JANET

Booker wasn’t fully aware that he was conscious. He was floating in that twilight time between sleeping and waking. But the little voice in his head that usually ran his inner dialogue seemed to say, ‘Hey! You know you’re awake, right?’

Was he awake? He wiggled his fingers and toes experimentally. His hands felt soft fabric, and his feet plush carpet. Where were his shoes?

Booker opened his eyes and took in a blurry scene. He was sitting on a red velvet couch in the middle of a small sitting area. The window to his left was covered by old aluminum blinds that filtered the light from outside, giving the room a certain dimness. In front of him was a wooden coffee table and a pair of red armchairs that matched the sofa he sat on. Black bookshelves covered the opposite wall. Besides old books and glossy three-ring binders lining the shelves, there were also award plaques, picture frames, and a few charts and graphs on display.

Slouched deep in the velvet cushions, Booker felt as if all the tiny faces in the pictures were looking down at him disapprovingly. He stretched his neck from side to side and sat up, immediately feeling the full effect of a splitting headache. He groaned, putting his face in his hands. Every second brought a more acute awareness of the pain in his body. Everything hurt. God, it felt like he’d fallen out of a truck or been kicked by a horse.

“What happened to me?” he said in a hoarse voice. His throat was dry. He coughed, which hurt his chest and neck.

“Look who decided to join us,” said an unfamiliar, sultry voice somewhere behind him. He craned his neck around to see who was behind him, causing a whole new set of muscles to throb painfully.

Behind the sofa, the room extended another ten feet. A cherry finished executive desk was facing him, a couple of chairs for guests in front of it, and another wall with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a few file cabinets behind it. A woman sat at the desk, scribbling a note of some kind.

She had shoulder-length hair that gleamed like ruby-red wine in the dim golden light from the window beside her desk. She had a sharp face, and her dark eyes glinted when she looked up and they caught the light. She smiled at him when she stood, folding the note she’d finished and tucking it into the waistband of her black pencil skirt.

She settled on top of the sofa arm beside him, reached over him, and produced a crystal glass of water from the table behind them. Offering it to him, she said softly, “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

Booker hesitated, but the sight of the cool liquid made him want to lick his lips. He took the glass and drank. Nothing, it seemed, had ever tasted so pure, so incredibly wonderful, in his whole life. What started as a sip turned into his gulping down the glass as fast as he could. Water dribbled down his chin, and he had to gasp for air when the crystal glass was empty.

The woman produced a pitcher of water from the table behind them. As she filled the glass for him again, Booker watched her balance on her perch on the sofa arm above him. His eyes traveled up from her bare feet to the black pencil skirt cut above the knees, to her white blouse tucked into her waistband, to her black choker necklace, and back to her dark eyes. She must be in her thirties. Maybe even early forties. As he took the second glass of water from her, he was inexplicably reminded of the women from his stepmom’s country club; women in their early forties, trying to look like they were in their early thirties, popping spin classes like M&Ms, and driving Mercedes SUVs to their tennis lessons.

Booker drank, and she propped her elbow against the back of the couch and leaned closer to him. This offered Booker a view down her blouse, and he caught a glimpse of a lace bra before hurriedly facing away.

“Do you know where you are?” said the woman.

To his own surprise, no, he didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten here. After gulping down the second glass of water, he shook his head.

“I didn’t think so,” said the woman. She still spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Booker had to think hard about that. What did he remember? He thought about being at home. The postcard! There had been a fire. He remembered the firemen and all the police on his street. What caused the fire? An image of the sphere, levitating over the debris in what used to be the kitchen, popped into his head. Then memories started flooding back to him in giant, pulsing waves. Las Vegas. Dutch the pilot. An image of Joanna, half-naked and holding a syringe of clear liquid. Joanna drugged him!

As though he suddenly became aware of it, he looked down and saw an IV line stuck into the top of his hand. The IV bag dangled from a silver IV stand on wheels beside the sofa. “What is this?” he said, pulling at the IV.

The woman put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Let me help.” Then, she knelt in front of him on the carpet and carefully pulled the tape away and removed the IV. A bead of blood came out with the needle, and she covered it with a cotton ball and pressed. She covered the cotton ball with a band-aid and smiled at him, saying, “There. All better.” All her actions seemed well practiced, as if she’d done this a million times before. “So? Tell me; what’s the last thing you remember?”

She sat down beside him and propped her elbow over the back of the couch so she could face him directly while resting her head against her hand.

“I don’t remember much,” he said, scooting away from her. “Who are you? Where am I? And where are my shoes?”

She looked surprised that he pulled away. “You don’t remember anything? Well, you were given a pretty strong tranquilizer, so I guess it’s not too much of a surprise. My name is Evilyn Heart. I’m a doctor. I’m here to help you. Right now, you’re at Groom Lake Air Force base, and this is my office. I thought it would be a nicer place for you to wake up than the clinic downstairs. Do you remember the car accident?”

“That what?” said Booker.

She shushed him softly and said, “Drink that water, please. Yes, you were in a car accident. You don’t remember anything?”

“No,” said Booker. His heart was starting to race, which only intensified his headache. His brain seemed to throb with every beat of his heart, making it difficult to think clearly. Groom Lake? Sipping his third glass of water, he said, “How did I get here?”

“Well, the details are a little fuzzy for me. Maybe you could help fill in some gaps.” She absently twirled a strand of red hair around her index finger as she spoke. “From what I hear, the CIA seems to think you have information on a crash from yesterday. The Colonel had you flown out here so you could help us. He’s hoping you can tell us what you know so we can get a handle on the situation and recover the aircraft. It was a sphere that crashed.” She used her hands to give a general idea of the sphere’s size, saying, “It’s about yay big. Ring any bells?”

Oh, he remembered the sphere all right. But he had no idea where it went. Then something stirred in his memory. He remembered Joanna telling him something about the sphere. What had she said? Somewhere deep down in his memory, he could hear her voice swimming above him. “The sphere is gone, and you don’t know anything,” her voice said inside his head.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and said, “How did I get here again?”

Evilyn said, “Well, you were picked up by Captain Tully somewhere in Las Vegas. You were put in the back of his car so he and his team could bring you to the airstrip, but the FBI decided to butt in as well. An agent jumped in your car and tried to run off with you. She led our boys on a nice little chase down the Las Vegas strip. Any idea why the FBI is so interested in you?”

Booker rubbed his temples and shook his head. “I was in a car chase?”

“And a car crash.” Tossing her hair and grinning, she said, “My, my; what secrets you must have. The CIA, the FBI, and the Air Force are all trying to get their hands on you.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” said Booker. Again, he seemed to hear Joanna’s voice in his head telling him not to talk about the sphere. Then he remembered, again, that Joanna drugged him. Had that been hours ago or days ago? What day was it? And where were his shoes?

“Where are my shoes?” he said again.

Evilyn ignored the question, saying, “Now that you’re awake, I’d like to check you out more thoroughly. Would you stand up for me?” She stood abruptly and offered him a hand. Booker took it, and she pulled him to his feet. He wasn’t sure if he could have managed to stand on his own.

She held his shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. “You must be feeling a bit of a shock. Try to focus on me.”

He swayed on the spot a little, but she held him steady. Holding up her index finger and moving it from side to side, she said, “Follow my finger.” He noted her French tip acrylic nails and saw the slight wrinkles on her knuckles — definitely early forties.

“Hold still,” she said, placing her hands on either side of his head. They were standing very close together. So close that he could smell her flowery perfume and see the flecks of mascara in her eyelashes. Her fingers dug into his scalp, and she applied gentle pressure in a few places. She pressed his cheeks, ran her thumbs along either side of his nose, and then squeezed the sides of his neck and his shoulders. “Do you feel any pain? Any numbness?”

“No numbness,” said Booker, goosebumps erupting down his whole body at her touch. “I have a headache. My body hurts.”

“You’ve got blood in your hair. Look down for me?” she said, brushing his hair aside to get a better look at his scalp. She clicked her tongue and said, “That’s a nasty cut. But you’ll be fine. What about your arm? They said you landed pretty hard on this shoulder.” She squeezed his right shoulder with both hands and worked her way down his arm with her thumbs. She pressed against his biceps and the crook of his elbow, dug her thumbs into his forearm, and rubbed his wrist. Taking his hand with both of her own, she massaged each of his fingers and the palm of his hand. “Everything seems fine,” she said, grinning. She didn’t let go of his hand. “So, tell me what happened. Anything you can remember.”

“I don’t know anything. I came here - I mean, I don’t know anything about the sphere,” he said. She raised her eyebrows, but before she could talk, Booker said, “If this is Groom Lake, my father works here. Do you know him? Robert Dunn?”

Evilyn frowned and spoke after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I know him.”

“I need to talk to him,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t reach him right now. It’s just you and me for a while. But I can help you. Let’s just walk through everything you can remember about yesterday and go from there.”

Booker pulled his hand free from her’s and sank into one of the red armchairs, thinking. Joanna told him earlier that his father was in trouble because of the crash. Is that why this doctor woman was telling him they couldn’t reach him? Was he locked up somewhere? He rubbed his temples, desperate for his aching skull to find relief somehow. He couldn’t think and he felt simultaneously tired and wide awake.

Evilyn sat down on the coffee table in front of him and handed him a couple of pain pills and the glass of water he’d left behind. He took them without question and drained the glass. She took the empty glass and put it beside her on the coffee table as he rubbed his temples again and said, “Why can’t we talk to my dad? Is he in trouble?”

“Why would you think that?” said Evilyn.

“Because of the crash,” he said. “People will think it’s his fault. Won’t they? That’s why he’s locked up, and why we can’t talk to him.”

Evilyn didn’t speak for a moment, but she put a hand under his chin and had him look up at her. She was leaning forward, again, offering a clear view down her blouse, but Booker tried to only look at her face. She said, “Your father isn’t in any trouble. He’s preparing for a presentation tonight. It’s about the sphere. I can take you to him, but first I need you to tell me everything, okay? What happened?”

Booker struggled to recall the events of the night before. He slowly told her about the device from his father’s office; the one built into the briefcase that looked like an old missile strike console. He told her about activating it, leaving out the fact that it was Joanna who had entered all the numbers into the console. He described the flash of blue light he saw before the sphere crashed through the roof of the house. Evilyn didn’t interrupt him as he tried his best to describe the wreckage, the fire, and the aftermath.

Finally, Booker said, “It wasn’t my dad’s fault though. He wasn’t even there. It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have messed with it. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for me.” Booker would have kept rambling, but Evilyn cut across him.

Her hands now on top of his knees, she said, “The sphere, Booker. Where is the sphere?”

He shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. It was gone when I looked for it again.”

“It can’t have just vanished,” she said. “Think, Booker. Where is it? You know where it is, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Again, somewhere deep within his brain, Booker could hear Joanna telling him, “The sphere is gone, and you don’t know anything.” A memory of Joanna’s face leaning over him floated to the surface. It was right before he’d passed out. Right after she stuck him with the needle. She had said, “These people will kill you.”

Evilyn was asking more questions: What do you mean it was gone? Where did it land? Could it still be at the house? Did anyone else see it? A chill ran down his spine as she spoke, and he thought, ‘She doesn't want to help me. She’s interrogating me.’

“What about the woman from the CIA?” said Evilyn.

The memory of Joanna stabbing him in the neck with the syringe flashed across his brain. What had she told him? “Never trust a woman in her underwear.”

“What about her?” said Booker, realizing it was impossible not to look down Evelyn's blouse the way she was sitting in front of him. He stood abruptly, trying to get away from her, and walk over to the window.

Behind him, Evilyn said, “You said ‘we’ shouldn’t have messed with your father’s console. Was she with you?”

Stalling for time, Booker peered through the aluminum blinds to try and get his bearings. He saw huge, brown mountains in the distance. Three or four stories up, this office window also had an excellent view of what looked like a small town. He could see a white water tower situated at one end of a grassy park. On a small street running along the side of the park was an old movie theater, a diner with a chrome facade that glinted in the afternoon sun, and what looked like a small convenience store.

To the East, he saw an airstrip lined with unmarked gray hangars. Beyond that, white salt flats. Heat haze blurred the shapes of the mountain peaks on the far side of the salt flats, almost making them disappear from view.

“This is really Groom Lake?” he said. She didn’t say anything at first. His eyes darted around, drinking in the scene, and then his eye caught something in the distance. Looming over the little town, even taller than the water tower, was a huge mountain. It was the tallest of the surrounding mountains, seeming to tower over the whole town and salt flats. The rocky surface seemed unremarkable at first, until he saw a huge hole carved into the rock face that almost looked like the mountain’s mouth.

It was shaped like a hangar entrance, flat on the bottom, arched on top. Something within the darkness inside seemed to shimmer as if the entrance had a glass wall to protect the inside from the sun’s heat.

“Booker,” said Evilyn.

He was sweating now, and couldn’t help wiping his hands on his pant legs as he turned to look at her. She was still sitting on the coffee table. The light filtering through the aluminum blinds cast horizontal shadows over her, but her eyes glinted in a strip of golden light, watching him.

“She was with you, wasn’t she? That woman from the CIA,” said Evilyn. He didn’t know what to say. Should he tell her the truth? Before he could make up his mind she continued, saying, “She’s the one who activated the console, isn’t she? She took the sphere. Tell me the truth, Booker.”

Could that be possible? he thought. But why would Joanna want the sphere? Then he thought, ‘Why was she snooping around dad’s office in the first place? Maybe she was looking for the sphere.’ Booker’s heart was racing faster by the minute, making his head pound. “Where’s my father?” he said at last.

Evilyn stood and approached him again, backing him into a corner. She said, “I’ll make you a deal. But before I do, I need you to know that I’m just trying to help you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Be honest with me, tell me what I need to know, and I’ll take you to your father.” She put a hand on his chest, looking him deeply in the eyes, and said, “If you don’t give me what I want, then I can’t help you. Understand?”

Booker nodded slowly.

She said, “Does the CIA woman have the sphere?”

“I don’t know. It was gone.”

“She’s the one who used the console, isn’t she?”

Booker nodded.

“It’s possible that she took the sphere, and you didn’t see?”

Booker thought about that for a moment and shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Evilyn closed her eyes and sighed. She drummed her fingers against her forehead, as if trying to think fast. Finally, she said, “Okay, here’s what I need you to do-”

Before she could say more, the office door banged open on the other side of the room. Booker saw a uniformed man barging in from over Evilyn’s shoulder. The man said, “Dr. Heart!”

“What now?” she said, rounding on the man.

“The President is back. His stitches broke open,” said the man.

Evilyn’s whole demeanor changed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” she said, hurrying over to her desk and grabbing a white lab coat.

“They’re all in a hurry, because he needs time to get ready for the Gala.”

Throwing the lab coat on and re-buttoning the top two buttons of her blouse, Evilyn said, “Get back down there and tell them I’m on my way. You didn’t tell them I was up here, did you?”

“No ma’am,” he said.

“Good. Now go!” said Evilyn. The man left as Evilyn dug through her pockets and pulled out a set of keys. She walked back over to Booker and said, breathlessly, “I have to leave you. But I’ll be back.” Booker shrunk away from her, but she still put a hand on his cheek. “Everything will be okay. You’re doing the right thing. When I get back, we’re going to talk more. Just trust me, okay?”

She gave him what she must have thought was a reassuring smile, then turned on her heel and left. As soon as her lab coat whipped out of sight, the office door closed, and Booker heard the sound of a key in the lock.

Somewhere in the room, he could hear a clock ticking away. After a few moments of nothing happening, Booker crossed the room, turned the deadbolt to unlock the office door, and peered out into the hallway.

To his surprise, it looked like a hospital outside the office. White tile floors, fluorescent lights humming overhead, and a mix of beige and white paint on the walls. To the left and right were more office doors made from the same dark wood. Straight ahead, he saw a staircase. There was no sight of Dr. Heart, or anyone else for that matter. When that man said, ‘The President is back,’ did he mean the United States President?

He closed the door and looked around the dark office, thinking about the last thing she said to him. She’d asked him to trust her. Something about that tickled his brain. Finally, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled and creased postcard. Line six read:

Don’t trust the doctor