The Alien Next Door

What's going on next door? Tom Jurgen and Rachel investigate a bright white light—and run smack into a case from the past while trying to make sure a young boy isn't possessed by aliens.

The Alien Next Door, Part One

(FYI: This serves as a sort of sequel to a previous story, The Abducted.)

"Mr. Jurgen? My name is Nessa Brigani, and I think my next-door neighbor in an alien."

            I stifled a sigh. Yeah, as a private detective with a certain reputation, I've attracted more than my share of cases involving vampires, angry ghosts, and the occasional demon from hell—and even a few aliens—but also a high assortment of crazy people. Last week someone had called to complain that his cat was possessed. A visit to the vet confirmed that it was a case of feline hyperesthesia.

            Still, I had to be respectful to any potential paying client. "What makes you think that, Ms. Brigani?"

            "Every night, at about 2 a.m., he goes out into his backyard. There's a bright light—that's what wakes me up, it's right outside my bedroom—and he disappears. Then, two hours later, there's another bright light, and he's back. It took me a few nights to figure out what's going on. But I've got a video. From last night."

            I hesitated. She didn't sound crazy. But I'd been wrong about that before. "Send me the video. I'll call you back."

            "Thank you." 

            "What's that?" Rachel was working at her desk behind me, in the office we share in our apartment. She's slim, with red hair, hazelnut eye, and vaguely psychic powers. 

            "Aliens. Maybe."

            "Not again?" She sighed. "Oh, well. Maybe it'll be a break from cyborgs and cults with your old girlfriend."

            I'd been hoping Rachel didn't remember Sia. So I opened my email and waited while went back to whatever website she was designing.

            It came up a few minutes later. I clicked the link and sat back, my arms behind my shoulders. Maybe it was just a lightning strike. Although there hadn't been any thunderstorms around the Chicago area in the past few days.

            The video started playing. At first I couldn't see anything. Gradually a tree and a porch came into focus. Everything was unsteady—probably from a cell phone. 

            I saw a man step down from the porch. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. He took a few steps, then stopped in the center of the yard. 

            He stood with his arms at his sides, looking down at the ground. 

            Two minutes passed. Three.

            Then light burst from the sky. A strong steady beam, enveloping the guy, shuddering for a moment . . .

            And then darkness again.

            Another blast of light. Then the guy was back, curled up on the grass. Slowly, he pushed himself up and staggered back toward the porch steps.

            The video ended.

            I went into the kitchen for more coffee. Then I watched it again. 

            "Hey, Rachel?" I turned in my chair. "Can you take a look at this?"

            "I'm working here!" Rachel's a web designer. But she swung around in her chair and stood up. "This better be good. I've got deadlines."

            I ran the video for her. "Does this look real to you?"

            She peered at the screen. "I can't really tell the difference between that guy in that Star Wars movie a few years ago and the real one." But Rachel leaned back. "But there's a program for detecting stuff like that. Send it to me. I'm curious."

            I forwarded the video, then went back to the background checks I'd been conducting before Nessa Brigani had called.

            Twenty minutes later Rachel swung around again. "I can't find any obvious manipulation using the app. That doesn't mean nothing's going on, but it would have to be a pretty sophisticated hoaxster."

            I knew nothing about Nessa Brigani, so I used every detective's favorite tool—the internet. 

            According to her Facebook profile, Ms. Brigani lived in suburban Wilmette, was widowed, and enjoyed gardening. She was a retired bank executive, with two adult sons and three grandchildren.

            Other internet sources told me that her house in Wilmette was worth $2.3 million. Which was good, because it meant she'd be able to pay me. 

            So I called her back. "Your video appears to check out. I guess the next thing to do is for me and an associate to come up and see it ourselves."

            "All right. You can come tonight, if that works for you. I'll make dinner. Eight-thirty or so? Since we'll be staying up late."

            "Sounds good. By the way, can you tell me your neighbor's name?"

            "I think it's James Greenhill. I've only met him once. He moved in about a month ago."

            I scribbled a note. "Great. By the way, my associate is a vegetarian. I hope that's not a problem."

            "Not at all. I make an excellent eggplant parmesan, if I do say so myself." She chuckled.

            We discussed fees, and she assured me she'd have a check ready. When we hung up, Rachel was standing behind me, her arms crossed. "What are you getting me into?"

            "We're going to go up to Wilmette and watch for an alien to beam up. Unless you don't want to. But she's making eggplant parmesan."

            "Mmm." She licked her lips. "I guess it's better than a haunted insane asylum. And I bet her eggplant parmesan is better than yours."

So we drove up to Wilmette.

            Nessa Brigani's house had trees in the front yard, a long driveway, and a wide porch with flower beds all around. Ms. Brigani had gray hair, sharp blue eyes behind thin glasses, and a wide smile. "Come on in."

            I introduced Rachel. Ms. Brigani gave me a check. Then we sat down to dinner. And although I'm not a big fan of eggplant parmesan, hers was definitely better than mine.

            Around 10 p.m. we went up to her bedroom. It looked out over the yard next door, over a fence and between a few trees. I set up a tripod and mounted my camera on it. 

            Ms. Brigani frowned. "That won't record me, will it? I have to get ready for bed."

            "No, ma'am." In fact, I took the camera back off. Everybody's paranoid these days—even me—so I didn't blame her. "I'll keep it downstairs. We'll knock on your door at 1:30, if that's all right."

            "Thank you. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen."

            Downstairs Rachel was flipping through the TV channels. "She seems nice. Not crazy."

            "And makes a good eggplant." I flopped down on the couch and set the alarm on my phone. Rachel started watching Poldark, her latest obsession. 

            My phone buzzed at 1 a.m. Rachel was sleeping with her head on my shoulder. I managed to stand up without waking her, went to the bathroom, and started some coffee in the kitchen.

            Rachel yawned and stretched. "Okay. What episode were we on?"

            "The one where Captain Poldark is tall and handsome. Let's go. We're working."

            "All right, all right." She took a sip of coffee. "Huh. Ask her where she gets this."

            Upstairs I knocked on the bedroom dor. "Ms. Brigani? Sorry to—"

            She opened the door in a long blue bathrobe and slippers. "I was awake. Come on in."

            We carried our coffees and carefully set them down on a dresser. I mounted my camera again on the tripod, checked the angle through the window, and looked at the time—1:54 a.m. I started recording.

            "Two o'clock, you said?" I leaned against the bathroom doorway while Rachel sat on a chair and Ms. Brigani perched on the edge of her bed.

            "More or less." She patted the mattress. "You can sit down here."

            Was she flirting with me? I glanced at Rachel. "I'll stay here. Better to watch the window."

            We waited. Two o'clock, 2:02, 2:05 . . . I rubbed my eyes.

            "Oh, no." Ms. Brigani pulled at the blankets. "He's not going to do it, now, is he? Maybe he's watching me. What if—"

            "Wait!" Rachel jumped from her chair. "There he is!"

            I dropped down. Outside, over the fence, a man walked down a few steps onto the grass. 

            James Greenhill. I'd checked him out, but hadn't found much. He'd bought the house two months ago. Not much of a social media presence, although his Facebook page said he'd grown up in New jersey, and his LinkedIn page listed his occupation as "Freelance Copywriter." I hadn't had time for a deep search.

            I'd seen a photo online, but I could see him better now. Tall, in the same jeans as in the video before, but with a loose jacket now. He had short black hair and a clipped beard. He didn't look like an alien. 

            I glanced over my shoulder, making sure I wasn't blocking the camera. But Rachel jabbed a finger. "Look!"

            He wasn't alone.

            A young boy—maybe 10 years old—in a red bathrobe and slippers followed him out onto the grass. What the hell?
            Ms. Brigani lurched forward and knelt in front of the window next to me. "I never saw that—him—before."

            "Do you know him from the neighborhood?"

            She shook her head.

            Before I could ask any more questions, the light beamed down from the sky.

            I shielded my eyes. Ms. Brigani turned her face down. I heard Rachel breathing behind me.

            One, two, three, four, five seconds . . . then the sky was dark again. I blinked my eyes. "Everyone all right? Rachel, is the camera running?"

            "Give me a second." Her feet rustled. "Yeah, I think everything's still on. My eyes are still coming back."

            I helped Ms. Brigani to her feet and back to the bed. "Are you okay?"

            "I—I think so." She grabbed for a glass of water on the nightstand. "This is why I can't get any sleep. I think I'm going crazy."

            "You're not." I took her glass and set it back down. "Just relax. We've got this."

            She settled back on her pillow and fell asleep.

            I stood next to Rachel. "You okay?"

            She slugged my arm. "I've seen worse. But this is kind of spooky."

            "Yeah." I hugged her shoulder. "Sorry. But I'm glad you're here."

            "Jerk." She kissed my cheek. "What would I do without you to make my life interesting? I'd be so bored."

            "Me too."

            We knelt and watched the lawn next door.

            Twenty minutes later the light came roaring back down from the sky. This time we were ready, and held our hands over our eyes for a count of five. Then six. At seven, the blaze faded away, and I risked a look out the window.

            The neighbor and the boy stood in the middle of the yard, holding hands. Then the man turned slowly and led the boy back up into the house.

            I caught my breath and crawled back from the window. Checked the camera. Everything had been recorded. "Okay. Let's go home and—"

            "Tom?" Rachel stood next to the bed. "I think—I don't think she's breathing."

            Oh no. I knocked the tripod over heading to the bed. But Rachel was right. Ms. Brigani lay on top of the blankets, her body inert. 

            Rachel started doing CPR while I grabbed for my phone to call 911.

The Alien Next Door, Part Two

The paramedics tried to revive her. They failed. Damn it.     

            "Looks like simple heart failure," one of them said. "Are you family?"

            "Uh, no." I'd managed to pack up my tripod and camera and hide them in her bathroom before they came, figuring they'd spark some awkward questions. That didn't stop a lot of other questions, because Rachel and I weren't family members or neighbors. Rachel looked nervous as I answered them truthfully, and the paramedics looked skeptical. As in, "This guy is crazy."

            So naturally they called the cops.

            Rachel stood next to me in the hallway outside the bedroom. "I know you always have to tell them everything, but this isn't the CPD here. There's no Anita Sharpe to protect you."

            I snorted. "When did Sharpe ever protect me? Besides, like I say, it's easier than having to keep track of lies."

            Rachel slugged my arm. "Good thing I like you. Kind of."

            Two Wilmette cops questioned us downstairs as the paramedics carried the body away. Once again, I told them everything. I offered to show them the video. 

            The two officers, a Hispanic woman named Ruiz and white guy named Mortimer, watched the video on my camera. They were predictably skeptical. "You can't believe any video you see on the internet these days," Mortimer said.

            "It's not on the internet. And it's time-stamped 40 minutes ago."

            He shrugged. "You could have set that up before."

            "Why? I only met Ms. Brigani today. And the neighbor just moved in a few months ago."

            "Plus," Rachel leaned forward, "I ran Ms. Brigani's original video through all kinds of software for deep fakes. It came back clean. I can send it to you." 

            "Rachel knows what she's doing. Detective Sharpe in Chicago will vouch for me." I checked the time on a clock over the TV. "Although maybe she won't appreciate doing it in the middle of the night." It was 3:30 or so.

            The cops looked at each other. "What now?" Mortimer asked.

            Ruiz looked me over. "Sharpe?"

            "Oh, she'll tell you I'm crazy." I nodded. "But also that I tell the truth. Talk to Greenhill."

            Ruiz sighed. "I can't just wake up a citizen in the middle of the night because of some strange flashing lights. I'll have to call this in."
            She tapped at her phone and walked into the kitchen, leaving Mortimer watching us. Mostly he checked out Rachel, trying to be subtle about it. I couldn't exactly blame him—she is hot—but she ignored him as we waited impatiently for Ruiz to return.

            In two minutes she came back. "Not tonight. We'll check in the morning. You should send us both videos."

             It was probably too much to expect them to go knock on the guy's door at close to 4 a.m. with a story about possible alien abduction. But—"What about the kid?"

            "Like I said, we'll take a look and make a decision in the morning. Do happen to know any of her family members?"

            "I have some names. I did a check on her. I'll send them to you."

            We exchanged cards. Rachel and I picked up the camera equipment, and Ruiz and Mortimer followed us outside.

            Then we had a little bit of unexpected luck.

            James Greenhill was standing on his front porch, in a T-shirt and black sweatpants. "Hello? Is something wrong? I saw flashing lights."

            Ruiz and Mortimer glanced at each other, and then Ruiz looked back at me. "Keep your mouth shut."

            We walked across the lawn. "Mr. Greenhill? I'm Officer Ruiz, and this is Officer Mortimer. I'm sorry to tell you that your neighbor, Ms. Brigani, has passed away."

            "Oh." He bowed his head for a moment. "I'm sorry. I didn't know her very well, but that's too bad."

            "Mr. Greenhill?" Mortimer crossed his arms. "May I ask—do you have a child in there with you?"

            "Huh?" He frowned. "Just my nephew. He's asleep. He's staying with me for a few weeks."

            I couldn't help myself. "Did you happen to see a bright light in your backyard around two in the morning?"

            Rachel elbowed my ribs, and Ruiz glared over her shoulder.

            Greenhill shook his head. "No. I was watching TV. I have insomnia."

            Ruiz nodded. "All right, thank you. Someone may come by to ask you a few more questions in the morning."

            "Wait, was she—Ms. Brigani murdered?" He looked confused.

            "It looks like heart failure." Mortimer jerked a thumb toward the street. "Come on, let's go." He stared at Rachel and me. "Go home."

            "Who are you?" Greenhill looked at us. Probably Rachel more than me. "Crime scene?" He'd spotted the tripod in her arms.

            "Just friends. Sorry to disturb you." Rachel and I made our way to my Acura and stuffed the gear in the back seat.

            "That went well." She snapped her seatbelt.

            "Yeah." I pushed the start button. "At least I got a check out of it. And some good eggplant parmesan. I should have gotten the recipe."

            She snorted. "Is that it?"

            No. Not yet.

I sent the videos to Ruiz's email address as soon as we got home. Then I went to bed. Rachel was already sound asleep and snoring softly.

            We both slept late. I got up at 9:30, made coffee, and headed to my computer to view both videos again. 

            I didn't spot anything new in Ms. Brigani's video. A man, a beam of bright dazzling light—then nothing. Until the beam came back down, returning Greenhill.

            In the video we'd shot I tried to zoom in on the boy's face, but I couldn't get anything distinct. Brown hair, slim shoulders, slippers. A red bathrobe. 

            Neither of them spoke. They just held hands until the beam burned them away. They were still holding hands when they came back. 

            I watched the videos two more times, looking for clues. Like a detective. But I came up empty.

            Rachel staggered in wearing shorts and a short T-shirt, carrying a mug of coffee. "Anything? I mean, good morning. Anything?"

            "I've got to make a few calls." I went through my files. "Sleep okay?"

            "I'll need a nap later. And no, that doesn't mean anything more than sleep." She'd caught me looking at her legs. "Probably."

            "Of course not." I found the number I wanted. He wouldn't be happy to hear from me, but . . .

The Alien Next Door, Part Three

Craig Winters had been a researcher at Bracken Tech, a college in the suburbs. He and his team had contacted aliens, and were using children—including his own daughter—to try and crack their language. I'd accidentally been beamed up to an alien ship, and I still had nightmares about it. 

            "You again?" I could hear his scowl over the phone. I'd called him a few years ago about another case involving aliens—hey, they were better than vampires—and he'd been angry then. "No, I haven't been in contact with the aliens again! I only just got a new job at the planetarium! And I get to see my daughter now! Can you just stop bothering me?"

            I felt bad. A little. But he'd been using kids. "Do you know a man named James Greenhill? Ever heard that name?"

            "No. Let me think . . . Who is he?"

            I hesitated. Should I trust him? Would he trust me? "He apparently has some way of transporting himself—somewhere—through a beam in the sky. And he's got a kid with him."

            "What kid?"

            "I don't know. A boy, He says it's his nephew, staying with him for a few days."

            I waited. Maybe this was a mistake. 

            "Did you see it happen?"

            I hesitated. But he was the only expert on aliens that I knew. And I wanted him to trust me, if he could help. "I have a video."

            "Okay." He sounded doubtful too, but he gave me his email address.

            "That guy from Bracken?" Rachel looked over her shoulder from her computer. "You're working with him?"

            "Just trying to cover all the bases." I sent him Nessa Brigani's video. The one I'd taken would be longer than he probably wanted to watch. Maybe.

            A few minutes later my phone buzzed. "Tom Jurgen? This is Lieutenant Steely at the Wilmette Police Department."

            "Thanks for calling." I put it on speaker. "I've got my assistant Rachel Dunn here. What can you tell me?"

            She sighed. "We sent two officers to talk to him this morning. He denied being, uh, beamed up or whatever. We talked to the boy, who confirmed that he's Mr. Greenhill's nephew, Will. He also said he didn't know anything about—what you saw."

            "Did you show Greenhill the video?"

            "He said it was a fake."

            Of course. "You could have it analyzed. Rachel did, and didn't think it was a fake."

            "At this point I'm not sure we have evidence of any kind of crime. The kid seems fine. I'm not saying I believe any of this, but I guess there's actually there's no law against beaming up to an alien ship in your backyard in the middle of the night."

            "What if there's a kid involved?"

            "Again, the kid seems fine. I don't any have any credible evidence of any crime."

            I wanted to ask if she'd mentioned my name to Greenhill, but I didn't want to tip her off to my next move. So I said, "Well, thank you for calling. Have a good day."

            We hung up. Rachel snorted. "So what's our next move?"

            I finished my coffee. "Back to Wilmette. To check out the kid."

            She groaned. "Let me get a little work done? Please?"

            "Take your time." I stood up. "Let me make more coffee."

I rang Greenhill's doorbell.

            Midafternoon. No naps—or other things. Lots of coffee. We'd both gotten a little work done at home.

            Now we waited outside until Greenhill opened the door. He wore jeans and a blue buttoned-down shirt. "Can I help you? Oh—it's you again."

            "Tom Jurgen." I handed him my card. "This is my associate, Rachel. We were next door last night when Ms. Brigani passed away."

            He peered at my card, then shoved it into his back pocket. "Is there a problem? Like I said, I didn't know her very well. I only moved in last month or so. But I'm sorry for your—what happened."

            I nodded. "Look, Mr. Greenhill, I know the police were here earlier today, and I know they showed you a video—"

            "That's a fake!" He shook his head. "It never happened. Not last night, not any night since I've lived here. I'm sorry, maybe Ms.—Brigani? Had dementia or something."

            For someone with dementia, she made a good eggplant parmesan. But that wasn't going to be the winning argument. "Maybe. Can I ask you a few questions, though?"

            I expected him to slam the door. Instead he held it open. "I suppose."

            Inside a living room he gestured at a sofa. "Coffee? Soda?"

            "Maybe a Coke." I'd learned long ago that it was a good idea to accept any offer from a source. Doing a favor builds rapport.

            The living room was bare. Bookshelves empty except for one or two volumes, a few generic posters by French impressionists tacked to the walls. A big-screen TV sat on the floor.

            Greenhill came back with two cans of Coke and a bottle of water. He slouched down in a chair. "What do you want?"

            "Thanks." I popped the can. "So you were asleep last night at 2 a.m.?"

            "No, I told you, I have insomnia most nights." He sipped his water. "I was watching a movie."

            "What movie?" Rachel made it sound as if she was just looking for recommendations.

            "Uh, Butch Cassidy. And the Sundance Kid." He shrugged. "I might have dozed off here and there. I remember them jumping off the waterfall."

            Rachel giggled. "It's one of my favorite movies."

            I leaned forward. "You can't see your backyard from here?"

            "No." He turned his head toward a hallway. Then he looked back at us. "I was sitting right there on the sofa. Can you see the back door?"

            I leaned around. "No."

            "I don't remember anything until I heard the sirens and the flashing lights out on the street. That's when I came out—"

            Before I could ask Greenhill about not remembering anything, a young boy, about 10 years old, came down the hall. "Jim? Can I have a snack?"

            He had blonde hair and wore an Iron Man T-shirt and shorts. He gazed at Rachel and me for a minute, then looked at the kitchen. "Please?"

            "Sure, Will." Greenhill stood up. "Just a minute."      

            Greenhill came back a minute later. "That's my nephew, William. He's staying for me a few days while his parents are out of the country."

            "Could we talk to him?" I tried to keep my voice neutral. 

            Greenhill scowled. "Just for a minute. Will?"

            The boy came back into the living room. "Yeah?"

            "This is Mr. Jurgen and, uh, Rachel." He looked uncomfortable. "They'd just like to ask you a few questions."

            Will blinked. "Am I in trouble?"

            I shook my head. "Nobody's in trouble, Will. We just work for the lady next door. Worked. Anyway, where are you from, Will?"

            "Pittsburgh." He stayed near Greenhill.

            "How long are you here for?"

            "Two weeks. My mom's sick. I just got here yesterday."

            "I hope she gets better," Rachel said. "You must miss her."

            Will nodded.

            "Will, last night, did you happen to see a bright light in the backyard?"

            He shook his head. "I was asleep."

            "All right, Is that it?" Greenhill glared at me.

            One more thing. "What's your last name, Will?"

            "Uh, Baldinger."

            "And your mother?"

            "Marion. Why?"

            "Just curious." I nodded. "Thanks, Will."

            Rachel stood up and offered a hand. Awkwardly, Will stepped forward and shook it, then disappeared down the hall.

            I stood up too. "Is your sister Marion okay?"

            He sighed. "Ovarian cancer.

            Damn it. "I'm very sorry. Thanks for your time, Mr. Greenhill. Sorry to bother you."

            He stood up and shrugged. "Like I said, I'm sorry about Ms. Brigani. She seemed nice."

            We all shook hands at the door. I hesitated. "By the way, Mr. Greenhill, what do you do?"

            "I'm a copywriter. Freelance, so I work at home a lot. It's—convenient."

            "I'm sure. Well, thanks again."

            Out in the car I took Rachel's hand. "So?"

            She snatched it away, "It's not Greenhill. It's Will. He's the alien."

The Alien Next Door, Part Four

"I could feel it as soon as he walked into the room." Rachel was drinking from a bottle of water in our shared office. She'd been mostly silent driving home, except to tell me to watch out for cars getting too close. "Then when I shook his hand, it felt—not real."

            "Is he in some sort of disguise? An illusion?"

            She shuddered. "I don't know. I didn't get any sense of hostility from him. Just . . . curiosity? And he was a little afraid of you."

            "Me? I'm harmless."

            "But if he's an alien, he probably doesn't want anyone finding out."

            "What about Greenhill?"

            She shrugged. "I don't think he knows anything. What are you doing?"

            I was looking through an old database of child abductions, from the case where I'd met Craig Winters the first time two years ago. I remembered some of the names—first names, anyway, because no one had left a last name. I refreshed the page, looking for more recent abduction stories. 

            One was a child named Will. In Pittsburgh. Three weeks ago.

            "Oh." Rachel sipped her water. "So that's him?"

            "Let's see." I started searching.

            Yup. William Baldinger had been reported missing by his mother, Marion Tannay, on a Saturday night, Not a big news story, and by Monday, he'd shown up back at home. No more details. But the "BOY MISSING" photo was definitely Will.

            I kept clicking. Marion Tannay's LinkedIn page said she was an HR specialist at a small company. But on her Facebook page two weeks she'd posted that she'd gone to a hospital for "exhaustion."

            "So what are you thinking?" Rachel crossed her arms. 

            I shook my head. "I don't know. Maybe the aliens turned Will into an alien too? As far as I know that didn't happen to any of the other kids."

            "Maybe call the mother?"

            "If I could find her." I could ask Greenhill, but I had a feeling he'd stop answering my questions pretty soon, especially if they involved his relatives.

            I did a quick search to confirm to he really was related to Marion Tannay—she was apparently his brother's ex-wife. So at least he hadn't been brainwashed by Will.

            "So what now?" Rachel finished her water.

            "I need a beer." I headed to the kitchen.

            I didn't have a plan. Or even any good reason to make a plan. Nessa Brigani's death was a little suspicious, but I had no reasons to think that Will had somehow murdered her in her own bedroom. 

            Still, if Will—a kid—had been taken over by aliens . . . shouldn't I do something about that?

            Aside from sneaking back into Mrs. Brigani's house (breaking and entering) and spying on Greenhill's yard again (invasion of privacy, no matter how pure my motives might be) or trying to jump the fence and scramble into the beam of light before it disappeared (I had no desire to end up on an alien ship again) I couldn't think of anything to do. Not right now, at least.

            It was my turn to make dinner. I opened my beer and wished I'd remembered to ask for leftovers last night.

Later that night we were watching Poldark. Actually Rachel was watching Poldark, and I was reading Infinite Jest again. I was nowhere near finishing it, but this time I was determined not to fall asleep.

            My phone buzzed at 9:20. I opened my eyes. "Wha—?" Okay, I'd fallen asleep. But I'd been up most of last night. I put the book down. Craig Winters. Great. "Tom Jurgen speaking."

            "Jurgen? It's still up there! You have to take me there! Where is he?"

            Oh hell. "Hang on, Craig. What are you talking about?"

            "I got in touch with some of my friends from Bracken. One of them works for NASA. They're still tracking the same artifact we were in contact with. It's still there! And it's trying to contact us!"

            "Okay, slow down." I sat up and grabbed for a beer. "First of all—what are you talking about?"

            "They broke us up after you—after everything that happened. Denzinger ended up as a consultant to the Jet Propulsion Lab, and then he got a job at NASA. They don't want to talk about it, but the ship's still up there. In a higher orbit. The Boku!"

            That's what they'd called themselves, up in their spaceship. Boku. I bit my lip. I didn't ever want to see them again. 

            "Tell me where he is. I need to talk to him. See what's he doing—"

            "Not a chance. Forget it, Craig. It's over." 

            Rachel paused the episode to stare at me.

            "I can find him on my own. James Greenhill, you said?"

            Damn it. "I'm going to have to contact him, Craig. Tell him to watch out for you. That could get you in a lot of trouble." Me, too, for that matter.

            "You know what? You ruined my career! I spent years on this—"    

            "I wasn't the one who sent my daughter up into a spaceship full of aliens!" My voice was rising, and Rachel looked worried. I didn't care. "Do whatever you want to, Craig. Just don't be an idiot."

            I hung up. Goddamn it.

            Rachel crossed her arms. "What was that?"

            "Craig Winters. From that time I got beamed up into the alien spaceship?"

            She rolled her eyes. "That asshole."

            "Yeah." I rolled up from the couch. I didn't actually have Greenhill's phone number, but I figured I could find it before Craig Winters did. "Give me a minute."

            I had it after five minutes. "Hello?"

            "Mr. Greenhill? This is Tom Jurgen. We met earlier today?"

            "Uh . . . yeah." He sounded groggy. "I just . . . dozed off for a moment. What do you want?"

            "You may be contacted by a man named Craig Winters. He's—I met him on another case involving alien contact that sounded similar to, uh, what we saw in your backyard. I don't think he's dangerous, but you should know."

            "Wait, what?" I expected him to be furious. But he just sounded sleepy and confused. "There aren't any aliens. Just me and Will."

            "Actually—" I stopped myself. He'd never believe me. "I just wanted to give you a head's up on Craig Winters. I don't think he's dangerous, at all. Just—maybe a little obsessed."

            "All right." He sighed. "Thanks. I'd better check on Will. Will?" Greenhill hung up.

            I put the book on the coffee table. "I'm going to bed."

            "One more episode." Rachel gazed at the handsome Captain Poldark on the screen and picked up the remote. "Maybe ten."

            In the bedroom I took my shirt off. Then my phone buzzed. Greenhill. Now what?"

            "I can't find Will." His voice shook.

            What the hell? "Call the police." 

            "I just did. But—I saw a white light in the backyard."

            I was dead tired. And I was pretty sure I couldn't do anything. But I had to know. Damn it. "I'll be there as soon as I can." I pulled my shirt back on.

            "Do we have any Red Bull?" I charged through the living room to the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. Maybe a Coke would keep me awake.

            "Now what?" Rachel slammed the remote down. 

            "Will's disappeared. In a flash of light. I have to go."

            She rolled her eyes. "What are you going to do?"

            I popped the can. "I don't know. I just have to see."

            Rachel pulled her shoes on. "Just so long as you don't get beamed up into a spaceship again."

            "You don't have to come." I grabbed my jacket.

            "Sure I do. Just to make sure you don't do something incredibly stupid." She slung her purse over a shoulder. "Let's roll."

The Alien Next Door, Part Five

Two cop cars and an ambulance were parked in front of the house when we arrived in Wilmette again. I got out and locked the doors. Rachel walked next to me.

            An African American officer stepped in front of us. "Yes? Who are you?"

            "Tom Jurgen. Mr. Greenhill called me about his missing son. This is my associate, Rachel."

            "You family?"

            "I'm a private detective." I reached—very slowly—into a pocket for my business card. "I was working for the next-door neighbor, Nessa Brigani, but she died last night."

            He peered at my card. "Oh. You're that guy." He reached for his phone. "Ruiz? It's that Jurgen fellow and his girlfriend."

            "Girlfriend?" Rachel poked me in the ribs. "Associate! And, okay, girlfriend."

            "Hey, he said it, not me." I rubbed my side.

            Ruiz marched down the steps in front of the house. "Jurgen? What the hell are you doing here?"

            I was used to "Jurgen—what the hell?" So I just shrugged. "Greenhill called me about his nephew being missing. Apparently right after he called you. And he said he saw a bright light."

            "Shit." She glared at us.

            "Where is he?"

            "Coming out right now."

            Two paramedics rolled a stretcher around the side of the house. I couldn't see the face, but—"Greenhill?"

            "Uh-huh. Found nonresponsive in his backyard. Come on."

            She led us into the house, down the hallway, and out onto the back porch.

            A crime scene tech took pictures while another one clipped grass from around the body. 

            I leaned against the railing.  "What happened?" 

            "Don't know. EMTs say it looks like a stroke. Still breathing, heartbeat weak, so we don't know."

            "Any sign of the kid?"

            "No." She shook her head. "We searched the whole house. There are cars searching the streets. We went to a few neighbors, but we can't go waking everyone up in the middle of the night."

            I checked my phone for the time. 11:32. Most people would be in bed—asleep, or watching late-night TV. Or maybe Poldark.

            "So, you got anything?" Ruiz crossed her arms. 

            I sighed. "Nope. Except—" I hated to say it— "Maybe we should wait around until two o'clock.  To see if the kid shows up." I hesitated. But I've always made it a policy to tell the truth, especially to cops—even when it sounded crazy. Especially then. "I think he's been taken over by aliens."

            "Oh, god." She rolled her eyes. 

            Then her phone beeped. She looked almost relieved at not having to answer me. "Yeah?"

            "Some guy out here. Winters. Says he wants to talk to Greenhill."

            Oh hell. I shook my head. Rachel groaned.

            Ruiz looked at us. "You know him?"

            "It's . . . a long story."

            She crossed her arms. "If we're sitting here until two o'clock, I guess we've got time."

Craig Winters sat next to me in a patrol car. "It's got to be the Boku. It has to be!"

            Ruiz was twisted around uncomfortably in the front seat. Apparently we couldn't just sit in Greenhill's kitchen while the scene was still active.

            "So they attack people now?" I sat as far from Winters as I could. "Greenhill is in a coma."

            "N-no." Winters looked at me. "Never, from when we were studying them—"

            "When you were sending children up to their ship, you mean?" I glanced at Ruiz. "He and his team were experimenting with children who'd been abducted, trying to get them to learn the aliens' language—"

            "And you stopped it!" Winters slammed a fist against the door. "We were making progress! And now we've got a chance—"

            "Both of you shut up!" Ruiz had listened as we argued, but now she seemed ready to cuff us. "I don't have any guidelines for what to do here. I ought to take you guys in and have you committed."

            "I've heard that before." I sat back. "Any luck finding Will in the neighborhood?"

            She didn't answer.

            Rachel was standing outside the car, tapping her foot on the concrete. 

            "All right." Ruiz checked the dashboard clock. 12:04. "Looks like we're sticking around until 2 a.m. You two stay here." She opened her door.

            "Until two o'clock?" I wasn't sure I could tolerate Winters for two hours. "Can't I wait in my own car? I won't drive away. Neither will he. We both want to see this."

            Ruiz sighed. "Fine. I should make you give up your keys and your phones and cuff you to the steering wheel. If any reporters show up here I'll cuff you and drag you behind the car back to the station."

            I gulped. "Deal. Thanks."

            "I'm going to need a bathroom in a bit," Winters said. "Sorry."

            "Hang on." She talked for a while into her phone. "Okay, come on." 

            We got out on opposite sides. Rachel took my hand. "You okay?"

            "No funny business in the car, you two!" Ruiz waved an arm. "This way. Be quick."

            Winters followed her into the house. Apparently the quarantine was over, at least for bathroom breaks. Rachel and I retreated to my Acura.

            "No funny business, huh?" Rachel tilted her seat back. "So what are we going to do?"

            "I haven't done it in a car since I was a teenager. I don't think my back could take it." I sipped a little water, my mouth dry from nerves. "We wait until two. See if Will comes back. Try to stop Winters from doing anything stupid."

            "Oh, I bet Ruiz has the handle on that." Rachel sighed. "Look—I think I might have spooked him. This could be what's happening."

            "What? When you . . ."           

            She nodded. "Like I said, he was scared. Maybe . . . It's my fault."

            I took her hand. "Whatever happened, it happened because of them. Not you."

            She shivered. "I hope that's right."

            I sighed. "Mom's right. I should have been an accountant."

            "Then we wouldn't be sitting in a car together after midnight. And where would the fun be?" She grinned.

            I managed a laugh. "I love you."

            "Shut up, jerk." But she squeezed my hand. "Me too."