James Patterson - Dangerous Days of Daniel X

“Okay,” Phoebe said. “The movies, whatever. That’d be great. Good. You know what I mean.”

She started up the stairs of her house, then stopped and turned back. Her blue eyes settled on me.

“Were you really looking for the library?” she asked.

I smiled. “Nope, I was looking for you.”

“Good answer,” she said, then disappeared inside.

And no, I didn’t create Phoebe Cook, in case you’re one of those people who like to look ahead in a story.

I CAME THROUGH the front door of my rental house, checked everywhere for trouble, then collapsed on the couch. I knew high school was going to be a change of pace, maybe challenging, maybe anxiety producing, but I wasn’t expecting boring-everything except Phoebe Cook, anyway.

After a while, I managed to peel myself up to start dinner. I didn’t want to go too crazy, so I settled on a rosemary-crusted rack of lamb with truffle-spiked potato puree. As I cooked, I listened to a concerto by a classical guitarist named Rémi Boucher. The guy is not of this world, and I wondered if he was maybe another alien.

I’ve had the same thought about Tiger Woods, Bono, and, of course, Sanjaya Malakar.

After dinner I put on a fire and lay in front of it reading Water for Elephants. Ten minutes later, I put the book down, unable to concentrate the way I usually can.

I thought about Phoebe Cook.

I thought about Dana, my dream girlfriend.

Should I feel guilty? I didn’t think so. I hadn’t even kissed Phoebe. Yet.

I finally got up and made myself a pot of coffee. Then I cracked my knuckles and opened my laptop. The same one I’d found near the house where my parents were killed. Nothing better to get your mind off girls than thinking about aliens.

I brought up Ergent Seth’s file and read it over again.

Alien:Ergent Seth, Number 6

Human Alias(es):? Changes names on an as-needed basis, often hourly.

Area of Infestation:LA and Orange County, California. Central City, East LA. Arizona. Nevada. Mexico. South and Central America. And still branching out.

Illegal Activities:Drug dealing, mass murder, abductions, torture, mind control and possession. Did we mention MASS MURDER?

Planet of Origin:Gorto 4.

Alien Species:Vermgypian (see footnote).

Current Danger Level:Extremely high. Seth’s goal is to de-populate Earth, then colonize it with his species. This violates every moral and ethical code extant.

Special Abilities:Telepathy, extraterrestrial Level 7 speed, Level 7 strength, shape-shifting, cunning, general viciousness.

The Level 7 strength concerned me. I was maybe a 3 on my best day. The slug in Portland had been a 4. I read the footnote next. Vermgypians were beyond strange. No one knew what they looked like beneath their demonic-appearing, armored containment suits. They were best known for the lethal nerve gas they emitted. If you were exposed, your cells started to melt. Then you rotted from the inside out. It was an extremely painful way to die.

Extremely.

I LIKE THIS PLANET just the way it is, thank you very much-well, except for a few problems like poverty, war, polluted drinking water, and global warming-but I knew that Ergent Seth was on his way to making those crises seem like child’s play.

It was time to check out LA, and hopefully do some surveillance. In particular, I wanted to see the areas where Number 6 did his nastiest scut work, usually late at night.

“You sure you want me to drop you off here, mate?” the cabdriver said as we stopped at the corner of Sixth and San Pedro. Since I like to chat up a storm, I’d found out the cabby’s name was Clive. He was a good-looking Brit who’d come to LA to-surprise, surprise-become a movie star.

“This part of town inn’t fit for man nor beast after dark,” Clive warned. “I’m not foolin’.”

“I’ll be all right,” I told him. “This is where my job is. At Taco Bell. I’m a lettuce shredder. Love those chalupas.”

I stood on the corner, probably looking a little lost, as the cab sped away. Truthfully, this part of LA seemed like a war zone with palm trees. Abandoned, deteriorating buildings and empty lots, plus a few single-occupancy hotels known as Homeless Hiltons. In the gutter at my feet, a rat was going to town inside a discarded Styrofoam tray from a local soup kitchen.

I stuck to the shadows as I did my recon. I was turning onto Towne Avenue when I saw a silver minivan pull to the curb. I figured it was a drug user looking to score. Then the doors slid open. Half a dozen kids between nine and twelve hopped out.

Isn’t it a little late for a class trip? I thought, watching them shuffle across the street and strike a pose on the stairs of an abandoned factory.

“New stuff just in,” I heard one of the younger ones call to a chrome-yellow Hummer passing by slowly. “ China, china, burning white. Pure as the driven snow. Guaranteed to get you where you want to go.”

I’d seen drug dealing before, in New York, London, even Portland. But I’d never seen such little kids dealing poison. Who would use kids like this? Maybe Number 6?

I hung back in a urine-scented doorway, watching as the kids did quick, hand-to-hand sales through car windows. What a disgrace. My blood was starting to boil.

About an hour later the silver van came around again. The driver-side door flew open.

A wiry, red-bearded skinhead in a brown leather jacket and a ponytail jumped out. Not Ergent Seth, my sixth sense told me, but maybe an important lackey of his. The kids rushed up to him, handing over money from their dealing. He restocked them with more plastic bags and vials.

I stared at the scene, fuming. Everything about the dealer was an abomination. Suddenly he backhanded a kid hard, knocking him onto the street, then went through his pockets for more money.

That was it, I thought, stepping out of the doorway. I couldn’t take any more of this creepy, night-crawling, red-bearded vermin.

“EXCUSE ME,” I said as I approached the scuzzy dealer and felt my skin start to crawl. “Haven’t I seen you on the TV show Miami Ink ? No, my mistake. I think it was in the freak tent at the California State Fair. Or maybe Folsom Prison?”

The dealer smiled, showing off crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. Smiling was a good sign, I thought. Smiling meant he had already underestimated me.

“I’m looking for Ergent Seth,” I told him. “You seen him around anywhere tonight?”

“Sounds to me like you’re lookin’ for Urgent Death.” And that was when the disgusting Dealer Man made his move.

I had to hand it to him. His dental hygiene left something to be desired, but he did have fast hands. The ice pick he stabbed at my throat traveled forward in a blur.

Fortunately I react pretty well to blurs.

I took a half step back, waited for him to overextend himself, then offered up a blur of my own-a roundhouse kick across the side of his head. The dealer flew back, his skinhead cracking into the van with a loud, dull whump .

He screeched and let go of the ice pick when I stepped down hard on the back of his hand. Then I kicked the weapon into the sewer.

“You ever heard of child labor laws?” I said.

He was going for a 9 millimeter automatic in his waistband when I had an inspiration.

I reached out suddenly and laid my hands on the sides of his head.

I stared into his eyes and unleashed a small fraction of my power of transformation.