Chapter 9
THIS NEW ARRIVAL wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit or a sealed helmet.
In fact, he was wearing a two-piece suit so rumpled it looked like he had slept in it for maybe a month.
“Come on, guys,” the tall man said to the others. “Put away those weapons before you hurt somebody. You act like you’ve never met an alien before.”
All around me, weapons clattered as they were lowered. Clearly, the guy without a helmet, mask, or respirator was the man in charge.
“Daniel, I’m Special Agent Martin Judge. I head up the FBI’s IOU, which, yes, is a lame name, but we’re stuck with it. It’s already printed on all our top secret business cards.”
“Okay, Agent Judge,” I said. “Same question for you: How, exactly, do you know my name?”
“Also easy, Daniel: I knew your mother and father.”
“Impossible.”
“Graff, Atrelda, and I worked together.”
I had to hand it to the guy; he was pretty good. Graff (my father) and Atrelda (my mom) aren’t your standard-issue parental-unit names—even in California, where people call one another stuff like Sunshine and Moonbeam. Special Agent Martin Judge had definitely done his homework.
I wondered for an instant if my mom and dad had ever filed an income-tax return, which would have put their names into the massive federal database. Maybe they filled out a census form. If so, I’d love to see what they put down for “race” and “ethnicity,” since Alpar Nokian is never one of the standard check boxes.
“I was at your house several times for supper,” Judge continued. “I never once had to wear a hazmat suit.” This he said while shaking his head at his agents, who still refused to peel off their protective gear.
“Really? What’d my mom cook for you?”
“Pancakes, of course.”
“For dinner?”
Judge shrugged. “You ever taste your mom’s griddle cakes, Daniel?”
I played it nonchalant. “Once or twice.” Truth is, my mother makes the most amazing flapjacks in this or any other galaxy.
“Pancakes that exceptional cannot and should not be confined to breakfast,” said Judge.
“And where exactly did these pancake suppers take place, Agent Judge?”
“Like I said, Stinky Boy—at your house.”
Okay, this was getting seriously weird. How did a special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation know my childhood nickname? The one my relatives had given me back on Alpar Nok, when I was what Huggies might call a toddler and my diapers were anything but snug or dry?
“I’m impressed with your research, Agent Judge.”
“It’s not research, Daniel. It’s memory.” He tapped his nose. “I helped your dad change you once when you were maybe two years old. You guys were living in Kansas at the time, remember?”
I froze.
Of course I remembered Kansas.
Kansas is where my mother and father were murdered.