J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection (26 page)

"Exactly."

He whistled softly into the receiver. "Guess we haven't examined ail the sexes yet."

"Guess not." Her tone lightened. "So . . . did I pass the test?"

"Test?" He sounded confused.

"Your practical-joke test, remember? 'Window to the soul' and all that? So did I pass, or are you going to write me off as another Guterman?"

"Guterman should be so good-looking," he said quickly, and hung up,

In a small cul-de-sac in the swank residential area known as Hampton Hill, Harrison sat in the darkness of the parked Bronco and gazed across the street at a row of town houses. He was looking at the second-floor window of one in particular. Light filtered through the curtains of Charlotte's bedroom, which meant she was home. Harrison looked down at the glowing numbers of the cellular phone in his hand and hesitated. The benign hum of the dial tone ceased and was replaced by a recorded message:

If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you'd like to make a call, please hang up—

Harrison pressed the hook down with his thumb.

Dammit, either dial her number or go home.

If he went home, of course, he'd never see her again. But then, he wasn't exactly sure he
wanted
to. He didn't ever want to talk to the Charlotte who'd done her best to manipulate him into giving up the work he loved, who had refused to answer the twenty-four messages he'd left on her answering machine, who finally let it slip that she really
did
take her wealth and social status seriously. Harrison had trouble believing that woman actually existed. He wanted to talk to the
real
Charlotte, the one who laughed at his jokes, who tolerated his attempts at individuality with wry humor, who loved to display him at parties with the tolerant pride of a parent showing off a precocious child.

If that Char were gone forever, if she had been a sham, he had to know. He dialed her number again.

The machine answered on the first ring, just as he had expected.

Hi, this is the answering machine at jive five five oh three seven four. We can't come to the phone right now
—Char always said "we" because she was terrified of strangers learning she lived alone—
but if you leave your name, number, and message, we'll get back to you. Don't forget to wait for the tone. 'Bye!

Harrison waited for the tone, then said hurriedly, "Charlotte, I know you're there. This is my very last message. I'm across the street and very shortly I'll be knocking on your door. If you don't open it, I'm going to drive the Bronco right the hell into your living room and track mud all over your Oriental rugs. Do you understand?"

He half hoped she would pick up the phone, even if it were only to tell him to go to hell, but the recorder beeped again and the dial tone came back. Harrison folded up the phone and shoved it back into his jacket pocket, then took a deep breath, climbed out of the Bronco, and marched up to Charlotte's door. The porch was dark; he had never used the doorbell before and had to search for it. He jabbed it with a finger.

He waited for a full minute. No reply. He pushed the bell again, and this time he held it down. "Charlotte!" He bellowed it at the top of his lungs. "Come down here!" Char had to wait a year before she could purchase this particular town house; the neighbors were very particular about who they allowed in, and there were all sorts of codes and restrictions about

what color paint you could use and what landscape scheme you used in the tiny patch of front yard. The neighbors were going to love this.

The upstairs curtains parted. Char cried out, "Go away!"

He took his finger off the bell and took a step back to try to catch a glimpse of her, but she remained invisible behind the curtain. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he cried, "Not until I talk to you first!" Good. The more of a disturbance he created, the better his chances of getting inside to talk to her.

"No! For God's sake, keep your voice down!"

"Not me." He shook his head and upped the volume even more. "No, I think I'll just stand right here and discuss it with you now. That way, the whole neighborhood can listen in!"

There was a pause, then the sound of a screen being slid up. Charlotte leaned out of the window and rested delicate hands on the ledge. He'd been gloating up to that point, but when he caught sight of her, he drew in his breath. She truly was a beautiful woman, and tonight she wore a low-cut red silk robe that looked like it might slip off her shoulder any second. She tossed her hair back, then in an abrupt change of tactics, called down in a low voice, "Harrison ... do you really love me?" She was half smiling, teasing him, the old Char again.

He smiled back gratefully. "You know I do, Char."

"Why?" She rested an elbow on the ledge and propped her chin against her hand, her expression coquettish.

Shit, a test. Harrison cast about desperately for a

second, then started talking in the hopes inspiration would come. Too long of a pause now would not be well received. "That's easy . . . because you're smart."
That's it—tell her you love her for her mind first. But don't forget anything important. . .
"And beautiful. And you've got a great sense of humor."
Used to, anyway.
"And an even greater pair of legs."

She seemed pleased, but there was a hint of warning in her tone as she asked the next question. "You love me more than your work?"

That threw him. Flustered, he stammered, "Char, that—that's not a very fair question."

"Yes it is!" She withdrew immediately from the window, her voice trembling with hurt and wrath. "And you've already answered it! Now, if you don't leave, I'm calling the police!"

"Go ahead," he dared her. He was getting weary of this little game. If she wanted it to end like this, then so be it. "Go right ahead. I'll put up a good fight and embarrass the hell out of you in front of your neighbors." Perfect timing; as he said it, the porch light of the next door neighbor came on.

"You—!" she began, but was far too furious to finish. The window slammed shut. Char would either call the police as promised or come open the door; Harrison was betting on the former.

"Oh, the
hell
with it," he said, disgusted, and headed for the Bronco, but before he had taken two steps, the phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out, set it on Talk and said into the receiver, "Whoever you are, you've got damn lousy timing."

"Wanna make a bet?" Norton asked at the othei end of the line. "I've located our bad guys, Doc. You've got to come right away."

"I'll be right there." He folded the phone shut, ran to the Bronco, and roared off down the street. He'd resolve things with Char later, when there was time.

By the time Charlotte made it down to the front door, all she could see were the Bronco's taillights receding into the darkness.

For some reason, this time Deb didn't seem so upset by the idea of her mother leaving again. Maybe, Suzanne decided, it was the fact that they'd spent the afternoon together. Suzanne took her shopping at the Rialto Plaza, a cluster of small shops that opened onto a beautifully landscaped atrium. Deb picked out a jump suit and two miniskirts; Suzanne noted that her daughter's taste in clothing was changing, becoming more adult. Outside in the little park, Debi ate an ice cream cone while her mother watched and listened to the sixth-grader blithely rattle on about her classes, the cute (male) math teacher, and her new friend, Kim Song, who had this gorgeous black hair all the way down to her waist. Suzanne listened with feigned interest, trying her best to enjoy her daughter and the quiet sunny afternoon while there was still time.

Dear God, whatever happens in the future, please let Deb be all right. So long as Deb's okay, what happens to me isn't important.
For an instant Suzanne allowed herself to think what might happen, and became terrified beyond all reason.

"Mom?" Deb stopped chattering and licking her ice cream cone and eyed her mother with concern. "Are you okay?"

Suzanne blinked back tears. "I'm fine, chicken. Just fine."

Later, when the phone rang after dinner, Deb raced to pick it up, hopeful that it was Kim, the new friend. But she handed the receiver over to her mother. "For you," she said, deflated. "A Norton Somebody-or-other." She lingered to listen to Suzanne's side of the conversation, and when her mother hung up, said, sounding very weary and very adult: "You go pack, Mom. I'll call Mrs. Pennyworth."

Suzanne hugged her then, and held her for a long time.

Now, as Suzanne stood, overnight bag clutched in one hand, in front of the door to Norton's oflice, she was once again overwhelmed by fear. The aliens existed, were a part of the here and now, and she and Harrison would have to find them to get the proof Uncle Hank wanted. She drew a deep breath to compose herself and opened the door.

Norton was at his desk, poring over a U.S. map that covered the entire surface. He didn't look up as she entered.

Harrison, on the other hand, scowled up at her from the video equipment he was packing into a case. "What the hell are
you
doing here?"

"I called her," Norton murmured distractedly, and marked on the map with a red felt-tip pen.

"Some welcome." Suzanne set the bag down on the floor next to Norton's desk and put her hands on her hips. "I was under the impression that I was part of this project too."

Harrison shrugged, still frowning; he was in a foul mood, which confused her. Earlier today he'd been elated at the prospect of locating the aliens.

Norton spoke, addressing his remark to Harrison, much to her irritation. "The transmission was only a few short bursts, but that's all I needed to nail them." He folded the map so the area marked in red was in the center, and proffered it to Harrison. "Drive like hell and you might make it there in about eleven hours."

Harrison straightened and went over to take the map from Norton. Suzanne stepped behind him and peered at it over his shoulder. Norton had scribed a neat red circle in the southwestern corner of Alpine County. Far from any big cities, it appeared; probably farm country up there. "Eleven hours is too damn long. Besides, who said anything about driving?" Harrison asked. "I'll charter a helicopter."

Norton rubbed his eyes. "Easy, my friend. You got any idea how much that's gonna cost? Ephram mentioned today that someone on the board got wind of this and already chewed his ass out for all the time we spent on the Cray."

"How much does a new world cost?" Harrison waved the map angrily so that the paper crackled. "And where do you go to buy one?"

"If we're right about this," Suzanne said to Norton,

"it's all academic anyway. You can tell Jacobi I said that." To Harrison she said, "Let's go."

He wheeled around to stare at her. For the first time, he seemed to notice the overnight bag in her hand. "Wait a minute, Suzanne—you're not going." His tone indicated that there would be no more discussion on the subject, but she caught the uncertain glance he shot Norton, who shrugged innocently as if to say
leave me out of it.

She remained perfectly calm. Let him have a temper tantrum; that was fine with her, but the outcome would be the same. He was talking foolishness, and they both knew it. She'd been thinking all day about what she'd do when the call came that Norton had located the aliens, and her mind was made up. "Don't waste any more time, Harrison. You know as well as I do that without a witness any evidence you bring back is going to be debunked."

He tried at first to pretend anger. "Dammit, Suzanne, I'm not going to argue with you about this!"

"Very convincing, but it won't work." She folded her arms and let it roll off her to let him see that an outburst wasn't going to work.

Exasperated, he continued. "If the aliens
are
there, as we believe, then it's too dangerous. We went through this once before, Suzanne, remember? What happened to the single parent who only worked weekdays?"

"The world has changed since I said that. You need
me.
General Wilson isn't going to believe such fantastic evidence unless he hears it from someone he trusts—yours truly."

"I can get proof all by myself." Harrison pointed at the video equipment on the floor. "I don't need an eyewitness. That's what the camera's for."

"A videotape can be altered very easily. I doubt Uncle Hank will take your word alone that it wasn't— but I know he'll take mine."

He sighed in silent frustration. "This isn't the time to be cute, Suzanne." He lowered the map and looked at her, his tone passionately serious. "Good Lord, what would happen to Debi if you were killed? Do you think I could ever allow that to happen to her?"

"Amen," Norton said softly.

She was slightly taken aback and at the same time touched by his honest concern. She could see he was just as frightened at the thought of going as she was; maybe the bad mood was his way of covering it. As much as she hated the idea of going, she answered, "If we spend much more time arguing, it will happen to a lot more children than Debi. It makes more sense for me to go with you; and if two go, chances are increased that at least one of us will make it back. Besides, I don't know about you, but I certainly don't plan on doing anything foolish."