Taken

Chapter One

Captain Russell Keys peered out into the expansive blue, his hands on the wheel of the B-17 that shook and rattled around him, bearing its heavy load of ordnance. To his left and right, he could see other planes, a squadron of Flying Fortresses in box formation, his own plane distinguished from the others only by the red devil painted on its nose, along with the words “Where Angels Fear to Tread.”

“Navigator,” Russell said crisply, “how’s our time?”

“We’ve regained the two minutes, sir,” the navigator answered.

“Good work.” Russell glanced at his copilot, Lieutenant Lou Johnson. “Welcome to Germany, Johnson,” he said.

Johnson patted the Rita Hayworth pinup he’d taped to the metal frame of the otherwise unadorned cockpit. “You hear that, honey?” he said with a broad smile. “We’re in Germany.”

Russell looked at the altimeter, then lowered the nose and began his descent to ten thousand feet. “There it is,” he said after a moment, his gaze now fixed on a large factory thousands of feet below. “Pilot to bombardier, the plane is yours.”

The bomb-bay doors opened and the bombardier began his count.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

The plane grew eerily light as the heavy bombs filled the empty air beneath it, falling to the ground, where Russell could see them exploding in silent flashes far below.

Johnson let out a loud whoop, but Russell paid no attention. His focus was on the war-torn earth, swept with flame and smoke.

“Load delivered,” he said quietly when the last of the bombs had fallen. “Let’s go home.”

He nosed the plane upward into what seemed a perfect, tranquil sky, so different from the ravaged earth, the wars of man. Up here it was calm and quiet and serene, and if you closed your eyes you could almost make yourself believe that the earth’s ancient conflicts and rivalries might one day come to an end.

“Lights!”

Russell recognized the voice of his top gunner.

“What’s that, Toland?” he asked.

“Lights, sir. Blue ones.”

Russell looked at Johnson quizzically.

“They’re following the plane,” Toland said. “They just flew up and started tailing us.”

Russell saw Johnson’s face tighten. “Navigator,” he said. “You see any lights?”

“No, sir,” the navigator responded immediately.

Johnson released a quick sigh.

“Wait,” the navigator burst in suddenly. “Now I see them. Three. Four. Right in front of us. Not in range yet, but…”

Russell felt a curious urge seize him. “Let’s get a look at these lights.”

He banked the plane slowly and the lights swam into view outside the cockpit window, blue globes about six feet in diameter that hovered without motion. They appeared both dense and airy, heavy and at the same time weightless, and in this physical contradiction, Russell sensed that nothing he’d ever known or read about could explain them.

Johnson’s eyes widened in wonder. “What the hell are they?”

“I don’t know,” Russell answered. His voice filled with awe. “But they’re beautiful.”

For a brief moment, the crew peered at the hanging lights, unable to speak, or to turn their gaze away. A strange hypnotic glow filled the interior of the plane, and Russell felt his mind turn from war and peril as an inexplicable serenity settled over him.

Suddenly the radio operator’s voice slashed through the prevailing silence.

“We got MEs at twelve o’clock. A whole mess of them, sir.”

Russell’s mind snapped into focus. “Roger, that,” he said. “Gunners, give them short bursts when they’re in range.” He quickly checked his instruments, steadied himself, drew up the courage needed to steady his men as well. Beyond the cockpit, he glimpsed the glowing blue lights a final time, soft and oddly mesmerizing, but finally driven away, or so it seemed, by the frantic movement of the crew, the noise of the plane, the whole monstrous din of war.

A burst of machine-gun fire raked the side of the plane. The air filled with black puffs of flak. Russell’s body tensed, all his attention given over to the battle ahead, the fight to survive and to make sure his men survived.

An explosion rocked the plane, filling its cramped interior with fire and smoke.

“We just took a direct hit, sir,” the top gunner cried.

The nose of the plane sank, and Russell knew that it had finally happened, the moment he’d dreaded for so long. He and his crew were all going to die. Even so, he worked frantically to keep control of the plane while the cries of his men grew more desperate and the plane shook madly and the dull green eye of the earth came hurtling upward like a huge ball. In brief glimpses, he saw the MEs in their lethal dance, a swarm of angry bees that dove and climbed and circled, angry bursts of fire spitting from their guns.

Instantly a volley tore through the cockpit window, shattering it entirely and ripping into Russell’s abdomen.

“Oh, Christ, Russ,” Johnson cried.

Russell felt the steamy warmth of his blood as it poured out from the ripped flesh of his gut. “Copilot, take the plane,” he said.

Johnson grabbed the controls. “Hang on, Russ.”

Russell leaned back and drew in a quick desperate breath, his eyes now fixed on the empty sky beyond the shattered cockpit window, where, in the distance, the blue lights hung again, calm, soothing, a promise of peace. “Beautiful,” he said. He knew that the dogfight still raged around him, MEs firing and being fired upon. He could see them diving helplessly toward the ground and hear the noise of the battle and the screams of his men, but it was as if all of this were happening in some distant, tortured world from which the blue lights had summoned him and now held him in their silent grasp.

“We’ve got to bail out now,” Johnson cried.

Russell heard, but did not respond. He was not in the plane anymore. He was not crashing to earth. There was no fire and smoke, no fear or desperation. There were only the blue lights and they were coming toward him, their glow ever more intense as they drew in upon each other and finally melded into a single radiant light.

“Beautiful,” Russell said again. The blue light expanded, filling the sky and engulfing him, embracing him. He smiled. “Trust me, Johnson. We won’t die.”

The light was now so intense Russell could see nothing else, feel nothing else. Time stopped. Movement ceased. Russell felt nothing but the warm, soothing light until, second by second, the light faded, and he felt the earth beneath him, heard the sound of wind rippling through a field of wheat.

He opened his eyes, and realized that he was lying in that very field. In the distance, four American soldiers warily approached him. He glanced about, trying to regain his ground. The wheat lay flattened all around him, and he could see the members of his crew slowly rising from the ground, staring at themselves and each other, astonished by the nakedness that greeted them. Russell glanced down and saw that he was naked too, and that the soft flesh of his abdomen was utterly unharmed.

Nothing has changed much, Russell thought as the cab cruised down the streets of his hometown. The stores were the same, as well as the people, kids running along the sidewalks, old people in the park, the postman making his rounds. So why, he wondered, did he not feel at home here in Bement anymore? Why did he not feel a part of this small American town, one of its simple, ordinary citizens?

“The Bulldogs are last in their division,” the cabby said. He laughed. “Some things never change.”

But some things do, Russell said to himself, though he didn’t know how he’d changed. He knew only that Bement, Illinois, was no longer the whole world to him. Once, he could not have imagined leaving it. Now he could not imagine returning to it. Once it had comprised his universe. Now it seemed so small he had to squint to see it.

The cab pulled over to the curb, and Russell reached for his wallet.

“This one’s on me, Russell,” the cabby said. He smiled admiringly. “We’re all real proud of you.”

The cab pulled away and Russell stared at the house he’d lived in all his life. It was a plain, wood-frame house with a broad porch and a well-tended lawn. A 1931 Model A Ford rested in the driveway, recently washed and polished, made ready for his return.

He walked over to the car and touched it softly, as if its metal frame were flesh.

A dog rushed toward him, wagging its long, bushy tail. He knelt down and drew it roughly into his arms. “Hello, Champ.”

Then she was suddenly there, his mother, her gray hair shining in the bright sunlight. He saw that worry had done more than time to age her.

“Mom,” he said, taking her into his arms.

“Russell,” she said in a tone of wonder, as if still unable to convince herself that what she saw was true, that her son had actually returned to Bement safe and sound.

He glanced toward the porch where his father stood, peering down at him, still a big man, though he seemed smaller than before.

“You’re still in one piece, I see,” Mr. Keys said.

Russell stiffened slightly, like a boy called to attention. “Yes, sir, I am.”

They stared at each other briefly. Russell could see a surge of feeling in his father’s eyes, along with how very hard it was for him to control it.

“How do you like her?” his father said, nodding to the car as he came down the steps.

“She looks beautiful.”

“Had to hide her from a couple of scrap drives,” Mr. Keys added. “Kind of unpatriotic, I guess, but we did our bit in… other ways.”

The “other way” was himself, Russell knew, and in that instant he grasped the terrible toll the war had taken on his parents, their long nights of worry, of not knowing where their son was, or even if he were still alive.

“Your father spent the last four days washing that old heap,” his mother said.

Russell wanted to draw his father into his arms, wanted to hold him tight and sob like a little boy, release all the fear and dread that had accumulated within him during the war, simply let it flow out of him and pool at his feet and finally seep into the ground like a wash of black bile.

Instead he said, “Thanks, Pop.”

“We did it like you asked, Russ,” his mother told him. “We didn’t say a word to Kate.”

Kate.

Russell imagined her as he’d last seen her, a young woman with a bright, happy face, proof positive of love at first sight.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“At the bank,” his mother answered. She seemed to see the longing in his eyes. “Go,” she said, with a gentle push. “She can’t wait to see you.”

Kate was busy at her desk when Russell entered the bank, her back to him as she spoke into the phone.

“Miss,” Russell began, making only a slight attempt to disguise his voice.

She wagged her finger for him to wait a moment.

“Miss,” Russell repeated insistently. “Who do I see about getting one of those GI loans?”

She froze, and he knew that she’d recognized his voice. She whirled around and pulled him into her arms.

“Oh, Russell,” she said. Her eyes glistened and her voice broke, and she squeezed him with such force that for a moment he thought he might lose his breath.

That night, as they sat together on the front porch, he gave her the ring he’d bought on the Champs-Elysees.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He knew that this was true, that the ring really was the most beautiful thing Kate had ever seen. He could still see the shine in her eyes later that night as he unpacked his duffel bag and made ready for bed. He peered around his old room, trying to reacquaint himself with the model cars he’d built as a boy, the Bulldogs pennant, all the things that had meant so much to him before he’d left for war, but which now, despite all his effort to reclaim them, seemed little more than artifacts of a vanished life.

He went to bed a few minutes later, still trying to snuggle into his old life, but the war returned to him in all its dreadful fury. He heard the roar of the planes, exploding bombs, the screams of the wounded, saw the earth torn and gashed, bleeding like a man. Each time he closed his eyes, some new vision returned to him, so that after a time he walked out of the house, down the porch steps and out into the yard. The night was clear and crisp, but it did not soothe him. He could feel nothing but the fever of war. He was like a piece of tangled steel, he thought, like a gutted plane-something torn away that could never be replaced.

The model A beckoned to him, reminding him of his days before the war, how proud he’d been of his small achievements, his victories on the ball field, feats that now seemed small, himself curiously incomplete, like a man who’d been given a mission he had not yet accomplished, a man waiting to be summoned, commanded… taken.

He walked to the car and got in. This had been his vehicle, he thought. He gripped the wheel and pressed his foot down on the accelerator. This had been his vehicle, but he no longer had the key to it, a way to make it go. He looked out into the night, the surrounding darkness, and felt utterly lost to his next move.

Then, without willing it, he screamed.

Chapter Two

Captain Owen Crawford stood in the vast gray hangar, his body dwarfed by the huge B-29 that loomed behind him. He was surrounded by various personnel, all of them young and eager. He knew with customary self-confidence that they hung on his every word, but there were two young officers who’d particularly caught his notice. Howard Bowen and Marty Erickson were clearly the most impressed with him. They were eager to please, and because of that they would be easy to mold. Perfect, Owen thought, sizing them up instantly, two young men who’d carry out his orders without a moment’s hesitation.

“The war was not won by superior manpower,” he began. “It wasn’t won by strategy.” He waited a beat, aware that this only heightened the anticipation of the people he addressed. “It was won by secrets.” He lifted his head slightly, his chin thrust out boldly. “When the Enola Gay dropped its payload on Hiroshima, only one hundred and seven men in the entire world knew what that specific payload was.” The assembled officers remained utterly silent. He’d focused them on the matter at hand instantly, and in doing that, he felt the power of his own voice and manner, the effortless way he gave off an authority and sense of command that was far beyond his actual rank. “That is the secret that won the war.” He settled his gaze on the two young intelligence officers he’d already noticed. They were staring at him with rapt attention. “As members of the Army Intelligence Corps, your job is to keep secrets. Doing that job well is what determines the course of history.” He let these last words sink in, then glanced at his watch and smiled. “And now, gentlemen, I must leave you. Dismissed.”

An hour later, Owen sat down to lunch with Colonel Thomas Campbell and his nineteen-year-old daughter, Anne. She was a shy young woman, and Owen immediately understood that she’d lived all her life under the colonel’s thumb. He also noticed the way she looked at him. Not exactly like the two intelligence officers had, but close enough. Long ago, Owen had decided that he did not seek love. What he wanted was someone he could mold to fit the life he planned, a cog in the wheel of his relentless forward movement. He had set himself to make a mark in the world, and only those who might serve that purpose drew his attention. Only fools were seduced by shapes and textures, hair of a certain length or color, a playfulness in the eyes. For Owen, every person had a context. And the context of Anne Campbell was her father.

“What do you make of the new recruits?” Colonel Campbell asked, breaking Owen’s reverie.

“They seem eager enough, but I’m afraid that this new crop of officers won’t have the same sense of mission now that the war’s over. The last two years seem to have taken the wind out of them.”

“I guess you’ll just have to blow harder,” the colonel said with a smirk.

Owen let a thin smile grace his lips. The colonel was no fool, that much was clear. His toast had been buttered by the best of them. There was no way flattery would impress him, nor patriotism, nor even high intelligence. Colonel Campbell was all crust, thick and dry and impenetrable. Colonel Campbell was a fossil.

“We had two more sightings today,” the colonel said. “Dancing lights mostly. The bulk of them in the Pacific Northwest and three I think over the Great Lakes.”

“People say they were from another planet,” Anne said.

“We used to hear that a lot at Los Alamos,” Owen told her.

“I forgot you were at Los Alamos,” the colonel said, his voice now oddly distant.

“We got a new mare at the stables Tuesday,” the colonel said, rapidly changing the subject. “I thought you might like to join me for a ride.”

“I’d like that very much,” Owen said. He turned his attention to Anne. “Will you be joining us?” he asked her.

“Well, actually…” she began.

“She doesn’t ride,” Colonel Campbell interrupted. “Too delicate.”

Owen kept his eyes on Anne. She was shy, yes, but pretty, and he suspected that her father’s grip was already loosening. Which was just fine since, in Owen’s opinion, Colonel Campbell’s days were numbered.

In the stables, Owen purposely delayed mounting his horse, and instead walked briefly with Anne while Colonel Campbell saddled up a few yards away.

“Your father is a bit of a bully, isn’t he,” he told her.

“It’s nothing personal,” Anne said. “He’s just like… that.”

“If he doesn’t let you ride, how does he feel about you going to the movies?”

Anne glanced back toward her father apprehensively. “I’d better meet you in town.”

Owen seized the opportunity without hesitation “Eight o’clock,” he said. “Tomorrow night?”

Anne smiled, then nodded toward the approaching stable hand.

Owen seized the reins from the stable hand and mounted. He knew he need do no more than offer Anne a final glance as he spurred the horse and galloped away. He could see that she’d taken in his broad shoulders, the cut of his jaw, the piercing look in his eyes.

The ride was brief, Colonel Campbell typically uncommunicative. Owen knew very well that he was not the old man’s favorite, and certainly not his choice for son-in-law.

But Anne, she was a different story, Owen thought, a soft flower of a girl. He wasn’t sure what he actually thought of her, nor even what use he might make of her, save the entertaining prospect of riling up her old man. He would know more after tomorrow night, he told himself, already imagining the two of them in the darkened movie theater.

She was standing dutifully under a marquee that proclaimed the night’s feature as Boomerang! starring Dana Andrews and Jane Wyatt, when Owen stepped out of his car a block away.

“Hey there, soldier,” a woman said as she steered her car alongside the curb. “Looking for some fun?”

Her name was Sue, and Owen had been with her the night before, parked out in the desert beneath a full moon. They’d spent a passionate couple of hours together, but Owen had no time for her now. At least not with Anne Campbell waiting for him only a block away.

“Not right now,” he said. “I’m on duty.”

She looked at him pointedly. “You look ready for action, but you don’t look like you’re on duty.”

“I’m meeting the colonel to go over something,” Owen explained.

Sue glanced toward the theater, her gaze fixed on Anne. “Sure you are.”

Owen tried to smile, but the chill in his eyes argued against it. “I’ll call you later,” he assured her.

Sue’s eyes flashed with anger. “I won’t be there,” she snapped.

Owen stood in place as she screeched away. What was he losing, he asked himself. Nothing. A roll in the hay. There were plenty where she came from. He slapped his hands together, as if ridding himself of some barely noticeable dust, then turned sharply and made his way to the theater, where, to his delight, Anne greeted him with an adoring smile.

On the desert highway, Sue was not smiling. She glared out the window at the desert waste and fumed at the way Owen Crawford had dismissed her. Like she was nothing, that’s how he treated her. Like she was just some small-time slut he could use and throw away.

She stomped the accelerator violently, then gave a quick twist to the radio’s volume control. Louis Jordan was singing “There Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens.” A dumb song, Sue thought, perfect for some dumb girl who gets herself tangled up with a bastard like Owen Crawford.

Suddenly the radio turned to static. Just my luck, Sue thought, not even a stupid song to cheer things up. She reached for the dial, spun it, but still got nothing but static.

Okay, she thought, just go home. Have a drink. Sleep it off. She pressed down on the accelerator, but the car refused to pick up speed. Then suddenly the engine died and the car drifted to a halt on the isolated road.

Sue sucked in a fierce, angry breath and pounded the steering wheel. She lowered her head, exhausted by her own fruitless fury, then looked up again at the night sky where, to her amazement, an array of blue lights was moving weirdly, darting about, then moving together, in unison, assuming a formation.

Sue got out of the car and stood watching, mesmerized as two of the lights merged into one that grew larger and larger, assuming a vaguely circular shape as it sliced across the desert sky in full and sharp descent until it disappeared behind a jagged spine of hills.

The explosion that followed was muffled by the distance, but the light that rose from it threw the mountain range into dark silhouette.

Sue stood frozen as the light faded, the air around her eerily still, and nothing in the dark bowl of the sky but the usual scattering of harmless and unmoving stars.

In his office, Owen listened to a story he knew Colonel Campbell and the other dinosaurs would find utterly ridiculous despite the fact that it was coming from two middle-aged nuns who looked entirely incapable of lying.

“We believe that what we saw was God’s angels dancing,” the first nun said.

“That or some new airplane from White Sands gone out of control,” her companion added.

Owen drew a pencil from a cup that bristled with them and rolled it between his fingers. “You mentioned that you saw a crash.”

“Clear as day,” the second nun said. “If that was God’s angels, then right now they’re camped out about a mile and a half above Pine Lodge.”

Intrigued, Owen was about to question them further when Howard suddenly opened the door. “Excuse me for interrupting, sir,” he said. “But there’s a rancher with something I think you ought to take a look at.”

Owen nodded at Howard, then turned back to the nuns. “We’ll send some people out to this crash site you mentioned,” he told them. He rose and escorted the women from his office and out into the waiting room where, to his surprise, Sue sat stiffly, holding a paper bag.

“I really need to see you,” she said as she quickly got to her feet.

She looked tense and drawn and Owen knew he had to do something. An irate woman could make quite a scene, and this was one who needed to be defused immediately. He tried for a bright smile. “And I really need to see you,” he said in a faintly suggestive tone. “I’ll call you later.” He turned and followed Howard out the door without giving her time to answer or argue.

On the way to the ranch, Howard filled him in on what a rancher named Mac Brazel had found scattered across a rugged area of his land. “It looks like some kind of debris,” Howard said. “Like pieces of tinfoil scattered all around.”

At the site, Owen picked up a piece of the debris. It did indeed look like tinfoil, but it didn’t have the feel of any material he’d ever handled. When bent or twisted, it returned to its original shape. The site was strewn with a second material as well, a kind of dark balsa wood, very soft to the touch. Whatever it was that had crashed on Mac Brazel’s land, Owen thought, it was not the remains of a fallen angel.

He was pondering exactly what the debris might be when Colonel Campbell roared up in his jeep. The colonel quickly leaped from the jeep, walked briskly past Marty and Howard, oblivious to their smart salutes, and strode over to Owen.

“I want every bit of debris out of this pasture and back to the base,” he commanded. “All of your men are confined to the base, pending debriefing.” He turned to Marty and Howard. “That means the two of you.”

Owen noted the colonel’s odd behavior, his frantic arrival and brusque commands. It struck him that something had happened in this field that was far more important than he’d previously suspected. The colonel was obviously unnerved by something, and since old war horses weren’t easily rattled, the “something” that was bothering the colonel had to be important. He looked at the debris scattered across the desert floor, then up into the empty sky. All his life he’d heard fantastic tales of flying saucers, but never until that moment had he entertained the notion that those who told such stories were anything but kooks.

By now the colonel had turned his attention to Mac Brazel. “We’d appreciate if you didn’t speak to anyone about this,” he told him. “It’s a matter of national security.”

“It’s from outer space, isn’t it?” Brazel asked.

Outer space.

Owen considered the words, their life-transforming import. What if it were true, he wondered. What if this debris actually were from a craft from outer space? It would be the single greatest threat the world had ever faced. It would hold up the horrific specter of an alien invasion. It would change the life of man forever. If they were out there, then the whole world would have to prepare to defend itself against them. The man who could prove that they were out there, watching us, probing us, testing our defenses, that man would be the savior of the world.

Owen was still considering the grandeur of such a prospect later that day as he stood in Colonel Campbell’s office, watching silently while an Air Force major examined a large blueprint along with pieces of the debris.

“This is a design for a constant level balloon train,” Colonel Campbell said. He indicated the pieces of debris that resembled bits of tinfoil. “The balloon’s radar reflectors are made of this material,” he added. He picked up a piece of the foil, bent it, then returned it to the desk where it instantly regained its original shape. “Amazing stuff, isn’t it?” He looked at Owen. “If the Russians have figured out how to make the bomb, we need to know it. These sensors can pick up a bomb test, a ballistic missile launch.” He laughed edgily. “If they sneeze, we’ll hear it.” He smiled, but his eyes remained curiously somber. “This monitoring project is called ‘Mogul,’ and it has a security classification of A-l.”

Owen nodded. “A-l.” The military’s highest security classification, and he’d just been let in on it.

Or had he?

The problem with the “Mogul” story was that the material didn’t really look like anything that could be found on earth.

Outer space, Owen thought again, the idea building steadily in his head, a spacecraft that had crashed to earth, or perhaps merely jettisoned its cosmic trash, used the earth as its own private dumping ground. What if it were true, he asked himself again. What if it were true that an alien craft had actually penetrated the earth’s atmosphere, and the colonel along with the rest of the old guard knew it, but were determined to keep it to themselves.

“We’ll need to give reporters something on this, of course,” Owen said, cautiously playing along, testing the waters, bent now on finding out if the colonel and his men were covering up a momentous event.

“Somebody already has,” the major said. He flipped the wire recorder to a local radio station. Mac Brazel was blithely talking his head off, telling the world about the crash, how the debris was like nothing he’d ever seen before, like something from “another world.”

“People eat this stuff up,” the major said contemptuously. “I figure we should go along with it. As long as people are thinking about flying saucers, they’re not thinking about ‘Mogul.’”

“But they may be thinking something worse,” Owen said. “That we don’t control the skies.”

The major paid no attention. “So what’ll it be,” he asked Colonel Campbell, “Flying disc or flying saucer?”

Owen felt his whole body stiffen. He was being ignored and he didn’t like it. Still there was nothing he could do but play the ever-obedient soldier.

Twenty-four hours later a newspaper was already carrying the major’s story. Owen smiled as he read the headline in the local paper, “raaf captures flying saucer on RANCH IN ROSWELL AREA.”

“Is that for real, Captain?” Marty asked. He glanced at Howard, then back at Owen. “That stuff was from a spaceship?”

Owen folded the paper. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes, sir,” Marty said.

“Absolutely, sir,” Howard said.

“All right, here it is,” Owen said. “It was a spy balloon. Super classified. A-l. It hit something and fell back to earth.” He felt a shiver run through his bones at the realization that he may well have found his mission. The question was, what did the balloon hit, and why didn’t this “other craft” crash too?

Chapter Three

Russell Keys tossed the burger and listened to it sizzle on the grill. The day was bright, and very warm. He felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face. Across the yard, various friends and neighbors huddled in small groups. Kate stood among them, their son Jesse in the grass at her feet. Everything appeared entirely normal, but nothing felt that way. At least not to him. He didn’t know why. He knew only that all the things that should have brought him joy left him feeling curiously bereft instead, left him moody and withdrawn like a man held by some distant grief, mourning a loss he could not name or find a way to get beyond. Lately he’d turned to alcohol to dull that pain. He knew his drinking had cost him one job, then another, that his life was spiraling downward, as if he were trapped in a crashing plane.

“You’ve got a good-looking boy there,” Bill Walker said as he approached the grill.

“Takes after his mom,” Russell told him. He placed a few buns on the patties. “Kate tells me you’re with the police.”

“Yeah,” Bill answered. “It’s an easy job for the most part. Nothing much to do in a little town like this.”

“You should find a girl, get a family started.”

Bill glanced toward Kate. “You already took the best girl in town.”

Russell’s gaze moved toward the children on the lawn. They were chasing each other and scuffling happily in the grass. So why in the midst of such a scene, did he feel this odd and inexpressible dread, as if he could see their young lives unfold before him, darken in time, and come to their dreary ends?

“And not only the best girl in Bement,” Bill went on. “But a great kid.”

Russell held his gaze on the children. “Yeah, I got it all,” he said softly, though he felt that he had nothing, or that what he had was not really his-it all seemed vague and insubstantial, part of a world he had only one foot in, the rest of him… somewhere else.

“You should be the happiest man in the world,” Bill added.

But he wasn’t, and he knew it. He sensed his unease sinking deeper and deeper as he watched one kid go down, tackled, then tickled good-naturedly by the others as they held him down. He felt the tangle of arms and legs around him, the feeling of being held down against one’s own will. It was all he could do to hold back a scream.

Bill looked at him pointedly. “You okay, Russell?”

“Yeah,” Russell answered quickly, his eyes still on the pile of children.

The kid beneath the others was fighting to free him-self, and Russell felt his dread spike into desperation, as if he were like that kid, strapped down, unable to move, fighting to be free. “Stop it!” he blurted suddenly. “Let him go!” He bolted forward, as if blown by a violent gust of wind, rushed to the pile of children and began pulling them off with such desperate violence that when he’d pulled the last one from the heap, he realized that he’d scared them all, and that their parents were now watching him with troubled faces and cruelly questioning eyes.

Sue was sitting outside Owen’s office, holding the same paper bag she’d tried to show him earlier.

She rose as he came toward her, a strained look in her eyes. Whatever was bothering her, it wasn’t something Owen wanted to hear about, not something he cared about. He was relieved when a large man suddenly blocked his way.

“Are you the people we talk to about flying saucers?” the man asked. “Because me and my boys have some information.”

Information about flying saucers, Owen thought, eager to check out anything now, no matter how crazy it seemed, because it would all have to seem crazy… until it was proven true.

And so, within minutes, he was following Edward Watkins and his sons up a ridge.

At the top of the ridge there was a large gorge lined with pine trees, some of which had been uprooted and now lay on their sides like fallen soldiers. At the center of their fall, Owen made out a huge disc, as large as a B-29, but without wings, the sides smooth and gray, a craft of some sort, he guessed, but not like any he’d ever seen. It might well be a hoax, he knew, something Watkins and his boys had cooked up to rib the military brass. But what if it weren’t a hoax? What if this disc really were from outer space? That was the way he had to look at such things now, he told himself, not in order to dismiss them, but in order to investigate them fully.

The descent into the gorge was treacherous, but within a few minutes Owen stood beside the disc. Now he could see things from a better perspective. Trees that had looked liked saplings from the rim of the gorge were in fact full-grown pines, scores of them, torn out of the earth and heaved away from the craft. If this were a hoax, he thought, then it was a huge one that had taken days and days of work to pull off.

And it wasn’t just the trees, as Owen saw on closer inspection. The disc too was much larger than he’d guessed, its “nose” embedded deep within the earth while the “tail” rose upward at an angle, like half a drawbridge, casting a deep shadow beneath its upraised bulk.

Cautiously, Owen stepped under the lifted craft and gazed at its undercarriage. As he studied the shiny base of the craft, the air grew oddly cold, and something dense pressed in upon him like thousands of invisible weights. Overhead, the belly of the craft was marked with strange pits and circles, the writings, perhaps, of another world.

For a moment, Owen hesitated, then he lifted his hand and touched the bottom with his outstretched fingers while Watkins and his boys stood and watched in awe.

Something sounded, a rustling, metal scraping metal.

He whirled around and saw a panel open, something coming from it, in the shape of an arm, but not a human arm, thinner and more elongated, with a four-fingered hand, each finger with an extra joint. He glanced at the rancher and his sons, all of them stepping back, mouths agape, eyes staring.

Owen turned back to the dangling arm, then moved around it slowly, methodically, peering through the open door for some glimpse of what lay beyond it, the inner working of the craft. He could see little more than the shadowy darkness, but something in that darkness drew him toward it. He reached up, grabbed for leverage, and hauled himself into the craft, while outside, the rancher and his sons waited for him at a safe distance.

When he reappeared before them a few minutes later, he knew that it was in his eyes, and that they saw it there, glimmering wildly, all the horror and wonder of what he’d seen inside.

Russell looked at the clock on the nightstand. Three forty-two. The windows were open, a soft summer breeze filtering through the curtains, lifting them slowly, as if by invisible strings, then letting them fall again. What could look more normal than the play of wind on fabric, he wondered. And yet the movement looked strange and oddly frightening, like long shrouded arms beckoning to him.

He turned from the window, to where Kate slept beside him, soft and tender. He really was the luckiest man in the world, he thought for a moment. He had a loving wife and a perfect son.

He touched her hair, his gaze very tender, then smiled and turned back toward the window.

And they were there.

Standing beside the bed.

Five German soldiers.

He heard the scream break from him, then Kate’s frantic effort to calm him.

“Russell,” she was saying. “It’s only a dream.”

But it wasn’t a dream, and he couldn’t accept that it was a dream no matter what she told him. He buried himself in Kate’s arms, sobbing now like a little boy. She held him gently, lovingly, and after a time he pulled himself away, calm now, but helplessly glancing about, searching the room for the vanished soldiers.

“You’re all right, honey,” Kate said. “You’re with me.”

He believed her suddenly, believed that it was only a dream. He relaxed and took a deep breath, trying to fight back even the slightest notion that the soldiers had been real. He looked at the room and nothing had changed. The summer wind blew softly, raising and lowering the curtains. He looked at Kate, and she was the same, her beauty undiminished. He glanced at the clock. Five-thirty. He felt a terrible shiver pass through him. Two hours had vanished. Where had he been for two hours? He drew his eyes downward, toward his body, moving along the fingers and the upper arm to where his gaze suddenly froze on a series of small punctures that were as real as the wind and the curtains and Kate beside him, and where he knew instantly and with utter certainty, the needles had gone in.

The colonel looked up sharply as Owen burst into the room.

“There’s something you have to see right now,” Owen said.

The colonel stared at him irritably. “You have an important reason for interrupting me? One that’s going to stop me from stripping you back to sergeant?”

Owen smiled. “That super-secret spy balloon of yours?”

“ ‘Mogul.’ What about it?”

“Want to see what it crashed into?”

At the crash site, the colonel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Could it be Russian?”

Just then, Owen emerged from inside the ship, carrying a body in his arms. “Russian?” he echoed.

Owen’s eyes rested on the alien figure briefly before they returned to Colonel Campbell. “I don’t think so.”

Within minutes, a vast array of soldiers and technicians had arrived, all at the colonel’s command. A large truck, fitted with a cable pulley and a stanchion, stood ready to retrieve the ship. Four bodies lay on a tarp near an ambulance.

Owen and the colonel stood together, staring at the bodies.

“You going to let them give this to the press, too?” Owen asked.

The colonel shook his head. “It was one thing when it was a lie. We could control that. Now that it’s real, there’s no way we can let it get out.” He paused. “Who found this?”

“A father and his sons out hiking,” Owen said.

“Can you clean up?”

Owen nodded to the right, where, in the distance, Watkins and his sons stood, surrounded by soldiers. “I already have.”

“I appreciate you coming right to me with this,” the colonel said. “When the time comes, you won’t be forgotten.” He remained silent for a moment, considering the situation. “We’ll have a press conference. We’ll say this debris is from a weather balloon. That there are hundreds in the air at any given moment.” He smiled. “That it was made in Cleveland, not in outer space.”

Owen glanced at the alien bodies before them.

“When I went inside the craft, there were five seats,” Owen said. He looked at the swirl of activity around him, soldiers everywhere, tents, lights. “But there are only four bodies, Colonel.”

Colonel Campbell nodded. “I’ll have my best men put on it.”

Owen paused before continuing. “I was wondering, sir, what you’re going to do now.”

“Do? About what?”

“And as far as the craft is concerned, and the bodies, I could…”

Colonel Campbell looked at him sharply. “What craft?”

“Sir?”

Colonel Campbell peered at Owen sternly. “What bodies?”

“But I…”

“You, Captain, are not involved in this… situation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Campbell nodded toward the craft. “A weather balloon crashed, Captain. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

Owen nodded crisply. “Yes, sir.”

“Including you, Captain.”

“Of course, sir,” he said stiffly. Like hell, he thought, like hell you’re going to freeze me out.

Russell placed the board across the closed front door and nailed it into place while Kate stood by, watching him worriedly.

“How are we going to get out?” she asked cautiously.

“It doesn’t matter as long as they can’t get in,” Russell answered. He turned quickly and rushed into the den. He had to protect himself, he knew, and he had to protect Kate and Jesse. They had come for him, and they would come again. He had something they wanted and they wouldn’t stop until they got it. He could feel them around him. Their eyes hung invisibly in the air and their fingers reached for him from the clear, crisp breeze. In the whispering leaves, he heard the falling tumblers of their ever-calculating minds.

“Russell, look at me,” Kate pleaded.

Russell ignored her and drew a pistol from the drawer of his desk and began to load it.

“Russell, no!” Kate cried. She reached for the pistol and the cartridges spilled onto the floor. Was it Kate? Or had they slapped his hand? He dropped to his knees and frantically began gathering up the scattered cartridges.

Kate stared at him brokenly. “What’s happening to you?”

Russell peered at his wife. He could see the terrible worry in her face, the dread. He knew what she thought.

That he was crazy. But he wasn’t crazy, and he knew it. They had come for him. They had pierced his skin. He knew they had done these things, and that they would come again… for him. But how could he expect Kate to know what he knew? She hadn’t seen them. No one had seen them. He was as alone as if he were floating high above the earth, drifting in the empty darkness, unreach-able, burdened with a terrible knowledge he couldn’t share, and which no one else could understand.

A voice called to him from some distant chamber of his memory, Lights!

He recalled the blue lights he’d first seen in the skies over Germany, the men who’d been with him that day. “My crew,” he whispered.

“What?” Kate asked.

“My men,” Russell said. “I have to find out what happened to my men.” He sat down at his desk, retrieved the old crew list he’d brought back from the war and frantically began going through it.

“What are you doing?” Kate asked.

“I have to know,” Russell said.

“Russell, please.”

Russell looked up at her through the haze of his own exhaustion. “I’m no good to you, Kate. No good as a husband or a father.” His eyes returned to the list. “I have to find out what’s going on.”

He was not sure when Kate left the room, only that she’d eased herself out cautiously, as if to let his madness run its course. Perhaps she’d listened as he’d dialed the first number, tracked down the first of his crew. Dead. Then the second. Dead. And the third… until.

When he looked back at the door, she was there again, watching him.

“They’re all dead,” he told her. “Except Johnson, my copilot. He’s at Fort Bliss.” He could hardly believe his own words. “He’s the only one who’s still alive.”

As Colonel Campbell led the team of scientists down the corridor, he recalled the way Owen’s body had gone taut as he realized just how thoroughly he’d been cut out of the loop. Not that he’d had a choice in the matter. The job ahead required people the colonel could trust, and Owen was not such a man. True, Owen was observant. He’d noticed the five seats in the craft. But that did not make him trustworthy. Especially in regard to the extremely sensitive matter the colonel now faced.

“The craft has the material-evaluation lab baffled,” the lead scientist, Dr. Goldin told him. “And as for the bodies, we’ve dissected the one that was dismembered and we can’t find anything that would be analogous to our own internal system.”

“What about the other three?” Colonel Campbell asked.

“We’ll start on the second one, to see if we missed something,” Dr. Goldin answered. “It’s a shame really.”

“What’s a shame?” the colonel asked.

“To have to ask the dead instead of the living,” Goldin replied, and stepped forward to open the door of the dissecting room where, atop a cold steel table, the alien sat alone, turning slowly to stare at them with knowing eyes.

Chapter Four

Sally Clarke briefly eyed the man at the end of the counter, then returned to the story she was reading in Famous Fantastic Mysteries. The story was called “We Are Not Alone,” and it was about aliens. It wasn’t all that great a story, Sally decided, as she glanced over the top of the magazine again, her gaze settling on the man at the end of the counter. He’d been sitting there for a long time, and she’d filled his coffee cup at least twice. He hadn’t said much to her, but there was something about him, a sadness and loneliness that was, she thought, sort of like her own, the kind that got you up in the middle of the night and drove you out into the yard and lifted your eyes toward the heavens, where you hoped to find something waiting, perhaps the answer to a question you still couldn’t frame.

But so what, Sally thought, the world was full of melancholy drifters. No point talking to a guy like that. He was a vagabond and always would be, his trouble buried so deep inside nothing less than a miracle could set him free. She was about to go back to her magazine when he suddenly glanced up and caught her foursquare looking at him.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I’d like more coffee.”

Sally flashed him her best jolly-waitress smile. “You’re not disturbing me,” she told him. “It’s my job.”

“Good story?” he asked after she’d filled his cup. “The one you’re reading.”

“It passes the time.”

“I don’t read much myself,” the man said. He took a sip from the cup, and suddenly seemed in a hurry. “How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-five cents.”

The man placed a fifty-cent piece on the counter. “Thanks,” he said, then turned and headed for the door.

Something odd about this guy, Sally thought, something desperate. The kind of guy you stayed away from if you knew what was good for you. And yet, the kind she was always drawn to, so that it didn’t surprise her when she was still thinking about him a few hours later when she finished her shift and headed home.

Her two kids, Tom and Becky, were in the living room when she arrived. She took a few minutes to watch Tom practice his magic tricks, while Becky teased him, as always.

Her husband Fred was in the upstairs bedroom, packing for the road.

“Shoehorn,” he said dully as she came into the room. “Have you seen it?”

Sally opened the dresser drawer, dug through her husband’s socks and came out with the shoehorn. “You have to leave tonight?” she asked as she handed it to him.

Fred nodded sullenly.

“Did the kids eat?”

Fred’s eyes flashed toward her. “You’re the waitress. You feed them.” He turned away, closed the suitcase. “I’ll see you in three weeks,” he said as he swept out of the room.

Lonely… Sally decided, the guy in the diner suddenly on her mind again. She heard her husband say a quick good-bye to Tom and Becky, then the slap of the screen door as he left the house. Lonely, she thought with a shrug, like me.

Owen’s shadow cut a jagged swath across the tarmac as he strode toward the looming hangar. He’d made a decision. No one was going to cut him out of the loop. Not some goofy scientist. Not Colonel Campbell. Not God, Himself.

The door of the hangar opened and a tall officer in pilot’s gear stepped into the bright light of the field.

“Bishop, right?” Owen asked. “You flew Colonel Campbell out of Fort Worth the other night?”

“Right,” the pilot said.

“Destination?”

The pilot looked at Owen warily. “That’s a ‘need to know.’”

Owen took out his ID. “Army Intelligence. I need to know.”

The pilot glanced at the ID. “Captain Crawford. The colonel told me you might show up.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Captain,” he said as he stepped away.

Owen remained in place as the pilot walked briskly across the tarmac. All right, he thought, the colonel had anticipated his move. But it was only his first move, he told himself, already making his second.

A few minutes later, Anne opened the door. She seemed surprised to see him, and Owen took that as a good sign. It was always good to catch a woman off guard.

“Can you go for a ride?” he asked her.

She smiled delightedly. “I’ll get my car coat.”

“I said a ride, not a drive.”

Within minutes they were alone in the desert, dusk settling over the rocky hills as they rode their horses together slowly, like two lovers strolling down a familiar street.

“You’re doing great,” Owen told her.

“Can we go faster?” Anne asked excitedly.

“Just loosen up on the reins a little,” Owen said. He took her hand and showed her just how much to relax the reins.

Anne’s horse began to trot, Owen careful to keep pace beside her, noting how easily her timidity slipped away.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m wonderful.”

He slapped his horse and the trot became a canter, the two horses in stride with each other, Anne’s hair blowing loosely in the wind. Her smile was as radiant as a child’s, and Owen was quick to realize that in a way, a child is what she remained, utterly under her father’s command, a woman already trained to obey.

He brought his horse to a halt at the edge of a rocky precipice, then waited as Anne drew up to him.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come out with me,” Owen told her.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Your father. He’s dead set against you seeing me.”

“I’m not my father,” Anne said determinedly.

“I know that,” Owen said.

He knew the moment had come, leaned forward and kissed her. “You’re the sun and the moon to me, Anne,” he said. He could feel her surrender to him, and in her surrender, the greater victory he sought.

Colonel Campbell studied the projected slide, a cross-section of cell tissue. All around him scientists and military officers peered at the same slide. For the last few minutes, the experts had argued about the nature of the tissue. It had certain characteristics that seemed essentially animal, and others that resembled a fungus. Still others were convinced that the cell tissue actually changed from animal to vegetable, that it could be… anything.

Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Helms walked in. “I think you need to see this,” he said urgently.

Colonel Campbell and the others followed Helms down the corridor to an observation room.

On the other side of the glass Dr. Goldin stood facing the alien. The alien was silent and gave no hint of movement. It was Dr. Goldin who was doing all the talking, his body swaying forward and backward repetitively as he spoke.

“What’s he saying? Is it German?” Colonel Campbell asked.

“Goldin would never speak German,” Helms replied. “It’s Hebrew. He’s reciting from the Haphtorah.”

Colonel Campbell peered at the alien, and for a moment seemed to lose himself in the unfathomable depth of its eyes. Then he shifted his attention back to Dr. Goldin. A small trickle of blood had suddenly emerged from the scientist’s nose.

“My God,” the colonel whispered as the trickle became a red torrent and Goldin slid to the floor. “Get him out of there!”

Guards rushed into the room, picked Goldin from the floor and brought him hurriedly into the observation room.

“How long was he in there?” the colonel demanded.

“Ten minutes,” Helms answered. “Maybe less.”

Dr. Goldin lay on a table a few feet away. He looked pale, exhausted. “I was there,” he whispered.

Colonel Campbell leaned closer to Goldin. “Where?”

“At my bar mitzvah in Dresden,” Goldin answered. “If I could have stayed a little longer, I could have spoken to my father.” He grabbed the colonel’s lapel. “My father,” he cried desperately. “I could have spoken to my father.” His eyes shifted to the observation window, where the alien stood, staring silently. “I want to see my father,” Goldin pleaded.

The colonel trained his gaze on the alien. For an instant their eyes locked. Then the alien turned and faced the wall, entirely motionless, save for the rippling undulation of its back.

Owen knew that something had happened, something… important. All morning scientists and military people had gone in and out of the colonel’s office. During that time, only Dr. Helms had remained with the colonel. The reasonable assumption was that whatever the colonel knew, Helms knew it too. The question was how to get Helms to talk. Owen considered various plans, chose the most direct one, then put it into operation.

A few hours later, he signaled as he saw Dr. Helms’ car approach, and obedient to Owen’s earlier instructions, the policemen hit the light and the siren. Just as he knew it would, Dr. Helms’ car pulled over. Owen got out, walked to the driver’s window and pulled out his ID. “Captain Crawford, Army Intelligence. This a routine debriefing, Dr. Helms. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

“Routine?” Helms asked. “Why couldn’t you just…”

“There’s a leak in the project, Doctor,” Owen said authoritatively. “We don’t suspect you of leaking anything but…”

Helms looked at Owen nervously. “Does this have anything to do with what happened to Dr. Goldin yesterday?”

“In part,” Owen answered, though he had no idea that anything had “happened” to Dr. Goldin.

“I don’t see how Dr. Goldin’s death could have anything to do with a leak…”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think happened,” Owen said.

There’d been an “incident,” Helms said. Dr. Goldin had had a strange encounter with “the one that was alive.” Goldin had gone into some kind of trance, Helms went on, and during the trance he’d spoken Hebrew and believed himself to be thirteen again, reciting in the synagogue while his long-dead father looked on.

“This first encounter nearly killed Dr. Goldin,” Helms said.

“First encounter?”

“Last night he went back into the room,” Helms said. “I guess he wanted to see his father again. So he went back into the room. Of the… visitor.”

“And the experience killed him,” Owen said, careful not to phrase it as a question.

“It killed them both,” Dr. Helms said.

Owen felt a jolt of excitement. “You’ve been a lot of help,” he said. “And, Doctor, I’m sure you can appreciate how important it is that you mention our discussion to no one.”

Sally Clarke sat in her living room, reading the paper while Tom and Becky slept upstairs. According to the lead story, a trucker had been murdered on the state highway, and as she read the details of the killing, Sally once again felt how cruel life on earth actually was. Here was a working guy who’d probably picked up the wrong hitchhiker and ended up dead. The simplest thing could turn on you, an act of kindness flip around and bite you like a snake.

She didn’t like to think too long about the darker aspects of life, and so she folded the paper and picked up the magazine she’d been reading at the diner and read the last of its fantastic mystery stories. The story was a little creepy, but Sally liked that. She liked to feel the tingle of something strange, something unexplainable. So much of life was predictable. You got up each morning and the world looked the same, the air smelled the same. You went to the same job and did the same things once you got there. But in these fantastic stories nothing was predictable. Weird things were commonplace, and the world was always turning a blind corner or displaying some strange new design.

She heard a heavy thud. The shed door, she thought. It was always coming unlatched and banging in the wind. If she let it go it would wake the children.

She retrieved a flashlight from the kitchen and walked out into the night, the yellow beam nosing along the green lawn, casting the distant shed in a hazy light. The door was flapping against the side of the building in hard, rhythmic thuds, and suddenly Sally felt a tingle of dread pass over her, as if the world had abruptly changed, become not the predictable thing it had been moments before, but instead that other world she’d read about, dark and mysterious, where nothing was as it seemed.

She drew in a long breath, steadying herself. Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. There’s nothing in the shed. Nothing lurking there, crouched in a dark corner… waiting.

She moved forward boldly now, persuaded by her own argument, secure in the knowledge that the world was as it had always been.

At the door, she paused and shined the flashlight into the shed’s dark interior. She heard a rustling, and knew that it was not the wind in the trees, but something inside the shed. A mouse, perhaps. She aimed the light at the ground, then moved it slowly to the right, the beam crawling along the edge of the wall until it came to a figure lying on the ground. Not some weird creature from outer space, Sally saw instantly. But a man who looked injured somehow, despite his sad smile, and the way his eyes seemed to peer into her soul.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

The man nodded slowly.

“You need a doctor,” Sally said urgently.

The man smiled softly. “I’ll be all right. I just need to rest.”

“What’s your name?”

“John.”

She felt his gaze almost physically, like the delicate play of window curtains across her face.

“I need to rest,” John said.

It seemed to Sally that he needed more than rest. He needed comfort, security, safety, and the urge to provide these things abruptly overwhelmed her.

She rushed to where he lay, drew him tenderly from the ground, holding him firmly, but gently, as if he were made of some infinitely fragile material.

Inside the house, she rushed to Tom’s room, and woke him up while the man stood, leaning in the doorway.

“Who’s that?” Tom asked.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Sally answered hurriedly. “Get some pillows and an extra blanket from my bed. You’re going to sleep on the sofa tonight.”

Tom did as he was told, then Sally carefully lowered the man onto the bed.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her, “just as soon as I collect my thoughts.”

It struck her as an odd choice of words, since he didn’t seem in the least confused or disoriented. “Do you need any… help with your clothes?” she asked.

“No, I’m fine,” John answered. “Thank you for taking me in.”

Sally stepped to the door, turned off the light and headed back down stairs.

Tom was making his bed on the couch. Becky stood beside him,

“Who is that guy?” Tom asked.

Sally knew she had no real answer. Who was he? She didn’t know. She only knew that she felt inexplicably connected to him. “You two should be in bed,” she said.

“Who is that man?” Tom repeated insistently.

“He’s a stranger, Tom,” Sally said. “And he’s hurt.”

“How long is he going to stay in my room?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Sally answered. “Until he’s better.” She glanced toward Becky, whose face was suddenly drawn with worry.

“Mommy, did he hit you?”

“What?” Sally asked with a quick laugh.

“Your nose,” Becky said.

“My nose?” Sally asked.

Becky stared at her worriedly. “It’s bleeding.”

Owen looked up from his desk as Howard and Marty entered his office.

“Anything on the fifth… occupant of the craft?” he asked.

“Nothing so far, sir,” Howard answered.

“Well it turns out there was another live one,” Owen told them.

Howard and Marty glanced at each other astonished.

“It lived long enough to demonstrate certain… abilities,” Owen said somberly.

“What kind of abilities?” Howard asked.

Owen smiled. He could see the spark he’d lit. “In good time,” he said. He sat back in his chair. “Colonel Campbell is a small and petty man. He confiscated the bodies and initiated a high-level cover-up.” He noticed the shock in his aides’ faces, along with the pride they took in his confiding in them. “He froze me out the way he froze you out in the field that day. But he’s not going to get away with it.” Owen’s tone grew menacing. “I’m going to take this project away from him. And I’ll take down anyone who gets in my way.” They were with him now, heart and soul. He could see it in their eyes, the glint of conspiracy. “So if you get any leads about the missing visitor, I expect you to share them with me rather than the good colonel.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“Absolutely, sir,” said Marty.

“Good,” Owen said. “But keep the abilities I mentioned in mind, and don’t confine your search to little gray men. Look for someone… some thing… a little more human.”

Sally entered the room quietly, determined not to wake John if he were still asleep. But he stirred as she entered, and she felt the odd sensation that he’d sensed her presence, saw her without using his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

John turned to face her. “I’m much better.”

She handed him the tray she’d brought for him. “Breakfast.”

He hardly looked at the food. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

“I put some towels out,” Sally told him. “And a shirt and some pants. My husband’s.” She smiled. “Before he put on weight.”

“That’s very kind,” John said. He seemed to study her a moment. “Your husband doesn’t appreciate your kindness. He doesn’t see your sadness either, but you’ve stopped wanting him to. I think you’re right. There are some things you don’t share with an uncaring person.”

Sally felt as if some part of her had been peeled away and now lay exposed before him. It was as if John had somehow pierced all the protective layers of her life and touched its tender core.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I was in an accident,” John said.

“What kind of accident?”

“Farming.”

“You have a farm around here?”

“No, I… someone gave me a ride.”

A sudden pain streaked across Sally’s brow. She winced.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Just a headache.”

Again, she sensed that the man was studying her in a way she could not grasp. It wasn’t the way some of her customers looked at her, and it didn’t make her feel un-comfortable or on display. Instead, it was a kind of inner probing, and she felt it like millions of tiny invisible wires, each simultaneously penetrating her skin and making infinitely small connections.

“You were telling me about your accident,” Sally said.

She could tell that he didn’t want to talk about it.

“I’m sorry, would you mind letting me rest for a while?” he said.

“Of course,” Sally said. “I’ll leave the tray in case you wake up hungry.” She started to leave, then felt herself drawn back to him. “You were right, you know. He doesn’t appreciate…” She stopped, astonished that such words had broken from her. “I mean…” She laughed nervously. “Anyway, get some rest.”

She rushed from the room, the pain in her head now almost more than she could bear, a hard, steady pounding. For a moment, she leaned against the door, then pulled herself up again and went to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was already open, though she didn’t remember leaving it that way, the bottle of aspirin clearly visible, as if waiting for her. She opened the bottle, took out two aspirin and quickly swallowed them. It was only then that she saw the trickle of blood that oozed from her nose.

Russell made his way between two lines of empty beds. Distantly, he could see the one bed that was still occupied. The figure who lay in it did not move as he drew near.

“I brought you something,” he said.

Johnson’s eyes drifted over to him.

Russell showed him the photograph of Rita Hayworth, then propped it against the water jug on the table beside Johnson’s bed.

“What do they say is wrong with you?” Russell asked.

“No one knows,” Johnson answered weakly. “They say it’s in my head. A psychological thing. From the war maybe.”

“All the others are dead,” Russell said bleakly.

“Except you,” Johnson said. He smiled quietly. “And me… for now.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Russell asked him.

A strange terror gripped Johnson’s face.

Russell bent forward. “Tell me. Because except for these dreams I’ve been having, I don’t remember a thing.”

Johnson hesitated, his eyes now searching the room, as if for a way out. “Whatever they did to us, they did it for a long time,” he said.

“What did they do?”

“I don’t know.” Johnson’s face trembled slightly. “But whatever it was, they did it to you, too.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you were on the cot next to mine.”

And instantly, Russell was there, on his back, tossing in pain, his anguished gaze boring into the German soldiers who stood idly within the tent. He felt himself roll out of the cot and onto the floor, knocking over oxygen tanks and hospital trays, rolling desperately until he found himself behind the ball turret gun of the B-17, his hand reaching for the trigger, firing and firing, spraying doctors and nurses and the idling soldiers with a hail of bullets, filling the tent with acrid blue smoke until the gun finally went silent and he lay in the quiet, with no sense of who he was or where he was, but only that the gun had stopped and that everyone was dead, and suddenly he and his men were all in a French field.

“You and I both know it wasn’t Germans you killed that day. It wasn’t Germans at all,” Johnson said. “What did they do to us, Captain?” he pleaded. “What did they do?” He looked at Russell, drew in a labored breath, then suddenly began to twitch, his eyes rolling upward as his body went slack.

“Johnson,” Russell called. “Johnson.”

But he was dead.

Chapter Five

Sally pulled into the driveway, retrieved the grocery bags from the backseat, and headed into the house.

“Tom,” she called. “Becky.”

Odd, she thought, when they didn’t come dashing out of their rooms to greet her. She glanced across the empty living room to the door of Tom’s room. It was closed, but she could hear laughter coming from behind it.

She walked to the door, opened it and saw Becky floating three feet in the air, John standing beside her, passing his arms around her at all angles to demonstrate that there were no strings attached.

“How do you feel?” John asked her.

“Like I’m floating,” Becky answered.

“No headaches?”

“No.”

“That’s good,” John said, then caught Sally in his eye, and with a wave of his arm softly returned Becky to the floor.

“That was amazing,” Becky cried.

Tom shrugged. “Levitation’s easy,” he said sullenly.

Becky glared at him. “I’ve never seen you do it.”

At dinner, Sally couldn’t get the sight of Becky floating in the air out of her mind. It had not looked like a magician’s trick, but something else, a… power. She looked at the stranger who sat across from her, hardly touching his food.

“You’re not hungry?” she asked.

“Breakfast lasted me all day,” John answered.

“You didn’t eat any of it,” Tom said accusingly. “I saw your plate.”

John kept his eyes on Sally. “Your headache?” he asked.

“It’s gone.”

John smiled. He looked curiously relieved. “That’s good,” he said.

For the next few minutes, Sally cautiously asked a few questions. She found out that John was from Des Moines, that he’d been working here and there at whatever job he could find. His answers were carefully thought out, and she sensed that he was checking some invisible notebook before each answer, making sure that it was right, and only then giving it: a process done at lightning speed, and yet, a process.

All the while Tom stared at John suspiciously, and with a hint of hostility.

“They’re looking for someone,” Tom said.

John’s eyes swept over to him.

“Some Army men came to the school today,” Tom continued. “They said to be on the lookout for a deserter, that he’d killed a truck driver a few days ago.”

John gazed into Tom’s eyes for a moment, then shifted to the window. “It’s beautiful country,” he said to Sally. “Would you like to take a walk?”

She nodded softly, and everything Tom had just said, all the alarm it should have caused in her, abruptly vanished. “Yes,” she said. “A walk would be nice.”

They left the children at the table, Tom still staring accusingly at John, daring him to reveal himself.

They mounted a nearby slope in the cool air. Sally felt strangely light, as if she were floating just above the earth, the bottoms of her feet lightly brushing the upturned grass.

“You’re a very special woman,” John said. “You need to believe me when I tell you that.” He stopped and looked at her pointedly. “I’ve done some things,” he admitted. “Hurt people.”

She saw how troubled he was, how desperately he sought peace. She felt herself give way to him, took his hand. “Come with me,” she said.

In the shed, clothed in darkness, she made love to him as she had never made love to anyone, softly and sweetly, yet with a strange abandon, possessing even as she was possessed, gaming ground as she gave it up, like a soldier who senses victory in surrender.

Tom stood at his bedroom window, peering down at the shed, his sister beside him, watching him silently.

“Let’s find his clothes,” Tom said darkly.

“But he’s supposed to be dangerous,” Becky told him fearfully.

Tom seemed not to hear her. He threw himself on the floor and peered under the bed. Nothing.

“Look at this,” Becky said.

Tom got to his feet. “What?”

Becky handed him the magazine. “It’s a weird magazine.”

Tom looked at the magazine. It was called Famous Fantastic Mysteries. He turned the page. The first story was called “The Visitor,” and the illustration showed a strong, handsome man with a young woman in his arms.

“It’s him,” Tom said.

“It’s who?”

Tom whirled around to see the man in the doorway.

“It’s who?” John repeated.

Tom drew back and made for the door, but John caught him and lifted him, their faces almost touching.

“Listen to me,” John said. “You think you know something, but you don’t.”

Tom squirmed violently in John’s arms. “Let me go,” he cried. “Let me go.”

Becky bolted forward and began kicking John’s shins, but he seemed not to feel the hard point of her shoes, and kept his eyes riveted to Tom. “My business here is almost done,” he said.

Tom’s nose started to bleed.

“I’m sorry,” John said. He slowly returned Tom to the ground. “I didn’t mean to hurt…”

Tom wiped his nose and stared, horrified at the blood.

“Tom, I…”

Tom whirled around and bolted from the room, Becky rushing out just behind him, just as Sally came into it.

“What’s with them?” Sally said lightly as they rushed past her.

John shrugged.

Something in John’s face changed, a sudden shadow passing over it, and Sally sensed that a dark thought had crossed his mind.

“Tyler, my boss at the restaurant,” she said. “He called to tell me that soldiers are looking for a deserter from an Army base in New Mexico.”

John said nothing, but only picked up the magazine Tom had dropped at his feet.

“I know that you came from someplace farther away than that,” Sally said. “They’ll be coming for you soon, won’t they?”

John nodded silently, glancing away for a moment before returning his gaze to her.

Sally plucked a lone star earring from her ear. “These were my grandmother’s. Will you take one with you?” She stepped over and took his hand and saw that it had changed. Now it had only four fingers and each finger had an extra joint. She knew that she should be horrified, that horror would be the normal reaction. But she felt no horror, only that he’d revealed something to her, deepened their intimacy. In doing so, he had taken her into his world, and she believed that some part of her would always live there.

“I’d better go,” John said. “I don’t think I can keep from hurting you if you’re with me.”

She walked him out to the porch, watched as he stepped into the yard, noted that he did not look back. She lifted her hand, but did not say good-bye.

Then she walked back into the house, and in an instant she knew that he was gone. She returned to the porch, glancing up at the sky where she saw two large blue orbs flying in formation across the heavens. She sat down in a chair, and she was still there, sitting quietly, when Tom and Becky came home. She could tell from their faces that they’d also seen the strange lights in the night sky.

Later, just as dinner was on the table, she answered a knock at the door.

“I’m Owen Crawford,” the soldier said. “Army Intelligence.”

Sally nodded.

“He’s gone, hasn’t he?” Owen said.

“He has,” Sally answered.

She could tell that the soldier knew who the stranger was, that he was not a deserter from an Army base, but something else entirely. Something that defied understanding and had bestowed on her a wisdom and sweetness that was deeper than anything on earth.

“Home?” he asked.

“Yes, home.”

The soldier nodded. “Then I guess I’m too late,” he said, and with those words, tipped his hat and walked away.

She watched him drive off, then tucked Tom and Becky into bed. She knew that her children probably thought her crazy.

But she knew differently.

She’d seen the four-fingered hand, seen his powers, and even now felt him stir inside her, something left behind, so small she could barely feel its pressure inside her, so small… but growing.

Russell lay in bed, tossing fitfully. Johnson was screaming, and he was rolling out of the bed and onto the floor, reaching for the trigger, firing, firing, firing, until suddenly, he was bathed in light, and he saw that the light came from the creatures in the tent, the Germans who were no longer Germans, he saw now, but something… other… small, with large pear-shaped heads, huge almond-shaped eyes, and long fingers that hung from spindly hands.

He bolted up in bed, wide awake, eyes staring into the darkness. Sweat cascaded down his back with the cool curious touch of bony fingers. Not Germans, he thought desperately, not Germans at all.

Owen headed down the corridor, then stopped. She was there again. That woman. Sue. He pivoted quickly, bent upon a hasty escape, but found himself face to face with Howard.

“I thought I told you to keep that woman away from me,” he snapped.

“She’s very persistent,” Howard said. He glanced over Owen’s shoulder. “Too late, sir.”

Owen turned to face Sue and flashed his best smile. “Sue, so glad to see you. Corporal Bowen, this is Sue…” He stopped, at a loss.

“You don’t even know my last name,” Sue said. “But don’t worry, Owen. This isn’t about… us.” She lifted the paper bag she held in her right hand. “It’s about this.”

Owen took the bag and looked inside, his expression now very grave. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“Up at Pine Lodge.”

Owen closed the bag. “Come into my office.”

Once inside the office, Owen reached into the bag and drew out a metal artifact, its inner surface covered with odd markings, curves and geometric shapes.

“The night you ditched me, I went for a drive,” Sue told him. “I saw something crash. I couldn’t see what it was, but when I walked over to where it had gone down, I found this.”

“And brought it to me,” Owen said sweetly. He touched her arm seductively. “You never let me explain about that night. I was supposed to meet Colonel Campbell. His daughter came to tell me he was ill.”

“Sure she did.”

“You completely misread the situation.”

“Sure I did.” But she smiled as she said it.

He could feel her falling beneath his spell. “You’re the sun and the moon to me, Sue.”

He was in her trailer later that night, all his thoughts on the object she’d found, how important it was, and how necessary that he should have sole possession of it. Now he had something the colonel had never seen. Something no one had ever seen… but Sue.

And so it’s come to this, he thought, a witness the project can’t afford. He touched Sue’s face, but not to awaken her, only to suggest that it was too bad what he had to do, too bad that the most valuable artifact in the history of the world had to be protected from even one more set of human eyes.

The air was dark outside, but he had found just what he needed, something very heavy. She was sleeping soundly when he lifted it above her, and never woke again when he brought it down.

Owen stood among the throng of well-wishers, their glasses lifted in a wedding toast as Howard brought his remarks to a close. “Anne, you’re not just marrying Owen,” he said, “you’re getting me and Marty, too.”

Owen laughed, then glanced toward the bar where Colonel Campbell stood off to himself. Now was the moment, he thought, time to go in for the kill.

He inched his way out of the crowd and walked over to the colonel.

“Could we have a talk?” he asked. “In your study.”

Colonel Campbell shrugged. “Okay,” he said.

In the study, Owen took in the luxurious room, the high walls of books.

“If it wouldn’t break my daughter’s heart, I’d kill you where you stand,” Colonel Campbell said.

Owen smiled confidently. “But it really would break her heart.” He lifted his chin arrogantly. “You know what I’d like as a wedding present? I’d like to be a major.”

Colonel Campbell laughed.

“A major,” Owen repeated firmly. “Anything less and you couldn’t put me in charge of that little project of yours at Wright-Patterson.”

Colonel Campbell’s face was motionless. “That project is mine. You will never see inside that laboratory.”

“I disagree,” Owen said haughtily. He took the small piece of metal Sue had given him. “It’s an alloy unknown on this planet. The markings are also unknown. It was found at Pine Lodge.” He pocketed the metal. “And either you give me exactly what I want or I’ll go public. That should bring your flying saucer crashing down on your head.”

The colonel drew in a shaky breath. “Enjoy your promotion,” he said.

Owen nodded, turned to leave, then stopped and faced the colonel once again. “And don’t worry about Anne. She’s the sun and the moon to me.”