Sarah had packed her a breakfast sandwich and a container of freshly-squeezed orange juice. Lydia had refused to allow her to leave Dulce until she was given medical clearance. They had held the train up forty minutes before Dr. Spencer confirmed her bloodstream was clear of any foreign objects.
Finally she had boarded the train, receiving nasty looks from the other passengers. Selecting an empty row in back, she took the window seat, reclined her chair and dozed off…
“Excuse me? Are these two seats taken?”
The train had stopped at Los Alamos to pick up a single passenger — a raven haired woman, bearing the gaunt, pale complexion of someone who had spent far too many months working indoors.
“I’m sorry… what?”
“I asked if these seats were taken.”
The train suddenly accelerated, causing the woman to lose her balance. She fell forward across Jessica’s lap, her right hand grabbing hold of Jessica’s bare left arm to keep from tumbling head-over-heels.
“I’m so sorry.”
Jessica wiped the woman’s sweat from her biceps. “It’s okay.”
The Maglev train arrived at the subterranean complex beneath Edwards Air Force Base at 8:13 a.m. Fifteen minutes later Jessica found herself standing beneath an actual cloudless blue sky, breathing the fresh desert air.
She could have taken a private jet bound for Pittsburgh and Washington, but turned the offer down. Instead she accepted a van ride to LAX and booked a ticket on the next direct flight to D.C., wanting nothing more to do with MAJI.
She called Adam at the airport, but only got his message machine. “Hey babe, it’s me. I’m coming home tonight, arriving in Dulles at 6:15 p.m. on Delta. I can’t wait to see you and hold you… and just love on you. I missed you so much.”
Jessica’s heart raced as the wheels touched down, her left forearm sore where the woman had dug in with her nails. She rubbed it, conscious of the stiffness coming from her fourth finger.
Maybe Adam knows an ER doctor who can take this thing out tonight.
Adam stood at the security checkpoint which separated ticketed passengers from guests.
Twenty thousand air miles and fifteen hours ago he had found himself knocking on the Greer’s back door, the ARV hovering ten feet off the ground in the clearing behind him.
“Morning, doc. I’ll swap you a pair of crutches for an ARV and a zero-point-energy device.”
Adam shared his tale over a four a.m. breakfast. Thirty minutes later they had made plans with the man who had spent the last thirty years communicating with extraterrestrials receiving an in-flight tutorial on how to operate the man-made UFO.
They embraced outside the closed gas station in Cassopolis, Michigan. Adam watched the ARV shoot straight up into the graying sky, leaving him alone on the deserted country road.
Remembering the bikers, he rolled up the garage door and climbed in the rental car. Locating the keys in the ash tray where he had left them, he started the vehicle and sped away.
Returning to Chicago was all about establishing alibis. Adam had flown into O’Hare International a day earlier; therefore, he needed to depart from O’Hare.
He had received Jessica’s voice mail when he had landed in D.C. at 3:25 p.m. He just had time to return to his apartment, shower, and strap on his regular prosthetic leg before Gene Evans arrived to drive him back out to Dulles.
The petite blonde with the athletic figure broke into a wide smile as she dashed up the inclined corridor and past the velvet ropes, leaping into her fiancé’s arms. Wrapping her lower limbs around his waist, she locked in their kiss until Adam’s legs began to buckle.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Wow, that was some kiss.”
“I’m serious. We’re going to have a baby!”
He hugged her. “That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time.”
“Asshole!”
Adam and Jessica turned to find a middle aged woman glaring at them.
“If I were you, missy, I’d leave this scumbag before he abuses you, too.”
They watched the woman walk away while others stared and pointed.
Adam shook his head. “I guess we have a lot to talk about.”
“And even more we can’t. Doesn’t matter. I’ve decided to take a year off from work.”
“A year, huh? You do realize I’m unemployed.”
She slid her arm around his waist as they walked together toward the escalator leading down to baggage claim. “I’m sure we’ll manage to get by.”
Ten minutes later they had Jessica’s luggage and were waiting for Evans to circle around with the car. The bodyguard pulled the black Mustang over to the curb by the passenger pick-up zone and popped open the trunk. He loaded Jessica’s bags while the couple squeezed into the tight back seat.
“Adam, wouldn’t you rather stretch out in front?”
“No, I like it back here with you.”
The bodyguard climbed in the driver’s side, rummaging through a gym bag he had retrieved from the passenger seat.
“Jess, this is Gene Evans. We served together in Iraq.”
“Nice to meet you, Gene.”
The bodyguard spun around, a big smile on his face—
— a Beretta in his hand.
He managed to fire two rounds before Adam grabbed hold of the barrel. Using both hands, he twisted the gun toward his assailant — the third shot striking Evans in the right temple, killing him instantly.
“Jess?”
“I’m okay… I’m okay.”
He turned, relieved to find one slug had hit the seat between them, the other burying itself in the quadriceps of his prosthetic left leg.
Jessica smiled nervously, her hands shaking from the adrenaline rush. “Not much of a shot for a bodyguard, was he?”
Tears of relief poured out of Adam’s eyes. “I guess not.”
The white van rolled up next to the Mustang’s driver’s side door. A hand reached out of the open passenger window… holding a palm-size controller.
The explosion splattered blood across the back windshield, blinding Adam. He spit the warm liquid out of his mouth as he screamed Jessica’s name, desperately wiping at his eyes to locate what remained of his beautiful fiancée.
42
The image could have inspired a Norman Rockwell painting; the leaves golden and red and purple with fall, the church white, the sky cobalt-blue. Autumn in America — a pastel of life… invaded by grief.
Men in black suits, women in black dresses, veils and purses. Black limousines occupied the church parking lot, the news vans relegated to film behind a barrier patrolled by police officers in black uniforms.
The explosive that had blown off Jessica Marulli’s left arm had caused her to bleed to death in under thirty seconds, making the mortician’s work especially difficult. The casket had been ordered closed, the viewing chamber limited to the immediate family and close friends.
Captain Al Marulli refused to wear his dress uniform. His wife, Barbara Jean, had to be heavily medicated before she could be led inside the limo. For forty minutes the parents of the deceased attempted to be gracious hosts — the polished-wood casket situated at the front of the room carrying its own gravitational weight.