Alien Abduction

by Irving Belateche

  “You’ll see.”

  The security camera didn’t take in the entire café. It was pointed down at the front counter and register. Ten seconds passed, then an employee walked into frame and up to the register. I knew what was going to unfold next, and I tried to keep from sweating.

  I watched myself walk into frame. The camera was looking down on me, from a severe perspective, and you could only see about a third of my face, if that much. And just like the rest of the footage, my face was grainy—thank God.

  “Is that you?” Larry said, turning to me.

  “Of course not.” I chuckled.

  “It sure looks like you.”

  “Is that why you wanted to call me?”

  “Yeah.”

  I watched myself pay for my food, take the table number card from the cashier, and walk out of frame to wait for my sandwich.

  “Is that what the police are focused on?” I asked.

  “It’s one of the things they’re focused on,” he answered, then queued the footage back to the start. “It sure looks like you, Eddie. Enough that it was my first thought—even though I knew it was a crazy thought.” He cocked his head. “You’re telling me it’s not you.”

  “And you’re telling me you actually think I killed that old woman.”

  He pursed his lips, sighed, then turned back to the monitor and rolled the footage again. We both watched as I walked into frame, paid for my food, and walked out of frame.

  “I think that’s you,” he said. “But it doesn’t mean you had anything to do with that woman’s murder.”

  If there was ever a moment of truth when it came to my Del Mar blunder—at least up to this point—this was it. I had to decide, on the spot, how to move forward, and a lot was riding on how I dealt with this, including the blackmail package that I clutched by my side.

  “I’m in trouble, Larry,” I said. “I didn’t kill that old woman, but I know who did.” I swung the blackmail package forward. “It’s a long story, and it’s all in here.”

  Larry reached out for the package, but I didn’t hand it to him. “First I have to explain a couple of things,” I said.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I don’t work for ADM. I just tell people that because I don’t like to talk about my job—and I shouldn’t talk about it.” I went on to tell him the same PI story I’d told Jenny. The same story I’d planned to tell him before I handed over the blackmail package. But that story would now be embellished to include the reason why I was in that security cam footage.

  When I finished with the preliminaries—the warm-up for the main act, the explanation of exactly how I was involved in Rose David’s murder—I paused to gauge Larry’s reaction.

  “Wow,” Larry said. “So you liked this PI work enough to reject my offer of the editor in chief job?”

  “Let’s just say I lied about a lot, but I didn’t lie about the money. I like the money.” I let out a deep breath, as if I was about to unload a burden, then patted the manila envelope. “It’s an inheritance case.”

  “You’re talking about the murder.”

  “Yeah. It’s a fight over Rose David’s money, plain and simple.”

  “From what I’m reading, both on the record and off,” he said, “the police are about as far away from that angle as possible.”

  “That’s because there’s no legal case yet. The fight over the money hasn’t even started. The son—Blaine David—hired my PI firm to see if he could build a case against Rose David’s tenant.”

  “Wendy Bester?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? How is she involved?”

  “Blaine thinks Bester was duping his mom, Rose, into writing her into the will.”

  “And was she?”

  “I didn’t get far enough into the case to find out if the duping part was true, but Rose was planning to change the will. She was going to split her estate between Bester and the son.”

  “And how does homicide fit into all this?”

  “I don’t know, except that I fit into it: I walked into a trap. I broke into the house to set up a bug, for eavesdropping. We wanted to get Bester and Rose on tape talking. We thought it was a good way to start. We might have been able to prove that Bester was manipulating Rose.”

  “Breaking and entering, huh?”

  “I told you, it’s a dirty job. A lot of surveillance. Anyway, I checked out the property, and scoped out Rose and Wendy’s routines. Then I broke into the house to set up the bug.” I shook my head, feigning disgust with myself. “When I broke in, I found Rose’s body.”

  “You were framed.”

  “Not exactly—but the will won’t ever get changed now. Blaine inherits everything.”

  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean? You don’t think you were framed?”

  “I did at first, but it didn’t make sense. Why me? Then I got it: I wasn’t supposed to find the body. I interrupted something already in progress. Whoever buried the body killed Rose David.”

  “You didn’t bury her?”

  “Of course not. I got the hell away from there. But it was too late. Every piece of evidence points to me. I was doing surveillance on the house. I was doing surveillance on Rose. I was doing surveillance on Bester.” I nodded toward his computer monitor. “And I was in Del Mar at the time of the murder.”

  “How the hell did you go from working for the LA Times to getting mixed up in this?”

  “Stupidity.”

  “Well, you gotta go to the police and explain.”

  “That’s where the shit really hits the fan,” I said. “My entire job is based on the fact that it doesn’t exist. The PI firm won’t back me up. It’s part of the job. We’re freelancers, doing the dirty work that doesn’t get traced back to them or the law firms who hired them.”

  “Yeah, well, this is a murder case. You have to come clean.”

  “I know. But I can’t. Not yet anyway.” I handed Larry the manila envelope. “But if I get connected to the case, or if I become a suspect, or if… if something worse happens, then I want you to open this. I want you to open it with Bob. I want both you and the LA Times to follow up on what you find in there.”

  Larry took the envelope and turned it over in his hands.

  “But please don’t open it unless something happens to me,” I added.

  Larry didn’t respond. He looked contemplative. Like any good reporter, he was probably wondering if there was more to the story, and that’s what I played into next.

  “I know this sounds insane—way out of my league—but there’s more,” I said. “There’s more about Rose David and her inheritance. More than what I told you. More about why Blaine would hire us, then do this under our noses. It’s all in there.” I motioned to the envelope again. “But please don’t open it unless something happens. If nothing happens, then it’s better if you don’t know anything more about the case.”

  “You mean that I’ll be in danger, too? Or that you’re embarrassed by what’s in here.”

  “Both. Just promise me you won’t open it. Promise me that if all this blows over and the police never connect me to the case, you won’t open it.”

  Larry pursed his lips and shook his head. He looked overwhelmed, as if he would much rather have dealt with this as an Internet story as opposed to a flesh and bone story, living and breathing in his office. He turned it over again in his hands, took another contemplative beat, then said, “I won’t open it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, about the only honest thing I’d said to my friend that night. And I followed it up with a little more honesty. “Listen, I have to hit the road. There are a couple of other things I need to do if I have any chance of cleaning up this mess.”

  ABEL

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I was once again sitting behind my desk in the shadows, hiding my identity in preparation for a visitor. Except this time, the visitor wasn’t going to be a potential employee.

  I was waiting for Henry Rohm, the president
of the Beverly Hills Historical Foundation, and for the foundation’s attorney. I’d already had a long talk with Henry on the phone, during which I’d painted a vivid picture of myself: a wealthy and eccentric recluse, and an invalid with an unnatural sensitivity to light. I’d also thrown in a few other quirks to complete the picture.

  Henry Rohm had hung up the phone thinking I was a hypochondriac, an old world eccentric in the mold of Howard Hughes. My odd behavior, manner, and sensitivities also laid the groundwork for the unusual circumstances surrounding the meeting. Due to my sensitivity to light, I only took meetings at night. Due to my odd behavior, I never greeted anyone at the door; my guests always let themselves into my home. And due to my odd manner, my meetings were always of the urgent variety.

  As I put on my gloves in preparation for the human ritual of the handshake, I realized just how tired I felt. The Kalera had left me physically worn out, as if my body had been running a marathon at top speed. But I needed to push through my fatigue and wrap up my business here on Earth. I wanted to properly dispose of my home—and of Eddie.

  Since coming down from the Kalera, I’d been covering up all evidence of my stay here on Earth. Not that I’d left much of it. I’d kept a low profile and cleaned up after myself every step of the way. Still, I’d left enough of a trail, especially over the last cycle, that it might pose a threat in the future if I didn’t clean it up now. If the authorities on Tracea ever became suspicious about my new identity, I wanted to make sure they couldn’t find a clue to my former identity here on Earth.

  I was also careful not to create any new evidence of my presence. Thus, I was no longer monitoring, manipulating, or interfering with any data or communications, including those dealing with the San Diego murder investigation.

  Unfortunately, there was still some evidence of my presence from the planet’s “paper” era that I couldn’t remove. Records in the filing cabinets of Los Angeles’s government agencies—the original deed to the house, property records, tax records, et cetera. But no one from Tracea would ever get to those filing cabinets unless they found something in the digital records first—and those were now clean.

  When I heard the front door open, I scooted farther back into the shadows. A minute later, a silver-haired man, dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Caraway?” he said.

  “Please come in,” I responded.

  “I’m Henry Rohm,” the silver-haired man said, jovially, as he entered the office. Another man, dressed in a suit, and carrying a thick, expandable folder, followed him in. Rohm motioned to his colleague. “This is the foundation’s attorney, Sam Greenberg.”

  “Thank you both for coming,” I said, and then reached out from the shadows with a gloved hand. “As I mentioned, please forgive my voice—an electronic monstrosity—but my rapid decline has also taken part of my larynx.”

  Henry shook my hand. “I’m sorry about your health problems.”

  “No need to be sorry.” I waved off his concern. “I’ve lived a good, long life.”

  Sam, the attorney, shifted the thick folder from his right hand to his left, shook my hand, and then both men sat down.

  “I apologize for the short notice, but I just couldn’t put this off any longer,” I said. “I wanted to do it while I was still of sound mind. Were you able to prepare all the legal documents?”

  “They’re all here,” Sam said. He opened the folder. “I’ll go through each one with you.”

  “There’s no need for that. I trust it’s all in order. After all, we’re talking about a ten-million-dollar asset, and I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ve made absolutely sure the house and property transfer properly.”

  “It’s a great piece of property,” Henry said. He smiled graciously.

  “That’s why I want the historical foundation to open it up to the public as soon as possible.”

  “No worries there, Mr. Caraway,” Sam said. He pulled out a document from the folder and placed it on my desk. “As you requested, your home will be designated a museum, just as we did with the Delray property on Canon.”

  “And don’t worry,” Henry chimed in. “Just as you asked, we’ll differentiate this site from the Canon site by focusing on LA’s history rather than just Beverly Hills.”

  “I don’t want people to have to leave Beverly Hills to learn about the rest of LA’s history,” I said.

  “You have my word that this house will be transformed into a showcase for LA’s rich history.” Henry’s obsequiousness was nauseating. “The displays will be top of the line. And I already spoke with Mayor Grayson about the parking issue. She assured me that the zoning will be changed to allow for a parking lot on the north part of the property.”

  “Good. I want to make sure the museum gets plenty of visitors,” I said. And I did, because that was the whole point: I wanted the property overrun by humans so that any trace of extraterrestrial life would be stamped out. It was a simple plan, and while under the influence of Kalera, I’d determined it was also the best plan. It was a universal law that when one species took over the habitat of another, after enough time had passed, traces of the original species all but completely disappeared from that habitat.

  “You’re leaving behind a great legacy, Mr. Caraway,” Henry said. “The city of Beverly Hills will be forever grateful.”

  “Please,” I responded. “It’s really my father you should be thanking, Tom Caraway, Senior. He was the one who fell in love with Beverly Hills and had the foresight to build the first house up in these parts. He was a man of great vision.”

  “Indeed he was,” Henry said, though it was impossible for him to know anything about the man since there was no record of him except for his birth and death.

  For the next fifteen minutes, I signed contracts that transferred the property over to the foundation. I didn’t say much, except for a few comments that implied I was planning to leave the country to live out my few remaining months in some secluded mansion in southern Europe.

  For their part, Henry Rohm and Sam Greenberg didn’t say much either. But as they watched my gloved hand sign the contracts, I saw flashes of worry cross their faces—worry about the rushed transaction. I wished I could’ve told them that there was nothing to worry about. No one was going to contest this gracious gift, because there were no other interested parties. If it weren’t for the legal requirements of transferring property rights, I wouldn’t have even bothered with the paperwork. I would’ve just told Henry that the foundation could have my place.

  After Henry and Sam left, signed contracts in hand, I went on to prepare for Eddie’s arrival. Or more specifically, to prepare for the cerium’s arrival. I prepared a mixture of compounds that would convert the cerium into a form my body could easily absorb. Under the influence of the Kalera, I’d discovered that cerium was the key to changing my identity. At least when it came to making use of the limited resources available here on Earth.

  Tracea identified—and tracked, if need be—their citizens by their electromagnetic fields. Each Tracean had a unique electromagnetic pattern. But cerium could change this pattern permanently, and that’s what I was planning to do. I would do it tonight, before I left Earth.

  And when I arrived on Tracea, I would immediately do two other things. First, I’d insert the records of my new identity into the Tracean information network; my heightened intelligence under the influence of the Kalera had shown me the way to hack into that system and seamlessly insert the records. And second, I’d change my physical appearance. This would be easy—it was a common procedure on Tracea.

  With the mixture prepared, and with Eddie on his way, I decided to check over the transport again. I ran a systems check for the fifth time. The transport was in fine shape; it had only been used once. Still, I was worried that its curvature drive might fail me. I hadn’t been able to get the sturdiest nor the best-designed transport when I’d left, because I hadn’t planned on such a quick exit.

  The systems
check showed that all was perfect, just as it had the first four times I’d run it. But now that I was almost ready to go, I wished I had run a systems check while I’d been under the influence of Kalera. I would’ve been able to actually interpret the numbers that the check spewed out, rather than just accept that they were all in the “good” range. After all, just as I wasn’t a scientist, I wasn’t an engineer. And as it stood now, without Kalera bathing my brain, I was like any layman, relying on a systems check to give me the go-ahead.

  And hadn’t I heard—in my former life—that this curvature drive functioned better the more it was used? Well, I had only used it once, which was why I was worried, regardless of the systems check. If the drive didn’t power up to its full capacity, and stay at that capacity during the entire length of my trip, I’d never make it home. I’d end up somewhere between here and there, and die in the transport.

  No, I thought. I won’t let that happen. And right then, I decided I had to be absolutely sure that the curvature drive would function perfectly.

  So I took the Kalera again.

  As I waited for the drug to take over, I thought about the one thing I was leaving behind on this planet. A treasure that would yield me great wealth once I was back on Tracea. I had come up with the idea, and executed it, while on Kalera. Just as my species had planted Kalera here millions of years ago, I planted my own crop—a more powerful kind of Kalera, based on the Kalera I’d harvested from Wendy Bester. This new crop would grow with each new generation of women, passed on from one generation to the next, until it matured into a drug more powerful than any Kalera in the universe.

  Or so I hoped.

  If my hope was realized, I’d come back here and harvest the new drug. But I wouldn’t come back in exile. I’d come back in triumph. For this new drug wouldn’t be illegal. At least, not yet. I had modified the seeds I’d planted so it wouldn’t be recognizable as Kalera. Eventually the Traceans, or other species, would probably make this new drug illegal—but that would come long after I’d made my fortune off of it.