by R S Penney
“Upstairs now,” Harry said. “It's bedtime.”
“But, Dad-”
“Claire…”
Without another word, Claire turned on her heel and marched through the narrow aisle. She paused just in front of the kitchen table. “Love you, Dad,” she said just before charging up the stairs.
The smartphone on the counter lit up and began to buzz, rotating around with each vibration. Harry snatched it up and took the call. God Almighty, this had better be pretty damn important.
“Detective Carlson?”
“How can I help you, Bates?”
“We found new evidence in the Penworth case,” Bates replied. “You're gonna want to get down here, Detective. Trust me when I tell you that you're going to have to see it to believe it.”
“Fine,” Harry muttered. “In the morning.”
“But-”
Harry felt his face crumple, sweat beading on his forehead. He shook his head in frustration. “No buts, man. I've got the girls; I can't find a sitter, and they don't like it when I randomly take off.”
“Detective,” the voice on his phone protested. “You're really gonna want to see this. Someone managed to tear up whole chunks of a city street, and the neighbours claim they saw a man hurling lightning.”
Could this week get any more bizarre? Holes punched in concrete pillars, tiny girls beating up grown men twice their size and now lightning bolts? This really was starting to sound like a cheesy X-Files plot. “I'll be there in the morning,” Harry insisted. “No one is in any immediate danger, right?”
“Uh…no.”
“Then I'll see you at seven.”
The morning sun was shining down on small houses with black shingles on their gabled roofs. Under any other circumstances, this would be a peaceful neighbourhood on a warm summer's day, complete with maple trees that sighed in the wind. Not today. Today, the place was roped off by police tape.
A thick layer of asphalt had been scraped off the road's surface, leaving a pit about the size of a child's bed. Several paces beyond that, chunks of pavement were scattered across the street.
Harry let out a grunt.
He marched around the pit with hands shoved into his pants pocket, pausing near a group of uniformed officers. “Well, this is a new one,” he said, shaking his head. “Do we have any theories?”
Officer Brandon Mitchell was a heavyset man with stubble along his jawline. He reached up to grab the bill of his cap and pulled it down, shading his eyes from the sun. “I can't say we have, sir.”
Tilting his head back, Harry closed his eyes. He took a deep breath then let it out again. “Not even a guess?” he inquired. “So we're just going to sit here and conclude that the hand of God came down and scooped up some pavement?”
Mitchell crossed his arms with a sigh. “Couldn't say what happened, Detective,” he grumbled. “All I know is that somebody's trying to get in on the construction market.”
Har har…
As he took in the sight of the massive pothole, Harry felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had ordered Jean to keep quiet about the strange devices that she had been examining – the last thing he needed was to start a panic – but with each new incident, a pattern began to take shape.
Clearly, they were dealing with technology that was decades ahead of anything they had ever seen before. So, either the military had lost track of some incredibly impressive hardware or…or Ottawa had just become centre stage in an interstellar turf war. That had its own set of implications.
If aliens really were walking the streets of Canada's capital, they had done so for nearly a week without being noticed. That meant they had the ability to look like human beings. Harry had always considered himself a die-hard Scully – show him a palm reader and he'd show you a con-artist – but with every passing day, Mulder's position felt more and more plausible.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Get CSIS down here,” he ordered, squatting down near the edge of the pothole. “They're going to want to take a look at this. And someone get me some coffee!”
“Detective.”
A glance over his shoulder revealed a woman in a blue pantsuit striding across the road. Her round olive-skinned face was tight with anxiety. That was the sort of thing you noticed after a few years of interrogations. “I appreciate your professional courtesy,” she began, “but CSIS has been here for the last four hours.”
“Harry Carlson,” he said, standing and offering his hand.
The woman took it and gave a single pump. She smiled up at him, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Aamani Patel,” she said with a quick bob of her head. “I thought you might like to meet someone.”
Harry arched an eyebrow.
Patel stepped aside to reveal a tiny old woman in a pair of pink sweatpants and a white t-shirt standing on the curb. “Detective Carlson,” she said, stepping into the street. “I saw it all.
“It was a little blonde thing, sir,” she went on. “She fought with an older man who…well I can only say he loosed thunderbolts at her. I went to my window when I heard the commotion.
“A blonde woman?” Harry asked. “In a brown coat.”
The woman went pale before lowering her eyes to stare at the ground. Her gray hair was in a state of disarray. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “I take it you've seen her as well. She was…well, the thing about it is, she wasn't the aggressor, I don't think. That older fellow had her on the defensive.”
“The defensive?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “It was…well, I can't really put it into words except to say he made a wall of lightning and it…scraped up the pavement. I'm also pretty sure he pulled a gun on her.”
Baring his teeth, Harry turned his face away from her. “Thank you for your statement, ma'am,” he managed at last. “I'm sure it will be of assistance.”
He spun around.
“Vitello!” Harry barked. “Mitchell!” Two of his uniformed officers who stood with their backs turned suddenly stiffened. There were times when people claimed that Harry's voice cracked like a whip. He tried to control it, but today was not a day to be walking on eggshells. “Call the station,” he went on. “I want every report involving a blonde woman over the last ninety-six hours. Arrest reports, 911 calls, anything. If Marilyn Monroe was caught sneaking out of the prime minister's house, I want to know it. We clear?”
“Detective!”
When he turned, he saw Aamani Patel standing in the middle of the street with her hands clasped behind her back. “Look at this…” she said, tapping the road with her foot. “Very odd.”
He marched over to find a few slugs embedded in the asphalt, having kicked up the pavement on impact. Who would fire at the goddamn road? “Very odd,” Patel repeated. “I had one of our ballistics experts analyze the trajectory. From the angle of impact, the shooter would have had to have been on the roof of the house to your left.”
“It just keeps getting weirder,” Harry lamented.
“Oh, I think we can go one step further,” Patel replied. “Come with me, Detective. There's something I'd like to show you.”
Fluorescent lights in the ceiling shone down on a sterile room with white-tiled walls and a stainless steel operating table that supported what was clearly a man's corpse. The body was covered with a plain white sheet, the fabric tented where a large nose stuck up from his face.
Patel stepped into the room and stood in front of the table with fists planted on her hips, scrutinizing the body. “Several of your officers recovered this fellow last night,” she said. “We had him transferred here.”
Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Closing his eyes, he nodded slowly, then let out a sigh. “From the crime scene, you mean.” It wasn't a question. “Why wasn't I told about this?”
“Apologies, Detective, but you had…other priorities.” The woman scowled but covered it in an instant. If he didn't know better, he might have thought he had imagined that brief flash of emotion. Harry stifle
d his anger. His family life was none of her concern. “I ordered a full autopsy, but so far, we've only done the most preliminary examinations. We can confirm that he is human with blood type B positive.”
“His species was in question?”
“Take a look for yourself.”
Harry donned a pair of rubber gloves, then pulled back the sheet to reveal a dead man's face. This fellow might have been handsome once, but his skin was pallid, his hair unkempt. Nothing about the corpse stood out to him. “Check his hands,” Patel said from behind. “I'm an expert at reading the back of a man's head. Yours says you're wondering why I brought you here. Check his hands.”
“Checking his hands,” he muttered to himself. “Please tell me I'm not about to find ten-inch nails.”
He seized the man's wrist and turned it palm up to reveal…something. A metal disk embedded in the man's skin. An implant of some kind? Who would graft a chunk of metal onto his own hand?
Suddenly, a thought jumped into his head. One of the guards from the Penworth building had mentioned something about a man with a metal disk in his palm. The poor guy had been so beat up that Harry hadn't put much stock in his statement, but now… “I don't suppose you know what this is?”
He turned.
Patel stood there with her arms crossed, a frown on her face. She shook her head ever so slowly. “We have no idea,” she replied. “That little hunk of metal is why we have not begun an autopsy. I had a bomb squad check him out from top to bottom before I let anyone else in this room.”
“Wise…”
Human. So, the man was human. That meant Blondie was probably human as well. The prospect of extraterrestrials seemed less and less likely, but it was abundantly clear that they were dealing with technology they had never seen before, and Aamani Patel seemed to be at as much of a loss as he was.
It was all well and good to imagine clandestine meetings between high-ranking government officials, and secret black projects where advanced weaponry was developed without the public's consent, but Patel was sharing information freely. She was trying to get to the truth, not cover it up. That being the case, he could only draw one conclusion: if there was a conspiracy here, CSIS wasn't in on it.
He needed to find that blonde woman.
Seems I've underestimated you, Goldilocks, Harry thought to himself. But you can rest assured that's a mistake I won't make twice.
Chapter 9
Morning sunlight came in through the large window along with the sounds of birds chirping and the sweet scents of summer, waking Anna from the best night's sleep she'd had in recent memory. Even with the troubling thoughts of Dex, she had drifted off into a peaceful slumber.
Anna smiled, then pressed her cheek into the pillow. She squeezed her eyes shut. A few more minutes, she thought to herself. Just a few more minutes. I don't want to get out of bed yet.
There was no denying it, however; she was awake. Awake and well-rested for that matter. Was it strange that she felt so safe in a stranger's home? She had never been one to trust too easily.
She sat up.
Raising her arms into the air, Anna felt her mouth stretch in a yawn. She tossed her head about, sending blonde hair flying. On your feet, Lenai, she told herself. You've still got work to do.
She hopped out of bed and took in her surroundings. The apartment was a bit more orderly than she would have expected from a young man like Jack: just a couch facing a television and beyond that a kitchen where wooden cupboards lined both walls near the corner, broken only by what appeared to be the oven and the refrigerator. At least, she thought that big white thing was the refrigerator. Appliances on this world looked so very different from those she knew. Still, she was happy. Unjustifiably happy given everything that had happened, but she decided to go with it.
Biting her lower lip, Anna nodded to herself. There's an elegant simplicity to this place, she thought, tucking her shirt into the waistband of her shorts. Almost as though Jack doesn't want to be burdened by too many possessions.
Anna fell forward, slapping hands down on the carpet and thrusting her feet into the air. She walked across the room on her hands, then flipped upright to land upon the chilly kitchen floor tiles.
A cheerful disposition put her in the mood for a hearty breakfast. Pulling open the refrigerator revealed a pitcher full of orange juice, packs of meat and cheese and a carton of eggs. Eggs! She couldn't remember the last time she had had eggs, and she had a mind to repay her host's generosity.
It didn't take long to locate a frying pan or to figure out how to operate the stove; within a few minutes, she was ready to go. Even tracking down the cooking oil had been simple enough. Just a dab on the finger and a quick taste to make sure it wasn't some sort of dish soap or something like that. She had never realized just how difficult life could be when you couldn't read.
Cracking an egg on the counter, Anna split the shell and let the yoke drop into the frying pan. Oil sizzled with a satisfying hiss and she got to work. Nothing demonstrated affection more than a home-cooked meal, in her opinion.
The door opened.
Jack stepped in with a plastic bag in his hand, dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans and a gray t-shirt. “Good morning, Anna,” he said, shutting the door behind him and making his way into the kitchen. “You didn't have to cook. I would have taken care of that.”
He smiled, bowing his head to her. Those bangs over his forehead were particularly messy today. “I got you something. Just consider it a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood gift.”
Anna looked up to meet his gaze, slowly arching a thin eyebrow. “What might that be?” she inquired. “I wasn't aware that I merited a gift on top of everything else.”
“I figured you needed something to wear.” He snatched a t-shirt out of the bag and held it against his chest. It was the same t-shirt that had won her over – the dark blue one with the adorable green dinosaur. “What do you think?”
“So, you have a pretty girl in your apartment with almost nothing to wear and your response to this is to bring her more clothing?” The irony was delicious. “I don't know if I should be impressed with your chivalry or worried that I'm not as cute as I think I am.”
Jack flashed a grin, his face growing redder and redder. He lowered his eyes to the floor. “Well, um…” he mumbled. “That is um…I just thought it would be appropriate to help you with-”
“I'm joking, dummy!”
Anna lifted the frying pan, then scraped up a large hunk of scrambled eggs with her spatula. She dumped them onto a plate. “Honestly,” she teased. “It's like all they see is a cute behind. They completely forget my propensity for quick quips.”
She handed him the plate.
“I'll go change into something 'appropriate,' and you can appease my fragile ego by telling me how gorgeous I am.”
A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom in a pair of blue jeans and the t-shirt with the adorable green dinosaur. A little jolt of excitement went through her when she saw that her host enjoyed her cooking. He stood in the kitchen with the plate in one hand, scooping up the last of his meal.
Jack popped a fork into his mouth. He closed his eyes, chewing thoroughly with a satisfied grunt. “An,” he said. “Can I call you 'An?' These are some incredibly delicious eggs. I didn't know you could cook.”
Slipping hands into her pockets, she moseyed into the living room with her head down. “So what do you think?” she asked with a shrug. “Does it suit me? Will I blend in with a crowd?”
“Congratulations, An,” he said. “You are now a ten-year-old boy.”
Anna felt her face redden and turned her head to break eye-contact. “Well, I do have that boyish figure,” she teased. “Smear some dirt on my face, skin my knees raw and I'll fit right in.”
When she looked up, Jack was trying his best not to look at her, blushing as though the topic embarrassed him. Had she said something offensive? “Oh, you've looked,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Don't be a
shamed of it! You weren't vulgar like the people I met on the street and it's…”
She trailed off there, refusing to say anything more. The simple fact was she knew very little of the customs of this world, and nothing made people touchier than the subject of sex. Relying on her innate sense of what was appropriate would be a mistake.
When you got right down to it, it was nice to be looked at, so long as the one doing the looking saw you as a person and not a thing. The whole point of her comment was to entice him to…well, flirting must work differently here.
Biting his lip, Jack closed his eyes tight. He turned his face up to the ceiling and let out a sigh. “Anna…” he began. “You are…well, you're very beautiful. It's just that while you're a guest in my home…”
How odd.
He seemed to be feeling guilty. Was he completely oblivious that she had been encouraging his attention? After flirting with her so effortlessly not one day earlier? What are you doing, Lenai? A symbiont's life was on the line, and she didn't have time to puzzle out the thoughts of a young man. It was just…well, there was a good chance that she would be dead in a few days, and charming, honourable men were in short supply.
“There's nothing wrong with your body…” Jack went on.
Anna smiled up at him, holding his gaze. She batted her eyes to put him off guard. “I like the way I look, dear,” she replied. “All joking aside, my ego is not so fragile that you need to stammer out compliments.”
“I'm sorry,” he muttered. “I should have realized you were just messing with me. Anyway, if you feel up to leaving the apartment, there's something I'd like to show you.”
“What's that?”
Jack grinned. “Come with me.”
A white-tiled floor stretched from the library's front entrance to a curved reception desk where an old woman sat with her head buried in a novel. Metal bookshelves lined the walls to her left and right, blocking out sunlight that came in through the windows, each practically overflowing with books.
