“I love you,” he said.
She hung up before saying, “I love you,” back. That let Stan know she was hurt and probably what his daughters called “boiling inside.” He couldn’t blame Susan, and he didn’t, but it was his dad. He had to help him. The Third Commandment said to honor your parents, and it was the first of the Ten Commandments with a promise. It said that it would go well with a man who honored his parents. It also said that he would live a long life.
Thinking about his wife and her expectations, Stan pushed his foot on the accelerator. It was probably wiser risking a traffic ticket so he could get to his dad first. It wouldn’t help his insurance rates if he got a ticket and Susan might possibly complain about the cost of it, but this was his dad and he was the old man’s only son.
Stan parked beside a curb. He turned off the engine, jumped out of the rover and hurried after his dad.
Mack Higgins was big, and even at sixty-seven he was imposing. He had wild white hair jutting every which way. Worse, he was shirtless, with his ancient denim jacket tied around his waist. Stan’s dad was like a polar bear, with bulky arms, a barrel-like torso and was seldom affected by the cold. Also like a polar bear, Mack had thick white hair on his chest, belly and much of his back.
His dad had also fought a long time ago in Afghanistan, being a colonel in a light infantry battalion. Mack had led from the front, and Stan had heard many stories where his dad drew his sidearm. Colonel Higgins had emptied his share of magazines, as his dad put it, into “no-good Allah-loving Taliban terrorists.”
Afghanistan had done something to his dad. Colonel Mack Higgins’s hard drinking had begun there. After his retirement, the drinking had definitely become full-blown alcoholism. Watching his dad’s mental decline had convinced Stan of several things. Firstly, killing men did something to you. Or maybe it was seeing your friends die, blown apart by a roadside bomb. Mack had experienced both.
Secondly, too much alcohol over long periods pickled a man’s brain. Hadn’t it changed Alexander the Great? Stan had read about the Macedonian’s decline in health and his growing inability to control his temper through increasingly hard drinking.
Finally, hard knocks to the head were very bad. Mack had received one in a bar fight. The second time, Sergeant Jackson had struck his dad over the head with his baton. Mack Higgins had a visible dent in his skull now, about three inches above his left eye.
“Dad!” called Stan.
Mack Higgins lumbered down the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Large pine trees shadowed the snowy yards and the street, and their roots had caused, over time, what looked like quake damage to the sidewalk.
This was an older area of Anchorage. Here, the two-story homes were built so the sides almost touched. Each had a garage and most had shrubbery and trees that was over twenty years old.
Stan glanced over his shoulder. He saw several groups of people either standing in their yards or on their porches, watching his dad. Some grinned at one another, laughing. Others scowled. Odds were someone had called the police. The best thing was to get his dad out of here fast.
“Dad, hold up,” Stan called.
Mack Higgins never even paused. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but it was still good. His dad was probably ignoring him again.
“Colonel Higgins, sir,” Stan called.
The big old man with the hairy torso stopped then and slowly shuffled around. The bleary, unfocused eyes told their own story, and the alcoholic reek only added to the tale. Mack Higgins swayed. He had to be really drunk to do that.
“What do you want, boy?” Mack Higgins slurred. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir.”
“I have to warn the people,” Mack said, as he unsteadily raised one of his arms, indicating the tract homes.
“Is this about the space aliens?” asked Stan.
Mack squinted and he lowered his head to peer more closely at Stan. “Who told you that?”
Stan licked his lips. Lying was wrong, and lying to your dad was even worse. He also hated helping his dad believe his fantasies, but arguing wasn’t going to work today. The cops were sure to show up soon, and the two of them had to be out of here by then. In this frame of mind, his dad might take a swing at one of the cops.
“Uh… I got a phone call,” Stan said, temporizing his lie with some truth.
Mack blinked his unfocused eyes, making him seem lost and confused. Lines appeared on his forehead. It helped highlight the dent in his skull, the one that sank into his hairline. “Oh,” he finally grunted. “Someone here phoned you. Good. The word is spreading. You take the other side of the street. We don’t have much time before the aliens invade.”
Stan took a deep breath. “Dad… I think the aliens have allies.”
The lines in the broad forehead deepened. Slowly, Mack Higgins nodded. “Benedict Arnolds, huh? I should have known. The aliens are cunning, but they’re never going to conquer America. We’re red, white and blue, son, especially in Alaska.”
“The aliens want you in jail, sir. They want to slow you down.”
The bleary-eyed squint narrowed. “How did you come to learn this?”
Stan noticed his dad’s big hands tightening into fists. He had to be careful how he worded this. His dad had told him before that the aliens were shape-shifters, able to take on human appearances. Stan had seen this look before. It meant Mack Higgins was getting ready to fight. They had to scram fast, or the cops would pull their tasers on the big man and shock him into submission.
“Colonel Higgins, sir, I believe the aliens have compromised the police department.”
His dad snarled a curse. “I’ve taken that as a given from the beginning. What you’re saying is something else, isn’t it?”
“Ah… yes.”
“Right,” his dad said. “You’re telling me the police are willing to move openly now against the citizenry. It’s time to arm ourselves and fight back.”
“Hold on!” said Stan, alarmed.
Mack Higgins took a menacing step closer, the knuckles of his fists whitening because he clenched his fingers so tightly.
As his dad did that, a police cruiser turned onto the street. Stan glanced at the approaching squad car, and with growing despair, he spotted Sergeant Jackson behind the wheel. Sensing more than seeing his dad, Stan turned back in time as the old colonel swung at him. It was a slow punch, and Stan evaded by stepping back. It made his dad stagger, and then bump against him. The reek of alcohol and his dad’s unwashed body was strong. Stan dearly wished he could bring his dad back to normality. Colonel Higgins had been a strong man—a good man and one full of insights. It was painful seeing his dad in this condition.
The police cruiser’s siren made a loud, piercing noise before the sound quit. Then the cruiser was pulling up along the curb.
Mack cursed under his breath, adding, “You brought reinforcements, huh?”
“Don’t you understand?” Stan asked. “I’m your son, damnit.”
“My son’s a churchgoer,” said Mack, “he doesn’t swear. Now let me go!” His dad grappled with him, slow motion using some of the judo-holds he’d taught him as a kid. Despite his dad’s age and drunkenness, Stan barely kept himself from being flipped onto the snow. Mack Higgins weighed an easy two-eighty and was still strong.
A car door slammed.
Stan looked up as Sergeant Jackson approached. Jackson was a big man, although not quite as big as Colonel Higgins, but with more gut. The officer wore a flak-vest underneath his jacket, had a thick black belt with cuffs, gun and a dangling nightstick. Jackson’s belt creaked like a horse saddle. One hand rested on the sleeve of his holster; the other was on the rubber-grip of his nightstick.