By the time they all made their way across the clearing and through the water, the alien was sitting up, glassy stare in place, waiting for them to command him.
“Are you alone?” Diesel asked Mr. Hairy and Wet.
The alien nodded.
“Did you see any other escaped prisoners out here in the trees?”
The alien shook his head.
Diesel looked over at Cam. “Take a group and look around the area just to be sure.”
Cam took off with a group of five others, but came back several minutes later shaking his head. “There aren’t any tracks or broken branches or any signs anyone else was with him,” Cam said.
They put restraints on the alien prisoner and led him back through the woods to the van. The pungent scent of the alien, who’d obviously tangled with a skunk or two during his escape, made Wyatt’s eyes water. He wished theycouldstrap him on the roof under a tarp instead of putting him in the van with the rest of them for the return to the truck stop.
Breathing through his mouth, Wyatt contemplated how long it would take him to walk back to Alienn if he didn’t ride in the van with the overpowering stench.
Before the alien was stuffed in the far back row of the van, Cam pulled a small aerosol can out of the glove compartment and sprayed the contents all over the calm, shackled alien, head to toe, back, front and sides, immediately neutralizing the gag-worthy stench.
“What is that amazing stuff and how can I get a fifty-five-gallon drum of it?” Wyatt asked.
Cam gave him a tight smile. “This is alien technology. Unfortunately, it is unavailable for distribution to humans.”
“Right.” Wyatt nodded. “That’s too bad. You could make a zillion dollars selling that stuff, maybe more.”
One of his father’s large dogs got sprayed by a skunk the winter before. They had tried everything to get the smell out of Mojo’s thick fur including a tub of tomato juice, a tub of vinegar and some concoction of peroxide and lavender, none of which had taken all of the skunk scent completely out. It might have been a factor that Mojo really hated baths and was highly resistant to taking them, especially by the third time they tried to de-skunk scent him by dunking the big goofy dog into yet another tub of smelly liquid.
The radio at Diesel’s hip crackled to life with a pre-established code as one short and one long press on the push to talk button signaled someone wanted to communicate.
Diesel answered. “Base Station, this is the NW team. What’s up? Over.”
“Where are you?” It was Gage’s voice not Valene’s.
“Good news, Base Station. We are about to transport one package back home in the van.”
“Copy that, one package. The NE team just returned with three packages.”
Around Wyatt and Diesel, the volunteers perked up. Even Cam’s eyebrows raised with the question on everyone’s mind: Was Indigo Smith one of the three?
“Let me guess—none of them are the celebrity package we wanted to ensure was found.”
“Copy that. Thecelebritypackage is still at large. I also have additional and rather interesting information regarding that special package. What is your ETA?”
“Estimated time of arrival is less than thirty minutes. What’s interesting about the additional information?”
“The package has been out for delivery much longer than originally believed.”
“Oh?” Diesel’s head dropped, face pointing to the ground when he asked grimly, “How long?”
“Twenty-eight hours longer than the package you have in your possession now.”
“That’s bad.” Wyatt uttered those words in a quiet tone, and Diesel nodded.
“Copy that. It is the consensus here, as well.”
Wyatt said, “That truly sucks because with a twenty-eight-hour head start, he could be anywhere by now. Out of Arkansas, certainly, but maybe even out of the country.” The entire group had gone from perky to pessimistic in seconds and looked shaken.
Diesel said, “I hate to ask, but is there anything else I need to know?”
