“In Human Form by David Kubicek was clearly the best fictional novel I have read this year. Frankly, I could not put it down, and I was wondering where the sequel was. It combines elements of rural American murder-mystery with sci-fi in an intriguing way. A “must read”.” – Steven R. McBride, reviewing In Human Form on Amazon. 

“It’s very difficult to portray the brilliant aspects of this book without giving plot spoilers . . . It’s wonderfully written and the early parts of the book portray the small town atmosphere perfectly.” – bookstackreviews.com.

Wendy knows she’s different from her friends. She longs to fit in, but as hard as she tries, she can’t quite hide her strangeness. What Wendy’s friends don’t know, and what Wendy doesn’t remember, is that she is an android built for companionship by a marooned alien. She had lived for three years in this quiet community until a tragic accident killed her creator and destroyed her memory. But Wendy’s struggle for acceptance soon turns deadly as the wrong people learn her secret and seek to cash in on The Discovery Of The Millennium.

Available as an e-book from:       Amazon         Barnes & Noble     Smashwords

And as a  paperback from:    Amazon    Barnes & Noble

 

EXCERPT

The trouble began that day in Memorial Park. Wendy and Priscilla were sitting beneath the huge oak tree near the picnic tables. The day smelled of wood smoke and roasting hot dogs on a nearby grill. Priscilla had just finished playing Lily of the West.

“Can I try?” Wendy asked.

“Sure,” Priscilla said, passing her the guitar. “I’ll show you a couple chords. For a C chord, put your index finger on the second string at the first fret . . . ”

Before Priscilla could help her, Wendy fingered the chord.

“You play the guitar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you finger a G?”

“Was it in any of the songs you played?”

“It’s the first chord in The Wabash Cannonball.”

Wendy fingered a G chord.

“How’d you know that?”

Wendy shrugged.

“Do you know any songs?”

Wendy began to play Lily of the West. The notes rang out crystal clear in the afternoon. Her voice was a pleasant soprano, and her picking fingers flowed over the strings like water.

A robin scratched in the grass not far from the young women. A squirrel gnawed on a branch above their heads. Kids were squealing on the playground. A car swished by in the street.

The song ended.

“Hey, Pris,” someone called. “Looks like you got some competition.”

Priscilla frowned.

“C’mon, you played before. Didn’t you?”

 *****

A few days later, Wendy was lying on her bed, turning the pages of John Steinbeck’s novel The Grapes of Wrath when Lyn appeared in the doorway.

“Why don’t you read it? It’s a good book.”

“Yes,” Wendy said. “I like it.”

Lyn laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Really, you should read it.”

“I am reading it. I’m halfway through.”

Wendy read at least twenty books a day as well as every newspaper and magazine she could find. In the month she’d lived with Lyn and Jared she’d read six hundred and twenty-three books. She hadn’t written them down. She just knew she had read that many, and she could remember their names.

She summarized The Grapes of Wrath up to page 296. Lyn eyed her skeptically.

“How long have you been reading it?”

“Four minutes and thirty-nine seconds.”

“You read it then started turning pages faster when you heard me coming down the hall.”

“Why would I do that?”

“For a joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Wendy said. “Turn to page 193, and I’ll prove it to you.”

Lyn picked up the book and flipped through the pages. Wendy began to recite page 193, verbatim. Lyn’s face went white, her eyes wide. Suddenly frightened, Wendy stopped talking.

“Go on,” Lyn said.

“No.”

Lyn turned to another page.

“You memorized that. What’s on page 228?”

Wendy shook her head.

“You can’t because you didn’t memorize it.”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“No one can read that fast and remember every word.”

It took three Extra Strength Tylenol and half an hour of soothing talk from Jared to calm Lyn down. After he’d gotten her to sleep, he stuck his head into Wendy’s room and nodded toward the stairs.

She followed, frightened, and found him sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, ashtray on the stand beside him. He tapped ashes from his pipe, slowly refilled and re-lit it. Wendy sat down on the floor, her arms encircling her knees.

“What kind of stunt was that?” Jared asked.

“I didn’t know it would upset her. Everyone reads books.”

“Not a goddamned seventy-five pages a minute with photographic recall, they don’t.”

“Why am I different from everyone else?”

Currents of smoke eddied in the dusky air. Jared sighed, his anger dissipating.

“Everybody’s different,” he said.

“But why do people freak out at everything I do?”

Jared chewed on the stem of his pipe and looked thoughtful.

“God’s given you a marvelous gift,” he said. “You can play the guitar without years of practice. You can read fast, got a head for figgerin’ and mechanical stuff. You’ve got a photographic memory. You can run for miles without gettin’ winded. Most people would cut off their right arm to have your talents.”

“Priscilla hasn’t treated me the same since that day in the park. Even Aaron looks at me funny because I don’t sweat as much as he does when we run.”

Jared held his pipe close to his chest.

“Don’t flaunt your abilities.”

“I didn’t know Priscilla would get mad when I played that stupid song. I didn’t know I’d upset Lyn by quoting Steinbeck.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“What’ll I do?”

“Remember that most people can’t do some of the things you can.”

“How will I know what they can’t do?”

“Watch them and try to learn from them. Use your own judgment.”

“I’m a freak.”

“No,” he said, pointing at her with his pipe stem. “You’re not a freak. Life will be easier for you because of these skills. Just don’t flaunt them.”

No matter what Jared said, Wendy thought, she was a freak. So what if her abilities made life easier? She just wanted to be like everyone else.

 2

 Late afternoon, the sun pounding down from a blue-white sky, heat rising from the ground in waves.

“You’re going to burn as red as a beet,” Priscilla said.

“Probably,” said Wendy, whose skin was very fair.

They all wore swimsuits: Priscilla, Wendy, Molly Schmidt, Art Reinholtz, Jane Wenzel, and Ted Moravec.

“Let’s go, for Chrissakes,” Art yelled.

He dashed toward the lake, and they chased him, their feet slapping the tinder-dry grass.

Horseshoe Lake covered ten square miles in the center of Pioneers Park. On the southwest shore, you could buy fishing supplies or rent rowboats. The picnic grounds were south of the lake, the campgrounds west. Swimming was allowed only near the picnic area, and the young people headed for this spot.

Art galloped into the water, splashing. Out on the lake, a windsurfer cut the water with a gentle swish. People were casting their fishing lines from the piers and from the shore. Small children darted here and there, getting under foot, burbling with excitement about the fireworks show planned for evening. Once in a while, the pop of a smoking capstick would echo through the picnic grounds or a package of ladyfingers would rattle off like rapid fire gunshots. Mothers spread oilcloths on the grass or over rough plank picnic tables while fathers, cursing the heat, lit fires in grills and stood, sweating, with long-handled forks and spatulas over sizzling meat. The treetops whispered softly in the muggy air.

The water was cool. It soothed the restlessness inside Priscilla. She floated on her back, her eyes closed against the sun. Absently she touched the red scar on her left arm where the knife wound had healed over.

Someone jumped on her, and she floundered, sputtering. Muddy water gushed into her mouth, and she coughed it out.

“Grow up, will you?” she said.

“Well, excuuuuuse me,” Art said.

He swam back to the others. Priscilla stood dripping and watched them having fun. She felt out of place here. Her two-week vacation on Uncle Max’s ranch in the Sandhills hadn’t eased her black mood. Uncle Max and Aunt Emma always tried to start conversations with her when she wanted to be left alone, cousin Sally was a silly little twit just discovering puberty, and the bleak scenery had depressed her even more.

After returning home, she’d finally started her diet, but from the way she looked in a swimsuit, she decided, all she could look forward to eating for the remainder of the summer were carrot sticks and cottage cheese.

“Where’s Aaron?” Molly asked Wendy.

“Had to work.”

Jealousy pricked Priscilla like an angry thorn. Wendy had a boyfriend, and it was partly Wendy’s fault, Priscilla felt, that she had lost Donald. It wasn’t fair.

“Let’s see who can stay under the water the longest!” Art bellowed.

“All right,” Ted said. “Who’s first? Priscilla, you gonna go?”

Priscilla shrugged and waded toward the group. The sunlight was hot and glittering on the water. Water lapped at Priscilla’s sides. A faint fish smell hung over the lake.

“Okay,” Art said, spreading his hands like a football coach explaining a play to his team. “We’re each gonna duck our heads under the water while the rest count off. Whoever holds their breath the longest wins.”

“What’s first prize?” Jane asked.

“First prize for you is a date with the hottest stud ever to come out of Antelope Valley High.”

“With Jim Frelix?” Molly said, referring to the captain of last year’s football team.

Art feigned insult.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said.

Art went first. He took a deep breath, pinched his nose, and sat down in the water. The others stood in a circle around him and counted, allowing about one second per count.

“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . ”

A bird called somewhere far away. Locusts made the trees ring. Farther out on the lake, a fish jumped and plopped back into the water. The lifeguards watched with mild interest the game of hold-your-breath-under-the-water.

After forty-six counts, Art exploded above the surface, gulping for air, water plastering his hair and streaming from his body. He shook his head, and water droplets splattered the other kids.

“Okay, who’s next?”

The game had perked Priscilla up.

“I’ll go,” she said.

She stayed down for twenty-four counts.

“You weren’t really trying,” Ted said. “You’re a singer, for Christ’s sake. What happened to your breath control?”

A round of good-natured boos.

“You’ll have a chance to improve later,” Art said. “That really sucks, Priscilla.”

Priscilla’s good feeling was gone.

If you say another word, Arthur Duane Reinholtz, she thought, I’ll punch your lights out.

“Now you,” Art said to Wendy.

Without a word, she closed her eyes and sat down in the water.

“One . . . two . . . three . . . ”

Wendy’s hair floated on the surface like tendrils of a fragile water plant.

“ . . . fifty-eight . . . fifty-nine . . . sixty. . . “

The sunlight dimmed. Priscilla glanced up, squinting, her lips moving as she counted silently. A dark, gold-rimmed cloud had blocked the sun.

“ . . . . eighty-five . . . eighty-six . . . ”

“Hey, that beats us all to hell,” Art yelled.

On shore, someone had passed the word, and a crowd was gathering. Even small children had stopped scurrying about and had come to the edge of the water to watch.

“ . . . one hundred and ten . . . one hundred and eleven . . . ”

The day suddenly became still. There was no breeze. No birds calling to one another among the branches. Only the occasional splat of a fish on the lake and the smell of smoke from the grills.

“ . . . one hundred and sixty-two . . . one hundred and sixty-three . . . ”

The counting had lost its spirit. The kids looked nervously at one another. Smiles faded from faces. The lifeguards were tensing, leaning forward in their seats. Priscilla’s heart fluttered with dread.

“ . . . one hundred and eighty, one hundred and — ”

Abruptly, the counting ceased. On shore, someone coughed. Somewhere, a radio played.

“Hey,” Molly said, her voice a whisper in the stillness. “No one can hold their breath that long. Can they?”

“It wasn’t three minutes,” Ted said, not sounding convinced. “We counted too fast.”

Wendy’s hair swelled with the ripples on the surface of the lake. She was completely motionless, as if unconscious. Priscilla could see only a distorted image of her friend beneath the murky water.

“Wendy,” Priscilla said, her voice flat and unnaturally loud. “Wendy? Come on. Stop it.”

Priscilla swallowed.

“That’s enough,” she said.

She touched Wendy’s hair, like gossamer threads on the water. Then she grasped Wendy’s shoulder.

Wendy stood up. Her hair hung limply down her back. Water dripped from her face and beaded on her chest and arms, and she blinked water from her eyes. She breathed normally, as if she’d been standing there all along and hadn’t been holding her breath.

“Are you okay?” Jane ventured.

“Sure.”

“You were down there for three minutes.”

“No, it couldn’t have been that long.”

The cloud passed from in front of the sun. A murmur arose from the spectators.  The kids stood in their circle around Wendy and stared at her.

And Wendy knew that she had done something wrong again.