The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  “You’ll get more when you actually go to Tucson, Jake. In the meantime, that will get you change for your call and should be enough to buy us some take-out food from that restaurant. I’m sure none of us feel like cooking tonight.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. Totally absurd.” Nonetheless, Jake pocketed the bills.

  “I think what Everett means, Jake, is no drinks at the bar,” Marsha translated.

  “Hell, I know what he means. Sheesh. Just because I got carried a little away last night. I mean, I had the space to unwind a bit. No harm done, right? And I’ve got this little bit of clanging going on just behind my eyeballs. Nothing like a draft beer to stop the clanging!”

  “You broke your promise, Jake. That’s harm enough. Don’t do it again.” Scarborough pointed a finger at him. “And if we just so happen to make it out of here alive, I don’t think it would be a bad idea to check yourself into a hospital somewhere and clean yourself up. You’ve got a drinking problem, Jake.”

  Jake looked aghast. “Bullshit! I can quit drinking whenever I want to!”

  “That’s a little hard to believe from what I’ve heard, I must say,” said Marsha, putting herself squarely in Scarborough’s camp on the matter.

  “I know I can,” said Jake. “I’ve stopped drinking lots of times!” Annoyed, he pulled out a pack of Camels unfiltered from his top pocket and tugged out a cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth and crumpled the pack. “Damn! I’m going to need more for a carton of butts, Scarb!”

  “Bet you’ve quit smoking many times too, huh, Jake?” said Marsha.

  “Nope!” Jake went to a desk, picked up a stuffed baby alligator lighter. He pressed a tab and a flame licked from between the alligator’s jaws. Suddenly seeming to realize what he was holding, Jake looked at it with a little fear shining in his eyes. “You know, old Koz owns an alligator farm. Used to threaten to throw me to the green bastards at least once a week. He catches me here, that’s where he’ll dump me. C’mon guys, is it a wonder I smoke? Is it a wonder I drink?”

  “Smoke all you want to, Jake,” said Scarborough. “Just don’t drink until the only one dangling over the alligator pit is you, okay?”

  “Okay, okay!” Jake snorted smoke disgustedly, turned, and skulked from the cabin.

  “You need the keys?”

  “Hell no. I can walk,” he said, his hands stuck into pockets.

  “Be that way!” said Marsha. She collapsed onto the couch. “Boy, I know what you mean about a break. I thought we were having a break up in Prescott.”

  He looked down at her. “You seemed to have fun.”

  “Not really, Ev.”

  He looked away from her.

  He didn’t understand the pain, but it was there. It didn’t make any sense, either—not any intellectual sense, anyway. There was no spoken commitment between him and Marsha Manning. Unmarried, very independent people, they were. It was Marsha who’d given so much for him... She didn’t need to have involved herself in this at all. That business with Davis back in Prescott was just because of too much stress, too much alcohol, and too much skill on that Lothario’s side.

  However, he sensed that something had happened, something physical.

  So what? he thought. Just a little flesh against flesh, some bodily juices exchanged, some atavistic impulses expressed, and then, like effervescence, gone forever. A slip, a giddy goof, a mistake that didn’t really make much difference at all.

  Then why was he feeling this odd pain?

  It was like the slow blooming of a dead flower from his solar plexus. He tried to deny that it was there, tried to ignore it, but for some reason, he just could not. It made him angry at Marsha, and maybe even angrier at himself for having such stupid, unnecessary emotions at a time when he had to reserve all his energy, all his feelings, for this desperate hunt for his daughter.

  “Whatever. Let’s just forget about it.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

  “Look, we’re in a life or death situation here, and right now it seems like a matter of life or death that I get a shower and then take a nap.”

  She looked down, sheepishly, dark eyes sad. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

  “I’m afraid, Marsha, that you’re going to have to.” He was surprised at the amount of perverse pleasure he felt at the vengeful spite he experienced saying those words. No, Marsha, you’re not going to worm yourself back into my good graces. Not yet, anyway.

  “I’ll go and get you some towels and soap then,” she said resignedly. She looked up at him, doubtless hoping to find some kind of forgiveness in his eyes.

  She found nothing but his steely, empty gaze. Or so he tried to project, anyway. Whatever she saw, she just turned her eyes down again and walked through the open doorway, out toward the Winnebago.

  Wearily, he pushed himself toward the bathroom.

  Everett Scarborough let the hot water sluice down his neck and back from the Water-Pik shower massage. It was turned up hard, and it felt good, damned good. He felt awake and alive for a change today—he could feel the heat and the water pressure bang out the knots in his system.

  For now, just for these instants, he saw this and the possibility for sleep and relaxation ahead as an oasis—a desperately needed oasis in this particular, quite-difficult journey he was on.

  He lathered himself up with the fresh-smelling Irish Spring soap. Deodorant soap, he remembered. Probably for the best. He was likely a little rank after the traumatic experience back at Kirtland and then a night in the wild. The shower in the Winnebago was woefully inadequate.

  Ah, yes. All he needed now was some classical music. Some strains of Beethoven would soothe him thoroughly. Oh, if only this business was all over with and he could just sink back again into his books and CDs, his writing, his poker parties, his own little world…

  But even as he reveled in this fantasy and the hot, beating water, he knew that this could never be. He’d gone over the edge, here: he’d broken through into other territory, and he’d never be safe again. Safety, security—both were illusions.

  He knew that he’d just have to take the rest of this time day by day, hour by hour. Survive... cope... strive... succeed.

  Hold onto himself.

  Instinctively, he knew that he was his daughter’s only hope.

  He heard the door of the bathroom open.

  “Marsha? That you?” he said. “Got those towels?”

  He turned around.

  Through the fogged-up translucent glass of the shower stall, he could see a figure moving toward him.

  “Marsha!”

  A tremble of uncertainty, of panic, swept through him.

  The figure moved silently toward him.

  The paranoia and the irrational fear were paralyzing. He found he could not move.

  The shower door opened.

  “Hi,” said Marsha Manning, stepping into the shower stall with him.

  She was completely naked.

  “Towels are on the commode. We’ve never had a shower together before. I thought it was time.”

  He stepped back, a bit astonished; and, smiling, she stepped where he’d been, letting the water stream over her shoulders and dance down the curving slope of her body. It flowed over her breasts, down her back and buttocks, making her skin glisten and shine. The nipples of her large breasts were erect and hard and supple as they pressed against his chest. The musk of her in the heat and wet was delicious and overpowering. He found his hands rebelling against his stubbornness, reaching out and cupping her slick rear and pulling her against him. The same rebelliousness filled him with desire he thought himself too tired to attain.

  Hungrily, needily, she leaned her head through the spray, pushing herself up to kiss him wetly, a childlike surrender to her moist touch.

  He could not help but kiss her, despite the hurt and anger he felt. And as the kiss deepened, he found all the pain draining from him.

  She broke the kiss. “I want
to make up with you, Ev,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shhh,” she said, smiling. “We’ll talk later.”

  She pushed his back against the tile of the shower stall. Then she leaned her tongue against the center of his chest, and slowly, deliciously, irresistibly, ran it down his body as she sank to her knees.

  Chapter 18

  When Brian Richards staggered back to his room in the Bedford Hills mansion of Mitchell Cranston’s after dinner, he was feeling no pain.

  He groped for, found, flipped on the light switch. Two well-placed lamps turned on, demurely lighting the tasteful guest room. It was unusually large for a guest room, but then all the rooms in this place, it seemed, were large. The wallpaper was an older, fleur-de-lis beige and chartreuse print. The bed was a large canopied affair, definitely an antique and probably not even of this century. It amused Richards greatly, that bed; and he chuckled to himself now, even as he clopped across the hardwood floor, tripping slightly over one of the tastefully placed oriental throw rugs.

  He sat upon the bed and then fell back, feeling the room spin just a bit, in control but enjoying the looseness of it all. The wine had liberally flowed with the meal, a delicious garlic-rubbed rack of lamb with new potatoes, ratatouille, and a bountiful Caesar salad. It bad been a special vintage from the vineyards of a French Colleague, Cranston had said before his grandniece joined them—a wine reserved only for the Colleagues and their guests. Red, it had been just tart enough, just dry enough and yet with a sweetness and a full body that went perfectly with the lamb and the mint sauce. In short, it was one of the best wines that Richards had ever drunk in his life, a perfect complement to one of the best meals.

  As though to add seasoning to the experience, Mitchell Cranston had turned from bullying strategic planner to congenial, bon vivant host. From previous dinners Richards had spent with Cranston, he knew that the man could be a wonderful raconteur, a charming conversationalist. But that evening the man truly shone, telling stories and impressions of the days he’d spent in his beloved British Isles, talking about his British literature and his hero, Samuel Johnson.

  Perhaps it was just because of the intensity of the day’s session that the dinner seemed comparatively relaxed. That grueling meeting had been four-hours-plus of briefing, debriefing, orders, suggestions, more orders, explanations, excuses, despair, plotting, counterplotting, strategic planning, excitement, and general grief. The result: a new and better plan that even impressed Brian Richards.

  Doctor Everett Scarborough was as good as theirs.

  Nonetheless, the meeting had left Richards exhausted, used-up, with only an hour and a half allotted to relax and clean up for dinner. He’d almost wanted to cancel out after the meeting; in truth, he just felt like collapsing on his bed and sleeping until morning, when he’d be allowed to depart this luxurious stately prison. But he hadn’t dared; he knew that for Mitchell Cranston, a sociable dinner was an important component of a properly cultured social order. So he allotted himself a mere half-hour nap, then splashed some water in his face, put his coat and tie back on, anointed himself with some reviving cologne, and went downstairs to the chandeliered dining room where Mitchell Cranston and a butler cordially awaited his company. Brahms and Liszt were the composers of the evening, and their discreetly low compositions wafted from hidden speakers, a gentle underlining to a companionable evening.

  However, it wasn’t only the wine that had intoxicated Brian Richards, and it certainly wasn’t Mitchell Cranston’s excellent conversation that had made him so elated now.

  Frankly, it was because of Mitchell Cranston’s niece, Emily Elliot.

  Richards got up from bed, shaking his head. He managed to get out of his clothes, and more from habit than from conscientiousness, he folded them up and hung up his jacket in the closet so he would not look rumpled. (Cranston had said absolutely nothing about a stay-over, and so Richards had not brought a change of clothing.) Then he crawled under the sheets and blankets.

  Ah, Emily!

  The woman had turned out to be every bit as delightful as she’d intimated on that first brief encounter in the afternoon.

  They’d just finished their aperitifs when Emily, overflowing with apologies, had entered the room. She’d changed into a black evening dress, bare at the shoulders, and had combed her long brunette hair out so that it layered over those bare shoulders in discreet wings. She wore gloves which made her long muscular arms seem longer, lither, and it seemed somehow in the artificial lighting that her eyes had deepened and enriched their cool jade color. The lavender was there as well, but sparked with other, more subtle scents.

  The way the top of her bosom had peeked out of the dress, the way her eyes shone when she smiled at him, the sultry tone of her English accent—even at its most dry and acerbic, its most ironic—drove Brian Richards absolutely nuts the entire evening.

  “That’s quite all right, my dear,” Cranston had said, clearly caught up in the same enchantment that had touched Richards. “Just glad to have you join us. Isn’t that right, Richards?”

  “I hope that Ms. Elliot will call me Brian.”

  “Only if Mr. Richards will call me Emily.”

  The deal was struck and the pair got off famously from that moment on.

  The trio talked of music, art, politics, sport; it seemed as though every civilized subject under the civilized sun was touched upon, and yet it all flowed seamlessly, delightfully, and with absolutely droll humor. Richards well knew that old Cranston could comport himself well in such a discussion, but he was startled at his grandniece’s self-possession, intelligence, and ability with language. The bon mots dropped like bombs on a B-52 raid over Iraq, and were just as devastating. Emily seemed not only incandescently bright, but well-educated and well-informed.

  And sexy?

  She seemed to actually glow with sexuality with the flush of the wine, the excitement of the good talk, and the compliments that he paid to her. For his part, Richards found himself tremendously aroused just by looking at her. When the wine finally got to him and he knew he had to pay a visit to the toilet, he realized he had to wait and compose himself before he got up because he had a very hard and obvious erection.

  After dessert, they had coffee and brandy. Cranston lit up a cigar. One was offered to Richards, who would have taken it had he not thought it might offend Emily.

  “Well, then, Mr. Richards... Brian, I mean,” she’d said, rubbing a wet finger languidly around the rim of the brandy snifter. “Has Uncle shown you the grounds? The Maze, the Topiary... all that deliciously Gothic Stephen King-great-house stuff?”

  “No. I guess I didn’t ask him to.”

  “What, with this old body? I’m lucky if I can walk to the front to my chauffeured limo.”

  “Perhaps I might be able to accomplish the dread chore,” said Emily.

  “What? In the dark?” said Cranston.

  “Oh no... No, I mean, tomorrow morning, after breakfast. What do you say, Brian? A little fresh-air jaunt before you head back to your musty, boring old office in Washington, D.C.?”

  In fact, Brian Richards had entertained other hopes, and those for after dinner, but it was clear from Cranston’s occasional hard looks at him that he wasn’t entirely thrilled with the erotic sparks that were zapping between him and his grandniece. Since he was in a pressure cooker anyway, he didn’t care to turn up the temperature—especially since that kind of temperature with the Publishers could be exceedingly deadly.

  “Well yes, that would be... fine.” He shot a glance at the old man to make sure he was saying the right thing, but since he got no scowl in return, he continued. “Yes, I’d like that very much indeed, Emily. Thank you.”

  The hopes of the alcohol streaming through his veins, of course, was that she’d pass him some kind of note or some kind of sign for some sort of after-dinner assignation. Or at the very least, that the old man would knock off early and leave the younger folks of the di
nner party to entertain themselves.

  Surprisingly, it was Emily who called it quits first.

  “Oh dear. I hope you two wits will excuse me, but it’s been a very long day and all this drinking—albeit top-notch drinking, I must say—has laid me low. Uncle, absolutely super dinner party, as usual. And, Brian—well, I look forward very much to our little outing tomorrow morning.”

  She got up, gave Mitchell Cranston a warm peck on the cheek, shook Richards’s hand warmly, and then walked with poise and grace from the room, this time leaving Richards with more than just the lingering scent of lavender. Despite the dulling effects of the drink, all his senses seemed alive. And then, as coup de grace, she stopped at the door, gave him one more playful, sultry glance, and was gone.

  “Some lady, eh, Richards?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Too bad you’re a married man. That’s the kind of woman who even gets this old blood up. But then, I don’t know if I’d want an employee of mine entangled with my beloved grandniece, eh?”

  “Yes. I can see your point.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to look though. Doesn’t hurt to look.”

  “Glad to know that.”

  “We’ll have one more quick meeting before you leave. But I’ll let Emily take you around the grounds. You know, Richards. You’ve been working for me for a long time.”

  “Yes I have.”

  “I believe in what I’m doing. What the Colleagues are doing. To the bottom of my toes.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Maybe I’ve been too hard on you. You’ve been running such a tight ship up to now, I thought you were infallible. Obviously you’re not.”

  “I wish I were. But as I said, nothing is presently beyond the bounds of being repaired.”

  “As you know from the day’s meeting, we’re moving beyond mere repair, Richards.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It’s been a pleasant evening. Would you care for a round of chess to cap it off?”