Unfortunately, Young’s talk with Paul Riordan only confirmed his suspicions about how well the alien could blend in. Riordan was thoroughly freaked out and had absolutely no idea what was going on. The exhaustive medical exams hadn’t helped ease his mind, though they’d definitely eased everybody else’s. No sign of tampering. Except for the fact that the man had apparently popped caffeine pills like candy, which wasn’t unusual for a trucker, Riordan was as hale and healthy as your average fifty-four-year-old professional truck driver.
Riordan himself believed he’d been exposed to some kind of toxin or radiation, an impression reinforced by the thick glass wall between him and Young. He’d had a major freak-out shortly after they’d brought him in, but seemed mostly composed now, though clearly confused as to why Young kept asking about an already half-forgotten late-night encounter in the middle of nowhere.
“I don’t know who he was,” he repeated, unnecessarily slowly as though not sure they were speaking the same language. “I barely talked to him. Is that what this is all about? Who was he? Some kind of terrorist?”
Young raised an eyebrow. “Did he look like a terrorist?”
“I don’t know!” Riordan jumped up and started to pace. Young watched him, but kept silent, knowing the repetitive movement might help Riordan think, remember. It certainly was going to make him feel a bit more in control, and that was all right. He wanted Riordan to cooperate, wanted him focused, not scared to death. Riordan glanced at him, noticed the expectant look, and ran a shaky hand across his scruffy face. “He looked like an average Joe,” he offered, a little calmer. “White guy. Tallish. Five o’clock shadow. Fit. Southern accent.”
Young nodded encouragingly. “Old? Young?”
Riordan grimaced. “I don’t know. Honestly. It was dark. Mid-thirties, maybe?”
“Did you notice anything in particular about him, anything at all?
Something out of the ordinary. A scar, maybe. A special belt buckle or piece of jewelry. Did he say anything strange?”
“I don’t know.” Riordan threw up his hands, frustrated. “No. Nothing.
He seemed like a nice guy. Polite. A little befuddled, maybe. Didn’t know why he’d fainted. He thought it was probably low blood sugar, but he seemed fine. I wouldn’t have left if he hadn’t.”
“Do you remember his face? Would you recognize him again?”
Young knew the answer before Riordan even opened his mouth. The sheepish expression said it all. It had been dark. Riordan had been tired and hadn’t paid attention. Like most civilians, he wasn’t trained to observe and memorize details. The one man who’d seen the host’s face was your typical unreliable witness. Young resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“What about his car? Can you tell me something about his car?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of truck. An older model, I think. Hey, do you think I could get a cup of coffee?”
This wasn’t going to work.
TWENTY