Jackson asked, “You causing trouble, old man?”
“No trouble, officer,” Stan said.
Mack Higgins slowly glanced from Jackson to Stan. “I get it,” he slurred. “You’re playing clean cop, stinky cop.”
“You’re coming with me,” Jackson said.
Stan almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as he stepped in front of his dad. “I’ll take him home, officer.”
“Not today you won’t,” Jackson said.
“Out of my way,” Mack said, taking Stan by the shoulders and trying to shove him aside.
Stan twisted and grappled with his dad. “Back off,” he whispered. “Let me deal with this. Please, Dad, I’m begging you.”
“You’re one of them,” Mack whispered, blowing fumes into Stan’s face.
“Don’t you know your own son?”
Mack Higgins frowned, and for a moment, his unfocused eyes focused. “Stan?” he asked.
“Go sit in my rover, would you, please?” Stan asked.
His dad nodded slowly as his grip slackened.
“Put your hands behind your back,” Jackson said.
Mack started to turn to face Jackson.
Stan gripped his dad’s arms. “Ignore him,” he whispered. “Let me talk to the man.”
“He’s a Benedict Arnold,” Mack whispered.
“Do it for me,” Stan said, “and I’ll take you to supper later. You have to be hungry.”
“I am,” Mack said, sounding surprised. “You’ll buy me roast beef?”
“Gladly,” Stan said.
Ex-Colonel Higgins released his son and headed for the Land Rover, never looking back as Sergeant Jackson shouted at him.
Stan stepped toward the policeman with his arms hanging down and hands open, palms forward. “Can I have a word with you, officer?”
Jackson unsnapped his holster.
“He’s going to sit in my jeep,” Stan said.
Jackson’s grabbed the butt of his gun. “I order you to halt!” he shouted at Mack.
Mack Higgins opened the passenger-side door and squeezed into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Sergeant, can we make a deal?” Stan asked.
Jackson glanced at Stan. “Does your deal mean you’re offering me money?”
Stan shook his head.
“Do your dad a favor,” Jackson said. “Tell him to step out of the car. He’s about to be arrested.”
“Look at my dad. He’s sitting quietly in my vehicle. The problem is solved—if there ever was a problem to begin with.”
“Your dad has been hammering on doors, telling people space aliens are coming.”
“Is that a crime?”
“It is when you refuse to leave the premises and make threats to the homeowners.”
“My dad has left.”
Jackson stared at Stan. “Do I have to pull your dad out of the car?”
“You’re missing your chance. Do you know that?”
“Meaning what?” Jackson asked.
“That if you arrest my father on some minor charge like knocking on doors about space aliens, you’re risking the judge throwing it out of court because it’s bogus. That would make it easier for me to press harassment charges.”
Jackson kept staring.
“Why not wait and try to catch my dad on something serious?” Stan asked. “Why not let the threat of your doing that trouble me.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“I think I can change my dad before you find something really serious to charge him with.”
“He’ll never change,” Jackson said.
No, because you beat the old man on the head with a baton, Stan thought to himself. You flipped a switch in there and broke it, and now my dad will never be normal again.
“Go ahead then,” said Stan. “Arrest him, and we’ll start the review process. I’m sure it will go in your favor this time.”
Jackson glanced at Mack Higgins, who sat quietly in the Land Rover. Jackson looked at the watching people. Many had left already, going inside. The nearest were making jokes at Mack’s expense and they were laughing good-naturedly.
Jackson snapped his holster shut. He shrugged. “I’ll give you this one. Space aliens. First I need to warn him, though.” Jackson headed toward the rover.
Stan followed, deciding he’d have to bring his dad home with him tonight. Then he’d have to figure out a way to keep his dad off the streets. Susan would be upset, but what choice did he have?
Before Stan could worry about it, Mack opened his door. The old man grinned crazily, with the .44 Magnum in his grip and aimed at Sergeant Jackson.
“Dad,” whispered Stan.
Mack Higgins stood and used his thumb to click the hammer all the way back. That rotated the cylinder and showed the visible bullets in each chamber.
Jackson had halted. The police officer moved his lips, but no sounds issued.
“Benedict Arnolds are filth under my feet,” Mack declared. “The aliens will never capture Earth. Never, do you hear me?”
“Dad, stop,” Stan said. “Put the gun down.”
Mack glanced at him, and the .44 barrel was now aimed at him.
It made Stan queasy. He was a finger-twitch away from lying on the snow dead. Why had he forgotten to put the gun away? It shouldn’t have been in the glove compartment in the first place.
“Dad,” Stan whispered. “It’s me, your son.”
Mack cocked his head.
“I’m ordering you—” Jackson managed to say.
Mack aimed the .44 at the police officer again, stopping the flow of words.
Stan knew it was crazy, but he started walking toward his dad. Colonel Higgins had killed his share of enemy combatants in Afghanistan. The old man was more than capable of killing Sergeant Jackson.
“Dad, don’t shoot. It will be murder. Set down the gun, okay?”
“You alien-loving traitor,” Mack told Jackson.
“No!” Stan shouted, and he rushed his dad.
Mack aimed at Stan, the trigger-finger seemed to squeeze, and then something entered those drunken eyes. Was it a moment of normality? Whatever it was, Mack hurled the .44 away. The big revolver hit the snowy ground and discharged with a thunderous boom.
People screamed. The bullet smashed into a nearby pine and the half-naked Mack Higgins stared dully at Sergeant Jackson. There were two prongs in Mack’s chest, with wires trailing back to Jackson’s hand. Apparently when the old man had chucked the gun, Jackson had madly clawed out his taser and fired. Mack bellowed in pain and he crumpled onto the snow, thrashing.
A second later, a pale Jackson took his thumb off the switch.
Stan’s shoulders slumped as Jackson took out his handcuffs. Now his dad had gone and done it. What made it worse was his dad peering up at him from the snow, forlorn and confused. There had to be something Stan could do to help his dad, but Stan had no idea what it was.
Anna Chen headed the China Desk for the Third Assistant to the National Security Advisor for President Clark. At the moment, she was in her cubicle in the West Wing of the White House. She cradled a phone against her shoulder as she spoke with a friend at the National Security Agency.
While she was on the phone, Anna jotted notes, puzzled by her friend’s tone and that he hadn’t yet told her something she didn’t already know. In other words, why had he called?
“How about lunch, Anna?” asked Alfredo Diaz.
Anna frowned thoughtfully. At thirty-six, she was still slender and a stunning beauty. Because of her position, though—and for a variety of reasons she never admitted to herself—Anna wore fake glasses, kept her hair up in an unflattering style and dressed ultra-conservatively. Anna knew men were intimidated by her looks and her intellect, and though she was willing to play down her appearance, she hated acting dumb. In Harvard, she had been president of the chess club and had majored in Chinese History. She’d always won the highest marks in each class, ensuring that by getting the best grades on every paper she wrote and test that she took. During her four years at Harvard—and afterward as well—she had forever been picking up new skills. One year it was piano playing. The next she studied body kinetics and body language. After that, it had been stargazing—she could name eighty-three stars by memory, pointing each one out in the night sky.