Lightning

when the enemy's formidable and merciless."

    The following afternoon, as Thelma was putting her suitcase in the trunk of her Camaro for the return trip to Beverly Hills, she said, "Hey, Shane, you remember that first foster family you were sent to from Mcllroy?"
    "The Teagels," Laura said. "Flora, Hazel, and Mike."
    Thelma leaned against the sun-warmed side of the car next to Laura. "You remember what you told us about Mike's fascination with newspapers like the
National Enquirer
!"
    "I remember the Teagels as if I lived with them yesterday."
    "Well," Thelma said, "I've been thinking a lot about what's happened to you—this guardian, the way he never ages, the way he disappeared into thin air—and I thought of the Teagels, and it all seems sort of ironic to me. All those nights at Mcllroy, we laughed at nutty old Mike Teagel… and now what you find yourself in the middle of is a prime bit of exotic news."
    Laura laughed softly. "Maybe I'd better reconsider all those tales of aliens living secretly in Cleveland, huh?"
    "I guess what I'm trying to say is… life is full of wonders and surprises. Some of them are nasty surprises, yeah, and some days are as dark as the inside of the average politician's head. But just the same, there are moments that make me realize we're all here for some reason, enigmatic as it might be. It's not meaningless. If it was meaningless, there'd be no mystery. It'd be as dull and clear and lacking in mystery as the mechanism of a Mr. Coffee machine."
    Laura nodded.
    "God, listen to me! I'm torturing the English language to come up with a half-baked philosophical statement that ultimately means nothing more than 'keep your chin up, kid.'"
    "You're not half-baked."
    "Mystery," Thelma said. "Wonder. You're in the middle of it, Shane, and that's what life's all about. If it's dark right now… well, this too shall pass."
    They stood by the car, hugging, not needing to say more, until Chris ran out from the house with a crayon drawing he had done for Thelma and that he wanted her to take back to LA with her. It was a crude but charming scene of Tommy Toad standing outside a movie theater, gazing up at a marquee on which Thelma's name was huge.
    He had tears in his eyes. "But do you really have to go, Aunt Thelma? Can't you stay one more day?"
    Thelma hugged him, then carefully rolled up the drawing as if in possession of a priceless masterwork. "I'd love to stay, Christopher Robin, but I can't. My adoring fans are crying for me to make this movie. Besides, I've got a big mortgage."
    "What's a mortgage?"
    "The greatest motivator in the world," Thelma said, giving him a last kiss. She got into the car, started the engine, put down the side window, and winked at Laura. "Exotic news, Shane."
    "Mystery."
    "Wonder."
    Laura gave her the split-finger greeting from
Star Trek
.
    Thelma laughed. "You'll make it, Shane. In spite of the guns and all I've learned since I came here on Friday, I'm less worried about you now than I was then."
    Chris stood at Laura's side, and they watched Thelma's car until it went down the long driveway and disappeared onto the state route.
6
    Dr. Vladimir Penlovski's large office suite was on the fourth floor of the institute. When Stefan entered the reception lounge, it was deserted, but he heard voices coming from the next room. He went to the inner door, which was ajar, pushed it all the way open, and saw Penlovski giving dictation to Anna Kaspar, his secretary.
    Penlovski looked up, mildly surprised to see Stefan. He must have perceived the tension in Stefan's face, for he frowned and said, "Is something wrong?"
    "Something's been wrong for a long time," Stefan said, "but it'll all be fine now, I think." Then, as Penlovski's frown deepened, Stefan pulled the silencer-equipped Colt Commander from the pocket of his lab coat and shot the scientist twice in the chest.
    Anna Kaspar sprang up from her chair, dropping her pencil and dictation pad, a scream caught in her throat.
    He did not like killing women—he did not like killing anyone— but there was no choice now, so he shot her three times, knocking her backward onto the desk, before the scream could tear free of her.
    Dead, she slid off the desk and crumpled to the floor. The shots had been no louder than the hissing of an angry cat, and the sound of the body dropping had been insufficient to draw attention.
    Penlovski was slumped in his chair, eyes and mouth open, staring sightlessly. One of the shots must have