Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

Dolores had removed her binoculars from her bag and was scanning the beaches and buildings in the distance, quite likely looking for Elvis. Anna doubted he would be camped out on one of the prisoner-of-war and quarantine islands that were part of the circle that formed Paradise Lake.

  “Any advice then, on safe places I can take Dolores? She has some theory that he was working for the DEA and that the Bermuda Triangle is some cover-up for a drug trafficking ring. I’d prefer, if possible, not to try to visit Bermuda’s drug dens to see if Elvis is in the middle of a takedown.”

  “Well I’m pretty sure he’d be retired by now, don’t you think?” Nick’s gaze had shifted from friendly to assessing. “Listen, I have to go make a few phone calls while I’m on break. My buddy’s in a band and I have to get tickets to his latest gig. I’ll try to think of some options for you and Dolores that don’t involve seeing the seedier side of town.” Nick stepped around her and jumped from the boat to the dock, then walked off, withdrawing a black phone.

  Anna occupied herself by walking the circumference of the tiny island twice. When she was finished, she waded up to her calves in the chilly waters of the bay. She could see why the other bathers, including Dolores, had been tentative, content to bask on the sun-warmed white sand beach. Bermuda was certainly a beautiful, desolate speck on the vast Atlantic Ocean.

  She turned her attention back in the direction of the Bermuda Triangle itself. During the tour, Jeremy Pritchard had thoroughly debunked the claims regarding the tendency of boats and planes to go missing in the Triangle—as any good owner of a boat tour company would. But she still found it eerie.

  Her knee throbbed from the exertion. She should have worn her knee brace. Even as she’d walked, the cadence of skate skis on snow still pulsed in her brain. Shoosh, shoosh, shoosh along the flats. Slap-squeak, slap-squeak on the hills. She heard it everywhere, all the time, like the rush of blood through her eardrums had modified itself to anticipate the sound of skis.

  How was she to find herself without endorphins, without competing, without the Olympic team, without Stephen, and—most importantly—without the rhythm of skis?

  Nick gave her a brusque nod when he came back to the boat while Jeremy rounded up the remainder of the passengers on the beach. Dolores seemed reluctant to give up her examination of the islands across the lake, but she relented and eventually sauntered back to the change rooms.

  Before Dolores emerged, Nick approached Anna again and thrust a piece of paper into her hands. “Some of the best restaurants and tourist attractions,” he said. “Bermuda is a safe place, but not if you go poking around where you don’t belong. Make sure you stick to the tourist areas.”

  Anna nodded and scanned Nick’s face for the signs of friendliness that had marked it earlier, but his features remained guarded, and he turned away quickly and returned to the helm of the boat. She heard Jeremy ask him whether he had gotten the Fraternity tickets, and saw Nick nod in return.

  Nick fired up the motor as soon as Dolores was on board.

  They sped back to the pier in Hamilton. Dolores babbled something about privately owned islands, and Anna tuned her out.

  * * *

  Dolores consented to sit by the heated pool for a few hours in the afternoon, the tip of her sunhat draping over a guidebook on Bermuda as she scribbled notes on a scrap of paper regarding possible Elvis connections with local historical sites.

  In the early evening, they headed out to dinner at one of the restaurants on Nick’s list. Dolores beamed when Anna ordered a gin and tonic, the greens and purples of her peacock feather-patterned dress clashing violently with the sea of navy and red around them in the nautically themed restaurant.

  Anna turned and stared out the window at the play of sun on the rippling waves in the harbor. The rest of the team was in final preparation for the last race of the season in Norway. She had stayed in the team Snapchat group—she wasn’t sure why—and Sam had posted her most recent training time for the thirty kilometer freestyle that morning. Sam was getting faster.

  “I know it’s hard, dear, to give up on a dream, but you’re young, strong, and beautiful, and there are plenty more things to do in this world.”

  Anna wrapped her fingers around the cool glass of the gin and tonic that had just arrived. “I know, Dolores. I’ll get there. I’m just a bit lost right now.”

  Dolores beamed at her. “You need an Elvis.”

  Anna’s lips flipped into a smile. Dolores was singular in her pursuit. “I’m not really sure what a singer would do for me right now.”

  “Oh, he was more than a singer. He was a beacon. A guiding light for a generation. Whenever I’m feeling down or lost, I just think of Elvis, and then I don’t feel so bad.”

  Anna felt a strong temptation to start belting out “My Favorite Things”—to which she knew all the words, due to Gramps’s lifelong crush on Julie Andrews. The gin must be threatening her sanity. “Yeah, thanks Dolores. I’m not sure if Elvis is going to quite do it for me.”

  “I don’t mean Elvis. I mean the Elvis of your generation. But they don’t seem to make them like Elvis anymore, do they?” Dolores lowered her voice. “You know, some say Elvis was a member of the Illuminati.”

  “And do you believe that?”

  “If you had known Elvis, you would understand. Before Elvis, we all lived our lives inside the lines. He changed the world, and why would he still be remembered to this day by so many if he wasn’t a member of the Illuminati?”

  “And why are you so convinced that he’s still alive?”

  Dolores widened her eyes with the zeal of the converted. “Well, because all the evidence supports it, of course. There were too many inconsistencies in his death and burial. The timing, his body weight on the death certificate, the cause of death, the eyewitness accounts, the reissued death certificate, the prescription drugs he was supposedly taking before he died, the positioning of the body, the events leading up to his death, the speed of the funeral, the spelling of the name on the gravestone, the fact that his father wouldn’t allow a flag on his coffin, when we all know that all army veterans have flags on their coffins. None of it adds up, my dear.”

  “And you’re sure all of that stuff is true?”

  “It was carefully researched and documented by The Presley Commission, dear. Then there have been all the sightings. You know, before this most recent sighting, I was starting to believe he might have died by now. After all, he would be eighty. But I do not believe even in the slightest that he departed this earth on August 16, 1977.”

  “But why would he fake his own death?”

  “Operation Fountain Pen, of course.”

  “A little help for those of us who don’t know the Elvis code, Dolores, please?”

  “Well, some think it was because he was just done with his life as a performer, done with the late nights and all the expectations of him, and I agree that was part of it. But Elvis was also set to testify in a major case against a group of con men with Mafia connections.” Dolores lowered her voice and looked around the room, as if several members of the Mafia or federal agents could be hiding behind the large palm plant next to them. “I think Elvis had to disappear because his life was under threat. The men were eventually convicted, so they were real criminals, you know.”

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, Anna returned from checking out the view on the balcony to find Dolores combing through the Bermuda phone book. Beside the book on the desk sat a piece of paper with four names written on it: Jon Burrows, Jesse Garon, Sivle Nora, and Orion.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m checking the phone book for all the names Elvis has been known to potentially use. I doubt he’d have a listed number, but you never know.”

  “So what, you’d just call up Elvis? What would you say?”

  Dolores lifted her eyes to the ceiling and pressed a hand to her heart. “I would say: Remember that night in Spokane in 1957—August thirtieth—when we were both young and beautiful
, and the world was hopeful, and you sang and did your magic, and the whole world loved you? And then I would tell him that the whole world still loves him, and that it is okay; it’s time to come back, to come out of hiding, that we’ve all been waiting for him. Mostly though, I would just listen to his perfect voice.”

  Anna wondered if it was possible that Dolores was going to drop into a faint right then and there.

  She didn’t though, and after a deep sigh, she returned to her phone book perusal. Anna contemplated offering the assistance of a computer search for the names, but decided that maybe she shouldn’t facilitate this madness. She was just here to make sure Dolores stayed safe, not to help her manufacture an imaginary Elvis.

  * * *

  Once again, Dolores was gone the next morning when Anna woke. Damn. She was going to have to start setting an alarm.

  This time, fortunately, Dolores was in the lobby, wearing her customary broad smile and a turquoise pantsuit with a number of shimmery opalescent brooches. “You’d better grab a coat. I’ve booked us another boat tour. This time we’re going farther out and Jeremy says it’s going to be breezy.”

  * * *

  Jeremy guided them down the docks to a large powerboat with a brilliant blue stripe down the hull. Nick was bent over the open engine compartment, a surly expression on his handsome face. Dolores hopped aboard the boat with a bright look and immediately parked herself in the front passenger seat. Anna climbed aboard the rocking vessel gingerly and withdrew one of the muffins she had stuffed in her pocket.

  “All right, enjoy your morning,” Jeremy Pritchard said. “You’re the only passengers today. It’s early season and not everyone really wants to head out into the Triangle in April. Good luck.”

  Anna squinted at him. Good luck? What did he mean by that? The Triangle?

  Dolores had booked them a trip out to sea.

  She glanced around the boat. It was a sleek upscale vessel with a long pointed bow and a small covered cabin.

  Jeremy must have noticed her face, because he laughed and knelt to untie the rope holding the boat to the pier. His leather bracelet with a carved jade stone slipped forward on his wrist. “Don’t worry. My brother is an expert boatman. You’ll be fine. I just say that to add a little intrigue to the trip. Some people like it.”

  She glanced over at Nick, who continued to tinker with the engine. Jeremy was at least fifty, with a silver ring of hair around his shiny bald crown. She would have never guessed they were related.

  Nick slammed the engine cover closed with a frown, walked past Anna, and started up the engine.

  Then he took the hand that Dolores extended and shook it. “Nick Pritchard, at your service, ma’am. I do suggest wearing a life jacket for the duration of the trip. There are several right there under the bow. We aren’t going to do anything fancy, but the waters can get a little rough out there.”

  Dolores seemed a bit bamboozled, and she cocked her head to the side almost as if confused, an expression Anna had never seen on the woman’s face before.

  “Has anyone ever told you you look an awful lot like Elvis?” Dolores said finally.

  “Yes ma’am. I get it all the time.” Nick turned back to the steering wheel and pushed the lever to start the boat moving forward. Jeremy threw the stern line into the back of the boat and gave a wave.

  Anna scrutinized Nick more closely. She had been too enraptured the previous day to notice the resemblance, but she had to admit, Dolores was right. The thought gave her a slight shiver, and she pulled her windbreaker more tightly around her torso.

  Life jackets donned, they headed out to sea. As the islands faded in the distance, Anna tried to shake the tingling of unease. Clouds scudded across the sky, blocking the sun, but they were billowy white clouds, not bleak storm clouds.

  She moved closer to the front, holding on to the seat backs, until she stood between Nick and Dolores.

  “What exactly are we looking for out here, anyway?” she said, speaking loudly over the roar of the engine. “A floating island? Elvis’s yacht? The UFO that carried Elvis away?” She thought the last one was funny, but neither Nick nor Dolores laughed.

  Dolores, who was busy scanning the horizon with an intent gaze, finally offered Anna a patient smile. “There are some who say that the Bermuda Triangle is a U.S. Navy underwater test facility. That’s why they’ve never allowed any real explanation or testing as to what’s happening here, why all the boats and planes disappear.”

  Anna glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting to see a UFO or rogue wave towering over them. “Right. And do you mind explaining the Elvis connection to me?”

  “Elvis was totally hooked in to the U.S. government. If there’s something like that going on here, he was part of it. I’m sure of it.”

  “Right. Going with the Elvis is Everywhere theory,” Anna muttered under her breath.

  Nick stared straight ahead and didn’t respond.

  Anna returned to her seat in the back and glared moodily out at the water. Why anyone would be interested in spending time on the open ocean, she had no idea. The churn of the waves was making her sick. She settled in and closed her eyes, trying to find her center, calm her emotions, and adjust to the bouncing movement of the boat, just like she would do before a big race.

  But her thoughts, instead of becoming blank, as they usually did when she meditated, slipped to imaginings of Elvis on stage, and she wondered how he must have felt with the constant pressure to perform. The grueling life of a performer was perhaps not that different from that of an athlete.

  The Elvis in her mind had started gyrating manically around the stage and throwing handkerchiefs at the audience when she awoke to find that the engine had stopped.

  She heard Nick’s voice and the heavy slap of waves against the side of the boat. “That’s as far as we should go, ma’am. That’s as far as you paid for, and as you can see, there’s really nothing out here. Nothing at all.” He seemed to put a faint emphasis on the nothing in the last sentence. “The waters get far more rough and treacherous from here on.”

  Anna opened her eyes. Dolores had her binoculars pressed to her face and was focusing on the horizon. The murky swells gathered all around them.

  “Fine,” Dolores said.

  Dolores continued to swivel the binoculars in all directions as they motored back to the pier. Nick remained stormy in demeanor, and the engine was too loud for much conversation anyway.

  Back in Hamilton, he had Anna hold the boat to the side of the pier while he tied up, and then he reached his hand in to help first Dolores and then Anna out of the boat. The jolt of electricity that she experienced when he took her hand ran all the way down her spine and quads. She lifted her eyes to his blue ones and saw that intent look again.

  “I hope that wasn’t too bad of an experience for you,” he said, letting go of her hand. “Lots of people want to go out on the Triangle, because, well, it’s the Triangle, and they think they’re going to find something that nobody else has. That’s the first time someone’s gone looking for Elvis though.”

  “I slept,” she said.

  “I saw,” he replied. “You’re pretty cute when you’re asleep.”

  The surge of current ran down her legs again, but Nick turned away and busied himself with tying up the boat, the muscles in his tanned arms flexing as he pulled the rope tight. Dolores already stood well down the pier and was looking at something through her binoculars. Anna hoped that Dolores didn’t accidentally step right off the faded grey planks into the cool water below.

  Nick glanced back up. “Anyway, I hope that puts to rest her belief that Elvis is out on the water somewhere, and you can enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

  “It’s not exactly a holiday. It’s an Elvis search mission.” And a me search mission, she thought. She was supposed to be finding herself, wasn’t she?

  “Hmm, well, sometimes it’s best not to look too hard for things that you want to find. Sometimes the mystery is more satisfying
and life-affirming than the truth.”

  “Are you a philosopher and a poet, then?” She regretted the words instantly. Why did she always have to be so blunt? What was she saying, that because he was a boat operator, he couldn’t have deeper thoughts?

  But Nick rose to his feet and gave her his smirk. “Sort of. What happened to your leg, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Anna glanced down at where her knee brace extended out of the bottom of the skirt she had thrown on to go look for Dolores. She knew she still walked with a limp. “It was an accident. I was skiing, in a race. Cross-country skiing…” she added. “The conditions were icy, and I was in a pack trying to break out. Someone tripped me, and I went over the edge of the track and into a barrier. I ended up breaking my femur and busting up my knee. They fixed the leg, but I’m still waiting on knee surgery. They wanted to give my leg muscles a chance to strengthen up first.”

  He was watching her that steady way again. “Were you good?” he asked.

  She thought of the 2014 Olympics that she was supposed to have attended, and pressed her lips together. “Yep, I was good.”

  “Can you go back to it?”

  “Probably never at the same level,” she said. Her words came out a little tinny, and she tried to control the swallow that always had the potential to lead to tears. She blinked at the moisture at the rims of her eyes, and turned to sarcasm—her favorite standby. “It’s a little challenging, because it’s the only thing I really know how to do.”

  Nick nodded and was silent for a few seconds. “I’m sure you know how to do lots of things, and it’s never too late to learn something new. People can reinvent themselves in surprising ways.”

  “I know. It’s just hard to change course and start from scratch.”

  “What did you dream of being when you were a kid?”

  A wry smile tugged at Anna’s lips. “You mean aside from a movie star? I did consider being a chef. But I’m too old for that now.”

  Nick roared with laughter. “What are you? Twenty-three?”