The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  48

  Rosa’s Diner, Pasadena, California

  Tuesday evening, June 4, 2019

  After Ariele rushed out, Woody pushed his briefcase a little farther away, opened his copy of Fly Fisherman to a picture of a fisherman on the shore of a magical lake in the Sierras, put his head in his hands, and brooded—maybe I shouldn’t have warned her today . . . now there is no turning back . . . maybe she would have been okay . . . no . . . I had to warn her . . . she had to flee . . . she would certainly have been questioned under Casper . . . and sent to a FEMA camp. His thoughts shifted to a slightly different track. I’m probably a suspect now too . . . they know Ariele and I are friends . . . they know I have a reputation for being a maverick.

  While he was contemplating the difficulties that he and Ariele faced, the two agents entered through the side door, walked past numerous empty tables and booths, and chose a table that allowed both of them to keep an eye on him. Woody ignored them—never even glanced at them. Instead, he flagged the waitress, asked to have his coffee refilled, and ordered a slice of Rosa’s famous Mexican apple pie—with ginger shavings, minced green chiles, lemon juice, and pine nuts. He wasn’t going to give them any satisfaction, but he was definitely going to give himself some.

  After he finished his pie, he reached into his briefcase and retrieved a book on redshift he had recently purchased—a well-written challenge to the standard model. Why can’t men see the false assumptions on redshift? He answered himself. Same reason they can’t see their false assumptions on anything else . . . prejudice. He grumped, “Ideas rule the world,” and most of the ruling ideas are false.

  He removed his bookmark and began to read, taking copious notes as always. He pretended to be engrossed in his work—and almost was, actually. From time to time, on the edges of his peripheral vision, he noticed one or both of the agents staring at him—trying to evaluate him. Not much to see boys . . . just a man reading a good book . . . exercising his gray matter . . . ever think of trying that? This was a battle of the will. He wasn’t going to budge. He would stay until closing if he had to. Whatever it took, he was going to make them leave first. Fifty-five minutes later, the agents grew tired of the game and got up and left. Woody shook his head to himself. Amateurs.

  49

  Glendale, CA and the Verdugo

  Tuesday evening, June 4, 2019

  Ariele puzzled hard over her dilemma. How was she supposed to get from Glendale to Montana? She couldn’t go home and get her car. Her apartment was probably still being staked out. She couldn’t risk using public transportation. There were too many cameras—she would likely be spotted. She couldn’t rent a car. Even if she dared to try and access her savings account, it was probably frozen. And there was no way she could ride her mountain bike that far. You’re going to have to come through here, GOD . . . this is way out of my league. She smiled at herself. Sure doing a lot of praying lately for a secular Jew.

  Her nervousness about her plight was on the verge of collapsing into panic. But a voice from the past, like a bolt out of the blue, held out an offer of hope, “If you ever have any needs, don’t hesitate to call me.” She cringed . . . and hesitated . . . not sure I want to go there . . . don’t want to encourage him . . . risk his unwanted attention . . . risk hurting his feelings. But she was in a jam. She had no one else to call—her family and friends were likely being eavesdropped by the NSA. Besides, he had extended her an open invitation if she was ever in need. I definitely got a need now.

  She revisited her connection with Andrius. He was a dorky friend of her Caltech classmate, Irina. The two had been introduced by a mutual friend who thought they were both Russian. While that wasn’t true, they did discover that they shared much in common. Both were immigrants from former Soviet Bloc nations—he from Lithuania, she from Ukraine—both were evangelicals, and both had an interest in prophecy. They ended up forging a friendship, but there was never any romantic attraction between them—at least not from her side.

  Ariele had met him several years ago when she had gone to church with Irina on Easter Sunday. Irina had introduced them, told him that Ariele was Jewish, then wandered off and left her alone with him. It soon became obvious that he was attracted to her. He kept trying to stand in her personal space and she kept backing up—a few inches here, a half foot there. She grimaced—she still got a bad taste in her mouth when she thought about that awkward situation.

  When he found out that she was an astronomer with an interest in asteroids, comets, and NEOs, his eyes lit up. He animatedly informed her that the book of Revelation in the New Testament mentioned numerous asteroids that would slam into Earth, bringing widespread devastation. This led to a fifteen-minute conversation, very much one-sided, on the relationship between astronomy and prophecy.

  As they were parting, he had informed her that she could contact him if she ever had any questions or needs. Then he wrote his name, cell-phone number, and email address on a slip of paper and handed it to her, reiterating his offer. At the time she suspected that it was one of those over-chivalrous gestures that young men sometimes make when they crush on a girl, and she had been inclined to throw it away when she got home. However, when she reached out her hand to drop it in the trash, a mysterious hunch that she might need it some day kept her from following through. Three times since then, she had cleaned her wallet, and each time the same strange premonition had moved her to keep it.

  But what was his name? She tried to remember. Nada. She pulled her purse out of her pack, fetched her wallet out of her purse, and rummaged through her credit card pockets until she found the crumpled piece of paper. Oh yeah . . . now I remember . . . Andrius Markunas. His phone number, though smudged, was still legible. But his email address had bled so badly that it was unreadable. Must have been suntan lotion or something like that.

  Now she faced another problem. How was she going to call him? She didn’t have a phone. She had intentionally left hers in her apartment. Pay phones were nearly extinct. And it probably wasn’t wise to walk into a business and ask to borrow their phone. As she wrestled with the question, she heard the sound of children laughing and screeching behind her. She turned to see the source of the commotion. A young mother had brought her youngsters to play on the playground equipment. Ariele walked over, chatted with her briefly, and asked if she could borrow her cellphone, explaining that she had left hers at home. The woman smiled, said “Absolutely,” and handed over her phone. Ariele turned, walked away about twenty feet, and dialed Andrius’ number.

  He answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Hi Andrius, this is Ariele Serrafe. Do you remember me?—Irina’s friend. We met at church three years ago.”

  “Oh, I definitely remember you. How could I forget?” he blurted with more warmth than she bargained for. A short, awkward silence followed. “We talked about asteroids and Bible prophecy,” he continued. Another moment of silence. “What’s on your mind?”

  She rolled her eyes to herself. This is starting badly . . . he sounds like a giddy kid whose grandparents are taking him to the toy store. But she brushed her uneasy emotions aside and spoke as sweetly as she could given the circumstances, “I need to talk. Can you come to Scholl Canyon Park and pick me up? I’ll be hanging out under the trees near the playground equipment.”

  “Anything we can talk about over the phone?”

  “No . . . it’s complicated . . . I’ll tell you what’s going on after me and my bicycle are in your car and we’re a few miles down the road.”

  “Okay . . . no problem . . . good thing I drive a van. I’ll be on my way in less than five minutes . . . the drive will take about twenty . . . so I’ll see you in a half an hour. I’ll be in a blue van.”

  Ariele replied, “Thanks . . . see you when you get here,” hung up, and groaned. Nothing like a convenient solution that makes you feel uncomfortable. She sighed, walked back to the young mother, and returned her phone. Then she returned to her stuff and sat down, leaning bac
k against a eucalyptus tree. She took a few deep breaths, indulged the aromatic scent, and began to relax. She loved trees. When everything else in life was falling apart, they remained solid and supportive.

  Twenty-seven minutes later Andrius showed up in his seventies-era Toyota HiAce, its faded blue paint showing a little rust in several spots. Ariele jumped up, slung her pack over one shoulder, and jogged her bicycle over to the van. Their meeting was a bit awkward. He leaned in to give her a hug, realized she wasn’t interested, then stepped back and offered his hand. Quick as a mongoose, she thrust out her hand, grabbed his, pumped it once, pulled her hand back, looked him in the eyes, and declared, “We have to go.”

  “Sure. Okay. Let’s do it.” He led her to the back of the van, opened the door, lifted her bike and rolled it in, and secured it with a bungee strap. Ariele was impressed with his ingenuity in maximizing the small space. The entire driver side was taken up by bins and shelves floor to ceiling, filled mostly with electronics and computer stuff. The passenger side contained a narrow bed with storage underneath, a deep cubbyhole cabinet overhead, and a two-foot-long clothes bar over the foot of the bed. Looks like he lives in here.

  Andrius observed her quizzical look, “I often stay here on the weekends when helping friends on projects.” She nodded. When she didn’t pursue the subject, he grinned and said, “Well, let’s go.”

  As she climbed in the passenger door, she said, “Sweet ride by the way. I have a thing for retro stuff . . . especially the sixties and seventies.”

  “Thanks. I put a 1972 HiAce body on a 2002 chassis, added a recently rebuilt engine, and modified the dash to accept modern components. It gives me the best of both worlds. I get to enjoy the classic look and feel. And I get the benefit of new parts when things break down.” He looked at her. “So, where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”

  He was perplexed.

  “Can we just drive and talk for a while?”

  “Sure. We can do that. Where would you like me to drive?”

  “I don’t care. Just avoid the main roads and highways. And don’t get stopped for speeding or rolling through a stop sign or . . . anything else.”

  He looked at her with arched eyebrows, a little nervous. “Are you in trouble with the law?”

  “No . . . yes . . . well, not really . . . well, yeah, kind of.”

  “You’re making about as much sense as sauerkraut on ice cream.”

  She started to tear up. “Please. I need some time to think and sort things out. Take me up on the Verdugo. It’s been a while since I watched the sunset from up there.”

  Andrius nodded and started the van. She sat quietly while he made his way to East Chevy Chase and then worked his way over to the Oakmont Country Club via Cherry Canyon Motorway and Pasa Glen Drive.

  After they had left Beaudry Boulevard and headed up the first of several dirt roads that they needed to take to reach the Verdugo, he noticed that Ariele looked much more relaxed. She caught him looking at her, cracked a feeble smile, and asked him about the huge pile of electrical and computer parts in his van. They made small talk for the next half hour as they worked their way up the ridge roads, chatting about his hobby-work in computers and electronics, his income-work in welding, and his childhood in Lithuania. She offered a few hints about herself, like her interest in back-to-the-land living. He even made her laugh a few times telling her about several hilarious faux pas he had made after his family had immigrated to America. But she remained aloof and offered nothing about her situation. That frustrated him a little, but he consoled himself with the hope that she would talk once they got on top—she had, after all, implied that she would.

  They had been traveling west on the Verdugo for about ten minutes when Andrius turned onto a pullout that offered a spectacular view of the Los Angeles area below and the sun that was setting on the horizon. He parked, shut the van off, turned to Ariele, and vented—mildly perturbed. “This has gone on long enough. You called me out of the blue after three years because you are in trouble and wanted my help. But you didn’t want to talk until your emotional needs were met. Well, they are met now. You have plenty of distance between you and the park. You have had more than enough time to think. You are up on the Verdugo. You have your great view of the sunset. Now you need to talk or I’m going to turn the van around and take you back to the park. So, tell me, what in the world is going on?”

  Ariele sat silently for a few moments, biting her lip and fighting back the tears. She turned her head slightly away and down. How much could she share with him? Some? Much? Most? Everything? She wanted to trust him. But could she? Should she?

  Snippets of his conversation in the church lobby came back to her . . . in the last days . . . Earth would be visited by the heavens . . . asteroids would play a big part . . . America would have a Big Brother government. As she reflected on his sentiments, she realized that they resonated with what was going on now. His prophetic beliefs seemed to put him on her side.

  She got sidetracked by the Bible prophecy issue and found herself questioning her long-held agnosticism . . . maybe the Bible is true after all? . . . stop! . . . focus! . . . don’t have time to think about prophecy now . . . focus on getting out of this predicament.

  Her thoughts came back to her awful bind. Her only way out was to trust someone—soon. And she had no options but him. After going back and forth several times, she decided not only to trust him but to share everything with him. There was little to lose if she did and much to lose if she didn’t.

  Ariele swung her head back to Andrius, ready to talk. He was watching her, waiting for her story. She started from the beginning, recounting every salient detail . . . the disturbing package she received from Irina revealing the existence of a massive comet that was headed for Mars . . . the efforts of the government to conceal the comet from the public . . . the ban on research in Taurus . . . the official explanation that the stars were occulted by the shock horizon of a growing jet from a black hole . . . her six months of observations . . . broaching the subject with her boss, Sally . . . Sally’s efforts to cover for her . . . being interrogated by FBI agents . . . Sterling trashing her and Sally to the FBI . . . Woody’s message that she was in danger . . . FBI agents tailing her and staking out her apartment . . . sneaking out of her apartment . . . her long bike ride . . . meeting Woody at Rosa’s . . . the Sundown River message Woody received from his cousin Jack . . . Woody’s counsel to flee to Montana and look up Bob Reddington . . . the agents staking out Rosa’s . . . her flight to the park . . . her need for help to sneak out of California and get to Montana safely. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she closed with a plea, “You were the only person I could think of that I could call for help. Please help me.” Kind of fitting, she thought to herself, as the sun has set on the horizon, so the sun has set on my life as I know it.

  Andrius listened patiently for twenty minutes while she unfolded her story, nodding at timely points or interjecting the occasional wow or whoa, but never interrupting. She was impressed. A guy that actually listens . . . how cool is that? Once she stopped speaking, he sat in silence for a moment, considering his options. He was hesitant. Ariele was a handful . . . a red-headed spitfire . . . with an engaging but feisty personality . . . she claimed she was fleeing the FBI . . . for trying to expose a massive cover-up . . . about a Nibiru-like comet . . . it all sounded over-the-top . . . he wasn’t sure she was telling the truth . . . .not to mention . . . she obviously wasn’t interested in him . . . she was only using him.

  She looked at him expectantly, hoping his help would be substantial, like hauling her onboard ship, not meager, like tossing her a life preserver and telling her to hang on while he goes for help. Their eyes locked—her green eyes pleading for help. Any reservations he had melted away. With a little gallantry in his voice, he said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ve been thinking of moving to the oil fields in the West for a while now, and this is as good a time as any. So,
I’ll take you to Montana. But I have to give my boss a two-week notice. We won’t be able to leave until two weeks from tomorrow.” He quickly checked his phone. “That will be Wednesday, June 19.”

  “Yes!” she shrieked. “Thank you!” She hugged him and impulsively gave him a peck on the cheek—immediately regretting it. “Treasure that,” she said, a little embarrassed at her own forwardness, “It’s probably the only one you’ll ever get from me.”

  Andrius continued, ignoring her unrestrained expression of gratitude, “In the meantime, you can have my bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch. And please remember, you are going to have to lie low—real low. No listening to music. No noise. No social media. No using my phone. No calling or contacting family or friends. If my mother or friends find out that I have a woman living with me in my apartment, it won’t be pretty.”

  She smiled, “Not a problem. I can live with that.” But inwardly she was rolling her eyes. I’m running from the feds and you’re worried about your mother and friends?

  He smiled, started the car, and turned it around. “I know you said you wanted to do the Verdugo, but it’s a long drive home from here to my apartment, and I have to be at work at 7:00 in the morning.”

  “That’s fine with me. I got what I needed. I got a hilltop view of the sunset and a solution to my predicament.”

  He looked at her. She was smiling—she shone like an angel when she smiled. When she noticed him smiling at her, she forced a weak smile back, then turned and looked out the window at the crimson glow on the horizon and Mercury twinkling in the evening sky. A few minutes later she turned back to him, revealing moist, red eyes. He motioned to the glovebox, “There’s a box of tissue in there.”