“Alien bodies?” asked Marsha eagerly.
Jenkins just ignored her, seemingly so caught in the remembered vision that he was transported back to the scene he was describing in Roswell, 1947.
“There was wreckage just lying all over the place, and a long gout of dirt dug up. What was left of the thing was just this smashed-up machine with guts of machinery sticking out, like this great big thick dish cut in half.”
“Just like I saw in that hangar!” exclaimed Marsha.
“Yeah, but you didn’t see no bodies, did you?”
“No.”
“The rumors and legends go that they’ve got these little bald bodies packed in formaldehyde.” Jenkins shook his head. “Just ain’t so. First of all, these bodies lying around—they weren’t bald and they weren’t little. They looked pretty much just like you and me, as best as I could make out. Of course, often as not they were pretty blown apart; but what’s more,” Jenkins paused and took in a deep breath, “even though they’d only died hours before, they were half-decomposed already ... and going real fast. Whew! What a stench. You could almost see them melting, like that Poe story—what was it? Oh yeah. The ‘Case of M. Valdemar.’ Putrid gore just dripping like candle wax. Know what I mean?”
Scarborough blinked. “Can’t really say that I do, Mr. Jenkins!”
Jenkins gave him a dirty look. “You know, you remind me a hell of a lot of that skeptic—scientist asshole, Scuzzborough-or whatever his name is. But then I know Walt here, and I know that Walt would never have anything to do with slime like that joker!”
Walter Mashkin grinned over at Scarborough. “Never!”
The scientist just shrugged and leaned back in his chair, letting the men get on with his story.
“So that would explain why there’s no actual biological evidence of alien beings—they decomposed too quickly,” Marsha Manning said.
“Yeah, and Mashkin has been harping on that in his UFO magazines for years! But does anybody listen to him? No way. They’ve all got their heads in a hole or in the sky—they don’t think about fucking logical possibilities! So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so there we were staring at these rotting bodies. Well, by the time we got some kind of biological team out, they were gonesville. I mean, pond scum has more viscosity! I always figured maybe they—the aliens, I mean—fix it up like that, so’s they won’t get analyzed if they get caught or die or whatever. Anyway, none of them were in the saucer, they’d all been thrown out, so we just hauled the thing up onto a flatbed and gathered up the material and hauled it off, all the way to Wright Air Force Base in Texas.
“Now, by this time I’m recovering from the shock, and I’m thinking to myself, Jenkins, you’re sitting on top of the most incredible occurrence of the century.”
“It hadn’t occurred to you that this might be some experimental ship you saw?”
“What and the men inside melting away like that? Course not. Besides, I didn’t tell you, we were looking inside, and, like Miss Manning says, the material was like nothin’ I ever saw come down from the sky-and human beings just don’t decompose that fast! So anyway, I’m getting ready my statement to the press. I’m gonna be in Time magazine, I think to myself. Edward R. Murrow’s gonna interview me! Maybe I would get to be in the picture—back then, I always thought I might like to be an actor. Anyway, so there I was, my head filled with all kinds of dreams on one hand and honest shock on the other—I mean, it’s not every day that a ship from some other planet takes a crashing dive into your life. There’s a little trickle of talk about a ‘downed object’ or ‘crashed plane’ out in Roswell, and then a little flurry in the paper about it being a flying saucer. A photographer even gets a picture of some of my buddies holding up that weird thin foil-like metal. Supposedly, the officer in charge of the whole thing—a Lt. Colonel Marcel is about to make an imminent announcement.
“Then, suddenly, the curtain clamps down. Stonewall! The press can’t get shit from the Air Force. Flying saucer? Pah! That wasn’t no flying saucer! That wasn’t any amazing vessel created on some other world far, far away. The stuff that those guys were holding up was just regular old earth stuff. What came down you see-this is what the said!-was one of their weather balloons.”
Jenkins cleared his throat noisily, shaking his head woefully.
“Shit! I know what these two eyes saw, what this nose smelled! That thing in Brazel’s field sure as hell wasn’t no goddamned weather balloon. And I’m pissed off—about to go off to a newspaper and give my story. But some MPs stop me before I can go and they cart me over to Wright. And who should be waiting there to see me but Marcel himself.
“ ‘I have orders from the very highest authority in the land, Lt. Jenkins,’ he tells me. ‘And those orders say that what you saw is a secret that is highly classified, since it bears strong upon national security matters. You are hereby ordered, under penalty of treason, not to say a word to the press or anyone else, for that matter, about what you saw that day. Do you understand, Lieutenant?’
“Well, what was I supposed to say? Fuck you, buddy, I’m going out and make an announcement over CBS that there’s a cover-up? Shit, no—like I say, I’m a lifer. This was my career. And the military back then, hell, they weren’t the softies they are now. A couple of peeps from me, and my butt would have been cooling in Leavenworth.
“No. So I swallow the orders and my pride along with it, and I keep the old trap shut. I do my job. But over the years, I watch and I listen, and I can pretty much figure out what’s going on. Project Sign, Project Grudge, and of course Project Blue Book. Shit, they’re just distractions! CIA and Air Force cover-ups. I follow it all, and I don’t say nothing about what I saw that day. Officially, that is. From this source ... But I got a mind, and I can write. So I make sure that the word gets out to the underground movement of saucer watchers. I keep pseudonymous correspondence with some wheels in saucer clubs. I write articles for magazines. I make sure that the legend of the crashed Roswell saucer stays alive, and I also point stuff out in the underground—how Blue Book is a cover-up and all. I do this for years. Hell, I’m still doing it. I’m pretty sure the CIA knows by now, but it’s such a part of the culture it really doesn’t matter. It was over forty years ago and nobody really cares about what happened that long ago. But I do. It’s like an obsession. I still have dreams about that thing—those bodies ... And I can’t help but wonder what kind of world this would be if the government didn’t cover the whole thing up. If they put it all in black-and-white in the headlines of the world that, yes, there are beings from other planets visiting us. I can’t help but wonder if this world wouldn’t have somehow been a better one for knowing that we weren’t alone, that there were other creatures in this universe than us petty bozos. I just can’t help but wonder ...”
His eyes grew unfocused as his voice trailed off to a whisper, sad, lonely, and melancholic. Silence drifted down upon the assembled party. Even Scarborough felt a momentary frisson of something lost...
And something stirred in him.
Something deep.
For a moment, he felt a twinge of nausea. He felt out of control. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes-and slowly, he focused back into command. He didn’t know what had caused this sudden anxiety attack—but as he opened his eyes, aware that the conversation had continued, he was grateful that none of the party seemed to have noticed his temporary problem at all.
“..... just incredible,” Marsha Manning was saying. “I must say, Mr. Jenkins ... you’ve been a brave man to keep this guerilla warfare going.”
Jenkins shrugged. “If I was truly brave, I would have stood up right there and then.”
“Hell, in those times!” Mashkin grimaced. “When they thought there were commies hiding under every other rock and they had lynching parties out to get ‘em. Damn, Jenks. Government would have strung you up faster than I can whistle Dixie! You done the right thing, boy. The right thing.” He turned to the others and jabbed a thumb at their host. “This
man’s so-called guerilla work was what helped keep the movement alive, way back when there was absolutely nothin’ goin’ on UFO-wise. I could tell you marvelous stories!”
“Thanks, Walt.” The man was unable to hide his pleasure at Mashkin’s open admiration and approval. “It’s been rough, I guess. A man’s gotta have somethin’ to live for, and I guess this has been the albatross around this joker’s neck. Three wives couldn’t take it—they all left me. Not at the same time, of course.” A slight smile touched his lips. “Guess I’m a son of a bitch to live with. But you know, Miss Manning—hearing what you’ve told me has made all these years of work—hell, and I guess at times of self-doubt—worth it. I want to thank you. And I want you to know that if there’s anything that I can do to help you in your search, or even if you just need a place to stay—you just come here and I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I truly appreciate it.”
“Well, tomorrow’s a big day, and we got lots to do, Jenks,” said Walter Mashkin, slapping his thighs and then getting up out of his creaky chair. “So, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Hell, anytime, Walt!” The old man ushered them out with a great deal more cordiality than with which he had received them, paying particular attention to be polite and well-mannered to Marsha, Scarborough noticed.
“Now, you guys are going to have to promise that you’re going to keep old Lieutenant Jenkins here informed about what you find out. Damned if I want to die not knowing what the hell is going on, and where that saucer and those bodies came from.”
“Oh, we will,” said Marsha. She took his wrinkled old hand and shook it warmly.
On the way back, Marsha took hold of Scarborough’s hand, squeezing it hard and looking up at the wash of stars across the dark velvet sky.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow, Ev, we could find out.”
Tomorrow, thought Scarborough. But he wasn’t thinking about finding about flying saucers or about discovering any aliens.
He was thinking about Diane.
He was thinking about his daughter.
Tomorrow...
Chapter 28
Jake Camden was drunk.
He sat now on a bar stool of the Golden Wheels Honkey Tonk, “The Finest in Local Country Music Talent and Ribs,” relishing the rosy glow that permeated life, the universe, and everything, watching the bartender pour him another Old Granddad straight-up to complement the cold, cold draft of Olympia beer that glistened in its mug before him on the wooden bar. Up on the stage, the country music band was digging deep into some serious Buck Owens and Merle Haggard material; and while Jake Camden usually wasn’t a big fan of country-western, he had to admit that it sounded mighty good while your butt was on good Western wood with good country alcohol ahumming in your veins and a couple of long toots of Colombian cocaine keeping you awake and sweetening the jangles of the gee-tars.
The process of Jake Camden’s inebriation had been very simple.
With the money from Schroeder, Jake had checked into the local Holiday Inn and was about to call the number he had for his good buddy Ev Scarborough, when he had himself a little thought which went along the following lines:
Gee, I’ve been such a good boy for such a long time, and my nerves feel like they’re been stretched out on the rack by the Spanish Inquisition. You know, ole Jake’s been through some real hell, booming through the country, dry as a lawyer’s eye, taut and scared. And here he is, where he’s supposed to be, ready to be of service to his friends and compatriots ... Now tell me, doesn’t this fine man deserve just a teensy-weensy drink in this arid environment?
Now, Jake had seen, not a quarter-mile away, an inviting-looking establishment, the selfsame Golden Wheel where his butt had naturally gravitated, and he figured as long as he was stuck in New Mexico he might as well enjoy some of the local color.
Just a slow beer, maybe two. A little steak dinner with a baked potato and onion rings. Then his soul would be in proper shape to put that quarter in that pay phone and make that call.
Of course, when the blonde in the tight jeans and well-filled Western shirt had crossed his path, things had gotten just a little bit complicated.
The Golden Wheel had turned out to be a pleasant enough place, spacious and air-conditioned with a shellacked wood veneer that gave everything a brownish barry sheen that truly warmed the cockles of Camden’s heart. According to a sign, the band playing tonight was The Spurs, but Camden had no intention of staying. He’d parked himself in a dark, cool booth, ordered himself that steak and beer with trimmings, and had every intention of finishing everything within thirty minutes and heading out, when the woman had wiggled her way past him and sat at the bar.
Camden drained the last of his Olympia, promptly forgot the rest of his onion rings and baked potato (he hadn’t even thought about touching his broccoli), and moseyed his empty mug over to the bar, a couple of spaces away from the woman to order another.
By the fifth beer, he was great friends with the lady (her name was Edith, and she was buddies with the band and a word-processor at a legal firm in town), and had been persuaded to come back and meet “the boys” in a back room where they were tuning up for the night’s performance. A few more beers were drunk, a vial of cocaine was produced, and somehow in the haze and excitement of the girl’s shining and admiring eyes (he’d told her he was a famous reporter on assignment in New Mexico and she got all hot because she recognized his name because her grandma got the National Intruder at the Winn Dixie she shopped at), he’d neglected to remember that he’d given up that soul-stinging white powder. Although it hadn’t turned him into a raving lunatic, hungry for more, the coke had sobered him up enough to make him think that he could start drinking boilermakers.
Result: a drunk Jake Camden. He was now awaiting his country princess’s imminent return from the ladies’ room. Little blurry self-recriminations flickered on the periphery of his hampered awareness. At the back of his mind he had every’ good intention of putting a quarter in that public phone booth yonder by the coat-check room and calling the, number of that Mashkin guy, to check in with Scarborough. But every time he was about to do it, something distracted him.
Like another drink.
Oh well, tomorrow would be fine. Everything was fine. Absolutely everything. Scarborough was just holed up anyway, planning something. No hurry whatsoever, Camden told himself. He had a night to blowout the jams and the devil take the hindmost. Without this little party, he’d probably be no good to Scarborough anyway.
“Hi!”
He realized suddenly that the band had stopped playing, and that, without the thumping bass and the high whine of the pedal steel guitar, he could actually hear properly. He swiveled on his bar stool and there, lo and behold, was his belusted, her blonde hair cascading silkenly off her lightly spangled jean jacket, her breasts looking about to pop out of her blouse. She was wearing White Linen, one of Jake’s favorite perfumes, and for a moment he couldn’t speak, the erotic power of the moment was so great.
“Hi!” he mumbled, blinking.
“Didn’t think I was comin’ back, huh? Well, I just had to make a little run in the back room there, talk to some friends, talk to a White Lady.” She made appropriate sniffing sounds. “You wanna go back and do some more, Mr. Famous Reporter?”
“Well, normally yes, but maybe I’ve had just a little too much tonight.” Jake couldn’t believe those words were coming from his mouth, but he just rode with them to see what would happen.
What happened was that Edith pouted.
She pouted and heaved a breathy sigh, her chest expanding toward him almost popping a button, and the glimpse down the fleshy slopes of her breasts was enough to almost cause Jake Camden to fall off his seat. “Ah, and I thought that you were gonna be so much fun tonight!”
Jake’s feeble conscience was effectively crushed. The old creature slinked up out from the depths of his libido, slithered into the driver’s seat, and firmly planted its
talons onto the wheel of control. “You know, I do like a little fun now and then.” A little devilish twist quirked the corner of his mouth; a glitter took his eye. “I didn’t think that a sweet and innocent young thing like you liked fun in these parts.”
She chuckled throatily, “Oh, maybe one or twice in a blue moon!” She winked at him, running a long fingernail down his arm. Jake got goosebumps despite himself.
He reached over for his beer. “Well then, perhaps you and I should repair to the back room and meet that Lady you were talking about.” He stopped for a moment, took a small sip, cocking his head at her. “Shame to share it, though, which we’ll have to do back there with the band. You wouldn’t happen to want to go on back to my room at the Holiday Inn and kick off our shoes, really relax.”
Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. “Jake, I’d love to. But I wanna catch the next set. All the songs are dedicated to me! I helped pick them out.”
“Oh.” Jake hung his head, visions of burst buttons fading. “Well, I suppose true fun is in short supply in this Godforsaken land!” He made a mock-dramatic gesture with his hand. “Whatever did the pioneers do for relief from physical pressure? No wonder they shot each other up!”
“You silly boy. I’m not finished yet. There’s a nice big janitor’s closet off the other side of the dressing room. Nobody ever goes there about this time. We could go there and we wouldn’t have to share anything.” She patted the top pocket of her jean jacket, touching her right breast in the process. “And I got plenty.”
Jake stared down at where she held her hand. “I should say so, dearie. So what are we waiting for?”
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 65