Alien Species Intervention

by J. K. Accinni

  “Of course, Abby, we’re happy to help.” Smiles plastered dumbly on their blank faces, they trotted off to get the giant tortoises. Ruefully shaking her head, she laughed with irony at how happy they were to help. She wished she had thought of that earlier. It certainly took the sting out of the appearance that they were stealing the animals. Stashing the rifle in the Jeep under the seat, she ran through the compound, shouting for Scotty. She spotted him in the field with the camels. As he caught up to her, the trailing camels lingered alongside. Scotty gave the leader an extra swat on the rump to hurry them along to the trucks.

  “How’re we doing?” Scotty asked.

  “Things are going well. Much easier than I thought. Echo implanted three people from the sanctuary who showed up unexpectedly. They’re actually helping to load the trucks. They’re working on the tortoises right now.”

  “Cool. I guess we’re almost done. But Abby, don’t we need food for these guys? I don’t want any of those cats to get hungry.”

  “Don’t worry. Got that covered. The implants will suppress the enzymes that regulate the hunger signals, just as their natural reaction to prey is being suppressed. They won’t suffer unless they don’t get food within a few days. We’ll have plenty of water available. I guess we’re in good shape.”

  “Uh oh—we’ve got a problem.” Scotty peered over Abby’s shoulder toward a small ramshackle house trailer on the edge of the compound. Abby assumed the food preparation station was in the trailer and hadn’t checked it out.

  “Let me handle this. You go check on the truckers,” Abby said. “Make sure we’re almost ready to roll. I’ll swing through the enclosures as soon as I’m finished here.” Nodding, and with one last glance at the house trailer, Scotty ran off.

  Abby kept her eyes on the steps of the trailer as she made her way toward the young girl standing there. She looked to be about seventeen or eighteen, a well-endowed light-skinned black girl with stunningly long shapely legs being shown to their best advantage in her tiny white linen shorts. Her rich dark curly hair, spiking out in an unbelievable corona around her face and down her back, dwarfed her slender frame. Her dark almond eyes settled on Abby as she approached, a slight smile on the perfect curves of her luscious lips.

  “What’s up, chicky? Where you takin’ all the kitties?”

  Hmm, sassy, Abby thought, watching her big gold hoops flash in her ears to the rhythm of her words. Abby stood at the bottom of the steps looking up.

  “You work here? What’s your name?” Abby could now see her huge abdomen. She looked to be about five months, maybe more. Hard to tell with such a slender figure.

  “My name’s Kenya. Kenya McCready. And who you be, chicky?” She stood with one hand on her hip, looking annoyed. “I just finished chopping a ton of greens and fruit for all a them turtles, and they can eat. You takin’ them too?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Well, what the heck am I gonna do with all a these greens?” She took out her cell and dialed a number. Abby stood, not knowing what to do with this unexpected young lady. She looked around for Scotty, hoping he was on his way with Echo. She glanced at Kenya’s expanding midriff, wondering what impact an implant might have on a fetus. Kenya spoke into her cell.

  “Sandra, can ya call me back and let me know what I’m supposed ta do with the greens I been slavin’ over? The lady’s here for the turtles.” Closing her cell, she said, “Don’t that beat all. I don’t know why somebody didn’t let me know. Well, I’ll tell you, chicky, I’m makin’ damn sure I get full credit for my hours. I only have ten left and I’m done. No more community service. Done, finished, kaput. Won’t be seein’ my black booty round here no more.” Focusing her attention back on Abby, she said, “So who’s that cute hottie I just saw you with, chicky?” She threw one hip up on the short porch railing, swinging her leg casually, as if she had all the time in the world to gossip.

  “That’s my brother, Scott. I’m Abby.” She made a quick decision. She couldn’t leave Kenya here with the others who were under the influence of the implants. Once they left she would realize something didn’t jibe. All she had to do was talk to them. Kenya looked pretty street smart. They couldn’t risk her calling the cops.

  “You’re supposed to come with us. Sorry, I didn’t know you were Kenya, the girl I was told to look for.”

  Hopping down from her perch, Kenya squinted at Abby. “Where we supposed ta go?”

  “Bird Key. It’s about twenty minutes from here near the bridge.”

  Kenya’s haughty face relaxed. “I ain’t no dummy. I know where that is. Very muckity-muck.” Kenya pranced down the steps to face Abby.

  “Well, it’s almost time to leave. You can come with us in the Jeep. My brother will be driving.” Abby walked to the Jeep, hoping Kenya wouldn’t ask any more questions. Scotty started when he spotted Kenya as he returned from checking the trucks.

  “We’re all set, Ab.” He raised his eyebrows, nodding toward Kenya.

  “Scotty, this is Kenya, she’s going to ride with us. She’s supposed to give us a hand with the animals.” She turned to Kenya, who stood smiling at Scotty, preening and tossing her magnificent mane.

  “Scotty will take you anywhere you need to go when we’re done. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, chicky, whatever you say.” She placed her hand on the door. Swinging it open, she slid her ample abdomen up on the seat, right next to Echo, seemingly not even noticing her.

  Abby and Scotty hurried to the front seats as the trucks revved their idling engines. The three sanctuary workers walked right past the Jeep toward the house. Kenya stuck her head out the window, hollering, and waved.

  “Sandra, I’ll see ya next week. Don’t forget ta mark my hours, now.” The three of them waved back and returned to the house. Abby visibly relaxed. Scotty pulled out alongside the trucks and proceeded down the gravel drive to take the lead. Pulling beyond the sanctuary gates, they headed for Bird Key.

  “Uh . . . hey, chickies.” Kenya stuck her head up between Scotty and Abby, whispering loudly and talking as if they didn’t understand English. “Did-you-know-there’s-a-creature-in-the-back-seat-with-me? Ain’t no creature I ever seen before. Does it bite?” She looked worried.

  “No, she doesn’t have any teeth,” Abby answered. Kenya gave Echo another good look. Sticking her head up between the seats again, she whispered, “Did you know it’s wearing a pair of sunglasses? And a tiny old-fashioned fanny pack? What’s up with that? I don’t ever see no creatures dressed like that, ‘cept the chimp, that is. They dress him up like a baby all the time.”

  Scotty spoke up. “She has a name—Echo. She’s just a family pet that we have fun dressing up. I’m into fashion.” Abby rolled her eyes at Scotty.

  “Fashion? I think we have a lot in common, Scott. We’ll have to compare notes.” She pinched his arm, winked and then glanced at Abby. “When I finish working and all, that is.” Abby began to wonder just who this irreverent young girl was.

  “Where do you live, Kenya?”

  “I’m from Sarasota, believe or not. I’m from the project. Over by Martin Luther King Boulevard. The only one in the whole town.” She lowered her voice with a trace of bitterness. “I live in a group home for the unwed. Can’t be on my own till I turn eighteen. Won’t be long now. Then me and my baby will find us a nice fly guy with a big ole house that gots a yard for my baby and a first-rate set a wheels.” She was beaming over her big plans.

  “Where’s your mom and dad?” Abby assumed they would want to be there when the baby came. “And the baby’s daddy, I take it he’s no longer in the picture?”

  Kenya laughed. “He was never even in the picture. Don’t know my daddy, my momma got shot when I was five. Not too many nice ladies want to adopt a five-year-old. They want an infant. The ladies round hereabouts wants a white baby. But don’ you worry ‘bout me. I’m gonna have my own family, jus’ soon as my baby born.” She rubbed her belly, a dreamy expression on her elegant face. Abby wondered exa
ctly how hard this poor kid had been raised. And by who?

  “So, Kenya, why are you doing community service?”

  Kenya sighed, her arms wrapping tighter around her belly. “I hit a girl. She stole my baby clothes I been savin’ for. She went right into my dresser and took em. Probably sold em for a couple a bucks for her skag. I don’t make much money at the sanctuary. Been workin’ there for one ta two years. Sandra worked it out with the judge after that thievin’ bitch signed a complaint against me, that I could do my service at the sanctuary. I don’t start getting paid again till my service is done. Sandra’s a nice lady. She knows I love animals. They don’t judge me or leave me. Sandra’s tryin’ ta work out me livin’ at the big house after the baby comes. Sure is good of her, but she don’t understand. I need to find me a fly guy for my baby. I’m not letting my baby grow up like a vagabond. We deserve to make a family.”

  You sure do, Abby thought. “I know just what you mean, Kenya. You keep your chin up and do what you have to do for the baby.”

  Scotty gave her a thumb’s up sign and she winked at him again.

  Chapter 13

  Lita zipped up her fly. Tucking her blue and white cotton checkered shirt into her jeans, she surveyed her bedroom to see if she had overlooked anything. She was the happiest she’d been since Omar Nasir had called to announce his demands for her attention. She found it very difficult to beg off without making him suspicious. Damn. Just when I’d finally found myself on the cusp of a new life. She had been all set to ship her furniture north and disappear when she had made the mistake of answering her cell without checking to identify the caller first. Trapped.

  The days with him at the Ritz Carlton had crawled unbearably. She had even less tolerance for him now, knowing she was only a hairbreadth away from getting a real life back. She felt the pain he inflicted on her more intensely. She found it harder to smile and beguile him. She loathed his selfish, egotistical, demeaning, chauvinistic, condescending, misogynistic . . . did I leave out the fact that he possesses a small dick—thank heavens–and frequently reeks of body odor?

  She laughed deliciously for the first time in almost a decade. Yes, she thought, that’s how freedom tastes. She made a note to call her parents. They would be ecstatic. She lived with many restrictions when undercover and her communications with her parents suffered. They didn’t even know where she lived. Slipping into her sneakers, she heard the doorbell ring. Frowning, she realized the movers were here, albeit early. Didn’t matter. She was raring to go.

  Grabbing her purse, she took out the engagement ring Omar had given her. She didn’t doubt the significant value of the diamond. Slipping it back into her purse, she decided she would sell it and give the proceeds to the scholarship fund offered by the company for children of agents killed in the field. The doorbell rang again. The movers. She ran to answer it, dancing on air.

  *

  Omar Nasir prepared for his long-awaited meeting with the imams. It was still early in the morning, the Florida sun just starting its relentless pounding on the hapless inhabitants who had failed to escape to their essential air conditioning. He stretched out on his deceased wife’s comfortable antique fainting sofa in their bedroom. He found it difficult to get motivated, still mystified as to the imams’ agenda.

  He tried, discreetly, to put feelers out within his network as to the purpose of the meeting. He didn’t doubt that the news of his engagement had reached them by now. That should make them very happy, as they pressured him incessantly to take a wife to the White House. They wanted him to appeal to the parts of the country which revered family and traditional values, which was not the normal Socialist New World Party’s base.

  The imams wanted to make sure that everyone loved and trusted him, so the public wouldn’t see the end coming. Twenty years in the planning, one must admire their patience. And the respect they commanded. Their tentacles reached far and wide. Very wide. Unfortunately, he too must always be on his toes, never knowing who watched, or from where.

  Thinking of his engagement, he turned his mind to Lita. She had genuinely seemed shocked when he had presented her with the ring, sliding it on her finger to proclaim his possession. He did not actually propose. A ridiculous American tradition, asking for the woman’s permission. Humiliating. Besides, a Syrian woman would not expect it. She knew her duty and the behavior required of her in their relationship.

  He must admit that their time at the Ritz Carlton had fallen a little flat. Her lovemaking had lacked her usual level of passion. And what had happened to the exciting conversationalist I always enjoyed? When he inquired, she indifferently chalked it up to her allergies.

  Feeling hungry for his breakfast, he called down to the kitchen to inquire about the delay. Oddly, no one picked up his call, a very rare occurrence. He decided to try again in a few minutes.

  Rising to use the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror. Was that more gray? Moving up close to the mirror, he ran his hairy fingers over his well-developed chest, liking the look and feel of his thick thatch of dark hair. But he didn’t like the strands of gray that had suddenly appeared on his well-coiffed head. It must be all the stress. Now in his late forties, he found he worried more. And he always seemed to be tired. Maybe from the constant campaigning? He couldn’t wait for November when it would all be over.

  He wondered what date he should set for the wedding. Maybe after the election. A White House wedding sounded elegant. They could get it out of the way before the next phase of the imams’ plan was initiated: using him to smuggle in the bombs, the details still unknown to him. Well, they would tell him soon enough.

  He glanced at his watch. Where was his breakfast? He wanted to eat before he put on his disguise. He called the kitchen again. Still no answer. Where was that woman? His cook had been with him for over ten years, provided by Andrew. Andrew Brooks did all the hiring of the guards and house staff.

  Andrew’s talents made his world manageable: Brooks was his most invaluable confidant and his closest associate. Odd, considering he knew very little about Andrew’s own life. Yet Andrew knew everything about him. Oh well, his importance overruled all other considerations, especially trivial affairs of his employees and associates.

  Tired of ruminating, he decided to don his disguise and head down to the boat. He would check the kitchen on the way out, but he no longer had time to eat. He would have to wait for lunch.

  He took his time applying his makeup and hairpieces, fingers expertly fashioning his new persona. Nasir made a mental note to have Andrew obtain a cane for him. Hunching over with no support just to further his disguise hurt his back. The cane would give him support and add to his elderly persona.

  Peering out his bedroom window, he observed the morning heat shimmering off the flagstone terrace, his daughter already swimming in the pool. He should be back in time to have lunch with her. That would be a nice treat.

  He reached for his cell again. He wanted to call Lita before he set off in the boat. Waiting impatiently for her to pick up, he smiled at the thought of how handsome he would look on their wedding day, with her at his side. She did not pick up her cell. Now, he was starting to steam. Why are people not responding?

  Donning his geriatric clothes, he started briskly down the back staircase, directly to the kitchen. Further annoyed, he found the kitchen empty. The long gleaming stainless steel and granite countertops were spotless. No pots simmered on either the red Wolf range, or the chocolate Viking; its six burners were cold, the grill empty. Leaving a note for the cook regarding his lunch with his daughter, he hurried out the back door, skirting the pool and going directly to the waiting boat.

  Boarding the Bertram, he ordered his waiting man to cast off.

  “Where are the rest of the men? They knew I needed to go to the mainland.”

  The pilot shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, sir, but I am at your disposal.”

  Omar grumbled and steamed. So far the day had been determined to cons
pire against him.

  Making himself comfortable in a flowered outdoor chair, he watched his man pilot the boat across the bay, sunlight reflecting off the cold ocean water, blinding his sight. He raised his hand to shelter his eyes, his false bifocals prohibiting the use of sunglasses.

  His man turned and gave him a quick look. Their eyes accidently met. What the f— was that look on his face? Squinting, Omar could swear the man’s eyes flashed contempt at him. How dare he? If he could afford the time he would discipline the man himself. He must speak to Andrew Brooks about him when he returned to the estate, then dismissed him immediately from his thoughts.

  Before long they docked at Marina Jack’s. Nasir quickly disembarked, getting a nod from his man.

  “Do not leave the boat. I will be back within the hour.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Omar turned away slowly, giving the man a long look. He could swear he could still see something different in the man’s eyes. The man will soon rue the day he crossed my path. Hurrying across the street, he walked quickly to the mosque.

  He entered, removing his sandals in the antechamber before being quickly ushered past the prayer room down a long hall to the rear of the mosque. Swarthy bearded men milled around the door behind which the imams waited. He entered, respect radiating from his every subservient gesture.

  The small stark room housed a low metal table at which the three gaunt imams sat in their robes, their long gray beards resting in their laps. Their eyes projected a fierce calm. Behind the imams, an oak sideboard held a slight pile of papers. Two aides waited reverently in the corner of the room near the only window, open to the courtyard. After exchanging traditional greetings, the aides signaled Omar to sit on the cushion across from the middle imam.

  He hurriedly made himself comfortable, waiting for them to begin. No one spoke. Omar looked from one to the other as they appeared to study him. A prickly sensation distracted him, making the hairs on his back itch. He felt his hands turn to ice . . . something’s wrong. Imam Mohammed al Qua Terique turned and reached for the papers on the sideboard, holding them against his chest. A sudden premonition knifed cleanly through Omar’s bowels.