evidence. Just check out the names. These people actually existed. You don’t hallucinate that type of stuff.”
“And I want you to see someone. A professional. Get some help, Connie.”
Conner’s jaw tightened. “I’m not crazy, Henry.”
“I’m not saying you are. But there’s obviously something seriously wrong. And as your friend, I’m asking you to get help.”
“What are you afraid of? That it might all be true?”
“This isn’t about me, Connie. This is about you. I want you to get some counseling.”
Conner now saw an older version of his former self in Henry Brandt. Denying the possibility that something might exist for which there was no scientific explanation. Not even willing to examine the evidence. For all his intellect, Henry really wasn’t open-minded at all.
Conner clenched the armrests of his chair. “Y’know, Henry, you’re going to be dead a lot longer than you’ve been alive. I just think you should know what you’re getting into.”
Henry fell silent again. This time he stared directly at Conner. So long, in fact, that Conner began to squirm. He lowered his gaze, feeling like an upstart wolf pup in the presence of the pack’s alpha male.
At length, Henry spoke. “This is obviously interfering with your ability to perform your job.”
“Henry, I don’t need—”
“Connie.” Henry Brandt wasn’t smiling. “As your boss, I’m telling you. Take another week. In fact, make it two. Give yourself some time to get your head right.”
11
MITCH STARED AT HIS FATHER in the darkness of the stockroom.
Walter Kent gazed back at him. His face was pale but darkened around his eyes. His lips seemed to tremble at the sight of Mitch.
Mitch backed away, the flashlight shaking in his hands. But his fear was slowly surrendering to anger. What did the man want after all these years? Why had he invaded Mitch’s oasis? In some ways, Mitch had found a measure of peace in this dismal Indiana solitude. For while part of him hated the farm, still he found himself clinging to it like a tattered life preserver on the open ocean. He knew it wouldn’t keep him afloat forever, yet he didn’t dare think of letting go.
Mitch clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”
His father’s brow furrowed. He took a step toward Mitch, his eyes glaring. “Why did you do it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You killed her, Mitch. Why did you do it?”
An image flashed into Mitch’s memory like the muzzle flare of a gunshot. The sight of his mother—thin arms flailing, struggling to breathe—and Mitch as a fourteen-year-old boy, standing over her. Sobbing. Forcing the pillow over her face.
Mitch pressed himself against the wall of the stockroom. “Leave me alone!”
His father took another step. “She was your mother!”
Mitch straightened up. “She was already dead!”
“She gave birth to you! She loved you!”
“She was suffering. You couldn’t see that? How much pain she was in? No, you were too busy to notice! I put her out of her misery.”
His father’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His lips parted and he hissed, “That wasn’t your choice to make. You played God.”
“Somebody had to!”
In the beam of the flashlight, Mitch spotted a metal can on the shelf beside him. He grabbed it and hurled it at the image of his father, but it crashed against the door. Mitch swept the light across the room. His father—or whatever it was—was gone.
Mitch sank against the wall. His eyes stung as he fought his tears. He wouldn’t cry. Whatever these aliens were doing, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. He wouldn’t let them manipulate him like this.
After a minute, his breathing slowed. He got to his feet, picked up the cases of oil, and
“And I want you to see someone. A professional. Get some help, Connie.”
Conner’s jaw tightened. “I’m not crazy, Henry.”
“I’m not saying you are. But there’s obviously something seriously wrong. And as your friend, I’m asking you to get help.”
“What are you afraid of? That it might all be true?”
“This isn’t about me, Connie. This is about you. I want you to get some counseling.”
Conner now saw an older version of his former self in Henry Brandt. Denying the possibility that something might exist for which there was no scientific explanation. Not even willing to examine the evidence. For all his intellect, Henry really wasn’t open-minded at all.
Conner clenched the armrests of his chair. “Y’know, Henry, you’re going to be dead a lot longer than you’ve been alive. I just think you should know what you’re getting into.”
Henry fell silent again. This time he stared directly at Conner. So long, in fact, that Conner began to squirm. He lowered his gaze, feeling like an upstart wolf pup in the presence of the pack’s alpha male.
At length, Henry spoke. “This is obviously interfering with your ability to perform your job.”
“Henry, I don’t need—”
“Connie.” Henry Brandt wasn’t smiling. “As your boss, I’m telling you. Take another week. In fact, make it two. Give yourself some time to get your head right.”
11
MITCH STARED AT HIS FATHER in the darkness of the stockroom.
Walter Kent gazed back at him. His face was pale but darkened around his eyes. His lips seemed to tremble at the sight of Mitch.
Mitch backed away, the flashlight shaking in his hands. But his fear was slowly surrendering to anger. What did the man want after all these years? Why had he invaded Mitch’s oasis? In some ways, Mitch had found a measure of peace in this dismal Indiana solitude. For while part of him hated the farm, still he found himself clinging to it like a tattered life preserver on the open ocean. He knew it wouldn’t keep him afloat forever, yet he didn’t dare think of letting go.
Mitch clenched his teeth. “What do you want?”
His father’s brow furrowed. He took a step toward Mitch, his eyes glaring. “Why did you do it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You killed her, Mitch. Why did you do it?”
An image flashed into Mitch’s memory like the muzzle flare of a gunshot. The sight of his mother—thin arms flailing, struggling to breathe—and Mitch as a fourteen-year-old boy, standing over her. Sobbing. Forcing the pillow over her face.
Mitch pressed himself against the wall of the stockroom. “Leave me alone!”
His father took another step. “She was your mother!”
Mitch straightened up. “She was already dead!”
“She gave birth to you! She loved you!”
“She was suffering. You couldn’t see that? How much pain she was in? No, you were too busy to notice! I put her out of her misery.”
His father’s eyes widened, then narrowed. His lips parted and he hissed, “That wasn’t your choice to make. You played God.”
“Somebody had to!”
In the beam of the flashlight, Mitch spotted a metal can on the shelf beside him. He grabbed it and hurled it at the image of his father, but it crashed against the door. Mitch swept the light across the room. His father—or whatever it was—was gone.
Mitch sank against the wall. His eyes stung as he fought his tears. He wouldn’t cry. Whatever these aliens were doing, he wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. He wouldn’t let them manipulate him like this.
After a minute, his breathing slowed. He got to his feet, picked up the cases of oil, and
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