He saw how much she loved him, and with what cost she was giving him up. Very slowly, a smile broke over his face. “Every day and twice on Sundays,” he said.
The driver pulled over and Russell gathered up his duffel bag.
“You sure you want to be dumped off like this?” the driver asked. “All you can see out here is the stars.”
“That’s the idea,” Russell said as he opened the door and stepped out into the night.
He walked away from the truck without looking back, turned off the road and headed out into an open field. He lowered the duffel bag, opened it and drew out a sextant and his topographical map. Then he spread the map out across the ground, plotting a course, then another and another, his rage building with each failed attempt until there was nothing left but rage, and he stood up and faced the sky, his head raised defiantly. “Take me,” he cried. “Take me, but leave my son alone.”
PART THREE. High Hopes
Chapter One
As he made his way to home plate, Jacob Clarke knew what the other kids were thinking, that he was an easy strikeout.
He picked up the bat. It felt tremendously heavy in his hands, as if it were made of steel. He placed the bat on his shoulder and looked at the pitcher. For a moment he felt too weak to swing, his pale fingers barely able to hold the bat in place.
“You all right?” the coach asked.
Jacob nodded.
The pitcher wound up and threw a fastball. Jacob watched the ball whiz past him. He didn’t move.
Strike.
A second ball cut past him in a straight line across his chest.
Strike two.
Jacob noted the cocky smile on the catchers face. He squinted slightly, focusing his concentration, stared the pitcher right in the eye, and for an instant, the pitcher seemed captured in his gaze.
The ball came hurtling toward home plate and Jacob felt a terrible strength gather in his arms. He swung hard and fast, the bat cracking loudly as it connected to the ball.
Kids were yelling at him madly now, but their voices were distant, and he stood in place, unable to move as the ball lifted in a wide arc over the field, soaring higher and higher, the earth tilting oddly as it rose… or so it seemed to Jacob as his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. The next thing he knew, he was in the school infirmary, lying on a hospital bed, light streaming through the window, bright and engulfing, but a different light than the one before, mere ordinary sunlight rather than… some other kind.
“Jacob, do you know who I am?”
Jacob opened his eyes to see a man standing before him. He was dressed like a doctor, but his eyes were black pools, intense and unlighted.
“You have certain capabilities, Jacob,” the man said. “But you shouldn’t use them again. They’re making you weak.”
“I’m sorry,” Jacob whispered.
“We’ll find another way,” the man told him.
As if on command, Jacob closed his eyes.
“Jack! Jack!”
Jacob opened his eyes, and everything had changed. Time had gone by. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps an age. Now a different doctor was at his side, with different eyes, soft and full of care.
“I’m Dr. Benson. I’m sorry it took so long to get to you.” He smiled warmly. “Now, let’s take a look at you,” he said.
Jesse Keys felt the wind in his hair. He was moving fast, pedaling rapidly, the bike speeding along. He felt his teenage legs pumping hard, but the bike seemed to float beneath him, surging ahead under its own power, as if it were alive.
He wheeled into the alley, braking slightly at the sight of an old truck. The truck was pulled over to the side, and as Jesse went around it, he noticed its painted sign, TRAVELING ATTRACTIONS.
A carnival van, Jesse thought. He pumped the pedals and glided past the cab of the truck, where a man sat behind the wheel. The carny turned to Jesse, nodded briefly, and offered a dark smile.
Jesse pumped again, harder this time, and the bike lurched ahead. From behind, he heard the engine of the truck, glanced back and saw that it was following him.
He slammed down on the pedals, his legs pumping fiercely now, but the truck continued to bear down upon him, the roar of its engine growing louder and louder as it closed in.
He wheeled around, and gasped as two orbs of light swept toward him from the far end of the alley. He glanced back, and the truck was gone, replaced by a third light. Frantically he whirled around, then back again, all the lights closing in. He could feel them like arrows, coming at him faster and faster, the light building to a blinding radiance that suddenly engulfed him and lifted him, the world falling away as his bike rolled down the alley, staggered and finally collapsed, riderless and abandoned, its front wheel spinning in the fading light.
Owen sat at his desk. Marty and Howard stood in front of him, waiting to hear the results of President Kennedy’s visit.
“He doesn’t think our visitors are a threat,” Owen sneered. “We have one month to prove to him that they are. If we don’t, he’ll shut us down and give our money to the space program.” He sat back for a moment and considered the years of effort that were about to go up in smoke, the two sons he barely knew, the wife who’d become a drunk and a pill-popper he dreaded seeing at the end of the day.
“There’s this couple,” Marty began cautiously.
Owen looked at him. “Go on.”
“Named Betty and Barney Hill,” Marty said. “Encounters in 1961. On their way back from Niagara Falls. He’s a postal clerk. She’s a child welfare worker. Very solid people, both of them.”
“Very solid people who claim they were taken aboard a craft,” Howard added.
“Taken?” Owen asked. His eyes brightened. “What else?”
“They’re being treated by hypnosis,” Marty said. “Like they use on amnesia victims.”
Owen nodded. “This could be what we’re looking for.”
Marty handed Owen a picture of the couple.
Owen’s face soured. “No Negroes,” he said as he handed it back. “That clouds the issue.” He glanced from one man to the other. “Keep trying. There must be somebody else.”
Russell Keys pulled himself out from under the ‘56 Buick Special. His boss, Mr. Kennelworth, was already headed home for lunch. Over the past five years, he’d gotten the man’s trust, proven that he wasn’t a bum or a criminal, just a middle-aged guy who needed steady work, and was willing to stick to it.
He walked to the workbench, where he’d left a can of soda before climbing back under the Buick. He took a sip, and suddenly felt a searing blade of pain across his brow. He placed the can against his head, hoping the cold would help, and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again Jesse stood before him, tall and slender, as handsome at sixteen as Russell had been at the same age.
Russell felt his eyes grow moist. “Hey, Jesse,” he said. “How did you know I was here?”
“I heard Mom talking to Bill. She said you’d gotten a job as close to us as you were legally allowed.”
Russell looked at Jesse, a sad smile on his face. “You grew up.”
Jesse was quiet for a moment, then seemed to remember his purpose. “I’ve been reading these books where the government knows about flying saucers and they’re afraid if they tell us there will be a panic.” He drew the book from his pocket and handed it to Russell.
Russell glanced at the book. On the cover, two shadowy men faced an illustrator’s version of a flying saucer. The title was equally melodramatic: conspiracy- WHAT THE GOVERNMENT DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT UFOS.