Alien Rites

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Alien Rites

Lynn Hightower

PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF LYNN HIGHTOWER

“Lynn Hightower is a major talent.” —Jonathan Kellerman,
New York Times
–bestselling author

“Hightower is a writer of tremendous quality.” —
Library Journal

PRAISE FOR THE ELAKI NOVELS

“The crimes are out of
The Silence of the Lambs
, the cops out of
Lethal Weapon
, and the grimy future out of
Blade Runner
… Vivid and convincing.” —
Lexington Herald-Leader

“One of the best new series in the genre!” —
Science Fiction Chronicle

Alien Blues

“Hightower takes the setup and delivers a grittily realistic and down-and-dirty serial killer novel.… Impressive … A very promising first novel.” —
Locus

“Brilliantly entertaining. I recommend it highly. A crackerjack novel of police detection and an evocative glimpse of a possible future.” —Nancy Pickard, bestselling author of
I.O.U.

“[The] cast of characters is interesting and diverse, the setting credible, and the pacing rapid-fire and gripping.” —
Science Fiction Chronicle

“An exciting, science-fictional police procedural with truly alien aliens … An absorbing, well-written book.” —
Aboriginal Science Fiction

“Truly special … Original characters, plot twists galore, in a book that can be enjoyed for its mystery aspects as well as its SF … A real treat.” —Arlene Garcia

“Hightower shows both humans and Elaki as individuals with foibles and problems.
Alien Blues
provides plenty of fast-paced action.… An effective police drama.” —
SF Commentary

“Hightower tells her story with the cool efficiency of a Mafia hit man.… With its lean, matter-of-fact style, cliff-hanger chapter endings and plentiful (and often comic) dialogue,
Alien Blues
moves forward at warp speed!” —
Lexington Herald-Leader

“A great story … Fast and violent … Difficult to put down!” —
Kliatt

“An intriguing world!” —Analog Science Fiction and Fact

Alien Eyes

“
Alien Eyes
is a page-turner.… Fun, fast-moving … A police procedural in a day-after-tomorrow world.” —
Lexington Herald-Leader

“Hightower takes elements of cyberpunk and novels about a benevolent alien invasion and combines them with a gritty realism of a police procedural to make stories that are completely her own.… A believable future with a believable alien culture … Interesting settings, intriguing ideas, fascinating characters [and] a high level of suspense!” —
Turret

“Complex … Snappy … Original.” —
Asimov's Science Fiction

“The sequel to the excellent
Alien Blues
[is] a very fine SF novel.… I'm looking forward to the next installment!” —
Science Fiction Chronicle

PRAISE FOR THE SONORA BLAIR MYSTERIES

Flashpoint

“Diabolically intriguing from start to finish.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Miraculously fresh and harrowing.” —
Kirkus Reviews

“Rings with gritty authenticity. You won't be able to put it down and you won't want to sleep again. Riveting.” —Lisa Scottoline,
New York Times
–bestselling author

Eyeshot

“Hightower has invented a heroine who is both flawed and likeable, and she knows how to keep the psychological pressure turned up high.” —
The
Sunday Telegraph

“What gives [
Eyeshot
] depth and resonance is the way Hightower counterpoints the murder plot with the details of Sonora's daily life in homicide.” —
Publishers Weekly

No Good Deed

“Powerful, crisply paced.”
—
Publishers Weekly

“Refreshingly different … A cracking tale told at a stunning pace.” —Frances Fyfield

The Debt Collector

“Hightower builds the suspense to an almost unbearable pitch.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Well-written and satisfyingly plotted. Best of all is Sonora herself—a feisty babe who packs a red lipstick along with her gun.” —
The Times
(London)

To my brother, Jay Christopher,

who's one of my best buddies.

I'm glad we didn't kill each other

while we were growing up.

The terrible gift that the dead make to the living is that of sight, which is to say foreknowledge; in return they demand memory, which is to say acknowledgment.

—
Luc Sante,
Evidence

ONE

David's stomach sank when he saw the spatters of brown blood in the front seat of the car. He had hoped, for no particular reason, that there might still be a chance of finding Luke Cochran alive. The uniform leaned over his shoulder, rain coursing down the slicker over his arm. He pointed his light, adding to the dim thread of brightness from the overhead dome.

“She identified the shoe.”

David looked at the dirty white tennis shoe—an Eckler, expensive brand. Cochran was a big kid, over six feet, and the shoe looked a size eleven. The laces were frayed, and there was a wad of pink bubble gum stuck to the sole. It was wedged in the hinge of the front seat door, passenger's side, as if Cochran's foot had caught and been wrenched free, leaving the shoe behind.

Someone moving the body?

David ducked out of the open door, head exposed to the downpour of warm, fat rain. “Gotten a statement from the car yet?”

Cochran's car was a sleek, shiny black Visck. It had been pristine and beautiful before it jumped the guardrail and went over the side of the exit ramp into the weed-choked thicket. Raindrops beaded on a paint job that still shone.

David backed into a tangle of sticker vines, tearing the skin across the back of his hand. Rain-diluted blood ran down his fingers. He wiped his hand absently across the back of his jeans, and tripped over an empty, dirt-encrusted carton of Jack Daniels.

The uniform put a hand out. “Steady, sir.”

David took a second look at the fleshy young face of the embryo in uniform. His ego plummeted.
Steady, sir?

He slogged through knee-high weeds to take a look at the car from the other side. He was wet enough not to care how much more rain he absorbed. The generator on the Crime Scene Unit's van throbbed, someone shouted “Lights,” and the car was suddenly bathed in bright yellow illumination.

The light turned everything sordid.

The exit ramp ran with water, coursing over a sodden grey diaper, and the pitted asphalt shimmered with the reflected glow of light. The ragged remains of a pale pink dress circled a guardrail support. David glanced over his shoulder, down the hill toward Elaki-Town. The street lights were dark here at four
A
.
M
., and the storefronts, antique stalls, small bars, and restaurants were dark humps at the bottom of the hill.

David wondered about that. No light at all? He was sure the storefronts and restaurants usually stayed lighted. Didn't they?

A car made a shark pass on the main drag, catching the hulking presence of Elaki in its headlights. David hoped the car doors were locked tight, shrugged his shoulders at anyone foolish enough to be in Elaki-Town this time of night. He wondered if he'd be called to a fresh crime scene at the bottom of the hill before he was finished with the one at hand.

He looked back at the dark streets, sensing the Elaki backed up into the storefronts. Watching, he supposed—the carnival of red and blue lights, vans, ambulances. Human drama. He was wondering where the hell Mel and String were, when he caught sight of the girl.

She stood on the exit ramp under a street light, as if seeking warmth. Her shoulders sagged low, feet turned inward—pigeon-toed, elbows out. She was worrisomely thin, arms bony and bare and running with rain. Her electric-blue tank top had a high collar, and her jeans were threadbare, sagging under the weight of water absorbed. She clutched a large bundle of blankets to her chest, and her eyes were closed.

The bundle in her arms moved, and David realized that she held a small child, a toddler, no more than two or three.

He looked at the uniform and pointed. “Who is that?”

“Oh. That's her.”

“Her?”

“The one all the fuss was about, who poisoned her newborn baby. Annie Trey.”

She did not look old enough to be out after curfew. David moved toward her, noting that the technicians, uniforms, and detectives kept a constant distance from this small young girl, as if she were contaminated. He counted five large umbrellas. Four empty cars. And no one had offered to shelter this child with a child from the wet and the dark.

The baby coughed, sounding croupy, emitting a small cry heavy with misery. The girl tucked the small head under her chin, tightened her grip, and cooed softly. She did not open her eyes. She bent forward, as if her back ached, and David wondered how long she had stood there, holding the child.

TWO

Annie Trey opened her eyes when he approached, large blue eyes. Her hair was chin-length and dark, wet and close on her scalp. There was a nasty scab on one cheek, and her lashes were brown and thin. The freckles on her nose and cheeks were faint enough that you couldn't see them unless you got close.

David did not think he had ever seen anyone who gave so strong an impression of being separate and alone.

Annie Trey had been much in the news—the unwed mother of an eighteen-month-old daughter, and a newborn son who died at three weeks of a violent and mysterious ailment that was toxic, swift, and unkind. She had not yet been indicted, except by the media, but there was talk of poison, and a simmering outrage that the toddler was still in her care.