Boy Gone

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  They needed to split up. Typically, no more than two EVAs/spacewalks occurred at any one time. Landon and Fischer weightlessly pulled themselves along through the darkness in the direction of the Node 1 airlock. Through a combination of tight left and right turns they quickly made their way through the maze of interconnected passageways and modules. Golden swaths of sunlight suddenly streamed in through the Galaxy-1 portholes, making navigating somewhat easier. Since there were only two EMU NASA spacesuits, hanging within the Node 1 airlock, Peter Mirkin left them and headed for the Russian Pirs Module airlock. He would have to do his best to get suited-up on his own. Not an easy task—but doable.

  Landon and Fischer entered the Node1 section—called Kitman’s Lock. Both had earlier grabbed emergency flashlights along the way. Two EMU suits were hanging inside, secured on opposing bulkheads. First, though, came dressing into the accompanying undergarments: one a type of adult diaper, and the second, named a Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment, was similar in appearance to long underwear. Dressing for space was a long, tedious process. Since there were no portholes in this section of the ISS, dressing was much more difficult—only the limited illumination from their flashlights providing them with light.

  Landon and Fischer continued assisting one another through the dressing process. The fact that an EMU had only a limited oxygen supply—about eight hours—wasn’t lost on Landon. Then what? He considered what Mission Control might do to help them. How long before they sent up an emergency rescue rocket? Truth was, the alien ship hadn’t been detected by any of their ground sensors, or by any of their orbiting satellites. Did Houston believe, fully accept their report of a UFO nearby? Did the sudden cut off of all contact get the ball rolling? Initiate rescue protocols? Of course, virtually all emergency scenarios were well rehearsed, trained for, even anticipated, but as Landon stepped one leg at a time into the bottom portion of his EMU, he couldn’t remember what those protocols specifically called for. At the moment, Houston didn’t know their key ISS environmental systems were also down. Unaware, unless the systems came back online, that in eight hours they would be running out of air. Houston prepping a rocket for liftoff, even fast tracking the entire process for an emergency such as theirs, would take a hell of a lot longer than eight hours.

  “Did you feel that?” Greg asked.

  Grasping the oversized D-ring opening, Landon pulled the pants-like lower section garment up. “Feel what?” But then he saw, more than felt, what Greg was referring to. The Node 1 module had moved. They stared at each other then simultaneously said, “Hurry!” Together, they quickened the pace, fully inserting their bodies into their EMUs.

  Landon felt more repetitive jarring—something making abrupt contact with the ISS. It took all his willpower to finish what he was doing, not head over to the view station cupola to see what the hell was going on out there.

  * * *

  On the other side of the ISS, within the Pirs module airlock, Peter Mirkin was not nearly as far along climbing into his EMU. He’d taken a short detour first, relieving his bladder within the lone ISS toilet facility. When he noticed the jarring motion going on around him, his first inclination was to use the station’s inter-module communications system. Of course, that was no longer an option. Weightless, he only knew some sort of collision was taking place outside the ISS. Massive vibrations occurring around him, everything was shuddering. Maybe Greg’s comments about being attacked weren’t that far off the mark. Moving now with haste, he hurried to climb into his EMU.

  Suddenly much louder now, forcing Peter to put his hands over his ears, the sound of metal grating hard against metal telegraphed throughout the International Space Station. He reached for his helmet, muttering, Какая трахается! (What the fuck is happening!)

  Chapter 12

  “Oh … aliens?” Alison said smiling at his juvenile-like humor. “Ha-ha. Well, I guess that explains why you’re about as pasty-white as any person I’ve ever met. Tell me, those aliens keep you buried under a rock somewhere?”

  Scotty stared back at her, not returning her smile.

  “Seriously … tell me. Where have you been for nearly two decades?” It then occurred to her that the subject of his disappearance, his memories of the abduction, might be painful. Perhaps even embarrassing, or humiliating to speak about to a woman. She felt guilty for making light of that fact. “You’re actually the victim here, Scotty, I’m not here to judge you in any way,” Alison said, her FBI training kicking in. When questioning a subject, you need to give them enough space to feel comfortable. Let them talk—don’t dominate the discussion.

  Alison sat back and observed him as he took in what she’d said. What hadn’t gone unnoticed on her was that the patient, sitting up in bed, was both ruggedly handsome and uniquely humble. In her past experiences with attractive men, humility wasn’t a trait typically associated with good looks.

  She heard a noise behind her. Dr. Patel, poking his head in from around the curtain, said, “Excuse me.” He was holding the envelope with the DNA report she’d given him earlier; the same report provided to both her supervisor and herself by the FBI lab in Quantico. They had been adamant that the test results appeared wonky—due perhaps to compromised swab sampling at the police station. The techs were going to process his sample again, but they’d provided her this preliminary readout, anyway. She figured by letting Dr. Patel take a look at the report, she just might get the genetic confirmation match she was looking for—even if the readings were somewhat flawed.

  Alison stood and smiled. “Excuse me, just need to speak with the good doctor for a moment.” She patted his covered leg, “Don’t go anywhere, Scotty, I’m not through with you yet.”

  She followed behind Dr. Patel, passing the one other patient in the room—a thin-as-a-rail elderly man. He was staring up at the TV, mounted high on the adjacent wall.

  They moved out into the corridor. From his dour expression, she figured he’d had no luck getting an exact match.

  “Ms. McGuire … ”

  “That’s Special Agent, McGuire,” Alison said, correcting him. Just because she might look a little young to be an FBI agent didn’t mean she didn’t deserve to be recognized by her title. She’d worked hard for it. She was damn certain the good doctor wouldn’t care to be called Mr. Patel.

  “I apologize, Special Agent McGuire. Let me explain what I’ve done … to give you a clear perspective of what was involved.”

  Involved? Alison nodded.

  “Nantucket Cottage Hospital is right next door to where we send our blood work specimens out for analyses. DNA testing, if requested, can be included. So even before you provided me with the genetic test results from your FBI lab, I gave a vial of Mr. Sullivan’s blood to the folks next door and requested the testing process be expedited.” Patel held up the envelope she’d given him earlier in his left hand and several sheets of paper in his right. “Agent McGuire, the results are basically identical. Rest assured, there were no sampling mistakes made, as your FBI lab feared. And I feel comfortable telling you that the patient sitting up in Room 289, is, in fact, Mr. Scotty Sullivan.”

  “That’s great!” she exclaimed, then noticed the doctor wasn’t sharing her enthusiasm. “So, why so glum?”

  “There are other … concerns.”

  “What kind of concerns?”

  He exhaled a stale, coffee-scented breath. “Without Mr. Sullivan’s explicit consent, I am not at liberty to reveal a patient’s medical information.”

  “You’re talking about HIPAA,” she said.

  “Yes. So, before we proceed further, I’d like to ask Mr. Sullivan if it would be all right if I share this with you.”

  “Okay, let’s do that.”

  Together, they marched back into Scotty’s and the elderly man’s shared hospital room. A news bulletin was flashing up on the TV—something about NASA losing contact with the orbiting International Space Station—and they stopped to watch. The news correspondent, standing in front o
f NASA Mission Control, in Houston, Texas, reported:

  “Things, sadly, are not looking good for the three-man crew—two Americans and one Russian—onboard. Since no part of the ISS is currently being detected, or is trackable, there is strong speculation the space station has met with disaster.”

  Continuing on ahead, Dr. Patel shook his head. “So terrible … such a tragic loss.”

  Alison held back a moment longer to watch. She’d actually considered becoming an astronaut as a teenager. The faces of the crew were now up on the screen. Feeling sick about it, she glanced back to see the elderly man’s face streaked with tears. She said, “Well, let’s hope for the best.”

  Coming back around the curtain separating both beds, she found Scotty staring out the window, wearing a dreamy, contemplative, expression. She briefly wondered what he was thinking about.

  “Mr. Sullivan?” Dr. Patel prompted.

  Scotty, blinking away distant thoughts, nodded at them.

  “Would it be all right if I share your medical information? It pertains to your genetic test findings. Share it with Ms. … um, Agent McGuire?” The doctor held up the sheets of paper in one hand.

  Scotty, seeming to consider his request, nodded. “Sure. I have no secrets.”

  “Very good. First of all, I have no reason to believe that you are not, indeed, Scotty Sullivan. Included in the report, provided by Agent McGuire, I have the DNA sample—taken from the toothbrush of the missing boy—as well as your own recent DNA tests. I see no sufficient discrepancies to conclude otherwise: you both are one and the same person.”

  Alison watched Scotty slowly nod—their findings didn’t seem new to him.

  The doctor continued, “What I would like to talk to you about though, are other aspects of the test findings.”

  “The erroneous markers,” Scotty said.

  Both Alison and Dr. Patel exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “Well, that’s correct. So, you already know about them?” the doctor asked, seeming bewildered.

  Scotty nodded again.

  “Excuse me if I get a little technical here,” the doctor said. “Huntington’s Disease and Fragile X Syndrome have been found to be associated with certain patterns in mini and microsatellite DNA. Regarding Huntington’s Disease, the number of CAG, cytosine-adenine-guanine, differ between normal individuals and those where the disease is present. In other words, the loci, the specific locations on the DNA strand that we look at, are not only used for individual identification purposes, but can also be used for determining certain physiological, and pathological, conditions.

  Alison watched Scotty as he pondered the medical gobbledygook the doctor was spewing out.

  Scotty nodded. “I assure you, I have neither of the two diseases you just mentioned, Doctor.”

  “Well, more tests need to be run first, but the indications are … ”

  Scotty smiling, said, “If you will allow me to interject, I may be able to better explain to you what you are viewing on your printout.” He reached his free hand out and took the sheets. Placing them on his lap, he positioned them so both Alison and the doctor could better see them. The printout, filled with several rows, contained numerous spikes, similar to the results seen on a lie detector test. He looked at Alison. “Here, see these peaks with the numbers below them? That is my DNA profile from sixteen years ago. That matches the profile from the toothbrush, I assume?”

  Dr. Patel hesitantly nodded.

  Alison wondered how Scotty could possibly know that without actually comparing the two.

  “Now, if you look closely, you’ll notice extra peaks that shouldn’t be there, right? Extra peaks, showing at each of the loci—or locations—on the DNA. But the difference is, the extra peaks don’t have numbers assigned to them. That’s because the machine couldn’t recognize them—what is called the ladder—as being real alleles.”

  Dr. Patel stared at the pages on Scotty’s lap and slowly nodded. Alison, glancing at both, felt more than a little lost, but mostly curious. How did Scotty know about any of this stuff?

  “Thus, what you thought were shadow markers really are not.” Scotty said.

  Alison held up both hands, as if attempting to stop traffic. “Excuse me. Sorry, but you’ve totally lost me here. Beside the impressive fact you know so much about the workings of genetics and DNA profiles, can you repeat it again … in a way I can comprehend its meaning too?”

  The doctor interjected, “Well, assuming Scotty is correct, that the erroneous markers are not indicative of some kind of genetic disorder, like a disease, I suppose having one or two erroneous peaks could be attributed to certain artifacts, usually the result of machine error, or a high background noise.” The doctor hesitated, as if considering his own words, then said, “But they wouldn’t be reproducible, especially when two separate labs ran the test.” He shook his head. “So having a whole extra “profile” of these shadow markers is unexplainable.” The doctor appeared even more perplexed.

  Scotty said, “Ah … but it is explainable. There are not one, but two, complete DNA profile markers here. Your instrumentation threw-out the second set, having nothing to compare them to within its limited database. Only one of those sets was determined to actually be of Human origin.”

  “What? You’re saying the other set is from what, another species entirely? I assure you, Mr. Sullivan, that is not possible,” the doctor said, with an uneasy smile.

  “Sorry, Doctor, not only another species, but a species from another world. Scotty shrugged. “In time, you will come to understand this to be true.”

  Alison, reminded of Scotty’s previous joke, of being abducted by aliens, thought, Crap, this guy really is bat-shit-crazy. Too bad, too. She’d sort of hoped things would have gone differently. Perhaps it was past trauma, his abduction, or …

  Scotty chuckled. Gazing at Alison, he said, “I assure you, I am not crazy. In time you’ll believe me.” He then turned to the doctor. “If it is important to you, you can run the tests again.”

  “I suppose, but considering the lab results at hand match those of the FBI’s, I don’t see much benefit in doing so.”

  “I’d like to provide you with a new regimen with far more detailed test parameters to run. As well as an expanded genetics database to draw from.”

  Only then did Alison realize Scotty’s right wrist was no longer tethered to the bed. Abruptly standing, she moved around to the bed’s far side and stared down at the now-empty handcuffs, dangling from the metal railing.

  Looking sheepish, he said, “Oh … sorry. The cuff was becoming rather uncomfortable. I can put it back on if you want.”

  Chapter 13

  An exhausted-looking Brianna Sullivan, age forty-five—her hair now lusterless, roots sprouting gray, used her key to open the door into her second-story, one-room flat. Tossing her keys onto a side table, she used the heel of her shoe to kick the door shut behind her.

  Her commute to work each day consisted merely of walking the single flight of stairs either up or down at Stillworth’s Skiff—a dimly lit bar and grill in existence for well over one hundred years. As a server there, she had no idea who Stillworth was, or why the seedy pub was even named after him in the first place. All she knew was she wanted to get out of her foul-scented clothing—smelling of on-tap beer and cooked clams—then take an extremely hot shower.

  She fumbled with the knot in her apron strings, tied behind her back. Almost ready to find a pair a scissors and cut the fucking things off, she felt her left butt cheek vibrate. Giving up on the knot, she retrieved the cell-phone out from her jeans back pocket. She peered down at the caller: Nantucket Safe Harbor Animal Shelter.

  Brianna let the phone ring in her hand. Someone requesting a donation from her undoubtedly, she almost laughed. She’d be lucky to make the rent this month. Even this shithole of an apartment was ridiculously expensive. Everything in Nantucket was ridiculously expensive. The small pittance of alimony she still received from Andrew hadn’t covered her
bare-bones expenses for years. Not with what she’d paid out to Tony over the last sixteen years. She thought about Tony Rizzo, the barrel-chested, sixty-five-year-old Boston PI who’d been searching for her son for over sixteen years now. Maybe it was time. Time to put an end to the search. She answered the phone on the fifth ring, “Hello?”

  Sounding like a young male teenager, he responded, “Yeah … hi there … this is the Nantucket Safe Harbor Animal Shelter.”

  “Uh huh, I gathered that from the Caller ID. What … ”

  He cut her off. “We have a dog here, came in a few days ago. The imbedded microchip’s an old one; points to a Massachusetts registry. Long story short, we tracked the owner to this phone number. To a Mrs. Brianna Sullivan.”

  Brianna, raking fingers through her hair, shook her head. “That’s me, but I haven’t owned a dog in over sixteen years and that dog was three at the time. So, unless you’ve heard of a dog living, like, nineteen years … it can’t be mine.”

  “This dog looks pretty young. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Brianna’s curiosity was mildly peaked. “What breed of dog is it?”

  “He’s a good-looking dog. Golden mix, would be my guess.”

  “Weird coincidence. That was the breed of our dog too. Actually, a Golden Cocker mix”

  “This dog has some cocker in him, but, like you said, the age is all wrong.”

  Brianna nodded to herself. She’d loved that big goofy animal. Lost him the same day she’d lost Scotty. “I don’t suppose the dog you’ve got there has two dark, front paws and a darker fur tail?”

  “Umm … well, yeah. That’s exactly what this dog has.”

  She thought about the improbability of that. “How late are you open tonight?”

  “Another hour. I still have to shovel out a few more runs.”

  Fifty-three minutes later, her hair still a little wet, and not wearing a lick of makeup, Brianna arrived at the shelter slightly out of breath. Not owning a car, she’d jogged the mile-and-a-half distance. Entering the shelter’s concrete floors and scuffed long counter office, she found a lone teenager standing behind the counter, talking on the phone. She heard a cacophony of barking noises, coming from behind the far wall. The kid glanced up and, holding up a finger, continued to describe some other dog to the person on the other end.