“Wait, hold up there. You’re saying you weren’t in contact with him in those following days?”
Livy nodded. “Yes. We didn’t talk to him.”
“So, he didn’t tip you off that we were coming?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “I was shopping at the mall when it all went down.”
Simmons flipped backward in his notes. “Shopping? Judging from the items in the trunk, I’d call it hoarding for the apocalypse.”
“Yeah,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Trey called me from the sheriff’s phone to say they were on their way to pick us up and we needed to leave town in a hurry.”
Simmons hung his head, shaking it in disbelief. Finally, he looked up with a bit of a laugh. “You are one heck of a shopper to get all that . . . stuff in the time it took them to travel six blocks.”
She smiled innocently. “Traffic?”
Simmons considered her words for a moment, then closed up his notepad with a bit of a laugh. “Look, I get that you’re protecting your friends, and I respect that. We’re not trying to build a case here. We just need to know we can trust your story.”
She looked him squarely in the eyes. “You can. And I think you do.”
He nodded, rising from his chair. “I’ll let you know if that changes.” He pointed his empty cup toward her food. “Eat something. And try to get some sleep.”
She wrinkled her nose at the burger. “You might as well take it.”
“Nah,” he said, making his way to the door. “Put it in the ice box. You may change your mind later.”
Trey was torn by whether to stay and take in Livy’s reaction or follow the agent.
Simmons opened the door and stepped outside without looking back.
Trey turned to Livy. She stared blankly through him toward the closed door. He turned away and jumped into the hallway, just in time to see the agent tilt the badge clipped to his jacket toward the security panel. Green words flashed on the display as Simmons poked in a two-digit number. The panel beeped and the door locked with a click that echoed through the hallway.
Simmons strolled away carrying his empty soda cup, and Trey silently trailed along behind him.
The agent passed the hairy man’s door without slowing. At the break room, he turned abruptly to enter the narrow alcove.
Simmons pushed his empty cup into the trash can and turned to face the lit up snack machine.
Trey watched the silver-haired agent stare at rows of candy bars for an odd length of time. “Come on,” Trey said, as if the agent could hear him. “Pick one already.”
Simmons leaned to the machine and pressed his head against the glass. His shoulders drooped as he took a slow deep breath. After several seconds, he placed both hands on the corners of the machine and pushed himself away. Clearly the man struggled with something other than snacks. He rubbed his palm down his face and stroked his chin, where signs of a long day showed in tiny salt-and-pepper whiskers.
Trey tried to cover his own sympathy. “Suck it up, Harold. Haven’t you talked to aliens before?”
Simmons straightened and tugged at his belt.
“There ya go,” said Trey, beginning to enjoy his one way conversations. “Where ya gonna take us next?”
Trey moved aside unnecessarily to let the man pass and marched along behind him in close pursuit.
At the first intersection Harold took a right. Dylan’s room lay somewhere straight ahead, leaving Trey next on the examination list, unless Simmons had other plans.
Before long, Trey’s section of the complex came into view. Light shone beneath many of the doors, a fact Trey had failed to notice his first time through the hallway.
The agent stopped at the door labeled F-7. It was surely Trey’s room, but he had no way of being certain.
Simmons inhaled deeply, then blew out a long stress-busting breath.
The agent leaned toward the security panel and tipped his badge. Trey closely watched the man’s thumb press the code. As if it mattered! Without a body, Trey had no need for codes. With a body, he had no badge.
As Simmons lifted his knuckles to the door, Trey darted into the room ahead of the knock. The crumpled fast-food bag lay near the wastebasket, confirming his location. Pushing forward, he breezed through the closed bedroom door to where his motionless body sat rigid against the wall like a monk in deep meditation, a sight as unsettling as ever.
His projection faded away as he opened his eyes. Unlike waking from a dream, no change in reality jolted him. His explorations had been as real as the gray wall across from where he sat.
He searched his recent memory. Had the door-knock already sounded?
He leapt from the bed certain it had. Not thinking, he smacked face-first into the closed door. Cursing, he found the knob and threw it open.
Simmons stood at the entrance, halfway through the open doorway. Any sympathy Trey had felt for the man withered with the agent’s rude entry.
Simmons appeared to fluster. “I hope I didn’t come at a bad time.”
Trey twitched his stinging nose, covering the redness with a light projection. “No. It’s fine,” he said, stepping to the center of the room. “I was just gonna turn on the TV . . . oh wait,” he said, turning reproachfully toward the blank wall. “I don’t have a TV.”
Simmons stepped inside and closed the door. “Do you want a TV? We can get you a TV.”
Trey eyed the unused electrical outlet and the long strand of coax cable dangling from the wall. “Nah, it just seems like a perfect place to put one, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” said Simmons, scratching his head. “The last time we used this room block we had a jury sequestered for six weeks. I’ll get you a TV.”
Trey waved it off. “Forget it. I probably wouldn’t watch it anyway.”
They stared uncomfortably toward the empty wall for several seconds before Simmons finally snapped his gaze away. “Shall we talk?”
“Sure,” Trey said, opening a hand toward the sofa.
Simmons eyed the two cameras, then motioned to the small table. “How about at the table?”
Trey played cat-and-mouse, approaching the door side of the table with his back to the camera.
“Uh, yeah,” the agent said. “I’d like you over here.”
Trey forced back a grin. “Oh, sure thing.”
Simmons pulled out a chair. “I’m not going to mince words. I’d like you to reveal your face during our chat.”
Trey was a bit surprised. “You mean, natural?”
“Exactly.” Simmons thumbed toward the overhead camera. “If you’re not comfortable with that, I can view in on video later. But it’ll be much easier for me if I can judge your expressions without a mask covering them.”
Trey dropped his projection and let his true-blues shine. “I’m fine if you are.”
Excuse Me
IF AGENT SIMMONS doubted a word Trey told him, he covered it well, scribbling onto his notepad and flipping through its pages. Trey recounted his story at a quick pace, and rarely did the agent slow him down for further clarification.
The further Trey progressed in his misadventures, the more confident he became his words coincided with Livy’s. After considerable time, the silver-haired man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Okay,” he said, interrupting. “Can we pause right there? I drank a large soda before I came in here. Do you mind if I . . .” He pointed toward the bathroom.
Trey shrugged, surprised by the request from out of nowhere.
Simmons rose quickly. “Never mind, I’ll go to one of the other rooms.”
Trey thumbed over his shoulder. “Knock yourself out. It’s no problem.”
“Thanks! I’ll be quick. Remember that thought.”
Simmons vanished into the bathroom with startling urgency. Trey turned to the front entrance, certain the door was unlocked. He huffed in defeat, knowing there was nowhere to go. Outside, a maze of hallways led to locked elevators with security pads. Beyond the walls, a network of
buildings and tall fences surrounded the complex. Outside the gates lay miles of open terrain behind yet more fences.
As slim as it were, his best chance at living a normal life in safety hinged on building trust with the man taking a whiz in the next room.
The toilet flushed and Simmons emerged, drying his hands on paper towels.
Trey leaned back and waited for the agent to settle into the spot across the small table.
“Sorry about the interruption.” Simmons whipped out his notepad and clicked his pen. “As I recall, you said you were thrown from a moving aircraft.”
Trey grunted. “More or less.”
The agent looked up with sharp gray eyes. “Let’s try for more.”
Trey adjusted in his seat. “Gunther took us down as close to the ground as he could get without landing and told us to jump. There was no freakin’ way I was gonna jump. We had to be four stories up and still moving fast on top of that.” Trey rattled his head. “I just thought he was trying to make our deaths look like an accident.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“No,” Trey said, hesitant to continue. “He saved us.”
“Really? How so?”
Trey took a deep breath and continued. “When the elevation changed, the ground rose up and he pushed Livy through the floor hatch. She doesn’t remember it happening, thank goodness, but I can still see her falling through that hole.” He shifted onto his elbows. “That’s when I jumped.”
Simmons looked on with fascination. “Go on.”
“It nearly broke my legs when I hit the ground, but as soon as I could move, I ran to Livy . . . and there she was . . . face up . . . I thought she was dead.”
Trey quietly milled the whole traumatic incident over in his mind in silence.
Simmons prodded for more. “He just left you there? Making it look like you escaped? How’d that work?”
Trey looked up. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“She said she blacked out and that you could finish the rest.”
Trey massaged his temples, then muttered softly. “He blew himself up.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Gunther. He blew up the ship with him and the whole crew in it.”
Simmons cocked a brow. “He crashed it?”
“No,” Trey insisted. “The ship exploded in space. A big ring of light. You watch the news don’t you?”
The agent’s eyes brightened. “Cherry Bomb.”
Trey stared at him indignantly.
“Oh,” Simmons said, “that’s the code name for event M-fifteen dash eleven. Cherry Bomb.”
Trey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that event. The one where Livy’s father sacrificed himself to protect me and his only daughter.”
The man’s face went somber. “My condolences. He was successful, I presume.”
Trey nodded. “Yes. We were free and clear until Captain Deek Jones fouled everything up.”
“Yes! Deek! Tell me how that meeting came about.”
Trey began to worry about the time, but asking agent Simmons would be a dead giveaway if he followed the question with excuses to cut their discussion short. His best guess put him well before his arranged meeting with Arken, but in light of recent turmoil, it wasn’t an appointment he could risk missing.
Still probing his thoughts for an exit strategy, Trey began his saga on Dylan. “We had no clue what we were getting into when we headed to Treasure Bay. We just wanted to have fun before we all got separated this fall.”
Simmons clicked his pen. “You’re saying you had no prior communication with Mister West?”
Trey shook his head firmly. “None whatsoever.”
Simmons appeared satisfied. “Proceed.”
Trey artificially projected a deep gurgled he hoped would emanate from his stomach region. The result was more pronounce than intended, but the effect hit its target. Simmons raised a concerned brow.
Trey shifted in his seat. “Excuse me.” He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “Yeah, so we weren’t at the amusement park long when . . .” He unleashed a softer rumble that somehow countered the first groan.
Trey feigned an embarrassed smile, then continued, “. . . when security started following us around.”
The agent leaned back. “Are you okay there?”
“Sure, this usually passes quickly. I should have known better.”
Simmons cocked his head expectantly.
“Beef intolerance,” Trey explained. “I shouldn’t have ate the burger, but I was starved.” He grimaced, wishing he’d blamed the trauma on the pickles instead. His diet was about to become bleak as a reluctant vegetarian. His sour expression played naturally into his farce. “But . . . that was a big burger.”
The agent’s concern turned to fascination as he scribbled in his notepad. “What about your friends? Do they share your food affliction?”
Trey had no way of knowing Dylan’s eating habits, but Livy made no secrets about her distaste for red meat. Knowing it would likely come back to bite him later, he baited the agent in hope of ending the interview quickly. “You think it could be a genetic thing? I just thought . . . oh, I don’t feel so good.”
Another imaginary gurgle later, Trey rocked in his seat, shooting glances toward the bathroom door. He spoke more swiftly, rushing the story. “The next thing we knew, we were in the security office. Dylan, or Captain Marvel--I mean--whatever his fake name was--”
Agent Simmons raised a hand. “Hold up. Hold up. We can finish this later. He pointed to the lavatory. “Do you need to . . . ? “
“Maybe. Yes.” Trey rose slowly, adding signs of discomfort and an artificial off-gas for good measure. When Simmons didn’t rise to depart, Trey made his way to the bathroom, bent slightly at the waist. He turned back before closing the bedroom door. “Sorry. It could be a while.”
Simmons waved it off. “Take your time.”
Trey pushed the bedroom door closed and raced into the tiny bathroom. He slammed the second door and searched for a non-existent lock. With his ears perked, he listened for the agent to leave. Nothing.
“Great,” he muttered, flipping on the exhaust fan. Quietly, he eased down the toilet lid and sat facing the lockless door.
The setting was odd, no doubt, but nothing to hinder his travels. He pressed his sneakers firmly against the door and closed his eyes. With surprising ease, his vibes carried him off the commode and into the dark bedroom just outside.
The green LED alarm clock confirmed his fear; he was ten minutes late for his appointment with Arken. He could only hope his genuine and always sensible biological father would understand, especially in light of the circumstances.
Trey delayed his meeting further by inching through the walls to check on agent Simmons. As expected, the silver-haired agent sat unmoved at the table, studying his handwritten notes.
Trey willed his presence to his own living room, hundreds of miles away in Longwood.
With no sense of distance nor loss of time, he stood beside his mother’s sofa in near darkness. Thanks to an electronic timer, a small Tiffany lamp illuminated the front picture-window as it had every evening as long as he could remember. In the adjoining kitchen, a tiny bulb beneath the exhaust hood lit up the porcelain gas range.
Trey scanned his dark vacant home. “Arken?”
Desperately, he forced his projected body to glow brightly, hoping Arken would do the same.
The murky living room felt empty beyond belief. He flashed from room to room, calling for Arken until panic took hold. Trey had been late more than once, but Arken was a rock.
He returned to their meeting spot. “Arken, where are you? I’m here. Sorry I’m late. Come back.”
He repeated the final words, slowly. “Come back.”
No, he corrected. Arken hadn’t been there.
Something was wrong. Everything was wrong.
Everything had changed.
His birth parents flooded into his thoughts. Without further cons
ideration, he materialized at the entrance to Bison Back State Park.
Like a bat, he swooped through the tall moonlit trees, weaving in and out of campsites in search of the family mini-van.
After an exhaustive search turned up nothing, he flipped back home. Still no Arken! He snapped to his parent’s bedroom. They hadn’t returned.
Flash! He stood in his own bedroom. No note.
Flash! He stood at the camp office in Bison Back.
He had no way of knowing if his parents had arrived or if they’d already moved on.
A computer monitor in screen-saver mode bounced the park logo across the display. A closed registration book lay on the desk. He dove into the pages as a single point of sight, but making sense of what he saw was like reading a book through an electron microscope.
Standing again, he searched the dimly lit office for something to go on. A dry-erase board listed campsites by number, a name written in black marker beside each. He moved closer. The orange light from high above the building shone through the window to the white-board. Near the bottom of the list, beside site thirty-two, barely legible, a name had been all but erased, Collins.
Trey shot instantly into the camping area, breezing past staked markers that identified each site by number. Tucked within the shadows of a dense pine thicket, he found marker thirty-two. A gold-colored mini-van sat empty, backed into the gravel parking space.
A tent lay flat to the ground with poles spread about, suggesting its owners were in the process of setting it up or taking it down.
Trey peered inside the dark van. Backpacks, sleeping bags, and pillows filled the cargo area to window height. He found everything he expected, except his parents.
His heart raced. He circled the vehicle, unsure what lay on the opposite side.
An open cooler sat abandoned, food and beverages floating in nearly melted ice water. Clearly his parents weren’t out on a hike or socializing with other campers.
A haunting voice called through the trees. “Treyyy.”
He stared into the tall pines, questioning the reality of the trees swaying naturally in the light breeze.
High above, the sky pounded like a drum, sending ripples through the twinkling stars.
Misplaced Trilogy Page 22
