“Mierde,” mumbled one of the unfortunate’s companions, his eyes as wide as those of the freshly baked corpse. Together with his friends, he rushed forward to inspect the body.
Bending on one knee, one of the young men gingerly touched the knee of the deceased, only to draw it back sharply. “Jesus, he’s hot!”
“He’s more than hot, man.” The stunned commentator looked slowly over at the silently watching Ross Ed. “He’s muerte.”
“Fried.” The fat boy who’d been serving as lookout was also staring at the tall Texan. “That thing fried ’inn.”
“It don’ make no sense.” The speaker’s face twisted. “You son-of-a-bitch, you killed Roberto!” He raised the barrel of the shiny little .22.
Holding on to the alien with one hand, Ross Ed took a step back and raised the other. “Hold on now, I didn’t kill anybody. I don’t know what happened any more than you do.” He held up the six-limbed figure. “I ain’t even sure what Jed here is.”
“Jed?” The gunman’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, that’s what done it. What the hell is that thing, man?”
“I told you.” Keeping his eyes on the gun, Ross pleaded his case. “I don’t know.”
“It ain’t no dummy, man. You’re the dummy, for letting it kill Roberto.” Without another word, he fired.
Ross Ed flinched. The pistol utilized .22 shorts. He knew they were .22 shorts because he could see the bullet clearly. It had stopped about an inch from Jed’s faceplate, Ross Ed having instinctively raised the alien corpse in front of him for what meager protection it might offer. The bullet hovered in midair, neither advancing not falling to the ground. So heightened by the situation were his senses that he could make out the grooves in the side of the slug.
More jaws dropped. A couple of the muggers started forward to examine the inexplicable phenomenon more closely. As they did so the bullet pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees and returned at speed down the line along which it had been fired, with the result that it entered neatly into the barrel of the pistol and blew up in the gun’s chamber.
The gunman let out a startled yelp and dropped the red-hot weapon. As its flowered barrel fell away Ross Ed could see blood dripping from the man’s hand. He was lucky he hadn’t been packing a larger-caliber gun or he would’ve lost fingers. As it was, he bled copiously.
“Work of the devil!” someone shouted.
“Come on, man, let’s get out of here!” Another had put his arm around his injured compadre and was urging him away.
The second gunman continued to gape at Ross Ed, his own weapon gripped shakily in his hand. Ross swung the alien body around to face him.
“Come on, want to shoot at me, too?”
“Hey, no, man, not me, man.” Flinging the pistol aside, all bravado gone, the youth started backing away.
A low-rider Monte Carlo screeched to a halt behind him, scattering dirt, and the ex-gunman promptly piled into the backseat. He was followed rapidly by the others. As they dug out, Ross Ed felt something vibrating in his hands. It was Jed, or Jed’s suit. A soft, pale green glow emanated from the material. Several embedded wires and devices throbbed with energy.
A bolt of lime-colored lightning leaped from the center of the suit to strike the fleeing car. There was no recoil, no sound. The alien’s eyes remained closed and its limbs limp. The shaft of crooked light went up the Monte Carlo’s tailpipe. Yelps and screams sounded from within as a green glow spread over the entire vehicle.
Ross Ed winced as the engine blew, sending the smoking hood flying end over end to crash into a nearby dusty field. The engineless, hoodless car weaved crazily until it came to a halt not far from the road. Bodies piled out, smoke rising from their clothing, which they proceeded to rip off and cast aside with inspired enthusiasm. Their howls and complaints were of the climatically challenged rather than the mortally wounded. The only fatal casualty was the Chevy, an innocent mechanical.
Mostly naked now, the five survivors vanished into the field on the far side of the road, still flailing frantically at smoking hair and blistered body parts. Ross Ed would have laughed, except that the body lying in front of him gave no sign of rising up and walking away.
When the last outraged yelp had faded from hearing, he walked over to the body of the unfortunate would-be mugger and removed the Cadillac’s keys from his pocket. Returning to the waiting car, he carefully placed Jed in his familiar seated position on the passenger side, then hurried around in front and slid in behind the wheel.
While the engine idled he sat and tried to make sense of what had just happened. When he found that he couldn’t, he wisely decided simply to accept it.
Knowing it couldn’t hear him, he glanced sideways at his diminutive passenger anyway. “Thanks.” Feeling foolish, he continued on. “I know you’re dead, Jed, but something in that suit of yours ain’t. Some kind of protective mechanism, or shield. Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s still working. Without it, this could’ve gone down real bad.”
Away from the restaurant he drove through absolute blackness until he crossed the tracks back into the more built-up part of town. Signs led him back onto the familiar confines of the interstate. Taking the Caddy up to seventy-five, he held it there while he deliberated where to make the next stop. With the Arizona border looming near, he considered pushing at least as far as Tucson, maybe even trying for Yuma. There was no need to extend himself, he knew. He wasn’t on a fixed schedule.
No car, police or otherwise, was following him. Probably his tormentors hadn’t stopped running, much less decided whether or not to notify the local police. By the time they did he’d be long gone. Besides, even if they sought political intervention, no one would believe their story. Ross Ed had witnessed it all, and he didn’t believe it either.
He’d have to be more careful in the future. He was so used to his size keeping him out of trouble that he’d grown careless. That wouldn’t work, he knew, in a bad area of a big city any more than it had in the dusty parking lot of a small-town restaurant. Also, there was no gauging the potential of the alien suit’s defensive mechanisms and he had no intention of pushing its limits to find out.
He flipped the radio on and music filled the Caddy’s spacious interior. “What else can you do?” he heard himself asking the alien corpse. “I mean, suppose both of them had tried to shoot me at once. Could you have stopped both bullets? Suppose they’d just jumped me. Would you have let ’em beat the crap out of me, or what?”
As usual, there was no reply. Motionless and voiceless, the slack figure gaped blindly at the windshield.
EIGHT
Robinett rejoined Suttles and Kerry in the unmarked white government sedan which had been parked next to the equally inscrutable van, the latter having been set up for use as a mobile field headquarters. Aware that putting tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles out on the road would have instantly destroyed their anonymity, they had opted instead for the cooperation of local authorities. Besides, it was considered unlikely that much in the way of firepower would be required to apprehend one meandering bartender-cum-ventriloquist.
The interstate rest stop was a perfectly logical place to halt and inspect passing vehicles. Regular travelers along this section of I-10 were used to Border Patrol roadblocks. Once Robinett had gotten the inevitable crack about apprehending illegal aliens out of the way, they had been able to devise and implement procedure.
Neither the Border Patrol not the Arizona Department of Public Safety had been informed of the real reason for the action. They’d been told only that it was a matter of national security, and that all they had to do was apprehend one easily identifiable and probably unarmed fugitive. Once the individual in question had been turned over to the military, their involvement would be at an end. None of the intelligence officers’ superiors back in Washington had seen any need to further enlighten the locals, a policy with which the trio on site fully concurred.
The roadblock hardly slowed traffic, since everything was waved through. There was no need to search individual vehicles since they knew exactly what they were looking for, and this late at night there was minimal traffic. A white 1972 Cadillac Fleetwood would stand out among the swarm of smaller, newer cars like a termite queen in an egg chamber.
They knew their man was on this section of interstate because he’d been tracked as far as the Chevron station on the western edge of Las Cruces, where he’d bought gas. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t get off somewhere before the isolated rest stop, perhaps take one of the numerous state highways that ran north and south, but Robinett and Suttles considered it unlikely. Their target didn’t know anyone was after him, and if he was heading west, the interstate was the fastest and most practical way to go, particularly in an older vehicle.
If they were wrong, they’d backtrack until they found him. Hopefully they’d guessed right and could wrap things up tonight; quietly, without fanfare, and before the media came sniffing around.
Once the Border Patrol stopped his car, they’d escort him over to the rest-stop parking lot, which had been closed to public access for the night. Out of sight of the freeway, they could then convince him that it would be in his best interests to cooperate. It had all been thought out very carefully. No one anticipated any trouble, and Suttles had assured them that for all his size their subject didn’t seem the type, but they were prepared for it nonetheless.
Kerry checked her watch. It was dark and they were tired, but everyone was too excited to rest. “You really think he’ll come through here?”
“I don’t see why not.” Suttles leaned back against the side of the car. “If he was going to panic he’d have avoided the interstate from the start, maybe run up one-eighty toward Carlsbad. The fact that he’s stayed on I-10 at least as far as Las Cruces shows that while he may be concerned, he’s not frantic.”
“I know, I know. I just want to get this part over with.”
