James Patterson: Dangerous Days of Daniel X

The entire changing process took about five seconds.

Interesting, I thought. Could be something to work with here.

“That’s it? That’s all you can do?” I asked the squid thing. “I came down into this sewer for that?”

“That’s nothing, you little chump.” Orkng snickered, frowned, and burped up something resembling a dozen oysters sans the half shells.

Once again, it began to change-only this time, I leaped right inside the confluence of shifting molecules and atoms and photons. How brave, or dumb, was that?

How creative?

Then I used my Level 3 strength for all it was worth. I punched and I kicked gaping holes into the still-unformulated creature. I fought as if my life depended on it-which it obviously did. Then I began shredding the murderous monster into tiny pieces with my hands.

It was terrible and gruesome and took hours to accomplish, and I hated every second of it, every shred.

But when the deed was done, I was able to cross Number 19 off my List, and I was one step closer to Number 1-The Prayer, who had killed my mom and dad.

All in a night’s work in the sewers of Portland.

THE SUN WAS JUST COMING UP- well, the grayish-white smudge that passes for a sun in forever-overcast Portland-as I lumbered through my rental apartment’s front door and plopped down on the couch.

I crossed my muddy boots on the coffee table and yawned as I opened the morning’s Oregonian.

As exhausted as my body was, my mind was still wired about the night before. I jumped up and went to my computer. I pulled up The List of Alien Outlaws and checked to see who was naughty and had been recently exterminated. Yessiree, Number 19 was no longer on the boards!

This was, in fact, the same List that The Prayer had been trying to find that fateful day twelve years ago. When I was thirteen, I finally revisited the burnt-down farmhouse where my poor parents had been incinerated. After several days of searching, I found The List-buried under mud and rocks in the rather picturesque brook that ran behind the house.

The List was on a computer-the one now before me, which is thin as a notepad and probably five hundred years in advance of anything currently offered by Apple or IBM. When I first opened it, I discovered that it contained the names, full description, and approximate whereabouts of the known outlaw aliens currently roaming the earth. And trust me on this: they are out there, watching and studying us.

There was also a disturbing message for me from my mom and dad. If I was reading it, the note said, I was to replace them. I was to be the Alien Hunter. I would have to learn how mostly by myself.

As I was pondering this troubling episode from my past, the front doorbell rang.

Not good. I wasn’t expecting anyone- I’m never expecting anyone. I don’t really like visitors, which is ironic, since I’m lonely most of the time and I adore people, actually.

Oh, no! I thought, realizing who it was. And when I say I knew who it was, I’m not saying I had a really good hunch. I knew it as fact.

We’ll get into that in greater detail after I get rid of my visitors.

The police.

PARANOIA ALERT! I told myself.

Standing on my doorstep were two hulking, none-too-happy-looking Portland PD uniforms. Their radios were squawking loudly beside their holstered 9 millimeter handguns.

“Hey, champ,” the older-looking of the two said. “Parents home?” Interesting question. And a real conversation stopper given my history.

“Uh,” I said. “Yeah. I mean, of course… but they’re… pretty busy right now. Maybe I could help you? Or you could come back later?”

“Later?” he said. “That’s not exactly going to work with our busy schedule. See, we’re from the Runaway Juvenile Unit. One of your neighbors called us. Said she sees you coming in and out at all times of the day and night, and no sign of your parents anywhere. So if they’re too busy to come out and talk to the police, you can come with us. We’ll straighten this out at the precinct house. That be okay? You following me so far?”

I’d dealt with the runaway units of several police departments in my travels over the previous couple of years. They were usually pretty cool people who were, for the most part, trying to help troubled kids. For the most part, but not right now.

I guess I could have told these two the truth. That I wasn’t a runaway but an Alien Hunter in town to take care of an important extermination. But I don’t know. They didn’t look ready to hear about the timely end of Orkng Jllfgna down in Portland ’s sewers.

“Okay, kid. Time’s up now. Let’s get moving,” the older guy said. “Charade’s over.”

Charade, I thought, nodding. What a good idea.

NOW PAY ATTENTION, because this is important, and also way out of the ordinary. I suspect you’ve never seen, or heard about, or read anything like this before.

The older patrolman was fingering the cuffs hanging off his Sam Browne belt when a loud clatter of pots and pans came from the kitchen.

The game was on! Here goes…

“Daniel, who’s there?” a woman’s voice called. “I’ll be out in a minute, after I flip these pancakes. Daniel? I’m talking to you!”

The look of surprise on the cops’ faces was priceless, actually, almost worth the stress of the moment.

“Want to join us for a late breakfast, gentlemen? Pancakes? ” I said, with a “you know how moms are” look.

A door opened down the hall and a groggy-looking man in his forties stepped out wearing a ratty bathrobe, baggy pajama bottoms, flip-flops, and a Portland Trail Blazers T-shirt.

“Hey, what’s all the noise about?” he said. “Hey, guys, what’s up? Awful early for visitors.”

“Officer Wirtschafter, Portland PD,” the older cop said.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. “Sorry to wake you. The police think- I’m a runaway? ”

“A runaway?” My dad yawned and grabbed the edge of the door. “Well, I guess not. I’m Daniel’s dad. Harold Hopper.”

“Okay, Mr. Hopper, but I’m afraid there’s another problem,” Officer Wirtschafter said sourly. “ Portland has a truancy reduction ordinance. All kids between seven and eighteen are required to attend school. It’s nine-thirty now. Your son obviously isn’t in school.”

“Maybe he has the German measles,” my dad said. “What kind of school does he have to attend?”

The cops exchanged a “we got a live one” look. Actually, quite the opposite was true.

“That would be, uh, high school,” the older gentleman answered.

“High school, sure. Well, that would be a real waste of time,” my dad said and began to laugh. I laughed along with him as he put his arm around my shoulder.

My mom came in then, wiping her hands on her apron. My mom is blond and tall and, if I do say so myself, quite the looker. In a very dignified, mom sort of way.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, officers. My husband is a jokester sometimes. And slow to get to the point. Daniel doesn’t need to go to school anymore.”

“MA’AM, EVERYBODY NEEDS to go to school,” the cop said.

My mom continued. “Daniel went to high school-when he was ten. He has an IQ, oh, somewhere in the 190s. He graduated from MIT last year. Our Danny has a degree in molecular engineering. We’re very proud of him.”

“Is that so?” the cop said, dubious. “In that case, if you would just go and get his diploma. College or high school would be fine.”