Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) by Jeremy Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

said I hadn’t met him,” she says from the living room. “Not that I didn’t know who he was.”
    I shake my head. I can’t decide if I like her smart-ass commentary or hate it. She’s still in the doorway when I return. I dig into my pocket, fish out my badge and flip it open like an old pro. She’s not impressed.
    While inspecting the badge, she asks, “Why did you discharge your firearm Mister...” She reads my name from the badge. “...Hudson?”
    “There was a bear,” I say.
    “You realize this is not bear hunting season?”
    “I didn’t shoot the bear. The back door was open. She was in here with a pair of cubs when I opened the door.”
    I see a flicker of understanding in her eyes. If she lives out here, she knows how mamma bear reacted.
    I point to the ruined screen door. “She knocked me through the door. Nearly took my head off. Scratched the hell out of Betty.”
    She stiffens. “You have a woman with you? Is she hurt?”
    “No,” I say and then realize I really don’t want to tell this woman who Betty is, but I’ve got no choice. “Betty...is my truck.”
    She steps back and turns to the truck. The claw marks are easy to see. “You named your truck, Betty?”
    “I’m adorable, I know.”
    “You’re weird is what you are.”
    “How come you don’t have a Maine accent,” I ask, suddenly noticing she lacks the laconic drawl prevalent in Northern Maine.
    She ignores the question. “What’s the P stand for?” She holds up my ID, which reads, Fusion Center – P beneath the big blocky DHS. “Fusion Centers are designated by cities, not letters.”
    Triple damnit . Why does a backwoods cop know anything about the DHS? I consider making something up, but she’s probably wondering if the ID is a fake, so anything other than the ridiculous truth might land me in a jail cell, and I do not want my superiors bailing me out.
    Still, I can’t quite bring myself to say the exact word. “Preternatural,” I say, hoping she has no idea what it means.
    No such luck.
    An honest grin emerges on her face. “Please tell me DHS isn’t investigating Sasquatch sightings.”
    The depth of my frown matches her smile, but upside down. She laughs, but quickly squelches it by covering her mouth with her hand. “Well, Special Investigator Jon Hudson, you’ve arrived just in time. The Johnsons are my next stop and you’re going to want to talk to them.”
    “I am?”
    “Most of the sightings are reported by them.”
    “I’m not really feeling up to it right now, thanks.”
    “Look,” she says, a serious tone creeping back into her voice. “They’re just up the road, and I fielded at least five calls from them last night. Near as I can tell, you were the cause for all of them.”
    “Last night?” I say. “Kind of a slow response time.”
    “They call a lot,” she admits.
    “The boy who called Sasquatch,” I say.
    She nods, but corrects me. “Old man who called Sasquatch. Look, I’m going to give you two choices, come with me and talk to Mr. Johnson, or I’m going to book you for public drunkenness.”
    I smile. It’s screwy, but I kind of like that she’s playing hardball, and that she wants me to come with her. But my head and body would rather I spend the next few hours in a fetal position.
    “I have coffee,” she says. “And ibuprofen.”
    “Sold.”

 
     
    6
     
    Ten seconds after sitting in the passenger’s seat of Collins’s tricked out Sheriff’s SUV, I’m ready to ditch Betty and find me a new girl. Whether that’s a new car or Collins, I have yet to decide. The seats are cushy, the engine roars when she turns the key just once—Betty takes some coaxing—and her badass stereo has an MP3 player port. I look around, counting eight speakers. “How’s the sound system?”
    “We’re not car shopping,” she says, and picks up a thermos from between the seats. She pops off the red cap and unscrews the cover, releasing a rich coffee aroma that distracts me from my