Diablo Mesa(9)

“Just one more. If these aliens had the advanced technological capability of interstellar travel, how is it that they stupidly crashed their spaceship?”

Bitan looked at her a long time. “I’ve asked myself that, too.”

There was a long silence.

“Well?” Nora asked.

He gave a little smile. “The only answer I can come up with is that even aliens make mistakes.”

Nora had the sudden, distinct feeling that Bitan was not being straight in his answer; that he had another theory, one he didn’t wish to share.

“I know why,” Skip said out of the blue.

All eyes turned to him.

“Those alien pilots just can’t hold their liquor.”

There was a moment in which nobody spoke. And then, suddenly, the room erupted in laughter. Skip grinned, obviously pleased with himself. Already, Nora thought, he looked at home here.





5



THE MAN WITH chestnut-colored hair locked the door carefully behind him, trotted down the front steps, then—as was his habit—paused to gaze around and breathe in the morning air. It was a crisp spring day, the kind Virginia rewarded its inhabitants with after a cold, wet winter. The residential street was quiet, the tidy houses still asleep in dappled shade.

As he stood there, steeling himself for the morning commute, he saw his neighbor, Bill Fossert, descend his front steps. This was unusual: it was quarter to eight, and Bill, an investment banker, usually left for work around nine. Maybe he had an early meeting.

Fossert saw him as well and paused. “Hey, Lime.”

The man with chestnut hair nodded in return. “Fossert.”

“Looks like another nice day,” the man said, glancing up as if to divine the weather through the labyrinth of tree branches.

“Looks like,” Lime replied.

“Last cold front of the winter coming in this weekend, though.”

“So I heard.”

“Well,” the neighbor said, “I’ve got to run. Nice seeing you.”

“Likewise.”

Bill Fossert stopped at the front door of his car. “We’ll have you over for dinner,” he called out. “It’s been too long.”

Lime, who by now had reached his own Subaru, smiled in return. “Sounds good.”

He got into the car and waited while Fossert started up his BMW 5 Series, backed it down the driveway, and headed off. There was a time when he’d been pretty chummy with the Fosserts. Lime had shown Fossert how to change the spark plug in his snowblower, and how to remove the ground loop causing 60-cycle hum in his expensive sound system. Fossert’s wife had been close to Caitlyn, especially once Cait got pregnant. But time had passed, and now Lime only met Fossert by accident—like today—to exchange pleasantries and invitations that were never followed up on.

He pulled the zipper of his windbreaker halfway down, started the car, and caught a reflection of himself in the rearview mirror. He was thirty-seven, but Cait had said that, with his features, he could have been any age between twenty and fifty. “You’ve got the face of a spy,” she’d said, laughing. “Handsome, but hard to remember.”

He drove away from the trim Colonial—smaller than most of the houses on the block, but neatly landscaped. When they’d first bought the house three years ago, Cait—on track to be the youngest partner in her law firm—had pronounced it a good starter house, considering the baby that would inevitably come along. But now, given just his income, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with the Joneses—or the Fosserts—in a pricey suburb like East Falls Church.

He made his way through the pleasant streets until he reached I-66, better known to locals as the Custis. Traffic was heavy, as usual, and given his car’s poor acceleration he had to wait nearly thirty seconds before he could merge. One victim of his budgeting was the Subaru, which he probably should have sold a year or two ago. But it had held out for 170,000 miles; chances were good it would last 30,000 more.

The laboring sound of the engine, and the aggressive traffic, kept him company until he turned off the Custis onto Highway 120 south, half an hour later. Maybe he should downsize, he thought for the hundredth time—but downsize to where? Most of northeastern Virginia was one overpriced suburb, save for tiny pockets here and there where the crime rate stubbornly refused to drop. He could move farther out, of course, to Fairfax or Springfield, or maybe someplace in Maryland. But he hated commuting, and the idea of spending more time each day on the road was like a lead weight on his soul. Besides, he was sure that—

Now the Subaru intruded into his thoughts again. In addition to its usual hum of complaint, it had started to make a regular ticking sound that—given all the Humvees he’d repaired in a previous life—he recognized with dismay as a failing timing belt.

He continued down 120 for a few miles, hoping he was wrong. He wasn’t: a few misfires confirmed the diagnosis. Now he was left with a choice. He could gamble, wait to get home and repair it himself. But the risk—a damaged piston, bent valve, maybe even a cracked cylinder block—didn’t seem worth it, especially if he wanted to trade it in once it rolled over 200K.

That meant leaving the highway, pulling into a gas station, and seeing what the damage to his wallet would be.

With a muttered curse, he took the next exit. Here, at least, fortune smiled on him: the off-ramp emptied onto the kind of anonymous commercial strip replete with fast food joints, cheap motels…and service stations. If he lived here, he mused, his commute would be much easier. Affordable, too. But of course it was one of those spots where nobody wanted to live and real estate would be a lousy investment.