The Harbinger Break (26 page)

  
His body hurt, he was tired earlier, woke up earlier, and often found himself just too exhausted to make love to her. On a whim, he heard of Sherwood Hills and thought the countryside would be exactly what their relationship needed, and at first the move had helped.

  
But then things fell back to how they were, and there were some days that they wouldn't say more than a few sentences to each other. He golfed with Mark Herman, the only other Sherwood Hills resident around his age, and she spent most of her time with the ladies or with Nick Robins, which would've made Bernard nervous except that Belinda frequently reminded him that Nick was homosexual.

  
But it wasn't the idea of her cheating on him that upset him the most. What got to him was that he couldn't be there for her in the ways that she needed, and he loved her and wished he could. He resolved to try his best later that night, in the privacy of their shared bedroom.

  
In the present moment, he tried to think of something to say as he watched her ignore him, but as moment after uncomfortable moment passed, he resigned to try later. He shot her one last look, then ran back across the street, back behind the cover of the Lang's house, past that, and back to Andy's house.

  
The arrangement of Sherwood Hills was basically a rectangle–three houses north and three south, two east and two west. Bernard thought of the arrangement as he walked back inside. Starting at twelve o'clock north, the houses went from Andy's, to Mitch Anderson's. Turn the corner to the Jack's then the Thomas's. He shook his head at the thought of the dead family. He'd always liked them.

  
Turn the corner south to his own home, then to Brandon Holt's next door at six o'clock, then to Nick's. Turn the corner west for the Jordan and Opal Wood's home, then Mark Herman's. Turn the corner back north for Stanley and Lindsey Lang's then back to Andy's'.

  
One man from each side guarded their mutual backyard, and two addition men, or people (considering his wife was on duty), guarded the north/south streets on the east and west sides. The byway that led to their small town ran diagonally north-east from south of their development. Few cars ever took that street aside from their small community and the random traveler taking the scenic route. Jack Evans had commissioned their small neighborhood and handpicked its residents. Their homes, in Bernard's opinion, were large and beautiful. Then again, he'd lived in the city his whole life, so he didn't consider himself too credible on the subject.

  
Bernard entered Andy's home and sat on the couch, thinking about his wife, his home, and everything he'd earned, and found himself stricken numb by the calamity of his once-pristine life shattered in seemingly every aspect.

  
As he reclined on his side for a quick nap before his next shift, he hoped that this would all be over soon.

   Bernard slept fitfully, unable to shake the thought of Nick Robins in bed with his wife.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Jordan Wood felt his luck had finally run out as he looked at the faces of potential killers. Four murders in their development, no suspect, and no escape. One of which done by a man sitting across from him now. A stranger who preached paranoia and madness, but logically wasn't wrong.

  
The fact of the matter was that these murders were not likely committed by a spontaneous lunatic, just too many factors would have to be ignored for that to be the case.

  
Jordan hated to think it, but saw no alternative. The murders were alien related, they had to be. Someone had either tried to set up the professor, or the professor had orchestrated a killing that made it look so. If the former was true, they were fucked. If the latter was true, they were even more fucked.

  
Either way, nobody could leave because not only was someone, or something, watching them, but the deep distrust manifesting in town only magnified with the alien replacement theory and it seemed every couple was uncertain of their significant other being whom they appeared. Only Nick Robins and Brandon Holt were free from that particular paranoia, but they wouldn't leave due solely to blind idiotic loyalty and a curiosity to see this alien situation finished.

  
Jordan didn't waste his time mentioning to Opal that the two of them should bail. Even if they could sneak away without being caught, he knew she didn't trust him. Never had–and why would she? He'd always been manically depressed–even before this alien situation, and she never knew how she'd find him.

  
Sometimes he was cynical and pessimistically cheerful, and other times mean–but not just mean, though. She called it simply "dark", but the manner she said it–in a low, sad whisper–added a thousand pounds to the word. When in a lighter mood, she'd say he was the devil on the devil's shoulder.

  
Of course, he'd also been having an affair with his psychiatrist for years now. Why Opal even loved him he couldn't fathom. She knew about his affair too, even if she refused to acknowledge it. A few times a week he had "appointments"–he wasn't even a patient of hers anymore–some medical moral code or something. Opal would ask him, not as a question but in a you-should-feel-guilty sort of way, "why aren't you getting any better?"

  
He'd reply that he was trying and that the whole thing was a process. He'd say he hated and desperately wanted to be rid of his condition. But that was a lie. Deep down, he cherished his condition and attributed it to his success. To lose his insanity would be to lose his inspiration, and without writing he was certain he'd have ended it all years prior.

  
But he wasn't the only one keeping secrets, he knew that much. Opal had a drug habit she wanted him to know about–she'd left her empty syringes in places she knew he'd look. But that didn't concern him nearly as much as her poetry, which she published under a pseudonym concerning living with him and his condition.

  
But even that wasn't all–the strangeness wasn't limited to only him and Opal.

  
He knew something strange was going on between Nick Robins and Belinda Scott.

  
He knew Brandon Holt likely supplied Opal with whatever drug it was she used.

  
He knew Stanley and Lindsey Lang spent way more money than their alleged professions could possibly earn, and he'd spotted Stanley Lang with a few shady guests at an abnormally late hour more than a few times.

  
And details concerning Bernard Scott's previous marriage often faltered slightly with each retelling.

  
The list went on–the Perkins just seemed off, Cameron Thomas and wife had seemed off as well. Jordan considered that it might just be because of his paranoia or delusions, but Mark and Marilyn Herman were the only ones he thought weren't hiding something, and Jordan trusted them least of all, less even than he trusted the Professor, whom he was certain wasn't a real professor. The fact that aliens were involved didn't create mistrust, it just magnified it.

  
Jordan, tired of the repetitive conversation inside, walked out back, which he noted felt like out front, and confronted Jack Evans on the porch.

  
"Any movement on Lee's side?" he asked.

  
"Nothing," Jack said, keeping his eyes focused across the yard. "Bernard just went inside and Andy just came out. Haven't seen Lee for a whole day."

  
"So they're convinced we're all aliens," Jordan said.

  
"I guess so. It's kind of insane."

  
"Then again, our side thinks that Lee is an alien."

  
Jack looked at him. "We all saw the UFO."

  
"True."

  
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You sound unconvinced."

  
Jordan shrugged. "Maybe a little."

  
"What do you think?"

  
Jordan smirked. He got asked that a lot. "I think we all have our secrets," he said. "Some actually believe the aliens are here, and some of us would just rather believe that than confront the real truth."

  
"Which is?"

  
"We were ten strangers, Jack. Couples, families, loners–who moved to the middle of nowhere on a whim. You developed this community in the middle of nowhere. I think we're all hiding something. It's just easier to confront the aliens than confront ourselves."

  
"You don't believe the alien threat?" Jack asked.

  
Jordan paused. "I believe the threat is real, but I also believe, with or without the aliens, that it was just a matter of time before this community broke. I think all society is bound to destroy itself–it just all falls down to a matter of time."

  
Jack shrugged and stood, handing Jordan his gun. "Seems my shift is up anyway. So what's your secret, Wood?"

  
Jordan grinned. "My secret?" He looked at the sky and sighed. "My secret is that I wish we could confront the aliens, just to learn how they survived amongst themselves long enough to colonize space."

  
Jack looked at him, then followed his gaze upwards. "If the aliens weren't here," Jack said. "We might've been well on our way to that path."

  
Jordan shook his head. "I doubt that. We'd be well on our way to an all-out nuclear war with some foreign country over oil, money, weapons, politics, or whatever–you name it."

  
"You think that little of humanity?"

  
"No. I think that much of intelligent life."

  
Jack returned his gaze to Jordan, which he let linger a moment longer before shrugging and walking inside. Jordan took the seat on the porch, holding the rifle at his side, and squinted across the field, watching his neighbor squint back–both men ready to fire upon the other at any moment.

Chapter 12

   Summers drove the entire way back to Raleigh while Penelope slept in the back. The drive allowed Summers to calm down, and as he thought back to recent events he realized that he could, in fact, calm down. He and Penelope had obtained enough evidence, and his friend was okay and repeatedly assured Summers that there was no possible way that the cops had enough evidence to discern who he was before they'd left the hospital. Phillip Quincy had been dead for years and Penelope Plum wasn't in their system. They'd surely link Phillip Quincy to the death of Daniel Berry, but that would lead them precisely nowhere.

  
And so, for the first time since their mission, Summers felt confident that their plan had actually worked. He took another long sip of coffee, polishing off his eighth cup. Sam Higgins wasn't the offspring of a murderer–his parents’ only crime had been trying to bring their son a better life. And Berry using Sam to bolster the success rate of the GenDec program compromised its validity entirely. Plus, the evidence of their techniques–the torture, was enough–it
had
to be enough to take GenDec down. It was almost time to start thinking about how to kill Pat Shane.

  
Almost, but not yet. In reality, it was long past time to call Paige.

  
He dialed her number. It was nine in the morning–he knew she'd probably be grabbing breakfast at Albert's Bagels now. It rang a few times, and he wondered what response he'd get when she answered. He hoped not angry, considering the good news he had to tell was veiled by a lot of almost dying and getting arrested.

  
The ringing stopped and he heard a click.

  
"So how'd it go?" she said, straight to the point as usual.

  
He paused before responding. "Worse than expected–but everything worked itself out."

  
She sighed. "So what happened?"

  
"Well," he said. "The abridged version: Berry woke up."

  
"Oh."

  
"Yeah. So that went down as badly as you'd expect. But we got what we needed."

  
"Everyone okay?"

  
"Penelope was shot. I killed Berry, had no choice. He was gunning for me next."

  
Paige paused before responding. "You okay?"

  
"Better than you'd think. Berry was a really bad guy."

  
"I know. So what'd you find?"

  
Summers took a breath. "The GenDec success rate was falsified. And Sam Higgins, who I'd spoken with about Pat Shane, shouldn't have been in the program. Berry bribed him to do well with an American citizenship and his history forgotten. At that age Higgins probably didn't know better, not to mention what good would it have done if he had?"

  
"American citizenship?"

  
"Oh yeah. I found out that Higgins is Cuban. He was a toddler when his parents attempted to immigrate here illegally and were killed."

  
"Heavy stuff. So why bribe him?"

  
"Not sure. Probably because Sam knew his history, and revealing it after he finished GenDec would compromise the validity of the program's alleged success. He knew he shouldn't have been there, Paige. Who knows how many others Berry enlisted for the same reason? He's made millions off this. What if the kid, Michael, shouldn't have been there either?"

  
"Chris, please. You can't think about that."

  
"Still do."

  
"Just think of the good you're doing. Bet Michael wouldn't mind that Berry's dead."

  
Summers grinned. "Probably not."

  
"Definitely not. But what you said, about the other kids Berry may have enlisted–that's a good point. An investigation into GenDec would expose–"

  
"–Expose everyone Berry used to falsify the program's success. Exactly. People wouldn't be too thrilled finding out that a program they're taxed for has been lying to them and doesn't even work."

  
"So what we got–better than we expected?"

  
"Way better."

  
"That's great, Chris," Paige said. Summers sensed a genuine softness in her tone. "You guys on your way back?" she continued.

  
"Yep. Penelope's sleeping in the backseat. I'm driving."

  
"You sound exhausted."

  
"Had a few cups of coffee–been up a few nights in a row now."

  
"Chris."

  
"Yeah?"

  
"Listen." She paused, then continued softly. "Do you want to come over when you get back?"

  
He grinned. "If I didn't know better I'd think you were worried about me."

  
"You know I was," she said.

  
He let the moment linger before replying. "Yeah. I'll come over," he said. "I'll call you when I get back."

  
"Okay."

  
Her 'okay' seemed indefinite, and he hesitated, thinking he should say something, feeling as if she was waiting for him to say something, or wanting to speak herself–but he resolved that now wasn't the time. He hung up, then checked on Penelope in the backseat, relieved to find him still asleep.

   Eight hours later he pulled up to Penelope's derelict apartment building and woke his friend with a gentle shake.

  
"You alright?" Summers asked as his friend stirred.

  
"I'll live."

  
Penelope complexion remained pale, yet his cheeks were flushed from sleeping on the rough fiber of the seats, which gave him a livelier glow than he likely deserved. His hair was oddly skewed and his lips were chapped.

  
Summers turned off the car and studied his friend's building. The daylight made the apartment look even more decrepit, and Summers felt a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving his friend, who'd been shot on his behalf, at a dump like this. He reminded himself that it wasn't a financial issue of Penelope's, it was a privacy issue. He remembered the cleanliness of Penelope's apartment. It wasn't too ratty once past the somehow-not-broken elevator and the carpet swamp.

  
Summers stepped out of his car and began to walk Penelope into his apartment, but Penelope stopped him. "I'm fine," he said, grinning. "Go chill with your girlfriend."

  
So he'd just been pretending to be asleep.

  
Summers sighed. It was one of those things he'd rather not have to talk about–at least not yet. Penelope sensed his hesitation and motioned for him to leave. "It's okay," he said. "Go away."

  
Summers smiled. "Alright alright," he said, shaking his friend's outstretched hand. "Call me if you need anything."

  
"Will do, brother."

  
Penelope turned and ascended the steps to his building, and Summers watched him, ensuring he could make it on his own. Once satisfied, he returned to the car, took out his phone, and dialed Paige. He glanced up as the phone rang to find Penelope grinning at him oddly. He resisted the urge to flick him off and pulled out of the parking lot with a wave.

  
"You're finally back?" Paige asked, never one to begin a telephone conversation with a simple 'hey'.

  
"Yeah," Summers said. He took a breath. "Do you want to grab dinner?"

  
Silence followed, but a special kind. Maybe it was for only a second, but to him it felt much longer, at least in his gut it did. It was the kind of silence only experienced during moments like a shared meteor shower, or flying a kite, or the instant a sliver of the sun is visible on the horizon–when something so cosmically significant is experienced that the only possible reaction is silence, to just fall into the overwhelming incomprehensible and be perfectly okay. That was this silence, which wasn't just about dinner–it was his realization that the person whom had taken over his mind in that moment back at GenDec, when he'd been a coin-flip from death, had been her.

  
"Finally. Obviously I do, Chris," she said, and he grinned.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Once safely on the byway south Sam reasoned his best bet to find Pat was in Savannah, where Pat stole the ambulance. It didn't make a lot of sense that Pat would return the ambulance, seeing as how he could simply abandon it in the woods somewhere, but it was the only lead Sam had, so that was his stop.

  
He arrived in Savannah from Knoxville eight hours later, to find that shit had hit the fan and splattered across the city in such an aggressive manner that he found himself hard-pressed to find a single civilian not making a stink over the nature of the food. Was Pat here now, or had he and Pat made such an impression those two weeks ago that things had gotten this out of hand in their absence?

  
Apparently the need for supernatural consultation was abnormally high in Savannah. What had happened, Sam soon discovered, was that the psychics he and Pat spoke to relayed the information concerning the food to their psychic friends, who then used the poison in the food as an explanation for the problems in their clients’ lives. Thus: "The aliens are poisoning us–the government is poisoning us!" screamed signs and the protesters holding them.

  
The great thing about psychics, Sam realized, was that nobody questioned how psychics knew what they knew. Maybe that meant he could reveal what he'd learned–not as Sam Higgins, but as Theron Thurston.

  
So it was time for his magnificent return to the Quarter Moon Inn. He drove through the blocked streets jammed with picketers and parked at the familiar hotel where, less than two weeks ago, Pat violently set him up as bait to abed his escape from the police.

  
He left his car and entered the hotel. Hopefully someone who knew him or knew of him would be there, and he could play for them the recording on his phone–which would do nothing if not spur these already angry civilians to an outrage. Sam knew word would spread.

  
He stepped out of his car, and not a moment later–

  
"Theron Thurston himself!"

  
Sam turned, and the owner of the voice was none other than Ron Howard, approaching with a few other psychics Sam had never met.

  
"This is the guy I'd been telling you guys about," Ron said. "The psychic apparently wanted by the government for spreading word of the poisoned food–"

  
Sam stopped him, eyes wide. "What do you mean 'wanted by the government' ?"

  
Ron gave him a curious look. "Theron, my friend, we all saw the medics carrying you out–cops did quite a number on you from what I could tell." He clasped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "So, how'd you two escape?"

  
Sam sighed, relieved. "Well, we–"

  
Ron interrupted him. "–Wait, where's John? We didn't see the cops take him. Is he alright?"

  
"John, right. John's fine," Sam said. "Off spreading the word, you know."

  
"Quite the disappearing act, your partner is," Ron said. He stroked his beard. "Truly extraordinary what we discovered, about the poisoning. Our gift can certainly be burdensome at times!" He laughed and the three other psychics joined in.

  
Sam motioned a hand towards the chaos of the city. "So, I see you've effectively spread the word," he said. "Let me warn you, for I've had a second vision: the poison is in the food, but it originates from salt. But removing the salt completely from one's diet can be deadly. I was lucky, many others were not so. We need to proceed with extreme caution."

  
Ron nodded gravely. "Interesting. How do you suggest we proceed?"

  
"As you are is fine," Sam said after a moment. "We need people to be aware, but not become delirious. I'm working on a plan to find the root of this problem. It's possible that aliens are not the culprits, but instead the culprit is the arrogance of humanity."

  
Ron stroked his beard. "Riveting stuff, my friend."

  
"Quite," the short flamboyant psychic on his right agreed.

  
That was enough for Sam. Word would spread, people wouldn't be ignorant of their poison for longer, but hopefully wouldn't take drastic measures. A few people at a time withdrawing from the substance was bad, but manageable–everyone all at once would be chaos.

  
Ron would make aware the public that salt was the culprit, and as long as the word spread slow enough society would maintain its perilous balance.