Alien Eyes

by Lynn Hightower

  People gave her a respectful berth without seeming to notice her. Her lime scent was strong in the heat, mingling with the odor of exhaust and hot oily pavement. String had told him at least once that to speak first to such an elder was a terrible breach of etiquette.

  David stopped, close enough to touch. The Elaki wobbled back and forth on her bottom fringe, and he expected her to crumple to the sidewalk at any moment.

  A woman in overalls and a ball cap, the back of her hair cut in a divot, glanced at David, frowned, and looked away. A hundred yards down the road, a boy glanced over his shoulder as he walked behind a man with a briefcase. The boy, David decided, was after the briefcase.

  David stayed put.

  The sun was high. He felt sweat break out on the back of his neck. Did Elaki sweat?

  The Elaki turned slowly, sunlight glinting in her scales. Her inner belly coloring was splotchy and yellowish. She had raw patches where scales had dropped off and not grown back.

  David took a breath. There were scars on her belly, near the breathing slits, a fine white web of scars that looked like lace. He had seen scars like that before. On Angel Eyes.

  One of the Elaki’s eye stalks was cloudy and unfocused. The other swiveled his way.

  “Ah.” The Elaki emitted a long, whistling noise.

  Elaki stress, David thought. He considered turning around and dashing back to his office.

  “I beg your pardon,” David said.

  “At last.” The Elaki spoke slowly, voice faint.

  “Every day I see you stand here,” David said. “I was wondering if you need help.”

  “You are police official?”

  “Detective Silver. David Silver.”

  “It has taken much time. I need to speak with a police official. A human police official. A detective is this thing?”

  “Yes,” David said.

  “I am missing someone who should be here is not to be found. Are you the finder?”

  “Let’s go up to my office,” David said. “Get you out of the sun. Let you sit down.”

  The Elaki arched her back. “Elaki do not sit.”

  “Come inside anyway,” David said.

  They took the elevator. Stairs were awkward for Elaki. David wasn’t sure the elder could handle stairs.

  She moved like she had a palsy—shedding scales, quivering and skittering on her belly scales. The elevator was slow. The Elaki stayed to one side, and everyone else boarding kept their distance, crowding David to the back. He took slow, even breaths. Someone on the elevator was wearing perfume that smelled like grape soda. David realized he hadn’t had lunch.

  The door slid open, and the Elaki moved serenely through the precinct, canted to one side, stiff but graceful. David glanced into the captain’s office as he walked by. He saw Mel through the glass partition, and remembered that he was supposed to be there, too.

  The Elaki stopped moving and focused an eye stalk. She twitched. David saw that she was leaning toward Ash, Walker, and Thinker, who stood at their station, conferring in muted voices.

  “Izicho,” she said. Coldly.

  “No,” said David. “Police officers.”

  “Elaki police officers are Izicho.”

  “These are human-type police officers.”

  The eye stalk swiveled his way. “These are humans? Detective?”

  Walker hissed. “Not Izicho.”

  The old Elaki moved with sudden, disturbing intensity. “Young one,” she said, voice stronger than David had heard it. “You are out of your manners.”

  Walker skittered backward. David stopped and watched. As did everyone else in the bullpen.

  “Young one,” the Elaki said again. “You are disgraced.”

  Ash and Thinker moved away from Walker. Ash turned his back. As did Thinker.

  “Beg pardon.” Walker swayed from side to side.

  “Remove.”

  Walker made an odd noise, and slid from the room.

  “I had a math teacher like you once,” David muttered.

  “Please to repeat.”

  “I said please, um, stand here, where you’ll be comfortable. Where I hope you’ll be comfortable. Can I get you anything?”

  “Sushi?”

  “Um, no, sorry. We don’t have that. Coffee?”

  “Cinnamon coffee? Elaki coffee?”

  “Just regular. But we’ve got cream and sugar.”

  “Some cream please,” the Elaki said.

  “No coffee?”

  “Cream.”

  Della was watching from her desk. “You want me to get it?” She was grinning.

  “Please,” David said.

  “It’s nondairy cream,” Della said to the Elaki. Her voice was sweet and respectful. “That’s all we got.”

  “That will be most pleasant,” the Elaki said. David had the feeling she was humoring them.

  He sat on the edge of his desk, noticing how dusty it was, the surface littered with computer printouts, file folders, and two cups half full of cold, old coffee. One of the cups had lipstick on the rim. David glanced at Della, but her back was to him.

  David sat up straighter. He was not at eye level with the old Elaki, but she didn’t hover over him quite as much as she would if he’d taken the chair. He pictured Angel Eyes, bending at the middle. Angel Eyes. Did she know where Dahmi was?

  “What exactly are you missing?” David said.

  “My pouchling.”

  David felt his stomach tense. “You have pouchlings?”

  “Only the one.”

  “How long?”

  “How long I have the pouchling?”

  “How long has your young one been missing?”

  “Hard to say. Is full grown and is …” The Elaki hesitated. “Is Izicho. But not here for work. Coming here to escape the chemaki.”

  “Ma’am?” Della handed the Elaki a brown paper cup.

  David scooted to the edge of the desk and leaned surreptitiously forward till he could see into the cup. It was half full of nondairy creamer. The Elaki took a delicate pinch of the powdery white cream, the lace work of scars flexing. She had much the same attitude, David thought, as he had when one of his daughters invited him to a pretend tea party.

  More regal, David thought, but gracious.

  “Please to understand my pouchling is grown. Male, name of Calii. Calii, you should be informed, is Izicho. To my shame.”

  David cocked his head sideways, wondering what she meant.

  “He did not come home to me when he was summoned. This not happen right. Something be very wrong. Cannot find Calii. Calii is gone missing.”

  David wondered how he would word this in the computer file. If he did a file. He folded his arms.

  “When was the last time you saw him? You did say him?”

  “But yes.” The Elaki was silent for a long moment. “How you count this? Would be the years. Eight of the years.”

  “But—” David frowned. Elaki had not been on Earth more than four years. “Where did you see him?”

  “Home. Home planet.”

  “What planet is he on now?”

  “If I know, I not be here. He should be on home planet. But not answer my death summons. I dying. He not come. Last communication he come here. He not return. I do not understand, so I do not die. I come looking.”

  It was good Elaki did not marry, David thought. What a Mother-One-in-law she would be. David cleared his throat.

  “Let me make sure I have this right. Your son—your pouchling. You haven’t seen him for eight years. You thought you were dying.”

  “I was dying.”

  “And you summoned him. Right so far?”

  “But yes.”

  “And he didn’t come.”

  “No.”

  “So you were worried, and have been looking for him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why here? Earth?”

  “He was to come here. On point of departure. But word is did not arrive. Is some confusion. Re
gulations say he leave, but not come.”

  “He left your home planet, but didn’t arrive on Earth?”

  “Good boy.”

  David glanced over his shoulder at Della. She gave him a blank, innocent look.

  “Why did you come to Earth looking for him?” David asked.

  “Because him not home.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “That is … let me to think on you terms. Please a moment.” The Elaki quivered on her bottom fringe, incapable of stillness. “Tuesday-day of the month fourteen, last season.”

  David swallowed. “Of … of this year?”

  “But yes.” The Elaki sounded weary, impatient. “I have wait much time to tell you of this. How much wait until you find?”

  “Your son, your pouchling, is Izicho?”

  “Yes. This matters?”

  “I don’t know. You never know what details will come in handy.”

  “Ah. The scatter-fact approach. Most appealing to human. Does this method yield?”

  “Sometimes,” David said. “Ma’am … um, what is your name?”

  “You may call me—”

  “Patience?” David asked.

  “That would be acceptable.”

  David gritted his teeth. “I need your Elaki name. Please.”

  “It is Yahray.”

  “Yahray,” David repeated.

  “Yahray.”

  David nodded. “Yes. Tell me, ma’am. What kind of relationship did you have with Calii?”

  The Elaki made a noise. She spoke slowly. “He-was-my-pouchling.”

  “Yes,” David said. “But you haven’t seen him for eight years—is that right?”

  The Elaki’s midsection sagged. “That is correct, Detective David.”

  “That’s a long time,” David said gently. “Did you have a falling out?”

  “Falling out of what?”

  David glanced around the precinct. Where was String? Ash still had his back turned. Thinker—ever savvy—was out of sight. David crooked his finger. Ash did not appear to understand the gesture.

  He tried again. “Why haven’t you seen Calii for so long? Are there bad feelings between you?”

  “Ah. Yes, I fear the politics would intrude. My pouchling most brilliant, and raised just so. And will still become Izicho.”

  “Are you a Guardian, Yahray?”

  The Elaki spoke softly. “But yes. I was the most active political. My Calii was brought up in the middle of the exciting times. He is too young to have the bad memories.”

  David glanced at the scars on her midsection.

  “I most distressed when he become Izicho. The betrayal, you call it?”

  David nodded.

  “What does this mean, this movement of the head?”

  “It means yes.”

  “Say yes, then.”

  “Is it possible, Yahray, that Calii does not want to be found?”

  David caught a movement from the corner of his eye. String. Thank God. His Elaki partner, ragged-looking as ever, moved silently toward them.

  The old Elaki stiffened beneath her scales. David expected her to hiss, but she did not. String stopped, but said nothing. There was a long, tense silence.

  “Good of the day,” Yahray said, at last. “Forgive my impertinence. But you are Izicho.”

  String swept sideways, and teetered on his fringe. “I am Izicho, most Mother-One. Forgive my impertinence. I believe I know of you. You are Yahray?”

  “Do not tell me what I know, young one.”

  Young one? David gave String a second look.

  “I do not wish to extrude,” String said. “Is there assistance required?”

  “This human does not understand. Calii—my only pouchling—summoned to final rites for Mother-One. Did not appear. The human does not understand the significance.”

  String waved a fin. “It is to be unthinkable.”

  “In spite of—” David glanced at Yahray. “Major differences?”

  “Unthinkable,” String said.

  “Have you no Mother-One?” the Elaki asked him. “Pardon the personal, do humans really come from eggs?”

  “Yes and no,” David said.

  “No wonder the confusion.”

  David put his chin in his hands. Captain Halliday was watching from his office.

  “I need some time to look into this,” David said. “Where can I reach you?”

  The old Elaki raised a fin. “Out there.”

  David looked at String. “Think we could find her a hotel?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  David shut his eyes, just for a moment, thinking about private moments and how often cops were involved—uninvited but involved.

  “All beautiful buildings are for funeral homes,” String said. “This is why?”

  Mel shrugged.

  David shifted his weight. He was perched on a high wood stool that would be uncomfortable before too much longer. Mel leaned against the wall, his arms tightly folded. He yawned, jaw cracking.

  “This sucks,” he said. “Arnold didn’t do nothing. You think he had anything to do with this?”

  “Something isn’t right about it,” David said. “The whole setup.”

  “You really think Arnold had anything to do with it?”

  “Likely?” David shook his head. “I think he was the target. But I also think he couldn’t stand his son-in-law.”

  “Yeah, but what about Charlotte?”

  “Could have been a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to be there. The grandsons were taken care of—stashed out of the way. And he turned us down flat on the protection.”

  String stood silently, looking through the two-way into the next room.

  “Something on your mind, Gumby?”

  String twitched an eye prong. “Please to explain. This is not home movies? This is not the real memory?”

  “Nah.” Mel studied his fingernails. “It’s a form of grief counseling. You get a hologram of your … the person that died. They put it together from questionnaires and stuff. It helps the bereaved accept the death.”

  “Why would they not accept it?”

  “Well, it could be a sudden thing. Say some lady’s sister dies of some disease or something. This gives her a chance to say good-bye.”

  “Why does she not just say good-bye when the sister becomes ill?”

  “Gumby, you wear me out. She didn’t know her sister would die.”

  “But surely the medicals would warn her. What disease did the sister have?”

  “There wasn’t a disease. There wasn’t a sister. And you—”

  “Humans are unreasonable,” String said. “To need this help to accept what is. Better just to grieve.”

  “It is grief,” Mel said.

  “It puts me in mind of a female Izicho I did the training with when I was but most young. She was odd in that …” String’s voice trailed off.

  Mel looked at David, then back to String. “And so?”

  String stayed silent, his body turned to one side.

  Mel leaned close to David and spoke in low tones. “He ain’t told me a whole story or done a magic trick since he caught us by the van in the parking garage.”

  “Count your blessings,” David said.

  The door to the next room opened, a wedge of thickly carpeted hallway in their range of vision through the two-way.

  “Heads up,” Mel said.

  Stephen Arnold was formally dressed in a dark grey suit. His shoes were polished and glinting, and he wore a thin black stripe down his white shirt. His hair had been mussed by the wind. He smoothed it back. One piece stuck up at the top, making him look vulnerable.

  The funeral director was waving his hands. “No, sir. The insurance company covers all of this. Your particular policy was what I call generous.”

  Arnold said something David could not hear.

  The director lowered his voice. “That’s not usually done. The expense would be prohibitive—and to tell you the
truth, it’s not recommended.” The director held out a hand and turned the palm up. “Some experiences aren’t keepers. You have to move along afterward.” He glanced self-consciously into the two-way.

  “Aw,” Mel said. “Quit looking at us. This guy. Does it every single time. Must be he does it on purpose.”

  David felt the first twinge of an ache in the small of his back.

  In the next room, Arnold looked around, arms tight against his sides. The room was small, the couch an old Duncan Fyfe, tautly stuffed. The end tables were mahogany, simple lines, Queen Anne. The walls were papered and set off with white wood molding. Arnold perched on the edge of the couch, then glanced at the two floral wingback chairs. He got up and moved from the couch to a chair.

  Arnold crossed his legs. David adjusted the volume until he could hear him clear his throat. David heard his own door open. The funeral director stuck his head in.

  “Ready in here?” He spoke in a loud, hoarse whisper.

  “It’s a go,” David said. He sniffed. The director was wearing a heavy dose of shaving lotion that smelled like vanilla. His face was florid, well scrubbed.

  “You wearing vanilla extract?” Mel asked.

  “Male Bonding.”

  “What?”

  “The scent.”

  “Smells like vanilla to me.”

  The funeral director grimaced. “Any minute now.”

  “Dad?” The voice was young, female, coming from the next room.

  The director ducked out the door, and David looked through the two-way.

  Charlotte stood in the room in front of her father.

  “Charlotte.” Arnold stood up and reached a hand to his daughter. His fingers, flesh and blood, passed through the hologram that registered on his skin as so many dots of light.

  Arnold sat down very suddenly, grasping the knee of his pants leg in a wad.

  “Dad, I’m so glad to see you! I knew you’d come.”

  “Course.” Arnold cleared his throat. “Of course.”

  David was surprised at how pretty Charlotte was. There was something there, some quality the portraits had not caught.

  “I wish things weren’t … well, you know. The way they are.”

  Arnold nodded. He blew his nose on a handkerchief.

  “Daddy, do you remember Cleopatra?”

  A brown and white border collie appeared beside Charlotte. The dog barked, pink tongue lolling. Charlotte bent down and picked up the dog, holding her belly side up like a baby. “’Member how I used to carry her like this?”