

"Sorry, darling. Why don't we just get rid of the rings, then?"

"Because," Steve said tightly, "they'll see one unmoving signal, figure out what we've
done, and lock the place down, trapping us here while they take their sweet leisurely time finding
us."

"And your better idea?" she asked, nettled, knowing she probably wasn't going to like
his answer.

His heart twisted. "I take both rings and keep our friends distracted as long as possible
following me while you sneak yourself onto the tour bus leaving soon, I think at 6:30, get to
where you can safely use the cell phone, and call Cheryl. If I'm not waiting for you on the outside
stoop when you all get back here, come in and get me."

Randy was worrying at her lower lip. "But, Steve, that's the most insane idea I've ever
heard. And just what happens when they catch you?"

His grip tightened. "Sweetheart, I'm a cop, and they know it. They're definitely going
to want to find out what I know."

She gave him a mulish look. Hating himself for what he was doing to her, he pressed the
cell phone into her hand and begged, "Please, Randy, the rings have to keep moving. You have
to get out of here and fetch help. Please. You promised."

He was undeniably, unavoidably right, and she knew it. "Promise me you won't let them
catch you," she pleaded unhappily, as she drew off the ring and handed it to him.

He drew her close, wishing he could be that sure. "I'll try, sweetheart. Don't worry."
He kissed her gently, then more forcefully, before pulling himself away with reluctance. "Don't
worry," he repeated. "I intend to replace that ring with a real one."

She touched her hand first to her lips, then to his. "I love you, Steve Sloan," she
whispered, and turned swiftly away to freedom before she could let herself change her mind.
Steve touched his mouth where her fingers had brushed his lips. "I love you, Randy Sloan," he
echoed softly, hoping against hope that she'd make it out of there before Wyler's men caught him.

Chapter Twelve

Being caught was starting to look like a grim inevitability, Steve thought some time later
as he hobbled painfully into one of the hub rooms, trying to lose himself in the small crowd there.
He had been trying to follow a path, still with the parking lot as its goal, which didn't seem to
have any relationship to the direction Randy had taken, in the event someone guessed what they'd
done with the rings. At least, he was hoping he was still heading in the right direction. The
compound's design didn't seem to have any particular symmetry or order; wings and corridors
sprawled about, seemingly at random. He wished he hadn't had to ditch the cane, though; his leg
was starting to feel like a major liability, and moving with any kind of speed was totally out of
the question.

He realized with a slight shock that he hadn't made it any nearer to the door he had
chosen as his exit out of this room. Had they caught on? he wondered. Disturbed, he attempted
to sidle off to the left around a couple who seemed determined to get in his way. "Excuse me,"
he muttered as one of them glanced around, then froze as something cold stroked the back of his
neck.

"Mr. Miller. Or should I say Lieutenant Sloan?" Tanya Solario purred behind him. The
metal dug deeper into his neck. "Shall we go this way?" Prodded by the weapon at his back, Steve
resignedly allowed himself to be pushed through the room in a totally different direction than the
one he'd chosen.

He sat on a small, hard chair in a small, harshly-lit room, and tried to evade as many of
their questions as he could. It had been barely tolerable so far, but he had succeeded for the most
part in keeping Solario focused on him and, therefore, hopefully not on Randy. "I told you," he
said again, a little thickly due to his swollen mouth, "the Feds are going to come busting in here
if you don't let me go. Right now they only have a small interest in this operation -- why send
them a gold plated invitation?" Her narrowed stare was not reassuring. Somehow, he didn't think
she believed him.

"Where's your girlfriend?" she asked suddenly.

Steve shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I sent her back hours ago. That's why you
need to let me go; they'll know I'm still here."

Her hand smacked against his cheekbone. "How stupid do you think I am?" she
demanded angrily. "Maybe we should see how much your father would pay to get you back in
one only slightly battered piece."

"Leave my father out of this," Steve growled. "This is a police investigation all the way,
and you know it."

Her eyes flickered upward, and the gorillas holding Steve down pressed harder while the
one on the left slammed a table-sized fist into his side. He felt the already abused ribs give, and
gasped with pain, thinking hysterically that his father was going to kill him. Nevertheless, he
smirked at the brunette defiantly.

She spat with disgust. "Hurt him for a while," she told the gorillas with annoyance. "I'm
going to talk to Aubrey, and then I'll be back to see if any of my questions get better answers."

* * *

Steve slowly dragged himself upright by holding onto his buddy the chair. Funny to think
he had hated the chair what seemed like long hours ago, and now it was definitely his friend. He
grimaced as he tried to put weight on the bad leg. More or less impossible, and the throbbing
wasn't helping his dulled thinking processes any. Randy, he thought desperately, please God let
her have escaped, don't let me see them drag her in here. He recognized the mounting panic in
his mind, and stuck his clenched fists into his pockets, more for steadiness than anything else.

His fingers encountered something in a paper packet. Actually, a couple of packets. The
methadone pills his father had given him, when, years ago. A slow smile spread over his face.
A dose of his pills should be just about enough to dope him to the point of incoherence, which
looked pretty attractive at the moment. With hands that shook slightly, he ripped open one of the
packets and dry swallowed the tablets. By the time his inquisitors returned, he was under the
influence of the methadone enough to be totally uninformative, although this provoked a rather
unfortunate reaction from his captors.

Aubrey Wyler walked around the man curled on the floor, admiring the work of his
employees, then drove his foot hard into Steve's ribs, watching the resulting spasms with
satisfaction. "Lt. Sloan," he declaimed, "I'm afraid we're having a problem with communication,
which, as you no doubt remember, can be a major hindrance to achieving enlightenment."

Steve winced as Wyler's voice echoed through his aching head. The meth could, after
all, only do so much. "Nothing to talk about, Wyler," he managed, not very clearly.

Amusing himself prodding the prone man in those vulnerable ribs, Wyler didn't seem
disturbed until Solario burst into the room. "Looks like she made a clean getaway," she informed
her boss and lover in tones too soft for their prisoner to make out. "I can't be sure yet, but we'd
better move him in case we do get the feebees crawling around."

Wyler turned dead eyes on her. "Did you speak with Dr. Morgan to see if he can
accommodate our guest?"

She nodded. "The chopper's ready and waiting."

Brutal hands picked Steve off the floor, cuffed and blindfolded him, and pushed him out
the door and down endless corridors. He kept stumbling, unable to see where he was going or get
any purchase with the bad knee, but his captors continued to drive him ahead with kicks and
blows. Finally, they reached the outside, but his opportunity to inhale any fresh air was cut short
as he was pushed into the helicopter, shoved into a seat, and his cuffs were secured to one of its
legs, pulling him into an awkward bent position which didn't help his ribs at all. Thus
immobilized, he was powerless to prevent the needle in his arm which sent him from mild
grogginess into total oblivion.

* * *

Conversely, Randy's exit from the Enlightenment Ranch had been almost too easy.
Ditching the friendly but relieved group on the bus at the PCH gas station by doing one of her
crazy person imitations, she pulled out the cell phone. "Cheryl, it's Randy. You've all got to come
quick, I'm at the gas station off PCH, Steve wouldn't leave and God knows what they're doing
to him, and I have the files and you have to come NOW!" she babbled, understandably
overwrought. Cheryl finally managed to obtain a more coherent story, and the Marines were on
their way.

Randy was pacing frantically when Mark's car, followed by the captain and Cheryl
Banks, as well as a fleet of police and FBI cars, screeched into the gas station. Mark jumped out
and ran to her, pulling her into his arms. "It's all right, honey," he soothed, as the tension of the
last several hours finally hit saturation level, and she burst into tears. "They'll find him."

But Mark, for one of the few times of his career, was wrong. The raid was conceived
and executed perfectly. No one was hurt. Although Wyler and Solario had apparently escaped,
several other major figures wanted for a variety of reasons by a variety of authorities were
apprehended. More files were confiscated in addition to those on Randy's diskette. But, as the
search continued into the double-digit hours, it became painfully clear that Steve Sloan was
nowhere to be found at the Enlightenment Ranch, and that no indication remained of where he had
gone.

Coming soon to a pot-boiler near you - Part II: The Road to Clarity

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