In the morning both Blake and Michael were wakened by persistent knocks on their locked door. The sound was accompanied by Tuwa's soft voice. Her words didn't sound stressed but instead calm and conscious of not wanting to wake anyone else.

Michael jumped up off the bed. He ran over and stood before the closed door.

"Tuwa? Are you alone?"

"Yeah Michael. But we need to talk."

Blake was now fully awake, and his and Michael's eyes met momentarily. They both seemed to be asking each other if it was a trap just to get the door open. Michael reached under his pillow where he had kept the discs all night and quickly slipped on his jeans, staying shirtless and barefoot.

He handed the discs to Blake.

"Lock the door behind me if go all the way out. Just keep it locked no matter what happens."

Blake slid the discs under the covers and followed Michael to the door, prepared to carry out the plan.

As Michael peered out carefully into the hallway, he heard Tuwa's calm voice again. "It's alright, Michael. Really . . . it's just me."

When he was certain she was truly alone, he opened the door and pulled Tuwa in, locking it behind them. She looked around at the pile of things on the floor—the broken lamps and several mattress slats sticking out from their original position. She also could see drawers were emptied and the bathroom door was unhinged and hanging at an angle.

"Oh my gosh!  Did this happen when you two were . . ."

"No. While we were gone yesterday," Blake informed her.

"Well thank goodness for that!" she said, stepping over the damage and mess. "And the discs?" she asked reluctantly, seeming to fearfully know what the answer would be.

"They didn't find them," Michael answered matter-of-factly.

"Wow. That's a miracle!"

Tuwa sat on the bed, obviously wanting to share something, looking now even more perplexed. "I got this really strange call on my cell phone, this morning. About six o'clock. It woke me up."

"Who was it?" Michael asked, walking over to check the door and back, standing before her.

"His name is Berling. Dr. Chris Berling. He's an archaeologist. Works just over the New Mexico border in Colorado. At Mesa Verde."

Blake looked at Michael, puzzled.

"Its another ancient site of the Pueblo people," he informed him. "Where they lived in stone bock houses under the cliffs. Before they . . ."

"Disappeared," Tuwa assisted.

"So, what did he say?" Michael insisted.

"I'm not sure, really. It was kind of unreal . . . what he knew, actually."

"How do you mean?"

"He couldn't say much on the phone, he told me. Only that he wants to meet us all at the site. A specific pueblo complex he's been excavating."

"So what do you think that's about, Tuwa?"

"I have a few ideas. He's aware of our work. I mean he's a believer in ancient contact. Knows tons about the Pueblos over on that side. Their attempt to not be seen from the sky. . . evidence of their mass disappearance. But it was what he said before hanging up that I couldn't place. How he would know."

"Know what, Tuwa?"

"He said it was vital that we meet today. Over at the Mesa Verde ruins. And then he added . . . all three of you . . . including . . . the young man from California."

Blake felt his heart stop.

"Did he say why?  Why Blake?  How would he even . . . be aware of him?"

Blake felt his heart beating again, but now it was racing much faster.

"Yeah, how would  he know?" Blake asked her.

"Right. It's just too strange," Tuwa responded. "But like I said. Berling's not in the dark about these things. I consider him a valuable colleague. He worked with the Disclosure Project. Helping to locate retired military personal who once worked on the government's Black Ops and cover-up out here. He's a savvy guy and a credible archaeologist. I totally trust him."

"Well, like I said. I don't trust anyone anymore," Michael whispered discusdedly.

He looked harshly at Blake. "You have any theories explaining his comment about you?"

"No way! Not at all! It's crazy!"

"Well I guess we're all going to find out," Michael said angrily, looking at the floor for his clothes. "What's the drive from here to Mesa Verde, Tuwa?"

"A little over an hour."

"You know where we'll meet him, right?"

"Yeah, he told me which site in the National Park. I'm familiar with it."

"Great. Let's get rolling."

"But what are you going to do about the damage here, Michael? The room is totally trashed."

"We'll say it was done sometime during the day. After we left. Hey, it's the truth. We checked with the front desk when we left for the day."

"They'll never buy that story, Michael. If you don't start a police investigation, they're going to charge you both for the damages here."

"Oh, So now you're willing to get the police involved?"

"I don't know, Michael. I really don't."

"Alright, let's see what they'll want to do about it down stairs. The police would only raise a lot of red flags."

After dressing and gathering their few belongings with the discs back in Michael's backpack, the three went down to the rustic front desk to ask for an assessment of the damage. And to try and explain their innocence.

While waiting for the hotel manager to return from the room and give his evaluation, all three noticed a man wearing a cowboy hat who was seated in the corner of the small checkout area reading a newspaper. He was in his mid-twenties, with a tan, slightly bearded face, a fit body, and wearing noticeably expensive western leather boots. He didn't seem to be paying attention to them, and perhaps was waiting for someone to exit the hotel with him.

When the manager returned with a notepad he had written on---presumably  to assess the cost of the destruction, he appeared angry, and threatened to call the police immediately. He told them no one could leave until he notified the Farmington Police Dept. He would let the authorities decide if they would hold the two male guests responsible for the damages.

Just when the manager picked up the phone to call, the man in the cowboy hat got up quickly came up to the desk.

"Ma friend . . . it seems there's been a little issue here with some damages?" he asked with a southern drawl.

"That's right," the manager said, still angry and holding the phone ready to call.

"Well now . . . these folks happen to be some good friends of mine. And where I come from . . . well we settle up our debts at the card table fairly. And in a friendly manner."

"Um . . . what did you say your name was?"  the manager asked the man, his face still flushed from the condition of the room.

"Toby," the man in the expensive boots said. "But you can call me Tee."

"So, what do you know about this situation . . . Mr. Tee?

The three just looked on silently with amazement at what was happening on their behalf.

"Wellsir,  like I say . . . I'm more interested in settling things up here . . . so we can all get on our way."

"It's not that simple. I need to first call . . ."

As the manger reached for the phone again, the man called Toby reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet.

"So, ma friend . . . if I could just ask you . . . What ya think is a fair amount to put that room back into business fer ya? How much ya think should cover it?"

The manger put the phone back down. He looked over his notes and scratched his balding head. Finally he answered, "Well it's gonna be at least five hundred to repair that door, and do some repainting in there . . . Then there's the broken lamps . . ."

"So, you think an even grand  should cover it all?" the man in the cowboy asked. He was already counting out ten hundred-dollar bills quickly. "Should be enough, I say. And a little extra to take away any hard feelings you folks may have toward ma good friends here."

The manager looked into the strangers face for the first time.

"Yeah, I suppose that could cover it."  He seemed a little more satisfied and now actually smiled nervously.

"Well, fine then," the man said, handing over the stack of bills. "And I suppose with this fair and timely payment . . . there should be no need to bring the authorities into this now. Don't you think?"

"No sir," the manager confided, taking the money carefully. "I believe that should just wrap things up pretty well. And even allow everyone to go on their way now."

"Well that's mighty kind of you for saying so. Now you just go ahead and get on that little project with a painter and carpenter this morning."

The man tipped his hat to the manager, and as he turned around, he winked at the three still standing in dissbelief. He then subtly pointed to the exit, where they all walked out single file into the warm sunlight.

* * *