J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (24 page)

She pushed open the door to her office, reached to flick on the light switch—and frowned to find it already on. Odd. Someone must have been in here while she was gone—she never forgot to turn off the lights in her life. She turned and took a step toward her desk—and froze.

There was a strange man sitting in her chair, drinking a cup of coffee.

She headed for the door, her first impulse to call Security, but unfortunately, her phone was on llic desk next to the stranger's right elbow.

He set his cup down on the desk, rose, and smiled disarmingly at her. "I'm sorry if I startled you. You must be Dr. McCuIlough."

Suzanne hesitated in the doorway and studied him suspiciously, not quite able to decide whether to head back down the hall in search of the guard. The visitor certainly didn't seem threatening: he was a lean, silver-haired gentleman who looked to be in his late sixties, clean shaven, affable, with an easy charm and rather handsome features. He was casually dressed in a blue cotton shirt and a pair of khakis.

"Yes, I'm Dr. McCuIlough . . ." she answered cautiously. "Just whom were you looking for?"

"No one in particular." The stranger picked up his coffee and came around the desk toward her; instead of feeling threatened, she got the odd impression that there was something very familiar about him. "I used to work here. This was my office before I retired, and, I have to admit, I was indulging in a bit of nostalgia. My apologies. Usually, the place is deserted until eight-thirty, nine o'clock." He paused. "You must be a very dedicated worker, Dr. McCuIlough."

She frowned, curious. "Do I know you?"

"I don't think so." He extended a hand. "Clayton Forrester."

"Dr. Forrester—" she repeated, surprised. No wonder he seemed familiar; Harrison had a picture of a much younger Forrester on his desk. She barely managed to stop herself from saying,
But I thought you were dead . .
. though, come to think of it, Harrison never had actually come right out and said as much. She took his hand; his grip wasn't very strong, and when she looked at him closely, he did seem rather pale. "I'm very honored to meet you, sir, but Harrison never mentioned that you would be coming."

"Harrison didn't know." Forrester gestured her toward her chair. "Please, sit. You don't mind if I rest a moment?" He sounded a little breathless.

"Not at all." She took her seat behind the desk and eyed him with concern, but Forrester already seemed recovered and was casually sipping his coffee. "Was this really your office, Dr. Forrester?"

He waved a hand at her. "Please . . . call me Clayton."

"Clayton," she repeated a little awkwardly. Now she understood where Harrison got the first-name habit from—as well as the khakis. "And my name is Suzanne."

"Yes, I know, Suzanne." He nodded. "Harrison has nothing but good things to say about you."

The corner of her mouth quirked cynically before she had a chance to stop it. "Really?"

He looked up from his cup, his soft brown eyes shining with faint amusement. "You sound surprised. You shouldn't be."

"Well. . . uh, I'm not, really. I have a lot of admiration for Harrison . . . professionally speaking, of course."

"Of course," Forrester agreed, his tone carefully

noncommittal. "Harrison is quite impressed with you. So am I. When I saw your resume, I told Harrison he should hire you immediately." He paused. "Actually, I've come today because I was hoping to hear from Harrison last night, after he got back from Washington . . . and he's not answering his phone. Has a nasty habit of unplugging the damn thing when he's sleeping or doesn't want to talk to anyone. I'm assuming the worst—that you didn't get the help you were hoping for."

The mere mention of it reminded her of how tired and discouraged she felt. She took a large swallow of coffee and stared down into the cup, clutching it tightly as if to draw strength from it. "No," she said flatly. "But we're hopeful. The military wants proof, and we're going to find a way to give them just that."

"I see." Forrester nodded gravely; he stared at her so intently that after several seconds she fidgeted self-consciously in her chair. He noticed, and shook himself out of his reverie. "I'm sorry." He smiled apologetically and stared down into his cup. "It's just that—" He looked up at her. "You know, you remind me very much of someone who was close to me."

She felt herself starting to blush, but at the same time she was genuinely touched. "I do?"

He nodded, smiling wistfully. "Your cousin—your second cousin, I suppose. You're very much like her."

Sylvia,
she realized, and tensed at the thought.

Forrester noticed her discomfort and said, "Sylvia was a very brilliant, warm woman. A very brave woman who went through more than anyone should have to." His face darkened for an instant, but it passed quickly, and then he was smiling up at Suzanne again. "You must forgive me, Suzanne. I'm an old man, and old age brings with it a certain amount of freedom—such as the freedom to speak one's mind. I don't have time to beat around the bush anymore."

"Sorry?" she whispered. She couldn't quite follow, and assumed that he was rambling, a little bit senile. The thought embarrassed her even more.

But Forrester seemed quite cognizant of what he was saying. "Let me say what I've come to say. Harrison is an incredibly good, caring man—I know, I raised him. But you must be patient with him. This joking facade of his is just a big cover-up; underneath, he's a very serious young man. Too serious to be wasting his time with the likes of that Phillipson woman." His lip curled slightly at the thought.

"Um," she said, by this time blushing furiously and far too startled to say anything intelligible. Why, he was giving her his blessing to go after Harrison!

"Wasting his time," Forrester repeated, shaking his head. "He has absolutely nothing in common with-—"

Clayton broke off at the sound of someone clearing his throat. Suzanne glanced up to see Harrison, his arms folded, leaning in the doorway, his expression one of utmost disapproval. He was looking only a little less haggard than he had last night, and was dressed in the flannel shirt and khakis again.

"Forgive me for interrupting the heart-to-heart. Clayton—" His tone was one of disapproval, ernbar-rassment, and honest surprise. "What the devil are
you
doing here?"

Brown eyes wide with innocence, Forrester smiled up at Harrison. "Why, hello, Harrison," he said smoothly, not in the least bit disconcerted by the timing of the interruption. "We were just talking about you."

"So I heard," Harrison answered dryly. "How did you get here?"

"I took a taxi."

Harrison seemed somewhat dazed by this information, but said, "Well, look, Clayton, Dr. McCullough—"

"Suzanne," Clayton corrected him, and took a casual sip of his coffee.

To her surprise, Harrison actually blushed. "Yes, well, Suzanne has a lot of work to do. Come with me and I'll fill you in on what happened."

Clayton stood up and said graciously, "I enjoyed meeting you, Suzanne."

She rose and took his hand. "It was a pleasure, Clayton."

Harrison straightened and stepped inside the room. "You know where my office is, Clayton. Catch up to you in two seconds."

"Right." Forrester turned to give Suzanne a wink, then headed out the door.

Harrison rolled his eyes at her, then closed the door behind him. "Suzanne—I apologize if he embarrassed you. I hope he didn't say anything that—"

"Actually," she interrupted, "I thought he was charming. A little too direct, maybe, but perfectly

lucid." Which was all true. Forrester had seemed very aware of the effect his words had on both Harrison and Suzanne.

Harrison relaxed noticeably, but shook his head as if unable to believe what had just happened.

"Frankly," Suzanne said, and hesitated, then decided to say it anyway. "I thought he had passed away a long time ago, from the way you spoke about it. It was sort of like talking to a ghost."

"I suppose it was," Harrison answered softly, and looked away. "I guess in my own mind I think of the man who raised me as dead. He's been crippled by depression for years; in fact, this is the first time he's been out of the house in weeks . . . and the first time he's been to PITS in years."

"I didn't realize ... he seemed perfectly well to me." Suzanne saw it all suddenly from Harrison's point of view, what it must have been like to lose both parents to the aliens, and then to watch a third slowly destroyed by them over the years. The man wasn't paranoid or eccentric at all. "I'm sorry, Harrison. That must be very difficult for you."

Harrison shrugged. "It's been harder on Clayton. But it's funny . . . it's almost as if—" He paused. "I thought knowing about what's happened with the aliens would be the straw to break the camel's back, but it seems to have the opposite effect."

"I'm glad for that, at least."

Harrison still wouldn't meet her eyes. "So am I. And I'm amazed to find him here." He turned to leave but glanced back at her awkwardly. "Well, again, I'm sorry if he embarrassed you—"

"Speak for yourself," she said lightly.

He grimaced at that and left.

Harrison caught up with Forrester in the hallway. The anger and embarrassment he felt about what Clayton had said to Suzanne was eclipsed by his joy at seeing his second father up and around and looking interested in his surroundings. Clayton actually seemed—well, not his old self, but certainly better. He'd shaved, combed his hair, and put on clean clothes, and he wasn't shuffling, but walking with something very much like a sense of purpose toward Harrison's office.

"Clayton, I'm really surprised to see you here."

Clayton seemed rather amused by the stir he was creating. "You didn't call," he replied good-naturedly. "I was concerned. I figured the government turned you down." He looked sideways at Harrison. "I came to see if there was anything I could do to help."

Not really,
Harrison almost answered, but stopped himself at the last minute. His gaze traveled over the older man.
Look at him—he came all this way after all this time. You can't just send him home and tell him he's useless.

As they paused at the door to his office, Harrison reached, out and laid a hand on Forrester's bony shoulder. "Actually, the government didn't exactly turn us down—but they're demanding evidence. I could really use another brain to pick. Let me fill you in on what we're doing . . ."

Clayton's eyes brightened.

SEVENTEEN

Insistent jazzlike percussion was blasting at full volume from the stereo speakers mounted on the ceiling of Norton's office. Harrison stood in the doorway with his hands clapped over his ears and felt his teeth vibrate.

"Norton!" he yelled.

No response. Oblivious to Harrison's presence, Norton was navigating in his chair over to the computer, squinting at a sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Dammit, Norton, turn that
down\"

Norton glanced up just as the chair lowered him in front of his computer console. "Oh, hi, Harrison. Volume
down."
The noise eased to a tolerable level.

"Whew." Harrison entered, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. "What the hell are you listening to?"

"You like it?" Norton moved the upper half of his

body to the beat, shoulders and muscular brown arms swaying as he snapped his fingers in time.

"Frankly, no," Harrison answered flatly. He was not in a particularly good mood—by midmorning, Clayton, though interested in discussing Harrison's strategy for providing Wilson with his "hard evidence," had become physically exhausted, and Harrison had sent him home in a taxi. Nothing serious, Clayton had assured him, just not used to getting out and around anymore, but Harrison was still worried.

"Surprised you don't recognize it," Norton retorted. "It's our alien boys. I personally think it beats the hell out of the Muzak they play around here. Did I tell you I was in the cafeteria the other day with Suzanne and heard the elevator rendition of Prince's "Let's Pretend We're Married'?" He sighed. "The bastardization of art. I almost lost my lunch."

Harrison ignored him and peered over his shoulder at the numbers on the terminal screen. "Anything new?"

Since the meeting in Washington, Harrison had been overwhelmed by an anxious restlessness. Every minute lost trying to dig up evidence to please Wilson was another minute the aliens had to regroup and locate their ships and weapons.

It was worsened by the fact that there was nothing he or Clayton could really do at the moment to produce that evidence: it was up to Norton and Suzanne now. Since Clayton had gone, Harrison had been pacing up and down the halls the rest of the morning, poking his head into Norton's office and generally irritating the hell out of him. This was

probably the fifth time he'd been by to see how Norton was doing, although after the embarrassing scene with Clayton earlier, Harrison had avoided Suzanne. Maybe the loud percussion was Norton's way of discouraging further visits.

"Zip, zed, zero, nothing." Norton's head rocked from side to side. "You know I'll call the minute I've got something. The bad guys are maintaining radio silence." He reached out and touched Harrison's arm. "Catch this riff. . ." He beat on the edge of the terminal, using both index fingers as drumsticks. "Don't know what it's all about, but you gotta admit —those aliens sure got rhythm."