The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy

by David Bischoff

  However, there was some sort of traffic accident on the Memorial Bridge. And there was no opening in traffic for the equivalent of a city block.

  “Okay, Evans,” said Richards to the driver. “Pull out of here and go on down to the 14th Street Bridge.”

  “Yes sir,” said Evans.

  “We should have taken Key Bridge,” said Gutiarez, sitting tensely in the shotgun seat.

  “Hindsight doesn’t help much, I’m afraid.” Richards looked at his watch. “There’s still plenty of time. He’s not going to go anywhere. Not so long as I’ve got his daughter.”

  Richards sat in the back seat, alongside Diane Scarborough. The woman sat limply, head slumped onto her chest, looking like a limp ragdoll. She’d been like that ever since they’d shot Reilly this morning and stuffed him back in the College Park house where she’d been staying. Richards supposed the drugs they’d used on her didn’t help much. Still, they hadn’t done much good—Diane had revealed absolutely nothing about where she’d been all this time, or who she’d been with.

  Mitchell Cranston and the other Colleagues, of course, would have demanded more interrogation. He didn’t call them to ask, though.

  No, there were other priorities here, he thought as he watched the bedraggled girl in jeans and T-shirt and blue windbreaker carefully. Like saving the hide of one Brian Richards, Esquire.

  Damn Schroeder, anyway! Why had he kept that file? Even if it was in some sort of secret hideaway place, he’d been specifically ordered to destroy all correspondence! Served the idiot right to have been killed. Although he didn’t know for sure, Richards pretty much figured he knew what had happened to Jake Camden. Cranston’s deadly English bitch had chewed him up and spit him out, and now his copy of the letters was in the hands of Cranston who could destroy them. But who would have thought that Camden would have had the smarts, the presence of mind, to copy the things, to express mail them to Everett Scarborough. Right into the hands of the enemy.

  Richards’s stomach churned. He pulled out a package of Tums and took two, chewing them thoroughly before swallowing. Things were getting just too hairy, too close for comfort, he thought as he stared over the river toward the Kennedy Center and the Watergate Hotel.

  Time to cash in his chips and check out.

  Actually, he was pretty happy he was still alive. Mitchell Cranston was a total maniac—if he’d known that, Richards honestly doubted he would have gotten involved as deeply with Cranston’s side of the Colleagues’ activities. And if Cranston ever knew that he’d been siphoning money from the Colleagues into dummy corporations for his own private amassing of wealth in a Swiss bank account... Whew. He would never have gotten out of that Bedford Hills estate alive. That Emily Elliot would have cut off his balls, stuffed them down his throat, and then dumped him into the Hudson along with a pair of concrete galoshes.

  Fortunately, however, the Colleagues did not simply constitute Mitchell Cranston. And fortunately, he had cultivated good relations with a few in South America. He’d always been angling for a higher place in the Publisher hierarchy. He didn’t need to fool with this situation on this front anymore; not with things getting so hot with Cranston, and with trouble brewing on the CIA front as well.

  No, it was time to disappear for a while, until things cooled off a bit. How much longer could that old goat up in New York live, anyway?

  In the briefcase by his feet was a one-way plane ticket for Buenos Aires, leaving National Airport at 5:10 P.M. If things worked out well, he fully intended on being on that plane, those implicating letters either destroyed or in his briefcase. His wife and children would be well-provided for—he’d recognized the danger of his situation and had seen to that long ago.

  And Everett Scarborough…?

  Scarborough would be absolutely no problem anymore to either the Colleagues, Richards... or himself.

  Not after this afternoon.

  The traffic began breaking up and his driver pulled off into another lane.

  But Brian Richards did not breathe easier, not at all.

  Not with the moment of truth so close at hand, and, despite the antacid, the uneasy feeling still rumbling in his guts like bowelly thunder.

  Everett Scarborough waited.

  He checked his watch. Fifty minutes had passed since he’d hung up that phone in that cellar bar.

  He stood off to the side at a comer of the platform, behind one of the pillars—but he still felt exposed, naked. He wished now he hadn’t left his copy of the day’s Washington Post in the litter can. He would have felt better to have it, if only to cling to the illusion of hiding behind something.

  He leaned against the pillar and let go a sigh.

  He risked a glanced out at the people ascending and descending the steps. People going in and out of the revolving doors. A slight breeze blew in his face. A mild breeze, and yet it seemed frigid to Scarborough.

  He shivered.

  Where were they?

  How long could he afford to wait for them to show up?

  But of course, he knew that he’d wait as long as he had to. What else could he do? He could very well go to the authorities now, turn himself, his wild story, and his proof in, as he had threatened—but Richards would still have his daughter, and Scarborough wanted her and her safety above all other things now.

  This was the point he’d worked for all these weeks and he could not throw it away.

  He’d wait.

  An eternity seemed to pass. An eternity of blurring tourist faces, smells of hot dogs and sauerkraut mustard from the refreshment stand below, and of pigeons strutting past him.

  But eternity ended. He saw them before they saw him.

  A Pontiac stopped in the front of the museum. Two people emerged from the back door. A woman in jeans and a windbreaker, and a man in a dark suit and sunglasses.

  The Pontiac sped off. The man gripped the woman’s arm and started directing her up the stairway.

  Diane Scarborough.

  Brian Richards.

  Scarborough’s heart seemed to blossom at the sight of his daughter. Hope filled his being again. Hope and love and an incredible warmth. But they weren’t out of the woods yet.

  A safe exchange had to be made, and then they had to get away from here, safely.

  When they were almost at the top of the stairs, Scarborough stepped out from behind the pillar and hailed them in a conversational tone, so as not to attract attention.

  “Richards. Over here.”

  The sun glassed man immediately turned his head, but Diane did not respond at all. In fact, she looked almost zombie-ish, moving forward at Richards’s command but sluggishly.

  What had Richards done to her?

  “Ah. Scarborough,” said Richards, urging Diane forward. “As you can see, I’ve brought along my part of the bargain. Did you bring yours?”

  Scarborough took a breath through gritted teeth and then displayed the envelope.

  “Good fellow. Mind if I have a look?”

  “Let her go, Richards.”

  “Certainly.”

  Richards guided Diane up the last few steps toward the pillar. When he reached the top, he let her go. Diane did not seem to recognize her father. She just stared ahead into space, as though a victim of some sort of catatonia.

  “What have you done to her?”

  “She’ll be fine. Scarborough, I want those letters!”

  Everett Scarborough flopped the envelope of letters down a few feet in front of Richards. “Here they are. All yours.”

  Richards picked them up, stuck them under an arm. But when Scarborough moved forward to take hold of Diane, Richards made a deft move behind Diane, grabbing hold of her arm again with his burdened left hand—and pulled out a .38 caliber Hoch and Keckler from his pocket with his right.

  “Stay right there, Scarborough. You’re under arrest!” said Richards. “I realize that you have a gun of your own, and I suggest you not take it out. I can always claim that you attempted to escape in
the middle of arrest.”

  “I’ll demand those papers be examined, Richards!”

  “Oh, surely you jest! You’re the wanted criminal, Scarborough, not me. Now come along down to the car, and it will all be over. You try anything with a gun, if you don’t hit Diane, I will... and then you. They would be considered deaths in the course of duty. Felons resisting arrest!”

  Everett Scarborough’s heart pumped and adrenaline made its familiar run through his system. But he dared do nothing now, absolutely nothing for fear of harming Diane.

  “Very well,” he said, holding up his hands. “Where do we go?”

  “Down the steps,” directed Richards. “Oh, and give me your gun first.” Scarborough handed over the gun. “You needn’t keep those hands so high and attract attention. Just turn your back to me, and start walking down the steps.”

  Scarborough did as he was told. His mind raced furiously. What could he do?

  Nothing. There was absolutely nothing he could do.

  His feet felt leaden as they thudded down the steps. He felt impotent, powerless. The weariness of the whole experience seemed to crash down on him now with terrible impact. So close and yet so far away.

  At the bottom of the steps, he looked up, expecting the Pontiac to be waiting with its cargo of suits and sunglasses and gun.

  There were cars, and a bus heaved its way along Constitution, expelling a gust of black exhaust.

  But no Pontiac. No agents.

  “Damn!” said Richards, looking around, a puzzled expression on his face. “Where are those lamebrains?”

  “They’re not coming, Mr. Richards,” said a voice. “You’re on your own now.”

  Richards swung around and Scarborough followed the direction of his glance.

  Standing behind them, a gun trained on Richards, was Jake Camden.

  Chapter 41

  Jake Camden did not look good.

  His left arm was in a sling. His face was a mass of contusions and bruises. One blackened eye was completely swollen shut. In short, he was an ugly sight indeed... but the most beautiful thing that Everett Scarborough had ever seen in his life.

  So far the sightseers had not been paying too much attention to the unfolding drama. But since Jake’s words were not quiet, a passerby swung his head around—and hurried on, as soon as he noticed the gun in Jake’s hand.

  “Who are you?” gasped Richards.

  “Name’s Camden. Jake Camden. Spent a little time in your tank, under the care of your Dr. Cunningham. But that’s neither here nor there, Richards. I want you to let that woman go, and I want you to drop that gun you’ve got in your pocket on the ground. Now!”

  Richards looked around frantically for his backups. Seeing that he was indeed deserted, he cursed. “Stay back or I’ll kill her, I swear I will.”

  “Now we don’t want that,” said Camden. “I’m going to give you to the count of three to get rid of that gun, Richards or, I swear, I’ll—”

  Without warning, panic in his eyes, Richards fired his gun.

  “Damn!” cried Camden as the bullet caught him and smacked him back onto the base of the steps.

  Someone screamed.

  People turned to stare. Some were frozen, while others began to run away.

  This seemed to feed Richards’s panic. When Scarborough jumped toward him, his gun went off, but the shot went wild. Richards pushed Diane toward him, and Scarborough was forced to catch his daughter.

  Richards hugged the envelope of papers to his chest and, with fearful sidelong glances, plunged toward the street. He dodged a green Toyota van, and then sprinted around a Chevrolet, before making it safely to the other side of the street.

  “Diane!” said Scarborough, grabbing her as though to make sure she’d never leave him again. She just looked back him, with a blank, glassy-eyed look.

  “Shit,” said Camden. “I’ll take care of her. Don’t let that bastard get away! We’ve got him, Scarborough, but if he gets away, we’ll never see him again.”

  The truth of these words slapped Scarborough across the face like cold water. He looked up to see Richards starting to sprint across the Mall, his coat and tie flapping around his neck.

  “What about the originals of those letters, Jake?”

  “I ain’t got ‘em no more,” said Jake. He held his hand over a rapidly growing red stain below his left shoulder. “That’s it, man. I’ll be okay, Scarb. Take the gun. Get the bastard!”

  There was no time for hesitation. Scarborough made the decision, instantly. He bent down, scooped the revolver up, and ran across the street after Brian Richards.

  He only had to dodge a Diamond taxicab—the rest of the way was clear. Still, when he got to the edge of the grass of the Mall, Richards was a good seventy yards away from him.

  Scarborough charged after the man.

  He was too far away to even think about using the automatic gripped in his hand. Richards seemed too intent on running to look back and see if he was being pursued. They were both about the same age and about the same physical shape—good—and both had desperation on their side.

  Nonetheless, little by little, Scarborough found himself gaining on his antagonist.

  It was fairly clear what the man was trying to do. On the other side of the Mall, he could find transportation. Grab a cab, drive down the Smithsonian Metro, whatever… and if he let him go, then Scarborough sensed that Richards would be swallowed up forever, escaping the justice due him, to say nothing of the retribution.

  No, he could not permit that.

  Nonetheless, by the time he got within gunshot distance, they were sprinting through a high density of tourists, and he could not permit himself the possibility of hurting an innocent bystander. No, he would have to catch up with the man by foot.

  The Washington Monument reared above them like some ancient sentinel, watching the drama placidly.

  His breaths were fire in his throat and his legs hurt terribly by the time Scarborough was within ten feet of his quarry. Richards either sensed his nearness, or heard the ragged breaths, because he turned around, cursed, and levered his arm up, gun in his hand.

  “Get the fuck away from me!” he cried, and pulled the trigger.

  Scarborough dodged and the bullet screamed past him, kicking up a divot of grass.

  From somewhere, Everett Scarborough pulled up an inner resource of speed. Richards got off one more shot which exploded a section of sidewalk.

  And then Scarborough was on him.

  Full-bore, he tackled the man.

  They came down half on sidewalk and half on grass, rolling along. The impact knocked both of their guns from their hands. The packet of copied letters skittered away along the asphalt of the walkway.

  “Damn you!” said Richards, getting up to his knees and flailing a fist into Scarborough’s face. The hand glanced off the side of his face, but such was the level of adrenaline running in Scarborough’s system that he did not feel the blow. The background noise and light seemed to fade away and his tunnel of rage allowed him to concentrate only on Brian Richards.

  He grabbed the man’s jacket and threw a punch. The first hit was ineffective, but he brought his arm back and delivered the next two in rapid succession—whack, WHACK—the first into Richards’s chest, the second a direct hit to Richards’s mouth. A speck of blood splashed.

  Scarborough brought his arm back to deliver the next punch, but Richards’s own training finally engaged. He brought his hand up and caught Scarborough’s. Using Scarborough’s force along with his own, he boosted the man off of him and flung him onto the grass.

  Instead of raining his own blows on the surprised and temporarily winded Scarborough, however, Richards got to his knees and scanned for his gun. Espying it just on the line between grass and pavement, he lunged toward it.

  Scarborough saw this. He could not allow it. Again, with energy he did not know he had, he lunged toward his opponent.

  “No,” he cried.

  He caught Richa
rds in the midriff before he could make it to the gun and hurled him back onto the grass. Before Richards could recover, he started raining blows on him again. All his pent-up indignation and fury flowed out of him like a raging fire and he hit the man again and again and again, not noticing the damage he was doing to his hand, only glorying in the blood that he was bringing to his antagonist’s face.

  He barely noticed that a crowd had gathered at a respectful distance. He did not think about the fact that soon Mall security would be here and stop this, probably arrest them both. He only reveled in being able to finally wreak havoc on this man who had caused him such pain, who had used him so grievously.

  However, the man below him was just as desperate as he, and with a yell, he pushed upward, shielding his face, and landed a shoulder in Scarborough’s midriff. The action forced Scarborough back. He landed hard on his right leg, and the leg gave way. Scarborough crumpled back, a jag of agony from a sprained ankle running up his whole body. Gasping, he fell back.

  Richards scrambled forward toward his gun.

  Scarborough had fallen backwards so that it would be impossible to get up in time to stop the man from obtaining the weapon. Hopelessly, he looked around…

  And there it was... his own gun that he’d dropped.

  He got up to dive for it, but immediately another jab of pain from his foot hamstrung him. He flopped onto the ground, dragging himself forward and pushing with his good leg.

  He reached for the gun and his fingers closed around the grip. Without thinking, as though he were involved in a totally fluid instinctive motion, he swung the gun around.

  Richards had just scooped his own gun up. But he’d also taken the time to grab his precious letters... Face ferocious, Richards aimed the gun at Scarborough.

  And Scarborough shot him.

  Once, twice.

  The first bullet hit Richards’s right arm, causing him to drop the gun. The second bloomed a flower of blood on his chest.

  Scarborough fired again, and the bullet slammed directly into Brian Richards’s left eye, killing him instantly.