It was just after five in the afternoon. Ian stopped on the porch and looked out over the ranch, suddenly appalled at what he was going to do. He couldn't remember any other home. Now he was going to abandon it at a moment's notice.
But Gran had always said he'd need to run one day. Now was as good a time as any.
DUNLOP RANCH
TWO HOURS LATER.
What else could I do?
Mike stood staring at the shelf of tapes and DVDs. How was he going to break the news to Livvie? Where would he start, with the part about finding a real live shape-shifter, or the fact that he'd promised him that he could stay with them? He'd worked out a plan for every eventuality except one; that Ian Dunlop was exactly what Kinnery said he was.
And I'm really not imagining this. Wow.
Upstairs, Ian was still packing his bags. Mike tried to imagine what it felt like to be that isolated, too scared to even look in a mirror because you thought you were insane. Ian was a mess of problems. It was hard to decide which needed tackling first.
"Poor little sod." Rob walked up behind Mike and jangled some keys. "I've secured the firearms in the car, so we've just got to box up some books and DVDs. Maybe this Joe can take all the food before it goes off. Christ, this is really happening, isn't it?"
"That's what I keep telling myself."
"Kinnery needs garrotting. May I?"
"No, I call dibs on that. That's got to be one damaged kid."
"Actually, he seems pretty sane. And
disciplined
. Look how tidy this place is." Rob ran the back of his forefinger along the tightly packed DVD cases on the shelf like a pianist doing a glissade. "There it is. Maggie Dunlop's manual for being a real man. This is how she made up for Ian not having a male role model around. Take a look."
Mike looked along the shelves again. Rob had a point. These were more than just war movies. If they were Maggie's choices, then she was big on stoical self-sacrifice and the honourable, responsible, dignified hero with good manners. There wasn't a single macho splatter-fest in there. Did it matter where kids learned their moral lessons? It probably explained why Ian hadn't put up a fight about leaving with them. Soldiers looked familiar to him, a known quantity in a frightening situation.
"Yes, that makes sense." Mike paused to listen. Ian was still opening and closing closet doors upstairs. "This is turning into a can of worms. We can't take him to see a physician without exposing him. We can't take him to a shrink. And then there's getting him some photo ID. You can't take a leak without it."
"Yeah, you Septics do rely on that more than we do."
"I promised him he'd be safe."
"Who from, though?"
"If the changes are a random thing, he's no use to spook-kind. That wouldn't stop them, though."
Rob did his bank-note gesture, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "I'd be more worried about KWA. Boffins love money too."
"But Ian's still invisible, if everything else Kinnery says is true. No school record, no friends, and no trace of him online."
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't believe that bastard if he told me I had a dick. And if Ian's that far off the radar, it's easy for
them
to make him disappear with no questions asked."
"Just like we're doing."
"I'm betting your dad didn't war-game this fully." Rob kept looking at his watch. "When are you going to call him?"
"I'll work that out when I hear how Livvie reacts."
"Just as well you've got all those bedrooms. You'll be sleeping on your own when we get back to Zombie Towers."
Problems could always be solved by lobbing dollars at someone or deploying lawyers. But Mike refused to delegate a moral dilemma. He was uniquely placed to save Ian in the same way that Rob had saved him, the right man in the right place at exactly the moment he was most needed. The clarity was like the first blast of a freezing shower. Mike didn't have the slightest doubt about this. He was sure that Livvie wouldn't either, not once she saw for herself what a terrible burden Kinnery had imposed on this kid and what the rest of his life might be like without someone to fight his corner.
"DNA," Rob said suddenly.
"What about it?"
"We'll never remove his DNA from this place without nuking it."
"Do we need to? KWA must already have records or tissue samples anyway. It's the live specimen they'll want."
"Granted, but it's a link in the chain if they're looking for him."
"They'd have to know about the place and then get access."
How the hell does Ian's hair change? Hair's not even live tissue.
Raw curiosity kept distracting Mike from the immediate problem. "Maybe Joe can keep an eye on the place. I'll hire a cleaning company."
"My, we're going to be busy boys, aren't we?"
"No, this is my problem. Not yours."
"Bollocks. I've got an adqual in handling teenage lads, remember."
Ian thudded down the stairs and dumped a couple of zipped holdalls in the hall. He'd razored his hair short, possibly to disguise the change of colour.
"Have you got all your documents and paperwork?" Mike asked.
"This is everything, sir," Ian said.
Sir.
It was rather touching. "What about the rest of the stuff in the house?"
Mike checked his watch. If they took off by midnight, they'd be back home before lunch. "I can get someone to ship it later. There's a lot we've got to work out before then. Are you going to call Joe now?"
Ian put on his sunglasses and cap. There wasn't much hair exposed. He looked like a new recruit after his first brush with the barber. "Am I going to get away with this? You can't see my hair colour's changed. And I always flush the clippings, so don't worry about DNA."
Maggie Dunlop really had drilled him thoroughly, then. Mike had to admire the crazy old bird.
"You'd be surprised what people don't notice, son," Rob said. "Just watch and learn."
Ian picked up his cell from the hall table and looked to Mike for a prompt. Mike was ready to take the phone and do the talking, but Ian proved to be surprisingly good at acting out a role. He sounded suitably stressed on the phone, exactly like someone who'd lost their only relative.
But it's true. His gran's dead. He's alone. He's hurting. Whatever else is going on, he's grieving.
Half an hour later, an old truck rolled up to the front of the house and a burly, greying guy in overalls got out of the cab. So this was Joe. Mike's first thought was that he'd do a good job of dissuading strangers from poking around the ranch. He stared suspiciously at Rob and Mike as they came out onto the porch with Ian, but Rob walked straight up to him in defusing mode and did the introductions with a lot of handshaking and explanations about friends of friends of Maggie Dunlop.
Rob had a gift for it. His body language said he wouldn't take any crap, but it also signalled that he was only pretending to be nice because he thought you were worthy of his performance, and that lesser mortals would just get a smack in the mouth. Joe was added to the list of those neutralized and brought on side in a matter of seconds. He was completely distracted and didn't look too closely at Ian.
Mike also made sure that Ian kept his back to the sun. It was low in the sky, and it was surprising what couldn't be seen in those light conditions.
"So you're going to be away for a while," Joe said to Ian, squinting against the sun. Mike opened the SUV's rear door for Oatie to jump in. He wasn't sure how the dog would cope with the jet, but Dad's Labradors had always slept through the entire flight. "It'll do you good."
"Yeah, a few weeks." Ian handed him a set of keys. "You might as well clear all the food. Gran hated waste. Use the place if you like."
Mike kept an eye on Joe's reaction to Ian. There wasn't the slightest indication that he thought anything was amiss. People usually saw what they expected to see, not because they were stupid or inattentive, but because that was the way the brain ironed out the stream of chaotic, ever-changing raw data from the eyes, doing its own predictions. It was a lesson in how Ian might learn to move unnoticed among people on a regular basis.
Rob scribbled on a card and handed it to Joe. "Here's my number, mate. I'd appreciate it if you kept all this to yourself, though. There might be some con artists showing up to look for Ian. He's come into some money. You know how it is."
Joe nodded. He seemed convinced that Ian was leaving voluntarily with people he trusted. "Sure. If anyone asks questions, they won't get anything out of me."
Ian got into the back seat of the Toyota, hands pressed between his knees, and didn't even look back at the ranch as Rob drove off. By the time they left the Athel Ridge limits, Oatie was stretched out on the rear seat, apparently comatose.
Rob stopped at the lights and turned to look behind him. "Is that dog dead?"
"Greyhounds just slob around," Mike said. "He's saving himself for a big race."
Ian didn't join in. He hardly said a word for the first hour, and Mike began to realise just how different he was. Damaged wasn't quite the right word, though; missing a few components, perhaps. He was smart and articulate, but there was also something upsettingly childlike beneath the shell of maturity. He wasn't confident around people. His body language was huddled and defensive, and he didn't seem to know how to handle a group conversation. He spoke only when spoken to.
But if I'd had all those traumas in a single month, I'd be more than quiet. I'd be cataleptic.
Two hours into the journey, Mike took over the driving. Rob kept glancing over the back of his seat to try to draw Ian into the conversation, but if Rob couldn't get Ian talking, then nobody could. Ian kept rummaging through one of his holdalls. Eventually he leaned forward and stuck his head between the seats.
"Can I ask some questions, please?"
"Go ahead." Rob opened a pack of gum and offered it to him. "Anything you want. Except physics. I was shit at that."
"Why do you call Mike
Zombie
?"
"Because his surname's Brayne. Y'know.
Braiiinss.
And he was convinced he was dead once when he wasn't. But that's a mistake anyone could make."
"Why do you keep looking in the mirrors? Are you worried that we're being followed?"
"Habit. I'm used to places where people blow you up or ambush you."
"And he's staggeringly vain," Mike murmured. "You'll get used to that."
Ian carried on undeterred. He seemed to have a checklist of things that intrigued him. It was breaking the ice. "Where exactly in Maine are we going?"
"Westerham Falls." Rob took out his phone and searched for a photo to show him. "That's Mike's lovely big house. His missus is lovely, too. Livvie. She'll play video games with you."
"What about Kinnery?"
"What about him
"Is he going to be there?"
Mike cut in. "No, but if you ever want to talk to him, I'll make sure he shows up. It'll be your call." He tried not to stoke Ian's anxieties. "He's got no say over what happens to you. You're not his property. Okay?"
"Okay."
Maybe it was time to lighten up. Mike started rehearsing how he was going to tell Dad and imagining the response. He was sure his father would be equally angry once he saw Ian.
"You've never flown before, have you?" he said. "Don't worry. The Gulfstream's very comfortable. Galley, divan beds, the works."
"Better let Oatie do his doggie business first, though," Rob said. "It's a long flight."
Ian went quiet again. It was hard to tell what he didn't understand and what he was just mulling over, bombarded by a world that must have seemed like Mars to him. He went back to rummaging in his bag, making little frustrated noises under his breath. He had one holdall on each side, laid at right angles to the seat like arm rests. Mike couldn't see what he was doing, but he heard a symphony of noises – rustling paper, the tap-tap of something metallic, and the rasp of fabric. Then Ian reached forward and shoved a wad of dollar bills at Rob.
And it really was a wad. It was an inch thick, wrapped with a red elastic band.
"What's that for?" Rob asked. The bills plopped into his lap. "Because – Christ, Ian, these are
fifties.
"
"I want to pay my way."
Mike glanced at the banknotes. "You ought to invest that. You've got to plan for your future now."
Rob hefted the cash in his palm for a moment, then turned to hand the money back to Ian. Mike tilted the rear-view mirror to check what was happening. One of Ian's holdalls gaped open. All he could see was a layer of bundled bank notes, each tightly bound with elastic bands in an assortment of colours.
"Shitty death." It stunned Rob to a whisper. "You should put that somewhere safe, son. Like a bank. I bet Gran didn't trust banks either, did she?"
Ian shook his head. "Or credit cards. Banks know even more about you than the government does."
"Yeah, I used to have neighbours who were strictly cash." Rob still sounded hoarse. "But they sold stuff in little foil packets, and I don't mean beef jerky."