Project Enterprise

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Helicopters. Several of them.

  She gave Daniels an ironic look. “I’m sure that’s the HPD. They always arrive by chopper.”

  He liked her, Rick realized, more than he should. She had spunk and a good eye for bull. She’d seen right through them, even before the real Men in Black swarmed over her place like ants on cake. Though they also wore jeans, just more expensive ones.

  She still sat at her kitchen table, her hands loosely clasping her bottle of water, staring at the wall in front of her. One or two times, Hitchens, the guy in charge of the team, had stopped to ask her a question. Each time, she’d turned her gaze toward him, stared at him for a full minute, then looked away without speaking.

  She hadn’t asked for a lawyer. Yet. He hoped she didn’t, since she wasn’t getting one.

  Fyn emerged out of the woods at the back of her house and gestured for him. They met in the center of the backyard.

  “Found something.”

  Apparently he’d used up his allotment of full sentences. Rick signaled for a couple of the guys to come with them and followed Fyn into the woods. It was cooler under the trees but somehow more humid, which felt like it canceled out cool. The heat made the smell back here more pungent.

  Fyn stopped and pointed to one of the trees. Rick stepped around, staring at the scorch mark on the tree, about chest high if the man was as short as the dead fan. They moved deeper into the wood and found more of the marks until they reached a small clearing. Fyn paced around, pointing out his finds. Some trampled flowers, a mix that clearly wasn’t indigenous. More scorch marks. Tire tracks. Footprints. A dead ferret.

  A ferret?

  Rick crouched by the critter. No scorch marks on the visible side. He turned it over and realized it was still warm. Its heart was still beating. Okay, even in an odd situation, that was pretty strange.

  He stood up, stepping out of the way of the photographs being taken.

  “What if he just walked in on something?” If he’d been planning on an unscheduled visit with his favorite author, sneaking through the woods might seem logical, particularly to a guy dressed like Spock.

  “See if you can find our victim’s vehicle.”

  Rick didn’t wait to see the guy nod, just headed back toward the house. When Fyn joined him, Rick wasn’t totally surprised to see him carrying the ferret, which was starting to wake up. He hoped they found an owner. Fyn appeared to be bonding with it. And Rick would probably get the blame when he wanted to take it home. Fyn’s wife could kick some serious butt.

  When they got back to the house, more show and tell.

  The victim was one, Oscar Redding. According to his Texas driver’s license he was taller and thinner than he looked. Couldn’t fudge his age, which was forty-three. He was a card carrying member of the Star Trek Fan Club, the Stargates Fan Club, the Star Wars Fan Club, was president of the J.E. Smith Fan Club and had an ID badge for Consolidated Weapons Systems, Inc.

  Crap.

  CWS had provided some of the weapons systems for the Enterprise Project ships. Some of their people had helped with the repair and refit of the Doolittle’s weapons arrays. It was hard to see where he fit in, but it was also hard to see an innocent connection when the man was dead—apparently shot with a Garradian type ray gun, if Fyn knew his stuff.

  Rick had no doubt Fyn knew his stuff.

  Rick phoned home. “I need to know what information Redding had access to and I need to know it yesterday.” He’d always wanted to say that. A bonus that he meant it and that it was true.

  “Sir?” It was one of Hitchens’ bright young men. “Mr. Hitchens was wondering if you could join him in the garage. With Ms. Smith.”

  There was a small Ford pickup truck parked to one side of the double garage, but that wasn’t what had caught Hitchens’ attention. No, it was definitely the workshop on the other side, complete with welding equipment. On the shelves, Rick could see all kinds of what appeared to be alien technology. On a workbench lay a ray gun. Did ET have a workshop?

  Smith crossed her arms over her chest, her expression cool and closed.

  “Can you explain this, ma’am?” Rick asked.

  She stared at him for several seconds. “It’s obviously my secret laboratory, Agent Daniels.”

  “This isn’t a joking matter, ma’am.”

  Hitchens did sinister and threatening better than anyone Rick knew.

  “Am I laughing—what was your name again? I don’t think I caught it.”

  No one said anything.

  “Let me guess. Classified.”

  Time to be good cop. Rick eased up next to her.

  “Ma’am, if you could just explain? You have to admit, this is rather…odd.”

  “You mean more odd than a bunch of Feds swarming my house and asking about my books?”

  Seemed like a good time not to say anything.

  Finally she sighed. “I like to—build some of the stuff I use in my novels. They’re mock ups. Models, so I can picture it, describe it, visualize how it would be used if it were real. Which it’s not.”

  Rick stared at the ray gun. “So that’s not real?”

  “Of course not!” She picked it up, pointed it at the wall, and squeezed the trigger. A flash of light surged out of the tip, slamming into the wall. Flames flickered for a few seconds, before they went out.

  Smith walked forward, looking just a bit dazed, and reached out to the big, black mark left on her wall. Before Rick could suggest she not do that, she pulled her hand back.

  “It’s—hot.” She looked at Rick. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Rick sighed. “Tell me you checked that thing for prints before she picked it up?”

  A tech nodded. “Been wiped clean, sir.”

  Rick studied the room again, his gaze stopping on the door. He nodded toward it. “Have you checked the door?”

  Hitchens nodded. “It leads out to the backyard.”

  So, someone could have come in here while he and Fyn were talking to her. That didn’t explain why someone would leave a piece of alien tech in her garage. Or the dead guy in her back yard.

  It was clear that the clearing had something to do with the dead guy. But it didn’t clear Smith of involvement in whatever was going on. Rick really wanted to clear her. “Was the door locked, ma’am?”

  “Probably.” Her chin lifted.

  He looked at the tech.

  “There are scratches on the lock. It could have been picked. No way to tell when, sir.”

  He took the ray gun from Smith, looked at it, and handed it off to Fyn. Fyn studied it carefully. Looked at Rick. Shook his head.

  So it might have been made in the U.S.A. Or here in this garage. Could someone develop a working ray gun in a garage?

  Was he even asking himself the right questions?

  Jilly was back at the table. The feeding frenzy seemed to have died down, but it didn’t help her headache. How had her space gun mockup been replaced by one that actually worked? Who had killed “Jusan?” The two events had to be related, but thinking about it without full disclosure from these people just made her head ache more. She rubbed her temples, fighting back a feeling of falling that seemed to be a side effect of the headaches.

  Bad cop Fyn intrigued her for some reason. She shifted in her seat to keep him in sight as he paced restlessly around her house, a ferret around his neck. She didn’t remember him arriving with a ferret, but then she’d been more interested in good cop Daniels at the time. She got that odd, almost-shift in her vision and felt a longing to be at her computer. These were her most creative moments, when it seemed like her vision split between what was and the place where her novels happened.

  Daniels sat down opposite her again.

  “You said Redding brought you gifts,” he began.

  “Was that his name?” It seemed important to know his real name, though she couldn’t have said why.

  “Oscar Redding. What kind of gifts did he brin
g you, ma’am?”

  “I wish you’d call me Jilly,” she said, then wished the words back. This wasn’t a social occasion and he wasn’t her friend, even if he acted like he was. He was good cop and it was his job to trap her into admitting she’d killed—Oscar.

  His smile warmed the cold places inside her, even if it shouldn’t.

  “Jilly. The gifts?”

  “Flowers. Chocolates. Jewelry—nothing expensive. Trinkets. Like charms related to my books.”

  “Flowers. Any special kind?”

  “Usually a mix of types, the kind of thing you could pick up at the grocery store.”

  “Not your favorite flower?”

  Jilly frowned. “I didn’t really have one.” That wasn’t true, but the flower she saw in her mind existed only in her novels. It was a lovely, waxy red, the color of her door and her toenails and the scent, she didn’t know how to describe its scent. It—soothed. She’d missed it when—when what? How could she miss something that didn’t exist? Why did she sometimes feel homesick for a place that wasn’t real? She rubbed her temples again.

  “You have a headache, ma’am, sorry, Jilly?” He looked worried.

  He did good cop very well.

  “I’m fine.” She didn’t want to like him. She wouldn’t like him. He was just playing her and he wouldn’t tell her why.

  He studied her, as if considering what to tell her, but he was really doing it to break her.

  “We found some flowers scattered around on the ground in a clearing back there.” He nodded toward her back yard. “And we found his car parked just off the freeway on a dirt road. I figure he was coming to see you.”

  She shook her head. “No, not to see me, not dressed like that. If he was planning on seeing me, he’d have been dressed like Jusan, my character.”

  Daniels straightened. “You think maybe he meant to leave the flowers?”

  “Yeah, I do.” She rubbed her face. “He wouldn’t realize how creepy that would be. He’d probably think he was being thoughtful.” She hesitated. “I had mentioned I’d moved in my blog. Maybe it was a—house warming gift.”

  “Did you know he worked for a company that makes experimental weapons?”

  She had a feeling the question was supposed to shock her.

  “I didn’t even know his real name.” She hesitated. “I suppose on some level I knew he had a job. I mean, he bought me stuff, but not expensive stuff. I might have vaguely thought he was a computer geek or something. When I thought about him. Which wasn’t that often.” She rubbed her face again. “I had lots of fans. Some of them also give me things.”

  “Like what?” He looked curious. No more, no less.

  “Pillows and tee shirts with my book covers silk screened on them. Souvenirs from their vacations. Plush toys. Space toys. It was—sweet. Friendly.”

  “You’ve written four books, but the stuff in your garage, it didn’t look like a lot of stuff?”

  Jilly felt pain stab her temples again. She fought the urge to rub the spots.

  “When I finish a book, I hold a contest for most of it. It clears the decks. It’s something I can give back to my fans. Might even be valuable when I’m dead.”

  “Do they keep it?”

  “Some do. I’ve seen some of it turn up on eBay.” Tiredness tugged at her concentration. She’d been up early writing. “I’ve donated a few things to charity auctions and they’ve done pretty well. They’re unique. More valuable since I hit the NYT.”

  “NYT?”

  “New York Times bestseller list. I was on there with J.K. Rowling.” A few books down, but still there. She couldn’t hold back the smile or the thrill it still gave her to remember seeing her name there with Rowling’s.

  “Cool.” His smile took some of the edge off her headache. “Did anyone come with Redding to your book signings?”

  She frowned, thinking back. Finally she shrugged. “It’s hard to say. People visited while they waited in line. I was usually busy talking to the person in front of me. Readers are mostly friendly. They don’t just talk the the book they are getting, but about other books they like. I can hear them. If you like this novel, then you might like this one. And some of them knew each other online, but not always in person.” She looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

  He leaned forward. “Let’s assume that Redding’s death in your yard is a coincidence, Jilly. That it’s about that weapon and not you. He’s coming by to leave you a house warming gift before he goes off to the Trek convention downtown.”

  “That’s easy, since it’s true. I’m not involved.”

  A quick smile from him. He shifted, leaning toward her, though he didn’t move closer.

  “He starts through the woods and runs into—something to do with that weapon.”

  “Something?”

  “It—appears whoever was in that clearing was shooting it. There were scorch marks on several trees. And the ferret.”

  “The ferret?”

  “The weapon appears to have a stun setting. They stunned the ferret.”

  “That’s pretty cold. It would still hurt, and the pain lingers for several hours.”

  Daniels looked at her, blinking slowly. “How would you know that?”

  It was Jilly’s turn to blink. “I guess I don’t. That’s actually what mine does. In my book. Sorry.”

  “Right.” He paused, as if collecting the threads of his story. “Suppose Redding recognizes someone or several people in the clearing? There’s some—confusion, maybe. Possibly even two of the weapons.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “The scorch marks on the trees, leading to your house. They go both ways and are of varying heights. I think Redding—and someone—took one of the weapons. Redding gets shot and someone—breaks into your garage. He or she sees your replica and makes the switch, then leaves.”

  Jilly studied him for a moment. “Clever. You could be a novelist, Agent Daniels.”

  “Call me Rick.”

  Was his smile friendlier than the last one? More—intimate?

  “Rick.” As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. It forged a link between them that she liked too much—and that made panic flutter in the back of her throat.

  She had to get away. It was the only way, they said.

  Who were they? Four books and she still wasn’t sure. She just knew she had to keep pushing toward it, toward them, whoever they were. When she found out, she wouldn’t be worried anymore. She wasn’t afraid. Just worried. She didn’t need to be afraid.

  Well, not until a man died in her back yard and she got invaded by—whoever these guys were. She might need to be afraid now.

  “The other story is the one where you’re in the clearing, getting classified equipment and that our arrival was—unfortunate.”

  “That one isn’t as well developed. If I’d been running from the clearing, wouldn’t I have been out of breath when I answered the door?”

  “That’s why I didn’t spend as much time on it,” Rick said, looking a bit wry. “Hitchens likes that one, though.”

  “Hitchens being the man in black.” As soon as she said the words, she felt a shiver of something dance down her spine, helped by the slight twitch Rick gave at her words. “Now that I know his name, will you have to shoot me?”

  She kept her voice light and ironic, to hide her sudden, possibly rational fear.

  Rick looked puzzled. “Shoot you?”

  “He implied even his name is classified,” Jilly prompted.

  “Oh, right. My bad.” Then he grinned, looking remarkably unrepentant. Did that mean he was actually the one in charge? “So…”

  He stopped, met her gaze with a steady but determined one.

  “So, Fyn and I are going to stay here. We don’t want you to be alone if someone comes back here looking for the weapon. And if they do, we’d really like to meet them.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then we’d have to assume you’re part of it and—arrest y
ou.”

  “Right.” She found herself wanting to smile when she should be angry. Furious maybe. “Then I guess you can stay.”

  When he got up and walked over to Hitchens, she wondered why they were letting her stay. But she didn’t really have to ask it. It was obvious they didn’t really trust her. And it had started long before they found a dead man in her yard and a working space gun in her garage.

  Hitchens and his boys melted away, taking the body and leaving the ferret. They’d wanted to take the ray gun, too, but Rick needed bait. If the killer was watching the house and had seen them arrive, he wouldn’t be back, not even for a ray gun. But it was possible whoever had switched the guns had led the chase away from the house. It was even possible he or she got clear. Or got caught and talked.

  Either way, someone would be back to make the switch or they’d be in contact with Jilly.

  Before Hitchens left, they’d wired the place from stem to stern. An ant wouldn’t be able to pass gas without them knowing it. If they’d had more time—but time seemed to be the one thing they didn’t have. Events had moved rather quickly since he and Fyn arrived to scope out a possible alien.

  And Rick still didn’t know the answer to that question. And, worse, still didn’t know how to find out.

  For the first time, he wondered why they’d sent him. And why Fyn?

  When they went out to their car to add some armament, Rick asked Fyn.

  He was quiet for a long time—no surprise that. The surprise came when he spoke. In whole sentences.

  “There is evidence that some of the Garradians had,” he hesitated, “nanites in their bodies. Among other things, they—communicate with each other.”

  “Okay.”

  Another silence.

  “I have some. I was injured during the battle with the Dusan. Nanites were used to heal me. If she had them, I should have sensed them.”

  Rick didn’t even have an okay in him. Felt more like a hot damn. But he wasn’t confident enough to say it out loud.

  “Does that mean she’s not Garradian?”

  “No.” Fyn gave him a look. “Just means she doesn’t have nanites.”

  “Do you think she is?” He’d spent a lot of time staring at her. He must have an opinion.