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by Cawdron, Peter

  Jason felt his mouth dry out at the implications of Lachlan's matter of fact recounting of this distant, historical event. He had no reason to doubt the professor. This wasn't Mitchell sitting next to him in a diner with some trashy online tabloid, bullshitting his way through some crackpot conspiracy theory. This was a senior college professor with a mastery of physics.

  “The object crossed the northern plains of China, passing over the Gulf of Chihli before ditching in the Yellow Sea, off the coast of North Korea.”

  “Ditching?” Jason asked.

  Lachlan nodded, adding “The USS Winterhalter was on exercise out of Seoul. She picked up the craft doing Mach 2 and observed it decelerate before ditching roughly fifty nautical miles north of her position. The Winterhalter then launched a helicopter, assuming she was searching for survivors from a downed military jet.”

  Lachlan handed Jason a couple of photos. Although they were in color, they were grainy, highlighting the distance at which they'd been taken. The first image showed what looked like a whale or a submarine sitting heavy in the water, with just a small, broad, flat expanse above the waves. The object was circular rather than elongated, though, and looked out of place beneath the sea. A North Korean fishing boat floated just off to one side of the submerged object, providing a sense of scale. The dark object was roughly a hundred feet in diameter, with faint lights glowing around its circumference.

  The second image was one Jason had seen before. This was the picture Mitchell had shown him in the Weekly World News article, only this image was grainy, with features like the mast and sails on the fishing boat barely visible. Jason looked up at Lachlan who seemed to know what he was thinking.

  “These are the originals,” Lachlan explained. “Taken from the raw footage before any digital enhancements were applied.”

  As in the crisp, clear version he'd seen in the Weekly World News, a North Korean fisherman was leaning over the side of his boat pulling a young child from the water. The UFO was completely beneath the waves in this shot, drifting slowly below the fishing boat.

  “So this is real?” Jason asked, already knowing the answer. “This actually happened?”

  Lachlan must have recognized the rhetorical nature of Jason's comment as he didn't respond directly, he simply said, “Two days later, I flew in with a SEAL team to rescue you.”

  “Me?” Jason replied, still struggling to accept everything that had happened since he'd returned to his apartment. His hand brushed against the bandages on his arms, marking where he'd rolled on the ground after jumping from a bus earlier that evening in what seemed like another lifetime.

  Had he hit his head and been concussed?

  Was this some kind of trauma induced hallucination?

  Blood seeped through from around one of the plastic bandages sticking to his arm like a second skin. His left forearm was tender. The throb of pain after so much exertion holding on to the back of the bike convinced him this was real. This was no illusion. This was reality.

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” Lachlan said, crouching before him. “But I was originally a search and rescue pilot, and look at me now, teaching physics in New York, and all because of you, all to try to unravel the mystery surrounding your life.”

  Jason was shaking.

  “It's OK,” Lily said, squeezing his hand. “We're here to help.”

  “Me,” Jason repeated, only this time not as a question uttered in disbelief, but rather in sullen acceptance.

  “I'm sorry,” Lachlan said, standing up. “Your life has been an elaborate ruse to try to unlock the secrets buried deep within your brain.”

  “And my parents?” Jason asked.

  “They never knew,” Lachlan replied. “They only ever saw a beautiful young boy abandoned in an orphanage, but you were never out of sight. DARPA, the South Korean Intelligence Service, the US Secret Service, they’ve never been more than a heartbeat away.”

  “But you're saying—”

  Jason was cut off by a radio squawking on the professor's hip. Lachlan raised the radio to his lips, depressed the transmit button and said, “Are we close?”

  “Thirty seconds out,” a disembodied voice replied.

  “Quick,” the professor said, gesturing to the back of the truck. “Time to go!”

  Lily hopped off the crate, still holding Jason's hand, gently leading him along with her. Jason followed her, dazed. The truck swayed and he reached out with his hand, steadying himself against the wall.

  “We need to switch vehicles,” Lachlan said, gesturing for him to follow. “We'll continue this conversation in our next ride.”

  Lily let go of his hand and grabbed the motorcycle.

  She pulled the bike up, standing beside it as she flipped the kickstand back beneath the exhaust pipe. Lily began wheeling the bike to one side, walking it in a three point turn as the truck began to decelerate slightly.

  Professor Lachlan stood by the door. He had an industrial control panel in his hand, a thick, long rubber-coated panel with only a couple of buttons. As he held his thumb on one of the thick buttons, the door began lowering back down as a ramp again. Hydraulic pistons eased the ramp down until it was level with the scuffed wooden floor of the truck.

  Jason came up behind the professor.

  Wind swirled into the back of the trailer, drawing in the spray and rain. The freeway behind them was devoid of cars. Streetlights stood at regular intervals, lighting up the lanes of the freeway as they receded behind the truck.

  The rain stopped, swiftly and abruptly, and Jason realized they were driving under an overpass as they slowed. No sooner had the rain stopped than Lily rushed past Lachlan and Jason, wheeling the motorcycle out of the truck and onto the ramp. She let go and the motorcycle freewheeled over the edge of the ramp, crashing onto the road and skidding into the dust and mud on the shoulder of the freeway.

  The truck didn't stop.

  “Come on,” Lachlan said, jumping down from the moving truck and breaking into a run beneath the overpass. Lily waited for Jason.

  Rather than hesitate and talk himself out of jumping, Jason sprang out, surprising himself with how confidently he could move when he really wanted to. He gripped the side of the ramp, swinging his legs over and dropping to the ground. The concrete was further away than he anticipated, and he stumbled, almost falling, but Lachlan grabbed him, jogging alongside as Jason broke into a clumsy trot to keep from keeling over. Lily jumped from the moving truck as Jason came to a halt on the side of the road. She moved gracefully, with the tone and precision of an athlete.

  The back of the truck was already rising into place as the truck accelerated out from beneath the overpass. The driver worked through the gears rapidly, racing the engine and picking up speed again as he cut back into the storm.

  Standing there beneath the overpass, with the truck already just a set of red lights disappearing into the rain, Jason felt vulnerable, but Lachlan and Lily looked relaxed.

  “So,” Jason said to Lily, trying to hide his discomfort with humor. “Do you come here often?”

  She smiled. Her face radiated warmth in the cold of night. She had a beautiful smile, but it seemed out of place beneath a decrepit overpass in the midst of a storm.

  Lachlan was talking intently on the radio. He walked off beneath the overpass and Jason couldn't hear what he was saying over the sound of the rain falling on either side of them.

  The motorcycle lay in a heap on the side of the freeway. Its handlebars had twisted awkwardly as it fell and green fluid leaked from beneath the front struts. Whether it was antifreeze or brake fluid, Jason wasn't sure, but another clear liquid soaked into the dust from beneath the seat. That had to be gasoline. Lily didn't seem to care that her bike had been wrecked.

  “I don't get it,” Jason asked, gesturing toward the expensive dirt bike. “Why go to such elaborate lengths and then dump your motorcycle on the side of the road?”

  “We can't leave any evidence.” Lily replied. “Sooner or la
ter, they’ll match the truck and search the trailer. We need to make the trail as difficult as possible to follow.”

  “And that’s going to help?” Jason asked, walking around the bike.

  “Oh, it’ll be gone by dawn,” she replied casually, pointing across the freeway, out over the river beside them. “Someone from the Bronx will nab it, someone not related to us, and that will lead DARPA on a wild goose chase into a dead end.”

  “But look at it,” he said, gesturing to the cracked plastic and dented muffler. When Lily had first pulled up in front of his building, the motorcycle looked brand new. Now it was a dusty, muddy wreck.

  “You’d be surprised,” she replied. “This makes it more attractive. If the bike looked too good, they wouldn't touch it, expecting a set up. It’s got to look like something they can fence with no questions asked. Nah, this is just about right. It’s a diamond in the rough.”

  Lily stood there walking slowly around the motorcycle, admiring her handiwork. She pulled out a smartphone and took a picture of the bike as it lay there on the shoulder of the road.

  Rain continued to pour down beyond the overpass. A cold wind blew around them, peppering them with spit and spray.

  This was the first opportunity Jason had to stop and think since he’d seen Lily flipping through her cue cards in his bathroom. Lachlan was still talking on the radio. Lily was checking something on her phone. She didn’t have that with her yesterday, he knew. Yesterday, he thought she was sweet and innocent, now he wasn't so sure.

  Jason found himself wondering which side of this battle he'd inadvertently joined by jumping on that motorcycle with her. Something dark was going on, that much was obvious, but what it was still eluded him. He trusted Lily and Lachlan, but he was also aware his trust was without cause. He could be trusting the wrong people! Yes, someone had been shooting at him. But was it him they were aiming for? Or were they warning shots, trying to intimidate the two of them into stopping? He didn't know.

  The rain was somewhat hypnotic, causing him to feel numb.

  “Upsetting, huh?” Lily said, coming up behind him and snapping him out of his lethargy.

  As if reading his mind, she added, “If it's any consolation, those guys back there were firing rubber bullets. Body shots sting, but even a rubber round can be lethal if you take one to the head.”

  “Ah,” he replied. “That's why you gave me the helmet.”

  “Well, it wasn't to compensate for my riding,” Lily added, grinning.

  “Here they come,” Lachlan said, joining Jason and Lily as he clipped the radio on his belt.

  White lights appeared through the night, breaking up in the rain.

  “Professor,” Jason began. “I have to say, all of this is freaking me out a little, and a little is an understatement. I'm having a hard time buying what’s going on here. This is crazy! Nothing you’ve told me makes any sense.”

  “I know,” Lachlan replied in a soft, kind voice.

  “Please be patient,” Lily added, but her words weren't reassuring. Jason wanted answers. He wanted an explanation that was coherent and complete. So far, all he had were fragments of a puzzle.

  “I will tell you anything you want to know,” Lachlan promised, resting his hand on Jason's shoulder with fatherly care. “There is nothing I will keep from you, Jason. You have to believe me.”

  Jason appreciated his honesty, but he was aware that Lachlan was only now offering this promise to him. He’d known Lachlan for years. For at least four years, Lachlan had maintained a facade, a charade.

  A handful of grainy pictures seemed flimsy as far as explanations went, Jason thought. They were hardly credible as evidence. Jason didn’t want Lachlan to tell him anything he wanted to know, he wanted Lachlan to tell him everything, regardless of whether Jason wanted to know about it or not. Somehow, Lachlan’s promise felt contrived, murky. The trust Jason had felt in the truck was eroding, washing away like the mud in the rain.

  Within a minute or so, a recreational vehicle pulled up beneath the overpass, but it didn't stop either, slowing just enough for them to hop in as they jogged beside the side door.

  The RV was nondescript. Dents and scrapes spoke of careless driving. The top rear of the vehicle had crumpled slightly where someone had tried to back up under a low ledge. They probably had to let the pressure out of the tires to free the jammed RV, Jason thought, looking at the crushed, accordion like metal, his mind running faster than his body as the three of them ran to keep up with the vehicle.

  The side door was open, it had been clipped back in place. Rain had soaked the carpet in the stairwell. Lachlan got in first, followed by Jason, while Lily brought up the rear again. The RV was already beyond the overpass when Lily finally got on board. Torrential rain broke as she shut the door of the RV behind her.

  The RV was spacious.

  Fake wooden veneer lined a kitchen on one side. There must have been a bedroom beyond the kitchen, but the door leading to the rear of the RV was closed. Jason could hear voices from back there.

  Lachlan moved up next to the driver, talking with him as he sat down in a plush leather seat while windshield wipers swished back and forth across the vast glass window. The driver signaled as he pulled back onto the highway. Lachlan scolded him for that, hurriedly getting him to switch off the turn signal as he said something about aerial surveillance.

  Lily squeezed past Jason, resting her hands gently on his hips as she stepped around him and perched on a couch covered in a floral pattern. Jason hated being touched. Most of the time, he’d flinch if someone came up and grabbed his waist like that, but with Lily he had no such reaction. Funny, he thought. Subconsciously, he was more at ease with her than he would have consciously admitted.

  “Here,” she said, patting the soft, dry, cushioned seat beside her.

  Jason sat down next to her. Lily pulled out a couple of plastic water bottles from beneath the coffee table in front of them and handed a bottle to Jason.

  They were seated facing forward, with the kitchen behind them. A pair of matching seats faced them. Beyond those seats lay the open cabin of the RV, with Lachlan sitting beside the driver. His radio hissed and he pulled it from his hip and began talking into it. Jason would have loved to listen in, but he wasn’t close enough to distinguish the words being spoken.

  Lily sipped at her water.

  “Well, this is nice,” Jason said, relaxing for the first time, allowing his body to sink into the soft cushions.

  “Much nicer than the truck,” Lily agreed.

  That they could make small talk was surreal after everything else that had happened that evening. In any other context, their conversation would have been banal, just courteous pleasantries being exchanged. Now, though, they both seemed to be grasping for normalcy, clinging to the fleeting illusion that reality would correct itself. What happened had to be a dream, Jason thought. Please let it have been a dream. Let me wake up in the morning to the sound of traffic and pigeons cooing on my windowsill. He sighed, letting out his breath in resignation, knowing that there would be no such awakening.

  Beads of rain streaked at an angle along the side window, the angle corresponding to their speed on the highway. The storm outside was getting worse. Lightning lit up the cloud bank overhead.

  The folding door concealing the bedroom behind them opened.

  Jason turned, startled to see a woman walk out followed by two men. One of the men was carrying what looked like a television quality video camera. Lachlan ended his exchange on the radio, and rose to join them.

  “Jason,” he began. “This is April Stegmeyer of the Washington Post, John Vacili, a cameraman from PBS, and Special Agent Jim Bellum from the FBI.”

  Jason stood, shaking three surprisingly warm and friendly hands. Bellum and Stegmeyer sat in the chairs opposite Jason and Lily, while Vacili lifted his camera onto his shoulder and peered through the viewfinder. An obligatory red LED lit up, indicating the camera was recording their conversation.


  “The FBI!” Jason said. “This is wonderful! This is just what we need. We don't have to run anymore.”

  “It's not quite that simple,” Bellum replied. He had chiseled features. The angles of his jaw and cheekbones could have been carved from stone, and his gruff voice had a ring of authority. “I'm here to protect you, but you won't be safe until we've gone public with your story.”

  “My story?”

  To Jason, there was no story. As far as he knew, his story had only started earlier that evening when he'd foolishly jumped on the back of a motorcycle. At least he thought it was foolish. He seemed to be running from something but he didn't know what. As far as he knew, he had nothing to run from.

  “It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” April Stegmeyer said, pulling a handheld voice recorder from her pocket and clicking record. Another red LED glowed. Stegmeyer and Vacili, it seemed, weren't taking any chances on missing anything that was said.

  Stegmeyer put the voice recorder on the table, but to Jason's surprise, she didn't put it in the center of the coffee table. She placed it to one side, next to a small vase with fake silk flowers. Jason had noticed them when he'd first sat down. It was one thing to have fake flowers, it was another level of cheap to have fake silk fake flowers, and in his opinion defeated the purpose of even having flowers at all. The recorder, though,was now slightly below the rim of the small vase and Jason understood what Stegmeyer was doing. She wanted to obscure the intrusion, to lessen the appearance of an interrogation. She must have wanted him to relax and forget about the recorder, but placing it the way she did had the opposite effect on him. Overt would not become covert. His analytical mind would not allow such deception to slip by, regardless of intent. That just wasn't the way his mind worked.

  Jason had never seen Stegmeyer before, but he knew of her, having occasionally come across articles she had written on the Internet.

  April looked to be in her mid-fifties, perhaps early sixties. She had certainly aged gracefully. Curly grey hair brushed against her shoulders and her makeup was tastefully done. She had a warm and inviting smile. He wanted to believe she was sincere, but warm smile or not, she was acutely aware of his every move. Every facial expression and choice of words was being captured on video and audio for later analysis. But why? And for whom? Who would care about a college grad student struggling with his masters?