Doc Martin quietly poured herself some water from a jug on the counter. Clara had fallen asleep in her chair, and she wanted to keep her that way for as long as possible—she’d heard more than enough about the Russians and their coconspirators, the Chinese.
The actual truth really didn’t matter to Clara; she had her own, which was just fine with her.
There was blood on the kitchen floor and something in a little bed in the corner, covered up with a sheet. Doc Martin guessed it was what was left of the old woman’s dog.
She leaned against the counter and stared out the window at Clara’s backyard, where the woman had said she’d seen Isaac. Nothing was showing any interest in him at all. Doc Martin sipped on her lukewarm drink and thought about those words. She had wondered about the young man’s strange connection with the alien presence and considered that perhaps that connection was getting stronger. She thought of Sidney and what she was going through. Might Isaac be going through something similar?
“See anything good?” an old voice asked from behind her.
Doc Martin turned to see Clara standing in the doorway. “Oh, you’re awake.”
“Yeah, I ain’t croaked yet,” the old lady said, her gaze drifting over to the corner of the room. “I guess you seen that,” she said.
“Yeah,” Doc Martin answered.
“Didn’t have the heart to put her outside. She loved that bed.”
They stared at the little mound under the sheet for a few moments, and then Doc Martin decided a distraction might be in order. “So where does that path go?” she asked, pointing through the window at the backyard.
“That heads out to the marsh and the south cliffs,” Clara said. “My husband used that path for fifty years to go fishing, but then the cell phone company came and bought up a lot of the land and put up their goddamn towers.” Clara waved her hand in disgust. “Actually had my husband arrested for trespassing once. Like he gave two craps about their cell towers!”
Doc Martin found herself staring at the path and thinking of the young man out there alone. She’d made a promise to Sidney and the others to look out for him. Not good, she thought, sipping her water. Not good at all.
“I think your buddy is starting to come to,” Clara said, hooking a crooked thumb over her shoulder toward the living room.
Doc Martin took a final look out the window, at the path that disappeared into darkness, before heading back into the living room.
Burwell was awake. “Things are a little bit fuzzy,” he said. “How about filling me in.”
Doc Martin held her water out for him. “Drink?”
He nodded, reaching out with a trembling hand.
“Might want to sit up first,” she said, pulling the glass away and practically falling to her knees beside him. She helped him maneuver into a sitting position, then pulled a chair over for him to lean against before giving him the water.
Burwell grunted, wincing in obvious pain.
“Where are we?” he asked, bringing the glass up to his mouth.
“Clara was nice enough to take us in,” Doc Martin said, looking over to the old woman, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Yeah, I’m a regular saint,” Clara grumbled. “Anyone want a sandwich?” she asked, turning around and heading into the kitchen. “Might as well use up the bologna before it goes rotten.”
“She seems quite pleasant,” Burwell said as he finished the water with one last gulp.
“Quite,” Doc Martin ruefully agreed.
“Where’d my pants go?” he asked, looking at his naked legs and underwear.
“Off.”
“You?”
Doc Martin shook her head. “Clara.”
Burwell laughed, and then winced.
“He’s still out there,” Doc Martin said.
“Who? The kid—Isaac?”
“I doubt it.”
“Clara said she saw him walking through her backyard.”
“So.”
“Nothing was bothering him,” Doc Martin said, watching as Burwell’s expression went from one of confusion to gradual realization before she continued. “She said that he walked right onto the path, and nothing tried to harm him.”
“Why do you think that is?” Burwell asked.
Doc Martin thought some before giving an answer. “I can’t be sure,” she said slowly. “But maybe it’s got something to do with whatever is going on inside his skull. Something to do with the bad radio.”
Burwell moved and hissed in pain. “Jesus, this hurts,” he said.
“Nasty wound,” she replied.
“So you think he’s still out there—alive,” Burwell said.
“I do.”
“And you think that he has a connection to whatever it is that’s here and trying to kill us. . . .”
“Maybe,” she answered.
“Any idea as to where Isaac might’ve been going?”
“We brought him out here to find the new transmitter,” Doc Martin said. “I think that’s what he’s doing.”
Clara appeared in the doorway holding two paper plates with a sandwich on each. “I didn’t know what you want on them,” she said. “And then remembered I’m not a freakin’ restaurant, so I didn’t put anything on them.”
Doc Martin took both plates and handed one to Burwell. “Thanks, Clara.”
“Right,” the old woman grumbled, heading back into the kitchen for her own sandwich.
“So what now?” Burwell asked, chewing his first bite of sandwich.
“We eat our sandwiches and tell our gracious host how much we love them.”
“I can hear you, ya know!” Clara yelled from the kitchen. “I might not be able to run the Boston Marathon, but I can still hear.”
Doc Martin smiled as she bit into her own sandwich.
“And then?” Burwell prodded.
“Well, you’re not going anywhere,” Doc Martin said, using her sandwich as a pointer and directing his attention to his wound.
“Yeah, I figured,” he grumbled. The bandage was stained a lovely shade of maroon. “So that leaves you.”
Doc Martin slowly nodded.
“So that leaves me,” she agreed, and took another bite of her sandwich.