“Get those men over there to call an ambulance!” Scarborough ordered coolly. Diane scurried off to obey the order and Scarborough kneeled by his friend. This close, he could see the ragged entry paths of the bullets in Mac’s abdomen and chest. Rivulets of whiskey-diluted blood streamed from MacKenzie’s nose and mouth. Half-opened eyes turned to Scarborough.
“The files. Came to destroy—files,” Mac whispered.
“What ... your Blue Book files?” Scarborough said in disbelief.
A nod. “Acne scars—short blond hair. Fucking pro—” A cough spewed up more blood. “One of ours—CIA, I think.”
“No, no it couldn’t be.”
The eyes opened wide, anger filling them. “Wake up, Doctor!” The eyes looked away. “Shit. Sorry—Ev. Can’t lift damn ... bottle.” The eyes gazed down longingly at the bottle of Scotch. Scarborough took the bottle and carefully tilted it into the dying man’s mouth so that he could get just a sip. Mac took the sip, then asked for more. He took a gulp, coughed, and sighed.
“You’re going to be okay, Mac. Just hang on!”
“Get—real,” said Mac. “Fucking miracle—I need—here.”
Scarborough looked back and saw Diane with the group of
men, pointing. Two of the men ran for the truck, while another hurried back toward the oak with Diane.
“We’re getting you an ambulance. A doctor, Mac.”
“Ev, I have to—to tell you. Watch ... your ass. I didn’t… know what big ... artillery we ... were sticking our… heads into ... “
“Yes, Mac, yes. Now quiet. Save—”
“Ev—something else.” Mac’s right arm moved, trying to pick up something. Scarborough saw that it was a pile of bloodied paper. A tattered manuscript. He reached over and took it, seeing immediately the familiar title page. Until the Dawn, it said. By Eric L. MacKenzie. On the title page were scrawled in letters of blood the words: PRO. BLUE BOOK FILES. POCKMARKS. A last message—just in case.
He must have dragged the manuscript all the way out of the burning house, from his office. Scarborough was overwhelmed.
“Only copy ... now,” said Mac, looking at Scarborough with fading eyes. “Almost ... finished. I was gonna… dedicate it to you, pal.”
Diane and the fireman arrived, along with Lieutenant Marsha Manning, who hung back respectfully. The fireman was hardly into his twenties, with freckles and long brown hair. He looked down at Eric MacKenzie and he said. “My God—this man’s been shot!”
“No shit, Sherlock” gasped Mac.
“We’ve got a first-aid kit coming,” said Diane.
“Don’t forget the Band-Aids,” said Mac.
Scarborough put his hand lightly on MacKenzie’s shoulder. “You’ve made it this far. Hang on!”
“The book—Ev. It’s good.”
“Of course it’s good, Mac. You wrote it.”
“No—I mean it ... It’s really good.”
His head lolled onto his chest.
Five minutes before the ambulance arrived, Captain Eric MacKenzie, USAF, Ret., died with the taste of good whiskey in his mouth. As he watched the ambulance men wheel the body into the back of their long vehicle, Everett Scarborough sipped absently at the bottle that was flavored lightly with the blood of his friend, feeling his world falling apart.
Chapter 29
Diane and Everett Scarborough stayed that evening at Lieutenant Marsha Manning’s motel, a Holiday Inn with all the generic trimmings. It took all afternoon for Scarborough to deal with the ruined house, the police, and make arrangements for MacKenzie’s body. With the help of his friends and associates at Iowa University, a simple funeral was arranged. Mac could have been buried in Arlington Cemetery, but Scarborough nixed that. He arranged for an Iowa grave, close to the fields and forests Mac loved to prowl ... besides, in light of the situation, Scarborough felt quite ambivalent, at the very least, about the U. S. government. If it had been a CIA agent who’d killed Eric MacKenzie, he doubted that Mac would have wanted his bones planted down the river from their headquarters.
They took a late, somber and sober dinner, where Scarborough tersely instructed his daughter to fly back to Kansas the next day. If Tim Reilly had not returned, she was to report the disappearance to the police, and then contact the FBI concerning the possibility of kidnapping. She would do this, and then not return to her apartment, but rather go to a hotel, asking for police-supervised protection.
As for Scarborough and Manning, they would fly back to Washington, D.C. tomorrow for a pre-arranged meeting with Colonel Walter Dolan. Dolan had been horrified with the news about Mac, when Scarborough had called—he immediately agreed to the meeting, though it was doubtful that he knew what was in store for him.
Scarborough then would fly to Kansas, ask the police where Diane was staying, and stay there as well. The next day, they would fly to Arizona, where he would personally escort her to the Hoover Dam for the supposed meeting with the alleged extraterrestrials.
That was the plan, and Diane agreed to it.
None of them had any idea how wrong these plans would go.
There was a knock on the door of Scarborough’s motel room.
Scarborough stood up from the desk where he sat, filling out the necessary forms for Mac’s arrangements. Ted Allbury, an associate professor at Iowa State, had agreed to deal with the rest of the business while Scarborough was away, and notify friends. What little family Mac had were not in Iowa. Mac’s address book had burned in the fire and it would be difficult to notify them, but Allbury claimed he would try.
Marsha Manning stood at the door. She wore jeans, a dark blouse, and Reebok shoes instead of her normal severely creased Air Force blues. Her hair was unpinned, and fell naturally around her makeup-softened face.
“Hi,” she said. “I thought you might need some company.”
Scarborough nodded and stepped aside to let her in. Marsha had a paper bag in one hand, and she lifted a bottle of Kentucky whiskey from within, putting it onto the table. “I thought you might like a drink too.”
“No thanks. We have to get up early tomorrow. Besides, I’m not in the mood.”
“Mind if I help myself then?”
Scarborough shrugged. “Ice and glasses over there. Disposable plastic glasses—make whiskey taste terrible.”
“I drink it so seldom, I wouldn’t notice,” she said, scooping out the ice. She poured a little whiskey in, sipped, made a face. “I think I need some water.”
“I’ve got a couple cans of Coke here.”
“That would be wonderful.” She popped the top, and it sprayed over her blouse.
Scarborough chuckled softly. “Must have dropped one.”
“No, it’s just my karma.” She poured the fizzy stuff into the glass. “You know, I haven’t had a major car accident and, I’ve never had stitches or broken bones. I figure all the little things kind of release the accident pressure. So what if I’m a klutz. I survive.”
He sat down on the bed, and leaned back onto the pillow. “Thanks for coming. It’s all just starting to sink in.”
“You and Captain MacKenzie seemed very close.”
“We were good friends, yes.”
“Who would have done such a thing to him?”
“Someone who didn’t want us to know something.”
“You mean about the old UFO cases? I’m sorry, but I find that difficult to believe.”
“Yes, I can’t blame you. But Mac is dead, and he told me, before he died, that his killer burned his Blue Book files. So what am I supposed to think?”
“Colonel Dolan’ll be able to help us. He’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“He’ll need some explanations for me, or I’m going to go to higher authorities than Dolan, I promise you that.”
“I’m glad I’m going. I’ll do what I can to corroborate your story.” She sat on the bed by him, the ice cubes rattling in her cup. This close, he could smell the gentle ambience of perfume and her natural scents.
“Thanks,” he said feeling himself relax and soften at her closeness. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
She took a sip of her drink, and then got a curious expression on her face. “Something puzzles me though. I mean, here I am, an employee of the Air Force—sent by an official of the government that Captain MacKenzie was so wary of. And you’re not suspicious of me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You had opportunities to go through Mac’s files. All you had to do was to take the offending ones out, steal them, or destroy them—without our even knowing about it. You didn’t even ask where they were. No, the only reason why I trust Dolan at all now is that he sent you to me—and you have proved to be a help. That business with the government owning the Higsdon farm—we knew that. Camden uncovered that news for us at the local newspaper. If you worked for the people covering that information up, you wouldn’t dig it up for us, now, would you?”
She sipped at her drink thoughtfully, then put the cup down at the nightstand. “I’m not arguing, Ev. You don’t have to persuade me; I’m not some Mata Hari.”
“Rhetorical phrasing, Marsha.” He lapsed into silence, staring off at the cheap beige polyester drapes above the temperature control unit.
“You don’t really think MacKenzie was right, do you? You don’t seem the paranoid type who subscribes to conspiracy theories.”
“I’m not. And what I want from Dolan is proof, an explanation, or whatever he has to offer me. I’ll weigh it, consider it, do some of my own probing and research, and make a judgment. That’s the kind of man I am.”
“What if he was right? What will you do then?”
“I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it. I doubt I’ll have to. Mac assumed that he had information some people didn’t want him to have. There’s no proof that the people who sent that killer were associated with the U. S. government or any government. There’s no proof that what they were after has anything to do with UFOs—the UFO factor could be a coincidence.”
She picked her drink back up. “That’s true. I personally don’t see any conspiracy here. But aren’t you bending things a little? Seems to me, you’re twisting things to avoid even the thought that you might be wrong.” Pause. “I sense this obsession with UFOs——well, it’s almost a personal thing with you. You campaign with the fervor of a former smoker, or a recovered alcoholic.”
“Nonsense!” He said fervently. “I’m a scientist! I seek the truth! If there’s any emotion involved, its anger at the effrontery of the pseudoscience involved with the so-called saucer invasion.”
“Whoa, fella! I came to comfort, not combat! Like, I thought maybe you could use a hanky or a back rub, not a sparring partner!” She got up.
“Wait. Sorry. I’m guess I’m little tense—I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Maybe a back rub would be nice.”
“Roll over,” she instructed.
He obliged. He felt her sit and begin to slowly massage his back. After just a few moments, it was clear that the woman had “the touch”—that sense of just the right pressure to exert with the fingernails on skin to engage nerve response. Some women didn’t have it at all—it seemed more an instinctive talent than anything learned. Coupled with the right pheromonal presence, the right visual presentation, the right personality behind the fingers, and “the touch” transformed from the merely pleasurable to the erotic. After a couple of minutes of Marsha’s ministrations, Scarborough found himself thoroughly aroused; he was aware of his heart beating faster, of all his senses coming alive. Her musk and her presence were almost like an electro-chemical mix hanging in the air between them.
“Do you want me?” she whispered huskily.
Yes, actually he did. Very much. Physically, sexually ... what have you. Yes was the word on his lips, but a deep-down knot of tension brought him up short, making him think. And the more he considered it, the worse the idea got. For lots of reasons.
“That’s a fairly loaded question, Marsha.” He turned over and looked at her warmly.
She leaned over and kissed him. He could not help but respond for a moment—her warmth was so relaxing, so arousing. But he pushed her gently away.
“Is something wrong?”
He tapped his head. “Yes. I’m thinking. I do that a lot, you know.”
“Too much, Dr. Scarborough. Entirely too much. Don’t think that I proposition guys every day. It just seemed ... appropriate.”
He shook his head, smiling. “Some serious sensual pleasure. A nice little romp in the sack to take our minds off what happened today. ... And in turn you’ll feel like a good little Girl Scout, turning a sad camper into a happy camper.”
She stiffened, moved away from him. “Maybe.”
He grasped her by the arm, pulled her back. “Marsha, don’t get in a huff. Yes, I want you, dammit! You’re just about the sexiest thing I can imagine at this moment.”
She looked down, moping a little. “I am?”
“Oh, yes. No lie. But Marsha ... I’ve fouled up far too many relationships by having sex too soon. Especially amongst women with whom, more than anything, I want to be friends. I don’t have too many woman friends, Marsha. I think ... I think maybe I want one.”
She smiled slightly. “Namely me.”
“Nobody else in this room.”
She nodded. “Yeah ... that’s happened to me too, Doc. I guess sex can gum things up a bit.”
“I know it would be great with you, Marsha. I honestly do. But I want you in a different way. I want you to be close to me, where it really counts for now.”
She turned away from him and laughed. “God! This is maddening. This just makes me want you more.”
“Bear with me, Marsha. I’m kind of unglued inside. I need you—but I need to know I have a friend more.”
“Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” When she turned back to him, Scarborough saw that a pair of tears was creeping down her cheeks. “I think it’s wonderful. Yes, I’ll be your friend, Everett.”
“Thank you, Marsha. Well, maybe we’d both better get some sleep.”
She smiled softly at him, looking at him as though she’d never properly seen him before. “This means I can still insult you, right?”
“Only if you do it with your usual odd wit, Marsha.”
“I’ll do my best. One more condition of friendship, Ev. We get to hug each other once in a while. Like when we both need it.” She reached over to him. “Like now.”
“Hugs? I don’t know if I’m very good at hugs.”
“It’s just like whistling, silly man.” She moved to him and put her arms around him and held him tight. “Only you don’t put your lips together, and you don’t blow.”
Feeling a little awkward, he put his arms around her as well. “How’s this?”
“Not bad, Doctor. But we’ll just have to practice to perfection.” She leaned her head against his chest. “My new buddy.”
He sighed and surrendered himself to what he could accept from her. “Pal.”
Chapter 30
“Everett, Everett,” said Colonel Walter Dolan, immediately responding to the buzz of his corporal-secretary. “Come in, come in! You too, Lieutenant Manning.” A liver-spotted hand patted Scarborough’s back solicitously. “I’m so sorry to hear about the death of Captain MacKenzie. I’m shocked and saddened. He was a vibrant and worthy man, and I know what good friends you were.”
They went into the office, with its prosaic view of Shirley Highway, the Northern Virginia suburbs, and the huge Pentagon parking lot. The colonel closed the door behind them.
Scarborough and Manning sat down in straight-backed chairs, and Dolan settled attentively at his desk. Scarborough related the events which had occurred the previous day as best he could, without commentary, and watched the colonel’s reactions carefully. When he described the assassin, and what happened, he thought he noticed an almost imperceptible lifting of eyebrows, an exhalation of breath—but it could have been his imagination. He
wanted to give the officer the benefit of every doubt, before coming down hard on him.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Scarborough and Manning had arrived early at National Airport, and he’d taken her to a favorite Georgetown Restaurant, Clyde’s, for lunch. Then they’d strolled amongst record and book shops, peeking in at art galleries along the way. The previous night had left an afterglow that lingered through the splendid spring day; but the moment the monolithic Pentagon appeared through the taxi windshield, the bubble burst. Mac’s blood shone bright in Scarborough’s mind—his purpose here overwhelmed every other thought.
Now, as he sat in Dolan’s office, relating the last details to the colonel, he could feel the anger and frustration and grief surging back up, like bile, bitter in his throat.
“There will be a full investigation,” Dolan promised. “I promise. We’ve already scheduled an Air Force military-police official to work with the local authorities. For whatever reason that Captain MacKenzie was killed, we’ll bring the culprit to justice.” Dolan pounded on the desk with a too-studied conviction.
“Whatever reason? I told you—the guy wasn’t there to kill Mac ... Mac just happened to be in his way. The killer wanted to destroy Mac’s files. His files for Blue Book. That’s why there was the fire, Colonel Dolan. He burned them—and almost everything else. I didn’t tell you this on the phone, Walter—but Mac pegged him for a CIA man. Enforcement division.”
The colonel turned to Lieutenant Manning. “Did you hear this from Captain MacKenzie as well, Lieutenant?’
“No, sir. He only told Dr. Scarborough.”
“Hmm. Well, we’ll make a report of this to the appropriate authorities,” said the officer glibly.
“You don’t seem to understand, Dolan.” Scarborough leaned forward emphatically. “Something is going on here! Mac thought it was government suppression, a cover-up, and he lost his life. So that’s why I’m here. I want answers. You were the man who knew what kind of information MacKenzie had ... knew because I showed it to you. Now, I’ve worked with you for a long time, Walter, and I’m loathe to think that you’re mixed up in any way with this sordid business. So you tell me—did anyone else, besides Lieutenant Manning, know what Mac and I were up to ... namely, investigating irregularities in the Blue Book reports, checking into the disparities?”
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 33