Season of Strangers (25 page)

The doctor sighed and rolled her eyes, then nodded to the man at the door. “Apparently duty calls,” she said to Julie. “We're always trying to raise money to further our studies. Any publicity we can get is helpful.” She called back to her assistant. “Thanks, Tom. Tell him I'll be right there.”

“We appreciate your time, Dr. Stover, and I think I'm beginning to get the picture.”

“As you can see, there are dozens of possibilities. As I said, so far they're mostly theoretical, but that's the way scientific advances are made.”

Julie stared triumphantly at Patrick. “Well, are you satisfied there might really be a way for a spaceship to travel to Earth?”

For a moment his features looked dark, then he actually smiled. “After hearing Dr. Stover, I'd be a liar if I said I didn't believe it could be done.”

“There are a couple of good books on the subject,” the doctor said. “Stephen Hawking wrote one called
A Brief History of Time. Wrinkles in Time,
by Smoot and Davidson, is another.”

“Perhaps I'll read them,” Julie said. But as they walked out the door, she was thinking she really didn't need to.

After hearing Dr. Stover, as far as she was concerned space travel wasn't all that far-fetched. The thought occurred, if a spaceship from another world actually did come to Earth, what would the travelers do once they got here?

Perhaps a study of Earth's inhabitants, as Laura continued to insist, wouldn't be so difficult to imagine.

V
al sat in the study of his penthouse apartment reading the
Los Angeles Times.
Patrick Donovan had enjoyed reading the paper. Val couldn't read the front page without chills running up and down his spine. Murder, rape, gang violence, child abuse—earth's inhabitants were unaccountably savage. Their primitive drives made them reckless, often governed by emotion or instinct, rather than common sense. In Los Angeles alone, not a single day seemed to pass without total mayhem and dozens of heinous crimes.

Val folded the paper and tossed it onto his desk. There was no crime on Toril. No murder, no mayhem, no hideous disease, no suicide, rarely even an accident. Not even the weather played a part in the life or death cycle as it did here on Earth. There the weather never changed. The clear, acrylic-like dome that housed the cities of the planet were all thermostatically controlled.

Life was controlled as well, planned in an orderly fashion from birth to death. From test-tube conception to the end of a normal five-hundred-year cycle. Any reckless, self-destructive urges had been bred out of Torillian genes ten thousand years ago.

Yet history told of a time when they weren't so civilized, so completely controlled. A time they weren't all that much different from people here on Earth.

And in truth, though the violence chilled him, it also gave rise to certain forms of beauty that no longer existed on Toril. In art and in music, the violence, the passion portrayed made the work come to life. Just as it did the residents of Earth themselves. The challenge to survive brought out the best in people, helped them grow and change and achieve a new awareness.

And he had discovered that as much as he was appalled, he was also drawn to the life-or-death struggle people faced each day on Earth. Watching them battle the forces of a tornado or the destructive power of a hurricane was wildly compelling. A man with the courage to face and overcome cancer, or, like Patrick's father, battle to recover from a debilitating stroke, was an inspiration to Val and to others.

In essence, life on Earth was fraught with risks, but it was balanced by incredible rewards.

Val mulled over the notion as he unlocked his middle desk drawer and removed the journal he wrote in each day. He opened it to the latest entry and picked up a pen, tapped it lightly against the blank page.

Here life is struggle,
he began, randomly scratching out his thoughts.

He paused a moment, then the pen moved again.

Val closed the journal, his thoughts moving backward, returning to the charts he had observed on Dr. Stover's wall. Graphs that demonstrated all too clearly several different avenues that would indeed lead to space travel at speeds far greater than the speed of light. Though the actual accomplishment would surely occur at some point in the future, Torillians had reason to be concerned.

But did that also give them the right to interfere?

Val stood up and began to pace the floor, his mind shifting to Julie, to the
Ansor
's proposed experiments, to how they might affect her—and any number of others. Though they hadn't set out with that purpose, the testing aboard the ship was no less violent, no less savage than the acts he read about in the paper.

More and more, Val was convinced he had to make them stop.

 

Laura paced the floor of her tiny apartment. The phone had just quit ringing—again—and the answering machine kicked on. “Laura, it's Brian. I know you're in there. Damn it, pick up the phone.”

She didn't, of course. Instead she just listened to him demanding, then pleading, determined it would do him no good. She cared for Brian Heraldson, more than cared for. Physically, she was wildly attracted to him. But he was wrong about her, and she wasn't going to let his doctor-patient attitude become the driving force of their relationship.

Not that they really
had
a relationship, she told herself firmly. So Brian had been kind to her. He was a nice man—most of the time. The steady sort women looked for in a man they might want to marry—if she were interested, which she was not. He was also arrogant and domineering, opinionated and determined to sway her to his will.

So what if he was handsome. So what if just noticing the way his bottom lip curved when he smiled stirred funny little flutters in her stomach. Jimmy Osborn was handsome, too. And though he was a little bad-tempered on occasion, he didn't try to run her life.

As luck would have it, Jimmy had called just that morning, right after her fight with Brian. Determined to forget Brian Heraldson and his overbearing ways, she had agreed to a date.

Laura glanced at the clock. Jimmy would be there any minute.

He was only half an hour late—right on time for Jimmy—when she heard his too-loud knock at the door. Hurrying over, she unlocked the double latches, unfastened the chain and pulled it open.

“Hey, babe, what's happenin'?” He was dressed in jeans and a tank top, his thick black hair slicked back, a toothpick stuck between his white teeth. The tattoo of a rose covered a portion of his oversized biceps.

“Hi, Jimmy.”

“So…you ready to shit-can this joint and grab a beer?”

She wet her lips, suddenly a little uncertain. She hadn't remembered Jimmy being quite so rough-looking the last time they had gone out. “Yeah…sure…let me get my purse.” She grabbed the fringed, quilted shoulder bag she had made herself, stopped a second in front of the mirror to check her appearance—a yellow halter top, jeans, and sandals—and they headed out the door.

They went to Ernie's, a local Venice beer bar that was a favorite of Jimmy's. They played pool and drank pitchers of beer, ate greasy hamburgers and fries. Amazingly, by ten o'clock, Jimmy was ready to go home.

Laura was ready, too. In the course of the evening, she had discovered she was no longer interested in Jimmy Osborn. She didn't enjoy hearing how he'd “beat the shit out of that no-good Buddy Taylor.” She didn't like hearing him snicker with his friend, Joe Rizzoli, about the great bod Teresa Wilson had, or how tight her pussy was when Joe had finally screwed her.

All she could think of was that Jimmy was short on brains and that the way the guys talked about Teresa was the way they must talk about her.

She couldn't help thinking of Brian. Whenever they had been together, they had talked about interesting, important things. He had challenged her, made her remember things she had learned in school, made her want to learn more. Even when they were fighting, he made her think instead of just react. And she had to admit there were times he was right.

Jimmy pulled his ten-year-old, dented black Camaro over to the curb and Laura opened the door and got out, knowing Jimmy would never come around to help her as Brian always did. Besides, she was eager to get home. She had never been so grateful to reach the front door of her apartment.

“Thanks, Jimmy.” Standing on the cement step, she unlocked both door locks and walked inside. “I'll talk to you later.”

He braced a hand on the door frame above her head. “Hey, wait a minute. You trying to give me the brush-off or something?”

“No, no, of course not. I'm just tired, is all. I haven't been sleeping very well. I thought tonight I'd go to bed early.”

“Good idea,” he said with a leer.

“That isn't what I meant.” She tried to close the door, but he slammed a heavy boot against the jamb.

“Listen, baby, I bought you dinner, remember? I bought you drinks.” He shoved hard on the door, pushing her inside, then followed her in. “You ain't gettin' off so easy.”

“Get out, Jimmy. I'll give you the damn money for your lousy hamburger, just get out of my house.”

“No dice, baby.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her hard against him, brutally gripped her jaw and forced her mouth open, then shoved his tongue halfway down her throat. Gagging, Laura raked her nails down his cheek and jerked away, taking several hasty steps backward.

“Get out!” she shouted. “Get out or I'm calling the police!”

Jimmy rubbed his cheek, noticed a trace of blood on his hand. His eyes narrowed and darkened. “I ain't leavin', baby. I'm gonna stay right here and teach you some manners.” His lips curled faintly. “I'm gonna fuck you good, Laura. Maybe next time you'll know better than to mess with Jimmy Osborn.”

Laura made a strangled sound in her throat and tried to run, but Jimmy caught her arm and shoved her up against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back.

“You're gonna get it, baby. You're gonna get it real good.”

“Jimmy, don't!” Laura pleaded. “Please let me go.”

A slight noise came from the doorway. “You heard what the lady said. Let her go.” The door swung wide and Brian stood framed in the opening. “Get away from her and get out of her house.”

“Brian…”

His hands were balled into fists, his mouth a grim line. He was taller than Jimmy, but Jimmy was younger, with a more wiry build. And utterly ruthless. If the two men fought, Brian was bound to get hurt.

Jimmy's lip curled. “Get outta here, man. This ain't no business of yours.”

“I said to let her go,” Brian repeated, legs slightly splayed, every muscle taut.

“Be careful, Brian!”

Jimmy yanked so hard on her hair tears sprang into her eyes. “Shut up, bitch! I'll take care of you when I'm through with him.”

He let her go and turned to Brian and the instant she was free, Laura bolted into her bedroom. Her hands were shaking so hard she had trouble with the drawer in her bedside table, but eventually it moved and she jerked it open. The .38 special she had purchased through a friend sat exactly where she had left it.

She gripped the gun with both hands as she had been taught in her one-and-only lesson and tried to hold it steady. Taking a deep, calming breath, she raced back to the living room just in time to see Jimmy Osborn standing in front of Brian, his mouth a tight line, bloodlust shining in his dark eyes.

Laura raised the gun, her hands shaking but steadier than she would have expected. “Hold it, Jimmy! Stop right there.” Standing with her legs slightly spread, she kept her arms straight in front of her, just as she had learned. Her knees were trembling, but she held her ground, pointing the pistol straight at Jimmy's heart. “I don't want any trouble, Jimmy. I just want you to leave.”

Brian looked incredulous. “Laura, where in God's name—”

“Not now, Brian. Are you leaving, Jimmy?”

He looked at her and a muscle ticked in his jaw. His mouth looked tight against the shadow of beard beginning to roughen his cheeks. “I can't believe it. Little Laura Ferris drawing down on Jimmy Osborn.” He chuckled without mirth. “You got more brass than I thought, babe.” She tensed when he started to move, but he merely stepped around Brian and walked toward the door. “See ya around.”

She didn't stop pointing the gun until Jimmy was gone and the door firmly closed. Then she lowered the weapon to her side and let the tears she had been holding slide down her cheeks.

Brian crossed the room in three long strides. Gently pulling the gun from her fingers, he set it on the table, then eased her into his arms. “It's all right, honey, don't cry. He's gone now. Everything's going to be all right.”

Laura sniffed back tears. “Brian, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have gone out with him. Julie warned me not to. I wouldn't have—” she glanced up “—if I hadn't been so mad at you.”

His arms tightened protectively around her. “I'm sorry, honey. That's what I came here to tell you. I know I was wrong to interfere in your life. If I didn't care so damned much…” The words trailed off and Laura smiled softly. She reached up to touch his cheek.

“You shaved your beard.”

“Yeah, I thought it might make me look younger. We aren't really so far apart in age, you know. I was hoping you'd like the change.”

“I love it.”

He smiled and she saw that he had dimples, hidden before by the beard.

“You were really terrific,” he said, “even if you shouldn't own a gun.”

Laura bristled. “That gun saved your ass, Brian Heraldson.”

“I suppose so. But maybe I could have surprised you and saved my own ass. I used to box in college. I was pretty good at it, too.”

Laura didn't tell him Jimmy Osborn wouldn't have fought by the Queensbury rules. “Thank you for what you did. You would have fought for me. No one has ever done that.”