by Susan Slater
Tommy felt uncomfortable. The coring concept was just a little too real for him. He turned the page.
“How many mutilations happen in a year?”
“About thirty-five nationwide in cattle-producing states. Most ranchers don’t report them, though—obvious reasons, of course, the average person is just reluctant to believe.”
“So who does keep a record?”
“New Mexico Farm and Livestock Bureau and the National American Farm Bureau—but when a case is reported there’s usually a good sized insurance payment involved.”
“Like the bull calf killed Monday night?”
“Yeah. I hear that one was worth around a hundred thousand.”
“And you feel certain that it was aliens?”
“Look at the facts—there’s never any blood, no tracks leading to or from the carcass, other animals avoid the dead one like the plague, like they can sense something unnatural about it.”
“Still, coyotes, raccoons, insects even—I read once of cuts by a coyote fooling a vet.”
“But these are precision-perfect. We’re not talking random bites or chew marks. Here, look at this.” Bruce flipped through several pages of newspaper clippings. “This is the one that’s impressive. I wasn’t there to see it, but I interviewed the reporter.”
Tommy found himself looking at what he decided was a lamb, horribly grotesque, and barely recognizable. An eye was missing, so was the rectal area but the area around her was different. There was some sort of pattern on the ground. “Crop circle,” Bruce informed him. “First time an animal and a circle have been found together. Colorado, two years ago, July fifth. You know that summer there were more than two dozen mutilations reported in New Mexico alone. But Colorado took the prize. Look at these precise edges—the exactness of the design—the size of it.”
“Wasn’t this sort of thing proven to be a hoax in England some time back?”
“Depends on who you believe.” Tommy thought Bruce would have winked if his eyes weren’t already so swollen. “Did you ever see pictures of those found in Corpus Christi? Seven, if I recall correctly. Nothing too big, maybe twenty to fifty feet each.”
“That seems awfully small. Aren’t those things supposed to cover a football field? And only be detected from the air?”
“Or a second story apartment. Point is, we’re talking precision again. Big or small it’s the way they’re laid out—the symmetry of them.”
“Have you seen one?”
“Well, matter of fact, I have. A field this side of Roy, New Mexico. Wide open spaces—filled with that knee-high prairie grass all cut different lengths. It was spectacular.”
“Was this recently? I don’t remember reading about it.”
“Three years back.”
“Any message?”
“In the circle? No, just some sort of geometric figure. I suppose if we could read their writing, it’d say something. That’s the problem with Ufology—at the moment, it’s now open only to interpretation. No one really knows. The mystery is beyond our understanding.”
Tommy just nodded. He was a skeptic but needed to keep an open mind. Aliens did not kill Edwina. That he knew.
“Listen, I’d like you to have a copy of my article.” Bruce reached in a bottom drawer and handed him a copy of the front page of the Farmington Gazette. “You know, you’re holding perseverance right there in your hand. I can’t tell you how long I waited for that day to come.”
“Thanks.” Tommy noticed the autograph in the upper right hand corner. Everyone measures success differently. It was obvious that the award had been Bruce’s shining hour.
“Look, let me call my pal for you. There’s nothing about little green men that he doesn’t know. If you’re in luck, you can run by his house this morning.”
With a lot of posturing, Bruce set up an interview for him, then handed Tommy the phone to get directions.
“Just don’t forget who got you this lead,” Bruce whispered as he gathered up eye drops and a box of tissue and left the room.
+ + +
Bruce’s lead turned out to be a perfectly normal-sounding man who told him how to find his house and said he welcomed the chance to talk with a cop. He was even on the porch as Tommy pulled up in from of the modest brick ranch-style.
Tommy started to explain his interest in their discussion but was waved off.
“Hey, anyone Bruce sends by has got to be okay. All right with you if we talk on the patio?”
Tommy followed the short, rotund man who had introduced himself as Nate Stevens around the side of the house. He favored one leg and leaned heavily on an aluminum cane. It wasn’t quite eleven but the morning was warm. It would feel good to sit outside. The covered slab that ran along the back offered dappled shade. A glass-topped table held a stack of journals. Books, some propped open, littered the area around an overstuffed chair and spilled over to a matching ottoman. All seemed to be on aliens.
“Welcome to my open-air office. Can I get you something? Soda? Tea? Maybe, a brew? My mid-morning snack is a splash of Johnny Walker’s. Gotta say I recommend it.”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, excuse me just a minute to freshen this up. I miss having a wife do these little things for me.” He picked up a tumbler and, managing the cane in his left hand, went through a sliding glass door.
Tommy looked up at the wife comment—was he kidding? He doubted it. But he couldn’t fault the guy when it came to literature on the subject of aliens—the assortment was impressive. He picked up the book closest to him and turned to the picture section. The Roswell Incident. A lot had changed since 1947 but not people’s fervent dedication to naming the U.S. government as cover-up agent. He read the news release issued shortly after the object was found. “The many rumors regarding the flying disc became a reality yesterday when the Army Air Corp was fortunate enough to gain possession of a disc through the cooperation of one of the local ranchers.” Then later that same day, the Army Air Corp officials called a news conference in Dallas and insisted the debris was remnants of a weather balloon equipped with a radar reflector.
“Gives one pause, doesn’t it?” Nate said, reappearing at the door with a fresh drink “Now we know that one of the Army generals who was supposed to have given newspaper reporters the straight scoop about the weather balloon wasn’t even in the area. He was fishing in Port Aransas. So all those comments swearing to the authenticity of the weather balloon don’t hold a lot of water. Too much fraud. No reason to go to that extreme unless there was something that needed to be covered up.” Nate dragged a white plastic lawn chair out from behind the stack of books, put his drink down, pivoted with the help of the cane, picked up another text and turned back. “The 37th Annual National UFO Conference was held in Corpus Christi last weekend, by the way.”
“Do a lot of people go to those sorts of things?”
“Hasn’t Roswell’s economy boomed with their museums and alien fairs? Wait. Maybe I have the James Moseley article here.”
He pushed himself forward then leaned over the table without getting up. “Gout. Flares up every now and then. I don’t know whether the Johnny Walker helps or hinders— but I’m not going to find out by abstaining.” He sat back heavily. “I’m a supporter, if that’s your first question—supporter and MUFON member. That’s Mutual UFO Network in case you’re a neophyte. To be frank with you, I don’t know of a controller who doesn’t believe. It’s just tough to get them to talk. Did Bruce tell you I’m working on a book?”
Tommy shook his head. “Is your focus on New Mexico?”
“No better place. This state’s a regular hot spot.”
“Do you believe that the park ranger actually saw an alien? Might have been accosted by one?” Tommy asked.
“Absolutely. It’s about time we started getting evidence of encounters. They’ve been biding their time.”
“But the attack was brutal. That doesn’t sound like an alien to me.”
Nate harrumphed. “
You’ve seen E.T. too many times. Why do you assume that any ‘visitor’ from another planet must be friendly? You’ve stepped on ants, haven’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“By accident, not knowing your brute strength or just not being careful, you’ve taken lives. Or maybe as a child, on purpose. Ever turned the garden hose down a mound, or tossed in a lighted match?”
“I hardly think—”
“But surely you see the correlation? Why do we expect them to know what will and will not kill us?” He sipped his drink. “We’ve killed them. That’s the evidence right there in your hand.”
“Roswell?”
“Biggest cover-up in the peace time history of this country.”
“But why? What was there to lose by going public—telling the truth?”
“Because they killed him. And nothing says the little guy was killed right away. Who’s to say he wasn’t killed after we’d gotten the information we wanted?”
“Information?”
“Mr. Spottedhorse, hasn’t it ever made you wonder how the world became computer literate so quickly? By World War II we had the know-how but we were clumsy—big rooms full of tubes that overheated and worked only a fraction of the time they were supposed to. But we quickly left all that behind, didn’t we?”
“We gained computer information from aliens?” Tommy tried not to sound incredulous.
“Aliens helped us overcome Sputnik in ’57. Gave us the knowledge to launch our own satellites. Later, we were first with manned exploration.”
“But why couldn’t the aliens have helped the Russians in the same way?”
“Exactly. Now, you’ve hit upon the premise of my book. It’s my contention that aliens—not necessarily from the same planet—have worked for years to stir things up on earth.”
“But for what reason?”
“Maybe they have a bet on. Who’s going to annihilate the other the quickest—get rid of the major players and move in themselves?” The question was punctuated with a roar of laughter.
“Mr. Stevens—”
“Nate, please. I don’t expect you to believe. But keep an open mind. They’re out there, trust me on that. Why, the city of Hakui, Japan has announced plans to build a UFO research center. The library alone will house over 10,000 documents. But it’s not all cut-and-dried research. There are documented personal encounters. You remember Communion, don’t you? The Whitley Strieber book, latter ’80’s? It’s around here somewhere.” He hobbled toward the table by the overstuffed chair. “Aha. Here, take a look.”
Tommy’s intake of air was audible. Edwina Rosenberg could have been the graphic artist for the cover, the bulbous head, slanted eyes—dark without a pupil. People seemed to see the same thing, the same creature.
“Exactly what that ranger saw,” Nate offered as if reading his mind.
Tommy opened the cover, leafed through the first few pages, then stopped and read aloud. “I know how it feels and looks to be with these visitors. I know how they sound when they talk and what it looks and smells like in their places. I know how they act and how they appear. I may even know something about why they are here and what they want from us.” Tommy closed the book and sat for a moment. Could it even be remotely possible that Brenda had been abducted?
“So? Is that a hoax?” Nate gestured toward the book, ice tinkling in his tumbler.
“I have to admit first hand encounters sound authentic. Unless they’re on the cover of the Enquirer.”
“Even then, we need to pay attention. You can’t ignore what that ranger saw. I wished I could have seen it—the being or the drawing.” He ruefully added. “You know, we’re having a meeting of Skywatchers here this afternoon. You’re welcome to attend. We’re a local group about twenty strong—Bruce is a member.”
“Thanks, but I need to be getting back.”
+ + +
He was running late. He’d spent far too much time listening to babble about mutilations and sightings. Tommy was sure that both Bruce and Nate meant well, but they seemed a little out of touch. Or was he the one refusing to believe what was right in front of him?
He wanted to run the diary by Ben. Maybe, he’d pick up on whether this Edwina was … was what? Sane? He wasn’t sure anyone could really tell, that is, know the inside story. From what he’d read in the diary, her mother certainly seemed to cause her problems. He caught up with Ben at the hospital just before lunch.
“You up for some grease?” Ben asked. “It’s Navajo taco day in the cafeteria.”
“My favorite.” Tommy grinned. The sloppy meat, beans, potatoes, lettuce and tomato on a puffy piece of fry bread was a treat. He’d watch the calories next week when he started to work out again. But then that’s what he’d promised himself last week.
They found a quiet corner and Tommy handed Ben the diary. Ben read the first marked page about her meeting this “hunk” and then looked up. “You think maybe she wasn’t okay?
“That’s your territory, pal. But, yes, I think she was okay. Love struck, forty, living with mom, desperate for companionship—but okay.”
Ben removed the paperclip and leafed through the remaining ten or so pages. “She gives a pretty good description of the guy. He could be her murderer. Ian sounds a little foreign. But he certainly was the guy she was tracking when she died.”
“I doubt if it’s his real name. But he’s for real. You read the part about him asking to use her phone?”
Ben flipped a couple pages, then paused and scanned the page in from of him. “Nice guy. He calls his mother while he’s out camping with friends.”
“I’ve asked the rangers at the Center to get a copy of the records. Something tells me knowing who received that call could make a difference.”
“You don’t think he called his mother?”
“You know, I’m going to be disappointed if he did.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“The diary? Keep it for now. Make a copy, then turn it over to the tribal police in a couple days.”
Ben didn’t say anything. The diary could be a major breakthrough—the phone call, the description of this Ian.
Tommy leaned over to take back the diary.
“I think your morning’s been more fun than mine.” Ben said.
“I think strange is more like it. I spent a lot of time looking at pictures of dead animals.” Tommy filled both their ice tea glasses at a side counter, then sat down again. “Tell me more about this Amos Manygoats. Didn’t you tell me he had an animal mutilated the night the plane went down?”
“He lost his prize goat. I’ve only seen him once since we admitted him. He has an upper respiratory infection—the naggy kind that doesn’t respond quickly to antibiotics. We need to hold him a few more days but he may decide to leave sooner. There’s no doubt in my mind that he was out there that night. He could have seen the plane crash.”
“But he hasn’t said anything about what happened to him?”
“It’s not that easy. First, he speaks very little English, and second, he probably has an Indian explanation about what went on.”
“Could I talk to him? Through an interpreter?”
“It would be difficult. The daughter will be there this afternoon. I suppose you could see if she’d help. I’ll try to arrange it.”
Tommy had one more stop to make before he came back to the hospital. He’d been meaning to question Brenda’s fellow teachers at Crownpoint Elementary. Now might be a good time.
+ + +
“Brenda? Take off without a word to anybody? No way.” Pam Black paused to take a sip of her canned pop. “Brenda has been my teaching assistant since the term started. Granted, that’s only been five weeks, but I feel I know her. We have daughters about the same age.”
“Did she ever talk about Mariah’s father?” Tommy leaned against the fence. Maybe he didn’t want to hear the answer to that, but he had to ask. He’d caught Pam during recess and standing out on the hard, treeless
, sand-packed playground, he had to shade his eyes to read the woman’s expression through the fence.
“Not really, not a lot anyway. You know he was going to be stationed at Holloman. Brenda said he was supposed to be here in October—guess he came a little early. That crash was so awful. Do you think she witnessed his death?”
“There’s a chance that she did. But she wouldn’t have known who the pilot was until she saw the body, and I have a feeling that she tried to help.”
“It gives me the creeps. What do you think she would have done?”
“Go away to mourn?” Tommy watched the woman bite her lower lip.
“I don’t think so. Mariah’s a handful for Brenda’s mother by herself. Every day at three-thirty, Brenda used to dash out of here like she’d been shot from the proverbial cannon—in a rush to get home. No, she would have never just gone away.”
“I agree with you. But do you think she was still attached to this Ronnie?”
“Attached?” Pam gave him a quizzical look. “Head over heels in love would be more like it. He was young when they first dated. He didn’t want to get married—had to see the world. From what she said, he seemed to be really ambitious. I think he’d talked about them getting together after he’d saved some money. I know he was generous when it came to Mariah. There was a check every month.”
“The shock would have been terrible—”
“Brenda’s too sensible to just lose it though, run away or something. I could trust her with anything. She had wonderful judgement when it came to kids. A natural, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you think there had been some planned rendezvous?”
“I’d never thought of something like that. It does seem odd that he was out this way and she was on her way home at the same time, had left the highway even …” Pam’s voice trailed off and she finished the can of pop. “No. I think she would have said something. Or at least seemed preoccupied. I would have sensed her excitement. I don’t know how to say this any better—Monday was just another day. The week started like any other. Things were hectic but there was nothing out of the ordinary.”