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Authors: Tom Pawlik
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brought them out to the truck.
Howard was sitting in the cab, staring straight ahead. Fingers drumming on the wheel.
“Sorry,” Mitch mumbled as he climbed into the truck. “I had to . . . It took a little longer than I thought.”
They pulled onto the highway and headed back to the farm in silence. Mitch struggled to push the images of these most recent hallucinations out of his mind. First this Nathan character and now his father. But more than anything else, what Mitch found troubling was how long it’d been since something like this had haunted him. Why now? Why after all this time had he started to see things again? Was something happening to him? Were the aliens trying a different tack?
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, pondering whether he should share these events with Howard. He glanced at the old farmer. But Howard had stopped whistling and was staring, blank-faced, at the road ahead.
Mitch could sense that he’d somehow offended the old man with his talk of a vacation. He sighed again and scratched the back of his neck. “Look . . . dude. Really, it wasn’t anything personal. It’s no big deal. I don’t need a vacation. I just got the itch…”
Mitch stopped and frowned. He could see Howard wasn’t paying attention. Rather, the old man was now squinting at the road in front of them. A light afternoon fog had begun to settle and was starting to cramp visibility. Mitch peered into the mist and could see a vehicle up ahead, pulled off to the side of the road.
A lone figure stood next to it, waving to them.
12
JIM MALONE FOUND HIMSELF sitting in the office of the corrections facility’s assistant director, waiting for the man to arrive. At least he assumed it was a man. The name on the door read D. Curtis in black letters on the opaque glass. Steel file cabinets loaded with books and periodicals lined the walls on either side of the small room. Piles of manila folders were stacked precariously at the edges of the bulky metal desk. And amid the desktop clutter were a pair of wire baskets, also crammed with paperwork, and an old-style black rotary telephone.
Jim felt as if he’d been catapulted back in time to the seventies.
Then the door opened and the assistant director entered: an enormous black man, built more like a pro football player than an administrator. He stood well over six feet with beefy shoulders and chest and an ample stomach. His white pin-striped shirt was tight around his girth and only partially tucked into his belt. His head was shaved and he sported a thick salt-and-pepper goatee. He was perusing a folder through rectangular, black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. Jim guessed it was Devon’s file.
He sidled past Jim, squeezed around behind his desk, and sat down, looking almost comical, as if sitting in a child-size school desk. At first he ignored Jim, his eyes fixed on the folder in front of him. Then he sighed and looked up at Jim over his glasses.
“Mr. Malone, I’m Darnell Curtis.” His voice was about as deep as Jim would’ve expected from a man that size. He reached a large, meaty hand across the desk. “Thanks for sticking around to talk to me.”
“No problem.” Jim shook his hand. “I told them everything I know. Devon was acting strange from the moment he entered. Like he was in a daze. I thought he might’ve been drugged or something.”
“Devon was not medicated,” Darnell said, glancing at the folder. He rubbed the top of his clean-shaven head. “You mind explaining exactly how you know this young man?”
“Well . . .” Jim hesitated a moment. “I don’t really know him. I was the one who called 911 when he was shot a couple months back.”
“But you didn’t see who shot him?”
“I spoke to the police several times. I told them everything I knew. I just saw a black sedan drive away.
Howard was sitting in the cab, staring straight ahead. Fingers drumming on the wheel.
“Sorry,” Mitch mumbled as he climbed into the truck. “I had to . . . It took a little longer than I thought.”
They pulled onto the highway and headed back to the farm in silence. Mitch struggled to push the images of these most recent hallucinations out of his mind. First this Nathan character and now his father. But more than anything else, what Mitch found troubling was how long it’d been since something like this had haunted him. Why now? Why after all this time had he started to see things again? Was something happening to him? Were the aliens trying a different tack?
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, pondering whether he should share these events with Howard. He glanced at the old farmer. But Howard had stopped whistling and was staring, blank-faced, at the road ahead.
Mitch could sense that he’d somehow offended the old man with his talk of a vacation. He sighed again and scratched the back of his neck. “Look . . . dude. Really, it wasn’t anything personal. It’s no big deal. I don’t need a vacation. I just got the itch…”
Mitch stopped and frowned. He could see Howard wasn’t paying attention. Rather, the old man was now squinting at the road in front of them. A light afternoon fog had begun to settle and was starting to cramp visibility. Mitch peered into the mist and could see a vehicle up ahead, pulled off to the side of the road.
A lone figure stood next to it, waving to them.
12
JIM MALONE FOUND HIMSELF sitting in the office of the corrections facility’s assistant director, waiting for the man to arrive. At least he assumed it was a man. The name on the door read D. Curtis in black letters on the opaque glass. Steel file cabinets loaded with books and periodicals lined the walls on either side of the small room. Piles of manila folders were stacked precariously at the edges of the bulky metal desk. And amid the desktop clutter were a pair of wire baskets, also crammed with paperwork, and an old-style black rotary telephone.
Jim felt as if he’d been catapulted back in time to the seventies.
Then the door opened and the assistant director entered: an enormous black man, built more like a pro football player than an administrator. He stood well over six feet with beefy shoulders and chest and an ample stomach. His white pin-striped shirt was tight around his girth and only partially tucked into his belt. His head was shaved and he sported a thick salt-and-pepper goatee. He was perusing a folder through rectangular, black-rimmed reading glasses perched at the edge of his nose. Jim guessed it was Devon’s file.
He sidled past Jim, squeezed around behind his desk, and sat down, looking almost comical, as if sitting in a child-size school desk. At first he ignored Jim, his eyes fixed on the folder in front of him. Then he sighed and looked up at Jim over his glasses.
“Mr. Malone, I’m Darnell Curtis.” His voice was about as deep as Jim would’ve expected from a man that size. He reached a large, meaty hand across the desk. “Thanks for sticking around to talk to me.”
“No problem.” Jim shook his hand. “I told them everything I know. Devon was acting strange from the moment he entered. Like he was in a daze. I thought he might’ve been drugged or something.”
“Devon was not medicated,” Darnell said, glancing at the folder. He rubbed the top of his clean-shaven head. “You mind explaining exactly how you know this young man?”
“Well . . .” Jim hesitated a moment. “I don’t really know him. I was the one who called 911 when he was shot a couple months back.”
“But you didn’t see who shot him?”
“I spoke to the police several times. I told them everything I knew. I just saw a black sedan drive away.
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