“DARPA?” I ask.
“Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency,” Collins says, picking up her handgun. She steps around the man, looking at his face, and adding her weapon to the threat of violence.
“I know what it stands for,” I say. “And no, we’re not with DARPA. We’re here because of several recent reports of a cat-woman.”
The man’s head snaps toward Lilly.
I add some details so he gets a better idea that we’re here for a good reason. “She’s been peeking in people’s windows, sneaking through yards and scaring kids. Fifteen sightings in the past two months.”
The man’s head lowers. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
“I—I just wanted to see other people,” Lilly says. “I’m stuck here in the woods all the—”
“It’s not safe,” the man says. “You know that.”
Lilly stomps her foot on the ground, crushing a pinecone. “The only people I ever see are you, Grandpa Goodtracks, Joliet and Uncle Bray!”
The man cranes his neck to the sky, totally exasperated, like I remember my parents being with me.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t need to arrest you. That’s not really our job.”
“What is your job?” the man asks.
“To identify and monitor potential threats. As long as everyone plays nice, nothing bad happens.”
The man slowly turns his head toward me. I can just see the side of his face. Something about him is familiar, but a beard conceals most of his features. “Who are you?”
This time I answer. “Department of Homeland Security.”
The man grins. “Fusion Center-P?”
That he knows which department we’re from isn’t too surprising. After Nemesis tore through Boston and we played a critical role in saving the day, most people on the planet have heard of us. It’s the man’s reaction when I say, “Yes,” that catches me off guard.
He raises his hands higher and turns around slowly. “I was wondering when you might show up, Jon.”
Again, I’m a fairly recognizable person now. But the casual way he says my name clears some of the cobwebs from my mind. I know this guy. But I don’t recognize him until I see his brown eyes. “Mark?”
My weapon lowers in time with his raised arms. Mark Hawkins was an adventuring buddy. During our younger years, we trekked the woods together, went hang gliding, went base jumping and white water rafting. Then we became adults. I joined the DHS. He became a park ranger.
“I should have recognized the beanie,” he says with a smile, pointing at the red cap affixed to my head, cloaking my receding hairline. “How’s Betty?”
In my stunned state, I answer without thinking. “Dead. Took a bullet for me.”
Hawkins’s jaw goes slack. “Holy... I’m sorry.”
His stunned look and sorrow-filled eyes confuse me, until I realize that Hawkins never met the truck I named Betty. “You think I’m talking about girlfriend Betty!” I say with a laugh. “We broke up.”
“Who were you talking about then?” he asks.
“Truck Betty,” I say, like it’s all the explanation he needs. “She’s dead. But Helicopter Betty is fine.”
“You know them?” Collins asks, her weapon still partially aimed at Hawkins.
“I know him,” I say, looking at Hawkins. “Not his friend.”
“It’s okay,” Hawkins says to Lilly. “He’s safe.”
“I would never harm you or your girls,” I say, holstering my weapon. Sensing the girl’s unease, I step forward and extend my hand. She stares at it for a moment, and I think she might bite it off, but then she takes hold and shakes. Her fur is soft, but her grip is killer. “My name is Jon. Nice to meet you, Lilly.” I motion to Collins. “This is Ashley. She’s my partner.”
“She’s more than that,” Lilly says with a sly grin. The kid has been watching us for a while, since before I got my poison ivy. Speaking of which, I turn my attention back to Hawkins. “I don’t suppose you have any calamine lotion, do you?”
“Back at the house,” he says.
“Thank God.”
“But first,” Hawkins motions behind me. I turn to find a small blonde holding a handgun and an old Ute man with a rifle. “This is Howie Goodtracks and Avril Joliet.”
“AKA, backup,” I say with a grin. I take a step toward them, hand extended, when my sat-phone begins playing the Imperial March from Star Wars. This will be my colleague, Anne Cooper. We follow a strict radio-silence rule during investigations. What’s the point of searching for elusive creatures if a ringing phone might scare them off? But we also have to remain available, hence the sat-phone. And if Cooper is calling, that means something bad is going down.