Hansen sighed. All of her reassurances aside, there was still something about this that didn’t make sense to him. Oh well, he thought. This wasn’t the first time he had failed to understand where a woman was coming from. And he guessed it wouldn’t be the last.

39

MAX BURGHARDT WAS bleary-eyed and disheveled, not looking much better than Hansen and Erin had after they had battled thugs at the Saguaro Inn and spent more than ten hours under a bridge. He carried a four-foot-long steel canister under one arm, packed with uncountable infectious agents, which could serve as the epicenter of a worldwide infection millions of times over.

Having been notified that the van was only a few minutes out, the three scientists stepped through a door at the far end of the mansion that opened to a ten-car garage, which Hansen guessed was as spacious as his entire apartment had been.

The garage was spectacular. The floor was not lowly concrete, but rather a honey-colored, smooth, glossy surface that Hansen thought just might be marble. Oak cabinets lined one wall and were so stylish they would have felt at home in the nicest living room. A short, glass display case sat against the wall near the door to the main house, and Hansen could only guess the use the previous owner had made of it, since it was totally empty now.

The only way one could tell this was a garage and not a small house, other than the presence of two cars at the far end of the structure—the latest Mercedes convertible and a four-door Jaguar—was the presence of a home gym in one corner, although it, too, was top of the line. Eight-foot-high stacks of black, rectangular weights were enclosed within a central steel structure, and four or five black chairs and benches extended from the center all around. Various white steel bars and levers attached to pulleys protruded from steel beams in a seemingly haphazard fashion.

Burghardt had been holding a closed duffel along with the virus canister, but Hansen had no idea what was inside. The mystery was cleared up, however, when the short molecular biologist extended it toward Erin. “I fixed up a goodie bag for your trip,” he said. “Mostly junk food. But it’s a long way to San Francisco.”

“Very thoughtful,” said Erin.

They were waiting in silence for the van to arrive a minute later when the door to the main house flew open and Gibb and Zalinsky entered, commando style, automatic weapons extended.

It took a second for Hansen to assimilate what was happening.

The weapons were pointed at him. And at Erin.

Hansen was more confused and angry than he was alarmed. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Have you lost your minds?”

“Hands where I can see them,” said Gibb calmly in response.

Hansen made sure he kept his hands away from his pockets, and Erin did the same, first lowering Burghardt’s goodie bag to the glossy floor. The short molecular biologist backed a few steps away, but didn’t look surprised or troubled.

While Gibb continued to hold a gun on them, Zalinsky quickly and expertly frisked them both, leaving no intimate body part unchecked. He pulled a .45 from Erin’s belt and a small stainless-steel tube from her pocket, about the size of a bloated pencil.

Hansen was taken aback, having no idea Erin had been carrying a gun. She must have taken it from one of the men she had incapacitated at the Saguaro Inn.

Zalinsky placed the .45 and the silver tube on top of the short display case behind him. He nodded toward the gun. “I guess what I was told is true,” he said to Erin. “You are more dangerous than you look.”

A chill went up Hansen’s spine as he realized what was going on. Somehow, these men were working for Fuller. There was no other explanation for their actions.

But as he considered this further, he realized that Burghardt would now be in their gun sights as well if this were the case. And the molecular biologist would not be reacting with such equanimity.

As Hansen’s mind flailed, trying to make sense of things, the expected van arrived and pulled into the garage. The side door of the van slid open and an average-looking man emerged onto the polished floor, facing Kyle Hansen and Erin Palmer.

It was Drake.

Just when Hansen thought things couldn’t get any stranger. “What is this all about?” he demanded once again, turning to the newcomer. “Drake? What’s going on?”

The alien stared deeply into Hansen’s eyes. “I’m not sure I believe that you don’t know, Kyle. But if you truly don’t, you should ask your traveling companion.”

All eyes turned to Erin.

“Me?” she said with an incredulous note in her voice. “I have absolutely no idea. Other than to say that it looks like aliens can go just as crazy as humans.”

Drake ignored this comment. “So how long have you been working for Steve Fuller?” he asked her.

The color drained from Hansen’s face. Had he entered a surreal, parallel universe where black was white?

“Can you hear how ridiculous you sound?” protested Erin. “I had no idea Steve Fuller even existed until a few days ago when he called me in San Diego. I don’t know what this is about. But either you’ve been misled, or you’re very, very confused.”

“Drake,” said Hansen. “She’s right. I’ve come to trust Erin with my life. And if she were working for Fuller, nothing that has happened since she called you from San Diego makes any sense. It’s out-and-out impossible.”

“I don’t know, Kyle,” replied Drake. “Maybe you were working with Fuller. Maybe you recruited Erin during your journey together. All I know for sure is that she’s working with him now. I’m still not sure about you.”

Hansen’s mind was spinning in circles, and he couldn’t even begin to understand where Drake was coming from. “You’re sure she’s working with Fuller based on what?”

The alien was about to answer when Erin interrupted. “Look, Drake, Kyle told me how difficult it’s been for you living among humans. Being exposed to our violent natures. He told me it’s having a negative effect on you. But you have to fight it,” she insisted. “Are you familiar with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

Drake laughed. “If I understand the word correctly, I think what you’re trying to do is called a filibuster. Nice try, Erin. I see you glancing outside. Waiting. Hoping you can stall me long enough for help to arrive. But that’s not going to happen.” He paused. “Show her, Gibb,” he said.

Hansen suddenly realized from the nonreaction of Gibb, Zalinsky, and the driver of the van to the word alien being thrown around that Drake must have let them in on his little secret. This was astonishing in and of itself.

Gibb pulled a sophisticated electronic device from his pocket, the size of a cell phone. A red light glowed on its surface.

“That device is blocking the bug you have on you, Erin,” said Drake. “So your transmission is no longer getting through to Fuller. No rescue squad is coming. They’ll just think the bug malfunctioned. Happens all the time. So no need to stall with boring stories or armchair psychobabble.”

Erin didn’t respond, but Hansen had never seen her look as worried as she did now, and they had been through some desperate situations together.

“But we didn’t want Fuller to worry about you,” continued Drake. “Or suspect you might have had a change in plans. So we timed it so the last thing he’d hear before the bug’s unfortunate malfunction is your colleague giving you a goodie bag filled with food. For your imminent trip to San Francisco. This should be very reassuring to him.”

“You’re out of your little alien mind,” said Erin.

Drake simply smiled but said nothing.

“Drake, Erin may be right,” said Hansen. “You know you aren’t well-suited, psychologically, for living on this planet. And you’ve had stretches, ever since I’ve known you, where you don’t quite seem to be yourself.” He gestured to Gibb, Zalinsky, and the driver of the van. “The Drake I know would never risk telling these men who you really are.”