Not One of Us: Stories of Aliens on Earth

by Neil Clarke

  The lock was antique and took him ten seconds.

  The room smelled of damp dogs. He searched it systematically but there was nothing personal beyond worn clothes and some letters in Spanish. The postmarks were blurred by the moisture that never left the old wooden drawers. But in another drawer one came through sharp, three weeks old from Veracruz. That was a port town down the long curve of the eastern Mexican coast. From his knowledge of the Civil War era, which was virtually a requirement of a Southern man when he grew up, Veracruz was where Grant and Lee nearly got killed. Together they went out in a small boat to survey the shore in the Mexican war and artillery fire splashed within ten yards of them.

  Lots of fishing in Veracruz. A guy from there would know how to work nets.

  He kept the letters and looked in the more crafty places. No plastic bag in the commode water closet. Nothing under the filthy pine floor. No hollow legs on the flimsy wooden chairs. In his experience, basically no perp hid anything in smart-ass places or even planned their murders. No months of pondering, of painstaking detail work, alibi prep, escape route, weapon disposal. Brilliant murders were the stuff of television, where the cop played dumb and tripped up the canny murderer, ha ha.

  The storm came in off the Gulf and rattled the shack’s tin roof. In the musty two-roomer he thought as mist curled up from great steaming sheets of rain. Drops tapped on leaves outside the window and the air mixed with sharp, moist smells of bird droppings. He stood in the scrappy kitchen and wondered if this was a phony lead. The Spanish letters probably wouldn’t help but they were consistent at least with the Latino body. Still, he was getting nowhere.

  His intuition was fuzzy with associations, a fog that would not condense. The battering shower made him think of the oceans rising and warming from the greenhouse gases and how the world might come to be more like the Centauris’ moon, more tropical sea and the land hammered with storms. Out the streaked front window he wondered if aliens swam among the quilted waves, living part of their lives among the schools of fishes.

  This thinking went nowhere and his ankle had acquired red dots of flea bites. He looked out the back window. The rain tapered off and he saw now the gray of a FEMA trailer back in the woods. A breeze came from it. Frying peppers and onions flavored the air with pungent promise.

  He knocked on the front door and a scrawny white man wearing jeans and nothing else answered. “Hello, sir,” plus the badge got him inside.

  In a FEMA trailer even words take up room. You have to stand at a conversational distance in light-metal boxes that even a tropical storm could flip like playing cards. His initial urge was to hunch, then to make a joke about it. Mr. Fredson, a gangly six foot two, stretched out his arms to show how he could at the same time touch the ceiling with one hand and the floor with the other. Hangers in the small closet were tilted sideways to fit and beside them stood a short bronze-skinned woman who was trying not to look at him.

  “I was wondering if you knew who lived up front there.”

  “He been gone more’n a week.”

  “Did he look like this?” McKenna showed the picture.

  “Yeah, that’s Jorge.”

  “Jorge what?”

  “Castan,” the woman said in a small, thin voice. Her hands twisted at the pale pink fabric of the shift she wore. “You la migra?”

  “No ma’am. Afraid I got some bad news about Jorge though.”

  “He dead?” Mr. Fredson said, eyes downcast.

  “’Fraid so. He washed up on a beach east of here.”

  “He worked boats,” Fredson said, shaking his head. “Lot of night work, fillin’ in.

  “Mexican, right? Wife in Veracruz?”

  “Yeah, he said. Sent money home. Had two other guys livin’ up there for a while, nice fellas, all worked the boats. They gone now.”

  McKenna looked around, thinking. The Latino woman went stiffly into the kitchen and rearranged paper plates and plastic cups from Wal-Mart, cleaned a Reed & Barton silver coffeepot. Fredson sighed and sat on a small, hard couch. The woman didn’t look like a good candidate to translate the Veracruz letter, judging from her rigid back. To unlock her he had to ask the right question

  “Jorge seem okay? Anything bother him?”

  Fredson thought, shrugged. “I’d look in over there sometimes when he was out on the Gulf for a few days. He axed me to. Lately his baidclose all tangled up come mornin’.”

  “Maybe afraid of la migra?” McKenna glanced at the woman. She had stopped pretending to polish the coffeepot and was staring at them.

  “Lotsa people are.” Fredson jutted his chin out. “They come for the work, we make out they be criminals.”

  “We do have a justice system.” McKenna didn’t know how to work this so he stalled.

  “Jorge, he get no justice in the nex’ world either.” Fredson looked defiantly at him. “I’m not religious, like some.”

  “I’m not sayin’ Jorge was doin’ anything dishonest.” McKenna was dropping into the coast accent, an old strategy to elicit trust. “Just want to see if he died accidentally of drowning.”

  Fredson said flatly, knotting his hands, “Dishonest ain’t same as dishonorable.”

  He was getting nowhere here. “I’ll need to report his death to his wife. Do you have any papers on him, so I can send them?”

  The woman said abruptly, “Documento.”

  Fredson stared at her and nodded slowly. “Guess we ought to.”

  He got up and reached back into the packed closet. How they had gotten a FEMA trailer would be an interesting story, but McKenna knew not to press his luck. Fredson withdrew a soiled manila envelope and handed it to McKenna. “I kept this for him. He weren’t too sure about those other two guys he was renting floor space to, I guess.”

  McKenna opened it and saw inside a jumble of odd-sized papers. “I sure thank you. I’ll see this gets to her.”

  “How you know where she is?” Fredson asked.

  “Got the address.”

  “Searched his place, did ya?”

  “Of course. I’ll be leaving—”

  “Have a warrant?”

  McKenna smiled slowly. “Have a law degree, do you?” His eyes slid toward the woman and he winked. Fredson’s mouth stiffened and McKenna left without another word.

  He crunched down his oyster-shell road in the dark. Coming around the bend he barely saw against the yard light two people sitting in the glider swing on his porch. He swung his car off into the trees. He wanted to get inside and study the papers he had from Fredson, but he had learned caution and so put his hand on his 9mm as he walked toward them. The gulf salt tang hung under the mimosa tree. A breeze stirred the smell of salt and fish and things dead, others spawning. Sugarcane near the house rattled in the breeze as he worked around to the back.

  He let himself silently into his back door. When he snapped on the porch light the two figures jumped. It was Denise and his distant relative, Herb. Unlikely they knew each other.

  McKenna opened the front door and let them in, a bit embarrassed at his creeping around. Denise made great fun of it and Herb’s confused scowl said he had been rather puzzled by why this woman was here. McKenna wondered, too. He thought he had been pretty clear last time Denise showed up. He didn’t like pushy women, many with one eye on his badge and the other on his pension. Even coming to his front door, like they were selling something. Well, maybe they were. He grew up when women didn’t ask for dates. Whatever happened to courtship?

  Not that he was all that great with women. In his twenties he had been turned down more times than an old blanket. He got them drinks and let the question of why Denise was here lie.

  They traded pleasantries and McKenna saw maybe a way to work this. Herb said he’d been in the neighborhood and just stopped by to say hello. Fine. He asked Herb if he knew anything new about the Centauris, since the P
izotti fish fry, and that was enough. Herb shifted into lecture mode and McKenna sat back and watched Denise’s reaction.

  “There’s all kinda talk on the internet ’bout this,” Herb said with relish. “Seems the Centauris deliberately suppressed their radio stations, once they picked up Marconi’s broadcasts. They’d already spotted Earth as a biological planet centuries ago, see?—from studying the atmosphere. They’d already spent more centuries building those electric starships.”

  “My, my,” Denise said softly.

  Herb beamed at her, liking the audience. “Some think they’re the origin of UFOs!”

  Denise blinked, mouth making a surprised O. “The UFOs are theirs?”

  “The UFOs we see, they’re not solid, see? The Centauris sent them as a kind of signaling device. Pumped some kind of energy beams into our atmosphere, see, made these UFO images. Radar could pick them up ’cause they ionized the gas. That’s why we never found anything solid.”

  McKenna was enjoying this. “Beams?”

  Herb nodded, eyes dancing. “They excited some sorta atmospheric resonance effects. They projected the beams from our own asteroid belt.”

  Denise frowned. “But they got here only a few years back.”

  “They sent robot probes that got here in the 1940s. They’d already planned to send a one here and land to take samples. So they used the beams somehow to, I dunno, maybe let us know somethin’ was up.”

  “Seems odd,” Denise said. “And what about all those people the UFOs kidnapped? They did all kinds of experiments on ’em!”

  Herb’s mouth turned down scornfully. “That’s just National Enquirer stuff, Denise.”

  McKenna smiled so he could control the laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Learn any biology?”

  Herb said, “We’ve got plenty land-dwelling reptiles, plenty fish. Not many species use both land and sea.”

  Herb took a breath to launch into a lecture and Denise put in, “How about gators?”

  Herb blinked, gave a quick polite smile and said, “The bio guys figure the Centauris had some reptile predators on the islands, gave what they call selection pressure. Centauris developed intelligence to beat them down when they came ashore, could be. Maybe like frogs, start out as larvae in the water.”

  Denise said wonderingly, eyeing Herb, “So they’re like tadpoles at first?”

  “Could be, could be.” Herb liked feedback and McKenna guessed he didn’t get a lot from women. Maybe they were too polite to interrupt. “They grow and develop lungs, legs, those funny hand-like fins, big opposable thumbs. Then big brains to deal with the reptiles when they go ashore.”

  McKenna asked, “So they’re going to hate our gators.”

  “S’pose so,” Herb allowed. “They sure seem hostile to ’em around Dauphin Island. Could be they’re like frogs, put out lots of offspring. Most tadpoles don’t survive, y’know, even after they get ashore.”

  Denise said brightly, “But once one does crawl ashore, the adults would have to help it out a lot. Defend it against reptiles. Teach it how to make tools, maybe. Cooperation, but social competition, too.”

  Both men looked at her and she read their meaning. “I majored in sociology, minor in biology.”

  Herb nodded respectfully, looking at her with fresh eyes. “Hard to think that something like frogs maybe could bring down big reptiles, eh?”

  Denise tittered at the very thought, eyes glistening eagerly, and McKenna got up to get them more drinks. By the time he came back out, though, they were getting up. Herb said he had to get home and they discovered that they didn’t live all that far from each other, what a surprise then to meet out here at this distance, and barely noticed McKenna’s good-byes.

  He watched them stand beside Denise’s car and exchange phone numbers. Now if only he could be as good a matchmaker for himself. But something in him wasn’t ready for that yet.

  And what else have you got in your life? the unwelcome thought came.

  Work. Oh yes, the Jorge papers from the FEMA people.

  Jorge had stuffed all sorts of things into the envelope. Receipts, check stubs, unreadables, some telephone numbers, a Mexican passport with a picture that looked a lot like the corpse.

  He was stacking these when a thin slip fell out. A note written on a rubberstamped sheet from Bayside Boats.

  It wasn’t that far to Bayside Boats. He went there at dawn and watched a shrimp boat come in. When he showed every man in the place Jorge’s photo, nobody recognized it. But the manager and owner, a grizzled type named Rundorf, hesitated just a heartbeat before answering. Then shook his head.

  Driving away, he passed by the Busted Flush mooring. It was just coming in from a run and Merv Pitscomb stood at the prow.

  His supervisor said, “You get anything from SIU on these cases?”

  “Nope.” The Special Investigations Unit was notoriously jammed up and in love with the FBI.

  “Any statewide CAPs?”

  CAPs, Crimes Against Persons, was the latest correct acronym that shielded the mind from the bloody reality, kept you from thinking about the abyss. “Nope.”

  “So you got two drowned guys who worked boats out of the same town. Seems like a stretch.”

  McKenna tried to look judicious. “I want a warrant to look at their pay records. Nail when these two worked, and work from there.”

  The supervisor shook his head. “Seems pretty thin.”

  “I doubt I’ll get much more.”

  “You’ve been workin’ this one pretty hard. Your partner LeBouc, he’s due back tomorrow.”

  “So?”

  A level gaze. “Maybe you should work it with him. This FBI angle, these guys coming up to you like that. Maybe this really should be their game.”

  “They’re playing close to their vest. No help there for sure. And waiting for LeBouc won’t help, not without more substance.”

  “Ummm.” The supervisor disliked the FBI, of course, but he didn’t want to step on their toes. “Lessee. This would have to go through Judge Preston. He’s been pretty easy on us lately, must be gettin’ laid again . . .”

  “Let me put it in the batch going up to him later this morning.”

  “Okay, but then you got to get onto some more cases. They’re piling up.”

  He had boilerplate for the warrant application. He called it up and pasted in I respectfully request that the Court issue a Warrant and Order of Seizure in the form annexed, authorizing a search of premises at . . . And such as is found shall be brought before the Court, together with such other and further relief that the Court may deem proper. The lawyers loved such stuff.

  Merv Pitscomb’s face knotted with red rage. The slow-witted Buddy Johnson, ex-con and tire deflator, stood beside Pitscomb and wore a smirk. Neither liked the warrant and they liked it still less when he took their pay company records.

  Ethan Anselmo was there, of course, and had gone out on the Busted Flush, a night job two days before the body washed up. No entry for Jorge Castan. But some initials from the bookkeeper a week before the last Anselmo entry, and two days after it, had a total, $178. One initial was GB and the other JC.

  Bookkeepers have to write things down, even if they’re supposed to keep quiet. Illegals were off the books, of course, usually with no Social Security numbers. But you had to balance your books, didn’t you? McKenna loved bookkeepers.

  “Okay,” his supervisor said, “we got reasonable grounds to bring in this Pitscomb and the other one—”

  “Rundorf.”

  “—to bring them in and work them a little. Maybe they’re not wits, maybe these are just accidents the skippers don’t want to own up to. But we got probable cause here. Bring them in tomorrow morning. It’s near end of our shift.”

  There was always some paperwork confusion at quitting time. McKenna made up the necessaries and was get
ting some other, minor cases straightened out, thinking of heading home.

  Then he had an idea.

  He had learned a good trick a decade back, from a sergeant who had busted a lot of lowlife cases open.

  If you had two different suspects for a murder, book them both. Hold them overnight. Let the system work on them.

  In TV lawyer shows the law was a smart, orderly machine that eventually—usually about an hour—punished the guilty.

  But the system was not about that at all. The minute you stepped into its grinder you lost control of your life and became a unit. You sat in holding cells thinking your own fevered thoughts. Nobody knew you. You stared at the drain hole in the gray concrete floor where recent stains got through even the bleaching disinfectant sprayed over them. On the walls you saw poorly scrawled drawings of organs and acts starkly illuminated by the actinic, buzzing lights that never went out. You heard echoing yells and cops rapping their batons on the bars to get some peace. Which never came. So you sat some more with your own fevered thoughts.

  You had to ask permission to go to the toilet rather than piss down that hole. There was the phone call you could make and a lawyer you chose out of the phone book, and the fuzzed voice said he’d be down tomorrow. Maybe he would come and maybe not. It was not like you had a whole lot of money.

  The cops referred to you by your last name and moved you like walking furniture to your larger stinking cell with more guys in it. None of them looked at you except the ones you didn’t like the look of at all. Then it was night and the lights dimmed, but not much.

  That was where the difference between the two suspects came in. One would sleep, the other wouldn’t.

  Anybody who kills someone doesn’t walk away clean. Those movies and TV lawyer shows made out that murderers were smart, twisted people. Maybe twisted was right but not smart, and for sure they were not beasts. Some even dressed better than anyone he had ever seen.

  But like it or not, they were people. Murderers saw all the same movies as ordinary folk, and a lot more TV. They sat around daytime making drug deals or waiting for nighttime to do second-story jobs. Plenty of time to think about their business. Most of them could quote from The Godfather. The movie, of course. None of them read novels or anything else. They were emotion machines running all the time and after a job they blew their energy right away. Drank, went out cruising for pussy, shot up.