SEARCHING by TB's LMC RATED FRT

The man whose 'phenomenal mind made this all possible' longs for something more than he can ever find in his work on Tracy Island. Follow Brains on a quest to find out who he really is.

For years it's been at the back of my mind.  Wondering who I really am.  Where did I come from?  Who was my mother?  My father?  My grandparents?  Living as part of the Tracy family, however peripherally, only drives home to me what I don't know.  There's Ruth, her son Jeff and his five sons.  And one by one, each of them are moving beyond who they've been these last seven years, making lives outside International Rescue.  But somehow it just feels wrong for me to even think about having a family when I have no knowledge of my own roots.

And so I keep searching.  I've tried every archive system in the world.  Those I wasn't given permission to go through I've accessed on my own.  But it's hard to find out who you are when you don't have a first or last name to start with.  I literally am starting from scratch, as they say.  I have only one piece of evidence, and that is that I was found in the rubble of a home in Holt, Michigan after a tornado swept through the area and destroyed hundreds of miles of land and buildings.  Newspaper clippings indicate that 42 people died as a result of that tornado.  It was April 23, 2001.

And that's why we celebrate my birthday on that day.  Doctors think I was around three months old, but they don't know for certain.  I could go back three months from April 23^rd, but that day holds meaning for me.  Because it's the day I lost whatever identity I had once had.  The day I ceased to be someone and became Baby Doe.  It's fitting, somehow, to celebrate my years on that day.  The day I was orphaned.

But I don't even know that for certain.  Was I in that small town with my parents?  If not, who was I with and why?  And if my parents were alive somewhere, why hadn't they looked for me?  Certainly they would have known my whereabouts and come inquiring after me.  Unless I had been given up for adoption before that tornado ever hit.  But the one strange thing about all of this besides the fact that I have more questions than answers is that no other bodies were found in the rubble of the house I had apparently been in at the time.

That means that someone left a six-month old baby alone in a house during a terrible storm which had all the earmarks of one that could produce funnel clouds.  Who would do that?  Would my mother leave me all alone?  Maybe I had been in bed, though I'm told the cleanup crews never found evidence of a crib in that rubble.  That leads me to believe that I didn't live there.  So if I was visiting, where were the people who had brought me?  And where were the people we'd come to see?  The home had no storm cellar, only a basement.  But nobody was found down there, either.

I grapple with these questions with some part of my brain nearly every day, and have for most of my life.  I'm 31 years old, and no closer to finding out how I came to be in Michigan, or what my heritage is.  I watch the interaction of the Tracys and I have to admit that I sometimes envy what they share: a loving family bond created by the blood that runs through their veins and the experience of having grown up together as a solid family unit.  They include me in everything, make no mistake.  Jeff is forever saying "You're part of the family, Brains.  You are a Tracy."  I only wish that were true.  I am grateful to him for saying it, but there are some things you just can't create.  Things that are innate and cannot be synthesized.

A familial bond is one of those things.

I keep trying.  I e-mail anyone and everyone who might even remotely have some knowledge of me or my past.  I've pretty much exhausted Michigan.  At least, I think I have until early one Tuesday morning when I open my e-mail to find a response to an inquiry I made over a month ago.  It's from sbeasley@records.mich.gov.  I'm really surprised to see it there and for a moment I just stare at it in my Inbox, my eyes blinking slowly, wondering what it will say when I open it.

Originally I had e-mailed the Michigan Records Office to follow up on a new idea I had: to cross-reference the State of Michigan birth records from 2000 through 2001 with the infant death records from the same period.  I thought perhaps a mismatch might signal a possible lead for me.  Many of the records from that time were corrupted when a virus rampaged the Michigan records system only two years ago, so only someone with access to the actual hard copies could do it.  Could this e-mail from sbeasley be confirmation of my hypothesis?  Or would it once again be the standard, "I'm sorry, sir, we were unable to obtain the information you requested" response?

I sigh as I click on the subject line.  And I find myself feeling nervous as I read the contents.

Dear Mr. Braman:

I must say I was surprised to receive your request.  It was most unusual.  However, my staff has performed the cross-check as requested and indeed came up with two mismatched names of infants born in the years 2000 and 2001.

The first infant is female, which excludes her from your search.  The second infant, however, is male, but the birth certificate is inaccessible to me because it is protected by the adoption laws of this state.  In other words, Mr. Braman, the male infant of which I speak was adopted and therefore his records are sealed.

Should you require further assistance, please contact me and I will do my best to help you.

Sincerely,
Susan Beasley
Records Department
State of Michigan

I lean back in my chair, my jaw hanging open slightly, my eyes reading her words over and over again.  Adopted.  A male infant that was adopted.  For the first time my hopes begin to rise, but logic demands that I not get those hopes up too high.  After all, the probability that the infant she mentions is me is approximately 1,253,422 to 1.  And yet in all my travels and through all the searching I have done over the years, this is the first time I've really received a viable lead.

Could it be?  Could Susan Beasley's staff have found the clue that has eluded me my entire life?  Could I finally be on the road to discovering who I am?  I try not to get excited, but is it too much to ask to know where you came from?  I don't think it is.  I realize as continue to stare at the e-mail that I need to see Susan Beasley in person.  The adoption records of that infant boy were sealed, but she said she'd help me if she could.  So she is Stop #1.

All I have to do now is convince Jeff that he can do without me for a week.

Jeff has just returned from a routine doctor's appointment in Sydney.  I will give him 30 minutes to settle in before I make my request.  That gives my brain 30 minutes to sift through my entire life to date.  To try and make sense of who I am, who I have been and who I might become.

Natalie took care of me at the orphanage.  She raised me, was my surrogate mother.  She's the one who named me Christopher Braman.  Christopher was her deceased husband's first name, and Braman was her own maiden name.  And so that was the name I grew up with.  But I quickly understood as a toddler that I was an orphan and even then would spend hours questioning why I had no parents, how I had ended up in that place.

She encouraged my learning.  It was pretty clear my intelligence was above-average for a young child, and Natalie made sure I had everything she could get her hands on for me, even setting me up with a chemistry set when I was six.  I didn't really intermingle too much with the other kids.  You've probably heard the stereotype: brilliant but lack social skills.  Well, it's true.  At least for me, it is.  I can interact with people who understand what I'm saying, but when it comes to normal socializing, I find that it makes me uncomfortable and therefore I stammer something awful, which embarrasses me.  I usually wind up hiding out somewhere or leaving the situation entirely.

Yes, it's always been that way.  You should've seen when I first started interacting with Jeff's sons.  Those men are what you would call jocks, plain and simple.  Competitive, athletic, smart and with egos the size of Texas.  I have to laugh now as I remember how nervous they made me.  They interacted with one another with such ease, and as I analyzed their behavior, I came to understand that it wasn't so much the jock part of the equation that made that possible, but the fact that they were brothers.  That was the key.

Eventually they came to understand me as I came to understand them, and now there are no issues at all really.  Well, sometimes I do go a bit above their heads when I get really into explaining something, but they've learned to stop me and tell me to backtrack, and I've learned some patience, which I never really had before.  I said 'some.'  Nobody's perfect.  They treat me as an equal and I admire them so much for their acceptance.  Yet as I said before, I still always feel like I'm on the outside looking in, no matter how much I'm included in their family activities and decisions.

I look at the chronometer and realize I still have ten minutes to kill.  My mind wanders yet again to the orphanage, and to some of the darker times in my life.  I already took care of John, the man who had been molesting boys there for years, myself included.  And it took me a while to work through what he did to me, and what I wound up doing to him.  (Author's Note: See my story "Child's Play" for this history.)

Then my thoughts turn to yet another dark chapter: the Hood.  I very nearly fell into his evil hands when I was lecturing as a teen.  He mesmerized me somehow, and it was only by pure luck that I escaped.  (Author's Note: See my story "Doppelgangers" for this history.)  My life could have been so much different if I hadn't.  I would probably have been forced to use my intelligence for destructive purposes, and to me that is not only unacceptable, it is totally unthinkable.  At least he's gone now, thanks to Jeff.  (Author's Note: See my story "Tidings of Comfort and Joy" for this history.)

When I met Jeff Tracy and heard his proposal, I jumped at the chance not only to use my mind for the good of humankind, but also be in a position to perform experiments and research as much as I desired.  Not to mention the fact that here I am safe from those who would use me...or rather, my brains...for their own criminal purposes.  With the Tracys, I never have to worry about that, and I am protected.  For that, I will be eternally grateful to Jeff.

It's almost too good to be true.  At least, that's what I thought back when he first approached me.  To be given everything I'd ever dreamed of and be helping save lives in the process?  That was Utopia for me: something ideal I longed for but knew didn't exist.  And yet it did exist, and the name of my Utopia is Tracy Island.  I'm not the only one Jeff has played benefactor to.  Kyrano and Tin-Tin have also benefitted from his protection and generosity.  In a way, that gives the three of us something in common, since we live and work with the Tracys but are not blood relatives.

I work with Kyrano sometimes, whenever he and I have occasion to sit and talk.  Accessing the higher levels of consciousness fascinates me from a scientific point of view, and so he has taught me his mystical ways of doing so while I, on the other hand, try to understand these layers of consciousness using science.  That is a hobby, working through that, and something I don't devote a lot of time to given all the other things on my plate.

For not only do I assist Jeff's sons in maintaining the Thunderbirds and all the rescue equipment, I am also constantly testing new ideas and theories to help make them more effective on rescues.  My oxyhydnite gas, for example, which allows them to quickly cut through up to 8.2 inches of steel to get to victims.  My LSI, the Life Sign Indicator, which is a handheld device they can use to provide the exact location of people who are trapped.  And our newest rescue vehicle, the Leech.

I had to laugh when Gordon named it that.  It's a very simple machine that I designed right after that last mudslide rescue they went on.  It was a terrible experience for them.  Over two thousand people died, and though they arrived on the scene very quickly, there was nothing they could do to get to people who might still be alive somewhere under all that mud.  No matter what they used to try and dig through it, it simply moved in and filled up whatever holes they started digging.  It makes perfect logical sense, but logic tends to fail a man when he's chin-deep in mud and is unable to save even one life.

The Mole isn't always useful, especially in these situations.  Most times the earth, even underground, is so rain-soaked on a mudslide rescue that the tunnel the Mole creates collapses before she's even gotten through it herself.  Tunneling up from beneath does no good if it causes land subsidence beneath the building, or causes mud from above to come crashing down on the Tracys and the victims.

And so the Leech was born.  So named by Gordon because it literally sucks the mud into itself the way a leech sucks blood.  I had been leaning more towards a name that had something to do with vacuuming, but his brothers liked it so much that Gordon's choice stuck.  Amidst much guffawing, I might add.  The Leech sucks the mud into its holding tank, which is the entire rear of the vehicle behind where the driver sits.  It then transforms the mud into dry earth by evaporating all the water from it.  How?  That's International Rescue's secret!

As the water evaporates, the dry earth is processed through a second chamber behind the holding tank, and tumbles down a long tube that has been strategically placed to let the dirt exit away from the area being worked on.  They haven't had a rescue to use it on as yet, but they did take it to the Philippines for a test since that country is, unfortunately, known for its rain-soaked ground, and the tests were highly successful.

I look at the chronometer and realize that once again I've gotten so lost in my own thoughts that I've let 45 minutes pass instead of 30.  My mind tends to stray like that.  And so I head up the stairs to Jeff's study, which is adjacent to his bedroom suite.  Knocking on the door, I hear him tell me to come in.  I open the door and enter.  As I sit in one of the two chairs across from him, I find myself nervous.  So, there goes my stammering again.

"Good afternoon, Brains!  What can I do for you?"

"W-Well, ah, Jeff, I...I was wondering i-if it would be a-any trouble for me to take, ah, to take one week's leave."

There.  I'd said it.  Well, I'd stammered it, anyway.  Damn my nerves!  He looks surprised and I wonder if he'll start talking about how busy I am and how much they need me right now.  Or maybe he'll let me go.  It's hard to tell with Jeff Tracy.

"What's this all about, Brains?  A special conference somewhere that I'm not aware of?  You're not usually one to request a vacation."

"Ah, no, sir, you're right about that.  Actually, sir, i-it's business of a more, ah, personal nature."

"Personal?"  He frowned and leaned forward on his elbows, staring at me intently with those blue-gray eyes that have been known to make grown men want to cry.  "Brains, is everything okay?"

"Y-Yes, sir, Jeff, everything is, ah, okay.  I-I just...I have a viable lead on...on my identity, and...ah, well, I..."  My nerves are shot.  It's hard for me to talk about myself to this man, no matter how well I know him.

"You mean about who you are?"  His voice is soft and calming, and I find myself relaxing as he leans back in his chair.  "About your real identity?"

I nod enthusiastically.  Now I'm getting excited.  "Yes!  I received a communication from someone at the main Michigan Records office who ran a comparison I requested and found something that...well, it may be nothing, it may not even be me, but...Jeff, I just have to know!"

It's amazing how my stuttering disappears when I forget about being nervous.  I've also been told that it's because my mind goes faster than my mouth can keep up with.  I have yet to prove that theory...

See?  I'm wandering again.

Suddenly Jeff nods at me.  "Okay, Brains.  One week.  Keep in touch."

"Really?" I find myself asking.

He grins at me.  "Yes, really.  Listen, Brains, I don't want to do without you for a second here.  But I have no right to keep you from investigating this."  He rose to his feet and stuck out his hand.  I took it, and he shook firmly.  "Besides, I think we're all just as curious about your past as you are."

"Thank you, Jeff," I say.  I don't think I could respect this man anymore than I do right at this moment.  "Thank you."

But no sooner had the moment of potential mush, as Tin-Tin puts it, started than Jeff puts an end to it.  "You can take Tracy Three," he says.  "Where are you headed?"

"Michigan," I reply, letting go of his hand.  "I'll need to land in Lansing, that's where the Department of Records is."

He nods as I turn and head out of his study.  His voice stops me, and I turn back as he speaks.  "Brains?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

I find myself smiling.  Somehow, I think I just might this time.  "Me, too.  Thanks."

And with that, I'm on my way.

In the air I have tons of time for my brain to kick into overdrive.  Flying is so automatic to me now I could probably do it in my sleep.  John once said I reminded him of a computer – literally able to do many functions at once.  And that is very true of my brain.  I am capable of simultaneous variant thought processes much like a computer.  But unlike a computer, I'm a human being.

Sometimes even I forget that.  I've been known to stay awake for days at a time when I am deeply involved in an experiment or a particular thought process.  I end up looking like hell and making myself sick.  Mrs. Tracy and Tin-Tin do their best to keep me nourished and hydrated, but I can't help myself.  My mind sometimes acts like a steel trap; once it closes on something, it won't let go no matter what.

But take away the ideas and theorems and all you've got left is a man.  Funny how people don't seem to see me that way.  All they see is what I invent, or how I solve a problem by making mental leaps most people aren't capable of.  I'm the great inventor of the Thunderbirds.  Or the man behind Skyship One.  Jeff once called my mind phenomenal.  And it is, I'll give him that.

However, that's not all there is to this man called Brains.  Of late as I've watched John, Jeff and Gordon find other interests off-island, I've begun to feel bereft of an "outside life" myself.  I do like children, I suppose, though I've never really been around them as an adult.  But to be able to mold a young mind, to know that after I'm gone someone will be there to carry on my name...  I take in a sharp breath.  Because that's the problem.

I don't know my name.  I have no legacy save inventions and patents.  What do you tell a woman when she asks about your family on a first date?  Oh, I'm an orphan, I never knew my parents.  And then they pity you and that's not what I want, dammit.  Now I'm getting angry.  It's not something that happens often, but it does happen.  I remember getting so mad at Jeff when he insisted we needed a Thunderbird 6 and then shot down every damn thing I came up with.  And some of those were good designs, if I do say so myself.

I watch the clouds ahead of me and climb another three thousand feet to avoid them.  They're storm clouds and the last thing I need to do is get buffeted by crosswinds.  I know the problem isn't really that I'm an orphan.  The problem is that I haven't come to terms with it yet.  I mean, lots of orphans get married and have families and live happy lives.  With me it's just a mental block. 

Interesting psychological study that would be: the man with the second highest IQ in the world can't get over being an orphan.  Freud would have a field day with me.  I chuckle and relax just a little more as my mind begins drifting to other more pleasant thoughts.  John finally brought Ann to the island last week.  First time she's ever been, and then he broke it to Jeff that she already knew we were International Rescue and had for six years.  That was quite possibly the first time I have ever seen Jeff Tracy speechless.

Then again, what right does he have to be speechless when he's the one spending more time away from Tracy Island than on it?  Jenny really took hold of him, and I know his sons tease him about it.  Well, some of them do.  He's a lot more relaxed than he used to be.  It's like the entire atmosphere of the island has changed.  Slowly everything is changing, and maybe that's what's so unsettling to me.  It's not that I don't like change.  For God's sake, I'm the one creating machines that are fifty years ahead of the rest of the world.

I think what bothers me is not being able to change with everyone else.  And so I continue my quest, like Don Quixote from Man of La Mancha.  I don't fight windmills, but I do sometimes dream the impossible dream: finding my parents.  Oh, sorry, you didn't know about me and Broadway, did you?  I love Broadway music.  Not all of it, mind you.  Only the good songs.  Something about the cadences and rhythms helps me think more clearly.  My lab is soundproof, yet Scott continues to insist that if he hears me blasting Phantom of the Opera one more time he's going to erect another layer of titanium around me.

Virgil likes the opera, and I think I'm the only other person on that island who actually enjoyed the one he made us all go to with him.  I think Scott, Gordon and Alan fell asleep.  Jeff had begged out on the premise that one of them had to stay at Base in case John got a call for help.  That was back when we still had Thunderbird 5 manned.  I think everyone's glad we've automated it now.  It wasn't easy.  John and I worked long and hard on getting everything fine-tuned, and I know he still sneaks in there and tweaks for hours at a time.  When it comes to communications, he's as manic about perfection as I am about my experiments.

Gordon's friend Elaine is now walking pretty well with her walker.  I can even see the change in him.  Normally so laid-back, you never think he'd get excited by anything that resided outside the depths of the ocean.  But when he talks about Elaine's progress, he lights up like the proverbial Christmas tree.  I make a point to ask him about her at least once a week.  And at least once a week he's gone for one or two days at a time visiting her.  It's a lot of fun watching these people who've become my surrogate family starting to branch out.  You'd think they couldn't be any more than they are now: brilliant businessmen and heroes to the world.  But parts of them I never knew existed are emerging.  Again, a fascinating psychological study.

I wonder if they know they're bugs under my microscope.  I've learned so much from them.  The microcosm that is Tracy Island provides me with endless hours of observation, resulting in endless amounts of data to keep my mind busy.  The funniest times are when it's someone's birthday.  They all sit down by the pool and get so drunk that they sometimes pass out.  It's highly amusing to watch someone like Jeff go from tight-lipped patriarch to loose-lipped flyboy.  Oh, yes.  You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that happens on that island!

But I suppose I shouldn't be divulging all their secrets.  They might disown me, and then where would I be?  I laugh at the thought.  And that's when I look down at my instruments and realize I'm almost there.  Suddenly my muscles tense and I sit upright in the chair.  Almost there.  Almost to the place where I could quite possibly find my answers.  Now I'm nervous, and I know that means when I meet with Susan Beasley, who has no idea I'm coming, by the way, I will be stammering like I always do.  I'm going to have to start experimenting on myself and see if I can't start getting my mouth to do what I want it to, when I want it to.

I call the tower at the Capital City Airport in Lansing and request clearance to land.  It's granted, and the next thing I know I'm finishing my post-flight checks and getting into a rental car.  Ah, a BMW.  Nice one, too, a dark blue.  I use the GPS in the car to get directions to the Records office, and find that it's only five minutes away.  I don't even see the red lights and green lights.  Stopping and going is done in automaton fashion as my mind spins with all the possibilities.  I don't see the people on the sidewalks, don't see the buildings I'm passing.  I have that ability to have tunnel vision, yet still be able to function normally on every level.

Alan once asked me how it was that I could be sitting with him and his brothers, who were teasing each other and bantering back and forth faster than artillery fire, and still be able to focus on a quantum physics equation that had been bothering me so much I was obsessed with finding the last piece that would complete it.  I told him if you're obsessed enough with something, it will consume your thoughts to the point where the walls around you could fall and you wouldn't even know it.

I'm pulling into the parking garage.  Finding Visitor parking.  Walking across the garage.  Down the steps.  I take steps pretty fast.  Oh, that's right, you don't know that about me either.  I'm a runner.  Built like a runner, too. Rather than the bulging muscles of most Tracys, I've got what John calls a runner's body.  He actually used the word lithe in a sentence to describe me, and it took me a couple of nanoseconds to realize he was being sarcastic.  I smile again as I go from the fourth floor to the third.  That's one thing John has taught me well: sarcasm.

It doesn't matter what you say, that man can cut back at you lightning fast with a wit I don't think anyone can match.  It makes his brothers laugh...unless they're on the receiving end, of course...and just from spending so much time with him, some of it's rubbed off on me.  I actually got him good the other day, and was quite proud of it, too.  But see how my mind is wandering again?  Third floor to the second.  Yes, I'm a runner, and I'll use some of the other equipment in the island's gym, but mostly I just love to run.  Not out on the beach, though.  There's just something about running on sand that I don't like.

It's that feeling of working really hard and not getting as far ahead as you should be.  Sand slows you, and though it makes you work harder, which is good for your leg muscles and your cardiovascular system, it's bad for your psyche.  I always get images of being mired in quicksand or something.  Or images of having been buried in sand out there in the desert by Lake Anasta.  Some things just don't leave you as quickly as you'd like them to.

I've finally reached ground level.  I look up at the twenty-story building before me, made all out of that new glass everyone's using now.  I tried telling the manufacturer that the compound could become unstable if exposed to a range of fourteen to twenty-three degrees Celsius over a period of twenty-four to seventy-two hours, but their team of scientists didn't believe me.  You try your best and then you move on.  Sometimes you just can't win, but I did register my concerns with the U.S. government.  They're used to me now, I'm always registering concerns with them.  You'd think after one hundred and twenty-one – all – of my predictions had come true they'd start listening to me, wouldn't you?

Ah, bureaucrats.  Something I am now once again going to have to face.  Perhaps this Susan Beasley won't be a bearer of the red tape like so many government employees are.  Well, I can always hope.  She did seem to want to help, and I find that I'm anxious to meet her.  Maybe she can't do anything for me.  But maybe she can.  I walk through the revolving door and pass the metal detector without a problem. That reminds me of the days when I wore those thick blue glasses.  I look back on that and laugh about how timid I was where getting corrective surgery was concerned.

Kyrano told me I used the glasses to hide.  That they fostered my projection of "geek" – of course, he didn't use that word exactly, but I know that's what he meant.  I used the glasses to keep people at bay, he said.  All sorts of things came to mind then.  Like the ludicrous logic of trying to hide behind something made of glass.  But I know now he was right.  Come to think of it, I don't think he's ever been wrong about anything.  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Now it's just me.  When you look at me, there are no glasses to keep you away.  You're seeing the real Brains, Kyrano would say.  Once again, another victory for Freudians everywhere.

There's some of John's sarcasm creeping in.

The Records Department is right there on the first floor, I discover.  And there isn't a line.  Maybe this really is going to be my day.  I walk up to the window and beyond it I see a pretty large room with ten cubicles and four offices in it.  A woman sees me and approaches.

"Hello, sir, may I help you?"

"Yes, please, I-I'm looking for Susan Beasley?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

Shit.  I should have called first.  "No, ah, I'm responding to an e-mail she sent me."

"In person?"

What a positively infuriating...  "Yes."

"Name, please."

I wonder how much time I'd have to do for slugging her.  No wonder she's behind protective glass.  "Yes, it's Christopher Braman."

"One moment, please."

She heads back to one of the offices on the far wall.  Within moments she's coming back out.  The look on her face tells me the answer before she even opens her mouth.  "I'm sorry, Miss Beasley is far too busy for an unannounced visitor.  Would you care to make an appointment?"

I blink at her.  "I came a very long way.  Couldn't she spare a few minutes?"

"Nope."  I eye the woman.  Heavyset and wearing something like a mumu, she glares at me with hard brown eyes.  "Sir, I don't have all day, do you want an appointment with Miss Beasley or will that be all?"

Grinding my teeth, I say, "When is her first availability?"

"Not until tomorrow at, uh..."  She checks her computer screen.  "Three o'clock."

"Three o'clock tomorrow?"  She glares at me again.  Pick your battles, I always say.  Besides, I have a Plan B.  In fact, I have several alternative plans.  "That's fine."  She makes a few taps on her keyboard and turns to walk away.  "Pardon me," I say, trying to sound as nice as possible, "but do you have an appointment card you could write it on for me?  I tend to forget things."

Brains, you can be a real ass when you want to be.   And I smile at her.

She's glaring at me again, but by now I've developed a Teflon outer coating.  I wait, seemingly patiently, until she hands the card over with the appointment day and time scribbled on it.  "Thank you so much.  You've been most kind."

And thank you, John, for developing the ability of sarcasm latent within me.

Five hours later...

The Michigan records system is fairly easy to hack into once you've been in it twenty times already.  Most of the upgrades they do leave loopholes bigger than a hangman's noose, and probably just as deadly, at least to the computer system.  I hack into it from a nearby cyber café and easily get a copy of Miss Beasley's photo from the human resources software as well as her address.  Reminds me of something Jeff said to me once.  "It's a good thing you don't use your knowledge for less-than-savory pursuits."  I had to agree with him on that one.  I watch, now, as she crosses to the elevators that lead to the parking garage, and I quickly follow her in just as the doors are to close.

There are eight of us crowded into the elevator, and it's more than just a bit stuffy, but I simply watch her as we descend.  When she moves to get off, so do I, and as luck would have it, we're the only two disembarking on the second level.  I wait until she's reached her car before making my presence known.  I at least have the satisfaction of seeing her jump in surprise.  Take that for not seeing me.

I do have to mention that Susan Beasley is...well, I guess I'd say she's pretty.  She's got her hair cut in a bob and it's what you might call strawberry blonde.  When she turns to face me, I notice her eyes are the color of some of Gordon's brightest green seaweed.  They'd be pretty, too, if they weren't shooting daggers at me.  She backs up against her car, looking like at any moment she might spring on me.

"Who are you?"

"Christopher Braman."

Her eyebrows shoot up.  "What?  You mean the one I sent the e-mail to?"

"Yes.  And the one you wouldn't see today."

"So now you're stalking me?"

I see her reaching into her purse and take a couple of steps back.  Being hit with mace is not a good way to start this trip off.  Raising my hands, I say, "Hold on, wait a minute.  I'm not going to hurt you.  I just...I need your help."

"Really."  Complete disinterest.

"Yes, really.  I've flown a long way to meet with you."

"I'm sorry," she says in a voice telling me she doesn't mean it as she whips her car keys out of her purse.  Sure enough, a small vial of mace on the ring.  "I told you the adoption records on that boy are sealed."

"You also told me you'd help me."

"I did not!" she replies indignantly, whipping around to face me.  The scowl doesn't look so good on her features.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I quote from her e-mail.  "Should you require further assistance, please contact me and I will do my best to help you."

"Standard closing.  Now, if you'll excuse me."

I can't let her go.  If I don't get her help now, this entire trip will be for nothing and I might lose my best chance of finding out who I am.  So as she opens her car door, I spring forward and shut it right back up.  I feel my face flush hot.  I cannot believe I just did that.

"Of all the – who do you think you are?"

Great going, now she's downright hostile.

"Miss Beasley, if you're not in a position to assist me, you merely need to tell me, and I'll find someone who is."

Her eyes widen, her jaw works and I can see the wheels in her mind turning.  "What is it, exactly, you want?"

Ha.  That psychology degree comes in handy.  "All I want is to ask you a few questions."

"That's it."

"Yes, that's it. Do I look like a serial killer to you?"

"No, but neither did Ted Bundy," she proclaims, looking me up and down.  "Meet me up in the lobby.  And I'm warning you, I'm a purple belt in Tae Kwon Do."

Should I tell her I've perfected three martial arts through the highest degree black belt offered by each?  No, it probably wouldn't help the situation.  At least she's agreed to meet with me, that's a start.  "Thank you."

I hear her walking behind me and realize that every time I slow down, she slows down.  I turn around and continue walking backwards.  "Would it help if I took the stairs?"

"Yes," she says, nodding.  "It would."

So I shrug and head for the stairwell while she goes to the elevator.  Good thing, too.  I'd probably have strangled her on the ride up. Oh, no, wait, that was Boston, not Gainesville.  Wrong serial killer.

When at last I'm standing in front of the Records Office window again, I see her come out of her office, coat and gloves no longer on, and come up to the window.  I thought I'd run the steps a lot faster than that.  She makes a great show of dialing the phone, and I feel that urge to strangle coming over me again.  "Yes, Charlie?  Hi, it's Susan."  She can lay it on thick, too, I see.  "Yes, I'm meeting with a civilian right now, I need you to keep an eye on things."

I'm dumbfounded.  Do I look that much like Ted Bundy?  "You have got to be kidding me," I mutter.  Luckily the glass is thick and she doesn't hear me.  Part of my mind wonders why every single security guard everywhere is named either Charlie or Bob.

She hangs up the phone and smiles.  Now, that looks much better than a scowl.  She doesn't say a word, but within minutes I hear Charlie walking up behind me.  "You are?" he asks.

"Christopher Braman."

"And your business here?"

I have to bite my lip.  To seek out new life forms and new civilizations... is all I can think of and I stifle a chuckle.  "To meet with Susan Beasley regarding adoption records."

Charlie snorts.  "Good luck, fella."  Then he heads over to the side door and keys in an entry code.  Oh, good.  Now I won't have to figure it out for myself later.  Though he's only saved me about twenty seconds, in all honesty.

She leads me back to her office, Charlie following close on our heels.  "The rest of the building must be very secure," I say.

"What do you mean by that?" Charlie asks as we enter Beasley's office.

"Oh, nothing.  It's just that, I imagine if you can be spared to make sure I don't harm Miss Beasley, the rest of the building must be quite secure."  I'm incorrigible, and the looks on both their faces reaffirm that.  "What?" I ask in mock innocence.

I'm surprised when she holds her hand out, and have to refrain myself from continued wry observations.  But I'm even more surprised when I take it.  Aside from it being a little cold to the touch, there's this strange feeling that comes over me.  My nerves are rattled now as I sit down in one of the chairs across from her.  Suddenly I go from smooth operator to a bumbling idiot worse than that guy who portrayed me in that movie.  I take that back.  That was just plain bad.  I don't stutter like that.  No, really, I don't.

"So you came here because you received my e-mail," she says.

"Y-Yes, I did.  You offered to help."

She nods.  "I think we've established that.  But as I indicated, Mr. Braman, I'm not sure how much more I can do.  And, as I also said in the e-mail, the records are sealed.  In the state of Michigan, it's very difficult to open sealed adoption records."

"How would I go about doing it?" I ask, coming back to myself a bit.

"You basically have to convince a judge you have a good reason to have him order the release of those records."

I lean forward and look into her eyes, trying to read her.  I can't fathom any judge letting me have at those records based on nothing more than theories and almost no evidence.  And to date, the one place I have never been able to break into was the Michigan adoption records system.  Damned if I know what kind of encryption they have on that, and I've spent hours on it.

"Miss Beasley," I start to say, but she stops me.

"Please, call me Susan, Mr. Braman."

Why the heck does she want me to call her by her first name?  Okay, well, perhaps this will work in my favor.  Maybe she's warming up to me.  Have to be nice and reciprocate.  "Call me..."  I hesitate.  What to tell her?  Brains?  Christopher?  Hiram, yet another alias?  Or maybe Peter Stanford, the name I get all my patents under.  I suppose sticking to the name I grew up with will work for now.  "Call me Christopher, please."

She nods and I continue.  "Is there any other way to get the data I'm looking for?"

She leans back in her chair.  She seems to be studying me.  "What are you asking me, Christopher?"

"I'm asking if these records are stored electronically.  When was this infant born?"

"January of 2001, that's all I could get."

"Didn't they start recording infant adoption information electronically in 2000?"

She nods.  "They did, yes.  It's all available on line as long as you can prove you have a right to see it."  I see the light bulb go off and she leans forward on her elbows.  "But there are special codes needed to access adoption records.  They have to be released via court order, and only one department can do that."

"Are they on the same network as you?"

"No, they're--" She stops cold.  "Christopher, why did you come here?"

She's not stupid, this Susan Beasley.  Not stupid at all.  In fact, I rather admire that she's caught on that quickly.  Usually I can double-talk information out of people within five minutes.  She just went up a notch on my meter.  As a result, I decide to tell her the truth.  Just be yourself, Brains, Kyrano always says.  I'll take that advice right now.

"I came here for your help," I say, leaning back in my chair.  "I have been searching for my past my entire life, and this is the first time I've gotten close to a Square One."

She, too, leans back as she speaks.  "Tell me," she says, her face unreadable.

"Why?"

"Convince me I should help you any further than I already have.  My staff spent over a month doing what you asked."

"Well, you didn't have to do it," I reply, a little too hotly.  "What does it matter to you what my back story is?"

"Charlie, perhaps you should make your rounds now."

Charlie the Security Guard, whose been leaning on the door jamb all this time, says, "Are you sure, Miss Beasley?"

"Yes, I'm sure," she says, looking back at me.  "I think I can defend myself if need be."

The color rises to my face, I can feel it. Damn her for her insolence.  Then again, I did slam her car door shut on her.  I feel my complexion return to normal as Charlie leaves.  "So you've decided I'm not Ted Bundy."

"No, but I have a gun."  Now the color drains from my face altogether.  Guess I'd better not make her mad.   But it's infuriating to see the gloating look on her face.  "In answer to your question, let's just say if I'm being asked to break the law and jeopardize my job, I'd like to know why."

I'm not usually one to tell any stranger about my history.  It took Jeff three years to get it out of me.  But the look on her face and the fact that she has a gun somewhere nearby gives me the idea that if I play it straight instead of trying to outthink her, I might get a lot further.  I sigh and lean back in the rather uncomfortable visitors chair.

"Have you ever heard of a little town called Holt?"

Dammit.  Baring my life history to a complete stranger, then five hours at this cyber café trying to get into the adoption records system again has left me with nothing more than a record number for the adopted baby.  I can't believe I told her everything, only to have her throw it in my face.

"I can sympathize with your situation, Christopher, I really can.  But I've been at this for nearly ten years.  I've seen them come and go, and everyone has a sob story."

"A sob story?  This is not a sob story, it's the facts!"

"Facts or no, I'm not breaking the law to get you into that system.  Do you realize what the consequences are for that?"

I can't really fault her.  She's right, after all.  But that doesn't make any of this easier.  All I want is my past.  And my one best hope for finding it took the high road.  So now I'm screwed.  Unless, that is, I can finally hack my way into that system.  A record number was more than I'd had when I left home.  I rub my eyes and realize that I'm tired and hungry.  I'd better head for a hotel, eat and check in with Jeff.  I look back at the computer screen one more time before sighing and shutting it down.

But I barely get to my room before my head hits the pillow and I'm gone.

The next day finds me at the same records window again, watching the same woman walk toward me.  I daresay she's wearing the same mumu.  I can't believe I slept as late as I did, but after waking up and having a huge breakfast that would've put Scott to shame, I made my way here just before what typically constitutes lunch hour in these government buildings.  "Can I help you?"  The receptionist's tone of voice makes it clear she doesn't want to at all.

"Yes, hello.  Christopher Braman for Miss Beasley."

She looks me up and down.  "Weren't you here yesterday?"

"Yes, you remember me?"

"Yeah, and I also remember your appointment isn't until three o'clock."

She turns to walk away.  "Wait!"

She stops and turns to give me that daggered look. "What?"

"Please, just tell her I'm here."  She looks nonplussed.  "Please?"

She rolls her eyes and sighs.  "Fine.  Wait there."

As if there's anywhere else for me to wait.  But I do, none too patiently, and I'm surprised to see Susan walking out of her office with the mumu lady in tow.  She has her coat, scarf and gloves on, and I get the impression she's going to breeze by me on her way to lunch.  The mumu lady glares at me one more time before going back to her desk, and I hear the security door click.  Susan walks out and starts heading for the parking garage elevators.

I watch her go.  Disbelief must be etched on my face.  I know government types are difficult to deal with, but after everything I told her, after coming here again, she's just going to blow me off?  I obviously am not paying attention, because she startles me with, "Coming, Christopher?"

"What?"

"Lunch.  Come on, let's go."

I open my mouth, shut it and open it again before any sound comes out.  "O-Okay."

On the elevator ride down, she says, "Just remember, I have a gun and I know how to use it."

"Is it registered?" I ask.  Damn, that sarcasm again.

"I'm a government employee, of course it's registered.  Want to see?" she asks, digging in her purse.

"No, thank you."

We ride to the restaurant in silence.  It's a nearby pizza place teeming with workaday men and women trying to fit a full lunch into a measly hour.  After we place our orders and get our drinks, we find a small two-person table – arguably the only table left open at this point – and seat ourselves.

"Why are you having lunch with me?" I ask as she sips her iced tea.  "You made it pretty clear to me that you don't want to help me."

"I never said I didn't want to," she corrects as I fiddle with my straw.  "I said I couldn't.  You can't expect to come barging into my office out of the blue and get me to help you break the law."

"I did not barge," I protest.  "You let me in."

"Only because you stalked me."

"Followed you."

"And practically assaulted me."

"Your car."  I look up at her.  "This is getting me nowhere," I say, starting to rise.  But she lays a hand over mine and I stop.

"Stay.  Just for lunch."

I sigh.  What did I have to lose?  Ten to one I'd be back in Tracy Three heading home by tonight anyway.  So I sit back down and look at the sea of people surrounding me.  Suddenly I'm getting that old feeling, the one that makes me want to get out of places with a lot of people.  Agoraphobia.  I feel my body start to get hot.  Great, just what I need, to flip out in front of her.

"Christopher, I wanted to talk to you more about your situation."

"Why?"

Susan shrugs.  "Reminds me a little of my own, I guess."

"How so?"  The other people in the gigantic pizza parlor seem to start falling away as I focus on her face.  Yeah, she's pretty.

"Well, I'm not fully adopted, as you might say, but half adopted."

"Half adopted?"

She nods.  "It's part of what got me into the records office."  We're interrupted by the waitress announcing our order number over the microphone.  "I'll get it," she says.  Within minutes she's returned, and I start to eat as she continues to speak.  "See, I was born to someone who didn't take very good care of herself.  My mother had an illness and died about a week after I was born."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks.  Anyway, my dad raised me for a while, but he got together with Marlee, my stepmother, when I was around two.  They married and had three more kids."

At least you had a family , I want to say, and I think she can tell from the look on my face.

"Families aren't all they're cracked up to be, Christopher.  It may seem like a nice dream for someone who didn't grow up wit a "mom" and a "dad," but trust me when I say it's not."  Of course, logically I know that, but it doesn't make it easier in terms of my own life.  "See, I didn't find out Marlee wasn't my real mother until I was thirteen."

"You're kidding."

"No," she answers after swallowing a healthy bite of pizza.  "My folks lied to me, they never told me.  I found out completely by accident, and when I confronted them with the evidence, they had to tell me the truth.  When I was eighteen, I needed a copy of my birth certificate to get into college.  That's when I found out it wasn't my real mother's name on it, but Marlee's."

"Wait a minute.  You're telling me that your adoptive mother's name was on your birth certificate?"  She nods.  "Is that legal?"

"You say you're thirty-one."

"Yes."

"It was done, and done perfectly legally, up through 2001.  I guess they went back through and expunged the names from January first of that year, but I was born in December of 2000, so mine was left that way."

"Did you have it changed?"

"I tried.  For three years I fought the records office.  I even consulted an attorney, but I couldn't prove Marlee wasn't my birth mother without getting a DNA test, and she refused to agree to give me a sample.  I tried to do it myself with a strand of her hair, but they charge tens of thousands of dollars for an independent DNA match."

If only she knew I could've done it for her in my lab.  There's just something completely wrong about your birth parent's name being changed.  What if she'd come down with a genetic disease?  Without the proper mother's genetic history, she could die from it.  "I can't believe they did that."

"I know.  Pissed me off royally."  I wait while she finishes her first slice of pizza as I start on my second.  "Anyway, I'd been to the damn vital records office here so many times I actually became well-known by one of the higher level employees, and I was such a pain-in-the-ass that she offered me a job.  Started out low level and worked my way up."

"Did you fix your birth certificate?"

"I can't.  You have to have two supporting documents proving who your mother is.  My stepmother died three years ago, and my father refuses to help me.  In fact, I haven't spoken to him or my three half-brothers for over two years now because of it."

She was right.  Having a family wasn't all it was cracked up to be.  "Why are you telling me all this?"

"To show you that everybody has a story, Christopher, even those of us who work there."

"But you still won't help me."  She didn't answer, just finished her second slice of pizza.  "Then why have lunch with me?  Why bother to tell me any of this?"

She shrugs.  "Shred of humanity left, I guess.  Listen, I have to head back.  Need a lift?"

I contemplated that.  It wasn't that far back to the parking garage, and did I really want to ride back with her?  It would only make me mad, that much I knew.

"Come on, let me give you a ride back.  It's fucking freezing out there."

"Fine," I nod, standing and putting my coat on.  "Thanks for lunch."

"Sure."  We were silent until back in her car.  "Listen, I'm sorry.  I really am.  I just...I can't risk my job. It's all I've got."

I sense there's more to that statement and the look on her face confirms it.  "Are you okay?"

She shrugs again.  Susan does that a lot, apparently.  "Yeah.  My dog died a few days ago."

"Oh, I, uh...I'm sorry."

"He was old, he had to go sometime.  You understand, don't you?"

"That your dog had to go sometime?"

She surprises me by laughing out loud, and I can't help but smile.  It's the first time I've seen her mirthful and...wow, she's actually...well, she's kind of...she's really pretty when she laughs.  And it's infectious, too.  I chuckle as she pulls out into the street.

"No," she finally says, wiping tears from her eyes and trying to catch her breath.  "No, I mean about me not being able to help you."

"Not being willing," I correct and she casts a stern glance in my direction.  "Susan, I understand about the law, and believe me, normally I'm not one to break it for so much as a speeding ticket.  But this is important to me. As important as it is for your birth certificate to tell your real mother's name.  I don't have either parent.  I don't even have adoptive parents.  I wish they had still done the name changes because then if I was adopted, I'd have something to go on!"  I sit there with my chest heaving as she enters the garage.  Damn, I've gotten myself worked up.  I don't even notice that she parks or turns the car's engine off.  I notice nothing until I feel her hand on my arm.

"Don't give up," she says, opening her door.  "You might win yet."

I'm a bit mystified by her statement, but too annoyed with myself over getting upset to really give it much thought as I get out of her car.

"Good-bye, Christopher.  And good luck," she says, sticking out her gloved hand.

I take it and shake it.  "Yeah," I reply.  "Thanks."

I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening at the cyber café.  Spend it finding nothing and getting more and more frustrated.  All I wanted was one little thing from her.  No one ever would've had to know about it.  But what right did I have asking someone to break the law for me?  Sure, she knows my past now, but we aren't friends.  We're barely acquaintances.  I can well imagine I wouldn't break the law for anybody except maybe Jeff Tracy, and even then it would weigh heavily on my conscience.  So how can I expect Susan to do the same for me?

Yet again, this is completely harmless, and I'm certain I made that clear to her.  I go order a coffee and take my seat again, determined to remain here no later than midnight.  If I can't break into the system by then, there's no reason for me to be in this state any longer.

It's 11:45pm.  I shove my chair back in frustration.  The café is open 24 hours, but it's a Wednesday night, so there's no one here but the girl behind the counter.  I want to slam my fist down on the desk, but there's no need to attract unwanted attention.  Instead I head for the Men's Room, my eyes hurting from staring at the computer screen for so many hours straight; my head beginning to hurt as so often it does when I'm concentrating too hard on something.

I go to the bathroom, then wash my hands and splash water on my face.  I turn the air dryer upward and let it dry my face, then down to let it dry my hands.  Then I turn and look at myself in the mirror.  Just like back at Base, I think as I rub a hand down my face.  Dark circles under my eyes, the whole nine.  I sigh and shake my head.  That's what I get for getting my hopes up.  I should've known better.  I just should have.

I come back out to the computer.  It's 11:58pm, time to shut down and keep my promise to myself.  I'll be back on Tracy Island before too long.  Nothing will have changed for me, I'll just get back to business as usual and shove my quest aside for a time.  Until, that is, it starts rearing its head at me and I have to once again pay attention.  Once again search for something I now know I will probably never find.  Sighing becomes far too frequent as I move to take my seat.

That's when I notice it.  A very tiny piece of paper sticking to the corner of the computer screen.  I sit down and look around.  The café is still empty.  The girl behind the counter is still there.  I turn the sticky paper over and there it is.  There's the information I needed.  The server name behind the domain for the Michigan State adoption records and a code.  Now I rise from my chair and look more fervently.  Still, I see no one. I rush to the counter.

"Excuse me, was someone just in here?"

"What?" she asks, looking up from what appears to be her textbook.

"I asked, was someone just in here?  While I was in the restroom?"

"Don't think so," she replies.  "Went to the restroom myself.  Why?  You haven't had something stolen, have you?"

I can see a look of panic begin to rise in her face.  "No, no, it's okay.  But you saw nobody."

"No, I'm sorry."

I nod and head back to the computer. Still looking around.  Still seeing no one.  Could it be?  Could Susan have relented?  It was hard for me to answer that question.  She had started seeming personable over lunch, but had firmly stated she would not help me.  So had she been lying or was someone else helping me?  But no one else knew why I was here other than Charlie, and I was certain he didn't know what I needed or how to find the information for me.  It had to have been Susan.

Unanswered question notwithstanding, I now have what I need.  With this information, five minutes and there it is.  Record 26-309-114-0. I click the number and data starts pouring onto the screen.  Without a moment's hesitation, I tell it to print everything and then steal a glance back at the counter.  The girl there is oblivious thanks to her studies.

Twenty-two pages later and I've got the sheaf of papers in my hand and am logged off seconds after it's done printing.  I head out the door and to my rented BMW parked on the street.  I think I very nearly go into cardiac arrest when the passenger door opens and Susan gets in, slamming it shut behind her.

"What the—?"

"Hello, Christopher," she says as she buckles her seatbelt.  "Let's get out of here."

I nod and step on the gas.  "So it was you who gave me the server address."

"Who else?" she asks.

"But why?  I thought you didn't want to help me."

"I'll correct you one more time.  Couldn't.  Not didn't want to.  Stop being dense."

"About what?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Christopher.  I did something tonight that could cost me my job because of the reason I got that job.  If I can't fix my own birth certificate, the least I can do is help you fill your empty one.  Besides, you're not going to turn me in, are you?"

I shake my head.  Women.  Never will understand them, no matter how much Tin-Tin tutors me.  At this point I don't know what to say.  What does she want me to say?  "You, ah, didn't have to come here in person, Susan.  You could've just, ah, given me the information o-over the phone."

She shakes her head.  "No, I had to be here.  I think maybe I wanted to see for myself that you really were only after those records.  Here, let me see them."  She reaches over and takes them from where I had tucked them under my leg.

Before I can protest...after all, this is highly personal...she begins to read what I printed.

"Infant male, born January 15, 2001 at 8:31 a.m.  Location: Spectrum Health Hospital, Blodgett Campus, 1840 Wealthy Street, Southeast, Grand Rapids, Michigan.  Weight: 7.2 pounds.  Length: 20 inches.  Birth Mother..."  Her voice catches and I glance over at her.

"What?  Who's the birth mother?"

"It says unnamed," she replies in a whisper.  "Same for Birth Father.  Notes here indicate their identities had to...you're kidding."

"What?!?"

"Had to be concealed due to security concerns."

"Security concerns?  What does that mean?"

"The only other time I ever saw this verbiage was a case where an undercover FBI agent got pregnant while on assignment.  She gave birth in Saginaw, and the birth certificate said this exact same thing."

"Why?"

"She had to conceal her true identity or she'd have blown her cover.  She gave the baby up for adoption; apparently it was a highly sensitive assignment and she didn't want a baby to endanger things.  She told the man she was pretending to be married to that the baby had died, but in reality he was placed in foster care immediately."

"Are you saying that this baby's mother's and father's names can be expunged from official records if the government deems it necessary?"

She nodded.  "Yes.  My superiors were very clear about it.  Here, hang on, I'm going on to page two."  She shuffles the papers a bit and continues to read.  "Infant male adoption record.  Adoptive parents: David and Elizabeth Turner.  Infant given name: Austin Hadden Turner.  Here, Christopher, look, there's an address."

"Where is it?"

"It's...it's in Holt."

I look over at her. I'd told her that's where I'd been found.  I think my heart has stopped beating.  I know I've stopped breathing.  The car tires squeal on the pavement as I skid to a stop on the shoulder of the road.  I look up and out of the front window and realize that subconsciously that's where I'd been headed.  Right out of South Lansing and already half of the eleven miles to Holt.

"It can't be," I breathe.  I look back at her again, I don't know why.  Seeking what, validation?  Wanting this person I barely know to tell me what I'd always wanted to hear?  That I'd found out who I am?  "It can't be."

"That's...that's what it says.  Right here."  She lifts the paper and turns it toward me, but the letters are all swirling together in front of my eyes.

"What's the address?"

"1534 Dallas Avenue," she replies.

I don't know what to do.  It's too overwhelming.  What are the odds that this baby boy was born right around when I was supposed to have been born, and that he was adopted out to parents who lived in the same town in which I was found?  Holt, Michigan is just a speck of dust on the map.  It's so small, had just under 10,000 people at the time I was found there.  It's too much of a coincidence.

"Christopher?  Um...maybe we should call it a night.  Start fresh tomorrow?  Maybe have a look at the rest of what you printed?"

I swallow hard, but realize my throat is dry.  All I can do is nod.  I'm this close.  This close.  And suddenly I begin to wonder if I really do want to find out the truth.  Because the way my heart is pounding in my chest right now, I don't know for sure what the answer to that is.

"I took a cab in, and we're not far from my house.  Drop me off?"

I nod.  Here I am with someone I don't really know, sharing a moment that is far too personal to be shared and yet...somehow I think I'm glad that I'm not alone.  Because right now, it isn't the scientist everyone on Tracy Island knows who's driving this car.  It's the small boy who didn't understand why anyone would leave him during a tornado.  It's the teenager who wanted to know where his brown hair, blue eyes and somewhat overbearing head came from.  It's the young adult who questioned how it was he was born with an IQ that's off the scale, whether it had been genetic or just a fluke according to Darwinism.

And it's the 31-year old man who, for the first time in his life, doesn't know which way to turn.  My one beacon is Susan, offering the one bit of hope I needed and an understanding look.  That's what it is.  That's what's different about her, I realize.  She's not pitying me.  She's understanding.  I manage to smile at her.

"Thanks," I say.

"Sure.  Hop on the 127 just back there.  I live in Mason.  322 Mason Hills Drive."

I turn the car around and head back to where I saw the entrance to the 127 highway.  I know her address, of course, but I'm not about to tell her that.  I might end up back at hostile.

"How did you know where I was working?" I ask.

She shrugs.  Again.  "Simple," she says, quirking a smile.  "You're not the only one who can follow people."

I shake my head again.  Thank God she decided to do what she did.  But at the same time, there's the guilt I was afraid of.  She's done something she shouldn't have, and it weighs heavily on my mind.

"Are you sure they can't trace that server information back to you?"

"Christopher, they won't even know you've been in there.  The back door firewall wouldn't catch you directly accessing the server with the code I gave you because it disables it and allows you inside the system."

Genius.  Pure genius.  "Good one," I say.  But though my state of mind has improved considerably, as I drive, I begin to think the emotional reactions I'm having are taking their toll because a wave of sleepiness washes over me.  On auto-pilot I manage to get us to her house in one piece.  I notice nothing about it, however, and by the time I get back to the Ritz in town, it's all I can do to make it to my pillow before I'm gone again.

The next day is Thursday and I don't wake up until noon.  Not surprising, I suppose, but terribly annoying given that I wanted to have time to look at the sheaf of papers I'd printed and start following up leads.

That's when I remember – I don't have the papers.  Susan took them into her house with her!  I was so tired it barely registered, and at the time I remember not really caring.  But why?  They're my whole reason for being here!  What if she turns on me and refuses to give them back?  I haven't even looked at them yet, otherwise, I could have recited the information on them from memory.  Damn it!  She has my papers!

I take what might be the fastest shower on record, but it still gives me time to contemplate why I let her keep the damn papers.  How stupid could I be?  I'd had all the information right there in my hands, and I let her take them.  As I towel myself dry, I stop in mid-swipe.  I get a very good idea about why I'd done that and it makes my face burn.

"Shit," I say aloud as I'm getting dressed.  "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"  After I'm dressed I grab the phone and dial the number for the Vital Records office.  One good thing is I only have to see something once and can instantaneously remember it.  It's handy.

"Michigan Vital Records, may I help you?"

Oh, God.  It's the mumu lady.  I'd know that voice anywhere.  I swear, if she gives me shit this time I will go down there and strangle her.  Damn, I've been hanging around the Tracys too long.

"Yes, hello, may I speak with Miss Beasley, please?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Beasley is not in the office today, how may I help you?"

"She's not...in the office?"

"No, sir.  What can I do for you?"  Increasingly annoyed, her voice.

"Uh...nothing, thank you."  I hang up the phone and frown.  Susan hadn't gone to work today?  That meant she had to be home.  I pick up the phone again and dial Information.

"What city and state, please?" the computer voice asks.

"Mason, Michigan."

"Thank you.  Business or residence?"

"Residence."

"Thank you.  Name, please?"

"Susan Beasley."

"One moment, please."  I keep my fingers crossed that she's not unlisted.  As a government employee, she might very well be.  "I'm sorry, that number is non-published."  And the call is severed.

"Damn!"  I slam the phone down.  Now I'll have to hack again.  I can't go back to the cyber café.  Too many visits there already.  I remember seeing a small cyber area in the lobby, and within a minute have my coat and am out the door.

It takes me over twenty minutes to get into Michigan Bell.  Actually I'm quite impressed with their system, I think, as I find Susan's number.  I pull out my cell phone as I shut down the computer and dial the number.  It rings three times before she picks up.

"Hello?"

"Susan?"

"Yes, this is she."

"It's Christopher Braman."

"Oh!  Hello!  Where are you?"

"My hotel."

"How did you get my number?"

"Do you really want me to tell you?"

"No.  I just called your room, actually, but you weren't there."

"I'm in the lobby.  Why did you call me?"

"There's some information I've come up with on my own based on what you found."

"There is?"

"Yes, and I want to meet you at your hotel, so wait there.  I should be there in about 30 minutes."

Wait.  She wants me to wait.  "Why can't you tell me what it is over the phone?"

"How do you know mine isn't bugged?"

My eyebrows shoot up. "You can't be serious."

"Well, I am a government employee."

I shake my head.  She is one stubborn woman.  "Fine, I'll wait."

"I'll call when I'm out front."

"Wait a second...Susan?"

"What?"

I realize I really don't know what.  "Never mind."

"I'll see you in a bit."

What had I been about to say to her?  It was disturbing that I didn't know, but right now I had more important thoughts to consider.  She'd found something that is apparently important enough for her to call in sick and still drive all the way in here.  I can't stop churning out potential scenarios as to what it can be.  Never stops. My mind just never stops.

"Okay, what did you find?"

"What exactly do you do for a living, Christopher?"

"What does that have to do with anything?  What did you find?"

"It's important.  Tell me what you do."

I roll my eyes and sigh.  "I'm an engineer," I reply, and I can hear the snap in my voice.

"Where do you work?"

"For Tracy Corporation!" I very nearly yell.  "Why the hell are you asking me this?"  Conspiracy theories on that one question alone could keep me busy for hours.  "And why are you helping me?"

"Because I believe in helping my fellow man whenever possible."

I smile, not because I think her answer isn't genuine, but because I heard very nearly those same words thirteen years ago when Jeff Tracy first approached me.  "Why do you want to create this organization?" I had asked him.  "Because I believe if we have the means, we should help our fellow man in whatever way we can," he had replied.

"Susan, why are you asking me about what I do?"

"Because I found out some information on you and...call it a test."

"A test?  Look, I haven't killed you – yet, I might add – and you saw I printed just the adoption records I told you I wanted.  Why the test?"

"I had to be sure you were on the level," she says.  I frown.  "Listen, you have to be careful in my position.  When you do things like this, you have to make sure you won't be discovered."

"Wait a minute, are you telling me you've done this before?"

"Not for a civilian."

My estimation of her suddenly rises.  She's done this before, and if not for a civilian, it had to be for the government.  She glances at me and can probably see the questions in my eyes.

"Okay, you know what?  I don't care about all that.  What I care about is you told me you found something, and I want to know what."

"I have a file."

"Let me see it."

"I want to show you something first," she says, pulling over to the side of the road.  "Something I found in what you printed."

"What is it?"

"A picture."  I can tell she's trying to be nonchalant as she pulls a file folder from the back of her car.

"Of what?"

"Of the baby named Austin Turner by his adoptive parents.  It looks like it was taken at the hospital not long after birth, if I'm not mistaken."

"There's..."  My heart stops.  "A picture of the child?"

Susan nods, opens the file and takes out a piece of paper.  "Here."

I take the paper and turn it so it's right-side up to me.  And when I see the picture, it's like the entire world falls away.  It's just me looking a printed black-and-white photo of a tiny newborn in a hospital bassinet.  I don't think I'm breathing anymore.  I don't even really think I'm seeing.  And for the first time in my life, my mind has stopped over-processing.

"Christopher?"

Her voice sounds so far away.  I can't respond.  That baby.  Those eyes.  That head.  It can't be.  It can't.

"Christopher?"

This time I look up at her and I feel something that I haven't felt in a long time: tears.  My eyes are filled with tears.  She reaches over and puts her hand on my leg.

"Christopher, is...is that you?"

"I...I..." This time the stammering is not from nerves.

"Is it?"

I feel a tear trickle down my cheek, but I make no move to stop it.  "Yes," I whisper.  "My God.  Yes, Susan.  It..."  I look back at the picture.  "It is me."

She smiles and I realize she has tears in her eyes, too.  And then she does something I don't expect.  She leans over and hugs me.  "We found you," she says, and I find myself smiling even through the tears.  "Christopher, we actually found you."

And I'm hugging her back.  I can't believe it, and yet there I am.  We release one another and stare at the picture together.  And I think...no.  No, I don't think.  For the first time, I just feel.

"Thank you, Susan."

"This is what makes it worthwhile," she replies.  Then she hesitates and I look over at her.  "There's...there's something more, Christopher," she says, and digs through the folder until she pulls out two other pieces of paper.  "I was up early this morning and I read through the rest of what you printed."

Her words are barely registering, but I'm trying to hear her through the haze of emotion I feel.

"I looked up the adoptive parents listed in the file.  It took some time, but public records do show that at one time they owned the house at 1534 Dallas Avenue.  But it also shows that another owner took over the property in late May of 2001."

My mind starts working again, sputtering a bit as it tries to handle things it's never had to before.  "Late May?  That would've been one month after I was found."

Susan nods and continues.  "Then I did some digging on the Turners themselves.  They immigrated to the United States from England."

"England?"

"Yes.  They were British.  They came over here in June of 2000.  That's when they bought the house on Dallas."

"British?  My adoptive parents were British?"

She nods again.  "David Turner worked at a bank in East Lansing as a home loan consultant.  I couldn't find any record of his wife working anywhere.  And the only mention of the baby..."  She stops and looks up at me.  "The only mention of you is from the adoption records you pulled."

"But if the Turners adopted me, why was I left alone in that house in Holt?  It wasn't on Dallas Avenue.  In fact, it was on the other side of town."

"Where?  I've been through Holt, it's only fifteen minutes away."

"The house I was found in was pretty much completely destroyed.  The papers hailed it as a miracle that I'd survived.  I don't know the house number, but I do know from the papers that it was on Don Street."

"Let's go out there."

"What?  Why?"

She shrugs.  "I don't know.  Maybe...have you been back there at all as an adult?"

"I went when I was 19.  That was the last time," I tell her.

"Wait!  Christopher, look!"  She thrusts a piece of paper at me and I take it.  "The people that bought the house from your parents!  They're still the owners! There, on Dallas!"

"We can visit them," I say, and I think I might not be breathing again.  "They may have known them."

She nods, a big smile on her face.  "Yes.  Let's go."

It takes us 15 minutes.  We pull up in front of the home and I stare at it for a moment, willing my mind to recall something...anything...as familiar.  But it doesn't and that frustrates me.  Even as an infant I should've been able to retain something with this mind of mine.  But nothing seems to click.

"Come on," Susan says, getting out of the car.

I get out as well and follow her up the front walk.  It's cold out.  There's only about an inch of snow on the ground and it crunches beneath our feet.  I shove my bare hands in my pockets and wonder why I forgot to pack gloves.  She rings the doorbell and turns to look at me.

"It'll be okay, Christopher," she says.  Why, I don't know.  Maybe because the fact that my stomach is tied in knots and my mind is spinning out of control is evident on my face.

A man comes to the door.  He looks to be in his early fifties.  "Yes?  Can I help you?" he says through the screen door.

"Yes, sir, my name is Susan Beasley and this is Christopher Braman.  We're trying to find out what happened to his parents, and we discovered that they owned this house before you.  You didn't, by any chance, happen to know the Turners."

The man looks at me and I look back.  "He's their son?" he asks.

"I am," I say, finally finding my voice.  "Their adopted son."

He opens the screen door.  "I'm Bill Sampson.  Come in."  We enter and he says, "You can hang your coats there in the closet, then come on in to the living room.  I'm just going to fetch my wife."

"Thank you," Susan and I say in unison.

"He must have known them," Susan says as we hang up our coats and she unwraps her scarf from her head and neck.  "Otherwise he wouldn't have invited us in."

I'm even more excited than she is, but I know I'm not handling it very well.  It's all happening so fast.  This trip was supposed to be a bust.  It wasn't supposed to be successful.  Susan wasn't supposed to help me.  I wasn't supposed to find anything, and yet look at the information that had been turned up.  Austin.  They had named me Austin.  I'm Austin Turner.  I like the name, I suppose, but it's so foreign to me.  Actually, Christopher is foreign to me now as well.  Ever since I was nineteen I've been called Brains by the Tracys.  Hearing Susan say it makes it sound hollow somehow, especially now.

Then again, these were only my adoptive parents, not my real ones.  But if we could find out more about them, it might lead us to the unnamed real parents.  The mother who actually gave birth to me in that hospital in Grand Rapids.  Why had she given me up for adoption?  Had she been young and unwed?  Or maybe a drug addict?  Possibly just didn't want kids?  It could be anything, any reason at all.  But whatever the reason, the Turners had adopted me.  And then left me at the mercy of a tornado.  I have to know why.  I wonder if I'm about to find out.

Bill emerges from a hall to our right with a woman behind him.  "This is my wife, Lanie," he says.  "Please, come into the living room and make yourselves comfortable."

"Thank you," Susan says.  She and I sit down next to one another on a love seat, while Bill and Lanie sit in their recliners.  "Did you know the Turners?"

Well, Susan is nothing if not direct.  I admire that.

"Only briefly, and not very well," Lanie answers.  "You see, we lived in the house three doors down to the west for about five years.  I remember when David and Liz moved in.  We welcomed them to the neighborhood, like we always do around here when new folks arrive."

"I remember that," Bill adds.  "A whole group of you brought casseroles and stuff over here."

Lanie nods.  "They were so nice.  From England, they said, and they had the accents.  They were a novelty here in Holt.  We don't really get too many foreigners here.  Awfully nice.  I think David had gotten a job at Fifth-Third Bank, wasn't it?"

"Yep," Bill responds.  "And I can also remember when they brought that baby home."

Lanie looks over at me.  "And you're saying that baby was you?"

"Ah, we believe so," I say, glancing sidelong at Susan.  "I-It appears as though the child the Turners brought home was, indeed, me, from what we've uncovered so far."

"Wow," Lanie whispers.  "That was such a long time ago.  Liz was so happy with you.  They had one of the bedrooms all done up with wallpaper and a crib.  There was a lamp on top of a tall white dresser, I think the light was three different colored balloons, if I recollect.  The room was bright and cheerful, that much I do remember."  Her face seems to soften.  "I even held you a few times," she says as she smiles.  "Your name was Austin."

There goes my heart pounding again.  I know the signs of anxiety, and I feel like I'm about to hyperventilate.  Logically it makes no sense, but I'm a man no longer controlled by logic, but by a past that has haunted me for as long as I can remember.  That's when I feel Susan's hand on mine.  It's warm as it closes over my cold one and somehow it calms me.  I find it hard to believe that barely forty-eight hours earlier she was threatening me with a gun.

"My...I mean...do you remember the tornado i-in April of 2001?"

"Can't forget that one," Bill replies.  "It was a doozy.  Swept through an entire block over on Don Street before heading out to the farmlands.  Got a few farmhouses and a bunch of livestock, too, from what I can remember."

"Oh, yes," Lanie nods emphatically.  "That twister killed an awful lot of people.  You know, the funny thing was, after that went through we never saw hide nor hair of the Turners again.  Or of you, for that matter."

"You're right about that," her husband agrees.  "We came to check on 'em, knowing that coming from England they never would've been through a storm like that one.  But there was nobody here.  House wasn't locked or anything, just plain empty."

"And they never came back."

"Last time I saw David was the day before," Bill says thoughtfully.  "But then they just seemed to disappear."

"I..."  I hesitate.  I've never talked about any of this and now suddenly in two days' time I'm baring my personal history to all these strangers.  Susan squeezes my hand and I keep talking.  "I was found in the wreckage of a house over on Don Street," I tell them.  "Did the Turners know someone over there?"

Lanie and Bill look at each other, both shaking their heads.  "I don't think so," Lanie replies.  "Liz herself told me the only people she knew in the US of A were right here on our block.  She said she was glad we were so friendly, otherwise she'd have no one to talk to while Dave was at work."

"Well, when they found you, didn't they find your folks, too?"

"No," I say, shaking my head.  "I was alone in the rubble."

"I never heard anything about the Turners after that twister hit," Lanie says.  "I do remember seeing the articles in the paper about a baby being found, now that I think about it, but nothing about them.  You, Bill?"

"Nope," he replies.  "Nothing."

I sigh, frustrated.

"Did someone babysit Austin for Liz?  Maybe someone on Don?" Susan asks.

"No, she never went anywhere without that--" Lanie stops and then starts again.  "Without you," she finishes, looking at me.  "She and Dave didn't go out at all.  I think the one time they did, they hired a high school girl from next door, Marcy Laycock, I think it was, to watch you, and then it was only for a couple of hours."

"And you don't know anything more about what happened to them?"

"No," Bill answers Susan's question.  "Next thing we knew this house was up for sale, and we were looking for a bigger one at the time because we already had two kids and Lanie had one on the way.  So we bought it.  Used the room they decorated for you for our son, Josh, when he was born."

I'm so disappointed.  It must be written all over my face because Susan squeezes my hand again before rising to her feet.  "Thank you," she says to them, walking over and shaking their hands.  "Thank you so much, you've been a great help."

The Sampsons stand, and so do I.  Numbly, I shake their hands and thank them.  I'd found some answers, but they only led to more questions.

"I hope you can find out where they went," Lanie says as she and Bill walk us to the door.

Susan grabs our coats and I put mine on.  I can't help but feel let down.  It's nobody's fault.  Bill and Lanie told us all they could.  But why did they leave me?  Why did the Turners leave me alone on Don Street?  Would I ever find out?

"Thanks again," Susan says and I hear myself mumbling the same thing.  And then we're walking out to the car, but this time Susan gets into the driver's seat, and for some reason, it doesn't even occur to me to ask why.  "I'm sorry, Christopher," she says as she starts the car and turns the heater on full-blast.

I shrug.  "I know more than I did yesterday, but..."  I let my voice trail off as I look out the window.

"I know," she says.

It's silent until about ten minutes later when she stops the car alongside a curb.  I look around and then turn to her.  "Where are we?"

"This is Don Street," she says.  "You don't have any idea where here you were found?"

"No," I say, looking around at the houses surrounding us on both sides of the street.  "The newspapers just said that I was found in the rubble of a house on this street.  There were pictures, but the houses were flattened, so all of these would have had to have been built after the tornado destroyed whatever was here before."

"There has to be a logical explanation for all of this," Susan says, folding her arms over her chest.  "I mean, people don't just disappear."

Now my mind is churning full-force again.  "What was it you said about the names being expunged?" I ask her.

"Expunged?  Well, most times the only reasons names get expunged is security concerns.  Or the wealth and influence of the family in question. You know, some rich-bitch family who can grease enough hands to bend the rules."

I have to crook a smile.  "I take it from your tone of voice you aren't fond of that method."

"No. It's underhanded and I don't think it's fair to the children who later come looking for their roots.  Just last week I had to tell a man dying of some strange disease that there was no way I could help him find out what genes he was carrying because his birth parents' names had been expunged."

I turn to look at her – really look at her.  Her voice is trembling and I feel something I can only identify as sympathy.  But then an alarm bell rings inside my head.  "Wait, I thought you said the only time you'd ever seen this was on the birth certificate for that FBI agent's child?"

"I did.  That's who's dying."

I don't know what to say.

"I had to sit there, Christopher, and look at a man I know won't make it to Christmas, and tell him there was nothing that the State of Michigan could do to try and help him save his life."  She turns and looks at me and I see she has tears in her eyes.  My heart catches in my throat.  "Do you know what it's like to sentence a man to death?" she asks vehemently.

This reminds me so much of how the Tracy sons sound when returning from a rescue where they lose people.  There's always something they could've done better, always something Scott thinks he didn't do enough of, always a more brilliant method of rescuing a person from the particular situation they were in.  I don't know if they realize it affects me almost as much as them.  Certainly I'm not face-to-face with the dying most of the time, as I rarely go on rescues with them.  But to know that they failed is to know that I failed.  Because I didn't have a machine or some other form of technology they could have used to save a life.

"You didn't sentence him to death," I say, reaching across and grabbing her gloved hand.  "The people who removed his parents from his birth certificate did that."  She looks away, back out the front window of the car, and I can see she's trying not to cry.  And that's when one of my questions is suddenly answered.  Not about my heritage, but about Susan Beasley.

"That's the main reason you decided to help me," I say, realizing it's true.  "Not just because of your own birth certificate problem, but because of the FBI agent's son."

"You're either a psychiatrist or a very perceptive man," she says with a half-laugh as she swipes her arm across her eyes.

"Well, I do have a psychology degree."

"I thought you said you were an engineer," she says, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I am.  I-I mean, that's my chosen profession.  But I also have a degree in psychology."

"So you're a doctor as well as an engineer?"

"Yes," I nod.  "Twice over."

"Twice over?"

"Yes.  A psychology degree and a medical degree."

"Wait a minute, you can't possibly have three degrees."

"No, I have six," I state matter-of-factly.

She frowns and I can tell she doesn't believe me.  "Really?  What are you, a genius?"

I smile.  "A genius.  I guess you could say so, yes."

As embarrassed as I am by this point, it gets her off feeling guilty, and that's what matters.  "You mean that?  You're a real genius?  Like Einstein?"

"Something like Einstein, yes," I nod, smiling.

"Why did you ask me about the expunging of names?" she asks, half-turning to face me.

"Well, I-I was just thinking, a-and it seems to me that my parents' disappearance could have something to do with those 'security concerns' you're saying are a reason for names being taken off birth certificates."

Susan nods. "Either that or your mother's or father's family was very rich and well-connected."

I sigh.  "It doesn't really matter, does it?" I ask.  I know I sound despondent, but I think at this point I have a right to be.

"Why do you say that?"

I shrug.  "If they didn't want to be found, they won't be.  We've hit a dead end here with the Turners.  I don't have any idea where to begin looking for them now."

We sit there in the car in silence.  I notice that large snowflakes begin to fall, and the hiss of the heater fills my ears.  The silence is almost deafening, but I don't know what else to say. I felt so elated to be finding my answers, only to now leave just as empty-handed as when I arrived.

And then there's Susan.  She dropped everything to help me, and though it might have helped ease her guilty conscience, it was, for all intents and purposes, mostly a fruitless venture.  "Thank you," I hear myself saying.

"For what?  I only helped you find more questions than answers."

"You couldn't have predicted the outcome, but you tried anyway.  So...thank you."

She half-smiles and we fall silent again.  "My services are still available, if you need them."

"Thanks," I say.  "But I guess if there's nothing else to follow up on here, I may as well head back home."

She nods and puts the car into gear.  My mind spends the trip back to Lansing tangled in knots.  And I feel just as empty inside as I ever have.

"Where do you live?"

"An island in the South Pacific."

"What island?  I thought you worked for Jeff Tracy's company," she says as she pulls up in front of my hotel.

"I do.  It's his island I live on."

"Really?"

I nod.

"So, what's it like being a genius?"

I blink and turn away from the window.  "What?"

"Being a genius.  I mean, I've never known a genius before.  From all accounts they're social recluses who can barely hold a normal conversation and avoid human contact unless absolutely required.  They also can't really develop strong personal relationships or see past their logic long enough to learn how to feel like us normal folks."

I can't help but crack a smile.  Where on earth had she heard all that?  "That pretty much sums it up."

"So that's why you live on the island instead of near Tracy Engineering."

"You could say that," I respond.  It's not the entire truth, but it's not altogether a lie.

"I don't believe you're a genius."

I turn to face her.  "What do you mean by that?"

She leans back against her seat, folding her arms across her chest.  "Well, I've known you for what, two days, now, and you've been holding perfectly normal conversations and shown a considerable amount of emotion."

I think about that for a moment.  She's right, I have shown a considerable amount of emotion.  "I guess logic takes a back seat when it gets this personal," I reply.

"Are you sure you have to leave today?"

I'm startled by the question.  With my lead exhausted, why would I choose to stay?  I say as much and am confused when she shakes her head and says, "I guess maybe you aren't a genius, after all."  And with that, she unlocks the car doors.

What she meant by that, I have no idea, but my mind quickly turns away from it as an irrelevant sidestep to what I need to do once I return home.  Home.  I get out of the car and come around to the driver's side.  She rolls down the window.  "I just wanted to thank you again."

Susan nods.  "Sure, you're welcome.  Take care, okay?"

"I will.  Bye, Susan."

"Bye."

I stay there on the curb until her car is out of sight.

I feel like I'm dragging both physically and mentally as I sit down on the bed and stare up at one of the pictures on the wall.  I've had many homes over the years, I think.  At the moment, it's Tracy Island, but eventually it probably won't be.  I am a recluse, it's true.  Even on an island I can go for days without seeing another soul.  And to tell the truth, that's always been perfectly fine because I'm so engrossed in what I do that having others around is more of a distraction than anything.  Like an annoying mosquito that keeps at you no matter how you swat it away.

And then I think of how different I've been on this trip to what really was my home, at least for a short while.  I think about how I went to a complete stranger asking for help, and how that stranger helped me.  I think about how I've spent more time with my heart on my sleeve in the past two days than I ever have before.  And I wonder about that, because normally emotions don't cloud my mind enough to have any real impact on my thought processes and yet I've gone almost completely numb at least four times between yesterday and today to the point where my brain very nearly stopped thinking.

In my world, that's not just unthinkable, it's impossible.  Maybe I need to seek psychological help.  Except I already know what they'll say.  It's been 31 years, I need to simply deal with the fact that I will never know who my father and mother were and move on with my life.  Now, at least, they would say, you know who you were adopted by.

But how can I just let this go when it's consumed me for so long?  I look around the room one more time before rising to my feet.  How can I move on, how can I even think about bringing a life into this world, someone who needs my love and attention, when I don't feel capable of giving anything?  What people who grew up knowing who their parents were just don't understand is that not knowing is like something that lives inside you, slowly gnawing at your insides until finally it starts to hurt.  For me, that hurt has grown steadily for 31 years and, it seems, has finally reached a breaking point.

I know now that I saw this as my 'do or die' lead.  If it panned out, then I would find out who I was.  If it didn't it was the last time I would try.  And so, in a way, my leaving Michigan this time is my leaving for good.  Not just the state, but the search that will never lead me anywhere but to feeling even more lost and alone on this planet than I did the day, week or year before.

I remember once hearing Gordon and Alan talking out on the beach in the wee hours of the morning, probably about five years ago now.

"It's like this gaping hole, Gordo, one that can never be filled.  Even though I know her name and have seen her pictures, I never knew her.  There's a part of me that will never have that place in my heart that Scott, Virgil and even John have."

"Me either."

I suppose I can identify with Gordon and Alan to a certain degree.  At least they knew who their mother was, and of course, they know their father and grandmother.  But the gaping hole inside of me is one I can't fill with even a name and a face.  And that cripples me emotionally; I know that's what Freud would say.  If I can't move past this, I can't expect to devote any portion of my emotions to another person, let alone children.

And yet it's another ache that hollows me out further still.  I want children.  I'm not certain why exactly, I just see them on television or on rescues sometimes and I get that twinge that I suppose we all get at some point in our lives.  But if you can't give one hundred percent of yourself, you have no right even trying.  That's my logic, it's what I firmly believe.

I rise and pick up my suitcase.  For a few brief hours I had something that I haven't had in years: hope.  And, it seems, I made a friend in the process.  Suddenly I feel a twinge in my mind, and it occurs to me that I'm doing something I have rarely done before in my life.  I'm pitying myself.  My situation.  My lack of success.  As always I have to ask myself, why?  Why hadn't I been successful?  I'd found out more in a few hours here than I had in all my past attempts.

So why this pity?  It's not natural for me to do such things.  I stand a little straighter and have a thought.  And as the thought materializes, my mouth curves into a smile.  Because this man called Brains isn't done yet.  I pick up the phone and dial.

"Hello?"

"Susan?  It's me."

"Christopher?  What is it?"

"You implied you'd experienced this kind of subterfuge before, for non-civilians."

"Yes."

"Well, that made me think of the various government agencies you've worked with, and that made me think of the contacts you might have, as well as those I might have, though I don't have any here in Michigan."

"I do," Susan says.  "With the FBI."  Then she must figure it out, because she exclaims, "I do!  Christopher, give me an hour."

I smile.  "You got it."

"Christopher?"

"What?"

"I take back what I said.  You are a genius!"

I laugh as I hang up the phone.  Now to call Jeff...