Something Of A Kind (18 page)

Explain, explain, explain.

By the time she had finished, her knuckles ached, the pen
hovering over blank areas as she reconsidered her thoughts. Unable
to offer anything more, she stood, nodding to herself. Offering it to
Franklin’s sweaty outstretched hand, she stared at her feet. As Aly
tried to ignore his expressions – confusion, disbelief – she felt her
resolve building. It crumbled when he blurted, “Alyson Glass as in
Greg Glass?”

Aly shrugged.

“Um, wow. Oka
y, never mind. I need to file this and send it in
for evaluation. They’ll be some people here to talk to you…” His
voice trailed, distracted by something on her paper.

He flipped the page, revealing nails bitten down to the buds. She
couldn’t tell if they
were
dirtied, blood-blistered, or
carrying
chipped remnants of black nail polish. Uncomfortable with the
observation on a queasy stomach, she turned away.

“That’s really fantastic,” Franklin muttered absently, almost
disbelieving. “You know what? There are some people who used to
work with NESRA I want to take a look at this. Do you mind if I
borrow your cell? I’ll need to upload the files.”

Wordlessly, she pulled it from her pocket. He untangled a cord
from a dozen others piled in a milk crate at his feet, hooking it up
like a flash drive. Typing something in, he grinned. Spinning his
chair with a kick, he pointed to the screen over his head. Her
photographs merged into a slideshow, popping up like an aver-key,
every lobby screen in unison.

“Someone will be out soon for an interview” He sounded
pleased as he returned her phone.

After a moment, he worked on arranging a flood of copies,
labeling several files with her name. In thick permanent marker, the
manila folders became something daring– The Glass Case. It had
become a political statement against her father, possibly against
herself. Aly didn’t know how she felt about it.

Before she could return to her chair, Greg was running towards
her down the hall. She paled, biting her lip. Silently, she rushed to
build resolve. She could tell by his jerky movements that he was
working towards confrontation. Bracing herself, she prepared for
anything. Perhaps he was confused or angry; maybe he wasn’t aware
of her until she’d caught his eye. They flashed now, a chilling blue.

Either way, he sees me now. There’s no getting out of it.

 

Before he’d stopped walking, Greg warned, “Alyson, you better
tell me what you’re doing here right now.”

 

Aly crossed her arms, her defense instant. “I’m making a
report.”

 

“How,” Greg yelled, “How did you know?”

Her eyes slid to the people around
the room, frozen and
gawking. It occurred to her just how loud he was being. Trying to
sound innocent and unaffected, Aly inquired, “About what?”

She failed.
Her father’s hands shook. When he caught her confused stare, he
tucked them in his elbows. Fists balled, exposed skin pulled white
over his knuckles. “My work – how did you know about my work?”

“Townies,” Aly replied, an edge to her voice.

 

Why does he keep demanding something from me?

 

Disgusted, he spat, “What is this?”

“Why am I being scolded? I saw something. Some friends
identified it and pointed me in the right direction.” Feeling
defensive, her fingers itched, curling into themselves. She dug her
nails into her palm, a welcome distraction from the hurricane raging
in her chest.

“This isn’t a joke, Alyson. This is my career. You can’t take this
from me. You can’t take this too. I won’t have it. You’d regret that,
I’m sure.” Tone menacing, his jaw set.

What is that supposed to mean?

 

Baffled, she stuttered, “I-I didn’t-”

 

Incensed, he demanded, “Did your mother put you up to this?”

 

What the hell?

A lump germinated in her throat. Eyes wide with shock, she
blinked back confused tears. Suddenly ashamed of her vulnerability,
she curled her nails into her palms, desperate to shake it off.
Unwilling to whisper, her voice hardened. Aly said, “She’s dead.”

Greg nodded slowly. Sounding distant, he smirked, “I guess so.”

Blood boiled in her veins. She labored to control the spiraling
rage in her chest. She wanted to hurt something, maybe him. It was
painful to resist the rage to open her mouth and say a million things
– something, anything until it hurt him. She wanted to go low, to rip
the arrogance that grated her calm.

The consciousness of the people staring around the lobby forced
serotonin through the storm, but the state felt impassive. How could
he say that? How could act like it didn’t matter, as though he had
almost forgotten? As though the revelation was almost amusing?
How could he not revere and love her mother as completely as Aly
did?

She couldn’t fathom Vanessa allowing a man into her world that
didn’t worship the ground she walked on. Aly remembered her
mother’s words – “You are worthy of nothing less than the Alpha.
You wait, watch, and you ask nothing of him because you never rely
on a man. He has to prove himself.” Was it a secret to life Vanessa
passed on in discretion, or a warning not to follow the footsteps that
lead into her darkest mistakes?

She never said I was one of them.

Greg shook his head in frustration to a thought he hadn’t shared.
Stalking away from her, he ripped the folder from a statuesque
blonde woman’s hands as she discussed them with a coworker. She
threw her hands up, waving, calling after him. Greg ignored her
indignant threats, flipping through the pages. He slowed to a stop,
silent. His lip curled.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he snarled. Shoving splayed
contents back between the manila covers, he shook it in Aly’s face.
“What the hell is this?”

Why does he keep demanding something from me?

The blonde materialized behind him, stiffly tapping his shoulder.
He spun to face her, meeting a look of death, a hand on her hip. She
ripped the file from his hands, turning and walking away without a
word. Greg’s face reddened, following with anger bleeding from his
stance.

“You’re actually taking this seriously?” He yelled. His arms
stretched out, as though he
was waiting
measuring
wingspan.
Something about it put Aly on edge, her nerves flooded with alarm.
It seemed aggressive and self-gratifying at once.

“How do you recommend it be handled, Greg?” The woman
responded, voice curt. She kept her back to him. Finally glancing
over her shoulder, she inquired, “Alyson, are you still holding that
this is a legitimate report?”

Aly nodded, rubbing her arm. It was too warm in the building,
but she had grown cold. Ignoring Greg’s glare, she raised her voice,
“Of course.”

This is wrong– it’s happening way too fast. My head’s spinning.

The woman smiled. It seemed genuine, managing to overlook
Greg completely. Aly realized she reminded her of her mother.
“Fantastic. If our screening approves, I’m launching investigation. If
only to extend Doctor Glass’s comfort zone –
think
of
it
as
professional development.” Her eyes narrowed on Greg, smile
dissipating. “It’s good to be challenged by our colleagues – even
better by our supervisors. Now, would you do me a favor and follow
up on the Yaver report like I requested this morning, and the
morning before?”

“You-” Greg began.

 

What is going on? I’ve never seen him like this.

 

“Now, Gregory.” She interrupted. Her voice was too polite,
somehow a warning, as she added, “Please and thank you.”

Greg glowered, his animosity momentarily on his boss, rather
than Aly. She breathed a sigh of relief, moving to sit closer to the
desk. It felt safer, as though the distance allowed her to stay out of
sight despite the open-layout. Though tempted to move to the
couches as they vacated, she held still. He stalked down a back
hallway to gather himself.

Or plot revenge and world domination.

After a moment, the woman moved to continue her conversation.
As another researcher in casual work clothes joined them, Aly’s
interest was piqued. Her relocation put them in hearing distance. She
knew they were discussing her, or at least her case.

“What’s the word, Jocelyn?”

She finished her sentence, ignoring the interruption. “…It
appears two teens with her are refusing to come forward. She claims
the third will show in the morning.”

A scrawny man in a lab coat groaned. He turned enough to
reveal red stitching with the title Oliver Grooves above a breast
pocket. “Can’t we deal with it then?”

Pushing her bangs from her eyes, she shifted the papers, reading
one page while fumbling to recover a photograph beneath it. “It’s a
classic rock throwing encounter, with photographs. They’re way to
unclear to identify any animal, but it’s still a reiteration of validity.
Did you see the picture of her leg?”

Oliver nodded. “Yeah… It looks like she was in the way of an
assault weapon… kicked a grenade or something.”

A taller man with braids pulled into a wide ponytail shrugged,
adding ardently, “Plus, bears have no known record of throwing
rocks.”
“Honestly Darrin, all of this is irrelevant to one fact: that’s Greg

Glass’s daughter.” Oliver shook his head.

 

“It’s all the more reason to look into it. He’s a serious guy,”
Darrin sighed, rubbing his brow.

 

“Yeah, but he’s hardly Mr. Moral,” Oliver argued, pushing half-
rimmed glasses up his nose.

“If it’s any help, I absolutely
believe her– or enough to give her
the benefit of the doubt. It’s our job to investigate claims. We treat
known hoaxers with more open minds. Don’t blacklist the kid.”
Darrin motioned with each sentence like a conductor, offering a
sincere
expression
to Oliver’s doubting face and seeking
encouragement from Jocelyn’s. She nodded each time, avid in
agreement.

Jocelyn nodded. “Exactly. It’s necessary, no matter your personal
feelings.”

“Whatever. You’ve got paperwork.” Oliver shoved the papers
into Jocelyn’s hands, seeming more exhausted than irritated. He
bumped into her arm playfully as he moved past. She spun around,
eyes following as he speed-walked towards what seemed like a
break-room from a limited glance. She stuck out her tongue, he
responded with a
taunting
leer. Crude
hand gestured where
exchanged until he finally disappeared behind the wall, leaning as
though someone pulled him inside while he struggled to stay behind
for the last word.

Walking alongside each other, Darrin and Jocelyn smiled at Aly
mid-conversation as they
passed.
Unsure
how to respond, she
nodded. Self-conscious, she stared at the colorful Band-Aids along
her skin like stepping stones, wishing she’d worn something more
modest than shorts.

The sound of a solid bass erupted from the front desk. Caught
off guard, she flinched. Seeking the source, she noticed someone
rush to pull the phone from their pocket and silence it without a
glance.

Even with his back to Aly, the man at the counter was an
interesting sight. Tall and skinny, he seemed almost lopsided with
stocky shoulders attached to such gangly limbs. The hems of his
skinny jeans were inches above his ankles, revealing clashing socks
sprouting from sneakers with neon laces. Against his clean-cut torso,
including a professional blazer and his military-esque crew cut, it
blared like an alarm, distracting.

Unsure what compelled her, Aly stood, drifting to his side. He
leaned on the counter above the desk, shifting through ink-fading
photographs she recognized as her own. Noting the illegible tattoos
running across his knuckles, she inquired, “Is everyone here
reviewing the file?”

Clearing his throat to mask a surprised jump, he blurted, “You’re
Alyson Glass.”

 

Amused, she nodded. He stood, offering a hand and a grin. “I’m
Banes. Rowley Banes.”

 

“Like James Bond?”

Pleased she understood his reference, he nodded, lifting the
stack. “Almost everyone. Most of our work is amongst ourselves.
There’s usually a lot to circulate, but the area doesn’t really get hit
with reports until tourist season. You’ve broken the calm before the
storm, Alyson. They’re freaked and flurrying.”

“So is everyone,” she concluded, dismissing his explanation.
“Who works with this stuff anyway?”

“There’s all sorts of people who work with this. Sketch artists,
professional imitators, DNA diagnostics and polygraph experts,
biologists,
archaeologists,
zoologists,
cryptologists,
private
investigators,
field
researchers,
trackers,
teachers,
professors,
doctors, journalists, cops, even friends of friends… any-
and
everyone who’s seen it or wants to. One guy was in charge of
wildlife for the United Nations. It’s crazy. It’s hush-hush. There’s a
lot invested in the field.”

Aly raised a brow, joking, “And I’ll bet they just come running
to work with you guys.”

Rowley g
rinned. “We can instigate them – knocking, mimicking
vocalizations, even using machines and acoustics. You wait until the
animals grow silent, it’s their instinct to lay low when a ‘squatch is
around. The tricky part is, when they’re provoked enough to actually
interact, they’re extremely aggressive. The key is to try to make it
seem like accidental attraction. They’re usually more curious than
confrontational. But they’re very protective of their young, and since
they travel in families, a baby‘squatch is always around. You know
how mamabears are? It’s a very similar situation. There’s a fine line
between scaring them off, getting them curious, and threatening
their territory.”