Alien Crimes

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  Momma and Daddy had brought her in here early, as part of her training in being “normal,” and they explained how banks worked. She used to come with Daddy when he had money to deposit, but Momma didn’t know how to get it when he went away.

  Momma said maybe he got it, but she had that funny sound in her voice, the one that meant she really didn’t believe it. She always sounded sad when she spoke of Daddy, and after a few weeks she stopped speaking of him at all.

  “We can’t go far yet,” the man said softly. “People’ll wonder. They’ll probably wonder why I was here, and not with them.”

  He said that last very very softly. She almost didn’t hear him.

  He hurried to one of the desks near the back and set the box underneath it with one edge sticking out.

  “If you can, stay low,” he said. “It’s safer.”

  She wondered how he knew. Maybe he could tell her what was going on. Because she didn’t know at all.

  Momma had smelled the smoke—they were burning Shantytown, that’s what Momma said. Then Momma grabbed her hand and pulled her to the safe place. She didn’t know where that was either or what would happen there.

  They had run to the middle of the town, right near the fanciest store where Momma liked to look through the windows sometimes, when people caught up to them. Running, just like they were, only the other people’s running was different somehow.

  Momma seemed really scared now. Some of the men smelled of kerosene, and one of them was laughing even though the edges of his hair were burned off.

  Momma pulled and pulled and she was having trouble keeping up and people started looking at them and Momma tried to pick her up but didn’t have the strength and she tried to keep running but she couldn’t—she was getting so tired—and then she tripped and her hand slipped and she couldn’t see Momma and she didn’t know where Momma went or why she hadn’t come back . . .

  Except for the scream.

  She closed her eyes and rolled up into a ball.

  She wanted to forget the scream—and she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.

  NOW

  Jillian started to work in one corner of the hole. Becca took the far end of the basement, using her nose first to see where the smell was the strongest.

  Jillian had contacted the crime scene investigators, asking for everyone, not just the folks on duty, and another detective as well as some officers to handle the interviews. Becca should have done that. But, Jillian was covering for her, getting her off the hook with Chase.

  Both of them knew that Chase was their key. He could set up a lot of roadblocks to the investigation, and he might have already done so. Becca would try to find out by remaining close to him, buddying him, if she could.

  Jillian wasn’t sure that Becca could manipulate him. Hence the request for the second detective.

  Becca wasn’t going to argue with that. She wasn’t going to argue with any of it. Not yet.

  But she did know Chase well enough that if he had committed a crime, he wouldn’t have done it in a way that would jeopardize his entire fortune. He would have covered it up creatively, hidden the body in the desert or taken it to Waloon Lake or maybe all the way to the ocean.

  He was too smart to kill someone and call her. He knew that he could manipulate her, but he also knew that the manipulation didn’t always work.

  She took a breath. Olfactory nerves grew used to smells, but this one—the smell of rot and decay—never completely vanished. You could live with that smell for weeks, and still recognize it, unlike most other odors. It just wouldn’t seem as strong to you as it did to others.

  It was still new to her at the moment. And it wasn’t coming from this part of the basement.

  She walked the perimeter, sniffing the whole way, knowing she would regret this part of the investigation. Strong smells like this remained in the nose and in the memory. She would be able to recall it whenever she wanted.

  As if she would want to.

  After she finished, she walked the perimeter again, careful to use the same tracks.

  Finally, she said, “It’s coming from the hole.”

  “Of course,” Jillian said. She had started in one corner as well.

  When Becca spoke, Jillian leaned back on her knees, resting on her heels. She brushed her hands together, then surveyed the mess before them.

  “This is beyond me,” she said. “I don’t know how to proceed. We’re not trained for a disaster this big. I’m going to have to call in experts.”

  “Experts?” Becca asked.

  “There are people who specialize in dealing with mass graves.” “So this is a graveyard.”

  Jillian looked at her, as if Becca had deliberately misunderstood her.

  “Mass graves. Like the ones they found in Iraq or Bosnia or Nazi Germany.”

  Becca let out a small breath. The air felt thicker than desert air usually did. The odors seemed to be getting worse, not better. “That’s what this is? Some kind of massacre?”

  “I don’t know for sure. That’s why I want experts. You want to protect Chase—”

  Becca started to deny it, but then that was silly. She did want to protect Chase.

  “—but I want to protect Hope.”

  It took her a moment to understand what Jillian had said. “Protect Hope?”

  “How much history do you know, Becca?” Jillian asked.

  “I know enough to know that no large group of people has ever died in Hope. We still have our Chinatown, and we were one of the havens for blacks, even when the state of Oregon constitutionally banned them. We had that in school, Jillian, remember?”

  “You think people talk about massacres?”

  “I think people remember,” Becca said. “I think massacres don’t stay buried forever.”

  Jillian looked at the dirt before her. A snapped femur was only a few inches from her knees.

  “You’re right,” Jillian said. “Nothing stays buried forever.”

  THEN

  “What’s your name?” he asked after a little while.

  The question startled her. The bank had been so quiet, even though she had kept one ear on top and an eye prepared. She could control the ears and the eyes and sometimes the mouth, she still hadn’t got control over anything else. The shivers came less now, but they still came, rippling through her like water.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re still alone.”

  Like that was the problem. Her family tried not to name anything. Names made items rigid.

  Still, her parents had given her a human name, just so everyone had something to call her, and Momma said the name made it easier for her to keep her shape.

  Maybe if she thought about it now ...

  He peered under the desk. “Are you all right?”

  Another shiver ran through her and she couldn’t find her mouth.

  “They’re not back yet.”

  If she had her human form, she’d nod. But she didn’t. Then the mouth popped forward.

  He moved away so fast, he hit his head on the underside of the desk.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You startled me.”

  “Sarah,” she said.

  “Hmm?” He frowned at her.

  “I’m Sarah.”

  “Oh.” He bit his upper lip, pulling it inward. “I’d thought maybe something more unusual.”

  He stopped talking, wiped a hand over his mouth, then smiled.

  “How about a last name?”

  A second name. Momma had explained that, too. The second name described your clan. The first name was just yours, special to you.

  “Jones,” she said.

  “Jones,” he repeated. “Earl Jones’s daughter?”

  Earl was what they decided to first-name Daddy.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Christ.” He wiped his hand over his mouth again, then looked behind him. “I’m Jess Taylor. Your dad may have told you about me.”

  Daddy hadn’t said anything abou
t anybody, at least not to her.

  “Have you seen him lately? Your dad? I have some things for him.”

  Tears filled her eye, then her face—her human face formed on top of her skin.

  Jess Taylor’s expression froze, then he smiled, even though the smile didn’t look real.

  She wanted to wipe the tear from her eye, but she didn’t have hands. One started to form, and she willed it away. She had to stay small.

  “You haven’t seen him, have you?” Jess Taylor said.

  “Not for a long time.”

  Jess nodded. Then he frowned. He slid out from under the desk, and sat up straight. She squinched to the edge of the box. He was looking at the windows, and now that he thought she couldn’t see him, he looked scared.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I think they’re coming back,” he said. “We have to move you. Can you stay quiet?”

  She had stayed quiet until he asked questions. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “Yes.”

  “I’m going to cover the box. Don’t do anything till I come for you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, even though she was supposed to do two things. She was supposed to stay quiet, and she was supposed to hide.

  Maybe when “they” came back, they would bring Momma. Maybe when “they” came back, she could finally go home.

  NOW

  Becca and Jillian used police tape to rope off the natatorium. The crime scene squad could handle the upper floors. Becca saw no point. She knew that the body—the body that was freshly dead—was in that dug-out pool.

  Jillian was in the basement of the nat, laying out a grid to work the scene. She knew that some of the work would come from the local team. Even though she had been on the phone with the state crime lab, she had no idea when the experts would show up.

  The sooner the better, she had told them, but both she and Becca knew that would make no difference. Oregon was a low tax state, and rather than fund important services, Oregon cut them. The lab was now working two years out on important cases, and had no extra people to spare for a mass grave deep in the desert.

  The lab certainly didn’t have the funds to hire an expert. Becca would have to take the money from the police budget or she would have to get the Hopewell County District Attorney to pay for the expert before any charges were filed.

  Jillian’s office certainly didn’t have the money either. She barely had enough funds for an assistant.

  Even though other officers showed up, as well as two more detectives, Becca handled most of the interviews herself. She didn’t want her colleagues scaring off the illegals. She needed them for the investigation.

  Using a mixture of English and her high school Spanish, she managed to interview the work crew. She also learned that several employees had vanished when Chase stopped work and called her; even though he had told them that they’d be safe.

  Of course, no one would give her their names. The handful of employees who’d even mentioned their friends seemed frightened by the slip.

  Even the legal citizens—the ones who had citizenship, and the ones who were born in the United States—insisted on showing her their papers. A number of the men slapped the documents with their hands and said, “Test them. Go see. Everything is in order.” When she finished, she went to her car, got some more bottled water; and took a long drink. Yes, the heat had drained her, as had the bodies and the destruction below, but the fear she’d encountered had stressed her as well.

  People shouldn’t be afraid to answer simple questions. Not in America.

  She sighed, then drank half a bottle. She set the bottle inside, shielded her eyes, and looked at the sun.

  It seemed to have a long way to go before it disappeared behind the mountains. Usually she liked the long days of summer. Today she didn’t.

  “Can I send everyone home now?” Chase asked from behind her.

  “Yeah.” She didn’t turn around. She hated his habit of standing so close that she would have to bump into him if she made any movement at all. “Unfortunately, they’re not going to be able to work here tomorrow.”

  “Or the next day or the next. What’s this about experts?” “Jillian can’t handle the site,” Becca said. “She thinks it’s historical, and if she does something wrong ...”

  He sighed. She knew he understood historical red tape. He had to deal with a lot of it just to get this project off the ground. “What else do you need from me?” he asked.

  I need you to back up a little, she thought. But she said, “I need to see the rest of the buildings. Are any of them locked?”

  “A few,” he said. “Mostly the theater, which is where I’ve been storing supplies, and of course, the hotel.”

  He had stepped into her line of sight, apparently annoyed at the way she had been ignoring him. Since he was no longer so close, she could turn.

  “The hotel?” she asked. “Why the hotel? We all went in it as kids.”

  “And had no idea how much the front desk or the doorknobs were worth. I’ve got a lot of subcontractors here, and it’s a different time.” He ran a hand through his hair. Sweat glistened on some of the strands. “I’m going to lose it all, aren’t I?”

  She felt a pull of empathy. “I don’t know. You will be able to work here again. I’m just not sure when.”

  He gave her a bitter smile. “Yeah.”

  She wanted to ask him if he regretted calling her. She wanted to ask if he was going to blame her for the loss of time.

  But she didn’t. The old Becca would have asked those questions.

  The new Becca had to pretend she didn’t care.

  THEN

  Jess Taylor picked up the box and carried it under his arm. It bumped as he walked. She lost her mouth and one of the eyes as more shivers ran through her.

  She wondered: If she thought of herself as Sarah, would she change into a little human girl?

  She wasn’t willing to try it. Not yet.

  He set her next to a filing cabinet. The grained wood reminded her of her father. He’d turned into an expensive filing cabinet once, just to show her how to change into common business objects.

  For an emergency, he had said. For an emergency.

  Like this one. If she had thought it through, she should have turned into something free-standing like the filing cabinet, not something long and seemingly never-ending, like the sidewalk or the bricks.

  It was different to become a permanent non-breathing object.

  Then she had to cling to it, and somehow sleep. But younglins couldn’t do that. It was a skill they got when they grew older.

  At her age, only a parent could help her make a sleep-change.

  Jess Taylor dropped a towel over the box. The towel smelled of soap and sweat. It filtered the light.

  She closed her remaining eye, and listened as voices filled the bank. Excited voices, male—

  “What the hell were you thinking staying here?”

  “You missed it all.”

  “You should’ve seen it. They didn’t even look human by the end.”

  The voices mingled and tumbled and twisted into jumbles of words. But they didn’t even look human got repeated over and over again.

  They didn’t look human, her people. Not when they were filing cabinets or chairs or wooden sidewalk planks. But they breathed and fought and thought. Wasn’t that enough?

  Daddy had said it would be, that day so long ago:

  We have no choice, he’d said to the assembled. We’re stuck here, and Hope is better than the other cities I’ve seen. We’re isolated. If we can work our way into their minds as laborers, maybe they’ll accept us. They can’t see how we live—we’ll have to live as they do. But after a while, they’ll get used to us. They’ll see how similar we are. We breathe like them, fight like them, think like them. They’ll understand. They’ll accept. Given time.

  Time passed. And nothing changed. They had their own part of town, near the Chinese who also refused
to talk to them.

  And when one of their own got attacked outside of town and couldn’t hold her shape—

  Well, Momma wouldn’t talk about it. And everyone expected Daddy to do something, but he didn’t know what to do. He told Momma that. He didn’t know.

  Then he left. Looking for someplace new, Momma said. But she didn’t believe it anymore. Daddy would have come back long before now. And he hadn’t.

  And Jess Taylor looked sad when he learned her human name. Because of Daddy.

  The voices continued:

  “They scream real pretty though.”

  “One of them even begged.”

  “You shoulda been there.”

  And then Jess Taylor said, “Someone had to watch the bank.” “If I didn’t know better,” said a deep male voice, “I’d check the vault. What a perfect time to take something for yourself.” “Please do, sir;” Jess Taylor said. “You won’t find anything awry.” He sounded funny. Like they’d hurt his feelings. Humans did that to each other sometimes. But they always made up. Never with her people, but with each other.

  Only no one apologized to Jess Taylor. Instead, the conversations changed. Someone walked past her and she heard a dial spin, then something metal click. She swiveled her good eye, but she couldn’t see through that towel Jess Taylor had thrown over her box.

  “Looks fine to me, sir,” said another voice.

  “Double-check,” said the deep voice.

  “I don’t receive credit for staying, do I?” Jess Taylor asked in that low tone he’d used when he called his own people names. “What’s that?” the deep voice asked.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  More clicking. The sound of boots against marble. Low voices, counting and comparing.

  Then deep voice—“Looks like you did well, Taylor.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Just don’t act on your own again, all right? Makes people suspicious. Especially in these times.”

  “Do you think I’m one of them, sir?”