Saving the World (11 page)

“Didn’t they?”

Meltzer kept his gaze on the floor. “Well, I always thought so, but a few years back a group of scientists attempted to carve up a similar cornfield. They spent a week with sophisticated tools trying to mimic the exact pattern left by an overnight visitor. You know what they found?”

Ames was mesmerized. “What?”

“They couldn’t do it.” Meltzer looked up at the man. “No matter how hard they tried they couldn’t match the precision of the patterns done overnight.”

Ames wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s that mean?”

“It means there isn’t always an answer for everything,” Meltzer said, looking the man in the eyes. “Some things defy explanation. And we need to accept them, no matter the improbability.”

The silence hung between them while Meltzer kept watch. The rescue worker

seemed to be coming to terms with what he’d witnessed.

Finally, Meltzer cocked his head. “Did you see something up on that mountain

that defied explanation, Mr. Ames?”

Ames rubbed a rough hand over his face. “I saw the explosion from five miles away. It lit up the afternoon sky, which was dark to begin with. I knew no one could survive that kind of crash, but I packed up my snowmobile and got up there within a couple of hours. That was the only way up and I was the closest. I had to hike the final couple of miles in some difficult terrain.”

Ames looked over at Meltzer and continued. “She was lying in the snow next to the burned-out fuselage with her . . .” he stopped to chew on a loose cuticle and spit it out. “She was cut bad. Her face looked like a bowl of chili. Then as I’m getting closer I notice her arm was twisted behind her. It looked completely broken.”

Meltzer’s stomach tightened, but he kept still.

The rescue worker licked a pair of dry lips. “She wasn’t bleeding though. I should have picked up on that. At first I thought it was the cold temperatures, but then I’m . . . I’m watching her maneuver her arm into place. One minute it looked broken, the next it seemed fine.”

Ames was trembling. Bubbles of sweat dotted his forehead. “Then she began speaking some language I’ve never heard before. I thought maybe she was a foreigner, but the language was so odd.”

Ames stared out into the open space in front of him, his eyes were thousands of miles away. “Then I realize her face was beginning to heal. By the time we finally got her to the hospital, they couldn’t find one broken bone. Not one tiny scrape. Her face was immaculate.”

Meltzer sat still and let the fertile juices flow out of the rescue worker’s taxed mind.

“Of course I put it all in a report, and you know what they did?”

Meltzer shook his head.

“They gave me a leave of absence. Told me I’ve been out in the conditions for too long and suffered from hypothermia. They said my judgment was impaired.”

“Maybe it was?” Meltzer said, then instantly regretted it.

“I saw what I saw!” Ames shouted, shifting his position as if he were ready to come after Meltzer.

The detective held up his hands in retreat.

Ames took a breath and settled back against the wall. “Even before the reinforcements came, she was up and walking around. She was in shock. Kept asking me where he was.”

“Where who was?”

“Beats me,” Ames said. “I guess I was in shock myself. Seeing that plane and the carnage. All those poor people. Charred. Pieces of debris everywhere. And this girl.”

Ames shrugged. Resignation beginning to settle in. Meltzer could see the man was clearly lucid and aware of his actions now.

Ames looked directly into Meltzer’s eyes. “Then I see the stories on CNN about this girl in Arizona who claims aliens are here to destroy the planet and I see her face. It’s her. Walking and talking like she was never even on that plane. And I know—she can’t be human. A human couldn’t survive what she survived. That’s when I decided to come down here and . . .”

Ames looked around the room.

“And what?” Meltzer asked. “What did you come here to do?”

“I came here to prove she’s not who she says she is. I don’t know what she is, but she’s not human. That’s all I know. That’s why she didn’t die from my gunshot wound.”

“So you admit shooting Margo Sutter this morning?”

Ames shook his head. “No. I admit to shooting an alien this morning.”

Meltzer frowned. “Did this alien happen to look exactly like Margo Sutter?”

“Yes.”

“And you think her surviving a gunshot wound would vindicate your report?” Meltzer asked.

“Yes,” Ames said boldly. “Yes, I do. I think you’ll discover the same thing once you see what condition she’s in.”

“Well, I know exactly what condition she’s in,” Meltzer said. “And it’s not promising.”

Ames met Meltzer’s gaze. “You think she’s in serious condition in the hospital, don’t you?”

“I know she is.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Ames looked around the empty room conspiratorially, “I’ll make you a deal. If she isn’t completely healed by this afternoon . . . I’ll sign a confession and admit to everything.”

Okay, Meltzer thought, now we’re getting somewhere. He glanced at the two-way mirror and could almost see the DA smiling on the other side.

“But,” Ames said, getting closer to Meltzer, pointing a finger at him, “if she’s completely healthy, no bullet wound . . . you have to admit to the press there are aliens here on the planet.”

Meltzer considered the ludicrous agreement and wondered if some attorney would later use this moment to prove an insanity plea for his client. Ames sat there anxious, waiting for this ridiculous pact to be ratified.

Meltzer held out a hand. “Deal.”

Chapter 17

Margo was admitted to a private room and slept off the anesthesia while Bryant paced in a half circle around her bed. A bag of saline hung from an IV pole next to her. The vital signs monitor showed everything in the normal range, but Bryant knew there was nothing normal about the patient it monitored.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Father Joe said from a chair in the corner of the room. “You’re making me nervous.”

Bryant heard the request, but kept on pacing. Father Joe sighed and flipped a page from the Bible on his lap. Bryant kept scrutinizing Margo, looking for something, anything, which could tell him who she was. He questioned her motives for everything now. Had she come looking for him in Chandler for therapy, or was there something else going on? Something he was overlooking?

A white pigeon danced outside on the shallow windowsill, jutting his head left and right, but always settling his glare on Margo.

Bryant banged a knuckle on the window, yet the bird didn’t flinch.

“What’s with this pigeon?” Bryant asked.

“It’s not a pigeon,” Father Joe said, his index finger on a particular passage he was reading. “It’s a dove.”

Bryant shook his head. “Everything’s got biblical implications with you, Joe. Why can’t it just be a pigeon?”

“Because it’s not,” the priest said finally looking up. “There’s a reason it’s here.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

Father Joe returned to his Bible. “I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“Which implies you’ve figured other things out.”

“Maybe.”

Bryant scoffed at the notion of the priest finding answers in the Bible. He resumed pacing and considered how to approach Margo once she gained consciousness.

Bryant’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw “private number” on the Caller ID. Moving to the far end of the room, he pushed the talk button and said, “Hello.”

“I heard,” Frank Sullivan said, his voice sounding cautious. “How is she?”

Bryant glanced over at Margo still motionless. “She’s sleeping off the anesthesia, but her prognosis is good.”

“Jeez, Michael, were you there when it happened?”

“Yes.”

Sullivan was quiet for a moment, then said, “How are you?”

Bryant knew where Sullivan was going, a friend to the end. “I’m fine. I wasn’t injured.”

“Yes, but you witnessed the shooting of a teenage—”

“I’m okay, Sully,” Bryant spoke a little too loud. Father Joe looked up from his Bible, his finger still holding his place.

“Hold on,” Bryant said as he left Margo’s room and walked along the corridor until he found an empty patient room. His friend waited.

Once inside Bryant went to the window and spoke in a low tone.

“I’m okay, Sully. I promise.”

“Well I just—”

“Do you remember our second year in med school? Kitty Jenson’s class?

“Yeah,” Sullivan said sounding suspicious.

“Do you remember a study she lectured on about the brain’s ability to heal itself?”

“Sure, neuroplasticity. Neurons are sent to compensate for injured tissue within the brain. Why do you ask?”

“Well, what if the brain were able to send neurons to repair damaged tissue in other parts of the body as well?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. There’s no evidence the brain is capable of something like that.”

“A normal brain, no. But what about a superior brain. A brain with telepathic ability. Maybe the only brain on the planet using its full potential?”

There was a pause while Sullivan seemed to consider the question. “Michael, I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s science fiction right now, but who knows about the future?”

“You saw Margo’s brain scans after the accident. You showed them to me. I didn’t think about it at the time, but the activity throughout the temporal lobe was off the chart.”

Bryant’s phone beeped, signaling an incoming call.

“Hold on, Sully,” Bryant said, pushing a button, then saying, “Hello.”

“You got a minute?” a man’s voice said.

“Who is this?”

“FBI Agent Ron Turkle.”

“Look, I’m kind of busy right now.”

“I’ll bet,” Turkle said. “I’m downstairs in the cafeteria. She won’t be coherent enough to talk with you for an hour or so.”

“How’d you know—”

“I’m an FBI agent. I know a lot of things.”

Bryant was curious if Turkle knew just how much he despised the sardonic tone the guy was giving him. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I have a call holding on the other line.”

“You don’t like me much, do you?”

“No.”

“You want to know why?”

“No.”

“Because I know what really happened on March 19th.”

Bryant’s face twitched while his grip tightened around his phone. He stood by the window overlooking the valley. In the distance he could see the stand of trees that lined Rittenhouse Road. One of the few streets which didn’t go directly north and south or east and west. An angled road with steep drop-offs and a parallel wash which would fill during heavy rain. The road where a drunk driver swerved too far into the oncoming lane. On March 19th.

Bryant tried to control his rapid breathing. “I’ll be right there.”

* * *

The cafeteria was half full with a mixture of hospital employees in scrubs and visitors sitting in a scattering of square tables. Agent Turkle stood out with his FBI blue suit and sunglasses sitting on the top of his head. He was chewing on a sandwich, clutching it with both hands as if it might escape his jurisdiction.

Turkle saw Bryant coming. He nodded to the plastic chair across from him like a grumpy high school principal and said, “Sit down.”

Bryant was terminally resistant to authority figures, so he stood next to Turkle, looking down at him, forcing Turkle to look up.

Turkle seemed to understand the gesture. He put down his sandwich, then wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, gave Bryant a warm smile and stood. “Pardon me, Dr. Bryant,” Turkle said, holding out his hand toward the empty chair. “Would you please join me?”

Bryant sat.

Turkle retained a chronic smugness which seemed as irrevocable as his sneer. He bit into his sandwich, then looked at the buffet line. “You want to get something to eat?” he said with his mouth full of bread and meat.

What Bryant wanted was to leave. Get up and forget he even came. But Turkle seemed to know exactly which buttons to push.

“No thanks,” Bryant said. “You mentioned March 19th.”

Turkle finished the first half of his sandwich, then flicked crumbs from his fingertips over his plate. “Sorry, I skipped breakfast this morning.”

Bryant waited, wondering if he’d made a mistake coming to meet Turkle. Why was the FBI even interested in him? He was a retiring psychiatrist attempting to leave town. What could the government possibly want from him?

Turkle took another bite of his sandwich, chewed, then swallowed. “I need your help, Dr. Bryant.”

“You need my help?” Bryant said. “What could you possibly need from me?”

Turkle worked the sandwich and said, “You may want to reevaluate your opinion of this girl.”

“Margo?”

Turkle nodded.

“Why does she seem to scare you so much?”

Turkle grinned though a mouthful of whole wheat bread. “You misunderstand.”

“Explain it to me,” Bryant said, clasping his hands together on the tabletop.

“Well,” Turkle said, putting the remainder of his sandwich down and pushing the plate to the side. “For one thing, she’s dangerous.”

Bryant scoffed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m very serious. This girl is not who you think she is.”

“Then who is she?”

Turkle leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “I showed you the picture of her accident, right?”

Bryant nodded.

“Well, what you don’t know is John Ames, the man who shot her this morning, is the rescue worker who first found her on the side of the mountain. His initial report claimed that he saw her all mangled up and watched as her body virtually repaired itself right in front of him.”

Bryant felt the room get warmer. “How come no one reported this?”

“Because his superiors were protecting him. They deleted his document. He’s got a family to feed and a stellar record. They gave him some time off and told him he was suffering from an altitude disease.”

“So why does he come to Arizona and try to kill her?”

“Because he’s trying to prove a point.”

“Which is?”

“Well,” Turkle said, wiping crumbs away from the perimeter of his mouth, “he hears about her talking with aliens and he puts two and two together.”