Gift From The Stars Read Online Free Page B

it, you’ll know what to forget.”
    Simpson turned that over in his mind without seeming to unravel it. “He’s in a mental hospital in Topeka, Kansas,” he said.
    “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mrs. Farmstead said. “Now forget it! Forget Peter Cavendish! And forget you ever saw us!”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Simpson said. “You bet. I never want to see any of you again. You’re worse than aliens.”
    “What do you know about aliens?” Adrian asked sharply.
    “Nothing!” Simpson said. “Nothing at all! I’m sorry I ever heard of them. I’ll burn my books.”
    “Too much of a giveaway,” Mrs. Farmstead said. “Keep everything as it was. Just forget the rest!”
    “Yes, ma’am—and sir.”
    Outside, in the car, Adrian said. “Quick thinking back there.”
    “I read a scene like that in a spy novel,” Mrs. Farmstead said. “Ian Fleming, maybe. I’ve read so many I get them mixed up. You were quick on the pick-up.”
    “Do you think he’ll notify anyone?”
    “Not for a while. Then maybe the shock will wear off and he’ll begin to think about it, maybe wonder why we were sneaking around in the middle of the night, maybe analyze your nonsense about revealing Cavendish’s whereabouts so that he would know what to forget.”
    “It was all I could think of at the time,” Adrian said.
    “Don’t apologize for anything that works.”
    “Maybe he doesn’t have a contact.”
    “Not likely,” Mrs. Farmstead said. “They always leave a number to call in case people start making inquiries or start nosing around. Sooner or later he’ll think to check.”
    “So sooner rather than later we’d better get out of here,” Adrian said.
    When they got back to the bed-and-breakfast, Isabel wasn’t around. She was in her room asleep, they hoped. They messed up their beds to look slept-in, Adrian left money for the night’s stay on the end table in the entry hall along with a note Mrs. Farmstead had written saying “Decided to make an early start for the Canyon. Here’s money for the rooms. Thanks for everything,” and they tiptoed out, easing the door shut behind them.
    They headed back to Flagstaff, bypassing the Grand Canyon and the Lowell Observatory once more, before turning east on Highway 40. Mrs. Farmstead dozed in the passenger seat until the sun came up just before they reached Gallup.
    “A mental hospital, Adrian?” she said. “I think I was dreaming about mental hospitals and a patient named Cavendish.”
    “I’ve been thinking about that, too. But it figures, doesn’t it? Where’s a better place to stash Cavendish? Where he can talk all he likes about aliens and messages from outer space and spaceships.”
    “We’ve got to figure out a plan of action,” Mrs. Farmstead said, “and how we’re going to protect ourselves.”
    By the time they arrived in Albuquerque their plans were complete, and all they had to do was check in the car and catch the first flight to Kansas City. Adrian used their own names again, trying not to glance around the pueblo-style airport to see whether someone was watching. “In movies,” Mrs. Farmstead said, “people always give themselves away by acting as if someone were watching them. Almost as if they expect to be nabbed, and, of course, they are.”
    “By now, of course,” Adrian said, “they may have traced the license plate on the rental car and have my name. They could be here in a few hours, maybe, but surely not before we’ve left. I wish we’d thought to make up fake IDs.”
    “In novels,” Mrs. Farmstead said, “pursuers never get thrown off the scent. They’ll be waiting for us in Topeka.”
    “Life isn’t a novel,” Adrian said. “In a book people get caught because the plot gets more complicated if they’re caught, and if the pursuers were thrown off, that would be the end of a story, wouldn’t it?”
    Mrs. Farmstead nodded. “But it helps to anticipate the worst scenario. That way we won’t be surprised.”
    “We’ll