Chapter 49

There was no more brutality after that, not to me; and Camilla was also treated, if not well, at least courteously. They separated us immediately, even taking us in to jail in different cars, and I didn't see her again for ten days.

Yes, ten days, that's how long they held us. The threats of the local opera company's management and a bunch of its politically connected backers, their pleas, the loud legal noises made by the lawyers Marilyn and Sam hired for us, nothing would budge them. One Tosca date and then another passed, and another and another until they'd all gone by, and still we were "material witnesses." To what, they declined to say—"national security," they excused themselves.

I never saw either Brown or Smith again, we'd been bumped higher up the food chain. They moved me once and then again, plane trips the destinations of which they wouldn't tell me. And endless interrogators badgered me day and night for information I wouldn't reveal.

Where had we been? Walking the streets. Why? Release of tension. Who was with us? Nobody. What happened to the cat I'd brought in? We'd let him go. They'd vary the sequence, vary the wording, vary the intensity, but it all came down to just these things, and I gave the same answers every time. They threatened me with Guantanamo where they've stashed all the supposed terrorists, I amused myself by asking if it was a Caribbean resort. They said I'd spend the rest of my life in prison, I told them they had to try me first and on what charges? We went up and down, round and round, and nobody got anywhere—not them and not me.

I finally found out what had set them off. It was one of the senior interrogators, an older guy who'd seemed actually pretty reasonable in the context of my incarceration, who brought them to me about day seven or day eight.

Three photographs, not one. Apparently some passing hiker had indeed witnessed Asmedogh's crash and had the presence of mind to pull out his camera or cell phone or whatever. The flier itself, pretty badly bunged up but still recognizable, was clearly visible in the first two, both showing Asmedogh working his way out. The third had apparently been taken the same instant that the flier self-imploded, the flash clearly illuminating Asmedogh a short distance away manfully—well, Akulla-fully—making his way into the surrounding woods.

"Have you ever seen this creature?" asked the guy—he also gave me his name as Smith, none of them were apparently willing to own up to their actual identities.

I gave each of the photos a second look. They were actually pretty good representations, either the hiker was a talented photographer or he'd just got blind lucky. And I gave Smith my blandest look. "No," I lied. Then, to embellish just a little, I asked, "What sort of animal is that? A monkey of some kind?" Asmedogh looked no more like a monkey than I do, but it struck me as a nice touch.

He just shook his head at me, but left the photos in front of me. "Are you a patriot?" he asked.

"I like to think so," I told him. "I mean, I salute the flag and all."

"Then as a patriot, I ask you to consider this: What these pictures show is an unidentified alien creature. I mean alien, not of this Earth. Yet it's here on Earth, and we have no idea why, what threat it poses for Americans, and for humans. I ask you again, as an American, and a human, have you ever seen any being that looked like this?"

"No, I haven't, and I'll never admit to it," I said. Then I took a deep breath. Smith was serious, and seriously worried, and I felt I owed something to the "authorities" after all.

"Can we speak hypothetically for a moment?" I asked. It was the first time I'd volunteered anything since they'd had me in custody, I knew that would get his attention.