Alien Heat

by Lynn Hightower

  FIFTY-THREE

  David muted the sound on the television, watched as Peterson mouthed the usual press conference platitudes and the Federal Bureau of Investigation took full credit for the arrest of one Eugene Tatewood, a serial arsonist responsible for a series of supper club fires and arson deaths across the country, including Saigo City.

  A quick clip showed Tatewood in handcuffs and chains—all for show—hair slicked back, doing that stiff-legged ex-con walk with Agent Peterson at his side. Tatewood looked at the camera, ducked his head, smiled the secret smile. David clenched his fists. A picture of Agent John Brevitt flashed across the screen, and the view cut to a funeral procession down the streets of Washington, DC.

  No mention, no picture, of Arson Detective Yolanda Free Clements.

  David heard a flute. String glided into the bull pen, followed by Calib and Wart.

  “Must watch this pouchling most of the careful,” Wart said.

  String waved a fin. “Have the experience of human pouchlings.”

  “You will be the meet arrangements with this female emergency medical? You are certain she has not already the chemaki?”

  String skittered sideways. “Sure, this is the yes.”

  Calib wore jeans that were too long, bunching over the tops of his shoes, dragging at the heels. He looked at every desk, frowning.

  Looking for his mother, David thought. It would take time for this child to understand.

  He raised a finger at Wart. “How long are you looking after the boy?”

  “But always. Is the legal pouchling. Yo Free and I the agreement makes times and times ago.”

  String cocked an eye prong. “Pouchling needs the chemaki, so I am to arrange.”

  David looked from one Elaki to the other, wondering what he should say. Congratulations?

  “Is the time, you are the ready?” Wart asked.

  David nodded.

  “Be wary of Wart’s command of the van,” String muttered.

  “We’ll take my car,” David said.

  String found a pair of handcuffs, handed them to the boy. David looked away.

  David walked through the Psychic Fair with Warden at his side. No one gave them a second look.

  “I appreciate this a lot.”

  “Isss my small pleasure.” Even for an Elaki, the voice was toneless. Warden was faraway.

  The dead were buried, and David knew he had been lucky. Rose and Mel were long gone by the time the bomb exploded. He and String and Wart had gotten out minutes before what was left of the second floor had come crashing down.

  Peterson had literally sat on Tatewood until he’d gotten help. Tatewood had only been able to plant one of the three bombs in his possession, and if the FBI could keep their hands on him, he’d go down forever. He might not fall for the murder of Theresa Jenks, but he’d fall hard enough so that it wouldn’t matter.

  David paused in front of the familiar glass door while Warden studied the building with an educated eye.

  “It will be okay, this.”

  David nodded and led the Elaki up the stairs. They went slowly. Narrow staircases were not Elaki-friendly.

  David knocked at the scratched wood door. It was early; it took a while to get a response.

  The door opened slowly, at last, and a man started at them, eyes blurred with sleep, hair mussed, movements slow and zombie-like. Candy Andy had aged since David saw him last, and he looked vulnerable in soiled white boxer shorts.

  “What is this, any—” He gave David a second look, leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his bare bony legs. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Officer. It’s a little early to call. Make an appointment and come back.”

  “We have the warrant of investigation,” Warden said.

  Andy froze. “Investigation of what?”

  “Building fire code violations. Please to let us in. You may get dressed if you wish. You are in the process of being arrested.”

  “This is ridiculous. Come on, Silver, you know I can beat this with the grandfather clause. This is pure harassment.”

  David nodded. “Yes. It is.”

  “Pleasse to get dressed or come to arrestment in underwear. Which?”

  “Silver—”

  David’s radio went off, and he picked up the headset.

  “Silver? Captain Halliday. Meet me on Bonheur Street, on the corner, right by the bridge.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “No, it can’t.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

  “You can get here in about fifteen minutes, if you hustle. I know where you are, and I’m timing it.”

  David cut the connection. Thought about it.

  “Who?” Warden said.

  “Halliday. Unbelievably bad timing.”

  “I will take the care of thisss for you. She should be here. Would find this most to amuse.”

  David thought of Clements and Brevitt. Another incidence of bad timing. Death in police work often came down to bad timing.

  David looked at Candy Andy, shivering in the hallway in spite of the heat, and wished, just a little, that he was the kind of cop who hit.

  Instead he put a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “Be nice to my Elaki,” he said.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  David looked down into the water beneath the bridge, the brown muddy rivulets that had kept the secret all these years. He heard footsteps, felt Halliday’s hand on his shoulder, was vaguely aware of a woman in a wet suit, wiping her hair with a towel.

  “David?”

  He was mesmerized by the water, the flow, the hidden depths. He turned reluctantly, looked at the captain, saw pity in the man’s lean, hungry face.

  “Sorry to get tough with you earlier. I didn’t want to explain on the radio, and I thought you’d want to be here when they brought up the car.”

  David nodded.

  “I couldn’t call till we were sure. Diver brought up the car’s records. You want to know what happened now, or later on?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Just … tell me.”

  “Sorry. Evidently your father was at a hamburger place, no more than a block away, on Clairmont.”

  “It was a doughnut place then.”

  The captain nodded. “Anyway. He came out to the parking lot. It gets a little garbled here, but evidently he saw a wreck. Sounds like nothing more than a fender bender, for Chrissake. Car says a Cadillac was at the stoplight and got rear-ended by a white van—knocked it all the way across the intersection.

  “Man in the Cadillac got out. Guy in the van got out. Guy in the van was carrying what the car thinks was some kind of high-powered automatic pistol. Van guy aims the pistol at the Cadillac man across the road. Your father was there, in the parking lot—”

  David did not need to hear the rest, though naturally he listened. He knew his father was not the kind of man to sit quietly by.

  David could see it, see how it would go. His father would try to talk the man out of the gun. A maniac with a gun, angry over nothing, looking from his father to the man in the Cadillac, trying to decide who to shoot.

  David heard the groan of gears, saw the arm of the crane. The captain was looking at him. “David? You going to be okay?”

  “Why now? How’d you know the car was down there?”

  The captain pointed. “Her.”

  David looked to the other side of the bridge. Teddy came toward him, braid loose and messy. She wore the blue jeans with the knee worn through, one shoe was untied, and her shirt was too big, cuffs down to her knuckles.

  He was so glad to see her he almost cried.

  She took his arm and led him away from the others. Getting right to the point, as always.

  “After that night, where you saved my butt? It came back, David. You know.”

  He touched a loose strand of her hair, aware that he should not do such things, not with his coworkers watching.

  “And for some reason, I started thi
nking about your daddy, and one thing led to another. Your captain was really great about the whole thing. He thinks a lot of you.”

  He nodded.

  “Is this okay, David? You wanted to know?”

  “I wanted to know.”

  “That’s what I figured. Oh God, I was so scared I’d be wrong, and it wouldn’t be him.”

  “Not you, Teddy. I’m glad for you, you know that, don’t you?”

  She smiled at him. “I feel like I been put back together.”

  He wondered if he would feel that way, given time.

  She gave him her sideways look. “So, David. We friends, or aren’t we?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “I didn’t want to go, the way we left it. I been thinking a lot, about things. I want to go home and take a few days off, fool around in my garden, which has probably gone to hell. Get centered, you know? And then, can I call you, David? To see you again, if you know what I mean?”

  The sensible thing to say would be no. He had let her get close, and he had gotten hurt.

  “Call me,” he said.

  She looked over his shoulder, took his hand, and squeezed it. “All your buddies are watching, so pretend I am giving you the most passionate kiss ever.”

  “Now you pretend.”

  “What?”

  He bent close and whispered in her ear. She blushed, and so did he.

  “She’s coming up!” came a shout.

  David heard the gurgle of water. He closed his eyes.

  “David, should I stay or go?”

  “Just come and stand beside me.”

  “I guess a friend could do that.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  When he walked into the kitchen that night, full of news he did not know how to tell, David found his daughters drinking hot chocolate—a treat, even at the end of July.

  He felt their delight in his presence, and he looked at their young faces, thinking that if it came down to a choice between their happiness and his, it was really no choice at all.

  “We weren’t sure you were coming home tonight.” Rose’s tone was light, for the benefit of the girls.

  David knew she had wondered if he was coming home at all. She was wearing blue jeans and a black sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out. Working clothes.

  “Got a job?” he asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “Something big?”

  She nodded. “Guy Haas and I have been after a long time. Kills show horses for insurance money. Hires out.”

  David thought of Candy Andy, and Tatewood, and a dozen others, and knew there were some things he and Rose still shared.

  “Go get him,” David said softly.

  Rose stood up and clapped her hands at the girls. “Baths. And make them fast, it’s way past your bedtimes.” She herded the girls down the hall, then looked at him over her shoulder. “It’s easier, you know, when there’s two of us.”

  David waited till Rose was gone, then got the girls out of bed, gathering them together in the kitchen.

  “Who’s sleepy?” he asked.

  “Not me.” Mattie rubbed her eyes.

  “I am,” Kendra said, frowning. Lisa stayed silent.

  David made a sad face that they knew was fake. “Tooooo bad. I wanted to go to a carnival and ride some rides, but I would feel silly, going by myself.”

  Mattie’s eyes got huge.

  “Tonight?” Lisa said. She began to hop up and down on the soft pink pads of her feet.

  “It’s past our bedtime,” Kendra said.

  David hung his head. “You’re right. We better not. Mommy might be mad.”

  “Don’t tell her,” Mattie said.

  David looked shocked. “You mean lie?”

  Kendra tapped her chin. “No, no, not lie. Just don’t bring it up.”

  David thought for a long moment while his daughters watched him, Mattie barely able to breathe. Lisa and Kendra knew the carnival was a given, but Mattie quaked with tension. David decided to have mercy.

  “Okay,” he said. “But if she finds out, we face up to it together.”

  “Daddy!” Mattie grabbed his waist and hugged him. “You don’t have to, of course, but if you were hungry, maybe we would like some cotton candy?”

  “You have to eat cotton candy, if you go to the fair.”

  “And ride the Ferris wheel?”

  David patted her head. “And ride the Ferris wheel. Now. Get dressed, and make it fast. That means you, Kendra. Shoes, and socks.”

  “Socks?”

  “Socks!”

  David’s daughters ran down the hallway, squealing as one slid into the bathroom ahead of the others. He stepped out the back door so he would not have to listen.

  It was noisy out, country noises. Cicadas, crickets, traffic in the distance. Hazy too, but he could see stars. He flipped the porch light off, to discourage the moths, and leaned against the grape arbor.

  David closed his eyes, thinking that peace of heart would be a wonderful thing.

  He had a sudden and odd sensation that he was being watched. He turned his head slowly, and found himself eye-to-eye with the fat green iguana, nearly invisible beneath the cover of leaves.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Elaki series

  ONE

  David’s stomach sank when he saw the spatters of brown blood in the front seat of the car. He had hoped, for no particular reason, that there might still be a chance of finding Luke Cochran alive. The uniform leaned over his shoulder, rain coursing down the slicker over his arm. He pointed his light, adding to the dim thread of brightness from the overhead dome.

  “She identified the shoe.”

  David looked at the dirty white tennis shoe—an Eckler, expensive brand. Cochran was a big kid, over six feet, and the shoe looked a size eleven. The laces were frayed, and there was a wad of pink bubble gum stuck to the sole. It was wedged in the hinge of the front seat door, passenger’s side, as if Cochran’s foot had caught and been wrenched free, leaving the shoe behind.

  Someone moving the body?

  David ducked out of the open door, head exposed to the downpour of warm, fat rain. “Gotten a statement from the car yet?”

  Cochran’s car was a sleek, shiny black Visck. It had been pristine and beautiful before it jumped the guardrail and went over the side of the exit ramp into the weed-choked thicket. Raindrops beaded on a paint job that still shone.

  David backed into a tangle of sticker vines, tearing the skin across the back of his hand. Rain-diluted blood ran down his fingers. He wiped his hand absently across the back of his jeans, and tripped over an empty, dirt-encrusted carton of Jack Daniels.

  The uniform put a hand out. “Steady, sir.”

  David took a second look at the fleshy young face of the embryo in uniform. His ego plummeted. Steady, sir?

  He slogged through knee-high weeds to take a look at the car from the other side. He was wet enough not to care how much more rain he absorbed. The generator on the Crime Scene Unit’s van throbbed, someone shouted “Lights,” and the car was suddenly bathed in bright yellow illumination.

  The light turned everything sordid.

  The exit ramp ran with water, coursing over a sodden grey diaper, and the pitted asphalt shimmered with the reflected glow of light. The ragged remains of a pale pink dress circled a guardrail support. David glanced over his shoulder, down the hill toward Elaki-Town. The street lights were dark here at four A.M., and the storefronts, antique stalls, small bars, and restaurants were dark humps at the bottom of the hill.

  David wondered about that. No light at all? He was sure the storefronts and restaurants usually stayed lighted. Didn’t they?

  A car made a shark pass on the main drag, catching the hulking presence of Elaki in its headlights. David hoped the car doors were locked tight, shrugged his shoulders at anyone foolish enough to be in Elaki-Town this time of night. He wondered if he’d be called to a fresh crime scene at the bottom of the hill before he was finish
ed with the one at hand.

  He looked back at the dark streets, sensing the Elaki backed up into the storefronts. Watching, he supposed—the carnival of red and blue lights, vans, ambulances. Human drama. He was wondering where the hell Mel and String were, when he caught sight of the girl.

  She stood on the exit ramp under a street light, as if seeking warmth. Her shoulders sagged low, feet turned inward—pigeon-toed, elbows out. She was worrisomely thin, arms bony and bare and running with rain. Her electric-blue tank top had a high collar, and her jeans were threadbare, sagging under the weight of water absorbed. She clutched a large bundle of blankets to her chest, and her eyes were closed.

  The bundle in her arms moved, and David realized that she held a small child, a toddler, no more than two or three.

  He looked at the uniform and pointed. “Who is that?”

  “Oh. That’s her.”

  “Her?”

  “The one all the fuss was about, who poisoned her newborn baby. Annie Trey.”

  She did not look old enough to be out after curfew. David moved toward her, noting that the technicians, uniforms, and detectives kept a constant distance from this small young girl, as if she were contaminated. He counted five large umbrellas. Four empty cars. And no one had offered to shelter this child with a child from the wet and the dark.

  The baby coughed, sounding croupy, emitting a small cry heavy with misery. The girl tucked the small head under her chin, tightened her grip, and cooed softly. She did not open her eyes. She bent forward, as if her back ached, and David wondered how long she had stood there, holding the child.

  TWO

  Annie Trey opened her eyes when he approached, large blue eyes. Her hair was chin-length and dark, wet and close on her scalp. There was a nasty scab on one cheek, and her lashes were brown and thin. The freckles on her nose and cheeks were faint enough that you couldn’t see them unless you got close.

  David did not think he had ever seen anyone who gave so strong an impression of being separate and alone.

  Annie Trey had been much in the news—the unwed mother of an eighteen-month-old daughter, and a newborn son who died at three weeks of a violent and mysterious ailment that was toxic, swift, and unkind. She had not yet been indicted, except by the media, but there was talk of poison, and a simmering outrage that the toddler was still in her care.