More Deaths Than One (20 page)

The dark-skinned, frizzy-haired waitress
dropped her towel on the table she’d been busing and hurried toward
them.

“You can’t come in here.”

“Who? Me?” Bob said.

The waitress pointed at Townsend. “No. Him.
If he doesn’t leave, I’m calling the cops.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bob stared at her. “He’s
with me.”

She took a step back. “He better not bother
anyone.”

“He won’t.” Bob led Townsend to an unoccupied
booth.

The waitress put her hands on her hips. “Ya
want coffee?” she asked, making the innocuous words sound like a
threat.

“Yeah,” Townsend answered, head bowed.

“Hot chocolate,” Bob said. “And menus.”

Despite the inauspicious beginning, the
waitress treated them with an efficiency that could almost be
called courtesy, and in short order placed steaming plates of food
in front of them.

Hunching over his plate, Townsend shoveled
huge bites of roast beef and whipped potatoes into his mouth, and
washed them down with noisy gulps of coffee.

When the waitress came to clean away the
dishes, Bob slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hand.

“Keep the coffee coming.”

“Sure. Whatever.” She left with the dishes,
returned immediately to refill Townsend’s cup, then took off
again.

“What happened to you?” Bob asked softly.

Townsend shrugged.

“Did you and Michael Mortimer see
some-thing?”

A barely perceptible nod.

“A space ship?”

“No!” The word exploded out of Townsend.

“Lights?”

“Yeah.”

“Where were you when you saw the lights?”

Bob had to strain to hear Townsend’s
whispered reply. “San Luis Valley. Michael’s grandmother lives
there. We went to visit her.”

“You and Michael are friends?”

“Then. Not now.”

“Why not now?”

“He believed them when they made us think
we’d seen aliens, but we didn’t.”

“Who made you think you’d seen aliens?” When
Townsend didn’t respond, Bob said, “Was it the doctors at the
Rosewood Research Institute?”

“Maybe. Yeah.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“We saw strange lights in the sky. Blue
lights. Michael said they were UFOs, but they weren’t. They were
round and trans . . . translucent, like ball lightning, or earth
lights.”

“Is the San Luis Valley on a fault line?”

Townsend nodded.

“So you could have seen earth lights,” Bob
said, remembering reading once that when tectonic plates on a fault
line rub together, they generate great energy, which is sometimes
manifested by balls of light called earth lights. “What happened
next?”

“Nothing, for a while. Michael kept talking
about the UFOs. Then after a couple of weeks, our boss came to us
and said his boss said our work suffered because of our UFO
experience, and they wanted us to see a UFO specialist in
Boston.”

“What’s that?”

“I think they made it up.” Townsend’s voice
had been getting louder and shriller the longer he talked; his last
comment caused heads to swivel in their direction.

“Drink your coffee,” Bob said.

Townsend obediently raised the cup to his
lips. When Townsend set aside the empty cup, Bob signaled for a
refill. Within a few minutes, Townsend had calmed enough to
continue.

“Michael agreed to go to the specialist. He
was sure we’d been beamed aboard a spaceship, and he wanted to
remember. I refused to go, but they said they’d fire me if I
didn’t. So I went.” He was silent for a long time, then he added,
almost inaudibly, “I can’t believe I was such a fool.”

“What happened in Boston?” Bob asked.

“I don’t remember.” Townsend looked as if he
were about to cry. “I can’t remember things that hap-pened, but I
can remember things that didn’t happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we got back to Denver, we both
remembered being on the space ship. You know. Bright lights. Rectal
probes. Long tweezers poking something far up our nasal passages.
Tall, beautiful, blond aliens. Short gray ones with huge slanty
eyes.”

Townsend gulped his coffee. Putting down his
cup, he gave Bob a surprisingly perceptive glance. “The aliens even
warned us about nuclear bombs, like we’re dumb enough to believe
anyone living on a planet light years from here would be affected
if we blew up our planet. If we did blow it up, it wouldn’t
generate even a fraction of the nuclear energy our sun does, so who
would care? Besides us, I mean.”

The waitress came and refilled Townsend’s cup
once more.

Bob waited until he drank it, then asked,
“How did you know the memories weren’t real?”

“I didn’t. You trust your memories. All you
are is what you remember. I figured I was wrong about the earth
lights.”

“So how did you learn the truth?”

“I found the computer chip they planted. One
of them. The other is still in my head.” Townsend showed Bob a red,
puckered scar on the top of his wrist. “I took a knife and dug it
out. Then I knew for sure.”

“That the memories weren’t real?”

“Yeah. I recognized the chip. Issy markets
them. They sell them to ranchers to keep track of cattle, but
they’re trying to get prisons to use them to keep track of
convicts, and then . . . They already keep track of everyone
through satellite pictures and computers. What will happen if
everyone is implanted with one of these chips? No one believes me,”
he added softly, as if to himself. “I try to warn them, but no one
listens.”

“I listened,” Bob said as quietly.

Townsend looked at him for a long time, then
he nodded once.

***

Townsend slipped away while Bob paid the
bill.

Pocketing his change, Bob opened the door.
When he stepped outside, two young men flanked him. They stood so
close Bob could smell the acrid odor emanating from their large,
well-muscled bodies. One had a smooth, baby face and tiny, feral
eyes. The other had a pimply forehead and the merest wisp of a
mustache. They didn’t seem to fit with the other denizens of
Colfax, probably because of their expensive jeans and brand-new
running shoes.

“We need some shit, man,” Baby Face said.

Bob pushed by them without responding.

They stayed right with him.

Pimples bounced on the balls of his feet. “We
got money.”

Bob kept walking.

Baby Face planted himself in Bob’s path. “We
said we got money, now give us the shit.”

Bob stopped and glanced from one to the
other. “You’re making a mistake. I’m not who you think I am.”

He started to walk around them, but Pimples
grabbed him by the arm. “You playing games with us, asshole?”

“No.” Bob jerked his arm out of the young
man’s grasp. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Before he could take more than a few steps,
they shoved him into a passageway between two buildings. He heard
the distinctive sound of a switchblade being flicked open.

“Give us the drugs or I’ll stick you,” Baby
Face growled, waving the knife.

Bob spread his hands. “You’re mistaking me
for someone else.”

“Stick him,” Pimples said in a high, excited
voice.

Looking at the gleaming blade, at the young
men towering over him, Bob was surprised to find he had no fear.
His muscles felt loose and fluid, his mind alert.

He bent his knees slightly and stared into
Baby Face’s eyes.

“This is the last time we tell you,” Pimples
shouted. “Give us the drugs.”

Baby Face lunged, aiming for Bob’s abdomen.
Bob grabbed the young man’s wrist with his left hand, pulled him
forward, and smashed the heel of his right hand into his nose. As
Baby Face started to fall, Bob twisted his wrist.

The knife clattered to the ground.

Baby Face continued to fall; Bob maintained
his iron grip.

The bone snapped. Baby Face screamed. He
rolled around on the ground, blood on his face, cradling his
wrist.

Pimples froze, then all at once he dived for
the knife. His fingers closed over the handle. He sprang at Bob.
Bob kicked him in the face. Pimples’s head snapped back. He
collapsed on the ground.

Bob seized the switchblade. Without looking
at the two young men, who twitched and moaned and muttered curses,
he walked away.

Back on the street, he tossed the knife into
the second trash receptacle he passed.

Chapter 17

Bob entered the skin flick theater, intending
to remain out of sight until eleven o’clock when Kerry’s shift
started, but he fell asleep and didn’t wake until after her shift
had ended.

He stepped out of the dark theater into the
bright of day. He felt disoriented, as if the world had continued
without him, and now he had to scramble to catch up.

The thought of seeing Kerry helped steady
him.

***

“I hoped it was you,” Kerry exclaimed,
opening the door of the house. She pulled him inside, locked the
door, and threw herself into his arms.

Bob hugged her closely, inhaling her clean,
fresh scent and letting her warmth seep into his soul. An invisible
hand seemed to close around his heart at the thought of having to
leave her yet again.

He leaned back and gently brushed her hair
away from her face. “I came to say goodbye.”

“No,” she said swiftly, without equivocation.
“You can’t.”

“It’s for a few days. I need to see a doctor
in Omaha.”

She sucked in a short breath. “Are you okay?
I mean, outside of the obvious.”

“I’m fine. He’s a psychologist who might have
some information for me.”

“How are you getting there?”

“Bus or train, whichever works out.”

A brilliant smile lit her face. “Then it’s
not goodbye. I’ll drive you.” She held up a hand to keep him from
answering. “If I don’t come, who’s going to check out the motel
room for you?”

He stroked his chin, but it was a parody of
deliberation; he could refuse her nothing, especially when she
smiled at him like that.

She pointed to his empty hands. “Where’s your
gym bag?”

“I left it at ISI. I had a meeting with the
young woman I told you about, and since I didn’t know whether she
was friend or foe, I wanted to be unencumbered.”

“Was she friend or foe?”

“Yes.”

He could feel her gaze, a kind of heat on his
skin.

“You’re teasing me,” she said, smiling.

“A little.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well?”

“Friend.”

“Why did she want to see you? Was she
pretty?”

He laughed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get
used to the way your mind works. Yes, she was pretty, in an intense
sort of way. And it’s a long story. I’ll explain on the way to
Omaha.”

She gave a business-like nod. “When do you
want to leave?”

“As soon as possible. I called the doctor
before I came here and made an appointment for tomorrow evening at
five. There’s plenty of time, but the way my life’s going, I don’t
want to take any chances.”

“We’ll have to stop somewhere to get you some
clothes. You left a few things here, but I don’t know if there’s
anything presentable to wear to your appointment.”

He sighed. “I feel fractured, always having
to leave bits and pieces behind.”

“Did you have anything important in the gym
bag?”

“No.”

“Then, why are we standing around talking? We
should either go or . . .” She pressed against him, her mouth sweet
and firm on his.

Desire swept through him in a warm rush.

Well, perhaps he didn’t have to leave right
this minute.

***

Kerry trailed her hand through Bob’s chest
hairs, tracing his scars. Her touch felt like drops of summer
rain.

She lifted her head to look at him. “Where
did you get the scars?”

“A hunting accident in my youth.” He spoke
the words by rote, as if they had no connection to him.

She didn’t seem to notice. Giving a delighted
laugh, she said, “Do the deer come armed with knives now?”

“No. Jackson shot me.”

The amusement died out of her eyes. “Your
brother shot you? By accident, I hope.”

He shook his head. “When I was ten, my father
took us to the prairie east of Denver to hunt quail. I didn’t want
to go, but he insisted, saying I needed to learn how to be a man. I
hated the idea of killing and refused to fire the shotgun, but
Jackson fired at anything he could.

“In the late afternoon, not content with
merely killing defenseless animals, he deliberately took aim at me.
I was looking at a flock of geese flying overhead and happened to
glance at him as he pulled the trigger, which is how I knew it was
no accident. Luckily, I stood far enough away the shot didn’t kill
me, but the pellets blasted the front of my chest.

“My father blamed me for getting in Jackson’s
way.” A memory popped into Bob’s head; something he’d forgotten
until that very moment. “My father always called Jackson ‘son,’ but
he called me ‘kid.’”

“When we were at the cemetery, I noticed that
your father passed away a long time ago.”

“I was fifteen. He died in a bar fight. The
last words he ever spoke to me were, ‘Why can’t you be more like
Jackson? You’re such a cold son of a bitch.’ But I wasn’t cold.
Just empty.”

“What was your mother like?”

“Aloof. She’d been a beauty queen and never
forgave me for my terrible sin of being average.”

Kerry frowned. “Why would someone so pretty
marry a cop?”

“He played professional football when they
met, but two years in he destroyed a knee. Why the interest in my
family?”

“Not them. You. I was curious why you took so
long to return to Denver. Now I know.”

She jumped out of bed. “Weren’t you anxious
to get to Omaha? Well, what are we waiting for?”

***

“I wish we could go someplace far away and
forget all your problems,” Kerry said. They’d left Denver behind
and were driving through open country. “I can get us fake IDs, even
passports if we needed them.”