Saving the World (4 page)

“You never told me why you were crying.”

“You’re really not interested. You’re just doing Father Joe a favor.”

“That’s not true.”

She turned and frowned. “I thought the truth was all you had to offer. Did you lose that as well?”

He smiled. “Okay, but I’m here now and I’m still a good listener.”

She crossed her legs and folded the tissue on her lap. “Sometimes when I’m in a quiet room like, I don’t know, maybe a library or say a church . . . I can hear peoples’ thoughts.”

She kept folding her tissue, then unfolding it, then folding it another way. It reminded him of Megan when she was about to open a present on Christmas morning, she’d play with the wrapping paper out of nervous tension.

“So tonight I happened to hear a deeply sad soul begging for mercy. This person wanted to be out of pain and prayed for forgiveness. Forgiveness for what he had done and forgiveness for what he considered doing.”

Bryant’s mouth went dry.

“And this person,” she continued, “wanted Jesus to take care of his family up in Heaven. His wife and daughter.”

Bryant was staring now, his fingers trembling.

“You see,” she said, “this man was married for fifteen years. And every day before work, he kissed his wife goodbye on the cheek and said he loved her. Every day without fail. Until one Tuesday morning, after a squabble over who got to choose the breed of dog they were going to get, he purposely chose not to kiss her or say he loved her. He simply left for work without as much as a goodbye. It was such a little thing, but it bothered him the entire drive. He felt so bad about the snub that he called her to apologize as soon as he got to his office. Unfortunately he was ten minutes too late. By that time she was already gone. She and his daughter were killed by a drunk driver.”

Bryant felt his stomach surging up the stale sandwiches to his throat. His heart pounded while his mind raced. He had studied the neurological phenomena of telepathy in college. It was widely known to be a myth.

When Margo looked up at him she was glossy-eyed. “That’s why I was crying, Doc. I could feel your pain from across the room.”

Bryant wiped his moist eyes with his shirt sleeve. “But how?”

“I’m clairvoyant.”

“But . . .” he swallowed. It wasn’t possible, yet there she was crawling inside his head. Bringing up images that he was so careful to bury.

Margo rubbed his back. “It’s true, Doc. This is no myth.”

He took deep breaths to steady himself, while Margo tried to console him. With a dry tongue, he said, “You really are—”

“Yes,” she said. “I really am.”

Bryant took a deep breath.

A grey cat appeared in the pew and approached Margo. She curled her body around Margo’s leg.

“Is that your cat?” he asked.

“No.”

Bryant had to work at keeping his heart rate stable.

Just then, the lights flickered in the church.

“Aliens?” Bryant said without thinking.

“No,” Margo said. “That wasn’t aliens. There aren’t any around tonight.”

Bryant looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Because,” she said, looking at the cat maneuvering between her legs. “I can hear them too.”

Chapter 6

“You can hear aliens?” Bryant said in a hush, watching Father Joe bend over to pick up imaginary lint from the carpet in front of the altar.

Margo looked down and began folding the tissue on her lap again, first in half, then quarters. “Yeah.”

“These aliens,” Bryant said, “where do you see them?”

Margo wouldn’t look up, her hands busy on her lap. “See that’s the problem. I can’t see them. They’re invisible.”

That stopped him. He sat upright in the pew and regained his psychiatric footing like a boxer hearing the bell ring. “Invisible?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Invisible aliens. Her words were linked together in such a way, he knew deep down they meant more than their contextual surface. Bryant could tell more from words and body language than a team of specialists could learn from a series of laboratory tests. It was simply a matter of finding their origin, the reason for their existence. No one ever spoke a word without a source, either from hatred, or regret, or capricious jealousy. It was his one great skill in life. Finding the source of spoken words.

“Why do you suppose they chose to speak with you?” he asked.

Her tiny frame shifted uncomfortably while her hands fidgeted with the tissues. “I guess because I’m the only one who can hear them. Actually I can’t tell if they’re speaking or just thinking.”

Margo’s head was down, her hands still busy. Telltale signs of an internal struggle. Something wasn’t right.

“I know, I know, it’s confusing,” she said. “A moment ago you believed me, but now you’re thinking I’m psychotic.”

“Now, listen. I—”

“Oh, you’re already searching your memory for the textbook diagnosis.”

“Wait a minute, you—”

“And if you think I’m psychotic, what possible hope could I have with anyone else?”

Bryant held up his hand like a crossing guard. “Stop.”

Margo waited.

He ran his hand through his hair and let out a breath. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, you have to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to promise to stay out of my head,” he said. “I can’t think straight with an audience in there.”

Margo half-smiled. “Okay.”

Bryant looked over at the fragile girl with the skinny legs and the ponytail and wondered where to start. It was like scraping together a sand castle at low tide. Eventually anything he did for her would be washed away once the tide of discomfort rolled back in. There just wasn’t the time.

“Why did you come to see me in the first place?” Bryant asked.

Margo shrugged, her head low. “Ever since my parents died, I’ve just never felt right. I guess I thought you could help.”

“I’m sorry. How did they die?”

Margo’s shoulders began to shudder while she dabbed the tissues to the corner of her eyes. “The plane . . .” she sucked in a quick breath, “the plane . . .”

Bryant gathered her in his arms and let her sob. He said nothing as she convulsed

and hiccupped into his chest. Father Joe glanced over with anticipation, but Bryant looked him off. The priest nodded and moved on to another task which kept him nearby.

As Margo’s tears seeped through Bryant’s shirt, he fought back his own wave of sadness. He realized he hadn’t held a girl in his arms that way since . . . He stopped short of bringing on a panic attack by cradling the young girl’s head and murmuring, “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.” But he couldn’t possibly offer her any logical reason why.

The front door creaked open behind them, allowing an overhead cloud to grumble a reminder of its presence. A pair of footsteps came through the tiled entryway and stopped before reaching the door of the main part of the church.

Margo mumbled something between moans and Bryant lowered his head. “What’s that?” he asked.

With her head buried into the crook of his shoulder, she said. “Make him go

away.”

Bryant turned to see a man wearing a suit and tie standing on the other side of the door, looking through the window framed into the top half. He stared at Bryant with cold eyes.

Bryant whispered in her ear, “The guy in the lobby?”

He felt her nod into his chest.

“Do you know him?”

Margo was obviously trying to gather herself by forcing longer breaths. She shook her head.

Bryant released his hold of the girl and leaned forward to get up. Margo grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him back down.

“Careful,” she said. “He’s dangerous.”

When Bryant turned around the man was gone. Bryant hurried down the aisle for the exit. By the time he got outside, the black Ford Expedition was backing up from a parking space, heading toward Bryant. He recognized the tiny “G” at the top of the license plate that designated a government-issued vehicle. The driver stopped the car just a few feet from Bryant. As he shifted the transmission from reverse to drive, he stared at Bryant through the rearview mirror. Bryant stared back. The SUV remained still, while the rain tapped its exterior. The bright red brake lights glared at Bryant in the darkness of the storm. No one moved. Bryant’s pulse raced as he waited.

The man jammed the gearshift into park. The brake lights disappeared. The driver’s car door opened an inch as the man seemed to consider his next move.

Bryant stood firm, his shirt soaked from tears and drizzle. He found his hands clenching and unclenching by his side. He couldn’t understand why a government official would be glaring at him like he was Al Capone.

The car door opened and the man jumped out and marched toward Bryant. He was shorter than Bryant by a couple of inches, but his demeanor and his determined expression set Bryant back on his heels.

The man stomped up to Bryant as if he were going to walk right through him. He stopped a foot away. His face had wrinkles in severe angles around his eyes and mouth that probably aged the man an extra decade. They must’ve taken years of interrogation to get there.

“Don’t get involved with something you don’t understand,” the man growled.

Despite the rain trickling down his face, Bryant’s mouth was dry. “Who are you?” he asked.

The man seemed to consider the question, then gave Bryant a distasteful look before turning back to the car. Just before he slid into the driver’s seat, he growled, “I’m the man who can prevent you from going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.”

He slammed the car door and the tires squealed as they spun on the slick surface of the asphalt parking lot, spraying up a stream of water as he fishtailed away.

Bryant stood dumbfounded for a solid minute before he reentered the church and discovered Father Joe by himself.

“Where’d she go?” Bryant asked.

“I don’t know,” Father Joe said. “But she’s here every day. I’m sure she’ll be back tomorrow.”

Bryant squeezed the back of his neck and grimaced. What was he getting involved with? “Will you call me when she shows up?”

“Of course, Michael. Is everything okay?”

Bryant thought about the question. There was a girl walking around thinking she spoke with aliens. A stalled storm system had the entire city acting loony, and a government official had just threatened him in the parking lot.

“Yeah,” Bryant said. “Everything’s just peachy.”

Chapter 7

Bryant pulled open the bullet-proof glass doors of the Chandler Police Department and went directly around the information counter to the back hallway. He walked through a door labeled, “Authorized Personnel Only,” and found Detective Meltzer at his cubicle, leaning back in his chair, speaking into his desk phone. He rolled his eyes at Bryant while listening to someone on the other line.

“Yes, I’m still here,” Meltzer said. “I completely understand.” He waited another moment with exasperation on his face. “Look, what would you like me to do?”

Meltzer grabbed the Time magazine sitting on his desk and flipped it to Bryant.

“Yes, of course it’s unbelievable,” Meltzer said to the caller. “But so is reality TV and no one’s going to jail for that, right?”

Bryant looked down at the cover of the magazine and stopped. Staring back at him was a full headshot of Margo Sutter glancing up at the clouds. The caption below the picture read, “Are We Alone?”

Meltzer twisted the phone away from his mouth for a moment and pointed to the Time magazine in Bryant’s hand.

“You see what I’m dealing with here?” Meltzer whispered to Bryant, then swiftly said into the phone, “Uh huh, sure, I’m following you. You want me to arrest an innocent girl because she might say something that offends you. Tell you what, I’ll send a squad car over to her house as soon as you cite me the law she broke.”

Meltzer slammed the phone down. “We’ve gone national,” Meltzer said, as Bryant scanned the magazine. “So my life is getting complicated.”

There was nothing groundbreaking in the article. It was mostly about the extremists who were using the immobile storm system as a sign of the apocalypse, while others were convinced aliens were indeed here. Virtually none of it had anything to do with Margo Sutter. She herself was being used as a symbol for both sides of the argument.

Bryant placed the magazine on Meltzer’s desk and fished out a slip of paper from his pants pocket. “Do me a favor,” Bryant said, handing Meltzer the paper. “Can you run this government plate and tell me who this person is?”

Meltzer glanced at the paper and said, “I can tell you it’s Federal.” He looked up at Bryant. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Bryant told him. Everything but the part about Margo’s clairvoyance. Meltzer seemed satisfied with the incident and scooted his chair toward his computer. His fingers tapped the keyboard with purpose.

“How’s Jeff?” Bryant asked.

Meltzer nodded his head sideways down a corridor to the left of his desk. “His mom’s in there right now.”

Bryant cringed. Jeff’s mom had always flirted with Bryant even at the most inappropriate times. Especially at the most inappropriate times. It was as if her tact gland had been removed from her body. She was pretty and filthy rich and probably never had anyone refuse her desires.

“How’s Jeff’s behavior?”

“Hard to say,” Meltzer said while double-clicking his mouse. “I can’t tell if the meds have taken hold, or if he’s putting on a good face.”

“Are you going to charge him with a felony?”

Meltzer looked up. “You think I have a choice?”

“It was my fault, Sam. He should’ve been on meds months ago. I was negligent.”

Meltzer returned his attention to his computer screen and grunted a vague response.

“I’m going to check on him while you’re doing that,” Bryant said, turning to leave.

“Yeah, let me know what you think.” The corridor that led to the holding cells was well-lit and stark white with nothing on the walls but a fresh coat of paint. There were two cells adjacent to each other with a small guard desk directly across from them. Jeff’s mother sat in the first cell with her back to the corridor while Jeff sat on his cot, his feet planted to the floor. His mother used a small voice and although Bryant couldn’t hear the exact words, her tone suggested comforting phrases.