Ten minutes later, Joseph Howlam’s brain struggled to emerge from a fog of pressure and sound. On the verge of throwing up, the deputy’s body was racked with a pain he had never felt before. Was this feeling of vertigo a concussion, he wondered?

  Maybe. Maybe not. Without a frame of reference, it was hard to tell. But even though he’d never been hit by a three-hundred-pound linebacker before, the deputy’s imagination didn’t have to stretch far to extrapolate this feeling was close. Not to mention that bright blue light…

  Feeling his senses return, Joseph was on the verge of opening his eyes when the sounds of two people whispering nearby made him pause. Not wanting to be assaulted again, he laid very still with his eyes tightly shut, listening to them speak.

  “You think these things are that important?” An unconvinced female voice asked over the crinkles of unseen paper. “They just look like scribbles to me.”

  “I’ve got pages of my own that say differently.” A male voice said reassuringly. “That’s why I’m scanning this one into the tablet. Given enough time, Hoover should be able to translate whatever kind of language this is.”

  “You think these scribbles are some kind of language?” More papers rustled just beyond his tightly shut eyes. “They look more like Charlie Sheen trying to sign an autograph during a coke bender.”

  “I’ll agree, the techniques employed in the loops are a bit sloppy in certain places. But there are patterns within the ‘scribbles.’ And a pattern in any form of writing usually means a structured language is present.”

  “You’re the expert, Foster,” the female voice relented. “Though I don’t have to remind you of our time frame, do I?”

  “No…” Foster’s voice trailed off.

  “Good, then that only leaves one thing for us to do.”

  Suddenly, something collided against the coffee table and the deputy’s body involuntarily jerked ever so minutely. For a second, he continued his fake attempt at unconsciousness in hopes that maybe these strangers were far more focused on their own devices. This hope was quickly dashed by a hand, slapping him hard across the face.

  “What the hell!” Joseph screamed as his eyes promptly flew open. “Why are you slapping me?”

  “I was just announcing our presence, Mr. Howlam.” A stern-faced Justine backed away and took a seat on a tattered, orange loveseat. Smiling, she looked at her companion with the innocence of a small child. “What? I said we were in a hurry.”

  “You sure do like hitting people.” Foster tried not to laugh but failed miserably.

  “Oh please,” she offered meekly before owning up to what had happened. “He was already awake. No,” she shot him a withering look. “He was just pretending.”

  “Not the whole time,” fully roused, the overweight lawman rubbed at his sore chest and let out a soft wail of pain. The last thing he remembered was a bright light followed by cold, wet snow pelting his face before his brain shut off. Now, for some unknown and very painful reason, he was resting semi-comfortably in his favorite recliner wondering what happened to the mule that just kicked him.

  “And you call that announcing, huh?” Joseph repositioned himself in the chair. “Well, if that’s the case, next time you feel the need to introduce yourself to someone, do them a big favor, run them over with your car instead.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Justine felt a tiny morsel of guilt about the shooting. But, in times of crisis, instincts often overrode the need to be cautious or for that matter, sorry. “Mr. Howlam, we’re federal agents and...”

  Joseph waved a hand to cut her off mid-sentence.

  “I know who you are, Agent Rushing. What I don’t know is why you and Mr. Evers are in my house?” He spied a few logs burning brightly in his usually vacant fireplace. “Are you moving in?”

  “Who would move into a house without a front door?”

  Eyes rolling, Foster watched Justine’s devilishly pragmatic mind fight between trying not to laugh and working furiously on a potential cover story. In response, he maneuvered himself into the conversation.

  “No Mr. Howlam, nothing like that. We’re here investigating a strange occurrence which took place a few nights ago just outside of town.”

  “My name is Joseph, Mr. Evers, not Mr. Howlam.” The deputy rubbed his temples and lazily glanced around to see the remnants of his front door propped up against the far wall. “And if you don’t mind, could you explain to me why Ripley over there shot me with her little ray gun.”

  “Ripley?” Justine asked, hurt a little bit by the comparison. Not that Ellen Ripley didn’t kick ass. No, it was because no matter what revisionist history said these days, Han shot first. “More like Han Solo.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Sorry about that,” Foster glimpsed over his shoulder to see Justine in the middle of a fruitless staring contest with the deputy. Exasperated, he turned back to Joseph. “But my partner’s been a little on edge ever since First Trust Bank. I guess seeing almost a dozen people murdered tends to fray the nerves. And to be completely candid Joseph, there’s just something about you that we find odd.”

  “Odd,” Joseph started taking stock of his situation. It was not to his liking. “Like what?”

  “For instance,” Foster snatched up a nearby notebook. “The departmental physical you had last year was very noteworthy. The one that included an MRI of the brain.”

  “So,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster, “a lot of people have that test. How is that strange?”

  “Receiving one is not strange, Joseph. But the results were quite illuminating.”

  “How did you get my results?” The deputy said, honestly upset at that statement. “Those are supposed to be private.”

  “Private…” Hoover cackled through their earpieces. “He thinks there’s such a thing as privacy these days. Nope. Maybe in the fifties.”

  “Section 750.115,” Joseph proclaimed, unaware of Hoover’s comment. “That’s the New York statute covering breaking and entering, agents. Did you know that?”

  “No,” he watched Foster turn wide-eyed and look at the female FBI agent with total sincerity. “Did you know that, Agent Rushing? I mean, you are a federal agent.” She twisted her head from side to side in a malicious form of silent condemnation. Foster turned back on him and smiled. “You see, Joseph. We didn’t know that.”

  “Ignorance of the law is no defense, Mr. Evers. Not to mention your lack of jurisdiction. But above all that, you don’t have the right to enter my home without a warrant.” Joseph pointed to the streaming light pouring into his retro living room. “And judging by the mess, you two don’t have one.”

  “True.” Foster pointed at the deputy’s head and smiled his trademark grin. “Though I doubt very seriously you’ll be telling anyone about our little visit, deputy. Cause as illegal as that is, I don’t think you have a statute that covers the strange things going on inside that head of yours.”

  “Book one,” Joseph said absentmindedly. “It was only a matter of time.”

  “Book one?” Foster repeated, remembering the title on the first journal he skimmed through, and his eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes… those journals on the bookshelf over there, they have something to do with all this. Don’t they?” The deputy’s face remained placid, but something behind his eyes was screaming. “What are they?”

  For the briefest moment, Joseph looked like he was going to respond in a threatening manner, maybe even scream. But at the last second, he didn’t. Instead, the injured deputy reached into a small mini-fridge and pulled out a beer. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he adjusted the recliner, propped up his feet, then took a drink.

  “Ways to remember, Mr. Evers. But no one was ever meant to read them. Those books contain my private thoughts and feelings. They’re how I make sense of things in my past and my present. They are my memories.” Joseph grimaced as he took in the situation. “But pardon me for not shaking in my boots. Because there’s no way in hell you could read them anyway.”

  Foster spotted the moth-eaten couch directly opposite the recliner. Apprehensively, he sat down next to Justine, then began thumbing through a few pages. When he looked back up, his grin had reappeared.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it, Joseph.” The deputy, confident in his proclamation, only nodded and offered him a beer. Foster respectively declined. “What I’m wondering though, is why are they written in a language I’ve never seen before.”

  “What is that supposed to imply? This world is bursting with languages.”

  “Not as many as you might think.” In his earpiece, Foster heard Hoover talking excitedly about a breakthrough. Apparently, the great code breaker had come through again and was eager to share. “What does the name Mevasi mean to you, Joseph?”

  “Mevasi?” Deputy Howlam looked unfazed by the inquiry. “That name means very little to me.”

  “This guy’s writing is as horrible as his decorating skills. Give me a second.”

  “Sorry,” Foster said biding time while Hoover quickly relayed the correct translation. “What I meant to say was Mevani.”

  With a menace Joseph had not previously shown, the pudgy deputy’s hand flashed in the direction of his sidearm. In the blink of an eye, he had closed his hand around his holster before Foster’s brain could process what was occurring. Fortunately, Justine had already accounted for something going wrong.

  “Sorry about that.” Her eyes sharpened as she spoke. “But I don’t leave a weapon in the hands of someone I don’t completely trust.”

  “Touchy.” Foster said. “I guess this Mevani person was someone special.”

  “You have no idea.” Undeterred, the deputy brought up one of his legs until his knee almost touched his chest. Then, in one swift movement, Joseph reached for something hidden beneath his pants’ leg. Something cobalt blue, made of metal, and used only as a last resort.

  It was his back up piece.

  “Justine,” Foster began to shout a warning.

  But before he finished saying her name, another orb of blue plasma whizzed past his ear and again landed squarely into its intended target’s chest. Striking with a loud crack, the slinger’s shot sent the deputy’s body, his half drank beer and the tattered recliner tumbling back onto the floor with a loud thud.

  “Why do you keep shooting him?” He said, only slightly maddened by the sight of Joseph’s once again twitching body. “Is it some kind of moral imperative?”

  “No,” The innocent woman inside her gruff exterior once again reappeared to plead her case. “But aren’t you kind of glad I did?”

  Foster watched Justine kick the deputy’s back up piece to the side as she performed what could only be described as full body cavity search. As he waited, he played the situation over again in his mind. Her actions and what could have happened to him if she hadn’t taken those actions. And suddenly, what she did that day at Starbucks made a lot more sense.

  “Yes, Agent Rushing.” He admitted finally. “I am glad you shot him again.”

  “Thanks for that, Foster.” Justine nodded before giving him a not so playful smirk. “Besides, this time he actually had a gun.”