I glanced at the people at the tables. They seemed more animated than the lunch-counter crowd. The table people spoke quietly among themselves. A few hunched forward, maybe so they could whisper to one another. I would have liked to know what they were saying.
“Hey, Walt,” someone said in a whiny voice behind me. “Someone took my spot.”
I swiveled around. Walt was a big man with a cowboy hat, a tan sheriff’s uniform and a badge pinned to it. He had a big gun in the holster with the usual police paraphernalia, handcuffs, spray, that sort of thing.
“You’re new here, mister,” Walt declared. He had a deep voice, sounding and looking like someone you didn’t want to mess with.
The deputy was a lot older and thinner, wearing a regular police hat. His thin hands twitched as he looked at me. “You’re in my spot,” he said.
“I’ll be out soon,” I told him.
“Yeah, but I’m hungry. It’s my turn to eat.”
“Your turn?” I asked.
“George,” the sheriff told the deputy. “He’s new in town.”
“I know,” the deputy said, his hands twitching more than before. “But you know I’ve been out—”
“George,” the sheriff said, making it sound like a warning.
The deputy got a hangdog look. “Don’t think I won’t forget this,” he told me.
I nodded.
“When it’s your turn to go to the—”
“George!” the sheriff said sharply.
The deputy’s head snapped back as if the sheriff had struck him. A moment later, the deputy’s shoulders deflated. He turned around and headed outside, ringing the bell as he left.
The sheriff climbed onto his stool, making his police belt creak. He picked up the cup of coffee Debby had thoughtfully poured for him. Good old Walt took a long sip, the cup clicking as he put it into its saucer. Then he half-swiveled to face me directly.
Debby had returned with my first plate of steak and eggs, putting an extra order of French fries beside it.
“When did you come into Far Butte?” the sheriff asked.
“Give me a minute, would you?” I was seriously famished, my stomach growling. Picking up a steak knife and fork, I sawed at the meat, popping a sizeable piece into my mouth.
I looked up and smiled at the sheriff as I chewed.
He didn’t like that. His face became noticeably stiffer, but he didn’t complain, either. He turned forward, taking another sip of coffee.
For the next few minutes, I worked over my first meal, polishing it off faster than seemed necessary. Soon, I used fries to soak up spilled egg-yolks, gobbling the fries in short order.
“Whew,” I said. “That’s better.”
Debby removed the plate and set the next one down.
The sheriff slapped the countertop with a meaty hand. It made my plate jump and a few of the others sitting at the counter.
“Do you mind, Walt?” the handyman beside him asked.
“I asked you a question, stranger,” the sheriff told me.
“Sure,” I said. “When did I get here? Well, let me see. I heard the shift-change siren and hoofed it here as fast as I could to the diner.”
I must have said the wrong thing. The sheriff’s face closed up even more than before, while the others at the counter became wary.
“Is the siren the town secret?” I asked.
“Shut your pie-hole,” the sheriff said.
“Done,” I said, turning to my second meal.
There was something more than a little weird going on. It was beginning to make me antsy, but I figured it would be smart to fuel up first. So, I cut the second steak and ate, slower this time. I pretended not to notice the sheriff casting dark glances my way. He ate a hamburger and coleslaw, foregoing any fries. That was his loss, as these fries were fantastic.
At last, Debby took my second plate away, putting down my third order of fries. She seemed nervous, giving the sheriff a worried look.
“I’ve never seen anyone eat like that,” the old man with the leather jacket said. He seemed amused, and he struck me as little less scared of the sheriff than everyone else was. “You been in the backcountry for a time?” he asked.
“I have that,” I said.
“You tried to get out, huh?” the old-timer said.
For the second time, the sheriff slapped a meaty hand on the countertop. “That’s enough, Parker.”
“I’m done anyway,” Parker said. The rangy old man slid off his stool, scribbled something illegible on his tag and left in a bow-legged stride.
A few seconds later, a Harley roared into life, and Parker left on a chopper with high handlebars.
I knew it now without a doubt. I’d stumbled into some kind of Twilight Zone. There was something very wrong here. I’m not sure why that should have surprised me. I’d already faced aliens. Why not a place that shouldn’t exist?
I turned to the sheriff, wondering what line to take with him. Before I could decide, the three Unguls approached.
“Do you represent the law here?” the first Ungul asked the sheriff.
The sheriff looked over his shoulder, sat straighter when he saw who addressed him, and swiveled all the way around to regard the three in their expensive business suits.
“What was that, magistrate?” the sheriff asked.
“You wear a badge and carry an open weapon,” the lead Ungul said. “I believe that means you represent the law.”
“I’m a representative of the law,” the sheriff said, as if that was a clarification. “Do you wish to report something?”
“We believe that man has committed a felony,” the Ungul said, pointing at me.
I noticed the Ungul wore gloves. He must have known his gray hands would give him away to ordinary people.
The sheriff glanced at me differently this time. He was deadpan now, his eyes studying and gauging. I’m sure he noticed that I carried a gun under my coat. Finally, he regarded the three again.
“What kind of felony?” the sheriff asked.
“We believe he killed our…companions,” the Ungul said.
“There are more of you?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes,” the Ungul agreed, “there are more.”
“May I ask on what grounds you are pressing charges, magistrate?”
The head Ungul blinked several times. “If he is carrying a small electric disc, that will prove he killed our two friends.”
“I need probable cause to search him,” the sheriff said.
“Can you not ask him to empty his pockets?” the Ungul said.
The sheriff turned to me. “I don’t like strangers coming into my town, bringing their stink here.”
“I don’t have any problems with them,” I said.
“Why don’t you empty your pockets, stranger?” the sheriff said.
“Why don’t they?”
Big Walt slid backward off his stool, his right hand dropping onto the butt of his holstered gun. “Empty your pockets,” he ordered me.
Judging by his face and the stiffness of his stance, I knew he was going to force the issue. I wasn’t sure about the Unguls. I couldn’t figure out their game plan. Maybe they had tried to leave this place, as Parker had suggested, and found it impossible to leave. Now, I wish I had tried.
“Sure, Sheriff,” I said. I emptied my pockets, putting the .38, Rax, my old wallet and a few old tangled pieces of dental floss on the counter.
“There is more,” the chief Ungul told the sheriff.
“Sorry, nope,” I said. “What you see is what I have.”
“Turn around,” the sheriff ordered me.
I obliged, putting my hands on the counter. The sheriff stepped behind me, patting me down, coming up with nothing extra because I’d already emptied my pockets.
“Don’t touch anything on the counter,” he told me. Walt then faced the Unguls. “He doesn’t have this small electric device. What was it supposed to do?”
“It was a call unit,” t
he Ungul said.
“Where are your dead companions?” the sheriff asked.
“Outside town by Observation Hill,” the Ungul said.
“I do not wish to anger you, magistrate,” the sheriff said, “but how do you know that’s what we call the hill?”
“I am not angered,” the Ungul said. “We know because we have interrogated—interviewed several people.”
“Are you staying at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay, magistrate,” the sheriff said. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to contact me. I’m either in the prowl car or in the sheriff’s office.”
The chief Ungul pointed at me. “He is a dangerous ruffian. He is—”
“Magistrate,” the sheriff said, interrupting. “Are you making a second accusation?”
The Ungul regarded me. What did the alien think? Did the sheriff’s deference surprise him? Did the Ungul know what was going on, or was he improvising as I was doing? By some hidden signal, the three of them filed past us without another word, heading outside.
The sheriff watched them go, finally climbing onto his stool as the door swung shut and the bell rang. He put his left hand on my .38, sliding it to his coffee cup and saucer.
“I’m going to hold onto this for a while,” Walt told me.
“Any reason why?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“And you trust those three?”
“They are…different,” the sheriff said. “You, on the other hand, strike me as an obvious vagabond.”
“What’s with the tower?” I asked.
The sheriff blinked several times before he picked up his cup, sipping coffee.
“Did you know those three have rayguns?” I said.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the sheriff said mechanically.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I asked. “Those three just accused me of a felony. They told you I’m trouble. Then you disarmed me and didn’t even check to see if they have weapons. Why are you helping the aliens, Sheriff?”
His head jerked up. Across the counter, Debby gasped, shaking her head.
I glanced at her. She had become pale and had started to tremble.
“Yeah, I said aliens. That’s what they are. They’re not just different. How can you believe that when you’re in some bizarre place cut off from—?”
I must have said too much. Hands reached out, grabbing me from behind. Men and women pinned my arms. At the same time, the sheriff rose, shouting like a madman. Spit foamed at the corners of his mouth.
He began to punch me in the gut harder than anyone had ever hit me. I tried to jerk my arms free to defend myself, but there were too many of them. The sheriff kept pummeling me. I coughed explosively; certain he was breaking bones and rupturing organs. Our eyes met. Despite his apparent rage, he seemed calm, deliberate in what he was doing.
A huge fist headed for my face. That was the last thing I remembered.
-29-
I woke up aching all over, with a puffy upper lip. It was dark outside. I could see stars through a high upper window. In the distance, a coyote howled a lonely cry.
With a groan, I sat up. I was on a cot behind bars. This must be the town jail. It was small, several cells clustered together with a wooden door leading somewhere. A small light shined above the door, the only illumination other than the stars.
My jacket was hanging on the back of a chair in the cell. I felt incredibly lousy, but given my beating, I suppose I should be grateful I could move at all.
If the sheriff had broken bones and ruptured organs, maybe they had already healed, or almost healed. I’d had a gutful of food in my belly, the necessary ingredients for my new and improved body to do its magic.
Then again, maybe I hadn’t fully healed. My stomach hurt as I sat here. My arms felt like lead as I pulled the chair to me and checked the jacket pockets. A feeling of relief swept over me. Rax was still in the inner coat pocket. At least the sheriff hadn’t stolen the crystal.
Why had the sheriff pretended to go crazy? Why had the people held my arms for him?
I fell back onto the cot, making the springs complain. My vision swam and my head was pounding. The sheriff had hit me hard. He was another person stronger than ordinary. Had he undergone the same kind of treatment I had? If I poked around long enough here, would I find men in star uniforms, Neanderthals and various apish hominids frozen in stasis tubes?
As Rax would say, there were definitely incongruities here. The old man in the black biker jacket—Parker—had asked if I’d been trying to get out. That was interesting on several levels. That—
The door hinges creaked. I glanced up and saw someone slowly opening the door.
I almost pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want to face the sheriff right now. Instead, I just watched with my head on the pillow.
The door moved even more slowly as if the person behind it wanted to be as quiet as possible. A foot appeared wearing a white Keds sneaker. The door opened a little more, and a woman crept into the room.
I didn’t recognize her. She was wearing jeans and a Levi’s jacket and had long brunette hair that fell well past her shoulders. She had a Klieg flashlight in one hand, which was presently off, and a ring of keys in her other hand. She was pretty and seemed vaguely familiar, but I had no idea who she could be.
She aimed the flashlight at me and clicked it on, shining the beam on my face. I blinked and shielded my eyes.
“What’s that for?” I asked gruffly.
“You’re alive,” she said, sounding genuinely surprised.
I recognized her voice. It sounded like the waitress, Debby.
I opened my eyes. She aimed the flashlight beam so that it no longer shined on my face, but illuminated my cell more.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she said. “It’s me, Debby. Did the sheriff scramble your brains?”
“Debby is older,” I said, as I studied the woman. This woman couldn’t be older than twenty-five. Debby had been in her upper thirties on her best day.
“I wear a lot of makeup when I work,” she said.
I blinked stupidly. “You wear makeup to make yourself look older?”
“I have to,” she said. “Otherwise, some of the men bother me too much.”
“What are you doing here in the jail?” I asked.
“Can you sit up?”
I pushed myself up, biting my lower lip so I wouldn’t groan.
“What are you?” she said, as she moved closer to the bars.
“A stranger,” I answered.
“That’s not what I mean. I saw the sheriff beat you. I was sure you were dead, or the next thing to dead. But maybe you’re not human and that’s why you can move.”
“I’m human, all right. You know I am.”
She shook her head. “If you were human, you’d be torn up inside. I’ve seen the sheriff beat people to death. He didn’t hold his punches with you. I watched. That’s what he wanted, you know. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to know you couldn’t do anything after this. But he was wrong, it seems. And that’s weird. The sheriff is never wrong. He had to have believed he busted you up or he wouldn’t have left you like this.”
“I heal faster than normal,” I said.
“Real people don’t do things like that,” Debby said.
“What is this place?” I asked, wanting to change the subject. “What is the white tower? What does it do? Why did old Parker ask me if I’d tried to get out?”
Debby grew pale as I asked my questions. She stared at me more intensely than before and bit her lower lip in apparent indecision.
“Why do you heal so fast?” she asked. “I have to know. I have a right to know.”
“Sure,” I said. “I was in a place in Greenland. I underwent an operation there. It changed me.”
She digested that, finally saying, “You look and act human except for your crazy healing. I can see
your confusion, too. You’re like Jeff in that way. The sheriff killed Jeff and buried him out in the desert.”
“What?”
“Listen to me,” Debby said, coming close enough to press against the bars. It seemed as if she’d made a decision. “The sheriff is going to come back soon and take you out into the desert. He’ll probably strangle you and have the deputy bury you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What’s your name?” Debby asked.
“Logan.”
“Logan, you’re a stranger, the kind of stranger the sheriff doesn’t like. He has a nose for those who can fit in and those who can’t. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me when I came, but that doesn’t matter now. He killed Jeff, and he killed Martin Cruz. I was going to run away with Martin. Sometimes, I think the sheriff is toying with me. He doesn’t trust me, but I still work in the tower.”
“What is this place?” I asked.
“If I help you,” she said, “will you help me escape?”
Was she setting me up? “Why did you come to the jail if you thought I was too beat up to do anything?”
“Because I’m afflicted with endless hope,” she said. “I also had to make my play. I’m going crazy here and I don’t want to go back into the tower. I’m afraid I’m going to lose my mind soon. That’s what happens to everyone else. They lose their spirit. They give up inside. Then they’re just a drone until someone newer comes along and takes their place.”
An outside light shined through the upper window. I heard wheels rolling over concrete.
Debby looked up at the window, moaning in dread. “He’s back. I thought he’d be gone longer. He must have found—we have to get out of here, Logan. Do you think you can walk?”
I shoved up from the cot, grabbed my jacket and eased my arms into the sleeves as I tottered to the cell door.
Debby turned the key, swinging the door open. “I’m probably making another mistake. The sheriff might kill me this time. But there’s something different about you. It seems as if you have a plan.”
“That’s me,” I whispered. My gut hurt as I walked. I wasn’t sure how far I could go.
“Come on,” Debby said, grabbing my coat and tugging me toward her. “We have to slip out the back before the sheriff comes in.”
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