“Yes, of course. I’m just trying to get this in some kind of specific detail.”
“Okay. So, they do the usual checkup. That’s never fun, and I complain. but what are you gonna do?”
“Checkup. Could you be more specific?”
“It’s a little embarrassing. Let me give you a paperback of Abe’s book.”
“Oh. You mean, like amniocentesis. Blood sample. Some gynecological stuff.”
“All those words, yeah, but it just seemed like a formality. So I ask them, are you going to make me pregnant again? And they say, no. And I say, good. What the hell do you want with me now? Haven’t you bothered me enough? I figure, I don’t raise a fuss, they’ll think I’m dead or something. And that’s when it happens.”
“The human woman came in?”
“No. There I am in the middle of that alien examination room. You know, lights and doodads all over. Real strange stuff, like that movie Alien.”
“The artist Giger ...”
“Whatever. So, suddenly everything gets all rushy and black, and it’s like I had a couple shots too many down the block at Hardigan’s Bar. I go down, and things, whew, they start spinning like crazy. And the aliens ... they just freaked. And then things started to go off and on—”
“Strobing.”
“Yeah, like special effects for a rock group I seen once down at Hammerjack’s. And the aliens, they leave and I’m down on the floor. And the lights come back on and I’m looking up at a woman.”
“A human woman.”
“Yes.”
“Elaine. Now, this is very important. Could you describe the woman to me? That part wasn’t in the article.”
“Sure. Only the memory’s kind of patchy. She was really beautiful, but she wasn’t wearing any makeup.”
“Was she young?”
“No, but she wasn’t old either. I’d say maybe her thirties.”
Scarborough’s heart sank. No, it wasn’t Diane. However, he knew that chances were it wouldn’t be anyway—this was a long shot. Still, he wanted to hear the woman out. This could be significant.
“I see. Try hard to remember what she looked like ... and what she was doing?”
“Doing? Well, she looked real upset. She was shouting stuff. And I remember stainless steel-like instruments coming down. I felt a sting on my arm on a different place than usual. Here, let me show you.”
She rolled up her sleeve and showed Scarborough a triangular scar on her arm, much like the stigma described by other victims of alien abduction. It looked like a hickey from a cookie-cutter machine, thought Scarborough.
“Ah yes, of course. But the woman. What did she look like?”
“You know that show ‘Cheers.’ The one in the bar.”
“Yes, of course.”
“That woman who married the shrink. The one who acts like she’s got a broomstick stuck up her ass.”
“Lilith. Lilith Sternan. She married Frazier Crane.”
“Yeah, so you’re a ‘Cheers’ fan, huh? Well, this woman looked like her, only she had long blonde hair tied up behind her head. Made her look real severe. And glasses. She wore glasses too. She was saying something about ‘the mix.’ Something was wrong with the mix and if they didn’t get some kind of chemical in fast, they’d have a corpse on their hands.”
“And you remember this—”
“Sorta. I went under for a little bit, and then the aliens came back. They told me that the woman I’d seen was one of the other earth women they were experimenting with. Besides, I wouldn’t remember this anyway. What I was supposed to remember was that this wasn’t a fantasy, it was really happening—and you know, spread the gospel. But the Lord Jesus wasn’t there. Nope, and no sign of those heathen messiahs either.”
“And when you woke up—”
“I was back on the couch, with this goddamned hole in my arm! Shaking and crying ... And you know, after I settled down, I went up to Earl, and he was sleeping like the dead. Same with the kids. I tell you, they do somethin’ weird to you, all right.” She frowned and shook her head sadly.
“I see. You know, this could be very significant.”
“Could it?” She brightened.
“Yes. I definitely think so, Elaine. Did you have any kind of feeling that this woman was in charge of things?”
“Yeah, you bet! That’s what I told the newspapers I called. I said, you know, I think that there are humans involved with this stuff, somehow. I couldn’t figure out ... Maybe the human race has turncoats. That’s what Abe thinks, anyway. You know, that there might be people the aliens use to help kidnap people. On the other hand, there’s also another possibility.”
“What’s that, Elaine?”
Elaine Strazinski’s eyes got wide and wild. “Maybe that’s one of the things they’re doin’. Maybe they’re making artificial human beings. Things that look just like you and me and walk among us, only they ain’t human. They’re one of them!”
“I see. Well, I’ll be certain to include this in the article. Thanks so much for your time, Elaine. I won’t keep you any longer.”
Elaine blinked. “Say! You’re not going yet. You haven’t finished your sandwich. And why don’t you sit and have another beer? You know, Ted, you don’t look so good. I think you need some food and another brew.” Suddenly, she was up again, flouncing about, turning on her femininity and fussing over him, going to the Frigidaire and pulling out a beer, unscrewing and tendering it toward him as though it were some sort of offering.
Scarborough thought about this a moment.
Although he hadn’t gotten what he’d hoped for, he’d picked up intriguing evidence. Assuming of course that all of this wasn’t just a part of some psycho-fantasy, part of the overall delusional network, as he had dubbed it in his books. Assuming that Elaine Strazinski had been actually kidnapped...
Then, chances were, the abductors hadn’t been aliens.
That was just the thing about the alien abductions, and Scarborough had fallen into this trap as well. The key word that attracted attention was alien. Abductions happened every day; the FBI had a whole department devoted to kidnapping and such. But the concept of “alien” polarized listeners to “yea” and “nay” camps. The believers bought the story, mostly because they were open to the idea of ETs anyway. The skeptics, like Scarborough, had discounted the stories entirely because they did not see any logical thread, nor did they believe that extraterrestrial intelligence was visiting earth.
But what if these abductions—at least some of them—were real, but not necessarily alien. What if either they were interpreted as being alien ... Or they were made to look alien!
A month ago, Everett Scarborough would have discounted all that as poppycock.
Now he was not so sure.
He hadn’t gone through the hell of the past two weeks back then. He hadn’t realized that pure paranoia could be reality.
He’d interviewed abductees before, many of them quite like Elaine Strazinski in their convictions, many of them just as vocal—people who passed on the word to others. Some abductees were clearly the wackos and maladjusted that Scarborough had interpreted Elaine as being at first, profoundly influenced by the “Typhoid Mary” types like Whitley Strieber, Maximillian Schroeder and Elaine Strazinski.
Only they hadn’t described to Scarborough an encounter with a human female—the description of which sounded like someone that Everett Scarborough knew. Scarborough accepted the beer and the offer of another sandwich.
Maybe there were other things that would come to this woman in another half hour of talking.
So, for the first time, as he ate his crab cake sandwich and drank his National Bohemian beer, Everett Scarborough just sat with a victim of alien abduction and listened.
Chapter 16
“Hello.”
“Ed? Ed Myers?”
“Yes, that’s right. Who’s this?”
“Ed, it’s Everett. Everett Scarborough. You’re back! I’ve been trying to reach you.
”
“Jesus. Ev! Are you okay, man? I just got back from a trip today, and my wife told me ...”
“Yeah, Ed. I’m in deep trouble.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t say.”
“No. No, of course not. I’m just glad to be here for your call. You know, I haven’t even had time to play back my phone machine. You must have been calling me a lot.”
“Yeah, Ed. I have to call in a favor.”
“What can I do to help, Ev?”
“First, do you believe that I’m innocent? That I didn’t kill Mac or that CIA agent?”
“Ev, I know you. Why would you do a thing like that? And I know my Company. They’d set you up in a snap. It’s a frame, Ev. It’s gotta be.”
“Oh yes. A frame. But more, it’s more than that. Some outlaw group of your people has Diane. I don’t know why they haven’t used her against me, threatening to kill her unless I tum myself in ... But maybe they’re being cagey. I don’t know. Ed, there’s something incredible going on. Some kind of clandestine conspiracy, the likes of which I’d never imagined before. I can’t even begin to guess why it exists, but it involves the whole UFO business, all the way back to Project Sign in the forties.”
“I see.”
“Look, I can’t talk long. I know you’ve never been real thrilled with your employers, but I’m not going to ask you to betray them. I just need some information. Information that I think you might be able to get access to. And I’ll take it from there.”
“Gee, Ev. I don’t know ... There are all kinds of levels of clearances, and I’m far from the top.”
“Yes, but you’ve got your methods.”
“True. Very true. But Ev, maybe we better get together and talk.”
“No. The phone will do for now, which is why I can’t talk long. Maybe later. Right now, I want you to take down these names. Colonel Walter Dolan. Brian Richards. An organization called the ‘Editors and Publishers.’ And lastly, see what you can get on a woman named Doctor Julia Cunningham.”
“Right. Got them. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Ed. God, it’s good to hear your voice. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
“Look, has it occurred to you, Ev that you’re not thinking straight. Maybe we should get together. I can fly anywhere you want—I’ve got lots of Frequent Flyer Miles, and some personal leave to bum up ...”
“No. We’ll talk about this later. I can’t talk any longer, Ed. I’ll call this time tomorrow night, if you can be by your personal phone line then:”
“You bet, pal. And I’ll see what I can come with.” “Thanks, Ed. You’re a lifesaver. I wish I could just sit down and have a beer with you. I’m just glad that there’s someone in the governmental loop I know I can trust.”
“Talk to you tomorrow’ night.”
Scarborough hung up the public phone outside the 7-Eleven store by Fayette Street. He went back to his car in the lot, and drove the rest of the way down South Broadway, to an area of Baltimore he and Mac MacKenzie used to go to sometimes, called Fells Point. He felt like having a good import draft beer or two to get the taste of the National Boh out of his mouth, and Highlandtown had been pretty close, so he figured that since all he had was a tatty, depressing room waiting for him back in Dundalk, he might as well take an hour or so and visit Bertha’s, or maybe the Wharf Rat. If he was hungry later, he could get some of that good Mayan Mex food at Mike’s Tavern.
Scarborough was feeling buoyed by the phone call. He’d made it through to Ed Myers. The conversation had been short and cooperative. Ed hadn’t tried to keep him on the line, which reassured him immensely. They’d talked too briefly for anyone to get a tracer on the origin of his call; the fact that Ed had let him go so quickly meant that Ed was being truthful in his willingness to help out. This relieved Scarborough’s paranoia greatly.
He’d tried to call Marsha earlier, but had gotten nothing.
He’d try later—or maybe tomorrow night.
What next? Maybe a couple of beers would help him decide.
Fells Point was a historic port area jutting into Baltimore Harbor like a stubby finger. The place once had a reputation for wild bars, derelicts, and sailors aprowl on leave. It still had a high density of bars, but in the last decade or so, the “Renaissance” of Baltimore had led to extraordinary gentrification that upped property values and made Fells Point an aspiree for the title of the Georgetown of Baltimore. Fortunately, despite the coming of the upper-scale shops and restaurants, the area still maintained its cluttered bar flavor, along with its reputation as a good place to go see folk or blues or jazz on weekends.
On Fridays and Saturdays, a jazz group called the Alan Houser Quartet played at the bar of Bertha’s, a restaurant famous for its steamed mussels. Mac had liked the band a lot, because they mostly played bebop jazz. Scarborough preferred cool jazz and swing himself, but he liked bebop as well, and whenever Mac came in from Iowa for a visit, they tried to make the trip. This wasn’t Friday or Saturday and Mac Mackenzie was dead, but it was still Fells Point, and Scarborough needed a pint of Newcastle Brown Ale. -
He found a parking place by the marketplace situated on the wide island that divides the entirety of the two lanes of South Broadway, and walked past Max’s and then across a parking lot toward the colorful signpost displaying the name Bertha’s. To his left a half-moon rode over the Harbor like a memory of earlier, sailors’ days in Fells Point, when merchant ships and naval vessels would dock all the time, their seamen spilling into the seedy bars and whorehouses that lined the streets. This, after all, was the area where Edgar Allan Poe was supposed to have had his last drink.
As he headed toward the bar, the hackles on Scarborough’s neck rose. A wave of gooseflesh passed over his body. He stopped in his tracks and swiveled around.
Just the usual evening bar-hoppers, restaurant patrons, and theatergoers. No one seemed to be paying the slightest amount of attention to a scruffily bearded guy in flannel shirt, windbreaker, and jeans. Still, Scarborough had learned to pay attention to these premonitions. He even considered cancelling the trip to the bar, and heading back to Dundalk. Just then, though, the old red door of the Bertha’s opened, letting go a breath of Stan Getz doing “Old Copenhagen,” and Scarborough lost his hesitancy.
Bertha’s bar was a long and narrow affair, dark, with smudged windows. It smelled of spilled beer and cider and the delicious fish chowder and scotch eggs it served as bar food. All manner of peculiar signs were displayed on the walls, and from the rafters hung old musical instruments like somnolent bats. It was quiet that night, with only about ten patrons, four of whom were sitting at the two booths. An attractive brunette with a sweet Irish smile was tending bar. She brought him a delightfully dark English mug of ale for only two-and-a-half dollars, and Scarborough sipped at it gratefully. Too cold. British drafts should be served at room temperature. But delicious, nonetheless. Anyway, Newcastle was famous for its potency, so Scarborough didn’t intend to drink more than one, and he was going to let this one linger—so by the time he was half-through, it would be about right.
He quietly sipped his drink, listening. Getz melded into some more upbeat Dave Brubeck and Paul Desmond, and then settled down into some classic Zoot Sims and Al Cohn. Ah, sing, sweet saxophones! Already, the National Boh taste was gone and his nerves had at least stopped their dissonant screechings. He closed his eyes and listened to the pleasant unobtrusive jazz. Goodness, you could feel the ambience of this place even with your eyes closed. Scarborough was glad he had come. It was probably close to the meditation Diane was always after him to do. He could almost hear her plaintive voice in his ear now: “But Dad, you’ve just got to find a way to wind down without drinking alcohol and listening to this silly, dead music!”
Scarborough sighed.
He’d give up drinking. He’d give up jazz. He’d give up just about anything, if he could only get his daughter back, away from those heartless monsters in the grey
suits...
By the time Scarborough finished his ale, he’d learned the bartender’s name was Ivy and that she was a sculptress and had a show coming up at a local gallery. He gave her a nice tip and exited regretfully. Time to go. He’d about had his limit, and he didn’t want to get pulled over by a cop for a little Breathalyzer test.
As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he caught something in his peripheral vision.
A man disappeared behind the doorway of the market.
Or it looked like a man, anyway. Had it been his imagination?
Was someone following him?
One of the two men in the subway station?
Scarborough had to find out. He knew that if he started walking toward the dark doorway, the man could scrabble away easily. So, the thing to do was something unpredictable, to draw the man after him.
He turned down Shakespeare Street, and stalked quickly away.
Shakespeare Street was narrow and paved with cobblestones. The fixtures in the lamppost were new and bright, with an artificial Victorian feel to them—all a part of the new upscale look to the street. Scarborough walked away, then turned right on Dallas, making it look as though he were headed for Lancaster or Aliceanna on his way to Little Italy.
Instead, however, he stopped and retreated into a garage doorway. The tum onto Dallas had taken him out of New Yuppieville into Old Industrial Baltimore, a bleak cityscape of warehouses and old tired-looking townhouses, without a tree or patch of grass to be seen anywhere. The area was deserted, except for the occasional car.
Scarborough waited, scarcely breathing.
Nothing.
Had he been wrong? Was his paranoia acting up again?
He was about ready to give up, take a deep breath, and head back for his car, when he heard the footsteps.
Click, shuffle ... click, shuffle ... Wary footsteps, but footsteps that were in a hurry as well.
Scarborough flung himself back into the doorway and got as quiet as he could, fast.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 55