“We have the disruptors.”

  “Who’s going to take the night shift? We all have day jobs.”

  I sighed. “I think this whole thing is getting to all of us.”

  “We need a council of war,” he said. “We need to get this done, Jack. Or hand it off to the government or something. We’ve got lives. We’re not set up for a long, drawn-out cold war.”

  “Gotcha. Okay, let’s start by getting these cameras up, then we’ll talk this out.”

  We were once again seated in our favorite chairs in the barn, drinks in hand.

  “I get that you’re both getting frustrated.” I looked from Nat to Patrick. “So am I. We’re rearranging deck chairs here, and not making any real progress.”

  “Although I fully admit it’s been fun, so far, mostly,” Patrick replied with a smile.

  “Yeah, that’s great.” Nat clearly wasn’t sharing in Patrick’s attempt at lightening the mood. “But I’ve got my dad to take care of, on top of holding down a job. My aunt has been filling in for me for the last couple of days, but she can’t keep it up. And she’s my mother’s sister, so it’s asking a lot in the first place. We need to have some kind of defined end date on this.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I can’t keep stringing along my parents with the secret-project story, either.”

  Patrick sighed. “And I have to deal with Tim, although fratricide is still not out of the question.”

  “I get that, and I … hmm … ” I stopped talking and stared into the distance.

  “What?” Nat and Patrick said simultaneously.

  “Well, what we really need is to shake things up a little and see what falls out. And it would be great if we could take care of our friend Phil Ross at the same time.” I tapped my chin. “And if we throw Tim a bone, make him feel like an insider—without actually making him one, you understand—then we could maybe make some headway.”

  “That sounds like quite the deliverable,” Nat said. “You got an actual plan in there somewhere?”

  “I think maybe I do. Look, Phil got the first video from TimJay666. He’ll know that, so he’ll be inclined to trust anything else that comes from the same source. We can get Tim to message Phil and give him the aerial images of the saucer field, both original and enhanced. I bet Phil will take it from there with very little prompting.”

  Patrick laughed. “And I bet that’ll freak out the Loranna, having a gen-u-ine flying saucer investigator sniffing around their den.”

  “You could also give him a cloaking detector,” Sheldon said.

  Patrick and Nat stared at the communicator, looking as shocked as I felt. “Seriously?” I said.

  “I have the enhanced phones ready for you, so you will no longer need the discrete items. And the detectors don’t actually do anything detectable unless there’s a cloaking field nearby, so they would not be impressive as evidence of aliens. And it might help your tinfoil-hat-wearing friend zero in on our mutual quarry.”

  “You understand we’re using him, and potentially placing him in danger,” Nat said.

  Patrick frowned at Nat. “Really? You think Phil Ross would have a problem with any of this? Let’s lay it all out for him. Complete honesty. You think he’ll hesitate even a microsecond? This is morally equivalent to giving a reporter an anonymous tip. And you can bet a guy like Phil understands that there are risks.”

  Nat hesitated a moment. “Yeah … you’re right, I think. Based on his website, the guy would chew off his own arm to get a chance at aliens.”

  “Wait,” I exclaimed, mentally backing up several paragraphs. “Sheldon? New phones?”

  “Yes. If you’ll head up to the fabrication shop, you will each find new phones that look just like your current ones, and operate identically in all aspects, except that they have some extra hardware and a couple of extra apps.”

  “Cooooool … ” Patrick said. There was a concerted rush for the center of the barn as an airlock opened.

  “Damn,” I said, awe in my voice. In my left hand, I held my own phone. In my right hand was another phone, seemingly the identical brand and model, except new. And, according to Sheldon, the doppelganger phone could detect cloaking fields when the proper app was running. It could also communicate with Sheldon, either over the wireless mobile network, Wi-Fi, or subwave. Sheldon had added a walkie-talkie app, and supplied a bone-conduction microphone that we were directed to stick on the skin behind one ear. Of course, we immediately dubbed them “cling-ons.”

  And the new phone could operate the airlock.

  “I’ve also upgraded the security somewhat,” Sheldon said. “It will do a full biometric match before unlocking. Which means that it can’t be fooled by the normal tricks—and more important, it will open for you even if your face is not fully visible, as long as you’re the one holding it.”

  Patrick waved one of the two phones in his hands. “What should I do with my old one?”

  “Turn it off and hide it,” Sheldon replied. “Or just leave it in the conference room.”

  With a laugh, I picked up the specially modified Lorann detector that Sheldon had prepared, juggled it a few times, then tossed it to Patrick. “Time to recruit your little brother.”

  Chapter Twenty: Third Time’s the Charm

  “Jack. Jack. Wake up. Emergency.”

  I sat bolt upright in my bed, then reached for the alarm to turn it off. But the alarm kept saying my name urgently. That couldn’t be right. My alarm didn’t—

  Sheldon.

  Belatedly coming to more-or-less full consciousness, I grabbed my phone. “What? Someone trying to break in again?”

  “It’s well past that. He’s in. It’s the same person, that ufologist.”

  I sat up and started dressing. “How did he get in?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t come in through any of the doors. There’s no indication of a window having been broken, and they have bars now anyway. Motion detectors did not activate anywhere on the periphery. I am at a loss.”

  I grabbed the disruptor, my phone, and the flashlight that I’d placed beside my bed, and followed the same trajectory as the previous night, including being orbited by Barkley. The dog apparently had decided this was a nightly ritual, as he shot off for the barn as soon as the door was opened for him. I caught up a few moments later and examined the barn doors—both the large wagon doors and the normal door. None was open, and none looked like it had been forced. I stood there for a few moments scratching my head before raising my phone. “Sheldon, unlock the door, please.”

  The door unlocked with a click, and Sheldon said, “The intruder has run for the back of the barn. I’m not sure if he’s planning to ambush you or if he has an exit in that direction.”

  I turned on the flashlight and entered. I shone it around but couldn’t see any obvious threat. Reaching for the panel beside the door without looking, I flipped every switch on it. The interior blazed with intolerable brightness, and I shielded my eyes until they adjusted.

  But now there was no way for the intruder to hide. I glanced at the workbench area, and saw that my secret compartment was sitting open. I felt a flash of annoyance. I’d put a lot of effort into building that compartment, and I had thought it was well disguised, but apparently I might as well have attached a neon sign pointing to it.

  I sidled around the hay bales, with Barkley running back and forth, whining with excitement. However, he wasn’t barking, which likely meant no one else was in the barn.

  In moments, I was at the back of the building, staring at a gap in the wall where a couple of boards had been pulled out. I leaned down and looked through the gap to spy the bushes behind the barn. But no intruder.

  “Sheldon, he got in through a hole in the wall. We have motion detectors back here, don’t we?”

  “Yes, and they did not indicate an approach. I cannot explain it. However, I’ve just checked the webcam footage, and I can see someone … er, something … Jack, I have no visual referent for this. You’ll just have to see it.”

  My phone dinged as a text came in. The attached photo showed … something. It looked like a long Lego block, or maybe a three-cube Tetris piece, in a white or gray color. No wonder Sheldon had been confused by it. Sticking my head through the gap, I looked around and spotted something leaning against the outside wall. About five feet high, rectangular, a foot or so deep …

  Pushing myself through the gap, I picked up the item. It was Styrofoam, obviously homemade, based on the duct-tape construction, about five feet tall by three feet wide, with a one-foot sidewall, and a handle in the middle.

  “Inconceivable,” I muttered.

  Back inside, I tossed the Styrofoam shield onto the workbench. “What is it?” asked Sheldon.

  “It’s literally a shield for fooling a motion-detector.” I threw myself into my chair, which rocked and squeaked alarmingly. “Styrofoam absorbs active motion-detection systems and blocks infrared for passive systems. Neutral color makes it hard for area-integration systems to generate a convincing differential.” I snorted. “It’s on the internet, so I assumed it was by definition BS, like water-powered engines and Nigerian inheritances. But apparently this one actually works.”

  “I am impressed,” Sheldon said. “Is it possible that there is another subspecies of humanity, hiding in the shadows, that does all the actual thinking?”

  “Well, if you believe the internet conspiracy nuts, there’s ZOG, the shape-shifting lizard people, the Grays, the Deep State, the Illuminati, and maybe a half dozen others. Of course, they aren’t all human, so maybe some of them don’t count.”

  “Honestly, you humans just keep setting the bar lower and lower. You are in danger of forgetting to breathe.”

  I laughed. “I don’t necessarily disagree with you, Sheldon. Sometimes I wonder about us too.” I tried and failed to stifle an enormous yawn. “Tomorrow we’ll have to talk about how to reinforce the barn walls and maybe protect against Styrofoam attacks. Right now, all this nightly excitement is cutting into my sleep time. Talk to you in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-One: Proxy

  Day 15. Friday

  I was sitting in the passenger side of the Buick, being driven to work, when my phone dinged. I jumped slightly, then pulled it out. I still had a tendency to stare at the phone. It was mine, yet not. It had all the same apps, the same icons in the same order. Even my data, like contacts and history, was all intact. But it was missing a few scratches and that hairline crack on the screen from when I dropped it.

  It was definitely new. And slightly lighter, I thought. And much tougher, according to Sheldon. Well, why not?

  The phone unlocked and I read the text from Patrick: Tim ate it up. Sent DM right away, arranged blind drop for the detector. Hope Phil isn’t suspicious. Tim thinks he’s graduated to Starfleet, the little shit.

  I couldn’t help chortling.

  “So, not bad news, I guess,” Dad said.

  “Naw, just a text from Patrick. He’s letting his little brother live for at least one more day.”

  “Ah. Little brothers.”

  My father said nothing more, and I didn’t want to give the subject any life, so we settled back into our now-customary uneasy silence for the rest of the drive.

  I was stocking some vegetable bins when I got a text, this time from Sheldon. Phil Ross has retrieved the detector. The tracker is working perfectly. I can monitor his location to within a couple of feet.

  Excellent. Phil was unlikely to let that alien device out of his possession. As long as he owned it, we owned him. Phil apparently wasted no time acting on his newly rising fortunes, as occasional texts from Sheldon informed me.

  By late morning, the texts had all but dried up, and I was starting to consider alternative strategies to generate some churn, when my phone rang. The caller ID said Sheldon.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack, the fertilizer has hit the fan. Phil visited the field, and was cornered by a couple of security guards, on pretext of trespassing on private property. He’s being taken in for interrogation. It sounded ominous. Not that one human more or less matters in the grand scheme of things, but Phil could have continuing utility, and I’d rather not waste him. Or have them waste him. Hah! I made a joke.”

  “A very small one,” I replied. “Did they set off the detector?”

  “No. Just garden-variety humans, unfortunately. They appear to be heading for the industrial park. Perhaps we’ll get some information from his ultimate destination.”

  “Sheldon, can you phone Patrick? Ask him to pick me up.”

  “I’m on the phone with Patrick right now. Natalie as well. I am a computer, after all. One moment … He will leave immediately. He says be ready.”

  I hung up and ran for the front of the store, removing my apron as I moved. I yelled, “Taking an early lunch!” to Maria the checkout clerk.

  Patrick’s car roared up to the curb within a minute or two, almost but not quite sliding in sideways. I jumped in and Patrick took off, with even less concern for traffic laws than usual.

  “What’s the plan, Stan?”

  “Winging it, I think. Hold on.” I tapped the walkie-talkie app and put the phone on speaker. “What’s the latest, Sheldon?”

  “He has been taken into what appears to be the administration offices for the industrial park. Logical, I guess. Someone said something about security, so I assume—”

  “Wait, someone said? You have him bugged?”

  “Of course. Did I not mention that? I added a listening device as well as the tracker. It seemed prudent. Was that a mistake?”

  “Sheldon, I think you’re better at this spy thing than we are. Continue.”

  “Not much more to report. He is presumably in the security offices somewhere, waiting for the sergeant or captain or some such bigwig to show—”

  Sheldon’s voice cut off abruptly.

  “Sheldon? You okay?”

  “Sorry, Jack. I was momentarily nonplussed. The detector went off. It appears we’ve found our Loranna.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Rescue

  Patrick’s car tended to accumulate junk, which made it as much a traveling suitcase as anything else. Among the detritus in the back were a couple of Cincinnati Reds baseball caps. I grabbed them as we jumped out of the car, and we pulled them over our heads as we raced up the steps to the administration offices. The entrance was framed by an overly ornate Tate Industrial Park sign. The receptionist looked up as we burst through the doors, her expression changing to alarm.

  “Security office?” I asked, urgency in my voice.

  She pointed. “End of the hall. But what—?”

  The rest of her sentence was lost in the distance as I sprinted down the hallway with Patrick on my heels. “Twenty feet and closing, on the right,” Sheldon’s voice said into my cling-on. I skidded to a stop and yanked open the most likely door.

  In a room with a semi-glassed wall, two security guards flanked a man in a chair, hovering menacingly. I immediately recognized Phil Ross from the web page. He was wearing a lumberjack shirt and one of those padded sleeveless vests. The overall effect was of someone trying to disguise themselves as a Canadian. Across the table, a small, chunky man in a suit was leaning forward with his weight on his hands, trying to look tough. Phil seemed to be hugging himself, which I thought was excessively neurotic until I realized he was resisting attempts to frisk him.

  I flung open the door to the interview room, and the occupants all spun around at the sudden commotion. “Hey, Phil, Tim Jay says hi. We’re here to pick you up. Grab your stuff.”

  “Our guest is busy right now,” the man in the suit said. “And you are trespassing. Perhaps you could wait outside for your friend.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Patrick replied. “Your two police academy dropouts here don’t actually have the power to arrest anyone, and if you’re holding our friend against his will, that’s a felony. It’s kind of ironic, I guess. People don’t realize just how little actual authority security guards have. And how much trouble they and their employer can get into if they exceed it.”

  I took up the narrative. “So we’re going to take our friend Phil, and leave your property as quickly as possible, since we really don’t want to trespass. Right, Phil?”

  Phil, his eyes wide and his jaw slack, simply nodded. He started to rise and one of the security guards placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “And that’s assault, for instance,” Patrick said. “You should remove that hand right now, rent-a-cop, or I will call the real police.”

  The security guard snarled and reached for his holstered pistol. I took a moment to do a mental eye roll. Patrick had pushed just a little too hard and bruised the man’s ego.

  “So, you’re going to shoot us, now?” I said with a sneer. “For coming to pick up our friend who was walking around in a field? I’m sure Chief Rogers will support your actions. He’s very understanding that way.”

  The security guard hesitated. Anyone with any exposure to the Dunnville police force—on either side of the desk—knew that Chief Charles Rogers was not someone you wanted to cross. A retired army drill sergeant, he’d been described as Buford T. Justice without the funny bits. Not an exaggeration, based on my very few encounters with him.

  The guard glanced at the suit, who responded with a disgusted expression and made a shooing motion with his hand. “Fine,” he said, “but please remember, Mr. Ross, that the north field is part of the Tate property. We’d just as soon not have someone with your, erm, preoccupations associated with us. Next time we will simply press charges.”

  “So who are you guys?” Phil walked between and slightly behind us, shifting his gaze back and forth as if he was scared to miss anything. In person, he was even odder than his picture. Besides the hair, he was several days’ worth of unshaven, but not the cool kind of unshaven like TV characters—more of a “got tired of shaving partway through” look. He also had an eyebrow twitch that reminded me of the psychic on an old X-Files episode.