Saving the World (9 page)

Father Joe bent next to him and placed a hand on his back. The priest whispered, “They’re safe. I can assure you of that.”

Bryant rocked back and forth and moaned like a wounded animal. “I can’t afford to do this anymore, Joe. I need to leave, or I’ll . . .” He left it out there for interpretation.

The priest patted Bryant on the back. “Okay,” he said softly. “You do what’s best, Michael.”

Chapter 13

FBI agent Shawn Backman sat in front of his computer and thumped his fingers on his desk. He’d seen the video thirty or forty times already and still hadn’t come up with a good explanation for what he saw. The office door opened and Agent Ron Turkle came in with a cardboard carry-tray with two coffees. He pulled one out, handed it to Backman and sat down on the edge of Backman’s desk.

Turkle worked the lid off his own coffee and took a sip. “Well?”

Backman swiveled his monitor toward Turkle and clicked a button to replay. The screen showed a group of dark clouds at dusk.

“What are we looking at here?” Turkle asked.

“Just keep watching.”

From the left of the screen came a bright fireball streaking through the sky. It was obscured by the cloud cover, but it didn’t diminish its brilliance. A second fireball was further behind the clouds and set off a series of aerial explosions that lit up the clouds like a Fourth of July display.

“What the—”

“Keep watching,” Backman said.

They saw the clouds light up one after another, a new fireball repeating the previous one’s flight.

“It’s almost like it’s—”

“Synchronized,” Backman finished for him.

They watched in silence for a minute, then Turkle said, “It’s got to be a meteor shower.”

“That would work,” Backman said, “if there were any meteors around. Scientists already shot that theory down.”

“Where is this?”

“Just got this from the Gila County Sheriff’s Department,” Backman said. “It’s somewhere over the Grand Canyon.”

Turkle glanced outside as if looking for something.

“What’s the matter?” Backman asked.

Turkle’s expression changed. He sipped some coffee and shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You looked like you knew something. Come out with it.”

The agent leered down at Backman with disdain in his eyes. There was something nefarious about the way he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “When I say nothing, I mean nothing.”

Shawn Backman was a twelve-year veteran of the FBI. He’d been attacked, threatened, accused and maligned by the most dangerous criminals Arizona had to offer. But none had startled him as much as his partner just did from a simple question.

“You okay?” Backman asked.

Turkle’s demeanor seemed to change again. He was back to his affable expression as quickly as if he’d swiped a hand in front of his face.

“Sure,” he said, pointing out the window at the cloudy sky. “The storm is down to a drizzle.” He gave Backman a toothy smile. “What could possibly be wrong?”

They’d been partners for five years, but ever since Turkle’s heart attack, he’d changed somehow. He was grumpier and showed wild mood swings. At first Backman assumed it was the medication he was taking, but it couldn’t explain everything. He’d been an investigator for too long.

“Everything okay at home?” Backman asked with innocence.

Turkle’s face softened even further. He gave Backman a playful punch. “Hey, it’s fine. The wife gets under my skin sometimes, but that’s typical, right?”

Backman nodded. It was hard to argue much about that point, he thought. In his peripheral vision he caught the muted TV monitor hanging from the wall at the back of their office. He grabbed the remote and raised the volume. A CNN reporter stood in front of a mass of people standing behind a strip of yellow police tape in downtown Phoenix. Signs could be seen in the background, bobbing up and down: ‘Alien Go Home.’ ‘Save our Children.’

“The protest was started by a local college student who claimed to have dated Margo Sutter briefly in high school,” the reporter said. “The boy says he knew her when she was normal. Back when she was human.”

Backman pushed the mute button. “What the heck’s going on out there?” he asked.

“It’s the girl,” Turkle said, staring at the silent screen as if searching for someone. “She’s responsible for this.”

Backman pinched the bridge of his nose with his index fingers. “Ron, are we going to have this conversation again?”

Turkle picked up his coffee, walked over to his desk and sat down with heavy legs. Their office was barely big enough to support the two of them. One more desk and they would have to walk sideways to get in and out.

“I’m just saying,” Turkle said. “She seems to be in the middle of everything.”

Backman pushed the power button to turn off the TV, then dropped the remote on his desk. He scooted his chair back and leaned forward.

“You didn’t actually speak with her did you?” Backman asked.

“No.”

Backman breathed out a sigh. “Thank goodness.”

“I did speak with the doctor, though.”

Backman covered his eyes with his hand. “You did what?”

“He came up to my car. What was I supposed to do, shoo him away like a dog?”

“Listen,” Backman took a long breath, “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t go off on a tangent again.” He looked up to see the surprised expression on his partner’s face.

“Vince?” Turkle asked.

Backman nodded.

Turkle’s eyes wandered around the room, then returned to Backman. “Vince is doing this to me?”

Backman raised a hand. “Wait a minute, Ron. Don’t go down that road. You’ve been acting very peculiar ever since this girl returned home. You’re not going to admit it, but you’re obsessing.”

“Obsessing? She’s on the damn cover of Time Magazine claiming to be speaking with invisible aliens.”

Backman got up and looked out his office window into the bullpen where a huddle of cubicles clung together like a beehive. The hum of computer terminals and the chirp of cell phones crept through the closed door. A couple dozen operation people were glued to their computer monitors, their waistlines growing wider with each minute that passed.

Backman sighed while examining the bleak view. “You see that?”

“What,” Turkle asked.

“That crowd of keyboard pounders and Visine users.”

Turkle didn’t respond.

Backman bit the inside of his cheek and turned to his partner. “Listen, Kevin’s going to Dartmouth this year and Lindsay is two years away. There’s another round of cuts coming next quarter and I can’t afford to risk their education for some fascination you have with a teenage girl who may or may not be mentally unstable.”

Backman waited for a reaction, but Turkle seemed to be struggling to understand. Backman pulled up an armless chair and sat next to Turkle, looking him square in the eye.

“I can’t lie to Vince,” Backman said. “I won’t end up out on the street, or worse,” he pointed out the office window at the pathetic congregation of carpal tunnel candidates. “I won’t be a data personnel executive, or whatever they’re calling them these days. I’ve been an investigator too long. I can’t sit behind a desk all day. It’ll kill me.”

Turkle seemed to put it together. He nodded. “I see.”

“Do you?”

Turkle picked up his coffee, walked around Backman and opened the door. He turned back for a moment and said, “Excuse me. I have official FBI business to take care of.”

Backman watched his partner head for the elevators. Turkle had gotten the message. He would no longer include Backman in any of his surveillance activities involving Margo Sutter. Backman went back to his desk and turned on the TV. Something was going on out there, but he wasn’t going to be the one to suggest anything as mercurial as aliens from another planet. He had tuition to think about.

Chapter 14

Bryant was hauling a bag of trash to the dumpster behind the church when he spotted the black Ford Expedition parked on the side of the building. Bryant slowed his steps until his vantage point allowed him to see the driver’s side of the car. When he saw who was standing next to the car speaking with the driver, he dropped the bag of garbage and froze. Margo Sutter had a frightened expression while listening to the FBI agent talk with her in a harsh tone. Out of curiosity he began walking toward the car.

Margo saw him coming and immediately tried to cut him off. She stepped in front of him while the FBI agent seemed amused through the reflection in the side-view mirror.

Bryant tried to get around her, but she held her ground, palming his chest and pushing him back. The Expedition began to roll away. Turkle’s smile beamed back at him through the rearview mirror.

“What was that all about?” Bryant asked as the FBI agent turned the corner and out of sight.

“He’s trying to scare me,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because,” she walked a few feet away, then back. She looked up at Bryant with pity in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“About your family. I’m really sorry,” she said.

Bryant tried to figure out the source of the comment. Where did it come from? It was his nature to understand the root of the words. By Margo’s expression, it seemed to be born out of guilt.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going through anything you haven’t.”

Margo looked down at her fingers and began to play with them.

The side door to the church squeaked open and Father Joe poked his head out.

“You kids okay?” he said.

Bryant nodded.

Father Joe walked over, letting the heavy door close behind him with a thud. The three of them stood still for a moment and the priest seemed to understand the awkward silence.

“Am I interrupting something?” he said.

Margo clutched his arm. “No, Father, of course not.” She gave Bryant a stern look, like a wife or a daughter would.

“No,” Bryant agreed. “We were just discussing FBI agent Turkle’s motives.”

“I see,” Father Joe said, looking down at Margo. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much, does he?”

Margo shrugged. “I scare people.”

“You don’t scare me,” Father Joe said. “And I’m frightened of everything.”

They both frowned at the priest simultaneously.

“Okay, so I don’t frighten easily,” he admitted. “But really what could he be frightened of?”

Margo looked at Bryant. “You spoke with him last night. What did he say?”

What could he possibly tell her without inflicting more psychological trauma into a mind which deserved some breathing room? He considered going into the details of the plane crash, but she didn’t have any recollection of the accident. It was the mercy of her extraordinary brain that allowed her the reprieve.

“First of all he has a GPS device fastened to your car, so he knows exactly where you are,” Bryant said.

Margo shrugged again. “It doesn’t take a GPS device to tell you I’m at church. I’m here every day.”

“Nevertheless,” he said. “You’re right about one thing. He doesn’t trust you.”

Father Joe rubbed the back of his neck. “I still don’t understand what the FBI could possibly want with her. She poses no threat to anyone.”

“I think I know,” Margo said. She looked at both of them as if examining their disposition. “He’s not doing what they want.”

“What do you mean?” Bryant asked.

“I mean,” the teenager shuffled her feet. “His boss doesn’t want him following me. He’s doing all of this on his own.”

“Is he just a . . . uh, creep?” Father Joe asked. The way he asked it, with embarrassment in his tone, everyone understood the implication.

“No,” Margo said flatly. “It’s not like that.”

A navy-blue pickup truck rolled around the corner of the building and slowly passed the group. The driver examined them carefully as he passed. He was a large-faced man with a beard and round cheeks.

“What are you two talking about?” Bryant asked.

Father Joe and Margo exchanged glances.

The pickup truck stopped twenty feet away in the middle of the parking lot. The conversation faltered as they waited for the driver. Bryant suspected the man was searching for directions.

The door to the vehicle opened and the driver lifted his heavy frame from the truck. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. The way he hobbled from the cab, it seemed as if he’d been driving a long distance, his knees and legs stiff from immobility. Bryant noticed the Alaska license plate.

Margo immediately gasped and began walking backward, away from everyone.

“Can I help you?” Father Joe asked.

The man reached behind his back. Before Bryant saw the gun he heard Margo scream. It happened too quickly for him to react, or maybe he just froze. One loud gunshot, then two. The man fired at Margo as she held out her hands in vain. Father Joe ran to her as she collapsed. Bryant rushed at the man full-out, body-slamming him to the ground, but it was too late. The man offered little resistance as Bryant grabbed the gun and sent it skidding along the asphalt.

Bryant squeezed the man’s throat with fury. He turned to see Father Joe clutching Margo’s lifeless frame, her body wilting in his arms. The sound of the gunshots still rang in Bryant’s ears as he frantically reached for his cell phone with his free hand and dialed 911.

The man lay there beneath Bryant, his wild eyes flittering and his breathing shallow. Bryant gave the essential information and threw down his phone. He glanced over and saw the blood spreading across Margo’s T-shirt, too fast. He had to get to her, but his rage wouldn’t allow him to let go of the shooter. His body pulsed with adrenalin as he looked down at the man who seemed to be saying something. Bryant realized he was still squeezing the man’s neck, his face turning purple from the lack of oxygen. When Bryant loosened his grip the man finally sputtered out a few words.

“She’s . . .” he wheezed, as his hand pointed up to a dark cloud billowing overhead. “She’s one of them.”

Chapter 15

By the time the ambulance was halfway to the hospital, Bryant could see Margo was bleeding too much. The EMTs were working on her like she was a mannequin, furiously shoving handfuls of gauze sponges onto her chest and watching them fill with blood in seconds. She was unconscious, with a plastic oxygen mask over her nose and an IV bag dropping fluids into her system.