Ejecta (12 page)

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Devlin replied. “And, while I think I know the answer, you may find it hard to believe.”

The woman was a crackpot. That much was obvious. But she was a
fascinating
crackpot, and Palmer knew she would leave if the conversation came to an end. So, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he invited her to lunch.

Two ham and cheese sandwiches, and one-hour later, Devlin wrapped her story up by saying, “So, I came here. Because
if
my hypothesis is correct, and Podry acquired a parasite by coming into contact with one of your father’s meteorites, then maybe I can gather some additional evidence to support my case.”

As Palmer took a final sip of Coke all sorts of things flickered through his mind. Some related some not. The whole hunchback thing was weird. Podry appeared perfectly normal the last time Palmer had seen him. The Coke can made a definitive click as he set it down. “Look, Ms. Devlin….”

“Sara.”

“Look, Sara, I’ve got to be honest with you…. I know a lot about meteorites. Hell, I make my living hunting for them, and I’m familiar with transfer theory. But the idea that an alien parasite not only survived the trip to Earth from a distant solar system, but managed to adapt to a new host in a single generation, well, that strikes me as preposterous.”

Something flickered in the green eyes and they seemed to harden slightly. “I told you that my hypothesis might be hard to believe,” Devlin said levelly. “And there’s the very real possibility that I’m wrong. But I think you’ll agree that it won’t do any harm to test it. So, given what may be at stake, it’s my hope that you’ll allow me to examine your father’s meteorites.”

“I would, but I can’t,” Palmer answered simply. “The old bastard sold the collection, took the money, and went on a three-month drunk in Reno! Then, after he came back, the house burned down. The story has a happy ending though,” he added bitterly, “because he was in it at the time.”

The green eyes seemed to soften. “I’m sorry.”

Palmer shook his head. “Don’t be…. He doesn’t deserve it. So, is there anything else?”

It was an obvious dismissal and Devlin felt a tinge of regret as she stood. “No, I guess there isn’t. Here’s my card in case you come across any of those meteorites…. And thank you for lunch.”

Palmer was still searching for something to say when the door closed behind her, he heard the rental car start up, and the woman with the green eyes was gone.
After a few moments he stood up and made his way out toward the shed that his mother had converted into a cottage. He planned to level the structure one day, bulldoze the remains of the house, and build something new. He had both the money
and
the plans but never got around to it. Why was that? Because he didn’t have time? Or because he couldn't release the past? There was no way to be sure.

The key was there, right where it was supposed to be, over the door. Palmer opened the door and reentered his past. Strange days during which his father occupied the house, his mother lived in the cottage, and
he
commuted back and forth. Months during which his parents rarely spoke with each other, and pursued largely separate lives.

Now, as Palmer made his way into the tiny kitchen, everything was as it had been on the day after his father’s funeral. Only dustier as if his ashes had been scattered over all of his mother's belongings. That was the day when she opened two suitcases. One for her clothes—and one for her books. Then, having signed the ranch over to her son, she asked for a ride into Tucson.

There was a sister in Santa Barbara. A lonely soul who liked to write poetry and with whom Palmer's mother planned to live. And it was later, as they parted company in a shabby Greyhound Bus Depot, that Palmer asked his mother what seemed like an obvious question. “Ma, you haven’t lived with him for years, and I’ve been on my own for a long time. So why wait this long?”

She looked at him the way she so often did—as if meeting him for the first time. “The day I married your father I promised to stay with him until one of us died.”

So saying she pecked her son on the cheek, walked out into the bright sunshine, and boarded the bus. He still sent her money, still saw her whenever he was on the west coast, and still wondered what made her tick.

Cobwebs hung in front of the cupboard mounted above the sink. Palmer brushed them aside, opened the door, and found what he had been hoping for: Some liquid peace. His mother liked the occasional glass of red wine and two bottles remained. He took both down, located a cork screw, and left the house.

Then, with the wine to keep him company, he sat by the creek. The first swallow was like a reunion with an old friend and was soon followed by another. He cried after that. For his father, his mother, and ultimately for himself.

Wheaton, Maryland

Sunrise was still more than an hour away, so it was still dark outside the huge tinted windows, as Director of Terrestrial Biosecurity, Dr. Owen Wilson continued to work his way through the sixty-seven emails waiting for him when he arrived in his office. Though large by normal bureaucratic standards, the room seemed smaller than it actually was. Besides an executive-style desk two work tables shared the space as well. A microscope sat on one of them and the other was home to a work station that provided him with direct access to all of the Centers for Disease Control's (CDC) considerable resources.

But now, faced with a pile of administrative work, the former research scientist was plowing his way through what he often referred to “as all that bureaucratic crap.” A penance that had to be paid in order to protect the United States of America from potentially homicidal aliens. Not Hollywood style aliens, but the type that could hitchhike on space borne rocks, and were potentially a lot more dangerous. Having composed the last of his characteristically blunt messages, Wilson clicked “send,” and felt a sense of satisfaction as the final reply was dispatched.

Then, as the administrator turned to deal with the ten-inch high stack of paperwork that occupied his old fashioned in-box, he gave an involuntary start. Because there, seated on the corner of his desk, was a man who shouldn’t have been there. Not at 6:26 in the morning when the only other people in the building were janitors or security people. He could make a grab for the phone—but the stranger was close enough to stop him. The man smiled reassuringly. “There’s no need to call security…. My name is Cooper. You sent for me.”

Wilson, who was still trying to recover his composure, frowned. “Cooper?”

“I was in Seattle,” Cooper said helpfully. “Working on the XT-7 thread when I was ordered to return here.”

Wilson had a nearly encyclopedic memory. And having processed the name and the case designator he felt a rising sense of anger. “Get the hell off my desk.”

If Cooper was intimidated by the administrator’s tone there was no sign of it as he rose to take possession of a guest chair. There wasn’t so much as a whisper of sound when he moved. Wilson frowned. “In the future please make an appointment like everyone else…. But, since you’re here, we might as well get some work done.”

Wilson took a moment to thumb through a stack of folders, found the one he was searching for, and flipped it open. The designator XT stood for Extra-Terrestrial, and the number 7 indicated that the CDC had opened only six XT files in the past. Four of which had already been classified as “false hits.” Of course the fact that the Department of Terrestrial Biosecurity was only months old had something to do with that. It’s hard to find something you aren’t looking for.

What made the Seattle investigation so interesting was the fact that actual tissue samples had been submitted by a local pathologist, who according to a preliminary check by the FBI, bore all the hallmarks of an upstanding citizen. Or had until his mysterious death in a fire. And that was why Biosecurity Agent Cooper had been recalled to Maryland.

The problem, from Wilson’s perspective at least, was that those living further up the bureaucratic food chain had seen fit to draw upon spooks rather than scientists to act as “bug chasers.” Meaning those individuals who were sent to carry out an initial assessment of what might or might not be a threat.

In this case tissue samples that seemed to incorporate traces of unknown DNA. Although the initial results would have to be checked and checked again. All of which meant that individuals like Cooper were being sent into situations they weren’t qualified to handle. “So,” Wilson began, “tell me what you were sent to Seattle to do.”

Cooper had a pleasant but nondescript face. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Wilson’s biases were well known and the agent could guess what the bespectacled scientist was thinking. “I was sent to Seattle to interview Dr. Jim Yano regarding the tissue samples taken from one Paul McCracken and identify other witnesses if any.”

“Correct,” Wilson said tightly, as he peered at the agent from beneath bushy brows. “So, why is Yano dead?”

Cooper had blue eyes and something dangerous flickered deep within them. “Are you suggesting that I killed Dr. Yano?”

“Well?” the administrator demanded unapologetically. “
Did
you?”

“No,” Cooper answered coolly. “I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” the scientist replied bluntly, “your previous employer was an agency that has a tendency to kill all of its problems. And for all I know you still have links to them.”

Cooper raised an eyebrow. “You know what, doc? You should see someone about your raging paranoia. In the meantime it might interest you to know that the Seattle Police Department arrested a teenage boy in connection with the Hayley Lab arson. It seems there were other fires in that area—and he confessed to all five of them.”

Wilson felt his righteous indignation start to ebb away. Perhaps he’d been too hard on Cooper. He forced a smile. “Point taken…. I can get a little wound up at times. What’s your first name?”

The agent smiled. “It’s Cooper—just like the last. My parents thought it would be simpler that way.”

That was strange. But so was everything else about the agent. So Wilson put the matter aside. “Listen, Cooper,” he said conversationally. “Here’s the thing… The odds against us running into a dead XT are astronomically large. And the odds of coming across a live organism are even longer. But, should that occur, call it in. We’ll give you all the support you need. Failing that our first priority is to make sure that no potentially harmful organisms are allowed to spread.”

“So, I
should
kill things if I have to,” Cooper concluded lightly. “Wow! This job is so confusing!”

Wilson scowled. “Get out of my office. And remember what I told you.”

***

San Jose, California

Alaska Airlines had direct flights from Sea-Tac to San Jose, which meant that Devlin was able to jump on an early morning plane, and land by 10:00 a.m. It was sunny, or would have been, if it weren’t for the gray-brown haze that clung to the low lying hills.

Thanks to the generally good weather the San Jose airport still made use of old fashioned roll-up stairs and a walk across the tarmac to move passengers from their planes into the terminal. And, because the scientist had no baggage other than her trusty knapsack, she made her way through the terminal in record time.

Once outside Devlin caught a cab without difficulty, gave the driver Wally Brisco’s address, and settled back into her seat. The startling photo of a blood drenched McCracken kneeling next to Podry’s headless body was posted on Brisco’s site. A single email was sufficient to make contact and Brisco had been cooperative. Almost
too
cooperative. It seemed as if he was starved for human contact and eager to talk with just about anybody. Especially if they were interested in what he referred to as “first person shooters,” animated pornography, or exploding people.

The taxi passed Gold Rush Motors, a bridge eclipsed the sun as they passed under the 280 freeway. Although the neighborhood didn’t qualify as a ghetto, the area beyond the overpass was somewhat shabby, and provided a glimpse into San Jose’s recent past. Being unable to compete with strip malls, much less super malls, the small family owned stores that lined the street back in the 50’s and 60’s had gradually given way to businesses involved in buying, selling, or maintaining automobiles. The cabbie braked, took a right on Union Street, and pulled to the curb. Devlin eyed the meter, gave the driver the exact fare plus a tip, and got out.

The address she was looking for was on the other side of the street. The modest cinder block structure slouched between two rather disreputable looking buildings. The badly faded words, “Wong’s Appliance Store,” could still be read over the front door. The scientist waited for a break in traffic, crossed to other side of South First, and eyed the sign over the door. It read, “No trespassing, survivors will be shot.”

Devlin knocked, and the better part of two minutes passed before hinges squealed and a young man appeared in the doorway. He was of medium height, badly in need of a haircut, and dressed in rumpled clothing. His T-shirt said “Geeks Rule!” and hung down over a pair of baggy shorts. A pair of filthy running shoes completed the look. Small, beady eyes blinked rapidly, as if adjusting to the daylight. “Yeah?”

Devlin smiled. “Are you Wally?”

The young man’s head jerked up and down. “Yeah, I’m Wally.”

“I’m Sara Devlin.”

He looked surprised. “Really? You came all the way from Seattle?”

“Of course,” the scientist replied. “I said I would didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Brisco said, “but when people say they’ll come they usually don’t. Come in…. I call this ‘my lair.’”

Devlin followed Wally Brisco into a large rectangular room in what had once been a family owned appliance store, but had long since gone out of business. The windows were painted over but there were a few widely spaced lights to disperse the otherwise pervasive gloom. “I’m not supposed to live here,” Brisco explained. “Not according to the terms of the lease. But Mrs. Wong is pushing 80, and she doesn’t care what I do, so long as the rent checks arrive on time. That’s where I sleep,” he said, pointing toward the center of the room.