The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  Scarborough pushed his plate away and grimly leaned toward her, his eyebrows lowering, a deep frown pulling the soft spider web of wrinkles around his eyes downward. He was tired, so tired. But he owed Marsha as much an explanation as he could give. Not just in return for this safe harbor. Because she was who she was. “That’s where my daughter was supposed to be, Marsha. That’s where Diane was supposed to meet her flying saucer, remember?” He looked away, his voice coarsening and dropping to a whisper. “They’ve got her, Marsha. They’ve got Diane.”

  “What? The flying saucer has got Diane?”

  “No, no.” Scarborough shook his head in exasperation. “The CIA. Or an outlaw section, a part of a conspiracy that’s apparently been going on since the days of Project Grudge in the forties.”

  “The Editors—the Publishers? The groups that I heard Colonel Dolan and Brian Richards talking about at the Pentagon?”

  “Yes. They’re the ones who have Tim Reilly. And now ...” His hand clenched around his coffee mug, for a second. Then he went back to the bedroom and pulled something out of his soiled jeans. It was a red silk scarf. “Italian,” he explained. “I bought it for her as a gift when I was in Rome a few years ago. Diane loved it. Wore it whenever she could. I found it on a desert cactus back at the quarry. Tied there. It was a message from her.” He sighed. “They’ve got Tim Reilly, and now they’ve got Diane.” He looked at her, unsuccessfully fighting the emotion brimming up to his eyes. “I’ve got to get her back, Marsha. And I’ve got to pay those fucking bastards back for what they’ve done to her ... And what they’ve been doing to me for over twenty years!”

  The red scarf, hanging limply from the gnarled cactus branch beneath the desert stars...

  The scream of the CIA killer as he fell down the face of Hoover Dam, smearing blood on the concrete as he bump-bump-bumped his way downwards ...

  The crack of the gun in his hand as he and the muscular, pockmarked spook fought on the roadway above ... The bullet that should have gone wild, and yet somehow caught the man in the chest...

  Jake Camden’s grin as they shook hands, creating an unholy alliance.....

  These things, these sounds, these images, had haunted Dr. Everett Scarborough across the length and breadth of the United States as he had driven to Marsha Manning’s house in Cleveland, Ohio.

  And now he relived them as he told her the story.

  “When I got back to the University of Kansas, I called Diane’s friend’s house where she was supposed to be staying. The girl said she’d gone. I knew exactly where she’d gone, too ... Hoover Dam.”

  “Yes ... where she was supposed to meet up with those aliens she and Tim supposedly contacted,” said Manning. “But Ev—you explicitly ordered her not to go without you!

  “Diane can be an impulsive, stubborn woman. I hadn’t shown up on time, so it would seem she barged in on Camden and demanded that he take her there.”

  “Camden! A sleazy schlock journalist! A pretty poor replacement!’

  Scarborough shrugged. “Believe it or not, Camden’s got his points.”

  “I never thought I’d hear that from Dr. Everett Scarborough, scourge of the sensationalist press!”

  “What can I tell you? He saved my life. I guess that scores some points in my book.”

  When Scarborough reached Las Vegas, he’d rented a car and headed out to Hoover Dam.

  “What I had no way of knowing was that Diane had another ‘vision.’ Turns out her ‘aliens’ hadn’t meant Hoover Dam, exactly. What they meant was that they’d meet her in a less conspicuous abandoned rock quarry a few miles away. Apparently, she experienced this realization in the middle of fitting Camden with a new suit. Diane always hated Hawaiian shirts ...”

  “How feminine of her. She didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of extraterrestrials by a poorly dressed companion. I can sympathize entirely.”

  Scarborough grunted. “Whatever. I’m not complaining. Diane was in a hurry, so she just stuck a black suit on Camden and then hurried to find the quarry. Meanwhile, I headed out to the dam to find her. Naturally, there’s no sign of her, so I just wait there, admiring the view.” He took a sip of coffee, remembering the faint twinges of vertigo, maybe even of latent agoraphobia, ~ he’d felt standing there on that huge pile of concrete, a lake to one side, and a long drop to the other, the faint thrumming of the generators deep below vibrating his feet. ‘’A car comes up, stops. A youngish guy with a great physique and a face like the moon steps out and puts a gun on me. Said he’d been protecting me all this time—now he gets to kill me. Seems like he’s really enjoying his work.”

  ‘’An Editor. . .”

  “Right. Blue-penciling a very large section of ‘top-secret manuscript.’ Let me tell you, Marsha, it didn’t look very good for me at that moment.”

  “Perils-of-Pauline time, huh? But you’re here ...”

  “Yes. Another car pulls up. A man gets out, dressed in a black suit. The car’s a big sedan, black as well. The CIA guy—well, I guess we’ll never know why; anyway, I hope not—absolutely freaks out. He starts babbling about ‘the Men in Black.’ This gives me just enough time to have a go at the arm holding his gun. Big fight. Turns out the guy in the black suit is Camden!”

  “Diane must have sent him back to see if you’d gone to the dam for the meeting.”

  “Exactly. Well, I managed to get ahold of his gun and wound the guy, and I hoped to get some information out of him, but he went over the side of the dam and he’s clinging there by his fingertips. I try and get ahold of him and it looks like I might be able to haul him over the edge. I call for Camden to help out. Guy gets another look at Camden—who, with typical savoir faire brings up the MIB business—and freaks again, losing his grip. Went down like a bag of rocks.”

  “MIB?”

  “Short for ‘Men in Black.’ “

  Marsha shook her head. “Well, your life is saved now, so maybe you can use the break for a sidebar, subtitled ‘Men in Black.’ “

  “Saucer mythology, Marsha.”

  He took another sip of coffee, asked her to warm it up for him, and then launched into a capsule version of his lecture on Men in Black, starting with their appearance in front of Albert K. Bender, director of the International Flying Saucer Bureau. Bender alleged that three men dressed in black suits, white shirts, and black hats, who claimed to be with a government agency, gave him some top secret information about the origin of UFOs, but warned him that they were only satisfying his curiosity to shut him up, and any leakage of the information would bring about swift retribution.

  “Actually, Bender turned out to be a paranoid with a strong fascination with horror fiction, science fiction, and the occult,” Scarborough explained. “Gray Barker, a former associate, wrote a couple of books on the subject which whipped up the fringe element of the UFO people to a froth in the late fifties and early sixties. Ever since, there had been lots of stories about the Men in Black. They usually travel in threes; they wear either well-pressed black clothing or truly rumpled. They often have slanted eyes, or are foreign looking, even though they claim to be with the CIA or the government in some capacity. Many times, they speak like characters out of a grade-B forties or fifties crime movie. They have odd areas of ignorance sometimes. What they mostly do, it seems, is ask for flying saucer information. That, and threaten. Oh yes, they do a great deal of threatening. And, they tend to travel around in early model black Cadillacs!”

  “About an eighty-five on the Bizarre Rock Parade. Nice tune and I can dance to it!” said Marsha.

  “Well, for years I thought it was absolute mythology. This Bender guy somehow linked up the old story of the devil or Traveler in Black, bearing tidings of trouble to a town, with the UFO phenomena. And it stuck! But lately ... Christ, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I mean, you should have seen that CIA guy. Really upset at the very thought of Men in Black getting ahold of him.”

  “Yes, yes. Noted. But go ahead with your story. Presumably,
you went back for Diane to the quarry.”

  “Yes. Camden took me there.”

  “And Diane was gone.”

  “That’s right. There were signs of a scuffle.”

  “What about signs of a saucer landing?”

  Scarborough smiled grimly, shook his head. “Tire tracks, though. No question in my mind who took her. And Marsha, I swore then and there I’d get her back. I’m going to need your help, though.”

  She reached across the table and held his hand. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “You believe me, then.”

  Her eyes lit up with a liquid brown fire. “Of course I believe you, Everett! I know you had nothing to do with Captain MacKenzie’s death! I was with you when he was killed. And I’m the one who overheard the whole sordid conversation about the Editors and the Publishers.”

  “I just need a base, a touchstone—nothing that will jeopardize your safety or your freedom or your career. That’s all I ask, Marsha.”

  “Okay, okay, Doctor. I said you’ve got it, for goodness sake! Have you gotten denser in the past week?”

  “No, actually, things have cleared up a bit in my head, I think.”

  “Good. So go on. What about Camden? You said you’re working together now. What’s the story there?”

  “Well, the next day we heard the news reports, and we figured out what had happened. The Editors, or whoever the hell they are, decided to pin the rap on me.”

  ‘’I’d half expected something like it,” Scarborough explained. “That’s why I did the money-machine sweep the evening before. I figured they’d be looking for me, maybe cut off my credit, what have you. But I didn’t think they’d pin the deaths of that agent and of MacKenzie on me!”

  He’d pulled Camden out of a snoring sleep, poured a little cold water on his head. The announcement seemed to have galvanized Scarborough, he was at a loss; now, the situation was clear: he knew he was a fugitive not only from the CIA ‘Editors and Publishers’ but a fugitive from the law. Fortunately, he’d not called into the Arizona. police that morning like they’d wanted him to. The law had no idea where they were. When he got Jake Camden awake (at least the guy was sober and not hung over), they had a fast powwow. There had been no mention of Jake Camden in the reports. Presumably, nobody was after the Intruder reporter except his creditors, which left him a free agent.

  “I harbor no illusion about Jake Camden. I put it right out on the table: ‘You help me here, my friend, you’ve got yourself the story of the century! No more Intruder sleaze.’ The road back to legitimate reporting was open to him. To fame, riches, the Pulitzer Prize. And that story was his, if he agreed to help me. Naturally, he agreed. There was no skin off his nose! Since he was a free agent, I wanted him to dig for information about the Editors and Publishers, and this strange program they’ve been perpetrating. I wanted to be able to call on him as an outside operator if I needed help. He readily agreed.”

  Camden was actually the one who’d bought the car—an old Ford Falcon, a thousand bucks including tax and tags. Then they’d split up, Camden catching a plane back to Florida, Scarborough hitting the highway, headed for Ohio—and then New York City.

  “First thing I need.” Scarborough said, “is for you to keep in touch with Camden. I gave him your number here. Any messages he has for me, he’ll leave with you. Any information, papers, reports, what-have-you-he’ll send here. In tum, the flow will go to him through the same channel. Is that okay with you?”

  Marsha shrugged. “No problem.” She was silent a moment, musing. Then she looked him square in the eye and said, “Wouldn’t I be more help to you if I came along?”

  “No!” He said the word with emphasis and finality.

  “But isn’t there someone else who can serve as your base of operations ...?” she said stubbornly, her brown eyes pinning him. “Look, I’ve got some leave coming up, and I was going to take it anyway ...”

  “Cancel the leave. I don’t want you going anywhere, you hear me—not if you mean to help me. Marsha, please ... I appreciate the thought, but I need you to stay here. For the time being. Can’t you understand?”

  She bit her lip and looked down at her fingernails. Scarborough noticed that she’d bitten them to the quick this past week. They hadn’t been that way when he’d first met her. He hoped she wasn’t biting them over him—no, of course not ... That was absurd.

  He didn’t find Marsha attractive at all, never had, from the first moment he’d met her. He never much liked dark Mediterranean eyes, and her hair was much too brunette and curly for his taste. Everett Scarborough tended to go more for lighter, more northern European women ... She was a wonderful woman, bright and alive. Spunky even. Warm and caring and all that rot. But she wasn’t the kind of woman that Scarborough would ever want to have sex with, get involved with. No, indeed. They were just friends.

  “All right,” she said, a tang in her voice. “I understand. Charles Bronson has got to go out and be Mr. Vigilante. Solve the crisis on his lonesome. Walk tall and all that.”

  “Marsha, I’m not on my lonesome,” Scarborough said, reaching out and taking hold of her hand meaningfully. “Not with you back here, helping me.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, pulling away from him, getting up and walking on her brightly waxed linoleum floor. She spun around, one hand on her hip, one forefinger cocked like a mock-gun, pointing at him. “He gets his stomach fed and suddenly the old, self-efficient Scarborough rears his blocky head!”

  “Oh, thanks for the sympathy!” He felt a little stung.

  “You’ve got sympathy from me, you’ve got empathy, you’ve got everything you need, Everett! Why don’t you take more When it’s offered! You’re in way over your head. I’ve been in active service with the military for over ten years. I know things; I can do things.”

  Scarborough sighed and sipped his coffee calmly. “I’m sorry, Marsha. You know, I really would like to have company.”

  “Company! Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said! I’m one competent lady, pal. You know what they used to call me in ROTC back in college? Lieutenant Bitch. Behind my back, of course, ‘cause they knew I’d beat their butts if I heard them. I got my black belt in karate in high school, I’m working on a blue in aikido now—and I’m a top-notch shot. You show me a computer network and I can wiggle in ... You’re just like my superior officers! You just won’t give me a chance!”

  “I don’t doubt any of that, Marsha. But I don’t care if you were your class valedictorian—”

  “Just missed it by a grade-point!” she said defiantly.

  “You could be Supergirl, and I wouldn’t care, Marsha. You seem to forget that you’ve already risked plenty when you sprung me from that military brig in Virginia.” He shook his head and wearily put his head in his hands. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about this. I thought about it all the way across nine states. This is my battle, Marsha. I’m asking too much of you as it is. I can’t allow you to risk your life!”

  “Isn’t that my decision, Everett? Isn’t it my life? Look, do you think I’m particularly happy here in the Air Force! Let me tell you, I’m not! You think I have a whole lot of respect for Washington. D.C., for the Pentagon. No way! And my career! I’m just stuck in a goddamned rut! Helping you out has been the first meaningful thing I’ve done in, I don’t know how long!”

  She turned away from him. Was that a cough he heard, or the stifling of a sob? He got up from his chair, went to her, reached out, and touched her gently on her back.

  “And you’ll be helping me out this way, believe me, Marsha.” He said softly. “Look, I promise, if it gets to be too much for me ... and I need help. I’ll call. Okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m being overemotional about this, Ev.” She turned and looked at him, frowning. “I just can’t get Richards and Dolan out of my mind. Two high-echelon officials Ev—talking like thugs! Working for some intra-government conspiracy to commit God-knows-what atrocities! When
I took my wings, I promised to protect my country—and when I work against those bastards, that’s just what I’m doing.”

  “Well-said, Marsha, and I do understand your disillusionment and anger. I’m brimming with those two emotions myself, believe me.” He chuckled ruefully. “I’m going to put things right, Marsha. I’m going to find out the truth, and get that truth out to the people. And finally, I’m going to find my daughter.”

  She nodded, smiled, and put her head on his shoulder. He could do nothing but hold her. feeling her racing heart hammering against his chest. She was so warm, and she smelled so damned good...

  But no, he wasn’t attracted to this woman.

  She was a friend.

  A very close, meaningful friend.

  That was all, dammit!

  “But what are you going to do now, Everett?” she asked. “Where are you going to go?”

  He told her.

  Chapter 5

  The woman pulled off the earphones from the typing man’s head. Blues music squealed from the tiny speakers.

  “Here are your phone messages, Jake,” said Betty Norton throwing a stack of tom-off, pink paper memo-slips down on the disaster-area desk. “It’s after six, pal. I gotta go.”

  Jake Camden squinted up from his rattling IBM Selectric, the Camel butt dangling from between his lips like a punctuation mark in a Tom Waits song. “Sure, babe. I think I gotta few more pages in me tonight, though. I’m gonna stay late.”

  Betty Norton was the assistant he shared with the Human Interest editor of the National Intruder. Jake Camden was the paper’s UFO reporter. He was supposedly working hard now because he had several weeks of columns and stories to finish before he shunted off for further “field work,” as he’d described it to his boss. Actually, he’d finished his Intruder work yesterday. What was in his platen now was a first draft of the story he was going to sell to the New York Times or the Washington Post or maybe a syndicate-any venue with the class and respectability that a rag like the Intruder lacked. It was going to be his ticket out of here, this story about Everett Scarborough. Certainly he couldn’t show it to anyone yet, tough—he and Scarborough needed to dig up some more documented fact. But when they did! Whew! Wow—eee! It was gonna be huge! He’d get a book deal, a movie deal, and most important of all, a ticket out of Crackerville, Florida, humid home of Jaundiced Journalism. He’d have his dream...