The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “No, Cindy. I want to talk about you! I want to talk about the lofty publishing career of the bestselling skeptic-scientist in the U.S.A. They were in on it from the very beginning, weren’t they? They had you infiltrate a respectable publishing company, acquire my first books ... And then they built the machinery of promotion and fame to make me a star. Didn’t they, Cindy!

  Didn’t they!”

  “Everett, let go of me. My arm’s going to fall off.”

  He realized that he’d been holding onto her much too tightly, and he let go. He relaxed a bit, but still kept a firm grip. The train rolled into a stop at 50th Street station. Fortunately, no men in grey suits got into the car, but a number of the more respectable passengers took the opportunity to get off or change cars. Scarborough felt certain no one would go for a cop—he and Cindy had settled down to what looked like a domestic squabble.

  The doors rattled closed. The train rumbled down the line.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Everett, but please, trust me. I’ll get you help. There’s something wrong with you!”

  “No. There’s nothing wrong with me. I see it all now. I should have guessed. They had me corning and going. I was their little bright and chipper, suave-scientist patsy. It was so easy—I didn’t even have to sell out—just build up a gigantic spoon-fed ego!”

  “You’re paranoid!”

  “Oh yeah? Then how come it was necessary for you to pull a gun on me, Cindy? How come it was necessary to bring out those grey suits?” He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth. “You’re corning with me, sweetheart. We’ve got some serious talking to do; oh yes, we do.”

  “About what? Everett, this is kidnapping. You’re just getting yourself into more trouble.”

  “It’s your people who’re the kidnappers. Where are they keeping Diane?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “They—no, you and your cohorts have got my daughter, dammit! What have you done with her?”

  “Everett, please. Look, okay, I admit it.” She looked away, unable to face him. “I am a government official. I serve my country, and I’m proud to do so. What I’m not proud of is what I’ve done to you. Do you think it’s been fun, Everett? Haven’t you seen that I’ve developed feelings for you? Don’t you think all this has torn me up inside?” She sighed, and Scarborough could see a glistening tear sliding down the side of her face. “I guess I told myself that you’d never find out, that you were enjoying yourself so much, with your fame, your success, that it was really good for you. I never realized it would come to this.” She turned to him, and he could see the sincerity shining through those troubled blue eyes. “I swear, Everett, I’d never, ever do anything to hurt you or Diane. I wish you’d just stayed away from me. I had a choice, Everett. Betray you, or betray my country. If you’d just come in with me—well, okay. Everything won’t be all right. But we can work out some kind of arrangement beneficial to everyone. Right now, Everett, you’re a loose cannon on the deck, and these people I work with—they have to stop you. Whatever way they can!” The train was slowing down now, coming into Times Square Station with the slow squeal of brakes. What he would do, Scarborough thought, was to go on down to 34th Street at Penn Station, take a train uptown, find his car, and get the hell out of New York. He couldn’t force Cindy to come with him; that would be far too dangerous. Some cop would stop him eventually. No, she had to go along of her own accord.

  “Tell me about the Publishers and Editors, Cindy. Tell me what they’ve done to my daughter.”

  “I can’t tell you anymore. I shouldn’t have said anything at all, as it is.” She was clamming up again, damn her. The tears were gone. She was a trained government agent. The only reason she’d gone soft was because she’d had an emotional attachment to him. But it was clear where her true loyalties lay.

  “Cindy, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with you? A country that indulges in these kinds of operations must have something rotten at the core! They’ve brainwashed you, Cindy. You’re as much a pawn as I was. For God’s sake, help me! If you want to serve your country, it’s the Constitution and the Bill of Rights you have ultimate allegiance to! Not a bunch of hoods and killers out to—”

  The train shuddered to a halt, and the doors opened. A big black teenager sauntered in, all Pimp Troll attitude, rolling biceps and a huge boom box blasting rap music. The explosive entrance attracted Scarborough’s attention, and he loosened his grip on Cindy ... forgetting she was a trained government agent.

  Her blow took him by surprise, a quick jab across the face. He was knocked back, blinking with shock and pain.

  The next thing he realized was that Cindy was running through the open metal and glass doorway, her pumps clacking onto the cement of the 42nd Street station. The station was more crowded here, and she dodged New Yorkers, acting as though she knew exactly where she was going.

  He dashed out after her.

  “Cindy!” he cried. “No! We have to talk. I swear I won’t hurt you!”

  Heads swung away a split-second, then averted into the classic New Yorker’s dead, l-don’t-care stare.

  He ran after her.

  But then he saw her destination.

  Across the walkway, on the other side of the platform by a grey girder, stood one of the New York’s finest, dark hair hanging from behind a casually slung cap, talking into a walkie-talkie. But he was looking the other way, and there was a train approaching. The din was so tremendous, the cop clearly could not hear Cindy—or for that matter, Scarborough yelling out to Cindy.

  Scarborough stopped, halted by indecision.

  He turned around. He had to jump back on the C train. But even as he swiveled about, he saw the doors closing, the train starting to lurch away.

  Damn! He turned back. Was she really heading over to a cop? If so, her intent was clear. She was going to make up some kind of story about assault, and pin it on him. The cop would radio for help and he’d get caught. He had to be arrested only for a short while before the grey suits closed in, and then that would be it.

  He had to run!

  But even as he had this thought, as he watched Cindy closing in on the cop, raising her hand to grab his shoulder and tum him around, something quite unexpected happened.

  Cindy jerked.

  She jerked as though some invisible hand had struck her. A split-second later, a little spurt of blood sprayed out from her back, splattering the grimy grey floor of the platform.

  Christ, someone had shot her!

  Her mouth opened, but any scream was swallowed up by the roar of the train coming into the station. Her arms wind-milled and she lost a shoe. She changed angles, splayed wildly, her designer jacket stained crimson with her own blood.

  “Cindy!” Scarborough cried.

  Jesus, she was headed straight for the gap! She had gained plenty of momentum with her run, and the added impact of the bullet from nowhere pushed her harder. Out of control, she tripped, and hurtled straight out into empty space, and then down onto the rails, face contorted with panic and horror.

  There was an immediate screech of brakes as the motorman saw the woman fall onto the tracks, but the train was only a quarter of the way in, and it still had plenty of speed.

  It rolled right over her.

  “Cindy!”

  Scarborough could almost see those hard steel wheels grind over that shapely body. severing limbs, crushing her skull, mincing her up into a gory slab of bone and twisted skin and gristle. He almost felt the bright singe of pain, and then the descent into total, forever blackness...

  “Oh, Jesus!” he cried. “Cindy!”

  People were beginning to scream.

  The cop’s attention had been attracted; he just stared down at the accident, eyes bugging with shock. It took only two or three seconds for the confusion to swell into chaos as some of the crowd moved away, some froze as still as Scarborough, and some moved forward to rubberneck.

  Cindy.

&nbs
p; Someone had shot her. But why? Because she was going to tum him in. Because he was in danger?

  It didn’t add up.

  Unless ... Scarborough was unable to keep the thought out of his mind. And the image came back to him unbidden . . . Standing in the open, on top of Hoover Dam, taking a wild shot at the assassin who meant to kill him. The impression that the shot had gone wide—but then the impact and the blood as a bullet struck the man, pushing him back and over the fence on the side of the dam...

  The train had stopped, and the cop was barking something into the walkie-talkie. Scarborough found himself drifting over toward the side, hoping against hope that somehow Cindy was still alive, that she’d wedged herself against the wall, avoided the rending wheels, the crushing weight of the train.

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Oh Christ, the thought flooded him. They’ve got me.

  He was spun around powerfully, and was face-to-face with a man in a suit and tie. Later, Scarborough remembered that the man had a peculiar smell. A smell that. at these close quarters, made his flesh crawl with goose-pimples. He was, however, far too juiced with adrenaline to really notice at that exact time.

  “Everett Scarborough,” said the man, regarding him with an implacable stare. He spoke with almost perfect diction, in a deep tone of authority, like a radio announcer. “You must leave here. Now. Or you will surely be captured.”

  “Who are you?” Scarborough said.

  “Leave or we shall have to kill you, Everett Scarborough!” A note of worry. Excitement? The man’s hand reached into his jacket, showed the edge of an automatic gun. “That would be a tragedy. A true tragedy.”

  “You! You killed Cindy!”

  He recognized the man now. He was one of the pair in Tower Records, flipping through the classical records.

  A great commotion sounded from the top of the platform. Scarborough saw the uniforms of rescue workers and policemen.

  When he turned around again, the man dressed in grey had disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd. Scarborough felt a sympathetic pain in his chest, almost anticipatory of a bullet smashing through.

  They were out there, watching him, those two men.

  But how much longer did he have before the people who wanted to capture him, wanted to kill him.

  Confusion raged through him, confusion and grief. But now, survival had again nudged him. He needed to go unarrested, free, if he wanted to solve this terrible puzzle, if he wanted to find his precious daughter.

  He turned away from the chaos and walked slowly up the steps, away from this scene of sudden and senseless death.

  Chapter 11

  Maximillian Schroeder answered the door himself.

  The dough the guy had these days, Jake half-expected a hoity-toity butler to answer the door. But no, here was Max Schroeder in the flesh, gabardine slacks, polo sweater, and Weejun penny-loafers. He peered out at Camden through horn-rimmed glasses, his curly hair disheveled in a tasteful Thirty something style.

  “Max!” said Camden, grabbing the man’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Max, good to see you, pal. Thanks for lettin’ me come see you!”

  The hand was smooth and limp. Schroeder allowed Camden to shake it for just two seconds, and then pulled away. “Jake Camden. Please, come in, Jake. I’ve prepared some breakfast. Would you like some coffee?”

  Jake grinned. “That’s awfully kind of you, Max. As I just pulled myself out of bed mere moments ago, I suppose a cup of coffee would do real well now, and maybe then I can choke down some toast or something.”

  Schroeder shook his head sadly and closed the door behind his guest. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Jake. You should eat a balanced one.”

  Maximillian Schroeder lived in a brownstone on 63rd Street, on the East Side of Manhattan. He and his family had the entire brownstone to themselves. Such a building was worth millions, and though Maximillian Schroeder was a rich man from his books, he was not perhaps that rich. The brownstone was part of an inheritance from a wealthy uncle who’d made his money in import-exports. Schroeder’s family in Oklahoma had a good deal of money as well, which had brought him his Ivy League education and his general air of intelligent erudition. Schroeder was also a highly successful novelist. But it was his nonfiction books that had made him a mint. His books about his experiences with UFOs and the beings that peopled them. His books about his abduction, and his subsequent communications with the “Others,” as he called them. His books that some found frightening, and others inspirational.

  “Never got in the habit. Maybe a little jelly on a bagel. Mind if I smoke?”

  “This is a smokeless environment, Jake.”

  “Yeah. I kinda figured.” Jake put his pack of Camels back in his pocket. He really didn’t want a smoke badly; he was just testing the boundaries. “Nice place you got here, Max.” Jake looked around as he was escorted through corridors past a living room, back to the dining room. Everything was decorated in the best of old-fashioned taste. The rooms had an antique and expensive air to them, but fashionably lived-in, as befitting a genteel author with decidedly bohemian and bourgeois fellows and audience. However, the kitchen, which Camden could see beyond the mahogany, teak, and walnut of the dining room, was decidedly yuppie high-tech, with chrome sparkling and tile gleaming.

  “Thank you.” Schroeder gestured for Camden to take a seat.

  The breakfast on the side table consisted of coffee in an immaculate silver service, a ceramic urn’s worth of oatmeal, skim milk, brown sugar, and a bewildering variety of fresh fruit. Lying on the table was a copy of today’s New York Times, which Schroeder had clearly been reading when Camden arrived. “I really prefer our more rustic quarters out in Pennsylvania, but Melinda likes to be close to her cultural events. Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall. So we spend a few weeks here, a few weeks there.” Schroeder’s Oklahoma accent was minimal, but it occasionally glimmer through, complementing his soft-spoken manners.

  “Pennsylvania. That’s where you met the ETs, huh?”

  Schroeder grimaced. “Please, Jake. The ‘Others.’ We’re not living in a Spielberg movie.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. You know, I keep on forgetting that you take all this stuff really seriously.”

  Schroeder took off his glasses and leaned toward Camden, his steely blue-grey eyes dark above a frown that wrinkled his narrow face. “It is serious. We are at the dawn of not only a new age, Jake. We live on the cusp of things beyond our imagining. There are things the Others tell me which are far, far beyond my comprehension. My mind bums at times, Jake, burns with the implications of the merely metaphysical nuances of the messages the Others present me.”

  The man’s gaze was so sincere, so penetrating that Camden had to look away. He drank some of his black coffee, and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Maybe so, Max. Anyway, I need some help from you, some advice. Maybe even a quote when I get around to writing this book.”

  “Another book, Jake? I hope it has a good deal more credibility than the last. Ninety-five percent of what is written on the subject of UFOs and extraterrestrial life is so unfortunately muddled. Shadows on Plato’s cave, Jake-particularly distorted shadows. I could not possibly endorse a book of yours unless I was sure it was sincere-and of course, I shall have to correlate it with the Others.”

  “Sheesh, Max. Get the broom out of your ass and give me a listen, huh? I’ve got some heavy stuff here.”

  Schroeder’s eyebrows rose with extreme interest. “Have you, now?”

  “Yep. Heavy-duty, hot news and I’m dead in the middle of it. When this appears in the New York Times or maybe the Washington Post, I’m gonna have credibility up the old wazoo!”

  “How nice for you, Jake. So what is it this time? Cattle mutilations by the Slime People of Venus? Elvis impersonators from Alpha Centauri?” A condescending smile appeared on those famous thin, wide lips.

  “No, Max.” Camden leaned toward him, grinning with a victory that he really hadn’t had the opportunity to cele
brate until now. “The true story of Doctor Everett Scarborough!”

  Schroeder stopped smiling. He blinked, taken aback. “Scarborough?”

  “Yeah. And guess what. He and I are buddies now!”

  Maximillian Schroeder recovered rapidly. He leaned back in his chair, picked up his coffee and sipped it thoughtfully. “Doctor Scarborough is a brilliant man. I respect him greatly. However, I thought that he openly despised you, Jake.”

  Camden grinned. “Pure past-tense now, pal. Those days are gone.” Camden held up intertwined index and forefingers. “We’re like that.”

  This bit of news clearly was taking Schroeder awhile to properly digest. And no wonder. He and Dr. Everett Scarborough were the greatest of gentlemen enemies. Each considered the other his own private Moriarity. Schroeder, of course, was the more gracious of the two when they met at UFO functions or, most especially, on television shows. However, it was always clear that Scarborough’s sarcasm, his scathing wit, his command not only of science but of language, wounded Schroeder deeply. He was a man who hungered for dignity, respect, perhaps even acclaim, despite the wild and wacky message buried beneath the acreage of soft-spoken sincerity.

  Maximillian Schroeder was famous for his obliging politeness to even the most off-the-wall saucer freak. Part was his personality, perhaps; but mostly, it was part of the Message he preached, as received from the Others: Everyone on Earth is communicated to by extraterrestrials in one form or another, but as each person is different, and each message processed differently, most are squelched by the engines of the subconscious, and the ones that emerge at all ray out like light beams shot through the multitier prism that congeries humanity.

  Maximillian Schroeder had not started out a Prophet of the Star People. Hardly. He’d started with a terrific education, a fortune, and, starting in his late twenties, a successful career as a writer of thrillers. This began with the famous Codename books which regularly did well both in hardcover and paperback. Codename: Werewolf was the first. Then came Codename: Vampire; Codename: Psychic; and finally Codename: Conspiracy. These were followed by a couple of generic thrillers that did not do as well. Then Schroeder suddenly revealed to the entire world (through a book named Baptism) that not only had aliens from other planets kidnapped him and taken him aboard their flying saucer, but he realized that this sort of thing had been happening to him for a long time. Baptism had sold millions of copies worldwide. His subsequent books, Touched and Pentecost, had done almost as well; and when he wrote a novel called Revelations, about the people he called the “Others”—dictated, he claimed, by a mass-mind communion of his own—the book went through the roof of the bestseller lists.