Thomas Cook: Taken

But so what, Sally thought, the world was full of melancholy drifters. No point talking to a guy like that. He was a vagabond and always would be, his trouble buried so deep inside nothing less than a miracle could set him free. She was about to go back to her magazine when he suddenly glanced up and caught her foursquare looking at him.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I’d like more coffee.”

Sally flashed him her best jolly-waitress smile. “You’re not disturbing me,” she told him. “It’s my job.”

“Good story?” he asked after she’d filled his cup. “The one you’re reading.”

“It passes the time.”

“I don’t read much myself,” the man said. He took a sip from the cup, and suddenly seemed in a hurry. “How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-five cents.”

The man placed a fifty-cent piece on the counter. “Thanks,” he said, then turned and headed for the door.

Something odd about this guy, Sally thought, something desperate. The kind of guy you stayed away from if you knew what was good for you. And yet, the kind she was always drawn to, so that it didn’t surprise her when she was still thinking about him a few hours later when she finished her shift and headed home.

Her two kids, Tom and Becky, were in the living room when she arrived. She took a few minutes to watch Tom practice his magic tricks, while Becky teased him, as always.

Her husband Fred was in the upstairs bedroom, packing for the road.

“Shoehorn,” he said dully as she came into the room. “Have you seen it?”

Sally opened the dresser drawer, dug through her husband’s socks and came out with the shoehorn. “You have to leave tonight?” she asked as she handed it to him.

Fred nodded sullenly.

“Did the kids eat?”

Fred’s eyes flashed toward her. “You’re the waitress. You feed them.” He turned away, closed the suitcase. “I’ll see you in three weeks,” he said as he swept out of the room.

Lonely… Sally decided, the guy in the diner suddenly on her mind again. She heard her husband say a quick good-bye to Tom and Becky, then the slap of the screen door as he left the house. Lonely, she thought with a shrug, like me.

Owen’s shadow cut a jagged swath across the tarmac as he strode toward the looming hangar. He’d made a decision. No one was going to cut him out of the loop. Not some goofy scientist. Not Colonel Campbell. Not God, Himself.

The door of the hangar opened and a tall officer in pilot’s gear stepped into the bright light of the field.

“Bishop, right?” Owen asked. “You flew Colonel Campbell out of Fort Worth the other night?”

“Right,” the pilot said.

“Destination?”

The pilot looked at Owen warily. “That’s a ‘need to know.’”

Owen took out his ID. “Army Intelligence. I need to know.”

The pilot glanced at the ID. “Captain Crawford. The colonel told me you might show up.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Captain,” he said as he stepped away.

Owen remained in place as the pilot walked briskly across the tarmac. All right, he thought, the colonel had anticipated his move. But it was only his first move, he told himself, already making his second.

A few minutes later, Anne opened the door. She seemed surprised to see him, and Owen took that as a good sign. It was always good to catch a woman off guard.

“Can you go for a ride?” he asked her.

She smiled delightedly. “I’ll get my car coat.”

“I said a ride, not a drive.”

Within minutes they were alone in the desert, dusk settling over the rocky hills as they rode their horses together slowly, like two lovers strolling down a familiar street.

“You’re doing great,” Owen told her.

“Can we go faster?” Anne asked excitedly.

“Just loosen up on the reins a little,” Owen said. He took her hand and showed her just how much to relax the reins.

Anne’s horse began to trot, Owen careful to keep pace beside her, noting how easily her timidity slipped away.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m wonderful.”

He slapped his horse and the trot became a canter, the two horses in stride with each other, Anne’s hair blowing loosely in the wind. Her smile was as radiant as a child’s, and Owen was quick to realize that in a way, a child is what she remained, utterly under her father’s command, a woman already trained to obey.

He brought his horse to a halt at the edge of a rocky precipice, then waited as Anne drew up to him.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come out with me,” Owen told her.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Your father. He’s dead set against you seeing me.”

“I’m not my father,” Anne said determinedly.

“I know that,” Owen said.

He knew the moment had come, leaned forward and kissed her. “You’re the sun and the moon to me, Anne,” he said. He could feel her surrender to him, and in her surrender, the greater victory he sought.

Colonel Campbell studied the projected slide, a cross-section of cell tissue. All around him scientists and military officers peered at the same slide. For the last few minutes, the experts had argued about the nature of the tissue. It had certain characteristics that seemed essentially animal, and others that resembled a fungus. Still others were convinced that the cell tissue actually changed from animal to vegetable, that it could be… anything.

Suddenly the door opened and Dr. Helms walked in. “I think you need to see this,” he said urgently.

Colonel Campbell and the others followed Helms down the corridor to an observation room.

On the other side of the glass Dr. Goldin stood facing the alien. The alien was silent and gave no hint of movement. It was Dr. Goldin who was doing all the talking, his body swaying forward and backward repetitively as he spoke.

“What’s he saying? Is it German?” Colonel Campbell asked.

“Goldin would never speak German,” Helms replied. “It’s Hebrew. He’s reciting from the Haphtorah.”

Colonel Campbell peered at the alien, and for a moment seemed to lose himself in the unfathomable depth of its eyes. Then he shifted his attention back to Dr. Goldin. A small trickle of blood had suddenly emerged from the scientist’s nose.

“My God,” the colonel whispered as the trickle became a red torrent and Goldin slid to the floor. “Get him out of there!”

Guards rushed into the room, picked Goldin from the floor and brought him hurriedly into the observation room.

“How long was he in there?” the colonel demanded.

“Ten minutes,” Helms answered. “Maybe less.”

Dr. Goldin lay on a table a few feet away. He looked pale, exhausted. “I was there,” he whispered.

Colonel Campbell leaned closer to Goldin. “Where?”

“At my bar mitzvah in Dresden,” Goldin answered. “If I could have stayed a little longer, I could have spoken to my father.” He grabbed the colonel’s lapel. “My father,” he cried desperately. “I could have spoken to my father.” His eyes shifted to the observation window, where the alien stood, staring silently. “I want to see my father,” Goldin pleaded.

The colonel trained his gaze on the alien. For an instant their eyes locked. Then the alien turned and faced the wall, entirely motionless, save for the rippling undulation of its back.

Owen knew that something had happened, something… important. All morning scientists and military people had gone in and out of the colonel’s office. During that time, only Dr. Helms had remained with the colonel. The reasonable assumption was that whatever the colonel knew, Helms knew it too. The question was how to get Helms to talk. Owen considered various plans, chose the most direct one, then put it into operation.