Lost Cargo by Hollister Ann Grant, Gene Thomson Page A

have if he wanted a snack.”
    The logs in the fireplace snapped as the flames leaped up.
    Lisa’s grandmother finished her cheese and crackers and brushed the crumbs off her enormous bosom. “The paper said an animal attacked a jogger in Rock Creek Park.”
    “What are you talking about, Gram?” Lisa said. “Where did that come from?”
    “The animal attack,” her grandmother repeated. “It was in the
Post
. Your mother and I were just talking about it. They found the body near the library.”
    Lisa’s mother waved her hand. “And that was probably a one-time thing. I’m sure they’re on top of it. More drinks, anybody? Lisa?”
    “Not me,” Lisa said. “My diabetes.”
    “Oh, of course,” her mother said. “When do you start at the magazine?”
    “In a month. Gives me time to breathe,” Lisa said. “You want to come with me to look at towels tomorrow? The bathrooms have these canary yellow tiles with a thin black border. Retro. We don’t have anything that matches.”
    From the corner of her eye she saw her grandmother frown and settle back in her chair.
    Travis stood around in Burke’s huge kitchen, waiting for Lexie while she changed clothes and found flashlights. The kitchen had endless black granite. Whatever Burke was doing on Capitol Hill, he was making money at it, more than he ever made as a measly photographer mucking around for the Associated Press. Travis stared at the moon’s cratered face outside the window and his thoughts about Burke trailed off as hollow chatter. The consultant might never see his house again.
    “No, we’re going to get him out of there,” he said aloud. Famished, he raided the refrigerator and wolfed down a beef sandwich and a chocolate pudding, eating as fast as he could so Lexie wouldn’t see him mowing through their food.
    No coffee, the one thing he wanted.
    Wiping his mouth, he went into the hall, listened for any signs of her emerging with the flashlights, and caught himself in the mirror. He ran his hand along his jaw. He looked like a Neanderthal and could use a shave.
    Her footsteps moved across the upstairs floor and stopped.
    In the quiet he took out the mysterious silver device he’d stolen from the black triangle. The night already seemed like a half dream, but here was this strange thing, bringing it all back. The heaviness suggested something was inside it, but there were no openings. And why did it have a hook? Was the hook supposed to attach to something?
    Lexie’s footsteps crossed the upstairs hall again. He slipped the alien device in his pocket just as she hurried downstairs with her blonde hair falling over the collar of her black coat. She’d slung a black canvas bag over one shoulder and carried a large Canon around her neck.
    He straightened the strap on her shoulder. “What’s with the camera?”
    She gave him a disarming smile. “To take pictures of the black triangle. We have to take pictures of it. I’ll leave the camera in the woods so the ship won’t damage it.”
    “Good idea. I didn’t think about that.”
    She opened the canvas bag. “And I have flashlights and a knife and some rope. Maybe we can pull him out.”
    “I’ll carry that for you.”
    “Oh, I don’t need any help.”
    “Come on.” He grinned and took the bag. “You’re going to be hauling that camera around all night. Do you have another cell phone?”
    “No, we’ll just have to go without one.”
    “I have one at my house,” he said.
    “Where’s that?”
    “Porter Street. Half an hour.”
    “Cell phones don’t work in the woods,” she said.
    “Sometimes they do. Depends on the carrier and where you are.”
    “I don’t know what to do. I just want to go now.”
    “Then let’s go.” He put his hand on her back, followed her down the hall, and looked with dismay through the narrow panes beside the front door. The carriage light on the lawn shone into heavy fog. It had been raining all week and the fog had come back with a