Rhubarb (28 page)

“No, we need to get back to Bozeman. I’m going to make a
couple of calls—if we can even get cell service out here—and see if we can
salvage any of this afternoon.”

Martin squeezed out into the line of traffic trickling
toward Brixton. The bulging, infested town rolled closer and closer. As Rick
made new plans with Bozeman, Martin heard sound and tone, but no meaning. The
turn to Stewart’s crept nearer and nearer. Nearer and nearer. And then they
were there.

I didn’t refill my Diet Mountain Dew, Martin thought, and
then jerked the Screwmobile through a nonexistent gap between two oncoming
cars. Finding an open lane ahead, he floored the accelerator.

Rick swore. “I told you we’re going back to Bozeman,” he
said. “Martin?”

“It’s only a mile up here,” said Martin.

“Fine. Ten minutes,” said Rick. “I mean it.” He got back on
the phone. “Pete? You still there?”

Milton came out onto the steps as Martin rolled into the
driveway.

“How is he?” Martin asked, and followed the neighbor inside.

“Laura’s been with him all day,” said Milton. “Tried to call
him a doctor. But he refuses, and with everything going on in town…”

Laura had opened the curtains and the windows. Fresh air and
sunlight found their way in but managed to avoid the bed and its occupant.

“Martin,” said Stewart.

“He’s been asking for you,” said Laura, turning down the
radio chirping talk out of Billings.

“She took my phone away,” said Stewart.

“I couldn’t really talk anyway,” said Martin. “I was with my
boss.” Stewart’s eyes landed on the doorway behind Martin.

“That him?” Stewart wheezed.

Rick filled the doorway like he planned to solve this
problem once and for all, but seeing Stewart, he deflated.

“Stewart, Rick. Rick, this is Stewart,” said Martin.

“Hi,” Rick grunted.

“Jeffrey never called me,” Martin said. “What do you think
that means?”

“Not sure,” Stewart said, then winced and wheezed hard. He
swore.

“Tell me what to do. Please,” said Martin.

“Give us a minute,” said Stewart.

Rick protested, but Laura shooed him out and closed the
door.

“You’ve got the devices?”

“They work. I hooked them up in my truck and got some kind
of control screen,” said Martin.

“Good enough,” said Stewart. “Simple interface. Tap the
icons. Can’t tell you more. I haven’t seen the darn thing since ’86.”

“But I can’t go…”

“Who else, Martin?” asked Stewart.

Martin hung his chin for a moment, and then sighed and
nodded. “What am I going to find up there?”

“Jeffrey might still be there alone,” said Stewart. “Unless Chumpdark’s
arrived. He’ll come with a little entourage. You’ll need this.”

Stewart dug an object out from under a blanket. The staple
gun. He fumbled with a catch, made some adjustment, reset the catch, and set it
on the bed. “Don’t point that at anything you value,” he said. Martin set a
hand on it but didn’t pick it up.

“There’s another problem,” said Martin. “They’ve closed 360.
Is there a back way up to Deaver Creek?”

“You got your truck?”

“Yeah, and it’s fully loaded, too.”

“I doubt you’d make it with that,” said Stewart. “It’s all
pretty rough ranch land down that way. But I’ve been thinking.” He nodded to
the radio. “Lee Danvers is in town. Been hyping a live show from Brixton
tonight.”

“I know. I’m supposed to be on it,” said Martin.

“You get over there and convince him, he might have some
pull to get you through the roadblock.”

“His producers have already warned me about talking to him
about this stuff,” said Martin. “They’re not going to let me near him if I
start talking crazy.”

“Then take me with you,” said Stewart. “I think I can
convince him.”

When Martin opened the door, Laura gasped to see Stewart on
his feet. He put one loafered foot in front of the other, with an arm draped
hard over Martin’s shoulders.

“Are you taking that man to a hospital?” asked Laura.
“That’s the only place he should be going.”

“Do you need anything else?” Martin asked Stewart. Stewart
shook his head once, firmly. Martin ignored a demand from Rick.

On the steps, a coughing fit stopped them for more than a
minute. “Is he going to try to climb into your truck?” Milton asked.

“Have to,” Stewart managed between coughs.

“Uh-uh,” said Rick. “That’s a company truck. You can’t take
passengers.”

“We can take my car,” said Milton.

“We’re taking the truck,” said Martin.

The coughing subsided, and Stewart wiped his sleeve across
his mouth. “Let’s go,” he said.

“He’s not getting in that truck,” said Rick, now out on the
little porch. Rick repeated his ultimatum and raised a trembling hand like a
substitute teacher. Poor Rick. All those useless management-training retreats.
There had been no bubbly consultant’s lecture on combating civil disobedience.
No ropes course had taught him how to face down active defiance. He had nothing
left but his bureaucratic bluster.

“You take that truck, and it’s your job,” said Rick.

Martin shut Stewart’s door and rounded the front, thanking
Laura and Milton.

“You take that truck and I’m calling the police,” said Rick.
“Grand theft auto. You’ll be held accountable.”

“Put it in my performance evaluation,” said Martin. He
slammed the truck into reverse, backed out, and then headed toward the cattle
guard in a cloud of dust.

“Did you just quit your job?” asked Stewart.

They rumbled faster across the grating than the taxed
suspension liked, and Martin skidded the tires as he turned back toward town.
“It might be a good thing if I die in the Kuiper Belt tonight,” he said, giving
Stewart a sidelong glance. He chuckled. The old man laughed, too, then leaned
his head back in pain.

Martin and Stewart waited to turn right onto Highway 15 for
so long that Martin turned his blinker off. Vehicles still flooded in from the
west, and to the east, the inundation had backed up in an unforgiving snarl. A
constant stream of Wakers waded past on foot as if Lee Danvers was presiding
over the Second Coming of Oprah Christ Presley at Herbert’s Corner.

“Could you walk to the Corner?” asked Martin.

“Doubt it,” said Stewart. “Can you cross 15? Come at
Herbert’s from the north? Maybe Trappers Road over to 360?”

“Maybe. If I could force our way across,” said Martin. “Or
maybe I could get Lee Danvers to come to us.”

“You have his number?”

“I’ve got his producer’s number,” said Martin. “But where
would we even meet him?” Martin made the call.

Brian was glad to hear from him. “As you can guess, it’s
been crazy. We’ve had to change the location of the broadcast,” he said.
Martin’s stomach sank. Lee probably hadn’t made it into town because of the
road closure. Martin’s anger swerved into guilt when he remembered that this
was kind of all his fault. Telling Jeffrey about the pie. Calling BI and
selling them the video. What had he been thinking? Stupid butterfly wings
spinning eddies off into the air. “Company that owns Herbert’s Corner said no
to the broadcast, so we’re at the Brixton Inn. You know where that is?”

~ * * * ~

Martin had never before seen the Brixton Inn turn on the
“No” of the vacancy sign, yet the lobby was strangely deserted. Martin lowered
Stewart into a chair at a table in the breakfast area, and Stewart slumped
forward. His back rose and fell with the Herculean effort of sucking in his own
breath. Martin felt inches taller after finally releasing the man—or man-like
being, or being in a man suit. He’d supported Stewart for several hundred
yards—which was as close as he could park, even on the meager back streets of
Brixton.

Brenda was leaning on the front desk as if she’d been there
for a month, but she helped Martin get Stewart a cup of water. “Do you want me
to call someone? A doctor?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” said Martin, dialing Brian’s number again.

A few minutes later, the lobby door chime binged for a slim,
gym-toned man in a button-up shirt and expensive slacks. “Martin?” he asked,
and offered his hand. “I’m Brian Buchheit. Pleased to meet you. Is this your
father?”

“This is Stewart. He’s a friend,” said Martin.

“Oh. I’m glad you found the place. Now, it’s only…” he
checked the time on his iPhone, but Martin interrupted.

“We need to talk to Lee right now.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Brian. “As I was
saying…”

“It’s very important,” said Martin. “Is he here?”

“And I’m telling you it’s not going to happen,” said Brian.
“Now, if we’re going to have a problem, we will simply cancel your interview.
Lee Danvers maintains a very high professional standard for content on his
broadcasts, and he is pleased to offer you a chance to be on the show. He also
appreciates his fans. However, he does not have time to deal directly with
every listener or guest with a question, a grievance, or even a compelling
story. If you have an issue, I would be happy to hear it. But that’s as far as
it goes.”

Martin gripped the staple gun tucked in his belt, but
Stewart grunted and shook his head.

Stewart sucked in a deep breath and pulled himself as tall
as he could in the chair. “Brian. What if I told you that we held physical
evidence of extraterrestrial visitation, right here, right now, in this room?”

Brian laughed. “I’ve heard this one before, guys. I get six
calls a day from people who say the same thing.”

“Not like this, you don’t,” said Stewart.

“What is it? Show me,” said Brian.

“Lee has to be here,” said Martin. “I need him to get me up
to the Deaver Creek bluff. Once there, I can show him how the portal works and
where the vehicles come from.”

“Is this some ET-phone-home crap?” asked Brian.

“My stepdaughter’s up there,” said Stewart. “Through the
portal. They have her.”

“Your stepdaughter? They? Aliens? Your stepdaughter has been
abducted by aliens? Come on, guys. You can’t do any better than this?” asked
Brian. He slid a piece of paper from a folder and set it on the table. “This is
the appearance contract, Martin. We’ll need your signature on that prior to…”

Stewart’s hand landed on Brian’s wrist, and Brian made a
sound that might have begun as an English word in his brain, but didn’t escape
his throat as such. “Please,” said Stewart.

“Let go of me,” said Brian.

“Brenda?” Stewart bellowed.

“Yes, Mr. Campion?”

“Come over here, please.” Stewart’s eyes were blazing.

“What do you need?”

“Lee Danvers’s room number.”

“I…I can’t…” said Brenda.

“You and I both know that Cheryl didn’t run off to Boise,”
Stewart said to Brenda, but staring down Brian. “Now, in order to help her, I
need to talk to Lee Danvers. If I don’t, she’ll most likely die, and we’ll
never see her again. Now, I’m going to ask you again, what room is he in?”

Brian shook his head at Brenda, but he couldn’t wrench his
wrist free. Martin gave her a reassuring nod.

“They’re in Rooms 209 and 210. They’ve got the adjoining
doors,” said Brenda.

“Thank you, Brenda. Now, listen producer boy, you have two
choices. You can take us up there nice and friendly-like. Or Martin and I will
go up alone, disintegrate the doors, and talk to Lee without you.”

Stewart let go of Brian’s wrist, and the producer backed up
to the breakfast bar, dark and wiped clean for the day. The waffle maker closed
and cool. The cereal rack empty. The icy bowl of juices and yogurts gone. The
toaster unplugged. As if it were all waiting for Cheryl to return. “Please,” said
Martin.

“Fine,” said Brian. “Five minutes max. Less, if Lee doesn’t
like what he hears.”

~ * * * ~

Lee Danvers was shorter than Martin expected, so much
smaller than life, with thinner and less coiffed hair than in all the
promotional photos. The photographers had been good. Lee had a nose for radio,
not overly large, but somehow cavernous. It was probably what gave his voice
its resonance. Martin had always pictured Lee in a suit and tie, but he wore a
polo shirt with a wakernation.com logo. Lee took off a pair of reading glasses
to examine Martin and Stewart.

Stewart recovered enough from the stair climb for a last
push to a seat on the nearest bed in Lee’s motel room.

“You’re Martin Wells?” asked Lee.

“Yes, sir. And this is Stewart Campion. Thank you for seeing
us.”

“What can I do for you? Brian tells me you have proof of
extraterrestrial visitation.”

“Yes, sir,” said Martin. “But what we’re really asking for
is help to get a vehicle up to the bluff on Highway 360. We have to get through
the portal.”

Lee glanced at Brian and laughed. “Through it? You’re
serious? What makes you think I can help with that?”

“Sorry. I’m not explaining. We can get through the portal
with our truck, but we can’t get
to
the portal with the road closed. We
assumed that you’d have some kind of access arranged,” said Martin.

“You can actually get through this…portal?” asked Lee.

“You don’t believe it’s real?”

“I don’t know what’s going on up there,” said Lee. “What’s
this proof of yours?”

Stewart folded over into a coughing fit.

“Should he be in a hospital?” asked Lee. Brian checked his
iPhone, and Martin felt their patience slipping away.

“Some water?” asked Martin. Brian returned from the bathroom
sink with a plastic cup of tap water and a handful of Kleenex. Martin pressed
them into Stewart’s hands as he continued to cough, and then faced Lee. “I’ve
been told you don’t want to hear about it, but everything I told you that night
I called is true. There are aliens on the other side of the phenomenon down the
highway, ready and willing to destroy every human on the planet. They’ve
kidnapped this man’s stepdaughter, and we’re trying to rescue her before they
kill her, and trying to stop them from moving ahead with their plans for
Earth.”