No one quite managed to laugh.
Ten minutes later Rasche was out on the streets of Bluecreek, thinking hard as he automatically scanned his surroundings, cop fashion.
He didn’t like losing control like that. Yeah, he’d been out of it from the gas, but trying to strangle a harmless tooth doctor was not a good sign, even so. He’d been the local sheriff in Bluecreek for a little over four months now, and he’d mostly thought he’d been settling in nicely. He’d thought that he’d left all the freaks and crazies behind when he quit the NYPD and went west, but now he wondered whether maybe one of the craziest hadn’t moved out west right along with him, right inside his own head.
He walked on automatically as he thought, taking in everything around him, unconsciously classifying everyone he saw into one of three categories, the traditional New York cop triage. The three categories were cops, citizens, and scum; back in the Big Apple he’d always seen a mix, but here in Bluecreek he only seemed to see citizens.
That had been the whole point of moving here, of course, but it still didn’t seem entirely natural. He’d spent almost his whole life in New York; if it hadn’t been for those monsters from Planet X, he’d undoubtedly still be there, probably still working homicide or narco with his partner Schaefer, finishing out his time until retirement.
The spaceships and the all-out firefight on Third Avenue had been too much for him, though. He’d left. He’d found the job as sheriff, gathered up Shari and the kids, and come out here where it was safe.
Or safer, anyway. He glanced at the sky. He couldn’t be sure anywhere was really safe, but Bluecreek seemed like a pretty good bet. Rasche had been pleased to get the job offer. He’d sent out his resume from the hospital, and the reply from Bluecreek had been waiting when he was released. He’d grabbed it.
He’d asked Schaef to come with him, but the big man had refused. Rasche had even offered him a job as deputy, and Schaefer had smiled so broadly Rasche thought he might actually laugh which would have been a first, Schaefer actually laughing at anything Rasche said.
Rasche had to admit that the idea of Schaefer playing Barney Fife to Rasche’s Sheriff Taylor was pretty absurd, but he’d kept asking as long as he could.
It hadn’t worked. Schaefer had stayed in New York.
It wasn’t that Schaefer loved the city all that much; he didn’t. Sometimes Rasche thought Schaefer hated the place. And it wasn’t that he’d never lived anywhere else; Schaefer wasn’t a native New Yorker. Rasche thought he’d grown up in Pennsylvania somewhere, though he wasn’t sure-Schaefer had never really said where he came from.
No, Schaefer stayed in New York because he wasn’t going to let those alien things drive him out, and he wasn’t going to let the government order him around. Rasche knew that and understood it, other people had wanted Schaefer to go away, people Schaefer didn’t like, and that was the surest way there was to get Schaef to stay put. As long as the feds wanted Schaefer out of New York, he wasn’t going to leave the city-not for Rasche, not for anyone.
Besides, Rasche thought, Schaefer was still pissed off about the government covering up the mess, still pissed off that they hadn’t told him what had happened to his brother Dutch, the covert operative, after Dutch had disappeared on a rescue mission in Central America. Staying in New York meant that Schaefer would have more people to take that anger out on.
Rasche unlocked the front door of the split level that still didn’t quite feel like home, the split level that was about three times the size of their old place in Queens, and stepped inside. As he did, a photo of Schaefer and himself, standing on an end table in the living room, caught his eye; he ambled over and picked it up.
That was right after they’d taken down a vicious little bastard who had called himself Errol G. Rasche remembered it well as he looked down at his own face. There he was, a big grin making his mustache bristle while Schaefer’s face could have been carved out of stone.
He wondered what Schaefer was doing right at that moment. He wondered whether Schaefer still had nightmares about those creatures.
He wondered whether Schaefer ever had nightmares about anything. Schaefer didn’t seem the nightmare-having type, somehow.
Nightmare-causing, yeah; Rasche could think of a few people who might have nightmares about Schaefer. He smiled at the thought.
He’d have to call Schaef, just to chat, sometime soon.
The smile vanished. He needed to talk to somebody about those things, somebody other than the psychologists who thought the aliens were stress induced hallucinations, somebody other than Shari, who, sweet as she was, never knew what to say about the grimmer aspects of Rasche’s work.
Yeah, he’d call Schaefer soon.
Very soon.
Chapter 8
Detective Schaefer stepped into his own office and stopped dead, staring at the man seated behind the desk.
The stranger, caught off guard, stared back, frozen there with one hand reaching out for a framed photograph. His expression was smothered surprise.
He was a man in a conservative and expensive suit, with a conservative and expensive haircut, a man who looked as if he’d be more at home on Wall Street than Police Plaza. Right now, though, he was at 1 Police Plaza, in the headquarters of the New York Police Department, sitting in Schaefer’s chair, holding a photo of Schaefer and Rasche that was the only ornament on Schaefer’s desk, and staring at Schaefer.
After a moment of utter silence, Schaefer said, “Go ahead, make yourself at home. Take a look around. Maybe you’ll find some quarters under the seat cushion.”
”Ah,” the stranger said, carefully putting down the photo he’d been looking at. “My name is Smithers, Detective Schaefer.” He rose, holding out a hand to shake as he came around the desk. “I’ve been sent…”
Schaefer ignored the hand. He had recognized something about the other’s attitude. “You’re one of those army goons,” he interrupted. “Like Philips and the others. The ones who thought they could handle our friends on Third Avenue last summer:”
”I, ah…” Smithers began, quickly lowering the proffered hand.
He didn’t deny the connection, which was all the confirmation Schaefer needed. Schaefer cut him off. “I’ve got work to do, Smithers,” he said. “Real work. Whatever it is you came to say, spit it out. Then leave.” He pulled off his jacket.
”Yes, I…” Smithers said. Then he saw Schaefer’s face and cut to the chase. “There’s been an incident, Detective Schaefer. An entirely new occurrence. We believe your expertise, due to your previous experience in related matters, could prove invaluable should the event develop beyond current expectations…”
”Jesus, do you people spend your lunch hours memorizing a goddamn thesaurus?” Schaefer demanded as he turned and opened his locker. “Let me guess what you’re actually telling me, shall I? The boys are back in town and you’d like me to check it out, for old times’ sake.”
”Exactly,” Smithers said. “There are some new elements, however…”
”Fuck new elements,” Schaefer said as he hung up his jacket and slipped off his shoulder holster. “I’ve got a job to do here.”
”Of course, we would clear your status with your chief and any other applicable agencies…”
”I’ll bet you would.” Schaefer unbuttoned his shirt, speaking as he did. “You don’t seem to get it, Smithers, so let me spell it out. The Schaefer boys have put in their time as far as Philips and the rest of you are concerned. If you and the rest of your gang of hotshot special agents, or whatever you call yourselves, want to go for another tag-team match with those ugly mothers from outer space, you go right ahead, have at it.” He pulled off the shirt and slid it onto a hanger, exposing a body that would have done Arnold Schwarzenegger proud. “But you can leave me right out of it.”