The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  He felt spasms of horrible pain as she kept up the merciless onslaught. A foot struck him in the face and he could feel blood dripping from his nose and his mouth.

  It was clear what she was trying to do—push him out the door and off the speeding train.

  The woman was good, damned good, and Jake knew that he could well be doomed.

  But he fully and stubbornly intended to take something with him if he was. With the last ounce of energy that hadn’t been beaten he wrenched forward and grabbed for the bag with the incriminating letters.

  Another blow from Emily Elliot drove him back. Dammit! He’d missed the grab!

  But then he realized that the sensation had simply been so dead in his arm, he just hadn’t felt it; actually his hand had curled around the strap, and now he felt the pressure of the case as it was dragged along the corrugated metal floor of the passageway.

  “Give me that, damn you!” said the woman when she saw what he had.

  The fury of the 90 mile-per-hour winds drove against him, shrieking at him and grabbing at him with their claws of air. There was no question here to Jake Camden that he was way out of his depth. And it didn’t look real likely that any of the Others would barrel along in their black Cadillacs this time with high-power rifles, racing to his rescue.

  Nope. This time it was up to him. He was alone, all alone.

  When he’d been in high school, one of the books in English that Jake Camden had actually enjoyed was Tale of Two Cities. At the end of that book, there had been a speech by Sidney Carlton, one of the characters, as he had substituted his own life for another’s at the guillotine during the French Revolution.

  Jake tried to remember it now, but couldn’t for the life of him. So he just hummed a few bars and faked it.

  “Vive La Revolution, babe,” he muttered as she kicked out at him again.

  He caught the kick and pulled with all his might.

  Jake’s last thought as he staggered toward the hurtling night, bag and Englishwoman assassin in wailing tow, was that, all in all, he wished the place he’d be wiping out in hadn’t been New Jersey.

  Chapter 37

  The main campus of the University of Maryland is located along Route 1 just south of Route 495, known to locals as the Beltway, in an area called, appropriately enough, College Park. Just east of the large, screaming spires of the U. of M., and just above the College Park Airport, the closest airport for small planes to downtown Washington, lies an older, genteel area known as Berwyn Heights.

  It was here that Brian Richards cruised that sunny late May afternoon, driving himself, with Timothy Reilly in the passenger seat.

  The air was mild, holding only a hint of the famous Washington humidity that would, in late June and through summer, wrap the area in a cowl of steam. The trees, and there were many in the area, elm and oak in particular, were abundant with green. Blooming bushes of juniper and magnolia floated like fresh clouds of color in this sea of green.

  Richards paused for a moment to consult his map, and then pressed on, tooling the Lincoln down a suburban street away from the busy traffic on Route 1. Two more turns and the sign at a crossroads appeared, reading Riverdale Road most obligingly. Richards made a right onto this road and began to look for the appropriate address: 1456.

  Beside him, Timothy Reilly said nothing, merely staring into the air with a vacant expression. The guy had been, ultimately, invaluable—but using him hadn’t been easy. Richards had personally supervised this part of the operation, which meant he’d had to stay in D.C., commanding the operation from his office or home here, while making sure that Reilly was attended to. That part had not been particularly easy, since Reilly had to be placed somewhere that he could be watched—and yet it could not be in confinement. What ended up happening was that Richards utilized a safe house in Potomac, across the river from his Great Falls home. There were no bars, but he’d used his men to watch Reilly.

  It was from this house that Reilly had made the phone calls.

  “You’re certain that this is the road?” said Richards.

  “Yes,” replied Timothy Reilly in his usual monotone.

  “Well, there it is, 1456 Riverdale. Is that the house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? How can that be?”

  “I’ve never been here.”

  “But I thought you’d met this woman.”

  “I have met Miranda Penny. However, I have not visited her house before.”

  “Ah. The details emerge. No matter.” He reached over, pulled out his radio transceiver. “Backup. You there?”

  A surprisingly clear voice erupted over the radio. “We’re right behind you.”

  “Good. I’m passing 1456 Riverdale. Will make a U-turn and park on other side of the street.”

  “Roger.”

  One thousand four hundred and fifty-six was an old Cape Cod-style house popular in the early sixties. It looked as though it had been remodeled and added onto in the last few years. The big yard was full of rose bushes and rhododendron. The lawn was lush and green and well-bordered with red brick, shaded under sprawling umbrellas of walnut and elm. Away from the traffic fumes of the road, it all smelled quite fresh and pristine, with the sweetness of the flowering bushes and the newly mown grass tinting the air with shades of scent.

  Richards executed the U-turn, and then parked a shade north of the house, on the other side of the street. He saw his backup Oldsmobile park about a half block up the road.

  “Okay. Here we are,” said Richards. “You know what to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Run it by me again.”

  “Get her to come outside. You’ll do the rest.”

  “That’s right, Tim. Good fellow. I’m proud of you.”

  Tim said nothing.

  The Tim Reilly idea had turned out to payout, big time. Brian Richards had known that he’d probably be able to use Reilly, and that he’d probably be important. But this had really and truly worked out well.

  The amount of intelligence on Everett Scarborough was, of course, immense. The department had complete files on him, from his taste in toothpaste to complete dental records. Equally complete were the records on Diane Scarborough, and everyone who had been in her life in any fashion had been documented.

  These aliens, these Others from a different planet, Richards knew, were violent only when their backs were against the wall. Brian Richards actually rather respected them, in a kind of obscure way. However, his own interests were paramount, and right now, above all, he had to get Everett Scarborough, and one way of getting Scarborough under control was to capture his daughter. Since these Others did not seem to be uncivilized, it only seemed reasonable that Diane’s freedom would not be curtailed completely. Indeed, from what the records, and the material obtained from Timothy Reilly’s investigation, indicated, and from what Richards knew about the actual proclivities of the Others toward abduction, in all likelihood, Diane Scarborough had requested to be taken away! Chances were very good that she may well have been allowed to contact friends and family, and Scarborough simply had not been available.

  And so the plan had been simple. Just get up the list of addresses and phone numbers of Diane Scarborough’s friends and relations and have a known Diane boyfriend—i.e., Tim Reilly—call people up and ask them if they’d heard from her at all lately, she was missing.

  Of course, the number of friends and relatives were finite, and when nothing had turned up, Richards had simply gotten Tim to call up again.

  And on this person, Miranda Penny, he’d hit pay dirt. Apparently, she and Miranda had been friends since childhood in Bethesda, attending grade school and junior high school together. During the girls’ high school years, Miranda’s father had worked for the Foreign Service and in Africa. However, the two had stayed in touch and Diane had spent a whole winter vacation once in Kenya with Miranda and her family. Although they hadn’t been like sisters, they had resembled fond cousins. And since
Miranda had come to the University of Maryland last year to do graduate work in archaeology, Diane had made sure to visit regularly when she was back from the University of Kansas.

  The first two calls from Tim Reilly had resulted in nothing.

  Miranda knew Tim, so she was happy to hear from him. She’d been aware that Diane was missing since she’d heard the awful stuff that had been happening to her father. After all, it had been on the news. Tim had assured her that Scarborough was innocent, and that he was working on a plan to vindicate him. Miranda had promised that she would do whatever she could to help out. On the second call, Tim had asked that if she heard from Diane, to call a certain number. Namely, the number of the safe house from which he was working.

  Yesterday, Tim had gotten a call, although it hadn’t been from Miranda.

  It had been from Diane.

  The recorded tape of their conversation had gone thus:

  “Hello.”

  “Tim! Tim, is that you?”

  “Yes. This is Tim Reilly... Diane! I recognize your voice!”

  “Tim, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Di.”

  “What happened to you? There was blood in your apartment...”

  “Yeah. Some guy clobbered me and dragged me out. Some people interrogated me about you; but when they got what they wanted… namely, that you were headed toward the Hoover Dam… they let me go. I kind of freaked for a while, but I got help from a liberal organization in Washington, D.C. Took me a while to get my stuff together, but I feel a lot better. I’ve been coordinating efforts here to help you and your father.”

  “I just talked to my father, Tim.”

  “Oh. Great. He’s okay?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. Are you still in Washington?”

  “Yes. I’m out in Potomac. Where are you?”

  A pause of uncertainty.

  “I mean, if we’re close, we could see each other. God, I miss you, Diane!”

  “I’m close to Potomac. Yes, Tim, I want to see you, too! But I’m confused. I’ve been through some stuff… some incredible stuff, Tim. God, I can hardly wait to see you…”

  “Look, Diane, we could meet someplace special...”

  “I’m sorry, Tim. But my new friends they said that I shouldn’t see anybody right now. I’m not ready. And besides, they said that it’s too soon to know who can be trusted.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I just have to be careful. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Uh... sure, Diane. I guess so. I’m just glad you’re okay. Look, maybe you can call me back sometime soon though, okay? I mean, when you can say more.”

  “Yes, Tim. I will do that. I’m glad you’re okay, too. I love you, Tim. I love you now even more than ever. I’ve grown so much, Tim, and there’s so much I have to share with you.”

  “I can hardly wait, Diane. Will we be able to meet somewhere in the Washington area? Is that where you are?”

  “Yes. Look, I’ll call you back in a couple days, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Goodbye, Diane.”

  “Goodbye, Tim.”

  Of course, it had been easy enough to figure out just where Diane Scarborough was. Tim had given his phone number to a limited number of people, and it was simply a process of elimination.

  There were other possibilities, but Miranda Penny had been the most likely candidate.

  After reviewing the facts, Richards was sure that Diane Scarborough was there. Everything fit together perfectly. Still, he had to admit that it was more of a gut feeling than anything else. And he was happy that he had Tim Reilly now as a point-man. If anyone could thrash Diane Scarborough out of the bushes, he could.

  “All right, Tim, my good, good fellow,” said Richards, feeling very good about this, very positive. “Let’s review again what you’re going to do here.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re going to go up and knock on the door. Now, we’ve checked—according to sources, Miranda Penny should be attending a class today. Which means, if Diane is there, she’s there alone. If no one answers the door, then it’s your job to get her to answer the door if she’s there. Which is why you’re going alone. Do you understand, Tim?”

  “Yes,” said Tim.

  “And please—remember to affect your old personality.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Good lad. Go for it, then.”

  Richards watched as Tim Reilly got out of the car. The lanky twenty-five-year-old strode off, looking more natural with each step. Yes, he looked much like he had when Woodrow Justine had brought him in, thought Richards. Scars healed, programming overlay kicking in nicely.

  But even as Tim Reilly loped up the sidewalk and the steps to the front porch, Richards felt misgivings, fears waddle, unwelcome, into his mind. Confident as he felt about the situation now, Tim was out of his direct control now. And Tim was the main hope of luring Diane Scarborough out of her hiding place.

  Which hopefully was here.

  No. There was no room for doubt. She had to be here.

  Richards felt a droplet of sweat running down his left forehead. The heat. Yes, that was it, he told himself. It was getting a little hot here, with the window open.

  Nonetheless, even as he leaned back, telling himself to relax, he could not help but remember Mitchell Cranston’s promise and threat—and the sound of his nasty, ancient laugh.

  It felt very funny, being adrift like this.

  Tim Reilly walked up the freshly painted wooden steps onto the porch of the house and went up to the door, opened the screen door, and gently rapped on the wood inside.

  As he stood there, motionless, waiting, it felt as though this body whose eyes he sat behind was just a fantasy, a figment of his imagination.

  A wind seemed to blow beyond that door. A stirring wind of hollow echoes and desolate emptiness.

  Where am I? he thought.

  Who am I?

  The tiny spark that was left to him of his identity struggled desperately, but it was like trying to climb a mountain of mud. He not only slipped as he attempted to climb, he sank.

  It was all too much. He had to rest, had to give in.

  There was no response to the knocking, so he did what he’d been told to do. He knocked once more, tentatively, and then called out. “Diane? Diane, are you there?”

  No response.

  “Diane. It’s me. Tim. I have to talk to you. I’ve got to see you. It’s really urgent.”

  All the words came from his mouth, but they weren’t him. They’d been planted there previously. He was just mouthing them obediently while he looked on from a dead, faraway place.

  A glimmer. Something deep inside him called out in a tiny voice: No, Diane. If you’re there, don’t say anything, don’t do anything, just be quiet.

  A breeze soughed through nearby branches. Knocking them against a post on the porch. Tap, tap, tap. A robin fluttered onto a drainpipe, pecked a few times at the aluminum, and then fluttered off again.

  “Diane! Diane, it’s me. Tim Reilly.”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Tim?” The voice was small and uncertain, but definitely recognizable.

  Diane.

  He could feel the programming, the orders overwhelmingly taking him over again, crushing the little spark that was still Tim Reilly.

  “Diane! Diane, come to the door. I’ve got to talk to you. Let me in!”

  He heard footsteps. They paced over to the door and then he heard the knob working, saw the knob turning. Then the door opened and there stood Diane Scarborough, looking out at him.

  Her hair was short. It had been cut into a utilitarian bob. She wore Levis blue jeans and a black blouse. She wore no makeup, but somehow, the spark that was still Tim Reilly thought that she had never looked so beautiful before. Dark hair. Deep beautiful eyes...

  “Sinead O’Connor! That’s whose eyes yours remind me of!” he had told her once, and he remembered now as the shoc
k of the vitality, the life in those eyes struck him again.

  “Tim!”

  She couldn’t help but step to him and embrace him. And Tim Reilly felt her full warm body against him, felt his arms automatically close around her; and the feeling that flowed up for her from through his numb exterior was genuine.

  “Diane!”

  “Tim, I’ve been so worried!”

  Then the darkness closed in again, like oily waters.

  “Diane. Come with me. I’ll take you to somewhere that’s safe. Safe for both of us to be together.” He heard the words, but the words were not his.

  “No, I can’t, Tim. I’ve got to stay here. Look, you’re not supposed to be here, but as long as you are, we better not stand out here on the porch.”

  “Come with me, Diane,” he said, and he felt his arm reach out and clamp hold of her. “You have to come with me.”

  “Tim. What are you doing? Tim, you’re hurting me!” The look in her eyes: incomprehension, then fear. It sliced through his programming like a knife.

  He didn’t want to hurt Diane!

  He didn’t want to take her away from here, not really!

  And then Tim Reilly realized the truth. He was the enemy! He was their living tool! And all the rebel heart he’d saved up for so long, tucked deep down in his soul, welled up now and fought off the chemicals and the manacles on his mind.

  “Diane,” he gasped, shaking. “Go back into the house. Get on the phone. Get on the phone and call the police!”

  He wrenched himself away from her, staggered across the porch, waving her back.

  “Tim! Tim, what’s wrong?”

  Swords of agony pierced him. Paroxysms of pain ripped at him mercilessly. The programming tried to reassert itself, tried to make him reach out and grab the woman, carry her back to Brian Richards’s car as ordered. He groaned as he fought it, staggering backwards against the railing of the porch. “Stay away!” he gasped to Diane. “Just go back in the house. Call… police! Richards! Brian Richards! Government agent... I was kidnapped. BRAINWASHED!”

  TWHIP!

  At first, when he felt the pressure, he thought he’d run into something hard and sharp. But when the pain jagged and the flower of blood blossomed on his chest, he realized that he’d been shot.