by Stephen Cox
She had her passport so she could go to Canada if they had to. But what if Cory fell ill? He was running short of some of his drugs and how would they take the two pints of his blood, frozen at the hospital? Dr Jarman knew more about Cory than any other doctor on Earth, but how could he flee abroad?
‘If new house, Bonnie and Chuck come with us?’ Cory asked, tentacles waving in the cold air.
‘We’ll see,’ Molly said. ‘The grown-ups will make a really good plan.’ But no, Diane and Janice and their families couldn’t come into exile; if they had to flee, it would be the three of them, alone.
Eva was standing at the back door, her hands working at a cloth. ‘Molly, Cory, come in, you ought to see this. Big meteors in Russia.’
Molly didn’t get what she was seeing at first. On the television screen were grainy, shaking pictures of a bright trail across a clear sky. Then, horrified, she understood: it was like that cold April day when the Meteor had torn apart Amber Grove.
Molly and Cory sat together next to John and the three of them stared.
‘We are sorry to interrupt your scheduled broadcast. If you have just joined us, we have received multiple reports of a meteor, or meteors, landing somewhere in the northeast of the Soviet Union, north of the Arctic Circle. Reports have been logged by the Royal Canadian Air Force, the Poker Flat Research Range in Alaska and an unnamed US Navy warship currently on manoeuvres in the Bering Strait.’
A map came up with arrows pinpointing where the sightings had been made. Then the newsreader said, ‘These are library pictures of the first meteor strike, which devastated the small town of Amber Grove in New York State last year. We will bring you more information as we get it. Hold on . . . We’re now saying three meteors, quite close together, splashed down in the East Siberian Sea. This is around a thousand miles away from American waters.’
Cory was shivering, but Molly had no sense of what this meant.
‘Is this your people coming, Cory?’ John asked.
‘No-no. Our ships land quiet and safe. No chunks of rock blow everything up. First Mom flew in behind Meteor, don’t know why.’
She felt the fear coming off him, a cold breeze like the back door opened.
The anchorman said, ‘There have been no reports from the Russians, no confirmation of any damage. We’ll keep you updated when we have more information.’
Eva, wise and kind, interrupted. ‘Cory, come and help me finish supper.’
He bolted from the room to help and she wondered, What will this new fire from the sky bring?
CHAPTER 27
Sheriff Olsen’s plan
Gene called Molly from a payphone a long way from the library. Shivering, he thought, Better safe than sorry. The coins clicked into the slot.
‘I wish you were here,’ Molly said. ‘We all miss you.’
‘I have to do this,’ he said. ‘We’re happy enough with two of the thugs: they’re so scared, they told Lars everything, and Lars believes them. They’ll confess to burglary and go to jail. I’m pretty sure they’ll keep their mouths shut. And they say no one else knows; they didn’t want to share the bounty.’
Gene wasn’t going tell Molly how the Sheriff had smiled as he’d slipped his thumbs into his belt loops and said, ‘So, I told ’em Cory could read their minds and if they said a damned word, he’d fly right through the window and do it again. Trust me, they’ll confess to any damn crime I tell them, rather than that.’
‘And Napoleon?’ Molly’s voice crackled over the phone.
‘Yeah, he’s a bit tougher, but we’re dealing with him.’ Gene changed the subject and asked, ‘What’s Big Stuff think about the Russian meteors?’
‘He hates it. It brings everything back.’
They exchanged tender words before Gene hung up, glad not to have to admit that the leader of the thugs was a real nightmare: Lars Olsen had tried everything, but Napoleon just kept fighting back. He knew he held some strong cards and he was damned sure he’d get rich from them. Napoleon was a direct threat to Cory’s safety and Gene was this close to giving Roy the house keys and heading off to the farm himself.
At sunset, Gene made his way to the police station, which smelled, oddly, of homemade soup.
‘Help yourself,’ said Olsen, waving him towards a simmering pot. ‘Bread’s over there. Can’t smite the heathens on an empty stomach.’
Nerves made Gene eat less, unlike Molly. ‘Thanks, I won’t.’
‘Won’t poison you,’ Olsen said.
Gene sat and looked at the Sheriff, who was ladling soup into two bowls.
‘You need to trust me, Mr Myers. I promised the child’s mother.’
‘Molly told me the story,’ Gene said. The soup did smell good. ‘So, what’s your plan? With Napoleon?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Myers, but there’s no nice, soft and safe way to deal with this. We need to name what we’re dealing with: it’s hardened wickedness and that’s a fact.’
‘Call me Gene.’ He still didn’t trust this man, but what choice did he have?
Pea soup with chunks of ham in it and chewy rye bread. He was a little hungry after all.
*
No one challenged the Sheriff as they made their way through the hospital to the psychiatric ward. Gene wore his volunteer armband and the Sheriff carried a holdall.
‘You leave this to me,’ Olsen said, and laughed. ‘For a man who hates hospitals, I sure spend a lot of time in ’em.’
Papers signed by Dr Jarman did the trick. A male orderly consulted with Sister, then led them down a corridor of small rooms. There was a secure padded cell for violent patients. Somewhere a TV was on loud, which didn’t hide someone crying out, ‘It didn’t it didn’t it didn’t . . .’
Gene held all the right progressive opinions about science and kindness bringing cures and yet an atavistic voice was saying, Flee, flee, demons and witches . . .
In front of the last cell door, the orderly said, ‘We had to restrain him.’
‘Good,’ Olsen said. ‘Damn crazy tried to bite me when I arrested him.’
The cell had a bed, a toilet with no lid and a reek of disinfectant. Time in hospital had not been kind to the short man Molly had nicknamed Napoleon. His broken nose had crusted blood and he’d acquired new bruises. He struggled to a sitting position, not easy in a straitjacket, and stared at them, his eyes foggy. ‘I want a lawyer! Myers, I’m going to bust your little secret wide open—’
Gene felt such loathing for this man, loathing mixed with fear, because this thug held their future in his hands.
‘It’s Mister Myers, or sir,’ said Olsen, all genial. He sat on the chair he had brought in, while Gene remained standing. ‘I’m running out of patience, so if you insult Mr Myers, I’ll kick you in the balls, which I reckon is reasonable force when you attacked me.’
Was this Lars’ master plan, just to keep beating the man up? Gene didn’t want to watch it, and anyway, there was no way a beating would keep Cory safe in the future. His conscience churned his guts.
‘That thing, that freak – people oughtta know. I’ll say in open court, there’s this monster, this fucking mutant you’re keeping secret. Nurse Hooton knows – I’m gonna blow the whole thing wide open – the press’ll pay me, real big money . . .’
Lars produced a toothpick and worked at something between two teeth before saying, ‘See, Cory only just got started before you little babies caved in. You got no idea what he can do – what he’s gonna do to you.’
The thug looked cunning. ‘That’s torture: you can’t get away with it.’
Lars opened the holdall and removed a syringe and a small bottle. He filled the syringe deftly.
‘What’s that?’ the man said.
Lars held up the syringe, tapped the glass, squirted a drop; everyone knew air bubbles were dangerous. Then he laid it carefully on his knee.
>
‘Time for baby to go to sleep. We’ll take a little ride up north, get rid of those nasty voices in the head.’
‘Waddaya mean? Where’re we going?’ For the first time, Napoleon looked a little worried.
Lars produced his folder of papers, pulled out one and read out loud, aping a doctor kind of voice. ‘The patient is a violent, delusional, paranoid schizophrenic. The patient tried to shoot two law-abiding citizens in their own home because he believes that their child has tentacles, is an alien from another planet and comes to him in dreams . . . yada yada . . . he claimed the child attacked him through mind-control and that there is a giant conspiracy including law enforcement and his doctors . . .’
‘Fuck you,’ the thug said, his eye starting to twitch.
‘The State has this place for criminal crazies, Ruth House: the Ebenezer Ruth Memorial Hospital for the Criminally Insane. You know, where they sent the guy who ate his mom for Thanksgiving? Don’t worry, you get a lift, ’cos I’m gonna drive you up there with these here papers. You’re drooling and covered in your own shit . . . the drugs’ll do that; it’ll help the look of the thing . . .’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘And you tell the doctor there, “Cory Myers is the devil and he made a monster eat my brain. I’m not mad, doctor: there are aliens and Saint Jarman, the much-loved head doctor at Amber County Hospital, is hiding them . . . that’s why he signed the paper saying I’m mad . . . and the third-term Sheriff who arrested me when I tried to shoot Mr and Mrs Myers . . . he’s in on it too . . . and when Mr and Mrs Myers say they don’t have any son at all, let alone an alien one, they’re just lying . . .” Anyhow, the doctors will decide. Who d’you think they’re gonna believe?’
Lars had a low, soft, believe-me voice and his eyes were as wide and kind as a child. ‘Oh, Ruth House is out of the way, no one much cares what goes on there. No one bothers to visit. Someone got knifed in the eye last week on account of being a snitch. How these rumours get about, I don’t know. But if someone gets killed there, ain’t nothing to do with me.’
Gene couldn’t bottle it up anymore. ‘Lars, maybe . . .’
‘Leave this to me, Mr Myers.’
‘I’m not crazy. The kid was real,’ said the thug.
Gene felt sick to his stomach. But what else could they do?
‘Oh, no one up there says they’re crazy. Even the guy who ate his mom with green beans says he’s fine, just a regular guy. You tell them you saw comic-book monsters with a face on fire and they’ll say, textbook case, and fill you so full of drugs you won’t be able to spell your name for a year. Maybe they’ll give you some of that ECT . . . you know, electricity through the brain? And I walk away and my problem is solved.’
His hands dusted themselves off in the air.
Gene put his hand on Lars’ shoulder. It was like holding a rock. ‘Lars, can we talk, now?’
‘Your objections are noted,’ Lars said, ‘but don’t you worry, that’s just my first plan. My second is even better.’ He picked up the syringe. ‘Those hippies and their LSD. They say it gives you flashbacks; anything horrible happened to you, you live it again. So I figure, twice a day for a week, I’ll make you relive every moment of Halloween. Think about it: my plan’ll work even better if you really do go crazy, won’t it?’
He stood up and Napoleon wriggled desperately into the corner. Gene stood, surprised to find himself ready to protect the man who’d hit his wife and threatened to shoot them. Olsen was shorter, but he was more muscular, in much better shape. He was pretty sure the Sheriff knew how to throw a punch, too.
Olsen had switched the syringe to his left hand, so swiftly Gene hadn’t seen the swap.
‘Step away, Mr Myers. Let me at the little shit . . . ’Course, I’m no doctor, I’m just guessing at the dose . . . Go on, call for help, see if Jarman’s staff’ll believe you. Trust me, they’ve heard it all before.’
‘I – I can’t let you do that.’ Gene felt sick; he was terrified. It was so easy to do the right thing in your daydreaming; so different with the stakes high and the heart pounding.
Napoleon was babbling, but Olsen had his gun out and was saying, ‘Okay, in that case, the thug grabbed my gun. What a fool I was, not checking it! We struggled, I feared for my life and I shot him, by accident.’ His face was suddenly full of horror and dismay. ‘Judge, I had no choice.’
Gene took a step back. Olsen was nuts. There’d been some rumour about him shooting a suspect . . .
Napoleon was screeching, ‘Mr Myers, stop him! I’m sorry – I’m sorry, I won’t say anything, I swear. I’m sure we can fix this . . . Please, you gotta stop him . . .’
‘So, let’s make a deal,’ Lars said, holstering the gun and sitting, cool as a mountain stream, the syringe once again balanced on his thigh. He told Napoleon what he had to say and do, how hard he’d better work to convince the judge. ‘Because next time, Mr Myers won’t be here. Mr Myers just saved your ass. You oughtta to be damned grateful.’
*
Gene needed a beer. Two beers. They sat in a corner of O’Reilly’s Bar and Lars tasted his like he’d been walking in the hills all day.
‘I hate hospitals,’ the Sheriff said.
The walk had convinced Gene; he trusted his gut. ‘It was a bluff – it was just water in the syringe,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t have faked a shooting, not when he was trussed up in the straitjacket.’
Lars looked at him. ‘You’ll let me inject you, then?’
Gene met those innocent blue eyes and now he couldn’t tell. He wondered if Lars had ever lied in the witness box, how easy it would be for a jury to believe him.
‘You needed me to shout and try to stop you.’
‘Good cop, bad cop, just like the movies, eh? Smart idea, too smart for me.’ He drank deep and said, ‘So, two of my cousins work at the jail. We’ll spread money and tobacco around: Sheriff wants any crazy stories the new guy tells. Some of the cons owe me big time, and some could use a favour. And Napoleon knows it too: people’ll sell him out for a tot of whisky. He wasn’t much of a tough guy after all . . .’
‘Will it work?’
‘I just need to convince that old hypocrite Jarman to write a few exaggerations in the guy’s notes, and Napoleon will confess in writing to having delusions in the past, but he’s all right now, Your Honour. He’ll keep his mouth shut. If you’re not happy, it’s gotta be Plan C: a big dose of insulin and we bury him in the woods, so deep Satan himself wouldn’t find him. Yeah, you can buy me another.’
‘Do we have to stoop to this?’
Lars wiped his mouth. ‘I promised Cory’s mother I’d keep him safe and I did what I had to. Gene, stay or go; I won’t blame you. But believe me, there isn’t another man in law enforcement in all fifty states on your side, someone who talks to the FBI all the time, maybe hears what they’re up to.’
You never know with Olsen if you’re being played, Gene thought.
CHAPTER 28
Siberia
Molly drove Cory home from the farm. She was torn about leaving, anxious about Eva, who’d been getting more and more breathless. She’d been having attacks at night, and at first Molly thought it was the FBI, and then she’d been worried Eva was dying. But John and Eva were firm: with modern medicine and old nostrums, they’d be fine; Molly was just fussing.
Molly and Cory missed Gene badly; they needed to be home. And no real decisions could be made when the adults were apart.
Joni Mitchell came on the radio, and there was the first sign to Amber Grove. ‘Home soon, little one.’
‘Good good good so-pleeesed, about-time. See Dad, see Bonnie and Chuck. No more Bad Men. Get guard dog. Two. Guard dogs very good against Bad Men. Grrrrr.’
‘No, Cory, we’re not getting a dog.’
‘Cory is so-sad and wants one pet. O-kay, wants one dolphin. Very-smart like dog but sw
ims. Cory take to river, and to pool . . . Teach tricks.’
She tried not to laugh. ‘No, Cory, you can’t have a dolphin.’
‘Wh-yyyyy no dolphin?’
Gene had kept her informed about the thugs, how they’d pleaded guilty. Sheriff Olsen’s plan appeared to be working. Once, she’d have demanded to know what threats or promises had been involved, but she’d hardened her heart. She didn’t want to know.
The road sign said, Welcome to Amber Grove. The mayor wanted to put up a sign saying, Home of the Meteor, but that had kicked off a storm of outrage. Most people thought it was in bad taste. She realised her pulse-rate was up. Her house had called her home, but she was so anxious, tapping out a rhythm on the steering wheel to distract herself from her thoughts. She noticed the first Christmas decorations were up. She drove to the foot of Crooked Street – and didn’t make the turn.
‘Wrong way,’ carolled Cory.
She shouldn’t have had that drink on Halloween. Part of her knew it probably hadn’t made any difference, but it nagged at her. She needed to be alert, every hour of every day, to think: this person might be hostile, this person might be loose-lipped, this situation might be dangerous. It was absurd; she realised she was thinking even seeing the house again would put them all in danger.
‘Wrong way Mom. What wrong?’
‘I’m just driving a longer way around,’ she said, controlling her breathing. It was ridiculous. There would be no thugs, no guns, no sea-monsters of the mind, just Gene, waiting for them.
She turned the car and came back, up the hill, and there was her house, her home. Gene must have been looking out for her, because when she parked in front of it, he was already out on the porch, grinning. She had missed him so much. And in an instant she realised she had started the drive ready to argue they should flee. Coming home had made leaving more difficult for her, not less.