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"Well, this means two things," I say. "Henri is still here, and whoever has him hasn't discovered his truck yet, which means he hasn't talked. Not that he ever would."
"What would he say if he talked?"
For a brief moment I had forgotten that Sam knows nothing of Henri's true reasons for being here. I've already slipped and called him Henri. I need to be careful not to reveal anything else.
"I don't know," I say. "I mean, who knows what sorts of questions these weirdos are asking."
"Okay, now what?"
I pull out the map to the address Henri had given me that morning. "We walk," I say.
We walk back the way we came. The buildings end and houses begin. Unkempt and dirty looking. In no time at all we reach the address and stop.
I look at the slip of paper, then at the house. I take a deep breath.
"This is us," I say.
We stand looking up at the two-story house with gray vinyl siding. The front walk leads to an unpainted front porch with a broken swing hanging unevenly to the side. The grass is long and untended. It looks uninhabited, but there is a car in the driveway at the rear. I don't know what to do. I remove my phone. It is 11:12. I call Henri even though I know he won't answer. It's an attempt to establish my wits, to come up with a plan. I hadn't thought this far ahead, and now that the reality is here my mind is blank. My call goes straight to voice mail.
"Let me go knock on the door," Sam says.
"And say what?"
"I don't know, whatever comes to my mind."
But he doesn't get a chance to because just then a man walks out of the front door. He is huge, at least six feet six, two hundred fifty pounds. He has a goatee and his head is shaved. He's wearing work boots, blue jeans, and a black sweatshirt pulled up to his elbows. There is a tattoo on his right forearm, but I am too far away to see what it is. He spits into the yard, then turns around and locks the front door, walking off the porch and heading our way. I stiffen as he approaches. The tattoo is of an alien holding a bouquet of tulips in one hand as though offering them to some unseen entity. Then the man walks right past us without saying a word. Sam and I turn and watch him go.
"Did you see his tattoo?" I ask.
"Yeah. And so much for the stereotype of scrawny nerds being the only ones fascinated by aliens. That man is huge, and mean looking."
"Take my phone, Sam."
"What? Why?" he asks.
"You have to follow him. Take my phone. I'll go into the house. It's obvious there is nobody there or he wouldn't have locked the door. Henri might be in there. I'll call you as soon as I can."
"How are you going to call me?"
"I don't know. I'll find a way. Here." He reluctantly takes it.
"What if Henri isn't in there?"
"That's why I want you to follow that guy. He might be going to Henri now."
"What if he comes back?"
"We'll figure it out. But you have to go now. I promise, I'll call you the first chance I get."
Sam turns and looks at the man. He is fifty yards away from us now. Then he looks back at me.
"Okay, I'll do it. But be careful in there."
"You be careful, too. Don't let him out of your sight. And don't let him see you."
"Not a chance."
He turns and hurries after the man. I watch them go and, once they vanish from sight, I walk up to the house. The windows are dark, each one covered with a white shade. I can't see in. I walk around to the back. There is a small concrete patio leading to a back door, which is locked. I walk the rest of the way around the house. Overgrown weeds and bushes left over from summer. I try a window. Locked. All of them are locked. Should I break one? I look for rocks among the brambles, and the second I see one and lift it from the ground with my mind an idea occurs to me, an idea so crazy that it just might work.
I drop the rock and walk to the back door. It has a simple lock, no deadbolt. I take a deep breath, close my eyes in concentration, and grab hold of the doorknob. I give it a shake. My thoughts move from head to heart to stomach; everything is centered there. My grip tightens, my breath is held in anticipation as I try to envision the i
The kitchen is surprisingly clean, the surfaces wiped down, the sink free of dirty dishes. A new loaf of bread sits on the counter. I walk through a narrow corridor into a living room with sports posters and ba
At the front of the house, beside the door, a flight of stairs ascends to the second level. I begin walking up them. The third step groans under my foot.
"Hello?" a voice yells from the top of the stairs.
I freeze, holding my breath.
"Frank, is that you?"
I stay silent. I hear somebody stand from a chair, the creak of footsteps on a hardwood floor approaching. A man appears at the top of the stairs. Dark shaggy hair, sideburns, an unshaven face. Not as big as the man who left earlier, but not exactly small either.
"Who the hell are you?" he asks.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine," I say.
He screws his face up into a scowl, vanishes and reappears five seconds later holding a wooden baseball bat in his hand.
"How did you get in here?" he asks.
"I would put the bat down if I were you."
"How did you get in here?"
"I am faster than you are and I am far stronger."
"Like hell you are."
"I'm looking for a friend of mine. He came here this morning. I want to know where he is."
"You're one of them, aren't you?"
"I don't know who you are talking about."
"You're one of them!" he screams. He holds the bat as a baseball player would, both white-knuckled hands at the thin base poised to swing. There is genuine fear in his eyes. His jaw is tightly clenched. "You're one of them! Why don't you just leave us alone already!?"
"I am not one of them. I've come for my friend. Tell me where he is."
"Your friend is one of them!"
"No he isn't."
"So you know who I'm talking about?"
"Yes."
He takes a step down.
"I'm warning you," I say. "Drop the bat and tell me where he is."
My hands are shaking from the uncertainty of the situation, from the fact that he has a bat in his hands while I have nothing but my own abilities. I'm u
"I'm going to take your head off. That'll send your friends a message."
"They aren't my friends. And I assure you, you'd be doing them a favor if you hurt me."
"Let's see then," he says.
He comes racing down the stairs. There is nothing I can do but react. He swings the bat. I duck and it hits the wall with a thud, leaving a large splintered hole in the wood panel. I come up after him and lift him in the air, one hand gripping his throat, the other in his armpit, carrying him back up the stairs. He flails, landing kicks to my legs and groin. The bat drops from his hands. It bounces hollowly down the stairs and I hear one of the windows break behind me.
The second floor is a wide-open loft. It is dark. The walls are covered with issues of They Walk Among Us, and where the issues end, alien paraphernalia takes up the rest-but unlike Sam's, the posters are actual photographs taken over the years, blown up and grainy so that it is hard to make them out, mostly white blips on black backdrops. A rubber alien dummy with a noose around its neck sits in the corner. Somebody has added a Mexican sombrero to its head. Glow-in-the-dark stars are stuck to the ceiling. They seem out of place, more like something belonging in a ten-year-old girl's room.