The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(67)
“There’s no way we’ll be able to hide this project from Dad,” said Mark. “And he’ll know how much it’s costing us.”
“I know,” said Heather. “My dad will know too. Our sales pitch has to be good. If they believe we’re serious about this contest, I think they’ll be supportive.”
Mark looked morose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering giving up my car savings for a science contest.”
“Look at it as an investment,” Heather replied. “Sometimes companies give nice grants to the winners of this contest or even buy the winning technology.”
A call from downstairs interrupted their planning session. “Heather, Mark, Jennifer! Come on downstairs!”
As Heather and the Smythe twins reached the bottom of the stairs, they could see that the Johnsons had retrieved their coats and were saying their good-byes. Seeing the three friends, Jack walked over and shook each of their hands.
“Janet already had the pleasure of having you in her class at school, but I wanted you all to know that I enjoyed meeting you.” Jack’s face grew serious as he turned toward Heather, his dark eyes flashing in the lamplight. “Your parents told us about the creep stalking you.”
“‘Stalking’ may be a bit of an overstatement,” said Heather nervously.
“Maybe so, young lady. He’s probably just a deranged homeless man. All the same, you should be watchful. I don’t like the idea of someone leaving threatening notes on your window.”
Heather nodded, oddly flattered that Jack had taken enough interest to warn her. “I’ll be careful. Thank you.”
The dark look passed from Jack’s face as if it had never been there, and once again he and Janet were smiling and saying their farewells. Then they swept from the house, like Mary Poppins floating off on her umbrella, with an otherworldly grace that left the room feeling empty.
“A vigorous young couple,” said Heather’s father as the Johnsons drove away.
“With anyone else I would say that was an odd choice of words,” said Mr. Smythe. “But somehow, I have to agree with you.”
“Well, I think they’re nice,” Heather’s mom said, a slight note of disapproval in her voice.
Heather’s father raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say they weren't.”
Mrs. Smythe laughed. “Well, I guess it’s perfectly reasonable that someone can be both nice and vigorous. Anyway, let me gather my tribe and head them home. Thanks for the lovely evening.”
After a round of hugs, the Smythes grabbed their coats and made their way out the door. Heather kissed her parents good night then headed upstairs for bath and bed.
She wasn’t quite sure why Jack Johnson's comment about the Rag Man had disconcerted her so. For a brief instant, when Jack’s eyes narrowed in the dim lamplight, Heather had felt as if the grim reaper himself had swept through the room.
Heather shook off the recollection. Obviously her overactive imagination was getting the best of her.
Chapter 47
Carlton “Priest” Williams was having a bad day. These last several weeks had been filled with bad days, which by his definition meant he was bored out of his skull almost the entire time. If it hadn’t been for his periodic excursions, he would have been stir-crazy long before now. The last real fun he could remember having was killing Abdul Aziz. Even disposing of the body had been entertaining, but the fight—that was exhilarating.
Aziz had been good. There was no arguing that. Better than good. He had been better than Priest himself. In a fair world, Priest would be dead and Aziz would be alive. The bitch of it was that life just wasn’t fair.
That damned Stephenson was driving him crazy, though. “Lay low. Stay cool. I’ll call you when I need you.” Give him a f*cking break. The Doc's political agenda might be important to the Rho Project, but this laying low was driving Priest nuts.
Priest stretched his left hand in front of him, spreading his fingers wide on the table, palm down. In a smooth, quick motion, his right hand grabbed the SAF survival knife from its sheath, raised it high, and then brought it violently down. The blade penetrated the back of his hand, pinning it the table so that the muscles in the hand spasmed involuntarily, the fingers twitching taut before he could force them to relax.
Pain exploded in Priest's head. So exquisite, so wonderful. Not only had the blade penetrated skin and tendon, it seemed to have broken at least one small bone on its way through his hand. The blood, which should have been spurting from the wound, bubbled out around the edge of the blade, the wound closing as he watched.
A sudden yank pulled the knife from both table and hand, momentarily leaving the wide puncture wound gaping in all its ragged glory. As he watched, blood congealed into the hole, tissue and bone knitting and binding, scar tissue expanding to close the wound, then destroying itself as it was replaced by flawless, fresh skin. The whole process took less than two minutes, leaving his hand in exactly the same condition as it had been before his masochistic, sharp-trauma infliction.
You had to give the Doc credit. Whatever that gray stuff was that he had pushed through the IV tube into Priest's arm, it was liquid gold. Priest didn’t care if it was alien blood, or even alien shit. All he knew was it gave him what he wanted.