The empty-handed return of the Yahtzee contingent, their Smith and Johnson family reunion cover having been entirely blown, was a sad homecoming that most locals would have liked to avoid altogether. Involuntarily trumpeting their ignominious reoccupation, they returned in a single file line interrupted only by one well-traveled Subaru with a bicycle-burdened rear hatch and a confused vacationing family. Assimilated by the u-turning black SUVs in the middle of the California desert, they had been enveloped by the entourage while headed for Tahoe. To the casual observer seeing the procession, it might look like the First Family had hopped in their Subaru station wagon for a weekend mountain biking excursion.

  O'Connor was still under the Tahoe's hood when a few Yahtzees turned into the Playa Seca lot. They both parked near the front entrance, and while the five men who got out of the two vehicles may have glanced toward him, or even muttered something, they had lost their bluster as they gaped, stretched, and patted each other's thick shoulders into the cool darkness of the Starlight lounge.

  Still unimpressed with the safety features afforded to the engine compartment of the Tahoe, the sergeant had collected a small scrap pile of the plastic shrouds that had covered everything that wasn't the battery, itself. In his pocket, he had a selection of the tiny circular nipple clips saved, just in case Levy could figure out how to reassemble it. He watched the handful of Yahtzees strolling into the bar. If there was any intel to be found, it would be after they got a few beers deep. They were just as likely to start a brawl as they were to talk about whatever the hell it was that dragged them all out of town with reckless abandon.

  O'Connor tossed the scrap plastic engine cowls in the trunk, pleased to see the dome lights work. Maybe he was mechanically inclined after all. Collecting the handful of tools he had borrowed from the front desk clerk, he casually sauntered past the front door of the lounge. He could make some excuse to have a beer, he figured. The chief would be pleased just to know what the hell had just happened. Cautiously peering into the dimly lit bar, he was pleased to find the front desk clerk tending the bar.

  Well, he had to go in; just to give the guy his tools back.

  The chief was disappointed to discover that once Paulson started talking, he wouldn't shut the hell up. While Martinez skimmed a few hundred pages on Arroyo Grande, some predating Roswell, the erstwhile auditor gushed like a fanboy at a comic con. “...Which is where I discovered the dossiers on Jack in the first place!” Unbound, he had cleaned himself up as best he could and was almost presentable, if not a little battered around the face. His right eye was swollen half shut, but he blathered on cheerily about his clever interdepartmental cross-referencing to find the temporal tourist. “I mean, all this happened before there was a national fingerprint database, so, okay, I get it.” He chuckled. He had done a reasonable job of mopping up his blood from the floor, tub, and tile, but there was no way that the cleaning crew would miss the slight crimson patina on every surface. He was entirely dressed, except for his bare feet. As he lectured the chief on the importance of a holistic approach to temporal and extraterrestrial investigation, he stretched his holey socks over the counter, attempting to dry them before putting them on. The chief cringed to see him unwinding the blood-stained hair dryer's tangled spiral chord, only recently wrapped around the counterfeit auditor's throat. “Who knows,” Paulson muttered. “Maybe we can just ask him nicely.” He flipped on the hairdryer.

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  For a furniture salesman, he managed to stay remarkably objective about Sgt. O'Connor's interrogation efforts. At least the guy wasn't holding a grudge. Martinez collected his laptop and kit, stacking them on the edge of the bed, a safe distance from the remaining mini EMP ballpoint pen collection. The chief heard some chuckling from the bathroom, followed by humming. Chief Martinez, unfamiliar with the tune, assumed it was another Barbra Streisand B-side.

  Cobbling together the power supply from a briefcase-mounted battery pack, Paulson had left the contents of his case strewn across the kitchenette table. Most of his kit looked like it had been scrapped together out of mangled toys and electronics, the handful of EMP pens was clean and professional-looking. He plucked one from the stack and clicked it open. Glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being watched, Martinez listened to the hairdryer and Paulson's mumbled serenade. Taking a hotel scratch pad from the nightstand, the chief scribbled a few spirals until the ink flowed. The damn thing even worked as a pen.

  The Terrestrial Investigation Group might not be an espionage unit, however, the chief was a little disappointed that he hadn't even seen this miniaturized tech when he was trying to pad his budget. This guy though, this weaselly little furniture salesman had probably picked these things up off the dark web somewhere. Martinez quietly slid one of the pens into his shirt pocket, confident that Paulson wouldn't miss it in this mess. There was the real possibility that if the Terrestrial Investigation Group wasn't entirely dissolved following the Arroyo Grande debriefing, Martinez could probably hire Paulson for more than the furniture place could pay him. It would probably be considerably less than he was currently paying O'Connor. Just as he was about to ask Paulson what he thought of the idea, something inside the briefcase started beeping.

  The hair dryer stopped, and Paulson quit humming. He peered around the corner, wide-eyed and staring at the chief. “Please tell me that's your alarm.”

  Martinez shook his head. Most of the electronics in the room were completely fried. He pointed at the briefcase.

  Paulson abandoned his sock-drying effort, sliding his loafers into his bare feet. “We have to go. Now!” Collecting his possessions and stuffing them back into his case, he pulled a plain digital watch from the mess and passed it back to the chief as he organized his toys in the briefcase. The cheap wristwatch was the source of the sound, but instead of a digital clock face, it had a set of sloped bars like a wireless signal and one small triangular bar blinking with the tiny piezo alarm. “What's this?”

  Paulson paused and chuckled. “You know that weather balloon you were looking for?” He turned to the chief, grinning. “Well, someone is activating it.”

  Martinez glanced down at the ascending bars as a second amber-colored bar began blinking. The signal just got stronger. He grabbed the last working laptop, abandoning the other electronics, and followed the auditor out the door.

  O'Connor got himself launched sideways out of the Starlight lounge like a backyard rocketry experiment gone all wrong. Catching sight of the chief and the auditor descending the stairs, his swelling scowl turned grin just before two hundred pounds of tanned muscle gracelessly splattered across the sidewalk. Lifting himself off the pavement, it was clear that he had suffered more than just a rough landing.

  Seeing Martinez and the auditor standing in the sun at the bottom of the stairs, the Yahtzees decided not to finish off the lone Tigger. Instead, the lead meat bag saluted lazily and snorted as they retreated into the lounge.

  Paulson chuckled but stepped forward, offering his hand to help O'Connor to his feet again.

  The sergeant, looking a little worse for wear now, spit blood onto the sidewalk and chuckled as he let the auditor help him to his feet and dust his shoulders. “Feel better?” Paulson asked.

  O'Connor nodded and smiled.

  Paulson offered him a spare washcloth he had brought from the makeshift torture room. He shrugged. “Last clean one.”