J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (33 page)

Xashron bowed his head. "Thank you, Advocacy," he replied stiffly, and promised himself that he would deal with Xorr and the Advocacy as soon as his mission was accomplished.

Harrison stood in front of the open door of his house and was assaulted by the smell of rotten banana peel, a less-than-subtle reminder that he hadn't been home enough lately to take out the garbage. And more than that greeted Mm: on the foyer tile lay a pale pink envelope. He felt a surge of hopefulness: Char! For a moment he forgot all that had happened, remembered only that he missed her and wanted to bury his face in her soft, perfumed hair. He bent down to pick the envelope up; it
was addressed in Char's oversized,
elegant calligraphy, in
violet
ink,
to H. Blackwood.

"Shit." Not a good sign. With sour disappointment he recalled their last few encounters. He was not one to hold grudges, always quick to forgive and forget hurts, and he kept making the mistake of assuming that everyone else was like him. Clearly, it wasn't the case with Charlotte. There was something heavy sliding around inside the envelope-—his housekey.
Dammit, I don't need this right now . . .

He slipped it, unopened, into his shirt pocket. He'd pack first and read the letter later tonight, after they got to where they were going.

"All clear," Ironhorse called from inside, and Harrison walked into the living room. The colonel had insisted on "securing the area" before permitting Harrison into his own house; Harrison tolerated it with faint amusement, but at the same time he wondered just how long he and Ironhorse could work together without coming to blows. For aow, Ms ultramilitary approach to everything was something to make fun of; after a while it was bound to become aggravating in the extreme. Ironhorse no doubt thought the same thing about him.

He walked past the colonel without looking at him, into the bedroom, and dug three bags—one suitcase and two shapeless nylon tote bags—out of the closet, threw them on the bed, and stared at them. Now, what did you pack when you didn't know where you were going and you had no idea how long you were going to stay? He finally emptied his underwear and sock drawer into the suitcase, then pulled every clean pair of pants from the closet and packed them is too. By the time he stuffed his shirts in, the suitcase was full and he pressed hard on it to get it snapped shut. His ditty bag was in one of the nylon bags, and he gazed at it: only enough toiletries for a weekend, really.

Ironhorse stuck Ms scowling face into the bedroom. At the sight of him, Harrison asked, "Hey, just how long are we gonna be there?"

"As long as it takes to stop them," Ironhorse said grimly, "Could be weeks . .. could be months."

Harrison nodded and picked the bag up, intending to head for the bathroom, but the colonel blocked the doorway and thrust an overstuffed white plastic garbage bag at Harrison like an accusation. "Which way to the dumpster?"

Harrison backed away from the rotten odor. "You don't have to do that—"

Ironhorse's gaze was dangerous. "I do. I have orders from Wilson to see to your well-being. You leave for three months and come back, this thing'll be lethal. Besides, the damn thing is gassing me out."

Fighting an urgent need to hold his nose, Harrison pointed. "Out the back door and hang a right. It's at the end of the walkway."

Ironhorse disappeared immediately; Harrison called after him, "You know, when this is over, I could really use someone to come in twice a week—"

The back door slammed in response.

He went to the bathroom and threw extra toiletries into the bag: shave cream, toothpaste, shampoo. By

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the time he went back into the bedroom, he realized he had packed everything except the most important stuff, back at the Institute. He sat wearily on the bed and looked around. He wouldn't miss the little house; it was just a place to sleep—but leaving the Institute was going to be rough.

He became consciously aware of the letter in his pocket; it seemed to press against his chest with tangible weight. For an instant he struggled against the impulse to pull it from his pocket and read it . . . then yielded.

He tore it open and shook it so that the key dropped into his hand, then put the key in his pocket and slid the neatly folded page from the envelope.

It took him a second to work up the courage to unfold it, even though the key already told him what he wanted to know.

Harrison—

(No "dear" or anything. Damn, she was mad.)

Am returning your key. Mail me mine. If you

show in person, this time I
will
call the police.

That was it—not even a signature. Mostly he felt numb, but under the layer of numbness was an undeniable hurt. Impossible to believe that she could really stop loving him—turn it off like the kitchen faucet—because he didn't make enough money. Refused to make enough money. He let the letter drop into his lap and picked up a framed photograph on the nightstand. It was a picture of himself and Char

mugging for the camera at some party or other, Harrison in a tuxedo with his index fingers hooked into the comers of his mouth, pulling it into a wide gaping grin while his tongue hung out; Char selfconsciously photogenic, wearing that tolerant smile of hers. He stared at her, his feelings oddly mixed: he hated her for misleading him, letting him think she loved him for himself.. . and at the same time, he loved her—or, at least, the person he
thought
she had been—funny, bright, carefree, all the things he pretended to be and knew he could never really bs because of the burden bequeathed him by Clayton and Ms parents.

Clayton, at least, Harrison mused ironically, would be glad to hear about the breakup.

Ironhorse appeared in the doorway again and nodded at the suitcases on the floor. "All set?"

Harrison nodded and set the photo back on the nightstand. "Yeah, but we'll need to stop by the Institute. There are a thousand things there I need—"

"It's taken care of."

"But those things are more important than anything here," Harrison protested. "I need my instru—"

Ironhorse silenced him with a bronze hand. "I said it's all taken care of, Doctor." He crossed the room to pick up the suitcase and one of the bags; on his way out he paused to glance at the photograph of Char. "Pretty lady."

"Yeah," Harrison said dully, sliding the letter back inside the envelope. He was about to put it back into

his pocket but changed his mind and set it down next to the picture.

Where he was going, he wouldn't be needing either of them.

The station wagon threaded its way behind the Bronco, which was packed so full Suzanne couldn't make out the three men inside, only suitcases pressing Norton's chair against the rear windshield. The Bronco kicked up so much dust on the unpaved road, she had the windows rolled up and the vent turned on. In
the
front seat, Deb leaned against the passenger door, sourly watching the landscape roll by, right elbow on
the
armrest, cheek against her hand. If she withdrew any further, Suzanne decided, she would fall right out the door.

"All right," Suzanne said calmly, trying to play the rational adult. A real challenge at this point; her eyes were burning with fatigue, and an hour ago, her rumbling stomach communicated to her that in her excitement she had neglected to eat anything that day. "You can stop pouting now, Ms. McCuIlough."

"I'm not pouting," Debi muttered into her hand. "How much longer?"

Suzanne sighed. "I don't know. They didn't tell me. I'm not enjoying this any more than you, Deb."

"Why do we have to move?" Deb whined, sitting up. "They already moved us
once
—isn't that enough?"

"It's only for a little while." There were times such as this one when Suzanne wished she could explain

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everything to Debi, so she could understand the urgent necessity of her mother's absences, of the second move. Yet at the same time, Suzanne felt relief that the project's secrecy precluded her from telling Deb about the aliens.
So young,
she thought, glancing over at her daughter's sullen face.
She deserves to stay a kid a little while longer.

"Deb, you know this is secret work, like the work I did in Ohio. Except that
this
project is even more secret... and important." She paused, trying to decide whether or not her next remark would frighten Deb, then went ahead anyway. "We're going to a place because we have to be protected. It's important that
no one
find out what we're doing."

The girl's eyes brightened a bit. "You mean like foreign spies?"

Feeling triumphant, Suzanne shrugged nonchalantly and kept her eyes on the Bronco. "Something like that. I can't say exactly, of course."

"Ooh, neat." Deb settled back, looking somewhat satisfied. "The Russians are after my mom."

"I didn't say that. And remember, it's top secret."

"You can trust me." Deb scrutinized her mother's face carefully. "So that's why I couldn't stay in school?"

"Mmm," Suzanne said noncommittally. "You'll have a private tutor here."

"That's nice." Deb sighed and nestled her cheek against her hand again. "But I already miss Kim ... and Mrs. Pennyworth." Her blue eyes suddenly began to cloud up.

"It's for the best, chicken," Suzanne soothed.

"Maybe you'll make some new friends where we're going."

Debi turned her face toward the window again. "I hate making new friends."

She rode the rest of the way without speaking.

"How much farther?" Harrison asked as he navigated the Bronco down the uneven dirt road. Much longer, and he'd have to ask Ironhorse to take the wheel before he nodded off.

The colonel leaned forward in the backseat to answer. "We're almost there."

"Thank God. I might make it."

"Amen," Norton echoed next to him in the front seat. "My ass is sure tired of this bumpy road."

Harrison frowned at him. "Quit complaining.
You
didn't spend the night being chased by aliens. Besides, I thought your ass didn't feel much of anything."

Norton lifted a humorously scornful brow at him. "Typical scientist. Doesn't recognize figurative language when he hears it."

Ironhorse shifted in the backseat, apparently uncomfortable with the direct reference to Norton's handicap. Harrison smiled faintly to himself. Maybe some time around Norton would loosen him up. "I know relocating is an inconvenience," the colonel said, "but it's only short-term . . . until we've neutralized the problem."

Norton glanced over his shoulder at Ironhorse. "I like the way this man talks. In fact, my ass is feeling better already. Harrison, you feeling any better?"

Harrison grinned. As a matter of fact, he was, and

the closer he drew to their destination, the better he felt. He might even risk three or four hours of sleep tonight. "A whole lot better, Norton, thank you for asking." He looked up in the rearview mirror at the colonel's stern but puzzled face. "What makes you think neutralizing—gee, I like that word—the aliens will be that easy, especially after what we saw last night?"

Ironhorse's expression shifted to that of someone who knew he wasn't being taken seriously yet at the same time knew he was right. "You saw what they did to my men, Blackwood. I don't care how many of those things are out there. Without their ships or their weapons, they don't have a chance. We'll track them down and kill them."

"If you don't mind, I'll just stick with tracking," Norton said softly.

The colonel frowned at him. "If you're not prepared to take this operation seriously, Mr. Drake—"

"Oh, man, I'm serious." Norton's brown eyes widened innocently. "Whatever made you think I wasn't serious? I'm
always
serious. Harrison, tell the man just how serious I am."

Straight-faced, Harrison said, "When it comes to keeping that unfeeling ass of his safe, Norton is
very
serious."

"Serious," Norton intoned solemnly, "is my middle name. Norton Serious Drake."

Ironhorse shook his head, disgusted, and raised a muscular arm to point at a barely visible dirt path. "This is it."

Harrison steered the Bronco left onto the path, then

minutes later pulled to a stop before a closed electric gate. "Very impressive. Now what?"

In answer, the colonel removed a small remote control from his shirt pocket and punched a combination into the number pad. The gate swung open. "Welcome to Federal Government Property Number 348, a/k/a The Ranch. Without proper authority no one comes in ..."

Harrison drove the Bronco past the gate, checking in the outside rearview to make sure Suzanne followed. She did, and behind her the gate closed automatically. Ironhorse continued. ". . . And no one gets out."

Harrison blinked, trying to focus his weary eyes. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly hadn't been this. Sprawled out on the rolling grassland lay an honest-to-God ranch: a graciously imposing manorial house, freshly whitewashed, sat in front of wooden stables that opened onto a huge fenced-in corral, complete with horse, which paused in the midst of munching hay to eye the newcomers. Harrison emitted a low whistle. "Not bad."