Taken

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 i

“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.”