Trespassers: a science-fiction novel (23 page)

Suddenly, the flask in his pocket was pulling at him. It was the only thing that ever succeeded at chasing the memories away. He would just need to reach in his pocket and pull it out. He could imagine the weight of it. It would be heavy
—
he remembered filling it this morning, not because he planned to drink from it, but just because things should be filled. Filling the flask had given him something to do. Actually, filling the flask was a good thing, because it allowed him to stop thinking about how empty the flask was.
Welcome to the mind of an alcoholic
, he thought. But he didn
’
t really believe that he was one. He joked about being an alcoholic because he knew that
’
s what an outsider might think
—
someone who didn
’
t know him. Bruner was much more important than an alcoholic. He was a federal agent, and a damn good one.

He focused again on the pallet, and he realized why his mind had called up the image of the flask in his pocket. It wasn
’
t the obvious: it wasn
’
t the beer bottles or the dried stream of alcohol stains on the pavement. It was the bottle caps that had been swept into a pile in the corner. They reminded him of Mountain Dew caps that his wife had collected for a little girl in the neighborhood. They had been for an art project, and the little girl needed more green ones. It was one of those cloudy memories that he wished he could bring into focus. He wasn
’
t sure which little girl it had been, and he didn
’
t remember whether it was for a school project or just for fun. But he remembered the joy on his wife
’
s face. If only that had been their little girl, he thought, maybe they would still be together .
.
. maybe if they had a child to bind them.

His hand slid into his pocket to retrieve the flask. Like most people who claim not to be alcoholics, Bruner felt a drink allowed him to think more clearly. It chased away the demons that cluttered his mind. And he needed a clear mind now. But his hand found nothing. His pocket was empty.

Damn!!!
, he thought, and he instantly knew. He knew he had left it on the dresser of his hotel room. He could picture it on top of a takeout menu, next to that plastic ice bucket. He could picture it so vividly that he felt he could almost pluck it from his mind and bring it into reality, and he was nearly desperate enough to try. But it was no more successful than someone watching a movie for a second time and hoping for a different ending. No matter how many times he played it over in his head, the outcome was always going to be the same: he left it on the dresser.
Damn!!

Maybe he was better off without it. After all, he wanted to be a federal agent, today
—
not someone who might be mistaken for an
alcoholic
.

Bruner
’
s thoughts returned to the case
—
to his biggest lead: Stewart Faulkner. That name. Didn
’
t he know that name? He checked his phone and found
Stewart Faulkner
in his contacts. But why?

“
Limestone Deposit Survey Group,
”
said a female voice after one ring.

“
Stewart Faulkner, please,
”
Bruner replied.

“
Mr. Faulkner is out of the office at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?
”

“
No. .
.
. Do you know where he is?
”

“
He
’
s on a field assignment. I
’
m not aware of the location.
”

“
Thank you.
”
Bruner hung up and stared at the contact information in his phone. When had he put
Stewart Faulkner
into his contacts? Where had he come across him? Bruner couldn
’
t put a face with the name, nor could he remember the name itself
—
but it was there.

Jeremy and Sara
’
s

First Morning

Jeremy had poured the orange juice, sliced an apple, and dropped the bread into the toaster. As he watched the eggs sizzle, he could hear the water running in his shower. He couldn
’
t help but picture Sara in there
—
his own hair still wet from his parents
’
shower. He had suggested that Sara use
his
. After all, she was
his
guest. He liked the idea of having her in there
—
being able to say she had used his shower, not that he would actually say that to anyone.

As he flipped the egg, he heard the water stop. She would be stepping out of the tub now, reaching for a towel. He hoped he had straightened the bathroom enough. He didn
’
t want her to think he was a slob. Truth was he was pretty tidy, but he may have missed something.

Suddenly, he yanked his hand back from the stove. A red line across his knuckle showed his carelessness: he had let his finger rest on the edge of the pan.

“
Breakfast, I see,
”
Sara said, as she slid into a seat at the kitchen table.

Jeremy couldn
’
t understand how she had moved from the shower to the kitchen so quickly. As he looked back to the eggs
—
dried, browned, and stuck to the pan
—
it dawned on him. He had been daydreaming far longer than he had realized.

“
So, what will I be having this morning?
”
she asked.

“
How does a finger sound?
”
he replied, his knuckle still throbbing.

“
Oh, that
’
s a little direct. Is that one of your specialties?
”
She raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, Jeremy realized how wrong his comment could have sounded.

“
I didn
’
t
—
I didn
’
t mean
—
I just burnt my finger .
.
. I wasn
’
t
—”

Sara smiled, letting him off the hook.
“
It
’
s okay. I know what you didn
’
t mean.
”

He laughed.

“
You sure know how to get a girl
’
s hopes up, though.
”

Jeremy turned back to the pan.
“
Do you like burnt eggs at all?
”

“
Not my favorite.
”

“
Good,
”
he said, as he scraped them into the garbage can.

Several eggs later, breakfast was back underway. And while preparing it, Jeremy had developed a plan: they would drive into town and find a police officer.

“
Then what?
”
Sara asked.

“
That
’
s the coolest part,
”
Jeremy said.
“
I
’
ll use that cube on him so that he has to tell the truth, and I
’
ll ask him what he knows about your case.
”

“
My case?
”

“
Yeah, I
’
ll ask him what he knows about a missing girl.
”

“
But how are you going to get him to hold the .
.
. the little thing?
”

“
I don
’
t know, yet.
”

Jeremy had the length of the ride into town to come up with something, but when he pulled into a parking spot along the curb on Water Street, two spaces down from an empty police car, he still had nothing. Gillian
’
s Grill was across the street, and that was no doubt where the officer was having breakfast.

“
Just give me the piece,
”
he said.
“
I
’
ll come up with something.
”

Sara opened the wooden box and removed the quoret. She pressed it into Jeremy
’
s palm.
“
Good luck.
”

“
Thanks,
”
he smiled. He was about to be a knight in shining armor. He crossed the road and walked into Gillian
’
s. The cop was in the back corner of the restaurant, sitting with his back to the wall. Jeremy had heard that cops were trained to sit with their backs to the wall so they could keep an eye on their surroundings. But this guy seemed more interested in studying the food on his plate.

There was a single path down the middle of the long, narrow restaurant, with tables on the left and a bar on the right. Jeremy didn
’
t know what he would have done if an idea hadn
’
t come to him, but one
did
come
—
a good one. He walked right to the officer
’
s table and slid into the seat across from him.

“
Hi, Clint,
”
Jeremy said. Most everyone in town knew Clint. He was a bodybuilder type, who liked having his arms overflow from his tight, short-sleeve shirts.

“
Hey,
”
Clint replied. He didn
’
t know Jeremy, but he was used to strangers addressing him by name. It came with the job.

“
I hate to bother you,
”
Jeremy began,
“
but my high-school football team is raising money by selling these really neat therapeutic stimulators.
”
He set the wooden cube on the table.
“
And they actually work. They were even featured in
Fitness Magazine
. They stimulate the muscles and increase circulation.
”

Clint looked at him skeptically.

“
Go ahead, try it out,
”
Jeremy said.
“
You just put your fingers in the grooves and turn it.
”

Clint gave it a shot. He rotated his wrist as Jeremy had demonstrated and the cube illuminated.

“
How
’
s it work?
”
Clint asked.

“
I
’
m not sure. It uses microvibrations or something like that.
”

“
Is this supposed to be doing something?
”
Clint said.
“
Because I don
’
t feel a thing.
”

“
Just give it a little more time,
”
Jeremy said.
“
.
.
. So, what do you know about that girl that went missing about eight months ago?
”

“
What girl is that?
”

“
A girl that disappeared around here. .
.
. Are you still looking for her?
”

“
I don
’
t know anything about any missing girl,
”
he flexed his arm, starting to believe he was feeling something.

“
You
’
re not looking for some girl, though? I thought I heard something about that.
”

“
No.
”

Jeremy needed to make sure the cube was working. He needed a test question.
“
What's the worst mistake you've ever made in your job?
”

“
In a hit-and-run case last year, I forgot to log evidence from the crime scene. It stayed in my trunk for a month. And when I realized it, I just snuck it into the evidence room and falsified the log with the old date. It could have ruined the case and gotten me fired.
”

Yep, the cube was working. Clint was suddenly hit by the sound of his own words, never suspecting they were the result of the device in his hand.