Abbie went stone-faced, recognizing the veiled threat. Austin’s dark eyes rested on hers, then he motioned to the graffiti still visible on her house. “You should watch yourself. You’re marked in more ways than one.” He dropped his eyes to the stripe running down her chin, then looked at the graffiti again.
Before Abbie could respond, Josh came back down the stairs and exited the house.
“Josh?” Abbie called nervously, trying to halt him.
He glanced over his shoulder, his face hard to read, as he moved off down the street with Austin.
*
Richard finished his second cup of coffee and looked at his watch. Ten minutes until the cafe closed and thirty minutes until the curfew came into play. He sighed, scrunching a napkin in his hand and tossing it into the empty cup. He really hoped that Dr. Pellan would show, and the fact that he hadn’t meant the man was afraid. Which, in turn, must mean that he had something pretty important to say.
Richard checked his watch again, then glanced around. He suddenly noticed a man of Anglo-Indian descent staring at him through the front window of the cafe. It was Dr. Pellan. Richard recognized him from the Bateson Dermacell opening and the photos he’d seen while researching his mysterious caller.
Dr. Pellan abruptly turned and began to walk away from the cafe.
Had he changed his mind?
Richard stood, threw some money on the table and made his way out onto the street. He saw Dr. Pellan, tall and trim, wearing a hat and scarf, walking up ahead. The man glanced over his shoulder as though to check Richard was following him. The reporter did so, keeping his distance, wondering where Pellan was leading him. Somewhere quiet without witnesses?
He followed the scientist to a car that was parked in a darkened corner of a deserted, fenced lot. For a moment Richard wondered if Pellan could be trusted, whether he should blindly follow this man. But it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a risk for a story. He glanced around him, scanning his surroundings to be sure that they were alone. Harry had warned him to be careful and now here he was in a dark, deserted lot with a stranger.
Richard patted his jeans pocket, wanting to feel the pocketknife he always carried with him on the job. He was grateful all over again for having grabbed his backpack the morning he’d left his hotel. It was all he’d had on him since he’d been hauled onto that bus and taken to the Civic Hall. His tools of the trade.
He saw Pellan disappear into the driver’s seat of the car parked in the corner against the tall wooden fence. That corner of the lot was so dark he could no longer see Pellan at all. Richard walked slowly around to the passenger side of the vehicle, glancing around quickly, then opened the door and got inside.
Pellan sat staring out the windscreen until Richard was settled, then the doctor turned his face to him. Richard studied the hat and scarf he wore, and thought that by trying to disguise himself like that in this weather, Pellan was actually only drawing more attention.
“Richard Keene,” Richard said, extending his hand, a peace offering.
Pellan looked at it, then extended his own. “Lysart Pellan.”
Richard nodded as they shook. “We were supposed to do an interview the afternoon of the Occurrence.”
“Yes,” Pellan said. “And now here we are.”
“So, Dr. Pellan, why did you call me?”
Pellan exhaled slowly, and the seconds seemed to pass by. “I don’t really know.”
“Yes, you do,” Richard told him.
“Okay, I know why. But I’m still not sure that I should have.”
“You work for Bateson Dermacell. Your background is in genetics, but your specialty is dermatology. I assume you’re the one who was assisting the CDC with the initial investigation. You know what’s behind these welts, don’t you?”
Pellan considered the question, the streetlights in the distance shining off his round, thoughtful eyes. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what caused these welts.”
“But you know something?”
Pellan exhaled loudly, then reached out and took hold of the steering wheel, tapping his fingers against its surface. “What I know . . . I’ve been forced to sign a confidentiality agreement . . . by Homeland Security.”
“Homeland Security?” Richard felt the hairs on his arms constrict.
Pellan looked over at him, “If I tell you . . .?”
Richard nodded, comprehending Pellan’s hesitation. “Okay. Jesus.” He was suddenly incredibly curious and rather terrified of what it could be. When Pellan had called, Richard thought it might be to do with a hunch the doctor had. He didn’t realize that Pellan knew something concrete that had been classified from the top.
“Is it bad?” Richard asked. “I mean it has to be, right?”
Pellan looked out the windscreen again. “It is not bad. But what caused it . . . I don’t know.”
Richard frowned, but before he could speak he saw movement. He turned to look out the windscreen and saw three people enter the parking lot. For a moment he froze, wondering what was going on, whether Pellan had somehow set him up, but when he peeked at Pellan’s face, he knew the doctor was just as surprised as he.
They both sat still and watched as one man led the other two people into the parking lot then stopped. He turned to the others, one hand in his pocket, no doubt on a weapon, and the other he held out for something. The other two figures, a man and a woman, gave a nod, as the man pulled an envelope out of his coat and handed it to the first man. The first man opened the envelope, pulled out what looked like a wad of notes and fanned them. He gave a nod to the couple, then walked further into the lot and along the fence to a point in the corner, barely fifteen meters from where Richard and Pellan sat.
The man bent down, then lifted and dragged a sewer grate back. They couldn’t hear what was said, but from the man’s hand movements, it looked like he was giving them directions of some kind. Richard’s eyes moved back to the parking lot entrance, and through the opening, in the distance, he could see the barricade and he understood immediately that this man was helping the couple escape into the Striped Zone. The couple gave a nod, then slowly they disappeared into the hole. The first man pulled the grate back into place. He glanced around, thankfully not seeing Richard and Pellan sitting in the car in the darkened corner. Then he left.
Richard and Pellan sat quietly for a moment, trying to digest what they had just witnessed.
“If I tell you,” Pellan said breaking the silence, staring at that grate, “and you report this story . . . we will both be forced into hiding. Do you want that?”
“Forced into hiding? Where can we hide in this town?”
Pellan shrugged. “You see my point.”
Richard turned to stare out the windscreen again, registering the streetlights in the distance. They were like beacons, just like the story . . . the truth right there in front of him, but just out of reach. Harry’s words seemed to cycle through his mind again. Be careful, kid.
“Is it something the people should know?” Richard asked him.
Pellan glanced at him and nodded. “Yes, I think it is. You are already very close to the truth. You just need to take that last step.”
“Why is the government keeping it quiet?”
“They are trying to keep control. Maintain order . . . but they are also protecting themselves. Right now they want to keep Victoryville quarantined—away from the rest of the population.”
“Because of a contagion or in case those things come back?”
Pellan stared at him, but did not reply.
“Could the repercussions be bad if people are told the truth?” Richard asked.
Pellan shrugged. “Who knows how people will take any news given to them.”
Richard sighed, nervous at the choice in front of him. “But the people should know?”
“Yes. I believe they should.”
Richard nodded, his mind ticking over.
“Why do you
want this story? Really?” Pellan asked him.
“The same reason everyone else does. Answers. I want to know where my missing crew are. I want to know why I can’t go home to my apartment in New York. I want to know if this thing, this virus, if it is a virus, will kill me eventually. I want to know if this is the beginning of the end. I want to know if this Occurrence, this phenomenon, will be the end of us all, the end of mankind.”
Pellan looked at him with sympathy. “I wish to know many of those things too, Mr. Keene. But I can’t answer all of them myself. I know only a little.”
Richard’s breath hissed in frustration and he combed his fingers through his hair. “We’re going around in circles here, doctor. You need to tell me what you know, so I can decide from there whether this is a story that needs to be told.”
“You’re prepared for the repercussions? You’re prepared to go into hiding?”
Richard stared at Pellan. He thought of Harry, but realized that right now he didn’t have much left to lose. What could be worse than his current situation?
“Yes. If the story needs to be told to the people, then I will tell it. You obviously think it needs to be told or you wouldn’t have contacted me.” Richard narrowed his eyes. “Why did you contact me? Why me, of all the reporters out there? Because I’m on the inside? Because I’m here in Victoryville?”
Pellan’s eyes took him in for a moment. “Because of your humanity, Mr. Keene.”
Richard stared back waiting for him to elaborate. Pellan turned to stare out the windscreen again.
“Like you, I have done my research. I’ve seen the stories you’ve done in the past. You care about this planet, Mr. Keene, and you care about its people.” Pellan watched him. “Since this phenomenon occurred, the other news reports have focused on the blood and the gore; the rioting and the deaths. They fed on the consequences, the terror, the disintegration, the sensationalism. But you . . . you focused on humanity, on hope. You showed people the light in the dark, the good in all this bad. You showed people what they must hold to, and what they must not give in to.” Pellan looked away briefly. “The story you did, when the boy got shot . . . everyone else saw the violence and the anger and the carnage, but you saw the striped woman risking her life to protect the Clean Skin.”
Richard nodded to himself. “Abbie Randell.”
Pellan gave another sad smile. “And you were the only one who bothered to learn her name, and to learn the young mother’s name. You were the only one who bothered to check on them and do a follow-up story. That is what I’m trying to do here, Mr. Keene. I want to help the Abbie Randells of this world. To free them. The Abbie Randells deserve the truth. No more lies.”
Richard nodded gently. “What is it, Dr. Pellan?” he finally asked. “What truth do you know that will change my life and send me into hiding?”
Pellan stared at him with tired, resigned eyes.
“Tell me.” Richard said firmly. “I want to know.”
*
Stanley Barrick stared at the readings on the screen that the technician, Gavin—wearing yet another Metallica shirt—and Dr. Wattowski were displaying for him.
“You can see here minor spikes of the concentration of mercury in the atmosphere,” Wattowski said.
“So, what does this mean?” Barrick asked.
“It means several stations across North America have detected slight spikes in mercury, similar to what we detected around Victoryville during the Occurrence. Some of these locations have nearby coal plants, some don’t.”
“These have been detected since the ship disappeared?”
“Yes. Since the ship disappeared. These are lower levels than Victoryville though.”
“So what are you saying? They’re still here? Or have we got more than one ship?”
“It looks like there’s only the one ship,” Gavin answered, “because all the readings have been recorded at different times.”
“We think the ship is moving around,” Wattowski added. “It’s hovering.”
“Hovering? You think it’s choosing another town?” Stanley asked.
“We don’t know. These spikes, although similar, are very clearly not at the same levels of the Victoryville Occurrence. Perhaps it’s because the ship is at a higher altitude. We don’t know, of course, but we’re thinking that when the readings match the Victoryville levels, that’s when we’ll know it’s descended and could show itself again.”
“So, at worst, we could have, what, a few minutes to register it?” Barrick asked.
Wattowski nodded. “Yes.”
“A few minutes?” he repeated.
“Yes. A ship of that caliber, I suspect, could cover ground relatively quickly.”
“So these other towns are at risk?” Stanley asked.
“Sir,” Gavin interrupted. “I don’t think it’s going to hit another town.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he pulled up a map showing where the readings were picked up, “the areas where the mercury spikes have been detected in the atmosphere are all within the vicinity of Victoryville. They’ve been up and down the east coast, yes, and as far inland as Texas, but they’re still relatively close to Victoryville. If these readings are caused by the ship, then it’s sticking around its original target.”
Stanley straightened as he stared at his colleagues. “So you believe the ship is still here, and you think, if it’s going to hit again, that it will target Victoryville?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Wattowski said cautiously.
“Give me a percentage of probability?”
Wattowski and Gavin exchanged a look.
“I’d say . . .” Wattowski mused, “about seventy percent.”
Stanley nodded, looking at the map and focusing on the location of Victoryville and the nearby readings.
“Get me the president’s office on the line,” he said to Colin, who stood beside him.
“Yes, sir.” His aide hurried away.
Stanley pulled out his phone and dialed Rita Hogarth, CDC.
“Mr. Barrick?” she answered.
“Dr. Hogarth,” he said stepping into a quiet room. “We think the ship is still here, and we think it’s going to target Victoryville again.”
“You do?”
“Yes, Dr. Pellan was right,” he said, staring blankly out the window. “The aliens categorized the population for a reason. And they’re not done with them yet. So be ready. We might need to bring the CDC back on board.”
*
Mayor Michael Russo sat alone at a corner table in Segal’s. The lights were dim, his third glass of red was almost gone, and the remnants of his pasta primavera lay scattered across his plate. This was the table he and Nicola would always take. They would sit here because there was a large indoor plant positioned just so, to offer a little privacy from the other diners. Although there were no other diners tonight. But that’s why he still wanted this table over any other. Owner Rory Segal had set it up especially for the two of them. In a town like Victoryville, the mayor was as close to celebrity as they came.
Not that Nicola or Rory were here any more. They were part of the missing.
He’d had to get out of his apartment that night, needed a change of scenery. He’d just received word of more looting taking place in the town. A liquor store, some of the homes of the missing. He knew who was behind it. He had no doubt that somehow, in some way, it would lead back to Magnus Bracks.
Russo sighed and ran his hand over his face. He felt as though he was standing on the edge, all his hopes and dreams on the verge of collapse if he couldn’t keep control of the town. He pictured Nicola sitting opposite him, wondered what she’d say about the situation. He knew she wouldn’t have said much. Outside of jewelry, shopping and beachside holidays, she didn’t really have an opinion about anything. He could just picture his father, though. That bastard would’ve said something alright.
When he’d inherit
ed his father’s business, he knew that running a construction company was not what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. But, at the time, he needed it and he acknowledged it was a moderately successful business, one he could raise up and sell off. His father had left the company to him, hoping that he would then pass it onto the son he would surely have, and keep it in the family. But that was never going to happen. No, Russo had set his sights on achieving more than his old man did. After a few years of running the company and winning key contracts with both local and state government, he had turned his attention to politics. His aim had been to start out in local government, and he’d been a councillor for twelve months before running for mayor. And as soon as he had won that sweet spot, he’d handed the day-to-day running of the company to another, while he focused on other things. The timing couldn’t have been better. He’d finally won the last of the litigation with Bracks and could put it behind him, had eventually sold his father’s business to another.
The previous six months of his life had been soaring at a wonderful pace.
Then this phenomenon happened. Nicola was gone, and Victoryville had taken a turn for the worse. While he was mayor.
This was the greatest challenge of his professional life. If he couldn’t lead Victoryville through a time like this, then he could kiss any aspirations of a transition into state and federal politics goodbye. He could not let Bracks destroy everything he’d worked for. Michael Russo was worth more than that. He deserved more than that. He would not let Bracks take what was rightfully his.
*
Abbie lay in bed, desperately wanting sleep. She’d been awake for hours, unable to switch her mind off the endless thoughts crowding it. Austin’s veiled threat had been at the forefront, of course, closely followed by the look Josh had given her as they’d left. She couldn’t read it at the time, but the more she concentrated on that image, the more she was convinced the look was part scared, part wary, part lost, part hopeless. Part desperate. He’d been sucked into something he wasn’t quite sure how to get out of. He’d started down that path to protect his mother, but was he now in too deep?
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