The house was on the edge of town, and it was a step above ramshackle, but only a small step. It was set on badly mortared brick pilings, with a wooden floor and no subfloor. The windows were all intact, and the shutters hung approximately true. The tin roof soaked up a days worth of heat and filled the place with it, from the cracked ceiling to the rag rug on the floor that looked like it had fallen out of a Model-A in '29. An empty ice box and a crazed enameled wash basin sat shiva in the kitchen with the recently deceased pot bellied stove. To call the furnishings sparse or spare would make the desert outside seem lush by comparison. On the plus side, it was free, discrete, and ostensibly safe. It was a safe house, after all.

They arrived in ones and pairs, let themselves in in their own ways, trying to look discrete, introducing themselves to each other and to the forelorn little house, its memories and ghosts.

Yanaha peered around the house when she opened the front door. "Huh," she huffed out, noting no one else present. "Earlier than I thought," she mused. She claimed a spot where she could see the door, nervously twirling the ends of her hair around her finger. At least she was clean, again and for that she was grateful. Dressed in denim jeans and a light cotton shirt, she could pass for another ranch hand easily enough.

Sherman had surveyed the house from every angle, circling slowly at a distance. To his practiced eye it was clear that the house had not been visited in quite a long while. He had settled down to observe the house and await enlightenment. It was not long in coming.

A woman arrived and entered the building. After giving her a minute to explore the building, Sherman followed. He walked up to the front door and stepped inside. He paused in the doorway to look around--and to minimize any alarm from his sudden appearance. "I see that no expense has been spared here," Sherman said.

"That's the government for ya," the woman said without thinking, eyeing him judiciously. She was of mixed heritage, that much was obvious. One of the Indian tribes and Mexican, probably. She looked to be about 18, barely out of high school and certainly not more than 20. A tenseness lingered about her, as if she were a bowstring pulled too taut. "At least I hope you're here to help the G-man. 'Cause if you're not, then we got a few problems."

"I am," Sherman said. "I'm told it is a great honor. Lucky me," he said, with a faint smile of amusement. He glanced around the interior of the building, That glance told him every move the woman had made since entering the building as clearly as if he'd watched her. The same was true of the field mice which had explored the house briefly a couple of days ago in a fruitless search for food.

"Not sure how great an honor it is, to tell the truth," she replied with a shrug. "But it got me out of the cooler and it gets me some steady dough, so I'll be nice for now and not play the marks too much." Her dark eyes seemed fathomless in the filtered light from the grimy windows. "I'm Yanaha Mendez," she said after a moment.

"Sherman Blackstone," Sherman said. He wasn't sure how great an honor it would really turn out to be either. The rest of Yanaha Mendez's words were strange to him, though it wasn't hard to work out her meaning.

The door opened and in walked a woman with distinctly aristocratic Russian features. She was was a bit taller than five and a half feet, with a slight build, dark brown hair, and soft doe eyes. Dressed primly in a summer smock and sensible shoes she probably didn’t turn many heads, but some would call her pretty. Her eyes traveled from Yanaha whose name she caught just as she opened the door, to Sherman. A smile lit her face when she saw him, and she looked back at the young lady smile still in place. Walking forward she held out her hand to her, and said, “I’m Margaret Fisher, are we to be working together? Agent Reid isn’t here yet, that man certainly does know how to keep a person waiting.”

Yanaha looked over the new arrival as if she was sizing up a mark for a con. She stood and took the woman's hand, hoping she wouldn't have one of her visions or her sudden, surprising fits of reading people's minds. "Yah, I know he ain't here. He's at the train station, pickin' up another poor slob his bosses told him to work with." Her dark gaze wandered between the woman and the Apache. "Guess you guys already met?" she asked after shaking hands and settling back in her seat.

"We have," Sherman said. "Good day again, Miss Fisher."

Nikita’s smile faltered a little at the woman’s lackluster response, and she nodded. “Mr. Blackstone and I met at the Sheriff’s office.” She smiled at him and walked over to the window to see if it was painted shut. It looked like there were only one or two layers, so she pulled out her Swiss Army Knife and began to draw it along the creases.

The half-breed propped her elbows on the table and regarded them both curiously. "So, why didn't you come over together, if you met over at the Sheriff's office?" she asked bluntly. This one didn't hesitate to speak her mind, apparently.

"Are you prepared to spend your every waking moment in our company from now on?" Sherman asked with an amused grin. "We met at the Sheriff's office, we didn't get married."

"Didn't say you did. I just asked a question," Yanaha replied. "I thought it a logical question to ask, but whadda I know? I'm just a dumb Mexican, right?" Her lips curled up in what might have been a grin, but the darkness in her eyes never wavered. "Forget I asked," she shrugged and let out a slow breath. "I don't guess you guys know how many more folks we're going to be working with?"

The tell-tale crunching and rumbling foretold the approach of the car, briefly interrupting the desultory conversation in the shack. A black Edsel rolled to a stop nearby, shining and immaculate even in the perpetual dust and sand of the desert.

A dark-haired man in a white suit unfolded himself from behind the wheel. Without hurrying or wasted motions he moved to the other side and opened the door, bending from the waist a bit to assist the passenger from the vehicle. She was pale, dressed in a well-tailored pastel blue dress. They exchanged a single, wordless glance then came to the doorway, pausing a moment to let sun-blinded eyes adjust to the dim interior.

“Two more at least.” Nikita replied from her position at the window. She watched as the striking couple walked to the front door then turned to it when it opened.”

Mercedes stepped aside so Wu Long could enter behind her, nodding soberly to the others in the room. She was remarkably blonde, fair, somehow cool and collected even in the beastly heat. Her eyes were even paler in color than her dress, sparkling like starlight inside a glacier and seeming to miss nothing as they took in the room and its inhabitants.

"Miss Fisher, of course," she said first, voice low-pitched and confident. "Your reputation in matters strange and inexplicable precedes you. I'm known locally as Miss Moore, the private consulting detective," she went on, turning to the room at large.

“As does yours Miss Moore. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” Nikita declined her head in acknowledgment and then raised her hand towards Yanaha, then Sherman, and said, “This is Yanaha Mendez, and Sherman Blackstone.” She looked to the Chinaman expectantly.

Wu bowed politely to Miss Fisher and the others as they were introduced, shifting the small black medical bag from his left hand to a nearby table and brushing off a bit of dust from the left leg of the crisp eggshell white suit he wore. Meeting each of their eyes in turn, he gave a polite smile that was at once boyish and enigmatic. He introduced himself in a clear, calm voice that spoke with pride and hinted at hidden strength, "I am Dr. Wu Long Chow. Among many things, I am a physician who has the honor of assisting Miss Moore."

Yanaha nodded at the Chinaman and the blonde detective in greeting, in that order. So, we got ourselves an Ice Queen, she thought with a derisive snort. Peachy. Mercedes' cool beauty had her wanting to stand down, blend into the shadows and stay there. She mentally shook herself, fiercely. Emotionally, she stiffened her spine and physically sat up a bit straighter in her chair.

Wu mentally noted Miss Mendez's shift in position as he took in the building's interior, additionally noting the entrances and exits.

The screech of warped wood and the crackle of breaking paint echoed through the room as Nikita forced the window open. A gentle breeze began to move the air in the room, taking care of the years long stuffiness, but doing nothing for the heat. She moved to the two new arrivals and offered them her hand in turn. “Do Private Investigators need the services of Doctors often?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

Wu shook the proffered hand, his grip solid but neither heavy nor rough. He replied, "While I cannot speak to the needs of other Private Investigators, our cooperation has been to the benefit of some of Miss Moore's clients and of my own as well. I believe that you can understand that in both of our professions people seek us out in need of assistance beyond that which our individual occupations can provide separately. As well there are certain types of information that can only be gleaned by one who is familiar with the human body under many different conditions and can describe them accurately."

"Our association has had many unexpected benefits," Mercedes allowed as she took "Miss Fisher's" hand in her own. "But what of you, Miss Fisher?" she asked, pale blue eyes taking in the other woman's features with a glance. "One does not often see a woman descended of Slavic nobility here in the American southwest."

“It is a long sad story, Ms. Moore. Perhaps one day I will have the time to tell it to you.” The piercing eyes could clearly see sadness in the woman’s who stood before her. Nikita gave her a sad smile and let her hand fall to her side.

The mixed-breed woman took in all of this, watching and listening carefully, her face as implacable and mysterious as she could make it. Dark eyes narrowed slightly as she tried converting Wu's huge words and convoluted sentences into something she could better understand. It wasn't working very well but she was damned if she was going to show it. She shifted in her chair as if uncomfortable in it, which wasn't far from wrong.

"So, six of us plus Reid," she said aloud. "Poor guy. He's probably thinking he's going to be tryin' to herd feral cats, here in whatever the hell we're supposed to be doin'."

"Government agents do not care for civilian involvement in their duties," Mercedes agreed, standing by the window for the somewhat fresher air it afforded. "Unless it is a thing with which the government does not wish its involvement to be known. Those facts cast our meeting here in a most singular light, wouldn't you say?"

Why do smart people always have to make it so we always have to ask what they mean? Yanaha wondered with a mental sigh. She hated it when people did that. Always using convoluted sentences and $5 words where a .50 word would do -- making her feel more stupid than she usually felt. Still, she believed she understood what the blonde said. "Yeah, I guess it is pretty tellin', at that," she replied, leaning forward slightly once more. "I just know I was recruited for what my Grandmother says are my 'gifts'," she shrugged.

Suddenly, someone in the room became more interesting than the scenery without. Mercedes turned to the dark-skinned woman, her gaze as penetrating as ice shards. "Did he indeed, Miss... Mendez, you said? I'm quite curious, what were the gifts that caused Agent Reid to seek you out?"

"I'm sure you are, honey," Yanaha replied a challenge flickering in her dark eyes. "But, no skin off my nose for tellin' you now, rather than you findin' out later. I can 'read' things. Objects. Things people have owned. By holdin' it, I can see it's history, who it belonged or belongs to and a lot of the time, the emotions that go along with it," she shrugged. "I can even sometimes, know what people are thinkin'. I can't do that on cue, though."

Her gaze slipped over the others in the room. She suddenly wondered whether she was the only one here with such 'gifts.' She shifted a bit in her chair, suddenly feeling fourteen again and trying to explain to her father why she didn't want to touch anything, ever again that wasn't hers.

"Fascinating," the cool blonde remarked, completely unperturbed by Yanaha's attitude though she certainly noticed it. One got the impression that nothing much escaped the detective's notice. "They would seem to complement your talents, would they not, Miss Fisher?" She turned to the silent Indian in the corner. "And you, Mr. Blackstone? Are you similarly endowed with senses beyond which most of us are granted at birth?"

"That depends on whom you ask," Sherman said. "Some would say I'm delusional. I prefer to think that the spirits I see and speak to are truly present."

Mercedes gazed at the man for a long moment, then withdrew her cigarette case from her purse, pausing to enjoy the smoker's ritual before making a general, polite offer of them to the room at large. "Are there any spirits present here?" She finally asked, drawing on her smoke with obvious pleasure.

"Not at the moment, no. It's a pleasant change, actually. Spirits seldom linger unless they want something, and they're annoyingly persistent about it."

She exhaled, watching the smoke swirl amid dust motes in the light from the window. Pale-eyed gaze shifted to Sherman thoughtfully. "If that changes, I would appreciate it if you'd let me know. Especially if the spirit resembles a large man of European descent with a high forehead, and penetrating eyes."

Miss Moore, Private Consulting Detective, took his answer seriously--more seriously than most folk. Or she was maintaining a remarkable poker face while she played along. Either way, Sherman just nodded his agreement. He wondered who the spirit she described might be. A deceased relative, most likely. Father? Grandfather? Uncle?

The grumbling crunch of gravel grew louder, heralding the approach of another vehicle. "Ah, that would be our Federal host now, it seems," Miss Moore said.

*****************

As the train from Chicago that Professor Cobb was suppose to be on pulled into the Phoenix station, Josh Reid got off of his stool at the station coffee house. He had spent most of the morning on that stool mostly to avoid being Sheriff's office when the Indian and the Russian arrived. The file of the Indian, Sherman Blackstone was almost blank having been chosen by his tribe rather than the Bureau to be on the team. Nikita Sonkin, the Russian, had a thick file but most of it was blacked out by military intelligence officers who did not want to share their secrets.

Sheriff Hutchins could greet these two cyphers. They were likely to reveal more about themselves when it was just the two of them than they would in the presence of a member of the FBI. The Sheriff, with his big belly and slow mannerisms was an easy man to underestimate, but not much escaped his notice. If anything interesting happened in his absence, Josh was confident he would get a full report.

As passengers started disembarking from the train, the lawman walked towards the crowd of greeters. With casual watchfulness he scanned the passengers for a face to match the one in Charles Cobb's file.

Cobb had spent most of the trip in sitting in the back corner of the train. There, he first tried to distract his gaze by looking out the window; it didn't work, as each passing sign, every notification of nearing towns or populations or county limits started to record in his mind. His head throbbed. If he dared to turn his attention back to the train, there he recorded even more. People talking, sharing glimpses, looking about, saying as much as any person could without saying a word.

His head thrummed with the static rhythm of the train rolling down the tracks. He wrapped his blindfold over his eyes, and laid back for sleep.

When the train finally pulled in to the station, Cobb stood and gathered his personal belongings up. It took little effort, which used to frustrate his colleagues; where they would bring text books, papers, essays and readings, Cobb would have them memorized. The only books he carried were books he hadn't yet read; reference materials were useless to him.

Off the train, he stood off to the side, and looked barely around. His head still hurt, and here in a new setting, his headache was getting worse.

Seeing Charles Cobb get off the train, Agent Reid pushed his way through the crowd to greet the man from the Smithsonian. Extending a welcoming hand, he said, "You must be the esteemed Professor Cobb. I'm Agent Josh Reid of the FBI."

Noting the professor's apparent discomfort, Reid asked, "Does traveling not agree with you much?"

Cobb shook the agent's hand, and offered a smile. He stared at Reid's eyes: doing so helped him focus. Or, better yet, helped him not focus, as the case may be.

"Oh, I'm just a little distracted, is all. Would it be inappropriate for me to presume that, during this venture, you'll be my government contact?"

"Nope, that is a pretty good presumption," Agent Reid answered with a western drawl.

Looking at the professor's few bags, the lawman nodded approvingly; he liked a man who traveled light. Gesturing towards an aging Ford, Reid said, "My car is right over there."

"I need to drop by the the sheriff's office to have a few words with Sheriff Hutchins. Then we can go and meet the other members of our team. They all should be at the house by now."

*********

The door to the shack opened and a stetson wearing figure that Chow, Moriarty and Mendez recognized as Agent Josh Reid entered. "Right this way, Professor. It looks everyone else is already here."

Turning his attention to the members of the team that he had not yet met, the lawman said, "I am Agent Josh Reid, and I will be representing the U.S. government in our investigations."

"You must Sherman Blackstone," the agent said, approaching the Indian and offering hand to shake.

"So they tell me," Sherman said, shaking his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Josh smiled at Sherman' joke. It was always better when the people you worked with had senses of humor.

Taking off his hat and flashing dimpled smile the cowboy turned federal agent said, "And you must be Miss Margaret Fisher."

Looking at the handsome fed Nikita smiled back. The plain face lit up and was almost beautiful in that instant. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, better late then never they always say.”

"Yes, I sorry that I wasn't there to greet you at the sheriff's office. I wasn't sure when you were to arrive and I need to pick up the good Professor at the train station," the lawman explained.

"I'm glad that the Sheriff told you to come here, and it appears that you had no trouble finding the place," Agent Reid observed with another one of his smiles."

"It's not much I know, and we will have some work to do to make it fit for civilized people or even present company," he joked. "Still, I think that it will serve our needs better than trying to discuss matters of national security at the sheriff's station."

"Now, some of you still have some papers to sign, and I'm going to take the lot of you before a judge to swear an oath of secrecy tomorrow," the g-man said. "Until you all have made that oath, I can't give you any specific details on what we will be investigating, but I can answer general questions."

Mercedes repressed her irritation at this; papers and general questions could certainly have waited for the next day, the lot having been dealt with all at once. She forced the emotional reaction back into the ordered realm of logic, smoke curling from her nostrils in draconic displeasure. Any government agency believed it was its sovereign right to waste the time of the governed, a sentiment that regrettably rubbed off on its paid servants. Her father would doubtless have reminded her that she'd known this when she agreed to Reid's proposal, last week, and had thus agreed to have her time wasted on a periodic, if irregular basis.

Still, if there was nothing else of a general nature she wished to learn, it would perhaps be useful to hear what these others knew and what they wished to know. "You might also introduce your companion to us," the cool blonde pointedly reminded him.

Smiling either at or despite of Mercedes obvious annoyance, Agent Reid said, "Oh, yes. This is the esteemed Professor Charles Cobb. He is on loan to us from the Smithsonian Institute. I'm sure that the two of you will be able to find many fascinating things to say to one another."

Cobb turned briefly, offering a raised eyebrow at Agent Reid, before turning back to Mercedes.

"I would ordinarily protest your choice of words, Agent Reid; as I am to understand it, I am simply a liaison between your agency and the Smithsonian Institute. To imply that I'm on loan seems a little inappropriate.

Then again, who am I to argue such semantics. Doctor Cobb, it's a pleasure to meet you all."

Charles offered a nod, curt and short. As he did, his eyes fell to the floor, to a point just before his feet. Better to stare at nothing, to remember the sight of gray tile or sand or soot than to memorize faces beyond that which he'd already stored. Already, his mind started to unshackle, stretching, calculating and considering, expanding data into information into knowledge.

He smiled at himself, and continued to stare downwards.

"Ms. Mercedes, were it not presumptuous of me to ask, could I inquire as to your field of expertise? Given Agent Reid's beliefs, it seems our conversations are destined to be fascinating. I would be interested in knowing under what context he would make such a conclusion. Again, if I'm not intruding."

"Actually, it's Moore," she said, blue eyes flickering slightly.* "Mercedes Moore, Dr. Cobb. I'm a private consulting detective, lately specializing in strange or occult occurrences -- the kinds of cases the male detectives in the city won't touch." Her mouth ripples slightly. It might have been a smile. "Perhaps Agent Reid finds this fascinating, I don't know. Please meet my associate also, Dr. Chow. His doctorate is in medicine."

Chow bowed and smiled slightly as he was introduced.

* OOC: Ry, I put the asterisk in there to give you a head's up -- Cobb's peculiar gifts may let him know that the last name she supplied was evasive, at best. If not, feel free to delete this and no harm done. :)

Let's see... Ice Queen, Chinese doc, Apache mystic, Bookworm, some high-falutin' psychic and yours truly. Yanaha mused silently as she watched the proceedings with concealed interest. Reid's got his own little freak-show carny in the making. Poor guy, she reiterated to herself.

"So, G-man," she said aloud. "How much travelin' will we be doin'? How far and all that? I know a lot of the smaller towns and some of the bigger ones and the roads in between, running from the coast to the Mississippi. 'Course some places likely won't be happy to see me comin'."

Reid smiled and let out a snort. "You need to learn how to play nice with the locals, Yanaha," the g-man chided.

"I don't expect that we will going all that far afield. Probably just the four corners region - Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and possibly up into Utah. Of course I would rather not go to Utah. It's always hard to get ... a decent cup of coffee in Utah."

"14 Country Hills Drive. Brick building, with two doors, one on the left always pinned shut, six steps up from the streetside. Mother's Old Fashioned Bakery. Sign is written in yellow, with a picture of a muffin underneath it. Coffee is a little expensive, but it's served in very endearing little white china mugs. More appropriate to tea, given their shape and respective size, but the coffee is still quite excellent.

Of course, that's a matter of opinion."

Cobb smiled politely.

Josh Reid raised his eyebrows in amazement at Cobb's feat of memory. Shaking his head in wonderment, the g-man said, "Well, I wasn't actually talking about coffee, but thanks, Professor."

Oh... a KNOW-IT-ALL Bookworm, Yanaha corrected herself internally. Great. That makes at least three people that'll constantly talk over my head. I guess I better get used to it, PDQ. Her dark eyes continued watching her new co-workers, sizing them up just as if they were marks at the carny but not with the intent of making money. She knew they'd have to find a way to get personalities to mesh, at least so long as they were working on a mission together. The young woman spent a lifetime doing just that, running with the carnies so she knew she could do it. The question was whether the others could.

Nikita looked over at the most recently arrived member of the team and examined his features. The strain on his face was evident, though the cause was not. She looked at each of her companion in turn finally resting her eyes on the Agent in charge. Her lack of participation had been intentional so she could observe how the rest of her companions communicated with one another, but it was time to speak up. She cleared her throat, "Agent Reid, I have a job. This morning I lied to my boss to meet with you, and did not even have the chance to do that. I have an obligation to be at that job from 8:30 am to 5 pm every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I do not see how I can fulfill my obligations there as well as with you."

Reid smiled a tight lipped smile and furrowed his brow a bit. "Yes, your job with Tuttle Inc. Your file mentions it, Miss Fisher. Do you like being called Miss Fisher, or Margaret, or maybe Maggie? Well, I'm getting off topic. Your file says your position with Tuttle Inc pays you 75 dollars a month. The Bureau is offering you 100 dollars a month for your time, which would be a nice raise for you."

"Now, I don't know if your obligations to your current employer are purely financial, but if you take this job with us, you will be expected to be available at all hours day and night even it it interferes with your position with Tuttle Inc. Would it help you if I were to go and speak to Mr. Tuttle on your behalf?" the FBI agent asked.

Her face reddened slightly as she listened to the g-man's words, but by the time he had finished Nikita's calm had returned. "I prefer Miss Fisher, if you don't mind Mr. Reid. My obligations to Mr. Tuttle are of a deeper level than just an employee, the monetary compensation irrelevant. I do my job because I enjoy it, and it affords me the free time to pursue my other interests." She paused and shook her head, "I see no way out of it though. I will put in my resignation to Mr. Tuttle tomorrow."

At the mention of 'deeper obligation' Agent Reid raised an eyebrow but did not interrupt. At the finish of her statement, he said, "Well I'm sorry to come between you and something you enjoy, ma'am. Still, greater good, national interest, you know. Perhaps when these investigations are through, you can return to Tuttle, Inc., Miss Fisher."

A soft snort came from Yanaha's vicinity. "You're one green cowboy if you think these investigations will ever be finished, G-man," she said. "The government ain't gonna let us go, once they got hold of us. Ask any red-skin." Her dark eyes sparked a challenge his way. "But, for me... I got nothin' better to do and the pay's good for now. So, I'm here and I'm in."

The g-man shook his head. "You don't know the Bureau's boys in Washington. Our little group is going give them the willies. They will scared out of the long johns that one of us is going to think an original thought. I wouldn't get too use to the good pay. As soon as we get to the bottom of things here, they will send you all on your ways. Heck, I'll be lucky to have a job at the end of this."

"And how do they know this is the only place weird stuff happens?" she asked. "I mean, c'mon... Or is it just that this weird stuff is all hooked together, somehow? But I bet that's information for after the oaths, yeah?"

Josh Reid gave Yanaha a wink. "You'd win that bet, but you usually win your bets don't you, darling. It all has to wait until after the oaths."

Cobb tried not to think about anything, as he always did. A study in standing, breathing, participatory meditation that always failed long before he started. As such, he breathed in thick through his nose, long drawls that all but squeaked as they slipped in and out of his lungs. Conscious of this, he relaxed, and turned his attention back to the conversation.

OOC: I didn't want to end on a question, given we're looking to close this thread, so instead I thought I'd spend some time demonstrating how distracted Cobb can get.

OOC: IMHO, this seems like a pretty good stoping point for this thread.
OOC: Seconded. :)
OOC: I LOVE what you have all written - great dialogue, and some good beginning insights in to the group dynamics. I don't see any need yet to close this page down, but if Josh wanted to get on to the actual adventure that would be cool, too. In a few days, after everybody has had a chance to check in, check out, and voice any opinions, I'll lock it up.