Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

“I’m adorable, I know.”


“You’re weird is what you are.”

“How come you don’t have a Maine accent,” I ask, suddenly noticing she lacks the laconic drawl prevalent in Northern Maine.

She ignores the question. “What’s the P stand for?” She holds up my ID, which reads, Fusion Center – P beneath the big blocky DHS. “Fusion Centers are designated by cities, not letters.”

Triple damnit. Why does a backwoods cop know anything about the DHS? I consider making something up, but she’s probably wondering if the ID is a fake, so anything other than the ridiculous truth might land me in a jail cell, and I do not want my superiors bailing me out.

Still, I can’t quite bring myself to say the exact word. “Preternatural,” I say, hoping she has no idea what it means.

No such luck.

An honest grin emerges on her face. “Please tell me DHS isn’t investigating Sasquatch sightings.”

The depth of my frown matches her smile, but upside down. She laughs, but quickly squelches it by covering her mouth with her hand. “Well, Special Investigator Jon Hudson, you’ve arrived just in time. The Johnsons are my next stop and you’re going to want to talk to them.”

“I am?”

“Most of the sightings are reported by them.”

“I’m not really feeling up to it right now, thanks.”

“Look,” she says, a serious tone creeping back into her voice. “They’re just up the road, and I fielded at least five calls from them last night. Near as I can tell, you were the cause for all of them.”

“Last night?” I say. “Kind of a slow response time.”

“They call a lot,” she admits.

“The boy who called Sasquatch,” I say.

She nods, but corrects me. “Old man who called Sasquatch. Look, I’m going to give you two choices, come with me and talk to Mr. Johnson, or I’m going to book you for public drunkenness.”

I smile. It’s screwy, but I kind of like that she’s playing hardball, and that she wants me to come with her. But my head and body would rather I spend the next few hours in a fetal position.

“I have coffee,” she says. “And ibuprofen.”

“Sold.”





6



Ten seconds after sitting in the passenger’s seat of Collins’s tricked out Sheriff’s SUV, I’m ready to ditch Betty and find me a new girl. Whether that’s a new car or Collins, I have yet to decide. The seats are cushy, the engine roars when she turns the key just once—Betty takes some coaxing—and her badass stereo has an MP3 player port. I look around, counting eight speakers. “How’s the sound system?”

“We’re not car shopping,” she says, and picks up a thermos from between the seats. She pops off the red cap and unscrews the cover, releasing a rich coffee aroma that distracts me from my pounding headache.

She pours a cup. “It’s sugared, but no cream.”

“Perfect,” I say, reaching for the cup. She hands it to me, and I test the temperature with a sip. Hot enough, but not too hot to chug. I drain the cup in three large gulps. “You mentioned ibuprofen?” I hold the cup out and make a face that begs for more.

She hands the thermos to me. “You need it more than I do.”

I pour another cup and drain it. When I put the cup down, she’s got three maroon pills in her hand. “Figured a big guy like you might need three.”

“Figured right,” I say, taking the pills and popping them in my mouth. I pour a third cup, and swallow it down with the pills. I breathe a sigh of relief as the caffeine flows through my system, chasing away the cobwebs. The hot liquid will dissolve the pain meds fast and the caffeine will speed its delivery to my system. I’ll be feeling peachy in about thirty minutes. “Thank y—” The flavor of the coffee finally registers. “This is French roast?”

She thinks for a moment and then nods. “Sounds right.”

“Sounds right?” I take a sip. “Starbucks French roast. Sugar, but no cream.”

“So?” she asks.

“So,” I say, “your teeth are whiter than any coffee drinker’s should be. You’d also know exactly what your thermos held, and you wouldn’t be so willing to let a stranger drink your wake-up juice.” I thrust a finger in the air, hitting the SUV’s ceiling. “And, Starbucks French roast with sugar, no cream, is what I have been drinking every morning for the past four years.” I take another drink, straight from the thermos, and wipe the moisture from my lip. “You lied to me.”

“Watson, I think you’ve got it,” she says.

“Watson indeed. How long have you known Ted?”

“About ten years,” she says. “Don’t know him well, but he called me a few days back. Told me you’d be in the area, what you were doing, and asked me to bring this to you.” She motions to the coffee.

“So that’s why you came to the cabin?”

“At five thirty in the morning? I don’t know Ted that well. I’m here at the crack of dawn because you spooked the neighbors.”