Armageddon - By James Patterson Page 0,8
How did you know my name?”
“Easy,” said a tall man who stepped out of the shadows. “I told them.”
Chapter 9
THIS NEW ARRIVAL wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit or a sealed helmet.
In fact, he was wearing a two-piece suit so rumpled it looked like he had slept in it for maybe a month.
“Come on, guys,” the tall man said to the others. “Put away those weapons before you hurt somebody. You act like you’ve never met an alien before.”
All around me, weapons clattered as they were lowered. Clearly, the guy without a helmet, mask, or respirator was the man in charge.
“Daniel, I’m Special Agent Martin Judge. I head up the FBI’s IOU, which, yes, is a lame name, but we’re stuck with it. It’s already printed on all our top secret business cards.”
“Okay, Agent Judge,” I said. “Same question for you: How, exactly, do you know my name?”
“Also easy, Daniel: I knew your mother and father.”
“Impossible.”
“Graff, Atrelda, and I worked together.”
I had to hand it to the guy; he was pretty good. Graff (my father) and Atrelda (my mom) aren’t your standard-issue parental-unit names—even in California, where people call one another stuff like Sunshine and Moonbeam. Special Agent Martin Judge had definitely done his homework.
I wondered for an instant if my mom and dad had ever filed an income-tax return, which would have put their names into the massive federal database. Maybe they filled out a census form. If so, I’d love to see what they put down for “race” and “ethnicity,” since Alpar Nokian is never one of the standard check boxes.
“I was at your house several times for supper,” Judge continued. “I never once had to wear a hazmat suit.” This he said while shaking his head at his agents, who still refused to peel off their protective gear.
“Really? What’d my mom cook for you?”
“Pancakes, of course.”
“For dinner?”
Judge shrugged. “You ever taste your mom’s griddle cakes, Daniel?”
I played it nonchalant. “Once or twice.” Truth is, my mother makes the most amazing flapjacks in this or any other galaxy.
“Pancakes that exceptional cannot and should not be confined to breakfast,” said Judge.
“And where exactly did these pancake suppers take place, Agent Judge?”
“Like I said, Stinky Boy—at your house.”
Okay, this was getting seriously weird. How did a special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation know my childhood nickname? The one my relatives had given me back on Alpar Nok, when I was what Huggies might call a toddler and my diapers were anything but snug or dry?
“I’m impressed with your research, Agent Judge.”
“It’s not research, Daniel. It’s memory.” He tapped his nose. “I helped your dad change you once when you were maybe two years old. You guys were living in Kansas at the time, remember?”
I froze.
Of course I remembered Kansas.
Kansas is where my mother and father were murdered.
Chapter 10
I WISH THAT I didn’t sometimes, but of course I remember everything about that cursed, unspeakably horrible night back in Kansas.
I was three years old, playing in the basement of our home, building the Seven Wonders of the World out of Play-Doh. Yeah, this power-to-create-whatever-I-imagine thing kicked in way early, during my childhood development process.
Upstairs, I heard a horribly deep and strangled voice.
“The List! The List! Where is it?”
That heinous creature known as The Prayer (still Number 1 on The List of Alien Outlaws on Terra Firma) was upstairs attacking my parents. Later, the foul beast would come after me, and I will never forget what it looked like: a six-and-a-half-foot-tall praying mantis with a stalklike neck and stringy red dreadlocks hanging down between its antennae.
Upstairs, I heard my mother sobbing, and my father pleading calmly: “Wait, hold on…. Lower the gun, my friend. I’ll get The List for you. I have it nearby.”
“The List is here?” the deep voice boomed once again.
“Yes,” said my father. “Now, if you’ll just lower the—”
The next thing I heard was a string of deafening explosions. Shooting. I realized, in a flash of instantaneous knowledge, that the weapon being deployed was an Opus 24/24.
Guess you understand now why I totally hate the fiendish things.
I know the pain they can inflict, what they can destroy.
My whole world.
Chapter 11
I PRETENDED THAT I had a mild case of the sniffles brought on by an allergy to Georgia pine pollen and quickly swiped the back of my hand across my face. I didn’t want Special Agent Judge, or any of the other Fibbies, to see the tears welling up in my eyes.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“We need