by Shirl Henke
“What if we get hungry?” Farley asked.
Sam pointed to the minifridge, filled with obscenely over-priced snacks. “Your daddy’s paying. Eat anything you want.”
Farley grinned like a kid in a candy store. At times, he looked more like one of the “Lost Boys” than the schizoid druggie Reicht had described. If not for his belief in an alien invasion, she wouldn’t have thought of him as mentally disturbed. And she’d seen no signs of illegal drugs. But then Farley took a prescription bottle from his pocket and popped a pill after filling a tumbler with water to chase it.
“What’s that?” Sam asked innocently.
“Oh, just something my doc says I have to take. I get kinda nervous when I miss one,” he confessed.
She could see that the label had Reicht’s name on it, but couldn’t make out the name of the drug before he replaced it in his pocket. Could some of his “spaciness” come from what the good doctor was feeding the boy? Worth investigating, especially considering what Matt had told her.
Elvis, who had wandered down the hall while she was talking with Farley, returned, waving a Glock 9 mm. Her first impulse was to flatten the kid and herself on the floor, but Scruggs grinned and reassured them. “Don’t you worry none, ma’am. I’ll take care of Far now that I know they’re on to us.”
Ooookay. “You mind if I check to see if the safety’s on on that thing?” she asked, reaching slowly for the Glock. He offered it willingly and she carefully took it from his big hand. Dear God, it wasn’t! Clicking it in place, she handed it back. “You ever take a firearms safety course, Elvis?” she asked, suspecting the answer.
“Nope,” he replied with a big grin. “Us country boys jest naturally know how ta handle guns.”
“Do me a big favor, please?”
Scruggs shrugged. “What?”
“Put that cannon away now and leave it in the room tomorrow. If you set off the metal detectors at the con, the cops—or even Klingoff agents posing as cops,” she quickly improvised, “could arrest you.”
If only it were that simple. She’d love to see him picked up at the America’s Center, leaving Farley with her, but who knew if the idiot might not shoot someone’s foot off—probably hers—before they even got out of the hotel lobby in the morning.
“Sam’s right, El. They have metal detectors at every entrance,” Farley chimed in.
She beamed at him, then looked at Scruggs. When he nodded, she added, “And if you hear anyone trying to break in during the night, call 911, then me. No trying to shoot it out with Klingoffs or their allies. Deal?”
“Deal,” Elvis said grudgingly.
After tucking them in, Sam felt as if she’d been trapped in some weird time warp. She considered the facts. Yes, Farley believed all this Space Quest hooey Scruggs was feeding him while living high on young Winchester’s money. But the kid might be high on more than space conspiracies if the prescription from Reicht was inappropriate. Then, too, someone else didn’t want her to get her hands on Farley and return him to daddy and the doc.
That was one hell of a knot on Elvis Scruggs’s head. He hadn’t faked the fight with the kidnapper. If someone wanted to snatch Farley and hold him for ransom, then why try to kill the kid? She had definitely overheard that big thug yell for the driver to back over Farley. She pulled out her cell and punched in Matt’s number in Miami as she rode down to Jenny’s suite.
When he picked up so quickly at 3:00 a.m. she should’ve known it meant trouble, but it was so good to hear his voice, she wasn’t thinking straight. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to wake you but I—”
“Sam, what the hell’s going on? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past four hours or more.” He sounded cranky, not groggy.
“Oh, I had to turn off my cell so it wouldn’t go off when I went after that guy breaking into Farley’s room….” She cursed silently. How could I be so dumb? A couple of hours with that wacky kid and his gun-toting pal could melt down a polar ice cap!
“All right, Sam, I knew you were in trouble last time we talked. You know I can tell by the sound of your voice when you’re lying.”
He could, the rat. Even her own mother couldn’t, but Matt Granger could. It was scary how he’d insinuated himself into her work and mind. Her body, fine, excellent…wonderful, in fact. But when he interfered with her job, that was another matter. She sighed. “Okay, I had a little trouble tonight….”
She gave him an extremely sanitized version of the attempted kidnapping, but he wanted more. “When we talked yesterday, something had already happened—on the road.”
Uncle Dec’s colorful vocabulary sprang to her lips before she could tamp it down. Matt just waited her out until she explained about the flat tire and the Tennessee road chase. “So, someone doesn’t want me to bring Farley back.”
“And if whoever this is can’t stop you, they’ll kill the kid and you in the process. Am I getting this right?” Matt asked without a hint of levity in his voice. “Your buddy Patowski called earlier. Bitched to me about a call you made to him, trying to ‘suck up to the St. Louis PD’, I believe were his words.”
Patty, you roach! What was this, some kind of male conspiracy to keep her out of work? “You knew about the shooting.”
“And couldn’t reach you after I double checked with the St. Louis cops. I was half-crazy, Samantha.”
He only called her Samantha when he was being romantic…or was seriously pissed. He spent most of his time alternating between the two. “Hey, I’m sorry, Matt, but it’s over and done with now. I’m safe, I have Farley buying my story about being a Confederation agent and I’m going to bring the kid back to Miami tomorrow. No sweat…except that I’m rooming with Jenny Baxter and her dragons.”
When she explained about running into them in full costume, it elicited the first genuine laugh she’d heard from her husband since she left Miami.
“So my daddy was a real mean one. Got hisself elected sheriff but he broke more laws than any of them folks he arrested,” Elvis said as they sat in a hole-in-the-wall café having breakfast.
“I thought I had it hard with my father, but all he does is ignore me. He never put me in jail,” Farley said, but his expression gave away the fact that he knew turning him over to Dr. Reicht would be tantamount to the same thing. In spite of that, she watched as he swallowed another of the doc’s wonder drugs with his orange juice.
Poor kid. Sam knew she would have to figure some way to help him. She had no doubt he was to one degree or another living in an alternate universe. But was it Reicht or Scruggs who was contributing to it? Farley appeared to be naturally high on Space Quest. Maybe the drug story implicating Elvis was another deception to lay at Dr. Reicht’s door.
“I don’t want to be anything like Upton Salisbury Winchester IV,” Farley said with wistful sadness that touched Sam deeply. She’d seen other rich kids neglected and psychologically abused by their parents.
“Yeah, big-time boring, man,” Elvis agreed, stuffing a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“That’s why I chose Spacefleet as my career. I’d rather risk dying in a futon spread than live tallying spreadsheets. This assignment is dangerous, but we’ll break up the Klingoff-Pandorian alliance. If only Leila hadn’t been taken prisoner.” Farley shoved his plate of blueberry pancakes aside and turned earnestly to Elvis. “We have to rescue her, El. She’s our commanding officer.”
“We will,” Scruggs assured him, chugging his coffee and waving down a waitress for his fourth or fifth refill.
Sam thought he must have a bladder extending down to his toes. Her ruminations were interrupted by a shrill squeal of delight. Damn, she’d picked this joint to avoid running into them. Who knew what they’d say to blow her cover with Farley and Elvis?
Tiff and Mellie, already in Dribble gear, came bouncing over to meet the Klingoff and the Pandorian.
Just great. Lt. O’Hara braced herself for the worst.
Chapter 9
“I wanted to come as a
Pandorian like you but Mom couldn’t find a costume small enough to fit me,” Tiff said to Elvis after Sam made introductions.
Sam had omitted Scruggs and Winchester’s “alter identities” as Spacefleet officers, praying to keep the meeting simple and brief before one of the Baxters really messed things up.
“I always wanted to be a Dribble,” Mellie said, making a purring chirp deep in her throat that creeped Sam out big-time.
Seeing Sam’s startled reaction, Tiff said, “That’s what Dribbles do. It’s supposed to soothe humans.”
“Don’t you like us?” Mellie asked Sam.
“Maybe she’s not human,” Tiff said, with a smirk in her voice. “Remember the Pandorian who was surgically altered to infiltrate Captain Turk’s ship?”
“Ouch!” Sam jumped when Mellie gave her bare thigh a hard pinch.
“No, she’s human,” the younger girl piped cheerfully as Sam rubbed the red mark on her leg.
“I dunno,” Tiff replied, shaking her “head.”
All this interchange and she couldn’t even see their faces! Good grief. Sam looked over at Farley, who had not yet put on his Klingoff mask. He seemed suddenly nervous and grabbed the chair he’d just vacated to greet the Baxter women, placing it between him and her. “Now, look, Farley, you know I’m not a spy any more than these kids are really Dribbles. Ask their mom.”
“Are, too!” Mellie piped up.
Sam looked at Jenny pleadingly, trying to make her understand the harm her kids could do. “Uh, oh, no, we’re just in costume for the con,” Jenny assured Farley.
He started to relax until Tiff said, “Say, Mrs. Granger, are you bringing these dorks in cause they’re…you know?” She tilted her head to one side and stuck her hand out of her puffball costume, making a circle with one finger.
That kid is positively sadistic! Sam’s mind raced for a way to salvage the situation.
Farley looked confused and more than a little uncertain as he turned to Elvis. It was plain to Sam who led and who followed, no matter whose daddy was the richest. Scruggs looked past the taller of the Dribbles directly at Sam. His eyes revealed about as much as a Vegas shill in a high-stakes poker game. She was dead meat if she couldn’t snatch Farley soon.
Damn! “It’s been fun talking, Jenny, girls, but we really have to get going,” Sam said carefully. She leaned toward Farley and whispered, “Don’t pay any attention to the kids. They might be working a scam for Harriett Mudd and you know how slick she is. You could blow our cover.”
“I don’t know…” Farley hesitated.
“Why don’t we all go together? We’re ready to leave and so are you,” Tiff suggested as the waitress started to bus their table.
“We haven’t paid,” Sam answered quickly.
“Aw, I can take care of that,” Elvis said magnanimously, pulling a wad of bills from his wallet and peeling them off atop the check, winking at the cute girl picking up dishes.
As they approached the door, Sam sighed in silent resignation. Once they were inside the big hall, she would have to figure a way to give the Baxters the slip and hang on to Farley. The immediate problem was keeping the boy believing she was a Confederation spy and stopping the cagey Elvis from learning what she really did for a living. Could nothing be easy?
The street was crowded and traffic noises sufficient to keep conversation to a minimum as they walked the short distance to the America’s Center. Once they were inside, Sam tried to steer the guys away from the direction the girls wanted to go.
“We ought to check out the Pandorian Embassy display,” she said after Tiff announced they were going to the “blood milk” drinking contest.
But Elvis had other ideas. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself. Say, Far, you bein’ Klingoff ’n all, you oughta sign up for the competition.”
That elicited shrieks of glee from both girls and the idea took hold of Farley’s imagination, which by Sam’s lights was way too fertile already. “I guess I could do it,” he replied.
So Elvis kept them stuck like cheese on a pizza to the Dribbles while Farley signed up to drink “blood milk.” Just thinking about the syrupy red liquid made Sam queasy. She could smell the sweet, nasty aroma from twenty feet away. Like mixing sugar and varnish. Farley managed to consume three heavy steins of it before giving up as much larger Klingoff contestants continued quaffing the horrid brew.
“Aw, are you quitting now?” Mellie asked, clearly disappointed.
“I think he’s green under his mask,” Tiff said.
“Now, Melanie, we wouldn’t want Mr. Winchester to make himself sick. Remember how you felt after eating six boxes of caramel corn last Halloween?” Jenny reminded her younger daughter while bestowing a quelling look on the elder.
Drooping as if chastened, Tiff said, “Blood milk’s pretty icky, isn’t it?” to Farley.
Whispering conspiratorially to her, he replied, “I hate to admit I don’t like my home world’s favorite drink.”
Sam restrained herself from rolling her eyes as they went down the aisle until Farley stopped in front of a vendor displaying what looked like some very lethal hardware. Besides obviously fake “Dazers” and other odd-looking plastic handguns, real steel swords and knives gleamed evilly.
“Whoa, some katliff, huh, Far?” Elvis said, pointing to the big curved blade, at least a yard long with double-edged ends.
The kid nodded, his eyes gleaming inside the Klingoff mask. As he examined the weapon, Scruggs asked the price.
“Do they let kids walk around armed like that?” Sam asked the vendor.
“Nah, Lieutenant. Unless the buyer is twenty-one, we gotta wrap ’em up when we sell them.”
Jeez, did being twenty-one make the chopper any less dangerous? Sam wondered. Then she thought of the Bornes and several other creatures whose giant size might allow them to hide a chain saw inside their costumes. The thought did not comfort her. She’d noted that several of the metal detectors were malfunctioning when they’d come in that morning. How hard would it be for someone to slip a howitzer onto the floor?
I gotta get Farley out of here and head for Miami. Her thoughts were interrupted when Elvis laughed as he said, “Hey, Far, ’member when we tried to take your katliff into yer old man’s country club?”
“All I wanted was to take a swim in the pool,” Farley replied.
“Thought that there feller at the front desk was gonna have a heart attack when you took a swing at him with it.” Scruggs chuckled, looking at Sam to gauge her reaction.
Deadpan, she said, “Doesn’t look like a flotation device to me.”
Even Jenny looked a bit alarmed by this turn in the conversation. “Girls, look, it’s almost time for the fight between the Reemulans and the Klingoffs. If we want good seats, we better take off.”
“Thank heavens for small favors,” Sam muttered beneath her breath as Jenny and her Dribbles waved goodbye and headed toward an auditorium entrance. Outside it, a poster had been set up, complete with flickering colored lighting effects. It looked like a film from a lunar landing.
“I don’t feel so good,” Farley said, doubling up suddenly.
“Too much blood milk.” Sam gave Scruggs a hard glare.
“I’ll jest take him to the men’s room and everythin’ll be fine, won’t it, Far?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll be around,” she said vaguely, gesturing to the next aisle. Like hell was she trusting Elvis not to whisk Farley out a back door! She followed them at a discreet distance. They made it to the men’s room in the nick of time, judging from the sounds emanating from inside.
She waited directly outside the door until a low voice said, “Well, looking for a little action, Lieutenant?” A guy with pointy Vulcant ears waggled his arched eyebrows at her and moved closer.
“Looking for me to rearrange your nose so it matches your ears?” she hissed.
He backed away, putting up his hands. “Jeez, sorry. What’d you expect trolling the men’s room?” He pushed open the door an
d fled inside.
Sam heard Elvis and Farley’s voices drawing near. She quickly slipped around the corner and followed them, then pretended to run into them as they approached the mock battle between Reemulans and Klingoffs. “Oh, there you are. I was afraid something might have happened. After last night, we can’t be too careful,” she said to Farley. “Do you think the Klingoffs could’ve poisoned your blood milk?”
“Maybe,” Farley said, smiling at her for giving him a face-saving excuse.
He’d taken off his mask and parts of his uniform were wet. Sam had overheard Elvis cleaning him up with paper towels at a sink. “Hey, let’s enjoy the show,” Scruggs suggested, pointing to the line of people filing into the auditorium. “We been waitin’ to see this shoot-out ever since we read about it.”
They found seats near the front, but just as they were sitting down, Sam saw Jenny and her girls walking toward them. Dammit, how could she shake them? The kids had unzipped their heads from their costumes and were juggling plates of something pink in their hands. Jenny got them seated but before she could grab a chair herself, Mellie whined, “You promised we could have Reemulan brandy if we were good.”
She turned to Sam apologetically and asked, “Mind keeping an eye on them while I get the stuff—oh, it isn’t really alcohol,” she added.
Sam nodded and Jenny trudged toward the food court. What was the use?
“Hi, everybody,” Tiff said, taking her seat and leaning forward, holding up a forkful of something that seemed to be wriggling. “Sagittarian Worm Groton,” she explained, shoveling a mouthful of the glistening pasta in her mouth. It left slimy trails of pink running down her chin. “Do you want some?” she asked Sam.
By then Farley wasn’t the only one looking green around the gills. Damned if it doesn’t look like worms. Sam pasted a smile on her lips and managed, “No, thanks. I had a big breakfast.”