Anodyne Eyes

by Milt Mays

  Lorna excused herself and walked away with Charlie.

  Alexis looked at Jeff and raised an eyebrow.

  “What?” Jeff said.

  She shook her head.

  “Come on. You know. Tell me.”

  “They think something bad is coming, but they’re wrong.”

  “And?”

  Her eyes sparkled and one edge of her mouth smiled. “You’ll see.”

  The music stopped but everyone was talking or laughing or munching. A pretty girl in blond pigtails and a red plaid skirt and white button-down shirt placed a pitcher of amber liquid in front of Jeff. Was this beer? He wanted to ask the girl but she had whirled and strode away.

  “Try it. It’s good beer,” Alexis said, but her gaze was on the band.

  The music started, slow and soft, the guitar and harmonica dancing around each other. A man’s voice began singing a song Jeff remembered. It was a song his dad had liked: John Denver’s “Home Again,” or something like that. Alexis chuckled and her tiny smile grew to fill her face, her eyes riveted on the band.

  Jeff poured a glass of the beer and took a sip. Heaven had just become even better. He glanced up at the band and almost dropped the glass. Charlie was playing the harmonica and Lorna the guitar. But that wasn’t the surprise. The man singing had eyes like Alexis, exactly like Alexis.

  Chapter 24

  It was the man from the photo on the fridge back in Texas: Alexis’s father, Alex. He must like theatrical entrances.

  Alex eyed him and Jeff felt that familiar warmth inside. He wanted to shout with joy. This was so great. No. Not really. That warm feeling was a sure sign Alex could read his mind just like Alexis. Shit!

  Alex finished the first verse then allowed another young man to take the mic as he walked toward their table. Alexis was on him with a bear hug before he made it halfway. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around her and smiled broadly. Applause and whoops from the audience drowned out the band. This was a man well known to Realfood. Jeff wondered how he would feel about a twenty-three-year old kid loving his jailbait daughter. What was he thinking? Alex had probably already read his mind and knew. Maybe Jeff would work his way out the door while the applause still roared. He leaned forward, looked side to side, then stood.

  While she still held her dad, Alexis twisted her head around and squinted at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Alex opened his eyes but kept the smile wide as he looked at Jeff. “So this is the guy.”

  “Yep.”

  Jeff sat back down, gave a wan smile and took a drink of the beer. It was tasty. Yeah, right. You are definitely thinking about tasty beer.

  The song ended and Alex and Alexis were sitting beside him. Maybe he could become a piece of paper, get real skinny and blow away. Or melt between their mind-reading lasers and drip off the bench, mix in with the dirt. Hell, he’d fit right in. He could become fertilizer for the Realfood corn. Or—

  “I’m Alex Smith. Sorry to make you feel uncomfortable. My wife, Rachel, tells me it’s rude, so I’ll stop the mind-meld and have a real conversation.” He glanced at Alexis, as if to include her in his decision to not read Jeff’s mind.

  She tilted her head with a mischievous smile. “Okay.” The word held resignation and reluctance.

  Jeff held out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I just realized . . . this is the first time I heard her last name.” Then he looked down and squinted, thinking about all the kids in his high school who had different last names than their father or mother. Maybe this guy raised Alexis, but wasn’t her father. Maybe she didn’t know her real father, like Jeff’s kid back with Krista.

  He shook Alex’s hand. He wanted to look into the man’s eyes, for that was the polite thing to do, but he dropped his head and scratched his head with his other hand, not because it itched, but to cover his eyes and face. An emotional inner hand squeezed him so hard he wanted to cry. He was not fit for this man’s daughter. How could he tell Alex he loved her? Jeff felt his eyes filling.

  “I’m sorry,” Alexis said. “I should have told you my last name; thought our first meeting was a little strained.”

  Jeff squeezed his eyes and brought his left hand down, trying to disguise a quick wipe of the tears at the corner of his left eye. “No problem. An observation, really.”

  Then he looked at Alex. He realized they were still shaking hands, and Alex’s grip was gentle, but not weak, and his eyes were kind. Jeff smiled. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “You seem troubled about something.” Alex broke the handshake and his eyes continued to explore Jeff, not an inspection but more a caress. They were the eyes of Alexis, but seemed wiser somehow. Yep. He was definitely her dad.

  “Sometimes I remember things from my past and—”

  Alex waited for Jeff to finish. But Jeff didn’t want to finish.

  “I do the same thing.” Alex turned his gaze to Alexis. “Before she was born I did a few things I’m not proud of.” He paused. “Sometimes they were a kick in the pants, though.” He chuckled and Jeff could not help but feel better.

  He watched them gaze at each other, father and daughter with those vibrating green lasers, like they were trading secrets with a look. He wondered about Alexis’s mother.

  Alexis shook her head at Alex. “You did what you had to, Daddy. If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be here. You would have never met Mom. Realfood would be nothing. This would all be a wasteland.”

  “Yeah. I did things. Jeff did things. Even your mom did things.” His eyes got wide and he peeled back his lips in mock terror. “Whoa. Did I say that?”

  The music started again. The harmonica and the guitar worked well with the singer’s beefy voice. Charlie came over and set a plate before Alex: steaming spinach, beans and coleslaw along with a fist-sized mound of barbequed beef. Alexis hugged her dad, more like a tight squeeze. When she let go, she grabbed his chin with her hand. “Quit talking, sit and eat. Might be your last real meal.”

  “I am hungry. It was a long ride. And,” he looked at Jeff, “we have to leave soon.”

  Jeff felt his chest tighten. Last meal? Leave? He didn’t want to leave. This felt like a home already. He’d not felt this safe and warm and, well, sane, in . . . He couldn’t remember when. The people were kind, the music filled a void he’d forgotten, and she was here with him. He had to figure a way to tell her father that he loved her, that he wanted to marry her. He was so happy with her he wanted to crawl back into that warm bath and stay forever. With her.

  The singer hit a low note that he held, and Jeff’s breathing quickened and his heart tripped faster. “We just got here.”

  Alex stared at Jeff for several seconds as if he were making up his mind about something. “I know. But this has to do with you, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want to get back with your dad?”

  Chapter 25

  The Internet info on his cell phone was so exciting, Jabril’s mouth watered and his tiredness vanished. Milwaukee: home of the finest beers in America. A long time ago. There was still Miller, though it was called Miller-Coors, and they made dozens of beers. He’d only tasted Miller Lite. It was heaven compared to the piss-water, Abuljadayel Kingsburg from Saudi Arabia. Definitely time for something new. He’d had an American blond woman once. Voluptuous and a screamer. Though she had not been the real thing. Her hair had been dyed; breasts and lips had been artificially inflated. Perhaps Coors would be more real, made from Rocky Mountain spring water. He’d always wanted to go to Colorado. Maybe he could find a real blond there, too.

  A pang of guilt nagged him, though it was very small. As one of the older trainers told him in Afghanistan: Allah has better things to do than worry about us drinking alcohol or enjoying women. He went back to thoughts of sipping a Coors with a true blond under him. It kept him more alert as the skylight of Milwaukee appeared, though it was short-lived. After he changed, his energy level flagged and now it was failing fast. Killing Rocca had been
wonderful, but now he needed food and rest.

  He drove through a neighborhood a block east of the medical school research lab where the white mice were housed. The trees were budding out in spring green. Lavender crocus and orange and yellow tulips brightened the occasional garden below picture windows of two-story Cape Cods or smaller, one-story shotgun houses. The garages were located to the side and behind the houses, though he noted very few cars on the streets. It was an older neighborhood with established trees and hedges.

  One boxy Cape Cod looked promising: a “For Sale” sign on the dandelion-spotted dry lawn; dark dirt in the garden square below the picture window with brown stalks and weeds; the olive siding peeling at the edges.

  Next door was the opposite: a one-story with chimney and screened front porch, yellow paint on the siding so new it shone; manicured green lawn with lovely orange tulips and yellow daffodils beneath a screened front porch. The porch should have furniture and someone rocking and playing a guitar. But the front porch had no furniture and seemed sterile, as if someone had put everything inside. Four newspapers lay on the sidewalk leading to the front steps. The owners must be on vacation. It was so well kept, inside would likely have nice furniture, especially beds. A much better choice than the Cape Cod for sale that was probably empty of furniture.

  He parked a block south, two blocks from the medical school. The gray day threatened rain, or maybe a spring snow. He opened the car door, but immediately closed it before getting out. A humid chill seeped into his bones. He was so vulnerable, so weak in this form. But he could not change in broad daylight, nor did he have the energy right now. There was a hooded sweatshirt in the back seat of the Outback. He donned it and reached to open the door again, but stopped.

  Night would be better. Perhaps he should drive around, find food, keep the heater going and wait until cover of darkness. In his other form he would feel no cold, could discern even the blackest hole, and kill quickly, hiding any bodies without anyone seeing him. Killing. Mmm. He ran his tongue over his upper canine teeth, looking forward to them growing.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Why was he so obsessed with killing? It was wrong. His mind reeled. Mother would despise him. He had even killed Rachel, the woman who could have helped him achieve his ultimate goal. Burning to death must have been horrible.

  Forget it. He had to continue. She was only another infidel, and Alex’s wife. He wished he could see Alex’s face when he found out.

  Waiting here felt wrong. Those who had tortured him in the vault in D.C. would have many searching for him and would likely find Rocca’s body soon, connect the exploded shuttle bus, find Rachel’s body and be on his trail. And he must find the mice, find a map or some way into the Medical College of Wisconsin. He had to hurry. Alex was getting closer, a presence similar to what he remembered before, when he had trained as a soldier in Afghanistan. His mentors had marveled at how he could sense a marksman sighting-in on the back of his head. Perhaps that is why he had changed: He already had the basic instincts, and the virus, or whatever, had pushed him into this new world. He had never questioned it because it seemed so natural, and he loved the feeling of absolute power.

  Yet he knew he was not invincible. Rocca had shown him that, so many years ago. Even so, it would be so much fun to waltz into the school, slash and kill the weakling scientists and torture one or two to lead him to the mice and the research secrets. Sure, he could escape easily, but it would draw attention. And as tired as he was, he wondered how long he could stay in his most powerful form, or if he could even change at all. If not, he would be easily captured. And this time, they might do worse than hypothermia.

  They? A vague face kept cropping up when he thought of the vault and hypothermia. A memory, distant, but seemed present over the last several years. A cut over an eyebrow that Jabril had caused. Who was it?

  Even as these thoughts rolled through his mind, he yawned. Sleep, a mere catnap before reconnaissance. A library would have computers he could use to find the location of the lab mice. Surely the library would also have an easy chair in the back of unused racks of books. He looked like a skinny medical student. If he slept with a big tome in his hands, no one would bother him. He would be warm and safe.

  It was warm right here. All he needed was a few minutes. He closed his eyes.

  A sharp rap on the window by his head made him flinch. He turned his head and looked into a navy blue police uniform. The buttons were tight at the full chest and loose at the narrow waist. A woman. The knuckle on his right forefinger burned, his lips parted and his temples and groin throbbed.

  Over her right breast was embroidered in silver: “Kreig.” A shiny silver badge was pinned below that, spread-winged eagle on top, number 913 in the middle and a scroll printed with “Milwaukee” above and “Police” below the number. He buzzed down his window. Her blond hair was tucked under a black bicycle helmet. This contrasted with her flawless fair skin, pink cheeks and sky-blue eyes, a fresh and beautiful welcome to the far north. Except her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, and what must be soft lips were tight and straight, without a hint of smile. She gripped a black police baton in her right hand, shaft cradled in her left. When he opened the window, she stepped back, knuckles on her right hand turning white. She was nervous. There was a black mountain bike leaning against a tree behind her. How had she snuck up on him? His fatigue must be more than he realized.

  Though he wanted to knock her senseless with her own baton and take her inside his car to a private alley and rape her over and over, this was not the time. He knew that, yet his breathing continued in shallow excitement. His groin ached. Control! He breathed deep and let it out very slowly. Control.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” Her voice seemed too high-pitched, and it cracked at the end. Maybe this was her first encounter. She probably biked these friendly streets mostly wishing for action, but likely happy that she could go home to her safe little apartment and cook her pizza and have her Miller Lite, and watch some mindless TV show.

  He put his hands up and feigned fear. No need to use the Kentucky accent here. He’d seen many Saudi and Iraqi scientists on American medical school websites. “I stopped to make a call on my phone, officer. I’m tired from an all-nighter studying for anatomy finals and didn’t want to get in an accident. Must have dozed off.”

  He peered up at her, trying to make his gaze as tentative as a puppy who’d been scolded for chewing a shoe. His hands were on the steering wheel, the right one edging toward the key.

  She relaxed. Her lips were indeed soft and full, and her smile revealed white straight teeth. Americans had it all. She would be so—

  “Got a call from the lady at this house.” She nodded toward the mauve clapboard house in front of his car. The drapes were parted and a blue-haired woman with pasty-white skin scowled out at him. “She said a stranger was parked here.”

  “Sorry. I . . .” He looked around as if in confusion. “Oh, I can’t believe it. I was so tired I parked on the wrong street. My aunt lives around the block. I visit her sometimes during breaks from school. She needs her mail brought in and loves the company. That’s one of the reasons I came to medical school here: She needs someone. Guess I do, too, now that my father died. He lives,” he thought of the license plates on the car, “lived in Chicago.” He lowered his eyes and squeezed them to try to get at least one tear to fall. He tensed, his right hand almost to the key. It would take only seconds to start the car and drive away if the ruse failed.

  She relaxed and stood to the full height of her athletic body: long thin legs and hips a bit narrower than her chest.

  No. His left hand dropped to the door handle. He would not run. He would take her. She would be much better than the weakling girl who had died so quickly in Virginia. There was a burning tingle under the fingernails of his right hand. To avoid drawing attention he slowly dropped his right hand, hiding it on the side of his right thigh.

  She holstered the baton. “Sorry to startle you. Some
of the residents are nervous, what with those crazy mice and the medical school so close.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry. Please, why don’t you come over to my aunt’s? She makes great cinnamon rolls. You can follow me.” The shiny yellow house with tulips would be perfect. He would say his aunt was deaf and go around back to the kitchen, break in, and let this fresh young maiden in through the front door. Much better than an alley.

  She bit her lower lip in indecision. Then she waved her hand and started back for her bike. “Thanks, but I should get to the lab. They’re having more problems with the mice.”

  “Perhaps another time. Sounds like you care a lot about the medical school.”

  She had her bike in hand, too far to grab, far enough away to not see his right hand with the one claw that had snuck out. “It’s been part of my beat for a couple of years. All the doctors and students—they’re such nice people, always trying to help. This thing with the mice is too bad.”

  “Thanks for your help.” He started the car, raised the window and drove off, returning her friendly wave with his left hand, holding onto the steering wheel with the right, claw gradually receding. He watched her in the rearview mirror speaking on her cell phone and glancing furtively at the Outback. Was she calling in his license plate number? Time for a change of car and plans. Too few cars around here. One would be missed quickly. He wasn’t far from downtown. There would be parking garages there. He could rest and wait.

  Tonight, he would visit the mouse lab, but first he had to make a call.

  He drove slowly around the block, parked and found the number on the Internet and dialed.

  “Milwaukee Police Department, Jensen speaking.” He was very pleasant. Such a nice town, Milwaukee, the people so mannered.

  “Hi, Officer Jensen. I witnessed Officer Krieg today doing a wonderful job. She is keeping our neighborhood safe. I was too tired to tell her then, but I thought about it and decided I should give her my thanks. Is she there?”