Alienation (13 page)

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I just got back from dinner with my parents, and I can't stop crying,” she said, her voice shaky. “I don't know . . .” She paused to take a deep breath. “Maybe I shouldn't go with you guys tomorrow. I mean, what was I thinking? We're going to be gone for what? Eighteen months? That's an eternity. Besides, Oz probably had to beg his dad to let me in.”

“Yeah, right,” Colt said. “You have a gift . . . of course it's a gift for breaking into other people's computers and stealing their data, but it's still a gift.”

“I guess,” she said. “How did everything go with Lily? Are you guys . . . you know, official?”

“Because that makes a lot of sense. It's not like I'm moving away tomorrow or anything.” He sighed. “Besides, after tonight I don't think she'll ever talk to me again.”

“Yeah, right. You two are practically inseparable.”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I got arrested?”

“Are you serious?”

Colt told her everything that had happened over the last few days, and when he was done, she started to say something, but then she stopped. The long stretch of silence made him nervous. “I don't even know what to say,” she finally said. “I mean, the whole thing is insane.”

“Tell me about it.”

She took a deep breath, like an actress composing herself before she went onstage. “Okay, do you have the flash drive?”

“It's right here.” He reached into his pocket and held it up to the camera.

“I want you to send me the files—all of them—but make sure you use your phone, not your laptop. Your line isn't secure.”

“Okay, but . . .” Colt averted his eyes.

“But what?”

“I don't know,” he said, trying to avoid relaying the thoughts that were dancing around in his head. “Do you think Oz will see them?”

“Why? It's not like he's in on it.”

Colt didn't respond.

“Wait, you think he is?”

“I don't know,” Colt said. “I mean, I hope not, but . . .” He explained his theory, and when he was done, she just sat there and scratched her dog behind the ears.

“How many times could Oz have killed you since the two of you started hanging out?” she finally asked.

“I hadn't thought about that.”

“Don't get me wrong,” she said. “I mean, I'm not saying that he's not a part of some conspiracy to kill you, but one way or the other, we need to find out.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “We'll figure something out. Look, I have to finish packing or I'm going to be up all night. Don't forget to send me those files, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Don't worry, it'll all work out. Just make sure you act normal around him, or he's going to think that something is up.”

Colt had no idea how he was supposed to act normal when it seemed his best friend wanted to kill him.

:: CHAPTER 23 ::

C
olt woke up to the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen as Grandpa made breakfast. He opened one eye and groaned. It was still dark outside, and he wanted to go back to sleep, but it was his last morning in Arizona and he still hadn't finished packing.

His tired fingers probed through the laundry in search of the alarm clock that had fallen off his nightstand, but he didn't have much luck. His shoulder was stiff, and he was about to give up when he felt something cold and metallic beneath a damp towel. The tin clock was still ticking despite the abuse, and according to the hands, it was barely six o'clock.

Outside, a garbage truck rumbled down the street, its brakes screeching at every stop. As usual, the neighbor's dog started barking, and Colt figured he might as well get up. He rolled out of bed just as the truck pulled up to the curb in front of Grandpa's lawn, the vibrations from the engine shaking the window. “Great,” he said as he knocked over a cardboard box, dumping at least a hundred comic books across the hardwood floor. He thought about picking them up, but decided to add that to his list of everything else he had to do.

“You're up early,” Grandpa said as he flipped a pancake on the griddle. He was still in his pajamas and some old slippers that were cracked and faded with age. “Care for some breakfast?”

“Sure,” Colt attempted to say, but it came out as some kind of grunt. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open, and he slumped into one of the chairs wondering if he had the energy to stand back up and pour himself a cup of coffee.

From the look of things, Grandpa had been awake long enough to read the morning paper. It was folded neatly next to his reading glasses and the television remote. Colt started to reach for the sports section, but he stopped when he saw the lead article on the front page. The headline read F
REEWAY
G
UNMEN
T
AKEN INTO
C
USTODY
.

He sat up straight and read the story once, and then again. According to the report, two men were arrested in connection with the shootings on the Loop 202 Santan Freeway. Local police received several anonymous tips that led them to a rental property on a private golf course. When they raided the home they found over fifty pounds of marijuana, EMP grenades, a plasma rifle, and an armored Mercedes sedan with bulletproof windows and a pair of M60 machine guns mounted on the hood.

Colt sat slack-jawed, staring at the mug shots of the suspects. One of the men was older, probably in his sixties, with a thick shock of white hair and heavy eyebrows. The other looked barely old enough to have a driver's license. His hair was long in the front, but shorter in the back, and he was scowling at the camera.

“Did you see this?” Colt asked, though he already knew the answer. Grandpa was the only person Colt knew who read the newspaper from front to back, though for some reason he always started with the obituaries.

Grandpa looked over his shoulder. “Are you talking about the shootings?” he asked, scooping some scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Nice bit of police work, wouldn't you say?”

Colt frowned, wondering if Grandpa was serious. “Yeah, except the part where they arrested the wrong people,” he said, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. If someone squinted and looked at the pictures from a distance, the suspects looked a little like Colt and Grandpa, but the arrests were a fraud. “They didn't have anything to do with it. I mean, what if they have families or—”

“Those men are wanted felons,” Grandpa said. His voice was calm and his face impassive. “The older one? He's ex-mafia from New Jersey and a convicted felon who admitted to murdering more than a dozen people. In exchange for his testimony against a crime boss, the FBI dropped all charges and sent him to Arizona as part of the witness protection program. But instead of living a nice quiet life, he decided to get involved in drug trafficking. And most of the product that he brings into the country ends up with people your age, and sometimes younger.”

He set a plate of pancakes, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, and crisp bacon in front of Colt, then went back to serve himself. “The other guy shot and killed a woman during a robbery attempt last week. He was a junkie, and he was looking for money to get his next fix. Luckily her three children were at Grandma's house, because in his state of mind, he wouldn't have cared who he shot. So I don't think you need to feel sorry for either one of them.”

“But I don't get it,” Colt said, trying to work everything out in his head. “How did they get arrested for what happened last night? And where did they get EMP grenades, let alone an armored car with machine guns mounted on the hood? It's not like you can buy that stuff at a sporting goods store.”

“You'd be surprised.” Grandpa sat down across from Colt and slathered butter on his pancakes before drowning them in maple syrup. “Look, I don't know the particulars, and to tell you the truth, I don't want to know,” he said, taking a bite. A drop of syrup ran down his chin. “The truth of the matter is that there are entities with enough power to bend reality so long as it suits their needs—and it's not just the good guys either.”

“Is that what you were doing on the phone last night?” Colt asked. It was hard to believe that Grandpa had the kind of connections that could make something like that happen.

“I explained our situation to a friend and let him decide how to handle it,” Grandpa said between bites. “Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

Colt bit into a strip of bacon, but his eyes kept drifting to the pictures of the men in the newspaper. Maybe they were criminals, and from the sound of things, they deserved to go to prison for a very long time. But knowing that someone had enough power to plant evidence, falsify witnesses, and get the media to buy into all of it was terrifying. He wondered how many people were rotting away behind bars, framed for crimes they didn't commit. He wondered if it could ever happen to him.

When they were finished eating, Grandpa cleared their plates and filled the sink with warm water and dish soap. “I know you have a lot going on in that head of yours,” he said as he ran a sponge over the spatula. “You're a lot like your mother in that way. Once she got her mind locked on an idea, it was hard for her to let go. But what's done is done, and those men were heading to prison one way or the other. Besides, you have bigger concerns right now.”

“You mean Lobo?” Colt swirled the remnants of his orange juice in the bottom of his glass.

“I mean that disaster you call a bedroom.” Grandpa smiled, though it was faint. “Look, things are going to get more complicated over the next few weeks, and I wish more than anything that I could take your place, but all the wishing in the world isn't going to change a thing.” He wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “Like it or not, there isn't much more I can do—not at this age. But there are people in place who will help you—people you can trust.”

“Like who?” Colt almost laughed. The idea of trusting anyone seemed ludicrous at best. If anything, he'd never felt more alienated in his life. His grandfather knew that the government had shot him up with alien blood, and it was starting to look like his best friend was aware of a plot to kill him. But neither one had said a word.

“For starters, the DAA is investigating Operation Nemesis,” he said. “The rest will show themselves when the time is right.” Grandpa walked over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a wooden box. “Look, I know things have been a bit strained between us. This isn't much, but I wanted to give it to you before you left.”

The box was small, and its edges were worn from age. Colt ran his fingers over the smooth surface and found two brass hinges and a single clasp, which he opened with his thumb. The inside of the box was lined with felt, and he reached inside to pull out a piece of crumbled tissue paper that held a medallion strung to a ball chain necklace. The medallion was a copper color, like a tarnished penny, with a cross on one side and a verse on the other: God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Ps. 46:1

“I wore that when I was in the service,” Grandpa said, his eyes distant as though he was recalling a lost memory. “You know, I've always thought it was funny how we glorify war in movies and television . . . and now we have those video games where you shoot to kill your enemy.” He shook his head. “There's nothing glorious about war . . . men shot, their bodies mangled as they call out for their mothers. And there's not a darned thing you can do for any of them, other than maybe give them a packet of morphine and hope they go fast.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “The only way I got through it without losing my mind was this medallion. I wasn't worried about survival . . . none of us were. We all thought that we were going home in a pine box. But I'd rub that thing between my thumb and forefinger and pray that the Good Lord would give me the strength to finish my mission.”

Colt held the medallion in his palm, and he could see a worn path where his grandfather had rubbed across the surface. “Thanks,” he said as he slipped it over his neck.

“I want you to know I'm proud of you,” Grandpa said. His voice was shaky as he walked over to finish the dishes.

Colt just sat there, his eyes fixed on what was left of his orange juice as he rubbed the medallion and prayed for strength.

After a long, hot shower, he got dressed and went to work packing the rest of his things. Other than some toiletries and a change of clothes, he wasn't supposed to bring anything to Virginia. That meant his comic book collection had to stay behind, along with the action figures and his dad's Phantom Flyer signet ring.

He wrapped frames in towels, stopping to look at each picture as memories of his parents came flooding back. His favorite was a picture where the three of them were at Sea World after the Shamu show. He was maybe six or seven, and somehow he had talked them into sitting in the splash zone. He remembered how his mom howled as the wall of water crashed over her. Before long they were all drenched from head to toe, smiling and laughing under the warm summer sun.

Soon, just about everything he owned was in cardboard boxes, and each time he sealed one shut it felt like he was burying a part of his past. He stacked them neatly against the wall and pulled his sheets off the bed, but when he went to put them in the washing machine, his phone beeped. It was an e-mail from Danielle.