Only now she wasn’t in a sleeping bag, nor was she in a tent.
The smell of dew on leaf and grass was in the air. Dawn washed the sky with a pink and blue, moody clouds swirled into the mix. The taste of cinnamon was in her mouth. She stirred and yawned, stretching out. Her hands hit a steering wheel. Blinking, she realized that she sat in the driver’s seat of her car, and that the car was parked well off the road, situated between a couple of large oaks, the splendid view of a Kansas field before her, grass rippling with the tug of a morning wind.
She felt a sense of calm, of perfect peace. She felt one with the sky and the trees and the sweeping Kansas grass, as though she’d just been in some meditative trance.
Someone moaned beside her, and then the moan turned into a snore. She turned and saw that it was her boyfriend, Timothy Reilly, his seat back, mouth open, zonked out totally. She looked at him, his sandy red hair a mess, his handsome freckled features boyish and innocent, and she loved him very much. She was happy that he was here, and she reached over to touch him—and then the peace shattered like a gossamer bubble.
What were they doing here?
She had no memory of getting into a car. Her last memory was sitting at her desk, studying for a grammar class, figuring out the deep structure of a sentence and being very bored. After that—nothing.
Now, she was sitting in a car—her car. She instantly recognized the usual refuse near the stick shift, the gum wrappers, the comb, the empty coffee cup. Stuck in between the passenger seat and the emergency brake was a crumpled Coors beer can. In the rear seat was Tim’s battered, trusty beer cooler. Had she and Tim gone out drinking last night? Had they gotten drunk? Had she gotten drunk, and had a blackout?
Unlikely. Diane drank beer with Tim, but she rarely got drunk. And if she’d drunk a lot of beer, she’d be able to taste it in her mouth, to say nothing of feeling a hangover. No, physically she felt just fine. Awake. Alert. And semi-amnesiac.
What had happened last night?
She had the feeling that whatever had happened was terribly important, vital even. And now she was consumed with frustration that she hadn’t a clue as to what it was!
She shook Tim’s arm. “Hey! Tim, wake up!”
He snapped awake. He blinked, looked around him, a kind of dazzled wonder in his eyes. Then, as he focused on his surroundings and got his bearings, he looked over to Diane and said, “Wow!”
“Tim, what are we doing here?”
Tim shook his head. “Diane? I don’t know—I was going to ask you the same question.”
“Why did you say ‘Wow’?”
“Did I? I don’t know ... I just have the impression that I’ve just been someplace really profound!”
“How do you feel?”
“Terrific! Never better.”
“Me too. What’s the last memory you have...? Mine’s of sitting at my desk in my apartment, being bored, studying.”
Tim thought about this for a moment. “Lights,” he said with suddenly finality. “Yeah, colored lights. And ... people. Really far-out people, like I’d never met before ... But so filled with life, so electric. I don’t know, it had a dreamlike quality ... It could have been a dream.”
He shook his head, then turned, pulled the top off his cooler, then pulled a Coors out of the icy water, tiny fragments of ice tinkling. He popped the top and took a pull.
“Beer. In the morning?” she said.
“Doesn’t feel like morning ... Hey ... Beer in the back seat ... And I remembered it. We must have gone out last night. Parked here. Why? To talk ... No, to make out! That’s right, you were tired of making out in bed, and you said you needed fresh air. You’re a fresh-air fiend, and you wanted to go out and fool around and listen to the radio under the stars.”
It sure sounded right. Sounded characteristic of her. She was an impulsive sort, and hauling Tim out like that was just the kind of thing she was likely to do. Why couldn’t she remember a goddamn thing?
Tim drank more of the beer. And then, in mid-gulp, his eyes frosted over, and the stuff started foaming down his mouth, onto his jeans.
“Hey,” she said, pulling the can out of his mouth. “What’s wrong with you?”
He swallowed, and without looking at her said, “I remember now.”
“Remember what?”
“We were sitting here. Kissing, fooling around, but you couldn’t concentrate ... So we just talked ... And then we saw it. We saw it, coming over the field. It was incredible. A saucer-shaped object, with spinning lights. It landed past the field, past some woods. Looked like it landed, anyway, so we got out ... Yeah, we got out of the car ... And we went to check it out!”
Not exactly believing, but not disbelieving, Diane said, “And then…?”
“And then … lights. That’s all ... just lights!”
Diane sighed and closed her eyes. “I don’t remember ... I just don’t—” But as she closed her lids, a whole explosion of lights seemed to go off in her mind, like remembered fireworks. She recalled not as memory usually plays itself out, but as a ragged series of sensory impressions. The smell of cow manure as she hurried across the field, the dread of wondering what lay beyond the trees, the thrill of wanting to find out, the desire to grab hold of something with her mind ... some kind of proof to give her father, to get his attention.
“Daddy!”
“Jeez, is that all you can think about? We wake up in a car with a partial amnesia, and all you can think about is your tight-assed father ... “
“No. Sorry. I just realized, Tim. It’s coming back. Some of it ... enough,” she looked over to him, staring at him with awe and horror. “We’ve got to talk to my father. Tim, you’ve heard about all that business my father’s been investigating lately. That Budd Hopkins, Whitley Strieber, Maximillian Shroeder stuff ... Missing time. That thing we saw ... Tim, we must have been abducted by a UFO!”
Timothy Reilly did not dispute her. He just finished his beer, then immediately got himself another.
Chapter 3
Later, after the shooting, the people that had sat beside the man in the balcony of the auditorium where Dr. Everett Scarborough gave his presentation described him as a “man in black.”
That was what Alfred and Gertie Hopper remembered mostly, that the man was dressed entirely in black: black tennis shoes, black polyester chinos, black belt, wrinkled black banlon shirt, black coat, even a black hat that he didn’t wear, but carried crumpled in one hand with nails bitten down to the quick.
“A raincoat. I thought that was weird. It was a nice night outside,” said Gertie Hopper later. “I definitely thought that was weird. But then, I guess I expected to see weird people there. I mean, flying-saucer speeches bring ‘em out, don’t they? I’ve seen some odd-lookin’ people before at some of the symposiums, so I guess that guy kinda blended in. Maybe he just wore that long black coat to hide the gun. And you know, funny thing, now that I think of it ... that was black too!”
Alfred and Gertie Hopper were from Charles County, Maryland. Alfred had a liquor store in Waldorf, and a motor boat docked at Chesapeake Beach, with which he liked to go out crabbing in the bay on nice Sundays or Saturdays. Gertie worked in the store, and was very active in the local Baptist church. They had two sons, both grown, and shared an interest in flying saucers. They had both seen UFOs years before. Gertie’s had been hovering above a tobacco field. Alfred’s had been during a late evening fishing trip. They belonged to MUFON and avidly read all the magazines and books on the subject. They were not at all obsessed, nor did they hunger for contact with aliens from distant planets. They just agreed that it was damn interesting stuff, that people should pay more attention, and that the government should start up some kind of sequel to Project Blue Book to investigate the phenomenon. Alfred had somewhat of a reputation as a letter-hack to the flying-saucer publications. One of his favorite authors was Doctor Everett Scarborough. While he didn’t agree with Scarborough that all UFO reports were hokum, he savored the way
the man skewered the wild and wacky fringe weirdos that UFO study attracted. When they had heard that Scarborough was speaking on the campus of the University of Maryland as the beginning of a national tour to publicize his new book, Above Us Only Sky, they had decided to go. They had seen him twice before, once at the Prince George’s Community College, and once at the Sheraton Park in Washington D.C. at the MUFON National Convention. They both agreed that Scarborough was a fascinating speaker, and besides, he gave a damn good show.
This “man in black” by whom they had sat had one other feature they’d noticed and recalled easily. “Pop-eyes,” Alfred Hopper told the police later. “You know ... bug-eyes? Like, what’s the term? Oh, yeah. Hyperthyroid. You know, you’ve seen them, it’s like their brains are too big and pushing at the backs of the eyeballs.” Otherwise, he was nondescript enough, with a limp, long hair, dark eyes. Late thirties, maybe early forties.
“Sat through the whole show, quiet as you please, still, listening to Dr. Scarborough’s talk, watching the slides, listening to the music, maybe stirring a bit when Scarborough did his demonstrations. Wasn’t until the end, with the question-and-answer period, when Scarborough was talkin’ ‘bout the Zeta Reticuli Connection—that was when he started gettin’ twitchy. And when that guy came up on the stage and started arguing with Scarborough, that, of course, was when he pulled out the gun.”
Dr. Everett Scarborough stood at the podium, letting the applause wash over him, savoring the fruits of a most successful lecture and demonstration. God, he loved this! When he started doing the speaking engagements, fifteen years before, after the publication of his very first book criticizing the UFO phenomenon, he’d reluctantly accepted that first lecture offer before a library reading group, only to wet his feet. He’d been nervous then—and, in fact, a touch of stage fright always occupied those first minutes before a lecture—but as soon as he’d launched into his song-and-dance, as he called it, unsuspected wings of oratory had unfurled and he had flown off into a most successful side-career.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said into the microphone, the words booming out over the auditorium like the pronouncements of some demigod over his minions. “But the best is yet to come. I understand we have some saucer clubs in our midst. The Believers are amidst us!” He smiled out over the audience, a taunting cast to his head. “Surely you Ooo Foo freaks aren’t going to take my words of wisdom, logic, intelligence, and truth without lobbing some pseudoscientific offal and ill-reasoned opinions into the pure and unsullied waters of this evening’s discussion! “
His biting delivery and self-mocking diction sent a wave of laughter through the audience—but it also performed its other function splendidly. It ticked off the fuming UFOols royally. Doubtless stunned by the sheer intensity and weight of his talk that evening, they would be speechless for a time. It took a nice slap across the chops, a challenge, to make them rise to the bait.
A young man wearing thick eyeglasses stood up from near the front, waving his hand for attention.
“Yes! The first question of the evening. In case you all haven’t noticed, I’m just full of answers!”
Light laughter. The audience was in the palm of his hand. They had loved the innovations in tonight’s show— the lasers, the magic exhibition, the new jokes, and the specially commissioned music. His hunch was paying off. Broaden the entertainment value of his lectures, and he’d broaden his audience. More people would hear his arguments, and he’d make more money speaking—to say nothing of selling lots of books in the lobby after the show.
“Dr. Scarborough, on the Carson show last week, and even tonight, you’ve been addressing the recent phenomenon exclusively, particularly the sort of UFO contact experienced by such people as Whitley Strieber and Maximillian Schroeder—namely abduction. But you’ve not addressed the fact that throughout history and especially since 1947, mankind has experienced a rash of UFO experiences of various kinds. Something is going on, Dr. Scarborough, and I really can’t buy your slick and glib explanations.”
“Something is going on, all right,” Scarborough said, pausing to time his punch line properly. “People are just high-teching broomsticks and black cats!” Chuckles. “I’m serious! Some brains in this vast sea of humanity are still bobbing and drooling in the Dark Ages. Aren’t you listening to me, numb nodes?” He raised his hands as though to direct a symphony orchestra, keying his already established refrain of the evening. He started to recite, and half the audience—his faithful, and those he’d just won over—echoed along with him: “People believe because they want to believe.” He pulled the mike from its holder and walked forward to the edge of the stage, smiling at the young man, who was already withering with embarrassment.
“Were you out buying popcorn when I went over this...? When I did those magic tricks the Amazing Randi taught me, and then showed you how they were done, were you out visiting the little boy’s room? Let me summarize just for you ... the power of suggestion. I say to you now: Hey, wouldn’t an ice cream sundae taste good after the show? Maybe vanilla with some hot fudge and thick rich whipped cream! And don’t forget some crunchy nuts and a tart maraschino cherry. I guarantee you that a healthy percentage are going to forget I made that suggestion to you, walk out of here, drive past a Baskin-Robbins and be damn tempted to wheel in for a treat. And I’m no hypnotist, and I’m no dairy flack either ... I’m just pointing out the hidden currents that can run in our minds. The human mind is a lot more than just the thoughts you have. It can play some damn odd tricks on you, and it’s the thing that’s attached to your eyes, your ears, your whole sensory apparatus! For instance, ever just lay on your back and stare up at cloud formations? Hmm? Sure, everybody has. Some people see ghostly galleons of white and grey coasting through the sea of a sky. But if you’re a horny young male—or even a distinguished older man with a taste for feminine company like yours truly—you tend to see naked female bodies!”
He let the laughter play itself out, and die to silence as he dramatically stared out at the audience.
“I admit I’ve been talking a lot about one aspect of the UFO phenomena tonight. But as a surgeon of logic and truth, it’s my duty to cut out the biggest cancers of contemporary thought first. In case you haven’t noticed, sir, abduction is the hot ticket these days in the UFO sweepstakes!”
“Hey, pal! You’re not hurting in this business!” a heckler called out in the audience.
Scarborough shrugged. “I guess you’re right. But still, when I heard about a one million dollar advance for Communion and two million for Max Schroeder’s Star Son—well, I walked out into my backyard, and held my arms up to the starry sky and cried out, ‘Please ETs. Take me!’ “
The audience loved that one. They roared. Nothing like money jokes to get a U.S. group going.
Everett Scarborough smiled upon his congregation benevolently.
He was a tall man, (six foot two) with dark hair and beautiful dark eyes which he’d gotten from his Italian mother. His chiseled good looks though, were from his father, a descendant of English settlers in Massachusetts. Some people said he looked like a British Roy Scheider, but Scarborough preferred to think of himself as an Italian Cary Grant. Regular bouts with free weights kept his stomach trim and his shoulders and chest big. He cut a striking figure tonight in his London tailored three-piece suit. The jacket was long gone, and the vest was unbuttoned, now. It was said that at some points in his fiery oratory Everett Scarborough resembled nothing less than a superb preacher of the Gospel. Only in this case, the god proclaimed was Isaac Newton, and Scientific American the bible that was thumped.
“Seriously,” he said, the picture of solemn sincerity. “I address all aspects of the UFO phenomena in my books, and I want to thank you, sir, for pointing out the heavy contemporary obsession of this evening.
“Nonetheless we stand now at a point in history where we can look back and easily see just how relevant my comments this evening on suggestion are!
“Let me give you two
quick examples,” he said, pacing the stage, to keep more movement in the act, a trick he learned from watching Jimmy Swaggart before that evangelist self-destructed in his own sexual juices.
“In my book, History of a Delusion, I cover not only modern sightings, but ancient evidence of Unidentified Flying Objects as well. Now, we all know that the Wright brothers made the first engine-driven vehicular flight in 1901 at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina; a feat which had been called an impossibility less than a quarter-century before. But did you know that there was a rash of UFO sightings in 1897 and 1898? Now, a lot of opportunistic writers on the phenomena jump on this fact, much as they jump on all those biblical quotations about wheels of fire and such. But let’s take these sightings in context.
“First of all, they dealt with flying machines not at all saucer-shaped. In fact, they allegedly looked more like boats of the air. The favorite story was about anchors dropping from the sky and men in Victorian outfits climbing down from vessels straight from Jules Verne novels. No little men in shiny suits, no bald heads and slanted eyes, and certainly no free proctology examinations! ‘ ,
They laughed at that one too, and Scarborough permitted himself a smile. He realized that his underarms were soaked in sweat.
“But we can’t take these experiences—mostly American, by the way—in a vacuum. In fact, flying machines were starting to become a possibility. They were the stuff of dime novels, and while science fiction was in its infancy at the time, plenty of writers imitated Verne, and the young H.G. Wells was just beginning to write his famous scientific romances. A lot of international tension existed—doubtless the denizens of these wood-and-bolt UFOs had German accents.
“But consider—the average American’s subconscious mind was just absorbing these fantastic scientific endeavors. There must have been a great deal of psycho-projection at the time. Now, as we all know, it’s a scientifically proven fact that the sky and the world, to say nothing of the universe, are simply full of weird phenomena. In fact, as I always say at these occasions and as I’ll say again, if people were merely looking for odd facts, they’d be quite content with the continued study of natural science, to say nothing of the other realms of scientific pursuit. And if you really want to get bizarre, just get involved with what’s going on in quantum mechanics. Indeed, in my opinion, a few of my colleagues are far weirder than your average alien contactee who’s had tea with the king of the Rings of Saturn—and they’re dealing with scientific fact! But as Alexander Pope said, the proper study of mankind is man. People are interested in other people. This is why, when people observe the many possible natural phenomena of the skies, they superimpose subconscious information onto the occasion.”
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 6