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  The better part of five long seconds passed as Quinton continued to lap at the slice of meteorite. Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, the ex-diplomat stopped. It was then that he threw his head back, uttered what could only be described as a heart rending howl, and began to sob. Luther rushed forward to comfort his employer, escorted him into the house, and helped his mother put Quinton to bed.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Luther wanted to know, once the two of them were back in the living room.

  “There’s a bug going around,” Florence replied vaguely. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “Maybe,” Luther allowed, but the explanation brought small comfort.

  ***

  South of Benson, Arizona

  Having come south on Highway 90 out of Benson, then turning east onto the patch of barren land known as Deacon’s Battle, the red jeep threw a plume of dust into the air as it followed the old wagon road in the direction of Curtiss and Dragoon Mountains. Mount Glenn was the highest, at 7,519 feet, with China Peak a bit to the right, and Black Diamond Peak south of that. It was a clear winter day and all three were visible in the distance.

  Palmer knew the road well, having driven it thousands of times, first with his parents, and later by himself. Gravel rattled inside the 4 X 4’s wheel wells as he steered the jeep around a pile of rounded boulders and through a mostly untouched area that was home to native saguaro cactus, prickly pear, cholla, and mesquite. The sort of area that Palmer and his father had explored many years before, back during what his mother referred to as one of his “dry spells,” meaning periods when her husband was sober.

  As a geologist Palmer knew the area’s rocks and minerals even better than the sparse plant life that survived on it. Over the years he had collected hundreds of samples, including bits of Actinolite, Agate, Barite, Calcite, Copper, Dolmite, Garnet, Malachite, Pyrite, Quartz, Silver, Turquoise and many more. While in college he had even come across two fragments of what he believed to be the same meteorite—both of which were kept under lock and key in Tucson.

  The big off-road tires bumped over the abandoned railroad line which ran northwest toward Tucson and hummed as he pushed the jeep across Beader’s Flat. A monstrosity that the locals called “the glass house” appeared off to the right. A group of hippies had used more than ten-thousand pieces of colored glass to decorate the free form structure back in the seventies. Then, after a falling out of some sort, most of them left in a modified school bus. One of the group, an older woman, still lived there. She was working in her garden and waved as Palmer drove past.

  Then, as the jeep topped a rise, it was possible for the geologist to get his first glimpse of what his father had dubbed the “Circle C Ranch.” But in reality the property consisted of five bone dry acres which were home to the burnt out remains of what had been the family home, a stand-alone shed his mother had converted into a cottage, and the old Airstream trailer that Palmer lived in.

  Seen from a distance however the parcel was little more than a grove of mature Willow trees that had been planted by his grandmother, and hand watered until their roots dug deep enough to draw sustenance from Arrowhead creek. Each tree was like an old friend. A companion under which a younger Palmer read countless books, fought imaginary battles, and took shelter from the sun.

  And there, off to one side, stood the 1,000 gallon water tank his father had installed. Rusty now, but still serviceable, it sat high enough to feed the house which, like most of the good things in his life he had unintentionally destroyed.

  The road dipped, the vision vanished, and Palmer was forced to brake and downshift prior to climbing the opposite slope. Miami’s airport had been jammed and flights had been delayed by a snow storm in Chicago. But thanks to a run of good luck Palmer landed in Tucson only two-hours later than originally scheduled. And knowing that the trailer would be cold, and the refrigerator was empty, he had stopped to buy groceries on the way home.

  The jeep topped the next rise. Palmer was close now. Close enough to see the charred remains of the house in which his father had died, the sagging cottage that his mother had abandoned thereafter, and the brushed aluminum Airstream trailer.

  There was something else too, the gleam of sunlight reflecting off chrome, indicating the presence of a visitor. Something, Palmer wasn’t sure what, caused him to think about pulling off the road and parking the jeep. Burglars were not unknown—and maybe he could catch one in the act. But it was too late for that given all the dust he had raised. Besides odds were that the visitor was a lost soul looking for directions.

  So, half expecting to see a vehicle barrel past him, Palmer turned off the road and onto the U-shaped drive that fronted the trailer. A late model sedan was visible out front—as was a woman he had never seen before. She was sitting on the railing that ran along the front of the deck Palmer had constructed two years before.

  The four-wheeler generated a small cloud of dust that drifted off towards the east as it came to a stop and Palmer got out. He saw that his visitor was pretty in an unaffected sort of way. She was dressed in a blue ball cap, Levi jacket, and jeans. Her lace-up boots were equipped with mesh uppers so that water could escape from them. Strange foot wear for Arizona.

  Palmer rounded the back end of his vehicle, grabbed a bag of groceries off the passenger seat, and made his way toward the trailer. And it was then, as the woman’s aviator style sunglasses came off, that he saw her eyes. They were remarkably green. Something, Palmer wasn’t sure what, jumped the gap between them. The woman smiled. “Hello…. My name is Devlin. Sara Devlin. I’m looking for Jack Palmer’s son.”

  Palmer nodded as he fumbled for a key. “That would be me…. What can I do for you?”

  ***

  Devlin swung her boots up over the rail, put them down, and stood. There was something familiar about the person in the bomber jacket and khakis. Something that reminded Devlin of the man she had left down in Costa Rica. A surety, a quickness that she liked. But there was something else as well…. A barely contained tension that hinted at what? Carefully suppressed emotions? A capacity for violence? Whatever it was both attracted and frightened her. “It’s about your father,” Devlin replied awkwardly, “or more specifically a friend of his.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Palmer replied, as he slid the key into the lock. “My father was a drunk. And, like most drunks, he had a tendency to chase people away.”

  “The man I’m interested in is Harvey S. Podry,” Devlin replied. “They served together in Vietnam.”

  Palmer turned the key, felt the lock respond, and pushed the door open. “Harvey? Yeah, I remember him. He came to live with dad for awhile. They used to get drunk and tell each other war stories. What happened to the old bastard anyway? One day he was here—and the next day he wasn’t.”

  ***

  Devlin was standing in the open doorway by then. Her long slim body was silhouetted against the sun splashed ground outside. It had been Palmer’s experience that most beautiful women were well aware of it. But not this one. There was something natural and unaffected about her. Something he liked. The eyes that met his were still vividly green—and extremely serious. “Mr. Podry exploded.”

  Palmer set the groceries down on a small counter and frowned. “What is this? Some sort of sick joke?”

  “No,” Devlin answered firmly. “It may be a lot of things—but it isn’t a joke. Do you have a computer? And Internet access?”

  “Sure,” Palmer answered. “Right over there.”

  Devlin glanced at the beat-up laptop that sat on the banquette style table opposite the tiny galley. “May I?”

  Palmer shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get the rest of my groceries.”

  By the time Palmer returned with the second bag of groceries Devlin had located the appropriate news article. She swiveled the laptop around so the screen would be visible. “Take a look at that.”

  Palmer took a moment to put some perishable items in the
tiny refrigerator before sliding onto the bench-style seat across from her. He pulled the machine in closer—and began to read. He looked up two-minutes later to find that the green eyes were waiting for him. “That’s amazing,” he said. “Harvey was a drunk, and something of a blowhard, but he sure as hell didn’t deserve that…. What caused his head to explode?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Devlin replied. “And, while I think I know the answer, you may find it hard to believe.”

  The woman was a crackpot. That much was obvious. But she was a fascinating crackpot, and Palmer knew she would leave if the conversation came to an end. So, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he invited her to lunch.

  Two ham and cheese sandwiches, and one-hour later, Devlin wrapped her story up by saying, “So, I came here. Because if my hypothesis is correct, and Podry acquired a parasite by coming into contact with one of your father’s meteorites, then maybe I can gather some additional evidence to support my case.”

  As Palmer took a final sip of Coke all sorts of things flickered through his mind. Some related some not. The whole hunchback thing was weird. Podry appeared perfectly normal the last time Palmer had seen him. The Coke can made a definitive click as he set it down. “Look, Ms. Devlin….”

  “Sara.”

  “Look, Sara, I’ve got to be honest with you…. I know a lot about meteorites. Hell, I make my living hunting for them, and I’m familiar with transfer theory. But the idea that an alien parasite not only survived the trip to Earth from a distant solar system, but managed to adapt to a new host in a single generation, well, that strikes me as preposterous.”

  Something flickered in the green eyes and they seemed to harden slightly. “I told you that my hypothesis might be hard to believe,” Devlin said levelly. “And there’s the very real possibility that I’m wrong. But I think you’ll agree that it won’t do any harm to test it. So, given what may be at stake, it’s my hope that you’ll allow me to examine your father’s meteorites.”

  “I would, but I can’t,” Palmer answered simply. “The old bastard sold the collection, took the money, and went on a three-month drunk in Reno! Then, after he came back, the house burned down. The story has a happy ending though,” he added bitterly, “because he was in it at the time.”

  The green eyes seemed to soften. “I’m sorry.”

  Palmer shook his head. “Don’t be…. He doesn’t deserve it. So, is there anything else?”

  It was an obvious dismissal and Devlin felt a tinge of regret as she stood. “No, I guess there isn’t. Here’s my card in case you come across any of those meteorites…. And thank you for lunch.”

  Palmer was still searching for something to say when the door closed behind her, he heard the rental car start up, and the woman with the green eyes was gone.

  After a few moments he stood up and made his way out toward the shed that his mother had converted into a cottage. He planned to level the structure one day, bulldoze the remains of the house, and build something new. He had both the money and the plans but never got around to it. Why was that? Because he didn’t have time? Or because he couldn't release the past? There was no way to be sure.

  The key was there, right where it was supposed to be, over the door. Palmer opened the door and reentered his past. Strange days during which his father occupied the house, his mother lived in the cottage, and he commuted back and forth. Months during which his parents rarely spoke with each other, and pursued largely separate lives.

  Now, as Palmer made his way into the tiny kitchen, everything was as it had been on the day after his father’s funeral. Only dustier as if his ashes had been scattered over all of his mother's belongings. That was the day when she opened two suitcases. One for her clothes—and one for her books. Then, having signed the ranch over to her son, she asked for a ride into Tucson.

  There was a sister in Santa Barbara. A lonely soul who liked to write poetry and with whom Palmer's mother planned to live. And it was later, as they parted company in a shabby Greyhound Bus Depot, that Palmer asked his mother what seemed like an obvious question. “Ma, you haven’t lived with him for years, and I’ve been on my own for a long time. So why wait this long?”

  She looked at him the way she so often did—as if meeting him for the first time. “The day I married your father I promised to stay with him until one of us died.”

  So saying she pecked her son on the cheek, walked out into the bright sunshine, and boarded the bus. He still sent her money, still saw her whenever he was on the west coast, and still wondered what made her tick.

  Cobwebs hung in front of the cupboard mounted above the sink. Palmer brushed them aside, opened the door, and found what he had been hoping for: Some liquid peace. His mother liked the occasional glass of red wine and two bottles remained. He took both down, located a cork screw, and left the house.

  Then, with the wine to keep him company, he sat by the creek. The first swallow was like a reunion with an old friend and was soon followed by another. He cried after that. For his father, his mother, and ultimately for himself.

  Chapter Six

  Wheaton, Maryland

  Sunrise was still more than an hour away, so it was still dark outside the huge tinted windows, as Director of Terrestrial Biosecurity, Dr. Owen Wilson continued to work his way through the sixty-seven emails waiting for him when he arrived in his office. Though large by normal bureaucratic standards, the room seemed smaller than it actually was. Besides an executive-style desk two work tables shared the space as well. A microscope sat on one of them and the other was home to a work station that provided him with direct access to all of the Centers for Disease Control's (CDC) considerable resources.

  But now, faced with a pile of administrative work, the former research scientist was plowing his way through what he often referred to “as all that bureaucratic crap.” A penance that had to be paid in order to protect the United States of America from potentially homicidal aliens. Not Hollywood style aliens, but the type that could hitchhike on space borne rocks, and were potentially a lot more dangerous. Having composed the last of his characteristically blunt messages, Wilson clicked “send,” and felt a sense of satisfaction as the final reply was dispatched.

  Then, as the administrator turned to deal with the ten-inch high stack of paperwork that occupied his old fashioned in-box, he gave an involuntary start. Because there, seated on the corner of his desk, was a man who shouldn’t have been there. Not at 6:26 in the morning when the only other people in the building were janitors or security people. He could make a grab for the phone—but the stranger was close enough to stop him. The man smiled reassuringly. “There’s no need to call security…. My name is Cooper. You sent for me.”

  Wilson, who was still trying to recover his composure, frowned. “Cooper?”

  “I was in Seattle,” Cooper said helpfully. “Working on the XT-7 thread when I was ordered to return here.”

  Wilson had a nearly encyclopedic memory. And having processed the name and the case designator he felt a rising sense of anger. “Get the hell off my desk.”

  If Cooper was intimidated by the administrator’s tone there was no sign of it as he rose to take possession of a guest chair. There wasn’t so much as a whisper of sound when he moved. Wilson frowned. “In the future please make an appointment like everyone else…. But, since you’re here, we might as well get some work done.”

  Wilson took a moment to thumb through a stack of folders, found the one he was searching for, and flipped it open. The designator XT stood for Extra-Terrestrial, and the number 7 indicated that the CDC had opened only six XT files in the past. Four of which had already been classified as “false hits.” Of course the fact that the Department of Terrestrial Biosecurity was only months old had something to do with that. It’s hard to find something you aren’t looking for.

  What made the Seattle investigation so interesting was the fact that actual tissue samples had been submitted by a local pathologist, who accord
ing to a preliminary check by the FBI, bore all the hallmarks of an upstanding citizen. Or had until his mysterious death in a fire. And that was why Biosecurity Agent Cooper had been recalled to Maryland.

  The problem, from Wilson’s perspective at least, was that those living further up the bureaucratic food chain had seen fit to draw upon spooks rather than scientists to act as “bug chasers.” Meaning those individuals who were sent to carry out an initial assessment of what might or might not be a threat.

  In this case tissue samples that seemed to incorporate traces of unknown DNA. Although the initial results would have to be checked and checked again. All of which meant that individuals like Cooper were being sent into situations they weren’t qualified to handle. “So,” Wilson began, “tell me what you were sent to Seattle to do.”

  Cooper had a pleasant but nondescript face. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Wilson’s biases were well known and the agent could guess what the bespectacled scientist was thinking. “I was sent to Seattle to interview Dr. Jim Yano regarding the tissue samples taken from one Paul McCracken and identify other witnesses if any.”

  “Correct,” Wilson said tightly, as he peered at the agent from beneath bushy brows. “So, why is Yano dead?”

  Cooper had blue eyes and something dangerous flickered deep within them. “Are you suggesting that I killed Dr. Yano?”

  “Well?” the administrator demanded unapologetically. “Did you?”

  “No,” Cooper answered coolly. “I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” the scientist replied bluntly, “your previous employer was an agency that has a tendency to kill all of its problems. And for all I know you still have links to them.”

  Cooper raised an eyebrow. “You know what, doc? You should see someone about your raging paranoia. In the meantime it might interest you to know that the Seattle Police Department arrested a teenage boy in connection with the Hayley Lab arson. It seems there were other fires in that area—and he confessed to all five of them.”