The Grays

“Is it a headache, honey?”

“My God, it’s my ear, it’s killing me.”

“Perhaps a visit to the health center,” Nancy suggested.

“Dr. Hamner’s on senility leave,” Dan said. “Anyway, it’s closed at night because people might need it then.”

The pain began to get a little less. Dan managed to come to his feet. Still dizzy, he staggered a step. “Better,” he said.

At that moment, everything in the room rattled, there was a loud whoosh, and the back door opened and slammed itself.

“The wind,” Nancy shrilled, then knocked back a full glass of wine and poured another.

Katelyn did not tell them what she had just seen, which was a sort of light flickering along the back porch and into the yard, a light like a narrow searchlight beam from somewhere over the house.

In her most private self, in places inside herself where she almost never went, there were vague memories from childhood, memories that had drawn her to watch a TV documentary here and there about alien abduction, and to wonder. The memories were very unformed and very strange, but the fact remained that when she had first seen one of those big-eyed alien faces depicted on the cover of some stupid book, she had been transfixed, literally unable to move, and unable to stop the tears.

She would never tell Dan this, not with his childhood seizures. He needed to leave apparitions, demons, and all of that sort of thing behind him.

She could only think now of one thing: Conner, because, in her heart of hearts, she worried that he might be seizure-prone, too. Or worse, what if it was true? Even more than a criminal or idiot pranksters, if there were aliens out there right now, her place was with her little boy. She stepped back toward the living room.

“Katelyn?”

“Sorry, Dan, I thought I heard Conner.”

“Help me, here.” He went toward her.

She strode over to the freezer, rummaged for the blue cold pack, thrust it at him. He took it with thanks, pressed it against his head. “Better,” he said. “Somewhat.”

She went downstairs. On this night, she would sleep on the floor beside her son.

“Hi,” he said as she came in.

“Not asleep yet?” She sat on the bed. “It’s terribly late.”

“Three twenty-eight. I guess that qualifies.”

“Conner, I’m so sorry I knocked you down like that. I was just—oh, honey, I was so scared. I’ve never been that scared in my life!”

“You want to know a secret, Mom?”

“Sure.”

“That you swear you will especially not tell any Warners?”

“Sworn on the old heart.”

“I’ve never been that scared in my life, either. Mom, you know what I felt like? I felt like it was watching me.”

She did not—dared not—tell him of her own feelings.

No matter all the elegantly dismissive conversation above, the dumping on Chris with his silly ideas, down here in the dark with Conner, she found a truth that she could not deny. Whatever had happened out in that field, it had nothing whatsoever to do with any pranks, and murder was even more far-fetched.

The truth was, it had everything to do with the night and the unknown.

She took Conner in her arms, and prayed to the good God that she be granted the right to never, ever let go of him again. Soon, his breathing grew soft and steady, and she, also, closed her eyes. With her boy safe beside her, Katelyn slept.

It was then that the shadows came, stealing in from the dark place under the deck where they had been hiding.

PART THREE The Secret of the Grays

Late at night, when the demons come,
I want my pillow to push between them,
So they can’t get on my skin.
I cry they rub my head I cry.

—SALLY, AGE 9, FROM HER STORY,

“Beings Come to Our House”

EIGHT

ROB LANGFORD HAD NOT BEEN called by Lewis Crew in months, but he was not surprised to receive a summons on this night, when a glowboy had acted up like this. He had driven hard up from the Mountain, and now moved carefully along Lost Angel Road in the Boulder foothills, trying to find the address Crew had given him. He’d never met the owner of the house, Dr. Peter Simpson, but he’d heard Crew mention him often enough. In their field, need-to-know was so extremely strict that this kind of compartmentalization was normal. They all knew the reason, too. In fact, once you were told, it became the center of your life, the one thing you never forgot.

Back in 1954, long before the empath program existed, there had been a brief, fumbled meeting between President Eisenhower and a triad of grays at an air base in California. The president had come away shattered, saying that if we revealed that they were here, the aliens would destroy Earth completely.

This extraordinary threat had built the absolute wall of secrecy and inspired the intricate labyrinth of need- to-know that surrounded the reality of the grays.

Bob and Adam had never responded in a coherent manner to questions about it, either, which had made the threat seem more dire.

Rob found the house, set well back from the road, and turned in the driveway. As per regulations, he was in civilian clothes. Even the license plate on the car he was driving was registered to a civilian. He carried both false and real identification. The false ID, provided by AFOSI, would hold up under police scrutiny—say, if he got stopped for speeding.

Simpson’s house was dark in front, but the door opened before he rang the bell. There stood the imposing Mr. Crew, looking a bit older, his white hair even more white.

As Rob entered the tiled foyer, a compact man appeared behind Lewis Crew. “Rob, this is Dr. Pete.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet a legend.”

Simpson laughed a little. “I wish the circumstances could be more pleasant. Come on back.”

They went along a hallway, then through a room cluttered with books. Surprisingly, Dr. Simpson read a great deal of poetry. He unlocked a door into a small office. There was some damaged equipment there. Rob asked what it was.