4

When Alex fell silent, his body utterly lax, Pendergast began to feel himself strengthening considerably. He held his hands before his face and turned them as if he might witness color coming into them, or see them grow larger. He somehow felt larger, powerful, intimidating. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat bent over his thighs, trying to calm his breathing, extending a hand with which to hold the Quasar at bay. "It's okay…okay," he told her softly, clearing his throat. His body wanted to breathe, and he couldn't help but take great, deep breaths of air while he felt his mind clearing and his life force coming back strong.

Finally he threw his head back and laughed out loud, great, happy guffaws erupting from him in a way he could not recall ever having laughed before. He turned toward the strange man who lay asleep so still that he appeared dead. He grinned, calming himself while he watched the very slow, almost nonexistent rise and fall of Roglitz's abdomen. The man's eyes were motionless behind his eyelids, his jaw slack, a very faint pulse barely visible in the hollow of his neck beneath his Adam's apple. But the pulse was steady as clockwork.

Pendergast blinked, astonished at how colors seemed brighter and more distinct, noting the essences of cologne, clean laundry, soap, and another man's smell in the air. He smiled unevenly at the Quasar. She was seated upon a white chair, atop Roglitz's jacket and discarded belt, watching him emotionlessly. Finally, he asked her, "Is he all right?"

Amanda's gaze moved toward her partner's prone form. She nodded very slowly.

The agent rose from the bed as quietly as possible, moving around it to study the sleeping figure. Alex was tall, with a broad face and strong cheekbones that bespoke Slavic decent. He thought the last name sounded German, possibly Polish. The man's hair was thick and almost more of a honey color than a true brown. His nose had been broken at some point in time, and he wondered why he hadn't had Amanda fix it. The shoulders were wide, the chest thick like that of a weightlifter or pro football player. He saw hair peeking forth from the slightly unbuttoned shirt and around the edges of the sleeves. A big, hairy brute, he thought, recalling that the man had claimed to be very psychic. It's unlikely that no one else has ever thought these things, he surmised. "Alexander?" he asked, leaning close. "Alex, can you hear me?" The body lay still, seemingly barely alive. It occurred to him that had the man succeeded somehow in taking over his body, that it was now he who was trapped in a coma or possibly near death. And what would happen if his body expired with someone else's consciousness in it? He turned toward Amanda, finding her standing right beside him as if she'd found his proximity to the other man threatening. If there was something he needed to do to ensure the well being of Roglitz, he had no idea what it was. All he'd been instructed to do was to lie still, and clearly his mobility was not upsetting anything.

Pendergast straightened and gazed about the room. It was a good-sized master bedroom featuring windows on two sides. There was a full-sized window behind the chair and a much smaller one opposite it within a little nook. He moved slowly so as not to alarm the Quasar, peeling the vinyl window shade aside so he could assess the view. He recognized some of the structures immediately and was very surprised to realize that wherever he was at the moment was not far at all from his Beaux-Arts mansion. Even more shocking was the view when he glanced downward: Roglitz had a fenced-in backyard of the sort found in some of the nicer planned communities...unless his home merely abutted a park of some kind. There were amply sized two-story houses nearby, each with their own good-sized plots of mown land. In the distance and toward the right he could make out what appeared to be the Hudson River.

This community does not exist, he thought. There were no places laid out in this manner anywhere in Manhattan. The sun was making its way west, painting the buildings in myriad hues like the buttes and mesas of the southwest. Feeling strangely helpless, he turned, and Amanda was too close to him again. "This is where you live," he said.

She nodded slowly.

"This is where I live, too…but it is also not where I live at all."

"I know."

He gazed at her fondly. "I greatly enjoyed our previous interaction."

She moved away, taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside Alex's feet.

Would she prevent him from exploring the premises? He was deeply intrigued by this peculiar new world.

Roglitz's walls were bare, painted white to match the carpet, the ceiling, and even his bedding. He didn't know if everything was spotless because the man was a scrupulous housekeeper, had hired such a person, or if Amanda somehow kept everything pristine the way she had restored everything that had been damaged when she had visited Pendergast in his own reality. Stepping around a television atop a rolling table, he moved toward the long dresser that faced the bed. The large mirror hung behind it showed the unconscious man deep in slumber.

"Is Alexander a sort of policeman?" he asked casually, picking up a cologne bottle and finding the fragrance strong, but clean.

"Somethin'" Amanda agreed.

"And he deals with…aliens?" he asked, using the word everyone else seemed to favor.

"Yes."

"And that's what you do as well?" There was a boar's bristle brush beside a small wooden valet that held two pennies, a single key, and a plain gold ring. He scrutinized the pennies for detail and accuracy, tempted to steal a few hairs from the brush for analysis of the man, before recalling that they would not make the journey back to his own body.

"Uh-huh."

"What kind of people do you deal with, exactly? Are they criminals? Aside from entering the country illegally."

"People? Like Haines? Like John?"

"Are they aliens?"

"They're not aliens," she told him, failing to react to his blatant invasion of Alex's privacy.

Pendergast did not take hold of the gun on the far side of the dresser, but recognized it and appreciated it for what it was. "The aliens that Alex sometimes shoots at," he clarified, bending for a better look at the shoulder holster rig. "Are they criminals? Bad guys?"

"Bad guys," she confirmed.

"Have you ever heard of the U.S. Border Patrol or Homeland Security?" He eased open the top drawer on the far left side and rummaged casually through the contents.

"Dunno. Maybe."

Then why was StarNet necessary? What was different about this reality that made it necessary for an organization like ArtReal to exist? Socks. Paired and balled, which he despised for it eventually weakened the elasticity of the fabric that went over the calves. They were quality socks, however, designed for heavy-duty use and moisture wicking. "Where do the aliens come from? What country do they originate from?" Maybe they were Canadians here, sneaking into the country to sell maple syrup to the sugar-addicted. He found stashed toward the back of the drawer a collection of foreign currency and withdrew it to learn what countries existed here and how close their monies were to what he was familiar with.

"Country?" she asked. "Portugal?"

"Portugal? Really?" The banknotes and coins looked exactly like ones he had seen and even used before himself.

"Not sure."

"Yes," he said absently, noting mostly Canadian currency within the stash. "Do you ever visit Canada?"

He could see her in the mirror. "Canada. Yes. Been to Canada."

"For pleasure or for business?"

"Aliens," she said.

He found three pocket knives, two of them still in the boxes they'd been packaged in. They were of a pleasing quality, though by no means extraordinary, and probably only moderately expensive. Alexander also possessed a small collection of pocket squares, a few sets of nice but understated cufflinks, sock garters, two dyed bandannas, a small sewing kit, and a compass in a handsome brass casing. "He was married at one time?"

"Think so."

"You never met his wife?"

"Rachel?"

"You did meet his wife?"

"She died."

"So he is a widower."

"Not married when she died."

"They had divorced?"

She nodded behind him, and in the mirror he watched her look grow sad and vacant.

"Was she killed…by an alien?"

"No. Something wrong. She had babies. Something happened."

"She died in childbirth?"

"Not sure."

Pendergast moved on to the next drawer. "Does Alexander have a companion now? Someone to replace Rachel?"

"Me."

He smiled and his head bobbed with a slight chuckle as his hands wandered through rolled T-shirts and undershirts. "Does he have any children?"

"No."

"Any other family at all?"

"Brother."

"He has a brother. Is he younger or older than Alex?" He opened a drawer full of silk boxers and quickly closed it again.

"Dead."

"I see. Anyone else?"

"Not sure…maybe."

Pendergast pulled open drawers until he was satisfied and then turned toward the closet by the door. "Do you live here also?"

"Yes."

"But you don't have visitors often?"

"Geoff and Haines and Macy and…others."

"Are any of them relatives of Alex?" The mirrored doors opened revealing cotton shirts, crisp and ironed, hung on wooden hangers, most of them white, none of them dark. Alex favored Italian-cut two-piece suits in solid colors, with faint pinstripes, or with slight texturing to create interest. His tastes were conservative, self-expression more evident in his accessories such as an Italian leather belt in matte black with a brushed nickel buckle, another one with a buffed texture and a simple gold buckle set with a broad square of onyx. His ties tended to be dark, sometimes with diagonal stripes, a few with subtle geometric patterns. On the floor he found Italian shoes in black leather, cordovan, and brown. They were kept in good shape, brushed clean and polished. Alex kept odor minimizing insoles in his shoes. So he was a professional. The attire he had met him in indicated he'd been undercover or perhaps it was his day off.

"No."

"No?"

"Not relatives," she clarified.

"Ah, yes. I did ask you that." He noticed the nightstand beside the bed and approached it. "Do you have any relatives?"

"Not supposed to tell," she replied unhappily.

"Really?" He looked sidelong at her, and then watched for Alexander's diaphragm to rise and fall. Still alive.

"Not supposed to," she said, her words slurred a little like that of a sleepy small child.

"Does Alex know much about your past?"

"No."

Digital alarm clock. A television remote with far fewer buttons than any he had ever seen, but the name on it matched the logo on the TV. A box of tissues. A beverage coaster. Inside the drawer he discovered sinus pills, sleeping pills, and a notepad and pens. He withdrew the pad and glanced at Amanda. She reacted not all to the sight of it. "Does anyone else live here besides the two of you?"

"No."

He cracked open the pad and saw pages full of the man's swift, surprisingly elegant penmanship. It was difficult to decipher at first, but soon he recognized it was a dream journal. Some words and in some instances entire entries had been written in Cyrillic, though he was certain most of the words they spelled were in English. Flipping through it, he discovered that Alex had frequent dreams of Amanda. "You are fond of Alex?"

"Fond? I like him? Yes." She nodded vigorously and smiled.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

His pale brows rose. He took a quick peek at the sleeping figure. "And has he expressed the same sentiments to you?"

She nodded, smiling shyly.

Alex, from what he could tell, was a grown man in his early forties, and Amanda, while she may technically be thirty, resembled in far too many ways a typical fifteen year old!

Disturbed, he stood silent for some moments, trying to decide whether to confiscate the notebook for further reading later, or to replace it exactly as he'd found it and never think of it again. Finally he perched on the edge of the bed and flipped through a few more pages, reading entries at random. He discovered that the man dreamed of oddball scenarios with bizarre characters and occurrences like anyone else might, with a recurring goat theme and numerous references to liquid in some form or another. The few nightmares he discovered were all in Cyrillic, and he struggled through a few words, trying to recall what each letter represented, relying on his familiarity with the Greek alphabet to assist him.

"May I leave the room?" Opposite the closet door was another door he was certain must reveal a master bathroom, and he did not care to know whether Alexander preferred a straight razor or electric, how many different skin cleansers he used, or what brands of shampoo or toilet paper he preferred.

Amanda gestured toward the door, which opened silently.

Pendergast stood, careful not to upset the bed and the man upon it, bending for a quick peek beneath it before he departed, learning only that there was something small like a remote or cell phone beneath it toward the wall.

Beyond the door was a hallway with rooms to his left and an open view of the living room to his right. He stepped toward the railing and looked down, noting interesting architectural features that leaned toward the artsy and avant-garde, white carpeting, bare white walls, and white furniture. The bland décor unnerved him. He knew that one could learn a lot about a person by examining their personal space, and that a predominantly empty abode could signal mental illness. Though spartan, the furnishings were stylish in a subdued manner and artfully arranged. If anything, Pendergast suspected that the man might be some sort of a neat freak.

The door immediately to his left proved to be a full bath done in white, dark blue, and dark brown. It was a peculiar, but masculine color combination, and since everything matched he knew that Alex possessed an eye for aesthetic statement. The next room was a bedroom, the pieces unmatched, but looking used. It was a spare bedroom, he surmised, for occasional guests and not the rather feminine, whimsically motivated Quasar. The last bedroom proved to be storage. Across the hall was another room he was very surprised to see had been painted pale blue and featured fluffy clouds and faint rainbows connecting them. His immediate reaction was nursery, although he could not be certain, despite the lack of furnishings, that it was not Amanda's room. In his imagination, he saw her asleep on a self-manufactured cloud clutching an overstuffed plush unicorn. She had slept at his mansion, though it may have merely been that she had simply lain by his side with her eyes closed. He remembered how she had placed her hands on his hips at one moment, her very casual manner of physically touching him, how she had lain atop him after tackling him in his gym. And he knew, with certainty as he looked back at the doorway he had exited, that she most likely slept…with Alex.

Swallowing, he composed himself and descended the stairs.