Unchained Memory (The Interstellar Rescue Series Book 1)

by Donna S. Frelick

  And his faithful old BMW with the sun-bleached yellow paint and numerous rust spots, with the leather interior that was worn like a pair of faded jeans and fit his body like a broken-in baseball glove, with an engine that sounded like a tank and drank oil like a Russian drank vodka. He lifted the bottle of bourbon in the direction of his car.

  “To you, my friend.” He took a hefty swig of bourbon. “Fuck Claussen if he can’t appreciate you!”

  He took another drink, realizing with something between giddiness and relief that he was starting to feel some effect from the liquor. “Fuck Claussen anyway! Fucking asshole!” The man had been his friend, his mentor, a part of his family. And he had just snatched Ethan’s heart out of his chest without a single regret. For what? To protect him? “Well, fuck you, old man, I don’t want your protection!”

  Satisfaction crossed his face in the wake of his declaration, and he started to take another drink, just to see if he could recreate the brief feeling of defiant devil-may-care he’d just experienced, when the bottle paused halfway to his mouth. The car. What was it Claussen had said about the car? The buzz in his head was a hindrance now as he struggled to get the words back. I’m amazed you made it up here without a breakdown. An offhand comment? God knows the old man had given him enough shit about that car over the years.

  But his smile. He was taunting him. Like he knew. There was only one way he could have known about the breakdown and repair of the water pump in Marlinton. If he’d been tracing the credit card.

  “Man, you are really drunk.” The words fell like stones in the silence of the kitchen. But suddenly there was a noise in his head that was not the buzz of drunkenness. It was the scrape and thunk of chess pieces moving across a board dark with the color of blood and fire and metal. Pieces that connected Asia Burdette and Arthur Claussen and the Men in Black. Pieces that included a naïve young psych resident at Johns Hopkins as a pawn in a game that involved alien abduction and lost time and the death of innocents.

  And when the pieces stopped moving, Ethan saw it all clearly: Claussen’s sudden appearance on their doorstep had had nothing to do with any doctor-patient ethical bullshit. It had everything to do with Asia’s case. Claussen had been the only one with access to his patient files. Claussen stood to gain from the research if his former patients had been dragged off to some laboratory. Claussen was the connection. Claussen was to blame for Ida Mickens’s death and Brad Conners’s and—

  “Oh, my God. Asia!” He dropped the bottle of bourbon in the sink, ignoring the clatter and the gurgle as the rest of the liquor went down the drain. He dove for the phone and prayed Asia’s cell phone was charged after so much time of disuse in the dead zone of Adirondack Park. His call went directly to voice mail. “Damn it!”

  There was a stack of phone directories, all of them long outdated, in one of the kitchen drawers. He clawed at the books, praying for one with a Syracuse cover. There! He ripped through the pages until he found what he was looking for, then punched in the number for Syracuse Hancock International Airport. He prowled the kitchen floor, alternately cursing and punching more numbers, his heart hammering, as the automated system sent him through an endless list of options before he reached a human who could answer his question.

  “Flights to Santa Fe? No, sir. There would be no direct departures for Santa Fe. The closest flights would be Albuquerque via Chicago or Cincinnati. What airline, sir?”

  What? He couldn’t think. “Any airline. All airlines!”

  “There’s no need to shout, sir. I can hear you just fine.”

  “Sorry. It’s kind of an emergency. Uh, a death in the family.”

  “Oh, I am sorry for your loss, sir. I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

  The line clicked and began playing an elevator version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” Ethan regretted having dropped the bourbon in the sink. Instead, he used the time to start a pot of coffee. He was going to need the caffeine to counteract some of that whiskey in his system because he intended to burn up the highway with Baby once he got the flight information. If he wasn’t already too late. God, please don’t let me be too late.

  “Sir, are you there?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here.”

  “I have a 6:15 p.m. departure for Cincinnati on US Airways. That’s boarding now, sir. Then I have nothing until 9:30 p.m. this evening on Delta Airlines. That has a one-hour layover in Chicago, with a connecting flight to Albuquerque. Would you like me to connect you with a Delta ticketing agent?”

  Six-fifteen. Too early even for Claussen to have made the two-and-a-half hour trip to Syracuse. Thank you, God!

  “No, thank you. I’ll do it online. Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Every second counted now and Ethan was acutely aware of his alcohol-retarded reflexes and spinning head. He tried hard to focus—keys, wallet, cell phone, charger (where the hell was the fucking phone charger?). He poured himself a go-cup of coffee and congratulated himself on remembering to switch off the machine. Then he shoved his feet into boots, his arms into his jacket and ran for his car.

  He stopped dead with his hand on the door handle. Sweet Jesus, what if Claussen never took her to the airport at all? He thought about it, his head still light as a balloon. What were the chances the old man had driven all the way up here from Nashville? Not likely.

  Ethan shook his head and went with Plan A. If he was wrong, he’d have to give up hope. And that he refused to do.

  The Beemer gave him no trouble when he turned the key in the ignition. It was as if Baby knew this was important. And bless his sweet girl. Asia had filled up the tank in town that morning. He pointed the headlights down the drive and stepped on the gas, nearly jerking the steering wheel out of his hands as the wheels straightened to align with the ruts in the road.

  Ethan was grateful now for the work he’d done earlier to clear the drive. He made it to the road quickly, turned out onto the pavement, and pushed the engine up to speed. He took the curves much too fast, slopping coffee onto his jeans, but he ignored the sudden heat on his thigh. He just prayed the deer stayed out of the road tonight. He had to make it to the airport before that flight took off.

  There was no way to avoid the villages along Route 28 or the sheriffs patrolling them, who tended to frown on speeders with out-of-town license plates blowing through their towns. Ethan cursed and sweated his way through every one of them, until he made it to the Thruway interchange just north of Utica.

  Once he hit the interstate, though, he floored it. The traffic was relatively light—thank God it was Saturday—and the cops evidently had other things to do. He began to make some progress. And at last his mind began to clear.

  Ethan realized with a nauseating heaviness in his stomach that Claussen was perfectly positioned to help anyone—government agents, private labs, even the aliens themselves—with an interest in extraterrestrial contact. The doctor had been working for years with patients who believed they had been abducted by aliens. He would be the ideal person to identify anyone who actually had been abducted—the ones, like Asia, who responded differently to AL therapy.

  And I played right into his hands. All these years. How many have I helped Claussen find for them? Bile rose in his throat, hot and bitter, threatening to choke him.

  A car horn blared on his right, and he swerved back into his lane, hands shaking on the wheel. Shit! He sat up in his seat and put his mind back on the road. Asia was not going to be a victim of his stupidity. He was going to get to the airport in time. He was going to find Asia before Claussen got her on that plane to wherever he meant to take her.

  And they were going to beat this trap that Claussen had set for them, if he had to kill the old man to do it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Go ahead, my dear, check the account. I assure you it’s legitimate.”

  I stood at a BankAmerica ATM machine in the Syracuse Hancock International Airport terminal and eyed with some skeptici
sm the debit card Claussen had just handed me. My daddy had always told me there was no such thing as a free lunch, and I wasn’t about to believe that had suddenly changed. Still, I didn’t have much choice. If Claussen had decided to back out on his agreement now, I was up shit creek.

  I slid the card into the slot and keyed in the password he’d given me. I hit “Check Balance.” Then I began to wish I had a paper bag, because I was hyperventilating.

  Claussen smiled that oily smile of his. “Do you believe me now?”

  I could only nod.

  “Why don’t you take out enough cash to do some shopping? We have some time to kill, and I’m sure you could use a few new things for the trip.”

  Which I suppose was his tactful way of saying the two pairs of jeans and a sweater that I’d been living in for—how long has it been anyway?—were no longer adequate.

  We had plenty of time, since we’d already taken care of buying my ticket on a 9:30 p.m. flight to Chicago, with a connection to Albuquerque. I figured that was close enough to Santa Fe for now. With what was in that account he’d just showed me, I had enough to buy a car, put a deposit down on an apartment, and take my time getting a job. Money wasn’t going to be the problem. I refused to let myself think of what the real problem was going to be. I refused to let myself think at all.

  I put my enemy through the wringer, making him wait while I tried on leather jackets and sleek pants and swirling skirts and sheer blouses and even a couple of pairs of shoes. Then I made him carry the bags while I sorted through a few scarves and belts and such. Too bad there were only one or two nice women’s boutiques in the airport. I could have done a lot more damage in a real mall.

  At close to 8:00 p.m. I bought a new suitcase and repacked everything but the outfit I’d chosen to wear on the plane. Then I parked Claussen across from the women’s restroom nearest the security entrance to North Terminal B. My flight was due to take off from Gate 25 down at the end of that terminal.

  “I’m going to change before I get on the plane,” I told the old man. “Would you mind watching my stuff? I’ll just be a minute.”

  Claussen frowned, as if he was reluctant to let me out of his sight, but what could he say? “Certainly. But don’t be long. You don’t want to be late.”

  I didn’t bother to answer him. What did he think I was, fifteen? I took my shopping bag into the restroom and, since the facility was empty, went into the handicapped stall where I’d have some room to maneuver. I stripped off my old things and folded them. Then I slipped into the silky white blouse, the pencil-thin black pants that hugged my ass just right and the great little leather jacket that had cost way too much, but looked too good to pass up. I exchanged my trail runners for some dressy, but comfy, flats, and I was good to go.

  I left the stall and paused to check my look in the mirror. And that was my undoing. The woman who stared back at me was lost and empty, dressed for a future that meant nothing to her. Just that quickly the breath left my lungs, the strength left my legs and I gripped the nearest wall to keep myself from falling to the floor.

  What the hell are you doing? I asked the miserable creature looking back at me.

  Goddamn her, she squared her shoulders, blinked back tears and answered, I’m saving Ethan’s life.

  I fled the restroom and scuttled back to where Claussen was waiting, any lightness of mood I might have jinned up with my spending excesses gone like the money itself. I refused to acknowledge his presence, even when he complimented me on my new look. Only when I had thrown my old jeans and sweater in the suitcase with the rest of my things and zipped it up did I spare him a glance.

  “I think I’ll go wait for my flight by the gate.” Generations of my polite Southern ancestors were urging me to thank him for what he’d given me, but all I could think of was what he’d taken from me. My mouth stayed obstinately closed.

  Claussen rose to his feet. He seemed to consider offering his hand, but read the look in my eyes and held back.

  “Thank you for making this easy for Ethan.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I swallowed hard. “There was no way to make this easy for Ethan. But if you still think of yourself as his friend, I’d appreciate it if you’d watch out for him.” I couldn’t, I wouldn’t say any more. I turned with as much dignity as I could muster and walked toward the security gate.

  “Damn it, where are all you people going? There’s got to be a parking spot around here somewhere.”

  Ethan circled the short-term section of the parking garage with increasing impatience, tires squealing as he rounded each tight corner to the next level up. Time and his temper were growing shorter with each level he passed without a place to stash the Beemer so he could dash into the airport terminal.

  At last, he spotted a van with its taillights glowing red, preparing to back out of a spot. He waited, hands drumming on his steering wheel, while the van’s driver adjusted dozens of unknown details before actually driving the vehicle. The van pulled out at last, and Ethan came within inches of clipping the slowly departing behemoth as he pulled into the just-vacated space. Then he was running for the terminal entrance, making for the information kiosk as soon as he got inside.

  It was 8:45 p.m. Asia would already be waiting at the gate to board the plane. Without a ticket he wasn’t getting beyond the security checkpoint. He flashed a smile at the bright young thing working the information desk.

  “Ms. Rogers,” he read off her name tag, “I wonder if you could help me?”

  She blinked at him. “Well, I’ll try, sir.”

  “I have to get a very important message to my girlfriend. She’s already at the gate. She doesn’t have a cell phone. I don’t have a ticket. Can we call her at the gate? I really have to speak with her directly before she gets on that plane.”

  “Well, the phones at the gate are really for airline use. We could page her.”

  If Claussen was still with her, that wouldn’t do. “I really wouldn’t want her to miss that plane, though. And she shouldn’t be running all over the airport.” He tried looking embarrassed. “We’re, uh, we’re expecting.”

  “Oh!” The girl beamed at him. “Let me try calling the gate, sir. What flight is it?”

  He gave her the information and held his breath while she called the gate. He imagined Asia’s voice on the other end of the phone as he spoke to her, allowing himself to believe for one second that it might just be this easy.

  But he saw the frown developing on Ms. Rogers’ face as she listened and eventually hung up the phone, and his hope turned to something approaching panic.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m just getting a busy signal at the gate. Let me check and see if they’ve started boarding.” She tapped at the keyboard on her desk while Ethan’s heart thumped wildly in his chest. It was 8:48 p.m.

  “I don’t see that they’ve started the boarding process. We’ll have to page her to the security gate, but she should have time to meet you there. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Ethan forced himself to take a deep breath. “I’m fine. I had a long drive to get here is all.” He smiled again, aware of the impact it seemed to have on the girl. This wasn’t usually his style, but he had to get to Asia in time, and he wasn’t above using whatever assets he had to do it.

  “Okay, I’ll call ahead to the security gate and tell them you’re meeting someone there. Then I’ll start the page. It’ll be the North Terminal B checkpoint. Got it?”

  He nodded. “North Terminal B.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Asia. Asia Burdette.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mister . . .?”

  “Doctor. Dr. Carter. Thanks for your help, Ms. Rogers.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome, Dr. Carter. Good luck.”

  Ethan took the escalator to the second level two steps at a time, ignoring the pain that ripped through his thigh with every other step. At the top he peeled off to the left for the North Terminal B security gate. Overhead he could h
ear Ms. Rogers’ clear voice calling for Asia Burdette to meet her husband at the appointed place. He could only hope Asia would both hear and understand the message—and be free to act on it.

  Ethan approached the security checkpoint, skirting the lines of shuffling travelers with their carry-on bags filing through the scanners, to speak with the officer who had the look of The One in Charge off to one side.

  “My girlfriend was at one of the departure gates,” he explained. “They’ve been paging her to meet me here. Asia Burdette?”

  The massively muscled guard turned to peer down at him, not bothering to uncross his arms from over his burly chest. “If you are not a ticketed passenger, you are not allowed on the other side of the security barrier, sir.”

  “I understand that, officer. She’s supposed to come out to meet me on this side.”

  The officer looked at him with no expression. “Okay.”

  “They were supposed to call you from the Information Desk to let you know I was coming.”

  The man nodded.

  Ethan tried very hard not to show his exasperation. “All right if I wait here for her?”