Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  The door of the BMW flipped up, and they watched as an Elaki slid out of the front seat. He turned from side to side, balancing on a broad-based fringe that was covered by muscled scales. The Elaki teetered forward in the breeze, poised like a toe dancer, fringe folded backward. He rippled across the grass toward David, the fringe scales contracting and releasing like the belly plates on a snake.

  Sunlight glinted in the tiny jewellike scales that made up the outer skin.

  A light breeze ruffled David’s hair and rippled the Elaki.

  The Elaki was deep grey, with pinkish hues toward his middle where the brain was located. David thought Elaki looked like huge stingrays walking upright. They averaged a height of seven feet, but they were no more than a couple inches thick—thin and flappy. Their oxygen slits made a happy face pattern at the midsection.

  David caught the light lime smell of the Elaki. Someone had told him once that to an Elaki, humans smelled like strong cheese.

  “Look at the ID,” Mel said, under his breath.

  The Elaki had a departmental badge hanging under his breathing slits. David wondered how it stayed on.

  The Elaki slid close.

  “I am from Family of Puzzle Solvers. Which of you is from the David Silver?”

  David realized he was looking at the happy face pattern of breathing slits on the belly. He raised his gaze to the Elaki’s eyes, housed on two pronglike sections at the top.

  “I’m Silver.”

  “Please. I am your Elaki adviser.”

  “We don’t need any goddamn advisers,” Mel said, staring into the Elaki’s midsection. David put a hand on Mel’s arm.

  The Elaki waved winglike fin tips in something like a shrug.

  “Captain Halliday should have explained for advance knowledge. I will study with you this case.”

  David looked at Dyer, who was staring at Mel’s feet. No help there.

  “I understand that there have been Elaki assigned to administrative areas within the department,” David said. “But this is an active investigation Mr., um, Puzzle. Perhaps if you’d return to your … office, or whatever, we can straighten this out later. I’ll be glad to give you a call tomorrow.”

  The Elaki’s left fin tip flowed into a shape resembling three thick, short fingers. He raked them across the ID, making a staccato of taps. David was reminded of an elephant scooping peanuts with a ripple of his trunk.

  “There is no mistake, Detective Silver.”

  “I think there is,” Mel said.

  The Elaki headed for the front door, the grass flattening under him.

  David shrugged. “Let’s see if he can get in.”

  The Elaki swarmed up the cracked concrete steps and opened the door.

  “Looks like he’s got authorization,” Dyer said.

  “I’m calling the captain.” Mel headed for the Ford.

  “Mind?” Dyer asked.

  David wondered what vice wanted with Machete Man. Dyer didn’t seem to want to share his thoughts, but he didn’t look like a thrill seeker either.

  David waved him on. “Please.”

  TWO

  It was stupid, David thought. Everybody elbowing their way inside, clomping through the tired old house. But there was always the need to see for yourself.

  The car door slammed.

  “Talk to the captain?”

  “Not there,” Mel said tersely. He charged up the steps.

  David felt sorry for Mel, and a little sad. Mel’s father, a gifted software analyst, had been crowded out of a high-level job, thanks to the Elaki. The aliens’ infiltration of fieldwork was something David had been dreading.

  The Elaki had come to Earth with slightly superior technology, and vastly superior mastery of the “soft” sciences. They were a strange mix of benevolent arrogance, eager to help with what interested them, but keeping their own society separate. Still, they had cured the myriad manifestations of schizophrenia, rescuing a lot of people from the streets and making David’s job easier. And they were well on the way to curing eating disorders.

  They had taken over a lot of businesses, too, because they were better at them. An Elaki doctor was more compassionate, much more competent, and much less likely to withhold treatment due to the status of national health accounts, or an unwillingness to shake the status quo. And they had wonderful ointments for the uncomfortable and disfiguring rashes people sometimes suffered after AIDS.

  They seemed to be advising everywhere—national politics, local politics, in the AMA, the NHO, Amnesty International, Literacy For All, the Educator’s Forum, even the Police Benevolent Association. They also worked with numerous agricultural groups, and had found a way to control Japanese beetles.

  And now police fieldwork.

  David concentrated on the house. Was there something about it that would draw the twisted attention of Machete Man?

  The victims were certainly an eclectic bunch. No real similarity, other than the usual one—vulnerability. And this killer had spread from young women and men to the aged, and, most unusual, was killing interracially. The last victim had been Oriental.

  The house looked lonely, but David knew that was not an objective opinion. If a house did not have a bike in the driveway, or a stuffed animal abandoned in the grass, to him, it was lonely.

  He didn’t want to go in. It would be hard to concentrate under the eye prongs of the Elaki, and in the swell of hostility emanating from Mel.

  He went to the house next door and knocked. There was a yellow ceramic heart on the door, with “The Pressmans” lettered in green.

  The door sensor buzzed. “Good evening, sir. This is the residence of Ron and Sybil Pressman. Please state your business.”

  David held his ID up to be scanned. “Detective Silver. I’m here to see Mrs. Darnell.”

  The door opened. The man peering out was heavy and short. His hair was oily and mussed, and his shorts were rumpled khakis with mud stains on the front. David smelled beer on the man’s breath.

  “I’m Ron Pressman.” He opened the door. “Come on in. We’re sitting out back. Peeping over the gate at you fellas. Hey, you see that Elaki? What’s he up to?”

  “Mr. Puzzle is assisting in the investigation.”

  “Puzzle, huh? Those people got funny names.”

  Pressman led him down a dark hallway. David saw a formal living room off to the right—dusty and unused. Pressman led him through a den where the TV played. The computer terminal was dark. Newspapers were scattered on the floor, and there was a bowl of soggy cereal on the coffee table.

  The house smelled musty, but it was cool, and David was sorry to follow Pressman out the back door. The yard was small, enclosed by a six-foot privacy fence. Sunflowers, yellow-brown and heavy, lined the back and sides of the fence. The yard was tiny, but David counted eight trees and four flower beds, in addition to a huge vegetable garden. The tomato plants were tall. David spotted the deep red of ripe tomatoes. He wished his looked that good.

  Two women sat in metal rocking chairs. The chairs were green and had heart-shaped backs. One of the women was dumpy, fiftyish, with unlikely blond hair and a worn pink complexion. She had on shorts and a loose overblouse. Her feet were bare, the toenails painted a deep violet. Her legs were flabby, lined with blue varicose veins.

  She held up a glass of beer. “Hi there. Get you something?”

  “No thanks.”

  The other woman was old, and she watched David warily. This must be Millicent Darnell. The victim. Her eyes were soft brown and alert, and she wore a pink belted house robe that had cotton knobbles on it. Her arms rested on the rails of her chair. Her fingers were shaking.

  David took off his coat and tie.

  “Beautiful,” he said mildly, waving his hand at the backyard. In all honesty, the profuse greenery pressed him—like standing in a crowded floral shop with no elbow room. Stainless-steel shears and a heavy pair of cotton gloves rested on a table by the chairs. Pressman had been gardening through the worst h
eat of the afternoon.

  “Those are wonderful tomatoes,” David said. “Mine aren’t near that big, and I’m just now getting some ripe ones.”

  Pressman beamed. “Here, sit. I’ll tell you my secret.” His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Grass clippings. Put them right ’round the base, makes wonderful compost. And always keep them pruned. Make ’em stay in the cage.”

  David nodded.

  The old woman started to rise. “I guess it’s me you want.”

  “Mrs. Darnell? How do you do, I’m Detective Silver. Please, don’t get up.”

  The woman sank back down. Her hair was white and tangled in the back. She wore heavy stockings, rolled down below her knees. The skin of her arms was loose and thick, freckled with age.

  “They tried to get me a doctor. But I’m not hurt.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that.”

  “I s’pose some pretty bad things could of happened. They said you’d want to talk to me at home. At the scene, they called it.” Her lower lip trembled. “Darn shame, isn’t it? When an old woman’s afraid to go home. I’ve lived in that house for forty years.”

  “Forty years?”

  “Forty years. I’m ready, though, you want to go over there. Been worrying over it all day, but Ron says, you got to cooperate, so the … the police can find this fella. So I’m ready.”

  “Please, relax, Mrs. Darnell. We need to talk, but you should be comfortable.”

  “She had a rough night,” Sybil Pressman said.

  “You want us to leave?” Ron Pressman stood up.

  “Don’t let me run you out of your garden.” David studied the old woman. Still rattled. “Would you be more comfortable inside?” His shirt stuck to his back. He smiled at her hopefully.

  “I just as soon be out here, if it’s okay, then. I don’t have to go back to the house?”

  “Not now, no. Why don’t you tell me everything, from the beginning. Assume I don’t know a thing.”

  “She loses her train of thought,” Mrs. Pressman said. “If you interrupt. Those others, last night. They kept interrupting and never did get the story straight.”

  Millicent Darnell looked annoyed. “That’s just police business, Sybil. That’s how they work.” She looked kindly at David. “I see that notebook behind your leg. Don’t dangle it down in the dirt. Go on and take your notes.”

  David smiled and waited.

  Her eyes narrowed and she stared at her toes. “Well, now, I was asleep. Sound asleep. And I woke up, and looked at my clock. It said three forty-two. I got my aids off the table.” She pointed to her ears. “Don’t hear too good without them, and I ain’t a good risk for surgery.” She patted her chest. “Heart. I take the aids off at night because they rub. Anyway, as soon as I put them on, I hear something funny … A kind of squeak and crack. And then I remember, that’s the noise that old kitchen window makes when it opens.

  “Boy, that scared me! Oh, I can’t tell you how scared. It hit all a sudden, and I go out of my bedroom … I can’t run. My legs don’t work so good when I first get up. And I bumped into my dresser, and it made an awful noise, all my knickknacks rattling.

  “I figured he’d be on me in a minute, but he must of stopped to listen too. And I go through the hall—dark, you know. I didn’t turn on no lights. And I go into the living room to the door, when I hear footsteps. He’s coming to get me.” She took a breath, her eyes full of tears.

  “I used to have a hard lock to open on that door, but a while ago my grandson—Lord bless his heart—he put in that voice-activator thing.

  “I told the door to open, and it opens. And I heard him. I know he was in the hall, but I was afraid to turn and look. I went down those steps and … I ran. Across that grass in my gown and nothing else, but I ran, and I don’t think I done that since I was fifty, and my grandson fell in the pond.”

  David pictured it—the dark night, the killer in the house, the old woman running in her nightgown.

  “I banged on their door something awful,” she nodded at the Pressmans. “Confused hell out of the sensor, but Ron let me right in. Sybil tucked me up in her robe, and held my hand till the police come.”

  “Who called the police?”

  “I did,” Ron Pressman said.

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Well, I came out here in the garden, to watch for the cops. And I watched the house to see if he’d come out.”

  Lucky he didn’t see you, David thought.

  “I didn’t see him, but I saw a light go on in Millie’s bedroom.”

  “Oh my,” said Mrs. Darnell.

  David looked at her. “What woke you up?”

  Millicent Darnell twisted her hands in her lap. “What?”

  “In the middle of the night. What woke you up?”

  “I don’t know. I guess maybe I heard something.”

  “But you weren’t wearing your hearing aids, Mrs. Darnell.”

  Sybil Pressman sighed. “Go ahead, Millie. Tell him what you told me.”

  This, thought David, would be it. The stray piece of information that helped break the case.

  “Earl got me up.”

  David blinked. “Earl?”

  “My husband.”

  “Where is Mr. Darnell?”

  “I … he … I’m a widow, Mr. Silver. My husband’s been dead for three years. Hard to believe—three years without Earl. We were married a long time.”

  David scratched his head, and Ron Pressman shifted in his seat.

  “Earl didn’t sleep so good.” Millicent Darnell smiled faintly. “He liked to sit up late and read. Sat in that old brown recliner in the living room, and read military history books.

  “But he was always up making biscuits at six every morning, no matter how late he went to bed. And he’d come in after breakfast was fixed, and lean down, and kiss my cheek and pat my back. I’d wake up, put in my hearing aids, and go in for some coffee while he scrambled the eggs.”

  David peeled the cuticle back on his left thumb.

  “Anyway, it was Earl got me up last night.” She looked defiantly at David.

  “It’s okay. Tell me.”

  “I was sound asleep. I felt Earl kiss my cheek and pat my back. It was just like every morning before he died. I put in my aids and tried to smell the coffee. Then I remembered Earl was dead. I looked at the clock, and it was the middle of the night. That’s when I heard the noise in the kitchen.”

  David felt the hair stir on the back of his neck.

  Tears rolled down the old woman’s cheeks. “I wish it had been Earl. I wish it had been Earl, and coffee, and biscuits, and eggs. I wish Earl were here.” She pointed to her house and her hand shook. “They say … they say that man did awful things in my bedroom. Me and Earl’s bedroom. I want to go over there. I want to see what that fella did.”

  Sybil stood up and patted her shoulder. “Now, Millie, we agreed that after the police were done, I’d go over and clean up first. You can stay with us tonight, and Dennis will come get you tomorrow.”

  Millicent Darnell stood up. “I want to go home.”

  David studied her. What would be best? For her—he was not sure. But she might remember something if they went over it again.

  “I’ll take you. Just one minute.” He stood up. “Mr. Pressman, can I use your phone?”

  He called and told Mel to clear the house. Dyer, the Elaki, and Mel should wait out front—he and Mrs. Darnell would go in through the kitchen.

  He took Mrs. Darnell’s arm, and they made their way slowly out of the backyard, while Ron and Sybil Pressman watched them go.

  The Darnell yard seemed bigger, though it probably wasn’t. The grass was dry and heat-scorched, and there was a shade tree by the side of the house. They walked along a path of hexagonal concrete steps. David searched the grass for footprints or a stray wallet. No such luck.

  “Who put that on the door?” Mrs. Darnell pointed.

  “That’s a seal—we put it on all crime scenes.
Keeps everything secure.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s turned that panel of glass green. Will it come off?”

  “Yes ma’am, it sure will.”

  The back door opened into the kitchen—a small dingy room, the floor tile a battered reddish-maroon. The countertops had yellowed with age and were crammed with greasy appliances. The refrigerator hummed. There were snapshots on the door—babies, and men and women, many of them tending to fat. A family, David thought, that would benefit from Elaki research on eating disorders.

  The kitchen window was shut. David opened it. It squeaked and groaned.

  “That what you heard last night?”

  The old woman nodded. “Yep. It’s a noisy window. Been trying to get someone in to fix it. Good thing I didn’t.”

  “Mrs. Darnell, do you notice anything different about the kitchen? Anything missing?”

  She folded her arms. “He seems to have left a mess.”

  He wondered how she would know, then squelched the thought. His house didn’t look much better. He remembered his mother’s kitchens—the blank, gleaming counters, meticulously organized cabinets, garbage stashed out of sight. Lavinia Silver would do without food, rather than have it on the counters. In Little Saigo, they’d had to scrape together every leftover, but once they got out, she’d said eat it now or toss it. It wasn’t till he met Rose that he discovered the peculiar improvement of meatloaf after a night in the fridge.

  “Where exactly, Mrs. Darnell?”

  She pointed. A knot of cups from Burger Bazaar were strewn across the worn wood table.

  “I think those were left by my colleagues.” David scooped up the trash and stuffed it into the recycle compacter. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head. She peeped out the kitchen door.

  “Would you like to look through the living room first?”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “No. I want to see.”

  She led him down the dark hallway. The bare floorboards creaked. David could smell the faint acrid odor of the nano machines that had been run through the house to collect minute evidence. A lot of effort for a B and E. What had gotten them to put on the heat?