Saving the World
Page 7
“Maybe she was thrown from the plane?” Bryant said.
Turkle waited a beat, then said, “That’s your theory?”
Bryant rubbed the side of his face, thinking of a plausible way this could happen. “Maybe she was never on the flight to begin with,” Bryant said.
“Her boarding pass was scanned at the gate,” Turkle said. “She was onboard when the plane took off.”
“That’s just not possible,” Bryant said, stretching his imagination to its limit. When he looked up, he realized Turkle had been measuring his reaction. As if Bryant was somehow involved with the accident.
“Wait a second,” Bryant said. “What does any of this have to do with me?”
That’s when Turkle’s expression softened. For the first time, his eyes had the sympathetic look of a man about to announce the death of a relative. Only Bryant had no more relatives left to die. So why was his throat thick enough to make it hard to swallow?
“You okay?” Turkle asked.
Bryant needed water. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Well, here’s the thing. . .” Turkle hesitated, then took a deep breath. “Margo’s plane crashed on March 19th.”
Bryant became lightheaded. It was too hot. His tongue was now permanently sealed to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to open the door, but didn’t have the strength. Then Turkle said something that would forever change the rest of his life.
“At 9:16 a.m.”
Bryant jerked forward and hurled tiny drops of acid from the pit of his stomach. He choked and gagged until acid ran up his nose and burned him.
Chapter 12
Bryant woke up to a knock on the door. His pullout couch sat in the middle of his waiting room and three steps from the door. Bryant peaked at the clock on the wall: 6:45. When he glimpsed through the shades, Father Joe stood patiently outside. Bryant unlocked the door and headed straight for the bathroom.
“Good morning to you too,” Father Joe said.
“I need to pee,” Bryant said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
After he flushed, Bryant pulled clothes out of his bathroom closet. He heard Father Joe lift up the pullout couch and squeak it back into place. Bryant knew the cushions would be replaced as well.
“The clouds seem to be lighter than usual,” Father Joe said, raising his voice to get through the closed bathroom door.
“I know. Some of the aliens might’ve gotten bored with Chandler,” Bryant quipped.
“Good riddance,” the priest said.
Bryant washed up and brushed his teeth. When he returned to the waiting room, Father Joe held out a steaming cup of coffee he’d just made.
Bryant took a sip from the Styrofoam cup.
“You look terrible,” Father Joe said.
“Yeah, well I was up late getting interrogated by the FBI,” Bryant said, sitting down on the couch and placing the coffee on the end table. “Margo’s family died in a plane crash the same morning the girls died.”
Father Joe pulled up a waiting room chair and sat next to Bryant.
“The very first phone call Margo made was to my office,” Bryant said. “Apparently someone has removed the word coincidence from the official FBI dictionary.”
“That’s incredible.”
Bryant reached over and picked up a picture of his wife and daughter posing for his sister-in-law’s wedding. They were all made up and happy to be with each other.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Bryant said, “but talking with that FBI agent last night, well, it just convinced me to start over.”
Father Joe sat quietly.
Bryant stared at the picture of his family. “There’s nothing here for me anymore. Just bones and dirt.”
Father Joe’s nose curled up like he’d just smelled a skunk. “Is that what’s become of your faith? Bones and dirt?”
Bryant sipped some coffee while staring at the picture, as if someone dared him to cut open a stitched-up wound. “Spin it however you like.”
They sat in silence for a minute, then Father Joe said, “I had a visitor last night.”
“And?” Bryant raised his eyebrows.
“Margo Sutter came by. She spent the night praying. I found her sleeping in a pew when I stopped in this morning.”
“She sounds like a devoted Catholic girl,” Bryant said.
Bryant took another sip of coffee and watched the priest’s eyes go cold.
“What?” Bryant said.
“I’m trying to understand where Michael Bryant went,” Father Joe said.
“Huh,” Bryant mocked a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
Father Joe stared.
Bryant stood and began a slow pace. “I mean after everything I’ve been through, you expect my conviction to the Lord to be intact?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because it’s my job to ask. I’m in the business of saving souls.”
Bryant stopped to gaze out the window. The traffic on Ray Road was clearing up. “I’m afraid my soul has seen too much action. There’s nothing left to revive.”
“Ah, Michael,” Father Joe said with his Irish brogue accent, “that’s where you’re wrong, lad. I’ve seen what you can do. Peter Grettles was only fourteen when he was convicted of stealing cars. A few sessions with you and the kid became one of my finest altar boys. Do you know what he’s doing now?”
Bryant simply watched the traffic go by, wondering where everyone was going and why they even bothered.
“He’s a CPA. He actually does my taxes. And he’s as honest as the day is long. You did that, Michael. You’re the one who put him on the right track. It was your words that got him there.”
Bryant heard the one-way conversation behind him, but merely shrugged as he watched a dog scurry up to the rear tire of his car and lift its leg to pee. Isn’t that about right, he thought.
Just then a loud sonic boom exploded overhead and two F-16 fighter planes soared past the window only fifty yards overhead. Father Joe joined Bryant as they watched the peculiar flyby.
“You think they found any aliens?” Bryant said, completely ignoring Father Joe’s line of reasoning.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t remember the Michael Bryant who saved hundreds of people from a life of misery. You prescribed less medication than any psychiatrist in the state. You had such a gift for finding the root of the problem and getting res—”
Father Joe stopped. Bryant turned to see the priest flustered by his apathy.
“I’m listening,” Bryant said.
“No you’re not.”
Bryant returned his attention out the window. “All right. I’m not.”
There was a long moment of stillness. Bryant wondered whether Father Joe had left his office.
“What would Kate say about your behavior?” Father Joe’s words came at him like an arrow from a bow.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Father Joe said, backing up a half step as Bryant charged toward him.
Bryant came at him with purpose. “I can’t believe it. How can you possibly—”
As he passed the corner of his desk, he knocked over a picture of Kate and Megan. It was the photo of the girls sitting on a white oak fence in a farm back in Virginia. The glass frame shattered on the wood floor, and the room became still. Bryant looked down at his family, fractured, broken, their faces still holding their smiles. His daughter’s bright eyes seemed to be looking directly at him.
Bryant bent down to a knee to pick up the broken picture. The pressure built up in his throat, and he had to swallow a couple of times to keep his stomach from lurching. He thought of Kate and how her warm, loving fingertips used to caress his face after he’d had a bad day. There was enough love in her heart to cover half the county. It all came back to him in rushes.
Father Joe bent next to him and placed a hand on his back. The priest whispered, “They’re safe. I can assure you of that.”
The priest patted Bryant on the back. “Okay,” he said softly. “You do what’s best, Michael.”
Chapter 13
FBI agent Shawn Backman sat in front of his computer and thumped his fingers on his desk. He’d seen the video thirty or forty times already and still hadn’t come up with a good explanation for what he saw. The office door opened and Agent Ron Turkle came in with a cardboard carry-tray with two coffees. He pulled one out, handed it to Backman and sat down on the edge of Backman’s desk.
Turkle worked the lid off his own coffee and took a sip. “Well?”
Backman swiveled his monitor toward Turkle and clicked a button to replay. The screen showed a group of dark clouds at dusk.
“What are we looking at here?” Turkle asked.
“Just keep watching.”
From the left of the screen came a bright fireball streaking through the sky. It was obscured by the cloud cover, but it didn’t diminish its brilliance. A second fireball was further behind the clouds and set off a series of aerial explosions that lit up the clouds like a Fourth of July display.
“What the—”
“Keep watching,” Backman said.
They saw the clouds light up one after another, a new fireball repeating the previous one’s flight.
“It’s almost like it’s—”
“Synchronized,” Backman finished for him.
They watched in silence for a minute, then Turkle said, “It’s got to be a meteor shower.”
“That would work,” Backman said, “if there were any meteors around. Scientists already shot that theory down.”
“Where is this?”
“Just got this from the Gila County Sheriff’s Department,” Backman said. “It’s somewhere over the Grand Canyon.”
Turkle glanced outside as if looking for something.
“What’s the matter?” Backman asked.
Turkle’s expression changed. He sipped some coffee and shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You looked like you knew something. Come out with it.”
The agent leered down at Backman with disdain in his eyes. There was something nefarious about the way he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “When I say nothing, I mean nothing.”
Shawn Backman was a twelve-year veteran of the FBI. He’d been attacked, threatened, accused and maligned by the most dangerous criminals Arizona had to offer. But none had startled him as much as his partner just did from a simple question.
“You okay?” Backman asked.
Turkle’s demeanor seemed to change again. He was back to his affable expression as quickly as if he’d swiped a hand in front of his face.
“Sure,” he said, pointing out the window at the cloudy sky. “The storm is down to a drizzle.” He gave Backman a toothy smile. “What could possibly be wrong?”
They’d been partners for five years, but ever since Turkle’s heart attack, he’d changed somehow. He was grumpier and showed wild mood swings. At first Backman assumed it was the medication he was taking, but it couldn’t explain everything. He’d been an investigator for too long.
“Everything okay at home?” Backman asked with innocence.
Turkle’s face softened even further. He gave Backman a playful punch. “Hey, it’s fine. The wife gets under my skin sometimes, but that’s typical, right?”
Backman nodded. It was hard to argue much about that point, he thought. In his peripheral vision he caught the muted TV monitor hanging from the wall at the back of their office. He grabbed the remote and raised the volume. A CNN reporter stood in front of a mass of people standing behind a strip of yellow police tape in downtown Phoenix. Signs could be seen in the background, bobbing up and down: ‘Alien Go Home.’ ‘Save our Children.’
“The protest was started by a local college student who claimed to have dated Margo Sutter briefly in high school,” the reporter said. “The boy says he knew her when she was normal. Back when she was human.”
Backman pushed the mute button. “What the heck’s going on out there?” he asked.
“It’s the girl,” Turkle said, staring at the silent screen as if searching for someone. “She’s responsible for this.”
Backman pinched the bridge of his nose with his index fingers. “Ron, are we going to have this conversation again?”
Turkle picked up his coffee, walked over to his desk and sat down with heavy legs. Their office was barely big enough to support the two of them. One more desk and they would have to walk sideways to get in and out.
“I’m just saying,” Turkle said. “She seems to be in the middle of everything.”
Backman pushed the power button to turn off the TV, then dropped the remote on his desk. He scooted his chair back and leaned forward.
“You didn’t actually speak with her did you?” Backman asked.
“No.”
Backman breathed out a sigh. “Thank goodness.”
“I did speak with the doctor, though.”
Backman covered his eyes with his hand. “You did what?”
“He came up to my car. What was I supposed to do, shoo him away like a dog?”
“Listen,” Backman took a long breath, “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t go off on a tangent again.” He looked up to see the surprised expression on his partner’s face.
“Vince?” Turkle asked.
Backman nodded.
Turkle’s eyes wandered around the room, then returned to Backman. “Vince is doing this to me?”
Backman raised a hand. “Wait a minute, Ron. Don’t go down that road. You’ve been acting very peculiar ever since this girl returned home. You’re not going to admit it, but you’re obsessing.”
“Obsessing? She’s on the damn cover of Time Magazine claiming to be speaking with invisible aliens.”
Backman got up and looked out his office window into the bullpen where a huddle of cubicles clung together like a beehive. The hum of computer terminals and the chirp of cell phones crept through the closed door. A couple dozen operation people were glued to their computer monitors, their waistlines growing wider with each minute that passed.
Backman sighed while examining the bleak view. “You see that?”
“What,” Turkle asked.
“That crowd of keyboard pounders and Visine users.”
Turkle didn’t respond.
Backman bit the inside of his cheek and turned to his partner. “Listen, Kevin’s going to Dartmouth this year and Lindsay is two years away. There’s another round of cuts coming next quarter and I can’t afford to risk their education for some fascination you have with a teenage girl who may or may not be mentally unstable.”
Backman waited for a reaction, but Turkle seemed to be struggling to understand. Backman pulled up an armless chair and sat next to Turkle, looking him square in the eye.
“I can’t lie to Vince,” Backman said. “I won’t end up out on the street, or worse,” he pointed out the office window at the pathetic congregation of carpal tunnel candidates. “I won’t be a data personnel executive, or whatever they’re calling them these days. I’ve been an investigator too long. I can’t sit behind a desk all day. It’ll kill me.”
Turkle seemed to put it together. He nodded. “I see.”
“Do you?”
Turkle picked up his coffee, walked around Backman and opened the door. He turned back for a moment and said, “Excuse me. I have official FBI business to take care of.”
Backman watched his partner head for the elevators. Turkle had gotten the message. He would no longer include Backman in any of his surveillance activities involving Margo Sutter. Backman went back to his desk and turned on the TV. Something was going on out there, but he wasn’t going to be the one to suggest anything as mercurial as aliens from another planet. He had tuition
to think about.
Chapter 14
Bryant was hauling a bag of trash to the dumpster behind the church when he spotted the black Ford Expedition parked on the side of the building. Bryant slowed his steps until his vantage point allowed him to see the driver’s side of the car. When he saw who was standing next to the car speaking with the driver, he dropped the bag of garbage and froze. Margo Sutter had a frightened expression while listening to the FBI agent talk with her in a harsh tone. Out of curiosity he began walking toward the car.
Margo saw him coming and immediately tried to cut him off. She stepped in front of him while the FBI agent seemed amused through the reflection in the side-view mirror.
Bryant tried to get around her, but she held her ground, palming his chest and pushing him back. The Expedition began to roll away. Turkle’s smile beamed back at him through the rearview mirror.
“What was that all about?” Bryant asked as the FBI agent turned the corner and out of sight.
“He’s trying to scare me,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because,” she walked a few feet away, then back. She looked up at Bryant with pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“About your family. I’m really sorry,” she said.
Bryant tried to figure out the source of the comment. Where did it come from? It was his nature to understand the root of the words. By Margo’s expression, it seemed to be born out of guilt.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going through anything you haven’t.”
Margo looked down at her fingers and began to play with them.
The side door to the church squeaked open and Father Joe poked his head out.
“You kids okay?” he said.
Bryant nodded.
Father Joe walked over, letting the heavy door close behind him with a thud. The three of them stood still for a moment and the priest seemed to understand the awkward silence.
“Am I interrupting something?” he said.
Margo clutched his arm. “No, Father, of course not.” She gave Bryant a stern look, like a wife or a daughter would.
“No,” Bryant agreed. “We were just discussing FBI agent Turkle’s motives.”