The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  MacKenzie wilted a little. “Yeah. I remember now. Sorry to get upset at you, Ev. Maybe I am a little too eager to jump at things. Maybe I just want a little more action in my life, a little more excitement.” The big man scratched his bushy mustache. “But really, Ev. I’m asking you to have a slightly more open mind. Something weird is going on. The reason I gave you that letter is that something just occurred to me, something that you may be able to help out with.”

  “Which is?”

  MacKenzie flicked his eyes about the dim dining room, as though he half expected someone to be listening in. He lowered his voice confidentially as he leaned his elbows onto the table.

  “You’ve got some time off now. Come on out with me to Iowa. Let’s do a replay on the 60s. Let’s do some great investigation together. At the very least, you’ll dig up more grist for your debunking mill. And who knows what else you might come up with! Let’s check into these stories ... the Higsdon Farm stuff ... the Reynolds case...”

  “God, you sound just like my daughter!”

  “Yeah, and I still think you oughta make a stop in Kansas, too,” said MacKenzie, a fleck of steel in his gaze. “C’mon, man. Let’s work again. Let’s get out there and dig up some dirt before we get too old. There are heads to butt, and secrets to uncover! Just a week, Ev! That’s all I ask. I want it to be like old times.”

  Scarborough nodded. “The old times were good. Things seemed ... well, I guess the clichés are true ... much simpler then.”

  The big man brightened. “So you’ll do it? You’ll try to get what you can from Colonel Dolan, and then come and investigate with me. You’re the best, Ev. Or anyway, at least you used to be. I need you.”

  Scarborough sucked on his front teeth for a moment, considering. Maybe he should get out into the field for a time. Mac was right; he did have some days to spare. He could think of it as a working vacation. Get the blood roaring again. The game’s afoot, eh, Watson? and all that.

  But his thought-flow struck an immediate barrier.

  To accept his friend’s invitation would be tantamount to admitting that everything he’d stood for since the Project Blue Book days, everything he’d written in his books and lectured on countless times, could be wrong. It would be almost the same as Doctor Everett Scarborough saying, “Hey, maybe there is some kind of cover-up. And by golly, perhaps there are flying saucers buzzing about piloted by little green men.” No, it just didn’t work. It was entirely too much to risk.

  “I’m sorry, Mac. I’ll look into the discrepancies you’ve mentioned ... discreetly. But at this point in my career I just can’t chuck the stand I’ve taken. At least not on the evidence of a few mixed-up facts or on my spaced-out daughter’s experiences. ... Or on the evidence from a part-time UFO investigator who in all likelihood is a full-time loon.” He handed the letter back to his friend.

  MacKenzie banged his fist on the table. “Jumping Jesus, what the hell has happened to you, Everett Scarborough?” he said through gritted teeth.

  Scarborough was chagrined to see that a few of the diners and a waiter turned to see what the commotion was. “Not so loud, Mac.”

  “I’ll be as loud as I goddamn please, man! And I’ll tell everyone that the Everett Scarborough that I used to know is dead! The Scarborough who was tough-minded and open, a maverick who tracked down facts and truth with a hunter’s skill and instinct is gone. And what’s left? I’ll tell you what’s left ... A fat, corporate-minded, government-toady! A fucking ostrich with his head in the sand, getting his ass hole crammed with thousand-dollar bills! Fame, fortune ... God, that’s what you’re after, Ev, not the truth. You’ve sold out man! I never thought to see that day, but you’ve fucking sold out.”

  His face red, the big man got up and threw his napkin down on the table. Scarborough was so stunned, hurt, and embarrassed that he could find no words to answer with.

  “I don’t think we have anything more to talk about, Dr. Scarborough, sir,” said Mac. “Good night.”

  The older man stalked from the room.

  Shocked, Everett Scarborough could do nothing but sit and blink. Was the whole universe coming down on him? Just because he took a stand that other people didn’t care for? A maniac with a gun, his daughter, and now one of his very best friends—they’d all taken their own particular potshots.

  What the hell was wrong, anyway?

  A waiter approached hesitantly, “Is everything all right, sir?”

  No, it wasn’t, but Scarborough assured the waiter that he was all right.

  “In that case, sir,” said the man, pulling out the long check, laden with scribbles and prices. “Here is your check.”

  Scarborough sighed. “Why don’t you put one more drink on it, huh? A Glenlivet Scotch. Double. Neat.”

  The waiter nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  Scarborough got out a credit card, and stared glumly at its holograph.

  Chapter 12

  The dark form of Roosevelt Island swept along to the right of the station wagon, giving way to the sight of the city, leaning into the Potomac like a frozen, glistening ooze of civilization.

  Across from the Parkway, on the other side of Key Bridge, Georgetown blazed with nightlife. Woodrow Justine could imagine the college students clogging its cobblestone streets, navigating boozy paths from bar to bar, past the quaint shops, with rock and jazz music squeezing out into a spring-soft night. Washington, D.C., drinking age was eighteen, a full three years below that of nearby Virginia and Maryland. The Georgetown drinking establishments—open to the unbelievable hours of three A.M. in the patrician capital—attracted them like magnets. Justine liked Georgetown, he liked rubbing shoulders with young people, making conversation, and was forever startled and thrilled over how naïve and stupid and inferior these biological sausages of the privileged classes were. It was a hobby of his to imagine how easy it would be to simply take Joe College, in his penny loafers and smart pleated pants, or Jane Sophomore, in her mascaraed face and Guess Who distressed-denim jeans, out into the alley and waste them. He never did, of course. Justine was much too professional for that. He got his share of even-ups in the course of duty. Still, he did enjoy imagining what it would be like.

  No time for Georgetown tonight, though. His grey Chevrolet rolled under the bridge and up on George Washington Parkway. Justine admired the view across the river of Georgetown University’s lighted spires. He supposed he could have driven up 295, past the Tidal Basin, and on up the Baltimore Washington Parkway. But this way, if not more direct, was at least more relaxing.

  He turned onto Route 495—the Washington Beltway, after a pleasant ten-mile cruise overlooking the Potomac, then took that four-lane highway across the American Legion Bridge into Maryland. At eleven o’clock, traffic was light for a pleasant spring Saturday night. Justine slipped past Glen Echo and Bethesda and Kensington easily, gearing his mind up for what lay ahead. Beside him was a nondescript tan suitcase. He’d checked it before he’d left National. It held, of all things, a pretty clunky .38 Special, along with one of the new silencers that didn’t mark the bullet. Justine much preferred better handguns—he wished he had his Walther PPK or Beretta automatic with him, two prized members of an extensive gun collection. But this was consistent with the impression that the Editors wanted to make—a death wiped of professional fingerprints. Also in the pack was his usual bag of tricks—certain instruments that would do a Nazi Death Camp commandant proud. There was also a map of Montgomery County, with Klinghoffer’s road explicitly marked. This lay on top of the suitcase, and the secret government operative examined it as he approached the signs for the Georgia Avenue exits.

  He took the south exit. It took him another twelve minutes of lights and stop signs to get to the heart of Takoma Park. On the map, the town looked like a large wart on the Northeast side of the tilted square that was D.C. In the flesh, it seemed a gentle and old suburb, filled with ancient houses, more than slightly frayed at the ages, but not subject to the kind of decay brought
by poor inhabitants who had recently moved in. No, Takoma Park had an old, 1920’s-neighborhood-gone-slightly-to-seed feel. One of the things that always impressed Justine about the Washington, D.C., area was the number of trees—big trees, small trees, oceans and seas and rivers of trees, streaming beside buildings. Takoma Park seemed particularly wealthy with thick oak and poplar, and their spring leaves crowned them now, creating almost a canopy over the neighborhood in places.

  Klinghoffer’s house was on Greenbriar Road, quite near to where Piney Branch Road intersected with Flower Avenue (even the goddamn streets were named after plants! thought Justine), and Justine found it with no difficulty. It was a single-family unit—old and faintly dilapidated from the evidence provided by a pass-by—and fortunately not very close to its neighbors. The lights burning in the living room and basement reassured him. The mark was indeed home. Just as Richards had promised.

  Justine turned a corner, and parked on a side street down the block. He pocketed his weapon and his bag of tricks, and then he looked at the grainy photo of Klinghoffer one more time under the illumination of the dashboard light. Underneath was printed the words, MARYLAND DEPT OF VEHICLES, 1986. The picture showed a man with dull, faintly bulging eyes, who was losing his dark, limp hair. He was not smiling. His cheeks were slightly puffy. Guy was overweight, thought Justine. Out of shape. Simpler and simpler. Still, that leap over the balcony edge showed some agility and power. Best to be cautious at the very least.

  Locking the car door behind him, Justine pocketed the keys and proceeded to walk toward 1345 Greenbriar, checking the neighborhood. All the houses were old, though a few looked as though they’d been refurbished somewhat. A few lights were on, and from one of the houses the sound of Mozart sweetened the air. No parties, no activity—good. A quiet neighborhood. It would be even quieter much later that night, when Justine was finished.

  The Klinghoffer residence itself was old, and the grass and hedges that surrounded it were in want of trimming. It was not a big house, but a large open porch gave that impression. As he approached it, Justine could see that the dull green paint was coming off in strips, revealing an even duller grey undercoat—and sometimes just brown, rotting wood. Even past the sweet scent of honeysuckle from the underbrush that surrounded this house, Justine’s faculties sensed a sourness, an offness. His hackles rose as he stepped up onto the porch, past an old swing whose left chain had broken and lay rusting on the chipped floorboards. There was a distinct wrongness here.

  It gave Justine the willies. This was not a sensation he was used to.

  He stuck his hand inside his pocket to seek the comfort of a gun in his hand. The grey steel was cold and solid, and made him feel much more confident as soon as he touched it.

  A definite moldy effluvia hovered over the porch, an earthy, fungoid smell, touched with the perfume of the hyacinth bushes nearby. A shiver touching his spine, Justine made a complete circuit of the house, padding silently in the overgrown grasses. Brick foundation, wood frame. A bit of shingle fallen from the tattered roof crunched under his shoe. Basement windows peered up from rusted wells, and light leaked through, but he could not see anything for the dirt and dust that smudged them. Around the back, a dilapidated swing set grew from the ground like a metallic tree, next to a clothesline with clips hooked to nothing but air. Justine checked the back door. Locked. Easy enough to break in, if necessary. He could hear nothing from inside the house—but he sensed that someone was home. He walked around the north side of the house, observing that the windows there were just as heavily curtained as all the first-floor windows were.

  Getting the door open would be easy enough. A knock, a flash of an official badge, a request for a few questions ... but all that depended on the door getting answered. He stepped onto the porch, and the wood groaned beneath his weight. Rotted. Justine just hoped he didn’t fall through. Whew—that fungus smell again. Suddenly, he just wanted to get this business over with.

  There was a storm door, but the front window was gone. He could see no sign of a doorbell. Justine braced himself and knocked four times on the wooden door. The knocks echoed hollowly beyond, but there was no answer. Justine knocked again, with the same result.

  He reached down and tried the old doorknob.

  It turned easily in his grip, and he pushed open the door with a faint wheeze.

  “Hello?” he said. “Mr. Klinghoffer?” He thought better of announcing the presence of government authority. That ploy might have worked at the door, but there was the possibility the man might be holed up here, just waiting to plug the first cop to walk in. However, the living room showed no evidence of preparation for a standoff. And no one answered him, either.

  Justine’s nose twitched at the rank stench of sour garbage. A faint light from the dining area illuminated a living room piled high with stacks of newspapers and Hefty bags filled with trash, some cinched at the top, some not. In one corner, by the grate of a hearth was an old RCA black-and-white television.

  Keeping his gun gripped in his pocket out of sight, Justine skirted the piles of trash and walked into the dining room. “Mr. Klinghoffer?” he called softly.

  More stacks of newspapers lined one of the dining-room walls, all the way to the ceiling. The other wall was solid bookcases, crammed with musty old books and magazines. In the center of the room was a table covered by a filthy tablecloth. On the table were rows and rows of Fruit Loops cereal, some open and empty, some still sealed. A carton of milk sat in front of a half-filled bowl of cereal dotted with color. The whole room smelled of milk gone bad.

  “Jesus,” whispered Justine to himself.

  To one side of the cereal boxes were a spill of books and magazines and tabloids. Justine examined them. National Enquirer. Star. World Weekly News and National Intruder all were there, opened, and violated; stories had been clipped from the pages. Also there were copies of Omni, opened to the red “Anti-Matter” sections, as well as science magazines, the Washington Post, and other national newspapers. All had been worked over with scissors. The stacks of books were all UFO-oriented, many written by Dr. Stanton Friedman, and most had the sloppy look of primitive self-publishing. There was one whole pile devoted to Fate and UFO and California UFO magazines. Next to it was a stack of old and yellowing Flying Saucer magazines from the fifties.

  Justine walked over to look at the bookshelf. More UFO books, but a great deal of science fiction as well, from Piers Anthony to Roger Zelazny, but not alphabetized. As he stepped away, he trod on a pile of paper, and he looked down to see the remains of a book. Scarborough’s new book, Above Us Only Sky, ripped apart with a knife or razor blade. Amused, Justine picked it up and immediately dropped it as soon as the smell hit him—the destroyed book had been smeared with excrement.

  “A critic,” whispered Justine. “Definitely a critic.”

  Question was, where was the critic? Basement? Attic? Put him away, Woody, he told himself. Put him down quick, and get the hell outta here.

  The kitchen was a smelly jumble, a repeat of the dining room, with a greater variety of food and food stains. A great mound of rotting matter lay in the sink, making Justine ill at the sight and smell. God, it was worse than when he was a kid. Much worse. Oh, jeez, bury this guy.

  Justine decided to check the upstairs first. Only if he had to, would he deal with what might lie in the subterranean part of this sewer. He eased into the hallway, intending to go back through the cluttered living room and then up the scuffed and tatty stairway, senses alert, when suddenly the cellar door flew open. The big door banged against the wall, and a man jumped up from the gloom below, screaming at the top of his lungs and holding the sides of his head as though they threatened to explode.

  “Arwhhhhhhhhhh!” screeched the man, bashing into the wall. “Arwhieeeeeeeee!” he cried, slipping first to his knees and then slipping to the floor in a paroxysm of agony.

  Startled, Justine stepped back two paces, pulling out his gun. If instinct had had its way, that gun would h
ave fired, but the assassin’s iron will and years of training held his own panic in check, and allowed him a split second of detached observation before a decision was made.

  From the picture, Justine recognized the man who lay on the floor as Arnold Klinghoffer. His knees were tucked up into his chest in almost a fetal position. Spasms wracked his body. He smelled of old and new sweat, and his limp hair was pasted down by a patina of moisture. Around his head was an oddly constructed helmet, apparently made of aluminum foil and coat hangers. Two bent wires stretched out, wobbling, like the antenna of some demented insect.

  Justine put his gun back in his pocket. It was a shame he couldn’t just waste the crazy now, but Richards had specifically requested an interrogation. He put his pack down against the wall, and leaned over the still-shuddering man, still on guard. He reached into the specially constructed pocket on the side of his pants and thumbed on the tiny recorder.

  “Arnold Klinghoffer,” he said, touching the man’s shoulder.

  The man abruptly swung his head around, so quickly that his amateurish helmet fell off. The effect was immediate; Arnold Klinghoffer blinked at his visitor outlined in the light from the dining room, and opened his mouth like a beached and gasping fish. “Anteres ... message from Anteres ... We will cure cancer ... We will cure AIDS. Help from the stars. The Friends of the Universe have landed! Make ready for the Pleiadans! Jesus shall return in a flying saucer!”

  “I’m a friend,” said Justine, softly. “I’m here to help you.” The eyes—bulging, hyperthyroid—shifted their focus from infinity to Woodrow Justine. They seemed startled for only a moment, and then ... accepting. “Yes,” said the man. “You. You’ve come. They said you’d come tonight. Tonight. I was talking to them! The helmet worked again. Only once in a while does the solarnarium-crystoid nexus catch their broadcasts.” He turned his head toward the mangled helmet. The aluminum foil crinkled as he picked it up and looked at it as though it were the Holy Grail. “I have their message, and will act!”