Fighting an urgent need to hold his nose, Harrison pointed. "Out the back door and hang a right. It's at the end of the walkway."
Ironhorse disappeared immediately; Harrison called after him, "You know, when this is over, I could really use someone to come in twice a week—"
The back door slammed in response.
He went to the bathroom and threw extra toiletries into the bag: shave cream, toothpaste, shampoo. By
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the time he went back into the bedroom, he realized he had packed everything except the most important stuff, back at the Institute. He sat wearily on the bed and looked around. He wouldn't miss the little house; it was just a place to sleep—but leaving the Institute was going to be rough.
He became consciously aware of the letter in his pocket; it seemed to press against his chest with tangible weight. For an instant he struggled against the impulse to pull it from his pocket and read it . . . then yielded.
He tore it open and shook it so that the key dropped into his hand, then put the key in his pocket and slid the neatly folded page from the envelope.
It took him a second to work up the courage to unfold it, even though the key already told him what he wanted to know.
Harrison—
(No "dear" or anything. Damn, she was mad.)
Am returning your key. Mail me mine. If you
show in person, this time I will call the police.
That was it—not even a signature. Mostly he felt numb, but under the layer of numbness was an undeniable hurt. Impossible to believe that she could really stop loving him—turn it off like the kitchen faucet—because he didn't make enough money. Refused to make enough money. He let the letter drop into his lap and picked up a framed photograph on the nightstand. It was a picture of himself and Char
mugging for the camera at some party or other, Harrison in a tuxedo with his index fingers hooked into the comers of his mouth, pulling it into a wide gaping grin while his tongue hung out; Char selfconsciously photogenic, wearing that tolerant smile of hers. He stared at her, his feelings oddly mixed: he hated her for misleading him, letting him think she loved him for himself.. . and at the same time, he loved her—or, at least, the person he thought she had been—funny, bright, carefree, all the things he pretended to be and knew he could never really bs because of the burden bequeathed him by Clayton and Ms parents.
Clayton, at least, Harrison mused ironically, would be glad to hear about the breakup.
Ironhorse appeared in the doorway again and nodded at the suitcases on the floor. "All set?"
Harrison nodded and set the photo back on the nightstand. "Yeah, but we'll need to stop by the Institute. There are a thousand things there I need—"
"It's taken care of."
"But those things are more important than anything here," Harrison protested. "I need my instru—"
Ironhorse silenced him with a bronze hand. "I said it's all taken care of, Doctor." He crossed the room to pick up the suitcase and one of the bags; on his way out he paused to glance at the photograph of Char. "Pretty lady."
"Yeah," Harrison said dully, sliding the letter back inside the envelope. He was about to put it back into
his pocket but changed his mind and set it down next to the picture.
Where he was going, he wouldn't be needing either of them.
The station wagon threaded its way behind the Bronco, which was packed so full Suzanne couldn't make out the three men inside, only suitcases pressing Norton's chair against the rear windshield. The Bronco kicked up so much dust on the unpaved road, she had the windows rolled up and the vent turned on. In the front seat, Deb leaned against the passenger door, sourly watching the landscape roll by, right elbow on the armrest, cheek against her hand. If she withdrew any further, Suzanne decided, she would fall right out the door.
"All right," Suzanne said calmly, trying to play the rational adult. A real challenge at this point; her eyes were burning with fatigue, and an hour ago, her rumbling stomach communicated to her that in her excitement she had neglected to eat anything that day. "You can stop pouting now, Ms. McCuIlough."
"I'm not pouting," Debi muttered into her hand. "How much longer?"
Suzanne sighed. "I don't know. They didn't tell me. I'm not enjoying this any more than you, Deb."
"Why do we have to move?" Deb whined, sitting up. "They already moved us once—isn't that enough?"
"It's only for a little while." There were times such as this one when Suzanne wished she could explain
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everything to Debi, so she could understand the urgent necessity of her mother's absences, of the second move. Yet at the same time, Suzanne felt relief that the project's secrecy precluded her from telling Deb about the aliens. So young, she thought, glancing over at her daughter's sullen face. She deserves to stay a kid a little while longer.
"Deb, you know this is secret work, like the work I did in Ohio. Except that this project is even more secret... and important." She paused, trying to decide whether or not her next remark would frighten Deb, then went ahead anyway. "We're going to a place because we have to be protected. It's important that no one find out what we're doing."
The girl's eyes brightened a bit. "You mean like foreign spies?"
Feeling triumphant, Suzanne shrugged nonchalantly and kept her eyes on the Bronco. "Something like that. I can't say exactly, of course."
"Ooh, neat." Deb settled back, looking somewhat satisfied. "The Russians are after my mom."
"I didn't say that. And remember, it's top secret."
"You can trust me." Deb scrutinized her mother's face carefully. "So that's why I couldn't stay in school?"
"Mmm," Suzanne said noncommittally. "You'll have a private tutor here."
"That's nice." Deb sighed and nestled her cheek against her hand again. "But I already miss Kim ... and Mrs. Pennyworth." Her blue eyes suddenly began to cloud up.
"It's for the best, chicken," Suzanne soothed.
"Maybe you'll make some new friends where we're going."
Debi turned her face toward the window again. "I hate making new friends."
She rode the rest of the way without speaking.
"How much farther?" Harrison asked as he navigated the Bronco down the uneven dirt road. Much longer, and he'd have to ask Ironhorse to take the wheel before he nodded off.
The colonel leaned forward in the backseat to answer. "We're almost there."
"Thank God. I might make it."
"Amen," Norton echoed next to him in the front seat. "My ass is sure tired of this bumpy road."
Harrison frowned at him. "Quit complaining. You didn't spend the night being chased by aliens. Besides, I thought your ass didn't feel much of anything."
Norton lifted a humorously scornful brow at him. "Typical scientist. Doesn't recognize figurative language when he hears it."
Ironhorse shifted in the backseat, apparently uncomfortable with the direct reference to Norton's handicap. Harrison smiled faintly to himself. Maybe some time around Norton would loosen him up. "I know relocating is an inconvenience," the colonel said, "but it's only short-term . . . until we've neutralized the problem."
Norton glanced over his shoulder at Ironhorse. "I like the way this man talks. In fact, my ass is feeling better already. Harrison, you feeling any better?"
Harrison grinned. As a matter of fact, he was, and
the closer he drew to their destination, the better he felt. He might even risk three or four hours of sleep tonight. "A whole lot better, Norton, thank you for asking." He looked up in the rearview mirror at the colonel's stern but puzzled face. "What makes you think neutralizing—gee, I like that word—the aliens will be that easy, especially after what we saw last night?"
Ironhorse's expression shifted to that of someone who knew he wasn't being taken seriously yet at the same time knew he was right. "You saw what they did to my men, Blackwood. I don't care how many of those things are out there. Without their ships or their weapons, they don't have
a chance. We'll track them down and kill them."
"If you don't mind, I'll just stick with tracking," Norton said softly.
The colonel frowned at him. "If you're not prepared to take this operation seriously, Mr. Drake—"
"Oh, man, I'm serious." Norton's brown eyes widened innocently. "Whatever made you think I wasn't serious? I'm always serious. Harrison, tell the man just how serious I am."
Straight-faced, Harrison said, "When it comes to keeping that unfeeling ass of his safe, Norton is very serious."
"Serious," Norton intoned solemnly, "is my middle name. Norton Serious Drake."
Ironhorse shook his head, disgusted, and raised a muscular arm to point at a barely visible dirt path. "This is it."
Harrison steered the Bronco left onto the path, then
minutes later pulled to a stop before a closed electric gate. "Very impressive. Now what?"
In answer, the colonel removed a small remote control from his shirt pocket and punched a combination into the number pad. The gate swung open. "Welcome to Federal Government Property Number 348, a/k/a The Ranch. Without proper authority no one comes in ..."
Harrison drove the Bronco past the gate, checking in the outside rearview to make sure Suzanne followed. She did, and behind her the gate closed automatically. Ironhorse continued. ". . . And no one gets out."
Harrison blinked, trying to focus his weary eyes. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly hadn't been this. Sprawled out on the rolling grassland lay an honest-to-God ranch: a graciously imposing manorial house, freshly whitewashed, sat in front of wooden stables that opened onto a huge fenced-in corral, complete with horse, which paused in the midst of munching hay to eye the newcomers. Harrison emitted a low whistle. "Not bad."
"It's landed-gentry time," Norton said approvingly. "Seriously speaking, Colonel, I think I could get used to this."
"Oh," Debi breathed worshipfully, her nose and hands pressed against the car window, "you didn't tell me about a horse."
"I didn't know about a horse." Suzanne frowned. She had never been near an animal that size, and wasn't so sure she liked the idea of Deb getting
close to one. She pulled the wagon to a stop behind the Bronco. "Besides, I thought you hated making new friends."
"Oh, Mommm . . ." Deb groaned, meaning: Surely you knew better than to take the remark seriously.
"Be careful," Suzanne warned, but Deb was already out of the car and dashing toward the corral. Deb ran right up to the fence and called out to the handsome chestnut-colored animal, who, much to Suzanne's relief, remained at a respectable distance, studying her warily as he took another mouthful of hay. Satisfied that her daughter was in no imminent danger, Suzanne opened up the back of the station wagon and started to unload luggage.
A familiar voice came from the porch. "Leave those, Suzanne. Tom and the colonel can take care of them for you."
She looked up and gasped. Mrs. Pennyworth stood smiling on the front porch, the usual braid wound around her head, and wearing the usual jeans and Reeboks. She was wiping her hands on a yellow-plaid dish towel as if she'd just come from the kitchen.
"Mrs. Pennyworth! How on earth-—"
The Dutch woman's smile went from welcoming to mysterious. "Ephram said you would be needing someone to tutor Deborah and to cook . . ."
"But you were sitting with Deb only a few hours before we started packing." Come to think of it, Mrs. Pennyworth had been the only baby-sitter on the list Jacobi had given her. No wonder the woman had never questioned Suzanne's constant "emergencies."
"You might say this is my home away from home," the older woman said enigmatically, "so there was no need for me to spend any time packing."
Debi came wandering back, looking frustrated by her inability to establish communications with the horse. "He's awfully shy—" She broke off at the sight of Mrs. Pennyworth and sped like a bullet toward the porch. Her hug was so enthusiastic, Mrs. Pennyworth staggered backward a step. "Mrs. Pennyworth—how did you get here?"
Mrs. Pennyworth hugged back, dish towel in hand. "Well, I explained to your mother's employer that I was good friends with you and so had to come along. Besides, I heard you needed a teacher."
"That's great!" Deb stepped back and gazed wistfully in the direction of the corral. "This place won't be so bad after all."
"And here is Mr. Thomas Kensington." Mrs. Pennyworth gestured at the man approaching from the direction of the stables.
Dressed in riding breeches, suede jacket, and a felt hat, Kensington was gray-haired, lean, and walked with a slight limp. As he joined the group, he nodded unsmilingly at them. "Tom Kensington," he said rather stiffly.
"Thomas is responsible for the maintenance of everything here," Mrs. Pennyworth said. She was apparently the only one not taken aback by the man's cold demeanor. "The house, the grounds .. . and Deborah will be interested to know, the stables. He is the owner of the horse, Spirit."
"Oh, Mr. Kensington." Debi fastened her adoring gaze on him. "Please, could you teach me how to ride?"
Kensington coughed nervously and shrugged. "I think that depends on your mother and Mrs. Pennyworth, young lady."
Suzanne sighed. "If it's all right with everyone else, I suppose it's all right with me."
Mrs. Pennyworth nodded. "So long as you finish your lessons first." She gestured with the dish towel at Harrison and the others as they approached. "Is anyone here hungry? I have a roast with potatoes and carrots in the oven." And at the grateful sounds of appreciation that followed, Mrs. Pennyworth smiled. "Come in, then, so we can all get acquainted."
TWENTY-THREE
By the time Norton finally made it out of his bedroom the next morning, Colonel Ironhorse was waiting for him.
Poker-faced, the burly colonel stared down at him. "You didn't come down to breakfast, Mr. Drake. Frankly, I was beginning to get concerned."
Norton curled his lip sourly at both the realization he'd missed breakfast and the patronizing remark. The colonel was just another typically ignorant non-plege (Norton's own term for anyone who walked on two legs and blithely assumed everyone else did too). Without help, it'd taken Norton a full hour to wash up and get dressed, even though the facilities here were great: a private toilet and shower designed for a paraplegic, just off his bedroom. It was now only nine o'clock; Norton had risen at eight, and after the sleep he'd missed lately, that was pretty damn good, even for a military type.
"Wasn't in the mood for breakfast anyway," Norton snapped. Even Harrison had the good grace not to bother him before he'd had his first cup of coffee. "Did it occur to you I might be tired, Colonel? Excuse me. I'm on my way to a date with a cup of coffee."
"We'll get you some—" Ironhorse began.
"I'll get it myself, thank you," Norton replied rather nastily. This guy was laying on the "help-the-crip" bit just a little too thick this morning. And still wearing his uniform—was he expecting a surprise inspection, maybe? "Gertrude—full speed ahead."
The colonel followed him. "I was going to say, we'll get you some when we get to where we're going. But you're headed in the wrong direction."
"Gertrude, stop," Norton ordered, then scowled up at the colonel. "I thought the kitchen was that way."
"The coffee is this way—toward the elevator."
"Elevator?" Norton's frown deepened. "You're hallucinating, Ironside. This is a one-story hacienda."
"It's Iron horse." The colonel's black eyes regarded him humorlessly. "I was going to show you to your office, Mr. Drake. If you'll come with me, please." The colonel gestured for him to follow.
Norton balked. "I don't need an escort, thanks. I'll find my way around."
"Do you know where the elevator is?"
"Well, no, but. . ."
"I was going to show you your office as a common courtesy," Ironhorse said patiently, "the way I did for Dr. McCullough and Blackwood."
"Oh." Norton became vaguely aware that he might have overreacted. "Well then, let's go."
&nb
sp; But Ironhorse stood staring at him. "And I wanted to be sure you had the equipment you needed. It's my job, after all."
"All right, all right." Norton waved an impatient hand at him. "Just get me to the coffee first."
Ironhorse turned and headed down the hallway.
"Gertrude, full speed ahead." The chair followed the colonel. At the end of the hallway, back by Norton's bedroom, was the elevator.
"Handicapped access." A snideness crept into Norton's tone, one he really hadn't intended. "Very considerate of you. Gertrude—ahead three and rotate one eighty."
The chair carried him into the elevator. The controls were low, easy for him to reach, and he blinked at the three choices: Down, Up and Open Doors. No top floor, so he pressed the Down button, and tried to ignore the fact that Ironhorse was watching him. "Chip on your shoulder, Mr. Drake?"
So there it was. The colonel was just looking for a polite way to get even for the razzing Norton had given him the other day. If Norton and Harrison had anything in common besides their hatred of the aliens, it was their hatred of uptight, regulations-spouting military types, but Norton wasn't prepared to take him on without any caffeine in his system.
"I'm tired." Norton drew a palm down over his forehead, eyes, cheek. "And Harrison will verify that I'm not known for my cheerfulness before my first cup of the day." He paused, then tilted his chin up
defiantly at Ironhorse. "Besides, Colonel Ironass, what's it to you? Bet you have a few chips of your own."
To his astonishment, the colonel didn't take offense. In fact, Norton thought he saw a glint of humor in those inscrutable black eyes. "Just call me Chief and find out," Ironhorse said softly.
Norton looked the Indian's powerful build up and down and swallowed. "No thanks."
The elevator came to a smooth stop; the door opened. Ironhorse stepped out. "As you can see, the elevator directly accesses your office." He turned to glance at Norton. "More consideration."
Norton directed the chair out of the elevator and closed his eyes as he sniffed the air. "My God, I'm having an olfactory hallucination—that's my own private blend of coffee I smell. How did you—" He broke off as he opened his eyes and caught sight of the room around him. A slow smile spread over his face.
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 24
