The Night the Heads Came

by William Sleator

  But now I have the implant to show the cops.

  I’m glad Mom is with me at the police station—even though they were skeptical of what Dad said last night, they always take adults more seriously than they do kids. Mom verifies that the yellow object came out of my earlobe, that no doctor ever put it in there, and that in fact there was no scar to indicate the heads had implanted it—even though she saw me pull it out. Their technology is very advanced.

  Captain Kroll doesn’t spend a lot of time questioning the authenticity of the implant. He puts it in an envelope and says it will be sent to the lab for analysis.

  “Please let us know as soon as you find out anything about it—what it’s made of, what’s inside it, anything,” I say. “It’s urgent. The Others have Tim. Who knows what they’re doing to him? We’ve got to find him as soon as possible.”

  “Sure, sure,” Kroll says, sighing and shaking his head.

  “And … you do have somebody following Tim’s father, right?” I ask him. “It’s really important.”

  “No, we don’t,” he says shortly. His good nature seems to be wearing thin.

  It’s an effort to control my impatience. “But he knows where Tim is,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Following him is the way to find Tim before it’s too late.”

  “We have no reason to believe he knows where his son is. We have no reason to believe the boy who … disappeared last night really is Tim.”

  “But all three of us saw The Others … and Tim’s father …” My voice fades. It does sound crazy, here in the police station. I’m not stupid enough to tell him about being abducted myself again last night.

  “Yes?” he says, eyeing me steadily.

  “But now you have the implant,” I say. “And if you find out anything about it that seems to show it doesn’t come from the Earth, then you’ll have to believe us. When you find that out, then will you start following Tim’s father?”

  “We’ll see,” he says. The phone on his desk rings. “I’m kind of busy,” he says.

  “Could you please hurry? Tim’s in danger,” I urge him. We leave as he is answering the phone.

  “A washout,” I say as we walk to the car. “And I thought he was on our side. Doesn’t he realize how much danger Tim is in?”

  “It’s hard to believe, Leo,” Mom says. “I’m still shaken up by it, but for somebody who didn’t actually see it, it’s different.”

  “Well, they’ll see when they analyze that implant,” I say, wondering if I’m right. “I hope it won’t be too late to save Tim.”

  “I’m afraid they won’t let you past the reception desk at Channel Three,” she says when we get into the car.

  “They’ve got to,” I say.

  Channel Three is the local TV station. Tim’s disappearance has been on the news. I’m hoping Tim’s case—and the drawings—might get somebody in the newsroom to listen to me. After all, it’s a story, and from what I can tell, TV stations are always looking for stories.

  I’ve never been inside the building before. Through the glass doors is a receptionist at a desk, who smiles perfunctorily through her mask of makeup, politely not reacting to my bandaged ear. No doubt her major function is to keep people like us from bothering anybody else who works at the station.

  I’m nervous; I know I have to move as fast as possible because of what might be happening to Tim. But I also know I have to act calm and rational, or else nobody will listen to me.

  “We need to talk to somebody in the newsroom,” I say to the receptionist. “It’s important. It’s about the Tim Coleman case—the boy who disappeared three days ago. I was with him when he disappeared. And now we have some special information about him.”

  She hesitates. “Don’t you think the police would be the people to talk to about that?” she says pleasantly.

  “Yes, we’re working with Captain Kroll; we just came from there,” I explain. “And we have some very newsworthy information. Just take a look at this. Maybe you’ll see what I mean.”

  I have the drawing all ready just inside my backpack—the very special drawing that made me feel dizzy and shocked when Tim showed it to me in my room. I hand it to the receptionist. “You’ve got to move it back and forth, tilt it a little to get the right angle. Then it will come into focus.”

  Now she glances a little uncertainly at my ear. But she takes the drawing; she moves it forward and back in front of her eyes. She doesn’t really seem to have a lot to keep her busy on this job.

  I can tell when the picture comes into focus, because suddenly she goes pale under her makeup. She peers forward, frowning. She stares at it for what seems like a full minute. Finally she hands it back to me, looking confused. “Where did you get this?” she asks me. “What does it have to do with the missing boy?”

  “He was abducted by aliens. He drew these pictures while he was with them. They brought him back last night—two years older. And then the other aliens took him away again.”

  “Aliens?” she says, looking back and forth between us. If it weren’t for the drawing, she’d probably have us thrown out right now. And she still might do it anyway.

  I nudge Mom’s foot with my own. “I’m Lenore Kasden. This is my son, Leo,” Mom says. “My husband and I saw the aliens too.”

  “Aliens?” the receptionist says again. But I can tell by the way she looks at Mom that she doesn’t think she’s crazy. “Well, I’ll have to see.” She picks up the phone on her desk and talks to somebody. “Just wait right over there,” she tells us. “Mr. Grunman will be with you shortly.” As we wait, she glances over at us several times, always looking quickly away as soon as we notice. I keep looking at the clock, worrying about Tim.

  A young man comes out and talks to us, obviously not anybody very important. But after he looks at the picture, he takes us out of the reception area, through a heavy door into a corridor of offices. The actual TV studios must be back here somewhere.

  We are taken into the office of somebody more important. This guy is middle-aged and harried, and the phone keeps ringing. But he looks at the picture. At first he goes pale, like everybody else. Then he gets excited. “Okay, start over again,” he says, reaching for his computer keyboard. “Tell me the whole thing, from the beginning.”

  I talk, trying to tell the story concisely while not leaving anything important out. He types very fast. When I’m finished, he says, “Do you think you could loan us this drawing, let us show it on the air? It ought to attract people’s attention. We’ll run the photo of the missing boy again too.”

  This is exactly what I’ve been hoping for; I want as many people as possible to see Tim’s drawing, because the heads said no one must see it. “Sure.” Then another thought strikes me. “I just have to do one thing,” I tell him. “Can I borrow a pen?”

  He hands me a pen, and at the bottom of the drawing, where it won’t hurt the artwork, I draw the letter C with a circle around it and write Copyright Tim Coleman. I do this so that we can sell the drawing. When I’m finished, I say, “I’ve got a more recent picture of Tim. I took it last night. This is what he looks like now. It might be interesting to show the one you already have and this one together.”

  He whistles when he sees the Polaroid of Tim. “You say this happened in two days?” he asks me.

  “Uh-huh. Right, Mom?” I prod her with my foot again.

  “Yes, that’s right; I saw him before and after,” she says firmly. “He … changed that much in two days.”

  The man stands up. “I’ve got to hurry if we’re going to get this on the noon broadcast.” He shakes our hands, then says to me, “You understand, we’re just going to say this is what you believe. We can’t say it’s fact.”

  “Just be sure to mention the part about how I believe Tim’s father is an alien, and show Tim’s drawing and the photos too, if you have time. And be careful how you show the drawing. You know it only works when you look at it from the right angle.”

  “I’ll see what I
can do,” the guy says, and we thank him and leave.

  Dad is gone when we get home, and the phone has been fixed. Mom heads for the coffeepot. I’m too worried about Tim even to sit still. I’m also furious at the cops for not following Tim’s father. That’s obviously the way to find out where The Others are keeping Tim. I would have followed him myself if I’d had the chance.

  But maybe after the newscast they won’t hurt Tim.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It comes at the very end of the news, the least important spot, where they usually have some kind of humorous tidbit. The anchorman tries to make light of this story, but he can’t really carry it off, since he too seems taken aback by the drawing. They keep it really short. They just say I claim Tim drew this picture on an alien ship, that he aged two years in two days, and that he was then taken away again by other aliens. They don’t say I believe that his father is an alien, which is kind of too bad, but I didn’t really expect they would—his father could probably sue them. They show the two photos of Tim, and then—most important—they show his drawing.

  I’m nervous they’ll botch it up somehow and that Tim’s drawing won’t come across. But, amazingly, they get it just right. Even though I’ve looked at it several times and know what to expect, it still shocks me when it appears on the screen. The sudden feeling of depth really comes across, the sensation of physically plunging down into the chasm. And all the awesome complexities of the ruined civilization, the heartbreaking details of the eroded and defoliated landscape, are clear and precise. The hideous creatures cavorting there are the final touch.

  “Kind of makes you wonder if we might be next,” the anchorman says when he’s back on screen.

  That remark never occurred to me, but I’m glad he said it. It might give people the idea the drawing means something.

  I don’t know whether or not the heads can intercept our broadcasts. If they can, they now know that thousands of human beings have seen Tim’s drawing, against their orders. I wonder smugly how they feel about that.

  The phone calls start soon after the news is over. I answer the first half dozen. After that I screen them with the answering machine, only picking up when the call is from a reputable newspaper or magazine. I keep the doors locked and don’t agree to anything yet. I’m waiting for what I hope will be the next development.

  I’m curious about how many phone calls Tim’s father and mother are getting. Just for the heck of it, I dial their number. They have a new message: Tim’s mother saying, “We are not who you are trying to reach. We are not returning any calls.” If I didn’t know what she was like, I’d think I was listening to an artificial voice synthesizer. I start to laugh when I hear it. Then I think about what might be happening to Tim, and the laughter catches in my throat.

  But what I was hoping for happens sooner than I expected: That very evening, Tim’s drawing makes the news on all three major networks, as well as cable. There are more phone calls than ever after that, and now they’re from publications like Time and Newsweek and Life.

  All day, when I’m not on the phone, I’m carefully writing the C with the circle around it and Copyright Tim Coleman on all of his drawings. I’m not planning to release any more of them for free.

  Kroll also phones that night. He’s furious about what I’ve done. “If your goal was to tie our hands so that we couldn’t make a move in this search without attracting attention, you’ve succeeded,” he tells me. “Don’t you know this is exactly the kind of attention that kidnappers crave?”

  “Alien kidnappers too?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Come on, don’t keep stalling,” I say, hardly believing I’m talking to him this way—it’s probably because I’m still angry he didn’t follow Tim’s father when he had the chance. “What did they find out about that implant?”

  “Uh, very peculiar,” he says after a long pause. “They can’t identify any of the materials. It seems to be made of some kind of plastics nobody knows anything about. And the other thing …”

  “Go on,” I prod him.

  “There’s some kind of super micromechanism in it. Too small for anything in our lab to get a picture of. Nobody’s ever seen anything like it. It’s over at the university now, where they have an electron microscope.”

  I get the name of the lab at the university, so I can tell the reporters. “Now do you believe me about the aliens?” I can’t resist asking Kroll.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he says and hangs up.

  I made appointments with the reporters for tomorrow. Some local ones showed up today anyway, but I didn’t let them in. When the doorbell rings at 11:30 P.M., we assume it’s another reporter and ignore it.

  Until Tim’s father starts shouting to be let in again. I can hardly believe this is working out so perfectly.

  I check to make sure there are no shapes outside the windows. Then I open the door an inch, without unfastening the chain, and peer outside. He seems to be alone. As soon as he comes in, I shut and lock the door behind him. “Where’s Tim?” I ask him.

  “Why are you asking me? I’ve got the whole police department out looking for him and—”

  “I’m asking because you brought those creatures here last night to take him away.”

  “You’re imagining things.” Tim’s father speaks slowly, which isn’t like him. “Anyway, why are you cross-examining me? I came here to ask you why you stirred up all this media attention. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I had to wait until now before I could get away from the house without being followed.”

  Mom and Dad are watching and listening, but they don’t say anything.

  Tim’s father looks sick. He’s extremely pale and haggard, with dark rings under his eyes. He even seems to have lost some weight, but it doesn’t look good; the flesh of his face hangs from his bones. I wonder how much of this change in his appearance has to do with being hounded by reporters and how much might have to do with something else.

  “I’ve just got to make sure you don’t stir up any more trouble, Leo,” he says, sounding a little out of breath. “If you have any more of those ridiculous drawings you erroneously claim were made by Tim, you’d better let me have them.”

  “So you can destroy them, right?”

  “So I can make sure they don’t get plastered all over the media and cause even more problems for us.”

  “Sorry. They’re not here.”

  “Sure you’re not lying, Leo? You’re quite a skillful liar, I’ve learned.”

  Where did he get that idea? I never lie.…

  Then it hits me. I just did lie, for the first time I can remember. How did it happen? It came out so naturally.

  I try not to be shaken up by it. After all, this guy is the enemy. He’s been lying all along, a lot worse than I am. “They’re not here,” I say again. I almost add, “And if they were, I wouldn’t give them to you,” but I’m not that stupid.

  “If you have them here, I will use legal action to take them from you. After all, they were made by Tim. He’s a minor. That means they are my legal property. I can have you arrested for—”

  “I thought you said I erroneously claimed they were made by Tim.”

  “Well … uh, maybe I did. But—”

  “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. Go ahead and threaten me. I don’t have them.”

  Tim’s father’s shoulders slump forward. He looks old.

  “Of course, if you bring Tim back, then he might be able to stop them from broadcasting them or printing them in magazines or newspapers,” I say. “But as long as he’s gone, I’ll make sure you can’t turn on the TV or open a magazine without seeing them.”

  “How can I bring Tim back if I don’t know where he is?” his father says, his voice dull. He turns and walks very slowly out the door.

  “I want to follow him,” I whisper the instant the door closes. “Can one of you come with me? We have to hurry. I’ve got to get something first.�
�� I start up the stairs.

  “But why follow him back to his own house?” Dad asks me.

  “Because that’s not where he’s going,” I call back. Up in my room I quickly grab a couple of drawings out of the old backpack and put them in my current backpack. I run downstairs. Dad is waiting for me.

  I don’t turn on the headlights. Luckily, Tim’s father is driving slowly; in the moonlight and the glow of a street-lamp, I can see his car at the end of the block when we pull out of the driveway. I keep about a block behind him. There are hardly any other cars out, and it’s easy to keep him in sight.

  Dad makes a noise of surprise when Tim’s father does not turn onto their street. “You’re right again, Leo,” he says.

  “He’s leading us to Tim—and The Others,” I say quietly.

  We follow him out of town, past the industrial park and the black river that runs beside it. It’s a good thing we have air-conditioning and the windows are closed; the smell is pretty bad around here.

  Tim’s father turns left into the trees, taking the narrow road along the riverbank. We have to be careful now; the road is deserted, and if Tim’s father notices our car, he’ll know he’s being followed. I keep even farther behind him, following his lights in the darkness.

  The lights of his car pull over to the left and blink out.

  “Better if we walk from here,” I say. I slow down to a crawl and park the car on the right shoulder of the road. I switch off the engine. We wait for a few minutes, hoping he will have gone inside whatever building might be there and won’t hear the car doors close. Then we get out of the car and very quietly shut the doors.

  We cross the road and walk about a hundred yards, to where Tim’s father’s car is. We don’t say anything, though we both make gestures to each other of holding our noses and waving our hands in front of our faces. But I can guess why The Others would pick this place for their hideout: It stinks so much that most human beings keep away from here.