A third grizzled fellow is behind the counter. He’s got a long beard and is wearing an old trucker hat stained all different colors from dirt, sweat, and motor oil.
“Help you?” he huffs, absorbed in what I can see is a nudie magazine. I place a crumpled twenty on the counter.
“I need about fifteen dollars on pump two, please. I’ll come back for my change.”
The man gives me an unnervingly long look. Is he suspicious? Did I say or do something wrong? Did the cops put out a description of me already?
Finally, the man grunts, snatches up my money, and punches some keys on the antique cash register, the kind that actually dings with a real bell when it opens.
Back outside I go. I unscrew the gas cap, insert the nozzle, squeeze the handle…but nothing happens. I guess the cashier hasn’t turned on the flow yet. I glance back inside. Sure enough, he’s on his cell phone. He looks back at me and holds up a finger as if to say “one second.” I see him flip a switch under the counter. I try the gas pump again and thankfully, the fuel starts to flow.
Under the uncomfortable watch of all three men, I fill up the tank. It comes to just over thirteen dollars. I debate whether I should forget my seven measly bucks and just hop on my bike and burn rubber. Because something about this whole situation just isn’t sitting right. But then I worry that that might look even more suspicious. So I casually saunter back into the store.
“Sure is a nice bike you got there,” the cashier says. I can see he’s holding my change, but he doesn’t give it to me. “Mind if I ask where you got it?”
“Thanks,” I reply. “I’ll be honest. It’s not mine. It’s on loan from, uh…a friend.”
The man nods but still doesn’t hand me my money. “You lost or something?”
“Lost? Not at all. It’s a beautiful night. I’m just out for a ride.”
“Thing is, we don’t usually get too many folks of your type around here.”
I don’t like where this is going. Not one bit.
“What do you mean, my type?” I ask, as innocently as possible.
“You don’t live in the mountains, do you? No, you look to me like some kinda brainiac. Lemme guess. Accountant maybe. Computer whiz.”
I shrug. “You got me. I live in LA. And, um, yeah…I guess you could say I stare at computer screens all day. Could I have my change now, please?”
But still the man doesn’t give it to me.
Now I’m really getting nervous. Even though I’m sure this guy is probably just a lonely dude making conversation, my mind runs through a dozen grim scenarios.
“Why don’t you hang around a minute,” he says. “I’ve got somebody on his way over wants to talk to you.”
Well, shit. Now I know this is bad news. He’s been trying to stall me! Whoever wants to chat, I can guarantee the feeling won’t be mutual.
“Sorry,” I say, turning and heading for the exit. “I’m kind of in a hurry. Keep the change.”
“A hurry?” the man repeats. “I thought you said you were just out for a ride.”
Just keep going, I think. Get out of here, Rob. Get on your bike and go!
So I try to do just that. Without responding, I push open the store’s door, stride over to my Ducati, mount it, and start the engine—
When I see the ominous strobing of a red and blue bubble light.
A Santa Clarita Sheriff’s Department cruiser is pulling in, blocking my escape.
Chapter 20
Not good! This is not good!
I know I haven’t done anything wrong here, but of course I’m not about to speed away with a cop five feet in front of me. But now what?
Just be cool, Rob, I tell myself. And think.
A forty-something officer climbs out of the Chevy Charger, beer belly first. His lip is fat with a wad of chewing tobacco. He strolls over to me, tugging his duty belt higher on his hips, then resting a hand on his sidearm.
“Evening, sir,” he says. “Can I see some ID, please?”
ID? Shit!
If Officer Friendly here runs my license through his system, you better believe it will send up a giant red flag in the FBI’s system, too. Those suits will be on me faster than the speed of light in a vacuum. (Even under stress, I can’t help the nerdy science joke.)
“Of course, sir,” I say, slowly reaching into my back pocket and fishing out my wallet. “Mind if I ask what this is all about?”
“I just like keeping tabs on folks coming and going in this neck of the woods. Make sure the unsavory ones stay out. You understand, don’t you?”
“Well, sure,” I reply. “Except, last I checked, ‘keeping tabs’ doesn’t give you sufficient probable cause to stop someone and ask for identification, does it?”
The deputy’s face hardens. I’m not trying to be a smart-ass here, honest. The last thing I want is to piss this guy off. But I do want him to know that I know my rights, which might just be enough for him to think twice and let me go. Not likely, but…
“Save it for a judge,” the deputy says, spitting a gob of brown tobacco juice on the concrete just inches from my feet. “Am I gonna have to ask you again?”
Hey, it was worth a shot.
“No, sir,” I say as I hold out my license. The officer angrily snatches it away, then waddles back toward his car. If I’m going to make a break for it, it’s now or never.
“Don’t you move a muscle,” he snaps.
And reluctantly, I obey. Instead of running, I just stand there, frozen, watching him through the windshield typing my info into his mobile laptop. I’m trying desperately to maintain my best poker face, even though I can feel my forehead, neck, and underarms all growing damp with sweat.
Meanwhile, watching me are those two guys out front in rocking chairs, along with the third man inside the store. I can tell they’re getting a kind of sick pleasure from this whole scene, which only makes my blood boil hotter.
The cop seems to be taking a terribly long time. His screen is probably flashing a message like NATIONAL SECURITY THREAT! DETAIN! DETAIN! My heart is beating right out of my chest as I imagine the sheer hell that is about to rain down on me. A throng of federal agents swooping in, all armed to the teeth. A black helicopter roaring across the sky. A burlap sack being thrown over my head. Getting hurled into the back of a van and whisked off to a black site for the rest of my life—all because I devoted it to following my dream.
The suspense is killing me! Just get it over with already!
Finally, after what feels like forever, the deputy heaves himself out of his vehicle.
“My apologies for wasting your time, Mr. Barnett,” he says, politely holding out my license.
Wait, what?
“Hal behind the register over there,” he continues, “he’s a buddy of mine. Had two separate holdups in the last four months, so he can be a little jumpy. Thought you looked like one of the suspects, so he called me on my cell. I told him the chances of a bad guy coming back to a place he robbed and actually paying were pretty slim. But that’s what friends are for.”
I take my ID with trembling hands and slide it back in my wallet.
“So…you’re saying…I’m free to go?”
The deputy flashes me a big, dumb grin.
“Unless you’ve got a warrant out for your arrest my computer doesn’t know about. Or you’ve committed some other crime you’d like to confess to.”
I laugh, maybe a little too hard. “No, sir! Thank you, sir. Have a good night, sir.”
The cop gives me a quick wave, then gets back in his car, reverses, and drives off.
Holy shit! I don’t believe it. I just dodged another bullet!
But…how? How is it even possible?
Doesn’t matter. I’ll worry about it later. Like when I’m accepting my Nobel Prize.
I’m not going to push my luck any more. I’m a man on a mission: to decode an alien message! As I tug my helmet back on and gaze up briefly at the beautiful canopy of stars up above, so rich and dazz
ling this far away from the bright lights of LA, I’m reminded of its importance.
I’ve got in my possession the world’s first message from another world.
But what the hell are they trying to tell us?
It’s up to me and me alone to get it to Northrop and find out.
Now.
Chapter 21
According to my trusty paper map, I’m only a few miles away from Tejon Ranch.
So close!
If I were driving on normal city streets, it might only take me a couple minutes to cover that distance. But on this narrow, increasingly winding mountain pass, I’m probably looking at closer to half an hour. Which is fine. I’ve made it this far; I’m definitely not stopping now. I am going to translate that message.
So I keep moving, easing my bike around every sharp curve and blind switchback. The route is feeling increasingly remote and deserted, but I take that as a good sign. After all, if you were building a multibillion-dollar top-secret research facility, wouldn’t you want to place it as far away from civilization as possible?
My lights catch a raccoon scurrying across the road ahead of me, followed by three furry offspring. It’s pitch black out here, and the sky is richer, more beautiful for what it could be hiding.
And then, at last, up ahead…I see it.
Not the ranch itself. I’m still about a quarter of a mile from the perimeter. At least I think I am. Instead, I see some kind of preliminary security checkpoint: a tiny shed with a light on inside and a retractable arm blocking access to the road beyond.
Instinctively I slow down my bike—and start to panic.
This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
John told me to go in through the main gate, that he’d have people there waiting for me, people to escort me inside. He didn’t say anything about an outer gate. True, I took a different route to get here than he suggested, but this is still the only road that leads to the front entrance.
Maybe Northrop added this extra layer of security since John was last at the ranch. That’s the only explanation I can think of. And indeed, as I get closer, I notice that the gatehouse looks prefabricated, almost like a metal toolshed you could buy at Home Depot, and the arm seems rather thin and flimsy, like it was made out of balsa wood. It’s quite possible—I’d even say it’s likely—that this entire checkpoint was put up in the recent past.
Not like that does me any good tonight. So what do I do?
Well, like I said…I didn’t make it this far to stop now.
I consider using one of the burner phones John gave me to call him and ask his advice—and to make sure he really did get in touch with his pals inside the ranch—before I try to get in. But I’m positive the feds have tapped his cell and landline. I’d be giving them my exact location, wrapped up in a bow. That would be a death sentence.
So I guess I’m on my own. Here goes nothing.
I slowly pull my bike up to the gate. A baby-faced rent-a-cop, a kid who looks barely a few years older than my daughters, hastily steps out to intercept me.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asks, affecting as tough a persona as he can muster.
“I sure hope so,” I answer. I flip up my visor and hold out my license. “My name is Robert Barnett. I believe I…have an appointment.”
The security guard levels a suspicious gaze at me.
“An appointment. Here. At nine o’clock at night?”
“Look,” I say, gritting my teeth, “can you just check the visitors log? It’s very, very, very important. Trust me. Please.”
Warily, the guard does so. He scans my ID with the slim digital device he’s holding. I can’t see the screen, but I do see it flash green. I also see the guard’s eyebrows lift in total surprise.
“My mistake, Mr. Barnett. You’re all set. Let me raise the gate for you.”
Ha! John came through for me.
I can barely contain my elation as the guard ducks back into the shed. I lower my visor and rev the throttle, ready to drive onward.
But the gate stays down. And I see the guard latch the door shut behind him.
Then I notice that beneath the door…the grass and weeds growing along the shoulder don’t stop when they reach the shed wall. They keep going underneath it—as if the shed was simply plopped down on the ground very recently.
Oh, shit…
This isn’t an outer-perimeter checkpoint at all.
It’s a fake. A decoy.
This is an ambush.
“FBI! Hands in the air!”
A dozen heavily armed federal agents suddenly spring up from their hiding spots on both sides of the roadway, barking orders and training their rifles right at me.
No, no, no!
I stay frozen, too stunned to speak, too horrified to move. I feel numb. All around me, time seems to slow down.
The next thing I know, I’m tackled and thrown face-first off my bike and onto the rock-hard concrete. Thank God I’m wearing John’s helmet, or my brains would probably be spattered everywhere. I feel it get pulled off and the burner phones ripped from my pockets while my hands are yanked behind my back and cuffed.
“Robert James Barnett, you are being detained under direct order from the secretary of homeland security, for violation of civil code section—”
“Goddamn you guys!” I yell, struggling in vain but as best as I can against my unlawful arrest. “Listen to me! I’m not a security threat…”
I thrust my chin up toward the heavens.
“…but maybe they are! I’m in possession of critical information that the world needs to see. But first, what we need is to understand it. You have to believe me!”
Yet my pleas fall on deaf ears. I’m gruffly hauled to my feet and practically dragged away toward a black tinted-window SUV that is speeding toward us from the direction of the ranch, kicking up a giant dust cloud behind it.
“No, please, please!” I scream as one of the vehicle’s rear doors opens—and I’m tossed inside.
Chapter 22
“Calm down, Mr. Barnett. We’re on the same team.”
The voice—tranquil and soothing—is coming from the front passenger seat.
I look over to see an older man, African American, salt-and-pepper hair, thick horn-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a bland dark suit like the other government agents on either side of me, but he has a refined, almost professorial air about him.
“Same team? Yeah, right. Forgive me for thinking you’re full of shit.”
“Think whatever you want,” the man says. “All we’d like to do is ask you some questions. The more you’re willing to cooperate, the better it will be for everyone.”
I’ve finally caught my breath a bit and have started to calm down like the man commanded. Of course, I’m still absolutely petrified—about who exactly these folks are, where they’re taking me, and what in God’s name is going to happen next.
“You think you’ve got questions?” I exclaim. “I picked up some kind of alien FaceTime message in my freaking living room! And look what happened!”
The man nods. “Yes. That’s one very impressive computer setup you’ve got in there. Seems you’re quite the expert on extraterrestrial communication. Which is why we’re especially glad you’re here now. We’re looking forward to having your help.”
My help? What is this dude talking about?
“Where are we going?” I ask. “At least tell me that.”
Gesturing through the windshield, the agent says: “Look for yourself.”
To my astonishment, we’re not headed for a secret military plane to take me to Guantanamo Bay. Nothing like that at all.
We’re arriving at the Tejon Ranch main gate…which is being opened for us!
We ride along in silence for a few moments through what does indeed look like an old, abandoned military facility. We finally reach a giant rusty hangar. The SUV stops, all the agents exit, then my door opens and they escort me out as well.
“This way, please,” the m
an in the glasses says, as if I really had a choice.
Strangely, inside the hangar is an elevator—a modern one. We step in and the metal doors close. Then we begin to descend, lower and lower…
Until finally we exit into what can only be described as a laboratory of the future.
I’m in total disbelief as I’m escorted down an endless corridor, brightly lit, lined with massive blinking, humming quantum computer terminals that seem to go on in every direction, floor to ceiling, forever.
“My name is Special Agent Stephen McKinley,” the man says as we walk. “I’m assigned to a little-known division of the FBI that handles…unconventional threats.”
“Well, I’m not exactly the most conventional guy myself,” I reply with a smirk. McKinley actually cracks a smile. Trying to piggyback on his goodwill, I say: “Hey, think we could take these cuffs off? I mean, if we’re ‘on the same team’ and all?”
I watch as McKinley gives a subtle okay to one of the other agents escorting us, who unlocks the restraints. Grateful, I rub my wrists as we keep moving.
“My department only became aware of your little research project early this morning,” McKinley explains. “But a number of other federal agents—not to mention some of your fellow scientists at this Northrop research facility—have apparently been monitoring your work for some time.”
Hang on…my “fellow scientists” have been monitoring my work?
I actually have to suppress a little smile of my own. If what McKinley is saying is true, maybe the scientific world doesn’t actually see me as the crackpot they insist I am.
McKinley places his face up to some kind of small lens mounted beside a steel-reinforced door. It bathes his features with a flash of white light—a high-tech facial-recognition scanner. Then it blinks and the door slides open with a hiss.
The House Next Door Page 24
