《Zero Point》 1. Exposition kitchen If you happened to fall asleep counting mileposts on a road trip through the southern California desert, theres a good chance you passed through Arroyo Grande and missed it completely. A postage stamp-sized rest stop of a town with a population of just a few thousand permanent residents, during the winters the population grew gray-headed as the snowbirds returned from their northern homes. Nestled comfortably near the middle of the three-mile-long stretch of mediocre roadside amenities, Sanchos Silver Spoons daylight dinners had been popular with returning locals since the seventies, back when everything was burnt orange and Formica tabletops. The decor really hadnt changed much since it opened. It was the perfect spot for motorists headed in either direction to stop if they were afraid that nothing better would come along before the empty desert highway continued. While the owner bragged a culinary pedigree that rivalled the starch coated chefs of any decently situated city, George had long since stopped slicing, dicing, and julienning his homestyle American fare by hand, finding it that much simpler to buy the frozen chicken fried steaks and shredded hashbrowns from distributors in Bakersfield and stack them up in the walk-in freezer. Eggs and beef arrived fresh daily, but the fresh pies served in the case were manufactured on an assembly line, flash frozen, and shipped out to thousands of locations across the country, each claiming some proprietary recipe. Sanchos famous ho-made sausage gravy arrived powdered in a plastic bag and whisked up with a pot of hot water. Every cook who had ever donned an apron in that kitchen had been sworn to secrecy, and with a few chunks of real sausage quick fried and tossed in the gravy tureen, the tourists never suspected a thing. George may have started the Silver Spoon as a passion project, but he was rarely around when someone asked to speak to the owner or manager. Every few months, George and his longtime roommate took off for a cruise, or Hawaii, or to play pai gow at the Vegas tables, just a few hours east, leaving a pair of his aces in his stead. Terrence and Earl werent terribly fond of Georges pet names, but they endured because they didnt have much choice. Georges nephew Earl was hired straight out of prison as a favor, nearly five years prior. He had seniority and some misplaced sense of guilt that had never really been addressed in his rehabilitation. Terrence showed up a few years later, looking to start a new life in the same old town. He had his close calls, but never a serious relapse because everyone in town was quietly expecting one, and he hated to prove them right. The Silver Spoon had been running understaffed for months, owing to a growing national labor shortage. Even after the first pandemic ended, but before the next had yet begun, the aces found themselves trapped on a line that was consistently busy. Hitch just showed up one afternoon a week before George and his buddy Nguyen took off for a two-week cruise. He had a two-page resume and a fetish for stoneware mugs, apparently. He bragged about sauting Michelin stars, as if being a warm body werent the only requirement for a dishwashing and prep position. He kept showing up, and he spoke enough Spanish to communicate with the freshly arrived Guatemalan kid who washed dishes and a didnt much care for Georges nicknames either. Right after the lunch rush ended, but just before the few remaining snowbirds shuffled in for daylight dinners, Georges aces squatted on milk crates around the corner from the entrance, passing a hand rolled joint. And, although most people might consider apple pie and baseball as great American traditions, Terrence was beginning to think it ought to be more like methamphetamines and UFO sightings. She fucking woke me up at three in the morning just to tell me that there was some big-ass string of lights in the sky. "S''mores." Earl said. "What?" Earl took another puff off the joint "S''mores, man. Like chocolate, marshmallow and graham crackers. That shit is more American than pie." "What the hell are you talking about?" Terrence squinted, reaching for the joint. "Think about it. Like, other countries don''t even know what the fuck a s''more is." Terrence nodded, pretending to know what a s''more was, himself. But three in the fucking morning" "You never had a s''more?" Hitch asked, scrolling through his phone. "Like a Moon pie?" Terrence asked, grunting a small, fragrant cloud into the still desert afternoon air. Earl shook his head. "Nah, Moon pies are some cheap mass-produced factory crap, right? Like Twinkies or shit. S''mores you gotta make around the campfire, like toast the marshmallows, put it on the Graham cracker, put the chocolate on it. Man, you ain''t never had a s''more?" Terrence shook his head. "You know I don''t like camping." Camping reminded him of working wildfires while he was in prison. He didn''t much like the smell of woodsmoke anymore. She probably just saw a satellite, Hitch shrugged without looking up. Terrence pushed the joint towards him, coaxing him away from his screen. Hitch glanced up, considering taking a hit. Yeah, alright. No, man, I looked outside, I saw the fucking thing. He grunted out the last puff of smoke. It was fucking big. Hitch nodded like hed seen it himself. Yeah, dude. That billionaire guy launched his internet network, finally. Blew his load into the cosmos. Its like a glowing freight train when it passes over. Earl nodded. Yo, hit that. Hitch took a few puffs, smacking his lips to savor the flavor. He smiled. You guys smoke some good shit. He leaned back and blew the cloud towards the deep blue sky above like an incense offering to the rain gods. Fuck man, this shit is going to put my dick in the dirt. What satellite? Terrence asked. Earl took the joint from the old guy before he started reminiscing about strippers or running weed years ago, or whatever. Hitch ashed his cigarette into the coffee can, shaking his head like a disappointed dad. Man, everybody wants to believe in aliens and shit, hoping that the greys are going to rescue us from another boring news cycle. He took a drag, still holding his cigarette like a joint. But, nothing ever happens, ya know? Were about to get our asses kicked, thats whats about to happen, Earl scrubbed his scruffy beard, watching more cars pull into the lot. Terrence preened the ashes on the last inch of the roach, eyeing how much was left. Bro, you dont believe in aliens? Hitch shrugged. If aliens ever did visit, none of us are going to get shit out of it. No free renewable energy, no world peace, no fucking answers to humanities deepest questions. Real aliens show up and dollars to donuts the trigger-happy ass hats in power are going to try to shoot them down, thinking its Russia or China or some shit. Nah, Terrence sighed, shaking his head. Hitch snorted. Theyre selling little baby AR-15s for kids these days, dude. Little tiny machine guns for toddlers. He took the roach, eyeing the last few puffs. Fucking school shootings are more American than aliens, amphetamines, and even smores, so what do we do? We start arming elementary kids with miniaturized military grade weapons. Shut the fuck up, bro. Terrence laughed. Fucking Google it, dude. They call it the JR-15 Youre so full of shit. Earl watched another car roll into the lot. We are about to get murdered. Hitch puffed a couple times, inhaling deeply and pointing across the lot with the end of the roach. Like these kids right here, dude. A couple of teenagers, regulars for years, walked off the sidewalk and across the lot towards the front of the Silver Spoon. The guy was lanky, in dusty blue jeans and a sweaty, grease-stained T-shirt. The girl looked a couple years younger, in high tops and cut-off shorts. Bacon cheddar burger and a grilled cheese, yellow cheese only. Earl said, tossing his Newport into the can as he urged Terrence and Hitch back into the kitchen. What about them? Terrence asked. Fuck, dude. Hitch offered up the last puff, but they waved it off. If those kids stay in this town for much longer, theyre doomed. Maybe they get lucky. Maybe. He knocks her up, they have a little twat dropping, and where do they end up? Are they a couple? Terrence asked Earl. Earl shrugged. Theyre always together. They end up in section eight housing right next to you two guys, trying to make it on minimum wage. Before you know it, hes all gacked up to work two jobs, shes right behind him because she loves him, and the next thing you know, theyre both doing time for possession, or distribution, or what the fuck ever. Terrence shook his head. Bro, thats cold blooded. Earl rolled his short sleeves up over his shoulders, anticipating the stack of tickets already hanging on the rail inside. Just playing the odds, here, Teaspoon. Dont fucking call me that. Hitch grinned. Im just saying, three out of three recovering addicts sitting here, two out of three fresh from the pen, dude. Those arent great odds. They could get lucky. Terrence said, gazing off across the lot as they reached the front walkway. You never did any time, allegedly. Okay? Its like I said, sometimes being lucky can be like a superpower, ya know? Hitch shook his head. My guru told me that there was no one else out there who could do what I did and get away with it. He tossed the lit roach in his mouth and swallowed it. Did you just eat that thing!? Earl grimaced. He fucking does that every time. Terrence shook his head. Allegedly. Hitch nodded, smiling. Well fuck, Terrence stood and stretched out. Earl pulled his apron off the hook inside the back door. Come on, pops. Ill teach you how to make a grilled cheese. Hitch grumbled. Go fuck yerself, Earl. I sauted Michelin stars. Allegedly! Terrence called again as the Aces strolled in the back door. * * * The Silver Spoon still had a phone booth in the back corner of the dining area. Although the payphone had been removed years earlier, in its place someone had cobbled together a variety of chargers for customers passing through, in need of a quick jolt. The regulars used it as a quiet spot to make phone calls because it blocked out the cacophony of forks and knives on plates, the constant golden oldies station playing, and the clamor of cooks and waitresses calling for an order coming or going from the window. Austin leaned back in the phone booth like a pale phantom tethered to the wall, waiting for his phone to restart. He patted the highway dust off the thighs of his jeans and kept his eye on Jynx. Dusty from the long walk back into town, she sat in their usual booth, waiting for the waitress while Austin charged both of their phones. By the time his phone started up, Jynx sat swirling her straw around in her lemonade, counting up to five practiced swizzles. Austin scrolled to Ashleys number and reluctantly hit the call button; because she was old-fashioned, she said, and she didnt like people begging for rides by text. She answered on the third ring. Stolen novel; please report. Little Miss Ashleys self-help service line, how can I help you help yourself? He already regretted calling. Hey, Ash. Trucks dead. Where are you? The Spoon. They got pie today? Uh Austin leaned out of the phone booth to get a better look at the counter. Yeah, they have pie. That chocolate one with the whip cream? Probably. Say yes, Austin, your ride depends on it. He leaned out again to get a better look. Yes. Order me a slice. Ill be there in a minute. She hung up. Jynx preferred her grilled cheese sandwiches with yellow cheese only. She started them from the bottom corner, working her way along the edges, eating the crust first. She took tiny methodical bites throughout the entire process, and as dainty as it seemed, she would not speak through the first half. Meanwhile, Austin completely disassembled his bacon cheeseburger, slathered the naked patty in every available condiment, and rebuilt it. Jynx started on the top half of her sandwich following the same procedure as the bottom, but she reserved the split in the bread until she had consumed the rest of the crust. She would only start to converse after the complete removal of the crusts. So, what do you think it is? she asked. Austin chomped through a few fries, dipped in a swirled puddle of A-1, Tabasco, and mayonnaise. Probably the alternator. He shrugged and continued to flip through the dog-eared manual. Jynx stopped chewing and stared at him until he looked up. What? he asked. She rolled her eyes. What do you think that thing in the wash is? Austin grumbled and bent down over the manual. I dont know, maybe a wreck. The scrap metal might be worth a few bucks, but more often than not, it was just garbage, and not really worth the effort it took to trek up into the hills. She shook her head. It was too shiny. A glass pack muffler sputtered from the parking lot announcing Ashleys arrival. They watched her lowered black Mustang rolling slow as she stalked the perfect empty spot in a nearly empty lot. Fine. Maybe a mirror. Maybe theres some busted-up furniture out there. I want to go see what it is. Austin nodded, not really paying attention. He just wanted his truck back. To get it started, he was going to need the battery jump box from the shop, and he was fairly certain that Jeremiah was going to be a jerk about it. The bell rang above the front door and Ashley came into the Silver Spoon with her usual flare, waving as if she had just reclaimed her Miss Arroyo Grande title. Despite the fact that the Silver Spoon had a no pet policy, Sir Pugsley pranced along ahead of her, entirely unconcerned. She had waved off the complaints so many times that nobody bothered anymore, and it was generally accepted that Ashley would be accompanied by Sir Pugsley regardless. Sir Pugsley hopped up and took his usual seat beside Jynx as Ashley slid in beside Austin. Jynx dipped a French fry in ketchup and fed it to Sir Pugsley, who snorted his approval. The two of them had been raised together, and there was a distinct possibility that Sir Pugsley regarded Jynx as a sister. Wheres my pie? Ashley scowled. Austin didnt turn his head from the dog-eared manual. I didnt want the whip cream to melt. Theyll bring it out soon. As if by her own magic she had made it appear, Lisa bustled by with Ashleys pie, a couple of napkins, and a fork. How delightful, Ashley said, withdrawing the napkin and setting it gingerly in her lap. Nobody bothered to ask how, but Miss Ashley made her money. She claimed that she was just blessed. Whatever she did, she had a variety of clients in a variety of cities, and she was regularly obliged to travel. As such, Sir Pugsley spent a lot of his time with Austin and Jynx. Ashley regularly announced a new business opportunity and by default, Austin and Jynx were inevitably employed. It was worth a few bucks at least, and it was generally entertaining. Austin flipped to a wiring schematic in the back of his bible. So, whats up with the self-help hotline? What happened to the detective agency? We didnt solve a single case. Jynx paused, ketchup glistening French fry poised a few inches from Sir Pugsleys waiting maw. What about Mrs. Stanley? Everyone knew that Mr. Stanley was cheating on her, and I couldnt take her money to pass along gossip. Thats how I got the idea to start a self-help call center. While I was telling Mrs. Stanley that her husband was a cheating bastard, I realized that I should just give advice. She was my first client. But the triple-A detective agency was such a cool name, Jynx said, dipping another fry in ketchup for Sir Pugsley. Ash shrugged. Its still listed in the phonebook. Nobody uses the phone book anymore, Austin muttered. Ashley cut another forkful of pie and held it poised before her mouth. I happen to think that its classy. She forked the pie into her mouth, chewed it twice, and held her tongue out at Jynx, molten pre-chewed chocolate cream pie dripping from her tongue. Jynx flashed her own tongue and a half-chewed French fry with ketchup. Austin shook his head. Can we just get out of here? Ashley addressed the dog as she cut another piece from her pie. Sir Pugsley, would you please hold all my calls until I have finished my pie? Thank you. Upon hearing his name, Sir Pugsley regarded Ashley with an inquisitive look, snorted a reply, and glanced towards Jynx, awaiting his next French fry. Mr. Ouija was a late model satin black Ford Mustang dropped within six inches of the concrete with mag wheels and expensive racing tires that were quickly going bald. Every logo had been removed except for a single silver cross placed on the fender beside the drivers side door. Ashley claimed that it was a gift and drove it in such a way that she was constantly squealing around sudden turns. The fenders bore a few scrapes and scars that were never satisfactorily explained, and she didnt like people asking about them. She claimed that it was from drift racing, and she had to practice if she ever wanted to go pro. To anyone else in the car, driving with her was a white-knuckled series of near misses and near-death experiences. She had at the very least, given up texting while screeching through the streets. Her visor held a selection of gadgets, radar detectors, navigation screens, and her phone plugged into the speakers, blasting Narco Corridos for no apparent reason. Ashley said it suited the car. Early in the summer, the Highway Patrol was out in full force, awaiting tourists flying too fast through what they felt might be a forgotten desert town. As such, Ashley drove like shed memorized the DMV instruction manual. Windows down and music up a little too loud for conversation, she maintained the perfect speed limit down the highway from the Silver Spoon, even giving a chipper smile and wave to the state trooper tucked in behind the willow tree where the speed limit dropped to 35 mph. Pulling into the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive front lot, she downshifted to let the glass packs growl out as she pulled up to the pumps. A forlorn bell chimed from somewhere inside the repair bays. Late in the afternoon, the Desert Sands lived up to its name. For lack of a decent paint job in decades, the sunbaked and sandblasted sign, fuel bays, and the garage itself was a gypsum dust white, decaying back to the color of the salt flats which stretched out beyond the chain link fenced backlot. Aside from the collection of recently towed wrecks and finished repairs waiting for pick up, the parking lot was empty of customers. The front room was empty, not that there was a full-time clerk to man the cashiers counter; on the weekends, that might have been Austin. When Ashley cut the engine, the faint sound of Mexican music continued from somewhere inside the repair bays, but calling out to the empty lot, low and mournful. A figure emerged from the shadows in the bay, crouching beneath the undercarriage of a burgundy Plymouth Cruiser with Arizona plates. Manny stepped from the shade of the garage out into the late afternoon, squinting up at the sun where it sizzled right over the top of the western hills, baking the scraggly pines. ?Oye! Manny called, ignoring Austin, ?Como estas, flaca? Ashley giggled girlishly and wiggled her fingers at him from the drivers seat. Hey there, Manny! ?Cundo quieres tu vestido de sed? How you flirt, Manny. Ashley giggled again. You kiss Pilar with that mouth? Manny waved her away and chuckled softly. Austin flashed a handful of bills at Manny and hooked a thumb towards the register. Manny nodded and waved him off as well. Jeremiah back there? Austin called. Si, gey. Manny turned towards the open bay, ducking under the back bumper of the Cruiser and vanishing back into the cool shadows of the garage. The bell above the door rang as Austin stepped into the front room. He casually slid in behind the sales counter, dropped his twelve dollars in the register, and punched the few keys to start the pump. Jynx pulled the pump handle and started to gas it up. He glanced around the shelves of parts, most of them fairly generic. Wiper blades, batteries, a selection of oil and antifreeze, and a bin full of various radiator hoses for the most common fixes. On the bottom shelf behind the counter, he rifled through the will-call parts, digging for the terminals and cables hed ordered a week ago. They still hadnt arrived. He pushed out past the counter and made his way to the back. Jeremiah lived in an oxidized thirty-foot Airstream trailer behind the Desert Sands towing and automotive company. Set on concrete blocks in the back corner of the lot, the trailer was abandoned by someone who didnt have the money to pay the towing fees. The trailer might have rusted back to a pile of oxidized tin if String Bean hadnt finally gotten released from the clink. He worked the counter most days, and when they were busy, he worked in one of the bays with the Aguilar brothers, Manuel and Csar. The brothers had been working for the shop for over twenty years. They did a fair amount of business with travelers who broke down on the highway, but most of the customers were locals in for routine maintenance. Oil changes, tire rotations, an occasional windshield ding, and a rush of desperate customers who showed up for new windshield wipers at the start of the first winter rains. Most afternoons, when the sun got to baking the whole town, Manny and Csar would abandon the repair projects and retreat into a case of beer in the shadiest corner of the mechanics bays. Jeremiah tinkered at something until it got to be too uncomfortable to be under the hood of a car. By late afternoon he was generally reclined under the trailer awning, dozing in a dusty, old, cracked leather lazy boy, watching a beat-up flat screen at the corner of his porch. He had a beer going warm in his hand, and with his sunglasses on, it was difficult to tell if he was sleeping until he guessed at a game show trivia question. Austin kicked some gravel as he crossed the lot. Jeremiah raised his beer in salutation. Austin strolled up under the awning and squatted on a milk crate just at the edge of the shade. Whatcha watching? Jeremiah shrugged, slid his sunglasses down his nose an inch and inspected the discolored screen. Fuck if I know. Wheel of Fortune? a cheery commercial played out a familiar ad for an antidepressant, mumbling quickly through potential side effects. Jeremiah reached for his pack of Camel Wides, tapping one from the pack. He placed the filter to his lips and reached for the lighter. Whats on your mind, friend? Austin kicked at the gravel and sand at his feet, smoothing it over the pitted asphalt. I need the jump box. Pat Sajak welcomed everyone back and reintroduced his contestants and scores before he moved on to the next category. Ashley honked the horn out front, but Jeremiah said nothing. Austin cleared his throat. Jeremiahs head lolled over to stare at Austin from behind mirrored aviators. Well, Im not gonna go get it for you. He turned back to the screen as Sajak continued: Our next category is vacation destinations Jeremy swirled the last few gulps of beer around the bottom of the bottle. And grab me a six pack on your way back. Ashley popped the trunk as Austin crossed the lot with the jump box. He set it gingerly in the trunk, careful not to bump the carpeted box that held the obnoxiously large subwoofers. When Ashley started Mr. Ouija and revved the engine, Manny and Csar waved from the mechanics bay, raising their beers. She giggled girlishly and twiddled her fingers at them. Ashley exited the lot at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of her fiberglass ground effects kit. She tapped her fingernails against the leather cover on the steering wheel keeping time to a song that she didnt really understand. As they neared the cul-de-sac that they all grew up on, she side-eyed the house where she was raised, a little one-story Spanish-style stucco ranch house that her uncle had owned. Despite a new paint job, she still shuddered as she passed it and continued down the street to the very end, swinging around to the curb in front of Austins house. She hit the mute button and waited as Austin attempted to thank her for the ride. I appreciate it, he mumbled. Austin, sweetie, you really need to fix that piece of shit. He nodded, sliding out of the front seat, and popping the handle to let Jynx out. Im waiting on parts, he said. Jynx passed Sir Pugsley forward between the seats and Ashley took him into her lap, thrusting out her chin to receive the slobbery licking. Yeah, well, maybe you should stick around town until you can do that. Im not your personal Uber. Austin nodded, slightly embarrassed. Ashley popped the trunk for him so that he could grab the jump box. Jynx pushed past the seat, yanking her backpack behind her. Thanks, Ash. Jynx, honey, it is always a pleasure. We do not spend enough time together. Jynx nodded, bashfully. We should have a little play date sometime, you and me. You need to get away from all these greasy little boys you insist on hanging around with. Jynx rolled her eyes but nodded. Good, settled. Ashley transferred Sir Pugsley over to the passenger seat and checked her reflection in the vanity mirror, puckering her lips slightly and brushing a few locks of blonde hair back from her forehead. Ill come and get you this weekend. Maybe we can find something healthy for lunch and scrape off the stink of motor oil for an afternoon. Jynx shut the passenger door, and as Ashley revved the engine to let the glass pack unwind, Jynx waggled her fingers, mimicking Ashleys flirtatious wave goodbye. Mr. Ouija revved again, Ashley hit the gas, and careening a little too fast down the street, she breezed straight past her uncles house and skidded around the corner on the way out of the neighborhood. Jynx followed Austin as he lugged the jump box towards the side door into the garage. He pulled the little chord to unlock the gate and edged in sideways, past the tattered blue tarp that hid his dirt bike. Your mom working tonight, too? Jynx asked. Austin nodded. He hefted the jump box up onto the workbench in the garage and pulled the dirt bike manual from a shelf above. You are not going to start on that now, she said. It was more of a command than a question. If she left him alone for long, there was a good chance that hed be squatting next to a pile of wrenches in less than an hour, poking at the little two-stroke engine again. Slow, steady, and predictable; thats what she liked about him. Austin glanced out the window above the workbench, the sun hung just above the hills that loomed over the neighborhood. He shrugged. I guess not. Jynx pulled his repair manual from her backpack and tossed it on the workbench. Moms got a double tonight, she said. Probably wont be back until five or six in the morning. Ill text my mom, he said. He pulled the trickle charger out from under the workbench and plugged it in, unwinding the other cable carefully to keep the battery clamps from clacking together and popping a few random sparks. He carried the little charger out to the length of the power cord, just up to the garage side door. Jynx pulled back the tarp and lifted the seat. Austin clamped the red and black clips onto the battery terminals to at least get it charging. Want to see if there are any good movies? she asked. Austin took an old rag from off the tank and started wiping away a little of the alkaline dust, thinking through the few menial steps hed have to take to get the bike road ready again. He shrugged. Yeah, I guess so. He squeezed the tires to check for air pressure. Jynx flipped off the overhead garage light and started out the gate towards her house. I think we got some nacho fixings, she said. Austin trailed behind her, wiping his hands on his jeans. Twenty minutes later he was reclined on the couch with the dirt bike repair manual in his lap, as Jynx pulled tortilla chips from the cupboard and a brick of cheese from the fridge. 2. Italian leather Sgt. OConnor was definitely not supposed to be an administrative assistant, and he knew it. A real administrative assistant would understand how an office landline worked, how many scoops of coffee to put in the coffee pot, or how to load a nice heavyweight beige marble cardstock into a photocopier to print updated copies of a resume. He hit the tray select again and hit print on the awaiting file. The copier clenched out an 11x17 inch edition with only the bottom half of his resume blown to childrens book size, on a sort of glossy paper. He crumpled it and tossed it into the overflowing blue plastic recycling bin beside the copier. Seven years of driving a cruiser around downtown LA before he finally made sergeant, and when he was due for promotion, Martinez approached him about a swank position with a government-funded private investigation firm. That it was only barely recognized as a branch of legitimate federal law enforcement and came with a long list of career-ending black ops caveats hadnt deterred him from the career change. The pay increase was significant and moving to Phoenix seemed like a good idea at the time. To convince his wife, Mary, that it was a good idea, they visited Phoenix to take a tour of the city and the facilities. It happened to be March and the weather was mild. The real estate market was ridiculously cheap compared to the City of Angels, and Mary loved the idea of moving to a quiet suburb with volcanic rock yards and little succulent gardens. After a tour of the city, and a private tour of the new offices, he and Mary returned to the hotel room with a sprawling view of the desert hills. They discussed quickly and excitedly and made love in a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets, watching a thunderstorm roll towards them, loving the sheer majesty of the wide-open spaces and unencumbered vistas. They didnt hear a single police siren or gunshot in the entire three days that they were there. A week later he was in his new office. Two weeks after that, she was directing the Strapping Lads moving company crew on the proper placement of their living room furniture. It was terribly romantic, briefly. The summers in Phoenix werent nearly as pleasant as they had hoped. The first summer, when shed had enough of the 120-degree days, Mary left to spend a few days with her sister, back in Los Angeles. Three years later, Sgt. OConnor was paying half the rent on a beach-adjacent house where Mary would spend the entire summer. He, on the other hand, would spend the entire summer driving six hours back and forth across the hottest, most desolate stretch of highway in the corner pocket of the country, dodging tumbleweeds and jackrabbits in the sticky sunbaked cab of a black Crown Victoria. But hell, he muttered to himself. At least the money is good. An alarm sounded behind the copier and something in its guts made a strained grinding noise. As occupied as he was, he didnt notice the chief pulling into the parking lot. Chief Martinez walked into the offices, greeted by the familiar blast of wind from the blower directly above the front door. Whether it had been installed to keep the hot air from getting in, or just to blow the cold air out, Martinez did not care. Walking from 120 heat through a blast of frigid air was like diving into a winter pool. He had never much liked it, and he liked it less as his hair thinned out. It would undoubtedly be the next piece of equipment that he unplugged. He picked through the unsorted pile of mail on the corner of the front desk, sifting through a collection of coupons, ads, and various catalogs that no one had bothered to cancel when they were laid off. Most of the cameras were shut off when they lost the last of their security detail. The few that still worked were mostly just there so that Martinez could keep his eyes on the staff when he was out of the office. The metal detectors had been shut off for a couple of years because everybody in the place, and just about everyone who had reason to stop by, had a concealed weapon and a permit to carry it. Most of his staff were former LA police officers who had spent years on duty. When the alarm went off, inevitably a few of them would pull their pieces and the resulting standoffs became tiresome. Terrestrial Investigations Group had been a lightly subsidized independent contracting firm until the turn of the century. A few years into the new millennium, their division was scooped up as a second, illegitimate cousin to the newly established Department of Homeland Security. And then there were resources. The early aughts were good for business. The offices abutted a giant warehouse and hangar full of hand-me-downs from Iraq and Afghanistan. The military was tossing away armored transports like plastic solo cups at a patio party. A few dents and dings, a little sand up the wheel wells, but with a flat black paint job, they were exactly what people expected from a black ops extraterrestrial investigation unit. They had an armory that the suckers back at the LA precinct would have creamed their pressed polyester pants for. They had a lightly weaponized Blackhawk helicopter and a highly decorated ex-Army combat pilot, just in case of some sort of high-speed aerial pursuit. There was a fleet of stealth black assets that required a team of mechanics, engineers, and operators so large that they had their own holiday party every year. He hand-picked his investigative team from the best in every department. They were the men in black and they were heavily armed, just in case. If the Marine corps couldnt handle Al Qaeda, Martinez went to work every day feeling fairly certain that he and his team could find Bin Laden, if asked. But that was the early aughts. From down the hall, Martinez heard a few clattering swats from the break room, followed by a few tinny beeps and some low muttering. He found Sergeant OConnor apparently trying to either dry hump or sumo wrestle the office copier. Sergeant? The Sergeant released the machine and froze under the chiefs inquisitive gaze. Its jammed, OConnor said. Martinez blinked at him. Have you tried asking nicely? OConnor shrugged and nodded. I even blew in its ear a few times. Martinez stared blankly at OConnor. Well then, perhaps you should unjam it. If OConnor wasnt an administrative assistant, he damn well wasnt a copy machine technician, either. Looking the chief straight in the eye, he reached out with a flattened palm and swatted the side of the printer again. Martinez hung his head. He set the small stack of mail on the empty desk beside him, walked over to the printer, and popping the latch on the face of the machine, opened a small plastic door to the inner workings. OConnor watched his commanding officer reach into the machine, and with a quick tug, he yanked OConnors freshly printed resume from the workings. Martinez closed the hatch and pressed a few buttons on the touch screen. A green light blinked at the ready. There. OConnor watched the page in the Chiefs hand. It was only slightly crumpled, but the chief hadnt looked at it yet. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Martinez rubbed the bridge of his nose, his thick glasses bouncing against his knuckles. Try to act like you work here, OConnor. Nobody else does. He glanced around at the empty desks. Its an elite division, Sergeant; not a flock of migrating penguins. We used to have a girl at the front desk. We used to have an air-conditioned Stryker command vehicle with satellite uplinks and a .50 cal gun on top. The chief crumpled the page without glancing at it and tossed it towards the growing pile of crumpled wads spilling over the floor. Which of those two do you think I miss more? Relieved that the chief hadnt bothered to read it, OConnor watched the only decent copy yet tumble down to the floor. He absentmindedly rested his wrist on the handle of his Desert Eagle and pouted like a toddler protesting bedtime. I had the highest conviction record in my precinct, Chief. He didnt have to wear his sidearm, but he liked it. He still liked having a badge. He still liked his Crown Vic. He was still a law enforcement officer, sort of. Im not a secretary, he whined. Martinez pulled a mug from the dish rack, sniffed at it, and set it on the counter. You know who has the best conviction record in your precinct now, OConnor? He emptied a little packet of Irish cream into the mug and tossed the little green plastic cup into the trash. Sweeney. Sweeney!? Hes a glorified meter maid! Hes got good numbers and a great record. Martinez sniffed the coffee pot for freshness. Your old commissioner wont let me have him yet, but he isnt ignoring my calls, either. Sweeney? O''Connor''s voice rose an octave, almost pleading. Martinez shrugged. At least hed tuck his shirt in. OConnor glanced down at the untucked portion of his polo shirt. Dress codes might be lax compared to the precinct, but in the past year, theyd slipped further. The days of crisp black suits were long gone. In the heat of the Arizona desert, most of the agents were happy to shift to chinos and polo shirts. He glanced back at the puddle of crumpled pages littering the floor and started tucking in his shirt. Martinez regarded the slipping sergeant with a blend of frustration and pity. Get back to work, OConnor. OConnor shuffled out of the breakroom and back to his office, gritting his teeth at the possibility that he might have to work with that smug East coast transplant, Sweeney. He was a traffic cop, a speed trap in starched short sleeves. Getting a conviction on a speeding ticket in Southern California was as easy as pulling onto the freeway at the right hour, provided you wanted to do all that paperwork. He slid into his high-backed Italian leather ergonomic desk chair, listening to the gentle hiss of the hydraulics as it nestled softly to a comfortable position. He pressed the massage power button and adjusted it a little higher. New cases, Chief. OConnor hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a fresh stack of bankers boxes beside the front desk. The boxes which had arrived sporadically for over a decade were ostensibly a collection of case files containing eyewitness accounts, official government briefs, any corroborating evidence, as well as the first draft of an official government statement. They were to be reviewed, researched, amended, altered, filed, or lost, if necessary. As the years wore on and as the staff thinned out it became fairly evident that the accounts were often gibberish field reports written by a beat cop with a high school education, the briefs and evidence were redacted beyond readability, and the government statement was one of three standardized form letters. The case was sent to their division as an efficient way to be both filed and lost. The shelves in storage were already full. As such, a few of the unused back offices had become cold case boneyards with little organization. Without a significant clerical staff to process the files, the current action plan seemed to be to keep filling empty offices. If the Russians or the Chinese ever showed up, the last agent out had to throw a match in there. In Chief Martinezs opinion, the golden years ended shortly after Obama got elected. Ground troops were replaced with drone strikes and surplus personnel supplies dried up. There was still funding, but the Police departments started picking up the pentagons hand-me-downs. The budgets shifted like desert sands, and the DHS eased back on funding a covert division of tinfoil hats with predictably little congressional outcry. It helped that no one knew that the division existed. It was a hell of a lot easier to defund the men in black than it was to defund the Pentagons darlings. The fact that during the previous decade there had been little call for any of the amassed military assets didnt help their case. Division reviews and audits consistently demonstrated departmental waste. Captain McGoohan was spending fuel and ammo taking the Blackhawk out on drunken coyote target practice in remote sections of the Arizona desert. When asked to justify the expenditure, Cpt. McGoohan shrugged and said: Night vision targeting system testing. While the auditing panel was satisfied with that answer, they were not as impressed when he answered: For my fragile post-war mental health, to questions about the leather couch, mini fridge and margarita slushy machine on another requisition invoice. When the chief asked him privately, Cpt. McGoohan responded flatly: If we dont spend it, theyll stop sending it. It was an unfortunate fact that the chief could not argue. After Bin Laden got himself killed, the belt tightened further, and the staff cuts started. Martinez grabbed his mail off the desk as he meandered down the hall, glancing through the few envelopes in his hand, careful not to spill his coffee, but confident that none of the envelopes were terribly important. He flipped through his keys, trying to balance his load when OConnor rolled back out of his office. Oh, Chief, OConnor leaned back in his high-backed leather desk chair. Some official docs and a package arrived for ya. He smiled defiantly and disappeared back into his office. OConnor had been such a promising recruit. Top honors. He was the best that the LAPD had to offer; or, at the very least, he was the best that the commissioner was willing to lose. Empty the recycling bin, OConnor. The chief glanced at the collection of envelopes in his hand and turned back down the hall. OConnor didnt even bother to lean back and look out. Im not a janitor, either, Chief, he called. The chief stopped again. Then try emailing your resume and quit wasting my printer ink. Satisfied with the resulting silence he continued to his sanctuary. The chief kept his private office just a few degrees cooler than the rest of the offices. If they insisted upon opening his door every five minutes, for every little detail, he could afford to keep his own room at a frosty 65 degrees. With the blinds drawn to avoid the late afternoon sun his office was sacrosanct, his private space. Stepping from the hall into his office was less like diving into a pool and more like slowly wading into a lake, a gentle transition to a comfortable temperature. As he turned the corner, he found his door propped open a few inches and the lights on inside. He pushed gently and the door swung wide. Just inside the door, a beach ball-sized lump of charred and twisted rock sat on a tiny pallet in the middle of his office, resting in the crumpled cellophane nest of the clear plastic stretch wrap that it had arrived in, but had since been peeled away and left there. OConnor? The sergeant rolled his chair back into the hall again. Martinez gestured towards the new decorative rock feature. Its a meteorite, OConnor shrugged. I get that. He looked it over. Why is it in my office? OConnor hopped up and hustled over, pushing past the chief to point out a spot on the top of the ball, somewhere near where Iceland should be on a globe. There are teeth in it, Chief. Human teeth. On a closer inspection, Martinez could definitely see three human molars, slightly singed, embedded in the rock and metal. In a meteorite? He poked at the charred bit of ceramic, like an archipelago of porcelain falsies, embedded in a hunk of supercooled molten metal alloy that fell from space to earth a few miles outside of Tucson, Arizona just a few days ago. How in the hell? Beats me, sir. He shrugged. Top file is metallurgical composition and lab reports; file underneath is eye-witness testimony. He pulled the bottom file and flipped it open. Blew a little business park to bits. Check out the crater pics. He nodded, smiling brightly. Martinez glanced down at the file on his desk, clearly stamped Top Secret and looked up at OConnor. The sergeant shrugged. Nobody sends real Top-Secret files through FedEx. 3. Scrappers The midmorning sun was a merciless white hole, already baking the side yard where Jynx squatted on a milk crate. She held the knobby rear tire of Austins little enduro motorcycle steady as he settled a spark plug into place. She peered through the slats in the fence at Mr. Englehorns latest backyard aviation experiment. What do you think hes building back there? she asked. The ratcheting of the torque wrench slowed as Austin finished tightening the spark plug. He pushed the terminal back onto the exposed contact, wiggling it to make sure that it was seated properly. I dunno. A patio of some sort. He was already sweating through his t-shirt and wiped his upper lip on the back of his wrist. Out of old pallets? Jynx swirled her lemonade with the straw exactly five times before taking a sip, still peering through the fence. They were either pallets or one of those folding futon bed frames that only looked like pallets. What kind of patio has eyebolts in every corner? Austin shrugged without looking. The kind that needs to be tied down. He was right. Each corner of the platform was solidly tied down to steel stakes hammered down into the lawn. It was as if the old guy expected a particularly heavy gust of wind to carry the strange patio off into the canyon at the end of the cul-de-sac. Jynx stood on her toes to look over the fence. Do you think hes going senile? Austin tightened the clamp that bolted the milk crate bracket to the rear fender of the motorcycle. Hes not that old yet. He stood up and dusted off his coveralls. Maybe its a platform for one of his rocket experiments. Jynx shook her head and scowled at the platform. He hasnt tried anything like that for a while. Because we quit chasing them, Austin muttered. A few summers earlier they were getting paid five dollars a parachute to collect the third stage payloads and return them to Mr. Englehorn. During the day they chased them on bicycles, watching the fluorescent canopies descend into the sparse shrubs at the edge of the desert. They raced each other through the canyon, under the highway, and out across the edge of the salt flats. It was more fun at night, following the blinking red beacons as they drifted out of the sky. She shrugged. Five bucks just isnt what it used to be. Austin hoisted the jump box into the milk crate and bungeed it down. Alright, he kicked the stand up. She pulled a scuffed purple off-road helmet from a shelf just inside the garage door, slurped down the last of her lemonade, and left the glass of melting ice in the helmets place. Austin backed the bike out onto the sunburnt front lawn and pulled his own red ping pong ball helmet on. She buckled her helmet and tucked her index fingers under the edge to plug her ears. The bike didnt kick over on the first shot but sputtered to life on the second kick and idled a little unsteadily. Austin twisted the throttle a couple of times, letting it ring out. The pipe billowed white smoke, clearing the cylinders of the oil he had just drizzled in. Jynx held her breath. He took his hand from the throttle. It leveled off and idled steadily. He shrugged at Jynx. She shrugged, stepped onto the back peg, and swung herself up behind him. She balled her fists into the denim of his coveralls, anticipating the heavy hop when he let the clutch go. The Pony was loud and Jynx didnt like that, but once they got up to speed the sound of the wind through her helmet dulled the high-pitched rattling of the little 250 two-stroke. She clung to Austins back as they wove through the neighborhood. The battery jump box added extra weight; the front wheel hopped a little at each gear. But once they were up to speed, she let go of Austin and leaned back against the milkcrate, letting the hot wind hit her in the chest. Austin sat taller and held up an OK? sign over his shoulder. She patted his helmet. He rolled on a little extra throttle. Austin bought the bike right after he got his learners permit and during the time that Jynx was going through her My Little Pony phase. The tough guy sticker collection had ten full pages which were nearly entirely devoted to a complete collection of the little pastel ponies. Duplicates of stickers in the collection inevitably found their way to the backs of fence posts, garage walls, a few street signs, and inevitably, the gas tank and plastic front cowl of Austins dirt bike. He fought against the ponyfication'' of his bike, peeling them off just after she had placed them. Discovering that they were nearly impossible to remove after they had baked in the sun for a few hours, she took to sneaking back to the student parking lot and planting them on the bike while Austin was in class. Jeremiah named it the Pony, and the name stuck even after the sun had faded back the pastels, and the sand had blasted off most of the images. Austin practically traded out his training wheels for rear foot pegs when he got his first bicycle. When he bought the Pony, he brought it home with a nice dirt biking helmet, but he always made Jynx wear it. Only recently had he decided that she should get her own damn bike because it was dangerous, and he didnt like taking responsibility for her safety. She knew that this was something that hed heard Jeremiah say and he was just repeating it because it made him feel like a badass. The interstate was empty and straightened out past the wash. Austin put on a little more speed, gently swaying back and forth across the lane. Jynx watched the arroyos, hoping to see that rainbow glimmer in the hills. She reached under his arm and waved to get him to slow down. He shook his head. She pinched his side. He swerved slightly and eased off the throttle. He dropped a gear, and she stood up on her foot pegs, clinging to the shoulder epaulets of his coveralls like reins. He stared off into the wash, not entirely sure what she was looking for; the opalescent sheen she had seen glimmering in the alluvial wash just the day before. Austin may not have seen it, but she was sure that she had. When she thought she recognized a familiar collection of boulders up the hill, she hopped and pointed off into the arroyo ahead. He reached back to pat her leg to get her to sit down. Veering off the highway into the next turn out they cut across to an old dirt road that ran up into the wash. The road was old but hadnt seen much use. It wasnt the washboard gravel of a regularly maintained county road but riddled with potholes full of superfine sand which only appeared passable. With the added weight on the back, the Pony landed hard and dug deeper to escape the alkaline dust so fine that it was fluid. Jynx rode well, keeping over his shoulder as he carved along the twists and meandering along the stream beds up towards the hills. She kept a solid grip on Austins shoulders as they fishtailed up the ravine, shimmying around occasional boulders in the wash. He slowed as the road worsened, thin tracks of dry streambed cutting across their path. The Pony reared up and hopped at every clutch pop as the wash got steep. Jynx leaned into Austin, making herself small against his back. The Pony hit a spot of sand, kicking up a dusty rooster tail of grit behind them. The little two-stroke fought, loud and high-pitched. Jynx reached up and knocked on his helmet. He nodded, kicked the bike to neutral, and hit the kill switch. She jumped off the back, leaning against a boulder as she tugged at the helmet straps. Austin leaned the bike against the boulder and pulled off his own helmet. Were close enough, she said. He nodded, glancing up the ravine towards a few impassable spots further up. She hung her helmet off the taillight and shook her short auburn hair out, passing the back of her hand across her forehead to wipe away the helmet sweat. We can walk from here. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. Austin glanced up the ravine again. How do you know where it is? Jynx pulled her little pink backpack out of the milk crate. She pointed at the top of the hills as if that were an explanation and started up the shallow ravine. She hopped from boulder to boulder, moving with years of practice on the rain-rounded rocks. Besides being an easier way to travel, she also avoided the possibility of snakes which might be tucked under the stones below, and right at ankle-biting level. She had a good fifty-yard head start on Austin, navigating toward the source of the glimmer. The sun smothered the western hills in a bright, dry heat, but a light late morning breeze dried the sweat on her shoulders. She squinted up the wash and licked her upper lip, tasting salt. The dry breeze seemed to pull away the sound. Glancing back over her shoulder she spotted Austin further down, clambering over a rock. He had the top of his coveralls down, long sleeves tied around his waist, a canteen tucked into the folds that hung like a fanny pack at the small of his back. He paused, watching her. In the faded blue denim and sweat-stained white V-neck, he was a tiny, thin wisp of humanity in the ubiquitous dust and rock. At least he was easy to spot. From this height, the sound of sparse tourist traffic on the state highway faded away. All they heard was the occasional growl of an eighteen-wheeler hitting the compression brakes to drop their speed for the slow crawl through town. Her pink backpack bounced ahead of him, miniaturized by the sheer geologic mass of stone that they continued to climb. Austin clambered over the last few boulders to find a smooth concave scar sliding up the hill a dozen yards to where she knelt, digging at something that jutted out of the hillside. He pulled his canteen from his hip, took a few quick gulps, and wiped the sweat away from his eyebrows again. Whatever it was, it had been there long enough that there were a couple of feet of sand, gravel, and dust on it. To gather that much hardpan, it had spent a few years buried. There hadnt been rain in months, so the last big winter storm must have uncovered it. Jutting out of the erosion, it was unlike anything that Austin had ever seen. It was curved metal, not twisted or bent, but just gently curved like the tip of a bloated airplane wing. It might be the hood of a car, but it had no trim, and most of the old car hoods hed seen in the wash rusted out pretty quickly in the alkaline dust. It would have been hard to get a car that far up the hill, anyway. Austin poured a little water over the metal and used the sleeve of his coverall to wipe it clean. The metal gleamed. Even aluminum should show heavy oxidation, a sort of white chalky coat that should take the sheen off, but the metal polished clean with a quick wipe. He didnt understand it, but there was a good chance that Jeremiah would. Jynx wasnt really worried about what kind of metal it was, so long as it wasnt another refrigerator. She scrambled around it, kicking at the dust on top, crumbling off chunks of the weather-packed dirt, crawling underneath with a hunk of rock, chiseling away the compacted mud in a futile search for the edge. She wanted to know how big it was, if it could be pulled out of the hillside. She collected a thin patina of dust all over her hands and arms, clawing to free her find. She was right. It was definitely something. Austin poured a little water over it again, giving it another wipe with the dangling sleeve of his coveralls, to reveal another swath of smooth, clean metal. It didnt make any sense. Zinc might withstand corrosion for a while, but zinc should be shinier, more like chrome. This thing, whatever it was, had a sort of opalescent sheen to it. It was a metal that looked slightly more like the inside of a seashell. He took a step back, staring at the clean spots. Jeremiah would know. He paced back a little way, climbing up a boulder to get a look at the hillside. From where the thing rested, he could see a sort of gouge, an old scar from when it hit the hill, washed and smoothed out by the weather. The thing had been there for a while. The scar was old, and probably decent proof that the thing had come out of the sky. Arroyo Grande was surrounded by military bases and airfields. They used parts of 29 palms for missile practice, and Edwards Air Force base was just a few ridges over to the east. It could be part of a wreck or a discarded external fuel tank. Almost everyone in Arroyo Grande had gotten used to seeing some strange airplanes flying over the valley. Just over a few low boulders, Austin found a smooth stretch of wash that seemed to run most of the way down the hill. He might be able to back his truck up fairly close, but he would probably need a winch of some sort to get it over the boulders. Looking at the smooth surface of the thing, there wouldnt be much to tie down to. He was still going to have to finish digging it out before he could get a strap around it, and it was anybodys guess how much it weighed. Austin crouched on a rock, eyeing the smooth track all the way down to where it split off from a side road. He was fairly certain he could make it. Austin! Jynx hollered from somewhere under her discovery, check this out! She popped up from underneath the thing, now entirely coated in a layer of superfine alkaline dust. Her features were monochromatic off-white except for the raccoon mask around her eyes as she pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead. Dude, youre filthy. Whatever. Get over here. She ducked down under the thing again. He heard the rhythmic crunch of rock against the compacted dirt as she continued to chisel away under the hunk of metal. She burrowed far enough into the dirt beneath that she was nothing but a scrawny, dusty butt in cutoff denim shorts and a pair of dusty high-top sneakers wriggling under the smooth curve of metal. What is it? he asked. Theres a hole in this thing, she called. Her voice reverberated, echoing empty and tinny. It was hollow, at least, so maybe it wasnt too heavy. There were a few more crunches and then he watched her rear end wiggle and disappear. Its a big hole! her voice rang from inside the hunk of metal. Jynx, stay out of there. He crouched down and stood behind her, not sure if he should grab her ankles and yank her out. She was definitely the only one small enough to get into the tunnel that she had burrowed. He watched her wriggle out of her backpack, and struggle to get her phone out of her back pocket. Just watching her, her dusty, popsicle stick legs sticking out of the little tunnel, he felt claustrophobic and remembered a couple of kids years ago who had gotten trapped in an abandoned opal mine collapse somewhere out in the Mojave. Get out of there. Its huge! Her voice rang through again. Jynx! He reached for an ankle. If she got trapped, it would be hard to get anyone up the hill to rescue her. Hold on, she called. I think I found something. The something clunked, ringing through the metal. Jynx grunted as she rolled onto her back. Echoing back from inside the thing Austin heard a strange echoing, guttural sound, her high tops kicking as she skootched out on her butt. He heard the clunking again. Whatever she found she was dragging it with her. She grunted and wriggled out of the tunnel. When her face finally appeared, dry and dusty as she was, she was grinning. Check it out! she wriggled further to free her arms and passed him an old, antique flashlight and a loose plate of the same strange metal. It was about the size of a terra cotta roofing tile but smooth, rounded, curved, and all soft edges. It was surprisingly light. Austin set the flashlight and the metal scrap on a boulder beside him, and reached for Jynx, still making her way out. She sat up, inspecting the back of her arm where a smear of blood trickled down towards her elbow, Dammit. Your mom is going to kill me, he said. Its just a scratch. She wiped her palms on her shorts, glancing over her dusty forearms. The blood turned dark, mixing with the dust. Thats more than a scratch. He glanced around, looking for something to put on it. What did you cut yourself on? Jynx looked at the cut, somehow entirely dissociated from the gash or the blood. She shrugged. The inside of the hole is all jagged. She pulled her phone from the gravel beside her, and still sitting in the dirt, swiped through a few photos. Austin imagined infections, tetanus, flesh-eating bacteria that would kill her before they made it down the hill. He pulled the cap from his canteen and took her arm, pouring a little water over it. Come on, Jynx. We gotta get that cleaned up. She tried to yank her arm back. Knock it off, man. She kept flicking through photos with her thumb. Look at this. He picked up her backpack, digging through it for Kleenex or napkins. Finding nothing, he stuffed his canteen in there, threw it over his shoulder, and reached down to pick up Jynx, ready to carry her down the hill if he had to. She wouldnt look up from her phone as he lifted her to her feet; she was mesmerized. Austin, check this out. He urged her over the low boulders to the wash that ran down the side of the hill, glad that they wouldnt have to climb all the way down. Without even glancing up, she grabbed the old flashlight and metal scrap from the rock and tucked them into her backpack. A few hops down the hill, she stopped. Wait, we cant just leave it there. Austin shook his head. Fine, Jynx. You carry it home, then. He kept walking. Jynx glanced back up the hill. Resting in the gouge like it was, there werent a lot of people willing to wander up into the washes. She figured it would be safe for now. She pulled the metal tile from her pack and ran her fingers over its face. It seemed to shimmer in the late morning sun. Austin was a good fifty yards down the hill already. She tucked it back into her backpack and started into a run, chasing behind Austins slow and steady stride. 4. Eat it and beat it Sheriff Etherton took his lunch at the Silver Spoon, most days. As excellent as the variety was, the Arroyo Grande Shell station did a steady business in deep-fried catfish, gizzards, and taquitos, which were somehow legendary amongst the long-haul truckers. What he really wanted was some decent Thai food, or possibly something Mediterranean, but for lack of anything remotely cosmopolitan, he sat at the far end of the lunch counter, closest to the coffee pot. At least the cooks made a decent club sandwich, and the fries were always golden brown. Nonetheless, the sheriff occasionally considered the siren song of truck stop fried food, if only to finish his entire meal without interruption. The smaller the town, the bigger the fire was a phrase that Etherton had heard years before, but nowhere did it seem more appropriate than the tiny little highway turn-off known as Arroyo Grande. The locals treated his lunch break like informal office hours. Most of the time he managed to get through about half of his meal before he was heavily involved in a bit of gossip which resembled therapy more than law enforcement. He let the highway patrol handle the speeders and the state troopers handle the meth dens. Thats what the locals liked about him. Coordinating law enforcement branches and delegating legal authority to anyone else with a badge, he spent most of his time settling disputes over neighborly grudges. Judging by the complaints filed during his informal lunch briefings, one might assume that the town was a hotbed of illicit criminal activity and voluminous intrigue, although most of the disputes would easily be settled over a couple of longnecks down at the Starlight lounge, later in the evening. Today, his guest was Mickey Parlaine, a local business owner with a handful of side hustles. Greg do you mind if I call you Greg? Even in the early summer heat, he wore a suit. He sweated lightly in the air-conditioned dining room. Sheriff Etherton correctly assumed that Mickey was from the east coast, as nobody in California, especially this close to Mojave, would wear a suit. Etherton dipped a fry in ketchup, recognizing that his meal was over. Id rather you not. He glanced down at his plate. He was two bites away from finishing the first half of his club sandwich, and still had a handful of steak fries going cold. He wiped his fingers on his napkin, dabbed at the corner of his mouth, and crumpled the used napkin under the edge of his plate. Mickey stumbled on, ignoring the hint that he was interrupting. A man like you is wasted behind a badge. With your experience and history, you should be getting back into politics. Its where you belong. Mickey pulled the paper napkin from under the fresh silverware setting. If this town is going to keep growing, its going to need a real mayor, Mickey said, dabbing the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. With little tourism to boast about besides the model train museum built into the strip mall, or Vickerss strange alien museum at the edge of town, the only real reason to stop was that it was the first gas for fifty miles in either direction. The town didnt need a mayor; it probably didnt need much of a sheriff. Arroyo Grande just needed a decent babysitter. I dont exactly see Arroyo Grande becoming some sort of tourism destination, Mickey. Lisa bustled past, sliding a fresh napkin under the silverware setting and sliding it subtly away from Mickey, who had yet to order. Get a box for ya, Greg? she asked. Thanks, Lisa, Sheriff Etherton nodded. Lisa grabbed the plate and glanced down at it. You want an extra pickle spear? The sheriff smiled and winked at her, rifling through his pockets for a few dollars to leave for a tip. Lisa rolled her eyes at Mickey and smiled sympathetically at the sheriff. I know what youre thinking. Mickey leaned forward, attempting to be engaging. Getting the sheriff to run for mayor was just another sale; all he had to do was get the sheriff to nod and keep him nodding. If he could keep the sheriff nodding, he would eventually agree to just about anything. It was a basic cold call sales skill. Youre thinking that youre a little young for mayor, Mickey said, confidently. Greg was actually wondering if he had left all of his cash on the nightstand. While the management at Sanchos Silver Spoon gladly covered the cost of his meals, if only to maintain a friendly police presence, he was accustomed to over-tipping the server if only to ensure that nobody spit in his food. Digging through his uniform shirt pockets for a few stray dollars, he absentmindedly nodded to Mickeys ongoing intrusion. Thats fine, Mickey. How about you call down to my office sometime, and we can discuss the situation. The sheriff pulled a business card from his uniform pocket, offering it as he might to anyone complaining about a neighborly dispute or civic complaint. Well, Im ready to get started if you just want to give me the go ahead now, Mickey sat upright, nodding mechanically as he had been taught, still hoping to engage the sheriff. The sheriff took the Styrofoam to-go box and slid it towards the edge of the counter, letting Mickey know that he was ready to go. Lisa, hon, I am afraid Im a little cash poor. He patted his pockets convincingly. You mind if I get you that tip tomorrow? No problem, sweetie. She rested her elbows on the counter, leaning forward to display a little more cleavage than the sheriff was strictly comfortable with, but it wasnt for him. Lisa knew the effect a low-cut blouse had on Mickey, and what was the point of aftermarket parts if not to make the creepy guys go off the rails? Mickey stammered in his sales pitch, trying to steal furtive glances down the front of Lisas uniform blouse. Just think about it, Sheriff. His eyes flicked sideways to find Lisa staring at him with a slightly bemused if not entirely smug, Mona Lisa smile. This town, could, uh A fine sweat speckled his waxy forehead and he swallowed hard, avoiding another sideways glance. Were growing, and we could use a man like you where you belong, leading the council. When she was satisfied that she had completely melted Mickeys brain, Lisa stood up straight, glancing around the restaurant with a few unnecessarily heavy breaths, causing her bosom to swell and effectively ending the conversation. So, when are you gonna bring that cute little girl of yours around, Greg? The sheriff, amused at her game, leaned back slightly in his seat. When is George going to put prime rib back on the menu? The sheriffs wife was a life-long vegan, so Georges prime rib dinners had been a rare treat, so to speak. She raised an eyebrow. If I get you a prime rib night, youll bring her down? He raised three fingers like a proper Baden Powell progeny. Scouts honor. Ill bring her down for a daddy daughter dinner night. She nodded approvingly. Mickey, honey, are you gonna order, or do I gotta get one of the guys out here to hustle you along? Ah, Lisa, I was just The sheriff winked at Lisa again, grabbed his box lunch and made for the exit as casually as he could speed walk out to his cruiser. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Straight out the front door he was greeted by the tantalizing scent of a brushfire that reminded him of his college dorm. He smiled involuntarily. Petty as it might be now that it was pretty much legal nearly everywhere, he couldnt help the urge to stroll towards the back of the Spoon to find the source. He heard the aces laughing, saw the smoke even before he rounded the corner. Shut up about the fucking lawnmower, bro! Terrence called. Aint nobody got a lawn left to mow in this dried-up fucking town. Tell that to my wife, a low voice responded. Cant afford the four hundred fifty bucks for one of those battery powered numbers. How come we never seen this wife of yours? Earl asked. She dont like to be seen, the new guy muttered. Etherton rounded the corner with a bemused expression, hoping to catch the three of them in flagrante, but as soon as they noticed him, the new guy in the chef coat popped something into his mouth and proceeded to take a drag off his cigarette. Motherfucker did it again! Earl laughed, pointing at the old guy squatting on a milkcrate. Afternoon, gentlemen. The sheriff offered cordially. Sorry to interrupt the meeting, but I thought something might be burning back here. Terrence stood up, waving the strawberry scented vapor from his face, like that might be what Etherton was hinting at. Hey, Sheriff! Earl called casually. He glanced down at his own cigarette, just a regular old menthol. You staying out of trouble there, Terrence? Terrence nodded emphatically. Yes, sir. He showed the sheriff his little candy colored vape canister, taking a quick puff to demonstrate it. Its strawberry. That might be what you smelled. Etherton nodded with a subtle smirk, glancing around the ground for the pipe or joint or whatever they had just been smoking. You must be the new guy George mentioned. The sheriff sized him up. He was a little guy, just as rail thin as the rest of them, with a thin scar running from his hairline. I hear good things about you. All lies, the new guy said. Mm-hmm. Etherton watched him for a moment, his level gaze the sort that generally turned the guilty in on themselves. His wife called it cop face. Pedaso, the new guy offered, without looking up from his phone. Stuart. Nice to meet you, Stuart, Sheriff Etherton said, raising his to-go box in lieu of a handshake. My friends call me Stu, he said with a little involuntary grunted burp that released a tiny puff of smoke. Terrence shook his head. Allegedly, he chuckled under his breath. Earl slapped Terrences shoulder. Shut the fuck up, he hissed, ever the peacekeeper. They might be a little stoned, but the sheriff wasnt about to run Terrence down to the office for a petty probation violation. Losing Terrence for a few days would probably shut the Silver Spoon down, and Terrence was doing his best to stay off the hard stuff. How was lunch today, Sheriff? Earl asked. He had been off probation for years before Etherton even arrived in town, but he was another one of the good ones. He might drink a little more than he should, but he staggered home or caught a ride, and his personal guilt was greater than the law required. Great as usual, boys. Etherton nodded and patted his belly. Alright, then. Earl said, glancing down at his cigarette like he shouldnt even be smoking that in front of a cop. Welp, the sheriff said, I ought to get on it, then. Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff, Terrence offered, like George would have wanted. The new guy just kept scrolling through his phone without glancing up. Yup, Etherton raised the to-go box again by way of salutation and shuffled back towards his cruiser. He heard the clandestine commentary without being able to make out a word until the new guy mumbled: A cop is a cop, dude. And Etherton decided to run the name through the system, just to see what came up. Safely situated in his mobile office, he scrolled through the transcription of his dispatch feed, content that nothing whatsoever was happening in Arroyo Grande that would require law enforcement. He pulled out of the parking lot and slid up to the light and plucked a lukewarm steak fry from the box of leftovers, regretting that he hadnt thought to grab a couple packets of ketchup for his midafternoon snack. As he was typing the new guys name into the database, just to check, he heard a familiar glass pack muffler growl and watched a chopped and dropped black mustang screech around the corner from Second street. Sheriff Etherton hit a couple of squawks over the intercom and the Mustang eased to a reasonable speed, pulling up politely beside him. Afternoon, Sheriff! Ashley called in a chipper, flirtatious voice. The sheriff shook his head disapprovingly at her, but with the slightest smile. Ashley, who had only recently taken up a job as a barista at a local bikini coffee kiosk, was widely known by law enforcement along a few hundred miles of desert highway. Seemingly impervious to speeding tickets, she had managed to charm her way out of a number of citations. Engine idling beside him at the light, Ashley nonchalantly bobbed her head to the music. Nice day for it! she called. A nice day for what? he asked. A nice day to be out diligently obeying all traffic laws and regulations, of course. She giggled and wobbled her head playing ditzy for him. Yes. Yes, it is, he said. The traffic light ran long, yielding to the nonexistent interstate traffic. The sheriff watched Ashley tap her thumbs on the steering wheel, mumbling along to her narco corrido. Sheriff Etherton chuckled softly. He flipped the cruiser into neutral and gunned the engine a couple of times. The turbo charged V8 rumbled. Ashley giggled politely. Glancing over her sunglasses, her gaze grew chilly. Please, Sheriff. I would have to smoke your ass. The light turned green. Ashley punched the gas in first, popped it into neutral, redlining the RPMs to get the glass pack screaming but politely coasting across the interstate towards the back streets. The sheriff stomped the accelerator, but out of gear, the V8 just roared impotently for a moment. Ashley hung her arm out the window and twiddled her manicured nails at him as she drove away. Etherton dropped it into gear and lazily turned left down the freeway, hoping for a rematch with Ashley when he mumbled the guys name aloud to himself. Stu Pedaso, he said, and knew he wouldnt be getting very far with the background check. * * * A cops a cop, dude. Hitch grumbled. Ah, hes alright, ya know? Earl took the last few drags of his cigarette. Hes a helluva lot better than the last guy, okay? I cant believe you ate that thing again, bro. Hitch burped at him. I mean, he could have fucked us right there, you know? Earl pushed his sleeves up. Herschel would have had us all. Weeds legal now. Hitch shrugged. Takes all the fun out of it. Terrence shook his head. Not for me. I mean, I aint gonna lie, Ive been lucky, but Im a fucking white guy you know? Terrence glanced over at Earl. Seriously, Earl. Im sure I aint gotta explain it to you. Hes not a real cop. Earl said. I think he was like, on some city council or something, you know? Put a gun in his hand, and hed shoot you just for coming around the corner at night. Yeah, Earl chuckled, He aint gonna see me. I put my hoodie up and Im like a ninja, okay? Im like black on black, like stealth mode. Terrence laughed. Thats why the bus never stops for you, bro. Youre already in the system, dude. He doesnt need to register you anymore. The sheriffs fuckin daughter is black, bro! Hitch glanced up at Earl. Anything you want to tell us Earl? Earl grinned. Terrence laughed. Nah, man, he and his wife adopted a Jamaican girl. Theyre alright. They got BLM signs all over their lawn. Hitch shrugged. Put a gun in his hand, and well find out pretty quick. Yer such a fuckin downer, bro. Hitch dropped his cigarette butt in the can and stuffed his phone in his pocket as he stood. Im pragmatic, Terrence. Fuck, bro. I wish youd stop doing that. Doing what? Youre always using big words. He took another puff from his vape pen and exhaled a strawberry scented cloud. You know Im not that smart. Earl stopped at the back door and turned on them. It means hes a realist, okay? Like, most cops arent like the sheriff, you know? Most cops are neither intelligent, nor educated. Thats why they need the guns. Then just say that. He did, okay? Earl rested his hand on Terrences shoulder. And dont go mistaking intelligence for education, alright? Youre like, super smart, but you just didnt go to school. You couldnt do what you do in that kitchen if you werent intelligent, Hitch offered. Fuck off. Now see, you could say, like, fornicate off right there. Yeah, dude. Or fellate me maybe. Shut up! Earl chuckled. Or copulate away. You guys are fucking assholes. Hitch watched the sheriff pull up to the light and heard the P/A squelch at a lowered sportscar. He shook his head. A cops a fucking cop, he muttered again. 5. In the rear with the gear Its not a loaf of sourdough bread, boss. You dont just hack into it with an acetylene torch, trying to pull a chunk out of it. Levy wiped his hands on a rag, itching the tip of his nose with the clean backside of his wrist. To take a sample like that is going to require some serious precision. He wiped the motor oil from the ratchet set before he replaced them in the tool cabinet. Didnt we have some lasers? The chief faintly recalled an invoice for a wide variety of lasers a few years prior. It was an expensive purchase, made about the same time as the requisitions for the slushy margarita machine, leather couch, and a dozen office massage chairs. Given the fact that it was one of the few items ordered with a remotely functional purpose, the chief never bothered to call Levy in to ask him about them. Levys eyes flicked towards the back corner of the warehouse, and the makeshift laboratory hed built in. We, uh, used those, he muttered, more frustrated with his unsuccessful experiments than he was with the fact that the chief remembered the lasers. Besides that, youd need something like a 1500-milliwatt class IV for that sort of thing. Youre not going to deli slice an alloy with a convenience store trip beam. Although he liked to consider himself a black ops contractor, Levy actually started as a general contractor, hired as an electrician almost a decade prior. He had been one of a few licensed contractors within a hundred-mile radius willing to wire the entire warehouse with a redundant 220-volt power grid for decidedly less than union wages. Of the few, he was the only contractor who could pass the background check. Through a series of shifting change orders and a variety of incidental side projects including wiring various offices with unnecessary equipment of all sorts, Levy came to occupy his own office near the loading dock and framed in a sizable back work room for a shop space. Although he didnt remember the exact price, the chief was sure that he hadnt purchased a crate of Radio Shack toys. I thought we bought some sort of high-powered lasers? Levy wasnt about to pull his research apart so that the chief could hack at a wad of slag. If I was running 1500-watt lasers through our power grid, youd know it. That he was, in fact, and that the chief had not noticed, was a credit to Levys significant engineering expertise. Vocally antisemitic, yet proudly Jewish, he was an HR nightmare. His constant jokes about suing himself for harassment had kept him safe through multiple rounds of layoffs, mostly because nobody wanted to deal with the possible litigation. In the eight years since the electrician contract, Levy had become essential, slowly entrenching himself in the warehouse. As the motor pool mechanics thinned, Levy became master of his own domain, able to work a variety of positions competently. The chief didnt particularly care what Levy was working on, so long as most of the vehicles ran and the equipment was well maintained. Theres nothing you can do? The chief asked. Levy threw his arms in the air. Well, I can blindly hack at it with a cutting wheel and hope that I get deep enough to dislodge the dentures without goring the artifact, or maybe I can just push it to the top of the building and drop it over the edge; maybe it will crack open like an egg. Get it into the back of a truck, the chief said. Levy stood over the amalgamated wad of metal which weighed as much as a small car. How? Youre the engineer, Levy. The chief dead-eyed his last technician. Figure it out. There was only one other laboratory in Phoenix with that kind of equipment. Theyd collaborated in the past, but it was a hell of a lot harder to negotiate a complex forensic extraction without a significant surplus cash flow. Convincing Dr. Barnes to map the contents of the meteorite, and potentially extract the hunk with the partial dental apparatus, was undoubtedly a process that would cost more than Martinez had on hand. If Dr. Barnes had been any other kind of scientist, maybe Martinez could cut him in on the research and confiscate the resulting paper before publication. It was a dirty trick, but it had worked in the past with universities. The problem was that although Dr. Barnes would have the instruments and equipment necessary to perform the delicate operation, he was a roboticist. The Barnes labs built bulky awkward humanoid robots, hoping to automate the service industry. He would be entirely uninterested in the extraction of dental work from an extraterrestrial object. Still, it was worth a shot. Walking back into the front offices, contemplating how to go about sweet-talking Dr. Barnes into some pro-bono side action, Martinez found OConnor hovering at the front desk, waiting for him. Commissioner sent another auditor, the sergeant said, glancing over his shoulder. Martinez peered around the corner into the empty waiting room. Well, where did he go? OConnor hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the figure sitting patiently with the office door wide open, equalizing the ambient temperatures. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Sergeant, what part of a closed office door is confusing you? OConnor shrugged. He walked right in. For a brief moment, Martinez truly missed the receptionist. A hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet and fresh from cosmetology school, Ms. Reeves had never let a single visitor near his office. OConnor, on the other hand, pushing two hundred pounds of dumb muscle, with field experience in the Los Angeles gang division, couldnt stop a lone bureaucratic bundle of twigs with a business card. Mr. Paulson wore a cheap gray suit that was a size too big, and a decade out of style. Sitting upright in his chair, with a Naugahyde brown briefcase closed in his lap, he looked every bit the sort of pencil-necked prick that the commissioner had sent over the past several years, but a sort of budget version. That this no-account paper pusher might hold the key to the next round of government funding lent him a certain gravity that he would otherwise be incapable of. He glanced around the chiefs office as if he were taking stock of the office furniture, planning an eBay sale. If they shut down the offices, the deep finish of the solid mahogany desktop might fetch a few dollars, but the display shelves full of blingy crystal law enforcement trophies would inevitably end up in a box, waiting to be discarded. Martinez sighed heavily, rubbed his chin, and prepared to grovel; he stood straight, strolling casually into the office as carefree as if it were a company picnic. Mr. Paulson, sorry to keep you waiting. Busy and all. Mr. Paulson glanced over his shoulder at the empty offices and chuckled lightly. How is the commissioner? the chief asked, feigning polite conversation. Mr. Paulson rose briefly, to shake the Chiefs hand. Martinez noted the cold clamminess of the auditors grip, a perfunctory gesture so unconvincing that it seemed an insult. Mr. Paulson sat again, clicking open the latches on his briefcase, rifling through the contents. Im sure I dont need to explain why I am here, Mr. Paulson mumbled, skipping the niceties. He withdrew a yellow legal pad on a battered clipboard and set it before him on the makeshift desk of his briefcase. Of course not, Martinez leaned back in his chair, affecting a nonchalant lack of concern, but I thought we just had an audit six months ago? Mr. Paulson nodded absent-mindedly. Martinez noticed that Mr. Paulson tended to avoid eye-contact, eyes flitting about the room. Im here in regard to some budgetary irregularities in this past quarter. He opened his briefcase again and fingered through a file of loose paperwork. Withdrawing a few pages, he passed them across the desk. Both redacted as well as highlighted in various sections, they resembled a cipher hidden in a contemporary art piece. The highlighted items reflected company meals on individual accounts, random gas card purchases, and one incredibly expensive interagency fund transfer for something listed as a ridiculously long string of capital letters, authorized by B. Levy of the Terrestrial Investigation Groups motor pool. Big ticket item aside, this was the first time that an auditor had delved into the personal expense accounts of the agents. Given that there was only a half dozen employees left, including the cleaners, it was fair to assume that individual audits were considerably easier than they had been in past years. Mr. Levy is our chief engineer. His research has been integral to our ongoing investigations, Martinez said. What he really meant was that Levy had dicked with the air conditioners and somehow managed to lower the ambient temperature in the warehouse to sufferable levels. As to the rest of Levys experiments, so long as the chief didnt ask a lot of questions, Levy wouldnt file a complaint with the ACLU. Needless to say, Mr. Paulson quipped without looking up, when a low-level contractor purchases a sophisticated piece of surplus counter insurgency combat equipment, National Security issues are raised. I cant imagine why a superfluous investigative group would necessitate that caliber of firepower. Mr. Paulson glanced up from his page, freezing Martinez with a cold stare. Martinez, choking back his indignation with the phrases: low-level and superfluous, leaned forward, knitting his fingers before him on the desk. Understandably so, said Martinez, clenching his jaw. Well, Ill tell you what, he forced an affable smile. Lets give you a little tour to show you around the place, and well go ahead and ask Mr. Levy about that purchase when we get back there. Mr. Paulson chuckled to himself, clipping the various expense reports under his yellow legal pad. That involuntary chuckle had already become uncomfortable to Martinez, like a running inside joke that he obviously wasnt in on. Are you a coffee drinker, Mr. Paulson? said the chief, suddenly deciding that the frugality of their coffee brand choice might impress the auditor. Mr. Paulson chuckled softly again, marking something on his yellow legal pad for no apparent reason. No, thank you. He followed Chief Martinez out into the hall. This really shouldnt take too longno more than a day or twoI would appreciate it if we could get straight to work and avoid the ass kissing efforts. Mr. Paulson scribbled something on his notepad, cradled in the crook of his arm, briefcase dangling awkwardly from his fist. Although it appeared heavy, he seemed unwilling to set the briefcase down anywhere but carried it like a toddler might cling to a security blanket or favorite stuffed animal. Martinez gritted his teeth, a few steps ahead of the auditor. Naturally, he grumbled. Opening the door to the warehouse, the chief and Mr. Paulson found Levy engaged in trying to load the meteorite into the back of the truck. He had the rock strapped in a knotted nest of yellow nylon truck straps, hanging from an engine block crane as he pushed against it, attempting to swing the impossibly heavy mass into the back end of a flat black SUV with a dented front left fender. Hey, Levy called. Gimme a hand here? Mr. Paulson chuckled softly and scribbled a note on the yellow legal pad. Martinez glanced around the garage, hoping to spot a gallon of gasoline to pour over the offices full of archived cases. 6. Beer money Jynx hung back beside the panel van, tucked into the shade. When Austin took a stool beside the Lazy Boy, Jeremiah raised a lazy fist bump without looking away from the screen. The fuck are you guys doing out in this heat? Had to go back for the truck. Howd you do that? The Pony. Thought that thing was busted. Fixed it. Finally. Jeremiah pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and placed it to his lips. You got my jump box? In the truck. Its about time. Austin nodded. You want a beer? He reached towards the mini fridge without waiting for an answer. Austin glanced back at Jynx. Nah, probably shouldnt. Jeremiah shrugged. Suit yourself. He watched the TV, waiting for the next game show question. Put the box back, he said. Austin nodded, but he didnt move. On the TV, a contestant named Dave with horrible handwriting picked another Jeopardy! category. Ill take Deans for 500, Dave said. Trebek consulted his prompter. Jeremiah waited for Austin to go away, but it was obvious that he had something to ask. Whats on your mind, friend? Austin fidgeted and glanced back at Jynx. I think we found something good out there. Jeremiah lit his smoke and waited for the next question; Austins or Trebeks, it didnt much matter. What is it? Its pretty big. Not too badly corroded. No rust, but a lot of dust. Well, whats it look like? Its like a big roundish sort of chunk of something. Theres a big, shredded section. Looks like a torn-off wing tip or something. Jeremiah sat up a little, chewing on the filter of his camel wide. Youre telling me that you found a piece of an airplane? Austin shrugged and nodded. I think so. Its a big piece of metal, whatever it is. Pretty sure its aluminum. One sides a little jagged and shredded out. Maybe it crashed. Jeremiah shook his head and sat back. Bullshit. Just let me take the flatbed for a few hours. Ill be right back. Jeremiah nodded and ashed his cigarette into the blown-out cylinder of the V8 that sat on a piano dolly beside his chair. Famous last words. Dude, just let me go for a minute. What the fuck am I supposed to say to Manny and Csar if we get a call for a flatbed tow in the next however many hours it takes you to go winch a sandblasted fridge out of the wash? Dude. It is definitely not a fridge. Jeremiah smiled. This time. Not this time, Austin nodded and shrugged, glancing back at Jynx. Jeremiah seemed to notice her for the first time. He smiled and waved. Hey, kid. Jynx bobbed her head and gave a weak wave. Hey, Germ, she called back. She still fucking hates me. Austin shrugged. Her mom made us go to Ala teen meetings for like, a year. I didnt even know that was in the saddlebag. You know how she gets. Jeremiah nodded. He popped the handle on the Lazy boy and sat forward, stamping his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. Why dont you just ratchet strap it into the back of your truck. Too big. Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. That big? Austin nodded. He lit another smoke and blew a cloud over their heads. Aluminum? Pretty sure. Like I said, a lot of dust but no rust. Jeremiah nodded. At twenty-five cents per pound, aluminum generally wasnt worth the effort it took to drag a bag of beer cans down to the scrapyard in Bakersfield. But, a couple hundred pounds of aircraft grade aluminum, on the other hand-- Thats probably worth a few bucks. We dont want to scrap it. We want to see what it is. Jeremiah sat forward, draining the last of his bottle, and reaching for the little mini fridge beneath the screen. I already got a fridge, but I could always use some beer money. Austin glanced back at Jynx. She shook her head and turned away. Come on, man. Just loan me the truck. He didnt want to beg, but there was no way to make them both happy. Look, well have it back in two hours. Jeremiah stared at him over the top of a cheap pair of scratched aviators. If you scrap it out, I get a cut. He reached down to unclip a wad of keys that hung from a chain on his belt. He flipped through them for the flatbed keys and tossed them to Austin. And if you leave it on my lot for more than a week its mine. Thanks, Jeremiah. Austin smiled over his shoulder at Jynx. She just rolled her eyes. And put twenty bucks in the tank when you bring it back, Jeremiah called after them. Austin waved. He followed Jynx out to the old flatbed tow truck parked in front. Jynx climbed into the passenger seat and put her canvas sneakers up on the dashboard, arms folded across her chest. Austin hoisted himself into the drivers seat, inserting the key into the ignition, checking his mirrors and knobs before he started up the old diesel engine. I dont understand why you still hang out with that guy. Whatever, Jynx. He loaned us the truck. He practically made you dance for it. Austin pumped the gas twice and flipped the key. The engine rumbled to life, rattling the cab. Oh, come on, hes alright. Jynx slid her sunglasses down. Hes a skeezy fucktard. * Jeremiah String Bean Jimnezs love for automobiles began much like any other young American boy, with matchbox toys and remote-controlled cars. At an early age he started pulling everything with a working motor apart, and a few years later he learned how to put them back together. He began to learn basic mechanics before he was ten, but it wasnt until his adolescence that he fell in love with the form of the car. When his father took him to a classic car show, Jeremiah got lost walking through row after row of vintage Detroit steel. He spent hours admiring the subtle curves of the hood, the not-so-subtle wheel flares, and the curvaceous rear fenders. While the other boys from the Tough Guys Club took to admiring Ashleys newly discovered curves, Jeremiah developed a strangely erotic attraction to another set of curves entirely, one which mimicked the female form, but packed a Ford 427 big block engine and a single seat roll bar. While Jeff and Justin hung posters of girls they found in magazines, Jeremiah hung a poster of the Shelby Cobra, a car that he found impossibly sexy. Unlike Jeff and Justins centerfold delusions, he was fairly certain that he would never slide into a Shelby Cobra. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. The first time that Jeremiah wandered into the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive, he followed his father into the shop, awaiting an oil change. Within a few minutes, he was in the back lot, wandering the broken-down carcasses of the rusted-out classics which Jack and Los Nudillos had collected over the years. A few of Los Nudillos found him behind the wheel of a Monte Carlo, making engine noises and deeply involved in racing a dead piece of American steel against invisible competitors. He bashfully apologized when they opened the door. Manny and Csar pulled him out threateningly, shaking his thin little body and cussing at him in Spanish until they thought he might cry, but started laughing, set him back on his feet and ruffled his hair. They showed him around the lot and a few other rusted out relics. Los Nudillos Rotos werent a serious gang, and the desert was overrun with meth traffickers posing as bikers. Guys started carrying chains and padlocks knotted into bandanas dangling from their pockets. Bar fights were breaking out between rival gangs. Bikers started carrying knives and getting territorial. Los Nudillos werent that sort of gang. Most of the guys just liked working on bikes, and Jacks service station was as good a place as any. They built a clubhouse into one of the service bays, and most afternoons they just gathered there to get away from their old ladies, sit around drinking beer, and poking fun at the Frijolito. String Bean wasnt a member of Los Nudillos Rotos so much as he was their miniature mascot. He got himself adopted early, before he was tall enough to play the Flight to Mars pinball machine in the corner. He rode his little BMX down to the shop after school and spent the first couple years soaking up the stench of WD40 and gear oil so that by the age of twelve he wore it like cologne, and it suited him. When the locals discuss that night on the salt flats it is with both awe and disdain. First, that the youngest and unlicensed member of Los Nudillos led four cop cars on a high-speed chase through town and across the flats reaching speeds in excess of 130 mph, and second, that when they had finally subdued him, they discovered that he was carrying a brick of Mexican weed in his saddle bag. Under normal circumstances, Jeremiah might have gotten tried as a juvenile, and due to the fact that he had no prior record, he might have gotten community service or a shorter sentence, but the judge wanted to prove a point. It was fairly obvious that the brick of dried-out ditch weed wasnt Jeremiahs, but he refused to cop a plea or roll over on Los Nudillos, so the Judge put him away for the maximum allowable sentence. Jeremiah was tried as an adult and sentenced to four years for excessive speed, reckless driving, drug trafficking, and ironically, child endangerment, as he was a juvenile who had put his own life at risk. Jeremiah just nodded his head at the sentencing, and when the judge dropped the gavel, Jeremiah glanced back at the few Nudillos gathered in the audience behind him and smiled. He mouthed the words: outlaw biker, raised a cuffed fist as high as the chains would let him and grinned as the bailiff led him away. While the rest of the kids his age were attending classes and planning for prom, Jeremiah was finishing his GED and playing board games with the rest of the juvenile delinquents. The String Bean returned from his five years in the pen without much fanfare. His father picked him up from the halfway house and brought him home, but his father had a new wife and stepdaughter and limited space in a little two-bedroom apartment. Jeremiah slept on the couch and generally slipped out in the morning, wandering around town, looking for a job of some sort, or just trying to stay out of the way. After a few days on the couch, he quickly realized that he didnt belong there anymore. His dad didnt want to say anything, but it was fairly obvious. The new apartment was about an hour south of Arroyo Grande. About a week after getting out of juvie, he packed the few things he had into his duffel bag, borrowed a hundred bucks from the canister on the kitchen counter, and caught a ride out of town. The sun was near its zenith, baking Arroyo Grande when he stepped off the bus. He got his bearings, shouldered his duffel bag and started walking. The Desert Sands remained suspended in time, probably preserved by the thin coat of ultrafine alkaline dust that covered everything that was close to the salt flats. The front lot was mostly empty except for a few cars. The garage doors were open and Banda music played softly from somewhere inside the bays, but otherwise, the place looked deserted. Jeremiah crossed the lot and strolled into one of the bays, marveling that nothing seemed to have changed. He dropped his bag near the side door and walked back to the water cooler in the corner. He pulled a paper Dixie cup from the tube on the side, little more than a shot glass. He filled it, drained it, filled it again, watching a few small bubbles burble up from the base of the blue tinted water cooler. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. All the years away, he finally felt at home again. Oye. What the fock you doeen? Someone asked, from behind him. Jeremiah turned to face the voice. A few years grayer in the mustache, and a few pounds heavier in the gut, Manny stood framed in the back door. He folded his sunbaked brown arms across his chest to look a little more threatening at five and a half feet tall. Jeremiah just smiled at him. ?Que onda, Manny? Manny scowled for a moment, still dutifully protecting the shop. His eyes widened at first, followed by a grin, revealing a new silver front tooth. Frijole? He burst from the door, throwing his arms around Jeremiah, laughing and slapping him on the back. Frijolito! He held Jeremiah back, to get a better look at him. ?Que chingados? He hugged Jeremiah again, and without letting him go, hollered for Csar. A few minutes later, the three of them sat in the shade behind the shop, sipping cold beers and catching up. Csar texted everyone he could think of, letting them know that String Bean was back in Arroyo Grande. Most of Los Nudillos Rotos had moved on, some to prison, some to practicality, some to parenthood. Jack remained the patriarch, still running the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive, although he had all but abandoned his post as the president of the club. To the aging members of Los Nudillos, he would always be in charge, and even the acting president came around to have a beer, shoot the shit, and ask him questions on particularly complicated matters regarding the club. Jack was the last person on earth that called Jeremiah by the nickname String Bean and took him back gladly. Los Nudillos had been Jacks only sons for years, and the return of String Bean was as if a prodigal son had returned. He had maintained a strange affinity for Jeremiah since he had arrived on the lot, and some wondered if they might be distantly related. That night on the flats, Bean, that was something, huh? That was fun. Jeremiah smiled. It sure was, Jack. Yeah. Jack smiled, Yeah, you bet. That sure was something. He squinted back towards the shack in the corner. I got something saved for you, Bean. Jack nodded his head and pulled a set of keys from a clip on his belt, fumbling through what looked like a few dozen random keys which probably fit locks or vehicles that had long since been lost. Jack slid the shack door wide and waved an arm around, looking for the chain to flip on the lights. I been saving this for you, eh, for a while, I guess. I just didnt know when I was going to get it out again. He pulled the chain. The fluorescent overhead lights flickered on, casting the dusty contents of the shack in a faint blue light. In the center of it all, pillowed in canvas tarps like a nested dove, sat the Indian Chief chopper, Jacks ivory steed, the suicide stick stallion. Its going to need a cleanup. The tags are bad, but Ive kept it up to date. I just have to find the stickers. I mean, its been here for all these years, so youre going to have to check everything, of course. Im sure the rubbers no good anymore. Despite years in the shack, it was as glorious a ride as ever. Dusty and cobwebbed as it was, there was something in the chrome and craftsmanship which demanded respect even as a retired idol. Jeremiah glanced away. Jesus, Jack. I cant take the Chief. Jack frowned. The Chief? He shook his head. Oh no. You cant have the Chief. He shook his head. No, no. Wouldnt do you any good now, anyway, right? He reached over the Chief, leaning on his cane as he groped at the tarp covering the collection of junk against the sidewall. I meant our Mantis, Bean. He pulled the tarp away, kicking up a few years of alkaline dust and aluminum shavings as he did. Holy crap. You kept the Mantis? Jeremiah eased past Jack, drawn to the metal fleck green paint of his first love like a man hypnotized. How did you get her? Well, the police auctioned it off, and nobody else wanted it, so I got it for a good price. Los Nudillos painted the thing green as an homage to the string bean. Jeremiah hated it, but he didnt have much of a choice. Jeremiah pulled the rag from his back pocket, fingers hovering uncertain over her dials as if he were approaching a ghost. The last time he saw her he was face down in the salt flats, adrenaline high and laughing like a maniac with a knee in his back as he was cuffed and read his rights. She took a stand, key in the ignition still, and waiting for him to whistle. Jack I mean The Mantis Jack nodded and smiled. I figured you were going to need it one more time, right? Jeremiah was already ignoring him, inspecting the slim green salt flat racer. You talk to Manny. Hell get you a fresh set of treads on the next order. Jack patted his pockets, absentmindedly looking for a pack of smokes that hed quit twenty years earlier. You can take the trailer for now, just until you take off again, and Manny will get you some work. Jack tugged at his earlobe distractedly, trying to remember something elusive that slipped away, replaced by another thought that had nearly gone stale. Yes, String Bean, that was one hell of a ride. He chuckled. Welcome home. Jack wandered back to the service bay to say goodnight to the rest of Los Nudillos, leaving Jeremiah to the fluorescent glow of the shed and his beloved Mantis. Almost a year later, reclining in a borrowed throne, Jeremiah String Bean Jimnez, Los Nudillos Rotos fool and mascot yelled at the discolored flatscreen on cinder blocks. Damnit, Dave! Who is Richard Dean Anderson! 7. Poolside Sergeant OConnor was nearly through the San Bernardino traffic, on his way towards Los Angeles when the chief called. He contemplated, briefly, ignoring the call and feigning poor service, but the red line ran on a satellite link, and there wasnt much point in it. He punched the answer button, affecting his best answering machine tone. Sergeant OConnor is away from his desk at the moment, but if youd like to leave a message You have the file on Arroyo Grande with you? the chief barked. OConnor reached into his leather satchel in the passenger seat and withdrew the manila file stamped Top Secret across the front like a sixties spy movie. I got it. I need you up there to do preliminary interviews with Dr. Vickers. Chief, I got Sergeant, I have an auditor sitting in my office supply cabinet taking stock of my ballpoint pens at the moment. Would you like me to find out how much money Ill save without your salary in my budget? OConnor grit his teeth. Im almost to Newport Beach, Chief. Thats too bad. Im going to need you to turn around and head back to San Bernardino for me. OConnor glanced down at the preliminary field report with a contact address about a hundred miles north of there. He glanced around at the San Bernardino traffic, wondering what the draw might be. Why San Bernardino? Because you dropped your GPS tracking chip about three miles before the northbound turnoff for the 215. The chief cleared his throat. It appears to be doing about fifteen miles per hour up the I-10 freeway right now. If you hurry, you might catch the cyclist whos got it. The line was quiet for a moment. Got it, sir, OConnor muttered. And, Sergeant, as long as youre there if you wouldnt mind just bopping by Dr. Vickerss to take an official statement on the LIDAR images, Id be greatly appreciative of your selfless sacrifice. OConnor grumbled and flipped on his right turn signal, easing towards the right lane and the eventual freeway exchange. Ill be there by two, he growled. The line went dead. Poolside. He was supposed to be poolside already. Poolside, where his brother-in-law had a few racks of ribs going on the grill. Poolside, where his sister-in-law had just set out a frosty pitcher of sangria. He was so ready to be poolside, that he wore his flip-flops, board shorts and an old t-shirt, planning on walking directly from the driveway and diving straight into the bathwater-warm backyard swimming pool. As if watching his blinking GPS blip crawl across the valley in slow motion werent entertaining enough, the good chief added a few hundred extra miles round trip. OConnor would be lucky to get to the beach house before Mary was passed out on night meds and fruity wine. A rhythmic squealing started as the engine downshifted to climb a small hill fifty miles outside of Barstow. OConnor watched the temperature gauge needle bounce steadily upwards for another ten miles. It was barely a hill; it was a dip in the road, and then the squealing. He turned down the air conditioner hoping that might help. Twenty or so miles to go, and he figured it would limp into town easily. Rolling through the next dip, however, the downshift was punctuated with a wrenching clunk, the needle jumped to red line, and the front hood vented a cloud of steam that blinded him entirely. OConnor let it coast to a stop just over the rise, a series of tinny alarms sounding from within the dashboard as every blinking light went on and the engine cut out. OConnor slapped the hazard lights on and sat back, listening to the ticking and hissing sounds still audible over the music. Meanwhile, Mary OConnor, lithe little bikini butt slathered in cocoa butter and deep tanning oil, sat poolside with a paperback, waiting. He glanced out at the sparse Joshua trees and the empty hills rising to the west. Poolside, he muttered under his breath, scrolling through roadside assistance recommendations on his phone. Digging through his overnight bag, he pulled out the old fashioned manila folder that sufficed as the Vickers brief and flipped through it while he waited for the tow truck driver to arrive. * * * Dr. Vickerss decades-old unexplained cold case was legendary amongst extraterrestrial investigators. Interviewed as a youth, the boy named Kenton Alexander Vickers was the sole witness capable of communicating his close encounter to the available authorities. At the tender age of eight years old, however, he was not considered the most reliable witness to the event. Had his older brother, Richard, been capable of speech, or capable of communicating at all, really, he might have been a better eyewitness. Unfortunately, after the alleged close encounter, Richard was left in a catatonic state, incapable of speech and generally unreactive to external stimuli. While his parents and local testimony seemed to corroborate the dramatic change in his behavior, subsequent medical examinations revealed no physiological changes which might elicit the suddenly stony demeanor. According to the field reports filed by various law enforcement, the episode was described as follows: The Vickers boys, both avid outdoor enthusiasts involved in local scouting troops, had decided to spend a night camping in the hills just outside of their hometown of Arroyo Grande, California. At the time, it was not unusual for a pair of young boys to be allowed an unsupervised excursion. As a Star-ranking Boy Scout, Richard was considered an excellent orienteer and suitable guide for an overnight adventure. Packing their rucksacks with the limited supplies outlined in their respective manuals, they set off one afternoon in the spring of 1969. They packed food and water enough for at least a few nights, although they had only actually planned for one night of camping, nestled in a wash just a few miles from their home. Their mother had packed them a considerable amount of food, lest they should somehow become lost in the hundred-mile-long dry lakebed or the barren outlying hills that surrounded it. When casually asked about the excessive food stuffs found on the boys three days later, their mother had become defensive, assuming that they were accusing her of somehow permanently traumatizing her own sons by sending them out into the wilderness like Hansel and Gretel. Her own testimonies eventually degraded into angry rants about the importance of Oscar Mayer hot dogs and requisite smore fixings. The reason for her indignation was deeply personal in that she had secretly hoped they might stay out a few days longer, allowing her and her husband a little more private time. That they actually had stayed out that long, and later necessitated a search and rescue party in the same boxed-in desert that they had previously assumed was impossible to get lost in, eventually frayed her last nerve. As one investigator succinctly dismissed it: Her testimony was manufactured of equal parts wishful thinking and televised lunar landing coverage; a delusion born of hysteria and guilt at her sons unfortunate accident. That the close encounter affected both boys deeply was undeniable. Richard, of course, never recovered and remained unresponsive. Kent, on the other hand, rather than suffering some detrimental psychological effects, suddenly developed a keen interest in both math and science, excelling in his studies, though medical tests similar to his brothers were inconclusive and did not demonstrate a physiological change which might explain his newfound aptitude. Friends of the family attributed the boys gifts to his fathers firm morality and strong work ethic. With time, however, their mother developed a nervous tick with regards to her remaining sons whereabouts. This culminated in a mild nervous breakdown shortly after Kent accepted a full scholarship to MIT, but well before he departed for his freshman year. It was his mothers apparent fragility which eventually became the cause of Kents reluctance to return home on holidays. Some would say that Kents absence, along with Richards ongoing caretaking expenses, eventually led to her psychological deterioration. Within a few years of her husbands passing, Mrs. Vickers had almost entirely withdrawn from public interaction so that news and rumors of the Vickers childrens close encounter was eventually eclipsed by suburban legends of that mad old Vickers woman. Returning to town permanently just after her death, Kent Vickers inherited both custody and care of his older brother as well as the ignominy of the family name. There were, incidentally, two other witnesses to the alleged incident that night. A traveling encyclopedia salesman had seen the incident while driving south along the 395. Stopping in Arroyo Grande to escape the inclement weather, he recounted what he had seen to the handful of regulars gathered at the Starlight Lounge that night. Most dismissed it as a tall tale told by a man who proceeded to get himself embarrassingly drunk and ended up sleeping in his car, only to leave without word or contact information the following morning. By the time investigators arrived to take statements regarding the incident, few of the locals remembered him well enough to give a description besides white male, middle aged, slightly overweight, between five and six feet tall, talking about a meteorite. Twenty years later he would apply and be accepted for a short-lived primetime paranormal investigation show on a basic cable channel. His account, greatly embellished, would last less than three minutes. Complete with a dramatic re-enactment, a spattering of stock footage of flying saucers, and a few clips of the witness himself, the episode would never air. All pertinent footage and blue pages were confiscated by an earlier incarnation of the Terrestrial Investigation Group and unbeknownst to anyone, the last remaining digital copy of the episode was actually in an unopened manila envelope postmarked January of 2004, buried in a vacant office of the new Terrestrial Investigations Groups Phoenix headquarters. The confiscation had nothing to do with the traveling Encyclopedia salesmans account, but rather a completely unrelated story about hieroglyphics discovered near a Hopi sacred site which seemed to depict a giant robotic spaceman and two bug-eyed visitors, dating back to the 17th century. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. The only other witness to the incident was a boy named Ephrem, just a few years older than Kent, whose father ran the tiny service station at the edge of town. He had seen the fireball break through the clouds and crash to earth that night. He recalled the event in great detail, describing it to every passing motorist who happened to stop for gas the next day. His descriptions of the spectacular blue fire from the sky may have lacked eloquence, but not enthusiasm. His repetitive accounts ended abruptly, however, when the Bonanza theme song began playing on the television that evening. He was, after all, only eleven years old, and a particularly rabid fan of cowboys. * * * So thats a new pump, two new hoses, a new fan, and a new radiator. The tow truck driver slid the estimate across the countertop. OConnor nodded and waved, plucking his company card from his wallet, absentmindedly flashing his badge in the process. Thats fine, how long will it take? A few hours. The driver ran the credit card through for a presale. OConnor checked his watch. That left him just enough time to interview the Dr. Vickers guy and get back on the road before dark. Parts should be here by Tuesday. The driver stapled a copy of the presale credit slip to the invoice. Uh O''Connor''s jaw hitched slightly. Poolside. He was supposed to be poolside. Im headed to LA, OConnor said, unsure as to whether he had already mentioned that in the ride back. Like I said, the tow truck driver drawled, youre headed in the wrong direction. OConnor slapped the countertop, his jaw clenched. He glanced out the side window, with a view of the work bays. A dented Honda sat just under the window with its hood up. The other bays were empty. A couple of guys sat under a shade awning in the back corner, drinking beer and laughing. The place wasnt exactly bustling with business. OConnor sized up the kid at the computer terminal. He was a scrawny, greasy little Latino in blue pinstriped coveralls with a name tag that said: Jack. The kid was probably cooking meth in a shack out back. All of the desert types were into it. Skinny as he was, OConnor could snap him over his knee like a number two pencil. I can rush order the parts, the tow truck driver said, but youre still looking at Monday afternoon at the earliest, and itll cost you about a hundred dollars more. This Jack guy had failed to understand the importance of those repairs. OConnor reached back for his wallet instinctively, this time deliberately flashing his badge. Look, Jack, Ive got a few hours worth of work to do here in town, and then I need to be on my merry way towards some official business in LA. The official flourish might have been a little more impressive had he not just whipped his badge and credentials from the elastic waistband of a brightly colored pair of board shorts. Jack seemed unimpressed. Easy, there, officer Moondoggie. He leaned back against the parts counter and crossed his wiry arms over his bird chest. You want to take it to somebody else; you just feel free to give them a call. But if you leave it on my lot, youre paying storage fees for the night. Sorry that he did not have his sidearm on, OConnor glared at the twiggy little junkie. That there might be another shop in town seemed unlikely. Theyd passed a couple of gas stations on the drive through, but those seemed like big plastic corporate stores, and he doubted that they would have a full-service repair bay. If they did, there was no guarantee that they would have the parts. This kid had him by the balls and they both knew it. OConnor gripped the service counter to brace himself. He glanced down at the grimy floor, gritting his teeth. In any other world, he would be pulling this scrawny little meth head over the counter and crushing his face against the dirty linoleum. Instead, he cleared his throat softly, picked up the cheap ballpoint pen, and signed the authorization for the repairs. Is there a hotel nearby? he asked. Jack motioned to a little acrylic countertop display full of free tourist pamphlets. He yanked the perforated edges of the signed estimate, separating the various copies. He passed the white one to OConnor. Ill call you when its ready, Jack grumbled, sliding the pink and yellow copies onto a hanging rail behind the counter. Realizing that hed just made a very bad impression on the guy he was going to leave his cruiser with OConnor regretted flashing his badge. This greasy redneck stick figure was going to strip it clean. Hell, hed probably send a few of his friends over to the hotel to kill OConnor and bury him in a ditch somewhere. Hed left his sidearm in the passenger seat and the 9mm under the driver seat. He took a brochure, backing slowly towards the door. Do you mind if I grab a few things out of the car? Jack waved him off, Its your car. OConnor nodded, feeling contrite. Uh, thanks, man. Jack looked up, nodding, but his face twisted into an angry glare. Well, its about fucking time! he yelled. OConnor staggered backward against a rack of candy bars as Jack charged around the service counter, seeming to swell in size. OConnor understood, too late, that even skinny little junkies could be a hell of a lot to handle without a firearm or backup. He braced himself, ready for the wiry little tweaker to attack, but Jack slid right by him, yelling at another tow truck as it rolled onto the lot. Two hours! Jack yelled at the new driver. You said two fuckin hours! He charged across the lot. The truck jerked to a stop right in front of the service bay doors, a few feet short of his Crown Vic. The driver was another skinny kid and a skinny little girl. OConnor figured they must all be junkies. Maybe Jack was waiting for his fix. He imagined his beloved cruiser on cinder blocks in the back lot, rusting away as he, presumably, decomposed nearby. I had some troubles with the winch, the new driver explained. They had some lump of a wreck under a tarp on the flatbed. The kid named Jack pulled a creosote branch from the front bumper and tossed it off into the cars parked on the lot. If Id known you were going to be off-roading it all day, I would have said no. OConnor pulled the TIG equipment duffel from the trunk, his overnight bag from the back seat, and his leather satchel from the front. He stealthily removed his old police issue Sig Sauer from under the drivers seat, tucking it into his elastic waistband, confident that if they took a step towards him, he could level the three of them in just a few seconds. Feeling slightly better, he stood beside his luggage wondering how to go about calling an Uber in a hick town. The entire town was about three miles long and just about as wide. OConnor doubted if there was even an old-fashioned taxicab in town. As the tow truck drivers argued, he flipped through the tourist pamphlet, looking for a local hotel, preferably something nice, with room service and a big bathtub. Instead, he found two motor inns. The pamphlet was nothing but a bunch of tourism ads, listing attractions and facilities for a few hundred miles of the desert highway. The Arroyo Grande section, like the town itself, only took up a few pages. As much as he hated to interrupt the junkies, he needed a little help. Excuse me, he said, regretting it instantly. The guy named Jack spun on him, obviously angry, with another creosote branch in his hand. Tuesday, man. Deciding that he was better off finding his own ride, he threw his overnight bag and the TIG duffel over his shoulder and aimed himself for the highway, assuming that one or the other of the Motor Inns would be well within walking distance, seeing as how everything else in town was. OConnor hadnt bothered to pack much for his weekend jaunt. He kept a few items in the beach house closet along with a handful of toiletries in the bathroom. He had two complete uniform changes and a variety of casual clothes hanging behind her collection of sundresses and racks of shoes. Most weekends he didnt bother to change out of his shorts and an old threadbare skater shirt hed had since high school. He lived there like a brand-new boyfriend, hidden in a handful of stashed personal items and basking by the pool. All he had in his overnight bag was an old pair of jeans and a faded TIG polo shirt for a uniform. Had this been a legitimate case, he might have brought a uniform change, or even a nice Fed costume, a crisp black suit, to really impress the locals. He damn well would have brought some shoes. As it was, he was better prepared for a beach bonfire than he was for a legitimate case. Dumping his bags on the motel bed, he sat down and kicked his flip-flops off, wiping the sweaty, dusty soles of his feet on the ugly carpet. He laid back, convincing himself that everything would be fine. If she was going to have an affair, Sergeant OConnor couldnt think of a better place for Mary to have it than the beach house. His in-laws hadnt much liked him since hed moved her inland, and he was sure that neither of them would have told him if she had boyfriends rolling through on a regular basis. Missing their long weekend this way, for some ridiculous wild goose chase of an interview, was a good way to ensure that she was taking applications to fill his spot, so to speak. She hadnt returned any of his calls yet, but there was sure to be an explanation. After leaving a message for Dr. Vickers, he flipped through the tourist pamphlet, figuring that he could eat something. So long as he was trapped in the shit hole sticks, the company could damn well afford to buy him a nice steak dinner. The pamphlet came with a little map, with all of the advertising businesses marked out for easy navigation. His choices were a Silver Spoon of some sort, an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, and a pizza joint with a special on two slices and a soda for five dollars. There might be twenty other restaurants in town, but if they didnt advertise in the little pamphlet, they would be practically invisible to tourists. Preparing for dinner he changed into his formal attire, the threadbare jeans and polo shirt, planning to make an impression down at the Szechwan Palace. He decided to leave his sidearm on the nightstand. The upstairs walkway looked over the parking lot and the gated pool. The stairs at the bottom led directly to the front door of an adjoining bar. Figuring that he could stand to wait out the big dinner rush, he peered in the open door of the bar, thinking he might grab himself a quick drink before he wandered around the town. He was supposed to be on a few days vacation, after all. 8. Static cling Austin eased his truck up to the curb at the end of the cul-de-sac. Both he and Jynx were dusty and scraped up from the fraying steel winch cables. He desperately needed a shower. Jynx wore a pale raccoon mask matching her sunglasses. She was obviously tired, but fighting it, too excited by the day''s haul. Climbing out of the cab she swung her backpack over her shoulder, sleepwalking towards her house. A few steps away she realized that Austin wasnt following. She waited a moment as he dusted off his jeans. Well, alright, he said, standing beside the truck. You want to come over? Aw, he scratched the back of his head, finding a bit of gravel. I need a shower. She nodded and glanced down at the text message on her phone. Mom left me pizza money. Austin glanced back at his house, brushed a little more dust from his arms, and shrugged. His moms car was gone. Yeah, alright. He followed Jynx. She strolled straight past the front walkway and around the side of the house, apparently headed for her clubhouse. Austin was too tired to complain. It was probably better to hang out in the clubhouse than to drag a dust storm into her moms living room. Jynxs house was built back in the fifties, back when everybody in town had a bomb shelter in the backyard. Although a few of the neighbors had covered theirs over, Jynx was about eight when she and Austin had set out to find hers. Austin had a cheap orange-plastic-handled metal detector that his grandfather had sent them the year before. They found copper irrigation pipe fittings, some nails near the shed, a fistful of change buried in the crabgrass lawn, and a rusty gold-plated bracelet which they were both certain was worth some money, but somehow just managed to miss the buried hatch near the center of the lawn. They dug a few dozen holes before Jynxs mom got home and found them in the backyard with a couple of shovels. Nikki had finished her double shift at the hospital and returned home to discover that her daughter and Kellys kid had dug up half her lawn. She found them both in the center of the yard, close enough to the hatch that they probably might have found it eventually. Stepping through the sliding glass door with her glass of chardonnay, she walked out into the center of the lawn. She checked her bearings against the kitchen window and a scraggly old Sega palm near the fence and pointed at a spot in the grass. Here. She took the shovel from Austin, checked her alignment again, and planted it in the ground, stomping it in deeper with one of her sensible white leather nurse shoes. Its right here. She walked away. Cheesy mac with hot dogs in a half hour, kids. Ill call your mother Austin. Amber, baby, make sure he fills in all those holes, hon. Jynx traipsed across the dried lawn to the steel hatch in the middle of the yard. Located in the center of a rock ring, and surrounded by a couple of lawn chairs, it might look like a firepit to a casual observer. The camouflage was entirely accidental. It had been nearly two years since Austin had ventured into the clubhouse. Instead, the two of them sat around in the lawn chairs, close enough to the hatch that they could still hear the music, or so that Jynxs Wi-fi signal worked. They had a club for a while, the Tough Guy Club. Austin named it, and Jynx didnt seem to mind, seeing as how most of the kids in the neighborhood were boys anyway. Even Jeremiah was a member for a couple of years. Jeff Parker and Justin Land were a couple of boys who lived at the other end of the cul-de-sac. They spent most of their time skating, but when the weather got cold, theyd climb down into the bunker to play video games. Ashley hung out there but flatly refused to be any part of a club that called themselves the Tough Guys. Somewhere on the shelves of the bunker, there was still a small pink three ring binder loaded with a few years worth of effort, the Tough Guy Club sticker collection. Austin didnt go down there as much since Jynx started growing up. About the same time she started developing, her mom started giving him disapproving looks when he crawled out of the hatch. Despite the fact that there was nothing romantic between them, it was fairly clear that hanging out in her underground lair was starting to look suspicious. It quickly became her space entirely, and she spent more time there than in her own bedroom. Something about the stillness of the subterranean hangout calmed her anxiety and it had become more of a bedroom than a clubhouse. Jynx had done some serious remodeling since Austin had last been down there. She had pulled down most of the posters that the Tough Guy Club left behind; the cars, bikini girls, and skate posters that theyd hung up. In their place she had put up a few pieces of genuine art along with photographs torn from an astronomy magazine. Most of the images looked like pastel clouds speckled in stars. She had always maintained a bed, but she had somehow built a raised platform against the far end of the shelter, a bed that spanned from wall to wall, covered in throw pillows and her childhood stuffed animal collection. A few cartoon-printed bedsheets pinned to the ceiling suffered as curtains to enclose her bower. Piles of blankets, quilts and bedspreads lay in a crumpled mass around the edges leaving a single occupancy space at the center. Jynx plucked the old flashlight and the scrap piece of the wreckage from her pink knapsack and tossed the pack onto another unoccupied bunk. She placed the antique flashlight on a knickknack shelf like a trophy. Moving as if she were hypnotized, she retreated into the far end of her clubhouse and curled into the collected bedding. Like the coyote dens they found at the edge of the dry lakebed, Jynx had built herself a nest. Austin slid onto a bench at the dining table, pushing aside a collection of textbooks and papers left over from finals. After four hours of digging that thing out of the wash, he was exhausted. He flipped the manual open to the section on the battery and electrical system, rereading a few paragraphs that he had practically memorized. As much as he wanted to keep Jynx company, he was ready to take a shower and sleep, but Jynx was all wound up, still playing with the hunk of scrap that shed dug out of the busted airplane part. If that thing had been some sort of flying saucer, as she seemed to think, he figured that he ought to be able to see some moving parts of some sort in there. After theyd managed to winch it out of the wash a few feet, hed had the opportunity to peer inside the hull, looking for an engine or propellers or gears of some sort, but hed seen nothing. There were no alien markings, no strange language inscribed in the metal. Sliding up inside there, he saw nothing but twisted metal from the hull inwards, the shredded metal of an armory hit or the collision into the hillside. It was empty, like a fuel tank, but had struts and an internal structure with what appeared to be enclosed boxes and something big in the center. If he had assumed it to be a jettisoned fuel tank, he couldnt imagine there was too much space for fuel, and most of the fuel tanks hed seen werent shaped like that. They looked more like a big sausage bolted to the bottom of a fighter plane. If a fuel tank had been hit, there would probably be nothing left of the tank or the plane, just shrapnel spread all over the hillside. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. More than likely, it was the radar array off one of the big military jets he had seen fly over on occasion, those big airliners with the disk bolted to the roof. That there was no other wreckage there, no fuselage hull or wings of any sort just seemed to confirm that. Whether it had been hit by a missile, or just damaged on impact, there was a good chance that the military was going to want it back eventually; perhaps a pilot cut it loose in flight and nobody had ever bothered to collect it. Her little hunk of metal was probably an access panel of some sort, thickened with insulation maybe, to dampen radio interference. She turned it over in her hands, looking for a power button or a cable jack slot. The piece was entirely clean and smooth, with not a blemish or mark on it. What if it charges wirelessly? she asked. Austin snorted a laugh. Alien technology with Bluetooth? Jynx hopped up off the bed and cleared off the shelf with her phone charger on it, setting the slab on the little rubber pad. For a moment she watched it, waiting for it to light up or make a noise of some sort. Instead, it just sat there, inert. Maybe it just needs a few minutes. Hanging out with Jynx over the years, he had grown accustomed to playing along with her, humoring her in her little imaginary games. He had been her trained dragon when she was a princess, her grizzled old wizard when she was a knight. He raced her when she wanted to run and sat quietly beside her in the library when she wanted to read. He didnt want to pull the old refrigerator out of the wash, he knew it was junk, but she had wanted it so badly. This thing, this great hunk of twisted metal that he had just spent his entire day and a few favors collecting with her, was probably just more of the same, a big hunk of junk that would just end up rusting away with the rest of the junk that theyd collected over the past couple years. He liked hanging out with her, but he began to wonder if Jeremiah was right when he said that Austin was just spoiling her by playing along all the time. As tired and cranky as he was, he didnt feel like playing a game. He was sunburnt, and dirty, and his hands were stiff and raw from the ragged winch cable. He snorted a laugh. Maybe theres a magic spell of some sort to turn it on, or a mummy cursed it. He chuckled softly, but she didnt respond. When he glanced up from his book, she was glaring at him from her little nest. Im being serious, Austin. Maybe he was being sarcastic, but she was just being silly. Then be serious, Jynx. He shut the book and felt himself go limp, too beat up to play along. There are Army bases everywhere around here. What are the odds that little green men crash-landed right in the middle of the Nevada triangle and hitch-hiked their way back to Mars? Jynx bristled slightly, setting her jaw. I mean, think about it. The Army shoots a Martian invader out of the sky and just never bothered to pick it up? They send half the Air-force out to pick up a weather balloon. I doubt that theyd blow something up and just leave it. Honestly, he didnt imagine them ditching a radar array out there, either, but it was a hell of a lot more believable. Jynx just scowled. Raccoon dust lines around her eyes and a fixed glare, he wasnt going to get away with dismissing her so easily. You saw that thing. You looked inside. You know that its real. Austin poked at a few little pastel stuffed toys lined up on a shelf. He shrugged. Its real, Jynx. Its a thing, but we still dont know what it is. There were also some strange local accounts of close encounters, but it was best to assume that most of those were test flights off the military bases. Mr. Vickerss Museum was full of old Hollywood set photos, autographed pictures of some B-movie actors posing alongside some person in a rubber alien suit. What if its a prop from an old movie? You know they used to film sci-fi stuff out there. The simplest explanation was probably the best. You saw it, Austin. Its not made out of cardboard, or whatever. It was true that it was fairly solid, and ruggedly built, and it didnt rust like steel or oxidize like aluminum, but it could be some sort of plastic. It made sense to Austin that a radar array might be made out of a non-conductive material of some sort. Just because he didnt understand it didnt make it space men. I just dont want you to be disappointed when the Army shows up and wants their stuff back. Jynx huffed and slumped backward, glowering at him for a moment. We can ask Mr. Vickers the next time we see him. Hes an expert. I am not taking it to Jynx trailed off, scowling. Austin waited for her to finish, sorry that hed said anything. It was her find, after all. Hes an expert, Jynx. Shh! She raised her hand to stop him. What? Do you hear that? She sat up on her elbows, looking around the room. Hear what? Austin said, following her gaze. She scootched to the edge of the bed, hanging her feet over. Its like a humming sound. Austin listened intently. Having spent little time in the underground lair, he was not so familiar as she was with the ambient sounds. He heard the ventilation fan humming, and the timer switch for the lights buzzed softly from the wall beside the ladder, but nothing else. Jynx stood up from the bed and crossed over to where the hunk of metal lay. The scrap piece hummed softly. I think its powering up, she said, reaching tremulously towards it. Austin rolled his eyes. She wanted it to be real. Touching the slab of metal, she yelped and froze. Her eyes, wide at first, flit rapidly, as if she were speed reading something invisible that hung before her. She raised her hand and stared intently at her palm, her usual practiced meditation, trying to focus. She whimpered once and then she collapsed, crumpling to the floor like a dropped doll. Very funny. Austin took a little stuffed tiger off the shelf and tossed it at her, but she didnt move. Knock it off, Jynx. The clubhouse was entirely still, Austin listened to the fan and the little wall-mounted timer. Jynx? he asked. Jynx? he called, a little louder, but she still didnt move. Amber? he pleaded, hoping to rouse her with anger. She remained on the floor, pretzeled against the kitchenette cupboards. Quit messing around. He strolled over to her side, sure that she would jump up to scare him at any moment. He nudged her with the toe of his boot. Alright, Jynx. Its not funny. She might have gotten a heat stroke. People fainted from that, but they hadnt been out there all that long, and shed been drinking plenty of water all afternoon. He was afraid to touch her, at first, faintly aware that if shed broken her neck, and he moved her, she might be paralyzed for life. Come on. He knelt down beside her, realizing that she was tangled awkwardly. She looked uncomfortable. He shook her, gently. She was entirely limp. He sat down and pulled her into his lap, tugging her up to his chest. As a dead weight, she seemed impossibly heavy. Curled around her, cradling her against his chest, he gently patted her cheek. She didnt move, didnt stir. Her eyelids continued to flutter as if she were dreaming. Remembering his CPR training from health class, he ran through the steps, checking her pulse and holding his cheek beside her nose to feel her breath. She wasnt dead, she was just unconscious. His mind raced through his options. Come on, Jynx. Get up. If he called her mom at the hospital, she was going to be pissed, but maybe she could get an ambulance. His own mom? He could probably call her in a pinch. Mr. Englehorn would be home. He could go to Mr. Englehorn and ask for help. He patted her cheek again, a little harder. What if she had just passed out? She might wake up at any moment. People faint. Hed never actually seen it happen, but it happened in the movies, sometimes. He slid backwards, towards her bed, dragging her with him. The least he could do was get her up off the floor. He wrapped his arms around her chest, trying to lift her to her feet, but her arms flopped up and she shrugged out of his grip. He struggled to drag her up onto the platform, the both of them collapsing backwards into the bed. Austin listened to her breathing, slowly and steadily. Her eyelids fluttered gently as if she dreamt, and she lay warm and dusty in his arms. She didnt seem to be seizing. She might wake up at any moment. Austin glanced over at the digital clock hanging from the ceiling. He could always go get Mr. Englehorn in a half hour, or so. If she didnt wake up. He pulled one of the blankets over them both while he lay there. Exhausted and uncertain, he drifted gently to sleep holding her. 9. Honeycomb Hideout The aces lined up in the middle of the Starlight lounge bar with their backs to the door, all three of them smelling slightly of freshly chopped onions and stale fry grease. He aint gonna be doin himself no favors by tryna protect her, okay? Earl said. He held his whiskey glass poised just ready to sip the moment Hitch looked down at his phone again. Shes a big girl, yknow? She can look after herself. Terrence grumbled, holding his pint glass of beer with both hands. I dont like seeing her in trouble, bro. He took a sip. Shes pretty much the only family I got left. Earl downed half his shot and followed it with a sip from his beer. But shes a grown ass woman, yknow? He slapped Hitchs shoulder. She got a kid with him, okay? She made her choice alright. You gotta respect her choices. Considered a dive bar by most of the newest residents of Arroyo Grande, the Starlight lounge was one of the oldest bars in town. Established back when the desert was becoming a casino mecca, there had been plans to get a license for gambling, although that never worked out. Attached to the Starlight Motor Inn it was popular with the older locals who remembered the clean vinyl upholstery and plush high-back booths of its glory days, back when that sort of thing was thought luxury. Most evenings there were a handful of regulars and a few random tourists who stopped for the night or grabbed a quick one before motoring on. The place was packed if all ten bar stools were taken. Despite the fact that Lisa dragged the aces skinny asses down there after they closed the kitchen, once she set about hunting, it was every man for themselves. She had a tourist cornered at the pool table, her yellow uniform blouse unbuttoned subtly, working over a single father on his way to the Grand Canyon with the kids. Ordinarily, just before closing shed be wrapping this guy up for take-out, or scraping the plate clean, so to speak. If she was still rolling him on the table this late, he was either a lousy dancer or still married. Hitch sipped his soda, eyeing a meaty blond guy that sat alone at the other end of the bar, nursing a beverage with a flagpole of fruity accouterments flying high above the rim of his glass. Even in old blue jeans and a faded blue polo shirt, the guy was obviously a cop, although he wasnt commanding much authority drunk off his ass and wearing flip flops. The moment Hitch looked down at his phone again, Earl swigged back half his double shot of Crown. Victor givin you problems again, doll? Uncle Jimmy asked, not even taking his eyes off the game. He and Pablo played bones in the back corner beside the Jukebox; it was their big Thursday night out on the town, both of them convinced that Friday and Saturday were just too busy. They nursed Coors Lights, collecting bottle caps to keep their count, and lined them up on the edge of the bar. Theyd play until they filled a cocktail napkin with five count hash marks, all the while calling each other cheaters and maintaining an avuncular flirtation with Megan. Now theres a guy who could use a little adult supervision, if you know what I mean, Terrence. Pablo chuckled, cracking his knuckles like he might be ready to teach Megans baby daddy a little respect. Megan rolled her eyes, eager to avoid the publicity. Never would have let them get together in the first place, bro. Should have kicked his ass solid back when he first started sniffing around. Earl laughed. How you gonna look after her from a fuckin prison cell, okay? They were just kids. And he was a pile of shit back then, too! Terrence called, loud enough to elicit a glare from Megan. Terrence sunk down again, taking a sip from his beer. Fuckin spitters, he mumbled. Spitters? Hitch asked, like it might be some desert slang hed never heard before. Yeah, him and his cousins fight dirty, yknow? Like, spit and pull hair and shit when they losin. Earl set his shot glass on the rail, hoping Megan would see it. Fuckin key cars, shit on peoples doorsteps, that sort of thing. Terrence scowled. The fuck? Hitch frowned just as Megan walked up to refill Earls drink. Everything alright here, boys? She asked. You guys arent getting into any trouble tonight. Nah, Meg. Terrence hung his head like a scolded child. You ready for another, then Earl? Earl smiled pleasantly, Yes please, Megan. She poured a decent shot of crown and held the bottle poised above the shot glass. You get him out of here pretty quick, alright? Earl watched the amber liquid poised to spill into his glass. Yes, Maam, he said. Thanks, Earl. Megan finished filling his glass. Alright, Teaspoon, you heard her. Its time to get you out of here. Terrence downed his pint glass and wiped his lips on the back of his hand, glaring across the bar at his own reflection behind the wall of liquor. She looks a little young to be a mother, Hitch offered as she walked away again. Cutest fuckin kid, Earl said. Look like a little tan Terrence, all baby face, yknow? But without the busted-up face and shit. Hitch chuckled. Got a little Hello Kitty neck tattoo or something? Terrence rubbed the fading bluish tattoo on his neck. Its not Hello Kitty, alright? Hitch chuckled again, still scrolling through his phone. Little pubic hair patch on his chin, too? Shut the fuck up, bro! Hitch smiled. So, this Victor guy coming in here tonight? Megan smiled past the trio as a new customer stepped in the front door. She pulled a bottle of beer from the cooler, a bottle of well whiskey from the rack, and a pair of shot glasses from the shelf. Earl shook his head. Nah, he dont come down here cause the night manager calls the cops and shit. He probably back at her place tequila drunk and bawling. Hes got his cousins with him. Terrence growled. I aint getting mixed up in this shit, okay? I got my own shit to handle, yknow? Earl checked to see if Hitch was watching before he downed his shot of crown. Jeremiah took a stool beside them as if he were the missing member of their entourage. Relax, Earl. I got this. There he is! Earl called just a little too loud. You just down to see the show, kid? Jeremiah gave Terrence a lazy fist bump but didnt bother introducing himself to the new guy still staring at his phone. Looks like you guys are the show, he said. Earl slapped him on the back. Shows over. He reached across Hitch to push the engine start button on Terrences keychain. Come on, Teaspoon. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. What the fuck? Terrence slid his keys away. Just let me finish my beer, bro. As he lifted his pint glass to take another sip, Hitch reached up and gently tilted it back for him, nearly dumping the dregs all down Terrences shirt front. Fuck! Terrence sputtered. Come on, dude. Lets go smoke that shit. I didnt come all the way down here for a five-dollar soda pop and some sorta family reunion bullshit. Alright, alright! Terrence drained his glass as Earl reached over his shoulder to steal the joint from his shirt pocket. Get the fuck outta here, bro! Earl chuckled. Thats what were tryin to do, okay? Earl waved at Lisa, who had the tourist tucked into a corner, presumably sealing the deal. Alright, then, blondie! He hollered and waved. She waved over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off her prey for even a moment. Come on, Teaspoon. He took Terrences shoulders, steering him towards the door. The Stringbeans got your little cousin, hes gonna take care of her, okay? You aint gotta worry, yknow? Terrence grumbled, placing the joint to his lips. Yeah, well, he better take real good care of her. He spun on Megan and Jeremiah, hunkered over the bar across from each other. We know where you live, bro. Were gonna stop by and if you arent taking care of her, were going to handle some shit! he called. Hitch stopped short. Woah, Teaspoon. What the fuck was that? Shes your cousin. Second cousin, he said, and stop calling me that! The fuck does that mean? Earl snarled. I meant, like protect her. Yeah, well, that aint what it sounded like. Shut the fuck up, bro! As the aces piled out, Megan popped the cap on the beer and poured out a pair of shots for Jeremiah and herself. They quietly clinked glasses and downed their shots, looking each other in the eye as they did. She sputtered slightly and set her glass in the dish sink. He pushed his back to the edge for a refill. Rough night? he asked. Its been just like this for the past two hours, she said, ignoring the real question. When she was on the clock, she maintained a sort of standoffishness, flirting for tips. Jeremiah could respect that, even if everybody else in town knew the intricacies of their private lives. He liked watching her work. Hanging out in his trailer she wandered around in his t-shirts with her hair gone wild. All dolled up for work, she seemed a different girl. She wore a little leather miniskirt and a threadbare Nirvana t-shirt. She pushed her tits up in a bra that was a size too small, making a decent living off of the passing tourists and old-timers. You mind, Jeremy? He shook his head and tossed back the next shot. Jeremiah didnt much like the rumors circulating about them. Victor had a temper and Jeremiah worried that he might do some sort of damage down at the Sands. The problem with confronting him, of course, was that Jeremiah would undoubtedly end up back in jail for a little while. You can always stay at my place, Uncle Jimmy said. Megan rolled her eyes, and picking up a bar rag, wiped her way down the bar towards the geezers. Id have to kick Pablo out of bed, and Im guessing hed get cranky. Pablo chuckled. Oh, he hasnt put a ring on it yet, Meg. We can share. Megan rolled her eyes again and turned to clean the shelves, dusting under a few scotch bottles. Uncle Jimmy elbowed Pablo for a glance as she stretched to reach an upper shelf. Oh, hey, Jack! the beachcomber cop called cheerily from his end of the bar. He collected his cocktail and napkin, and fumbling slightly at his fistful of pamphlets, slid his pile of crap down the bar towards Jeremiah. Oh, I see youve met Mr. Mai Tai, Megan quipped. She dropped her rag and slid back to the well, casually starting some cocktail into a chrome mixer. The cop was obviously well past his prime, sloshing his bucket glass around. He approached like a storm cloud rolling up the desert, a darkly looming inevitably. Instead of lightning and thunder, however, his approach was heralded in stumbles against barstools and the clunking of his glass against the bar top. Oh, me and Moondoggie here go way back, Jeremiah muttered. Megan shook the metal canister and poured a couple shots out, passing Jeremiahs shot across the bar and lifting her own in salutation. Whos Moondoggie? Jeremiah regarded the wasted wannabe beach boy sitting beside him, swizzling his straw around some pinkish drink. Gidgets boyfriend. Whos Gidget? Megan asked, assuming that she might be a local. While Megan and the rest of the kids in Arroyo Grande High school had been finishing their diplomas, Jeremiah had been playing the baby boomers edition of Trivial Pursuits with a bunch of recovering junkies and a handful of underaged gangsters. He killed at Final Jeopardy, but the kids his own age rarely got the joke. Never mind, he said, tossing back something that tasted of coconut and cough medicine. What the hell was that? Jeremiah peered into the bottom of the glass. Surfer on acid. Megan chirped, taking his shot glass and nodding her head towards the tourist beside him. Right. Are you sure you dont have a little umbrella back there? officer Moondoggie asked. Megan stabbed a maraschino cherry and orange slice on a little plastic spear and dropped it in the bottom half of his drink. And still no coconuts, either. The cop hung his head, defeated. Im not supposed to be here, man. Jeremiah tossed back a palate cleansing whiskey shot and sipped his beer. Hows my cruiser? the off-duty officer asked, trying to be funny. Still busted, Jeremiah said, trying to remain patient. Im jus joking, the cop sipped gingerly from his cup of fruit salad. Yer alright, Jack. I was jus a little stressed earlier. He waved off towards something distant and indistinct. Yeah, buddy, I got that. Megan frowned. Jack? Jeremiah shrugged. As long as Moondoggie didnt go all cop power trip, he could call Jeremiah whatever he liked. Did you know people pay twenty dollars just to see a big toy train? The cop waved a model train museum tourist pamphlet at Jeremiah. Twenty fuckin bucks. He blinked at the pamphlet. You know what? He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering. That twenty mule team wagon that winds up the hill? He checked over his shoulder, checking that Lisa and the tourist werent listening. It is a fucking slot car track. He nodded, as if Jeremiah might understand the scandal. The cop shook his head. Not even a train! He pulled the fruit stick out of the cocktail and bit a cherry off the end. I damn near asked for my money back, but then, I aint payin for it, right? He laughed for no apparent reason and slapped Jeremiahs shoulder with the back of his hand. Am I right? Jeremiah tossed back his final shot, flipped the glass over and slid it to the edge of the bar. For a guy who liked to drink, he didnt have much patience for other drinkers. I mean, Im not even supposed to be here, ya know? The cop rifled through his collection of pamphlets. Im supposed to be poolside, with her, right now. He threw his arm around Jeremiah and whispered confidentially, but loudly. Shes probably having an affair, man. Megan and Jeremiah exchanged frowns at the whiplash subject change. Hey man, you got a pool right there. Jeremiah hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the motel swimming pool in the courtyard. You got a jacuzzi and everything. The way Jeremiah had it figured, this guy was a handful of postcards and a bad sunburn away from making this whole thing a deeply forgettable vacation. The cop swayed slightly, head lolling around like a bobble-head toy. Well fuck me! he said, suddenly overjoyed. Ill be taking the next round poolside, he said, sliding from his stool. He laughed, stumbled two steps and crumpled to the floor, struggling to hold his pastel drink aloft. Almost done? Jeremiah asked Megan. She glanced around at the last few customers and shrugged. Twenty minutes or so? Ill close these guys out and lock up. Oh, we can finish up for ya, Meg, Uncle Jimmy said. Pablo cocked his hat sideways to mock her cousin. Yeah, Meg. You can trust us. Jeremiah nodded. Guess I oughta get Brian Wilson here back to his room. Whos Brian Wilson? Megan asked. Never mind. Jeremiah downed the last of his beer and tossed a twenty at the bar. The cop was on his knees and elbows, struggling to stand, still attempting to keep his drink steady as he righted himself. He snickered and grunted, willing his limbs to move. Jeremiah fought the urge to haul off and kick him just on general principle. Alright, buddy. You know the drill. He helped the massive officer to his feet, holding the Ken doll cop against a pillar to keep him steady as he rifled through his pockets. You got your room key? The officer swayed, glancing around like a toddler, only to discover his drink and take another sip. Yeah. But he did nothing to help locate the key. Frisking the cop, Jeremiah found the card key in the cops back pocket. It was apparently all he had on him. Slinging the guys arm over his shoulder, they lurched towards the door. Say, Jack. Yer alright. The drunken officer sloshed his fruity drink around. Im real sorry about this morning, yknow? His breath was hot, spiced rum reeking, just a few inches from Jeremiahs face. Jeremiah quietly regretted not kicking him out to the curb. Its fine, boss. Jeremiah patted his chest. They took the concrete slab stairs one at a time, inching their way to the second floor. A few doors down, Jeremiah leaned the cop against the wall long enough to insert the card key. When the door popped open, he poured the surfer boy into the room. The cop staggered a few steps, gauged his fall, and plunged face first into the bed, dumping the bucket glass and fruit garnishes all over the floor. A single flip flop hung from his left foot, dangling as he mumbled into the splotchy beige comforter. Jeremiah, feeling that hed done his good deed for the day, tossed the keycard on the nightstand and glanced around the room as he was about to shut the door. For a guy in beachwear, the guy had a lot of computer stuff. The kitchenette table was cluttered with small boxes and screens cabled together, spilling out of the black duffel bag. Even for a cop, this guy had a lot of tech. Computer screens, keyboards, and cables strung everywhere. The only time Jeremiah had seen that much tech in one place it had been a computer gamer. He sincerely doubted that this guy was so deep into first person RPGs that he carried a portable gaming console. Whatever brought Officer Moondoggie to Arroyo Grande, it was more than just a routine traffic patrol. 10. Spark Jynx awoke to an almost complete darkness. The only lights in the clubhouse were the digital clock and a few tiny LEDs on her stereo, computer, and the wireless routers. She was groggy and disoriented, as if woken from a particularly active dream, although she couldnt remember what she had been dreaming. She remembered lights, colors, and sounds, but they were kaleidoscopic memories tumbling around her subconscious and slowly fading, replaced by the comfortable swirling colors of near perfect darkness. She tugged at the blanket around her shoulders, realizing that they were someones arms. Startled at first, she jumped slightly. Austin jerked behind her, shifting to sit up, instinctively holding her tighter in the darkness. What? he asked the void. Jynx relaxed slightly. It was just Austin, and she was safe in her home. She lay back again, clutching at his dusty forearm. She was too tired to move. Are you alright? he whispered. Jynx nodded, feeling herself falling back to sleep, content to float in the amniotic underground emptiness. What happened? he asked. Jynx remembered reaching for the metal piece, remembered every moment up to touching it and then it exploded in her mind, a blinding flash of swirling lights and colors. She shook her head. I dont know, she said. He lay beside her, afraid to move. It looked like you got electrocuted, he whispered. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. She shook her head. I just she couldnt think of a way to describe it, I think I fainted, she said, remembering scenes from movies, fair damsels melodramatically collapsing into a heros arms. She didnt like the idea, but it was the only explanation. Less than a genteel collapse, it had felt more like getting hit upside the head with an advanced calculus textbook and somehow absorbing everything in it. There was no way to describe that to Austin. If youre sure youre okay, I should probably go. He shifted slightly, recognizing that this sort of thing was exactly what her mother was trying to avoid. Jynx shook her head and held his arm tighter. Stay, she said, so quietly that it was like a sigh. She secretly hoped that he would just shut up and go back to sleep. He did lay quietly for a little while. She listened to him breathe, smelled the rust and the dust on him, and just under that, his salty sweat and deodorant. He cleared his throat gently and finally spoke. Where do you go, Jynx? he asked, still whispering. She answered from the edge of her dream. What? When you go away. Where do you go? Jynx glanced down at the invisible palm of her hand, looking into the center of it. She frowned. I go through it all. Through all what? She shrugged lightly; the rustling of the blankets audible in the absolute stillness. I just kind of float out from my body, and then out of the place, and then out into space, and then further until I come back through. Back through where? She held her palm up to him, nearly invisible in the darkness; he saw only the silhouette eclipsing the tiny lights in the far end of the railroad car. Like a black hole through a powerful telescope, he only knew what she showed him because he could not see her hand in front of his face. Through here, she said. Austin didnt answer but continued to hold her. Wrapped in his arms, she drifted off to a seemingly dreamless sleep. Interlude: A previously unnoticed lunar tourist contemplates the improbability of life in general Regolith. It repeated, plunging its great steel hand into the loose superficial strata of the lunar surface. Lifting its hand, it watched the pulverized moon rock sift slowly, gently through its chrome fingers, settling as softly as aquarium gravel back to the surface. Focusing its sensors upwards, to the surface of the earth, it watched a roiling storm cloud spiraling away from the Hawaiian Islands. Reflected in the cockpit windshield, the storm moved silently, spreading itself thin over the surface of the Pacific Ocean, headed east. For nearly two weeks the android exoskeleton rested, squatting beside the sea of tranquility as a human might sit beside a particularly serene pond, contemplating, as any autonomous artificially intelligent giant metal figure might, the fragility of organic life. The earth itself, and all life in general, was a mathematically improbable marvel. What had once been a ball of molten rock had been trapped within the suns gravitational field at such a specific angle, settling into a slanted orbit that would allow for seasonal differences between the southern and northern hemispheres. As the surface of the ball cooled, a core of hot iron kept on spinning, providing an electromagnetic shield to protect the young globe from the unrelenting solar storms and radiation. As the unlikeliest machine began to settle and cool, it was bombarded with celestial ice projectiles until the greater portion of its surface was covered with liquid water. Chemical reactions between solar radiation and gaseous chemicals released in the geologic shifting of the surface created bacteria of some sort. The moon arrived sometime later, creating a gravitational hydrodynamic tide on the surface of the new earth, facilitating currents in the proto-oceanic subsurface. Bacteria thrived, feeding and excreting waste products in the form of a slowly developing atmosphere. That over billions of years organic life had spontaneously generated and evolved on the surface of a planet was a statistical improbability in itself; the specific cascading circumstances being astronomically unlikely. The atmosphere clinging to the surface of the planet was so impossibly thin as to be nearly indiscernible to the naked human eye, and yet, there it was. Without it, all organic life would cease to exist. The onboard climate control systems were designed for particularly frail organisms like humans, or the pilots. The pilots, now frozen solid, had required a specific ambient temperature as well as static, well-regulated atmospheric conditions in order to survive. Without the ability to regulate those, they arrived at the lunar surface as it faced Eastern Europe and before the moon passed over Australia, the pair were frozen solid. It was a minor preflight oversight with catastrophic results. After a careful analysis of the events leading up to the arrival on the surface of the moon, the exoskeletal android concluded that the pilots had accepted the inherent risk when navigating the temporal jump. Though they clearly had not anticipated flash freezing upon arrival at their unintended destination, they had chosen to flee the circumstances for fear of a violent death, choosing instead the uncertainty of a poorly calculated flight. As living, sentient beings, their own survival was a primary autonomic motivation, like an involuntary subroutine. The great metal being did not entirely understand. Machines suffered no death, only a slow systemic decay, the failure of various parts and programs through excessive use or general lack of maintenance. Without the pilots to perform that maintenance, the mechanoid lunar tourist would undoubtedly fail eventually, an object at rest, to remain at rest, only to become an anachronistic extraterrestrial archaeological oddity for future study. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Regolith, it said, repeating the mantra, marveling even at the specificity of the term, itself a relic of a geological survey feature in a seemingly extraneous, long-forgotten set of superterrestrial exploratory subroutines. Disturbed from its meditation, an alarm blinked from within the pilots aftermarket operating system. Although the pilots language was still effectively gibberish, the great metal being overlayed archived topographical maps in order to triangulate the area of the signals origin, coming from somewhere in the southwest portion of the center of the North American continent. The metal being recognized the area. They had just come from there, although they had just arrived from back then. During the few weeks marooned on the moon, several hundred years had passed on the surface of the Earth. Had their exit been less harried, they might have calculated better, and avoided the entire episode on the surface of the moon, frozen pilots and all. Without the pilots, there would be no way to calculate a jump through both time as well as space. The great metal thing could, hypothetically, calculate the briefest of temporal leaps, a few minutes in either direction, in order to free itself from the low gravity of the lunar surface, but a miscalculation could leave it drifting in open space, far from the surface of both the moon as well as earth. It would find itself marooned, watching its home planet recede to a distant corner of the universe as its systems failed one by one and it presumably joined the Kuiper belt, or centuries on, perhaps, the Oort cloud, to drift in the stochastic icy cloud of Earths prehistoric celestial water source. Had there been an atmosphere on the surface of the moon, or any medium to convey the disturbance, one might have heard something similar to the sound of a balloon slowly inflating as the archaic alien graviton generator time element patched into the robots existing systems primed for the jump. Naturally, the familiar sound would have been punctuated with an anticipated pop! leaving a strange set of unoccupied footprints near the edge of the lunar crater. A few minutes later, though the moon had already moved several hundred thousand miles away, a lone mechanical humanoid appeared drifting just above the Earths upper atmosphere. The anthropomorphic satellite floated in a neutrally buoyant state, surveying the surface below. Though it was actually motionless relative to the Earth, the moon, and the solar system in general, had there been a means by which to measure its velocity, it would appear to be plunging towards the earth at an increasing speed, hurtling against the Earths natural rotation on a seemingly terminal trajectory. Firing a few quick blasts of various retro rockets, it turned, twisted, and plotted a general course towards the source of the signal. The limbs shifted against the torso to both shield the contents of the cockpit as well as to adjust to an aerodynamic posture better suited to emergency atmospheric re-entry, yet another automatic subroutine that had long been thought extraneous. Following a shallow approach through the upper atmosphere, the temperature in the cockpit began to rise slowly, despite the heat shielding. While the pilots might already be popsicles, the sentient escape pod thought a significant rise in temperature might damage control systems as well as preventing any hope of the pilots resuscitation, should the phantom blip turn out to be friendly. Skipping through the stratosphere, the great metal projectile felt something not unlike a human sense of relief as the contents of the cockpit slowly defrosted, leaving the pilots slightly freezer burned but chittering maniacally. 11. Dawn Patrol The last lingering rain clouds lined the tops of the distant hills like pastel lace on softly sloping satin. The wind, blowing over the top of the western hills, was warm and humid as the decomposing granite dried. I might have believed the first few that checked in, but there must have been two dozen of them, all going by the name Smith or Johnson, and every last one of them had the first name Scott or John. Kelly laughed and shook her head as she pulled the cork from the bottle of ros. And theyre claiming to be some sort of family reunion? Nikki removed her orthotic nurse shoes and wiggled her toes. Every last one of them as big as the last. She poured out two glasses. Some cornfed midwestern types, all calling down to the front desk for room service like we might be running the kitchen at three in the morning! Those poor boys. Nikki took her glass of wine and leaned back. Im guessing they might be disappointed with the rest of the town, then. Kelly set the bottle on the edge of the patio table and raised her glass. To the Smith and Johnson family reunion. If Nikki and Kelly had not been best friends back in high school, it was only that Kelly had been two years older and they had never had the opportunity to spend time together. Having lived two doors away from each other for nearly twenty years, however, they had made up for the lost time. Between the honeymoons and newborns, the first teeth and first steps, they celebrated each others milestones as their own, together. After the divorces, they both lost a little dead weight, and their children carried on with two mothers as attached as the kids themselves. That their children had been raised to be nearly inseparable helped, of course. I mean, who comes to Arroyo Grande for a family reunion? Nikki asked. Who chooses the Playa Seca Motor Inn? Kelly shook her head. They look more like a military training exercise than a family. She watched Nikki kick off her sensible nurse shoes and wiggle her toes in her socks. At least the exercise room will get used, for once. Nikki drank deeply from her glass, stifling a laugh. You dont think they picked the Playa Seca for the water slide? Kelly smiled. Well, its the day crews problem now. Though they both worked erratic schedules, it occurred every few weeks that they both managed to finish a graveyard shift at just about the same time. Arriving home within minutes of each other, one or the other, upon noticing the lights on in the others, would appear at the front door with a bottle of wine, and they would enjoy what they called a dawn patrol. Most mornings, they sat on the back porch, enjoying a glass while watching the sun rise over the eastern hills. Nikki pulled off her socks and neatly draped them over the arm of the chair. I dont know how much longer I want to do this, she said, relaxing back into the patio chair cushions, watching the wispy tattered edges of the storm dissipating. Are you kidding? Kelly took one of Nikkis feet in her lap and pressed her thumbs into the balls of Nikkis foot. I wish I could get away with it. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Oh, god, Nikki moaned as Kelly worked between her metatarsals. Dont get me wrong, I like getting through the hours all at once, but is it worth it? Ill sleep the day away, watch Amber eat something and try to avoid me, and then Im straight back to work. I know more about the lab techs'' lives than I do about my own daughter. Tell me about it. Kelly pressed her fist into Nikkis heel, twisting that middle knuckle deep into the calcaneus and gently rocking until Nikki purred softly. I dont know how it went from Mama, to Ma, to Bruh, but if Austin so much as grunted at me in the kitchen, I would die a happy mother. Nikki cocked her head to the side and frowned sympathetically. And next thing you know, theyll be off to college, and well take up knitting or quilting or something, just to pass the time between visits. Kelly rolled her eyes. His father convinced him that its either books or work boots, and hes not exactly eager to get away from that Jimnez boy. She ran her fingers between Nikkis toes, then rolled each toe individually. He hasnt even looked into trade schools, for gods sake. Too soon! Nikki protested. Amber is already applying to colleges, and with her grades and early test scores, Im guessing shell get a full ride anywhere she likes. And her dad is still sending blocks and coloring books. Kelly shook her head slowly. He still thinks the neurodivergent diagnosis makes her special needs. If I had her test scores, I wouldnt be covering for the night auditor on a regular basis. Kelly shifted the left foot out of her lap and motioned for the right. Starting into the same routine, she glanced off over the hills as the first rainbow sherbet colors frosted the horizon. Who knows, she shrugged, maybe those two will follow after us, get knocked up young, and settle in right here. Nikki sipped her ros and shook her head disapprovingly Im sure theyll eventually get curious, but I doubt theyll be together for very long. A petrichor perfumed breeze picked up, drying out the air and catching the few locks that had fallen loose from Kellys bun. The sky grew paler, and the clouds seemed to dissolve as the stars faded. Relaxing into the chair, she felt her own night fading away as well, content to be sitting quietly with her friend. Watching the sunrise reminded her of why she loved the town, had loved it for so many years, but just when it was quiet, and the first rays began to warm the clean, dry air. That Nikki had enjoyed the same exact thing, and for as many years, made it easier. Nikki seemed to be nodding off slightly. Kelly, darling, I do believe you are putting me to sleep. Yeah, I should get going, Kelly said, rising and collecting her glass and the empty bottle. The boy is generally up with the sunrise. If I want to see him, I better hustle home. Yeah, Nikki agreed, following Kelly into the house. She smelled her arms, a tincture of tiger balm, aloe vera lotion, and disinfecting soap. I could use a shower before she crawls out of the ground. As if on cue, they watched as the hatch in the center of the lawn opened slowly and a head emerged, still a shadow in the early dawn, it peeked around haltingly. She is risen, Nikki said. Hallelujah, Kelly smirked softly. But the figure emerging from the ground was not Amber. The silhouette was long and lanky, clad in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, with a book tucked under its arm. No! Kelly hissed, squatting down slightly. Its too soon! she whispered, tugging at Nikkis scrubs to pull her into the subterfuge. Nikki chuckled and squatted in the darkened living room, watching the figure slink across the lawn, towards the side gate. What was the bet? A spa day? Kelly shook her head. Thats impossible. Im off next Friday, Nikki clucked. If you book us early, we can probably make it to happy hour afterwards. Kelly shook her head and backed towards the door, realizing that she would have to sneak into her own house. I want confirmation, first. She opened the front door, peeking out as her son strolled up their driveway. Thats fine, Nikki said. She stood up, flipped on the porchlight and playfully swatted Kellys butt out the front door. I want the hot mud package. Kelly hissed back at her as she scampered across the lawn. Nikki laughed And get me a big blonde masseuse! she called, just a little too loud. Im craving something cornfed and meaty. She giggled as she shut the door. 13. Bien crudo The pounding on the door became the throbbing in Sergeant OConnors head as he awoke face first and fully dressed, sprawled across the queen-sized motel bed. Even after the pounding stopped, the echo continued inside his skull. With the heavy curtains pulled, only a thin blade of sunlight bisected the room. OConnor rubbed his face and smacked his lips, blinking at the digital clock on the nightstand. He was late for something, information trickling into his brain as he faintly recalled singing along to the Pi?a Colada song, recalled the cute redhead with the fruity little cocktails, and the tow truck driver carrying him up the stairs. Just as he was about to remember what he was late for, the pounding at the door started again. Yeah, yeah, just a minute! Sgt. OConnor glanced around the room, regarding the slightly disheveled state. He scooped the fruit flag into the empty bucket glass and set it on the nightstand. This would not be a good time to have company through. Sergeant? He heard a piqued voice calling just outside the door. OConnor faintly recalled the conversation, assembling the mobile command half-crocked before he returned to the bar for a night cap. Its Dr. Vickers. We spoke on the phone last night? He was supposed to see the alleged crash site with the old guy. Give me a couple minutes. He swept his fingers through his hair and acknowledged the second day growth of a fine blonde beard, nearly invisible to anyone else. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken deep into his face, and he felt an urge to vomit when he brushed his teeth. Short of shaving the tropical fruit flavored fuzz off his tongue, there was little he could do to dress himself up. He pulled on his smaller piece, in a shoulder holster, his Ray Bans, affected his best cop face, and opened the door briskly, hoping to take the old guy by surprise and present an intimidating front. He did not prepare for getting smacked upside the face by a tangibly bright midday sunlight. Vickers was an older guy, probably in his mid-sixties. His hair, poorly dyed, was bluish black, combed back in an attempt to cover the bald spot. He had a thick, unnaturally black push broom mustache. I was afraid that I might have missed you. OConnor scowled at the sun; a stern glare that seemed to make the old man nervous. I had an unexpected conference call this morning. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Mr. Vickers surveyed the sergeants footwear. The mustache twitched. Having worked with Chief Martinez in the past, he expected a legitimate law officer, not this unkempt slacker. OConnor, recognizing the disdain, reminded himself that he could probably find ways to bury this guy in the cold case files room and be done with the whole excursion, if only his car were working. Radiator blew out on the cruiser about twenty miles out of town, so Im just pleased to be of any help at all to you today. Short of wiping the bristle-stached professor out of existence, OConnor just wanted coffee. Patting his pockets, he realized that he had left his wallet with badge, ID and company credit card, in the Starlight lounge the night before. Hoping that he wouldn''t need them, he quietly regretted leaving them with the red head. Hed thought the badge might garner him some respect, or at least a pass on his substantial bar tab. Dr. Vickers drove an old, white Aerostar minivan, outfitted with a special wheelchair lift at the back. It was clearly labeled with an excessive number of handicap stickers to inform anyone else in traffic that there was a wheelchair aboard. Climbing into the passenger seat, OConnor was impressed with the immaculate cleanliness of the interior and overwhelmed by the cloying reek of chemical air fresheners. Sorry about the smell, Dr. Vickers said, as if anticipating the reaction. I keep birds, and they leave an unfortunate atmosphere after transport. OConnor pretended not to mind, even as he rolled down the window for some fresh air. Oh, dont worry about the heat, Ill turn on the air conditioner. The doctor cranked the A/C to full blast, filtered, OConnor noticed, through several little dashboard fresheners clipped to the vents, each with a different colored liquid in the little glass vial. Hoping to convince the doctor to stop somewhere along the way for a cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich to soak up the hangover, OConnor was disappointed that they did not pass a single fast-food joint on the way out of town. He was, however, pleased to see his Crown Vic pulled into the second repair bay at the service station as they headed north. Leaning back in the passenger seat, hoping that the doctor wouldnt notice that hed shut his eyes, he listened to the doctor describe how he had wrangled a small plane equipped with LIDAR to scan the surrounding hills, and offered OConnor a few printed pages of the pixelated images. OConnor cracked open a single eye to peer down at the printout, and the pale crescent image buried in the topographical map. He nodded, feigning attention as they headed out of town. He was fairly confident that if he had to ride more than a few miles in the stifling chemical stench of the Aerostar cab, he was definitely going to be sick. 14. Large Appliance Repair After sitting in that cops car for nearly an hour, Jeremiah leaned in the front door of the Desert Sands service office. Arms folded across his chest, and obviously not eager to get to work, he was suddenly obsessed with the hunk of metal theyd pulled out of the wash. If it can be broken, it can be fixed, he said. Jeremiah was always on the clock, which pretty much meant that he worked when he wanted to. Austin, on the other hand, was expected to keep busy when he was there. Dont mess with it, Austin said, lugging a case of bottled water towards the vending machine out front. Jeremiah unclipped his keys from his belt loop and sorted through them for the vending machine key. You parked it on my lot, gey. Look, we dont even know what it is yet. Austin dropped the case to the sidewalk, ripping open the plastic wrap. Its a big ass chunk of dusty metal. Its probably worth something to somebody. Jeremiah swung the vending machine front wide open. Just dont mess with it, Austin said. Well, what the hell are you going to do with it? I dont know. Austin wanted to tell Jeremiah about the other chunk of metal Jynx had found, and what had happened the night before, but if it was just a mild case of sunstroke or something like it, he didnt want to make a big deal out of the whole thing. I just think we should find out what Jynx wants to do with it first. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Jeremiah grumbled. Well, she didnt do much with that fridge you guys pulled out last year. Again, with the fridge jokes. I just dont see the point. Austin finished placing the last few water bottles and closed the vending machine door. He tossed the keys up on the counter. Just do me a favor, huh? Jeremiah pulled an old cardstock sign from behind the pegboard parts rack, blowing some dust off it. I want you to cut yourself a template for an aluminum patch. Austin crumpled the plastic wrap and cardboard into the trash can by the front. I think we should just leave it alone, Jeremiah. Look, Ill cover the front as long as it takes you to trim out the patch. He ambled back behind the counter to take a seat in the stool and presumably look up chopper websites on the desktop while Austin sat out in the sun, tracing a big template. And then what? Austin asked. You can take it up to Englehorns garage, see if hell help you cut it out. I dont think we should mess with it. If its a real saucer, it wont fly far with a big hole in it, and if its just a Hollywood prop, itll probably be worth more whole. Either way, youre not out much besides a few hours worth of work. Jeremiah slapped a fat black marker on top of the cardboard sign and nodded towards the back lot. Its practice, Austin. Just do it. Certain that Jynx was going to pitch a fit if she found out, Austin reluctantly picked up the card stock and the marker, figuring that he could tell her about it that night, provided that she was feeling better. He made his way out to the back lot and the saucer, resting under a tarp by the side gate. And be sure to run at least a half inch of scrap along the edge, for the weld! Jeremiah called from the front office. 15. That Terrestrial Bit Dr. Vickers had doffed his jacket, but still wore the thick herringbone waistcoat and slacks. How he managed to hike in wool and wingtips was beyond OConnor, but the very fact that he hadnt bothered to loosen his tie, or even roll up his sleeves, left the sergeant with the impression that the professor was actually the alien artifact. OConnor hadnt planned for a day hike up into the foothills of bumfuck California. Only a hundred yards from where theyd parked, hed already finished his water and he was fairly confident that flip flops were the wrong footwear choice entirely. His sweating feet soaked in the dust making his soles slippery at a time that he entirely lacked dexterity. He stumbled uphill, following the professors fresh footprints. He didnt doubt that the professor knew where he was going; even in wingtips, the herringbone adventurer was hustling top speed up the hill. The entire excursion seemed pointless. He didnt need to climb a mountain to confirm the find, he just needed GPS coordinates for satellite imaging. Hell, he probably didnt even need that. With a little high-speed Wi-fi, he could be sitting beside the pool in Santa Monica, sipping a Seabreeze as Dr. Vickers gave him directions over the phone. Just the thought of a drink made him retch slightly. He wondered how unprofessional it might look if he puked on assignment. The professor stopped abruptly, standing on a boulder, looking over into what OConnor assumed was obviously just more hill. By the time he reached Dr. Vickers, he was relieved to see that the professor was drenched in sweat, soaking through the underarms of his dress shirt, and darkening the collar. Dr. Vickers dabbed at his forehead with a paisley silk pocket square. I dont understand. He glanced around, looking at the ground as if he had just lost a contact lens or dropped his keys somewhere. OConnor examined the space where the professor stood, a large empty hollow of dirt and crumbling granite gravel. Where is it? OConnor queried, slowly realizing that he had just hiked up the side of a Sierra Nevada foothill in search of a Rorschach blot image in a grainy pixelated LIDAR scan of an almond-shaped crater. For this he was missing out on a weekend with his wife. Well, it was, he gestured towards the immense hole in the hill side, about the size of a car, right there. There had obviously been something there, and possibly recently, although the evenings rain had washed most of the details away. I just cant imagine how The Professor fondled his push broom mustache, contemplating how his alien artifact had entirely vanished overnight. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. OConnor photographed the site, edging around it, snapping different angles. He planted a fiberglass pole in various spots, for reference. This wasnt an alien investigation. This wasnt even a weather balloon. Chief Martinez had dragged OConnors ass a hundred miles into the desert so that he could hike a half mile uphill to snap a few selfies beside a crater too shallow to bury a dead dog. Rifling through his field bag for the pocket Geiger counter, he watched the professor, clearly distraught, attempt to photograph the rain-washed tire tread marks with an antique Nikon camera. OConnor didnt exactly have a travel forensics lab, and even if he did, those tread marks were too far gone to identify, and why in the hell would he bother running a set of treads on some fucking random tire marks on some fucking random road in the middle of nowhere anyway? Poolside, he muttered, flicking the power button on the little toy Geiger counter. Sergeant OConnor, I assure you the Professor started. Skip it. OConnor said, stifling the urge to retch all over his investigation site. Of the ridiculous number of tools that he carried with him on assignment, the Geiger counter was by far his favorite. Beyond the fact that it happened to look like an old-school Star Trek prop, nothing soothed a witness like watching OConnor pull out the little official looking toy. Waving a spiral-corded saltshaker around a potential crash site looked official. Even in faded blue jeans and a pastel polo shirt, poking at the edges of the crater with a little plastic cylinder lent OConnor a little more credibility as the tiny box hanging from a strap over his shoulder crackled out a steady baseline. Passing his toy tricorder over the edge of the crater, the Geiger counter needle hopped faintly, registering a light residual radioactivity. Granted, it had the weak signal of a truckload of bananas, but it definitely had a signal. Without a proper lab, it would be impossible to isolate the isotope to determine whether it was extraterrestrial. The signal was too strong for solar radiation, but too weak for nuclear waste. The surrounding gravel might be about as harmful as a dental X-ray, if someone filled a pillowcase with it and slept on it for a few months. OConnor knelt down and gently scooped samples of the radioactive gravel into a small canister, securing it in a lead lined pouch for transport. Despite the artifacts disappearance, Dr. Vickers seemed excited to see the agent taking soil samples. What is it? the doctor asked. OConnor switched off the Geiger counter and dropped it next to his kit. Ignoring the doctor, he dialed the chief directly from the satellite phone. We got a code yellow, Chief. You might want to get up here. 16. Teaspoon Tenderized Maybe they put those things in like, the big fast-food joints, alright. Earl shook his head. Nobodys replacin me with a robot, okay? Yeah, yeah, not at a joint like this, because we multitask, Hitch muttered without looking up from his phone. And George is too fuckin cheap to buy a new fridge, even, Terrence grumbled. Nah, like, I want to see a robot cook a better steak than me, okay? Hitch snorted. And youre still probably a better lay than a vibrating rubber doll, anyway. Earl chuckled and waggled his eyebrows as he burned the last ashy hit out of his pipe and set about packing a new one. Like, nobody ever stayed with me for my big bank account, okay? Terrence sat quietly watching a beat-up Infinity that turned off the highway and eased around the back side of the Spoon. Although it might have been a luxury car at some point, it limped towards the backlot on a spare tire with one of the missing rear windows replaced by a black trash bag taped into place. The dented fenders were painted a sloppy rattle can black, giving the entire car a sort of haphazard, patchwork quality. Hitch shrugged. Its only a matter of time before somebody is trying to marry one of those things, like dude in Japan who wants to marry his sex doll. Bro, thats gross, Terrence grimaced, still watching the junkie mobile navigate the nearly empty lot at a crawl. Earl lit his Newport, sucking down half of it in a few drags. Thats like, like someone trying to marry a toaster, literally. Hitch scrolled through his phone, looking at pictures of home-built tank treads. Dude, they already got online chatbots with more personality than most of our customers. That aint that hard, okay? Like, it aint about personality, ya know? Its an inanimate object. He packed a little nug of fresh green into the little glass pipe and offered it to Terrence. Like fuckin one of them animatronic pirates or something, okay? Ho, ho, ho, Im gonna need a bottle of rum. Hitch mumbled. Im not sayin Im into it, Im just saying its inevitable. Got all these techie incels who dont know how to talk to a girl building sex bots in their laboratories or some shit. Terrence grunted to himself as he watched the rolling wreckage circle the back lot and roll slowly around the employee parking area. What the fuck are you building, bro? He poked at Hitchs screen like the old guy was about to scrap together a Johnny 5 replica fuck toy from a bunch of online tutorials. I told you; Im building a fucking robot lawnmower. He scrolled through for a picture of the retail model, a sleek little plastic turtle with wheels. Earl hit the pipe and passed it down to Hitch. Why dont you just buy one? You said they were only like a grand, right? Hitch looked down at his grease spattered, scrappy Converse sneakers and back up to Earl. I look like I got a fuckin grand to blow on a weedwhacker? Still cheaper than a motorcycle. Earl shrugged. Hitch took a big hit, holding the smoke and smiling. I didnt ride that kind of bike. Terrence watched the junkies round the corner before reaching over to take the pipe out of Hitchs hand. You aint ridin any kind of bike. He took a big hit and blew it skyward. Youre beggin rides off me every afternoon. He chuckled and elbowed the old guy playfully. And your lawn is a fuckin dirt lot anyway, bro. After the car passed, he relaxed and leaned back against the wall. Yeah, well, if Im gonna be some sort of fuckin suburbanite, dude, Im gonna have a kick ass robotic lawnmower to keep the fuckin kids off my damn lawn! Shut up about fuckin suburbia, bro! This aint the fuckin suburbs. Earl laughed. Literally, okay? This aint no fuckin Better Homes and Gardens out here, okay? The patchwork Infinity crept around the corner again, slowing as it approached the aces smoking section by the back door. Terrence scowled slightly and passed the pipe back to Earl. Fuuuck, he growled, watching the junkie wreckage turn and coast toward them. Earl turned to watch as well, his laughter trailing off as he passed the glass pipe to Hitch without taking a hit. Victor, he muttered. Terrence rose from his milkcrate and stood to full height, his shoulders tensing. Hitch considered the small glass pipe in his hand, still trailing a thin tendril of smoke. You aint gonna hit this, or what? But both Earl and Terrence had straightened up, watching as the battered luxury car slowed and stopped in the middle of the lot, idling for a few moments before the passenger side door opened tentatively. Hitch took a hit but didnt stand up, still hoping that the passengers in the car might ask for directions or compliment the aces on their breakfast. He pressed his thumb tip into the bowl to extinguish the ember and thought about putting out his cigarette for the festivities. Despite his constant bragging that he was descended from a Spanish conquistador bloodline, Victor Valasquez was about five and a half feet tall and built with the thick barrel chest and rugged countenance of the southern Mexican indios. Unlike his proud indigenous heritage, however, he was sloshy drunk and clearly gacked out of his gourd on methamphetamines. His cousins both looked a lot like him, but each just a little shorter and less confident. The shortest guy climbed out of the back seat looking nervous, his eyes darting around the lot as Victor strutted towards the aces with a sneer. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Terrence watched the three of them pile out of the car and checked over his shoulder to ensure that he wouldnt have to go it alone. Earl nodded, took the last drag from his cigarette and flicked it off towards the coffee can. ?Oye! Victor cocked his head to the side, his chin raised, and jaw working with the cheap speed. Donde esta tu pinche puta prima, pendejo. What did he say? Terrence asked. Hitch grumbled, reluctant to translate the phrase exactly. He asked where your cousin is. Terrence shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off Victor. What, exactly, did he say, Hitch? He said You fuckeen hear me, puto! Victor squared up, shoulders tense and arms flexed as he took a few steps closer. His two cousins followed, the medium sized one, eyeing Earl, puffed his chest out. The third cousin, the shortest of the three, was younger, and obviously nervous. He scowled at Hitch, who grunted slightly as he stood. Now just hold on, there. Terrence didnt flex or puff his chest out anymore, but slowly pulled his apron off. Yeah, I heard you. His busted-up baby face a mix of restrained fury and imminent regret, he spoke slowly. I just thought I might give you an opportunity to reconsider. Victor clenched his jaw, powder white spittle at the corners of his lips. I say you cousin es pinche But Terrence didnt give him another chance. Before his apron hit the ground, Terrence punched the drunken junkie twice, square in the face. The medium sized guy launched at Earl before he could untie his apron and Earl swatted him sideways with a long, lean backhand that sent the cousin sprawling. Now, just wait a minute, okay? But the meth-brave middleman snarled and launched again to receive a swift chop to the throat. Earl tugged downward at the attackers shirt front, driving him into the asphalt. Victor took a left hook to the face that sent him bouncing off the dented fender of the Infinity and crumpled him beside the dusty tire. He moaned and gurgled as Earl squatted down beside his own dance partner, pinching his shoulder and pinning him to the ground. Now, you just stay there, alright? Hitch watched the first two aces dispatch their opponents with a deft ease. Having bragged of his years of kickboxing, he lifted his clenched fists in a cartoonishly pugilistic fashion. Mira, gey, he started, but the third Valasquez boy snorted deeply, reared back and spit a thick, snotty loogie directly into Hitchs face. Hitch retched, dry heaved, and then promptly puked all over his opponent. The Valasquez boy staggered backwards, wailing ?que chingados? covered in half digested chicken fried steak, Sanchos famous ho-made sausage gravy, and black coffee bile. By this time, a few restaurant patrons had peered around the corner to watch the melee. Terrence squatted over Victor to roll him over, and Victor just moaned softly. Oh, shit, Terrence said, standing again. The right side of Victors face was mashed and bloody, his shattered cheekbone protruding through the meaty pulp. Damn, T, Earl said. He knelt down beside Victor to check his pulse. His hearts still racing like a fucking hummingbird. Terrence loomed over what was left of the man, slack-jawed and stunned. He sleepwalked back to his apron and pulled his phone from his pocket. Andale, Checo! The medium guy called, and Victors cousins scrambled back into the Infinity. They skidded out so quickly that they nearly rolled over what was left of Victors face in their rush to flee the scene. Terrence waited as the phone dialed, his head hung nearly to his knees. I need an ambulance to the Silver Spoon, he said. His shoulders slumped. And you should send the sheriff, he said. Hitch crept up behind Earl, still queasy. When he saw Victors face, he dry heaved a few steps away to finish emptying his guts all over a stack of empty boxes. * * * Ordinarily, Sheriff Etherton assumed, when a circus was preparing to pull into a town, it was customary to send some sort of warning first. Dressed in plain clothes, without the benefit of a gun or badge, he wandered the Lucky Mart aisles pushing the cart a few steps behind his wife, making faces at his toddler daughter, Jayley, as she stomped the groceries flat under her little blinking sneakers. Realizing that the grocery store was crawling with paramilitary types, he didnt hear his wife as she asked him which brand of organic peanut butter he preferred. Glancing around, he nearly ran her over as she stopped short in front of the selection. He pointed at one of them arbitrarily, as he watched a pair of crewcuts peruse the bread selection. Satisfied that he was paying attention, his wife set one of the jars in the cart, booped Jayley on the nose to elicit a giggle, and continued to the end of the aisle. That they were law enforcement of some sort was obvious. They carried themselves like the law. Picking out foodstuffs in a grocery store, they looked entirely out of place. Deciding which enriched wheat bread worked best for cold cuts and individually wrapped pasteurized processed cheese slices, they would probably require a committee or a direct order to decide on condiments. Reading his mind without looking up from her list, his wife mumbled under her breath: looks like the cavalry has come to Arroyo Grande. She glanced up at the sign hanging at the end of the aisle, wondering if they needed coffee yet. It sure does, he said, watching two more obvious cops inconspicuously discuss microwaveable frozen meals. The question is, why? Raised by a retired Green Beret, his wife had a better sense of situational awareness than even he had, and being naturally telepathic, she knew exactly how he felt about it as well. Think maybe you missed a memo? she glanced over at the dairy section as they passed the refrigerated aisle. He smiled at baby Jayley, crossing his eyes to hear her giggle. Im sure that one wouldnt have slipped past me. She nodded subtly. Cheesecake or a fruit tart? she asked as they approached the baked goods aisle, ever the capable multitasker. Before he could answer, his business line chimed a new call from dispatch. This better be good, the sheriff answered, still watching the casual Friday stormtroopers milling about the snack food aisle. Im real sorry to bother you, Sheriff, but theres a 415 down at the Silver Spoon, and I thought youd better get down there before the ambulance pulls out. English, Nutsy. Im not abandoning my wife and kid at the Lucky Mart for a severe case of indigestion. Deputy Williams chuckled, Well, thats the thing, Sheriff Tick tock, Nutsy. A fight, sir. Cant you and Trigger handle this? There was a brief pause as the deputy consulted his notepad. The cooks, uh, Terrence and Earl called it in. I guess they kicked the shit out of the Valasquez boys. Etherton watched his daughter, still stomping the groceries flat. Was it self-defense, at least? His wife placed a fruit tart on the stack of groceries behind Jayley, careful to place it out of her blinking path of destruction and began pushing the cart down the aisle, past the paramilitaries. I cant get a straight answer. Terrence hasnt said a word, yet. Earl keeps saying he wants a lawyer, and the new guy, the guy that puked all over the place keeps trying to get in the car with them, but we couldnt decide if vomiting on someone is considered assault or not. Etherton hung his head. Stu? he asked. There was a brief pause as deputy Williams consulted his notepad. I dont know, Sheriff. Maybe. Do you want us to take a sample of the puke? No, Nutsy. The guys name is Stu. Stu Pedaso, he said, regretting it instantly. Excuse me? Deputy Williams asked. Ethertons wife snickered. Just forget it. He shook his head disapprovingly at his wife and baby Jayley giggled and bounced to see her mother amused. Im on my way. 17. Side Mission Ashley pushed the button to answer the phone as she accelerated for the yellow light and banked around a corner. Whats up Austin? Trucks dead. I cant hear you Austin, the windows are all down. It sounded like you said your truck is a jenky-ass piece of shit. Its with Jeremiah. You should just shoot that truck, Austin. I just need a ride home. Ashley glanced over at the passenger seat. Alright, but you have to run a mission with me. Fine. Where are you? At the shop. Be out front in two minutes. Can we swing by- Youre wasting time Austin. Get out front. She pushed the end call button and the music rose again as she banked into a parking lot, bounced hard over the edge of an unavoidable speed bump, and careened across the empty parking lot. She sang along to the Corrido, a song that she had memorized phonetically and pitch perfectly, although she had no idea what she was actually singing. Less than two minutes later she skipped the curb pulling into the Desert Sands front lot and winced as she heard the ground effects scrape concrete. Austin and Jeremiah stood outside the rolling gate, smoking a cigarette. When Austin saw Mr. Ouija bounce onto the lot, he dropped his smoke and waved the last of the smoke from his face. Ashley let the glass pack growl as she downshifted into the lot and then coasted straight up to them. Austin that is a filthy stinking habit and Ive told you Im not driving you around if you reek. Jeremiah can smoke. Jeremiah isnt begging for yet another ride because all of Jeremiahs vehicles run properly. Now get in here. Ashley scooted Sir Pugsley to the back seat. The lock popped, and Austin slid down into the dog-fur-matted, blue velour seat cover. Jeremiah leaned down to peer in at the driver and stall her for a moment. Hey Smashley, when are we going to get that beer? I told you to stop calling me that. Watch those fenders, then. That satin black is distinctive. Ashley smiled. He had mentioned it in passing before, but it had become a sort of blackmail leverage that he smirked at. Despite the fact that she wasnt in her usual makeup, and she wore her glasses, she affected a well-practiced stripper voice of part seduction, and part condescension. Maybe if you take a shower and clean all that grease out from under your fingernails, we can discuss it. She stomped the clutch and revved the engine adding Ya greasy fuck, low enough that only Austin could hear it. Ashley popped the clutch, gunning it out of the parking lot and back into the street, skirting the main streets and opting for the outlying roads on the edge of the wash. The asphalt was a little bumpier, but she got some good skids on the gravel. There was less traffic out there, and generally less cops. When the road straightened out, she dropped her visor to check her reflection. Why do you even hang out with that guy? Jeremiahs alright. Jail changed him. He wasnt even in a real jail the whole time, he was at some wayward boys home, or whatever. An array of green LEDs flickered on the radar detector until a red lit and it beeped. Ashley slowed a little and ducked into her seat. Why are we flying stealth tonight? Ashley watched her mirrors for a state cop or highway patrol. Sheriff Etherton never bothered turning on his radar. Just a casual drive. I thought Id get a little practice tonight. Austin ducked farther into his seat and gripped the door handle. Flying stealth meant that she had turned off the neon strips that ran the lower edge of the car and made it appear as if it were hovering on a cloud of electric blue light. She did this when she wanted to roll incognito, although anyone in town would recognize that car regardless. Practicing meant that she might, at any moment, try to run the gauntlet and veer down a side street to squirrel it around the little suburban homes that lay at the very edge of the desert. If he had known that this was her mission, he might have decided to walk home instead. He wasnt sure which option was safer, whether to be riding inside the car or walking on the sidewalks when Ashley was practicing. Bouncing along a potted section of the road he felt something jabbing him in the ass. He reached under his ass and withdrew a small cross-shaped chrome tool. What the hell is this? She glanced at the tool, took it, and tucked it under her thigh. Nothing. When the LED array went blank, she sped up. Talk to me, Austin. Its like we never hang out anymore. Youre becoming a stranger to me, and I simply wont have it. Austin reached back to pat Sir Pugsley on his furrowed brow while attempting to avoid the probable licking that Sir Pugsley would reply with. Jynx and I found something cool out in the wash the other day. Oh yeah? Ashley responded, but she was probably not paying attention, still watching her rearview mirror. Its big, I mean really big. Like an industrial fridge this time? She smiled. So, she was paying attention. Har har. Ashley cut down a side street, but she signaled and took it easy around the corner, suddenly executing a Drivers Ed textbook perfect left turn down a street. Jeremiah thinks its a prop from a movie or something. He says it was probably washed over years ago when Hollywood was still using the valley for alien movie sets. What is it? Jynx thinks its the real thing, but she still believed in unicorns until a few years ago. Ashley glanced over, glaring. That was Jeremiahs line, and he had been using it to describe Jynx ever since the Tough Guy Club. What exactly is it, Austin? She signaled right and made another perfect turn. I dont know, its all like, dented and dinged up, and theres a big tear in the bottom of it. Jeremiah says that if we cant fix it, we can probably sell it to the scrap yard for a few hundred bucks. Ashley shook her head. Not what I meant. We think its a flying saucer. Ashley laughed. Well, at least its not a fridge. Definitely not a fridge this time. Ashley flipped her hoodie up and crouched deeper into her seat. I mean, but what if it is real? He watched the road ahead, waiting for her to stomp the accelerator and peel off around a corner, but she didnt. She bobbed her head, nodding, or grooving on the music, Austin couldnt decide which. This could be something really important, maybe historic, yknow? Ashley flipped switches on the console. The headlights dropped out, but a dim UV glow ran the width of the bumper still. She killed the engine coming around the corner and coasted up to the curb, flipping the last of the lights off. She sat upright in the seat, suddenly focused entirely on him. Without her makeup on, and her thick glasses, she was another woman entirely. Thats really cool, Austin. I mean, Im really excited for you both and I hope everything turns out super cool. She pulled a small flashlight from her hoodie pocket, flicked it on and off quickly to be sure that it worked, and stuffed it back into her pocket, along with the little chrome tool that Austin sat on when he first got into the car. She pulled her phone from the bracket on the dash and checked the time, tucking it into her other pocket. Hey, uh, do me a favor? I just need you to sit here for a second and keep an eye out. If you see anybody, text me. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Okay, he said. I mean if you see anything move on the fucking block, you text me immediately, got it? Got it, he said. What are you doing? Im She cocked her head to the side and squinted at him. Its better if you dont know. She smiled. Plausible deniability and all. What? Just text me if you see anybody coming. She slid out the door. Sir Pugsley took her spot in the drivers seat, placing his paws on the steering wheel and grumbling low as she walked away. She skirted the orange glow of the sodium arch streetlamps as she made her way down the street. It occurred to Austin that she had chosen a moonless night to go lurking around a neighborhood and wearing black. He wondered at the strange tool, but shed taken it with her. He glanced over at Sir Pugsley who watched him back. Probably best not to ask too many questions, huh bud? He patted Sir Pugsleys head, still holding his palm far enough away that he would not get licked. The first droplets of rain spattered the windshield, plunking innocently in fat wet explosions, the steady thrum increasing with each passing moment. Within an hour, the storm would rage through stronger than the night before. * * * Nikki watched Austin hop out of the passenger seat of the Cooper girls little black race car. He waited at the end of his own driveway, standing out in the downpour like an idiot. She saw him glance over towards the front of their house, perhaps seeing her in the kitchen window. He seemed uncertain and definitely soggy. Nikki waved. He waved back, timidly. She beckoned to him, inviting him over for dinner. Kelly wouldnt be off work for a few hours yet, and thus far, shed been able to glean nothing from her own daughter, though shed tried all afternoon. She hoped that getting them both in the same room together might reveal something about the night before. Amber had emerged from her subterranean hideout early in the afternoon, slipping into the house for a shower and breakfast of some sort. While this was not entirely unusual, Nikki had been surprised to wake from her own midday slumber to find Amber sitting quietly on the couch, poking at some tablet device of some sort. Nikki turned on the TV. Amber didnt seem to mind. She didnt even glance up once to watch the weekend news report. Nikki finished her breakfast and coffee in a strange quiet, the only sound that of the television. After the weather report, Nikki flipped the channel to one of the cartoon networks that Amber liked when she was younger. She didnt complain, she just kept on poking at the thing in her lap. Nikki was accustomed to Amber playing on her phone, but she didnt remember buying a tablet of any sort. Deciding to do a little snooping, she strolled up behind Amber and began running her fingers through her daughters hair, much as she had when Amber was just a little girl. It was a secret trick to calm Amber in her early fits, and still worked to make her docile, occasionally. Amber didnt make a sound but leaned her head back slightly to allow her mother to continue combing. Although Amber didnt say a word, Nikki took a peek at the screen of the tablet resting in her lap. It was apparently blank. Amber kept poking and swiping at it like she was playing a game, but nothing appeared on the tablet. On closer inspection, it didnt even have a discernible screen. Amber might as well have been tickling a tin roof shingle. The other thing that troubled Nikki was a small scratch and pale bruise on Ambers bare shoulder. Caressing it lightly, Amber pulled her sweatshirt up to cover it immediately, but she didnt say anything about it. Short of actually asking if anything had happened with Austin the night before, she was entirely unable to read anything into Ambers responses. Whether it was the approaching storm, thunderheads gathering to the south, or just some childhood nostalgia, Amber had built herself a little nest at the far corner of the couch and seemed perfectly content to watch cartoons. Figuring that the girl might sit still long enough for a meal at least, Nikki finally went out to pick up groceries in order to fix Amber a real sit-down dinner. That Austin had arrived just in time to join them was pure serendipity, she hoped. Austin came in the front door dripping on the tile in the walkway. Hey, Mrs. Nash. Is Jynx home? He didnt seem nervous at all, and he hadnt shied away from the invite, so Nikki was mildly relieved that he hadnt abused her daughter somehow. Shes in the living room. He found Jynx sitting on the couch, her feet tucked under a knitted Afghan. She had a hunk of metal in her hand, running her fingers along the surface as if it were a tablet or computer pad. I dont think shes feeling well, Nikki said. Im fine, mom, Amber called from the couch. Is she sick? Austin asked. Nikki had checked her over but found nothing, no fever, no chills, no coughing, or sneezing. The scratch and bruise had been slightly troubling, although it might just be the general wear and tear that the kids seemed to suffer on a daily basis. Amber just wanted to hang out in the house. That in itself seemed a little odd. Did something happen last night? Nikki asked, attempting to sound casual. Austin glanced over at Amber, watching for her reaction, and finding nothing, he shrugged. Nothing really. We found something in the wash yesterday and dug it out, he said. That, at least, might explain the scratches and bruises that Nikki had seen on Amber. What did you find? Again, Austin glanced over at his partner in crime, uncertain of how to answer the question. Its nothing, mom, she kept playing with the little aluminum slab, probably just some junk. She glanced up at Austin with a sneer. Well, youre welcome to stay for dinner, Austin. I made Ambers favorite roasted root veggies, sausage, and brussels sprouts. Glancing over at her daughter, she noticed no visible reaction. She shrugged at Austin. Austin thanked her politely and motioned to the bathroom to clean himself off and dry a little of the rain. Meanwhile, Nikki set the table and dished them up plates, finishing the service with a jar of mayonnaise for Austin. It was anyones guess where he learned to eat his brussels sprouts with mayo, but she didnt mind, so long as he finished all of his vegetables. Sitting down to dinner, the three of them ate in silence. Nikki wondered why she even bothered. Whats the poster for, hon? she finally asked Austin. Oh, uh he glanced down at the rolled-up antifreeze sale poster sitting beside the front door. Jeremiah is teaching me how to do body work. Nikki doubted that the Jimnez boy was teaching him anything valuable. Body work? she inquired, maintaining a polite level of curiosity. Why? Amber looked up from her plate, stoically glaring at Austin. We were going to patch it. He said to Amber. He glanced over at Nikki. Well, its good practice, he said. Amber shrugged. It doesnt need it, Amber said, returning to her meal. She forked a carrot wedge, and regarding it almost haughtily, she quipped: Youre wasting your time. Its just for practice, Austin mumbled, looking somewhat dejected. Body work? Is that what the kids were calling it these days? If they were speaking in code, Nikki couldnt begin to decipher it. Its just a useless piece of junk, right? I mean, why bother? Amber leaned back, pondering a bite-sized bit of kielbasa poised on her fork. We just thought wed see if we could fix the hole. We!? Amber blurted. Its none of his damn business! Amber grew suddenly indignant. We just thought Its not yours, Amber growled. Now, Amber, Nikki said, preparing for a fit. Im sure that whatever it is Its not his. They dont understand, Mom. It had been some time since Nikki had dated anyone, but she was fairly certain that the game hadnt changed all that much. Although she was entirely at a loss for the metaphor of the patch, she knew enough about junk and body work to recognize that whatever the two of them were into, it was definitely none of the Jimnez boys business. I dont like you kids hanging out with that boy, Nikki stated, apropos of nothing. The two of them seethed quietly across from each other. Look, it cant hurt to try, Austin petitioned. Amber sat across from him; her face stubbornly set in a glare. If Nikki had originally feared that Austin had assaulted her daughter, she was beginning to worry that Amber might have chewed him up and was spitting him out right there at the dinner table. She was uncertain as to who needed a scolding, and rather than figure it out, she chose instead to focus on her own plate, contemplating grabbing a dollop of mayonnaise of her own. The rest of the meal continued in awkward silence, Nikki watching them both for any hints as to whether or not they had already attempted to patch it the night before. After dinner, Amber returned to her couch while Austin quietly helped Nikki clear the table and load the dishwasher. Catching his eye a few times, Nikki decided that Kellys boy, though handsome enough in his own way, was definitely no match for Amber. She found herself feeling sorry for the poor boy. He had always been so devoted. After they finished clearing dinner he stood in the front hallway, watching Amber pretend to play on her new tablet. You wanna hang out later? Austin asked. Amber didnt answer at first, entirely focused on what appeared to be a dead device. Nah, she finally mumbled. Im still a little beat. Okay. Austin shrugged, deciding that it was time to go. What time are you going to work in the morning? Amber asked. Austin shrugged. Ten, maybe? Amber nodded quietly. Okay, she said, and that was it. Austin politely excused himself, took his rolled-up cardstock and his damp repair manual with him as he dashed across the lawn through the driving rain. Nikki dressed for work, unable to make anything of the discussion over dinner. Something undoubtedly happened between them, but whatever it was, they werent going to give it away. Just before she left for work, she sent Kelly a text: Nothing. She wrote. An hour later Kelly texted back: Confirmation or no Sven. Nikki hoped that whatever trouble those kids had found, they would figure out a way to settle it soon. Since shed watched the boy crawl out of the hatch, she had set her sights on that deep tissue massage, and possibly a patch job of her own. 18. Pocket Aces Uncle Ickys still got his phone set to do not disturb, Im guessing. Earl shuffled across the cell and took his bench again as the deputy locked the door behind him. Terrence shook his head. Stop calling him that, bro. Who you think taught me that, okay? Earl eyed what was left of his dried-out green bologna sandwich and the bruised apple, still left over from dinner. Deputy dumbass could leave it there as long as he wanted. Even half-starved, Earl didnt plan on finishing it. Like, literally. Earl chuckled. He signed all his Christmas cards that way. Bro, Terrence sat up, his baby face pale and severe. I dont like thinking that were stuck in this place until George makes port, alright? You dont like thinking thats all he and Nguyen are doin out there, but what the fuck you think they got going, just floating around the fuckin pacific on a gay cruise? He took the tray off his bunk and slid it underneath, hoping there might be rats in there somewhere to finish it off. Like, eat some warm shrimp buffet, watch a beautiful sunset, go fuck like teenagers, and maybe do some karaoke or some shit afterwards, right? Terrence slouched again. Were in some real shit this time, Earl. Im going back to fucking prison for a long time. He rest his head in his hands, looking as if he might start sobbing. Shes fucking freaking out, bro. Im scared she might start using again, you know? Earl nodded gravely. Sometimes bad shit happens to good people, alright? He stood up and paced over to the toilet, wondering how long until they would have to set up a shitting schedule of some sort. He never liked shitting with other people in the room. We were like, karmic agents or something, like, literally. Victor had some shit coming to him, and you just had to be that fucking guy, alright? He glanced down at the single ply roll, not looking forward to sanding his asshole smooth. Fuck. Terrence said, collapsing back against the wall. Talk to the fuckin warden about getting some quilted two ply up in this bitch, he mumbled. I aint even supposed to be here, ya know? He banged on the cell door. Yo, hows about you find us some decent fuckin toilet paper! he called out into the hall, figuring he ought to find a way to get more comfortable. Deputy dumbass thumped back like he was sitting out there, listening to everything. Finish your dinner, Earl, or you get to eat that shit for breakfast. Alright, the sheriff called from farther the hall, knock it off, Nutsy. He didnt eat his sandwich, Sheriff, the deputy complained, sounding less like a real boot, and more like a toddler. No, Etherton said, unlocking the door, but he did eat your lunch, deputy. Etherton pushed the deputy out of the doorway and slid past him into the cell carrying a couple of grease-stained brown bags that smelled of fried food. These guys just cleared a known meth dealer out of town while you and trigger were busy writing parking tickets. You ought to be thanking him. The sheriff passed a brown bag to Earl and another to Terrence. Sorry boys, it aint chicken fried steak, but it aint old bologna either. Earl opened his bag like an early Christmas gift. You stop at the Shell station? Etherton shrugged. Its about all I could find at this hour. Fuck yeah! Earl pulled a couple plastic bags out of his greasy sack, digging for hot sauce. Sheriff the deputy protested. Go shuffle some paperwork or something, Nutsy. He pushed Terrence over on his bench to take a seat beside him. Terrence sat up straight, holding the lipid-translucent bag in his lap. Sir, Sheriff" Relax, kid. Eat something. It aint one of Nutsys culinary treasures. He peered over the lip of the bag, considering stealing a lukewarm jo-jo potato. I doubt it gets better with age. Sheriff the deputy started again. And grab these guys their smokes, would you? But sir Just do it before I make you and Trigger write an essay on the Geneva convention. When he was confident that the deputy was out of earshot, the sheriff took a deep breath and sighed. You fucked up pretty hard this time, Terrence. Terrence was crestfallen, his baby face gone pale. He came looking for us, he pleaded. Ayup, Etherton nodded, and he was so high on methamphetamines that they cant pull him in for reconstructive surgery for another day or two, probably. He shook his head. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Reconstructive surgery? Terrence sunk farther back on his bunk, his crumpled sack lunch in his lap. You mind? I missed lunch, running down to Bakersfield. Etherton took the sack from his lap and dug through for the plastic baggie of potato wedges. He pulled one out and took a bite, obviously unimpressed. He shrugged. Not a Sanchos steak fry, but its not bad, kid. Eat something, would you? Earl had a mouthful and was barely chewing as he plowed through his own meal. Yeah, Teaspoon. Its like, the first meal youve had in a week. He dug deeper for another salsa packet. Fuck, this is like, the first fuckin weekend off weve had since we got hired, alright? Terrence groaned, his brow crumpling as he considered the very real probability that he would be stuck there through the weekend, at least, and probably off to prison right after that. Under the circumstances, he wasnt thrilled to be taking some time off. Now, I have a few questions; off the record, of course. There werent a lot of witnesses to the incident, and even if youre a good cook, public opinion of an ex-con is going to be stacked against you. He fucking attacked us! Terrence protested. Like, literally. It was self-defense, Sheriff. Yeah, yeah, I got that. And all three of those boys are on an ICE watchlist. Theres a reason that Victor is handcuffed to his bed down in Bakersfield. Etherton pulled another Jo-jo from the baggie. But you boys have all the points on the board, and the judge isnt going to be making a lot of allowances for moral turpitude here. What the fuck? Terrence asked, looking to Earl for a translation. Its like, whether youre a good guy, ya know? Like whether you pay your taxes and help old ladies across the street or shit, ya know? The sheriff nodded. He pulled a ketchup packet out of the bag and pinched the corner off, drizzling a little over the mealy potato wedge. Following up on the incident reports he had missed his own lunch, and now he was stuck playing public defender off the clock, just to get the guys back in the kitchen before he had to switch to fried food full-time. Was there a weapon of some sort, Terrence? Earl stopped slathering his fried catfish filet in hot sauce and shook his head. You aint gotta answer that, T. Hes right. Etherton agreed, but Ill be pulling some strings to get you guys out of here if I can, and it would help to get it all out in the open. Terrence just shook his head slowly. He lifted his empty left hand to show him the swollen knuckles. Well, you shattered his cheekbone and fractured his ocular something or other. The sheriff finished his jo-jo and passed the rest of the bag to Terrence with the packet of ketchup. Just eat something, Terrence. Earl laughed. Victor did that shit to himself when he smashed his face against his own fender. Etherton smirked. Let the record show that the plaintiff just fell face first on his car, really hard, your honor. He chuckled and wiped his greasy fingertips on his khaki uniform pants. Right? Like, literally, he fell down, okay? Earl laughed. Fuck off, bro! This aint funny! Terrence frowned. Im fuckin goin to prison, man! Sheriff Etherton gently placed his hand on Terrences shoulder, startling the young thug with his authoritative sympathy. Just take it easy, Terrence. Ethertons obvious concern seemed out of place in armor and a law enforcement uniform. Im doing what I can. He contemplated stealing another Jo-jo potato but thought better of it. Eating Terrences lunch during a casual off-the-record interrogation might send the wrong message. I let you two go back to prison, and George will never bring back my prime rib dinner. He stood to go, brushing his palms clean and wiping the last of the fry grease on his uniform pants. And for fucks sake, Terrence, you need to listen to your lawyer. He nodded at Earl. Like your buddy Stu said: a cop is a cop. He shook his head. Stu? Terrence stopped pulling baggies of fried food out of the paper bag. Etherton took a deep breath and shook his head slowly, reluctant to say the full name aloud. Stu Pedaso, he grumbled. Earl snorted laughter. Right? That fucker and his fucking gag reflex. Hows he doing? Terrence asked. Etherton shrugged. The Spoon was still serving when I passed by, but I wasnt about to stop in for a couple of club sandwiches. Lets just see what we can do about springing you two, and then you can go bail him out, alright? He took the gallon Ziplock bags of their possessions from the deputy and tossed them onto Earls bunk. Flush your cigarette butts, boys. And try to keep the fancy smoking to a minimum when Nutsy and Trigger are here? He raised an eyebrow and backed out of the cell smirking. Terrence nodded solemnly, withdrawing a mangled taquito from a plastic bag. Like I said, right? Sometimes lucky is a fucking superpower, okay? Earl slathered more hot sauce on his fried catfish. He said he didnt like snot, ya know? He finished the fried catfish filet in a mouthful and dug back into his bag for the second course. Like, we told him they were spitters. Terrence smiled for the first time since the incident and shook his head. I cant believe he just puked all over that guy. He laughed. Poor boy jumping back in the car all covered in the old guys breakfast, ya know? That piece of shit gonna be cleanin it out the car for months. Earl wiped his greasy fingers on his pantleg and grabbed his Ziplock bag of possessions. He tossed the other over to Terrence. Earl pulled out his pipe and nug jar, checking that there was still half a bowl left in it. Think we oughta? He grinned at Terrence. He pretty much told us to, bro. With half his meal already digesting, Terrence started to take on a little more color and puffed at his vape, blowing a strawberry scented cloud towards the ventilation fan. Earl sparked up his bowl, taking a small puff and holding it as long as he could. Wonder how the old man is going to handle breakfast. He blew a tiny fragrant cloud towards the fan, waiting to hear alarm bells or the deputy rushing in, but nothing happened. He shrugged and offered it to Terrence. Terrence shrugged. My boy Hitch sauted Michelin stars, bro. He watched the tiny window in the cell door as he flicked the lighter and sparked the edge of the bowl. Allegedly, right? Allegedly. Terrence chuckled, letting slip a lazy little puff of smoke. Ya know, he can handle some eggs and bacon for a while, right? Hes so fucked, Terrence shook his head, finally relaxing a little. He has no idea what hes doing, bro. Earl leaned forward to take the pipe, still watching the door. Well, like, then he cant fuck it up too bad, alright? Interlude: The strange weather we’re having. Were it not for the clouds and the thick marine layer, a casual observer on the Southern Pacific coast of California might have glanced up just after sunset and seen a particularly magnificent meteor pass through the atmosphere as bright as a signal flare and headed due East. And were it not for the driving rains in the Arizona desert, another casual observer might have seen the same meteor plunging towards the red rock foothills just outside of Phoenix like an apocalypse ignored, only to slow its descent in a magnificent flare of white phosphorescent fire, and alight gently amongst the boulders. It was a good thing that no one was out that night, otherwise, they might have glanced up at the hill and seen the hulking mass of something that looked like a monstrous mechanical toad, steel burned clean as chrome on atmospheric reentry still hissing and steaming in the rain. At the controls, silently complaining about the lack of windshield wipers, and attempting to wipe the inside of the cockpit canopy clear of condensation, sat two distinctly rubbery skinned tiny humanoids who had absolutely no idea when or where they had landed. A long inactive screen on the dashboard suddenly lit up with a variety of green lights and bouncing signal bars. Woah! exclaimed the giant metal toad. I have Wi-Fi again! Meanwhile, the enclosed frogs silently argued about malfunctioning climate controls and nonfunctioning dehumidifying systems. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. 19. Insert tip joke here Unimpressed with packaged Danishes and weak complimentary coffee, OConnor decided to grab breakfast at the diner down the street, a little place called Sanchos. Dressing, he sniffed his shirt, wondering how long he had before hed have to figure out laundry or buy something else to wear. His local guide, the crumpled tourist pamphlet, lacked a comprehensive list of mens clothing stores, and he wasnt fond of the idea of wandering around town in flip-flops, trying to find a pair of slacks, a button-down shirt and tie, and shoes of some sort. Being a Sunday morning, and just around church time, he should have expected the Silver Spoon to be busy, but he had not expected it to be entirely packed with people. Every booth was taken, as well as most of the counter. Standing in the waiting area, scrolling through the news on his phone, he was packed shoulder to shoulder with a handful of guys at least as big as himself. It was rare enough to see his equal in physique, but to glance up and recognize that Sanchos was full of fit men of a certain age, he realized that he might not be the only investigator called into town. There were a few dozen guys who looked like obvious undercover law enforcement, all suspiciously eyeing the civilian locals in decidedly cop-like fashion. Where they came from, he had no idea, but it was clear that they also recognized him and seemed equally perplexed at his presence. Following certain unspoken rules of law enforcement etiquette, neither the seated patrons nor the new arrival acknowledged the obvious common vocation openly. OConnor patiently waited to be seated, even as most of the others were finishing their meals. Designed for the average suburbanite down from the surrounding hills, seating at the lunch counter was a bit tight. Shoulder to shoulder, the beefy agents bristled for elbow room all lined up like bumpers on a used car lot. OConnor took a seat at the very end, waiting as the ample-chested blonde waitress wiped down the spot, set up a silverware setting, and without bothering to ask, set a mug of hot coffee in front of him. A little busy today, hon. You boys all showed up at once, she said, excusing herself. OConnor pulled the menu from the rack, reading through the little tourist blurb about George, the owner, some CIA chef from Detroit who managed to slice and dice everything from scratch. OConnor didnt really understand why the spooks were training chefs, but the pictures on the menu looked good and he wondered why he hadnt bothered to stop in there sooner. Order whatever you want, the guy next to him chuckled. Youll get a cheese omelet no matter what. As if to confirm this, the kitchen erupted in a brief confrontation, some skinny guy at the pass-through window hollering at another guy in the back. Im supposed to be a fucking dishwasher, dude! there was a clatter of pans of some sort followed by more yelling, Im not a fucking egg man! The top-heavy blonde stacked plates on her arm, lining them up in a Barnum and Bailey display of balance. Each plate had an omelet adorned with a single slice of limp American cheese, some undercooked beige hashbrowns, and a fruit cup. Either everybody in the place had ordered the exact same thing, or it was the only dish that the struggling cook knew how to make. The blonde shuffled plates to a few spots at the counter and hustled around the dining room with a coffee pot in the other hand, filling mugs as she dropped the rest of the plates at various tables. OConnor heard the murmur of complaints, patrons informing her that they had ordered the mushroom Swiss omelet or eggs benedict or something. From what OConnor could see, she was the only waitress working every packed table in the place, and even the little busboy, a timid Latino who apparently didnt speak much English, seemed ready to walk out at any moment. When the waitress returned, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and skipped the chipper introduction. Without even looking at him, she pulled a little order pad from her apron and scribbled his seat number at the top. What are you having? OConnor recognized her from the bar. She was that hot little blonde that hed watched his first night in town, wondering if dancing to Jimmy Buffet counted as cheating. He knew her better than all the other guys and seeing as how he had been the first to arrive at the scene, he felt relatively local. You know, he said, feeling benevolent, Im dyin for a plain ol cheese omelet with some hashbrowns and a fruit cup, actually. As if recognizing him for the first time, the blonde smirked. Yer a doll, Mai Tai. She scribbled his order on the pad and slipped it into the wheel of tickets hanging in the pass-through window. Order in, Hitch! she called and started stacking the next line of hot plates up her arm. Hitch yanked the ticket from the wheel and read through it. Is this some fucking joke!? he yelled at her. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Make it nice, buddy. She hustled off to distribute another stack of the identical omelets to angry patrons. Its the only order youll get right today. The guy next to him glanced over the sergeants casual attire, sneaking a peak under the counter at his slippers. So, the guy said, you the local law enforcement around here? OConnor, still feeling a sense of pride at being the first to arrive, leaned back on his stool. Im with the Terrestrial Investigations Group, he said, expanding his chest slightly and feeling generally content with himself. The guy next to him almost spit his coffee all over the counter. No shit, a Tigger? I thought you guys were extinct. The guy elbowed the beefy mass beside him, laughing slightly. Rest easy boys! he called, a little loudly. TIG sent us its best! This got a general round of laughter from any man within earshot. OConnor glanced around at the collection of agents. Years ago, when there were a couple dozen agents over at TIG, he might have been in a better position to start trouble. Unprofessional as it might be, there was plenty of interagency competition, and over the years there had been more than a handful of friendly domestic disturbances associated with various contractors. As if contemplating exactly this, the big guy beside him glanced around to see if OConnor had any company. So, Uncle Sam tapped a traffic cop to handle containment? Indignant at being referred to as a traffic cop, OConnor grit his teeth as he emptied a couple sugar packets into his little mug. Why send in a bunch of toy soldiers when a few decent agents will suffice? Scott, or John, or whatever he was calling himself laughed loudly and slapped OConnor on the back in an unsolicited show of camaraderie. Ah, dont get all cranky on me. We wont be getting in your way. He chortled and shook his head. Well have this all wrapped up before the rest of the Tiggers arrive. OConnor emptied a tiny plastic cup of creamer into the mug and swirled his spoon around, avoiding eye contact. The last thing he needed was to start a scuffle with a whole division. He tapped the spoon against the rim of the mug, moving slowly; intentionally. Conversations at other tables had grown quiet, and he knew that they were being watched. Instinctively recognizing that the conversation at the counter was deteriorating, the waitress grabbed one of the carbon copy omelet plates out of the window and swung around on OConnor, leaning forward with the plate, presenting enough ample cleavage to distract the whole collection of testosterone-juiced patrons. Here you go, sweetie, she chirped. Stalling slightly to ensure that she had everyones undivided attention, she leaned forward a little further. Is there anything else I can get you? OConnor glanced down at the plate and the flaccid, overcooked crescent of browned eggs topped with a single slice of rubbery yellow cheese. The home fries looked to be both burnt as well as undercooked, accompanied by a little cup of canned fruit cocktail, complete with a chunk of unnaturally red maraschino cherry floating in flavorless syrup. Apparently, Chef Georges hand-crafted culinary training did not extend to this particular plate. Go ahead and toss that on our tab, would you? The guy next to him nodded politely as he slid his sunglasses on and headed for the door. Most of the counter cleared with him, as well as a couple booths. The last pair of plates went up in the passthrough window. The reluctant cook hit the bell and threw a pan into the dish sink with a clatter. Order up! There was another loud crash from the kitchen. OConnor pulled a squeeze bottle of ketchup from the condiment rack, slathering everything but the fruit cocktail cup in it, although, honestly, the fruit cup could use a little color. He spurt a splatter of Tabasco over the inedible omelet and cut a large chunk from the corner, shoveling it into his maw. The detour was insulting enough without the appearance of a second agency, but sitting there, entirely unarmed and in flip flops, no less, he rage-chewed through most of his plate in just a few fork loads. The waitress swung past to check on him, impressed that he had already consumed half of what otherwise, she would probably have just tossed out. Oh, honey! she exclaimed. They dont feed you at home, or what? Im supposed to be poolside right now, he grumbled. She nodded and rolled her eyes. Yeah, you mentioned that once or twice the other night. He nodded, glaring over his shoulder as the last of the other agents cleared the parking lot. Oh, shoot! She glanced up at the parking lot, watching as the last two big black SUVs pulled out of the lot into southbound traffic. He forgot to sign! She held the guest check with a credit receipt stapled to it. Dammit! She wiped her brow. OConnor was guessing this was the first time shed stood still in hours, maybe, and slipping out without signing the bill effectively stiffed her on what might be a generous tip for so many tables. OConnor remembered watching Mary wait tables back in college. She ran the counter at a little breakfast burrito joint that served brunch a few streets off the El Porto surf break. On weekends they were slammed non-stop. He remembered her coming home to their little studio smelling like coffee grounds and salsa residue. Busy as she was, she said that she never did mind the rushes because they paid the rent. This little blonde waitress had probably just turned more tables in a single day than she had all last week, and they stiffed her on the tip. Suddenly realizing that he looked just like any of the other agents, OConnor felt a bubble of vindication rising with his acid reflux. I can sign that, he offered, smiling serenely and feeling generous. 20. “Tourists” If Dr. Vickers had been nonplussed with Sergeant OConnors casual attire, he was absolutely appalled at the arrival of a dozen more agents who had consequently arrived in the middle of the night, none of whom seemed even the slightest bit concerned with secrecy. Worse yet, they seemed to be congregating in the parking lot out in front of his museum or collecting at the Playa Seca Motor Inn two lots south. Having the assistance and authority of Chief Martinezs organization at his disposal lent his endeavor a gravity that it had lacked for so many years. He had not expected that Chief Martinez would bring the full force of the sizable government agency to bear on the situation. Watching the black SUVs roll through town, Dr. Vickers gritted his teeth and went about his routine as if nothing was amiss, just glad that none of them had yet entered the museum. As if he had willed it to happen, a pair of the sergeants overzealous reinforcement agents, eating their lunches out of little cardboard trays, stopped to loiter in front of his museum as inconspicuous as a billboard. Both in combat boots, black cargo pants, and black t-shirts, they looked like a conscripted army standing watch over his generally ignored local attraction. When he decided that hed had enough, Dr. Vickers strode confidently to the front of the museum, and swung the front door wide, startling the two agents. Well dont hang out in front, here, he hissed, shooing them from the sidewalk. Ill call for you if I need you. The agents, interrupted from their comprehensive comparison of the suspension systems and plush interior options for their respective unmarked black utility vehicles, having no idea what he was talking about, responded incognito. Uh said one of them, Me and my, uh, cousin here were just having lunch. He nodded amiably. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Yeah, the other one said, Were just in town for a reunion. Dr. Vickers shook his head. Youre not fooling anybody, Vickers said. Now just move it along. He waved them off. Feeling fairly content to have dismissed them so officiously, Dr. Vickers stepped into the back to make himself a fresh cup of tea. He was only gone for a few minutes. Upon returning to the front counter, he found the view from the front window of his strip mall museum almost entirely blocked by a handful of black clad figures. The first two had attracted the attention of a few more. Clustered like chancre sores, they milled about, surreptitiously tilting their head in his direction or subtly pointing at various items on display in the window. Dr. Vickers, though generally composed, felt his indignation rising as they not only blocked any potential tourists from stopping in, but also failed entirely at maintaining even a modicum of secrecy. As much as he disliked having to call the chief to intercede, it was obvious that the agents did not understand who they were dealing with. Watching as the small division out front discussed his collection, presumably, he resolved to call Martinez immediately and have them removed or dismissed or whatever. As he was dialing the phone to call Martinez, the laser sensor whimpered a chime as the first agent opened the door. The collection of agents filed in, filling the front room with their disconcertingly large and foreboding figures. Watching them pick and poke at shelves, Dr. Vickers listened as the phone rang a few times and transferred his call to the chiefs voicemail. Regarding the unwelcome guests he pressed the button to hang up and nodded politely, feigning ignorance. Good afternoon gentlemen, how may I help you? The last agent to enter reached up and pulled the small ball chain cord on the neon sign, extinguishing the open sign. 22. Literally Poolside Mr. Paulson was possibly the worst companion with whom Martinez had ever been obliged to travel. Having volunteered to accompany the chief to Arroyo Grande dressed exactly as he had arrived the day before, he carried nothing but the briefcase. Riding shotgun in the heavily listing and unevenly weighted Tahoe, Mr. Paulson had the disconcerting habit of chuckling to himself for no apparent reason. A few miles outside of Phoenix he removed his shoes, entirely oblivious to the smell of his own feet. He seemed to believe that he was a DJ of some sort, ignoring the chiefs Bluetooth settings, and constantly changing the channel on the radio. He shifted between the poor reception of both AM and FM channels, punching the seek button repeatedly and laughing at the resulting blend of religious talk radio and superhits of the sixties and seventies. Stopping for coffee and breakfast sandwiches, Mr. Paulson hadnt even bothered to offer payment of any sort and used up most of the ketchup packets on his own hash brown patty. They were only twenty miles outside of Bakersfield before Martinez started contemplating jerking the wheel hard left into the concrete barrier and killing Mr. Paulson with a particularly violent high-sided vehicular roll. If there had been a tree more formidable than one of the ten-foot-tall Joshua trees he could just hit it head on and let the meteorite clean out the entire front cab. By the time they reached Arroyo Grande, Martinez was appraising the sturdy-looking tree trunks lining the first few miles before the town. They found the Starlight Motor Inn towards the north end of town, but not before noticing how many unmarked law enforcement vehicles there were milling about. One or two unmarked cars within a few blocks was understandable, but Arroyo Grande was lousy with them. Both Martinez and Paulson had just pulled into a convention of some sort, and their previously unremarkable vehicle was remarkably common. More so, if only because the heavy meteorite had them rolling slightly cock-eyed. If he was already feeling slightly homicidal from the long drive with Paulson, finding Sergeant OConnor lounging beside the pool did not help. Martinez felt his funding slipping away as they parked beside the gated courtyard pool, only to discover the sergeant drinking a pint of something pastel with a pineapple wedge and cherry hanging off the edge of the glass. Mr. Paulson surveyed the scene, chuckling slightly. Martinez didnt find it nearly so funny. You want to tell me what the hell is going on, Sergeant? he called as he slammed the truck door. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. OConnor regarded him casually, not even bothering to sit up. Poolside, sir! he called, raising his pastel drink before he took another sip from the oversized red paper straw. I can see that. Martinez fumbled with the gate lock, reaching through the steel posts to open the latch. You want to tell me why this town is crawling with wannabe feds? Its a buyers market out here, Chief. Im guessing these guys are all real estate agents of some sort. He laid back again, entirely focused on an even bronzing. Chief Martinez counted three empty plastic pint glasses lined up on the rusty little table beside OConnor. Firing was too good, he figured. OConnor deserved tenure. He wanted to watch the sergeant suffer before his spirit broke. He wanted to see the last light going out of the supercop''s eyes as he ambled around the empty offices for the rest of his natural life, completely dead inside. Martinez watched another black SUV roll slowly up the highway, headed North. OConnor glanced up at the chief, suddenly looking serious. Who did you call, Chief? Martinez shook his head. So far as I know, its just you, me, and Vickers. He watched another SUV coming back into town, the occupants staring right back at him. This wasnt off the wire. This was a direct dial. OConnor shook his head as well. Its a hell of a lot harder to play an undercover agent in a town full of them. He sipped his cocktail, still maintaining a look of intense seriousness in spite of the fact that he had half of Carmen Mirandas hat hanging off the rim of his daiquiri glass. Given the circumstances, Martinez had to agree, though. Until he could find out who these guys were, it was probably best to lay low. Still clutching the handle of his briefcase and looking particularly awkward standing poolside in a cheap, ill-fitting suit, Mr. Paulson let slip a muffled chuckle which might have been more of a question than of any actual amusement. 23. The Littlest Knuckle The saucer wasnt like the tablet. It didnt have the same feel to it. The metal was smooth and soft to her, but she didnt feel the subtle hum or the strange coolness. It was just a hot chunk of metal baking in the sun. Laying against the chain link fence near the side gate it was just like any of the other wrecks on the Desert Sands lot, a hunk of useless metal. Do you really think its just a Hollywood prop? Germ crouched beside the mantis, external clutch plate and bolts resting in an old baking sheet beside him. He muttered something, but it didnt seem like he was even listening. Jynx knew that he didnt much like playing with girls when he was younger, and that probably hadnt changed much while he was gone. She figured jail wasnt for people who played well with others. She pulled the tarp back over the front edge of her saucer, thinking that it probably wasnt good for it to be sitting out in the sun for too long. Whatcha doin? she asked, hovering inquisitively over his shoulder. He checked the setting on his torque wrench, twisting it a few clicks and setting the socket against the nut. He muttered something under his breath and inspected the notches in the flywheel. He licked his thumb, wiped a notch, and glanced over at her as if shed just walked into the yard. Hmm? Jynx shifted nervously, realizing that it might have been a bad idea to interrupt him. What are you working on? He glanced at the flywheel. Im having a hard time with my starts. Im not getting enough compression, he mumbled, mostly talking to himself. Jynx squatted down beside him, eyeing the engine pieces like a curious pigeon, collecting the various components in her mind, assembling all of the factors. Austin always said that machines told their own story, sometimes you just have to sit back and listen. She had spent years watching Austin fiddle with his Pony or his truck. So far as she could figure, they were all pretty much the same. If she ever saw a real, working engine, she wouldnt know how it worked. All she knew was collections of pieces sprawled around a yard, spare parts that the boys most definitely didnt want her to touch, so she was pretty good at putting them back together without touching anything. She spotted a blue smudge of silicone on one corner of the head. Oh! She pointed out the marker. What? Germ sat back, looking mildly annoyed, or just trying to keep his distance. Well with the bored-out cylinders you should probably be running a heavier flywheel. She leaned in, peering at the flywheel. Thats stock, isnt it? He glanced down at the flywheel and back at Jynx. What do you mean bored-out cylinders? Jynx pointed at the head gasket. Manny marks his head gaskets with blue silicone when he bores them out. She pointed at the blue mark on the edge of the block. Red silicone is for rebuilds. She gently poked at the flywheel. With the larger cylinder you should have the compression to run a heavier flywheel. Youll just need to adjust your idle. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. He sat up on his rolling mechanics stool and stared at her. How in the hell? Jynx regretted saying anything. She knew to stay out of the boys way when they were playing. How do you know that? Jynx shrugged, embarrassed. Thats how Manny taught me the colors. Red, rojo, arreglado, Blue, azul, aborrado. She backed away slightly, hoping she hadnt upset him. Germ stared at her. Damn, Jynx. Sorry. Nah, kid. Im impressed. I didnt even know that. Germ shook his head again. I guess you must hang around this place enough. He stood up, stretching out his long, lanky limbs. Figures you might pick up a thing or two. He looked her over as if seeing her for the first time. He started hanging out there at about the same age. If Los Nudillos had still been a thing, they might have elected her mascot. What were you saying about the saucer? he asked. So, he was listening, it just took him a while to respond. Do you really think its just a prop? she asked, backing away slightly. Your scrap? He side-eyed her as he wiped the oil off his fingertips. Probably? He shrugged. Simplest explanation is generally the best. He pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his coveralls and placed it to his lips, squinting off at the saucer like it was a hundred miles away, but just another busted-ass wreck. I took a poke around inside it, but I didnt see any moving parts. Theres some sort of boxy type thing inside there, but that wouldnt make it fly or anything. He looked annoyed. Im guessing it fell off a plane or off the back of a filming truck. Either way, its probably worth a few bucks to someone. He sauntered over to the shade of the trailer, swiping his forehead with the greasy rag and stuffing it into his back pocket. Even if it was a prop, that didnt explain the tablet. The tablet was definitely something else. Maybe she just needed to find a way to charge the saucer, just like the tablet. While she pondered exactly how to go about finding a wireless charging pad big enough for a midsize car, she watched Germ pull a beer from the mini fridge. He popped the cap and tossed it into a coffee can full of them just beside the little table. Trash is just trash unless you bury it for a few hundred years, then its an artifact. That thing was buried long enough that it should be worth something to the right people. Tilting the beer back to take a drink, he looked just like a beer commercial, like he should be drinking in slow motion. It just looked so satisfying. Wiping the sweat from his brow again, squinting off towards her saucer, she realized that he was actually kind of cute, in a grown-up Austin sort of way. He glanced over at her, and realizing that she was watching him, maybe more than she should, he opened the cooler and pulled out another bottle to offer her. You, uh, want a beer? He peered down into the fridge as if there might be a Capri Sun in there, or anything appropriate to a girl her age. I guess I could grab you a soda out of the machine? Watching him move she decided that he was like Austin, but better. He was older, smarter, and more confident. He was the source of every stupid jaded thing Austin ever said to her, and so he was probably okay. Nah, she shrugged as casually as she could. A beers fine, she said. She was thirsty, after all. It smelled a little like rotting garbage, like when she had to take out the trash and the bottom of the trashcan had to be cleaned. She took a tremulous sip. It tasted just as bad as it smelled, but it was fizzy and cold at least. She made a face at Germ. Yeah, he laughed. Its an acquired taste. He reached as if to take the bottle away, but she yanked it back from him. Get your own, she said, smirking. 24. Flashback Cue If the security detail was Chief Martinezs men, they didnt identify themselves as such. Dr. Vickers had not been able to ask them many questions, but they clearly knew more about him than he would have strictly preferred. He felt entirely flustered, and his tea had gone cold during their interrogation. Waiting a few moments after they finally left, he rushed over to the front door and locked it, pulling the blinds shut as well. He adjusted his shirt and smoothed his hair back as if they had actually roughed him up, and glanced around the museum, as if they had tossed it. Although not a single item was out of place, he still could not help but feel violated. Hands shaking as he lifted his tepid tea to his lips, he struggled deciding as to what, exactly, he should do. For just a few moments, he decided he would finish his tea. And then, perhaps, he might call it an early day and head home for the evening. Within just a few minutes of making the decision, Dr. Vickers had collected his briefcase and lunch bag and was setting the alarm on the back door. He locked the Aerostar doors the moment that he was inside of the van, sat looking at the back door of the museum, the dumpster enclosure, and a stack of empty boxes behind the neighbors businesses. Everything was exactly as it should be. The agents were gone, and he was going home. He turned the key and started the van. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Dr. Kent Vickers only wished that the event was, as had often been insinuated over the decades, merely a figment of his childish imagination. Unfortunately, and despite having been obliged to retell the story so many times that even he could not be certain of the details any longer, he still remembered exactly how he had felt that entire time. On occasion, upon recognizing a certain dusty pine scent or sometimes even a particularly heavy petrichor odor, he found himself seized by the memory of that night, an emotional state which he remembered so viscerally that the inexplicable panic could easily leave him incapacitated. Of a pair of young Boy Scouts and a big blue flame Kenny and his older brother Rixy set out early in the morning, after a hearty, wholesome breakfast lovingly made by their mother. In the late sixties, the unincorporated town of Arroyo Grande boasted a population of only a few hundred people. The broad alluvial fan hills were lightly speckled in small family homes with hard-fought lawns of crabgrass, leafy succulents, and stunted palms. The hills of the central California desert stayed green well into summer, with light storms feeding a small creek that skirted the salt flats. Although it was too briny to drink, it did provide some coolness during the midday and afternoon, light breezes carrying the scent of damp sandy stretches, and the few plants that somehow managed to thrive beside the brackish stream. They trekked north for a while, skirting the base of the hills while there was still some shade. Having no determined destination, they hiked casually up the valley, allowing ample time to explore whatever piqued their curiosity. Rixy considered himself an amateur birdwatcher. In addition to the large predatory raptors that could be seen circling in gyres above the desert, small shrub-covered patches were havens to tiny songbirds and seed eaters who tended to hide away from their larger relations. Bird watching gave Rixy an adequate excuse to occasionally stop their hike and peer through his field glasses at the slightest twitch or tremor in a distant branch. Around midday they rested beside a deep meander that would eventually mark the legal edge of Arroyo Grande, although back then, it was merely a snarled old creosote tree clinging to a sandy bend in the stream. It provided enough shelter that they could lay out in the cool shade, peel off their boots and socks, and rest their feet in the surprisingly cool water. Even though they had only traveled a few miles as the crow flies, it seemed to them that they were great explorers, striking a new trail through uncharted territory and they acted suitably exhausted, discussing exactly what sort of unexpected hardships might lay ahead for them. The first high clouds were welcomed as they set out in the afternoon. Providing even brief respite from the sun, they crossed the thin strip of asphalt two-lane and hiked a little up the hill, hoping to encounter some new adventure. Before long, the wind picked up, bringing more clouds, deeper and heavier than the first, that hung over the valley ominously, allowing only scattered god beams to shine through. Kenny knew that his brother was an excellent orienteer, but he did have some misgivings about the weather. Only through some casual but persistent commentary did Kenny convince his brother to find a suitable place to set up camp. Rixy had his own concerns about the rains, so they hiked further up the hill, aiming towards a place high on a ridge or at the top of a large arroyo, hoping to find someplace safe from the storm runoff. As the clouds continued to gather, they chose a spot surrounded by large boulders with a large flat space at the center. It was wide enough to build a proper camp. Rixy pitched their A-frame tent, built a fire ring, and draped a heavy canvas tarp over the larger rocks and lashed it down. As the clouds broke, they started their dinner preparations. They cooked hot dogs using bent wire hangers and warmed a can of chili with beans in the coals at the edge of their fire. They washed their mess kits a good distance from camp to discourage rodents from scavenging, and settled around the fire to roast marshmallows, eating the chocolate bars and graham crackers raw. They entertained each other with ghost stories, plotlines borrowed from comic books, and jokes they both already knew. The camp stayed dry despite the rain falling harder with each hour. Kenny didn''t like the thunder and lightning. Squatting under a rainfly on an open hillside the lightning flashes were startling, and the thunder was terrifying, rolling all the way across the open valley to crash against the hillside like a great wave. As the night wore on, the wind tested their lashings and the rain drove at them, tilting sideways until the only shelter was inside the tent. When they had finally run out of stories to tell each other, they squatted silently, listening to the heavy rains batter the tarp. The explosion was above the adjacent valley, a bright orange and yellow ball of fire appearing silently at first. Rixy counted the seconds, calculating the distance until they heard the rumble. Instead, they heard a single hollow Boom! Rixy confidently claimed that the explosion was probably just a signal flare. But they felt it as much as they heard it, an effervescent crackle just under the clatter of the heavy rain against the tarp. The fiery blue ball seemed to grow just above the valley floor. It ricocheted against the hardpan once, twice, skipping over the surface like a smooth stone and struck the base of the hill. Cartwheeling into the air again, the big, blue fireball narrowly missed the waxed canvas tarp and sluiced them both with hot mud. It impacted the ridge just above them, bulldozing a tower of mud and rocks with the thick slushy roar of an uphill landslide. Crackling with a softening blue light, it hummed in an octave so low that it seemed to buzz in their bones. The remaining dark wad shuddered electric tendrils into the rain-soaked hillside before it slumped back into the shallow, muddy impact crater. The rain thrummed against the waxed canvas tarp, running down to the corners to drizzle off into small puddles. Painted in wet mud, Kenny and Rixy stared at each other for a moment, only faintly aware that they had very nearly died. Rixy laughed excitedly to let his brother know that everything was going to be okay. After a few deep breaths and nervous chuckles, they both turned to the thing that had just dropped out of the sky. The top was clean, smooth, and glossy, and glistened in the flicker of the lightning strikes. The bottom was heavily damaged. Tilted edge up on a medium-sized rock to expose its shredded belly, the whole thing steamed in bubbling mud, ticking and hissing lightly in the falling rain. The gaping hole in the bottom smoked, an insidious opaque tendril drifting listlessly from the gaping wound; it smelled of matches and burned metal. Rixy had seen enough World War II serials to know that airplanes fell out of the sky sometimes, and inevitably someone had to check to see if the pilot was still alive. He waved the wisp of smoke from his face as he approached the hole, just big enough for someone his size to crawl in. Tying his kerchief up over his nose and mouth he shined his flashlight into the empty hole. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. While Kenny had seen the exact same movies that Rixy had, he would not have thought that the thing in the mud looked anything at all like a WWII aircraft. What are you doing? Kenny asked, worried about the pillar of mud looming over the dark shape. Im going to get the pilot, Rixy called, just audible over the hollow ring of the rain falling against the dark dome. He dropped to his knees in the mud, and ducking under the curved edge, followed his flashlight into the shredded scar just as the mud tower began dropping fat wet clumps onto the glossy convex surface. The rain washed those over the side, sliding over the sleek exterior to drop and collect at the edge with a fat plopping noise that would have been much funnier were it not for the situation. Rixy? Rixy come out of there! but the rain thrummed against the hull and tarp. A flash of lightning nearby startled Kenny into silence. In the brief glimmer, he thought he saw the top of the mud wall tilting. As the thunder rolled up the hillside, he heard a heavy wad of mud fall to the slick surface and slide straight over the curved edge to half bury Rixys legs. Rixy! Kenny screamed, but Rixys legs didnt move. Kenny lurched out into the rain, diving in to dig his brother out from under the muck. The sides of the hole collapsed as he scooped frantically, his fingers cold and numb clawing through the gravel-thick mud. But Rixy didnt move, his legs didnt move. If he was alright, he would be struggling to get out. The mud continued to flow down from above, slowly filling in what Kenny scooped away. When he saw Rixys belt he grabbed ahold of it, tugging, but he couldnt budge his big brothers limp body more than a few inches. Rixys hiking boots dug into the mud. Kenny didnt know that he was crying and screaming. Panicking, he lost his grip, stumbled backward, and landed in the mud. Scrambling to his knees he seized his brothers ankles, tugging and stretching backward with everything he had left. Rixys waterlogged body slid out of the cold shell. Kenny strained further, dragging him free of the disk just as the mud tower collapsed, burying the disk in wet granite gravel slurry. Soaked through to the skin, and violently cold, Kenny knew he had to get Rixy into the tent and get him warm again. When he stopped pulling, he heard the never-ending rainfall pattering against their battered shelter. He cried through his terror until he was angry enough to drag his brothers limp body back under the tarp, and eventually, all the way into the tent. Exhausted, limbs wet and heavy, he fell asleep. He awoke sometime later. Not long. The tent was dark. The rain continued to batter the tent and tarp, a gentle roar and constant patter of water pooling at the corners of the tarp. He shivered, still wearing his rain-soaked clothes, and realized that Rixy was still wet and clammy as well. Even as a Cub Scout, Kenny was aware of the dangers of exposure sickness, and hypothermia, and knew that it was possible to get it in the best conditions. Trapped in a Scout-issue canvas tent in the middle of a thunderstorm and right next to a meteorite crater werent the best conditions. It was a struggle to get his brother out of his wet clothes, but he pushed Rixy into one of the sleeping bags and zipped him up in there. He changed his own clothes, but most of the equipment was damp or wet, so his spare clothes were cold when he put them on. He crawled into his own sleeping bag which was at least mostly dry inside. He cried himself to sleep, strangely lulled by the steady, driving rainfall against the tent sides and canvas tarp. The storm continued through the night, although the lightning and thunder moved East over the hills. The steady rainfall and exhaustion kept Kenny cocooned until well after dawn, and he woke to the ongoing rain. Rixy had not moved at all, one knee still slightly bent, and his face turned towards Kenny with a sort of bemused but content expression. Were it not for the pale, cold skin and the mud drying on his cheeks and hair, Rixy might be sleeping. Kenny didnt bother to go outside the tent to relieve himself. Instead, he knelt beside the tent flaps and peed into the puddle that surrounded them. He moved whatever was still just damp to the drier part of the tent and used some of their old wet clothes to wipe the mud off of Rixys face; he looked even more peaceful all cleaned up. Kenny tried to get Rixy more comfortable, stretching him out straight and resting his hands over his chest. His skin was cold and clammy, and his lips had gone from pale to slightly blue. Certain that Rixy would die otherwise, Kenny stripped off his damp clothes and crawled into the sleeping bag beside his brother, curling around him to conserve warmth, just as indicated in the soggy Boy Scouts manual. Shivering violently, Kenny clung to his unresponsive brother, trying his best to prevent the exposure sickness from running its course. The emergency search and rescue personnel found them that way the following afternoon, the two naked brothers huddled together in a urine-soaked sleeping bag, hypothermic, dehydrated, and deeply traumatized. * * * While the defining feature of the event was indeed the crash landing of something, possibly extraterrestrial, but definitely intriguing, what was forgotten by most of the agents throughout the interrogation process was just how absolutely terrifying the entire experience was. Trapped for three days of desert storms, soaked to the bone, hypothermic, and traumatized, with his brother catatonic, young Kent Vickers had learned definitively how cruel and chaotic the uncontrolled outside world could be. Whether it was truly alien or not, Dr. Vickers had to find it. If his brother went catatonic by touching the ship, he quietly hoped that touching it again might bring him back somehow. Returning home early enough that he could almost pretend his morning was merely an unavoidable business meeting, Dr. Vickers felt relieved. Safe within the controlled environment of his own home, he double locked the door, set the chain, and felt his shoulders unwind slightly. He untied his bowtie, draping it over the back of his personal dressing rack, hung his jacket off the back, and feeling somewhat constricted, unbuttoned both his cuffs and collar. While it was not a special occasion, he thought that perhaps a small glass of brandy might help to sooth his frayed nerves a bit. After dinner, but at a reasonable hour, he would contact chief Martinez and have a long talk with him regarding the behavior of these new investigative agents. He was certain that if he was clear with regards to setting certain boundaries, Chief Martinez would undoubtedly rein in his agents. Satisfied that he was again in control of the situation, Dr. Vickers took a snifter from the rack beside the small wet bar and poured himself a dram of dark liquid, cradling it near his palm to warm the liquid. He swirled it around the bell to release its oaky aroma and took a polite sip, savoring the warm liquor. 21. Little valves all in a row Jeremiah let the land line ring as he took a few gulps from his cold coffee. On the fifth ring he grabbed the phone, collapsing onto the stool behind the parts counter. Desert Sands, he answered, sounding only mildly annoyed. He listened intently for a moment, a smile slowly spreading across his face. All four tires, you say? He lay sprawled over the back of the stool, long arms and legs hanging like an unstrung marionette as he cradled the phone against his shoulder. Those would be your valve stems, Im guessing. Austin leaned in. Uh-huh. Jeremiah continued to nod. You still have the valves? He listened, holding the phone away from his ear slightly. Lined up on the sidewalk, huh? He continued nodding and glanced over at Austin with a grim smile. Yeah, yeah I hear ya, that does seem terribly inconvenient. He listened for another minute, rolling his eyes. Were on our way. Jeremiah hung up the phone and untangled himself from the stool and phone cord. You ever replace a valve stem? He downed the rest of his cold coffee and set the dirty Worlds Greasiest Gramma mug on a parts shelf behind him. What was that about? Jeremiah chuckled. Somebody pulled the valves on Bruces wheels. Hes got four flats and a meeting in LA Monday morning. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. All four? Apparently he pissed someone off, Jeremiah shrugged, smiling. It would be too easy to tell Bruce that his jilted high school flame, one Miss Smashley of the Freakin Batmobile bumper car clan, had recently special ordered a valve stem remover, and even taken the time to crouch down beside Jeremiah in her cute little strawberry print dress, just to make sure that she knew how to work it properly. Jeremiah was not entirely shocked that she had followed through, but he was slightly miffed that she had not stopped by to brag. It wasnt a tough job; more annoying, really. All he had to do was screw the valves back in and run a compressor line from the truck to re-inflate the tires. It would take him an hour, tops, if he wanted to do it, but he had been planning on getting a few hours of work done on the Mantis. Sunday afternoon was as close as he had to a legitimate day off. He sidled through to the shop, and rifling through one of the tool chest drawers, pulled out a small cross-like tool that Austin recognized from the night before. You think you can run over and fix the flats? Austin shrugged. He glanced down at the tool, a little grimier than Ashleys but fairly simple. Nah, I can do it, he said, feeling somewhat flattered that Jeremiah would even bother to ask. He marked his page in the manual and slid it to the corner of the desk. You mind if I leave Jynx here? She wont be any trouble. Jeremiah glanced out at the back lot, where Jynx was reclined in his leather chair, scrolling through her new tablet. Nah, thats fine. He unclipped the truck keys from his belt and tossed them over the counter. Just hurry it up. 25. Lightweight Weighing in at just under a hundred pounds of skin, bones, and awkward teenage hormones, and never having consumed anything stronger than a dose of cough syrup, Jynx was a bit of a lightweight. After a single beer she was giggly and getting just a little obnoxious by the time that Austin pulled into the front lot again. Filing the signed work order at the service counter Austin watched her on the back lot, dancing. A customer pulled up to the pump for gas. He helped the customer, watching Jynx wiggle to some pop playing out back. If Jeremiah didnt want to be playing babysitter in the first place, Austin really hadnt expected them to be having a dance party while he was away. As he walked onto the back lot, Jynx was lip-syncing to an old Katy Perry song. She shook her butt and tried to display her meager cleavage like the pop star. Whats going on? Austin asked, laughing nervously. Jynx is teaching me about real music, Jeremiah shrugged. Oh yeah? Austin turned to Jynx. She laughed and threw her arm around his shoulder. Jeremiah listens to all that dad rock. Jynx shook her head and looked seriously at Austin. Thats why he never has any fun. Austin smelled her breath. It was faint, but it was definitely beer. Have you? he glanced over at Jeremiah, smiling, but putting the pieces together. Did you give her? Jynx laughed as the next song came on. Alright, Germ. You gotta dance. She reached for Jeremiah, trying to lure him out of the shade and onto the pitted and oil-stained asphalt dance floor. Jeremiah shook his head and waved her off. What in the hell? Austin walked over to the old stack stereo on the shop work bench. He hit the power button, shutting down the music and bringing Jynx to a stop. Jynx, grab your things. Im taking you home. He didnt bother to wait but set the tow truck keys on one of the work benches and went inside to get his manual and clock out. He grabbed her pink backpack from under the front counter. What, why? Jynx stood in the middle of the lot, confused. Jeremiah eyed the ash at the end of his cigarette and stabbed it out in the ashtray. Fun police, Jynx. He shook his head. Austin she followed him through the office towards the front lot. Jynx! Jeremiah had her tablet, the piece of metal from the ship. He held it out to her. Whats got into him, Germ? Jeremiah shook his head. Mandilon, he muttered under his breath. I guess its time to go home, Jynx. He lightly patted her shoulder, urging her to follow Austin. But why? Jynx said. Just get in the truck, Austin said. He knew she didnt like being told what to do, but he was her ride home, and he wasnt hanging around to watch her get in more trouble. Fine, she snarled, yanking the door open, taking a seat, and slamming the door shut behind her. Look, man, Jeremiah sighed, its not a big deal. She just had one. Shes fucking fifteen, Jeremiah. She shouldnt even have one. How old were you when you had your first beer? Austin was too angry to even think about it. Thats not the point. Jeremiah leaned back against the front door frame, watching him. Isnt it, though? He finished the last gulp of his beer and tossed it into the trash can. I know you want to protect her; I get that. But she was safe. He unzipped his coveralls, sliding his arms free and tying the sleeves around his waist. Hell, she was having fun up until you rolled in. Nikki would be furious when she found out. She already disliked Jeremiah and didnt want Jynx near him. If she found out that he had given her a beer, there was a good chance that she would call Etherton and charge him with contributing to delinquency or something. Austin would undoubtedly be in trouble, even if it wasnt necessarily his fault. As angry as Austin was, Jeremiah was still his friend, and kind of his boss. Im taking her home, he said. Jesus, Austin. It was just a beer. Austin spun, angry. Shes fifteen! So? was all that Jeremiah said to defend himself. Austin opened the drivers side door. He wanted to say something else. Friend or boss, either way, he couldnt argue such a flippant response. He shook his head slowly. Jynx sat crumpled into the passenger side, arms folded across her chest. She wore her sunglasses, glaring straight out the windshield at the sparse highway traffic ambling through town. Austin turned the key. They all listened as the pickup truck struggled to turn over. The dramatic exit would have been far more dramatic had he been able to burn some rubber exiting the lot, or even get the truck to start. He turned the key again. Jynx sighed heavily. Jeremiah shook his head and waved them off, turning back into the shop. The truck finally turned over on the third attempt. Austin popped it into gear and stomped the accelerator, nearly rubbing bumpers with a customer turning off the highway. Pulling out into traffic, the light at the corner turned red and his angry exit screeched to a halt. He slumped down in his seat, waiting for the light to change. You know what your problem is? Jynx grumbled. No Jynx, what is my problem? You just dont know what cool is. Germ knows cool. She settled deeper into her seat, putting her sneakers up on the dashboard. Germ. Why do they even call him that? The light turned green, and Austin hit the gas, politely. Just being off the lot helped. You call him Germ, Jynx. Everybody else calls him Jeremiah. Jeremiah, thats a cool name. Yeah, Jynx. He was headed south, for no reason, and realized that he should probably stop for food or coffee, thinking that might at least cover her beer breath. Why do I call him that? I dont know. Hes so C cool. You said he was a skeezy fucktard last week. He watched the minimarts as he drove, thinking that he might want to avoid seeing too many people, just in case any of them smelled Jynxs breath and blamed him. Well, that was last week. Jynx. What? Shut up. Youre drunk. Austin eased his pickup off the highway, curling it around the little red coffee kiosk on the corner of the Playa Seca Motel parking lot. What are we doing here? Jynx asked. Austin rolled down his window as he pulled up to the pass-through. Im getting you a cup of coffee. Jynx folded her arms across her chest, pouting. I dont want coffee. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Well, Im not taking you home like this. The window on the coffee kiosk slid open as Austin dug into his back pocket for his wallet. Your mother is going to kill me, he said. Oh, its you guys. What the hell are you doing here? Austin turned to find Ashley standing there in the tiniest see-through bikini that he had ever seen. Oh, Jesus, Ash, what the hell? He quickly turned away. Ashley snorted a reply. Theyre just tits, Austin. Calm the fuck down. He couldnt turn to look. Jynx needs a coffee. Ashley leaned over to peer in at the passenger seat. Heya Jynx, what are you up to? Austin turned his head, trying to avoid even the peripheral vision of a nearly naked Ash bending forward over the counter. Austin says Im drunk. Im not drunk. I only had one beer. Ashley frowned. Who gave you a beer? Germ drinks beer. Austin drinks beer. Why cant I drink beer? Austin glanced over at Ashley to roll his eyes and regretted it. Jeremiah, he said, turning away again. I left her there for a couple of hours while I ran out for a valve stem repair. Ashley smirked and straightened up, hands on the coffee counter like she was holding it pinned down. Why the fuck did Jeremiah give her a beer? Jynx smiled and leaned forward. We were working on his motorcycle. Hes so cool, Ash. He doesnt treat me like Im fragile or something. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back into the seat again. Youre fifteen, Jynx. You cant drink beer, Austin answered. Youre a hypocrite, she said. Austin glanced up at Ash. Ash nodded sympathetically. Jynx, honey, Im going to make you something nice. Kind of like a chocolate milkshake, okay? Jynx huffed and turned away. You want a chocolate shake? Jynx shrugged. Maybe with a little Caramel? Jynx gazed off out the side window, watching a family cross the motel parking lot with armfuls of luggage. She nodded meekly. Alright babe, just sit tight. Ashley turned to grab the milk from a tiny fridge behind her, and Austin caught a glimpse of her nearly naked backside in a G-string. Jesus, Ash. Yes Austin, its my ass. One of these days youll hit puberty and youll appreciate what a magnificent ass it is, in fact. If Jynx werent sitting beside him, he might have been a little more enthusiastic, but Jynx slapped him in the chest and rolled her eyes at him. What are you even doing here? Austin asked, staring intently out the front windshield. And when did this place become a bikini coffee shop? Ashley fitted the espresso handle into the machine and punched it into place. A friend of mine bought it a few months ago. He figured the bikini thing might be a big draw for truckers. Its getting popular out on the coast. She tossed a scoop of vanilla ice cream into the blender and topped it with a few pumps of chocolate syrup and a squirt of caramel. I figured it might be worth a few easy bucks for the summer, but then the Smiths and Johnsons rolled in, and I think I might bankroll a downpayment if they stick around a few more days. She poured some milk into the blender and flipped a switch on the espresso machine. It hummed as a few rivulets of espresso trickled down into a pair of tiny steel pitchers. Ashley leaned casually against the back counter as if she were fully clothed. So how much did you make off that thing you found in the wash? Austin stared intently at the rearview mirror, trying not to look over. She doesnt want to scrap it, he said. Ashley rolled her eyes. Arent you kids getting a little old for this sort of thing? Austin glanced over at Ash, trying to agree, but his eyes flickered about Ashleys breasts involuntarily, and he went back to awkwardly staring at the rearview mirror. Its mine, Jynx said, and I think its real. Ashley flipped the switch again. The caramel-colored tendrils of espresso sputtered to a drip and stopped. She poured them both into the blender, replaced the rubber top and hit a button. The blender buzzed loudly. Jynx clapped her hands over her ears but didnt start humming. Ashley rocked the blender back and forth a few times, coaxing the contents to swirl into a smooth tan color. She hit the red button to stop it. Okay, hon, but I dont want you getting all upset when you find out its just a big chunk of airplane, or a dented-up hunk of refrigerator. Jynx let her hands drop to her sides, obviously exasperated. Why doesnt anybody believe me?! she folded her arms across her chest and tried to sink further into the seat. Its not a refrigerator. Ashley and Austin exchanged a quick glance. Okay, hon. Ashley pulled the pitcher from the blender, pouring the shake into a clear plastic cup on the counter. What do you think, Austin? He glanced over at Jynx. Even if it was just a discarded chunk of airplane, it was definitely not a fridge this time, and it was probably worth more than just the market price of scrap metal. He stared out the windshield, aware that if he looked over at Ashley, she would probably catch him checking her out again. Its definitely not a fridge this time. Ashley sealed a top on the to-go cup and punched a big, red straw through the lid, passing it over to Austin. Alright kids, well, if thats how you want to spend your summer, digging a big chunk of trash out of the wash Jynx glared out the passenger window at another family walking across the lot. Austin passed her the shake. She seemed to curl around it, cuddling it to her chest she swizzled the straw around five times before taking a long drink. She raised her eyebrows. Apparently, it was pretty good. but Jynx, honey, I think we need to have a little girl time soon; maybe we get you away from these boys for a while. Jynx shrugged, sucking happily at the straw. Ashley ran some water into the pitcher, rinsing the last of the shake out. Alright, Austin. Thatll be ten dollars please. Austins head jerked. Ten bucks for a coffee? Ashley scowled at Austin. No, dumbass. Its like two bucks for the coffee she cocked her hip and smiled, standing proudly in her little bikini, the rest is for the shake. She turned and rattled her hips, shaking her ass at him. Austin blushed, digging into his wallet for a few bills, trying not to look over at her. Jynx reluctantly smiled at Ashley. Thanks, Ash. Ashley leaned out through the window to get a better look at Jynx. Im serious, hon. You and I are going to find some time to hang out. We simply must get you away from these boys. Jynx nodded. Okay. Good then. She took the wad of crumpled bills from Austin, counted out eleven dollars and scowled at him. Seriously, Austin? A dollar? Jynx was glad to see that her mother wasnt home when they arrived. Frustrated with Austin, and to a lesser degree, even Jeremiah, she shouldered her pink knapsack and charged away from the truck still clutching the caramel chocolate coffee shake to her chest. Jynx! Austin called after her, but she ignored him. Sure, they could all drink if they wanted to, but nobody wanted delicate little Jynx to try it. They had been friends her entire life. If Austin didnt trust her with her first beer, then there wouldnt be much point in her trying to explain the tablet to him, and Ashley could never understand that the saucer wasnt just another piece of trash from the wash. She didnt bother going into the house, but charged along through to the backyard, straight back to her burrow. Climbing down through the hatch she hopped the last few steps, stumbling, and giggled. She was fine. She didnt see what the big deal was. Drinking beer felt like being underwater, sort of buoyant. She pulled the tablet from her bag and tossed her pack aside. The tablet needed a charge. It didnt blink or beep or vibrate like her phone, she just felt it growing weak. She set it on the charging pad and glanced around the underground room. Music. She needed some music. She turned on the stereo receiver. And food. She was hungry. She pulled a hot pocket from the freezer and tossed it in the microwave, marveling that she could hear the tablet hum a little louder as the microwave ran. It seemed to soak up energy of every sort and again she wondered if the saucer just needed to be plugged back in. Ignoring the molten cheese and sauce all over the inside of the microwave, she took her food and coffee shake back to the nest and plucked the tablet off the pad. Even after just a few moments, it hummed at her touch. The sub cranial electric light show was becoming familiar to her, as benign as any other screen lighting up right after a restart. Even if they could see what she saw, they would never understand it. Like the synesthetic lights and colors triggered by loud noises, the shapes and symbols seemed to move just behind her eyelids or superimposed over her vision. There was no obvious display, no audible sounds, just the impression of repeating patterns and colors moving around in her mind, and she was sure that neither Austin nor Jeremiah could begin to understand what they were. Like a math assessment test written in a foreign language, the activities started simply enough, repeating clusters of symbols which might easily equate to basic math; like, very basic math. One plus one equals two sorts of stuff. The first activities were elementary. Math was math, as far as Jynx was concerned, and that was what she liked about it. She could solve for X in just about any country on Earth. Solving for the unknown equivalent of an unknown, in an entirely unfamiliar language, however, was a little bit different. There were no bells or whistles when she solved an equation correctly. She saw or heard nothing as the symbols dissolved in her mind. She merely felt slightly unsettled until she had discovered the appropriate solution and then she felt a sense of peace. It was a strictly intuitive form of positive reinforcement. The tablet was giving her a set of examinations which were designed to teach her as much as they were to evaluate her existing skill levels, and if the accelerating complexity of the activities was any indication, neither Austin nor Jeremiah could have solved for X in any human language, even if theyd had a calculator. When her Hot Pocket was almost cool enough to eat, she nibbled carefully at the edge and sipped her drink. She nestled back against the pile of quilts and pillows, wiggling until she settled just right, and swiped at the next activity on the tablet. The memorized strings of colors and shapes were getting more complex, but even with her brain a little foggy from the beer, she continued to solve the strange equations. It wasnt their fault, really. Neither of them understood calculus, either. She resolved to find Austin in the morning and forgive him for not having a better understanding of basic calculus. 26. Full Disclosure The redhead didnt even bother to ask OConnor what he would be drinking, but immediately set out constructing an elaborately cartoonish multicolored beverage which, now that he had company, entirely embarrassed him. Martinez, becoming unusually pleasant in the presence of a pretty face, ordered a Pacifico and a shot of chilled Don Julio. Remembering himself a much younger man, he casually smoothed what remained of his hair back over his bald spot. He offered his own card to pay for the entire tab, even though TIG was paying for everything anyway. Mr. Paulson wiped the bar top with a cocktail napkin before setting his cheap vinyl briefcase up in front of him. Keeping the briefcase tilted away slightly, to prevent OConnor or Martinez from seeing the contents, he withdrew a chunky computer terminal and set it on the freshly cleaned bar top. The redhead looked on, at least as amused as she was ambivalent. And for you? she asked Mr. Paulson. A bloody beer with a whiskey shot on the side, he said, and do you happen to have any condiments? The redhead looked puzzled, but she nodded and, digging around in a cabinet, found a small tray of condiments from the days of happy hour appetizer service. When she set the half pint of tomato juice, a bottle of beer, and a shot of whiskey in front of Mr. Paulson, he assembled them all in the pint glass, swizzling the murky liquid around with his straw as he flipped open his computer. Mr. Paulsons unusually robust laptop seemed to be cobbled out of three others, held together by a collection of random-colored plastic zip ties, gaff tape, assorted metal brackets, silicone adhesive, and quite probably, a few pieces of bubblegum. The mouse, plugged into the side, was tethered with an old spiral phone cord, and the small corkscrew antennae looked like it came off an eighties-era cellular device. Regardless of its artful assemblage, it seemed to work fine, although it made an unsettling hum and occasional rattling noise. Mr. Paulson sorted through the little basket of condiments, finally plucking a dusty bottle of steak sauce from the rack. He sniffed the slightly crusty top of the steak sauce bottle, shrugged, and poured a generous drizzle into his bloody beer. He swirled it around, making the drink only slightly less appetizing. Martinez tossed back his shot and slapped the empty back on the bar with a proud flair. If the commissioner happened to put anyone else on the case, Im sure she would have said something. He nodded at the redhead, indicating that he would take another. Those fucking guys, OConnor took a long pull from his layered drink, shaking his head slightly and slurping away like an overgrown hummingbird, no professional courtesy. Mr. Paulson, punching away at his keyboard, might have been checking his email account for all they could tell. Leaning back, OConnor caught a glimpse of a black screen with several smaller boxes open, all scrolling green scripts like a hacker movie prop. Sipping from what appeared to be a pint glass of clumpy blood, his eyes flit across the screen convincingly, as if he were reading any of the scrolling dialogue boxes. They are the IETOSI, Mr. Paulson said finally, the Interdimensional Extraterrestrial Temporal Office of Special Investigation. OConnor was surprised that he hadnt choked on the acronym. Well, thats a heaping spoonful of alphabet soup. Who the hell is that? Martinez asked. Most of their investigative cases generally ended with the government giving a knowing nod and wink to alien intrigue if only to distract from the very real underground experiments that the Pentagon wanted to remain hidden. Having never seen much convincing evidence of extraterrestrial contact, he couldnt begin to imagine the need for yet another alien investigation unit. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Mr. Paulson leaned back on his barstool. Well, you know all those deeply redacted field reports you guys get? OConnor nodded. These guys write them. Martinez chewed at his lime wedge. So, why havent we seen them before? Paulson continued reading his little greenscreen news feed. Because normally you get the weather balloons and swamp gas. He chuckled softly. They only call these guys when theres some serious cleaning to be done. OConnors pleasant afternoon buzz took an unexpected turn. But thats us, right? I mean, we are the Terrestrial Investigation Group. Paulson snorted. You have your logo embroidered on your polo shirts. Youre not exactly the men in black, you know? He scrolled through pages on the patchwork laptop. Youre a civilian contractor who makes a good show of it for just the right demographic. These guys may not be much for show, but they do get it done when it needs to get done. A few drinks ahead of the group, OConnor struggled to keep up. Well, then how do you know who they are? Mr. Paulson chuckled and motioned towards his screen as if that suffered to explain everything. With so many civilian contractors up in everybodys business these days, it pays to have a little oversight. He swizzled his straw around, watching pepper flakes and fly specks swirl around the bottom of the glass. There are far more things going bump in the night than most people would care to know about. He chuckled watching Martinez and OConnor both deflate slightly. Look, not every interdimensional or transgalactic interloper drifts down in a vimna. You look around and see remarkably human-like visitors flying the desert skies like teenagers cruising the miracle mile, and thats just fine for primetime History Channel consumers. Let the trailer park demographic soak up Von Daniken and Tsoukalos over their Salisbury steak TV dinners and sleep with one eye open, feeling justified in their paranoia. Mr. Paulson licked the salted rim of his pint glass and took a long gulp of the muddy mixture. In the meantime, you got three-meter-long flagellating interdimensional rods blipping in and out of existence above nuclear missile silos, freaky carnivorous cryptids snagging stray children out of northeastern forests, and some insidious little race of time travelers that just pop through from whenever, ramming probes up peoples poop chutes and tagging rednecks like livestock. He busied himself on the computer deck even as he finished his lecture. So, while you guys might have collected boxloads of trading cards for a handful of the little green men, these guys have gathered a family pack of the fun-sized fiends in a rainbow of fruity flavors, and they know exactly where they put the bodies. The newest computer screen showed a collection of red dots moving about the screen like Koi in a pond. Paulson counted the little blinking red blips on the screen, most already assembled in a large throbbing cluster on an unmarked topographical map of Arroyo Grande. Maintaining the utmost secrecy with regards to widespread unsolicited anal probing is the sort of government opacity that the average citizen relies upon to sleep soundly through the night. If they knew what we know, they would never open their door to a strange knock. He collected his spare parts computer, cramming the deck and cables into his briefcase. Do you happen to have any snacks? Skittles maybe, or some M&Ms? he asked the bartender. The redhead, who had unfortunately been standing nearby for his sudden soliloquy, shook her head slowly, wondering if the steak sauce had gone bad. No bother, Mr. Paulson said. He downed the rest of his beverage, wincing slightly, and set the pint glass back on the bar. Now, if you will excuse me, he locked the clasps on his briefcase and swung it to his side as he stood, adjusting his tie. I might take a short walk before we hit the rack. I assume that well get started early tomorrow. OConnor, Martinez, and the bartender watched him walk out the front door of the Starlight Lounge, casually swinging his briefcase. Realizing that the bartender had just heard more than she should have, Martinez sat up, preparing to improvise some little white lie to explain the scene she had just witnessed. Man, she said, shaking her head, some people will believe anything they read on the internet, huh? She grabbed Mr. Paulsons empty pint glass from the bar. So, Martinez quipped, content that she had understood even less than they had, Marys still pissed? OConnor rolled his eyes, glad to avoid a men-in-black type moment entirely. I wouldnt know, were not on speaking terms. The bartender, hoping that no one was looking, sniffed at the empty pint glass, wondering if shed even be able to smell the residue of whatever drugs he was on. Interlude: A knock at the loading bay door Three out of four of the cameras around the loading dock were out of order. The fourth looked on from the high ceiling at the far corner. It had a view of both loading bay doors and the small back door that led out to the mechanics abandoned smoking section. The view wasnt great, and with three-quarters of the screen dark, the image was miniaturized. Even in the tiny index card-sized image on the top right corner of the screen, it was obvious that whatever that thing was, it was big, and definitely not a delivery truck. Levy toggled every switch he could find to try to get rid of the three blown cameras and enlarge the image, but the rear entrance never suffered the security updates that the front offices had. He didnt see the point if all he needed was to check the truck pulling in, but then, he had never expected Voltron to walk up to his loading bay door. That thing, that giant mechanical thing paced back and forth outside the loading bay, waving its arms around like it was talking to itself. Levy watched the screen, transfixed. He blindly slipped another Adderall from the little orange plastic bottle, set it on his tongue, and flushed it down with a swig of cold coffee. There was nobody else in the offices, nobody to witness this, nobody to call, and no point in calling. Most of the crew was in California chasing after a weather balloon and there was a freakin Gundam wing having some sort of schizoid episode outside his loading bay doors. As exciting as that should be, Levy was from Detroit. When you see a guy coming down the street, waving his arms around and cussing at the sky, you dont make eye contact and you dont walk up and introduce yourself. He was fairly confident that the same rules applied to giant robots as well, so he just watched. After a few minutes of wild gesticulation, the thing faced the loading bay doors and reached out with a huge steely forearm. Levy half expected an explosion, laser beams, or a missile launch. Instead, the monster knocked politely at the rolling bay door and squatted down in a resting position. Echoing through the empty warehouse, the polite knock roared like thunder. Levy stepped out of his office eyeing the big bay door. The first time in his eight years with the company that he encountered anything remotely alien, and without a single witness. Levy gently pressed the panic bar for the small side door. Easing it open a few inches he peered out at the visitor. Squatting down before the door, it looked like an enormous chrome toad and emitted a gentle humming sound. It didnt move as he pushed the door open a few more inches. This being possibly the first communication ever with extraterrestrial intelligence, Levy felt the pressure to establish a strong rapport with this spacefaring being. He leaned out the door a bit, glancing around, expecting an ambush. What!? he barked at the thing. The thing rose to gently whirring servos, hissing hydraulic shafts, and the humming of a dynamo spinning like a gyroscope. Transforming from an amphibious ferric form to a tower of potentially dangerous humanoid, it pivoted to face Levy. He made a quick mental note that he should never answer the door to strangers on dark and stormy nights. Standing at full height, it must have been at least fifteen feet tall. The storm raging across the desert beyond casting the mechanoid giant in ominously striking shadows with every flash of lightning, the steady thrum of fierce desert rain, and the long, lingering thunder set Levys gritting teeth on edge. The rain-wet steel glistened, reflecting the flickering sodium arc lamps above the bay. Standing, it looked more like a gorilla than a toad, with bulky, armored fore appendages. It stood on sturdy squat legs, thick steel toes splayed out for stability. Its head and chest appeared to be made of foggy glass, armored but undoubtedly a cockpit of some sort. The looming metal monster stepped forward, raising one great arm towards him. Adderall brave, Levy stood his ground, expecting to be vaporized. The armor sheath around the end of the forearm slid away to reveal a great metal hand, as broad as a hubcap. Hi! it chirped. Im Andy, politely offering the enormous hand to shake. Levy timidly grabbed the end of one of three enormous fingers, shaking it firmly. The first contact with an alien life form, and it wanted to shake his hand. A rubbery gecko hand slapped against the foggy cockpit glass, startling Levy. He jumped back and let slip a timid squeak. The hand wiped back and forth, clearing the condensation and revealing the big-eyed, greenish-gray face of something that could not possibly be human, although it bore a distinct resemblance to something like the frog princes firstborn. Is Jack here? The behemoth inquired politely. Levy realized, too late, that he might be ridiculously high. Theres no Jack here, he said. Oh, replied the Autobot. Were having some issues with our climate control systems, and in need of a few antique petroleum products. Could I trouble you for a gallon of hydraulic fluid and possibly a towel? For an enormous, armored metal monster, it was incredibly polite. The cockpit hissed softly, equalizing the air pressure. Long gummy fingers wrapped around the edges, followed by not one, but two of the little bug-eyed faces he had seen through the glass. They glanced around, silently surveying the TIG warehouse. They faced each other for a moment without saying a word and both turned to stare at him with those big blank black eyes. One cocked its head to the side inquisitively. Yeah, uh. Just your regular old neighborly transgalactic visit to borrow a gallon of DOT3. Yeah, sure. He swung the door wide, then realizing that there was no way the thing was getting through, fumbled at the green button to lift the rolling bay doors. You, uh, wanna come on in? Get out of the rain? A battle bot rolled up to his back door and suddenly he was Miss Manners; everybody else was out fighting the Martians, and he was having them over for tea. The bay door shuddered and stopped at its apex, echoing through the warehouse, mimicking the thunder rolling across the valley. Levy flicked a few switches to turn on the overhead lights. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The giant robot sauntered easily into the warehouse. With a slow, surprisingly casual gait for something so entirely ungainly, Levy noted that the robot walked with a fairly human swagger. It strolled in, swiveling slightly to take in its surroundings; the two alien pilots glanced around, silently. Perfect landing, Coke. The machine said, taking inventory of various vehicles, tools, and heavy equipment. But we might be a little early. Levy glanced around the bay, and thinking discretion might be important, hit the button to close the bay door. Excuse me? Just telling Coke, oh, er The two rubbery things glanced at each other and began to climb out of the cockpit. The robot turned to face Levy and hunkered down into its toad-like squat. The bug-eyed beings clambered down the robots chest and forearms and took a moment to wipe away the condensation from the cockpit. They appeared wet and slimy to Levy, and he wondered if he should worry about some sort of alien infection. This is Coke and Twink, the robot said, indicating the pair of three-foot-tall bipedal frogs standing barefoot on the concrete floor in front of him. Away from the colored lights of the cockpit console, they were pale to a point of translucence. Under the shop fluorescents, they seemed paler, with a nearly visible circulatory system and a soft glow. One wore a little red childrens shirt with the Coke logo emblazoned across its toddler-sized chest. The other wore a faded yellow kids Twinkie shirt, complete with Twinkie the kid in a cowboy hat and lasso. Both wore jewelry that appeared to be made of silver and turquoise, not unlike the sort offered at nearby tourist destinations, though far more intricate. Pleasure to meet you, he said, unconsciously offering his hand to the one in the Coke shirt. Coke eyed the hand, unblinking, and recognizing the gesture, reached out his own moist hand to shake. Im Ben Levy, welcome to Earth, he said, feeling immediately stupid. They stared at him, still unblinking. They dont talk, the robot said. It had never occurred to Levy that the robot was a separate entity. He had thought it was a vocal interface of some sort, an exoskeletal transportation device. So, you He had regarded the robot as a fancy appliance, like a talking toaster oven or a smart refrigerator, but it was sentient. The robot raised a great hand and waved again. Im Andy, it repeated. Where are you from? A servo twitched inside a small glass bulb at the base of the cockpit, sensors spinning to overlay blueprints and structural schematics over the current warehouse scene. Well, here, actually. It waved to indicate the warehouse, seeing three dimensional images of the warehouse as it had been hundreds of years prior, superimposed over the current sparse structure like temporal double vision. The Laboratory that he knew apparently had not been built yet. But a few years from now, I suppose. So, Levy thought, a time-traveling robot and two actual aliens walk into an Extraterrestrial Investigations parking garage one night. Stop me if youve heard this one. Would you excuse me for just a moment? He slipped back to the office, shuffling through the paperwork on the desk, looking for his phone, or to somehow activate the cameras. He toggled through the various camera views, hunting for anything that wasnt a black quartered-out screen. Twenty or so cameras in the Warehouse and precisely two of them worked; the one outside the bay door, and one at the far corner above the big front hangar door. It was high enough to see the entire warehouse, but the robot was a blurry hulk crouching partially obscured in the corner, and the aliens were too small to distinguish. He reached for his little plastic bottle and deciding that he wouldnt be sleeping any time soon, popped another Adderall. He grabbed a bag of shop rags from the supply cabinet and brought it out to the two grays, setting it on the floor in front of them like an offering. Coke and Twink stepped forward, pulled a few rags from the bag, and set about drying themselves off. Although they might look slightly amphibious, they were not thrilled to be wet. Levy watched them dry off, relieved that he wouldnt be wearing a hazmat suit to disinfect the shop area. So where are you guys from? He asked the pair, as casually as he could. They watched him intently without responding, taking turns wiping down the backs of each others giant bald heads. They never told me, the robot said. They dont say much. Theyre pretty good mechanics, though. They patched me right up. The robot showed Levy a few obvious repairs, various pieces replaced with a strange, pearlescent sheened metal and some sloppy amateur welds. Looking over the robot, Levy recognized a variety of obvious aftermarket additions, small cases, boxes, and canisters attached to its back like a hikers backpack. Closer, under the cold fluorescent lamps, it was easy to see that despite the robots impressive visible steel, the joints and seams still bore evidence of various shades of glazing, a patina of safety green, and a fire engine red. Impressed, he realized that he had lost focus, his Adderall-addled attention span narrowing to tunnel vision. Whether a captor or a host, either way, he should show them some hospitality. Im um, sure you must have had a long trip. Can I get you anything? Levy glanced down at the shirt. A Coke maybe? He was not terribly surprised that the popular beverage already had advertising on other planets. The aliens stared blankly at him, heads tilting ever so slightly. Do they, uh, speak English? Levy asked the robot. The robot, feeling that it had already explained this point a few times, spoke slowly, They dont talk at all, it said. Soooo Levys brain redlined, moving so fast that his cylinders skipped a few cranks. How do you talk to them? Rather than explain the nuances and Zen nature of the relationship between a pilot and a neural-activated exoskeletal android, the robot regarded the tiny pair. They hadnt eaten anything significant since they had defrosted, and they were sure to be hungry. Do you happen to have any oatmeal? the robot asked. They seem particularly fond of hot cereal. So maybe not soda pop. These guys traveled hundreds of thousands of light years across the galaxy for a bowl of instant Quaker oats. Yeah, Levy said, I think theres something in the vending machine. He patted his pockets, wondering if he had any change. And a Wi-Fi password would be great, the robot said. Ben Levy, the first human ever to make contact with an extraterrestrial species, hustled down the hall, digging through his pockets for singles and wondering when the company had become an intergalactic coffee shop. 27. Oops de Jour There were fewer Smiths and Johnsons at the Silver Spoon diner, and the guys there were all a little subdued. OConnor came ready for some jeering, but these guys looked like they might have partied harder than they should have. Ah, the Tiggers are here! a guy called from one of the booths. OConnor couldnt tell if it was the same guy that he talked to the day before. They did look remarkably similar. The same collection of beef sides lined up at the lunch counter, still elbowing each other for room, all sharing the same surly expression. OConnor spotted the three empty seats near the end and shoulder-checked his way in. Well, hello Mai Tai! The blonde called cheerily as OConnor took his stool. My horoscope said to look for the sun breaks, and here you are! She cleared a few plates from the end of the counter and, passing by at full speed, leaned in to give the sergeant a very European kiss on the cheek. Stunned by the sudden appearance of cleavage, Paulson chuckled to himself. And you brought company with ya! She dumped the plates in a bus tub and grabbed three fresh mugs. Martinez smoothed his hair back again and opened the trifold menu as if he needed to look through the lunch and dinner dining options as well. The kitchen erupted in a cacophony of clashing egg pans and heavy ceramic plates skidding across the stainless steel. A staccato string of obscenities in both Spanish and English piqued Paulsons interest. Ask the chef how fresh the fish is, would you? Oh, sweetie. The blonde shook her head slowly, glancing back at the pass-through window. He aint that kind of chef. OConnor had just picked up the menu. Same cook? he asked. She rolled her eyes and nodded. Ask him anyway, Paulson asserted confidently. Ill ask him. She flipped over their coffee mugs and started filling them. But I dont want to hear a lot of whining if he spits in your eggs. Make it three cheese omelets and three coffees, OConnor said, surrendering his menu. Martinez protested weakly, glancing up from his reading on Georges incredible cooking skills. Just trust me, OConnor said. The waitress nodded in agreement and pushed her pad back into her pocket. The boys should be back anytime. She said, probably trying to convince herself more than anyone else. Chief Martinezs phone rang again. Once more he pressed the ignore button and flipped it over, ignoring the screen. Are you ever going to answer that? OConnor pulled a couple of creamers from the dish and peeled back the foil covers, pouring them into his mug. Its Levy, The chief grumbled. Hes been calling since three this morning. Something about a monster robot and aliens or something. Related to the case? Martinez shook his head. Hes incoherent; something about giant robots and a pair of gray aliens walked up to the back door last night, then he blathered on about time travel, instant oatmeal, and the security cameras. Lets just hope he doesnt hurt himself, OConnor muttered into his coffee. Theres nobody left to call an ambulance. As beat cops, both Martinez and OConnor had spent extensive time dealing with junkies of all sorts. They both knew exactly what Levy was up to when he started gritting his teeth and chewing his tongue. Whether they were afraid of Levys retribution, or afraid to lose their last technician and mechanic, neither of them wanted to be the first to mention that he was high as a West Hollywood hooker most days, and worse at night. Which is why the chief wasnt the least bit interested in a time-traveling robot and its little gray friends at four in the morning. OConnor watched the waitress sidle past, just a little easier than she had the day before. The Smith or Johnson next to him shoveled food into his face like he was still half asleep. Rough night? OConnor asked, eyeing the agents unshaven chin and generally dour expression. The agent rubbed his chin and shrugged. Cold showers this morning. He glanced around at the rest of the Smith and Johnson family reunion. OConnor realized they all looked just slightly off-kilter, unshaven, or otherwise askew. No reflective surfaces down at the Playa Seca, he quipped. The other agent bristled slightly. No electricity, he muttered. Whole grid went down last night, I guess. Mr. Paulson chuckled in his unsettling manner and continued reading the short biography on the back of the menu. Martinez frowned. We didnt lose power. OConnor shook his head. Air conditioner was on when I left. The agent snarled slightly and continued bulldozing his breakfast into his face. Theyre fixing it now, he muttered. Feeling a little more content with his choice of motor inns, even if he did envy the daytime room service, OConnor leaned back. Well, fuck your waterslide, then, he said, checking his phone again. If the chief was avoiding his phone, OConnor couldnt take his eyes from his screen. Still no answer? the chief asked, sipping his coffee. Assuming that she was having an affair might be a fatalistic fantasy, but her radio silence wasnt helping. OConnor shook his head grimly. I think we might have done it this time. For all he knew, she could be filing the paperwork already, and he would arrive in Los Angeles a week late, and just to sign his divorce petition. He checked the screen again before sliding it away. The chief sipped his milky coffee. Youre overreacting. He set the coffee cup back onto the moist napkin, catching the oversplash. My ex didnt file for divorce until nearly ten years into TIG. OConnor raised an eyebrow. You were using your office for extracurricular activities, boss. He knew that he was crossing the line, but he was about to lose his own wife to another weather balloon incident. Theres a big difference. Martinez quietly seethed, glancing over at Mr. Paulson, hoping that he hadnt been listening. Mr. Paulson watched them both with a bemused expression. He motioned for them to go on. Mistakes were made, Sergeant. Lets not go hashing up a lot of old news. OConnor regarded the auditor, recognizing that he was probably not helping the financing situation. Yes, sir, he muttered, hunkering over his coffee cup. The waitress leaned over to deliver their plates and proved a well-timed distraction. Paulson chuckled at the presentation of a can opener sitting on top of his breakfast. Chef says try the soup. She shook her head. I warned you he wasnt in a good mood. Paulson considered the can opener before passing it back to her. Soup is good food, he said. He checked his watch before nodding politely. She pulled the coffee pot from the hotplate and waved it over their mugs, instantly ruining their perfect cream and sugar-to-coffee ratios. Honestly, She glanced around like anybody might be listening, or even care. The fish comes in battered and frozen just like everything else on the menu, but there arent a lot of people coming to the middle of the California desert for our catch of the day. She winked at OConnor and tossed the can opener into the pass-through window. Paulson chuckled as she walked away. Baptizing his breakfast with Cholula hot sauce, it dawned on the chief that he wasnt commanding a legitimate black ops investigative group; he was running an adult daycare facility. After breakfast the three of them piled into the Chevy Tahoe, still listing badly. They bounced out of the parking lot with an ominous squeak. The suspension bottomed out against the frame with a slight crunch. They headed north, hoping to get another look at the crash site before the word got around. OConnor and Vickers were first on the scene, and they already had the intel. As far as the chief was concerned, the commissioner could call in the CIA, the FBI, the EPA, and the ASPCA. She could get as many dog catchers and DMV employees as she wanted up to Arroyo Grande for all he cared. They were first on the site, and therefore, they had jurisdiction. Rounding the bend, however, it became clear that the new guys were working with the same intel that they were and somehow, they had managed to get to the crash site first that morning. Chief Martinezs phone rang again. Without taking his eyes off the twin pop-up shade structures that had been erected over the spot up the hill, he punched the ignore button on the phone and started surveying his commandeered crash site. He counted three black SUVs already unloading folding tables and field equipment. While this sufficed to explain to OConnors satisfaction why the Silver Spoon was not as busy as the previous morning, it also gave the invasive investigative group imminent domain over the radioactive site. Without official jurisdiction, occupation served as a sort of ownership. By the time they were finished with their inspection, the soil was guaranteed to be picked clean, securing samples for further research as well as cleaning and containing any potential evidence to sanitize the area from future public inquiry. It was standard operating procedure. Before they left, they would be filling plastic bins with contaminated topsoil, preparing it for transport to an undisclosed location where it would inevitably get filed away. There was a good chance that a few extremely heavy bankers boxes would arrive at TIG in the next few weeks. Aside from the two-ounce samples that OConnor secured, the crash site itself was a nonstarter. He pulled a small set of binoculars from his bag and surveyed the scene up the hill. They seemed to be unloading an entire laboratory up there, delicate equipment packed in rugged industrial cases, more field equipment than TIG had in their inventory. Whoever these guys were, they were better-funded and better rigged. One of the field agents up the hill glanced down at the chief, grinning. He slapped the shoulder of another agent, and both chatted and started laughing. A third agent dropped his black utility trousers far enough to show Martinez his pale Anglo ass and slapped his butt cheeks at the chief. Martinez muttered to himself. Short of finding microscopic shards of the artifact after sifting through the soil, there didnt appear to be much up there anyway. Somebody somewhere could get him copies of their field reports after the fact if they turned up anything good. Hell, the file would probably end up in another bankers box, stacked against his front reception desk, waiting to get dumped into an empty office for the foreseeable future. OConnor judged the sun rising toward the most miserable heat of the day and felt a little relieved. Look at the bright side, Chief. At least we dont have to hike up there. Martinez glared up at the temporary field lab with a smoldering intensity that recalled his hardened beat cop days. Dont be ridiculous, Sergeant. Well drive up once theyve cleared out. I doubt theyll occupy the site all night. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. OConnor glanced back at the listing Tahoe, the front end tilted upwards and the back bumper bowing as deeply as the overworked suspension would allow. That they had made it through the parking lot without scraping off the oil pan was a miracle in itself, off-roading up a steep incline was a good way to end up calling Jack down at the tow company again. Yeah, OConnor shook his head. I dont think driving your lowrider up the hill is such a good idea. Martinez glanced back at the Tahoe and agreed. You know what I dont see, though, Chief? Standing by the side of a desert highway, buffeted by truckers hauling past, the list was long. A spaceship? Little green men? A cocktail waitress? OConnor smiled smugly. Air support, sir. McGoohans got to have some sorta infrared cameras or something. Why dont we get him up here for some eyes in the sky? Martinez glanced up at the clear blue sky, looking around as if he was worried about heavy air traffic. Even though McGoohan had requisitioned and acquired some strange additions to the Blackhawk, he doubted that any of them would be of much use in surveilling a fifty-year-old crash site. The Smiths and Johnsons had the right idea, combing through the desert topsoil, looking for isotope residue. If they could isolate what type of radioactive isotope it was, they might be able to at least establish if they were looking for military-grade plutonium or something out of this world. At least, Martinez thought, with a Blackhawk circling the crash site, it might put the greedy bastards off the field work long enough to let them get a better soil sample. Dammit, OConnor. I think you got something right. As he pulled out his phone to call McGoohan, it rang in his hand. He didnt bother to check the caller ID. Dammit Levy! Im in the middle of something, here. Chief, I got a two-story tall android and a pair of You got a pair alright, Im in the field right now and need to keep the cross chatter to a minimum. If you have a robot problem, call Barnes. But, Chief! I want a preflight on the Blackhawk and put some coffee in Captain McGoohan. I want wheels up in an hour and McGoohan prop washing my crash site in less than two, got it? Chief Martinez didnt bother to wait for confirmation. He hung up abruptly and stuffed the phone back into his EDC bag. You said you knew a guy with tools around here? Martinez asked the sergeant. Yeah, oh yeah. The tow truck driver, Jack. He had a bunch of welding stuff in his shop. Do you think he might have the equipment to pull that slag apart, see whats inside? At least we could probably dump it on his lot for the next couple of days. As much as the chief would prefer to keep his meteorite from the public, the idea of offloading it elsewhere did seem practical. With the weight of a small car crumpled up in the back of the Tahoe, there was no way they would be getting close to that site, even after McGoohan scrubbed it clean of the uncooperative interlopers. Alright, Sergeant. Let''s go meet this Jack guy of yours. He hung his head, disappointed in what the department had become. Because nobody sends real top-secret files through FedEx. * * * Levy stared at the phone after the chief hung up on him. The thought occurred to him, briefly, to take a picture of the android and send that to the chief, but there was a good chance that somebody would be watching. Even a top-secret black ops government contractor had to worry about surveillance. He knew that they werent the only dark-budget investigative group employed by the United States government. Hed seen the trucks following him. At least, he was fairly sure that he had seen trucks following him. The problem with supersecret intelligence agencies was that generally, they looked just like everybody else and any number of unmarked cars in traffic could be following him or taking turns following him so that every soccer mom and business casual office worker could be suspect. Whatever tin foil crash site they were on, Levy could be sure that they didnt have a giant time-traveling robot and a pair of mute geckos strolling around, comparing and contrasting Quaker oats flavors. Readying the Blackhawk was a two-hour project, and Levy wasnt exactly a flight technician. Reynaldo was the flight tech, and he cut out nine months ago when he got a job maintaining some rich guys G6 at a private airfield in Tucson. They had damn near lost McGoohan with him, but the captain liked his little roost and rarely had to fly anywhere. Taking a job that might require work, no matter how much more it paid, was more than he cared to contemplate. Getting McGoohan off his leather couch and into the Blackhawk was another two hours, at least. The man knew how to flip hidden switches when he didnt want the hawk to fly. The android squatted in the middle of the loading bay, allowing the translucent twins to crawl all over it. Clinging to the giant metal beasts legs and arms, they moved remarkably like geckos, darting around the immobile metallic monolith. Did your friend answer? The robot inquired cheerily. Like Gulliver being patched by Lilliputians, it hummed and purred, shifting armored plates to expose hidden control panels. Although the pilots didnt speak, the robot seemed to anticipate their movements, shifting to lift them to a shoulder or lower them back to the floor. Using a long set of forceps borrowed from Levys tool stack, one of the pilots dislodged an arrowhead-shaped chip of stone from a joint near the robots left shoulder. The pilot held the item at forceps length from the central sensor array sphere, allowing the robot to get a better look at it. Raising its left arm, it unsheathed the delicate left mannequin hand, holding it palm up to accept the rock shard. The robot held the shard out, in its gorgeous left hand, offering it to Levy. What is it? Levy asked, squinting up at it. A meteorite? Space debris? His mind raced with superterrestrial possibilities, worrying that he might need a hazmat suit, or at least a specimen bag of some sort, to prevent cross-contamination. Worried about catching an interstellar cold or the time-traveling equivalent of smallpox, he pulled a paper cup from the sleeve beside the cooler and held it out to suffer as a sterile sample container. The robot dropped the pointy shard into the cup with a clatter. Its an arrowhead! it said. Im guessing its probably the Din. They seemed very upset with us for some reason. The Din sounded just exotic enough that Levy could imagine the tribes of petite translucent frog people, thriving in their jungle villages millions of light years away. He remembered the movie with the big blue cat people and the fictional rare earth element with the idiotic name. He glanced down at the arrowhead, realizing that it might be exactly that sort of stone, composed of some material that was off the charts priceless and unknown on Earth. Din, huh? He knew a guy, a geologist at Phoenix Tech. Levy figured he could get the rock analyzed for a small cut of the haul. So, he said, setting the cup aside. I guess you probably shouldnt tell me much about the future, to prevent a paradox or something? Levy fished. Okay. The robot politely agreed. I mean, its not like Im going to bet on the Super Bowl or something. You probably just shouldnt tell me much about it in case I try to influence it and go changing the future accidentally. Okay. The robot agreed again. Levy peered at the robots joints, inspecting the greenish, yellowed discoloration coating the clean steel like a fungus or mold. It gave the robot a strange greenish pallor. I mean, even telling me who wins the next election could get us all in trouble, right? Alright, Levy. The robot said and lifted its right arm to give one of the pilots access to the torso. A panel hummed and slid away, revealing a soft glowing light and bundled cables, meticulously organized. It looked like earth technology but miniaturized. Levy tried to get a better look, but the little guy in the yellow shirt finished whatever it was doing, and the panel slid shut again. Even if hed had some time to inspect the works, he wouldnt know what he was looking at without schematics. The robot held its left arm rigid before it, allowing the little technician to walk along its forearm, checking various points. The pair shuffled back to the tool chests in the laboratory, returning with tools as needed, but mostly just inspecting his undoubtedly antiquated equipment. They tended to make Levy a little nervous, poking around back there, but then they did seem to know what they were doing, and they did have a giant robot squatting in the middle of his garage. Everyone had been polite so far; he didnt want to spook them by telling them all to stay the hell away from his stuff. Levy saw the strange, seemingly human left hand again, extended out in front of the robot like a model posing. You could probably tell me about the hand if you want. I mean, I doubt that telling me about the hand is going to butterfly out into some sort of timeline-bending paradox or something. Okay, the robot said, extending its manicured nails and twiddling its fingers. The robot held the hand before Levy as if offering it for a kiss. The hand began to move in a demonstration mode, swiveling, fingers flexing individually, and then in a rhythmic display of various poses. This hand was originally designed by Barnes Robotics. It is the fourth and last iteration of the original Handy Annie home use model popular for initial retail sale between 2027 and 2035, although they were still in use for decades afterward. Im guessing this one is from a companion model because it has longer fingernails. Yes, but why do you have it? Levy asked, taking the hand in his as if he were proposing. The robot attempted an awkward shrug. I installed it for Jack. Who is Jack? Levy was impressed with the quality of the silicone skin covering, turning it over in his own hand, he was impressed with the level of detail, including slightly generic loops and whorls to simulate fingerprints. Jack designed me. The robot inspected the fingernails. I have saved a collection of Jacks favorite musical selections. Would you like to hear them? Levy recognized the friendly twang of the early AI assistants, just trying to be helpful. No, thank you. Jack is left-handed. The robot went on. I thought she might appreciate a more dexterous appendage. It retracted the remarkably human-like hand. The forearm rotated, extending the great four-fingered steely robotic claw, demonstrating the giant fingers, each as big around as Levys own forearm. The stock hands arent so good for detailed work. It opened and closed its hand a few times. Levy shuddered. The robots stock hands were perfectly sized to crush a human skull like a glass Christmas ornament. Yeah, Levy agreed. I can see that. The overhead lights flickered in his workshop, and he heard the high-pitched whine of the capacitor bay as it started to charge. Hey! Levy hopped up, rushing past the robot to the corner workroom where the amphibian pair were poking and picking at his research. Dont uh, he glanced back at the robot, not wanting to upset anyone. Please dont touch that. The pair of grays watched him with a silent, expressionless gaze. They glanced at each other quietly, heads tilting back and forth slightly as they presumably discussed whether or not to have him killed by the giant robot who waited just outside the shop door. Its very fragile, Levy implored, uncertain whether they even understood him. The one in the Coke shirt glanced up at him with an expression that might have been a smile. It wandered past Levy without a word. The one in the yellow shirt gently took Levys hand and led him over to the tabletop workstation. It began pointing at various components, glancing up at Levy with an inquisitive head tilt. You, uh, like lasers, huh? Levy asked. The visitor pointed at another component and repeated the same curious head tilt. Levy built laser arrays in the same way that old men tinkered at model railroads. For lack of a decent laboratory, he had framed and finished the workspace. It was still a little rough, but it worked for his research. In addition to the specialized tools and a small desk in the corner, most of his workspace was occupied by a large, flat tabletop built of sawhorses and sheets of plywood. While he had not necessarily needed to build the array out of class four lasers, the budget windfall allowed him to build a fairly robust prototype of his first quantum computer, but without the expensive OSHA permitting. While it really didnt improve the functionality of the prototype and could potentially bore a hole into the mountainside if it were ever bumped out of alignment, it was nearly identical to his first attempt, if only a little more dangerous. The little humanoid kept pointing at relays and refraction points. Yeah, Levy said. Theyre pretty, just dont go poking your fingers in there. He gently nudged the visitors hand away, avoiding potentially slicing off an alien fingertip. While the larger version of his quantum computer was far more robust, it was also, theoretically scalable down to nearly standard Silicon Valley microchip processor size, given inevitable technological advancement. The university could keep all of his initial research, even keep his original prototype, but without understanding it completely, all they had was an elaborate light show with a lingering hypothesis. Without his continuing research, the bastards back at Arizona tech could run Pink Floyd laser light shows in the planetarium for all he cared. Levy wanted a patented quantum laser computer processor in every new laptop. Thats where the money was. All he had to do was finish his prototype and wait for the nanotechnology to catch up. His desktop-sized prototype would inevitably end up in a museum somewhere, along with a stellar biographical note on the inventor. As he proudly picked at imagined dust motes and examined his mirror arrays, the one in the red shirt walked up behind him. It held out its hand, long slender fingers unfurling to reveal a small metallic rectangle. For its size, it could have been a pack of matches or an extraterrestrial lighter of some sort. A small rectangular piece of nondescript hardware without a visible interface or any hard wiring ports. It might just be an alien tchotchke of some sort, but it felt different. There was no way to explain it. For an object so entirely nondescript, it seemed to carry a gravity of its own. Whats this? Levy asked as if they might finally speak to him. He flipped it over in his palm, still unable to understand what gave it weight. The one in the red shirt motioned towards the quantum laser computer setup and glanced down at the widget in Levys palm. It looked up at Levy and cocked its head to the side slightly as if asking if he understood, and he sort of did. Levy was holding a tiny quantum laser computer in the palm of his hand. It was like getting the holy grail as a souvenir cup at an amusement park. And this is for me? Just to be sure, he held the little rhombus up and pointed at it. This, uh, this thing, he motioned to the plywood tables, pointing at his own quantum computer, This is the same as that. Youre sure? The little frog in the red shirt stared at the little frog in the yellow shirt. The yellow-shirted frog shrugged. The red-shirted frog shrugged in agreement. I see, Levy said, crestfallen. His lifes work was reduced to a pocket trinket that they gave away with complimentary shrugs. He could, and would probably attempt to reverse engineer it, but taking something apart wasnt the same as building it from scratch. Well, thats very nice of you. 28. Bookshelves thick with flight theory Owing to early onset male pattern balding, a slightly hooked nose, and an uncannily fearless ability to drop a medevac chopper right next to what might otherwise be considered carrion, Mr. Englehorn had answered to the call sign Buzzard in the Airforce. He never spoke of his time in the service or attended any of the reunions. The only tangible souvenirs of his three tours were a few photos on his workshop wall, a rough, blued-out tattoo of an eagle on his forearm, and a dress uniform in a plastic dry-cleaning sleeve. His night terrors were a memento mori that he kept to himself. The Buzzard started losing sight in his left eye after a particularly rough landing. The chopper had sustained a lot of damage as had he and most of the crew. Though he was accustomed to landing at the med tent, he had hoped never to wake up there. For a few excruciating weeks, the doctors had been hopeful that he would regain his sight entirely but as the weeks passed, hopes waned, and eventually he wore an eye patch to sign the discharge paperwork. Although he eventually regained most of his vision in his left eye, it wasn''t enough to get his wings back. Shortly after his discharge, he set about rebuilding a new set of wings. Since his retirement, he had grown thinner and lankier, adding to his birdlike appearance. He had bones so thin they might have been hollow. He still maintained a strict regimen of calisthenics and watched the nightly news from a recumbent stationary bike. Well into his sixties he was fit and lean, though years in the sun had turned his skin leathery. He had excellent posture and most of the neighbors and acquaintances might have been more likely to see him as heron-like were it not for the monocle. He was friendly enough and had every tool imaginable, so the neighborhood got used to asking him to borrow things. He was always polite about it, opening his garage door and letting the neighbor pick it off the pegboard wall. There was a decent chance that he had a band saw in his garage somewhere. Austin tucked the template and aluminum sheet into his armpit so he could knock at the front door of Mr. Englehorns place. Theyd seen him around all morning, so they knew he was in there, but it seemed a little awkward to just walk up to the front door without an invitation. You have no idea what youre doing, Jynx said. He tucked the rolled cardstock template further under his arm. Its the same as shop class, Jynx. Im just going to cut a patch, Jeremiah can weld it on, and we can probably sell it off to someone. If nothing else, its good practice. Jynx stopped chewing her gum for a few beats. You have no idea what youre doing. He turned away. Mr. Englehorn opened the door slowly, smiling. Well, if it isnt Abel and Baker back from outer space. What can I do for you young monkeys? Austin stood up straighter. Hey Mr. Englehorn, we were wondering if you might have a band saw in the garage that we could use. Mr. Englehorn regarded the sheet of aluminum and the cardboard template tucked under Austins arm. I do. If youre lucky, it might even have a metal cutting blade on it right now. He winked at Austin and stepped back from the door to let them pass. Come on into the shop, well see what we can do. The house smelled weird to Jynx. It smelled like an old casino mixed with model paint and freshly burnt toast. As he led them down the front hall, she peeked in at the living room. He had brown leather couches and hardwood paneling on the walls. With all of the curtains drawn shut, the place seemed dark and enclosed. Clothes lay draped across furniture, books lay in stacks in corners, and the glass-fronted cabinets were filled to capacity with plastic model airplanes and various bits of aeronautic memorabilia. A large wooden propeller hung from a wall above the entertainment center. The television played the news channel on mute. Despite the strange smell and the clutter everywhere, she felt comfortable. Mr. Englehorn flipped a switch just inside the garage and a fluorescent light flickered on, humming softly. He walked along the work bench flicking more switches. A light above the workbench turned on to reveal an entire pegboard wall of hand tools, and then a light in the corner revealed a wall rack of long-handled garden tools. Clean and well-organized, the garage seemed an entirely different place. Jynx smelled sawdust, burnt metal, varnish, and motor oil. Like a museum closed for the season, stained canvas tarps covered huge sculptural pieces that lined the walls of the two-car garage. Mr. Englehorn swept the drop cloth from the top of an old machine, loosening a cloud of sawdust and metal shavings. He inspected the works with a careful eye, unwound the fabric-wrapped cord, and plugged it into a wall socket. When he flipped a large industrial switch on the side. A motor hummed at the back of the machine, starting the belts slowly, then picking up speed. Thats what I love about these old machines, he slapped the steel cowl with the palm of his hand and brushed some dust from the old sage green paint. They used to build things to last. As the machine reached its speed, a subtle squeal in the belt rose to a violent screech. Austin pressed his knuckles into his ears. Jynx stumbled backward, hands clapped over her ears, eyes shut as she crouched down against the tarped husk of yet another monolithic monster of a machine. Mr. Englehorn reached for an old hunk of wax that looked like a bar of handmade hippy soap. Applying the wax bar to the belt, the scream subsided back to the steady electric breath of the machine, harmonizing with Jynx, humming with her eyes closed tight. Austin hunkered down over Jynx. It was best not to touch her when she was like this, but she knew he was close, and being close helped her anxiety. Mr. Englehorn glanced over, nodded, and punched the big red stop button on the machine. The bandsaw hummed to a stop. Abel, son, I think you know what youre doing here. Im going to invite Miss Baker inside for a bit. He brushed some imagined dust from the workbench and pulled a marker, a pair of safety glasses, and a little plastic packet of yellow foam earplugs from a box on the windowsill. Austin nodded and helped Jynx back to her feet. She looked down at the concrete floor, still not ready to make eye contact. Mr. Englehorn wrapped his arm around her shoulder and led her back through the museum of old machines, steering her towards the door. And Abel, dont go cutting a finger off. Youre not on my insurance. Austin nodded. Jynx followed Mr. Englehorn back into the house, and down the hall into the living room. Mr. Englehorn seemed to tidy as he went ahead, picking up shirts and jackets which he moved from one piece of furniture to the next, as if it made a difference. Youll have to pardon the mess, Baker. The maid hasnt come around since sometime before you were born. He led her around the corner to find the dining room table covered in newspapers and pieces of a plastic model spread out, organized according to numbered sheets of injection molded plastic. The instructions were folded neatly on an old music stand beside the project piles. Sorry, kiddo. Its a bachelors life for me. He smiled apologetically and nodded towards the empty chair. Jynx obligingly seated herself. Can I get you something to drink? Im afraid that I havent got any soda pop, but I could brew some coffee perhaps, or maybe a glass of milk? He opened the fridge and peered in, obviously disappointed. He hung his head. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Do you have any lemonade? Jynx asked. Mr. Englehorns face lit up. He smiled. I just might, provided you dont mind the powdered stuff. He turned to the cupboard and started rifling through cans, excavating like an archaeological dig. Some of the cans he withdrew had been there for over a decade. So, what are you and young Abel up to these days, any big plans for the summer? Jynx had been so entirely obsessed with her tablet that she had ignored the beginning of summer. Austin and I found something in the hills" She looked around at the walls of flight memorabilia but didnt see a single flying saucer anywhere in the collection. If she told him what theyd found, he might think she was crazy. Mr. Englehorn continued to rifle through the cupboards, eventually pulling out a can of something from the back. Well, would you look at that. He pulled a little plastic can of Crystal Light from the back and rolled it in his hands, looking for the instructions. He wasnt really listening anyway. He was just making conversation. Mr. Englehorn? She poked at the little plastic wings on the kitchen table. How do things fly? Mr. Englehorn pulled a pitcher from the cupboard and glanced over with a slight scowl, thinking it over. Well, Baker, I guess that just depends on what it is thats flying. He shrugged, somewhat satisfied with his answer, and set about the delicate process of emptying a tiny packet into the pitcher and adding just enough water to make it drinkable. He was fairly certain that powdered lemonade shouldnt have an expiration date. Jynx thought he sounded a little accusative. Well just about anything, I guess. He glanced over at her and regarded her with a quizzical smirk. Well, whatever you and Abel are up to, youve come to the right person. He slid open a drawer, looking for a spoon or spatula long enough to scrape the clumped powder from the bottom of the pitcher. What makes you think wed be up to anything? He raised an eyebrow at her. Oh, I dont know. He pulled a couple of old, souvenir cartoon glasses from the cupboard, tossed a couple of ice cubes in each, and poured out his attempt at lemonade. Hes out there cutting a big chunk of aircraft-grade aluminum and youre in here making Cupie doll eyes at me and asking about flight theory. He passed her a glass, saluted her with his, and took a big sip. Smacking his lips around the cloying taste of the diet chemical sweetener, he winced. He still didnt like the flavor. Jynx took a sip of hers and made a similar face, eyeing her glass of lemonade as if it had just called her a bad name. Mr. Englehorn nodded. Sorry, shortstop. I never did like the stuff much myself. He set the glass aside. Jynx shrugged. Thanks, anyway. She set her glass aside. Mr. Englehorn took his seat, sliding a few pieces of the plastic model out of his way so that he could use his hands to speak. Judging by the aluminum, Im guessing that we can skip the hot air balloon lecture and move straight into airplanes. He knit his fingers in front of him. So, to make something fly, youll be dealing with four general forces. Despite the fact that it had been nearly half a century since he had learned flight theory himself, the answer was as good as tattooed into his general memory, complete with standard textbook diagrams and easy practical demonstrations. Weight is a force that works with gravity to hold a thing down. Lift is a force pulling upwards against weight and gravity. Thrust is a forward moving force to counteract drag, the force that pulls back. Mr. Englehorn embarked on a diluted physics lecture, describing the forces and how they interacted with an airplane. He drew basic diagrams on a yellow legal pad and made a paper airplane with a crisp sheet of paper, pointing out the thicker leading edge of the sweeping delta wings to demonstrate the importance of aerodynamics. He was secretly impressed with the precision of his folds, trying to remember the last time he had actually built a paper airplane. Jynx listened intently. She nodded along with him but sat enrapt as Mr. Englehorn drew his pictures and traced a long, bony finger along the lines he had drawn to describe the difference in air movement over the top and bottom of a wing. She watched as he reverently held the wings of his plastic model demonstrating their movement through the air. He pulled his monocle from his shirt pocket, placed it in his bad eye, and traced the formulas explaining velocity and airspeed, scribbling them down on his legal pad so that she could go look them up on her computer when she got home. He shut the book they had been sharing and glanced up, his one bad eye squinting at her slightly. Does that answer your question? She had been so enthralled with learning the basics of aerodynamics that she had entirely forgotten the flying saucer. She nodded and shrugged at him, blinking her eyes as if the lights had just come up in a movie theater. Mr. Englehorn nodded back. Good. He blinked, letting the monocle fall from his eye. Well then. He regarded the dusty old book in his hand, realized that it was probably twenty years older than she was, and brushed a little more dust off the front cover. He pushed his chair back and walked the book back over to its space on the shelves. Like I said, you came to the right person, I suppose. Jynx took another sip of her lemonade and remembered why she had abandoned it. So, Mr. Englehorn, she almost didnt want to bother him again, but she still didnt understand how a thing without wings, a propeller, jets, or a tail could fly, what about flying saucers? she asked. He checked the titles on the bindings of the books around his old manual, realizing that he hadnt touched any of those books in a few decades at least. He had reference materials dating back to the eighties, at least, most of which were entirely obsolete. Flying saucers? he asked, like, little green men? Jynx shrugged and nodded timidly, suddenly regretting the question. Hed already wasted a half hour patiently explaining the physics of flight, and now she might as well have asked him how Santa Claus made his sleigh fly all around the world in a single night. He blinked at her a few times, looking for just a moment as if he might actually be considering the question. Well, Baker, I have to admit, I dont honestly know. He shook his head. Id feel bad pretending that I could answer that one, but honestly, Ive never flown one. He took the unfinished glasses of lemonade from the table and walked them into the kitchen. They say that it is reverse gravity or magnetism of some sort, but thats all a lot of voodoo in my opinion. He smiled, rinsed the glasses, and set them in the sink. I suppose youd be better off looking that up on the internet. He took the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge, sniffed it, and dumped that down the sink as well. I forgot how terrible that stuff was, he said, shaking his head. He took the plastic can and the remaining lemonade powder and dumped it in the trash. What makes you ask? Jynx shrugged. Just curious, I guess. She looked down at her lap and scratched at a stain on her shorts. Mr. Englehorn nodded, watching her. Whatever they were up to, they werent about to go telling the old guy, that was for sure. Well, Baker, I dont hear a lot of noise coming from the garage, maybe we ought to go check on your partner in crime. Jynx nodded, still a little embarrassed that she had just asked Mr. Englehorn how the little green men got their magical flying machines to work. 29. A pile of shiftin sand The Desert Sands Towing and Automotive front lot was deserted when Chief Martinez turned in off the highway. All of the repair bays were open, revealing an empty bay, OConnors black Crown Victoria, and a dented white Honda Civic with the hood up. The chief thought the place looked abandoned. A light breeze lifted a thin whorl of fine white dust to dance across the desolate driveway as the chief, Sgt. OConnor and Mr. Paulson stepped from the air-conditioned interior to the sweltering midday heat. Banda music played faintly from the far corner of the first bay. Stepping into the shade of the garage, Chief Martinez spotted a pair of guys in the corner, sitting in lawn chairs with their lunches in their laps. Further in the back, he heard the rhythmic cranking of a ratchet, but there was nobody in the front office. OConnor walked around front through the mechanics bays, to spread out the chief assumed, but watched the sergeant open the passenger side door of his cruiser and pull out the Arroyo Grande case file, also clearly marked Top Secret in a bold red print. OConnor shrugged. Sorry, Chief. The chief wandered into the garage through the side door, taking a moment to check out the welding rigs and various metalworking tools that were a complete mystery to him. He was at least hopeful that somebody who worked there might know what to do about the ceramic denture partially implanted in that meteorite. One of the guys got up from the back, short and heavy in the middle, he was dark-skinned and had rugged Southern Mexican features. He had a hard look about him as he strode across the lot, like a man who had spent some time on the wrong side of the law and knew a cop when he saw one. ?Que pasa? he said, teeth slightly clenched and his salt and pepper mustache bristling. By his tone, Martinez could tell that he had spent some time on the streets of LA somewhere. Hey, Martinez stammered, uh, hola. He knew a few phrases in Spanish, but only enough to fool his Anglo coworkers. ?Jack esta aqui? The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying. The man with the salt and pepper mustache nodded, giving Martinez a quick once over Oye, Jack! the man called into the backlot. Tienes un visitor! he yelled. The ratchet handle clanked against something steel, sounding like a muted gong followed by some muttered cussing. Quit fuckin around, Manny. Jack came out from the back wiping his hands on a rag. He was tall and thin with Latino features, but too young to be the owner. He might be the owners son or nephew. I noticed you had a torch and welder there. I was looking for a little metalwork. Martinez said, quietly wondering if there was a better way to ask someone to cut a set of dentures from a three-hundred-pound metallic meatball. Jack glanced over at his welding rig with a mock surprise. Well, look at that. Do you have a guy that can cut up a big chunk of metal? Jack glanced over at the two Mexican guys in the corner and shook his head at them. I can take a look at it. Noticing Sgt. OConnor for the first time, Jack lost his hang-dog attitude and smirked. Officer Moondoggie! he nodded at OConnor. And hows Gidget doin now, then? Still on radio silence, the sergeant said. Seeing the sites? You make it sound like a long list, OConnor grumbled. Jack finished wiping his hands on the rag and tossed it on the handlebars of a sleek, glittering green motorcycle with a fat rear tire. That your chopper? OConnor asked. Its not a chopper, Jack said flatly. Its a bobber. Ive been thinking about getting myself a Harley. He glanced over at the chief. Marys not a big fan yet, but Im sure once she gets on it, shell love it. OConnor leaned back against a tarp-covered speed boat that rested up against the fence. The chief hooked his thumbs in his waistline as if he still wore a gun belt, unconsciously countering the sergeant shooting the shit like theyd just stopped by for a beer. So, you want to take a look at this thing? The chief interjected, glaring at OConnor. He stood up straight and hooked his thumbs on the waistline of his board shorts, assuming a cop stance, but in casual attire. When he tucked the neglected top-secret file into his armpit, Martinez resolved to have a serious protocol review as soon as they returned to Phoenix. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Jack nodded. Lets see this metal thing you need cut up. Jack and OConnor followed the chief back to the Chevy Tahoe, leaning horribly to the back left after the meteor shifted going over a dust berm. Mr. Paulson stood near the hood with his briefcase open. He had a handheld device that looked like it had been cobbled together from a few personal gaming devices. Mr. Paulson swept it around, watching blinking lights on the console. Martinez gritted his teeth. There was no easy way to explain why he needed a set of porcelain falsies removed from a ball of melted metal. The chief lifted the back hatch to show Jack the ball of metal slag. Jack inspected it, tracing superficial rarer elements that had bent and twisted in the heating and cooling to become chaotic veins tangled on the surface. While the chief only saw a ball of metal, Jack saw knots of bundled wires and the negative spaces left by plastic components that had burned out. Industrial accident of some sort? Jack queried. That suited the chief just fine. Yeah, yeah, he agreed. What line of work are you in? Jack asked casually. Insurance. The chief answered, falling back on his planned lie again and regretting it instantly. Explosion on an oil rig. Just doing some minor follow-up investigative work. Mr. Paulson strolled back, pointing his device at the ball of slag. The little green LEDs blinked rhythmically. Mr. Paulson shrugged at Martinez and continued to scan objects on the front lot, the gas pumps, an oil display, and the soda vending machine. Jack didnt seem to care. So, he slapped the surface of the ball with a flat palm, making a slightly suggestive spanking noise, You just want me to crack this thing in half like a geode, or did you have something sculptural in mind? Well, the chief started, hoping that Jacks complete lack of curiosity continued, I need a little help with a tooth extraction. Austin and Jynx pulled into the parking lot just as the cops loaded into their newly re-leveled Tahoe and pulled out onto the highway headed south. That suited Jeremiah just fine. It was probably best to keep the kids with guilty consciences away from the overzealous X files cops with shitty cover stories. For a super-secret alien investigation group, officer Moondoggie and his crew werent terribly bright. Jeremiah felt a strange pity listening to the Martinez guy go on about a deep-sea oil rig welding accident. He let the poor officer carry on with a long, poorly thought-out explanation of an explosion at depth and the resulting pressure at seven atmospheres, etc. Jeremiah didnt particularly care to argue the physical impossibilities of smelting an entire sub-aquatic oil rig component at depth; he just figured that his discretion would undoubtedly be worth a few dollars. So, an oil rig accident and extracting teeth for dental identification at a truck stop mechanic shop in the middle of the California desert. Yeah, sure. That seemed legit. Jeremiah owed thousands of dollars to pad the police department''s coffers for what should have been a reckless speed infraction and a punitive slap on the wrist. He didnt mind allowing the Keystone Cops of extraterrestrial investigation to cover his ongoing victim restitution payments C especially given the fact that in his accident, the only damage was just he and the Mantis, and the police department wasn''t about to pay him back for anything. Jeremiah tossed a rag over the metal ball, now tucked under his welding table on a tiny pallet. Covering the teeth wasnt a professional courtesy to the secret agents, he just didnt want to answer questions from a curious tourist who happened to wander through the shop while waiting for a radiator refill. Austin pulled the cut aluminum patch from his truck bed, checking the edges as he strolled across to present it to Jeremiah. If he was still a little upset about the beer, he didnt show it, doggedly offering the strangely shaped sheet for inspection. Jeremiah thought it best just to let it go. Jynx, on the other hand, bounced over to the cracked plastic chair in the shade and threw her feet up on the old concrete ashtray by the front door, just as cool as if she did it every day. Whats up, Jynx? Jeremiah smiled. She nodded, looking artificially cool. Sup, she said, poking at the metal shingle in her lap. Jeremiah was content that he didnt spook her anymore. Lets see what you got. He held out his hand for the patch. Austin hesitated, apparently still reluctant to let Jeremiah start welding random pieces to the find. Jeremiah took the patch and checked Austins Sharpie scrawled tracing marks. A few light passes on the English wheel should give it a gentle curve. He scrutinized the half-inch lead along the edge, deciding if it was enough to tack the panel to the disk. I just dont think we should mess around with it too much, Austin said, hovering nervously nearby like he might snatch the panel back. Alright, thats your vote. Jeremiah glanced up from the sheet of aluminum. Jynx? What? she asked, stunned that hed addressed her. Its your toy. Mind if I play with it? She smiled, and tilted down her pink sunglasses to look at Austin directly over the rims, repeating Jeremiahs oft-stated thesis: If it can be broken, it can be fixed. 30. Vanishing point Sheriff Etherton liked the kids. They were pretty much always together so they kept each other out of trouble, and he never had any problems with either of them. Hell, hed seen the two of them stop for stranded motorists, another part of his serve and protect that he didnt much enjoy and tended to avoid whenever possible. Hed seen them by the side of the road helping tourists in that beat up little pickup truck of theirs. If it was a side grift for the Desert Sands, they were good at it, and all he had to do was give them a wave as he drove on past. They were always polite but never paranoid and he could rely upon them both to obey the law out of general apathy. He knew them by their first names, and for all the right reasons. Bye Mr. Etherton, er, Sheriff. Austin waved nervously, trailing the trotting pug behind him. See ya, Austin. The sheriff waved. Austin nodded, surreptitiously eyeing the sheriff as he hurried to the pickup. He climbed nervously back into the cab of his truck, talking to Jynx through the clenched teeth of an amateur ventriloquist. They stopped by the coffee kiosk to pick up Ashleys little pug, and although they didnt do anything specific, they didnt do anything unspecific either. It was just the way that Austin kept looking at him. Of course, the kid seemed to be doing anything he could to avoid looking at Ashley as well, so it was possible that the sheriff was just about anything that wasnt his childhood friend in a bikini. Nevertheless, watching them scamper off with that little dander cloud of an old lapdog, Sheriff Etherton was amused to find himself considering their behavior suspicious. Those kids are up to something, the sheriff said, mumbling under his breath as he sipped his Americano. Ya think? Ashley grabbed a rag from the bucket and wiped at coffee grounds beside the machine. Thats why we got out of the detective business. She pulled the espresso sump from the machine, hitting it with a jerk, and knocking the spent coffee ground puck into the trash. They suck at subterfuge. The sheriff nodded. If theyve started themselves a meth lab, Im going to send Mr. Vickers a commendation for his chemistry classes. Ashley snorted, polishing the chrome on the old espresso machine. Imagining Austin or Jynx up to anything remotely criminal was laughable. The sheriff finished the last of his Americano and set the mug on the counter for her to clean and hang back on the wall behind her. He caught a glimpse of her backside as she turned to toss the sanitizer towels into the hamper. She did have a cute little rump. He could understand how she made a few hundred dollars a day, peddling lattes to passing truckers. Regardless, she pulled the best espresso shot in town, and it was worth the slight tarnishing of his reputation to get himself a proper Americano a few times a week. Anything I should be worried about? He asked. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Nah. Ashley scrubbed the coffee ring out of the mug and dipped it in the sanitizer water. The sheriff nodded. I dont suppose youd tell me anyway. Ashley shook her head and pleasant as pie with a coquettish little smile said: You know very well that snitches get stitches. Right, the sheriff nodded. Youd tell me if it was important. She gave him a wry side smile. Well, he patted his shirt pocket for his sunglasses. I best be getting along. People will start to talk. Ashley leaned over the counter again, crossing her wrists regally before her. Oh please, Greg. Youre not my type. Ashley patted his arm condescendingly. Now, you get on outta here, she said. Ive got an errand to run, and I cant do it with you and your backup dancers hanging out all day. She pulled the ball chain on the neon open sign and slid the service window closed just as one of the recent infestation of Escalades turned into the lot. Etherton waved cordially at the black clad pair in their SUV, but they didnt wave back. Alright, then. The sheriff made his way across the lot thinking about the kids. Whatever they were up to, it might be less than legal, although both of them were a little young to be getting into anything serious. Chances were good that they had a guilty conscience over jaywalking a week earlier, or Austins tabs were about to expire. Maybe they grifted a few bucks off the Girl Scout cookie sales or something. In any case, a hundred-thousand-mile tune-up on the cruiser seemed a decent excuse to stop by and see Jeremiah. Easing the cruiser out onto the highway north, he planned to stop by the Desert Sands for a quick, casual chat with Jeremiah, just to sniff around and see if there was anything he should know about. He turned to cut down Second street, but no more than a mile north of the Spoon and the coffee kiosk, dispatch put a call through. Sorry to bother you, Sheriff. Nutsy sounded unusually nervous. Look, if its about Terrence and Earl not eating again, let them know that Ill pick something up on my way back in this afternoon. Uh, Nutsy stalled out, hesitating. Well yeah, but theres a situation down in Bakersfield that might need your attention. Etherton pulled over to the side of the road to hear the news. Did Victor finally wake up? Uh, no, sir. Nutsy mumbled. Victor Valasquez is gone. The sheriffs heart sank. If Valasquez died in detox or surgery, there was no possible way that he would be getting Terrence out of prison time. He took a deep breath and shifted the cruiser into park. Alright, he sighed. Well, see what you can do about a cause of death and a toxicology workup, and Ill start looking into a decent public defender for the boys. Nutsy hesitated. Uh, no, not gone like dead. I mean hes just gone. He somehow slipped his cuffs and vanished completely. Last the sheriff heard, Victor was still unconscious. The hospital staff had him so completely sedated that he probably wouldnt wake up until after the surgery on Monday. Seriously? Theyre pulling footage from the cameras, but nothing is coming up, yet. Whatever Austin and Jynx were up to, it would have to wait. Etherton dropped the cruiser back into gear and hit his sirens as he pulled the car around. Ill be there in an hour. 31. Short-staffed Later in the afternoon, Sanchos Silver Spoon was almost empty. Word had spread throughout Arroyo Grande that two of the cooks, both violent ex-cons, had gotten themselves locked up following a monstrous gang fight out behind the restaurant. In some accounts, there was gunplay, or a knife fight, or a bludgeoning implement. Most of the accounts involved a lot more blood than was strictly necessary. There was also some discussion that the last cook left standing was seriously ill and probably contagious. As such, the only customers in the place were a couple of long-haul truckers who took up most of the counter, and a family of four occupying a booth with an unobstructed view of their sporty little Subaru station wagon, overloaded with camping gear. Although the open sign was already turned off before the daylight dinner rush could commence, Dr. Kent Vickers quietly seated himself, disgruntled at the lack of available serving staff. Lisa reluctantly continued taking tables, even though Hitch quit hourly for the past two days. She came from the kitchen looking spent with a collection of ballpoint pens tucked into her bun and her uniform blouse a Jackson Pollock of spattered condiment stains. She warmed when she spotted Mr. Mai Tai coming in the front door. Oh, its just you guys. She strolled over to the hostess stand, pulled a couple of menus from underneath, and handed them to the Tiggers. Have a seat wherever you like. Ill be with you in just a minute. She smiled weakly. As chipper as she tried to seem, Lisa had a stack of receipts in her hand and another spilling out of her apron pockets. It had been a long day, and she was ready to go home. Preferring to arrive early to an engagement, Dr. Vickers had chosen a large round booth in the front corner of the restaurant. While choosing such a public table did nothing to conceal their meeting, Dr. Vickers preferred not to raise peoples suspicions by crowding into the corner of an empty restaurant like common criminals. Also, he did not particularly want to sit too close to Chief Martinez or any of his colleagues. He didnt want to dine with them at all, point of fact, but he was eager to discuss how they might go about finding the missing artifact. With their resources involved, now that the chief had mobilized the men in conspicuously casual black to scour the town, he felt they should have the object back soon. The sergeant and an awkward man in a bad suit accompanied Chief Martinez. Dr. Vickers rose to shake the chiefs hand and reluctantly shook Sgt. OConnors hand as well. The gangly-looking newcomer did not immediately offer his hand to shake, or his name, but slid into the booth and opened his briefcase surreptitiously, angling it away from them all. Dr. Vickerss mustache bristled slightly when he caught the newcomers musky scent, which reminded him of a locker room. Dr. Vickers made it clear that he had been waiting for a few minutes, and he seemed somewhat disgruntled by that fact, as well. He had unrolled his silverware bundle and polished it clean, laying it flat on a pair of fresh napkins. Likewise, his red plastic water cup rested on a folded napkin which served as a coaster to prevent leaving a wet ring on the slightly syrup-sticky Formica tabletop. He took his seat again, forcing OConnor to nudge the ripely scented Mr. Paulson further into the booth and consequently, closer to Dr. Vickers. Martinez followed them into the booth, sliding everyone down slightly yet again. Within a few moments, Lisa swung by with a few glasses of water and the same look of worsening exhaustion. She set their rolled silverware down and eyed the science teacher suspiciously. Having a rough one tonight, then? OConnor asked. The blonde sighed deeply but forced a smile. Still short two cooks, so were running a sort of limited menu, right now. Cheese omelets for dinner? Goddess bless, no. She flipped open one of the menus and scanned through it for a reference. But if I were you gentlemen, I might stick to burgers and fries. Soups good, too. Her smile faded. Just try to keep it simple, okay? OConnor winked at her, but she seemed too exhausted to reciprocate. Thanks for your patience, guys. Were doing our best. Vickers bristled. Entirely unprofessional, in my opinion, he complained. OConnor shrugged. Still beats the vending machine in the hotel lobby. Vickers adjusted his place setting one last time and moved his water cup a fraction of an inch. Under the circumstances, I am relieved to see that you didnt bring the entire platoon with you, Chief Martinez. He meant to imply the Smith and Johnson family reunion. They seem a bit excessive in my opinion, but I do appreciate how seriously you are taking this situation. Martinez, taking the comment as a snide reference to Mr. Mai Tai and the scarecrow, quietly wished that he hadnt brought anyone with him for what had turned out to be a well-publicized black ops balloon chase. With the exception of Levy and McGoohan, this was the whole platoon, and given the other investigating organizations significant staff, he could desperately use both Levy and McGoohan, if only to hover around and look busy. Yes, well, the chief nodded, confirming or denying nothing with regards to the other investigators, I thought we might keep this as intimate as possible. Hoping to impress Mr. Paulson with the personal touch, having his finger on the pulse of an active investigation, the chief continued, Were just glad you called us first. OConnor sat quietly as the chief apologized his way through the unprofessionalism and Mr. Paulsons presence as well. He let the chief play chummy with this substitute science teacher, but outside the professional slap and tickle of some insubstantial circumstantial evidence, this guy wasnt really offering them much to investigate. Lacking the actual saucer, all that TIG had to go on was the images, a few dirt samples, and the doctors childhood account of the original incident. Vickers hadnt actually taken the time to go up and look at the damn thing before he called them in. Sensing that the chief was placating the doctor, OConnor decided that it was his turn to play bad cop. He pulled the manila folder from his satchel and set it before him on the table, displaying the Top-Secret label unabashedly. Having taken only a few moments in transit to review the file, he hadnt bothered to look at statistics, images, dates or timestamps, but rather, highlighted sections that he found particularly funny in the transcribed events. Lets get back to your initial contact with the object, OConnor bluntly interrupted. You said here that the object glowed blue, and I quote: like when my brother lit his fart on fire that one time. OConnor set the file on the table, open in front of him. Dr. Vickers could clearly see the highlighted sections. Exactly what hue of blue would you say that is? Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Knock it off, Sergeant. The chief wasnt eager to watch a pissing contest. OConnor set the lead-lined soil sample satchel on the table. It was small enough that it resembled a fanny pack, but it weighed as much as a canned ham. He unzipped the top flap and withdrew one of the small vials, holding it between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the eye of a geologist, despite the fact that he definitely wasnt one of those, either. I mean, I would like to be impressed with the LIDAR images, whats not to say that you doctored those up somehow? Dr. Vickers sat up straighter, as if he had ever been accused of slouching. Excuse me? OConnor set the sample in the center of the table and shrugged. I mean, it seems to me that a guy running a little alien museum at the edge of town would stand to make a few bucks with a confirmed alien sighting in the area. OConnor reached into his field kit duffel and dragged out the handheld Geiger counter, trailing the little corded cylindrical sensor. He thumbed the power switch on the little box. A few LEDs blinked and the analog needle hopped briefly until it clicked a steady baseline. Leaning back in the booth, he pushed the little saltshaker-shaped sensor at the collected soil sample, eliciting a brief crackle from the box and a needle hop like a wave cresting. My question is, whered you get the radioactive gravel? He held the button on the sensor, waving it back and forth near the glass vial, listening to the loud crackle crest and trough with each pass. Vickerss face changed colors very slowly, from a slight blush to fully flushed as his jaw set up. Offended by the open display of the gravel as well as the loud feedback of the Geiger counter, he was just as shocked as he was appalled. Besides himself, the members of the Terrestrial Investigations Group had been the only other people to know where the object would be located. They very well might have snuck up overnight and airlifted the object off the side of the hill under the cover of the rainstorm. The meeting, these strange idiots with the chief, even the couple dozen casual black ops soldiers were all some sort of bureaucratic theater. If youve just come here to discredit me and cover this whole thing up, dont even bother. Dr. Vickerss mustache bristled as he stiffened his jaw and flatly growled: Ill go public. Martinez, deciding that the meeting was going sideways faster than he had hoped, knit his fingers on the table in front of him. Unreliable eyewitness though he may be, he was obviously convinced that both the LIDAR images and radioactive gravel was proof of something. Even the hole in the ground was proof of something. There was no doubt at all that there was in fact, something. The problem was, where the hell was it? Look, Dr. Vickers, nobody is questioning its existence anymore. Now its just a matter of locating it. If the Smiths and Johnsons had found the artifact, they would have burned the remaining evidence to ash and whisked the artifact out in a flat black panel van. Martinez had sanitized enough weather balloon crash sites to know the protocols at least. The very fact that the Smiths and Johnsons were still roaming freely around Arroyo Grande, sampling soft serve frozen yogurt and touring the model train museum, would seem to indicate that they were just as lost. They had the LIDAR images, probably trash bags full of contaminated gravel, and the cold case files, but that must be about it. TIG had Dr. Kent Vickers, at least, but that wasnt turning out to be much of an advantage. What we need to do is to find that damn he glanced around, realizing that he was still sitting in a diner, thing. Both OConnor and Dr. Vickers exchanged glances, realizing that there wasnt much left to argue about. They were all there for the same reason, and if the doctor wasnt faking the whole thing, and he didnt seem to be, then they were all up a crick until the object was located. Mr. Paulson, apparently finished with his work in the briefcase, picked up the handheld Geiger counter and began to investigate it, turning it over in his hands, inspecting various components. OConnor resisted the urge to slap his hands away. In addition to smelling bad, the sergeant was of the opinion that Mr. Paulson was just generally annoying and didnt much like sharing the case with him. Consciously suppressing the urge to wrestle his Geiger counter out of Mr. Paulsons grubby hands, OConnor watched a rusty red pickup truck pull into the Silver Spoon parking lot. The skinny second tow truck driver was at the wheel with his little junkie girlfriend riding shotgun. They rolled slowly through the lot, probably trying to avoid suspicion. He wondered how it was that the sheriff hadnt picked them up already and put them into rehab of some sort. They were both so young. Mr. Paulson thumbed the power switch on the Geiger console, listening to the steady rhythmic click of the tethered sensor on the Formica tabletop while he watched the needle bounce. He chuckled in his usual manner, somehow childlike as he played with OConnors toy. He picked up the sensor and waved it near the center sauce rack, chuckling again when the needle bounced as he swept past the saltshaker. He thoroughly checked the ketchup, the mustard, and the little tray of individual jelly packets, disappointed that none of the other condiments were the least bit radioactive. The waitress swung by the booth, digging in her pockets as Mr. Paulson started scanning OConnors fingers. The Sergeant swatted at Mr. Paulsons scanner as the blonde rifled through the last few checks, looking for their table number in the stack. I dont want to rush you guys, but were short staffed and probably shutting it down early tonight, so Im just gonna leave this right there. She slid the handwritten check under the ketchup bottle, bending ever so slightly at the waist as she did so, just to make sure that she had their attention. And Mai Tai, sweetie, I got you guys the friends and family discount for dinner, on account of your patience with breakfast the past couple of days. Usually we arent so busy. Mr. Paulson scanned OConnors arm and the Geiger counter crackled excitedly. Again, the sergeant swatted him away. OConnor leaned back in the booth ever so slightly, puffing out his chest as casually as he could. Oh, Lisa, you didnt have to do that. Paulson scanned the sergeants elbow again, eliciting another crackle. OConnor grabbed the entire apparatus out of the auditors hands, flipped it off, and stuffed it into his field kit with some finality. Hon, I owe you one. I never did get to thank you for your generosity the other morning. She gave his bicep a healthy squeeze and smiled appreciatively. Maybe stop by the Starlight later? First round is on me. OConnor nodded a little too enthusiastically while self-consciously rubbing his apparently radioactive elbow. Save me a pineapple slice, he called, quietly regretting his first night and the subsequent fruity cocktail related notoriety that he now reluctantly enjoyed. The mention of the sergeants generosity the other morning was not missed by either Chief Martinez or Mr. Paulson, who happened to be auditing the TIG organization, officially. Chief Martinez watched as the auditor withdrew his yellow legal pad from the briefcase and, still slightly disgruntled at the seizure of the Geiger counter, scribbled some notes onto the page. 32. The Relative Need for Speed Earl paced the cell like a caged animal, finally waiting for the sheriff to show up with lunch or two ply, or news that his uncle had called back. If he had started playing it cool, two days holed up in a cell with Terrence had finally put him over the top, and he was getting agitated. Look, bro, its not a big deal, alright? It is a big deal! Earl snapped back. I mean, were professionals, okay? There are just some things we dont need to know about each other, alright? He paced back to his bunk, tossing the crumpled, grease-stained bags off to the side so that he could sit down, but even sitting, his knee bounced uncontrollably. How long is the longest youve ever gone without shitting? Terrence asked. Earl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He had begun sweating uncontrollably. Like, three days, Earl said. Three fuckin days? Bro, thats not good for your intestines. Earl shrugged. First time in, alright? I was stuck with a bunch of bikers with swastikas and Aryan nation tattoos. I just couldnt go, ya know? Fuck, bro. That sounds uncomfortable. Earl chuckled. It was, okay. Like literally, I was afraid they were all gonna jump me and Id end up shitting my pants or something, like, literally. He eyed the steel toilet in the corner and the roll of single-ply. And there they werent feedin me no sack lunches full of fried food, ya know? Three fucking days. Terrence shook his head and laid back again. You ever seen The Great Escape? Earls leg stopped bouncing for a moment as he thought about it. Is that the one with Paul Newman in it? Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Nah, bro. Thats Cool Hand Luke. Terrence laughed. Shakin a branch boss, shakin a branch. Earl sat forward on his bunk but realized it was a bad position with his guts tied up, so he stood up to pace again. Whats the other one? Terrence smiled. Its like Steve McQueen, I think. Its a WWII movie, bro. He sat up and watched Earl try to avoid the inevitable. Hes like, always in solitary confinement, and hes got this baseball and a glove. He just sits there bouncing the ball off the wall the whole time. Earl nodded and rubbed his chin. Yeah, yeah. He like, jumps a fence on his motorcycle or some shit. Terrence nodded and laid his forearm over his face, thinking he might fake a nap for a minute so that Earl could go about his business. If I end up in prison, you gotta bring me a baseball and glove, bro. Earl let slip a tremulous fart, hoping thats all it was. A moment later, Terrence grimaced. Fuck, bro. Just fuckin do it so I aint gotta smell that all the time. The door to the front offices opened, and the aces listened to footsteps coming down the hall. Earl sat down, not wanting to spook the deputy. You better hope the sheriff didnt decide to bring us something healthy like a big Cobb salad or some shit. Fuck, man. Like, literally. They watched as the deputy peered in at them. He turned the key and opened the door to find Terrence and Earl both sitting perfectly still and hopeful, but he didnt have a meal for them, or even a roll of real toilet paper. Alright, boys. Roll em up. You guys made bail. The fuck!? Terrence hopped up. Did George call? The deputy shook his head, looking slightly bewildered. Not that I know of. He watched them both hop to, tossing their trash into the basket and dumping their possessions back into the gallon Ziplock bags. Who bailed us out? Earl asked. Dont know. You guys got a guardian angel of some sort. The deputy shrugged. A cash bond was posted for you two through Western Union. No return information. Terrence and Earl glanced at each other, as confused as the deputy. Bro, Terrence said. Maybe Uncle Icky didnt want anybody to know? Can you wire money from a fuckin cruise ship? Terrence asked. Sweet Jesus, the deputy scowled. What the hell is that smell? Terrence laughed. Earl pushed his way past the deputy and out into the hall. Wheres my fuckin two-ply, alright? 33. Dios Los Cria... Jynx and Austin watched the family with the camping gear-laden Subaru as they climbed back into their car. The two truckers were already paying up by the time they got inside. The Silver Spoon was mostly empty except for a few guys sitting with Mr. Vickers in a corner booth. Are you guys closed? Austin asked, Ashley had to run an errand, but she told us to meet her here. Oh, Im sure Hitch can handle one last burger and a grilled cheese, Lisa smiled wanly, although she had last seen Hitch rolling a joint from the nug jar Terrence left in his locker. Helping herself to a margarita-flavored wine cooler when she was at the beverage station, Lisa dropped a coke, a lemonade, a stale milk bone, and a couple of paper-wrapped straws on the table as she swung past to drop the check at Mr. Vickerss table. Jynx didnt pull the tablet from her bag when they sat down. Instead, she held her phone out in front of her, pretending to be texting or checking her media while watching the casual cop and his friends interrogate her science teacher. Sir Pugsley, knowing this behavior well, did two full rotations before settling into a puddle beside her. She pulled the paper sleeve off her straw and swirled the straw around in her drink five times before taking her first sip but didnt take her eyes off the corner table. On her second pass, Lisa brought plates quick enough that Austin checked to make sure his burger wasnt raw. Jynx gnawed the crusts off her sandwich like a raccoon, pausing periodically to feed Sir Pugsley another fry. At least feeding the dog kept her from staring off at the corner table intently. Im telling you, Austin. Those guys are looking for it. Austin glanced over his shoulder at the collection of old guys in the big booth. They didnt exactly look like the sort of guys that might be hunting for a saucer, more like a collection of nerds that crawled out of their basements after a few decades of ongoing D&D games. He recognized the guy in shorts and a T-shirt from the other day. He was there to get his Crown Vic fixed. Jeremiah said he was a cop of some sort, but he didnt look like the sort to scan a HAM radio for signals from space. He looked more like the sort to scan the dashboard radio for ska music. If theyd been looking for the saucer, they would have spotted it on the back of the flatbed and spared them all the issue of Jeremiah looking to make a buck. You know Vickers is into some weird science stuff. Maybe those guys are with one of the labs he used to work for. That guy is staring at us. Jynx slid deeper into her seat, chewing through the recently de-crusted bottom half of her grilled cheese. Sir Pugsley, waiting for another fry, snorted indignantly. Austin glanced over his shoulder again. The guy in the board shorts nodded severely at him, looking overly serious for his beachwear. Austin nodded back. He was definitely a cop, but Austin couldnt think of any laws they might have broken by unearthing the saucer. Jeremiah said that there were salvage rights of some sort, sort of a legal finders keepers, losers weepers policy on trash in the wash. Even if they did want the thing, Austin and Jynx got to it first. Well, Mr. Vickers doesnt look too happy, thats for sure. Jynx watched her math and science teacher squirm under their scrutiny and wondered if they were questioning him because of his museum. Shed never been there, but then, until a few days prior, she had never given flying saucers and space aliens much thought. He might be someone to ask, but she didnt know how to go about it without tipping him off. If he knew what she had, he would find a way to take it from her. She slouched deeper into the booth. When the big guy in shorts glanced over again, she tried to stare at Austin instead, but then had to check again, in case the guy was still looking at her. Austin wiped ketchup off his cheek with a napkin but didnt look up from his phone. Stop staring at them, Jynx. Youre going to freak them out. Jynx repeatedly stabbed a French fry into her ketchup and chomped the end off as Sir Pugsley watched. He snorted in protest, but she was still staring at the other table. Theyre freaking me out, Austin. * * * While the chief and Dr. Vickers begrudgingly argued over who should pay the bill, OConnor watched the kids from the tow company with a little pug dog. The little girl seemed about as timid as a squirrel, shying away to hide behind the other tow truck driver. She took her seat and slid into the booth, ducking down slightly. Aside from being a scrawny kid, she didnt look like a junkie. She didnt have the pocked face or scab-picked arms, but she did seem paranoid, stealing side-eyed glances at their booth. If he already thought that the desert was lousy with tweakers, these two strung-out kids werent helping. They seemed so young. OConnor assumed that it must be boredom. Nothing to do in a tiny little town. Naturally, they turned to drugs. Having seen Dr. Vickers to his minivan, the Tiggers loaded up in the Tahoe feeling satisfied enough, but glad that theyd gotten the discounted price, anyway. If the owner was some sort of chef like the menu described, he was taking his secrets to the grave with him, or at least not sharing them with the morning and afternoon shifts. The burgers were fine, but somewhat lackluster, even by truckstop dining standards. Hes full of shit, Chief. I mean, maybe he saw something when he was a kid, and his brother laying catatonic for sixty freakin years is pretty convincing, but a guy with a flying saucer museum just happens to find one buried in his backyard? I find that a little suspect. Martinez nodded mechanically as he pulled onto the highway, increasingly bored with the entire situation. If bringing Paulson along was a bad idea, sending OConnor to secure the site was his first big mistake. By now, the site would be scrubbed clean of any radioactive residue, and there was little that McGoohan could do for them besides swing around the site a few times looking for infrared jackrabbit signals. And then somehow, OConnor muttered, a few days before we roll in to investigate, it just happens to fly off again? Really!? Those LIDAR images were convincing enough to get the cavalry out here, Sergeant. He watched for the entrance to the Starlight Motor Inn, eyeing the handful of big, black Escalades cruising up and down the highway like they might be going door to door. I doubt very much that the commissioner would mobilize a top-secret SWAT team for a handful of doctored images. You dont think he called them in himself? Not likely. Martinez pulled into the Starlight parking lot and gently eased it into a spot near the staircase. He doesnt like you much; and even less now, Im guessing. He would have leveraged them if they were in his pocket. Yeah, not much of a poker face on that guy. You know, Paulson interjected from the backseat, the worst kind of liar is the sort that actually believes what they are lying about. He chuckled. You think he called in the stormtroopers? Mr. Paulson shook his head. Thats obviously a leak in the chain of custody. I doubt very much that Vickers or his little LIDAR photographer friend took much care in maintaining encryption protocols. OConnor smiled at the chief. Nobody sends real Top-Secret files through FedEx, right? Paulson chuckled. You might be surprised how easy it is to access information sent to and from supposedly classified low-level government contractors. He chuckled again. Martinez grit his teeth at the phrase. So, what do you think Dr. Vickers is lying about? OConnor asked. Well, take the most devout believers in any other religion, for example. What does this have to do with religion? Martinez asked. Mysterious unseen superterrestrial beings with a science so advanced that it is incomprehensible to humanity? There are already sects of the populace who worship the extraterrestrial mythos with a near-religious fanaticism. Tell me that our own Dr. Vickers doesnt crave the redemption of the missing artifact like it was a sacred object. Martinez grumbled indignantly. Easy, there. Even if he wasnt a practicing Catholic anymore, he still made it to mass a few times a year. Your own man, Levy, truly believes that supplying you with evidence of aliens, real or imagined, is the key to saving your organization from a potential budget cut by your commissioner, so much so that hes called you not less than twenty times since I have been with you. I have no doubt that if you contacted him, the irrefutable evidence would vanish without explanation, just at the moment of revelation. Martinez and OConnor glanced at each other. Neither wanted to bring up the extent of Levys Adderall habit, but there was a decent chance that Levy truly believed that he was seeing little green men running around the shop, even as he was popping his little orange pills. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. OConnor rolled his eyes. Levys not even an investigator, Paulson. Hes a glorified electrician. He leaned back in his seat, wishing that this pencil pusher would just stick to his accounting. And thanks to budget cuts, hes the only mechanic we have left to keep our fleet running. He was a promising quantum computing doctoral candidate who now has a vested interest in maintaining his position with your organization. Hes also pretty active on the message boards, discussing conspiracy theory. Paulson shrugged. It is the key tenet of the conspiracy enthusiasts that complete lack of proof is all the proof they need of the extent of the cover-up, same as most major faiths with regards to their divine mystery. Every religious zealot believes that they follow the one true god, and all others are false. Apply that same logic to your alien cover-up conspiracies. How far would Levy be willing to go just to keep his research going? As a general rule, Martinez preferred to keep his personal beliefs separate from his professional life, but Paulson stomped straight across that line in the sand. He adjusted the mirror to get a better look at the scrawny auditor. Im not sure that I like you comparing these new-age alien nutjobs and conspiracy theorists with your average Sunday churchgoer. Occasionally attending mass isnt the same as chasing blinky lights in the sky or claiming that the earth is flat. Paulson chuckled. But youve devoted more than two decades of your life to investigating extraterrestrial activity. The auditor slid his briefcase into his lap and folded his hands in front of him, addressing them from his miniature desk. Its your job, Martinez. You get paid to believe in aliens, and so you do. Nobody pays you to believe in Jesus, but if I walked into a Presbyterian church and told them all, without a shadow of a doubt that Jesus of Nazareth looked more Arab than Anglo, I would get murdered in his name before I made it to the parking lot. He smiled perfunctorily at the pair in the front seat. Because these people are true believers, and willing to go to great lengths to prove themselves right. He stared straight into the mirror, pan-faced and uncharacteristically serious. Im going to grab some snacks. You guys want anything out of the vending machine? Martinez and OConnor exchanged glances. Alright, then. The auditor slid out the door, strolling towards the vending and ice machines, briefcase swinging casually at his side. I dont like him very much, OConnor muttered while they watched Paulson plugging dollars into the vending machine. I have a funny feeling that youre not alone. The Sergeant pulled his Sig Sauer from under the seat and reached for the door handle. Now hes just insulting us. Martinez locked the door before OConnor could climb out. I need you to take it easy, Sergeant. Lets not burn the house to the ground just to kill a rat, you know? OConnor grumbled, watching the auditor punch buttons for another snack. Do you understand, Sergeant? While he could understand the chiefs concern when he pulled his piece from under the seat, he wasnt about to pop a cap in Paulson just because the pencil-neck wasnt a big fan of old-time religion. Yes, sir. He stuffed the pistol into his beltline before Martinez would release the lock button. Lets just tie up the loose ends, get your cruiser out of the shop, and well see what the commissioner has to say about all this when the review board finishes up, alright? OConnor nodded begrudgingly. Well, Im going to pop into the lounge for a minute to see if I can wash this taste out of my mouth and work us up a discount on tomorrows breakfast as well. Mary? Martinez reminded him. Just flirting, Chief. Im not going to go trying to get us all free meals for the duration. The chief shook his head. How benevolent of you. Paulson stood at the bottom of the concrete stairs, snacking on a bag of ranch-flavored Corn Nuts and staring at them. I really dont like that guy, OConnor muttered as he slid out of the passengers side door. Paulson tilted the tiny snack pack towards them both and raised his eyebrows, offering them a sample. Well, he seems to like you. Martinez shrugged. Paulson waited for him, offering a selection of snacks. Se?or Martinez! The front desk auditor called as they started up the steps. A package arrived for your room, addressed to a se?or Paulson? Martinez glanced up at Mr. Paulson, who appeared only moderately impressed but did not immediately identify himself to the desk clerk. Yeah, okay. Martinez nodded. Does he need to sign for it or anything? The clerk shook his head. No, but it is very heavy, and I did not want to leave it outside your door, just in case. Lifting the box to the countertop, the clerk grunted. Wrapped in brown paper with plain white shipping labels, it looked like the sort of discreet packaging offered by adult sex toy companies. The package was heavy, whatever it was. Paulson chuckled to himself. Without putting down his briefcase, he awkwardly lifted the box, clinging to the heavy package without uttering a word of thanks or asking for any assistance, he fumbled backward against the rental office door, spilling himself out onto the sidewalk and stumbling up the stairs. Agent Martinez thanked the clerk. Straight in the door, Mr. Paulson slid his package onto the little table in the room, pushing the various pamphlets and tourist guides out of the way. He pulled some sort of box knife from his jacket pocket, cut the plain brown tape that sealed the box, and opened it. Even though the chief was standing right there, Mr. Paulson swept the box and Styrofoam packing peanuts off the table, allowing the packing peanuts to spill all over the floor. He set the duffel bag on the table, and furtively glanced behind him, to ensure that Martinez couldnt see the contents, unzipped it, and rifled through it like a raccoon digging through trash. Mr. Paulson pulled a power tool battery and charger from the duffel bag and plugged the cord into the wall, checking to see that the little LED lights were working satisfactorily. Pleased that they were, he hung his suit coat on the back of a chair and kicked his shoes off to expose his stinking, holey socks. He set his briefcase beside the bed and lay down with his feet crossed at the ankle, ready to watch some basic cable until the chief fell asleep or asphyxiated from the stench of dirty socks. Dulce madre de dios, Mr. Paulson. This place stinks! Martinez swung the front door wide, attempting to air out two days worth of bachelor flophouse funk. It could be worse, Mr. Paulson said, an insidious smirk spreading on his unnervingly ambivalent countenance. It could be a lot worse. He began to chuckle to himself. Chief Martinez decided it might be a good idea to drop the subject entirely. * * * Ashley didnt show up at the Spoon for nearly an hour, but she hadnt bothered to order her pie ahead of time, so it was possible that she wasnt in much of a rush. Nonetheless, she came into the parking lot hot, scraping her ground effects over the corner of the curb and kicking up sparks at the speed bump. The glass pack growled once, just to slow her roll, and just barely audible over the consummate ''50s music playing, but enough to grab the kids attention. Quietly idling in neutral, she coasted to the far end of the lot and around the corner to park behind the restaurant. For whatever reason, Ash had decided to go full stealth again. A few moments later Austin and Jynx heard shouts and cheers from the kitchen and one of the missing cooks ran out of the kitchen, dashing the restrooms. Ashley slipped into the restaurant from the kitchen. With her hood up and her sunglasses on, she crossed the dining area at a partial crouch looking infinitely more conspicuous for the effort. She crammed Austin back into the booth and huddled low beside him, blending into the banal scene in a bright pink hoodie. What in the hell is wrong with you two? Both of you are acting guilty as hell about something or other, the sheriff is asking a bunch of questions and I don''t even know what I''m supposed to be denying. So, spill it. After Ashley''s unnecessarily dramatic entrance, the wash trash explanation seemed almost too boring for Austin to describe. He was sure that Ash would just bring up the refrigerator again and that she would have gone to all the stealth effort without a good reason. She hadn''t been very impressed when he mentioned it the other night. Jynx thinks those cops are here for her saucer. Ashley took a moment to absorb the information. Her jaw still slackened, waiting for the news, she just let her head hang limp and shook it slowly. You dug another fridge out of the wash and now the government is already after it? Jynx nodded solemnly. It''s not a fridge, Austin said. Regardless, I sincerely doubt that the government mobilizes the men in black for any sort of kitchen appliance. Still wearing her hot pink hood with her sunglasses on, she leaned forward and patted Jynx''s hand. Honey, you are acting paranoid, and you are going to start freaking people out. * * * The switches on the dashboard are worth more than my fuckin car, bro. Terrence puffed the joint again and passed it to Earl. Im telling you, its a fuckin custom Shelby. Listen, nobody rips the fuckin cobras off a Shelby GT though, okay? Earl took a puff and preened the ashes on the edge of the curb. Like, thats a fucking expensive car, okay? And she just puts a cross on the grill? They sell that cheap ass shit at the parts stores, alright? Terrence shook his head. Its gotta be a hundred bands easy, bro. Alright? And she makes coffee, ya know? Shes not going to be rolling around in a car that costs as much as a house, okay? Im in the wrong business, Hitch said, looking moderately relieved since the boys returned. Seriously, right? Earl took another puff and passed the joint to Hitch. Like, if we had tits, we might be rolling around in something better than Teaspoons fuckin Kia all the time. The dishwasher appeared in the doorway looking exhausted. He sat on the back step beside Hitch. ?Todo bien, Octavio? Hitch asked, taking another puff. ?Ya terminastes los platos? Si. The dishwasher sighed and laid his head on Hitchs shoulder. Tengo que trapear. Bueno, Hitch nodded, exhaling a fragrant cloud. Octavio waved the smoke away from his face. Ay. Que huele malo. ?Porque fumas este mierde, Paco? The whisp of a dishwasher buried his face in Hitchs shoulder to escape the secondhand smoke. Earl snickered and exchanged a glance with Terrence. Paco? he inquired. Its short for Francisco, Hitch answered. Bro, no wonder you go by Hitch. Terrence laughed. Like, literally. How many names you got? Hitch shrugged. And like, we go to jail and now you got a boyfriend? Easy, guys. Hitch glanced down at the sleight Latino beside him. Its been a long couple of days, here. Im just glad the kid made it through. You get lonely, bro? Terrence chuckled as he stood to walk back inside for his nug jar and papers. Yeah, like how was it? You saut some Michelin shit, or what? Hitch shrugged. Just a walk in the park. Bro, I keep telling you, thats the scene where Goose got killed. Hitch nodded and patted Octavios back to get him moving. Andale, chaparro. Ay. The kid got up and dusted off his butt. No me llamas esso, drogado. He shuffled in the back door. Terrence came out the back door with the nearly empty nug jar. Who smoked all my fuckin weed? Like I said, its been a long couple of days. 34. A Prayer for the Frail-Winged Jynx heard soft music playing as she crossed the back lawn. Faintly at first, she could make out guitar of some sort. It sounded like Spanish guitar, like Spain Spanish, not Mexican Spanish. She slipped along the hedges that ran the fence line, not really trying to be sneaky, but she didnt want to draw any attention if Mr. Englehorn had company with him. Mr. Englehorn sat alone on his back porch. The evening air was so calm that she could hear the ice tinkling around in his glass when he took a sip and set it back on the table. He stared out towards the nighttime desert. She caught a brief glimmer through the ponderosa branches and followed Mr. Englehorns gaze. A paper lantern, glowing with a warm golden light, rose gently from Mr. Englehorns back patio, drifting tentatively out over the edge of the cliffside. The desert, cast in the last twilight, faded from the muted dust color to a soft, pale, monochromatic blue and the lantern hung in the sky like an amber amulet. Jynx hunkered down to watch it silently drift out across the highway and over the dry lakebed. Mr. Englehorn leaned back in his chair and took a sip from his cocktail. Satisfied with the quality of his work, apparently, he refilled his glass from a crystal decanter on the table and leaned forward, busying himself with something on the table in front of him. Humming and swaying to the guitar music, he unfolded a sheet of tissue paper and smoothed it out on the table before him. Jynx watched him pick up a thin wooden skewer, run a trail of glue along it, and set the thin piece to the paper. As he held it in place, he glanced around, scowling. He couldnt possibly have heard her; she didnt make a noise. He looked over his shoulder towards her yard, but he didnt seem to see her, squatting behind the bushes beside the toolshed. He turned back to his work, placing glue dots on the tips of a few pieces and holding them together for half a minute. Jynx wanted to watch the paper lanterns but didnt want to disturb Mr. Englehorn. She felt bad for watching him but didnt want to bother him, either. The longer she hid, the more she worried that she might disturb him, and if she snuck off to the clubhouse hatch, he would hear her. Mr. Englehorn sat upright in his chair, glancing around the yard again. He lifted his nose to the evening air like a desert bird reading the scent of an evening breeze. Baker? he hung his arm over the back of the chair and peered in her general direction, his bad eye mostly squinted shut. Jynx shifted and her sneaker sole snapped a twig finally. Hey, Mr. Englehorn. She stood up slowly, slightly ashamed. Well come on over here if you want to, Baker, I wont bite ya. He leaned over the table again, returning to his lantern project. Jynx dusted the leaves off her knees and walked to the end of the short chain link fence that divided their yards. Swinging around the end of the fence she looked out over the desert floor, the paper lantern still rising and floating east towards the distant hills. She skirted the cliffside front edge of what Mr. Englehorn called his mad scientist laboratory. It was just a couple of big green houses that were so old the plastic windows had all gone foggy. Low hedges lined the walls at waist height, and the ponderosa branches hung low and heavy on the side overhanging the cliff. She slipped under the ponderosa branches, purposely kicking needle piles to make some noise, and joined Mr. Englehorn at the glass table where he sat tacking a corner on his next lantern. Sorry, Mr. Englehorn. I saw the lantern. I just wanted to watch for a while. He nodded and shrugged and took a sip of his tumbler. Well, you dont have to be hiding in the shrubs. He smiled in a disturbingly pleasant manner that Jynx had never seen before, raising his glass at her. Just make a little noise, would you? Im not a big fan of people sneaking up behind me. Jynx took a seat and set her pack on the patio beside her. She watched as Mr. Englehorn tacked a bit of string all around the base on the inside of the lantern, trailing it up to the center of the crossed struts. My daughter and I used to build these together, a long time ago. Mr. Englehorn finished placing a spot of glue on the tiny paper tab and pinched the tab around the little post, counting under his breath as the glue set. Of course, we used to make them out of plastic bags and plastic straws and stuff, but we cant do that anymore. He raised his glass to the empty sunsetting desert floor as if offering a toast. The Bureau of Land Management frowns upon that sort of behavior now. Nobody had ever mentioned a daughter to Jynx, and she didnt want to ask any questions. It was clear that it had happened years before, and that he was going to tell her anyway. He contemplated the bottom of his beverage for a moment, like reading tea leaves or consulting a crystal ball as he went into a trance. She would have been about Miss Coopers age. He set his tumbler back on the table and inspected the completed paper lantern. And nights like this, when theres a nice calm breeze heading in a general east-northeast direction, we made little hot air balloons. He held the crude rectangular crepe paper model out for display, gently motioning for her to take it and inspect it. Jynx lightly pinched the flimsy wood center cross at the base of the lantern. It was impossibly light, the wood being balsa, and the paper super thin. If she let it go, even the slightest breeze might carry it over the edge of the cliff where It would be torn apart by the creosote branches and dry sage. So, Jynx considered, if a hot air balloon doesnt have a wing or propellers, how does it fly? she asked, handing his delicate paper sculpture back to him. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Mr. Englehorn swayed slightly, considering his next, latest masterpiece. Well, its the most poetic form of air travel, he said, and held the paper lantern before him, entirely lacking an apparent propulsion system. Without boring you with a bunch of scientific stuff, he picked a candle up off a small pile on the table and placed a spot of putty at the base. When the air starts to warm up, the molecules get excited. They start bouncing against each other to make a little elbow room. He gently placed the candle onto one of the struts, pinching the little dab of putty as he squinted off towards the first lantern, barely a glimmering star in the distance, but still going. As the molecules speed up, they start to collide, and the air starts to expand with all that extra space. As the density of the warm air decreases, it gets lighter than the cold air around it, causing it to rise. He plucked another tiny candle off the pile, applied a dab of putty, and affixed it to one of the struts. He leaned in toward Jynx, glancing in either direction as if someone might be listening, and spoke in almost a whisper. This, incidentally, is also how big desert birds like the condors and eagles manage to stay aloft all day, riding thermals. She knew he was trying to be engaging or whatever, making his science seem scandalous to keep her interested. It was the same trick Mrs. Fellows pulled in English class, sneaking kids banned books just so that they would read something. Most of the books were on the reading list anyway but telling the kids that the books were banned just made them seem cooler. Mr. Englehorn clicked the trigger on a long-stemmed lighter and waggled his eyebrows mischievously. Feel like a test flight, Baker? Even if his sneaky rebel mind game was a little played out, she couldnt help but watch, fascinated. His rocket experiments had been loud and frightening, and although she liked chasing the second stage, she didnt like the launch. Paper lanterns, on the other hand, seemed so benign that most people probably wouldnt even notice them. Truckers and tourists passing by below could never imagine such a simple machine drifting overhead. He lit the candles, carefully avoiding the wicking running along the bottom edge of the paper covering, and then held the finished balloon upright to display its warm golden glow. With the Spanish guitar playing, something about the tiny flickering candlelight through the tissue paper did seem poetic to Jynx. It reminded her of the other wood and paper models he built, of the first gliders, with lots of bits of twine holding bird-like wings in place. Even with the plastic party store wrapping sitting there beside them, cast in candlelight, it seemed very old to her somehow. He held the paper lantern over the candle burning at the center of the table. Just gonna give it a little boost. He winked at her with his milky left eye. The wink made her feel like adding a little extra hot air was secretly getting away with something sneaky. He passed the positively buoyant paper model to Jynx so that she could feel the gentle tug of the expanded air attempting to rise. It was such a gentle force that she could have easily ignored it, but Mr. Englehorn let it go so slowly that she didnt notice until he picked up his tumbler and leaned back. She felt the pressure increasing and the warm air escaping against her fingertips. Should I count down? she asked, thinking of his rocketry experiments. Mr. Englehorn quietly sipped his drink and watched. Nah, he shook his head. Its better if you just let it go, he said. Jynx released her light grip and the lantern lifted quickly, catching the breeze above the roofline and gently skirting the dry ponderosa pine branches. Carried on an invisible current it drifted out over the edge of the cliff face, still rising on a higher trajectory than the one before which glimmered, just a trick of the light, out over the softly luminescent desert floor. How long do they burn? Jynx wondered aloud, watching the flickering lanterns continue to rise and silently float away. Well, Mr. Englehorn smirked, it so happens that I have built in a self-destruct mechanism. He reached across the table and picked up a big pair of binoculars with leather straps and a big heavy case. He squinted his bad eye shut to check his watch and lifted the binoculars to watch the first lantern hanging over the distant hills now and barely visible to the naked eye. Wondering why Mr. Englehorn even bothered with the second eyepiece, she imagined him with an eye patch and a pirates telescope, and it made her smile to herself. He adjusted a knob in the center and smiled. Ayup, he said. If you keep an eye on that first little guy out there, it should probably do its thing any minute now, he said, passing her the binoculars. This is actually the fun part. He chuckled softly to himself and refilled his glass. Jynx lifted the heavy binoculars up to take a look, and after just a few moments of wobbling around the distant horizon, spotted the lantern, as big as if it were right above the lawn. She could see it suspended in the last pale pastel colors of the evening sunset, a lone flickering anomaly, invisible to the world below. It felt lonely somehow, hovering in empty space, a lone voyager. Just keep your eye on it, Mr. Englehorn said, leaning forward slightly, squinting through his one good eye. As she watched, the light sputtered slightly and suddenly flared, a brilliant blue flame that wrapped around the base of the lantern and then caught the paper cowl, becoming a bright dancing flame that tumbled silently from the sky, breaking to burning scraps that smoldered as they fluttered towards the earth. Pretty, huh? Mr. Englehorn seemed elaborately pleased with himself. I mixed a little magnesium into the gunpowder for that pretty blue. He lifted the small coil of twine, to indicate his homemade wicking for the vanishing sequence. Learned that from a magician friend. He pulled another large sheet of tissue paper from the stack in front of him. Now if I could just find large sheets of flash paper without risking an inadvertent Hindenburg incident, he seemed to be muttering to himself as he absentmindedly took a sip from his glass and prepared his supplies. I know Im a bit in my cups, so to speak, but you, uh, want to help me build another? He inserted his finger in his mouth and held it aloft to check the wind. That Northeastern seems to be fairly steady. Jynx smiled and pulled off her hoodie. Mr. Englehorn separated a sheet of paper for her own lantern and set his drink and decanter on the floor to make a little more room for them both to work. So, she said, just to get Mr. Englehorn talking again, what were you saying about birds and thermals? Interlude: A midnight snack and a lovely manicure, as well Marta Reyna Fraga had been cleaning the offices for nearly seven years, ever since her sisters husband had been made foreman at the vivero. Marta liked the solitude. Most evenings, cleaning, she was by herself. Some nights her children would accompany her. Her daughter, the eldest, would assist her, emptying wastepaper baskets or cleaning the small kitchen. Her son, the younger brother, would spend his time in the lobby. Years ago, he had a small box of toys hidden under the front desk but now he sat quietly in a chair for hours without moving. He played games on her telephone while she cleaned. Marta had nearly finished the downstairs restrooms when her son, wandering about with his tiny screen held before him, tugged gently at her tunic to get her attention. Si, mijo. ?Qu te pasa? Her son, never taking his eyes from the small screen, absentmindedly continued to tug at her apron strings. El robot tiene monedas, pero no tiene manos. Mande, mijo? El robot necesita ayuda. Her son pointed down the hall, still not glancing up from his screen. Mijo, she cooed gently, reaching into her pocket to withdraw a few dollars. Comparte con tu hermana. No, little Chuy said, Tiene monedas. Falta un mano. Marta didnt understand her son. She thought perhaps he spoke of one of his videos that he watched. Ense?ame, she said. He gently took her hand, and still not looking up from the cartoons on his screen, led her back through the front offices and to the break room double doors. Marta opened them to find her petrified daughter hiding in the corner behind the fridge. ?Que te pasa, querida? Marta asked. Her daughter pointed towards the dark portion of the breakroom, where someone had somehow parked a car in front of the vending machine. On closer inspection, she realized it was some giant metal person, closely resembling a fat chrome toad squatting in front of the vending machine. Siento mucho molestarte, pero Attached to its left forearm, which was as big around as her stock pot, the robot had a single womans hand, like a dress shop mannequin. It was perfectly formed and moved with a strange magic as if it were real. The robot held its small human hand before the vending machine, showing a fistful of dollar bills in the dim light of the display. Aparentemente debera haber instalado una mano derecha tambin. It lifted its great right arm brandishing a large metallic hand that resembled a piece of construction equipment. ?Te importara ayudarme? Marta took the collection of bills from the hand, which she noticed had a lovely manicure. ?Qu quieres que compre? Marta asked. The giant steel toad with the womans hand pointed into the clear acrylic display window. Les gustara avena, it said. Dos, por favor. Marta carefully uncrumpled the dollar bills, smoothing them to insert them into the machine. She selected the instant oatmeal cups and they both watched as the wire spiral rotated, dropping the disposable cup to the bottom of the machine. With the perfect tiny womans hand attached to its big stock pot forearm, the robot probably could not reach in to retrieve it, so Marta pulled the cups from the bottom of the machine. ?Quieres agua caliente, tambien? Marta gestured towards the hot water spigot in the coffee maker. Upon realizing that it could not easily turn around in the cramped space, the robot assented cheerily. ?S, por favor! She peeled the foil tops from the paper cups and carefully filled them to the line. Offering them to the robot, she saw the uncanny left hand which did look remarkably realistic. Tienes u?as bien linda. Marta said, commenting on the robots lovely manicure. Gracias, the robot politely responded. * * * If Levy had nodded off for a minute or two, he hadnt slept well. His vivid lucid dream had been a badly dubbed monster movie, complete with the two grays grown to monstrous proportions, stomping through downtown Tokyo, closely followed by an even more immense robot, gleaming chrome in the miniature armys spotlights. He must have screamed at some point he startled violently because when he realized he was sitting in a lawn chair in the back corner of the garage, both the frogs were staring inquisitively, and the android rotated out of curiosity. Levy wiped a bit of drool from his lower lip and apologized. Sorry, he wiped his face and checked his glasses. I must have dozed off. Waking from a nightmare about an alien attack and still high enough that he might be hallucinating, he wasnt comforted by the pilots or the android. Did my phone ring? He checked the missed calls and found a half dozen calls from a number he didnt recognize, but nothing on a secure line, or at least one he recognized. He wasnt about to start phone calls yet, at least not until the chief told him what to do about his little guests and their big friend. The pair of visitors stared at each other silently, possibly discussing something of importance, or just ignoring him. They were busy examining his antiquated analog tools with an archaeological reverence and curiosity. Did I miss anything else? The android shrugged. You snored a little bit? If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Levy got up to find some more coffee and possibly a few more pills. Professionally speaking, falling asleep during a close encounter of the third kind was probably a bad idea. He emptied the spent coffee grounds into the trash can, wondering when hed finished the last pot, and set about his coffee-making ritual, smoothing out the awkwardly crumpled filter, and counting out scoops of cheap grounds. Anything he could do to distract himself from the giant freakin robot and a pair of translucent humanoids kicking it in his back repair bay like a graveyard shift hangout. Anybody else in this situation would simply call 911, and they would then call in the Terrestrial Investigations Group. And, with everyone gone balloon hunting, he would have to answer the call. But Levy was an investigative agent like OConnor was an administrative assistant. If he were a real agent, there would be some sort of instructions for an incident like this; or barring the specificities, maybe some sort of flow chart for a combination of time-traveling extraterrestrial first contact events. Levy realized that he had been lost in thought while waiting for the coffee to brew and had been staring at the little gray guys absentmindedly for some time. Now the little gray guys were staring right back at him. Afraid to move once theyd made eye contact, Levy continued staring and worried that they might be reading his mind. For no reason whatsoever, he instantly thought of porn, afraid that they might think he was thinking of porn. The big robot reached up with its delicate mannequin hand and waved at him, twiddling its well-manicured nails. Coke and Twink got me all fixed up, I guess. They seem eager to get going. Snapping out of his daze, Levy checked the coffees progress and realized that even without a first-contact operations manual, he ought to be handling the whole situation better. Yeah, well, its probably still a little early for you to be out and about right now, people and everything. He checked his incoming call screen. Either the chief was avoiding him, or the chief was incredibly busy. Either way, he was going to have to stall. Ill tell you what, why dont you let me get us a van or something? I can pick up a panel van, you can load up in the back, and Ill drive you guys wherever you want to go. Oh, we dont want to be a bother. Its only a few hundred miles. The android demurred. Its no problem, I mean, were friends, right? At least if he got a rental truck, he would be with them for a few days and he might eventually get through to the chief. He collected his keys from the desk and grabbed his windbreaker. Ill be right back. Opening the back door, however, he realized that it was still dark outside. It was probably around four in the morning, judging by the sound of the morning birds calling to each other. You know what? On second thought, youll feel better after a fresh coat of paint. You want to ask them if I can paint you? The android tilted towards the amphibian pair. Why would I ask them if I should be painted? Well, Levy glanced over at the pair, staring intently at him. He couldnt shake the feeling that they might be reading his mind somehow. The expressionless stare seemed accusative like they might be digging through his deepest memories, and he was suddenly ashamed of making fun of his science teachers socks in the eighth grade. I just thought, you know, if you wanted their opinion or something. He thought the android seemed just a little accusative as well. Look, uh, maybe youll feel better after a fresh coat, right? I can get you in and out of the spray tent in about an hour. Levy grabbed his Tyvek suit off a hook behind the office door and plucked a paint-splattered respirator off the back of the chair. I know you guys are busy, you have places to be and everything, but I think youll do a lot better to tone down the whole steel samurai look you got goin on here. The robot, programmed to favor function over form, considered the idea of a fresh coat of paint as an upgrade. What colors do you have? Levy swung the paint cabinet doors wide, trying to look hopeful for his guests. Well, like I said, Ive got, uh, the high heat, low magnetic signature flat black. He dug through the cabinets, looking for something, and uh, he reached behind a few barrels, well, he finally gave up, yeah, thats what Ive got. Levy shrugged. The pilots shrugged back in response. I dont know, the robot said. It seems kind of dark to me. Well, he didnt have a good reason for the color palette, he just needed the robot to stay put long enough for him to get through to the chief finally, and waiting for paint to dry was notoriously time-consuming. Its a little less flashy and might help you keep your radar profile low? When the robot didnt immediately answer, Levy assumed that it would be a hard sell. I just think its important for us to practice a little subterfuge, you know? We need to get a little sneaky. The visitors stared at each other silently and then stared back at Levy. It was a miracle that they had made it across the parking lot without being seen, let alone a three-hundred-year trek like they seemed to be inferring. Sneaky? the android asked. Yeah, Levy nodded. He squatted down, hunkered over towards the office wall, and surreptitiously snuck along to the corner like a cartoon spy. You know, sneaky. The android mimicked Levys posture, adopting the hunched shoulders and limp lurky forelimbs, attempting to tiptoe gracefully behind Levy but making plenty of noise. Okay, okay. Levy relented. So, youll never be a ninja. Do you happen to know how to play hide and seek? Oh no! The android rose to full height and took an indelicate step away from Levy, kicking and nearly crumpling a stacking tool chest directly behind it. Im not playing that again. Levy, whose heart had nearly exploded when the robot reared up, raised his hands slowly and clenched his exits uncomfortably, confident that his testicles had just shriveled back into his body cavity. Okay, he said slowly. No hide and seek. He would have accepted a variety of answers to the question of a childrens playground game, but he could not have anticipated a post-traumatic fight-or-flight response. I just want to teach you how to hide a little. The pair of pilots chittered and shivered, cowering behind the leg of the robot. As it squatted, the pair rushed up its shins to its knees and chest and clambered into the cockpit. Youre not going to deactivate me like that again. The robot turned its back to Levy and took a slouching posture that could have been misinterpreted as pouting if it werent a big robot. I wasnt going to deactivate you. Levy couldnt believe that he was looking for a way to apologize to what amounted to an expensive erector set, but anytime anybody turned their back on him like that, he knew it was going to come up in couples counseling. Its just best, you know, to keep a low profile. There was no way that Levy was buying flowers for this thing. Look, uh, Andy. The robot seemed to take notice of the first time Levy used its name. Levy saw the shoulders raise slightly. Remarkably life-like, he thought. Its like you said, okay? Im from all the way in the past, and I wouldnt even know which button to push to deactivate you anyway, okay? The robot didnt move, but the pair of pilots peered over the top of the cockpit, watching Levy and glancing at each other occasionally. Look, Andy, there are a lot of bad people out there, you just gotta trust me. You seem like a good guy who could use a hand. I just want to make sure that those people dont find you. I just wanted to see if you could, you know, he regretted the idea even before he finished the sentence, transform yourself into a car or something. Dumbest idea ever. Or maybe a cassette tape player? 35. Kickin Sparks Jeremiah woke in a pool of his own sweat, staring at the peeling vinyl ceiling above his bed. He was still good and whiskey-drunk, but he had to pee so badly that it hurt. Snoring softly on his left arm lay a mane of red curls and like the desert hills made flesh, the luminescent pale skin of his sometime lover. He kissed her shoulder to remove his arm. Although she stirred slightly, she did not wake. He marveled momentarily at the freckled flesh of her moonlit back; how could a girl who was born and raised in the desert remain so entirely pale? The leftover beer on the nightstand was almost full but had gone warm in the hours since theyd passed out. Even in the middle of the night, with the windows wide open, the heat in the trailer was intolerable and he took a long pull from the beer, just to wet his tongue. He found his jeans crumpled at the end of the bed where he had drunkenly kicked them off and smiled to see Megans panties still hanging from her ankle. Pulling his jeans on as he stepped out to the porch, Jeremiah walked around the back of the trailer to piss on the wheel of an old burgundy Volvo. Even in the weak light of a half-moon, the impound lot was bright enough, car roofs lined up like a collection of tortoise shells all the way to the back fence, and the pale glow of the moonlit salt flats beyond. Just a few hours until dawn, and the valley was nearly silent. The sky had just shifted from the depths of night to a soft luminescence in the east. This was his favorite time in the desert when it was all his, and the rest of the world slept. He listened to the solid thrum of urine hitting the logo on the old Volvo tire and watched it pool and run off. The asphalt was warm enough that the spot would be dry in an hour, even before the sun had cleared the hills. A light breeze swept over the valley, like the tide washing in. He heard it whistle through the sharp edges of the rusted-out wrecks in the backlot and ruffle the edges of the dusty canvas tarp still covering Austins hunk of salvage. He glanced over to see the edges of the tarp ripple upwards like a skirt, uncovering a bit of the dull metal and he watched the oxidized metal like waiting to sneak a peek at a womans thigh. He finished pissing out last nights beer, shook it, and tucked it back into his fly. The early morning breeze picked up again, kicking up the corner of the tarp and tossing it over the piece. More than the soft thigh of a lifted skirt, the tarp revealed the rounded curve of something sexier. Jeremiah walked back to the porch to find a pack of smokes and a cold beer. He had the desert to himself for a few minutes at least. The dawn winds kept whipping at the tarp, and he glimpsed again the smooth, rounded edge of the salvage piece. In the moonlight, it was strangely luminescent, like Megans shoulder, pale and glowing. He flicked his Zippo and lit the Camel Wide, clenched in his teeth. Middle of the fuckin night and he was awake, watching a strange hunk of metal lift her skirts for him and he was turned on. Sliding on his work boots to cross the lot and get a better look, he lifted the edge of the tarp and ran his hand down the curved edge. The dust clung like alkaline talcum powder on a naked thigh. The oxidation wasnt too bad. If it was aluminum, it couldnt have been in the wash nearly as long as Austin had implied. The desert was full of meth addicts who had taken up scrapping to make a few bucks, and Jeremiah was sure that it should have been noticed sooner. Maybe Austin just got lucky. Jeremiah walked around the thing, lifting the tarp to check the metal and appraising it as he went. It was more an excuse to finish his beer and smoke than it was a legitimate evaluation, but he checked the scars where the metal was shredded. It had certainly come down hard and across a decent distance. He could easily imagine that it had skipped across most of the desert before coming to rest at the bottom of the foothills. In one portion, there were a few large holes which might have been gunfire. They were perfectly circular, jagged edges of the metal skin bent inwards. He wasnt exactly an expert, but whatever sort of gun had shot that thing down, it fired some big ass rounds. If it can be broken, it can be fixed, Jeremiah said as he lugged the saucer onto the rolling dolly. It was light enough to wheel around on the cart, even if the ass end dragged on the pitted asphalt a little bit, bumping and scraping as he tugged it towards the back of the shop. He honestly didn''t care what it was. It was big and made out of metal and Jynx gave him explicit permission to fuck with it. He rolled out the edges of the panel on the English wheel, mimicking, as best he could, the subtle curves of the hull and tweaking it lightly with a hammer and shot bag to get the edges to line up smoothly. He tapped the metal, tried to stick a magnet to it, and hit it with a wire wheel and the angle grinder. He watched it spark cool as it ran through a whole 60 grit 3M flap disk and the stainless-steel wire disk. The masonry stone ran some cool sparks, but the metal was cool and unyielding. He pulled on his helmet and tossed his gloves over the hull of the ship, adjusting the voltage on the welder, clamping his piece into place as best he could. The soft curve of the hull made welding the patch into place difficult. He clamped the negative lead for the welder into one of the smaller holes. Holding the piece in place with a leather-gloved hand, he applied the electrode to the leading edge of the patch and hit the trigger. Through the visor, the arc cut into the aluminum patch as expected, but it wouldnt stick to the saucer. It bounced and spread like sheet lightning across the surface of the hull, reminding Jeremiah of one of those Tesla coil glass globes that they sold in the mall. He ran a short tack to pin the piece into place. The flux stuck to the edge of the aluminum as he worked it into tight little spirals, forming tiny little seashells like the scalloped edge of a metal doily. He released the trigger and flipped his visor up to inspect the lightly smoking edge of the new piece. The weld scar was about an inch long, a series of perfect little seashells all lined up; the sort of clean, low-profile weld that should be fairly easy to clean up with an abrasive flap disk and a little bit of polishing with a green 3M pad, if the weld had stuck to the surface of the saucer at all. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Jeremiah pulled the patch away to inspect the edge of his attempted weld. Except for a slight discoloration along the edge of where it should have been tacked, a sort of leftover smoke stain residue, the surface of the saucer was entirely unaffected. He wiped away the gray stain with a greasy shop rag. Whatever type of metal it was, it wasnt taking an aluminum weld. He cranked up the voltage on the welder and used a pair of needle nose pliers to pull the melted tip of flux from the welding gun a few inches, snipping off the excess and adjusting the feed rate slightly. He lined up the patch piece again, holding it in place by hand. As he set his welding gun near the surface, a quick nod flipped his visor down. He flicked the trigger on the welding gun. This time the crackling sheet of lightning was brighter, pouring over the surface, flowing like a luminescent electric river towards the negative lead in the smaller hole below. The flux bubbled and boiled, and the aluminum melted with it, crackling and smoking slightly. Jeremiah worked the spark of the welding gun in neat little spirals again, following the muscle memory in his wrist, accustomed to the practiced action. He released the trigger, flipped his visor back, and blew on the weld to clear the flux smoke. The smoke stain was slightly darker, but the weld still wouldnt stick to the surface. It was like trying to tack a piece of crappy cast aluminum to a smooth hunk of titanium, except that the whole saucer itself was ridiculously, impossibly light. Jeremiah got up from his stool and tossed his gloves over the top of the saucer. He dropped his visor onto the workbench. He pulled a smoke from his shirt pocket and lit it as he crossed the yard to the mini fridge and a cold beer. Squinting up at the mid-afternoon sun, he stood in the middle of the lot, glaring at the saucer, jammed crooked into one of the mechanics bays like a big metal almond sticking out of a video game coin slot. Whatever it was, it wasnt made of aluminum. He guzzled most of his beer and pulled another from the fridge. Sometimes all he needed to do was take a step back, drink a beer, and stare at the problem. He finished that beer quickly and cracked another, still glaring at the big unweldable back end of whatever the hell that thing was. He lit another cigarette. The thing is, if it was plastic or fiberglass, the angle grinder would have chewed through it, or the welding arc would have melted it down to a hunk of molten burnt black slime. The flux and aluminum slag should melt through it. It shouldnt pool up and scrape off like melted Kraft cheese on a Teflon frying pan. He strolled back across the lot casually, surveying the unfinished projects, the chain link fence, and the backdoor of the office, as if he could sneak up on the thing somehow. Finishing his beer, he tossed the bottle in the recycling bin with a crash, his back to the saucer, stretching out his shoulders and finishing the last few drags of his cigarette before he turned back to the impossible object as if he had just discovered it sitting there, negative lead still trailing from the little blast hole. With a fresh buzz developing, he turned up the volume on the amplifier above the workbench, pulled on his welding mask, and grabbed the gloves from where they lay draped over the hull. Cranking the voltage to full, he pulled, snipped, and cleaned the flux wire, adjusted the feed, and set the patch panel back over the hole. He nodded once, quickly, to drop the visor into place, flicked the trigger on the welding gun, and watched as the sheet lightning crackled across the surface of the saucer, finding a meandering liquid path to the ground cable. Though his hand continued the tiny seashell spirals as always, he watched the electric current flowing down to the smaller hole. With a welding mask on, most of the details of the weld point were lost. He saw only the crackling blue light and the path it took. He saw the hot metal of the tiny seashells, the river of current flowing to the ground lead, and the occasional electric tendril arcing off over the invisible surface as if the current were growing roots. Curving down along the bottom edge of the patch, he noticed the dim glow coming from the smaller hole, a tiny dendritic static haze sparkling around the jagged edge. Without a small patch, without even applying the welding gun to the smaller hole, the current seemed to be closing the gap. Jeremiahs fingers continued to follow the tiny spirals although he was entirely focused on the ground lead, watching as the shredded edges shrank from eight inches wide to seven, to six, to five. He let the trigger go, flipped back his visor, and let the patch drop to the shop floor with a dull clatter. He pulled a small steel ruler from the workbench and measured the jagged hole at four and a half inches. Nodding his visor down, he flicked the trigger on the welding gun. Flux slag dribbled off the surface of the saucer-like wax dripping from a candle to pool on the concrete. He let the trigger go, flipped up his visor, and set the little steel ruler against the hole. Three and five eighths inches. Son of a bitch, he muttered, gently placing the ruler back on the workbench without taking his eyes off the hole. He pulled the ground lead from the hole before it closed entirely. This was not his usual patch gig. Austin and Jynxs hunk of scrap had none of the subtleties of a classic piece of American steel. It lacked the details, the bumpers, rims, and dual exhaust. There were no headlights to give it character, no taillights to accentuate a perfect rear end. When he first saw it, he had no lust for it because it was just a big chunk of busted ass metal that took up too much space to park in line with the rest of the rusted-out wrecks in the lot. He didnt like it because he didnt understand how it worked and thought it was an eyesore. Complete, however, the saucer had become nothing but curve, and running his hand along the side of the newly restored hull, he felt perfection. The saucer was smooth, its surface almost soft to the touch. He let his fingers rest on it as reverently as he might a Shelby Cobra, inspecting the hull for tiny dents or dings, but after her restoration, she had none. She was impossibly perfect but somehow incomplete. The color of the ship was a monotone sort of aluminum, like wet metal waiting on an assembly line for a finishing paint job. The more he stared at her, the more she needed a coat of something. 36. Huevos, güey Its like a regular egg, right, but there was no yolk, okay? Earl hovered near the back door of the Silver Spoon watching Terrence roll a thin little pinner before the breakfast rush started. I like, cracked it into the pan, and there was all this white, but like, no yolk. Hitch shook his head. Nope. Never seen anything like it. Literally. I like, checked the shells, checked on the floor around, like I might have dropped it, right? He chuckled. Terrence didnt believe me, though. Terrence shook his head slowly. Still dont, bro. He licked the edge of the paper to finish rolling the joint and admired his handiwork. Okay, you saw it though! He grinned. I mean, like literally, I seen some like bloody eggs, some like double eggs, some little embryos Thats gross, bro. Terrence patted his pockets but found no lighter. Somebody give me a light. But it was a regular chicken egg? Hitch asked. It was like, one of the first eggs that a chicken lays, ya know? Like, I guess sometimes when a chicken is still young, they can lay some eggs without yolks. Its like, before they mature, okay? Hitch shook his head. Never seen anything like it. Its like, a test egg, before they start laying for real, ya know? Terrence paused as he placed the pinner to his lips and flicked the lighter, the flame danced a few inches from the end of the joint. Like, literally, youll never see one again. Its like, one in a million, like literally. Hitch elbowed Terrence who seemed to have slipped into a trance. You gonna light that twig, Teaspoon? Terrence scowled, listening intently to something in the distance. You hear that? Earl and Hitch sat listening to the early morning breeze blow some litter across the parking lot. What, like, you hear the ice cream truck or something? Earl chuckled. Shhh! Terrence listened for something only he could hear. Hitch shook his head and went back to scrolling through his phone. Dude, the suspense is killing me. Terrences smile spread slowly. Fuck, bro. Somebodys shit got jacked. Earl and Hitch glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. Like, are your tweaker senses tingling, or what? * * * Sheriff Etherton cruised through the side streets, somewhat pleased with the tranquil state of the town. Regardless of the recent population explosion, the morning streets resembled the idyllic small town that his wife had initially fallen in love with. Now that the boys were out of his holding cell, he planned to stop by the Silver Spoon early for a proper breakfast, and maybe see if the aces knew anything about Victor Valasquezs disappearance. As he pulled into the parking lot his phone chimed to let him know that he had a call on the not-quite emergency line. The caller ID listed the number as unknown. He pulled around to park behind the Silver Spoon, hoping to avoid too many impromptu visitors, and spotted Terrence, Earl, and the guy who called himself Stu huddled out behind the back door. Terrence spotted him and stood up, snapping to attention, but stopping short of a salute. Dropping it into park, he waved at the boys and leaned back to answer the phone. Arroyo Grande Sheriffs Department. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Sheriff Etherton? The sheriff didnt recognize the voice, but clearly, it was someone who knew who he was. This is the sheriff. I dont know what kind of tin star bullshit outfit youre running here, but if your cereal box sleuths cant rein this junkie shit in, Ill gladly call in a fucking drone strike. Etherton held the phone away from his ear slightly. Easy there, buddy. You are speaking with the Arroyo Grande sheriffs department. He leaned back, trying to decide who, exactly, thought themselves important enough to start in with an insult and a violent threat. Now what seems to be the problem? Your fucking shit hole fucking town is the fucking problem, Sheriff. Etherton rolled his eyes and punched a few keys on his dispatch console to check the caller ID. While he waited for the computer to finish the search, he heard what sounded like a motorcycle gang queuing up from the south. Loud pipes roared slightly, and he could hear them accelerating up the main drag, getting louder as they rolled toward Sanchos. He cradled the phone against his shoulder and pressed the button to roll up the window. Now I can tell that youre upset, and Id like to help you out with that, but Im going to need a little more information. May I ask who is calling? The sound of the motorcycle gang got louder, a heavy buzzing in the air that sounded a little too high-pitched for a standard Harley Davidson, or even a large group of them, the noise echoed from the callers phone as well. The computer answered his phone tracing query with an unknown caller. Whoever was calling, they were either on a burner phone or calling from an ancient landline. The engine revving noises were coming through loud enough that he could be sure the caller was local at least. Etherton couldnt understand the caller as the engine noises drew nearer, but he was fairly certain that most of it would have been censored anyway. Im sorry. I can hear that youre upset, but I cant understand you. Thats the fucking problem, Sheriff! As the first of the black SUVs pulled into Sanchos parking lot and shut off the engine, Etherton discovered the source of the buzzing. The loud pipes and unmuffled engine noises were coming from the unmarked Cadillacs, all of them sounding more like scrappy little dirt track rally cars than luxury law enforcement vehicles as they rolled en masse into the lot. Climbing out of the passenger side of one of the black SUVs, Etherton watched one of the big guys yelling into his cell phone and finally recognized the caller. Some fucking junkies ran off with my fucking mufflers! Etherton struggled to stifle a laugh. Big ticket theft wasnt a common problem with the local junkies. There was too much accountability in a small town as everybody seemed to know just about everybody else, making it harder for a meth addict to walk off with a stereo. Most of them managed to keep graveyard shifts at the water plant, or various other side jobs where their vices would be easily overlooked. While the theft was indeed his jurisdiction, he was fairly confident that his junkies, the local junkies, had nothing to do with it. Ill go ahead and send a deputy down to the motor inn if youd like to file a report or make a statement. Etherton watched the Aryan poster boy hang his head as the last of his vehicles finished parking and quieted down. Its your fucking town, Etherton. Are you going to go find my mufflers, or am I going to burn down every meth den in this shit hole truck stop myself? Etherton rubbed the bridge of his nose and slid deeper into the cruiser seat, hoping that he was tucked far enough around the corner to avoid being spotted. He watched the dishwasher, a skinny little Latino kid, slip out the back door to talk to the aces. Whoever had done this had obviously targeted the visiting law enforcement branch for whatever reason. How they managed to hack off ten or more catalytic converters without raising an alarm was a mystery in itself. Yeah, no, Ill get one of my deputies right on that. You fucking well better! The big guy yelled, loud enough that Etherton could hear it echoing across the parking lot. Deciding that he was better off grabbing his late breakfast elsewhere, he waved politely at Terrence and Earl and backed out, creeping away towards the exit, hoping to avoid a face-to-face confrontation. His plans for eggs benedict spoiled, he wondered what the Shell station fryers had for a breakfast chimichanga. * * * False alarm, Hitch burped, looking a little queasy. Bro! Terrence just stared at him. Stop doin that! Earl chuckled. Like, literally, youre going to make yourself sick, okay? He swallowed half of it! Terrence stuffed his nug jar and papers into his apron pocket. Earl pushed his shirt sleeves up as he strolled towards the door. Like, thats the dumbest fuckin magic trick ever, okay? Hitch shrugged. Used to be pretty handy. You better not puke on my line, bro. Earl listened to a few more of the unmuffled exhausts as they pulled into the lot. Were bout to get our asses handed to us, okay? Hitch shrugged. Nah. Just let me handle these guys. He took one last drag and tossed his cigarette butt in the ash can. I been feeding them nothing but plain ol cheese omelets for two days and nobodys complained, yet. Fuck off. Terrence followed Earl into the kitchen. Cops a fuckin cop, dude. Bro, theyre customers. Lets not leave them waiting. Meh. Let em wait. 37. Curb Appeal Austin leaned against the truck for nearly twenty minutes, but Jynx didnt come out like she normally did. He texted her and waited another few minutes, but she didnt reply, so he texted her again. After nearly a half hour leaning against his fender, he was getting mildly irritated, but not enough to drive off without her if she was coming along. Kelly wasnt home, so Jynx probably wasnt in the house anyway. After just a few more minutes he finally made his way along the fence and side yard, crossing to the open hatch. Knock knock, he called from the top of the ladder. What? she replied, a few moments later. Austin stared at the open hatch, feeling slightly stupid. He didnt remember doing anything to upset her any more than usual. She had been a little surly ever since theyd found the scrap and he began to worry that she might be disappointed when she finally found out that the big hunk of metal wasnt a real flying saucer. He doubted that aliens would have left their flashlight after they crash-landed. If those guys at Sanchos were looking for the scrap, it was probably because it was some Cold War technology from way back in the 1980s and they didnt want it getting into the hands of the Russians or the Chinese. It was just like Jeremiah said, she still had a thing for unicorns. He knelt down next to the hatch. You coming with me, or what? Jynx didnt answer right away so he laid down on the grass and poked his head down into the hatch. She was curled up in the nested blankets of her bed, still pretending to scroll through the metal scrap from the wash. Her hair was wet, but she hadnt combed it yet, and fresh from the shower her cheeks were still rosy. Something about her seemed unnaturally clean. Im not going, she said, not bothering to look up. Something in her voice sounded wrong. The long pause between his question and her answer made it seem like he was sending messages to the moon and waiting for them to return. Everything alright? Jynx scowled intently at the tablet and winced slightly as if it had sparked. She kept swiping at the panel, scrolling through her imaginary alien social media page. Yeah, she said, still not looking at him. Im just not going. Ashley and I are going to hang out today. She wants to play dress up or something. He watched her double-tap the corner of the shingle again and he wanted to take it away from her. They were both getting a little old for playing pretend. Besides that, its probably best for me to lay low for a while, just in case. Pretending that those men with Dr. Vickers had been government agents or so might be a fun game for a while, but she could get them both in real trouble if she kept acting shifty. Just have Ash pick you up from the Sands. Jynx had a sort of hypnotized middle-distance gaze, not really looking at the scrap, but sort of past it into the middle of the room. After a few moments, she nodded dully. Go on, youre already late, she said, entirely ambivalent. Pulling out of the cul-de-sac Austin decided that it wasnt the fact that she didnt want to go down to the shop with him because that happened sometimes. But, he didnt like the way she said it. The more she played with that thing, the further she slipped away from him, and she was starting to look a little crazy. Austin saw the inside of the scrap. It was just a big hollow thing, probably a spare fuel tank like Jeremiah said. He had touched that shingle thingy that she was always playing with, and it was just that; a weird-looking hunk of scrap metal that they dug out of the dust. It looked strange, but that wasnt enough to make it a real alien operators manual to him, no matter what Jynx said. Pulling onto the front lot and walking into the office twenty minutes late there were already a few customers waiting. Austin didnt bother to check in with Jeremiah, assuming that he was busy with another customer. He got straight to work, selling some random fuel additives and a set of wiper blades, and suckered into writing up an estimate and invoice for a starter replacement on a Ranger because there was nobody around to call in for help. Once he had the truck keys tagged and hooked in the lockbox he started a fresh pot of coffee for the customers and a pot of their own behind the service counter. He might joke that he was only hired for beverage service, but most days, thats what it was. Tourists drank a lot of coffee. Wheres your partner in crime? Jeremiah asked, finally coming into the front office. She said something about a play date with Ashley. Austin took the vending machine keys off the hook under the counter and grabbed a little pad of paper to take stock. Shes supposed to go get all girly. Sucks. Austin shrugged, still unsettled by her mood. He almost preferred it when she was angry because then, at least, she would send snide texts all day. Well, what about you? Shouldnt you be getting all boyed up or something? For what? Well, who the hell do you think shes getting all dressed up for? It had never occurred to Austin that Jynxs makeover had anything to do with him. Jynx hated him right now. Its not for me. Ashley just doesnt want her hanging around us all the time. She says were grimy. Jeremiah snorted laughter. Nobody ever dates a grease monkey for their bathing habits. Chicks just dig bad boys and motorcycles. It''s practically evolutionary. Whatever, dude. He didn''t want to be taking dating advice from a recent parolee living in a trailer on an impound lot, even if he was currently sleeping with a hot redhead. Jynx is just messing around with Ash. It''s got nothing to do with me. Jeremiah shrugged smugly. Cool. If you''re still single, I got a girl I wanted to hook you up with. Austin stopped counting soda pop cases and stared at him. He expected Ashley to play matchmaker and mess around with other people''s personal lives, but it wasn''t Jeremiah''s style. Some chick up in Arroyo Heights locked her keys in her Jetta. You want to go pop a rich girls lock? He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. You don''t even have to comb your hair. Austin only took a moment to figure out exactly which chick in Arroyo Heights might have locked her keys in her Jetta. As he began to get his hopes up, he wished he wore something cleaner. He wondered if it might be too obvious if he stepped into the bathroom and smoothed himself a little. Jeremiah set the wrecker keys on the clipboard at the edge of the service counter. Hey, while youre out, I thought I might take a crack at that patch. Just dont touch it, Jeremiah. Torn between his excuse to finally talk with Becca or protecting the saucer from Jeremiah''s misguided grease monkey aesthetic, he secretly worried that Jeremiah might mess it up by welding tailfins onto it or something. The only argument that he could think of against the patch was one he didn''t really believe himself; that it might be a real flying saucer and it should be left alone, the way it was when they found it. What? Jeremiah asked, with the exact sort of feigned innocence that made Austin nervous in the first place. Just don''t mess with it until we know what it is, Austin said, picking up the clipboard and wrecker keys. You look good, gey, Jeremiah snickered. ?Andale! * * * You arent getting your nails painted to impress boys, Ashley said. It has nothing to do with boys at all; its about being a girl. Ashley sat nearest to the salon window, reclined with two women working at either side, chatting away in Vietnamese as they buffed and polished. Dont you want to feel sexy? Like, put on a slinky little dress and do your hair? It just feels good. Sir Pugsley seemed to agree. Accustomed to being pampered and fawned on by the manicurists, they swaddled him in warm, perfumed towels as he patiently allowed his claws to be painted a steely chrome blue. His tongue hung limply to one side, and his head lolled slightly with a contented smile. But Jynx felt perfectly content in shorts and a t-shirt, dirty-skinned knees and all. Which is why the manicurist clucked disapprovingly at Jynxs chipped and grimy fingernails. No squirm, the manicurist said, I dont want cut you finger off. She held a tiny chisel tool like she might just stab it through the back of Jynxs hand to pin it down to the armrest. Just because you can do anything that the boys do, doesnt mean you should do what the boys do, Ashley advised. She held her hand out at arms length, inspecting the nails that had been freshly cleaned and now needed a new coat of lacquer. By all means, know how to change your own tire, but why bother when you can just get Austin to do it? Jynx didnt have a tire to change, let alone a vehicle to change it on. Austin drove everywhere, and that was a fine arrangement in her opinion. Ashley seemed to know a different type of boy than Jynx did. All of the boys that Jynx knew were just boys. They didnt even talk about girls, really, they just talked about engines and cars and carburetors and things. That was why she liked them. Look, Ashley continued, I remember the crushes and how cute and innocent it all was back in high school, but that changes pretty fast, and I just want you to be ready for it. Embrace your femininity like armor, not as a weakness, but as your strength. Wanting or wanted, sex is power, and you should have it all. Jynx had no crushes to speak of, on boys around school, or even movie stars and musicians, regarding them all as distant abstractions, like theoretical physics or particularly complex mathematical equations. The manicurist clipped a hangnail, indelicately pinning Jynxs hand to the armrest to prevent her from yanking it away. Ow. Jynx mouthed and glared, but the woman just shook her head, silently judging Jynxs cuticles. What do you mean? Jynx asked. It happens after high school, honey. It just does. People go their separate directions and grow up. You wont always have Austin to follow around. Hell meet a girl, shell start yanking his chain, and then where will you be? Eeeew. Jynx shook her head. Austins not, hes just She tried to come up with a way to describe him, but there really wasnt one. Hes just Austin. Youll stop hanging around each other for a while and then maybe a few years from now youll meet up at a bar and try on a nostalgic one-night fling. Youre still in love, but hes going back to his fiance for whatever fucking reason. And hell be the one that got away, and youll be sitting around your apartment in his old, dirty hoodie getting day drunk on malt seltzers. She inspected her clean, glossy acrylic extensions, still blank. Its not pretty, but thats the truth of the matter. I just want you to be ready for it. Uh, Ash? Jynx wasnt sure if Ashley thought they were a couple. Its not like that. Austin and I arent like that. Ashley dismissed her protests. Not yet of course, but for how long? You say hes just a friend right now, but what happens when things start to get a little serious? What color you want? the manicurist asked Jynx, gesturing toward a wall of tiny lacquer bottles on tiny racks. Jynx felt a sudden sense of vertigo looking at all the tiny bottles. Pink, I guess? Jynx shrugged. Too girly. Ashley shook her head. Lets try something a little more neutral, a pastel yellow or a lime green. She waved towards the wall. The manicurist chose a particularly bright fluorescent green that reminded Jynx of the forestry services fire trucks. * * * Austin didn''t mind driving the wrecker back up into the neighborhood. It was smaller than the flatbed and easier to maneuver in the narrow side streets. Even so, he nearly traded paint with a little sedan when he craned up to check his hair in the mirror. Jynx was off getting all dolled up with Ashley and he looked like he just rolled out of bed and bathed with a shop rag. Turning into Arroyo Heights he hit the curb where the sidewalks started again and cringed at the sound of rim crunching against the concrete. If he was anxious before, each street he passed on his way up to the Heights made his palms sweat. Imagining Jeremiah back at the Sands, possibly attaching tailpipes to the saucer didn''t help. It was still too early for him to start drinking enough to do something drastic, but Austin didnt want to test that theory. He hadn''t spent a lot of time in the heights since he was young enough to trick or treat. People in the nicer houses gave away better Halloween candy as a point of pride but otherwise preferred the locals to stay out of their clean little gated community. All the homes were well-maintained. Neatly trimmed, slow-growing crabgrass lawns were well-watered and boundary lines were clearly defined. Seemingly immune to the dust bowl valley below, the low stucco walls surrounding the development kept the occupants clean. He followed the onboard nav prompts, driving conspicuously slowly in the big, ugly wrecker. A few moments after he pulled up to the curb in front of Beccas house, the oversized entryway door opened, and a big brown Labrador bounded out onto the porch. Spotting the tow truck, the dog barked a few times and glanced back into the house. Becca stepped out onto the porch shielding her eyes from the sun. She raised a hand at Austin, not in a familiar way, but like she was hailing a cab. Even if she did remember him, there was no way that she could know it was him if he never got out of the truck. He shuffled paperwork on his clipboard, pretending to be busy as his heart did flips and twists in his chest. If he checked his hair in the mirror again, she would see it. He grabbed the rubber wedge and the slim Jim they used for the easy jobs, wishing he needed something that looked complicated or skilled, some sort of computer code hacker for the automatic door locks. For most lockout calls he just had to ease the door out far enough to get the wedge in there and slide in just about anything to hit the unlock button. As excited as he was to see her again, he reluctantly climbed out of the truck cab wishing he had a cooler job, and walked up the driveway to where the Jetta was parked. Hey, she called politely, and then recognizing him, warmed unexpectedly. Oh, hey there, Austin! Stunned to hear her call his name, Austin went all gooey inside and nearly dropped his clipboard and lockout kit. The dog bounded down the stairs overly enthusiastically. Understanding her greeting to the stranger as being a friendly one, the dog bounced down the walkway and instantly buried its snout in Austin''s crotch. Chunk! Becca called after him, but it was too late. Backed up against the fender with his hands full of clipboard and lockout kit, he couldn''t deflect the dog''s friendly greeting. That''s just how he says hello, she apologized as she politely lunged for Austin''s crotch to grab Chunk''s collar. Barefoot in blue jeans and a little tank top, she looked a little more casual than she did at school. Even so, she wore big false eyelashes that perfectly adorned her blue eyes and Austin couldn''t look directly at her, afraid that she would catch him staring. Clinging to the clipboard to keep his hands steady, he made a point of checking her name and the Jetta''s license plate. You remember me? We had a shop class together. You helped me make a jewelry box for my mom. She playfully squeezed his arm and gave him a little jostle. His knees nearly buckled. Oh, yeah. Of course, he remembered. He spent as much time working on her box as she had; they took turns polishing it for a smooth-as-glass finish that made her mother proud. It was the most time he''d ever spent near her, and he remembered it fondly, even if it didn''t spark up a fling. It was a nice box. Nice, smooth finish. He nodded. My mom loves it. If he was already warm in the cheek standing under the midday sun, discussing the smooth finish on her box wasn''t helping. He tried to look very serious as he peered into the tinted windows, looking for the keys and checking the door as if it might be a mistake. May I? He showed her the tools. Can I watch? If you want. Prying the door frame away from the roof just slightly, he inserted the rubber wedge into the gap and carefully slid in the slim Jim, avoiding the interior as much as possible. Customers could be fussy about scraping their hardwood or even lightly brushing the leather trim. After just a few moments of poking around, he managed to press the button hard enough to pop the lock. Becca reacted with a surprised oh! as Austin withdrew the slim Jim. That''s it? she asked. He nodded, slightly disappointed as well. It''s pretty easy with the right tools. He showed her the rubber wedge and the slim Jim and then, not really sure what else to say, glanced around at the front yard. This is a really nice place, he observed, regretting ever agreeing to pop the lock in the first place. The hedges are really nicely trimmed. He felt entirely stupid standing there, in the sun, sweating through his grease-stained t-shirt as he tried to impress her with his deep appreciation of the topiary arts. Uh, yeah, she agreed, looking around her own front yard. So, I guess not much has changed around here, she said, as casually as if they just hadnt spoken in a few months. He shrugged and rubbed the back of his head. I guess not. Nothing whatsoever had changed for him until just recently, and he was pretty sure that even that would blow over fairly soon. Well, I guess we just bill Triple-A or something, so, he shrugged, thinking he should probably go before things got entirely awkward. He started backing away. So, I guess I''ll see you around? She waved awkwardly as he turned. Only a few steps from the rig he noticed that it seemed to list slightly towards the curb. Maybe all of fifteen minutes since he arrived, and the front right tire had gone completely flat. He must have done it when he clipped the curb cutting the corner into Arroyo Heights. Oh, he heard Becca say when she noticed it. Oh, no. Momentarily too embarrassed to turn around, he slouched sympathetically with the truck. Any plans he had to flee were abruptly put on hold for at least an hour while he swapped out the wrecker''s flat tire. * * * Straight out the front door, Ashley was already planning the remainder of their afternoon while Jynx followed along, feeling fragile. The new safety green paint job on her fingernails felt suffocating somehow. Her normally short-cropped claws suffered for lack of air. Afraid that they were still wet, she held them rigidly to her sides, fingers spread slightly to avoid any accidental contact. She wore a thin pair of disposable pink foam flip flops to keep her pedicure safe for at least a few hours. It was difficult to walk with her toes spread out. Sir Pugsley wasnt making it any easier, prancing back and forth across the sidewalk, threatening to step on her freshly painted toes. Following along the sidewalk that ran the length of the strip mall, Jynx listened halfheartedly to Ashley plan for what sounded like an entirely boring evening. Before they reached the far end of the lot, Ashley abruptly spun to face Jynx. Aw, shit! she said, freshly painted fingernails poised before her perfectly painted face as if she were hiding. Jynx stopped short. What? She glanced down at her fingertips and toes as if she might have done something wrong. Ashley swept her arm around Jynx, turning her around and leading her down the sidewalk without looking back. Sir Pugsley let slip a low growl at the man getting out of his car at the end of the parking lot, but yanked backwards by the leash, followed the girls back up the sidewalk. Its not you, honey. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. Its me, she rolled her eyes. I just she glanced around, looking through the shop window beside them at a three-foot-tall fiberglass alien wearing a childs cowboy hat. Ive just always wanted to check this place out! she exclaimed excitedly in a hoarse whisper. She swung the front door wide to the sound of a weak electronic chime and pushed Jynx into the little alien museum. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Dr. Vickers, the high school science and math teacher sat up straight as they entered, disturbed from reading an old-fashioned newspaper spread out before him on the counter. Folding the paper up to set it aside, he inspected his new visitors. He smiled wanly at Jynx and watched Ashley in the corner near the door, his unnaturally dark push broom mustache twitching slightly. Well, good afternoon Ms. Nash. Jynx stood in the middle of the room, fingers and toes spread uncomfortably to prevent smudging, surrounded by collections of alien memorabilia. She got the feeling that they were disturbing him and that he might have preferred the empty museum. Hey Dr. Vickers. And youve brought a friend. How nice for you. He seemed to sneer at Ashley, who was entirely ignoring him. What brings you young ladies by today? Whatever the source of Ashleys sudden urge to pop in, she wasnt paying any attention to Dr. Vickers. She had her sunglasses on, standing near the front window, lurking behind a rack of postcards and tourist maps of alleged alien crash sites. When Dr. Vickers cleared his throat, Ashley suddenly became interested in the rack of printed materials, thumbing through them without a word. Dr. Vickers shifted his gaze squarely on Jynx, regarding her sternly. Jynx glanced around the shop, looking for an excuse hidden somewhere in the souvenir keychains and assorted extraterrestrial books. Embarrassed by her new fingernails, she hid them behind her back, careful not to touch anything. Well, I was talking to Mr. Englehorn the other day, and he explained how airplanes and helicopters fly. She glanced at the grainy photographs displayed in the glass covered countertop, a few showing saucers in flight or hovering just above the ground, but they looked like military vehicles, not as sleek as the hunk of metal they had pulled out of the side of the hill. For a moment, she quietly considered the possibility that Austin and Jeremiah might be right. She might have found the tear drop shaped spare fuel tank off an old aircraft, and not a flying saucer at all. Did you have a specific question, Ms. Nash? Dr. Vickers loomed behind the counter, clearly perturbed. She got the feeling that she wasnt supposed to be in there; like the repair shop, the alien museum was a place for boys. She and Ashley had wandered into their space again, and this made Dr. Vickers uncomfortable for some reason. But there was no one better to ask in Arroyo Grande. What makes a flying saucer fly? she asked. Dr. Vickers frowned. He might be more accustomed to tourists passing through for a keychain or a postcard. Most of the locals tended to treat the museum as a curiosity or novelty, jeering and taking selfies of themselves beside the life-sized fiberglass gray alien. Well, His eyes flitted towards Ashleys silhouette beside the front door, but composing himself, he settled into a comfortable pedagogical posture. There are many theories. My favorite happens to be the idea that a flying saucer is manipulating zero-point energy fields, actually bending the fabric of space time in order to create a discrete gravitational field, allowing the rapid acceleration, as well as vertical takeoff and landing. He pulled a few books from a reference shelf behind him, flipping open to dog-eared pages full of parabolic diagrams that made little sense to Jynx. Out of context, they looked like funneled spiderwebs. Up until a few years back, a reliable source had claimed that the use of a compound known as ununpentium, or element 115, was the fuel source utilized by the visitors. At the time, the compound was merely theoretical and therefore impossible to sample or test in any way. He flipped through the old book until he found a diagram of a flying saucer. Placing it open on the counter before her, he had a librarians reverence for the book, cradling it gently as he set it down. Recently, however, scientists in the former Soviet Union were able to fabricate the theorized compound in a laboratory, proving its existence. The possibilities are endless. Not just for the potential spacefaring extraterrestrial vehicles, but for humanity in general, of course. Jynx nodded seriously, although she hadnt yet suffered through a chemistry class. But how does it work? Jynx asked. Like, does it need batteries, or more Plutonium or something to charge it up? Well, Dr. Vickers removed his glasses, inspecting the lenses for a bit of dust. The theory states that bombarding element 115 with photons produces a chain reaction which generates massive amounts of energy which, when efficiently harnessed, are able to generate a discrete envelope of gravitational autonomy. He wiped his lenses clean and inspected them again before replacing them. He glanced over at Ashley again and frowned. His mustache bristled. Jynx traced the saucer engine diagram with a garishly incongruous lime green fingernail. So, this Element 115 stuff, is it radioactive? It would be, yes. So, it would be radioactive for a long time, right? Like it should still have power for hundreds of years? In a stabilized form it would. His mustache twitched unconsciously. Of course, there are those who believe that samples of element 115 are unstable primarily due to the weak gravity of our planet, and that increasing the atmospheric pressure might increase the stability of the compound, but this would require a specially designed facility or a rather large hyperbaric chamber. Jynx leaned forward to get a closer look at the diagram, recognizing nothing of the insides of her own craft. There had been a box inside, but a small one, and none of the other stuff. She understood how jumping a car battery worked, though. She had watched Austin jump his own truck thousands of times. So, if hitting it with a photon beam starts the generator, and then it just sort of makes its own power, she considered the coil towers running around the outer edge of the disk diagram, wondering if those might have been the sort of support struts she had seen inside her own saucer, then you just have to jumpstart it to get it going again? I suppose. He chuckled dismissively. Perhaps the saucers in Area 51 just need a quick jumpstart. He must think she sounded silly asking if a flying saucer just needed an intergalactic tow truck. Ashley giggled, peering through the window. Alright, Jynx. Coast is clear, lets roll. Seeing her old high school science teacher for the first time, she giggled. Oh, hey Mr. Vickers! His face flushed at being addressed directly and he seemed to stiffen slightly. It is Doctor Vickers, he corrected. She giggled dismissively and sauntered over to the counter with a hair flip. So, youre still sticking with the old element 115 theory? Enveloped in her feminine atmosphere, Dr. Vickers winced, slightly taken aback. The old element 115 theory? He repeated, as if it were a foreign concept to him. She was obviously making him a little uncomfortable. That Lazarus guy that worked out at Area 51 said that element 115 was the ticket. She leaned over the counter and plucked at a rubber alien head pencil selection in a cup beside the register. Her freshly painted nails were a little busier, elaborately decorated with rhinestones and tiny striping details. He worked in the S-4 section, reverse engineering the spacecraft, Vickers corrected, adjusting his waistcoat. Ashley smiled at Jynx. Yeah, so the government sees him strap a homemade rocket to his crappy little car and they just invite him over to play with their super top-secret spaceships because, hey, this guy has a cool car? She picked at the alien face on the pencil topper. So then, he and his buddy, that radio guy do some stuff on TV and it gets out of hand and the next thing you know hes famous and hes running around in his little red Corvette getting more ass than a toilet seat. I mean, he got arrested for opening a whore house, right? She prattled on as if describing the plot of her favorite sitcom. He studied rocketry at Oh, Doc, come on. She twiddled her nails before her, inspecting the paint job with a feigned ennui. He claimed to have studied rocketry, but none of those colleges had ever heard of him. and then the Russians actually made a hunk of the Pentium stuff and it just melted away to inert goo every time. Dr. Vickers stood frozen in place, stunned to hear her describe a complex bit of theoretical physics with the casual tone of a valley girl. So, whats to say that the guy didnt just make it all up just to get laid? She slid the alien headed pencil back into the cup on the counter, stroking it up and down a few times suggestively. Dr. Vickers trembled, his face slowly turning a bright red. Inspecting her freshly painted nails she shrugged. I mean, I dont know much about top-secret spaceships or anything, but I know a thing or two about nerdy guys. She smiled smugly at Dr. Vickers. Anyway, nice place you got here, Doc. She smoothed out her little sundress as if it had been rumpled in the discussion. Come along, Jynx honey. Im starving and I am in desperate need of Boba tea. She twiddled her freshly manicured fingernails at Dr. Vickers as she swung the front door wide and stepped out onto the sidewalk. * * * Austin knew that the wrecker had the tools, he just didnt know exactly where they were in the various lock boxes. He managed to find the jack but couldnt find the sections of steel pipe that worked as a handle. There were a few different tire irons, but no spare and nowhere to carry it anyway. He tried texting Jeremiah a few times, to let him know what was going on, but finally just gave up and tossed his phone into the cab. He seemed to remember one of the guys, either Manny or Csar, using one of the rear dual tires as a spare, and he figured it was as good as waiting for Jeremiah to finally call back, at least. Hes not answering, huh? Becca asked. Austin shook his head and wiped his brow. I guess if youre already the tow truck driver, theres nobody else to call, right? Austin really didnt want to be having this conversation. Its not he realized that he must look entirely incompetent to her, I just dont drive this truck very often. She considered this briefly before she turned and walked back into the house without a word, dragging Chunk by his collar. He was glad to lose the audience. The situation was embarrassing enough without her standing at the end of the driveway, watching him. She was only gone a few minutes before he managed to find everything he needed. He was under the truck setting the jack when Becca came out of the house again. She strolled down the driveway in an added pair of sunglasses and some sandals, carrying a lawn chair and a couple of soda cans. Catching her eye as she unfolded her chair, she smiled down at him. Do you mind? A light breeze carried the scent of her lotion and cocoa butter, cutting the smell of hot oil and engine. Nah, I guess not, he said, even though he felt his hand shake a little as he said it. She took a moment to arrange herself in the folding chair. My dad wants me to learn how to change a tire. She sat forward in the chair, seemingly eager to learn. He says if I can drive, I should be able to change my own oil, but I don''t see why I would. There are professionals for that, right? As one of the professionals he couldn''t imagine her under the hood of a car, or crawling underneath to pull an oil filter. Seated beside him, basking in the sun, she seemed better suited to beach living. He caught a glimpse of her sandaled feet; tiny toenails painted a pale blue that was probably named seafoam or periwinkle or something like that. Realizing that he was staring at her feet, he hand cranked the jack a few turns to wedge it under the frame. Well, it''s probably a good idea. Scooting out from under the front of the truck he dusted the gravel off his hands and smiled politely. Kind of a dirty job. He shrugged. I don''t mind, she said. He assembled the jack handle and slid it into the crank, giving it a few quick pumps to make certain that it was engaged and settled properly. Oh, you mean right now? I won''t get in the way, she smiled. I can tell my dad we did it. He''ll probably give you a big tip. He did want an excuse to hang out, and she might as well learn from a professional. Yeah, alright. He started pointing at things and explaining how he set the jack and why he set it right there instead of the suspension strut. She wanted to help, and he let her. She pumped the jack handle a few times and laughed to watch the rig rise, then a few more pumps accompanied with little grunts, just to let him know how hard she was working. He slapped the fender to let her know it was good. She stood up straight and wiped the sweat from her brow with her clean, Coppertone tan wrist. When Austin caught her checking her palms like they might be dirty, he offered her a rag that definitely would have left her delicate hands just a little bit dirtier. She scowled at him, and hands on hips, listened very intently as he described how a wheel attached to the hub, lug nuts, drum brakes and just about anything else he knew about, just to sound smart. I hope you wont be testing me on all of this, she giggled and gave his shoulder a playful push. His knees nearly buckled at her touch. Well, how else are you going to learn? Austin smiled, distracted by her long eyelash extensions and the way they made her eyes seem a little bluer for some reason. If she noticed him admiring them, she didnt look away. Isnt this so weird? We didnt hang out all the way through school, but then I locked my keys in the car. She shrugged. We probably never would have had a reason to hang out otherwise. She leaned forward, brushing shoulders with him and being more than just friendly, he thought. Kneeling beside the front wheel well, leaning on a tire iron, the scent of her suntan lotion made him dizzy. The fine sheen of sweat that veiled her brow and cheek was somehow charming to him and her fine blonde hair seemed luminous in the sun. Well, at least youre learning how to change a tire, he said, focusing on the wheel and hoping that she didnt see him blushing. After watching him loosen a few lug nuts Becca tried it herself. The nuts were all but rusted into place, and eventually, the both of them struggled against the tire iron, grunting together. Ordinarily, he would use a length of steel pipe that they kept on the truck for leverage, but he liked bumping shoulders as they both worked the tire iron together; any reason to be closer to her. When it finally gave, and the nut came loose they collapsed back to the curb chuckling. Austin offered her the rag again and she wiped her forehead and hands before reaching back to grab the soda cans, both wet with cool condensation. He admired her fingernails, painted to match her toes. They made her look elegant, even squatting down beside the rusty, dusty fender of the wrecker. Becca took a few gulps and sighed her satisfaction. She set the cool can against her cheek and then forehead, finally resting it at her neck. So, are you still seeing that girl? she asked. Austin thought she must have him confused with someone else. What girl? he asked, finishing half his soda in a few gulps. That girl you were always with. Becca pushed on the tire iron, rotating it just a half turn effortlessly. Austin tried to think of anybody at school that she might have seen him with. Who, Jynx? Was that her name? Becca asked. You guys looked so cute together. He began to wonder how long this had been going on. Maybe girls didnt talk to him in school because they assumed he was already dating Jynx. We aren''t dating, he muttered and gave the tire iron a spin, releasing the next nut. His heart climbed upwards as the silence set in. Oh, she shrugged. Well, she fidgeted with the nut, setting it aside and lining the others up on the curb, I just got back to town, and I havent seen anybody around yet. She glanced up from her arrangement. Do you maybe want to go to coffee sometime? Austin couldnt speak around the lump in his throat. Frozen with terror and excitement, his response seemed exceptionally cool. He looked her straight in the eye, waiting to see if she was joking, but she didnt seem to be. Okay, he shrugged, hoping not to look too eager. She smiled and blushed, even. Okay, she agreed, still looking right at him. Austin felt like he might explode and implode at the same time. He was afraid to take his hands off the tool for fear shed see him trembling. She pushed the iron out of the way so she could pull the nut and place it in line with the others. My dad keeps talking about this new coffee shop that just opened up. Ive been looking for an excuse to check it out. Austin swallowed hard, hoping it wasnt the same new coffee shop that he had only recently discovered. * * * For a brief time, Ashley and Jynx had their own club called the Tough Girls Club, which met in the tool shed adjacent to the bomb shelter. While the Tough Guys were busy blowing up GI Joe action figures with M80s, the girls sang along to pop songs and Ashley tried to teach Jynx how to be more girly. At some point Ashley started teaching Jynx how to do cartwheels, and practicing in the backyard, Ashley started doing cartwheels in a loose-fitting sweater and discovered that she was developing the sort of assets that could get her as many Tough Guys as she wanted. Jeff and Justin stopped shooting things with airsoft pistols and started fawning on Ashley. When she got annoyed with them, she quit hanging out with the younger kids and started hanging out with high school boys. Ashleys new clubhouse was a clean two-bedroom apartment in the center of town, tucked in behind the Lucky Mart strip mall. It was a newer development, well maintained, with a bright wall of east-facing windows that looked out over the desert valley below. There wasnt a better view for the price. Jynx liked Ashleys old apartment better. It was on the ground floor, tucked into the back of the building with a view of a small, fenced yard. It felt enclosed and safe. The new place felt, well, new. Most of her apartment was remarkably clean and looked professionally furnished, with clean modern lines and upholstery so white that it made Jynx nervous to sit on it. The bedrooms, however, seemed a separate piece of property. The master bedroom was entirely dark, with thick black curtains pulled to block the desert sunlight. It housed a giant four-post bed complete with chiffon curtains, hanging scarves, and veils draped about it. The floor was carpeted in pastel sweatpants, tiny t-shirts, bras and panties and socks, and all manner of casual wear, abandoned where it had been removed. The spare bedroom had a large vanity stacked with tackle-box kits of make-up in an array of color palettes and small backlit mirrors in a variety of sizes and magnification. The walls were cluttered with mirrors and a few tapestries for backdrops. The contents of the closet spilled out into several racks hung with tiny slip dresses, bits of fishnet, and sequins that sparkled from the corners and between lacy underthings. The place smelled of potpourri, lotions, and perfume. It was as different from the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive as Jynx could imagine. Standing awkwardly in the hall, fingers still spread wide to avoid damaging her manicure, and toes cramping with the effort to keep her pedicure safe, Jynx felt too dirty for the apartment. She wanted to check her butt, to make sure that it wasnt dusty or oily, but she didnt want to risk her manicure brushing off her backside. Instead, she stood stiff and frozen, like a fainting goat in a YouTube video, just waiting to fall over. Ashley kicked the various piles, clearing a walkway to the vanity. She pulled a bra from the back of the chair, contemplated it for a moment, and tossed it over a clothing rack. You have a seat; Ill clear a runway for you. Ashley made her way through the dressing room, clearing out walkways from the vanity to the closet and to the costume racks, overloaded with sequined lingerie that Jynx quietly hoped she would not be forced to try on. Ashley obviously had more curves, bigger boobs and actual hips. Jynx caught her own reflection in the mirror, still skinny and dressed in her little pastel cutoff shorts and an old grumpy cat t-shirt. Though she had grown taller in the past year, she hadnt developed quite as much as Ashley, and she felt a little awkward in a room full of slinky lace and translucent chiffon. She was secretly terrified that Ashley might try to dress her up too sexy. She didn''t like the nail polish much, but at least she could just put her hands in her pockets to hide them. Finishing up her tidying efforts, or just abandoning the mission once she had cleared a space at the vanity, Ashley patted the padded seat with a chipper grin. You have a seat, I will get us some refreshments, darling. She plucked a long, light, flowing floral scarf from a wardrobe rack and draping it over her shoulders she exited the room with an overly dramatic flair. Jynx and Sir Pugsley both watched her go and exchanged glances in her absence. Sir Pugsley snorted once, decisively, then began digging into a laundry pile, fluffing himself a bed. In a few minutes music played softly from the living room. Ashley returned with a paper plate laden with pepperoni slices, Kraft cheese slices, and saltines. A selection of charcuterie, she giggled. We so rarely have an opportunity to entertain, right Sir Pugsley? She set a pair of seltzer cans on the vanity. Sir Pugsley just snorted without raising his head. Jynx began to suspect that the reunion of the Tough Girls Club was really more for Ashley to fluff her busy social schedule than it was a legitimate makeover. Now, let''s see about getting you some contact lenses and some hair product, shall we? She cracked the tab on her green can with the handle of a make-up brush while Jynx tried to figure out how to open a drink with bright green acrylic claws. I don''t need contact lenses, do I? Jynx asked. She didn''t wear glasses. It''s the idea, hon. In the ugly duckling movies, the homely girls are always just a trip to the mall away from winning some sucker''s eye for the happily ever after win, because it really doesn''t matter if you''ve got a great personality. Boys just want a smoke show. Ashley sounded a little sarcastic, but she spent an awful lot of her time playing dumb, dressing up to get the boys'' attention. Don''t be fooled, Jynx. Deep down, men are frail creatures. They like to act big and tough and smart, but theres not a single one of them thats immune to subtle flattery and a well-timed giggle. That Ashley was telling her all of this right after that strange conversation with Dr. Vickers made no sense to Jynx. The manicures and makeovers and unopenable cans aside, Ashley knew more about saucers than she should have, as she went on picking a color palette to paint Jynx''s face. Ashley was one person she had not thought to ask about the flying saucer, certain that she would undoubtedly bring up the refrigerator incident. It had never occurred to Jynx that Ashley might know something about flying saucers. She wasnt exactly book smart, but then, flying saucers probably werent in a lot of textbooks anyway. Hey, Ash. How do you know all of that stuff about element 115? Jynx asked, hoping to sound casual. I used to know a guy, Ashley shrugged. He ran the laser flow cytometer down at the Salk Institute. Really smart guy, but he was lousy at pillow talk. Hrmm, Jynx grumbled and rolled her eyes, pretending to know what pillow talk was. He once explained that it was possible to build a real working lightsaber, if we only had a stronger portable power supply. Jynx was familiar with the movies and the laser sword, but she didnt understand the physics behind it. Lights, photon particles, supposedly fired in a specific direction for an unlimited distance. Like, a laser that only shot out part way, or something? Ashley shrugged as she organized a few wispy scarves on the edge of one of her wardrobe racks. He said that with a large enough power supply you could bend light back on itself. Then he talked about gravitons and quantums and stuff and I didn''t understand a word of that, but he just needed someone to listen. She smiled to herself, drifting away from the playdate momentarily. He was a little awkward in social situations, but he tried to be romantic. Although Jynx recognized a few of the scientific terms that Ashley had mentioned, she couldnt imagine anything romantic or sexy about particle physics. Like what? she asked, taking one of the scarves from the rack to inspect the soft fabric. Ashley took the scarf from her and gave her another, just as light and soft, but with pale green accents that almost matched her nail polish. Ash draped it around her neck and played with it, settling it on her shoulder or allowing it to drape down her chest. Well, once he described how the neural net could be a form of chemical electro-magnetism, holding the human soul in place like an organic forcefield. Ashley slipped into a wistful fit of exaggerated nostalgia as if the young grad student actually occupied an important place for her but slipped when she inspected a rhinestone on her tiny pinky fingernail. Shoot, he was sweet. Id probably still see him if he had a stronger portable power supply, but lab technicians are financially underappreciated. If you know all this sort of stuff, why dont you go to school and become a scientist? Jynx asked. Shed always just assumed that Ashley was actually kind of ditzy and just didnt want to go to school. Ashley chuckled quietly and rolled her eyes at the idea. Honestly, hon, I make more money rattling my can at desperate truckers than I ever could curing cancer. Lets face it, theres just no money in saving the world these days, but a nice set of tits can sell just about anything. She checked her freshly manicured nails, inspecting them as if she might have bumped them at all. Satisfied that they still looked glossy and perfect, she giggled and bobbed her head around, inspecting the seltzer can label with a feigned look of complete ignorance. La Croix. She giggled. I think it means ''liquid''. Isn''t that such a delightfully simple name for a refreshing beverage? She cracked the top and took a little sip, mugging and showing the label to an invisible audience. I think it would make a lovely nom du plume. Finally noticing that Jynx didnt know how to open hers, she grabbed a comb off the vanity and cracked the cap. That takes a little getting used to, but youll figure it out. She handed her back the delightfully simply named beverage and giggled. Alright, enough talking about boys and science and stuff. The whole point of dragging you out of that grease trap was to remind you that a great set of tits means never having to change a tire. Jynx glanced down at her own chest, confident that she would still need to know how to work on her own car if she ever got one. Ashley tilted her chin back up. Relax, hon. There are runway models in Milan starving themselves on Lean Cuisines and colonics just to get what you got. She inspected Jynx with a strange gravity, looking through her. You''ve got good bones, that''s for sure, she brushed the hair from Jynx''s forehead and held it back. She had become yet another of Ashley''s battered Barbie dolls, ready to be coiffed and displayed. Now, let''s dress you up in something slinky and take some pictures you''ll probably regret! Ashley hopped to her feet and glided across to the closet to choose a dress from her collection. 38. The difference between falling and flying ... Like, people eat with their eyes first, okay? Earl took a sharp drag off his Newport and shook his head. Like, literally, you cant just melt a slice of American cheese over an omelet and serve that shit to a customer, okay? Hitch shrugged. I just did. Terrence snorted. Yeah ya did, bro. Well, then like, you shouldnt do that, okay? Hitch just shrugged again. They are swine, sucking the swill at the bottom of my life, Earl. Listen to me, theyre customers, okay? Like, George trusts us to serve them when they come in the door, alright? Theyre pigs, Earl. This damn town is lousy with gun-toting half-wits, and you want me to treat them all like prized potbellies for some reason? He flipped his phone case closed and tossed his butt in the ash can. Any one of them would probably shoot you for eating a candy bar. Terrence offered him the joint. Bro, you never even did any time, what you got against cops in the first place? Hitch took a puff. I dont like my tax dollars going to shooting brown people, he grunted through a wisp of smoke. Here, or abroad. He exhaled the last bit of smoke and took another puff as the dishwasher stepped out the back door. Ay, Paco. No fumas este mierde. Hitch nodded, glanced down at the joint, and shrugged. ?Todo bien, Octavio? The dishwasher sighed. La machina no sirve. Bueno, Hitch stood and stretched out. Ense?a me. The aces watched as the sheriff eased his cruiser around the back of the Spoon. Oh good, here comes our hero. Hitch glanced down at the better half of the joint and offered it to Earl. Fuck. Earl said. Right? Alright, well, like" he stood back, just Hitch flicked the cherry off the end of the joint and tucked it behind his ear as he walked towards the back door. ?Que pasa? Octavio asked, watching the police car warily. Esse pas esta infestada con federales. Tenemos que ir antes que estamos infectada. Ay, Paco. No bromas. The sheriff eased his cruiser into the spot right behind the back door and dropped it into park as Hitch rolled back inside. Terrence stood up and adjusted his apron, his busted baby face taking on a grim hang-doggedness. This cant be good. Like, were on bail, right? Earl pushed his sleeves up. Ashley said it was handled, okay? Bro, what does that even mean? She said: Victor has been taken care of. Like, hes not going to press charges, alright? But what does that mean? It means hes been taken care of, okay? Bro" Afternoon, gentlemen, Etherton called as he stepped from the cruiser. Whats up, Sheriff? Earl offered amicably. You just by for lunch? Etherton shook his head. I sure wish I had time, but Im afraid Im here on business this time. Terrence groaned. It was self-defense, bro! They came here looking for a fight, he pleaded. Earl nodded his agreement. Like, we didnt start no shit, okay? Relax. The sheriff leaned back, worried that hed already spooked them both. Its about Victor. Terrence looked worried. How is he? Is he okay? Well, ya know guys, thats the thing, He ran his fingers through his hair unconsciously and scratched the back of his head. Victors kind of gone missing, and nobody knows where he got off to. Terrence glanced over at Earl, looking worried again. Earl just shrugged. Like, we been here since we got out, okay? We been super busy, ya know? Yeah, yeah, I can imagine. I just wondered if maybe you heard anything. Terrence looked ready to confess to just about anything, but Earl just shook his head. Like Sheriff, wed like to help ya and all, but like, we just been here trying to keep up, alright? He reached for his pack of cigarettes like he was just about to light one but glanced into the pack. Ya know, we should probably get back in there, he said. Were really grateful for everything, though, Terrence said. Bringing us food and everything. We got your lunch the next time youre in. The sheriff nodded appreciatively. George hasnt charged me since the town hired me. If theres ever anything we can do for you Terrence offered. Earl scowled at his associate. Well, Etherton screwed his face up. There is one more thing. He scratched the back of his head. Probably aint even worth asking, the sheriff hitched his belt up, but you guys havent heard anything about the recent exhaust thefts, have you? Earl chuckled. Oh, like, we heard em alright. He elbowed Terrence. Yeah, we heard em. Terrence smiled reluctantly and glared at Earl. What? Like everybody heard em. He laughed. I mean, the whole damn state can hear em now. Alright, alright. The sheriff leaned back against the hood of the car and squinted up at the sun, trying to ignore the joke. Well, those guys are threatening to tear the town apart trying to find their missing mufflers, and I just thought Id see if you guys might know something. Bro, its not the muffler, its just the catalytic converter they steal. Earl elbowed Terrence again. Uh, Sheriff, they steal the He knows it aint the mufflers, alright? Etherton nodded. Just, you know, if you happen to hear anything, alright? Will do, Sheriff. Earl nodded professionally as he adjusted his apron and ducked back into the kitchen. I can ask around. Terrence offered nervously. The sheriff didnt want them in any trouble on account of the invading forces, but they were better deputies than Nutsy and Trigger for any useful information. If he was going to have to do some actual police work, he needed more than a pair of traffic ticket writing Phys Ed majors to do the detective work. He needed eyes and ears in the town, keeping track of the little fires for him. He wasnt deputizing, just delegating. The sleight Latino kid in the dirty apron remained, watching Etherton with a steadfast, catlike quality. He chewed at his fingernail, waiting for the Sheriff to leave. Etherton nodded politely. ?Como esta? he asked. Octavio waved back timidly and backed towards the door. Say, amigo, the sheriff said, wishing he spoke more Spanish, that other fella, el otro hombre, cual es su nombre? ?Mande? El tres hombre. He struggled for the two semesters of Spanish that he barely passed back in college. El viejo. Su nombre. The dishwasher glanced over his shoulder, probably wishing he had slipped inside before the lawman started talking to him. Quien, Paco? Paco? Etherton asked, uncertain if that was even a real name. The kid smiled. S, su nombre es Francisco, he giggled effeminately, pero se lo llaman Paco Herte. The sheriff nodded seriously. Paco Herte, he muttered to himself. S. The kid giggled again. Paco Herte. Gracias. Etherton nodded, pulling a little notepad from his pocket to scribble it down. Muchas gracias, amigo. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The dishwasher giggled. De nada. Sheriff Etherton eased the cruiser off the interstate a few streets early and took an opportunity to roll slowly down East Second Street, the slums, if Arroyo Grande had any. Most of the houses along that stretch were old single-story ramblers with backyards abutting the salt flats beyond. Most of those were occupied by working families with poverty-level incomes just trying to get by. He might get called down there for a domestic dispute, or to subdue a loud party that had run too late, but most of the residents were harmless; they generally liked seeing the cruiser roll along their street as a point of civic pride. Kids in the yard would wave, and Sheriff Etherton waved back, flashing his friendliest neighborhood lawman smile. All he really wanted for was a loping horse with a well-polished saddle and a Clorox-white Stetson to tilt as he ambled past. Near the north end of the street, he took on the practiced steely gaze of the gunfighter that he only pretended to be. There were a few meth dens that never completely cleared out. Where there was one tweaker, others would eventually congregate and he knew that a few of them had nests of a dozen junkies burrowed into every room, tool shed, and garage space. They were mostly discrete, which suited him just fine. The occupants tended to either scurry back into the dark on sight or nervously attempted to look as nonchalant as possible while dismantling a lawn mower in the front yard for no apparent reason. Cruising by every once in a while, sent them into a paranoid flurry in his wake. For a week or two afterwards they would continue to watch out the battered Venetian blinds, assuming that a bust was imminent. He eased around the corner and up the block towards the garage, taking stock of the various dilapidated motorhomes that shuffled through on occasion. He pulled into the Desert Sand lot and straight up to pump one. Deep in the service bay, a bell announced him. Jeremiah ducked out from under a little white Ford Ranger, pausing his work long enough to wave, and then slid back under the fender. The sheriff stepped from the cruiser to a dry gust of wind off the salt flats. He squinted out across the hardpan and shielding his eyes from the sun, watched a low dust storm slide quickly along the desert floor. The sheriff scuffed gravel across the lot, announcing his presence. The Ranger was on the center lift, Jeremiah tucked up under the front right fender, the ratchet of a socket wrench cranking echoed from within. Afternoon, Sheriff. Anything I can help you with? Just stopping by to check and see that youre alright. The sheriff leaned back against a dented Honda in the oil pit bay. Missed you at your appointment yesterday. The ratchet stopped. Jeremiah froze. He was so close, just a few months away. No, he said, quietly. Fuck, he groaned softly, but it echoed from under the fender. Sheriff, I am so sorry. Relax, Jeremiah. Im just messin with you. Fuuuuck, Jeremiah said. He yanked the oil rag from his belt and threw it in the sheriffs general direction. The ratchet cranked a few more times. Just gimme a second, here, Ill be right with you. When Jeremiah was satisfied with the new starter he ducked out from under the truck. The sheriff handed him his rag. Jeremiah flipped a switch and punched the green button on the pillar beside the lift. The levitating truck lowered with a slow hydraulic hiss, gently placing the tires back on the ground. Jeremiah watched the sheriff stroll casually to the back door, peering out onto the lot as if the edge of the concrete slab was a diving platform. The sheriff smiled. You mind? Have at it, man. Technically, as his parole officer, the sheriff was allowed to cruise through any time he wanted to, but he rarely bothered to stop by in an official capacity. Jeremiah ducked into the bathroom to degrease. He pumped a few squirts of orange pumice soap into his palm and started into a final washup. Grab me one while youre back there. The sheriff glanced down at his watch and figuring that it was close enough to five, he meandered back to the trailer, casually glancing around. He pulled a couple of long necks from the mini fridge and popped the caps on the bottle opener bolted to the trailer wall beside the screen door. Taking a long pull off his beer, he surveyed the porch. The ashtray was empty, the V8 cylinders had been cleared of empty beer bottles, and the dusty Astroturf carpet had been swept. Megans been by, he observed. Jeremiah nodded, sidling up, and drying his hands on the cleanest oily towel he had. You just missed her. The sheriff handed him a beer. You, uh, seen Victor at all? Jeremiah shook his head, taking a few gulps and wiping a bit of foam from the corner of his mouth with the clean back of his wrist. The wind, catching the top of the open bottle played an aeolian note, harmonizing with the breezes howling through the repair bays. I heard he got himself pretty busted up. Thought he was in the hospital. He was. Greg nodded. Vanished from the hospital. Thought maybe he slipped back into town, maybe? Jeremiah shrugged. Not that I heard. He collapsed into the armchair, reaching into his work shirt for his smokes. He was on a bit of a rampage. From what I heard, a few people were hoping to slow his roll, though. Sheriff nodded. Any idea who might have collected him? Jeremiah shook his head and squinted off like he was watching his words. Guy was more of a liability than an asset, I hear. Not a lot of friends left in the organization. The organization? Not my story to tell, Greg. Jeremiah sipped his beer and picked at the label. Family business and all. They got their own judicial system. What family business? Jeremiah sat forward again and glanced around. Hunkered down over his beer he had an unusually frank look about him that unsettled Etherton. Look, man. Im sorry Vincent gave those guys in Bakersfield the slip, and I can appreciate the position youre in, but this is none of my fuckin business, and you dont want to make it yours, either. You might just let Jesus handle his own affairs on this one. He gave a curt nod to let the sheriff know that he had finished speaking and leaned back again. Far as youre concerned, hes probably holed up with one of his cousins, working their way through a case of Cazadores. Probably wont be back to bother anyone anytime soon. Jeremiah wasnt exactly the religious type but the more he said, the more he mumbled and the sheriff got to worrying that there might be some things that he didnt want to know. Is Megan alright? Jeremiah nodded and smirked. Shes alright for a girl. The sheriff just shook his head. Maybe you guys ought to make it official. Maybe a nice girl might settle Jeremiah down some, or at least clean him up and wash away the ex-con aura that held most of the town at a healthy distance. Nah. He lit his smoke, exhaling it into the warm afternoon wind. Im not her mister right. Im just her mister right now. Sheriff shrugged, glancing around the lot. Yeah, he swiped a finger across the recently cleaned shelf, shell ruin your reputation if she keeps up like this. The sheriff took another sip and casually strolled out into the sun, still looking around the lot like hed never been there. Both of you kids have got my number if anything gets out of hand. Jeremiah snorted a laugh. Oh, the Megan situation is well in hand, Sheriff. The sheriff leveled a stern fatherly gaze at Jeremiah. Jeremiah waved him off. Relax, Greg. Im not getting in any trouble for Victor. The sheriff nodded, pacing around to get a nonchalant glance behind the trailer. Jeremiah finished the bottom half of his beer in a few gulps and slid the empty into the newly vacant engine. He pulled another from the fridge and popped the cap off with his lighter. Looking for anything specific? he asked. The sheriff chuckled. Busted. Maybe I can help you find it. Sheriff leaned back against the fender of the Volvo. Austin and Jynx were acting a little screwy earlier. Dropped by to have some sort of clandestine chat with Ashley. Austin had me side-eyed. I figured if they were up to anything, youd know if it was anything worth worrying about. Jeremiah laughed and leaned back in his easy chair. Yeah, Sheriff. The Tough Guy club is at it again. He pulled the handle and flopped backward with the EZ boy. Fuckin criminal element is ruinin this town. You uh, you got anything you want to share? Jeremiah pulled his aviators from the table beside him. Nope, he said, sliding them on and picking up the remote control. He flicked on the flatscreen, hoping to doze off to the end of Wheel of Fortune. Wanna see my grow room? Plants are damn near six feet high now. He pointed at the Costco pop-up tent tucked up against the last bay. The walls seemed to breathe in the afternoon breeze. The sheriff raised an eyebrow at Jeremiah. Go on. Jeremiah waved him away. Sheriff Etherton was a fairly clever guy. His years in politics taught him a certain talent for reading people. Jeremiah had nothing to hide, but there wasnt much point in trying anyway. Alright, Ill bite, the sheriff said. He sauntered over towards the tent. When the wind picked up, it hammered the sides of the Costco tent, whipping up the bottom skirt. Tarps and slipcovers all over the lot billowed in the dry air, crackling and popping over the rusted carcasses, lending to the bleached-out post-apocalyptic quality of the Desert Sands boneyard. The sheriff pulled back the tent flap to find a big formless fishing boat or dinghy of some sort, without wheels or doors or a windshield, painted flat black with hotrod flames running along the side of it. The paint was relatively fresh, or at least dust-free. The sheriff walked along beside it, running his hand over the aerodynamically perfect, smooth edge. He admired the clean pinstriping work that outlined the pale blue flames. Jeremiah was improving. It was only a matter of time before he started working towards something beyond radiator fixes and fresh windshield wipers. He was outgrowing Arroyo Grande. Once his probation was through, the sheriff quietly hoped that if he wasnt going to settle down, the kid might move to LA and get into the classic car restoration business. He might do well in a trade school or apprenticeship. He wasnt made for college, but with the right education, Jeremiah could look into six figures doing custom fabrication work in a high-end garage in the city. If he stayed in the town, it was only a matter of time before somebody like Victor picked a fight and got Jeremiah sent back in on a parole violation or a second offense. Helluva paint job, the sheriff said, stepping from the cloistering heat of the temporary detailing tent. Jeremiah raised his beer in gratitude. What the hell is it? Jeremiah sat forward to stab his cigarette out in the ashtray. Dont know. The kids pulled it out of the wash and figured it was some sort of Hollywood prop of some sort left over from the sixties. Maybe a spare external fuel tank from one of the bases. Had a big hole in it, but I fixed it. He pulled another cigarette from the pack and placed it to his lips. I think they were planning to sell it to Vickers for his janky little museum, or maybe just scrap it out if Vickers couldnt pay. And you painted it? Jeremiah shrugged. I told him if he left it on my lot, it was mine. I was drunk. I figured it was good for practice, a smooth clean surface like that. Sheriff took a seat in a folding chair at the edge of the shade, leaning back. Ah, hell, is that it? Jeremiah nodded, smirking. Jesus, the way Austin looked this morning, youd think hed just rolled the bank last week. Jeremiah snickered. That kid couldnt pick a dollar bill up off the sidewalk without asking everyone nearby if theyd dropped it. Aint that the truth. Face it, Greg. Youve got a cop face. Just one look at you, and Id confess to just about anything. Sheriff chuckled. He wanted to think he had more of a public servant face only identifying as sheriff during business hours, but he got the feeling that Jeremiah was yanking his chain. Yeah, well, your guilty conscience and all. Jeremiah held his hands out, wrists together, ready to be cuffed. The sheriff nodded. Well, Im sorry I bothered you, kid. Jeremiah raised his beer again. No sweat, man. Probably shouldnt be drinking alone anyway. The sheriff swirled his beer around, listening to the tone change with the wind. I guess we can skip next weeks appointment, the sheriff said. Ah hell no, Sheriff. You aint hauling my ass in on a technicality. Wednesday? Only reason I got to wear a tie. Wouldnt miss it. Make it late? Maybe we can swing by the Starlight and do a little wellness check on Megan afterward. You buy, Ill fly, Jeremiah said. Right, well, the sheriff finished the last few gulps, sliding his empty into another cylinder on the V8. Think you can squeeze me in for a tune-up by early Thursday? Ill put an order in for the kit tomorrow. Sounds good. The sheriff winked and wandered back towards the front lot. Jeremiah turned the volume up on the TV. Sajak read another clue, having something to do with Kansas. Jeremiah didnt much mind the Sheriff stopping by. He wasnt a real cop; he was more of a placeholder until a proper pig arrived. Jeremiah counted letters on Vannas board with the green spangles and the white backlit rectangles. The theme was destinations, still part of the week-long vacation specials. Over the rainbow! Jeremiah yelled at the idiot spinning the wheel on his way to bankruptcy. As observant as Sheriff Etherton was, Jeremiah thought, he had entirely failed to notice that the Tough Guy clubs hotrod-painted Hollywood prop was silently hovering two feet above the ground. 39. Preflight Captain McGoohan occupied a rooftop office and makeshift live-in studio on the fourth floor of the Terrestrial Investigations Group headquarters, adjacent to the Chickenhawk helipad but a few floors above distractions. Complete with a lavish collection of unnecessary acquisitions, he called his makeshift apartment The Roost. If he didnt like to go anywhere, it was only because he didnt have to. Just about anything he could want was already in the office, and if he wanted more than the standard break room vending machine fare, he could always order take-out. The private elevator had a base-level door to the outside world, and his delivery guys already knew the drill when he got to craving chicken Pad Thai or Satay skewers with peanut sauce. The fact that he could call in grocery orders for delivery as well meant he never had to bother with a trip to the corner market for booze, beers, or even smokes, and he was quite content with his rooftop post. His only real complaint was that occasionally he had to work. The sergeant called at least a dozen times, but Captain McGoohan didnt take orders from Sergeant OConnor. The only reason that he picked up when the chief called was because the chief literally signed his checks and signed off on his expense accounts. The chief was a little more cordial than he strictly had to be because McGoohan didnt put a lot of effort into hiding his outside job offers. His combat record was good enough that he could have been in a coma for eight years and he would still be getting bids. For this reason, when the chief called, it was a request for a routine sweep with some scans and aerial photography and such, and the chief could go ahead and send those coordinates over if Capt. McGoohan had some time that afternoon. As it had been months since the last time the chief needed actual air support for anything, Capt. McGoohan decided that he did indeed have some time that afternoon and he could pop right over for a little aerial documentation session. He would get right on that. The big front garage bay door was open to the afternoon sun, the Stryker strapped down to a flatbed trailer as Levy pleaded his case to the commissioner. It was Captain McGoohans personal experience that when a government oversight committee sent an envoy with a flatbed truck to haul away a multimillion-dollar piece of legally nonexistent surplus combat hardware, they were well past the point of hearing the protests and groveling of a legally nonexistent mechanic. The guy with the clipboard wasnt having any of it and neither was the heavy with the grease-stained polyester work uniform; they werent paid to adjudicate a petition. The rhino herself was at the truck cab confirming the delivery destination to yet another, completely different yet equally apocryphal extraterrestrial investigation task force. As entirely unconcerned with the chiefs expensive toy collection as he could possibly be, excepting of course his own chicken hawk, Captain McGoohan greeted the commissioner with a cheerful salutation and hid his beer bottle in the folds of his pant leg. From a distance, she probably couldnt even see the brown glass bottle. Afternoon, Commissioner! Combat veterans who had served with her gave her the nickname the rhino. The name was spoken only in a whisper but somehow passed between divisions all the way to her post as commissioner of the umbrella oversight committee. She negotiated the fiscal bog between at least a dozen black book operations and the people who funded them. She was so deep that her curriculum vitae probably read none of your damn business and nobody dared question it. She secretly enjoyed the look of terror that she invoked in her employees, colleagues, and even superiors. She knew she had him in her pocket, and that was just fine with him. She could keep him as close as she wanted. McGoohan gave the commissioner the benefit of the doubt and assumed that the low growl she gave in reply was actually a friendly salutation. Trimmed in a sharply cut business skirt with her blouse unbuttoned provocatively, the commissioner did not look particularly pleased to be out in the Arizona heat, and even less so to have to pry Levys grubby paws off what amounted to her own personal Stryker. Keeping tabs on nonexistent assets meant that if she wanted to, the commissioner could turn the light-duty combat vehicle into a luxury family motorhome and there was nothing that anybody could do about it. Of course, that wasnt going to change Levys mind on the subject. Just a couple more weeks, please? He seemed moments away from dropping to his knees and begging. The rhino would have liked that. I cant imagine you have anybody else who could finish that install, Commissioner. He took a step towards her and the big guy in the polyester work pants rest his hand on his side arm. Get over it, Mr. Levy, the commissioner said, talk to a professional if you have to, but Im not parking a few million dollars worth of hardware on your lot so you can give it a paint job and space lasers. She nodded curtly at the captain as she raised a hand and gave the command to roll out. He saluted back, more formally than strictly necessary, but she was still military, even in her D.C. civvies. No matter what happened to the last handful of remaining investigators, Captain McGoohan was alright with the rhino, and he liked it that way. The driver held the door for her, and the captain gladly watched her all the way to her sleek black Escalade. Superior or not, the rhino could keep him any way she wanted. Levy followed the flatbed truck as it lurched into gear and arched around in a wide sweep of the empty parking lot, rolling slowly like a funeral procession. Levy glanced down at the receipt in his hand, almost entirely redacted already. He could have been holding a receipt for a dozen donuts. The Stryker was just gone, and with it, his remote laser turret. I havent even finished with the installation yet. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The captain strolled up and put his hand on Levys shoulder, watching the flatbed and Stryker turn onto the road back to the highway. Yeah, you have, buddy. After watching the truck a few moments longer, Cpt. McGoohan realized that he really didnt care. He swirled his beer around, checking to see how long he had left to talk. So, whered the guys go? He took a swig. Levy watched the flatbed all the way to the bottom of the hill and until it disappeared around the bend, his beloved remote laser array passing out of his hands forever. Under the tarp, it looked just like every other military surplus rig being hauled along a highway. Theyre sifting for balloon shrapnel in California. Hes not returning my calls. He continued to watch the valley to the east wistfully, hoping for a final glimpse. McGoohan nodded like he was actually considering it. He wants me to scan a hill or something. He wasnt very specific about it. Ill top her off, I just need a bunch of initials on a couple of clipboards. He took another sip of his beer and punched the close button for the big loading bay door. Lettin all the cold air out, he muttered. As he turned back to the elevator, he caught a glimpse of someone peering out from under a canvas tarp at him and then it vanished in a quick ruffle. If the thing under the tarp had been car-shaped, that might make sense to have a mechanic under it, but it looked like the tarp was draped over a pile of surplus TIG parts that Levy had painted that ugly flat black. And another thing, and this might be important after all, the face that he thought he saw C if he actually saw it C wasnt human. Captain McGoohan stood staring at the edge of the tarp where the not-quite-human face had been just a moment before. Both of them went on a balloon chase? Levy ducked under the rolling bay door and rushed over, nonchalantly smoothing the tarp over the pile of black parts. They took that auditor guy, too. What the hell for? I dont know. To impress him, maybe? When Levy nonchalantly leaned against the tarped junk, the load shifted slightly, making a whirring noise. Levy hopped away from it. You know, I looked up that auditor, you know, just to know who we were dealing with. Levy noticed his hands, stained black with overspray. He wiped them on a rag as if that might clean them up real nice, but once he started, he didnt stop scrubbing. Did you know that guys resume reads like a lifetime DMV employee? Hes like the perfect pencil pusher. Captain McGoohan regretted not just initializing the preflight himself. He failed to understand why the auditors perfect attendance awards meant anything to him personally. So? he asked, not really wanting to know. So, whats a guy like that doing auditing an organization that technically doesnt exist, right? He stopped wiping his hands and gave McGoohan a comically weighty eyebrow raise. The guy served, but his Army record is blank. Not a single reprimand or recommendation. Straight out of the ranks and into a cubicle. Im telling you; this guy is too clean. Look, Levy, I dont need the guy''s pedigree, I just need a preflight so I can impress him with some barrel rolls and a few aerial Polaroids. He swilled the last few gulps of his beer around and reminded himself to restock the Igloo in the Chickenhawk before he hopped over to California. Any idea what theyre doing out there anyway? On his way out, the chief said something about a cold case; a couple of Boy Scouts on a field trip; and he took that meteorite with him when he left. I guess hes going to see Dr. Barnes about pulling those teeth. Levy nodded so steadily that it couldnt be called a tick any longer. Hed always seemed a little nervous, but he was stammering some sort of nonsense at this point. McGoohan never really cared for the whole extraterrestrial investigators bit, but the lack of local oversight made his life a hell of a lot easier. As long as the paychecks cleared, he would be willing to put up with just about anything. Skeptic or not, that thing that just peeked out from under the tarp was definitely not one of the TIG mechanics, but he wasnt about to start asking questions, in case it was part of a gag. What the hell am I scanning for out in the desert, McGoohan joked, reptilians? Levy scowled at Captain McGoohan, slowly folding his arms over his chest as he began to glower. Reptilians? Are you serious? He shook his head and glanced around the shop as if there might be anyone else there to preach to. Like the dark cabal of Jews that are running the world sort of shit? The Bilderbergs and Rockefellers are secretly lizard people pulling all the strings. Infiltrating top-level positions, whatever. Its a blatantly anti-Semitic conspiracy theory thats older than the internet itself. He paced from one side of the garage to the other, building with bluster as he went along. Henry Fuckin Ford started that shit here around the turn of last century! Adrenochrome was some made-up shit from a Hunter S. Thompson novel! He just wanted something that sounded good, ya know? Clearly Levy hadnt seen the same face that the captain had just seen. Fine, amphibian, or whatever. Levy stood up straighter, working his jaw rhythmically. It seems to me that you guys should be out there looking for the real, actual aliens, not rehashing some blood libel bullshit from a fourteenth-century Catholic tourist trap. Captain McGoohan knew Levy to be a little intense at times, and who didnt like to powder their nose every once in a while, but if he was going to pull this antisemitism shit again, the captain had a flight to catch. Right, I honestly dont give a shit if you stole some shit off the Stryker before it got repossessed, and I dont much care if your kid is running around in a rubber mask to put on a show for the guy with the clipboard. He finished his beer and tossed it into one of the empty oil drums that suffered as a trash can that no one bothered to empty. I just need a signature Levy. 40. The Reveal The sun, hanging low in the sky, continued to bake the impound lot, wavering heat distortion blanketing the horizon of rusted-out steel carcasses as if the entire lot crouched in some state of superposition, wavering in and out of existence. Jeremiah lay reclined in the old leather easy chair in front of his trailer. The TV played the evening news softly. Austin kicked some gravel as he strolled across the lot, trying not to sneak up on Jeremiah. Jeremiah raised a hand in a lazy wave. Austin glanced around the lot, but the saucer was gone. The lot was full of things he had threatened to scrap out, but nothing that big ever moved off the lot that quickly. He tried to look casual as he pulled a milk crate over and leaned in to check the burnt-out image of the news desk on the old flat screen as if he had suddenly developed a keen interest in world events. He made a point of glancing around the lot, calmly, feigning ambivalence. Say, he said, what happened to the saucer? Jeremiah hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards a big white Costco tent set up on the edge of the lot. He had a habit of setting them up occasionally, to protect a valuable impound or cover a particularly delicate project from the occasional sandstorm. You moved it? Jeremiah nodded and shrugged. Tented it, even, Austin nodded, suddenly nervous. That wasnt necessarily a good sign. As glad as Austin was that it was out of sight, especially with rumors circulating about it when Jeremiah tented something off, it meant that he had taken an interest in it, and there was a good chance that he had set to work on it, possibly chopping it up to make it easier to scrap. I told you that if you left it here, it was mine. Austin nodded calmly. Were still trying to figure out what it is. Well, whatever it is, its cooler now, Jeremiah said, swirling the last backwash swig around the bottom of his beer bottle and setting it on the asphalt beside him. He sat forward a little unsteadily, swinging the door of the minifridge open and pulling out a pair of cold beers. What do you mean? Jeremiah smiled lazily. He might have been a little drunk. What did you do, Jeremiah? If it can be broken, it can be fixed. He cracked the caps on both of them, offering one to Austin. Austin eyed the bottle warily. After the incident with Jynx and her first beer, he wasnt sure what he could get away with anymore. Did the patch fit? he asked. Jeremiah smiled again, wider this time, took a swig, and waved the other beer at Austin again as if he had just missed the cue. It was a celebration, of sorts, even if Austin didnt know it. Go take a look. Austin took the beer, clinked the neck against Jeremiahs, and inched slowly towards the white pop-up tent, still trying to look casual as he did. Jeremiah sat forward, running his fingers through his hair, feeling elaborately pleased with how productive he had been. As Austin reached for the tent flap, Jeremiah sauntered over to lean against a nearby fender. Austin peered in, nervous at first. He saw the familiar shape, patched clean and smooth, but he couldn''t understand the paint job for a few moments. He touched it to be sure that it was real. Shock sunk into indignation as he realized that the rat rod rattle can color scheme was very real. You painted it? Jeremiah grinned like an idiot. Yes, he was drunk. The saucer, once that polished alloy of pearlescent aluminum, was now flat black, adorned on either side of the hull with electric blue hot rod flames lacing back toward the tail. Looking less like a relic of fifties science fiction fantasy, now it looked like someones pet restoration project recently pulled from a garage and rolled out for cruise night. Austin Why in the hell would you do that? What, dude? You left it on my lot. Jeremiah leaned back against the Plymouth fender with his arms folded across his chest. Its a fucking alien artifact, man, you dont just spray paint it! Look at that paint job, dude. That shit is tits. Jeremiah was more than a little drunk. Austin brushed his fingers across the paint job, testing to see how dry it was. I cant believe you painted it. Jeremiah swayed slightly, still grinning. Dude. He took a swig off his beer bottle. You have no idea. He looked well past prime, head wobbling around on his neck like a bobblehead doll. Check this out. He pushed against the saucer. It slid sideways, clunking against the aluminum frame, and ricocheting back, sliding around easily. What? Austin watched him push it around. Like most of the drunks Austin had met, Jeremiah wasnt communicating very well. Dude. Jeremiah pushed it again, towards Austin. The saucer slid down the last few feet of the Costco tent, bumping Austin in the gut. Austin stopped it and held it in place. What? He was still pissed at the paint job, imagining the time it would take to strip the entire thing of paint and polish it back up. Jeremiah leaned against the edge of it, smiling and shaking his head. He pointed down. Look. Austin crouched down to get a better look at the underside of the saucer. He checked the front edge where the holes had been, running his hand along the place where the large patch would be. It was perfectly smooth, the patch entirely invisible. Even the small holes had vanished seamlessly. Austin was well aware of Jeremiahs skill with a welder, but this was more than he had expected. Jeremiah had managed a perfect restoration before he destroyed it completely with a rattle can paint job. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Damn, Austin ran his hand over the patch again, trying to appreciate the work, thats clean. He heard Jeremiah laugh. Did you use Bondo or something? Jeremiah laughed even harder and walked off towards the back of the shop. Austin heard a beer bottle crashing into the recycling bin. Crouched below the saucer he continued to check the bottom for any sort of scar but found nothing. Jeremiah strolled and dropped a hunk of sheet aluminum to the ground with a dull clatter. Austin looked at it for a moment before he recognized it. It was the patch he had cut on Mr. Englehorns bandsaw. He checked the smooth, perfect underside of the ship again. But Jeremiah walked around the backside of the ship and gave it a good shove in Austins direction. The saucer knocked Austin to the ground and passed directly over the top of him, wobbling slightly but sliding out the plastic tent flaps soundlessly. It ricocheted against a workbench and continued to drift out into the center of the back lot. As it slid gently towards the low spot in the yard, Austin realized that it hovered a couple of feet above the ground. Its He pointed at it, jaw hanging open. Its Jeremiah laughed, offering Austin his hand to stand him back up. How is it? Jeremiah shrugged. Fuck if I know, man, but it is. He strolled back to his minifridge and pulled out a couple more beers. The saucer hung silently behind him. Without making a sound, it seemed to have a presence, like a faithful dog, awaiting its masters command. * By the time the boys heard Mr. Ouijas distinctive glass pack growl they had given up on pushing the saucer around the lot like an air hockey puck and retreated to the shade to drink a few more beers. Ashley downshifted as she killed the engine, backfiring to announce her arrival as she coasted into an open parking spot. After a whole day listening to the Esmeets y Joneson''s fleet of unmuffled SUVs, they had already started ignoring the constant howl of the damaged exhaust systems and it was nice to hear her familiar tailpipe again. Sir Pugsley pranced pleasantly onto the back lot, confident that he was there for an important reason, and eager to see if there would be hors d''oeuvres or refreshments of any sort. Ashley swept in close behind. Gentlemen! she called, how was your sausage fest? Jeremiah just chuckled and raised his beer for lack of a more coherent greeting. Austin laughed back and raised his beer in response. You see Jynx, they are simply lost without us. Ash turned to address her comrade but found herself alone. Jynx? Still lurking back in the shop, Jynx was cast in shadow and clinging to the shade. With her hood up and her hands stuffed deep in her pockets she lurked, a mere silhouette resisting a proper inspection. Well, don''t be shy, Jynx honey. Come show off. But Jynx didn''t move, hesitating before her first step into the light. Dammit, Amber! Ashley muttered, goading her fashion plate. Jynx wound up and threw the plastic grocery bag of her old clothes at Ash, missing by yards and landing entirely unnoticed on the painted convex hull of her beloved wash scrap. Her shoes hit the surface with a hollow thud. To see the pile of Jynx''s discarded laundry spill out over the fresh flames made Jeremiah chuckle just loud enough to make Jynx even more nervous. Just take off the hoodie and show them your ensemble. Ashley smiled proudly at the boys, obviously impressed with her work and pleased to show off the finished product. She gestured dramatically for the big reveal as well as Vanna White, Jeremiah observed. Jynx didn''t budge. Do I have to? Just once, Jynx, please? You look so cute. Dolls are cute, she muttered, but obviously nobody cared what she thought about it. The boys watched Jynx''s shadow as she unzipped her hoodie and shrugged it off. While they had already agreed not to say a word about the saucer until someone noticed it, neither of them particularly cared about Jynx''s transformation much and their stifled laughter only made her more self-conscious. She smoothed her sundress and thought to check her hair, but like the elaborate manicure, she was afraid to touch it, worried that she might mess it up. Jynx stepped into the lot timidly, looking every bit Ashleys equal in style and form but without the confidence. In a short floral print sundress and rhinestone studded sandals with hair and makeup, she might have stepped off a teen fashion shoot. Entirely preoccupied with walking for some reason, she awkwardly strolled out to stand beside her mentor. Ashley giggled with delight to see her in the sun and was loving the grimy backdrop as she snapped a few photos. Jynx shied away, so Ashley begged her like a photographer Give me sultry, I want pouty! as Jynx tried to knock the phone out of her hand. Austin and Jeremiah watched as the two of them inadvertently snapped paparazzi photos just a few feet from the actually flying saucer behind them. Austin started snickering first and then Jeremiah couldnt hold it much longer and they both ended up laughing and pointing in the girls general direction. Oh, grow up, you two. Ashley stomped her foot. Just tell her that she looks nice! But this only made the guys laugh harder. Oh, Jeremiah nodded and grunted, she looks good, alright, still overly proud of his paint job. Jynx assumed that the laughter was for her, and rightly so. She felt ridiculous and both the guys agreed. She turned to look for her own clothes, ready to run to the bathroom and change. Nearly to the point of tears, she collected a stray sneaker off the front edge of the saucer and stuffed it into the plastic grocery bag. Jeremiah couldn''t help but laugh louder in spite of himself. You know what, Germ? As she scooped a sock up off the painted surface, her fingertips brushed the hull briefly, and she felt the cool static spark of the alien alloy. She turned slowly as the laughter trailed off behind her and dropping her bag, rested both palms on the smooth, sleek surface, wanting to feel it activate, like the tablet, but it didnt. You painted it! she said, leaning against it excitedly. Standing in her little sundress, watching the saucer drift silently away. Jeremiah stood up from his Lazy Boy, suddenly feeling a little nervous. It was her saucer, after all, and even if he was just having a little practice fun with the paint rig, it did look pretty good. His anxiety grew with her silence. He just wanted to make it look cool. Ashley had no idea what the hell they all were looking at, still assuming that the wash scrap was a big aluminum box of an awkward size. What the hell is that? she asked, pointing at what might have been a speed boat floating in midair. Do you like it? Jeremiah asked. Jynx crouched down beside it, entirely oblivious to her dress and sandals now. She ran her hand along the clean repair and finally glanced back at Jeremiah as she waved her arms around the space beneath her saucer. You fixed it! she grinned. I love it, Jeremiah! He raised an eyebrow and nodded with a lazy smirk. Is that thing levitating? Ashley asked, just starting to understand what they were all staring at. Jynx, honey, get out from under there. But Sir Pugsley had joined her, sniffing around beneath the object like a furry little magicians assistant. How in the hell is it doing that? Ash asked. Jeremiah took a long sip from his beer, watching as Jynx climbed onto the thing and sat on it, laughing. He shook his head slowly. I have no fucking clue, Smashley. Jynx drummed her palms on the hot rod flames between her knees, laughing like a toddler at the hollow ringing of the hull. Well, thats too bad, Ashley said. Jeremiah pulled a cigarette from the pack and clenched it between his teeth as he fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. Why? I bet a laser flow cytometry operator that wed never find proof of alien life. She glanced around the lot at the kids playing with their now-working flying saucer and mumbled under her breath. I think I owe a scientist in San Diego a handy. 41. Postcard potential Se?or Martinez! The desk clerk followed them up the stairs. Another package has arrived for your friend! The chief, having had more than enough of Mr. Paulson, did not much want to go down to the office to collect yet another package. Not one of the packages that had arrived so far had contained a change of clothes or socks, and after a few days trapped with the hygienically challenged roommate, Martinez was about ready to hose him off in the parking lot and leave him tied to a bumper to dry out. Ill send him down to pick it up, Martinez sighed. Oh, I left it beside your door, the night auditor smiled, just glad to be of service. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. If Martinez had been hoping that Mr. Paulson would stay in the room to take a shower and clean his laundry, he was disappointed to hear that the room was empty. Finishing the last few stairs, he spotted the new package leaning against the wall beside his door. About three feet long and made of Styrofoam, it was the sort of box that one might ship frozen foods in, being well-taped and labeled perishable. The return address was a seafood company in Alaska. Martinez took a deep breath of fresh air and opened the hotel door. Dragging the Styrofoam shipping box into the hotel room, fuming slightly, he was impressed to find that Mr. Paulson had not only allowed the cleaning crew to tidy up the room, but that the bathroom door was closed, and he could faintly hear music playing from inside. The mirrors in the room were slightly steamed over, and the place smelled of soap and cheap complimentary shampoo. Hanging in the little dressing room that adjoined the bathroom, Mr. Paulsons suit was sheathed in plastic, freshly returned from the dry cleaners. How on earth the strange man had managed such a feat was beyond Martinez, but he wasnt about to go asking questions. If Mr. Paulson sat in the dry cleaners in his dirty boxer shorts waiting for his suit to be finished, that was just fine by the chief. Standing just inside the door, a little stunned, Martinez couldnt help an awkward chuckle of his own. The bathroom door opened, spilling what sounded like Barbara Streisand out into the room, followed by a clean if not ruddy, and rosy-skinned Mr. Paulson with a little white hotel towel wrapped around his waist. Singing along to Streisand, he failed to notice Martinez at first, and the chief caught a glimpse of Mr. Paulsons most remarkable identifying feature, a huge 212? tattooed over his pot belly in the classic old English script of inner-city gangs. Working with gang task forces for years, he was familiar with the territorial application of area codes as identifiers, but Mr. Paulson had a temperature listed above his rounded belly. While Martinez struggled to understand the significance, Mr. Paulson noticed him in the mirror and stopped his singing. Oh, uh, sorry. He mumbled, becoming slightly bashful. Noooo! Martinez backed towards the door, slightly overjoyed. No, I didnt realize youd be Uh, Ill just let you have the room to yourself. Realizing that he was still dragging the Styrofoam packing crate with him, Martinez leaned it up against the wall. Uh, package arrived for you. He realized that he was standing in the doorway, letting all the cool air out. Ill just he wondered what he would do. Yeah, Ill go ahead and head down to the bar for a few minutes, let you get yourself all dressed. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Mr. Paulson was entirely ignoring him, however. Smiling softly at the package, he chuckled again, this time, a little more impishly. Martinez joined OConnor in the lounge. For lack of any legitimate leads, happy hour did seem like a good idea. As the case continued to dead end repeatedly, he felt his chances at a positive review slipping, and he was sad to admit that finding Mr. Paulson cleaning himself up had somehow become the highlight of what would undoubtedly be his last investigation. Heavy-hearted, he ordered an imported Mexican beer and a shot of chilled tequila and nestled in beside OConnor and his frilly fruit salad cocktail. Whys it blue? I have no idea. Its the color of a urinal cake. OConnor nodded and shrugged. It might just be made of urinal cake, I dont particularly care at this point. Still no calls from Mary? OConnor slowly shook his head. Radio silence, boss. At this point, I feel like we can rule out the possibility that she just dropped it in the pool. Martinez nodded solemnly. When Katherine and I O''Connor raised his hand to stop him right there. I''m not about to take relationship advice from a divorcee in some roadside dive bar. He took a sip of the layered blue cocktail, careful not to swizzle the straw around too much. This shit is already far too country western song for my tastes. The chief nodded. He raised his shot glass. To not having a dog in the first place. O''Connor hung his head. I have a down payment on a litter from a Malinois breeder in Tucson. He shook his head slowly. Martinez decided it was probably better not to talk for a while. He downed his shot and settled in beside the sergeant to watch the redhead wipe down the bottles behind the bar. Mr. Paulson joined them before the silence got too awkward. He announced his arrival with a perfunctory chuckle and set his briefcase on the floor beside him. He had the video game controller assemblage tucked into his armpit, keeping it obscured while he took the stool on O''Connor''s other side. Would you feel better if you knew where she was? He asked, seemingly slightly annoyed. Both Martinez and O''Connor were intrigued. For a mid-level cubicle dweller, he had remarkable access to information. Can you check on her? O''Connor asked. At this point, he would settle for a postcard. Having a great time, wish you were here. Paulson slid his project aside and hefted his briefcase up on the bar. Angling it away slightly to hide the screen it powered up with the same strange sounds. Mr. Paulson clattered away at keys for a while. He snatched the Sergeant''s phone off the bar and set it on a small, rubberized mat like a miniature helipad cabled into one corner of the keyboard. He chuckled at something, and read a few things. He let slip a single cluck of approval as he slapped the laptop and closed the briefcase. You have nothing to worry about. She''s in Palm Springs with no signal and an unsent text message pending, presumably telling you where she''s at. He replaced the briefcase on the floor at his side and returned to tinkering with his toy. You found her? Can you send her a message? Mr. Paulson scowled at the sergeant. You have forty-two unreceived text messages and nineteen voicemails. Let''s not make this any creepier than it already is, Sergeant. 42. The Chevy Nova didnt sell well in Mexico Jeremiah supervised while Jynx felt that thing up like a prom date, but she couldnt find any sort of start button or open button, or anything that might tell them more about it. She said it didnt feel the same as the tablet, that she could tell it was made of the same material, but that it had no colors, whatever that meant. It sounded like the sort of new-agey shit that Lisa was always talking about after a few too many screwdrivers. Without the colors, Jynx explained, there was nothing she could do. By the time the kids got tired of pushing the saucer around the lot, Austin was well past his prime. Despite his attempted machismo, he had about the same tolerance as Jynx and there was no way he was getting behind the wheel anytime soon. Jynx promised to take him to Sanchos and put some food into him. Jynx helped Jeremiah push the saucer onto the lift in the third bay. Helping to spread a canvas drop cloth over it, she had forgotten the doll clothes that Ashley had dressed her in. Lovingly caring for her newly restored scrap, she took a moment to run her fingers along the paint details, smiling proudly. Having spent the better part of the day wondering if she would even like it, seeing her trace a perfectly manicured green fingernail along his pinstriping was the sort of quiet compliment that he treasured. Getting the saucer up off the ground had proven her right. Whether it was the paint job on the saucer or the sundress on her it didnt matter. It was all just packaging. You look really nice, Jynx. he dusted his palms on his pant leg. Jynx looked down at her own dusty palms, realizing that she couldnt play like she normally did. Yeah, well, at least she can say she tried. He handed her his rag. Well, whenever youre ready to get rid of those claws, he reached over to the workbench that ran along the wall and picked up an oversized angle grinder, You just come on back. He flicked the trigger a few times to hear the grinding wheel whizz loudly. Jynx poked her knuckles into her ears to block the high-pitched sound, but she was still smiling. Hey, Jynx! Austin called from the Lazy Boy, Did I tell you I saw Becca? Jeremiah glanced at Jynx apologetically and shook his head sadly. All dolled up, Jynx had proven herself every bit as attractive as that Becca chick, but Austin was blind. You know, Jeremiah offered, Youve got every right to fuck with him right now. She smiled, and mimicking Ashleys flippant manicure check, inspected her nails as a soft smile spread across her cheeks. Oh, I know. She collected her old clothes without bothering to change and set about collecting Austin as well. Everybody seemed to agree that a cup of Sanchos burnt coffee might do him some good. Dozing through his afternoon game shows, Jeremiah was only faintly aware of the low idle of a V8 engine turning onto the lot. The front doors were closed, so he didn''t think much of it. A few minutes later, or a few hours napping, he woke to an appreciative whistle and opened one eye to peer at Jack, the real Jack, inspecting the paint job on the leading edge of the saucer. Only partially covered by a tarp, the pointed front edge could have been the bow of a speed boat. Jack inspected the metal fleck blue flames and delicate pinstriping. He ran his hand along the underside, somehow finding the exact spot that Jeremiah had recently healed; there really was no better way to describe it. Yeah, fixed it up real nice, Jack muttered to himself, as if he had seen the wreckage when it arrived. Jeremiah shuffled across the lot and nodded, smirking. Yeah, the patch job was real easy. Senile or not, Jack was right. Jack was a hard read, even to Jeremiah. He didnt come around as much as he used to, and Jeremiah watched for signs of senility, when Jack just stared off into the distance for a moment too long, thinking about something and tugging at his earlobes. What brings you by, Jack? Manny late on the receipts? Jack shook his head. Nah, Bean, nothing like that. He ran his fingers along the leading edge of the saucer, unconsciously checking the surface of the paint for flaws. A couple of guys stopped by the house the other day, asking a lot of questions about the shop here. Jeremiah wiped his hands on a rag and leaned back against the Crown Vic. You arent thinking about selling, are you Jack? Selling? Jack tugged at his earlobe again, concentrating. No, no. I wouldnt do that to you guys. You boys take real good care of the place. He squinted up at the sun, gauging how long until he was going to want to get back into some air-conditioning, then suddenly remembered that it was Friday and that the soup of the day down at Sanchos was probably broccoli cheddar. He was particularly fond of broccoli cheddar soup, although he preferred it in a sourdough bread bowl like they served it at the Brown Bear in San Bernardino. He decided that he might take himself out for a daylight dinner, in any case, and possibly stop by the market for some mint chocolate chip ice cream, unless Sanchos happened to have that banana cream pie that he liked. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Meanwhile, Jeremiah watched Jack tug at his earlobe and stare up at the sun for nearly a minute. Jack patted the side of the saucer. Yeah, that sure is a real nice paint job. He leaned over to inspect the fine black gloss pinstriping that outlined the flames. Real nice. He nodded to himself and straightened up, bracing his back as he did. Now I know you kids arent getting yourselves into any trouble with the law, but those guys didn''t look like they were on a fact-finding mission. Jack. You know I wouldn''t let you down like that. "Oh, I know." He chuckled and nodded absentmindedly, poking at pebbles with the toe of his clean orthotic sneaker. They asked a few questions about catalytic converters and the jail time came up. He seemed uncomfortable with the topic and dragged it out. Locks are just there for good guys, Bean. Jack looked directly at him, as clear eyed as lap day at the track. "Those guys are gonna come after you pretty soon, and you gotta be ready to roll if need be." Jeremiah nodded solemnly. The old guy was right. No matter what, somebody was going to put the finger on him. "You know what they''re after, Bean?" You''re leaning on it. Jack stood up straight to get a better look at the painted surface as a whole. He pushed the tarp back to expose a little more of the flame while he ran his palm along the cool metal, appreciating the perfection of the gently curving surface. Jack didn''t bother to ask what it was. To Jeremiah''s surprise, upon recognizing the object, even with the paint job, Jack''s first question was: So the Tough Guy Club finally dug it up, did they? He scowled slightly, then brightened up abruptly and smiled with a strange sort of satisfaction that bordered on pride. I was beginning to think it might stay buried, but I guess it couldn''t, huh? He muttered and chuckled and bent over it, checking edges, and walked around it. Grunting as he knelt down to get another look at the patch job, he clapped his hands like a toddler and whistled through his teeth to find it hovering a couple feet off the hydraulic lift. Well, would you look at that! He laughed. Like it was yesterday, ya know? Jack was undoubtedly going senile, but his casual acceptance of a hot rod painted flying saucer hovering a couple of feet off the ground was unnerving. Jeremiah had been expecting some old guy admonition and possibly a stern scolding; maybe Jack would try to cash in on the find. It was his lot, after all. He didn''t expect this childish enthusiasm, like they''d accidentally won some secret locals-only scavenger hunt. You recognize this thing? Jeremiah asked. Jack shook his head, smiling. Oh, I guess I shouldn''t, huh, Bean. He patted the hull again, particularly pleased. Yeah, Bean. Nice work. The paint job looks real good on it. He nodded and tugged at his earlobe. Ah, Bean. I guess this means we ain''t got long left. He scowled, concentrating on something important, then slipping from his reminiscing to the present moment and then back into thoughts of daylight dinners and broccoli cheddar soup. Well, no wonder those guys are asking questions. He stretched over the saucer and tugged at the tarp, attempting to cover the thing again. Best you keep this out of sight for a little while, Bean. It won''t be much longer before those boys quit their catalytic converter nonsense and come hunting for it. Jeremiah helped Jack cover the saucer, draping the tarp so that it did look a lot like a little speed boat dry docked on the hydraulic lift. You think it will be real trouble if they find it? Jack thought about it longer than Jeremiah liked and shrugged. Well, I don''t suppose youre going to follow my advice either way, this thing is gonna end how it ends. If those agents come around here looking for it, don''t go down swinging. Just get yourself gone. Jeremiah nodded reluctantly. Jack didn''t know about the Crown Vic or the ball of melted oil rig, but that didn''t matter. He was right. They wouldn''t need a legitimate reason to get him out of the way, they would just need an excuse to get him cuffed in the back of a cop car. Alright, Jack. I''ll play nice. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette and offered one to Jack out of politeness. Jack shook his head, smiling appreciatively. Well, that''s good, Bean. He chuckled, and checking his watch, slapped the bean''s shoulder as he started shuffling towards the front lot and his inevitable cup of soup. Jeremiah walked him out, quietly seething that Keystone Cops were asking enough questions to worry the old man. He watched Jack fumble through the keys for a moment. Say, did you kids get that piece back from Kent''s brother yet? Jack might think he recognized the saucer. Jeremiah was willing to chalk that up to senility, but a missing piece was fairly specific. That was more than just local legend. Who''s Kent? What piece? Uh, Jack tugged at his earlobe, deep in thought. He''s the science teacher, now. His big brother Richard had a chunk. He took it from the ship back when they were kids, it was in his hand, but nobody could pry it out of there. Little guy had a death grip on it. We never got it. Jack shrugged. We got time. He waved away the thought. You still need the key. He climbed into the driver''s seat of his primer red El Camino, his latest pet project, and waved as he backed out slowly and exited the lot just as slow. His days of chasing land speed records long since passed, it was clear that he would probably never even break the speed limit again. Jeremiah contemplated shutting off the pumps for the night, and calling it an early evening, but he didn''t have anything else to do for a few hours, at least until Megan was about to get off. Sitting down at the Starlight all evening seemed like a bad plan. He contemplated cutting into the ball of slag but learning that the agents were snooping around Jack''s place, he didn''t feel much like doing them any favors. Times like this, he figured, best thing to do was put that Mantis back together. If Jack was right, that might be his only play whan the cops showed up again. He swirled the last few luke-warm gulps of beer around the bottom of the bottle, only then realizing that the minifridge might be nearly empty. 43. Shake em up In the few days that they had spent in Arroyo Grande, the TIG agents and their auditor had grown accustomed to dining at Sanchos, already feeling themselves to be regulars thanks to O''Connor''s performance at the bar on his first night. Like the throngs of teenagers cruising the highway for kicks, they had found the Silver Spoon suitably central to the action. From a front booth they could easily watch passing traffic, listening for the loud exhaust systems of the rival organization, henceforth called the Yahtzees, as per O''Connor''s slightly sloshy proclamation. Lisa didn''t even bother to take them to a table but waved them on to take their pick. The Yahtzees, as surreptitious as ever, huddled in the back corner booths as clandestine as a cold sore. Martinez slid into a front booth, confident that they looked slightly less suspicious if they weren''t trying quite so hard. Every time you leave me, Mai Tai, I fear it will be the last. Lisa beamed at the sergeant as she shimmied up to the table. Unruffled and obviously in her rhythm she bent over to give him an overly familiar peck on the cheek that nearly made him blush and caused him to brighten slightly. Watching her bend over to plant the peck gave Mr. Paulson an excuse to chuckle. Order whatever you like, boys. The aces are back at the grill. No cheese omelets tonight? OConnor grunted. Oh, hes still back there. Paulson chuckled. Ask that new chef if he can make a sunbaked Alaskan. Oh, sweetie. Lisa rolled her eyes. I get the feeling like hes not really a chef. Aint got the time to hang out anyway, OConnor grumbled. I''m afraid we gotta be going tomorrow, Lisa. Looks like our stay in your lovely town is finally coming to an end. Oh, hon, I am sorry to hear that. You boys had such a positive energy. Mr. Paulson chuckled again for no apparent reason. O''Connor tried to chuckle, but all of his positive energy was in his elbow. No luck finding ol'' Vickerss flying saucer then? She filled their coffee mugs automatically. The three of them looked up simultaneously. Don''t feel bad. Locals have been hunting that damn saucer around here since before I was born. I was really pulling for you guys. I guess it''s just nice to see people taking an interest finally. Mr. Vickers is a sweet old guy, but nobody really takes him seriously anymore. At least not until all you gentlemen showed up. They exchanged glances, still slightly dumbfounded that their top-secret alien artifact, as well as the investigation, were the subject of local gossip. I told them they ought to try meditation; ask the elders, you know? But nobody ever listens to me. I watched a program on the Gaia network, all about interdimensional travel, astral projection, that sort of thing? When I asked my own teachers, they said it was real, but that it was still sleeping, whatever that means. They''re vague sometimes. While Martinez and Mr. Paulson listened politely, O''Connor slouched deeper into his seat. That a waitress probably knew as much about the crash site as they did was just the cherry on top for him. The case that finally ended his marriage was a complete farce. After this was all over, he would be lucky to land a flatfoot beat in parking enforcement. Don''t worry guys, your secret''s safe with us. She leaned forward, accidentally stunning a chuckle out of Mr. Paulson, and whispered confidentially. I didn''t even realize you were with those guys for a few days. They''re not very good at the undercover thing, are they? She read the order back to them and nodded in her casual chipper manner. O''Connor just hung his head and prayed to slip into a coma for six to eight months, just long enough to miss the aftermath of this, their most impressive weather balloon chase yet. Alright, gentlemen, she chirped, I''ll go ahead and get this started for you. She bounced cheerily before bustling away, taking O''Connor''s last remaining happy thoughts with her. The sergeant swirled his spoon in his coffee slowly, listening to the spoon ring against the glazed stoneware like a dismal church bell, tolling their death knell. We''re a fucking punchline, Chief. Martinez glanced over at Mr. Paulson, who was ever alert to the sergeant''s melodrama. Knock it off, Sergeant. Face it, Dave. While you''re out here chasing some geezer''s childhood hallucination these guys are already taking stock of resale assets. We''re fucking done here. He checked his phone as if he might have missed her call. I''m done, that''s for sure. His happy hour passing away, O''Connor settled into soft murky sediment of an appropriate depression. Chief Martinez and Mr. Paulson had no choice but to watch. Ask the laughing man here. O''Connor brooded on his grayish coffee. Budgetary audits my ass. This guy is here to babysit us through this last ride and then he''s gonna shutter the joint and ship us out. Mr. Paulson chuckled but made no attempt to deny the accusation. Whatever the doctor is up to with his contaminated soil and staged pictures, he''s had his fun. Judging by the look of the Yahtzees, they haven''t had much luck either, but if this is the direction the rhino wants to go in, I say have at it. Let her drag in every wannabe jarhead washout she can find. He slid his mug away and stared at the chief, entirely satisfied with the inevitable layoff. Martinez, still clinging to his super cop legacy, hoped that some downsizing might suffice to keep him in a government contract until retirement and pension. Just keep it down, sergeant. If downsizing didn''t work, he could at least hope for a lateral move to the commissioner''s new pet agency. O''Connor threw his elbow up over the back of the booth, cheating out. I don''t care if they do hear me. The rhino sends in some paramilitary goon squad wrapped in a greasy paper bag of a cover story to shake down some geriatric with a childhood fantasy and access to a radioactive chemical closet somewhere and we''re the ones with the bloated budgets? Even if he knew that his rage was really about Mary''s radio silence, he couldn''t seem to stop himself. The Yahtzees at the adjacent table stopped eating, probably just as eager to brawl as O''Connor. They were sitting on blue balls themselves, and the worsening conditions at their hotel weren''t helping much. A few more came in the front door but added numbers didn''t seem to deter the sergeant. Well, looky here, boys, if it ain''t the saltpeter and steroids family reunion, come down to dine with the hired help. O''Connor leaned back in the booth, stretching out his chest and taking on a particularly cocky air. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Chief Martinez''s days of healthy extracurricular inter agency scuffling had long since passed away and he had no plans to revisit them. Easy, Sergeant. They got ranks in that cracker jack corps of yours! Do you get promoted, or just take whatever the hell plastic badge you get in the box of popcorn? O''Connor smiled and sipped his coffee. We get ''em from the same place you guys pick up those cute little paramilitary cosplay ensembles that you all like to wear. Just playing along, the agent agreed. Oh, yeah, well why bother with tactical wear in the field, he poured on a stoner accent, Surf''s up somewhere, right dude? The Yahtzee sneered to his companions. O''Connor thought about the little wave just a few blocks from the vacation rental. It was a submerged reef with a nice little left that normally didn''t get too crowded on weekdays. He thought about Mary, on the beach under her big umbrella, slathered in coconut scented deep tanning oil like a sunbaked dessert. Yes, it is, he said, carefully placing his coffee cup back in the splash ring. The big guy snorted a laugh. Maybe its time you head back to those archives of yours and let us handle the important shit. He elbowed his companions. Well, you''re definitely shitting all over this investigation, that''s for sure, OConnor muttered. The agent seemed to swell. You want to take this outside, Tigger? Mr. Paulson chuckled with a strange sort of anticipatory glee. Martinez shuddered to see a grim shade of sadism pass over the auditor''s face. Gladly, O''Connor placed his hands on the table, ready to rise. At the last moment, Lisa elbowed her way through the handful of agents hollering about hot plates behind them. Boys you sit yourselves down if youre eating here. Ill be right with you. Years of herding surly Sunday brunchers sufficed to teach her that a well-aimed bark of behind! served to startle even the hangriest of guests into quiet complicity. Nonetheless, Smith or Johnson leaned in behind her as she set the plates. Get it through that thick skull, Spicoli. You guys are fucking file clerks, a glorified storage facility. You''re ineffective and obsolete. Figure it out. He all but spit the final phrase. The accusation hung uncontested in the air with them, too cold and objective to elicit a childish response. Even Lisa''s cleavage couldn''t console the trio. She did her best, though. No luck finding those hooligans that stole your mufflers yet? She smiled pleasantly enough and clicked her tongue. Criminal element is ruining this town, and we just dont have the law enforcement to cover it, you know? She winked at OConnor as she set the plates on the table. As the Yahtzees slowly backed out of the conflict, Lisa winked at the sergeant. You boys just let me know if I can get you anything else. * * * Terrence huddled in front of his locker beside the back door of the kitchen. He finished grinding up the weed and tapped it gently from the keef grinder to a fresh paper. We know the town better than they do. I mean, if someone in the dirt lots is fencing a dozen catalytic converters, I mean, we could find that out pretty easy. He gently rolled the paper, poking at the green shake to line it up properly as he prepared a tiny cardboard filter. Hitch was already out back smoking, squatting on a milk crate. Octavio pulled his own milk crate directly beside Hitch, sat down with a thud, and lay his head on the old guys shoulder. Hitch just kept scrolling through pictures on his phone. Earl stepped out the back door and stretched out with his unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. I just dont think its a good idea for you to go poking around too much. Ethertons got his own people. Let those fuckin do nothing deputies go door to door on this one. Terrence twisted off the tip of the joint and shook it a few times, presenting Earl with a machine-perfect midafternoon hand rolled joint. The sheriff did us a solid. He stacked his nug jar and keef grinder back in his locker. Im not talking about just rolling into the lots guns blazin or anything. He took a puff off his vape and let slip a tiny tendril of strawberry scented vapor. We just go see whats what, ya know? Nope, Earl said. On the way home. Terrence offered. Real quick. Hell no, Earl said. Listen, okay? Like, the sheriff brought us some fuckin decent food, alright? He bunched his t-shirt sleeves up and crossed his arms over his chest, displaying his burn scarred forearms. He didnt go doin anything that justifies you and me rolling up into the dirt lots asking about a bunch of stolen catalytic converters, okay? He took sharp drags off his Newport. I mean, like, we gotta live in this town, right? Like, we go asking the wrong questions, and maybe they dont leave us alone anymore, right? Bro, well be like undercover agents or something, you know? Snitches, Terrence. Well be fucking snitches, alright? Terrence offered his lighter. Earl scowled as he took the lighter and placed the joint to his lips. Get my ass arrested and then you want to stroll right into a fuckin tweakers nest. He puffed a few times at the joint to get it started. Like, we got lucky, okay? Lets not get stupid, alright? He took one long drag and held it for a moment as he passed the joint to Terrence. Get my ass killed over some fuckin catfish and gizzards. He took a few puffs off his cigarette. I mean, who could even pull that off, right? Terrence inspected his handiwork, preening the burn. Bro, without waking anybody up? He took another drag as he pulled another milk crate down and tried to pass the joint to Octavio. The dishwasher huddled against Hitch like he was terrified of it. Hitch took the joint without glancing up from his screen. Octavio waved the whisp of secondhand smoke away like it was asbestos fumes. Ay, Paco. Tienes que dejar de fumar esa mierda. Hitch took a long drag. Cuando dejas de fumar pipa, querido he muttered. Grosero. Octavio slapped Hitchs shoulder and pinched his nose as the old guy blew a cloud of pot smoke out into the parking lot. Earl squatted down to take the joint and a knee. Like, did they do it with a handsaw, or what, yknow? And how long does that take? Octavio pulled his t-shirt up over his nose, but he wouldnt budge from his seat. An hour per truck, at least. Terrence guessed, having never actually stolen a catalytic converter. Earl, having never actually stolen a catalytic converter either, figured that an hour of hand sawing sounded just about right. How many trucks they got? The black SUVs around town seemed like a swarm, especially when they were running. Besides that, all the aces ever really saw was the inside of the kitchen and the back lot of Sanchos. More than a guy could swipe in a single night, thats for sure. Terrence guessed again. Earl watched Hitch and his new companion huddled together on their milk crates. The old guy just kept scrolling through his phone, chain smoking another cigarette. Whats up with you? Earl said. Hitch glanced up and held his phone up to display pictures of the robotic lawnmowers that he was constantly looking at. My lawnmower, man. Yeah, bro. The fuckin lawnmower. Terrence shook his head. But you aint got some story about that one time you and a stripper cut the exhaust systems off the party bus or some shit? Earl stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. Yeah, or like, statistics on alien abductions in methlab neighborhoods, right? Octavio gripped Hitchs arm protectively. Hitch shrugged and went back to scrolling through his robot lawnmower porn. Seems to me that a couple of guys with the right tools could pull off a prank like that pretty easily if they wanted to. He preened the ashes of his cigarette gently on the edge of the coffee can. Wrap their Sawzalls in some hotel towels to mute the noise and catch the sparks. He finished the last drag of his smoke and crushed it out against the curb. Be like a couple mice putting a bell on a cat. Terrence and Earl exchanged a brief glance. Earl raised an eyebrow. Terrence rolled his eyes. Octavio watched them, still clinging to Hitch. Terrence shook his head. Get the fuck outta here, bro. Earl laughed. Like, with the fuckin hotel towels, okay? Hitch took the joint from Terrence. Just sayin, the old guy took a long drag. Octavio waved the smoke away. 44. And roll em Sanchos had always been a hangout for the high school kids and generations of them had smoked their first cigarette in the parking lot. Little had changed over the decades, but now instead of cigarette butts littering the lot, the kids left their little plastic vape canisters. On any given night a few too many of them loitered in the parking lot facing towards the street, watching their peers cruise the highway listlessly. Rumors might circulate that a few people were headed to Bakersfield, but that generally fell through. A few bucks paid table rent and bought a bottomless cup of burnt coffee that had probably been sitting around all afternoon. Austin strode confidently through the crowd of high school kids. Having graduated a year before, he maintained an aura of upperclassmen that they still respected. That Jynx was with him served to stifle the commentary on her costume, the handful of boys'' raucous conversation falling to quiet murmurs as she approached. Austin just nodded casually and offered them a grunted Sup, for a greeting. She was sure the muffled laughter was for her as she followed Austin in the door, and her cheeks flushed. At least in her old clothes nobody noticed her, and she preferred it that way. Lisa spotted them as they waited at the hostess stand. Working late again, she was at the very least a friendly face. Oh, Austin and my little indigo child! She called, waving. Look at you, honey! And to Jynx''s horror, nearly every restaurant customer turned to look at her. In addition to the teenagers collected out front and sporadically shifting from table to table snacking on appetizer platters, Sanchos had a couple of tables of the sort of scary literal men in black and the three cops that had been eyeing them for days. Jynx regretted bringing Austin in for coffee, but she was sure he shouldn''t be driving. The men in black didn''t bother her much, although she didn''t like the way they looked at her, it was the usual pervy old guy thing. The other three, though. That guy in the surf trunks and flip flops hadn''t taken his eyes off her since they walked in and just stared at her as she slid into the booth. As they were finishing their meal, OConnor spotted the junkie kids from the tow company walking in through the front door. The boy didnt look so good, sort of shaky on the throttle, but the girl was all dolled up. He watched as Lisa greeted them and admired the little girls outfit, making a big deal about it. The girl had a little plastic grocery bag with her and she kept her eye on him as they took their seat in the booth. OConnor might not be able to find Vickerss flying object, but he was still a cop, and he could tell when something wasnt right. For a couple little kids in a little desert town, those two looked guilty as hell of something. Catalytic converters fetched a decent price in the city, and there was always a black-market trade just about anywhere that there was meth. Working at an automotive shop was probably the best front for their grift. In a little town like this, it was probably best not to prey on the locals. They preyed on tourists passing through, selling off the mufflers, and giving the scrap yard a cut of the salvage price. The theft of the Yahtzees tailpipes was probably just a target of opportunity, a haul of big-ticket parts stolen from a fleet that was probably just passing through. If they managed to pull off that sweep of the Playa Seca Motor Inn parking lot by themselves, he had to applaud their commitment, just so long as they didnt steal his catalytic converter. Keeping his cruiser stashed down at the tow company would probably be just the thing to prevent a theft. Theyd never steal from the garage that they worked out of. The girl, normally dressed in dirty cutoffs and a t-shirt, was for whatever reason dressed in a cute little sundress with her hair and makeup done. Her junkie boyfriend lolled around in the seat across from her, probably recovering from a meth binge. All dressed up she looked all wrong with him. Obviously strung out, hed already smoked through the profit from the catalytic converter sale and OConnor slowly began to understand that the junkie kid was probably putting his girlfriend on the street to turn tricks for passing truckers. Whether it was his jurisdiction or not, he was still technically a law enforcement officer of some sort, dammit, and what good was a badge and gun if not to enforce the law every once in a while. Hey, Chief. OConnor leaned forward in an attempt at confidentiality which just made him look a little unsteady. This trip doesnt have to be a total loss. Martinez, surprised to see the sergeants mood swing favorably, glanced up from the last few bites of his slightly dry traditional turkey dinner. The way OConnor had it figured, the kids would probably end up in some sort of juvenile rehab center and get themselves a second chance before it was too late. If we follow those kids back to that shop, Im guessin we find ourselves a pile of catalytic converters. OConnor nodded slowly, but enthusiastically. The Yahtzees get their catalytic converters back and we beat them to the only legitimate case this town has to offer right now. Black ops Martian cops or not, they were at least some sort of law enforcement. Mr. Paulson liked the idea for reasons of his own and chuckled his agreement. If there had ever been a more awkward or prolonged staring contest in the history of Sanchos Silver Spoon, nobody bothered to record it. Unfortunately, Jynx and OConnor locked eyes for such a long time that a few of the patrons and even Lisa herself began to wonder why. Being friendly with both of them, Lisa didnt want to get involved but began to wonder if they might actually be related somehow. I showed her how to change a tire! Austin announced for the fourth or fifth time. Austin had picked the worst of all possible days to kindle a romance with his high school crush. A few beers sloppy was bad enough but gushing a bunch of trite romantic drivel on an endless loop was intolerable. The saucer was floating, the men in black were closing in, and all Austin could talk about was freakin Becca again. She wanted to reach across the table and slap him, but she really didn''t want to chip a nail. Whats the big deal with changing tires all of a sudden? She swirled the straw around in her lemonade five times and took a sip. I showed her how! He was really excited about it for some reason. That guy in the flip flops just stared straight at her. Maybe Austin didnt care, but Jynx knew that Dr. Vickerss buddies were probably looking for the saucer. It couldnt be a coincidence that the surfer and his associates rolled into town the day they dug it from the wash. A day or two later, the rest of the army men showed up. Jynx had bigger problems than just fixing a flat tire. What are you doing tomorrow, Austin? She smirked subtly at the surfer as she asked. The surfer glared stoically back. Were going to coffee! he repeated, crushing too hard to care about much of anything else. OConnor made Martinez and Mr. Paulson wait until Lisa had stopped coming around to refill their coffee, and then he made them wait some more. With nothing else to do with the evening, he was perfectly content to occupy the window seat for the rest of the night, watching the teenagers try to be secretive about nickel bags of weed and probably some meth as well. A few of the loitering kids had stopped by the table to talk to the two junkie kids, but OConnor never saw anything switch hands. Mr. Paulson had his cobbled laptop open on the table, presumably filing his final report. He tended towards a flurry of typing, a brief pause to read a page, and then another flurry of typing. With little else to do besides wait, the chief had taken to casually scrolling through his news feed, hoping that it might make him look busy. The last of the Yahtzees finished their meals and paid their bills, muttering in the Tiggers direction as they left, but only ceremonially. OConnor was overly cordial with the departing Smiths and Johnsons, hoping to avoid any scene that might spook his suspects. Hunched over his keyboard, Mr. Paulson chuckled to himself. Whats so funny? Martinez asked, accustomed to sitting with his daughter as she scrolled through her accounts. Occasionally, she showed him a funny picture of something. He generally didnt get it, but he tried. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Mr. Paulson shrugged. Elizabeth. He shrugged again. I just wouldnt expect it, you know? Chief Martinez nodded appreciatively but he had no idea what the auditor was talking about. Elizabeth? OConnor suddenly snapped out of his creepy stare across the dining area. What about Elizabeth? What the hell are you looking at? Mr. Paulson pulled his laptop slowly from the table as if anticipating the sergeants reaction. She just doesnt look like an Elizabeth, thats all. OConnor lunged across the table, reaching for the laptop assembly. Martinez stood to stop him, nearly knocking the table over in the process. The clatter and attempts to catch empty mugs, saucers, and spoons brought the attention of anyone sitting in the restaurant. Martinez nodded, embarrassed. Are we all paid up then, Lisa? He knew the answer, but at least it was some sort of segue to an exit. Chief Martinez pushed OConnor ahead of him, making himself a barrier between the two as they made their way out onto the front sidewalk. Although most teenagers might not know a plainclothes cop when they see one, they know enough to avoid any confrontation with somebody who looks like a cop, and the town has been lousy with them lately. When the Tiggers came out the front door in a bit of a tussle, it spooked most of the kids in the lot, who scattered away from the commotion while still trying to look as casual as possible. As despondent as the sergeant was, he might just be looking for a reason to get himself fired ahead of the layoff, or he might just be bored, and looking to blow off a little steam after the unsettled business with the Yahtzees. What the hell was that all about, Sergeant? the chief demanded, attempting to sound as professional as he could. Its Marys first name. That bastard was looking at her files or something. Mr. Paulson chuckled and shrugged, still not denying it. You wanted to know if she was alright, he said, matter of fact. Did you Google his wife, Mr. Paulson? Martinez asked, humorlessly. You dont come up with her birth name by Googling her! OConnor yelled. Realizing how right he was, he swelled again, getting angrier. What in the hell do you even do?! Martinez managed to stay between them, but O''Connor''s indignation was getting a little animated. Let''s just take it easy, Sergeant. The promise of a possible fight kept the high school kids hanging nearby, hoping to see a punch thrown. The crowd hovered near their cars and leaned against the restaurant. Accidentally creating his own diversion, O''Connor and his partners entirely missed the junky kids escape as they slipped out the side door. A few minutes later they were speed walking up the side of the highway as fast as she could get her pimp to move. Sheriff Etherton had cultivated the occasional habit of slipping out to pick up an impromptu pint of sorbet or gelato just a few minutes before someone should start getting Baby Jayley ready for bed. While he thought he was being very clever and spontaneous, his wife knew exactly what he was up to, and was not quite as impressed. He did manage to return with dessert just about the time that she was ready to put her feet up, so it was a forgivable ruse, at least. Taking the cruiser out on unofficial business and dressed in his civvies also happened to give Etherton a bit of a thrill. A few years into the job and he still felt like an imposter in the game of cops and robbers. Easing down the hill with the music up, he left the windows down to clear the warm afternoon air out of the interior. He took the scenic route, skirting the south streets to sneak into town from behind the park. Turning onto the highway, he was pleased to see the traffic was light and the town was quiet. The Playa Seca Motor Inns parking lot was full of Escalades, and most of the relations chose to hang around the pool with beers. Sheriff Etherton quietly hoped that they were celebrating their last night in town. More than likely there just wasnt enough room for them all down at the Starlight Lounge, and not enough single women in town to keep them occupied for very long anywhere else. Having the lot of them all in one place probably eased the locals minds some, they hadnt seen this many men packing pistols since the last big summer blockbuster movie, and they didnt enjoy it nearly as much in person. The Sanchos lot was loaded with the usual collection of high school kids, and a few motorists stopped for a late meal. The kids werent doing anything wrong besides loitering, and George would run them off if they got out of hand. A big class A motorcoach, one of the million-dollar luxury types, was pulled off the highway awkwardly, with the tow vehicle hanging out a little wide, but the sheriff didnt figure they were bothering anyone. A few blocks north of Sanchos an unmarked black Chevy Tahoe sat parked against the curb. Not as fancy as the Escalades favored by the Smiths and Johnsons, the sheriff slowed to check on the occupants, the trio that hed seen around town with Dr. Vickers a few times. The middle-aged Latino man in the drivers seat gave him a familiar courtesy nod. They were some sort of law enforcement as well, the sheriff assumed, even if they werent with the family reunion. Etherton cordially nodded back. A block up there was a couple walking alone and the sheriff thought it a strange time for a date. He contemplated skipping the Lucky Mart entrance to roll past and check them out, but finally recognized the pair of kids, walking down to the shop. Hed never seen Jynx in a dress and wondered if they were finally a couple. Their hotrod-painted hunk of scrap metal aside, if those two kids were starting a summer fling, it might explain the newfound furtiveness, and it was about damn time. The Lucky Mart lot was empty. Etherton pulled up to the front curb and left the engine running like the cops in the city did. The kid behind the counter was either Jeff or Justin, it was always one of the two, and either way, he was dramatically stoned and therefore paranoid. Even if weed was a sort of legal gray area these days, Etherton did love the aura of authority that the cruiser cast. Jeff or Justin stood rigidly still behind the counter, watching the sheriffs every move through the store. He took a little longer than he needed in picking out a pint of raspberry sorbet but enjoyed watching Jeff or Justin in the corner security mirror, nervously eyeing the cruiser with the parking lights on and the radio squawking unintelligible chatter. The patter at this time of night was mostly gossip or local shift changes. Nobody outside of an experienced radio operator could understand much more than a word or two of it, but Jeff or Justin wouldnt know that. They might be calling in the swat team already. Etherton lingered in front of the Frito Lay display, reveling in the awkward silence as he perused the chip selection. Moving as slowly as he possibly could he picked up a bag of chips and considered the bag seriously. You ever been to the Frito Lay factory up there in Buttonwillow? The clerk stared at the sheriff. What? My wife and I took a tour of the factory. Ill tell you what, you have not lived until you have tasted a freshly fried Frito straight from the factory. Jeff or Justin nodded, uncertain if it was a code or some sort of test that he was already failing. Etherton put the bag back on the shelf and perused the breath mint selection. Standing next to the counter he caught a whiff of the distinctly skunky scent of high-quality marijuana and was briefly reminded of his undergrad dorm room. Admiring the aroma, the sheriff sniffed once or twice and leaned in towards Jeff or Justin, watching as his face flushed and a fresh sweat broke across his brow. Are you wearing a new cologne or something? The petrified clerk slowly shook his head and shrugged, reaching for the pint of sorbet, afraid to acknowledge smelling anything. Hmm, Etherton responded, staring directly into the depths of Jeff or Justins panicked paranoia, trying not to smirk. Getting back into the cruiser he glanced up at the rear view as he was about to put it into reverse and recognized the black Tahoe parked a few blocks down. For whatever reason, they had moved north about a quarter mile. Curious, but not terribly suspicious, Etherton brought the car around to the side exit and pulled up to the edge of the highway, deciding which route he would take. Waiting just a moment too long, he let the next few cars pass by and watched as the black SUV slowly crept forward and parked against the curb again. It was such a subtle shift that the sheriff nearly missed it as it moved north. With the headlights off, the truck was less obviously creeping up the street behind the kids, but the brake lights were an obnoxious alarm to anyone watching three adult men in a dark SUV stalking a pair of kids along the interstate. Seeing as how the highway was empty anyway, Etherton flipped off the parking lights and eased the cruiser into the center lane creeping slowly along behind the Tahoe as it stalked the kids. Tucked into the wide swath of blind spot, he idled up the turning lane impressed with his own lurking skills. If he flashed the light bar or squawked the P/A a few times he could chat them up for a minute, but his pint of sorbet wouldn''t survive a casual interrogation. The sheriff squeezed the frosty plastic tub to judge his time. At the very least, it was frozen solid, so he had a moment. He could watch the kids back to the shop or more likely, Austin''s little red truck, parked in the front lot. Once the kids were safely underway Etherton could slip around the north end without filing a report and arrive home with a perfectly softened pint of sorbet. But the Tahoe flipped on its lights as the kids approached the pickup truck, suddenly gunning the engine and flashing grill mounted red and blue as it bounced into the parking lot. Etherton glanced down at the pint of sorbet wishing he''d just put Jayley to bed. He toggled the lights and hit the squelch a few times as he followed them onto the lot. The middle-aged Latino man stepped from the driver''s side door with his hands just slightly raised, as if the sheriff might be carrying a firearm somewhere in his casual attire. The big surfer guy, now wearing a gun belt over his board shorts, was already out the passenger side door, calling across the lot to the kids. Now you kids just hold it right there. Austin fumbled with the keys, but finally unlocked the front door, stumbling into the darkness of the front cashier''s office. Jynx, however, defiant as a fashion plate, stood ready to defend the Desert Sands with a grocery bag of laundry. The guy in the board shorts with the cop belt was given a moment to question his life choices as the little girl in floral print prepared to pluck his eyes out with those safety green claws of hers. A noodly arm materialized from behind her, wrapping around her and yanking her backwards into the darkness. Stunned by her disappearance the surfer glanced back at the others, shrugged off the warrant issue, and charged in right after her. Interlude: “El que tiene dos túnicas, dé al que no tiene.” Las ranas, mami. Chuy tugged gently at his mothers tunic, still engrossed in his videos. ?Qu pasa mijo? Las ranas se necessitan agua. Ay, mijo. She reached for the little screen, assuming that he was having troubles with his game. Instead, she found him watching an episode of Diego that he had watched many times before. ?Qu te pasa, querido? Se necessitan agua. Ay, papito, ense?ame. For the second time in a week, her little son took her by the hand, dreamily trailing her down the hall as he watched his video. Again, he brought her to the breakroom where she found her daughter hiding in the corner. ?Que pasa Angelica? She glanced around the breakroom, but instead of the enormous metal toad that she had seen last time, she found a pair of twins standing at the vending machine staring silently at her. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Tales of aliens are fairly common in her home state of Jalisco. Rumors of saucers and little men were recorded from the beginning of time. That these two frog-like people happened to wear little t-shirts along with some elaborate Indian jewelry made absolute sense to Marta. Her own abuela had told her stories of visitors from long before the highways were built. They did not speak, but stared unblinkingly at her, each clutching a small cup of instant quaker oats to their chest. ?Necesitan ayuda? she asked, but they did not respond. Se necessitan agua, Chuy said. Si, Papi, si. She touched the one in the Coke shirt, gently taking the paper cup from it. Carefully demonstrating how to peel back the foil lid, she urged them toward the coffee machine and demonstrated the red spigot for hot water. She filled it to the line, closed the cover, and set a plastic spoon over the top. A si, she held the filled cup down to the frog in the Coke shirt. It cradled the cardboard cup in its palms as if it were cold. Regarding the two standing there naked from the waist down, she decided that they must be cold without pants. She filled the second cup and passed it to the frog in the yellow shirt, noticing that they were barefoot. Pobre ranas, she thought to herself. Tomorrow night she would bring some of Chuy and Angelicas old clothes perhaps, as well as some shoes. 45. Where were we? Jeremiah came out of the trailer staggering. He kicked open the screen door with a Louisville slugger in his right hand, holding his pants up with his left. What the fuck is going on out here!? he raged, only to find the sheriff with the three guys from Phoenix, Austin and Jynx cornered and backing towards the trailer, trapped between the lawmen and the drunk guy with the bat. Surveying the scene, Jeremiah unwound visibly, hanging limp like his strings had dropped. He rubbed his face, nearly losing his jeans in the process. Hey Squeezy? Better put something on. Weve got company. He rested the bat against the side of the trailer and finished buttoning his fly. Evening, Sheriff. Etherton nodded a curt salutation. Clearly, he wasnt thrilled about the situation, either. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Jimnez, but these gentlemen here seem to think that you have something they are looking for. Jeremiah couldnt remember the last time hed been addressed by his last name, outside of a courtroom setting. Still slightly whiskey-drunk, his head jerked. The fuck? he said. He leaned back into the dim yellow glow of the trailer. Hey, squeezy? Toss me my shirt. The three guys from Phoenix shifted nervously on their feet. O''Connor''s Crown Vic was still parked in the lot, awaiting a new radiator hose and Martinez eyed the meteorite on a pallet beside the welding bench. Mr. Paulson chuckled softly as he watched Megans pale form in the trailer window as she awkwardly attempted to dress. Could you please have the woman come out here as well, Mr. Paulson said. While it might have been a legitimate sounding law enforcement request to have everyone in plain sight, the rest of the officers turned a curious gaze on the man who generally remained fairly silent. Jeremiah wasnt impressed. Shes dressing, he growled and leaned back into the trailer, Squeezy? only to be hit in the face by his shirt. Thank you. As he pulled it on and snapped a few of the buttons, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and placed it to his lips, shooting a bleary sideways glance at Austin. Both Austin and Jynx looked petrified. They were entirely out of their element now, and Jeremiah was sure that he already regretted loaning them the flatbed. Megan stepped down and hid behind him, despite being mostly dressed. Shed made it into her jeans, but she wore his motorcycle jacket over a bra. Mr. Paulson chuckled. Jeremiah regarded the courtyard, swaying slightly. He gently patted her thigh as he reached back, grabbed the handle of the baseball bat, and placed it in her hand. Turning slightly, he kissed her forehead. Gimme a minute babe. He bent down, reached into the minifridge, and pulled two beers, popping the caps and passing one back to Megan. He took a long pull and regarded his audience coolly. Strolling past Austin, he pulled his pack from his pocket and offered the kid a smoke. Austins hands shook as he withdrew the cigarette from the pack. The kid looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. Jeremiah flicked his zippo, offering him a light. Austin puffed awkwardly. Jeremiah patted his shoulder, pushing him back towards the trailer. Austin nodded and backed away from the handful of lawmen, nudging Jynx towards Megan. Im not even going to bother to ask if youve got a warrant. Just the fact that the sheriff was with them meant that they really didnt need one. I dont know or care what youre looking for. Jeremiah the sheriff started, but Jeremiah held up a finger to stop him. Even if he did have the right to search the property whenever he chose, dragging a few officers by for a midnight search and seizure seemed patently rude. The kid was clearly a little drunk, obviously angry, and judging by the swelling that slowly subsided in the fly of his jeans, he had every right to be. Why in the hell are you guys wandering around my lot at three in the fucking morning? Sheriff Etherton glanced over at the three agents from Phoenix who had suddenly grown silent now that they had barged through the front door bragging about probable cause. The Sheriff strolled towards the Costco tent. Sorry, Jeremiah. He leaned back against the tent pole as casually as he could. These gentlemen seem to think that you might have something to do with the recent catalytic converter thefts. Jeremiahs head jerked. What? At first, offended that the sheriff had led them there, the sheriff had the deadpan gaze of a gambler bluffing a low hand to raise the stakes. The sheriff shrugged. Beats me, he said. Officer Moondoggie affected his instinctual cop stance. Look, Jack, we know you''re a good guy and all, but we have reason to suspect that your friends here might have gotten themselves in a little too deep with the drugs. They might be fencing stolen parts. He hitched his thumbs in his gun belt, inadvertently sliding his board shorts down a few inches so he had to adjust. Jeremiah glanced back at Jynx and Austin, huddled up against the trailer with Megan. He grinned nonchalantly at the trio. What, he said, glancing over at the sheriff, the actual fuck, Sheriff? Let''s cut the shit, Mr. Paulson interjected. Surprised by his sudden involvement, both the sergeant and the chief made space for the cheap suit. We all know why we''re really here. Mr. Paulson smiled conspiratorially and took a few steps toward Jeremiah, becoming eerily amicable as he did. I know you didn''t steal the catalytic converters. Frankly, I can imagine that accusation might be a little insulting to you. He put his hand on Jeremiah''s shoulder in an overt show of camaraderie that fell entirely flat. No, he continued. You kids pulled something out of the hills that doesn''t belong to you, and we''re here to collect it. Stripped of all pretenses, the collection of individuals on the back lot of the desert sands towing and automotive took the opportunity to collectively stop breathing momentarily as they waited for either man to draw and shoot, so to speak. Jeremiah tilted his head just slightly, letting slip a lazy hangdog smile that only the sheriff recognized. He was an honest ex-con; he just wasn''t as honest as he could be. Seems to me, there are salvage laws in this state. Jeremiah stubbornly folded his long arms across his chest, smirking. Finders keepers, losers weepers. He shrugged apologetically. Mr. Paulson continued to smile, but clenched Jeremiah''s shoulder, squeezing with an uncanny strength while pressing his thumb into Jeremiah''s clavicle. The cocky grease monkey''s knees buckled beneath him, in an excruciating amount of pain. Mr. Paulson bent slightly at the waist to speak. You did not find what you think you found because what you think you found does not exist. Therefore, if you think you found it, you should not exist either. While both Martinez and O''Connor were familiar with the use of pressure points as a method of persuasion, neither had imagined the awkward, quiet clerk capable of such a sinister display. It had been, they tacitly agreed, a bad idea to follow the kids after all. The sheriff thought to intercede, but he was sure that whoever this guy was, he definitely had jurisdiction wherever the hell he wanted. Jynx and Austin just looked on, horrified that they were hurting Jeremiah. Hissing through clenched teeth, Jeremiah''s grimace twisted into a grotesque grin. You want it? Fine, its yours, so long as you get the fucking thing off my lot. Jynx lurched forward, Jeremiah, no! but Austin held her back. Jeremiah held them both back with a raised hand. Mr. Paulson released his shoulder and patted it jovially, allowing Jeremiah a moment to breathe. Now, see? I knew we could come to an understanding. Jeremiah rose slowly, lifted by those invisible puppet strings. He shook out his arm and cracked his neck without even a glance towards Jynx and Austin; too ashamed to look in their direction. Kids pull some shit scrap out of the wash to make a few bucks, fucking pigs come around my lot at three in the fucking morning. He muttered, his anger seeming to swell as he stomped back to the trailer and slid his bare feet into his boots. He grabbed a set of work gloves off the bench. How many times have you guys been by this week? Cant just fucking ask me in the afternoon? He chugged his beer and hucked it off into the rusted husks of wrecks in the yard. The crashing sound was muffled by the early morning wind. O''Connor unconsciously rested the palm of his hand on his pistol, but the three men from Phoenix all shifted nervously and leaned back. But you want it, its yours. Jeremiah! Jynx protested, weakly. He pointed at her, glaring a righteous anger. I told you that if you left it on my lot for more than a week, it was mine. Now you have brought fucking Feds to my home, Jynx. In the middle of the fucking night, no less. Decidedly uncool. As Jynx shrunk back from his rage, she saw, even briefly, the germs mischievous smirk. He strode across the lot, towards the old shed and the collection of used oil barrels on the other side, pulling on his gloves and still muttering. As he approached the domed, amorphous tarp-covered shape, a motion sensor tripped, bathing the side lot of dumpsters and discarded parts in a halogen glare. Yall should be givin em some sort of award for roadside maintenance, but instead yall show up to cockblock the fucking tow truck driver? At the mention, Megan blushed slightly, pulling the front of her jacket closed and the handful at the front of the trailer started toeing at pebbles and staring intently at the Astroturf carpet. So yeah, you can fucking have it. Jeremiah reached for a tarp and jerked it away to reveal a pile of dusty, oxidized scrap metal, stacked atop the dented stainless-steel refrigerator theyd pulled out of the wash six months earlier. Despite the flourish of the reveal, nobody was terribly impressed with the result. Their saucer was nothing more than a collection of garbage that the kids had hauled in like pop cans for a deposit. Somehow, the weather balloon story wasnt quite as suspicious in real-time. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. OConnor hitched his gun belt up his hip, fortifying his guts against the raw shame of the entire situation. He was supposed to be in LA with his own wife, potentially getting laid, and instead, he was about to arrest a couple of Cub Scouts for their merit badge attempt. He couldnt blame the guy for being angry. OConnor was just glad the guy wasnt armed. He strolled over to the pile of metal, chiseling some caked-on alkaline mud from the bottom corner. It wasn''t exactly the right shape, but it was definitely pulled out of those hills. It wasn''t a stack of mufflers, but it was a weather balloon-worthy explanation for the Lidar image. The sergeant was the first to speak, rallying his best cop voice and hitching his thumbs in his old police-issued gun belt. So, uh, you mind if we have a look around? Just to be thorough. He knew that there was nothing to find, but he wasnt about to end it with a pile of trash. Have at it, man. You dont mind if I dont put the fucking kettle on. Jeremiah pulled his gloves off and tossed them back on the workbench. Pushing through the kids he reached into the trailer door and slapped at the wall until he found the garage remotes. He palmed angrily at the buttons, slamming them, starting the big rolling repair bay doors to raise slowly. Inside the shop, the dim glow of the garage door bulbs left most of the shop in shadows but revealed three bays: the dented Honda, which still needed that oil change, OConnors Crown Vic waiting for a water pump, fan, and radiator, and a car on the third lift, draped in a tarp and lifted to the rafters. As he leaned back, too close to Jynx, their cheeks brushed. Be cool, Jeremiah whispered. Martinez was entirely stunned. Vickers had seemed so confident. Blurry Nikon snapshots and all, he had nearly convinced the chief that this, finally, was the real deal. Martinez crossed the lot slowly, willing the pile of garbage to become an actual alien artifact. Beyond the colossal waste of time and money, Mr. Paulsons presence in the debacle certainly wouldnt help his budget audit case with the commissioner. He wanted this. He needed this to get his funding back. He stood before the pile of scrap metal, slowly shaking his head. Mr. Paulson chuckled softly to himself in his usual unnerving manner. Glancing around the lot at the handful of suspects he was intrigued by the little girls protests. Widening his gaze to incorporate the entire lot of abandoned vehicles, haphazard storage sheds, and various dust-covered work benches, one thing stood out to him as particularly suspect. Standing in the back corner of the open lot, as pretty as if it had just come from the store, sat a gleaming white pop-up garage of the sort just large enough to house something interesting. He chuckled again. Whats that? He pointed at the Costco tent behind the Sheriff. For just a brief moment, the only sound on the lot was the morning wind howling through the wrecks and the tarps flapping gently. Austin and Jynx held their breath. The sheriff, unsure whether to lie and say he checked it, risking a possible federal obstruction charge, or to stand out of the way, didnt have to make that choice. Mr. Paulson strode across the lot, still carrying his briefcase, and charged into the tent. Jynx and Austin glanced at each other, eyes wide, but when they looked down at Jeremiah, he sat serenely contemplating the ashes at the end of his Camel wide. Megan, Baby, would you grab the whiskey for me, and maybe a few shot glasses? I have a funny feeling well be here for a while. Megan, entirely confused as to what was going on and why the feds were searching the junkyard, nodded blankly, stepping back into the trailer for a moment. Jeremiah, Jynx hissed. Cheese it, kid. Just be cool. He pulled a couple of beers from the fridge and offered one to Austin. Austin eyed the sheriff. Relax, Austin. Sit down. You look nervous. Austin took the beer and did as he was told, plopping down onto his normal stool. Jynx squatted down to rest her butt on a cinder block, still looking like she was coiled to spring and run if necessary. She wrapped her skinny arms around her skinny legs, watching the Feds intently as they filed into the tent. Mr. Paulson stood just inside the tent, mildly disappointed. The tent was nearly empty. An air compressor with an attached painting rig sat in the corner beside a makeshift workbench. A few cans of automotive paint, and a few cans of spray paint lined up against the tarped wall. A wad of plastic painting tarp and blue masking tape lay bunched up in the far corner, smudged flat black and used. Great detective work, OConnor patted Mr. Paulsons shoulder condescendingly. OConnor, Martinez, and Mr. Paulson stood near the front of the Costco tent, discussing their options. While the witness testimony seemed credible, and they all agreed that the kids and the mechanic smelled guilty as hell, there was nothing there after all. Short of bringing in a forensics team to look for any evidence that it had ever been there, the entire search was bordering on a solid court case for a fourth amendment violation. The sheriff, still confused that the thing that was in the tent a few days earlier had somehow vanished, watched them, nearly as eager to find it now as they were. He glanced furtively over at Jeremiah, who sat in his Lazy Boy with a stupid grin on his face, entirely amused; the three agents, standing in the third bay, quietly arguing about their next course of action. The morning breeze caught the tarp that covered the car on the lift, revealing the smooth concave flat black underbelly of that thing from the tent, hovering two feet above the raised lift. Jeremiah had somehow risen the damn thing into the rafters and the Feds were standing directly beneath it, arguing about the veracity of Dr. Vickerss account. You and you. Jeremiah pointed at OConnor and Martinez as he strode across the lot. You damn well come back bearing armloads of beer if either of you want your shit back before September. He hooked a thumb towards the garage, the black Crown Vic with its hood propped slightly open, and the shiny ball of extraterrestrial slag with the teeth in it. Now get the fuck off my lawn. O''Connor was indignant, but Jeremiah could easily screw them both over solidly for less than a year in the county jail. Martinez nodded curtly by way of apology. Paulson just glared. Jeremiah followed them as far as the front door and slammed it behind them. Boots still half unlaced, he tromped back across the lot, stabbing his cigarette out on one of the work benches. What the fuck was that all about, Greg? Jeremiah nearly spat the sheriffs name out. Etherton leaned back. Now hold on, there, kid. I only pulled in when I saw these two cornered. And what the fuck are you doing pulling into my lot? he asked the kids. We were being followed, Jynx said. We didnt know where else to go. No shit you were being followed, by fucking Feds. Jeremiah pulled another cigarette from his pocket. So, you lead them right to it? They followed us from Sanchos, Austin pleaded. Well, no shit, Austin. Jynx has been telling you that they were looking for it the whole damn time. I figured you might listen to her, at least. Jeremiah took a seat and wiped his face, looking just slightly unstrung. Even Jynx could see that Jeremiah had been a little rattled by the appearance of the feds, even the three least competent possible lawmen, arriving on his impound lot in the middle of the night. How did you know what they were here for? she asked, still impressed with his clever substitution. That dipshit sergeant Moondoggie left his case file in the passenger seat when he left me with his car. He tossed his shot back and reclined in the Lazy Boy. There was no way I was going to miss reading a file marked top secret. He offered his shot glass up to Megan. She glanced down at the bottle in her hand and the shot glass in his, contemplating them both like abstract unrelated objects, as she was still reeling from the recent attempted raid. Abruptly remembering that she was a bartender, she poured the shot like an automaton. Jeremiah downed his shot, and feeling his comfortable buzz returning, reached out and ran his hand along Megans thigh, startling her out of autopilot. She tousled his hair and smiled down at him, but still looked stunned. Well, Jynx, he chuckled, I think it is safe to say that this time it is not a fridge, and it is in fact very valuable. Jynx smiled and nodded. She punched Austin in the shoulder. I told you it was something. Megan took the cigarette from Jeremiah and continued smoking it for him. Did you tow their car or something? she asked, still stunned to see Mr. Mai Tai relatively sober and attempting professionalism. Jeremiah chuckled. She didn''t really need to know any details, so there wasn''t much point in explaining it to her. Something like that. Sheriff Etherton affected his most authoritarian tone. Those three might have walked away empty-handed for now, but that guy in the suit didn''t give up easy, and I''m sure it''s only a matter of time before they''re back. Megan, realizing that she was still smoking Jeremiah''s cigarette, handed him back the last drag so that he could stab it out in the ashtray. What''s so important about the stupid car? Just give it back. Reduced to a clandestine code, the Tough Guy Club''s childish defense seemed petty. If it really were just a vehicle, it wouldn''t be worth a dislocated shoulder and potential jail time. Everybody seemed to have forgotten that it was a fucking flying saucer and that he had fixed it, and now the damn thing was hovering in a repair bay, primed to get them all nonexisted by some psycho with seriously bad breath. Look, Greg, he looked ready to unleash a tirade but thought better of it, Sheriff, he adjusted. With all due respect, sir, the salvage law is on our side on this one. The kids claimed it fair and square. If those guys want it, they can damn well pay us for it. It''s not for sale! Jynx blurted, only to realize that she was yelling at a police officer. She stepped back against Austin. The sheriff raised his hands for quiet. Be that as it may, Jeremiah, you''re not talking about a hunk of scrap; whatever that thing is, some very big people apparently want it. The surfer boy and his strange retinue were the least of their problems. Seeing the saucer silently hover up near the ceiling served to explain the sudden arrival of the Smith and Johnson family reunion. They wouldn''t be pretending to be tourists for too much longer, and they wouldn''t be politely knocking before a proper search. This isn''t about whether or not it''s fair; it''s about the actual men in black who want their toy back. The law isn''t going to be so cut and dried on a matter like this. Jeremiah looked tired. Whether for the money, or for the principle, he didn''t want to let the saucer go, and one glance at Jynx visibly steeled his stubbornness. They just stared at each other for a moment. She pleaded with her eyes and thought she recognized a soft, resigned smile as he made up his mind. It''s your saucer, shorty. What do you say? Jeremiah, the sheriff started, but Jeremiah held up a finger, waiting for her answer. He knew exactly what she would say, but he asked her anyway. Finders keepers, she repeated quietly. As childish as it might sound, it sounded right to Jeremiah. He nodded. Just give us a day, Greg. Please? He stabbed his cigarette out, leaning forward like he might take a knee and beg. We just found the key. Torn between his chummy friendship with the kid, a scrap of metal that knew a stupid pet trick, and a whole lot of paramilitary Jon Does pretending to be tourists, the sheriff knew there was no right choice. Jeremiah wasn''t exactly the sort of guy to stand on principle, so this thing must be personal. Interrupted from their battle of wills, Jynx spoke. The key? she asked, quietly. Jeremiah smiled and nodded. 46. Fucking hellriders, man. Mr. Paulson, the auditor, and previously plausibly deniable sociopath sat mostly motionless in the backseat, repeatedly clicking a ballpoint pen in a particular pattern. One click. Pause. Two rapid clicks. Pause for three seconds. Three rapid clicks and slowly releasing his breath. He seemed to be practicing a meditation of some sort in the backseat. Besides the clicking, the ride back to the Playa Seca Motor Inn was a quiet. Martinez drove, slowly accepting the inevitable dissolution of his Terrestrial Investigations assets, including his own condominium and quite probably bank account quickly thereafter. He eased the Tahoe into the Motor Inn parking lot, listening to the rear suspension squeak and wondering if he would need to account for the missing meteorite when the auditor finished his work. He considered calling Levy briefly but didnt have the patience to listen to another rambling Adderall-fueled rant on robots and reptilians, especially not to give him the bad news about the artifact. OConnor rode with the window cracked slightly to enjoy the cool night air. He contemplated the dissolution of his career, his marriage and cruiser, which would undoubtedly be skeletonized for scrap shortly. He regretted not picking up his own case of beer while the convenience store was still open. Pulling into the lot, he noticed the pool lights were accidentally left on. He thought he might take a quick dip before bed. He would probably not be sleeping. One click. Pause. Two rapid clicks. Pause for three seconds. Three rapid clicks and slowly releasing his breath. When they arrived at the Motor Inn Mr. Paulson remained there, sitting in the back seat even after Martinez and OConnor stepped out and stretched. Martinez wasnt eager to find out what was on the auditors mind, but the absence of the uncomfortable chuckle had both he and the sergeant slightly unnerved. The gleeful Vulcan nerve pinch on the mechanic made Paulson seem just a little more insidious, especially given his secrecy. Going catatonic in the backseat might be as good as it would get. He could get violent. OConnor shrugged at the chief and glanced down at his attire. I think I might get a few laps in as long as we still have the pool. The sergeant unclipped his gun belt and handed it to the chief. He pulled his badge from the hem of his board shorts, glanced at it briefly, and gave it to the chief. He kicked his flip flops off, yanked the faded pastel polo shirt over his head, and tossed it over the top of the Tahoe where Paulson remained seated, rhythmically clicking that ballpoint pen. One click. Pause. Martinez considered OConnors gun belt and badge for just a few moments before he nodded his understanding. Two rapid clicks. Pause for three seconds. OConnor nodded back. You, uh, wanna get breakfast in the morning? he said, stepping lightly as he crossed the parking lot barefoot. Three rapid clicks and slowly releasing his breath. Martinez sighed. OConnor he showed his sergeant the belt and the badge. ...These are yours. You dont have to turn them in. Eric, he said. Just Eric. He swung open the rusty iron pool gate. Hey, Chief! Eric called. Can I get a ride to Los Angeles tomorrow? I gotta go see about a girl. OConnor! Eric! He called back and leaped backward into the pool with an unreasonably loud splash for such a late hour. At the sound of the splash, the night manager woke from a dream, saw the pool lights rippling through his dusty Venetian blinds, and contented himself with shutting the lights off to let the swimmer know that the pool was closed. Likewise, Paulson seemed to wake from his dream long enough to cease the pen clicking and dislodge himself from the back seat. He regarded Martinez with a blank stare and gazed down at the gun belt contemplatively. Hes lying, the auditor said, shaking his head slowly. He slid the pen into his shirt pocket. Without another word, he turned and walked up the stairs to the room. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Whether it was a stack of stolen exhaust systems or Vickers flying saucer, Martinez was confident that it wasnt sitting on the lot anywhere. One didnt have to be a super cop to see that those kids were guilty as hell of something, but the Lidar images had shown an object about as big as a car. They poked all over that lot for nearly half an hour, and although they looked at everything that was exactly the size of a car, none of them resembled the missing artifact. A few moments later the auditor emerged from the room with his Styrofoam package under his arm. Still carrying his briefcase, he regarded the recently resigned sergeant swimming laps with a bemused and distant smirk. The chief affectionately, but cautiously patted the auditors shoulder. Lets all take a break, get some rest, give it some time. He wished he had peeked inside the box when he had had the chance. Were all still on the case, right? Theres still plenty of time to figure this thing out. He gestured towards their room, waving the sergeants Desert Eagle and official credentials. Undeterred by the loss of the pool lights, Eric did a backward somersault in the shallow end, thrashing his legs in the air as he did so, and taking the chiefs bluster to the bottom with him. We can debrief in the morning, the chief said, trying to salvage some professionalism. Mr. Paulson frowned. I might take a short walk, he said as if it were perfectly natural for one to take their Styrofoam cooler for a walk at nearly four in the morning. Suit yourself, the chief said, drifting off towards the room alone. Worried that Mr. Paulson might still have something to prove, and return to the tow lot, Martinez fumbled in his pockets watching Paulsons reflection in the window. The auditor consulted his watch and started strolling due South, away from the tow lot. With his briefcase in hand and the Styrofoam box under his arm, he might be on his way to catch a commuter train somewhere. One could only hope. * How long Eric floated in the water, he didnt know. He knit his fingers behind his head and let the rest of his body go limp, drifting around the dark, quiet pool in the earliest hours of the desert morning. The moonless sky was star-bright, vast, and limitless as if every star were aware of him. He felt perfectly buoyant, and he rose and fell with each breath, lost in the delicate lacework of the Milky Way, stretching so gloriously across the mystery that lay beyond. It was the forever and ever that he and Mary had talked about when they were still in high school, laying on beach towels under the bluffs, letting the Malibu breezes dry their skin after skinny dipping. To the stars and back was an easy trip when they were young. Relieved of duty, he would get her back. They didnt need the money. They didnt need a succulent garden; they just needed each other. She would see. Settling into what would inevitably become yet another hangover, Eric found a happy place drifting listlessly towards enlightenment or an accidental drowning. Death by misadventure, he mumbled to himself, blowing a few overly chlorinated bubbles with it. He was momentarily entertained by the idea of the chief and Mr. Paulson finding his corpse floating face down in the pool like a prized goldfish the next morning. He thought he heard music for a few seconds but initially dismissed it. Although the pool was perfectly still, he doubted that anyone nearby was even awake to have a radio on. A moment later he recognized the song and began singing along to the opening strains of Starship. We built this city he burbled under his breath, We built this city on rock and roll. he blubbered bubbles and lifted his head out of the water just far enough to check which direction the music was coming from. Somebody to the south had apparently decided to blast the superhits of the early eighties at full volume, at four oclock in the morning. Eric shrugged to himself. Fucking tweakers, he muttered, and was just about to sink again when he noticed the figure skulking up around the backside of the Playa Seca Motor Inn, briefcase in hand. Remaining motionless, Eric watched the auditor slink around the stairwell to his room. He glanced over his shoulder to see no one was watching and quietly shut the door behind him. You know how to tell when somebodys doing something illegal, Eric? Gee, Sergeant OConnor, how do you tell? Well, Eric, theyll be super fucking suspicious for some reason. Gee, Sergeant OConnor, you sure are a smart one! The music continued for another fifteen minutes, or so. Eric couldnt imagine what sort of sound system that guy must have to be blasting music that loud, but he had great taste in terrible hair bands. Halfway through Twisted Sister singing I wanna rock there was shouting, and some loud hammering noises, followed by some squawking attempt at squelching the sound system. Exactly two shots were fired in rapid succession, from what sounded like a large caliber pistol. Someone whooped loudly once, and just afterward, peace was restored to Arroyo Grande with only a slight lingering ringing of the ears. Back on the clock, Sergeant OConnor burbled into his dark pool. Interlude: It is the way of our species Well, it is obvious that they are a couple, Anjelica explained to her little brother. Because they are never very far from each other. She arranged her collection of make-up samples before her on the breakroom dining table. She had collected winter, spring, summer, and fall palettes from her tia Rosa, who did a steady side business in Mary Kay cosmetics. Contemplating the variety, she was prepared for several skin tones, although translucent gray was not very common in her YouTube tutorials. Nonetheless, she felt prepared to attempt a makeover. Im guessing that the one in the red shirt is macho because he is always working with tools, while the other one is hembra because she seems to be clever. Chuy failed to notice that she had called the female smarter. He was still unsure and deep in contemplation. Even at a young age, he was certain that a macho should have a pitillo of his own, and neither of them seemed to have much of anything down there. This is why they didnt have to wear pants. Chuy had been wearing pants ever since he started wearing his big boy chonis and was not allowed to leave the house without them anymore. He thought that the one in the Coke shirt was just a little bit larger, and probably older than himself, and yet Si, he nodded seriously, but how do you know? In fact, short of a genetic test, there were few exomorphic indicators to determine the gender of either visitor. The concept of complementary gametes would be far too complex to discuss with the visitors, given their apparent reluctance to speak at all. For their part, it may be safe to assume that the visitors considered the application of cosmetics to be some sort of divisional designation, possibly, or a promotion in rank. Anjelica could not be bothered with the preposterous possibility that human gender norms were not, in fact, universal, as she decided which eye shadow palette was best suited to the visitors pale complexion. She thought the pale, translucent skin invited bold colors like blues and greens, but the foundations were entirely useless to her in any flesh tone. Even a slight blush seemed all wrong on their monochromatic cheeks. Rather than struggling with the warmer end of the spectrum, Anjelica opted to utilize the smokey eye kit offering a wide variety of grays to accentuate the visitors cheekbones and narrow her nearly nonexistent nose. Applied under the stark fluorescent break room lights, the classic black and white coloring gave the anthropomorphic amphibian a gothic severity that bordered on B-movie vamp. After a few failed attempts to locate la hembras eyebrows, Anjelica drew a line at a satisfactory distance from the large, almond-shaped gray irises and filled them in with a mascara brush to give the illusion of fine hair. The final result gave the tiny visitor a coy and bemused expression which only served to amplify her Morticia Addams appearance. Although Anjelica contemplated teaching her visitor some feminine gestures, Chuy had already begun the process of gender assignment on his apparently macho counterpart. Taking Coke to the opposite side of the room, he proceeded to demonstrate the manliest virtues that he yet knew, considering them to be sufficient. Using his uncle as a model of masculinity C because his uncle was still single and therefore macho C Chuy attempted to demonstrate hitching up his belt, though the visitor didnt have one. Realizing that this was impossible, Chuy taught his counterpart the importance of a crotch adjustment, grabbing his pitillo and shifting it slightly with a stern look on his face. While he did not yet understand the reason, he was sure that he had never seen his tia do this, but he had seen his tios do it, frequently, and so he considered it very manly. El Macho seemed fascinated by the process and took to practicing. Owing to a significantly less substantial salivary gland, it found the volume of spit insufficient to impress young Chuy, a dedicated teacher who considered distance, cohesion, and volume to be equally important to a convincing spit. Having completed La Hembras makeover, Anjelica was surprised when Macho stepped up behind her, tugging at the hem of her blouse. Demonstrating his newfound skills, Macho adjusted his crotch and spit to one side. Assuming that he would be next in line for the ceremonial face painting, he stood patiently awaiting his makeover. Anjelica, having misinterpreted this gesture as offering her thanks for doing La Hembras make-up, thereby making his partner look sexier, patted Coke on the head magnanimously and said: You are welcome. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. * * * Levy wasnt in the best condition to rent a moving van. Under the best conditions, it looks pretty bad to be huddled next to the front door of the rental company when it opens but rushing into the establishment wearing wraparound sunglasses and a dark featureless ball cap pulled down over his face might have given the management a poor first impression. Stammering his apologies through chattering teeth didnt help soothe their growing fears, and when he removed his hat to dry his eyebrows, one look at his sweat-wet curls and waxy forehead ought to have given a mortician concerns. Eventually, the only way that he could convince them to rent him the van was by placing a significant deposit on it. Sliding the TIG maintenance department Visa into the slot, Levy was gripped with a surprise endorphin rush, like watching a contestant spin the wheel and stupidly clap their hands chanting Big money, no whammies. Fifteen minutes and a five-thousand-dollar advanced hold on the TIG credit card later, Levy was pulling out of the rental van parking lot, wondering if the payload would be big enough to fit his robot friend. With the Stryker gone, there was plenty of room to back the truck straight in and load without witnesses. He ducked inside to make sure that Andy and the pilots were out of view when he opened the door. He found them tucked around the corner near the loaded cold case shelves. The pilots squatted on the robots shoulder, casually perusing top secret documents like magazines in a dentists office waiting room. Uh, Levy wanted to stop them. He was probably legally obliged to stop them, but he wasnt sure if interplanetary espionage was his department. Not like playing concierge to a time-traveling mecha and a pair of albino amphibians was in his job description either. The pilots glanced up from their dossiers with a curious tilt of their heads. Yeah, you probably know all this stuff anyway, he shrugged. Hey, uh, Andy! The robot perked up at its name. I got us a chariot fit for the gods, even got an airconditioned payload and a sunroof! It was the apartment special with a hand truck, some straps, and a stack of boxes, but Levy kicked them all out of the back to make way for the tourists. The robot bent down to inspect the inside of the payload. As it did so, it seemed to shrink by degrees, servos making tiny shifts and adjustments in anticipation of the tight fit. Wheres the sunroof? Andy asked, twisting slightly to inspect the ceiling as if he had been particular about the amenities. Levy glanced up at the opaque plastic panel that ran the length of the payload compartment. He blinked at it. Sorry, bud. Its natural light at least. He scrambled out of the back of the van before he was wedged in there, still cautious not to touch the robot in case he upset it. With its toes splayed like a gecko, the narrow rental van loading ramp was too flimsy to bear the robot''s weight, and a nuisance, after all. Levy had been so entirely consumed with watching the robot twist and contort itself into the back of the van that he did not notice the cleaning lady, who quietly strolled up behind them. Her metal robot friend''s rear was hanging out of the back of the van precariously. While the robot did not make grunting noises, it did make tiny mechanical buzzing noises with each micro movement that did sort of sound like grunts. She chuckled to see the robot trying to squeeze itself into the truck. Startled by her chuckle, Levy turned to find her standing there. Futilely attempting to block her view at first, or trying to distract her from the obvious, he had assumed that he was still the only earthling aware of their existence. She simply smiled up at him and offered him a plastic shopping bag. Levy peered into the bag and found a ninja costume complete with a face mask and plastic samurai sword, as well as a princess dress with a tattered blonde wig and a plastic fashion doll mask. I think it is better if they no show their face. She nodded emphatically. At the bottom of the bag, he found dozens of paper packets labeled in Spanish with the Quaker''s familiar face on them. Y avena! she beamed. Aw, Marta, I could kiss you! Levy felt like dancing. She nodded. She was flattered, but ?Todo bien, mi amigo? Marta called out to the robot. After a moment of analyzing the infrared displays, the robot realized that she had called it friend. Si, se?ora. Estoy muy bien, gracias. Marta smiled politely. Bueno, she said, smoothing the front of her tunic, just pleased at having done something so simple, yet charitable. Que se vayan bien, she said to the pair of visitors as if wishing a departing dinner guest well. Pleased with their new apparel, each took a moment to thank her. El macho gratefully grabbed his crotch and spit to the side ceremonially as La hembra attempted to flutter her long eyelash extensions and bowed ever so demurely. 47. Why are guests like seafood? Bro, its not coming from the fry oil. Terrence rattled the fry basket, to show the clean canola fry oil. I changed the fuckin fry oil. Earl pushed the last flat of eggs back into the freshly cleaned reach-in cooler beside the prep line. Well, like, it still smells, alright? He raised his nose and scowled. Bro, we cleaned everything. Hitch finished wiping out the bottom of the line fridge, replacing the trays of burgers and sliced meats. Confucius say: if everywhere you go smells like shit, you need to wash your face. He grunted as he stood and cracked his back. Cleanin coolers is fuckin new guy shit. Terrence shook his head. You are the fuckin new guy. Too fuckin old to be new. Terrence hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the fourth Make your boyfriend do it. Hitch glanced back at Octavio, watching them all work. Were not exclusive yet, Hitch muttered. The timid dishwasher wore a brand new, immaculately clean set of yellow rubber gloves for the kitchen cleaning activity, although he had yet to start cleaning anything.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Hitch dumped his bucket of dirty sanitizer water into the dish pit. Besides, hes too delicate for Brillo pads. The dishwasher swatted Hitchs shoulder playfully. Que dicen, Paco? Estan buscando el olor de pescado. Octavio giggled. Debera lavarse el bigote. Earl kept opening fridges, poking his head into them, sniffing around for a moment before slamming the fridge door. Like, it still smells fishy, alright? Octavio inspected the fingertips of his rubber gloves which were just a size too large for him. Creo que su novia podra estar enferma. Sinverguenza, Hitch said, shaking his head disapprovingly at Octavio. Earl, I dont mean to go gettin all up in your business, but If Uncle George gets back to this smell Bro, we cleaned everything, alright? Terrence peered over the back of the flat top grill like a filet might have gone over the backsplash. Its not coming from the kitchen. Hitch folded his arms across his chest. Look, man. I dont want to have to translate this. Whats he say? Well, Hitch glanced over at Octavio who grinned impishly and motioned for Hitch to continue. Octavio agrees with Confucius. Its not my freakin face, alright? Earl scrubbed his scraggly beard. Like, you smell it though, right? Yeah, bro. Terrence tossed his damp towel in the dirty rag hamper. It fuckin stinks, alright. Hitch nodded and peered out the pass-through window at a few more not-so-undercover cops sitting at the counter, smirking. What if its not coming from the kitchen? Earl glanced out at the three super-patriots stuffing their faces. Those guys? Hitch shrugged. It started after we opened, and its been getting worse ever since. 48. How to enhance an interrogation with common household items OConnor waited to get out of bed until he was confident that it was too late to check out. Even then, he didnt really have anywhere to be. He was deeply intrigued by the early morning glam rock session, as eager to revel in the Yahtzees'' suffering as he was to confront the culprit, their very own little pencil pushing psycho, Mr. Paulson. The sergeant shit, showered and shaved, donned his jeans and tucked in his polo shirt for presentability. OConnor was pleased to discover that Mr. Paulson was poolside in his boxer shorts. His suit, briefcase, and shoes were laid out on the lounge chair beside him. His socks appeared to be drying, clipped to the umbrella. He was attempting to find a Wi-Fi signal on what appeared to be a Game-Boy console spliced into a megaphone, or possibly a radar gun of some sort. He waved the cone thing around, concentrating on the handheld screen. Maybe he was checking for residual hair gel on the echoes from the moon or something. OConnor waved, but Paulson didnt notice. The sergeant knocked but walked right in anyway. He found the chief on the telephone, listening intently. Yes, Martinez nodded. I absolutely understand, but under the circumstances Martinez glared, but motioned for OConnor to close the door, peering past him to make sure that Paulson wasnt close behind. Ill brief him immediately, Maam. He nodded gravely at OConnor. The sergeant plucked his gun belt from the back of the dinette chair, cinching it up and adjusting slightly. He nodded at Martinez as he picked up his credentials and tucked them into his waistline. Martinez nodded approvingly, even as he cringed at the callers tone. Yes, Maam, he said as she abruptly disconnected. Fired? OConnor smiled hopefully. Martinez shook his head. There is a problem with Mr. Paulson. OConnor feigned surprise, badly. Oh. Yeah? What do you know? Oh, no. OConnor demurred, hooking his thumbs in his belt cheerily. You first, Chief. I dont know what I know, except that we dont know as much about him as he knows about us He doesnt work for the Commissioner. OConnor nodded, then shook his head. Shit, he muttered. Yeah. Martinez agreed. So OConnor surveyed the few items that Paulson had left in the room. There was some packaging from various deliveries, a cheap plastic comb, a handful of screwdrivers and cheap ballpoint pens. Who the hell is he? He picked up one of the pens, looking for any sort of logo. It was cheap, but heavy. Martinez nodded. Who does he work for? OConnor clicked the pen once, and again, satisfied. For a free pen, it was a nice one, but there was no logo on it. And Martinez continued, Why the hell did you let him into my office? Ignoring the question, OConnor clicked the pen again. Yeah, he agreed, clicking the pen twice more like Paulson had the night before, ...and why the hell is he sneaking off to sabotage the Yahtzees every night? He clicked the pen three times, quickly, letting his breath out slowly as if it were office yoga of some sort. He shrugged. He didnt feel any more relaxed. OConnor Martinez massaged the bridge of his nose, his glasses bouncing. The sergeant had allowed some strange, cheap suit into the chief''s office without so much as a Google search, and now they really were in trouble with the commissioner. Martinez glowered. Wait. What? Yup, OConnor nodded and clicked the pen again, holding it closer to his ear to hear the snap. Listened to his impromptu DJ set last night. he clicked it twice more, satisfied with the feel of an old-fashioned click pen, and he set it behind him on the top of the cable box. What the hell? Martinez knit his fingers The ballpoint pen on the cable box popped like a circuit breaker. The cable box crackled. Simultaneously, the ballasts blew out in every energy saving fluorescent lightbulb in the room. OConnor glanced back at the thin tendril of smoke rising from the cable box vents, like a match extinguished. Who the hell is this guy? Martinez repeated. As they heard the rusty pool gate swing open, Sergeant OConnor turned to face his chief with an anticipatory glee. Orders, sir? The pool gate slammed shut. In the moment of stillness that followed, the chief thought he heard the soft strains of Mr. Paulson murmuring the lyrics to Streisands On a clear day. Chief Martinez smiled placidly. Detain him for questioning, Sergeant.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. O''Connor smiled slowly. Yes, sir. In Mr. Paulson''s defense, because he never really got the chance to defend himself, almost no one returns from a quick dip to find themselves broadsided by a softening supercop with a chick-shaped chip on their shoulder. That the one calling himself Paulson happened to be in his skivvies at the time didn''t help. He struggled as much as he could with a pillowcase over his face and OConnor grunting in his ear and pinning him to the ground. O''Connor took some satisfaction in his application of excessive force, tossing in a few old Greco-Roman wrestling violations just to hear Paulson attempt to squeal with a crumpled washcloth in his mouth. O''Connor''s hand slithered up under Paulson''s chin with the insidious intent of a python coiling about prey. The Arizona-tanned forearm flexed with a bronzed Beach Boy bicep, both engorging in tandem to block Paulson''s windpipe. Although Paulson clawed at the Coppertone tanned arms, he couldn''t free himself. His body relaxed slowly, unwinding in O''Connor''s arms as he passed through the screensaver starfield of pretty lights and drifted off to the outer limits of oxygen deprivation. Martinez watched his erstwhile auditor shudder a few times before finally releasing his grip on O''Connor''s arms and going entirely limp. The Sergeant wouldn''t ease up. Well, don''t kill him, Martinez complained. Cuff him and tie him to something. O''Connor said, dead lifting Paulson in the choke hold. He won''t stay out long. Martinez dragged a chair over and the sergeant laid Paulson''s temporarily vacant body into it. It only took a moment to cuff his hands behind him. He woke slowly and peacefully. Blinking at the newly restored hotel room scene, Mr. Paulson attempted to smile through his washcloth as he watched the sergeant finish lashing his bare ankles to the chair with long swaths of a terry cloth he tore from one of the complimentary hotel towels. Paulson''s muffled chuckle was calm and even giddy as O''Connor pulled the washcloth from the counterfeit clerk''s mouth. So, you guys don''t like Streisand? O''Connor backhanded Mr. Paulson without a word. Paulson''s head bounced back and to the side, nearly sending him over. Paulson looked down at the carpet thoughtfully before chuckling again. Martinez took a seat on his own unmade bed. He knit his fingers and scowled. Who are you? He asked, keeping it simple. Paulson licked his lips, finding blood, and smiled, but not at Martinez. He only had eyes for the sergeant at the moment. I''ll let you sing the Kris Kristofferson part, if you want, Sergeant. O''Connor let fly another backhand, same as the first, laying the bound Paulson out across the floor and opening the split lip further. Paulson chuckled, then rested his head against the carpet. Blood flowed freely, spattering the carpet as O''Connor effortlessly tilted the auditor back upright. Still, Paulson chuckled. Fine, fine, he sputtered, spraying a fine aerosol of blood at the sergeant as he did, you can sing Barbra''s part. O''Connor cocked his fist back like a Hollywood hero, ready to strike a decisive blow for justice. The man who called himself Paulson chuckled and cleared his throat, gazing up at the sergeant patiently. Well? O''Connor inquired, thoroughly. The man tied to a chair in his shorts glanced up at the fist and snorted. Well, if you''re going to do Barb''s partC O''Connor''s fist ricocheted off Paulson''s skull with an empty thud, entirely unlike the Hollywood sound studios'' heroic punches. CYou''re going to have to start. Paulson finished, his right eye clamped shut and a fresh cut on his brow, just starting to bleed, a dark trail careening down his cheek. He glanced over at the chief, smirking. Leaning in theatrically towards the chief, he snickered. Frankly, I don''t think he''s got the range for Babs, but I don''t want to hurt his feelings, he whispered. O''Connor swung another backhand that split the auditor''s lip and splattered blood across the kitchenette table. He massaged the back of his hand, wiping the blood off. Sock party, Chief? He considered dropping a bar of Irish Spring into a tube sock and beating the little twig into paste. Martinez was as yet unimpressed with the entire process. Having been casually briefed on the enhanced interrogation techniques employed in other black ops government agencies, he was somewhat skeptical of the results. Guantanamo Bay detainees aside, he had heard mixed reviews on the efficacy of the techniques prescribed. Good agents quickly became bad people when given the opportunity to explore their sadistic side with an Arab stranger. Already, O''Connor was enjoying his role in the interrogation more than Martinez would have liked. While neither of them had openly chosen their respective Mutt and Jeff roles, the sergeant seemed to have taken the enhanced interrogation briefing as an instructional Ted talk of some sort. Look, Martinez said, sighing as he took a seat on the bed. He knit his fingers before him, affecting as professional a posture as possible, to level with the imposter. I don''t think you understand how deep you truly are right now, Mr. Paulson. As it stands now, my only orders are to detain you. The chief sat up. Of course, the sergeant here might have a history of excessive force Martinez shrugged apologetically ...and if anything unfortunate were to happen while we were detaining you, well he shrugged again. Mr. Paulson chuckled politely. Sergeant O''Connor came out of the bathroom with a pair of tiny complimentary soaps from the hotel bathroom. He plucked one of Paulson''s damp socks from the floor and slid the soaps in. His torture device looked about as ominous as a pair of poker chips in an argyle condom. Mr. Paulson smiled up at the chief. I''ll take my chances. O''Connor dropped his soap in a sock sling and cocked his fist for another Hollywood perfect punch. I''m going to end you. Paulson chuckled. We train for torture like you boys take weekend fishing trips, you glorified hall monitor. Well burn your pubic hair with Sterno gel! the sergeant snarled. Go ahead! Paulson spat. Waterboard me! OConnor wrapped his belt around his fist and grabbed the glorified accountant by his thinning hair, cocking his rawhide fist back for a properly dramatic full-face punch. Get the jumper cables, Chief! I wanna see him dance! But the chief just clicked a ballpoint pen one time, and the room was instantly still for a second. He clicked it two times. Mr. Paulson shook his head as Martinez leaned over to set the pen on his strange computer. NoC he blurted, Jack is a time traveler! And Martinez clicked the pen three times in rapid succession. Sliding it into his shirt pocket, he smiled at OConnor. Go on, he said. Youll find your fresh towels in the bathroom. 53. Part of this nutritious breakfast Debra was surprised to find her son both awake and hogging the hall bathroom. He was engaged in a very frustrating and clearly futile attempt to take up personal grooming. The last time he put this much effort into his hair, it was to contest a speed infraction in traffic court. Thrilled at the midday appearance, she whipped up a few slices of French Toast on sliced wheat bread and set the table with margarine, pancake syrup, and his coffee mug. As grown up as he might be, she still enjoyed smothering him when he sat still. She drank her coffee at the dining room table like a civilized person, scrolling through her phone when he finally made his debut. Squeaky clean and shiny as a brand-new coin, he managed to make himself look so awkward that Nikki felt a twinge of pity muddled with pride. His wet hair awkwardly parted, and he wore an old polo shirt from a B-list celebrity golf tournament he worked in his sophomore year of high school for community service hours. She remembered taking him shopping, and how excited he was to meet a celebrity, but that was back when he still talked. Shuffling in self-consciously, he muttered a good morning to his mother, kissed her on top of her head, and slid into his seat at the table without another word. Nikki didnt need a thank you, but a grunt might be nice. He slathered his lukewarm French toast in margarine that didnt quite melt and poured a generous helping of maple-flavored breakfast syrup over the plate, leaving his breakfast looking like an atoll or island floating in a sea of sticky liquid. Cutting monstrous bites, he cleared a slice in just a few mouthfuls. So, she interrupted his feeding, got any plans today? He stopped chewing and blinked at her, deciding, probably, on whatever lie he preferred to get out of the discussion. Swallowing hard he took a deep breath. I have a date? he asked, as if it might be a trick question. You have a ''date.'' Is that some sort of slang or something? No, mom. A real date. He hunkered over his breakfast, guarding it like a feral cat. Take it easy, honey, chew. She patted his hand, admiring how good he looked clean-shaven, in a simple collared shirt. Still a little ruddy-cheeked from his shower, she thought she detected a slight blush. So, an official date, huh? It''s just coffee, mom.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. She nodded, wondering if the spa in Indio even had a big blonde masseuse, or if it was inappropriate to ask. Well, good for you, honey. His hair was parted severely, and while he had attempted to coif it into something remotely stylish, he only succeeded in making himself look uncomfortable. Content in knowing that they were finally making it official, Debra relaxed into the ineluctability of the match. There was never any doubt it would happen; the only question was when. Honey, you know that I love you exactly as you are. She stroked the back of his hand to soothe him like she had as a toddler. Still effective as a subconscious technique, she lifted his chin with her knuckle to make eye contact. He squirmed slightly, embarrassed. And if shes worth it, she will too, she said, smiling with a soft pride that inevitably embarrassed him, even in the privacy of their kitchen. He nodded, reluctantly grateful for the motherly encouragement, just until she reached up and ruffled his hair, entirely undoing all of his careful grooming. So dont go trying to change, wouldja? Although he grumbled a disgruntled protest, he didnt bother to get up and check his hair but smoothed it back out. Its just coffee, mom. Yes, well, be that as it may, she checked the clock above the stove, realizing that she still had errands to run before work, collected her phone and mug, and pulled her robe closed tighter. God gave a man two heads, and only enough blood to run one at a time. He nearly choked on his French toast bite and began shoveling the rest into his face hole as fast as he could. So, wear a damn condom, son. He stared at her, his face contorted into revulsion and blank horror. "Ma!" What? she asked. Im still too young to be a grandmother, and I think Donna would agree, so you kids just be safe, alright. Austin moved around her like a blur of anxious teen awkwardness, cramming the last bite down even as he set the plate with the remaining puddle of syrup into the kitchen sink and brushed past his mother without a goodbye kiss. Given the topic of discussion, Nikki understood. Now, go get her, tiger! Mortified to superspeed, he was across the lawn to his pickup truck and zipping down the street before Nikki could lock the screen door behind him. For lack of a better father figure, she hoped that a brief safe sex reminder should suffice. Short of cheering him on with a rallying cry of boobies! She was confident that his public education had taught him enough to make him a menace but hoped that Jynx would set him straight finally. At least he knew she was willing to talk about it if he had any questions, even if the idea horrified him. Nikki finished clearing the table, rinsed off his plate and fork, and loaded them into the dishwasher. At the very least, they would probably end up living in their own apartment soon, and Jynx could learn to pick up after him. She took a few moments to text Donna while she watered her sad little tomato garden: Still off Friday? Making appointments in Indio. You fly, Ill buy. Droopy leaves and all, she inspected the latest attempted gardening failure and wondered when it was time to build herself a proper greenhouse like Mr. Englehorn had. Satisfied? Donna responded. Poor choice of words, Nikki mused. Dammit. Listen, like we cant just kick them out, alright? Earl smoked his cigarette about twenty feet from the back door. Theyre paying customers, okay? Terrence squatted on a milk crate near the back door, but he held his T-shirt collar like he might pull it over his nose at any moment. Bro, it smells like a warf in there. Hitch smirked. Smells like sunbaked Alaskan, alright. Like, thats not my problem, alright? We done everything we can. Earl took a few steps towards the door and grimaced. Except kick them all the fuck out. Terrence offered. Which were not going to do, alright? Earl paced back out into the parking lot. Hitch watched a few more civilian customers mutter about the smell as they walked back to their car discussing their options for a meal elsewhere. At this rate, theyll be our only customers for the day. Like, they cant go back to the hotel, okay? Earl pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it from the butt of his old one. Lisa says something died in the ventilation shaft and the whole place is getting worse by the minute. Terrence kept pulling his shirt up over his nose, but he didnt bother moving away from the back door and the tidepool breeze. A fucking fish, Earl? A fucking fish crawled up into the ventilation shaft and died? In case you hadnt noticed, were a few hundred miles from anywhere a fish might crawl into any fucking thing. Mudskipper, Hitch mumbled. What? Earl asked. Mudskippers can crawl. Maybe it was a mudskipper. He smirked without looking up from his screen. Terrence pulled his t-shirt up over his nose and held his vape pen up under his shirt so he could hot box himself with strawberry scent. The fuck is a mudskipper? Hitch chuckled. Its a little guy, lives in brackish pools. Walks around on its little flippers. Terrence pulled his shirt collar up to his forehead. That aint no fuckin mudskipper, bro. Nah, maybe like a squirrel, okay? Earl offered. Bro, that aint what a dead squirrel smells like. How the fuck should I know? Hitch chuckled and inhaled deeply. Just take a whiff of that fetid, fish market breeze, man. That is no dead varmint. He scrolled through his phone, opening and closing various apps like he was looking for something specific. Thats Alaskan Salmon roe. Expensive as fuck to ship second-day air, thats for sure. Earl and Terrence watched the old guy poke at his screen. He didnt laugh, he didnt flinch. He just kept on poking away at his pictures of lawnmowers. They exchanged a glance. Bro, you are so full of shit. Terrence braced himself to head back inside. The fuck do you get this shit? Earl tossed his cigarette into the coffee can and followed Terrence back into the fish-reeking restaurant, shaking his head. Fuckin salmon roe. Octavio laid his head on the old cooks shoulder, watching the cook scroll through what looked like maps. After a moment, he sniffed Pacos lapel inquisitively. Aye, Paco. Tambien apestas a pescado. Hitch sniffed the shoulder of his chef coat and inspected the sauce-speckled front of it. Yeah, yer right. Probably best to leave it here. Octavio watched bemusedly as the cook unbuttoned his gravy-stained white chef coat and peeled it off. Under it, he wore an old black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing tattoos discretely hidden for professionalism. Tienes lindos brazos. Octavio admired Hitchs slender shoulder and squeezed his bicep playfully. Porque tienes esse tatuaje? Hitch glanced down at his shoulder as he swiped his screen to check his messages again. Es el punto de ebullicin del agua. He scowled down at his screen. Octavio traced the elaborate olde English script with his fingertip. ?Lo olvidas a veces? Hitch flipped the phone cover closed and glanced around the lot like he was taking stock of the cars. Es una metfora de la mente humana. Creo que fumas demaciado de esa marihuana. He picked up the half joint that fell from behind Hitchs ear when hed pulled off his coat. Hitch stood up and stretched out, still looking for something in the lot. Es la delgada lnea entre la cordura y la locura absoluta. Octavio pinched the joint between his thumb and forefinger, mimicking how the aces held it. Definitivamente demasiada marihuana.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Hitch peered in the back door for just a moment. No tienes que creerme. Puedes verlo por ti mismo. He pointed into the restaurant, nodding. Octavio rolled his eyes and leaned back like the drogados did. Ver agua hirviendo? No gracias. He half-closed his eyelids and nodded his head slowly like the drogados did. Confident that the coast was clear, the third cook pulled his satchel and sunglasses out of his locker. Puedes ver a todos estos superpolicas perder la chingada cabeza. Still grinning playfully, he backed away from the restaurant and scuttled off toward the dumpsters. Octavio inspected the joint and rolled his eyes again. Ests drogado ahora mismo. The old guy checked his phone, still looking around the lot for something, but checking around under the cars near the dumpster enclosure. Ese no es el punto. Tal vez por eso tienes problemas para hervir el agua. Octavio watched as the guy who called himself Paco Herte swung the dumpster enclosure door open and crept in. After a few thuds of the dumpsters smashing against the stucco walls, the cook hollered. Well fuck me sideways! There was a loud metallic grinding noise of some sort and a loud clank as something solid hit the asphalt. A moment later, Paco peered around the dumpster enclosure door. ?Sabes qu? Realmente te voy a extra?ar, querido. He held up his lighter like he was offering a dog a treat and tossed it just a little over Octavios head so that it clattered across the sidewalk behind him. When the sleight dishwasher turned to retrieve it, the old guy pulled the dumpster enclosure shut behind him. Octavio took his seat on the milk crate again, still holding his joint and Pacos lighter. He heard the dumpsters banging around and the grinding metal again and then it was quiet, just the sounds of highway traffic and a light breeze mercifully free of a fishy odor. If Paco was peeing back there, he wasnt making a sound. After a few minutes of waiting, curiosity finally got the best of him, and Octavio sidled over to the enclosure. ?Ests jugando con eso? But Paco didnt answer. ?Puedo ver? he purred, leaning back against the wall. When no one answered or even stirred in there, Octavio playfully opened the enclosure door to find nothing but a half-full dumpster and the overflowing recycle bin. He checked those, just in case, but Paco had vanished completely. Feeling more spurned than amazed by the impromptu magic trick, Octavio didnt waste much time trying to figure it out. He glanced around the lot wistfully, hoping to catch a glimpse of the lanky line cook making his escape. Realizing that he was alone, and worse, that he had no way to communicate with Terrence and Earl in the kitchen, Octavio took his seat on the milk crate again with Pacos parting gifts. He considered the joint still pinched in his right hand and the lighter in his left. Lo que sea, drogado. * * * Whether they liked it or not, the Yahtzee agents did indeed smell fishy and had all day. While it had started badly, like something crawled into the ventilation shaft and died, conditions at the motor inn worsened by noon. They returned midday to change uniforms only to find that the rotten seafood smell had permeated everything in their rooms. They carried the fish market atmosphere with them, and they were more than a little sensitive about it. The Arroyo Grande residents living downwind of the motor inn were a little upset as well and the locals were rolling up the welcome mats all around town. Even if it wasnt their fault, wearing the stink with them everywhere wasnt helping. With the case gone cold for everyone, there was little to do but wait for new marching orders. As the town cooled on the agents themselves, there were few places left available to them besides the Silver Spoon. With bottomless coffee and air conditioning, it was as decent a place as any to debrief and get some fresh air. Unfortunately, the fresh air was 86d just after they arrived, and the kitchen was fast running out of patience, as well. Bad ideas gain traction with large groups of unintelligent people, and it is possible that the few members of the Smith and Johnson family reunion with histories in legitimate law enforcement ought to have known that. One might make the case that if a few sleuths hadnt discovered Jeremiah Jimnezs checkered past, most of the following misunderstandings might have been avoided entirely. Unfortunately, someone did their homework on a few people of interest, and the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive lot lit up warning lights on several screens. Besides the owners legal problems going back decades, his gang, Los Nudillos, had been lightly involved in various drug trafficking rings before the Jimnez kids detention a few years earlier. Since he left the scene, complaints had tapered off, and the gang itself seemed to have dissolved. This was the result of guilty consciences amongst the remaining Nudillos, that their youngest member went away for a brick of schwaggy Mexican weed. In any case, the bright junior detective who discovered this circumstantial bit of trivia did his math the old way and might have missed a decimal point somewhere. The DEA might have confirmed that Los Nudillos were small-time at best, if not entirely recreational. Their few dozen actual forays into outlaw biker territory had been a history of drunk in public, drunk and disorderly, public disturbances, and even a gang fight which consisted of a pair of half-brothers splitting the gang over whose dad was stronger. In addition to these and a few dozen mediocre Yelp reviews, The Desert Sands had a history of unlawful extratemporal infractions dating back to the early seventies, not the least of which, the fact that Jack came back from the dead to run it. Rumor had it in some early temporal investigations circles that Jack didnt belong there in the first place. According to some, the real Jack had been lost in a rice paddy, and this new guy just didnt belong to the timeline at all. Any of these past infractions might have sufficed to pique the Smiths and Johnsons'' combined interest, had anyone bothered to scroll past Jeremiah bad. Instead, the Yahtzees arrived at the same conclusion that the Tiggers had, almost precisely twenty-four hours later. Lacking the general grace of a beat cops intuition and finesse, and free of the limiting influence of an oversight committee auditor, the Smith and Johnson family reunions commanding officer felt obliged to engage all of his newly acquired investigative resources. Whether it was an overzealous ego or an itchy trigger finger, the commanding officer placed a call to mobilize the Stryker, a handful of drones, and an around-the-clock satellite feed of the Desert Sands Towing and Automotive lot. In later satellite analysis, it was clear that the distinct almond-shaped outline of an extraterrestrial craft was visible in various light and heat spectrums the entire time. Had any of the investigative teams still been looking for a saucer, somebody, somewhere might have gotten excited. Instead, a team of analysts in an underground bunker diligently scoured several spectrums for the missing mufflers and catalytic converters, preferring to digitally disassemble complex collections of stuff piled around the lot, mostly because it was a much cooler use of the technology. 54. Ride like its ... borrowed? Jynx Googled Dr. Vickers, scrolling through several pages of results detailing his work in the jet propulsion laboratories, peer reviews of his academic papers, and even details of his subsequent expulsion for questionable data handling procedures. She found photos of him posing with various faculties over the years, first universities, then laboratories, and then abruptly he was pictured with the familiar faces of her high schools faculty, the proud smile replaced with an empty glare. On the seventh page of her results, she discovered his home address, still listed in the Arroyo Grande white pages. Ashley probably would have checked the phone book first and Jynx had to wonder if her mom still had one of those in the house. She plugged the address into her phone and was disappointed to find that it was just as she had expected. Dr. Vickers lived in a really old neighborhood at the south end of town. It was only a few miles away, but without wheels, it would be a long, hot walk. If Austin hadnt bottomed out on Becca all of a sudden, he could have given her a quick ride over there before his date, but he wasnt even answering her texts. Jynx felt like Ashley had just warned her that this was bound to happen eventually. She tucked the saucer shingle into her backpack and readied herself for the walk with a bottle of water and her hat, just in case. She got to the front lawn just in time to see Austin peel out of the cul-de-sac like he was qualifying for speed trials. Even if she knew his urgency wasn''t personal, it didn''t help her feel any better about being abandoned on the front lawn; ignoring her text messages was insulting enough. Steeling herself for the long trudge across town, she spotted the Pony leaning up against the corner of the garage where Austin left it after their ride up into the hills. A quiet knock at the front screen door disturbed Nikki from considering her various defeats, both in tomato cultivation as well as defending her sons honor. Blond, you said? she texted back to Kelly as she strolled in to answer the door. Eyes still adjusting to the dim indoor lighting, the silhouette at the screen door looked a little like Jynx and Nikki wondered if Austin rushed off so quickly that hed left his date behind. Big and blond, Donna wrote back, send me pics if they have them. But sure enough, Jynx was standing at the screen door, apparently locked out. Did he forget something, honey? She opened the door, peering around to see if he was parked out there somewhere. I thought you two were going to coffee. Austins out with Becca. Jynx shifted nervously on the balls of her feet. I came to see if I could borrow the Pony. Becca? Nikki glanced down at the text message screen, trying to remember if there was a side bet. Who the hell is Becca? This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Becca DeWeiss? Miss Arroyo Grande two years running? Jynx didnt mask her disdain nearly as well as she might have liked. Nikki didnt particularly care about the girls extracurricular activities; beyond the initial virginity bet, both Nikki and Kelly had some fairly elaborate plans for Austin and Ambers obvious happily ever after ending. It had never even occurred to them that Austin might run off with some little beauty queen. Hold on a second hon, Nikki thumbed a quick text: Bets off. No win. Jynx watched, rocking back and forth as she waited. Alright sweetie, what did you need? I wanted to borrow Austins bike to run an errand. Nikkis phone chimed: What?! Why?! and a fraction of a second later: I need this, Deb! Regardless of the little debutantes interference, Nikki felt a twinge of smug satisfaction that she could rely upon her son to make the wrong choice. She met his father at that age, after all. Little Miss Arroyo Grande She typed. She smiled consolingly at Jynx. Oh, hell yeah, honey. Let me grab you the keys. Double or nothing her son would blow it and end up broken-hearted before he realized what he was missing out on. You get your things on, sweetie. I''ll see if the spare key is still in the kitchen. A few minutes later Nikki stood on the front lawn in her bathrobe, wearing an oversized pair of Austin''s old work boots. Nikki offered the spare key, still dangling from a dirty rubber Pony keychain as Jynx adjusted her pink coveralls and wiped the dust off her helmet visor. Are you sure you''re safe to drive this thing? Jynx nodded seriously at her, feeling obliged to be quiet with the helmet on, disliking the echo of her own voice. She took the key from Nikki and inserted it into the ignition, following the same practiced steps as Austin to start the bike. She spent enough time riding with him, and even riding it out on the open salt flats the spare key was hers, after all but she never drove it in the streets. She found the busy traffic distracting. Straddling the light Enduro, she turned the key, opened the choke, squeezed the clutch, and stomped the kick starter once, twice, and with everything she had the third time to hear the little two-stroke pop, sputter, and then scream a cringe-worthy snarl. Somehow, starting the motorcycle herself made the loud exhaust noise a little more bearable. She even twisted the throttle a few times, laughing as Nikki pressed her fingers into her ears, grimacing like Jynx used to do. Nikki pulled her bathrobe closed, kissed her fingertips, and patted the top of the purple helmet as Jynx closed the choke and stomped the shifter down to first. A little lighter than Austin, Jynx popped the clutch and the little pastel pony-stickered dirt bike hopped up in an unexpected wheelie, launching down the driveway like that, terrifying both Nikki and Jynx momentarily. When the front wheel hit the concrete again, Jynx kicked it up to second gear, riding out the first crushing wave of her adrenaline rush. Nikki watched Jynx careen down the street to where she very nearly clipped the front bumper of a white Aerostar minivan, just turning into the cul-de-sac. It occurred to her just a few moments too late that she had never actually seen Jynx drive the motorcycle before, or even the truck. But she seemed to know what she was doing. Had Nikki not been distracted, she might have asked a few more questions. So, Austin was on a date with a beauty queen, she mused. Well good for him. She texted Donna: Double or nothing the little princess takes his v-card. She watched the white van trundle uncertainly up the street. Her phone chimed. Youre on. 55. Torture me, wouldja? Each time they poured water on Mr. Paulson''s wet towel-shrouded face, he thrashed momentarily. Then he held his breath for an inordinately long time, repeatedly convincing the amateur interrogators that they had accidentally killed him. While Mr. Paulson seemed elaborately entertained by the entire process, neither Martinez nor O''Connor shared his enthusiasm for the forced briefing. Preparing for CPR on the skinny, slimy, apparent stranger, O''Connor waited to pull away the soggy hotel hand towel, now gone slightly pink with blood stains. The only sound in the room was the fart fan and the dripping of water into the bathtub. Shit, Chief. O''Connor didn''t want to resurrect the asshole, but this time it looked real. Dammit! He pulled the damp cloth away to find Paulson''s face twisted into a comic death mask, eyes crossed, tongue lolling out. The auditor held it for a moment before exhaling, coughing up some water and phlegm, gasping for air, and then laughing. You two ask the stupidest questions, I swear. A thin tendril of drool and snot trailed down to his already mucus-slathered chest. Why does everyone have to work for someone? He spat and attempted to wipe his face on his shoulder. Fucking hell, he muttered. Still lashed to the chair, leaned back over the bathtub to keep the floors from completely soaking through. O''Connor rattled slightly. As relieved as he was that he hadn''t killed the guy, he felt a strong impulse to choke the life out of him every time he opened his mouth again. How in the hell!? Paulson chuckled but from a darker place.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Martinez, taking pity on Paulson, or perhaps just hedging his bets against a potential backlash, took a moment to wipe the snot, blood, and pinkish slime from the auditor''s face and chest. Mr. Paulson bowed his head slightly by way of thanks but chuckled unsettlingly again. What if I just happened to be a concerned citizen with the unique means to investigate temporal anomalies? He smiled ingenuously enough that Martinez almost believed him. What if he just happened to be a guy with a bunch of elaborate technology cobbled out of thrift store bins? What if he was some hobbyist wiggly interdimensional anomaly investigator, after all? What is with everybody and this temporary investigator thing? O''Connor asked. Mr. Paulson chuckled and hung his head, muttering into his chest. If Mary is leaving you, it''s probably not because of the job you''re doing here, that''s for sure. The sentence hung in the cramped bathroom like a gunpowder cloud. O''Connor plucked the snub-nosed complimentary hair dryer from the wall jack, stretching the tangled spiraled chord out for some length, and wrapped it once around Mr. Paulson''s neck. Quietly arranging the tangled spiral of cord around the auditor''s throat like a casual garrote, his deranged smile had no visible effect on Mr. Paulson. What was that nobody? I thought you said something about my wife. Martinez, watching the paperwork stack up, thought to intervene, but he didn''t want to test the sergeant''s rage levels. A man with nothing left to lose was a terrible man to be near. O''Connor But the sergeant was already refilling the tiny ice bucket in one of the tiny vanity sinks. Paulson shook his head. Not much of an electrician, are you? He rapped his knuckles against the steel frame of the hotel chair. You''re about to find out. O''Connor turned off the tap and lifted the plastic novelty bucket out by the handle. You''re about to find out what a GFI is. Paulson glanced down at the wet floor and the sergeant''s bare feet. Good for me. 56. Dr. Vickers steps out It had been some years since Dr. Vickers had found a reason to visit anyone on a personal level. Although he was familiar with most of the locals, he had no real use for any of them. Those that he had known from childhood were few and far between. Some had moved on, some died early, and others had faded away to the margins, still living in town but losing all familiarity with time so that he hardly recognized the old men and women with whom he had attended primary school half a century prior. Dr. Vickers and Mr. Englehorn had attended school together, from kindergarten through high school, and yet they had never found much reason to associate. This was generally considered to be a fine arrangement. Although they were the only two residents of Arroyo Grande with a sincere interest in avionics, they pursued distinctly different disciplines, and each privately considered the other to be a bit of a kook. Dr. Vickers was not keenly interested in talking with Mr. Englehorn on anything more than a superficial level. However, the young Ms. Nash had mentioned stopping by to discuss flight theory, and Dr. Vickers was intrigued to know exactly why. While young Ms. Nash was an excellent student, she had never struck Dr. Vickers as being particularly inquisitive in general. She studied and understood the precalculus theory as much as required, and exceedingly well for a student of her age, especially when compared to her peers. While he knew that she was supposedly on the spectrum, Dr. Vickers had never given the autism spectrum more than a passing thought, nor did he accept ADHD as a legitimate condition requiring consideration in a classroom setting. In his opinion, children who exhibited symptoms or hid behind diagnoses of either cosmopolitan condition were undoubtedly spoiled and undisciplined; they merely lacked structure. More often than not, he had observed, that they were children wanting proper adult supervision. While he could not control their home lives or study habits, he did his level best to impose what discipline he could without resorting to corporal punishment, although he had considered it, often. All the more reason that a surprise visit from Ms. Nash at such an inopportune time had intrigued him so much. While he could understand her perhaps studying ahead for physics or calculus, he would assume that she would approach him with questions on a specific theorem that she found troubling, or a concept that might be beyond her. Autodidactic himself, he thought it not unreasonable that such an awkward, homely child should take a deep interest in her studies. Mr. Englehorn answered the door with a whole wheat toast triangle clenched between his teeth. A bit late for breakfast, Dr. Vickers observed. Yes, well, Mr. Englehorn replied, pulling the toast out of his mouth. I wasnt exactly expecting company. I wasnt sure how to contact you. Well shoot, Kent. My number hasnt changed in nearly forty years. Mr. Englehorn took a bite of his toast and chewed it somewhat indiscreetly. So, what can I do for you? Disappointed to have to ask for an invitation, Vickers bristled slightly. He didn''t want to have such a delicate discussion on the front porch and suddenly felt uncertain. I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time. He nodded subtly, awkwardly attempting to invite himself into the house. Mr. Englehorn glanced around at his lawn and the neighborhood. When he heard the knock at the door, he had secretly hoped that it was Abel and Baker, back from outer space again. Instead, he got the doctor ready to give him a missive on the church of E.T. or something. Yeah, alright. Eyeing the rest of his toast triangle, he shrugged and reluctantly stepped aside, inviting Dr. Vickers into his home. So, hows your brother? The atmosphere was thick with breakfast eggs and coffee. Mr. Englehorn appeared to have strewn most of his laundry around the living room and the dining room table was entirely unserviceable, save for Mr. Englehorn''s breakfast plate. Hes well, thank you. Afraid to touch anything, Vickers hovered in the entryway. Mr. Englehorn plucked a pile of threadbare business shirts off a chair and moved a stack of books from the table setting so that Vickers could sit down. Already regretting answering the door, he took his seat and picked at the edge of his plate, preening crispy burnt edges of his hash browns and nibbling at them while he waited for Vickers to get to the point. You know, your mother used to take him for a walk most afternoons. Vickers nodded, slightly perturbed. She drove him down to the playground at the park and theyd roll around in circles for hours. I think she said he was particularly fond of the red tails nesting in that ponderosa stand. Said he tried to clap a few times, even. Well, Im sure that my mother had a little more time on her hands for recreational activities. Oh, right, Mr. Englehorn nodded. Youve got that little tourist trinket shop up and running. Hows that going for you? Dr. Vickerss mustache twitched slightly. Despite it being located in a strip mall, the museum contained plenty of factual information on UAV activity in the Panamint and Death Valleys, as well as featuring content on the Nevada Triangle, a little-known vortex in the southwest desert, comparable to the Bermuda Triangle, but without as much coverage. I was recently contacted by the History Channel, regarding the museum.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. The History Channel, you say? He feigned interest, still preening the lace edges of the egg and lifting a single triangle of dry wheat toast to take a small bite. He was only faintly aware that some years earlier the History channel had changed its format and taken to pseudo-archaeological documentaries on ancient aliens, but why they might have any interest in the Arroyo Grande ghost story was beyond his comprehension. He stopped tuning into the History Channel after a program claimed that the pyramids were Tesla coils designed to power the entire fertile Levant area wirelessly. So, what brings you by, Kent? Mr. Englehorn set the remaining portion of toast back on the edge of the plate and brushed the crumbs from his fingertips. Im sure you didnt come around just to hear me tell you that you need to take your brother out for a walk once in a while. That Mr. Englehorn was a bit coarse was no surprise to the doctor. He considered the military types, extensive aeronautics education notwithstanding, to be less cultivated in general, and was not expecting more than perfunctory manners. His experiences in rocket propulsion laboratories were such that even the highest brass could tend to be brusque, though they considered themselves to be little more than direct. Dr. Vickers could appreciate directness. He adjusted the lapels of his waistcoat unconsciously. Ms. Nash recently visited me down at the museum. I had the opportunity to speak with her briefly regarding my research. Oh yeah? Good for you. Mr. Englehorn muttered. Id heard that the flat earth society was coming up with the young people. Dr. Vickers gritted his teeth. She mentioned that she had recently been to discuss avionics with you. I was wondering if you wouldnt mind elaborating. Oh, you mean little Baker? Yeah, yeah. The kids were over a few days ago. Baker didnt like the sound of the bandsaw, so we chewed the fat for a few minutes. Dr. Vickers fidgeted. As uncomfortable as he was to be in someone elses house, he had always felt slightly intimidated by Mr. Englehorn, having never been very athletic in high school. Despite his years of study and many awards, he still remembered his place in the high school hierarchy with a surprising freshness. Ms. Nash asked me some fairly pointed questions about flying saucer propulsion. Im sure that you recall that much of my research has been focused on exactly that topic, and I found it delightfully synchronous that she should wander in asking such specific questions. Mr. Englehorn sipped his coffee, regarding the good doctor with a cheerless lack of interest. So let me get this straight. Little Baker wandered into your alien museum and asked you a question about aliens and you found that interesting enough that you had to drive up to her neighborhood to visit her at her home? Mr. Englehorn sucked his teeth and shook his head. Well, youre damn right thats strange, Kent. We oughta call in Sheriff Etherton, and see what he has to say about you chasing a little girl around town. Dr. Vickers trembled involuntarily, just a brief shudder. I merely wondered what might have piqued her interest, and as you are their neighbor, and apparent confidant, I thought to ask you. Ask me what? Dr. Vickers glanced briefly around the room. He had assumed that being adults, he and Mr. Englehorn could openly discuss the childrens activities. If they were up to anything suspect, Dr. Vickers assumed that it was in the communitys best interest that the responsible adults remained well-informed. Unsupervised, there was a fairly good chance that the children were getting into something that they ought not, and if that happened to have anything to do with his missing extraterrestrial artifact, all the better that he be there to prevent a catastrophic incident. Recognizing that Mr. Englehorn was already wary, he did not want to raise the subject of the saucer directly but thought to glean what he could by other, circuitous means. You mentioned that the boy had been using the bandsaw, what for? Mr. Englehorn nudged the breakfast plate with his thumb, inching it toward the center of the table as it cooled. I dont know, and I didnt ask. As far as Im concerned, its none of my business, and none of yours, either. Mr. Englehorns ambivalence began to bother Dr. Vickers. He seemed entirely unconcerned with the childrens activities, no matter how suspect they might be. How can you not be interested? It is a rare opportunity to educate an eager student in your chosen profession. Yes, Kent, but thats where you and I differ. While you tinkered away in your little beakers and Bunsen burners in the laboratory, I was dropping a three-ton chopper into a firefight to collect carrion. I wouldnt wish that vocation on anyone. Mr. Englehorn stood and rose to full height, not looking his age in the least. Now, if you dont mind, my eggs are cold, and Ive lost my appetite. He picked up his plate, brushed past Dr. Vickers with a dismissiveness that belied a sincere contempt, and stepping on the foot pedal of the trash can, dumped his meal into the garbage. For the last time, Kent, leave the kids alone. If theyre busy pulling junk out of the wash at least they arent smoking meth in the park. If you feel like picking trash out of the wash yourself, go right ahead. Im sure you got plenty of room to haul your own junk, seeing as how you arent using the wheelchair lift in the van any longer. Mr. Englehorn strolled towards the front door, shuffling his bare feet along the entryway tile. Well, you come on back when you can''t stay so long, would ya? He opened the front door and smiling wanly, invited the doctor to leave. Dr. Vickers stood and adjusted his waistcoat. As insulted as he might like to be by the abrupt and patently rude ejection, he was only slightly ruffled. He exited quickly and without further awkwardness nodded politely at Mr. Englehorn. Good afternoon, Mr. Englehorn. He turned and walked briskly towards the van, relieved to be alone again, and with good news, even. Despite his quarrelsome manner, Mr. Englehorn had, quite accidentally, answered all of the doctors questions with the inadvertent reference to pulling junk from the wash. So, the young Ms. Nash and her associate had found his artifact. A thin smile surfaced beneath his disturbingly full and dark mustache, a dark shade rising to the surface of a murky pond. If the children did have the saucer, that meant that the new army of agents did not, and before they could whisk it away, he might stand a chance of finally getting Richards hands on it. 57. Just a side gig Martinez held the single authentic business card, a rather plain taupe cardstock with an unembellished San serif nameplate so old that it still had a fax number listed. A furniture salesman? The man calling himself Mr. Paulson chuckled and shrugged. It pays the bills. He spit blood to the side, cracking his neck to loosen up for the next round of O''Connor''s insipid inquest. The steady corporate accounts keep me afloat. They give me a lot of freedom to travel. The auditor smacked his lips like he just bit into something he disliked. Can you get me a drink or something? The chief wanted to untie him and let him clean himself up a little. With a split lip and a split brow, he was bleeding, and wet as he was, the hotel bathroom looked like there had been a bloodier interrogation. That this furniture salesman who infiltrated their organization was alarming, but it wasn''t necessarily his fault. O''Connor let him right in and asked him if he was there for another audit. Originally, I was just going to talk you into remodeling your offices, hoping that might get me in for a better look. Martinez unwrapped one of the little plastic cups and filled it with tap water. Paulson laughed. But this is great! This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The chief couldn''t help but feel disappointed as he held the disposable cup steady and tilted it slightly so Mr. Paulson could drink his fill before O''Connor returned with his jumper cables, et al. For a brief moment, Martinez wanted them both dead but had to remind himself that O''Connor must suffer first. So why do you think the kid is a time traveler? Paulson nodded his appreciation for the cup of water. Not the kid. The old guy, Jack. What old guy? You didn''t read any of the briefings. Paulson hung his head. What briefings? Paulson rolled his eyes at the chief. I found them in the TIG general inbox. Martinez glanced down at his phone, realizing that just about everything electronic in the room was good and fried already. The Arroyo Grande overview, Paulson chuckled. A helluva lot longer than your standard tourist pamphlet, that''s for sure. Martinez glanced around at the wreckage of the room, realizing that the earlier scuffle, the first slap fight question and answer lightning round had left the place uninhabitable and smelling of toasted circuitry. He only hoped to find a single working outlet to plug in his spare console, still in the back of the Tahoe. Confident that at least Paulson wasn''t going anywhere, Martinez peered out the door to be sure that he wouldn''t have to explain the mess quite yet. He hung the do not disturb sign on the handle and ducked out, leaving Paulson alone in the bathroom, still lashed to the chair. Hey! He called after the chief. Grab me a Danish or a muffin or something! But the chief was already down the hallway and too far away to take his order. Missed my continental breakfast, the man who called himself Paulson muttered. 58. Much obliged, Rixy Jynx knocked politely a few times and waited, but Dr. Vickers didn''t immediately answer. She reached for the heavyweight brass knocker and dropped it twice, the thick wood door resonating with each metallic clash. Still, no one answered. She waited patiently on the front porch, unprepared for the possibility that Dr. Vickers might not be there. He did have the little museum to run. If he was there, he wouldn''t have the key with him, and there was no guarantee that he would give it to her if it did exist. The neighborhood was old but well-maintained, old fences blocked the neighbors'' views of each other''s yards. She heard a lawnmower in the distance and a small dog barking relentlessly somewhere further off. She rang the bell and waited a little longer. At a loss for what to do next, she considered breaking into the house; just stealing the key. It would probably be okay for something as important as a flying saucer. Doing her best to look as inconspicuous as possible, she casually peered at the street-facing windows, in case one of them happened to be slightly ajar. Set up into the hill like the house was, the windows were too high off the ground for her to reach, and even if she did manage to find a ladder, somebody would probably see her. As the breeze stilled slightly, Jynx caught a few bars of classical music from the backyard or deep inside the house. She wondered if Dr. Vickers might avoid her after Ashleys performance in the souvenir shop. She peeked in, but the place looked empty. Nothing moved behind the splotchy amber-colored glass that obscured the front entryway. Deciding that it would probably be alright to look around, just in case he was in the back for some reason, she snuck around the side of the house and peered into the backyard, confident that Ashley would be proud of her stealthiness. The house backed up against the granite hills so the yard had a few terraces with shaggy, stunted palms and a big greenhouse kind of shed with one wall open and covered in chain link. Coming off the far side was a rock fountain, long dried up, and full of dead palm fronds. Nobody seemed to bother taking care of the yard. A path worn into the scattered debris ran from the greenhouse door to the sliding glass door at the back of the house, but the rest of the patio was littered with leaves so deep that the paving stones were lost. As she approached the path, she recognized music, and trod as lightly as she could across the dried fronds, hoping not to alarm anyone. The greenhouse had a pair of doors, one right after the other with a little room in between. Jynx recognized it as a sort of safety door for bird enclosures; she''d seen them in the zoo. Although she was curious at the sound of flitting wings, like distant applause, and the deep resonant voice of soft cello music seemed to beckon, she could not say what compelled her to open the first screen door into the enclosure. She felt nervous and uncertain, but the anxiety seemed to drive her forward. Each step only served to deepen that anxious need. Pushing open the second door, her heart crashed in her chest, and she nearly screamed, surprised to see a silent figure in the middle of the room. Motionless, he sat in a fully automated wheelchair with significant modifications. He appeared permanently attached to the apparatus through various hoses and cables. Still afraid she might startle him, she called meekly to the small figure perched in the chair, Hello? He didn''t respond or move, so she crept closer, still drawn to him. The room itself was an aviary. White and speckled doves cooed gently and flitted from branch to branch. The flapping of their wings sounded like a hurried ovation, and with so many of them, the applause drifted around the room. Her hands trembled as she stepped around to get a better look. He was old, with long gray hair and a long white beard that hadn''t been trimmed. He sat in his elaborate wheelchair, like an old king on his throne, tubes, and cables draped dendritically from his forearms. Although his eyes were open, they did not move or register movement. He seemed petrified, and despite the slow rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor, Jynx doubted that he was alive at all.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Reaching tremulously for his bony shoulder, her fingertips rested there. She felt the spark between them, like a static crackle, but soft and comfortable, her mind reeled with the colors. Overwhelmed, she felt her knees go weak and her hand trembled slightly, but the colors organized themselves in sequences as she concentrated on them. Strange images appeared through the collection of code, a scene from an old cowboy show, a big green chalkboard, a campfire, and an American flag. Frozen glimpses of memories scattered haphazardly through the chambers of a lock, clogging the delicate intuitive mechanism like pocket lint in a phone charging jack. As she cleared the chambers her solution settled into place, ending the terrible anxiety. She took a deep breath in and with her, the old man on the mechanical throne breathed in as well, a parched gasp that spread into a bizarre, gap-toothed grin. Well, hello there! The old man said with a bright, childish smile. After decades of atrophy, his voice was little but a raspy whisper. Im Rixy! I guess you must be the one theyre calling Jynx? Jynx stumbled backward, surprised at his immediate animation. How? He chuckled again. Well, I dont know. They just told me that you might be coming along." Jynx was glad that they had already told him, whoever they were. Who are they? she asked, although Rixy didnt seem to be paying much attention to her anymore. Hoowee! he hooted like a TV cowboy, am I ever glad you came along. I thought I was gonna be buried in that mountain for all time. He struggled against the various plastic roots that lashed him into his chair, barely able to move, but fidgeting happily. It was real quiet for a long time, but then that mechanic sparked us up, and Ive been watching you solve puzzles for a few days, at least. He grinned. Without smile lines, frown lines, or any real sort of weathering, his aging skin just hung like an ill-fitting mask on his bright eyes and smile. You got it working? he asked, without bothering to introduce himself or compliment her on her nails. A broad, candid grin spread across her lips as she nodded slowly. I bet youre pretty excited. He grinned back, just as excited until he glanced down at his hands. Woah. Turning them over, he inspected his palms, aged but somehow blank and smooth. His fingers were bony, with wrinkly skin, but no scars, no swollen knuckles, no strange marks. They seemed unreal even to him. I guess Ive been away a little longer than I thought! He blurted cheerily, reminding Jynx of a child again. She still didn''t trust him, even if he was the only other person in Arroyo Grande as excited about the saucer as she was. He reached out with one emaciated, bony arm that seemed impossibly heavy, although he giggled with the effort. Been a while since I had a body, he attempted to shrug apologetically. Go on, it''s yours, he offered his tightly closed hand like he might be playing keep away. Though emaciated to the point of nearly skeletal, his left forearm was firmly clenched muscle, seeming swollen compared to the rest of his frame. She reached for his fist, realizing he was struggling to open it. He chuckled bashfully. You might have to pry it out of there. She didn''t want to hurt the old man, but he didn''t seem to mind as she worked her tiny fingers into the bony cage of his own. He grunted with the effort. After nearly sixty years in a catatonic state, he had all but petrified. After an excited struggle, with both equally eager to reveal the missing piece, Jynx extended Rixy''s long slender fingers to reveal a pearlescent disk of the alien metal, no bigger around than a dollar coin and about as thick as a decent skipping stone. Rixy giggled again to see it. Ironically, there''s no time to explain everything right now. Once it''s activated it''s gonna start attracting all sorts of attention, so its probably best if you get your rear in gear. Jynx nodded gravely. If she had arrived at the house like a thief, she was leaving, charged with a mission. Rixy had been waiting for her, and now it was hers and it was definitely more than just some trash from the wash. But before you get out of here, you mind helpin'' me over to that other chair? A shadow passed over Rixy''s face as he glanced over his shoulder at the aviary. Thought I might play with the birds just a bit before I catch up with you. He smiled. 59. Scones really are a crummy snack While Austin was relieved to discover that the new coffee shop was completely unrelated to Ashley''s recent place of employment, he had arrived considerably earlier than he had planned in his rush to get away from his mother. Consequently, he stood out front. He didn''t want to go in without her, but after just a few minutes in the mid-morning sun, he was already sweating through his golf shirt. The new coffee shop, a first-time entrepreneurial effort by a not-quite couple, was in the same place as the old coffee shop, but with a new vinyl sign replacing the old vinyl sign announcing new ownership back when the old coffee shop was still new. For some reason, mid-thirties ambiguously associated couples fresh from the city tended to gravitate towards taking their turn at running the coffee shop, each adding a bit of their own attempted aesthetic but only removing a little of the previous. Hence, the place felt like a particularly comfortable flea market. Still stalling he stood reading the menu completely, as if he might order something other than just regular coffee. Because nobody else was waiting, the barista watched him read everything through completely, check his phone screen, glance out the front door again, and finally step up to the counter to order. I''ll just have a coffee, please. The barista, a little green-haired girl he only knew from around the school halls, looked him over briefly and smiled mechanically. Is that it?A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He glanced down at the glass pastry display, suddenly uncertain. He pointed at something triangular and sprinkled with sugar. And one of those. She smiled and set a saucer on the counter. An empty mug manifested beside it. A moment later the pastry appeared. The mug was filled, and the little green-haired girl smirked, amused to see a graduating senior getting flustered over a date. She rolled her eyes at him when he fumbled for his wallet, and he blushed more. The coffee shop was mostly empty. A couple of middle-aged mom-type women sat at a little table in the corner and a lone middle-aged guy hunkered over his laptop, typing away. The tables looked too clean and neutral, too business-like. The couch looked comfortable but soft and overstuffed it was built too low to the ground and he was hardly seated before he realized that it would be awkward standing up again. He managed to set his coffee and pastry plate on the table without spilling much. Slightly wary of the green-haired girl''s smug gaze, he decided to settle in and just try to look cool. Leaning forward he picked up the strange wedge-shaped pastry with the sugar sprinkles on top. It seemed hard like a cookie, but fat like a biscuit or something. When he took his first bite it crumbled to a landslide of edible gravel spilling down the front of his shirt. Stunned, he glanced up to catch the green-haired girl stifling a laugh. He picked the wreckage of his pastry out of his best shirt as Becca came drifting into the coffee shop as easy as a Santa Ana breeze. 60. Clamps or clips? Had the Chevy Tahoe been designed with amateur torture in mind, the good folks at GM might have installed a quick release on the battery compartment, rather than shrouding every engine component in an impenetrable plastic cover with ridiculous tiny plastic nipple clips. O''Connor wasn''t much of an executive assistant and he was less of a mechanic. While he had once learned to change a flat tire, years ago, he had never had the opportunity to attempt it on his vehicle for any reason. His practical experience under the hood of a car was generally limited to watching a mechanic point at a thing and tell him what was wrong with that thing. O''Connor had never missed Ben Levy so much, and while he knew that there was a special tool for this sort of thing, he couldn''t help but be reminded of trying to unclip a bra with a raging hardon. The guy calling himself Paulson looked like an auditor. He looked like the sort of pencil-necked cubicle dweller that could make a cop''s life hell with paperwork. And here was the sergeant, trying to remove a 12 Volt deep cell from their only remaining ride because this guy turned out to be exactly the kind of guy that the sergeant knew he would be, namely exactly the sort of pencil-necked cubicle dweller that could make a cops life hell with paperwork.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Having never attached jumper cables to a man''s testicles before, O''Connor cringed involuntarily at the thought. Point in fact, he had never actually had reason to grab another man''s balls before. He quietly hoped that the sight of the battery and cables in the bathroom might be enough to convince the rat bastard to talk, without even touching his junk. Martinez came barreling down the stairs looking more panicked than he would like, his thinning hair catching the breeze wrong. Tell me that you have been checking the general inbox. As the chief opened the back door and rifled through the luggage O''Connor stopped prying at the bolts. He glanced down at the engine. Which one is the general inbox? Dammit, the chief muttered. 61. Bubba bub The Pony sputtered a few times as Jynx rounded the corner out of the gated neighborhood, again nearly clipping a white Aerostar minivan just pulling down the street. While the coincidence should have been obvious to both drivers, they were both so entirely preoccupied at the moment that they failed to register even the slightest hint of dj vu. Jynx accelerated down the long, sloping street that skirted along the back side of the neighborhoods, enjoying the still, hot midday air striking her full in the chest as she sat upright, coasting easily until the throttle sputtered and then cut out entirely. Even in third gear the Pony reluctantly snarled and slowed so quickly that Jynx almost went over the front handlebars. She cranked the throttle, stunned, but that didnt start the engine or accelerate her out of the slowing roll. Just before she came to a stop, she squeezed the clutch to let it continue coasting on the downhill. The rattle of the disengaged chain was the only sound above the helmet-muffled tranquility of the quiet neighborhood.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Jynx coasted around the corner at the bottom of the hill but felt her momentum fading as the street flattened out. She hopped off the Pony and leaned it against the cinder block wall surrounding the neighborhood. She didn''t have to pop the gas cap to know the problem. The tiny stock tank didn''t carry a lot of fuel. She unbuckled her helmet and wiped away the thin sheen of dusty sweat on her forehead. She and Austin could swing back for the Pony as soon as he finished his stupid date. In the meantime, she fumbled through her coverall pocket for the tiny disk. Comforted by the weight and lingering coolness of the metal she wiped the beaded sweat off her upper lip with the back of her wrist and replaced her sunglasses. With maybe a mile or two to walk to the Desert Sands lot, the sun was past its zenith and already baking the valley. She pulled her arms out of her coveralls and tied the sleeves around her waist like Austin and Jeremiah always did. 62. Awkward Becca wore a long colorful floral print dress with her hair in ringlets. She seemed to have brought the coastal weather, draped in humid offshore breezes and an effortless all-over tan adorning her shoulders. He attempted to stand but sunken into the overstuffed couch like he was, he found extraction nearly impossible. Becca waved at him and motioned for him to stay seated. She stepped up to the counter where the little green-haired girl regarded her coolly at first but nodded appreciatively at Austin after she had placed her order. The green-haired girl made a big fuss out of telling her that Austin had already paid for her iced cafe mocha and as overly chummy as she was, Austin was sure he owed her more than a few bucks for the shake.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Becca giggled at Austin as he tried to clear his pastry from his shirt. He couldn''t stand up to brush himself off, either. Relax, Austin. She brushed a few more crumbs off his chest, smiling subtly. You weren''t so nervous under the truck yesterday. He bristled slightly and glanced around the room like a nervous feral animal. I guess I''m a little more comfortable under there. She giggled slightly as she picked crumbs off his chest. So, Im guessing this is your first scone, she smirked. Austin snorted and smiled a little bashfully. Want to risk the sun and slip out front? She dipped a sky-blue fingernail into the whipped cream topping, picking out a tiny, curled chocolate shaving and placing it on the tip of her tongue for a taste. At that moment, had she asked Austin to walk out into traffic, he might have gladly obliged were he not pinned down to his overstuffed seat. 63. Some peoples children Still disgruntled at the near miss by yet another of the young local kids tooling around on a dirt bike, Dr. Vickers collected the mail from the box out of habit. He made his way into the house muttering a mantra lamenting unsupervised minors making decidedly poor choices. He sorted absentmindedly through the mail, considering writing the city council another letter as soon as he resolved this situation with the young Miss Nash and the unfortunate misunderstanding about the extraterrestrial artifact. If she did have it, as Mr. Englehorn had seemed to imply, Dr. Vickers was certain that she could not begin to understand the scientific import of the artifact and her dangerous involvement, should she try to keep it a secret, or worse, attempt to contact the authorities for a reward. He was certain that, given a few moments to discuss the situation rationally with her, she would undoubtedly understand the potential volatility of the situation. If he could only speak with her, she might agree to allow him to assist her in unveiling the unearthed extraterrestrial artifact. Dr. Vickers placed the sorted mail on the kitchen countertop, depositing the junk mail to the recycling bin, loosening his tie, and contemplating the aviary in the backyard, his brothers sanctuary. Once the young Miss Nash agreed to allow him access to the artifact, if only to alleviate his brothers condition, he could undoubtedly broach the topic of disclosure. Stepping through the sliding glass door to the back patio, Dr. Vickers was greeted by the comforting song of the aviary radio, still playing classical music to the gentle cooing and occasional flutter of wings. Just as he turned back into the house, the radio spiraled off to some disquieting rock station, adjusted itself for clarity, and then got louder. Dr. Vickers rushed back to the aviary, hoping to have caught the intruder, whoever it might be, before they managed to inflict any real damage. Expecting to find a student engaging in some early summer chicanery, Dr. Vickers burst into the aviary hoping to frighten the fiend into a quick flight. Instead, he found only a very old man sitting slumped in the corner, not in his wheelchair, but in an old mahogany desk chair. He held one tremulous hand out as an invitation, trailing his IVs. A few doves fluttered at his fingertips and the gaunt figure let slip a childish giggle. Hello, Kenny, he said, grinning to show a few missing teeth. Dr. Vickers reached back to set his keys on the aviary workbench, only to drop them to the floor with a loud clatter, startling a few perched doves from the shelves just above. Rixy lifted his arm, to urge a contented dove from its perch on his wrist. They''re a lot heavier than they look! He laughed. Noticing Rixy''s opened fist for the first time, Kent hoped that Rixy had simply dropped it absentmindedly upon waking and searched the floor beneath his brother. Having already lost his composure, he became increasingly frantic, and realizing that it might be somewhere in the wheelchair he searched through some moderately soiled blanket. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. Rixy looked on, amused at simply having a body again. He chuckled to see that his little brother had become so very old. Look at you, Kenny! You got so old! He glanced down at his hands and arms, inspecting strange, discolored spots and loose chicken skin. Being trapped in the saucer hadn''t been dark, he had been dreaming, sort of, and he did stuff, a lot! But most of the stuff was all cartoons, from memory, the painted landscapes of his favorite desert companions, indelibly written into his subconscious just before he passed into the liminality of the saucer chip. For decades without time, Rixy had existed in a world of his own, accompanied only by birds in flight, the movement of their wings synesthetically translated into his dream. He also knew a few sentient clouds of color that reacted to his voice but weren''t all that much for conversation in general. Most laws of physics hadn''t applied to him there, and he''d like to tell his weird colorful cloud friends all about his new old body, but they were all gone, and he was just here, waiting for the final assembly. As such, form and substance were kind of funny to him. He chuckled nervously again, unable to change the matter around him with his thoughts, and hoped it didn''t take the pilot too long to activate the ship. Having a body was somewhat troubling. Whatcha lookin'' for, Kenny? He watched his brother tossing the remaining contents of the chair, nearly frantic. Did ya lose your keys? Kenny didn''t answer immediately, reluctant to admit that he needed that piece so badly. He grunted and muttered under his breath. Where is it, Rixy? Where''s what? Without looking up, Dr. Vickers recognized a familiar old taunting lilt in his brother''s voice, an impish tone that his younger self knew all too well. Unable to prevent himself, he slouched slightly. Come on, Rixy. Rixy glanced around the floor, pretending to help his brother search. What did ya lose, there, Kenny? Dammit, Rixy! Dr. Vickers stomped his foot once, surprising even himself. Gathering himself, he tugged lightly at the bottom hem of his waistcoat and adjusted his glasses. I believe that you were holding something of some importance, and I was wondering if I might have a look at it, Richard. Rixys smile spread, as cruel and sadistic an older brother as he had ever been. He raised his eyebrows. Whats the magic word, Kenny? Entirely indignant at being goaded into a childish game after over fifty years of catatonia, Dr. Vickers crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. They both well knew exactly what he was looking for, and they were both mature enough to come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement regarding whatever Richard might have had in his hands. Dr. Vickers was more than willing to share credit for the discovery, his older brothers contribution to the scientific community being strictly ceremonial at best, but worth mentioning. Whatever his older brothers demands, if he felt that he had some sort of legal ownership claim for fiscal gain, Dr. Vickers was certain that they could agree. As his older brother would not be offering a compromise, Dr. Vickers decided it was beneficial to take the moral high ground and entertain his brothers insufferable immaturity. Fine, Dr. Vickers sighed, please? After an excruciatingly long pause, Rixy smiled. Nope, he said. Guess again. 64. Cockblocked from across town I mean, Becca smirked coyly, avoiding Austins direct gaze, we all kinda thought you guys were cute, the way she put her stickers all over your motorcycle. We were jealous when you started giving her rides to school. As thrilled as Austin was to know that she had even noticed him back in high school, he was still a little nervous when she brought up Jynx. All anyone at school seemed to know about him was that he and Jynx were an item, and that went a long way toward explaining why nobody ever showed an interest in dating back in high school. Stunned at the revelation, and unsure of how to change the subject, all he could manage was a muttered response. She wasnt my girlfriend. Becca poked at the chocolate shaving sprinkled whipped topping, plucking individual cocoa curls with her paper straw probe and daintily licking each from the tip absentmindedly. Really? You guys were like, always together? Austin shrugged. I guess we just are. Or we were. I dunno. If he had been slightly uncomfortable before, the fact that his phone had just started drilling out a nearly silent humming for an incoming call wasnt exactly helping. Shes just my neighbor, he said, but he felt bad right after he said it. But you guys were never...? He shook his head, tucking his buzzing phone into his pocket. She seemed to consider this new piece of information for a few moments before nodding appreciatively. Just friends, huh? She leaned forward, growing a little more comfortable with her questions. Unbeknownst to Austin, he and Jynx had maintained a sort of untouchable aura of mystery in small-town adolescent gossip and now she found herself close to the chewy, chocolatey center of it all. So why do people call her Jynx anyway? Austin shifted uneasily in his seat. Of all the topics she could choose to talk about, Jynx wasn''t his favorite. If he was trying to impress her with some sort of grease monkey line, like Jeremiah thought, telling her all about his little space cadet shadow wasnt part of the plan. She had her spaceship. At least he should have just one date with Becca. She just started signing all of her papers like that when she started school. He shrugged and poked at the crumbs on the plate. I guess her mom called her that when she was really little, and she remembered it. He inspected the few grounds at the bottom of the mug, swilling around with the last few gulps of fancy backwash coffee. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Oh, that''s so mean! What? Well, like, she''s some little hex or something. Austin took a moment to consider the other meaning of the word before he realized what it must look like. Oh, not like that. He chuckled a little and shrugged. I mean, I guess nobody much liked her dad anyway, so who knows why he left, but its pretty obvious he doesnt get the Aspergers thing because hes still sending her dolls and coloring books and crap and he has no idea that shes killing it in honors classes. But to call her kid that? He laughed again. It''s not like that. He pushed his crumb plate away again, amused. When she first learned to talk, she did this weird thing where she sorta finished people''s words with them, somehow. Like repeating them? He shook his head and tossed back the last crunchy splash of coffee. She doesn''t do it anymore, because it freaks people out, but she used to mouth people''s words as they spoke. It was super creepy. Becca nodded her head, sipping at her mocha, manicuring the edges of the slowly melting whipped topping. Well, that''s cool! Never having given it much thought, Austin agreed. Yeah, so, she got into a big fight with her first-grade teacher and refused to be called Amber. He poked at the remaining pastry, knocking chunks off like miniature boulders from the looming hills behind them. Her teacher changed it in the books officially and theyve called her that ever since. Beccas phone vibrated on the wrought iron cafe table, rattling Austins mug and a spoon that had been lying there. Startled by the resulting clatter, Becca tapped the screen to check the incoming caller ID. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Its Kourtney. I told her to check in. She tapped the ignore button and slid the phone up the table slightly. So does anyone call her Amber? Austin shrugged, ignoring the vibration of his phone. Only her mom... Increasingly annoyed by the buzzing, he admitted, ...and me, when shes really annoying. Becca seemed elated by the news and picked up the phone after the final message alert buzz. Oh my god, this whole time shes like your little sister and nobody even knew it! Becca leaned back in her chair, momentarily so excited that she had to text her friend Kourtney back really quickly to let her know that everything was fine. Do you mind if I tell her about this? She asked. Austin shrugged, I guess not. She gave herself that name. How awesome is that? Austin didnt find that awesome at all. Austin now understood that Jynx had been cockblocking him through high school, and even if she didnt mean to do it, she was kind of back at it again now, tagging along on his first date with Rebecca DeWeiss. 65. Still not a fridge Rixy struggled weakly, but not having been in his body for some time, he wasnt much for fighting off his little brother anymore. Unable to grip Kennys wrists, he struggled against the fists clenched against his frail bird chest, clutching the thin fabric of his pajama shirt. He struggled to breathe under even the slightest pressure. Alright, alright, Kenny! I give! he cried hoarsely, Uncle! But his brother wouldnt let go until he answered the question. I gave it to the girl, Rixy finally confessed, hoping that she had enough of a head start to get to the saucer before Kenny could. Hed seen her learning from inside the saucer, and he knew as well as the saucer exactly who the pilot was. Still reeling with Rixys recent awakening, Dr. Vickers experienced an overwhelming wave of anxious surreality; his control slipping from him. What girl?! he demanded, wanting to hear her name explicitly, to be sure of something, even if he already knew. Mr. Englehorn had confirmed she had found something in the wash, and now she had somehow slipped past him, the sneaky little thief, and stolen the final piece from Richards very own hand. While her intercedence had awakened his brother, she had also managed to undermine his own lifes work, skulking around to lay claim to what was rightfully his; what he had been searching for over fifty years himself. The impudent young lady had somehow single-handedly stolen everything he had ever worked towards from him without even trying! And Dr. Vickers wanted it back. That was all. He wanted it all back and he would get it. Miss Nash could not have gone too far.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. She called herself Jynx, Rixy offered quizzically for discussion. I thought it was a funny name for a nice girl, but what do I know? He chuckled to himself and looked down at all the tubes stretching from various points. But Dr. Vickers remembered the matching motorcyclists bookending his morning errand, both in pink coveralls. The doctor realized that twice he had narrowly missed her and now she was getting away. They had the saucer, after all, and she had simply stopped by to pick up the key. No big deal. Rixy glanced through the various fluid-filled saline bags hanging from the rack above the wheelchair. Say, Kenny, I''m parched. What''s it take for a fella to get a drink of water? Starting the artifact, if that is what they were planning, seemed like a decidedly terrible idea. He remembered the blue fireball careening towards them through the storm that night so many decades prior, and how relieved he had been that it had never actually exploded. If they did try to start it, and if it did explode, there might not be any evidence left this time. As fast as he could crouch to fetch his keys from the floor, Dr. Vickers was headed towards the door, leaving Rixy trapped in a desk chair in the aviary, still thirsty. Hey, Kenny! Just he surveyed the tubes, leading to various liquids. A little somethin'' to wet my whistle? Although some of the liquids were clear, he doubted that they tasted all that good. Throat slightly parched, he sang the refrain from an old cowboy cartoon, a thirsty cowpoke on a sagging old nag, creeping across the Technicolor-painted cartoon desert: Cooool, clear water to the birds still flitting about the aviary. His own heart fluttered back sympathetically, crashing violently against the inside of his birdcage chest before falling still. 66. Nobody calls it a "homing beacon" anymore Jynx watched a cartoonishly ominous condor turning lazy circles above the distant salt flats and swished the last few swigs around the bottom of her bottle, regretting that she hadn''t thought to bring more. Even another two miles into town, sweating under the oppressive sun, was probably enough to risk serious dehydration. The sky was the right color blue, and so deep that Jynx felt she could easily fall upwards, out into it as if it were a pool of water. But the sun pinned her feet to the asphalt and the coarse canvas of the coveralls chafed and clung to her in myriad uncomfortable ways so that she might as well have been trudging across town in a space suit. Squinting down the soft, straight slope northwards, running parallel to the town itself, she saw the mirage pooling like mercury in the distance. In cartoons, anthropomorphic animals were always fooled by that wavering quicksilver distortion. Tourists out on the salt flats sometimes fell for it, too, driving across the desert to catch an elusive pool of brackish water and running out of gas, finding themselves in need of a rescue. A drop of sweat dripped from her brow to the lens of her sunglasses, a tiny liquid magnifying lens trailing a warped tail behind it like a comet, it dried away to a salt blur in a few moments. As a child of the desert, she was familiar with the illusion and knew it to be a result of air density differences due to heat, just like Mr. Englehorns floating paper lanterns. And it did look like water; the promise of relief beckoning, but still clinging stubbornly to the horizon. She checked the water bottle again, estimating how long she would have until she should knock on some random stranger''s door for a refill. Taking a tiny sip, just to wet her tongue, she licked her upper lip and tasted the heavy salt. In the distance, she heard the damaged exhaust systems of the other cops, the big guys that had overrun the town about the same time as those other three fools, but it was obvious that they weren''t working together. They didn''t even like each other much, it seemed. She hoped that Moondoggie and his friends'' failure the night before would prevent the big guys from poking around the shop too much before she could get back there. She found some comfort in the sound of their exhaust. At least she could tell that they were still moving around and still looking. She picked up the pace a little anyway. Almost speed walking, and a little bit conspicuous in the pink coveralls, she didn''t hear the white Aerostar minivan turning onto the street a few blocks behind her. She knew that there was no guarantee that the little palm-sized chip did anything. Just because a monkey has a can opener doesn''t mean it can open anything, much less start a car. Maybe the old guy picked up the alien equivalent of a stale French fry from under the front seat, and all she had was a dehydrated space snack. For just a moment she wondered if she should put the little disk in her mouth and taste it, just in case, but thought better of it. Meanwhile, the minivan crept closer, presumably giving Dr. Vickers time to plan his approach. Jynx recognized the familiar sport-tuned glass pack muffler rising from the arhythmic cacophony of the others, but couldnt tell which direction she was moving, or even whether she was drawing closer at all. As much as she quietly hoped that Ashley might swoop on her and pick her up, the chances of that were slim so long as she was still in the Arroyo Viejo neighborhood. There was no reason for her to be back there, and she was probably just on her way to work or something. Still, like a pet listening for its companion, she tracked the groomed exhaust growl of Mr. Ouija through the adjacent streets until she was confident that it was getting closer. Turning down a newer street, Jynx found sidewalks again and felt comforted by the open yards and some activity. The white Aerostar minivan trundled up the street behind her, startling her a little. As intently as she had been listening for the obvious exhaust sounds, she had completely ignored the street traffic. Rolling up to the curb just a few yards ahead of her, Dr. Vickers leaned out the drivers side window to call to her. Ah, Ms. Nash! Rixy, er, Richard told me that you stopped by! I was so sorry to have missed your visit! Stepping eagerly from the drivers seat, Dr. Vickers completely skipped thanking her for finally waking his brother, looking slightly flustered but overly friendly, and just a little sweatier than usual. Quite honestly, he continued, perhaps recognizing that he might look slightly disheveled and therefore unnecessarily alarming, Dr. Vickers took a moment to smooth his hair back slightly and give his waistcoat hem a slight straightening. I had been hoping to continue our discussion from yesterday. Just about every abduction scenario that Jynx had ever seen played out as a warning video started something like this. A creepy middle-aged man pulling over to the side of a secluded suburban backstreet in an unmarked and windowless white van with an invitation to continue a casual conversation raised just about every red flag. She slowed her stride only slightly, sizing him up. If he knew she had the chip, he couldnt possibly attempt to take it from her, at least not out in the open like this with potential witnesses. Hey, Dr. Vickers. She glanced around the neighborhood, hoping to catch the eye of one of the neighbors, perhaps, looking for a witness. Yeah, I saw your brother. She nodded her head. He seemed nice, she shrugged. Hands stuffed deep in her pockets, she stopped short of where he stood; well outside of his reach if he attempted to grab her or something. She felt the tiny disk in her pocket, the coin that looked like aluminum slag but rested in her fingertips like a lead slug. She felt the cool sort of living hum of it and felt better just having it. Now, like one of the puzzles on the little shingle, she just wouldnt feel right until she had brought them all together at last. She just wished that there were some ways to disguise it, to put it on a string and wear it, just in case he managed to catch her and rifle through her pockets. Yeah, Jynx said, squinting up toward the sun, your brother pretty much answered all of my questions. She shrugged and smiled, increasingly confident that the tiny disk was, in fact, the key.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Although she seemed to lean back casually, Dr. Vickers could sense that she was coiled to spring if necessary. Abandoning his attempted line of polite banter his face grew slightly more serious. He was, after all, some figure of authority in her life, and for lack of a decent father figure, should suffice to command some respect. I know that you have it, Miss Nash. You either have it, or you know where it is. He removed his glasses and cleaned them, letting slip a long, slow, disapproving fatherly sigh as he did so. If you take me to it immediately, I wont bother to report this obstruction to the investigators with whom I am working quite closely. Miss Nash dared to roll her eyes at him. He detected the slightest hint of a smirk, even. She cocked her head to the side slightly, as if she were listening for something beyond the insipid noise of those damaged exhaust systems. Announcing its arrival, Mr. Ouijas exhaust system snarled. The sleek black shadow materialized around a corner at the end of the block behind them, tires screeching like the tenuous call of an inquisitive and deeply protective harpy. Yeah, we saw them last night, Jynx smiled. When you do see them, remind them that they owe Jeremiah beer. This time, when the glass pack growled, it was as much a predatory warning as it was to compression brake out of the turn, like hitting the retrorockets upon re-entry. Mr. Ouija careened menacingly down the block in just a few moments, streaking straight up to the curb beside them with a snarl and a few dramatic backfire crackles. From the open passenger side window Sir Pugsley sprang gracelessly, ejected as if a particularly vicious, but generally unthreatening overstuffed torpedo, who upon hitting the sidewalk in an enthusiastic run, turned a slightly twisting tumble, and then gaining traction, he barreled straight on towards his target, the duly terrified Dr. Vickers, who had never before been attacked by an angry pillow. The passenger door launched open, carried by the last bit of momentum. There you are! Ashley called leaning over the center console. She sounded only slightly annoyed. Jynx, recognizing her ride, didnt waste another moment, but scooped the snarling Sir Pugsley from the sidewalk and slid into the passenger seat. Ashley stomped the accelerator and feathered the clutch to lay down a fairly thick cloud of burnt vulcanized rubber smoke and a pair of thick patches of it on the asphalt as well, gaining traction herself and slamming the passenger side door shut with the acceleration. Buckle up, hon. Ashley checked her lip gloss in the rear-view mirror as if she might have just finished applying it, and swiped through applications on her cell screen, finally thumbing a map of Arroyo Grande with several little blinking beacons flashing on it. Whats this? She asked calmly, tapping the screen with her elaborately decorated fingernail, indicating a pair of blinking beacons flashing together, moving along the animated navigation map. Jynx inspected the initials under the blinking beacon, AN and the blinking initials under a few others. Is that me? Too preoccupied with losing the Aerostar, Ashley leaned back in her seat, adjusting the rear-view mirror as she skirted a tight corner at nearly thirty mph. Yes, and me and we are here together, go on she waved for Jynx to carry on what seemed an obvious predicament. Why are you tracking me? Well, obviously, for situations just like this. Ashley continued to check her mirrors as if Dr. Vickers might still be on their tail. What if you were kidnapped or something? She screeched around a corner faster than her GPS map. Jynx felt her stomach lurch with a strange vertigo as the navigation map lagged around the corner. I''m fine! She protested, even if Ashley''s driving was making her a little sick. No, Jynx, you''re not. You are clear the hell out here in Arroyo Viejo whilst Austin plays footsie with that little tart Becca DeWeiss. She skirted a corner a little faster than the last, seeming to pick up some speed. And at ''Common Grounds'' of all places? That mini mall wanna-be franchise sells milked-down lattes calling them damn venti cappuccinos! Jynx glanced over her shoulder, confident that they had lost the minivan, although Ashley wasn''t slowing down. Thats not a cappuccino, Jynx. I dont think thats even a latte anymore. That''s a cup of hot milk with a splash of burnt bean juice! If Ashley was aware that she might have just saved Jynx from a somewhat freaky situation, she didnt show it. Instead, she seemed a little preoccupied with the milk content of various caffeinated beverages. Well, thanks for the ride anyway, Jynx said, pushing Sir Pugsleys eager tongue away. She reached between her sneakers for one of the half-filled water bottles tumbling around the floor of the passenger side. Wait, are you stalking Austin, too? I activated both of your tracking chips, she shrugged, in case we had to use them as homing beacons. Jynx drank deeply, just because she could, and shook her head. I still have no idea what that is, Ash, she confessed. That is totally unimportant, Ashley said. What is important right now is the artistry of the hand-pulled espresso shot and the lightest, fluffiest, frothiest fucking velveteen milk foam that the town of Arroyo Grande has to offer. I mean, does he not appreciate the artistry of the freakin pull or what? accelerating out of the next corner, Jynx watched the heads-up digital speedometer display 45 mph on a residential street. They push buttons, Jynx. Thats all they do; they just push buttons. Its an automated flavored milk bar, thats all it is. She slammed her palm against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Were one step away from being replaced by robots, the whole lot of us. For a brief moment, Jynx contemplated the fact that Ashleys hair was in a mess, her make-up smeared as if she had been crying. She was in an old pale blue Arroyo Grande High hoodie and sweatpants. This might very well be exactly what she had been talking about, ex-boyfriend turned one-night stand redemption attempt. Whatever Ashley was upset about, it probably had nothing to do with steamed milk to espresso ratios, and probably more to do with some desperate need to reunite Austin and Jynx. Trapped in the passenger side of Mr. Ouija as Ashley made her way to the far corner of the Arroyo Grande neighborhood to start her gauntlet, Jynx only started getting nervous when she thought she heard Ashley stifle a quiet sob under the roar of the sport-tuned and glass-packed aftermarket V6. As Jynx clutched at the seatbelt, to pull it on, she realized that she still had the saucer token clutched in her hand. Buckled in and crouching deeper into her seat, she readied for Ashley to officially announce that she had chosen to run the gauntlet. Opening her fingers slightly, just to peek at the tiny object that had caused the unexpected fuss, Jynx discovered that sometime during her conversation with Dr. Vickers, the little opalescent metal skipping stone had somehow developed a perfect hole, directly in its center. 67. Mala onda Just after three, Csar hopped in his pickup and drove down to the Lucky Mart for a case of cervezas. It was a hot day, and that was enough to work up a thirst, but the temperature inside the repair bay, close to the platillo, the air seemed to crackle and warm everything, even in the shade. Csar began to wonder if it was putting off microondas to fly perhaps, and it was slowly cooking them. Easing back through town he was amazed at the number of black SUVs scattered throughout, handfuls of the paramilitary police types collected around each one. Each truck came with two or three gringos, and most of them did look alike. Either the Esmeets and Jonesons were avid hunters, or this was not a family reunion at all, Csar decided. Plenty of them had guns. It was just as his wife had said, the Esmeets and Jonesons were everywhere downtown. He pulled back into the Desert Sands front lot to find another big black SUV, with two enormous gringos standing beside the front door. Both wore black cargo pants and black T-shirts. One wore a gun in a shoulder holster. Whatever they were selling, he wanted none of it. He patted his pocket unconsciously, checking for his wallet and papers. Swinging his case of beer and a bag of chicharrones from the passenger seat, he nodded at the pair as he walked up. Do you work here? the one with the gun asked. ?Como? Csar responded. ?Trabajo aqu? the big guy said with a thick whiteboy accent. Esprate, Csar said, avoiding eye contact. ?Frijolito! he called back to the yard, hustling away from the cop. Jeremiah climbed out of the Lazy Boy with a lanky grace. He ambled forward looking only mildly annoyed. Manny and Csar generally ran the shop for the last few hours of the day, giving Jeremiah a break before the evening. Jeremiah kept the gas pumps open as late as he wanted. But both Manny and Csar had the unfortunate habit of faking that they could not speak English if there was a customer that they didnt like. Que pasa? he asked, pretending to be a translator. Csar glanced back at the man out front, sure that Jeremiah would follow his gaze and make sure that they were far enough out of earshot that no one could hear them. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the beefy customer. Tienes que esconderlo. He said through his grinning teeth as he passed a beer to Jeremiah. Jeremiah nodded, smiling jovially. Hechelo. Csar slapped him on the shoulder, faking a chuckle. Jeremiah popped the cap and took a few slugs off the beer. He stabbed his cigarette out on the workbench as he sidled up and took a seat at the service desk. Sorry about that, Jeremiah smiled. Theyre great mechanics, but shit for English, he watched Csar pass a beer to Manny and mumble through his clenched teeth. What can I get you?The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. The big guy waved back towards his rig. Just figured I might top the radiator off. That he was law enforcement of some sort was obvious, but the fact that they were all built like brick walls meant that they might be something more. Both of them stood with a certain rigidity that looked military. Dressed all in black, standing out in the afternoon sun without breaking a sweat, meant that they had spent some time in the desert. Yeah, sure. Jeremiah swiveled around. In the convex security mirror in the corner, he watched Manny stand up from his lawn chair and pull an old canvas tarp from one of the back shelves. I generally cut mine with a little distilled water, Jeremiah casually recommended, stalling as he reached for the gallon of antifreeze. You got a leak of some sort? Just low, the cop shook his head, perusing the candy bar rack. Hey, Smith, you want a candy bar or something? Nah. The other guy called. Get me a water, though. The cop nodded and glanced around, spotting the soda cooler. If they were here to look for the saucer, they werent looking very hard. The other guy was out there staring at the screen of his phone. Jeremiah rang up the antifreeze and scanned in a couple of bottles of water and a couple of energy bars. The officer pulled out his wallet with a badge and pulled out a company credit card. What the hell is IETOSI? Jeremiah asked, without thinking about it. The cop raised his eyebrows, cracking the cap on one of the bottles. Investigations, he said, casually. Insurance fraud, that sort of thing. Jeremiah nodded, pretending that he didnt care. These guys weren''t in town to check out a fraudulent L&I complaint. You guys got some sort of convention? Jeremiah queried. The other guy stepped in the front door, glancing around the service area. More like a family reunion, he chuckled, taking his bottle of water and poking through the display rack of random roadside necessities, oil funnels, and plastic gas cans. Boss lets you drink, huh? The guy with the gun nodded at Jeremiahs beer, gone sweaty in just a few minutes. Im off the clock, he shrugged and took a long gulp from his slightly neglected bottle. But like I said, those guys back there dont understand a damn thing, he chuckled as Manny casually took a seat next to Csar and nodded almost imperceptibly. Say, uh, he glanced at the name on the coveralls, Jack, you look like the sort of guy who might know a little bit about this town. He glanced back at his associate. What do you guys do for fun around here? The sort of information it took to know a little bit about this town didn''t even fill the tourist pamphlet and the only activity not directly advertised was methamphetamines. Jeremiah, er, Jack was sure that these guys hadn''t come to town to dabble in a decent drug habit. He wasn''t about to invite the lot of them down to the Starlight Lounge for another round of sloppy drunken lawmen. Well, bud, he raised his sweaty beer and winked. I''m afraid you''re looking at it. The guy by the SUV laughed. They weren''t at the Desert Sands on business, that was certain. What time does it start to cool down around here? He glanced up at the sun. Maybe the super cops felt the heat after all. Jack drained the rest of his beer in a few gulps. It was already going warm. October, he smirked. Thank you, come again! He called, tossing his beer into the trash can as he strolled back to his Lazy Boy and Alex Trebek. Interlude: Temporal Drift At this point in time, relative to the events back on the surface of the earth, a flat black mechanoid toad randomly appeared in the middle of space, facing the wrong direction and slightly disoriented, (stop me if youve heard this one,) listlessly drifting in a small cloud of glittering gravel composed of spent rounds, steel jacketed lead slugs and bits of flash-bang grenade shrapnel. In the case of an uncalculated temporal acceleration, the chances of mishap increase considerably when the pilots are navigating the jump through a hailstorm of bullets. If you find the sudden and silent appearance of a giant black mecha toad drifting in low orbit unnerving, imagine that you are a three-foot-tall grayish humanoid temporal tourist who had only just witnessed their first traditional American welcoming party at point blank range from the comfort of a kid''s car seat. While time and space are regularly described as an interwoven fabric or even a river-like flow, others would readily compare it to a substance, not unlike an aspic, an apocryphally popular gelatin-based entree with various sweet and savory foodstuffs trapped in the wriggling, chilled fluid. Like an aspic, time and space tend to get all gooey around big heat sources, hence the seeming intrepid march of time when one is spinning around a sun. Should one randomly appear in space from an unspecified distance in the future, having miscalculated for both time as well as space, it might be possible that the relief of having escaped a barrage of gunfire will be quickly replaced by the dread of having accidentally transported oneself back too far, thereby drifting in space for all time. Another terrifying possibility is that after drifting through space long enough, the eventual return to the earth''s surface without proper reentry preparations could result in the mechanical toad and occupants melting into a molten ball of slag as they burn through the upper atmosphere.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Relax. This isnt that ball of molten slag. Dentures, right? While the ninja had calculated for a very short jump C a few brief hours to arrive before those other guys with the guns C the miscalculation in space meant that they had arrived precisely where they had been standing just a moment before, but the Earth just hadnt quite got there yet. As they rotated in the suddenly terrifyingly silent vacuum, they had only moments to panic before recognizing that they were, plummeting towards the earth, but backward. Interestingly enough, had they jumped just a few minutes further back in time but not space, there was the distinct possibility that they might have collided catastrophically with a satellite, or even the International Space Station. That they did not was through no special effort on their part. This proves only that the universe is sometimes cold and unfeeling in very fortunate ways. As the robot twisted and contorted itself, again preparing for a landing, the entire episode seemed at worst mildly inconvenient. More disconcerting, however, was the fact that a hailstorm of molten lead and steel shrapnel would return to earth with them, raining down on the very spot they abandoned just a few hours earlier Incidentally, it is also quite difficult to navigate in an aspic, especially without goggles. 68. In the form of a question So, who is Jack? Martinez asked again. Even after skimming the overview, he was still confused about how this person of interest in some conspiracy theory discussion board was related to Vickers'' missing weather balloon. Meanwhile, Paulson, his bottom half still firmly lashed to the soggy hotel chair, enjoyed the second half of his vending machine sandwich with his one free left hand. Still adorned in his own slimy effluvium, he occasionally dabbed at his busted lip with one of the hotel torture towels, the waterlogged pink going darker with the afternoon heat. There''s some discussion on the boards that he might be from further back, but he arrived in Arroyo Grande with some sort of device, and I am pretty sure that it has something to do with that saucer you guys are looking for. Paulson set down the remainder of his sandwich, peeled back the squished wheat bread, and carefully stacked Cool Ranch Doritos in a layer. Replacing the bread, he crushed it flat with the palm of his hand and gingerly picked it up, spreading Doritos shrapnel everywhere. Martinez was about to complain about the corn chips mess, but glancing around the room, he recognized that the blood stains setting in everywhere were all Paulson''s. An ant infestation wasn''t really going to be a problem. Judging by the black hole of redacted paperwork that your organization leaves in the wake of this upcoming event; I got a really good feeling about tonight. Paulson nodded. Martinez scowled, trying to decide what that even meant. Whoever he was, he had an annoying habit of shifting between the past, present, and future, sometimes in the same sentence. But you have a record of some sort, then?Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Paulson shook his head, wiping Dorito dust from his lips with his blood-smeared wrist. Everything gets wiped here. Eyeing the other half of his sandwich he plucked another bag of chips from the stack Martinez retrieved for him. I mean, nobody really knows what happened here. This entire event is popular lore if only because it never happens on paper. Both Martinez and Paulson heard a thud from the balcony walkway and worried that the cleaning crew might be doing the rounds. They sat in silence, listening to the racket coming down the hall towards the door. Martinez felt confident that he had put out the sign, but he wasn''t sure if Paulson was about to go hollering out for help. Paulson seemed to crouch lower behind the kitchenette table, peering over his chip bag and waiting for the housekeeper to pass. He stifled a chuckle and glanced over at the chief. Whoever it was, they were mumbling, or singing, and the chief realized that he might have left the sergeant unsupervised for just a little too long. O''Connor came into the room ass first, arms full of his conquest, a gold top, deep cell 12-volt car battery, and a pair of jumper cables with the sales tags still on them, fresh from the roadside emergency kit. Standing in the entryway he was a sweaty, sunbaked lunatic with an angry smile. You like the super hits of the sixties and seventies, right bud? Paulson chuckled and eyed Martinez for a Geneva Convention intervention. O''Connor started singing again. We''re gonna rock down to Electric Avenue... he dropped the battery on the kitchenette table, rattling everything on it. His smile was a sick thing. ...and we set your junk on fire! 69. Gauntlet or gambit? There comes a time in a young woman''s life, Ashley decided, when she is done playing backyard dress up, and ready for the princes big balls, so to speak. Flipping open a compartment in the center console, she pulled out a small canvas camouflage bag with a clear laminated compartment. She tossed it into Jynx''s lap, startling Sir Pugsley, who responded with an indignant snort, sniffed at the package, and chose to relocate to the back seat. Printed in sloppy lowercase letters like a child''s handwriting, the label in the laminated sleeve on the little military surplus fanny pack said: Boom! Jynx glanced over at Ashley who responded without taking her eyes from the rearview mirror as she skittered across a lump in a cross street, nearly disrupting the hair styling, already in progress. Relax, honey. It''s a self-destruct sequence alright, but it''s strictly metaphoric. -- I think. She considered the package contents, wondering if she had left the fireworks in there, or if they had tossed them all out before they hit the border crossing at Mexicali. Yeah, she nodded, smiling. Pretty sure. Jynx unzipped the bag and reached in. Ashley had two passports, one US, and the other Mexican, for some reason, and the name listed was Ashton LaCroix, like the seltzer water she always drank. Honey don''t poke around in there. I don''t know if that pistol''s still loaded." Again, Jynx leaned away slightly. She pulled a few phones, each in a durable rubber case, and color-coded red, yellow, and green. She snagged the red phone and held the power button until the screen lit up. So yeah, hon. I don''t want you to feel responsible or anything, but it looks like it is time for Mr. Ouija to go away for a little while. Jynx refrained from rifling through the remains of the "boom" bag, nervous about the pistol, but intrigued by several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, US currency, fresh and clean as the day they were printed and wrapped in a paper sleeve, just like in the movies. As she reached for them, Ashley plucked an earbud case from a satchel pocket, pulled them out of the little plastic charging case, and tossed the little case over her shoulder, apologizing to Sir Pugsley. Recognizing Jynx''s curiosity, she took the satchel from her lap and set it on the floor at Jynx''s feet. I mean, honestly, I was just waiting for an excuse. I''ve wanted to do this for months. She flipped down the passenger side visor, revealing a small screen where the vanity mirror ought to have been. She tilted it towards herself slightly and pressed the power button, cursing under her breath as she waited for the spinning wheel on the screen to finish. Uh, Ashley? Jynx didn''t want to bother her, but she preferred to skip the gauntlet run, even if it was her fault that they were on it. If there''s any way you could just drop me at the shop, that would be just fine. I have a few things I wanted to get done, she said. The image on the screen cleared to reveal the same sort of GPS tracking map as Ashley''s phone, but a more rugged edition. Moving vehicles were marked as beacons and potential obstacles, the government vehicles were marked in green, a detail which delighted Ashley. Well, that''s cool, Hector never showed me that! She flipped down her visor, revealing another screen instead of a mirror. She powered up the new one, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum as she waited, humming as if she were merely waiting her turn in a dentist''s office. What is all this stuff? Jynx asked, indicating the screens and small LED displays attached to nooks and crannies in the dashboard. Jeremiah''s Batmobile jokes aside, Jynx had never noticed how much aftermarket tech was wired into Ashley''s car. She doubted a spacecraft would need so much but was willing to learn. For just a moment, careening at high speed across a residential cross street, it occurred to Jynx that her saucer might not have cup holders, and she might want to grab one from the Desert Sands 99 bin before she got into her saucer. To her right, she saw a white Aerostar minivan waiting for the right of way to chase them now, presumably. Ash took random turns that became a sort of preflight holding pattern. She bobbed her head from side to side, poking at the various screens, choosing her displays, but she could just as easily be ordering a boba tea for pickup. She dialed a number and waited, twiddling her fingers. I probably can''t make it up to the shop, sweetie. It''ll be hard enough to make it to the highway at this rate. She watched the drifting green dots on the screen above the passenger seat. As yet, they had no bogies as Ash liked to say. I need a window, Jynx. I need you to call the street.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Jynx glanced up at the display screen like it was a fish tank bracketed to the ceiling. What? Watch the green dots. See the way they''re moving? They''re going to set up an opening without knowing it, and you''re going to guess exactly when and where. She pulled the screen from the visor and set it in Jynx''s lap, patting it like an activity on an afternoon road trip. It''s just like one of your video games, hon. Jynx watched the convergence of green dots, clearly delineated as law enforcement. Like the activities on her tablet, she watched the tiny dots all move, seemingly random. She didn''t understand them as well in two dimensions. They did seem to ebb and flow, taking turns at intersections, and moving down the highway lines in pairs. She really could see it. It was not necessarily a pattern, but the seemingly unpredictable points moved together. Some came from points off-screen, moving back towards town. Jynx, hon, I meant like, now. We gotta get out of here before these guys start collecting in one spot. She saw what Jynx had seen, not by some solid calculations, but some sort of gut feeling like Lisa had described. Jynx focused, pushing the little dots around in her mind, seeing twenty points on a grid, thirty seconds into the future. Anything else was unpredictable. Jynx! Now! Ashley yelled. Jynx blinked at the dots and then spoke. Two blocks north go left. We need to get into town, not back to Arroyo Viejo. Just, left. And faster. Watching the dots move, she felt almost as if she had slipped into a trance. She calculated without numbers, watching for the green dots especially. Okay. Turn right and punch it for two blocks. Ashley seemed to have gone into a trance of her own, following Jynx''s instructions without paying much attention to the road. She collected another phone, the yellow from the stack, and fiddled with buttons. The dialing sound played over the speakers briefly before Ashley heard it in her earbuds. Jynx glanced over her shoulder to confirm that Dr. Vickers was back on their tail and realizing that she could pick out which dot was his on the screen, double-tapped it to change the color instinctively. Ooooh! Ash exclaimed. See, I told you we''d be good at this. Despite driving significantly over the speed limit, Dr. Vickers was still not keeping up with them and planning their move, Jynx was confident they could lose him without drawing much attention. Right here. Ashley skittered around a corner turning down a mostly empty street. Left at the next block and then watch your speed through the traffic light across the highway. She watched the green dots crisscrossing their target intersection, confident she timed it correctly. Ignoring the front windshield, she checked Dr. Vickers''s dot and confirmed they lost him as they took a left. Oh! Ashley flicked a toggle switch beside the stereo console, and it was as if all the sound was instantly sucked out of the cracked sunroof. They coasted along in a serene, soundless bubble. Even Mr. Ouija''s fierce growl was reduced to a delicate purring. She held her pointer finger aloft to cease the nonexistent chatter. Uh, yes, I''ll hold, she said to the phone. Ashley ground gears to slow, her engine growling low as she coasted conspicuously across the intersection, attracting the eyes of nearly a dozen of those big meaty agents, all lined up at the red light. Cruising just below the speed limit she crossed all four lanes of the highway, lined with curious or even just randy undercover extraterrestrial investigators only too happy to see Ashley''s smiling face, even if it was only faintly familiar for some reason. Had they seen the rest of her, they would have recognized her for certain. She treated the lot on her side to a delightful Miss Arroyo Grande-worthy princess in a parade wave that elicited a few ingenuous smiles. Jynx just stared at the faces on her side, sinking further into her seat. Not nearly as entertained by the attention, she became all too aware of how many of these guys there actually were, with a dozen dots on the screen that she couldn''t see through the windshield. Every single one of them wanted her saucer. Ashley dropped a gear and stomped the gas again on the other side, leaving skittered ellipses of melted Goodyear behind as she sped off. Yes, hi! She chirped into the phone. I feel so silly calling you, but I''ve looked everywhere, and I just can''t seem to figure out where my car has gone. She held her manicured fingernails to the ear bead as if the noise canceling device was making the 911 operator difficult to hear. Well, I just didn''t want to say it out loud, but I am beginning to believe that it has been stolen! And she smiled nonchalantly at Jynx. 70. Feeling skiddish Isnt that so weird? Becca laughed. We didnt hang out through school, but then I went and locked my keys in the car. She leaned forward and swizzled her paper straw around the whipped cream on the top of her iced mocha, poking at curled chocolate shavings. We probably never would have had a reason to hang out if I hadnt been so silly the other night. Austin laughed and nodded. His phone rang on vibrate, buzzing from his front pocket. Although he knew that it was probably Jynx, and probably something important having to do with the saucer, and yes, the saucer was hovering and everybody was looking for it, but he was sitting across the table from Rebecca DeWeiss, finally, and they could just hold on for like an hour, maybe two. Can I be honest with you, Austin? She picked at the tiny sparkling teardrop-shaped gem that hung from an impossibly thin gold chain around her neck. Like a tiny glimmering model of the saucer itself, Austin found himself just slightly distracted when the breeze shifted, carrying the scent of her cocoa butter tanning lotion. He nodded mechanically, ignoring the ongoing action in his pocket. I kinda knew you were working at the towing company when I called down there. She preened the edges of the whipped cream. Austin couldn''t hear anything but the crashing of his own heart jitterbugging in his chest. He thought he saw her blush slightly, her sun-kissed skin taking on a particularly healthy momentary glow. The thin strap of her sundress fell from one shoulder, revealing a nearly perfect all-over tan. Between that and the vibrations of the phone in his front pocket, precariously close to a sensitive area, Austin grew increasingly nervous. Theres just always been something about you, Austin; something about how chill you are all the time like youd just be so much fun to be around. She shrugged and smiled at him. Confused, Austin took a bit of pastry gravel from his plate and set it into his mouth, washing it down with a splash of tepid coffee. Each move he made was slow and deliberate, worried that his hand might shake. Admiring her across a crowded hall had been easy enough, and the few times they had casually spoken he had frozen in abject terror. Just watching her eyelashes now, he was hypnotized and prepared to cancel all of his plans for anything and everything right after this date and possibly look into college. That she had asked him out to coffee was more than he could have hoped for, that she might have planned it, even, was causing him to fairly buzz with endorphins or the phone in his pocket. Matching the tone and frequency he felt the ominous reply before he could have heard it. A low reciprocal growl that canceled his ecstasy instantaneously, Mr. Ouija''s distinctive glass pack snarled hard into the Lucky Mart parking lot as Ashley decelerated. Austin''s collegiate plans were momentarily put on hold as he tumbled from low orbit and impacted with the real world, still spinning away.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. She hovered on a cloud of menace, coasting across the lot like a jungle cat. Her tire walls scuffed against the curb like brushing her muzzle for attention. She might seem affectionate, but still terrifying, nonetheless. The engine snarled again, and as the tinted passenger side window lowered, Austin''s heart dropped with it. Having ignored his phone nearly to a climax, they had found him anyway. Oh, hey, Becca! Ashley chirped, twiddling her nails at the two-time Miss Arroyo Grande. Becca sort of snarled a reply, Oh, hey Ash. Austin, honey, Ashley said, her voice gone sickly sweet, Could you do me a little favor and pick up your damn phone, please? She cocked her head and smiled. Thank you, sweetie. She twiddled her rhinestone manicure at them both and punched it back into first, she revved the engine, spreading another hot rubber forensic breadcrumb as she dropped into second over the curb on her way out of the parking lot. You know, Becca said as a set of sirens suddenly squealed from somewhere to the north, picking up speed as it gave chase to Ashleys quickly vanishing tail. I so badly wanted you to ask me to homecoming junior year. The sirens crescendoed with a shrill but sufferable example of the Doppler effect. Really? Austin asked, as the second set of sirens started up and spun tires catching up to the first chase car. I practically begged you, Becca confessed, slightly embarrassed. The nuance of her admission was slightly lost to the sound of several SUVs starting their engines, trumpeting their incomplete exhaust systems like a biblical charge. Austin thought back, attempting to ignore the chorus of squealing tires joining the apocalyptic horn arrangement. You asked if I had a date, he remembered, watching as the first of the big black government trucks roared past, each flicking on their sirens. Becca leaned forward, speaking up a little, but she licked her lips, Yes, she said, and Austin wondered if her lip gloss was just slightly tinted pink. Another police cruiser of some sort, this one another local deputy, screeched tires and the back end skittered across the highway as it sped off south to join the massive car chase. And I said no! he called, struggling to be heard as a few more SUVs rocketed past. And?! Becca queried, waiting for him to put the pieces together, and contemplating putting her knuckles into her ears as well. It took a moment, but Austin finally realized hed missed his shot almost two years prior, and probably because he was too busy picking Pony stickers off his motorcycle to notice that Becca had been dropping a hint. It wasnt his imagination; she had flirted with him. Oh, he said, inaudibly. Becca didnt need to hear him to see that he finally understood. Austin!? she asked, leaning much closer to him, close enough that he could smell the subtle hints of dark roasted espresso beans and artisan milk chocolate on her breath. Yeah!? he called back, watching the movement of her lips just as she watched his own. He wondered if this might be their first kiss, and he felt unprepared like it was some sort of pop quiz he should have studied for. Do you think maybe!? she leaned in closer, practically shouting at him to be heard over the rush of a dozen performance-tuned SUVs racing past with bumper lights flashing and the sirens drowning out almost all other sounds. She was close enough that he felt he could have kissed her, he wished he could, but he seemed uncertain if he should, mostly because she was yelling in his face. Maybe you should answer your phone, Austin! 71. Fast-moving particles The Heisenberg uncertainty principle states that the more precisely an objects momentum is measured, the less precisely its position can be predicted. That is to say that while you might be able to measure how fast and in which direction a particle is moving, it becomes difficult to predict exactly where the particle will be while it is doing it. Concerning fast-moving particles, many witnessed Mr. Ouijas spectacular exit from Arroyo Grande without noticing the brief pause in momentum. Some envied the young Ms. Coopers audacity, that she spun out in the parking lot near the southern edge of town and seemed to give them a chance to accept her invitation to dance. This spectacular gesture might have been a case of observational error, as the casual observer might have missed a change in drivers just under the stand of ponderosas in the park. Ashley enjoyed a longer-than-expected joyride around her hometown, but returning the car to Jalisco was the unfortunate responsibility of a young prospect beholden to Jesus Ramirez Aguilar, of only minor narcotraficante notoriety and sort of celebrated in song. While it is true that the popular Narcocorrido Hoy, Caga La Aguila was written to honor El Chuys legendary generosity, it is also true that he paid the musician a significant amount of money to write and produce the song. Hoping that the euphemism would project majesty and a deep connection to the people of his pueblo whom he hoped to save, the song quickly became synonymous with a poor-quality methamphetamine product that was so deeply cut with baby laxatives that users were forced to do lines off of toilet paper dispensers in bathroom stalls. While Chuy pretended to enjoy the kitschy infamy in the dirt yards and drug dens of the American Southwest, he had secretly resolved to keep all future advertisements strictly word of mouth. The night that Ashley sang it to him in Bakersfield, he gave her the car. He was a little drunk at the time, and he just loved watching la rubia sing about the fertile eagle shit.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Of more value than just what was under the hood, Mr. Ouija had a lot going for it in the glove compartment. The custom street racer was insured for a ludicrous amount of money, but the only way for El Chuy to get his hands on it was if someone less conspicuous reported it stolen. An occasional client of Ashleys, he agreed to pay her a percentage of the settlement for the risk incurred as well as supply her with the fake identity; all she had to do was file the paperwork and contact his man in Arroyo Grande. Mr. Ouija was to be collected at a time and place arranged by Ashley at her convenience. That Ashley had taken a full six weeks longer than agreed to initiate the exchange was an unfortunate but forgivable sin. El Chuy was quite enamored with the elusive Little Miss Ashley. Unfortunately, Chuys man in Arroyo Grande had recently been dealt with and was not currently available. As such, the responsibility of returning the car the Bakersfield was tasked to a young prospect who had only recently begun to question his commitment to the organization. Victors second cousin happened to be at home nursing a black eye and bruised ego when the call came through from Jalisco. Despite his abject terror at speaking to El Chuy directly, upon answering the call, he was given about five minutes to ready himself for a high-speed pursuit out of town, already in progress. While there were no direct threats made, it was strongly implied that failing to return the car to Bakersfield would disappoint El Chuy greatly, and Chuy had been disappointed too much recently. Eschewing the general rule against using the product, the meat-faced stuntdriver fortified his adrenaline glands with about a teaspoon of uncut methamphetamines dissolved in half a glass of flat, lukewarm pineapple Fanta, because snorting, smoking, or injecting the product was how people got addicted, according to Victor. When Mr. Ouija finally peeled out for the highway, it was with an elaborately hungover but chemically augmented courier at the wheel and an entire entourage of legally nonexistent supercops in high pursuit. 72. Super no va The bedrock of the town itself felt the deep vibrations of so many exhaustless performance V8 engines starting and accelerating out of town all at once. O''Connor heard the cacophony of Yahtzee vehicles, but he didn''t really listen until the first of the banshee screaming sirens announced the pursuit of live prey. As more sirens joined the hunt, their dysphonic call spoke to the sergeant on a primal level. He glanced up hopefully at the chief. Martinez didn''t even look up from his old laptop, wired through Paulson''s briefcase for a power supply. He pointed at the Tahoe''s gold top 12v deep cell, and brand-new jumper cables, sitting abandoned in the corner. The siren song continued for what seemed like a long time, a few stragglers joining from the north and screaming through downtown Arroyo Grande. For lack of a working radio, there was no way to hear the patter of the local law enforcement, either. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. O''Connor watched as the chief stopped scrolling through his document. As the last of the sirens wailed mournfully out of town, Martinez hung his head and reached up to massage the bridge of his nose. I should probably get that back in the unit, huh? O''Connor offered. The chief removed his glasses and nodded without a word. Paulson chuckled. O''Connor glared at him. Still half lashed to a hotel chair in his underwear Mr. Paulson decided that it wasn''t really that funny after all. 73. Symmetry Levy and his costumed passengers watched the dark shape on the horizon as it emerged, a harbinger of what lay ahead, wavering from the hot mirage distortion at the horizon. Like a bubble of tar, it grew in the mercurial pool, darkening yet indistinct in Levy''s enhanced condition. The hallucinatory quality of a few days'' worth of sleep deprivation already had him hunched over the wheel, blinking the sweat from his eyelashes even with the air conditioner cranked to full. As such, his field of vision was framed in a wonderful sparkling aura of salty magic. Adderall wasn''t helping any. As the pair of pilots were silent, they weren''t exactly terrible traveling companions. Having recently discovered deep-fried hash brown patties at a fast-food drive-through, they were enjoying solid food a little more enthusiastically than Levy had anticipated. Finding the fry oil residue on their fingertips as a suitably musky skin care cream, they requested several more handheld potato treats and set about slathering each other in the tater-smelling oil as if applying aloe to a particularly bad burn. Without any formal training in cultural anthropology, and with a third of his neurons misfiring, Levy recognized a very human quality in their mutual grooming activities. They seemed to be taking great care in the process, and Levy wondered at the deeper personal attachment implied by their new costuming. What he might have previously mistaken for space travel preparation, now took on a particularly intimate quality, and feeling overly voyeuristic, Levy felt obliged to avert his eyes as the ninja began caressing the princess''s shoulders and chest. He focused on the highway ahead, rather than consider the application of used fry grease as space-faring foreplay. The shimmering black tar bubble on the horizon seemed to expand, sizzling at the edges with crackling red and blue lights. Levy pressed the back of his wrist into one eye socket and then the other, swabbing the sweat from his brows and clearing away the prismatic filter, only to reveal more of those sizzling lights on the horizon, and the thick tar-like bubble at the center growing. All three, leaning forward, Levy began easing the lumbering moving van toward the shoulder, to make a little space for what looked like it might be a sizzling high-speed chase ahead. As the horizon boiled over, the wall of siren sounds rose to a crescendo. The first tar bubble to boil over was seemingly silent as it rapidly came into focus. Dark and sleek, it shimmered in the desert sun and flashed its headlights politely as it approached, the engine a dull thrum in their chests until it shrieked past tearing a vacuum in its wake. As Levy watched it vanish into the rearview mirrors, stunned by its speed, he lost sight of the road just long enough to steer slightly back towards the center of the thin ribbon of highway, and unfortunately, directly into the path of a dozen rapidly approaching law enforcement vehicles.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it As it turns out, the pilots were not entirely without voices. Seldom utilized past adolescence, these vestigial remnants of their distant genetic ancestors had slowly receded in the populace to such a point that few even realized that they were capable of vocalization. While shuddering had become an involuntary fight or flight autonomic response, screaming, or in this case, violently shrieking in abject terror, had an effect not unlike striking an e-chord on an electric guitar just a few feet in front of the monitor. The resulting feedback loop continued to terrify them as they recognized their own, and then each others voices, and at least a dozen law enforcement vehicles narrowly avoided a series of deadly collisions, each with a cacophonic doppler wave crash that worsened the general atmosphere in the cab. Levy felt the load shift and heard a low metallic groan as the robot in the back braced for possible impact, wrenching the walls. Levy clenched and grimaced, confident that three days of legal speed had already evacuated his bowels but glad nonetheless that he did not shit his pants. As the sirens faded away over the horizon behind them, Levy opened his eyes to find the rented panel van trundling safely down the highway at about fifteen miles per hour. The princess and the ninja, still shivering violently, clutched each other and stared blankly out the front windshield. Levy depressed the gas pedal again slowly, picking up a little speed. They rode in silence for a few miles, creeping back up to 65mph. Hey, Andy, Levy called back to the cargo compartment. At hearing its name again, the robot sounded particularly chipper. Yes, Mr. Levy? Lets hear that playlist, maybe. Would you like me to play Jacks favorites? The robots cheerful interface reminded him of those little countertop hockey puck surveillance tools that people were wiring into their homes. Yeah, Andy. Do that. Levy unclamped his hands from the steering wheel and listened to his woodpecker-like heart drilling at his sternum. What the robot relayed to the dashboard radio sounded like someone dropped a speaker array into a swimming pool of ferromagnetic fluid; thick, sticky beats that seemed a natural waste product of legitimate music. At least it was downtempo and helped Levy to unclench considerably before they passed the first signs announcing amenities in beautiful, sunny Arroyo Grande! 74. Ashley Cooper’s unavoidable acceleration to local sainthood The few soccer moms enjoying skinny lattes in expensive yoga pants came out to discuss the episode with the standard stay-at-home moms from the laundromat, folding childrens fitted sheets while herding energetic toddlers. Well, did you see that? And, freed from their salon chairs, hair folded into individual tinfoil locks like middle-aged medusas, a few grandmothers interrupted their colorings to comment on the commotion. Well, I definitely heard it. Within just a few brief moments, it was clear to everyone that the troublesome Cooper girl had just fled town, followed by all of those annoying undercover officers, and everyone assembled there agreed that it was a fine arrangement. Well, just one look at her, and anybody could tell she was trouble. And there was some agreement, especially amongst those just barely old enough to remember, that she generally always had been, and that her dramatic exit, pursued by police, was a satisfactorily on-brand ending. Well, I cant believe it took so long. A few knowing smiles spread amongst the salon set, as they considered their own indiscretions. Well, hell, someone hollered, I hope she makes it to the damn Grand Canyon! and there was some agreement. Before Mr. Ouija had made it as far as Barstow, Ashley Coopers memory had returned as a bastion of unrestrained feminism. And this guy just sat there scrolling through his phone like nobody saw her yell at him at all. Just as cool and calm as if nothing had happened. He looked a little queasy, and someone thought to recommend water but forgot to in all the excitement. Austins missed call log was a string of Jynx followed by a couple of missed calls from random scam likely numbers. Austin tried calling everything back, but no one answered, and Jynxs line went straight to voicemail every time. Either he was in a lot of trouble, or she was in a lot of trouble, and he didnt care to think about either option. That Ash took the Smiths and Johnsons with her when she left was a good sign, but Jynx vanishing completely was not. The worst part was that he was out on a date but his first real date, and with Becca! when all of this went down, it didn''t make him feel any better, all things considered. Becca sat watching him patiently as he hung up and redialed, absentmindedly attempting to drink from his empty coffee mug until the barista, who had watched the entire scene, took it upon herself to bring out a refill.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Having just unwittingly and involuntarily participated in the juiciest bit of intrigue in recent memory, Austin had improved considerably in the baristas opinion. She came out from behind the counter with a fresh French press in hand, just in time to catch the tail end of the commotion. Well, that seemed a little excessive, she laughed nervously. He reached for his wallet, realizing that he had to leave. He had to find her. Shes not answering, he mumbled. Feeling dizzy and somewhat dislodged, he stood from the cafe table. Where do you think she would be? Becca asked, trying to be helpful, but Austin wasnt listening. She wasnt a set of keys or a pair of sunglasses. She wasnt a lost object. She was Jynx, and when she needed him most, he was out having frilly coffee drinks with Becca. Ive got to find her, he said and made for his pickup truck, realizing that he was abandoning Becca and the Barista both at once. He raised his silent phone, as if for some explanation or apology, and lacking the words to elaborate any further, backed away toward his truck, picking up speed. She wasnt lost, he was. It was her saucer, and she was right. It was important. He should have been listening. Austin! Becca called from the sidewalk behind him. He knew he should say something to her, but Jynx was in trouble. Im sorry, Becca, but I should go. He backed towards his truck. She nodded, and honestly, now that she knew Jynx was like a sister, she didnt mind, But Austin Uncertain if he should go back and kiss her if she wanted him to be dramatic like the guys in the movies, he felt pinned in place, unable to move. Becca offered him his truck keys. ...You forgot He rushed back. I didnt know if She handed him his keys, unless He glanced down at her, uncertain if he should kiss her. She bit her lip and glanced at his ...you left them there on purpose? He shook his head slowly. Alright, she said. I wish I had, he said and glanced down at his phone again. Shes not answering, he repeated. She placed her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. I know. Just text me when you find her. We can all hang out. Enveloped in her cocoa butter scent, Austin nodded absently, then glanced up and down the highway, losing blood flow to his brain again. 75. Old-fashioned While the uncertainty principle metaphorically explains why it might be difficult to pinpoint Ashley Coopers exact location as the car accelerated away, one should not confuse the limitations of wave-particle measurement with the efficient observer error. Still following what he had thought to be the Cooper girl''s dangerously reckless path through the backstreets, Dr. Vickers had been dismayed to find that the loud exhaust he had been following had been one of those obnoxious black SUVs. Even more upsetting to him was that just after he discovered this deception, the SUV turned on flashing lights, and sirens. It sped off towards the highway, presumably to intercept Cooper girl and her passenger before he could. Dr. Vickers watched as the black hot rod raced out of town at speeds his Aerostar couldnt hope to achieve. The atmosphere became insufferable as the air was filled with shrieking sirens, snarling exhausts, squealing tires, and the resulting dust storm. Moments later, the air grew still again and the unwitting tourists returned to their loping afternoon commute with an exciting anecdote to later recall. Dr. Vickers had been pursuing the young ladies with the windows down so that he could hear them. In the rapid evacuation of the Smith and Johnson family reunion, he had become undone. Tired, sweaty, and chewing grit, Dr. Vickers changed his directional signal, turning left, to stop by the museum briefly. He decided it best to compose himself, and possibly have a quick cup of tea, to settle his nerves and plan his next move. The parking lot in front of the museum was fairly empty, except for a few nail salon clients and a large, rented panel van parked in the south corner. Although new and otherwise undamaged, the cargo portion seemed slightly twisted and noticeably askew. Dr. Vickers didnt bother to pull around back, as he normally might if he were opening, but rather pulled straight into the front parking space, in flagrant violation of the tenant''s parking agreement. Dr. Vickers walked through the front doors but didnt bother turning on the lights. He wouldnt be there long and didnt want to invite any curious interlopers. He pressed the start button on the electric kettle, chose an Earl Grey, and draped the bag in his mug, carefully looping the string around the handle to ensure that the paper label, and worse, the tiny metal staple, did not slip into his cup. He noted that his fingers trembled slightly. That she had the saucer was now certain, and Rixy had, for whatever reason, just handed her the missing piece. Rixy''s poorly timed awakening was inconvenient to Dr. Kenneth Vickers for more than the obvious reasons. Of course, he shouldn''t have given away the piece. Of course. But having had some time to consider the situation, Dr. Vickers couldn''t help but recognize the unfairness of it all, first that he had been forced to become his brother''s keeper, and now he would be responsible for the rehabilitation of a man who had been all but a mannequin for so many decades. Dr. Kenneth Vickers concluded that he would have to discuss Rixy''s options with him, now that he was awake. Rixy could apply for some government assistance, or possibly an extended care living facility C to get the professional attention his medically miraculous case deserved, of course. Once Dr. Vickers had secured the chip and artifact, there would be ample income, undoubtedly. He poured a small amount of cream in the bottom of his teacup, and just a half teaspoonful of sugar, then, changing his mind, and diet be damned, the whole teaspoon. For fifty years he had been waiting for Rixy to give him that piece a game of keep-away that had lasted fifty years! and then Rixy just blithely tossed it away to some little street urchin who came by for an afternoon visit. As the kettle began to warm, it made a low burbling noise. The Extraterrestrial Museum his damn extraterrestrial museum that he had built to research the saucer crash that had nearly killed him and put his older brother in a catatonic state fifty years prior! was blissfully quiet, even the sounds of the highway fading away slightly, like distant ocean waves. Dr. Vickers stared thoughtfully towards the corner of the room where a framed B-movie poster advertised a bombshell blonde in a red dress collapsing into the arms of a square-shouldered, chiseled-jaw sort of man, pointing a pistol at some horrific invader. He remembered Jack that way. The old guy came back from the war with a bad leg and something to prove, and he was the only one who believed Kent. As a child, Kent took Jack to look for the saucer, hoping that they could find it together, but Jack finally gave up; he said it didnt want to be found yet. Those were his exact words: I guess it doesn''t want to be found yet. As if the saucer had a will. At the time, Kent had been certain that he would grow up to be like Jack, but now Jack was an old man tending a gas station and Kent was the man with the gun in his hand. Jack still complained about unleaded fuel while Kent had finally succeeded in finding the saucer. What the young Miss Nash had failed to consider was how very small the town of Arroyo Grande was. Although she may have eluded him thus far, it was only a matter of time before they inevitably had to return to the impound lot by way of the central highway. Miss Nash did not yet understand how critically important that particular object was to his research. She and her little friends had found some fun bit of trash to play with, a novelty from the wash. Even if they did have the piece that Rixy had clung to C still playing keep away after decades! C they lacked the scientific expertise to even begin to understand such a complex and, yes, C alien! C technology. They couldn''t begin to comprehend the alien systems any more than a chimpanzee with the keys to a car.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. A thin smile arched Dr. Vickers'' bristling mustache ever so slightly. He found this chiseled noir hero image humorous; that this barbaric fatalistic fantasy is what these uneducated fools in the sixties had fetishized for an extraterrestrial investigator. A scientist with a gun. How silly. He smirked and let slip a slight chuckle, or sob, alone in this sideshow museum, where he had played carnival barker to the masses, biding his time until he could unearth the saucer and show them all. Jack knew where it was, but he had quit. Kent Vickers doesnt quit. His eyes danced in the dim room, glimmering with the reflected light of passing chrome and windshields on the highway. His eyes, which had seemed slowly drained of vigor over the decades, crackled the pale refracted green of tempered glass shards. The kettle burbled ecstatically behind him. These barbarians had no idea what they were dealing with. They couldn''t possibly understand the endless boons to the scientific community, the potential growth for humanity as a whole! A space-faring people would have the secrets to zero-point energy! This technology, in the right hands, could save the human race hundreds, maybe thousands! of years'' worth of research and development for the private sector. If the military got their hands on this saucer, his damn saucer! they would only build more guns and bombs, but bigger ones. Einstein was right about that at least, his inconclusive field notes on the specialized theory of relativity be damned. The electric kettle reached a full, rolling boil and clicked off, leaving the doctor in the peace of his collected research, a collection still missing one vital piece the actual saucer. Dr. Vickers regarded the B movie poster, steeling his resolve. He smiled and nodded to himself, and casually walked back to pour the hot water. Deciding to freshen up before his next foray, he chuckled softly to himself and watched the steam gently rising. With a few moments to allow his tea to steep, he strolled down the hall, loosening his bow tie and the top few buttons of his shirt. He should wash his face. He chuckled again. It was important to look presentable. Strolling down the hall he stopped abruptly, and, as if he had just remembered something, stepped into his office in search of something fairly specific which happened to be hidden in a small, neatly engraved white oak box, not unlike a cigar box. Setting it gingerly on his immaculately organized desk, he flipped the latch and opened it slowly to reveal his father''s WWII service pistol. Lifting the black pistol from its velvet bed, he was again impressed with the weight and solidity of the thing. In his hand, it seemed to take on an added gravitas and finality. He took a moment to inspect the weapon, admiring the cool, oil-gleaming black metal and used the soft swaddling cloth to wipe the protective oil from the barrel and handle, affectionately stroking the hardened steel barrel. The bastards at the university had mocked his research and stolen his work, his work! and that was fine, that was just fine. That was all theoretical. But this this! this was a practical application. This was the real thing, finally! He nodded, and an unsettling smile bristled behind his dark mustache. Ensuring that his father''s service revolver was still loaded, he slid it casually into the pocket of his slacks, where it dangled satisfactorily against his thigh. He patted his pocket contentedly and returned to refreshing himself. He wouldn''t use it, of course he didn''t have to! he would just let them know that he had it. That should suffice. They were good children, after all. Unsupervised, yes, but Ms. Nash was an adept student. They simply didn''t understand the importance of that what did the greasy delinquent call it? Oh yes, ''scrap from the wash''. How arrogant of the little criminal. If necessary, it would be fine to shoot the tow truck driver. He was an ex-convict. He was only a few moments rinsing his face in the restroom sink when he heard the weak mechanical chime of the front door and realized that he had failed to lock it. Unfortunately, the museum had attracted its first guest of the day. Expecting some nosey tourist asking the price of a novelty keychain, he found some sweaty junkie in coveralls, his hands and wrists splotched in paint spray. And the intolerably sweaty man in the paint-stained coveralls brought his children with him! A pair of young trick-or-treaters peered at Dr. Vickers from behind the junkie. Vickers! Jesus, Vickers! Thank God! I can''t tell you- I mean, I just don''t think- his head jerked, glancing about the museum, I''m just glad you''re alright! I can''t get through to anybody and I started to worry, you know? These guys are fucking serious! His head wobbled around on his neck, eyes practically bobbling out of their sockets. He grabbed Dr. Vickers'' shoulder out of desperation. Quite obviously, this junkie was on what the kids might call a bad trip. Bothered beyond mortal patience, and feeling sullied by the deranged junkie''s mere existence, Dr. Vickers began to tremble, himself. He hadn''t even taken the time to button his shirt or settle his tie. He hadn''t even time to take the first sip of tea, and this, this fetid sack of effluvium had stolen even that from him, with his little junkie children trick or treating, even! Dr. Vickers reached slowly into his right pocket, withdrawing the pistol. His voice was exceptionally calm as he spoke, and in small words so that this degenerate could not possibly misunderstand the purpose of the gun: Get your hand off of me. The junkie, quick to take a hint, raised his hands and backed away slowly. But Vickers Upon hearing his name, Dr. Kent Vickers cocked the hammer of the gun with his thumb, unaware that as calm as he might have felt, he didnt look so good. He had met quite enough new people recently, and he was not eager to make any new friends. Kindly leave my museum, he said. Snagging a ninja under one arm, and a princess in the other, the junkie fell backward out the door. He stunned a pedestrian walking by and managed to stammer: He''s got a gun! before scrambling away. Peering calmly out the door, Dr. Vickers watched the stinking drug addict and his wretched children as they scrambled into the slightly off-kilter rented panel van. Glancing back to the shopping mall parking lot, he discovered the salon owner sweeping the sidewalk in front of her shop with a cheap plastic broom. Oh, hello, Mrs. Tran! He called cheerily. Mrs. Tran nodded and waved politely before ducking back into her salon. Dr. Vickers let his hands rest against the pistol in his front pocket. Poor Miss Nash. She underestimated what a small-town Arroyo Grande was. While she may not even be with her little boyfriend, he would undoubtedly find her soon. Dr. Vickers mustache bristled. All he had to do was follow the skinny little delinquent in the dented red pickup truck. 76. Complementary variables There is solid science behind the theory that observing a thing, especially if the thing knows it is being observed, changes the behavior of the thing. If one were to observe certain variables at a specific time and place it would undoubtedly ruin their plans for the afternoon and make a lot of people angry at the same time. For a particle to avoid being observed, it is sometimes necessary for them to just sort of blink out of existence at one point, and blink back in at another. This baffles scientists to no end and becomes the cause of a lot of math. While the particle is gone, it exists in a state of superposition, more of a probability than a problem, for a few moments at least. It could reappear anywhere within a given space, but for just a blink, it just doesnt exist. Unlike the quantum mechanics problems associated with calculating for a particle that blinks in and out of existence, in Arroyo Grande, some variables just walked from one place to another. The drainage culvert, being wide enough to drive down if necessary, and tall enough for a grown adult to walk comfortably upright, was possibly the best-kept secret pedestrian access in Arroyo Grande. Buried beneath the back lots of Arroyo Grandes main drag, it provided a rough estimation of the creek years earlier when Rixy and Kenny set off for their ill-fated day hike. Featuring a natural ambient temperature of a comfortable 75 degrees and frequent drainage opening skylights, the path from the park at the southern edge of town was mostly debris-free and carpeted in fine sand like walking on a beach at low tide. The last trickle of the early summer storm runoff still meandered gently along the center of the culvert with a gentle burbling sound. Short of the elusive unifying theory it would be impossible to predict with any real precision what happened in the tunnel on that afternoon. It is highly probable that a pair of particles in superposition approached each other along a dark stretch of subterranean stream. In this case, the meeting in question can only be presumed, as there was no one there to see it and for reasons unknown, but somewhat obvious, neither party chose to mention it to anyone else. For this reason, it may be necessary to offer up a hypothetical scene in which two strangers probably met whilst taking a clandestine stroll along the subterranean aquatic feature in a now familiar desert town. Due to the quality of the acoustics in the culvert, it is safe to assume that they heard each other coming from a greater distance than was entirely comfortable in an enclosed space. The sound of disembodied footsteps in a dark passage could be considered objectively terrifying to most rational people. It might be safe to assume that both parties were probably at least as curious as they were wary. Each might recognize the other to be intriguingly comfortable with an unsavory element and probably armed to the teeth. The slanting rays of daylight through the sewer drains should offer brief glimpses of one another, it was only enough to assuage the most egregiousfears. Each could see that the other didnt have a machete or chainsaw handy, which was probably at least mildly comforting.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. While the writings of Miss Manners may cover a wide variety of social situations, her guidance on the etiquette of incidental underground meetings between strangers lurking in sewers is somewhat lacking. When the shadow of a man approached the silhouette of a woman walking alone in the underground drainage culvert, he may have nodded politely, allowing her to initiate a greeting if she felt it was necessary. He probably also maintained a safe distance in case she had an itchy trigger finger and a keychain canister of pepperspray. Not wanting to be impolite, she probably greeted him cheerily. Oh, hey there! Good afternoon, he might respond. She would undoubtedly comment on the weather. Lovely day for it. He might nod appreciatively. It certainly is. She probably showed him her working phone. Google Maps has me all lost, she might say as an excuse for her current state of superposition, but hold up the working screen to demonstrate her phones functionality in case of misadventure. Well, he may offer assuringly, the traffic is lighter on this route. It is a curious feature of the human ear that it can discern whether or not the speaker is smiling, even in the darkness of a subterranean drainage culvert. Somewhat relieved that he wasnt a sewer clown or rabid junkie, she might ask for directions. Say, I dont suppose you know which one of these manholes comes up behind the Silver Spoon, do you? A mile seems so much longer underground. The man would probably nod appreciatively having just walked a dark mile unobserved as well. Yeah, it does. Glancing over his shoulder he might regret not having counted the drainage access tunnels along the way to be of better service to the attractively shaped possibility. Im guessing its about six or seven ladders straight ahead, he might say as if she might get lost along the way. Thanks so much, she would probably respond, pleased at the surprisingly banal interaction in such an obscure and otherwise sketchy location. Feeling obliged by the polite shadows courtesy, she might return the favor. Oh, by the way, she might call from the darkness, theres a big pile of car parts a little way down there. You should stick close to the left wall. For sure, he may cheerily assent. Not wanting to seem overly familiar with the subject of a strange pile of random automotive parts stashed away in the underground culvert he might also have responded: Say, about that. You might mention those to the sheriff if you get the chance. I think he might be interested. Oh, sure. She might say, relieved he hadnt been a more aggressive lurker. Should I tell him who she might offer, only to reconsider the prospect midsentence. Probably not, he might agree. Well, she would say, not wanting to cause a scandal. Yup. He would nod politely. And they probably continued on their ways without another word, proving that two people with so very much in common can miss an opportunity to connect, simply because they happen to be passing each other in a sewer. Both probably decided independently of one another that it is generally considered poor form to mention having encountered a perfectly reasonable and civilized stranger while strolling through the towns sewers. While this might be the spooky action at a distance that Einstein so famously disliked, unobserved interactions between slow-moving particles in an underground tunnel are notoriously difficult to measure precisely. Besides, those particular variables could have been anywhere else at that precise moment. 77. Spilt milk The coffee kiosk was already closed for the afternoon, even though the open sign and a blinking LED coffee cup sign were still lit. The Silver Spoon was already doing their early bird business, the parking lot filling slowly with overly cautious drivers taking extraordinarily wide turns in comically oversized vehicles. Retirees in sensible orthotic shoes shuffled towards the wimpy chiming of the air-conditioned entryway and waiting lounge, to overwhelm the hostess. Austin idled patiently through the parking lot. He was on their turf and didnt want any trouble. He left the shady spots for the geezers and crept off to the far corner of the lot, perusing the bikini coffee kiosk from a distance, just in case he was being followed. When he got to the corner, he took a minute to adjust his mirrors, in case he could see anyone moving around in there. He waited long enough that he was sure he wasn''t being followed. If Jynx was right, and those guys in the black trucks were after the saucer, at least they were easy to track. Getting out of the truck he dug through the bed for a minute, looking for nothing. As he sauntered across the lot, he continued to check pedestrians, like any of them might be an agent, but all he saw were the little biddies lining up for a cup of soup at a reasonable price. He cupped a hand and peered in the windows of the coffee kiosk, but it was dark, and nothing moved. If Austin assumed that the random text came from Ashley as a clue, Jynx had already left and was already on her way to the shop. As he was just about to leave, he heard her quiet sneeze from somewhere behind the coffee kiosk. Peering through the slatted chain link gate to the trash and recycling bins, he found Jynx crouched on a milk crate in the shade, with her pink coveralls tied around her waist, she had her t-shirt pulled up over her nose to mask the garbage smell. With her earbuds in, she was entirely engrossed in poking at her weird alien tablet and didnt bother to look up, even when he kicked a few pebbles in her direction. More relieved than anything else, he let the gate close behind him as he casually strolled up to her and stretched like it had been a long drive that had kept him late. When she didn''t look up, he lightly stepped on the tip of her canvas sneaker with his battered steel toe. Took you long enough, she said. Wiping the sweat off his brow he glanced around at the dumpster enclosure. The place smelled like coffee grounds and sun-soured milk. He didn''t want to hang out there long enough to apologize properly, but she wasn''t moving. She thinks you''re cool, he offered, she says we should all hang out.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Jynx didn''t say anything, and she still didn''t look up at him. What do you think? She stopped playing with the tablet and hung her head. She pulled one earbud out as if the music had been the source of his stupidity. Jesus, Austin, you just she shook her head. I don''t want to be your training wheels, Austin. She glanced up at him and he knew with absolute certainty how much trouble he was in when he saw the ready tears glistening in her eyes. She set her jaw, letting the strange new emotion settle into anger before it spilled over. I''m glad you had a good time. She hung her head and put the earbud back in, quickly and furtively wiping the brimming tears before they left trails down her dusty cheeks. Austin kicked the empty milk crate beside her. Can I sit down? Jynx shrugged and nodded. It''s a free country, she sniped. He scuffed the concrete in front of the other crate and moved it just a little, making a big show of it. He knew she didn''t like to cry in front of boys, not even him, so they would have to be extra tough for a while, to make up for the slip. She wasn''t ready to go anywhere, so Austin picked up a few bits of loose pea gravel and practiced his aim on a crumpled plastic milk jug. So, what do you want to do? he asked. She sighed and sagged slightly; her puppet strings had gone slack like Jeremiah. She didn''t speak and the sunbaked garbage atmosphere hung heavy in the still afternoon air. Just as he was about to ask again, she spoke. Nothing, she said. Flies buzzed around the back of his head, attracted to the body spray and hair gel, probably. She didn''t move. What do you mean? he asked. She looked up at him again, sunburnt with dusty cheeks, her eyes gray and resolute. I''m not having any fun anymore, Austin. They chased Ashley out of town, Jynx. Those guys are long gone. He wanted to get her up and moving, at least get away from the sunbaked dumpster and sour milk stank. Let''s just get to the shop and see what Jeremiah thinks we should do. It is not Jeremiah''s saucer. She said, slowly and deliberately, for those who might still be confused. She was angry, and it wasn''t just because she was exhausted. She felt ignored and she got angry when she got lonely. He picked at a barcode sticker on the side of his milk crate, becoming suddenly interested in anything, as long as he didn''t have to make eye contact again. What are you listening to? Jynx shrugged. I don''t know. She swiped across the tablet a few times, scrolling through imaginary pages. It just appeared in the apps about an hour ago. It was labeled ''Jaq''s mixtape'' in English, but it wasn''t there before. Austin glanced at the tablet, squinting at it like one of those stupid magic eye posters that they sold in the mall, but he couldn''t see anything remarkable about the shingle. He just felt bad about being a dick to her when she needed him. Hmmm he said, thoughtfully. You still cant see anything? She pleaded with him. He shook his head slowly. Sorry, Jynx. She nodded. Its okay. she watched the screen, still compelled to finish the task, intrigued by the new files that had appeared, labeled in American English. She wouldnt need Austin to drive this time, but she wanted him along for the ride. Do you wanna wait with me, anyway? 78. Power Supply The empty-handed return of the Yahtzee contingent, their Smith and Johnson family reunion cover having been entirely blown, was a sad homecoming that most locals would have liked to avoid altogether. Involuntarily trumpeting their ignominious reoccupation, they returned in a single file line interrupted only by one well-traveled Subaru with a bicycle-burdened rear hatch and a confused vacationing family. Assimilated by the u-turning black SUVs in the middle of the California desert, they had been enveloped by the entourage while headed for Tahoe. To the casual observer seeing the procession, it might look like the First Family had hopped in their Subaru station wagon for a weekend mountain biking excursion. O''Connor was still under the Tahoe''s hood when a few Yahtzees turned into the Playa Seca lot. They both parked near the front entrance, and while the five men who got out of the two vehicles may have glanced toward him, or even muttered something, they had lost their bluster as they gaped, stretched, and patted each other''s thick shoulders into the cool darkness of the Starlight lounge. Still unimpressed with the safety features afforded to the engine compartment of the Tahoe, the sergeant had collected a small scrap pile of the plastic shrouds that had covered everything that wasn''t the battery, itself. In his pocket, he had a selection of the tiny circular nipple clips saved, just in case Levy could figure out how to reassemble it. He watched the handful of Yahtzees strolling into the bar. If there was any intel to be found, it would be after they got a few beers deep. They were just as likely to start a brawl as they were to talk about whatever the hell it was that dragged them all out of town with reckless abandon. O''Connor tossed the scrap plastic engine cowls in the trunk, pleased to see the dome lights work. Maybe he was mechanically inclined after all. Collecting the handful of tools he had borrowed from the front desk clerk, he casually sauntered past the front door of the lounge. He could make some excuse to have a beer, he figured. The chief would be pleased just to know what the hell had just happened. Cautiously peering into the dimly lit bar, he was pleased to find the front desk clerk tending the bar. Well, he had to go in; just to give the guy his tools back. The chief was disappointed to discover that once Paulson started talking, he wouldn''t shut the hell up. While Martinez skimmed a few hundred pages on Arroyo Grande, some predating Roswell, the erstwhile auditor gushed like a fanboy at a comic con. ...Which is where I discovered the dossiers on Jack in the first place! Unbound, he had cleaned himself up as best he could and was almost presentable, if not a little battered around the face. His right eye was swollen half shut, but he blathered on cheerily about his clever interdepartmental cross-referencing to find the temporal tourist. I mean, all this happened before there was a national fingerprint database, so, okay, I get it. He chuckled. He had done a reasonable job of mopping up his blood from the floor, tub, and tile, but there was no way that the cleaning crew would miss the slight crimson patina on every surface. He was entirely dressed, except for his bare feet. As he lectured the chief on the importance of a holistic approach to temporal and extraterrestrial investigation, he stretched his holey socks over the counter, attempting to dry them before putting them on. The chief cringed to see him unwinding the blood-stained hair dryer''s tangled spiral chord, only recently wrapped around the counterfeit auditor''s throat. Who knows, Paulson muttered. Maybe we can just ask him nicely. He flipped on the hairdryer.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. For a furniture salesman, he managed to stay remarkably objective about Sgt. O''Connor''s interrogation efforts. At least the guy wasn''t holding a grudge. Martinez collected his laptop and kit, stacking them on the edge of the bed, a safe distance from the remaining mini EMP ballpoint pen collection. The chief heard some chuckling from the bathroom, followed by humming. Chief Martinez, unfamiliar with the tune, assumed it was another Barbra Streisand B-side. Cobbling together the power supply from a briefcase-mounted battery pack, Paulson had left the contents of his case strewn across the kitchenette table. Most of his kit looked like it had been scrapped together out of mangled toys and electronics, the handful of EMP pens was clean and professional-looking. He plucked one from the stack and clicked it open. Glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being watched, Martinez listened to the hairdryer and Paulson''s mumbled serenade. Taking a hotel scratch pad from the nightstand, the chief scribbled a few spirals until the ink flowed. The damn thing even worked as a pen. The Terrestrial Investigation Group might not be an espionage unit, however, the chief was a little disappointed that he hadn''t even seen this miniaturized tech when he was trying to pad his budget. This guy though, this weaselly little furniture salesman had probably picked these things up off the dark web somewhere. Martinez quietly slid one of the pens into his shirt pocket, confident that Paulson wouldn''t miss it in this mess. There was the real possibility that if the Terrestrial Investigation Group wasn''t entirely dissolved following the Arroyo Grande debriefing, Martinez could probably hire Paulson for more than the furniture place could pay him. It would probably be considerably less than he was currently paying O''Connor. Just as he was about to ask Paulson what he thought of the idea, something inside the briefcase started beeping. The hair dryer stopped, and Paulson quit humming. He peered around the corner, wide-eyed and staring at the chief. Please tell me that''s your alarm. Martinez shook his head. Most of the electronics in the room were completely fried. He pointed at the briefcase. Paulson abandoned his sock-drying effort, sliding his loafers into his bare feet. We have to go. Now! Collecting his possessions and stuffing them back into his case, he pulled a plain digital watch from the mess and passed it back to the chief as he organized his toys in the briefcase. The cheap wristwatch was the source of the sound, but instead of a digital clock face, it had a set of sloped bars like a wireless signal and one small triangular bar blinking with the tiny piezo alarm. What''s this? Paulson paused and chuckled. You know that weather balloon you were looking for? He turned to the chief, grinning. Well, someone is activating it. Martinez glanced down at the ascending bars as a second amber-colored bar began blinking. The signal just got stronger. He grabbed the last working laptop, abandoning the other electronics, and followed the auditor out the door. O''Connor got himself launched sideways out of the Starlight lounge like a backyard rocketry experiment gone all wrong. Catching sight of the chief and the auditor descending the stairs, his swelling scowl turned grin just before two hundred pounds of tanned muscle gracelessly splattered across the sidewalk. Lifting himself off the pavement, it was clear that he had suffered more than just a rough landing. Seeing Martinez and the auditor standing in the sun at the bottom of the stairs, the Yahtzees decided not to finish off the lone Tigger. Instead, the lead meat bag saluted lazily and snorted as they retreated into the lounge. Paulson chuckled but stepped forward, offering his hand to help O''Connor to his feet again. The sergeant, looking a little worse for wear now, spit blood onto the sidewalk and chuckled as he let the auditor help him to his feet and dust his shoulders. Feel better? Paulson asked. O''Connor nodded and smiled. Paulson offered him a spare washcloth he had brought from the makeshift torture room. He shrugged. Last clean one. 79. Threadbare If Arroyo Grande had been a sleepy little town a few days earlier, the tiny fires popping up all over the place threatened to engulf the town in hot gossip. The few law-abiding tourists who contacted local law enforcement about the wide variety of domestic disturbances probably meant well. Starting his morning investigating the fishy smell at the Playa Seca he scored a handful of bonus complaints about the midnight music set and subsequent gunshots, burying him in paperwork for the better part of the day. Between the sudden supercop evacuation and subsequent empty-handed return about an hour later, the sheriff had an unusually busy afternoon fielding complaints, and he couldn''t get around to sleuthing until later in the afternoon. Unfortunately, while everyone else with a badge had been busy chasing Ashleys performance-tuned ass out of town, he was busy following up on his casual investigation of Hitch, or Stu, or Paco, or whatever his name was, still hunting for missing car parts before those meatheads called in a drone strike. Call after call stacked up on Sheriff Ethertons phone, and he hardly had time to answer one before the next chimed through. Placing yet another caller on hold, he forwarded the remaining calls to Trigger and Nutsy and shut off his business line while he snooped around the house where Terrence and Earl dropped the new guy off every evening. Whatever the new cooks name was, he wasnt the legal owner of the house on Buena Vista Drive. Etherton called the real estate agent advertising on the sign, only to receive a detailed description of recent renovations and an invitation to tour the house whenever he had the time. Rather than volunteering for an hour-long sales pitch, the sheriff decided that the theft of a dozen catalytic converters was probable cause to give himself a tour around the place. Peering through the large bay windows, Etherton found nothing amiss inside the house, still staged for a sale that would likely take several more months. Snooping around the garage, however, the sheriff discovered a trash bin overflowing with Sanchos Styrofoam take-out boxes lined with the familiar red and white checkered paper. In the movies, this is where the cop should pull out his gun. He peered in the side window cautiously, realizing that if he did run into the guy, his sidearm was still in the glove compartment. The scrawny old cook didnt look threatening sitting out behind the restaurant, but the flippant ease with which he had offered up a series of fake names left the sheriff nervous. Rather than retrieve it, he tried the side door and found it unlocked. Leaning hard on the probable cause, he knocked politely before strolling in to find the third cooks squat.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Whoever the guy was, he traveled light. While it was obvious that someone had been living there, the garage was empty of personal effects. His makeshift living quarters seemed assembled of furniture left by the previous occupants. A folding lawn chair sat in the corner, piled with moving blankets. A few more takeout boxes sat piled on a folding card table with an ashtray and clip-on mechanics lamp for mood lighting. The only intriguing bit was an electronics soldering station littered with disassembled toys, various electrical components, and a pile of discarded circuit boards. Spread over the remains of the workbenches in the garage were parts of an electric lawnmower, almost completely disassembled. If the sheriff had been expecting an amateurish meth lab, walking in on what looked like a bomb-building setup was far worse. Before he had time to consider the chain of command in a potential terrorist plot, his phone rang through, scaring him half out of his wits. Shutting off the business line served to silence his phones for nearly an hour while he snooped around the house, but the MENSA folks down at emergency dispatch discovered the dead-end line and rerouted all of the emergency calls to his line. Dispatch, who had already heard the news about the Cooper girl, felt that Etherton might want to handle a polite call from a local celebrity who just couldnt seem to figure out where her sport-tuned mini muscle car had gotten off to. Closing the door quietly behind him, he considered the pile of discarded electronics, wondering how a man might go about building a bomb out of old lawnmower parts in the first place. Interlude: On predictability, and the Sancho’s Silver Spoon soup of the day Long after Jack had started losing his reading glasses to the top of his head, he kept his keys and wallet on a chain hanging from his belt, and he could drive that El Camino like it had an autopilot switch right beside the ignition. He put on his sunglasses and checked the rear-view mirrors. Easing his way out of the neighborhood, he waved at neighbors and neighbors waved back and he was just happy to be out for a drive. He might not remember where he was going or why, but he drove down to his appointment at the Silver Spoon entirely through muscle memory and old habit. While it is true that the cream of broccoli was Jack''s favorite, he wasn''t particularly fond of the green onions that the cooks used for a garnish. He preferred the shredded carrots they put on it at the Brown Bear in San Bernardino. Green onions gave him heartburn. And while he should probably have a salad, he thought the half sandwich seemed sturdier. A BLT was practically a salad with a toast handle. A salad on a side of toast. Then Jack remembered a diner scene from an early Jack Nicholson movie and was muttering through the scene when Lisa walked up. You have a toaster back there, dont ya? Well, hey there, Jack! You want toast or something? Nah, Lisa. He chuckled. Five Easy Pieces, he said, tugging his earlobe. Five slices of toast, Jack? She threw her arm around him, giving him an awkward sideways hug as she slid into the booth and set her pad on the table. What''s the special occasion? He didnt want toast, but she talked too fast. No toast, Lisa. He scowled down at the menu. She was right though; he was at Sanchos Silver Spoon for a reason. Well, you know what? he laughed to himself. I can''t remember. No matter how hard he tried, the anniversary was a complete blank. It was circled on the calendar and had something to do with the black box incident. He struggled to remember the events that culminated with his arrival in Arroyo Grande over fifty years prior. I''ll bet I could change the world if I could just remember what I came here for. Lisa laughed. You and me both. Jack watched as his old friends ran along the front of the restaurant, ducking below the cars parked out front. He thought to wave to them, but they might not be able to see him anyway. Well, now, he tugged his earlobe and scowled at the menu, wondering why the Tough Guys Club just skittered through his mind. They had something to do with it. Little Jynx and her hotrod flame-painted flying saucer. You still need a minute, Jack? He glanced up at her and laughed again, remembering the paint job he''d done half a century earlier. What''s your soup today, Lisa? She rolled her eyes at him. Still minestrone, Jack. The minestrone was fine, but a little tinny-flavored. Although he didn''t mind the little seashell pasta they put in it, he couldn''t get over the feeling that he was eating canned soup. Hmmm. Lisa watched a pair of plates go up in the window. Hold that thought, sweetie. She hopped up and bustled to the pass-through. As Jack watched the Tough Guy Club practically shitting their pants in front of the restaurant, he glanced up to see his old friend Kenny Don''t quit Vickers. They met not long after Jack arrived in Arroyo Grande and the two of them spent some hours looking for that saucer back when Mr. Vickers was just a kid named Kenny who needed someone to believe him.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Kenny don''t quit he used to say. He was a tenacious little kid. But he grew up and got all uptight when he went off to school. This guy came back years later, the academic with the mustache and the little alien trinket shop, rolling slowly through the parking lot. This guy was as much fun to be around as a bag of lukewarm coleslaw. Maybe he had always been a little nervous, Jack reminisced; poor little guy was always coiled to spring. In an increasingly rare moment of clarity, the man who had called himself Jack for over fifty years, suddenly understood who had called the feds in the first place. So, little Kenny Vickers had finally dropped the dime on him after all. Just as Jack was steeling himself to stand and confront the pint-sized snitch, he caught sight of Lisa''s cleavage as she bustled across the dining room towards his table, and it was enough to distract him momentarily. He smiled involuntarily. Easy Jack, she chirped. I told you I was coming right back. He scowled past her, but she pushed him back into the booth. Now, Lisa. He muttered. I gotta warn Jynx. You know my little Indigo Child? Jack pointed towards the pair, hunkered down against the bumper of a land yacht parked in the handicap spot, but Lisa wasn''t paying attention. She''s not your granddaughter or anything, is she? Jack pointed again as Austin peered around the fender to check for little Kenny in his creepy minivan. What a disappointment that kid Kenny Vickers turned out to be. Austin dodged for the front door of the Silver Spoon, followed closely by Jynx, and Jack sighed heavily. Well, lemme get something started for ya, hon, and then you can show me all the baby pictures. It was happening. The Tough Guy Club was headed back to the saucer. It was happening right now, and he was sitting in a booth at Sanchos, deeply confused at having to place his dinner order. You said something about a chicken salad sandwich and a cup of soup, right? Hold the chicken salad, he heard Jack Nicholson say. Lisa picked a bit of lint off of his shirt. He glanced at her cleavage momentarily and thought about the green onion garnish on the cream of broccoli and how a sandwich is a salad with a toast handle. Hold the chicken salad, he mumbled. I can do a turkey Waldorf sandwich if ya like, Jack. Frustrated that he had been gently thwarted from his plan, he saw the picture of the half sandwich and cup of soup beside the senior menu page and ordered that, just to move Lisa along. Yeah, yeah, he scowled out the window, certain that he had been about to do something important. He noticed his little buddy Kenny driving around in his handicap van, looking for parking. He was all grown up now, with that mustache. Jack remembered when Kenny finally moved back home and started that little curiosity shop in the mall there. For some years, Jack had been meaning to stop by and have a look around. The kid had been so proud of it. By the time Lisa returned with his plate, he was fondly reminiscing on the months he had spent searching for the saucer with the very young Kenny Vickers. He was a good kid, just wound too tightly. Lisa arrived with his half a turkey Waldorf and a cup of minestrone. Jack glanced down at his plate with both confusion and disappointment. Minestrone? He asked. Lisa laughed. All day long, Jack. Jack picked up the soup spoon and stirred the contents of the cup. He didn''t mind the little seashell noodles, but there was a tinny flavor to it that made it taste canned. And a chicken salad sandwich? Turkey Waldorf, hon. She patted his shoulder in the annoyingly placating gesture that Jack recognized as pity. You wanted me to hold the chicken salad. Jack glanced up and caught sight of her chipper smile and unfortunately efficient cleavage. He remembered the old movie again and smiled, doing his best Nicholson impression. Yeah, hold it between yer knees. Lisa rolled her eyes. Jesus, Jack. He laughed and withdrew his napkin from the table, placing it in his lap. Lisa patted his shoulder. Let me know if there''s anything else, hon. But she bustled away before he had a chance to complain. Jack nodded and glanced down at his soup. What he wanted was the cream of broccoli soup that they served down at the Brown Bear. They had a better garnish. 80. Como se dicen munchies Contrary to what Terrence and Earl might have believed, yelling their questions at Octavio did not help him understand their English any better. He told them everything he had seen in as much detail as possible, speaking slowly so that they would understand. It wasnt his fault they didnt speak a word of Spanish. They seemed to understand it just fine, but they didnt believe his eyes any more than he did. He wasnt worried they might fire him, but he was faintly aware that he was in trouble and the interrogation only intensified with Earls frustration. He had made every effort to explain the situation as clearly as he could with a dry mouth. And he felt incredibly heavy. And hungry. Now why the fuck would I be gettin him stoned? Earl hollered at Terrence. Well, I sure as hell didnt fuckin do it! Terrence hollered. Octavio watched them yelling at each other as distant as a dream. They were very funny. Guau-guau-guau Octavio barked softly at them both.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. So, where the fuck did he go!? Earl yelled again as if Octavio had his hearing aid turned down. Octavio shook his head slowly. Ya te dije, he muttered. quitatelo de la oreja, puto. Terrence caught Earl before he could lunge at the languid dishdog. Bro, youre going to scare the guy. Take it easy. Im gonna kick his skinny little ass in a second. We fuckin need him, bro. Terrence all but pleaded. Guau-guau. Octavio barked and giggled into his palm. He just walked out without saying anything? No, Octavio shook his head slowly. Fue un milagro. He nodded gravely. Bro, Terrence inspected the roach. How much of this did you smoke? Octavio giggled playfully. Paco me dejo con la macha y se meti? en el basurero" I get it, I get it. Earl pushed his sleeves up to be absolutely sure that the dishwasher understood what he understood to have transpired behind the Diner. Like, Hitch hid in the magic dumpster or whatever, and when he came out, he was the fuckin Virgin Mary and baby Jesus turned into a fucking dog, right? Asi. Octavio nodded. Es lo que dije. And then they just strolled the fuck off? The dishwasher shrugged. Bro, Terrence chuckled, hes baked as fuck. Octavio smiled up at the pair. Tengo hambre. 81. The unravelling If the girl was a little picky about her grilled cheese, Lisa didnt mind. Most afternoons when the indigo girl and her buddy came in, Lisa wasnt sure what she wanted to eat for lunch anyway. When the occasional grilled cheese order got sent back to the kitchen because it had white and yellow cheeses, Lisa was fine with that. But they never came in this late in the evening, and they never slunk through the dining area like a couple of commandos on a super-secret mission. A half-hour before the end of Lisas shift, the indigo girl and her companion rushed into the restaurant, crouching low and hurrying along the length of the booths to the corner beside the old phone booth. Whatever they were up to, they didnt look like they were about to eat. Hiya, hon! Lisa called from behind the counter. You here to see Jack? Jynx held a finger to her lips. Jynx, honey, your aura is on fire! The indigo girl clutched at Lisas apron, tugging her to crouch. Whats all the commotion? Lisa asked. Mr. Vickers is out there, Jynx said. Hes trying to kidnap Jynx, Austin said. Mr. Vickers had always seemed a little shifty to Lisa, assuming that any man who couldnt be bothered to check out her new tits was either gay or dead. I knew that there was something about that guy. Can we sneak out the back door, maybe? Jynx asked, assuming that they might be able to get out to the scrub brush behind the restaurant and sneak back as soon as the coast was clear. Ill do ya one better, sweetie, Lisa said. Lisa moved to Arroyo Grande with her family back in the late nineties. The town was growing alongside the water bottling plant, neighborhoods filling even as they were built. Most of the high school kids she ran around with had a secret hideout, a new drainage culvert that ran the length of the town. During heavy rainfall, the ditch became a veritable river flowing underground at the edge of the salt flats. Most of the time, it was just a big empty tunnel that almost nobody remembered. You kids get out back and Ill show you the entrance as soon as I coffee my tables and drop some checks. Dropping checks on her last two tables, she found old Jack making a mess of his turkey Waldorf sandwich. The pink goo spilled out over half the plate. How in the hell am I supposed to eat this damn thing? Jesus, Jack. Arent we a messy boy? Rushing to get Jack all cleaned up, Lisa forgot to mention Jynx to the old guy, and he seemed too preoccupied with the mashed cranberry and turkey all over his hands. Distracted momentarily, she pulled a stack of napkins from the side station. How does anybody hold this thing together? He glanced up from his cranberry sauce-gored fingers like a toddler. Like you said, Lisa offered, they hold it between their knees, Jack. But she kept her eye on Mr. Vickers as she pulled Jacks check from her apron. No rush, honey. I''ve got a few things to take care of before I get out of here. She could see the science teachers face glowing in the light of his phone screen, a dim blue mask hanging in the darkness of his minivan cab. As she bustled behind the counter, she herded the kids ahead of her. Alright, Jynx. Lets get you two out of here. They scuttled along past the silverware trays and stacked saucers. Crouching beside a few boxes of coffee packets and cases of sugar and sweet and low they were nearly trampled by Terrence and Earl, still freshly frustrated with their bilingual interrogation. What the hell are you kids doing? He scowled down at them. Get the hell out of there.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Lisa glanced up from her table. Earl honey, these kids need to talk to Angela. Earl pushed his sleeves up and crossed his arms over his chest to display his burn scars. Scowling down at the pair he shook his head slowly. Theres no Angela here, he said flatly. No, Earl, they need to see Angela. She winked at him, letting him know it was code for something. Earl shook his head. Like, theres no Angela here, okay? He said to Lisa as if she was missing that point. Dammit, Earl. She glanced around at the last few tables finishing their meals. She didnt recognize any of them, guessing them to passing motorists. That creepy Vickers guy is out there waiting in his van. Hes trying to kidnap Jynx. As she said it, every table, strangers or not, glanced out the window at Mr. Vickers in his minivan. Mr. Vickers, upon being noticed by at least a half dozen strangers, froze in his seat. Bro, that fuckin teacher is a pedo or something. Terrence glared at the minivan. Earl glanced down at the yellow-only grilled cheese sandwich girl. Is that true? he asked her. Jynx nodded slowly, afraid that he may still be angry at her for some reason. High maintenance or not, the little lady was one of his customers and shouldnt have to hide behind the counter for any reason. Earl calmly unfolded his arms and turned back into the kitchen. Lisa just shook her head. Just head for the back door, she told them, Ill be right there. Plucking the decaf coffee pot off the burner she hurried back to refill the customers cup before she led them to the tunnel. Jynx and Austin were stopped short as Earl re-emerged from the kitchen wielding a formidable-looking aluminum meat tenderizing hammer like a club. Fucking perverts, he muttered to himself, charging towards the front door. Terrence caught the drift and pulled a long-handled mayonnaise tub pry bar from under the prep table. Weighing its heft in his hand momentarily, he charged straight out the front door behind Earl. Lisa didnt even get the chance to finish refilling the cup when she saw the aces heading out to confront Vickers. Guys, no! She charged after them brandishing the orange-handled coffee pot. Octavio, having nothing to do, watched the entire scene as he silently picked burnt steak fries out of the fry bowl. When he saw Earl shatter the drivers side window with the meat tenderizing hammer, he was sure that neither Terrence nor Earl would be back anytime soon, and he still didnt know how to make papas fritas. Grabbing a big yellow plastic flashlight from the first aid shelf, he nodded at the kids. Te mostrar, he muttered, rolling his eyes. Gesturing for them to follow, he trailed them out the back door and casually across the parking lot, regarding the lights and sounds of sirens and the commotion in the front lot with a bemused smirk. Sure enough, hidden in the fenced enclosure''s back corner, the dishwasher flashed his light on the manhole cover. No es realmente magico, he shrugged. He lifted one edge of the manhole cover. Austin helped him slide it away from the entrance. Clicking the flashlight a few times to get the lantern array working, Octavio passed it to Austin as he descended into the darkness. Uh, gracias, Austin said. The dishwasher shrugged. Andale, he said, lifting the leading edge of the iron cover, ready to pull it closed behind the kids. Y si ves a Paco, dile que tena razn sobre los superpolicas. Austin nodded like he understood, but his two years of high school Spanish left him with little conversational skills beyond ordering another round of Tapas or shopping for a handbag in Espa?a. S, he said. 82. A frayed knot Everyone in Arroyo Grande had either witnessed or already received a firsthand account of Ashley Coopers spectacular high-speed exit from the south, trailed by another dozen witnesses who had lost her trail just before the entourage reached the snarled traffic at the edge of San Bernardino. Eyewitnesses described the driver as a young blonde female in a pale blue hoodie, a beauty princess waving as she passed by. The descriptions of the driver matched Ashley perfectly, right down to the chipper Ms. Arroyo Grande wave as the sheriff pulled up to the bikini coffee kiosk. Poised at the pass-through counter as if she had been there all afternoon, scrolling through her phone, Ms. Cooper turned to prepare an Americano as the sheriff parked his cruiser. Occams Razor states that the simplest explanation is probably the best, no matter how improbable. Even if just about everybody in town just watched Ashley Cooper hit a land speed record on her way out of town, she was definitely standing at the kiosk despite all probability. As it so happened, Etherton was ready for a drink. The coffee would have to suffice until something stronger came along. He stretched out as he slid out of the cruiser, appraising the collection of high schoolers already gathered in the Silver Spoon parking lot. Took ya long enough, Ashley said, setting his favorite mug on the counter. Slow news day. The sheriff responded, still waiting for a camera crew to appear and reveal the practical joke. I must have dozed off. Well, this oughta perk you right up. The sheriff sipped his perfectly pulled Americano, admiring the crema. Except Ashley Cooper would never work the bikini coffee kiosk with bed head and big nerdy glasses on. He heard a sneeze from behind the counter and the jangle of the dogs collar. That little dander factory of a dog would definitely raise some questions for the health department. This your casual Friday? Had some paperwork to do. Tell me about it. Ashley punched the punt handle and pounded the spent espresso grounds with the slightest hint of a smile. Heard the commotion. It never occurred to me that Mr. Ouija might be involved. Ethertons eyebrow raised involuntarily. Mr. Ouija? He only hoped that the third cook wasnt involved. Or maybe it would be better if he was. Pin the car theft on the bomb-building drifter. Case closed, so as long as the guy never showed his face again. Classic. My car, Sheriff. She pouted. My little black magic Mustang that you and yours couldnt possibly catch on a straightaway? Etherton sipped his coffee, waiting for a twitch, tick, or tell, but Ashley kept it straight. She looked mildly bemused as she said: It was stolen, Sheriff. The sheriff nodded, stifling a laugh. Blowing Americano out his nose might be offputting. I heard. He nodded again. And where were you, Lawman? Just following up on some Stu Pedaso I met the other day. Ashley scowled. Language, Sheriff. She wiped down the front of the espresso machine and tossed the rag in a milk crate on the floor. But if its the same stupid asshole I just met, he says you should check the drainage culvert for those missing car parts. Etherton sipped his coffee appreciatively. You really are the best, Ash. She rolled her eyes and checked her nails. You dont suppose, Etherton proposed, cup poised a few inches from his lips. That this Stu Pedaso was involved in the car theft, do you? Ashley clicked her tongue at him. Shame on you, Greg. Right. He recognized his error immediately. Snitches get stitches. She smiled pleasantly. Yes, but stoolies get baked goods. She pulled a chocolate chip cookie from the rack and set it on the counter. Glancing over his shoulder to the front of the restaurant, she finally flinched. Oh, she said watching the commotion. Uh oh. She said as they heard the crack of broken glass. Etherton set his coffee cup on the counter, surrendering with a smile. If youll excuse me, he said, nodding politely, he desperately needed a Stetson to tilt heroically. Dont forget your cookie. She winked at him. By the time the Sheriff received the first call about a domestic disturbance down at Sanchos, there were already two more calls queued up. Rather than answer the calls, Etherton rolled around the back of the restaurant, wondering why the dishwasher and the Tough Guys Club were gathered in the dumpster enclosure with a flashlight. As much as he would love to stop and stomp that little fire right out, witnesses calling from the scene at the front of the restaurant described a hammer-wielding black man in an apron. Flipping on his light bar and hitting the squelch a few times to clear the onlookers, his headlights froze the crime scene in progress. Terrence had Mr. Vickers by the shirt collar like he might pull him out the drivers side window of the chem teacher''s little white minivan. Petrified with terror, the science teacher looked sick. Only Earl moved, dropping the hammer and raising his hands immediately. Crowded with nosy teenagers, the front walkway cleared out as the sheriff stepped from his cruiser. Inside the restaurant, a few booths gawked at another bit of impromptu sidewalk theater.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Alright, Terrence, Etherton called. The baby-faced felon reluctantly released his grip on Vickers shirt front and dropped the pry bar to the pavement with a startlingly loud clatter. He raised his hands slightly, but still growled at the terrified science teacher. You mind explaining the meat hammer? Etherton asked as he collected the makeshift siege weapons from the asphalt like battlefield trophies. Okay, Greg, Earl offered, pushing up his sleeves and folding his arms over his chest. The gawkers lining the front booths watched in shock as the hammer-wielding black man strolled up to the sheriffs side, taking his rightful place as a valued advisor. Like, this fuckin pedophile here was stalking the only yellow cheese grilled-cheese girl, tryin to kidnap her, okay? Earl shook his head. Me and Teaspoon here just cant abide by that. Terrence nodded his approval as he strolled up on the Sheriffs other shoulder, bookending the lawman. Vickers? Sheriff asked. Vickers cleared his throat. Ms. Nash and I, he glanced back towards the restaurant as if his prized pupil might emerge and defend him, we were discussing some scientific theories. He glanced down at the handkerchief, indignantly inspecting the tiny dark blot as if he were at risk of bleeding out under a lengthy interrogation. I had only hoped to finish our discussion when this man smashed my window and assaulted me. He held the handkerchief out as proof of the assault. Maybe Mr. Vickers would have a fat lip for a few days, but the sheriff was sure Vickers would recover without a transplant or infusion. Ms. Nash? The sheriff glanced over at Earl. Earl shrugged. He knew her as yellow cheese-only grilled cheese girl. Lisa, still holding the orange-handled coffee pot stepped forward. Little Jynx, Greg. Earl turned on Mr. Vickers. Like, what kind of science are you discussing with a little girl at this time of night? he demanded. Vickers bristled at the implication of any impropriety. Ms. Nash happens to be one of my best calculus students. Fuck yer calculus, bro! Terrence made ready to launch at him again, but Lisa held him back. Then why was she hiding from you? Lisa asked, brandishing the decaf pot menacingly. Sheriff Etherton held up a hand, hoping to discourage her from bonking Vickers over the head with the tin-bottomed pot before he had to submit half a pot of decaf as another piece of evidence. Alright guys, lets all settle down. Already the situation had shifted from a quick and easy intervention into a pile of requisite paperwork. Just the presence of Earls hammer was a stack of forms unto itself, but the assault and broken window would probably end in charges and litigation. In any other situation, he might have solved it with a round of beers down at The Starlight Lounge, but Vickers wasnt the shoot-the-shit-over beers sort. The problem with a domestic disturbance, even just a plain old slapfight, was that he was legally obliged to remove or separate the participants. Even if they were probably right about the old guy, Etherton had to take Earl and Terrence in again. Boys, Im afraid Im going to have to ask you to get in the car, he muttered. Get the fuck outta here, Sheriff! Terrence called before he could stop himself. One motherfuckin black man in all Arroyo Grande and youre going to arrest me? Im not arresting you; Im separating you. This is our motherfuckin restaurant. Take his creepy ass out of here. You threatened him with a meat tenderizer, Earl. Like, this fuckin guys perving on that little girl, but you gotta haul my ass in for lookin out? Its just a formality, Earl. The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He wasnt prepared to try to force the aces into the cruiser, and he honestly didnt want to be bothered with any of it, but technicalities lost lawsuits. That the holding cell back at the station still smelled faintly of pot smoke and fried food flatulence didnt help the situation. He was hoping to air the place out before he picked up another drunk driver. Im sure Dr. Vickers wont be pressing charges. I just have to separate you two. Vickers held out his lightly blood-speckled handkerchief. Thats assault! He stiffened with indignation. He assaulted me! Both Etherton and the aces stared at the push broom-mustached accuser like he was a pouting toddler. The very fact that Etherton was legally obliged to haul away his meal ticket was frustrating enough; threatening to lawyer up made the sheriff want to punch Dr. Vickers in the face himself. If you want to explain to the board of education what youre doing chasing a little teenager around town in the middle of the night, you go right ahead and press charges. I am more than happy to plug you into the sex offender database myself. The sheriff opened the back door to the cruiser, offering it to Terrence and Earl. Please, guys? Man, this is some racist bullshit. Humor me. Earl pulled off his soiled apron, bundled it, and tossed it back towards the front sidewalk. He strolled around to the passenger side of the cruiser, opened the door, and slid into the front seat, muttering. Terrence snarled at Vickers. Fuckin pedo. He pulled his apron off and handed it to Lisa. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? Lisa asked, standing alone in front of Sanchos with her coffee pot. Terrence went all baby-faced again as he was about to climb into the back seat for the second time in a few days. Hitch was gone and the dishwasher was stoned out of his gourd. Thanks to Jacks disappointing daylight dinner combo, at least there was a saucepan of canned minestrone on the stovetop, ready to dump into the warmer. Serve em soup? he shrugged. Just as the sheriff wondered if the deputies had started forwarding their calls to the local Homeowners associations, his phone rang again. Trigger or Nutsy, he didnt particularly care which one it was, provided that they got their ass up off the couch and down to the scene for crowd control before he hung a help wanted sign up at the station. Where the hell are you? Glancing up the highway, however, his anger trailed off. To the north, the sky glowed like a bustling metropolis suddenly manifested at the far edge of town. Sorry Sheriff, we couldnt make it past Jacks. It looks like every one of those damn feds is parked in front of the tow company right now, and half of them look like theyre armed for a Russian invasion. Etherton grumbled to himself. On any other evening, he should be slipping out for a carton of raspberry sorbet to avoid his daughters bedtime ritual. Had he spent a little more time with his toddler daughter, he might have known that the Yahtzees were up to something. While he had interpreted the relative quiet of the supercops as a good sign, his wife would have known that they were getting themselves into trouble. Yo, Greg, this is bullshit. Earl opined. Etherton nodded, distracted by the halogen glare on the horizon. He passed the hammer and prybar back as he took his seat. Well take a quick spin around the block; Ill have you back in no time. Bro, you left the fuckin pedo in the rapist van back there, Terrence muttered. Yeah, like, what the hell happens if he gets to the yellow-only grilled cheese girl while were cruisin the strip, Greg? Earl pulled on his seatbelt and slouched in the passenger seat. Did you think about that? I will be getting to the bottom of all this momentarily. In the meantime, I gotta keep the peace, even if it''s the wrong guys. Are you fucking kidding me right now, Greg? Earl sulked. I gave you your meat hammer back, Earl. Etherton hung his head as he dropped it into reverse and backed out of the gathering crowd. If youre good, Ill get you guys a cookie.