His legs crumpled and he fell forward.
“Tim!” Diane screamed, rushing toward him. “Tim!”
The next thing Tim Reilly knew, he was face-first on the porch, feeling blood leaking and flowing hot from his body. He heard a pound, and then he saw shoes walking toward him. Bright, shiny, black shoes.
He felt Diane’s hands on his back and he tried to turn over, tried to get up to protect her.
“Run, Diane!” he said. “Run!”
He was in control again, total control of his soul, and his body as well.
The irony was that all strength seemed to be coursing out of his body, right along with the blood.
“Who ... who are you?” he heard Diane demand.
“Explanations later. For right now, just stay where you are.”
He heard a skittering of feet on the porch; his awareness began to flicker, to strobe spasmodically. He sensed rather than saw Brian Richards’s men grab hold of Diane Scarborough and drag her away, a hand clamped over her mouth. Dragging her back into the house to subdue her, doubtless chemically.
Those shiny shoes… Richards’s shoes… stepped toward him, stopping just inches from his face. He saw the glint of metal. A gun. The gun that had shot him, silenced.
“Well, well, well,” he heard Richards say. “All that time... Just hanging onto a shred... No matter. We’ve got what we want now, Tim. You’ve served your purpose.”
“Don’t ... Don’t hurt her,” said Tim. The color seemed to be draining from everything.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Richards. “I’m sorry about all this, Tim. I truly am.”
“I ... I tried ...” Tim found himself saying and he felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks.
“Yes, I’ll give you that, Tim,” said Brian Richards. “You certainly did try.”
Tim sensed a motion…
And then he felt two more bullets slam into his chest.
The third he did not feel at all.
Chapter 38
When Everett Scarborough had finally slipped off to sleep at 2:35 in the morning the night before, Jake Camden had not yet called.
Jake had not yet called when he woke up at eight-fifteen.
And, at one o’clock in the afternoon, Camden still hadn’t made contact.
“Dammit, something’s wrong,” he told Marsha Manning as he halfheartedly ate lunch.
“Did you think everything would be okay? I mean, really?” said Marsha, cleaning the bread crumbs from off Craig Steffan’s kitchen table. “We’re talking about Jake Camden here, Ev. He’s bound to mess up. He always has before, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, but he never had what we need so badly before! Proof! A connection between Schroeder and Cunningham and White Book. Who knows what else might be in those files? I just froth at the mouth to think of it all—and Jake has it!” He shook his head. “I don’t know, he sounded dead-earnest when I talked to him. He knew it was far too important to blow this one. No—they must have gotten to him. That’s all I can say. They must have gotten to him, and we’re going to have to presume such and take it from there.”
“Agonize all you want,” said Marsha. “But I think what happened was that Jake got himself loaded, and is sleeping it off somewhere. We’ll hear from him soon enough.”
“I wish we’d hear from somebody,” said Scarborough. “I’m going absolutely crazy here. At least Diane could call again like she promised.”
“Well, I’m going to go back to work,” said Marsha. “Maybe you ought to have another sandwich… Or some of that pie that Steffan bought for us. “
“I don’t like it. I just don’t like it. I’ve got the feeling that we’re just squatting here like sitting ducks.”
“We could be. But what else are we going to do? No place is safe. Not really.” She gestured around her. “At least it’s comfortable here!”
“Okay. You go back to work. I’ll just wait here by the phone.” She kissed him. “Okay. I’m sure someone will call soon. Meantime, when they do, I’ll have a very interesting little document to contribute to whatever is going to happen.”
“Right.”
For all the good that would do now, Scarborough thought. Right now, what he wanted was to have Diane here, Camden here, and most importantly, those letters here.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.
Scarborough did not have to debate with himself long as to whether or not to answer it. Before, he’d let Marsha do the honors, but today—today it was just too important.
He picked the phone up off its cradle and answered using what he hoped was a disguised voice, upping the register of his voice just a bit.
“I am talking to a Mister Craig Steffan here?” said a gruff man’s voice.
“No,” said Scarborough, disappointed that it wasn’t for him. “Can I take a message?”
“How ‘bout a Mr. U.F. Owl?”
“No… That’s not a name that...” Wait a minute-U .F. Owl? —that sounded a lot like…
“I’m sorry, what does this refer to?”
“This is Speedy Delivery Service. ‘Next Day, Low Pay.’”
“Yes...?”
“We’ve got a package for a Mr. Craig Steffan, attention Mr. U.F. Owl; 952 Willard Street N.W.”
“This is 942 Willard Street, but the name is right.”
“That’s what I thought. Wrong address. Well, the phone number here is right. We tried to deliver at 10:30 this morning, but no luck. So I’m calling now.”
“Pardon me, but might I ask who the package is from?”
“We ain’t got no return address, we ain’t got no return phone number. Sent from a Connecticut office. All we got is a name: ‘T. Goods.’”
T. Goods ... Scarborough thought. U.F. Owl—The Goods! The proof! Maximillian Schroeder’s letters! U.F. Owl—UFOwl ... the name that he used to call flying saucer nuts!
It was a package from Jake Camden, for him!
“Oh yes ... Of course ... Mr. Steffan and Mr. ... um, Owl have been expecting that package.”
“Okay. We’ll put it out on tomorrow morning’s run.”
“No... Wait... Can’t you get it here this afternoon?”
“Sorry, mister, we’re real short here today... And we’re not the ones who put the wrong address on the package...”
“I’ll pay the extra money...”
“Money’s not the problem here. Like I said, we’re short of manpower.”
“Look, if you’ve got it with you there... I mean, I can have someone come down and pick it up. Is that possible?”
“Sure. That would save us a trip tomorrow.”
“Where are you?”
The man gave an address on Connecticut Avenue.
“That’s by the zoo, right. Close to the Ireland’s Four Provinces and the Uptown Theater, right?” said Scarborough.
“Hey, you know D.C. pretty good, fella. Sure is, but on the other side of the street, by Club Soda.”
“Right. I know just where it is. I’ll be up to get it.”
“We’re open to six. Whenever.”
“Oh, one more thing. My name is Andrew Trenton.” The name supplied on his fake ID the Others had provided. “Will it be okay if I pick it up personally?”
“Sure, Mr. Trenton. I’m Matt. Just ask for me, and I’ll give it to you.”
As Scarborough put the phone down, he felt elated. That Jake!
He’d well known that he might have problems—so somewhere in Connecticut he must have stopped, taken time to quickly photocopy the letters, and then express-mail the copies—or maybe even the originals—to Craig Steffan’s house, “attention U.F. Owl.” No wonder he’d asked for the address.
He went up to the office where Marsha was pecking away at the computer and told her what ‘was up.
“Wonderful!” she said. “But that worries me about Jake.”
“Maybe he just overslept or something. Maybe he did get drunk, because he figured he had a backup. I don’t care. I’ve
got to go and get those letters.”
“Something interesting here, too, Ev. Thought you should know about it.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve separated some phone numbers.” She ripped off a printout page and gave it to him. “Outgoing calls from Mitchell Cranston’s office. Lots to the Langley CIA exchange, which is going to be really dynamite proof of complicity. Our lawyer’s going to love it. Calls to a Great Falls address...”
“Brian Richards’s home?”
“Yes, but these numbers aren’t in any phone book; also, quite a few to a Potomac number. Anyway, I think we can pretty well prove the involvement of Mitchell Cranston and Brian Richards here!”
“Excellent! It’s all falling together.”
“So they’re going to bring the package here.”
“No. I’m going up to a distribution point to get it.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“It is if I want to get my hands on the stuff today.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be going out.”
“Maybe not, but I’m going to do it.”
“You can’t get Craig to get it?”
“No. He’s done enough. I don’t want to bother him with this.”
“Well, I should go with you then.”
“No. You stay put, where it’s safe. You’re doing an incredible job here, Marsha.” He absently folded the printout page and stuck it in his pocket. “Just get a nice clean copy of this and assemble it for Mr. Scapelli.”
“Yes, O master... I’m already working on that...” She pointed to a notebook which she’d already started to fill with pages from the printer. “Also have the data stored on floppies and on the hard disk here. We’re working up quite the case. I don’t know about Cranston, since he’s so seldom in D.C. But I’m pretty sure we can nail Brian Richards.”
“That’s who we’re after. Maybe Cranston will come later.”
“Whatever.” She looked up at him inquisitively. “You going to take a cab?”
“No. Craig left his car down in front of the house. Said I could use it if necessary. I think this qualifies.”
“Oh, that’s right. He takes the Metro to work. All right, Ev, but I’ve got to say, I really don’t like the idea of you going out much.”
“Look, I know exactly where I’m going, I’ve got change in my pocket for the meters; I just stop, hop out, grab the package, hop back in. It will take me thirty minutes, tops, and it’s a lot more dangerous to have me hanging around here, grinding my teeth and wearing out a hole in Craig’s carpet.”
She finally let him go, but only after taking certain precautionary measures.
Scarborough found Craig Steffan’s BMW easily enough, parked fairly close to 18th Street. He hated to sacrifice Craig’s optimum space, but he was sure his lawyer friend would understand. A parking-patrol woman chugged by, checking for violations of the parking zone. Her uniform made Scarborough nervous as he strode past her to get to the side of the powder blue German car. She gave him no notice. He relaxed.
He got in the car, put the key in the ignition, and pulled out onto the street. Again, he took great pleasure in the handling of a BMW, as he guided it up 18th Street. It sure beat hauling a Winnebago around, that was for certain!
He crossed the Duke Ellington Bridge over Rock Creek Parkway, and then made a right onto Connecticut.
The traffic this mid-afternoon wasn’t bad, and the day was absolutely golden. The saying about D.C. was that if you didn’t like the weather, just stick around for a while. But it was a glorious day today. When D.C. had a good day, it didn’t get much better.
Scarborough drove with his window down, letting the breeze ruffle his hair.
He passed the National Zoo. The park was filled with children. He felt a pang. That was one of the favorite things that he used to do with Diane and Phyllis, when Diane was a little girl: go to the park.
Another two blocks and he was there. Plenty of parking, too. He simply slipped into a vacant space, hopped out, and fed the meter some quarters.
Speedy Delivery was exactly where it had been promised to be, and Scarborough found it with no problem. Not as fancy or as corporate-looking as Federal Express, but not bad either.
The man at the counter wasn’t Matt, but it was easy enough to locate the fellow, in the back sorting through packages. Matt was a middle-aged black man, losing his hair, who looked affable enough in a casual way.
“Oh yeah. Mr. Trenton. You sure got here fast.”
“Well, I think that it’s kind of an important package to Mr. Steffan and to Mr. —uh—Owl.”
“Yeah. Pretty funny name, that. Noticed it. Strange initials. Looks like a U.F.O!”
“Right. It does, doesn’t it?”
“You ever see a UFO, Mr. Trenton?”
“No.”
A lie now, certainly. But then, his name really wasn’t Trenton either.
“I did. I saw one, back a few years ago when I was visiting the folks in Mississippi. Pretty wild, too.”
“I bet.”
“Better go get that parcel for you.”
“I’d really appreciate that.”
Speedy Delivery service? Oh well. No sense in making a fuss. He was here now, and he was going to get what he came for, and that was what counted.
The man ambled on back to the room in the back. In not more than a minute, he came ambling back, holding a red parcel. He handed it to Scarborough.
“There you go, Mr. Trenton. And thanks for stopping by.”
“You don’t want to see an ID or something?”
“Naw. No problem. I believe you. ‘Sides, there can’t be much of value in there... Not insured or nothing.”
How could you insure something that was priceless to a few people—and yet worthless to anybody who didn’t know what it was.
Ultimately, though, Scarborough was grateful that Jake had chosen “Speedy.” FedEx might have given him a problem. And the United States Post Office might have lost it.
He had to fight the urge to tear it open immediately and examine the contents there and then.
Scarborough carried the package out to his car, holding it almost reverently. No, they were too important… He could at least wait until he got back to the shelter of the BMW.
He opened the car door, got in, closed the car door, and took a breath, long and deep.
Then he pulled the perforated strip, and pulled out the contents.
It wasn’t like she wasn’t used to this kind of work. She’d logged plenty of hours, much time into the night, in front of screens much like this. Monitors with squiggles of phosphor dots were part of her job.
So why was she having such a hard time with her eyes now, wondered Marsha Manning.
She closed them, rubbed them, yawned.
She took the cup of coffee beside her, sipped it, grimaced. Nope. Too many swallows of bad coffee already. Maybe what she needed was a break. Maybe print some more of this stuff out and assemble; tear off the sheets and assemble them in the notebook so that they’d look nice and neat and pretty.
Yes, and also, now that Ev was out, play some decent music on the enviable sound system that Craig Steffan had in the place! No jazz, no classical—she’d kowtowed to Scarborough’s tastes enough. Now that he was gone, she’d blast something a little wilder, a little woolier.
Turned out that Craig had a pretty decent contemporary record collection.
She found the latest record from the B-52s, put it on the stereo, and turned the volume up loud, dancing around a bit as she went down to get something from the fridge a little lighter than coffee.
She pulled a bottle of seltzer water and a lime out of the refrigerator. This was a good break. She was glad that Scarborough had stepped out for a while, even if only for a half hour. He was driving her nuts, pacing around the place like he had been doing.
She poured the sparkling water into a tumbler, cut off two slices of lime, and squeezed them into the glass. Then she carried the glas
s over into the living room, set it down onto a coaster, and collapsed onto the comfy beige couch, burying the back of her head into two of the comfy fringed throw-pillows on the side. Sunlight splashed pleasantly through tall windows, and the murmur of traffic coursed in the faraway distance. It was a pleasant feel, definitely urban but somehow peaceful. She felt solitary, yet not alone... so many people around her.
She felt as though she could just shut this entire business out and drift to somewhere quiet in the back of her mind, a place that wasn’t AWOL; a place that knew absolutely nothing of flying saucers, or supra-government conspiracies or crazed former-UFO skeptics on the run.
What she had done, of course, was absolutely crazy. But she’d probably do it again. Her life had been comparatively meaningless before; now, although it could all come crashing down in disaster or tragedy, at least it had some meaning. And not just because of Scarborough and not just because of her righteous indignation concerning this whole sorry earthly business. No, it was the extraterrestrials that she’d met that had inspired her.
From the stars…
Here on a grand mission…
Such a wonderful future was in store for mankind… She actually envied Diane Scarborough now. The woman had actually ridden on one of their ships... What wonders had she seen; what startling new truths had she learned; what wisdom had she returned with? Marsha could hardly wait to talk to her and find out.
She sipped her carbonated water and lime, wallowing in her reverie and the warmth of the sunlight coming through the curtains.
Sometime later—what was it, five minutes, ten minutes? A half hour! —the doorbell rang.
She sat up with a start. Who could it be?
It rang again, insistently.
Normally, she wouldn’t answer it in this kind of situation. However, considering the circumstances, she realized she had to. It might be Jake. It might be someone trying to deliver that package that Scarborough had gone uptown to get. It might be Scarborough himself, having forgotten the keys.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 108