The House Next Door

by James Patterson

  Dr. John Garrison is standing on his front porch. He’s been watching his former son-in-law—a decent man, a flawed man, a man obsessed, a man who might be mere hours away from changing the course of human history—speeding away on a high-performance motorcycle toward a top-secret corporate research facility deep underground.

  John is hopeful that Rob will be safe and successful. But he also has grave concerns. He waits for the sound of Rob’s bike to completely fade away into the distance. Then he waits for the cloud of dirt it kicked up to dissipate as well. The trillions of dust particles swirling through the air under the California sun have created a kind of mysterious haze, which feels like an eerie metaphor for what’s happening.

  “Iced tea, honey?”

  Karen, John’s loving wife of more than forty years, is standing in the open doorway, beckoning her rattled husband inside. He can see, already seated at the kitchen table, his daughter and two beautiful granddaughters waiting for him. How could he resist?

  After locking the front door behind him, John takes a seat on the cushioned wicker settee next to Marty. He gives her hand a tight squeeze, and they exchange a look that speaks volumes. Despite Rob’s many imperfections, they both still care about him deeply. They’re both extremely proud of him.

  And they’re both scared to death for him.

  Karen sets out some glasses and begins to pour the cold, amber liquid from a giant pitcher—when a sudden pounding at the front door startles her, causing her to spill it everywhere.

  “FBI! Open up!”

  “Oh, my God,” says Marty, clapping her hand over her mouth. Her girls whimper with fright, and cling to her desperately.

  “It’s all right,” John says to his family, his voice low and reassuring. “I’ll handle it.”

  As the knocking and yelling outside grow even louder, John calmly opens the front door. More than a dozen government agents in dark suits and sunglasses—looking straight out of Men in Black—are standing before him. Three black SUVs are parked in his driveway, boxing in Rob’s empty Jeep.

  “John Garrison? We’re here to search the premises,” one of them announces.

  “I’d like to see your search warrant first, if you don’t mind,” John replies calmly.

  But just as the doctor expected, the agents ignore his request and blow right past him—shoving him out of their way, nearly knocking the older fellow to the ground. They have also drawn their sidearms, keeping them aimed low but ready.

  John struggles to hide his fear. Whoever these guys work for, apparently the rule of law doesn’t apply to them. At least not at the moment. Maybe never.

  The agents quickly spread out all across the house and property, checking every floor, every room, every closet, every nook and cranny. Marty, Karen, and the girls stay huddled in scared silence at the kitchen table, where John rejoins them.

  “Now listen here,” he says to the agent who seems to be in command. “Charging into my home, guns blazing, terrifying my family. What the hell is this about?”

  Of course, John already knows the answer. But playing dumb is part of his act.

  The lead agent steps right up to John and glares at him in a show of intimidation.

  “An issue of national security,” is the gruff reply. “We’re looking for a dangerous fugitive. Currently the most wanted man in America. So do not give me any shit.”

  “I see,” John says. “Well, if it’s Barnett you’re looking for, he’s long gone.”

  This really gets the lead agent’s attention. “So you admit he was recently here?”

  “Of course. His phone is sitting right there on the counter. And his car is parked outside. Feel free to look around all you want. But you won’t find him.”

  “Where did he go? When?”

  “My wife, see, was going to make some brownies for my granddaughters,” John answers, “but we were out of flour. So Rob took a walk to the market at the bottom of the hill. You probably passed it driving up. He should be back within the hour. At least I hope so. You’re welcome to wait here for him. Care for some iced tea?”

  The agent eyes John with deep suspicion. The old man appears to be telling the truth, but the agent is smart and seasoned. He’s about to order a team to head back down the hill and verify John’s story, when he hears some critical news via his earpiece.

  “Copy that,” the agent says into his wrist mic. Then to John: “Don’t move.”

  He leaves the house and jogs over to the detached garage. Two agents are already inside. One is on his knees, inspecting what appears to be a few drops of shiny motor oil on the concrete.

  “Check this out, boss,” the junior agent says. “Looks fresh. But the space is too tiny for a car. Maybe it’s a lawn mower or something, but I thought you’d want to see.”

  The lead agent nods, already snapping on a latex glove to inspect it. He gently touches the oil spot. Sure enough, it’s still wet—and warm.

  “That lying SOB!” he says under his breath. “Run Garrison’s DMV records. He owns a motorcycle. Find out its make and plates.”

  The agent stands. His expression grim with determination.

  “Barnett didn’t go to the damn supermarket. He went on the run. I want to know where. And goddamnit, I want to find him!”

  Chapter 17

  The commander is on the flight deck floating gently, peacefully. She has been staring out through a porthole at the trillions of stars all around her for the better part of an hour. Racked with growing guilt and misery, she has been trying, desperately, to find some shred of solace in the infinity of outer space. But she has failed.

  Her incredible burden continues to weigh upon her. It feels heavier than the force of 10 G’s. With the Epsilon Eridani’s final destination fast approaching, she knows she cannot keep the true nature of their mission a secret for much longer.

  So the commander has decided, at long last, to tell her team the truth.

  She keys the com-link on her control panel. “Attention, all crew,” she intones. “Please assemble on the flight deck immediately for an urgent briefing.”

  Not surprisingly, confusion and concern ripple throughout the ship.

  The pilot, just waking from a scheduled sleep break, is still groggy, but perks up right away. He is soon propelling himself through the ship’s corridors toward the cockpit.

  The flight engineer is in the reactor room, monitoring the ship’s engine core. She is also apprehensive, but is quickly on her way as well.

  The payload chief is in his quarters composing a video message to his wife and two young children back home. Alarmed by the interruption, he pauses the recording and moves to join the others.

  Lastly is the mission specialist, who is in the midst of eating a rehydrated meal: lumpy spaghetti and mushy meatballs. Dumping the unfinished contents in the ship’s computerized compost bin, he heads up to the flight deck, too.

  Once her crew is assembled, the commander takes a brief moment to compose herself, which only further unsettles them. They can sense something is amiss.

  Finally, the commander speaks, slowly and with deep seriousness.

  “Each of you has known since the day you accepted this mission that it brings with it enormous responsibility. As well as enormous risk. Like the great distance we’re traveling through uncharted space. And the giant payload we’re carrying.”

  “You mean the most advanced exploratory probe ever designed?” the payload chief interjects with a forced smile. “I wouldn’t really call that a ‘risk,’ ma’am.”

  “Copy that,” says the pilot. “And I think I speak for all of us when I say we have the utmost faith in you, ma’am, to guide us to our destination and back.”

  And back. The commander swallows hard. Her crew isn’t making this easy.

  “I appreciate that,” she replies, “more than any of you could know. Which is why what I’m about to share is incredibly difficult for me.”

  The commander takes a deep breath.

  “The fact
is, we…we are not going back.”

  The crew members exchange confused looks.

  “What are you talking about?” asks the flight engineer. I’ve charted a course to the probe launch point, Commander, as well as our return journey, which will last—”

  “You’ve been misled,” the commander says. “All of you. We won’t be making that return journey. Because we are not launching a probe. We’re not even carrying one. Our payload is, in fact…a five-million-megaton nuclear warhead.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” says the pilot. “I don’t understand.”

  “The purpose of our mission is not exploration. It is annihilation. For decades, our top astrophysicists and interplanetary astronomers have been observing intergalactic evolution. Their focus has been on one planet in particular—a world that has given them great cause for concern. We have been chosen…to end that world.”

  Stunned silence—followed quickly by confusion. And bubbling anger.

  “My God,” whispers the payload chief. “I get it now. This is a suicide mission!”

  The commander averts her eyes. “I suppose that is one way of describing it.”

  Each of the crew struggles to process this unthinkable bombshell, each in their own way. The pilot with stoic resignation. The flight engineer with fearful whimpering. The payload chief with shocked horror.

  But the mission specialist explodes with white-hot rage.

  “You lied to us, you bitch!” he exclaims. “You knew all along, and you—”

  “I had no choice,” the commander responds, contrite. “My orders came from the very top. If I’d revealed our true purpose earlier—”

  “None of us,” the mission specialist screams, “would have agreed!” The veins at his temples are throbbing. “We have families. We have our whole lives ahead of us—had our whole lives. You signed our death warrants without our consent!”

  The commander tries to stay calm, hoping to keep the volatile situation under control. “I can’t imagine how you all must be feeling. But what you must understand is, our sacrifice is for the good of the entire species. The entire universe. Our lives may—”

  “No!” cries the pilot, who glimpses out of the corner of his eye—a split second too late—the mission specialist lunge at the commander, brandishing a screwdriver.

  The pilot instinctively hurls himself through the air in between the commander and her assailant, right as the mission specialist thrusts the tool—stabbing not the commander but the pilot, deep in his shoulder.

  The pilot cries out in agony as the other two crew members join the melee.

  After a frenzied, weightless scramble, the others manage to subdue the mission specialist. The flight engineer hurriedly opens the cockpit’s first-aid kit and readies a digital syringe filled with 20 cc’s of ketamine, a powerful synthetic sedative.

  “No, don’t!” shouts the mission specialist, still flailing wildly. “She lied to us! She’s sending all of us to our deaths! Don’t you fools understand that?”

  But the other crew members remain loyal. The flight engineer jams the needle into the mission specialist’s thigh and within seconds he goes limp.

  Everyone else begins catching their breath. Only now does the pilot stop to examine his stab wound. His injury isn’t life-threatening, but it’s painful and deep. Globules of his blood are floating throughout the cockpit like red rain.

  “Thank you,” the commander says to her crew. “You…you all saved my life.”

  But no one responds. The irony is clear as day.

  The commander reassumes control. She signals the flight engineer to cue the shape-memory wings to fully withdraw into the fuselage, and the spaceship sails on.

  Chapter 18

  I’ve been crouching in this prickly thicket of trees, my motorcycle hidden next to me, for a good fifteen minutes now.

  I’ve been trying to steady my nerves and plan my next move—and also make sure there aren’t any more FBI vehicles bringing up the rear.

  Figuring the feds have probably reached my former in-laws’ place by now and have started questioning my family and conducting a search for me, I decide to hit the road again. I stand and start to inch my bike out of the brush—

  When I hear the SUVs speeding back down the road.

  Shit, that was fast!

  I push my motorcycle back on its side and dive back behind the trees, just in the nick of time. The convoy rumbles past me, making the ground tremble.

  I guess the good news is the feds aren’t terribly interested in John or Karen or Marty or my girls. That’s a relief, for sure.

  But the fact that they spent barely any time on the property fills me with dread.

  It means they know I’m on the run. They probably know I borrowed John’s Ducati. And they may even know where I’m going.

  Okay, okay. Think, Rob. What now?

  I still have to get to Northrop and Tejon Ranch. That much I know for sure.

  But how?

  The route John programmed into the Garmin for me was deliberately indirect. But it will still take me there via a few major freeways—roads teeming with California Highway Patrol and probably fitted with license plate–scanning cameras at every bend.

  Great.

  Now that I’ve completely lost the element of surprise, I guess I’d better stick to back roads from here on in. It may take me a hell of a lot longer, but it’s worth it, even if it’s just for my peace of mind.

  I pick the bike back up out of the bushes, then power up the Garmin and begin plotting an alternate route as quickly as I can—aware that the longer the device stays on, the higher the risk they’ll be able to track it.

  But even if the feds don’t, I’m still just one lone man on an unusual motorcycle, who’s being hunted by a small army of government agents in broad daylight…

  Daylight. Of course!

  With the sun so high in the sky, it’s gotta be a hundred times easier for the FBI or Highway Patrol or whoever to spot me. Right?

  Maybe I should hide my ass until nightfall, or at least sunset. Even if it improves my chances of getting to Northrop undetected by one percent, isn’t it worth it?

  I rack my brain. Then I remember: there’s a quaint bed-and-breakfast-type place just a mile or so up the mountain, with a cozy coffee shop and café on the ground floor. Back when Marty and I were still married and would spend the holidays with her parents, their out-of-town relatives would often stay there. And since I’m a train wreck in the kitchen, I was usually assigned to “taxi duty,” shuttling them back and forth.

  Point is, I can hang out at the B and B, have a few cups of joe, maybe even a shot or two of something—No, stay sober, Rob!—until sundown, then scram.

  Best of all, I now know how to get there with my eyes closed.

  I quickly shut off the Garmin, drop my helmet visor back into place, and roll the Ducati back up the embankment onto the road.

  I restart its engine, say a little prayer, and off I go.

  Chapter 19

  “Check, please,” I say to the kindly middle-aged woman who has been patiently topping up my coffee mug and bringing me meals for the past ten hours.

  “Sure you don’t want one more, hon?” she asks. Then she adds with a smile: “Unless you’re in some kind of big ol’ rush.”

  I chuckle, trying to be as friendly as I can—and also to seem as normal as I can. To try and cover my tracks, I told her that I was taking a “staycation”—spending a rare day off work being served delicious food and relaxing and catching up on some reading.

  All day, I’ve been sitting in this little café, sipping about a gallon’s worth of coffee and pretending to read a stack of newspapers. But really, my mind has been racing a mile a minute as I waited anxiously for nightfall and tried to plan my next move.

  I’ve also been thinking about why I’m even trying to make that next move to begin with: the message I intercepted from space!

  That’s the key to all of this, and it’s still the biggest
question mark of all.

  Even if it’s “just” a friendly, intergalactic greeting, it would be an earth-shattering, history-altering event.

  But what if it’s something more? A warning. A demand. A threat.

  This could be the start of the end of the world! Why now? Why me?

  “Here ya go, hon,” the waitress says, setting down my check.

  I nod thanks, then pay the bill in cash, leaving a ridiculously large tip. I hope it’s enough to erase any suspicions she might have about me and for her not to call the local police, which is the absolute last thing I need right now, especially after that last run-in.

  Soon I’m back on the open mountain roads again, speeding toward Tejon Ranch. The sun has just set and I’m very happy to have the extra cover of darkness.

  I also had the brains to buy an old-fashioned folding map—remember those?—back at the bed-and-breakfast, so now I can keep my Garmin off for good. I’m relieved to be off the grid…unless the feds have figured out a way to track paper, too! (I’m only joking…but then again, I wouldn’t put it past them.)

  After about ninety minutes of driving, I flip my visor up and let the cool, pine-scented evening air hit my face. It feels like I’m flying—cruising along this high-altitude road and with the lights of Santa Clarita twinkling below, both calming and exhilarating.

  But then a different kind of light catches my eye.

  The “low fuel” indicator on the Ducati’s dashboard is on.

  Seriously?

  John did tell me to top up, but it completely slipped my mind. I’ve only got another fifty miles or so to Northrop. I wonder: can I make it? No, not a chance. And it’s definitely not worth the risk of getting stranded in the middle of nowhere.

  Cursing under my breath, I pull over on the gravelly shoulder and whip out the paper map.

  There’s a gas station just half a mile away, off a route labeled Spunky Canyon Road. Who comes up with these names? Whatever. I’ll take it.

  A few minutes later, I’m sputtering into Hal’s, a tiny, run-down convenience store with two old-school gas pumps out front—as well as two rough-looking mountain men sitting in rocking chairs and smoking cigarettes. They eye me as I park my motorcycle by one of the pumps…which I see has a handwritten sign duct-taped to it: PAY INSIDE. Fair enough. I yank off my helmet, nod a silent hello at the men, and enter the store.