Real Men Don't Bark at Fire Hydrants Part 8

"Huh?" Bert's voice was only mildly puzzled, but Mickey described the woman he had found leaning against a hydrant and repeated her words anyway.

If he had hoped to convince his friends that he was chasing more than will-o-the-wisps, he was disappointed.

Bert's only response was a "What do you expect?" gesture of the hands.

Rocky just rolled her eyes.

7. Just Another Cloud of Swamp Gas

Mickey heard the phone ringing as he approached his office door. It quit when his key touched the lock, and he swore.

"Dammit." A glance at the equipment on his desk was enough to tell him he had neither turned on the answering machine nor turned off his computer. "You know who that was, Kilroy?" For some reason, he had not stripped off the guide-dog harness and stowed it in the closet with his jacket. "That's what I think too. Just a minute..."

The dog flopped on the rug. The dark gla.s.ses went back in the desk. A finger touched the b.u.t.ton that would call his agent.

"Was that you, Angela?... I was in the hall, just missed... Yeah, I'm making progress." He stared at the text that still failed to fill his computer's screen. He winced. "Yeah, you'll have it soon, real soon."

He hung up. He sighed. He had never before in his life had so much trouble with a simple proposal, never been so easily distracted, never felt so close to genuine aliens, even if they hardly acted as he had always supposed aliens would act. He wished he did not have to lie to his agent.

He sighed again. He managed to type a few lines. A paragraph. Two. He filled the screen and began another. Progress, though not on the thing he cared most about at the moment. Why would anyone, executive or no executive, bark at fire hydrants? Why waitresses at slopped-up walls and backwards singers at fake mooses? Why...?

He stood up to peer out the window. Nothing. Had he imagined it all? He shook his head and sat down again. No. He hadn't. But for now, at least, he had no hope of answers.

Mickey had just closed the apartment door behind him when a full-throated scream erupted from the kitchen.

Something crashed.

Kilroy's fur instantly bristled, and he growled.

Mickey wasted less than a second on the thought of masked invaders burst~ing through the back door that flashed through his mind. He ran toward Rocky's terror-stricken voice, plunged into the kitchen, and stopped.

A pot lid rocked and sang upon the floor. Rocky's back was against the refrigerator door. Her hands were raised as if to ward off some awful horror.

Her face was white and her mouth was open wide in shock. Her eyes were fixed upon the stove.

The only thing upon the stove was a large, lidless pot.

"What...?"

She did not answer. He crossed the room, looked into the pot, and nearly screamed himself.

In it, a human hand lay on its back in a pool of blood. The thumb and forefinger gripped a business card on which the words "Aliens Anonymous" were plainly visible.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"What do you mean?"

"Where did you get it?" Her skin was no longer white but red and blotchy.

Tears were filling her eyes. Her voice was desperate.

So was his as he cried, "I didn't!"

"How else could it get here! And I loved you!"

"I love you too, but..." He reached for her shoulder, but she twisted away, her face saying clearly that she was terrified--of him.

"Who did you kill? Why?"

"I didn't!"

"No! Don't touch me! I'm calling the cops!"

She sidled past him. A moment later, the slam of the apartment door said she was gone, perhaps forever.

The sound of an engine behind the building drew him to the window. Rocky was taking his car, an ancient Chevette.

He took a deep, bewildered breath and turned once more toward the stove.

A hand. Severed from some unlucky wrist.

It looked so real that it looked unreal. A toy. Plastic and rubber and ketchup.

But he did not touch it. He did not believe it was not real.

No clue to why. No clue to who had done it. Except that he knew he had not.

He couldn't blame Rocky for running.

What would the cops say?

He had heard so many stories.

They would take him in, wouldn't they? He was there, right on hand. It was his apartment. No one else could possibly have done it.

He squinted and shuddered at the thought of bright lights and endless questions.

But that wouldn't be the point, would it? They had already warned him, when all he had done was look out his office window. He hadn't paid enough attention.

He had followed the backwards singer.

Now they would throw him in jail and toss away the key. And the aliens would be safe from discovery.

It was a plot then, wasn't it? That was why they were doing it.

And it would work if he was here when they arrived.

On his bedroom dresser there was a royalty check he had not yet deposited.

Taped to the underside of a dresser drawer there was an envelope full of what he called his getaway money. Just in case. For emergencies. Between check and cash he had about $1500, though the check was worthless unless he could get to the bank in the morning, before they put someone there to watch for him.