Busted Flush

Ray broke contact, suppressing a sigh. More shit to clean up. He never thought that he’d piss off an old comrade like Lady Black. They’d both been in SCARE a long time, and she’d wanted the directorate herself. Truth was, Ray knew she’d be a better director than him, but he wasn’t in human resources. It wasn’t his job to make everyone happy. Suddenly, he looked at Pendergast and smiled.

“Pack your knapsack and slip into your Birkenstocks, Doc. We’re going to Alamogordo.” He turned to Justice. “Get in touch with local and state law enforcement. Give them descriptions of all escapees, but tell them they’re not to approach if they’re spotted. We don’t need any more half-eaten state troopers. Just relay any info about sightings to us.” Ray looked back at Pendergast as the director made a sputtering kind of noise. “Something wrong, Doc?”

“Why do I have to accompany you?” Pendergast asked indignantly. “I’m not a field agent.”

“No,” Ray said with faux patience, “but you are the foremost authority on the escapees.”

“Yes,” Pendergast admitted reluctantly.

“I’m going to need that expertise, Doc.” He stood quickly and stretched. Action was right down the road. He could smell it. “You got fifteen minutes to get ready.”

Pendergast stared at him.

“You’ve just wasted five seconds.”

Pendergast turned, muttering.

“I sure hope there’s someplace in Alamogordo where we can get breakfast,” Stuntman said.

Alamogordo, a town of thirty-five thousand about fifty miles from the Texas border, was noted for two things. The first, its proximity to White Sands Missile Range, had led to its Museum of Space History. The second, its proximity to Holloman Air Force Base, had led to a string of water bed motels on its main drag, as well as the town’s ubiquitous wild card theme.

“I don’t get it,” Stuntman said through a mouthful of honey-fruit-and-nut pancakes. It was afternoon and they’d stopped at the first roadside diner they’d seen outside Alamogordo, the Interplanetary House of Pancakes. It had a billboard flying saucer on its roof being smothered by a deluge of maple syrup from a large upended bottle. Inside, it was unrelentingly cheerful with a shiny chrome ambience and a decor that a modern, cutting-edge bistro would kill for. And it smelled like pancakes and waffles. Unsurprisingly, the three of them had ordered breakfast. “What’s with all this space stuff in the middle of cowboy country?”

Ray shrugged. “You can’t blame the locals. Much. They’re stuck here in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, hemmed in by desert on one side and missile range on the other. They can’t all work for the government. They have to make a buck somehow, so they latched on to Tachyon’s landing here back in nineteen forty-five.”

“Nineteen forty-six,” Pendergast said around a mouthful of omelet.

“Right.” Ray stared him into silence. “Forty-six. Even if they have to dress up as Tachyon imitators and perform quickie marriages, there’s worse ways to make a living.”

“I guess,” Stuntman said. “So that explains the tacky gift shops, the T-shirt emporiums, the Famous Alamogordo Joker Dime Museum, Dr. Tacky’s No-Tell Motel and Wedding Chapel, not to mention the tours to two competing Tachyon landing sites—”

“Which,” Pendergast pointed out pedantically, “are both nothing more than obvious tourist traps, since Tachyon landed on the base . . .” He ran down to silence as Ray and Norwood both stared at him. “Excuse me,” he added, after a moment, “I have to go to the boys’ room.”

He got up and slid out of the booth. Stuntman polished off his sausages and held up his coffee mug as the waitress went by with the pot.

“Here you go, hon,” she said, filling up his cup. Ray waved her off. His kidneys were already floating, and he didn’t know how much longer they’d have to wait until Moon showed up with her handler, as Ray had texted them to meet at the diner. The waitress turned, paused, stared. “Oh, hon—you can’t bring your dog in here.”

“She’s not a dog,” the Midnight Angel said. “She’s a government agent.”

Ray looked over the back of the booth and their eyes met and something passed between them. Ray didn’t know what it was, but he guessed that it wasn’t good. For a moment he swore quietly to himself. Lady Black knew that he and the Angel were on the outs. She could have sent someone else to shepherd Moon. But part of him was glad that she hadn’t.

The Midnight Angel was taller than Ray’s near six feet, and roundly, richly curved. She wore a black leather jumpsuit that was tight as the skin on the now-forgotten sausages on Ray’s plate. Her long, dark, thick hair was bound in a braid that fell nearly to her waist and, as usual, a number of escaped strands gave her a tousled look, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.

The waitress looked uncertain. “Couldn’t you at least put it on a leash?”

Moon, who currently looked like a German shepherd, growled at her as the Angel said, “We’re both with the government, ma’am.”

“Well, I guess that’s all right, then,” the waitress said.